I love to ski. Downhill. (No cross-country for me. Too much work. I need gravity.) I came to skiing late in life, aided and abetted by my handsome, easy-going Snowmass ski instructor.
The gods of Ullr were smiling down on me the morning that hook-up was made. I had gone to the private lesson line at ski school to meet an instructor and when they asked me what I was looking for I answered, “Give me a guy with a great sense of humor.”
Enter Hays.
And though my first attempts at conquering Fanny Hill were less than stellar, I loved it- and him- from the outset. Communing with glorious Mother Nature. Spectacular eye-grabbing, snowcapped scenery. There was just something about the feeling of gliding down the slope, unfettered by the world’s problems, freedom from every earthbound consideration, that I found highly addictive.
(I rather imagine sailors and pilots feel the same way.)
I came back the next day for a repeat lesson and the next and the next. And over the years, Hays and I became good buddies. Our families became friends, too. My kids were crazy about his little boy, Hays III, AKA Buck. Natasha even did some light baby-sitting duty and later, Nick gave Buck his first snowboard lesson.
We logged a lot of time on Snowmass Mountain. And you get to know a person real well after the thousandth time you’ve taken the Wood Run chairlift together.
Hays was originally from Connecticut. Ten years older than me and a major jock himself. Which put him right in the demographic that worshipped one man above all others.
The Mick.
Number Seven. Mickey Mantle.
(You have to imagine Billy Crystal now saying his name. “Mickeeeeyyy Mantlllle.” As one sportscaster rightly pointed out even his name was perfect. It was synonymous with baseball.)
It wasn’t so much what Hays said when he spoke about him. It was the way he looked, how his eyes lit up when he mentioned his hallowed name. Instantly he became a kid again, awestruck with wonder and excitement. This was hero-worship in its purest form.
And I got a real kick out of seeing my sports hero talk about his.
So it was kind of inevitable that Christmas 0f 1994 I decided to buy Hays an autographed Mickey Mantle baseball as a thank you gift from an extremely grateful client.
I clearly remember going to the Hammacher Schlemmer catalogue and looking at sports memorabilia. There was plenty to be had- but nothing signed by the Comet from Commerce, Oklahoma.
Then I went to Upper Deck. I struck out again. (This was the dark ages pre-Internet and Ebay.) They were selling plenty of sports stuff that Christmas, but nothing signed by the Mick.
Hmm. Strange. So I made a few calls and found out that, yes, old number seven, for reasons unknown, was not autographing this season. There would be no more Mickey Mantle-signed anything to be had. Anywhere.
That Christmas came and went. But now I was on a mission. Hays’ birthday is in March and I had my heart set on getting him something of the Mick’s. (And if MM signed it to “Hays” then he could, in turn, hand it down to Buck, as well. A real two-fer.)
So I called a connected friend in the sports radio business. I figured he could give me a sure-fire knockdown to Mickey himself.
And I was so right. My buddy hit it out of the park and gave me the phone number of Greer Johnson- Mickey’s then-agent (and sometime girlfriend) in Atlanta.
With my heart in my throat, I dialed. Talking faster than I ever did in my life, I explained my agenda. That I was in dire need of an autographed Mickey Mantle baseball. That there was a great guy and an adorable little boy who shared the same name out in Colorado, and it was ultimately for them that I was doing this.
Did she think that would be possible?
She thought it over and then she said that she could get him to do it- precisely because I wanted it personalized. She went on to explain that the ball would thus have very little resale value because it had someone’s name on it. Mickey didn’t want the ball to be resold at a profit.
I was thrilled.
“I’m so grateful- to both of you, ” I said. “What can I do for him to show my appreciation?”
“His son runs a kids’ camp in Texas,” she told me. “If you’d like, you can make a donation to it. That would be great. Now go buy a regulation American League baseball and send it to me.”
Check. I instantly drove over to Wilmette Sports Shop to comply with her request.
I couldn’t resist it. As Al, the owner, was ringing up the ball, I had to tell him.
“Do you know who is going to sign this ball?” I asked. “Mickey Mantle.”
He went nuts.
“Mickey Mantle!” he screamed. “He’s a legend! He’s the best! Just last week I had dinner with Moose Skowron and we agreed that Willie Mays isn’t fit to carry his jockstrap!”
(Agree or disagree. But isn’t that a great dis?)
I sent off the ball and waited.
March fifteenth, Hays’ big day, found us together once more on the slopes. Ahh, spring skiing in Snowmass. Heavenly. Sunny skies, warm weather, suntanning on the High Alpine deck at lunch. But I digress…
I was excited because I knew what Fed Ex was bringing. I had checked and the ball was on its way to my ski schloss that very moment. Hays always drove me and to and from the mountain and I couldn’t wait until we pulled up and there was the box sitting at my front door.
Except when we got back home, it wasn’t.
No Fed Ex box anywhere to be found.
I ushered Hays inside on some flimsy pretext and hastily excused myself to make a surreptitious phone call to Fed Ex.
There had been an accident with the truck. It was disabled somewhere down the road and all efforts were being made to transfer its contents and get them to their proper recipients soon. I pictured the truck laying on its side and all its precious cargo strewn out over the mountain in a “yard sale.”
Gulp. That ball was priceless. All the effort I had expended in getting it. What if it was stolen or hopelessly lost? No amount of insurance would cover it. And little did I know at the time…
But suddenly there was a ring on my doorbell. The package had arrived.
I handed it to my ski boss. “Here you go, Hays. Happy birthday, my friend.”
He opened the package and just stared. In it was the ball and on it was inscribed “To Hays Jones. Best wishes, your pal, Mickey Mantle.”
And that wasn’t all. He had also enclosed autographed pictures for Buck and for me. We were both overwhelmed.
Finally he spoke.
“How did you get this?” he asked.
“Oh, the Mick and I are good buddies.” I assured him. “Didn’t you know that?”
(Shortly thereafter, I came clean and ‘fessed up the true story.)
Except there was the REST of the story.
When Mickey Mantle died on August thirteenth 1995- just five months later- the truth came out. He had stopped signing because he had been mortally ill with the liver failure, and later, liver cancer that would kill him.
There was much heated controversy at the time of his death about whether Mickey deserved a new liver. His hard drinking, hard-partying ways had brought him plenty of heat, and he was now considered a bad role model for kids of all ages. His hero status was tarnished and at the end, he knew it. He made his apologies to the fans who had idolized him all their lives.
But I didn’t care one whit. To me Mickey Mantle would always remain the great player with legendary baseball stats. And I had gotten the “deathbed” baseball. His manager told me herself that it was the last thing he ever signed.
The Mick was out of the memorabilia business for good.
But not the hero one.
Play ball.
Great story Ellen. As a die hard, life long White Sox fan there was only one Yankee that was above disdain. That, of course, was the Mick. He ran like the wind, swung the bat with such ferocity and seemed to be blessed with a look and a style that made him appear as if he’d been dropped down to the majors from a higher league.
If you want the full, and rest of the story on the guy I would recommend Jane Leavy’s book: The Last Boy. It’s extremely comprehensive, honest, and more than occasionally brutal, but also fair and extremely well researched. It’s a book for readers and all those who appreciate a complcated life. It’s about heroes and motality with baseball simply being the backdrop. Jane also wrote the definitive book on Sandy Koufax. I think it’s a helluva read and your post makes me think you’ll find it so as well.
Thanks for this great comment, Gary. Any time there is one that gives me a book recommendation AND mentions Sandy Koufax is a grand slam with me.
I concur about Jane Leavy’s book.
I, too, worshiped The Mick, so much so that, for my 39th birthday, I gave myself the gift of a week at the Mantle-Ford Baseball Camp (yep, got Whitey, too). I was going to do it for my 40th, but a friend suggested that Mickey might not last another year (this was 1990).
First day there, Mickey gives me a batting tip. Had I broken an important part of my body then and there, the experience would have been worthwhile just for the batting tip. Then, my first time at bat (with the Mick sitting in a golf cart behind the mound umpiring the bases), I hit a grounder into the hole and, I swear, I beat the throw at first. Mickey called me out.
I looked over to him with a very complaining look on my face, and he said, “You were working too hard to be safe.”
I think that was the essence of Mickey.
Thanks for the memories, Ellen.
You hit it out of the park with this reminiscence, my friend. Everyone who loves the Mick should read YOU today. Thank you.
Ricky and I loved this story. Even though I gave up skiing long ago,
…your description of the slopes makes me remember all the good times.
Hays was a great teacher and friend. I miss seeing him in our hood!
Your tremendous ability to get things done always amazes me. Only you could get that ball signed…great post!!!!!
Thanks for telling me, Lil. And I want a good seat at Lynn Sage this year. Count me in. I wouldn’t miss it!
Just as Gary W. (above) is a life long White Sox fan, so am I, growing up in South Shore. The Mick was the only Yank I also could “tolerate”.
To add some first hand experience regarding your story, I helped run The White Sox Fantasy Camp with a half dozen guys for 18 years. I became very friendly with some of the great White Sox of the past……Harold Baines, Bo Jackson, Bill Melton, Carlos May, Tom Peichorek, Ron Kittle, Bobby Thigpen and yes even Moose Skowron.
The Moose told us some great stories of himself and “The Mick”. Bottom line is that Moose made it clear that The Mick cared much more about the TEAM than he cared about his own stats. That Mick was not only the greatest ballplayer he played with, but the most caring. (I could tell you other stories Moose told us from his years with the Yankees, but that’s for another time).
In addition, I could go on and on about stories from my 18 years with The White Sox, but that would take a book to write.
However, I must pass on this one bit of information….Moose insisted that Billy Pierce was a BETTER pitcher than Whitey Ford. “If Billy Pierce was a Yankee instead of a White Sox in those years the two were in the league together, Pierce would have won 350 games in his career”. That’s a quote from Moose Skowron!
My starting line-up is really coming through, today. It’s really a Murderer’s Row of comments. Thanks for the great color, Bernie. I hope every fan of the Mick reads this today. What a guy! (And so are you. Thanks, pal.)
Beautiful story. Getting misty here….
That’s the Mick Effect. He can make grown men cry. I love baseball.
Okay, all of this discussion of The Mick has prompted me to tell my great Mick story. I grew up on the North Shore (New Trier ’59) as a rabid White Sox fan, which of course made me something of a pariah to the legions of Cub fans who surrounded me. However, to be absolutely fair I attended many, many Cub games during those years and to be absolutely honest I did so largely because – believe it or not – in those years the Wrigley family gave free bleachers passes to all Chicago-area high school ballplayers. All I had to do was walk to the little North Shore station near Glencoe North School and ride down to Wrigley Field. Thus, I got to watch many of the all-time Cub greats – Banks, Williams, Santo and others – along with many other National League greats of that era. But I digress…
My story goes back to a typical summer of that era (it was probably either in 1957 or 1958), in which the White Sox every year seemed to be in the thick of the pennant fight until about the middle of August, at which point they would collapse in their annual swoon and break my heart yet again. It was right about that time of year and the Yankees were coming to town, so a group of my buddies and I decided we should go to a night game at old Comiskey Park to watch the action. The stadium was absolutely packed and the only seats we could get were in the upper deck in deepest left-center field. Didn’t matter – I was thrilled to even get into the ballpark and, moreover, I had brought a pair of binoculars which allowed me to see everything in great detail.
It was anything but a pitcher’s duel that night and somewhere around the third or fourth inning with the score standing at 5-4 or 6-5 or thereabouts, Mickey Mantle took a called third strike for the final out of the inning, stranding two runners. As he threw his bat in disgust and began to trot back to his position in centerfield I focused my binoculars on him. It was a priceless moment indeed! As he trotted past the dirt part of the infield, he kicked up an enormous grass divot and expressed in no uncertain terms his unhappiness. With those great binoculars, I could actually read his lips and here is what The Mick had to say: “God damn son of a bitch!”
For the first time, I realized that The Mick was actually a human being, not a Superhero, and that he actually knew the kind of pithy words that we high school boys found useful in our own communication.
I never think of The Mick without remembering that amazing moment!
And thank you for sharing it here. Just another piece of the legend. All too human and yet a god.
ok, Ellen-darling::: you hit a nerve::: as I have some Mick stories from back in 1960. Like all of my stories, it’s pretty long (and of course fascinating and funny), but suffice it to say my autographs of Mick and all the Yanks are safe here, heirlooms for my kids. He did seem a tad hung over when I met him at the old team Hotel Del Prado (?) on Hyde Park Blvd on the South Side. Got in with the team through the infamous Ralph Terry. Mick was the guy Lucky for me, it wasn’t an official mlb ball and signed in fading green ink, so not overly valuable in the memorabilia market. I also got autographs on paper and the ball from many of his mates, including Casey and Roger. Mom judiciously glued them into a scrap book with Elmer’s glue. The glue strips are now more vivid than the autographs. Ha!
Glad this post resonated with you, Ron. I have wonderful stuff that Mickey signed to me as well. Thanks for playing.