COMMENTARY : Giamatti Tribute Moving, Tasteful

NEW YORK —  It is a conceit not unfamiliar to writers, speakers and casual acquaintances to assert they know what someone would have thought had he been present for a particular occasion. To the charge of presumption, I plead guilty, and I hereby apologize to A. Bartlett Giamatti.

The late commissioner of baseball was honored Wednesday at Carnegie Hall. Billed as a “Celebration of Bart Giamatti in Baseball,” it was a moving and tasteful tribute consisting of words (many of his own), pictures and music. For a man whose tastes ran from Renaissance poets to slick second basemen, the choice of performers was appropriately eclectic.

There was the Yale University Glee Club, representing the institution Giamatti served as president before he was recruited by baseball. Priscilla Baskerville, identified as a friend from the Metropolitan Opera, sang “Amazing Grace,” said to be his favorite hymn. And then there was the leadoff singer, one Julius LaRosa, who offered the national anthem. According to Joe Garagiola, the master of ceremonies, Giamatti had personally requested LaRosa, in a fashion.

Garagiola read from an article in a San Diego newspaper in which the former commissioner had listed his choices for an all-time, all-Italian team. “I didn’t make that, either,” the catcher-turned-broadcaster lamented. But LaRosa did, in response to a question seeking a national anthem singer. Giamatti reportedly picked LaRosa over Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett and Jerry Vale. So LaRosa it was.

If such a close friend as Fay Vincent -- his successor and host for the tribute -- believed Giamatti would have enjoyed the moment, I certainly wouldn’t quibble. Besides, my interest was in the people this farewell of sorts attracted. I think he would have looked around at the assembled guests and been tempted to say, “Let’s choose up sides.”

No, not between management and labor, the division that threatens the start of next season, although many principals in the negotiations for a new basic agreement were on hand. They included Donald Fehr, executive director of the Players Association, and several owners, among them Peter O’Malley and John McMullen, members of baseball’s Executive Council. And players, at least former players, were conspicuous at the event. Ralph Branca sat alongside Eddie Lopat in the orchestra. Willie Mays was seated prominently in the side mezzanine, populated largely by baseball officials and their guests. Garagiola shared the stage with the likes of Dr. Bobby Brown, now the American League president, and Bill White, now his National League counterpart. But the two who had made the greatest impression upon Giamatti occupied adjoining seats, facing the audience, just to the left of Vincent. Once upon a time, Joe DiMaggio and Bobby Doerr had been great rivals.

In his first meeting with the future commissioner, six and one-half years ago, Brewers President Bud Selig recalled they had dinner in New York and then walked the streets until 1:30 a.m., talking baseball. “We replayed the ‘Summer of ‘49,”’ said Selig, in his remarks, “long before it became fashionable to replay the summer of ’49.” It was very fashionable this summer, 40 years later, after the publication of David Halberstam’s book. DiMaggio and Doerr, both Hall of Famers, were central figures in the tale of that season.

Garagiola read a passage written by Giamatti in which he marveled at Doerr’s grace and economy of style and expressed relief that, upon meeting his hero many years later, discovered the man was exactly the person he hoped he would be. “I, of course, was his most devoted fan,” Giamatti said himself in a taped interview that was played early in the program. The former commissioner, who suffered a fatal heart attack on Sept. 1, had attempted to play second base with limited success, he explained.

But his own lack of athletic ability heightened his appreciation for what major leaguers were able to do. Baseball games became an emotional outlet from the academic world while he was teaching and, later, leading Yale. And, after he succumbed to the tempting offer of everlasting boyhood presented by Selig and other owners, they became a focal point of his life.

Unlike some other commissioners, Giamatti was happiest at a ballpark. Roger Angell, the gifted writer for the New Yorker, said he attended a Mets-Reds game with Giamatti for the purpose of an article he was planning. The plans did not include the friends of John Franco, seated behind them.

But, soon enough, the Francophiles and the commissioner were drawn into conversation. Giamatti asked about their background, where they had played as youngsters and other questions that flattered and astonished them. Finally, Angell recalled, “One man said to Bart, ‘You’re a fan.’ And he replied, ‘Thank you, sir.”’

The commissioner of baseball considered it a compliment. Yet, Giamatti was no ordinary fan. His son Marcus, 28, hearkened back to a conversation they had during a Yankees-Red Sox game in the Bronx this past summer.

“He pointed out to the field,” said the son, an actor whose delivery spoke well of the Yale Drama School, “and said, ‘You see, Marcus, this is the last pure place where Americans can dream ... This is the last great arena, the last green arena, where everybody can learn the lessons of life.’ The game of baseball finally had become his greatest teaching tool