Things got much busier for me after that night in September 1976. The Fidrych interview boosted my profile and prospects.
Thanks to a dramatic last-inning playoff home run from Chris Chambliss, the Yankees advanced to the 1976 World Series. They were swept by the Reds. George added one more crucial piece to the team in 1977 by signing slugger Reggie Jackson, Catfish’s former teammate on the A’s and the biggest free agent on the market. Billy Martin led them right back to the playoffs and a World Series victory. In 1978, the clubhouse exploded with infighting and Martin was fired midseason as the team fell far behind the Red Sox. Despite all the turmoil, they came back to win it all that year, too. The clubhouse had become, as Sparky Lyle so memorably dubbed it, “The Bronx Zoo.” Suddenly, everybody wanted to know about the Yankees. It was like following a real-life soap opera. My workload increased exponentially as a result.
Flo was an excellent guide dog, but there’s one thing she couldn’t do: drive a car. To get to Yankee Stadium, I needed a guide who was willing to pick me up after work at Meadowview and drive me to the Bronx. The evenings usually ended late, but there were perks. My guides sat with me at Mr. Rizzuto’s table, escorted me around the clubhouse and field, and watched the game from reserved seats in the press box.
I had no shortage of volunteers.
Many of my guides were friends I’d known for years. Some of them were people I’d met along the way as a proud member of a club that helped me to repay all of the kindness I’d been shown and the assistance I’d been given.
I knew of the Lions Club from their fund-raising drives in support of Holy Family and Camp Marcella before, during, and after my time there. I discovered that they weren’t just from New Jersey, but an international organization, founded in Chicago in 1917 by Melvin Jones. Their motto was “We Serve.” The idea caught on right away. Clubs popped up all over. Even Babe Ruth was a Lion. Helen Keller made a speech at their convention in 1925 urging Jones and his Lions to become “knights of the blind.” They’ve been involved in that cause ever since, growing to millions of worldwide members, all dedicated to assisting blind people.
It was at one of Jerry Molloy’s speaking engagements in February 1970 that I first met Bernie and Dottie Pryor. We were seated at the same table. Bernie was a lively guy. Dottie was even more fun. In between jokes, they asked me if I was a member of any service organizations. I’d always wanted to join one. These types of clubs were a great way to build relationships, while at the same time doing good for the community. I was looking for exactly that kind of situation. There were many worthy ones in Hudson County that I could choose from, including the Elks, Kiwanis, Rotary, and Moose Clubs. Bernie Pryor just happened to belong to the Lions.
Over the course of the evening, Bernie convinced me to come to a Lions meeting, to discover what they were all about. I liked what I heard. His club, called the North Hudson Lions, met once a month in Union City and had more than forty active members. Many of these guys hadn’t missed a meeting in years. They raised tons of money for blind people all over New Jersey.
I wanted in, but had to attend three more times before I could be officially proposed for membership. In June, Joe Liccardo, the club’s president, called me to let me know that I was officially a member. Five other guys would be joining the club with me.
The North Hudson Lions didn’t have their own building. We usually met at a local restaurant. As president, Joe was allowed to pick which restaurant, club, or catering hall the induction ceremony would be held in. Since it was a very special occasion and a large incoming class, Joe decided to have a little fun. He booked the Playboy Club on Fifth Avenue in New York.
The place wasn’t as risqué as it sounded. It was Playboy in name only. The owners tried to convey sophistication and refined elegance instead of sordid lowbrow tackiness. They did, however, have a staff full of women wearing Playboy bunny costumes. I was told that all of the servers walked around in black satin bunny outfits, replete with ears and a tail.
I couldn’t see them, but I was blushing anyway.
Joe, who spotted my bright red cheeks, brought me up to one of the bunnies and said, “My friend here is blind; do you mind if he feels your tail?”
A second later I heard a weird snapping noise. The next thing I knew, the bunny placed her cotton tail, which she’d already unbuttoned from the back of her costume, in my hand. She laughed and said, “Go ahead, feel away.”
A few years after that, someone sent me a copy of Playboy in Braille. It contained only the text, no pictures. I could legitimately say that I was one of the few guys in America who read Playboy “just for the articles.”
There were some great guys in the North Hudson Lions Club. In addition to being my guides at ballgames, they would pick me up just to socialize with them on evenings and weekends. The Lions had become my second family. I was proud to wear their bright yellow jacket with the Lions logo and the accompanying purple tie. In 1975, I was elected club president. I chose a more modest banquet hall for the induction. Joe Liccardo and his wife, Helga, were extremely helpful. They would assist me with whatever I needed to make the club run more efficiently. One of our members, Don MacAteer, became governor of our Lions District, 16A, a year later. He honored me by naming me his deputy. My blindness wasn’t a factor at all to him, or to the others.
It was at those District 16A meetings that I came to know Bob Diehl of North Bergen, a man cut from the same cloth as Mr. Rizzuto. Bob, and his wife Marge, owned a construction materials plant that supplied many of northern New Jersey’s contractors. He did very well for himself and his family, but never showed off. Bob was extremely humble and generous, quietly giving vast sums to charity each year. He also gave generously of his time. Like Jerry Molloy, he seemed to have an unlimited fountain of energy. Bob was willing to go anywhere at any moment, especially if it meant helping others.
Bob was a huge sports fan. He loved the Yankees and had season tickets to the New York Giants football team, which played right up the road from us in the Meadowlands. My son Eddie was just as passionate about the football Giants. Bob would often give his tickets to Eddie, who would sit and enjoy the game with Bob’s son, Robert, who was around the same age. The boys were also big hockey fans. They bonded over their love for the New York Rangers. Marge and Bob would often have me and my sons over for dinner, and would also bring us along as volunteers for the various charity clothing drives and food banks they organized through their church. I was happy that the Diehls could expand my boys’ appreciation for what it meant to be a family that has fun together while giving back to their community.
AFTER ONE OF these dinners with the Diehls, in March 1977, Bob dropped the boys off with Maureen at the house and then gave me a ride back to Weehawken, to my parents’ apartment. My father wasn’t doing so well physically, and I needed to be with him.
My mother had first noticed the symptoms a few months before. Dad was losing a lot of weight. His skin was turning yellow. He went to a bunch of doctors before finally being diagnosed with cancer. He was tough, and he fought it with all of the energy and prayers he could muster. The battle took a lot out of him. On this night, he was a shell of himself.
I walked into the living room to talk to him. I could tell right away that it was pretty bad. His voice was raspy and weak. In an effort to cheer him, I brought up our favorite subject, baseball.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, trying not to betray the worry in my voice, “in a few days, spring training games will be shown on TV. I think our Giants are playing the Mets on Saint Patrick’s Day. That should be a fun one to watch. The Yankees face the Red Sox two days later, on Saint Joseph’s Day.”
There was silence for a moment. Dad then turned to me and whispered, “I won’t be here, Ed.”
I didn’t understand. “Where are you going, Dad?” I thought that he might have a doctor’s appointment or something.
He made a sound like someone who wanted to cry, but couldn’t. He reached over, squeezed my hand, as he’d done thousands of times before when I was young, and said, “I just won’t be here.”
I understood his message. Nothing more needed to be said. The two of us sat there quietly, hand in hand, until he fell asleep. I helped my mother get him to bed. He’d dropped so many pounds by then that I was almost able to pick him up with one hand.
My mother asked me to stay. I took a few vacation days from work, then called my sister to let her and the boys know where I would be. I slept in my old bedroom. In the middle of the night, I heard a crash coming from my parents’ room. I made my way there as fast as I could. My father had fallen from the bed and was lying on the floor. After determining that he was all right and hadn’t broken anything, I helped him back up and went back to sleep.
A few hours later, I awoke to heartbreaking screams from my mother that will haunt me forever. “He’s gone! He’s gone! Oh, God, he’s gone!”
My father had passed away, peacefully and quietly, in his bed.
The next few days were a blur.
I somberly made the necessary arrangements. Relatives and friends came from all over the country for my father’s wake and funeral. Guys from his union broke down in tears and had to leave the room. Bob Diehl and my other fellow Lions formed an honor guard for Dad, though he wasn’t actually a member.
Those tributes were incredibly touching and meant a lot to me and to my family. They were a fitting way to say good-bye to the man who was, and always will be in my eyes, the biggest Giant of them all.
I was numb for several weeks. Even after the baseball season started, I couldn’t really enjoy it. My heart just wasn’t in it. Then I remembered how much my father loved the game, how he’d taught me to be just as passionate about it.
Dad would want me to embrace baseball as much as I had during any other tough time in my life, especially now that I’d proven myself. I couldn’t give up. I would honor his memory with my work. When I got to the Stadium, Mr. Steinbrenner was one of the first to express his condolences to me. Billy Martin was also extremely sympathetic.
Jackie Farrell had retired by then, but the Boss, along with the many PR guys who served under him during his tenure, made sure that I had complete access to the whole ballpark. George and Billy set the tone. Everyone else followed.
Billy Martin was a close friend of Mr. Rizzuto. The whippet-thin manager fancied himself a cowboy, but he was, in reality, an Italian-American kid from the urban streets of Berkeley, California. Even though I was Irish, he called me “paisan,” which is Italian for “friend.” He’d kiss me squarely on the cheek every time that I saw him. We got along great. Martin could be tightly wound, prone to temper tantrums, but he knew how to win. The public rarely saw his lighter side. He was a decent man and quite the practical joker.
More than once, as I waited in the clubhouse for an interview, Billy would silently grab my arm and walk me around. Thinking it was my guide, or a security guard, I’d follow along. Before I knew what was happening, he would lead me right into the showers, turning them on at full blast. As I stood there drying off, I could hear his distinctive high-pitched laugh, which gave him away as the culprit every time.
Martin never actually admitted that he did it.
That might sound like a cruel trick to play on a blind man, but I loved it. Baseball players have a long history of playing practical jokes on each other, and on those whom they consider one of the “boys.” By subjecting me to his shower prank, Martin was sending a clear signal that I was now a member of this exclusive fraternity. I was free to be hazed.
The master of practical jokes was Sparky Lyle. He was having a Cy Young–caliber season in 1977, but still found the time to tease me and others. Every time I’d walk into the locker room, Sparky would toss towels in my general direction. Most would whiz harmlessly by. I would actually catch some, just by reflex alone. When that happened, Lyle would shout loudly to the clubhouse guard, Charlie Zabransky, “Arrest him, Charlie, he’s trying to steal our towels!”
Sparky also loved giving hotfoots. I was not immune to them.
A “hotfoot” is a time-honored baseball trick in which a player will sneak up on another player or reporter while he is giving an interview in the dugout. The unsuspecting victim then has a match or two placed gently in the back or side of his shoe, with the head facing out. When the moment is right, the prankster will light the match head and slink away to watch from a distance. As soon as the flame from the slowly burning head reaches the victim’s shoe, it’s hot enough to be felt. The general result is a startled yelp. I had more than one interview interrupted by Lyle’s antics.
So one day, I had my guide distract Sparky as I snuck a match into his shoe. I’d pranked the prankster. Turnabout is fair play.
Sparky was later joined in the bullpen by another intimidating closer, Rich “Goose” Gossage. He was a country boy from Colorado and, like Lyle, had an excellent sense of humor. Goose used to kid me incessantly.
I often rushed to get to the ballpark, sometimes making mistakes with my wardrobe. Most players were discreet enough not to mention it. My pal Goose spoke his mind. After spotting an error in my footwear one afternoon, he called me out on it. “Hey, Eddie, do you know that you are wearing one black shoe and one brown shoe?”
I gave him the first explanation that popped into my head. “Of course I know that, Goose. I have a pair just like them at home.”
My guides were also in Goose’s line of fire.
I brought my son’s pediatrician, Dr. Frank Cardiello, with me to a game. Goose spotted him and said, “Geez, Eddie, you have a different person with you each day. Who is this clown?”
I wanted to pull a fast one on Goose so I said, “This is Dr. Frank Cardiello. He’s my eye doctor.”
Goose came right back with, “So you’re Eddie’s eye doctor? Let me tell you, that’s one heck of a job you did there, Doc. You evened his eyes out!”
Reggie Jackson, who happened to be walking by, was horrified. He chastised Goose. “You can’t say that to Eddie! He’s a good guy!”
I eased Reggie’s concerns. “It’s okay, Reggie. I’m pretty fortunate to be blind. That means I don’t have to stare at Goose’s ugly mug every night.”
Without missing a beat, Goose topped me. “You’re even luckier than you think, Eddie. Yogi’s coming out of the shower right now without a towel. You don’t have to see what we’re seeing.”
Even my sons weren’t above the genial banter.
Chris was waiting for me in the clubhouse after a game. He told me that he was hungry. I promised to get him something to eat once we left the Stadium. He wasn’t happy. Despite having eaten his fill of hot dogs and Cracker Jack, Chris kept loudly moaning that he wanted something to eat. He was putting on a world-class show. The whole locker room could hear him, including Goose.
Gossage called out, to nobody in particular, “If someone doesn’t shut this kid up, I’m gonna give him a knuckle sandwich!” He was just kidding, of course, but Chris misunderstood the warning. He rushed over to Goose’s locker and said, “You have a sandwich for me, Mr. Gossage? Can I have some mustard on it?” Goose, and everyone around him, burst into laughter. To this day, whenever Goose sees Chris, he asks him if he wants a knuckle sandwich.
I took Chris to his first Old-Timers Day game in 1978. He was nine years old. I was thrilled to be able to introduce him to the men who shaped my life and childhood. Eddie had already been to one, but this was all new for Chris. He loved it. As the ceremony was about to start, I sat in the dugout with Chris. I heard a familiar clacking of spikes on the runway. It was Mickey Mantle’s trademark gait. I told Chris to run over and say hello to him before he had to take his place on the diamond with the other Yankee veterans.
Chris approached the legendary center fielder. He was too young to have seen the Mick play, but he’d heard all of my stories. Mantle was his hero. Chris shared that with Mickey as soon as he got close enough. Mantle, who was quickly surrounded by throngs asking for autographs and handshakes, had a habit of sometimes brushing off admirers, depending on his mood.
He asked Chris how a kid his age could say that he idolized him if he wasn’t even alive in the 1950s and 1960s. “It’s because my daddy told me all about you.” As he started to walk away, Mickey asked, “Oh, yeah, who’s your dad?”
When Chris identified me, Mickey froze in his tracks.
Mantle came back over to Chris, leaned down to his level, put his arms on his shoulders, and said, “Kid, I hear people telling me that I’m their hero every single day. I want to tell you something. Your dad is my hero. You are very, very lucky.”
With that, Mantle resumed his trot out to the first-base line for introductions, leaving my son standing there, in awe of him for reasons that were deeper than anything that had to do with baseball.
On the ride home later that night, Chris casually mentioned what Mickey had said. I was glad that my son couldn’t see me in the front seat as I tried my best to hide the tears that were streaming down my cheeks. Now I knew how Mickey felt that day back in 1954 when he had his emotional encounter with my friend Eddie.
WHEN I WASN’T at work, baseball games, or Lions meetings, I spent most of my time with Eddie and Chris. We loved being with each other. They were getting to know what life was like for me, helping me to adapt to any situations that came our way. They also began to develop an innate empathy for anyone who was facing challenges. What my boys didn’t appreciate was the reaction that my blindness would sometimes bring out in people, especially when we’d go out to eat.
Waiters and waitresses were the ones who seemed to slip up the most. I lost count of the number of times that a server would walk over to our table, look directly at Eddie while pointing at me, and say, “What does he want to eat?” Eddie, who got more and more annoyed each time it happened, would snap back, “He’s not deaf, he’s only blind, ask him yourself!” I’d gently chastise Eddie, as I felt bad for the waiter, who’d made an innocent mistake. Invariably, the server would compound the error by screaming loudly at me when asking for my order, as if an increase in volume would suddenly restore my eyesight.
A woman once stopped by our table to say to Chris, “I want to tell you that your father is amazing. I was sitting over there eating, and I watched him the whole time. Not once did your dad miss his mouth. Good for him.”
Chris, who had even less tolerance for silly remarks than Eddie, answered her quickly. “I was watching you, too, ma’am, and I want to congratulate you.”
This confused her. “Congratulate me? What for, my dear?”
He looked at her innocently and said, “You were eating the whole time without a mirror in front of you to look at yourself, and you didn’t miss your mouth once. Good for you!”
I had raised my sons to be respectful to their elders, but I let Chris’s answer slide, just this once.
I also got Eddie and Chris involved in Lions activities. We marched in many parades together. They stood with me as I sold small white canes, which was a Lions signature fund-raiser. The Lions were the first organization to require canes to be made of white reflective material rather than dark wood. They helped reduce the number of traffic accidents involving blind pedestrians.
It was important for me to demonstrate to my sons that service to others was the best ideal that they could strive for. They learned this golden rule in church on Sunday, and when they read the Bible at home, but the Lions were helping me to show it to them up close.
Lions founder Melvin Jones once observed that you can’t get very far in life until you start doing something for other people. I believe that with every ounce of my soul. One of the reasons that I joined the Lions Club was that I loved the toast that they make at the beginning of every meeting. This toast actually sums up my personal feeling that no matter what circumstances come my way, good or bad, I’m no better or worse than any of my brothers and sisters on this planet. We are all in this together, so we should try to make life better for each other.
The nine powerful words that Lions recite when we gather and raise our glasses are: “Not above you, not beneath you, but with you.”
In the summer of 1979, the New Jersey Lions decided to try something new. We put together a twenty-four-hour telethon that would air on what was then the new medium of cable television. I was part of the planning committee. Seton Hall University generously donated their broadcast facilities for our use. New York radio legend “Cousin Brucie” Morrow agreed to emcee for the entire event.
I was asked to secure talent to fill in the airtime. There were plenty of local bands, magicians, and performers that were ready to volunteer, but the Lions wanted to get a bigger viewing audience by having big-name guests. They asked me to call on some of my friends from the ballpark.
The Yankees were away that weekend, so when I asked Thurman, Goose, and the others, they had to decline. At least I could say I spoke to them about it. They each offered their support. Some, like Bobby Murcer, made generous donations. Mr. Rizzuto agreed to miss work to join us for the telethon.
At the All-Star Game a few years before, I’d met a hot young comedian and actor named Robert Klein. He was writing an article for a sports magazine and wanted to get to know some of the players. I kept crossing paths with him, and we became fast friends. Any time Robert was at the stadium, I’d get him access to the inner circle of players. He was a great guy, always appreciative of my efforts on his behalf.
Robert was starring with Lucie Arnaz in the Broadway show They’re Playing Our Song when I was looking for telethon guests. He had just been nominated for a Tony Award for his role. He’d also completed his second comedy special for a seven-year-old cable channel called Home Box Office. I asked him if he would come on to do his act for us. He said yes without hesitation.
Fellow Lion Tom Gartley drove me over to New York on the day of the telethon to pick up Robert. It was Saturday, so he had some time between the matinee and evening shows. We met him at the stage door and then raced over to South Orange. Knowing that he had to get back, I’d asked Robert to stay for only twenty minutes or so. He gave us two hours and then raced back to Broadway just in time for his evening show. He was a huge hit on our telethon. The phones rang more during his time onscreen than for anyone else, including President Jimmy Carter.
President Carter, another fellow Lion, had taped a special message from the White House, to be shown during the prime spot on our show. He still couldn’t top Klein’s jokes.
The telethon raised more for blind charities in New Jersey than any event had up until that time.
A few days later, I was on the field at Yankee Stadium. It was a warm, late July Wednesday night. Thurman came over to me. He asked me how our telethon did. I was touched that he remembered. Sensing that he was in a happier than normal mood, I took a bold step.
Munson had just published his autobiography, with the help of Jackie Farrell’s successor, Marty Appel. Someone bought me a copy, so I asked Thurman if he would sign it for me. Reporters usually never ask players for autographs, but Thurman was an old friend and I wanted a keepsake for Eddie and Chris.
He feigned indignation and said, “Everyone knows that you’re a Red Sox fan, Eddie, why would I sign for you?” I laughed as he followed with the obvious question, “If you’re blind, why did someone buy you my book? You can’t read it! It’s just a paperweight!”
I told him that my son Eddie was reading it to me.
“Okay, buddy, I’ll tell you what,” Thurman said with a rare grin, “you bring the book tomorrow night. I’ll quiz you on some of the chapters. Get the answers right, and I’ll sign it for you.”
Thurman did indeed ask me a bunch of questions as we stood on the field the following day. He was turning the tables and interviewing me. I passed his test.
This was a more laid-back version of Munson than I’d ever witnessed, despite the fact that the team was way behind the Baltimore Orioles in the standings at that point. Perhaps winning the World Series the previous two seasons and being the captain of the Yankees had taken some of the pressure off him. Whatever it was, he signed the book, and even posed for a picture with me and Flo.
During the game, my guide noticed that Thurman hadn’t added Chris’s name to the inscription. I caught up to him after the game. Ron Guidry had given up only three hits for a 2–0 win over the Angels, so everyone was in a good mood. I asked Munson if he would write something for Chris on the note he put to Eddie. He said, “I’d love to, but we’re going on the road tonight and I’ve gotta run. See me when I get back next Friday and I’ll do it for you. Be ready to answer more questions!”
He slapped me on the back, leaned down to pet Flo, and headed out the clubhouse door.
That was the last time I ever saw him.
One week later, on August 2, 1979, Thurman Munson, a licensed pilot, was killed in a tragic crash as he was practicing landing procedures in his new Cessna plane.
His locker remained untouched in the clubhouse until they built the new Yankee Stadium, where it was moved intact to the Yankee Museum.
I miss him every time that I’m at the ballpark.
IN 1979, HALL of Fame pitcher Catfish Hunter announced his retirement from baseball at age thirty-three. He had been diagnosed with diabetes, which can often cause loss of vision and clarity. I had a pretty good relationship with him, but Hunter was a lot less outspoken than Goose or Sparky. Catfish called me over one day to ask me about blindness and how I coped with it. I referred him to some organizations in his home state of North Carolina, including the Lions Club. He became a member of the Lions, like Babe Ruth before him.
Bob Diehl was with me when All Star second baseman Willie Randolph took me aside to talk about the diagnosis of juvenile diabetes that he’d just received for his daughter. Since Willie lived in New Jersey, Bob and I were able to help him even more with referrals. Willie was grateful. I’d already known Randolph for years, but he and Bob developed a friendship that day.
Reggie Jackson was another guy whom Bob got to know well. Jackson was the brightest star of the Yankees by that point. His three home runs in one World Series game in 1977 assured that his number 44 would be retired by the Yankees, and that he’d have a spot on the wall in Monument Park. They even named a candy bar for him.
The biggest knock on Reggie that people made was that his ego was enormous and he was full of himself. It was completely untrue. I never experienced any of that. Jackson was one of the most gracious ballplayers I ever met. He loved giving interviews, which were always fun because he often referred to himself in the third person. He once told me, “Always remember, Ed, Reggie Jackson is here for you.”
He wasn’t kidding.
After a game in which he smashed two big home runs, including a game winner, the crowd around Reggie’s locker was three deep. Bob and I made our way to the back of the crowd, and I lifted my microphone in the air to try to catch some of what he was saying. It didn’t work, so I asked Bob to take me over to Guidry’s locker.
I’d get Reggie some other time.
While I was busy talking to Guidry, Reggie crossed the room and startled Bob with a tap on the shoulder. “Hey, Bob,” he said, “is Eddie mad at me?” Bob assured him that I wasn’t. Jackson continued, “I noticed that Eddie was at my locker but didn’t ask me a single question. You guys just walked away. I hope I didn’t do anything to get him mad. Tell him I’m sorry that I didn’t get to talk to him today.”
When Bob shared what Reggie said, I realized just how far I’d come. This was almost the exact same situation I’d encountered in 1965, except that this time the superstar with the crowded locker wasn’t humiliating me, he was offering an apology for not being available. I said a silent prayer of thanks for the journey.
I was hired by a national sports magazine to do a feature story on Reggie. They wanted to know what it was like for him to calmly stand at the plate and produce the amazing results that he did. Reggie agreed to the interview, with one condition. He was going to share the experience by actually showing me what it was like to bat at home plate in Yankee Stadium.
Bob Hope had been my golf tutor, Joe DiMaggio had been my announcer, and now Reggie Jackson was going to teach me to hit home runs. My list of surreal moments just kept getting longer and more surreal.
We set aside a few hours before a game. Reggie went through every single step of his process, with a photographer from the magazine snapping away. It was, by far, one of the greatest interviews I’ve ever been given.
When our lesson was done, Reggie was heading to the locker room to prepare for the game. I called out, “Wait a minute, Reggie, you forgot to teach me the most important part.”
He turned back around. “What did I miss, Eddie? I had a checklist, I’m pretty sure I covered it all. Whatever it is, I’ll work on it for you.”
My answer set him off in fits of laughter. “You forgot to show me how to keep my eye on the ball!”
BOB DIEHL ONCE told me that taking me to games was an experience that money couldn’t buy. Others seemed to share the same opinion, even members of the clergy.
Our local church parish, Saint Aloysius, was filled with baseball fans. The Reverend Charlie Christell was especially excited the day that I asked him to escort me to a game. He soaked up every minute of it. When I made the introductions in the locker room, some of the players were surprised that I had a priest with me. They tried, and failed, to curb their language. Others treated him like just another guide.
At one point, I couldn’t locate Father Christell. It turned out that a player who was in a bit of a slump had asked him to bless one of his bats. Several players followed, and a line quickly formed. It took us another fifteen minutes to get out of there. The Yankees wound up having one of their best nights ever at the plate.
Our archbishop, who was visiting the parish a few weeks later, heard about Reverend Christell’s night at the ballpark. He asked if he could take me over sometime. Of course I agreed. Neither man wore his clerical garb. Until I identified them by their title, nobody had a clue that they were men of the cloth.
This almost got the archbishop in big trouble.
I didn’t realize it, but he’d brought little plastic baggies with him to the game. While we were standing on the field behind home plate watching batting practice, the archbishop bent down to fill them up with the same dirt that DiMaggio, Mantle, and Berra had walked on. This was a big no-no, expressly forbidden by Yankee Stadium security.
Within seconds, several burly security guards surrounded the archbishop. They were intent on escorting him down to the holding cell underneath the stands behind first base. Once they spotted the special ring that he wore to signify his role in the Church, they all blessed themselves, apologized, and backed off as swiftly as they had descended. We were escorted up to the press box instead.
Mr. Steinbrenner always got a kick out of that story.
The Boss was one of my biggest supporters. It was a courtesy that he extended to my family, too.
My mother was sitting in the stands with Eddie and Chris during the 1977 World Series. It was a freezing cold night in October. They were bundled up, but still shivering in the face of the fierce fall winds. George happened to look down and recognize my boys. A few minutes later, one of his staff members arrived at their seats to take the three of them into a heated room to watch the rest of the game in comfort.
Mr. Steinbrenner never mentioned it to me or made a big fuss.
George was caricatured by the media and fans as a blustering tyrant, but he was always secretly dedicated to helping others in need without seeking any praise. His favorite saying was, “If you do something good for someone and more than two people know about it—you and the other person—then you didn’t do it for the right reason.” Mr. Steinbrenner, like Bob Diehl and the rest of my fellow Lions around the world, is an excellent model for service and philanthropy.
I was happy that my mom got to see how the owner of the Yankees treated me, and my family, like his own. I hoped that she realized, as I did, that none of this would have happened were it not for the results of her letters to ballplayers on my behalf twenty-five years earlier.
She helped to put God’s plan for me into action. I know that my dad felt that way, too.
My mother was all by herself in the Weehawken apartment, so in 1979, I began looking for a bigger place to live. Maureen’s second son, Brian, was three years old. Eddie, Chris, and Jeffrey were on the verge of their teens. The house on Nunda was now too small for us to be comfortable. Mom agreed to join us in purchasing a new home. Ideally, we would find a multifamily house so that my sister could have her own floor, and the boys and I could live on the lower level with their grandmother. We would be together as a family. It was very exciting.
I’d worked hard to create a normal life for me and my sons, one full of love, faith, peace, and happiness.
Things looked very bright, with my family and with my career.
I had no idea that my dreams for future bliss were about to be dissolved by a piece of my past.