Fear Strikes Out (14 page)

“Who’s the censor?” I asked Mary.

She laughed.

“Two of us,” she said. “The doctor and me.”

“Do I see everything?”

“Everything good.”

“Is there much—bad?” I asked.

“Very little. You see practically everything.”

One day, an attendant gave me several letters, and as I looked through them, I noticed that one was sealed. I tore it open and a clipping from a New Orleans newspaper fell out. New Orleans has a team in the Southern Association, and I had played there often when I was with Birmingham.

The clipping was a copy of a column of notes written by a sports writer. One line was circled in red pencil and my eyes widened in fright when I read it. It said, “Jimmy Piersall, former Barons outfielder, who practically tore the ball park apart with his mad antics the last time he was here, will never play baseball again. Now a hopeless mental case, he will spend the rest of his life in an institution right outside of Boston.”

I sank down on my bed, my head in my hands, and closed my eyes.
What is this? Have the doc and Mary and everyone else been kidding me? They talk about my leaving here soon and give me letters of encouragement and tell me how well I’m getting along. Is this all an act? What’s going on? I’ve got to know. I’ll see the doc right now.
I felt a hand on my shoulders.

“What’s the matter, Jimmy?”

Dr. Brown was standing beside me. I looked up, shrugged in a gesture of despair, then silently handed him the clipping. He read it quickly. I watched his face closely. He started to frown, but then his mouth relaxed in a smile.

“This guy must have better information about you than I have,” he said, lightly.

“You mean what he says isn’t true?”

The doc sat down beside me.

“Of course it’s not true, Jimmy. What ever in the world gave you the idea it was?”

“You mean I really am getting along fine and I really will leave here soon and I really can play ball again? You and Mary and everyone else have been leveling with me, not kidding? Is that what you mean?”

“Certainly that’s what I mean,” the doctor said. “Look, Jimmy, how could a New Orleans sports writer know anything about what’s going on with a patient in a hospital nearly two thousand miles away?”

“Well, how could a man write a thing like this then? He wouldn’t do it unless he had some basis in fact, would he?”

“Jimmy, I don’t know anything about this writer, but I know a lot about you—a great deal more than he does. You’re practically well. Pretty soon, you’ll be able to go home. By next season, you’ll be back with the Red Sox. Can I make it any plainer?”

The doctor was looking squarely into my eyes.
This man must mean what he’s saying. He can’t be that good an actor. That New Orleans sports columnist has to be wrong. Come to think of it, anyone who hasn’t seen me lately and writes a thing like that has to be wrong.
I leaned back, resting my elbows on the bed, and breathed a long sigh.

“I guess you can’t,” I said. “But how can a guy write such things?”

“He’s got to fill up his column with something. Does it all have to be true?”

“Well, there are guys like that, although most of the writers I’ve met have been swell.”

Then I looked at the doctor and grinned, slyly.

“You’d better get your censors back on the job,” I said. “The one they let get away was certainly a beauty.”

One Sunday, Mary walked in and said, “You’ve got company outside.”

“Who?”

“Ed Foley.”

“Who?” I said again.

“Ed Foley—oh, gosh, honey—you don’t remember ever having met him, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“He lives next door. He’s your best friend in Boston.”

“What do I say to the guy?”

“Let’s ask Dr. Brown.”

We met him in one of the corridors.

“What do I do when I meet my best friend and don’t recognize him?” I asked.

“Just what you’d do when you meet any good friend. Greet him warmly, shake hands with him and say whatever you feel like saying.”

Ed Foley turned out to be a tall, friendly dark-haired man, a member of the Newton police force. He walked towards me with his hand outstretched, and I met him halfway. I let him lead the conversation and, after a while, I began to feel right at home with him. By the time he was ready to leave, I felt that we were good friends again. But I sought out the doctor the minute he was gone.

“It was all right this time,” I said, “because Ed came with Mary and she told me that he was here. But what shall I do if I don’t get any warning in advance? I won’t recognize a guy and he’ll think I’m high-hatting him.”

“Don’t let it worry you. Any time you’re greeted with warmth and enthusiasm by someone who claims to be an old friend, tell him the truth. Say that you can’t remember anything that happened during the period that you were sick, and that you’re sorry, but you don’t recognize him.”

“Won’t he think it’s funny?”

“Why should he? If he’s really a good friend, he’ll understand.”

Early one afternoon, the doctor asked me if I’d like to see my dad. During the first few weeks of my convalescence, I had been reluctant to talk to him. I can’t tell you why. I only know that I wasn’t ready to face him until I was more sure of myself. The very fact that Dr. Brown mentioned the idea of seeing my father at all was a good thing. He knew that I loved my dad, but he hadn’t wanted me exposed to any of the old fears.
He thinks I can take it now. And I know I can take it.

“I want to see Dad,” I said. “It’s been pretty rough for him—not being able to come near me all this time.”

“Good,” said the doctor. “He’s waiting for you on the grounds now. Your mother and the Tracys are with him.”

I kissed Mom and shook hands all around, and it felt good to see them all. They had brought a picnic lunch, and we sat outside and ate it. Everyone treated me casually, but I caught Mom looking sharply at me a few times.

She looks at me and she looks around this place and I know exactly what she’s thinking. She’s remembering those days at Norwich and they’re not pleasant memories. And she’s wondering how long it’s going to be with me.

I walked over and put my arm around her waist and said, lightly, “I’ll be out of here in a couple of weeks, and the doctor says I’ll never be back.”

She smiled at me, and I hope it made her feel better.
Poor Mom. Life wasn’t too good to her in her younger days. But it’s going to be all right from now on.

The following Sunday, right after Mary left, a car drove up to the front entrance just as I was getting ready to go inside, and two couples stepped out. I looked at them casually, then looked again. The party consisted of Ellis Kinder, the veteran Red Sox pitcher, and his wife Ruth, Ted Lepcio, then a rookie Red Sox infielder, and Mary Trank, who worked in the Red Sox ticket office. Kinder had always been nice to me when I was with the club in the latter part of the 1950 season, and during spring training in 1951. Everyone liked Mary, who used to take her vacation at Sarasota in the spring. I recognized Lepcio from his pictures. I didn’t remember ever having met him.
Nice of him to come—but why should he be particularly interested in me?
He was a Seton Hall College graduate who had had only one year in professional baseball before joining the Red Sox in the spring of 1952. He started the 1951 season at Roanoke, Virginia, in the Class B Piedmont League while I was with the Red Sox, and finished it at Louisville while I was at Birmingham, so, as far as I knew, our paths had never crossed.

But he acted as if he knew me well, and I greeted him warmly.
He must have been close to me while I was sick. I’ll ask Mary.
I was glad to see them all, because, aside from a visit from Joe Cronin, the Red Sox general manager, this was the only time any Red Sox people had been to see me. We talked baseball for an hour or so, and I was pleased to see that all four acted perfectly natural with me. I was sorry when the time came for them to leave, but they all assured me that they’d see me again soon.

“You’ll be out of here before the end of the season,” Kinder said. “Then you can get over to the ball park.”

“If you can’t,” added Lepcio, “we’ll surely see you in Sarasota next spring.”

I asked Mary about Lepcio the next day.

“He was the best friend you had on the ball club,” she told me. “He stood up for you and protected you and kept telling everyone you were all right and did everything he could to help you.”

Then she explained that Lepcio had been my roommate, not only during spring training in Sarasota, but all during the time that I was with the Red Sox. Whenever I got into arguments, which was often, he used to push me away and take over, particularly when it appeared as though I might be exposing myself to a punch in the nose. He was ready to fight for me whenever anyone showed intense resentment at my bitter wisecracks and belligerent outlook. He encouraged me when I was low and was the first to pat me on the back when I did well. Of all the guys on the ball club, he was the last to give up on me. The others, disgusted, maybe a little scared, upset and weary of my antics on the field and raucous bragging off it, eventually ignored me. Lepcio stuck with me until the last minute. When I was sent to Birmingham in June of 1952 he was the only man on the club speaking to me.

“Holy cow,” I said to Mary, “if I hadn’t seen pictures of him, I wouldn’t have known what he looked like.”

“Well, honey, he was a real friend.”

“Were there many others?”

“Quite a few,” she said. “You’ll meet them as we go along.”

The doctor told me not to worry about it.

“A lot of things will come up from time to time,” he explained. “Just take them in stride. Don’t be surprised at anything that happens.”

“When do I get out of here?”

“Soon—very soon. Sooner than you think.”

I was released from Westborough on September 9, 1952, almost six weeks to the day after I went in. The doctor told me the night before.

“You’re going home tomorrow, Jimmy,” he said. “As far as we’re concerned, you’re cured.”

“That’s wonderful, Doc. Thanks a million for all you did for me.”

“I haven’t done a thing. You did it all yourself. Now, when you get home, take it very slowly for a while. Don’t get excited or upset about anything. When you meet anyone, be casual and talk as if the last time you saw him was yesterday. Take light exercise at first—you know, like what you were doing playing around the grounds here. After a while, you can do more, but don’t try to lick the world right off. And I wouldn’t drive a car for a while.”

“How long?”

“Oh, five or six weeks. And when you do drive, don’t try to break any speed records or beat the other fellow to the punch. If someone wants to pass you or tries to cut you out, let him. If he honks his horn at you, laugh at him. People who drive that way don’t have any sense. I ought to know. I do it myself. But don’t you.”

“I’m a little scared, Doc,” I said. “Suppose something comes up that I can’t handle?”

“Nothing will. You can cope with anything. Remember that. You’re no different from anyone else now, and your problems won’t be any different from other people’s. Just don’t try to manufacture new ones, and you’ll be all right.”

“Aren’t people likely to sort of steer clear of me?”

“Some will. Most won’t. You’ll find that the world is full of people who want to help you.”

“I’ve found that out already.”

“It’ll be the same wherever you go,” he said.

“What if people make cracks like that New Orleans writer did? Or ask me about—this place?”

“Don’t get upset. That’s the main thing. Just laugh off things like that. If anyone asks you about Westborough, tell them it’s a country club or something. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll try not to,” I said. Then—“Doc, I wonder how many people will be staring at me and saying to themselves, ‘He’s been away once. He’ll probably go back some day’?”

“What do you care? You don’t have to worry about what people think. And, if they think that, you’ll know they’re wrong. You’ve been sick. Now you’re well again. It’s as simple as that. Most people will understand. The few who don’t won’t bother you unless you let them. Remember, Jimmy—you’re well and you’ll stay well as long as you want to stay well. Your mental health is in nobody’s hands but your own now. You can control it. Mary will help you. She’s a very wonderful girl, you know. And if by some chance you feel you need more help than she can give you, I’ll be no farther away from you than the nearest telephone. Call me whenever you want to.”

“And how about all those crazy things I was supposed to have done while I was playing ball this year? Is it all right for Mary to tell me all about them now?”

“Perfectly O.K. I think you should know about those things. She tells me your father kept a scrapbook of newspaper clippings. Have him bring it to you, and go over it with Mary.”

“And how about the details of when I actually cracked up? I want to know them too.”

“I think you should know,” the doctor said. “Let Mary tell you.”

“Does she know the whole story?”

“Know it? Believe me, Jimmy, there’s nobody in this whole wide world who knows it better. She lived it.”

Mary and Ed came for me the next day, and as I walked out of the place for the last time, I silently repeated a fervent prayer of thanks to God for the help He had given me. The doctor, his brown eyes bright, his step jaunty, his dark face wreathed in a wide smile, walked down to the car with us. When he shook hands, he said, “I’m glad you’re leaving, Jimmy, but I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too, Doc. I wouldn’t have made it without you.”

“Good luck. I’ll go to Fenway Park and watch you play ball for the Red Sox next spring.”

“Look for me in the outfield,” I said, with a grin. “You won’t find me at shortstop.”

Dad brought his scrapbooks up from Waterbury a few days after I got home. Feeling a little like a man about to attend his own funeral, I opened the one marked “1952,” and slowly began going through it. It took me a couple of weeks of reading and talking things over with Mary, but I insisted on seeing everything. I wanted to piece it all together in chronological order. It was my life. This dreadful stage of it was an open book to thousands of baseball fans all over the country. I couldn’t let it remain closed to me.