In 1971, Philadelphia opened Veterans Stadium, a multi-purpose facility primarily built to house the football Eagles and baseball Phillies. For the Phillies in particular, it was a much-needed upgrade. Their previous home, Connie Mack Stadium, was outdated, small and in a neighborhood that had become dangerous. The new Veterans Stadium was the opposite of those things. It was ultra-modern and accommodated huge crowds. It was located in South Philly, across the street from the new indoor arena, the Spectrum, and surrounded by parking lots. Dangerous neighborhoods were a concern of the past since there was no neighborhood around the new stadium.
The area was considered so safe that my friend Paul and I, a couple of teenagers from Northeast Philly, could hang out there before and after games bugging the players for autographs as they arrived and left. And we did that periodically in 1971 and 1972. We were surprisingly successful. There was only one major player who acted like a jerk, and that was the now widely-beloved Joe Torre. He was then an all-star third baseman on the St. Louis Cardinals and one of the most recognizable members of the team.
As he came out of the visiting player’s stadium exit, he was carrying a gym bag in each hand. That was a typical ploy used by players who didn’t want to engage.
“Mr. Torre, can I have your autograph?” I shouted.
“Can’t, I’m carrying my bags,” he responded.
I was ready for him, “I’ll carry your bags for you.”
He gave a little laugh then turned around to one of his teammates, “The kid says he’ll carry my bags.”
Then he walked right by me and onto the team bus.
In the summer of 1972, the Pirates were in town, and they were one of the best teams in baseball – the reigning World Series champs. Paul and I were at the Vet way before gametime when a taxi pulled up near the visiting team’s entryway. There were three players inside – two instantly identifiable, the third, not so much.
Out of the cab emerged Roberto Clemente, a fantastic baseball player, and by all accounts an even better person. In just a few months after that summer day, his Hall of Fame career and life would be tragically cut short when he died in a plane crash on December 31, 1972. That day, he was flying to Nicaragua to distribute aid to victims of an earthquake. Today, he is remembered as an all-time great ballplayer and as a humanitarian. Annually, Major League Baseball gives the Roberto Clemente Award to the player “who best represents the game of baseball through extraordinary character, community involvement, philanthropy and positive contributions, both on and off the field.”
Also getting out of the taxi was Manny Sanguillen, Clemente’s teammate on the mighty Pittsburgh teams of that era. He was a good-hitting, solid catcher who was a three-time all-star. He was a valuable cog on those teams, and he played for thirteen years in the big leagues.
The third occupant of the cab was not a familiar face. It turns out that he was Frank Taveras, a shortstop. That year he was a rookie who played in just a handful of games.
In addition to Paul and me, there were just a couple of others standing there collecting autographs. Clemente enthusiastically and cheerfully signed everything that was offered to him. Sanguillen did the same. Then there was Taveras. He grumpily scribbled a squiggly line for a couple of us, then he pushed his way toward the door.
I was astonished. Clemente – one of the best in baseball history and the MVP of the previous fall’s World Series – had plenty of time for us, a bunch of kids from an “away” city. Sanguillen too. But the rookie couldn’t be bothered.
Taveras did go on to play in the big leagues until 1982. I don’t know if he was just having bad day when our paths briefly crossed or if that was his permanent attitude. Whatever the case, to see the difference between him and Clemente was startling, and here I am writing about it fifty years later.