In a profession where chasing stories is part of the job description, it’s rare that a story like this falls into your hands. But thanks to a recent turn of events and the diligent work of a long-time friend, it’s happened to me twice now.
The fact that both times revolve around the same story and are almost 66 years apart requires an explanation. In short, it revolves around my first name – the first story I wrote for the Baltimore News-PostPrecursor of the deceased, mourned Baltimore News-American.
It was July 7, 1958, and I had only been working for two months at what I thought was a cool summer job: working part-time as a $1-an-hour errand boy, 39 hours a week, mostly collecting race results. At least until John Steadman “handed” me the first of many assignments – and the first of a handful of “exclusives” that would mark my rather checkered career, now in its eighth decade.
Frankly, the brief and story were more practical than relevant, an inauspicious start to the story to say the least. The MLB All-Star Game happened to be held in Baltimore for the first time on July 8, 1958, and the biggest story was the return of Al Kaline, already a local legend at age 24, for his fourth appearance in the Midsummer Classic.
Since I had played for Calvert Hall against Kaline’s Southern High teams for three years in the early ’50s, Steadman thought this would be an easy local story for the special edition of the newspaper the day before the game. The fact that my efforts could best be described as unsuccessful didn’t matter much. A story is a story, and the consolation is/was that I was in company when it came to throwing Kaline out. But playing against someone who would be in the Hall of Fame remains a meaningful memory.
A few decades later, for some reason, that first story and name became a mystery to me. The fact is that I have never been a great collector and only have copies of a few stories that have special meaning for me. At some point it dawned on me that the first story was one of them, and not only did I not have a copy, but I only had a vague idea of what I had written.
As the years went by, it became a mission to find a copy of this story, with no success. I had pretty much given up on it. Somewhere along the way, about the time I passed the three-quarter pole, I casually mentioned my nearly abandoned search to my longtime friend and colleague Bill Stetka, now the Orioles’ director of alumni relations. I knew the club had a huge collection of scrapbooks from those early years, but I had little hope that a story from a special section might somehow surface.
At this point, you can probably guess where this is going, so let’s quickly get to the real “catch” of this story. As I was sitting down in my seat on opening day this year, Stetka came over with a large folder with my name on it and “handed” it to me.
Inside was a scanned copy of the story, which I hadn’t found in my search, but which I hadn’t found in my memory. “How I Convinced Kaline” was the headline – more than a little misleading, I must admit.
I’m known for showing emotions sometimes and this was one of those moments. I must also admit that I had tears in my eyes when I saw this story – and when I realized how much effort my friend had put into it, the hug between Stetka and me was a once in a lifetime experience.
Now comes the fun part. As expected (remember, this was a newbie), the story itself – the one I had been looking for for a long time – wasn’t particularly good. I could only give it a C+ because of its originality.
One thing I learned: On my very first attempt, I had buried the introduction. I suggested to Kaline that she pitch “carefully,” but noted that high and outside was also a good alternative.
“High and outside” should have been part of the introduction. Because that was the only way I (and many others) could get past Kaline. And in fact, that was the game plan in the last game we played against each other.
Walter Youse, then in his first year as manager at Calvert Hall, had decided that the best chance to win the game was to intentionally walk Kaline every time he came to the plate. “High and outside” is how Al would remember me when our paths crossed and we became good friends over the course of our careers.
The strategy worked that day, much to the dismay of the horde of scouts who had gathered on Herring Run, Diamond No. 4, to watch one of Kaline’s last games as an amateur. Really, “high and out” should have been the main point of this story 66 years ago. I committed the cardinal sin of “burying the main point” on my first try.
It was Steadman, my mentor, who somehow led me down this crazy path and “handed” me the task. And it was Stetka who “handed” me a copy of the story that I somehow couldn’t get out of my head.
And 66 years later, I thank them for the story that was “handed over” to me – twice.
Jim Henneman can be contacted at [email protected].
Issue 287: June/July 2024
Originally published on June 19, 2024
