My Hero Number 8
August 22, 2008
Yaz and I go way back. He definitely doesn't remember the day I signed on as his biggest fan, and if he could, he wouldn't give a sh*&t. That's just how Yaz reacts to adoration and he's pretty much always been like that.
When I was 9 years old in Manchester, Connecticut in 1963, Yaz was in the process of winning his first of 3 batting titles, and the Red Sox sucked. Many of my neighbors and friends were Yankee fans and I held on with all my strength to my family's Red Sox heritage, despite 8th and 9th place finishes and a total lack of starpower on the Olde Towne Team. It wasn't easy, as my best friend at the time, Tommy Bailey, was crowing daily about Mantle and Maris and Berra and Whitey. But I had Yaz and the Monster, and goddammit I hated those pinstriped assholes, even then.
When I was 10, I would dream that by some freak happenstance, Yaz would end up at our family dinner table. "Hey Yaz, you want more meatloaf?...I would imitate his swing and mannerisms and even started hitting lefty. I wore number 8 in Little League and right through high school ball. Yaz was my favorite alltime ballplayer and it wasn't close.
In 1967 he achieved greater status in my opinion than anyone who wasn't a Beatle, and the baseball world had to agree that he was the greatest thing since sliced (Big Yaz) bread. I maintain that no player has ever had a greater season than Yaz in '67.
He seemed to go on forever, and finally in 1983, he called it quits. I made it my personal mission to attend both Yaz day and his final game on successive days at the end of that 83 season, and I watched as he circled the park giving fives to every fan he could reach. I wished I had a better seat than rightfield grandstand, but hey, I was there right? Paying props to my boyhood hero, a man who I'd watched for 22 of my 29 seasons as a baseball fan.
I finally met him at a Kahn's hot dog promo table during a food convention at the Hartford CIvic Center. I wasn't in the media, just a fan, in a long line of autograph seekers waiting nervously for my first conversation with the legend. I finally got to the table with my photo of Yaz hitting a home run, and when I got in front of him I didn't know what to say.
"Hey Yaz, jeesh, you're my favorite player of all time!"
I waited for his response...and there was none. He signed the photo and put it back on the table in front of me. I took it and walked away. I was disappointed and stunned that he had no answer to my most heartfelt compliment. Plain and simple, my hero didn't care about me at all.
Years later Yaz did a TV interview with me and he was perfectly polite and I since learned from people who knew him well, that he just wasn't into the people part of being a superstar. But I would have sure been satisfied at that autograph table with a short answer...like "thanks" or "nice to c-ya".
Yaz is 69 years old today and I never forget his birthday. At least not since 1967...August 22, 1939. Smoking and diet and beer may have contributed to his heart condition. Maybe stress and tragedy made it worse. But on the playing field his heart was apparent and worked pretty goddam well. He's still my favorite all time baseball player and I hope he lives forever.
Happy Birthday Yaz and thanks...now pass the f*&king potatoes.
-Mikey Adams
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