“The one constant through all the years has been baseball.”

—Terence Mann (James Earl Jones) in Field of Dreams

Willie Mays

Willie Mays died June 18th at 93. His old friend Monte Irvin preceded him in 2016 at 96. Among the dwindling band of one-time New York youngsters, a cache of fond memories died with them.

I grew up on Staten Island, home of Bobby Thomson, whose playoff-winning, walk-off home run was dubbed “The Shot Heard Round the World.” It came on 3 October 1951, after the New York Giants had come from 13 1/2 games behind in August to tie the mighty Brooklyn Dodgers for the National League pennant. Driving by “Bobby’s house,” at the junction of  Todt Hill and Richmond Roads, was required of every kid’s dad when we were in the cars.

New Yorkers mostly liked the Yankees and Dodgers, but if you lived on “The Island” in that brief shining moment, the “Jints” were number one. Root for them and you were soon reeling off the whole lineup.

Willie Howard Mays, Jr. had come up to the majors in May of that glorious year—only to be drafted into the Army just after the season ended. (To the chagrin of “The Island,” the Giants lost the ’51 World Series to the all-powerful Yankees in six games, despite winning the first two of three.) Willie rejoined the team in 1954—and one of his many dates with destiny.

“The Catch”

I’m not going to limn his career, which you can find on Wikipedia and many other sources. Just want to remember our Giants roaring back in the World Series of 1954. We beat the “indomitable” Cleveland Indians, who’d won 111 games that year. (Disgruntled Yankee fans said the other teams had thrown games to the Indians just to keep the Yanks back. “We could have beat them, too,” we chorused.)

It was Game 1, eighth inning, scored tied 2-2. Up stepped Cleveland slugger Vic Wertz, who had batted in the Indians’ two runs with a first inning triple. With two runners on, Wertz sent a drive to deep center. Willie took off—vainly, we all thought. It looked like another sure triple.

Running flat out, his back to the ball, Mays made this impossible, miraculous, over-the-shoulder basket catch. Cleveland’s rally fizzled and the Giants won with Dusty Rhodes‘s three-run homer in the tenth.

It broke the Indians’ hearts. They never came back. Despite an ace Cleveland pitching staff, the Giants won four games straight, and all us kids at Public School 19 were in ecstasy.

“Too good for this world…”

We stopped following the Giants when they left town for San Francisco in 1958. But Willie stayed with the team—and stood the booing SF fans gave him early on, though he soon became a favorite. He retired in 1973 after a two-year stint back in New York, this time with the Mets. By then he was a fixture, an American hero, honored everywhere from the White House to the Golden Gate.

How good was he? Just look at the stats: 660 home runs. 3293 hits. 1909 runs batted in, 339 stolen bases, lifetime batting average .301, twenty-four All-Star Games. And there was always “The Catch.”

Roberto Clemente said: “To me, Willie Mays is the greatest who ever played.” Willie Stargell, whom Mays once threw out from 400 feet, “couldn’t believe he could throw that far. I figured there had to be a relay. Then I found out there wasn’t. He’s too good for this world.” Ty Cobb said Mays was the only player he’d pay to see.

Leo “The Lip” Durocher, the scrappy Giants manager in those two World Series, did not issue praise lightly. “If somebody came up and hit .450, stole 100 bases and performed a miracle in the field every day, I’d still look you in the eye and say Willie was better.” Then there was the Dodgers’ Don Zimmer: “In the National League in the 1950s, there were two opposing players who stood out over all the others—Stan Musial and Willie Mays…. I’ve always said that Willie Mays was the best player I ever saw.

Monte Irvin

I can’t think of Willie in those long-vanished days without recalling my other Giants hero, Montford Merrill Irvin. He too made the Hall of Fame, but didn’t enjoy the longevity Willie did. Monte came up to the Giants in 1949, played through 1955, and then a year with the Chicago Cubs. Sadly, a back injury during spring training in 1957 ended his career.

Monte was overshadowed by the illustrious Willie, but the two were close friends. I cannot improve on the Wikipedia report about Mays’s 1951 arrival at the Polo Grounds, home of the Giants:

During that season, Leo Durocher asked Irvin to serve as a mentor for Mays, who had been called up to the team in May. Mays later said, “In my time, when I was coming up, you had to have some kind of guidance. And Monte was like my brother…. I couldn’t go anywhere without him, especially on the road….

It was just a treat to be around him. I didn’t understand life in New York until I met Monte. He knew everything about what was going on and he protected me dearly.” Irvin later replied, “I did that for two years and in the third year, he started showing me around!

Given such a short time, Monte’s stats were impressive: lifetime batting average .305, 160 home runs, 604 runs batted in. Both Mays and Irvin averaged 86 RBIs per year. Before the majors. Irvin spent nine previous years in the old Negro Leagues, where he batted .358. His career there was interrupted by the Second World War. He served three years with the Army Engineers, was deployed to England, France and Belgium, and fought in the Battle of the Bulge.

Service to his country left Monte Irvin ever conscious of the contributions of veterans. In the Baseball Hall of Fame he served on the Veteran’s Committee. For many years after he left baseball, he also participated in Veteran charities—notably the American Veterans Center and World War II Veterans Committee.

Meeting Monte twice

I enjoyed a closer relationship with Monte Irvin than Willie Mays because I met Monte twice—some forty years apart.

The first was at the Polo Grounds in 1952. Monte was playing his usual left field, and I was in the grandstands. (It bears mentioning that Irvin at that time was a proven star, while Mays was in the Army. The year before, Irvin had sparked the Giants’ pennant race comeback, batting .312 with twenty-four homers and a league-leading 121 RBIs.)

“Hey Monte!” I yelled from he stands. “Hit one out today?” He heard and gave a thumbs-up. And later he did.

Forty years passed. In the 1990s on behalf of the Churchill Centre I attended a World War II veterans conference in Washington. The Committee often hosted baseball celebrities who were also veterans, and Irvin was was a frequent presence. Also present were two great pitchers: Warren Spahn of the Braves and Bob Feller of the Indians. But my attention was riveted on Monte. I hadn’t seen him since the Polo Grounds.

I greeted him at the bar: “Hullo, Number Twenty!”

Monte said, “You remember?”

“I do. I yelled to you from the outfield stands forty years ago. You hit one out. I rooted for you even more than Twenty-four.” (That was Willie.) He laughed and said, “Yeah, but he lasted longer.”

“Maybe so, but the word was, you got more dates.” Laughs all around.

Field of Dreams

Odd how memories come flooding back. “Memories so thick,” says “Terence Mann” in Field of Dreams, that we “have to brush them away from our faces, as if we dipped ourselves in magic waters.”

Think mighty façades sprouting flags and pennants. Long dark corridors smelling of beer and tobacco and hot dogs. And then emerging onto the biggest expanse of manicured green you’ve ever seen. Of the national anthem, the roar of the crowd, the crack of the bat when your hero connected. I loved those guys.

“Game Called”

by Grantland Rice

More baseball

“The Dodgers’ Immortal Vin Scully,” 2013.

“Moe Berg: ‘Give My Regards to the Catcher’ —Franklin Roosevelt,” 2014

“God is a Nats Fan: A Kid from New York Remembers,” 2019.

“Ty Cobb: Inconvenient Truths,” 2016.

“Nats Win: It’s 1924 All Over Again,” 2019.

“Baseball 2018: But Some of Us Still Remember When,” 2018

Yankee Stadium, 1958

When Washington was in town, the drill was always the same: 15¢ for a bus to the Staten Island Ferry. A nickel ferry ride and 15¢ more for the BMT to Woodlawn and Jerome Avenues. As the subway erupted into sunlight from the bowels of the Bronx, this kid wearing his navy blue hat with its white “W” would confront the Citadel of Baseball, proud and austere with its eagle logos, bristling with pennants. The House That Ruth Built was home to the team I rooted against.

Through the turnstiles, down dark alleyways smelling of beer and cigars, and suddenly you’d burst upon this hallowed expanse of green. In the outfield were memorials to The Babe, Lou Gehrig and Miller Huggins. Billy Crystal once quipped, “I thought they were buried there!” All us kids thought that.

Ninety cents got you into the bleachers, but general admission cost only $1.30. From there, after a couple innings, you could sneak into an empty $2.50 reserved seat or, if attendance was light, a $3.50 box. Now and then the visiting Senators would get ahead, and scary Bronx voices would holler: “Hey kid — the Washington section’s in the bleachers!”

Why the Nats?

Don’t get me wrong. All us New York kids backed a home team. But in those days we had three choices, and I chose the National League Giants. The sure-winner Yankees were too easy to root for. When I discovered baseball, they were all-dominant, winning five straight pennants and World Series from 1949 to 1953. The Evil Empire, even then! I preferred underdogs.

I looked around for an American League rival, and my eye fell upon the Washington Senators. (Officially they were the Nationals until 1956, and everybody called them the Nats.) I liked their uniform with the big navy blue “W.” Why not? In the early Fifties the Nats were good, but not great. Decent pitching, light hitting.

Once in July 1952, we found ourselves only five games behind the Yanks. Manager Bucky Harris was interviewed: “Could you guys actually win the pennant?” Bucky laughed, but I was euphoric. Maybe! Alas, we finished fifth at 78-76—the original Senators’ last over-.500 season. After 1960 they moved to Minnesota and became the Twins. An expansion team took their place, and when I lived in central Pennsylvania I drove to a few games. They had only one winning season, and after 1971 they hied to Texas to become the Rangers. Bummer.

Better Than You Think

Long before then, this kid with his “W” hat had memorized Washington baseball’s great days. And there were many. In the decade 1924–33, the Senators, Yankees, and Philadelphia Athletics owned the American League. They won every pennant—three, four, and three respectively.

In 1924, the Nats won a seven-game World Series—improbably. Trailing 3-1 in the eighth, player-manager Bucky Harris smashed a grounder to third. It hit a pebble, deflecting over the Giants’ Freddie Lindstrom. Washington scored two and tied the game. Next Bucky brought in the aging veteran, Walter Johnson, “The Big Train,” baseball’s greatest pitcher. Walter pitched four scoreless innings against the formidable Giants.

In the bottom of the 12th, Nats catcher Muddy Ruel rifled a double. Johnson (who usually hit for himself) reached first on an error. Incredibly—impossibly—Earl McNeely came up and hit another grounder to third that took another bad hop over Lindstrom and Ruel lumbered home! I’m sure it hit the same pebble — because God put it there, and as everyone knows, God is a Nats fan.

Making History

The Senators won pennants in 1925 and 1933, but lost both of those Series. In ’25 they blew a three-games-to-one lead to the Pittsburgh Pirates. In ’33 the Giants took revenge, winning handily, four games to one.

Had the 2019 Nationals wound up playing the Yankees, it would have been a “rubber” World Series matchup between Washington and New York. But between different teams from opposite leagues, since franchises have changed, and moved. Business arrangements mean nothing to Washington fans. Above Nationals Park, we’ve always flown our three pennants, and now there’ll be another one flying beside them.

The Senators nearly won their fourth pennant in 1945 and were mostly respectable thereafter. Until 1955, when they finished last—likewise in 1957–59. This earned them the sobriquet “First in War, First in Peace, and Last in the American League.” That’s not really fair. They were better than that.

Nats – talgia

As life unfolded, I drifted from baseball, especially after the Giants fled to Frisco and the expansion Senators flopped. Once, in the Eighties, I tuned in a game, only to find a guy batting who didn’t play the field, called a “Designated Hitter.” What is that? I wondered. Evidently a consolation prize for expired roosters who can’t field but still can hit, to thrill a few fans with leftover home runs. Sacrilege!

In my opinion, the DH ruins the game. Excusing pitchers from hitting removes key strategy decisions—when to pinch-hit or bunt. As a result, bunting is almost a lost art. Even in my beloved National League, I fume as I watch professional hitters square away before the pitch, giving away the element of surprise that is the essence of a good bunt.

Then, suddenly, in 2005, Washington had a baseball team again—complete with the Sixties curly “W” logo and again called the Nationals. Now they were in the National League, where pitchers still bat. Nostalgia drew me back. Avidly I watched them play .500 baseball that first year — the same as they did in 1953 for old Bucky Harris.

Everybody knows the rest of the story. It took years of trying—frustrating years, including four when we never got past a division series. It took a hellish, Senators-like performance last April and May that left us 19-31 after the first 50 games. Everybody was saying, “It’s over—again.” It took one of the most impossible comebacks since the New York Giants surged from 13 1/2 games behind to wrest a pennant from the Dodgers in 1951. Guess what? In 2019 the Nationals whupped those Dodgers again!

Field of Dreams

Winning the pennant for the first time in 86 years was mainly about stepping up. All our guys did: brilliant starts, solid relief, fine fielding, clutch hitting from the most formidable offense Washington has seen since the 1930s. Bless them all, from fans old and new, who prayed for this moment.

High above in their Field of Dreams, old Senators must be intoxicated. Player-manager-owner Clark Griffith, the “Old Fox,” who raised the team from cellar to championship, is envying today’s owner, Mark Lerner. Isn’t Max Scherzer, who also hits well, the pitcher equivalent of Walter Johnson — who likewise hit for himself? Aren’t our starters Stephen Strasburg, Anibal Sanchez, and Patrick Corbin the counterparts of Camilo Pascual, Pedro Ramos, and Connie Marrero? Yes, all those greats were at one time Washington hurlers.

Is Howie Kendrick’s 2019 bat the equal of Tris Speaker’s in 1927? Aren’t shortstop Trea Turner’s glove and bat as good as those of Joe Cronin? Behind the plate, who needs to choose between Rick Ferrell and Kurt Suzuki, between Muddy Ruel and Yan Gomes?

Anthony Rendon at third fields as well and hits much harder than the Senators’ “Walking Man,” Eddie Yost. And what outfielders! Juan Soto, Victor Robles, Adam Eaton, and Michael A. Taylor could be the counterparts of Sam Rice, Heinie Manush, and Goose Goslin — or, to put a more modern spin on it, of Roy Sievers, Harmon Killebrew, and Frank Howard.

What a season this has been: reviving old memories, creating new ones we’ll never forget. And now, please excuse me. I’m going to sneak into Minute Maid Park and plant a pebble on the third-base line — just in case.

Dedication

To the memory of Charles Krauthammer, who I know is tuned in. (Left: Daniel and Charles at Nationals Park, a family photo.)

2019 World Series:

Scroll to comments below for banter among Nats fanatics as the fourth Washington World Series unfolds.