A Boy of Summer in the Autumn of His Life

-a tribute by Patricia King

It was March, 1991, and the cold, dreary days of winter lingered on in New Jersey, just as the Groundhog predicted they would.

Perhaps that year life, in general, seemed grayer.  My marriage of ten years had recently come to an end and, despite the protests of family and friends, I was spending another weekend home alone.  I remember being curled up on the couch with a blanket and a mug of hot chocolate as I surfed the channels for something to keep me company for the afternoon.  And that’s when I found it — the first thing in weeks to put a smile on my face — a Yankees’ Spring Training game.  Wonderful childhood memories of playing ball and watching the games on TV with my Dad and brothers came rushing back.         

There was something about hearing the Yankees’ theme song and seeing their famous logo, (the red, white and blue top hat and bat), that instantly lifted my spirits.  It was a sign that Spring really wasn’t too far away.  It was time for a rebirth — for baseball and for me.

Five days later and still somewhat in shock at my own spontaneity, the smile on my face was even bigger as I sat along the first base line at Fort Lauderdale Stadium watching “the boys of summer.”  The day was sunny and hot, with a cloudless blue sky that stretched for miles.  In contrast to cavernous Yankee Stadium, this park was small and intimate, with just over 8,000 seats.  I could see the players’ faces – everyone from Randy Velarde, to Don Mattingly, to a very young Bernie Williams, and could hear the friendly banter among them as they performed their calisthenics and stretching exercises.

Every so often, a player or one of the “old timers” would visit the stands along right field, causing a frenzy among the picture and autograph seekers.  I was lucky enough to get baseballs autographed by Tony Kubeck and Ron “Louisiana Lightning” Guidry.  I didn’t think a day could be more perfect.         

Once practice ended, I, along with approximately seventy-five other fans who were hoping to get one more signature, or at least catch a glimpse of their favorite Yankees’ stars, waited outside the tall chain-link fence of the players’ parking lot.  The crowd groaned with disappointment as car after car, all with dark-tinted windows concealing the identities of the drivers, passed through the gate.         

The last car to leave – our last hope – was a beige Cadillac.  It pulled through the gate slowly and traveled less than a hundred feet before pulling over onto the shoulder of the road.  Murmurs of curiosity swept through the group as we speculated about who could be in the car and why he pulled over.  As we walked closer to investigate, the driver lowered the window and turned off the ignition.  I felt my jaw drop and my eyes widen with surprise as I looked at the man behind the wheel.  It was my Yankee idol – my lifetime baseball hero – Jim “Catfish” Hunter.         

Word spread quickly to the back of the crowd as people shouted with excitement, “It’s Catfish! It’s Catfish!”  I saw him smile as the grateful fans formed a single-file line on the road, each waiting for his turn to greet the baseball legend.         

I had to think of something to say (hopefully, without embarrassing myself); I was thirty-two years old and had been waiting for this opportunity since I was thirteen.  Hunter’s career stats and accomplishments began flashing through my mind.  I recited them to myself as I inched ahead in the slow-moving line:  “Made his Major League debut on May 13, 1965; pitched a perfect game on May 8th, 1968; won the Cy Yong award in 1974; was elected to eight All Star teams; has 224 career wins; has five World Series rings; inducted in the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1987...”         

I was now just seconds away from one of my lifelong baseball dreams coming true.  My heart pounded and my stomach clenched into a knot as I stepped up to the driver’s window with a new, clean baseball and blue Sharpie in hand.         

Catfish looked up at me with a smile and said, “Hi there! What’s your name?”         

“Patty” I smiled back, shyly, admiring his gentlemanly southern accent.         

“Nice to meet ya’, Patty,” he answered.  His hands reached to take my baseball and pen and our fingers lightly brushed during the exchange.  I felt my cheeks turn crimson as the thirteen year old inside me screamed, “I touched him!” and vowed to never again wash my hands.         

Watching, still in awe, as he neatly autographed my ball, I finally worked up the courage to say, “I’ve been a fan of yours since ’72, when you were with the Oakland A’s.”         

He chuckled and turned his head to look at me.  “Aww, you don’t look old enough to remember those days,” he teased, giving me a wink as he handed back the ball and pen.         

I laughed at his gracious flattery.  “It’s been a thrill meeting you!” I said.  “Thanks for the autograph.”         

“Well, it was a pleasure meeting you,” he said with a nod.  “Thanks for being a fan.”         

I smiled and looked at his gray-blue eyes.  His appreciation felt genuine.         

Seventeen years have passed since that perfect day, but it remains a vivid memory.  It was a day so perfect that it might seem fictional to some, but usually in fiction, the hero doesn’t die in the end.In September 1998, my baseball idol, my hero, Jim “Catfish” Hunter was diagnosed with ALS (“Lou Gehrig’s disease”).  He died one year later, on September 9, 1999.  He was 53.