The Guy

It had been a busy week and the return trip from Moscow, Idaho (pronounced “mos-cō” not “mos-cow,” though the locals tend to think of it as a Marxist stronghold) was always a dog-leg of flights. Worn and flight-weary, I wanted just a small sip of wine. I asked the flight attendant how much a small cup of the red would cost me.

“That’s eight dollars.”

On my worst day in university hell, I could never justify eight dollars for the dreck they serve on airplanes. I wasn’t going to tell her that.

So, I smiled and said, “No thanks. I think I’m fine.”

About twenty minutes later, the attendant returned to my seat from the back of the plane, a big smile lighting up her face, a plastic cup and a bottle of wine in her hands.

“Are you working for that African American man back there? Are you his caretaker or something?”

I looked back several rows. We’d been separated on this flight. But there he was, the man with the gentlest eyes I’d ever seen, an attendant kneeling in the aisle, a second one bent over his seat, all three laughing, talking, having a great time.

“Well, yeah, you could say that.”

She put the cup in my hand and filled it to the brim with wine.

“You enjoy this and, when you’re done, you just call me back. Have as much wine as you want. Your friend is so great. We just love him. He played baseball or something, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, he was a pretty good player in his day.”

I held my cup of wine and turned around to see the party once again. Their laughter rang up and down the aisle. He shot me a quick glance, smiled and kept right on telling stories.

“Yup,” I thought. “That’s Mudcat Grant.”

Now, if you have never been a true baseball fan, then you will never get the story I have to tell. Being a middle-aged or older longtime acolyte of the game, having a room filled with autographed baseball memorabilia, or being able to drop Tony Lazzeri’s lifetime triples into casual conversation with complete strangers does not make you a true baseball fan. At best, you are the ghost of a true baseball fan.

Anyone who has been one knows that the true baseball fan is roughly 8–12 years of age and is not a fan of baseball. The true baseball fan is an acolyte of The Team. On that team, the true fan idolizes The Guy. An older and somewhat jaded sports scholar might aver that this should be “The Player.” But, in the kid world of true baseball fandom, this was never “The Player.” It was always “The Guy.”

I was once a true baseball fan. For me, The Team was the forever frustrating and underachieving 1970 Oakland A’s. The A’s had moved to Oakland in 1968, their Kelly-green uniforms and white shoes gaudily lighting up the bay and a fleet of young talent stocking up their minor league teams. The 1970 “Swingin’ A’s” had the core set of players who would go on to become one of baseball’s great dynasties in the next half decade. But, in 1970, the entire organization was hopelessly self-destructive. A series of unnecessary mishaps kept the team firmly entrenched in second place, far behind the aging Minnesota Twins.

Finding The Guy on that team was especially challenging. Reggie Jackson held out through spring training and entered the season ticked off at owner Charlie Finley (whose penny-pinching was already legendary). As a consequence, Reggie had perhaps the worst season of his long career. Joe Rudi, the steady, soon-to-be star left fielder had his fingers gruesomely crushed by an errant pitch and was out for half the season. Hall-of-Famer Rollie Fingers, two years from being a handle-bar mustachioed relief specialist, was still being uncomfortably forced into starting duties. In his infinite baseball wisdom, Finley had a revolving door of three, sometimes four, periodically...