On Deck: Memoir of a Life Well-Lived

By David Del Bosque

In this candid and moving memoir, join Dr. David Del Bosque on a colorful journey of triumphs, challenges, and self-discovery.
From his hometown of Alice, Texas, where Del Bosque's story begins, to the sun-drenched beaches of Santa Monica, the tranquil shores of Galveston, the charming town of Ennis, and the close-knit community of Avalon, this memoir is a vibrant exploration of the human experience.

Dr. David Del Bosque's journey is remarkable, marked by extraordinary challenges and inspiring resilience. Growing up in the barrio of Old Kingsville Road, resilience and perseverance were the key to success in life.

His story continues, from being on top of the world as a counselor in his mid-twenties at the University of Texas Medical Branch-Galveston to the program's end due to lack of funding. Dr. Del Bosque spent one year unemployed, struggling to find a job. Desperate, depressed, and flat-out broke, he persevered.

The journey also leads to suffering and surviving a heart attack and quadruple bypass surgery at 48, a defining moment that reshaped his perspective on life. Amid the challenges, Dr. Del Bosque found unexpected solace and companionship in the form of a shelter dog, who became his most amazing and loyal friend.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350935226

Book preview

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On Deck

Memoir of a Life Well-Lived

© 2023, David Del Bosque.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN: 979-8-35093-521-9

eBook ISBN: 979-8-35093-522-6

Dedication

To Neva ~ the unwavering anchor in the ebb and flow of my life, whose love and support are the bedrock of my existence.

To Riley ~ my loyal companion whose wagging tail

and furry presence brought boundless joy and comfort,

a steadfast friend in every chapter of my journey.

This book stands as a testament to the unending

warmth and strength you both infuse into my world.

Contents

1. Ice Cream Cones and Green Stamps

2. Wooden Bats and Haunted Tales

3. Heartbeat of a Neighborhood

4. Cardinals and Bluebirds

5. Making a Buck

6. A Swing and a Miss: The Day I Walked Away

7. It Will Haunt You

8. Triumph in Silence

9. From Friendship to Forever

10. A New Beginning . . . and Alicia

11. From This Day Forward

12. Holding On to Hope

13. Interview with the Diocese

14. St. John High School

15. Avalon ISD

16. Coach D

17. Blue Ribbon School

18. If You Build It . . .

19. Griffith Gym

20. Heart Attack

21. Can You Hear Me Now?

22. It’s a Marathon

23. The Decision

24. Retirement

25. Batter! Batter!

26. My Best Friend

27. Reflection

Chapter One

Ice Cream Cones and Green Stamps

In our childhood bedroom, every corner reflected our personalities. It stood as a space where the boundaries of our worlds merged, strengthening our sibling bond. In difficult times, it offered solace and nurtured our aspirations.

My sister Anna’s corner was full of nostalgia and dreams. She had stacks of glossy teen magazines featuring icons like Elvis, the Beatles, Ricky Nelson, Annette Funicello, and Frankie Avalon. As I looked at their covers, the melodies from our room’s record player filled the air.

Anna’s love for music was evident in the old turntable that graced her area. The crackle of vinyl records accompanied her dives into the lives of her musical heroes, taking us back to the era of rock ‘n’ roll and teenage aspirations.

Rhythm and games went hand in hand for Anna. Jacks adorned the bedside table, and her skill at playing with them left us in awe. They gleamed in the lamplight, a testament to hours of practice and the playful rivalry that defined our childhood.

The flute, an elegant silver instrument, rested by the window. Its polished surface captured the moon’s faint glow, and delicate engravings danced in the dim light. Earning her the coveted first chair position in the high school band, her mastery of intricate melodies stood out. The room filled with the beautiful notes of Bach’s Minuet.

Her bed, pushed against the wall, invited cozy retreats. She covered it with a patchwork quilt, showcasing her artistic flair, each stitch whispering warmth and dreams. Years later, she would become an elementary teacher.

The handcrafted piece, made by our grandmother, bore witness to countless hours of careful work on her antique Singer Foot Pedal sewing machine. Its fold-away design provided a sturdy surface, while the cast-iron base anchored it. The soothing hum resonated in the room as she transformed fabric into art.

On the other side of the room, my younger brother Rick’s bustling world mirrored his boundless energy. Baseball posters decorated his bed, transforming it into a shrine to the sport he loved. Images of legends in action froze in time, surrounded by the cheering crowd’s roar. Player cards lined a shelf, organized in protective sleeves like precious artifacts, each card a story of his devotion to the game.

A wooden box held his dearest possessions—toy soldiers. He arranged them in intricate battle formations, portraying epic war scenes. These little plastic figurines embodied courage, much like Rick.

Rick’s collection of miniature vehicles added rugged charm to the room, with bulldozers, fire engines, and dump trucks standing ready, poised for important missions. They spoke to his fascination with machinery and the allure of adventure.

But beyond his hobbies, what defined him was his heart of gold. His love and compassion extended within the four walls of our bedroom and the world outside. Injured birds found solace in his care, stray cats received his attention, and our family dog cherished his soothing presence. Rick’s kindness and empathy were not limited to animals but to also extended to people. He was a loving child who helped others; his space reflected his warmth and generosity.

This innate ability to connect with people grew even more apparent as the years passed. He assumed the role of the director of the Girls and Boys Club of Alice, a position tailor-made for him. Rick was a dynamic force for good, just as he had been in our childhood.

Curiosity and wonder thrived in my corner of the room, between Anna’s music haven and Rick’s vibrant space. I was a thinker, always exploring the mysteries around me, and my space reflected this constant desire to understand the world.

As a child, my inquisitiveness knew no bounds. The concept of God captivated me, leading to frequent pondering: What did He look like? Could one see Him? This fascination extended to biblical stories and drew me to the miracles. What were these wonders?

My exploration transformed from pondering mysteries to a strong desire to understand how things operated. At the center of my space was a small wooden desk covered in numerous scratches and marks from my experiments. On it, you could see the remains of my latest project—a disassembled clock. The scattered gears, springs, and cogs unveiled the complex mechanisms that made time tick. My curiosity about how things worked led me to this clock, my latest adventure in uncovering their secrets.

One of my messier escapades involved a baseball. Fueled by curiosity about its construction, I unstitched the cover to peer inside. A complex string web beneath the leather surprised me. The mess grew as I untangled the strings.

After a long unraveling process, I reached the ball’s core and found a smaller rubber ball nested inside. This messy yet intriguing exploration gave me a fresh appreciation for something as basic as this.

My interests extended beyond mechanical devices and baseball. The sport had a special place in my heart, as seen in the posters of my favorite players, Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays, above my bed. Their passion shone through. Memorizing their batting averages, home run counts, and career achievements became my skill, valuing each piece of data like a precious gem.

Books were my constant companions throughout my quest for knowledge, guiding and expanding my world. A small bookshelf in the hallway outside our door, crammed with volumes, stood as a testament to my love to read. Encyclopedias, brimming with information, were my trusted guides. My ritual was unique—I closed my eyes and, like a pianist, traced my fingers across the tops of them and at random selected one. Wherever my finger landed, that was my subject of exploration. With my eyes closed, I flipped the pages and did the same.

I must confess to cheating to get to the A volume, as my goal was to delve into Aztec culture. Pre-Columbian civilizations intrigued me, but science books ignited my imagination. My favorite bedtime reading was about planets, the vast universe, and the mysteries of the cosmos. Losing myself in our swirling galaxy, pondering the enigma of space, and marveling at the grandeur was a common pastime. Those words served as my portals to the infinite, where curiosity knew no bounds.

Although I had an insatiable thirst for knowledge, I couldn’t resist mischief, which showed in my eyes’ devilish glint. For instance, on a Sunday school recess break, long after everyone else had gone back inside, I played a game of hide-and-seek during Sister Mary’s catechism class. My chosen hiding spot? Behind a parked car’s tire. My readiness to return wasn’t there yet.

The vigilant teacher, Sr. Mary, called out to me, David? Where are you? I may not see you, but God does. He knows where you are. Unable to resist a smirk, I thought, "Yeah, I know, but He’s not telling."

Her feet paced back and forth between the cars, her black-and-white habit flowing like the wind as she searched. A curious play of cat and mouse. The anticipation and secret refuge added a thrill.

Like all games, the certainty of being discovered overcame the temptation to stay hidden. With a sigh, I emerged from my hiding place, leaving behind the tire and the playful mysteries it had sheltered for a moment.

Once I found myself in a bit of a predicament while having a lively game of ball. My mom wanted me to come in, and I got sassy and shook my head. With a stern expression, she said, Get me a switch. I couldn’t help but flash a mischievous grin, Not a chance!

Unfazed, she plucked a small one from the nearby tree, and that’s when the impromptu chase around the car began. I positioned at the car’s back end. She took her stance at the front. We circled the vehicle in a comical sight. She met each of my moves with a crafty countermove.

The head fakes and jukes we executed were downright hilarious. What started as a tense moment turned into a joyous bout and concluded with warm hugs that melted away any trace of frustration.

My brother and I shared a bunk bed from childhood to adolescence. The old wooden frame bore witness to our laughter, late-night secrets, and the dreams that bound us together.

As Rick ascended the ladder to the top, a familiar, protesting squeak echoed from its well-worn rungs. The routine was second nature, and he leaned over the edge to murmur his goodnight wishes to me and my sister Anna. We reciprocated, our hushed voices blending into the harmonious chorus of goodnights. Without fail, Mom poked her head in the doorway. "Night. Hasta la manana. Si Dios quiere. Until tomorrow. If God wills it."

This ritual became an integral part of our lives, a tradition that connected us like the anchor of Walton’s Mountain in the heart of our barrio.

In the core of our loving home, where affection flowed like a gentle river, our parents’ presence served as the bedrock upon which we flourished. Their individual spaces, mirrors of their distinct personalities and passions, formed the pillars of our household.

My mother, Ofelia, was an extraordinary woman from Orange Grove, Texas. She radiated warmth and resilience. Growing up in a family of eleven taught her responsibility and compassion from a young age. Despite her education ending at sixth grade, life had given her wisdom that went beyond textbooks.

She often spoke with a wistful smile about her childhood dreams and aspiration to become a nurse—a calling reflecting her nurturing spirit. Life had charted a different course, but her caring nature radiated through everything she did.

One of her most cherished talents was crafting dolls akin to Cabbage Patch Kids, showcasing an artistry that left us in awe. Each doll possessed a unique personality and character, handcrafted to perfection. Their delicate features and lifelike expressions testified to her artistic sensibilities.

However, in the kitchen’s heart, her cooking prowess shined. She was a culinary maestro, and the aroma of her dishes permeating the house brought comfort and joy. Her recipes, passed down through generations, were prepared with love and boundless generosity.

An enticing melody of aromas harmonized in our bustling kitchen, with the centerpiece being a sizzling cast-iron skillet where marinated beef and chicken performed a savory scent. The tantalizing charred edges of fried pork hinted at the authenticity of our Tex-Mex feast. At the same time, the rhythmic clapping of hands reverberated as homemade flour tortillas were shaped and placed on a blistering griddle. The fragrant steam from them promised a taste of cultural tradition in every bite. As a chorus of spices and seasonings came to life, creating an ensemble of flavors, cumin, paprika, and chili powder mingled.

Simmering carne guisada took place in the aromatic blend of tomato sauce and green peppers. Its slow-cooked perfection lent a rich depth to the kitchen. In my chair, I squirmed as Mom extended her arm with my plate ready. A stack of thick flour tortillas a half-foot high were on the center of the table. There was no need for utensils for soft foods like refried beans or Spanish rice; we ate them with traditional golden spoons—cucharitas, we called them. Those were torn-off pieces of tortillas we used to scoop food and eat from.

Cut cilantro added a refreshing note to the medley. These vibrant ingredients were like a promise of bright and tangy tastes.

The kitchen was bustling with the fragrance of homemade salsas and the fiery notes of hot peppers. Chopped tomatoes, onions, and chili promised a burst of spicy Texan zest.

Over by the stove, a skillet of refried beans simmered away. The starchy and earthy aroma of mashed and fried pinto beans, combined with spices and lard, created a heartwarming sensation that was a staple of our meals.

Each captivating scent carried stories of family traditions, cherished recipes, and the warmth of home. In this aromatic sonata, a South Texas dinner was ready.

The dining table served as more than a place for eating; it developed into a sanctuary where we gathered, and Mom’s cooking symbolized unity. Her love for her children knew no bounds. Extending beyond us, her nurturing presence encompassed our broader community. I remember her time as a den mother during my Boy Scout days, where her guidance left a mark on young minds beyond mine.

Religious devotion anchored her life. She spent countless hours imparting Bible stories and instilling the values of faith. Her commitment served as a source of inspiration to all of us.

As a devoted member of the Cursillistas, she found a group that resonated with her. Her involvement attested to her desire to deepen her beliefs and connect with others who had similar convictions.

Beyond her roles as a mother and a devout believer, she ran our household with grace and efficiency. Her organizational skills and attention to detail ensured that our home was more than a place to live, but a sanctuary of comfort and order.

My mother was nurturing, and her character made it a loving environment. Her legacy endured in our memories, and the values she instilled in us shaped the people we grew into.

At the heart of our family, my father, Vicente, a man with roots in unincorporated Lagarto, Texas, stood as evidence to the enduring spirit of self-reliance. Born into a world where midwives welcomed newborns, his story began with humble origins.

Though his formal education only reached the second grade, it belied the depth of his knowledge and skills. Early on, he grasped the value of work. His weathered hands were the tools of a self-built man.

He possessed extraordinary diligence, was undaunted, and a master of resourcefulness. Whether repairing cars, mending lawnmowers, or deciphering mechanical puzzles, his ingenuity and perseverance were endless.

Rugged and resilient, he was a man of the oil fields, toiling as a roustabout from a young age. His fingers bore the marks of a life spent extracting hidden treasures from the land. His role made him proud, and he instilled the same reverence for the industry in us.

Yet, beneath his toughened exterior, my father harbored a gentleness that contrasted with his ruggedness. Whether a game of dominoes around a table or a lively round of cards, family moments filled our home with his infectious and warm laughter.

He imparted the importance of respect to us, emphasizing being the first to extend a handshake when greeting others—a silent lesson in honor and courtesy.

My father wove his thread through the fabric of our lives with strength and a capacity for kindness. His legacy, marked by work, resourcefulness, and an unwavering commitment to principles, remains constant in my life. Although he had limited English skills, his actions and character were louder than words, affecting and shaping us into the people we are today.

However, what defined them was their love for dance. Like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, they were a spectacle of elegance. Their captivating enthusiasm for Spanish music and rhythmic performance was clear in their synchronized steps and expressive movements. The graceful partnership mirrored their passion, representing a bond anchored in connections, faith, and artistry that testified to the power of unity and devotion.

In our parents’ bedroom, an atmosphere of warmth and affection prevailed. It expressed their dedication to one another and to us, their children. Their conversations and laughter formed a connection that helped them face life as a united team. The room exuded strength and tenderness, encapsulating the heart of a family’s life together.

My mom possessed a belief that blended the traditions of her Mexican-American heritage with medicine. She used remedies passed down through generations to shield our family from the Evil Eye and Mal de Ojo and Susto (fright). The malevolence is a curse or negative energy that someone can unintentionally cast upon another person, often because of jealousy or envy.

One of her standard practices involved the use of eggs. She selected a fresh egg from the carton. As we lay on the bed, she’d pass it over our heads and bodies, following a pattern learned. She prayed the Lord’s Prayer and Hail Mary along with the movements as if she channeled undesired forces into the shell.

Afterward, she’d crack it into a glass of water, and we’d gather around to see its revelations. My mom deciphered the shapes and patterns in the white or yolk, which revealed whether the Evil Eye or Susto caused our troubles. She understood these cryptic messages. 

But her remedies didn’t stop there. To rid Evil Eye and Susto, she trusted in sweeping away unwanted energy with measured strokes as we lay under the bedspread. In her hands, the broom transformed into a tool of protection, brushing aside any harmful influences. She prayed and made the sign of the cross over us.

The used egg was disposed of by burying it in the backyard to cleanse or dispel the unwelcome forces of our lives.

While her healing practices were a small part of our experience, we visited doctors for illnesses, and her remedies complemented modern medicine. Her belief in these rituals was evidence of her deep connection to her heritage and the durable strength of her faith.

In the heart of our tiny kitchen, a round table held a central