In 1948 I was eight years old and my baseball mentors were my grandfather, C.A. Christian, who'd been an exceptional a semi-pro player at the turn of the century in Royston, Georgia, and two of my fathers classmates at Texas Christian University, Jim Nolan and Jim Busby. Nolan never played higher than Triple A ball, but Busby had a twelve year career as an outfielder in the American League, followed by an even longer career as a coach in the National League. My grandfather went on to college, became a pharmacist but never forgot his days of glory as a teammate of the soon to become legendary, Ty Cobb. After my introduction to these three men, all I wanted to play baseball, and I chased baseball players from that year on.

In 1954 I found myself in Syracuse, New York, a teenager, still in love with baseball. I was a new kid in town and had little opportunity to play any kind of organized ball, so I spent my time at McArthur Stadium, the home of the Syracuse Chiefs. One of the better players on the team, Ben Zientara, lived two doors away, and I pestered him, and the other players, as often as I could. I also began writing major league players, both active and retired and, as fate would have it, Ty Cobb became my pen pal in 1955. He'd played with my grandfather in Georgia fifty-five years earlier, maybe that made a difference, but the nastiest man in baseball was very kind and supportive to me. Unfortunately, I abandoned Cobb and all the other baseball players the moment I made the high school baseball team in 1955. This is an important part of the story.

Cover Design by Paul Bacon

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