No. 6

There was little love for Johnny Pesky in my father's house when he was growing up. My Grandfather was a Ted Williams fan. My Father, as a tendency to be contrary seems to run in my family, was a Dom Dimaggio man (with very little prodding, he'll bust out in a song about how Dom is better than his brother Joe.) It's not that they had anything against Pesky. But Pesky? Pesky makes my Dad feel guilty.

When my Dad was three, his family moved to Southern Connecticut so that my Grandfather could go to Yale. They were still there when my Dad started school. One day all the little boys in his class were excitedly talking about how there was going to be a real live baseball player at the grand opening of a new car dealership in town. And he'd be signing autographs. And you could go and get an autograph from the real, live baseball player. My Dad convinced his Father to take him. Undoubtedly, my Grandfather didn't want to go but everybody makes sacrifices for their kids.

To hear my Dad tell it (and the story probably comes embedded with a huge dose of nostalgia), it was perfect. The signing was on a Saturday, so the day before he and his mom took the trolley into New Haven (which was a treat in itself) so they could go to a sporting goods store to buy a baseball. He spent a long time looking at the balls, trying to find the perfect one. The leather couldn't be scuffed or nicked. The stitching couldn't be frayed. Knowing my Dad and his tendency toward perfectionism and his bull-dogged determination, they were probably there for awhile. Eventually, though, he found a baseball that would do.

The next morning, he was up and ready to leave before the dawn. But his mom made him eat breakfast first; which he accomplished as quickly as one can eat hot oatmeal without severly burning one's mouth. But then his Dad made him wait until he'd read the entire newspaper, front to back. Finally, they could go.

It was November. The wind had a little bit of a bite to it but is was clear and the sun was shining, so they walked. Or, rather, my Grandfather walked and my Dad bounced along beside him. My father started out carrying his virgin baseball but once it became clear that he was too excited to 'walk normally' the ball was confiscated and stowed in my Grandfather's jacket pocket for safe keeping.

They made it to the car dealership without further incident. They got in the really, really long line and waited. And waited. To pass the time, my father asked my grandfather about who the real life baseball player: what position did he play? was he any good? When they finally got to the front of the line, my Dad was star-struck. The ballplayer called him 'sport' and asked him what position he played but my Dad couldn't manage an answer. He signed the ball and sent my Dad on his way.

Once they got home, the ball was given a place of honor on the top of my Dad's bookcase and there it sat until they moved back to Boston a few years later. He still has the ball and he's quick to defend it: I was only five. I didn't know any better.

The ballplayer signing that day? Enos Slaughter. The Enos Slaughter who scored the winning run in the 1946 World Series while Johnny Pesky held the ball. And what's more, at that point he was a member of the Yankees.

My Grandfather never told my Dad who Enos Slaughter was. But once he found out the ball found a new home in a shoe box in his closet. He still feels bad about it, though. The ball and Johnny Pesky make my Dad feel as if he still has to prove his fandom. Most sincere congratulations to Johnny Pesky anyway, from me and my Dad.