The Last Commissioner by Fay Vincent

Author:Fay Vincent
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2002-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Moderns

I. WILL CLARK

I ADMIRED WILL CLARK, the San Francisco Giants first baseman, before I went into baseball. He had a smooth, flowing, lefthanded swing. People called him The Natural and Will the Thrill. In his early years, I thought he would someday land in the Hall of Fame. I thought the same of Mark Grace, the longtime Chicago Cubs first baseman. They both have had very fine careers, long and productive. They haven’t, though, had Hall of Fame careers. After the third game of the ’89 World Series was delayed by earthquake, time slowed down. The players were doing a lot of hanging around, as was I, and it was a good opportunity to get to know some of them. Will Clark made a particular impression on me. I knew him to be intense in the batter’s box, but off-field he was friendly and gracious. We were comfortable with each other, and I wasn’t surprised to learn he was born in New Orleans: He was the Big Easy personified. During the long gap between Game Two and Game Three, I would see Clark, the most visible of the Giants, here and there, and we’d have little chats about this and that.

And then there was a binding episode between us. It was just a little thing, but it was memorable, at least to me. It came during the delayed Game Three when I nearly interfered, albeit unintentionally, with Will’s professional life. I was sitting in the commissioner’s box on the first-base side with, among others, my then-wife Valerie, my son Bill, and Willie Mays. Suddenly, a high foul pop was headed our way. For a moment, I had the chance to get that most prized of baseball souvenirs, a batted game ball. I thought, I got this one! This was not the commissioner thinking. At that moment, I was twelve.

And then the professionals took over, the way professionals do. Unseen by me, Will Clark came charging toward our box, his mitt wide open, his nose pointed straight into the sky, his knees right up against the flimsy wall that separated our box from the field. Bending at the waist, he reached as far into the box as he possibly could, raising his mitt right above my poised hands. As this was happening, Willie Mays was getting himself into position, too. As he explained to me later, he realized that as soon as Clark caught the ball, Clark’s feet would leave the ground and the first baseman’s six-foot, two-inch, 190-pound body would come flipping over the railing and into our box. When that happens, a ballplayer is like a freshly caught fish on the deck of a boat, flopping out of control. The player’s spikes can swing around and do some real harm. Willie saw all this about to happen.

Clark caught the ball. Mays caught Clark, grabbing his legs with a bear hug so Clark wouldn’t hurt himself or any of us. (What instincts.) Clark ended up sprawled at my feet. Heinz

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