I’m missing a lot of things these days, and baseball is near the top of the list.

So, permit me to tell a baseball story.

The 1967 St. Louis Cardinals were the champions of baseball, winning 101 games, the National League pennant, and a World Series victory over the Boston Red Sox in seven games. Cardinals pitcher Bob Gibson was the World Series MVP, adding a second trophy to his Series MVP in 1964. There were other Cardinals stars such as Orlando Cepeda, Lou Brock, Roger Maris and Curt Flood.   

Three members of the Cardinals’ 1967 World Champions—Tim McCarver, Mike Shannon, and Phil Gagliano—were also on the roster of the 1962 St. Louis affiliate Atlanta Crackers of the International League (AAA). It was there in Atlanta in the early summer of ’62, at the Crackers’ home playing field at Ponce de Leon Park, that our paths crossed.

My grandmother lived with her youngest son in an apartment directly across from Poncey, as the park was called. In deep center field and up a slight rise was a magnolia tree, and any ball hit there was in play. Babe Ruth hit a ball that stuck in the tree in an exhibition game. Unlike old Poncey, the magnolia tree still stands, the lone reminder of a bygone era of Atlanta’s baseball history.

I would visit my grandmother during the summer months with every intention of seeing the Crackers play as often as I could. She would give me fifty cents for a hot dog and a Coke, and I would bring my uncle’s glove so that I might have a chance at a foul ball. I was fourteen at the time, and an older gatekeeper on the third base side would wave me through for free as long as there were no other fans entering. I always held my hand out like I was presenting him with my ticket, at which time he would make a motion as if tearing the ticket in half and handing me the other half.

Early one evening I meandered down the steps toward the Cracker’s dugout, my bubble gum and my glove in good working order. I was hoping one of the players would toss me a ball, but when an older player named Joe Morgan asked if I wanted to shag balls in the outfield, I was on the field in a flash. The team was taking batting practice, and Joe cautioned me to stay in the outfield for my own safety. With my heart racing and my eyes wide, I was soon chasing baseballs being hit by a twenty-year-old catcher named Tim McCarver. And soon thereafter another twenty-year-old infielder named Phil Gagliano was hitting fly balls in my direction. Those guys hit the ball hard, really hard, but I was making catches and feeling pretty heady.

I couldn’t believe my good luck! I also wondered how many of my friends would believe the story that I was already itching to tell them.

One of the Crackers’ outfielders, Mike Shannon, called over to me and asked to see my “crow hop”—the progression of fielding and then throwing the ball in a fluid, two-step motion. Mike wasn’t impressed by my effort, so he motioned me over to provide a lesson on how to do it properly. I stood slightly behind and to his right, and when he released the ball, I could actually hear it leaving his fingers. I fielded another couple of ground balls and made the throws as instructed, finally getting a “Yeah, that’s it!” from Mike. I didn’t ask if he could hear the ball leaving my fingers; somehow, I sorta knew the answer to that one.  

I was a college student when the Cards won the ’67 World Series, and I remember telling my roommates that I had actually played ball with several of the players on the team. It gave me a chance to recount the story of the closest I ever came to playing professional baseball. Tim McCarver would go on to a long post-playing career as a television commentator, and Mike Shannon would likewise open a restaurant in St. Louis and also provide radio commentary for the Cardinals.

While I love my hometown Braves, I’ve always been partial to the St. Louis Cardinals. When I visited St. Louis on a business trip in the mid-1980s, I took in a Cardinals game at Busch Stadium. I had an extra ticket, and when I spotted a boy standing alone outside the gate, I asked if he needed a ticket. He nodded, but said he didn’t have much money. I handed him my extra ticket and said, “This is a gift from Joe Morgan.” That kid couldn’t thank me enough.

Thank you, Joe Morgan, wherever you are, for letting me have a grand moment on a baseball field with those future champions. And thanks to that old gatekeeper, too.  

Those were indeed simpler times.

Man, I miss baseball!