Roger Angell, the noted New Yorker writer and baseball lover, called the time between the last pitch of the World Series and the first pitch of the spring as "The Void." To those of us who love baseball, this is an apt expression, and we try to sublimate our love of the game by reading about trades, changes in the rules, up and coming rookies, and whatever news we can find.
Yesterday Susan Hines Siemer, in going through a drawer full of miscellaneous memorabilia, discovered this 116 year old gem:
I have one of my own, not nearly as old as Susan's. Nevertheless, I wonder if Cooperstown would be interested.
After visiting family in Cincinnati, my brother and I went to Crosley Field and watched Jim Maloney lose a ten inning no-hitter when in the 11th inning, Johnny Lewis of the Mets hit a home run, the lone score in this late afternoon contest. The next day I climbed on a plane for San Francisco. In 1965 baseball teams flew around the country in commercial airlines, booking dozens of coach seats for players, managers, and other personnel, mingling with the paying passengers. The cabin was full of men, laughing, talking, many with cocktails and beers in hands. Puzzled, I remembered the game the night before, turned to my seatmate and asked, "Pardon me, aren't you Warren Spahn?" "Yes, I am," he answered. "OMG!" I thought to myself. "I'm sitting next to the greatest left-handed pitcher in the history of the game, a man whose ticket to the Hall of Fame had been punched much earlier in his incredible career." My first reaction? I've got to get his autograph. I looked around for a piece of paper, failed to find one, then settled on the only paper in the cabin, nestled in the pocket of the seat in front of me.
I remembered that the manager of the Mets in 1965 was Casey Stengel, perhaps the most colorful character in the game. I turned to Warren Spahn, "Is Casey on this flight?" Spahn answered, "He's in first class." Undaunted, I excused myself, climbed over the hurler, parted the curtain, knowing that I had only a few seconds to find Mr. Stengel before the flight attendants would be escorting me back to coach. Turning the bag over, I asked Casey, "Would you please sign this for me?"
I'm picturing this in a revolving glass container in Cooperstown, testifying to the lengths that baseball fans will go to fill the Void.