By Brian MacQuarrie and Raphael Lewis, Globe Staff, 7/6/2002

aseball lost a legend on July 6, but the baseball capital of New England lost much more.

From the Berkshires to Brighton, from New Hampshire to Fenway Park, the region's baseball fans mourned the death of Ted Williams, Boston's towering, talented, and occasionally tempestuous link to the sport's golden era.

Although the Red Sox's greatest player endured a long, debilitating decline in health, the loss of what many baseball historians regard as the game's best pure hitter still seemed to jolt New Englanders.

''It's the passing of an era,'' said Gene Fleming, a retired lawyer, at the Sports Depot restaurant in Allston.

Williams's death had an immediate impact on the city where he began and burnished a legendary career from 1939 to 1960. At Fenway Park, where the left-fielder hit a home run in his final at-bat, the Red Sox and a sellout crowd stood in silent respect. At City Hall, Mayor Thomas M. Menino ordered the flags lowered to half-staff. And at the Ted Williams Tunnel, condolences were displayed on large, electronic message boards.

Tributes came from politicians and postal workers, from elderly fans who watched Williams and younger ones who know him only from newsreels. His .406 batting average in 1941, the two Triple Crowns, and the two Most Valuable Player awards all were recalled yesterday about a larger-than-life figure who played his last game almost 42 years ago.

But Williams's contributions off the field - his tireless support for the Jimmy Fund's cancer research and his military service in two wars - also formed part of the swaggering persona that made a baseball player synonymous with a city.

''Ted Williams was a personal hero of mine,'' Menino said yesterday. ''What impressed me most about Ted was his unwavering dedication - to baseball, to his country, and to his community. The many quiet contributions he made were not to make headlines, but to make a difference. And what a difference he made.''

Williams occasionally had a rocky relationship with Boston fans and reporters. He was assailed for spitting at the stands, not tipping his cap to fans, and being brash to the point of rudeness. But like a turbulent love affair that ignites in passion, cools to embers, and then reignites with surprising, lasting affection, Williams earned an unparalleled place in the hearts of Boston's sports fans.

''He was part of Boston, and a part of all of us,'' said Chad Gifford, chief executive officer of FleetBoston Financial Corp. who for years has maintained season tickets near home plate. ''He was a great player for a great franchise.''

Before last night's game at Fenway Park, the Red Sox and Detroit Tigers stood along the foul lines as Taps was played and a moment of silence was observed for the Hall of Fame member. Groundskeepers etched the number 9 - Williams's number, now retired - into the left-field grass. The Red Sox also wore a ''9'' on their uniform sleeves.

The Red Sox plan to place a long-stemmed red rose this weekend on the bleacher seat where Williams hit a 502-foot home run, the longest in Fenway Park history. The season-ticket holder for the seat in Section 42 will be offered an alternative location.

''He was famous, sure, but in the process he made Boston famous throughout the country,'' said Thomas O'Connor, university historian at Boston College, whose forthcoming book includes Williams among the 130 most ''eminent Bostonians'' of all time.

Red Auerbach, the great Celtics coach, general manager, and president who spent plenty of time with Williams, said the baseball legend often spoke of being confined by his notoriety.

''`The only bad thing,''' Auerbach recalled Williams telling him, ''`[is] I can't go out to eat and relax because people bother you.' He said, `I eat 80 percent of my meals in my room.'''

''He was always bothered [because] he was recognizable,'' Auerbach recalled. ''Any of the other Red Sox, you'd see them at a Celtics game, at the Garden. Him, he didn't go to football, hockey, basketball. Especially when television came.''

Still, Auerbach remembered, Williams was charismatic, incredibly perceptive, and always looking to improve his game. At a time when most Americans ate whatever food tasted best, Auerbach remembers Williams watching his diet to stay in top physical shape.

''We were sitting in Fenway Park some day and he says to me, `What do you feed your guys the day of the game?''' Auerbach said.

''I said, in basketball, they're on their own, they get meal money, and you just hope they don't overeat. Why do you want to know for? And he said, `Usually around 4 o'clock, I have lamb chops, toast, and tea, and I'm always hungry after the game.'

''He was so careful about his diet. He was always looking to get better.''

Senator Edward M. Kennedy praised Williams as one of Boston's greatest heroes. ''He'll be remembered not only for his grace and hitting ability on the field,'' Kennedy said, ''but also for his willingness to leave his career behind to defend his country twice in war.''

Senator John F. Kerry, a Vietnam War veteran, echoed that tribute for Williams's service as a Marine pilot in World War II and the Korean War.

''No one knows what kind of career numbers he would have had, and what records he would have broken, if he hadn't spent those five years as a pilot and member of the `greatest generation,''' Kerry said. ''This guy was courageous, bigger than life, tough as nails, and he had that rare ability to sum up perfectly in his very character so many things - a generation, a game, a country. I'd say we won't see another like him.''

Acting Governor Jane Swift said Williams ''attained perfection in his craft, and he set an example for everyone who aspires to be the best at what they do.''

That example extended to the Jimmy Fund, the fund-raising arm of the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in Boston. Begun in 1948, the Jimmy Fund benefited immeasurably from Williams's countless hours of charity work.

''During his lifetime, Ted was uncomfortable when praised for all he did for the Jimmy Fund,'' said Dr. Edward J. Benz Jr., president of Dana-Farber. ''But let me say now that his commitment to the Jimmy Fund and to the children facing cancer should go in the record books as among the most any professional athlete has done to advance a cause.''

Williams visited veterans' posts, churches, synagogues, Little League games, department stores, and cookouts to raise money for the Jimmy Fund, Dana-Farber officials recalled. His presence is still remembered by veterans at the American Legion's Marsh Post in Cambridge.

''He was a real man,'' Michael Annese, 81, said as he sat in the smoky clubroom yesterday afternoon.

A 1956 photograph of Annese and Williams shaking hands hangs beside the post's bar. The sepia-toned picture was taken outside Cambridge High School after a ceremony in which Williams collected $526 for the Jimmy Fund.

Tickets for the function were $1 per person, so the auditorium was packed when Williams walked in, Annese said. Williams looked around and exclaimed, ''Look at all these people. This must be the poor section of Cambridge,'' Annese recalled.

As the post's bartender, Bob DeMilia, 50, watched baseball on television yesterday, he reminisced about the day in 1956 he caught a Williams foul ball. DeMilia said he kept the ball for years, but lost it when he used it in a game with friends.

''You wish you had these things now,'' DeMilia said. ''If you were a baseball fan, you were a Ted Williams fan. He was the best.''

In Boston, former mayor Ray Flynn said his admiration for Williams began in the late 1940s when, as a paperboy, he spent evenings selling newspapers at Fenway Park, sneaking peeks at the game . At the time, Flynn recalled, a reporter named (Colonel) Dave Egan relentlessly criticized Williams's personal life.

''I wouldn't sell the paper if it had a bad story about Ted Williams,'' recalled Flynn, who later renamed a section of Lansdowne Street as Ted Williams Way. ''There was another kid who used to cut out the stories and sell the papers. I told Ted that story. He appreciated it.

''There's no question; he was my hero.''

Doris Kearns Goodwin, the historian and baseball aficionado, said Williams ''reminded me something of Lyndon Johnson, a character and larger than life.'' She met Williams at Red Sox spring training in 1978, where the retired slugger was dispensing batting tips. ''Williams was reading a biography of Douglas MacArthur, and he knew I was something of a liberal,'' Goodwin recalled. Williams spotted her one day at camp and said, ''`Hey pinko, I bet you hate MacArthur,''' Goodwin said, chuckling.

Goodwin said she respected Williams for his disciplined, unwavering commitment to excellence. The loving rapprochement between Williams and Boston's fans and press, which reached an emotional climax with Williams's appearance at the 1999 All-Star Game at Fenway Park, does not mean that the Hall of Famer's accomplishments have been exaggerated with time, Goodwin said.

''What he did doesn't need to be exaggerated to be fantastic,'' Goodwin said. ''He deserved to be romanticized during his entire time here, given the kind of player he was.''

Megan Tench, Scott Bernard Nelson, and Sarah Schweitzer of the Globe Staff and Globe correspondent Jack Healy contributed to this report. Material from the Associated Press was also used.

This story ran on page A1 of the Boston Globe on 7/6/2002.
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