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Holly Lehren

Dear Mr. Zinsser

This is the letter I had meant to write, but put off for too long after I discovered a family connection to the author of my AP English text, On Writing Well by William Zinsser, a lifelong journalist and nonfiction writer. Zinsser died at age 92 in May 2015, the year I graduated high school. This is the letter I wished I had sent.





Dear Mr. Zinsser,


I am writing to you with a sense of belated gratitude for an article you wrote that became an unexpected lifeline for my opa, Billy Lehren. 


Your article in The Atlantic magazine, “Field of Tin,” detailed an impromptu encounter with my grandfather – opa  – in your New York City office. It started when you had written a newspaper article in 1983 about your “mechanical addiction” to a baseball toy that ran in The New York Times. The game relied on cast-iron players, a spring-loaded bat, and buttons to control the pitches. It was originally christened the “Pennant Winner.” You hadn't seen this toy for 60 years. 


My opa saw your story and wrote you a letter: He had the game. He had spent most of his life working for the company that made it, and he also loved baseball. You proposed they get together. He headed down to New York on the train from Greenwich, Conn., with the game under his arm. Soon two men in their 70s got down on their hands and knees in a small office and became boys, jiggling levers to throw strikes and hit home runs.  



Opa was the unsung hero of a family-owned toy empire, Wolverine Toy, a medium-sized toy manufacturer. After the untimely death of his mother, he abandoned dreams of attending MIT and became his father's right-hand man at the toy company. They made the “Pennant Winner” from 1929 to 1950. Anyone who liked baseball loved this game, but unfortunately it required demonstration, and the product was dropped,” my opa told you. 


On the brink of his pension vesting at age 59, the company, now under new ownership after a split among the owners in 1968, abruptly severed ties with him. The company he had dedicated his entire adult life to had now cast him adrift in the uncharted waters of retirement. His legacy slipped away, pulled out right from under him. 


When I read that you and opa spent that entire day immersed in the magic of a vintage baseball game, I wasn’t too surprised. This is the same guy who built me a 4-foot-by-6-foot cardboard playhouse – a pint-sized masterpiece. I was a little girl and practically lived in that thing. It's funny how something as simple as a cardboard box can hold a truckload of childhood memories. I’m sure you understand. 

 

The abrupt transition to retirement left opa questioning not only his professional identity but also his place in a world, one that was intricately woven with the threads of the family business. Over the years, opa found that his identity – his life purpose – was selling toys for the family business. Plainly put, your article provided a moment of joy and a rekindling of pride in his lifelong work. 


Following his departure from the company, opa devoted his time to helping others. He volunteered at the local hospital. He helped fix up his church. He played games with me, but never the baseball game made of tin.


When you two played that toy baseball game, and you wrote your graceful article ‘“Field of Tin” in 2001 for The Atlantic, one of America’s leading magazines, he was so proud. He gave copies to friends and family members. You could see how it filled him with pride, that he was part of something good, that the toy meant something to people’s lives – and to my opa’s and yours. 


No one won that day, though you played for hours. As the sun was setting, my opa finally said he had to catch his train back to Connecticut, and he packed up the game. 


During the holidays, two years later in December 2003, my opa spent the afternoon collecting toy donations for children in need. It was the last thing he did before he suffered a life-ending stroke. 


You should know, your article was displayed proudly at opa's funeral. It wasn't just a story about an old baseball game; it was a lifeline thrown to a man who needed a win. 


So, thank you, Mr. Zinsser, for transforming a forgotten toy and a quirky adventure into an epic tale. You didn't just write an article; you penned a grand slam that resonated with opa, our family, and anyone who ever felt the sting of life's curveballs. 


Cheers to you, opa, and the field of tin.


– Holly 


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