It seems like a hundred years ago that I met my manager and all-time friend Frank Robinson.

I was a player looking for a contract. I worked for Eastern Airlines at the time, so I was able to fly down to Puerto Rico for a tryout with the Santurce baseball team. It was October – the regular season had ended, and winter ball was beginning.

I was working out with the San Juan-based Santurce Crabbers, as I had in the previous four years. I was a sub, available in the event a major leaguer left or got hurt. I would fill in.

Frank Robinson was to manage that year, and I didn’t know that until I got down there. Under Frank’s guidance, Santurce won the Caribbean Series championship that year; the very next season, he became the Major League’s first black manager, with the Cleveland Indians.

Frank had the reputation of being a tough guy, a guy with an attitude, but that couldn’t have been further from the truth. Yes, he was tough as hell on the field, but off the field, he was just Frank. We would meet in a pub on Ashford Avenue in San Juan at night, and we would talk like we’d known each other forever. Once he trusted you, there were no holds barred.

He told me of the prejudices he faced in his early years, and how the press back then painted him as a troublemaker when he defended himself from harm. He had an infectious laugh and always defended his players.

Just two years ago, we connected in Cooperstown, during Tim Raines’ induction. I hadn’t seen my old friend in over 30 years, and when I approached him, his response was “Oh, whadda you want?” followed by a man hug.

My heart is a little heavy today – my dear old friend is gone. At 75, I’m beginning to see a lot of that. He was as good as Mays, Mantle or Aaron; he never received the accolades they got, but he never cared.

My friend now plays on the field of dreams. I know that because he always said baseball is the greatest game ever played, and his successes prove that.

Rest in peace, old friend. Keep a spot in the lineup for me.