ESSAY # 2 One night in 1964 at San Jose State

An improbable meeting with a future major league baseball great and
Not Appropriate for “polite” conversation

I know not what you did last night or this morning. And, that is okay because it really is none of my business.

There is no shortage of euphemisms to convey this point of view: children are to be seen but not heard; mind your manners; you are entitled to your opinion, as I am to mine; etc

Renewal, rebirth, hope and spring are in the air. But these are to be found mostly in our Faiths. We are invited to express ourselves freely in matters of religion and politics. How freely, is almost continually, debated.

In the 1950s, the emerging middle class, aspirants to the middle class and middle America widely believed that certain subjects, namely politics and religion, were “off-limits” in “polite” conversations. Exchanging recipes and talking baseball were generally accepted as being fair game for “polite” disagreements. My recipe/team is superior to yours (although yours our nearly as good).

In the early 1960, manners in general and “polite” conversations in particular were increasingly under attack as cover-ups for hiding infringement upon basic freedoms of expression. By the mid-60s, the country was literally splitting apart. The great under and over 30 year olds divide. Trust no one over 30 versus kids nowadays are nothing but spoiled rotten, ungrateful brats. To political and religious divisions was added a third rail,  baseball.

One evening in August 1964 stands out as a personal benchmark for me against the macro backdrop I have briefly sketched out above. I was 21 at the time and considered myself to be political aware. I had followed politics even in my pre-teen days, and volunteered in JFK’s  presidential campaign when in HS. I believed that as a country we were committed to delivering on promises of equity and justice for all. And, why not? I had not, personally,  encountered anything less. (except, over-looking the obvious; I was white and male). I shared in the numbing sorrow of President Kennedy’s assassination but held onto the belief that this was an aberration.

I would be graduating with a BA from S.F. State in June of next year and applying to law schools. I came so awfully close to being drafted and sent to Vietnam. But my political awareness came second to keeping my eyes squarely fixed on “my” ball and moving forward.

I would continue to see as many games as I could at Candlestick Park. Watching from the ice locker of left field, as Mays, McCovey, Cepada, the Alou brothers whacked on. I vaguely remember an “issue” of racial treatment by then coach Alvin Dark. But my own life was speeding up and my full attention was beginning to focus entirely on one person beside my self.

And, so it comes to that evening in San Jose of 1964 at San Jose State. I was there to pick up a girl that I had seen once before and even that was briefly. We were to meet at her apartment with a couple roommates and there dates. We would then, as a group walk over to watch the opening game of the football team. As people gather in the apartment, I am the elder at 21. The rest are fresh from HS graduation and are 18; my date was to become 18 in a week. Upon seeing and being with my date I was transported. I did not then drink, smoke or do drugs. But if a spaceship landed and my date wanted to board, I would join her without further thought. Of the six to eight other people in the apartment, only one do I remember speaking to. He introduced himself to me as, Bobby; Bobby Bonds. He was, like the rest, 18 (born March 1946). He exuded a presence that was palpable. And, indelible.

Fast forward, four years to 1968. Bobby would be playing in the S.F. Giants outfield along side Willie Mays. In his career spanning  more than 20 years, he hits 300+ HR; had 1,000+ RBI; 3 X, GG. One of his children is Barry Bonds. Willie Mays is Barry’s god-father. Bobby died in August of 2003.

In 1968, I was an expectant father and married to my date of that August night in 1964.
Liza Zacherl Servelle was born August 27, 1946. The mother of our two young children, she died in an accident in July 1975 that also claimed the lives of our two daughters

In 1968, war in Vietnams continued claiming lives of young Americans and Vietnamese of all ages and would continue to do so until 1975.

In 1968, demonstrations continue to grow as does violence of all kinds. Martin Luther King, Jr. is killed. Robert “Bobby” Kennedy is killed. The whole world is watching as Chicago police fire on demonstrators. Ghettos in major cities across the country are aflame.

In 1968, Nixon is elected and escalates the war in Vietnam and attacks on demonstrators at home.

In 1968, the age divide hardens. The young rejecting everything of their parents: from dress to music to drugs to morals. And, over 30 side become ever more buttoned down and imposing whatever punishment they can against the “law-breakers” (often their own sons and daughters.

Turning back to my opening: I know not what you did last night or this morning. And, that is okay because it really is none of my business.

I now wonder, just what is my business.