One evening in the late 1970s, having just returned from a work trip, my father presented me with one of his business cards. I don’t think I knew what a business card was at the time, but I sensed that whatever he was showing me was deeply meaningful. He got in real close, smelling of cologne and Dewars, held it up and then flipped it over, revealing barely legible scribble on the back. “Do you know who this is?” he asked. And though I was just five years old and could barely read, much less read half-assed cursive, I absolutely, immediately, one hundred percent knew. It was the signature of Reggie Jackson. Reggie. I knew it implicitly. I knew it from the wrapper of the “Reggie Bar.” I just knew it.

As my father internally considered the decision to entrust me -- a child -- with his treasure, he started to explain its provenance. Along with every single person at LaGuardia Airport that day, he had spotted Mr. October waiting to board a plane. Reggie was a Yankee at the time and the most famous American athlete not named Muhammed Ali. He sported an immaculate, tight afro, a manicured mustache, tan bellbottoms, a light brown turtleneck, a leather belt and a mink coat. Yes -- a mink coat. I recall the details because my father was himself quite a dandy and paid extra attention to the ensemble. In spite of the surrounding crowd, which was mostly women and children, dad muscled his way through to procure Reggie’s priceless scribble.

Forty plus years later, I no longer have that business card. I wish I did. Not for any market value. It’s probably not worth much. But, mostly so that I could confirm the story I remember is not (entirely) apocryphal. Regardless, the memory has endured -- on account of my father’s Faulkneresque description of the tremendous effort required by Reggie to put pen to cardstock. As the story goes, he politely agreed, but continued talking to his friends or handlers. While holding several side conversations, he then asked my father for a pen, then asked if my father would be able to hold his mink coat during the signing, then, once my father consented, he took off the mink coat, then draped it over my father’s arm, which was extended like a hanger, then loosened up his arm like a relief pitcher, signed the autograph, and then, finally, traded it back to my father in exchange for the mink coat. I could tell from the narration that my father’s enthusiasm was just one percent related to the actual souvenir and a million percent related to Mr. October’s pageantry. My dad had a thing for pomp and circumstance.

Of the many stories my father told me when I was young, the Reggie autograph tale has oddly endured. My dad traveled a lot for work and, through his business, had occasional run ins with celebrities or larger than life personalities. So, it’s not like I hadn’t heard my share of glamorous, possibly tall tales. And it’s not because I was a massive Reggie Jackson fan, either. Reggie wasn’t my guy. Eddie Murray was. However, like every kid who loved baseball in the 70s, when I was alone in my room, I would pretend that it was the bottom of the ninth of game seven, three men on and two outs, three balls and two strikes and I was Mr. October at the plate. In truth, it wasn’t the fame or stature or godliness of the author that impressed me about the autograph. It was something else. It was -- at least according to my dad’s story -- how hard he made it look. The dressing up and then the mink coat undressing and the talking to a million people while folding and hanging the coat on my dad’s arm and the warming up of his arm and, finally, the actual signature. That was what stuck. It sounded completely exhausting. And yet, I knew he had to do that many times every day of his life. That seemed impossible.

Many years later, I realized that was the thing about Reggie: he made everything look very difficult. Simple things. Less simple things. But, especially, amazing things. He wasn’t Michael Jordan soaring. He wasn’t Ali floating. He wasn’t joyous like Willie Mays or effortless like Ken Griffery Jr. He was a baseball player, carved from a chunk of granite, who, as a teenager, developed extraordinary strength and dexterity. And those qualities were enough to ensure stardom in high school and college and the minor leagues. But those five hundred and sixty three home runs (plus eighteen more in the postseason) were the product of something else: effort. When Reggie Jackson swung the bat, he swung with every ounce of might and every muscle in his muscle-bound form. More often than not, he would swing and miss. His helmet would pop off. He’d fall to his knees. He’d cork himself around two hundred and seventy degrees. It looked genuinely dangerous for everyone involved. But, he almost never got injured. And he swung with that same force all eleven thousand four hundred and eighteen times he appeared at the plate. For twenty-plus seasons, he made us believe that winning wasn’t about being better, but about trying harder.

When Barry Bonds hit home runs, it looked like a confirmation of scientific fact. When Hank Aaron homered, it looked like a magic trick -- a simple flip of the wrists. When Mark McGwire went yard, it looked like King Kong was clubbing away a fly. But when Reggie homered, it looked like an actual man, swinging with all of his might, to accomplish something extraordinary. And it wasn’t just his home runs. His cap would fly off when he chased down balls in the outfield. He wore glasses! Reggie wasn’t some old knuckleballer or reliever wearing glasses. He wasn’t Phil Niekro or Kent Tekulve. Reggie had to run around and do things. He had to explode (or implode) at the plate four and half times per game while wearing old fashioned, prescription lenses. 

Plus, he was constantly fighting. Reggie fought with coaches. He fought with owners. He fought with teammates. He fought with the press. He insulted people, sometimes intentionally but mostly by accident. When he came to New York, in spite of leading the team to two world championships, he was voted the least popular athlete in the city by a local paper. During his playing career, he was shot at once and robbed by gunpoint another time. When not on the field, he tried his hand at broadcasting and acting, providing color commentary during the baseball postseason and doing guest spots on “Diff’rent Strokes,” “The Jeffersons,” “Archie’s Place” and “MacGuyver.” Meanwhile, Reggie had a lot working against him. Racism. New York media. Billy Martin. Thurman Munson. George Steinbrenner. Charlie Finley. It was surprise that he outworked the competition. It was quite another thing, though, to make everything look so goddamn hard.

Young Reggie was, of course, remarkably gifted. In 1969, at twenty three, he was ahead of Ruth’s 1927 home run pace through the All-Star break. At twenty seven he was named MVP. By the time he was thirty two, he’d already won five World Series titles and two World Series MVPs. That Reggie was deserving of worship. And he got it. And much more. But it’s not that version of Mr. October I’m most interested in. I love “Old Reggie.” In 1982, Reggie left the Yankees, who had theoretically replaced him with Dave Winfield, but who would not win another title for nearly two decades. He headed west, but not to the famed (and hated) Dodgers. No. He went to Anaheim. In the previous decade, he’d shared dugouts with guys named Rollie, Campy, Goose and Catfish. But that was then. Now, he was playing alongside more straight-laced talent like Bobby Grich, Don Baylor and Rod Carew. It wasn’t Oakland. And it sure wasn’t The Bronx. But the Halos had a shot. 

The Reggie that arrived in California was slightly past prime. He was only two years removed from an MVP-caliber season, but he was also settling into the early middle age that plagues athletes. He appeared a little heavier. Softer. And slower. In ‘81, his last season with the Bombers, he’d hit under .240 and slugged under .430. He was not much better than a replacement level player. But, whatever physical gifts he’d lost, he more than made up for with effort. After a slow start in ‘82, the aging slugger caught fire, finishing the year with thirty nine home runs (tied for the AL lead and the third most of his career). The Angels made the postseason. And Mr. October -- with just a few more grays and a little more paunch -- was back.

Except, he wasn’t. In 1983, Reggie got hurt and gutted his way to a .194 average, fourteen home runs and an OPS+ of seventy four -- suggesting that he was about seventy four percent as productive at the plate as the league average. Previously in his career, he’d never been under one hundred and twenty. Eventually, Reggie mostly healed up. He slimmed down a bit. He tried even harder. He was prideful, to say the very least. But he never really returned to form. Because, unless they are Barry Bonds or David Ortiz, that’s what happens to ballplayers as they age. They wear down and regress. They put on weight. They get injured and miss games. And, eventually, they retire. 

Reggie experienced all of those things. But, also, he resisted mightily. In 1985, he started to get more selective at the plate. He swung less and walked more. In 1986, he walked ninety two times in just one hundred and thirty two games. So while he only batted .241, his on base percentage was nearly one hundred and thirty points higher. It was a trick that had worked for Willie Mays in 1971 when, at the age of forty, he hit “only” eighteen home runs but walked one hundred and twelve times. When Reggie did swing the bat in ‘86, he was still, almost, the same Reggie. His “nacho helmet” would fly off. He’d end up on one knee. Or he’d hit a ball so hard and so far into the stands that you genuinely felt bad for the pitcher. But, in those cases, it did not seem that the pitcher was bested by a superior athlete. Young Reggie was one thing, but not Old Reggie. No — it seemed that the pitcher had been beaten by a man who was just trying much harder.

In 1987, Reggie returned to the Oakland A’s for one last go around, serving as a part time celebrity player and mentor to young Jose Canseco and Mark McGwire. Though he was forty one at the time, something in the Oakland weight room must have rubbed off because Reggie looked bigger and more muscular that season. Early photos inspired dreams of a golden, October sunset. The A’s had promise -- they were young and very talented. But it was not their time just yet. And it was no longer Reggie’s time. He struggled all season, until he was relegated to spot appearances and pinch hitting duty. He ended the year with a whimper at the plate, but ovations in the stands. After the season ended, Reggie still held onto some tiny hope that he might return as a player, or player manager, or something. He sparred over the question on Late Night with David Letterman. He snapped at reporters who presumed the end was a given. Retirement is hard for most people, but Reggie made it look really hard.

Unsurprisingly, Reggie stayed busy. He had his classic cars and his dealerships. And, in 1988, he became the face of Sega’s immensely popular “Reggie Jackson’s Baseball.” That same year, he co-starred in “The Naked Gun,” where he played himself and attempted to assassinate Queen Elizabeth, before being foiled by Frank Drebin / Enrico Palazzo. For children of the late 80s and 90s, it is that Reggie -- older, sillier, in his Angel’s uniform, wearing prescription shades -- that they remember. But, not me. I don’t remember the young Oakland phenom. And I don’t really remember the magic of 1977. I remember a man who looked like a strong man, but still like a man -- not like a bull, like Greg Luzinski, or a viking, like Gorman Thomas. Reggie just looked like a strong guy, who wanted it more. Who swung with more force. Who cared more. Who tried harder. And who made it very easy to see how very hard it was to hit a home run.

In the years that have passed, many of Reggie Jackson’s accomplishments have gathered dust or been surpassed. Others have hit three homers in World Series games. A handful of sluggers surpassed six hundred career home runs. And, though he still holds the ignominious, career strikeout record, modern day hitters whiff far more often than he ever did. For comparison, “WAR machine” Mike Trout strikes out more frequently than Reggie did. Today, Reggie obviously looks older, but still fit and debonair. He pops up on TV now and then and remains an insightful interview subject. He’ll always be “Mr. October.” But his former, gargantuan fame now seems almost quaint in the post-Jordan era of global player-brands.

This past fall, after nearly thirty seasons as a special advisor to The Yankees, Reggie said farewell, again. It was time. And it was not unexpected — except for the fact that days after he shared the news, he announced that he’d accepted a similar, but better, job with the Houston Astros. Reggie? To the Astros? It could have been a clean break — a fond farewell. An overdue retirement. It probably should have been. He could have enjoyed a peaceful, golden autumn. But, even at seventy three, it appeared that Reggie Jackson couldn’t do the hard thing the easy way.

by Matty Wishnow