Mickey Mantle in the Pocket

It was mid-afternoon on a sweltering Saturday in New Jersey, 1967, when I had one of those unimportant moments I knew would be with me forever. I had just finished moving furniture for North American Van Lines—a job that helped pay for college expenses. I was driving home on Route 10 with the radio tuned to a New York Yankees’ game, anxiously waiting for my favorite player, Mickey Mantle, to bat. In 1961 there was the magic of “Maris at bat, Mantle on deck” as the team’s star outfielders battled each other to break Babe Ruth’s legendary record for most homers in a season. Maris won with 61 and the Yankees cruised to a World Series win. But this was six years later. Maris had been traded, Mickey’s legs were shot—he now played first base, not center field. And the Yankees were a pathetic team. Even the voice of the Yankees, Mel Allen, had been fired. And now I was 21.

With a sense of empowerment, I pulled into a tavern I’d passed countless times, but never entered. The harsh sunlight lit up half the bar when I opened the door. The patrons were scattered around a large room. A few heads turned my way, then the silence of a humid afternoon and too many drinks returned.

I ordered a Schlitz from the tap after showing my ID—cold and watery. The figures at the bar had their heads down. A radio was blaring the Yankee game. I had the urge to speak to someone, but there were no candidates. Then Mantle came to the plate. The kid in me wanted a homer, but that didn’t happen.

A short time later I was back in the heat with nothing to celebrate. My first solo beer as a legally able to drink adult was done. I drove home to my parent’s house and picked up my Mickey Mantle model baseball glove as if it were a crystal ball. If I were to save anything from my childhood, it was going to be this worn out mitt. It was a symbol I didn’t quite understand–I think it had something to do with expectations that would not be met.

I picked the glove up this week, pleased that this was an expectation that has been met. I placed it in the sun and took a photo of Mickey’s fading signature in the leather pocket, then I put it back in the closet where it would be safe from the dogs.