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A BOSTON GLOBE EDITORIAL
Bidding the kid adieu
Williams, who died yesterday at age 83, earned the right to be remembered the way he said he wanted to be: as ''the greatest hitter who ever lived.'' Only one or two others could contend for that label.
All the rest - his sulking over sportswriters' barbs, his aristocratic disdain for boorish spectators in the stands, his lapses in enthusiasm for the defensive chores of his profession - will fade into the background as the record books purify Williams into his essence as a starter in baseball's Pantheon.
His bouts of petulance and his generous spirit seemed to derive from the same source, from a perfectionist's indifference to whatever he deemed a distraction from his pursuit of excellence in the batter's box. Since his all-consuming ambition was to be the best hitter ever, and since he became one of those rare individuals who realize the dreams of their youth, it was easy for him to acknowledge the aficionado's distinction between himself and the great Joe DiMaggio.
Williams acknowledged DiMaggio's preeminence as an all-around ballplayer; others would put Willie Mays in that category. But, said Williams, ''In my heart, I always felt I was a better hitter than Joe.''
In an age of impatience and illusory shortcuts to knowledge and wisdom, the Splendid Splinter's old-fashioned devotion to the mastery of one hard craft seems an anachronism. He was famous for studying pitchers and divining what they were likely to throw - fastball, curve, or change-up - in a given situation. For Williams, this monastic absorption in the refinements of his calling signified not extra effort and not compulsive behavior but the least a hitter should do if he had any self-respect.
Some of this same insistence on excellence was carried over into his beloved avocation as an angler and his stints as a Marine pilot in World War II and the Korean War. Perhaps the tremendous popular affection for Ted that was on display during his appearance at the 1999 All-Star Game at Fenway Park derived from an understanding that came slowly to local fans - and even slower to baseball scribes - that their favorite slugger was also a man of diamond-like authenticity.
It was not merely that he devoted himself to working for the Jimmy Fund or that he sailed into old age with a rare enthusiasm for new stars such as Nomar Garciaparra. Ted Williams was treasured at the end because he never stopped being himself.
This story ran on page A14 of the Boston Globe on 7/6/2002.
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REAT HITTERS, like great writers, can be obsessive about their craft, and in his playing days Ted Williams was the epitome of a perfectionist. Any fan who saw The Kid's uncanny eye and quick wrists lift a pitch nearly out of the catcher's mitt to send it screaming into the bleachers knows what perfection was minted from his devotion.