[Congressional Record Volume 148, Number 113 (Tuesday, September 10, 2002)]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Page E1538]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]
JOHNNIE ROSEBORO, LOS ANGELES DODGERS ALL-STAR CATCHER
______
HON. DIANE E. WATSON
of california
in the house of representatives
Tuesday, September 10, 2002
Ms. WATSON of California. Mr. Speaker, it is with great sadness that
I announce the passing of Johnnie Roseboro, an All-Star catcher for the
Los Angeles Dodgers. John passed away on August 16 at Cedars-Sinai
Medical Center in Los Angeles. He was 69.
Johnnie Roseboro played in the major leagues from 1957 to 1970 with
the Dodgers, Minnesota Twins, and Washington Senators (now the Texas
Rangers). He was named to All-Star teams in 1958, 1961, 1962 and 1969,
and won Gold Gloves for his defensive play in 1961 and 1966. Roseboro
became the Dodgers' starting catcher in the team's first season in Los
Angeles, replacing the legendary Roy Campanella who had been paralyzed
in an auto accident.
Roseboro was nicknamed ``Gabby'' by his teammates because he went
about his business quietly and without fanfare. He always carried
himself with dignity and class. These attributes are exemplified in the
aftermath of the famous bat swinging incident in which San Francisco
Giants pitcher Juan Marichal inflicted a two inch gash on Roseboro's
forehead. The incident tarnished Marichal's reputation, who was only
voted into baseball's Hall of Fame after Roseboro publicly stated that
he thought Marichal was being unfairly kept out the Hall of Fame.
Roseboro's nobility of mind and heart defined him in his life both on
and off the baseball diamond. He is survived by his beloved wife,
Barbara Fouch-Roseboro and daughter, Morgan Nicole Fouch-Roseboro and
his children by a former marriage, daughters Shelley Roseboro, Staci-
Roseboro-Shoals, and Jaime Roseboro.
In closing, I would like to enter into the Record the following
eulogy to Mr. Roseboro, prepared by Oliver Herford.
[lsqb]From the Eulogy for Johnnie Roseboro[rsqb]
``A Man is Known By the Silence He Keeps''
(By Oliver Herford)
Some men walk through life making all a big ado. Puffing up
their chests when reminiscing on unremarkable past
accomplishments and feats. Opening wide their mouths to expel
dubious wisdom and conspiracies, tendering words upon words
upon words, but no meat.
But other men forgo words and express their abilities in
deed. They do so simply, without fuss nor fanfare, dancing
nor prancing. They just step up to the plate, eye the ball
and swing. Sometimes, the ball grazes the tree tips and is
going . . . going . . . gone, or it may foul backward into
the stands. Regardless. For these few exceptional men, each
gesture--win or lose--is always authentic and with the full
weight of their being, forcing witnesses to pause, slack-
jawed, in awe-inspired amazement.
There is little wonder into which camp John Roseboro fell.
Ask anyone to describe him in two words and they would say
succinctly: No Bull. He was unapologetically comfortable in
his skin, to the core: you either got him or you didn't. For
him, there was little worthy of sweat. He would simply throw
up his hands and say, ``No big deal,'' and move on. He left
it to the critics to assess the long-term merit of his
accomplishments--for him, it was all in a day's work, nothing
more. He considered suggestions but, in the end, his instinct
would always trump any outside counsel.
In spite of this characteristic, he made it utterly
impossible to be angry at him. But, thankfully, the same
worked in reverse. If you looked down to discover your feet
on the wrong side of his line, a simple apology would always
be followed by ``That's okay, Babe,'' and any trace of the
dispute would be immediately expunged.
Although his urtle-like mien caused some strangers to
hesitate, his inner circle of friends and family knew the
hard outer shell merely served as protection for its precious
cargo--a tender and easily broken heart. This vulnerability
might uncover why it was this particular organ's weakness
that sparked his fifteen-year downward health spiral.
Although, admittedly, he did nothing to impede the descent.
Even after enduring countless (okay, 54) hospital stays,
surgeries and treatments at Cedars Sinai alone, he maintained
an unyieldingly laissez-faire attitude toward improving his
condition. Yet it is the rare man whose friends and family
cannot utter a single negativity after fruitlessly imploring
him--for decades--to set down the Coke can, exercise, and
consider the fish section of the menu. But he would likely
have undergone a thousand colonoscopies of bypasses if it
meant any reprieve from the constant barrage of heart-health
suggestions, books, pills and tonics he received on a daily
basis. His food motto remained intact until the end: ``I'll
die with a full stomach and that's that.''
Replacing words with such mottoes was just his way, each
comment whittled down to its essence and punctuated with a
saying for good measure. Favorites included ``Ain't nothin'
shakin' but the leaves,'' . . . ``God willin' and the creek
don't rise'' . . . and ``Is the Pope Catholic?''
Sayings aside, John was definitely a laconic spirit--the
irony in his nickname, Gabby, was well-earned. But, as they
say, silence is a text easy to misread. Just ask anyone brave
enough to venture toward the back of the room and take a seat
next to him. His bulbous eyes voyeuristically scanning the
crowd, extracting vital bits of data to launch into an
anecdote or a unique observation. Between tales of the Glory
Days, life insights and off-colored jokes, they would
discover--as we already had--a man of infinite, yet
simplistic, wisdom blended with an understated hilarity. He
was the anti-thesis of the ``dumb jock.'' A voracious reader,
he would complete several books a month. In his later years,
he took countless adult education courses, honed his
considerable culinary talents and taught himself to use his
new computer to surf the internet.
Although John was undeniably great on the ball field, his
greatest accomplishments lie in his legacy off the field. He
was generous in his purchases for loved ones, but his best
gifts were always of the non-monetary persuasion:
unparalleled insight, laughs, great stories and lots of love.
Any time spent with him was guaranteed to be an unforgettable
treat and its own reward.
In short, John Roseboro was one of the best--and easiest--
men you'd ever befriend. He was a loving husband, father,
brother, son, uncle and friend. His life force beats strongly
in the hearts of all who were blessed enough to share their
lives with him.
John was born in Ashland, Ohio in 1933 to Cecil Geraldine
Lowery Roseboro and John Henry Roseboro. His only sibling was
James Alexander Roseboro.
John Roseboro is survived by his beloved wife, Barbara
Fouch-Roseboro and daughter, Morgan Nicole Fouch-Roseboro and
his children by a former marriage, daughters Shelley Roseboro
and Staci Roseboro-Shoals (John), and son Jaime Roseboro
(Karen).
Additional family members include grandchildren Ashley
Shoals, Amber Shoals, Kaitlyn Roseboro, Sydney Roseboro,
April Roseboro,; brothers-in-law James Walker, Kenneth
Walker, Jackie Millines; sisters-in-law Ifeoma Kwesi, Annie
Roseboro, Michelle Hollie, Andrea Frye and Yolanda Leary;
nephews Anthony M. Roseboro (Tia), Pearl Daniel White,
Sinclair Saunders; nieces Gayle Mitchell (Charles), Sabrina
Phillips, Latrice Westbury; great-nephews Alexander Roseboro,
Jermaine Mitchell, Orlando Mitchell, Kenyon Saunders, Ronaldo
Walker, Antonio Walker, Rico Walker, Norris Bray; great-
nieces Shelbi Roseboro, Crystal Phillips, Summer Rain
Phillips; god-daughters Kaiyanna Frye, Alexandra Josephine
Richardson Jackson, and a host of other relatives and
friends.
____________________