A Season in the Sun

by Randy Roberts

  The president’s appearance at Ebbets Field affirmed that no other American sporting event mattered as much as the World Series. No heavyweight boxing match or football or basketball game could contend with the significance of the Fall Classic. In 1956, more than a decade before the first Super Bowl, Sports Illustrated, the major sports weekly, published fifty-five feature stories about baseball and only five about pro football. And professional basketball received so little attention from the national press that one might have guessed that all the games were played in Alaska. The World Series, however, was so important that about a month before the election, the staffs of Eisenhower and his Democratic opponent, Adlai Stevenson, discussed whether both candidates would attend Game One in Brooklyn. Ultimately, Stevenson surrendered the stage to Ike. The World Series, then, was not just about baseball; it had become the most visible political platform in all of American sports.21

  Standing adjacent to the Dodgers’ dugout, from his box seat, AA-33, Eisenhower placed his hand over his heart, joining the chorus of fans who sang “The Star-Spangled Banner,” a tradition that dated back to the 1918 World Series, when the world was at war and the owners in organized baseball wanted to demonstrate that the sport boosted morale and promoted patriotism. By 1956, amid the Cold War, singing the anthem at sporting events had become a ritual intended to unify Americans against the godless Communists. Baseball stadiums were among the most visible spaces where citizens could demonstrate loyalty to their country. Being a good American president, Eisenhower understood, meant showcasing your patriotism and your faith in democracy. After opera singer Everett McCooey finished singing the national anthem, Ike tossed the ceremonial first pitch to Roy Campanella. It was time, the umpire declared, to play ball.

  In the top of the first inning, Sal Maglie’s worst fear came true. The son of an Italian pipefitter, the Dodgers’ thirty-nine-year-old hurler was nicknamed “the Barber” for the way he used to shave batters with high, hard pitches near the chin. Now he relied less on speed and more on a variety of breaking balls. In September, during the National League pennant race, his breaking ball had mystified the Milwaukee Braves, giving Maglie his first no-hitter. But the stakes were significantly higher facing the Yankees in the World Series. After Hank Bauer grounded out to third and left fielder Enos “Country” Slaughter reached first on a single, Mickey Mantle approached the left side of the plate.

  Mantle had read the scouting report on Maglie. “He knows where he is going to throw every pitch,” Mickey said. “He is thinking with you on every pitch. Worst of all, he never gives you a good ball to hit.” On an 0–1 count, Maglie threw a low, hard slider inside. Mantle crushed it. The ball took off toward deep right field, cleared the tall screen, and bounced off the hood of a car parked on Bedford Avenue. Mickey’s majestic shot impressed the Brooklyn crowd so much that a “spontaneous cheer” broke out across Ebbets Field.22

  The Dodgers struck back in the second inning when Jackie Robinson hit a solo home run off of Whitey Ford. After Gil Hodges singled, Carl Furillo smacked a double, driving home the tying run. Then, in the bottom of the third, Hodges hit a three-run homer, giving Maglie a comfortable 5–2 lead. After giving up a solo shot to Billy Martin in the fourth, Maglie settled down and went on to complete the game, striking out ten Yankees in total. With New York trailing 6–3 in the ninth, with one runner on base and two outs, Mantle stepped to the plate. He eagerly swung at the first pitch, bouncing a hard grounder to second for an easy 4–6–3 double play.23

  Losing the opener to the Dodgers disappointed the Yankees, but the possibility of losing Mickey Mantle troubled them. Late in the game he seemed to be playing unusually deep in center field. When two short fly balls fell in front of him in the eighth inning, reporters noticed that he reacted cautiously, limping back to his position after returning the ball to the infield. Was Mantle injured? Was it his hamstring again? Had he pulled his groin muscle? Refusing to acknowledge whatever pain he felt, Mickey denied that he was hurt. But he was a terrible actor. “I’m all right,” he told inquisitive writers. The New York Post’s Leonard Koppett remained unconvinced. “Mickey looked neither as fast nor as smooth as he usually does. He may not have a bad leg—but he ran like a man who has.”24

  RAIN SOAKED EBBETS FIELD the following morning. The Yankees lounged around the clubhouse, hoping the sun would break through. Around 11:00 a.m., Mantle began to change into his uniform. Five minutes later Commissioner Frick postponed Game Two.

  In the Dodger’s locker room, starting pitcher Don Newcombe grew restless. He had prepared to pitch and didn’t want to wait. Newcombe worried that the delay would hamper his rhythm. Dressed in his white uniform, he stepped into the dugout, looked out at the cloudy gray sky, and headed toward the outfield. Jogging in the rain, he began to sweat, which relieved his anxiety, at least for an afternoon.25

  On Friday the sky cleared, and Newcombe took the mound. In 1956 he was the most dominant pitcher in baseball, winning twenty-seven games, the inaugural Cy Young Award, and the National League’s MVP Award. Standing six foot, four inches and weighing 240 pounds, he intimidated batters with his imposing frame and a fastball that made professional batters look like Little Leaguers. He threw so hard that hitters swore the baseball looked like an “aspirin tablet coming toward the plate.” Using a smooth, three-quarter overhand pitching angle, Newcombe, Robert Creamer observed, threw “violently, falling off the mound a little toward first base.” When the ball smacked Campanella’s mitt it made a loud popping sound, bruising Campy’s left hand.26

  Newcombe was especially eager to pitch in the World Series. He had lost all three of his previous postseason starts—all against the Yankees. Critics called him a “choker.” Even Mickey Mantle, the most reticent star in baseball, had taunted him before the series. “If Newcombe thinks he can throw a fast ball past me, he’s got another think coming.” Newk didn’t back down. “Mantle has a weakness for a fast ball,” he said. “I know where it is and he knows I know. If I get it where I want to, he’s not going to hit it.”27

  Early in the game the Yankees shook Newcombe’s confidence. After surrendering one run in the first, he fell apart in the second. The Yankees battered him for five runs, four of which came on a Yogi Berra grand slam that bounced across the gas station parking lot on Bedford Avenue. He pitched so poorly that before he could even retire six batters, Walter Alston replaced him with Don Bessent. Frustrated, he trudged toward the dugout and headed straight for the clubhouse, his elbow throbbing—no one knew that he had pitched with immense pain. He changed into his street clothes and stormed out of Ebbets Field. When he reached the parking lot at the corner of McKeever and Sullivan, an attendant sneered, “What’s the matter, Newk? Did you have another bad day? Did you run into some competition?”28

  Newcombe snapped. He had heard enough boos. His fury was shaped by the racism he experienced as a black man off the field and the epithets hurled at him in stadiums around the country. Seething, he punched the man in the stomach. A police officer intervened and took both men to the station, where the attendant decided not to press charges.

  Meanwhile, back at Ebbets Field, Don Larsen took a commanding 6–0 lead into the bottom of the second. He had pitched well throughout September, winning four games in the final month of the season. Now, in the World Series, in less than two innings he had allowed only one hit but had walked four batters. Stengel had no patience for his wildness. After Don gave up a run, Casey yanked him. Stunned, Larsen could not believe it. Two innings? Casey couldn’t even let him pitch two innings? “I don’t give a damn if I ever pitch for the Yankees or Stengel again,” he vented in the locker room. “He had no business taking me out of there.”29

  Perhaps Larsen was right. The Dodgers shelled six subsequent Yankee pitchers for twelve more runs, winning 13–8. Ultimately, the Yankees’ abysmal pitching cost them Game Two. At three hours and twenty-six minutes, it was the longest game in World Series history. Stengel had used more pitchers in a single series game tha
n any manager before, but none of them could end his team’s misery. After the game, Brooklyn’s most devoted fans marched down Flatbush Avenue with broomsticks, calling for a sweep. The last time the Yankees had failed to win a game during the World Series, Warren G. Harding lived in the White House. The following morning, Yankees fans relived the pain when they read the back page of the New York Daily News’s bold headline: “MURDER AT EBBETS FIELD.”30

  THROUGHOUT THE SERIES America’s most popular ballplayer wrote an exclusive column for the New York World-Telegram and Sun. The Yankee slugger revealed his inner thoughts, analyzing each game. It was a rare opportunity for fans to watch baseball from the player’s perspective—in this case, from that of the real Mickey Mantle. At least that’s what the newspaper wanted readers to believe. But like Babe Ruth long before him, Mantle had little to do with the copy. In fact, with few exceptions, most baseball players depended on ghostwriters to manufacture an image that appealed to fans. And Mantle’s column was no different. At best a reporter interviewed him and created a voice that conformed to public perceptions about Mantle, the modest star uncomfortable with celebrity. “I am from Oklahoma,” he declared, as if readers had short memories, “and I still can’t quite understand why there are some people who will pay money to have a ball player show up and say hello” on a television show.31

  Playing in the World Series for the fifth time in six seasons—in addition to his exploits on and off the field—had given him a national profile. Fans became accustomed to seeing and reading about him and the Yankees nearly every October. But before 1956 the Yankees were really Yogi Berra’s team. He was the club’s most important player. During that season, though, Mickey had superseded him. Yet, if Mantle was going to secure his place among the Yankee legends and truly fulfill his promise, he needed to lead the Bronx Bombers to glory. The Triple Crown winner couldn’t afford to sputter at the plate or let aches and pains sideline him. Losing the World Series again to the Dodgers would blemish his remarkable season.

  After the Yankees dropped Game Two, Mantle’s column appeared to reveal a man humbled by defeat. He even thanked Dodgers fans “for their kindness” in not booing the Yankees off the field. Decades later, however, in his autobiography about the season, he portrayed Dodgers fans as an angry mob chasing the Yanks out of town. “The bus ride home from Brooklyn was what you might imagine,” he wrote. “Thousands of fans lining the street, cursing us, throwing fruit and vegetables at the bus, clenching their fists.” But in 1956 Mantle’s ghostwriter didn’t pen a word about Brooklyn fans carrying clubs and pitchforks. Criticizing baseball fans—even those from Brooklyn—would have undermined his mass appeal.32

  Returning home to Yankee Stadium renewed Mickey’s optimism. He hit well on the road but even better at home. In 1956, he hit .336 away from the Bronx and .369 at Yankee Stadium. By no means did he think the season was over. A year earlier the Yankees had won the first two games of the World Series, but the Dodgers came back to win the championship in seven games. “We can come back, too,” he declared.

  Early on Saturday afternoon, October 6, excited Yankees fans packed into “D” trains bound for 161st Street and River Avenue. The Transit Authority added additional express cars to accommodate tens of thousands of fans heading to the Bronx. It was a cool autumn day, and men wore fedoras and bomber jackets with newspapers under their arms; women sported swing coats, matching hats, and fashionable long gloves. Nearly 74,000 fans filed into the stadium, more than double the number who attended the previous game at Ebbets Field. Desperate for a victory, Yankees supporters pinned their hopes on Whitey Ford, one of the most reliable and effective pitchers in the American League. The slight southpaw, a handsome blond with a boy’s face, took the mound with boundless confidence. He didn’t overpower hitters; rather, he relied on his command of three pitches—fastball, curveball, and changeup—to induce groundouts. Carrying a 2.52 earned run average and a 19–5 record, the American League’s best left-handed pitcher studied opposing batters, mastering their tendencies, strengths, and weaknesses. “My greatest asset as a pitcher,” he said, “is knowing the hitters.”33

  Ford had studied the Dodgers closely. But they were just as familiar with him. In three innings of the first game of the series, Brooklyn had battered the lefty. He had given up five earned runs, six hits, and two homers. Yet in Game Three, he looked like a different pitcher, poised and sharp. Although the Dodgers scattered eight hits against him, Ford limited the damage to three runs—two earned—over nine innings. Enos Slaughter, a balding forty-year-old outfielder, drilled a three-run homer off Roger Craig in the sixth inning, leading the Yankees to a 5–3 victory.34

  Mickey managed only one hit in Game Three—a bunt single. But the next day, in the sixth inning of Game Four, he launched a 450-foot moonshot into the center-field bleachers, arousing ebullient cheers throughout Yankee Stadium. His solo homer gave the Yanks a 4–1 lead; the following inning, Hank Bauer clubbed a two-run homer. In his first World Series start, Tom Sturdivant, the Yankees’ sophomore pitcher, kept the Dodgers off balance, throwing a devastating knuckleball that danced, dipped, and fluttered across the plate. Mystified, the Dodgers swung at the darting ball like an angry chef trying to swat a fly.35

  The Yankees’ 6–2 victory erased the Dodgers’ series lead. The next day’s game at Yankee Stadium would be pivotal. The winning team would need only one more victory to celebrate the championship. Don Larsen’s mediocre performance led him to doubt that he would start another game in the series. But Stengel hadn’t completely given up on him. “He wasn’t throwing over there in Brooklyn,” the Ole Professor said. “He was just pushing the ball. Maybe he was thinking too much about those fences. He can pitch a lot better than that,” he added. “You’ll see.”36

  STANDING IN FRONT of his locker on Monday, October 8, at around 10:30 a.m., Don Larsen looked at his cleats and discovered a baseball in one of them. It had become a tradition in the Yankee clubhouse for third-base coach Frank Crosetti to arrive early and place a ball in the starting pitcher’s shoe. When Hank Bauer entered the room, he asked Crosetti who would take the mound. The answer stunned him. “Oh, shit,” Bauer said. Larsen couldn’t believe it either. He stared at the ball for a moment, his mind racing. Stengel had taken a big gamble on him, and he knew it.37

  Conflicting accounts about Game Five have been passed down over the decades. Some suggest that Larsen arrived at the Yankees clubhouse with a throbbing headache from a night of bar hopping. Others, including Larsen, contend that he nursed a few beers with his friend, Art Richman, a sportswriter for the New York Daily Mirror, before returning to his hotel room at the Grand Concourse shortly before midnight. Toots Shor bragged that on the eve of Game Five, Larsen guzzled drinks at his restaurant and that he introduced him to Supreme Court chief justice Earl Warren. Bob Cerv, a reserve outfielder, later recalled closing down a bar with Larsen and parting ways at 4:00 a.m. On the morning of Game Five, Cerv claimed, he phoned Larsen to make sure he rolled out of bed. Larsen picked up the receiver, groaning from a hangover, “Noooooo.”38

  Mickey Mantle, whose memories often bordered on fiction, clouded by years of hard drinking, remembered that night differently. He recalled that he and teammate Rip Coleman met up with Larsen at Bill Taylor’s restaurant on West 57th Street in Manhattan. According to Mantle, though, Larsen downed mugs of ginger ale. Perhaps Larsen enjoyed the carbonated soft drink, but it’s difficult to imagine him turning down beers with the boys, especially since he doubted that Stengel would call on him the next day. When Mantle left Taylor’s around 10:30 p.m., he remembered that Larsen “was cold, stone sober.” Whether Larsen ended the night that way is impossible to know and ultimately unimportant. What matters is that in an era characterized by a “drink hard, play hard” ethos, the exaggerated tales of Larsen’s exploits on the eve of Game Five make his performance on the field appear all the more extraordinary.39

  Sal Maglie demanded Larsen’s very best. The winning pitcher from Game One retired th
e first eleven Yankees with ease. In the fourth inning of a scoreless game, he had not yet given up a hit when Mickey Mantle approached the plate with two outs. Sal threw two straight pitches on the outside corner, one called a strike, the other a ball. His third pitch, again on the edge of the plate, was called a strike. He tested Mantle once more; Mickey ripped a foul ball into the stands, his timing slightly off. Then Maglie threw another pitch off the plate. Ball two. Maglie tried zipping the next pitch past him, but Mantle fouled it off again. With every pitch the stakes grew. Each man calculated the other’s next move. Was Mickey looking for another fastball on the outer edge of the plate? Could Maglie surprise him with an inside pitch?

  Squatting behind the plate, Campanella quietly shifted his feet, positioning himself closer to Mickey, and called for a curveball inside. Maglie nodded at Campy and delivered the pitch. Crack! The ball flew down the right-field line, curving just inside the foul pole. The Yankees’ radio broadcaster, Mel Allen, followed its flight. “It’s going… going… GONE! How ’bout that?!”40

  “Mighty Mickey” had delivered at a pivotal moment. A home run in such a crucial game affirmed his iconic status. Soon enough, though, he would be tested again, challenged to preserve the very lead that he had created.

  In the top of the fifth inning, the scoreboard showed that Larsen had not yet surrendered a run, hit, or walk. Nor had a Dodger reached base on an error. Larsen had changed his pitching delivery. Instead of throwing from a traditional windup, he rocked back and propelled himself forward, making it harder for the Dodgers to time his delivery. Throwing with the nonchalance of a boy skipping stones across a pond, Larsen had never looked so comfortable on the mound. Exercising pinpoint control, he consistently threaded first-pitch strikes. Only once—in the first inning against Pee Wee Reese—had he thrown more than three balls to a batter. In the fifth, after Jackie Robinson flied out to right field, Gil Hodges, a devastating pull hitter, threatened Larsen’s perfect game. On a 2–2 count, Larsen fired a hard slider. “The ball was flat when it drifted” across the plate, he admitted later. Hodges uncorked his body, extended his arms, and lofted the ball into deep left-center field.41