On the Saturday morning of May 26, 1962, the No. 1 song in America was “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” by Ray Charles, Sonny Liston reigned as the Heavyweight Champion of the World, a native son from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, John F. Kennedy occupied the Oval Office, and the national pastime of baseball ruled the sporting world.
It would also be the morning that I took my first ride in a cab.
I was 9-years old, and I and my Romsey Street Dorchester pal Johnny Kent, who was three years older, were on a mission.
Our destination was Fenway Park to collect autographs of the visiting Baltimore Orioles, and in those simpler times, most of the players would take the short walk to Fenway from the Kenmore Hotel, which was located literally around the corner, and except for the Yankees, and the Angels, it was the place where all the visiting American League teams stayed.
Armed with the implements of our trade, namely pens, pencils, paper, and autograph books, we began our sojourn at the bird chirping hour of 8 a.m. by walking down to the Red Line station stop of Columbia, now officially known as JFK.
In those “Dead End Kids” days the “T’s” tariff to ride was one thin dime, that is of course unless one was able to squeeze through the unguarded turnstile located at the back stairs of the station, which we often did with great success.
We rode to Park Street Station, then hopped onto the Green Line trolley stopping off at the Kenmore Square Station and marching a short way down the street and directly into the lobby of the Kenmore Hotel.
The first person we spotted, and the only one at that hour was the Red Sox hitting coach Rudy York who has a seasonal suite at the hotel.
The native Alabaman, who is in the Alabama, Georgia, and Michigan Halls of Fame, was sitting alone in a comfortable lobby chair reading the morning newspaper.
After signing our books, the former power hitting catcher and first baseman, who was a seven-time All-Star, a member of the ’45 Detroit Tigers World Series championship team, and the ’46 Red Sox World Series squad, finished his career with these highly respectable credentials: 277 home runs, 1149 RBI, and corralled with a .275 lifetime batting average, asked what the heck were we doing here so early.
We explained our autograph quest and then moved around the lobby eagle-eyeing the elevators and the restaurant to see who might be coming down from their rooms or having breakfast.
But after an hour of searching, it appeared that finding an Oriole player at that early hour was like trying to find a Bostonian who didn’t know the name of Ted Williams.
And that’s when Rudy, seemingly taking pity on our Ahab-like quest, sailed to the rescue.
“How would you boys like to come to the park with me?” he asked.
“I’ll take you into the clubhouse, and you can sit in the dugout and watch batting practice, and we’ll get you tickets to the game.”
We pinched ourselves in disbelief.
“I’ll call a cab, and we’ll all ride to the park,” said Rudy.
Suddenly what seemed like a dark Saturday sojourn became as bright as the Northern Lights.
Now picture this, here I am in my first cab ride sitting next to a seven time All-Star, and a World Series champion, and my pal John, who was also on his first ride, on our way to the sanctuary of the Red Sox clubhouse.
Life is indeed good.
Upon our arrival, the door marked Boston Red Sox clubhouse opened and stepping in we met Bob Tillman and manager Pinky Higgins, then York changed into his uniform and brought us out to the dugout.
We sat in that sanctum with widened eyes and watched the Sox go through their batting practice and fielding routines, and for two kids from the city sitting in the Red Sox dugout was like visiting the Sistine Chapel.
Rudy asked us, who are your favorite players.
I don’t recall who John mentioned, but I told Rudy that mine was Eddie Bressoud.
York called the Sox shortstop over and told him that he was my favorite player, we shook hands, and he put his batting helmet on my head, then Rudy called over the team photographer.
He took the picture of me standing on the dugout step wearing Bressoud’s helmet, with Rudy, who was a big man sitting in the middle, and John sitting on the other side.
The photographer took our addresses and six weeks later the photo arrived in the mail signed by the gracious Rudy York, and even though it is a bit beaten up, it remains a smiling treasure.
Before we went to our great seats located about 15-rows above the Sox dugout, Rudy told us to make sure we came back after the game.
The attendance for this game, which the Sox won 12-6, was a paltry 6,279 fans, as these were the lost and wandering dismal baseball years in Boston, before it all changed with the “Impossible Dream” team of 1967.
After the game we went back and knocked on the clubhouse door but got no answer, so we ventured out to the street and collected some postgame Oriole autographs, then gave the clubhouse door one more attempt.
Thankfully the equipment guy opened and said, “Hey Rudy is looking for you boys.”
Rudy gave us each a paper bag filled with a dozen major league used baseballs, to us it was a “King Tut-like” haul of treasure, and one ball signed by the entire team as we floated out of Fenway Park.
And before you ask, that ball has long since been lost.
But that was the cab ride of cab rides, and not even Cab Calloway could top that.