In honor of Kirk Gibson’s Immortal “stroke of genius,” I wish to applaud once again a individual feat in Sports History that I don’t think will ever be duplicated, although some renowned sports writers would evaluate it as merely second or third on the list of memorable home runs ever hit.

As Kirk is currently experiencing some physical difficulties since 2017, I would hope the man who performed the miracle at the 1988 World Series could somehow disentangle himself from the “interlaced ambiguities of his being” and realize that it is natural for him only to feel good, to be well, and to experience perfect bodily conditions. 

I am again re-posting (that October 15th, first game of the 1988 World Series) my account of Kirk’s Historic, monumental achievement for your reading pleasure. And perhaps for the inspiration of someone on the 2024 Team to do the Same. ENJOY!

When classifying the “Greatest Homeruns” in Baseball history, the closest that Kirk Gibson’s 1988 World Series “Bomb” ranks to the top of the analysts’ charts, even by MLB Productions, is 2nd or 3rd, behind Bill Mazurowski’s 1960 “Walk-off,” and/or Bobby Thompson’s 1951 “Shot Heard Round the World,” that gave the Giants the pennant.
Of course, the main criteria for evaluating these enduring historical footnotes are still the reminiscence of “that” notorious City-Team rivalry and a purely “Under-Dog” sentimentality (Giants’ 15 games deficit before tying the Dodgers, then winning the pennant; and Pirates’ monstrous negative run-differential with the overwhelmingly favorite Yankees).
Now, if that criterion cannot be upgraded eventually by Time and Logistics, then a new category must be conceived in order to pay proper respect for what Kirk Gibson did in 1988 when single-handedly, but surreptitiously, leading the Dodgers to the World Series Title. (Space in this category would also have to be reserved for NFL Football’s 1972 “Immaculate- Reception,” which would probably rank 2nd as the “penultimate” contributor to those “Amazing” performances.)
In order to hit a single home run, so many aspects of a batter’s swing must be aligned to satisfy the anatomical, physiological, and psychological constituencies composing each player, as afforded haphazardly by the “gods of Baseball.” Most athletes, professional and amateur alike, who have legitimately tasted both the “thrill and agony” of most major sports activities will usually attest to the validity of Ted Williams’ famous yet arguable statement that, “hitting a baseball is the single-most difficult skill to master in all of Sports.”
In an essay I wrote entitled, “Einstein and the Home-Run Principle,” Einstein supersedes the Williams’ statement when he parenthetically observes, “Hitting a Homerun is the most difficult thing to do in all of Sports.” To hit a home run, a batter has to be almost perfect in his application of the “the laws of physics” with regard to the mechanics of swinging a baseball bat with precision and power. To be a consistent home-run hitter the batter must also have an understanding of all the elements that are included in the dynamics of hitting a baseball effectively. 

Theoretically, it is possible to hit a home run every time a batter swings at a baseball. However, Einstein and others have found through Quantum Mechanics, when trying to establish the essence of matter, that “at the fundamental levels, causation is a matter of statistical probabilities, not certainties.” Therefore, with all the elements and combinations of variables with which a batter has to deal, from within and from without himself, the “uncertainty principle” gives compelling testimony that mastering the “Rubik’s cube” of hitting a homerun every time is highly improbable. However, the knowledge itself, of such feasibility, enhances the statistical probability of success.
Not even Albert Einstein and all the renowned physicists of his time, and “saber-metricians” of this modern-era, could have approximated the statistical improbability of what Gibson did on October 15, 1988.

The resounding joy that New Yorkers experienced in 1951 and preserved for decades was not altogether incalculable, since Bobby Thompson had not more than 3 days earlier lit up Ralph Branca with a Home Run that presented as an ominous note a precursor of what was to come. And Bill Mazurowski’s feat that ended the 1960 World Series, although dramatic, cannot have been totally unexpected. Pinch hitter, Hal Smith, had earlier hit a 3-run homer to stake the Pirates to a 2-run lead until the Yankees tied the game in the top of the ninth, thus extending the heart-pounding “see-saw” battle.

“Maz” was 1 for 3 as he led off the bottom of the ninth. Yankee pitcher, Ralph Terry, made the huge mistake of getting the pitch up to the short but powerfully built Pirate second baseman, who took advantage and slugged the ball over the brick wall 408 feet from Home Plate. It was truly a magnificent and endearing moment for the Pittsburgh community and all Baseball fans outside of the Bronx – worthy indeed of memorial status.

All that being said, encomiums to those two distinct episodes in Baseball lore should pale in comparison to the near “mythical” grandeur that highlighted the glorified instant of Gibson’s exalted “blast,” as well as propagated the ecstatic drama that preceded his culminating heroics.

Kirk’s advent into professional baseball is as mysterious as that of the legendary “Roy Hobbs,” without the tragic prelude. Upon completing a successful College football career, it was suggested that he not waste his athletic talent in the “off-season,” and play “a little” baseball for his Spartan baseball team at Michigan State University. In that first and only year of college baseball, he played so well (.390 B.A., 16 HRs. and 52 RBI in 48 games) as to warrant being picked in the first round of the 1978 MLB Draft by the Detroit Tigers. He was with the Tigers for 9 years and was a key figure in attaining a World Series title in 1984.

After being determined as one of the ballplayers being “black-balled” by MLB Franchises in the notorious “Collusion Scandal” of 1987, he left the A.L. Tigers and in January joined the Hapless Dodgers of the National League, whose dismal ‘87 season needed something of a “Hobbsian” spark to generate new life into a ball-club in disarray.
At Spring Training a few opportunities presented themselves early in Camp to set the stage for an immediate change of direction in Team attitude and focus. This would eventually lead the march to a much-improved status and uncontested standing in the National League West to win the Division by 7 games.  Frivolity and practical jokes took a back seat to Kirk’s ultra-professional and business-like mentality, and the team flourished from beginning ‘till the season ended. His season ending stats earned him National League MVP honors while helping the Dodgers win 21 more games than the season before.

But it was his uncommon “personal leadership” and otherwise intangible, undaunted presence that invoked the “mythical hero” image his teammates and adversaries had learned to admire and would attempt to emulate. In the NLCS, although injured, Kirk still performed heroically in clutch situations, and his timely home runs in the 4th and 5th games clinched the National League Pennant and advanced the Dodgers into an improbable World Series entitlement.
Kirk purportedly had done all he could to get the Dodgers to that World Series, but “they” were presumably going to have to get to the “Promised Land” without him, for the injuries he incurred along the way were too severe for any “mortal” to overcome and give a last-ditch effort. All the world would have accredited the Dodgers with a valiant effort for just making it to the “Final” Series. Everyone knew that even with Gibson, there was slim if any chance for them to beat the powerful Oakland Athletics, whose superior arsenal of player personnel had amassed an incredible record of 104 wins to 58 losses. And even with Kirk’s Premier status with the “baseball gods,” the “Arrogant- As” knew that “one player does not a team make.”
With Gibson being an “absolute” scratch from the line-up (he wasn’t even at the pre-game introductions ceremony), the first game of the Series began unexpectedly with a first inning 2-run homer by Dodger, Mickey Hatcher. The “As” came back with 4 runs in the top of the 2nd and held a 2-run lead until the Dodgers scored again in the 6th. The game remained at 4 to 3, Oakland leading in the bottom of the 9th.
Throughout the game, there were brief TV glimpses of Kirk Gibson hobbling around in the dug-out as he was traversing the distance from the training room and back, trying to massage and loosen his painful joints and hamstrings. Ever-optimistic, Tommy Lasorda seemed to be coaxing his beleaguered star, to see if any type of “miracle” was in the offing.

Vince Scully repeatedly commented that there was “absolutely” no chance of Gibson making an official appearance. With T.V. and radio broadcasts coming into the locker room, Gibson heard one of Scully’s commentaries as if providence were beckoning for him to consider an alternative thought. In sudden contemplation of all that was transpiring before him, Kirk realized an inexplicable surge of unwarranted confidence streaming through his consciousness. As in a biblical reference to Jacob wrestling with the “man” inside, Kirk’s vision of Princely accommodation could not be suppressed.

The decision was made; his mind was determined; “the die was cast”; but only the portentous action itself was forestalled. “Will I look like and be a fool? What in hell could I possibly do? I can’t even walk! What or Who do I think I am?” would have been the common queries instigated by mortal fear that must be wrested away from that mind intent on fulfilling a noble purpose.
After Dodger pitching blanked the Athletics in the top of the ninth, the otherwise stalwart performance of Oakland Pitcher, Dave Steward, ended when statistically prudent “As” manager, Tony LaRussa replaced his Starter with the League’s Premier “closer,” Dennis Eckersley.

It looked like a sure win for Oakland, since “Eck” was destined to face the bottom of the Dodger line-up (though somewhat of an ominous sign, in hindsight). Eckersley got the first two outs in rapid succession, and was about to face a formidable, former teammate who was set to pinch-hit for the 8th batter in the line-up.
Meanwhile, in the Dodger dug-out, Lasorda learned that Gibson had begun a personalized mental and physical rehabilitation process, which immediately spurred Tommy’s ever-percolating mind to envision a preemptive scenario of his own. After appointing Mike Davis to pinch hit for Alfredo Griffin, he surreptitiously placed Dave Anderson in the on-deck circle, to make Eckersley and LaRussa think that they could afford to be a little cautious with Davis (a potential threat) and contemplate the “end” by pitching to the very weak-hitting Anderson.
All potentially constructive Dodger strategy lay in the proposition that Gibson regain a semblance of his former self. Yet, even if he could overcome the acute pain and obvious debility, what could he hope to achieve in this debilitative condition?  Bob Costas would later remark that while he was in the stairwell of the Dodger dug-out, he could hear the groaning, anguishing strokes of a batter desperately trying to ready himself for one last at-bat, even “one last-swing,” while teammate Orel Hershiser was feeding baseballs onto the tee for Gibson’s convenience.

Although most of his teammates must have sensed the futility of Kirk’s somewhat contrived heroism, they probably also could not have expected anything less from “the man” who had proven himself so many times before. They all must have thought the “good prospect” all but possible. However, their past experience would at least warrant a “statistically” derived-at chance of success. “YOU’VE GOT TO BELIEVE” would have been the genuine inspirational sentiment pouring into the ears of the players from the mouth and heart of Tommy Lasorda and the Great Dodger in the Sky.

Kirk is now sitting at the end of the dugout bench, fully dressed, and armed with helmet and “hickory,” speculating the purview the situation has presented. “I have inspiration and commitment to do something, but what, and how far can my own determination carry me? Will Davis get on base to set up my ‘grand entrance,’ and what emotion will the fans exude? And will it give me that final burst of adrenaline to be propelled to heights previously unknown?”
Gibson was afforded no additional time to mentally peruse the circumstances of the present situation, for Eckersley just walked Mike Davis. Taking a deep yet unstrained breath, Kirk’s electrifying and confident image popped onto the top step, then out of the dugout to the thunderous roar of the now ecstatic and frenzied crowd.
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” thought Gibson, as he must have restrained the urge to shed at least a tributary tear of ineffable joy he and his patrons could feel in this present moment of triumphal hope.  Lasorda’s unending chants of “new promise” inspired his Team and the Dodger Faithful to loftier heights of exaltation, as Kirk finished his preliminary swings. His slow, deliberate, but majestic walk to the plate must have been a nerve-wrenching ordeal for the Oakland pitcher, even though he exuded a confidence rather than impatience to get the game over.
One could only speculate as to what order of thoughts must have been aligning themselves in Gibson’s mind as his footsteps proceeded into that rarefied cubicle of variable distinction. Before assuming his characteristically “Spartan” batting-stance, his back cleat scratched the hardened dirt for a foothold to secure a base from which his afflicted body might launch its purposeful attack.

He was finally ready, and none too soon for the exasperated Eckersley, who let his arm commence with the business at hand, firing a blazing, side-arm, tailing fastball, for which Gibson must have felt a tad unprepared. All observers couldn’t help but notice the constrained, oblique wrenching, late response Gibson’s off-balanced body and bat conveyed as it almost completely missed the ball. The second pitch gave the same explicit message, and the fans as well as Eckersley himself must have sensed that “the Gibber” was no match for the “Eck.” Kirk was behind 0 and 2 in what seemed like a “heartbeat,” and Dennis was determined to finish him off on the next pitch.
Eckersley’s disdain for Gibson’s futile attempts was obvious as he was about to throw another fast ball, same speed, to the same spot (away). The fact that Kirk looked bad, but progressively better on each swing did not escape Eckersley discerning eye. Gibson knew that his body needed only a short quick turn, but even that was too slow to get his arms activated.

On that third fast-ball, Kirk was prepared to shorten the turn and throw his arms and hands more quickly. The result was a swing with little power, as his arms and hands were too far out in front, and his wrists rolled over way too soon. He was grateful that he even made contact for an otherwise worthless dribbler that forced him to run toward first before the ball fortuitously struck the edge of the infield grass and abruptly darted foul, thus extending his at-bat. (That had to hurt!)

After his first pitch to Gibson, it became obvious to Eckersley, as well as the “brain-trusts” in both dugouts, that Kirk was not the optimum threat for which everyone fancifully hoped or cautiously suspected. But he was quickly portending to be a formidable adversary, even in his seemingly “powerless” condition. “Eck” recognized that with all the pitches Gibson was subtly calculating, making superficial contact with everyone, it might only be a matter of time before he can put one in play, perhaps to the detriment of Oakland.

Therefore, he can’t let Davis steal second base. Before his second and third pitches he made 3 throws to keep Davis close. With 2 strikes on Gibson, the Dodgers might be desperate. His 4th pitch was a ball outside, going a little farther to see if Kirk would bite beyond the fringe. He didn’t. Since “Eck” didn’t throw over before the 4th pitch, Davis attempted a steal on the 5th. Gibson had his best swing yet but fouled it back. Eckersley didn’t think Davis would steal on consecutive pitches, and he was correct, but threw “Ball 2” in the process.  Before his 7th pitch, he threw to first base again. But on the pitch to Gibson, the ball was further outside, and Davis successfully stole second base, much to the consternation of LaRussa, Eckersley, and the “As” dugout as the count rose to 3 and 2.

The situation had not developed the way Eckersley intended. Gibson’s impotent yet “frisky” at-bat posed a conundrum whose immediate solution never materialized. So there was only one direction in which to go!

As Dennis Eckersley was truly an adroit “student of the game,” he, like the many who had come before him, usually observed Warren Spawn’s masterful advice when administering to their trade: “It is the batter’s duty to have good timing and rhythm to perform effectively, while it is the pitcher’s duty to off-set that rhythm and timing with variable speeds and placement of pitches.”
As for Gibson the batter, he had neither rhythm nor timing when he first came to the plate. But through the course of his gauntlet-like “trial-by-pitch” he had developed both to a rather insignificant level. Now, it was thought by “Eck,” to end this dilemma. He knew what he had to do. He’d done it before, with great success. And he will do it, NOW!

The Game wasn’t necessarily on the line, if his strategy failed. Gibson would walk, and the Dodgers would still have a runner in scoring position, presenting merely a secondary condition that would quickly be dismissed. But “Eck” was confident, he could not fail. “This is absolutely the ‘last hand’.”

All the “Cards” being dealt, Eckersley landed (in Poker parlance) a 4th Ace, while Kirk had a pair of Jacks and the 7, 8, 9 of Clubs. Kirk could have kept the pair and thrown the other 3 away, but instead threw the Jack of Hearts, keeping its “Brother-in-Clubs.” The statistical probability for Eckersley’s success was astronomical! Kirk Gibson seemed to have been abandoned by the “gods” and his mythological legend was about to become irreparable.  The most he could hope for was simply a mimesis of that “Luis Gonzalez” swing and flare a base hit that might tie the game. But in Eckersley’s mind, a game-ending out is all Gibson’s “gunna” get!

There’s the tying run on second base. Eckersley is in his “stretch.” The count is 3 and 2. “Eck” is about to deliver the most potent pitch in his repertoire. The Dodger dugout is ecstatic. Now, with the fleet-footed Davis in scoring position, a base-hit would tie the game, and that is all and the best they could expect from their forlorn hero. But Eckersley had other plans! And what was Gibson himself thinking?

Just before Eckersley was to deliver his “secret” pitch, Kirk abruptly stepped out of the batter’s box, as if to regain his composure under this momentous circumstance. But, in that instant, a higher source seemed to beckon him to recall an otherwise innocuous fact that Kirk had read in a report prepared by an astute and meticulous “scout” (Mel Didier) before the playoffs began. After pondering the present situation, all statistical possibilities seemed to be aligned in a favorable position. And the curtain was about to fall with a dramatic conclusion on one of these conquering heroes, each with his own weapon of invincibility in hand (Reminiscent of the final poker-hand in the movie, “The Cincinnati Kid”). But which will project the image of “The Man”?

Kirk looked toward the mound, then stepped into the “Box,” knowing he had all the information he needed (his final card was dealt). But is his faith in his belief strong enough; and will his mind’s commitment to act unflinchingly, in spite of his apparent bodily condition, enable his warrior-heart? 55,000 spectators are about to find out as well.
Neither antagonist is smiling but each exudes an indefinable confidence, even while knowing well that “one will die today.”

Eckersley takes his stretch and prepares his “Load” for delivery. Gibson makes a final but ominous mental query designating his unquestioning tact as “the die is cast” once more, “Sure as I’m standing here, partner, you’re going to throw me that ‘back-door’ slider, aren’t you?”

As the pitch leaves his hand, Eckersley recognizes the ball’s trajectory to be perfect, right where he wanted it. With all the pitches he had thrown, he knew Gibson would see the ball moving directly toward the outside. He also thought Gibson’s quick sense would assume that, since his side-armed fast ball “tails,” the pitch’s destination would obviously move farther outside for a ball. He was expecting Kirk to momentarily relax, and not have enough time to respond to the pitch’s abrupt deviation of speed and direction, until it was too late – The “Aces” were “face-up”!

“Sure enough,” realized Kirk, upon first glance! His “absolute faith,” and patience allowed him to wait. He’d not yet lifted his front foot as he did previously while expecting Eckersley’s fast ball. An extra nanosecond of Time was in his favor. “Now, all I have to do is get my timing right, to be able to explode at the precise moment!” In his extremely “closed stance,” as he discerned the ball’s outside trajectory, he waited until he could detect its subtle and abrupt turn toward him. Then his front foot exaggerated its deliberate stride toward third base, as his body was “gathering” its forces to uncoil as his foot would plant into the ground.

Eckersley couldn’t help but notice that Gibson’s physical demeanor was uncommonly composed as he unobtrusively glided in the direction from which the ball was finally descending (as if he knew what was coming). “Eck” saw Kirk’s foot plant, his body uncoil, his arms extend, and in a final explosive lunge of shoulders, hands, and wrists, observed the bat contact the ball with an uncanny perfect synergy that launched the round projectile with improbable force in the direction from which it came.

With all spectators and both dugouts watching in apparent disbelief, the ball kept rising and carrying farther and farther in its ellipticity until it finally disappeared over the right-field wall, as Kirk’s final card resoundingly struck the table as a 10 of Clubs – and a “Straight Flush.”

Throughout the day not a hint of joy was expressive of the face of Kirk Gibson, only a stoic-facade hiding pain, disappointment, resentment, and disdain for his helpless and impotent condition. As the abrupt follow-through of his celestial swing of bat was completed, and he cautiously embarked on an unrehearsed, and as yet undefined, trek, an observer could detect a gradual change in facial disposition. The remorseful look of indifference was suddenly transformed into a heavily distinguishable canvas of ecstatic jubilation.

And in a moment of triumphant glory, he pumped his bent right arm in successive punches along the side of his beleaguered body after the subjugated leather-bound projectile did indeed traverse the height of the outfield fence for an uncontested, historic “masterstroke” (Tour De Force) of amazing ramifications, the conclusion of which would be directly revealed.

The instant of evidentiary proof of Gibson’s success immediately transformed the hopeful yet solemnly cautious dispositions of Dodger fans and Teammates (who hadn’t really believed in “Santa Clause”) into genuinely faith-filled followers who, at that “holy instant,” probably could have moved a mountain or two.

The dug-out Dodgers were streaming out onto the field, arms flaying and voices shouting “Hallelujah” (from the roof-tops) to their “resurrected “messiah” as he buoyantly circumnavigated the bases in all but reconstructed, glorified form.

His amazing feat did provide a Home Run of incomparable distinction. And it did win that First Game of the “Series,” in abrupt and miraculous fashion. But the intangible essence of that single act of unfathomable “Heroism” also unlocked a momentarily imprisoned spirit of Team unity that suddenly “empowered” the Dodgers to claim the 1988 World Series Title, even without Kirk playing another moment of any of the remaining 4 games. Kirk Gibson’s Home Run was truly the “single-most amazing performance piece in Sports history.”

Postscript:
As unlikely as Kirk Gibson’s conquest was, at that momentous October event, what more climactic expression of exaltation could be spontaneously delivered than that spoken by Baseball’s “immortal bard,” Vin Scully,

when he exclaimed, as Kirk was rounding the bases, “In a year that has been so ‘improbable,’ the ‘Impossible’ has occurred.” Truer words were never spoken. No one in the world could have expected Gibson’s humble yet triumphal salute, “I came; I saw; I conquered!” And for the last 36 years, legions of followers have echoed the words of another prominent and renowned sportscaster (Joe Buck) as he commented repeatedly, in breathless exuberance, “I DON’T BELIEVE WHAT I JUST SAW! I DON’T BELIEVE… WHAT I JUST SAW”! Nothing in Sports History can equate to Kirk Gibson’s “improbable” and “impossible” act of courage and accomplishment. The only historical event that would have shared in equipollence would have been “The Battle of Thermopylae,” if this Spartan warrior had been there to defeat the Persians.

Post – Postscript:

2024 World Series – Freddie Freeman:

As a suggested prospect for Historical recognition, at the beginning of this Post, I proposed a Gibsonian Corollary to that 1988 Masterpiece, “And perhaps for the inspiration to someone on the 2024 Team to do the Same.” I am overjoyed by the TEAM response during the first three games of this year’s World Series, with Hopes that the fourth, fifth, (sixth or seventh) games will prove as successful as its providential past. The Yankees won game 4, and would their new momentum subvert Destiny’s call for a De Ja Vu Experience?

Particularly impressive and somewhat reminiscent of singular glorification is the prophetic expression of grandeur by one Freddie Freeman who in some familiar fashion shared a similar Heroic Effort of his Prototypical Predecessor. During a week of convalescence for a severely sprained ankle between Championship Series, it was questionable whether Freddie would participate in the World Series. But because of his solid determination, dedication, and discipline, he worked his way back to a playable physical condition.

And, as Destiny would be assured by the “Great Dodger in the Sky,” with two outs in the bottom of the last Inning, with the Bases Loaded and the Yankees ahead 3 to 2, the previously physically afflicted Dodger First Baseman hit the pitcher’s first pitch into the Right Field Pavilion (near where Kirk hit his) for a History-Making, never before “Walk-Off” Grand-Slam home run and another “Game ONE World Series victory” for the “Indomitable Los Angeles Dodgers.”

As with the inevitable despair felt by Dennis Eckersley, Tony LaRussa, and the Oakland Athletics in 1988, the Yankees were experiencing the same in 2024 as Freddie had also hit home runs in the Second, Third and Fourth Games while the Dodger pitching successfully stymied its Rivals (except in Game 4). The Dodgers eventually won Game 5 in equally dramatic form as 1988, while Walker Bueler captured the spirit of Orel Hershiser in finishing the Dodger Pitching Duties by mowing down the Yankee offense in the bottom of the Ninth to secure a 7 to 6 Dodger World Series Victory and Championship.

The likely MVP Candidate was realized in the person of Freddie Freeman whose 12 RBI performance through all five games tied the MLB World Series record – in silent commemoration of the fact that Kirk didn’t receive that Award because he was physically unable to play again after that First Game. Even though Orel certainly deserved the Award, he acknowledged the spirit of Gibson energized his own heroic effort. And how many of the 2024 Dodgers were unofficially cognizant and imbued with that Indomitable Spirit of the 1988 Dodger Team?

From my restful position, my eyes caught sight of the clock on the table, which registered at six thirty. A short impulse to panic subsided quickly as I realized no one would be pounding on my door this evening. As my eyes again closed to quiet repose, I envisioned the lineup cards being posted before the Opener in Cincinnati:

…………….. COLTS …… VS……. REDS…

1. Eddie Kasko—shortstop – Pete Rose—second base

2. Nellie Fox—second base – Chico Ruiz—third base

3. John Paciorek—center field – Vada Pinson—center field

4. Walt Bond—first base – Frank Robinson—right field

5. Rusty Staub—right field – Gordy Coleman—first base

6. Jim Wynn—left field – Bob Skinner—left field

7. Bob Aspromonte—third base – Johnny Edwards—catcher

8. John Bateman—catcher – Leo Cardenas—shortstop

9. Ken Johnson—pitcher – Jim Maloney—pitcher

Our Major-League team was breaking camp tomorrow, Sunday, April 12, a day before the first “real game.” It would give us a day to acclimate to the colder weather. Since spring training began in February, I had been anxious to make the team and be in the starting lineup for the opening game against the Reds. After a magnificent spring, the team and I were anxious to begin the regular season and see how long we could keep alive our “magical ride to the championship.”

The plane for Cincinnati took off at 10:00 am. As I watched the smiling faces of players who made the roster, I couldn’t help but empathize with those not present. They would continue their “training” with hopes that someday they would attain the status of a big-league player.

As I felt the swirling winds of time settling in on my present perspective, I could feel and see the plane ascending over the horizon, in its two-hour flight to the start of a new baseball season. All players would have the same new opportunity to begin again. How they prepared themselves yesterday would determine the success they’d find today and its tomorrow.

The joy of first-time big-league experience is the fulfillment of countless childhood dreams, imagining glorified moments of grandeur. Sustaining the moment will become the art of allowing the confidence-boosting high-vibrational impulses to flow by the highest level of frequency that each is presently capable of inducing.

The empty seat next to Steve’s would forever be my reminder of the sometimes harsh reality in “that world” outside of dreams. But a new realization, within the “real world,” would make it possible to now appreciate the “contrast.” Though it was once intimidating, now I will simply rise above any present dire circumstance to a higher perspective. There I will ultimately reap benefits from an expanded sense of mental and physical competency.

Monday’s game would begin at 1:00 pm. The lineups were announced and the “cards” presented to the umpires prior to the first pitch. It was without a sudden, unexpected sense of disappointment that one prominent name was unobtrusively replaced in the visiting team’s lineup. It would have been an unconscionable act of omission had the “world of dreams” maintained its credibility in the unimaginative “world of reality.”

…………COLTS……..………….. REDS

1. Eddie Kasko—shortstop – Pete Rose—second base

2. Nellie Fox—second base – Chico Ruiz—third base

3. Pete Runnels—first base – Vada Pinson—center field

4. Walt Bond—left field – Frank Robinson—right field

5. Rusty Staub—right field – Gordy Coleman—first base

6. Jim Wynn—center field – Bob Skinner—left field

7. Bob Aspromonte—third base – Johnny Edwards—catcher

8. John Bateman—catcher – Leo Cardenas—shortstop

9. Ken Johnson—pitcher – Jim Maloney—pitcher

Before fully awakening into the realm of present reality, I remembered the conclusion of that transcending day, as it highlighted a victorious new beginning for a team with which my fondest desire would have conspired to be an integral part— Colt .45s, 6; Reds, 3.

After the last vestige of gossamer filament removed itself from the lids of my imaginative time-space warp, my eyes opened widely to the brilliant expanse of a small but fortified study. With all necessary machinations of modern technology, the accoutrements for conducting a normal, daily regimen was fully in notice. It felt as though half dozen months had gone by, but the physical evidence showed that I simply had gone to sleep just twelve hours earlier.

THE END

Continuation of Chapter 53 of my Book, If I Knew Then What I Know Now!

Then a quiet voice from within the shadows spoke, “As any individual can make himself to become a ‘naturally’ good ‘player of the game’ through repetitive practice, he cannot be the ‘best hitter he could be’ unless he somehow attains the scientific understanding of the intricate details supporting the mechanism of swinging the bat properly.”

Silently, I found myself spontaneously agreeing with that profound statement. Then instinctively, I uttered, “Scientific understanding and application of the principle of batting will most certainly provide a batting competency that would supersede the level of proficiency of most batsmen. But without the supplementary metaphysical prerequisite to absolute application, maximum productivity would not be forthcoming, even in the ‘best’ of ‘good hitters.’”

Socrates smiled intuitively at Plato then, with unrestrained excitement, delivered his next statement in the direction of our “shadow image.”

“My protégé and I had contemplated a ‘trilateral’ collaboration with you since we first began the perusal of your voluminous works. We knew we’d eventually make your acquaintance but hardly could have imagined doing so under the auspices of such uniquely providential circumstances.”

Plato turned to the adjacent shadow, and his voice directed his message at me, “What better means of extrapolating the essence of one’s own inspired imagination than by utilizing his own genetic resources to produce the prototypical applicant for research and development?”

While mentally aligning the sentiments of Plato’s discourse, my mind glimpsed the import of the biblical expression, “The last shall be first, and the first, last!” Suspicions had pervaded my mental landscape but never accumulated enough concrete evidence to further my premature assumptions. Only within the nebulous framework of childish imagination could I have presumed such an improbable coincidence that would have connected me to J. F. P. It was even less likely to contrive such fantasy in the wildest of dreams.

But here I was, in a remarkably incoherent position of having to find legitimate reasons for disavowing the credible evidence that might validate why I appeared to be somewhat of an anomaly in a “time” not yet ready to accept a verification thereof. Could a person’s future change, or preclude, the events of his past to accommodate the actual good intentions he did have but did nothing to enhance his status at any other “present time”?

Could a person, the same person, have the mental facility to appropriate a physical reality that would consolidate more than one dimension of time? (Might forgiveness be truly defined by its literally expressed sentiment—to make happen that which preceded what would be effaced, thus “fore-give-ness”?) Could a mind, like that of Jesus, provide the mental faculties to activate a healing process for an adult with blindness when he/she was “born blind”?

Coming Soon – Part 5!

Continuation of Chapter 53 of my Book, If I Knew Then What I Know Now.

Through a transparent mist, a panoramic scope of a vast baseball history came into view. And I appeared to be in the company of not two but three other observers, with mutual admiration for the sporting activity we had become accustomed to enjoying as a game called baseball. Our endless journey would attempt to extract from hope the eternal promise of assurance that “becoming” eventuates into “true being.”

Perched high above the clamor of enthusiastic fanfare, Socrates, Plato, myself, and The Other—as restrained spectators—quietly engaged in a traditional dialogue about the nuances of the game. Our choices of viewing location varied along heavenly porches, upon the rooftop of any stadium that afforded prime viewing. There we would witness the glorious competition below, which triumphantly celebrated the athletic prowess of at least eighteen stellar performers in our midst.

In the relative solitude of our lofty perch, only the faintness of extraneous sound vaporized in its skyward trek. Our philosophical impressions were innocently conveyed to each other in summations that only acquiesced to the game’s simplistic appeal.

Plato sounded out the first volley of reasonable commentary with the words, “Sports fans, have we not been witnessing within the framework of organized athletics an activity which truly embodies the essence of divine intervention?” Socrates affirmatively replied with a nod but quickly asked, “How can such heavenly synchronization be conjoined to the conscious deployment of human intent?”

---

I thought of my days of youth—when my brother, friends, and I would swarm onto any grassy area of Lasky or Jayne Field and pitch four improvised bases down within the parameters of a diamond-shaped infield. We’d then start a game of baseball, whose customary “nine inning” time frame was circumvented to better accommodate a continuity preempted only by the setting sun.

If eight or nine players were on each team, all fields were fair. But most often we played with five or fewer on each side. These scenarios made it practical to designate one area of the field automatically “out” if the batter hit the ball there. That designated area was always the right field side, because no one we knew batted lefthanded. And all batters, therefore, unwittingly developed the tendency to “pull the ball” to left. (If we knew then what we would know later, we could have developed a strategy for hitting pitches away to the opposite field.)

Coming Soon: Part 4.

From my Book, If I Knew Then What I Know Now:

As I lay on my back, hands clasped behind my head, while my eyes focused on the ceiling above, I thought, How could it be possible for me (or anyone) to perform at a higher level than that at which I had been performing? If I can reach an even “higher level,” would that not mean that “everyone” was capable? But would anyone even want to do what I am doing to perform at “peak proficiency”? I questioned myself.

I knew “they” would love to perform as I have been performing. But would they believe that they could do what I am doing (other than in their wildest dreams)? Could they recognize what it is they would have to do besides? “Many (all) would be called, but only few (if any) would be able to choose,” to paraphrase a thought stimulated by a biblical reference.

I wondered momentarily what was, or what would be, happening in the fields of martial arts and boxing as Bruce and Cassius make known the effects of higher standards in their respective realms of innovation. I guess time would tell!

I pondered my baseball future in this ultra-conservative arena of “slow-changing” sports-minded mentality. It would seem almost impossible for America’s pastime to quickly adapt to the metaphysical principles ascertained by Abraham and J. F. P., as well as their progenitors of sequentially enhanced thought. The ultimate promotion of highest skill-level development seems too distant in the future. Only Einstein (and I) might “imagine” an era when the speed of human thought might equal or surpass that of E=MC2 and provide a viable formula for baseball batting success unparalleled to anything in previous sports history.

While thoughts were swirling within my mind’s generating mechanism, inducing a constant stream of stimulating vibrational impulses, I felt an unusual sense of “ease.” My body gave the impression of weightlessness, as it seemed to carry itself beyond all present circumstances into an esoteric realm of infinite possibilities.

The first thought to stimulate inquiry was the recollection of a brief statement by the “second woman”—of A Course in Miracles—in my initial dream sequence: “You cannot reach heaven alone.” It seemed subtly intriguing at the time, but whose expanded meaning never registered until now. As in baseball, that heavenly state of championship quality cannot be reached in the aspiration of/for just one player. He must perceive that all his teammates are “there” with him. In heaven’s parlance, “he must see as God sees!” He can’t be in heaven without seeing his teammates there with him!

The momentum from that idea fostered a recollection of another intriguing essay of J. F. P. titled “Optimal Success Cannot Be Attained Independently.” Excerpts read as follows:

Barry Bonds was the greatest hitter in Baseball history. He had beaten Hank Aaron’s Home Run record, and was the only player in (out of) the Game who had the potential to be a perennial .400-hitter. He had been named Baseball’s Most Valuable Player 7 times, and had been a contender for “Sportsman of the year” and “person of the year” honors, at least on one occasion. Yet the ultimate quality of his successful career was diminished by the fact that his teams had never won the highest of honors, “World Series Championship.”

Why should that fact take anything away from the quality of his individual success? It doesn’t, but in exploring both the philosophical and spiritual contributors to highest expectation and achievement, it cannot be denied that had his team won the World Series, it would have been his “Crowning Achievement.”

History has shown that kings and power-mongers have been only minimally successful in the “long-run” because their constituencies didn’t seem to share a compatible sense of prestige and greatness. A leader is always appreciated as one who shines above the rest, with certain magnanimous qualities. But the atmosphere of godliness wears thin when his human vulnerability displays such unsavory characteristics as “hubris” and other forms of incivility. Lack of collective commitment, to serve only personal aggrandizement, usually renders the highest universal achievement unaffordable. A complete success would have to entail the fruition of the whole.

One who would be a true leader of a team is he whose exemplary physical and mental composition complies with the exact nature of “team spirit.” He would have to be the embodiment of those qualities that would inspire others to appreciate the intrinsic need for compatibility and cooperation to achieve a collective goal.

Barry Bonds definitively embodied those personal attributes (as did Alexander the Great) to inspire his teammates to their collectively highest glory! And he also appeared to have certain characteristics that would have inspired others to emulate his greatness. But, for him to have realized his ultimate-goal of capturing the World Series Crown, he would have had to thoroughly understand that each member of his team was as integral a part of that fabric of unity as he was. The tension of the finely knitted team-fabric must not exceed the delicate bounds of generously enthusiastic applause and constructive criticism, within a framework of genuinely compassionate camaraderie.

I absolutely concurred with everything the “author” implied about teamwork and team spirit. I would guess that the writer of A Course in Miracles would also agree. I believed that I had naturally embodied those sentiments in my own thoughts about my teammates and their progressive climbs toward ultimate proficiency. My own constant inspiration was to do my best, and I had hoped that theirs would be the same.

Coming Soon: Part 3!

“Hero-worshipping” is merely a mortal means of aspiring to something more than individuals are typically capable of achieving as themselves. Those who are actual Heroes (of any sort) usually become such out of moments of desperation whereby they are inspired by an internal force to bring the body’s scattered inherent energies into the focus of “self-determination” to overcome a seemingly insurmountable obstacle to their maximum intent. 
As in Bonnie Tyler’s limited mortal plea for solace, her song reveals:
Late at night I toss and I turn
And I dream of what I need
I need a hero
I’m holding out for a hero ’til the end of the night
Then she says:
She’s gotta be strong
And she’s gotta be fast
And she’s gotta know Right from the Wrong…
I’m holding out for a hero ’til the morning light
She’s gotta be sure
And it’s gonna be soon
And She’s gotta be larger than life!

Those ingenious creators of imaginary heroes of Song, T V, Movie, and Comic-Book fame have captured the essence of the “virtual-reality” their imaginative thinking have presented to them in their dreams. And their artistic talent has projected the exaggerated images of characters for whom they might have aspired to become in “Physical-Reality”!
Super-Heroes have been depicted in Comic-Books for years. Superman and Marvel Comics have captured popular appeal as means of escaping the mundane portrayal of ordinary semi-impotent Lives of stagnant complacency. And modern technological advancement has enhanced the product of “special-effects” to a point of close-proximity to the virtual-reality of dreams.
Songs, Comic Books and exaggerated depictions of Science Fiction Movies don’t appeal much to my taste unless they include a mental, metaphysical component that provides relevancy to the prospect of an underlying, unseen cause to every effect.

Intelligent, practical minds have concluded the impracticality of placing faith in the recent onslaught of promises from “virtual-reality.” But, if new and higher aspirations arise from the ashes of the false hopes in Matter’s ethereal insubstantiality to the spiritual dimension of Heaven’s Vibrational Reality, then the product manifested in Earth’s physical reality can be more practically and consistently applied.

Mariah Carey’s song by Enrique Iglesias fashions a greater sense a “true-hero”:
There’s a hero
If you look inside your heart 
You don’t have to be afraid…
If you reach into your soul
And the sorrow that you know 
Will melt away
And then a hero comes along 
With the strength to carry on

And you cast your fears aside
And you know you can survive
So when you feel like hope is gone
Look inside you and be strong 
And you’ll finally see the truth
That a hero lies in you. 

Real-life heroes in Citizenship, Science, Art&Cinema, Medicine, Technology, Business, Sports, and Government are those whose examples of success depict more than superficial material temporal personal-gain but divulge the underlying pre-eminent cause that would be the inspiration for all who would aspire to emulate the highest standard for Achievement. Movies and Books sometimes (but often inaccurately) portray individuals as instantaneous heroes who at precise moments in Time disregard circumstance and act instinctively while responding to critical situations with uncommon valor or unperturbed confidence.

From where does the power come in those brief instances, and why does it seem more infrequent than anyone would desire or expect? On my website, www.johnpaciorek.com and in my latest Book, If I Knew Then What I Know Now, I often refer to Principle and abiding within its infinite parameters as the bases for “ultimate-success” in Sports as well as other fields of endeavor.
On my website, the title of which is, Paciorek’s Principle of Perfect Practice – Simplicity, I’ve written almost 200 essays elaborating on many aspects comprising the Game of Baseball, while breaking down the fundamental mechanics that would facilitate the Perfect practice to insure the proper application of Principle to a baseball player’s batting, throwing, and fielding of a baseball. The Book afore-mentioned is the third of a series that began with The Principle of Baseball: And All There is to Know about Hitting. The second is entitled, Plato and Socrates: Baseball’s Wisest Fans (Unpublished).
Since the first two Books were more on a level of the Work-Book variety, I later realized that its boring “instructional” format and its minute descriptions of the intricate mechanically precise detail would not hold the interest of those who were not sincerely intent on improving their skills to the highest level of proficiency. Even one prominent Big-League player to whom I offered my particular-service found it difficult to accept the valid points I brought out to his agent who agreed and attempted to persuade him of the veracity thereof.
I thought that Shawn Green, whom I felt had enormous potential to be the next Ted Williams, was an outstanding baseball player. He was tall, sleek, and a powerful hitter because of the speed at which he swung a bat. (He was similar in physical dimensions and potential to former Dodger “Phenom” Cory Bellinger.) In the letter I sent to him via his agent, Jeff Moorad, I explained why he was having difficulty hitting the inside fastball and/or keeping it fair. He responded kindly, as the gentleman he was, but said he was intent on retaining the batting stance that he felt was instrumental in getting him to the Big-Leagues.
What Shawn and many lesser-skilled batters do not understand is that if they do not measure their success by the Principle of Perfect Bats-man-ship but prefer rather to express their natural, phenomenal artistic talent, they will soon find that the youthful vigor upon which they relied heavily to display their physical prowess with acute flexibility and quick reflexes will eventually diminish and inexplicable futility will abound.

Baseball is a complex game, whose primary component of “hitting a baseball” effectively is the most difficult thing to do in all of Sport.That is why I decided to write my third Book as a Novel. Perhaps, I thought, if I presented the essential ingredients for Baseball Batting Prowess in a format that would relax the reader into a mesmeric state of following the simple-life of a recognizable  “One-day Wonder” from birth to a 17 year old adult, the tantalizing experiences of youth might captivate a sports-oriented audience and elicit from readers who would aspire to “greatness” the motivation to “go and do likewise.”
(An excerpt from the final chapter of my Book comments on Greatness:
As I pondered the ramifications of greatness, I remembered Socrates reading a short essay by J. F. P. It read as follows:
Greatness is a humanly exaggerated or a spiritually magnified sense of being. To be extolled with greatness, one must step up above one’s peers, beyond the casualness of conformity, into the altitude of “Uniqueness,” wherein the atmosphere of Soul the inspiration of life a lesser man cannot inhale. The greatest man that ever walked the earth was once asked by his disciples, “Who is the greatest among us?” At one time, he told them that “. . . of a man born of a woman, none was greater than John the Baptist. Albeit, he that is least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he.” Later, he answered by taking a little child and placing him/her in their midst and saying, “. . . of such is the kingdom of heaven. He who would be greatest among you, let him humble himself and become as a little child.”)
The Book was meant to occupy the literary genre of Auto-Biographical Fiction, which means it is mostly a true story. But the author would have the reader presume, from the authentic continuum of sequential facts of historical significance, that all of the story could be true, if some notoriously implausible displays of athletic prowess were indeed possible. Thus, the author’s literary license to embellish the protagonist’s character with what could be referred to as a “Super-Human” Caricature – but only after my “Super-Hero” explored and discovered the functionable Principle and the Absolute means for impeccably applying IT! The reader should think – It would be nice if “this is possible”!

After not receiving the critical acclaim nor the Bookstore receipts that I expected for what I personally felt was a masterpiece not only in Baseball literary history, but also from the standpoint of accomplished Literature, I initially surmised that the only mistake I made in writing this Novel was that it took 415 pages to complete it. Then I realized that this Story could not have been told Perfectly without every word that embraced its content!
Even though the beginning chapters may have been of keen interest to the readers who were family and friends, the daunting task of proceeding through another 300 more pages to the concluding “Post-Script,“ when time may have been of the essence, might have dissuaded many from reconnecting to the adventure – especially those who might have found repugnant the author’s penchant for acquiescing to a newly discovered metaphysical disposition.
But, if the readers were reluctant or reticent in following the continuum of an evolutionary chain of physical and mental development of character or skipped ahead to chapters involving sports action more to their liking, they would not have totally understood how a mere mortal was transformed beyond “Super-star” status. The Process was integral!
Also, the fact that the Publisher over-priced the Book at $56.00 was probably a deterrent to those who might ordinarily be interested in what the Cover had displayed as a high prospect of content but were unwilling to spend exorbitantly on a relatively “unknown-author”! It will probably take the input from a prominent and famous person whose providential “guiding-angel” leads him to the opportunity to purview the contents of a book that will immediately register its validity as a worthwhile project to be enhanced to even greater heights of glory than originally presumed possible.

The initial and ultimate purpose of all three of my Books is to inform all “prospects” in pursuance of success in playing baseball that there is a Principle of which Its “simple-applications” will enhance individual skills to points corresponding to each person’s determination to excel. My third Book, as a Novel, illustrates the evolutionary passage from innocent but naïve childhood through painstaking mortal aspirations to the ultimate heroic-heights of Baseball and Athletic Glory via the Practice of Principle. The Book is tailor-made to become a Movie somewhat after the fashion of Marvel – Enterprises but giving audiences more hopeful ambitions to exceed mere affectations of “virtual-reality” for the concrete and tangible prospects of “Vibrational-Reality transcending to “Physical-Reality”! – Everyone could be his own Hero! As Mariah would conclude:
Lord knows
Dreams are hard to follow
But don’t let anyone
Tear them away
Hold on
There will be tomorrow
And then a hero comes along
And you’ll finally see the truth
That a hero lies in Me! 

Next: Continuation of my Book – Chapter 8 – Respite and Re-Evaluation!

 

CHAPTER 7
New Revelations

My flight to Detroit left Hobby Airport on time, at 10:00 am, and was scheduled to arrive at Detroit’s Metropolitan Airport at 2:30 pm, September 31.

I was anxious to see my family, especially my younger seven siblings. Tom, the older of my four brothers, was starting his senior year of high school. Bobby was beginning eighth grade at Transfiguration School. Mike was in fourth grade. And James was three years old and the only one not in school yet. Marilyn was in tenth grade at Saint Lads (after having spent a year in a convent); while Joan would have begun ninth grade at the Catholic convent in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Carole was in second grade at Transfiguration, along with Mike and Bobby.

Football season had started, and I was anxious to see Tom practice and play in games. Through a telephone conversation I had with Mom, she said Tom was playing “fullback/quarterback” this year on offence. He was a “safety” on defense. He was called upon to do most of the running as fullback. When a passing play was necessary, the ball was pitched to him, and he had the option of running or passing (just like me when I was at Saint Lads). But he had incurred a slight concussion in the last game and was not allowed to play in the one coming up this weekend.

I was disappointed to hear the news—both about Tom’s concussion and the fact that I might not be able to watch him play in a game. I would be reporting to Florida before the middle of October. Both Dad and Mom said he had been doing very well, running fast, hard, and over and through defenders. He now weighed over two hundred pounds. He was a power runner and never hesitated to make head-to-head contact with an opposing player, from fullback or his safety position on defense. The season was almost over, so I hoped he’d be OK to play in the last two games.

On the plane, while browsing through the reading material the airlines provided, a magazine whose cover featured a picture of a skeleton caught my eye. Next to the skeleton was a man wearing what I assumed was a doctor’s cloak, so I assumed he was a doctor. The caption read, “An Alternative to Medicine and Surgery.” That statement certainly caught my attention. The magazine included articles about the
work of individuals who were known as chiropractors. One of the articles spoke at length about the history of the Chiropractic Art.

In 1909, B. J. Palmer wrote that:
Chiropractic’s founder, D. D. Palmer, attempted to merge science and metaphysics.[2] In 1896, D. D. Palmer’s first descriptions and underlying philosophy of chiropractic was strikingly similar to the principles of osteopathy established a decade earlier. Both described the body as a “machine” whose parts could be manipulated to produce drugless and non-surgical cures. D. D. Palmer was a religious eclectic who viewed chiropractic as the culmination of his spiritual explorations. A self-styled “Spiritualist,” Palmer attributed chiropractic principles to spiritual “communications.” Palmer coined the term “chiropractic” in 1896, after asking a patient, the Presbyterian Reverend Samuel H. Weed, to suggest several Greek names. Combining the words cheir, hand, and praktos, done, chiropractic means “done by hand.” Just as palmists “read human destiny in nature’s imprint on each individual human hand,” chiropractors were spiritual visionaries who “read health or disease in the body structure of the spine. But unlike the “Palm-Reader” the Chiropractor could actually use his hands and do something constructive about a condition.
(The Bible’s reference to healing by the “laying on of hands” surely alerted me here!)

The plane landed before I could finish the article. Since there were other articles I wanted to read, I asked the stewardess if I could take the magazine with me. She said I could, so I folded it lengthwise and put it in the inside breast pocket of my trench coat as I exited the plane. Arriving at the baggage claim, I quickly grabbed a “carrier” upon which I could place my bags as I maneuvered my way toward the limousine service. After exiting the baggage area, I found a “limo” to take me home. The driver quickly unloaded the carrier, placing all bags into the trunk. He gently placed the last “small bag” and closed the trunk. It eventually dawned on me, while we were en route, that the “small bag” was not mine. I felt it was too late to say something at the time, so I said nothing. Instead, I went back to reading my “chiropractor” magazine:
Chiropractic has far-reaching implications for understanding the interconnectedness of scientific, metaphysical, and evangelical practices. As one of the many widely utilized forms of alternative medicine, chiropractic enjoys dual cultural citizenship.

From the perspective of many consumers, it shares the prestige of modem science while appealing to anti-modern longings for “natural,” spiritually pure remedies. As the chiropractic profession developed and fragmented after Palmer’s discovery, the label “chiropractic” proved remarkably malleable to evolving public discourses of medicine, metaphysics, and Christianity. In a bid for acceptance within the medical mainstream, spokespersons for the major chiropractic organizations developed promotional literature using scientific-sounding terminology that muted the religious overtones of chiropractic philosophy. Simultaneously, chiropractors who combined ideas derived from Palmerian metaphysics and conservative Christianity appealed to spiritually hungry seekers and pain-free motivated evangelical and Charismatic co-religionists.

Over more than half of this twentieth century, chiropractic spokespersons seeking a clientele adopted vocabularies that reconstituted what chiropractic’s founders had envisioned as a philosophical alternative to Christianity as a profession at once scientific, spiritual, and Christian. Those patients who worried about theological orthodoxy yet desired pain relief reclassified chiropractic as a legitimate, scientific complement to medicine and prayer for divine healing. In a culture in which pain has been emptied of positive religious meanings, the drive to avoid pain led many Americans to bring together their understandings of science, chiropractic, and Christianity so that they are experienced as complementary. Although Chiropractic began as a culturally marginal movement that rejected Christianity as well as modern medicine, by the 1960s it began being noticed by practical, conservative Christians who had come to view chiropractic as consonant with their spiritual and scientific views. This major cultural adjustment occurred because chiropractic practitioners are finding a clientele among Americans whose need for healing makes them receptive to chiropractic claims.

Good stuff, I thought. I hoped to find out more at some time.

Nostalgic Reawakening

When the limousine pulled up in front of my house at 4:00 pm, the neighborhood was quiet, but the customary line of parked cars alongside the curbs, on both sides of the street, provided no parking space for the driver to pull into. So he double-parked for a moment or two, to get my bags for me. (If we didn’t hurry, a line of cars would soon be backed up for at least half a block. The streets were so narrow that if cars were parked at the curb, with two cars coming from different directions, one would have to do a “courtesy slide” into an empty parking spot and wait for the oncoming car to pass before it could move on.)

Onto the sidewalk, in front of my house, the driver placed one big suitcase, a small canvas bag, and a large sports bag for my baseball equipment. The bag included two Wilson fielding mitts, two pair of cleats, woolen and cotton undergarments, a few baseballs, couple of hats, four pairs of sanitary socks, one pair of “handball gloves,” a set of golf gloves, a box of Topps baseball cards and bubble gum, as well as a small carton of Sen-Sen gum and mints.

(After signing an endorsement contract with Topps, “they” periodically supplied me with cards, gum, and other treats, as well as the initial few hundred-dollar signing bonus and a set of golf clubs that I gave to my dad.) There was also one thirty-five-inch, thirty-four-ounce M110 Louisville Slugger with my name inscribed on the barrel.

Dad and Mom came to the door, and my three-year-old “baby” brother James raced through the screen door, bounced down the stairs, and offered to carry something. I let him carry the “small bag” (of books). I thought he could carry that with a minimum of difficulty; he was very strong.

* * *

James (Jimbo, as he grew older) was quite precocious in many ways. I was a senior on my high school baseball team in the spring of 1962. All my relatives and sometimes professional baseball scouts would come out to see me show off my particular talents.

Our team often played its games on Jayne-Sandlot fields with three other adjacent fields back-to-back-to-back. Sometimes all fields were being used at the same time. Other times, only one field was in use. It became a common occurrence that, while my game was proceeding on field 1, my little brother, two-year-old James, would look forward to watching my game for a while. Then after moments of gaining inspiration and enthusiasm, he would run off to field 2, directly behind mine. And there he would stay for seven to nine innings, mimicking all the action he saw displayed on field 1—pretending to pitch the ball, then hitting the pretend ball, then running the (real) ninety-foot bases, sliding into second, third, and home bases. He would usually continue this exuberant activity for my entire game. And it wouldn’t be uncommon to observe the people in “our” stands looking over the guard railing onto the adjacent field, watching the antics of a remarkable young baseball prospect in the initial stages of his long baseball career.

* * *

We walked up the six steeply set front steps to the porch (every house on our block, and most other streets in the neighborhood, had fairly high steps, a front porch, and railings extending outwardly from the body of the house and traversing the entire area of the porch, widthwise to the house, rectangular in form). Beyond and below the railings were two patches of grass. The one on the left was an area eight square feet, while on the right side of the porch the area was about six square feet.

* * *

There was not much of a grassy area to keep manicured, but we all still complained about having to cut it with our push mower as we got older. And with all the wear and tear it took while we were trampling it during improvised games, it hardly seemed necessary to cut it at all. When I was about ten, I started using the porch and railing on the left as a springboard as I would mimic one of my “action heroes.” I would bound over it onto the grass six or seven feet below. After which I would sprint over curbs and tree stumps, and across Moenart, from in between parked cars, on my way to Lasky Field for a game of “something or other.” It was not uncommon for my hyperactive temperament to break the monotony of my six-block walk to and from school in the morning and afternoon by improvising an obstacle-type run. While zigzagging randomly and deliberately running full speed at parked cars and trees, to see how close I could come to them, I would then spin and/or cut away safely to the next obstacle, then to the next, until I reached home! Later, when I was making a name for myself in high school as a powerful and elusive running back, people would ask my dad or relatives how I got to be such a runner. They’d reply, “Don’t know—guess he’s just a natural!”

* * *

After a few smiles and compulsory hugs, we entered the “front room,” where I temporarily lay my bags while everyone congregated for a few moments. (Tom, Bobby, and Marilyn hadn’t come home from school yet, and Joan had been in a Pittsburgh Convent since graduating from eighth grade. Mike and Carole were home and had warm smiles to greet me after I climbed the steps to the porch.)

I was told that all the relatives, especially those who mentored me in some way throughout my young baseball life, would be coming by to see me. No doubt they wanted to congratulate me and praise my Sunday performance.

Uncle Frank, Auntie Annie and Uncle Zig, Aunt Margaret and Uncle Tony, Raymond Maliszewski, “Deedie” and Barbara Trulik, Uncle Steve and Aunt Rose all supported me in some way as I was growing up and were integral to my athletic development.

* * *

Uncle Frank was my dad’s older brother and a lifelong bachelor who for a good part of his life suffered from a “drinking problem.” Being the older boy in the family of seven children, he, along with Dad, took on the responsibilities, from an early age, of supporting their family since both of their parents were presently deceased.

Frank, like Dad, went to all my (our) games and always seemed available to drive me when Dad was unavailable. Being in a car driven by Uncle Frank was never a boring occurrence, although it could sometimes be a little too intense. His own perception saw himself as the only driver on the road who knew what he was doing. Ceaseless comments spewed from his lips, from the time we disembarked until we reached our destination. I know that Tommy and Bobby experienced the same ritual. We would compare notes and attest to the absurdities to which each of us had been exposed. But how would we ever have gotten to our games and other functions without the unceasing generosity of Uncle Frank.

Auntie Annie was the oldest child in my dad’s family, born before Frank, Rose, and Dad. She married Uncle Zig at an early age and was a great help in raising the younger sisters, Mary, Margaret, and Helen. As our family of kids were growing older, Annie was a source of our (especially my) income with which to purchase our frivolous “luxury” items like “cool-looking” clothes and the like.

Uncle Zig’s garage (repair shop) provided his family with all they needed for their modest comforts. And Auntie Annie was always willing to share with us. When Frank was not able to drive us places, Annie was our next “best bet.” Annie’s driving manner was not as vociferous, nor condemning, but if she and Frank were on the road at the same time, and in the same vicinity, I’m sure she would give him much justification for public scrutiny.

Aunt Margaret and Uncle Tony seemed somewhat out of place, to my perspective eyes. They always appeared to be in a happy mood. On weekends they were known to go out dancing and carry on in a somewhat frivolous manner. We didn’t see them much, but when I started to develop my athletic skills, they were at my games and supporting me in every way.

Raymond Maliszewski was the only child of Aunt Annie and Uncle Zig. He, along with Steve Tulik Jr. (Deedie), was born in the 1930s. When I first became aware of them, they seemed more like young uncles rather than older cousins. When I think of Ray, my first thought is about how funny he always seemed. He certainly took after his dad (Zig), for his “dry” wit—especially when he told a story, any story. Even young kids (like us) got the gist of his comedic encounters with life.

“Deed” (Steve Trulik Jr.) and his younger sister, Barbara, were the children of Aunt Rose and Uncle Steve (Sr.). Deed was born in the mid-1930s, so he was about ten years my senior. Apparently, there was a fond relationship between Deed and Ray and my dad, since both were born when Dad was still a teenager, born in 1916. Steve later told me and Tom that Dad took him everywhere. Steve and Ray bragged about what a great athlete “Johnny” was. Scouts, both baseball and football, were interested in him, but because of his family obligations, he could only participate in sports when he wasn’t working.

Deed was also funny and great to be around. His dad, Steve Sr., invested in a “tool and die” company (Tru—Tool & Die) and became very successful and known to us as the “richest” of our relatives.

Steve Sr. was a true outdoorsman. He hunted and fished and even went to Africa to shoot and kill “big game.” No one else in the family seemed to be interested in wild-game hunting because no one liked the idea of killing anything. However, we never turned down the ten pounds of “venison” Uncle Steve offered to us every time he returned from deer hunting.

When we got older (eight, nine, or ten), Deed would take us golfing on the weekends. Because of his lack of golfing skills, along with his comical demeanor and self-deprecation, he kept Tom and me in stitches the entire eighteen holes. Normally you’d think it to be safe when we were around the greens. But with Deed, it wasn’t uncommon for him to be twenty yards north of the green before his shot, then twenty yards south, or southwest, after the shot.

He told us that he and Dad went golfing on infrequent occasions (Dad was a good golfer). Steve once asked Dad for some advice.

“Johnny, what am I doing wrong?”

Dad apparently turned to him and stoically remarked, “Deed, you’re standing a little too close to the ball after you hit it.”

After we heard that story, and the many others he remembered about Dad, we (at least I) started gaining a different perspective on the man of whom I previously had little understanding and no relevant communication.

I think the actual point at which Dad and I stopped communicating, from any relevant standpoint other than baseball, was when I was in first or second grade. I came home one day and thought I’d share with him a funny joke someone told me.

I said, “A woman came into a department store holding her little dog whose name was Tits.” I started to chuckle a little, but Dad had a straight face.

I continued, “She walked over to a table that contained an assortment of balls.” I looked at Dad’s face, and he apparently was not catching on, so I felt confident I could get to the end before he figured it out.

“A man came over and asked if he could be of some assistance. The woman said, ‘Yes, would you please hold my Tits while I look at your balls?’”

By this time, I was cracking up, but as I looked up, Dad had turned and walked away. My laughter quickly stopped.

“Didn’t he get it?” I asked myself.

His shoulders slumped as he entered his bedroom and closed the door behind him. I heard a faint sound, so I hoped he wasn’t crying. Why didn’t he think that was funny? Since I didn’t know what to anticipate, I quickly but quietly left the house through the back door.)

Deed also was kind enough to drive us to games and other functions that Dad was not able to. Deed was particularly fun to be with when he was driving in his car. His comedic rendering of characters and situations, although sometimes bordering on reckless driving, always provided amusement during any journey.

Since he also had ridden in a car driven by Uncle Frank, we had the opportunity to experience the novelty of disparaging remarks and tendencies we hadn’t seen or heard before. Of course, they could have been simply Stevie’s comedic license coming into play. Those occasions were more fun! With Uncle Frank, we had to resist laughing out loud, or abruptly turn aside, for fear of engaging that same growling face that oncoming cars had to endure.

* * *

The relatives were coming at 6:00 pm, and they were bringing all the food, so all we had to do was relax and eat. When Tommy, Bobby, and Marilyn got home, they helped me carry my bags to the attic, after hugs and warm greetings. (I was pleasantly surprised to see how big Tom had gotten. When I was a senior and 210 pounds, he must have weighed about 130 pounds.)

After ascending the narrow stairway and traversing the length of the cluttered walkway to the bedroom, we planted the bags on the bed that Mom had prepared for me. We came back downstairs just in time to greet the first wave of visitors.

Uncle Frank lived with Aunt Margaret and Tony, so because of limited parking on the street, they came together in a car driven by Tony. Frank was relegated (for the first time I know of) to the back seat, a place from where I’m sure he would not hesitate making an inappropriate comment or two. Tony and Margaret’s eight-yearold son, Jimmy, came also and sat in the back with Frank.

All the visitors said they were bringing the delicious Polish entrees that everyone loved. Aunt Margaret brought “city chicken,” a personal favorite of mine. But I couldn’t remember having any in years. The chicken and veal strips were tied together and cooked and seasoned to perfection in the oven. Then they were placed on wooden skewers and eaten with hands as if each was a corn on a cob. I could hardly wait to get my hands on those delicious morsels. But we weren’t allowed to start “grabbing” until everyone and all the food were present.

Not long afterward, Aunt Rose came through the front room, carrying one of four salads that she was a specialist in preparing. Following close behind Rose were Steve (Sr.), Deed (Jr.), and Barbara, each toting one of the other three salads.

I couldn’t figure out where all the food would be placed, since our kitchen counter and table didn’t seem big enough for everything that was coming in. Marilyn and Mom found and unfolded a card table, and the problem seemed resolved.

I had asked, “Maybe if I started eating some of this food, perhaps that would help?”

Apparently, no one heard me, so I backed off to the other room.

Then I saw Aunt Annie coming through the front door carrying a large platter of an assortment of Polish delicacies: gawumpki, pierogi, and pigs in a blanket. Zig and son Raymond were followed by Ray’s wife, Joyce, and their son, Michael. (I would always remember Michael because when he was little, he liked hamburgers but always pronounced them hanger-burgers.)

They brought a couple of rolls of kielbasa (Polish sausage), one smoked and the other was “fresh.” There was certainly plenty of food for everyone. In fact, I was already planning how to use the leftovers in preparing the Polish version of “hunter’s stew.” It was a great meal that consisted of a potpourri of all those delicious meats and vegetables we will have eaten separately.

After everyone left, I felt a genuine sense of gratitude that I never fully appreciated before. I pondered the thought and feeling as I walked up the narrow, steep stairs to my attic bedroom.

Next: Chapter 8 – Respite and Re-Evaluation!

 

CHAPTER 6
Home: Sweet—Home?

It will be nice to be home (I thought apprehensively), although the living conditions at 13432 Moenart would not have the comfort and privacy I had grown accustomed to as an eighteen-year-old bachelor. Roaming the “world” for the past eight months, I enjoyed an uncommon freedom from the watchful eyes of caring and diligent Catholic parents. All my life (at least from third grade on), I felt an uneasy yearning to escape the fetters of parental supervision and the dogmatic practices of Catholicism.

I unconsciously appreciated the cloistered protection that both afforded, but I felt restricted with a lack of individual freedom. The parochial school discipline, exacted by the nuns who guided my questionable educational progress, carried with it moral and academic suspicions. And my own parents reinforced the common code of corporal punishment for “crimes” venial and mortal. Both adhered strictly to an “old-testament” admonition: “Spare the rod, and risk spoiling the child!”

The psychology of that era, and those preceding it, must have been to “burn down the barn to make sure you got rid of all the rats.” The “God of mercy” was conveniently lost sight of during trying times, like the “Inquisition” and child-rearing. And where exactly did Christian philosophy (dogma) begin adulterating Jesus’s practice of extolling highest virtue to children (Jesus’s request of those field hands not to tear out the weeds before the wheat grew to maturity surely rings true here).

I suppose there was some benefit, somewhere, in my parents’ adherence to strict Church doctrine. But a child under its absolute enforcement would be hard-pressed to commit his own life to its rigidity and merciless extraction. I can’t forget being slapped (on an almost daily basis) across the face or on back of the head by parents and teachers alike—for simple acts of omission or using language and tones of voice that didn’t sit right with the offended adult.

It was not uncommon for me to be “bludgeoned” at school by a teacher who would afterward send for one of my younger siblings and give him or her a note to give to my parents. When my dad got home from work, he would remorsefully yet without hesitation administer another ration of what came to be standard procedure in a typical day in the life of a certain young Catholic boy. But I also can recall that on many of those occasions, the supervising adults would grimace slightly and then apply what seemed the mandatory response to their religious obligation. I believe they thought it was their duty to do what they did. (I didn’t then, but I now feel sorry for them.)

When—and if—I ever have kids, I hope the “psychology of the day” will have instituted a more soothing means for reaching children, other than by “corporal punishment.” It doesn’t work! Especially if adults want to gain the genuine respect and appreciation of children and young adults that they proclaim to enlist—and not “spoil the child”!

My dad should have had sainthood bestowed on him, for all his self-sacrifice. The virtue he displayed while providing for his family of ten was truly commendable. (But nevertheless, because of the manner with which we related to each other, it wasn’t so much respect but rather fear that got my divided attention.) He worked from early adulthood on the assembly line at the Plymouth/Chrysler Plant on Mount Elliot Road, about two and half miles from where we lived. He didn’t always have a car to get to work, but he never missed a day of work. When he was ill, there were no “sick leave” and vacation days to recuperate. The health and welfare of his family were too important to miss work for any reason. I remember him walking the distance on repeated occasions in blistering, snowy conditions because the car wasn’t functional and no bus routes were available to him.

He always made sure that there was always enough good food available for Mom to prepare at mealtimes. At those harder times when we were “on Welfare,” none of us kids wanted to go with him to pick up the groceries with “food stamps” (for fear of being seen by someone we knew). I also remember seeing him waiting until the entire family finished a tasty, nutritious dinner before he sat down and finished what was left—even if they were merely the scraps from off the plates we had left behind.

He could hardly afford it, but he made sure that his children had a good Catholic school education. For some reason, he didn’t want to send us to public school, even though it was free! Transfiguration was a prosperous Polish Catholic elementary school six blocks east of Moenart, on Syracuse Street. I think the church gave us a discount, since I recall Dad doing things for “them” in his “spare time.”

White School was the public elementary school—right down the street from us on Moenart, on the south side of Luce, not even a quarter of a mile away from our house. (I sometimes wished I was going there. Then I wouldn’t be forced to learn the Polish language, which most of the kids felt was meaningless, inferior, and difficult— especially for poor students who weren’t even Polish.)

One of the many things that we—kids (at least to my personal recollection)— didn’t fully appreciate at the time was the amount of effort Dad (Mom as well) spent on seemingly trivial things concerning us rather than focusing on his own personal needs. I can still picture me and my siblings kneeling down in the living room and
saying aloud our evening prayers before we could go to sleep. Dad wanted to make sure we all knew the words and said them with conviction. From what I remember as a considerably long time, we said them together.

Eventually, he had the notion that we might learn them in Polish as well as English. The attempt was futile, since we could barely say them in English, and that was only if we said them a hundred miles per hour, remembering the rhythm.

We always started off our litany with eyes closed, in solemn reverence to the “sign of the cross.”

“In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost,” as we uniformly performed the action with the right hand, from head to heart, to left shoulder, to right shoulder.

Immediately after, we would recite the Lord’s Prayer (Our Father, who art in heaven . . .), followed by the “Hail Mary” (Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee . . .).

In Polish, it would read, “W imie Ojca I Syna I Ducha Swietego.” The Lord’s Prayer followed, “Ojcze nasz, którys jest w Niebie, swiec sie Imie Twoje . . .” And the Hail Mary, “Zdrowas Mario, laskis pelna . . .”!

Since I was the oldest, the initiating of this common ritual naturally fell upon me. Everything proceeded well, over the months that we participated in the nightly regimen. But if you can imagine the monotony that set in after weeks and weeks of this religious banter, you might wonder if something (anything) might have occurred that would have broken the monotonous stream of rhythmic cadence.

One evening, at a moment when the proceedings were to begin, and we were settling into our kneeling positions, I somehow preemptively—and apparently unconsciously—began the “sign of the cross” with a somewhat emphatic recitation of the numbers: 1, 2, 3 . . . But before I could finish “3,” Tom and Marilyn had busted out laughing, and I became deliriously conscious of the fact that I might soon be the recipient of a hard slap across the back of my head or face.

As it “miraculously” turned out, while my neck and shoulders were cowering to the right and away from where I presumed the blow would be coming, the eyes of my twisting head caught sight of what appeared to be a slight, momentary chuckle projected from the contorted lips of both my parents. It didn’t mean I wasn’t still going to be nailed, but it did offer at least a temporary reprieve from any retribution for an obviously sacrilegious, desecrating impropriety of scandalous proportion.

After a few moments for all to regain the proper composure to continue, the prayers were concluded, and we all retired to what would be a “good night’s sleep”— all things considered. To what could I attribute such a heartfelt impulse of “forgiveness”? The gesture was hardly used in conjunction with disciplining children or students. So I must have unconsciously chalked it up to a previously unknown fact that, occasionally, “God has a sense of humor.”

As the days, weeks, and months passed, the ritual stopped. And we were permitted to say the evening prayers in the semiprivacy of our own bedrooms, of which there were three. Dad and Mom had one; Marilyn and Joan shared one; and Tom and I shared the other. When Bobby, Mike, Carole, and Jimbo came along, the comfort level was considerably strained with some inconvenient adaptations.

Dad could be observed as a model of virtue, mostly by others, but sometimes even by me. I would hear relatives make mention of times—in the not-so-recent history—when Dad’s generosity secured some relative’s successful venture. It ultimately provided him and his family a well-established means of financial security.

Uncle Zig and Auntie Annie lived a comfortable life, largely due to Dad’s generous loan at a time when he was the only one working. He carried the burden of assisting much of his extended family. Those recipients of his initial generosity never forgot his unselfish gestures and always made sure our family of ten was never without the “necessities” of life. And on special occasions, even a luxury or two!

His virtue extended in ways I could hardly understand, especially at a time when our family was on “Welfare.” Somehow it was evident that my eight-year-old mentality didn’t quite grasp how honesty was the best policy. When opportunities arose and a quick gain could be made if only I would deny the “honesty factor,” I would hardly abide with a policy to which my dad was a strict adherent.

One cold winter evening, my dad was putting on his boots, which five minutes earlier he had taken off after shoveling the snow from off the walkway in front of our house. He had planned to spend the rest of his evening relaxing before going to bed. I thought it odd because there seemed no legitimate reason for such action. Plus, he had to get up earlier than usual the following morning, to walk to work since the family car was at Uncle Zig’s Garage being repaired.

He had been out earlier that afternoon, walking half a mile through the snow to Bazaar’s Confectionary. He usually purchased his pack of cigarettes there, on Sundays, since nearer neighborhood stores were closed.

(In 1953, it had not yet been established that cigarette smoking could be hazardous to health. In fact, it was encouraged to promote good healthy living. As an eight-year-old, I tried it once. But when told by friends to inhale, I almost gagged in pain and never tried it again. And at seventeen cents a pack, even my dad could afford it. I can remember that he sometimes sent me, an eight-year-old, during the week to Bloom grocery—the first street east of Moenart—with a quarter to buy him a pack of Camels. I would sprint from our backyard, through the alley, and be back in less than three minutes, with the Camels and eight cents change. Once, in a while, he’d let me keep a penny to buy a thimble of pumpkin seeds.)

It was later that evening, while counting the money he had in his pants pocket, he noticed a discrepancy in the amount that was there. When he initially left home and traversed the snowy terrain between our house and “Bazaar’s,” he had a $10 bill. But when he perused the contents of his pocket afterward, he counted $19.82, nine
teen dollars and eighty-two cents. (Bazaar’s charged one penny more than the other stores for cigs.)

The store attendant gave Dad $10 too much change. To my way of thinking, Dad just made a $10 profit on his cigarette deal. So I was more than a little annoyed when Mom told me he was on his way back to the store to return the extra money. I couldn’t believe it! Who else would do that? I knew I wouldn’t. If I had an extra ten bucks, I’d be in heaven. At least temporarily! Obviously, I had not yet attained any apprehension of the “metaphysical” dimension of life. By the way, the attendant gave Dad a free pack of cigarettes for his trouble.

(I guess his “honesty” paid off when the true facts about smoking came out a few years later. Dad quit “cold turkey” and never had a problem with his lungs or his breathing before his death in 2004.)

Next: Chapter 7 – New Revelations!

 

CHAPTER 5
Postgame Highlights

It was approximately 6:30 pm on Sunday, September 29, 1963. I had just recently returned to my room at the Surrey House Motor Hotel, a quaint and comfortable but less-than-luxurious accommodation provided by the Houston Colt .45s Baseball Organization. The final game of the 1963 season ended a few hours earlier. We had beaten the New York Mets, 13–4. It was the only game that year that the Colts had scored in double figures. I was particularly happy because I had the good fortune to play in my first Major-League baseball game. I did pretty well. I was up five times. I got three hits (all singles). I got three RBI and scored four times. I also walked twice. I made a few plays in the outfield without an error. It was exciting and fun! I was eighteen years old!

After I turned on the TV to watch the sports news, I ordered dinner from the hotel room service. My usual order was normally a couple of steaks or a few large cheeseburgers, with baked potatoes or fries, and maybe a salad. A large, thick malted milkshake was a customary drink, along with a Pepsi or Coke. While waiting for my dinner to arrive, Guy Savage came on the TV broadcast to deliver the news in sports. Almost immediately, he reiterated the game highlights, proclaiming the Colts’ greatest victory in the season’s finale. The two cellar dwellers were battling in “last place.” But the .45s were just too overpowering for the New York Mets, overwhelming their hapless opponents 13–4.

“It was the first time this season that the Colt .45s were able to get into double figures, thanks, in large part, to the extraordinary performance of young rookie outfielder, John Paciorek.”

(I couldn’t remember any special, congratulatory fanfare given to me by fellow players anytime after the game, either in the clubhouse or during transportation back to the Surrey House with those who were also staying there—just the traditional, obligatory “Nice game” salutation and “See you at spring training.” So I didn’t think my performance bore any great significance to any immediate or future reflection on the game.)

When my name was mentioned with such enthusiasm, my mouth gaped open while chill bumps circulated over my body. I felt an enormous sense of pride as well
as wonderment and awe about the way he described my seemingly auspicious accomplishment. He reminded me and other TV viewers that I had ended the 1963 season with a “perfect” batting average, 1.000. My on-base percentage was also 1.000, for five at bats. I drove in three runs. And I scored four times. And my fielding percentage was also 1.000, flawless in four opportunities. In concluding his commentary, Mr. Savage noted that he, as well as the entire Colt .45 Organization, was looking forward to the brilliant future that was surely in store for this phenomenal rookie and for the Organization itself.

My food had arrived, but I barely heard the knock by the room service attendant. So many joyous thoughts raced in my mind, along with nebulous feelings of uncertainty. I awakened from my “dream state” by the sound at the door.

As I signed for the food tab, I heard Guy mention, “In other sports news, Stan Musial announced his retirement after twenty-two years in the big leagues. He ended his career on the high note of another two-hit performance.”

I thought it odd that my performance (by an eighteen-year-old rookie) would receive greater press coverage than Stan “The Man” Musial. (I later found out that on the national level, Stan got the fuller coverage while my performance on most broadcasts didn’t receive any mention at all.)

Nothing could normally disrupt my mealtime regimen, especially when two medium—well, Porterhouse—steaks were waiting to be devoured. And it wasn’t! But I couldn’t exactly give my undivided attention to the scrumptious delicacies on the coffee table in front of me when one other pressing issue lay before me.

How in this world was I going to live up to this exaggerated moment of glory? It was thrust into my experience during one game in which I really wasn’t even prescheduled to play. And an even more “mind-bending” dilemma was predicated on whether or not my back would allow me to sustain another season, or even another day, of performing on a baseball field. My standard for play was 100 percent or nothing. If I couldn’t be 100 percent, how could I play to my maximum efficiency?

(Although frantic thoughts seemed evident on the surface, deep within me I did harbor hope and reason to believe and expect that I would be able to play again. It seemed that I was born to play!)

It was my first taste of “professional fan adulation,” and I liked the way it made me feel, even for the moment. Countless thoughts were randomly being processed through my brain, but in a manner so haphazard that I could find no consolation from ideas trying to address them. Yeah! I was a good athlete, and I always felt that I belonged in the “big leagues.” But with my limited professional experience, I hadn’t given any solid evidence that I belonged. Sure, I just went 3 for 3, three RBI, scored four runs, and walked twice, but I did not tear the cover off the ball. In fact, I felt that I was pretty lucky. Every circumstance provided me with opportunities the other players would have hoped for. I just happened to be the one with the “magic wand.” I couldn’t help but feel that someone or something must have been choreographing my “excellent day.”

“How could I do what I did and not make a single mistake? Perfect!”

In the morning, I had picked up the paper (Houston Post) at the Surrey House before my taxi took me to the doctor’s office. After I found the sports section, the front page boasted a headline that proclaimed a tremendous victory for the Colts that reissued a last-place finish for the Mets. There were lots of pictures— picture of me rounding third-base, with a caption, “John Paciorek scoring one of his four runs in the Colts’ romp over the hapless New Yorkers.” 

The bumpy traveling conditions prevented me from reading, so it wasn’t until I arrived at the doctor’s office that I perused the article. The writer elaborated on the details of my first-game exploits and ended the article with the not-so-obvious conclusion that conferred upon John Paciorek “the unofficial Major-League batting title.” While in the waiting room, a current New York Times newspaper was left on the table, and I found the following statements in one of the sports articles: “Paciorek found nothing difficult about the majors,” and “He doesn’t yet know what it’s like to make an out in the big leagues.”

The Organization had arranged flights home for all the players, and my plane was leaving for Detroit from Houston’s Hobby Airport at 10:00 am on Tuesday, September 31. This would be my final checkup by the doctors. Some of us were going home for the winter, for rest and “self-evaluation,” while others would again be going to fall—“Instructional Ball,” like I did the previous year.

At the last moment, the Organization asked if I would like to go to a fall league in Florida and play on a team that had Colt .45 players as well as players from the Boston Red Sox. I half-wondered why “they” asked me to go, but I told them I would love it. The doctors said that perhaps I wouldn’t need an operation if I could strengthen my abdominal and back muscles enough to stabilize the lumbar area of my (lower) back. So of course, I intended to follow the prescribed exercise program for strengthening those muscles in my own particularly over-ambitious manner. But would that be enough?

Next: Chapter 6 – Home: Sweet – Home?