Reflections of Me: Baseball and My Life.
I started out as a child.
Not exactly what one could call a talent. A trait, perhaps. We all started out as children.
Well, most of us. There are some I do occasionally wonder about.
Among some of my earliest memories, in no particular order, are Hopalong Cassidy, Davy Crockett, The Lone Ranger, and---baseball. Not clear memories, mind you, but I found something fascinating about baseball, beginning with the equipment. My Mother, and her Father, were both fans of baseball. My Dad, not so much; he was the football nut. I do recall playing catch with him, and my Mom, and my Grandfather when we would visit. I loved the feel of the ball in my hand, the glove and how it was used. Of course, this was during the 50's, when baseball was still the sport America followed most. I had already, even before the age of 5, been exposed to baseball on the television and the radio. As my interest grew, so did my time spent listening to games on radio whenever I could get them, and watching on weekend 'Game of the Week' broadcasts.
I soon had a small collection of names in my collection of players and people associated with the game. The NY emblem of the New York Yankees quickly became my favorite logo, and names such as Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, and Whitey Ford became part of most any conversation I might have. As the latter half of the 50'swound it's inexorable way toward the 1960's, I learned much more about the game, and those involved with it. I began to discover that it, like the world, had a history, and a glorious one it had been. Names such as Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth, Walter Johnson, Christy Matthewson, Smokey Joe Wood, Mordecai 'Three Finger' Brown, Big Ed Walsh, Joe Tinker, John Evers, Frank Chance, Ed Cicotte, and Joe Jackson became as much a part of my lexicon as Elvis, Purple People Eaters, Dwight Eisenhower, Mickey Mantle, Ted Williams, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, Billy Martin,Warren Spahn, Hank Aaron, Davy Crockett, Groucho Marx, Abbot and Costello, The Three Stooges, Superman, and Classics Illustrated comic books. And playing baseball. Every chance I got, whenever I could get at least one other person to grab a glove. And reading about the game; box scores, magazines, newspapers, books by or about the players.
Only years later would I experience the revelation that I had been so lucky to have grown up in the era I did, as it pertained to baseball. The players who played the game between 1950 and 1970 featured some of the greatest players of the 20th Century, and I was privileged to be able to experience their playing days with them, via newspapers, radio, and the emerging communication media of television. My location prevented me from easily following any one one team; the closest teams to where we lived at the time were the Minnesota Twins ( after 1961 ), the Kansas City Athletics, and the St, Louis Cardinals. The nearest of those was over 150 miles away. From 1960 on, I had a small transistor radio, a little pocket radio, but when the conditions were right on Summer evenings I could get broadcasts of those teams' games, and occasionally even the Chicago Cubs or White Sox. Not always clear, always quite a lot of static, and usually I had to keep changing the position of the radio every couple of innings to keep a game ( not always successfully ). Here, my fortune continued as radio still was the primary source of baseball and the announcers who worked games were some of the best ever. I could listen, close my eyes, and see the game as it was being described by these wonderful voices. On weekends, I would have my real treat in the Game of the Week; I could watch the players I only knew from radio and print, and be instructed in the game by a broadcast duo I still regard as the best of my lifetime, Dizzy Dean and PeeWee Reese. ( Today, I am fortunate to have a broadcast team of Duane Kuiper and Mike Krukow, whom I rank as the 2nd best broadcast duo of my lifetime.).
Being as young as I was ( between the ages of 10 and 13 then ) I thought it all would last forever. Even my school grades changed. During my elementary school years, math was my worst subject. I simply could not grasp any defining principle in mathematics. It didn't seem to have any meaning in my life beyond monetary, and simple addition and subtraction was enough. Anything else seemed useless to me. Then, baseball; I learned ( and not from school ) how batting and earned run averages were computed, and, a whole new world suddenly slammed into focus for me! Suddenly, all those principles and formulas made sense, by Gadfrey!! This was useful stuff! My math grades went from doubtfully earned D's up into the unheard of atmosphere of A's. I began to discover, through my exposure to a dice and card baseball game from the APBA Game Company, a real and practical use for those math skills my poor teachers had been trying to pound through my thick, stubbornly-resistant skull. A remarkably statistically accurate reproduction of the game, APBA featured a easily understood interface and individual player cards for those players I had before only been able to read about and watch or listen to. So I had to learn how to keep stats; after all, stats are what drives baseball. It is a game of numbers. Numbers defined the field, and were the only way to judge the value of a player, after all! Math involved numbers. Thus, I suddenly loved numbers, and math became almost too easy.
There was a point, during those years ( 1960 to 1970 ), I could almost recite by heart various statistics for almost any player on any team in either league. I almost seemed to be a sponge; I knew the teams, the players, the stats. The structure of the game seemed designed for me; I understood it, as much or more as I understood anything. To say I loved the game of baseball does not even come close to the feeling I had for it. It was life, to me. I weathered Winter only because I knew Spring and Summer would follow, and baseball would return. I played it, too, every chance I got, until I graduated High School in 1967. Of course, soon after that, I had to live 'real' life, and baseball had to take a bit of a back seat. It was, however, a back seat that was occupied as often as I could get to it.
I feel, too, that baseball taught me a little about life, about the tough lessons awaiting me in the future. In a way, I think it prepared me for those moments of great happiness, and those of great sadness and disappointment. It helped prepare me for the fact that, sometimes, no matter how hard you worked or how well you did, you wouldn't always finish first, but that there was nothing to be ashamed about finishing second, or third, as long as you finished. Winning wasn't always reflected by the final score; winning was the competition to get there, and doing the best you were able to do regardless of where you finished.
From about 1956, until 1972, I had been a Yankee fan. Now, in the decade of the 50's, and half of the 60's, the Yankees were simply the best team in baseball. They were actually the antithesis of the person I was to become, but, hey, I was a kid, what did I know? I just knew I loved the Yankees, and, I just knew they were always going to win. Until, they didn't. My first real lesson: the 1960 World Series. Now, in retrospect, the numbers from that Series would lead one to believe that the Yankees just had to have won the Series. Except, they didn't. Yankee fans ( I may have been the only one in my little hometown in rural Northwest Iowa, but I knew they were legion elsewhere ) knew the Yanks were the better team. We KNEW it. Sure, it went 7 games; the Pirates from Pittsburgh had a great team, with good hitters and some good pitching, but, the Yanks were better, right? Then comes game 7, a wild affair even in those days, with the Pirates taking a 2 run lead in the bottom of the 8th inning. My Yankees, though, came through just like I knew they would, and tied it in the top of the 9th. Ha! Take THAT, Pirates. Feel the loss coming?
Then up steps that damned Bill Mazeroski, the Pirate secondbaseman ( and one of the best to ever play the game ), to face our Ralph Terry in the bottom of the 9th. One pitch, and, well, I sat in stunned silence. Yankees lose, the game AND the Series, all because of a guy who did well to hit 10 home runs in a entire season. There's your first lesson, Neal. You can be the best in anything you do, and still finish second. Because, no matter how good you are, there is always someone who, on any given day, just might be better. And that is life, in a nutshell.
Don't get me wrong about Bill Mazeroski, either. He, among many, is one of the best to ever play the game. I learned to respect him, and if it hadn't been for Bobby Richardson, he was a player I could easily have cheered on if he had been a Yankee. A good man, and a great player; if you wanted to play second base ( and I did ), you could learn a encyclopedia's worth of knowledge of the position by studying his play. I have been lucky in my baseball lifetime to have seen some of the best to play the position, and Mazeroski is right up there with them.
1961 was the year of the Yankee. A team I still regard as the best of my lifetime. There was, literally, no record safe from them. They managed to outlast one of the finest Detroit Tiger teams of the era, a team of awesome power and good pitching and defense. And they reinforced my belief that they were unbeatable by sweeping the powerful and pitching strong Cincinnati Reds in the World Series, in 4 games. My faith in life, and baseball was secure. Then came: 1962.
A baseball historian might think, well, why would 1962 be any different? The Yankees won, yet again. And yes, they did...but, barely. If I had thought them invincible before, they now were showing signs of 'vincibility'. I still held my childish beliefs that the way things were would be the way things would always be, but I was beginning to be exposed to what the ravages of time and changes in the human condition could do to that theory. I was developing a strong interest in history, from studying baseball history and being exposed to coinciding events, so, I was beginning to learn that, hey, maybe some things don't last forever. For one thing, baseball had 'expanded', beginning in 1961 with the American League adding 2---well, actually, 3--new teams. The venerable Washington Senators ( Washington, first in war and peace, last in the American League ) up and moved to Minnesota, changing the team name to Twins. But, a new franchise stepped into Washington and became the Senators, so, all was well there. And the West Coast added a third team, the Los Angeles Angels. The Twins and Angels actually showed promise, though the Senators held the reputation intact. And I was fine with this. It was baseball, and, more just HAD to be better.
1962 saw the National League following suit, adding two brand new franchises; one, in Houston, taking the name Colt .45's, were bound to get my attention, but, the other, in New York, captured me immediately. For one, the National League had just left New York 5 years earlier, with the Giants and Dodgers moving to San Francisco and Los Angeles, so balance ( something that has always been a part of me ) was restored. But, the name. New. York. Mets. I loved that. Then, to make it even better, they hired the old Perfesser, former Yankee manager Casey Stengel, as manager. This felt like, well, destiny! I was now in both leagues equally!! I had my Yankees in the A.L., and now the Mets in the N.L. I was FULLY invested! In fact, I found myself being drawn more and more to the National League and the Mets, for, as good as the Yankees were, the Mets were that bad. I had hopes for the COlt .45's, too, but they proved a disappointment...they actually fielded a pretty good team their first seasons. The Mets, though: ahh, here, I had found my anchor. I was beginning to realize, in my personal life, that life would be a series of failures interrupted intermittently by periods of success, and these Mets represented that. I began to follow them religiously as I could, through whatever medium I could get, which turned out to be mostly newspapers and occasional baseball magazine articles. Once in a great while I could get, faintly, a St. Louis Cardinal game on my radio, and once or twice the Mets were there! Names like Roger Craig, Al Jackson, the 2 R.L. Millers, Craig Anderson, Rod Kanehl, Charley Neal, Richie Ashburn, Frank Thomas, Elio Chacon, and, of course, Marvelous Marv Throneberry became a part of my everyday vocabulary.
So, 1962 was proving to be a pivotal year for me. I was maturing in mind as well as body, and baseball was my companion during this time. I was beginning to learn how life events seemed intertwined with baseball events. In truth, baseball is a game of failure, and so is life. Baseball was teaching me how to handle life's disappointments and drawbacks, because it showed me that, you might fail, but, you came back and tried again, and one day, you might succeed. The 1962 Mets failed 120 times out of 162 games. But. They succeeded 40 times! ( 2 games were cancelled and not deemed important enough to the pennant race to be replayed ). Yes, they set a record for losses in a major league season, but, it was still a record. And that is a success! They accomplished something no other team in MLB history had done! Lesson: even in failure there can be success. Now, I was a pretty good player, at 12 years old, and getting better, despite my size. But, knowing I wasn't worthy of even carrying one of the Mets' players suitcases made me think of just how successful these guys were. They were doing something I could only dream of. And I did dream it.
Still on 1962. Baseball was entering a new era, as was I, being as I was on the threshold of teenage years, high school, and the future. My Yankees were showing their age, but, they still managed to overcome injuries and subpar performances to eke out the A.L Pennant once again, in spite of strong challenges from Chicago, Baltimore, and the surprising Minnesota Twins. This was good. All was right with my baseball world. Over in the N.L., quite a race was developing between old rivals the Dodgers and the Giants. Being a Mets fan, I followed this with interest. For one thing, the Giants had Willie Mays, the constant yardstick against which such greats as Duke Snider and Mickey Mantle ( my personal favorite all-time player ) were measured. The two teams ended the season tied for first place, and that rarity of rarities, a playoff ( not seen since 1951 ) would have to be played. I was ecstatic. It meant more baseball, and, baseball I could watch, as all games were, like the Series, televised. A best of three series, which ended in similar ( if not quite so dramatic ) a fashion as 1951, with the Giants coming from behind in the third game to win the N.L. Pennant. So, the stage was set for a World Series that would change my life for years to come.
Game 7. 1962 World Series. Ralph Terry ( the goat of 1960 ) on the mound for my Yankees, and he pitched beautifully. So did Jack Sanford of the Giants, allowing just 1 run through 7 innings before being pulled for a pinch hitter. It was a fantastic game, just the kind of game I loved: good pitching, good defense, low scoring. It had been a fantastic Series to that point, and I felt that, finally, my Yankees had met a worthy opponent; I was more than appreciating the Giants, I was becoming a fan of them. Going to the last of the 9th, 3 outs left for the Yankees to win as they remained ahead, 1-0. But here came the meat of the Giants offense. Terry, obviously tiring but still going strong, still pitching. Matty Alou leads off with a weak single. Felipe Alou and Chuck Hiller both strike out. Hiller was tough to strike out, so, Terry still has something left in the tank. But, Mays is next. And, as he has done once before in this game, Mays strokes a solid double to RF. And here is where the game's outcome was decided.
Alou had decent speed, and could have scored from first to tie the game except for one small detail; the great defense of Yankee RFer Roger Maris, who played the double beautifully and fired a accurate throw to the cutoff which would have gotten Alou out at the plate and ended the game and Series. Wisely, Alou was held at third. So, now, Willie Mays at 2nd, Matty Alou at 3rd, 2 out, and the batter is Willie McCovey, who had already tripled once off Terry earlier in the game. I had fists clenched, I think I wasn't even breathing as Terry delivered to McCovey. What happened next is both a blur, and as clear as a bell in my memory. McCovey hit the pitch solid, and hard, on a line.
Directly into the glove of Bobby Richardson at second. Game, and Series, over. I don't recall my reaction, other than I was ecstatic. But what I recall most was a few hours later, when I realized: this was a Series my Yankees had to earn. Because the opposing team was, shock of shocks, as good as they were! And may, just may, have deserved it more. This was a new feeling for me. I had a feeling that, even if the Giants had won, I could accept that. This was good baseball, maybe the best I would ever see, and I came away as a fan of yet another team: the San Francisco Giants. That fandom continues today.
Then came 1963. Here I was, entering the realm of early adulthood, high school. A lot more going on in my life, including a emerging interest in music. I began to learn guitar, from a friend of mine. I got involved in high school athletics. But my interest in baseball was still the overriding interest in my life. My Yankees were still the team to beat in the American League, and my Mets were still the cellar dwellers in the National ( but they were showing signs of getting a bit better ). The Giants and Dodgers were still battling it out in the N.L. but facing strong challenges from Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, and St. Louis. In the end, as I felt was right, the Yankees took the A.L. pennant. Over in the N.L., the Dodgers rode speed, defense, timely hitting, and outstanding pitching to the Pennant.
There was a baseball adage even then, that goes, good pitching beats good hitting most of the time. The 1963 Dodgers exemplified that. Power was not their strong suit. In fact, it wasn't their anything. Frank Howard led them in home runs with 28. Tommy Davis led in RBI with only 88, while scoring 69 times. What they excelled at was getting on base, taking the extra base on singles and doubles, and using speed and glove to help the pitching staff of Drysdale, Koufax, former Met Bob Miller, and Pete Richert to 73 wins, with Ron Perranoski coming out of the pen to win 16 more and post a 1.67 ERA over 69 appearances, 47 of which were games he finished. Many teams with much better power numbers and run-producing hitters the likes of Clemente, Aaron, Williams, Banks, Musial, Ken Boyer, etc., simply flailed when facing the Dodger pitching. This, I suppose, was my warning sign, but, being still young enough to believe my Yankees were invincible, I felt confident they would add yet another World Series win to their incredible total. In spite of the decline of Mantle, Maris, Berra. With a pitching staff of Ford, Downing, Bouton, Terry, and Stan Williams, I felt we could more than hold our own, against such a weak hitting club. After all, both Ford and Bouton had won over 20 games each. And the infield was still intact, with the only new face being at first in Joe Pepitone, who proved to be a more than capable replacement for Bill Skowron ( who was now a Dodger ).
Yes, I was but 13...still, really, naught but a child. I persisted in confidently predicting yet another Series win for my Yankees. I was about to be in for one of the greatest shocks of my life.
For, despite it being my Yankees, against a Dodger team that had the nerve to claim the Pennant over my Giants, the Dodgers not only won the Series, they humiliated me, and my Yankees, by doing it in 4 games. I was stunned. Literally, could not believe it. I was crushed. It was my first life lesson in profound disappointment and disillusionment, and I had no idea how to handle it. I went though tears, then anger; actually had a couple of fights with schoolmates about it. It took a very, very long time for me to recover. But, recover I did, and learned yet another major life lesson: no matter how good one is at something, somewhere out there, on any given day, someone is better.
It didn't change my Yankee fandom, but it did help me accept that some of my heroes weren't like my fictional heroes. They were human, and time was going to take it's toll. And perhaps it was time to look for new heroes; or, what the heck, become my own hero, by challenging what I could and overcoming anything I was capable of. I was learning that even being the best at something was a short-term event; the goal, then, was not to be better than anyone else at anything, but, be the best I could be at whatever I did. And, accept that luck played a big part in anything. Baseball, though, remained as my founding stone. Wherever I went, whatever I did, I always had baseball.
1964: a special baseball year for me, personally, because I was finally able to see my very first major league game. A combination of being a pestering brat, saving my allowances and money earned, I talked my parents into going to a Yankees-Twins game in August of that year. I will never forget it. My first view of the field remains my most vivid memory of the game, and I still feel that thrill whenever I attend games even today. The perfect colors of green grass, tan earth, and that first sight of the players. That was even more special then, as here were my heroes, whom I only knew from occasional weekend TV and print articles. Mantle, Maris, Richardson, Kubek, Clete Boyer, Elston Howard, Yogi Berra; right there, live in front of me. There is no describing the elation I felt. Al Downing was on the mound. For the Twins, players I knew only by name and stats; Killebrew, Allison, Versalles, Rollins...the passage of time clouded my memory on the outcome, I only learned recently the Yankees lost that game, 9-7. I believed for years they won it. But, the important thing was, it didn't matter. This was the game I loved, played by the best, live in front of me.
Also live in front of us was a rather large Twins fan with a voice that could be heard, I swear, for 100 miles in any direction, whose favorite bellow was 'Herman, ya bum!' every time Harmon Killebrew was announced. And....I loved it. I loved it all. The sights, sounds, and smells of a major league ball game. I have never experienced anything like it. IN the 70's, I began being able to attend occasional games, usually Giants games in San Francisco, but I never lost that feeling of awe and wonder when I get my first view of the field.
However, I was maturing, and baseball was helping. My Yankees again won the A.L. Pennant in 1964, but not easily, and I was able to accept that luck played a large part in that. The St. Louis Cardinals, led by pitcher Bob Gibson, won the N.L. Pennant in the final 2 weeks of the season after a almost unreal collapse by the Philadelphia Phillies. Of course, my Metsies played a little havoc with the Cardinals, making the final outcome wait until the season's last day. I was proud of me Metsies for that. The Series itself proved to be a good one, going the full 7 games, and featured a few heroics from my own heroes but the Cardinals won game 7 and the Series, and I accepted that much better than I had accepted the 1963 outcome. Things were changing, in both baseball and my life, and I was becoming more involved with other occupations, so as the 1965 season dawned, I was a bit further removed from my fandom. I was playing, for one thing, at the High School level, and lettering in several things; this occupied my time, and preparing for my final 2 years of school was beginning to be one of my priorities.
It helped that the 65 Yankees were one of the most disappointing teams of the Yankee era, actually finishing last in the American League. New frontrunners were emerging in both leagues, but especially in the American League. In the National, my following of both the Giants and the Mets increased, and I found I was paying more attention there. This pattern continued through the remainder of the 60's, and my own life was becoming much more complicated, not helped by moving from our little Iowa town to the West Coast, near San Francisco, in the middle of my Senior year in High School. 1967 became somewhat of a lost year for me in my following of the game, and my upcoming 18th birthday created a unknown factor many young men of the 60's went through: the Draft, and Viet Nam. Further complicating matters was baseball's decision to change the height of the mound for the 1968 season. I discovered here that I was what would become commonly known as a 'traditionalist' in baseball; the rules and measurements had been fine for 4 decades, you just don't go changing them for the benefit of pitchers, for Pete's sake!
Of course, this resulted in 1968 being the Year of the Pitcher in MLB, and baseball offenses sputtered across the board. I discovered one benefit I had not expected; I enjoyed watching the games more. They were more closely-fought, scoring was lower ( my preference ) and defense became even more important. ( Yes, I am that seeming rarity; I enjoy games more when the combined score of both teams does not exceed 10 runs. Preferably less. ). Plus, my Mets were showing signs of actually thinking they maybe could win now and then. The rest of the league was not finding them the pushovers they had been since 1962. I was both pleased, and a bit dismayed; I had both sides of my personality covered with them. The Giants and the Yankees were my winners; the Mets were my lovable losers. Baseball was already mirroring my own life. Higher highs, lower lows, and accepting both.
1969 became a completely lost baseball year for me. I had been judged not fit for military duty at that time, classified as 1-Y ( not 4-F, everyone's desired classification by then ); I had entered college as a journalism major but dropped out due to my not agreeing with some classes I was forced to take; and I had my first 'real' job, going to work as a mail handler/carrier for the U.S. Postal Service. I then decided to continue my music career attempt and moved back to Iowa to rejoin the small band we had started several years earlier. This led to a somewhat confusing ( but mostly quite fun ) next few years, resulting in my finally returning to California to stay in 1972. Meanwhile, my Metsies had pulled off a miracle of the ages in 1969, winning both the National League Pennant in the first year of divisional play, and the World Series against a powerhouse Baltimore Orioles team that appeared, on paper at least, to be unbeatable. They did it with great pitching, great defense, good managing ( by former Dodger hero Gil Hodges ) and a whole lot of luck. Similar to the success of the 63 Dodgers, and something I would not see personally again until the year 2010.
In 1973, baseball made yet another major change, this one proving to be one I could not then, nor now, accept. The Designated Hitter rule was adopted in the American League, and this reduced my following of baseball to just one league, the National League. The A.L., and my Yankees, were now dead to me. Those heroes were gone, all retired, and the DH ruined any remaining interest I had in the league. Mortality again entered my thoughts as Willie Mays, forever the Say Hey Kid, was traded to my Metsies from my Dodgers, and I felt the passing of a era was complete. I followed my Giants, and my Mets, enjoying the Mets winning the 1973 Pennant after coming from behind late in the season. I was able to attend a few games, both in San Francisco and in Oakland ( despite the DH rule ) and then several games in the following years, when I could. I suffered through the decline of my Giants in the late 70's - early 80's, as my Mets reversed roles with the Giants in the winner/loser category. I was very fortunate to have been able to attend many Giants games from 1987 though 1990, living and working in a area where I was only 15, 20 miles from the ballpark.
Thanks to reduced circumstances, health reasons, and a return to where I now live, I have not been able to attend a game since 1991. But baseball, my constant companion, continues to act as a reminder that nothing is forever. I reveled in my Giants' return to success in the late 80's, through the 90's, and today. In 2010, I was able to follow, on radio and television, their remarkable season, which resulted in their first World Series win since 1954, when they were still in New York. That team reminded me so much of those Miracle Mets of 69, and those damned Dodgers of 1963. Pitching, defense, smart baserunning, good managerial decisions, and a group of players that other teams had written off as losers; a mix of veterans who found the spark again from young players who didn't know what losing meant. It was a fantastic season that set up a string of good seasons and 2 more World Series victories, in 2012 and 2014. 2017 saw a return to the cellar; but, that's baseball, and life, isn't it?
Sometimes you're up, sometimes you're down, but baseball has taught me the greatest lesson I think anyone can ever learn; yes, today might be bad, but, what might tomorrow bring? Storms will pass, clouds will clear; don't give up, because, as Ernie Banks was quoted as saying: 'It's a good day to play two!'. Maybe today isn't that day, but tomorrow may be. Don't give up.
And that's it. Hell, did I just write a novel? Sorry; nothing earth-shaking here. Just me, and baseball, and what baseball has meant to me. I love the game, always have; it has been, as W.P. Kinsella wrote, the 'one constant' in all of it. I still hate the DH. Baseball has expanded to the point I can no longer keep track even of the teams, let alone the players. There are too many divisions, too many playoffs, but wait. It's baseball, and if the world could use more of one thing, that thing is baseball.
Thank you if you have made it this far; I hope you have something of interest in this ramble. As usual, I will be sharing this to my page at FB, so, feel free to make any comments there if you feel the need to do so. I appreciate all of it. Thanks again!
Not exactly what one could call a talent. A trait, perhaps. We all started out as children.
Well, most of us. There are some I do occasionally wonder about.
Among some of my earliest memories, in no particular order, are Hopalong Cassidy, Davy Crockett, The Lone Ranger, and---baseball. Not clear memories, mind you, but I found something fascinating about baseball, beginning with the equipment. My Mother, and her Father, were both fans of baseball. My Dad, not so much; he was the football nut. I do recall playing catch with him, and my Mom, and my Grandfather when we would visit. I loved the feel of the ball in my hand, the glove and how it was used. Of course, this was during the 50's, when baseball was still the sport America followed most. I had already, even before the age of 5, been exposed to baseball on the television and the radio. As my interest grew, so did my time spent listening to games on radio whenever I could get them, and watching on weekend 'Game of the Week' broadcasts.
I soon had a small collection of names in my collection of players and people associated with the game. The NY emblem of the New York Yankees quickly became my favorite logo, and names such as Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, and Whitey Ford became part of most any conversation I might have. As the latter half of the 50'swound it's inexorable way toward the 1960's, I learned much more about the game, and those involved with it. I began to discover that it, like the world, had a history, and a glorious one it had been. Names such as Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth, Walter Johnson, Christy Matthewson, Smokey Joe Wood, Mordecai 'Three Finger' Brown, Big Ed Walsh, Joe Tinker, John Evers, Frank Chance, Ed Cicotte, and Joe Jackson became as much a part of my lexicon as Elvis, Purple People Eaters, Dwight Eisenhower, Mickey Mantle, Ted Williams, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, Billy Martin,Warren Spahn, Hank Aaron, Davy Crockett, Groucho Marx, Abbot and Costello, The Three Stooges, Superman, and Classics Illustrated comic books. And playing baseball. Every chance I got, whenever I could get at least one other person to grab a glove. And reading about the game; box scores, magazines, newspapers, books by or about the players.
Only years later would I experience the revelation that I had been so lucky to have grown up in the era I did, as it pertained to baseball. The players who played the game between 1950 and 1970 featured some of the greatest players of the 20th Century, and I was privileged to be able to experience their playing days with them, via newspapers, radio, and the emerging communication media of television. My location prevented me from easily following any one one team; the closest teams to where we lived at the time were the Minnesota Twins ( after 1961 ), the Kansas City Athletics, and the St, Louis Cardinals. The nearest of those was over 150 miles away. From 1960 on, I had a small transistor radio, a little pocket radio, but when the conditions were right on Summer evenings I could get broadcasts of those teams' games, and occasionally even the Chicago Cubs or White Sox. Not always clear, always quite a lot of static, and usually I had to keep changing the position of the radio every couple of innings to keep a game ( not always successfully ). Here, my fortune continued as radio still was the primary source of baseball and the announcers who worked games were some of the best ever. I could listen, close my eyes, and see the game as it was being described by these wonderful voices. On weekends, I would have my real treat in the Game of the Week; I could watch the players I only knew from radio and print, and be instructed in the game by a broadcast duo I still regard as the best of my lifetime, Dizzy Dean and PeeWee Reese. ( Today, I am fortunate to have a broadcast team of Duane Kuiper and Mike Krukow, whom I rank as the 2nd best broadcast duo of my lifetime.).
Being as young as I was ( between the ages of 10 and 13 then ) I thought it all would last forever. Even my school grades changed. During my elementary school years, math was my worst subject. I simply could not grasp any defining principle in mathematics. It didn't seem to have any meaning in my life beyond monetary, and simple addition and subtraction was enough. Anything else seemed useless to me. Then, baseball; I learned ( and not from school ) how batting and earned run averages were computed, and, a whole new world suddenly slammed into focus for me! Suddenly, all those principles and formulas made sense, by Gadfrey!! This was useful stuff! My math grades went from doubtfully earned D's up into the unheard of atmosphere of A's. I began to discover, through my exposure to a dice and card baseball game from the APBA Game Company, a real and practical use for those math skills my poor teachers had been trying to pound through my thick, stubbornly-resistant skull. A remarkably statistically accurate reproduction of the game, APBA featured a easily understood interface and individual player cards for those players I had before only been able to read about and watch or listen to. So I had to learn how to keep stats; after all, stats are what drives baseball. It is a game of numbers. Numbers defined the field, and were the only way to judge the value of a player, after all! Math involved numbers. Thus, I suddenly loved numbers, and math became almost too easy.
There was a point, during those years ( 1960 to 1970 ), I could almost recite by heart various statistics for almost any player on any team in either league. I almost seemed to be a sponge; I knew the teams, the players, the stats. The structure of the game seemed designed for me; I understood it, as much or more as I understood anything. To say I loved the game of baseball does not even come close to the feeling I had for it. It was life, to me. I weathered Winter only because I knew Spring and Summer would follow, and baseball would return. I played it, too, every chance I got, until I graduated High School in 1967. Of course, soon after that, I had to live 'real' life, and baseball had to take a bit of a back seat. It was, however, a back seat that was occupied as often as I could get to it.
I feel, too, that baseball taught me a little about life, about the tough lessons awaiting me in the future. In a way, I think it prepared me for those moments of great happiness, and those of great sadness and disappointment. It helped prepare me for the fact that, sometimes, no matter how hard you worked or how well you did, you wouldn't always finish first, but that there was nothing to be ashamed about finishing second, or third, as long as you finished. Winning wasn't always reflected by the final score; winning was the competition to get there, and doing the best you were able to do regardless of where you finished.
From about 1956, until 1972, I had been a Yankee fan. Now, in the decade of the 50's, and half of the 60's, the Yankees were simply the best team in baseball. They were actually the antithesis of the person I was to become, but, hey, I was a kid, what did I know? I just knew I loved the Yankees, and, I just knew they were always going to win. Until, they didn't. My first real lesson: the 1960 World Series. Now, in retrospect, the numbers from that Series would lead one to believe that the Yankees just had to have won the Series. Except, they didn't. Yankee fans ( I may have been the only one in my little hometown in rural Northwest Iowa, but I knew they were legion elsewhere ) knew the Yanks were the better team. We KNEW it. Sure, it went 7 games; the Pirates from Pittsburgh had a great team, with good hitters and some good pitching, but, the Yanks were better, right? Then comes game 7, a wild affair even in those days, with the Pirates taking a 2 run lead in the bottom of the 8th inning. My Yankees, though, came through just like I knew they would, and tied it in the top of the 9th. Ha! Take THAT, Pirates. Feel the loss coming?
Then up steps that damned Bill Mazeroski, the Pirate secondbaseman ( and one of the best to ever play the game ), to face our Ralph Terry in the bottom of the 9th. One pitch, and, well, I sat in stunned silence. Yankees lose, the game AND the Series, all because of a guy who did well to hit 10 home runs in a entire season. There's your first lesson, Neal. You can be the best in anything you do, and still finish second. Because, no matter how good you are, there is always someone who, on any given day, just might be better. And that is life, in a nutshell.
Don't get me wrong about Bill Mazeroski, either. He, among many, is one of the best to ever play the game. I learned to respect him, and if it hadn't been for Bobby Richardson, he was a player I could easily have cheered on if he had been a Yankee. A good man, and a great player; if you wanted to play second base ( and I did ), you could learn a encyclopedia's worth of knowledge of the position by studying his play. I have been lucky in my baseball lifetime to have seen some of the best to play the position, and Mazeroski is right up there with them.
1961 was the year of the Yankee. A team I still regard as the best of my lifetime. There was, literally, no record safe from them. They managed to outlast one of the finest Detroit Tiger teams of the era, a team of awesome power and good pitching and defense. And they reinforced my belief that they were unbeatable by sweeping the powerful and pitching strong Cincinnati Reds in the World Series, in 4 games. My faith in life, and baseball was secure. Then came: 1962.
A baseball historian might think, well, why would 1962 be any different? The Yankees won, yet again. And yes, they did...but, barely. If I had thought them invincible before, they now were showing signs of 'vincibility'. I still held my childish beliefs that the way things were would be the way things would always be, but I was beginning to be exposed to what the ravages of time and changes in the human condition could do to that theory. I was developing a strong interest in history, from studying baseball history and being exposed to coinciding events, so, I was beginning to learn that, hey, maybe some things don't last forever. For one thing, baseball had 'expanded', beginning in 1961 with the American League adding 2---well, actually, 3--new teams. The venerable Washington Senators ( Washington, first in war and peace, last in the American League ) up and moved to Minnesota, changing the team name to Twins. But, a new franchise stepped into Washington and became the Senators, so, all was well there. And the West Coast added a third team, the Los Angeles Angels. The Twins and Angels actually showed promise, though the Senators held the reputation intact. And I was fine with this. It was baseball, and, more just HAD to be better.
1962 saw the National League following suit, adding two brand new franchises; one, in Houston, taking the name Colt .45's, were bound to get my attention, but, the other, in New York, captured me immediately. For one, the National League had just left New York 5 years earlier, with the Giants and Dodgers moving to San Francisco and Los Angeles, so balance ( something that has always been a part of me ) was restored. But, the name. New. York. Mets. I loved that. Then, to make it even better, they hired the old Perfesser, former Yankee manager Casey Stengel, as manager. This felt like, well, destiny! I was now in both leagues equally!! I had my Yankees in the A.L., and now the Mets in the N.L. I was FULLY invested! In fact, I found myself being drawn more and more to the National League and the Mets, for, as good as the Yankees were, the Mets were that bad. I had hopes for the COlt .45's, too, but they proved a disappointment...they actually fielded a pretty good team their first seasons. The Mets, though: ahh, here, I had found my anchor. I was beginning to realize, in my personal life, that life would be a series of failures interrupted intermittently by periods of success, and these Mets represented that. I began to follow them religiously as I could, through whatever medium I could get, which turned out to be mostly newspapers and occasional baseball magazine articles. Once in a great while I could get, faintly, a St. Louis Cardinal game on my radio, and once or twice the Mets were there! Names like Roger Craig, Al Jackson, the 2 R.L. Millers, Craig Anderson, Rod Kanehl, Charley Neal, Richie Ashburn, Frank Thomas, Elio Chacon, and, of course, Marvelous Marv Throneberry became a part of my everyday vocabulary.
So, 1962 was proving to be a pivotal year for me. I was maturing in mind as well as body, and baseball was my companion during this time. I was beginning to learn how life events seemed intertwined with baseball events. In truth, baseball is a game of failure, and so is life. Baseball was teaching me how to handle life's disappointments and drawbacks, because it showed me that, you might fail, but, you came back and tried again, and one day, you might succeed. The 1962 Mets failed 120 times out of 162 games. But. They succeeded 40 times! ( 2 games were cancelled and not deemed important enough to the pennant race to be replayed ). Yes, they set a record for losses in a major league season, but, it was still a record. And that is a success! They accomplished something no other team in MLB history had done! Lesson: even in failure there can be success. Now, I was a pretty good player, at 12 years old, and getting better, despite my size. But, knowing I wasn't worthy of even carrying one of the Mets' players suitcases made me think of just how successful these guys were. They were doing something I could only dream of. And I did dream it.
Still on 1962. Baseball was entering a new era, as was I, being as I was on the threshold of teenage years, high school, and the future. My Yankees were showing their age, but, they still managed to overcome injuries and subpar performances to eke out the A.L Pennant once again, in spite of strong challenges from Chicago, Baltimore, and the surprising Minnesota Twins. This was good. All was right with my baseball world. Over in the N.L., quite a race was developing between old rivals the Dodgers and the Giants. Being a Mets fan, I followed this with interest. For one thing, the Giants had Willie Mays, the constant yardstick against which such greats as Duke Snider and Mickey Mantle ( my personal favorite all-time player ) were measured. The two teams ended the season tied for first place, and that rarity of rarities, a playoff ( not seen since 1951 ) would have to be played. I was ecstatic. It meant more baseball, and, baseball I could watch, as all games were, like the Series, televised. A best of three series, which ended in similar ( if not quite so dramatic ) a fashion as 1951, with the Giants coming from behind in the third game to win the N.L. Pennant. So, the stage was set for a World Series that would change my life for years to come.
Game 7. 1962 World Series. Ralph Terry ( the goat of 1960 ) on the mound for my Yankees, and he pitched beautifully. So did Jack Sanford of the Giants, allowing just 1 run through 7 innings before being pulled for a pinch hitter. It was a fantastic game, just the kind of game I loved: good pitching, good defense, low scoring. It had been a fantastic Series to that point, and I felt that, finally, my Yankees had met a worthy opponent; I was more than appreciating the Giants, I was becoming a fan of them. Going to the last of the 9th, 3 outs left for the Yankees to win as they remained ahead, 1-0. But here came the meat of the Giants offense. Terry, obviously tiring but still going strong, still pitching. Matty Alou leads off with a weak single. Felipe Alou and Chuck Hiller both strike out. Hiller was tough to strike out, so, Terry still has something left in the tank. But, Mays is next. And, as he has done once before in this game, Mays strokes a solid double to RF. And here is where the game's outcome was decided.
Alou had decent speed, and could have scored from first to tie the game except for one small detail; the great defense of Yankee RFer Roger Maris, who played the double beautifully and fired a accurate throw to the cutoff which would have gotten Alou out at the plate and ended the game and Series. Wisely, Alou was held at third. So, now, Willie Mays at 2nd, Matty Alou at 3rd, 2 out, and the batter is Willie McCovey, who had already tripled once off Terry earlier in the game. I had fists clenched, I think I wasn't even breathing as Terry delivered to McCovey. What happened next is both a blur, and as clear as a bell in my memory. McCovey hit the pitch solid, and hard, on a line.
Directly into the glove of Bobby Richardson at second. Game, and Series, over. I don't recall my reaction, other than I was ecstatic. But what I recall most was a few hours later, when I realized: this was a Series my Yankees had to earn. Because the opposing team was, shock of shocks, as good as they were! And may, just may, have deserved it more. This was a new feeling for me. I had a feeling that, even if the Giants had won, I could accept that. This was good baseball, maybe the best I would ever see, and I came away as a fan of yet another team: the San Francisco Giants. That fandom continues today.
Then came 1963. Here I was, entering the realm of early adulthood, high school. A lot more going on in my life, including a emerging interest in music. I began to learn guitar, from a friend of mine. I got involved in high school athletics. But my interest in baseball was still the overriding interest in my life. My Yankees were still the team to beat in the American League, and my Mets were still the cellar dwellers in the National ( but they were showing signs of getting a bit better ). The Giants and Dodgers were still battling it out in the N.L. but facing strong challenges from Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, and St. Louis. In the end, as I felt was right, the Yankees took the A.L. pennant. Over in the N.L., the Dodgers rode speed, defense, timely hitting, and outstanding pitching to the Pennant.
There was a baseball adage even then, that goes, good pitching beats good hitting most of the time. The 1963 Dodgers exemplified that. Power was not their strong suit. In fact, it wasn't their anything. Frank Howard led them in home runs with 28. Tommy Davis led in RBI with only 88, while scoring 69 times. What they excelled at was getting on base, taking the extra base on singles and doubles, and using speed and glove to help the pitching staff of Drysdale, Koufax, former Met Bob Miller, and Pete Richert to 73 wins, with Ron Perranoski coming out of the pen to win 16 more and post a 1.67 ERA over 69 appearances, 47 of which were games he finished. Many teams with much better power numbers and run-producing hitters the likes of Clemente, Aaron, Williams, Banks, Musial, Ken Boyer, etc., simply flailed when facing the Dodger pitching. This, I suppose, was my warning sign, but, being still young enough to believe my Yankees were invincible, I felt confident they would add yet another World Series win to their incredible total. In spite of the decline of Mantle, Maris, Berra. With a pitching staff of Ford, Downing, Bouton, Terry, and Stan Williams, I felt we could more than hold our own, against such a weak hitting club. After all, both Ford and Bouton had won over 20 games each. And the infield was still intact, with the only new face being at first in Joe Pepitone, who proved to be a more than capable replacement for Bill Skowron ( who was now a Dodger ).
Yes, I was but 13...still, really, naught but a child. I persisted in confidently predicting yet another Series win for my Yankees. I was about to be in for one of the greatest shocks of my life.
For, despite it being my Yankees, against a Dodger team that had the nerve to claim the Pennant over my Giants, the Dodgers not only won the Series, they humiliated me, and my Yankees, by doing it in 4 games. I was stunned. Literally, could not believe it. I was crushed. It was my first life lesson in profound disappointment and disillusionment, and I had no idea how to handle it. I went though tears, then anger; actually had a couple of fights with schoolmates about it. It took a very, very long time for me to recover. But, recover I did, and learned yet another major life lesson: no matter how good one is at something, somewhere out there, on any given day, someone is better.
It didn't change my Yankee fandom, but it did help me accept that some of my heroes weren't like my fictional heroes. They were human, and time was going to take it's toll. And perhaps it was time to look for new heroes; or, what the heck, become my own hero, by challenging what I could and overcoming anything I was capable of. I was learning that even being the best at something was a short-term event; the goal, then, was not to be better than anyone else at anything, but, be the best I could be at whatever I did. And, accept that luck played a big part in anything. Baseball, though, remained as my founding stone. Wherever I went, whatever I did, I always had baseball.
1964: a special baseball year for me, personally, because I was finally able to see my very first major league game. A combination of being a pestering brat, saving my allowances and money earned, I talked my parents into going to a Yankees-Twins game in August of that year. I will never forget it. My first view of the field remains my most vivid memory of the game, and I still feel that thrill whenever I attend games even today. The perfect colors of green grass, tan earth, and that first sight of the players. That was even more special then, as here were my heroes, whom I only knew from occasional weekend TV and print articles. Mantle, Maris, Richardson, Kubek, Clete Boyer, Elston Howard, Yogi Berra; right there, live in front of me. There is no describing the elation I felt. Al Downing was on the mound. For the Twins, players I knew only by name and stats; Killebrew, Allison, Versalles, Rollins...the passage of time clouded my memory on the outcome, I only learned recently the Yankees lost that game, 9-7. I believed for years they won it. But, the important thing was, it didn't matter. This was the game I loved, played by the best, live in front of me.
Also live in front of us was a rather large Twins fan with a voice that could be heard, I swear, for 100 miles in any direction, whose favorite bellow was 'Herman, ya bum!' every time Harmon Killebrew was announced. And....I loved it. I loved it all. The sights, sounds, and smells of a major league ball game. I have never experienced anything like it. IN the 70's, I began being able to attend occasional games, usually Giants games in San Francisco, but I never lost that feeling of awe and wonder when I get my first view of the field.
However, I was maturing, and baseball was helping. My Yankees again won the A.L. Pennant in 1964, but not easily, and I was able to accept that luck played a large part in that. The St. Louis Cardinals, led by pitcher Bob Gibson, won the N.L. Pennant in the final 2 weeks of the season after a almost unreal collapse by the Philadelphia Phillies. Of course, my Metsies played a little havoc with the Cardinals, making the final outcome wait until the season's last day. I was proud of me Metsies for that. The Series itself proved to be a good one, going the full 7 games, and featured a few heroics from my own heroes but the Cardinals won game 7 and the Series, and I accepted that much better than I had accepted the 1963 outcome. Things were changing, in both baseball and my life, and I was becoming more involved with other occupations, so as the 1965 season dawned, I was a bit further removed from my fandom. I was playing, for one thing, at the High School level, and lettering in several things; this occupied my time, and preparing for my final 2 years of school was beginning to be one of my priorities.
It helped that the 65 Yankees were one of the most disappointing teams of the Yankee era, actually finishing last in the American League. New frontrunners were emerging in both leagues, but especially in the American League. In the National, my following of both the Giants and the Mets increased, and I found I was paying more attention there. This pattern continued through the remainder of the 60's, and my own life was becoming much more complicated, not helped by moving from our little Iowa town to the West Coast, near San Francisco, in the middle of my Senior year in High School. 1967 became somewhat of a lost year for me in my following of the game, and my upcoming 18th birthday created a unknown factor many young men of the 60's went through: the Draft, and Viet Nam. Further complicating matters was baseball's decision to change the height of the mound for the 1968 season. I discovered here that I was what would become commonly known as a 'traditionalist' in baseball; the rules and measurements had been fine for 4 decades, you just don't go changing them for the benefit of pitchers, for Pete's sake!
Of course, this resulted in 1968 being the Year of the Pitcher in MLB, and baseball offenses sputtered across the board. I discovered one benefit I had not expected; I enjoyed watching the games more. They were more closely-fought, scoring was lower ( my preference ) and defense became even more important. ( Yes, I am that seeming rarity; I enjoy games more when the combined score of both teams does not exceed 10 runs. Preferably less. ). Plus, my Mets were showing signs of actually thinking they maybe could win now and then. The rest of the league was not finding them the pushovers they had been since 1962. I was both pleased, and a bit dismayed; I had both sides of my personality covered with them. The Giants and the Yankees were my winners; the Mets were my lovable losers. Baseball was already mirroring my own life. Higher highs, lower lows, and accepting both.
1969 became a completely lost baseball year for me. I had been judged not fit for military duty at that time, classified as 1-Y ( not 4-F, everyone's desired classification by then ); I had entered college as a journalism major but dropped out due to my not agreeing with some classes I was forced to take; and I had my first 'real' job, going to work as a mail handler/carrier for the U.S. Postal Service. I then decided to continue my music career attempt and moved back to Iowa to rejoin the small band we had started several years earlier. This led to a somewhat confusing ( but mostly quite fun ) next few years, resulting in my finally returning to California to stay in 1972. Meanwhile, my Metsies had pulled off a miracle of the ages in 1969, winning both the National League Pennant in the first year of divisional play, and the World Series against a powerhouse Baltimore Orioles team that appeared, on paper at least, to be unbeatable. They did it with great pitching, great defense, good managing ( by former Dodger hero Gil Hodges ) and a whole lot of luck. Similar to the success of the 63 Dodgers, and something I would not see personally again until the year 2010.
In 1973, baseball made yet another major change, this one proving to be one I could not then, nor now, accept. The Designated Hitter rule was adopted in the American League, and this reduced my following of baseball to just one league, the National League. The A.L., and my Yankees, were now dead to me. Those heroes were gone, all retired, and the DH ruined any remaining interest I had in the league. Mortality again entered my thoughts as Willie Mays, forever the Say Hey Kid, was traded to my Metsies from my Dodgers, and I felt the passing of a era was complete. I followed my Giants, and my Mets, enjoying the Mets winning the 1973 Pennant after coming from behind late in the season. I was able to attend a few games, both in San Francisco and in Oakland ( despite the DH rule ) and then several games in the following years, when I could. I suffered through the decline of my Giants in the late 70's - early 80's, as my Mets reversed roles with the Giants in the winner/loser category. I was very fortunate to have been able to attend many Giants games from 1987 though 1990, living and working in a area where I was only 15, 20 miles from the ballpark.
Thanks to reduced circumstances, health reasons, and a return to where I now live, I have not been able to attend a game since 1991. But baseball, my constant companion, continues to act as a reminder that nothing is forever. I reveled in my Giants' return to success in the late 80's, through the 90's, and today. In 2010, I was able to follow, on radio and television, their remarkable season, which resulted in their first World Series win since 1954, when they were still in New York. That team reminded me so much of those Miracle Mets of 69, and those damned Dodgers of 1963. Pitching, defense, smart baserunning, good managerial decisions, and a group of players that other teams had written off as losers; a mix of veterans who found the spark again from young players who didn't know what losing meant. It was a fantastic season that set up a string of good seasons and 2 more World Series victories, in 2012 and 2014. 2017 saw a return to the cellar; but, that's baseball, and life, isn't it?
Sometimes you're up, sometimes you're down, but baseball has taught me the greatest lesson I think anyone can ever learn; yes, today might be bad, but, what might tomorrow bring? Storms will pass, clouds will clear; don't give up, because, as Ernie Banks was quoted as saying: 'It's a good day to play two!'. Maybe today isn't that day, but tomorrow may be. Don't give up.
And that's it. Hell, did I just write a novel? Sorry; nothing earth-shaking here. Just me, and baseball, and what baseball has meant to me. I love the game, always have; it has been, as W.P. Kinsella wrote, the 'one constant' in all of it. I still hate the DH. Baseball has expanded to the point I can no longer keep track even of the teams, let alone the players. There are too many divisions, too many playoffs, but wait. It's baseball, and if the world could use more of one thing, that thing is baseball.
Thank you if you have made it this far; I hope you have something of interest in this ramble. As usual, I will be sharing this to my page at FB, so, feel free to make any comments there if you feel the need to do so. I appreciate all of it. Thanks again!
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