Terrier Town: Summer of ’49

Summer Day at Mill Creek

119 Goody Rosen when he played for the Dodgers Summer Day at Mill Creek The father explained to his son: “As a general rule, you put your worst player in right. That’s because most of the hitters are right-handed and they’ll usually hit the ball to left field, if they hit it. Right field is the position where the worst ballplayer has the least opportunity to do damage. “But at Ebbets Field I’ve seen some terrific right fielders,” said the son, “like Leroy Watkins and Goody Rosen. Besides, you told me Babe Ruth played right.” “The major leagues,” said the father, “are a different kettle of fish. First, there are no bad ballplayers in the major leagues.” — Roger Kahn, Good Enough to Dream G OODY ROSEN HAD GROWN UP IN TORONTO, JUST SIXTY MILES from Galt. I had read somewhere that he was the little man with the big cigar, an apt description, for he carried his 155 pounds on a five-foot-nine frame. On physical appearance alone, he was an unlikely baseball star. Just days after Rosen arrived in town he asked me to take him to a good fishing hole I knew out near Killean, on Mill Creek, beside my father’s boyhood farm. I was always glad to go fishing in those days and, still being in awe of Rosen and his major-league credentials, I readily agreed. It was early in the morning when Rosen pulled into our driveway on Barrie Street. There was a heavy mist in the air, the grass was wet, and the street was calm, although there were a few lights breaking the silence. It was Thursday and we had a game that night on the river flats. “Hi, Charlie,” he said in a voice that was too loud for early morning . I was sitting in the wicker chair on our front porch, enjoying the calmness and mist. Galt was always quiet in the mornings. It was the first time Rosen had called me by my name. Mostly he called me “Kid,” a name I didn’t mind because I had paid no dues yet as a ballplayer. I packed my fishing tackle, net, and the sandwiches my mother made for us—she was glad to make lunch for a major-leaguer—and then put the bait in his trunk, and off we drove down the grey street shrouded in the mist of a cool, wet summer morning. Soon we were in the country and nearing the creek. The mist burned off slowly in the sun and the air grew hot. I took him to a fishing hole that few people knew, in an out-of-the-way section of the river, far from the road. A snapping turtle the size of a terrier announced our arrival, apparently objecting to our intrusion. But he let us pass through safely. We had waders and we put them on to get in the creek, and soon the sun was so hot we sought shelter in the cool waters under the shade of a row of willows. Rosen loved fishing. He asked me about my life, my late brother Jimmy, my father and mother, and about my plans for the fall. None of my answers were long. “Got a girlfriend?” he inquired, casting his line out into the water where the shade met the sun. “She’s in my class at school,” I said. “But we’re not really seeing each other any more.” “How long have you known her?” “Five years, though we’ve …” “You’ve dated five years already, and you’re only … how old?” “Nah, it’s only been two years,” I said. “And I’m in my nineteenth year.” “What’re you gonna do come September?” he asked. “Where’d you say you were going?” “I’m off to university, and so is she. Different ones, so who knows. We’re going to stay in touch.” “They got a ball team?” “No schools in Canada have ball teams.” We spent the morning fishing and talking. I had been worried, when we left, that I wouldn’t have anything to say to Rosen, but it wasn’t like that at all. When he told me about his life, I was all ears. A few weeks 120 Terrier Town—Summer of ’49 earlier I was a high-school student; now I was chewing the fat...