He came to spring training in Sarasota out of San Diego's Hoover High; tall, lean, handsome and cocky, " The Kid", a phenom, who stated that one day when he walked down the street people would say: "There goes the greatest hitter who ever lived."
That spring of '38 he was more than ready, but the gnarled, hard drinking veterans like Lefty Grove and Jimmy Foxx convinced brass he needed a lesson in humility. He was sent down to the Millers in Minneapolis, and tore up the American Association with the greatest AAA season ever. Nothing could hold him back next year, and he had the greatest rookie season ever, and so it went; .406 in 1941, then those long three years in the service. And not just any service; a hot shot fighter jock, those reflexes, timing, and 20-10 vision coming in mighty handy. He didn't complain of course; not that first time; Bob Feller was losing 100 victories to the war, and others would not truly come back.
But after winning the Triple Crown in 1947 and rolling on towards more records, he was called again to serve, this time to fly 39 combat missions in Korea; one of two players to serve in both conflicts. The bitterness and the nagging injuries would begin, and his enmity with the Boston press.
He broke his elbow in an All-Star game in Chicago, and countless hearts as he swath buckled through life, not giving a damn what anybody thought of what he said or did.
The fans loved him; both sexes, it was Williams's popularity with female fans that led to the first Ladies' Day; a matinee tradition started in Fenway, now a charming anachronism, like the park itself. The old-style sportswriters, especially drunken Dave Egan, hated and envied him, never passing up a chance for a cheap shot.
He aged more than gracefully, leading the league in hitting at ages 39 and 40, with a cool .388 in 1958. With decent legs it would have been .415. I know. I skipped school, outraging the nuns but pleasing myself; taking the trolley to Kenmore Square, smelling the peanuts and beer as I headed up Landsdowne Street, and once again, saw that short wall, getting there early to see him, and Golden Boy Jackie Jensen with his olympic wife and crazy Catholic Jimmy Piersall with his 10 kids take batting practice.
It seemed like Ted hit one out every game for me, his arcs soaring majestically over that deep right field, the bullpen, and deep into the stands.
On that September day in 1960, he brought "the blue hue of noble purpose" to the batter's box against Baltimore lefthander Jack Fisher. This was to be the Thumper's last home game; three games remained at Yankee Stadium. The times were different then. The pageantry, the money, the accoutrements of sport's heroism was less, and little fanfare attended this game. Only about 15,000 attended, although now it seems there must have been 100,000 if you believe the telling. My Dad never missed work. Thank God he did that day.
Ted strode to the box, took that classic stance and two of Fisher's offerings in the 8'th before Jack threw a letter-high fastball, and two wars, a busted elbow, and 41 years were brushed aside as that classic swing unfolded to execute the hardest thing in sports, meet a pitched ball perfectly.
Once again we stood as the ball took off on that thrilling arc, high into the Boston afternoon, as Williams began his fast, head down trot around the bases.
It seemed he was home almost before the ball had landed. I only had time to glance up as he shook hands with Jensen and trotted to the dugout, of course, without tipping his hat.
My Dad and I grabbed each other briefly, in that quick embarrassed way men do at such times, and shook our heads.
Anti-climatically, the 9th inning was brief, the game was over, and Ted Williams vanished into the dugout.
That was over 40 years ago, my father has been gone these 25 years, and even timeless Fenway might go soon too. Up in the cramped press box that afternoon, had we listened, a young Harvard grad, John Updike, working on a piece for Esquire would be typing out the title of what would become an American classic.
"HUB FANS BID KID ADIEU"
Now, 40 odd years since the end of the gorgeous twilight of his career, his remains are the subject of an unseemly family squabble, and ghoulish fodder for the late night comics and vapid daytime talk show hosts. So base is this motley crew that even the Splinter would not deign to spit on them.
» Philip Girardin is a lawyer and writer and proud member of the Red Sox Nation.
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Posted June 1, 2003.
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