Every once in a while, two of my passions collide. So it was last week when Hebrew National invited me to talk hot dogs with Fred Lynn.
Fred Lynn -- Red Sox rookie on that fabled 1975 team. Fred Lynn, who was not only Rookie of the Year but also American League MVP that season, which culminated in an amazing World Series against the Cincinnati Reds. Fred Lynn, member of two Sox teams that broke my heart: '75 and '78.
I would talk mustard with Fred Lynn, even yellow mustard.
So off I marched to Boston's Marriott Copley Place hotel Terrace Lounge to meet one on one with Lynn, one of my all-time favorite Sox. He arrived wearing a blue polo shirt with the Red Sox logo on the right and the Hebrew National emblem on the left.
Why hot dogs, I asked.
"Who better to talk about hot dogs than a ball player," he said with an endearing smile and perky enthusiasm.
Plus, his first Red Sox coach in the minors, Rac Slider, used to call him a "California hot dog" because he grew up in Southern California.
Beyond nicknames, hot dogs -- even more than Cracker Jack -- are part of the grand old game that earned Lynn a living for 17 years.
He hasn't endorsed a food before, he said. Trucks, yes, but no dogs.
But now that Fenway Park is allowing a dog other than Fenway Frank into the concession stands, he wanted to pledge his allegiance to kosher meat.
He didn't really have to sell me. I'm thrilled to have a robust, meaty dog like Hebrew National to enjoy while I watch the boys of summer. That's the brand I buy at home, I told him. I just feel better about going the all-beef kosher route for my tube-steak needs.
Lynn heartily approved.
I confessed to being a crazy Red Sox fan since childhood and told him how that Game 6 comeback in the '75 Series will always be with me.
He said it was okay to be a crazy Red Sox fan. He married one. His wife, Natalie, was a baseball fan growing up in Boston, too. They married in 1986, another bad year for Sox fans. They had met when she was producing a commercial for a truck dealer he was endorsing.
Now, Natalie is his agent and they live in San Diego, where Lynn said people love healthy foods, kosher and organic. Trends start there on the West Coast, he noted.
Lynn returns to Boston three times a year for the Red Sox-Yankee series to host guests in the Legends Skybox at Fenway Park. They don't serve hot dogs in that private box, which caters to groups of 10 to 30 corporate types each game. They have a personal chef in there, he said, one who does up dishes like Chateaubriand.
While traveling as a player, Lynn learned to love food.
"I only ate junk as a kid," he said. "But as a ball player, I learned a lot about food."
Not in the stadiums of course, but in the restaurants. When he went to Baltimore, he'd eat crabs. In Chicago and Kansas City, it was steak and in Milwaukee, German food. In Boston, he'd only eat seafood.
Now, he'd like to suggest fans try the Hebrew National Monster Dog, a half-pound of kosher beef, nine inches long, and costing $6.50 inside the park and on Yawkey Way. Considering an anemic Fenway Frank costs $4, it's not an outrageous price.
We talked a bit of baseball.
He's convinced that '75 World Series saved baseball, a game whose fan popularity was waning big in favor of the NFL. He said the game has been on an upward trend ever since.
He's discouraged by the steroid scandal but waxes philosophical about how baseball goes through different eras that then have a huge impact on stats. He mentioned the mound being lowered five inches in 1968 and the assorted times when players complained about dead balls or live balls, depending on whether they were a hitter or pitcher. But he does think it will be hard for many people to accept if Bobby Bonds surpasses Hank Aaron's home run record with the cloud of steroid use over his head.
Lynn left with the big green Sox mascot Wally Monster to continue his press blitz for Hebrew National, but not before I touched his World Series ring.
As a member of the Red Sox Hall of Fame, he was awarded one after the 2004 victory. He wears it on his left-hand ring finger. It's huge, but not as big as the Monster Dog his PR group offered me.
Food and baseball -- it's just kismet.