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WHY WE REMEMBER 'The Kid stays alive through folklore, the telling of tall tales. He's a baseball Bunyan.'
By Dan Shaughnessy, Globe Columnist, 7/22/2002
I hit the gas. I had to know. Was that Ted Williams's No. 9 plastered to the back window? I got closer. Indeed, Ted's red numeral, encased in a white circle patch, adorned the gentleman's window, blocking his view of traffic behind him. It's been 17 days since the Kid died and the tributes keep coming. A ghoulish family feud over his remains has detracted from appropriate celebrations of his remarkable life, but today's Tedfest gives New England a chance to say thank you and goodbye. We already knew he was the largest sports figure in the history of our region. And only in death did it become clear he was bigger even than the great Joe DiMaggio, who had his legend bolstered by Marilyn Monroe, Paul Simon, and Mr. Coffee. Teddy Ballgame was our own Babe Ruth, an oversized figure who forged his way into every New England household. He was the greatest hitter who ever lived, a war hero, a Hall of Fame fly fisherman, and a champion of the Jimmy Fund. Like Elvis and Princess Diana, he was a sometimes tragic and flawed celebrity. Ted Williams wasn't much of a husband (three failed marriages) and left a trio of squabbling children. He was also an honest man who knew his imperfections. He no doubt would think too much has been made of his life and times. The Splendid Splinter was not Gandhi in flannels. Far from it. But his legend grew after his career ended and now he is enlarged again since his great heart gave out July 5. Forget cryonics. The Kid stays alive through folklore, the telling of tall tales. He's a baseball Bunyan. Our fathers talked of his deeds long after he stopped playing, and we will tell Ted stories to future generations. They are the stories of the last ballplayer to hit .400, a ballplayer who twice interrupted his career to serve his country, and a ballplayer who would drop everything if he could encourage a sick child (no photos please Ted didn't like it when we gave him ''too much damn credit''). Today/tonight's Ted-palooza serves as the bookend event to July 1999's All-Star event when Williams made his farewell appearance at Fenway Park. That was the night members of the All-Century Team and the All-Star squads gathered around Teddy Ballgame, reaching to touch him, basking in the glow of his greatness. The Hall of Famers wanted to prolong the moment and when TV executives got nervous, we heard the startling announcement, ''Would the greatest players of all time please clear the field.'' It goes down as New England's most memorable, nongame, sporting moment of the last century. In the 17 days since Ted died, our sports department and e-mail addresses have been bombarded with photos of Ted and anecdotes about the Splinter. Old-timers seem to have a story of a personal interaction with Ted. Baby Boomers call with tales told by their mothers and dads. The Ted memories all have the homespun charm. Ted in a truck-stop diner, en route to a weekend of fishing; Ted signing an autograph when a man gives up his seat on an airplane; Ted on the floor of a Sears department store, talking hitting and fishing; Ted looking at a man's young son and hollering, ''That's a GOOD-LOOKING boy!'' Media sage Clark Booth perhaps put it best when he described Ted Williams as ''a Hemingway man.'' That's Ted. A man's man: crude, talented, strong, loud, outdoors, and forever full of appetite and attitude. The Globe's obituary page puts tiny flags next to the deceased who are veterans of foreign wars. Each day we lose more men who have stories that too often die with them. These are the men of Tom Brokaw's ''The Greatest Generation'' and Ted was one of them. With each passing year, we have fewer witnesses to America of the 1930s and '40s. No small loss. The above in part explains why the Red Sox were unable to sell out tonight's event. Even the great Ted Williams is affected by the erosion of institutional memory that has changed the landscape of our region. The man driving the car on the Mass. Turnpike last week was not a young man. His hair was gray, his car conservative, and he had two hands on the wheel while driving the speed limit. Years from now, when our children and grandchildren land at Logan and enter Boston through the Ted Williams Tunnel, some may ask, ''Who was Ted Williams, anyway?'' It's important that we have answers. That's why tonight's celebration of Ted's life should be mandatory viewing in every local household. More than a baseball player, Ted Williams is part of our history. Dan Shaughnessy is a Globe columnist. His e-mail address is dshaughnessy@globe.com
This story ran on page D8 of the Boston Globe on 7/22/2002.
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The impact Ted Williams made on baseball stretches into today's generation of superstars like Nomar Garciaparra. (Globe Staff / David Kamerman)
till 50 yards back, it was impossible to confirm what appeared to be in the rear window of a car ahead of me on the Mass. Pike. It was near Sturbridge and the cream-colored sedan was heading east, traveling at a moderate speed.