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Jim “Mudcat” Grant Photo Gallery
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Over the years, I’ve learned that whenever I write an essay for my website, Baseball History Comes Alive, it goes out to a wide audience and I never know exactly who it might reach or how it might affect someone.
And so when our friend Michael Keedy read my recent tribute to Jim “Mudcat” Grant, following his passing in June, it dusted off some of the old cobwebs buried deep within the recesses of his gray matter; and—wouldn’t ya’ know it!—he suddenly recalled a humorous encounter he had with Mudcat Grant at a baseball card “signing show” way back in the year 2000.
In his typically engaging writing style—often laced with funny double-entendres, silly metaphors, and lofty prose for which I have to serve as translator—Michael recalls that encounter. In the process, he provides for us a few good laughs, as only he can.
The featured photo I’ve chosen is one in which Mudcat possibly looks the way he did when Michael met him. I think you’ll enjoy what he has to say. –GL
THE MUDCAT AND A CERTAIN ”MISTER X”
The Lovely & Talented [ed. note: he means his wife!] took me to “The National” in 2000 [ed. note: that’s the card “signing show”], or anyway the one held in Anaheim, which was about 2000. I sold some cards, using the proceeds to buy mostly jewelry for The Lovely, and a few cards for myself: The perpetual kid with the permanent hole in his pocket.
This big show featured several dozen celebrity signers. You’re familiar with the drill: Buy a ticket, stand in line, get an autograph and a pat on the butt. Over three days or so, there appeared Stan the Man (who joked with The Lovely while ignoring her husband); Duke Snider (whom I insulted by holding his fifty-year-old picture next to him and asking what had happened in the years intervening); Robin Roberts (whom I praised for complete-gaming the Dodgers in a `61, with a 13-hitter I happened to see in Philadelphia, then offended by reminding him that it was his only “W” for the year); Jimmy Piersall (with whom I chatted in the men’s room while showing off my Jimmy Piersall glove (I don’t make this up); and of course Mudcat. Mudcat Grant. The whole point of this story, which actually has no point…
I stand in the Mudcat line. Waiting ahead of me is a certain Mr. X (who shall remain nameless), toting a duffel bag, the contents of which—he grandly informs me—will knock the Cat for a euphoric loop: “Just you watch” (It’s a jersey or something).
Mr. X, A Friend of Mudcat?
He and Mudcat go way back, don’t you know? He, Mr. X, practices law with Johnny Cochran! Take that! With a proud flourish he produces his card (I do not ask for his autograph). Then Mr. X, who stands five inches taller than I, stops pontificating over the top of my head just long enough to “fix me” with an appraising up-and-down look, and wonders if I have a job. I give him my card. (I do not autograph it). He shuts up for approximately a micro-second, then returns to tales of Johnny C., which begin to sound a lot like the trials and triumphs of Mr. X. It is all quite fascinating, I guess, and he could not possibly be more taken with himself.
God’s existence is reaffirmed when we finally arrive at Mudcat’s table with Mr. X still in the lead. Like a matador throwing down his cape, the Mister presents the suddenly-exposed contents of the duffel bag, and waits for the inevitable swoon from Mudcat. Somewhat intriguingly, the swoon does not come. Mudcat takes the entire and elaborate show in total stride. In fact, he appears to have no working recollection of ever having met Mr. X, who previously confided to me his fast friendship with The Cat. Let alone having lunched with him, played catch, or dated some of the same women. I was supposed to be impressed…
Sadly, but unmistakably, Mr. X is deflated by the encounter at the table. It is a non-event. With a bored and blank look, Mudcat perfunctorily signs off on the jersey, sliding it in the direction of his…ahem…”old and fond friend” without actually looking at him, and waits somewhat impatiently for the punk gringo (that would be me) trailing in his wake.
Michael’s Turn At The Table
For apparently perverse but admittedly unknown reasons, Mr. X hangs briefly in the wings, as if to watch me land with a “thud” on my own sorry pan. That should help to heal those newly-inflicted wounds. Now it’s my turn at the table. I toss our celebrity my vintage and original “Beat Mudcat” pin, acquired by me personally in circa 1960 at Griffith Stadium, where the Senators hosted the Cleveland Indians on what was dubbed “Beat Mudcat” Night, don’t you see?
The first fifteen hundred or so patrons received these few pins, now exceedingly rare and long forgotten, but not forgotten by the Mudcat, apparently, who goes berserk at the sight of his beloved #$%^& pin. He does not have one. He would give an organ for one. I tell Mudcat, with a slight glance in the direction of Mr. X: “Well, you have one now,” and give him the pin to keep. We laugh. We recall together the hilarious details of the pregame, which featured Eartha Kitt, Count Basie, and a black cat for bad luck, along with most of the Senators and Indians on the teams’ rosters that particular night.
I remind “Sir Cat” of the picture of him in The Washington Post the next morning, sporting one of the pins with “Win” written on adhesive tape to mask the word “Beat.” Very clever. We laugh some more. While Mudcat goes about the showy business of giving me his address and telephone number—so as to stay in touch you understand—I just do catch the faint silhouette of Mr. X, slinking into the distance. The entire episode drips with the rich irony of just desserts.
Other Highlights Of “The Show”
By the bye, I also greatly enjoyed meeting and speaking with Warren Spahn at that time. He was very gracious, thoughtful and articulate. He really took the time. Most of those guys did, especially if one had brains enough to be waiting at the end of the line. We traded jokes. I happened to show him the nice autograph he had given me, in 1955. He playfully suggested that it might be time to pay for it now, at long last, especially considering its substantial current value in the world of sports memorabilia. He told me that Pete Rose does not belong in the Hall of Fame, and explained himself carefully in saying so, to my complete satisfaction.
So those are the highlights of the one and only National I have attended. I am quite grateful to have spoken with a few, unforgettable icons who have since crossed the river, including Mr. Spahn, Musial, Roberts and The Duke, and to have shaken hands and joked with Carl Erskine and that wild-and crazy guy, Jimmy Piersall. It was definitely not just another day at the office.
The moment to remember, though, was when Mr. X disappeared in a puff of sudden and uncharacteristic humility…
Michael Keedy
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