THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, October 29, 1995 TAG: 9510290144
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: NORTH CAROLINA
SOURCE: PAUL SOUTH
LENGTH: Medium: 61 lines
As I sat with some friends over dinner at a Manteo cafe last week, pleasantries quickly shifted gears to one topic.
The World Series.
It's a funny thing. Last year, during baseball's strike, no one seemed to talk much about the game, or even miss it very much. But around the dinner table last week, between bites of pasta and sips of tea, conversation about the series flowed easy, like it does with some old friends. You know - that friend you haven't heard from in years suddenly calls, and it seems the last talk you had never ended.
But as the banter continued among the diners, the talk turned back in time, when Greg Maddux and Albert Belle were only toddlers.
In that sweet, simple time, World Series games were played during the day. A friend recalled how schoolboys deftly disguised tiny transistor radios in shirt pockets, and ran earphones up their shirt sleeves so that they could hear every pitch from Koufax to Mantle, or Gibson to Kaline.
But our autumn conspiracy to drown out history with hardball lost to the elements. Indian summer turned sweat-soaked long-sleeve shirts into a dead giveaway. Teachers would end every school year with the ceremonial returning of World Series radios, confiscated the preceding October.
Another of our companions remembered the ``Game of the Week,'' when Falstaff Beer brought you ``Dizzy'' Dean and Pee Wee Reese every Saturday. Who could forget Old Diz singing the ``Wabash Cannonball,'' or his description of Jesus - properly pronounced ``hay-zoos'' - Alou stealing a base.
``Jesus (pronounced like in the Bible) slud into second, Pee Wee. I think I'll have another Falstaff,'' he would say. It wasn't Bob Costas, or even Harry Caray. It was just plain fun.
But among my baseball treasures, mounted cleanly in a scrapbook, is an envelope and a letter, dated July, 23, 1966. The letterhead reads, ``The Atlanta Braves Baseball Club.''
That summer, I had surgery on my legs. On the day I returned from the hospital, with casts up to my hips, the letter arrived. Its words are etched in memory.
``Dear Paul,
``Eddie Mathews has told us about your recent surgery. We are pulling for you, and hope you feel better soon. Hang in there pitching. Sincerely, The Atlanta Braves.''
Years later, I learned those words were written by someone in the Braves' PR office, who was a friend of a friend of my family.
But I treasure that letter. For in that hard summer of itchy casts and no baseball, that note provided more than a small measure of joy.
That is why, despite all of the 90-loss seasons and last-place finishes, and bad trades and the all-too-human play of Biff Pocaroba and Brad Komminsk, I have pulled for Atlanta.
And it is because of transistor radios, and Dizzy and Pee Wee, and Jesus Alou that we can in some measure forgive the greed of today's players and owners.
Thanks to our memories, somewhere grown men are laughing, and somewhere children shout. by CNB