I have never before been so moved by an article as I was by Tom Boswell's reminiscence of RFK Stadium (Portrait of a Past: Echoes at RFK," April 5).
I was 12 years old on the day alluded to. The following year, I and about 48 others would become charter members of the Jim French fan club. Jim French, you see, was my hero. I knew in my heart of hearts that he was a week hitter on a poor-hitting team. His bat was a toothpick compared to those wielded by Frank Howard or Mike Epstein, his arm a popgun compared to Paul Casanova's rifle. Yet I also knew that he alone gave that mythic 100 percent effort in every game.
Since I realized that I would never grow up to be Hondo sized, Jim would serve as the role model for my talents. I remember him sprinting to first on a base on balls, rounding the bag when the fourth ball got by the catcher and sliding safely into second.
I was a Senator fan although these were the worst of times. I would draw vertical lines on a sheet of notebook paper to keep score of games I heard on the radio.
My brothers, both younger and older were Baltimore rooters. They had Brooks and Boog and a World Series victory in '66. We had Ed Brinkman and Joe Coleman and a string of last place finishers. They had the best pitching staff in baseball, a tightly mashed infield, speed in the outfield and excellent pinch hitters. I hated the Orioles.
We had Jim French. It was enough.