A Day Early, a Late Reminiscence

Clare and I went to the wrong White Sox game. If we’d waited a day, we could’ve seen homeruns from Andrew Vaughn and Yoan Moncada, along with a White Sox win over the Diamondbacks. Two wins against the Padres, and we don’t lose 100. Fingers crossed. Brooks Robinson died at age eighty-six on Tuesday. I have a running argument with a benighted Cubs’ fan as to who’s better, Robinson or Mike Schmidt. Some people like power, which Schmidt provided with 548 homeruns. Some people like durability and defense. Robinson played twenty-three seasons to Schmidt’s eighteen, winning sixteen Gold Gloves vs. ten for Schmidt. And he didn’t benefit from the true-hop of AstroTurf infields nearly as much as Schmidt did. Granted, Robinson only hit 268 homers, but he came within 238 RBIs of the 1595 Schmidt totaled. I rest my case. My strongest memory of Robinsons dates to a summer’s night in August of 1964; I was twelve. My grandmother lived a few blocks from us on 54th Street with her widowed daughter. Whenever my aunt went on vacation, the grandkids took turns sleeping over at Grandma’s, why, I don’t know. The odds of me striking fear into the heart of a would-be robber were pretty slim. My grandmother was a different story. I once saw her chase off a scam artist who was trying to bully her into signing up for a new roof. She was in her eighties by then. Anyway, when it was my turn, I brought a transistor radio along to listen to the Sox play the Orioles; the radio whispered one Robinson exploit after another. Baltimore was in town for four games, and won three of them. Robinson went 8-for-16 with two homers, six RBIs and five runs scored. The Sox lost the pennant that year to the Yankees by one miserable game. One more win against New York would’ve done it. Or one more against Brooks Robinson and his Orioles would’ve meant a tie. But the 1964 AL MVP wouldn’t let it happen.