Suddenly, I was reminded of the time I took Hall of Famer Tris Speaker to an Angel’s game (here). I haven’t spoken with Speaker since, but I could tell this wasn’t him next to the jacuzzi.
“I think that’s Shoeless Joe Jackson,” I said. “You know, from Field of Dreams.”
I poked my head out the back door and called, “Can I help you?”
“You a lawyer?”
“No, I’m a teacher.”
He turned to leave, “Sorry to bother you then.”
“Wait,” I yelled, “I know some lawyers. Stay for a few minutes. We’ll talk. And besides, the game just started.”
He nodded and approached our door. He removed his cap and tentatively entered our TV room as if he was exiting an Iowa cornfield. I pondered asking him to wear a mask.
“Joe Jackson,” he said, extending his hand.
“I thought that was you!” One of the greatest hitters in the history of baseball was in my home. Because my mind races like a bullet train, I instantly pulled up his batting feats: he owns the third highest career batting average (.356) and is one of the few guys to hit over .400 for a season. He hit .408 in 1911 and didn’t win a batting title. Ty Cobb hit .419. On the other hand, Jackson was one of eight players banned for life for allegedly throwing the 1919 World Series.
Motioning for him to take a seat on the couch, I said, “Great timing, it’s Opening Day.”
“In July?”
“It’s been quite a year,” I said.
“What’s with all the empty seats? We used to play to huge crowds. Don’t people watch baseball anymore?”
“We’re in the middle of a global health pandemic and the fans can’t go. That’s also why the season is just starting.”
I went on to recap the Covid-19 scenario, the quarantine, the masks, the deaths, and the restrictions. I didn’t mention the toilet paper shortage.
“Sounds rough,” he said. “Reminds me of 1918. We had a pandemic too.”
“The Spanish Flu. I’ve read a little about it. What was it like?”
“It was pretty awful,” he said.
My mind rattles off the stats as he described the hardships the nation felt at the time. The pandemic lasted 15 months and killed an estimated 50 to 100 million people worldwide, including approximately 675,000 Americans. More than 500 million people were infected around the globe.
“And we had to end the 1918 season two weeks early because of the war. Many of us ball players had to work to support the war effort. I only played in 17 games that year. Had to go work in a shipyard.”
“Why?” I ask.
“It was either that or get sent to the Western Front. The government instituted a “Fight or Work” program. I chose ‘work’.”
“Smart choice.” I couldn’t imagine Mike Trout or Mookie Betts having to make that decision.
On the TV, Giancarlo Stanton hit a mammoth home run and pitchers Gerrit Cole and Max Scherzer looked sharp. As the game rolled on we settled into comfortable conversation. He told me about having to go to work in a mill as a six-year-old and that his wife was just 15 years old when they married.
We talked mostly about baseball, the evolution of the game, and my life as a fan. We shared our love for a sport that for over a century has been a daily diversion from the troubles of life, a unifier of communities, and something sacred to focus upon to pass the time. I thought of our country’s current boiling pot of issues and wondered if anything would have been different had we had sports to bring us together.
On the TV, it started raining.
As if on cue he said, “Racially, it was an explosive time too. There were riots all over the country. Lots of deaths, mob violence, and the national guard.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said sadly.
“It was later called Red Summer because of all the bloodshed.”
I made a note to read up on my history.
But when MLB Commissioner Rob Manfred appeared on the screen for an interview he mumbled under his breath, “Commissioners,” and changed the topic.
“So, about that lawyer,” he said.
“Yeah, why do you need one?”
“I want to sue Major League Baseball. I’d like to be reinstated.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Now, 100 years later?”
“Yes. Now. I heard about how the Astros cheated in the World Series.”
“You heard about that, but not the pandemic?”
“I thought that was fake news.”
“Very funny. But why the lawsuit?”
“Because those guys admitted to cheating and didn’t get punished! Meanwhile, I was acquitted in a court of law AND got banned for LIFE! We lost the World Series,” he continued, “and the commissioner tossed us out of the game!”
“Well, there were punishments,” I said. “People were fired. The team lost draft choices and was heavily fined.”
“Apples and oranges, buddy. The players, the guys between the lines, they still have jobs. Very well-playing jobs, I might add.”
I couldn’t disagree. I told him about how MLB granted the players immunity. How it said the players ‘didn’t know’ that using technology to steal signs was illegal because Houston’s management failed to pass down a memo from Manfred’s office.
“Didn’t know, hmmph!” he garbled. “Everybody knows. They knew it. You know it as a kid. You know cheating is wrong like you know how to give a firm handshake, like you know how to look someone in the eye when you say, ‘good-morning’.” He stood up, started pacing the living room. “You telling me that everybody who scuffed a ball, corked a bat, and took a drug, didn’t know what they were doing?”
“Of course they knew ….” His voice trailed off.
He’s right I think to myself. You know it as a kid. In my classroom, my students set up three-sided cardboard walls during tests to prohibit cheating. The temptation is strong. Wandering eyes lead to an unfair advantage. Especially if you’re sitting next to a smart kid.
And when they get caught, they don’t say, “I didn’t know I couldn’t do that.”
In the Astro’s dugout, technology and trashcan lids created an unfair advantage. Did Jackson and his fellow scandal-mates give their World Series opponent, the Cincinnati Reds, an unfair advantage?
I have to ask him, there might never be another chance. “Did you do it, Joe?”
He picks up a wooden bat that I keep nearby. Gives it a few slow swings. He looks me in the eyes, pauses, and says, “It’s been a hundred years, I think I’ve done my time.”
My heart sinks. I’ll get you the numbers of the two lawyers I know,” I say. “I hope it works out.”
The scrawl on the bottom of the screen says a player has been banned for 80 games for using performance enhancing drugs. I think 80 games would have been sufficient for sign-stealing too.
The rain delay in Washington extends, so I switch over to the Dodgers game. The Dodgers have cardboard cutouts placed in the seats behind home plate. A reminder of our current times.
Times that are ever changing. Times that seem to stay the same.
