Michigan native returns book to Warren library 50 years late

We can be almost certain that Chuck Hildebrandt delivered the Detroit Free Press that morning, and it is an undeniable fact that after school on December 4, 1974, he checked out a book from the Warren Public Library.

What’s not clear is why he kept “baseball’s wildest stars” for 50 years. But at least he did the right thing the day before Thanksgiving and tried to give it back…

And was rejected.

“Zero interest,” he said. The book came home to Chicago, between an ode to Tiger Stadium called “A Place for Summer” and a biography of sportscaster Red Barber.

Hildebrandt, 63 and retired, has spent the last half-century going from young library scoffer to founder of a digital marketing company. Drawing on his professional experience, he had imagined one of those periodic stories that probably start in a local newspaper, play on nearby television, and end on “The Today Show,” spreading good humor and good publicity for the library. coast to coast.

He was even willing to admit that he discovered the book five or six years ago and decided to save it until the 50th anniversary of the release date for maximum impact.

No thanks. All he’ll probably get is this column and muted admiration from library director Oksana Urban.

“Some people never come back to face the music,” she said. “But there really was no music to contend with, because he and the book were erased from our system.”

This is not unreasonable. Technologies change, inactive accounts are purged. And if you’re being literal amidst all the literature, what is the library supposed to do with an ancient copy of “Baseball’s Wackiest Stars”?

At least it didn’t charge him a late fee, which, based on the Warren Library’s current assessment of 25 cents per day, would have been $4,563.75.

It’s always intriguing to ask Hildebrandt how he managed to keep the book for 18,255 illicit days — and why an eighth-grader at St. Anne’s Catholic School was interested in the goofy ball players.

Passion in numbers

Hildebrandt came to baseball through his love of numbers, coupled with the regional frenzy sparked by the 1968 Tigers.

As the team was about to win the World Series, the second grader started looking at the scores in the newspaper and “Oh my God, there were numbers everywhere!”

He was caught – hook, line and sinker from Mickey Lolich in the outside corner.

As a player, Hildebrandt is a left-handed outfielder who, at one point in his supposedly adult life, played in five slow-pitch softball leagues. Making a reluctant concession to his age, he recently moved from center field to left and is active in only one league, populated largely by people in their 20s and 30s.

As a fan, he is a former Chicago Cubs season ticket holder with a knack for catching foul balls: at least 10 of them rest on a marble-shaped rack on his wall, next to other commemorative horse skins.

As a numbers and history enthusiast, he is a prestigious member of SABR, the Society for American Baseball Research, where he has twice won the award for Best Oral Research Presentation at the annual convention.

His first victory came during a 2015 presentation on “Little League Home Runs in MLB History.” Although the parameters have since been changed, a Little League home run has been defined as a routine batted ball on which two or more errors cause the lucky hitter to spin around the bases, likely accompanied by boos and laughter from the home team. crowd.

These are zany pieces reminiscent of his earliest book, even if he didn’t make the connection at the time.

Red face and hands in the bag

“Baseball’s Zaniest Stars” was written by Howard Liss, a former shipping clerk from Brooklyn who made a good living in his day with things like “The Giant Book of Weird But True Sports Stories.”

“Zaniest” chronicles the adventures of players such as early 20th century pitcher Rube Waddell, who sometimes left the mound to chase fire trucks, and his contemporary, infielder Germany Schaefer, who at least once stole second base and then reversed and stole first.

Hildebrandt checked it out at the Walt Whitman branch of the library on Schoenherr Road, which has since closed. He probably received late notices, he admitted, but the book remained in his possession while he graduated from Bishop Foley High School and Michigan State University and ventured into the world.

He moved to Milwaukee, to Columbus, Ohio, to Baltimore, and to several houses in Chicago, “and each time it was piles of books in a box. When you have a few dozen boxes and you move, you’re not examined.”

Then one day he noticed a Dewey Decimal System sticker on the back, and uh-oh.

“I was so embarrassed,” he said, and he vowed to make things right — in November 2024, while he and his wife were visiting his brother in Eastpointe.

“Shame on you,” library director Urban said, but she was joking. All is forgiven, therefore “we let him keep it as a remembrance.”

Covering her bases, she sent a memo to the city’s communications department a few weeks ago, just in case it wanted to pursue the matter.

It seems unlikely at this point, but Hildebrandt is willing to do his promotional part — and even crazier things have happened.

Contact Neal Rubin at [email protected].