MEETING TED WILLIAMS

1961

     Dad had no interest in going to ball games, did not follow the big leagues, but conceded to take me to a Red Sox/Angel game at Wrigley Field when Joe Stephenson left us box seats. The game was unexciting, and Boston, with Ted Williams recently retired, was an uninspiring team. We left in the 7^th inning to avoid traffic so Dad could get home early and sleep before going to work in the morning. The bowels of the dank old stadium were near deserted, concession stands closing as we hurried toward a ramp that would take us to the parking lot. Near a concession stand I recognized a tall, familiar figure talking on a pay phone attached to a post. I grabbed Dad and pointed.

     “Dad, that’s Ted Williams over there.”

     He halted, peered. “I think so. I think that’s Ted.”

      “You know him, right?”

      “Well, we said hello a couple times, twenty years ago. He’s a loner, Dell, doesn’t like to be bothered. He can be a real pain in the ass.”

     “I thought you said he was a good guy.”

     “He is…”

     “I gotta meet him! He’s the greatest hitter of all time. You said it!”

     We walked up to him as he talked on the phone. Williams wore a loose fitting sport coat over a plain white shirt open at the throat. He alertly eyed us, looking trapped and edgy, like a cornered animal. He finished his conversation and stared at us in a confrontational manner. Dad quickly told him he’d played against him before the war, with Detroit, and introduced himself. Ted’s face softened and he smiled, shaking hands with Dad.

     “I remember you, Franklin—line drive pull hitter, good anchor, level swing. I always played you near the line.” He relaxed, asked Dad what he was doing these days, and when Dad told him about his business, Williams said he was glad to see a fellow ball player doing well, and then he glanced at me, as if he’d just noticed my presence, winked at Dad, and nodded toward me. “Who’s the kid, Franklin?”

     “That’s my son Dell, Ted.”

     “Ball player?”

     “Helluva ball player. Good prospect. Infielder. Got the good hands.”

     Williams appeared insulted. “Hands? Hell with the hands. Can the kid hit?”

     “Got a double, triple, homerun today, drove in six runs. Hitting over .400. Great pair of wrists.”

     Ted’s face lit up and he offered me his paw, which shook mine lightly while I squeezed hard. “Thattaway, kid. Keep swingin’ that bat.” He shook Dad’s hand again. “Good to see yah, Franklin.”

     Then he was gone, like a phantom. Dad placed an arm around my shoulder as we walked out of the stadium. “Quite a day, huh? You drove in six runs, saw a big league ball game, and met the greatest hitter of all time.”

     “He played you on the line. He knows your game.”

     “He knows everybody’s game. He probably remembers every goddam pitch he ever hit or didn’t hit. He’s a mad scientist. That’s why he’s great.”

     (Next Sunday installment: “High School Showdown.”)