Willie & Me

by Dan Gutman

  There was a huge sign over the scoreboard—an ad for Chesterfield with a giant cigarette on it. REGULAR & KING-SIZE, it said. A HIT!

  So much history had taken place on this field. And I’m not just talking about all the famous baseball and football games that were played here. I had read somewhere on the internet that the hot dog was invented in the Polo Grounds in 1900. That’s right. Some sausage salesman ran out of plates during a game, so he started wrapping his sausages in rolls. For all I know, that could be one of those urban legends. You never know how much truth there is to these stories.

  I do know this: In 1908, a guy named Jack Norworth was riding the New York subway when he saw an ad for a Giants game at the Polo Grounds. Norworth had never been to a baseball game in his life. But the ad inspired him to write a little song you may have heard of—“Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”

  That’s a true story. You can look it up if you don’t believe me.

  I jogged over to the batter’s box and took a couple of pretend swings. This was the exact spot, I remembered, where Ray Chapman of the Cleveland Indians was standing when a fastball from Carl Mays shattered his skull. Chapman died a few hours later. It was the only time in baseball history when a batter was killed by a pitched ball. Of course, that was in 1920, before they had batting helmets.

  I looked toward the outfield. Everything was green—the grass, the wall, even the seats were painted green. A green background, I knew, makes it easier for batters to see the ball.

  The upper deck stuck out about ten feet over the lower deck. On the wall out in left field was the number 315. That’s where Thomson is going to hit the Shot Heard Round the World, I remembered from my research.

  The left and right field lines were really short. I could probably hit a ball that far. But on the wall out in center field was the number 483. Four hundred and eighty-three feet. That’s a long way to hit a baseball. It looked like center field went on forever.

  I remembered a photo of Willie Mays making a spectacular on-the-run, over-the-shoulder catch out there during the 1954 World Series. It was so famous that it came to be called “the Catch.”

  I can’t imagine how Willie ever caught up with that ball.

  I jogged out to center field to re-create Willie’s famous play. A few feet to the left of where he caught the ball, above the center field wall, were two bronze plaques. I went over to see what they said. One was in honor of a guy named Eddie Grant. I had never heard of him, but the plaque said he played for the Giants, and he was the first major league player to be killed fighting in World War I. The other plaque was a monument to the Hall of Fame Giant pitcher Christy Mathewson. I had met him when I went to visit Jim Thorpe in 1913. It read . . .

  THE GREATEST PITCHER OF HIS ERA AND ONE OF THE FINEST SPORTSMEN OF ALL TIME. FOR HIS MODE OF LIFE AND CONDUCT AT ALL TIMES, HE STOOD FORTH AS AN EXAMPLE TO HIS FELLOW PLAYERS.

  Directly above the plaque was a row of seven windows. There were wire screens covering them, I suppose to prevent a home-run shot from shattering the glass. I couldn’t imagine anyone hitting a ball that far, but you never know.

  I had to go to the bathroom, and I figured there must be one behind those windows. There was a staircase near the big scoreboard. It looked like the stairs led up behind the windows, so I climbed up two flights of steps.

  I was right. There were no fancy hand dryers or automatic paper towel dispensers in the bathroom, but at least it was clean. I did my business and as I left, I noticed that there was a whole complex of offices up there, three stories above center field. There was a trainer’s room, with whirlpool tubs and massage tables. The door was wide open. There was also a supply room filled with bats and balls and other equipment. There was a laundry room. That must be where they clean the uniforms after every game.

  Next to the laundry room was the Giants’ locker room. For a moment, it crossed my mind that I shouldn’t be in here snooping around, but my curiosity got the better of me. How often does a kid get an opportunity to peek in a major league locker room? Not often. And how often does a kid get an opportunity to peek in a major league locker room that was torn down over sixty years ago? Never.

  I looked at the names written on tape over the lockers—Mays, Maglie, Irvin, Thomson. I was kicking myself for not remembering to bring my new video camera with me.

  There was a sign on the wall of the locker room. . . .

  WHAT YOU HEAR HERE,

  WHAT YOU SEE HERE,

  AND WHAT YOU SAY HERE

  MUST STAY HERE.

  Next to the locker room was a green door that said MANAGER’S OFFICE. I couldn’t resist. I had to peek inside. Leo Durocher was one of the most famous managers in baseball history. I flipped on the light.

  It was a surprisingly small room, with a wooden coat tree and a bunch of clipboards hanging from hooks on one wall. There was a leather swivel chair in front of a wooden desk with glass top. There were some framed photos on the desk—Durocher and his wife, a team photo, a picture of Franklin Roosevelt smoking a cigarette. The desk faced a big window that looked out on the field. I realized that I was a few feet above that Christy Mathewson plaque I had seen in straightaway center field.

  Then I noticed something odd. Right next to the desk was a telescope.

  I went over to have a look. It was a nice one, maybe two feet long, extended. It had four collapsing sections, one of them black grain leather. Another section had the word WOLLENSAK engraved in it.

  It was right next to the desk, on a tripod.

  The telescope was on a tripod, and pointing out the window. There was a small cutaway in the wire mesh that covered the window, obviously so the person looking through the telescope could see better.

  I leaned over and looked through the eyepiece. Wow, the thing was powerful. The telescope was pointed at home plate, which just about filled the lens. You could get a really good view from this spot. I felt like I was right on top of the action.

  At this point, I probably should have put two and two together. But I didn’t. Not yet. I figured Durocher just used the telescope to get a better view of the game. But managers don’t watch the game from center field. They sit in the dugout.

  Then I noticed something else. On the desk, right next to the telescope, was a button. It looked sort of like a doorbell.

  Huh! Why would somebody have a doorbell mounted on their desk? That didn’t make any sense.

  I pushed the button. Off in the distance, there was a faint buzz. I pushed the button again. Bzzzz. Every time I pushed the button, the buzzer sounded. I could hear it because the ballpark was deserted. If it was filled up with fans, I never would have been able to hear the buzzer.

  I sat back in Durocher’s chair and slapped my forehead. It didn’t take any genius to figure out what was going on. Leo Durocher had somebody hiding in his office during games, peering through the telescope. They could spy on the opposing catcher’s signs to the pitcher.

  The wires to the buzzer system probably led to the Giants’ bullpen, which I could see was halfway down the foul line. The guy looking through the telescope could use the buzzer to indicate whether the next pitch was going to be a fastball, a curveball, or whatever. Then, somebody in the bullpen could signal the batter to let him know what pitch was coming next.

  Wow! That guy at the baseball card show who sold us the plaque was right.

  The Giants were cheating.

  THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH STEALING SIGNS. IT’S PERFECTLY legal in baseball. Even in my league in Louisville, we steal signs all the time. Flip always tells us that if we reach second base, we should watch the catcher carefully. If we see how many fingers he’s putting down, and it’s just one for a fastball and two for a curve, we can let our hitter know which pitch is coming next.

  Knowing what the pitcher’s going to throw is a big advantage. I know that I would hit a lot better if I knew in advance whether the pitcher was going to throw me a fastball or a curve.

  Stealing signs is not only legal, it
’s a badge of honor if you can pull it off. It’s also one of those things that makes the game so fascinating. The average fan doesn’t even know it’s going on, but the people who understand the game well really get into the science of sign stealing. It’s like espionage.

  But it’s one thing to steal signs with your naked eye. It’s another to hide a telescope in the outfield and relay the stolen signs using an electric buzzer system. I’m pretty sure that’s against the rules. It’s also just not fair, because only the home team is able to take advantage of it.

  My mind was racing. As I sat there in Leo Durocher’s leather chair, I realized that this changed everything.

  Poor Ralph Branca had to live his whole life as baseball’s biggest goat because he threw the pitch that Thomson hit for the Shot Heard Round the World. But now I knew the truth. Bobby Thomson probably knew in advance which pitch was coming. If the Giants hadn’t been stealing signs illegally, he never would have hit that home run.

  Heck, if the Giants hadn’t been stealing signs illegally, there might never have been a playoff in the first place. They never would have come from behind and caught up with the Dodgers during the last weeks of the season. Most likely, they won at least some of those games in the final days of the pennant race because they cheated.

  My plan had been just to watch the game as a spectator, but not anymore.

  I felt like I had to do something to make things right. I had to help Branca and the Dodgers. I could right a wrong. I was the only person who could do it, and I was in the perfect position.

  But what could I do? What could I do to prevent Thomson from hitting that home run? I thought about my options.

  Maybe I could tamper with Thomson’s bat, I thought. But that would be hard to do, and who knows what might happen if I got caught. It might not matter, either. Bobby could just as easily hit the home run with a different bat if he knew what pitch was coming.

  What if I busted the telescope so the Giants couldn’t use it? No, destroying property is wrong. Two wrongs don’t make a right.

  I looked at the clock on Leo Durocher’s wall. It was ten o’clock now. Time was getting short. Soon the players would start to arrive at the ballpark. I was going to have to get out of Durocher’s office.

  I tried to think of another plan. Maybe I could go buy a ticket, sit in the stands, and wait until the moment Branca was about to throw the pitch. Then I could cause a disturbance of some sort to throw off Thomson’s timing. No, with thousands of people in the stands, I might not even be heard.

  I looked at the telescope again. The eyepiece was a separate section from the rest of it. I turned it, and saw that it was loose enough to unscrew. It was simple. A telescope can’t work without an eyepiece. I could just take it off. Then the game would be played fair and square. Sports should be played on an “even playing field,” as they say. Let the better team win, not the team that cheats.

  Unscrewing the eyepiece wasn’t as bad as busting the telescope. It still might be the wrong thing to do, but it wasn’t quite as wrong. And because I was righting a wrong, it actually could be the right thing to do. It was a good solution. And it was an easy solution. At least that’s what I convinced myself. I took off the eyepiece and slipped it into my pocket. Then I got up to leave.

  That’s when the door opened.

  “Not so fast!” somebody shouted.

  I wheeled around. There were three guys standing in front of me. Two of them were wearing Giants uniforms, with the words NEW YORK stitched across their chests in black with orange trim. The guy in the middle was wearing a fancy suit with wide lapels and the kind of hat guys used to wear in the old days. None of them was smiling. The player on the left was holding a bat.

  “Who are you?” the guy in the suit asked menacingly.

  “I . . . I . . . I . . .”

  I backed against the desk, hard. One of the framed photos toppled over. I could tell right away that the guy in the suit was Leo Durocher, the manager of the Giants. He looked older than the two players. I had seen lots of pictures of him. I knew that under that hat he was balding, and he slicked back what hair he had left. It had to be him. I was in his office.

  Leo Durocher

  “What are you doing here, kid?” Durocher snarled.

  He was the kind of guy who could barely say a sentence without cursing. He looked like a gangster. His blue eyes were fiery. Veins were sticking out on his neck. I felt my heart beating in my chest. I had messed up, again. Why did I always mess up?

  “The d-door wasn’t locked,” I stammered, trying desperately to think of something to say that would get me out of there. “I just opened it. . . .”

  “Want me to bust his face, Leo?” asked the guy with the bat.

  “I’ll take care of this, Brat,” said Durocher.

  Brat. The guy with the bat had to be Eddie Stanky. The second baseman. His nickname was “the Brat.” I had read about him in a little paperback book I found at Flip’s store one day. Stanky wasn’t a great player, but he was known for doing anything to get on base, including getting hit by the ball. In the field, Stanky would jump around and wave his arms to distract opposing hitters.

  I had seen a book about Stanky in Flip’s store.

  He was a little guy, not much taller than me. But a baseball bat tends to make you look a lot tougher. Stanky pounded the barrel against the palm of his hand. He looked like he really wanted to bust my face.

  The third guy hadn’t said a word. I didn’t know who he was. I looked around for an escape route.

  “Who sent you here?” Durocher snapped, stepping forward to stick his face close to mine. I could smell his breath. “Dressen?”

  “I’m not dressing,” I said. “I was just—”

  “No, you dope!” Durocher interrupted me. “Charlie Dressen, the manager of the Dodgers. Did he send you here to spy on us?”

  I thought about saying yes. Maybe it would get me off the hook if I could blame it on somebody else. But I couldn’t bring myself to do that.

  “No!” I replied. “Nobody sent me. I sent myself.”

  The third guy, the quiet one, finally opened up his mouth.

  “Maybe we’ll send you someplace, kid. Someplace where nobody will find you for a long time.”

  “Shut up, Sal,” said Durocher. “Don’t be stupid.”

  Sal “the Barber” Maglie

  Sal. That had to be Sal Maglie, the pitcher. They used to call him “the Barber” because he liked to throw at batters’ chins and knock them down. It also looked like he hadn’t shaved in a few days. He had a five o’clock shadow. All three of them looked like mean guys, like bad guys in cowboy movies. I couldn’t imagine any of them ever smiling.

  This was not good. I had been in a situation like this once before, I remembered. It was the time I went back to 1919 trying to prevent the Black Sox Scandal from happening and save the career of Shoeless Joe Jackson. I got caught by some gamblers who were trying to “fix” the World Series. They tied me to a chair and actually shot me. It was a miracle that I got out of that one alive.

  I didn’t think these guys were going to shoot me. They weren’t criminals. In a worst-case scenario, I figured, they might beat me up pretty bad. Or they could just call the police and have me arrested for trespassing. That wouldn’t be good. But they had caught me red-handed in Leo Durocher’s office.

  Of course, I had caught them red-handed, too. That was my only advantage. I touched my pocket to make sure I still had the eyepiece.

  “What are you doing with that telescope?” I asked Durocher.

  In retrospect, it was a dumb thing to say. But when you get caught by three guys in a place you shouldn’t be, and one of them is menacing you with a bat, you tend to say dumb things. Whatever they were going to do to me, they were going to do to me no matter what. I had nothing to lose.

  I shot a glance around the office. The window had that wire mesh over it. I wasn’t going to be escaping that way. The door was still open.

  “
I’ll ask the questions around here, kid,” Durocher barked, his hot breath in my face. “This is my office. You got no business being in here. This place is private. I could call the cops on you.”

  “You’re cheating,” I said, pointing my finger at him. “You’re not playing by the rules.”

  At that point, Durocher took a step back away from me. A little smile crept across his face. But it wasn’t a happy smile. It was sort of a sneering smile that you have when you just beat your worst enemy.

  “I’ll tell you what I’m doing with the telescope,” Durocher said. “I like lookin’ at the stars. It relaxes me before a big game.”

  Maglie and Stanky laughed. Durocher told them to knock it off.

  “If you’re looking up at the stars, then why is the telescope pointing a few inches above home plate?” I asked. “There are no stars at home plate. You’re stealing signs and using a buzzer system to tip off your batters which pitch is coming next.”

  “That’s a load of crap!” Stanky shouted.

  “Calm down, Eddie,” Durocher said, turning to face Stanky. “He’s a smart kid. I’m sure he’ll listen to reason.”

  Maybe he was going to offer me money or an autographed baseball to keep quiet, I thought for a moment. That would be nice.

  Nah, if he wanted to keep me quiet, it would be easier for him to beat me up and threaten me with something worse.

  In the moment Durocher was facing away from me, I thought I saw an opening. Maglie was looking at Durocher, and there was about two feet of open space between him and a file cabinet. If I could make it through that opening, I might be able to get out the door before they caught me. If I could find my way through the hallways to the center-field bleachers, I would be in the clear. They wouldn’t want to be seen chasing a kid through the stands. The only thing I had going for me was the element of surprise.