A TALE OF THREE CITIES: NEW YORK, L.A. AND SAN FRANCISCO IN OCTOBER OF ‘62 (45 page)

During Spring Training, Durocher held court in the
Dodgertown rec room, where he dominated pool games. Durocher was a
pool hustler from way back. One day he was dominating all comers
with loud quips and wisecracks. His excellent play and domineering
personality filled the room, making Leo look larger than life
amongst the Dodgers. He was already a legendary baseball figure who
had roomed with Babe Ruth, slept with "every actress who counts,"
and knew "anybody whose anybody." Alston was unknown until 1954,
when Leo was at the height of his fame.

Leo's pool exploits created a major commotion,
causing Alston to peek his head in. When he saw it was Leo holding
court, Walt wanted nothing to do with this scene. It was not one he
was designed to thrive in, so he turned to leave. Maury Wills saw
him and urged him to join the game. Reluctantly, Alston entered the
room. A palpable tension suddenly filled the air.

Leo looked up and saw Alston. Silence replaced the
wild boasting and cheering. The two men squared off and "it was
like a scene from
The Hustler
," recalled Wills. "There was a
burning desire by both men to beat one another - a personal
vendetta."

Alston was on top of his game, building a big lead
while Leo stood in a silent corner, seething. "Hey Leo, you're
losing," one of the players said. The silence, in contrast to the
previous boisterousness, was deafening. Durocher fancied himself a
pool expert, seeing the game as an extension of his manhood, but
Alston was a master at it. Then Durocher rallied and took a brief
lead, but Alston sunk two difficult shots and the game was
tied.

"Staff meeting at 8:30," Alston suddenly announced,
looking at his watch.

It was the best move Alston could make. If he beat
Leo in front of the team, his coach would lose face and there would
be hell to pay. If
he
lost then he would lose a notch in the
pole of respect. Alston probably could have won the game, but
sacrificed victory for team unity. Durocher silently realized his
rival had spared him embarrassment and went along without protest.
The fact that Alston had spared him through an act of benevolence,
however, did not lead him into Walt's corner. After all, "nice guys
finish in last place."

Maury Wills's "partner in crime" was Jim "Junior"
Gilliam. He was the ultimate team player, and in the view of many,
the ultimate symbol of the Dodger way. He was adept at bunting, the
hit-and-run, working the count. Gilliam hit second in the order
behind Wills and often protected Maury by swinging at pitches he
might otherwise have taken. On many occasions, he took pitches in
order to let Wills get his steal.

"Sure, I've laid off the ball intentionally," the
switch-hitting Gilliam stated. "Sometimes the ball will be right
down the middle, too. But I'm in no hurry to hit. You hit one pitch
and I'm in no hurry."

"I know Jim sacrificed his own personal gains many
times to help me," said Wills. "When he's batting left-handed, he
obstructs the catcher's view of first base. Jim doesn't pull the
ball, so it's impossible for fielders to play him in any specific
manner. This gives me a great advantage in keeping the shortstop
and second baseman honest. He isn't a first-ball hitter and doesn't
jump around going for bad pitches. Before a pitcher finishes with
him, usually he has to throw five or six pitches, and that's all I
need to pull a steal."

Bavasi felt that Gilliam was responsible for half of
Wills's stolen bases. Gilliam had incredible peripheral vision and
could see out of the corner of his eye whether Wills was stealing.
Gilliam had the ability to foul a ball off intentionally, an old
Negro League trick that is virtually a lost art today.

Gilliam started playing in the Negro Leagues
when he was 16. They called him Junior because he was so young, and
the name stuck. "I'm one of the lucky ones," said Gilliam in 1969.
"I was born at the right time. I'm lucky because I got a chance.
Ever hear of Josh Gibson? If they came to Josh Gibson today and he
were 17 years old, they would have a blank spot on the contract and
they'd say, 'fill in the amount.' That's how good Josh Gibson
was."

He made $275 a month in the Negro Leagues.
At the age of 17 Gilliam played for the Baltimore Elite Giants,
then moved on to the Nashville club before Brooklyn purchased his
contract for $11,500, along with pitcher Joe Black. He toiled for
two years at Montreal.

"I think of the old days often," he told
sportswriter John Wiebusch. "I think of the games we played at
Bugle Field in Baltimore. And how rough it was. I think of the guys
who made it - the Roy Campanella's, the Monte Irvin's, the Larry
Doby's, the Willie Mays's . . . the Junior Gilliam's.

"Then I think of Josh Gibson and the others.
And Satchel Paige and the barnstorming days and the guys who played
for the New York Black Yankees and the Homestead Grays."

The 1953 Rookie of the Year enjoyed the
musical stylings of Ray Charles, time with his wife and four kids,
playing golf, and of course pool. Alston felt he was as valuable a
player as any of his stars, stating "I would rather see Gilliam up
at bat with a man on second base and no one out than anybody I know
. . ." Alston told Vin Scully that Gilliam never missed a sign,
never threw to a wrong base and, incredibly, never made a
mistake.

Gilliam played anywhere he was needed; second base,
third base or the outfield. Year after year, hotshot rookies came
along to take his job, but if one position got taken, Gilliam had
three gloves for three different positions and found himself in the
line-up at one of them . . . every game. Charlie Neal, Randy
Jackson, Dick Gray and Don Zimmer came and went. Junior was a
constant.

"A young fellow taking my place can't be good for two
days or two weeks," he explained. "Baseball is an everyday game."
In 1962 a promising rookie named Larry Burright came along. Instead
of shunning him, Gilliam worked with Burright. "He's a real great
guy," Burright said.

Gilliam's only complaint was flying. He came up when
it was still a parochial game. The subway could get him to 11 road
games a year at the Polo Grounds, and trains could handle the
mostly East Coast schedule. Now he played for a team that had to
travel more miles than any other.

John Roseboro apparently had his problems with
Gilliam. Perhaps this was the result of the "old school" (Gilliam)
running up against the "new breed" (Roseboro). Roseboro was
sensitive about his civil rights, whereby Gilliam was happy for the
opportunity and not about to make waves.

Roseboro's nickname was "Gabby." Roger Craig called
him that because he was so reticent. Ed Roebuck said that Roseboro
was "on the same wavelength" with the pitchers, but did not need to
talk a lot. "You know what sign the guy's gonna put down before he
puts it down," said Roebuck. If Roseboro thought a pitcher was not
bearing down, he would fire a heater right back at his solar
plexus, a practice that Mets catcher Jerry Grote later employed.
Roseboro's hands were so dark-skinned he needed to wear tape during
night games so his pitchers could see the signs.

"He knew every pitcher and what they were capable of
doing," said Ron Perranoski. "He never got mad. He was an
even-tempered individual; a strong, quiet man. He seldom came out
to the mound; I had to call him out if I needed him. And then he'd
crack a little joke to take some of the pressure off. Sometimes I'd
see him smile at me through his mask."

Roseboro "had more courage than any catcher I ever
saw," said Bavasi. "On a close play at home, nobody'd ever score
because he'd block the plate with his entire body. He was the 'Rock
of Gibraltar.' "

Roseboro, like Alston, was from Ohio. He came up with
Brooklyn as Roy Campanella's back-up. "I think I was as close to
Campy as any man I've ever known, except my father," said Roseboro.
When Campanella was paralyzed prior to the first season in Los
Angeles, young Roseboro was the starter. Roseboro immediately
assumed a leadership role.

On a team of speedsters, typically Roseboro was the
fastest-running catcher in baseball at that time. In 1962 he hit 11
triples and stole 12 bases in 15 tries. He beat out infield
hits.

In his autobiography, Roseboro confessed that
the life of a big league ballplayer can be a real eye-opener for a
shy, innocent Ohio lad. He had little experience with women, but
when he got to the Major Leagues a teammate introduced him to
groupies who made themselves available to the team, performing
sexual feats that Roseboro had never known existed, much less
fantasized about. As he matured, Roseboro became "the 'Iviest' guy
in the league," said Vin Scully. "On road trips, if John Roseboro
isn't at a movie, he's at a laundry," wrote Jim Murray. "He has
more wardrobe changes than Loretta Young."

"When the Swift Set sits in a hotel lobby,
everyone marvels at its splendid sweaters," wrote
Sports
Illustrated
in reference to the clothing styles of Wills,
Roseboro and the others.

Roseboro's back-up, Doug Camilli, was the son of
former big leaguer Dolf Camilli, the 1941 National League Most
Valuable Player with the Brooklyn Dodgers. The 25-year old resident
of Santa Rosa, California had played 19 total big league games
prior to the 1962 campaign.

First baseman Ron Fairly was one of those guys who
was born to be a Dodger. A native of Long Beach, he prepped at
Jordan High School, and in 1958 was the best player in college
baseball, hitting .348 with nine homers and 67 runs batted in for
Rod Dedeaux's National Champion Southern California Trojans. He
signed with the brand new Los Angeles Dodgers and made his debut
that season. In 1959 Fairly played 118 games for the World
Champions and was living the dream, but he did not establish
himself as a regular until 1961, when he hit .322. A left-hander
all the way, the 5-10, 180-pound Fairly was a defensive whiz who
could also play left field, but he was s-l-o-w. He was a handsome,
personable collegiate type.

Maury Wills was fast. Willie Davis was faster. A
lot
faster
.
"Going from first to third, there was
never anybody who ran as fast as Willie," recalled Dodgers
broadcaster Jerry Doggett. (Mickey Mantle was the only player
faster.)

"The best play in baseball was to watch Willie Davis
run out a triple," said Bavasi.

When Alston first laid eyes on the wide-open Dodger
Stadium outfield, he knew Davis was his man.

Born in Arkansas, Davis moved with his mother and
brother to east Los Angeles when he was still an infant. He ran a
newspaper stand as a kid and stayed out of trouble. Davis went to
Roosevelt High, the sane school that produced Heisman Trophy winner
Mike Garrett of USC, and lettered in basketball and track. Baseball
was not his best sport, but his speed made him a prospect. Scout
Kenny Meyers signed him to a Dodger contract for $5,000. Vin Scully
said he was "manufactured . . . everything else was taught to
him."

Davis was a product of the refined and processed
Dodgers' farm system, which at that time was the model for success
in player development. Meyers worked endlessly with Davis, making
the most use of his speed. Another scout, Harold "Lefty" Phillips,
was also instrumental in turning Davis from a right-hand-hitting
high school first baseman into a left-handed-hitting big league
center fielder; one of the very best outfielders of the decade.

Davis lit up the minor leagues before arriving in Los
Angeles to stay in 1961. He was cocky and sure of himself. The
press loved the local angle. "He looks like a decade of World
Series checks," the
L.A. Times
raved. Filmmaker David Wolper
did a documentary called
Biography of a Rookie
. Featuring
Davis, it was narrated by Mike Wallace. Pete Reiser glowed over
Davis.

"We had him on the post-game show after his very
first game," Vin Scully recalled. "At the end of the night, there
was a fly ball to center with the bases loaded and two out. He
stood almost at attention and caught the ball with a 'ho-hum' kind
of attitude. So I asked him how he could be so relaxed in his first
game in the big leagues. Well, Willie has a voice that's as low as
the ocean floor. He replies in that rumbling, deep tone of his:
'It's not my life - it's not my wife - so why worry?' "

Willie had come out of the 'hood and now was a
Hollywood star of sorts with "the foxes hanging all over me," he
recalled. The self-described "swinging man" was offered money by
the Dodgers if he would settle down and get married. Davis took
Buzzie Bavasi up on his offer, and "I've been a happier player
since."

Davis's namesake, Tommy Davis, also worked with his
friend to improve him as a hitter.

Maury Wills was high-strung, for sure, but he also
helped alleviate tensions by orchestrating his "Dr. Frankenstein"
act. The team would gather in the clubhouse. Wills and 6-7,
250-pound Frank Howard had a routine. Wills would take an imaginary
phone call from Walter O'Malley, answering that he would handle the
request for more offensive power.

"I'll build you a monster," Wills would say.

He would then summon Howard, barking out batting
orders to the stiff, robotic Howard, who followed each instruction
just like Frankenstein's monster. Swinging the bat, Howard would
suddenly go crazy until his "master" (Wills) ordered him to stop.
Maury would then "call" O'Malley and inform him that his monster
would be playing right field that day, wearing number 25.

"He wasn't born - he was founded," wrote Jim Murray
of Howard. "He answers to the nickname 'Hondo' because he's the
only guy in the world outside of organized baseball who could call
John Wayne 'Shorty.' "

Howard came out of the legendary Ohio State
basketball program, which in the late 1950s and early 1960s was, in
those pre-UCLA dynasty days, the best in the nation with John
Havlicek, Jerry Lucas, Larry Siegfried, and Bobby Knight. An
All-American in basketball and baseball, Howard signed an enormous
$108,000 bonus with the Dodgers in 1958. In 1959 he was voted
The Sporting News
Minor League Player of the Year, and he
followed that up with Rookie of the Year honors in 1960.