Baseball.

The time my dad hung out with The Human Vacuum Cleaner and became best friends.

Mar 16, 2024

The game of baseball is timeless and marked with nostalgia. A lore unlike any other sport, its traditions are honored and tales of the great ones are passed down from generation to generation. Baseball card collections are inherited. Summer vacations are planned around trips to see new ballparks. 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 really 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. Being from South Dakota, my folks didn't really pledge allegiance to any teams. 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, with bringing a loaded firearm to a public school generally frowned upon in the years that I came of age, there wasn't much to pass down in terms of rooting interests.

●●●

I still think Cracker Jacks are gross and 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. And 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. My mom has mentioned he went through a big spiritual awakening while he was there. After a girl dumped me, my mother tried to comfort me with their own love story. She told me he proposed to her at one point, she said no initially, she lost the engagement ring, he went back to Germany and had all his army buddies praying about it, she read an ad in a school newspaper about a lost engagement ring being found, she decided it was a sign from God, and she ultimately agreed to marry him. The details are a little fuzzy, I wasn’t really paying attention.

My dad never bothered with any of that retelling. A lost engagement ring was far less interesting than a lost baseball. 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. Because we never cared about baseball in our house, he was only known to me as "that baseball player that my dad drove around for a week in Germany."

I always just assumed it was some minor leaguer or team mascot. I figured that any serious celebrity wouldn’t bother bumming around in the backroads of Europe. 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.

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

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.

The greatest third baseman of all time.

The Human Vacuum Cleaner.

I had no idea just how big of a deal this guy really was. I have a feeling my dad didn't really either. But for a week, they were road trip buddies. They'd hop from encampment to encampment, visiting as many stationed men and women as possible, always with boxes and boxes of baseballs in the back of the truck.

I’m just imagining my dad eating snacks. Telling stories. Driving too fast. Getting annoyed in traffic. Pulling over because his “teeth are floating.” All with Brooks chilling in the front seat.

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?

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

"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, that question was answered. My dad was going through a bunch of old boxes, gradually decluttering since the kids were out of the house. An inevitable move in my parent's retirement years was creeping closer and closer.

And there it was. The Ball.

At least, well, it had to be The Ball. What other ball could it be?

It wasn't quite so clear. The years had patinaed the calfskin and faded the 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 make something out in green ink:

"To Randy

Best of Luck

Brooks Robinson”

My dad was pretty bummed. He gave me The Ball during a trip to my place with kind of a shrug.

"Well, you can't really read it, but here's The Ball."

I was stunned, I couldn't believe I finally had the long-lost ball in my hands. I was probably more visibly upset than my dad about the state of the signature.

About a week later I heard that one of my favorite hockey players was signing autographs, the only problem was it was over 7 hours away in Denver. There was a travelling display making stops outside of various NHL arenas prior to home games. One of the events was a meet and greet with retired players that still lived in the area and had nothing else to do. I didn't need to go to the game, but I desperately wanted to meet Milan Hejduk. My wife came up with the idea of picking up my dad in Grand Island and turning it into a father-son road trip. It was the kind of thing my dad would be all about. Sitting in a car all day, not really doing anything once we arrive, and then sitting in a car again.

We had 15 hours worth of windshield time, so in between my dad getting stressed about the moisture on the road, I asked for a refresher on The Ball that I now had in my basement. The story hadn't changed much, just the ending.

And then I had an idea.

●●●

My boss is an avid baseball fan (the type I can't relate to) and an even more avid autograph collector (the type I can). I had told him about The Ball and he mourned its state, though he said that this kind of thing tends to happen. There's a reason a lot of hardcore autograph guys don't really collect balls. If they do, they live in darkness. Locked away in hopes of preservation from the horrors of UV rays and oxidation. And, as demonstrated, even then time can be a real bastard to an autographed baseball.

My dad took a leg driving. I sent out a text.

"I really want to get my dad a new Brooks ball, do you know how to get him?”

"Hold on, give me a sec to check something... oh yeah, this is easy. He signs TTM."

"TTM?"

"Through the mail. You can just send something to him, and he'll autograph it and send it back."

"For free?"

“Yeah, Brooks is awesome. A lot of old timers won't, but Brooks is a sweetheart.”

"No way, can I pay you to send him a ball for me?”

"No man, I got this. I'm excited. This is the kind of thing that gets me going.”

More or less.

●●●

My boss didn’t actually send him a ball. He had a buddy in his circle of autograph collectors that owed him a favor and this guy had more experience mailing baseballs. Proper packaging and return postage are often a lesson learned the hard way in this hobby, and my boss didn't want to leave anything up to chance. A few months later during a business trip, while in line to board a Southwest Airlines flight, Steve pulled out a bulging Ziploc bag.

"To Randy,

Best Luck

Brooks Robinson”

I asked Brooks to sign the exact same message as the original ball, but he kind of fucked that up. Good enough.

I had a new Ball.

●●●

I found a top-of-the line UV protected glass case that would display two baseballs with an engraved plaque that said "Brooks Robinson.” I ordered it as a Christmas present. They forgot the plaque, but the case looked cool. 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. I took a video, which consisted of my dad going, “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."

So, I got another idea.

●●●

My boss had since shared his login info for "SportsCollectors.net,” the internet database where creeps and fanboys track down celebrity addresses and crowd source them in order to try to get autographs. It's pretty awesome.

Using this website has three main steps:

1. Search the name of any public figure you can think of

2. Check if they've ever had mail sent their way

3. Check if they’ve ever returned their mail and how recently

People tend to sign autographs in spurts. Some get sick of it and take a break or stop doing it altogether. Some have what’s called a “secretarial signature,” which is when someone else opens their mail and forges their name. Some charge a fee, others sign for free, others get sick of signing for free and decide to start charging a fee. It takes a little bit to get the hang of decoding the information, but once you figure it out you have a pretty good idea of which persons of interest are worth going after and which you’re better off eBay hunting. Brooks’ data was always consistent. His reputation amongst this internet community of autograph seekers was sterling.

I was hooked. Within a few months I had greatly increased the value of my hockey puck collection (as long as you conveniently choose not to think of all the money you've spent on stamps and the likelihood that many of the signatures are fake, which I do). I'd gotten pretty good at the intricacies of prioritizing which public figures are most likely to return an autographed item and which ones you'd be better off saving your bubble mailers and $2 stamps. Brooks got tons of traffic but always returned.

I wrote Brooks a letter. I told him much of what I've told here. The story hadn’t changed much, just the ending. I concluded with a question:

"Do you remember my dad?

I also asked him to autograph a hockey puck for my own purposes. It's kind of weird, but it's my thing. Nine days later, I know from my website, a package came back. Inside was one of the few autographed Brooks Robinson hockey pucks in existence alongside a note.

"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.

My Best,

Brooks Robinson"

What a great fucking line.

●●●

I folded up the letter so the entirety of the text could fit in a 4" x 6" frame and presented it to my dad the next 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, at least not one that stuck around decades later, 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.

●●●

That next morning, my favorite local sports radio show had a segment in tribute to Brooks. They told their own Brooks Robinson stories, all heard second hand. One involved ESPN personality Scott Van Pelt and a long-lost baseball.

I had one of those too.

I searched for the 1-800 number and called the radio station. The producer told me they had an upcoming interview, but if I called back after they would have more time. This gave me a window to send my dad a text and instruct him to tune to AM1620.

I told the same story again. The story hadn't changed much, just the ending.

Afterward my dad sent me a text.

"That was very special."

To translate, my dad was pretty fucking touched.

Not just by me, but also by the Human Vacuum Cleaner.

●●●

I had about three different ways to conclude this essay in mind, but as I wrote one, another idea would come. Even after his death, it seems that I'm just now learning who Brooks was. And I still haven't watched a single highlight.

I looked up his address one last time. Brooks died on September 26th. 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 he enjoyed watching each one being opened.