Not long before he died, Mickey Mantle, who had spent his baseball playing days as a fearful, bitter, anti-social drunk with low self-esteem, had an epiphany when a man, with tears in his eyes, shook his hand and told him how much Mantle had meant to him growing up. Mantle was astonished that what he had done on the baseball field affected anyone so deeply, and said that from that point on, he no longer felt his life had no meaning or worth.

There are people and subjects that have influenced the course of my life, my interests, choices and beliefs far more than any school I have attended or any pursuit I have engaged in to make money: Presidential history, for which I have Robert Ripley to thank (but that’s another story); theater and performing, for which I credit Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Sullivan; Greek Mythology, a gift from my mother; rules for living, the specialty of my dad; and, last but far from least, baseball and the Boston Red Sox.

Eddie Bressoud died a week ago, at 91. He is primarily responsible for making me a lifetime baseball fan, with all the excitement, entertainment and wisdom that roller-coaster experience has supplied.

In the winter of 1962, I was reading the Herald sports pages and read about the Red Sox trading their much-reviled shortstop, Don Buddin, to the new expansion Colt .45s for Bressoud, who had been their first pick in the expansion draft. I hadn’t followed the Red Sox closely before that, though all of my friends were big baseball fans like most normal kids in Boston, Mass. You know me: I don’t follow crowds, I avoid them. I don’t know whether it was Eddie’s name or what that intrigued me, but I watched Opening Day specifically to see the new guy play.

I learned that he was called “Steady Eddie;” that he had a Masters degree and was a teacher; I saw that he was always in motion on the field, talking to other players, pointing, intense, an obvious field leader. Bressoud got a hit and started a 14-game hitting streak, sucking me in to watching or listening to all those games to see how long he could keep it up. I was hooked: I didn’t miss a game for 8 years.

Bressoud wore #1, and backed up every catcher’s throw to the pitcher with men on base, a fundamental move coaches teach by few major league shortstops continue. Eddie had a Fenway stroke, a strange, chopping, 2/3 swing that was perfect for knocking balls off of or over “the Green Monster” in left. He also had a knack for clutch hits and doing the little things that helped score runs, like moving runners to the next base even when grounding out. Eddie hit safely in the first 20 games in 1964, setting a Red Sox record for a beginning of a season.. When the team was behind in the 9th, which was often in those days,it seemed like he never failed to get on base somehow. 

Bressoud was unusually articulate and smart: he was a teacher in the off-season, and always made it clear that his passion was education. I was the only fan I knew who was so enamored of Bressoud: Carl Yastrzemski was the rising superstar on those bad teams before the Boston miracle pennant of 1967, though the Sox manager and coaches sang Bressoud’s praises for playing the game ‘the right way” and being both intense and productive. My loyalty was a family joke long after Eddie had left the game. All three of his seasons as the regular shortstop were excellent, and he was was named to the All-Star team in 1964. He was the only position player who didn’t get into the game. I was crushed.

The next season, new manager Billy Herman took away Bressoud’s starting job before Spring Training, and then traded him to the Mets, I listened to their games on the radio so I could keep up with how Eddie was doing. He was a valuable part-timer for the Mets for two years, and was acquired by the Cardinals in 1967.  His last MLB appearance was, ironically, against the Red Sox in Fenway Park, when he ran onto the field as a defensive replacement for St. Louis in the 1967 World Series. The Boston fans gave him a nice ovation.

Baseball has given me too much pleasure and perspective to recount in the decades since Eddie retired, and I apply the lessons I have learned from the game regularly in everything I do. I designed a baseball trivia game and launched a company to promote it, leading me to my first marketing job. Baseball has given me lifetime friends, and experiences I will never forget. It allowed me to cope with personable disappointments and failures, and to not to be overly impressed with the occasional success. It taught me much about critical thinking and bias (thank-you, Bill James!), character, leadership, ordering priorities, recognizing corruption, and culture.

About ten years ago, I once had a chance to exchange emails with his daughter. I told her how much her dad had meant to me as a kid., and how he deserves credit for giving me the lifetime love of baseball I still have today. She said that he would love to know that, and sent me his email address so I could write him. I didn’t have the guts to do it. (I still have the address). 

It was a rare attack of weenie-ism, right up there on my regrets list with never kissing the first love of my life in high school. I was still starstruck over a retired baseball player that few people but me still remembered. I regret not reaching out to him very much; it was the first thing I thought about when I saw his obituary yesterday.

Eddie’s  9 x 11 color photo hung over my bed from when I was 12 until I left for college. I still have it.

Now all I can do is offer this poor substitute for letting Eddie Bressoud know that he made a difference in my life, and I owe him a great deal.

You can read the SABR profile of Eddie Bressoud here, and listen to an interview with him here.

Thanks, Eddie.

For being my childhood hero, for baseball, for everything.