In these early days of the twenty-first century, 1950s baseball is owned by people about the age of B. H. Fairchild, poet of the Midwestern precision artisans, who sharpened their tools in that decade. Ownership carries responsibilities, including an obligation to James
William Gilliam, known as Junior,who played mostly second base for the
Brooklyn and interloper Dodgers. Mr. Fairchild’s unique, lyrical narrative
memorializes Junior Gilliam as only Mr. Gilliam deserves.
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Mr. Gilliam is the soul of what we’d like to remember about the 50s, work ethic, selfless individualism, team play, patience, and self interest. He started poor, played in the Negro Leagues, went to the majors, and hung on by sheer grit to make a career that came to so much more than the sum of its parts. He died suddenly, left memories of skill and endurance, and passed into that dim twilight Yeats bethought for those who’ve learned, “To troop with those the world’s forgot, /And copy their proud steady gaze.”
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But Mr. Gilliam is far from
forgotten. He pops up when people, mostly old men, let the summer recollections of that much derided decade saunter through their memories. Rich
Lederer is a little different since it was his
father who covered Gilliam, but Rich wound up with Gilliam's glove. Vin Scully
watched Gilliam play, and made this testimonial in 2015 at Nashville’s renaming of the
road in front of First Tennessee Park. When Gilliam died, at age fifty in 1978, he
was remembered around the world. Phil Gurnee made this case for Mr. Gilliam in
2010.


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