At times the photographers at Topps have depicted a player just about right. Roy White’s 1972 Topps card is a good example of that; we see White practicing his in-game batting stance, holding his hands much lower than most players do, toward his back hip. All that’s missing is the inclusion of White’s feet. With a larger photograph, Topps would have been able to show his pigeon-toed posture, another classic feature of White’s unique batting stance.

White’s card also gives us a good look at the Yankees’ old-school road uniforms, which they used through the 1972 season. They’re you’re basic road gray, with no piping or striping around the sleeve. I’ve always preferred this most simplistic of road uniforms, partly because it’s iconic and partly because it brings back memories of the Mantle/Maris Yankees of the early 1960s.

All in all, this is a quality card for a quality player. In recalling the Yankees of the early 1970s, fans of that era glorified three players: star catcher Thurman Munson, All-Star outfielder Bobby Murcer and the team’s pitching ace, Mel Stottlemyre. Roy White was rarely held in similarly high regard by either the fans or the media. He was generally considered a good, solid player, but not a star, with the one flaw in his game (a poor throwing arm) sometimes becoming the subject of contempt, ridicule, and cruel humor.

The perception of White has changed–and changed drastically–since then. Largely due to Sabermetrics, both Yankee fans and non-Yankee fans have changed their tune with towards White‘s abilities. Or in some cases, it’s simply a matter of a younger generation of fans having a better understanding of players’ quality than we did in the sixties and seventies. White’s ability to draw walks, which was rarely highlighted in the early seventies, has now been given its full due; we better understand and appreciate White’s ability to reach base, and the important role it played in setting the table for other Yankee hitters. And then there is the matter of White’s defense. He was truly an excellent defensive left fielder, with enough speed and range to have played center, if not for Murcer’s presence there through the middle of the 1974 season. Yes, the throwing arm would have been a problem, but probably not anymore so than the weak arms of Mickey Rivers or a late-career Bernie Williams.

Some might argue that the tendency to underrate White in his day was also a product of racism. I have my doubts that was the case. Elston Howard, the Yankees’ first African American player, was popular with fans and held in high regard by almost all of the New York media. Chris Chambliss, Willie Randolph, and Mickey Rivers were all popular Yankees. And fans were just about as supportive as they could be of the controversial Reggie Jackson. When Reggie produced, the fans howled their approval with booming chants of “REG-GIE,REG-GIE” resonating though the upper decks of the old Yankee Stadium. Now Billy Martin might have been a different story; some of his dislike for Reggie might have been rooted in racism, but I don’t know for sure. But I just don’t see much evidence for racial antipathy, not from Martin or anyone else, toward a quiet and hard-working player like Roy White.

By 1972, the switch-hitting White had established himself as a very good player. Though underrated, he had already made two All-Star teams and had earned some MVP votes in three different seasons.  He was coming off a season in which he had led the American League in sacrifice flies, an unglamorous statistic to say the least, but one that showed his team-oriented nature.

In 1972, White’s power production fell off, as his OPS dipped from .857 to .760, his worst mark as the Yankees’ regular left fielder. Still, he managed to make some favorable contributions like lead the American League with 99 walks and steal 23 bases in 30 attempts, all while playing his usually sterling defense in the outfield. The following two seasons, he struggled, leading some to question whether he was on the downhill side at age 30. In the midst of the 1974 season, manager Bill Virdon made him a DH part of the time, a role that White abhorred, considering it an insult to his athletic talents.

In 1975, White’s career received a revival when the Yankees made a managerial switch, firing the placid, detached Virdon, and replacing him with Martin, who appreciated players of all-round ability like the speedy White. Martin put White back in left field and restored him to the No. 2 spot in the batting order. White bounced back beautifully, playing for White the way that he had once played for Ralph Houk.  In 1976, White led the American League with 104 runs scored and reached a career high with 31 stolen bases, becoming a huge part of the first Yankee team to reach the postseason since the ill-fated World Series of 1964.

In the meantime, White became known as a beacon of calm and kindness in a clubhouse that often swirled in turmoil. As Sparky Lyle wrote in his critically acclaimed book, The Bronx Zoo, everybody on the Yankees liked White. “Roy White is probably the nicest goddam guy on the club,” Lyle wrote in his blunt-force style. “He’s well respected by everybody, and he’s very classy.” Classy. The perfect word to describe the gentlemanly Roy White.

By 1978, the year that Lyle’s book hit the shelves, White’s on-field ability had slowed to the point of becoming a part-time player. No longer the everyday left fielder, he platooned with Lou Piniella and also made 23 appearances as a designated hitter, a role that he was now better equipped to handle. With the Yankees having extreme depth in the outfield, they could afford to use White more sparingly, a role into which he fit perfectly. Still able to reach base 35 per cent of the time, White became part of a squadron of role players that supported the Yankees’ stars during their second consecutive world championship run. He played some of his best ball of the season in the playoffs and World Series, hitting over .300 against both the Royals and Dodgers.

Then came the falloff of 1979. Spring training started poorly, as the Yankees refused to offer him an extension on a contract that had just one year remaining. The lack of an extension might have contributed to White’s nightmarish season. Appearing in only 81 games, White played poorly, his power and speed showing the decline that often comes with having a 35-year-old body. Free agency could not have come at a worse possible time. White wanted to keep playing, but the Yankees, looking to rebuild with youth after a season of tragedy and tumult, showed little interest. White received some offers from other teams, but he opted for a completely different career move. He took his aging talents to the Tokyo Giants of the Japanese Leagues, where he became a teammate of Sadaharu Oh.

Batting as the cleanup man behind Oh, White played very well in his first two seasons in Japan. He made the All-Star team one season and helped the Giants to the Japanese Leagues championship the next. In his third year with Tokyo, White found himself playing a utility role, but he fought his way back into the lineup and hit .330 the rest of the way. At season’s end, White decided to call it quits, leaving the game on a high note.

Since his playing days, White has returned to the Yankee organization several times, serving as the first base coach on three occasions and also putting in some time as an assistant to the general manager. In that latter role, he scouted Hideki Matsui during his time in Japan, giving the Yankees his first-hand assessment of a Far East player that they would eventually sign.

Unfortunately, every one of White’s coaching and front office assignments with the Yankees has ended with him being ousted, often with no reason given. I don’t know why that is. He seems like the kind of guy who should have a permanent place in the organization, whether as a scout or as a consultant. It’s almost as if the Yankee organization still doesn’t have a full appreciation for him, just as most of us fans failed to respect him at the time for the player that he truly was.

And that’s just not right. Roy White belongs with the Yankees. If he wants to work for them,  the Yankees should be able to find a place.

[Featured Image via Corbis]

If you’re looking for connections between the current Yankee organization and the 1972 season, there are not many. Other than some minority shareholders and some old-time spring training instructors, there really is no one left from the 1972 days. Except for Gene Michael, that is. These days, he serves as one of Brian Cashman’s senior advisors, giving him advice on such newsworthy matters as the re-signing of the formerly retired Andy Pettitte. Back then, some 40 summers ago, Michael did his best to give the shortstop position the kind of defensive dignity it had lacked since the days of Tony Kubek.

Gene Michael looks a little bit surprised on his 1972 card, as if he isn’t quite ready for the snapshot taken by the Topps photographer. But it is most fitting that he is posed with a glove, for that was by far his best tool as a player. Michael really couldn’t run very fast, and he couldn’t hit a lick, though he did have enough patience to coax a walk here and there. He certainly had no power, with a total of 15 home runs in ten seasons. But he could handle the glove. And notice how small that glove was. We’ve always heard that middle infielders prefer small gloves so that they can take the ball out of the glove quickly and make a fast throw to one of the bases, but that glove is really stretching the limits of that theory.

It‘s rather amazing that Michael established himself as the master of the bidden ball trick using that small of a glove. Where exactly did he hide the ball? In his shirt? Yet, Michael could pull that play better than anyone in history. Here’s what he would do. With the runner at second base assuming that the pitcher was holding the ball, Michael would casually sidle over toward the second base bag with his ball nestled in his glove. He would then place a decisive tag on the unsuspecting victim before making the ball readily apparent to the umpire.

It’s a play that major leaguers rarely use in today’s game–I can’t remember the last time I saw a second baseman or shortstop pull it off–but Michael did it with a stunning degree of frequency. According to the official records, he executed the hidden ball trick at least five times. Considering that the hidden ball play relies on surprise and deception, it’s remarkable that Michael was able to execute it more than once or twice.

By the time that Michael had refined the hidden ball trick, he was well established as a Yankee. But he did not start out in the organization, instead coming up through the Pirates’ system. Signed by the Pirates in 1959 after a standout career as a basketball player at Kent State, the six-foot, two-inch Michael might have wondered at times if he should have signed with one of the NBA teams that wanted him. “Stick” rode the minor league buses for seven seasons before finally making it to the major leagues in 1966, when he was already 28.

Though he was unusually tall and lanky for a shortstop of that era, he impressed the Pirates with his fielding and his range. His hitting was another story. A .152 batting average in 33 plate appearances will discourage a coaching staff. After the season, the Pirates had a chance to upgrade the position by acquiring Maury Wills, so they did just that. They packaged Michael with power hitting third baseman Bob “Beetle” Bailey, and sent them to the Dodgers for the mercurial Wills.

Michael didn’t hit much better for the Dodgers, who evaluated him for one season before deciding that he couldn’t play every day and selling him to the Yankees in a minor transaction. He entered the 1969 season with a chance to become New York’s No. 1 shortstop, but his bat remained quiet, limiting him to 61 games. Then came the best offensive outburst of his career. He lifted his average from .198 to .272 and cemented himself as the first-string shortstop.

He never came close to hitting that well again, but the Yankees didn’t seem to mind, as long as he gobbled up groundballs like a Hoover, showed a knack for heady plays, and turned his share of double plays with second base partner Horace Clarke. Steady and smooth, he remained the Yankees’ regular shortstop through the 1973 season. In 1974, he lost the job to Jim Mason. That winter, the Yankees, believing they had a capable replacement in Mason (boy, they were wrong on that one), released Michael. He later latched on with the Tigers, where he filled a role as a utility infielder for one season before being released.

It’s not particularly well remembered, but the Red Sox gave Michael a spring training invite in February of 1976. Michael stayed with the Red Sox through late May, but never actually appeared in a game for Boston before drawing his release. That’s why you won’t find Michael listed as a Red Sock in his entry at Baseball-Reference. The release not only ended his Red Sox tenure before it began, but it ended his well-traveled career.

While Michael’s playing career was unremarkable, it was after his playing days that he established his genius in the game. Michael’s intelligence had always impressed George Steinbrenner, who hired him as a coach and then as a manager, before making him a part of the front office. He then spent some time as manager with the Cubs, where he was criticized by Dallas Green for not being tough enough, before coming back to New York. In the early 1990s, the downtrodden Yankees, having hit one of the worst stretches in their history, turned the task of rebuilding the franchise over to Michael.

As a general manager, Michael didn’t bring much flash or showmanship. With his extremely deep voice and chopped manner of speaking, he wasn’t particularly engaging in interview settings; in some ways, he was the antithesis of Billy Beane (or Brad Pitt). While Michael didn’t know much about glitz or self-promoting, he knew what he was doing in putting a team together, while still emphasizing the Sabermetric principles of on-base percentage and defensive range. He placed an emphasis on player development, which included the drafting or signing of such cornerstone players as Pettitte, Mariano Rivera, Jorge Posada and Derek Jeter. He patiently waited for the right trade to come his way. On Election Day 1992, he made his signature move by trading Roberto Kelly to the Reds for Paul O’Neill. The trade changed the look of the lineup, while bringing an intensity, a property that had been sorely missing, to the Yankee clubhouse.

It’s unfortunate that Michael was fired as GM before he could see the benefits of his labors. The 1994 strike didn’t help matters either. It’s possible the Yankees would have advanced to the Series that ill-fated year, in what turned out to be Stick’s second-to-last season at the helm.

And those who know the game realize the importance that Michael had in laying the foundation for the success of the late 1990s and early 2000s. He deserves credit, just like Cashman and Bob Watson. Not bad for a guy who didn’t see the major leagues until he was 28.

Thankfully, Michael remains part of the Yankee organization today. I feel a lot better about things knowing that Gene “Stick” Michael is still around.

Bruce Markusen writes “Cooperstown Confidential” for The Hardball Times.

[Featured Image Via Linnett Portraits]

For some reason, Topps chose yellow as its baseline color for Yankee cards. Yellow has never been part of the team’s color scheme; it has always been Navy blue and white, with some red thrown into the old Yankee Doodle hat logo. But yellow is what Topps selected, making that the color of memory for the ‘72 Yankees.

As with all of the regular issue ‘72 cards, Yankee players appeared in photographs that were either portraits, profiles, or posed shots. Topps did issue some “In Action” cards for a few Yankees, including Thurman Munson, Johnny Ellis, and Fritz Peterson, and we’ll tackle some of those throughout the year. But our emphasis will be on the regular issue cards, which were photographed at the original Yankee Stadium, various American League ballparks, or at the Yankees’ spring training site inFt.Lauderdale.

So let our tour of 1972 cards begin, with a player who is not often remembered for being a Yankee. Felipe Alou’s card shows him wearing the Yankees’ road uniform in a ballpark that may or may not be Anaheim Stadium. The photo, which is slightly out of focus, shows Alou finishing a practicing swing while giving the cameraman a serious stare. As posed shots go, it is classic Topps.

For those who recall Alou as the manager of the Expos and Giants, it’s easy to overlook just how good a player he was throughout the sixties and early seventies. The native Dominican was one of those five-tool players we hear so often about, but rarely get to see. In his prime, he hit with legitimate power, ran well enough to steal 10 to 12 bases a year, batted in the .280 to .290 range, and possessed enough arm and range to play all three outfield positions. Alou wasn’t quite a Hall of Famer–he was a couple of notches below that–but he was a damned fine ballplayer.

The peak of his career came in 1966, when he played center field for the Atlanta Braves and led the National League in hits, runs, and total bases. With a career high 31 home runs and an OPS of .894, Alou placed fifth in the league’s MVP voting.

By the time that he joined the Yankees early in 1971, Alou was no longer that same player, no longer in his prime. But he was still serviceable, a good role player who gave the Yankees depth in the outfield and at first base. The Yankees acquired him on April 9 of that season, just four days after the opening of the season. They acquired him from the Oakland A’s, who had deemed him valuable enough to be their Opening Day starter in left field.

In truth, Alou had been the center of trade rumors from the latter days of spring training through the first week of the regular season. There had been talk that the A’s might send him to the Brewers for some infield depth, but the Yankees apparently made Charlie Finley an offer that he felt was superior to what was presented by the Brewers. The Yankees sent Finley two pitchers, right-hander Ron Klimkowski and left-hander Rob Gardner. They were two decent middle relievers, but neither was expected to play a huge role with the Yankees in 1971. In fact, Gardner had been sent out to Triple-A Syracuse just before Opening Day.

The consensus of scouts maintained that Finley had not received enough value in return for Alou. The Oakland players knew that they would miss Alou, one of the most well-liked and respected players throughout the major leagues. A’s captain Sal Bando had once offered Alou the highest of praise. “He’s one of the greatest men I’ve ever met in baseball,” Bando told Ron Bergman, the A’s’ beat writer. “You think a man who’s been around as long as he has would pace himself a little. But he embarrasses you the way he hustles.” Yankee management was simply thrilled to have acquired a veteran leader and professional hitter.

Though there had been rumors of a possible trade, the timing of the deal—just a handful of days into the regular season—caught Alou by surprise. He had just moved his wife and children into an Oakland apartment, where they were scheduled to stay for the entire ‘71 season. Those plans would have to be scrapped, but the Yankees graciously gave Alou the necessary time to move his family out of the Oakland apartment and make new accommodations in the New York metropolitan region.

When Alou finally reported to the Yankees a few days later, he found an interesting way to find something positive in being traded from Oakland to New York. It involved the simplicity of his uniform. “At least I know this is the uniform I’m going to be wearing everyday,” Felipe told the New York Times in referring to the traditional home Yankee pinstripes. “Out there, I didn’t know which [A’s] uniform to wear when. We had one uniform for the first game of a doubleheader and another for the second.  Once I put on the wrong uniform.”

Indeed, the A’s led both leagues in the number of uniform combinations. On some days, the A’s wore Kelly green uniforms with gold undershirts. Then there were games when they donned white jerseys (wedding gown white, as Finley called it) and pants with green sleeves. On other days, they wore Fort Knox gold uniforms with green undershirts. Life would be much simpler with the Yankees: pinstripes at home and standard gray on the road.

Five days after the trade, on April 14, Alou made his Yankee debut wearing the pinstripes. He started in right field at The Stadium against Tigers left-hander Mickey Lolich. Alou went just 1-for-5 that day, but he made the one hit memorable–a solo home run that was part of an 8-4 victory over Detroit.

Alou’s arrival in New York also created confusion for us young Yankee fans. We assumed that his name was pronounced “feh-leep ah-lew.” We didn’t realize that you had to pronounce the final “e” in his first name, making it “feh-leep-ay.” For some reason “feh-leep ah-lew” sounded right. But we were wrong, as we often were with the pronunciations of Latino ballplayers.

Alou would become a semi-regular for the Yankees in ‘71, at first playing right field, then moving to first base. He played 56 games in right field, 42 games at first base, and even filled in 20 times in center field. At 36 years of age, he was hardly a force–he powered only eight home runs and slugged a mere .410–but he did hit .289 with an on-base percentage of .334. Under ideal circumstances, he would have been a platoon player for a strong contender, but at 82-80, the Yankees needed him to take on a more prominent role.

With his speed diminishing, the Yankees reduced his outfield role, making him a platoon first baseman with Ron Blomberg. They hoped that Alou could produce at his 1971 level, but one year older, his play continued to fall off. He played only 120 games, his lowest output since his 1969 season with the Braves. He hit only six home runs as his slugging percentage fell below .400. By now it was obvious that Alou could no longer play every day, and might not even be able to help in much of a bench role, but the Yankees brought him back for 1973.

Though Alou’s skills were waning, the Yankees appreciated his demeanor and attitude. When a reporter asked manager Ralph Houk whom he considered the team leader, the skipper thought for a moment before responding, “I’d say Felipe.” In terms of fundamental and professionalism, no one on the Yankees matched Alou. “Felipe plays every day like a pro,” Houk told Yankee beat writer Jim Ogle in 1973. “Have you ever seen him make a mistake? I’m talking about judgment, not [physical] errors. Everyone makes errors, but Felipe doesn’t do the wrong thing very often. Have you ever watched Felipe go down the line, then take the turn at first base on a hit to the outfield? If there is even the slightest bobble, he’s on his way to second.”

Alou’s 1973 season with the Yankees would provide an intriguing twist. The Yankees had made a wintertime deal, sending journeyman Rob Gardner (who had since rejoined the team) and Rich McKinney to the A’s for right fielder Matty Alou. For the first time since 1964, the Alou brothers would play as teammates, just as they had done with the Giants. In fact, withSan Francisco, all three of the Alous—Felipe, Matty, and Jesus—had played together in the same outfield. (The three would have a reunion of sorts in 1973. When the A’s, featuring Jesus Alou, came to Yankee Stadium for a series in 1973, photographers made sure to snap shots of the three brothers together. One of these photographs would become the basis for an SSPC baseball card in 1978.)

Three specific memories stand out for me from the Yankees’ 1973 season. That was the year that George Steinbrenner assumed control of the franchise. That was the spring that Mike Kekich and Fritz Peterson announced the trade of their wives, children, and family pets. And that was the year that the Alous, reunited after a nine-year absence, became two of the notable faces of the Yankee franchise.

The Yankees made Matty their starting right fielder. They put Felipe back at first base. Facially, they looked somewhat alike, which created confusion for some Yankee fans. But for me, it was easy to tell them apart. Felipe wore glasses; Matty did not. Felipe was tall and batted right-handed. Matty was short and batted from the left side.

Matty hit well and fielded well, but it was strange that the Yankees used him, a singles hitter with virtually no power, to bat third instead of leadoff. Felipe struggled, his play falling off even further after the decline of 1972, and he lost the first base job. Interestingly, the Yankees replaced Felipe with Matty, who moved to first base despite being only five feet, nine inches tall. Felipe eventually made some starts in right field, mostly against left-handed pitching, as he platooned with Johnny Callison. But Felipe just couldn’t hit anymore. At age 38, he had lost most of his batting skills.

When the Yankees fell out of contention that summer, the front office felt it was time to move out some of their past-their-prime veterans. So they released Callison. A few weeks later, they decided it was time to cut ties with the aging Alous. On September 4, the Yankees announced two separate but related transactions. They sold Matty to the Padres. They also sold Felipe on waivers to the Expos. It was only fitting that the brothers would depart New York on the exact same day.

Felipe Alou batted .208 in 20 games for the Expos, who sold him to the Brewers after the season. Alou batted three times with Milwaukee, without a hit, and then drew his release. And thus came to an end a 17-year career in the big leagues.

Alou would never return to the Yankee organization. But he and the Yankees nearly enjoyed a reunion of sorts in 1994. Alou, by now the manager of the Expos, was leading his team to the best record (74-40) in the National League. In the meantime, the Yankees led the American League East. Then came the strike. If not for the labor/management conflict canceling the rest of the season and the World Series, it’s quite possible that Alou would have met the Yankees in the Fall Classic.

Like so many possibilities in baseball, it just never did come to pass.

[Photo Credit: Attic Insulation]

What kind of a player is Nix? He had a miserable 2011, hitting so poorly and striking out so frequently for the Blue Jays that they released him in mid-season. But he does have some power–he hit 26 home runs combined for the White Sox and Indians over the 2009 and 2010 seasons–and can play third base, second base or shortstop, in addition to the outfield corners.

So should the Yankees trade Nunez? He has loads of natural talent, but is very raw, and must find a way to cut down on his throwing errors. He could be a very good utility infielder, ala Randy Velarde or Luis Sojo, but I don’t know if he has enough patience at the plate to be an everyday player. In the meantime, Jurrjens is a very effective right-handed pitcher who has been good in three of his four full seasons. He’s a strike thrower who won’t turn 26 until January, with the one concern being his ability to stay healthy. If the Braves would be willing to part with the native of Curacao in exchange for a package of Nunez, Brandon Laird, and a middling prospect, I’d have to give some serious thought to such a trade…

* * * *

The Yankees’ wise decision to re-sign Freddy “The Chief” Garcia should not be interpreted as a sign that they will not pursue additional starting pitching; rather it’s part of a plan to stockpile as much pitching depth as possible for a long season. The reliable Garcia is an insurance policy, a No. 5 starter under a worst-case scenario, and possibly a long reliever. The Yankees still plan to pursue pitching via both the trade and free agent routes. If they can add someone like Mark Buerhle (free agent) or John Danks (trade), the rotation will look like this:

1) CC Sabathia

2) Ivan Nova

3) Buerhle or Danks or someone else

4) Phil Hughes

5) A.J. Burnett

Under this scenario, Garcia would start the season out of the bullpen and would be available as a long man and spot starter. The Yankees could then give Hector Noesi some more time to develop as a fulltime starter at Triple-A Scranton/Wilkes Barre. With Noesi, Dellin Betances and Manny Banuelos at Scranton, the Yankees would have exactly the kind of young pitching depth that Brian Cashman desires as mid-season insurance. But the plan depends on adding a starting pitcher of some pedigree, something that Cashman has not been able to do since signing Sabathia in 2009…

* * * *

Over at The Hardball Times, I’ve been writing a series of baseball card mysteries where I ask readers to assist me in identifying players on cards. One of the cards has proved particularly vexing: the 2001 Topps Golden Moments card featuring Bucky Dent’s historic home run against Mike Torrez. I’ve been able to identify most everyone on the card. There’s Dent himself (wearing No. 20), who’s being trailed by Chris Chambliss. The welcome wagon of congratulation includes Yankee trainer Gene Monahan, backup catcher Cliff Johnson and manager Bob Lemon (all in jackets). Behind Lemon is Jay Johnstone, the veteran backup outfielder. Behind Monahan is Willie Randolph, who was injured and unavailable to play in the tiebreaker game against the Red Sox.

That leaves one mystery man. Who is the player to the right of Randolph, the one right next to the gold Topps logo? Among our readers suggestions have been backup outfielder Gary Thomasson, first baseman/DH Jim Spencer, and backup catcher Mike Heath. Still others claim that this player has no number on the back of the uniform, which leaves open the possibility that it is not actually a player, or not a player who was eligible for that game against the Red Sox. Could it be a ballboy or a batboy?

Who in the world is it? At this point, I really have no idea. Perhaps someone at the Banter knows.

Bruce Markusen writes “Cooperstown Confidential” for The Hardball Times.

Bobby Richardson might not have made it in today’s game. To be more specific, he might not have been able to start for most teams at second base. He was a reliable and rangy defender with hands of silk at the keystone, but as a .260 hitter who drew few walks and hit with little power, he probably wouldn’t have carried the offensive standard of today’s game. Of course, that should do little to diminish his complementary role on those great Yankee teams of the early 1960s.

Emerging as a 19-year-old rookie, the handsome Richardson made his big league debut in 1955. He was hardly an overnight success. He didn’t hit much over his first four seasons and had to settle for a role as a part-time player and utility infielder, while spending time on the minor league shuttle to Triple-A Denver. When Casey Stengel played him at second base, it was usually in a platoon with veteran infielder Jerry Lumpe. In many ways, Richardson seemed out of place on a Yankee team filled with hard hitters and big drinkers. Richardson’s clean living and deep religious beliefs prompted a famed remark from his manager, Casey Stengel. “Look at him. He don’t drink, he don’t smoke, he don’t chew, he don’t stay out too late, and he still don’t hit .250!”

It was not until 1959 that he started to hit better and finally took hold of the second base job, essentially succeeding Gil McDougald at the position. Richardson played well enough to earn a berth on the All-Star team, hit a tidy .301, and fielded everything hit in his direction. Unfortunately, after making appearances as a bit player in the 1957 and ‘58 World Series, Richardson was denied a more meaningful role in that fall’s World Series; the ‘59 Yankees finished 79-75, a disappointing and distant third in the American League pennant race.

In 1960, Richardson’s hitting fell off to .252, as he reached base barely 30 per cent of the time. Although he looked like a leadoff hitter, he didn’t play like one. Frankly, the Yankees would have been better served leading off with either Tony Kubek, who had a slightly better on-base percentage and far more power, or Hector Lopez, who reached base 36 per cent of the time. Fortunately, the Yankees did not need a ton of offense from Richardson because the rest of their lineup was so potent.

In reality, Richardson always led with his glove. He had the perfect physique for a second baseman. At five-foot-nine and 175 pounds, Richardson was built strong and low to the ground, making him an immoveable object on takeout slides at second base. He worked extremely well with Kubek, his shortstop partner and his best friend on the team. Richardson’s rock-solid defensive play more than satisfied the Yankee brass, which recognized the subtle role that his fielding played in helping the team regain the pennant after a one-year absence.

Given the disparity between his defensive play and his hitting, his performance in the 1960 World Series deserved consideration as the upset of the century. Richardson hit Pirates pitching (which included Vernon Law, Bob Friend, and Vinegar Bend Mizell) to the tune of a .367 batting average and set a new World Series record by collecting 12 RBIs. The Yankees’ inability to win the Series against the upstart Pirates could not be blamed in any way on Richardson, who became the first member of a losing team to claim the Series’ MVP Award. Normally overshadowed by the likes of Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra and Whitey Ford, Richardson hit line drive after line drive to earn Sport Magazine’s nod as MVP.

Given his hitting in the Series, it seemed appropriate that Topps featured him holding a bat on his 1961 Topps card. His hitting returned to a level of normalcy in ‘61, but the writers didn’t seem to care. Despite hitting only .261 with a mere 30 walks, extremely poor numbers for a leadoff man, Richardson actually received some votes in the league MVP balloting. Remarkably, he hit even more efficiently in the ‘61 World Series than he had the previous fall, as he batted a robust .391 against Cincinnati pitching. Somehow, it didn’t matter that Richardson failed to drive in a single run during the Series; the Yankees overpowered the Reds of Vada Pinson and Frank Robinson in a four-game sweep.

Then came a marvelous individual season in 1962. Richardson reached career highs in batting average (.302) and on-base percentage (.337), while surprisingly leading the league by thrashing 209 hits. Even more shockingly, Richardson slammed eight home runs, after never having hit more than three long balls in any of his previous seasons. With his offense at a career peak, Richardson actually finished second in the American League MVP vote, behind only Mr. Mantle. He also made the All-Star team, marking the first of five consecutive berths he would claim in the Midsummer Classic.

The hot hitting did not carry over to the World Series. In what amounted to a reversal of 1960 fortunes, Richardson batted only .148 against the National League champion Giants. Yet, defensively he made the final play of the Series–snaring a monstrous line drive off the bat of Willie McCovey that nearly separated Richardson’s glove from his hand. Richardson was positioned perfectly; if he had taken one step in either direction prior to the pitch, McCovey’s low line drive likely would have eluded him, brought home Matty Alou and Willie Mays, and won the Series for the Giants. Instead, Richardson caught the ball, preserving a most dramatic 1-0 decision and the world championship for the Yankees.

Richardson would make two more appearances in the World Series. Both came in losing causes, but the 1964 go-round would represent more offensive triumph for the unpredictable veteran. Amazingly, he hit .406 and drove in three runs as part of a seven-game loss to the Cardinals. With that performance, Richardson lifted his career average in World Series play to .305.

He would never return to the postseason again. Now in full franchise decline, the Yankees endured lackluster seasons in 1965 and ’66. Tired of the travel and the constant shifting of his family from its home base in South Carolina to Florida to New York, Richardson wanted to retire at the end of the 1965 season, but the Yankees, knowing that Kubek’s advisors had already advised him to retire, did not want to lose their double play combination in one fell swoop. (Richardson and Kubek had become known as the “Milkshake Twins” because of their choir boy personas and non-drinking lifestyles.) The Yankees offered Richardson a five-year contract: one year as a player, and the other four as a team ambassador. Richardson agreed to the deal.

Richardson did not hit much in 1966, but he continued to handle his position with grace, dexterity, and range. On August 31, he made his retirement decision public and official. Finishing out the season in an 8-for-55 slump, Richardson played his last game on October 2, as the Yankees put a sad end to a last-place finish in the American League.

Unlike some retired players who fade into the background, Richardson has remained a public figure. If anything, he has been busier in “retirement” than he was as a player with the Yankees. Known for his religious devotion, Richardson has made numerous speeches to Christian groups. In 1970, he received an invitation from President Nixon to preach at the White House.

In 1976, Richardson took a stab at politics. A Republican, he ran for Congress in his home state of South Carolina, but lost the bid to incumbent Democrat Kenneth Holland. Free from the political world, he concentrated his efforts on coaching baseball. He coached the South Carolina Gamecocks to a second-place finish in the College World Series before taking jobs with Liberty University and Coastal Carolina.

Now retired from coaching, Richardson is one of the living links to the 1961 Yankees. With Mantle, Roger Maris, Clete Boyer, Elston Howard, and Johnny Blanchard now gone, Richardson is one of the dwindling number of position players still with us from that team. I’m sure that he has a few stories in him about those bawdy Yankee teams, but he’s probably too decent a man to repeat them out loud.

In recent years, Richardson has become somewhat of a target of Sabermetricians, who have criticized him for his inability to draw walks or hit home runs. He’s certainly not the all-round player that Robinson Cano has become at the pivot. But for his time, Richardson was a pretty decent fit for the team known as the “Bronx Bombers.”

Bruce Markusen hopes to interview Bobby Richardson the next time he comes to Cooperstown.

Hard as it is to fathom, a full half-century has passed since the Yankees put together their storied season of 1961. Throughout 2011, I’ll pay tribute to the ‘61 Yankees by spotlighting some of their best and most interesting players on “Card Corner.” Today, we’ll begin at first base.

For me, Bill “Moose” Skowron has always been about mistaken assumptions. Perhaps that’s because I never saw Skowron play. I first learned about him while watching him make appearances at Old-Timers games during the 1970s. For some reason, I had always assumed that he was a left-handed hitter, if only because Yankee Stadium has always favored left-handed sluggers. So if Skowron was a slugger, then he must have been a lefty. (It’s funny how the mind of a seven-year-old works.) Not so, Skowron was right-handed all the way.

I also assumed that Skowron’s nickname had something to do with his power, his size, and his physical strength. The name Moose makes sense in that way, right? Little did I realize that the nickname was actually a shortening of the name “Mussolini.” When Skowron was a boy, his grandfather gave him an impromptu haircut, which made the youngster look too much like the Italian dictator. Skowron’s friends called him Mussolini; rather than take offense, the family responded by shortening the name to Moose. The new nickname would stick with Skowron throughout his career, even though Topps would refer to him as Bill on his baseball cards.

Impressing scouts with his power, Skowron signed with the Yankees in 1950. Originally an outfielder and third baseman, he then began a slow but fruitful climb up the organizational ladder, landing in the Bronx in 1954. By now a first baseman, he initially platooned with veteran Joe Collins, before becoming an everyday player by the late 1950s. Fitting in somewhere between Chris Chambliss and Lou Gehrig on the totem pole of Yankee first basemen, the free-swinging Skowron became a model of solid steadiness.

Skowron made five consecutive All-Star teams from 1957 to 1961, while averaging 20 home runs a year. He twice slugged better than .500, and twice earned American League MVP votes. With much of his power running from right to right-center field, he found the opposite-field power alley to his liking at Yankee Stadium. He didn’t walk much, but he gave the lefty-leaning Yankees some balance to their batting order. If there was a caveat in his game, it was his inability to avoid nagging and repeated injuries. Skowron had a physique wrapped in muscles, which he tended to pull and strain with annoying regularity. That’s why he usually played 120 to 130 games, instead of the requisite 140 to 150.

After putting up OPS marks in the .880 range in 1958 and ‘59, Skowron’s percentages fell off during the glory year of 1961. But he did manage to hit a personal-best 28 home runs while playing in a career-high 150 games (out of 162). Batting out of the sixth and seventh holes–behind Roger Maris, Mickey Mantle, and usually either Elston Howard or Yogi Berra–Moose gave a tough Yankee lineup some depth and balance.

Yet, it was in the 1961 World Series that Skowron played his best. In five games against the upstart Reds, Skowron slugged .529 with one home run and five RBIs, reached base 45 per cent of the time, and hit a robust .353. Then again, Moose was almost always good in the Series. In 133 at-bats stretched over eight World Series appearances, Skowron hit eight home runs and slugged .519. Yeah, I guess you could say he was clutch.

Skowron followed up 1961 by putting up nearly identical offensive numbers in 1962. His doubles, home runs, and RBIs dipped slightly, but his OPS actually rose by eight percentage points. But he was now on the wrong side of 30, 31 to be exact. Concerned about his potential decline, and knowing that they had Joe Pepitone in the pipeline, the Yankees decided to trade Skowron that winter. They sent him to the Dodgers in exchange for Stan Williams, a useful and intimidating right-hander with a reputation for piling up strikeouts and hit batsmen.

Skowron’s fortunes began to sink after the trade. He now had to play in a hitting bone yard, the newly built Dodger Stadium, while facing National League pitchers with whom he had little familiarity. He also found himself returned to a platoon role, this time with the lefty-swinging Ron Fairly. Skowron did not take well to the new role–or environment. Limited to 89 games and 256 plate appearances, Moose hit a miserable .203 and totaled only three home runs.

If there was a highlight to 1963, it was Skowron’s guest appearance on an episode of the popular TV show, “Mr. Ed.” Skowron and Dodger teammates John Roseboro, Willie Davis, and Sandy Koufax played themselves in an episode titled “Leo Durocher meets Mr. Ed.” In the main plotline, everyone’s favorite talking horse gave batting tips to Durocher, who was billed as the Dodgers’ manager even though he was actually a coach under Walter Alston. (I wonder how Mr. Alston felt about that.) The episode, a typically funny installment of a delightful situation comedy, made a strong impression on both baseball fans and regular followers of the show.

With his Hollywood profile soaring but his baseball value at a career low, the Dodgers sold Skowron to the expansion Washington Senators for a small sum of cash. Far more comfortable in the American League, Skowron enjoyed a half-season renaissance in the Capital City. He hit solidly for the Senators, but with the club predictably out of the pennant race by July, he found himself on the move in mid-summer. Clearing waivers after the trading deadline, Skowron went to the White Sox as part of a four-player deal.

Moose hit for average, but without much power in the Windy City, as the White Sox finished in second place, seven games behind the Twins. Skowron returned to Chicago in 1965 and put up one final productive season before the realities of age finally bit him for good. Splitting his last two seasons between the White Sox and Angels, Skowron called it quits at the age of 36.

During his playing career, Skowron became close friends with Hank Bauer, a rough-and tumble character who missed out on the ‘61 festivities while wrapping up his career with the Kansas City Athletics. They seemingly always made publicly appearances together, including numerous visits to Cooperstown for Hall of Fame Weekend signings. I met Skowron and Bauer back in the late 1980s; they were signing at a table outside one of the card shops on Main Street. To say that I was intimidated is understating my emotional state at the time. Between Bauer’s raspy voice and Skowron’s rugged appearance (which is in full view on his ‘61 Topps card), I felt like a rookie reporter working the Yankee clubhouse in 1961. With a forehead like Frankenstein and a lantern-like jaw, Skowron looks like something out of “Moon Mullins” or the Bowery Boys. It’s not that Skowron is unattractive; he just looks like someone who could put his fist through your heart if you asked him the wrong question.

Well, once again I was guilty of a mistaken assumption. I only talked to Skowron briefly that day, mostly because of my own timidity, but I’m told that he is actually a good guy, quiet and gruff on the exterior but soft where it counts. So it really shouldn’t be any surprise that Moose works as a goodwill ambassador for the White Sox’ organization, still doing community relations work at the age of 80.

Bauer is gone now–he passed away in 2007–but Skowron still visits Cooperstown on occasion to do autograph shows. I hope I get to have a longer conversation with Moose the next time he comes to town.

Bruce Markusen writes “Cooperstown Confidential” for The Hardball Times.

Last summer I had the pleasure of interviewing former Yankee Fritz Peterson, who informed me of his involvement with a Ben Affleck/Matt Damon film project chronicling his famed wife swap with Mike Kekich. Now comes the news that Kekich will not give his approval to the project; in fact, one news report in the NY Post claims that the reclusive left-hander is “panic stricken” about the movie and “freaked out” that filmmakers actually found out where he lives.

I can’t say that I’m surprised to hear of Kekich’s reaction to the film. Ever since he retired in 1977, he has remained out of the baseball spotlight. I have never seen or heard him interviewed about his career, whether it’s talking about the Yankees or other stopping points in Los Angeles, Cleveland, Texas or Seattle. He has always been reluctant to talk about the wife swap, remaining so even with the passage of time. Unlike Peterson, I don’t think Kekich is planning any trips to Cooperstown in the near future.

So who exactly is Mike Kekich? Kekich the person remains a mystery, but Kekich the pitcher is very much the story of the highly touted left-hander who didn’t live up to his promise. Although he and Peterson are often mentioned interchangeably because of the wife swap, the reality is that Peterson was the far more accomplished pitcher.

Kekich came up in the Dodgers’ system in the mid-1960s, heralded as a talented left-hander with a blazing fastball. Some dared to call him the “next Sandy Koufax.” Unfortunately, the Dodgers at the time were just about the worst destination for a young pitcher because they were already bulging at the seams with talented hurlers; they had the actual Koufax, along with Don Drysdale, Don Sutton, Claude Osteen, and the up-and-coming Bill Singer.

Kekich could never gain traction with the Dodgers. After a terrible five-game stint in 1965, he went back to the minor leagues for two full seasons and didn’t return to Chavez Ravine in 1968. Kekich didn’t pitch particularly well, but he suffered from an unusual share of bad luck and poor run support, losing ten of 12 decisions while making 20 starts.

Frustrated by their erratic southpaw, the Dodgers decided they had seen enough. At the winter meetings in 1968, they traded him to the Yankees for veteran outfielder Andy Kosco (now there’s a blast from the past!). It would turn out to be a decent deal for the Yankees, though it did not produce immediate dividends.

Over the next two seasons, Kekich split his time between the Yankee rotation and the bullpen. A lack of control and consistency prevented him from maintaining a fulltime spot next to starters like Peterson, Mel Stottlemyre, and Stan Bahnsen. Still, the Yankees liked Kekich’s stuff and felt that he remained young enough to have his talent harnessed.

In 1971, Kekich enjoyed a bit of a breakthrough. He lowered his ERA to 4.07, reached a career high with 97 strikeouts, and won ten games for the first time in his career. He still walked too many batters–82 batters in 170 innings–but flashed enough talent for the Yankees to make him a fulltime starter in 1972.

Kekich responded with the best season of his career. His ERA dropped to 3.70, his walks fell to 78, and he reached a career high with 175 innings. Pitching far more efficiently than he ever had, Kekich settled in nicely as the Yankees’ No. 4 starter behind Stottlemyre, Peterson, and right-hander Steve Kline.

At 27 years of age, Kekich looked to be hitting his prime. When Topps issued his card in 1973, which was taken during spring training the previous year, the immediate future looked good. Then came the revelation that he and Peterson had swapped wives, children, and even the family pets. The Yankees, a staid and conservative organization even with new owner George Steinbrenner aboard for the first time, did not approve. Nor did Commissioner Bowie Kuhn, who was even more conservative than the Yankee organization.

When the story broke, reporters descended upon the Yankees’ spring training site in Ft. Lauderdale. They peppered Kekich and Peterson with questions. An introverted sort, Kekich was not prepared to handle such interrogations. The attention affected him, perhaps in the same way that Eddie Whitson would be damaged by the New York City spotlight in the 1980s. Kekich made five appearances for the Yankees in 1973, including four starts. He walked 14 batters in 14 innings, gave up 20 hits, and saw his ERA rise to 9.20.

Realizing that he had become a lost cause in pinstripes, the Yankees dealt him on June 12, three days before the old trading deadline. That’s why his 1973 Topps card would be the last one to show him wearing the Yankee colors. Yankee GM Lee MacPhail traded him to the Indians for Lowell Palmer, a right-handed reliever who was best known for wearing sunglasses on the mound. Assigned to Triple-A Syracuse, Palmer would not appear in a game for the Yankees. Those sunglasses would never see pinstripes.

In theory, the trade to small-market Cleveland should have eased some of the tension on Kekich, but the left-hander didn’t respond to the change in scenery. It didn’t help that his relationship with Marilyn Peterson failed to last; the couple split up that season. On the field, Kekich’s control remained a problem, as he pitched to the tune of a 7.02 ERA. The Indians hoped that Kekich would decompress by the spring of 1974, but he struggled so badly in the Cactus League that the Indians released him a few days before the start of the new season.

To Kekich’s credit, he did not give up. He signed on with the Rangers’ organization, even though he had to settle for a minor league contract. The Rangers told him that he would have to work his way back to the big leagues, slowly but surely. Kekich went to Triple-A Spokane, but then left to pitch for the Nippon Ham Fighters of the Japanese Leagues, only to return to the Rangers’ organization the following spring. Kekich finally earned a spot on the Rangers’ roster in 1975. Pitching exclusively in relief, Kekich remained wild, but he sported a respectable ERA of 3.73 and showed some promise as a situational left-hander.

The Rangers weren’t sufficiently impressed. They released Kekich in the middle of spring training in 1976. Undaunted, Kekich decided to continue his career pitching in the Mexican League, where he went to work for Nuevo Laredo.

Having been released twice in the span of three seasons, retirement seemed like a logical option. But expansion saved Kekich’s career. The Mariners, one of two new teams in the American League in 1977, needed pitching. Just before Opening Day, the Mariners purchased Kekich from Nuevo Laredo. They placed him in their bullpen, but then watched him pitch wildly and ineffectively for most of the season.

Even expansion teams have standards. In the spring of 1978, the Mariners became the third team to give Kekich his unconditional release. This one ended his major league tenure for good. As a result, Kekich finished his career with only 39 wins, a figure that seems so low for a pitcher who showed such promise in 1971 and ‘72.

Kekich has never returned to baseball, not as a coach, a scout, or even as a spring training instructor. For awhile, he worked as a medical salesman, then ran a firm that provides health exams for insurance companies.

I don’t know what Kekich is doing these days, but he’s apparently living in New Mexico, having made a new life for himself. I also know that he is remarried, with at least one daughter by his new marriage.

I have to confess that I would love to see a movie about the wife swap, but I can’t blame Kekich for not wanting to be involved with such a film. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to relive any of those memories. I just hope that the happiness that eluded him in 1973 has found him in 2011.

Bruce Markusen writes Cooperstown Confidential for The Hardball Times.

I must admit that I never warmed up to Dave Winfield as a Yankee. Initially, I was excited when the Yankees signed him as a free agent during the winter of 1980-81. With an aging core of position players, the Yankees desperately needed a relatively young and athletic outfielder like Winfield. They also lacked thump from the right side of the plate; with Winfield now available to complement Reggie Jackson in the middle of the batting order, the Yankees appeared to have a thunderous righty-lefty combination.

Almost immediately, the New York media tried to sour the fan base on Winfield. I remember Mike Lupica, a poison pen if there ever was one, lamenting that the Yankees had spent millions of dollars on a “singles hitter” like Winfield. Admittedly, Winfield hit only 13 home runs in his first summer as a Yankee, the strike-shortened campaign of 1981. At times, Winfield looked more like a line-driver hitter than a pure power hitter. I think Winfield would have hit more home runs if not for the fact that he hit the ball so hard, with such incredible overspin. When Winfield connected with a pitch firmly, he hit searing line drives that tended to reach the outfield and then dip. For some reason, his swing lacked the lift of a classic power hitter.

Still, Lupica’s assessment of “singles hitter” was borderline ludicrous. Winfield had just come off a 20-homer season in San Diego. In 1982, his second season in the Bronx, Winfield would hit 37 home runs. By the time his career ended in 1995, he would compile 465 home runs and a lifetime slugging percentage of .475. Singles hitter, my eye. Perhaps Mr. Lupica would like to revise that description.

I’m not sure why I paid so much attention to Lupica, and all the other naysayers in the New York media who tried to belittle Winfield’s ability. Of course, I was all of 16 years old at the time, an impressionable teenager who took the words of older baseball experts too closely to heart. Still, their words seemed to carry more resonance in the fall of 1981, after Winfield endured a brutal World Series, gathering one hit in a disappointing six-game loss to the Dodgers. George Steinbrenner certainly bought into the perception, dubbing Winfield “Mr. May.”

With the seeds of postseason futility sown, I began to view Winfield as something of a disappointment as a hitter, and a failure in the clutch. First off, I was frustrated by Winfield’s log-cutting approach to hitting. Starting with a discernible hitch, he took a ridiculously large swing, unfurling his long arms toward the ball in such an exaggerated way, almost like a cartoon character in an old Bugs Bunny clip. (One frame of that gargantuan swing can be seen on his 1985 Topps card, which is probably the best of all the Winfield cards.) Too many times, his bat ended up hurtling down the third base line, threatening the livelihood of the poor third base coach, or the fans watching from the box seats near the dugout. The bat-throwing underscored the criticism of his hitting in the clutch. Unlike Jackson, Winfield rarely seemed to deliver that late-inning, game-turning blow that could transform a Yankee loss into an unlikely win. To this day, I have trouble remembering any landmark home runs, or even extra-base hits, that Winfield delivered for the Yankees.

Just for fun, I decided to take a look at the “clutch” statistics for Winfield’s career. With two outs and runners in scoring position, he batted a mediocre .255 with a pedestrian .431 slugging percentage. In late and close situations, he hit a bit better, .266 with a slugging percentage of .444. In tie games, his numbers improved to .271 and .455. All in all, the numbers show Winfield to be a mediocre player in the clutch, not as good as his usual performance, a little better than what I might have thought, and hardly Herculean.

Beyond his playing ability, Winfield could raise eyebrows through his demeanor. Trying too hard to sound cool and hip, he came across as arrogant in interviews. Cocky and confident, he walked with an exaggerated strut that looked like a Hollywood caricature. When a Yankee beat writer asked him to attend a charity event, Winfield agreed, but only after coming up with enough demands to make a diva proud. If anything, Winfield was out of touch with the common man.

None of this means that Winfield damaged the Yankees. On balance, he helped the franchise, albeit during the frustrating decade of the 1980s. He was durable, almost always playing 140 or more games a season. He was consistent, four times slugging .500 or better in pinstripes, and six times reaching the 100-RBI mark. Clutch or not, the man always played hard, running out every ground ball with a World Series passion, taking out middle infielders on double play balls, and chasing full bore after every fly ball that he could reach in left and right field.

When Winfield came up for Hall of Fame election, I did not hesitate to offer my own imaginary vote. I would have immediately put a check next to his name on the ballot. The man put up Hall of Fame numbers, and did so for a long time, his big league career lasting 22 seasons. He was a gifted and hard-working five-tool athlete who hit with power, stole bases, and played a wonderful right field.

He might have been a little hard to root for on a personal level, but if Winfield were in his prime today, I’d gladly add him to the Yankees’ starting lineup. David Mark Winfield could play right field for a winning team any day of the week.

Bruce Markusen writes “Cooperstown Confidential” for The Hardball Times.

I feel like a DJ at the radio station, taking requests from listeners (or in this case, faithful readers) about articles they would like to see written in this space. Last week, we received a request for a “Card Corner” centered on Sparky Lyle and his 1978 Topps card. Well, Shazam, here it is!

Not that this is a rough assignment; Lyle will always be a favorite subject of this writer. First, he was a terrific pitcher, a true fireman who often came into games with runners on base and was usually asked to pitch multiple innings. Few relief pitchers of the 1970s performed this role more vitally than Lyle. Second, Sparky was a fully certified baseball maverick, an outlandishly colorful figure with a great sense of humor and an enormous propensity for pulling the practical joke. How could a writer not love penning a few hundred words about someone like this?Bruce Markusen writes “Cooperstown Confidential” for The Hardball Times.

We all remember Lyle as a Yankee; some of us even remember his early days with the dreaded Red Sox. But how many of us realize that Lyle was originally linked to another American League East team? It was the Orioles who signed him in 1964, one year before the institution of the major league draft. The Orioles, however, failed to protect Lyle after his first professional season and lost him in the old first-year draft, a draft that would soon became as obsolete as bonus babies and the reserve clause. The Red Sox pounced, claiming Lyle and assigning him to Winston-Salem of the Carolina League. After two years of minor league seasoning, the Sox brought him to the big leagues in 1967.

Lyle’s rookie season coincided with Boston’s “Impossible Dream” of winning the American League pennant. It’s easy to overlook just how important Lyle was to that championship team; in 27 late-season appearances, he pitched to an ERA of 2.28, struck out a batter per inning, and even saved five games in the heat of a dizzying pennant race. The Red Sox didn’t include him on the World Series roster, but it’s debatable that they would have even reached the postseason without their only effective left-handed reliever.

Lyle should have had a long career in Boston, but the Red Sox did not fully appreciate his talents. That’s about the only way to explain their unfathomable decision to trade Lyle to the Yankees for Danny Cater, a singles-hitting first baseman of modest propositions. Cater was an OK first baseman, a decent hitter for average with a good glove, but he was really nothing more than a platoon player. Why give up a 26-year-old left-hander with a great arm and a superhuman slider for a 31-year-old journeyman and a middling minor league shortstop named Mario Guerrero? It didn’t make sense then, and it doesn’t make sense now.

The Yankees benefited immediately from the Red Sox’ shortsightedness. Lyle became the Yankees’ relief ace practically from Day One in 1972; he would lead the American League in saves and games pitched, while maintaining an ERA under 2.00. He would become an un wanted sight to AL hitters, mostly because of a fantastic slider that rivaled Ron Guidry and Steve Carlton in its greatness. Guidry threw his slider harder, but in his prime, Lyle threw his slider with more movement, more of that down-and-to-the-right bite. When thrown for strikes, it was practically unhittable for left and right-handed batters alike.

Lyle remained the Yankees’ unquestioned closer until 1978, when Topps happened to release one of his best cards ever. Most of his earlier cards were the standard fare, posed shots and up-close portraits, but this one gave us Lyle in action. The photograph captures two traits of the Lyle delivery: the manner in which he reared back to throw the slider, and the quirky way that he curled his glove toward the batter. Unfortunately, as good as the Topps card was, the 1978 season turned out to be one of Lyle’s most difficult. That winter, George Steinbrenner decided to bring Goose Gossage to the Bronx as his latest big money, free agent prize. The arrival of the Goose rendered Lyle a high-priced middle reliever, with rare opportunities to save games. With Rawly Eastwick and Dirt Tidrow also pitching out of the pen, Lyle became an afterthought at the times.

Unhappy with his muddled role, Lyle asked for a trade. After the season, the Yankees sent him to the Rangers for a package of prospects and young veterans, led by prized young left-hander Dave Righetti. In the long term, it would become a prosperous deal for the Yankees, while Lyle would begin the inevitable descent that afflicts most players. Now in his mid-thirties, Lyle never recaptured the form that he displayed from 1972 to 1977.

When Lyle left the Yankees, so did some of the fun. He was their primary prankster, the man who squatted on birthday cakes, scared Phil Rizzuto with a werewolf mask, and did a Bela Lugosi imitation while rising from a casket that had somehow been delivered to the clubhouse. Lyle was such a clubhouse cutup that I would never have imagined him becoming a coach or a manager. So, after working as a commercial actor and casino greeter for awhile, he did the unexpected in 1998, becoming the manager of the Somerset Patriots, a team in the independent Atlantic League. Lyle apparently knows what he’s doing, having won five league titles in a span of just over a decade.

I guess some guys are just good at whatever they try. First, Sparky was a great pitcher. Then he dabbled in writing. His diary, The Bronx Zoo, is one of the best baseball books I’ve ever read. And now he’s establishing a reputation as a highly effective minor league manager. It makes you wonder what he might do if given the chance to manage a big league club, maybe even the team known as the Yankees.

After considering the question further, I thought I needed to pick an action card, since those have always been preferable to posed or portrait shots. It would need to be a card from one of Topps’ better sets, one with a good, perhaps innovative design. And it would certainly help if the card depicted one of my favorite Yankees. So using those three criteria, I arrived at this card as my choice:

Along with Bobby Murcer, Thurman Munson was the Yankee I felt most attached to during the 1970s. This card came out as part of Topps’ memorable 1971 set, which featured distinctive black borders. It was also the first Topps set to feature regular player cards in action shots. This was one of the best action photographs in that set, as Munson is shown, amidst a thick cloud of dirt, applying a tag to an unknown Oakland A’s player. I can only guess that the umpire called the runner out, based on the firm grip that Munson has on the ball and the position of his glove in relation to the runner. Whether the runner was out or not, the card captures Munson, a superb defensive catcher, guarding the plate in his usual attack-dog fashion. As an added bonus, Topps has included its trademark yellow trophy, signifying Munson’s status as a member of the Topps all-rookie team for the 1970 season.

So what’s your favorite Yankee card? You don’t have to pick a Topps card; it can be a Fleer, or a Donruss, or an Upper Deck. Any company is fine. Just pick a card, but more importantly, tell us why it’s No. 1 on your list.

And while you’re thinking about your favorite cards, be sure to have a Merry Christmas!

Bruce Markusen lives in Cooperstown, NY.

If you’re a fan from my generation, you face constant reminders that you’re approaching the unwanted status of “elder statesman.” Players that we remember watching are leaving us all too fast. Willie Davis died in the spring. So did Jim Bibby and Mike Cuellar. Earlier this month, former catcher-outfielder Ed Kirkpatrick passed away. And then came the news of the death of a former Yankee, Tom Underwood.

Tommy Underwood was hardly a household name to Yankee fans. He pitched only a season and a half in New York, back in 1980 and ‘81. But if you’re my age, 45 or older, then you likely have a distinct memory of Underwood. Whenever I hear his name, two words come immediately to mind: stylish left-hander. Underwood had one of those seamlessly smooth deliveries that I loved to imitate as a young boy growing up in Westchester County. He also liked to work fast, which made him doubly fun to watch.

I also remember Underwood for being part of an unusual starting rotation. In 1980, the Yankees featured four left-handed starters; in addition to Underwood, they had staff ace Ron Guidry, followed by Tommy John and the underrated Rudy May. (Luis Tiant was the lone right-hander.) As I recall, that’s the last time that a major league team had four fulltime lefty starters. The New York media made a huge deal of it at the time, and not for favorable reasons. Some writers said the Yankees were too left-handed–a strange complaint for a team playing at Yankee Stadium–and kept pushing for the Yankees to trade one of the left-handers for a competent righty. At the time, I bought into the theory, but in retrospect, it seems somewhat silly. If you have four good pitchers like Guidry, John, May, and Underwood, who cares if they all happen to be left-handed? In today’s game, most teams would kill to have two good lefties, not to mention a quartet of southpaws.

At one time, it appeared Underwood would blossom into stardom. Originally a top prospect in the Phillies’ system, Underwood made the Topps’ all-rookie team in 1975. He pitched even more effectively in 1976, but then fell into the pattern of inconsistency that plagued his career. After a bad start to the 1977 season, the Phillies sent him to the Cardinals as part of the package for speedy outfielder Bake McBride. The Cards soon sent him packing to the expansion Blue Jays for Pete Vuckovich. Underwood led Toronto in strikeouts two years running, but his periodic wildness frustrated the Blue Jays’ brass. That’s why they decided to include the 26-year-old southpaw in the trade that also brought Rick Cerone to the Yankees for Chris Chambliss and two prospects.

It didn’t take long for Underwood to impress Yankee fans with his fast pitching pace, his silky delivery, and his live fastball, which seemed to sneak up on hitters. He also had a nasty slider; on days that he could throw it for strikes, he became nearly unhittable. Emerging as a highly effective No. 4 starter behind Guidry, John, and May, Underwood won 13 games for Dick Howser’s 1980 Yankees. I thought that kind of performance would be a springboard to greater success–the kind of success the Phillies had once foreseen–but Underwood started the 1981 season flatly. With Dave Righetti now ready to join the rotation, the Yankees decided to make a move. Trading Underwood at the valley of his value, the Yankees foolishly included him with Jim Spencer in a package for the underachieving Dave “The Rave” Revering.

After pitching as a swingman during the second half of the 1981 season, Underwood put together his most effective season in 1982. Again splitting his time between the bullpen and the rotation, Underwood forged a career best ERA of 3.29, won ten games, and saved seven others for Billy Martin, who liked his versatility and willingness to pitch in any role.

Underwood’s performance slipped in 1983, which happened to coincide with the end of his contract. Although still only 29, the talented lefty drew little interest on the free agent market; he signed a one-year contract with the Orioles. At the end of one lackluster season in the Baltimore bullpen, Underwood drew his release. And then– nothing. Underwood, all of thirty years old, saw his major league career come to an end.

I’m not sure why Underwood’s career ended so abruptly. In retrospect, it’s shocking that a left-hander with his talent did not pitch past his 30th birthday, not when we see some lefties stick around till their early forties simply because they happen to be lefties.

Much like Underwood’s pitching career, his life ended at a young age. Underwood died on Monday at 56, the victim of a long struggle with pancreatic cancer. Like too many of his baseball brethren from the 1970s and eighties, he left us way too soon.

Yet, Tom Underwood succeeded in making an impression on this Yankee fan. He left me with some good memories, for which I am grateful. In the end, I guess that’s all we can ask from our ballplayers.

Bruce Markusen writes “Cooperstown Confidential” for The Hardball Times.

For too long, I used to think that Oscar Azocar epitomized the ineptitude of the Yankee teams of the early 1990s. A free swinger to the point of hapless extreme, Azocar struggled so much in trying to reach first base that I considered him synonymous with Yankee failure during that era. I felt bad about that continuing assessment this past June, when I learned that Azocar had died suddenly and unexpectedly from a heart attack at the age of 45. I only felt worse when I started to read about Azocar, learning more about a hustling ballplayer, a fun-loving teammate, and a delightful guy.

As a rookie for the Yankees in 1990, Azocar stepped up to the plate 218 times. Swinging the bat from a pronounced crouch, he offered at almost any pitch within the general proximity of the batter’s boxes. In one stretch, he came to bat seven consecutive times without taking a single pitch. Not one! By season’s end, Azocar had coaxed a grand total of two walks. For awhile, he had more sacrifice flies than walks, which resulted in his batting average being temporarily higher than his on-base percentage.

While it’s true that Azocar didn’t walk and didn’t hit with any tangible power, he did play the game with a level of passion not normally exhibited by staid and stolid major leaguers. When Azocar played left field, he made sure to involve himself, even when the ball was not hit in his direction. On a batted ball to another outfielder or infielder, Azocar would make a hellish dash toward third base, so that he would be in position to back up his third baseman on a possible overthrow. It didn’t matter if the chances of there being a play at third were infinitesimal; Azocar wanted to be there, just in case. Azocar did something similar when runners from first base attempted to steal second base. If the catcher’s throw tricked into center field, Azocar would back up third base in the event of a second overthrow.

Some of the veteran Yankees noticed Azocar’s habit of running furiously toward third base. Perhaps unwilling to face their own mediocrity as ballplayers, they poked fun at Azocar. A few Yankees asked Azocar why he did this. Looking a bit bewildered, Azocar thought for a moment and then replied in his heavy Venezuelan accent: “Because that’s what I’m supposed to do.” And, you know what, Azocar was right. He didn’t have anything else to do on the play, so he might as well put himself to use–just in case.

In addition to his perpetual hustle, Azocar exhibited other good habits on defense. He tracked fly balls well and usually hit the cutoff man with his throws. Best utilized as a left fielder, Azocar had enough speed to dabble in center field, at least on a fill-in basis. He could also handle right field, though his arm strength was something less extraordinary than that of Jesse Barfield. Or even an injured Dave Winfield.

Azocar could run the bases, too. Though hardly a blazer, Azocar knew how to read pitchers and steal bases. Over parts of three major league seasons, including a pair with the Padres, Azocar stole ten times without being caught, setting an unofficial major league record.

Still, there was much more to Azocar. He loved to smile. He smiled during games. He smiled and laughed in the dugout. He smiled before games. Azocar simply loved playing baseball, along with the experience of being around the ballpark. With his upbeat and enthusiastic approach, Azocar became a wonderful teammate. He was no Mel Hall, who spent much of his time sticking pins in Bernie Williams dolls. Azocar just seemed delighted to be hanging around a major league setting, spending time with players ranging from Don Mattingly to Bye-Bye Balboni to Bam-Bam Meulens.

Azocar’s pleasantness extended to members of the media, apparently even to the Topps cameramen who came by each spring to photograph players for the next set of cards. I imagine that most players don’t give the Topps cameramen more than a cursory moment of cooperation. They’ll offer the usual pose, a batter pretending to swing his bat, a pitcher holding his glove in one hand and the ball in the other. But that clichéd kind of pose wasn’t enough for Azocar. For his 1991 Topps card, Azocar decided to do something special. He took two bats and a baseball, and decided to have some fun with them. Gripping the bats near the knob, Azocar held them extended upward, parallel to each other. He then placed a baseball between the barrels of the bats, somehow balancing the ball in place while keeping the bats extended. I’ve never seen thus done. I’ve never even seen this attempted. I don’t know how hard it is to do this, but it looks like it might take far more coordination than I naturally possess. I do know this: it’s pretty damn cool.

The creativity, the playfulness, and the joy of Azocar made this one of the most charming cards of all-time. Even though it’s probably worth only a few pennies, it’s an absolute classic.

I’ll never again regard Oscar Azocar as symbolic of Yankee futility in 1990. Let’s put that label on someone else. Yes, Azocar had to play too much and too often for a bad team, a team that had no one better to put in left field for part of the 1990 season. On a good team, Azocar might have been a decent fifth outfielder capable of playing all three positions, while serving as an able-bodied pinch-runner. Given his ability to make contact, he could have occasionally taken his swings as a pinch-hitter.

And even if his batting average exceeded his on-base percentage, he would have made everybody at the ballpark feel better.

Rest in peace, Oscar.

Bruce Markusen lives and works in Cooperstown, NY.

The Yankees and the Rangers faced off three times in the postseason during the 1990s, with the pinstripes winning each of the Division Series matchups. Yet, a good argument can be made that the Yankees avoided having to face the best team in Rangers’ franchise history. That would have been the 1977 Rangers, who won 94 games but finished a distant second in the American League West. Instead of facing the Rangers, the Yankees squared off against a very fine Royals team managed by Whitey Herzog. We know the Yankees ended up winning that Championship Series in five games, but it’s interesting to consider what might have been against a very good group of ‘77 Rangers, who were recently profiled by longtime Star Telegram baseball writer Jim Reeves.

First and foremost, the Rangers had a dominant defensive team in 1977. Their catcher, the strong-armed Jim Sundberg, ranks as one of the greatest fielding receivers of all-time. The Texas infield, spearheaded by Mike Hargrove at first base and veteran Bert Campaneris at shortstop, provided reliable, sure handed fielding and adequate range. In the outfield, center fielder Juan Beniquez won the Gold Glove, while flanked capably by the speedy Claudell Washington in left field.

The Rangers’ defensive scheme supported a very good pitching staff, which stood behind only the Yankees and the Royals in the league rankings. Unlike their teams in the 1990s, the ‘77 Rangers had excellent starting pitching. They had a Hall of Fame ace in Gaylord Perry, a future Hall of Famer in Bert Blyleven (yes, he will make Cooperstown in January), a very capable junkballer in Doyle Alexander, and an efficient Dock Ellis, who pitched to the tune of a 2.90 ERA after joining the team in a mid-season trade with the A‘s. In a short best-of-five series (the format for the LCS in the 1970s), the Rangers’ front four would have been difficult to handle, though their lack of a left-handed starter might have been a concern against a lefty-laden Yankee team.

The Rangers, however, did not have nearly the same level of strength in the bullpen. Mike Marshall would have been their relief ace under normal circumstances, but injuries limited him to 12 appearances. Left-hander Paul Lindblad, normally a fine reliever, struggled through one of his worst campaigns. So the Rangers turned to journeyman right-hander Adrian Devine, who won 11 games and saved 15 others, but was hardly a dominant fireman, striking out a mere 67 batters in 105 innings. In front of Devine, the Rangers featured two competent left-handers in Darold Knowles and Rogelio “Roger” Moret, and a 21-year-old Len Barker, who had not yet established himself as a starting pitcher. All in all, a fairly mediocre bullpen.

Offensively, the Rangers ranked as a run-of-the-mill team in 1977. Out of 14 teams, they finished sixth in the American League in runs scored. They had only one hitter with more than 20 home runs, the perennially underrated Toby Harrah. No one slugged higher than .479. Given the absence of power, the Rangers relied more heavily on speed. Five of their players–Harrah, Bert Campaneris, Washington, Beniquez, and rookie Bump Wills–stole 20 or more bases. Combined with Harrah and Hargrove’s ability to draw walks, the Rangers’ speed allowed them to put pressure on opposing pitchers and catchers.

Given their speed, their starting pitching, and their defense, the Rangers would have provided a formidable opponent in a short series. But the nuts and bolts of the ‘77 Rangers tells only a small fraction of their story. From practically the opening day of spring training, the Rangers found themselves fraught with conflict and controversy. Let’s consider the following episodes:

*Veteran second baseman Lenny Randle became upset when the Rangers told him that he would have to compete for a starting position against Wills, the switch-hitting son of Maury Wills. When Randle found out that he had lost the job, he physically attacked manager Frank Lucchesi, who had referred to the veteran infielder as “a punk.” Lucchesi ended up in the hospital with broken ribs and a fractured cheekbone, while Randle landed on the 30-day suspended list before being traded to the Mets for backup infielder Rick Auerbach.

*After winning the first four games of the season, the Rangers settled into a pattern of playing .500 ball. The mediocrity frustrated tempestuous owner Brad Corbett, who began to have meetings with team president Eddie Robinson and general manager Eddie O’Brien. In mid-June, Ranger management decided to fire Lucchesi, replacing him with former major league infielder Eddie Stanky, who was the coach at South Alabama at the time. Known for his old school tenacity, Stanky seemed like an interesting and unconventional choice, but his tenure lasted only a few hours. Stanky resigned after one game, realizing that the stress of managing a major league team in the mid-1970s was simply not for him.

*Left in the lurch by Stanky, the Rangers hired third base coach Connie Ryan as their interim manager, offered the fulltime position to Harmon Killebrew (who turned it down) and then settled on longtime Orioles coach Billy Hunter. An extreme disciplinarian, Hunter restored order to the Rangers, stressed practice and fundamentals, and coaxed the team to a 60-33 finish. Some Rangers observers felt that if Hunter had managed the team from Opening Day, the Rangers might have significantly closed the eight-game gap between them and the Royals.

*The 1977 Rangers had their share of unique characters. Dock Ellis liked to wear his hair in pink curlers after games. Darold Knowles once described Reggie Jackson by saying, “There isn’t enough mustard in the world to cover that hot dog.” Mike Marshall, a full-fledged rebel known for being abrasive with reporters, spouted his own unique theories on the mechanics of pitching. Johnny Ellis, a backup catcher-first baseman known for his toughness, would lead a player revolt against Hunter the following season. And perhaps most sadly, Roger Moret, troubled by mental illness, would fall into a five-hour catatonic trance while sitting in the Rangers clubhouse in 1978. A talented left-hander with a live arm, the 28-year-old Moret would never again pitch in a major league game.

Clearly, a revealing book could be written about the ‘77 Rangers, though it would lack the climactic finish provided by a postseason appearance. But there’s more to the ‘77 Rangers. A quick scan of the Rangers’ roster shows a stunning connection to the Yankee franchise. Three of the starting pitchers–Ellis, Alexander, and Perry–had pitched for the Yankees or would pitch for them in the future. Of the relievers, Lindblad would finish his big league career one year later, pitching for the Yankees.

A look at the position players reveals an even stronger tie to the Yankees. Campaneris and Harrah, the left side of the Ranger infield, would play for the Yankees in the 1980s. Randle, who did not play a game for the ‘77 Rangers, would play for the Yankees two years later. Two of the starting outfielders, Washington and Beniquez, would also play for New York. Backups Johnny Ellis, Sandy Alomar, and Jim Mason had previously played for the Yankees in the seventies. And the Rangers’ designated hitter, Willie Horton, would become Billy Martin’s “attitude coach” with the Yankees in 1985.

So what does this Yankee-Ranger connection mean? Other than the fact that the franchises have often made trades with each other, not much. But it is interesting to note that two of the most prominent of the current Yankees, Mark Teixeira and Alex Rodriguez, happen to be former Rangers. Without much doubt, Tex and A-Rod will be two of the most critical factors in determining how the latest chapter of the Yankees vs. the Rangers plays itself out.

Bruce Markusen writes Cooperstown Confidential for The Hardball Times.

In crafting this week’s edition of “Card Corner,” I wanted to come up with a player common to the two franchises facing each other in this week’s Division Series. I thought about picking Chuck Knoblauch, but his career-altering battles with the yips and his recent marital and legal problems have left a bad taste on the tongue. I thought about Luis Tiant and Jim Kaat, but their Yankee careers were simply too short. Ultimately, the choice of Graig Nettles feels like the right one. A supreme defender and infield acrobat, a clutch power hitter, and a wit of champion proportions, Nettles remains one of my favorite old Yankees and a clear-cut link to the two earliest world championship teams of the Steinbrenner regime.

It’s easy to forget that Nettles began his career with the Twins, and not the Yankees or the Indians, the team that handed him off to New York during the winter of 1972. The Twins originally drafted Nettles during the summer of 1965, the first year of Major League Baseball’s amateur draft, but he did not make his professional debut until the following season. Playing as a third baseman for Single-A Wisconsin Rapids, Nettles showed a powerful touch from the start, hitting 28 home runs. That performance earned him a promotion to Double-A in 1967, where he struggled against more advanced pitching and saw his slugging percentage fall under .400. Yet, the Twins saw enough to give him a late-season audition in Minnesota before bumping him to Triple-A Denver in 1968. Starring for the minor league Bears, Nettles slugged .534, batted a career-high .297, and showed himself ready for another mid-season call up.

The Twins liked Nettles’ left-handed bat, but they had enough questions about his glove work to move him to the outfield during his lone season in Denver. So when Nettles arrived at the Twins’ spring training site in 1969, he was listed as an “outfielder/infielder.” Yes, one of the finest fielding third basemen in the game’s history was originally billed as some kind of utility player. (Note that Nettles 1969 Topps rookie card lists him strictly as an outfielder.) It was reminiscent of the career of Brooks Robinson, who had started his professional career as a second baseman before the Orioles made the sage decision to slide him to the hot corner.

Nettles played well enough in the spring of 1970 to earn himself a spot on the Twins’ Opening Day roster. His manager, Billy Martin, saw him as a backup to veteran sluggers Bob Allison in left field and Harmon Killebrew at third base. (Nettles even played one game in center field, as hard as that scenario might be to imagine.) The struggles of the 34-year-old Allison resulted in more playing time for Nettles, but he failed to take full advantage. Nettles batted .222, slugged .373, and played only a complementary role in the Twins’ Western Division title. Even Martin’s efforts to protect Nettles by sitting him against left-handers did little to help his offensive production.

Given his struggles, the Twins decided that Nettles no longer merited being an untouchable in trade talks. Nettles also lost an ally in Martin, who was fired in response to disputes with pitcher Dave Boswell and owner Calvin Griffith. That winter, the Twins saw an opportunity to improve their pitching by making a trade with the Indians for Tiant and reliever Stan Williams. They packaged Nettles with starting center fielder Ted Uhlaender and pitchers Dean Chance and Bob Miller in the deal; the trade would cost the Twins their eventual successor to Killebrew at third base.

The trade denied Nettles the opportunity to play with his younger brother, Jim Nettles, who would make his big league debut for the Twins in 1970. But on every other front, the trade would be a boon for the older Nettles. The Indians had no one like Killebrew at third base, blocking the path of a younger player. From the start, manager Alvin Dark installed Nettles as his starting third baseman, against both right and left-handed pitching. Nettles did not disappoint Dark; he hit 26 home runs, drew 81 walks (against only 77 strikeouts), and played the best third base the Indians had seen since the days of Ken Keltner. At 25 years of age, Nettles looked like one of the building blocks to a franchise desperately seeking to rekindle its glory years of the 1950s.

Or so it seemed. After hitting a career-high 28 home runs and slugging .435 for the Indians in 1971, Nettles regressed the following summer. After the ‘72 season, Indians general manager Gabe Paul made the decision to send Nettles to the Yankees for a package of four players that included young catcher Johnny Ellis and top outfield prospect Charlie Spikes. Some historians have called it one of Paul’s worst moves, while others said Paul intentionally made an unfavorable trade because he knew he would soon be taking over the front office controls of the Yankees. Whatever the real reason behind the trade, the Yankees would benefit–over and over again.

By the end of his 11-year career with the Yankees, Nettles would hit .250 home runs, accumulate a .433 slugging percentage, and play third base with the range and flexibility of a shortstop. Until the arrival of a fellow named Alex Rodriguez, Nettles had earned the title of the best third baseman in Yankee franchise history.

So here we have come full circle, from Nettles to A-Rod, with the Yankees now facing Nettles’ original team, the Twins. Pardon the strange logic, but maybe that’s why I have a feeling Rodriguez will be the man to carry the Yankees over the next five games.

Bruce Markusen writes articles and collects cards in Cooperstown, NY.

Over the summer, I had a chance to chat with former Yankee Ron Blomberg, who spent Hall of Fame Weekend here in Cooperstown. Talking to Ron is always a good experience. One of the most affable players I’ve ever met, he is full of positive vibes and ceaseless energy. He seems to have the same level of vigor as he did in his twenties, when he was trying to establish himself as the next great left-handed hitter in Yankee history.

At the time, Blomberg’s smooth right-field swing seemed perfectly tailored for the old Yankee Stadium. In particular, “Boomer” tormented right-handed pitchers, especially those who dared to throw him fastballs. During the 1973 season, he flirted with a .400 batting average in early summer before eventually tailing off. If only Blomberg had been able to avoid the knee problems that eventually shortened his career, he might have become the Jewish superstar that Yankee management had been anticipating since drafting him with the first overall pick in 1967.

While injuries and defensive foibles at first base prevented him from achieving such fame, he did gain special notoriety on Opening Day in 1973. That’s when he came to bat as the first designated hitter in major league history. Facing Luis Tiant of the Red Sox, Blomberg walked in his first plate appearance–and walked right into a permanent place in baseball reference books.

While his status as the game’s first DH has become common knowledge to most fans, it was Blomberg’s off-the-field ability that became well known to baseball insiders and members of the media. Boomer could eat enormously large quantities of food, above and beyond any other major league player of his era. Here’s one example. After one road game, Blomberg sat down and consumed ten steak sandwiches, assisted by a quart of lemonade. By the time that Blomberg made his first road trip into Boston, a local Beantown newspaper featured the delightful headline, “Close Up The Delicatessens, Blomberg’s In Town.”

Especially devoted to fast food, Blomberg regularly consumed four to five large hamburgers during visits to Burger King and did similar damage on sojourns to Kentucky Fried Chicken outlets. “We would go out and eat an entire bucket of KFC,” Blomberg once said proudly. A 3000-calorie meal was an ordinary accomplishment for the insatiable Blomberg. As part of one particularly memorable meal, Blomberg downed 28 (yes, 28!) hamburgers, establishing some sort of unofficial record.

With Blomberg’s reputation as a voracious eater established early in his career, Yankee left-hander Fritz Peterson (another summer visitor to Cooperstown) issued his teammate a challenge. He dared Blomberg to eat five exceedingly spicy jalapeno peppers at one time. Peterson himself feared eating even one of the zesty peppers; he considered the prospects of anyone eating five a downright impossibility. Confident that no one could pull off such a feat, Peterson offered Blomberg a small sum of money if he could successfully handle the fire-breathing snack. Peterson then watched in amazement as Blomberg consumed all five peppers within a matter of seconds. For his efforts, Blomberg won $10 from a disbelieving Peterson.

In spite of his eating habits, Blomberg maintained a trim physique throughout his major league career, with his weight rarely exceeding 185 pounds on a lean but powerful six-foot, one-inch frame. So how did Boomer do it? “We didn’t have personal trainers standing over us,” Blomberg said. “We had no rowing machines. We did construction in the off season. Put in sod. I ran the stairs at Columbia and Fordham University, since I was living in Riverdale at that time. I would run around the block with those ankle bracelets on.”

Blomberg liked to run by himself, but usually found company at the lunch and dinner tables. His list of fellow diners included voluminous eaters like Yankee teammate Walt “No Neck” Williams. Williams and two other Yankees regularly accompanied Blomberg on trips to well-known hamburger chains, where they gladly consumed hamburgers at the bargain basement prices of the early 1970s. “We had Burger King, when the burgers were 39 cents,” Blomberg explained. “We would have four of ‘em for under two bucks. Gene Michael, Jerry Kenney, No-Neck Williams—we would go out and eat together.”

While Blomberg, Kenney, and Michael were all relatively tall and lean—Michael was appropriately nicknamed “Stick”—Williams provided a contrasting view. At five feet, six inches and 190 pounds, Williams featured the physique of a fireplug. Known as a hustling pepper-pot player on the field, Williams treated the art of eating with as much gusto off the field. But he could not match Blomberg in terms of the sheer amount of food consumption.

Later in his Yankee career, Blomberg came into contact with another legendary eater, a man better known for his larger-than-life Afro. Oscar Gamble, who joined the Yankees in 1976, routinely downed eggs, pancakes, and sausage for breakfast. Gamble also developed a special appreciation for the clubhouse spreads offered at various American League ballparks. His stadium lunches included ham sandwiches, hamburgers, ribs, soups, and a variety of cheeses.

After games, Gamble liked to sample local restaurants around the American League for their various dinner fares. He particularly enjoyed trips to Milwaukee, which featured soul food. Gamble loved collard greens, candied yams, and peach cobblers.

With men like Gamble and Williams providing an appropriate level of companionship and encouragement on the food line, Blomberg cemented his standing as a champion eater. That ability, along with a growing reputation, carried over after his retirement from the game. Not so surprisingly, Blomberg became the first major league player to have a sandwich named after him at the famed Stage Delicatessen in New York City. Known simply as the “Ron Blomberg,” the large triple-decker sandwich consists of a combination of corned beef, pastrami, and chopped liver with a Bermuda onion thrown in for good measure.

I could do without the chopped liver, but the rest of the sandwich sounds pretty good to me. Perhaps one day the “Ron Blomberg” will qualify for an episode of “Taster’s Cherce.”

Bruce Markusen likes to dine at Cooperstown area restaurants like Nicoletta’s and the Hawkeye Grill.

The Topps Company produced 11 different cards of Lou Piniella as a Yankee, ranging from a capless 1974 traded card to his final 1984 card, but the one shown here is my favorite. Part of the wondrous 1980 set, the card shows Piniella near the completion of one of his typically sweet swings. Looking at the position of his bat, it appears that Piniella has just used his patented opposite field swing to drop a line drive (or a bloop) into right field. Action cards are always the most desirable to have, but especially when they give you a snapshot of a player doing something for which he is best known. And I’ll always remember Piniella best for that flat, line-drive swing that often seemed pointed directly toward right field.

I feel a little bit sad now that Piniella has retired from the game, a game that he has served for 50 years, in a decision that was expedited last month. We had all expected that “Sweet Lou” would finish out the season with the Cubs before stepping aside, but his elderly mother’s illness mandated that he retire immediately. Family comes first, a decision made easier when the Cubs are hopelessly lost in the National League Central. It’s not as if Piniella was abandoning a team in the midst of a pennant race; if anything, he may have given the franchise a lift by allowing the Cubs to evaluate their interim manager, the unusually pronounced Mike Quade, as a potential fulltime replacement for 2011.

In some ways, Piniella was one of the last of a breed: the colorful and fiery manager. He spoke bluntly with the press–often too bluntly–and argued fervently with umpires–sometimes too much so. But with those qualities, he brought some old-fashioned personality to the table, a mix of John McGraw and Billy Martin, with a little Fred Hutchinson tossed in for good measure. (Hutchinson was simultaneously loved and feared by his players. After giving up a game-ending home run, one of Hutchinson’s pitchers refused to walk back to the dugout to face his manager. He instead walked toward the center field exit.) So many of today’s new managers are cut out of the same mold; they engage in politically correct managerspeak, afraid to ever criticize their players for poor play, and they stand motionless, even emotionless, in the dugout, while passively observing the game in front of them. I have trouble telling many of the new breed managers apart from one another: Manny Acta, Bob Geren, Ken Macha, Brad Mills. I know that they’re all intelligent baseball men, but they’re also so bland, so indistinct, so seemingly interchangeable.

I guess maybe they have to be that way, especially if they don’t have strong major league playing resumes to fall back on, like Piniella. Managers have never had it more difficult than they have it today. The salaries of the players dwarf their pay so many times over that they have been rendered virtually powerless. They can’t publicly scold their players, whose egos simply will not permit it. And they’re afraid to say anything minutely controversial in their interviews with the press, out of the fear that their words could be misconstrued or twisted into the latest installment of a never-ending soap opera.

Piniella was different; he just didn’t care about repercussions. As a longtime player, he had a body of work to fall back on, 18 seasons as a big league outfielder, in case his players sassed him. Unlike previous targets like John Boles and Fredi Gonzalez, he had played the game at the highest level, with a couple of world championship rings as proof. Piniella didn’t worry about becoming embroiled in controversies; if anything, he seemed to embrace the excitement brought about by the conflict.

Now sometimes Piniella went too far. He picked fights with reporters when they posed legitimate questions. He kicked dirt on umpires, something that no arbiter, no matter how incompetent, should have to endure. He could come across as a spoiled, petulant child, like he did two years ago when he carried on about the “suffering” the Cubs had to endure having to play in the Hall of Fame Game in mid-June while in the midst of a pennant race. So yes, Piniella could take his act of fire and brimstone too far, sometimes making himself smaller in the process.

Yet, on the whole, Lou Piniella as a manager was good for baseball. He taught hitters like few others I’ve ever seen, with his prized students including Don Mattingly and Edgar Martinez. Though he often lacked patience with his pitchers, he motivated most of his players, through his energy and his constant call for professionalism. He won a ton of games along the way, culminating in an unlikely world championship for the 1990 Reds. He had a degree of success everywhere, with the one exception being Tampa Bay, where only Joe Maddon has found the way. And let’s not forget that he brought some much-desired verve and allure to the dugout, where the manager is still the boss, even if some want the players to be.

Good-bye, Lou. Enjoy that retirement. But don’t lose that personality.

Bruce Markusen writes “Cooperstown Confidential” for The Hardball Times.

If you play word association with the name of Fritz Peterson, then the subjects “wife-swapping” and “Mike Kekich” will come up almost immediately. But the reality is far more nuanced. Peterson was a fine major league pitcher, the possessor of 133 career victories, a 20-win campaign, and an All-Star Game berth. From 1969 to 1973, Peterson ranked as the Yankees’ No. 2 starter, situated behind only staff ace Mel Stottlemyre.

The recently-completed Hall of Fame Weekend gave me the chance to sit down with the amiable left-hander, who spent much of his time in Cooperstown signing autographs with ex-teammate Ron Blomberg at the local CVS. Immensely gracious in granting me a lengthy interview, Peterson talked about Hollywood, the late Ralph Houk, his new book, his ongoing battle with cancer, and a few of his old Topps cards.

Markusen: Fritz, let’s first talk about the movie project that you’re going to be working on; you’ll be a consultant on The Trade. What’s the latest on that?

Peterson: Well, the latest is that Ben Affleck is doing some revisions to the original screenplay that has been done by David Mandel, who’s part of the Curb Your Enthusiasm group and did a lot of stuff with Seinfeld, just a good guy. But Ben wants to be the director of it at this point, so he’s changing it a little bit the way that he wants it. So we’re just waiting to see when Matt Damon gets involved. And then we’ll go from there.

Markusen: As a consultant, I take it you’ll be on the set of the film?

Peterson: From time to time. I don’t know exactly the schedule yet.

Markusen: Is your biggest goal just to try to keep it as accurate as possible?

Peterson: Well, that would be my goal. When I was out there with the screenwriter two years ago, that’s exactly what I wanted to do, just tell 100 per cent of the truth, and I hope that it gets close to that.

Markusen: Now, Affleck’s considered a pretty good looking guy; I guess you’re flattered he’s going to be playing you.

Peterson: You know, actually, I asked them to have Matt Damon play me because Matt can throw harder [laughing], plus he’s the shorter guy and he’s got blue eyes. I have the light eyes, and Mike Kekich had the dark eyes, and was taller.

Markusen: When you were first approached about this, were you surprised that they were interested in your story, your situation, as being part of a feature film?

Peterson: I was surprised [at the interest] from the people at that level, because we’ve been offered things by people at HBO and stuff like that before. But it was never big screen and big people like this before.

They’ve been interested in this since 1999. And then in 2006, we came together on an agreement, and we’re proceeding from there.

Markusen: Final question on the film itself: any chance that you’ll make some kind of a cameo in the movie playing someone else?

Peterson: No. [laughing] I’m not going to be like Alfred Hitchcock either and be seen walking through [one of the scenes]. I’m too old and too ugly.

Markusen: Well, I don’t know about that.

Let’s talk about some other current events, as the case may be. Earlier in the week, we learned of the passing of your former manager, Ralph Houk, at the age of 90. Tell us what it was like to play for Ralph Houk. What was he like as a manager?

Peterson: It’s like, Bruce, playing for your dad, with all the confidence that a father would have in a son playing ball. You could trust Ralph just like a father; it just felt like that. Ralph was the kind of guy that once you earned a job on his team, you had to work your way out of it. He would not be like Steinbrenner actually would and pull some out of a game or out of the rotation for making an error.

Ralph was just golden. I’m happy that he got to live this long. He was a wonderful person. And I’ll miss him. I had intended on talking to him before his death, but usually you think of those things afterward. I’ll miss him.

Markusen: Some managers are characterized as hitters’ managers, some are characterized as pitchers’ managers. In general, how did Ralph treat pitchers?

Peterson: Great. We all knew our jobs. We all knew when he was coming out to get us. We all knew that he was going to give us a 100 per cent chance to win that ballgame, to stay through five innings. We knew his whole routine, and he always stuck by that. He was very predictable and very fair.

Markusen: How did he compare to some of the other managers in your career as you moved on to other teams?

Peterson: Well, he was always the best. I had Frank Robinson when he became the first black manager, and he was interesting. He was a lot better when he first started, as compared to when time went on, because he couldn’t understand how players couldn’t all play like him. Because he was so top-notch when he played. But Ralph was never a high-level player like that. I had [Ken] Aspromonte for awhile, and I had, let’s see who the last one was with the Rangers. [Editor’s Note: Peterson’s final manager was Frank Lucchesi.]

But nobody compared to Ralph. Bill Virdon came right after Ralph [in New York]. The players didn’t like him. They were used to Ralph treating them as players that had been there. And Bill was just a very straight-line guy. Good guy, but didn’t have any friends from the past. His pitching coach came with him, and he wasn’t part of the Yankee system. So it was tough for Bill.

Markusen: He didn’t have the emotional connection to the team?

Peterson: Exactly. And then when Billy Martin came in, I wasn’t there anymore. I wish I would have been; that would have been fun [laughing].

Markusen: Let’s talk about some of the other memories you have from the late sixties and early seventies. I have to talk about a guy that was very important to all of you pitchers, Thurman Munson. Take us through what it was like, a typical game with Thurman catching you. What kind of interactions went on during the game?

Peterson: Nothing serious. Thurman respected us, especially Stottlemyre and myself. And we respected him as a young, cocky catcher that had all the confidence in the world. We worked well together because we knew what we wanted to throw and he learned what we wanted to throw and how we wanted to throw. And it was a very nice relationship.

And Thurman was a fun guy on the team. We took him in as part of our little group of people that had fun on the team. On road trips, and stuff like that. Thurman was real special, and he was a real gamer, meaning that he would take out a second baseman on double plays, he would run over a catcher if he had to. He was just 100 per cent a team man. And all of our guys were not like that at the time. We really respected that out of Thurman–and Bobby Murcer.

Markusen: I’ve heard pitchers rave about the way that Munson would handle a game, call a game, and deal with the pitcher. Tell us about Thurman from that standpoint.

Peterson: Well, Thurman was very intelligent. He could see what was happening out there on the mound with us. If we were having trouble with a certain pitch, he knew how to stay away from it from time to time, and in crucial spots. And he gave us confidence in ourselves. He understood us, even though we were older than him and had been there longer; he had that cockiness and assurance that he was calling the right pitches. And so did we.

Markusen: You mentioned Bobby Murcer. Briefly talk about him as a teammate and what he was like.

Peterson: Same thing as Thurman. Just a good guy and teammate. He would do the same thing, take out a guy at second base and a catcher at home. He was always 100 per cent out there, diving for fly balls, throwing and giving his best. A good guy, a good man to be around. He would help out with personal situations if anybody needed it. It was a nice family feeling, especially with those two guys.

Markusen: It’s hard to believe they’re both gone now.

Peterson: It’s terrible.

Markusen: Tell us about the guys from those Yankee teams that you still keep in touch with, that you’re still friendly with today. Anybody in particular?

Peterson: Well, Mel Stottlemyre is the main one. And we don’t [actually] talk that much either. But when we do, it’s like we were NEVER apart. It was like yesterday was our last game together, and we’re right there the next day. Mel and I have kept up with each other with our illnesses, with cancer, and stuff like that. We do more keeping up with each other on that than other personal things. Again, it was like yesterday that we were together, and we feel like that’s how it will be tomorrow when we get together.

Markusen: Do you talk to any of the other pitchers: Kekich, Bahnsen, Lyle, any of those guys?

Peterson: Sparky, once in awhile. Bahnsen, once in awhile at fantasy camp. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to the other people, it’s just that we never seem to get together. Fantasy camp down in Tampa is the time that I see these guys. A lot of the guys that go [to fantasy camp] are guys that I didn’t play with. Like Mel isn’t there very often. He was there a couple of years ago and that was a lot of fun. Some of the newer guys I didn’t play with.

Markusen: Who was the most colorful guy you had as a teammate from those teams? Perhaps not a guy that wasn’t that famous or well-known, but was just really offbeat, unusual, colorful. Any one guy that comes to mind?

Peterson: Well, it would be three guys really: Jim Bouton would be one, Mike Kekich would be another, and then Sparky Lyle would be the one that fit the bill the most. Those guys were really spontaneous.

Markusen: You’ve read Bouton’s book, I imagine?

Peterson: I haven’t. I have it at home, I have a couple of copies. I didn’t read it because I didn’t want to make enemies of the guys he wrote about because I didn’t want to say it’s a great book. And I didn’t want to NOT read it because Jim’s a friend of mine.

Markusen: As I recall, he said good things about you in the book.

Peterson: Yes, he did. We were roommates–so I’m glad of that [laughing].

Markusen: You mentioned a moment ago the cancer that you’re dealing with. I believe it’s prostate cancer. How are you doing on that?

Peterson: I’m doing fine. I don’t read up on what’s coming up next because I trust my doctors on that, and I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself. I had prostate cancer in 2000 and I went through the radioactive seeds, the therapy, and it failed. And I didn’t find that out until 2006. And then at that time I got involved in a research project at the University of Iowa because [the doctors] didn’t know how to stop it once you‘ve had that original procedure. So I’m in that research program and right now I’m undergoing hormone therapy, which is something to stop it [the cancer] for awhile. And I’m waiting for another possibility in our research group that I’ll be able to get a booster shot from the Federal Drug Administration if they approve it, so that’ll increase my chances of staying around a little longer. But right now I’m not worried about it. I go back to my doctors in two weeks and they’ll decide whether to do another hormone therapy shot or not. And then I’ll wait another four months from there, and another four months from there.

With Mel, he has, or he had multiple myloma, and he has to go back every month, so that’s a little more strenuous than what I’ve got.

That’s the reason I did this book, Mickey Mantle Is Going To Heaven, because I really needed to know the answer to salvation when I got this latest scare. If people are interested in buying it, they can look on amazon.com. It’s a good read, it tells a little bit about life, and it also tells about the Yankees, the things we’re talking about now, the things inside of the clubhouse, and with Mantle.

And Ron Blomberg is standing around the corner from us. He said to say something good about him. He ended up winning my last game for me at the old, original Yankee Stadium, with a two-run home run. That’s the only good thing I can say about him. But he’s a good guy.

Markusen: Let me ask you about the book. Did you write it yourself, or did you have a professional writer work with you?

Peterson: No, I didn’t [have a writer]. I wrote it myself. I had sent Marty Appel, who authored the Munson book, a couple of chapters and I had thought about him about co-writing it with me, but when he read those chapters, he said, ‘You don’t need a co-writer.’ So I just did it myself. There’s a couple of errors in there that I’d like to change, but it was just me, and it’s interesting.

Markusen: Final topic, Fritz. I’m a big baseball card collector. I like to get players’ reaction to seeing themselves on old baseball cards. I’ve got an action card from 1972, where you’ve got a pretty good motion here, and then the finish of your motion on this 1973 card, which looks pretty good here. When you see these old cards of yourself, what comes to mind?

Peterson: You know, I didn’t pay any attention to the form or the motion until you pointed that out. It’s pretty good form! [laughing] But in writing this book, I ran across so many memories, it was like I was right back there again. And looking at these cards, paying attention to them now like you’ve pointed out, it makes me appreciate those. I’m glad I’m in one, a lot of different cards. I don’t even believe I was there sometimes. The time flies. Was that really me, during that time, or wasn‘t it? The cards, the reflections, help bring it back. And I’m very happy to have been there, especially as a Yankee.

Markusen: Do you have every one of your Topps cards?

Peterson: Yes, I have them, have one of each in a file cabinet.

Markusen: Is there a favorite one that comes to mind?

Peterson: There’s an ugly one. It’s ugly. That’s the rookie card, which is a split card, and I look like a convict on that one.

Bruce Markusen writes “Cooperstown Confidential” for The Hardball Times.

With Bill Madden’s new book on George Steinbrenner topping many of the sports bestsellers lists, it’s an appropriate time to look back on the first year of “The Boss’” reign as the game‘s most recognizable owner. That would be 1973, when the Yankees were in the midst of a 12-year absence from postseason play. Still three years removed from ending their lengthy playoff drought, the Yankees embarked on a new era not fully aware of how life would change under the thumb of “Big George.”

Coming only weeks after he purchased the franchise for less than $10 million, Steinbrenner’s first spring would not pass without major controversy, though it had nothing to do with his ability to rant and rave. The flames were instead fanned by two unconventional left-handers, Mike Kekich and Fritz Peterson, who decided the time was right to announce that they had swapped wives, children, and family pets. One could not have blamed Steinbrenner for questioning his new investment right then and there, what with 40 per cent of his projected starting rotation daring to do something that much of the civilian population would never even have considered.

The Yankees had other personnel problems, too. Their middle infielders, Horace Clarke and Gene “Stick” Michael, carried lightweight bats that would have made them utility players in today‘s game. The Yankees lacked a quality all-around right fielder, a position that featured the over-the-hill talents of Matty Alou and Johnny Callison. Their first baseman, the 38-year-old Felipe Alou (Matty’s older brother), had not been a premium player since the late sixties, when he played the outfield for the Atlanta Braves. The pitching staff, though featuring top-tier talents like Mel Stottlemyre and Sparky Lyle, lacked the depth of some of the other elite staffs in the American League and could not carry an offense that ranked tenth among 12 teams in runs scored.

Fortunately, Steinbrenner had few worries when he looked to the catching position. The site of Thurman Munson poised behind the plate, as he was seen on his 1973 Topps card, surely must have provided Steinbrenner with some comfort, as it probably did for most Yankee fans. Nearly 40 years later, the Topps card of Munson still brings me some exhilaration; I see Thurman squatting in the twilight of the original Yankee Stadium, bending those rickety knees, and preparing to set his precise target with that soft glove hand. Watching Munson go to work behind the plate, where he combined flexibility, quickness and toughness, became a favorite pastime of those Yankee seasons.

Also evident on the card is that familiar red chest protector that became a Munson trademark. I’ve never found out why Munson used the red protector. Red has never been one of the Yankees’ primary uniform colors. To the best of my memory, no Yankee catcher has worn a red chest protector since then, instead using the traditional navy blue or black protectors. The mystery of the red protector continues.

With all apologies to Bobby Murcer (another favorite of this scribe), Thurman Munson was the best player on the ‘73 Yankees. In many ways it was his breakout season, as he made the vault from good player to All-Star catcher. He hit to the tune of an .849 OPS, which not only led all Yankee regulars but represented the highest figure of his career. Considering his ability to hit, and hit with power (a career high 20 home runs), the Yankees boasted a 1973 rarity: a catcher who could bat third and do it well. Munson’s vast defensive abilities made him that much more valuable, one of the game’s most desired commodities of the early 1970s. Munson did commit 12 errors, mostly on errant throws, but threw out a stunning 48 per cent of opposing base stealers and generally did wonders in handling unproven pitchers like George “Doc” Medich and the pint-sized Fred Beene, who somehow won all six of his decisions and kept his ERA a diminutive 1.68. For his efforts, Munson earned the first of three consecutive Gold Gloves.

All things considered, Munson quickly made himself one of Steinbrenner’s favorite players. Munson’s scrappiness only gained him more favor with The Boss. Steinbrenner must have loved it when Munson challenged rival receiver Carlton Fisk in a game on August 1. With the game tied at 2-2 in the top of the ninth, Gene “Stick” Michael attempted a squeeze bunt but missed the pitch. Munson continued to run home, barreling into Fisk and sparking a nasty teamwide brawl that lasted for about ten minutes. The fight not only pitted the two best American League catchers against one another, but underscored the differences between the two men. On the one hand, you had Fisk, tall, handsome, and naturally athletic; on the other, you had Munson, the owner of perennially sore knees and a bad body that motivated teammates to call him “Tugboat“ and “Squatty Body,” among less than flattering nicknames. For those who preferred rooting for underdogs, Munson represented the obvious choice.

So who won the fight between Munson and Fisk? When asked by reporters, Munson said boldly, “Go ask Fisk who won the fight. He knows.”

At the time, Steinbrenner probably had no idea that Munson, one of his favorite players and the team‘s future captain, would become a temporary enemy just a few years later as part of the daily soap opera known as “The Bronx Zoo.” Steinbrenner upset Munson when he vowed that he would always be the highest paid Yankee after Jim “Catfish“ Hunter, but then shattered the verbal promise by giving more money to free agent superstar Reggie Jackson. As proud as they come, Munson would never completely forgive Steinbrenner’s unwritten betrayal.

In turn, Munson drew the ire of Steinbrenner when he dared to grow a beard in a glaring break with franchise rules. Steinbrenner demanded that Munson shave, but the veteran catcher refused. Finally, Munson relented when The Boss began to exert pressure on manager Billy Martin, whose job status was placed on red alert. Munson and Steinbrenner later filmed a memorable commercial for “Williams’ Lectric Shave” that poked fun at the incident–and the silliness surrounding it.

In spite of their differences, Steinbrenner appreciated Munson and his prominent place in the clubhouse. Like Munson’s teammates, Steinbrenner was devastated by the catcher’s early death. In many ways, Munson’s passing in August of 1979 brought an unofficial end to the first era of Steinbrenner’s ownership, an era highlighted by the two world championship teams of 1977 and ‘78.

It was an era that started in 1973, when a bad-bodied catcher made himself both the premier player and the recognized leader on a team that was learning a new way to do things under the game’s most demanding owner. More than most, Thurman Munson knew how to meet the demands of The Boss.

Bruce Markusen will present a paper on the art and culture of baseball cards at the annual Cooperstown Baseball Symposium on June 3 at the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum.

Whenever I see Atlanta’s super phenom Jason Heyward, the odds-on favorite to win the National League Rookie of the Year, I think of Claudell Washington. Although Heyward is actually four inches taller and 25 pounds heavier, they have similar body types: they are both long and lean in the mold of a Darryl Strawberry, both left-handed hitters, and both right fielders. Additionally, of course, they are both African American. Heyward is more hyped–he is generally considered the top prospect among position players in today’s game–but Washington was also a highly touted prospect with the A’s in the early to mid-1970s.

Washington also possessed the perfect sporting body. He featured shoulders so broad that one sportswriter claimed he looked like someone who had stuffed a wire hanger into his jersey. From there, his torso tapered off to the slimmest of waists, making him look like a male model. Muscular enough to hit home runs, Washington remained lean enough to run the bases as if he were running track, the ideal combination of speed and power.

The A’s certainly liked what they saw, to the point that they brought him to the major leagues at the age of 19. At one time, the A’s regarded Washington as the new Reggie Jackson, only with more footspeed and better defensive ability. Well, it never quite happened that way. Disappointed in his development and his attitude, Oakland owner Charlie Finley dealt Washington to the Rangers for the paltry package of Rodney “Cool Breeze” Scott and left-hander Jim Umbarger. From there, Claudell went to Chicago as part of a package for Bobby Bonds. Washington patrolled right field for Bill Veeck’s White Sox, but Chicago fans did not take to the lackadaisical Washington. One disgusted bleacherite brought a banner to Comiskey Park, infamously displaying it in the right field stands. The banner pronounced three succinct but memorable words: “Washington Slept Here.” Given the way that Washington seemed to sleepwalk through games in Chicago, no one could reasonably argue with the sentiment.

The Mets eventually did the White Sox a favor by taking Washington off their hands, but only by giving up the measly return of minor league pitcher Jesse Anderson, who would never play in a major league game. Washington played one lackluster season in Queens before realizing the benefits of baseball’s newly created free agency. In one of the most puzzling contracts ever doled out in the free agent era, the Braves rewarded the mediocre Washington with a five-year deal worth $3 million. That might not sound like much in today’s baseball economy, but in 1980 it was the kind of money given to a superstar. While talented and still reeking of potential, Washington was several levels shy of superstar caliber. For all of his talent, he had never hit more than 13 home runs, and had never drawn more than 32 walks in a single season.

Other than his career year of 1984, Washington played no more spectacularly in Atlanta than he had in either Chicago or Texas. He also used cocaine, becoming a part of the infamous Pittsburgh drug trial of 1985. So it must have been with some trepidation that the Yankees made a trade in the middle of the 1986 season, sending the elder Ken Griffey and a damaged Andre Robertson to the Braves for Washington and a smooth fielding shortstop named Paul Zuvella. Yet, I found myself excited about the trade. I had become tired of Griffey’s frequent complaints, whether he was grousing about the manager or his latest position switch. And as a fan of Finley’s dynastic A’s of the early seventies, I remembered the pure athletic talent that Washington carried with him. I thought, perhaps wishfully, that a change of scenery would be just the spark that he needed to reach some of those elusive expectations that had come with his initial big league arrival.

Washington did not become a star with the Yankees, but he did undergo an unexpected epiphany.
After years of treating professional baseball like a slumber party, Washington became dedicated to his craft. He started to play the game hard, hustling all of the time, both on the bases and in the field. No longer a user of drugs, he became a role model to younger players on the Yankees. In perhaps the most stunning development, he actually became one of the leaders in the Yankee clubhouse, something seen as an outrageous impossibility in Texas and Chicago.

Although Washington still didn’t hit with the 30-home run power that the A’s once envisioned and didn’t draw nearly enough walks, he became a solid platoon center fielder for the Yankees. In 1988, with most of his playing time coming against right-handed pitching, he put together one of his finest all-around seasons. He batted .308, stole 15 bases, and drove in 64 runs. In addition to better-than-average offensive numbers, he played an excellent center field, especially considering the lofty demands of the renovated Yankee Stadium. With Washington playing center field, the Yankees no longer had to consider moving Rickey Henderson or Dave Winfield to the middle of the outfield, something that neither of those high-maintenance players wanted to do anyway.

Then, as it so often happens in baseball, the seeming solution hit a roadblock the size of baseball’s growing collusion scandal. In fact, the roadblock was collusion. As part of an arbitrator’s resolution to the charges of collusion among owners, recent free agents were given a second chance at the free market. The list of players included Washington. When the Yankees failed to make an aggressive move to re-sign Washington, the Angels swooped in and inked him to a three-year deal. And just that quickly, center field again became a sore point in the Bronx.

Two years later, the Yankees tried to rectify their mistake, but only ended up exacerbating their problems. In need of massive rebuilding, the Yankees traded a young, promising Luis Polonia to the Angels for the aging Washington. But by then, the Yankees had turned center field over to a young Roberto Kelly, leaving Washington in a bench role. Now 35 years of age, Washington was no longer the player he had been three years earlier. He ended up hitting a dismal .163 with no home runs, one of many failures for a wretched 1990 Yankee team. Washington played so poorly that he drew his release on October 4, bringing his major league career to a sudden and sad ending.

In many ways, Washington’s career encompassed a series of contradictions. Though considered a disappointment, he managed to last 17 seasons in the major leagues, the kind of career length that most players would kill to have. He also reversed the career paths of so many other players by struggling in his twenties, before enjoying his best seasons in his thirties.

Washington’s career embodied the old saying that my parents often repeated to me, “Youth is wasted on the young.” As a youthful player, full of power and speed, Washington lacked the dedication and work ethic he needed to achieve his potential. By the time he found maturity and wisdom and professionalism, he soon discovered that the clock had run out.

Bruce Markusen collects baseball cards in Cooperstown, NY.

Earlier this week, the minor league Syracuse Chiefs announced that Tim Foli would serve as the team’s manager in 2009. Foli has been the Nationals’ Triple-A manager for three of the last four seasons, but this will be his first go-round here in central New York, with Syracuse now acting as the home of Washington’s top affiliate.

If you remember Tim Foli as a Yankee, give yourself a pat on the back; you are a true Yankee diehard. Considering that Foli spent all of one undistinguished summer in pinstripes, and that his one season here coincided with a down time in franchise history, your memory of Foli shows your sharpness when it comes to all things Yankees.

During the 1983 winter meetings, the Yankees announced that they had acquired Foli from the California Angels at the expense of a minor league reliever named Curt Kaufman and some cash. Foli was coming off an unspectacular season in which he had hit .252 with two home runs. The move made little sense, considering the crowd that the Yankees had already assembled at shortstop: veteran Roy Smalley, top prospect Bobby Meacham, and former top prospect Andre Robertson. I’m not sure why the Yankees thought Foli was better than any of the present alternatives. He couldn’t hit nearly as well as Smalley, didn’t have the range or speed of Meacham, and lacked Robertson’s defensive reputation.

Foli started the 1984 season as the Yankees’ regular shortstop, but soon found himself in a platoon with Meacham, before giving way to a utility role. By the end of the season, Foli had played in only 61 games, hitting .252 for the third consecutive season. (What are the chances of such sustained mediocrity?) After the season, the Yankees packaged him with Steve Kemp, sending them both to the Pirates in the deal that brought Jay Buhner to the organization. Just like that, Foli’s unremarkable tenure in the Bronx had come to a decisive but anticlimactic end.

But don’t think for a moment that Tim Foli was an unmemorable player. Quite the contrary. Always choking high up on the bat, Foli was a remarkably good bunter who regularly led the National League in laying down sacrifices. He was one of the most recognizable players of his era, with that large, arched mustache and those oversized wire-frame glasses. He had a personality to match his looks, kindly described as “strong” by some, less diplomatically as “overbearing” by others. Foli also became known by the nickname of “Crazy Horse.” Foli earned the moniker for not-so-flattering reasons—specifically a ferocious temper that put him at odds with umpires, opponents, and even teammates.

Critics of Foli claimed that he sometimes grated on teammates because of his tendency to tell others how to play the game. It was a habit that older players, in particular, resented in Foli. Shortly after making his major-league debut for the Mets in 1971, he tangled with teammate Ed Kranepool, the team’s elder statesman. Foli became upset with Kranepool when the first baseman decided not to throw the ball to him during routine infield warm-ups. At the end of the half-inning, a fuming Foli confronted Kranepool in the dugout. Outweighed by at least 25 pounds, Foli lost the fight—badly. The bout, which lasted all of 30 seconds, ended when Kranepool decked Foli.

The following spring, Foli became involved in a nasty confrontation with a member of the Mets’ coaching staff. The dispute centered on a misunderstanding over the allocation of hockey tickets. Foli exchanged angry shouts with coach Joe Pignatano and then received a reprimand from manager Gil Hodges. Shortly after the exchange with Pignatano, the Mets traded him to the Montreal Expos.

With the Expos, Foli blossomed into an excellent defensive shortstop, but eventually encountered problems with teammates and club authority figures. During a tumultuous 1976 season, Foli openly defied managers Karl Kuehl and Charlie Fox. He went so far as to curse out Kuehl in full view of his teammates and even called a press conference where he questioned Kuehl’s credibility as a major-league manager. Shortly thereafter, the Expos fired Kuehl and replaced him with Fox. And then, on the final day of the season, Foli embarrassed Fox by refusing to sit in the dugout. Upset that Montreal sportswriters had not voted him the team’s player of the year award, a petulant Foli sulked in the stands at Wrigley Field. The following season, he departed the Expos, in part because of a feud with his new double-play partner, Dave Cash.

Expelled from the Expos, Foli encountered more deep-seeded trouble as a member of the Giants. Some of his Giants teammates, noting his fits of anger and high-strung ways, called him “Rubber Room” behind his back. Not surprisingly, the Giants sold him after only one season, returning him to his original team, the Mets.

Foli saved his most vitriolic anger for opposing players and umpires. He became a legendary bench jockey, riding opponents at every opportunity, at a time when such dugout dialogue had begun to dwindle because of the increasing unity of the Major League Baseball Players Association. Intensely competitive, perhaps to a dangerous extreme, Foli particularly disliked umpires. If he felt that an umpire had wronged him early in the game, even over a relatively meaningless ball or strike call, he carried a grudge until the final out, regardless of the circumstances or the score. Not surprisingly, he received three-game suspensions in back-to-back seasons, one for arguing and another for making physical contact with an umpire. He later carried on a celebrated feud with veteran umpire Paul Runge. Relations between Foli and some umpires reached such volatile extremes that a few impartial observers thought the veteran shortstop received the short end of many close calls.

With his hair-trigger temper bouncing him from team to team, including a relatively successful stint with the Expos, Foli finally found an ideal home in the late 1970s. In the spring of 1979, the Mets traded him to the Pirates, where he prospered under the upbeat guidance of manager Chuck Tanner. Surrounded by Tanner and a group of free-spirited, laid-back teammates, he began to relax and prosper, hitting a career-best .288 for the Bucs in 1979. He helped the Pirates win the National League East and then hit an eye-opening .333 in the World Series, as the Bucs captured the World Championship with a dramatic comeback against the Orioles.

By the early 1980s, Foli claimed that he had calmed his temper, in part because of his renewed faith in the Christian religion. “Everything used to get to me, but then I changed my priorities,” he told the Arizona Republic in 1983. “Jesus Christ became the lord of my life. Baseball is still important to me, but it’s not the only thing I have now.”

Showing some tendency toward mellowing, Foli became involved in fewer incidents. Still, the old fires raged from time to time, even after his playing days. As a coach with the Brewers, he continued his habit of bench-jockeying opposing players. On one occasion, he so infuriated Don Baylor that the strapping slugger had to be restrained from physically attacking Foli during a game.

In the year 2000, Foli joined the coaching staff of the Reds. His tenure would turn out to be eventful and tumultuous, perhaps most notably for a physical confrontation with fellow Reds coach Ron Oester. Much like his scrap with Ed Kranepool years earlier, Foli came out on the short end against Oester, requiring stitches after the fight.

For perhaps one last time, Crazy Horse had reemerged.