The Catcher In My Eyes

The Catcher In My Eyes

I hadn’t done much newspaper reading since the end of the Korean War. They never called it a conflict in the years when, as a teen-ager, I would hurry to the newsstand to update myself on the latest happenings in places named Seoul, Pyongyang and Inchon. My enthusiasm for the news had waned following the truce a year or so earlier and, as a result, I had no idea on that cool Spring morning in 1955 that something exciting was going on in my hometown, Wilmington, Delaware, that weekend.

My friend Ritchie and I ran into each other around 9 A.M.. He was sitting on the stoop of a vacant house just a few doors up from mine, a favorite local hangout. I was on my way to the grocery, Norton’s, to pick up a quart of milk for breakfast. Ritchie and I quickly decided that after my milk delivery, we would take a long walk. April’s early morning sun hastened our resolve as the red brick pavement began warming under newly blossoming, curbside oaks. It was to be quite a hike; all the way to Market Street, about twelve blocks, but that’s where the action would be, the movie theatres and clothing stores. I knew that the quarter in my jeans watch pocket would be enough money for a movie, a soda and maybe even a pretzel to munch in the balcony. We always watched from the balcony. So off we marched together, the little remaining haze burning off in our hasty advance downtown. Two teenagers with time on their hands. Could there be a more dangerous combination?

About two hours later, we had become somewhat bored with pricing saddle-stitched trousers, pink “Mr. B” shirts and black and white saddle shoes. And none of the movies seemed particularly appealing either. No Cisco Kid, no Pancho; not even a Lash Larue on any of the four marquees. Our adventure had taken us all the way up Market Street and we were passing the venerable Hotel DuPont. Even we two fourteen year olds knew the fading building was still the most fashionable hotel address in town. As we ambled by, I decided to sneak around a busy bellboy and check on what was happening in the polished lobby.

A rather baggy looking, ruddy complected guy needing a shave was backed up against one of the ornate marble columns close to the entrance. Wearing a baseball cap and eating out of a small pack of potato chips, he seemed as out of place there as Ritchie and I. Rumpled canvas bags surrounded his cleated shoes and a few baseball bats were haphazardly covering the bags. My young blue eyes bugged as I quickly turned and excitedly murmured, “Do you know who that guy is, Ritch!?”. Peering over my right shoulder and with no hesitation at all, he spat out, “Yep, that’s Yogi Berra, Jim.” In a flash, not requiring any discussion , we were at the famous Yankee catcher’s side, demanding, “Yog, Yog, what are you doing here?” The future baseball Hall of Fame catcher flashed us an immediate and welcoming smile, ear to ear, and answered, “Well, we’re here to play some exhibition ball, guys, wit da Phillies. Youse wanna help us out?”

“Yeah, Yog, Yeah. Anything you want; just tell us,” we chimed in unison. He laughed out loud and continued, “What we need over the next few days here in town is a couple a bat boys. Think you can do dat for us, guys?”

“Wow!! Yes, yes,” we each replied, the busy lobby echoing our joy. “When do we start?”

“Right now, kids. Youse see dat cab out at da curb? Well, take dese bats and bags out dere and give ‘em to da cabbie. I’ll be right out.”

Marching orders from Yogi Berra! It was like our morning stroll had landed us on another planet. Grinning at each other non-stop, we quickly began dragging the canvas bags and bats out to the bright yellow curb. The cabbie threw it all, except a few bats, into the trunk of our ride, asking Ritchie and me if we wouldn’t just hold onto the others during the ride. For some reason, Yogi never did come out to meet us. Instead, two other pinstriped players approached for the short ride to the old ballpark on 30th street. “Omigod!”, I gasped, recognizing the pair. “We are going to ride in this cab with Mickey Mantle and the Yankee third baseman, Gil McDougal.” Ritchie and I practically leaped in the back with McDougal. Mantle rode up front with the cabbie.

I was more than anxious to hear of Mickey’s exploits on the diamond, thinking that would be what a star talked about on game day. Maybe he would tell us about his best day on the baseball field? Maybe we would find out who he believed was the best pitcher he had ever faced? Surely my buddy, Ritchie, was hoping for the same. But after riding for only a few blocks, we were rudely disabused of our fantasy. Instead of talking about baseball, it became clear that all Mantle and McDougal wanted to discuss was sex! Mantle even went into some detail about late night bathtub adventures with a woman. I grimaced, thinking, “Say it isn’t so, Mick!” Not that a fourteen year old wasn’t interested in sex. It’s just that there was a time and a place for everything and this was surely “baseball time.” But it never ended. The talk of bedtime goodies just went on, with even the cabbie adding spice now, until we finally, mercifully reached the park. Ritchie and I unloaded the cab and brought everything straight to the Yankee dugout. The cab conversation had left us both feeling as run-down as the old ballpark. “That wasn’t big league,” Ritchie groaned to me. “That was bush league b.s., wasn’t it?” I couldn’t have agreed more but we both knew that an exciting weekend was still ahead of us anyway. So we worked on, stacking bats in the rack.

There are still fleeting memories of the games; two between the Yankees and Phillies and one with the newly-organized Kansas Athletics: I recall sitting on the bench next to Phil “Scooter”Rizutto, the former Yankee shortstop who had gone into broadcasting that year, and having him complain to me about the Phillie pitcher, Robin Roberts’ beat up cleats. Rizzuto kiddingly stuck a microphone in my face and asked me to explain why the highest paid player in baseball, at $100,000 per year, couldn’t buy better shoes for himself. It both appalls and amuses me now to think that the highest paid player today makes more than $20,000,000 per year. Has there really been that much inflation since 1955? I don’t think so.

Between apparent fits of tobacco chewing, spitting and crotch grabbing, the other players and coaches treated us like a part of the Yankee team and not kids they had recruited off the street. It was more than thrilling. The entire weekend was any young boy’s dream come true. Batboys for the New York Yankees and autographs to prove it too!! And when it was over and we had unpacked all of the equipment at the hotel, Yogi approached us, thanked us profusely and asked what kind of pay we wanted. But before we had a chance to answer, as if we really cared about money at that point, he gave us a big canvas bag filled with major league baseballs. What more could we have possibly asked for? At the same time, understanding the precious load that we would have to carry, he directed the cabbie to take us home. Is it any wonder that the guy made the Hall of Fame?

Mickey Mantle hit two home runs that weekend; one batting right-handed and one from the other side of the plate. He ended his career with 536 of them. But if you were to ask Ritchie or me following the games who the real slugger was; the real big leaguer, based on his openness, friendliness and good humor, we would both have voted for Yogi. Undoubtedly, he was the best. On the other hand, on many levels and in our humble, joint estimation, Mantle’s two homers had meant little. With us, he had struck out. Yogi would have likely explained, “Our similarities are so different!”

There would be no balled-up newspaper wrapped tightly in wire used as baseballs that summer. No, instead the air at our sandlot field was full of brand new major league balls every hot summer day…. courtesy of our pal, Yogi Berra.

Story ID:	1439
Written by:	jim rambo (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Story
Location:	Wilmington Delaware USA
Year:	1955
Person:	Yogi Berra