Mets to make the All-Star team.
As I watched the game, I wondered what they really thought of Warren Tracey. Sure, they were teammates, but I doubted if they cared much for my father. As much as I tried to loosen him up, he rarely talked about the other Mets. He ran around with a couple of relievers from the bull pen, and he would occasionally tell a funny story about something that happened around the clubhouse or on the road—stories that were suitable for our ears. His manager, Yogi Berra, was good for an occasional laugh. But the big Mets—Tom Seaver, Willie Mays, Jerry Koosman, Rusty Staub—were off-limits. Looking back, I think he resented their success.
For the American League, the fans had selected such greats as Brooks Robinson, Reggie Jackson, and Rod Carew. Catfish Hunter started on the mound. In the National League, the Reds had three starters—Pete Rose, Joe Morgan, and JohnnyBench. The Cubs had two—Ron Santo and Billy Williams. Hank Aaron was at first base. A record fifty-four players made it into the game, and I had the Topps baseball card for every one. I knew their ages, birthplaces, heights, weights, and all their stats. I did not deliberately memorize all this data. I simply absorbed it. The game was my world; the players, my idols.
The game, though, had just delivered a nasty blow, and I was a wounded boy. The right side of my face was swollen, and the eye was closed. I was so happy my father was not playing in the All-Star Game, because I would not have been able to endure it. He never came close, though with his twisted ego he felt slighted. It was such a relief to have him out of the house.
My mother sat nearby, reading a paperback, paying no attention to the game, but staying close to me. After he stormed out and things calmed down, she told me that he would never hit me again. I took this to mean she was about to leave him, or he would leave us, or there would be some manner of a breakup. I whispered this to Jill, and we were delighted at first. Then we began to wonder where we would live. What would happen to him? How could Mom survive without his income? As the scenarios unfolded, we had more and more questions, troubling ones. I suppose every kid wants his parents to stay together, but as the day wore on, I found myself torn between the uncertainties of a divorce and the pleasant thoughts of life without my father. I leaned toward the latter.
When Ron Santo walked to the plate in the second inning,Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubek couldn’t wait to launch into the Joe Castle story. They had been at Wrigley just ten days earlier for that historic event and recapped it as Santo worked the count off Catfish Hunter. After eleven games, Joe had forty at bats, twenty-nine hits, twelve home runs, and fourteen stolen bases. He had hit safely in every game, and, more important, the Cubs had won nine of the eleven and were in first place in the National League East. Wrigley Field had sold out not only for each of the six games Joe had played there but for every game until after Labor Day.
Kubek offered the same speculation that was making the rounds. The wise men of baseball, including my father, were predicting that the pitchers would soon catch on to Joe and find his weaknesses. His current batting average of .725 was ridiculous and certain to plummet as he made his way around the league.
Gowdy was not so sure. “I didn’t notice any holes in his swing,” he said.
“Nor did I,” Kubek quickly agreed.
“He’s struck out only twice.”
“Great balance; he stays back, incredible bat speed.”
Poor Ron Santo was overshadowed by his rookie teammate who, at that moment, was eating his aunt Rachel’s homemade strawberry ice cream in Calico Rock, Arkansas, and oblivious to the game.
When play resumed on July 26, the Cubs opened a four-game series in Cincinnati against the Big Red Machine, the most dominant team of the 1970s. With a lineup that included Pete Rose, Johnny Bench, Joe Morgan, and
As I watched the game, I wondered what they really thought of Warren Tracey. Sure, they were teammates, but I doubted if they cared much for my father. As much as I tried to loosen him up, he rarely talked about the other Mets. He ran around with a couple of relievers from the bull pen, and he would occasionally tell a funny story about something that happened around the clubhouse or on the road—stories that were suitable for our ears. His manager, Yogi Berra, was good for an occasional laugh. But the big Mets—Tom Seaver, Willie Mays, Jerry Koosman, Rusty Staub—were off-limits. Looking back, I think he resented their success.
For the American League, the fans had selected such greats as Brooks Robinson, Reggie Jackson, and Rod Carew. Catfish Hunter started on the mound. In the National League, the Reds had three starters—Pete Rose, Joe Morgan, and JohnnyBench. The Cubs had two—Ron Santo and Billy Williams. Hank Aaron was at first base. A record fifty-four players made it into the game, and I had the Topps baseball card for every one. I knew their ages, birthplaces, heights, weights, and all their stats. I did not deliberately memorize all this data. I simply absorbed it. The game was my world; the players, my idols.
The game, though, had just delivered a nasty blow, and I was a wounded boy. The right side of my face was swollen, and the eye was closed. I was so happy my father was not playing in the All-Star Game, because I would not have been able to endure it. He never came close, though with his twisted ego he felt slighted. It was such a relief to have him out of the house.
My mother sat nearby, reading a paperback, paying no attention to the game, but staying close to me. After he stormed out and things calmed down, she told me that he would never hit me again. I took this to mean she was about to leave him, or he would leave us, or there would be some manner of a breakup. I whispered this to Jill, and we were delighted at first. Then we began to wonder where we would live. What would happen to him? How could Mom survive without his income? As the scenarios unfolded, we had more and more questions, troubling ones. I suppose every kid wants his parents to stay together, but as the day wore on, I found myself torn between the uncertainties of a divorce and the pleasant thoughts of life without my father. I leaned toward the latter.
When Ron Santo walked to the plate in the second inning,Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubek couldn’t wait to launch into the Joe Castle story. They had been at Wrigley just ten days earlier for that historic event and recapped it as Santo worked the count off Catfish Hunter. After eleven games, Joe had forty at bats, twenty-nine hits, twelve home runs, and fourteen stolen bases. He had hit safely in every game, and, more important, the Cubs had won nine of the eleven and were in first place in the National League East. Wrigley Field had sold out not only for each of the six games Joe had played there but for every game until after Labor Day.
Kubek offered the same speculation that was making the rounds. The wise men of baseball, including my father, were predicting that the pitchers would soon catch on to Joe and find his weaknesses. His current batting average of .725 was ridiculous and certain to plummet as he made his way around the league.
Gowdy was not so sure. “I didn’t notice any holes in his swing,” he said.
“Nor did I,” Kubek quickly agreed.
“He’s struck out only twice.”
“Great balance; he stays back, incredible bat speed.”
Poor Ron Santo was overshadowed by his rookie teammate who, at that moment, was eating his aunt Rachel’s homemade strawberry ice cream in Calico Rock, Arkansas, and oblivious to the game.
When play resumed on July 26, the Cubs opened a four-game series in Cincinnati against the Big Red Machine, the most dominant team of the 1970s. With a lineup that included Pete Rose, Johnny Bench, Joe Morgan, and
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