The man on the left needs no introduction to baseball fans. Willie Mays, who passed away last week, was one of MLB’s greats – a legend. The man on the right, my father, less so. The photo, which my younger brother had found in our attic after my father died nearly a decade ago, was probably taken at an “industry” event. That industry being of the shmatta variety. Mays was probably a spokesman for the Italian suiting line, and my father, a year older than Mays and then still a young salesman of fine menswear fabrics, may very well have had a hand in selling Petrocelli the cloth for Mays’s suit. Eventually, my father, Martin Moses (Mo to his friends), would make the great entrepreneurial leap. He and a partner open their own business that designed and sold the men’s suiting fabrics (Eighteen International).
To find a record of my father sitting with Mays like they were old friends was, actually, no real surprise. For as a cousin commented on my Facebook post of the picture: “Well, everyone knew Marty.” And there was much truth to that. Walking in midtown Manhattan with him meant stopping to chat with someone at nearly every corner. Once, when I was a college student wending my way back from the West Coast, I caught a red-eye connection home to New York via Dallas. The seven-a.m. flight was filled with businessmen. As we took off, I made small talk with one of them seated in my row. After he mentioned that he was in menswear, he gave me a stare and proclaimed, “Ah, you’re Mo’s son!”
My father was a huge sports fan and had become good friends with Mays’s mentor in the big leagues, the hall of fame outfielder Monte Irvin, who worked for the MLB after retiring. This was back in the day when men wore suits for every and any occasion. My father was a conduit for quality fabrics for his friends like Irvin, who often returned the favor by getting my brothers and me great seats for Yankees home games. This was in the late 70s when those pinstripes were on a roll.
My father also became good friends with the head usher at Madison Square Garden, a certain Mr. Baldo. This meant that I grew up on a steady diet of Knicks and Rangers, often seen while sitting on the steps between aisles after being escorted there by the usher’s boss. (He would always find my father an actual seat, though).
My father didn’t only know everyone, he was actually friends with many of them. I think the secret behind his own social network was two-fold. First, he was a man who deeply respected others – no matter if they were major leaguers or local gardeners. He knew that every individual had an inherent value and he treated them as such. If ever our long-time housekeeper’s husband might arrive to pick her up, my father would always address him as Mr. Thrasher, even though his wife was “only” our maid. The sales team that he assembled once he had his own business was made up nearly entirely of young men with little formal education who he basically picked up off the streets of New York – willing to give each of them a chance despite their backgrounds.
And second, he was generous to a fault, always willing to share with others that which he had. Once, a well-known Jerusalem Judaica artist was visiting New York trying to find buyers for his art. He met with my father, who not only pointed the artist in the direction of many likely buyers, but worried that he would wear himself out shlepping all over, let him set up shop in one of his own showrooms where potential clients could view his wares in comfort.
Being off his home turf was no detriment to giving either. A cigar lover, he would make sure to stock up on Fidel’s best during his two or more yearly visits to Israel (from which he surreptitiously made the return trip to Cuba-embargoed New York). While we were strolling near Machneh Yehuda one erev Shabbos, I needed something from the old French homeopathic apothecary on Jaffa Road, so we ducked inside. Mani, the owner, smelled my father’s Montecristo, took in a deep breath and sighed with pleasure. In a moment, my father’s hand reached into his jacket pocket and extracted another, which he handed to him with a wink and a smile. “I see that you’re an aficionado. Here, for you my friend.” And from that moment on, he was one.
Did my father really know Willie Mays? Maybe. They had a few things in common other than dressing well. They were both army veterans who served in Korea. And although it was only in a Sunday morning bungalow-colony-league softball game, my father had his own famous “catch.” An outfielder, he once ran down a high hit to center only to suddenly disappear in a drainage ditch that swallowed up him and the fly ball. After a few moments, he crawled out from six-feet under (he was only five-six) with a huge smile, triumphantly waving the ball in his glove. Did he really catch it down out of sight in that ditch? Maybe. But that’s for him and Willie to discuss now over a nice here-after cigar.
