A boy, a book and Christmas

Over the course of my childhood, my parents gave me and my brothers and sisters hundreds of Christmas gifts. 

I can’t remember all that I received. A magic set, a bowling ball, Strategy Baseball, Hot Wheels, a chess set and Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots stand out.

Those gifts are gone now. Broken and discarded. Likely buried at a landfill. Maybe they made their way to a thrift store. Perhaps some are in the hands of a collector. 

But one remains in mine.

There is a gift that this Christmas will mark 50 years since the day I received it from my parents. A book. A hardback baseball book. It chronicled each World Series from 1903 to 1973. "The World Series: A Complete Pictorial History," by John DeVaney and Burt Goldblatt. It cost, per the inside jacket, $12.95. To many, it might have been a dull present to open Christmas morning. 

Not me. 

I pored over the book that Christmas, so long ago, fascinated by the details offered on each World Series, the pinnacle of sports. I carried it upstairs and downtown and to school, where it was confiscated by a teacher before I sneaked into his classroom after school and took it back.

I have kept it since.

It sits today in my room at our Coeur d’Alene home, one of many. Like my father, I love books and collect them. 

That book on the World Series has several small rips, quickly repaired by tape to limit the damage. The inside remains clear and pure.

That book is much more than pictures and stories of a sport that I loved. To me, it reflects a father’s and mother's love.

You see, when I was a kid, baseball consumed my life. Pete Rose was my hero. The Cincinnati Reds were my team. Like Rose, I made myself into a switch-hitter for grade-school baseball. Unlike Rose, I couldn’t hit. I got so few hits that I can still recall one of them clearly, as if yesterday, suddenly swinging at a high outside pitch, sending a blooper down the right field line that landed in fair territory. A clutch double in a game we had to win to reach the playoffs, and we did, 3-2. I scored the winning run.

I still remember the words of a teammate when I reached the dugout: “Nice double, Buley.”

The next weekend, we lost. There was no miraculous double or even a lucky single. I contributed a few strikeouts and so many errors at second base I was pulled mid-inning. 

But while my skills were limited, my passion was not. I studied the game and read every book I could find on it. Baseball statistics were my life.

That’s why that book on the World Series ended up under the Christmas tree, a delightful discovery. I don't know who picked it out, mom or dad. I never asked. It didn't matter. 

My father, who worked hard as a postal carrier, grocery store owner and janitor, didn’t have time to watch me play. Neither did my mom, busy managing our home.

My parents never had much money, not with seven kids eating everything in sight. But somehow, each Christmas morning, mountains of gifts awaited, ripped open in a furious frenzy and shouts of joy.

I can still hear those Christmas mornings in our Seattle home. I can see my father watching from a chair and my mom standing near the doorway, letting their children enjoy a feast of presents.

I never could match the Christmas magic created by my parents for my children, but its spirit remains with me. I can find it in that World Series book. It’s there, on each page, each story, each photo, and most especially, on the torn cover.

That’s why, each Christmas, I sneak off alone for a few minutes, take that book off the shelf, sit down, flip through it. Stories of Ruth and Mantle and Mays and yes, Rose, come to life.

As do memories of a Christmas 50 years ago.

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Bill Buley is a reporter at The Press.