A Gift From an Icon

Fond memories of my childhood are plentiful, but not with regard to my father. My father was a pretty terrible person in many ways. He was angry and violent and it was best to be ignored by him.  My favorite times at home together was when he was reading the newspaper, which he did every weekday evening. He would be totally absorbed and I could even be in the same room with him and feel safe from his anger.

The best times away from home were the once or twice each summer when he would take my older brother and me to a baseball game at Tigers Stadium in Detroit. My father was a baseball fan and I loved baseball, and I especially loved the Tigers. Baseball may have been my only demonstrable connection with my father. It was certainly the only positive connection I remember. He was a St. Louis Cardinals fan, a National League team that only competed with the Tigers if they both made it to the World Series as they would in 1968. Even today, more than 50 years later, I can name the usual starting lineups the Tigers played in ’65 through ‘68.

We would drive from Ann Arbor to Detroit, cruising along Interstate 94, past Metro Airport, past the roads with names I knew only from TV commercials: Merriman, Middle Belt, Telegraph, Southfield, Ford Road. I was a mapper, a person who loved looking at and understanding maps of areas large and small. I would study the map of the route to Detroit, how to get to the ballpark. Growing up in Ann Arbor in the 1960s, Detroit was a magical place for a nine year old. The city was huge and, from the 1930s to the riots of 1967, Detroit continued to be a source of pride for Michiganders. The automobile industry made Detroit relevant back then.

On a trip to a night ballgame in ’66, we parked several blocks from the corner Michigan and Trumbull, at a Teamster’s local parking lot. My father was a Teamster and believed strongly in the union and its purposes. As a family trying to move from lower class to middle class, he understood the power of union wages and benefits when working for $1.80 per hour was real money. I wondered why we didn’t park closer so we could get in the ball park and watch the players warm up Watching batting practice was instructional for me. Seeing the other team warm up gave me a sense of the seriousness of the game. But we were parked near Teamsters Local 299 on Trumbull and parked for free. I was in a hurry to get to the park!

As we passed the union building, where there were a lot of people milling about, my father took us off the route to the stadium and went to talk to the people at the Local. I was not happy, but I knew better than to question what my father was doing. He was laughing and joking with the men there. I rarely saw him laugh and joke, so this was an unusual experience. I remember many of the men were smoking cigars, which I thought smelled pretty bad.

Several men in suits came out of the building and was shaking hands with the men gathered there. Everyone in the parking lot was talking loudly, laughing and joking with one of these men. This man was shaking people’s hands and saying hello to everyone. My brother and I were the only children and the man eventually glad-handed near us. My father shook his hand and introduced my brother and me to the affable Mr. Jimmy Hoffa.

I really wasn’t that interested. I was not aware of who I was meeting. My father introduced him as a great man. I wanted to get to the ballpark. I had to set up my scorecard. I’d never seen my father so animated and happy, though. My curiosity got the better of me and I asked Mr. Hoffa what he did, and he said he was the president of the Teamsters union, my father’s union. He told my father he’d like us to come inside to his office. He said he had something for us.

My dad was in heaven. He felt important. Jimmy Hoffa was the center of attention in the parking lot and he was escorting my dad and his sons into his office in the Teamsters building. The other men in suits followed us in.

Hoffa’s office seemed huge. There were pictures all over the walls of Hoffa with other people, usually smiling, usually posed, some with signatures on them. I didn’t recognize many of them by face, but I knew J. Edgar Hoover’s mug. I knew Richard Nixon’s face. Hoffa was obviously important in some way.

He asked my brother and me to look at what he had for us and brought us to the side of his desk. He opened a drawer and I saw a box of cigars. I was not going to smoke a cigar! Under the cigar box, there were other boxes. He gave of each one of the boxes and we opened them with our father’s encouragement. Inside were watches. The faces of the watches had the Teamsters logo on it. My brother put his on, but the metal band was too large. Hoffa took the watches and handed them to one of the other suited men, instructing him to make the bands smaller. My father told Hoffa that we were on the way to the Tigers game and what good ball players we were. He bragged about us for a few minutes until the man with our watches came back. We put them on. Mine was still too large but I said it was fine. The man had set the watches to the correct time, and I could see we were going to be late for the warm ups.

After we left, we walked the six blocks to the park. I don’t remember much about the game. The watch has long since gone the way of my baseball cards and things. But I do remember meeting Jimmy Hoffa and getting the gift from him, even though I didn’t really care much about it at the time.