One of my pastimes is reminiscing, which seems to be gathering steam as I count my birthdays.
The time for reflection most often comes about at the start of baseball season. It causes me to flashback to my days on the farm when there was no television, only scratchy static on an old Philco radio. We couldn’t afford a daily newspaper, but if we had, the baseball scores would arrive at least a day late, sometimes, two.
I saved my pennies and couldn’t wait to buy a copy of SPORT Magazine, where I read in-depth stories about players like Robin Roberts, Dom DiMaggio, Duke Snider, Bob Feller, and Warren Spahn.
The teams they played for were about as far away as Saturn and Jupiter to me. But I knew about Fenway Park and the Green Monster, and I was aware that Yankee Stadium was the “House that Ruth Built.” I knew the ivy on the walls of Wrigley Field would turn green with time – right about cotton chopping time in May.
There was a deep and abiding passion for the game of baseball. I read every book at the county library about baseball. I dreamed of going to a Big League game someday, then chastised myself for the pure folly of my daydreams.
And then it happened. My senior class took a trip following graduation to Washington and New York. Our coach was from Valdosta and knew Ellis Clary, a journeyman player with the Washington Senators and St. Louis Browns.
At the time of our trip, Clary had become a coach for the Senators. Our coach called him up and Clary found bleacher tickets for a group of us. We were overwhelmed when he invited us into the locker room after the game and regaled us with his unvarnished profanity. We never knew anybody could cuss like that. Little did I know then that such commentary was standard within America’s pastime.
When we got to New York, our coach took us to Yankee Stadium for a game, buying bleacher seats for us wide-eyed country boys. Mickey Mantle hit a batting practice home run into the area where we were sitting.
Today, I am often amused by the fact that the Braves play in the classiest ballpark in the majors, only an hour and a half away from my front door, but even with access to a media credential, I would rather watch them on TV.
I’ve had the good fortune to get to know many-time players in the Atlanta area. It is fun to interact with them and reminisce about their time in the Bigs. It’s also interesting to see how affluent they’ve become playing a game for a living.
A player who spent 10 years in baseball with any degree of success in recent times more than likely earned more than 100 million dollars.
And the superstars can’t even count all the money they made. Even so, too many of them managed to squander their fortunes. You think about the ole timers who didn’t save any money, didn’t invest, and were forced to eke out a living doing pedestrian jobs that barely kept them off relief rolls.
Then there was Ty Cobb, who bought General Motors and Coca-Cola stock, which made him a wealthy man. Cobb’s success is a reminder that there has always been opportunity in sports if you take advantage of your options.
And while I do not know the details of the contracts the players and the clubs engage in today, it sure seems that everybody is making money.
The pure fun of the game, dating back to balls wrapped in friction tape and bats repaired over and over, has remained the same, but kids no longer choose up sides and play just for the fun of it. Instead, they have parents and coaches now who remind them that if they play well enough, they just might make it to the Bigs, earn a hundred million dollars, and retire before reaching 40. The dream goes on.