Youthful Memories

We’re progressing, albeit slowly towards some sports. Golf is back. Practice for NHL teams is upcoming. The NBA is moving ahead with its Orlando plan, even with some dissenters popping up. NHL teams are starting to assemble, and one unidentified player on the Boston Bruins has tested positive for COVID-19. I am not addressing college athletics this week other than to say that six University of Houston athletes tested positive this week and the University temporarily shut down the athletic programs.

However, on Thursday, as I sat with my daughter in the Watchung Reservation, under a warm June sun, and again on a Zoom meeting on Friday, I realized what was wrong. I missed baseball. The live action coming from the 30 MLB parks, with the Yankees and Mets dominating the local airwaves and the MLB and ESPN telecasts from around the nation supplementing my neediness. 

As we approach the start of summer next weekend, I yearn for my fix of Aaron Judge at bats, waiting for that majestic blast, reminiscent of Mickey Mantle, even if Judge only bats from the right side. Think I am missing Masahiro Tanaka wiggling out of another jam? D.J. LeMahieu routinely producing hits with relative ease while almost flawlessly manning multiple positions in the field—so sorely do I miss that on a daily basis. The masterful hitting, with power, by Giancarlo Stanton, Gleybar Torres and Gio Urshela—so much fun. Or watching the Yankees‘ bullpen rescue a starter who lasted five tough innings, topped off by the flame-throwing antics of Aroldis Chapman

Instead, I have recollections of post-Memorial Day baseball into my early teens to reference in my mind. I think of the Midget League and Junior League teams sponsored by the Police and Fire Departments of Highland Park which I played on. An underage and relatively small second baseman for the green and gold Police team in 1958 who, under the lights of the old high school field, deftly scooped up a grounder, tagged the runner and threw the batter out for an inning ending double play. And the recognition that my arm was pretty darn good when a ball was hit to me in medium center field while playing for Fire Department in 1964 and I threw out the opposing team runner who had the temerity to tag up.

I remember the many Yankees matinee games I watched in my parents’ den in between stops in our swimming pool. Mel Allen, Red Barber and Phil Rizzuto calling the action. Or being there on a hot night with a huge fan blowing, watching the Yankees and Detroit in fierce battle from Briggs Stadium or its later incarnation as Tiger Stadium. Sometimes a strong thunderstorm would come out of neighboring Edison or nearby Piscataway, but the game would still be on our black and white TV.  

Until 1961, the road games were from Baltimore, Boston, Cleveland, Kansas City, Washington and Chicago along with Detroit. The announcers made you feel the blistering heat of the night in old Griffith Stadium as the Yankees and the old Washington Senators clashed. That feeling didn’t go away when the Griffith family uprooted the team to Minnesota—the night games in Metropolitan Stadium in a then-undeveloped Bloomington (that vacant farmland is the location of the Mall of America) were epic, while the battles in D.C. Stadium with the expansion Senators were seemingly one-sided in favor of New York.

From 1957 through 1964, the Yankees were the top dog. Sure, they lost the World Series in 1957 to the Milwaukee Braves, didn’t make it to the Fall Classic in 1959, were upset by the Pittsburgh Pirates in 1960. Then the Yankees rattled off wins in 1961 and 1962 before falling to the Dodgers in 1963 and St.Louis in 1964.

These were the teams of Mantle, Roger Maris, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, Elston Howard, the first black player for the Yankees. Tony Kubek or Tom Tresh patrolled shortstop and Bobby Richardson was a stalwart at second base. Hector Lopez delivered clutch pinch hits. Clete Boyer was a vacuum at third base and Bill (Moose) Skowron or Joe Pepitone manned first base and hit for power into the short porch beyond right field. I saw a tough, crew cut Hank Bauer in his last years; Enos (Country) Slaughter, a remnant of the old St. Louis Cardinals, batting .304 at age 42. Jerry Lumpe, Gil McDougald, Norm Siebern, “Bullet” Bob Turley from Delaware with his no wind up delivery;  all were my guys. I liked a young Marv Throneberry, who periodically saw time at first base before ending up with the Mets in the 1962 expansion draft. The Yankees had  plenty of pitchers behind Ford, including Don Larsen of World Series no hit fame, Art Ditmar, Johnny Kucks, and fireballer Ryne Duren, who would regularly toss a heater onto the back screen to scare hitters. The Yankees added old pitchers like Virgin Trucks, Murry Dickson and Sal (the Barber) Maglie, known for his close shaves to the batters who dared to dig in against him.

Plenty of others played for New York—Bob Cerv, Kent Hadley, Dale Long, Johnny Blanchard, Elmer Valo, another retread. The brothers Shantz—pitcher Billy and catcher Bobby, made it to the Stadium to wear the pinstripes. Phil Rizzuto loved infielder Joe DeMaestri, who shared Italian heritage. Little Luis Arroyo came out of the bullpen to save games for Whitey. Bill Stafford provided relief, as did Eli Grba, before he went to the Angels in the expansion draft, Duke Maas, Marshall Bridges, Jim Coates, Hal Reniff and Rollie Sheldon. Jim Bouton, Al Downing Ralph Terry and Stan Williams became starting pitchers in 1963.

I liked to see Mickey bat right-handed, which was his natural side, yet I never felt cheated when he batted lefty. Because of Mantle and Tresh being switch-hitters, I taught myself to switch hit. I actually batted from the left side in a game against good friend and right hander Rich Van Doren in a Midget league game versus the MacKinney Oilers (the local oil supply company in town) and stroked 2 hits. I think it was fear of not hitting well enough left-handed which drove me to my natural righty swing; in hindsight, I wished I had continued batting from both sides.

I learned how to drag bunt watching Mickey do it from the left side and beating out hits with his still good speed despite the plethora of leg injuries he suffered. I did a fairly good imitation of Roger Maris’s swing—something which came about in the magical year of 1961when he and Mickey went toe-to-toe in assault on Babe Ruth’s cherished 60 home run mark. 

Stickball at Hamilton School, the school I attended the most, or Lafayette School on the South Side, where everybody met up for seventh grade, was a staple of my springs and summers along with organized town leagues. There I could be anybody—which included some interlopers from the National League—the Mets.

I came into baseball after the Dodgers and Giants headed West, vacating New York City and creating a void for fans who did not root for the Yankees. Luckily, my father was a Yankees fan, so the lack of three teams in New York did not bother me.

However, it evidently rankled a whole lot of others. So much so that the hue and cry on the pages of the Daily News and the Mirror caused enough pressure that in its desire to expand, having done so in the American League with the Angels tapping into the lucrative Southern California market and the new Senators replacing the old Senators team in Washington, the National League countered with new franchises in Houston and New York.

On the sports pages, it was a big deal that New Yorkers were getting a team from the National League. I avidly read Dick Young’s column in the Daily News, and I learned he was angry about the Dodgers’ flight to California. Casey Stengel, the colorful former player who managed the Yankees to titles in the 1950’s and who was abruptly replaced by the Major, Ralph Houk, as skipper by crusty Yankees GM George Weiss, would pilot this new NL team.

While I never relinquished my allegiance to the Yankees, now I had more to watch on TV, as the Mets landed on Channel 9, WOR-TV. Besides, it was easy to switch between Channel 9 and WPIX, the home of the Yankees on Channel 11; I may have once broken the dial of a TV switching back and forth when there weren’t any remotes. Thus, I learned not to be so heavy-handed. 

Lindsay Nelson, Ralph Kiner and Bob Murphy. To my generation, those voices were synonymous with Mets baseball. They entertained in a different way than the Yankees broadcasters—mainly because they had to draw viewers, and the 1962 team straight out stunk.

Of course, that didn’t trouble me. It was baseball on TV. Something much better to do than having to read The Yearling or Moby Dick. Not that I didn’t like to read. As a younger me, I had my priorities. 

Those Mets had some interesting players. Richie Ashburn, a star in Philadelphia, was aging and the Phillies dumped him into the expansion pool. Ashburn hit .306 for the Mets—and he is in the Baseball Hall of Fame.  Frank Thomas, a slugger with the Pirates, relocated to New York and powered 34 homers. Former Dodgers such as catcher Joe Pignatono, infielders Charlie Neal, Don Zimmer and Gil Hodges all appeared for the Mets in 1962. At least 6 others caught for the Mets staff in 1962—forgettable names like Joe Ginsberg, Chris Cannizzaro, Sammy Taylor, Hobie Landrith, Harry Chiti, unlike the well-known and beloved Choo-Choo Coleman. 

The pitching staff was such a mess that the team actually had two Bob Millers. One was a lefty and the other a righty. They were known by their initials Robert G. and Robert L.

Roger Craig was let go by the pitching rich Dodgers and he led the staff with  a 10-24 record. The righty Miller amassed a 1-12 record. Craig Anderson was 3-17 in 1962. Jay Hook, a former Cincinnati Reds pitcher, chipped in with  a 8-19 record. The only pitcher who had a record over .500 was Canadian Ken Mc Kenzie, at 5-4. This was a team which went 40-120.

I got to see the Polo Grounds, the former home of the New York Giants in upper Manhattan, visible across the Harlem River from the gigantic Yankee Stadium. It looked dark and dingy on TV and it really was. Fans showed up when the Dodgers and Giants came to town—to see Duke Snider and Brooklyn’s Sandy Koufax on the Dodgers, or Willie Mays returning to his rightful home at the Polo Grounds. 

New towns were opened up for me to become familiar with—even if I had briefly seen County Stadium in Milwaukee, Forbes Field in Pittsburgh and Crosley Field in Cincinnati with the Yankees trips to those sites in earlier World Series. Dodger Stadium was brand new. Candlestick Park in San Francisco suffered from cold and wind at night and cold and wind during the day, along with fog. Who knew how special Wrigley Field in Chicago was—all I knew was that the Cubs played all day games, which led to players having plenty of time to kill afterwards until the next game. The Colt .45’s, the original name of the Houston franchise, played in a former minor league park that also looked dingy and was hot and full of mosquitos. Busch Stadium in St. Louis was an old edifice, once known as Sportsman’s Park and the home of the Cardinals and the Browns before they moved to Baltimore.

I was exposed to stars like Henry Aaron, Eddie Matthews and Warren Spahn of the Braves, who ate up the Mets. There was Koufax, Maury Wills, Don Drysdale out in LA, Wille Mc Covey augmented Mays in SF, with a Dominican pitcher named Juan Marichal who had a high leg kick and dynamite stuff. I saw Stan (The Man) Musial, the Cardinals star. Frank Robinson and Vada Pinson, the one-two punch on the Reds. Ernie Banks’ enthusiasm and stardom led the Cubs. A young left-handed hitter named Rusty Staub, who would be a beloved Met later on in his career, was with the Colt .45’s. 

As you can guess, I was glued to my TV when I wasn’t out playing ball. I did manage to go to some games, too. I saw the Tigers and Yankees, and from the upper deck of the Stadium, the White Sox and Yankees in 1959, in a Saturday CBS Game of the Week (not televised locally) where sterling Sox lefty Gary Peters out pitched Ford. I saw the Indians, the Orioles and Twins during those years. National League games included my first one in 1959 at Connie Mack Stadium, where the Dodgers’ Stan Williams out dueled  future Philadelphia Hall of Fame pitcher Robin Roberts, and an overcast, damp 1963 May day at the Polo Grounds to see the Reds and Mets meet (Cincy won).

The one change in the Mets was location. In conjunction with the 1964 World’s Fair in Flushing Meadows, the site of the 1939 extravaganza, the City of New York opened a gleaming new and different stadium across the subway and LIRR tracks: Shea Stadium. A horseshoe ballpark, it had the ability to be encircled, if desired. The stands could move to accommodate football, for Shea was to become the home of the American Football League New York Jets, too. 

While Yankee Stadium was a cathedral of the sport, Shea was shiny and new in comparison, seating 55,000 fans. It was the locale for the 1964 All-Star game. Although the Mets were still terrible (53-109) and were populated by no names such as Roy Mc Millan, Amado Samuel, Bobby Klaus, George Altman and Larry Elliot, who joined the ranks of Cannizzaro, Thomas and Smith, there were some youngsters like Jim Hickman, Ed Kranepool and Ron Hunt. 

Pitching was still abysmal. “Fat” Jack Fisher, Tracy Stallard, the former Red Sox hurler who gave up the 61st home run to Maris, Al Jackson and Galen Cisco formed a not-very-imposing starting rotation. The legion of new Mets fans had a better venue than their hated rivals in the Bronx, even if the teams’ talent were light years apart, and even if Stengel’s clown-like antics were beginning to wear thin.

I was awed with the colorfulness, the powerful lighting and the newness of Shea Stadium. It looked great on TV and even more awesome in person. I saw my first game there in 1965, just as the Yankees slide from power began. It was the Dodgers versus the Mets, and I drew the third starter for LA, Claude Osteen, a young lefty and Fisher. The Dodgers won. 

But it was fun. Like it always was, whether I set foot in a major league ballpark, a minor league venue or played and watched the game. From April, when the weather broke for good in New Jersey, or even earlier in Lancaster, when we practiced in the snow (try grabbing a fly ball when it is snowing!), to June and July when Summer was in full bloom, it was baseball season. 

This year, it’s different. Right now we might have been ending the Stanley Cup Playoffs and the NBA Finals. We’re not. To make things even more difficult, there is no baseball. The new breed of ballplayers, who have descended from the Yankees and Mets of my youth, are on the sidelines. Stuck in a labor negotiation that is apparently stalemated, with the rift between the players and MLB seemingly widening daily. 

I am a bit too old to withstand much of a catch, if I was to have one. What I do have are youthful memories of my cherished game, which will be more than enough for right now.