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There's a story I told at my father's funeral a few years ago that gave an indication of what type of person he was.
I was somewhere in my tender years, under the age of 10, when he took me to a baseball game at Yankee Stadium, where the Yankees were playing the St. Louis Browns (had to be 1953 or before, since the Browns ceased to exist in 1954, moving to Baltimore).
A good way through the game the Browns had to summon a relief pitcher (something they did quite often) and the seemingly old man ambled in from the bullpen, which was deep in the outfield.
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