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A great Roger MariS story from Andy Strasberg - lol

RoflesRofles Posts: 753 ✭✭✭✭✭
edited December 15, 2020 8:03PM in Sports Talk

This a really cool story; and originally being from Fargo, a great story about Fargo too:

Per Andy Strasberg:

When I first heard of the passing of Roger Maris on December 14, 1985, I immediately made plane reservations to attend the funeral in his childhood hometown of Fargo, North Dakota.

When I left for Fargo, it was 78 degrees in San Diego. A few hours later, when I landed in Fargo, it was 10 degrees below zero.

At the Fargo airport, I rented a car and was a little bit taken back when the car-rental employee handed me an electric extension cord.

“What’s this for?” I asked. “Is this an electric car?”

It was explained to me that I needed to plug in my car so overnight when it gets cold, the oil won’t freeze and crack the block. Get cold? My God, it’s 10 below right now!

“Where do I plug it in?” I asked.

“There’s an extension cord connected to the oil warmer in the car’s motor and it’s hanging out of the hood. You need to connect it there and most parking spaces have an electrical outlet to plug it into,” I was told.

The person next to me who was also renting a car was very familiar with this procedure of keeping the car’s oil warm in the Fargo winter. He told me this was common practice in this part of the country.

The car rental person informed me where the car was parked and asked if I needed a map. I said yes to the map and when it was handed to me, I requested the car keys.

“The keys are in the ignition and the car has been running for the last half hour,” I was informed. “So that it would be warmed up for you.”

The car rental policies in Fargo are based on trust and the customer’s comfort -- which places it farther from every car-rental experiences I’ve had in my life.

After checking into the Holiday Inn on 13th Avenue South, I drove over to the Boulger Funeral Home in Fargo and joined the steady stream of people attending the open-casket public visitation.

That evening, there was a memorial service at Fargo’s Cathedral of Saint Mary, a visually stunning church that dates back to 1889. I was told this was the church where Roger had attended mass as a young boy.

As I stepped into the church, the mood among the few hundred people sitting in the dark wooden pews was appropriately somber. Among those attending was a group of New York Yankees ballplayers, all sitting together: Mickey Mantle, Clete Boyer, Bill Skowron, and Bobby Richardson.

Seeing these iconic Yankees at this time, in this setting, was incomprehensible and out of place for me. These were the players that as a kid I watched laughing in pregame warm-ups, shagging fly balls, swinging their Louisville Sluggers, running from first to third on a single to right field, all the while wearing their startling crisp, white, pinstriped uniforms against the contrast of Yankee Stadium’s green green grass, and endlessly performing memorable physical baseball feats during those summers of the 1960s.

Instead, they were huddled together, wearing dark suits, sitting quietly, hardly moving, their heads bowed.

I didn’t want to sit with them. These Yankees were my team but I was not part of their group. I sat across the aisle.

During the memorial service, people were invited to come forward and share their remembrances of Roger. I wanted to get up and tell everyone how great Roger was to a fan … Me. I wanted to tell everyone my story about how I caught Roger’s first National League home run. I wanted to tell everyone that Roger was kind, generous and sensitive.

But I couldn’t. It wasn’t that I was afraid of speaking in front of those attending. It was because I couldn’t compose myself. I was trying not to cry and had trouble breathing. I was hyperventilating. One of the six people who accepted the invitation to talk about Rog was former Yankees third baseman Clete Boyer. I watched as he slowly walked to the front, turned and faced the gathered group. I sensed that he was nervous and sad.

As Clete looked at us, he sighed and composed himself. He talked about Roger being his roommate and what a good person he was. Boyer would have been the last guy I thought that would have spoken in front of this group. But I was proud of his courage and appreciative that he got up and talked from his heart about his friend, Roger Maris.

When Clete finished, I watched as he went back to join his former teammates and saw Mantle crying. Later on, I would learn that prior to attending Roger’s funeral proceedings, the last funeral service Mantle had attended was his father’s in 1952.

Roger’s funeral service was held December 19 at the same church as the memorial service.

That day, Fargo’s numbing, colder-than-frozen air dipped to a low of 18 degrees below zero. Yet, there must have been a thousand people attending the Roman Catholic service.

The service Presider was Reverend John E. Moore; the Presiding was Bishop James S. Sullivan.

Roger Maris, Jr., read a passage from the Book of Wisdom, Chapter 4 paragraph verses 7 through 13.

Roger Jr. was strong and determined and represented the family with dignity and class.

After communion, the eulogy was given by former Yankee second baseman Bobby Richardson.

All that was said, sung and felt was filled with emotional sadness.

After the service concluded, I wanted to be the last person to offer my condolences to the Maris family so I waited off to the side.

Finally, when nearly all of the fellow mourners had paid their final respects, I approached Roger’s widow, Pat. She greeted me with a warm smile and a hug, and thanked me for attending. She then asked me if I had met her six adult children, who were standing nearby. I responded in a low voice, “No, I haven’t had the privilege.”

Pat turned to her children and said, “Kids, I want to introduce you to Andy Strasberg. He travelled all the way from California to be here.” It seemed that before Pat’s introduction had concluded, Roger Maris, Jr., looking directly at me, said for all the family to hear: “I know you. You were dad’s number one fan.”

I was startled by his remarks. I felt that I was about to lose my composure. I didn’t know what to say or do. I felt embarrassed as tears started to well up in my eyes.

The only thing that came out of my mouth was, “You’ll never know how much your dad meant to me growing up.” Roger, Jr., then quickly replied: “Andy, you’ll never know how much you meant to our dad.”

We talked briefly and I excused myself so that the family could travel on to the gravesite.

I made my way to the Holy Cross Cemetery and stood off to the side as the wind blew the falling snow flakes in every imaginable direction. Only a few people had decided to brave the cold to be at the gravesite for the final goodbye to Rog.

Within a few minutes the hearse pulled up and the coffin was carried to the freshly dug grave.

The pallbearers were a combination of teammates and friends: Mike Shannon of the St. Louis Cardinals, the Yankees' Bill Skowron, Clete Boyer, Mickey Mantle, Whitey Ford; George Surprise, a Kansas City neighbor; Julie Issacson, a friend and business advisor; Whitey Herzog, former teammate with the Kansas City A’s and KC neighbor; Bob Allison, former Minnesota Twins opponent; and three childhood friends of Roger -- Dick Savageou, Robert Wood, and Don Gooselaw.

I couldn’t hear what was being said at the gravesite by the reverend but could see the casket was being lowered. People then headed to their cars and slowly drove away.

That night, I was restless and went down to the hotel bar where I saw Mickey trying to erase the day with liquor. I couldn’t deal with that and went back to my room.

The next morning I saw the Maris family and said something along the lines that I hoped that some day we would be able to meet under happier times.

As I drove to Fargo’s Hector International Airport, I couldn’t help but think that traveling to Fargo was one of the best decisions I had ever made in my life.

I reflected that while most of my friends were Mantle fans growing up, I didn’t join them in their admiration for “The Mick.”

Instead, with all my heart and soul, I was a “Roger” guy. Always have been. Still to this day of 2020 looking back, I picked the right guy.

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