There’s a good chance the husband has his Cincinnati Reds ball cap surgically attached to his head. It’s that time of year.
We were in the quaint historic river town of St. Charles, Missouri, leaving a sidewalk café, when a voice yells, “PETE ROSE, JOE MORGAN, JOHNNY BENCH!”
It came from an older man wearing a St. Louis Cardinals ball cap sitting on a bench across the street.
Without a moment’s pause, the husband shoots back, “I PHOTOGRAPHED THEM ALL!”
The two red ball caps meet in the middle of the brick street. “I was a photographer for the Cincinnati Enquirer in 1974, a year before the Big Red Machine won two back-to-back championships in ‘75 and ‘76,” my husband says.
“My dad was a scout for the major leagues,” the man says.
Game on. I’ll see you one and raise you two.
“My father took me to a ball game and said I want you to see this man in the dugout. The man came out and threw a couple of pitches. I said, ‘He’s just an old man.’ Dad said, ‘Yes, but he was one of the best players ever –Satchel Paige. But he couldn’t play in the major league his first 24 years in baseball because he was black.’”
The man said that was the first time he realized what prejudice was.
A driver taps his horn and the two move the baseball roundup five steps closer to the curb.
“Have you been a Cardinals fan all your life?” the husband asks.
“Lou Brock—nicest guy ever,” the man says. “He walked into a restaurant with Mike Shannon and Ken Boyer. A man asked Lou if he could take his picture with his little boy. Brock said sure and held the 3-year-old right on his lap.”
Two women carrying shopping bags notice the conversation, slow their pace, lean in and say to me, “He loves to talk baseball.” They wave to the Cardinals fan and continue down the street. For all I know, the man just lost his ride home.
Rapid-fire pitches and hits continue. My husband tells his new friend he photographed Lou Brock in St. Louis when he broke the base stealing record of Maury Wills.
“I was at that game, too,” the man says. He and his wife bought tickets to every game so they wouldn’t miss it.
They’re having a wonderful time recalling the greats and sharing baseball history. They never exchange names or introduce themselves to one another. They never mention if they are retired or still working. They never mention where they are from or where they are headed.
I’m no longer listening to the conversation. I am relishing the camaraderie of two baseball-loving Americans, standing side-by-side in the late afternoon sun, thoroughly enjoying the company and conversation of one another.
Amid all the things that divide us, pit us against one another, and alienate friends and family today, baseball may be one of the last common threads still holding us together.
Play ball!