One Terrific Shortstop

I’m a headhunter, or if you choose a more graceful description of what I do, I’m an executive recruiter. I speak to a large number of people everyday who are perfect strangers. One of the odd ironies of my occupation is that I commonly speak to people with whom I have no relationship at all, and then I ask them excruciatingly personal questions.

“When did you graduate from college?”

“Are you happy in your current employment?”

“What’s your salary?”

This week my research yielded a roster of employees for a company in Arizona. I had no idea if anyone on that list might be appropriate for the position I was trying to fill. It was simply a list of names, and I meant to call each one hoping to find the perfect candidate.

The second entry in alphabetical order was “Lou Boudreau.” That is not a common name, but to even the casual fan of baseball it will instantly recall one of the best shortstops in the history of the game. Lou Boudreau played for the Cleveland Indians and the Boston Red Sox between 1938 and 1952. At the very early age of 24 he was named as both player and manager for Cleveland and two years later he won the American League batting title. In 1948 he batted .355, was selected as the MVP in the American League and he did all of this while managing the Indians to a World Series victory. In 1970 he was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame.

After a few moments spent interviewing the Lou Boudreau whose name appeared on my list I realized that his career had taken him well beyond the position that I had to offer. Once our conversation lost its professional purpose I asked the obvious question, “I’m assuming it’s no accident that your name is Lou Boudreau.”

“You’re right,” he replied, “my father was the shortstop who made the name famous.”

“Terrific player,” I said, reminding him of a fact that didn’t require any reminder, “when I was living in Chicago he was ending his career as a sportscaster for the Cubs. They really loved him there.”

“I grew up while dad was announcing for the Cub’s. In fact, dad was still living close to Chicago when he passed away.”

“Wasn’t that just two or three years ago? I remember the entire city turning out for the funeral.”

“The city was good to dad,” he replied without much emphasis.

Sounding like a pathetically eager fan I asked, “Did you ever play baseball yourself?”

“Yes, I was only a fair player, good enough for minor league ball. My brother had more talent than I did. He pitched for a while in triple “A,” but never made it to the show.”

When he mentioned his brother’s turn at pitching I recalled a managerial feat credited to his father. “Wasn’t your dad the guy who converted Bob Lemmon from a so-so infielder to a star pitcher?”

“Yep, he had a special insight for things like that. He helped Bob Lemmon, and he also turned two sons with average talent into professional ballplayers… even if for only a short while. Dad could see strengths in people that people often couldn’t see in themselves. It was amazing how he could do that… how he could make people believe in the good part of themselves… the part that sometimes only dad could see.”

I paused at this description of an extraordinary gift. Of all the complements I had ever heard, this might supercede them all; the remarkable power to see what was best in someone – then to hold up a mirror so they could see exactly what you were seeing, and then make them believe.

I didn’t have an adequate response to an observation that sublime so I made a weak segue back to baseball. “Well anyway, he was one terrific shortstop.”

Lou the younger paused for a moment before revealing that he had one better complement to offer, “Yes you’re right,” he said, “dad was a good shortstop, but an even better father.”