Seize the Day by Andy Bull

In 1972, I was a 10-year-old boy growing up in the San Fernando Valley outside of Los Angeles, California. My best friend was Dale Collins. His older brother, Donnie, was the bat boy for the Cal State University Northridge (formerly San Fernando Valley State College) baseball team. We lived right across the street from the campus and knew every inch of it. We rode our bikes everywhere and knew how to get into almost every building on campus. It was our playground.

But the access we had to the nationally ranked baseball team through Donnie was one of the highlights of this period of my life. We just hung around at practices, chased down home runs, and got into the games for free. We could literally just ride our bikes up to a side gate by the home team dugout and someone from the team would let us in. It wasn't uncommon to sit in the dugout with the players during the games. We just came and went like family.

The 1972 CSUN Matadors were an exceptional group of guys. They were an amazing team that was headed for the national championship for their division. I remember liking all of them. They were a fun-loving group and were really kind to us kids. They took us in. I still remember a lot of their names (even without looking at the signed baseball I got after they won the regional championship) - Marty Friedman, "Doc" Holloway, Rand Rasmussen, Pat Russell.

Then there was Lyman Bostock. He was the superstar player on a team of college level superstars. But what I remember most was the joy he had playing the game, his friendly manner - all his teammates seemed to like him - and his ever-present infectious smile. It was just fun to be around these guys as a kid. My friends and I all loved sports and dreamed of playing for coach Hiegert someday - dreamed of celebrating our own success the way these guys did.

I will never forget the thrill of watching these guys win the regional championship at home and going around to all the players to get one of the home run balls that I retrieved signed after the big game. They high-fived Dale and me like we were part of the team and signed our souvenirs. There was such a crowd around Bostock that I decided to get his signature last. As the crowd thinned out, I noticed that Lyman was sitting in the dugout with a teenager that I later found out was his cousin. As easy going as Lyman was, I felt a little hesitant to approach him. He was obviously a big deal - a superstar now. He noticed my hesitance. "Hey, man - is that my home run ball!?", he said as I stood there with Dale, afraid to interrupt his conversation. "Well come here, man, let me sign it!", he said with a big smile.

I got the entire team's signature that day. I was so proud - like somehow, I was part of the team. For a little kid, I was. They went on to the national championship and finished second in the nation. Several went on to the minor leagues, and I think Marty Friedman went to the big leagues for a short time. None made it big - except for Lyman. He was drafted by the Minnesota Twins, and quickly became a major league star. He hit over 330, and they were talking future Hall of Fame very early in his career. Yes, he was THAT good. I followed his career closely.

Then, in 1978 the California Angels signed him! He was coming home. He was now a major league superstar, I got his autograph when I was a young boy, and now he was going to play for the home team! The Angels signed him to a two-million-dollar contract (a LOT at that time), and California baseball fans were buzzing with the news.

Lyman's career and life came to an abrupt end his first year with the Angels after a game in Chicago when he was gunned down by the estranged husband of a high school friend, with whom he was having dinner. The world will never know how great a baseball player he could have been, and I remember crying when I heard about his murder. He was one of my heroes in life. I just kept playing it over and over in my head; "Well come here, man, let me sign it!", with a big smile.

That baseball with the 1972 Matador's signatures meant a lot to me. I remember being so excited showing it to my father when I got home. I was especially proud of the last signature I got on that day - Lyman Bostock's. I was just a little kid, but he made me feel important. I wasn't a bother to him.

I have never been much for saving souvenirs or collecting things. But I carried that baseball around with me for almost 20 years. When I joined the Army in 1991, I left the few possessions I had with my dad and went off to basic training. Over the years, the baseball was seen less and less. Occasionally I would find it when I was home on leave. But eventually, it was nowhere to be found. But I knew dad still had it somewhere and that it would turn up.

It wasn't until July of 2018, while he was packing in preparation for his move from Las Vegas to Williamsburg, Virginia to live with my sister and her husband, that it turned up again. He returned the ball to me during a short stay with my family in Nashville on the way to his new life in Virginia. And the memories came rushing back. Memories of my father, my greatest hero in life. Memories of my childhood; riding my bike all over the vast university campus; recovering a home run ball, hit so hard by the Matador's power hitter Pat Russell that it was oval in shape; and Lyman Bostock - the grace with which he played the game, and the impression he made on me as a child.

Yes, Lyman Bostock was a childhood hero. But later in life I came to understand the extent of his greatness as a human being through a man's eyes. He was a leader on the college team in part because he was a little older than his teammates. I did some research a few years ago and found out that he put his baseball aspirations on hold after high school to participate in the civil rights movement. He loved baseball and had a special gift. But he loved justice more. He had a higher calling.