My wife Helen works for Memorial HealthCare Systems, the controlling forces of the network of Memorial Hospitals and support services here in South Florida. For years now she'll forward me the e-mail that's circulated company wide announcing the upcoming charity "Legend's Game" benefiting the Joe DiMaggio's Children's Hospital, an annex of Memorial. Me, "Joe" baseball asshole, Mr. Society of American Baseball Researchers, having missed an Opening Day somewhere in the last thirty-four years; had never attended a Legend's game in the ten years Helen has worked there. Did I say the bleacher tickets are for free?
I am loyal to Memorial for the simple reason they are Helen's employer. She dutifully goes to work everyday without complaint. I belong to their gym. I umpire for Miracle League, a pet cause of Helen's boss, and Joe DiMaggio's Children's Hospital. Last year I ran the 5K in the Tour De Broward where the funds raised benefited Joe D's. Don't ask me why I've never attended a Legend's game.
I can't seem to recall any of the lame ass excuses I've come up with over the years. I couldn't tell you if I had made other plans; and if I did, they didn't make an indelible impression on me, providing me with memories that will last the rest of my life. I'm here to tell you how ashamed I am. Because I will carry the memories of last Saturday with me until they torch me. Not the actual game so much, but what I soaked in and played out in my head before the game is what really mattered.
The driving force behind my enthusiasm for this year's game was rooted in the knowledge that a core of the 1969 New York Mets would be in attendance. Helen e-mailed me the lineup of ex-ballplayers -I can't really say "stars" because many of them were not- a few days before the game. When I saw that no less than seven Mets were on the roster, my mind was made up; this year we'd be going come hell or high water.
We arrived just after 10:00 to upgrade our seats. Gates wouldn't open until 11:00, and the game itself didn't start until 1:00. As you can imagine, the only people there that far in advance were the baseball dorks and nerds...and me and Helen.
They were loaded down with bats, balls, autograph albums, baseball card portfolios, posters, and glossy photos neatly arranged in spiral note books. I was thrilled that these autograph hounds and exploiters of memorabilia did not engage us in conversation. One gentleman did fill us in on his non-stop drinking fiesta from the prior evening, and the day's upcoming continuation of his sotfest. His breath left something to be desired.
Once inside the stadium we grabbed a bite to eat, some peanuts were included of course, and then made our way to our seats which were outstanding. The quaint, old, former Spring Training home of the New York Yankees, and former Spring Training home of the Baltimore Orioles, was charming, inviting and on in a state of decline. But, that didn't dampen my spirits one iota.
Oh, the ballplayers that have roamed its field! Mickey Mantle, Whitey Ford, Yogi Berra, and Joe D himself to name a few. Several of the "Legends" that day called the old Ft. Lauderdale Stadium their winter home. Horace Clarke, Roy White, and Steve Whitaker were there. Yankees from a not so glorious period in the franchise's storied history. But it wasn't the former Yankees I was there to see.
Not wanting to deal with the crush of autograph seekers, I was perfectly content to take in the sights from my venue. One of the first players out of the dugout to warm up -they needed a lot of that- was Art Shamsky of the old Mets. I couldn't see his number, but I could tell it was him by his distinctive shoulders back, duck-footed gait. He looked physically fit enough to be playing today. His stroke in the batting cage affirmed it. Slowly the old ballplayers, some looking decidedly older than others, trickled out from beneath the stands. I now needed to get a closer look.
I left Helen to her own devices and took a post up against the backstop. Through the fencing I relived- if just for a few minutes- my childhood. I espied former San Francisco Giant Bob Bolin. That name might not mean much to even seasoned baseball fans, but to me he represented my first professional baseball player autograph. To a kid of ten, that was huge.
My father took me on a vacation to Houston one summer. We took in a game at the Astrodome. The Giants were playing the Astros (duh). Juan Marichal was pitching for the Giants. When the game ended I pled with my Dad to hang around and wait for autographs. He accommodated me without any hemming and hawing. While Willie Mays, Willie McCovey, and Marichal himself filed past us as if we were some sort of household pests, others did not. One of them was Bob Bolin. He gladly signed my little notebook. I thanked him, and soon other not so well known Giants signed as well. I'll never forget Bob Bolin for that. I wish I could have gotten close enough to him last Saturday to tell him what his kind act so long ago meant to a little boy.
I knew each and every "Legend" player who took their time signing whatever was waved in front of them. The rude shouts of whatever was printed on the backs of the uniforms, resounded from the laymen. No "Hey Mr. so and so," no "Hey Oscar" when Oscar Gamble made the rounds. Just the voices that were filled with greed and not a sense of baseball history. It was harshing my mellow. I wanted to take my little stroll down Memory Lane unimpeded.
I saw Willie Horton who had such a great World Series for Detroit in 1968, the year in Mr. Hamlin's sixth grade class Cynthia Tanner and I correctly predicted the Tigers would beat the St. Louis Cardinals in seven games. Cynthia guessed, I knew. Our spoils were Hasbro chess sets that had been used for our class tournament.
Al Downing was introduced. He surrendered, as a Dodger, Hank Aaron's 715th home run that broke Babe Ruth's record. I saw him pitch as a Yankee against those very same Tigers. My Dad took Tom Rowlands and I, and we sat behind Mitch Miller of "Sing Along With..." fame.
I watched intently as Al Weis, Wayne Garrett, Ron Swoboda,Ron Taylor, and Jim McAndrew collected around the batting cage to get reacquainted, inquire about families, and trade stories from bygone days. Who knows what the hell they talked about, I couldn't hear them, I just imagined.
I had met Jim McAndrew once as a kid. He was the attraction at the Grand Opening of the new Herman's World of Sporting Goods located at the new Livingston Mall. I eschewed Fitzgerald's in Morristown for the purchase of my new glove just so I could meet Jim McAndrew. Once at Herman's I recall that Ol' Jim looked like he'd rather be anywhere then at Herman's that day. But he was a Met, and as I saw it, that was the closest I'd ever get to a Met, so going out of our way to Herman's was a no-brainer as far as I was concerned. While temporary lost in these thoughts of innocent times, two men stepped on the field that altered my emotional state.
When Brooks Robinson passed before me all I could do was applaud. I did not call his name. I did not shout "Way to Go." I did not tell him he was the greatest ever. His stride and the way he carried himself in such a dignified manner; my voice would have tainted the moment. As Brooks made his way to those who clamoured for his signature, Ed Kranepool stepped gingerly from the dugout along third base. Quite the contrary to Art Shamsky, Ed looked as if getting off the couch to attend the event was a bit of a chore.
To me, Ed Kranepool was the Mets. They drafted him out of high school. He was from White Plains, New York. He was everybody's favorite Met before Tom Seaver became everybody's All-American boy. Kranepool played when the Mets were awful and when they were Amazin'. I was raised on the Mets he represented, and I fell in love with baseball because of those Mets. And there he stood before me in all his overweight stooped over splendor.
I thought maybe it was time I got back to my seat. How much time had passed since I first made my way to the backstop I wasn't rightly sure. Helen greeted me with, "I was going to come down and join you, but you were being a little boy. You had your arms folded, you leaned in so you could rest your head on them while getting your face close to the fence. I thought it best just to leave you alone with your thoughts." It was if she read my mind without all the narrative. I guess I gave myself away. Next year I'll have to ask for a press pass, I'm a writer, right?
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