Farewell, Teddy Ballgame

"Capital T," he wrote, with a big flourish, "e-d. Capital W," another flourish, "i-l-l-i-a-m-s." He dotted the i's high.

"You know," an older sportswriter told me a number of years later, "he never signed any of that stuff. The clubhouse guy, Johnny Orlando, his buddy, signed everything. Johnny Orlando could sign Ted Williams's name better than Ted Williams could."

I look at the postcard now. I somehow have kept it through college, through marriage, divorce, changes of jobs, changes of residence. Forty-nine years.

I don't know. Johnny Orlando?

I think Ted might have made an exception. Just once.

Ted 2

The sound of his voice preceded him. Or at least that's what I remember.

The year must have been 1978. Or maybe '79. The Red Sox clubhouse at Chain O' Lakes Park in Winter Haven, Fla., was divided into two rooms. The smaller room was reserved for selected veterans and the coaching staff. They shared the space with a pair of enormous washing machines. The machines were at work, taking out the stains from another spring training day. I was a sportswriter now, working for a Boston newspaper.

"Tell me this," the new voice said, loud, very loud. "What detergent do you use to clean these uniforms?"

Everybody turned toward the noise because there was no alternative. There he was, Ted, himself, huge, instantly dominating his surroundings. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. He would have been 59 years old. Maybe 60. He was tanned and robust, looking as if he had just returned from the high seas or the deep woods. A pair of sunglasses hung from his neck on a piece of fishing line.