Zenith
My most precious possessions are my memories of growing up in the Main Line outside of Philadelphia in the Forties and Fifties. Baseball was integral to my family’s life. My paternal grandfather - Chief Engineer and President of Belmont Iron Works - Joe Shryock, had designed and produced the lights for Shibe Park (which became Connie Mack Stadium), where the Phillies played. My father Dick Shryock had a music store at 1615 Walnut Street. He also had a weekly running poker game with Ben Chapman, then Phillies Manger, and number of pitchers including the very swell Bobo Newsom. My brother and I were allowed to peek.
I cannot emphasize too greatly that as a girl I had to be as good a baseball player as the boys, although of course I didn’t ever expect to join the Major Leagues. All of our families played all of the time until we went away for the summers, us to Beach Haven on Long Beach Island in New Jersey, and most of our friends to other waterfront spots in New Jersey. The question always was, “Where ‘ya goin, this weekend? Down the Shore”. Evenings we played Movies Up (all players stayed in the field and moved up to bat) in our front yard in Penn Valley with our neighbors. We had softball leagues for the girls (hardball for the boys) in our Lower Merion Township schools, and intramural leagues at various playgrounds after school. I pitched softball and played center field with the ‘almost’ hardball of the girls’ game in high school. Teamwork was everything in our lives. The payoff was big in baseball because making errors, striking out, getting caught stealing or off base were things that our peers ridiculed us for, but that we learned to avoid. Practice didn’t get us to Carnegie Hall, but we did get accepted locally.
My generation watched baseball grow to its zenith in the Fifties when I grew up. We were the benefactors of the generation that fought and won World War II. 400,000 men and women died fighting to end Fascism in Germany as well as defeating a Japan with hegemonic intentions already revealed in the cruel invasion and occupation of Nanking, China in 1939. The high cost of those deaths can never be offset. But the productivity that began during that War was shown, for example, by the design and manufacture of the B-29 Super-fortress airplane. This behemoth, 99 ft. long with a 141 ft. wingspan could fly at a height of 40,000 ft., had the first pressurized cabin that guaranteed comfort for pilots and passengers. There were problems of heaviness of the engines that caused heating up and crashes. US Air Corp. Chief Major General “Hap” Arnold intervened in the development of a new prototype when the latest one crashed. He made sure it was ready by 1944. Until the Americans captured Guam, Saipan and Tinian, the B-29 had taken off from secret bases in India and China. The Soviet Union, Britain, Australian also used them, and together demolished the Japanese military machine. When the Enola Gay dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima on August 6, 1945 followed by another dropped on Nagasaki the Japanese surrendered unconditionally (while the B-29 was used in the Korean War and into the Sixties).
A nation hungry for consumer goods, whose GI’s longed for nothing more than to be with their families again or create new families, prospered during the most productive decades in US history. Although my Father had wanted to enlist, the nerve in his right ear died in 1940, and he was labeled 4F. This did not stop him from volunteering for the Coast Guard, and joining many other people all over Long Beach Island in watching for German U-Boats. The camaraderie was fine but a little like the two older Italian guys: “See there’s a U-boat”, one of them declared. “That’s a no my boat!” the other one answered. Many parties cemented friendships between all of the island’s residents who might never have known each other except as racing competitors at different Yacht Clubs.
Oh there were serious problems for those who waited at home. There was gasoline and food rationing. We had stamps and these did not provide enough sugar, meat or butter for any of us, particularly my Grandmother Folwell. In restaurants she would open her pocketbook and carefully secrete some butter upon her butter plate, for the rolls. Omigod, we kids (including my two cousins Billy and Little Miriam Adam), were horribly embarrassed by this. Not patriotic! That was a terrible thing.
My mother’s 1st cousin Warren Neff had come home from the Army, having fought as a dog soldier with General George Patton. He adored him and never tired of telling us wonderful stories. He brought home a lot of souvenirs, stamps from countries like Switzerland over marked Osterreich, medals from German uniforms and a Luger pistol. He gave all the small stuff to me, which I kept until I got home from Guam, whereupon my Mother said she had cleaned the basement and got rid of my collections. Warren’s wife had died just after he got back in ’45, of cancer. She left him Linda, then about 5 years old. One day Linda and I were swimming at the Little Egg Harbor Yacht Club, catty-corner behind our summer Sears Cape that Dad had built from a pre-fab kit. Staying at the swim ladder in a life-preserver I told her, “Hey Linda, you’re protected by that life preserver, how about swimming away from the dock. I was 9, a fearless swimmer by then. I pulled Linda away and she got terrified and grabbed me around the neck. The next thing I knew I was on the dock with a boy sitting on me while I vomited up bay water. I never was able to like Linda after that.
But Cousin Warren did throw himself into the postwar life of tremendous fun. More importantly he coupled his own life with the excitement of the authentic destiny of the country that had freed so many in the name of democracy. He was very handsome and could jitterbug well. He taught me how at a small restaurant and bar just around the corner from our house in Penn Valley.
“You’re beautiful”, he wrote in my autograph book.
“And you are beautiful”, he continued.
“God made you beautiful.”
“I wish I could make you, beautiful.” “Oh, Warren!” my Mother exclaimed. But I of course had no idea what he was talking about then. He two-timed, maybe six-timed a number of beautiful girls, something my brother and I could observe at my parents’ parties when the girls met each other and knew nothing about their separate connections to him. At those parties I would wear a hula skirt my grandfather Joe gave me and sing songs by the Andrews Sisters:
“Drinkin’ rum and Co cah-Co-lah.
Sold by mo-thah and daugh-tah,
Both moth-ah and daugh-tah
Workin’ for the Yankee dol-lah, ah, ah, ah”.
And Dorothy Shay, the “Park Avenue hillbilly”:
“You’ve heard of Rosie the Riveter,
Well she’s got nothin’ on me...
'Cause way before her time...
I had a job in Tenn-uh-ssee.
I turned a knob with just one hand...
And ah was satisfied,
Until one day I looked up,
And the boss was at mah side”.
Of course I didn’t get their risqué lyrics, but my family and their friends loved these naïve performances, not least because my mother stuffed my little halter top with socks, and it always slipped down. But also because even then I had a true singing voice and could imitate any melodies I heard right off.
When Goddard Lieberson invented the Long Playing Record he transformed music. No more 78 and 45 rpm formats and poor reproduction! Albums became a source of national delight and graphic excellence. Nat Cole and Frank Sinatra recorded for Johnny Mercer’s new company, Capitol Records. Nat was a great singer as well as a fine jazz pianist. I played Red Sails in the Sunset and They Tried to Tell Us We’re Too Young so often that my mother and new stepfather forbade me to continue. Frank sang the outstanding arrangements of Gordon Jenkins and Nelson Riddle which sold well also. All of our best singers shone during the postwar period, particularly Peggy Lee, June Christy and Chris Connor, phew! They were wonderful. But my favorite singer was Bobby Darin, whose first LP knocked everybody out. He had a jazzy timbre that transformed ballads we thought we knew like Beyond the Sea (I still have my gold record charm of it) and Mack the Knife with sparkling arrangements. He could play the piano and dance. Yes Elvis was King but Bobby was The Prince whose way with songs was so classy. And he could act and produce tool. He died of a heart attack at 39, in 1973. There has not been anyone as terrific since!
And in keeping with the confidence Americans had in their bones then, the first great event that took place in baseball happened after the War. It was the entrance of Jackie Robinson into the Major Leagues as a shortstop for the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1947, the first black player. He paved the way for many outstanding guys such as OF Hank Aaron, P Bob Gibson, C Roy Campanella, SS Ernie Banks and not least, CF Willie Mays. When their teams traveled, did these men have a different level of hotel rooms, did they still have problems with southern Jim Crow laws and practices? Yes they did. But Americans became very aware of the inequalities Black people endured in Jackie Robinson’s struggle. Congress followed suit in the Sixties.
The postwar appetite for the game was great: we doted on our stars, collected and traded the cards that told of their careers and achievements. My father took my brother and me to many Phillies games; each of us slept with our own mitts rubbed with neatsfoot oil under our pillow The chance of catching a ball existed, even ‘though we were so young. And in 1950 our own Phillies won the pennant! We not only loved these guys, all of us wrote love letters to them; CF Richie Ashburn, LF Del Ennis (he had the League’s highest batting average that year), our great pitcher Robin Roberts, P Bob Sisler, P Curt Simmons, P Jim Konstanty,3B Willie Jones, 1B Eddie Waitkus, C Andy Seminick. In the marvelous prizewinning book that my daughter Nicole gave me this Christmas called The Real Book About Baseball author Lyman Hopkins describes the last day of that season: “The Phils were playing the Dodgers at Ebbets Field. If the Phils won, it meant the pennant. If the Dodgers won, it meant a tie finish and a play-off series of two out of three more games to decide the winner of the pennant. The thrilling battle came right down to the last of the ninth inning with the score tied. With one out, the Dodgers had runners on first and second. Duke Snider belted a hit on a line into center field and the crowd cape up with a roar as the runner on second, Cal Abrams, took off. It was surely the winning run! The third base coach waved Abrams around third and on to home. He knew Abrams could run fast, and he knew that the Philly center fielder, Richie Ashburn, while a brilliant player, did not have a particularly strong throwing arm. He also knew that with a combination like that, a runner will score from second nine times out of ten on a clean single through to the outfield.
But this was the tenth time! With the entire season and Philadelphia’s first pennant in thirty-five years at stake, young Ashburn threw caution to the winds. He raced in toward the ball at top speed, usually a dangerous gamble. He snared the ball cleanly with one hand and without a moment’s hesitation fired it home. It came in strong and true and the amazed Abrams was easily tagged out. The Dodgers lost and game, and the pennant, in the next inning. In the Philadelphia dressing room later the grinning Ashburn admitted: “It was the best throw I ever made in my whole live. I surprised myself with it.”
Pitchers pitched whole games then, but no one made the million dollar salaries players fetch now. They often had jobs in the off-season. What happened was television, but of course. Advertisers paid ever increasing fees to pitch their products and services. Teams made money and players wanted a piece of the action and free agency! (As we know they struck in 1994 and there was no World Series.) Why did baseball reach its zenith in the Fifties? has a simple answer: because Americans were great people in the Fifties and baseball reflected us.
Nadir
I received a communication from a young woman named Angela recently in regard to Paul Lo Duca. She dated him a number of times during the 2006 season when he led the Mets to a thrilling playoff with the Cardinals that they lost. Mr. Lo Duca had a fabulous year then. He batted .315 while poking many hits over second base that scored at least one runner.
Angela lives in one of the five towns of southern Long Island. She is 20 years old and is in her third year toward a BS in Nursing at a local university. She wants to get a graduate degree also. She read the Mitchell Report as excerpted in the New York Times on Friday, December 14th. He was no. 22 in the list of players who are said to have taken either steroids or human growth hormones by injection from Mets trainer Brian McNamee. Notes on Mr. Lo Duca were quoted from an internal discussion among Dodgers officials in October 2003, “steroids aren’t being used anymore on him. Big part of this. Might have some value to trade…Florida might have some interest. Got off the steroids…Took away a lot of hard line drives…Can get comparable value back would consider trading…If you do trade him, will get back on the stuff and try to show you he can have a good year. That’s his makeup. Comes to play. Last year of contract, playing for ‘05”.
Angela was able to interpret the graph of Mr. Lo Duca’s performance, she believes, which showed that he had a higher home run average in 2002 on the LA Dodgers while his average was more or less the same after he was linked to steroids, particularly in 2006.
Angela wants to know whether – knowing that Mr. Lo Duca is playing now with the Nats, having secured a 5 million dollar contract from Manager Manny Acta - she might contact him. Her mother and father are against it, she says, but he was a swell person to be with, very witty, funny and generous. She has missed him, she admits. Now, having admired his 2006 season greatly myself, I think that he probably is as you describes him in person, Angela. Since he will be summering rather far from Shea Stadium if you did want to see him you might contemplate spending a few weekends at some of our Delaware beach towns, Lewes, Dewey Beach, Rehoboth, Cape Henlopen. These towns are lovely and have good beaches, although not all of them compare to Jones Beach and some of New Jersey’s great beaches.
I have a picture from theTimes of Tuesday December 11th, before the Mitchell Report. It shows Mr. Lo Duca cleaning out his locker at Shea Stadium in October. Dressed in an outfit as far as can be imagined from his cream linen Armani slacks and black polo shirts, he looks dejected and dreamy at the same time – a guy who knows how much he’ll miss the Mets. Indeed he has subsequently said that one of the great things about playing for the Nats is that he will see the Mets 18 times. Since the Mitchell Report he has not either been interviewed and certainly has not been quoted at all on what that Report has said about him. Perhaps he believes that having stopped taking steroids five years ago, he need not concern himself with the hoopla over more important players like Roger Clemens.
Here is what you have to ask yourself, Angela. If Paul Lo Duca stopped taking steroids, or was taking steroids through the
2002 season, why did he not do the right thing, the smart thing, and admit that he did? Like Andy Pettitte, whose admission may have cleared his own psychic playing field, if not the fans’. None of us who have broken laws are exempt from their consequences, even if no one finds out what we’ve done. So the question remains, do you want to date a man who may have done something that not only injured himself and his family but betrayed baseball? In betraying baseball, those men who have been named and the probability of there being many more such players who were not, betrayed America. That is what I think, Angela. But I am a 71-year old lady who has already made most of my important choices – and some of them were truly rotten. You, however, are a thoughtful 20 year old woman whose life is just beginning to offer choices which will shape your character forever. I know you can make a good decision about Mr. Lo Duca.
Lyman Hopkins, The Real Book about Baseball. Doubleday & Company, Inc., Garden City, New York, Copyright 1951, 1958, 1962, Pp.26, 27.
