Baseball Friends

This is the final post in a 3-part series honoring William Julius Johnson, Negro Leagues

with special thanks to others who love the game of baseball

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Judy Johnson's autograph wouldn't be part of my modest collection of baseball memorabilia if it weren't for a baggage supervisor from Chicago.    

It was snowing hard in Denver, and ours was one of the last flights to depart  that afternoon before the airport shut down.  Bleary-eyed but safe at home well after midnight, we claimed our bags at Logan Airport's carousel number whatever, only to find that one important piece was missing: a huge duffel full of ski gear belonging to my 12-year-old son.   Most of his Christmas presents, including brand-new ski boots, helmet, goggles, clothing, snow pants, waterproof outerwear, some of it  high-end stuff he'd purchased on his own.  

One week and many phone calls later, nothing had turned up.   I imagined my son's bag kicking around somewhere in Idaho or Steamboat Springs or Fort Worth, but we would never know.   No act of  imagination would lead me to it.  No thorough description, vociferous complaint, tracking number, or insurance claim would bring my son's equipment back to him.     The bag was gone, stolen maybe, and its whereabouts would remain a mystery.  So we talked about how it was only stuff, how much worse things than this happen all the time, and we began to think about how to replace its contents.   I chuckled when wondering who would ever want that ski helmet anyway, the one plastered with stickers from everywhere, the  gaudy one that elicited a playful comment from a Rocky Mountain ski lift operator:  "You got enough stickers on that helmet, dude?"

Long after we'd given up on recovering the lost bag, a phone call came unexpectedly.  A cheerful voice announced that it was speaking on behalf of United Airlines:  our luggage had been found.  

Apparently, a physician had grabbed my son's bag by mistake, hurried out of Logan Airport, hauled the unwieldy thing (it had no wheels) back to her large home in an affluent suburb west of Boston, plopped it down in a vacant room, and promptly forgot about it.   She'd been so busy upon returning home that she hadn't bothered to unpack, so the duffel sat in a spare room for a couple weeks until she finally unzipped it and realized that its strange contents didn't belong to her.  The gentleman from Chicago explained all this to me. 

What sort of person, I wondered, doesn't unpack after more than a week?  And who hauls a huge bag like that and doesn't notice that it feels a little different?  It happens; so be it.

The kind man from United Airlines made small talk while efficiently accomplishing all the paperwork that would send our bag back to us.  When I spoke my final thank you and prepared to say goodbye, the stranger from Illinois wasn't ready to let me go.   He had one more important question.

"Did you know that there's a famous ballplayer named Judy Johnson?"

It's a question that's often asked of me, more and more it seems as the years go by.    Strangers are usually surprised and maybe a little disappointed to hear my answer.   Yes, as a matter of fact I'm happy to say that I do know . . . .   It's as if they want to be the first to tell me.   I can't blame them.

I told the baggage handler from Chicago that I'd known about  William Julius Johnson for a pretty long time, ever since reading his obituary back in 1989.   Imagining that bold headline once again, I told the gentleman how much I loved baseball.

Some weeks later, it may have been a few months, a small card arrived via U. S. mail.   Back in the day when you'd receive personal things in a mailbox.   The return address, which had been hand stamped in purple letters, named a town I didn't recognize and a state I'd never visited:  Dundee, IL.  

Inside the small envelope I found a home-made greeting card, the kind that people started making when computers were relatively new.   Primary colors "painted" with computer ink had formed a little baseball diamond - infield, outfield, three crisp white bags and home plate.  I had no idea what this was all about, but upon opening the card, everything became clear in a little handwritten message:   "You can always find what you're looking for on a baseball field.   Glad your luggage was found!"      The baggage supervisor sent me his kind regards and signed his name.

And not only that.   As if the little computer-generated painting weren't already enough.  The kind words.  The fact that he'd found my son's bags long ago, and brought some precious possessions back to us.    As if those things were not already enough, my friend from Illinois had tucked another card inside his homemade greeting, the one pictured above for all of you to see, including an authentic signature penned by the ballplayer with whom I share a name.

I've known true kindness in the world of baseball and important friendships too.   It's one of the huge reasons I keep following the game, even though there are times when I wonder why I'm bothering to do so.    Some of my baseball friends are imaginary and some are real, some remote in memory or very far away, yet still dear to my heart.   In recent weeks I've made many new friends in baseball  -  "virtual" friends, a fascinating mix of people.  Artists, writers, collectors, statisticians, all fans with one thing in common:  a game.

I'm not quite sure what to make of these virtual friendships that begin out there in cyberspace, wherever that is.    Virtual:    "something that is a representation rather than the real thing" ....  "existing in essence though not in actual fact" ... "the seeming of anything, as opposed to its reality" ... "imitated, simulated, nearly, almost" ... "almost but not quite."

I keep hearing the word "virtue" in virtual.  Virtue as in merit.   I checked the OED, even though some of its definitions may be obsolete for our time, just like the thin paper  that holds its meanings:  "effective, potent, powerful."  I'm inclined to believe that virtual friendships formed on the common ground of baseball -  through language, anecdotes, trivia, ideas, memories, and art work - are more than an "almost-but-not-quite" connection.    I like to think that they are real.    

The baggage handler who once gave up something precious from his own collection is a true baseball friend, even though I've never met him face to face. 

Like you, I've experienced a lot of fun and many joys in the world of baseball; I've known  laughter,  surprises, and generosity of spirit.  I've experienced these things throughout my life and with increasing momentum in recent weeks and months, thanks to my new friends, my virtual friends.   Some of the best and strongest relationships in my life have happened because of a game.   Some of my most important possessions are very simple things, and they've come to me thanks to baseball. 

Many years ago, I lost my beloved baseball card collection, once carefully stored in a big shoe box in my bedroom closet that was otherwise full of school clothes and pretty dresses.  But that's a story for another day.   A Hall of Fame post card signed by Judy Johnson goes a long way in making up for other things I've lost.

Comments

[Dave Baldwin]

A wonderful story, Judy. Maybe the best thing about baseball is the friends we make through it.

[watching the game]

Thanks so much, Dave. I'm glad to hear this opinion - especially from your perspective!

[Tom]

People that say "its only a game" really don't know what they're missing.

[watching the game]

Tom, your comments are awesome. Thank you.

[Bill Chapman]

This was a delightful story, Judy. I feel enriched by having read it. My most prized relationships are those that I have made around the baseball field.

[watching the game]

I'm so pleased that the story reached you, Bill. Thanks very much for your thoughtful comment.