Baseball 1971 (flash fiction from the archives)

Now that the Super Bowl hoopla is behind us (congrats to the Kansas City Chiefs, victors of Super Bowl LXIII), we can focus our attention on more important matters, like baseball.

Baseball and American literature have a long and storied history, and I’m proud to have contributed ever so slightly to the rich catalog of baseball-inspired literature with a short (500-word) story I wrote nearly 30 years ago that was published in a literary magazine called Fan: A Baseball Magazine. The little magazine was a labor of love for baseball aficionado Mike Schacht, an artist who specialized in depicting the heroes of the game he loved and who died in 2001.

I’d love to get this story republished in a more current baseball-themed literary magazine like The Twin Bill, but its editors are only interested in previously unpublished work. And there aren’t many other niche baseball litmags out there. So instead, I’m sharing it here. I hope you enjoy.

Baseball 1971

by Andrew Careaga

Originally published in Fan: A Baseball Magazine, No. 28 (Spring 1998)

He was years away from his three-thousandth hit and the time when the fans of Boston would again cheer him. But today Yaz looked as old and weary as my father. Today the boos rained down on him, weary old Atlas, as he adjusted his batter’s helmet, digging his cleats into the batter’s box, holding his bat aloft, the way only Yaz could do it, high and straight and outstretched, waving it in tight circles with his powerful wrists, like a club to fend off the jeers from above.

We were playing the Tigers. Mickey Lolich was pitching. He was past his prime too, but today he pitched like it was Game 7 of the 1968 World Series all over again.

It was an embarrassment: the hero of my youth twisting off-balance on his heels as he swung at strike three, the boos of the crowd pelting him on his long walk to the dugout. A man beside us, voice drawn hoarse by warm beer, muttered, “You sad, sorry son of a bitch.” My father winced at the words but tried to ignore them, tried to pretend they weren’t there. Tried to buy me another hot dog.

This was my first Red Sox game, my first visit to storied Fenway Park, my first glimpse at the ominous Green Monster that made Yaz look so small, so human, in left field.

It was a rout: 11‑1, Detroit. A complete game for Lolich, and old Al Kaline even hit a home run.

By seventh inning stretch, fans were pouring out of the stadium, and my father had also seen enough. “Well, boy, you about ready?” But I begged him to stay, and he relented. It wasn’t every weekend he got to see me; that was my leverage.

* * *

It was the night of the All‑Star Game, and Reggie Jackson had just hit a terrific home run into the upper deck of Tigers Stadium in Detroit. Mom was out, somewhere. The phone rang. It was my father, calling from a bar deep in humid Boston.

“Hey, son,” he said. I heard the muffled silence of a lonely bar in the background. “I’m in a discussion here. We’re trying to remember the starting line‑up for the ‘67 Red Sox. Who played shortstop?”

“Rico Petrocelli,” I said, angry that his call kept me from watching the game on TV.

“Yeah, that’s right. Rico Petrocelli. Goddam. And who was the catcher?”

“There were two of them,” I said. “They platooned.”

“Two of them? You sure?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m sure.” Why the hell didn’t he know this stuff? “Elston Howard and Russ Gibson.”

“Oh yeah,” he said, in sudden revelation. “That’s right. Russ Gibson. Goddam. Forgot about him.”

“I’m not surprised. Gibson batted .199 that year,” I said.

“Damn, son,” he said, “you’re a walking encyclopedia.”

“Gotta go, dad.”

Silence. Then, “I miss you, son. Say hi to your mother for me, OK?”

“OK,” I said, and hung up.

My father loved the ‘67 Red Sox. He said they were the greatest team there ever was, even though they never won the prize, and even though he could never remember their starting line-up.