Those Darned Socks
“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”
-Hector Urquhart
If Tom Zachery had better stuff that brisk fall day in the Bronx in 1927, none of this might have happened. Working out of a full windup, he delivered a fastball right down the pipe, but the batter showed little interest. Zachery felt he got away with one and threw the next pitch high and out of the strike zone. With only one more game remaining in the season to get it done, the overflow crowd could almost feel the tension and the power in the batter’s grip as the ball again left Zachery’s hand. They had heard the resounding crack of the bat so many times before, but this one was special- number sixty for the Babe.
As is the case with many great moments in sports- the 1967 Ice Bowl in Green Bay, the United States hockey team taking down the Soviet Union at the 1980 Lake Placid Winter Olympics, “The Catch” as Montana connected with Clark in the waning moments of the 1982 NFC Championship Game- more people will claim to have witnessed the event in person than the seating capacity of the venue would have allowed. But Herb’s Great-Grandfather, Phineas Barnes, was there, and his presence set in motion a chain of events that became an integral part of the identity of the colorful Barnes heritage.
Sixty home runs in one season seemed to be an impossible mark, but with the Sultan of Swat sitting at fifty-nine, today’s game against the Washington Senators was the hottest ticket in town. Phineas’s father, Filbert, after thirty years of service at the city sanitation department, scored a couple of complimentary tickets to the big game. With his Dad’s blessing, Phineas skipped school that day and was sitting in the right field bleachers just rows from where the ball landed. He didn’t get the ball, but he left Yankee Stadium with his own piece of history… on his feet.
“I told you, Mom. If I wore my lucky socks to the game, the Babe would hit a homer! And he did!”
Claire Barnes was not a believer in luck being attached to any object, and having darned those socks many times, she had already developed a strong distaste for them. It was getting personal for her.
“Phineas, do you really think Ruth hit a home run because you were wearing those socks that you think bring you good luck? That’s ridiculous.”
Sixteen-year-old Phineas had an air of confidence and a smug smile on his face as he pointed down at the socks and up at his Mother. History was on his side.
“Well, Mom, I wore the socks, and he hit a homer. The proof is in the pudding.”
“Filbert, would you please tell our son that there is no such thing as lucky socks?”
“Well, Claire, he did wear the socks, and Ruth did hit a home run. Phineas might just have something there.”
The legend of the lucky socks cemented its place in history with one swing of the bat. It started with an A+ on an English assignment, his weakest subject. A few weeks later, wearing the same socks, Phineas scored a touchdown in his JV football game. There was no denying the magic in the socks when he asked the comely Leanne Marx to a school dance in the comfort of his special footwear, and she said yes.
Except for their role in helping to create a bit of history, the long socks appeared to be quite ordinary. They were wool with a black and gray checkered pattern. The only distinguishing characteristics were the holes and loose threads.
The socks had their own drawer in his dresser, and Phineas only wore them on the most special of occasions, usually when he felt he needed a little luck or just the power of positive thinking. Throughout his life, if Phineas would attend a Yankees or Giants game, he was wearing his lucky socks. If his team won, it was because of the socks. If his team lost, it was for a multitude of reasons and despite the power of the socks. It was no accident he was wearing them the night he proposed to his wife, but the special socks soon became a test of their marriage.
“Phineas, I’m getting tired of darning your stupid socks. What makes you think they’re so special? They’re socks for Christ’s sake.”
“I was wearing them when the Babe hit his 60th home run, Sally. That’s what makes them special. And don’t be talking about my socks that way.”
Phineas did well in his masonry business, and he attributed his success to having worn his lucky socks at all the pivotal moments such as job hires and equipment purchases. He had much to pass on to his children, and his Will left the best for last.
“I hereby bequeath to my son, Bernard, my most prized possession, my lucky socks. Bernie, you were the only one who understood the power of the socks, so I entrust their care to you. There is magic in the socks. Keep them safe. You have my permission to wear them but only at the most critical moments of your life. May they grant you all the blessings they have bestowed upon me.”
Bernard shed a tear. His wife, Beatrice, was not impressed.
“You’re brother Fred got the fishing boat, and you get the socks? Yeah, that seems fair.”
“They were Dad’s most prized possession. I’m honored to get them.”
“Oh, my God, Bernard, they’re socks… beat up, worn out, and darned over and over again. Why would anybody want them?”
Bernard spoke with the seriousness of a college professor delivering a lecture. He held the socks out in front of him to make sure his wife could get a good look.
“Beatrice, these socks were in the bleachers the day Babe Ruth hit his 60th home run. They are part of the history of America’s Pastime and since my father was wearing them that day, they are part of my family’s history. These socks are far more valuable than a fishing boat.”
Bernard carried the socks home in their special locked and padded carrying case. An intense argument followed regarding exactly where the socks would be kept. Bernard wanted them put in a lighted display case on the fireplace mantle while Beatrice insisted on stuffing them in a storage bin in the basement furnace room.
“I’m not having those darned socks on display in my living room!”
A compromise was reached. The socks would be kept on the fireplace mantle, but unseen in the urn Bernard had acquired for his father’s ashes before the family opted for a traditional funeral.
Bernard honored his father’s wishes. The socks remained in their secure location above the fireplace most of the time, and he would only show them to friends and family on special occasions. Truth be known, Fred was a tad bit jealous of his brother for having sole ownership of the lucky socks.
“Come on, Bernie, let me come over and look at the socks again. They’re part of my family history just as much as yours. And my kids want to see them again.”
“Fred, you were here just a few days ago. I don’t want them worn out.”
Another compromise was reached to keep the peace. Fred would get one hour of sock time every week, and Bernard would have the use of Fred’s fishing boat one Saturday a month.
Some nights, after Beatrice had gone to bed, Bernard would sit alone in the dark in his favorite chair and gently rub the socks between his fingers. He would think of Phineas and the Babe, and he could feel the magic.
Knowing he had his late Father’s blessing, he would wear them to the monthly poker games with his buddies and to his children’s sporting events. The results were well above average, and his belief in the power of the socks grew stronger every year.
For Beatrice, the real curse of the Bambino wasn’t the drought of the Boston Red Sox not winning a Championship for 86 years. It was the lucky socks. Bernard insisted they be hand-washed and hung out to dry in the fresh air, and she was tired of constantly mending them.
“Bernie, this is ridiculous. You can almost see through these stupid socks. Please let me toss them.”
Another compromise was reached. Bernard could keep his socks, Beatrice could keep her stupid cat, and her Mother could still come to visit.
Bernard often reminded his children of the significance of the socks. He told them they needed to know and respect their heritage, and that the socks should always remain within the family. They must never be sold.
“Your Grandpa Phineas was wearing these socks in the stands when the Bambino hit home run number 60. They were good luck for Grandpa, and they were good luck for the Babe. They will always bring good luck to our family.”
The lucky socks were passed down to Bernard’s oldest son, Harold. They came in the urn once intended to hold the ashes of Phineas Blum, and without a fireplace, the vessel was placed in the center of the dining room table. Harold’s wife, Martha, at first objected, but she liked the design and craftsmanship of the urn, and as long as the cover was on, the dirty old socks smell was contained.
Harold treated the socks with such reverence that they were only taken out of the urn for the purpose of viewing the special heirloom. He never even considered wearing them, no matter how much luck they could bring or the magnitude of the occasion. But it was inevitable.
“Dad, my soccer tryouts are tomorrow. Can I please wear the lucky socks?”
Harold had considered the possibility of this dilemma a hundred times. He knew the day would come. The two competing values of the socks were on a collision course- a precious heirloom to be protected and preserved or a useful tool that could accomplish great things. His son vs. Grandpa’s socks. In the end, it was an easy choice.
“I’m sorry, Herbie, we honor the socks. We don’t wear them.”
Martha felt for her son. She wasn’t a believer in the lucky socks, but she understood the power of positive thinking.
“Harold, why don’t you let him wear the socks just this one time? He believes in them. It might give Herbie some confidence.”
“I understand how you feel, Martha, but I can’t take any chances with the socks. They’re too valuable. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to them.”
At one point Harold tried to have the socks insured, but he was unable to find a company that would underwrite them for the value he suggested. He worried that the story of the socks would become known and that some unscrupulous character would be selling knockoffs out of his trunk in the parking lot of Yankee Stadium.
Harold was a great believer in tradition. Every year on the anniversary of Ruth’s 60th home run, the family would gather in the living room to admire the socks and remember the moment. Harold bowed his head and spoke in a reverent tone.
“On this date, September 30th, 1927, George Herman Babe Ruth sent a baseball over the right field fence for his 60th homer of the season. Children, your Great-Grandfather Phineas Barnes was there, and he was wearing these socks.”
At this point, Harold pulled the socks out of the urn with the care of a mother holding a newborn baby.
“This is history right before your eyes, passed down from your Great-Grandfather Phineas to your Grandfather Bernard to your Father. As the oldest, someday these socks will be yours, Herbie. Cherish them, respect them, and hold them close to your heart. These socks are the Barnes Family Coat of Arms.”
The socks were passed around from family member to family member, each savoring the precious moment. The ceremony went quickly as Harold had imposed a one-minute time limit for each person to possess the lucky socks.
Herbie didn't make the soccer team. He also didn’t make the basketball team, was nixed at tryouts for the school play on the 1st day, trounced in the Student Council elections, and he couldn’t find a girl who would talk to him much less go out with him. He blamed his father, of course, for he knew in his heart everything would have been different if he had been wearing the lucky socks.
Harold struggled with it. He felt the obligation to preserve the socks for posterity, but he hated to see his son rack up one humiliating failure after another. Was the true value of the socks in its history, or in the present? What’s the point of owning the Hope Diamond if you can’t wear it?
“Herbie, I see baseball tryouts are coming up. Are you going to try out for the team?”
“What’s the use? I’m no good at anything.”
Harold smiled. He was clutching the lucky socks behind his back.
“Well, what if you were wearing these bad boys at tryouts?”
Herbie’s smile darn near broke his face.
“Really?! Do you mean it?”
“Yes, I mean it, Herbie. They weren’t doing any good in your Grandpa Bernard’s intended ash bin. I was a fool. Let’s put them where they could do some good… on your feet.”
Herbie batted 325 that year with 15 home runs, which is a lot for High School baseball. Every time Herbie rounded the bases in a home run trot, he pictured the Babe hitting number 60 with his Great-Grandpa Phineas sitting in the stands wearing the same lucky socks.
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