By C.S. Beaty
As Told By C.S. Beaty
As Told By C.S. Beaty: Baseball
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As Told By C.S. Beaty: Baseball

A long-lost baseball and becoming best friends with a Hall of Famer
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For the whole story, you should read this instead:

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The game of baseball is timeless and marked with nostalgia. More so than any other sport, tales of the greats are passed down from generation to generation. The modern inheritance is Topps cards of noteworthy sluggers. Kids learn to play catch in their backyards with their dads, all along imagining they’ll be the next legend.

My family didn't give a shit about any of that.

We didn't care about any sport other than Husker football, and my parents only absorbed that fandom through osmosis. They moved to Nebraska in 1980 and had absolutely nothing else to get excited about when they made the decision to settle down in the least interesting town in a flyover State. My folks are from South Dakota and don’t have allegiance to any professional sports team I can think of. My dad grew up storing a shotgun in his locker and going hunting before and after school. My mom was raised in a strict Catholic home where fun was illegal. So, since bringing a loaded firearm to a public school was generally frowned upon in the years that I came of age, my dad didn’t influence my sports interests much.     

●●●

Cracker Jacks are gross, and I have a hard time naming more than a few active players, but there was one story of America's pastime that my Father entrusted me with. The fact that we cared so little about baseball makes it all the more cherished to me.

Growing up, I annually heard some version of the following story:

When my dad graduated high school, he joined the army and was almost immediately stationed in Germany. His first job in Germany was driving staff cars. He was the chauffeur for a handful of visiting dignitaries and important generals, but the real thrill was driving around a baseball player whose name I could never remember. He was only known to me as "that baseball player that my dad drove around for a week in Germany."

I always assumed it was some minor leaguer or team mascot. A serious celebrity wouldn’t spend a week in the backroads of Europe without a publicist and a documentary crew in tow. Likely it was the kind of person that just wanted a free vacation or an easy way to make himself feel more famous. Cool story Dad.

I eventually remembered the player’s name long enough to Google it. Turns out I was wrong.     

It was 1983 Baseball Hall of Famer Brooks Robinson.

  • 18x All Star.

  • 2x World Series Champ.

  • 16x Golden Glove Winner.

  • American League MVP.

  •  World Series MVP.

  • His number 5 retired by the Baltimore Orioles

  •  The greatest third baseman of all time.

  •  The Human Vacuum Cleaner.

This guy was a big deal. I had no idea. I suspect, based on the story I’d heard, my dad didn’t either. But for a week, they were road trip buddies. They had an aggressive schedule and covered as much of Germany as the United States military had. They hung out with American troops, always with boxes and boxes of baseballs in the back of the truck.

I’m imagining my dad on a regular drive, it couldn’t have been much different from our family road trips –telling stories, getting annoyed in traffic, pulling over to go to the bathroom after declaring that his “teeth are floating.” But this time, Brooks is chilling in the front seat.  My dad probably let him mess with the radio though.

By the end of their time together, my dad (a man who doesn't get star-struck) was (dare I say) Brooks’ friend. How could he not have been? This is unsubstantiated, but after 7 days in the car together you tell me you don’t know a person like they’re family.

My dad never requested one of those balls, but as their time together neared its end, Brooks tossed him one, it read:

"To Randy

Best of Luck

Brooks Robinson"

●●●

Over the years, the baseball was lost. This tale always ended with my dad slightly shaking his head.

“I wish I knew where that ball ended up."

One day, he found it. My dad was going through a bunch of old boxes and there it was. The Ball.

At least, well, it had to be The Ball. I didn’t, like, DNA test it or anything, but there weren’t any other baseballs floating around that I knew of that were signed 50-odd years ago, tossed to my dad, who subsequently tossed it into a random box. Time had led to patinated calfskin and faded ballpoint ink. But if you held the ball up just right, kind of squinted a bit, and used your imagination to fill in the blanks, you could just barely string together:

"To Randy

Best of Luck

Brooks Robinson”

I had an idea.

●●●

My boss is the kind of man I cannot relate to. He’s a baseball fan. For my idea though, we needed to find some common ground. I told him about The Ball, and he woefully mourned its state, though he said that this kind of thing tends to happen. Hardcore baseball guys don’t collect signed baseballs.      If they do, they live locked away in darkness with the hopes of preserving them from the horrors of UV rays and oxidation. And even then, time can be a real bastard to an autographed baseball.

Months later, on a random day, at a random time, this overly zealous baseball fanatical mild mannered regional manager handed me a Ziploc bag with a baseball inside.

It read:

"To Randy,

Best Luck

Brooks Robinson”

Good enough.

My dad had a new Ball.

●●●

I ordered a top-of-the line UV protected glass case that would display two baseballs with an engraved plaque that said "Brooks Robinson.” In went The Old Ball and The New Ball. Side by side.  Wrapped and placed under the tree until my dad opened it in our living room on Christmas Day. My dad opened it and said, “humph. That’s pretty cool."

To translate, my dad was pretty fucking stoked.

He soaked it in for a moment, and then said,

"I wonder if he still remembers me. I mean we spent a week together driving all over Germany."

I had another idea.     

●●●

"SportsCollectors.net,” is the internet database where creeps and fanboys track down celebrity addresses and crowd source them in order to send them mail and try to get autographs. It's pretty awesome – even if you’re not a creep or a fanboy. I am, but if you’re not, it’s an okay place for you too.

Brooks’ reputation among SportsCollectors.net’s creeps, fanboys, and totally normal dudes was sterling. In autograph lingo, Brooks got tons of traffic but always returned. But if you’re a normal person, that means lots of people sent him mail requesting his signature and he would send those items back. After all, old people like Brooks love old things like the United States Postal Service.

I wrote Brooks a letter and concluded with a question:

"Do you remember my dad?”

Nine days later, a package came back with a note inside:    

"Chris,

I certainly remember being in Germany and riding in a jeep & signing a lot of balls.

I’m sorry I don’t remember your dad.

Please tell him when we meet again, I won’t forget it.

[as an aside What a great fucking line.]

My Best,

Brooks Robinson"

●●●

I framed the letter and presented it on Father's Day. I’m sure it was a bit of a bummer, but you couldn't deny how great of a guy Brooks was. Even after admitting to someone they didn't leave much of an impression, he still found a way to make a new connection. A promise that I truly believe he intends to make good on.

There's something unnatural about celebrity. I don't believe human beings are meant to be famous. Parents advise against idolizing public figures since much of their fame is built on frivolity, narcissism, self-absorption, and dumb luck. But like anything, there are ways to use fame for good.

I don't know what Brooks' core beliefs were, but I know for sure that he cared about people. The kind of man that would spend a week with no press, driving around Germany handing out baseballs. The kind of man that recognized that his driver wouldn’t mind one of those baseballs, but he likely won’t ask for it since he was on the clock. The kind of man that treated that driver with such care and respect, that he would wonder decades later if he had made the same connection with him that Brooks did. The kind of man that would want to make a new connection, even when that answer was no.

I don't know what Kanye West or Deion Sanders are like in person, but I have a pretty good guess. The world needs more Brooks Robinsons.

●●●

On September 26th, 2023, at the age of 85, Brooks Robinson passed away. Celebrity deaths don't typically bother me. When you enter the realm of fame, you trade aspects of your humanity in exchange for a larger platform. I'm not supposed to relate to you as a person, but as a symbol of something you represent. This can be a good way of making money, but not a particularly good way of making people care about you.

 But that night in my basement, I had a personal moment of silence for Brooks.

●●●

Even after his death, it seems that I'm just learning who Brooks was. And I still haven't watched a single highlight.

I opened up a browser and typed in “www.Sportscollectors.net” to look up his address one last time. Brooks died on September 26th, 2023. The last person that successfully received his autograph mailed an item to him on September 18th. Six people received their item back from Brooks after he had already passed.

I bet Brooks enjoyed watching each one being opened. I bet to each person opening their mail, the item was more than just an autograph. I bet it felt more like getting a letter from an old friend. 

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By C.S. Beaty
As Told By C.S. Beaty
My name is Chris Beaty and I like to tell stories. Some of my stories are funny. Some of them are dumb But if I do it right, they're all entertaining. This is stuff that happened to me, I think you might like it.