My Dad once told me, “You’ll know you’re getting older when the Major Leaguers start looking like kids.” He was right. But I now have an addendum: You’ll really start feeling old when your boyhood baseball heroes die. Unfortunately, that happened again just recently.

Frank Robinson was a young star on the favorite team of my youth, the Cincinnati Reds, at the same time I became a rabid fan of the game. He was in the initial seasons of what would become a Hall of Fame career. For the record, “Robby” finished his days as a player with a .294 batting average, 1,812 RBIs, and 586 home runs. He is also the only player to win the Most Valuable Player award in both the National and American leagues.

Frank was always described as a power hitter, a fast and graceful outfielder, and definitely a hard-nosed competitor. He frequently got hit by pitches because he stood so close to the batter’s box to intimidate pitchers. (I tried to emulate that stance when I first played, but quickly changed after being hit by a pitch from Bill Weeks whom I swear had a major league fastball at the age of eight.)

I haven’t mentioned Robinson was black and played during the Civil Rights era. That usually slips my mind because it certainly didn’t matter to me. It never occurred to my young eyes he didn’t have the same color of skin I did. He simply hit home runs and ran down fly balls better than anybody I got to see in person on a regular basis.

On the last day of the 1965 season, Dad and I were at Crosley Field, mainly because we had heard rumors that Frank might be traded in the off-season. He banged a double off the top of the left field wall in his last at-bat as a Red. The less-than-prescient owner of the Reds at the time called Frank “an old 30” and dealt him to the Orioles. In 1966, Robinson was the best player in his new league and led Baltimore to a World Series victory.

My other favorite player then was Vada Pinson. Vada was the Reds’ centerfielder when Frank roamed right field for the team. The two played professionally together for about nine years, but had been good friends since going to the same high school in California.

Which brings me to my good friend Bill T. from high school. He had an encounter with Frank (also one of his childhood favorites) that speaks volumes about our mutual hero’s devotion to the game he loved.

As an historical preface to that story, you need to know Frank became the first African-American major league manager (Cleveland Indians, 1975). He went on to helm more than 2,000 games for several teams, and then was an executive for not only MLB, but for the Orioles as well. It was in that last capacity that my friend met him.

Bill went to a Kansas City Royals’ game on a rain-threatening afternoon with his baseball-loving 13-year-old son Brian. The Royals were playing the Orioles before a scant crowd. Nobody cared if they moved their seats down closer to the field. My friend and his son ended up just a few rows behind the Orioles’ dugout. After getting settled, Bill saw four empty rows ahead of them and one man sitting in the fifth one. He turned to Brian and said, “See that guy? I think that’s Frank Robinson.”

Now, Brian had heard all about Frank from his dad. The rain picked up a bit, but the game continued. Bill, having brought two umbrellas, decided to offer one to Frank. Robinson politely thanked him but declined.

An inning or so later, Bill went to get hot dogs. When he came back, Frank and Brian were sitting together under an umbrella talking baseball. When Bill asked his son what he was doing, Brian said, “Mr. Robinson invited us to sit with him.”

Frank told Brian to think like a manager. “Okay, Brian, you’ve got a guy on first with one out. He can run fast, and you’ve got a good contact hitter at the plate. Do you have the runner steal, or put on the hit-and-run sign?” Bill wished the afternoon would never end. His son was enraptured, and today is the head coach of a southern Georgia high school baseball team.

Frank Robinson suffered the slings and arrows of racism all throughout his career. I hope at least some of those were deflected by knowing how much joy he brought to a legion of fans who just saw him as #20.

 

©MMXIX. William J. Lewis, III – Freelance Writer