Ted Williams—my Year

"That is my point," said the Rhodesian. "I have seen it here, listening to him. No dead animal or fish can light him like his true love."

Ted Williams had never, from the time he left New York, really escaped, as one would expect to escape when he has traveled 8,000 miles to an out-of-the-way place. An American boy holding a camera with both hands shadowed him through the Tower of London and waited 40 minutes outside Coldharbour Gate as Williams inspected 17th-century glaives and wheel-lock pistols and browsed through the tilt armor. "Now, Mr. Williams?" he said when Ted emerged, and was granted a friendly pose. In Nairobi an old man in canvas shoes and a soiled shamba hat stepped in front of him and said, "Hey, you're Ted Williams!"

"A lot of people make that mistake. I think Williams is actually an older man."

"Aw, c'mon, I saw you play, Ted. You know. In Boston. Oh, how I'd love to be in Boston."

"People I know want to come over here."

"Ted, you gotta tell me. Did the Mets really win the Series? You know"—he looked around—"you can't believe everything you read out here."

"Yeah, the Mets won, all right. Four games to one."

"Mmm, mmm. Please. Tell me about it." The man was starved for information, and Williams, in an obliging mood, rendered a five-minute report, expressing his personal surprise that the Orioles had packed in so easily.

At a five and dime, the great discovery was made by an Episcopal missionary in from Tanzania. The missionary introduced his son, whom he acquainted with Williams' achievements, and the man and the boy were immensely pleased to have him drop in on their continent.

"How did Frank Howard do this year?" the missionary wanted to know. "Is he still swinging at bad pitches? I saw him when I was home on leave a few years ago. Swung from his heels at everything."