It was a Saturday in the summer 1974. As was the weekly tradition in my family, we visited my grandfather’s home on Long Island for lunch. Three generations sat at the table for grace and some light chatter around what happened in the playground that week. Afterwards, I would sneak into the bedroom and snatch the change jar where my grandfather kept a few nickels and dimes he accumulated over the past few days. He always let me keep them. To me, this was a treasure – another pack of Topps baseball cards.
My grandfather had become a Mets fan. He disliked the new Yankees owner and vowed not to devote too much attention to them. But he grew up near ‘The Stadium’, the product of avid Yankee fans and he often attended games at The House That Ruth Built. First he saw The Babe and Gehrig. Then there was Yogi Berra and Joe DiMaggio. By the late 1950’s, Whitey Ford and Don Larson ruled The House.
Finally, there was Mickey Mantle. ‘Number 7′ as my grandfather often referred to him. He loved Mickey. To him, Mickey Mantle represented what baseball was all about. He was the boy who made his way from Oklahoma and conquered the big city with his child-like smile and innocence. He won seven World Series, various batting titles, and, eventually, the press. He was a three-time MVP. ‘Powerful elegance’, are the words grandpa used to describe Mantle.
Of course, we never talked about Mickey the alcoholic or Mickey the adulterer. To say such things would be sacrilege. It would be akin to taking the Lord’s name in vein or swearing about the President. It was not permitted in my grandfather’s home.
My grandfather did not survive until Mickey’s passing in 1995. Perhaps it was for the best. Mantle had just been featured in Sports Illustrated. “I Was Killing Myself”, was a stunning feature article that depicted a man more deserving our pity as opposed to worship. It was an interview wherein Mantle shared his many regrets – alcoholism, affairs, fights, etc.
In the years that followed, I began to form an opinion of what my grandfather would have thought of that Sports Illustrated article. Without hesitation, my grandfather would have said, “It’s too much information.”
The truth is my grandfather accepted Mickey for who he was. He knew that drinking probably kept Mantle from chasing Babe Ruth’s all-time home run record. Through the years, despite the efforts of the press, I am sure he (and millions of others) realized The Mick drank quite a bit. Womanizing and gambling could only be logical assumptions.
Unlike today’s ‘need-to-know’ starved generation, my grandfather didn’t want to look closely at Mickey. He didn’t need to. It was a child’s game that captured my grandfather’s heart. It was a game that was played by men acting like children. For adults, it was meant to be appreciated from a distance. Grandpa was wise enough to understand that when you looked to closely at something, it became distorted. It couldn’t be appreciated for its beauty. Looking too closely meant seeing too many flaws.
I do wonder, however, what my grandfather would think of today’s players. With our high definition televisions, thirst for instant replay, and 24-hour MLB Network coverage, we get to see today’s ballplayers at every conceivable angle. Then, of course, there is TMZ which is ready for an infidelity or misgiving imaginable. Even Congress feels a need to get in on the act.
Perhaps, that is what is wrong with our perception today. We examine every facet of the lives of the people we put in the spotlight. We want to build them up, but we love the dirt that tears them down. We, not the game, have lost innocence and passion. It seems as if we were much better off simply cheering for the boys of summer from a distance.
Alex Rodriguez recently came under scrutiny for playing in a high-stakes card game. Unsubstantiated rumors flew in the press of money changing hands, substance abuse, and the police arriving at the scene. I can hear my grandfather now – “like that never happened in my day.”
After all, don’t look too close – you may not like what you see.
References: ‘The Last Boy: Mickey Mantle and the End of America’s Childhood’, Jane Levy; Sports Illustrated. ‘I almost Killed Myslef’, April 18, 1994