On Patriots Day, 1972, the Red Sox played the Cleveland Indians with veteran Ray Culp on the mound for the hometown team. When Boston made the final out in a losing, 1-0 effort, I dashed from my seat in the center-field bleachers and made a beeline to nearby Kenmore Square in order to witness the end of the Boston Marathon.
As I was standing on Boylston Street – a few blocks from the finish line – a strapping young man with dripping-wet, white-wheat hair, suddenly joined me. When he then informed me that it was his first time seeing the famed BAA Marathon, I asked him was he a player on the Indians (figuring that his hair looked cleanly washed from a very recenter shower). He tossed a smile and said, Yes, my name’s Buddy Bell.”
Earlier that day, the young man had just made his major league debut and here he was now watching the 76th running of the Boston Marathon with me. On his first day as a big league player, the Cleveland Indians’ rookie stood next to me watching thousands of gifted men and women run for glory. We chatted amicably throughout the entire experience. Ultimately, Bell ended up with more than 2,500 hits in the majors in a career that would span the next seventeen years. But on one of the two or three most memorable days in his baseball career, Buddy Bell and I were just spectators in a teeming crowd of spectators, supporting hundreds of runners completing the ultimate race.
“Nice to meet you, Shaun,” the Cleveland Indians player said as he left. “This was quite extraordinary.”
Yes, it was. On many levels.