Emotional farewell at Fenway

By Bob Hohler, Globe Staff, 7/6/2002

ife went on last night at Fenway Park. Working kids rolled creaky carts stacked high with hot dog buns across the cracked concrete concourse in the dank relic. The mustard vats were stocked. The dingy walls were thick with untold coats of paint, and the tiny Jimmy Fund lockboxes, as ever, glistened in fire-engine red.

But life, in reality, had forever changed in the House That Ted Williams Enriched. That mournful truth was evident in the tears that fell on Johnny Pesky's cheeks and welled in Nomar Garciaparra's eyes. It was clear from the quivering voice of public address announcer Ed Brickley. And from the collective sorrow that overcame the forlorn Fenway faithful when a lone trumpeter positioned at the base of the ''9'' emblazoned in the left-field lawn wailed a soulful ''Taps'' into the silent night.

The Kid was dead at 83. And an adoring city grieved, nowhere more deeply than in the decaying ballyard where Williams captivated the baseball world with his peerless batting skills and powerful persona.

''When you think of Boston baseball, you think of Ted Williams,'' said Pesky, who witnessed some of the Splendid Splinter's greatest glories on the baseball field and served with him in the Navy. ''You could bring in Moses from heaven, and he wouldn't make an impact like Ted did.''

Pesky was playing gin with his wife, Ruth, at their home on the North Shore when he learned Williams had died. He broke down in tears.

''I didn't want to do that because I'm a grown man,'' he said near the on-deck circle at Fenway, the tears flowing again, before the Sox played the Tigers. ''But this man was so much a part of our lives.''

Pesky stood closest to the plate for the Sox as both teams paid tribute to Williams by standing along the baselines during a poignant pregame ceremony that included a prolonged standing ovation, a moment of silence, and the playing of ''Taps.'' But as the ceremony ended, Pesky was overcome with emotion and needed to be helped off the field by Garciaparra and bench coach Mike Stanley.

The Kid was dead. And a city was shaken, as Garciaparra showed in discussing the Hall of Famer who had quietly become his mentor. Williams recognized Garciaparra's vast potential and often called him unexpectedly to encourage him or just to talk about hitting.

''I'd get a random call in the clubhouse and it would be [the late Fenway switchboard operator] Helen [Robinson] on the line, and she was like, `Your hitting coach is on the line, and he'd like to talk to you,' and it would be Ted,'' the All-Star shortstop said, his voice cracking and eyes welling. ''It's pretty special.''

Nearly unable to continue, Garciappara spoke of the loss. ''It will be tough,'' he said. ''I think we've all lost loved ones. We all know what it's like to go through a day when someone you care about - a friend - dies.''

For hours before the game, while grounds chief Dave Mellor's crew mowed the ''9'' in the field where Williams toiled for 19 years and Sox officials weighed a more lasting tribute, Teddy Ballgame's number appeared on the electronic scoreboards. The board in left field also was illuminated with his landmark batting average of .406 in 1941, when he became the last player to bat .400 or better.

Sox players wore black armbands with the ''9'' embroidered on their sleeves. The alteration was designed by principal owner John Henry, who admired Williams as an athlete and cherished the support the Hall of Famer afforded his group when it was bidding to buy the Sox.

''I know that everyone who is a Red Sox fan today is in mourning,'' Henry said. ''He accomplished the one thing that he set out do, and that was to become the greatest hitter in the history of the game.''

Henry and CEO Larry Lucchino were trying to reach the Williams family to offer Fenway as the site of a public memorial service, possibly with the Hall of Famer's casket on view. The owners ordered the red seat in the bleachers that Williams struck with the longest home run ever recorded at Fenway (502 feet) to be cleared last night. And they indicated the seat will remain vacant at least for the rest of the season.

Flags were lowered to half-staff, and a touching video tribute appeared on the giant screen in center field just before the game.

''I was surprised, even though I knew he was in poor health,'' Lucchino said. ''Ted was different from the rest of us, so we tended to think he would battle this thing longer than anyone would have any reason to expect.''

Lucchino said the Sox were laying the groundwork for what they ''hope is an extended period of both mourning and celebration.''

Soon after Lucchino became president of the San Diego Padres in 1995, he invited Williams, Tony Gwynn, and Jerry Coleman to his house for dinner. Before the evening ended, Williams was holding a batting clinic in the backyard.

''He was the greatest of all Red Sox, and the greatest hitter of all time, and also a larger-than-life American hero,'' Lucchino said. ''We deserve to celebrate that.''

Baseball people who never met Williams, such as Sox manager Grady Little, were touched by his career. Like an untold number of individuals, Little remembered watching the last game of Williams's career, when he homered in his last at-bat at Fenway Park in 1960, on his black and white television. But Little, who lived in Texas, must have seen the home run on tape, since the game was not televised.

''My dad was a big fan of Ted Williams,'' Little said. ''He always used to talk about him being the greatest hitter.''

So did Lou Merloni's parents in Framingham. ''We basically lost a legend,'' Merloni said. ''It's a sad day for the Red Sox and the city of Boston as well.''

Sox hitting coach Dwight Evans is passing on to a new generation of players some of the knowledge he gathered from Williams. ''To me, he was a true American hero in every sense of the word,'' Evans said. ''It's a great loss for baseball.''

And a powerful loss for the Jimmy Fund, which has flourished with decades of often-discreet help from Williams. The Jimmy Fund has relied heavily on Williams in its fight against cancer, though Williams often downplayed his contributions.

''You're way overrating me,'' Jimmy Fund chairman Mike Andrews said Williams told him. ''I said, `No, I'm not, Ted. Every time we send out an appeal with your name on it, I knew the response we'd get.' And I know that everywhere we go and talk about the Jimmy Fund, they say, `That's Ted Williams.' Did he ever fully appreciate what he meant to the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute? Certainly not.''

Still, life went on at Fenway. Park superintendent Joe Mooney worked in the same 1950s-era office where Williams often stopped to visit. Kids lined up for popcorn, cotton candy, and Crackerjacks. And the Sox played baseball on a brilliant summer night.

But the Kid was dead. And no one ever would be the same. ''He was like my brother,'' Pesky said. ''I just can't believe he's gone.''

This story ran on page F1 of the Boston Globe on 7/6/2002.
© Copyright 2002 Boston Globe Electronic Publishing LLC.