El Profe: Catching (Louisiana) Lightning

In October 1977, my parents moved our family from the shadow of New York City to the Sunshine State. The move south meant no more snow and lots of sunshine. We were far from our extended family, most who lived in the New York City area, but baseball was still nearby. The best thing about growing up in Ft. Lauderdale as a young baseball fan was being at the center of spring training.

Understand that my family are all New York Yankees fans. Fortuitously, the house we moved into was less than two miles away from the Yankees’ home base, what we affectionately called “Little Yankee” Stadium. This put us a lot closer to the Yankees than where we had just moved from, Paterson, N.J., which, despite being 20 miles away, was an hour’s drive to Yankee Stadium in the Bronx, if the traffic across the George Washington Bridge was good.

People often ask me: Where did your passion for baseball come from? Most are surprised when I share stories of how much of it came from my grandmas and my mom.

Sure, my dad likes baseball. But I truly learned how to be a fan of baseball from the women in our family.

My favorite spring training memories include watching the Yankees practice, before the Grapefruit League schedule started.

Mami would pack me a sack lunch, a paper bag complete with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an orange and a couple of quarters to buy a drink and to call home when I was ready. This was the late 1970s — a different era. No cell phones, but pay phones everywhere — and parents still felt safe dropping off their 10-year-old at the ballpark to watch practice unaccompanied.

The crack of the wooden bat striking the ball during batting practice. Watching Willie Randolph, Graig Nettles, Thurman Munson and Reggie Jackson move about the field, station to station. Listening to the zip of the ball as pitchers like Ron Guidry or Goose Goosage warmed up. The sound of the ball popping loudly in the catcher’s mitt. Those are the things I loved.

One day I decided to bring the new glove my parents had bought me, determined to get it signed by my favorite Yankees.

I waited excitedly by the players’ exit.

Here comes Nettles, signed. Randolph, signed. There’s Mickey Rivers, nice get. Reggie comes out and I am blocked out by the masses. I regroup. There’s Bucky Dent, a South Florida local; got his autograph.

It was a great haul, but no Reggie for me. The players’ exodus fizzled out. Day done, I called home. Mami was ready to pick me up at our agreed-upon spot. Five minutes later, she arrived.

“How was it?” she asked.

“Great. Look at my glove,” I replied, showing off the players who signed it. “But no Reggie or Guidry.”

Then I noticed a slender, mustached man walking through the lot and getting into a van.

“Mami, look. It’s Ron Guidry, Louisiana Lightning!” I blurted, referring to the pitcher’s nickname.

She immediately put our car into park, hopped out of the car and let out one of her Puerto Rican mom whistles that always stopped us kids in our tracks around the neighborhood.

Then Mami yelled out, “Mr. Guidry! Mr. Guidry, sign this for my kid!”

Guidry stopped his car and stepped out to see my mother — barely 5-feet tall, but still a mountain of a Puerto Rican woman. He chuckled as he signaled us to come over.

Those 1978 Yankees would win 100 regular season games, and go on to win their second straight World Series over the Los Angeles Dodgers.

Guidry that year was absolutely amazing. Cy Young good. He won 25 games and only dropped three decisions. He had a 1.74 ERA for the season, and batters couldn’t catch up to his slider as he struck out 248 batters.

But Mami caught Louisiana Lightning that spring training day, my personal highlight of the 1978 season.

Featured Image: Jesús Jacobo

Inset Image: Jonathan Daniel / Getty Images Sport