Seeing Home, page 13
I promised Delilah that I’d cut back on my baseball schedule once the season began to spend more quality time with her. I meant it. With the two boys, Dee would need all the help she could get. Baseball could go on the back burner. She was more important to me than anything else. By walking away from the game for a bit, I wanted to show my wife that my love for her and for my family superseded my love for baseball. I might not be able to give Delilah lots of money, but I could give her my time and full attention; surely that would help.
The culmination of Dee’s depression came a few months later when—without letting me know—she left home while I was at work to fly to Texas with our children. Loretta had moved to Austin to be near her new husband’s family, so Dee followed her sister for a respite from New Jersey and our marriage.
I was understandably furious, but decided to respond in a quiet, loving way. I called her and said only three words: “What’s going on?” I let Dee vent for almost an hour, uninterrupted. It was productive for me to hear. When she finished, I told her how much I loved her and how much our relationship meant to me.
I asked Dee what I could do to make her feel better, to be a better husband to her. She replied that she had no idea. I suggested counseling with our pastor. I also assured her that if she came back as soon as she could, we would work together to find the solution to her woes and to strengthen our marriage. She agreed and got on the next plane.
Before she got home, I made a silent vow: My next order of business, before I did anything else, would be to do the one thing that my parents had never been able to do.
I was going to buy a house.
7
* * *
Cold Cuts and Hot Feet: My Life in the Clubhouse
In 1965, President Lyndon B. Johnson initiated a series of social reform programs he dubbed The Great Society. One of these involved providing assistance and funds to help disabled people purchase a home. As soon as I realized that I wanted to be a homeowner, I submitted my application. As with many government programs, there are lots and lots of hoops and red tape that you have to get through before actually reaching the goal. I was very close to the end of the process in 1971 when one last roadblock appeared. This one would be almost impossible to surmount without assistance. Luckily, I’d made a few influential friends at the ballpark.
Presidents Kennedy and Johnson were in office just as my baseball career began. They very rarely got to games, so I never met them. Over the years, however, I did have the opportunity to chat with several of the men who occupied the White House.
President George H. W. Bush was the captain of the Yale baseball team in the 1940s. He was a big baseball fan, and often went to ballgames. I was in the National League clubhouse at the All Star Game in Toronto in 1991 when the Secret Service came in, unannounced, to clear the room of everyone but the players and coaches. I was headed out the door with the crowd when National League president Bill White, Mr. Rizzuto’s longtime on-air partner with the Yankees, grabbed me and said, “Not you, Ed.” A moment later, President Bush walked in with former Canadian prime minister Pierre Trudeau. White introduced me to both men. Mr. Bush shook my hand and called me an inspiration to all baseball fans. One of the players stuck a ball in my other hand and urged me to get Bush to autograph it. I reluctantly asked him, and he complied. It was only later, in the press box, that my guide told me the president had signed the ball in green ink, for some odd reason.
His son, George W. Bush, was managing general partner of the Texas Rangers before he won the presidency in 2000. The younger Bush actually traveled to Yankee Stadium with the Rangers on several occasions. I was in the hallway outside Mr. Steinbrenner’s office one night in the early 1990s when “W” stopped to ask me what I thought of the Rangers’ roster that season. We immediately hit it off. When he returned to Yankee Stadium as president to throw out the first pitch at the 2001 World Series, shortly after the September 11 attacks, I couldn’t get near him to talk, but he waved and nodded in my direction as we passed in the tunnels below the Stadium.
President Clinton moved to New York after his term of office in Washington was done. He spent a lot of time at both Yankee Stadium and Shea Stadium, so I ran into him quite often. Clinton wasn’t a historian of the sport, like the Bushes, but he could hold his own. What struck me the most about him was his boisterous laugh. Also, as others have said of him, President Clinton made me feel like I was the only person in the world he wanted to talk to at that moment.
But the commander-in-chief whom I got to know best was Richard Nixon.
In between the time that he lost to John F. Kennedy in the 1960 presidential election and the time he came back to win it all in 1968, Richard Nixon moved to New York City to practice law. He was also a big baseball fan. During those years, Nixon became a fixture at Yankee Stadium. His usual spot at the games was in the owner’s box, just a few feet away from where I sat. We would often talk baseball, and he knew his stuff. After his presidency ended, Mr. Nixon would travel from his home in Upper Saddle River, New Jersey, to attend Yankee games. One of the greatest moments I ever experienced was when President Nixon tapped me on the shoulder in the middle of an inning. I stood up, took my headphones off, and stopped listening to the game. “Excuse me, Ed,” Nixon said, “I don’t mean to interrupt the game for you, but I just finished reading your article about Yogi Berra and had to tell you at once how much I enjoyed it. You and Yogi gave me some pretty good laughs just now!”
The article the president was referring to was in that month’s Yankee scorecard magazine. I’d written a column in that issue about the time that Yogi and I stood around the batting cage talking about rookie players. I happened to mention to him that one of the youngsters could hit, throw, and catch skillfully with both hands. Berra’s response to me was, “Man oh man, I’d give my right arm to be ambidextrous!” That was typical Yogi.
Gene Mehl happened to be my guide the day that President Nixon approached me. In a hasty attempt to capture the moment, Gene reached into his inside jacket pocket for his camera. Before he knew it, three Secret Service agents moved him away from me and the president. They wanted to be sure that it was only a camera he was going to shoot us with.
Gene never got his picture.
When our conversation was over, I shook President Nixon’s hand, and proudly said, “Thank you, sir. It’s an honor to get a compliment like that from you.”
He continued, “I always look forward to your articles, Ed. Keep ’em coming. If there’s anything you ever need, just let me know.” I appreciated the offer, intending never to have to call on him for help unless it became completely necessary.
It turned out that I did.
BY THE TIME my application for Lyndon Johnson’s mortgage assistance program for the disabled had gotten to the approval stage in 1971, Richard Nixon had been president for two years. New administrations often try to put their stamp on the country by rolling back or reshaping their predecessor’s programs, and this is exactly what happened under Nixon. He and Congress put a freeze on many of the Great Society funds. I wasn’t too worried. My application had been submitted long before the reverses were enacted, so I was told I was grandfathered in. The funds were supposed to be guaranteed for me. Knowing that, I’d already made a bid on a house on the west side of Jersey City.
The clerk in charge of approving my loan, however, wasn’t so certain.
I was at work on the afternoon of Monday, May 3, when I received a call from a man at the Federal Office Building in Newark, New Jersey. He was phoning to let me know that I couldn’t have the loan from the government due to the Nixon rollbacks. I calmly explained my grandfather clause to him. Still, he wouldn’t budge. We went back and forth for over an hour discussing the fine points of government programs. Both of us felt strongly that we were right. My frustration was leading to anger when I decided to put a succinct end to the debate. “What’s the bottom line here?” I said. “I only have a few days to complete my bid on this house, and I don’t want to lose it. What would it take to get this loan approved?”
I could hear the sarcasm and self-satisfied snark dripping from the other end of the line as the clerk smugly replied, “The only way you are getting this money from us, Mr. Lucas, is if the president of the United States himself calls me and tells me that it’s okay.”
I broke into a huge grin that he couldn’t see from his side of the call. “Thank you very much.” I hung up the receiver to disconnect. A second later, I picked it up and dialed the White House.
The next morning, as I was getting ready for work, our doorbell rang repeatedly. I asked who it was at such an early hour. I recognized the nervous voice on the other side of the door right away. It was my telephone debate partner from the day before. A phone call wouldn’t do. This clerk drove all the way from Newark to personally hand me papers with presidential approval for a loan in whatever amount I needed. He said very little to me, with the exception of humble apologies that continued from the time he walked up the front steps to our apartment until he got back to his car.
Dee and I were now the proud owners of our very own home.
We closed the deal on Friday, May 14, and moved in on the following Monday. It wasn’t a mansion, but was just enough for us. The house was on Nunda Avenue, which is a dead-end street that borders a large county park. It was perfect for the boys to explore and play. There were three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and two levels. The bus stopped just up the street, so my commute was made a lot easier.
One of the other things I wanted to do for Dee now that she was back home was to get her a car. With a little help from Mr. Kusick, double shifts at work, and other small sacrifices, we were able to buy a family-sized station wagon. I also paid for Dee to take driving lessons.
One night, shortly after we moved in, Eddie called me into his room. It was long past his bedtime, but he was full of energy. He wanted me to read a few pages from his favorite Disney storybook. This is a rite of passage that almost all parents share as their children grow up. I desperately wanted to experience it, too, but I was prevented by my limitations. I offered to recite a fairy tale for Eddie from memory, but he was insistent. He wanted to read the book along with his father. I was trying to come up with another way to satisfy him when Dee burst into the room to find out why there was such commotion. Eddie said, “I want Daddy to read me a story and he doesn’t want to!” Dee said, “He’s blind, he can’t read it. Your father will never be able to read books to you!”
I was sure that she didn’t mean any harm with her remark, but I was crushed.
Around the same time, I began to notice that Kay was slowing down. Dogs usually have a ten- to twelve-year life span, which is great for the families that love them. Even when they naturally start to age and lose vision or mobility, pets are usually allowed to live out their days curling up quietly at their master’s feet. For Seeing Eye dogs, it’s quite different. As working dogs, they are subjected to the same chronological limitations as athletes. Thirty-five or forty is considered young in human years, but baseball players see their skills deteriorate so fast at that age that even the best choose to gracefully retire. Seeing Eye dogs at a comparable age in dog years can’t climb steps or move at the same pace as their master, making them no longer fit to work. This heartbreaking realization came to me when Kay couldn’t repeat even simple tasks that she’d done thousands of times. I had to make the tough decision to retire her and to take on a new partner.
I called the Seeing Eye. Our house was too small to be able to keep Kay and a new dog, even if I wanted to. They suggested that I bring her back to happily live out her retirement years on their farm with another owner. I went back to the Seeing Eye for my second dog. Eddie and Chris were still too young to feel the loss like most kids would, but Kay was more than my pet, she was an extension of me. I wondered if I’d be able to welcome and adapt to a new partner. Would the heartache end?
Three weeks later, I left the Seeing Eye with my new dog, Flo. She was a black Labrador. Flo moved at a different pace. Kay would stop on a dime at street corners. Flo would reduce speed as she approached the same corners. Flo was noticeably slower. Their training was exactly the same, but all dogs—like humans—have different personalities and styles. I had no choice but to adjust to her. Months after Flo came to live with us, I was still slipping up and calling her Kay. I loved my new dog, but felt the loss of my partner of over a decade, and it made me sad.
To cheer me up, several friends and family members came over to meet Flo and to bring housewarming gifts for her, Dee, and the boys.
I’d already been blessed in my life with a great gift, a sense of humor. I used it as a way to get through dark moments. My visitors knew this, so we spent hours trading punch lines, laughing long into the evening. It was just the tonic I needed.
ONE OF THE people who was the most supportive during that time was also, without a doubt, the funniest man I’ve ever met.
Jerry Molloy was the living definition of the cheery Irishman, always ready with a joke. He was a Hudson County legend, not only for his encyclopedic memory of great comic lines, but also for his role as a baseball and basketball coach for three different local teams. Jerry held the New Jersey record for wins with over one thousand at each school. The guy was tireless.
He had such a great sense of humor that Jerry was an extremely popular after-dinner speaker. Eventually, New Jersey named him toastmaster general, an honorary post that took him all over the state entertaining crowds. Jerry definitely knew how to make me, and everyone else who crossed his path, laugh. He also encouraged me to develop my own banquet speech, one that would highlight my life in baseball and all that I’d accomplished since my accident.
To give me firsthand experience, Jerry would take me along with him to speaking engagements. We traveled to breakfasts, luncheons, and dinners from Cape May to Mahwah. I was learning from the master, filling my repertoire with jokes for all occasions to help round out my presentation. We usually wound up back in Jerry’s hometown of Hoboken after we were done. He would bring me to a social club to hang out with his best friends Dolly and Marty, who just also happened to be the parents of my favorite singer, Frank Sinatra.
One night, we came home extremely late from a dinner in central Jersey. Jerry was the emcee. He spent hours after the affair ended chatting with admirers and giving advice about speaking. By the time we got back to Jersey City, it was pitch dark. Jerry drove down my block, pulled up to the house, and began walking me to the front steps. I knew right away that something was amiss. My house had steps leading down, this staircase was going up. I stopped Jerry and said, “This is wrong.”
He asked me how I could possibly know that if I couldn’t see where we were. He insisted that I was mistaken. When I explained, Jerry took out a match and read aloud the number on the mailbox. I started laughing. “Jerry, that’s three numbers away from my house; I’m telling you this isn’t the right place.” He sheepishly agreed.
When he finally brought me to my steps, I turned around and asked, “Would you like me to drive you home, too, Jerry?”
A few months after that, Jerry was booked to speak at a Knights of Columbus pancake breakfast in Camden. It was about one hundred miles south of Jersey City. There was no such thing as satellite GPS back then. Jerry was hopelessly lost. After driving around in circles, we finally pulled up to a banquet hall, but Jerry still wasn’t sure if it was the correct location. He left the car running, got out, and said, “Stay here, Ed, I’m going to head inside and see if it’s the K of C breakfast. If it is, I’ll come right back for you.”
Forty-five minutes later, I heard him shouting, “I’m so sorry, Eddie!” as he dashed in a panic toward the car.
When Jerry had entered the hall to see if he was in the right place, they immediately escorted him to the dais because it was his turn to speak. Jerry was so flustered that he completely forgot about me. Three-quarters of the way into his talk, he stopped midjoke and screamed, “Holy smokes! I’ve got to get back to the parking lot!”
We both used that story in our speeches for years.
I wasn’t going to the ballpark much, because I’d made my promise to Dee. I missed baseball, but the respite came at the right time. The Yankees were in an uncharacteristically horrible slump. After decades of being the gold standard in sports, the team had fallen hard. The farm system was decimated, legends like Mickey Mantle had retired without suitable replacements, and the league had expanded. From 1965 to 1972, the Bronx Bombers wound up at or close to the bottom of the standings. This was bad for fans, but even worse for freelance writers and broadcasters like me who covered the team. The formerly hapless Mets were now the toast of the town. I still hadn’t made many connections with the Mets, so I didn’t enjoy as much access with them as I did with the Yankees. Nobody was buying stories about the Yankees unless they involved scandals or slinging mud, and that just wasn’t my style.
Nevertheless, I nurtured my love for the game in other ways.
My son Eddie was now old enough to be able to play baseball in the backyard with me. My father bought Eddie a kid-sized Wiffle ball and bat for his fifth birthday. As soon as the first nice weekend day came along, Eddie begged me to go outside and play with Grandpa’s gift. I couldn’t wait.
Dee had gone out shopping with Chris to get him new shoes that day, so it was just me and Eddie alone in the backyard. We used the house as a backstop. I set Eddie up at a makeshift home plate. I walked a few feet away and told him to say something so I’d know in which general direction to throw the soft plastic Wiffle ball. After more than a few tries, Eddie connected.
My son got his first hit!
Other than the cries of Eddie and Chris when they were born, this was the sweetest sound I’d heard in years.
