A friend of mine had to spend her last years in a nursing home -- she never lost her mental faculties, thank God, but so many in that place had, and when I'd visit her they were like living specters, hollowed-out shells of who they once were. It was a county-run facility, but the treatment seemed to be pretty good, for what little could be done. Kindness, mostly.
I imagine that Seaver's smart money management and successful winery will enable him to have superior home care as needed. It is a shame he will miss the celebration this summer of the 50th anniversary of the 1969 Miracle Mets.
Dan McLaughlin of National Review and his Baseball Crank feed had an excellent piece on Seaver's amazing career, explaining as only a real nuts-'n'-bolts baseball fan can why Seaver was such an extraordinary performer on the mound. Seaver's stats are great, but they only tell part of the story.
In fact, my favorite Seaver tale comes from David Halberstam's book October 1964, a book not about the Mets -- how could it be when they were 53-109 in 1964? -- but about the twilight of the dominant Yankees and the rise of the tough Bob Gibson Cardinals. Bob Gibson was a terrifying presence as a pitcher, who could be as brutal on battery mate Tim McCarver as he was on opposing batters. But Halberstam tells the story of how, in the late 1960s, when Gibson was getting older, he got a rude jolt from a young man from Fresno, California. In a spring training game, Gibson had thrown at John Milner of the Mets, hitting him in the ribs, for the crime of doubling off Gibson twice in spring training. A few weeks later Seaver and Gibson were opposing pitchers in a regular season game and Seaver went to work:
Gibson was up with two outs, and Seaver would be the next Met up in the next inning, so there would be a chance for Gibson to retaliate if he so chose. Seaver threw three pitches inside at Gibson, driving him farther and farther away from the plate; the last pitch came in so close that Gibson had to spin around to get out of the way, using the bat more like a cane than a bat. Then it was Seaver's turn to bat against Gibson. The first pitch came in fast, and just over Seaver's head. The umpire had come out from behind the plate at that point to try and stop it, but Seaver pushed him aside. "Shut up," he said, "this is none of your business." At that point Seaver stepped away from the plate and yelled out to Gibson, "As far as I'm concerned this is over. But if you want to continue, we can keep going at it, and you better know that I throw a lot harder than you do now, you old fart." And that indeed ended it.
Halberstam wrote that Gibson "respected strength in others: he knew another samurai when he saw one."
Seaver had been a Marine Corps reservist, and the lessons he learned there he did not forget. He was interviewed by Michael Morrissey in the New York Post about it in 2003:
In 1962, Seaver considered himself a runt and a late-bloomer without much focus. Shipped out to boot camp in Southern California, the 17-year-old knew on that first day that his life was about to change.And by his talent and his personal grit, he actually made the Mets uniform something to be proud of too.
“I didn’t know if it was tough or not,” Seaver said. “All I knew was I had someone yelling at me – and I hadn’t even done anything yet.
“I went, ‘Oh, this is what my dad’s been talking about.’ I can remember saying that to myself – to this day.”
During the Vietnam War, Seaver served an eight-year commitment, including three months of boot camp, three months of active duty at Camp Pendleton outside of San Diego and 5½ years of reserve obligation.
“I’ll tell you what: you walk out of graduation from boot camp three months later, and you’re damn proud of yourself and proud of that uniform,” he said.
Happy trails, Mr. Seaver, and thanks for being our Franchise.
