Impact Player

by Bobby Richardson

When Willie McCovey was inducted into the National Baseball Hall of Fame in 1986, I gave a prayer as part of the program. When asked how he wanted to be remembered, McCovey replied, “I’d like to be remembered as the guy who hit the line drive over Bobby Richardson’s head.”

  The next time I recall being with Willie was in 2007. That year interleague play brought the Yankees back to San Francisco for their first regular-season or postseason game there since our Game 7 in 1962. San Francisco hosted some of us as part of a ’62 World Series reunion, and McCovey and I had been invited to throw out a joint first pitch.

  Willie broke into a big smile when he saw me.

  “I bet your hand’s still hurting,” he said.

  I nodded and returned the smile.

  “You did hit it hard.”

  Chapter 12

  Too Much Koufax

  In November of ’62 I received word that the Yankees had traded our first baseman, Bill “Moose” Skowron, to the Los Angeles Dodgers for pitcher Stan Williams. Joe Pepitone, the next can’t-miss prospect rising through the Yankees system, had spent about half of the ’62 season up with us, and the decision was made to turn first base over to him and let Moose go. I hated to see that happen—for both personal and professional reasons.

  Moose, who had come over to the Yankees from Kansas City in 1954, was thirty-one years old and still productive. We knew we could expect at least twenty home runs and eighty RBIs from Moose every season. He was also an integral part of our tight-knit infield group—Moose, Tony Kubek, Clete Boyer, and I—which I believed was the best in baseball. And Moose could always make us laugh. Even today, thinking of Moose brings up something he did or said that still makes me chuckle.

  When Hank Bauer was playing with us, he and Moose had been inseparable. They were known for being ridiculously early to airports. If they had a flight at six in the evening, for example, they would sometimes arrive at the airport before noon and wait there until six. And even if there were flights they could take during that time and arrive at their destination hours earlier, they would still wait for their scheduled flight for no better reason than the fact that their reservations had already been made.

  Moose owed me money when he left for the Dodgers, and I knew that once he left the Yankees, my chances of collecting were gone. Moose didn’t trust himself when it came to catching pop-ups, especially really high ones, so before the start of each season, we struck a deal whereby he would give me five hundred dollars to catch all the pop-ups around first that I could.

  When a pop fly was hit in his direction, instead of calling “Mine!” to let me know he’d take it, he would immediately yell, “Bobby!” and move out of the way.

  Whenever Moose told that story, he would say, “I paid Bobby five hundred dollars to catch my pop-ups.” Well, the part about paying me wasn’t correct, and Moose knew it. Even in recent years, Moose would tell me, “I know I haven’t paid you yet, but I’m still gonna do it.” Then we both would laugh.

  Betsy thought my arrangement with Moose was especially funny because she didn’t share his confidence in my ability to catch pop-ups. Shortly after Betsy and I arrived in Denver as newlyweds, I dropped a couple. After that she closed her eyes when I was about to field a pop-up. She couldn’t believe Moose would actually pay me—or at least intend to pay me—for doing that.

  Moose and I had another arrangement—one that didn’t involve money. I liked to tip him off when one of our pitchers was throwing a changeup to a left-handed hitter, because that was the type of pitch a lefty was most likely to pull in Moose’s direction. My signal was saying something with Moose’s name, such as, “Come on, Moose.” When the batter would hit a ball to Moose that he fielded, after the play he would look at me and say, “Thank you.”

  Keeping Things Light in Spring Training

  I started missing Moose, both on the infield and in the locker room, the very first day of spring training in 1963.

  Spring training was always an interesting time of the year for us. We had to get our work in and make sure we were focused on our purpose for being there—getting ready for the regular season. However, we didn’t want to take things too seriously.

  Baseball’s regular season is accurately described as a long grind. If we treated spring training like the regular season, the grind would probably get to us in the final month of the regular season and negatively affect us during a pennant race and the postseason. So we players tried to keep things a little loose during spring training. Our managers, who were concerned with making sure we were ready to start the season, tended to be more serious during spring training than the players were.

  Ralph Houk usually kept a good balance of loose and serious, but there was one point in 1963 spring training when he thought we weren’t being serious enough. Ralph didn’t put much emphasis on our spring win-loss record, but he was concerned about how we were playing. And we’d hit a stretch of several days when we didn’t play well.

  As a penalty for our lackadaisical performance, Ralph called for a special intrasquad scrimmage on one of our scheduled off-days. He told us the game would last longer than nine innings too. Spring training games against other clubs seemed to drag on long enough, so we weren’t thrilled at the idea of playing an even longer game against each other.

  There were no umpires for the game, so pitcher Steve Hamilton, who was scheduled to rest his arm that day, was appointed as umpire. Steve stood behind the pitcher’s mound and umpired from there.

  As we’d anticipated, it didn’t take long for the scrimmage to begin to drag a little, so Steve and I came up with an idea.

  “Listen,” I told him between innings, “if we have a play at second base that’s obvious, call it the wrong way. I’m gonna come up and get in your face and start yelling at you. Then I’ll turn my back to the dugout, put my hand up near my face, and you slap my hand as though you’re slapping my face.”

  Steve didn’t just like the idea—he loved it. And sure enough, we soon had an obvious play at second. I can’t remember what it was, but I do remember that Steve completely blew that call, as planned. So I sprinted over to him and started screaming in his face about how he’d missed the call and how he was a terrible umpire and whatever else I could think of to scream about.

  Steve was a big guy. At six feet six, he was almost a foot taller than me. Before pitching in the majors, he had actually played basketball for the Minneapolis Lakers. It had to be a comical sight—me looking up almost directly under Steve’s chin and yelling at him.

  While I was right in the middle of my fake tirade, Steve joined in and began yelling back at me. At that point, when we were cap to chin yelling at each other, some members of the ballpark grounds crew apparently thought Steve was going to start beating on me. They headed out onto the field to rescue me. But before they could reach us, we executed the second part of our scheme. I turned to walk away, and Steve stepped around as we had planned and delivered a loud, cheek-high slap to my bare hand.

  Thwap!

  I had positioned myself so that only the center fielder could tell that he had hit my palm instead of my face. I fell to the grass, grabbing my face on the way down. Things got quiet in a hurry when I hit the ground. But only for a second or two, because Steve and I could not keep straight faces. We burst out laughing. When we did that, everyone else on the field and in the dugout did too—even Ralph Houk.

  “That’s it!” Ralph yelled. “Practice is over!”

  For Dad

  My dad’s health had been deteriorating, and he suffered a stroke in May of ’63. I flew home after a Sunday game to visit with Dad and flew back before our next game on Tuesday. My sister Ann was an excellent nurse and had moved into my parents’ home to help take care of him.

  The stroke left Dad paralyzed on his left side, and he was no longer able to speak. Although I couldn’t talk with him, I stayed in constant contact with my mom and sisters over the next few weeks. From those phone calls, I knew that Dad was close to going on to be with th
e Lord. After a call when I was clearly discouraged, Betsy would want to talk to me about it, but I wasn’t up for much talking. “I’m just concerned about my dad right now,” was all I’d say.

  And that was true. He was always on my mind, at home and on the field. I hit safely in twelve of the first thirteen games after I’d flown home to see Dad. I really wanted to play well for him.

  Dad died on June 17 at the age of sixty-seven. I flew home for the funeral, but the next day I rejoined the team to continue playing. There still was a lot for the family to take care of, especially his business, but I thought I could handle the business affairs just as well by telephone as I could in person. My sister Ann and close friends were there to help comfort Mom, and she knew that Dad would have wanted me to get right back to baseball. Mom also was in good health—and would remain that way and stay actively involved in her church XYZ Club for years. So I thought the best way I could honor my dad was to get back on the field with my teammates.

  In my first game back, I had three singles and scored a run as we beat the Washington Senators 3–2. I know Dad would have been pleased with how I played that day, but I don’t think he would have been any prouder of my baseball career than he already was. His support for me went all the way back to the first game I’d played in my Knee Pants League uniform. And Dad was especially thrilled that I was able to play baseball professionally, as he had wanted to do—and for the Yankees.

  “We Want Mickey!”

  To me, 1963 was one of our more impressive seasons. We finished 104–57 and won the pennant by ten and a half games over the White Sox. More impressive than what we accomplished is what we had to overcome to accomplish it.

  Our lineup was hit hard by injuries that season. Mantle played in only 65 of the 162 games. Maris played in 90. Tom Tresh, our left fielder, played in 145 games, but he missed a stretch of games in September. Because of their injuries, we did not start a game with Tresh in left, Mantle in center, and Maris in right from June 6 until September 24, when there were only four games left in the regular season. Injuries also affected Tony Kubek, who missed 27 games.

  Even before the injuries began piling up, we spent all of May out of first place. A key stretch during that month came from May 11 to May 26, when we won eleven of thirteen games. But during that same time, the Baltimore Orioles won fourteen of fifteen games to move from fourth place to first.

  Despite the Orioles’ torrid streak, we were able to hang with them and were only a game back heading into June. We took over first place late in the month and stayed there for the final ten weeks of the regular season. Even with the M&M boys missing for long stretches, our lead never dropped below seven games.

  Mickey missed two months, and even when he returned he was able to do so only as a pinch hitter. But just the news that Mantle was nearing a return created an exciting sense of anticipation among Yankees fans. In situations that might call for a pinch hitter, they would chant, “We want Mickey! We want Mickey!”

  Mickey made his return on August 4 at Yankee Stadium. It was the bottom of the seventh, and we trailed Baltimore 10–9 when Mickey stepped out of the dugout to a thunderous ovation. Mickey homered to tie the score, 10–10. As he rounded the bases, his chin down as always during his modest home run trot, our fans somehow found a way to cheer even louder than when he’d first stepped out of the dugout. Tears came to my eyes as I sat on the dugout bench that day, and I looked down to see goose pimples on my arms.

  Midsummer Nightmare

  I was selected to seven All-Star teams in my career, but I started only once, largely because Nellie Fox played second base for the Chicago White Sox, and he was the American League starter year in and year out.

  I always appreciated the recognition that went along with the All-Star selections. However, while I enjoyed being around the other All-Stars and taking part in the games, I have few outstanding memories from them. If you asked me to compile a list of my five best All-Star moments, I doubt I could do it. I could probably list my five worst All-Star moments, though—and all five would come from the 1963 All-Star Game in Cleveland.

  To begin with, I was late getting to the game. I had taken Betsy and Robby with me on that trip, and we’d stayed in Toledo with a friend, Sam Bender. But I got mixed up on the time somehow and arrived at the ballpark later than I intended. That meant I was rushed before the game, and I never liked being rushed before a game.

  Nellie started as usual, and I went in for him in the top of the fifth inning with the score 3–3. Then I made an error that inning that led to an unearned run for the National League. In my first at bat, in the sixth, two men were on base with one out, and I grounded into an inning-ending double play. When I came up in the ninth, we were trailing 5–3. We had a man on first with one out, and I could have been the tying run. But I grounded into another double play to end the game.

  I was frustrated after that game because I was sure I had been a big reason the American League lost. My frustration grew when I couldn’t find my wife and child and we missed our plane.

  I had booked a flight for us after the game so we could get back to New York, and I hurried to shower and dress because we had a tight schedule for catching our plane. I had told Betsy to meet me outside the clubhouse with Robby so we could rush to the airport. But when I came out of the American League clubhouse, Betsy and Robby weren’t there. I looked all around for them and finally located them outside the National League clubhouse.

  Betsy was used to meeting me outside the visiting team’s locker room when she accompanied me on road trips. Because the game was in an American League city, we were the home team and used the home clubhouse, but she didn’t know that.

  We missed our flight and had to catch a different one that had a layover on the way to New York City. That significantly pushed back our arrival time. Then, when we finally made it back to New York, I discovered my car’s battery was dead. That was just one of those days I’d like to forget.

  Koufax Begins with K

  Late in the ’62 season, we had thought we would be matched up against the Los Angeles Dodgers in the World Series. Then the Dodgers had begun to fade, and the Giants had rallied to win the National League pennant.

  In ’63 the Dodgers again led their league late. But this time they finished strong to expand their lead down the stretch, win the pennant, and compete against us in the World Series. And unlike the rain-delayed Series of ’62, the 1963 World Series ended about as quickly as one could end.

  The Dodgers started ace Sandy Koufax in Game 1 against Whitey Ford. Sandy won both the Cy Young Award and Most Valuable Player in the National League that season, with a record of 25–5. Because our teams were in different leagues, I had never faced Koufax in a game that mattered—only spring training games and an exhibition game at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum.

  Meeting him in Game 1 would be a humbling experience.

  The game drew a crowd of 69,000 to Yankee Stadium. With that many tickets sold, the Yankees opened up the “batter’s eye” portion of the center field seats. Normally, tickets weren’t sold in that area, and the dark-painted seats served as a background behind the pitcher to help batters see the ball better. Having fans in those seats—all those light-colored shirts behind the pitcher in the batter’s line of vision—made hitting more difficult. Koufax certainly didn’t need any help baffling hitters, so the bad background was just one more problem to deal with.

  Sandy struck out the first five batters he faced: Kubek, me, Tresh, Mantle, and Maris. He almost struck out the same five in a row our second time through the order. He got Kubek, me, and Tresh in the fourth inning and struck out Mantle to start the fifth. Maris made contact and fouled out on a pop-up to the catcher. I managed to walk in the sixth, and just reaching base that day against Koufax felt like a major accomplishment.

  In the eighth inning, having struck out twice, I really wanted to make contact, but Sandy struck me out again. That hurt because I had always prided myself on having a low n
umber of strikeouts during my career. I’d had eighty-nine career World Series plate appearances heading into the ’63 postseason and had struck out only twice. In his autobiography, Koufax wrote that when he struck me out for the second time, he knew he had good stuff. I knew he had good stuff the first time he struck me out.

  On my way back to the dugout after my third strikeout, I passed Tom Tresh, the next batter, and met Mickey as he was walking from the dugout to the on-deck circle. Mickey shook his head and said, “There’s no reason for me to go up there.”

  Tresh actually went on to hit a two-run homer off Koufax. But that was all we got off Sandy that day, and the Dodgers beat us 5–2. Koufax had struck us out fifteen times to set a World Series single-game record.

  Unfortunately, there wasn’t much drop-off from Koufax to the rest of the Dodgers’ staff. Johnny Podres pitched Game 2 and beat us 4–1, with our only run coming in the bottom of the ninth. Then for Game 3 in Dodger Stadium, Los Angeles gave the ball to future Hall of Famer Don Drysdale, and he held us to three hits and shut us out for a 1–0 victory. The Dodgers’ only run scored in the first, when a wild pitch by Jim Bouton moved Jim Gilliam from first base to second and put him in position to score on Tommy Davis’s two-out single.

  Facing elimination, we drew Koufax again for Game 4. He recorded “only” eight strikeouts that day and beat us 2–1 to finish off the sweep. I didn’t strike out that game and went 2 for 4 off Koufax, including a double. But that individual feat was not worth bringing up until many years later. For the first time in Yankees history, we had lost four consecutive World Series games.

  We scored only four runs for the entire Series, and because we didn’t score a run before the seventh inning in any of the games, we never held a lead against the Dodgers. A team that pitched like the Dodgers did in that Series will win every time, and probably in a sweep.