The Joe Torre phenomenon.

Stephens, Michael Grant

I'm fifty freaking years old, and I've spent my entire adult life writing about childish games. I'm a sportswriter, understand?

When Columbia University turned me loose on the world, I thought my life would go a different direction. I thought I'd write for the New York Times. I thought I'd have a wife and a family.

As it turned out, I screwed up my personal life. After all, what woman would want a smoking, overweight boozehound? I never made it to the Times, either. In fact, I've been fired from every job I've ever had. My problem is that I can't keep my mouth shut, and I eventually piss off the wrong person. That's why I currently find myself without affiliation--doing freelance work when I can find it.

My situation got so bad I envisioned being kicked out of my apartment in Queens if I couldn't find an assignment soon. Then an old acquaintance tracked me down. We used to drink together after work when we covered the same beat, and I learned that he was now an associate editor of a small magazine across the river in New Jersey.

He gave me the particulars over the telephone. "Georgie," he said, "There's this guy in Ohio who's completely obsessed with the manager of the New York Yankees."

"Bill, a lot of people admire foe Torre."

"No, this is different."

"Well, my mama loved Ted Kluszewski of the Cincinnati Reds. She liked the fact he had to cut the sleeves out of his uniform because his arms were the size of ham hocks."

"I'm sure your mother was a normal woman, though."

"What do you mean?" I asked, suddenly on the alert.

"I get the impression that Rick Fain is like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man."

I considered the matter briefly. "Bill," I said, "I hope there's more to this guy than just being a fan of Torre's."

"I believe there is. He sounds like a compelling character to me."

"Okay. Tell me about this Rick Fain."

Bill just laughed. "Oh, no. I'm gonna make you dig for the story yourself."

I felt my temper rising. Gritting my teeth, I asked him, "You expect me to fly out there blind?"

"Who said anything about flying?"

Stunned, I stared at the phone with my mouth open.

"I'm sorry," he said. "We're a small publication, you know. We'll pay for the story and cover your expenses, but my boss won't go for a plane ticket."

"Are you going to give me a flat fee or are you paying by the word?"

"A flat fee. I want quality, Georgie. I don't want you bloating the story just to earn an extra dime. But if you bring back something good, I'll cut you a nice check."

The conversation should have ended there, but my old friend just couldn't help picking at an old wound. Almost a dozen years ago, we closed our favorite bar before staggering to our respective cabs. The next day I filed a story where I quoted a Ranger hockey player. Bill knew I hadn't talked to the guy and that knowledge offended his sense of journalistic integrity. His voice turned cold when he said, "I expect you to interview Rick Fain--in person. Understand?"

I almost screwed the pooch and told him to kiss my ass. For once, though, I managed to hold my tongue.

I found myself sitting in the feminine living room of Elda Fain. The house was located in a middle class suburb of Canton, Ohio, near the campus of the Kent State extension on Frank Road. The older woman noticed me looking at her furnishings. "What's the matter, Mr. Noble?" she asked. "Aren't you comfortable here?"

"No, your decor is a bit prissy for my tastes, Mrs. Fain."

"My! I guess it's true what they say about you New Yorkers. You certainly speak your mind."

The hurt look on her face reminded me of my mother, and a pang of guilt tore into me because I had insulted her home. Instead of saying anything about it, though, I took out my notebook and asked, "Mrs. Fain, when did your husband pass away?"

She rolled her eyes and sighed deeply. "He's not dead, Mr. Noble. Raymond couldn't handle what happened to our son, and he left two years after Rick got hurt. I haven't seen him since."

"Got hurt? You mean your son wasn't born with his--disability?"

"No, sir. He was a normal young man until he got hit by that pitch."

"Hit by a pitch?"

"Yes, Mr. Noble. Don't you know anything about Rick?"

"No, I'm afraid not. My editor had this idea that I'd write a better story if I learned all the details myself."

"I see."

The reality of her son's situation suddenly hit me with full force. Rick Fain wasn't autistic; he was brain damaged. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair and continued the interview. "How old was Rick when he got beaned?" I asked.

"Nineteen. He was in the minor leagues, playing for the Toledo Mud Hens."

"He must have been very talented, Mrs. Fain, to have already reached Triple A at that age."

A wistful expression crossed her features. "He was, Mr. Noble. Some scouts rated him higher than another young catcher of his day--Gary Carter."

Knowing my next question might be a sensitive one, I approached the topic with hesitation. "Uh, just how badly was Rick hurt by that pitched ball?"

"It broke his nose, jaw, and cheekbone."

I let the horror of her son's injury percolate in my head for a few moments. A pitched ball had killed a major league ballplayer named Ray Chapman years before I was born. Still, the damage Rick Fain suffered reminded me of the trauma endured by Tony Conigliaro, a young Red Sox slugger in the '60s.

However, there was a significant difference between the injuries of Conigliaro and Rick Fain. "Ma'am, I hate to bring this up, but didn't Rick develop some kind of mental problem after the accident?"

She took a deep breath and expelled it wearily. "Yes, he did. His brain began to swell, and the doctors didn't relieve the pressure soon enough. That's all it took to change him completely."

"Can you tell me how he's different now?"

Mrs. Fain seemed to think it over. "No, I don't think I want to. I can only relive the past in small doses, Mr. Noble. It makes me sad."

Under the circumstances, I didn't blame her. There's no doubt I had a boatload of sympathy for the lady. She was the same age as my mother--well, the same age my mother would have been had she not died of cancer at forty.

I put away my notebook, figuring I'd gotten all I could from Elda Fain. We sat in awkward silence. Mercifully, my hostess asked, "Would you like to see Rick's room? It's quite different from the rest of the house."

Mrs. Fain was right. The door opened to a shrine honoring Joe Torre. Pictures of the baseball player covered every square inch of wall space. I moved closer and scrutinized an old Sports Illustrated cover from 1972. Torre, sporting Elvis-like sideburns, directed a formidable stare towards the opposing pitcher. The glossy photo was taken after he won the batting crown and MVP award with the St. Louis Cardinals.

Many of the other pictures were yellowing articles from newspapers or The Sporting News. I saw a heavier Torre when he caught for the Atlanta Braves. I saw an older Torre when he finished his career with the New York Mets. There was Torre leading off first base. Torre, airborne, sliding into home plate. Torre in the hospital, his leg in a cast. A very young Torre wearing the tools of ignorance, congratulating Warren Spahn on a victory. Torre, Torre, Torre. Joe Torre everywhere.

Suddenly, Mrs. Fain interrupted my reverie. "I think Rick just got home," she announced. The woman hurriedly ushered me out of the room. I thought about it later, and I'm convinced that although she owned the house, she didn't want her son to know she had allowed a stranger into his sanctuary without his approval.

Within moments, I would meet the enigmatic figure I came to see.

When I first heard about Rick Fain, I formed immediate preconceptions. I first thought of him as a worrisome little geek, thanks to the impression Bill had given me. After I learned that Rick Fain had been a catcher, I pictured him with a prototypical backstop's body--around six feet tall with a stocky frame.

When the front door opened, and he stood to his full height in the living room, I saw that I had been wrong about Rick Fain. The hulking figure towered over me, and he had a full head of unruly, black hair. His face was unlined, and it seemed inconceivable that he was in his late forties. His shoulders seemed a yard wide, and his massive upper torso tapered to a slim waist. Rick Fain was built like a god.

Then I looked at him more closely. He wasn't exactly handsome, but he did have a rugged appeal. The left side of his face hinted at his fateful injury. A perceptible depression in his cheekbone marred his looks, and it seemed that he had lost some of the muscular control of his left eye. Still, the imperfections were not alarming, and the overall impression the man imparted was one of awesome power. In my wildest dreams, I looked like he did.

"Rick, honey," his mother said. "You have a visitor this evening."

The big man never turned his gaze upon me. His eyes stayed fixed on some object in the foreground. "The game starts at seven o'clock. Gotta grab the lunch pail and grind out a win," he mumbled in an eerie monotone.

Elda Fain's storm door opened again and another well built middle-aged man entered. "Elda, did that reporter from New York ever get here?" he asked. Before she could answer, the man scanned the room and saw me. "Ah, I see you made it," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Lyle Meadows."

"Lyle is Rick's best friend," the woman explained.

"Since we were kids."

"He's also given Rick a job. I don't believe my son could make it if he had to work for anyone else."

"Hell, I'm lucky to have the big guy," Meadows asserted.

The entire time they talked about him, Rick Fain merely gazed into the distance. His mother spurred him into action. "Go wash your hands, son. Supper's on the table."

The silent Adonis lumbered away without making eye contact with anyone. Once he was out of earshot, Lyle Meadows sat next to me and leaned uncomfortably close. "You better not screw Rick over with this article you're writing."

"I don't respond well to threats, Meadows."

In a near whisper, he replied, "Oh, I'm not making a threat. It's more like a promise. If you make Rick out to be some kind of moron, I'll track you down and kick your ass beyond belief."

I knew the guy could crack my skull like a walnut, but I still couldn't keep from popping off. "Quit busting my balls, jerk-off. I'll write whatever I want."

"Hush, both of you," Elda Fain said, raising her voice. Then she spoke directly to her son's friend. "Lyle, you should be ashamed of yourself. Mr. Noble came a long way to get here, and I'm sure he'll do right by Rick."

It amused me to see Rick Fain's friend lower his eyes and murmur, "Yes, ma'am."

His discomfort brightened my mood. "Actually, I don't have any idea what I'm going to write," I said. "Maybe I'll find an approach after I talk to Rick."

Lyle Meadows looked at me strangely. "I doubt that you will."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Rick doesn't really talk to people. When he says something, it's usually in Torre-speak."

"What?"

"When Rick talks to strangers he usually just repeats something Joe Torre has said first."

"Oh, like that comment he made earlier about the lunch pail," I ventured.

"Yeah, that was Torre-speak. He'll only talk to you like a real person if he decides he likes you."

I tried to keep my expression impassive, but I was thinking that these people were crazy.

Meadows continued, "You ought to watch the Yankee game with him tonight. After work tomorrow, you can meet us at the gym. Watching Rick lift weights will be worth your trip all by itself."

My plans had been made, but I wished I were back in my apartment in Queens with a bottle of scotch. I didn't want to write an article about some inarticulate, muscle-bound zombie.

The Yankees quickly fell behind by three runs to Toronto. "Maybe the long road trip they're on has caught up with them," I said to Rick Fain. "They seem flat."

"They'll be all right," he said. "They've got fire in their bellies."

Ah, more Torre-speak! From somewhere deep in my past, I knew that the Yanks' skipper was fond of that particular cliche.

We refocused on the game and watched as Alex Rodriguez drove in the go-ahead runs late in the game. Rick Fain raised a clenched fist in triumph and then powered up a laptop computer. I spied on his actions and saw that he had opened the Yankee's page to check the updated batting averages. The first place his cursor went was to Derek Jeter's name, and it lingered there. I wondered if it was because Jeter, now the team captain, still called his manager Mister Torte--just as he did when he first joined the team over a decade ago.

While Rick Fain continued to navigate the Internet, I reflected on what I had learned of his injury. The poor guy had lost forty or fifty points off his IQ and could barely read. With supreme effort, he had fought to master enough basic math so that he could understand box scores and decipher batting averages and ERA.

"Of all the Yankee players, you like Jeter the best, don't you?" I asked.

Rick Fain seemed to ponder the question. "He's a good kid and a very special player," he said in his weird, uninflected voice.

His answer made me smile, but the words weren't his. Joe Torre had described Jeter that way thousands of times.

The following day I watched Lyle Meadows and Rick Fain lift weights. Meadows may have been strong and fit, but when the former backstop hoisted the iron, everyone in the gym stopped what they were doing and looked on in awe.

I spoke to Rick during the inspiring exhibition. "I wish I were in your kind of shape," I said.

For a moment, it seemed that he would let my comment pass without an answer. Then he stood up, ready to perform another set of lat pulldowns. "Gotta get that fire in your belly," he said, patting me on my ample gut.

I continued to watch as Rick finished his incredible workout regimen. When he started toward the showers, a striking young woman blatantly stared at his physique. The poor guy was unable to look at the girl directly, but her attention did have a profound effect on the manchild. In horror, I realized Rick still had sexual urges--but hadn't the social skills to deal with them.

Later, Rick and I stood on the sidewalk in front of the gym, waiting on Meadows to finish a conversation with a group of men. Suddenly, a pack of teenage boys pushed open the front door of an adjoining skateboard shop. "Hey," one of them said. "It's that retard!" Then they were all laughing, pointing fingers, and hurling obscenities toward their target.

I started to shout at the little bastards, but I stopped when Rick spoke to me. The mockery of the yapping cretins hadn't fazed him in the least. "When Joe Torre broke into baseball," he explained, "they called him 'Chicken Catcher Torre' because he was fat." After a long pause, he finished delivering his lesson. "You can't let what people say get to you."

I visited Lyle Meadows' work site where he held court as the head contractor--the boss of dozens of laborers and craftsmen. The two of us watched as Rick Fain dug a deep trench for the sewer line that would lead to the street.

"Why are you working him like a dog, Meadows? Shouldn't you guys dig that hole with a machine?"

"The slope in the yard is too steep," he answered, obviously irritated. "A backhoe would tip over--so the only alternative is to do it the hard way."

Rick Fain, shirtless, continued to tear loose huge chunks of earth with his quickly moving shovel. With amazing speed, the trench grew deeper and wider by the second. A car slowed behind us, and I thought the driver was interested in the work being done. Instead, an attractive woman in professional attire had stopped in the middle of the road to gape at the Herculean figure in the ditch. Rick glanced up, saw her, and immediately rammed his shovel into the earth even harder than before. I'd never seen someone so embarrassed.

I didn't acknowledge the significance of the event to his friend. Instead, I diverted the conversation elsewhere. "Well, Meadows, he does seem to enjoy the work," I said.

"Why wouldn't he? His body and his strength are some of the gifts he has left."

"It's sad, though. Rick's lost so much mental capability--"

"There's no doubt of that," he said. "But you have figured out that Rick's more than a pile of muscle, haven't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, his stomach wouldn't be cut and ripped like it is if he didn't have personal discipline. Rick hasn't eaten dessert or candy in years. There isn't an ounce of fat on him because he uses his willpower to keep it that way. He isn't some genetic freak--he's built his body with the strength of his mind."

"So the exercise regimen was his idea?"

"Oh, yeah. I had to drive him to the gym and wait until he finished, anyway--so I decided to join, too. Wound up getting in shape myself. My wife didn't like it, at first, because she thought the bodybuilding would take time away from the family. But when I got in shape and stopped floundering on top of her when we had sex--"

"Okay, stop right there. I get the idea."

Unfortunately, Lyle Meadows wouldn't stop, so I changed the subject to keep from having to contrast his abundant sex life with the barren prospects of Rick Fain's--as well as my own, and suggested that the three of us go out to dinner after they finished their labors for the day. The contractor accepted on the provision that we get Rick home in time to catch the game.

At the restaurant, I posed a question to Rick Fain. "Why Joe Torre?" I asked. "Of all the ballplayers in the world, why him?"

The big man didn't answer, but his friend did. "Rick's family lived in Knoxville when he was a boy. A local station carried some of the Braves games on television just when Rick got interested in baseball. Joe Torre was the Braves catcher, and Rick took a shine to him."

"Was it because Rick was a catcher himself?"

"Partly. Rick was a pudgy little boy--and Torre had been a fat kid when he was younger. See, both of them had a weight problem at one time."

"They also have something else in common," I added. "Joe Torre had a pitched ball smash him in the face, too."

Then the most surprising thing happened. Rick Fain joined the conversation--without the use of Torre-speak. "I saw the Braves play the Reds at Crosley Field--twice."

"When was this?" I asked.

"1967 and '68," he answered.

I thought for a minute, recalling more of what I knew about Torre's career. "He was hurt both those years," I said. "His production fell off."

Fain's averted eyes widened, pleased that I knew some of his favorite player's history. "Right," he said. After a pause, he added, "Joe Torre signed my program."

Rick Fain's face transformed to that of a little boy, remembering the event. Later, he showed me the program with Torre's signature. Also on it were autographs of Hank Aaron, Felipe Alou, Clete Boyer, Vada Pinson and Pete Rose. The only one that really mattered to him, though, was Torre's.

Feeling like we had connected in some way, I decided to share some personal information. I usually don't talk about those days because I'm not exactly proud of the tabloid I was working for, or for the way I did my job. "You know, Rick, when I started my career in New York, Torre was managing the Mets."

"They had a bad team then," he interjected.

"Yes, they did. But I got a chance to interview your hero a few times."

Rick Fain couldn't wait to hear what I had to say.

I talked throughout dinner, until my dessert came. With fork in hand, I prepared to attack my cheesecake until a huge hand snatched the plate and moved it away. "You gotta get some weight off," Rick Fain said.

"Rick, one piece of cheesecake won't hurt me. I'm already fat."

"You don't have to be heavy," he said. "Getting in shape isn't a sprint--it's a marathon."

Joe Torre had said that, too, but his comment was in reference to the baseball season. Regardless, the manchild wasn't going to let me eat my calorie rich treat.

A few days went by, and I spent the evenings watching the Yankees with Rick Fain. I asked him once--the most personal, intimate question I ever put to him--about his father. "Rick," I began, "do you remember anything about your dad?"

It took him a long time to answer. Staring at the floor, he said, "At Crosley Field, Joe Torre took off his mask and cap to catch a foul ball. Pop made fun of him because he was going bald."

I was in the middle of trying to figure out a way to tell him I was sorry when I realized that Mrs. Fain had been standing in the doorway the entire time, carrying our dinner on TV trays. The look in her eyes told me how Rick's revelation affected her.

She passed the food to us and, as usual, Rick and I ate like robots while watching the Yankee broadcast. I buttered a piece of French bread and shoveled it toward my mouth when a thickly hewed arm grabbed my wrist. "Don't eat that," Rick demanded.

"For God's sake, why?"

"Joe Torre weighed two hundred and thirty pounds when he caught for the Braves. He lost twenty-five pounds when they traded him to the Cardinals by only eating steak and salad. He hit better after that."

"But Rick, I don't have to face major league pitching. I'm fifty years old."

"You want to look better, don't you?"

I hesitated but eventually conceded he was right. "Yes," I admitted.

"Then eat your meat and leave the bread alone."

I did what he said. God knows what would have happened if I defied him.

I spent more time with Rick Fain than the story required. I suppose it was because I enjoyed his company. Eventually, though, I bought a bus ticket and told the big man I had to get back to New York. He said nothing, but the next day at the Greyhound station I caught sight of Lyle Meadows leading Rick through the crowd. They stopped in front of me and Lyle said, "I'm glad we caught you before you left. Rick wants to give you something."

I turned to the physical marvel looming before me. Without fanfare, he extended his hand and said, "Take this." The object in question was a Johnny Bench rookie baseball card.

"Rick," I said, "you don't have to give me anything. This card is worth good money, you know?"

"I don't care," Rick said. "Bench was good, but I like Joe Torre better."

I might have been mistaken, but I could have sworn that the big man met my gaze for a few moments.

Then we said goodbye, and I boarded the bus--leaving me with plenty of time to think during the long ride. I've always been one to indulge in a fantasy life, usually regarding women with giant breasts, but this time I found my imagination going in a different direction.

In my daydream, I took Rick to the final game of the World Series. The Yankees won, of course, and my press credentials got Rick and me into the clubhouse. Led by Derek Jeter, the Bronx Bombers invited the big man into their victory celebration. Champagne flowed, and Gary Sheffield gave Rick a complicated handshake. Jorge Posada hugged him, as did Bernie Williams. Alex Rodriguez had the courage to pour an entire bottle of bubbly over Rick's head. My reverie ended with Joe Torre, the man himself, advancing toward Rick with his arms opened wide ...

Returning to my apartment in Queens, I quickly finished the article. In fact, the damn thing nearly wrote itself. I painted Rick Fain as a heroic figure--overcoming adversity and all that kind of crap. Unfortunately, I foresaw a result that neither Elda Fain nor Lyle Meadows had envisioned. If the story were published, people would flock to Rick Fain's doorstep. He wouldn't understand his newfound attention, and it would upset his routine.

I submitted the piece electronically, in spite of my misgivings, but the next day I surely wished I hadn't. I decided to borrow my neighbor's car and drive across the river in order to have a face-to-face with my old drinking buddy.

When I walked into his office, Bill jumped from his desk and extended his hand. "Damn, Georgie, you really knocked it out of the park. Everybody around here loves how you handled--"

"Listen, I know this will probably make you mad, but I want you to kill the article."

"What? Are you crazy?"

"I just think that publishing the story is the wrong thing to do."

"Why, for God's sake?"

I found it difficult putting my feelings into words. I finally said, "Rick Fain isn't the kind of guy who needs to be in the spotlight--and I don't want to be the slob who puts him there. I couldn't sleep last night thinking about people gawking at him everywhere he goes."

"But your story makes him out to be such a sympathetic character."

"Still, he doesn't need the publicity."

In a somber tone, Bill asked, "Georgie, don't you need the money?"

For some reason, I thought about the baseball card Rick had given me. I could sell it and pay my rent, but I would just as soon cut off my right arm. Johnny Bench was safe in my home, covered in a protective, plastic sheath.

I finally answered the editor. "Yes, Bill, I need the money."

"Doesn't that factor into your decision?"

"It matters, but I still want you to kill the piece."

Bill raised his eyebrows, gave me a once over, and smiled. "I never thought I'd see the day when you'd develop a set of ethics, Georgie."

I laughed. "Me neither."

"Aw, hell," he said. "Let me buy you some lunch. Maybe I can talk you into changing your mind."

He took me to an Italian joint down the street. The yeasty aroma of bread baking in brick ovens hit me like a physical blow as we found a table amidst the paisans. My friend ordered a calzone, but I ignored the pangs in my stomach and made do with a salad. Later, Bill scanned the dessert menu. "How about a cannoli, or maybe some tiramisu?" he asked.

"No, I'm fine."

"Damn, Georgie, if I didn't know better I'd think you were on a diet."

"Bill, I've wanted to lose weight for years. I guess I've finally gotten a fire in my belly."