An August Break From Politics

Several friends have gently suggested that it would be healthy for me to take a break from writing about Donald Trump. While I could argue that I have many other interests, I take their point. So, I will spend August writing about things other than politics, starting with my seventy (70) year love of baseball.

I was eight years old in the fall of1955 when I became hooked on baseball. The New York Yankees---the Yankees of Mickey Mantle, Whitey Ford, Yogi Berra, and Phil Rizzuto---met the Brooklyn Dodgers of Jackie Robinson, Duke Snider, Roy Campanella, Pee Wee Reese---in the World Series. I knew two things for sure: we were from the Bronx, so we were for the Yankees, and the Yankees always beat the Dodgers (1947, 1949, 1952,1953).

The series was tight, deadlocked three games to three, but the deciding game was in Yankee Stadium, and the Dodger pitcher, Johnny Podres, had an unimpressive 9-10 record in the regular season. This time, however, Podres was dominant, mowing down the Yankees. Finally, in the sixth inning, trailing 2-0, the Yankees threatened. With a runner on first, Berra, our best clutch hitter, sliced a sure double down the left field line. Sandy Amoros, the weakest link in the awesome Dodger lineup, sprinted toward the left field line, made an amazing catch and throw, doubling the runner off and ending the threat.

Whereupon, little Ira pounded a baseball into his glove and said: “That’s it. I’m going out to play.” I knew it was over, and it was crushing. Decades later, I took some solace in the fact that it was finally a dream come true for another Long Island kid, Doris Kearns (Goodwin), who had been going to church to pray for the Dodgers.

That game launched a five-year period in which baseball dominated my life. I watched or listened to every game I could. I pored over box scores and memorized statistics. I ran down the street most mornings to the candy store to buy baseball cards, which I collected and catalogued. My book reading ranged from baseball fiction --- Clair Bee’s series about Chip Hilton---to baseball non-fiction. I devoured Sport Magazine, Sports Illustrated, and Baseball Digest. I played a board game called All Star Baseball, and kept statistics, painstaking updating them after every game. My cousin took me to meet Whitey Ford and Gil McDougald at the local men’s club.

And I played baseball constantly. We had a small, Levittown-like house, but I pitched and fielded grounders against the garage wall and caught fly balls of the higher wall of our house. When the snow melted in March, my friends and I raced out to play ball. Overweight and wearing glasses with thick lenses, I was hardly a natural athlete. But practice enough and you can get pretty good, and I did.

In 1956, when I was nine, the Yankees and Dodgers met in another storybook world series. I raced home to see the replay of the last out of Don Larsen’s perfect game; two days later, the Yanks crushed the Bums 9-0 in game seven with Berra hitting two home runs off Don Newcombe in the first two innings.

In 1957, when I was ten, the Yankees faced a new challenger, the Milwaukee Braves, led by a young superstar, Hank Aaron and an old ace, Warren Spahn. But it was Lew Burdette, a pitcher with an almost unhittable screwball---probably a spit ball--- who won three games, including a 5-0 shutout in game seven.

A year later, when I was eleven, the Yankees and the Braves met again. I despaired as the Braves took a seemingly insurmountable three games to one lead. But the Yankees stormed back, led by Bullet Bob Turley, who won 21 games in the regular season. Turley shut the Braves out in game five and came in to get the last out in game six, squaring the series. This time I got home in time to watch the closing innings of game seven.

I sat on my parents’ bed and nervously stared at the small black and white TV screen. The score was tied 2-2 in the seventh inning. Suddenly, I heard my mother’s voice: “Ira, it’s time for Hebrew School.” I hated Hebrew School, and I wasn’t going to miss the end of the game for Hebrew School. But an uninvited thought flashed through my mind; if I skipped Hebrew School, God might punish the Yankees. I took my books and went to Hebrew School without even a portable radio. The Yankees won 6-2. It was my first, and only, authentic religious experience.

After a rare year in which the Yankees didn’t win the pennant, the Yankees were more formidable than ever in 1960, with Roger Maris having joined Mickey Mantle in the outfield. The Pittsburgh Pirates won the National League pennant; they seemed to be a pretty good team, with the great Roberto Clemente and a couple of excellent pitchers, but no real threat. The Yankees routed them 16-3, 12-0, and 10-0, but the Pirates hung in to win three close games, thanks in part to the inexplicable decision of Casey Stengel, our legendary but increasingly erratic manager, not to pitch Whitey Ford until the third game. (By now, age 13, I was an accomplished strategist and unsparing critic.)

This time, I brought a radio to school and was despondent as the Pirates grabbed a 4-0 lead. But the Yankees stormed back to lead 5-4, and the game continued to see saw. In the eighth inning, with the Yankees leading 7-6, Stengel brought in Jim Coates to face Hal Smith, a backup catcher, with two men on base.

“Not Coates!”, I screamed at the TV. Smith promptly smashed a home run to give the Pirates a 9-7 lead. I burst into tears.

But the Yankees came back again to tie the game. In the ninth inning, Stengel brought in Ralph Terry to face Bill Mazeroski. “Not Terry!” I moaned. Mazeroski hit the first pitch over the left field wall to end the game. I was too drained to cry again. Stengel was fired the next day.

That October in 1960, my life became more balanced. Baseball had to co-exist with my bar mitzvah and the thrilling presidential election between John F. Kennedy and Richard M. Nixon. From 1961 through 1964, the Yankees won four more consecutive pennants, winning the Series in 1961 and 1962, losing it in 1963 and 1964. I was very interested but not obsessed. In 1965, the Yankees collapsed, and I left New York to go to Brandeis, outside of Boston. I became captivated by the most cursed franchise in baseball history and suffered with the Red Sox as they lost memorable seven game World Series in 1967, 1975, and 1987. When they finally broke the curse in 2004, I was as delighted as any fan who had not been born in New England could be.

Tom Boswell, the great columnist for the Washington Post, was recently honored at the Hall of Fame. In his speech there, Boswell said: “After all these years, baseball is about generations. We don’t play the game. We replay the memories---together.” As always, he was right on target. I can’t recall events from last week, but every detail of those great seven game World Series is indelibly etched in my memory. The best day of every summer was when my father, uncle, cousin and went to Yankee Stadium and got the first glimpse of that vast green outfield and that perfect infield diamond. Around the world, soccer is universally regarded as “the beautiful game,” even though no one ever seems to score. But nothing compares to the beauty of post-season baseball, made even more so at night.