When Bill Buckner strode into the pavilion of the Corn Crib, home of the Frontier League Normal CornBelters, I was strangely star struck.
I mean, I’d known most of the other former Cubs playing in that weekend’s Cubs-Cardinals Legends exhibition game from my fantasy camp experience two years before. Bobby Dernier had been my coach and had become a friend – I hung out with him and a few other pals just the night before at the Hyatt in uptown Normal. Lee Arthur Smith, upon seeing me that night, remembered my face if not my name and greeted me with a handshake and a hug – although with his massive mitts, a handshake practically is a hug. Hall of Famer Fergie Jenkins, ever the class act, saw me in the pavilion and said, “Hey, there, Tommy!”
So I’m not the type to get butterflies around ballplayers, be they great or merely very good. But my Billy Buck fandom goes back to my earliest days of true baseball freakdom, when I first began watching televised games in earnest, reading the agate-type box scores in the paper, following my new favorite team.
It was 1974, I had just moved from Lincoln, Nebraska, to the Los Angeles area, and the Dodgers were breaking the Cincinnati Reds stranglehold on the National League West. Bill Buckner, he of the thick, dark eyebrows and awesome ‘70s ballplayer ‘stache, was the Dodgers’ speedy left fielder.
I was at the Corn Crib reception because it immediately followed a workout for the “local celebrities” filling out the Cubs and Cardinals rosters for the game. My pal and longtime men’s hardball-league teammate Circuit Judge Paul Lawrence was among the “celebrities,” and he invited me to join the workouts to help shag batting practice.
They needed the extra bodies.
So still wearing my baseball pants, socks and workout shirt, I walked up to Billy Buck and extended my hand. “Mr. Buckner,” I said, after unconsciously clearing my throat, which I immediately regretted – how cliché! “I’m Tom Jackson, a big fan of yours since seeing you play in the ’74 World Series.”
“Yeah, the A’s won that one,” he said, smiling.
Shit, I thought. I didn’t mean to bring up a painful memory. I mean, the A’s were essentially unbeatable back in the mid ‘70s, and I – still a freshly hatched Dodger fan – was just delighted that my new team won a pennant!
Buckner, now 66, was still recognizable from more than 40 years ago. He still had the eyebrows, ‘stache, and thick head of hair, although they were now silver. And he was as lean as his playing days. I was a bit shocked to realize he was about my height – 5’10”, a good couple inches shorter than his official “baseball card” listing.
More than six decades of earthly gravity will do that, I guess.
But after 42 years, I still remember his Dodger tenure vividly. I was about to tell him that my lasting image of him in L.A. was his leadoff hit in the eighth, 1974 Series, Game Five – the ball shot past Billy North, and Buck tried to stretch it to three, where he was thrown out by Reggie Jackson.
I decided not to mention it.
“Well,” I said, “I’d always wanted a chance to thank you for your years as a player for some of my favorite teams.”
“And here you are,” he said.
“Here I am.” I shook his hand and mumbled about seeing him tomorrow at the Legends game.
Just a year after the 1974 World Series, my family moved to Galesburg, Illinois, where my younger brother and I were able to watch the Cubs every day, all summer long, on WGN. We were never Cubs fans before, but we fell hard for the North Siders – they grew on us like fungus.
To this day, they are our number one team.
So when Buckner was traded to the Cubs before the start of the 1977 season, I was delighted. Playing a new position – first base – he helped lead my new favorite team to a huge lead in the National League East. At least until ace reliever Bruce Sutter went down with a rotator cuff and the team fell apart, finishing at .500.
Buckner played a key role of sorts in the Cubs’ glorious return to the post season just seven years later: He was traded to the Boston Red Sox for pitcher Dennis Eckersley, one of the cogs in the strong rotation that led the Cubs (along with league MVP Ryne Sandberg, of course) to the 1984 N.L. East division title.
Meanwhile, Buckner’s Red Sox tenure was yet another example of his playing for a favorite team. I first became a fan while living in Holliston, Massachusetts, in 1967 – the year Carl Yastrzemski and Jim Lonborg carried the Sawx to their first World Series since 1946. I always loved the fact that Buckner wore the same number with the Red Sox – 6 – that I wore in college, around the same time.
And I didn’t realize I’d be wearing that number as one of Buck’s teammates until I arrived at the Corn Crib for the Legends game. Bobby D was standing by the player’s clubhouse, talking to CornBelters officials, when he saw me carrying my baseball gear. I brought them just in case.
“Get in there, Tommy,” he said, pointing at the clubhouse door.
I got to my locker, saw the jersey with “6” on the back, briefly considered mentioning our common number to Buckner, again deciding not to. This was a Cubs event, and he was wearing his Cubs number – 22 – and probably didn’t need any further reminder of his Red Sox tenure, especially in reference to the year 1986.
In fact, I didn’t even talk to Buck in the clubhouse, just exchanged a quick fist bump later on our way to the field. He and the other Cubs and Cards players were then seated at folding tables along the first base line, where they signed autographs and posed for selfies with long lines of fans, all adorned in either Cubbie blue and Cardinal red. In the meantime, the rest of us roster-fillers played catch, ran around the warning track, and stretched.
Because the autograph sessions lasted until five minutes before game time, batting practice was a no-go. I just pulled on my batting gloves, grabbed one of my bats – a 34-inch, 31-ounce Brett Bros. maple composite, a lovely red 110 model with a light blue Lizard Skins grip – and got some swings in by the first base line.
To my surprise, Buckner, clutching a bat, walked up to do the same.
“I may need to borrow your batting gloves,” he said between cuts.
I pulled the one off my right hand. “Here, just hold onto it,” I said. Old-school hitters only wore the glove on the bottom hand; I figured I’d go single-gloved, too. Buckner nodded his appreciation, pulled on the glove.
“What size bat did you swing when you played,” I asked.
“Most of my career, I used a 35-inch, 33-ounce,” he said, adding a model number, which I didn’t catch. “But toward the end, I went down to a 34-32. Can I see yours?”
I handed him my red Brett. I think I trembled a little. I wondered if he noticed.
“Hey, this is nice,” he said, taking a few cuts. “I may have to use it, too. Wanna throw a little?”
I nodded and we ran to the dugout to grab our gloves. I lobbed a few to make sure I didn’t overthrow – this was, literally, the first time I’d played catch with a Major League ballplayer. Once Buck started throwing harder, I did, too. And by my fourth hard toss, I got self-conscious, throwing it over his head.
He smiled at me, turned and walked to the backstop to retrieve it, where a crowd of Cub fans cheered and yelled his name. He waved and headed back toward me, tossing the ball in mid stride.
I went about 15 or 20 throws before throwing one short – he was unable to scoop it and it rolled to the backstop again. This time, I darted past him to retrieve the ball. As I headed back, I tossed the ball to him underhand. He laughed and nodded toward the dugout. We were done throwing.
Billy Buck used my bat. Cracked it, in fact – Fergie pointed it out after Buck’s first at bat, a jam-shot ground out to first. But it didn’t break until another teammate – a local Mitsubishi car salesman named Ryan – snapped it off at the handle on a fastball by Cards hurler Mike Timlin, just eight years removed from the bigs and a four-time World Champion. He won twice with the Blue Jays and twice with the Red Sox – he played a role in ending the curse in which Buckner became an infamous legend.
The barrel of the Brett bat landed in the Cards dugout; I never saw it again. Ryan brought the handle back to the dugout. He apologized and handed it to me. I briefly considered throwing it in the dugout garbage can. Instead I grabbed the Sharpie by the lineup card and approached Buck.
“Hey, Bill, would you sign this?” I was afraid he might not; this was a reminder of his cracking it, of a failure to barrel it up, of breaking the bat belonging to a teammate.
“Sure thing, Tommy,” he said, smiling, just as he had all game, all weekend. Afterward, he handed back the pen and the bat handle, then turned to the rack to find another bat.
Playing beside each other in the outfield, Buck and I chatted between pitches about his ranch in Boise, our respective families, our respective broken rib episodes. And we talked about playing baseball on a beautiful day, with a bunch of great guys, and how you just can’t beat it.
Because after a half-century or more of being part involved in baseball, it’s still great, and the memories – even those of bad moments – are still pretty damned good.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Thomas A. Jackson, known as “Tommy” to those who play ball with him, has been a professional writer since age 16 and a baseball fan since first watching “Charlie Brown’s All-Stars” on CBS in June 1966. His wife has said she thinks he loves baseball more than her. His reply – “No, I love you more; I’ve just had a much longer relationship with baseball.”
Thomas’ e-book Extra Innings: Your Guide to Baseball Fantasy Camps is available on Amazon for Kindle and Kindle apps.
*****
The Hall of Very Good™ Class of 2016 is presented by Out of the Park Developments, the creators of the wildly popular baseball simulation game Out of the Park Baseball. Out of the Park Developments has made a generous donation to The Hall.
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