One Old Timer's Day; UNFORGETTABLE

“One Old Timers Day”

A Magical Day to Remember

by

Mickey Mantle Fortin


Without a doubt, I believe my father had to be one of the greatest sports fans that ever came down the “proverbial turnpike”. It didn't matter whether it was football, baseball, basketball, golf, horseshoes, bocce, or bowling. He sincerely loved all kinds of sports and sincerely believed sports helped young athletes develop into even better people.

This was the center of his beliefs.

It was that heartfelt motivation that led him to sponsor so many teams and sporting events. That’s what helped propel him to the personal success and widespread affection that followed him throughout his life and restaurant career.

I always remember how he loved to spring some totally unbelievable, last minute surprises on me; and usually with no fair warning!

“Hey Mick want to go to the World Series, he would coolly ask; you know with no emotion or excited fanfare in his voice. Like he was casually asking me to go down to the corner store with him, instead of going to a ---- world championship baseball game!

“Oh my GOD” -------------- I honestly recall thinking that I wasn't hearing him right.

How could he possibly get tickets for such an event, I would always wonder, even to this day? It was truly amazing growing up as a young sports fan myself having that kind of access to such high profile events and pro celebrities.

MLB, NFL, NBA, Ivy League, pro playoff games, these were just a few of the extraordinary on the spot surprise invitations my Dad would spring on me. Oddly, this particular day that we spent together would be much different than so many of his other memorable “shock invitations”.

The one exception, this adventure was to be unconditionally and positively one of the most "incredible" and "unforgettable" days in my entire life.

Let me back up a bit and explain, my dad, CJ Fortin, (short for Clarence Joseph, the man who also proclaimed "I would never even name my dog Clarence", oh how he hated his name) was one of Connecticut’s premier and most loyal New York Yankee fans ever. And I do mean "ever".

He even named his one and only son, after the New York Yankee immortal Mickey Mantle. Now how’s that for NY pinstripe loyalty?

Pure obsession is what I call it!

CJ had owned a sports bar in Naugatuck, CT, from the late 1960’s to the early 1980’s. That was long before sports bars were the rave or as trendy as you'll find them today. Without a doubt he was ahead of his time, and "Fortin’s Restaurant,” as it was appropriately named, held the distinction of being one of Connecticut’s most celebrated restaurants during the 1970’s and 80’s. I believe Fortin’s was one of the 1st restaurants in CT to have a “Giant Screen TV” for watching what else, sports! I remember my dad forked out over $5,000 for that large screen TV. Back in the 70’s that was big money.

The restaurant’s food was always rated as excellent; offering freshly created Italian cuisine, along with traditional steaks, chops and delicious New England seafood. My Dad’s reputation as well as the restaurant's fame grew because of the outstanding menu and the reasonable “family pricing”.

And more so, because of the celebrities that repeatedly frequented its honored halls. There was also the prized photo’s of their captured visits adorning the foyer walls of this restaurant. The photographs themselves were a genuine curiosity magnet to most folks. I liken it to being in a mini picture museum consisting of a throng of big name stars past & present.

There were oil painted murals of Yankee baseball legends hanging on the barroom walls. One in particular, “Twilight of the Gods”, was actually autographed by two of the living legends, Joe DiMaggio and Mickey Mantle. It seemed people never minded waiting for a table at our restaurant because it gave them a chance to browse throughout the photo gallery that led to the large oval shaped bar. There were pictures everywhere, with new one's being added monthly. Patron's wanted to see what new “stars” had been in town and recently dined at Fortin’s Restaurant.

Without exaggeration there were well over 150 photographs of sports stars, entertainers, singers, actors, and prominent politicians from all over the world that had stopped in to dine and visit with my family, namely Mom and Dad. It was nice because they as “the owners” were often included in many of these celeb photographs. That being the case, they also enjoyed their own celebrity status as well.

Now these restaurant visits were hanging on our walls as photo’s. You could see fathers explaining to young sons who this person was, and who that one was and then going in to an explanation of what had made them so famous or grand. The guests of the restaurant were enthralled to know that so many famous celebrities had been standing right there where they now stood.

I had just finished getting in from work when my wife told me to call my Dad. She also emphasized that it was very important to call him right away. That made me concerned since Dad had been diagnosed with colon cancer only a year and a half ago. Naturally when you receive a call from someone like your Dad saying to call because it’s “really important,” your imagination unremarkably starts running wild. Plus I also knew he hated small chitchats on the phone with anyone, so it had to be a meaningful call I thought to myself.

It seems that for a couple of preceding years dad was passing blood during what he referred to as stressful bathroom moments. He mentioned this discomforting situation to his family doctor on more than one occasion. Usually during his annual check-up and was carelessly reassured that it was probably nothing more than an irritated hemorrhoid, probably being continuously ruptured. Sounded like a logically good explanation at the time. What's more reassuring than the OK of your own personal physician?

Of course the stressful nature of the restaurant business is enough to wreak all kinds of havoc with your mind and body. Eventually, the doctor suggested that he go for some higher level diagnostic testing. The shock and disbelief that my Dad met when his MD later informed him of his test results was incredible. It seemed that his bleeding was not due to an irritated hemorrhoid as earlier suspected, but was the result of a cancerous, malignant, colon tumor.

That was now the size of a golf ball, and was full-blown cancer. The disease was forecast to run its complete course and kill him in him in about six months. This was a death sentence for a man who had never really been sick a day in his life.

I thought, how damn unfair can this be?

With those thoughts in mind I picked up the phone and called CJ to see exactly what was on his mind. Of course he was working at the restaurant, where else would he be? He lived just for that place, I swear, you could say it certainly was his life.

Fortin's Restaurant was open 7 days a week. Open for lunch and dinner. The bar closed daily at 1:00 AM except for Sunday, when we closed at midnight. So, as you can see, there weren’t very many hours that we weren’t open. If dad was there, he was usually doing the books, prepping food for tomorrow, house cleaning or just socializing with the throngs of patrons that just came to visit and say hi.

The hostess who had picked up the telephone politely said, “Thank you for calling Fortin’s Restaurant, may I help you"?

This was a very familiar voice, who else? None other than my Mom, Irene, had answered the phone. My pop got lucky when he met and married her. She was the heart and soul of this restaurant. She was the cream in his coffee, the "fort" in his FORTIN. That’s where most of our PR (public relations) took place, right there at the first stop, the host station. It was her job to help keep everyone happy, first and foremost the customers, then the employees, and most importantly "the boss", CJ.

I didn’t envy her position at all; I’ll admit it! Yet she catered to them, all of them, and did it so graciously. I know this sounds trite but, she had flair, a style all her own that she perfected into one extremely “cultured” and “talented” gift

“Hi Mom, it's me,” I said. “Is Dad there?” “Hold on Mick, we are very busy, last time I saw him he was sitting in a booth talking to someone, let me get him for you.” In a split second I heard the hold button pushed and there was silence on the other end. I hated those times when I was put on hold; you just never knew when the party you were waiting for would pick up. The worst one was waiting for dad.

Surprisingly he picked up within a minute or two, boy this must be important I thought to myself.

“Hi Mick.” he uttered.

“Hi Dad what’s up? The wife said you called.”

“Do you know what day tomorrow is,” he asked?

Saturday, I replied.

“Besides that,” he chuckled.

“No what day is it,” I jokingly asked?

“It’s "Old Timers Day" at Yankee Stadium, and I just happen to have a couple of press passes so that we can get down there on to the field, possibly meet some of the ballplayers. Hopefully the "Mick" and "Joe D" will be there, are you interested in going? We’ll make a full day of it, a great game and then a nice dinner just you and me, just like the old days, how does that sound? OK"?

For a moment I was picturing Dad and myself down on the field with so many great stars, those old time, baseball heroes, unreal, I thought.

Without a hesitation, I screamed into the phone, “Are you kidding me pop? I’d love to. What time you want to go?”

You see the truth is, I envied all those times Dad got to accompany Don Pascal, the sports editor from our hometown newspaper, The Naugatuck Daily News, to so many sporting events and gala affairs. I often times heard so many wonderfully intriguing tales about their adventures. Now it was finally going to be my turn! I was the one going to be down there on the field in Yankee Stadium, absolutely the greatest and most famous Baseball Park in all this great USA.

WOWW! This would be such a precious and unique moment in our father / son relationship. It still brings tears to my eyes just reflecting out it. Whoever would have guessed that fate would treat us like such "royalty" this one particular afternoon in the Bronx? We both were in store for a day that was to be teeming with "sheer magic". It was to be an unbelievable occasion for the both of us, being the pure baseball fanatics that we were.

Nothing was going to be beyond our reach that day, --- nothing!

All the stars were perfectly aligned in our favor.

We both didn’t know that the short time spent together that afternoon would become so much more significant later on in our lives. Cancer has an overwhelming way of making the sick, and their survivors appreciate one another - a hell of a lot more than you can ever imagine. It certainly bonds you closer. If only people would love each other consistently like they do when they find out about a life ending sickness, then I’d guarantee this world would be a beautiful, friendly, compassionate, place to live.

“Dad what time tomorrow,” I begged again? Be there at the house by 10:00AM so we can leave early and beat that game day traffic,” he insinuated. “Make sure you bring your camera too, we just might get some really good shots - you never know who’s going to be there”.

One thing about my father, when he went to a game, he went suitably prepared. Usually with enough provisions to feed a small army platoon, 30 or 40 people no kidding! The day of the game, he would be up at dawn's first light, usually 6 o’clock in the morning. He would shower and then travel down to his restaurant to make his mouth-watering meatball and sausage heroes. While all alone in his early morning solitude, he would play his favorite radio station. It featured music from the 1930’s, 40’s or 50’s, which was his best-liked era. He also listened; to this locally broadcast Polish radio station that featured Victor Zembruski, with his polkas and other kinds of big band dance music.

There he would slice at least 2, maybe 3 dozen, hoagie rolls. Load them up with freshly made Italian meatballs or Italian sausages, sometimes he even mixed both. He then very carefully dusted the top of them with mounds of just shredded mozzarella cheese and "sweet roasted" bell peppers. Yummy! Then into the oven they would go till they were baked golden brown and toasty.

One of the earliest restaurant tasks I remember as a really young lad was cleaning and slicing the bell peppers. I remember it so well because it was the first time Dad let me hold a sharp knife.

One that could really cut you, instead of the butter knives I had previously been handed.

When you’re a young boy, you remember those kinds of things, you seriously do. That was a big day for me back then. Anyway, the manner in which my Dad prepared them made them extraordinarily tasty that's all I know!

Understand one thing; everything that was used on all "our sandwiches" was home cooked. Usually made from one of Dad's favorite “Old Italian” family recipes he had solicited from past chefs and little old Italian ladies he had met along the road of life; you know the kind, the one with a little dash of this and a little bit of that. The kind of recipe that never really gets written down!

Meatballs, sausage, tomato sauce, roasted green bell peppers; it was all very delicious & quite understandably good. My Dad was no dunderhead; those first bites were so tasty people couldn’t help but drive from where ever they lived, just to experience the rest of his incredible food, that’s how exceptionally good it was.

Often times I envisioned him as a sports arena Santa Claus, only difference he had “scrumptious food goodies” for presents in his brown paper sacks. Those lucky few that tasted, knew they had been treated to one hell of a "great sandwich” as they had put it.

At what seemed like just the right moment, he would bounce up from his seat and begin enthusiastically shouting; most certainly mimicking the tones and incantations of the stadium vendors selling their wares at the game.

“Free meatball…& sausage subs… Who wants one? Get em` while they last…!"

It didn't take long before some of those hungry fans caught on to his generosity and quickly passed on the hot dogs, raised a hand, and shouted back "Right here buddy".

This was only one of Dad’s ways of making new friends! He had a passion for meeting and making great friends, wherever he went.

I remember reflecting that night while I restlessly lay awake tossing and turning still thinking about my upcoming day. For once I realized how much I looked forward to spending the day with my Dad, simply put, he was a just a whole lot of fun to be around.

He was the "greatest storyteller"; absolutely the best I have ever heard.

In addition he was also one "real funny comedian"; he sure could deliver a punch line. He could always get you laughing hysterically with his crazy stories and witty jokes. More than once they had made him the indisputable “life of the party”.

Knowing that our days were obviously numbered made these personal encounters special and more meaningful than I ever could have imagined back then.

We both knew we were building unforgettable memories meant to last a lifetime.

Dad had a unique way of making incredible fantasy memories; memories that have never been equaled and have certainly lasted my whole lifetime. Like a stain never to be removed they lie there in my sub conscience for me to relive and enjoy over and over again; one great moment of glory not to be taken for granted, never to be forgotten and the feeling of being beyond blessed.

Whenever my Dad took you anywhere, there were a few things you were definitely assured off.

One, you knew that he was always paying the check, no matter who else joined us. He established that right from the very beginning with the waiter or waitress on their first approach to our table.

Second you would be eating "great food" somewhere; he always picked fantastic places to dine. And he insisted that you order as much food as you wanted, the only catch, he wanted you to eat all you ordered.

And thirdly, you knew that you were in store for loads of fun.

I finally fell asleep that night in the arms of my wife; she held me close knowing how sad I was thinking about life without my dad. She did the best she could to comfort me in my moment of reality and sorrow.

The last thing I remember was her wiping the stream of silent tears that were steadily flowing down my cheeks and onto my pillow that was quickly becoming wet. I knew she could feel the bed vibrate slightly as I struggled to contain my gut wrenching emotions and fought back my tears. I wasn’t ready for any of this and never believed I could be it was just that simple.

Those dreams of Yankee Stadium, being around all those past baseball phenoms, and just being with Dad eventually seemed to calm and nearly erase all my imposing fears of losing him to cancer.

Most sports fans like me would have a thousand reasons alone for insomnia that night besides those horrible thoughts of their father’s death. Luckily that night I was extremely tired and lied there still as could be. Though I was still restless I got through all the pre-game jitters and drifted off to a well deserved sleep.

I knew that it was morning by the smell of the pure dog's breath that permeated up my nostrils and into my olfactory lobes. It was Jesse, the family pet Doberman Pinscher, sharing her customary good morning kiss/lick that was sure to make you wake up, if for no other reason than to wipe away the slightly disgusting wet slobber she had just deposited all over your face. What can I tell you? She was one affectionate guard dog, extremely loving and obedient.

It didn't take much prodding to get me out of bed that morning. The fantasy of finally stepping on to the field at Yankee Stadium was about to come true. I had visited the Bronx stadium so many times before, possibly more than 200 times, and had never realistically imagined myself being out there on the field with all those famous ballplayers. For me to be in the middle of all these legends was unthinkable. In the midst of those crazy imaginations that wildly spun through my head I quickly sprang from my bed to the bathroom shower all the while begging my wife Lynn for my favorite, a hot cup of Java.

It didn't take long before I was showered, shaved, and stylishly dressed in all my Yankee regalia, which always included my Yankee hat and or my official dark navy blue team jacket with the white NY insignia. I picked up my trusted, 35mm Canon AE1. I kissed the wife and kid goodbye and hopped into my 1976 bronze metal flake painted Corvette Stingray. I was finally on my way to Mom and Dad's and most importantly Yankee Stadium, hooray!

The drive to their home was only about 6 or 7 miles, but in all this pre game excitement, it seemed more like 16 or 17 very long miles. They lived in what architecturally, was referred to as a California style home. It was definitely the only one of its kind in our small Connecticut town. Back in the 1970's Naugatuck CT's population was somewhere around 25,000 residents. Most homes there were Cape Cod style, saltbox, ranch, or Victorian era homes.

My parents' closest neighbor lived in an incredible 18-room mansion, called the "Dibble House", built sometime back in the early 1900's, at the time was one of CT’s most admired homes; sadly it now is in disrepair and need of serious restoration. It is a great reminder of the once thriving and economic power Naugatuck once held.

Well as usual, Dad was ready. I think he was born ready! His brand new Cadillac, a gorgeous Sedan Deville, was sitting in the driveway fully gassed and ready to roll to its familiar course made so many times.

Its magnificent light blue color was beautifully matched with ultra plush, white leather interior that swallowed you up in pure luxury. I don't know why but the smell of being surrounded by fresh leather was one thing I found simply divine. It has an unmistakable distinguishable fragrance that perhaps is a primal human thing.

The drive from dad's home to Yankee Stadium was exactly 90 miles that seemingly was always transformed into one unusually brief ride. With one of his stories here, and a joke there, Dad could entertain me effortlessly. I think he would have loved to be a history teacher. He continually was full of interesting facts and trivia. From The Great Depression to WW II he seemed to know something about everything. Our conversations were never lacking for good conversation to say the least.

Roughly, our ride to the Bronx would take about an hour and a half. We made this journey so many times, it seemed like it was just around the corner to us. I swear CJ could have made it there blindfolded. Sometimes I think he drove with one eye shut. Many times we would see a night game and that meant getting home around 2 or 3 am. When I was very young I would sit there in the car my eyes transfixed on his eyes. There were many times I could see his eyes slowly close shut. Then I would yell excitedly, "Dad wake up!"  I often feared for my young life as well as his. Now whether he was playing head games with me, and virtually driving with the other eye that I couldn't see, I'll never know. He always was a big teaser. I guess those 3 or 4 beers he customarily drank while cheering for the Yanks didn't help us either.

Dad sometimes would choose to drive to the subway station in Flatbush NY. It was the last stop for the subway out of NYC, the so-called end of the line. There he and I would ride the metro, down into the Bronx, as it “always” stopped at a loading platform high above Yankee Stadium. As the doors quickly slammed wide open, a mad dash of humanity poured off the train and towards the stadium and the street below. I remember these were the times when Dad insisted on holding my hand tight, one of the very rare times. Most of these commuters were also going to the game. I was always amazed by the weird array of individuals that rode the New York City commuter train service.

Those passengers were a far cry from the usual society I was used to observing back in the quaint New England town of Naugatuck CT. Then there were those people who slept in the subway stairwells. They mesmerized me. I can recall staring at them, daring not to blink as I passed by their dirty and often stinky clothing. Remember I was a young naïve kid from a small Connecticut town. Seeing the "bums" as Dad called them, was a fairly new experience for me. There weren't many of those types of individuals in our town.

Today we kindly refer to them as the “homeless”, in the old days they were just called "bums", sometimes winos. On more than one occasion, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a few $5’s or $10 bills and gave it to them.

I can still remember the first time I had inquired of him, "Dad, why did you give that strange man all that money?

His answer was, “Because he's not as fortunate as you or I. Someday you will understand why, son."

I truly respected, loved, and appreciated that special part of my Dad. He was a hero in his own kind way. His inner spirit was especially compassionate with great respect for all of life's creatures. To him, the poor were just as important as the rich, probably more so.

He had grown up fairly poor. He knew and appreciated how successful he was in this life. Being the eldest of 13 siblings surely made him a man before his time. He constantly impressed upon me, how fortunate I was; lucky that I was healthy; experienced the opportunity to play sports and understanding so many wonderful things of how sports can be related to life. I wonder why it takes some of us so long to learn this fundamental fact of life.

I walked through the garage door that was already left wide open earlier. As I turned the doorknob to enter the house I felt a tremendous chill flutter down my spine. Suddenly all my fears about losing my father sprang frighteningly back to life. For a child to watch a parent go through such a major sickness, like cancer, is a real horrible experience. The thought of it all made me shudder with anger and sorrow. I guess the worst part about it is the helplessness that you feel. Other than supplying moral support, there isn't much one can do. It all rested between GOD, the doctors and Dad.

When the kitchen door swung open, my Mom was standing at the sink, rinsing the breakfast dishes. That was her normal ritual before inserting them into the dishwasher for further sterilization. I swear, the way she rinsed them off they were already clean enough going in.

I said, “Hi good morning Mom." and gently kissed her cheek and followed that up with a snug arm hug. She had really won my respect, not that I didn’t already respect her. She confirmed to the family that she too was a “real trooper” as the overused saying goes. She obviously had been to hell and back dealing with his colon and soon to be discovered liver cancer.

I finally realized what a strong woman she had become and was amazed at how she could peacefully hide her inner panic at the thoughts of being fairly young, widowed, and still  accountable to hold our family together. After all, she and Clarence had been married for 33 years and she depended on him as the breadwinner for our family.

"Is Dad ready, I asked?

"Yes, but I think he's still in the bathroom, where else," she jokingly chided.

It had now become a very familiar place for him to visit since this sickness led him there so frequently.

"Did you already eat breakfast," Mom questioned?

"Nah, I just had a cup of coffee," I explained. "I’m way too nervous thinking about today's Old Timer's Game to eat anything right now,” And with that statement concluded, out from the bedroom walked my pop.

"Ready" He asked?

"Sure am," I replied.

"Let's get going then, I don't want to hit that damn game traffic," he excitedly declared.

He turned quickly to retrieve his camera and his NY Yankee hat lying on the kitchen table. He then walked over to Mom who was still tidying up the breakfast dishes and lovingly pecked her cheek. I simply followed his lead. He kissed her on the left cheek goodbye and then I replaced his with my own.

"Have fun," she muttered, as we single filed out the door for the brand new Caddy and our joyous 90-mile, 90 minute ride.

It was a perfect day for a baseball game; the blue skies over New England were warm and sunny. There was a slight summer breeze blowing through the Connecticut hills that clear beautiful morning. Weather wise, you just couldn't have picked a more splendid day to be outdoors. And I, I couldn't have picked a better person to go with than CJ, actually he had invited me, I laughingly thought to myself. The fact we were cruising in style, in the luxury of his brand new Cadillac, made it all the sweeter.

As usual it didn’t take long before we were flying west, down Connecticut’s I-84 making a beeline for New York & Yankee Stadium. Dad’s cruising speed was somewhere between 60 to 70 mphs in CT, and then he accelerated to 80 to 85 mphs once he crossed the New York State line. I guess they had a different speed limit law. This familiar trip had been made so many times, but not like any before. This time as we drove along, I knew there would be numerous long moments of an “uneasy silence”.

Uneasy in the fact that I didn’t know what to say and neither did he. It was something that had never happened to us.  It was a loss of words and a time for preponderance. I could tell because his mind was constantly drifting off.

Where?

I’m really not sure, but I suspect he was thinking about the challenges of fighting for this 56-year-old life he was living. He had already been through some rugged and radical experimental surgery at Sloan Kettering Memorial Hospital, in addition to those nasty chemotherapy treatments that make him feel worse than the damn cancer itself. There really wasn’t much more that he could do for himself, except get close to GOD.

His anticipated thoughts of leaving behind his world, his life, had to be sadly overwhelming. Life had drained so much out of him, and yet given him so much. Facing your own death sentence must be an extremely difficult personal challenge. “It’s certainly something that we “all” will face one day, like it or not”, he always chimed. I guess the underlying truth of that statement was so hard to bare or to even accept.

We listened to Frank Sinatra’s Greatest Hits tape as we glided smoothly along. I think Frank singing New York, New York must have been one of Dad’s all- time favorite songs on that album. The Yanks play it ceremoniously at the end of every home game. For reasons that I now understand, he used to get all choked up and teary eyed when he heard it played, especially at the stadium.

Anyway, he reached above his car visor and tugged down on it. Out fell a regular standard white envelope with the big word “Clarence” scrawled across it.

“Here, look inside”, he ordered, as he passed it to me.

Without a hesitation I slid my fingers through the sealed package and out into my lap tumbled out two ID passes. In big bold print read the letters PRESS; and underneath that in smaller copy, read Naugatuck Daily News. Compliments of Naugatuck sports writer, Don Pascal, we were for the day, “official members” of the press corp. with our pass into Yankee baseball heaven.

I know many of you anti-Yankee fans might have an extremely hard time with this statement. But it absolutely, doesn’t get any better than this. Not when you’re in the company of such greatness. Those real baseball legends like Joe D, the Mick, Roger Maris, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, and the only pitcher to ever pitch a perfect game in a World Series, Don Larsen, were just to name a few of the celebrity attendees.

These were the famous players that wrote the record books; all in the house that Babe Ruth built, all at the same moment, now that’s incredible. 

Can you conceive the amount of baseball talent that was represented there, that one particular day on a baseball diamond in the Bronx NY?

And in the next moment, realize that lucky was mingling amongst the greatest of baseball immortals. There you are shooting pictures in the thick of it all, surrounded by 56,000 + of the most brash, abrasive, and cocky fans anywhere in the world, those beloved and often hated, New York Yankee fans. Elbow to elbow, shoulder to shoulder we would all stand together honoring our Yankee heroes, our legends.

Now that’s exciting. I consider it the epitome for a baseball fan.

It wasn’t too long before I realized we were passing The YONKERS RACEWAY, which is where the horse trotters run. That meant we were approximately 15 minutes away from destination Yankee Stadium. I felt my pulse rate quicken. Both palms of my hands became sweaty and what felt like a dozen butterflies lightly tickled the highest crannies of my tummy. I think CJ’s greatest thrill was watching me squirm across his already slippery white leather seat. The closer we got to the game the more fidgety I became. You could say, I had ants in my pants!

Dad had already attended several “Old Timers Day” games as an “official press member” so I’m sure the thrill for him wasn’t quite at the level of my nervous anticipation or was it? You know his thrill was in watching me. The joy was in seeing my antsy, childlike, behavior considering that I was a young adult, married, with my own young son.

The bottom line…he still saw me as his “little boy”… no matter what my age was. He was about to deliver one of the greatest thrills / presents he could have ever arranged for his kid and he knew it. This is such a high level event that you really have to know somebody with a lot of pull for these kinds of passes onto that field and dugout, and that he did.

From the distant highway it first appears as an enormous dark marquee that spans all along the top of its circular rim. In huge bold medium blue letters reads…YANKEE STADIUM.  These few precious acres of glorious real estate, the most “sacred of baseball diamonds”, lies in the Bronx NY, completely surrounded by crisscrossing highways, declining exit and inclining entrance ramps, subway tracks and loading platforms, and parking facilities. It makes you wonder how they squeezed all of this organized chaos into such a tiny area.

For me there’s nothing like walking around the Stadium. You see so many of those souvenir stores and outdoor vendors. There’s the grayish tan, concrete walk ramps everywhere you look, it actually disappoints one’s eye. It’s not nearly as fancy as today’s splendid constructions. Yet the greatest thrill of all, is when you walk down that narrow concrete portal and come out into the magnificent openness of  New York’s Yankee Stadium; It’s emerald green outfields and its red Georgia clay infield, surrounded by all those fan packed blue seats is simply awe-inspiring to behold. I sincerely love it there! It’s a perfect place for a baseball game.

CJ swung his colossal Caddy into the stadium ramperage already having pulled out his parking pass for the game. He wasted no time and rolled down the electric window with ticket already in hand, poised to pass it to the collecting parking attendant. We certainly had made good time traveling on the highway. It was a little before noon, at least two hours before game time. We would have more than enough time to find a good parking place and go in and get acquainted with the Old Timers Day Team.

As I predicted we parked on the 1st level right next to the entrance reserved for the members of the “press only”. It was a perfect location. We both gathered up our cameras, film, and Yankee hats and made are way to the press entrance. From this point on most of the day seems to become all to surreal. I can’t really tell you in great detail why my thoughts are so vague. I know that after we got through showing security our press badges and tickets we became kind of lost. I took a turn here and then a turn there all the while encouraging Dad to please keep up with me. We both looked at each other and smiled. The thought of being lost down in the bellows of Yankee Stadium intrigued me, him, I’m not so sure.

Like two tiny rats in a maze we hurriedly maneuvered through hallways and doors only to end up in front of a broad solid blue door that had an enormous sign hanging over it:


NO ADMITTANCE

YANKEE PERSONEL ONLY


I once again just smiled, looked at him and said, “This looks like the place, c’mon Dad.”

With a reluctance, which I never expected from him, he oddly shook his head and weakly mouthed: “No. We can’t go in there,” all the while pointing to that large intimidating sign ordering the both of us to Keep Out!

I boldly chuckled and said, “Dad don’t worry about that, we’re lost, remember? Just follow me.”

I walked over to what used to be a stocky 5’8” frame, gently slid my hand around his arm and proceeded to escort him forward towards boundaries that were threatening, intimidating, and frighteningly unknown.

“Let’s go,” I uttered.

Without even giving him a slight chance to disagree, I politely guided him past the door that I had just pulled open. Still unnoticed we quickly crept in. Once inside, we cautiously peeked around the corner and soon discovered we had not only gotten lost, but also found ourselves “lost” in the New York Yankee locker room. How AWESOME!

My mouth dropped wide in complete and total disbelief, how lucky was I?

The initial shock of where I was soon was replaced by the fear of wondering how long it would be before someone noticed that “we” really weren’t supposed to be in here. ABSOLUTELY, POSITIVELY NO WAY!

This place was definitely off limits to almost everyone. Or least I thought so until a warm and familiar, gruffly voice yelled out, “Hey Clarence”. It was ex-Yankee pitcher Frank “Spec “Shea who was raised in Naugatuck CT and who happened to be a very close friend of the family. He was a regular attendee at all old timers day activities, and the man responsible for teaching actor, Robert Redford, the basic pitching mechanics for his starring role in the baseball movie, “The Natural”.

I soon realized he was quickly making his way across the Yankee locker room toward us, his hand extended for the strong, solid, handshake he was famous for. His claim for fame quite notably makes him the only rookie player to be a “winning pitcher of record” in an “All Star” game and also win two World Series games all in the same year, all as a newbie!

“Joe D was looking for you. Have you seen him yet”; asked Spec as he grasped Dad’s friendly outstretched hand.

“No we just got here, where is he?” CJ spiked backed.

“Well I know he’s looking for ya, he’s probably upstairs doing an interview, that’s where I saw him going last, explained Spec.

“I’m on my way to get these old muscles loosened up by these trainers before I go out there and try to pitch,” he laughed. “Hey Clarence, it seems like it just gets harder every year,” he jokingly exclaimed as he quickly shuffled over to the trainer’s table.

What a feeling of utopia I was enjoying. Wow! This was too unreal!

So this is what it’s actually like to be in here… in the NY Yankee locker room.

I was just fantasizing about the moment and myself. I casually turned to my right only to see my namesake, Mickey Mantle. The “Mick” was sitting at his locker, 4 or 5 reporters surrounded # 7. I hastily pointed my camera in his direction and quickly fired off a couple of shots from my camera. I really didn’t care that he was out of uniform and still in his skivvies. A natural pose was what I was hoping for and this certainly was it. Click! Click! 


I also caught a glimpse of another familiar face that was approaching my direction, he was already dressed in his Yankee uniform, spikes, hat, and all. I could swear it looked just like Roger Maris…Hey this really was…Roger Maris. Wow!

“Hey Dad, let’s get a picture of you and Roger together,” I hurriedly shouted, giving neither one the time nor the opportunity to say no.

Being the gentleman that he always was, Roger stopped and obliged my request. He proceeded to embrace CJ, putting his arm around Dad’s shoulders as though they were “best buddies”.

What a site to see, what a shot to get!

While the camera went click…my mind was absolutely going spasmodic.

Here was my Dad with Roger Maris no less! One of baseball’s most famous home run kings in a photo with my Dad can you believe this? Here posing before me stood two favorite heroes of mine captured together and forever on film, and no less by myself.

At this moment I felt totally captivated, totally mesmerized. While I tried to collect my wits and senses, I noticed a very tall, thin, almost anorexic looking, black man, sitting in the corner of the locker room. He sat alone on a short stool all by himself. His hair was salt and peppery colored, more salt than pepper. Him, I didn’t recognize, although I knew he had to be a ball player. He was wearing gray flannel workout shorts, a pair of ivory colored shower sandals and an archaic looking shirt that I had never seen before; it read “MONARCHS” across it in crude, black, worn letters that appeared as though they had been hand sewn on ages ago. It really looked quite primitive, hardly up to the professional standards or image of the NY Yankee uniforms. I caught CJ’s attention and beckoned him to come closer.

“Hey Dad, who’s that over there”, I questioned, as I excitedly and impolitely pointed towards the stranger that I certainly did not recognize.

“You really don’t know who that is,” CJ questioned back?

“Why, that’s Satchel Page.

He’s the first black man to pitch in major league baseball history. What a fastball they say he had. Some folks say he could throw faster than 100 mph. and nobody regularly hit Satchel Page… I mean nobody…” CJ boasted.

Now that was all I needed to perk my curiosity and instantly I headed over to meet this famous man sitting all by his lonesome. As I approached him, my eyes made contact with dark black pupils that were entrenched in a base of discolored yellow instead of the normal white of an eye. The solemn look he wore immediately changed into a contagiously broad smile that was friendly and quite welcoming. “Hi there, I’m Mickey Mantle Fortin,” I exclaimed.

“Hi I’m Satchel Page,” he enthusiastically retorted back.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” I declared, as I extended my hand for a firm, friendly, shake.

He immediately extended his hand and swallowed up my medium size grip with his massive palm of a hand and the absolute longest fingers that I have ever witnessed. No joke, this man’s hands were simply those of a slender giant. I thought to myself, no wonder he could throw the baseball at speeds of 100mph+.

At that time, I didn’t realize what a privilege and honor it was to have met and shaken the hand of a man of such significance in American sports history.

We take for granted today something as simple as becoming a professional athlete but that was only a dream and a fantasy for all colored men and women until Jackie Robinson and Satchel Page cracked the race barrier of major league baseball in the early 1950’s.

I never had seen a morning turn into afternoon as quickly as on that Old Timer’s Day. Time just flew by and before I knew it the game was less than one hour away. One of the most memorable, unexpected, highlights of my early afternoon was still just a few moments away, only I didn’t know it yet.

We take for granted today something as simple as becoming a professional athlete but that was only a dream and a fantasy for all colored men and women until Jackie Robinson and Satchel Page cracked the race barrier of major league baseball in the early 1950’s.

I never had seen a morning turn into afternoon as quickly as on that Old Timer’s Day. Time just flew by and before I knew it the game was less than one hour away. One of the most memorable, unexpected, highlights of my early afternoon was still just a few moments away, only I didn’t know it yet.

All the coffee and fluids I had drank earlier that morning had finally worked its way down into my now uncomfortably over-extended bladder.

I whispered, “Hey Dad, I’ve really got to pee; in all this excitement I totally forgot to relieve myself.”

My urge to use the “Yankee bathroom” ASAP was my only real concern right now.

His head turned searching in one direction while mine in the other as we both surveyed the locker room until I noticed a doorway that I guessed led to showers and a desperately needed restroom facility. I abruptly excused myself from CJ’s company, and whoever else was standing next to us, and headed for my relief.

The bathrooms were just like most of the other locker rooms I had been in, nothing fancy, but I noticed that they were, very clean. As corny or stupid as this may sound, I felt a weird overwhelming presence of “greatness” as I entered one of several stalls to do “my thing”. While ambitiously standing there trying to focus on the “alleviation”, I stood and curiously wondered and began daydreaming about all those famous, “kingly men,” that had stood right here, long before me… in this same exact spot… doing exactly the same thing.

Immortals like Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Joe D, Mickey, Yogi, and Whitey Ford. I surely have arrived, I laughingly thought to myself as I finally finished my own personal business. After standing there all alone and being awed inside the Yankee bathrooms, I realized just how much this place, this team, these men, sincerely meant to me.

I love these New York Yankees and all that they stand for!

While walking out of the “hallowed john”, I noticed that the Yankee locker room had now become one big buzz. Players were busy trying to get dressed and socialize all at the same time. Actually it sounded more like a hen house rather than a locker room full of grown men.

There were NY pinstripes’ everywhere, men of all different shapes, sizes, and ages. One thing that was quite obvious here, they were all part of a great close-knit family; The New York Yankee Family, an exceptionally proud group of world champions.

I discreetly searched the area where I had last seen CJ thinking all the while, why hasn’t someone asked me to leave yet? He wasn’t where I left him and I soon began to panic. “Geez, I was only gone for a couple of minutes, how could we have gotten separated,” I asked myself?

Well sure enough, it didn’t take long to find him; all I had to do was look for one of the most fondly cherished Yankees of all time, Joe DiMaggio. Dad was right by his side chatting away as usual, along with a select group of reporters and other players also wanting to pay their respects to the great “Yankee Clipper”.

DiMaggio was certainly a charmer. He was able to win the hearts of all. CJ would always say, “Joe D was the “finest gentleman” he had ever met, and believe me, Dad had met a lot of people, thousands of them.

Joe DiMaggio was a man that had it all. Marilyn Monroe the Hollywood movie star for a wife; great athletic ability, a princely-distinguished look; the Yankee’s, New York, and let’s just say all of America, especially loved Joe after his still standing 56 game hitting streak.

This national hero, this walking legend, was also a very close friend of Dad’s.

Now that makes me about as proud as a son can be about a dad.

Extremely proud!

Considering Joe D, could have as many people /friends around him as he wanted. He always made my Dad feel “very special” and many times chose to just be alone with him. When they were playing in the same celebrity golf tournament they rode together in the same cart, and sat next to each other at the testimonial dinners.

Joe always made “real time” for CJ. It always amazed me, the bond that these two shared. Joe DiMaggio being the ultimate sports star and CJ the ultimate, simple, hard working guy loved my dad. Maybe that’s why they appealed to each other so much. As they say, opposites do attract, but they also had shared some common ground, hard work ethics.

That afternoon my time with CJ, the Yankee’s, and everything else, seemed all too surreal.

Incredible

Unbelievable!

Really!

Never would I have ever guessed that I would be in such incredibly fabled company. It’s one thing when you meet famous players one on one and another when you put 30 or 40 of the greatest ball players of all time in one place, now that is positively overwhelming.

No, that’s absolutely sensational!

Awesome!

Before I knew it the announcement to take the field was sounded. Players and coaches hurriedly scurried about making last minute adjustments to uniforms, gloves, back and knee braces, and pretty much whatever else baseball players have to do in order to be game ready. Old timers especially need extra TLC to nurse those wearied arthritic, and often injured baseball war wounds. They were usually a result of years of strenuous play and total dedication to winning, a price that was gladly paid.

That queue, meant it was time for the “select press” and heralded visitors to exit the NY Yankee locker room, us included. Like cattle were being herded for branding we filed out of the locker room and down the runway tunnel that led to the New York Yankee dugout and playing field.

This walk, I took so slowly. How exciting was this short stroll?

It rendered me speechless!

As always I was thinking about the legendary Bronx Bombers, those creators of Yankee lore that had also walked this same walkway. With each ensuing step I took, another great name popped into my head. If ever in my life I felt humbled and meek, it was now. I felt little, somewhat minuscule, in regards to my mere life accomplishments…

I was nothing in lieu of present celebrated company. Or at least I felt that way that day.

That’s possibly why all I could do was just politely stare and stand in awe in their presence; I was at a total loss for words.

As I consequently approached the entrance to the dugout that reflected light in the clubhouse connecting tunnel became increasingly brighter. While focusing on the immediate surroundings of Yankee Stadium, I tried to also imagine what kind of adrenaline rush I would be experiencing going out for the first time onto Yankee Stadium, hearing the swarm of the fans, as a ballplayer, as a “playing” New York Yankee!

If ever there was a dream that I had dreamed, this was it!

I looked at these men, who all appeared to be extremely ordinary and thought of their athletic accomplishments, and wondered about their personal desires. The craving they must have possessed to be the very best, to become the stars of their game, our baseball’s immortals.

I honestly felt this “magnificent aura” that surrounded these World Champion’s just by being in their company.

How could these ordinary men that did such extraordinary deeds not inspire you?

Yogi Berra, Mickey Mantle, Joe DiMaggio, Roger Maris, Billy Martin, Don Larsen, Whitey Ford, Allie Reynolds, Spec Shea, Casey Stengle, Phil Rizzuto, the list of Baseball Hall of Famer’s  just went on, and on.

They were all together once again. It was time to spend a leisurely day, it was their annual picnic at Yankee Stadium. For most it was another chance to celebrate yesterday’s victories, another day to say hello to brothers and friends, another opportunity to relive and enjoy the electrifying cheers and roars created by the often over-enthusiastic NY Yankee fan base.

But these were more than baseball brothers, their bond was a “team spirit,” one that lived inside them forever. Once a Yankee always a Yankee, regardless of this “thing” called retirement. These individuals molded together and became a team, proved not once, but many times over, that they were without a doubt, the worlds greatest baseball team of all time.

With that passing thought, I was instantly drawn back from my daydream by the buzz of the cheering Yankee crowd that eagerly waited for their favorite stars, past and present.

As I prepared myself to walk from the doorway and into the NY Yankee dugout I sighed one last colossal breath, composed myself, and stepped into one of my all time dreams.

Imagine the fantasy of being a NY YANKEE. (if not only for just a few seconds) and the amazing walk down the runway and on to the field where so many of baseball’s grandest legends and hero’s had performed their athletic magic game after game, year after year, championship after championship. So many thoughts were being processed in my head at once it’s amazing that the human brain can process this all so quickly and effortlessly. It’s a wonder it doesn’t short circuit itself.

My heart started racing and tiny beads of sweat formed on my forehead as I walked the walk of fame and glory. This was about to become a moment that any die-hard Yankee fan could only dream of. For me walking out of the runway and into Yankee Stadium was the equivalent of emotion that an ancient gladiator would have experienced walking into the ancient Roman coliseum. This was also a stage of incredible proportions for our time.

The first step was the most exciting and probably my hardest.

Then with each stride thereafter, my inner pleasure began bubbling over in anticipation of what would be next. I was not only “in” Yankee Stadium, but I was “on” the field, well beyond the power and grasp of stadium usher’s who usually asked to see our ticket’s before politely explaining that we were in the wrong seats and could not sit there.

“Duh”, of course we always knew we weren’t supposed to sit there. But that type of seat up-grade was only done when the Stadium wasn’t filled, which was hardly ever.

As soon as I reached the steps up to the doorway and walked into the Yankee dugout guess who was the first famous person I recognized? DiMaggio, Joe D. , Mr. Coffee, what ever label you wanted him to wear, it was none other than dad’s favorite personality. Which was why I wasn’t at all that surprised when I found C.J. sitting right next to Joe, engaged in a chat.

To my immediate left stood none other than Yankee legend, Yogi Berra, he was sharing a few laughs with former Yankee Manager, Dick Howser who sat on the top dugout stair facing Yogi. They were like two long time school mates re-uniting after a long summer away from each other.

The field seemed to glow from inside the darkened dugout. Almost blinding I would say. Call it my imagination, but there was an energy force there on the field, I promise. And like a magnet draws metal flakes to it, I was drawn out and onto the field. My first stop was the on deck circle.

My eyes had focused down on it more times than I could ever remember. For almost two decades I usually stared at my favorite player, The Mick, as he eagerly waited for his turn to bat. And now here I was standing within inches of it. So this is the view from the on-deck circle, I thought, incredible.

Without the slightest hesitation I stepped towards the plate. An overcoming rush of emotion engulfed me all in a surreal moment. I was actually standing at home plate in Yankee Stadium, UNBELIEVEABLE. I realized at that moment just how blessed I had been to have a father as great as mine. Here I was standing at the plate, and there he was sitting and chatting with Joe DiMaggio, it was surreal to say the least.

In these few glorious moments I was embellishing, the sad truth always seemed to creep its way back into my reality. As proud and as much as I loved my dad, I knew his days were numbered by liver cancer. These memories of memories would soon be coming to a very sad closing and there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing! Do nothing but enjoy these last few joyous occasions fans only get to dream about. I was living it, thanks to my father, his connections and friends.

The rest of the day I spent watching dad interact with his Yankee pals, Mickey, Yogi, Spec, Joe D, Dick Howser, Roger, Moose,Goose, Sparky and many more too numerous to mention.

If ever life had given up a special day to a father and son this was it!

Dreams are made of the day we spent together. Dad found a great restaurant, we both had a big steak, bottle of wine and discussed the days incredible events.

Surely this Old Timers Day was one UNFORGETTABLE DAY!