A Buck Story
Posted: March 18th, 2008 | Filed under: Baseball | 32 Comments »
I realize as I am in the midst of 20 radio interviews in 36 hours (20! You’ve got to be kidding me! How many different ways can I say that Buck was a positive guy?) that it might be a little absurd to go on on air in Poughkeepsie and Charleston and all sorts of other places to talk about my book, promote it, and not at least post an excerpt of my own book on my own blog.
So here’s one of my favorite little excerpts from The Soul of Baseball: A Road Trip Through Buck O’Neil’s America, winner of the Casey Award as the best baseball book of 2007.
* * *
Buck was ninety-three years old. People often marveled about his age. Buck never turned down an invitation to speak, and he never said no to a charity, and he often appeared at three and four events a day. And it was amazing: Buck always seemed fresh and alive and young. Only those close to him understood that it was an illusion, that he worked hard to stay young. He took catnaps on the car rides between appearances. He ate two meals a day as he had for seventy-five years. He often showed up for an event, waved to the crowd, spoke for a few minutes, and then excused himself. “Where did Buck go?” people would ask. By the time they had noticed him missing, Buck had already collapsed in his hotel bed.
Something else invigorated him — something harder to describe. It was the thing I found myself chasing all through our road trip. That day in Houston, Buck had signed autographs and told stories and posed for photographs. By the time the ballgame started, he was already exhausted. By the second inning, the sun had beaten him down too. Buck announced that he was ready to go home. Then something small happened. The Houston right fielder, Jason Lane, tossed a baseball into the stands at the end of an inning. The ball landed a few rows down from where we were sitting. Two people reached for the ball. One was a thirty-something man in a sports coat and loosened tie. The other was a boy, probably ten or eleven. The boy wore a Houston Astros jersey with the number 7 on it. Buck always loved baseball numerology. Number 7 was particularly magical — it was Mickey Mantle’s number. In Houston, 7 belonged to Craig Biggio, a scrappy, hardworking player. Biggio was a Buck O’Neil kind of player.
The boy and the man both stretched for the ball, but the man was taller and he had the better angle. He caught the ball. He threw his arms up in the air, as if he was signaling touchdown. He showed the ball to the people around him. He did some variation of the “I got the ball!” dance you see at ballparks. The man was happy. The boy was glum, and he sat down.
“What a jerk,” I said.
“What’s that?” Buck muttered.
“That guy down there caught the ball and won’t give it to a kid sitting right behind him.”
Buck looked down and — on cue — the man showed his new baseball to his neighbors. He talked at a feverish pace. Even though we were a few rows back and could not pick up on what he was saying, I had no doubt he was recounting his catching, and I had no doubt that the longer he talked, the more dazzling his catch would become. Everyone likes to believe they’re the hero of the story. In this guy’s mind, the story was not: “Hey, look at me, I’m the jerk who took this ball away from a kid.” No, in his revisionist history, he had to jump up to catch the ball. He had to stand on his chair. He had to catch the ball to save a baby. Maybe he had to dodge snakes and avoid rolling boulders. By the end of the game, I suspected, he would make this catch seem on par with the catch made by Al Gionfriddo, “the Little Italian,” who went back to the wall in the 1947 World Series and snagged a Joe DiMaggio smash, spurring the Great Dimaggio to kick the dirt in disgust. The man in the sports coat and loosened tie looked proud as he relived his heroics. One row bad, the kid in the number 7 jersey moped while his father mussed his hair.
“What a jerk,” I said again.
“Don’t be so hard on him,” Buck mumbled. “He might have a kid of his own at home.”
That stopped me cold. A kid of his own. I had not thought of that. I looked hard at the man, who now wrapped his fingers across the seams of the baseball. He appeared to be showing his friends how to throw a curveball. A kid of his own. True, the man did not seem the father type. But it was possible. I tired to imagine this man’s kid sleeping at home — a little boy, perhaps sleeping on Houston Astros bedsheets. I tried to imagine the boy’s thrill the next morning when he woke up, got out of bed, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and then looked toward his dresser, and … what’s this? A baseball! White! Glowing!
Did you catch this for me, Dad?
You betcha. It was a one-handed grab! I had to dodge a snake! And later, if you finish your homework, we’ll go out and throw that ball around. I’ll teach you how to throw a curveball.
Would you, Dad? That would be so great!
I tried, as I would the whole road trip with Buck O’Neil, to see things through his eyes. For five seasons, I would watch Buck look at the bright side. He had every reason to feel cheated by life and time — he had been denied so many things, in and out of baseball, because of what he called “my beautiful tan.” Yet his optimism never failed him. Hope never left him. He always found good in people.
“Wait a minute,” I said to Buck. “If this jerk has a kid, why didn’t he bring the kid to the ballgame?”
Buck O’Neil smiled. He was not tired now. He looked young again.
“Maybe,” Buck said without hesitation, “his child is sick.”
And I realized that no matter how hard I tried, I would never beat Buck O’Neil at this game.
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I’d love to go throw the ball around with you dad, but this chemo has me all tired out.
I’ve been to hundreds of games and I’ve never caught a ball. If I finally do I might not want to give it some nearby kid. Why can’t an adult get to enjoy catching a ball. What kind of monster are you Posnanski?
What a wonderful man, and what a wonderful story! Maybe they didn’t enshrine Buck in the HOF because they knew he could only be tarnished by the association.
I always tell myself I will give the second one in a season to a kid.
Great stuff.
Giving the ball to a kid is Rule #2. It’s really not up for debate. Especially if you picked it up off the ground.
Rule #1, of course, is no gloves on adult hands (exception: pure self-defense for the elderly in goofy ballparks).
OK, Joe you got at least one of us freeloaders. As soon as I’m finished reading The New Bill James Historical Abstract for the sixth time, I’m heading out to pick up your book. Thanks for sharing your great work with us.
I don’t know, DB. I tried to get alot of foul balls when I was a little adorable kid, and never once did I get one.
Did I get sad? Sure. But then I felt like the greatest king in all the world when I caught one eventually at the age of 20. isn’t it good to teach kids to work for what they get? (or do I have no soul?)
“The Houston right fielder, Jason Lane, tossed a baseball into the stands at the end of an inning.”
People, I’m all for keeping the foul ball (or homer or ground-rule double); it was earned. But for balls flipped into the stands, I give that to the kid. That’s toward whom it was likely being tossed.
It’s a good idea for adults to catch line-drive foul balls anyway. Most people just cower, no matter what type of hit it was. In my 60+ games right next to the O-Royals dugout last year, I never EVER caught any kind of foul ball, but one night, one screamed right by my face, which made Angel Berroa unleash the most hilarious shriek I’ve ever heard.
Tim (comment 6),
I hope you enjoy the book. I’ve read it several times, and it’s as enjoyable and moving in subsequent readings as it was the first time.
That was my favorite passage in the whole book. I have started trying to play that game with myself when someone cuts me off in traffic or brings 30 items to the express lane at the supermarket. Maybe they’re late for work or are racing home to see their sick kid. I tell you what, it’s effing hard, but it’s definitely a better way to look at things.
Great book Joe. Absolutely great book.
Yeah I would say if your hand got smacked by a line drive or high fly ball, then you earned it. But a flip into the stands is for the kid.
I guess at least the guy didn’t go all Adam Sandler and wave the ball in the kids face and call him a LOSER.
you just sold another book, joe.
El Lay Dave, good point. You are of course correct.
That’s probably my favorite passage in the book. Either that one or the one about the red dress.
Buy the book. It’s one of the best baseball books out on the market.
I remember that story from the book, my only problem with it is that I’m in my early 30s and have been to on average, about 5 major league games a year for 25 years. So well over 100 games, maybe 125 and I have NEVER caught a baseball on the fly in a game or in batting practice. I’ve grabbed a few off the ground off the bounce, but that’s not the same thing at all. And while I met never in my entire life show up for a baseball game in a jacket and tie, a large part of me connects with the guy more than the kid. I mean the kid wasn’t going to be able to catch the ball on the fly more than likely and the primary thrill of getting a baseball is to catch it. Why else bring your glove to a game?
Let’s put it this way, catching a baseball at a game, esp. during the game, would be one of the thrills of a year for me. I still remember my dad catching a Willie McGee foul ball in one of Willie’s last games in his career. So thru your eyes I might be playing the role of the villain but that seems awfully harsh.
I might note and if he grabbed the ball off the ground instead of caught it on the fly, the story completely changes for me and I tend to agree with you that he was more jerk than not. Even then, there is a certain thrill with getting a baseball at a major league game, no matter what your age.
This is my favorite story in your book so far. I read it to my wife and I then had to go back to the beginning and read the rest of the book to her.
I definitely recommend the book, it’s fantastic. Can’t wait for the Reds ‘75 book, but wondering how you can top this book.
Great story.
More importantly, what radio station did you do an interview for in Poughkeepsie? I’ve lived there all my life and can’t thin of a radio station worth doing an interview with…
I see this both ways. I have given exactly one ball to a kid. I wasn’t trying to catch it and the guy threw it during BP over a crowd at the rail right to me. So after a minute or two of thinking that was pretty cool I saw a kid eyeing it, so I gave it to him. There really was no significance for me as I didn’t even know who threw it.
On the other hand, I feel like a little kid watching baseball played. It just takes me back to a simpler time where I have no worries. I can sit and stare at the field and think about what I would do in situations, etc. So why should the guy have to give up a childhood dream if he never experienced it? A thrown ball is a little different, but if the guy had never even got 1, then I can see his side.
I have several balls from games, but none were batted in a game. I have a Sammy Sosa throw the ball in the crowd catch from the year after his and McGwire’s HR binges. He threw it right to me and I caught it. He threw a second one toward me which I also ended up with as it rolled back to me under several seats, but I gave it to my cousin. I was 19 and he was 13. That was the old days when you could hang out at Kauffman and sit where you wanted to in GA, which we did. We had front or second row in right field. Getting a foul ball would be awesome, never have. On the other hand I did catch a BP HR once with my elbow. It bounced off my left arm as I crashed into a bunch of people (including my brother) that I didn’t see. I was too busy tracking the ball flight to catch it. It lodged itself between my right bicep and forearm. My brother still holds it against me to this day. It doesn’t matter that the player who hit it was Angel Berroa, it was still an awesome memory that my brother and I now laugh about. Yes, I still have the Sosa ball, it sits on a shelf in my office. The Berroa ball was put away when I lost all faith in him a few years ago.
Oh yeah, go buy the book you FREELOADERS!
Seriously, the least you can do is read the blog for free. So why not do more than the least? The enjoyment I get from this blog is worth far more than what I paid for the book.
By the way, anyone else ever start reading an article on the Star online and keep reading even when its a subject you could care less about? I do, and after I’m done reading it, I look to see who wrote it, and it is always Joe. Keep it up.
/end brown nosing post
Just give the ball to the kid. The thrill of the moment is in the catching, not the keeping. Hold on to the memory, and let the kid have the ball, so you can both take something away from the game.
You should ALWAYS give the ball to a kid. Preferably a kid under 7 years old who looks like he/she is actually interested in being at the game.
You’re probably right Joe—the guy sounds like a jerk.
Joe,
Love the book. Don’t worry, I know that at least a little bit of Buck rubbed off on you. I bought the book for my father for Christmas, and was able to take advantage of your offer to sign a bookplate and send a personalized note.
Now, my dad has been around baseball his whole life. He played in college against Jim Sundberg and Dave Winfield. He’s chatted with Joe Carter, and had dinner with Tony LaRussa and Mike Shannon. Still, I think he was more thrilled to get the book and the personalized message. It really meant a lot to me, and if you believe in Buck’s dispostition on the situation in the passage, as I tend to, it felt like I was the dad giving the game ball to his son.
If you catch a ball and there’s a kid within arm’s reach of you, you have to give it up. That’s simple baseball law. The amount of pleasure you’d get as an adult of having caught a ball is infinitesimal compared to the joy of a kid bringing a ball home from an actual game.
Plus, it’s a lot more cred too.
Compare “I caught a ball at a game, it’s on display in my entertainment center now!”
to “I caught a ball at a game, then gave it to this cute little four year old girl, whose face lit up like a Christmas tree.”
Guaranteed that the latter gets you more attention from the opposite sex too!
I was at a Rangers game not long after that whole fiasco happened with the idiot laying out across a bench to catch a ball, while bashing a kid in the head as he did so. Only to be sitting there with a smug expression on his fat face as the kid’s mother berated him. (something for which, I might add, he got royally ROASTED on the internet.)
Another idiot went after a ball and basically snatched it OUT of a kid’s glove just as the kid caught it. He didn’t hurt the kid, but he was still being a royal (bleep).
The amount of booing this idiot had to endure was marvelous. Once the hotdogs started landing on him, he decided to make a quick exit in shame, still clutching the ball to his wife-beater clad chest.
Way to go there champ! At least you caught a ball! Be sure to tell all your redneck friends about how you stole it from a kid.
Fortunately about ten minutes later another foul ball was hit in our general area and the guy who caught that went over and gave it to the kid who’d gotten robbed earlier.
Some people in this world are just pathetic.
Let’s not let our “what to do with the baseball?” debate obscure the over-arching point of the passage, as it relates to Buck (that said, the ball goes to the kid).
Loved the passage, and I too am a freeloader no more – just placed my Amazon order.
So, ‘Ambiguity,’ this just struck me as odd. I’m almost afraid to ask, but why couldn’t she just read it for herself…?
The Buck O’Neil excerpts are always great. I need to buy the book. But, I’m broke, so I’ll keep looking for a used copy at Myopic here in Chicago…
And you give the ball to the kid. Period. Buck’s viewpoint is awesome, and maybe he’s right. But, you give the ball to the kid. We used to go see the Charleston Wheelers (at the time Charleston, WV’s low-A Red’s affiliate). We’d try to catch foul balls, even knew the best place to stand. But we never succeeded, as some faster, stronger adult always either beat us to the ball, or took it out of our hands. That adult would always be waiting by the clubhouse exit for an autograph, right alongside us (the kids who forked over way too much $$$ for an authentic Wheeler’s ball. Lame. Though I did get Dan Wilson’s autograph.
Since I forgot it above, here’s the end to that parenthetical…: )
That’s torn it; I’m buying the book.
I was at a Yankee game sitting in the right field bleachers and the opposing team hit a home run. A kid sitting near me ended up with the ball (I don’t remember if he caught it on the fly, the bounce or just picked it up) and all the fans around us starting yelling at him to throw it back onto the field. He clearly wanted to keep it and was feeling a lot of pressure to throw it back. I told him not to listen to them that if he wanted to keep the ball he should keep it. He kept it and everyone eventually shut up (maybe I looked pissed off). Also it always annoyed me that Yankee fans started copying Cubs fans by throwing the ball back onto the field for opposing HRs. They never did it when I was a kid (late 7o’s – 80’s).
I must say growing up in Houston as a kid I was a victim of this. One night in the old dome my dad and my two brothers were sitting in the mezzanine behind home plate. Anyway, there was man by himself in a suit with a glove sitting in our area. We had a foul ball hit near us and bounced around. This guy grabbed it before either me or my brothers could get to it. No big deal. The next inning or so I had one hit directly at me. As I was preparing reach out and “attempt” to catch the ball, a glove comes from out of nowhere and snags it. The man then calmly sits back down in his seat with his two foul balls and refuses to acknowledge us. That moment is probably the maddest I have ever seen my dad at a baseball game. Needless to say the moral of my story is that I remember how that moment felt and I always give the ball to the kid. (Always being the couple of times I have actually caught a ball and had the chance to do it)
(By the way, recently read the book and loved it.)
some of us can’t AFFORD to take all our kids to ball games and you can’t take just one without the others you know.
so IF i even caught a foul ball, i would take it home for MY kids. i care more about them than i do some other kid who actually gets to GO to the game
Joe, I’ve enjoyed your Buck stories for years now, and cannot wait to read the book (steadily moving up my to-do list, I swear). Nearly every time I read or hear one of these anecdotes, I get a lump in my throat. Buck was…is…a beautiful, gracious human being, and no one has illuminated this fact better than you have. I’m sure I speak for many when I say thank you.
On a lighter note, my girlfriend got hit by a line drive at a T-Bones game a few years ago. Bounced right off her knee and left a nasty bruise. Embarassingly enough, the ball found a perfect trajectory between my outstretched hand and the oversized glove of the woman sitting next to us. The T-Bones staff handled it with class, by the way, making sure my girlfriend was okay and even giving her a complimentary bag of peanuts! I’d like to see them do that at a big league game…
Joe,
You should link this excerpt from your “Books” tab or something so that it is easy to find. Everyone I send this passage to ends up buying a book (or at least SAYING they’re going to buy one… if they don’t I’ll buy some and hand them out).