Beck happens to be one of the more successful athletes to have graduated from my high school. That in no way brings me anywhere closer to him, it just reminds me that he was a kid from the San Fernando Valley who went to Grant High School in Van Nuys — a regular joe. He was such a regular dude, that when I heard about his death, one of the first things I recalled was the story about him and his trailer in the minors. This was back in 2003 when he trying to make it back to the bigs, playing for the Cubs’ organization at Triple-A Des Moines. Beck spent the season living in a Winnebago that was parked behind the right field fence, welcoming strangers as his guests:
He unlocks a compartment beneath his RV, turns on the stereo and pulls out an ice cold Coors Light. His T-shirt reads, “You’re killing my buzz,” but his actions speak anything but. He tells baseball stories of the past, baseball stories of the present. He signs autographs. He offers cold beer. He gives tours of his luxury-laden RV. He lets people fiddle with the stereo, use the bathroom. On this night, his home is their home.
…
“Why rent an apartment, rent furniture, sign a lease, do all that stuff when I can just bring my own home, with my own stuff and then pick up and go whenever I want,” Beck said. “It just made sense.”
I love that story. How many guys do that? Beck was self-procliamed as an “old school” player. He was taught that ice was for bourbon, not his arm. He never lifted weights. He cracked open cold ones after games, and probably before. Only 38, Beck was definitely old school, and he’ll surely be missed.
Also see: Giant Tragedy [Mile High Ramblings]
