Seaver’s passing brings back hundreds of memories

There are very few people that can transcend a man’s life from childhood through adolescence and into manhood.

Of course, there are parents and loved ones. For certain, there are friends and acquaintances.

But outside of the regular family regimen and assorted influential individuals, there aren’t many that can have such an impact on one’s life spanning the decades. It’s very rare when someone you know only from afar can have such a place of importance.

For me, that person was George Thomas Seaver, known to most as simply Tom, but in the New York area, he was also known by the nicknames of “The Franchise” and “Tom Terrific.”

Tom Seaver was always larger than life in my existence, held at such a higher echelon than anyone else.

Sure, there was idol worship for athletes like Johnny Unitas and Walt Frazier, but there was no one more vital to my growing up than Seaver, who died last Sunday on his vineyard in northern California at the age of 75 after a battle with dementia, more than likely brought on by Lyme disease.
When I was first introduced to the game of baseball as a little boy in 1965, my father took me to my first game at Shea Stadium on Aug. 26, 1965, where I was absolutely mesmerized by the greenest of green grass on the field and the brightest of white lights atop the roof.

Of course, I fell madly in love right away with the Mets, especially since they somehow managed to beat Sandy Koufax in the first game I ever attended. My father reminded me all the way to Shea that I was seeing the best pitcher he ever saw in Koufax that night and yet the sad sack Mets performed their first miracle by beating Koufax for the first time ever after 13 straight losses by a 5-2 score.
After that game, I was hooked for life. I bled orange and blue – even though I came from a family of Yankee fans, including my beloved father.

A year later, the Mets had their second miracle, when they won a special lottery with the Atlanta Braves to acquire the rights to a right-handed flamethrower from Fresno, California named George Thomas Seaver.

No one knew at the time how good Seaver would become, but in 1967, Seaver was the National League Rookie of the Year, winning 16 games for a team that would lose close to 100 yet again.

Everyone knew at the time that Seaver represented hope. You knew that every fifth day, Seaver took the mound and gave the lowly Mets a fighting chance to win. That never happened before.

In 1968, the Mets added fellow pitchers Jerry Koosman and Nolan Ryan and one could sense that a change was going to come, as long as the Mets had such a stellar pitching staff, led by the righty who already earned the nickname of Tom Terrific.

By 1968, I wanted to be Tom Seaver. I used to mimic his pitching motion in my living room, in my backyard. I made sure to rock back with the glove and bring it over my head, bring that right leg down to the ground, just like Seaver did.

Whenever Seaver pitched, it was a day to be in front of the television, glued to every single pitch. Sometimes, Seaver was locked in pitching duels with fellow greats like Bob Gibson and Juan Marichal and Don Drysdale and Ferguson Jenkins and Steve Carlton. But we also felt, believed and trusted that Seaver would emerge victorious – and end up on the Kiner’s Korner post-game show with Ralph Kiner, wearing a Met windbreaker with a towel around his neck and an ice cold Rheingold in his hand. Kiner would present each guest on Kiner’s Korner with a crisp $100 bill. Seaver would get at least 15 or so of those Benjamins each season.

In July of 1969, I was present when Seaver was “almost perfect,” going 8 1/3 innings without allowing a base runner against the Chicago Cubs, before a pinch-hitter Jimmy Qualls laced a double to left-center. I was seated in a box seat down the right field line and kept score like I always did since my very first game. When Qualls got the hit, I cried. I don’t know why.

Later that year, the unbelievable happened, when the Mets went from being a laughingstock to the champions of the world. The “Miracle Mets” defeated the Baltimore Orioles in the 1969 World Series, even after Seaver lost Game 1 of the Series.

I never had missed a day of school in my young life, but I so badly wanted to stay home the day after the Mets won the World Series so I could watch the tickertape parade on television.

The thought of missing school was foreign in my household, but I was sent home after the first hour or so with a wicked case of diarrhea – even with the lone bathroom in the house getting a complete makeover. I raced into the bathroom about 15 times that day, much to the chagrin of the plumber. But I did get to be home for the parade, to see my idol Seaver receive the key to the city.

In April of 1970, I sat with my father in a frigid Shea Stadium to watch Seaver strike out 19 San Diego Padres, including the last 10 in a row. I remember Nate Colbert struck out four times that day and never came close to touching the ball.

My father passed away in 1971, but my love for the Mets never wavered. Seaver was always a part of my life and was instrumental in my ascension from being a little boy into a teen. I can’t even begin to count the times I was at Shea with Seaver on the mound.

The Mets did the unthinkable in 1977, trading Seaver to the Cincinnati Reds for a package of four non-descript players. A year later, Seaver got his no-hitter with the Reds.

In 1983, Seaver made a triumphant return to the Mets and on a bright, warm April day, Seaver took the stroll in from the bullpen to a standing ovation on Opening Day against the Philadelphia Phillies. Sure enough, I was there again, now as a young adult. I stood and cheered loudly as Seaver made that walk in and won that Opening Day.

Later that year, I got the chance to interview Seaver for the first time at Shea. It was one of a handful of times that I spoke to him. It now went from hero worship to having a job to do. It wasn’t easy to do, but I managed.

For all intents and purposes, if not for a clerical blunder, Seaver should have won his 300^th career game with the Mets in 1985, instead of the Chicago White Sox. In a strange twist of fate, Seaver was in the opposing dugout when the Mets won their second World Series title against the Boston Red Sox, the last team that Seaver would pitch for.

In 1987, when the Mets’ pitching staff was ravaged by injury, Seaver was given a chance to come back and pitch one last time with the Mets, but he couldn’t do it. He pitched a simulated game and was blasted by the Mets’ backup catcher Barry Lyons. That was the sign that Tom Terrific was done.

In 1988, Seaver returned to Shea to have his No. 41 officially retired. Of course, I was there again, this time as a fan. I watched as Seaver did what he did best, went out to the mound at Shea.

But this time, instead of throwing a pitch, he paid the Mets’ fans the ultimate compliment. He took a bow to each corner of the stadium. Again, like I did some 20 years earlier, I cried. This time, I knew why.

So a major part of my life died with Tom Seaver Sunday night. That little boy who was filled with wonder, that influential teen who watched and marveled, the young man who got a chance to interview his idol and that aging sportswriter who received word that Tom Terrific, the Franchise, the best there ever was, was gone. And with that news, so went a major part of my life, a life that somehow always included Tom Seaver.

Photo caption — Observer sports columnist and lifelong Mets fan Jim Hague sits with two of his most prized pieces of memorabilia, an autographed Tom Seaver baseball and an autographed picture of Seaver when his No. 41 was retired in 1988. Seaver died last week at the age of 75.