My buddy and I walked from campus to Davis Square last weekend through the pouring rain to catch a T ride to the Museum of Fine Arts. After waiting for a half-hour to purchase tickets, we trekked through rooms filled with some of the world's most beautiful pieces of art, by artists ranging from Jasper Johns to Vincent Van Gogh, but apart from a quick glance, we hurried on. Finally, we passed through a pair of glass doors to the museum store where a small line was formed. A man with an ID tag stood at the back.
"Are you here to meet Johnny Pesky?" he asked.
Yes we were.
Standing outside the entranceway, we caught glimpses of the man himself through breaks in the shelves. Sitting behind a table, surrounded by stacks of a new book chronicling his life, he wore a blue jogging suit, looking more like somebody's grandfather than a man who had been teammates with Ted Williams. Now 86 years old, the one-time Red Sox shortstop has been a permanent fixture on the team in some form or another for the last half-century.
Apart from fans in New England, few know Johnny Pesky. His legacy in Boston is built around two things: the myth of Fenway's right field foul pole that bares his name and the infamous (and undeserved) credit for allowing Enos Slaughter to score the winning run for the St. Louis Cardinals in the 1946 World Series. On Saturday, however, neither of these things mattered as he wore a smile, the size of which was matched only by the Championship ring on his right hand that he proudly showed off to everyone in the room.
For once, this was a sports event that wasn't about winning or losing; it wasn't about cynicism; it wasn't about money. It was about meeting someone who embodies everything that is right and good about sports. Only a few dozen fans had come out, and I doubt any were there for the official book signing. I felt sorry for the all-but-forgotten author sitting next to the wizened white haired ex-ballplayer who captured all the attention. Pesky spoke at length with everyone who came to see him, shaking hands, listening to stories he's probably heard a thousand times before. He took pictures with young and old, clearly enjoying every minute of it, especially with one college-aged female fan, smiling for the camera with a sly glint in his eye. He signed bats, balls and hats. The man behind us brought his 1951 Johnny Pesky card to be autographed by Mr. Red Sox himself.
It was a strange atmosphere in which to meet a legend, and the fact that there was a longer line to get into the museum restaurant than to meet Pesky didn't help. I thought how rare an event like this has become. Pesky is one of a dying breed, from the days before athletes became superstars, before icons turned into advertisements. In a day and age in which ballplayers charge fans for their signatures, I have trouble imagining lining up for a chance to meet Mark Bellhorn in thirty or forty years.
He never broke any major records. He's not in Cooperstown. The night before, I had met Rob Corddry of "Daily Show" fame, and probably for many, meeting him would be a bigger thrill than meeting Pesky. Yet my friend and I both agreed there was something special about this that we just couldn't describe. A few rooms in the museum had a Red Sox display up, filled with memorabilia from teams past and present, from Cy Young's jersey to Johnny Damon's cleats from the World Series. But there, that very day, was a living, breathing and talking piece of Red Sox history.
There are a number of happenings in the Boston sport's world that I could have written about. The Red Sox are slumping from injuries and suspensions in what I'm sure Dan Shaughnessy will be labeling the "Return of the Curse" anytime now. The Celtics are allowing themselves to be manhandled by an aging, less talented group of Indiana Pacers who might not only knock the team out if Doc Rivers doesn't start letting Al Jefferson and Marcus Bank play some serious minutes, but may finally cause Tommy Heinsohn's head to explode. And if all that wasn't enough, the Patriots signed Doug Flutie. But fifty years from now, all these events will be lost to the obscurity of time. The two of us left the building having spoken, laughed, shaken hands with, and posed for a picture with a Red Sox hero. Along with some books and my friend's baseball, my hat was now affixed with the elegant signature of "Johnny Pesky 6." It will go into the modest sports collection I have at home, next to a piece of the old Green Monster. But I think Bill Russell had it right when he said he didn't give autographs but instead shook your hand, because he felt it meant more. I got both an autograph and a handshake from Pesky that day, but I know which one I'll value most.
It was poignant, but there was something fitting in the fact that, surrounded by treasures and images of the past, we had to go to a museum to meet Johnny Pesky.
Andrew Bauld is a sophomore majoring in history. He can be reached at Andrew.Bauld@tufts.edu.
