AUBURN ― Like any kid, I truly believed all my sports legends lived forever. All great athletes were immune to old age and death. Wrinkles and senility are for the rest of us, but icons like Joe DiMaggio, Ted Williams, Carl Yastrzemski and Bobby Orr are immortal, so I thought.
I was six years old when George Scott made his debut at Fenway Park for the Boston Red Sox in 1966. He was a big bastard with a wide, friendly smile, and one helluva of an All-Star first baseman. He was known to fans as The Boomer, and boy could he knock the ball around the diamond. I loved watching him perform during an unforgettable era when Curt Gowdy, Ken Coleman, Mel Parnell and Ned Martin called the games on the radio as listeners were bombarded by Narragansett beer commercials.
"Hey, neighbor, have a 'Gansett," blared all over the a.m. dial as Coleman gave me play-by-play descriptions of Red Sox games on my transistor radio.
Scott was my Big Papi during my childhood, and I marveled at his hitting power and his gold-glove performances
In 1980, I was visiting with a family in Yarmouth, Mass. I worked with a fellow bartender at Logan Airport.
When he invited me to Cape Cod, I just couldn't say no to a weekend in paradise. A trip to the Cape with a free-room-and-board offer during the summer was like having box seats along the third-base line at Fenway. We made the rounds at several local establishments at night and enjoyed the company of beautiful women. But during the day, my bartender friend decided to take his frustrations out at one of the local batting cages. My friend spent a hot summer's day murdering the ball with a 36-inch, wooden bat.
Watching my friend, who had the nerve stare down those mechanical fast balls, was entertaining. But to the left of us, we noticed a big man who was tearing the cover off the hard ball. Out stepped Scott from one of cages, sweat dripping from his brow.
We introduced ourselves and found an empty bench in the hot sun to talk about hitting and baseball. Scott was about 40 years old, but time and age did not diminish his swing or power. He certainly had no problem holding his own against a robotic pitcher.
Of course, the conversation was all about America's pastime. Spending a hot day in the batting cage for Scott was a treat for him. The first baseman discussed the science of hitting and what it takes to face pitchers whose fast balls could take skin off your forearms. Scott is the kind of guy you want to buy a drink and then spend the next hour talking about baseball.
The game was his life and the sport was good to him, and he never forgot that. He played in the majors for 13 years and retired in 1979 at the age of 35. He also played for the Yankees and Royals and won eight Gold Gloves. He was a member of 1967 "Impossible Dream" team that thrilled this seven-year-old Sox fan when Boston won the American League pennant.
If the gentle giant could have defied old age, he would have played baseball for all eternity.
George Scott, a genuine human being who thrilled Fenway's Faithful, died last Sunday at 69.
It was privilege meeting The Boomer, and we were all lucky to watch one of baseball's finest perform in a Red Sox uniform.
Scott's booming presence on the diamond made a lasting impression on me as a child and as an adult.
So long big fella. You were one of the best.
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