Lesson from a former Dodger

An environment that is conducive to learning should be both pleasant and unique. That’s why the walls of my classroom at Kennebunk High School are festooned with bright and colorful posters bearing such messages as, “If you tell the truth you don’t have to remember what you said,” and “Stand up for what’s right, even if you’re standing alone.” Magnetic photos of my family and friends adorn the metal storage lockers in one of the corners, and above the board at the front of the room are pictures of an eclectic group of individuals who for one reason or another can be seen as inspiring. Among them are Mother Teresa, Arthur Ashe, Sojourner Truth, Billie Jean King, the Smothers Brothers, Bill Russell and Albert Schweitzer. My hidden agenda: on the day an inquisitive student asks about one of them, we’ll have an instant “teachable moment.”

But every so often someone looks peripherally rather than straight ahead. Recently a sophomore who likes baseball pointed curiously at an 8-by-11 autographed photo of a kneeling man in a Minnesota Twins uniform. It was perched on a bookshelf on the room’s East wall. “Who’s that guy?” he asked. When I told him it was John Roseboro his immediate response was, “Who’s John Roseboro? And why is his picture on your shelf?”

Here’s why. Early in 1966 my dad’s aunt and uncle took a March vacation to Vero Beach, Florida. To the baseball-obsessed nine-year-old I was at the time Vero Beach sounded doubly exotic. Not only was it over 1,000 miles south of anywhere I’d ever been, it was where the Los Angeles Dodgers held spring training every year. When I was asked ahead of time what I might like brought back from the Sunshine State I deliberated for about two seconds before declaring that I wanted the autograph of a genuine Dodger. Not Sandy Koufax’s or Don Drysdale’s, though; I wanted Roseboro’s. One of my most prized possessions back then was an old catcher’s mitt I had inherited from a benevolent neighbor, a John Roseboro model. I wrote Uncle Jack and Aunt Hazel a letter telling them how much I admired the Dodger receiver, and finished by asking if they could get him to sign something for me at some point during their Florida junket.

Early that April an envelope with a Florida postmark on it arrived at our house. Inside it was my original letter to my uncle and aunt; at the bottom was John Roseboro’s autograph. I raced upstairs to compare it to the signature that was printed on the catcher’s mitt. It was an exact duplicate.

A quarter of a century later I found myself in Vero Beach as the radio play-by-play announcer for the Dodgers minor league affiliate in the Florida State League. One of my responsibilities was finding someone of interest to interview on the nightly pregame show. Late one afternoon I learned that Roseboro was in town to tutor some Dodger farmhands. Thrilled, I asked him to be my pregame guest. He assented cordially, and was a cooperative if soft-spoken interview. But when I asked him to recount his fondest memories of the bucolic little town he went to for spring training every year for over a decade, he solemnly responded, “I hated every minute of it. I actually dreaded coming here every spring.” He went on to explain in no uncertain terms that in the 1950s and 1960s Vero Beach was a truly dreadful place for an African-American, baseball player or not. Initially I was horrified, concerned that some members of our listening audience might be offended. But his inherent dignity and the matter-of-factness of his response quickly helped me realize it didn’t matter if anyone got bent out of shape over his remarks. I had asked him a question; he responded honestly and directly. In short, he had treated me as I had treated him: as an equal, and with respect.

Some years later I was at a Cooperstown, New York memorabilia store when I saw an autographed photo of Roseboro as a Twin; he had been traded to Minnesota by the Dodgers after the 1967 season and played the following two years there. When I saw the price was a mere six dollars I gladly purchased it.

John Roseboro died in 2002, but his two interactions with me (one indirect, the other constituting perhaps 20 minutes of our mutual time) left an indelible impression which has inspired me to try to have a similarly positive influence on each person I encounter for the remainder of my life.

Now if only someone will ask me about Mother Teresa, Arthur Ashe, or Albert Schweitzer.

— Andy Young teaches in Kennebunk, and lives in Cumberland.