The Wax Pack

by Brad Balukjian

  This is Richie’s sixth decade in professional baseball. When he was drafted in 1966, LBJ was president and Richie’s black teammates in the Minor Leagues weren’t allowed to stay in the same motels as the white players. Now there’s a black president.

  “I believe some of this game has passed me by, to be honest,” Richie, sixty-seven, says. “It’s a friendly game now. Everybody’s making the big money.”

  In Richie’s day, you didn’t fraternize with the opposing team. If a pitcher didn’t like that a hitter was standing too close to home plate, he threw at him, knocked him down. “I got hit four games in a row in ’74,” he says. Now throwing at a hitter can get you ejected.

  He can’t help but wonder what it would be like to play in today’s multimillion-dollar game. Notoriously thrifty, Richie still can’t get over the money he lost during the player strikes. “I lost about $200,000,” he says. “I mean, the money now is ungodly. I look at what some of these guys are getting paid, and it’s mind-boggling.” He gazes out at the field as he talks.

  It’s not just that. It’s the watering down of talent. When he started, there were only twenty teams in the league; now there are thirty. “You know, I don’t want to tell some of these guys, but twenty-five, thirty years ago some of these guys would never have been out of Double-A,” he says.

  The ground crew massages and waters the infield grass several yards away with the care of master gardeners. There’s some inclement weather in the forecast, and an ominous gray cloud rolls around the sky in right field. The Bisons’ manager, Gary Allenson, who’s short with a purposeful stride, walks by and snips, “The guys are ready when you’re done with your frickin’ biography,” producing a snicker from pitching coach Randy St. Clair, who’s smoking a cigarette nearby. The three of them can’t seem to flush the game from their system, preferring the grind of the road to returning home.

  I ask Richie about being pursued by the Bruins, playing hockey in front of sixteen thousand fans in the Boston Garden while still in high school, and breaking in with the Pirates in the late sixties. “I graduated in ’66, and two years later I was in old Forbes Field. I’m like two or three lockers from [Roberto] Clemente and [Willie] Stargell. I look at myself and go, ‘What the hell am I doing here?’” he replies.

  The comment sounds familiar. Later on I check my notes and find the same quote in an article in the Buffalo News from last year. This happens a couple more times in our interview, Richie giving the same rehearsed sound bites he’s given a thousand times before, perhaps literally. With six decades in pro ball, how many times has he been through the mill of a journalist’s questions? I want to push past the clichés, dig deeper, but Richie has his guard up. Maybe it’s because he’s got a game to coach in a few hours and can’t give his full attention the way the other Wax Packers have, or maybe, like Dennis implied, he’s just not one to open up.

  Richie now claims it wasn’t hard to stop playing the game. But when he was cut by the Cubs at the end of spring training in 1986, he told the Chicago Tribune, “I don’t want to go back to digging graves just yet.”3

  “Did you have a hard time walking away?” I ask.

  “I didn’t. I really didn’t. I played a lot of years in the big leagues. I got released, and just, you know, the semester ends for everybody. I just accepted it and went home,” he says.

  But he didn’t stay home. Even now, Richie isn’t sitting still. He’s still coaching and working the funeral circuit. When the conversation turns to his family, he answers my questions but doesn’t elaborate in any great detail. “My wife brought the four kids up, and she did a hell of a job, you know. I’ve played with some players, and the dads had to go home because the kids were on drugs or something. I never had to go home because of that,” he says.

  When I mention that I was with Dennis earlier today, a flicker of apprehension passes across his face. I want to ask him about Dennis, to tell him to give him a call, to go throw some darts at the Irish Heaven. But I know it’s not my place. My hour is up—Richie’s got to get to working with the Bisons hitters. They have a game to play.

  Several hours later, I watch from the stands as the Bisons edge the PawSox 2–1 while Richie observes from the dugout where we sat earlier. Thirty miles away up Route 95, Dennis drives his twin girls to their theater class, so close to Richie but yet so far away.

  * * *

  *

  Before getting back on the journey the next morning, I duck into the Greenville CVS and walk over to the greeting cards.

  The chase for Carlton Fisk is back on. This weekend, Craig Biggio, Pedro Martinez, John Smoltz, and Randy Johnson will be enshrined into the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, baseball’s heaven. Every Induction Weekend, past Hall of Famers descend on the city to fete the newest members of their fraternity and make some pocket change by signing autographs. I find an ad online from MAB Celebrity Services for an autograph show featuring several ex-players; among them is Doc Gooden (time/day TBA—no surprise there) and Carlton Fisk, who for sixty-nine dollars will sign a flat up to eleven by fourteen inches or for ninety-nine dollars a bat or jersey.

  If you can’t beat them, pay them.

  I scan the shelves for a card with an orchid, Carlton’s favorite plant, and find one with a “Missing You” inscription on the front. On the way out, I stop by the photo department to pick up an eight-by-ten glossy color photo of my face that I’ve had printed.

  Carlton may have evaded me in Florida, but I’m determined to get the last laugh.

  15

  Catching Carlton

  Umm, thanks.

  —Carlton Fisk

  Days 37–38

  July 25–26, 2015

  Miles driven: 7,588

  Cups of coffee: 93

  Norwood MA to Cooperstown NY

  Downtown Cooperstown, a two-block-by-two-block emporium of baseball nostalgia, is currently roped off from traffic and engulfed by a sea of orange and yellow, the colors of the Houston Astros. Fewer than two thousand people live here year-round, hardy souls willing to brave the upstate New York winters. But once a year, deep in the heart of summer, tens of thousands flock to this tiny outpost to venerate the game’s greatest. An Astro his entire career, Craig Biggio is one of four players being inducted into the Hall of Fame this weekend, and the Houston fan base, while muted nationally, has turned out in droves to celebrate. I hear a dull sound overhead and see a blimp circling the downtown scene. I imagine what it must look like from up there, a colony of fire ants scurrying over asphalt.

  13. Carlton Fisk

  I join the hysteria, walking down Main Street in search of the Tunnicliff Inn, a hotel hosting one of the weekend’s big autograph shows. For eighty-nine dollars you can get Reggie Jackson’s autograph; for eighty-five dollars, Robin Yount’s; and for sixty-nine dollars, Carlton Fisk’s, my archnemesis.

  A throng is gathered outside the Tunnicliff’s three-story facade of crumbling brick and black shutters. A sweaty, breathless man appears every few minutes in the inn doorway, addressing the crowd like an auctioneer teetering on a coronary as he tries to manage the traffic of people moving in and out. In one hand I have my notebook and in the other a paper bag with my surprise for Carlton. Little does he know how lucky he is—he’s about to get my autograph.

  Having already been rejected by Carlton and knowing that I’ll have about thirty seconds with him while he signs the 1986 Topps baseball card I’ve brought, I’ve decided to have some fun. Athletes often add a flourish to their signatures commemorating their greatest accomplishments, which for Carlton might be “Hall of Fame 2000” or “ROY (Rookie of the Year) 1972.” On the eight-by-ten glossy color photo of myself that I’ve had printed and signed, I add a personal inscription, which I plan to present as a gift. It reads:

  Dear Carlton,

  All the best!

  Brad Balukjian, Wheeler School Tennis Coach’s Award, 1998.

  I’ve also got the greeting card with the orchids on the front, inside of which I write t
he following:

  Dear Carlton,

  I know you like orchids, which is why I picked this card. Steve Yeager, Garry Templeton, Rance Mulliniks, Randy Ready, Jaime Cocanower, Lee Mazzilli, Rick Sutcliffe, Richie Hebner, and the rest of the Wax Pack miss you, as do I—would have been great to have you as part of the project (not sure why you turned us down). But it’s not too late—give me a call if you’re so inclined.

  Sincerely,

  Brad Balukjian

  I slide my business card inside.

  There’s something invigorating about being in a crowd that shares my zealotry for baseball. The sidewalks are stuffed with vendors hawking every bit of imaginable baseball paraphernalia, from the standard hats and jerseys to impressionist art of inductee Randy Johnson. It’s like a small town in Iowa in an election year, its sleepy pace invaded by the bustle of not only fans but also major media outlets and illuminati. As I shuffle forward in the autograph line, professional wrestler Ric Flair, here to capitalize on baseball fans’ shared interest in wrestling, struts by in a suit, flanked by an entourage of attractive blond women. He walks fast, knowing that if he stops, he will be swarmed by the crowd like yellow jackets on a slice of watermelon.

  I small-talk with the couple in front of me in line, Steve and Cheryl, from Monson, Massachusetts. They’re draped in Red Sox gear, down to Cheryl’s earrings. “This is my birthday present, to come here,” Steve says. They’ve met Carlton before, at a similar event where they paid for his autograph. “He was very likeable,” they say.

  Well, who wouldn’t be when you’re paying sixty-nine dollars for thirty seconds of their time?

  But I keep my thoughts to myself.

  The drenched auctioneer reemerges from the shadows of the hotel and calls my ticket number, signaling that Carlton is ready to receive his audience. I’m directed to a small room with several long tables set up along the perimeter. Behind the tables sit a cheerful Jim Rice, an old Joe Morgan, my man Carlton, and someone I believe is Wade Boggs, although I can’t quite tell if it’s really him or a likeness borrowed from the Wax Museum down the street. He looks like he has done everything a scalpel and a bottle of red hair dye can do to preserve his appearance exactly as it was in 1986.

  Carlton looks good, fit in a white polo shirt and gray slacks, and even—gasp!—smiling. He obliges fans’ requests to take pictures with him after they fork over the price of a lobster tail / filet mignon dinner, even making small talk. (“You really ran across the Golden Gate Bridge?” he asks the woman in front of me, reading her T-shirt.)

  When my time comes, I steel myself. Go time.

  I slide the ’86 Topps card in front of him, and while he brandishes a blue Sharpie, I spring into action.

  “Carlton, since you’re probably so tired of everyone asking for your autograph, I thought I’d give you one of mine,” I say, unsheathing my eight-by-ten like a glossy Excalibur. “And since I know you love orchids, I got you a card of them,” I say, handing the card across the table.

  A girl in a blue dress seated next to him, presumably one of his representatives, giggles. He looks up at me, slack-jawed, baffled. “Umm, thanks!” he stammers, completely flummoxed by this turning of tables.

  I don’t want to make a scene any more than I already have (despite what I wrote in the beginning of this book, I really don’t want to get arrested for accosting Carlton Fisk), so I collect the autographed card, thank him, and spin away.

  Halfway out the door and sixty-nine dollars lighter, I glance back to see him flip open the card to scan the message inside.

  Will he give me a call?

  * * *

  *

  The next morning, while everyone else is at the induction ceremony, I have the Hall of Fame Museum all to myself, my first visit since a family trip in 1988. There’s a picture of me from that trip, my shirt tucked into shorts hiked up too high, wearing a Phillies cap that flopped down over my ears as I stood in front of a display case for my favorite team looking as delighted as an eight-year-old can. I find that same case and take a picture, flooded by memories of all the baseball-related outings from childhood, my younger sister and mother patiently indulging me and my dad.

  The literal hall is a high-ceilinged chamber with tall, rectangular pillars and a series of benches in a line in the middle of the room. All along the walls are the plaques of the Hall of Fame’s members, each with a three-dimensional sculpture of the player’s face and a one-paragraph description. I find Carlton’s, which reads:

  A commanding figure behind the plate for a record 24 seasons, he caught more games (2,226) and hit more home runs (351) than any catcher before him. His gritty resolve and competitive fire earned him the respect of teammates and opposing players alike. A staunch training regimen extended his durability and enhanced his productivity—as evidenced by a record 72 home runs after age 40. His dramatic home run to win Game Six of the 1975 World Series is one of baseball’s unforgettable moments. Was the 1972 American League Rookie of the Year and an 11-Time All-Star.

  He’s wearing a Red Sox cap in his sculpture and has a lopsided grin revealing his top row of teeth. He looks content, no trace of bitterness.

  As I wander the gallery of greatness, reading about the exploits of baseball’s all-time best, I think about who’s missing or, rather, who would be in my Hall of Fame. I’ve learned that the real greatness of a game that’s supposed to be all about numbers has nothing to do with numbers, that all the home runs in the world can’t replace the strength demonstrated when you’re honest with yourself and deal with what’s right in front of you. My Hall of Fame doesn’t have Babe Ruth and Mickey Mantle and Carlton Fisk—it’s got Garry Templeton, who spoke up when young black men weren’t supposed to; Don Carman, who pursued a doctorate in psychology to exorcise his wounds from childhood abuse; Randy Ready, who was not afraid to love again after what happened to his wife, Dorene. These men, who were my childhood heroes, are still my heroes, but for entirely different reasons.

  Yes, baseball is a game about failure, which you often can’t control, but, more importantly, it’s about how you respond to that failure, which is always in your grasp. And these men excel at that.

  I think back to my childhood home on Slacks Pond.

  Fishing isn’t about catching fish. Baseball isn’t about hitting home runs.

  * * *

  *

  Somewhere around western Ohio, an unfamiliar phone number flashes on my screen. I pick it up, nursing a scalding hot cup of coffee, my ninety-third of the trip.

  “Is this Brad?” a stern female voice says.

  “Yes . . . ,” I reply.

  “Brad, this is Kim, Carlton Fisk’s agent. I’m concerned about your blog post. What is the point of it?” she asks. My brain flicks in several directions—Kim, Kim, yes, this is the same Kim whom I had corresponded with months ago when trying to get Carlton to participate. Following my encounter with him at the Hall of Fame, I had blogged about the encounter, and word had apparently made its way back to his people.

  “The point was just to tell what happened. What exactly are you concerned about?” I reply.

  “I’m just kind of baffled by the whole blog. I thought I was very professional in responding to your request,” she says, taking issue with my characterization of our past email conversation and sounding like a lawyer.

  Oh wait. She is a lawyer.

  “You were professional. I simply reported what happened. If Carlton doesn’t like the way I am portraying things, tell him to give me a call. That’s all I want, is to talk to him,” I reply.

  “Well, you have to understand, Carlton is at a different level,” she says. I roll my eyes. “Some of these guys may want to relive their playing days, but Carlton has moved on to other things. He is always getting so many letters and requests, he can’t possibly read them all. He’s got ten grandkids, he’s had some health scares lately, his mom is really elderly, he’s got a grandson with Down syndrome,” she adds.

  I hold the phone away
from my ear, getting annoyed by this laundry list of excuses. What does having a grandson with Down syndrome have to do with participating in an interview?

  “Look, Kim,” I say, the tension audible in my voice, “if he is so concerned, tell him to call me and tell me what he wants me to know about him.”

  “He doesn’t even know I’m calling you right now,” she says.

  The conversation ends in a cordial stalemate. I doubt he will call but have made my final pitch for Carlton Fisk. Bottom line: Carlton has no interest in joining the Wax Pack, and there’s nothing I can do about that.

  Control what you can control.

  I hang up and press on the gas, heading west. A few thousand miles and two Wax Packers to go.

  16

  Captain Comeback

  But as good as I have it now, nothing comes close to playing. Nothing ever will. Every time I watch a pitcher go to the mound to start a game, and he takes that toe hold and digs that dirt out, right away I miss that. I’ll never get to do that again.

  —Rick Sutcliffe

  Days 39–46

  July 27–August 3, 2015

  Miles driven: 10,788

  Cups of coffee: 118

  Cooperstown NY to Las Vegas NV

  Driving can be a meditative experience, especially when you’ve only brought six CDs on a seven-week road trip and can’t stomach the idea of one more sing-along with Whitesnake. The plains of the central United States envelop the Accord as I press west past vast tracts of farm and pasture land, with only my random thoughts to keep me company.

  During the long straightaways, I text with Jesse and the Kid, our adventures with Rance in Visalia feeling like years, not weeks, ago. I even correspond a bit with Sophia back in Naples, who writes, “Sick of old baseball players yet?” and says she is thinking about visiting the Bay Area for work. A rainstorm appears out of nowhere and pummels my windshield, heavy drops of water exploding on my hood like minigeysers as I squint to see the road, slowing down to avoid hydroplaning.