Stan Musial (50 page)

The medal just might help new fans discover Stan the Man. They may look at all the records he set, may see a grainy film of him taking off for second base, may see his lopsided smile, may even say,
Wow, that Stan Musial, he was good
.

The guests applauded Stan the Man as he faced them, a trace of a smile on his face. He knew they were applauding for him; he had heard this sound before. And then he put his hands together and he applauded the applause. It was his day. People were rediscovering the old master.

I
WAS
told I would not get to meet Musial while I was working on this book. For one thing, he was smoldering over an earlier biography about him by another writer, and for another, he was not up to being interviewed.

Old players shook their heads and lowered their voices as they told me Stan was, um, not doing well. After seeing the lovely photo of Musial’s trusting face as he leaned on Pujols on opening day, I was convinced I would never meet him.

Oh, we had met in 1962 and 1963, when the Mets writers would go out with Casey on a Saturday night to Stan and Biggie’s. The Old Man would have a scotch or three and laugh it up with Stanley, but I had never really connected with the hero of my first year as a child fan, and now I realized I never would.

The day after my brief conversation with Albert Pujols in the clubhouse in 2009, I was the guest of a dear friend of Musial’s, Colonel James Hackett, once the deputy police chief of St. Louis. They went way back, to when Hackett did odd jobs at the ballpark as a kid. A Gene Hackman look-alike (in one of Hackman’s more sympathetic roles), Hackett was clearly saddened by his friend’s diminishment.

Hackett invited me and John McGuire, the legendary St. Louis reporter, to the grille at the Missouri Athletic Club. The general manager, Larry Thompson, has accumulated Musial memorabilia—photos and jackets and autographed balls—in the area called the Musial Room.

“This is Stan’s table,” Hackett said, nodding toward the number 6 Cardinals
jersey hanging on the wall over our table. “He eats here when he comes around.”

Then Hackett looked past me.

“Here he comes now,” he said.

Stan the Man was in a wheelchair, being pushed by his grandson Brian Schwarze.

“You set it up,” I told Hackett, jokingly.

The man, after all, was a detective. He could do anything.

“Not at all,” Hackett said. “Total coincidence.”

Musial smiled warily at Hackett, as if from a great distance. McGuire, who had met him often, and I were introduced briefly, and of course, I did not mention my book project. Musial extended his hand and I shook it. It was soft and warm and supple, and I realized it was true, as Bob Gibson had said: for a .331 hitter, he had small hands.

Musial was taken to a back table while we continued with our lunch at the Musial Table. Stan was not having one of his good days. Tough to see. Jim Hackett grew quiet.

In the months ahead, I would talk to several hundred people, almost all of whom love Stan Musial, who think he is one of the most special people they ever met. I am grateful for the memory of the warmth of his hand.

Not every writer gets to look into the life of somebody he has admired since he was a child; even fewer writers retain the same admiration when they are finished. So I am doubly privileged.

I am grateful to many people, starting with Steve Wulf at ESPN Books and Paul Taunton, Kelly Chian, Cindy Murray, and Mark Tavani at Ballantine Books, who sensed my long respect for Stan Musial. I appreciate their giving me time and leeway to do the book my way, and for their insights and suggestions.

Also, I thank Esther Newberg of International Creative Management, for always being on my side.

My editors at the
New York Times
, Tom Jolly, Sandy Keenan, and Jay Schreiber, were more than considerate with my vacations and days owed, and I thank them.

So many kind people explained Stan Musial when he could not do it for himself. John McGuire, a journalism legend in St. Louis, opened doors and got me going with his enthusiasm. Then he went to sleep one night and did not wake up. Corporal McGuire, you were supposed to celebrate with me.

William Bottonari wanted to make one Donora run with me. I regret that he did not have the time.

And I also honor Robin Roberts, who loved Musial—despite the 10 home runs.

My insights into the Musial family are graced by Gerry (“not Geraldine”) Ashley, who opened her abundant heart and memory.

Tom Ashley shared his filmmaker’s memory and his love of the Musial family.

All the other good people I will place in alphabetical order.

Marty Adler. Ruben Amaro Sr. Craig Anderson. Marty Appel. Tom Ashley Jr. Brian Bartow. Fred Bear. Jack Bell. Bill Bergesch. Howard Berk. Jack Berke. Ira Berkow. Yogi Berra. Dick Bily. Dr. Mieczyslaw B. B. Biskupski. Curt Block. Doug Boyd, Ph.D., director, Louie B. Nunn Center for Oral History, University of Kentucky Libraries. Ralph Branca. Eddie Brash. David Brokaw. Howard Bryant.

Lou (Bimbo) Cecconi, for the memorable tour of Donora. Brian Charlton. Julia Cheiffetz. Larry Christenson, for his love of Stan Musial and Ed Piszek, and his generosity. Adam Clymer. Dick Collins. Ray Corio. Bob Costas. George Crowe. The Hon. Bill Cunningham, Supreme Court of Kentucky. Angie Dickinson. William O. DeWitt Jr. Scott Dine. All the staff at the Donora Public Library: director Beth Vaccaro, archivist Donnis Headley, and Mary Olivieri, Dennis Lomax, and Judy Thomas. Joseph Dorinson, Long Island University.

Mark Durand, senior director, ESPN Films, who found transcripts, videos, and contacts for me. Gerald Early. Mark and Marisa Fasciano. Karen Wessel Fox. Jim Frey. Roman Gackowski. Joe Garagiola. Ned Garver. James N. Giglio, whose research and writing blazed the trail. Jeff Gold (Tapeman), Creative Seminars, West Hurley, New York. Victor Gold.

Col. James J. Hackett. John Hall. Fran Healy. Solly Hemus. Pat Henry. Brian Herman,
Valley Independent
, Monessen, Pennsylvania. Robert R. Hermann. Keith Hernandez. Mark R. Hornak. Sam Hornak. Jay Horwitz. Arlene Howard. Col. Frank Hungerford. Chris Ilardi. Monte Irvin. Stan Isaacs. Alvin Jackson. Roger Kahn. David Kaplan, director, Yogi Berra Museum, Montclair, New Jersey. Steve Kaufman. Michael Kimmelman, European cultural correspondent for the
New York Times
. Ralph Kiner. John Kopchak. Ed Kranepool. Jim Kreuz. Laurel Laidlaw, Stan Musial Society, Washington, D.C.

Jane Leavy, my pal, who did such a great job with Mickey Mantle while I worked on Stanley. Richard Levin. Danny and Pat Litwhiler. Evan Makovsky. Frank Mankiewicz. Boris “Babe” Martin. Dal Maxvill. Tim McCarver. John McDermott. Joe McDonald. Tom McEwen. Mickey McTague, who volunteered for duty when Corporal McGuire went down
and gave me great insight into his beloved St. Louis. Ed Mickelson. McGraw Milhaven. George Mitrovich. The Monessen Public Library, for the microfilm of Musial’s high school basketball games in 1938. Irvin Muchnick. Edward S. Musial.

All my friends at the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum: Jeff Idelson, president; Tim Wiles, director, research; James Lloyd Gates Jr., librarian; Bill Francis, who always gets back to me; Freddie Berowski, library associate; John Horne, photo department. Helen Piszek Nelson. Jack Nelson, the legendary Scoop. Don Newcombe. Nick Nicolosi. Paul Nuzzolese. Carroll O’Connor. Jim O’Leary of the Sports Gallery, Toronto, for the introduction to the
Sport
magazine collection and photographs. Gene Orza. Robbie Oswald. Mark Pawelec. Ulice Payne Jr. Neal Pease, associate professor and chair, Department of History, University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee. Rosalie Peck. Nicholas J. C. Pistor. Dean Plocher. Joe Pollack. James H. Prime. Joe Ravasio, Ringgold High, Pennsylvania. Josh Rawitch. Kit Reath. Joshua Robinson.

Ray Robinson, for the great lunches and the advice on writing biographies. Abe Schear. Betty Jane Schmidt. Freddy Schmidt. Alan Schwarz, for the technology tips. Bob Schwarz. Tom Schwarz. Charles Selden. Bud Selig. Stephen Shepard, General Research Division, New York Public Library, and also David Smith, his predecessor and a beacon to researchers for a generation. George Shuba. Mike Shuba. My colleague Michael B. Sisak III. Brad Smith. Claire Smith. Curt Smith.

Dr. Charles E. Stacey, Donora Historical Society, a wise and friendly presence. Jim Swire. Alan Taxerman. Wayne Terwilliger. Larry L. Thompson, general manager, Missouri Athletic Club. John Thorn. Richard L. Thornburgh, who gave me a primer on jury selection in 1971 and insight into Musial in 2009. Joe Torre. Ed Van, St. Petersburg, Florida, NAACP. Dr. Ben Vanek. Fay Vincent. Bill Wakefield. The Hon. Reggie B. Walton. Ron Watermon, Director of Public Relations & Civic Affairs, St. Louis Cardinals. Willie Weinbaum, producer, ESPN, for some amazing introductions. Ron Weiss. Bill White, Allentown
Call-Chronicle
. Bill White, former Cardinal. Mildred White. Mike Whiteford. Rick Wilber. Ethan Wilson. Ralph Wimbish. Jim Woodcock, Fleishman-Hilliard Sports Business. Zev Yaroslavsky. John H. Zentay. Jason Zillo. Dick Zitzmann, vice president, Stan the Man, Inc.

Our children, Laura Vecsey, Corinna V. Wilson, and David Vecsey, encouraged me and at the same time explained to their children where Pop was during the past two years.

My wife, Marianne Graham Vecsey, could have been painting, but instead she kept me going with sound advice and comfort when I was miserable or absent, somewhere back in 1946. I keep saying I will make up for all the distractions.

To everybody who got me through, thank you.