The good ol' days

Yesterday, I watched the HBO special Brooklyn Dodgers: The Ghosts of Flatbush, and it brought back memories of, what I like to call, "the good ol' days".

While certainly there were problems, i.e. the threat of an atomic war, wars in Korea and Vietnam, we were united in our resolve to deal with those issues to the benefit of everyone.

It was a time of innocence, when a 10 year old boy or girl, could get on a bus (or in Pittsburgh a street car) by themselves, and go downtown, to the gym in Oakland, the local swimming pool or just about anywhere else, anytime of the day or night, without worrying about anything.

It was a time where you interacted with everyone in your neighborhood, and you had to learn to get along with everyone, whether you liked them or not. We didn't have video games or computers to occupy our time, keeping us in the house, and isolating us from the real world.

It was also a time, and pointed out in this documentary, when ball players played because they truly enjoyed the game, and played for the honor of the city, and for the most part, stayed with one team their entire careers. It was a time when players were part of the community, living amongst the community, and could often be seen at local restaurants or even getting their car washed at my friends family's car wash in East Liberty.

Back then, I actually enjoyed baseball, and went to the vast majority of Pirate home games. Of course it didn't hurt that General Admission tickets cost only $1.50, and the left field bleacher seats were only a $1, and that my father knew most of the ushers in the stadium, allowing me access to better seats without an extra charge.

I can still name every player on the 1960 World Champion Pittsburgh Pirates. Of course it doesn't hurt to have an autographed baseball from the team for reference.

Now I've lost all interest in baseball, and my only connection to the game is that autographed baseball, that sits above me at my desk at home. (I am still an avid Steeler fan though.)

But what jogged my memory so much, in the documentary, was the brief mention of Roberto Clemente.

While he was over shadowed somewhat, during his career, by Willie Mays, in my eyes, Roberto was the better player, and likely the greatest right fielder to ever play the game. (Willie played center field.)

It never ceased to amaze me, and still amazes me to this day, that if the opposing team had a man on 3rd, with less than 2 outs, and a ball was hit to the farthest part of right field (300 feet away), runners would seldom tag up and test his arm, but when they did choose to test his arm, they were typically called out at home plate. There is no one in the game today that holds that sort of power.

What I didn't know, and what this HBO documentary pointed out in referring to Roberto Clemente, was he was the first Latin American ball player. At the time I didn't understand the significance of that, nor am I sure I even know the significance of that fact now, but you know what, I didn't care if he was black, Puerto Rican (which he was) or what ever, all I saw was a great ball player.

Unfortunately he died prematurely, in an airplane crash, in 1972, at the age of 38, while on a humanitarian mission to help Nicaraguan earthquake victims, and it was shortly after that I went to Okinawa, Japan, to serve out my tour of duty in the Army. That's when the world changed for me, and as far as I am concerned, the good ol' days ended.

So matter what happens from this time on, I'll always be able to look back fondly on that time, and know I was fortunate to have lived in what I consider to be the best of times, a time of prosperity, a time of innocence and a time of hope for everyone.

ARRIBA ARRIBA!!