Great Day To Play Two

Running up the box seat steps behind the Brewers dugout at old County Stadium between innings to make a food run was always an adventure. Everyone seems to have the same idea at the same time so it takes a bit of bobbing and weaving. Up to the Grandstand level, to the right, then a quick left, down the ramp, a snap hook right and you are in front of the most wonderful aroma one can imagine…that sweet smell of fried onions and Secret Stadium Sauce mixing with the finished bratwurst in a tray on the grill more than ready for the hoards gathering behind me. Like in golf, that was the vision in my head as the top of the third was about to conclude.

It is always good to visualize what you want to do. Then you are sure to get there without too much disappointment.

Making the move as the pitcher was about to throw on a 3-2 pitch, it was clear to make the mad dash. But as I was about to hit the top step leading to my right turn on the grandstand level, appearing on the left, as some of the crowd was standing up to stretch their legs, was a man, much bigger than I had thought he would be. He was smiling and waving back to the crowd, as he was also probably heading in the same direction I was about to continue. But he was instantly identifiable with that same 1954 Topps picture now facing me in real-time. He hadn’t aged from when that card photo was taken. Without hesitation, I reached out to shake his hand and Ernie smiled and said, looking directly into my eyes, “Great day to play two, isn’t it.”

Ernie Banks was in the enemy’s camp and nearly everyone was giving him a wave, applauding, running up to get his autograph, all smiling and some of us lucky enough to just shake his hand. It was just a natural thing to do.

So much has been written and said about what he did on the playing field or in the City of Chicago. I had known about Ernie, since childhood when my next door neighbor, Snooky, a diehard Cubs fan, opened that pack of Topps on his front steps. All of us gathered around to see what he had gotten out of that fresh wrap of glory. Then, out popped the coveted Banks rookie card. On the back of card #94, this baseball Wikipedia of its day told us all we wanted to know. Obviously a rookie. Earnest Banks. Born in Dallas, TX, January 31, 1931. 6’1”, 180 lbs. “After gaining recognition as the top ranking player in the Negro National League, Ernie came to the Cubs from the Kansas City Monarchs in September 1953. Seeing only limited service with Chicago last year, the former Army Artillery man hit for 22 total bases and looks like a real hot prospect for a regular Bruin infield berth this season.” 10 games, 35 At Bats. 3 Runs. 11 Hits. 1 Double. 1 Triple. 2 H.R. 6 RBIs. .314 Batting Ave. 19 Put Outs. 33 Assists. 1 Error. .991 Fielding Percentage. And as the Inside Baseball cartoon at the bottom of the back of the card said, ‘Ernie was an all around athlete as a student at Booker T. Washington High in Dallas. He starred in track, basketball, football and of course baseball.”

We devoured every word as gospel on the back of those cards and in moments, Ernie’s stats were burned into our heads.

Now he was smiling at me and shaking my hand. Sputtering something like, ‘Great to see you, Ernie.’ in return and attempting to pull out of his two-handed immense grasp of my right hand, his magic words came out.

I now made the visioned journey with a quicker lift than previous, anxious to get back to the seats to tell the family who I had just met. Amongst the ‘Oh. Wow’s’ and a quick look over their shoulders to see the man I was talking about, he was no long there. But if you looked down just a couple of sections, there he was, still shaking hands…still smiling…and still looking every bit of the legendary hero of so many, including my friends, Snooky and Lenny.

It is a memory that will always be with me even as he has now passed to play two with the Big Guy.

You can imagine the conversation. ‘Not a bad start, Earnest. Now enjoy the rest of time.’

Play Ball!

A View Up Close

On of the delights of baseball is the ability of fans to get up close and personal with the players of the game.  During the years one can become fascinated with how a player not only performs on the field but how he presents himself, when seemingly nothing is happening and no one is watching.

Then just when you think you have seen a player being perfect, he picks his nose, spits baccy juice on the floor of the dugout and on his perfectly clean uniform. There are always the crotch grabbers and fixer uppers. There is an unnamed infield that always blew his nose in the right arm short sleeve of his uniform. Well it was a traveling uniform and not the home ‘whites’.

But there is one guy who honestly is above all of that. I first saw him when he came up. I’ve seen him in only two stadiums in my life. One was in old Milwaukee County Stadium and the other at BankOne/The Chase in Phoenix.

Derek Jeter appears to be perfect. He simply responds to things in a way you would think the Captain of the New York Yankees should perform. He avoids most confrontations. He smiles. He hits in the clutch. Rarely shows excessiveness. He comes back from injury by slapping a ball right up the middle. He is stoic in nearly every thing he does on the field. He is a gentleman off of the field. He has proven he is a champion. He is, in short, a hero.

That is the set up.

For many of baseball’s great players, we have placed them on the Jeter pedestal, one which places the player above any wrong doing. He smiles as though he is only smiling at you. He stairs at disbelief as no other. He responds to a strike out as if he has let not only the team down, by you the fans in the stands, and the fans over the YES Network and throughout the world via radio, down. And we all feel his pain. But as he walks back to the dugout, we feel empowered to cheer for him harder so he can make that pitcher pay the next time he steps up to the plate. You can literally see Derek Jeter transform from a mortal ballplayer into a champion whom we all know will be the real ‘Mighty Casey’ the next time at the plate or the wonderful fielder on defense. Remember, the play at the plate? You don’t even have to qualify that play. You already know it in your heart.

This past week, the Hall of Fame elected three great players. Greg Maddux, Tom Glavine and Frank Thomas. Saw all three in their best days. Tremendous performers. Maddux was so good he could even convinced the plate itself that it was a strike that he had just thrown. Glavine followed Maddux. Thomas was as close to Babe Ruth in our era as we will ever see. He was big. He was powerful. And he was clean.

Why did we have to bring that up? He was clean? The other day when the  election was announced, most of the discussions centered around those who were not elected. Many have been placed into the PED barrel, either through admittance or through innuendo. It was at that time I read one of the most interesting articles I have ever read on the subject. It was written by Bryan Curtis. And if you are a fan of the game, this is a must read. (http://www.grantland.com/story/_/id/10261642/mlb-hall-fame-voting-steroid-era)

In the field of those who will be honored at Cooperstown this summer and receiving the sports highest honor will be one former manager of a couple of teams which won pennants. Nearly all of them were won with  a player or players who were heavy PED users. After you read the article above, if you are a fan of his and have held him on that pedestal, you all can say it is a lie. If not, you can ask yourself, ‘Why are we honoring this guy?’. Of course he may not show because he is rumored to be the next skipper of the Seattle Mariners. Suddenly, the Mariners have more money than a game developer.

Now you see the problem that was created by the nomination to the Hall of Fame. Very few words in this article are addressing the wonderful accomplishments of the three elected. Maddux painted the corners of a plate that at times got so big, his reputation became that of Picasso on the Mound. His brush was his imagination and an arm that could put the ball where he wanted it. Glavine followed Maddux. Thomas was a huge man who absolutely everyone in the third base section of the stands always began to drink coffee two innings before he came to bat for fear that a foul ball would be heading their way at over 100 mph. Thus one of the reasons why the best place to see baseball is from the first base side, behind the dugout, right down the first to second line (see above).

Derek Jeter. The Captain. The Yankee of this Era.
All Photos On This Page: © Lance Hanish.

Which brings us all the back to the Captain. As Ed Bradley, the famed CBS reporter told us back in 2005, as a child, Jeter’s parents made him sign a contract every year that set acceptable and unacceptable forms of behavior. Yankees scout Dick Groch, convinced the Yankees to draft him #6 in the first round selling them on the idea by saying “the only place Derek Jeter’s going is to Cooperstown”. Today, he may finish #5 on the hits list all-time. He has a chance of moving ahead of Paul Monitor, Carl Yastrzemski and Honus Wagner with a mediocre year. If he has a Jeter year, he will move into the fourth spot, ahead of Tris Speaker. He need 199 hits to do that.

Six years from now, when one Derek Jeter is eligible to enter the Hall of Fame, let’s not waste time talking about the injustice of why a guy who bet on baseball was not elected into the Hall. Let’s not waste time discussing why the ‘bloated one’ who pounded the ball over the fence as if he was filled with helium, wasn’t elected, yet again.

Wait! That’s it. They were all on helium. That’s why their muscles exploded overnight. That’s why the ball looked like a ping-pong ball. It was all about helium. Why didn’t the Commish think about this before.

Here’s to helium.

And to Jeter, getting into the Hall and having all of us talk about one of the greatest players who ever played the game and retelling others why he was placed on that pedestal,  deserves all of our recognition. Real heroes are like that. They have earned our admiration.

Play ball!

A Pall Falls On The City

The Cream City has experienced this all before. On the day the announcement was made by the carpetbagger Bartholomay to remove the beloved Braves, a devastated population of loyal fans had jaws agape. It simply could not be true. How could someone remove a team from a city that supported it from day one with Major League record attendance, year after year? Was there no one in town who could offer greed more than the hope of Dixie?

The pain was real. It was deep. It cut through the boyhood memories, dragging them ruthlessly away, well ahead of its time. We had felt disappointment before. There were the continual battles with the Cardinals for the pennant where the sound of fingers on rosary beads were louder than the silent scream of hope that this would be our year. There was the release of Spahn, Buhl, Burdette, Bruton and others. But the hope of the future was there with Aaron, Carty and Torre. And Eddie was still there, the real deal, the heart of the team beloved by so many. Surely Henry and Mathews would refuse to move to the South and force the owners to reconsider.

The ballpark was vacant. ‘No Game Today’ signs hung on the box office windows as if penance from confession was not enough. No one was coming to ‘Will Call’. George Webb made no predictions. They had left town never to return.

No more battles with the Cubs and our next door neighbor who was a religious Cubbie fan. No more “Take Me Out” during the 7^th inning stretch. No more excitement about the anticipation of who would see the stadium first when driving in from out-of-town. Hot dogs never tasted the same after that in our winter of complete and total discontent.

The citizens, with hidden tears being wisped away with a rub of a  shoulder to the eyes when no one was looking, were the same but now with a pall over the City. Joy had been ripped out of our hearts.

Then as if the skies opened up, with a huge check from Robert A. Uihlein, Jr., the owner of Schlitz Brewing Company after being persuaded by Ben Barkin, his and the world’s best PR man, the car leasing dealer’s son was bringing the game back to the City. There was hope. There was joy.

Baseball, throughout all of its years, after all is a game of hope. Players change. Manager’s change. Venues sometimes change. From County Stadium to Miller Park, the spirit of the Braves of old whistled through the stadium on opening day of the transplanted Seattle Pilots who went bankrupt in Seattle.

From that point, a new alliance was born between desperate fans yearning to erase the pain of old and replace it with new hope. A bond was created between fans who loved the game and a team that was saved from extinction. Yes. We were now in a new league but that league had the Yankees. We would now be able to see the greatest team in baseball a number of times a year play in the stadium where our home team once won and lost to them in a World Series.

No more Cubs, but we got the White Sox. Close enough.

We also got that new team up in the Twin Cities as a new rival. Life was getting better and now hope was rampant as a new surge of energy spread throughout the land of cheese and butter, beer and ‘B-O-L-O-G-N-A’. The bubblers and goulashes were back in fashion. Baseball was back in the City, the county, the State.

Through the years we latched onto heroes of the game our home team spawned. ‘Boomer’, ‘Vuch’, ‘The Kid’, ‘Molly’, ‘Bambi’s Bombers’, ‘Harvey’s Wallbangers’, Cecil, Sixto, Money, ‘Augie Doggie’, ‘Kenny The Sandman’, Prince, Rickie, Cory, Aoki, Lucroy, ‘Vonnie’, the new kid at short, ‘St. Jean’ and the guy in left.

Most of the pain that we experienced before came flooding back in a flash flood of sorrow. Sure some of the Crew had taken drugs before but none were ever banished with such suddenness, such deliberate heart wrenching disgust and suspension. And in a time when there was no more Prince to defend us, no more Cory to hit us out of our deep depression, the guy in left had us hanging by a thread…without much hope.

Hope drives the game. Hope instills a loyalty that suspends belief. Hope is the lifeblood of youth in all of us no matter what the age. Without hope we are adrift on an endless, joyless whim of no direction.

The pall is over the City once again.

We need a prince to bring life back to the fans of the True Blue Brew Crew.

Perhaps we should just abide and softly in typical Milwaukee fashion, quietly close with …

Play Ball!

Sound Of Suddenness

It begins like this.

He rolls the ball in his right hand, with his thumb pushing along the red seams, making the ball rotate over the callus of his massive paw, until the seams are exactly in the right position…that familiar comfortable position to grab onto and hurl the sphere 96 mpg at the plate 60’ 6” away.

Wap! The sound of the cowhide sphere smacking into the leather catching mitt behind the plate.

It is the sound of unforgettable presence. You know exactly where you are when you hear that sound. It is pleasure.

There are few sounds that compare. Sure, the crack of a bat is a unique sound. But it is different from the really great player and the good player. Ted Simmons hit a heavy ball. The sound of his bat striking the ball was very different. It was ‘Thud’. Ryan Braun’s sound is magic. It is an explosive ‘Crack!’ and you know the ball is gone. ‘Bang’.

But it is that simple sound of the ball banging into that perfect pocket of the mitt that is unique.

On July 28, 1997, sitting at a nearly empty Milwaukee County Stadium, in an afternoon game which was a rescheduled game that became part of a day-night double header, Roger Clemens was on the mound for the Toronto Blue Jays. In this nearly empty stadium, the sound of his fastball hitting the catchers glove was astounding, resounding in the hollow stadium. It was so loud that the echo of emptiness must have been heard by all who were to oppose him that day. It is to this day, the loudest sound I have ever heard a baseball hitting a catcher’s glove make.

Advance to this spring.

Wily Peralta is a highly acclaimed 23 year old rookie with the Milwaukee Brewers. The sound of his 96 mpg fastball hitting the glove is nearly like that. This past Tuesday, he was on the mound in Wrigley Field for his second start of the season, a season where the Brew Crew relievers picked up where they left off early last year by giving up leads continuously. Axford is Axe-less. Michael Gonzalez, who the Brewers got from the Nationals in he off season is usually off. Tom Gorzelanny, another Nationals transfer has not been sharp. Tampa Bay acquisition Burke Badenhop is bad enough. Mark Rodgers is on the DL. Chris Narveson is on the DL. Jim Henderson appears o be the only relief pitcher that has his stuff his year. Yet on this frigid Tuesday evening, where a number of his team mates (Rickie Weeks, Jean Seguari, Ryan Braun, Norichika Aoki, Carlos Gomez, Yuniesky Betancourt and Jonathan Lucroy) were wearing ski masks to temper the cold, donning short sleeves, Peralta was mowing the Cubs down, with 5 strikeouts in 6 2/3rds innings. It was like watching Mitch Seavey, the 53 year old Iditarod winner, wear a tee shirt on the first leg of the Alaskan nightmare. His fastball on this night had that sound.

However, during the Alaskan race, there are tried and true dogs to team through to victory. Not all can make it on the long journey, but the reserves come through for the winners. With the Milwaukee Brewers, there has been a history of great relief pitching. Legendary Ken Sanders, in 1971, appeared in 83 games (a Brewer record to this day), winning 7 and saving 31 games. He also holds the Brewer record for most games finished in a season (77 in 1971).

Rollie Fingers was at the head of the class. In 1981, he won the coveted MVP, the firs relief pitch to do so. He also won the Relief Man of the Year award, The Sporting News Fireman of the Year award and the Joe Cronin Award for distinguished service. The Brewers all time relief leader, Dan Plesac held court. In 1989 (with 33 saves) he is chosen to the All-Star team, making him the first Brewers pitcher ever to be chosen three straight times. In seven years, Plesac holds the Brewers record for all time saves with the team (158).

In 1995, Mike Fetters converted his first 15 save opportunities to increase his consecutive save streak to a then club record 20. There was Doug Jones with 36 saves in 1997 and then little remembered Bob Wickman (37 saves in 1999). He earned an All-Star roster spot in 2000.

Dan Kolb in 2004 had 39 saves, a new franchise record and was named to the All-Star team. The next season, Derrick Turnbow earned 39 saves out of the bullpen. In 2007, Francisco Cordero had 44 saves (a new Brewer record at the time) and earned an All-Star position. In 2009, Trevor Hoffman had 37 saves.

In 2010, Hoffman earned his 600th career save in the very twilight of his career. Then in 2011, the “Beast Mode” Brewers had a great group of relievers, Takashi Saito, LaTroy Hawkins, Francisco Rodriguez and  John Berton Axford (46 saves, tops in the National League).

Truth be told, the Milwaukee Brewers have had good relief pitching and closers in the past. But right now, even the explosive exploits of the Dominican Republic’s, 6’1”, 245 lb, flame thrower, cannot get the job done by himself.

The Brewers need, as it was almost all of last year, needs a savior.

They need it right now.

Peralta’s sound of suddenness should not go without victory.

Play Ball.

The Green Of Spring

When you first glance at it in the spring, the field is like a carpet where only those heroes of the game are privileged to walk upon. It is perfectly cut and trimmed, green as green can be. In this time of chasing the statistical universe, one can only marvel at the setting where the basics of the game are played.

Legends bring the game into perspective. Joe walked toward that position. You should have seen him play. Did you see him? Was he as good as they say? He was certainly one of the greatest Yankees of them all. Henry played right there. ‘Slough Foot’ they called him when he first came up. He seemed to glide when catching a fly in left field of old County Stadium. Unbelievable bat speed. “Stan The Man” played there. Every kid in the nation copied his unique batting style regardless if you were a left hander or not. He was one of the few, at least in the games I saw him play, who was never booed at an opposing ballpark. So many stepped on that platform of green on their way to Cooperstown. Willie, Mickey and The Duke. Robin, Reggie and Teddy Ballgame. Who will be next to take this trip from outfield to The Hall?

Spring allows all to show us their wares. Trout, Harper, Cespedes and Aoki all showed exceptional talent in their first year patrolling the outfield, last year. Their rookie seasons presented great promise. Mike Trout had quite a year. At age 20, he hit .326, scored 129 runs, had 182 hits which included 8 triples, walked 67 times and had 315 total bases. He also had 49 steals. Oh yes. He had 30 home runs. In the field he had 4 errors for a .988 fielding percentage. Norichika Aoki, a 29-year-old rookie, batted .288 with 150 hits of which 37 were doubles. As a lead off hitter, he drew 43 base on balls, had 30 stolen bases and had an amazing 10 home runs. With 81 runs scored, he had 255 total bases. In the field, he had only 3 errors for a .988 fielding percentage.

Bryce Harper hit .270 on 144 hits with 26 doubles, 22 home runs and 18 stolen bases. He scored 98 runs. In the field, he had 7 errors for a .979 fielding percentage. At 19 years of age, he unquestionably has a future of brightness in front of him. Yoenis Cespedes, at 26, had 142 hits with 25 doubles, 23 home runs and 82 runs batted in while producing a .292 batting average. He had 70 runs scored and 246 total bases. In the field he had 3 errors for a .987 fielding percentage.

Who will step out and make those giant strides to Cooperstown? Any of them? None of them? That’s why the game is so much fun in the spring. The green of spring brings hope for all, including those of us who cannot seem to get enough of it. Lucky for us, we have a full month left during this amazing time of the year.

Play ball!

Opportunity Missed. Watch Out For #9.

The Milwaukee Brewers missed a great chance to do something they have never done before…sweep the Dodgers in a series. Their 4-3 loss on Thursday made their record 6-7 compared to 7-6 last season after their first full 13 games and after winning the first two against the Dodgers by 3-2 scores.

The City of Milwaukee in major league baseball has only swept the Dodgers five times in history. The first time came in the inaugural year of the Milwaukee Braves in 1953, when in September on the 2nd (Bob Buhl won his 11th of the year 9-8 in relief of Warren Spahn and Ernie Johnson) and 3rd (Lew Burdette won his 14th of the year, 6-1 as Eddie Mathews hit his 44th home run of the year driving in 3 in the 8th and Jim Pendleton hit his 6th driving in 2, also in the 8th off of Carl Erskine), they swept the boys from Brooklyn at Ebbets Field.

Their next sweep was also at Ebbets Field on May 11 (Gene Conley won his second of the year, 2-0, striking out 7 with Joe Adcock hitting the home run for victory in the 6th) and on the 12th (Lew Burdette won his 3rd, 5-1, getting key home runs by Mathews & Adcock off of Don Newcombe) in 1954.

Finally in 1956, they beat ‘the Bums’ in Milwaukee in a major four game series, July 12 (in the first game of a double-header, Bob Buhl won his 10th, 2-0, with an Adcock home run – his 13th off of Craig), in the second game of the double-header on July 12 (Burdette won 6-5, with Adcock hitting his 14th home run off of Carl Erskine),  July 13 (Ernie Johnson won his 2nd in relief of Ray Crone, 8-6, again with Adcock’s 15th home run off of Newcombe), and on July 14 (Johnson again won in relief, 3-2, with yet another home run by Adcock, his 16th off of Sal Maglie in the 10th on a walk off). It is the only time a Milwaukee team swept a Dodger team in the Cream City thanks in large part to the Dodger killer, Joe Adcock. By the way, Jackie Robinson hit his 7th of the season in the 8th on July 13th off of Burdette.

Two other times, in Los Angeles, the Braves swept the Dodgers on April 24 (Hank Fisher won his 2nd of the year, 6-3, with Ed Bailey hitting his 5th home run) and April 25 (Warren Spahn won his first of the year, 5-1. beating Johnny Padres), 1964 and in the final year of the Braves being from Milwaukee in 1965 on July 21 (Wade Blasingame won 6-4) and July 22 (Tony Cloninger beat Bob Miller for a 5-2 victory).

Will this be the year of opportunity missed?

The Crew will play the Dodgers one more time this season, in Los Angeles in late May (28-31) at Dodger Stadium. With history on its side, the chance of a Brewers sweep is nil. That is unless we can wake up Joe Adcock from the grave. “Billy Joe Adcock”, ironically as Vin Scully popularized him, wore number 9.

Guess who wears #9 for the Brewers. George Kottaras.

There is a chance.

I Saw Jackie Play

One of my childhood hero’s was a Southern Californian who won major letters in four sports: track, football basketball and baseball at UCLA. From the first time I had heard his name, and the exploits  about him from my grandfather, Jackie was a magnet for my attention. The first time I saw him was on television, on the Mutual Television Network from Ebbets Field, there he was at second base. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

I had to see him in person.

My Dad took my brother (Mike) and I to Milwaukee County Stadium sitting in the then left field bleachers down the third base line. We were in the 8th row, even with Sid Gordon of the Braves playing in left field. The view was made memorable with all eyes on the hero of the Braves, Eddie Mathews, playing at third. After the pitcher finished up his practice throws, Crandall threw it to Mathews who threw it to Logan who threw it to Dittmar and then to Adcock as they whipped the ball around the infield and gave it back to the pitcher.

Then HE came up to bat. At age 32, Jackie Robinson made $38,000 in 1953, $3,000 less than he made the previous year although he was an All-Star and easily one of the biggest draws in all of baseball. That salary would be equivalent to $326,475.51 today (less than the Major League minimum but huge by 1953 standards. Bobby Schantz, star pitcher of the Philadelphia A’s made $24,000 that year. The youngster, Mickey Mantle of the Yankees made $17,500 while Yogi Berra made $36,000. Stan Musial was one of the tops with $80,000.) The world was not equal in those days. But, an average house cost $9,550. A gallon of gas cost $0.20; average cost of a new car was $1,650 and the average salary in America was $4,000. You get the idea. Times were different.

So much for the ‘stuff’ of the day’. Today was baseball. A game with the Milwaukee Braves and the Brooklyn Dodgers was about to begin. Jackie Robinson was the lead off batter and was at the plate facing Johnny Antonelli. As I remember it, he walked, stole second, went to third on a ground out and then the picture I hoped for was directly in my view. Eddie at third. Jackie bopping up and down, faking to steal home then back to third. He caused havoc on the base paths. Eddie really didn’t know what to do. Should he play his usual position at third with a right-handed batter at the plate or should he stay nearer the bag to keep Jackie close. Everyone was confused, except Jackie. The left-handed pitcher was clearly upset by this force of nature at third. Then bang! Like a shot Jackie stole home. In an instant, THE moment was over.

“Did you see that? Did you see that?”, I repeatedly asked anyone who was near.  Old white men in the crowd complained that Robinson was cheating. “You don’t go jumping all around when you’re on base.”, they would say, complaining that the home team just didn’t stand a chance against the Robinson led Dodgers. “But did you see that?”, I asked my Dad and Mom, who were smiling at the event they just witnessed. My Grandma and Grandpa were smiling as well as my Grandma plainly stated, “That was Jackie Robinson.”

What a statement. It shot through my bones as it was the projectile fact fired from the canon of all that was truthful, my Grandmother’s wisdom.

Then, as if a blessing had occurred, Jackie Robinson came out and played left field, right in front of us. I could nearly reach out and touch him, he seemed that close. He had come up a second baseman, but now the Dodgers played Junior Gilliam at second. There he was. Right in front of me…now in left field, Jackie Robinson. His cleats looked big league. They were polished. His away flannels were baggy looking. But there he was, looking intense, flipping the ball back and forth to “Duke” Snider in Center before the beginning of the bottom of the first.

“That’s Jackie.”, I kept thinking to myself. I was clearly living an out-of-body experience. For the rest of the game, Jackie Robinson and I were one in thought and into the game. There he was. Right in front of me bigger than life. No. It was life itself. There was Jackie Robinson. What a day.

But for all that happened that day, my Grandmother’s comment kept replaying in my mind. Nothing else was so clear on that day. Nothing was so vivid in my mind as we drove home, back to Beloit. Nothing else mattered even though the Braves lost another to their rivals, the Dodgers, in that first year of Major League baseball in Milwaukee. Jackie has stolen 17 bases that season and I had just seen two of them.

I had seen Jackie Robinson play baseball.

That next week was a dream as I retold the story what seemed like a hundred times to friends and acquaintances. During that week, I went to the corner store on Hackett a little more than a block from our home on Lincoln, and bought a pack of baseball cards. This time they were Topps, not Bowman. Bowman were my favorite but I wanted to try my hand with Topps. After I got back home and gave the groceries to my Mom, I went out on the back steps and carefully, separated the wax paper covering the pack of cards without tearing the wrapper, slowly pealing back the covering to see what treasures were inside.

And there, on top of the pack was #1 for the 1953 Topps series, Jackie Robinson.

I was now the luckiest kid in the world.

I took out that card today and looked at it again. Today Major League baseball honored this man with every player wearing his number, “42″, on their uniform.

There he was again, right in front of me. I saw Jackie play…again. This time, it was as bright a memory as when we were heading home to Beloit so very long ago.