When people from my state are asked where we’re from, we always answer, “Jersey.” A cab driver once tried to pin me down on this. Bostonians, Chicagoans, and New Yorkers all name their city proudly, he said, even if they’re really from Brookline or Libertyville or Westchester Country. What’s wrong with the denizens of Atlantic City, Trenton, Bayonne, Newark? Plenty of outsiders have heard of those places, but the people who come from them are no more apt to claim their home town than if they sprang from Manahawkin or Howell or Ocean Gate. There’s nothing for it, I explained. Certain names leave a bad taste in your mouth, and others draw a blank stare. Either way, we learn to lie low and identify ourselves by our state.
I come from a town of 7,303 called Toms River. We’re an hour north of Atlantic City and an hour and a half south of New York. To the west are the Pine Barrens and to the east is the ocean. We’re nobody’s suburb. It used to be that if you said you were from Toms River, the reaction was, “Oh yeah, I think I’ve heard of that,” accompanied by a vague nod. And those who really knew the name recognized it only from Joe McGuinness’s bestseller, Blind Faith, the true story of how Robert Marshall, a Toms River businessman and prominent socialite, had his wife murdered for the insurance money. This produced our very own O. J. Simpson trial, which unmasked a man of standing as a cold-blooded murderer.
I remember my seventh-grade science teacher stopping class to announce that the verdict was in (Marshall sits on death row to this day). I was 12 and already knew the meaning of “premeditated murder.” It was definitely exciting, though not the kind of publicity the chamber of commerce could use. Things didn’t get any better when the made-for-TV special came out, with Marshall played by Mr. Vega$ himself, Robert Urich.
Then there was the Kathy Weinstein tragedy. A few years ago, Weinstein, a schoolteacher, was carjacked in broad daylight in the parking lot of a Toms River mall. She was later found murdered. The details surrounding her death were chilling — police found a tape recorder she’d turned on during the ordeal, which had captured her desperate attempt to talk the abductor into sparing her. This wasn’t good for town spirit, either. So whenever I was asked, the answer was always “Jersey.”
But all those horrible associations were buried on August 29, when the boys of Toms River won the Little League World Series. Representing the United States, the “Beasts From The East” destroyed Japan in a 12-9 slugfest in Williamsport, Pa., and Toms River became an overnight sensation. Everyone was talking about our town, from national news broadcasts to talk shows across the country. Our victory even made the front page of the New York Times (just above the fold). And on Rosie, the players were given personalized jackets, baseball equipment, and a standing ovation.
I went home last weekend and found banners saluting the team in every corner of the town, from store windows to schools to bars. The local radio stations played songs like Springsteen’s “Glory Days” over and over. When town officials threw a parade for the team, 40,000 people lined Route 37. And for just a moment, everybody came together behind our ballplayers — never mind that they’re 11 and 12 years old.
The sense of triumph was the greater because New Jersey has no baseball or football team to root for and normally must squabble over the Yankees, Mets, and Phillies, as well as the Giants and Eagles. Okay, the Jets too. Now we can boast about our very own team. My mother’s friends don’t normally watch baseball, but they couldn’t stop saying how cute little Joe Franceschini is and how studious some of the other players are; and they lapped up the fact that one of the kids is an altar boy. The Sunday sermon opened with, “How ’bout those kids from Toms River!” and the congregation broke into wild applause.
In short, it was a historic event for the town. In a moment, we went from being “the place where so-and-so was murdered” to “home of the Little League World Champions.” It’s a transformation some cities are fortunate enough to experience and others can only envy. Chicago, for instance, used to be known primarily for A1 Capone, but is now associated with Michael Jordan. Fall River, Mass., on the other hand, still hasn’t been the scene of an exciting event since Lizzie Borden was tried for the axemurder of her parents, and as a result it still has about it the whiff of notoriety.
I ran into an acquaintance a few days ago, and he happened to ask me where I was from. This time I said with confidence, “Toms River — as in the Little League.” And he nodded with a look of familiarity and congratulated me.
VICTORINO MATUS
