2005 ABSOLUTE TOOLS OF THE TRADE PRIME #29/50 GARY CARTER
We all need a little rest sometimes.
Imagine in particular that you’re a veteran big-league catcher. You’ve spent years in a squatting position, absorbing foul tips and blocking wayward pitches in the dirt. From Little League to Legion ball, to the Minors to the Show…
And now your knees can barely motivate you up the stairs, and putting on your pants is a complex six-stage process.
Your manager holds you in high regard. He knows that you are the anchor, the target, the point of reference– the omega to the pitcher’s alpha. He knows that without you and your kind there is no game at all.
But he observes you in the clubhouse, and recognizes the effects of the wear and tear on your early 30s frame. And every so often he tells you to grab your moonish first-baseman’s mitt and head out to the infield.
And on other days, he asks you simply to stay with him on the bench, although he knows how hard this is for you.
He knows that you are the Kid, and that you love to play the game.
So now you will spend nine innings on the pine talking to anyone who will listen, from the rookies who are awed by the expanse of unfolded green in front of them, to the weary coaches with flattened pouches of dark-brown chaw in their back pockets.
To keep warm, you will wear a deep blue jacket with orange piping and the Mets’ logo on the chest. Your number 8 will adorn the left sleeve.
One day in the future, your playing days having ended, a baseball-card company will buy this jacket in an auction. They will cut it up into many small pieces, and insert the squares of fabric into tiny windows on thick memorabilia cards.
And then quite sadly, you will die much too young, the victim of a random and insidious disease.
A few months after your passing, one of your fans will see this card at auction, and he will feel compelled to own it. He will win the auction, and when the package arrives in the mail, he will unpack the card carefully, until he is cradling it gently in his hand.
He will run a finger along the small swatch of jacket cuff and read your name: Gary Carter.
He will recall what you meant to him, whether in game action or repose.
In his heart he will thank you for everything, and he will remember as well that we all need a little rest sometimes…
I never understood the game-used memorabilia craze in card collecting. I recognize this is a good one, as it not only has part of a bat and uniform, but the uniform has three different colors on it. Still, I’d rather have a refractor or an autograph card.
Great story and thanks for sharing. It does remind us that such treasured objects close the gaps in life and take us to some ethereal place where Carter is still strapping on the gear after just hitting a HR.
In 1979 or 80, before Carter was a Met, I lived in southern California, and as a kid collected autographs. I got a hold of this thing called “The Address List”, which was likely compiled from tax records or whatever, and it listed the home addresses of mostly baseball players. I got a lot of autographs by writing letters to my heroes (and Satchel Paige returned a signed HoF card!). Well it turns out that Carter lived in the same city (he was from Fullerton, CA) as I did, and well, I decided to see if it was true. I went to the door, knocked, waited and then began to retreat when the door opened — and there he was completely to my surprise. I dont recall the conversation being pretty overwhelmed as I was. Anyway, he had a weight room in his garage and invited me in for a chat and to spot him for a short spell. He autographed a bunch of things for me in the most magnanimous way everyone has stated he was. Ill never forget that and thrilled he would later become a Met. Thanks again, your story brought back some really good memories today.
What a great story!
I agree, Chris– thanks for sharing!
I used to hunt autos through the mail back in the mid/late ’70s– always figured I had a better chance with the somewhat obscure HOFers, so I ended up with Burleigh Grimes, Cal Hubbard, Joe McCarthy, Highpockets Kelly and the like. Very jealous of your Paige!
The only player I knew of as a kid who lived in my hometown was Ron Klimkowski. I used to cycle idly around my neighborhood for hours thinking that I was going to just magically find his house one day…