Where Would I Be Without Baseball?
It’s Nearly Impossible to Say — But I’ll Try
Thanks to Rosemary Summers for the challenge to write about what my life would be like without… The challenge is to imagine what your life would be like without a significant event, person, or some other thing that had a significant impact on you. I tried to do this for baseball — but afraid I might have struck out in the attempt. You be the judge (or the umpire, if you will).
First Glorious Game
Where would I be if my brother Chris hadn’t taken me to that first baseball game at Forbes Field in Pittsburgh in 1962, when I was 7? I still remember the awe I felt that night, looking out at that amazing field from the left field bleacher seats, where we got our seats for a buck ($1.00). So many things I vividly remember from that night — the smells of fresh hot dogs grilling on the big grill right down in front of the visiting team’s bullpen, which butted up against the fence that stood between the bleachers and the field.
The sense of wonder I experienced as I gazed upon the field itself, this vast expanse of green grass that seemed to go on forever, from the left field bleachers all the way around to the right field grandstand. The ivy-covered red-brick wall that started right next to the huge, green scoreboard that towered over the field right by the bleachers I sat in, which wrapped around, in non-symmetrical fashion, to the right field grandstand, where it ended, and a green padded wall wrapped the rest of the way across right field.
The players appeared like gods to me, so much larger than life, brilliantly lit up under those lights that made the field appear much brighter than in broad daylight. Everything about that night was magical. But two of the players stood out to me above all the others, in that first game I ever watched, firing my imagination up like no one ever had before.
Bullpen Matador — Elroy Face
There was this smaller player, a pitcher named Elroy Face. He came into the game in the latter innings to hang onto a slim lead the Pirates had managed to gain over the other team. Despite his relative diminutive size, he stood tall on that pitcher’s mound, chest out, holding himself like a matador about to engage the mighty bull. He seemed to dare the batters to try to hit each pitch he fired in there, after going into an exaggerated wind-up, leg kicking high in the air, and firing that ball to the catcher waiting patiently behind the plate.
After each pitch, he glared at the batter while he got ready to field anything hit his way, seeming to be the baddest SOB on the field. Little Elroy just commanded such a presence out there. Once he entered the game, you knew the Pirates were going to win it, because they usually did. For many years, he held the record for most consecutive wins by a pitcher, with 22 straight victories, an amazing feat for any pitcher, but especially difficult to do for a relief pitcher, which is what he was.
Better Than Superman
The other player who stood out, who would have a profound impact on my life, and who I am, was a black man who roamed all over the vast expanse between the right field foul line, and the cavernous center field, running like a wild antelope being chased by ravenous lions as he chased down fly balls and balls hit into the gap between himself and the center fielder. He would retrieve balls hit into the deepest parts of that outfield, at the wall, pirouette and fire perfect strikes to the infield to nail baserunners in their tracks. You could almost see the smoke rising up off the ball, it was thrown so hard, and on a straight line the whole way, seeming to be faster than a speeding bullet.
That night, Superman retired as my go-to superhero, replaced by this black Puerto Rican Superstar Baseball player who remains my hero to this day. This man was named Roberto Clemente, although I often thought his name must be “Arriba, Arriba”, as the announcer, and many of the fans, chanted this war cry each time he came up to bat.
Clemente hit the first major league homerun I ever saw in that game, a line drive that sailed over that brick wall in left-center field, as he slowly trotted around those bases with such a regal dignity — talk about a presence! No fist pumping or showing up the pitcher, just a quiet dignity and sense of purpose that permeated his entire being.
Other times when he got on those bases, Roberto ran with a crazy motion of arms and legs flying off in different directions, ending with the most graceful slides into the base, usually bouncing right up, ready to keep running if the fielder bobbled the ball.
There was a palpable electricity in the air, throughout that old ballpark, each time he got involved in a play, in any way. There was always a sense of excitement, as he played the game with such a sense of urgency, always ready to do something amazing.
He was really amazing to watch play the game I came to love so much, from that first game I ever went to, to the game I’ll be going to later this month.
My Passion
I don’t believe I’ve ever loved anything quite as much as I have loved, and still love, baseball. For 57 years, I’ve been attending baseball games in stadiums all over the country, but most regularly in Pittsburgh, then Philadelphia, then Baltimore, and now in Washington, D.C., for these past 15 seasons.
Baseball changed everything for me. It was the first thing I ever had a real passion for. My brother Chris taught me so many interesting things about that old ballpark, Forbes Field, like how to sneak from the left field bleacher seats into the more expensive third base reserved seats, by climbing up a drain pipe from the alley between the two sections of the ballpark, timing it for when an usher wasn’t stationed near that pipe. He showed me this “No Admittance” door, behind which was a set of steps leading to a dimly lit dirt tunnel that snaked around beneath the stands, eventually leading to the players’ clubhouses.
Getting Around the Ballpark
Over the years of my youth in that old ballpark, I learned a few tricks of my own, like how to sneak into the announcer’s booth, where you got a great view of the entire field, from high up behind home plate. I would help the announcers read the ticker tape reports bringing them scores from other games going on around the league, until a guard would come to kick me out of there. The announcers liked me, because I made myself useful while I was there. Several times, they waved the guard off and let me stay for the rest of the game. Just writing about that place brings back all the smells and the sounds of that old ballpark, some of the best smells and sounds I’ve ever known.
I once stole a major league ballplayer’s hat from his head, while he was pouring a drink of water from a cooler beside the dugout. I was put up to it by a drunk. I was 10 years old at the time. When I discovered whose hat I had, I nearly died. It was Pete Rose’s hat!
Fame
41 years later, I met up with Rose in Las Vegas to get an autograph. Upon telling him the story of my youthful theft, he actually remembered it — the only time he ever had his hat stolen from his head by a fan during a game! He wanted his hat back — sadly, I had to tell him how it got tossed in a move while I was in the Navy. I wrote the whole story up, of the theft and the reunion 41 years later, the tossed hat, and submitted it to Baseball’s Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY, for a memorabilia story contest they were hosting.
I, and my story, got inducted into baseball’s Hall of Fame! Pete Rose went on to become the most prolific hitter the game ever saw, getting on base with more hits more often than any other player in history, breaking many other records over his illustrious career. However, he also broke the one cardinal rule of baseball — he gambled on games, as a manager, and got banned from baseball for life. Although he should have long ago been unanimously inducted into the Hall of Fame, he will never get in there, because he gambled on the game, lied about it for years, and never showed any sign of contrition. He’s not considered suitable for the Hall.
I, however, a sneak, a hat thief and a storyteller, am in there with the story I wrote about stealing Pete’s hat. I was deemed suitable for induction, though I never played a game on a Major League baseball field, myself. There is some sort of poetic baseball justice going on, there. How about “The Pen is Mightier than the Bat?”
Racing President and National Anthem Singer
I have, however, raced as a president on a major league field, RFK Stadium in Washington, DC — twice! I tried out for the Washington Nationals Racing Presidents mascots, at ages 53 and 54, running hundred yard heats in a 12 foot tall presidential costume, which included a 60 pound presidential head resting on my old man shoulders (I ran as George Washington, against Abe Lincoln and Tom Jefferson. Teddy Roosevelt did not run in my races), against mostly 20- and 30-somethings, and won all of my heats! (I didn’t get the job, though, in a clear case of age-ism, but that’s another story).
I have sung the national anthem five times on a major league baseball field, at Nationals Park to begin Nationals’ games there. I will sing a 6th time next month, on August 16th. Rehearsals begin this Monday. I am warming up my vocal cords, preparing for that, and as excited as a 10 year-old about to steal a player’s hat!
Growing Up to Be a Ballplayer
I actually played a lot of ball when I was in the Navy and in my early 20’s, then, after a 25 year hiatus, I played a ton of ball from age 50 to age 61. I played every position on the field, except pitcher (though I did pitch a couple of innings, once — that was enough), I played as many as 120 games in a year, and I won my first ever championship in 2010, at age 55.
I made the game-winning catch in the championship match, a play that would either win the game, if I made the catch, or lose it if I missed. From that day, that play, on, I would always know what it felt like to be a champion. I felt very close to Roberto Clemente that night, as I made a catch that would have made him proud. I felt him smiling down on me from the great baseball park in the sky. In that moment, I felt like I had arrived. Had I gone out and gotten hit by a car and died that night, my life would have felt complete.
Where Would I Be If Not For Baseball?
What would my life have been like without baseball, you ask? Where would I be if my brother Chris hadn’t taken me to that first game in 1962, the Pittsburgh Pirates against the Houston Colt 45’s? I can’t even imagine where I’d be. Probably laying around in a gutter somewhere, crying about what a lousy life I had, how nothing had ever inspired me or made me want to make something of myself. Who knows?
Where Wouldn’t I Be?
I can tell you where I wouldn’t be — I wouldn’t be in the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown with a story that managed to beat out the most prolific base-hitter in baseball history for induction. I wouldn’t have sold my first story for $100, which is what the magazine “Inside Baseball” paid me for my story about stealing Pete’s hat and beating him into the Hall of Fame with. I wouldn’t experience the thrill of a lifetime every summer when I get to sing the national anthem on a field in front of 30,000 screaming fans before a baseball game. I would never have run for (with) president(s).
Failing and Baseball
I honestly can’t imagine what my life would be like without baseball. Thus, I have failed at this challenge. But that’s okay. Baseball taught me how to deal with failure. The best hitters in the game, like Roberto Clemente and Pete Rose, failed to get a hit two out of every three times they came up to bat, but were still the best hitters in the game with .300+ batting averages. The very best teams in the league each year lose anywhere from 60 to 75 games in a season. Baseball taught me that you always get another chance to get your licks in, and that it ain’t ever over until it’s over — Yogi Berra said that.
Yogi-isms
Yogi Berra also once said, “Baseball is 90% mental, and the other half is physical” — I knew exactly what he was talking about (while everyone else scratched their heads trying to figure out the logic in that statement). Other great Yogi-isms:
“No one ever goes there anymore — it’s always too crowded.”
“If you come to a fork in the road — take it.”
“You’ve got to be very careful if you don’t know where you are going, because you might not get there.”
“I never said most of the things I said.”
“Always go to other people’s funerals, otherwise they won’t come to yours.
I once interviewed Yogi, for the Navy Memorial’s Navy Log Blog, at Nationals Park. He loved the game almost as much as I do. He was the real deal. He cried when he remembered some of his shipmates who didn’t make it home from World War II. Yes, my friends — there IS crying in baseball. I knew that from when I heard that my hero, Roberto Clemente, died in a plane crash off the coast of San Juan, flying relief supplies down to earthquake ravaged Nicaragua.
The Last Inning
I envision the end of my life as follows (imagine a celestial announcer calling the play), “Pete’s hit the ball deep into the right-center field gap, and there he goes, rounding second base, heading into third, where the third base coach puts up the stop sign, but Pete blows right past that sign and is heading for home, where the ball is sailing in from the outfield, it’s a race to see who gets there first, Pete or the ball, it looks like he’ll never make it, but he’s driving harder and harder, his hair blowing back, his breathing harder, and now, fifteen feet before the plate, he’s impossibly launched himself into a head first dive, his arms outstretched, the catcher and the ball are waiting for him at home, he crashes into the catcher as dirt and dust swirl all around the place, but as the dirt and dust settle, the cosmic umpire looks down and yells, ‘SAFE’!!!! And so, sports fans, Pete is finally safe at home!”
And that, my friends, is the ballgame!
How About You?
What person, event or thing, if changed, would change everything in your life? What would your life be without….
Victoria Ponte, Elena Tucker, Shaan Sood, Donna Barker, Nupoor Raj, San Cassimally, Ningshen, Ashwini Dodani; Vaishali Paliwal, Sherry McGuinn
