A TALE OF THREE CITIES: NEW YORK, L.A. AND SAN FRANCISCO IN OCTOBER OF ‘62 (72 page)

****

The Giants slipped to third place under manager Alvin
Dark in 1963. In 1964 they contended in a tight five-team race. The
Dodgers dropped out when Koufax was hurt in August. The Giants fell
by the wayside in September, leaving it up to St. Louis, Cincinnati
and Philadelphia to slug it out in the last week.

Dark's remark that minorities players were "a
different kine' " of ballplayer combined with additional personal
and professional troubles in 1963-64. His problems with Orlando
Cepeda never went away, and Dark's marriage also was on "the
rocks." Horace Stoneham questioned his ethics. In 1964, Stan Isaacs
of
Newsday
wrote about Dark's troubles with black and Latino
players.

"We have trouble because we have so many Negro and
Spanish-speaking players on this team," Dark was quoted saying.
"They are just not able to perform up to the white ballplayer when
it comes to mental alertness. You can't make most Negro and Spanish
players have the pride in their team that you can get from white
players."

Dark denied it, stating that nobody would be so
stupid as to say such things to a writer, which actually made
sense, but Isaacs said he had taken notes and, regardless of
whether they were direct quotes, many felt it reflected Dark's
attitude at some level. It was speculated that Dark may not have
said it to Isaacs, but that it was a cumulative of remarks
overheard by Dark over time. New York writer Leonard Schecter, who
later edited Jim Bouton's
Ball Four
and was not popular -
some called him "a pariah - confirmed he had heard similar comments
from Alvin in past

This was 1964, a seminal year in the civil rights
struggle. A side show of those heated times was animosity not just
between Southern whites and blacks, but also between Southern
whites and Jews, who were seen as making up a disproportionate
amount of the white "Freedom Riders" descending upon Dixie to "stir
up trouble." Some speculated that Dark's Southern Baptist
background was seen as anathema to Jewish writers from New York
(Isaacs, Schecter). Many questioned the veracity of the
writers.

Jackie Robinson rushed to his former opponent's
defense. "I have known Dark for many years, and my relationship
with him has always been exceptional," he said. "I have found him
to be a gentleman and, above all, unbiased."

Sports Illustrated
,
Newsweek
, and
Time
all printed follow-ups favorable to him. Dark kept his
job but was later fired when the team floundered. If he could
manage the Giants to 103 wins and the seventh game of the 1962
World Series, it was speculated, than why could he not repeat the
act in succeeding years? The answer was obvious: the Giants'
veteran pitching staff of Jack Sanford, Billy Pierce and Billy
O'Dell would not ever be as effective again. Juan Marichal was a
genuine star, but Gaylord Perry, Bob Bolin, Ron Herbel, Bob
Garibaldi - the hope for the future - had not yet come to fruition
and in some cases never would.
In cosmopolitan San
Francisco, his way of doing things was seen as part of the
past.

"You never forget a year like '62," Dark said. "Even
with all the Giant-Dodger battles I've been a part of, I still have
to rank that season right at the top.".

Charlie O. Finley, who was always part of the past,
the present and the future, had been born in Alabama before moving
to the Midwest, and then of course associating himself with the
West Coast. He was an innovator who embraced New Age concepts like
flashy colors, long hair and the sexualization of culture. While
nobody ever could say he was a man of prejudice, he was a man of
his surroundings and past. Finley befriended Bear Bryant, ‘Bama’s
legendary football coach, who entered the Birmingham locker room
and supposedly said Reggie Jackson was “just the kind of n----r
boy” he could use to integrate his program, five years before he
did just that in confluence with a loss to Southern California.

In 1966, Finley gave Dark another chance
when he hired him to manage the Kansas City A’s. Under Dark, the
team improved. By 1967, much of the team’s future foundation was in
the system, either breaking into the Majors or enjoying success in
the minors. But Dark ran into trouble with Finley in the aftermath
of a “plane incident” involving pitcher Lew Krausse. Finley accused
Dark of colluding with the players in the drafting of an open
letter to, and critical of, Finley.

Between 1:30 A.M. and 5:30 A.M. on a late
August night in 1967, Dark and his coaching staff were fired,
re-hired and fired again by Finley. Finley at first fired Dark
because the players had supported him. Dark then “saved” his job by
providing an optimistic, and ultimately prophetic, prediction of
future championships with the young players under contract.

Dark, who had informed his coaches they had
lost their job, called to say he had saved them after all. Then
Finley called pitcher Jack Aker, a major instigator of the “letter
campaign.” As fate would have it, Aker was not in his room, having
broken curfew, a big no-no for Finley. Finley apparently put
announcer Monte Moore on the hunt, looking for Aker in nearby
watering holes, or with a local “Baseball Annie.”

Aker was finally produced, and like a
prisoner hauled before the King, was taken to Finley’s room. Moore
provided the details of his escapades, detailing them as if he was
a private dick assigned to the case. Aker was in no moral position
to argue his side, if indeed at 5:30 in the morning he had the
wherewithal to make any cogent points.

Then Aker, trying to “save” himself, said
that Dark had been in on the letter, contradicting Dark’s
assertions that he had nothing to do with it. Apparently, Dark did
possess knowledge of it before it was released, even though he did
not help draft it, and did not urge its release. Dark was fired and
Aker stayed with the team for several years.

Dark managed in Cleveland with no success
before getting re-hired by Finley in 1974. Dick Williams, winner of
consecutive World Championships, had enough of Finley’s all-night
phone interruptions, and thought (incorrectly, as it turned out)
that he would be hired by the Yankees, his dream job.

The world had changed drastically between
1967 and 1974. Al Dark looked like a dinosaur by this time. His
Christian upbringing and Southern demeanor seemed more out of place
than ever. In the Bay Area, the only “cool” Southerners were “wild
eyed” party animals like Ken Stabler, or rockers like Lynyrd
Skynrd, who packed the Coliseum’s “day on the green” concerts.

But it was precisely Dark’s Christianity
that allowed him to own up to his own flaws as a man. He pointed to
Biblical teachings, freely quoting New Testament verse in
describing the transformation he had gone through in response to
questions about his handling of minority players.

The A’s were a free-wheelin’ bunch, more
like the “Hell’s Angels” who were headquartered in Oakland than the
“better angels of our nature.” They were not a bad group. They
pretty much stayed out of trouble, avoided police blotters and the
like. Perhaps if they had played in New York their off-field habits
would have been more exposed, but like the party-hearty Raiders,
they benefited from the low key Bay Area press corps. But they were
no tent revival. Dark was.

Sal Bando said Dark “couldn’t manage a meat
market.” Early in 1974, I sat behind home plate at the
Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum with my dad. Dark made a move my
father disagreed with, and he made no bones about it. A
well-dressed lady sitting with several of the most well heeled
children on the planet tapped him on the back. She told my dad that
she would appreciate more “kindness of heart.” An inning or so
later I was looking through the A’s program and saw a photo of Al
Dark and his family; the well-coifed woman and the well-heeled
children sitting behind us.

How much Al Dark
contributed to the A’s 1974 World Championship is debatable. Their
regular season record of 90-72 was in decline from those of the
previous three seasons, but their post-season run was the best of
any of those teams (Baltimore and the Dodgers falling like Poland
during the Blitzkrieg). Dark benefited from a healthy roster of
All-Stars and future Hall of Famers in their prime, which never
hurts. This included one of the most airtight pitching staffs, top
to bottom, in the history of the game. But like Pat Riley in Los
Angeles and Phil Jackson in Chicago, credit must be given to
coaches who did not screw it all up, because many others with
talent-laden clubs have done just that. It was certainly viewed as
redemption for Dark; for his baseball sins and otherwise. The fact
that Oakland defeated Walter Alston's Dodgers was almost too
perfect.

Like all of Finley's managers, Dark was
eventually fired when all his talent began to go the free agent
route. He managed the San Diego Padres in 1977.

"I would certainly do lot things differently
today," Dark said years later of the 1962 campaign. "I tried to
treat all the players the same. I would treat them all differently
now."

Willie Howard Mays, exhausted or not
exhausted, near-bankrupt or not, was at the very height of his game
in 1962. He maintained that high level for four more seasons. In
1964 he led the league with 47 home runs while driving in 111. In
1965 he slugged a league-leading 52 home runs with a .645 slugging
percentage, drove in 112, and batted .317. He earned the Most
Valuable Player award, but the Giants finished second.

In 1966 he hit 37 homers and drove in 103,
but again San Francisco finished behind the Koufax-Drysdale
Dodgers. Baseball was slightly frustrating, what with the
bridesmaid finishes behind L.A. and battling the constant winds
that blew his home runs in from beyond the left field fence.

Sluggers like Hank Aaron, Eddie Mathews,
Roger Maris and even teammate Willie McCovey benefited from short
porches or prevailing winds, but not Mays. In 1967, the year he
turned 37, Mays started to slow down. Today, 37 is not considered
old, but Mays lost a considerable step or two and never got it
back. McCovey replaced him as the club's
bona fide
home run
slugger, star and even marquee name. Every year, the second place
syndrome continued to haunt Mays and the Giants. After the Dodgers
it was the St. Louis Cardinals. In 1969, they placed second behind
Henry Aaron and Atlanta in the National League West. In each of
three seasons,
Orlando Cepeda
played on the team that beat
them (St. Louis, 1967-68; Atlanta, 1969).

Mays's performance between 1967 and 1971 fell
substantially from that of his 1951-66 levels, but he continued to
play at or near an All-Star performance. Whether he deserved to
make the All-Star Game every year or not was immaterial; he was an
icon and he was on the team each season, setting records and even
earning game MVP honors in 1968 at the Astrodome.

In 1970 Mays got his 3,000
^th
career hit. Long considered the most likely to break Babe Ruth's
career home run record, his late-career tailoff and the Candlestick
winds combined to prevent the attainment of that goal, leaving it
up to Hank Aaron (who got there in 1974). Mays turned 40 in 1971,
but his career was revitalized by an exciting Giants club that
raced out to the lead, overcame the "June swoon," and held on to
beat the Dodgers in another thrilling divisional pennant race. He
batted .271 with 18 homers but seemed to run with a little extra
bounce in his step. San Francisco lost to Pittsburgh in the
play-offs, however, and it was Willie's "last hurrah."

He was shockingly traded to the New York Mets
in 1972 for Charlie Williams.
Sports Illustrated
dutifully
recorded some early Maysian heroics at Shea Stadium. The prospect
that he could revive the Polo Grounds ghosts, and along with Tom
Seaver make the Mets "Amazin' " again, was quickly determined to
not be in the cards. In 1973, under manager Yogi Berra, the Mets
were improbable winners of the National League East, and even more
improbable winners over Cincinnati's "Big Red Machine" in the
N.L.C.S.

The 43-year old Mays, who hit .211 and had
nothing to do with the Mets' success, found himself playing center
field in front of the Bay Area fans, at the Oakland-Alameda County
Coliseum, when the Mets battled the A's in the World Series. Mays
had no business being out there, but Berra could not bring himself
to sit the aging hero; hoping against hope there was one last
miracle left. It was not to be.

Mays looked befuddled, on a routine ground
ball single that snaked under his glove; on his knees arguing a
call at home; and the Mets lost in seven. He retired, and people
have lamented for decades that this was the very picture of how a
great athlete should
not
go out.

He finished with 660 home runs and a
.302 average, entering Cooperstown in 1979.
Somewhere along the line, Mays became
bitter
. His remarks to writers, fans
and banquet rooms full of people paying to hear what he was paid to
say, were stories of racism and unfairness. He had avoided
bankruptcy in the 1960s, but never made the big dough. Watching Tom
Seaver, Reggie Jackson, and Dave Winfield cash in filled him with
bile.

Fans asking for autographs, sitting next to
him in planes, or other situations, were likely to hear foul
epithets instead of grace. He respected baseball, worked with
Giants youngsters and helped many, but when asked to compare
himself with all-time greats showed zero humility.

He taught Bobby Bonds to be wary of the
media and see racial prejudice and dark clouds behind all
inter-action. He later taught his Godson, Barry Bonds, the same
thing. Bonds, one of the least impressive personalities in baseball
history, is a mirror reflection of Mays. Mays never reproached
Bonds for juicing, even though the younger man likely passed Mays's
records because of it.