A TALE OF THREE CITIES: NEW YORK, L.A. AND SAN FRANCISCO IN OCTOBER OF ‘62 (34 page)

Tresh's father, Mike, had been a catcher for
the Chicago White Sox, but "Even when I went to a game when my
father was catching, I always dreamed of one day being a Yankee,"
Tresh said during Spring Training. "I'd rather sit on the Yankee
bench than play for any other team"

Right-handed pitcher Ralph Terry turned 26
prior to Spring Training in 1962. Despite having gone 16-3 in the
1961 regular season, he still had something to prove because of the
pitch to Mazeroski in 1960; one of the most bitter pills the club
ever swallowed.

In the 1961 Fall Classic, Terry was the
single mound failure in a five-game win. Cincinnati's Joey Jay beat
him, 6-2 in game two to even the series at one. In game five Terry
was knocked out of the box in the third inning, but the Bronx
Bombers overpowered Jay and the Reds, 13-5 to take the title.

After throwing the hanging curve to
Mazeroski, Terry gulped down five martinis and did not taste
anything. "I was in a state of shock," he said. Terry was
everything Whitey Ford was not, yet he was no Ford. Whitey was a
mound maestro. Terry, at 6-3, 195 pounds, was physically the
ultimate pitcher. He came up out of Dust Bowl Oklahoma, which by
the 1950s had seen a major image change courtesy of Mickey Mantle,
Bud Wilkinson and the OU Sooners. He made his big league debut in
1956, but over the next seasons his great potential was stifled by
the fact that he was part of the revolving door that seemingly
switched players in musical chairs fashion with the Kansas City
A's. The Yankee pitching staff of the era was so solid and veteran
that Terry could not break into it. He was 10-8 in 1960, but his
great win-loss record the next year was tempered by criticism that
anybody could win with that line-up behind him.

Bill Stafford was a young New Yorker, born in
the Catskills. He lived in Yonkers and was only 21 when the 1962
season started. He had gone 14-9 in 1961, but his record was well
deserved. His earned run average was a fabulous 2.68. Rollie
Sheldon, who lived in nearby Connecticut, wanted to prove his 11-5
mark of 1961 was no fluke. Jim Coates was a tall, slim
Virginia-born right-hander, a 29-year old four-year Yankee veteran
entering the season. Coates had what might be described as a "dark"
sense of humor and often held court in the bullpen, letting the
younger pitchers know what was. He had finished 6-1 in 1959, 13-3
in 1960 and 11-5 in 1961. Bud Daley was a veteran southpaw from
Southern California, where he was born in the town of Orange in
1932, and where he still resided in the off-seasons. Daley broke
into the Majors with Cleveland in 1955, but the Indians' staff was
one of the best in baseball history so mound time was precious. His
trade to Kansas City meant, in effect, he had been traded to the
Yankees, where as soon as he established himself after consecutive
16-win seasons he was traded to. Daley went 12-17 in 1960 and 7-5
in 1961. As a lefty, he was extra-valuable and could be used as a
starter or out of the bullpen. Marshall Bridges was right-hander
from Mississippi who had shown promise with St. Louis and
Cincinnati before coming to New York in 1962.

Then there was Jim Bouton, perhaps the
unlikeliest of Yankees. He was only six feet tall and weighed 170
pounds, but possessed an impressive fast ball. This was unlikely,
too. Born in Newark, New Jersey in 1939, Bouton grew up hating the
Yankees because they were too dominant and too white. He was like
one of those people who thinks it better for America to
occasionally lose a war and be humiliated, just to make things
fair. The fact that the Yankees were all-white probably escaped the
attention of most suburban New Jersey kids, but not Bouton. He
rooted for Willie Mays and the egalitarian New York Giants. As a
kid at the Polo Grounds he once chased a ball hit into the stands.
He and a local black kid got their hands on the sphere at the same
time. Bouton relinquished it out of a sense of social equity.

Bouton's family moved to Michigan, where he
attended high school. He played other positions and was no
barnburner at any of them. With no scholarship offers, Bouton's
father gathered the few clips extolling his son and mailed them to
the baseball coach at Western Michigan University, along with a
note reading, "Here's a kid who can really help our Broncos.
Signed, a Western Michigan baseball fan." The ruse worked and
Bouton was invited to Western Michigan, which was not then (nor is
now) a college baseball powerhouse. He turned few heads in
Kalamazoo, but during the summer pitched for a semi-pro outfit that
played in the American Baseball Congress, a prestigious amateur
event. Bouton beat a strong team from Cincinnati, and for the first
time gained some attention. In those days, before computers, the
Internet, and blanket area scouting, players could slip under the
radar. Word of mouth was a big factor. Scouts started to take
notice of the kid who beat the Cincinnati team.

Initially, offers and opportunities to play
professionally were discussed, but nothing came of it. The
tournament ended and Bouton returned to Michigan, where he waited
in vain for the phone call that never came. The signing period was
quickly coming to a close, so Bouton's father went back into
action. He sent letters to the clubs that had scouts who saw Jim
pitch in the ABC. The letter intimated that bids were streaming in.
In order to be fair, the Bouton family would entertain all offers
for a specified period of time before deciding what to do.

Bouton himself said the Yankees were the only
club he fooled into making an offer, but considering that he would
develop into an effective Major League hurler, it appears the
Yankees knew precisely what they were doing. Bouton was signed and
sent to the low minors, where he toiled in places like Amarillo,
Texas and Kearney, Nebraska. He loved every minute of it, mainly
because he was at heart a fan who could not move past the concept
that he had fooled his way in, was being
paid to play
baseball
, and the jig would be up any minute.

But Bouton, despite a lack of height or an
overpowering body, developed a straight-overhand delivery that
maximized his strength. Year by year, his fast ball got faster. His
years spent fooling high school and college hitters with junk had
developed a keen sense of control and mound finesse. An
intellectual anyway, Bouton used his smarts to outthink hitters,
and slowly began to get noticed in the Yankees' organization.

Bouton's oddball ways always made him a bit
of an outsider. He did not play cards and found his minor league
teammates to be Neanderthals, but he did drink beer, was a great
practical joker, and managed to fit in, at least a little bit. He
gravitated to other collegians and blacks, who regarded the liberal
white boy with suspicion until they found out his desire for racial
friendship to be genuine. But both in baseball and in his Army
service, Bouton was a conundrum. He made fun of "small-minded
people," who he found in both occupations, but still worked hard to
please his superiors.

Bouton worked extremely hard. He ran until
exhausted, built up his body, and insisted - often to the
consternation of pitching coaches - on throwing more than was
expected in between starts. When he was coming up, he was a kindred
spirit with Sain. Either Bouton was a disciple of Sain or happened
to believe in Sain's approach already. He had different ideas about
training methods, which were mostly rejected when suggested, but
Sain was open-minded. On the mound Bouton developed a "bulldog"
reputation. He was a gritty competitor who never gave an inch.
Against all odds he made it into big league Spring Training camp in
1962, where he impressed everybody enough to eventually make the
roster.

Bouton found himself in the starting
rotation, and in his first big league game in May threw perhaps the
ugliest shutout of all time. He gave up hits and walks in bunches,
constantly throwing out of the stretch, but made it anyway. After
the game he was interviewed on the post-game show. Thrilled, he
returned to the Yankees' clubhouse, where his teammates had made a
row of towels to his locker, symbolizing a "red carpet." Just as
Bouton entered the clubhouse, he saw Mickey Mantle himself laying
down the last of the towels. He had arrived.

In the broadcast booth, the Yankees featured
Mel Allen and Phil "Scooter" Rizzuto. Allen was a homespun
Alabamian, and in this regard part of an odd tradition of
announcers from that most Southern of states. He and Red Barber
announced in one of the most Northern of cities, New York. Nobody
could ever remember Allen not fitting in. His wonderful, "How about
that!?" after a wondrous play is remembered to this day, and has
become, like many Yogiisms, a cultural touchphrase that covers all
things of awe and wonder.

Rizzuto was from Brooklyn and had, against
all odds it seemed, become a Yankee staple at the shortstop
position. He was the quintessential "little guy" in the middle
infield. Offensively, he bunted, hit-and-ran, and stole some bases.
Defensively, he made every play that counted. He was the 1950
American League Most Valuable Player. There have been better
shortstops, and if he had not been a Yankee he would not have been
as well remembered, but he
had
been, and he was beloved.

Rizzuto was Catholic and superstitious.
Spiders scared him to death. He famously excused himself from games
in the seventh inning to beat the traffic out of the Stadium and
cross the George Washington Bridge into Jersey. He was there,
however, when Maris hit number 61, emphasizing it with his
high-pitched,
"Holy cow Maris did!"

As the 1962 season played itself out, several
things were made apparent. One was that Maris would not repeat his
feat of 61 home runs in 1961. Roger was wary of his place in the
Yankee hierarchy. On the one hand, he had broken the record and was
a two-time Most Valuable Player, highly paid and a New York icon.
On the other hand, he was not Mickey Mantle, and the carping about
his play continued.

Maris was never a .300 hitter, or close to
it, at last not since coming to New York. Mantle combined awesome
power with a high batting average. Maris was an excellent right
fielder, although not as good as Mantle who, despite injuries, was
a great center fielder. But his high salary and higher expectations
made him a target, of both fans and writers. He was certainly not
in a slump, but his home run pace was not Ruthian . . . or
Marisian, for that matter. If he could have replaced the home runs
with a .300 average, it might have made a difference, but the
expectations were too great to overcome. He looked like he did in
1960, which back then was worthy of the MVP, but now earned him
boos and desultory press.

Mantle also did not look like he was going to
match his 1961 performance. In previous seasons he missed game with
a tonsillectomy, a cyst, an abscess, injuries to his right knee,
right thigh, right shoulder, a right index finger. He tore a muscle
in his thigh on May 18. A photo of Mantle on crutches with
highlights of where on his body he had suffered debilitating
injuries looked like a war map.

Despite the fact that Mantle's pace looked to
be about his average, or even by his standards a little below his
average, he was granted a pass. He was by now a true New York
Sports Icon of the first order, a legend every bit as hallowed at
Yankee Stadium as Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, or Joe DiMaggio. He could
do no wrong, and was simply idolized.

The season was summarized by Whitey Ford, who
said, "We always figure we'll win the pennant." The Yankees handled
their competition in business-like fashion, like a banker shoring
up his portfolio. There were no surprises, no key series, no
moments of great tension. It was not the 109-win explosion of 1961,
but no challenger emerged as Detroit had the previous season.

"There was a sense of inevitability to the
1962 season, even as the Yankees got off to their customary slow
start," wrote Glenn Stout in
Yankees Century
. A
double-header loss to Cleveland on June 17 was their fourth
straight loss and seventh in eight games, pushing them three back
of Cleveland. Still, the club was "laughing it off and the Indians
were almost on their knees apologizing," wrote Leonard Koppett in
the
New York Post
.

"We got 100 games to play," said Houk. "We
ain't gonna quit." Ford missed some starts - and his chance to
repeat as a 20-game winner - with a muscle strain, and Mantle's
injury occurred on May 18 (torn right hamstring). He also pulled
ligaments behind his left knee as he tried not to fall. Only Mickey
could sustain an injury trying not to get hurt worse while
sustaining another one. At age 30, his injuries were annual
affairs.

"All I have is natural ability," he said.
Writers started to note that injuries such as his chronic joints
can be caused by de-hydration, a common result of alcohol abuse.
When he played, his legs were wrapped like a mummy, but he never
backed off, playing hard every out.

In August, the Yankees stumbled and lost five
straight to Baltimore. Nobody blinked. "Don't bet too much against
us," said Houk. "We ought to get caught up on things in
September."

Howard gave Ford his nickname "Chairman of
the Board," which was also Frank Sinatra's nickname. Stengel had
called him his "Banty rooster." "It's amazing how many outs you can
get by working the count to where the hitter is sure you're going
to throw to his weakness, then throw to his strength instead," said
Ford. He threw a three-hitter in his first game after his injury
and won nine of 10 decisions.

Mantle may have come back too soon. "They
say I can't hurt it anymore by playing," he
said, so he played. When Mantle injured himself and was
recuperating away from the team, Roy Hamey asked him to return.
"Maybe the players will feel better if he's around," he reasoned.
Upon his return, Bobby Richardson approached him.