An Innocent Abroad On The Baseball Diamonds

The second time Mathews came up, I photographed him in the on-deck circle. I remember thinking to myself, this guy doesn't look any bigger than me. But after the picture was developed I could see that even relaxing he had muscles on his arm that are not on mine.

"Want me to stand up and swing the bats or anything?" he asked cheerfully. "Just like you are is fine," I said. "How come you take so many pictures?" he asked. "The other photographers don't take nearly as many as you do." "I'm just starting," I said. "Most of them don't come out."

Later in the dugout we talked about the other players as they came to bat. The remark I remember most clearly was that he seriously suspected George Altman wore three pairs of socks so no one would know how skinny his legs are. His best pal among the Braves was Henry Aaron. In all the dugouts the stars hung together.

In the Braves dugout I learned something that struck me as sad. No matter how close ballplayers are as friends, they rate each other's abilities coldly, sometimes cruelly.

For example, when Tommy Aaron was going up to bat I asked a young Brave player with whom he'd just been sitting and laughing on the bench, "Is Tommy Aaron Henry Aaron's twin brother?" "No," the player said, "Tommy's younger."

"They look so much alike," I said, "it's hard to tell them apart."

"Yeah," the player said. "Tommy even has the same stance as Henry."

"You know, you're right," I said. "I'll bet I could take a picture of Tommy and say it was Henry and nobody would know the difference."

"Well, don't take it when he's swinging," his friend said, "because that's where the resemblance stops."

DUKE SNIDER