He claimed to be a champion.
“Yep, I was on the Cardinals’ roster in ’67 when they won the World Series.”
“Really?” I said, my eyebrows rising in skepticism. He sure didn’t look like a champion with his wrinkled clothes, grimy shoes, and drooping cigarette. He’d tried to bum some change off me outside of Clyde’s Diner in downtown St. Louis. I’d given him a few quarters and commented on his St. Louis Cardinals cap. That’s when he made his claim of being a “champion.” Almost certain he was lying, I decided to ask some questions that would expose him as an impostor.
“So who did the Cardinals beat in that series?” I asked.
“The Red Sox in seven games.”
That was true, but almost anyone could know that. I decided to hit him with a tougher question.
“Who was the MVP of that series?”
“Bob Gibson. Future Hall of Famer.”
Right again. I took a step back. Okay, maybe this guy was an avid baseball fan, but a former player? I decided to try some more specific questions.
“Hey, fella,” I said. “What’s your name? I follow baseball pretty closely. Maybe I’ll recognize it.”
“Jeb Armbruster.”
I shook my head, my skepticism rising again. “Never heard of you.”
Jeb shrugged. “That’s not surprising. I was only in the majors for two years. Rode the bench most of that time.”
“What position did you play?”
“I was a utility infielder, but Red usually used me as a pinch hitter.”
“Red?”
Now it was Jeb’s turn to give me a skeptical look. “Red Schoendienst, my manager. Don’t tell me you never heard of him.”
I rose up in indignation. “Sure, I know who Red Schoendienst is.”
“Was,” Jeb corrected. “Red passed away a few years ago. Didn’t you know that?”
“Of course,” I sputtered. “It was, um, July of 2018, wasn’t it?”
“No, June of that year.”
The gauntlet was down. More determined than ever to expose Jeb as a fraud, I continued my interrogation.
“Who was the toughest pitcher you ever faced?”
“Sandy Koufax,” Jeb replied without hesitation. “I only got one hit off him in nine at bats. Struck me out five times.”
“How about the best player you ever saw.”
“Stan Musial,” he answered without missing a beat. “That guy could do everything with both his bat and his glove.”
“And he was your team mate, right?” I thought I’d nail Jeb with that question. I knew “Stan the Man” retired as a player in the early 60s. That meant he and Jeb wouldn’t have been on the Cardinals at the same time.
“Not really,” Jeb said. “I saw Stan in spring training several times but back then I was still playing minor league ball in Tulsa.”
Well done, Jeb, I thought. I doubt you ever played on the Cardinals, but you do know a lot about baseball. I looked at my watch. “It’s been nice talking to you, but I have to get going.”
Jeb reached into his pocket. “Here, let me show you something –”
I waved him off. “Sorry, but if I don’t eat lunch now, I’ll be late for a meeting this afternoon.”
He nodded. “Thanks for the quarters,” he said and then headed down the sidewalk.
After my meeting, about an hour later, I saw Jeb again, this time from a distance. He was coming out of the Acme Unlimited Pawnshop across the street from Clyde’s. I chuckled to myself. Some champion. Where would he go next? A homeless shelter?
I never saw Jeb after that, but I’m pretty sure I saw something that once belonged to him. Because a couple of days later, I found myself waiting for a bus in front of the Acme Unlimited Pawnshop. To kill time, I looked over the items in the shop’s display window. That’s when I saw it, nestled between a gaudy purple necklace and a scuffed-up wristwatch. A black ring with a small baseball diamond at its center, encircled by the words “World Champions.” On one side “St. Louis Cardinals 1967” had been printed along with a tiny image of Busch Stadium.
The bus came and I got on feeling sad for having doubted Jeb’s story. But I felt wiser, too. Now I knew champions sometimes wore wrinkled clothes and grimy shoes. Sometimes a cigarette drooped from their lips and sometimes they went into pawnshops. And if I didn’t recognize them as champions, it was my problem, not theirs.