THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Tuesday, May 23, 1995 TAG: 9505230043
SECTION: SPORTS PAGE: C2 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY FRANK DOLSON, KNIGHT-RIDDER NEWS SERVICE
LENGTH: Medium: 93 lines
Max Patkin has spent 51 of his 75 years making people laugh. His career has been a dizzying succession of one-nighters, traveling from one minor-league town to another, putting on that baggy baseball uniform with the big question mark on the back.
The man who calls himself ``The Clown Prince of Baseball'' was scheduled to do 35 shows this year - starting in mid-June in St. Joseph's, Mo., then on to Albuquerque, N.M., and Salt Lake City, then back through the small towns in the Class A Midwest League, and on to the new ballpark in Durham, N.C. It was an itinerary that only a crazed travel agent could dream up.
When the ballpark lights go on, and he pulls on that silly uniform and hears the beautiful sound of laughter, all is suddenly right with Max Patkin's world.
But the rest of the day - the bus rides, the hours spent in motel rooms and airports and train stations - is no laughing matter.
So Patkin, who lives in King of Prussia, Pa., recently made 35 phone calls, one to each of the minor-league general managers who had hired him to perform this season, and told them he was retiring.
``A lot of them didn't believe it,'' he said.
Believe it. There comes a time when not even the sound of laughter can keep a clown going.
Patkin's act is unique. He works ``during'' the game - coaching for the home team, flashing signs, mimicking the visiting first baseman, doing whatever he can to get a laugh, a snicker, a smile, whatever the customers are ready to give. Which on a bad night, when the home team is getting clobbered, may not be much.
Even Patkin, with the big nose and the long neck and the rubbery body and the one-toothed grin, had trouble getting laughs the night in Midland, Texas, when the home team trailed, 15-0, by the time he took his place in the first-base coach's box in the third inning.
``There's many a time I'd sweat bullets out there,'' he said. ``Some of the ballparks, I was too far away from the fans. I couldn't reach them.''
Most of the time, though, Patkin reached them. Especially the kids.
``I think I've done over 3,500 shows,'' he said, ``and I'd say I've had about 90 percent laughter and acceptance.''
But those other 10 percent left scars on a man who seldom let anybody know how sensitive he really was. And how much he worried in the hours before each performance.
``I get to these towns and have to lay around all afternoon, six or seven hours,'' Patkin said. ``It gives me too much time to think. There's nowhere to go. I've seen every town there is in the country. It got to the point I had self doubts about myself. I'd feel like I worked the town to death. How many times can you come back?
``I was never comfortable until I got out there. There was always like a shadow over me. There was many a day I got into these ballparks and I used to pray for rain.''
The presence, and support, of his brother, Eddie, always helped. When Eddie died recently, some of Max's drive died with him.
For decades, he hid his fears behind those funny faces and a barrage of one-liners. ``A facade,'' he called it.
Then it was show time, and his fears and insecurities vanished.
``When I went out there and hit that coaching line, I was another person,'' Patkin said. ``It was like you turn on an electric lamp, like a bell rang. `Max, third inning, you're on.' I'd go out there and I'd become another person.
``I loved the adulation,'' he said. ``I loved being around the ballplayers. I loved being Max Patkin, the Clown Prince of Baseball.''
He was no San Diego Chicken. Or Phillie Phanatic. The face you saw when Patkin performed was the one he was born with. Those costumed mascots may have eclipsed him in recent years. But they didn't replace him.
Only once, near the end of his career, did Patkin fail to show up for a scheduled performance. A badly sprained ankle, sustained during a fall at Fenway Park, where he was visiting his pal, Johnny Pesky, forced him to cancel an appearance in New Britain, Conn., the following day. Otherwise, he made them all - even if he had to perform with a broken rib or a herniated disk. Or if he had to charter a plane at his own expense to get to the next stop.
The minor leagues, flourishing today even as the big leagues scramble for customers, remain a special piece of Americana. For five decades, Max Patkin was part of the minor leagues, an entertainer who touched the lives of virtually every professional who played the game. And was a mainstay in seemingly every minor-league town, including Norfolk.
``I gave my whole heart, my whole body and soul to baseball,'' he said.
And Max Patkin, the Clown Prince of Baseball, wasn't joking. ILLUSTRATION: STAFF FILE
Max Patkin, 75, was scheduled to do 35 shows this year, but he's
calling it quits.
by CNB