THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, September 25, 1994 TAG: 9409250064
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: NORTH CAROLINA
SOURCE: PAUL SOUTH
DATELINE: HERTFORD LENGTH: Medium: 79 lines
There is a magical place in Hertford, N.C., that an intentional or accidental tourist might miss.
A mural on the side of a building in the center of town might provide a hint of this place. But even if you turn onto Jimmy Hunter Drive near Perquimans County High School, you may miss this beautiful spot.
For many, it may seem just another baseball field. But for those who know and love the game, Jimmy Hunter Field is truly a place of magic.
A dream was born here.
This is where Jimmy Hunter honed the skills that would bypass the bus rides of the minor leagues and carry him to the Baseball Hall of Fame.
The baseball world knew him better as ``Catfish.'' But at home, he is still called Jimmy.
Hunter gives few interviews these days. Those who know him say he just prefers to live the simple life in the place he was born, among friends who love him - no matter how many wins or strikeouts, or how much money he made.
Hunter's only remaining baseball tie is in sharing his gift with the young people of Hertford, and giving them a beautiful place to play the game he loved.
Come to think of it, Hertford is not so different from my hometown, Fairfield, Ala., the place where Willie Mays learned the basket catch, or Van Meter, Iowa, where Bob Feller learned to leave baffled batters swinging vainly at the air.
In all of these towns, in small ballparks and backyards, in Middle American meadows and on inner-city dead-end streets, children still are learning to swing the bat and snap the curve. Most will not be as fortunate or gifted as Hunter or Feller or Mays. But all will share a common dream - and a common love.
In this sorrowful September, when our only baseball is Ken Burns' poignant documentary on the game, we are left with our memories. One of the happiest nights of my childhood was when my dad came home from a meeting and asked if I would like it if he coached a Little League team.
It was like Christmas.
For five years, Dad coached the Yankees. We never finished higher than second in a four-team league. And though I would never play the game, I learned to love baseball by learning to keep a score-book. In 1966, I put on the Yankee uniform for the first time.
My best friend, Ray Benson, learned early about style. He was the only 8-year-old in the league with flip-down sunglasses to complement his flannel uniform. He also was the first kid to perfect the Lou Brock stand-up slide.
Ray Benson now sings and dances on Broadway. I would like to think that somewhere on the Great White Way some casting director said, ``Can you do a stand-up slide?'' And that was the difference between Benson's getting a part or being rejected.
The happiest I ever saw my dad after a business trip was when he returned home from Cleveland. Cleveland, as we all know, is a place where you can spend a year in a day. But after this trip, he was all smiles.
It seems he was in a crowded snack bar in the Cleveland airport. He sat down next to a stranger. And, as sometimes happens, the two struck up a conversation.
The man said, ``How did you like Cleveland?'' My father responded, ``Fine, but I really wanted to see an Indians game. They were my favorite team in high school.''
``Really?'' the man asked. ``Who was your favorite player?''
``Bob Feller,'' Dad responded.
The stranger smiled. ``Let me give you one of my cards,'' he said. Then, the man reached into his briefcase and pulled out a baseball-shaped card. It contained the name of a local business and read, ``Bob Feller, President.''
Suddenly, my father was 18 again. And it was 1954. He asked his hero for an autograph. Feller signed the card, and said ``Nice talkin' to you. Good luck.''
This week, in Ken Burns' documentary, Feller pitches again. While Orel Hershiser testifies before a congressional committee, Burns' ``Baseball'' reminds us of a time when love of the game surpassed the love of money.
But the dream still lives.
Drive to Hertford. Look at the emerald green diamond on Jimmy Hunter Drive. You'll see. by CNB