The Boy Who Knew Too Much

by Cathy Byrd

  My online search for a photo of Lou Gehrig with his baby sister was a complete bust. Unearthing this photo, if such a photo existed, became my new obsession. I sensed how important it had been to Christina Gehrig to get a photo of the two of them together, even though she couldn’t afford it. I added searching for the photo to my list of things to do in New York. Surely if such a photo existed, it would be somewhere within the archives of the National Baseball Hall of Fame Library.

  Shortly before our trip to New York, I finally mustered up the courage to tell Michael about my past-life regressions with Jeroen. As I predicted, he wasn’t nearly as fascinated with my findings as I was and thought the whole thing was very odd. I didn’t really blame him; he was right. The night before my big trip to New York with the kids, Michael and I watched the movie The Pride of the Yankees, a 1942 classic depicting Lou Gehrig’s life story and starring Gary Cooper. In the movie, Lou’s mother was portrayed as a stern, overbearing German woman with no sense of humor. This was a stark contrast to the kindhearted—and sometimes funny—mother who had surfaced in my regressions.

  I sat in disbelief when the movie portrayed Lou Gehrig prior to his retirement from the Yankees, receiving the news that he had very little time to live. This was in direct conflict with the very sure feeling I’d had that he would be okay while speaking in the first person as his mother.

  “I’m positive that Lou Gehrig’s mother had no idea that his illness was life threatening up until the moment of his death,” I told Michael.

  I’m sure he thought I had completely lost my mind when I pressed Rewind to watch the scene again, and emphatically argued, “There is no way that Lou knew he was going to die before he gave his ‘Luckiest Man’ speech!”

  As crazy as it was, I couldn’t let go of my intuitive feeling that the information that had surfaced through my past-life regression was correct and the movie was wrong.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  BASEBALL HEAVEN

  “Progress always involves risks. You can’t steal

  second base and keep your foot on first.”

  FREDERICK B. WILCOX

  A few days before our big trip to New York in July 2014, a segment featuring Christian aired on FOX Sports as the opening of the MLB All-Star Game Pregame Show.

  The five-minute segment, which had taken nearly five hours to film, featured Christian playing baseball and talking about his dream of being an All-Star in the Major Leagues. The footage of him pitching, hitting, sliding, catching, and sitting in the dugout was interspersed with video highlights of actual MLB All-Star players from over the years. At the conclusion of the segment, the on-air commentator said, “That was five-year-old Christian Haupt. We may be seeing him someday at the All-Star Game.”

  Christian’s sixth birthday was one month away and, just as Dr. Tucker had predicted, the memories he had freely shared with us for the past three years seemed to be evaporating like morning dew. I hoped that I hadn’t waited too long to make this trip to show him the significant landmarks from Lou Gehrig’s life. When he learned that our accommodations would be a small plywood cabin with no plumbing at a baseball camp near the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York, Michael decided to stay home and take care of our dogs. I think it was hearing about the 25-cent showers and potential creepy crawlers that cemented his decision to forego the trip.

  In the weeks leading up to our trip, I used my Realtor skills to locate the names of the owners of the two homes that Lou Gehrig had lived in that were still standing. The first home I hoped to visit was located at 9 Meadow Lane in New Rochelle, New York. Lou had purchased this home for his parents in 1927 after signing his first big contract with the Yankees. The property profile revealed that the home was now owned by a man named Jimmy with a long Italian last name. The second was a home in Riverdale, where Lou lived with his wife, Eleanor, for the last two years of his life. I mailed letters to the respective owners, describing Christian’s past-life memories and our intent to visit. I hoped the two current owners of the homes wouldn’t slam the doors in our faces when we showed up at their doorsteps.

  My last item of business in preparation for our trip was contacting the executives at the National Baseball Hall of Fame to ask for permission to access the Gehrig family’s private documents and scrapbooks. I was on a mission to find a childhood photo of Lou Gehrig and his baby sister, and also on the hunt for any other clues that would validate or debunk Christian’s past-life memories and my past-life regressions.

  Our connecting flight from Chicago to the Albany International Airport was filled with people decked out in baseball attire, and Christian was excited when a nice man seated next to us offered to let him try on his Saint Louis Cardinals World Series ring. We were arriving on the eve of the annual National Baseball Hall of Fame induction weekend, a time when the most celebrated names in baseball history convene in Cooperstown. Ironically 2014 was not only the 75th anniversary of the first induction ceremony at the National Baseball Hall of Fame but it was also the 75th anniversary of the day Lou Gehrig had heartbreakingly said good-bye to baseball with his iconic “Luckiest Man” speech at Yankee Stadium in front of 61,808 fans.

  I found it ironic that even though Lou Gehrig was voted into the Hall of Fame while he was still alive, his formal induction ceremony did not take place until 2013. The 2014 Hall of Fame inductees would be Greg Maddux, Tom Glavine, Frank Thomas, and managers Joe Torre, Bobby Cox, and Tony La Russa. Our pal Tommy Lasorda had been making this trip to Cooperstown annually ever since being inducted into the Hall of Fame himself in 1997, but this year was extra special for him because his dear friend Joe Torre was going to be inducted.

  After a one-night hotel stay in Albany, our last sleeping quarters with running water for the next week, Charlotte, Christian, and I embarked on our journey to America’s baseball mecca. President Barack Obama’s sojourn to Cooperstown two months prior to our arrival was the first time in history that a sitting president had ever visited the National Baseball Hall of Fame Museum. President Obama’s sentiments while visiting Cooperstown were, “So I love baseball; America loves baseball. It continues to be our national pastime. And for any baseball fan out there, you’ve got to make a trip here.”

  Our Cooperstown trip was not inspired by the president, but by youth baseball coach Ali Cepeda. During the fall and winter months, Christian had played on a travel baseball team called the Cepeda Bulls, named after Hall of Fame baseball player (and Ali Cepeda’s father) Orlando Cepeda. Ali Cepeda and his brother Malcolm, both of whom were also outstanding baseball players in their own rights, had been running a two-week overnight baseball camp at Cooperstown Beaver Valley Campground for the past few years to coincide with the National Baseball Hall of Fame induction weekend, where their father Orlando was honored every July.

  Orlando Cepeda had come from Puerto Rico to play 16 seasons in the Majors, most prominently as a power-hitting first baseman with the Giants. Orlando’s father, Pedro “Perucho” Cepeda, had earned the titles of “Babe Ruth of the Caribbean” and “The Bull,” so when Orlando followed in his father’s footsteps, he was affectionately referred to as “The Baby Bull.” As of 2014 Orlando held the distinction of being the only Puerto Rican, besides Roberto Clemente, to ever be inducted into the National Baseball Hall of Fame.

  I had booked our trip months in advance, after reading about the camp on the Cepeda Baseball website. It struck me as the perfect opportunity to take Christian to New York, as Dr. Tucker had suggested. The weekly rate for our tiny cabin in the woods was $350, a small price to pay at this time of year when a single night at a Cooperstown motel runs upwards of $350. On the day that we arrived, nearly 50,000 people had flocked to this provincial town to honor 58 of the 72 living National Baseball Hall of Fame members who would be present at the induction ceremony.

  Google Maps took me right to the center of town, where we were greeted by a spectacular view of Otsego Lake, surrounded by lush green landscape as far as the eye could see. Th
e Native Americans are said to have called the breathtaking lake “O-te-sa-ga,” and James Fenimore Cooper called it “The Glimmerglass.” Charlotte and Christian rolled down the windows of our rental car as we approached the marina, eager to explore. After skipping a few stones on the lake, our first stop would be lunch with Tommy Lasorda. We made our way onto Main Street, an experience reminiscent of stepping into a Norman Rockwell painting from the 1950s. We swam upstream through the sea of baseball fans in search of the only authentic Italian restaurant in town where we knew we would find Uncle Tommy.

  Tommy Lasorda and Christian had developed a special bond that was palpable when they were together. At the restaurant, after Tommy and Christian exchanged a hug with mutual admiration, Tommy noticed Charlotte had a serious look on her face. He reached out and pulled her into the warmth of his big bear hug as he said, “You’re such a beautiful girl, but we can’t see it without a smile on your face.” Following that warmhearted gesture, Charlotte managed to eke out a smile, and I remembered why I loved this man so much.

  At nearly 87 years old, Tommy was still the hardest working man in baseball. The wedding ring on his arthritic left hand symbolized 60 years of marriage to his wife, Jo. Like Lou Gehrig, Tommy pitched and batted lefty, but was taught to write with his right hand, which was socially encouraged at the time. Today at lunch his right hand was working overtime as he signed his name over and over again on 8½ x 11-inch sheets of stickers embossed with 15 miniature baseballs per sheet. In between signing his name multiple times, he would take a sip of his red wine, a testament to his Italian heritage. When he finally took a break from signing to eat his pasta and salad, he said to his team of handlers seated at the table with us, “You wanna fix Little League baseball? Let the moms coach.” He then told us that his love and respect for mothers comes from his love for his own mother, Carmella Lasorda, a warm and gracious Italian mother who’d always had something cooking on the stove and words of encouragement for her five boys.

  Our next stop was Doubleday Field in the heart of Cooperstown, where famed baseball writer Roger Angell would be receiving the J. G. Taylor Spink Award for “meritorious contributions in baseball writing.” At 93 years old, Roger Angell was a graceful master of prose for The New Yorker for five decades and counting. In a tribute to the great game of baseball, Angell said, “My gratitude always goes back to baseball itself, which turned out to be so familiar and so startling, so spacious and exacting. So easy-looking and so heartbreakingly difficult that it filled up my notebooks and the seasons in a rush. A pastime, indeed.”

  In his acceptance speech, Angell credited his mother, Katharine Sergeant Angell White, who was the first fiction editor at The New Yorker, and his stepfather, E. B. White, who authored Charlotte’s Web and The Elements of Style, for introducing him to the literary world. Not quite understanding the significance of the award, my kids managed to patiently and quietly sit through the speeches. One of the highlights was getting to meet an amiable 96-year-old man by the name of Homer Osterhoudt, who had not missed a Hall of Fame induction ceremony since the first one he had attended in 1939.

  After loading up on groceries and a few essential items for our baseball camp in the woods, we headed out of town and into the hills to find the campground that would be our home for the next five days. By the time we arrived, it was dark, raining, and very cold. I was starting to think Michael may have been wise in his choice to sit this one out. Wearing our newly purchased rain ponchos, we found our way to the communal restrooms, and then hunkered down in our sparsely appointed home away from home.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE PRIDE OF THE YANKEES

  “The important thing is not to stop questioning.

  Curiosity has its own reason for existing.”

  ALBERT EINSTEIN

  I peeked out the front door of our cabin shortly after sunrise the next morning and was overwhelmed by the beauty of the place that had felt daunting and mysterious the night before. About 50 yards from our doorstep was a baseball field right out of the movie Field of Dreams, framed by a baby-blue sky, white clouds, and rolling hills, thick with trees that we see in California only at higher elevations. After thoroughly enjoying our 25-cent showers, Charlotte, Christian, and I made our way to the cafeteria to greet our hosts. I walked up behind a man who I thought was my friend Ali Cepeda decked out in San Francisco Giants gear, but when he turned around, I was greeted by an unfamiliar, yet familiar face. It turned out to be Ali’s brother Malcolm Cepeda.

  After a quick introduction, Malcolm treated me to some family folklore. He shared a personal story of how his father, Orlando Cepeda, had been scheduled to fly to Nicaragua to deliver aid to earthquake victims on the same flight that took the life of the legendary Latin American baseball player Roberto Clemente on December 31, 1972. Malcolm told me how fate had intervened when his father decided not to take the flight because he didn’t want to leave his one-month-old baby boy (Malcolm) at home. Thankfully Orlando chose to stay home with his family, and four years later, his son Ali was born. Following the tragic death of Roberto Clemente in 1972, Orlando went on to become an All-Star slugger who ranked among the top hitters of all time.

  Ali and Malcolm have dedicated their adult lives to preserving their father’s legacy through the family’s nonprofit youth baseball organization, Cepeda Baseball. The first time I ever met Ali, he said, “I believe baseball is the reason why I was put on this Earth.” He told me that nothing pleases him more than the opportunity to share his knowledge and passion for the sport with kids who have an equal love of the game. Christian was elated to wake up to Wiffle ball games every morning, followed by seven hours of baseball camp. While he was having the time of his life playing baseball with the Cepedas and their staff of collegiate coaches, I spent each day scouring the archives of the Giamatti Research Center at the nearby National Baseball Hall of Fame with Charlotte at my side. She was happy to play games on her computer for hours on end while I looked through piles of legal documents, scrapbooks, and newspaper articles on Lou Gehrig, many of which had been donated to the museum by Lou Gehrig’s mother and wife. Each day the very helpful manager of the Giamatti Research Center would bring down a large cart filled with boxes containing the documents I had requested prior to my trip. The nearly 100-year-old documents were normally kept in a climate-controlled storage area in the Hall of Fame archives, and many of them had to be handled with white gloves due to their fragility. I was guessing this was the first time they had been out of the vault in many years.

  My first interesting discovery was information contained in private legal documents donated by Eleanor Gehrig that pointed to an ongoing feud between herself and Lou’s parents, Henry and Christina Gehrig. Via their respective attorneys, Lou’s wife and parents had argued about everything from where Lou Gehrig’s final resting place should be to whether or not Lou’s parents were the rightful beneficiaries of a life insurance policy he had purchased for them. In the file was a letter to Eleanor from her own attorney, outlining a plan to have the Gehrigs removed as beneficiaries. The letter read:

  Mom Gehrig is a German subject and whatever money she may have on deposit may be frozen.

  I subsequently found a legal document stating that Eleanor Gehrig was ultimately successful in having Henry and Christina Gehrig’s rights to Lou’s life insurance payout revoked by proving that the Gehrigs were still German citizens. I hadn’t been a fan of Eleanor Gehrig before finding this information, but now, her treatment of Lou Gehrig’s parents struck me as downright cruel.

  Another letter I came across stated that the only money Eleanor ever gave the Gehrigs from their son’s estate was $5.00 to purchase the death certificate for Lou’s father upon his passing. I found it strange that the receipt for payment of the $5.00 for the death certificate had been donated to the National Baseball Hall of Fame by Eleanor Gehrig. The fact that Eleanor was so willing to air her dirty laundry by donating these documents led me to believe she must have been proud of her actions.
I was saddened by my discoveries and was starting to dislike Lou Gehrig’s wife more and more with each passing day. She wasn’t just a “funny lady,” as I had declared during my regression; she was heartless.

  Of all the documents I came across during my fact-finding mission at the National Baseball Hall of Fame Library, the golden nugget was a typed letter from the mother of Lou Gehrig’s wife, Eleanor, addressed to Christina Gehrig’s attorney. Lou Gehrig’s mother-in-law Nellie Twitchell wrote in the letter:

  Then came Lou’s illness. For a year he was doctored for gallbladder trouble. A prominent physician mistakenly diagnosed his case as such. He slipped in baseball. Eleanor started to show signs of extreme worry. And to make it short, ultimately Lou went to the Mayo Clinic.

  Immediately Eleanor was notified that Lou had at most three years to live. Luckily, he was away when she was informed. For two weeks my daughter sat in a chair all night with a grief I have never before witnessed. And then a day before Lou’s return, she made herself as presentable as possible, set her jaw, and made ready for the finest bit of courage known.

  I lived with them both after this, and I can tell you that until Lou breathed his last (breath) he did not know he was going to die. Eleanor had all the doctors fixed, all their friends fixed—to bolster Lou’s morale. And as day by day he became more paralyzed, the strain became greater on my daughter. She never faltered.

  I could barely believe what I had read even though I had already known it in my heart to be true. Lou Gehrig and his parents were never told that his illness was life threatening!

  I whipped out my phone at the table and called Michael right away to tell him what I had found. I’m sure I startled the other researchers in the close quarters of the National Baseball Hall of Fame Library when I said: