I first heard of Jimmy McMath from teammates during the sweltering summer heat at high school baseball fields. Someone would indicate a tree five hundred feet away and swear McMath hit one into the upper branches. He was ten feet tall, fast as the wind, and could hit a baseball better than anyone who ever lived. At least anyone who ever lived around Tuscaloosa.

The only other bona fide local hero was Frank Lary, a journeyman major league pitcher for Detroit, except when he faced New York. His uncanny success against the Bronx Bombers of Mickey Mantle and Yogi Berra earned him the nickname Yankee Killer. Frank was the real deal; a major league baseball player when baseball was king.

Jimmy was sure to follow. Drafted by the Cubs in the second round of the 67 draft, he was playing minor league baseball before his high school class graduated. I followed his ghost around summer league games and during a couple of seasons of independent baseball. When I stopped playing baseball, Jimmy’s legend faded from memory.

Independent baseball; what a stretch. We were the token white team in a loosely organized organization; the only one without a home field. We traveled on a raggedy old school bus and competed in small communities on Sunday afternoons against local boys who were coming straight from church. Cow pasture baseball at its finest.

Often we had to wait for someone to run livestock off the playing field. I witnessed an inside the park home run near Aliceville when our third baseman refused to field a ground ball that landed in a cow patty on the second bounce. While we argued about who was willing to retrieve it, the batter circled the bases.

We played the Lewiston Blue Jays, supposedly the first team the Say Hey Kid played for. I asked a young spectator if he knew the great Willie Mays. He said, “Sure, she’s my auntie.”

We played in dirt poor places inhabited by descendents of slaves who never left. Every community had someone like Jimmy McMath. Guys who should have, could have, made it. The story was always the same. If he had been able to control his fastball or his urges, been a little smarter, worked a tad more, just gotten some breaks.

Some were still playing. Others had faded to memory. But Jimmy McMath was always there. Everyone had heard of him. He had either played on that particular field or someone there had played against him.

Jimmy never made the Show. He played minor league baseball until 1971 and was mediocre at best. A sad reality for someone who showed so much promise. Who knows what happened or what stopped him. Maybe his expectations were too low. Maybe ours were too high.

I was reminded of Jimmy McMath recently when I saw his obituary on the Tuscaloosa News website, wearing a Cubs hat. I hadn’t thought of him for nearly 40 years. I wonder how he handled not living up to his potential. I wonder if getting close ruined his life. I wonder if he stayed a baseball fan.

I hope he realized it wasn’t his fault but ours.