Memories of Minor League endure

Why watch minor league baseball?

The players aren’t stars. Most of them will never be.

The quality of play is erratic as skills are honed.

My initial answer would be that it’s cheaper. An afternoon at the Fort Wayne TinCaps or the Indianapolis Indians or the Dayton Dragons won’t require a home equity loan.

But I have another answer today: J.R. Richard.

The summer that my wife and I were married we were living about a block and a half from what was known as the “geographic center of crime” in Indianapolis. We didn’t have a car; a used Chevy Vega — complete with rust spots — lay in our future.

But we loved baseball.

The first time we went to an Indianapolis Indians game at Bush Stadium on 16th Street we walked. That was a big mistake.

It didn’t look that far on a city map, but it was an ugly hike.

And the ballpark at the end of the hike was ugly as well.

Bush was a mass of cold concrete, about as uninviting a venue as you could imagine.

Tickets were cheap, but there weren’t many fans in the stands.

We favored the first base line, along with a handful of other baseball misfits.

But, the thing is, if we yelled or cheered or shouted something, the players heard us.

In that way, it was sort of like a Portland Rockets game, where fans can interact with players.

And there were some good, good players at that time. The Big Red Machine was just gearing up, so we had a chance to see young players who would be part of that adventure, players like Ed Armbrister and Ken Griffey, the senior not the junior.

The Indy Indians were the AAA minor league affiliate of the Reds, and that league had some real talent moving up.

Talent like J.R. Richard.

It had to be 1971 when we saw him.

He was a hot prospect drafted by the Houston Astros and was playing that summer for the Oklahoma City 89ers.

And he blew us away.

J.R. was 6 feet, 8 inches tall, which I believe is a record for any pitcher to go on to the major leagues.

Lanky in the extreme, when he finished his delivery from the mound, his foot was planted almost halfway to the batter’s box. It was the most intimidating delivery I’d seen since the great Bob Gibson of the St. Louis Cardinals.

He had some control issues, but his fastball was scorching hot. The Indy batters didn’t know what to do with him.

But we did.

In spite of the home team, we checked ourselves in as J.R. Richard fans.

That September, the Astros brought him up to the big leagues at the surprise of absolutely no one.

And we watched as he continued to carve out a career that seemed to have him destined for the Hall of Fame.

Then, something happened. He had a stroke. He was 30.

Baseball gurus are still arguing whether better medical attention could have prevented that life-changing event.

Maybe.

Things went downhill quickly. A comeback failed. He was bounced to the minor leagues again. Business deals went sour. So did a couple of marriages. For a time, he was homeless and sleeping under a bridge.

Eventually, he pulled his life back together.

But now he is gone.

J.R. Richard, who could have been one of the greatest pitchers the game has ever known, died last month.

So, why watch minor league baseball?

Because I saw him pitch in his prime. I saw the greatness within him. I watched that lanky frame deliver fastballs no one could hit.

And while J.R. Richard is gone, Connie and I still have those remarkable memories of a summer afternoon so long, long ago.