A couple of days ago, Tom Seaver celebrated his seventieth
birthday. And, really, if he’s turned the big 7-0—and become a septuagenarian—I, too,
must be getting a little long in the tooth. As a wide-eyed Met fan in the 1970s, “Tom Terrific,” as he was affectionately known, was my favorite
player bar none. Games where he took the mound assumed a little extra meaning
to me, because I constantly fretted over his won and loss record and earned run
average. I remember a boyhood friend—and fellow Seaver aficionado—and I
commiserating over a tough loss in which our idol gave up four whole runs. “Do you
know what that’s going to do to his E.R.A.?” he asked with genuine concern in
his voice. Yes, back in those days, four runs scored against our ace
pitcher—and future Hall of Famer—was a very bad outing indeed and quite rare.
As a boy, I didn’t give much thought to how much Tom
Seaver meant to me. Although he was larger than life from my youthful perspective, I
didn’t christen him my “hero” or any such “official” thing. I didn’t conclude
that I wanted to grow up and be a Major League Baseball pitcher like him. And although I
would have loved to have been his next-door neighbor, I didn’t dream of living
in Greenwich, Connecticut—the tony town he called home—either.
Nevertheless, I proudly wore his number “41” on the back of
my “Property of the New York Mets” gray T-shirt, and I felt genuine disgust
when a pal of mine—who didn’t even follow baseball, let alone revere Tom
Seaver—donned a similar shirt. As the neighborhood’s most dedicated Tom Seaver
disciple—it was by and large a Bronx neighborhood full of Yankee fans—I didn’t
appreciate my uniqueness being challenged. And challenged by a non-believer
making a fashion statement no less! (Major League Baseball merchandising was
pretty primitive back then. “Property of” tees were the rage and, as I recall,
that was the long and short of it.)
Anyway, Tom Seaver is seventy and there is no turning back
the clock. Three thousand miles away from where he once so magnificently plied his trade, Shea
Stadium—which is, alas, no more—the baseball great grows grapes for his own
wine label. No too long ago, Tom Seaver was pretty sick and diagnosed with Lyme
disease. Its symptoms led some to suspect the man they called “The
Franchise” might be in the early throes of dementia. Now that was a scary
thought! Happily, he’s of sound mind. When all is said and done, though, I suspect he really was my hero—and the only one I ever had.
I realize that Tom Seaver has something of a reputation for
being haughty and a bit full of himself. He doesn’t always appreciate
his loyal fans, which isn’t an admirable quality. But then again, he’s got
ample reasons to be impressed with his accomplishments in baseball. The man was
the consummate professional in an era when one could respect, above all else,
on-the-field performances and not be hopelessly distracted by the endless
sideshows that accompany contemporary sports and sports figures. Today,
athletes are very often multi-millionaire celebrities—spoiled and
overexposed. When Tom Seaver and I were younger, the world we simultaneously cohabited was a whole lot different place than the current one. Great pitching mechanics and
a fastball with movement and snap, crackle, pop were the stuff of heroes. The man, by the way, pitched 231 complete games in his career. Imagine that.
