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IN YOUR PRIME
Rainman Zane Ransom
This was the summer my lone grandson, who at age five is not much taller than a full-grown azalea bush, fell in love with
baseball. In truth, Zane Ransom Lindeman, of Alta Dena, CA oftentimes sleeps alongside his wooden Willie McCovey bat.
“We bought it at a flea market,” his father explains. His mother adds, “The next morning he opened one eye and asked, ‘Can I
have my bat?’”
“It’s his first real bat,” said Les Lindeman, onetime catcher/pitcher whom I coached long ago in Little League at Washington
Township, NJ. Now, blessedly, our lineage—constituting this affair of the heart—lives on.
To celebrate three generations of baseball fanaticism, we bonded males attended a game matching the hometown Atlanta Braves
vs. the New York Mets. Throughout the contest, which on a night notable for heat and humidity seemed endless, Zane stood and
kept up a running patois, reminding us and neighboring fans of the score, the pitcher’s count, the number of men on base, and
whatever else his sponge-like mind seized upon.
 Back at grandpa’s home in suburban Atlanta, the little visitor recited Hank Aaron’s career home run total, the won-lost
records of the major league division leaders, and the number of times Jackie Robinson successfully stole home.
“The Cardinals have won 82 games,” he might say, then: “the Yankees have the second best record in baseball…(Next) Ken
Griffey Jr. is hurt again…”
Witnessing his remarkable recitations, grandmother Jan Still-Lindeman volunteered how Zane-the-fan reminded her of the savant
in “Rainman.” Portrayed by Dustin Hoffman, he chattered away, offering comments such as, “Twenty minutes to Wapner (ck)…Uh,
oh, 10 minutes to Wapner!”
Back home in California, Zane and his Willie McCovey model play make-believe games in the backyard. He has his father and
protective sister Natalie, age nine, to pitch to him and field. More times than not the little guy puts “good wood” on the
ball, yet he’s no match for sister Natalie, a skillful schoolgirl softball player.
“She shows little mercy,” the father reports in a late email bulletin. Meanwhile, “Zane hates losing, and is volatile!”
This last is family code, meaning: “He’s like you, grandpa. Has a temper; hates to lose; gets all red in the face, throws
things…”
Why, you rightly ask, is this recitation of consequence? Because, like most grandparents, I have silently asked: “What do we
two have in common? Will Zane always like me? What can we talk about? When Zane gets older, will he want to spend time here,
with old grandpop?”
Now, I suspect I’ve got an edge. After all, I knew Jackie Robinson. Sure, I covered him in Brooklyn. In fact, I began my
52-year career in print journalism as an Associated Press sports reporter. I reported pitcher Don Larson’s perfect World
Series game in Yankee Stadium; I did a magazine piece with Frank Robinson, a Hall of Fame player, and I remember well Joe
Dimaggio, Ted Williams, Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays and third baseman Brooks Robinson, a veritable magician with a baseball
glove.
Maybe Zane will want to hear a story or three. At least, we shouldn’t run out of subject matter. Excuse me; I hear a ringing
telephone—and now when I pick it up I recognize a child’s voice saying: “Grandpa Bard, I hope you don’t feel bad…Shawn Green
(of the Dodgers) just hit a grand slam home run in the first inning…”
It seems the hometown Atlanta Braves had run into early trouble at Dodger Stadium, in Los Angeles. My on-scene reporter was
filing early copy. Perhaps, in a few years I’ll begin a conversation asking, “Zane, would you like to hear how the Brooklyn
Dodgers abandoned their New York borough and got to Los Angeles in the first place?”
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Outrageous Associations
