By John D. Pierce
When working on the Georgia Tech campus in the early ’90s
I’d encourage students to attend baseball games there with me — typically a
lesser-appreciated college sport than football or basketball (sans Vanderbilt).
The students responded well, and many afternoons we’d walk
over to Russ Chandler Stadium to watch this exceptionally good Yellow Jackets
team.
Catcher Jason Varitek would likely bomb one toward the frat
house beyond the right field fence and pick off an unsuspecting runner drifting
from third base. Jay Payton played a sterling centerfield and several other
players were quiet good as well.
I particularly enjoyed watching — and pointing out his
skills to students — the then-skinny shortstop with the odd name: Nomar Garciaparra.
(His fellow Tech students, who know a lot about all kinds of stuff, would note
that “Nomar” is “Ramon” — his daddy’s name — spelled backward.)
Of course, Nomar went on to have a fine Major League career
as did some of his Tech teammates of that era. Also, he married a talented soccer
star from another ACC school (UNC) and kids followed as well as a broadcasting
venture.
However, I didn’t expect Nomar’s name to surface over the
holidays when reading David Halberstam’s 2003 bestseller, The Teammates. It traces the enduring friendships of four Boston
Red Sox — Ted Williams, Johnny Pesky, Dom DiMaggio and Bobby Doerr — who played
together before I was born.
Williams, of course, was one of the greatest hitters of all
time — the last person to finish a season with a batting average above .400.
That was in 1941, the same year Dom DiMaggio’s more famous brother, Joe, set a still-unbroken
record with a 56-game hitting streak.
In the book, Halberstam recalled the aging Williams placing
a call in 1996 to his old teammate and friend Doerr. Ted is watching
Garciaparra who’d just come up with the Red Sox.
“Who does he remind you of?” asks the Splendid Splinter.
Doerr, writes Halberstam, paused — afraid of being wrong. So
Ted answered his own question: “DiMaggio.”
“Dom?” asked Doerr, assuming Ted was referring to their
mutual friend and longtime teammate who was quite a player.
“No, Bobby. Joe!” Ted responded.
Wow! What a compliment — to have one of the greatest hitters
of all time compare you to one of the greatest hitters of all time.
I wonder if Nomar has that page from the book framed.
Everybody appreciates compliments — but they carry more weight depending on the
source.
It’s a good reminder to be generous with honest compliments
toward one another, especially those who would be buoyed by our affirmation.
