Farewell, Foul Ball King

It was a small story neat the bottom of the page. "Ex-Manager, Player Steve Boros dies."

Sigh. Another blast from the past was no more.

Viewed in the overall scheme of things, Boros was no big deal. He only played a couple of seasons. His career batting average .242 was no great shakes. He hit a mere 22 home runs in 422 MLB games. He was an adequate fielder but nothing special.

But you never forget your first great love. And my first great baseball love was the 1961 Detroit Tigers. I remember them all -- from batting champ Norm Cash to sub Dick Gernert (whose only hit that season with the team was a pinch-hit home run against the Angels). The Tigers kept pace with the mighty Yankees most of the season, finally giving way in the last two weeks of the year. They finished the season with a gaudy total of 101 victories but eight games out of first place. Today, that would earn you a playoff spot and a chance at redemption. In 1961, all it got you was a handshake and a sincere wish to win more games next year.

Boros was the regular third baseman on that team. He was justifiably overlooked on a team that had two superb starting pitchers (Frank Lary, Jim Bunning), a dependable third wheel in Don Mossi and a solid finisher in Terry Fox. The outfield of Rocky Colavito, Billy Bruton and Al Kaline was top notch. (Charley Maxwell, the first backup flychaser, was no slouch, either.)

The infield was Cash, speedy Jake Wood at second base, the erratic but exciting Chico Fernandez at shortstop and the plodding Boros at third base.

Of all those players, Boros seemed to be the one who was cursed with the most dreaded of all baseball ailments.

He had potential.

He looked bigger than his listed height of six feet. He seemed to have broad shoulders. He was not a fast runner. But he didn't strike out much and drew a surprisingly high total of walks.

Oddly, I can't remember any of his hits that season. What I do remember, however, was that he hit some of the longest foul balls I have ever seen.

I can't place the date but I distinctly remember a Saturday afternoon that year when he hit three balls that went all the way over the left field roof at old Tiger Stadium. Naturally, they were slightly left of the foul pole and counted for nothing more than a loud strike. It may be 49 years ago but I can still see Boros simply sigh and resolve to do better next time. My memory is he didn't get a hit after any of those mighty blows. (In the 87-year history of the old ballpark, only three balls ever went over the left field roof in fair territory. Harmon Killebrew, Frank Howard and Cecil Fielder did the honors.)

To the unerring eye of a rabid eight-year old baseball know-it-all, it seemed that Boros was on the verge of joining Colavito as a 40-home run man. If only he could straighten a few of those balls out, the Tigers could catch Mantle, Maris, Whitey Ford and the rest of those hated varmints from the big city Yankees.

Of course, it didn't turn out that way. Boros only hit five home runs the entire season and finished with a .270 batting average. The next year, he showed more power (16 home runs) but the batting average fell to .228. (By then, I was 10 years old and infinitely more knowledgeable about baseball. I simply knew Boros was never going to amount to much. I suspect I said so to anyone who asked me ... or even if they didn't ask.)

Accordingly, no one was particularly upset when the Tigers shipped him to the Chicago Cubs and inserted a shopworn fellow named Bubba Phillips at third base. (Later that year, they called up a rookie named Don Wert. By the end of the season, he was the regular third baseman. He stayed in that role for the next seven seasons and is best remembered around town as the guy who singled in the winning run the night the Tigers won the 1968 pennant.)

But our first loves always stand tall in our memory. They will always be 25 years old or so. They will always have a smile on their face.

So it is that Rocky Colavito will always be the original Italian Stallion, a limber hitter with a gun for an arm in left field. Al Kaline will always be the mechanically sound fellow who ate fast balls for lunch and missed nothing in right field. Norm Cash will always seem to be lunging off balance as he swatted a ball into the upper deck in center field. Jim Bunning will always seem to be falling into the third base dugout as he threw a nasty curve ball past a hitter for strike three.

And Steve Boros will always seem to be standing tall and resolute as he walked back to the batter's box, determined that the next time he hit the ball, it would go three feet to the right of the foul pole for a home run.

That is the way I saw it in 1961.

50 years later, nothing has happened to make me change my mind.

R.I.P. Big Steve