Long ago, in a sweeter time than this, John Lennon reminded us there are places we’ll remember all our lives.
We lost two of those places over the past week: a friendly neighborhood joint on Reisterstown Road in Pikesville called Jilly’s, the victim of apparent arson. And a tiny corner of the imagination called “Orrsville,” in a vanished ballpark on 33rd Street whose only registered inhabitant was Jimmy Orr, a peanut who caught passes from John Unitas for the Baltimore Colts.
Go to the Internet right now and find old videos of Orr in his corner of the end zone, down by the home plate side of Memorial Stadium. Watch him catch one of Unitas’ touchdown throws and then clamber up onto a dugout roof in that crowded little area, where he’s mobbed by delirious fans.
Or go anywhere in Pikesville and find anybody who spent time over the last several decades at Jilly’s Bar & Grill, and hear them talk about the place. They’ll talk not just about the food and drink but the friendly help and the faded black-and-white photos of old Baltimore ballplayers on some of the walls. But most of all, they’ll talk about the sound of laughter and swell conversation filling the place.
As we emerge from this slum of a presidential campaign, and slog through this enduring pandemic, we need such places more than ever.
The memory of Jilly’s reminds us of times before our enforced isolation, when we met with friends and swapped stories of each day’s movement and vitality. And who were those friends? They might have been actual pals or folks at the next table — such was the atmosphere at Jilly’s, where conversations could overlap and the atmosphere felt like a comfortable neighborhood clubhouse and not just a place to grab a bite.
Orrsville, too, made us feel part of a community. When Jimmy Orr died last week at 85, it’s the first thing old Colts’ fans talked about: Remember all those passes Orr caught down in that corner of the end zone? Remember how the fans would try to mob him when his momentum carried him practically into the stands?
There’s one of those touchdowns that lingers in the mind most vividly. Go back to 1965, when the Colts were playing the Philadelphia Eagles. It’s late in the fourth quarter and the score is tight, and Orr gets clobbered by one of the Eagles.
He’s carried from the field and from the stadium, clearly never to be seen again in this ballgame, or maybe this lifetime. He’s done, no doubt about it. He’s rushed to Union Memorial Hospital’s emergency room, half a dozen blocks down 33rd Street.
Meanwhile, things are looking bad for the Colts. They’ve lost maybe their best long receiver, the Eagles are giving them big trouble, and the clock’s ticking down to closing time.
But suddenly, we’re watching a scene out of a movie. An ambulance pulls into the ballpark, down by the closed end of the stadium, and out comes Orr, back from Union Memorial, still in his uniform. He starts to jog toward the Colts’ bench.
But Coach Don Shula signals to him: No, go straight to the huddle. Two plays later, Unitas fades to pass. Orr’s running crazy downfield. Unitas is backpedaling, waiting for Orr to make his cut. He lets fly.
And there’s Orr, counted out for dead on this very afternoon, and a football lofted across the horizon is coming down, and it’s Orr on the other end, down there in “Orrsville” for the touchdown, and he’s mobbed by fans as the Colts squeak by the Eagles.
There are places we remember, as John Lennon reminded us, and moments, too. At glum moments like this, we remember Jilly’s, and hope maybe one day we can go back to such a place.
And we remember “Orrsville,” too. You couldn’t find it in the zip codes. But a generation recalled it last week when Jimmy Orr left us, and we remember how it felt when we could still gather together, in a sweeter time than this.
A former Baltimore Sun columnist and WJZ-TV commentator, Michael Olesker is the author of six books. His most recent, “Front Stoops in the Fifties: Baltimore Legends Come of Age,” was reissued in paperback by the Johns Hopkins University Press.
A new biography on the creator of "Doonesbury" misses the mark, writes Michael Olesker.
What does it mean to be fully present with each other and the sacred, asks Maryland-born cultural anthropologist Alanna E. Cooper.
As millions mourn the passing of Stephen Colbert from the airwaves, Michael Olesker looks back on the "institution" of late-night TV.
As he gets ready to leave for California, Rabbi Daniel Cotzin Burg looks back on his time in Baltimore and his 10 years writing for Jmore.