In Florida: Old Boys of Spring

At 9:30 on a sunny March morning, Chain O’ Lakes Park in Winter Haven, Fla. is the Garden of Eden with a grandstand. Gulls circle and swoop in the smogless sky. Far down the rightfield line, beyond the clubhouse the Boston Red Sox have occupied during the past 15 years, an unseen bat cracks against an unseen ball, breaking the absolute silence. In the grandstand the early arrivals stare at the outfield grass as if, after a New England winter of grays and browns, they have just witnessed the invention of green.

Until 10 o’clock, when practice begins, the little gathering crowd will wait patiently, as they have waited for spring itself. There are the tourists—the middle-aged couples on their way to Cypress Gardens, and the moms and dads and kids destined for Walt Disney World, 35 minutes away. And then there are the others.

They are male and on the old side, these others. But the hand that clutches a cane emerges from the sleeve of a sporty windbreaker. The ear that houses a hearing aid is shaded by a baseball cap. The legs encased by black support hose sprout from sneakers. These are the Old Boys of Spring, the most enduring and endearing of fans, who follow their home team to spring training year after year like superannuated groupies.

There is really no explaining it. For the most part the Old Boys are not ex-players. In their youth they never had the time. Eddie Fegan, now 81, was too busy in the regular Army from here to the Philippines. Bob Caterino, 73, one of ten children, now father of four and grandfather of nine, had to drop out of school after the ninth grade. Boxing was his sport. After a day in the construction gang he fought four-round bouts for $12, and has the nose to prove it. Dick Mahoney, 82, known as “the Colonel” for his magnificent Vandyke that makes Sanders of fried-chicken fame look like a pushy second lieutenant, did play third base for the Raymond Hillies around Waterbury, Conn. By his own admission he was a helluva hitter. But mostly he was putting in 16-hour days and seven-day weeks operating two hot-dog stands—a food he now declines to eat, even in a ballpark.

What does Bob Caterino get for hitching up his 18-ft. trailer to his Ford pickup and making the long pilgrimage from Arlington, Mass., to the A-OK Camp Ground just outside Winter Haven, where he can tie up for $85 a month? What do any of the Old Boys get for stretching their energies and budgets to the limit and subordinating the other eleven months of the year to this all-demanding month of March? Well, for one thing, a chance to lean against the rail, with Social Security checks in their pockets, and watch a bunch of tanned young millionaires perform their sit-ups when the Red Sox finally trot on the field.

As infield practice begins, the Old Boys take their seats. In Fenway Park their preferred view is from Section 22, behind home plate. In this Florida jewel box (capacity: 3,800), the Old Boys have developed private territories, holding court in fixed locations where their friends can seek them out, or their enemies—the genial shufflers with a copy of Baseball Digest under one arm and a fiendish trivia question up their sleeve. Eddie Fegan, waggling his cane with the stylishness of Jimmy Cagney, presides over the front row behind third base. Bob Caterino, wearing his jacket with the legend SOMERVILLE BOXING CLUB across the chest, perches on a green utility box way behind first base—the fighter on his stool, still ready for all comers.

An Old Boy who doesn’t know his brother batteries of Red Sox history—like Wes and Rick Ferrell—could end up ostracized, in public disgrace. Not to worry. True competitors, they keep track of pitching records and batting averages almost as closely as they keep track of each other’s age. Problems can arise when arguments over facts give way to differences of opinion. Caterino says, “I’ve learned never to argue about religion, politics or Ted Williams.” Friendships have severed over whether Dom DiMaggio or Jimmy Piersall was the better centerfielder. In general the guiding principle reads: older is better. A favorite opening sentence of almost any discussion is “If Tom Yawkey was still alive . . .”

Tom Yawkey was a Real Gentleman. This is the ultimate accolade. Fegan thinks Eddie Yost is a Real Gentleman. Caterino thinks the old shortstop Johnny Pesky is a Real Gentleman. The Old Boys admire Ted Williams, but nobody calls him a Real Gentleman. Ted has not been forgiven for refusing to tip his cap.

In the outfield Williams hits fungoes. “The Splendid Splinter” is no longer a splinter. His stomach expands his windbreaker. “Ted the Kid”—his other nickname—is 63. Between fungoes he steals wistful glances at the kids in the batting cage doing the real hitting, kids who weren’t even born when he retired. When he hits a ball over a frantically scrambling young outfielder’s head, he gives a cackling laugh and shouts, “Bye! See yah later.” An old man’s revenge.

For the Old Boys the games in Winter Haven are played not so much against the opposing team as against other games in the past. There are ghosts on the field in the middle distance. Caterino remembers seeing Walter Johnson pitch and Ty Cobb tear up the bases. He can recall when an overflow Red Sox crowd, seated in a roped-off section of centerfield, parted like the Red Sea when the graceful Tris Speaker faded back to run down a fly. Fegan saw his first Red Sox game in 1911. As the Colonel says, “When you’re 82, you’ve been around.”

When the memories burrow back, fumbling for a lost face or fact, the saving phrase is “You could ask Tommy.” Tommy McCarthy is the unofficial connection with the Red Sox organization for the Old Boys of Spring. Tommy has been hustling around Fenway Park for 50 years, come this summer, since he began working the concessions as a 16-year-old. For 42 years he has been on the Red Sox payroll. This is his 38th spring training.

Tommy’s domain at Winter Haven is the kitchen in the clubhouse, just off the pressroom. His title is press steward. He recalls in loving detail when the Red Sox train, with reporters and maybe 40 Old Boys aboard, would leave Boston’s Back Bay Station in the years after World War II. Tommy was not allowed to serve drinks in the station. But once the train started rolling, at 8 a.m. sharp, Tommy started pouring. It was a happy crowd that stepped off into the Florida sunshine at 3 o’clock the following afternoon. Spring training was in Sarasota back then. Tommy speaks for the Old Boys of Spring when he says, with something like fear in his eyes: ‘The world’s changing. Everything’s changing. People eat meat on Friday. Boys dress like girls, and girls dress like boys. The clubhouse is full of lawyers and agents. I felt bad about the strike last year. I felt bad about it for everybody.”

Tommy has seen the Old Boys of Spring come. Now he is seeing them go. P.J. McCarthy made it to Winter Haven this year. But a stroke killed him before training properly started. Last year “Go” Walls died at 83. The year before it was John Cavanagh at 87.

Dick Casey, 87, still lives, thank God. But for the first time in upwards of 40 years he failed to make the scene. Each morning it was Tommy’s habit to drive Casey and his wife to 8:30 Mass at St. Joseph’s Church in Winter Haven, then on to Chain O’ Lakes Park. Casey’s booming voice could be heard a block away. “It’s not the same this year without him,” Tommy says.

When they leave the park at the end of a day, or at the end of spring training, the Old Boys must wonder how many more days—how many more spring training camps—they will live to see. But they never mention it as they walk out the gate with programs rolled.

Outside the park half a dozen boys, maybe ten or twelve years old, wearing caps like the Old Boys, play sand-lot ball. Some of the Old Boys stop at a distance to watch the young boys for a moment or two, then slowly proceed.

On the sign arching above the exit road from Chain O’ Lakes Park the message reads: GOOD SPORTSMEN ARE ALWAYS WELCOME.

—By Melvin Maddocks