Steve Fiffer
Although I grew up in Chicago in the 1950s, I was a rabid New York Yankees fan. Once, when asked to write down my favorite color, I answered, "Pinstripe." My favorite number was 7—after my hero Mickey Mantle, of course. And I was the only kid in my elementary school who could find Commerce, Okla., the Mick's hometown, on a map.
Flash forward to August 2000. We Fiffers were in Cooperstown, NY, because our 12-year-old son Rob’s travel baseball team was playing in a tournament featuring all-stars from across the country. On our first day in town, we passed a gray frame building with a sign reading, "Clete Boyer's Hamburger Hall of Fame."
Clete Boyer! To tell the truth, I had not given Clete—the slick fielding third baseman who played for the Yankees in five consecutive World Series from 1960 to 1964-- a great deal of thought over the past 35 years. Who’da thunk this native of Missouri would have retired to upstate New York following a baseball career that ended in Japan in 1975?
When my wife Sharon and I would visit New York, I was always tempted to go to Mickey Mantle's restaurant on Central Park South. I never did, though. I was afraid I'd see my hero drunk on a barstool.
I was never so invested in Clete. Thus, at our first opportunity we went to his restaurant for lunch--hoping for not only a sighting, but some conversation. Where better than Cooperstown to revive the memories of my Yankee fanaticism?
Our waitress said Clete was expected shortly. The bad news: he never showed up. The good news: our team had rented the Hamburger Hall of Fame for a party that night. Surely, old number 6 would make an appearance.
Alas, when we arrived at his restaurant, his partner/girlfriend Brenda told us: “He’s under the weather.” Brenda, a no-nonsense redhead of about 60, then told of meeting Clete a few years earlier. When he introduced himself, she was unimpressed by his credentials. "He was divorced. He was a ballplayer. He was a Yankee. And he'd hung around with Mickey Mantle. I knew what those guys were like," she told us. She resisted his overtures for some time.
She then regaled us with her impersonation of Clete entering the restaurant. Donning a Yankees cap, she strutted in the door, winking and waving to the assembled. "Whenever Clete mentions he was a star, I tell him he's stardust now," she said with a laugh.
***
"Clete still feels like s---," said Brenda, when I stopped in the next day. "But I have this for you." She pulled out an 8½-by-11, plastic-encased color photo of a young Clete in Yankee pinstripes. "To Steve, Best of Luck, Clete Boyer #6, W.S. CHAMPS 1961," it read. Unbeknownst to me, during our team party at the restaurant, one of our coaches had traded an empty bottle of Absolut Vodka to Brenda for the promise of a personalized photo. I remembered the rush that came every time I pulled off a great baseball card trade. An empty Vodka bottle for Clete Boyer. Now that's a good deal.
On our final day in Cooperstown, we stopped in the restaurant for one last lunch and opportunity to see Clete. "He's here," Brenda said. "He's in the back unloading some ice. See if he doesn't come in exactly as I told you the other night."
He did. Yankees cap on his head, he sauntered to the bar with the air of a jock who had played for one of the greatest sports dynasties. Much to the delight of Rob—a fellow third baseman--and this old Yankee fan, he sat down with us while we ate.
Over burgers we talked about Yankees past and present. After explaining how he helped Derek Jeter become a better shortstop, Clete told Rob, "I could make you a major-leaguer." Rob's eyes lit up. I sensed he'd be willing to wash a lot of dishes at the Hamburger Hall of Fame in return for Clete's instruction.
After a half hour or so, our waitress told Clete that another family wanted to meet him. We took pictures, including the following, and said our goodbyes.
