Wait Till Next Year: A Memoir (25 page)

After tributes of mixed eloquence were spoken, birthday gifts were presented, including a new Chevrolet, three thousand dollars in war bonds, a television set, golf clubs, cameras, and fishing equipment. The master of ceremonies was Dodger announcer Vin Scully, who had replaced Red Barber the previous year. Scully guided the emotional Reese to the microphone. “When I came to Brooklyn in 1940, I was a scared kid,” Reese began. “To tell you the truth, I’m twice as scared right now.”

After the fifth inning, an enormous birthday cake was carried onto the field and the lights in the park were turned off. That was our signal to light the candles we’d been given when we arrived, and to join Gladys Gooding on the organ to sing “Happy Birthday.” The thirty-three thousand candles flickered in the night like the Milky Way. Not only did the Man of the Hour double twice and score a run in the Dodgers’ 8-4 victory, but the generous wit of Jackie Robinson had given me an unexpected moment I would treasure for the rest of my life.

That night with my father, Reese, and Robinson remained fixed in my mind as the Dodgers continued their extraordinary season. On September 8, 1955, they clinched the National League pennant earlier than any team since
1904. The game was their eighth straight victory, and they finished seventeen games ahead of the second-place Braves.

In the American League, the Yankees remained in a close struggle with the Indians, the White Sox, and the Red Sox. Throughout August and the early part of September, no team was able to build a lead of more than two games. While the race seesawed, Dodger fans debated which team they would rather play in the World Series. The debate was resolved when the Yankees, sparked by the return of Billy Martin, as Elaine had known they would be, won fifteen of their last nineteen games to clinch the pennant on September 23. So, once again, the two ancient adversaries prepared for the contest I most wanted and most feared.

Below:
Each team with its best pitchers in the first game of the 1955 World Series, Yankee Whitey Ford and our own Don Newcombe.
Following page, top:
Campanella homers during the Series.
Following page, bottom:
The ever-amazing Robinson stole home in the eighth inning of the first game, but the Yanks won 6-5.

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A
LTHOUGH OUR SCHOOL PRINCIPAL
, Dr. Richard Byers, refused our request to pipe the first game over the PA system, we managed to follow the action at Yankee Stadium through portable radios, with notes passed from desk to desk, and by observing the reactions of classmates. When I saw a look of pain cross the face of my friend Moose Fastov, a devoted Yankee fan, I knew that something good must have happened. Paul Greenberg, who was listening via earphones to a radio surreptitiously tucked under his desk, had just signaled him that Jackie Robinson had tripled to left and scored on a single by Don Zimmer. The Dodgers were ahead 2-0. Barely ten minutes later, however, Moose’s fist shot triumphantly into the air when Elston Howard’s home run off Newcombe tied the score, 2-2. During the break between classes, Duke Snider homered off Whitey Ford to put the Dodgers up 3-2, but by the time French class had begun, the Yankees had tied it again. When the bell signaled the end of school, it was already the seventh inning and the Yankees led 6-3. Afraid of missing the decisive action if we dashed for home, we gathered on the outside steps of the school building to listen to the final innings. Liberated from the constraints of the classroom, I screamed when the ever-amazing Robinson stole home in the eighth. But in the end, the Yanks held on to win the game, 6-5.

Even though the Series had just begun, the voice of doubt now entered into confrontation with the voice of hope. “They’ve lost the first game.” said doubt. “It looks bad. They’re going to lose the Series again, just as they always have.”

“It’s only one game,” countered hope, “and it was in
Yankee Stadium. It was a close game, they played well. Tomorrow is another day.”

But by the end of the following day, doubt, swollen by fear, was in the ascendancy. The Dodgers had lost again, by a score of 4-2, on a five-hitter by Tommy Byrne. Was the Series already gone? For the past thirty-four years, no team had ever come back to win a Series after being down two games to none. And Dodger history did not encourage dreams of a historic comeback. There’s more to life than baseball, I told myself, with the wisdom my twelve years had given me. There was the Sadie Hawkins dance, for instance, and my choice of a date. And there was my paper on Reconstruction.

“Don’t give up now,” my father admonished me. “They’ll be coming back to Brooklyn. Home-field advantage is a big thing, and nowhere is it bigger than at Ebbets Field.” And he was right. The Dodgers roared to life in the third game, banging out eight runs and fourteen hits. Surprise starter Johnny Podres pitched a complete game to celebrate his twenty-third birthday; Campanella hit a home run, double, and single; and Jackie Robinson ignited the crowd and his teammates when he unnerved Yankee pitcher Bob Turley with his daring on the bases.

My pleasure over Robinson’s virtuoso performance and the Dodgers’ victory was cut short that night when Elaine called to me from her window. She was so overwrought I could barely understand her and feared that something catastrophic had happened in her house. “Just meet me outside,” she said tearfully. I ran down the stairs and met her under the maple tree. She threw her arms around me and told me she had just heard on the radio that James Dean had been killed. His Porsche Spyder had careened off the road between Los Angeles and Salinas. His neck had been broken and he had died instantly.

For a long while we barely talked at all. Then we talked half the night. No one was awake in either of our houses, and soon all the lights on our block were out. There was no banter about that afternoon’s game. We were two twelve-year-olds lying on our backs, surrounded by darkness, looking up at the autumn sky and talking fiercely about death and James Dean, who was not so much older than we were, grieving as perhaps only two teenage girls can grieve. Above us, the leaves of the maple tree rustled, and as we looked up at the night stars, the spirit of James Dean seemed very close.

I was exhausted the following day and watched drowsily as the Yankees jumped ahead with two quick runs off Carl Erskine. But when home runs by Campanella, Hodges, and Snider put the Dodgers ahead 7-3 in the fifth, my suddenly revived spirits dissolved all fatigue. In the next inning, the Yankees reduced the Dodger lead to 7-5, scoring two runs on a double by Billy Martin. But in the eighth, Campanella scored an insurance run and the Dodgers held on to win 8-5. The Series was now tied at two games apiece.

Overcoming the disaster of the first two games, the Dodgers had captured the momentum. They won the fifth game on Sunday afternoon as rookie Roger Craig and reliever Clem Labine held the Yankees to three runs while Brooklyn scored five times. “This could be both the day and the year,” the
New York Post
predicted in a front-page story Monday morning. “This better be ‘next year,’” one fan was quoted as saying. “If the Bums blow this one, the cops better close the Brooklyn Bridge. There’ll be more people taking long dives than in 1929.”

The sixth game began on Monday, while we sat in Mrs. Brown’s geography class. The boys who had the portable radios with earphones sat against the back wall and
sent messages forward as each inning progressed. We were studying Mongolia that day, and Mrs. Brown asked us to name Mongolia’s three main products. “Yaks, yurts, and yogurt,” my friend Marjorie answered. Suddenly there was a muffled roar from the back of the room. Bill Skowron had just hit a three-run homer, putting the Yankees ahead of the Dodgers 5-0. “Well, class,” Mrs. Brown said, with a knowing smile, “I’m glad you find the three products of Mongolia as thrilling as I do.” Then, to our amazement, she put a radio on the front desk and let us listen to the game. Unfortunately, the Dodgers never got started, and the Yankees won easily by a score of 5-1, tying the Series at three games apiece.

Before my father left for the Williamsburg Savings Bank the Tuesday morning of Game Seven, he promised to call as soon as the game was over. “I feel good about our chances today,” he said, as he kissed me goodbye. “I’ve been waiting for a championship since I was a lot younger than you, and today it’s going to happen at last.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I really feel it.” He winked at me and was off to work.

My morning classes stretched out endlessly before game time finally arrived. At noon, we were astonished to hear Principal Byers’ voice telling us to report at one o’clock to our homerooms. We would be allowed to listen to the deciding game over the PA system.

When the lineups were announced, I was dismayed to learn that Jackie Robinson was not starting. Hobbled by a strained Achilles tendon, he was replaced by rookie Don Hoak. My only compensation was the not unwelcome news that an injury to Mickey Mantle would keep him from the Yankee lineup. Young Johnny Podres was on the mound, trying to post his second victory of the Series and win it all for the Dodgers; Tommy Byrne was pitching for
the Yankees. In the early innings the classroom was tense, as neither team was able to score. Then, in the fourth, Campanella doubled, moved to third on a groundout, and reached home on a single by Hodges. The Dodgers were ahead, 1-0. In the sixth, they scored again on a sacrifice fly by Hodges.

Even though the Dodgers held a 2-0 lead, there were no sounds of celebration, no blustering talk from the Dodger fans in our class. We were a generation that had been nurtured on tales of tragedy, and memories of defeat: 1941, 1949, 1950, 1951, 1952, 1953. The prideful Yankee fans among us were composed, waiting for Berra or Martin or some other hero to overcome the Brooklyn chokers and transform looming defeat into victory. In the bottom of the sixth, it seemed that their time had come. Billy Martin walked on four straight pitches. Gil McDougald followed with a perfect bunt single. With two on and no outs, Berra came to the plate. Had I been home, this was the moment I would have fled the room, hopeful that when I returned Berra would be out. As it was, I had no choice but to remain at my desk, sandwiched between Michael Karp and Kenny Kemper, certain that trouble was brewing.

It was a little after three in the afternoon when Berra came to bat. The bell ending the school day had just rung, but we sat immobile in our seats, heard the portentous crack of the bat, and listened as the ball sailed toward the distant corner of left field. Some 150 feet away, left fielder Sandy Amoros, having shifted toward center anticipating that Yogi would pull the ball, turned and began his long chase. The Yankee runners, Martin and McDougald, rounded the bases, their faces turned toward the outfield, watching for the ball to drop for a certain double. But Sandy Amoros, fleet of foot, gallant of will, raced to within inches of the concrete left-field wall, stretched out his
gloved hand, and snatched the ball from the air. For a moment he held his glove aloft, then, steadying himself with one hand against the wall, wheeled and rocketed the ball to Reese, the cutoff man, who, in turn, threw to first to double up McDougald.

We were going to win. At that moment, I knew we were going to win. Amoros’ spectacular catch augured victory just as surely as Mickey Owen’s dropped third strike in ’41 had foretold defeat. The gods of baseball had spoken. I ran the mile to my home, anxious to see the end of the game with my mother in familiar surroundings. When I reached home, the score was still 2-0, and it was the bottom of the ninth. Give us three more outs, I prayed. Please, God, only three more outs. I sat cross-legged on the floor, my back leaning against my mother’s knees as she sat on the edge of her chair. She edged forward as the first batter, Bill Skowron, hit a one-hopper to the mound. Two more outs. Bob Cerv followed with an easy fly to left. One more out. Elston Howard stepped to the plate. After the count reached two and two, Howard fouled off one fast ball after another, then sent a routine ground ball to Reese at shortstop, who threw to Hodges at first for the third and final out.