As I have written earlier, our life is filled with choices and decisions that have unpredictable outcomes and the concept of a chosen life is completely delusional and absurd. But even more absurd are the many factors in our life that are specifically not choices or decisions on our part. And most of those occur at birth and in early childhood. You get no say in who your parents are, whether you are rich or poor, what town, city, state, country, or possibly planet you are born on. You don't get to choose your religion - your parents do. You don't even get to pick your name.
But in those early days of life when I was growing up, one of the first opportunities many kids had to express their choice on something was to pick their favorite sports team. Admittedly, heavily influenced by their parents. Throughout most of the world, this likely involved soccer, but in the 1950s and '60s, baseball really was the national pastime in the US. The glory days of basketball and football were yet to come.
By the time I reached the age of sports awareness and being a New Yorker, I became a New York Yankees fan. I actually had little choice as the Dodgers and Giants left New York when I was six years old, and the Mets didn't exist yet. So for all you Yankee haters out there, let me be clear that I fully embraced the Yankees because they were my only option and once that decision is made, you have to stick to it for life, because it is a part of your heritage. Hero worship seems to be genetically expressed in childhood. Even more than being a Yankee fan, I made the choice to become a Mickey Mantle fan, a natural decision for anyone in my position. I absolutely idolized Mickey Mantle and had all his statistics memorized each day when my father brought home his newspapers after commuting from work. The Mick was special to all little kids in New York. He was a ripped, unearthly athlete, the fastest player in the major leagues who hit the longest home runs and had a charming country boy flair. Little kids of course did not know the dark underside of alcoholism, family abuse, and other sordid details that the media ignored in those days, with a wink and a shrug. Celebrity athletes were glorious facades and in retrospect, I greatly appreciate that. They were idolized at a distance and were certifiable gods to children like me.
So you can imagine my outrage and disgust when the Yankees brought in this interloper, a fraud, the guy who played years in the minor leagues and for several other teams and suddenly they made him a New York Yankee, batting just in front of The Mick. Yes, I'm talking about Roger Maris. Despite becoming a New York Yankee, Roger Maris was not a popular figure among children and many other fans. He was the antithesis of The Mick. A quiet, diligent, hard-working athlete who actually performed admirably during his 6 years with the Yankees. And as everyone knows, broke Babe Ruth's record for home runs in 1961.
It's likely hard for people today to believe that in those days, going to a baseball game was an entirely affordable thing for a kid to do. Bleacher seats were a buck or two, and the ushers actually encouraged kids to move down to the box seats after the first three or four innings not only as a sign of graciousness, but to make the seemingly empty stadium look a little bit fuller, especially if the game was televised or recorded for the news. In contrast, today, it costs a family of four an average of $140 to attend a game, and that's across the board; it's higher in New York. In 1961, the average attendance of a day game (including weekends) at Yankee stadium was roughly 21,000 people, in a stadium that seated almost 70,000. The stadium always looked empty during the week, because it was. In 1966, there was actually a day game at Yankee stadium with an attendance of 413 people. I kid you not.
My friends and I were boo birds, as well as Yankee fanatics. We got tremendous pleasure harassing opposing players from wherever we were sitting and the greatest enjoyment when we got to them and they displayed their annoyance. It didn't happen often but it was always our goal to get under their skin. And in a bizarre twist, one of the people we really liked to go after was Roger Maris, simply because he wasn't Mickey Mantle.
So one day game, we paid our buck and moved all the way down behind the Yankee dugout at a game that was particularly poorly attended. And we got the chance of a lifetime to get directly acknowledged by a major league star for our antics in the stands. Roger Maris went to bat five times that day and he struck out five times. We booed him after the first one, and he didn't even look at us. The second time we started calling him names like loser and bum, but still no reaction. And as he approached the dugout he was literally 15 or 20 ft away from us. By the third time we were screaming at him to go back to Cleveland or even Minnesota where he was born. He looked up at us briefly the third time, but that was it. On his fourth strikeout, amidst our blithering idiocy, he gave us a glaring stare that actually was chilling. But we loved it because we knew we actually had gotten to him and congratulated ourselves. And the fifth time he struck out, we were merciless, taunting him and insulting him in any manner we could think of. He stared at us as he was entering the dugout, paused briefly, and gave us the finger. Yes, Roger Maris personally flipped me the bird, along with my friends. We were euphoric and ecstatic. We were downright empowered! And in a bizarre way, we were forever bonded with Roger Maris. We were dancing with glee. Nobody had ever emotionally reacted to our taunts so viscerally. We thought it was the greatest thing that ever happened at a baseball game, which gives you some perspective of what kids were like in those days. And specifically, us. We thought it a spectacular achievement and among the most memorable highlights of all the games I ever attended as a kid. And obviously, it still registers with me, in several profound ways.
Over the years we eventually accepted Roger Maris as a Yankee, admittedly one level or two below Mickey Mantle. And when I became older and learned more about them, it became clear that Roger Maris was the decent, honorable character, and Mickey Mantle turned out to be a shining star that flamed out in life. Roger Maris has an asterisk next to his home run record, because he did it in 162 games as opposed to Babe Ruth setting his record in 154 games. Mickey Mantle should have an asterisk next to all his home runs, because a great many of them were hit while he was drunk or severely hungover. No small feat. Mantle eventually showed great self-awareness and ultimate humility as he faced his death, reflecting upon how he had wasted his unbelievable talent and a potentially joyful life just days before he died from his alcohol-related cancer. Addressing all his fans, including many adults who watched him during their childhood, he said at his final press conference, "Don't be like me … God gave me a body, the ability to play baseball … and I wasted it. I was given so much, and I blew it.”
Nowadays, celebrity athletes are unable to hide their flaws, due to the merciless efforts of the media. And to me, I think that's unfortunate, particularly for kids. Kids benefit having idols during a short period of their lives as well as naive ideals, even if they are sometimes false in nature. They really only need that one-dimension for a brief time. They don't need to know about affairs, drug abuse, alcoholism, spousal abuse and the like. Not yet, there's plenty of time. They don't need to look up to sports stars as people, but simply as sports stars. Athletes (and other celebrities) should not be and for the most part are not role models whatsoever. And why should they be? You really know nothing about them as individuals. That single dimension is enough; enjoy what they do and stop right there. Frankly, even at my ripe age, I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in the marital affairs, drug usage, domestic violence, or political views of any athlete or celebrity that I watch. I just want them to do their job and entertain me and every other fan, doing what they do well. Yes, the simpler, naive times were much more fun. As in everything else in life today, there is just too much information.
So in retrospect, one of my first individual choices in life turned out to be neither good nor bad. I picked my hero for his baseball heroism and in that sense, he fulfilled my aspirations. But my denigration of his opposite, ultimately proved to be foolhardy. Not that it was particularly important to anyone at all, but a telling example of how poor human judgment can be, starting at a very early age.
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And by the way, that picture at the top of this post is the first picture I ever took in my life at approximately the age of five, with my Brownie Instamatic camera. And I'm still touched by it, because it is obviously a picture of number 7, kneeling in the on-deck circle at the original Yankee Stadium, The Mick. Still a romantic figure and hero of my childhood, despite all the unnecessary adult information later foisted upon me.
Thank you for sharing. The greats of baseball. I heard many stories. My grand father was a die hard Dodgers fan. He’d come over to watch the playoffs and finals in color! Only the adults were allowed to comment. Kids were to be quiet. Can you imagine 7 quiet kids?