The Spaceman

1978 was the season that defined the Boston Red Sox for a generation.  A very good team that sprinted out to a seemingly insurmountable lead, but choked as their hated rivals from New york sprinted past them in the dog days of summer.  What is often forgotten is that the Sox mounted their own stunning comeback late in that season to climb into a tie with the Yankees at season’s end.  But the futility of the Red Sox, and in some way, all of Boston, was again reinforced with the meager pop up by Sox legend Carl Yastrzemski to end the playoff game and the season.

Watching from the lonely confines of manager Don Zimmer’s doghouse was one my favorite players, the Spaceman, Bill Lee.  1978 was my first year playing little league and as a left-handed pitcher, I modeled myself on Bill Lee, also a southpaw.  I modeled my wind-up after his and tried to deliver the same lollipop curve with which he teased batters.  The pitch would come in at a high arc, tantalizingly slow, but hitters would be thrown off with their timing and usually end up swinging and missing and spinning themselves into embarassment.  Of course it was also the kind of pitch that when hit, would be hit long and hard and provoke the ire of fans and managers (“why the hell did he throw THAT?!?!”)

Lee was a controversial figure in the conservative baseball world.  Along with a few other teammates, Lee was part of a crew called the “Buffalo Heads” who clashed with Don Zimmer.  Lee spoke favorably of Maoist China, Greenpeace, and marijuana, and was as beloved by teammates and fans as he was hated by management.

So it was in the early summer of 1978 that I had the chance to meet the Spaceman in an unlikely place.  On a sunny Thursday morning walking with my father into Bradlee’s at the Watertwon Mall, we saw the unmistakable sight of Bill Lee.  He was very hard to miss.  He was tall and was wearing a button-down shirt. The pattern of the shirt depicted the moon landing in an unmistakable way……..the whole left side of his body from the waist up was the familiar picture of Neil Armstrong on the surface of the moon and the rest of the shirt was filled out with the rest of the lunar landscape.  The big 70’s collar flapped in the breeze as my father stopped him and told him what a big fan I was and how I tried to pitch just like him.  Maybe he was hungover, maybe he already knew how the battles with management were going to play out, or maybe he had not enjoyed his ganja-garnished pancakes yet, but the Spaceman made it pretty clear with his abrupt mumbling that he was in no mood to entertain an 8 year old kid.

The thrill of the moment outweighed any sense of disappointment for me, but my father was pissed.  It still makes me proud to remeber his fury as we walked into Bradlee’s and he growled, “why the hell is he wearing that damn shirt if he doesn’t want people to recognize him?!?!”