Goodbye Rapid Robert

Bob Feller died yesterday. He was 92.  If you're not a baseball fan, that name probably means nothing. And if you're a baseball fan under 40, that name likely doesn't mean much either. But I am a baseball fan, over 40, and I know who Bob Feller is- only one of the best right handed hurlers in MLB history and enshrined in the Baseball Hall of Fame. So, yeah, Bob Feller's a pretty big deal. 

He retired from the game when I was a baby and I never saw him play. But growing up, whenever the topic of great pitchers and great pitching performances were being bandied about by sports scribes and commentators, Bob Feller's name came up often. Long after his career ended, Bob Feller was still a pretty big deal. That’s how it sounded to me anyway and it really was a big deal having the opportunity to meet the man during the summer I worked for the Spokane Indians Triple-A Baseball Club.

 

Fresh out of college, with few funds and no job, I answered an ad in the newspaper. Group Ticket Sales...Spokane Indians Baseball Team.. ..Apply in Person, Fairgrounds Ballpark.....See Don. Being a lifelong baseball fan, nobody had to convince me that getting paid to work for the local team sounded pretty good. All I had to do was convince them it'd be a pretty good idea to hire me. After reading the paper that morning though, it was already past 9 and I was miles from the job sight. So I threw on a shirt and tie and hauled ass to the ballpark, located in a crummy industrial area at the intersection of Broadway and Havana in the Spokane Valley.

Once there, I blindly found my way to the press box area and found this Don character. He was an old guy, probably in his mid-60s. Actually I have no idea how old he was, but his hair was grey and his face was really wrinkled. For all I know, he might’ve been 40; 40 in dog years. Suffice to say, he looked pretty damn old. But after offering a chair, Don began the interview with a few innocuous questions. None of them sounded like they had much to do with the job. But he nodded his head and grunted an, “Uh huh” to each of my answers, then excused himself.  I thought the questions would be more job-specific, or at least harder, when he came back. But a few minutes later when he did, all he did was light a cigarette, said I was hired and asked if I could start that day. Just like that.

(Once I’d been there a few days, and satisfied with my work, Don told me the only reason he hired me was because I’d been the first to apply. Not because I was uniquely qualified, gifted, talented, had some smarts or good looks. All I did was get there first and with a car and that's all he was looking for. Oh well. But I didn't care about that and didn’t have to think twice about it. I wanted the job and I got it.)

The position was in group sales. The Indians weren’t a huge draw in town, they didn’t have many season ticket holders, and most of their attendance came from walk-up clientele on game nights. But there were two big events coming up- Fourth of July Fireworks night and Bob Feller Night in August-- and Don was the point man for these two promotions. He worked the phones selling blocks of tickets to these two games and I was his courier. That’s why he was glad I showed up with wheels. My job was to deliver the tickets he sold and collect payment. The salary was a whopping 3 per cent commission on each delivery. So the bigger the order, the more money I made. 

Don wanted me in the office by 9 so we could chart a logical navigation course for the days’ deliveries. Spokane's pretty well spread out, and each day my route took me anywhere from the South Hill to the north side, Coeur d'Alene to Cheney. But once I had my itinerary mapped out, Don didn’t really care what I did as long as I was back by 5 with an envelope full of checks and cash. So before leaving the ballpark, I'd grab the morning paper and a cup of coffee and sit out in the stands and catch a few rays and fresh air before hitting the streets. If the Indians were in town, sometimes a few of the players would be out running laps or taking extra batting practice. I loved this job.

Another reason I liked it: the distinct lack of a dress code. I could wear anything I liked and I liked     cut-offs and t-shirts, so that was my uniform. Don even caught me in a tank top one 95 degree afternoon, but even that was okay. In Don's world, as long as I wasn't naked and bringing in the money he didn't care what I wore although he suggested, I throw a shirt over the tank top if my deliveries took me to one of the nicer downtown businesses. But it was the perfect summer job; outdoors a lot, driving around with the windows down and the radio cranking out the tunes, free from a desk and supervision and, sometimes, free admission to the ballgames. 

 

Because my route took me so far from the office (the ballpark), there were some days when I didn’t get back till after 7 which, on game nights, meant I’d be coming in with the crowd. Don never worried, though. “I trust you. Take your time and I’ll be here when you get back. I’ll wait for ya”, he’d say before sending me out on what we both knew would be a really long day of collections. And when I got back, that’s where I’d always find him- still at his desk, eating a late supper and smoking another God-awful Kent Menthol. I’d be hot, hungry and tired of driving, but after handing over the days’ receipts Don would give me a pass to watch the game and a five spot for something to eat. If all the good seats were gone, he'd take me to sit in the press box with the organist. I got to see half a dozen games for free that summer. Like I said, I loved this job!

    

But back to Bob Feller. Not only was he an All-star and Hall of Fame pitcher, he'd also spent his entire career with the Cleveland Indians. And during the summer of 1978, the Spokane Indians were Cleveland’s top Triple-A farm team. Hence, the connection, the ticket attraction, and how I managed to rub shoulders with the man. Bob Feller Night at Indians Ballpark was in August, on the last Friday night of the season. It was also my last day on the job. There were only two deliveries, though, and I was back before 11 in the morning. This was ‘our baby’- at least it was Don’s baby- and he expected me to stay through its conclusion. Of course that left a lot of time to kill until game time, although I suppose I could’ve gone home and come back. But Don had a better idea. When I got back from the last delivery, he tossed me a brand new baseball and told me I had the whole field to myself for the next half hour.

 

It was just me and a baseball and thirty minutes and I enjoyed every second of it. I ran the bases a couple times. Then I stood on the pitcher’s mound and fired a Nolan Ryan fastball at the backstop. It left a small bruise on the virgin horsehide, but nothing on the backstop. This was somewhat disappointing because it meant my Nolan Ryan fastball wasn’t any harder than the one he threw in the sixth grade. Out at the fifteen foot tall outfield fences, satiated with advertising, I played caroms off the walls like I was Carl Yastrzemski. Or my Uncle Carl. Then laying on my back in center field, I chewed a piece of grass and stared up at the blue late summer sky. It felt like the ball field was all mine. It was awesome.

 

When my time was up and I heard Don call my name, I sat up and saw him motioning to me from the top step of the Indians dugout. I trotted in and noticed another man was there on the Indians bench. It was another old guy in a dark suit. I didn't know who he was, maybe the owner of the team, there to tell me to get the hell off his field. But when I pulled up, Don smiled at me then spoke to the other gentlemen. "Bob, do you know who this young man is?"

Of course he didn't. What a ridiculous question. But when Don said the man’s name, I knew right away who ‘Bob’ was. I knew he was an All-star and Hall of Fame pitcher who’d spent his entire career with the Cleveland Indians. And that summer, the Spokane Indians were Cleveland’s top Triple-A farm team, which was the reason for the ticket promotion, why I had the job, why Mr. Feller was there and how I managed to rub shoulders with the man. Gosh, I love it when a plan comes together. “Bob Feller”, Don announced, “meet Rocket. He works with me in group sales and helped us make tonight a sellout”

 

Don and I both knew I had nothing to do with the game, the sell-out or anything else, except for delivering a lot of the tickets. But Mr. Feller walked over anyway, stuck out his hand and said, "Nice job, son. Thanks for all your hard work." My mouth may have dropped to the dirt. I'd just shaken hands with the great Bob Feller. I asked if he wouldn't mind autographing my baseball. He smiled and without batting an eye, put his signature to it. When he handed it back, he shook my hand again. "Enjoy the game tonight and next time you're in Cleveland, be sure and look me up and we’ll talk some ball."

 

I stayed and watched the game that night and saw Mr. Feller throw out the first pitch. He was probably 60 or so by then, but still moved with the agility of an athlete. He could still toss the 'ol agate, too. Bob Feller was very gracious to me although I’m sure he was only joking about the invitation. I was nobody. And even if it was genuine, I'd never follow up on it. I mean, really, who goes to Cleveland? For any reason. But meeting and being invited to “look up and talk some ball’ the great Bob Feller on my next trip to northeast Ohio was the capper to a great last day working for the Spokane Indians.

I haven't thought much about that day or that meeting for a long time. Unfortunately, I've long since lost the autographed baseball. And through numerous moves over the years, have misplaced the rest of the ballpark memorabilia which may have stuck to my hands that summer. But hearing of Bob Feller's passing last night brought this faded memory back to life again, if only briefly. It reminded me of a great summer and a dream summer job that included a chance meeting with a now baseball immortal. Those things just don't happen very often. But in the summer of 1978, I’d been in the right place at the right time. And the memory of it all made me smile.