You wouldn’t expect a guy from Brooklyn growing up idolizing a catcher from Montreal, but I did. And I have the bad knees to prove it. The sad news of Gary Carter’s passing brings me back to a time in my life when little league, baseball cards, Topps Baseball Sticker Albums, wiffle balls and bats and a ratty old catcher’s mitt consumed every waking moment of my summers.
My dad was the coach of my little league team growing up and he was the kind of dad who didn’t like hearing whining or excuses. So no one was more surprised than I was as he asked for volunteers to be the team’s catcher and when no one answered he looked me in the eye, pointed at the catcher’s equipment and told me to put it on.
Back then, in the early 80′s, there was no “coach pitch” or “underhand toss” going on in little league. We used real baseballs and they hurt like hell on the body of a little boy who was barely strong enough to throw the ball back to the pitcher, let alone second base. But again, I had the kind of dad who didn’t like whining, excuses, complaining and especially despised tears.
In a household where the New York Yankees were the only team that was allowed to matter, the Montreal Expos may have well have been a team who played on the moon. And if I planned to emulate any catcher on the baseball field, it better have been Thurman Munson. Especially considering my dad constantly referred to me to his friends as his “little Thurman”. But I was determined to do my own thing regardless of the consequences.
I was a big baseball hat collector as a kid too, mostly of major league baseball teams, because I loved to cut box score lineups out of the newspaper of random, non-Yankees teams, pop on a hat my dad disapproved of and went out to play wiffle ball with the neighborhood kids who wondered why I refused to be the Yankees or Mets players they knew the names of like they were close relatives.
Having a birthday in July, most of my birthday gifts in my younger years were centered around baseball and none blew me away more than a plastic replica batting helmet with the Montreal Expos logo on it my dad gave to me. Dad and I share the same birthday and a connection to the game of baseball like every dad and son dream of having. So as much he wanted me to be his “little Thurman”, he knew this “Gary Carter guy” I always talked about and pretended to be behind the plate was a player worth accepting I loved.
I never openly rooted for Gary Carter when he was with the New York Mets because I was afraid my dad’s acceptance of him would have been pushed to its limits but having my favorite player be an integral part in defeating the hated rival Boston Red Sox secretly brought me a pleasure most in my family recognized. Especially my dad.
Rest in peace, Gary Carter. I loved the way you battled behind the plate and am sure you battled just as hard for you life. You will be missed but never forgotten by a little boy from Brooklyn who dreamed of being a major league catcher because of the way you played the game day after day.