My Turn: What's more precious than an autographed Louisville Slugger?

After reading Fred Bruning’s column that mentioned the former Brooklyn Dodgers first baseman Gil Hodges finally making it into the Baseball Hall of Fame, I was reminded of a fine memory. ("This year, Christmas Feels like a home run," Dec. 19, 2021)

Gil Hodges intersected my life, too, except we never had enough money to buy a Louisville Slugger with his autograph. Mostly, we picked up forgotten bats left behind at the Parade Ground in Flatbush, Brooklyn, where we often played baseball on hot summer days.

But Gil — "Mr. Hodges" — touched my life. My friend, Bobby, and I were sitting on his stoop on Lincoln Place at Classon Avenue one noontime in 1954 when Bobby’s father called to him.

"Yeah, Dad? What’s up?"

His father popped his head from the ground-floor window adjacent to the stoop and said, "Uncle Jim asked me for a favor, but I can’t go right now. Maybe you can help him. Please?"

Uncle Jim was a barber and had a small neighborhood shop around the corner on Washington Avenue and St. John’s Place. Bobby and I walked over immediately to see how "he" could help. Uncle Jim smiled as we walked through the open door and nodded for us to take a seat while he finished up a customer.

After a few minutes, he told Bobby that Gil Hodges, a regular at his shop, had an emergency meeting in the city and took a cab rather than drive his new Chrysler Imperial over the bridge into Manhattan. Uncle Jim offered to drive Gil’s car to his home in Flatbush by way of Empire Boulevard while Bobby’s father would follow in his car to return Uncle Jim to his shop. Unfortunately, Bobby’s father could not go right then, and the barber shop had begun to fill with eager customers.

"Bobby," he said, "do you think you could drive Gil’s car to his house and take a cab back home? I’ll pay the cab fare for you."

Bobby’s jaw dropped and I almost fainted! "Gil’s car? Say yes!" I shouted at Bobby.

Moments passed in a blur and Bobby offered to drive Gil’s car and suggested that I could follow in his dad’s car. Well, I was no dummy at that time, and I was quick on my feet.

"Your dad ain’t gonna like me driving his 2-week-old Ford Fairlane, is he?"

Bobby, also a sharpie, shot back: "OK. You drive the Chrysler, and I’ll follow you in the Ford."

So, imagine this scenario: I am 17 years old with only a learner’s permit — shhh — and Uncle Jim gives me the keys to the Chrysler. I drive Bobby around the corner to pick up his dad’s car, and we head up Franklin Avenue to Empire Boulevard and Gil’s beautiful home.

When we got there, I was too frightened to meet his wife, so Bobby took the keys and walked up the brick walkway. Gil’s wife smiled at him and said a few words, but we never got free passes or an autographed ball or bat or anything.

What we got was much more precious. Let me finish up by saying that you have never really driven until you’ve driven a half-block-long Chrysler Imperial along the curb lane on Empire Boulevard. Every intersection sent the car bouncing like a trampoline.

There’s always time for wonderful memories. Thank God for memories.

Al Faragasso,

Miller Place