The Era, 1947-1957: When the Yankees, the Giants, and the Dodgers Ruled the World (14 page)

“Sure, Al.”

“When I came over to Brooklyn from Pittsburgh, the locker next to Jackie Robinson was empty and that’s the locker they gave me, next to Jackie.

“And that was fine. I come from Pennsylvania. I was not a southerner. A lot of southerners were against Jackie comin’ up, the southern players, the southern managers. Some
owners
were against him. But Jackie held himself together real fine.

“I’ll tell you this and I won’t say any more about it. When I got to Brooklyn in May, Jackie would not take a shower with the other players. He always waited and he showered last.

“And I seen this and I said, ‘Jackie, what the hell are you doing? You’re part of this team. You’re one of the main members.’

“Most of the old Dodgers ignored me, when I come over from Pittsburgh, like I didn’t belong. I said to Jackie, ‘You know, they’re treating you a little like they’re treating me and, hey, we’re
both
members of this team.

“‘Jackie, let’s go in the shower together. If those southern guys don’t want to be in a shower with you — with you and me, Jackie — let ‘em get the hell out.’”

They walked into the shower together, Jackie Robinson and Al Gionfriddo, and nobody got out. Nobody said a word. Another barrier, that shouldn’t have existed in the first place, came tumbling down.

Game 4 is Cookie Lavagetto’s triumph. It belonged to Big Bill Bevens for eight and two-thirds innings and then, with one level swing, Cookie Lavagetto took it away. That’s true. The game is Lavagetto’s triumph. But Little Al Gionfriddo owns a piece. Without Small Al, Cookie could not have swung his famous swing.

Floyd Clifford “Bill” Bevens, out of Hubbard, Oregon, stood almost six foot four, and he could throw. Firing was never a problem for Bill Bevens. Firing on target was something else. Still, Bevens won sixteen for the somnolent Yankees of 1946. During the regular season of 1947, he won seven games but lost thirteen. Successful pitchers give up fewer than one hit for every inning pitched. Bevens worked 165 innings and yielded 167 hits. Good pitchers strike out significantly more batters than they walk. Bevens struck out seventy-seven and walked seventy-seven. There was no indication on his 1947 record that Bill Bevens was about to pitch the ballgame of his life, the World Series ballgame of the half century.

Recovered, Mantle spent the winter working in a lead mine near Commerce, Oklahoma. Here he poses with his father, Elvin “Mutt” Mantle, left, and veteran Yankee outfielder Cliff Mapes.

On the afternoon of Friday, October 3, Bevens walked ten Dodgers. No pitcher had walked ten batters in a World Series game before. But until the end, the very end, he yielded not a hit. Rud Rennie wrote: “Bill Bevens, in the most strangely beautiful performance ever seen in a World Series, broke three records* only to have Lavagetto break his heart.” Nobody who saw that game or played in that game can forget it. “I remember very well,” says Pee Wee Reese. “The golden time. I was the fella who was gonna come up after Cookie. And was I glad Lavagetto came through. Whatever the ballplayers tell you, nobody
wants
to come to bat in a situation like that, with all the pressure in the world on every swing.”

“Holy cow, that game was something,” Rizzuto says.

“Not a classic,” Henrich says. “You know, Bevens couldn’t find the plate. But exciting. There just can’t be a more exciting ballgame for the fans.”

“Did Tommy mention,” asks Rizzuto in a bland, impish way, “that he kinda bobbled the ball Lavagetto hit?”

Harry Taylor started for the Dodgers. Taylor was a blackhaired handsome kid with a fine curve ball and a flawed attitude. “Nothing that went wrong,” someone remembers, “was ever Harry Taylor’s fault. If somebody got a hit, it was the catcher didn’t give Taylor a good target. He was a real good-looking guy. Like a movie star. A real good-looking guy who was always complaining.”

He had plenty to complain about in a hurry. George Stirnweiss lined Taylor’s first pitch safely to left. Henrich singled up the middle. Berra, back catching, bounced to Robinson at first base who threw to Reese at second to retire Henrich. But Reese dropped the throw and the bases were loaded. Taylor walked DiMaggio on four pitches, forcing in a run, and now he could complain in privacy.

Hal Gregg, another Dodger pitcher who was pretty good but no more than that, replaced him. George McQuinn popped out and Billy Johnson hit into a double play, ending the inning. A war of attrition had begun.

Bevens walked two Dodgers in the first inning. Gene Hermanski fouled out, stranding them both. Bevens walked another in the second. No damage.

DiMaggio drew another base on balls in the third and McQuinn topped a ball, an infield single, that the Dodger catcher, Bruce Edwards, threw over Robinson’s head, toward a sign in foul territory on the right field wall advertising
The Secret Life of Walter Mitty
, a movie starring Danny Kaye and Virginia Mayo, the Blonde Bombshell.

Maybe the Blonde Bombshell distracted DiMaggio. He had a weakness for such items. He rounded second base, rounded third, and Dixie Walker’s throw caught him by a good margin at home plate. DiMaggio didn’t slide, a rare bad play.

In the fourth, Billy Johnson hit a triple off the center field fence, well beyond the reach of Carl Furillo. Johnny Lindell doubled to right, scoring Johnson. The Yankees were ahead, 2 to 0.

The Dodgers came back after a fashion in the fifth inning. Bevens walked third baseman Spider Jorgensen and pitcher Gregg. Stanky bunted the runners to second and third. Reese grounded to Phil Rizzuto, who threw out Gregg, wrong-headedly trying to advance to third. But Jorgensen scored on the play. The Dodgers had a run. Reese stole second and went to third when Berra’s throw sailed into center field. With the tying run at third, Bevens struck out Jackie Robinson.

Bevens walked one in the sixth. He walked another in the seventh. Journeyman Hank Behrman replaced Gregg in the eighth and managed to retire the Yankees. Then came a ninth inning to remember. Rud Rennie wrote of the Brooklyn crowd that “33,443 spectators were dying 33,443 deaths, hanging in suspense to know whether Bevens would have a no-hit game or whether the Dodgers would do something.” But the first thing the Dodgers had to do was retire the Yankees in the ninth.

Lindell singled to left. Rizzuto bounced to the mound and Behrman turned and threw out Lindell at second. Bill Bevens bunted. Edwards charged out from behind the plate and threw the ball to second. Rizzuto beat the throw. Two on, one out.

George Stirnweiss popped a short single into center field. The Yankee scouting reports on the Dodgers were, as we shall see, imperfect. But you didn’t have to be a superscout to note the throwing arm of Carl Anthony Furillo. It was a wonder of the age. Rizzuto, fast but also smart, stopped at third base.

At this point Burt Shotton woke up. He yanked Behrman for his great relief pitcher Hugh Casey. (Why on earth hadn’t he had Casey pitching the entire ninth?) Mighty Casey threw one pitch to Tommy Henrich, a marvelous clutch hitter, and it was an even more marvelous down-breaking curve. Henrich rapped the ball to Casey, who threw to Edwards, forcing Rizzuto. Edwards threw on to first and the Dodgers had their third double play.

Everybody knew, you could see it on the big scoreboard in right, Bill Bevens was just three outs away from a no-hitter.

Bruce Edwards led off the bottom of the ninth inning with a fly ball that DiMaggio caught against the wall in center. Carl Furillo, often an impatient hitter, walked. Spider Jorgensen lifted a pop fly near first base. Dick Young of the
Daily News
reported that George McQuinn “was white as a sheet as he made the catch.”

Two out. The Yankees led, 2 to 1. Furillo was at first, but Bevens was only one out away from pitching the first no-hit game in the forty-four-year history of the Series.

“Gimme the little guy,” Burt Shotton said. Ol’ Burt at last came fully awake. “Hey, Reiser, can you run from home to first?”

Al Gionfriddo, the little guy, went to run for solid Carl Furillo. Limping on a tightly taped ankle, Pete Reiser made his way to home plate to bat for Hugh Casey.

Bevens threw a ball, a strike, another ball. He wound up and Gionfriddo broke for second base, getting a fair jump, not a great one. Yogi Berra’s throw sailed a shade high. Gionfriddo slid into second base head first.

“I think I got him,” Phil Rizzuto says. “Not a good throw from Yogi, but I had it, and I was coming down from a jump and I’m sure I tagged him before he reached the base.” One man who disagreed with Rizzuto was Ralph Arthur “Babe” Pinelli. A civil disagreement among Romans, but an important one. Pinelli was the second base umpire. He called Al Gionfriddo safe. A call of out would have secured Bevens’s no-hitter and ended the game.

“Phil tells you he got me?” Gionfriddo says. “I’ll tell you how it really was. Phil
almost
got me.”

The pitch had been high. The count on Reiser was now 3 and 1. With no hesitation, Bucky Harris signaled Berra to step out from behind home plate. Throw the fourth one wide. Put Reiser on base.

One enduring rule of baseball strategy goes like this: Never willingly put the winning run on base. If Gionfriddo somehow scored, the game would be tied. Should Reiser score, however improbable that was, the Dodgers would win. Keep Reiser, the winning run, off base by all means short of gunfire. Bucky Harris knew the rule and he defied it. A small tragedy for Harris was under way.

Reiser limped to first. Ed Miksis, a reserve infielder, ran for him. Shotton called for Harry Arthur “Cookie” Lavagetto to bat for Eddie Stanky. Lavagetto was an old Brooklyn favorite but he had appeared in only forty-one games that season. His time was winding down.

Bill Bevens and Yogi Berra both knew what the Yankee scouts said about Lavagetto. This feller was almost thirty-five, a baseball ancient. Don’t throw him slow stuff. The old guys love to take their swings at changeups. Don’t throw them curves. If there is one thing old batters still can do, it’s hit the curve. Throw hard. Throw the ball by them. At thirty-five the reflexes begin to slow.

Lavagetto liked to pull the ball. The Yankees knew that also. Tommy Henrich in right field shaded several steps toward center. Bevens fired a fastball, high and away. Lavagetto swung and missed.

Berra put down one finger again. Another fastball. He made a fast hand waggle, up and away. Same pitch.

“I didn’t want to throw it there,” Bill Bevens said, years later. “I don’t know if I wanted to throw a fastball but I definitely didn’t want to throw him a fastball up and away. I kinda felt he was zeroing in on that.”

Then why did you throw it, Bill?

“Because that’s what Berra called for. Yogi was a smart kid, whatever you hear.”

Why did you call for the outside fastball, Yogi?

“Because that’s what them scouting reports told me to do.”

Lavagetto cracked a sharp line drive toward a sign in right field advertising Gem Single-Edged Razor Blades. Tommy Henrich lost the smallest fraction of a second, picking up the ball against the crowd. He ran toward the wall, an unfamiliar wall, and made a little leap. He couldn’t reach the ball and now he was positioned too close to the wall, the carom point.

The drive crashed off concrete and glanced between Henrich’s legs. It hit a part of his glove and spun to the grass. Henrich grabbed once or twice and threw the ball in to George McQuinn.

Al Gionfriddo was scoring. The game was tied. Ed Miksis, the twenty-one-year-old pinch runner, never slowed. He slid across home plate on his bottom, wearing a broad and insolent grin.

Bill Bevens, a disciplined Yankee pitcher, was backing up home plate. Gionfriddo scored. Young Eddie Miksis scored. The Dodgers won the ballgame, 3 to 2.

Slowly Bill Bevens walked out from behind home plate and started toward the mound. He had thrown 136 pitches. Still, he was ready to face another hitter.

He who had pitched with such a strange and moving beauty did not understand that the game was over.

Dodger fans stood under the Gem sign, as the lame and the halt stand at the shrine in Lourdes. Dick Young of the
Daily News
wrote an extravagant lead:

Out of the mockery and ridicule of “the worst World Series in history,” the greatest ball game ever played was born yesterday.

Young knew better than that. But like everyone else, he was wildly excited (or suddenly depressed).

I admire Red Smith’s final sentence on this stirring drama, played out at Ebbets Field.

“The unhappiest man,” Smith wrote, “is sitting up here now in the far end of the press box. The ‘V’ in his typewriter is broken. He can’t write ‘Lavagetto’ or ‘Bevens.’”

“I’m benching McQuinn and Berra,” Bucky Harris announced truculently. “We’re no worse off than when we started. They’re just about out of pitching.

“I wouldn’t trade places with them . . .”

DiMaggio walked up to Bevens in the clubhouse. “Tough luck, stud,” he said. “We’ll get them tomorrow.”

Bevens made a little shrug.

“My husband,” Bevens’s widow, Mildred, was remembering not long ago, “was very quiet when we got home that evening. Just very quiet. He was as disappointed as could be, but he knew you could win them and you could lose them. He never was a very talkative person.

“He was real quiet and we went to bed early. There wasn’t anything that we could say about the ballgame, that we wanted to say about the ballgame. I gave him a little kiss and we went to sleep.”

They played a lovely game at Ebbets Field next day, combining sturdy elements of drama. Rex Barney, the fastest, wildest pitcher in captivity, started for Brooklyn. He pitched bravely. Spec Shea, the Naugatuck Nugget, finally glowed for New York. DiMaggio homered. Jackie Robinson crashed a clutch hit. Gionfriddo found work as a pinch hitter. Cookie Lavagetto pinch hit once again.

What a ballgame.

Except, except . . .

The day before, the players had staged
Hamlet
. Now
As You Like It
(if you were a Yankee fan) came across as anticlimax.

Rex Edward Barney, out of Omaha, Nebraska, could throw yet harder than Bill Bevens and he was yet wilder than Bill Bevens. He survives as a footnote to lighthearted sportswriting. Summing up his effort one day, Bob Cooke wrote in the
Herald Tribune
, “Barney pitched as though the plate was high and outside.”*