The Parable of Tim McCarver and the Prodigal Son

       I have a confession to make, a terrible awful confession.  I was once…excuse me, but this is very difficult to say…(gulp)…a Yankees fan!            

      I know that’s hard to believe.  I was raised in a good Christian home by wonderful parents, but for a time in my life I actually was a fan of the New York Yankees.            

      That’s one of the reasons I’ve never run for public office.  I have a skeleton in pin-stripes in my closet, and if I ever ran for office, it would certainly come out.  Being a Yankees fan is worse than being for tax increases.              

      There’s really no excuse for being a Yankees fan, but my explanation is that I was just a little boy at the time, caught up in the allure of Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris.  I had not yet reached what Baptists refer to as “the age of accountability.”              

      But in October of 1964, I, like the prodigal son, came home, and I owe it all to Tim McCarver.                         

      In October of 1964, the Cardinals and the Yankees met in the World Series.  There was nothing unusual about the Yankees playing in the World Series.  Throughout most of my childhood, the Yankees won the American League Pennant almost every year.  I guess that’s why I was a Yankees fan.  All little kids like winners, and the Yankees always won.  Before reaching the age of accountability, I did not know that the reason the Yankees always won was that they bought the best players.  (Still do, in fact.)              

      But in the summer of 1964, my allegiance began to move from the Bronx to St. Louis.  On hot and humid Memphis nights, I listened to Harry Caray broadcast the Cardinals games on KMOX radio out of St. Louis.  After sundown, I was able to pick up KMOX clear as a bell on my transistor radio.  I would fall asleep listening to Harry Caray describe the action at Busch Stadium or other venues such as Forbes Field in Pittsburgh or Crossley Field in Cincinnati.            

      To this day, I can recite the Cardinals 1964 starting lineup.  There was Bill White at first, Julian Javier at second, Dick Groat at short, Kenny Boyer at third, and in the outfield were Lou Brock, Curt Flood, and Mike Shannon.              

      On the mound there was the great Bob Gibson or the not so great Ernie Broglio, or knuckle ball pitcher Barney Schultz.              

      And behind the plate was most important Cardinal of all in my then-young life, a young catcher named Tim McCarver.            

      I was enamored with Tim McCarver for one simple reason.  He was a fellow Memphian.  He had gone to Christian Brothers High School where he was a star not only in baseball, but in football, and he had been recruited by both the Tennessee Vols and the Notre Dame Fighting Irish.  He played American Legion Ball with Tony Gagliano’s team, a powerhouse group of ball players that inspired little leaguers like myself.            

      In 1960, when I was just 8 years old, my father took me to Hodges Field, an old high school football stadium that had been converted to a temporary baseball home for the Memphis Chicks of the old Southern League after Russwood Park, the long-time home of the Chicks, had burned to the ground.  In this tiny little football stadium, I saw young Tim McCarver easily blast the ball all over the converted football field in games against the Atlanta Crackers, the Little Rock Travelers, and the New Orleans Pelicans.  And while I remained a Yankees fan (Lord forgive me, I think I actually wore a Yankees cap to the Chicks games), Tim McCarver became my favorite player.            

      Four years later, in the summer of ‘64, “Timmy Mac” was now the catcher for the St. Louis Cardinals.            

      And then came a life-changing event…the 1964 World Series.            

      In those days, the boys of summer played the World Series in the sunlight of autumn.  All World Series games were played during the day, when the Good Lord intends for World Series games to be played.  Inexplicably, now all World Series games begin at around 9:00 p.m. Eastern Standard Time and don’t end until about 1:00 a.m.  This means the only folks who see an entire World Series baseball game are old geezer insomniacs.            

      But in that glorious autumn of 1964, I could see the World Series on October afternoons.  Actually, for several innings, I couldn’t see the World Series, I could only hear it.  I was a 7th grader at Frayser Junior High School, and I was in school each day from 8:30 a.m. to 3:00 p.m.  This meant that when the World Series games were played on weekdays, I had to listen to the first several innings by sneaking my transistor radio and ear piece into the school.  I would sit in the back of Mr. Renick’s 7th grade math class or Coach Medling’s Tennessee History class pretending to study, while in reality I was listening to the radio broadcast of the series from Busch Stadium in St. Louis or Yankee Stadium in the Bronx.            

      And then when the school bell went off at 3:00 p.m., I would do my impersonation of Lou Brock as I raced for home plate, my home located just two blocks from the school.  At 3:05 p.m., I would be parked in front of our Zenith TV set in our living room watching the October classic in glorious black and white, with Mel Allen doing the play by play.  As I recall, there were lots of commercials for Gillette razor blades.            

      Lord forgive me, but when the series started, I was still a Yankees fan.  I loved Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris.  They had won my hearts during their non-steroid home run derby they waged in 1961.  But at the moment the 1964 World Series was being played, Senator Barry Goldwater was running for President, and his campaign slogan was “In your heart, you know he’s right.”

      Goldwater lost big to Lyndon Johnson that November.  But his campaign slogan rang true for me in the 1964 World Series.  In my heart, I knew the Cardinals were right.  In my heart, Tim McCarver had replaced Mickey Mantle.            

      And then, on Monday, October 12, 1964, the prodigal son came home.  At 3:00 p.m., I raced home, just in time to watch the fifth game of the series go into extra innings.  At the top of the tenth, with the game tied 2-2, the Cardinals put two men on base.  And then a moment came that would change my life forever.  22 year old Tim McCarver of Memphis, Tennessee appeared on my TV screen.  Left-hander Pete Mikkelsen threw him a fast ball, and Timmy Mac parked it in the outfield seats in the House that Ruth built.  It was a three run homer that won the game for the Cardinals and gave them a 3-2 lead in the series.            

      When Timmy Mac hit that homerun, I stood in my family living room and yelled at the top of my lungs.  My life as a Yankees fan was over.  I had come home.  I was a Cardinals fan.  And Tim McCarver had killed the fatted calf.            

      Three days later, on October 15, 1964, I again raced from school in time in time to watch my now-beloved Cardinals win the 7th game over the now-evil Yankees by a score of 7-5.  The Cardinals had won the World Championship.  And they had also won my heart.

      During the next few weeks I will try my best to stay awake at night and watch the 2010 World Series.  The October classic won’t even start until around Halloween thanks to all the play-off games, and when it finally arrives, daylight savings time will be over and the frost will be on the November pumpkin.            

      There is no way I will be able to stay awake for the games.  By 10:00 p.m. I will start to nod off, and long before midnight I will be fast asleep.  But that will be fine, because I will be dreaming…dreaming sweet dreams about that glorious sun-lit day in 1964 when Tim McCarver brought this prodigal son home.