Every so often, especially when anxiety is getting the best of me, I think of Jimmy Piersall, a gifted, but trouble baseball player who spent some time playing with my beloved Mets. It was his book, written the year I was born, that made the greatest impact on me. Eventually, what was then referred to as “crazy behavior,” we now understand as bipolar disorder.
I read the book at a young age, finding some comfort in knowing that others grew up in dysfunctional families. His mother, on occasion, needed to be hospitalized due to her mental health issues — she may even have been catatonic at times. I felt a kinship to Piersall’s childhood. My mother was never hospitalized, but it was alcoholism that kept her aloof and silent. I read his book over and over.
Many years later, I worked for someone who was scheduled to meet with Piersall at his post-baseball job. My boss couldn’t believe how excited I was, and I convinced him to take my well-worn book along with a note, asking for his signature and thanking him for writing about a then-taboo subject.
I still think that running backward around the bases to celebrate his 100th home run a was celebratory tribute to his fans as well as his tenacity to sticking with baseball, despite his mental health challenges. The Mets, however, didn’t see it that way and he was released two days later.
