Politics and Baseball: May the Best Men Win

May the Best Man Win . . .

As for politics: I’m not sure how we can possibly make that determination anymore or what that term really means. Who is the best man? Between negative ads and the assertions of unqualified facts, figuring out who is best suited for the job, or any job, is a ridiculous proposition. Actually, I’m not sure that it has ever been easy to elect the best man or woman for any post during any election be it for leader of our country, state representative, county clerk, or sixth grade class president.

In 1966, Roger Foster, our much beloved and feared, whip-cracking, English Leather-wearing sixth grade teacher encouraged our understanding of the political process by holding an election for class president. Somehow, my hat was tossed into the ring (I swear I don’t know how that happened. I’ve never been known to wear a hat!) and I found myself campaigning against my good friend and ally, George Carr.

I honestly don’t remember doing much real campaigning. George and I each had our own pretty-much-evenly-divided contingent of supporters (as I recall, the election was also tinged with a battle-of-the-sexes element, boy against girl) but despite our proximity to Washington, DC, less than sixty miles from Reisterstown, Maryland, we  eleven-year-old sixth graders were decidedly apolitical.

What I do remember from that experience is pacing the shiny-tiled hallway outside the classroom door while the votes were cast by our classmates; whispering to George that no matter who won, we’d still be friends; wondering how the heck I’d gotten myself into this situation (I was already taking my turn working in the school store, serving as library assistant, and singing in the school choir); and hoping against hope that I would win if only to claim victory for my sex.

And then the heart breaking moment arrived. The ballots were cast, the votes were in, my opponent and I were ushered into the room. Brenda Brilliant announced the winner: George Carr! George shot off the floor and into the air like a rocket amid the cheers of every boy in our class. Relief swept over me as I congratulated George with a handshake and a sincere smile. But wait! Brenda consulted with her fellow ballot-counter Robin. Then they shook their heads in anguish. “There’s been a mistake,” Robin said. “We got the totals mixed up. The winner is Colleen!”

There must have been shrieks of joy from the girls in our class but all I could hear was the groan from the boys; all I could see was the look of defeat on George’s face as he crashed and burned; all I could feel was the bitterness of his disappointment and my own confusion in that moment of tainted victory. 

That election left a bitter taste in my mouth. As I grew older and watched the process of electing the best man unfold and change and become the media circus it is today, I always thought of George and I still do. George was a great guy and a good friend. He would have made a memorable class president. At least more memorable than me who doesn’t remember one thing I accomplished in office that year.

As for baseball: Despite Mr. Foster’s determination to introduce us to the ins and outs of the electoral process, and inadvertently the bitterness of defeat, during that fall election season, we tasted the joy of victory on another field of battle: the Baltimore Orioles beat the Los Angeles Dodgers 4-0 in the World Series and the best man of all was Frank Robinson, MVP. (Although personally, a case could be made for Brooks Robinson or Boog Powell. But that’s another story.)