Great Scott, The Boomer is gone, and a Sox fan laments

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.

Take me back to the ball game

"You always get a special kick on opening day, no matter how many you go through. You look forward to it like a birthday party when you're a kid. You think something wonderful is going to happen."

- Joe Dimaggio

     AUBURN, Maine — Whoever thought a short story  about one spectacular moment in Red Sox history could resurrect a dormant memory about my deceased mother's past.

      The fond memory had been shoved aside to make room for the daily deluge of life's experiences that cram my crowded brain.

Songs, smells and certainly pictures of the past can also pry memories loose. Strolling the isles of an indoor flea market sends me down memory lane, too. All it takes is a rotary phone or an old Philco radio to trigger recollections of family members who have passed away.

This book, "Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu," has now become a treasured possession. It was graciously given to me by my sister, Brenda, a year ago. 

The article detailing Ted Williams' last at-bat at Fenway Park on Sept. 28, 1960 was written by the late Pulitzer-prize winning author John Updike, and it first appeared in "The New Yorker" on Oct. 20, 1960. The 52-year-old magazine piece was turned into a book and published in 2010.

Updike writes about his fascination with baseball and Williams, who was also endearingly known as "The Splendid Splinter" and "Teddy Ballgame." It is indeed a splendid book about Williams' last hurrah at Friendly Fenway.

The storied moment, when Williams smacked his 521st home run in last at-bat in his 19-year career, is still talked about by the Fenway Faithful.

Decades later, my mother mentioned Williams' parting shot in passing at the kitchen table. She told the tale with a wide smile. I have spent hours in the kitchen listening to my mother's stories about her childhood and marriage to my father. My dad, on the other hand, left the storytelling to my mom, and she could spin a good yarn.

      

What I forgot was that my mother was THERE when The Splendid Splinter cracked one out of the park and into the record books. 

I know baseball fanatics who would trade their homes — or their wives for that matter — to witness Williams make his final round trip around the diamond. I know I am romanticizing this extraordinary moment in Major League Baseball's history. It is like watching "The Natural" all over again, and Williams is my parents' Roy Hobbs.

I was rolling around in a crib when my mother and father witnessed history on a cloudy September day in Boston over five decades ago.  My dad, whose memory is disappearing as Alzheimer's gets the upper hand, doesn't remember who babysat me. My mother was our living reference. When we had questions about our family's history, she was the go-to person until she passed away two years ago on a warm March Monday.

I cling to this memory of my parents catching a glimpse of Williams' final performance at Fenway Park. I need to hold on to those memories of my mother since I can no longer hold on to her in this life. I remember when she spoke about Williams and his home run. She just smiled as her eyes lit up the dinner table.

Williams' Fenway farewell in September 1960 is just another opportunity to remember my mother and keep her close to my heart.

But if Ray Kinsella could grant me one baseball wish, I would ask the Iowa farmer to find me a seat at Fenway on that September day to see — my parents together again as they watched Williams hammer out a piece of Red Sox history.