Williams’ death stirs up images of a dad long gone
A hideous and despicable criminal, known simply as cancer, robbed me of my father on New Year’s Eve, 1971. I was only 10 years old.
My father was my best friend, my baseball coach, my confidant, my everything. We did everything together for those 10 years. When he had to go grocery shopping, he made sure to come by the St. Paul’s schoolyard where I was playing, then let off a deep, deafening, piercing whistle through his false choppers that was recognizable for blocks, just to beckon me to his car so I could tag along.
He’s been gone more than three decades, but still, there isn’t a day that goes by where some thought, some image of my father doesn’t reappear. That’s how much of an impact Jack Hague had on me. He lives on in my words and thoughts.
Most of the memories I have of my father involve baseball. The times we spent either playing the game together, going to games, watching games on television, just talking about the national pastime, are all deep, precious memories that remain etched in my soul.
Baseball was the lifeline between me and my father. We played catch nearly every day, even when it was snowing. He took me into my basement and threw tennis balls to me to teach me how to hit. We went to the Jersey City public library to look at books about the history of baseball.
I can never forget the countless hours that he would talk about the superstars of yesteryear, how he would ride the subways to Yankee Stadium to sit in the bleachers for a quarter and watch all his heroes. My father had such respect for the history of baseball and for the greats that he watched and enjoyed.
I was five years old in August, 1966, when he took me to my first game, to Shea Stadium to see the Mets play the Dodgers. On the way to the game, my father kept telling me that we were going to see Sandy Koufax, the greatest pitcher he had ever seen.
"Don’t forget, we’re going to see Sandy Koufax, James," my father said. "Remember that name. Sandy Koufax. He’s the greatest. Sandy Koufax."
Over and over, he kept mentioning the name of Koufax. He was being repetitious to a point, which was to make a dent in my little brain just how good Koufax was. But the one thing I remembered about that night more than any other – besides the fact was that the grass was actually green (we didn’t have a color television yet) – was that the Mets won the game, 3-2.
"Sandy Koufax, big deal," I thought. "The Mets are better."
I was five. I had reason to be totally naïve.
But at the same time, my father kept reminding me of another name with the same repetitive nature.
"Ted Williams, James, Teddy Ballgame," he told me. "He was the greatest hitter ever. He was my favorite. Teddy Ballgame. Make sure you remember him, James. Teddy Ballgame, the best ever."
After my father first introduced me to the name of Ted Williams, I wanted to learn as much as I could about him. When I first found out that Williams was a great for the Boston Red Sox, I was befuddled.
"Dad, how can you like Ted Williams so much if you root for the Yankees?" I asked. "Don’t those teams hate each other?"
My father had the perfect rationale.
"But he’s the best," my dad said. "You have to respect how great he was."
My father was also enamored with the fact that Ted Williams enlisted and served in the Navy in World War II and missed three years of his baseball career to serve his country. My father was an Army veteran of WWII, a recipient of the Purple Heart who served in Germany, France and Belgium. He genuflected to fellow members of the Armed Service.
Then, Williams enlisted again and joined the Marines to serve in the Korean War and missed two more years of his baseball career. That alone almost put Ted Williams on Jack Hague’s personal pedestal, right there with Jack Kennedy and John Wayne.
I was seven years old, when my father handed me a book to read. It wasn’t some Curious George book or Winnie the Pooh. It was "My Turn At Bat," the autobiography of Ted Williams.
Safe to say, my father started me early.
"Read this," he said. "It tells you everything."
Sure enough, this book not only told about Williams’ career, but it was also a how-to instructional manual on the proper way to hit. A must-read for every 7-year-old, right?
Well, I never came close to duplicating any of Ted Williams’ feats, although I definitely remember trying to use my good eyesight to pick up the spin on the ball, like Williams did, as I got older.
I remember going to a Yankee-Washington Senators game in 1969, when Williams was managing the Senators. My father was making sure that I watched Williams’ every move, step. I had to focus on the way Williams even walked across the field.
My father wanted so much for me to get Williams’ autograph, but Williams never came close enough to us for me to ask. But I’d seen my father’s hero in person with my father. And my father shared his memories of Williams with me.
"Teddy Ballgame" meant so much to my father and my father meant so much to me, so there was always a distant closeness until last Friday, when Williams died at the age of 83.
As soon as I heard Williams was gone, I immediately thought of my father. And I thought of the times I spent with him just talking baseball, talking about the Hall of Fame legends like Teddy Ballgame.
I thought about how much I missed my father, how much I would love to have the chance to have just one last catch, go to one last game, listen to him tell me about all the great players he saw play one final time.
And to think, the heroes of today will meet this week to consider yet another players’ strike, even though they make millions upon millions in salary.
If the players strike, they will take baseball away from me, more than likely forever, but nothing will ever tear away the memories of my father, Teddy Ballgame and the national pastime.
For that, I will always hold Ted Williams near and dear. Just as I hold the memory of my hero near and dear, the memory of my father.