Vigil for a Friend

The thread about Jo Jo White’s medical odyssey comes at a particularly poignant time for me.  For a couple of months, I’ve been keeping a sort of vigil of my own for a lifelong hero, mentor, role model and friend.
 
In 1946, when I was age 9, my dad was listening on the radio to the world series between the Red Sox and the Cardinals.  Passing by, I was startled to hear my last name mentioned by the play-by-play announcer.  When I quizzed my dad, he explained that the Sox player was second baseman Bobby Doerr.  Different spelling, but same-sounding last name.  The Sox lost the series, 4-3, but Bobby batted .409 hit a home run, and (as usual) played flawlessly in the  field.
 
In the winter of that year, I absolutely scoured every piece of literature I could get my hands on about baseball, the Red Sox, but most especially Bobby Doerr.  By spring training, 1947, I had amassed a personal Smithsonian-sized wealth of history, statistics, human interest stories, and other knowledge about the national pastime and my new hero.  I would discover only years later that 1947 happened to be the year when Bobby’s beloved wife, Monica, was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis .They had married in 1938, the year after he joined the Red Sox, and they had one son, Don.
 
Instead of caving into the disease, Monica and Bobby vowed not to allow it to change their lives.  So they still drove from Oregon to Sarasota, Florida, spring training and back from Boston to Oregon every year.  He continued his hall-of-fame-bound career as a perennial all-star.  They raised their son.  Monica would go through periods of remission and relapse—sometimes walking with crutches or a cane, sometimes being forced into a wheelchair.  But she mastered her life with the same grace that had charmed Bobby when he spied the red-haired lone teacher at an American Indian school as Bobby was out fishing in his beloved Rogue River in Western Oregon.
 
Bobby played his heart out for a team that always contended but never had the pitching to win a championship.  In a one-game 1948 playoff, he hit a homer, but the Sox lost to the Cleveland Indians.  At the end of the 1949 season, the Sox had a one-game lead over the Yankees, with two games left in Yankee Stadium.  They lost both games, but Bobby hit a two-run triple over Joe DiMaggio’s head to spark a ninth-inning rally that came up just short in the finale.  He was a great clutch hitter, who always hit his best on a 1-2 count.  (That was just one of numerous stats I kept on Bobby, and I would regularly root for him to take a ball and a couple of strikes so he could then unload.)
 
Like several Red Sox of the times Ted Williams, Jimmy Foxx, Joe Cronin, Bobby was a slugger, although his lifetime batting average would be .288.  He was also a magnificent fielder, setting all sorts of second base fielding records (e.g. 73 consecutive games and 414 consecutive chances without an error) that were broken only in later days when gloves were about 50% larger than the one he used.
 
By 1951, Bobby had suffered for two years from a spinal injury, and he retired at age 33 because of the injury and also because he wanted to spend more time with his sun.  He, Monica and Don retired to his ranch (first mink, then chinchillas, then cattle) in Junction City Oregon.  Now the automobile trips of Bobby and Monica were limited primarily to the northeast, especially after 1986, when Bobby was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame.  Every summer, they’d travel to the Hall of Fame induction ceremonies and mingle with other players—past and present.


Bobby became the batting coach for the Red Sox "Impossible Dream" team of 1967.  By mid-June, Carl Yaztrzemski's batting average was mired in the mid-200s and he had two home runs.  Bobby worked with Yaz, encouraging him to hold his bat higher so as to hit slightly down on the ball, giving it a reverse spin that got more air under the ball.  And Yaz won the Triple Crown as tha team went to the world series.
 
I grew up appreciating Bobby as a baseball star.  After he retired, I never ceased my desire to know more about him.  And it turned out that he was even a better person than a baseball player.  He had a reputation of giving every game all he had but never becoming anything but a gentleman.  Yankee great Tommy Henrich once said of Bobby, “He is one of the few who played the game hard and retired with no enemies.”  Ted Williams dubbed Bobby “The Silent Captain” of the Red Sox.  Bobby led, on and off the field, by example and by understated forms of communication.
 
Bobby and Ted Williams were especially close, both having been “discovered” on the same scouting trip by Hall-of-Famer Eddie Collins.  Bob was absolutely the only person who could reason with Ted Williams at Ted’s worst.  The two were practically inseparable during their early days with the Red Sox.  They’d often go out after games for milkshakes; and, if another teammate wanted to go along, Ted would beg off because he wanted Bobby all to himself.  As their playing years rolled by, Bobby, Ted, Dominic DiMaggio, and Johnny Pesky all became buddies (really close, as in talking at least once a week by phone) for 60 years.  I’m not aware of any such phenomenon in all of sports.  Those four became the subject of David Halberstam’s book, “The Teammates.”  If you haven’t read that book, I’m sorry, but your insights into sports and friendship are missing an important perspective.
 
For those who have read “The Teammates,” my best friend, Dick Flavin, is the media guy who drove Dom and Johnny down to Florida in 2002 to visit one last time with Ted, who was dying.  It’s all chronicled in the book, which was written by Halberstam almost wholly on anecdotes he got from my friend.  At the time, Bobby couldn’t make the trip because he was still caring for “Monnie”—regularly bathing her, carrying her upstairs to bed each night and down in the morning, cooking for her, ministering to her every need.  When Monnie died in 2003, they had been married for 66 years—57 of which she had lived with Multiple Schlerosis.
 
In the mid-80s, I arrived home one day and found a package propped up against my garage door.  Inside was framed photo of Bobby, Ted and Dom.  It had been left by my friend, Dick Flavin, who had spotted it in a baseball memorabilia.   Flav’s an extremely well-known television political satirist and sports enthusiast who emcees or speaks at all sorts of events such as baseball writers’ dinners from coast to coast.  Flav had participated in a celebrity golf tournament what had also been attended by Bobby, Ted and Dom.  Flav had dragged the photo along, and he had the three former Red Sox sign it.  There’s a tiny hitch in Ted’s signature, a he was apparently bumped by someone while signing; and I guess Ted went off on a tirade against the poor guy.  But the most arresting thing for me was that Bobby had signed it, “To My Cousin (my name) from Bob Doerr.”  I sent Bobby a note of thanks, and we corresponded for years without actually meeting.  I’d give him news of Boston, and he’d tell me how the steelhead trout were biting.  An, in virtually every letter, we’d jokingly refer to each other as cousins.
 
Anyway, in 1994, Bobby, Dom and Johnny were honored at a banquet at a New Hampshire hotel.  My friend, Flavin, was to be the emcee, and I went with him.  As I was sitting around my room a few hours before the event, I got a call from Flavin.  “What’re you doing,” he asked.”  “Nothing, really.”  “Well meet me in the lobby in five minutes.”  So I did.  Whereup, he took me down a corridor and opened the door of a hospitality suite.  And, sitting there in that room, surrounded by a lot of media types as well as Dom and Johnny, was Robert Pershing Doerr.  I’ll never be able to describe how I felt at that moment because all I can recall was pleading with my legs not to collapse as I crossed the room.  Bobby said to Flavin, “Is this the guy?” (obviously referring to the photo).
 
We had a great half hour together, just the two of us amid all the hubbub of the room.  We talked about Monica’s passing.  I asked about his son, who had become a minor league pitcher who three a no-hitter but never progressed to the majors but became a successful accountant.  The one subject we scarcely touched on was baseball.  (My #1 rule in talking with pros in any walk of life is that they’re people first and don’t need some schmuck like me fawning over their professional status.)
 
To shorten this very long story, we because really good friends.  I’ve visited his home in Oregon twice, and Sally and I took him out to dinner near his home about three years ago.  Flavin and I have attended the annual the Hall of Fame inauguration bash with Bob, Dom and Johnny Pesky, hobnobbing with greats of the past such as Dave Ferris an Robin Roberts an getting a private tour of all the stored HOF memorabilia that no one every sees, such as uniforms (neatly cleaned and pressed) of every Hall of Fame member.  I wore Joe DiMaggio’s glove, but I also had to wear a special thin glove so I wouldn’t contaminate it.
 
He was now “Bob,” not “Bobby” to me because I asked which he preferred.  He now refers to me as “one of the family,” which sends me over the moon.  When he has come into Boston, such as for the 100^th anniversary of Fenway or to see the dedication of the statue of the four “Teammates,” I transport him from and to the airport.  We have relaxed the “rules” a little and do discuss baseball on occasions.  He tells a great story about how Yogi Berra’s thighs were so fat that a Red Sox player on first base could easily steal Yogi’s signal and relay it to the Sox batter.  Closed fist for fast ball and open fist for curve.  And still the Red Sox couldn’t beat those damn Yankees.
 
So, from my youth through my Social Security years, I’ve had the same role model.  Many times, when confronted with a
challenge, I’ve asked myself how Bob would handle it.  He’s been an unfailing rock of my existence on a daily basis.  He’s the oldest living Red Sox player and the oldest living member (in any category) of the Baseball Hall of Fame.
 
And now my beloved friend is nearing the end of the trail.
 
Today is Bob’s 97^th birthday.  He’s in a nursing home because his body (especially that old spinal injury) is letting him down.  He sleeps about 20 hours a day.  The good news is that, when he’s awake, he’s still as sharp as a tack.  His mind has never failed him.


About a month ago, I got a call from one of a network of Red Sox zealots who seem to travel from Red Sox event to Red Sox event; and the word was that Bobby was dying.  Every single day I read the obituary section of the Junction City, Oregon, newspaper, filled with trepidation.  When his name’s not there, I’m on top of the world until the scene plays out again the next day.


A few days ago, I googled Bobby and an obituary dated March 31 hit me REALLY hard.  But it wasn’t a national feed, so I double-checked it, and it turned out it was some cruel hoax.


So, for me, life has turned into a roller coaster ride that, strangely, I hope continues forever.  I understand all the old bromides….that he’s fortunate to have had a great and meaningful life, etc.  My own philosophy is that no one truly dies until everyone whom (s)he has touch in live is also dead.  But, somehow, the usual rationalizations aren’t working.  So I thought I’d mention it and ask that people give my friend, Bob, a thought.
 
Thank you,
 
Bob’s Cousin Sam

Marcus has a signed baseball of his somewhere in his belongings......and he never charged a cent to sign it.

We are all 1 day closer to the end than we were yesterday.

I remember many years ago when my grandmother passed away at the ripe age of 102, aside from family there were really not a lot of people at the calling hours or the funeral, she had outlived many of her friends and family.

Take care Sam, enjoy every day

beat

You're preaching to the choir about enjoying every day, Beat, and I thank you for your words.  I've appreciated a lot of basketball players, but Bob set the bar so high that no one else has ever reached it in my estimation.

Sam

The one thing you have are memories, and that is one of the best things you can hold on to. Over the years Bill and I have buried so, so many young friends and brothers. Sometimes we sit and talk about them, the tears come, and then we laugh. You were a kind friend to Bobby, as my grandmother would say,
THERE WILL ALWAYS BE A PLACE IN HEAVEN FOR YOU

Today is a gift, yesterday is a memory and tomorrow is a promise.

Rosalie

Nicely put, Rosalie.  Well, he made it to his 97th birthday, so he's hanging in there.  And I just completed my daily search of the obituaries in his local newspaper, and he's not in there.  So I can sleep soundly for another night.

I have to say that it was a HUGE boost to watch the Celtics in person with Bobc, Brandon and family, and Futbol from BDC (nice guy).  Their demolition of the starless Cavs may have been the closest to a perfectly played game that I've seen in years.  They were even diving for loose balls in the final minute with a 39 point lead.

Sam

"They were even diving for loose balls in the final minute with a 39 point lead."

Music to my ears. This IS a Celtics team.

W,

I've attended a boatload of Celtics games, including many historic wins home and away, and the commonality between most of them has been unremitting effort.  For me, especially coming during this oasis in the rebuilding process, yesterday's win rekindled memories of that unmatched work ethic.

Sam

Unmatched work ethic....that's the Celtics for you. That said I was happy to hear that for Brad his family is priority 1 followed by the Celts. He spends time with his kids when he gets home and watches film when they're asleep.