FORGOTTEN TIMES
by Dick Graves
The experts say that being in two different places at the same time is impossible and, indeed, it seems that way, unless, of course, one climbs out of the box, if you will, of conventional thought.
But consider this: take a body, saw it in half and place each half in two different containers. Well, now, at first look, it appears that we’ve accomplished our mission — one being in two different places at the same time. Hold on there and let’s re-examine. Yes, two parts in two different places, but the parts are now irreversibly dead, wouldn’t you agree? Let’s consider that the two parts aren’t exactly dead, but perhaps retrievable at a later date. I mean like frozen solid down to almost -400 degrees Fahrenheit, where all life stops, frozen in time and, in theory, at least, thawable and placed back into operation as a real-life, breathing person with a beating heart.
Consider the afterlife of Ted Williams, the very, very famous Major League baseball player. Seems awfully off the wall to connect Ted and all that talk about being preserved at minus 400 Fahrenheit, doesn’t it? But it connects, so keep reading. His “afterlife” is — and I mean “is,” not “was” — as turbulent as his life was both in his playing years and his private life. Turbulent, indeed.
But, wait, read on. This piece isn’t just about Ted Williams. It’s also about that special day in September of 1954 when Ted came face to face with 12-year-old Dickie Graves. Likely Ted never recalled that moment later; reckon Ted had a million other far more special moments to recall during his 83 years on Earth. You can bet that 12-year-old I just mentioned never forgot.
No baseball fan and hardly any housewife in this here United States hasn’t heard of Ted W. who, by many, was (is) considered the best hitter ever in baseball — he, himself, thought the same. His entire playing career of 19 years was spent with Boston. After playing a little Minor League baseball in high school, he moved up to the Major League with the Boston Red Sox in 1939. Just two years later, in 1941, he became the last MLB player to hit .400. That feat had been last accomplished by Bill Terry in 1930. Williams went into the last two games of the season (a doubleheader, 1941) with a .39955 batting average which would round off to .400. Manager Joe Cronin gave Williams the option of not playing in order to preserve that .400 average and not taking the chance and losing his record. Williams chose to play and explained, “If I can’t hit .400 all the way, I don’t deserve it.” He went on to six hits in eight times at bat that day and finished the season with an average of .406. No one, either in the American or National League, has hit .400 since.
But following that spectacular year of 1941 came 17 more filled with tens of tens of his baseball accomplishments and records, many which stand today. Let me put you to sleep for a minute with a partial list of those accomplishments, then we’ll get into the darker side of Williams’ life which will shake the cobwebs away from reading a dull list of his achievements. Doesn’t everyone want to peer into the darker corners of someone’s life? The Germans have a word for it, “Schadenfreude”— malicious enjoyment derived from someone else’s misfortune. For you non-baseball fans, skip this list and go on to the next paragraph.
• Triple Crown winner (most home runs, highest batting average and most runs batted in) 1942 and 1947;
• Chosen to appear in the All-Star Game 18 out of his 19 playing years;
• Named Player of the Decade 1951-1960;
• .344 career batting average with 521 home runs;
• In 1955 Williams delayed playing holding out for LESS…yes, less…money! He was in the middle of a divorce and simply didn’t want the large paycheck (would have had to share it);
• In his final at-bat on September 28, 1960, Williams would finish his baseball career with a home run, his 521st. A Red Sox player named Carroll Hardy would take his place in left field to finish the game. Carl Yastrzemski replaced him permanently in left field. Williams never played again, but would manage the Washington Senators/Texas Rangers from 1969 to 1971; and
• Never tipped his hat to the Boston crowd after a hitting a home run. He did, however, in 1991 on Ted Williams Day at Fenway, after a brief speech, pulled a Red Sox cap from out of his jacket and tipped it to the crowd. It was the first he had ever done so.
This list excludes many other baseball accomplishments of Williams’ career. I leave it to the reader to find more since the intent of this article is not to showcase his baseball deeds.
Two years after a glorious beginning in Major League baseball, Williams enlisted in the Navy in May of 1942. Rather than taking on easy assignments (after all, he was already a famous Major Leaguer who had hit .406 the year before), he joined a Navy program to become an aviator. He received his wings and commission in the U.S. Marine Corps in May of 1944.
Williams was a pre-eminent fisherman (I refuse to use the word “fisherperson.” Sorry to all you politically-correct people…get over it.). In fact, in 2000 he was named to the International Game Fish Association Hall of Fame. He often came to Aroostook County to spend a week fishing on Fish River and Shin Pond, many times in the company of Bud Leavitt and once or twice had the pleasure of Voscar’s company. So, Williams wasn’t just a Triple Crown winner (1942 and 1947) in baseball, but a triple winner in life — baseball’s Hall of Fame, Game Fish Hall of Fame and he had a spectacular military career as a Navy pilot in both WWII and the Korean Wars. In Korea (1953), he flew 39 combat missions. In 1958 Gen. Douglas MacArthur sent Williams (for his 40th birthday) an oil painting of himself (MacArthur) with the inscription “To Ted Williams – not only America’s greatest baseball player, but a great American who served his country. Your friend, Douglas MacArthur, General U.S. Army.”
But Williams’ personal life wasn’t so neat and clean. And his troubles didn’t stop upon his death in 2002. Aren’t we supposed to be laid in eternal peace and tranquility upon our passing? For Ted Williams, that peace and tranquility has yet to make a visit to his final place of rest which for most of us is a well-appointed coffin planted six feet under for ever and ever. Ted’s private-life turmoil continues beyond the grave.
By the way, his 1954 Topps baseball card necessarily featured on the right is, in fact, part of the author’s kidhood baseball card collection. I purchased the card in 1954. Luckily, my mother saved my collection through the years; most mothers chucked ‘em when their kids left home. The card was included in a five-card gum pack for which I paid one nickel (yes, one thin nickel!). Likely the nickel was earned from picking pop bottles off the side of the road and redeemed at McEachern’s or Ritchie’s or Michaud’s or Perreault’s or Ferland’s or some other neighborhood market around town. That’s what most 12-year-old kids did back in the early ‘50s to pay for items like baseball cards and such.
Next week: Ted’s very short, eyeball-to-eyeball encounter with the author in 1954 and his 2-piece, temporary (probably), stainless-steel “coffin(s).” I promise good reading.
