Front Row Seat
by Bedford Times-Register Editor Mike Lesko
Using the theme from a credit card TV commercial, a narrator might say, "Seeing a no-hitter in person? Priceless."
But how about seeing a no-hitter in person with your father? That is more than priceless.
One of my favorite baseball memories occurred when my late father, Mike Lesko II, and I witnessed a no-hit game thrown by Dave Stieb of the Toronto Blue Jays against the Cleveland Indians at old Municipal Stadium in 1990.
Baseball is truly a father-son sport, one I plan to experience more of with my son, Michael. The leisurely pace of the game allows plenty of time to relax, talk and enjoy the atmosphere.
Every time Father's Day approaches, I often think about the many enjoyable times I had watching baseball with my dad.
He started taking me to Indians games when I was a young boy. For 3 1/2 decades, we went to games together. Life came full circle, and I took him to games as he got older.
There are plenty of fun memories:
* Dad drove me and several of my buddies to an Indians game in 1970. Afterward, we waited for some of the Cleveland players to come out of the locker room. Pitcher Sam McDowell emerged carrying several baseballs. A friend yelled, "Hey, Sam, how about a ball?"
McDowell tossed one toward us. I stepped in front of my friend, caught it and kept it. About 30 years later, I got McDowell to autograph the ball.
* In the late 1960s, several friends and I spotted Dave Martin, a local TV sportscaster who also broadcast Indians games on TV. He was walking through the stands before a game.
We thought it would be neat to get his autograph. When a dozen other kids swarmed around him, too, Martin decided our idea wasn't so good, so he scolded us for asking him for his autograph.
"See what you've done!" he told us. "Now I have to sign all these other autographs, too!" (Dad often kidded me about that when we watched Martin on TV.)
* Dad and I were walking through the lower concourse at the Stadium when we spotted Dick Radatz, a tall relief pitcher who was winding down his career with the Indians in the late 1960s.
Other kids were running after Radatz to get his autograph. I had never gotten an autograph before.
"You have to have something for him to sign," Dad told me.
I grabbed an empty transistor radio box out of a paper bag that Dad was carrying and began chasing the pitcher.
A boy in front of me who also wanted an autograph tripped and fell. Radatz stopped. His eyes widened, hoping the boy wasn't hurt. At that moment, I shoved the small box in front of his face. He seemed momentarily stunned, then signed it with a pen.
Dad watched the whole event unfold.
"If that boy hadn't fallen down, you might not have gotten that autograph," he said with a chuckle.
* Dad and I went to an Indians game with my late mother, Bettie, in the early 1970s. Fiery Billy Martin was managing the Detroit Tigers.
After a close play at second base that went against the Tigers, Martin marched out of the dugout to yell at the umpires.
I can still hear my father excitedly saying, "Here comes Billy!"
Martin waved his arms repeatedly, argued for several minutes, kicked dirt on one of the umpires and was ejected from the game. He trudged back to the dugout as Indians fans booed him.
A short time later, the Indians won the game. As we walked back to our car, Dad smiled and said, "We sure showed Billy who's No. 1."
While the Indians were No. 1 on the field that day, Dad was No. 1 every day.
E-mail: mlesko@recordpub.com
Phone: 330-688-0088 ext. 3167