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This is no mere man cave. It's a shrine. A time capsule. Jackson's passion for bygone days. "I loved my era," says Jackson, pushing a broom with his massive, weath- ered hands. "You left the door to your house open, borrowed milk from neighbors. No craziness." Inside sit treasures from the past: old pay phones, Chesterfield ciga- rette dispensers, soda machines, vintage gas pumps, stadium seats, racks of bats, posters of Marilyn Monroe, James Dean and, of course, Reggie in slugger pose. And there are cars, perhaps 50, among them a 1969 Camaro SS con- vertible, a 1964 Pontiac GTO with MR OCTBR plates, a wing of classic Corvettes, including a gorgeous white 1962 convertible with 4,000 miles, and an "untouched" 1970 Chevelle with a 454. This is more than a vanity project. This is his financial future, his true legacy, a business built around passion—and his impressive knowledge of automobiles. There are more cars at his house above Carmel. We arrive and he reveals his baby, a '76 Rolls Royce Corniche with a mirrored maroon finish. One day in 1976, he showed up to a San Francisco Rolls dealership— his Yankees' contract still wet with ink. "No one would wait on a black man wearing jeans and a T-shirt," he says. The car called to him. Finally, a black salesman approached and shook the hand of the game's most fearsome hitter. "He recognized me," Jackson says. "I drove away in my car. Paid 178 C A R M E L M A G A Z I N E • S U M M E R / F A L L 2 0 1 7 Now 71 and still physically fit, Reggie Jackson spends his days at the gym, playing golf or rebuilding, restoring or buying/selling classic cars.