Sunday August 16 marks the 38th anniversary of
Elvis Presley’s death. I realize that his influence on music was monumental, but I
don’t really have any strong feelings or poignant memories specifically about
Elvis.
The one exception, though, is the day he died in 1977. Each
year when this date comes, it sparks a very specific memory for me.
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| Credit: www.albumartexchange.com |
I was 12 years old. That day, my two brothers and I drove
with our parents to Wisconsin to watch a Milwaukee Brewers baseball game. I
recall being in the backseat of my father’s car – likely in the middle given my
birth order – when the news report of Elvis’ death came on the radio.
The Brewers game was over. They lost as I recall. We were
driving along slowly through heavy traffic outside County Stadium when the
announcer said Elvis died that afternoon. He was found unresponsive in the
bathroom of his home in Memphis, Tennessee.
He was 42 years old. The King was dead.
I remember my parents talking about this in the front seat.
My brothers and I rode in silence, each of them slouched against the windows,
me slumped back against the seat during the 90-minute drive home watching the white
highway lights and green road signs float past.
In spite of the Elvis news, it had been a great day. At that age, baseball was my life. My
Dad’s brother was the head of marketing for the Milwaukee Brewers, and he
regularly got us tickets. Two
years earlier – on July 15, 1975 – we attended the All-Star Game at County
Stadium courtesy of Uncle Dick. This entire experience was literally the
highlight of my childhood.
We sat just rows behind the first base dugout where I was
able to see all of my heroes up close – Joe Morgan, Vida Blue, Johnny Bench,
Steve Garvey, Rollie Fingers, Rod Carew, Reggie Jackson, Carl Yastrzemski,
Catfish Hunter and others.
They were all there, along with Chicago Cubs third baseman
Bill Madlock, the eventual co-MVP of the game, which the National League won
6-3, aided by Madlock’s key two-run single.
A Rose By Any Other
Name
Last fall I was able to revisit this baseball memory for a
few moments by meeting someone who not only attended the game, but also played
in it – Pete Rose.
I was at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas
returning from a work trip. I strolled through the crowded waiting area by the
gate looking for a seat before my flight home to Chicago.
As I sat down in those classically uncomfortable, thinly
padded waiting area seats, I looked up to see Rose directly across from me. He
was dressed in a funky Reds cap, gold-framed snazzy glasses, a plush hip-hop
style warm-up suit and alligator skin cowboy boots. He was stylin’.
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| Credit: Daniel Case, 2008 |
Instinctively, within two seconds I blurted, “Mr. Rose.” I
was part star-struck and part arrested by the visuals of his clothing ensemble.
I was also tumbling backward to being a 10-year-old baseball fan.
The now 74-year-old Rose nodded to me subtly and for the
next 30 minutes we talked, discussing in random fashion the blizzard hitting
the East Coast, his work in Las Vegas and his trip to a sports memorabilia show
in Chicago.
I didn’t bring up gambling, the Hall of Fame or Bud Selig
(who hired my Uncle Dick back in 1972) – figuring these topics would shut down
our nice chat pretty quickly. I didn’t ask Rose for an autograph or ask him for
a picture. I figured this could easily start a flood of interest from others in
the waiting area and generate a lot of unwanted attention. It would have ended
our conversation.
At one point, I asked him about the 1975 All-Star game.
“Where was it?” he asked.
“County Stadium,” I replied quickly, adding rapid-fire
details about Henry Kissinger being there, how the National League won 6-3 and
that the Cubs’ Bill Madlock and New York Mets pitcher Jon Matlack were co-MVPs.
Rose smiled and nodded. “I remember,” he said.
Clearly he didn’t remember quite as well as me, I thought. For
me that day is burned in my brain. For Rose, I have to imagine, it was just one
of his 3,562 games he played in over a 23-year career.
Charlie Hustle
As we spoke, I searched his face for that intense competitor
that earned him the nickname “Charlie Hustle,” that hard-charging player who
lowered his shoulder and bowled over Cleveland Indians catcher Ray Fosse on the
final play of the 1970 All-Star Game. The collision injured Fosse and many
believe shortened his career, but Rose’s play won what was an exhibition game at
the time for the National League.
I could see that fiery guy – especially when he bristled
watching dozens of people stand up and surge forward as the gate announcer
began boarding those passengers blessed with airline status. “There’s no way
all these people are in first class,” he muttered to me in an annoyed, mildly
competitive tone.
The Half-Life of
Gambling on Baseball
This year I watched the All-Star game and saw Rose step out
onto the field of the Great American Ball Park in Cincinnati and receive a huge
ovation from his hometown crowd. Seeing this made me wonder how long his ban
from baseball will last. For 26 years, Rose has been toxic to baseball because
he gambled on the outcome of games.
Is he less radioactive now? Is it possible that the nuclear
winter around Pete Rose is starting to thaw particularly under a new
Commissioner of Baseball? Is it possible that Rose – as baseball’s all-time
leader in total hits with 4,256 – will make it to Major League Baseball’s Hall
of Fame before he dies?
In baseball, I don’t know what the half-life is for gambling
on games. I don’t know if it’s less or more than the half-life of using
steroids or other performance enhancing drugs.
It does make me ponder broader questions like – how long do
grudges last? How long do we hold onto certain events from the past, which have
created both lasting memories and accompanying attitudes for us?
Asking these questions makes me think of other recent big anniversaries
– the 70th anniversary of the U.S. bombing of Hiroshima (August 6,
1945) and Nagasaki (August 9, 1945). In dropping those two nuclear bombs,
between 129,000 and 246,000 people were killed. The world was never the same.
Back in 1945, Pete Rose was 4 years old. Elvis Presley was
10 years old– the same age I was when I sat in Milwaukee watching in awe that
memorable All-Star game.
I have to figure that Elvis remembered those bombs dropping,
just like so many millions of others did. It’s possible he carried the images
of those two mushroom clouds and ensuing human carnage with him the rest of his
life. Certainly others did as well.
Memories are tricky that way. Some, like mine, you crave to
remember. An annual date or a random encounter with someone sparks the memory
back to life and it plays out in your mind like it was yesterday.
Other memories linger in a much less desirable way. They hang around and – despite our best efforts to rid our
minds of them – we are never actually able to forget.
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