Pie Traynor’s Cooperstown Plaque

Today is the Pittsburgh Pirates’ home opener. I wish my team a great season while remembering how blessed I was, when I was a child, to lunch with Hall of Fame third baseman Pie Traynor.

Maybe you’ve never heard of Pie Traynor.  Other great third baseman have come and gone since his playing days, which ended nearly 80 years ago.  If he’d have had the larger than life persona of a Babe Ruth, if he’d have had the comedic wisdom of a Yogi Berra, if he’d have played in a big city like New York, if he’d have had the substance abuse problems, the womanizing reputation, the human foibles that go with the territory for so many great stars, his name might be recognizable to you.

Instead, Pie Traynor quietly and elegantly did the job he was paid to do, and he did it very, very well.  You can look up his career stats.  They’re impressive.  He was the first third baseman to be elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame and  the third baseman selected in 1969 to Major League Baseball’s all-time team.  Not bad for a guy who went through life with a nickname that came from his childhood fondness for pie.

His adopted hometown, Pittsburgh, took him to heart.   He was beloved by many, from the fans who watched his plumbing supply commercials during the weekly broadcasts of “Studio Wrestling” to my rabbi, the good friend who was asked by Pie’s widow to give the eulogy at his funeral.  Pie Traynor wasn’t Jewish.  His religion didn’t matter.  Rabbi Solomon B. Freehof noted that “it was surprising that the newspaper articles printed since his death dealt mostly with the inner man and his friendliness.”

Along with my mother’s father, I watched the televised weekly wrestling show.  I can still picture my ethereal grandfather throwing punches in front of the television, fighting along with Bruno Sammartino as he took on yet another soon-to-be-defeated opponent.  My grandfather, a highly spiritual man, had wanted to be a rabbi before the Czar introduced a compulsory life path for him and other young Jewish males.  He may not have achieved his dream, but he always looked for the good in others, Pie Traynor included.  He took his place on the couch and listened intently while Pie Traynor described the attributes of the latest bathroom vanities.  My grandfather’s English wasn’t all that great.  I don’t know how much he understood when Pie Traynor pitched porcelain.  It didn’t matter.  He respected the man Pie Traynor was.

My parents and I were walking past the Carlton House drug store when my father looked through the big glass window and saw Pie Traynor eating his lunch at the soda fountain.  He was alone, reading a newspaper.  We sat on the other side of the lunch counter.  My father’s intention was to thank him for many years of great baseball, not disturb him while he ate.  Pie Traynor said thank you, put down his newspaper and engaged us in conversation.

I was as thrilled to meet Pie Traynor as my father, even though I’d never seen him play.  I’d become a great sports fan; I wanted to be both the daughter I was and the son my father never had.  I somehow found a way past my habitual shyness and was spitting career stats at him.  He smiled at the little girl who clearly knew who he was even though she’d never seen him play.

He was genuinely interested in learning about my parents and me. He shared memories of his playing days with us. He answered all of my father’s questions. He didn’t rush off after he ate his lunch. He understood the importance of connecting with his fans with his heart.