The boy who never grew up

Sporting News, The, March 13, 1995 by Pat Jordan

That program was not Frank's most prized memento, however. What he treasured most was a yellowed newspaper cupping of his briefly famous "Uncle Spike." In late September 1934, John (Spike) Merena was called up from the minor leagues by the Red Sox to pitch against the mighty Yankees of Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig. Spike hurled a four-hit shutouk, the highlight of a career that ended the following spring with a sore arm.

Frank took a great and vicarious pleasure in his uncle's accomplishment - his life seemed to consist solely of vicarious pleasures - for several reasons. It had been his uncle's accomplishment. It had been the accomplishment of a local pitcher. And, quite simply, it had been an accomplishment in a game Frank loved. His affection for baseball was that of a young boy, before Little League and uniforms and neatly manicured fields. It was an attitude most young boys begin with, but soon lose, when the game becomes for them something that brings rewards such as recognition and wealth. Frank always was devoted to baseball simply as a game to play and for no other reason.

At 6 a.m., Frank and I got into his Volkswagen and drove to the comer newsstand, where Frank bought every Connecticut city paper. On his way out he slipped the sports section from each and dumped the rest of the paper into a garbage can. Then he drove to his only job. He worked for his town's Department of Education. He and a friend drove mentally challenged kids back and forth from their homes to school.

Frank sat alongside his friend, the driver, on that old, orange school bus and immediately began talking about last night's Yankees game. At their first stop, they waited for a tall girl of 17 to get on the bus. "She used to tell tales," Frank whispered, as if he was unable to use the word "lies." "Nothing serious," he added, "just exaggerations. But they bothered me. So I got her out of that by talking baseball to her."

The girl got on the bus and sat next to Frank. She greeted him in a lilting voice. He told her about last night's Yankees game. She smiled and said, "Frank, my sneaks are untied." Frank got down on one knee in the aisle. "Of course," he said, and tied her laces.

At 9 am. of that same day, Frank and I were sitting on deck chairs in his back yard as he opened his mail. He opened an envelope with the Orioles insignia on it taking great delight in showing it to me. Inside, there was a check for $10 from Thomas A. Giordano, director of scouting, along with a note:

"Dear Frank: It is my pleasure once again to participate in your booster program hoping that in some small way it win tend to serve in a positive way. You have done a truly remarkable job ever the years in keeping the CCSBL not only in operation but in damn good shape. I have only the highest respect and regard for you as a man and as an administrator. Best wishes for a successful year."

Frank handed me the letter with an embarrassed smile. He finished his mail and went to his newspapers, the back of the sports pages, where each section has its local news. As he read, he commented on each town's coverage of the CCSBL. He spoke softly, as if shy, or maybe as if imparting a professional secret.