I wrote a review of the book as well as Bradlee's talk for The American Spectator. Unfortunately, it was not to be published. Instead, they opted to publish a review written by Paul Reid who was one of the last people to interview Williams. Under the circumstances, I understood their decision but was disappointed by it. This would not be the last time. But that's for another day. Personally, I believe this review is one of the best things I've ever written. Well, you can judge that for yourself:
If Ted Williams wasn’t able to hit a baseball then he probably would have been committed to a mental institution.
Ben
Bradlee, Jr. was a bit puzzled after I made this observation to him
following a talk he gave about his new epic biography of The Splendid
Splinter titled The Kid: The Immortal Life of Ted Williams at the Boston Public Library earlier this month. When
I explained that shouting in crowded movie theaters, jumping up and
down on beds and screaming “Hi ho silver” in public in the 1930s was the
sort of behavior that got people locked up, he agreed. Bradlee then
added, “Well, when you hit .350 you can get away with a lot of things.”
Well,
Ted Williams got away with a great many things. Williams also received
the acclaim he desired. He often said that when he walked down the
street he wanted people to say, “There goes the greatest hitter who ever
lived,” and many people said exactly that when he passed them by. Yet
no amount of praise could satisfy Williams. The one thing Williams could
never attain was happiness.
Contrast
that with the disposition of his contemporary Stan “The Man” Musial,
the greatest player to ever don a St. Louis Cardinals uniform. Musial,
who died last January at the age of 92, almost always wore a smile on
his face. When asked why he was so happy all the time. Musial would
reply, “If you knew you were going to hit .350 every year, you’d be
happy all the time.” Williams knew he was going to hit .350 every year.
Yet this knowledge never brought him contentment of any sort.
This
is what Bradlee captures in his 800-page epic about Williams. It took
Bradlee more than 10 years to write this book. During the course of that
decade, Bradlee interviewed more than 600 people including teammates,
friends, ex-wives, lovers as well as his two daughters. To give one an
idea of how long it took Bradlee to complete the book more than 5% of
the people he interviewed have now passed on including the likes of
teammates Dominic DiMaggio, Johnny Pesky and eldest daughter Bobbi-Jo.
Bradlee
traces Williams’ discontent all the way back to his childhood in San
Diego. An indifferent father and a mother who was more devoted to the
Salvation Army than she was to young Ted and his younger brother Danny
was the root of his lifelong anger and restlessness. Complicating
matters was Williams’ Mexican heritage on his mother’s side which filled
him with great shame and took great pains to distance himself from
until very near the end of his life.
But
Williams found he could hit a baseball and through this skill found
some semblance of stability with the parents of a few of his
neighborhood friends who took a liking to the energetic youngster. As
for his parents, they only seemed to take an interest in him when it
became clear he could make a living playing baseball. They took an
active role in taking bids from major league organizations interested in
their son including the New York Yankees, Detroit Tigers and the Boston
Red Sox. After playing two seasons with the hometown San Diego Padres
in the Pacific Coast League, the Red Sox agreed to the financial demands
of Williams’ parents and signed with them in 1938.
Despite
Williams’ enormous talent, he had something of a reputation of being a
screwball. Williams displayed few social graces in public and his lack
of propriety often extended to the playing field. Williams cared little
for being an outfielder and instead of concentrating on the game would
turn his back to home plate and practice his swing. It could be said
that The Kid was way out in left field.
Although
Williams would hit .327 with 31 HR and an American League leading 145
RBI in his rookie season in 1939, he could not shake his screwball
reputation loose. When Williams experienced something of a sophomore
jinx early in the 1940 season his daffiness devolved into anger when
cheers turned to jeers at Fenway Park. When things didn’t go Williams’
way he would throw his glove, his bat or a ball at anyone who got in his
way. And when Williams didn’t have anything to throw, he would spit
instead. That year Williams would begin to feud with Boston writers whom
he derisively referred to as the Knights of the Keyboard.
Notwithstanding these travails, Williams finished the season hitting
.344 (which ended up being his lifetime batting average when he retired
after the 1960 season).
One
of the more interesting aspects of Bradlee’s book is Red Sox owner Tom
Yawkey’s interaction with Williams and his teammates. Yawkey was
considered a generous owner who spoiled his players with high salaries.
Yet until reading Bradlee’s book, I had no idea that Yawkey had financed
a bordello near his plantation in South Carolina. Although mostly used
by Yawkey’s employees in the International Paper Company, Red Sox
players including Williams availed themselves of the services provided
there. During Bradlee’s lecture, I drew laughter when I suggested that
the bordello might have been one of the reasons the Red Sox didn’t win a
World Series title for 86 years.
After
Williams hit .406 in 1941, he could no longer be regarded as a
screwball. Yet he would remain taciturn with the Boston media and fans
for the rest of his career. Although Williams was revered by a majority
of the Boston media and fans, he only seemed to hear those with
discouraging words and would not tip his cap. Williams could lose his
temper at the drop of a hat. He was like Ty Cobb only without the
racism.
Of
course, Williams possessed many endearing qualities. As a youngster,
Williams had seen Satchel Paige pitch and would compete against black
ballplayers in high school tournaments. One year Williams and Jackie
Robinson would compete in the same tournament although their teams
didn’t play one another. While Williams was often difficult with his Red
Sox teammates, when Pumpsie Green joined the team in 1959 he went out
of his way to welcome him and often played catch him in the outfield
before games. The Red Sox were the last team to integrate and Williams
would regret not bringing more pressure to bear on Yawkey to sign a
black ballplayer sooner. This could explain why Williams made a point of
challenging the Baseball Hall of Fame to induct Satchel Paige, Josh
Gibson and other Negro League players during his induction speech in
1966.
Williams
also served this country during WWII and in Korea. Although Williams
did not serve in combat during WWII he did fly 39 combat missions during
the Korean War. As a result of his military service, Williams missed
nearly five seasons of his career. This annoyed Williams to no end and
he made every effort to avoid being shipped to Korea. Although unhappy
with the armistice in Korea, in later years, Williams would take
enormous pride in his military service.
Yet
perhaps Williams’ greatest legacy was his kindness to children
especially those afflicted with cancer. Williams visited scores of
terminally ill children and insisted on doing so anonymously. He did not
want the public to think he was trying to curry favor. For good
measure, he often paid for the medical care of these children. Williams
also championed The Jimmy Fund, the official charity of the Red Sox
which provides funding to the Dana Farber Cancer Center located near
Fenway Park.
Unfortunately,
Williams’ kindness seldom extended to his own children. Nor was he kind
to his ex-wives and live in lovers. They never lived up to his
expectations and when they fell short Williams reserved his harshest
criticism for them. Williams would later acknowledge that he struck out
both as a husband and a father but the damage was done.
One
of the most enduring images of Williams took place during the 1999
All-Star Game in Boston. Prior to the game, the living members of
All-Century Team were introduced including Stan Musial, Sandy Koufax,
Johnny Bench, Willie Mays and Yogi Berra. The last player introduced was
Williams to the delight of the Fenway faithful. Williams acknowledged
their cheers by tipping his cap.
Too
frail to take the field on his own, he was driven on the field in a
cart by longtime Red Sox equipment manager man Johnny Orlando, the man
who nicknamed Williams “The Kid” six decades earlier. What I remember
about this was how the rest of the members of the All-Century team and
members of the AL and NL All-Star teams all spontaneously gathered
around Williams as if they were subjects welcoming their long lost king
returning from exile.
Despite
this spontaneous display of royal reverence, Ted Williams bore an
uncomfortable resemblance to King Lear in the final years of his life.
Like Lear, Williams would disinherit the one child most loyal to him
while keeping ties to his two other children who proclaimed their love
while showing their contempt by profiting off his name. His son, John
Henry, had power of attorney and depleted the money his father spent a
lifetime earning. John Henry, who died of leukemia in 2004, along with
younger sister Claudia would try to convince Williams of the merits of
cryonics. Williams’ closest friends said that he wished to be cremated
and have his ashes dispersed in the Florida Keys where he fished. Sadly,
as we all know, Williams did not have ashes spread in the Florida Keys
following his death in July 2002. Instead, his remains were shipped to
the Alcor cyronics facility in Arizona where they remain to this day.
Bradlee describes the procedure in gruesome detail. Suffice it to say,
Williams has as little peace in death as he did in life.
It
is undeniable that Ted Williams led a life full of triumph. But from
beginning to end The Kid was a tragic figure. Ted Williams lived a life
more splintered than splendid.
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