‘Splendid Splinter’s final at-bat was poetic end. Williams, then 42, clubbed homer No. 521 before Fenway faithful.’ Teddy Ballgame was 42. He had extended a career that had begun in 1939 into a fourth decade. He was a splendid 42. Two years earlier, he had earned his sixth American League batting title, at the age of 40. Travel, the constant battles with the Boston media and the ineptitude of the Red Sox had worn on him and told him it was time to recede into the baseball version of that good night against which Dylan Thomas raged, but, even now, he was batting .316 as he stood in to face Baltimore left-hander Steve Barber in the bottom of the first. Williams walked. Jack Fisher was the Orioles pitcher by the time Williams next stepped into the batter’s box, in the third. He lifted an easy fly ball to center. In the fifth, same matchup, similar result — except this time, the fly went to right and looked promising until dying an honorable death on the warning track. In the eighth inning, Fisher was still on the mound, ennui still gripped Fenway Park. Baltimore led, 4-2. Not that it mattered. Nothing seemed to matter … until the intimate crowd responded to the realization that Williams was striding to the plate in the Red Sox’s home whites for the final time. Even then, the greeting was relatively tepid; polite, not hysteric. As one, the house stood and applauded — a standing acknowledgment more than a standing ovation. Williams’ swing ruptured the serenity. As the ball …
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