Gone But Not Forgotten
I often hear people reminisce about where they were when they heard a news story that temporarily shattered their normal day-to-day existence. To be honest, I can't remember exactly what I was doing or where I was when I learned of the Kennedy assassination or of the attack on the World Trade Center, but I recall like it was only yesterday receiving the most devastating news of my life. I was at Yankee Stadium, where I worked as a groundskeeper. I'm not referring to the modern ballpark that opened in 2009 or to the second generation of the old stadium that was renovated during the Seventies. No, I worked at the original House that Ruth Built with its four-hundred-and-sixty-foot Death Valley, its obstructive steel columns and its distinctive scalloped frieze.
I like to tell people that when I first heard the news I was mowing the grass in centerfield, but I was actually in one of the stadium's men's rooms, sitting on the toilet, thumbing through an issue of Playboy and smoking a joint. (But that's hardly the type of story one passes down to the children and grandchildren.) Anyway, like I was saying, I was sitting on the john, enjoying my unofficial break. Things were slow around the stadium because the Yankees were down in Florida at spring training and weren't due back in New York until the end of the week. I was checking out the charms of the centerfold when one of my coworkers entered the lavatory to use the urinal. As always, he had his transistor radio with him, tuned to WABC.
The sound of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons filled the men's room when suddenly the newscaster interrupted the song with a late-breaking news bulletin: Yankee first baseman Chuck Mathis had been killed in an automobile accident in St. Petersburg, Florida. I immediately forgot about Miss April's D-cup breasts. I was so stunned that I even forgot to pull up my pants as I burst through the stall door and asked Raul Dominguez to confirm what I'd heard.
It was true. Chuck Mathis was dead. Like metal shavings to a magnet, the grounds crew was drawn to the playing field. We gathered reverently near first base, careful not to get too close, not wanting to intrude on Chuck's territory.
"I can't believe it," one of us spoke, finally breaking the heavy silence. "He's been on the team as long as I can remember."
This was an exaggeration since Chuck Mathis had only been in the majors eight years.
"I saw him play his first year here," the youngest of our group offered. "Even then everyone knew he was gonna be great. He went on to win the batting championship that season and was named Rookie of the Year."
One after another the groundskeepers shared an anecdote or a memory of one of the most beloved Yankees ever to don pinstripes. It was an impromptu memorial service, just one of many held in office lunchrooms, bars and living rooms throughout New York that day.
When I went home that night to my room above my parents' garage, I was so upset I couldn't eat or watch television. To me, Chuck Mathis was more than just a great athlete. He was the type of man I wished I could be. While I had gotten good marks in high school, I chose not to go to college. I was the original underachiever, content to mow grass at Yankee Stadium as long as I could occasionally sneak off to the men's room and get high.
Such was not the case with Chuck Mathis. He had everything a man could want: a beautiful wife, a rewarding career and the respect and admiration of his fans. He was the most beloved and esteemed sports star in New York and possibly the world.
"It's just not fair!" I exclaimed as I ripped off my shirt and threw it on the pile of dirty laundry at the bottom of my bedroom closet. "Mathis had everything to live for. Why did he have to die?"
There was no answer. There never is.
* * *
Something good did come out of my hero's tragic death. I quit my job at the stadium, went back to school where I got a degree in journalism and then went to work at a small newspaper in New Jersey. Although I was hired to report on local high school sports, I wrote each article as though I were covering the seventh game of the World Series. I was no longer a slacker. I patterned myself after Chuck Mathis, who always gave a hundred percent. My dedication and hard work paid off, and I was promoted several times. Finally, I landed the coveted assignment of covering the New York Yankees, a job that would take me back to Yankee Stadium. But first, I had to head south and report on spring training.
The first day I arrived in Florida I met Les Granger, long time sportswriter for the Daily News. We formed an immediate attachment, mostly due to the fact that Les lived in New Jersey and subscribed to the paper for which I wrote.
"I read you all the time," the veteran reporter told me. "You're pretty good. I'll bet after a few years travelling with the Yankees, you'll be able to land a job with a New York paper."
"That's not what I'm aiming at," I explained. "Someday I want to write a book."
"No kidding? About what?"
"A biography of Chuck Mathis."
"He was a hell of a guy. Did you ever meet him?"
I shook my head.
"No, but I remember the day I heard the news of his death," I said. "I was cutting the grass out in centerfield ...."
It was a story I'd told so often, I almost believed it myself.
Les Granger had a story of his own.
"I was down here covering spring training. I'll tell you something, I was never the superstitious type, but I had a bad feeling that day—call it a premonition."
"What do you mean?"
"The Yankees were making cuts to get down to a twenty-five-man roster. They decided to release Ernie Welsh, one of their veteran back-up catchers. He was a well-liked guy, and no one wanted to see him go, but, hey, that's baseball. Everyone's spirits were low, but Chuck took it the worst because he and Ernie had been great friends since Chuck's rookie year."
Granger stopped speaking just long enough to light a cigarette. After exhaling a cloud of smoke, he continued.
"I never told anybody this, so keep it between you and me, but I think Ernie Welsh's release was what caused Chuck's death."
"How so?"
"Mathis went to a bar and really tied one on. Then he got into his Mercedes and ...."
"He was drunk when he crashed his car?"
Granger nodded. (This information hadn't made it into the news accounts.)
"It was the damnedest thing, though. The day after the crash I left the field early to go pick up a friend at the airport and saw a guy there. I swear he was the spitting image of Chuck Mathis. He looked at me, and for a moment I thought I saw recognition on his face. Then he turned and left, and I went and had a drink. It was like seeing a ghost. If I didn't know he was dead, I'd have sworn it was him."
I took a moment to digest his tale and then admitted with a smile, "That sure beats the hell out of my cutting the grass in centerfield story."
* * *
While I was in Florida, I decided to put my spare time—what little I had of it—to good use by researching accounts of Chuck Mathis's death that appeared in local papers. All of the larger publications were limited to pretty much the same details as their New York counterparts, but one independent paper with a circulation barely worth counting told a slightly different story.
FORMER MVP BELIEVED TO BE VICTIM OF FIERY CRASH the headline read. Two words jumped out at me: believed and fiery. No other news article had mentioned a fire nor had any hinted that there was ever any uncertainty as to the victim's identity.
That night when I met Les at a restaurant for dinner, I showed him a Xerox copy of the article.
"You know anything about this?" I asked.
He glanced at the paper, handed it back to me and admitted, "There was some talk around the clubhouse, but it never made it into the papers. The Yankee management asked the media to withhold certain details that might upset the family."
"So there was some doubt that the man who died in the car was Chuck Mathis?"
"Only because the body was so badly burned that no positive identification could be made."
"Weren't there any tests done on the remains?"
"There were no DNA tests back then, and there wasn't enough skin left on his fingers to get any prints. I don't know if the police tried comparing dental records or not. They might have. But who else would have been driving Chuck's car? And if the man behind the wheel wasn't Chuck, then who was he? And where's Chuck? Why hasn't he contacted his wife, his parents or the Yankees?"
I didn't have an answer for him since his logic was sound.
"Why worry about ancient history?" Les asked. "Mathis has been dead for years now. I'll bet it won't be long before he has a plaque out there in Monument Park, along with Ruth, Gehrig and Joe D."
My colleague was right. I should put aside the past and concentrate on spring training. I should watch the veteran players trying to squeeze in one more good year before retirement, the stars in their prime getting practice before the start of the season and the minor leaguers hoping to earn a spot on the roster.
* * *
I returned to New York at the end of March, eager for the start of my first season covering the Yankees. I arrived at the stadium early and ran into Raul Dominguez, my old friend from the grounds crew.
"What happened to your transistor radio?" I asked.
He pulled out an ear bud and replied, "I got an iPod."
"It's been a long time."
"Yeah, it sure has. I hear you're a sportswriter now. No more smoking joints in the men's room, huh?"
"Those days are long gone, my friend."
"Seeing you reminds me of the day Chuck Mathis was killed," Raul said nostalgically.
While in Florida I'd decided to take Les's advice and put Mathis's death behind me, but in New York it proved to be much harder. The former first baseman's presence was still keenly felt at the stadium.
"That was a dark day for Yankee fans," I muttered, and my desire to write a book about my fallen hero returned with a vengeance.
I began outlining my biography during the Yankees' first away game. I would do my research while on the road, and when the season ended, I would spend the winter working on my rough draft. I filled several spiral-bound notebooks with facts about Chuck Mathis's life and quotes from current and past players, coaches and front office personnel. I interviewed hundreds of people who knew or worked with him. It seemed every announcer and sportscaster covering an American League team had a favorite story to tell. Even the umpires contributed to my ever-growing wealth of research.
While I had gathered an abundant amount of information about his career, however, I was no closer to knowing Chuck Mathis, the man. All my notes reflected the ballplayer, the public image. But who was the real person behind the .342 lifetime batting average?
Since a biography usually begins with a person's childhood, I decided I would have to interview Chuck Mathis's surviving parent. Since his mother lived in southeastern Pennsylvania, I drove there early one morning when the Yankees had a night game in Camden Yards. Mrs. Mathis, a widow, invited me into her home and offered me coffee. When she went to the kitchen to prepare a cup, I had the opportunity to examine my surroundings. It wasn't so much a living room as a shrine. Above the mantel was an oil painting of Chuck in his Yankee uniform. On either side of the fireplace were curio cabinets filled with baseball memorabilia.
I passed a pleasant morning talking to Mrs. Mathis about her late son. She told me about his good grades in school and his success in Little League and school sports. She couldn't recollect his ever getting into trouble, ditching school, cheating on a test, being disobedient or even disrespectful.
"He was the perfect son," she concluded, gazing lovingly up at his portrait.
I left Mrs. Mathis's house shortly before noon. I'd spent several hours with the woman, yet I was still seeing her son as a one-dimensional figure. Did anyone really know the man? I wondered as I headed back to Baltimore, hoping to make it to the ballpark in time for batting practice.
* * *
It was when the Yankees headed up to Fenway that I felt I would at last find the key to unlock the mystery that was Chuck Mathis. Sixteen months after her husband's death, Karen Mathis married a Red Sox reliever (now a pitching coach with Boston). I phoned ahead and Chuck's widow agreed to meet me at the park before the game. We walked out onto the Green Monster where we could talk privately.
I'd expected the interview to start with a tearful account of the day she learned of her husband's death and was therefore surprised when Karen began by confessing, "I barely knew him. Chuck loved baseball and little else."
There was no hostility in her voice, no lingering disappointment or recriminations. She spoke candidly and unemotionally.
"We rarely talked about anything except the games. In all honesty, our marriage was on the rocks. Had Chuck not died, we probably would have divorced before the season ended."
"Frankly, I'm amazed. Everyone I've spoken to has nothing but praise for your late husband. He's been described as the all-American man, a model of virtue."
Karen smiled sadly.
"It's all true, but can you imagine what it's like being married to a fully grown boy scout?"
* * *
After the game that night, I returned to my hotel room and looked over my notes.
"I've got nothing here," I concluded with frustration. "This makes about as interesting a read as the back of a baseball card."
I realized that if neither Mathis's mother nor his wife could give me any insight into his character, then there was little point in completing my book. Short of holding a séance to contact Mathis's spirit, I would never be able to write an interesting, insightful biography of the Yankee first baseman.
In disgust, I tossed the notebooks in my suitcase and poured myself a drink. I then heard Les Granger out in the hallway talking to a sportswriter from the New York Post. I was suddenly reminded of our conversation in St. Petersburg. According to Granger, Mathis was drinking because his good friend, catcher Ernie Welsh, had been released by the Yankees. I opened the door and called to Les.
"You got a minute?" I asked.
"Sure," he said, and he and the Post reporter came into my room. "Are you still working on that biography?"
"That's what I'd like to talk to you about. You told me Chuck Mathis was upset because Ernie Welsh had been released."
"It hit Chuck really hard. They were best friends on and off the field."
Hope sprang up in my heart. If someone knew Mathis, it might be his friend and former teammate.
"I don't suppose you know what happened to Welsh after he left Florida?"
Les shrugged.
"He probably went home to Chicago."
I was in luck. After they left Boston, the Yankees would head to the Windy City to face the White Sox.
* * *
For two months I searched for Ernie Welsh. There was no record of his going to any ballclub, major or minor league, after Mathis's death. Even the newspaper's contact at the police department could find no record of the former catcher. It was as though he'd vanished from the face of the earth. There were no bank accounts, no motor vehicle records, no paper trail of any kind. The last record anyone was able to find was a large withdrawal made from a Florida bank the day after his friend died.
Once again I picked Les Granger's brain.
"You went to Mathis's funeral, didn't you?"
"Both the funeral and the memorial service the Yankees held for him," Les replied.
"Do you recall if Ernie Welsh was at either of those services?"
Granger frowned as he tried to remember.
"Come to think of it, no, he wasn't."
"Isn't that odd? They were best friends. Even if Welsh didn't go to the service the Yankees held, wouldn't he have gone to the funeral?"
"I would think so," Les agreed.
I slept little that night; a nagging doubt kept me awake. It was too great a coincidence that Welsh disappeared at the same time his best friend was killed in a car accident. There were two possible answers, both of which resembled plots from a TV melodrama. One possibility was that Ernie was somehow involved in the accident that killed his friend, fled the scene and disappeared without a trace. But why, after all this time, hadn't he resurfaced?
The alternative was just as weak. Could it be that the burned body discovered in the wrecked Mercedes was not Chuck Mathis's, but Ernie Welsh's? In that case, what had become of Mathis? I discarded both scenarios since they posed more questions than they answered.
* * *
The season ended with the Red Sox topping the AL East and going on to win the pennant and the World Series, which wasn't the best news for a Yankee fan. With the regular season over and spring training still months away, I decided to join Les Granger on a trip down to the Dominican Republic to see a young hitter who was being hailed as the next Alex Rodriguez.
The two of us were sitting behind home plate at Estadio Cibao, enjoying the warm weather and a cold drink. After the Yankees' prospect hit a fast ball into the right field seats, I got up to stretch my legs and go to the men's room to relieve my bladder. While waiting on line, I overheard a conversation, in English, behind me.
"That was some shot. There's gonna be a lot of interest in that kid."
The proverbial shiver went down my spine at the sound of the voice. I turned and looked at the man who spoke. I tried to imagine him without the beard and glasses, minus the gray hair and thirty extra pounds. My heartbeat quickened. The face fit the voice. I turned and looked at his companion, and I knew the identity of both men. Neither Chuck Mathis nor Ernie Welsh had died in that car crash.
"Let's stay another inning and then head home," Welsh suggested.
Like Sherlock Holmes, I later trailed the two former Yankees to their beach house in Puerto Plata. Although the name on the mailbox read BUCKLEY, I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Mathis and Welsh lived there.
I waited a moment, unsure of what to do next. Although I considered doing the decent thing and leaving the two men in peace, I had to know the truth. I got out of my car, walked to the front door and knocked.
Mathis answered.
"Can I help you?"
At first I was speechless, but then I blurted out, "Everybody thinks you're dead."
The color drained from the former first baseman's face. I thought he would deny his identity, but he didn't.
"Won't you come inside?" he said after I introduced myself and told him the purpose of my visit.
"We always suspected the truth would come out eventually," Welsh stated in a fatalistic tone. "I suppose you have questions you'd like to ask us. We won't try to hide anything."
"Why?"
It was the best I could come up with at the moment.
"Isn't it obvious?" Welsh replied. "We could hardly announce our relationship to the world. Could you imagine how the press, not to mention the Yankees, would have reacted had they known?"
"What about the body found in your car?"
"That's what gave us the idea to disappear in the first place," Mathis explained. "Ernie and I met at the bar to have a few drinks before he returned to Chicago. Some drunk tried to steal my Mercedes, so we got into Ernie's car and chased him. We were behind him when he lost control and crashed into a tree. When the car burst into flames, we saw it as our way to start fresh, to live our lives the way we wanted to live them."
"But what about your family and your career?"
Mathis poured himself a drink.
"I never really cared that much for having a career. I only played ball because my father wanted me to. Everything I did, I did to please my parents: good grades, school sports, marriage, my pro ball career."
"And your wife?"
"Karen doesn't know. I'm sorry for any pain I might have caused her, but at least she's happy now. I'm glad. She deserves to be happy."
"And what about your mother? Do you know her living room is a memorial to her dead son?"
"A son she never really knew. She was proud of having an honor student, an obedient child, a New York Yankee for a son. Don't get me wrong. She was a wonderful mother, and I love her dearly, but she saw what she wanted to see. Like a lot of parents, she wore blinders when she looked at her child."
"What about you?" I asked Welsh.
"It was much easier for me to disappear," he replied. "I had no family, no wife, not even a job after the Yankees let me go. I simply had to empty my bank account, pack a bag and get on a plane."
"What will you two do now? Change your names and disappear again?"
"No," Mathis answered truthfully. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, afraid someone else will recognize us. Besides, I like it here. Ernie and I have built a home for ourselves."
"You know, people are a lot more tolerant these days."
"Tolerant of what?" Mathis asked. "My sexual orientation, my pretending to be dead all these years or my leaving the Yankees while I was at the peak of my career?"
I didn't have an answer to his questions, so I thanked the two men for their hospitality, got into my rental car and drove back to the hotel.
* * *
Another sleepless night. I had a lot of them that year. I stumbled upon a story that most journalists would have killed for, an exposé that was sure to catapult my book to the top of the bestseller list and make be a millionaire overnight. There wasn't any doubt that my discovery would bring me fame and fortune beyond my wildest dreams. I also believed that Chuck Mathis and Ernie Welsh would somehow survive the ensuing media frenzy intact. But what effect would the story have on others?
What about Chuck's former wife? It would probably cause her a good deal of embarrassment. She would also have to pay back her husband's life insurance and any other death benefits she received. Still, she was happily married with three grown children, and she would probably come out all right when the dust cleared. And Mrs. Mathis? What mother wouldn't prefer a live son to a dead hero? Even if Chuck fell short of her expectations, she would surely welcome him home with open arms, provided, of course, that he wanted to go home.
And finally what about the Yankees? Hell, they survived worse scandals. The Fritz Peterson-Mike Kekich wife-swapping incident is all but forgotten, just as A-Rod's divorce battle and Joba Chamberlain's DUI faded in the face of a winning season. Of course, there was the possibility that the team would bring legal action against Mathis for breaking his contract. Again, the former first basemen would no doubt be able to survive the ordeal.
So why shouldn't I tell the world that Chuck Mathis is alive and well and living with his former teammate in the Dominican Republic? Who would be hurt by the revelation?
I suddenly remembered where I was when I heard the tragic news of the ballplayer's death. I hadn't been mowing the centerfield grass; I was sitting on a toilet, smoking a joint, ogling photos of naked women. I had been a slacker with no ambition, content to stay over my parents' garage, living paycheck to paycheck. Chuck Mathis's death turned my life around. How many others could say the same? Mathis had been a rare commodity in our world: a hero, not just to me but to millions of other sports fans. For so long I had placed him on a pedestal, never realizing how lonely a place it must be.
When I arrived back home in New Jersey, I tossed my unfinished manuscript into the fireplace. Then I phoned my son and invited him to a hockey game. I realized it was much more important that I get to know my own child than to uncover the secrets of two men who had every right to live their lives as they wanted.
"Somebody call a groundskeeper. Salem just used the base path as a litter box!"
