Recently, my cousin sent me a Post Cereal TV commercial that dates back to our childhood years. The company had a brilliant plan to get literally thousands of boys (and probably many girls) to put pressure on their moms to buy Post Cereal: What was the enticement? On the back of each box were several baseball cards featuring the stars of the day.
At that particular time in my life, I had outgrown my love of cars, and it would be several more years before I realized girls were something more than strange creatures. So between cars and women, I fell in love with baseball. Back in the day, I could recite each player's height, weight, position, and statistics. For example, etched into my brain forever are Roger Maris's stats for 1961: In 161 games, he officially came to the plate 590 times, hit a then-record 61 home runs, and knocked in 141 runs, while batting .269. To put this into perspective, I don't remember what I had for breakfast this morning. Did I have breakfast? Could it have been Post Cereal? Beats me.
One important rule my siblings and I learned early in life was to follow Dad's commands to the letter. He had a thick leather belt that he was not afraid to use on an offender's backside, and for the most sinister rule-breaking, he would haul out the razor strop. That thing left welts!
Each morning, Dad ate a huge breakfast, but amazingly, he didn't gain any weight. Unfortunately, I didn't inherit those genes. Just walking past a donut shop adds an additional five pounds to my frame. Anyway, while drinking several cups of strong black coffee, he devoured three eggs, three or four pieces of sausage or bacon, and at least a couple of slices of toast. Last but not least, he topped things off with a bowl of cereal.
One was smart not to mess with Dad's food. Being no dummy, I usually followed that rule. Patiently, I would wait until the box of cereal was completely empty before adding the baseball cards on the back of the box to my collection. However, sometimes exceptions must be made.
Many baseball stars of that era were my heroes: Sandy Koufax, Willie Mayes, Hank Aaron, Yogi Berra, Elston Howard, and Rocky Colavito, just to name a few. But my number one hero roamed center field for the Yankees. He had blazing speed and hit some of the longest home runs in Major League history. No one ever hit a fair ball out of the old Yankee Stadium, but this guy once hit a rocket that missed by inches! His name was Mickey Mantle.
The Saturday Baseball Game of the Week, featuring Dizzy Dean and Pee Wee Reese (I love baseball nicknames. My better half has one for me: “Dumb-Dumb”), usually had the Yankees playing against another American League team. Although at this moment I'm having difficulty remembering my wife's birthdate, I recall the normal lineup and batting order for the '61 Yanks: Bobby Richardson, 2B; Tony Kubek, SS; Roger Maris, RF; MICKEY MANTLE, CF; Elston Howard, C; Bill Skowren, 1B; either Yogi Berra or Hector Lopez, LF; Clete Boyer, 3B; the pitcher (There was no such thing as a designated hitter.)
It seemed like a typical day when Mom returned from the grocery store. Like always, among the goodies was a box of Post Cereal, thanks to my constant begging and cajoling. However, flipping the box over, I discovered the most important baseball card of all, a Mickey Mantle! Just like when my better half sees popcorn, I lost control. Grabbing the scissors from the kitchen drawer, I cut Mickey Mantle's card out, hoping Dad would not notice a slight hole in the rear of the box.
The next morning, after drinking a bunch of coffee and eating his eggs and bacon, Dad began to pour himself a bowl of cereal. Unfortunately, he spotted that gaping hole in the back of the box. For some unknown reason, he knew immediately which member of the family had committed this despicable deed.
In no uncertain terms, he read me the riot act. Miraculously, I escaped corporal punishment. In my defense, I had good arguments, but I knew better than to plead my case, for doing so was considered “talking back,” an offense Dad would never tolerate.
Perry Mason would argue that I idealized Micky Mantle so much that I could not help myself. Therefore, this was Mickey Mantle's fault for being such a talented and awe-inspiring athlete. Besides, the cereal box had an inner sack, so the cereal was not going to get stale or fall onto the floor. That's my defense and, after all these years, I'm sticking to it.
