[Another discarded memory from my Step-by-Step Memoir entitled Extra-Ordinary. SM SM]
It’s hard to pinpoint my very first baseball memory, but I do remember that I took second prize in my first grade talent show with my display of baseball cards. My mother helped me with the display, overlapping the cards on a sheet of cardboard, attached at the top by a piece of scotch tape. That bit of tape, alas, greatly diminished the collectible value of the cards, but at least I still have them. I rediscovered them in a shoebox years later when my sons began collecting.
Note the residual scotch tape at the top of the card.
While Ted Williams was unquestionably the Red Sox best player, my personal idol was Jimmy Piersall.
Jimmy was a speedy center fielder with a reputation as a great ball hawk. I liked him for his good looks and hustle. His real claim to fame, however, is that he suffered a mental breakdown earlier in his career that he described in a searingly honest autobiography called Fear Strikes Out which was later made into a film of the same name, starring Anthony Perkins of Psycho fame. (My dad took me to see it at the drive-in, but I didn’t ware for it much. Not enough baseball action.)
One year for Christmas I opened a present from Charlie and there was an autographed picture of Jimmy Piersall, personalized to me. It actually said “To Step!”
The Red Sox didn’t give their fans much to cheer about in the Fifties. There was Ted Williams, the exquisite Splendid Splinter, who unfortunately, seemed to dislike the fans, and an abundance of mediocrity. My favorite player was Jimmy Piersall.
The Sox were part of the DNA of life at Post Island, like the tides. By the summer of 1956 I was already addicted.
It was a thunderstorm-y summer day in July when I retreated indoors at the cottage. We didn’t watch TV in the summer, but we did have a small, black & white portable for the specific purpose of watching the occasional Red Sox game. I turned it on and settled onto the wicker settee. There was a game, but the tarp was on the field. Duh! If it was raining at Post Island, it would be raining at Fenway, too. I was disappointed but listened as the announcer, Curt Gowdy, told me to “sit back with an ice cold beer. Hi Neighbor, Have a Gansett.” That image pushed into a future book that I wrote about beer:
from “The Great Beer Trek.” (Stephen Greene Press, 1984). Illustration by Vance Smith.
Before long it cleared enough for the game to begin. Something happened to me that day. I watched the game from beginning to end. I was alone at the cottage. I had my Red Sox hat by my side. (This is another story, but superstition dictated that I could wear the hat ONLY when the Red Sox were at bat.) The hat worked its magic this day, and excitement mounted in the later innings as Mel Parnell, the Sox’s crafty southpaw, had not surrendered a hit.
Now he need only one more out. I was now standing in front of the tiny TV, beside myself with nervous excitement. The batter swung and hit a tapper towards the pitcher. Parnell grabbed it and ran to the bag himself, not wanting to risk a throw.
July 14, 1956 … I became a lifelong Red Sox addict.
I opened the door and went outside, anxious to share the excitement of what I had just witnessed. There was no one in sight. The day, however, had returned to summer. The sun shone brightly; there was no remnant of the rain. Oh well. I headed down to the beach. The kids were all there, sitting on the seawall and listening to the ever-present AM radio. WMEX. 1510 on your radio dial, home of Arnie “Woo-Woo” Ginzburg.
No one cared that Mel Parnell had just pitched a no-hitter.
There is a great quote from another Red Sox pitcher from that era, Frank Sullivan. When asked how he felt about the season, he answered wistfully and with the touch of an Irish poet, “I’m in the twilight of a mediocre career”.
That is a great quote. Alas, I could use it in reference to my own career as well. Other pitchers of that era– Tom Brewer, Ike Delock, Dave Sisler, Dave Morehead (he pitched a no-hitter, too). Good to hear from you Rich.
Great story. About baseball cards. I collected them, every time I had a nickel for the pack of gum/cards. Over the years I added to the pile, as older cousins outgrew theirs and gave them to me. About 20 years ago, my mother let slip that she’d returned the whole box to an aunt, who claimed they’d been hers all along, per her sons’ wishes. (This aunt was a notable skinflint, who among other things was known to engrave her name on inheritable keepsakes well before the owners passed). I ordered my mother to retrieve the cards, most actually being mine. The aunt returned them. All the superstars, and my own Piersall card, were gone, almost certainly cashed in by my aunt. If, though, your collection is short any Clem Koshorek cards, I have about a dozen of those. I’ll let you have one cheap.
I will trade you two Dick Gernerts plus a Don Buddin for a mint Clem Koshorek. One rainy Saturday when my kids were heavily into card collecting I pulled out the shoebox full of cards that Mom had saved and I had dragged around for years. I borrowed my son’s Beckett’s Monthly (the Bible of card prices) and started looking up card values. Omigod! I pulled out a half-dozen cards and held them out to my wife and said “These six cards are worth more than anything we own in this house.” Still got ’em.