It was 1987, and the Pacific Northwest was slowly emerging from a recession that had idled a good part of the workforce, including most members of my union, Ironworkers Local 29.
My eldest child had graduated from Southern Oregon State College and joined the Navy in the Reagan military buildup years, but that still left two kids in college, so being idle was not an option. College costs then bore no resemblance to now. Think bicycle versus Harley-Davidson.
The (out of) work grapevine was saying that New York City was recruiting a huge workforce because of years of deferred maintenance on bridges, tunnels and subways. In fact, I knew some of our members were there already and doing well, due in large part to the hourly wage and benefits being about twice what we received in Portland. So off I went.
I had some trepidation about going to the Big Apple. Turns out I worried over nothing. People are the same everywhere.
In June, a friend from Roseburg, Ore., came to visit, bearing New York Mets tickets. Actually, he had two scouting passes, which allowed us to sit behind home plate with the other “scouts,” and which also was the player’s wives’ section. It gets better: Before the Jumbotron days, there were no replays available to the fans, except in the scouting section. Another perk was that the concession stand in this area stayed open throughout the game.
Major League Baseball had a rule where no alcohol was served after the seventh-inning stretch. It’s a good rule unless the game went 11 or 12 innings, in which case things got a whole lot less fun. Except for us in the scouting section, who could stay hydrated until the game ended.
One of the highlights of those days was watching Neil Diamond spend $15,000 at the concession stand. He bought every jacket, uniform top and box of hats in the park for his friends, fans and whomever helped him carry out his loot.
The usher who presided over this section was a guy named Jack Mulaney. Jack was third in seniority among the ushers, having worked at Ebbetts Field in Brooklyn before the Dodgers left for L.A. in the late ’50s. His nickname was “The Pope,” and after about three hours, we became simpatico. He told me that the next time I came to a game, I should tell the box seat gatekeepers, “I am coming to see The Pope.” Just like that, a general-admission ticket turned into a ticket for the best seat in the house.
Work was going well, and I’d get to the stadium every chance I could. Sometime in September, Jack asked if I would take a few pictures one evening of a group of ushers and a special guest. The special guest was former President Richard Nixon. Jack knew I always brought a couple of cameras to the game, and I was happy to do it.
The plan was to get together at Nixon’s box seat during the seventh-inning stretch, snap a few pictures, then get back to my seat. This took just a few seconds, and I said, “Thank you, Mr. President” and turned to leave.
At that moment, I heard a low voice: “What kind of camera is that?” I froze. Was he talking to me? He had to be, since the area was empty and the ushers were back at work.
I turned and asked, “This one?” The camera in question was a Bell and Howell.
Nixon proceeded to tell me he was a “camera buff.” Those were his exact words, and I still hear them to this day.
I knew that as president, one of his least favorite senators was Chuck Percy of Illinois, who was chairman of the board of Bell and Howell, makers of that camera, before going into politics. So I told him the camera was made by his buddy Chuck Percy’s company. That got his eyebrows up, and he asked if I knew Chuck.
I still don’t know why I answered that I was a neighbor and knew the family. In a sense, I did. While Percy was campaigning for office, in 1966, one of his twin daughters was murdered in the family home, and you got to know the family through the extensive newspaper coverage. I don’t believe the killer was ever found.
The organist had stopped playing, signaling that the stretch was over, so folks took their seats. But not us. Nixon was still talking, and as I listened, two things went through my mind. One, try to remember all this; and two, this was the biggest head I had ever seen on a person. It was lion-like.
The conversation had ground to a halt. Now, how to take my leave? Somehow, “Take care and I’ll see you around” didn’t seem appropriate. But I left him laughing when I said, “We’d better take our seats; I’d hate to see you tossed out of here on my account.” I thanked him again and went back to the safety of my seat, thinking this was hard, hard work.
Later on, Jack came by and asked what Nixon wanted to talk so much about. I couldn’t resist it so I told him the president wanted my opinion on some important world matters!
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