“He doesn’t even know us, but wrote it seems like he knows all of us.”
That was the remarkably insightful response from one of the young adults with severe learning disabilities whom I taught in the late 1960s. We had decided we would write to Brooks Robinson, the great Baltimore Orioles third baseman, as a class project. In the letter, we asked if he would write a letter back wishing all of us good luck in the future. Almost immediately, we received a response to our correspondence.
Brooks will be 81 on May 18, and I wish him every happiness. When we wrote to him, Brooks was a human “Hall of Fame” stat line. Wrapping up his career after 23 years, from 1955 to 1977, the numbers (and Brooks was far more than mere numbers) leaped out at you: 16 All-Star games, 17 Golden Gloves, MVP in 1964, 2,896 games played, 286 home runs, and 1,357 runs batted in.
In 1976, his best year, Brooks made $120,000. Imagine what Brooks might be worth if he were playing today. They didn’t have multi-year contracts back then, and free agency was just beginning to test the baseball waters.
Among the many great athletes of that time, Brooks Robinson was arguably the most admired and beloved of all. We remember Brooks as a baseball legend, a magician at third base. It was said, among other descriptions of his play, that he was the best defensive player at that position of all time; that the ball always found its way to his glove, as if it had eyes. More than that, we remember Brooks as a consummate gentleman and one who lent class and character to the game while representing our proud, blue-collar, lunch-box town. You could argue that Cal Ripken and Brooks Robinson were neck-and neck for being all-things-Baltimore-baseball. In the category of the most beloved, though, it had to be Brooks.
Oh yes, the letter from Brooks. A story goes with it.
So there I was, working with 18 young adults with severe learning disabilities in a facility in Baltimore County. With the number 18, perhaps I would meet with success, I thought. Many of my students came with myriad pathologies and from purposeless family environments. In those days, not many educators wanted to work with this type of student. However, they were my students, and I found them caring, compassionate, and generous. Many wanted to be in school, but some showed very little interest in being there. I desperately wanted to help them meet with success. This was the time before Public Law 94-140 requiring “equal accommodations” for all children. It was a time before IEPs and “mainstreaming” and “inclusion.”
My very first challenge was to try to build trust where none existed. I took Mark Twain’s quote as my motto: “The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them,” he said. I made every effort to trust these young people, and after some time I did trust them, and they trusted me. It certainly made for a healthy teaching environment.
One day, I decided to innovate somewhat and attempted to develop an unclouded, out-of-the-box learning approach. Some of my students found news and current events interesting, so I ordered copies of the Baltimore Sun to be delivered daily to my classroom. To my surprise, the Sun gave them to us for free.
It occurred to me in that pre-computer era that everybody liked to get letters. The students and I discussed it and decided we would write to a broad range of “famous” people that we read about in the newspaper, in the hope that some would write back.
These students had very poor reading and writing skills. They could, however, speak quite well. So despite their language learning limitations, we mailed approximately 100 letters that I wrote, using their verbal input, with high hopes of getting responses in return. The letter included a request that the recipients write back, giving wishes to the students to never give up. Senators, congressmen, entertainers, athletes, doctors, and scientists, and anyone else we could think of became part of our letter-writing activity.
My students and I were simply overwhelmed with the many responses we received from these famous individuals, including Daniel Inouye, Wernher von Braun, Roger Staubach, John Glenn, Evelyn Lincoln, personal assistant to John F. Kennedy, and many more. The letters were a tremendous gift that had a very significant impact on my students. Sadly, many of the people who responded with a letter are no longer with us.
The very first letter came from Brooks Robinson. It was a perfect letter to send to my special needs students. It was handwritten and quintessential Brooks, letting us know he was thinking about us. He wished everyone well and mentioned that he would be watching the World Series and knew that we would too. And he hoped to see us at Memorial Stadium next season.
The students and I were thrilled beyond description by his letter. We read it over and over. If the students were here today, they would shout in unison, “We wish you well, Brooks. Thank you for your wonderful letter!”
As often happens when you spend time with students like these, they begin to see you as a surrogate parent, and you begin to care for them as if they were your own. We spent the better part of two years together, and I learned a great deal from them. I often ask myself where they are today.
As for the letter, I’ve kept and treasured it all these many years. Everyone loved Brooks, not so much for his flawless baseball skills but because Brooks was a mensch, truly a person of integrity and honor. Hopefully, one day I’ll get to meet him.
Dr. Shavrick is former Director of Education, Maryland State Department of Health and Mental Hygiene. He can be reached at asshavrick@gmail.com.
