Jay Jaffe pays tribute to Preacher Roe, pictured below with Pee Wee Reese and Jackie Robinson, who passed away yesterday.
Jay Jaffe pays tribute to Preacher Roe, pictured below with Pee Wee Reese and Jackie Robinson, who passed away yesterday.
Score was perhaps most famous for being drilled in the face with a line drive off the bat of Yankee infielder Gil McDougald. Score did manage to come back, but arm trouble derailed what looked like a promising career. His decline was blamed on the beaning, but Score shrugged it off. McDougald was equally as devastated by the beaning, if not more so.
From Terry Pluto’s The Curse of Rocky Colavito:
“I know it was an accident. It looked like the poor guy just couldn’t get his glove up in time. The nicest thing was that Herb’s mother spent a long time on the phone with me. I’ll never forget that. But I never felt the same about baseball after that.”
Pluto continued: “[McDougald] retired after the 1960 season at the age of thirty, even though there was plenty of life left in his career. He batted .289 in the seven years through 1957, and .253 in the final three seasons after Score’s injury.”
The Only Bond We Had
by Diane Firstman
My mom was born in the farm country of Monticello, NY in the late 1920s. My dad was born in the Boro Park section of Brooklyn around the same time. They met when my mom moved to NYC after high school to find a job as a secretary. They married in 1958.
Some time shortly thereafter, my dad began exhibiting signs of mental illness … bouts of paranoia and/or delusions. Amidst all this, I was born in 1963. It was obvious that my dad wasn’t capable of being a care-giver to the family, so my mom got a quickie divorce in 1965, and my dad returned to live with his mother in Boro Park. My mom and I stayed in our apartment in Jackson Heights, Queens.
Dad had visitation rights, once a week at my apartment for a few hours on a Saturday or Sunday. He would hop on the B train, then the F, and upon arriving at our house, plop himself down on the couch and turn on the TV, invariably to the Yankee game on Channel 11 with Rizzuto, Messer and White. My mom scolded him for this seeming lack of interaction with me. So, sometimes we’d ride the Q66 bus on Northern Boulevard out past Shea Stadium to Main Street in Flushing to do some shopping or see a movie in the (now boarded-up) RKO Keith theater.
I soon inferred that if I wanted to engage with dad, it was going to involve baseball, especially the Yankees. My dad heartily encouraged this. I took a fondness to Bobby Murcer, since he was the only “name” on those middling early 70s teams. So dad got me a t-shirt with an oversized Murcer head on a cartoon body. He knew I was good with numbers, so he got me a Strat-o-Matic game, and occasionally we sat down to play.
Our “big events” were schlepping on the train to Yankee Stadium (though, in my kid mind, we lived only 15 minutes on the 7 train from Shea … why couldn’t we go there?). In the early to mid-70s, before the Yanks made free agency their own version of “Candy Land”, you could easily walk up and grab a couple of field level seats on game day.
We went to Old Timer’s Day quite often, and regardless of the particular day/game, we always sat on the 3rd base side, seemingly always behind one of the girders (sigh). I’d be sitting there with the program dad had bought me, filling out the scorecard and attempting (in my own baseball shorthand) to keep score. Dad would be enjoying a beer or two and a dog.
An Airman started his day by unloading a plane at Dover Air Force Base. It had just arrived from Vietnam and was filled with body bags. That was the worst duty at Dover in those days, but it was nothing compared to the duty of the dead American soldiers returning from halfway around the world.
The Airman felt like getting drunk when he finished with the bodies so he headed for a bar in town. He never considered the late-night walk back to the base while he was drinking and trying to forget.
He was about halfway back and starting to sober up when a car stopped and offered a ride. The driver took the Airman to a diner and bought him an early breakfast before dropping him off at the base.
That Airman was my father. He never could remember the name of the guy who gave him a ride and a meal on that long-ago night, but he never forgot what the man did.
My father never passed anyone in the military without at least shaking their hand and thanking them. He gave rides and bought meals, but never felt like it was enough.
He died nearly 10 years ago, but he’ll always be with me. I never pass anyone in uniform without extending a hand. It is my honor and the honor of my father.
I meet so many soldiers and see his face in all of them. I only hope they never come home through Dover Air Force Base.
I have included a couple of stories about soldiers at Yankee Stadium that were originally published on Yankees For Justice. These are just two of several million people that we owe everything – or at least a handshake and a thank you – on this Veterans’ Day and every day.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
A Soldier’s Story
Brian peered over the crowd at the players’ gate outside Yankee Stadium last night. He wore standard-issue military fatigues and clenched a baseball in his left hand.
“Thanks,” I said offering my hand.
Brian shook and smiled.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Oklahoma City,” Brian said. “I come from a family of Yankees fans that goes back to Mickey Mantle and Bobby Murcer, but this is my first time here. It’s the first time anyone in my family has been to Yankee Stadium.
“I’m stationed at Ramstein Air Base in Germany,” he continued. “I’m on my way home for a couple of weeks before I have to head back to Iraq. I just had to stop and see a game. I want to get this ball signed for my father. He’d really like that.”
“You can move to the other side of the fence,” I offered. “The players always sign for soldiers, especially Johnny Damon.”
“How do I get over there?” Brian asked.
We walked toward East 157th Street along Ruppert Avenue and appealed to the good nature of the police.
The cops nodded Brian through.
“Thanks,” he said.
Then he turned and waved at me.
“Thank you for helping me out.”
No, Brian. Thank you.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Off The Island
Justin arrived at Yankee Stadium in full uniform. He walked proudly through the tunnel and got his first look at the field.
“It’s beautiful,” he said. “I can’t believe I’m finally here.”
His father placed a hand on his shoulder.
“You earned it,” he said.
Justin is a week off of Parris Island. He is a United States Marine and proud of it. His father is proud, too.
“I bought these tickets awhile ago,” his father said. “I surprised him when he got home from basic training.
“He’s a good kid,” his father continued. “He always tries to do what’s right. I didn’t want him to join, but there was no stopping him. He used to look at my Marine photos when he was little and that’s probably where it started.”
Justin doesn’t know where he’s going next. He might be headed to Iraq or maybe Afghanistan.
“But I’m here tonight,” he said. “Nothing else matters right now.”
Justin put an arm around his father.
“Thanks, Dad.”
Remember the veterans today, then read this:
“New York deserves a champion, and that’s part of our mission statement,” Cashman said. “We’re trying to build for the future but win in the present. It’s that balancing act which keeps that payroll to the level it is. Our ownership has always been fantastic in giving us the resources we need to fix what’s broken. They’ll be there again for us.”