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Growing up in Boston in the late fifties a Red Sox fan, fantasizing of my favorite scenario, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded and Ken Wasnock comes to the plate….. Baseball filled days of summer just a few short miles from Fenway Park and the Green Monster. Seventy -five cent bleacher seats watching a game overlooking the bullpen. Fond memories of yesteryear, when baseball was more game than ego and economics. A time when our heroes on the field were not role models but hard working champions in the pursuit of their youthful dreams.
Take a brief journey with me back in time to the pre-war years of the 1930's. There is a young baseball player with an unmatched passion for the pursuit of excellence in the art of hitting a baseball. It is said that he engaged in batting practice whenever the opportunity presented itself, before practice, before a game, after practice, after a game, on his days off, at each available opportunity. During this young fellow's rookie year in the "bigs" (the big league-major league baseball) he was approached by a veteran player who inquired what the young fellow was trying to prove with his incessant and determined efforts with bat and ball. The story goes that he replied, “Someday when I walk down the street I want folks to say, 'there goes the greatest hitter who ever lived.' ”
That young fellow retired in 1960 with the accomplished distinction of being known, far and wide, as the greatest hitter in the game. Numerous records, achievements, two Triple Crown Awards (league leader in batting average, home runs and runs batted in) and, at the time of his retirement, one of only three players to hit over five-hundred home runs during their career. His greatness followed him to his ‘last at bat’ whereupon he hit a home run in his final curtain call. That fateful event in September 1960 at Fenway Park, was witnessed by this writer, at the time an eleven year fan of the Boston Red Sox, who before that day and for all time thereafter professed the belief that this player's commitment and accomplishments on the green-fields of baseball, bespeak of the glory and cherished memories enjoyed by the faithful fans of our “national pastime.”
As of this writing he holds the distinction of being “the last of the .400 hitters.” No one has duplicated the feat of having a .400 or better batting average for an entire season since it was achieved by this man in 1941.
Thirty-three years after his retirement, in the fall of 1993, friends and fans of this icon of baseball enjoined to build a museum to honor this hero of baseball. The announcement of this monument in progress declared that a donation to the museum brought the donor the privilege of attending the opening and dedication ceremonies. As an expression of my appreciation of the man and his career, I composed a short verse and sent it along with a monetary gift. No plans of traveling to Florida to attend, only thinking of the excitement of owning an invitation to such a memorable event. In just a few short days I received my invitation to the February 1994 dedication ceremonies and I found inscribed inside a short note from one of the founders of the museum advising me that “Ted liked the poem and that my tribute was to be hung in the museum.”
I was astounded, who would believe, my simple poem, along side of memorabilia and the works of world renown artists, items from his playing career and much, much, more, truly an incomprehensible honor, a truly humbling experience. I remember thinking, is this for real, have they mistaken me for someone else, how did it come about that I would be bestowed such a privilege?
Andy Warhol once declared that “we all have our fifteen minutes of fame.” If Mr. Warhol's prediction is true I must apologize for taking more than my designated portion, assuming of course that the poem still hangs in those hallowed halls in Florida. I did get to visit the museum and I did see my verse on display amidst thousands of other mementos related to the man and his career.
For those of you from Venus or recent arrivals from Mars who know not to whom I paid my tribute, he is “The Kid,” “The Splendid Splinter,” “Thumper,” “Teddy Ballgame,” he is Theodore Samuel Williams, the greatest hitter who ever lived, the last of the .400 hitters.
Since many of you, who made it this far in this epistle, are now wondering of what do I speak, I present to you the Poem "The Greatest Hitter That Ever Lived” :
THE GREATEST HITTER THAT EVER LIVED
He made his name with a stick of ash,
He carved his memory with each mighty crash
What he did fulfilled his greatest dreams
Clouting that little orb with the hand stitched seams
He parried with pitchers with the keenest of eye
With all of their wizardry they couldn't get by
He beat them with patience, his perfected skill
Few were up to overcoming his enduring will
With practice and determination he earned his wage
Towering over home plate was his center stage
Quick and smooth, the sweetest swing
In a game of hitters he was truly King
From start to finish he awed fan and foe
From April to October he was a one man show
On a gray cloudy day he shined like the Sun
His final at bat he bid us farewell with number 521
Heroes come and go but for me it'll never be the same
None can compare to the Splendid Splinter, the Legend
Mr. Teddy Ballgame.
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