On July 11th, 1999 the American League made quick, efficient work of the National League, 4-1, in Major League Baseball’s 70th Annual All Star Game. It was held at Fenway Park and while Pedro Martinez twirled a nearly flawless two innings, striking out five, it was Ted Williams arriving via golf cart from center field that I really remember. Despite being a prick of herculean levels to many, the guy could never do any wrong in my eyes. Beautiful swing, spoke his mind and only ever wanted to be ‘the greatest hitter who ever lived.’ His philosophy toward hitting was something I memorized and his approach toward nearly everything, at least that I knew of, was easy for me to buy into. “There’s only one way to hit or do anything really.” He used to say, “Just get mad. Go up to the plate and be mad at the ball, mad at the pitcher, Christ be mad at everything.”
Sox brass trotted him out as part of the evening’s pomp and, after holding court at the Fenway mound for what seemed like an hour, it took several pleads from the Fens announcer Carl Beane to tear the biggest stars in the game away from him. Even after Beane’s begging, I remember Cal Ripken Jr and Nomar standing pat, shaking William’s hand with both of theirs, patting his shoulder and lingering several seconds longer than most. I remember the roar of the crowd and being surprised when he tipped his cap-an effort he refused as a player, never returning from the dugout to acknowledge the fans—even after ending his career with a home run on his final at bat; his 521st. As John Updike said in his famous accounting of the event in the autumn of 1960, “Gods don’t answer letters.” I thought after they’ve been a God for a while, maybe they sort of grew into it.
I didn’t manage to see much more than the opening ceremonies and a few innings of the game. My wife and I had just returned home from the hospital with our new daughter, Dehlia, a few days prior and I had fallen asleep on our painful green futon with the struggling whir of an old window fan in the background. It was hot out but I nodded off easily with my wife and daughter in the other room sleeping dreamless sleep. I remember looking forward to the next morning’s Sportscenter to see how the ‘Knights of the Keyboard’, as Williams used to refer to media, portrayed him now that he was approaching, if not fuzzy, at least warm-status, in his later years.
The phone rang around 3am and it was close to my head so I grabbed it immediately-without any time to think about the unlikeliness of good news. It was my friend Liz-at least that’s what the voice said. It took several seconds to come into myself and it was difficult to get a bead on what she was saying. “Steve, Tim is dead. He was killed tonight. Oh my God Steve, he’s dead. I’m so sorry, but he’s really dead.” Something like that at least. All I really remember about the call is hanging up. The fan still struggling. And the television already showing a game recap. I watched Pedro strike out Barry Larkin, Larry Walker and Sammy Sosa on 11 pitches before reality settled. My wife had woken up and was standing a few feet away in the shadow. I told her what I had heard and she put her hand over her mouth. Then I watched Pedro strike out McGwire to start the second before I stood up.
Tim Maguire and I had been friends since Junior High School. In a standard group of friends he was anything but. He had interest-bearing IRA’s before any of us even paid for our own movie tickets. He was a ball breaker, and an instigator, a mixer-upper and indefatigably dependable. We belonged to a tight group of friends but even within that orbit, Tim and I connected across a different frequency. His ability to shoot-straight, even during that phase of friendship where it’s easy not to, drew me toward him. Our friendship wasn’t something that we ever really spoke openly about but we both respected and acknowledged the connection. We were lucky to have each other and we each knew it. Even after I had moved to Vermont 5 years prior, we’d speak every day and the space he occupied in my life expanded even as the time we spent together contracted.
From what Liz told me, Tim had been killed by a drunk driver-someone that was good at it –as he 3 priors suggested. He was coming home from an apparently successful blind date and was stopped at a light. The driver broadsided him in his green, gas efficient, paid-for Saturn, and reports say he never saw it coming. I have convinced myself that his last thoughts were awesome ones. He was happy to have recently held his new God-daughter, the week prior in Vermont. Thrilled that he had completed what was probably a nervous evening. And excited to drive to his new apartment, where he lived alone in his peaceful quiet, and sleep and dream about playing football for Notre Dame or double digit 401k returns or maybe a second date. I know he was listening to AM sports talk radio-trying to collect enough game data to arm him for our morning call. He’d of suggested that Pedro didn’t deserve an MVP for two innings of work or that Donna Summer, despite being from Boston, didn’t deserve to sing the anthem. They say, while he wasn’t killed instantly, he never regained consciousness and was pronounced dead at the hospital in the first hours of the next day. Just about an hour before my phone rang, and a new line of before and after was drawn for me.
After reality settled itself, I packed a few things, said goodbye to my wife, my 9 day old daughter and my mother-in-law (who had the good fortune of dealing with a new life, new parents and now, death), and headed south toward Boston. I wish I remembered the music I chose, the thoughts I had or maybe the color of the sunrise breaking as I crossed into northern Massachusetts. I wish I had more clarity of the memories I called upon or some recollection of the last words we shared, or something, anything, about that ride other than a stop at Chili’s in Lowell. I had been driving for 2 hours at that point-roughly an hour from the town of Lynn where Tim and I were brought up, when I pulled into the parking lot. The sun was just up and I remember feeling something new to me at the time—a real, hard sadness—it had moved in was starting to settle.
Walking into the Holiday Inn, which abutted the Chili’s, I remember seeing a newspaper stand jammed with fresh Boston Globes. I stalled long enough to connect with the headlines. The latest in the Harry Potter series, The Prisoner of Azkaban, had just been released a few days prior. Someone had broken the 3:44 mile. Tropical Storm Beatiz was gaining intensity off of Mexico’s Pacific Coast and was expected to nudge hurricane status by the end of the day. On the front page, though, was a picture of Ted Williams talking to long time Sox hanger-on Johnny Pesky, seemingly oblivious to the bedlam around him. The supporting copy was, simply, “What a night.” I went into the bathroom and cried for 20 minutes.
The 70th anniversary of MLB’s All Star get together was supposed to pay tribute to the game’s all-time greats and to bid farewell to the ‘old Fenway’ as a new ownership group was well underway with plans to relocate. This game had been scheduled for Milwaukee, but it was moved to Boston when the opening of the Brewers' new field was delayed. The Red Sox had been hoping to host an All-Star game at their own new ballpark, penciled in just across the street, but were so far back in the planning stages that they couldn't be sure when that would be. The plan was to give fans, and players, a chance to say hello and, for some, goodbye. The plan was to also announce MLB’s All-Century team-the top 100 players of all time and, for those still able, assemble inside the game’s oldest park. Williams was 3rd in the voting behind Babe Ruth and Lou Gerhig but was clearly the most revered among those in attendance. Prior to the first pitch, Williams and Pesky made their way, via golf cart, from the cavernous center field of Fenway, all the way to the pitcher’s mound. There, he was mobbed by the MLB elite; fawned over by player’s who idolized him, mimicked his swing and felt the need to pay their respects. He was in his element. Talking baseball, returning the idolatry (he loved Tony Gwynn) and soaking in the adoration as a past-player that he couldn’t or wouldn’t, as an active one. Despite the July heat, he was wearing khakis, a white baseball hat with The Ted Williams Card Company on it and a white t shirt with the word ‘Remember’ in blue.
I got home and drove straight to Tim’s parents’ house and it was already a mob scene. The shock was still hanging off of everyone, but we did what we could to share stories and force smiles. I mostly listened. His Mom told me how much he loved me and his Dad hugged me for what seemed like the perfect amount of time. “You were always his guy Steve, always.” He said. Tim’s parents asked that I prepare and offer the eulogy and I did. I didn’t have enough time to write anything like what he deserved, but I talked about his dependability, his love for his friends and family and how some holes are bigger than anyone’s ability to fill. I told a story about my 29th birthday. In response to me taking him to Atlantic City for his, he got me a balloon ride. Up in Vermont. Just he and I and a bottle of champagne. I thought it was about the strangest thing anyone had ever done for me-amplified only by the image of two heterosexual males drinking champagne and eating strawberries, which I hate, in a yellow balloon over the hills of southern Vermont. “I didn’t know what the hell to do for you—it seemed like a good idea at the time. Fuck you.” Was his response after I busted his balls about it. “I love you my man.” I said. He said fuck you again in response.
We put him in the ground quickly, went and ate sandwiches and drank coffee, and then I drove home. I thought about Tim and the things he wouldn’t become. A husband, a father, a grandfather; he would forever be a son, a brother, a best friend.
I thought I was dry until a recap of the game came across the radio. Williams said something to the effect of “That night was absolute magic, it was beautiful. I wouldn’t have changed a thing, not a single thing.” It was the only disagreement Williams and I ever had.