 
### A TALE OF THREE CITIES

##### NEW YORK, L.A. AND SAN FRANCISCO IN OCTOBER OF '62

STEVEN TRAVERS

Copyright, 2007

# FRONT AND BACK DUSTCOVERS

1962 was the last year of American innocence; before the assassination of John F. Kennedy, before Vietnam; before the protests, the drugs and the "sexual revolution"; before Watergate and the great division of American culture. But 1962 also represents one of those years that stand out in history, like 1776, 1865, 1927, 1945, 1989 and 2001. It was a year of enormous cultural change, in which the tides of modern politics were formed, thus shaping the world we have lived in ever since.

1962 was also one of the greatest years in the history of sports; a particularly great California sports season in which the Southern California Trojans won the national championship in football, the recently-arrived Los Angeles Lakers started their famed rivalry with the Boston Celtics; and the transplanted New York teams, the San Francisco Giants and Los Angeles Dodgers, intensified their rivalry in ways never even seen back east.

In one of the greatest pennant races of all time, the Giants survived to overtake the favored Dodgers, only to face the winner of New York's war of baseball attrition, the fabled Yankees, in a classic World Series for the ages. While all of this was going on, events were taking place in Washington, Moscow and Cuba that would have profound consequences on the Cold War and beyond.

The easygoing Beach Boys _persona_ of L.A., the last vestiges of San Francisco sophistication, and the final throes of Sinatra swank in the Big Apple, were threatened by the Earth-shaking fact that the Soviets were planting missiles in Fidel Castro's enslaved Communist Cuba. While baseball games were being played, a deadly serious chess match was fought between President Kennedy, Castro and Soviet Premier Nikita Kruschev.

Here are the heroes: Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford; Willie Mays and Willie McCovey; Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale. Here is Hollywood adoration of the Dodgers; San Francisco's psychic battle between inferiority and superiority; and New York: the New Rome, rulers of sport and society. We see the Angels in the "Sunset Strip summer" of '62; across the continent, the comical Mets as a sideshow; and of course, the "missiles of October."

# ABOUT THE AUTHOR

STEVEN TRAVERS

(with photo)

Steven Travers is a USC graduate and ex-professional baseball player. He is the author of the best-selling Barry Bonds: Baseball's Superman, nominated for a Casey Award (best baseball book of 2002). He is also the author of The USC Trojans: College Football's All-Time Greatest Dynasty (a National Book Network "top 100 seller"); One Night, Two Teams: Alabama vs. USC and the Game That Changed a Nation (subject of a documentary and major motion picture, a 2007 PNBA nominee); five books in the Triumph/Random House Essential series (A's, Dodgers, Angels, D'backs, Trojans); The Good, the Bad & the Ugly Los Angeles Lakers; The Good, the Bad & the Ugly Oakland Raiders; The Good, the Bad & the Ugly San Francisco 49ers; The Last Miracle: Tom Seaver and the 1969 Amazin' Mets; College Football's All-Time Top 25 Traditions TITLE WILL CHANGE and A Tale of Three Cities: New York, L.A. and San Francisco in October of '62. Steve was a columnist for StreetZebra magazine in Los Angeles and the San Francisco Examiner. He also penned the screenplay, The Lost Battalion. Travers helped lead Redwood High School of Marin County, California to the baseball national championship his senior year; attended college on an athletic scholarship; was an all-conference pitcher; and coached at USC, Cal-Berkeley and in Europe. He also attended law school, served in the Army, and is a guest lecturer at the University of Southern California. A fifth generation Californian, Steve has a daughter, Elizabeth Travers and still resides in the Golden State.

Books written by Steven Travers

One Night, Two Teams: Alabama vs. USC and the Game That Changed A Nation (also a documentary, Tackling Segregation, and soon to be a major motion picture)

A's Essential: Everything You Need to Know to Be A Real Fan!

Trojans Essential: Everything You Need to Know to Be A Real Fan!

Dodgers Essential: Everything You Need to Know to Be A Real Fan!

Angels Essential: Everything You Need to Know to Be A Real Fan!

_D'Backs Essential:_ Everything You Need to Know to Be A Real

The USC Trojans: College Football's All-Time Greatest Dynasty

The Good, the Bad & the Ugly Los Angeles Lakers

The Good, the Bad & the Ugly Oakland Raiders

The Good, the Bad & the Ugly San Francisco 49ers

Barry Bonds: Baseball's Superman

College Football's Top 25 All-Time Greatest Traditions TITLE WILL CHANGE

The Last Miracle: Tom Seaver and the 1969 Amazin' Mets

A Tale of Three Cities: New York, L.A. and San Francisco in October of '62

God's Country: A Conservative, Christian Worldview of How History Formed the United States Empire and America's Manifest Destiny for the 21st Century

Angry White Male

The Writer's Life

Praise for Steven Travers

Steve Travers is the next great USC historian, in the tradition of Jim Murray, John Hall, and Mal Florence! . . . The Trojan Nation needs your work!

\- USC Head Football Coach Pete Carroll

_I knew you loved USC, but you_ really _love USC! This is a book about American society. It sheds incredible light on little-known events that every American must know to understand this country . . . In 20 years, people will say of this book what they said about Roger Kahn's_ The Boys of Summer _._

\- Fred Wallin, CRN national sportstalk host

Steve Travers combines wit, humor, social pathos and historical knowledge with the kind of sports expertise that only an ex-jock is privy to; it is reminiscent of the work of Jim Bouton, Pat Jordan and Dan Jenkins, combined with Jim Murray's turn of phrase, Hunter Thompson's hard-scrabble Truths, and David Halberstam's unique take on our nation's place in history. His writing is great storytelling, and the result is pure genius every time.

\- Westwood One sports media personality Mike McDowd

Steve Travers is a great writer, an educated athlete who knows how to get inside the player's heads, and when that happens, greatness occurs. He's gonna be a superstar.

\- Dave Burgin/Editor, San Francisco Examiner

Steve Travers is a phenomenal writer, an artist who labors over every word to get it just right, and he has an encyclopedic knowledge of sports and history.

###### \- StreetZebra magazine

_Steve Travers is a Renaissance man._

  * Jim Rome Show

Travers' new book finally explains the phenomenon . . . the Bonds tale is spelled out in the most thorough, interesting, revealing, concise manner ever reached.

\- Maury Allen/www.TheColumnists.com, Gannett Newspapers

Travers appears to have the right credentials for the task: He is a former minor leaguer who also penned screenplays in addition to a column for the San Francisco Examiner. He calls on that background in crafting a straightforward, warts-and-all profile that remains truthful without becoming a mean-spirited hatchet job . . .

- USA Today Baseball Weekly

This is a fascinating book written by a man who knows his subject matter inside and out.

\- Irv Kaze/KRLA Radio, Los Angeles

Get this book. You've brought Bonds to life.

\- Fred Wallin/Syndicated sportstalk host, Los Angeles

This promises to be the biggest sports book of 2002.

\- Greg Papa/KTCT Radio, San Francisco

This cat struck out Kevin Mitchell five times in one game. I'll read the book for that reason alone. Plus, he hangs out with Charlie Sheen. How do I get that gig?

\- Rod Brooks/Fitz & Brooks, KNBR Radio, San Francisco

. . . gossipy, easy-to-read tale . . . explores the sports culture that influences this distinguished slugger . . . entertaining.

- Library Journal

Warts-and-all . . . Travers explores Bonds' mercurial temper and place in baseball history.

- Novato Journal

... the first comprehensive biography of Barry Bonds.

_-_ Bud Geracie/ _San Jose Mercury News_

Travers thought he hit the jackpot . . .

\- Furman Bischer, Atlanta Journal-Constitution

Travers...hit the big time . . . Travers . . . established himself as a writer of many dimensions . . . a natural . . . You were ahead of your time with the Bonds book. I still think it is the best biography of him I've seen. It does more to capture his personality than all the steroid books and articles.

\- John Jackson/Ross Valley Reporter

Travers is a minor league pitcher-turned-sportswriter, and therefore qualified to evaluate [Larry] Dierker's thought process in ordering all those walks regardless of the score or the situation.

\- Stan Hochman/Philadelphia Daily News

. . . looks at all of Barry's warts, yet remains in the end favorable to him. Not an easy balancing act. This is not your average sports book. It is edgy and filled with laughs . . . and inside baseball. Good, solid reading.

\- www.Amazon.com

It's a great read.

\- Pete Wilson/KGO Radio, San Francisco

This is a good book that really covers his whole life, and informs us where Bonds is coming from. His entire life is laid out. He is very qualified to continue to write books such as this one. Good job.

\- Marty Lurie/ _Right off the Bat_ Oakland A's pre-game host

_. . ._ _a quality piece . . . (Travers) uses his experiences in baseball . . . providing a humorous glimpse into the life of a player. Would I recommend this book? Absolutely . . . laughed out_ _loud several times at Travers' unique way of explaining his experiences. This book is definitely worth the time._

\- John Kenny/www.esportnews.com

Travers' account mentions everything from cocaine to sex to car crashes to what Bonds said he would do to Roger Clemens . . . more than a "hit" piece.

\- _Johnson City Press_

Travers' book does do a more well-rounded job of solving the mystery of who Bonds is . . . appealing . . . is the more inside look at Bonds in Travers' book.

- San Jose Mercury News

. . . Travers' work is every baseball aficionado's dream.

- Fairfield Daily Republic

You've created quite a stir here at the station, with the Giants, and throughout baseball.

  * Rick Barry/Hall of Fame basketball star and sportstalk host, KNBR Radio, San Francisco

You've stirred a hornet's nest here, man.

\- J.T. "The Brick"/Syndicated national sportstalk host

This is a controversial subject and a controversial player, but you've educated us.

\- Ron Barr/Sportsline, Armed Forces Radio Network

A baseball player who can write . . . who knew? This one sure can!

\- Arny "The Stinkin' Genius" Spanyer/Fox Sports Radio, Los Angeles

You know baseball like few people I've ever spoken to.

\- Andy Dorff/Sportstalk host, Phoenix, Philadelphia & New Jersey

Congratulations . . . a tour de force.

\- Kate DeLancey/WFAN Radio, New York City

I can't stand Bonds, but you've done a good job with a difficult subject.

\- Grant Napier/Sportstalk host, Sacramento

Steve's a literate ex-athlete, an ex-Trojan and a veteran of Hollywood, too.

\- Lee "Hacksaw" Hamilton/XTRA Radio, San Diego

A great book about a great player.

\- KTHK Radio, Sacramento

A gem.

- Roseville Press-Tribune

Here's the man to talk to regarding the subject of Barry Bonds.

\- John Lobertini/KPIX TV, San Francisco

He's enlightened us on the subject of Bonds, his father, and Godfather, Willie Mays.

\- Brian Sussman/KPIX TV. San Francisco

I hate Bonds, but you're okay.

\- Scott Ferrall/Syndicated national and New York sportstalk host

One of the better baseball books I've read.

\- KOA Radio, Denver

. . . the "last word" on Barry Bonds . . .

\- Scott Reis/ESPN TV

. . . a hot new biography on Barry Bonds . . .

\- Darian Hagan/CNN

. . . one of the great sportswriters on the current American scene, Steve Travers . . .

Joe Shea/Radio talk host; Bradenton, Florida and editor, www.American-Reporter.com

To a real pro.

\- Jeff Prugh, former Los Angeles Times Atlanta bureau chief

It was a good read.

\- Lance Williams/Co-author, Game of Shadows

You've done some good writin', dude.

\- KFOG Radio, San Francisco

A very interesting read which is not your average . . . book . . . Steve has achieved his bona fides when it comes to having the credentials to write a book like this.

\- Geoff Metcalfe/KSFO Radio, San Francisco

Steve Travers is a true USC historian and a loyal Trojan!

\- Former USC football player John Papadakis

Pete Carroll calls you "the next great USC historian," high praise indeed.

\- Rob Fukuzaki/ABC7, Los Angeles

You're a great writer and I always enjoy your musings . . . particularly on SC football - huge fan!

\- Oakland A's general manager Billy Beane

A's Essential: Everything You Need To Be a Real Fan offers a breezy history (with emphasis on the Oakland years), player biographies, Top 10 lists, trivia questions and more about the Athletics' franchise that has resided in Philadelphia, Kansas City and, since 1968, Oakland.

\- Bruce Dancis/Sacramento Bee

Steven Travers is one of the most accomplished sports journalists in our nation today . . .

\- Strandbooks.com

Wow what a great job!!!! . . . I love the book . . . It's one of those you look forward to reading at special times . . . I can't say enough!

\- Lonnie White, Los Angeles Times

Steve is the USC historian whose meticulous attention to detail is a revelation. He is the best chronicler of USC ever.

\- Chuck Hayes, CRN "Sports Corner"

This is fabulous, just a terrific look at our history. Travers is one of the best writers around.

\- Rod Brooks, "Fitz & Brooks Show," KNBR/San Francisco

You have created a work of art here, an absolutely great book. We love your work.

\- Bob Fitzgerald, "Fitz & Brooks Show," KNBR/San Francisco

When it comes to sports history, this is the man right here.

\- Gary Radnich, KRON/San Francisco

Steve combines . . . social and historical knowledge in his writing.

\- University of Southern California

Author Steven Travers discusses his new book . . .

- Orange County Register

. . . Join Steve Travers . . . at the Autograph Stage . . .

\- ESPN Radio

. . . Steve Travers, author of One Night, Two Teams: Alabama vs. USC and the Game That Changed a Nation . . .

\- Los Angeles Daily News

Steve Travers, a sports historian . . .

- Los Alamitos News-Enterprise

Here this dynamic speaker tell how this famous game changed history.

\- Friends of the Los Alamitos-Rossmoor Library

Travers presents this particular game in 1970 as a metaphor for the profound changes in social history during the emancipation of the South.

- Publishers Weekly

. . . Explored in rich, painstaking detail by Steve Travers.

  * Jeff Prugh, L.A. Times beat writer who covered the 1970 USC-Alabama game

This is a fabulous book.

\- Michaela Pereira/KTLA 5, Los Angeles

## To America

## The Promised Land

## That I love

## Photo captions

##

## Contents

## Photo captions

## Contents

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Introduction: The worship book

# A palace in the hills

Go ahead, take a bite out of the Big Apple

#### The rivalry

The cultural divide

The heroes

The New Rome

Empire

A midsummer's dream

There's no business like show business

Los Angeles

San Francisco

Death struggle

Beat L.A.!

Meltdown

The Missiles of October

The brink

Rivals then and now

Carthage is destroyed

The October of their years

Bibliography

Index

### Notes

Bibliography

# Acknowledgements

My thanks go to my wonderful literary manager, Peter Miller of PMA Literary and Film Management, Inc. in New York City, and to his assistant, Adrienne Rosado. Also to John Horne and Pat Kelly of the Baseball Hall of Fame, Ron Martirano, and Mary at George Brace Photos in Chicago. Thank you to: the New York Yankees, the Los Angeles Dodgers, the San Francisco Giants, the New York Mets, and the Los Angeles Angels. Thank you, Bruce Macgowan, Lon Simmons, Blake Rhodes, Vin Scully, Donna Carter, Willie Mays, Willie McCovey, John Shea, Glenn Schwarz, the late Bo Belinsky, and the late Bill Rigney. Thanks to my wonderful daughter, Elizabeth Travers, and my supportive parents. Above all others, my greatest thanks go to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, the source of all that is decent and true.

Foreword

#### Introduction

The worship book

It was a dark and snowy night, some time in the early-to-mid-1960s. The place was my parent's ski cabin in Squaw Valley, California, home of the 1960 Winter Olympics. It was a small alpine-style lodging with a perilous, icy pathway leading from a narrow, pine tree-shrouded street to the door; to be negotiated using small, mincing steps so as to avoid falling on one's face, or worse, fracturing a hip.

Located on the side of the mountain, we overlooked the valley. Below us was a cabin owned by Walt Disney. In the distance, the Olympic Village, which had since been turned into a ski Mecca by the visionary Alex Cushing; an ice rink where the United States had defeated the mighty Soviets in hockey a few years before, a pre-cursor to the 1980 "miracle on ice"; the daunting KT-22, for only the most advanced of ski experts; and east of that the ski jump ramp. With good binoculars one could see the competition from our balcony without paying a ticket.

But all of that was over with, and on this night my folks were out to dinner. I was left in the cabin with my babysitter, a neighbor girl whose family lived there year-round. We had no television and boredom set in quickly. I looked around for something to occupy my attention. A board game, some toys perhaps. I opened a drawer and there it was, in paperback, black-and-white, 225 pages: the _1963 Official Baseball Almanac_. On the cover, Yankees shortstop Tony Kubek completing a double play at the Stadium despite the best efforts of Chicago's "Jumbo Jim" Landis barreling into second.

Edited by Bill Wise, published by Fawcett Publications of Greenwich, Connecticut, it was the "most authoritative . . . most complete baseball book on the market! A great buy for any fan at 50 cents!"

In the re-make of _Planet of the Apes_ , the apes discover an astronaut's manual along with a chimpanzee. They determine that the manual is their "Bible," the chimp their "savior," and his "return" foretold as Holy Scripture. The _1963 Official Baseball Almanac_ had a strangely similar effect on me. It was, for me then and in succeeding years, my "Bible," a holy book to be revered, memorized and worshipped.

Now, what this says about me, a four- or five-year old boy, which was my age at the time of discovering this document, is questionable. I was definitely not normal. Discovering rock music, singing, guitar-playing, a hidden copy of _Playboy_ , or the actual _playing_ of baseball; those are all typical events that might stir like passions. Reading books in and of itself was certainly not an unusual thing for a little boy to learn and love; Jules Verne, _Alice in Wonderland_ , the Brothers Grimm; something like that, yes. But the _1963 Official Baseball Almanac_? Are you kidding?

Half that book was _statistics_ that looked thus:

#### PLAYER AND CLUB G AB R H TB 2B 3B HR SB RBI PCT

Pena, Orlando, KC 13 31 2 5 5 0 0 0 0 4 .161

Okay, it had pictures, too. Not pictures, as in illustrations, but photographs, and truth be told that was what attracted me at first. I still have that dog-eared little paperback, and leafing through it reveals its true, original purpose: I turned it into a coloring book. I used crayons and a pen, outlining the features of players apparently onto a piece of paper pressed against the back in order to create images, but I also colored in the uniforms. I favored black-and-orange, particularly the San Francisco Giants' color scheme. I somehow sensed certain things, too, such as a photo of Los Angeles Angels manager Bill Rigney with pitcher Bo Belinsky. I was too young to know that Bo was a major playboy and denizen of the night, but I drew a "five o'clock shadow" on his face, apparently out of reference to the fact that he was haggard from his nocturnal activities.

But over the course of years, I started _reading_ that book, and I really mean _reading_ it. I poured over it, memorizing every single piece of data; every stat, every player, the fortunes of every team, the All-Star Game (there were two played in those days), the Cubs' "revolving managers," the pennant chase and play-off between the Giants and Dodgers, and of course the Fall Classic; a rain-delayed thriller won by the slimmest of margins by the Yankees over San Francisco.

I became a "62er" of the first order. Over the years, as my knowledge base increased, other things became apparent to me. I learned about John Glenn, the astronaut who became a hero in 1962. I learned that my favorite football team, the Southern California Trojans, had won a National Championship that year. _American Graffiti_ came out and asked, "Where were you in '62?" The sense of nostalgia for that year became palpable.

I learned that John Kennedy had been President in 1962. He seemed to be something out of the past, and that year was part of the past in ways that increasingly seemed to be impossible to re-capture; in style, in politics, in music and culture. Then there were the teams: the Yankees, Giants and Dodgers. As I developed into a baseball fan, the championship teams seemed to be the Twins, the Red Sox, the Tigers, the Orioles, the Cardinals and the Reds. The Yankee dynasty was a myth to me; in my formative years they were "New York's other baseball team," the Big Apple's passions stirred by a team that was comically bad in 1962, the Mets. The Dodgers of Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale seemed to be an old B movie, like one of those CinemaScope features in which the screen narrows in the artistic stylings of the late 1950s and early 1960s. The Giants were a shell of whatever I knew them to have been in 1962; fans stayed away from Candlestick, which within a decade was old, resembling a prison, their stars over the hill. Bay Area sports excitement resided in the East Bay: the three-time champion A's, Al Davis's marvelous Raiders, and Rick Barry's shoot 'em up Warriors.

I developed an incredible baseball library: _The Glory of Their Times_ by Lawrence Ritter, _Ball Four_ by Jim Bouton; Pat Jordan's wry reminiscences of a failed minor league career; anything and everything. I still have all those books, wonderful works inscribed with love by my mom and dad: "To our darling boy from Mommie, X-mas 1969," or "To Champ, this brings back memories, Love, Dad, 1970."

Above all others was a book called _The Summer Game_ by Roger Angell (1972). Angell did not even think of himself as a professional sportswriter. He wrote from a fan's perspective, choosing to mingle with fans in the stands instead of a press box. Every year he took a baseball journey and wrote about it in _The New Yorker_. He devoted a particularly large amount of attention to the 1962 season; first, the nascent Mets, then the unfolding pennant chase played in the glorious California sunshine between the Giants and Dodgers; and finally a World Series that combined all the old "subway series" elements of John McGraw vs. Babe Ruth updated to Mickey Mantle vs. Willie Mays, complete with jet air travel. Angell stirred all my old pangs, shedding new light on the summer of '62.

In a high school history class they showed a docu-drama starring William DeVane as JFK and Martin Sheen as Bobby Kennedy called _The Missiles of October_. It was a hard-hitting, sober look at the Cuban Missile Crisis, but what struck me was that it all happened in 1962, the year of my great fascination. To think, all I cared about was Pete Runnel's batting average and the fact that Sandy Koufax hurt his finger at mid-season, but now I learned that much had occurred beyond the bounds of Fenway Park or Chavez Ravine.

Through baseball, I developed a focal point for history. If something happened in 1914, I knew that Chief Bender had jumped to the Federal League that year. Pearl Harbor occurred the same year Joe DiMaggio hit in 56 straight games and Ted Williams was the last of the .400 hitters. I had remembered Bobby Kennedy running for President in 1968, but all I recalled was that he was always surrendered by Mexican farmworkers, which seemed incongruous. _The Missiles of October_ showed him to be a man of power, a hawk and war architect suddenly questioning the use of force, and therefore instructive to understand the RFK I knew from 1968. A man tempered by his experiences.

Three things occurred to me since I came to "worship" the _1963 Official Baseball Almanac_. First, I went beyond just reading about baseball to actually playing it . . . pretty well. Well enough to help Redwood High School, located in the San Francisco suburb of Marin County, win the mythical national championship in my senior year of 1977. Well enough to earn a full-ride scholarship to college and make all-conference as a pitcher. Well enough to play a few years of professional ball, in the St. Louis Cardinals and Oakland A's organizations; to strike out 1989 National League MVP Kevin Mitchell three times in one game and K 14 Kingsport Mets on a hot July night in 1981. As Casey Stengel once said, "You could look it up."

The next thing that happened to me was that while I never lost my passion for baseball, as a fan and a player, I developed just as much passion for history, politics, and as a direct result, for writing. Being a millionaire baseball star was not my destiny. Being a writer and historian was.

Most importantly, I stopped "worshipping" the _1963 Official Baseball Almanac_ , or _The Sporting News Official Baseball Guide_ , or the works of Pat Jordan and Roger Angell. I started worshipping _The Holy Bible_ instead, directing my admiration not for Mickey Mantle or Willie Mays or Don Drysdale, but for the Lord Jesus Christ.

So it is that I temper my writings with an understanding of the things that are truly important. But somehow baseball has never slipped too far away, even as I endeavor to find Truth. My love for baseball is in fact spiritual, as is my love for America. This is a book not merely about baseball, but about America. We are, in my view, the new Promised Land, and as we have struggled against evil in the form of slavery, two world wars, terrorism and, in 1962, the threat of nuclear bombs, it is my belief that His guiding hand has led us to safety time and time again.

STEVEN R. TRAVERS

(415) 455-5971

USCSTEVE1@aol.com

# A palace in the hills

"GET YOUR WHEELBARROW AND SHOVEL" – STOP – "I'LL MEET YOU IN CHAVEZ RAVINE."

\- Walter O'Malley's telegraph to L.A. Mayor Norris Paulsen, 1957

The Los Angeles Dodgers and San Francisco Giants moved to California in 1958. Roy Campanella's special night in 1959 was seen as the "debutante ball" of the Dodgers. Five months later Los Angeles won the World Series. For decades, the University of Southern California Trojans and UCLA Bruins were America's dominant collegiate sports powerhouses. Crowds of over 100,000 came out to watch football games at the Coliseum; USC, UCLA and the Rams. The 1932 L.A. Olympics had been the most successful to date. Hollywood was the world's cultural touchstone, and politically the Golden State was now the most important in the nation.

Despite this, Los Angeles and California were seen as "minor league," far removed from long-held Eastern salons of sports influence. It was not until April 10, 1962 that they entered the "Major Leagues." That was the day that the Dodgers hosted the Cincinnati Reds in the first game ever played at Dodger Stadium.

When the world got a look at Dodger Stadium in all its glory, the true greatness of the Golden State could not be denied. Here was the finest sports palace ever conceived; Manifest Destiny for the 20th Century, something greater than the sum of merely human parts. Baseball, America and Los Angeles, California would never be the same.

Until Dodger Stadium was built, the Dodgers and Giants were roughly equal rivals. The Giants had won five World Championships (1905, 1921, 1922, 1933, 1954); the Dodgers' two (1955, 1959), but they seemed to have achieved an edge in the final New York years and the early California seasons.

That edge had demonstrated itself in the winning of the 1955 World Series followed by the National League championship in 1956. Manager Walt Alston presided over the "Dodger way," a victorious formula of sorts that had been the product of such baseball minds as Lee MacPhail, Branch Rickey, Buzzie Bavasi, Fresco Thompson and Al Campanis.

The Giants, on the other hand, had fired Leo Durocher and gone through a succession of managers. They had opened their new stadium, Candlestick Park, two years earlier, but it was a dud; immediately old, dirty and uninviting. Dodger Stadium was a shot across the bow at the Giants, but it was also a signal moment in a long-held rivalry that existed before Californians ever thought about Major League baseball.

San Francisco despised Los Angeles. San Franciscans despised Los Angelenos. Los Angeles and Los Angelenos did not particularly care. San Franciscans hated them even more for caring so little. San Francisco was a schizophrenic town with equal parts inferiority complex and superiority complex. They thought of themselves as the Paris of the West, New York of the Pacific; L.A. was a land of rubes. There was no city there, no base, no monument to greatness . . . until now.

San Francisco started out as _the_ important California city, but the building of the Owens River Valley aqueduct and two world wars had changed that. The University of California and Stanford University built impressive stadiums in the early 1920s. Stanford lobbied for the Rose Bowl game to be moved up north. Southern California responded by building two stadiums, the Rose Bowl in Pasadena and the Coliseum near downtown L.A. Both dwarfed the northern stadiums. Instead of being compared to Cal and Stanford, they were compared to the "House That Ruth Built" (Yankee Stadium) and the Roman Colosseum.

California's "Wonder Teams" and Stanford under coach Pop Warner were the two great college football dynasties of the early 1920s, but they quickly became overshadowed by Knute Rockne and Notre Dame. When Southern California started their great rivalry with the Fighting Irish, it established the Trojans as the other major grid power, further pushing Cal and Stanford into the shadows. A sense of jealousy pervaded the northern schools, infusing the region in ways that became socio-political. Then UCLA came into their own. The Bruins, not the Golden Bears or Indians, were USC's main conference rival, winning the 1954 National Championship in football and later establishing themselves as the greatest basketball dynasty of all time.

In the 1950s and early 1960s, reeling from a recruiting scandal in which Stanford "turned them in," California scaled back sports. A program that had produced four National Champions in football, two in baseball, one in basketball, plus numerous Olympians, became a joke and has never truly recovered.

Political power shifted from the north to the south. Earl Warren was from the Bay Area and attended the University of California. He became Governor and was tapped by Thomas Dewey as his Vice Presidential running mate in the losing 1948 election. Richard Nixon was from the Los Angeles area. He represented a growing, more powerful electorate than Warren, and rose to greater heights. Ronald Reagan would also tap into the same Orange County conservatism that propelled Barry Goldwater to the 1964 Republican nomination, and eventually would become the dominant political _ethos_ in America.

All of these factors: the Rose Bowl and Coliseum being better-recognized than Cal's and Stanford's stadiums; the Trojans and Bruins dominating the Golden Bears and Indians; political power shifting to the Southland, leaving Northern California marginalized towards the Left; combined to frustrate denizens of the San Francisco Bay Area. On top of that, they saw that the center of business in the Pacific Rim was no longer San Francisco, but Los Angeles. Then there was Hollywood. The imprimatur of glamour, of beautiful women, hot nightlife, golden beaches and Tinseltown fame overshadowed foggy San Francisco, which seemed to fall short in every way a city can be measured against another one. San Franciscans looked at their beautiful scenery, their identifiable, skyscraper city center, their supposedly more literate, cultured population, and tried to look down their noses at the church-going Midwestern transplants who made up the L.A. Basin. They seemed to be desperately attempting to convince themselves of their elitism. The harder they tried, the more they failed.

When Dodger Stadium was built, it was the final insult. San Francisco had gotten a stadium done faster, in 1960, but there was little hiding the reality of Candlestick Park: a dismal failure in every way. Now Los Angeles had created pure excellence. It was self-evident truth. It needed no commentary. Los Angeles was superior to San Francisco.

During the 1956 World Series between the Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Yankees, Dodgers owner Walter O'Malley observed something that more than piqued his interest. He saw Kenneth Hahn, a rising and influential Los Angeles City Councilman, in the company of Washington Senators owner Calvin Griffith. Everybody knew what they were speaking about: Hahn was trying to talk Griffith into moving the moribund Senators franchise to Los Angeles.

Los Angeles had been discussed as a potential destination for Major League baseball since 1941. The weather was perfect and the population grew and grew and grew. Capacity crowds filled the Rose Bowl and the Coliseum. Fans were rabid for athletics in California. On top of that, an enormous number of superstar athletes in all sports were _from_ the Golden State. The success of the 1932 Los Angeles Olympics seemed to demonstrate that Los Angeles had the ability to _choose not to participate_ in the Great Depression. Out west, there was a different mindset, a new way of thinking, an enlightened approach to race, to culture, to society, that was more forward-looking. It was the future.

On December 7, 1941, the St. Louis Browns were expected to announce at the winter meetings that they were moving to Los Angeles. When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, and the West Coast was threatened in the early days of World War II, those plans went by the wayside.

When the war was finally won in 1945, the country began to turn its attention to other endeavors. In 1946, Branch Rickey signed the first black player, a young infielder from UCLA named Jackie Robinson. In 1947, in the skies over the high California desert, Chuck Yeager broke the "sound barrier." This made jet travel feasible, and more importantly, commercial.

In the early and mid-1950s, a flurry of franchise shifts took place, with varying degrees of success. The Browns did move, but not to Los Angeles. Chicago Cubs owner Philip K. Wrigley owned the L.A. market. His team trained at Catalina Island, off the Southern California coast, during Spring Training. The Los Angeles Angels' franchise played in the West Coast version of Wrigley Field, a quaint little ballpark located on a street called Avalon, in south L.A. The Pacific Coast League was competitive, successful and had loyal fan support. Numerous well-known big leaguers competed in the PCL. Many of the league's greatest stars were local products, who moved from nearby high schools to the Angels, Hollywood Stars, San Diego Padres, San Francisco Seals, Mission Reds, Oakland Oaks, Sacramento Solons, Seattle Rainiers and Portland Beavers. But it was still the minor leagues.

With L.A. apparently controlled by Wrigley, who would never consider moving the Cubs out to the coast, the Browns – long in the shadow of the Cardinals - moved to Baltimore. The Boston Braves, who despite having played in the World Series as recently as 1948 were a distant second in popularity to the Red Sox, moved to Milwaukee. The Philadelphia A's, a one-time American League powerhouse, had lost a war of attrition to the Phillies. They packed up their bags and made their way to Kansas City.

The most successful of these franchise shifts were the Braves. County Stadium in Milwaukee was a wide-open facility with a large parking lot and easy road access. The car culture was in full swing. It was the Baby Boomer generation, a period of post-war prosperity of unprecedented proportions. The Great Depression, the Dust Bowl, the New Deal, the failed America of John Steinbeck's novels, was completely overshadowed by the success of free market capitalism. In Oklahoma, Bud Wilkinson's Sooners were the dominant college football power; their games sold out, eclipsing old stereotypes of Okie poverty. In Milwaukee, attendance topped 2 million. Families of four came out to the park. They bought expensive new cars, paid for gas and parking. They paid for souvenirs and ballpark food. After the game they frequented local restaurants and businesses. Baseball in Milwaukee was integrated into the economy of an entire community.

Post-war success seemed to have resonated everywhere except in Brooklyn. During World War II, blacks from the South moved to big cities to work in the shipyards. It was a new, mobile population, and the demographics of Brooklyn changed. Blacks and Puerto Ricans began to replace the traditional Irish Catholic and Jewish citizenry of Brooklyn. Levittown was built; a planned, suburban community on Long Island. "White flight" took place. Whites moved out of the city to Westchester, to Long Island and Queens, to New Jersey and Connecticut. Retirees found new lives in Miami.

Walter O'Malley and Branch Rickey had courted the black and Puerto Rican fan base. When Robinson was signed and brought to Brooklyn in 1947, they were an integral part of the team's support, financially and otherwise. But a fissure occurred between O'Malley and Robinson. O'Malley, who had been born into wealth and graduated from Fordham Law School, hated Rickey and bought him out after annexing shares over a period of years. He had total control of the Brooklyn franchise. O'Malley fired employees who so much as mentioned Rickey's name. Only those considered indispensable to the club's operation were retained from the Rickey era. Robinson admired the "savior" Rickey and openly supported him, which infuriated O'Malley.

The Dodgers of the late 1940s and 1950s were some of the most successful in the club's long history, but attendance dipped. It perplexed O'Malley. Here he was, a smart, successful attorney and businessman, living in America at a time of huge economic growth, but he was not benefiting from it. Other cities were. The new franchises out west, particularly Milwaukee, were breaking new ground, creating paradigm shifts in what a sports business could be. Just over the Brooklyn Bridge, Manhattan was prosperous, a glamorous, Frank Sinatra town of Broadway shows, hot night spots, business tycoons and their trophy women. Wall Street executives lived posh country lifestyles in Greenwich and New Canaan, Connecticut, or Westchester County; easy train access whisking them back and forth from the city where they seemingly ruled this brave new world; masters of the business universe, patricians of the New Rome.

With all of this going on, O'Malley sat in his office with Buzzie Bavasi and looked out his window. What he saw filled him with despair. A long line of blacks and Puerto Ricans were standing outside the welfare office, waiting for relief checks. These were not people with discretionary income who were going to spend what they did have on Dodger tickets.

"Why are we catering to these people?" O'Malley asked Bavasi. There was no good answer to that question.

A conundrum developed. O'Malley wanted a new stadium and new fans. There was little available land in Brooklyn, but worse, there was no freeway access. The "new fans" were really the old ones who had moved away. They would have to come from the suburban enclaves of Jersey, Long Island, and Connecticut. They would need to come in cars. Without freeways, getting in and out of antiquated Brooklyn was problematic. Little Ebbets Field only held only 32,000 fans. O'Malley commissioned famed architect Buckminster Fuller to draw plans for a domed stadium at Atlantic and Flatbush, above the Long Island Railroad depot.

To New York City building czar Robert Moses, the answer seemed obvious. He wanted a modern park built in Flushing Meadows, adjacent to La Guardia Airport and across from the future site of the World's Fair. He formulated plans to erect a new stadium in Queens. But the Dodgers were psychologically tied to their Brooklyn identity. A move to any other borough was seen as betrayal. Already struggling in a three-way battle for the New York fan base with the Giants and Yankees, O'Malley was concerned that if he lost the Brooklyn identity the team would suffer at the gate.

In Moses, O'Malley had met a man he could not defeat in a political power struggle. As in Sun Tzu's _The Art of War_ , O'Malley understood that withdrawal might be his best option. There were rumblings that the Dodgers might move, but nobody took it seriously. It was out of the question, unthinkable, heresy. But there were signs of impending doom. O'Malley played a series of games in Jersey City, New Jersey, ostensibly testing the waters.

Brooklyn's great rivals, the Giants, also suffered attendance downturns. Their stadium, the Polo Grounds, was located in an even worse neighborhood. Coogan's Bluff in Harlem was now crime-ridden. Their Bronx neighbors, the Yankees, faced similar problems, but the pinstripers were a dominant team that won the battle for the Manhattan, New Jersey and Connecticut fan base needed for success. Yankee Stadium also had the advantage of easy freeway access, meaning suburban fans could pop in an out without risking the mean streets as they did in Brooklyn.

A bitter novel, _Last Exit to Brooklyn_ , embodied the desultory situation of the borough in the 1950s. O'Malley's plans for a new stadium, for a "geodesic dome" and other alternatives, were put down at every turn. But he showed his hand when he turned down a deal with a firm that planned to build a Brooklyn stadium. However, the Queens stadium project did not appeal to O'Malley. He felt that if he acquiesced to such a venture, not only would the club lose its Brooklyn identity, but a palpable shift in power and even club control might be lost to Moses, who ruled over all he surveyed in New York like a modern Caesar.

When Jackie Robinson was traded to the Giants and Sal Maglie, a longtime hated Giants pitcher, became a Dodger, all seemed to have been turned around. It was a foretaste of cataclysmic change. So it was during the 1956 World Series when O'Malley saw Kenneth Hahn talking shop with Cal Griffith. He knew the future was in Los Angeles. Whoever harnessed it would ride the whirlwind. O'Malley could not stomach the prospect of Cal Griffith being such a pioneering figure. New York literally was not big enough for O'Malley and Robert Moses to co-exist. A three-team big league city was apparently a failure, especially in the car culture. O'Malley wrote a note to Hahn and had an usher deliver it. It asked Hahn not to accept any deal with Griffith or anybody else until he had a chance to speak with O'Malley.

"Being two miles away was the same as being 3,000 miles away," Buzzie Bavasi said. "Walter wanted to own his own stadium, even in New York. And Los Angeles was prepared to help him get it."

After losing a seven-game Series to the dominant Yankees, the Dodgers immediately departed for an exhibition tour of Japan. Disappointed over the World Series loss, nobody had the heart for it. Jackie Robinson refused, and it was the last straw. He was traded to the Giants, but chose to retire instead of becoming a teammate of Willie Mays, possibly returning to his home state to finish out a Hall of Fame career.

The team's plane stopped in Los Angeles on the way to Japan. O'Malley met with Hahn, who held some major cards. Aside from Griffith, he was entertaining inquiries from Giants owner Horace Stoneham, who was rumored to be ready to move his team somewhere out west. O'Malley knew he needed a rival in California, and that would naturally be Stoneham's Giants. O'Malley also knew that the jewel in the Golden State would be Los Angeles; not San Diego, not San Francisco. He immediately set about securing L.A. and steering Stoneham to San Francisco. San Diego, located 100 miles south of Los Angeles, would be "Dodgers country." Its minor league operation would fall by the wayside, replaced by media and radio attention devoted to the new team in L.A.

O'Malley tried to keep his cards close to the vest, but Hahn put on a full court press. Hahn played the Senators and Giants against O'Malley, as if any big league operation would be of equal value. In truth, he salivated over the Dodgers. They were by far the most attractive prospect for a number of reasons. O'Malley understood what he had and acted on it, secretly committing to the City of Angels.

What clinched the deal was O'Malley's declaration that the city would not be required to build him a stadium. In bureaucratic New York, old school corruption going back to the days of Democrat-controlled Tammany Hall was still in place, embodied by Moses. The concept that a private corporation could secure a plot of land large enough for a ballpark, build it on its own, and operate such a venture in an act of unfettered capitalism, was unheard of. It would certainly take Moses out of the picture, and that was not to be.

But Los Angeles was still a Republican city; a wide-open, business-friendly atmosphere in which entrepreneurial capitalism was the driving force of a growing, unbounded, we-can-achieve-anything culture. It was O'Malley's kind of place. Hahn and the L.A. politicians knew their biggest hurdle would be the stadium issue, resulting in the inevitable, age-old complaints about such an expense when schools, hospitals and the poor needed the money instead. Then O'Malley delivered a bombshell; Manna from Heaven.

He would _build the ballpark._ He would also reap the benefits. The city of course would be spared the initial costs, but the value, public relations and monetary, would be incalculable.

All O'Malley wanted was land. The city and county of L.A. had plenty of that. It was a huge, wide-open swath of mountains, hills, valleys, and basins, all criss-crossed by new modern freeways, courtesy of a visionary highway act signed by President Dwight Eisenhower. O'Malley seemingly had his choice, but that choice was not a hard one to make. A couple of miles from downtown Los Angeles was a pleasant hill and wide plateau overlooking the city. It was perfect. He originally found it on a map at a gas station. It was called Chavez Ravine. The city had tried to make it a recreation site, but squatters' shacks and scattered herds of goats still roamed amid the refuse. O'Malley swapped the Watts property where Wrigley Field was for the 300-acre landfill. A close referendum would grant it to the Dodgers, and groundbreaking would take place in 1959.

But first O'Malley had to deal with the exodus from New York. It was an incredible high-wire act of deception, all designed to slowly, imperceptibly prepare the public for an inevitable outcome in a manner with as little shock to the system as possible. Throughout 1957, O'Malley pretended to negotiate with the powers that be, but eventually played his hand when he sold Ebbets Field to a commercial developer. When no alternative was effectuated – a Brooklyn stadium site or the Moses site in Queens – the writing, as in the Old Testament, was on the wall. O'Malley would be the modern Moses who led the Dodgers to the Promised Land of California. Robert Moses would be left to pick up the pieces in a city he ruled like a Pharaoh.

Fans observed this; one small step followed by another, instead of a single announcement. They began to accept the inevitable. Both the Dodgers and Giants had disappointing seasons in 1957, so attendance was down at both Ebbets and the Polo Grounds. O'Malley pointed to this as reason for the move.

When the news hit that O'Malley had purchased the Cubs' minor league franchise in Los Angeles, along with L.A.'s Wrigley Field, the cat was out of the bag. Then O'Malley got Stoneham on board. Stoneham was painted a dark scenario. If he went it alone in New York, or moved to Minnesota, he would not have his main rival to help power the transition. Stoneham was doing so poorly financially that he owed money to the stadium concessions.

The Giants' owner was completely fed up with the ancient Polo Grounds, now a war zone. He was prepared to move to Minneapolis anyway, regardless of O'Malley's departure. O'Malley simply made him change his plans for the better; San Francisco, California, a New York-style town steeped in the traditions of Joe DiMaggio and the PCL Seals, the most legendary of all minor league teams. The rivalry would flourish on the West Coast.

The Boston Red Sox owned the San Francisco Seals. Red Sox owner Tom Yawkey sold his territorial rights to Stoneham in exchange for Minneapolis, at a price of $25,000. On May 29, 1957 the Dodgers announced the move. In August, the Giants followed suit.

"I feel sorry for the kids, but I haven't seen much of their fathers lately," Stoneham said.

For Brooklyn fans, the re-telling of this story resembles the Zapruder film, as if in watching it somehow it will turn out differently, but it never does. Their team was a beloved institution. There was a sense of family in Brooklyn that had not existed with the Giants (at least not recently), and certainly not with the corporate Yankees, who like the Americans in Iraq simply prevailed in a war of attrition and strength because they were too big, powerful and rich to be toppled.

The relationship of the players and owners, however, was the polar opposite. Stoneham was a "real baseball fan as an owner," his close aide, Chub Feeney said. "Winning meant a lot to him and the team meant a lot to him. He was a rooter." Stoneham was known for his generosity with Giants players, who he viewed as part of a larger family. O'Malley, with slick hair, three-piece suits and a large paunch, looked the part of a big city bank president. Stoneham, with his rosy cheeks, thinning hair, and thick, dark glasses, was a round-faced man who resembled the comic Drew Carey _._ His _persona_ was more like a regional branch manager.

Stoneham loved to drink, an occupation that coincided with watching his team. According to rumor he killed a man in a drunk-driving incident in Scottsdale, Arizona. He had been duped into accepting San Francisco, as if it was equal in value to Los Angeles. There was a sense that California was one big tropical paradise, with little regard for the enormous physical disparities within its 900-mile north-south borders. Even within the Bay Area itself, temperatures varied greatly. Walnut Creek for example, a bedroom community located over the hill past Oakland, in the East Bay, could be steaming hot at 90 degrees on the same day that San Francisco was foggy and wind-swept at 55 degrees.

Stoneham made one thing clear, emphasized above all other criteria: he wanted parking at his new stadium. Parking, parking, parking. Neither L.A. nor San Francisco had much in the way of public transportation. San Francisco's bus service was better than L.A.'s, and a commuter train connected people between The City (its denizens used caps) and the peninsula towns of Burlingame, San Mateo, Palo Alto and Mountain View, but for the most part its citizenry traversed the freeways and numerous bridges (the Golden Gate, Bay, and eventually the Richmond-San Rafael, San Mateo, Dumbarton, Carquinez, and Benicia) by car.

There was available downtown land near Powell and Market Streets, which would have been an excellent spot. Located not far from where the current AT&T Park now is, it would have offered reasonable weather. Certainly there would have been wind and fog, but it would have been acceptable. Financial district foot traffic, cable cars, ferry service, municipal bus lines, the Southern Pacific train, and eventually the Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) would have provided easy access. Stores, bars and restaurants would have benefited from the nightlife and "this is the place to be" vibe that AT&T Park now provides. It was not chosen because local businesses did not want increased traffic congestion. Stoneham lacked the vision to fight for the downtown stadium; all he saw was a big parking lot. In addition, eminent domain laws would have cost The City $33 million to pay off citizens forced to leave properties.

San Francisco Mayor George Christopher saw how O'Malley had manipulated the gullible Stoneham. He set out to do the same thing. Christopher had a sweetheart deal with a construction magnate named Charlie Harney. Harney owned tons and tons and tons of _dirt_. Regular old dirt. He needed a place to put it that would pay him for it. Within the jurisdiction of the city there were only so many places that could accommodate Harney's dirt.

They decided on non-descript Candlestick Point, sitting on a section next to San Francisco Bay that was not officially in The City. It was an unincorporated area owned by Harney. Candlestick Point was located next to the Bayshore Freeway, which connected The City with the airport, almost as much of a boondoggle that was likewise not in The City. Stoneham was told of the bayshore location. He had visions of a baseball version of Fisherman's Wharf, a marina-style stadium perhaps, accompanied by waterfront vistas. In fact, the section of bay that Candlestick Point is located on is one of the farthest from the East Bay on the other side. Furthermore, the East Bay area across from Candlestick is much flatter than the scenic Oakland and Berkeley hills to the north; the lights of Oakland and the Bay Bridge providing spectacular visuals. Trying to locate the East Bay from Candlestick Point is little more visually spectacular than trying to spot England on the horizon across the channel from France.

A bluff overlooked the site, which was curved away from the downtown Embarcadero area in such a way that there was absolutely no evidence of the beautiful downtown San Francisco skyline to the north, or even the mountainous peninsula to the south. It just sat there. The neighborhoods adjacent to Candlestick Point; Bayside, Hunter's Point and Potrero Hill, were headed in the same direction as the Harlem slums where the Polo Grounds had been. Stoneham was painted a portrait of racial harmony, of new thinking in California, but in truth the black community of San Francisco lived in sullen isolation, well away from The City's frolicking financial district or the tony neighborhoods of St. Francis Woods, Mt. Davidson, Twin Peaks, and the Sunset.

There was no fan-friendly business for miles and miles and miles near Candlestick; just slaughterhouses, packing plants, and a few liquor stores. An eyesore for the ages, a huge crane dominating a nearby Naval shipbuilding facility, blocked whatever views of the bay that there might have been. Fans exiting the 101 freeway found themselves on narrow streets that quickly became boondoggles before and after games with any kind of large attendance. Local kids threatened to vandalize cars unless money was extorted from scared drivers. But all of this was nothing compared to the elements.

Christopher and Harney knew that Stoneham was a man who wanted to get to his drinking early. They arranged for a tour of Candlestick Point around 10:30 in the morning. Mark Twain once said, "The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco." The best time of year there is the fall, the Indian summer months of September, October and early November. Instead of directing Stoneham to Candlestick on one of those Mark Twain days – cold, drizzly, windy – they drove Horace out on a sunny, clear morning. All Stoneham seemed to see was room for parking. Of course, that room was still part of the bay. This was where Harney's dirt would be dumped, creating landfill and a toxicological disaster. On top of that, nobody understood much about earthquakes back then, other than the Big One had virtually destroyed the entire city only 50-some years before that. Sure, go ahead, build a stadium on the shifting sands of loose dirt dumped into the water!

Stoneham enthusiastically endorsed the whole plan; hook, line and sinker. Christopher and Harney just looked at each other. This was a savvy New York businessman? The West Coast rubes had pulled the sheet, er, the dirt right over his head. Stoneham was spirited away and by 3:00 P.M. was in his cups. Around that time, a violent windstorm descended on Candlestick Point. It was like something out of _Lawrence of Arabia_ , or Biblical fogs that might have killed every first-born child on the point if it had been fit for human habitation in the first place. Dust from the nearby bluffs swirled in a sea of drifting garbage wrappings. Fetid smells filled the air, but Stoneham neither saw, felt nor smelled it. It was cocktail hour.

Walter O'Malley toured Wrigley Field, a quaint little park located in an industrial area that was becoming more and more crime-ridden. It held about 22,000 fans. The Hollywood Stars had a stadium located where the CBS Television studios are currently located. That neighborhood was better but the capacity was not. There were no alternatives. Everyone assumed O'Malley's team would play at Wrigley Field until Dodger Stadium was built, just as the Giants would play at little Seals Stadium until Candlestick Park was erected.

"What about the Coliseum?" O'Malley asked.

His tour guide scoffed at the notion. The Coliseum was strictly a football stadium with a track. But O'Malley knew it held 100,000 fans. "Walter was a business man - first and only," said Bavasi. "He was not a baseball man and admitted as much. He left that part to others. Contractual work with television and radio was about all he was interested in. He was not an emotional man and he never got close to any of the players."

He saw dollar signs in each of those 100,000 seats. He decided the Coliseum, not Wrigley Field, would be the home of the Dodgers. O'Malley appeared before the Los Angeles City Council in 1957, asking for permission to play four seasons at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. There was one dissenter, John Holland, who turned out to be in league with C. Arnholt Smith, who was lobbying for the prized first big league franchise in San Diego, not Los Angeles. Smith later did time for fraud, and Major League baseball would not come to San Diego until expansion in 1969.

Between 1958 and 1961, the Dodgers played in the venerable stadium, which all things considered must be the most famous all-around sports facility in the world. If there was any competition for such a moniker, the Dodgers' four years there ended the discussion.

It was built in 1923 to serve a number of purposes. First and foremost, it was erected to house the University of Southern California Trojans. USC had emerged as a major university in the years immediately after World War I. Long overshadowed by the respected University of California-Berkeley and Stanford University, USC now accommodated a large urban population and grew in prestige because of it. In 1919, they hired Elmer "Gloomy Gus" Henderson to coach the football team, which until then had been a second rate outfit, not considered a big-time collegiate program like those at Pacific Coast rivals Cal, Stanford, Washington, Washington State and Oregon.

Henderson quickly turned them into champions. In 1922, the Trojans entered the Pacific Coast Conference. Stanford lobbied to get the Rose Bowl game, previously played at Tournament Park where Cal Tech is now located in Pasadena. The city of Pasadena responded to Stanford's challenge by building the Rose Bowl in the Arroyo Seco in 1922. USC Christened it by winning the first Rose Bowl game played there, beating Penn State, 14-3 on January 1, 1923.

In 1923, the Coliseum was built, seemingly one-upping Pasadena by creating a stadium located across the street from the university that would also lure the 1932 Olympics and the growing football aspirations of nascent UCLA. Started as the Southern Branch of the University of California system, UCLA was located on Vermont, near Griffith Park, but quickly outgrew its humble beginnings. They moved to a location in Westwood that seemed preposterous at first.

"Nobody will go all the way out there," people said of Westwood. Everything west of Western Avenue was rural until one got to Santa Monica, where the West Coast version of the Gatsby crowd frolicked in their exclusive beach cottages. Ironically, UCLA had enough open space to build a stadium larger than the mightiest South American soccer colossus, but chose instead to rent the Coliseum, meaning their fans had to drive to USC, walking across their rivals' campus shrines in order to watch the games.

When the USC-Notre Dame football rivalry began in 1926, it ensured huge crowds at the Coliseum. When Coach Howard Jones turned Troy into a collegiate dynasty with four National Championships between 1928 and 1939, the Coliseum was packed, the Trojans the _cause celebre_ of Hollywood. UCLA moved in and, when Jackie Robinson starred for the Bruins, they too filled the stadium. Games played between the integrated Trojans and Bruins in the 1930s were nothing short of social statements a decade before baseball broke the "color barrier."

The 1932 Olympics were a huge success. USC athletes dominated for the American team, giving the school and the city the imprimatur of "Sports Capitol of the World" when Troy won their second straight National title in 1932.

The Coliseum was the home of the mighty Trojans and the mighty Bruins, who by the 1950s were challenging and beating USC. The Los Angeles Rams moved in and won the 1952 National Football League crown. Crowds of well over 100,000 fans came to watch USC-UCLA, USC-Notre Dame, and Rams-49ers spectacles.

In addition to pro and college football, and the Olympics, the Coliseum was the site of the popular East-West Shrine football game, a prep extravaganza. It hosted the Los Angeles City Section and CIF-Southern Section championship games. Many stars played high school, college and pro football in the Coliseum. The USC track team, probably the single most dominant collegiate sports dynasty in history with 26 NCAA championships, ran their major meets in the Coliseum. In its heyday, close to 100,000 people came out to watch the USC-UCLA meet.

For many years, the Pro Bowl game was played at the Coliseum. In 1984, a second Olympics was held there. Every major rock band – The Who, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, and many more – played to sold-out Coliseum crowds. In 1945, war hero George S. Patton addressed a capacity nighttime crowd when he returned to his hometown after defeating Nazi Germany. Billy Graham held Christian revivals in the Coliseum, filling every seat.

The adjacent Sports Arena, built in 1959, was – and this is not a misprint – the finest basketball arena in the nation in its early days. The home of USC until 2006, it also was UCLA's arena when they won their first two NCAA titles; the Lakers' arena until the Forum was completed in 1967; and the home court of ABA's Los Angeles Stars. John F. Kennedy accepted the Democrat Presidential nomination there in 1960.

In 1958, Los Angeles struggled in their first year, finishing seventh, but was successful at the game. 78,672 attended the first game played at the Coliseum. 1.8 million passed the turnstiles that season. The Dodgers won the 1959 National League pennant playing at the Coliseum. They set the all-time attendance records, drawing crowds of more than 90,000 fans for each of three World Series games against the Chicago White Sox en route to the World Championship. Home plate was set next to the entrance where football teams emerge, with left field a scant 290 feet away. A high screen was erected so that balls would not fly out. The result was that legitimate line drive homers would hit the screen and, if played correctly by the left fielder, held to singles. Conversely, lazy, arcing pop-ups would drift over the screen for home runs. A left-handed-hitting journeyman, Wally Moon, seemed to specialize in these "Moon shots."

The further the stands and the screen extended towards center fielder, the farther away it was from home plate. Deep center field was a considerable distance, and in order to make up for the ridiculous left field dimensions, right-center field was so deep that Babe Ruth or Barry Bonds would have had little chance of going deep there. Duke Snider, a left-handed slugger in the bandbox Ebbets Field, was completely destroyed by the Coliseum. When Willie Mays first saw the place, he approached Snider during batting practice.

"Duke, they just killed you, man," he exclaimed in his high-pitched whine.

Right-handed pitcher Don Drysdale emerged as a star. In 1961, young Sandy Koufax came into his own. Slowly, manager Walter Alston transitioned from the aging, veteran stars of Brooklyn – Snider, Pee Wee Reese, Gil Hodges – to a team with a Los Angeles identity; Frank Howard, Maury Wills, Tommy Davis _._ The Dodgers were generally contenders after their first season, as were the Giants in their first four years in San Francisco.

On April 15, 1958, 23,449 San Franciscans attended Seals Stadium and watched their new heroes defeat their old rivals, Don Drysdale and the Dodgers, 8-0. The Giants drew 90 percent capacity of the stadium located at the corner of Seventh and Bryant Streets in their first year. The club quickly built themselves up on the strength of new, young San Francisco stars like Orlando Cepeda, Willie McCovey, and Juan Marichal. But they never reached the World Series, as L.A. had in 1959. The Giants lost seven of their last eight games to blow the pennant after being in first place all year in 1959.

San Francisco did pass a $5 million bond issue to build a modern stadium. Charlie Harney sold his land to San Francisco for $2.7 million on the proviso that he be put in charge of the construction project. He pledged to complete the park "In eight months." The graft and corruption in San Francisco was rampant, with Mayor Christopher and Harney smiling all the way to the bank. It became a model for bad planning, bad government and bad bureaucracy.

Dirt from Harney's nearby hill was used as landfill, but it sheared off the windbreakers. Chub Feeney came out to observe progress and saw cardboard boxes blowing around. "Does the wind always blow like this?" he asked with desperation in his voice, visions of the bleak future in his eyes.

"Only between the hours of one and five," answered a crewmember. The workers just laughed. They had theirs, the union had theirs; the suckers from the Big Apple were committed to their incompetence with no recourse. Certainly they lacked the will to insist on excellence.

The smell of clams, polluted water "thicker than Los Angeles smog and fouler than Canarsie garbage" permeated the environment, wrote Southern California writer Arnold Hano, who was familiar with the air quality down there.

Harney thought the stadium would be named after him. The winning contest name, however, was the uninspiring, unoriginal Candlestick Park. Nobody ever really figured out why it was called Candlestick Point in the first place. It meant nothing and stood for less. After Harney heard it was not to be named after him, work slacked off and the completion date was pushed back. Eventually a grand jury probed the payment of Harney's parking contracts, a notoriously crime-addled business run largely by organized crime in San Francisco to this day. The Teamsters' strike delayed installation of key stadium components. Then Harney refused to allow the Giants to observe their future home. The city fire marshal inspected the place and called it a "fire trap." Eventually, Candlestick was reinforced with concrete, the first stadium ever constructed in that manner.

When Candlestick Park went up in 1960, Vice President Richard Nixon inaugurated it by calling it the "finest baseball stadium in the world." That review resonated for about a game or two. Fans were literally blown away. On the very first batting practice swing Willie Mays took, he connected and the wind sheared his bat in half.

The opener drew 42,269 fans. Distinguished guests included Nixon, California Governor Edmund "Pat" Brown, Commissioner Ford Frick, and ex-manager John McGraw's widow. The Giants beat the St. Louis. Superstar center fielder Willie Mays drove in all their runs.

Both the Dodgers and Giants were close in 1961, but Cincinnati captured the championship. Mays somehow had not excited the populace. He seemed to always pop up in the clutch with the bases loaded. He was a New York creation, Leo Durocher's prodigy, not a homegrown product like the more popular Cepeda.

Candlestick was a liability from the very first season and never improved. Dodger fans who traveled north made fun of it. "The Candlestick weather leaves you depressed," said shortstop Eddie Bressoud. Opponents were just happy to leave. Pittsburgh pitcher Vernon Law said he would not report to San Francisco if he were ever traded there.

"Never mind the hot coffee, get me a priest!" Cardinal's announcer Joe Garagiola joked while enduring a game in its cold, breezy broadcast booth.

"No one liked playing there," pitching coach Larry Jansen recalled. "Every team that came in hated it, but I told the pitchers this was our home and we'd have the edge if we just prepared ourselves mentally and physically. Wear longjohns, wear a choker around your neck and warm up an extra five minutes."

Willie McCovey hit an infield pop-up that carried for a homer. Diminutive relief pitcher Stu Miller's glove stuck to the fence and he was "blown off" the mound during the 1961 All-Star game, causing a balk. On that July day, 100 fans were treated for heat prostration. Then swirling winds caused a huge temperature drop and the infamous gustblown Miller incident. The wind caused seven errors by both teams, an All-Star Game record. Roger Maris, the superstar right fielder of the New York Yankees, was in shock, saying Candlestick should have been built "under the bay."

"Chewing tobacco and sand isn't a tasty combination," remarked Baltimore relief pitcher Hoyt Wilhelm. To spit in the wind at Candlestick Park was hazardous.

"Whatever this is, it isn't a Major League ballpark," wrote Arthur Daley of the _New York Times_.

On one occasion, a pop fly off the bat of Pittsburgh's Don Hoak was actually lost. It was called foul and the game was held up for 15 minutes. A coiled heating system may have been the most famous example of San Francisco incompetence. Built under the seats in order to warm the behinds of frigid fans, it never did work. Famed attorney Melvin Belli froze his toes and sued, winning full damages: the price of his season ticket, which he paid to San Francisco for the plant of trees, but "not at Candlestick," he said. "They would freeze out there."

Stoneham had a legal waiver printed in the program disavowing future responsibility for malfunctions. Women complained about their nylons torn by the seats. Heart attacks occurred when people walked the steep hills to get to the park in the brutal bayside conditions. "Cardiac Hill" got its name when16 people died traversing it. In 1962 the elevators failed. $55,000 was paid to a Palo Alto firm to study the wind, but no answers were forthcoming.

"It's an act of God"!?

It was a waste of dough, just like the money paid to Harney.

It had open-ended bleachers, and the monstrous shipbuilding crane loomed beyond like the alien space ship in _Independence Day_. Anything hit in the air was an adventure. Dust swirled amid hot dog wrappers. The players despised everything about the place. It had no redeeming qualities whatsoever, except that people who wanted to leave were allowed to. At night, the fog rolled in like Old Testament Egypt on Passover.

Fans from warm surrounding communities showed up for mid-summer games in shorts and t-shirts, then froze to the bone. There was no relief under the stands, which became wind tunnels, even worse than the open spaces. After games, fans were met head-on by the howling elements. Whitecaps roiled the bay. The parking lot immediately had cracks in the cement, since it had been built on landfill. Broken glass was not picked up by the city-employed stadium operations, all of whom were bored, lifeless and made fans feel unwelcome.

The concessions were blasé, hot dogs were cold, the buns were soggy. Beer was warm. Concessionaires were rude. The bathrooms stunk of vomit and urine. It was dirty the day it opened and never got better. The city-built, -owned and –controlled Candlestick was a symbol of government inefficiency. San Francisco, once considered a "can-do" city that, after the 1906 Great Earthquake, had re-built itself in time for the Pan-Pacific Exhibition of 1915, lost enormous prestige.

When fans left Candlestick, there was nothing to do for miles and miles and miles anywhere near the place; no restaurants, no bars. Whatever was there was dangerous and uninviting, anyway. South San Francisco, the nearest civilization to the south, had no nightlife of any kind. It was, literally, an "Industrial City," which they advertised itself as on a nearby bluff much the way high schools put up a giant "D" or "R" on hills overlooking campuses. Someplace that nobody even knew how to actually get to, called Brisbane, existed somewhere west of the stadium. It was of no use beyond a postal annex.

The downtown fun spots of Union Square, the marina and Fisherman's Wharf required a car ride on the freeway, or through the ghetto, then exiting and negotiating major parking hassles. There was little ancillary benefit to The City. Most fans just wanted to get home. If they lived on the peninsula, they never came close to San Francisco proper coming or going from Candlestick.

Then there was its effect on Mays. The winds just pushed his powerful shots back onto the field of play. He was forced to alter his swing and become an off-field line drive hitter. Candlestick Park eliminated any chance he had at breaking Babe Ruth's career home run record of 714. The place was a disaster with a capital "D."

By 1962 there was frustration with the club. "San Franciscans <who expect a pennant> are advised to stay away from coarse foods . . . avoid stimulants that irritate the stomach walls . . . if seized by a choking feeling, lay quietly and well-covered until your physician arrives," wrote Mel Durslag of the _Los Angeles Herald Examiner_. The well aimed barbs between Los Angelenos towards San Franciscans came early and often.

Candlestick was a model on how _not_ to build a stadium, first learned by the Dodgers. Candlestick Park was - and still is - the laughing stock symbol of San Francisco ineptitude in the face of Los Angeles excellence. L.A.'s efforts at building Dodger Stadium went smoothly. A New Yorker, Captain Emil Praeger was the chief architect. Vanell Construction built it to perfection; every seat unobstructed, spacious parking for16,000 cars, all landscaped with exotic tropical shrubs and palm trees.

Despite all of this public evidence of San Francisco's . . . _inferiority_ , San Francisco and San Franciscans insisted on the myth that they were instead _superior!_ The leading lights of this subject were two local gossip columnists, Herb Caen and Charles McCabe, and a politico named Art Hoppe. Hoppe was paid good money every first and 15th of the month to dispense lies about America. Truth was not his ally, so he found . . . other means of earning his pay. Caen and McCabe wrote provincial articles extolling the virtue of all things in The City Caen called, in those pre-Saddam Hussein days, "Baghdad by the bay." Caen was a talentless hack whose stock in trade was identifying people more impressive than he was, finding out some secret about them, then printing it in the paper. McCabe at least had some style. They wrote for a rag called the _San Francisco Chronicle_ , which was thin and unimpressive. The _Chronicle_ had little if any reportorial presence in places where the news was being moved and shook; Washington, New York, Southeast Asia (where American involvement in Vietnam was escalating), or in Europe. Most of the important stuff just came in from the wire services.

Its sports section was printed on green paper and called the "Sporting Green." They did employ a couple of good baseball writers, but the whole emphasis was on the Giants with a "homer" point of view. It was skimpy and scant. High school sports got no love whatsoever. Reading the _Chronicle_ took a couple of minutes. There was no there there.

The afternoon paper, the _Examiner_ , was better, but no great prize. Again, the contrast with Los Angeles excellence manifested itself, this time in the form of the _Los Angeles Times_. The _Times_ was a conservative paper owned by the Chandler family. They had a large circulation and catered to a mostly-white, Christian readership populating suburban enclaves such as Pasadena, Palos Verdes Estates, and Orange County. It was written for people embodied by the parents of Benjamin Braddock (Dustin Hoffman) in _The Graduate_. _The Times_ put their weight behind Richard Nixon, a local Congressman fighting Communism on the House Un-American Activities Committee during the contentious Alger Hiss affair. The paper backed Nixon through his Senate election, his Vice Presidency under Dwight Eisenhower, and a 1960 campaign he won but-for stolen votes in Illinois, and "tombstone votes" in Texas.

But the Stanford-educated Otis Chandler eventually took over the family business. He was conservative, but bound to re-make the paper not as a mouthpiece for the Republican Party, but to turn it into a world class journalistic organization on par with the _New York Times_ , _Washington Post_ and _The Times of London_. Chandler succeeded by opening bureaus in every major news center; not just New York and D.C., but the Deep South where the civil rights struggle was underway; in Asia where the Cold War was getting hot; in Moscow, London, Paris and everywhere else opinions, politics and policy were being made, formed and expressed.

The _Times_ also covered local and state issues with a fine toothcomb. Its editorial page was diverse, thought provoking and worthy. Its coverage of the film business was equal to trade magazines like the _Hollywood Reporter_ and _Daily Variety_. But what separated the _L.A. Times_ from all competition, making it the best newspaper in the world, was an unbelievable sports section. It was like picking up a copy of _The Sporting News_ seven days a week. It covered high school sports and blanketed the Angels, Lakers, USC, UCLA and all other athletic endeavors. A talented staff of columnists, reporters and beat writers covered the colorful commentary of USC coach John McKay, the Southern homilies of UCLA coach Red Saunders, the dry wisdom of Bruins basketball coach John Wooden, and the odd Kabuki dance between the Dodgers' front office and manager Walter Alston.

The heart of the _Times_ was a brilliant wordsmith named Jim Murray. Murray, like so many on the West Coast, was an East Coast transplant who came to the paper from _Time_ magazine, where he covered Hollywood during an era of true decadence; the last of the studio system, Mob influence and Frank Sinatra's Rat Pack. Murray once went on a date/interview with Marilyn Monroe, which was broken up when the sex symbol excused herself to leave with another guy. Joe DiMaggio had been lurking in a nearby booth at the Brown Derby.

Murray came to the _Los Angeles Times_ in 1961. He wrote with a social _pathos_ , imbuing his sports _reportage_ with observations that the University of Alabama, for instance, was not deserving of the term _National_ Champion so long as they neither played integrated opponents, traveled to the North, or had black players on their roster themselves. It also did not make sense to call the Crimson Tide number one team when they lost their bowl game _after_ the final Associated Press poll. Murray was, quite simply, the best sportswriter who ever lived.

The difference between Murray and the San Franciscans' Hoppe, Caen and McCabe was a chasm wider than the Grand Canyon. The elitist view of themselves was embodied by a 1960s column McCabe wrote in which he claimed to have been spared a parking ticket in Paris when the _gendarme_ learned of his San Francisco pedigree.

"You mention that you are from San Francisco and you are immediately a gent, as distinct from the yahoos who bully blacks and throw tear gas at kids . . . and live in ticky-tack houses and go to ticky-tack supermarkets," McCabe wrote. He somehow determined that the reception given to black jazz artists (who achieved superstar status in New Orleans, for the most part) in Paris nightclubs equaled the "grace" that would have been accorded the descendants of a million slaves had _they_ lived amongst the French populace.

A San Franciscan, "in the eyes of most Europeans," is really "a civilized European," and The City was an "Arcadian enclave" separated from the backwards burgs of America's "fly over country."

"San Francisco, like John Kennedy, has been formally canonized in Europe," McCabe wrote . . . "It comes as no news to anyone that Europeans hate our guts," he continued, apparently quite distressed that a continent that in the 20th Century started two world wars killing 150 million people, as well as a political ideology – Communism – that by the 1960s was well on its way to "achieving" its eventual total of 100 million murdered human beings, somehow "hated" the very people who were responsible for ending both world wars and thus the 150 million dead; and would eventually end Communism and its 100 million murders. This was like the convicted mass killer who hates the prosecuting attorney who puts him behind bars, then has the temerity to _possess knowledge of his crimes!_

McCabe also seemed resilient to the rather obvious fact that the Vietnam War we were fighting at that very time was one we were engaging in because the French themselves had mucked it up so badly in the first place. He no doubt remained clueless to the fact that the Middle East was a mess not because of America, but because the French, after the Sykes-Picot Agreement (1916) had tried to colonize Syria, Lebanon, Algeria and other Arab populations, used the Foreign Legion to brutally suppress inevitable rebellions, then again left it up to the U.S. to pick the pieces.

McCabe in his column wailed against our nation's tendency towards wealth and power thrust upon the whole world. The elite columnist again seemed unable to see that with which was placed before thine eyes. Here were a few tiny agrarian colonies, separated by an ocean from the salons of political, economic and military influence, yet in a scant 200 years we had become the most powerful empire in the annals of Mankind. McCabe and his kind were the last people on God's Earth to embrace knowledge of the fact that such a thing could happen only by a divine, guiding hand.

The "traveling American . . . tends to be a quite awful advertisement for his country," he wrote, apparently in all cases with the exception of those times when the "traveling American" is feeding starving Berliners; liberating fence-setting Frenchmen already hanging Swastikas while learning how to speak in the _Deutsche_ language; providing an alternative to the gulags and concentration camps for millions . . . all at great cost in treasure and life, and apparently out of pure benevolence!

"He does not care about people in Paris," McCabe wrote, which is like saying the policeman who saves the life of a man does not care that the man hates him for saving his life. Apparently, Jack and Jacqueline Kennedy were the sole anti-dotes to American rudeness. Cheating on a man's wife was a virtue the French could admire, in McCabe's view. So too were gay bathhouses where a disease called AIDS would be allowed to foment in McCabe's beloved San Francisco, and then spread to the rest of the world.

While the Dodgers toiled with a considerable degree of success in the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, Walter O'Malley set out to build a baseball palace that would stamp greatness upon his legacy. Brooklynites called him the "most hated man since Adolf Hitler." If O'Malley was going to be given credit as a visionary and important figure in the game's history, his Dodger Stadium would have to be his monument.

He had found Chavez Ravine, a plot of undeveloped city-owned ground, given to him to do with as he pleased. Illegal Mexican immigrants, "squatters" in O'Malley's view, inhabited the area. They camped out rent- and tax-free. The Arechiga family lived there and put up a big stink over the proposed stadium, even though they did not own the land. The "do gooders" and "bleeding hearts" of course found solitude in their plight. The city then paid Arechiga and others for the land they did not own, and the construction crews moved in.

By 1962 the project was completed, ready to be unveiled in all its glory. It was immediately unique in its design, architecture and location; a place of wonder. Sitting on a rise about two miles from downtown, it was totally surrounded by urbanity – freeways, a teeming population, skyscrapers, sprawl – yet in traveling up a slight but steady palm tree-lined grade, fans had the immediate illusion, in true movie style, of a park . . . _in a park_ , amid foothills and foliage. The view at night was spectacular; a lit-up downtown, and beyond that the vast basin of countless film and photo images. Its parking lot was spacious, with ticket-holders directed to convenient spots near their seats. Freeway access from every area of Los Angeles seemingly directed all roads to Dodger Stadium.

Next to the Dodger offices fans traversed a steep stairwell under a cluster of greenery designed to resemble the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Fans felt like they were on tour of a John Huston or Cecil B. DeMille movie.

In contrast to the filthy, stinking Candlestick, Dodger Stadium was so clean fans felt they could eat dinner off its polished floors. The bathrooms were pristine. The concessions offered many choices; fresh, tasty foods, and grilled Dodger Dogs on crisp buns. Cheerful concessionaires sold bright souvenirs. Ushers directed fans to their seats with service and a smile.

The stadium was built for maximum fan comfort, a baseball-only facility in which all seats were angled "on" home plate instead of a "50-yard line" location hidden behind a pillar in right field. Seats were built wide with plenty of legroom. No more hard, wooden benches. Its luxury boxes were an innovation that O'Malley came up with after seeing similar seating arrangements during the exhibition tour of Japan.

The Diamond Room catered to stars and celebrities, who enjoyed posh accommodations, gourmet food and cocktails while watching the game, but despite this part of the fan experience at Dodger Stadium immediately included "hob-nobbing" with movie stars at a stadium located 15 minutes from Hollywood Boulevard. The co-mingling of average fans was immediately an easy-going affair, with a sense of Democracy amongst Dodger Stadium fans. A wide diversity of people came to share their love of baseball and the team. There had been a long-simmering feuds between the Latino and white population of Los Angeles. Dodger Stadium went a long way towards healing much of that divide.

The warm weather gave the palm tree-studded stadium a sense of tropical paradise; shirtsleeve crowds and plenty of girl watching. The team immediately chose to play Saturday night games, a first that gave fans a chance to enjoy a weekend at the beach and still make it to the ballgame. With Vin Scully announcing into fan-held transistor radios, Dodger Stadium somehow seemed wholesome, something "good," as James Earl Jones said in _Field of Dreams_ ; a family oasis in the middle of a city rife with smog, traffic, crime, prostitution, X-rated movies, homosexuality, gangs, corruption and greed. Fans arrived at Dodger Stadium and it was like "dipping themselves in magic waters." It was immediately modern and at the same time nostalgic.

When the first game was played on April 8, 1962, the hoopla was extraordinary. Baseball Commissioner Ford Frick, National League President Warren Giles, and Roman Catholic ecclesiastic James McIntyre were among the honored guests. An army of blue-shirted usherettes met a crowd of 52,564. Every review was A-plus. The place was fantastic in every way; the greatest stadium in all of sports.

A video of O'Malley shows him sitting in his luxury suite, overlooking the field like a potentate. He smiles and puffs on his big cigar, secure in the knowledge that after all the lawsuits, bad press and angst, he had pulled it of; he was one of the "lords of baseball." Not even a 6-3 loss to Cincinnati could dampen spirits.

San Franciscans grudgingly acknowledged the greatness of Dodger Stadium. Some things were just too spectacular to deny. They would find fault with the Dodgers and their fans, which tended to leave in the seventh inning to beat the traffic, but the stadium itself was a monument.

It certainly did not look good for "Frisco," the name they hated to be referred to, in April of 1962. The two teams had been in California for four seasons. The only team to make it to, and win, a World Series was Los Angeles. Candlestick was a joke. NoCal was getting fed up with SoCal hegemony. 1962 was a particularly good Southern California sports season. USC went unbeaten, shut out Notre Dame, 25-0 and defeated Wisconsin in the Rose Bowl, 42-37 to capture the National Championship. The Lakers extended Boston to seven games in the NBA Finals.

The Trojans and Bruins regularly dominated Cal and Stanford in all sports. The dynamic of the schools was beginning to take on a political edge, with Cal and Stanford playing the role of jealous losers forced to lie about their opponents.

While L.A. had the Lakers, the Warriors did not move to San Francisco from Philadelphia until the 1962-63 season. The expansion Angels looked to be a mini-success. The A's were still in Kansas City, six years away from their move to Oakland. The Rams consistently had the upper hand over the 49ers. The Raiders were nobodies playing on a high school field. Now this fabulous new Dodger Stadium threatened to catapult the already-favored Dodgers to a big championship season. Willie Mays and the Giants were The City's last, best hope to prevent more indignity.

Go ahead, take a bite out of the Big Apple

"I was lucky to be a Yankee."

\- Joe DiMaggio

Manhattan Island was, at least according to the legend, purchased from local Indian tribes for a few beads. The Dutch developed it into a trading colony. It was a strategic city during the American Revolution. The young U.S. economy, our earliest government, and American culture were formed in New York City. It was the most important of all American cities from its earliest inception. As the United States grew, it became the new Athens, Rome, Byzantium, Paris, and London . . . all in one. Art, literature, theatre, _academe_ , finance, trade, even film and political power, were given New York imprimatur.

Sports were practically _invented_ there. Notre Dame football coach Knute Rockne built a dynasty not in South Bend, Indiana, but in New York City. In the 1920s, a Christian revival movement swept America, particularly the South and the Midwest. It had dark overtones of white supremacy, giving rise to the long-dormant Ku Klux Klan and strong anti-Catholic sentiments, which Rockne and his team faced on the road. Rockne determined to play a schedule in large metropolitan stadiums, where he knew a "subway alumni" fan base of Irish, Italian and Polish Catholics rooted for Notre Dame.

An invitation to play Stanford in the Rose Bowl was accepted, followed by Southern California in the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum and at Soldier Field in Chicago. But among the most memorable "barnstorming" Notre Dame games were those played in New York; first and foremost the 1924 battle with national powerhouse Army.

Led by the wondrous backfield of Elmer Layden, Harry Stuhldreher, Don Miller and Jim Crowley, Notre Dame defeated Army, 13-7 on October 18, 1924. The next day, _New York Herald-Tribune_ sportswriter Grantland Rice's column said, "Under a blue, gray October sky, the Four of Horsemen of Notre Dame" rode on the "green plains" of the Polo Grounds. He compared them to the Biblical "Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse" as described in The Revelation. The legend was made.

Four years later in 1928, this time at Yankee Stadium, Notre Dame was a considerable underdog against Army. Trailing at halftime, Rockne told his team that eight years earlier All-American back George Gipp, dying of strep throat, told him that some day when "the boys are up against it" to go out there one last time to "win one for the Gipper." It was blarney; Rockne made up the story, but when the Irish rallied to beat Army it made the newspaper accounts and was embellished into pure legend.

In 1944 and 1945, Army under coach Earl "Red" Blaik featured some of the greatest National Championship teams in history. A "teammate Heisman Trophy" duo of Doc Blanchard and Glenn Davis ("Mr. Inside and Mr. Outside") led Army to two straight blowouts of the Irish by the combined score of 107-0. On November 9, 1946, with World War II won and unbeaten Army symbolizing American superiority, underdog Notre Dame held them to a 0-0 tie. Future Irish Heisman Trophy winner Johnny Lujack tackled Blanchard in the open field to save the day, and the Irish were rewarded with the National title.

Great broadcasters described astounding sports action to a sports-crazed nation in the 1920s and 1930s. Ted Husing and Graham McNamee's staccato deliveries characterized the early style. The _New York Times_ , the _Herald-Tribune_ and numerous other major dailies provided vivid sports descriptions, making legends out of such talented scribes as Grantland Rice, Ring Lardner, Red Smith, Jimmy Cannon and Jimmy Breslin.

Under the ownership of the Mara family, the New York Giants became one of the leading franchises in professional football. In the 1950s, assistant coach Vince Lombardi and defensive back/captain Tom Landry orchestrated the simply named "New York Giants Defense". In December of 1958 the Giants squared off against the Baltimore Colts in a game some still call the best in pro football history. It is certainly credited with making the National Football League popular at a time in which baseball dominated.

The Giants and Colts battled it out at Yankee Stadium in front of a national television audience. Baltimore's legendary quarterback, Johnny Unitas, led the Colts on a comeback drive forcing the game into overtime, then propelled them to the World Championship in the extra period.

The open-air Madison Square Garden saw great boxing matches in the 1920s and 1930s. Such stalwarts as Gene Tunney, Jack Dempsey, the _Cinderella Man_ (Jim Braddock), Joe Louis, Max Schmelling, "Sugar Ray" Robinson, Rocky Marciano, and Jake LaMotta were part of the colorful fight scene in New York.

The U.S. Open, played for years at Forest Hills in Flushing Meadows, became the most exciting of the major tennis tournaments. The New York Rangers were popular in hockey-savvy New York. The New York Knickerbockers developed an enthusiastic, knowledgeable fan base. High school basketball, and the strange hybrid of playground hoops, permeated the New York sports scene.

In 1919, eight members of the Chicago White Sox "threw" the World Series against the Cincinnati Reds at the behest of gambling interests. The first Commissioner of Baseball, Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis, banned the "Black Sox" from ever playing baseball again.

In the first two decades of the American League, the Boston Red Sox were the class of the junior circuit, winning the 1903, 1912, 1915, 1916 and 1918 World Series. Their greatest player was George Herman "Babe" Ruth, a recalcitrant reform school dropout from the streets of Baltimore. Ruth was the best left-handed pitcher in baseball.

In the years in which the Red Sox dominated, the New York Yankees were just another franchise. At first, they called themselves the Highlanders. They did not have their own stadium. In 1919 they rented the Polo Grounds from the Giants.

After the 1919 season, Red Sox owner Harry Frazee needed money to finance a Broadway play called _No, No Nanette_. He sold to the Yankees not merely Babe Ruth, but future Hall of Fame pitchers Herb Pennock and Waite Hoyt. Later, he traded excellent catcher Wally Schang and stalwart third baseman Joe Dugan to New York. Thus was born the "Curse of the Bambino."

After the "Black Sox scandal," baseball needed something to regain its popularity. The baseballs were tightened, replaced with a livelier core, allowing for it to travel longer distances. Umpires were instructed to use new, shiny white baseballs instead of keeping old, scuffed-up balls in the game. Spitballs were outlawed with the exception of a handful of known "spitball specialists." The results were revolutionary.

America suddenly became a major world power when they helped the Allies win World War I. The American economy exploded in the "Roaring '20s." The new leisure class was sports-crazed. The National Football League was born in 1920. Harold "Red" Grange drew huge crowds at Illinois and with the Green Bay Packers. Notre Dame and Southern California become idols of collegiate football. New sports palaces emerged - the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum; Soldier Field in Chicago; the Rose Bowl in Pasadena; "The Swamp" in Florida; the "Big House" in Michigan; the "Horseshoe" in Ohio; Stanford Stadium and Memorial Stadium in California; and Notre Dame Stadium in South Bend.

But Ruth dominated his game in the 1920s as no athlete ever dominated his. To put it into perspective, it would have been as if, when Barry Bonds hit 73 home runs in 2001, the next-highest total would have been 25 instead of Sammy Sosa, who hit _more than Roger Maris's old record_ , finishing with 64! When Ruth hit 54 home runs in 1920, the next man in the American League was George Sisler (19). In 1921 Ruth hit 59 followed by Ken Williams and Bob Meusel (24).

In 1923, Yankee Stadium was built in the Bronx. It was immediately dubbed the "House That Ruth Built." That season, the Yankees defeated the Giants for their first World Series title. Shortly thereafter, Lou Gehrig joined the Yankees off of the campus of Columbia University. The Ruth-Gehrig home run duo became the greatest in history, the core of the famed "Murderers Row" line-up that captured the 1927 and 1928 World Series. The 1927 Yankees under manager Miller Huggins are still thought of as the best baseball team of all time, at least in many circles.

Ruth retired with 714 lifetime home runs, a record since broken by Hank Aaron and Barry Bonds, both of whom took season's worth of at-bats more to do it. Many arguments have ensued, and in 2000 ESPN even did a poll that said Michael Jordan was the greatest athlete of the 20th Century. Muhammad Ali has his supporters, and there are other contenders.

Babe Ruth is not only the greatest baseball player who ever lived, he is the greatest athlete of all time.

After Ruth retired Gehrig took over. He played in a record 2,130 straight games, spearheading the Yankees' World Championship teams of 1936, 1937 and 1938. In 1939 the Yankees won their fourth straight World Championship under manager Joe McCarthy. Led by the great Joe DiMaggio, the Yankees won the World Series again in 1941, 1943, 1947, 1949, 1950 and 1951.

Casey Stengel took over and led them on a stretch even more dominant than before: five straight World Championships between 1949 and 1953, then two more in 1956 and 1958. Superstars Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford were giants of the game. They were corporate, Wall Street pinstripers, as unstoppable as the American Army. Rooting for them was like "rooting for U.S. Steel." The most popular Broadway play of the era was _Damn Yankees_ , the premise being that the only way to beat them was to do a deal with the devil. Ralph Houk became the Yankees' manager in 1961, the year right fielder Roger Maris broke Ruth's single-season home run record of 60, set in 1927.

When the Dodgers and Giants moved to the Golden State, it highlighted the great rivalry between New York and California. Hollywood had a large New York presence. San Francisco modeled itself on the New York skyline and its fashions. Richard Nixon's ascension to national political status was an example of the electoral power of California and the West. The two states competed for attention and influence in politics, culture, society, finance, entertainment, literature, and athletics. Both states have large populations, but it went beyond. People come _to_ New York and California. Many also come _from_ there.

California holds an enormous edge over the rest of the world in sports. Population is partially to explain, along with great weather year round. There have been theories that the hardy, Darwinian genetic survival mechanism of settlers made for physically gifted offspring. Others said that more physically attractive men and women came to Hollywood for the movies, married and produced children with greater sports gifts.

The New York-California rivalry is accentuated in large measure by the fact that many of the greatest stars in the great history of New York sports came _from_ California, to New York City, to test themselves. Stars of the great Southern California high school leagues, the legendary California collegiate programs, the Pacific Coast League; they yearned to be more than regional stars, but rather, nationally recognized heroes.

The San Francisco Bay Area and the San Francisco Seals were, for all practical purposes, breeding grounds for the Yankees. The San Francisco-Yankee connection is quite extraordinary. San Francisco and the Bay Area at one time was the greatest producer of baseball, and all-around athletic talent, in the United States. It began with the great "Prince Hal" Chase of Los Gatos. Chase was said to be the greatest defensive first baseman of his time. Then there was San Francisco's Ping Bodie. Two San Franciscans played on the "all-time greatest" 1927 Yankees: excellent shortstop Mark Koenig and slugging second baseman Tony Lazzeri. In addition, the '27 Yankees featured power-hitting outfielder Bob Meusel (born in San Jose) and capable pitcher Dutch Ruether of Alameda (who previously pitched for Brooklyn).

In the 1930s a new crop of San Franciscans came along. The legendary Hall of Famer Joe DiMaggio played at San Francisco's Galileo High School. He was born in a little fishing town on the Carquinez Straits called Martinez, which is right next to another tiny little town called Rodeo. That was the birthplace of his Hall of Fame Yankee teammate, pitcher Lefty Gomez (who played high school ball in the East Bay town of Richmond).

Shortstop Frank Crosetti, out of San Francisco's Sacred Heart High School, was a Yankee mainstay on those teams. Babe Dahlgren (also of San Francisco) replaced Lou Gehrig when the "Iron Horse" retired.

The Bay Area connection continued into the 1940s and 1950s with shortstop Joe DeMaestri of Marin County's Tamalpais High School and the feisty Billy Martin of Berkeley High. From San Francisco: Charlie Silvera, Gil McDougald, Jerry Coleman (now the San Diego Padres' broadcaster) and Dr. Bobby Brown (who became President of the American League). Casey Stengel was not from the Bay Area, but the Yankees hired him after leading the Oakland Oaks to the 1948 PCL title. His star second baseman was local hero Billy Martin.

Don Larsen of Point Loma High School near San Diego threw the only perfect game in World Series history, over Brooklyn in 1956, when the Yankees captured the World title. In 1998, David Wells tossed a perfect game there for the Yankees. New York went on to win the second of four World Series victories in five years, and are marked by history as one of if not the best single-season team ever assembled. Wells also graduated from Pt. Loma High School. On the May day in which Wells tossed his perfecto, Larsen was featured in a pre-game ceremony and was in attendance. Larsen and Wells were both considered unique California hybrids who loved to party, drink beer, stay out late, chase women, and raise hell.

The New York Giants featured Irish Meusel (born in Oakland; brother of Bob Meusel). He also played for the Dodgers. Dick Bartell (Alameda) was an All-Star shortstop over an 18-year career. Bill Rigney (Alameda) was a journeyman second baseman in the 1950s, later managing the Giants, Los Angeles Angels and Minnesota Twins. Pitcher Mike McCormick (Los Angeles) played in New York briefly before the team moved to San Francisco.

The Brooklyn Dodgers' California connection was also strong. It starts with the great Lefty O'Doul (San Francisco), who hit .398 in 1929, later managed the San Francisco Seals, and is credited with making baseball popular in Japan. General Douglas MacArthur said no single diplomat did more to heal U.S.-Japanese relations after World War II than O'Doul did. Rod Dedeaux (Hollywood High, USC) had a very short "career," but befriended his manager, Casey Stengel. Dedeaux became the most legendary college baseball coach of all time at Southern California. The long tradition of big league teams playing exhibitions against colleges started when Stengel's Yankees played Dedeaux's Trojans. Later the Dodgers played USC at Dodger Stadium every year before heading to Spring Training.

1941 National League Most Valuable Player Dolf Camilli was from San Francisco. Jackie Robinson (Pasadena's Muir High, Pasadena City College) was of course a UCLA football hero whose place in the American pantheon is approached by few, if any. Cookie Lavagetto (Oakland) broke up the Yankees' Bill Bevens's no-hitter in the 1947 World Series. Infielder Gene Mauch (Los Angeles Fremont High) later became the manager of the Phillies, Expos, Twins and Angels. Dick Williams (Pasadena City College, where Jackie Robinson went), later managed World Series teams at Boston, Oakland and San Diego.

Bill Sharman (Los Angeles Narbonne High, USC) sat on the Dodgers' bench the day Bobby Thomson hit the "shot heard 'round the world" before becoming a Hall of Fame basketball star with the Boston Celtics, and coach of the 1972 NBA champion Lakers.

Duke Snider (Compton High) was one of the three legendary center fielders in New York during the "golden age" of the 1950s (the others being Willie Mays of the Giants and Mickey Mantle of the Yankees). A Hall of Famer, he also played for the Mets. Gino Cimoli (San Francisco) was a power hitter. Pitcher Don Drysdale was a teammate of Robert Redford's at Van Nuys High, where Natalie Wood was also a student at the time. He turned down scholarships to Stanford and Southern Cal to sign with Brooklyn and was their staff ace before the team moved to L.A.

The New York (football) Giants have a strong California connection. Running back Frank Gifford (Bakersfield High) was an All-American and a "golden boy" at the University of Southern California before forging a Hall of Fame career in the Big Apple. He was a staple on the _Monday Night Football_ broadcast team for years. At Army, in West Point, New York: Heisman winner Glenn Davis out of LaVerne's Bonita High School. In 1960, the American Football League was formed. A new California-New York rivalry would be born, between the Jets and the Oakland Raiders.

#### The rivalry

"Nice guys finish last."

\- Leo Durocher, manager of the Brooklyn Dodgers (1941-47) and New York Giants (1948-55)

After baseball was supposedly "invented" by Abner Doubleday in Cooperstown, New York in 1839, the game was popularized on the Elysian Fields of New York. Rules were devised and the game evolved. In 1869, the Cincinnati Red Stockings became the very first professional team.

Other professional clubs were formulated, fan bases were established, and the newspapers wrote it all up. A man named Jim Mutrie owned one franchise, which he admiringly called "my giants." The city was _giant_. The team became the Giants. An organization, calling itself the National League, started in 1876. Next to Manhattan was a borough called Brooklyn.

Americans did things, accomplished things, built things that other countries never dreamed of. In Russia, a railroad was built in Siberia on flat ground. It took decades, was fraught with peril and mishaps. In the United States, the Trans-continental railroad connected the East Coast with the West Coast. It was built over both the Rocky and Sierra Mountain ranges, and as historian David Ambrose said in the title of his book, there was _Nothing Like It in the World._

Americans erected tall buildings, eventually calling them "skyscrapers." They defied nature, such as in the forging of the Erie Canal. They built great structures, and in 1883 the Brooklyn Bridge connected the borough to Manhattan. It was therefore brought, in some cases kicking and screaming, into official annexation with New York City. Immediately and forever after, Brooklyn had an inferiority complex.

The New York Giants played at the Polo Grounds (built in 1891) and were the most successful organization in baseball. Brooklyn had a team, but it was always in search of an identity. The team never knew what to call themselves. They were the Atlantics, the Superbas and the Robins. Their fans arrived at their games via a precarious trolley car system in Brooklyn. They required a certain amount of dexterity in order to avoid being run over by the trolleys, and soon came to be known as "Trolley Dodgers." Eventually, the team came to be known simply as the Brooklyn Dodgers. They played at Ebbets Field (built in 1913), a bandbox ballpark in the Bedford-Stuyvesant (Bed/Stuy) section of Flatbush, Brooklyn.

The Dodgers featured a player and later a manager named Casey Stengel. He was considered a "clown act" despite being a fine player and first class baseball man. Stengel reportedly missed one season because he had gotten a dose of venereal disease. On another occasion, Stengel doffed his cap and a sparrow flew out. As a manager, he presided over losing teams.

Wilbert Robinson managed Brooklyn to two losing World Series appearances (1916, 1920). The 1920 loss to Cleveland was marked by Brooklyn victimized by the only unassisted triple play in Series history. A roly-poly, comic character, Robinson once tried to catch a baseball dropped from an airplane. Instead of a baseball, the aviatrix dropped a grapefruit, which splattered all over Robinson. Feeling the warm juice and pulp all over himself, Robinson's first reaction was that he had been struck by the baseball and was bleeding to death. He called out to his "lads" to come to his aid, like a soldier taking his last breath on the Somme.

In the 1920s, Brooklyn's baseball identity was considered part-carnival act. Columnist Westrook Pegler dubbed them the "Daffiness Boys." Pitcher Dazzy Vance was a Hall of Fame hurler, but his reputation was that of a clown. Old photos of Vance reveal a man who looked to be 60 when he was 30 or 35. He looked . . . _daffy_. Photos of ballplayers in those days reveal extraordinary faces; hollowed cheekbones, ears sticking out like a cab driving down the street with both doors open, sunburns, bad skin, haunted eyes.

Life was difficult. Diets and training regimens were not what they are today. They drank heavily but had to play all day games with hangovers. Hygiene was a problem. Amenities like air conditioning were non-existent. They traveled by train, breathing soot along the way. Diseases like VD, polio, Rocky Mountain spotted fever, pneumonia and mumps cut people down. In 1918, a worldwide influenza epidemic killed millions.

Nicknames were freely given in those early years. There were the "Thundering Herd" USC Trojans out west, the "Galloping Ghost," Red Grange of Michigan. George Herman Ruth was "Babe," the "Sultan of Swat," and the "Bambino." Lou Gehrig was the "Iron Horse." Christy Mathewson was known as "Big Six." His mound partner was "Iron Joe" McGinnity

Everybody, it seems, was named "Rube." There was Rube Marquard, Rube Bressler and Rube Waddell. Charles Stengel got "Casey" because he was from Kansas City (K.C.). Chris Berman would have had a field day with the Dodgers of that era, who featured "Uncle Robbie" Robinson, "Chick" Fewster, "Babe" Herman, "Jigger" Statz, "Watty" Clark, "Sloppy" Thurston, "Jumbo Jim" Elliott, "Lefty" O'Doul, "Pea Ridge" Day, "Ownie" Carroll, "Boom Boom" Beck, "Curly" Onis, "Whitey" Ock, Maximillia Carinus (Max Carey), "Buzz" Boyle, "Rabbit" Maranville, "Snooks" Dowd, and "Frenchy" Bordogaray.

Why not? The alternatives were Hollis, Walter, Manuel, Ralph, William, Raymond, Francis, Harold, Wilson, Clyde, Owen, Arnold and Clarence (Dazzy).

"What baseball fan of sound mind and body would choose to root for Hollis and Clyde and Clarence when offered the option of cheering for Sloppy and Pea Ridge and Dazzy?" wrote Glenn Stout in _The Dodgers: 120 Years of Dodgers Baseball_. Then there was Van Lingle Mungo, whose actual lyrical name inspired jazz ballads.

Many players wore white, long-sleeved undershirts. Vance took the white undershirt and sliced it up with scissors so that it hung in strands off his right arm. Wilbert Robinson often saved him to pitch on Mondays at Ebbets Field. Why?

"You couldn't _him 'im on a Mundy_ ," said Rube Bressler in _The Glory of Their Times_. He pronounced Monday _Mundy_. "On a clear _Mundy_ the batter never had a chance."

Vance applied whited lye to his torn undershirt and pitched straight overhand. Between the bleached sleeve waving and flapping white sheets hanging from clotheslines out of Flatbush apartment houses behind the center field wall, "You couldn't _hit 'im on a Mundy . . ._ diapers, undies, sheets flapping on clotheslines – you lost the ball entirely," said Bressler. "He threw balls by me I never even saw."

Vance was involved in the play that defined the "Daffiness Boys." With Babe Herman at bat, Hank DeBerry on third, Vance on second and Chick Fewster on first with no outs, Herman hit a ball to right that hit the wall, scoring DeBerry. Vance held up to see if it was caught. He then rounded third but was too slow to score, so he headed back to the bag. Fewster, running with his head down, arrived at third at the same time as Vance. Herman, running fast and also not looking, stretched out a "triple." With Fewster standing on third, Vance slid back into the base just as Herman slid into it from the other side!

The third baseman, not knowing what to do, tagged all three of them. The umpire was confused and a brouhaha ensued amongst Fewster, Herman, the third baseman, the umpiring crew, the third base coach, and both managers. The crowd hooted with laughter while the sportswriters immediately thought of wild adjectives to describe the hilarity.

Vance lay on the ground observing it all in bemused silence. Finally he lifted up his head and began to speak in the manner of a be-wigged English barrister. Silently, all eyes fell on him as he stated: "Mr. Umpire, Fellow Teammates, and members of the Opposition, if you carefully peruse the rules of Our National Pastime you will find that there is one and only one protagonist in rightful occupation of this hassock – namely yours truly, Arthur C. Vance."

He was right. Herman had "tripled into a double play." It was a "clown act," an image of lovable boobs that would be repeated by the New York Mets of the 1960s. But the concept of clowns and losers, while humorous in Brooklyn perhaps, was overshadowed by the excellence of the other two New York baseball franchises.

Professional baseball clubs representing New York and Brooklyn first met in 1889. "New York and Brooklyn were the aristocratic, cultured gentlemen and the scrappy, slum-born cousin who had fought his way up in the world; each openly disdained the other's ways . . . and the baseball teams they fielded were the chosen armies sent to fight this war, to crush the despised enemy," wrote author Eric Walker.

"Manhattan had the tall buildings, all the tall buildings - Brooklyn didn't have any," said legendary Dodgers announcer Red Barber. "Manhattan had Broadway and the theatre - Brooklyn didn't have that. Manhattan was the financial center, the cultural center - it was 'The Big Town.' Brooklyn was called the 'bedroom of New York' and people resented this. With the Dodgers, the people of Brooklyn had their only instrument to strike back - at New York and the Giants."

John McGraw managed the Giants from 1902 to 1932. At 5-7, 155 pounds in his youth he was known as "Little Napoleon" and even resembled the French dictator. To this very day, if an "all-time all-star team" is chosen by truly knowledgeable baseball historians, McGraw may very well be considered the finest manager of all time. He was voted just that when the game celebrated its 100th year of professional baseball in 1969.

McGraw's Giants won the 1905, 1921, and 1922 World Series. They were the class of the National League. In his early years, the Giants featured one of the finest pitching combinations in baseball history. Christy Mathewson was a four-time 30-game winner who achieved 37 victories in 1908. Mathewson's performance in the 1905 World Series may be the greatest in history, compared to only by Sandy Koufax in 1963 and Bob Gibson in 1967. Mathewson pitched _three shutouts_ against the Philadelphia Athletics. Over the course of his career, "Matty" won 373 games. His pitching partner was "Iron Joe" McGinnity, a Hall of Famer who won more than 30 games in the 1903 and 1904 seasons.

Twice, McGraw's Giants met strange fates that cost them ultimate glory. In September of 1908 at the Polo Grounds, the Giants and Chicago Cubs were tied in the ninth inning with two outs and the bases loaded. Al Bridwell singled the winning run in from third. Rookie first baseman Fred Merkle of the Giants, the runner at first base, did not run and touch second. The crowd descended on the field, as was the custom of the day, since they exited through an open center field gate that led to the subway station. Chicago second baseman Johnny Evers saw that Merkle never touched second. Amid the confusion, he tried to retrieve the ball so he could touch second base, but McGinnity saw what was going on, "intercepted" the ball and threw it out of the stadium. Evers went to the _ball bag_ , pulled another baseball out, got the attention of umpire Hank O'Day, ran to touch second, and O'Day declared Merkle out. The crowd was unaware of what had happened and of course McGraw was apoplectic when told, but the call stood. Instead of a 2-1 Giants victory, the game was declared a tie to be replayed only if it effected the final standings at season's end.

The schedule ended in a flat-footed tie so a play-off had to be held at the Polo Grounds. Cubs Hall of Famer Mordecai "Three-Fingered" Brown defeated Mathewson and Chicago went on to win _the last World Series in their history!_ Fred Merkle's failure to touch second remains the legendary "Merkle boner."

In 1912, the Giants battled the Boston Red Sox in the World Series. It was the first year the Sox played in Fenway Park. Their "boy wonder" ace, "Smoky Joe" Wood won 34 games. John F. Kennedy's grandfather, John F. Fitzgerald (known colloquially as "Honey Fitz") was the Mayor of Boston, popular in large measure because he jumped on the Red Sox bandwagon (when not handing out "walking around money" as bribes to Irish voters).

The Series went to the seventh game, with Matty battling Wood in a classic for the ages. The Red Sox won when New York center fielder Fred Snodgrass dropped an easy fly ball. It has forever been known as the "Snodgrass muff."

The Stoneham family bought the Giants in 1919. Horace Stoneham was bequeathed the team when his father passed away in 1936. He was 32. On June 3, 1932, Lou Gehrig of the New York Yankees hit four home runs. He was forever being overshadowed, first by Babe Ruth, and on that day by John McGraw, who chose it to announce his retirement after three decades managing the Giants. Hall of Fame first baseman Bill Terry took over as skipper of the Giants, and in 1933 they won the World Series. Hall of Fame pitching sensation Carl Hubbell led New York throughout the decade. In 1934, Hubbell struck out five straight future Hall of Famers (Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Jimmie Fox, Al Simmons, Joe Cronin) in the All-Star Game. Outfielder Mel Ott was the home run sensation of the National League.

To the extent that there had up until that time been a rivalry between the proud Giants and the lowly Dodgers, it kicked into gear in 1934. The Giants and St. Louis Cardinals were locked in a tight struggle for the pennant when New York played Brooklyn late in the season. Asked his concern about the Dodger series, Terry replied with rhetorical sarcasm, "Are they still in the league?" Brooklyn beat New York and St. Louis went on to win the World Series. The rest of the 1930s were still dominated by the Giants, although they found _themselves_ at the mercy of the Yankees in both the 1936 and 1937 World Series.

A power shift occurred in 1941. The Giants entered a period of stagnation, in which they became a victim of their ballpark; left-handed home run hitter-heavy, no speed, mediocre pitching. Leo Durocher took over as the manager of the Dodgers. He wanted nothing to do with the "Daffiness Boys" image, instead urging pitchers to "stick it in his ear." He famously stated, "Nice guys finish last." Led by the fabulous Pete Reiser, the Dodgers won the 1941 National League championship, but found themselves up against the Yankees in the Fall Classic.

Yankee history includes no "Merkle Boners" or "Snodgras Muffs." Their highlight tapes feature no pinstriped Bill Buckners letting easy grounders under his glove, or Yankee fans interfering with key pop flies, as in the Steve Bartman incident at Wrigley Field in 2003.

This being the 21st Century, we now know that after "waiting 'til next year" for 14 years, in 1955 the Brooklyn Dodgers finally won the World Series. But before the Red Sox' "Curse of the Bambino," before the White Sox finally got there, before the century-old drought of the Cubs; before tales of the long-suffering fandom of the Raiders, Cowboys, Rams, Lakers, Angels and other sports teams, the Brooklyn Dodgers were the kings of disappointment.

Herein we have the unique connection between the New York Mets and the Brooklyn Dodgers. When the Dodgers and Giants left New York in 1958, they ceded it to the Yankees. The Yanks won a war of attrition. It was like terrorists who keep blowing themselves up until one day there are not any more left to detonate. The stronger unit, rich and powerful enough to withstand the whole mess, "wins."

But when the New York Mets came into existence, there was an immediate connection not with the Giants (even though they played at the Polo Grounds for the first few years), but with the Dodgers. It was that Dodgers image; lovable losers, a little wacky, a little "daffy," colorful, eccentric; that they saw in the Mets. The Mets reached into New York's baseball past, and when they did they went mostly for old Dodgers – Duke Snider, Gil Hodges, Charlie Neal, Don Zimmer, Roger Craig - not old Giants. There was little connection between the Mets and the Yankees. The Casey Stengel who managed the Mets from 1962 to 1965 bore more resemblance to the Stengel who produced a sparrow from his cap, the "clown act" who managed lowly Dodgers teams, than he did to the manager of the lordly Yankees.

The "Daffiness Boys" image might have been replaced by serious baseball when "Leo the Lip" took over, but the succession of frustrations, disappointments, "close but no cigars" and "wait 'til next years" had the same comical, we're-Brooklyn-so-laugh-it-off flavor to it that inculcated early Mets fandom.

"I am not superstitious, but I do think it is bad luck to bet against the Yankees," said writer Ring Lardner.

So it was in the 1941 World Series, with Brooklyn trailing New York two games to one. Dodger's pitcher Hugh Casey struck out the Yankees' Tommy Henrich to win the game . . . except that the ball got by catcher Mickey Owen. Owen went after the ball "in a vivid imitation of a man changing a tire, grabbing monkey wrenches, screwdrivers, inner tubes, and a jack, and he couldn't find any of them," according to the _New York Herald-Tribune_. Henrich made it to first, and from there "the roof fell in," according to sportswriter Tommy Holmes. Casey got two strikes on Joe DiMaggio, who had hit in 56 straight games that year. Every patron of Ebbets Field knew he would get a hit prior to his accomplishing the act. The rest is quite desultory; a story of Yankee efficiency and Brooklyn clumsiness, the result being a 7-4 New York win en route to a five-game Series championship.

In the 1940s, Brooklyn was in the pennant chase almost every season, usually with the St. Louis Cardinals, Boston Braves, and in1950 with the Philadelphia Phillies. They won some, lost some. In 1946, Brooklyn general manager Branch Rickey took the unprecedented step of signing the first black player, Jackie Robinson.

Robinson had been a football star at UCLA. His Bruins featured other black stars such as Kenny Washington and Woody Strode (the black gladiator who dies so Kirk Douglas can live in _Spartacus_ ). Their battles against integrated USC teams in front of packed L.A. Coliseum crowds already had a major social effect on the West Coast. Like the California collegiate programs, the East Coast had been the scene of integrated football as well. Fritz Pollard of Brown and Paul Robeson of Rutgers were All-Americans.

Robinson was an Army officer during World War II, a Christian family man. After having won a war against the deranged, racist ideology of Adolf Hitler, Rickey felt now was the time and New York – specifically Brooklyn – was the place to break the "color barrier."

Robinson broke into the big leagues in 1947, earning the Rookie of the Year award while leading his team to the pennant. He developed into a major American hero for his courage under racial fire, paving the way for so many minorities who followed. Robinson and the social progress he represented came to symbolize the Brooklyn Dodgers and the borough itself.

The Yankees were viewed as Wall Street "fat cats," but Brooklyn and the Dodgers were a true "people's team." Brooklyn was a melting pot of Jews, Irish, Italians, Polish and blacks. It was a place that always fought for its own identity, a place for underdogs with an inferiority complex. Oddly, it was the success of these underdogs that drove Brooklyn out of Brooklyn, at least in a roundabout way. As more and more Brooklynites assimilated, achieving the "American Dream," they moved into the suburbs of Long Island and New Jersey, leaving low attendance and a crime problem in Brooklyn.

Robinson was the National League's Most Valuable Player in 1949. His black teammate, catcher Roy Campanella, was the MVP in 1951, 1953 and 1955. Another black Dodger, pitcher Don Newcombe, was the 1956 MVP (as well as Cy Young award winner). Between 1947 and 1969, 16 National League MVPs were black (including the Puerto Rican Roberto Clemente in 1966). No black American Leaguer won the MVP award until Elston Howard of the Yankees in 1963.

The term "National League baseball" came to represent the aggressive style of the "Negro League ball player" who stole bases, went for the extra bag, and made things happen. Yankee money was enough to keep them dominant while "waiting for the long ball," but overall the American League was inferior for decades. The real "Red Sox curse" really has nothing to do with Babe Ruth. It stems from their failure to sign Willie Mays after a try-out because he was black.

In 1951, the pennant race between the Dodgers and Giants was a thoroughly integrated affair. New York featured the rookie Mays and the veteran black slugger Monte Irvin. Durocher, fired (or let go, depending on the interpretation) by Branch Rickey essentially because he was an amoral man (technically his gambling associations, but it went well beyond that) had taken over the Giants. Manager Charley Dressen's Dodgers of Rickey, Campanella, Newcombe, Carl Erskine, Duke Snider, Carl Furillo, Gil Hodges and Pee Wee Reese, got out to a huge lead of 13 1/2 games by August 11.

"The Giants is dead," Dressen said.

The _rivalry_ thereafter heated up and became more like a _war_. Rickey had created the farm system with the St. Louis Cardinals and perfected it with Brooklyn. By 1951, every team in baseball had a minor league organization. Giants and Dodgers farmhands who had competed against each other for years before ascending to the Majors had learned to "hate" each other.

The Giants of Mays, Irvin, Sal Maglie, and Bobby Thomson made an amazing comeback, winning 37 of their last 44 games to catch Brooklyn on the last day of the season. A play-off ensued. In game three at the Polo Grounds, the Giants may or may not have been aided by a "spy" giving them Dodger signals from the left field scoreboard. Trailing 4-2 in the ninth, Thomson hit the "shot heard 'round the world" off Ralph Branca, breaking Brooklyn hearts.

Brooklyn won pennants in 1952 and '53, losing the Series to the Yankees both times. In 1954, Willie Mays returned from the Army to power the Giants to the last World Championship in that franchise's history, a four-game sweep of Cleveland in the Series. Finally, "next year" came in 1955 when Johnny Podres pitched the Dodgers, led by manager Walt Alston, to a 2-0, seventh-game victory over the Bronx Bombers.

"White flight" drained Brooklyn of much of its fan base by 1957. The Harlem neighborhood where the Polo Grounds was located had turned dangerous, too. The Dodgers and Giants chose to move to California in 1958.

The cultural divide

"Eureka!"

– The Greek word for "I have found it!"

To understand the cultural divide between Los Angeles and San Francisco, one needs to go back to the Civil War. The stark differences between the two cities, and the two regions, are embodied in the weather patterns, the geography, the coast lines, the fresh water supply, the architecture, the freeway systems, the roads, the restaurants, the nightlife, the stores, the politics, the politicians, the women, the men, the gays, the straights, the high schools, the churches, the colleges, the stadiums, the sports teams, the newspapers, the televisions and radio stations, clothing styles, beaches and musical tastes; just for starters.

It starts with the Civil War, or more precisely, the immediate aftermath of the Civil War. California was a Union state, not a Confederate one. California entered the national conscience in 1849, when the "gold rush" became a force of nature, attracting people from every corner of America and the world to its sunny climes in search of riches. Many did not find wealth, but they did find a new life in California. More importantly, they found a new life _style_ in California.

Back east, people succeeded or failed largely based on family connections and education. If a man failed at business, his failure was widely known within his community. He was immediately branded a "failure," and thus reduced to second class status for the remainder of his days. This may be a simplification of things; it was less so in America than in Europe, and as Alexis De Tocqueville's Democracy in America (1835) rightly pointed out, hard work was the chief ingredient of success. That said, the "old boys' network" of money and connections played a large role, especially in the aristocratic South and in the moneyed enclaves of Bunker Hill Boston, Philadelphia's Main Line, and New York society.

But the losers and failures could come out to California. Out there, they could fail over and over again in splendid anonymity, reinventing themselves until some day greatness, or a touch of greatness, came their way. It was a glorious new approach.

This was the touchstone of all people who came to California, regardless of whether their origins were Georgia or Massachusetts. In the 1850s, construction of the Trans-Atlantic railroad began. The railroad was a private venture, not a government project. It was a competing effort between the Union Pacific and the Central Pacific, with numerous government grants due to the one who completed the ambitious project first. Its leading advocate was a U.S. Senator from Illinois, Abraham Lincoln. He received the majority of his financial and overall support from the railroads.

A look at any map of the United States reveals the easiest path from the East to the West. That would be the Southern route, essentially down to Texas, on towards Arizona and Nevada, then the Southern California desert, with a final destination either in San Diego or Los Angeles. A line could then be constructed northward, connecting these cities with San Francisco, Sacramento, and on to the Pacific Northwest.

There was one problem with this: Lincoln knew it would be built by slave labor. He was the leading anti-slave politician in the North and adamantly insisted that if the railroad were to have his vital support, they would have to be built in the North. This caused a real problem. Building the line to Nebraska was doable. That was the destination/sendoff of many a pioneer, who gathered at the aptly named Council Bluffs, Iowa, just across the river from Omaha, before setting forth on the perilous journey west.

It was one thing to traverse the Rocky and Sierra Mountain ranges by covered wagon, horseback and foot. The Southern route was perilous because of heat, lack of water and Indians, but train transportation would solve many of those problems by providing a steady flow of re-supply. But building train tracks over the mountains was crazy.

The Russians were in the process of building the Siberian Railroad. That was flat land, and the task took years longer than the Trans-continental railroad. It still was completed at a terrible cost of time, treasure and human suffering.

Lincoln was insistent. When he became President in 1861, and the War Between the States began (lasting until 1865), the railroad project continued. It was completed in 1869. War-weary Americans desired to find new lives in the West. The Army was sent out to fight a series of Indian wars, making it possible for the settlers to live in peace. The railroad meant that suddenly thousands of people could migrate to the new frontier in relative comfort.

Slaves did not build the railroad line. It was built, in large measure, by Chinese "coolies" who were treated little better than slaves. It ended up in San Francisco, with a stop on the way to Sacramento. San Francisco was immediately the important Western city. It featured a marvelous bay that allowed ships to travel 90 miles inland to Stockton, connecting with the Sacramento Delta. The bay stretched between San Jose in the south and Petaluma/Vallejo in the north. Ports were established in San Francisco and across the waterway in Oakland. Numerous lakes, streams and rivers provided ample freshwater supplies to a burgeoning population. The weather was hospitable all year round. The environment was beautiful, pristine and filled with natural abundance; food, rich farmland, ranches. Fabulous mountains and hills overlooked majestic ocean views. There were more than enough trees to supply wood. It was Manifest Destiny, almost too good to be true.

Every form of commerce thrived in San Francisco, a true boomtown. It was the Las Vegas of the Old West, a wild, bawdy Barbary Coast city of saloons, gamblers, prostitutes, con men and dreamers of all stripe. It was wild, unlike anything previously seen. Manners, mores and morals of the East were discarded in this new world.

The population of the West had another unique aspect to it. Throughout the travails of man, countries had invaded and occupied other countries. With few exceptions – the Israelites perhaps – the method of operation was similar: the army was sent in to pacify the local population. Only when this occurred, and a certain amount of infrastructure established, were civilian populations brought in to live in the new territories.

The West was different in that the Army was not sent there to "win the West" in order to make it safe for a new populace. In this case, _the populace_ did that on their own! The Army was certainly busy dealing with the Civil War. The War with Mexico had created the initial opportunities to traverse the West, but had not resulted in a wholesale military presence in the new territories.

Spain had originally claimed much of the Western lands. When Mexico declared their independence, they inherited the claim. The problem for them was it was just that; a claim. They had little presence in the form of large populations, armies, government, infrastructure, or much of anything. They had no accomplishments. They had not made their mark, or stamped their presence on the lands in the form of endeavors, of creation, or inventions.

The Mexicans immediately faced trouble from local Indians wherever they went. Various small wars and skirmishes occurred, with the Mexicans too often on the losing end. The Mexicans tried to establish themselves in Texas, but the Indians stole everything they had. The Mexicans would harvest the fields. The Indians would then raid the farmland and steal food for the winter. The Indians, however, did not destroy the crops. They always left enough so that the Mexicans could live to grow another harvest the next year, in which case they would repeat the raids in an annual stolen-food campaign. The Mexicans, unable to defend themselves, looked to the Americans.

A clarion call was put out to the American colonies, particularly the rural Southern areas, for "men with guns . . . rugged mountaineers . . . Indian fighters" and the like. Mexico invited these Jeremiah Johnson's to Texas. The promise was this: help us fight the Indians, allowing us to protect the lands. In return, whatever you grow, catch or create is yours, free of taxes and government extortion. Thousands of Americans packed their rifles and set off for Texas.

When the Indians came to steal the harvests, the Americans sent them packing. That problem was quickly solved. The Americans thrived in Texas; as hunters, gatherers, trappers, farmers, ranchers and in other endeavors. It was a situation not unlike the Jews who came to Israel after World War I. Just as the Russian Jews quickly became more successful, and more dominant than the local Palestinians, the Americans quickly established themselves at the top of the Texas pecking order. They married Mexican girls, started families and business, built homes, and made Texas great.

The Mexican government saw the great American performance and re-thought their offer, the one that said the Americans could have what they made absent heavy taxation or government interference. The Americans out-performed the Mexicans by such heavy margins that Mexico had little of value in Texas. The Mexican overseers quickly found themselves working for the Americans. The Mexican government decided enough was enough. They declared that the Americans were Mexican citizens, and therefore all they had made belonged to Mexico.

The Texas-Americans had never thought of themselves as Mexicans. They always maintained American pride, and saw themselves as frontier ambassadors of a sort, demonstrating excellence to backward peoples. A battle was fought. The Americans made their stand at the Alamo. Eventually the American Army came in, defeated the Mexicans, and then marched to Mexico City, occupying it. Instead of turning Mexico into a large American state, the U.S. gave it back to Mexico, apparently out of benevolence or because they did not believe the Mexican population would hold up its weight in comparison with the high performance of Americans to the north.

The connection between Northern and Southern California had heretofore been the Spanish missions built by Father Junipero Serra and the Spanish Catholics who inhabited the region, along with mostly-passive Indian tribes, prior to the arrival of America. The Army had not established a dominant presence in the West beyond Texas after the Mexican War. Between the Gold Rush and the Civil War (1849-1861) the population of the West was civilian. It was a purely entrepreneurial experience, uniquely American and perhaps the most indicative aspect of this nation's free spirit. By the 1870s, the West was American. Spanish settlements were overrun not by government force or military conquest, but by the sheer large numbers of American citizens who came in, lived there, and became the majority peoples.

It was not until well into the 1870s that the Army came to the West in order to make the prairies safe from Indians, but California had been Americanized by settlers long before that. At least, Northern California had. Southern California remained largely unpopulated. San Francisco had everything; political power, style, sophistication, culture and the imprimatur of a new, important American city; a gateway to the Pacific and therefore the Orient. Los Angeles was a desert pueblo lacking enough fresh water to sustain a large populace.

But a railroad line was quickly built connecting Sacramento and San Francisco to Los Angeles and San Diego. Los Angeles was enticing. It was significantly warmer, with incredible natural features; a magnificent coast of gold sand beaches, towering mountain ranges, exotic flora and fauna. It had a paradise quality to it that was different from foggy San Francisco. 90-degree weather on New Year's Day, with mists rising from its canyons, gave the place an aura of mythical, Shangri-La quality.

The essential social difference between L.A. and San Francisco started to form after the Civil War. San Francisco was the preferred destination of people from Northern states like New York and Massachusetts. They supported Abraham Lincoln and the Union. Because San Francisco was closer to the "gold country," the foothills east of Sacramento, that element found its way to San Francisco. They were mostly single men, hard livers, bawdy folks who took to Barbary Coast excesses.

Southerners were even more likely to come out west because their land was devastated, and under occupation by Union troops. Their lives were upended, so many chose to pursue new ones in the West. With the building of the railroads, they could choose between San Francisco and Los Angeles while transporting families with relative ease. San Francisco was filled with "damn Yankees" and heathens, so they tended to find their way to Los Angeles. That city therefore became more conservative, Christian and family-oriented than San Francisco.

Major universities were built to accommodate the growing populations. The University of California was a land grant college built in Berkeley. It was followed by a private school, Stanford University. Football became popularized and the two established a rivalry. This rivalry helped both Cal and Stanford establish themselves as national powerhouses, with Stanford capturing the 1905 and 1926 National Championships. California won three in a row from 1920-22.

The University of Southern California was established, ostensibly by a Catholic, a Methodist and a Jew in 1880. Its predominant religious instruction quickly became Methodist, but by 1912 the school adopted a more secular outlook. They in turn changed their nickname from the Methodists to the Trojans. Because USC lacked a great rivalry like the one between California and Stanford, they did not attain great football status until after World War I.

By the early 1900s, Los Angeles was growing but still remained far behind San Francisco in prestige and political influence. A group of "City Fathers" understood that the population could not grow unless fresh water was made available to the masses. City engineer William Mulholland oversaw construction of an aqueduct between the Owens Valley and L.A., which provided the needed water. Later the Hoover Dam diverted Colorado River water to the Southland. Eventually more canals were built to bring water from Northern California to Southern California, a cause of much angst.

Los Angeles grew during and after World War I, when many servicemen came through the area on their way to and from training. With so much open land and fair weather, Southern California established numerous Army, Marine and Naval bases.

In the 1920s, collegiate football dominance shifted firmly to the state of California. It had been in the West for a decade prior to that. The original powerhouse was the University of Washington, unbeaten over a 63-game stretch between 1907 and 1916 in which the Huskies captured two National Championships. Washington State and Oregon also won National titles on the strength of Rose Bowl victories. The Rose Bowl became the second "gold rush."

With the building of the Rose Bowl stadium in 1922, it immediately drew fans from all over the country who fell in love with the lush California winters, choosing to stay. The third "gold rush" was the movie industry, which at the same time drew thousands of healthy, attractive men and women to Hollywood. When California, Stanford and Southern California all dominated the national football landscape in the "Roaring '20s," writers posed a number of theories to explain it.

Some said the sunshine caused vitamin enzymes within people, which created greater growth and vitality. Others felt the natural fruits and vegetables produced in great abundance in California explained a healthier population. Others saw a more Darwinian aspect in which the survivors of wagon trains were bigger, stronger and hardier, thus producing bigger, stronger and hardier offspring. This accentuated further speculation that these "supermen" met the beautiful, athletic girls who came out to Hollywood, thus giving birth to physically impressive children. The warm weather seemed a plausible reason, too, with kids able to play outdoor sports all year instead of being cooped up inside half the year or more.

But amid these theories were darker concepts. In the late 1920s, the rising German political figure Adolf Hitler made note of the fact that many American College football and Major League baseball stars were of German ancestry. When World War I started, many feared that America's German citizens would not remain loyal to the U.S. Patriotism at home and valor on the battlefields dispelled this notion.

These sturdy German-Americans continued to excel in sports over the next decade. The University of Michigan, in particular, featured numerous All-Americans with names like Schulz, Maulbetsch, Oosterbahn, Friedman, Pommerening, and Heikkinen. Big league heroes included the likes of Lou Gehrig and Harry Heilman. This alarmed Hitler, who knew that if he were to conquer the world militarily, at some point the United States would have to be defeated. Hitler feared that the "best Germans" were no longer in Germany. The most courageous, forthright and impressive ones had long ago departed Germany for America in the 19th Century. Their offspring were now entrenched American citizens. One of them, a former West Point football star named Dwight D. Eisenhower, would stand in Hitler's way when he eventually tried to carry out his maniacal plans.

Hitler also figured that the "flower of German manhood" had been lost in the carnage of World War I. America's "German manhood" had survived intact, since U.S. casualties were scant compared with the other warring nations. Now these survivors were running off-tackle and blasting long home runs. Hitler would have been well advised to follow his initial instincts against opposing such forces of nature.

USC broke new racial ground. In 1925, their first All-American football star was a black man, also of Cherokee heritage, named Brice Taylor. He was also handicapped by the use of only one hand, but still excelled on the playing field. In the 1920s and 1930s, USC dominated in football, elevated by its incredible rivalry with Notre Dame. Stanford coach Pop Warner left the school out of frustration over his inability to defeat the Trojans. UCLA replaced California as a major conference rival. Standards of excellence separating Los Angeles from San Francisco were being formed. When the 1932 L.A. Olympics were a big success, this caused further angst in the north. When Hollywood went to "talkies," it revolutionized the industry, immediately providing Los Angeles with a world class industry that overshadowed the Bay Area even more. Political power shifted to the Southland as population growth created more Congressional delegates.

Both California and Stanford reacted with sour grapes. Unable to defeat USC, they accused the Trojans of "professionalism" and "academic impropriety." When many USC football heroes went on to sterling careers in the law, medicine, politics, the entertainment industry, business, journalism, and the arts, these accusations were exposed as lies.

The Great Depression consolidated much of the political fissure between the Bay Area and the Southland. The ports of San Francisco became breeding grounds for the labor movement. Nascent Communism began to take root through these movements, often with violent results. The success of the Olympics infused Los Angeles with a more optimistic outlook. The Southern and Midwest entrepreneurial spirit of the Southland – many Southerners were Scots-Irish who tended to their own needs out of fear of the government – combined with Christian sensibilities to ward off efforts by the Communists to take root in Los Angeles. A strong Christian revival movement had sprung up in the 1920s, largely as a result of the catastrophe of world war. Los Angeles, with its wide-open spaces and rural enclaves, had taken to it with great fervor. "Tent revivals" were common in the area, and the Coliseum was the scene of large-scale Christian gatherings.

In the 1920s and 1930s, California produced an extraordinary number of great athletes: baseball stars, football heroes, basketball players, tennis players, swimmers, tracksters, Olympians. San Francisco probably had the greatest all-around collection of baseball talent in America, but Los Angeles was a close second. One L.A. high school, Fremont, would produce more big league ballplayers than any other. Junior college sports became big in the Golden State, too.

World War II had an enormous effect up and down the West Coast. Shipbuilding yards and Naval bases were established in Seattle, San Francisco, Richmond, Oakland, Vallejo, Sausalito, Los Angeles, Long Beach and San Diego. Huge numbers of Southern blacks moved to California, with tremendous effects on politics, society, the economy and sports.

More servicemen passed though the state on their way to and from the front, or to train at numerous military stations. They fell in love with what they saw, often deciding to stay once they became civilians again. A tremendous number of officer candidates attended OCS at Southern Cal, UCLA, California and Stanford, some even playing sports at those schools. When the war concluded, California grew more than ever before.

In 1947, a very important event occurred with major implications. The Pacific Coast Conference and the Big 10 signed an agreement to play each other in the Rose Bowl every New Year's Day. Up until this time, the Rose Bowl had been dominated by USC, who usually played Southern schools. Duke, Alabama, Tennessee and Georgia Tech were among the teams from Dixie who tested their national mettle against West Coast champions in Pasadena. The Big 10 had not played in the Rose Bowl since Cal pasted Ohio State, 28-0 in 1921. In succeeding years, the prestige of Michigan, Minnesota and the Big 10 Conference had suffered because their teams did not play in bowls. It was increasingly apparent that if a team were to be considered a legitimate National Champion, they needed to win a bowl game as USC had already done nine teams.

If the West Coast was considered superior prior to World War II, that notion was dispelled when the Big 10 dominated PCC teams in Rose Bowl games for the better part of a decade beginning on January 1, 1947. Finally, the West Coast population surge of the post-war era, which swelled the size of California little leagues, high schools, and then colleges, helped the West Coast gain parity with the Big 10 which, along with Notre Dame, had established the Midwest as football central USA. The biggest beneficiary of this dynamic was UCLA. As a public school, they accommodated the largest student body and therefore had a huge talent pool with which to fill out sports rosters. UCLA also moved ahead of the curve when it came to recruiting black athletes, surpassing the original trendsetters in this area, USC, and therefore surpassing the Trojans as a football power in the 1950s. A recruiting scandal involving Cal, USC, UCLA and Washington, however, set the PCC back just as they were establishing the conference as the best in America.

USC dominated in almost all sports. In 1948, they defeated Yale and future President George H.W. Bush in the College World Series. Coach Rod Dedeaux's Trojans repeated the act a decade later. Under coach Dean Cromwell, USC became the greatest track program in history, eventually winning an unprecedented 26 NCAA titles. The tennis and swimming teams dominated. The American Olympic teams consistently resembled Troy in red, white and blue. The USC basketball team made it to the NCAA title game in 1952. Such hoops stalwarts as Bill Sharman, Tex Winter and Alex Hannum came out of USC, where the "triangle offense" was invented. Southern Cal established itself as the greatest athletic program of all time.

The first big-time professional sports franchise in California were the San Francisco 49ers, who started in the All-American Football Conference before moving into the National Football League. The Pacific Coast League had been underway for decades, with a colorful history of producing great teams and players such as Joe DiMaggio and the Waner brother, Paul and Lloyd. But pro football was a growing phenomenon. It was mainly successful either in cities that did not feature major college programs, or diminished college football in others, as it had in New York and Chicago. Once-thriving Columbia, Fordham and the University of Chicago had lost their luster if not their programs entirely.

The effect of pro football on the West Coast was not without casualties. Loyola, St. Mary's, Santa Clara and San Francisco all had national reputations on the gridiron, but were eclipsed by the 49ers, Rams, and later teams such as the Raiders and Chargers. But the NFL, while probably depleting college attendance to some extent, never had a truly deleterious effect on any of the major programs. What probably hurt the likes of Santa Clara, St. Mary's and USF more than anything was the changing social dynamics of sports in the 1940 and 1950s.

West Coast teams steadily integrated during this period. The South remained segregated. The small California schools had been successful in Southern bowls, the Orange and Sugar, but by the 1950s USF found its unbeaten team disinvited from the Sugar Bowl because they had black players Burl Toler and Ollie Matson.

The Rams, after an inauspicious start in Cleveland, moved to Los Angeles and were a big hit. In 1952 they captured the NFL championship. Stars such as quarterback Bob Waterfield (whose girlfriend was the glamour queen Jane Russell), Tom Fears, Elroy "Crazy Legs" Hirsch and Jon Arnett popularized the team. The rivalry with San Francisco intensified, but just as Dodger Stadium would give the Dodgers an edge, so too did the Coliseum work in favor of the Rams. Crowds upwards of 100,000 came to see monumental Rams-49ers match-ups in Los Angeles. The venerable stadium was a monument to American greatness, and the Rams were a big part of it.

San Francisco, on the other hand, played in a glorified high school facility called Kezar Stadium that had drawn crowds of over 50,000 for Lowell-Poly games in the 1920s. Located in the middle of Golden Gate Park, it was picturesque from the outside but had no parking. It offered splintery wooden bench, fans crammed together elbow-to-elbow, knee-into-back. The bathrooms were a nightmare, the extras' non-existent. Fans brought bottles of booze in, shouted and cursed in a decidedly non-family atmosphere, advocating violence to opposing quarterbacks. The bottles would roll under the seats, crashing into dangerous splinters of glass. The low-rent Kezar, the home of the annual Turkey Day high school games championship game to this day, offers as its best memory the image of _Dirty Harry_ Callahan torturing a serial killer in order to determine the location of a 14-year old victim suffocating to death in the Marin Headlands, above the Golden Gate Bridge.

The post-war rise in Southern California sports fortunes mirrored its political and economic successes. After years of New Deal policies, America's role as a global superpower infused the nation with profound sensibilities based on the concept of American Exceptionalism, which were embodied by the Republican Party. In 1946, a young attorney and Navy veteran, Richard M. Nixon, was elected to the U.S. House of Representatives from a district that at that time straddled the city of Los Angeles, the growing suburbs of Artesia and Whittier, on into a thriving new conservative base, Orange County.

Nixon immediately seized on the hot-button issue of the day: anti-Communism. In no place was anti-Communist fervor greater than his district and the surrounding Southern California heartland. His voters had happily ousted New Deal Congressman Jerry Voorhis in favor of Nixon. Almost immediately, the case of a lifetime landed in the young Congressman's lap: the espionage accusations of Whittaker Chambers against Alger Hiss. This would vault Nixon into national prominence in the form of two separate stints in the White House.

Chambers was a rumpled writer who took to Communism as a young man in Baltimore in the 1920s. He became an editor for the _Daily Worker_ , the newspaper of the American Communist Party. At some point Chambers was approached by Soviet handlers and told to change from an overt Soviet propagandist to a covert spy. Throughout the 1930s, Chambers worked with the U.S.S.R. against the United States. Several of his handlers and fellow turncoats were rising Democrats in the Franklin Roosevelt Administration. They moved from such New Deal programs as the Public Works Administration to high-level positions in the White House and State Department. One of them was a polished Ivy League attorney named Alger Hiss. Hiss was the embodiment of the Eastern establishment; from his looks, his family, connections, education, upbringing and breeding. He rose to the highest place within Democrat Party circles. He had all the attributes Chambers did not, and therefore was much more valuable to the Communists. All the while, he was a paid Soviet spy who worked for Russia out of deep hatred for America; a strong conviction that our way of life was inferior to Communism.

When the Soviet Union signed the Molotov-Von Ribbentrop pact with Nazi Germany early in World War II, ostensibly a promise by Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin not to attack each other, it discouraged Chambers. He had seen the Soviets as the last hope against Nazism. Around this same time reports of Stalin's atrocities became public. Millions had died under his rule, many via forced starvation when the Communists insisted on collectivization of farms with disastrous results. Walter Duranty of the _New York Times_ had gone to the U.S.S.R., seen the devastation, knew about it, _but instead wrote that Communism was an effective political ideology._ For this he was awarded _the Pulitzer Prize!_ Despite this disinformation, by the 1940s the truth about the Soviets was known, and Chambers for one began to see Communism for what it was.

Then Chambers had a religious epiphany. The Truth of the Lord Jesus Christ manifested itself before him. Suddenly freed from the bonds of Communist ideology, Chambers immediately realized that _America_ was the last, best hope of Mankind. He went to the FBI and told them all about Hiss and other Soviet infiltrators. The FBI investigated and discovered that Chambers was correct. They went to President Roosevelt, informing him that he had numerous Soviet spies in his administration. Roosevelt used a word that begins with an "f" and ends in a "k" followed by the word "off." Either he refused to believe it, or if he did know about it, he apparently did not think Soviet spies in high-ranking positions of American power was such a bad thing. Either way, the spies continued to serve FDR and move up the ladder.

The Naval intelligence services, however, realized that FDR would only be President for so long, but America would need to be protected from its enemies, foreign and domestic, forever. They began to track Soviet and German cable traffic. Their biggest fear was that the Hitler-Stalin pact, broken when Germany invaded Russia in 1941, would be re-instated, meaning that the Soviets would stop being our ally against Germany, and suddenly German allies against us. While listening in on Soviet cables they also picked up on espionage activities directed against us. In 1943, the Navy confirmed that Chambers's accusations against Hiss were true, and that a number of top Democrats were also spies. Among them were Harold Ickes, FDR's interior secretary and father of President Bill Clinton's deputy chief of staff by the same name.

FBI director J. Edgar Hoover was informed of these confirmations. Hoover and the OSS (pre-cursor of the CIA) were involved in sensitive, classified investigations of domestic infiltration by the Communists. So sensitive were these investigations that they could not afford to let the U.S.S.R. know that they knew what they were up to. Hiss was allowed to remain in place. When FDR met with Soviet leader Stalin and British Prime Minister Winston Churchill at Yalta, Hiss was an influential aide. The agreements between the three countries at Yalta, and later the United Nations charter, were written in large part by Hiss. They were highly favorable to the Soviets, giving them the rope they needed to "hang" Eastern Europe in violation of their promises to Churchill and the sickly, dying Roosevelt.

Meanwhile, Whittaker Chambers was beside himself. He had turned Hiss in, only to see a known Soviet spymaster shaping U.S. foreign policy at a crucial juncture in world history. His FBI contacts told him they were equally frustrated, but their hands were tied. Hoover insisted on leaving Hiss alone while he investigated the Russians, largely revolving around the ultra-dangerous area of atomic secrets and further infiltration of the American scientific community (eventually resulting in the conviction of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, and shedding light on the turncoat Manhattan Project architect Robert Oppenheimer).

Chambers finally decided to go public with what he knew. He approached Congress, and found a willing ear in young Congressman Richard Nixon (R.-California). Nixon was looking for an issue that would help him make a huge splash. Chambers told Nixon all that he knew, which stunned Nixon. He was previously naïve to the fact that Communist infiltration was so prevalent in the American government and, and it turned out, the movie industry.

Nixon went to Hoover for confirmation of Chambers's story. Hoover told the Congressman he could not reveal the results of his on-going investigations; that it was too sensitive to let the Soviets know he knew all that they were up to. But Hoover told Nixon that he was on the right track; that the Communists had penetrated deeply into the Democrat Party, the White House, the State Department, Hollywood, and even the Pentagon. He could not help Nixon, but he encouraged him to go where the truth would take him.

The result became the genesis of the great political divide we see in America today. Nixon hailed Hiss before the House Un-American Activities Committee. Chambers leveled his accusations, which were denied. Nixon persisted. Hiss was eventually convicted and disgraced. Many Democrats were exposed as Communists, as were many "fellow travelers" and actual spies in the film business. This led to McCarthyism in the 1950s, a period of further tremendous division. Because of the nature of FBI and CIA covert operations against the Soviet Union, Hoover was never able to reveal all that he knew, so a shred of doubt often hung over the guilty parties.

The Democrat establishment fell in line behind Hiss with everything they had. Every top Democrat vouched for him. Vile, foul, unimaginable lies were uttered against Chambers, who stoically absorbed each of the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, girded spiritually by Christ's suffering on the cross. He said little if anything, preferring not to answer critics but rather letting their foul epithets speak for themselves.

"There is nothing louder than the truth-teller's silence in the face of the liar's shouts," he stated.

After Hiss was convicted and Chambers proven right, Chambers wrote a 1952 Best Seller, _Witness_ , which was a testament to Christian truth and American righteousness, but ultimately contained grave prognostications. Chambers said that Communism – whether it be called Communism or not – stood for something exceptionally evil, an anti-God creed, using racism and social inequalities as covers for the devil's works, and would ultimately prevail over American-style freedom and Democracy. To date Chambers's pessimism has not become true, but it does not take more than a quick glance at the media, the socialist lies about America's role in the world, and a pervasive effort to tear down the institutions that made the U.S. exceptional – family, faith, patriotism, valor – to see that someday he may be viewed as a prophet. One can only pray it is not so.

For years, the _New York Times_ , _The Nation_ , the Democrats and the establishment Left clung to Hiss's innocence despite his conviction. They excoriated Chambers, besmirching and slandering his good name, each of their lies more outrageous than previous ones. Finally, when the United States won the Cold War on the day we celebrate Christ's birth – December 25, 1991 – the Soviet archives were opened. The Venona Project, the long-secret Naval intercepts of Soviet cable traffic during World War II, along with ancient secrets from the KGB, further revealed that Chambers had been right all along. Hiss and many top FDR Democrats had been actual traitors.

Nixon rose to national prominence on the strength of the Hiss case and his Red-baiting, anti-Communist rhetoric. The Left hated him for it, and would finally exact revenge when they nailed him for Watergate. But in 1950, Nixon defeated the liberal Hollywood actress Helen Gahagan Douglas for the U.S. Senate. He was one of the first politicians to directly link Hollywood with Communism and general anti-American sympathies, an accusation leveled with every bit as much fervor today as in the 1950s.

Nixon was chosen as Dwight Eisenhower's running mate in 1952, and served as an influential, muscular Vice President for eight years. Ike strove to walk a fairly moderate course. Nixon was his Right wing "attack dog." In 1954, when the Communists defeated the French at Dienbienphu, Nixon advocated the use of "tactical battlefield nuclear weapons." Eisenhower chose not to do so.

When American business interests in Latin America were threatened by Communist takeovers, Nixon made a courageous trip in which he and his wife (a USC graduate, Patricia Nixon) were spat upon, but the American V.P. stood up to the crowds and earned respect. When Soviet Premier Nikita Kruschev came to the U.S., Nixon took him on. In one famous "kitchen debate" he squared off with the bellicose Soviet leader, defending American-style capitalism against Kruschev's admonitions that the Communist system was superior.

Kruschev also made a trip to San Francisco, where he was given a tour by Nixon of Petrini's supermarket in the upscale Stonestown section of The City. Kruschev looked at the rows and rows of gourmet foods in the market, convinced it was a set-up; that such groceries were not made available to the average consumer on a daily basis. Nixon assured him that it was an ordinary example of goods and services made available to American shoppers, but Kruschev did not believe it, even though it was true.

Nixon was the point man during a series of crises, such as Fidel Castro's take-over of Cuba and Kruschev's infamous "shoe-banging" incident at the United Nations, when he told the West "we will bury you."

In 1960, Nixon beat John Kennedy, but the Presidential election was stolen from him. In Cook County, Illinois (Chicago), Major Richard Daley arranged for Democrats to "vote early, vote often" via multiple, fraudulent votes, pushing JFK over Nixon in electoral-rich Illinois. In Texas, Senator Lyndon Johnson orchestrated the "tombstone votes" of dead Texans for the Kennedy-Johnson ticket. It was a replay of Johnson's fraudulent stealing of the 1948 Texas Senate election. It gave Texas and its electoral votes to the Democrats. The combination of Illinois and Texas was just enough to push Kennedy into the win column.

Nixon returned to California. He was a tremendous sports fan who had been reading the _Washington Post_ Sunday baseball statistics when the call came in that Eisenhower had suffered a heart attack. He let hyperbole get the best of him when he called the Sports Arena the "best arena in the country" in 1959 (it may have been at the time, but it paled in comparison with the Forum), and especially when he lauded Candlestick as the "finest baseball stadium" in the land at its 1960 opening ceremonies.

Nixon was offered the role of Commissioner of Baseball in 1961, but turned it down. He moved to Beverly Hills and joined a corporate law firm in downtown Los Angeles. In 1962 he ran for Governor of California against a popular Democrat, Edmund "Pat" Brown. Brown's list of accomplishments included the successful state university system, expansion of the junior college system, the water aqueduct supplying the Southland with Northern California water, and implementation of an impressive freeway system, the result of Ike's highway bill enacted in the 1950s.

Brown was something of a rarity of his time: a powerful Northern California political figure. The period between World War II until after Vietnam was one in which Southern California consolidated economic and social power, re-making the state, the West and indeed the rise of conservatism as a winning ideology, into its image. While Nixon was the first, he really only paved the way for Ronald Reagan.

Reagan was a college football player from the Midwest who announced Chicago Cubs games. During a trip to Catalina Island, where the Cubs' held Spring Training, Reagan on a lark went to take a Hollywood screen test. He was met favorably and given a chance to achieve stardom when he portrayed Notre Dame's tragic football hero, George Gipp, in the 1940 classic _Knute Rockne: All-American_.

Reagan never attained true movie greatness. In the end he was weighed, measured and found wanting. An FDR Democrat, Reagan was politically savvy and became president of the Screen Actors Guild. In that role, he saw up close Communism in Hollywood, and worked closely with the Federal government to help weed it out. This earned him the enmity of liberals. Because of on-going investigations of Soviet infiltration, the FBI as in the Nixon-Chambers case was not able to divulge all they knew. The Left used this "shadow of doubt" to cast doubt on Reagan, McCarthy and Right-wing accusers, but the Venona Project and de-classified Soviet archives revealed that Reagan was right. McCarthy was right, too, although his methods had been over the top.

Reagan's movie career fizzled and he went into television, but great success eluded him. He did meet his wife, Nancy Davis, because of his political position. Miss Davis, an aspiring actress, received notice that she was to appear before a committee investigating allegations that she had participated in Communist Party meetings. She had not, and approached Reagan for help in straightening the issue out. They met over dinner, at which time Miss Davis informed Reagan that she was not merely a patriot, that this was obviously a mistake, but that she was a _registered Republican_. This was virtual _prima facie_ evidence that while she might be many things, a Communist was not among them. Her obvious love for America was a strange turn-on for Reagan, and nature took its course. There turned out to be another person, a Communist, who used the fake name of Nancy Davis.

Reagan eventually became a spokesman for Westinghouse following television programs sponsored by the giant corporation. His talks were friendly, engaging and charismatic, with increasingly political overtones. Reagan was concerned with the rise of "big government," advocating a lowering of the tax base, fiscal responsibility, and tough reaction to Soviet adventurism. By 1962, however, he was at loose ends. His acting career had gone no where and his TV speechmaking had run its course. With Kennedy in the White House, Brown re-elected as Governor of California, Nixon beaten twice in three years and Reagan seemingly washed up, the country and its largest state seemed to be trending to the Democrats after a long period of GOP hegemony.

Northern California was regaining some political influence in the early 1960s, but heading into 1962 they had little to cheer up about on the fields of play. Stanford had been a juggernaut for decades. The Indians played in the first Rose Bowl (1902), and won National Championships in 1905, 1926 and 1940. In 1942 they won the NCAA basketball title, and in the early 1950s, led by one of the greatest athletes in history, two-time Olympic decathlon champion Bob Mathias, they went to the Rose Bowl.

But in the mid-1950s, in response to rising rents, they established a slush fund to pay their football recruits. When the NCAA investigated, Stanford knew they would be caught. They also knew similar violations had occurred at rivals California, Washington, USC and UCLA. Stanford cut a deal with the NCAA, turning in the other programs in order to avoid penalties of their own. But the resulting scandal had a terrible impact on the Pacific Coast Conference, reducing its prestige just as they were rebounding from post-war doldrums. Stanford went into a prolonged down period.

UCLA, who had caught up to and surpassed USC as a football dynasty, was set back and would not regain their footing until football coach Tommy Prothro and basketball coach John Wooden led the Bruins into a period of sustained excellence in the 1960s. USC was hit hard, going through a brutal one-victory football season in 1957, while their baseball team was denied a National Championship in 1959 because of NCAA penalties. When coach John McKay was hired, they made a glorious comeback in 1962, going unbeaten to capture their first National title since 1939.

But California took the biggest hit of all. This was one of the greatest collegiate football programs in the nation. Its "Wonder Teams" of the early 1920s are to this day considered one of the greatest of all dynasties. When World War II broke out, Notre Dame had won three National Championships (1924, 1929, 1930). California had won four (1920, 1921, 1922, 1937). California captured three consecutive PCC titles (1948-50), but a crucial test of its national mettle, not to mention conference honor, was not met when they were beaten in three straight Rose Bowls by Big 10 foes of varying degrees of greatness.

Until 1960, California's all-around athletic program was second only to USC's, with a strong challenge from UCLA. The Golden Bears beat George H.W. Bush's Yale Bulldogs in the first College World Series (1947) and repeated the act a decade later. Legendary basketball coach Pete Newell led Cal to the 1959 National Championship and a repeat Final Four performance in 1960. But an incident in 1959, combined with changing socio-political dynamics at the school, prophesied their demise.

USC featured twin brothers, Mike and Marlin McKeever, on their defensive line. Known as the "Twin holy terrors of Mt. Carmel High," they were monsters of size, strength and intimidation of the day. Hopes of restoring USC to the greatness known under Howard Jones were pinned on them.

In a 1959 game at Berkeley, Mike McKeever tackled Cal's Steve Bates. Bates was injured on the play. There were immediate accusations that it was a late hit and a dirty play. California actually _sued USC_ over the play. _Sports Illustrated_ made a big splash about it, using it as an example of increased violence in college football.

During the course of pre-trial, a film was produced which demonstrated that McKeever's hit was clean, thus exonerating USC and its star player. Instead of apologizing and admitting its error, Cal simply began lying about the event in a shallow effort to make USC look like thugs, much as they had done 25 years earlier.

Frustrated over increasing domination by the Trojans and Bruins, California chose not to try harder and compete with greater intensity, but rather to de-emphasize sports; to try and put forth the fiction that victory on the field of play was really not important, in a vain effort to de-emphasize the greatness of the L.A. schools (which under the likes of John McKay and John Wooden were embarking on a period of total sports dominance never equaled before or since).

Cal's sports fortunes would sink and sink and sink for decades. It can be argued that, while they have certainly improved, they never recovered from athletic de-escalation. A political dynamic began to play out as the 1960s began. USC was seen as the conservative, patriotic, more Republican institution. Cal and Stanford took on Left-wing tendencies, and found every reason to despise Southern California – the school and the region – for reasons that extended well beyond athletic competition. Berkeley – the school and the city - became the home of the free speech and anti-war movements. Stanford, a largely conservative, private institution, took just as big a turn to the Left, and expressed just as much hatred of USC as Cal. This was odd, since its students came from at least as much wealth as those from the dumbly derided University of _Spoiled Children_. Cal and Stanford students inanely waved credit cards (which belonged to them!) and did Nazi salutes when the Trojan band played "Conquest," which they did regularly as USC demolished its northern "opponents" in the manner of Caesar defeating Gaul.

As Vietnam heated up, the social intensity became more pronounced. Stanford went so far as to play a "tribute to Chairman Mao," the leader of Communist China who, at the time of the "tribute," was engaging in the Cultural Revolution, in which an estimated 55 million human beings were slaughtered under his rule. Berkeley's performance was even more atrocious. There is little way to describe its campus in the 1960s other than to say it was the _de facto_ staging grounds of American Communism, giving aid and comfort to Hanoi and all enemies of America. Varsity athletes at Berkeley were disdained almost as much as uniformed soldiers. Sports were viewed as _bourgeoisie capitalism_. When the Oakland Raiders came into existence, they were forced to play first at Kezar Stadium in San Francisco, and then a local high school field until the Coliseum could be built. Cal denied them use of Memorial Stadium because they felt that athletes _being paid to perform_ was an example of capitalist inequality somehow similar to slave auctions.

Cal's decision to de-emphasize sports came at an inopportune time in that its East Bay surroundings were going through a period of sports glory that may never have seen its equal. Incredible athletes came from the nearby fields and gyms of Oakland, Alameda, and Berkeley itself. Within a relatively short time, this area had produced the likes of Jackie Jensen, Billy Martin, Frank Robinson, Bill Russell, Paul Silas, Vada Pinson, Curt Flood, Len Gabrielson, Joe Morgan, Joe Caldwell, and Willie Stargell. San Francisco would mirror Cal, in that this once-great sports paradise became a "dead zone" of prep athletic talent, but in the 1950s they had their "last hurrah." Basketball star K.C. Jones of Commerce High School teamed with Bill Russell to lead the University of San Francisco to two straight NCAA titles and 60 consecutive victories before they both embarked on Hall of Fame careers in Boston. Bob St. Clair, Gino Marchetti and Ollie Matson played high school and college football in San Francisco before becoming pro Hall of Famers. 49ers Hall of Famer John Henry Johnson played St. Mary's College in Moraga. Jim Gentile was a power-hitting San Franciscan who had a fine career with the Baltimore Orioles. Doug Camilli and Gino Cimoli both played for the Dodgers.

But despite the tremendous sports talent growing up in their very neighborhood, few found there way to Cal after Oakland's Jackie Jensen, an All-American halfback who later was the American League's Most Valuable Player with the 1958 Boston Red Sox.

Both Cal and Stanford had been imbued with every gift that God can bestow upon His children; beautiful environments set in marvelous mountain and canyon settings; great weather; prime locations that combined close proximity to an important city while maintaining suburban trappings of safety and convenience; large populations to feed it in an atmosphere of intellectual curiosity; and great high school sports programs naturally prepping future All-Americans for Golden Bear and Indian glory! These colleges both wasted its gifts, resulting in sports defeats and much scorn.

UCLA was not immune to Vietnam War protests, but remained relatively moderate in comparison with the over the top anti-Americanism at Cal and Stanford. The social rivalries of the colleges were mirrored by the populations as a whole. There was certainly unrest in the Southland. Latinos chafed under white rule despite making up a huge portion of the populace. Blacks were routinely roughed up by the almost all white L.A.P.D., and in 1965 would explode in the Watts riots. But Southern California remained a city with a white, Christian, Republican base. Its Mayor, Sam Yorty, was a reactionary Right-winger, at least by California standards. Like Reagan, he saw fit to switch to the Republicans. Television shows like _Dragnet_ portrayed cops as "do good" straight arrows keeping the city safe from unrighteous elements.

Even Hollywood, despite years of Communist infiltration, was still ruled by the last of the studio bosses; patriarchal, conservative patriots like Darryl Zanuck and Jack Warner. In 1962, Zanuck produced his _magnum opus_ , _The Longest Day_ starring John Wayne leading a cast of stars. It portrayed America's messianic role in the "salvation" of Europe via the monumental D-Day invasion of June 6, 1944, when U.S. forces began the liberation of France and Europe from the clutches of Nazi evil.

The social rivalry between Northern and Southern California, which was becoming evident among college football crowds, was starting to make itself apparent at Giants-Dodgers games; not at Dodger Stadium, where fans just enjoyed baseball, but at Candlestick Park. It was as if the inferiority of Candlestick Park, so glaring and obvious, demonstrated a like inferiority among the Bar Area citizenry. The result was intense hatred of the Los Angeles Dodgers, regardless of the fact that much of its roster consisted of players from outside the state.

Foul language, thrown garbage, and anti-social behavior was just beginning to mark the action of the Giants' fans in 1962, although it would intensify and become much worse over ensuing decades. The unique differences between San Francisco and Los Angeles now gave the ancient Giants-Dodgers rivalry something entirely unique and different from its New York days. In the Big Apple, both teams chafed under Yankee dominance. Neither the Dodgers' Brooklyn neighborhood or the Giants' Harlem slum had substantially greater or worse attributes than the other; both were inferior. The underdog role was filled by both teams and their supporters in a city where winning, power and success were valued above all other traits.

In many ways, the move to California had intensified things despite adding some 337 miles to the team's physical separation from each other. The distance created a larger chasm that now demonstrated itself in the weather; the cityscape characteristics of L.A. and San Francisco; the general attitude towards each area's surrounding physical environment; and numerous other factors.

By 1962, there were few areas of common interest. Everything seemed to be different, and therefore to be compared with one or the other claiming superiority: the newspapers, the uniforms, the announcers, the stadiums . . .

California was in boom times, but even this caused angst. The fuel, armaments, aerospace, and shipbuilding industries, which were an economic juggernaut, had come to be known as the Military Industrial Complex. Despite its benefits - strength against Communism, its tax base, and employment for thousands - Northern Californians looked askance at it. President Dwight Eisenhower, in his closing address of 1961, had warned that Americans not allow it to be the dominant political _ethos_ of the modern era. The increasing anti-war activism of the Bay Area would, over the course of the decade, deride it and, of course, its Los Angeles environs, as evil.

The automotive industry also had a political element attached to it. Los Angelenos loved their cars. San Franciscans loved their cable cars. People in the Bay Area chastised the Southland for their smog. L.A. was virtually the only major metropolis with no rapid transit system and smog was rampant there. Automakers, despite employing thousands at factories in the state, were excoriated.

"It was an old conceit, this belief in the automobile as haven in a heartless world, and of the freeway as an untrammeled frontier," wrote author David Rieff. "Cowboys don't ride buses. The act feels like a demotion from one's Americanness."

Northern Californians and Berkeley Leftists had a difficult time coming to grips with their own contributions to atomic and nuclear arms research. Cutting edge technological breakthroughs took place at the Lawrence Laboratories in Berkeley and Livermore.

Northern Californians found the musical tastes of Los Angelenos frivolous. The "surf craze" stylings of Dick Dale and the Deltones, The Surfaris, Ventures, Jan and Dean, and of course The Beach Boys, were optimistic refrains of American culture. Writer Michael Stern called it a "carefree cosmology of twanging guitars, hot-rod cars, the smells of suntan lotion and sizzling cheeseburgers at an oceanside drive-in, and girls in bikinis and guys in tight white Levi's . . . a fountain of eternal youth, represented by the ocean's waves and a sun that always shone."

Los Angelenos looked at the Bohemianism of San Francisco's North Beach and derided it as "weird . . . queer . . . un-American." This was the beatnik culture of Allen Ginsburg, the promotion of the gay lifestyle, the advocation for abortion as a "liberating" force for women "enslaved" by Christianity and marriage vows. Writers, poets, and musicians descended upon North Beach and the Sausalito houseboat community that would produce The Grateful Dead, Jefferson Starship and other offbeat rock bands. Strip clubs on Broadway flaunted vice laws. Jazz stylings were performed at the Purple Onion and hungry i. Comedians Lenny Bruce and Mort Sahl aired all manner of grievance against society. The Kingston Trio made music a folk/political statement. Literary voices of California had traditionally been liberal, slanted towards Northern or Central California: William Saroyan. Jack Kerouac, John Steinbeck. Filmmaker George Lucas would make the seminal movie about 1962. _American Graffiti_ portrayed the Central California enclave of Modesto.

At Cal-Berkeley, the Free Speech Movement was underway, petitioning against anything and everything. The Left, emboldened by Senator Joseph McCarthy's fall and not yet disabused of their notions by the Venona Project, protested the "Blacklist" of Hollywood's Communist screenwriters and the House Un-American Activities Committee, which held hearings at San Francisco City Hall. Young Democrat President John F. Kennedy was picketed at Berkeley's Greek Theatre in 1962 because of the Bay of Pigs and the growing military presence in Vietnam. He was also too moderate for their tastes when it came to civil rights.

The general unhappiness that marked the San Francisco condition manifested itself in the city's national lead in suicides, most of which came when people threw themselves off the Golden Gate Bridge. While Los Angeles was a "car culture," its drag racing youth portrayed in rebel movies, it was San Francisco that had the highest accident rate. Cars were constantly running into each other on its twisting, turning roads.

Los Angeles was viewed by the intellectual elite's as a place of "air heads" who neither read nor contemplated very much. "Thought is barred in this city of Dreadful Joy, and conversation is unknown," wrote Aldous Huxley, author of _Brave New World_.

For the first time, California became the most populous state in the union in 1962, but of course most of this came about via growth in the seemingly endless L.A. Basin. Northern Californians derided it and issued Apocalyptic warnings about overpopulation.

The weather and geography was unique to each culture. Los Angeles is essentially a desert; a Southwest terrain of chaparrals, Santa Ana winds and an endless strand of beach. It rained very little and maintained warm year-round high temperatures. A Rose Bowl Game played on New Year's Day could easily be played under 90-degree sunny skies.

The city of Los Angeles, which had annexed the San Fernando Valley in a move derided by screenwriter Robert Towne's _Chinatown_ , is as large as a small country. San Francisco is a mere 47 square miles, enshrouded by fog, drizzle-rain, and brisk wind. The coastline is rocky and perilous. Cypress and eucalyptus trees, ravaged by ages of harsh weather, stand like battered sentries above the cold Pacific Ocean, where whales were spotted and given religious protection by the environmentalists who worshipped them as they frolicked in white-capped waters.

San Francisco consists of 42 hills overlooking the bay and the ocean. Cable cars and buses, some connected to electric wires above, traversed the city. Its main businesses were shipping, banking and insurance.

San Francisco's Chinatown was a world unto itself. The tradition of Barbary Coast opium dens, a district of whore houses and saloons that catered to rough-and-tumble seafarers on shore leave during the middle of the 19th Century, was carried forward in a "live and let live" anything goes ethic. This existed in easy confluence with the sophisticated elegance of tuxedo-wearing operagoers. Men wore suits and women elegant gowns simply to go to dinner. Shopping was reserved for a downtown excursion to Union Square, not some suburban mall. Eastern styles prevailed.

"In 1962 America, it would have been impossible to find two places as geographically close but as profoundly different as San Francisco and Los Angeles," wrote David Plaut in _Chasing October_. "On the map, they were cities in the same state. By all other comparisons, they were worlds apart . . .

"San Franciscans _knew_ they were superior to Los Angeles, and truly believed their city was also the most civilized and sophisticated in the country - perhaps even the world."

"The rivalry is reflex built at birth," wrote _San Francisco Chronicle_ columnist Herb Caen. "It is firmly a part of the mystique of each city - and why not? In this era of blandness verging on torpor, and conformity close to non-think, it's fun to have an object of automatic disdain so close at hand."

Meanwhile, back in New York, the Yankees stood like the Colossus of Rhodes over all they surveyed. To them the Giants and Dodgers were humdrum, second rate ball clubs in minor league towns, fighting for the remaining crumbs that their baseball empire had left for them. To New Yorkers, any argument between San Francisco and Los Angeles, whether it was baseball-related or otherwise, was a minor disagreement between colonial provinces

The heroes

"You can't compare Joe to me."

\- Willie Mays's assessment of Joe DiMaggio

It starts with the center fielders. In the 1950s there were three: Mickey Mantle of the Yankees, Willie Mays of the Giants, and Duke Snider of the Dodgers. These three Hall of Famers embodied their respective championship teams, and were compared endlessly by fans of each during a time referred as the "golden age" of New York sports. It was a time of baseball greatness, but also one of the great eras of the New York (football ) Giants, whose great running back, Frank Gifford, was a golden boy from USC.

In retrospect, California probably went on to enjoy even greater "golden ages" than New York in the 1950s. In the 1960s and 1970s, California sports would see great champions in different sports that dwarfed all previous runs. Combinations of dynasties and titles won by the Dodgers, A's, Lakers, Trojans and Bruins created dynamics not seen in New York, which after World War II had little in the way of national college powerhouses. The 1962 season was a particularly good California sports year; one that would be duplicated and surpassed in various succeeding seasons.

But New York in the 1950s resonated more deeply. There was a greater connective tissue among the fan bases at Yankee Stadium, the Polo Grounds and Ebbets Field than later would be found among disparate crowds at the Forum, Dodger Stadium, Pauley Pavilion, and the Oakland Coliseum.

The center field comparisons carried over to the California years, adding new dimensions to the discussion. Joe DiMaggio was the great superstar whose shadow hung over all three of the New York stars in the 1950s. Naturally, the most immediate discussion concerned DiMaggio and Mantle, since both were Yankees. Mantle's rookie year was DiMaggio's final season, and the great star never made it easy on the "Commerce Comet" from Oklahoma.

Joe D.'s presence hung over Mantle for a decade, not to be exorcised in any appreciable manner until Mickey's run for Babe Ruth's single-season home run record of 60 with teammate Roger Maris in 1961.

Los Angelenos never really took to the Compton-raised Snider, immediately hampered by distant Coliseum fences. Similarly, San Franciscans distanced themselves from Mays for varying reasons, not the least of which was the fact that The City considered DiMaggio every bit as much _their_ property as New York's. He was a San Francisco kid. The era in which DiMaggio emerged from Galileo High School and ascended to the big leagues was a special time in San Francisco Bay Area high school sports. A plethora of tremendous athletes came from The City and the surrounding areas included the likes of Vince and Dom DiMaggio (Joe's brothers, both Major Leaguers), Tony Lazzeri, Lefty Gomez, Dario Lodigiani, Joe Cronin, Jerry Coleman, Bobby Brown, Gil McDougald, Joe DeMaestri, Matt Hazeltine, Charlie Silvera, and many others.

DiMaggio hardly even played at Galileo. Apparently he flunked out of school and discovered his extraordinary talents at nearby Funston Playground near his North Beach home (the Italian section of San Francisco). On the recommendation of his older brother Vince, he signed on with the San Francisco Seals before his high school class graduated. DiMaggio was not terribly interested in baseball; he often had to be cajoled by friends to play sandlot ball, but once he discovered a regular paycheck his enthusiasm grew.

The Galileo connection has been touted ever since. The school, located on the outskirts of the Marina district (today a fashionable neighborhood of upscale young professionals) has never been a prep powerhouse to be compared with Concord De La Salle, San Mateo Serra, Santa Ana Mater Dei, Long Beach Poly, or any of the mythical programs of the Golden State's storied past.

Nevertheless, Galileo boasts the unique fact that they produced baseball, basketball and football players who at one time were each considered the best in the world at his respective sport. Aside from DiMaggio (baseball), basketball star Hank Luisetti was said to have invented the jump shot and led Stanford to the heights of glory. O.J. Simpson claimed he had a relatively average prep career because all his blockers were "little Chinese kids," but in the early and mid-1970s he was the best running back in the NFL.

Mays quickly discovered just how loyal San Franciscans were to DiMaggio when he experienced boos in his early years at Seals Stadium, Joe's old stomping grounds. The sensitive Mays, who had felt so at home among the large black population surrounding the Polo Grounds, detected a racial dynamic in the taunts, even though great love was freely given to the Puerto Rican Orlando Cepeda and even to his fellow African-American from Alabama, Willie McCovey.

San Francisco was not in all ways the liberal bastion many would have one believe. It never had a large black population. San Francisco's blacks were pushed into a small corner of the city near Candlestick Park. Bay Area blacks congregated in larger numbers in Oakland, Richmond, and to a lesser extent in Marin City and Vallejo. In the mid-1960s, Oakland's Curt Flood, a rising star with the St. Louis Cardinals, decided to move his young family to San Francisco.

A sensitive type, he was a budding _artiste_ , a canvas painter who saw in San Francisco a cultural kindred spirit. Instead, he was met by petitions from neighbors who wanted no blacks moving in.

Years later, Mays's Godson, Barry Bonds hit his 500th career home run before wildly cheering Pac Bell Park fans. Mays was asked if the nice reception, after a similarly cold initial relationship between Bonds and his hometown, reminded Willie of the way he had to earn San Francisco's respect in a town devoted to DiMaggio.

"You can't compare Joe to me," Mays replied. It was not said with a smile on his face. He resented DiMaggio and the fact that San Francisco loved one of their own more than him. He immediately called it racism and never deterred from that assessment. Bonds learned from the Mays playbook. Whenever he was backed into a corner, his lies about steroids or various other absurdities exposed to the public, he reacted to the public's disdain of his unimpressive behavior with the usual "it's because I'm black" ridiculousness.

****

"To all Americans, Mickey Mantle epitomizes the Golden Age of American sport: he is the quintessential hero of a time when much was right with the world, and nothing was ever wrong with the New York Yankees," wrote Mickey Herskowitz in _All My Octobers_. Mantle embodies something so elusive it cannot be grasped. It is something Roman generals understood.

After conquering distant lands, Roman leaders returned to Rome, leading great processions through the streets. Amid huge cheering, the enslaved soldiers of defeated foes were paraded before the populace along with exotic animals from the conquered territories. The Roman generals were accorded literal god-like status. Amid the _hubris_ a slave would be assigned to whisper in their ears, "All glory is fleeting."

No place is this truer than in America. American heroes are the biggest in history. One could argue that Dwight Eisenhower, Abraham Lincoln and Douglas MacArthur are world figures of such esteem, status and wide-ranging impact upon history as to be second only to the living Christ. This seems rather preposterous at first glance until one attempts a list of those whose place in the annals of Mankind is greater. Who are they? Genghis Khan? Oliver Cromwell? Joan of Arc? King Henry VIII? Michelangelo? After sorting out all the criteria one is left to accede to the fact that America's place in the world, and therefore our greatest heroes' place in the world, is overshadowed only by Biblical figures.

But as huge as these people are, America in her egalitarian way strips these "gods" of their esteem in short order. Term limits, shifting public opinion, and Democracy in its purest form reduces the time in which cheering adoration marks their lives. They are left for retirement and the history books. Doug MacArthur, for instance, was said to have had a direct impact on over a billion people, but when President Harry Truman fired him, he was just another "old soldier."

There is a similar sense of fleeting heroism found in sports heroes. Mantle is the most fleeting, tragi-comic of them all. In terms of adoration, on-field success, and sustained greatness, it can be argued that Mantle surpassed all others; Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Willie Mays, Ted Williams, Joe Montana, Michael Jordan, Barry Bonds, Pele, or any athletic god before or since. This is not to say he was the best. Most would agree Mays was a little better. Ruth was probably superior. DiMaggio's statistics are not as good, but his most avid supporters say there was a style and grace to him that cannot be measured by lifetime home runs or batting average.

But Mantle was something beyond even DiMaggio. First, his Yankees dominated as nobody ever dominated. Not even DiMaggio's teams were as unbeatable. DiMaggio was a hero to Italian-Americans, who loved him because he saved them from a pervasive image of themselves as either Mobsters or Mussolini Fascists. DiMaggio was a clean-cut Californian and the press cultivated his grace as they later protected JFK from the truth of his sexual excesses. But in fact DiMaggio regularly hung out with Mafiosi, albeit in a more discreet manner than his contemporary, the brash Frank Sinatra.

Mantle was blonde and boyishly handsome. He was the All-American boy from Oklahoma at a time when those OK creds were quite exceptional. His superstardom ran parallel with coach Bud Wilkinson's astounding 47-game winning streak at OU. The combination of Mantle, a great high school football player, and the coach he turned down in order to sign with the Yankees, is revered to this day as the official end of the Dust Bowl.

DiMaggio played in the Depression '30s and had his career interrupted by World War II. Unlike rival Ted Williams, a Marine fighter pilot and John Wayne character, DiMaggio spent the war years comfortably playing ball for service teams in Hawaii. Mantle's career was never broken up by such challenges to America. He tried to volunteer for the Army, as the Korean War raged in the first three years of his career, but his many physical ailments made him 4-F. Instead, he and the Yankees resembled American superiority. It was as if the Army had dominated all rivals in order to make it safe for the Yankees to ride to glory in peaceful times.

DiMaggio probably was in the public eye even more after retirement than he was during his playing days, when he married Marilyn Monroe. When Marilyn went to Korea on a USO tour, insane G.I. cheers met her. After writhing provocatively for the boys, _almost_ fulfilling their most carnal fantasies, she returned and breathlessly exclaimed to DiMaggio, "Joe, Joe, you never heard such cheering."

"Yes I have," replied Joe without a trace of cheerfulness.

It was a telling reply, implicit in the notion that no Hollywood actor, or rock star, or celebrity figure of any kind, is as revered as our greatest sports heroes are. The true New York Sports Icon is the highest on the pecking order. But this again goes back to the "fleeting" nature of glory. DiMaggio spent the rest of his life peeved that no matter how hard he tried, the kind of cheering Marilyn described – even at old-timers games – could not be duplicated.

Mantle handled it with less grace, albeit more good humor. The great athlete-as-drunk was his unfortunate destiny. The athlete is human. The American hero is not a Greek god, or given divine status by Papal decree. His memory must compete with the attention-deficit world of modern culture. Few transcended it; Ted Williams and John Wooden maybe. It is a short list.

Perhaps the ultimate symbol of Yankee dominance and Mantle's greatness came during a World Series game at Ebbets Field. Mantle stepped to the plate at a crucial juncture amid great jeering and catcalling from a rowdy Brooklyn crowd. He then powered a tape-measure home run, essentially putting another win away for his club. Insult was added to injury when his shot bounced, caromed and dented multiple cars parked beyond the fence.

Mantle was diagnosed with a crippling disease, osteomyelitis, during his rookie year. In the 1951 World Series, he tripped over a sprinkler and was hospitalized. It was the beginning of numerous physical maladies. DiMaggio spent a night in the same room, recovering from some minor ailment. Their careers were paralleled by constant injuries. It probably afforded Mickey the chance to speak with Joe D. more than any other opportunity. He never got used to DiMaggio's star power.

Mick's injuries seemed to be a pattern started within his own family. His father, his uncle and his grandfather all died by the time they were 40. All had Hodgkin's disease, their demises most likely exacerbated by life, such as it was, in the mineshafts they toiled in. Mantle desperately wanted to avoid such a life, but despite successfully escaping the mines for the bright lights of Manhattan, it hung over him like the Grim Reaper. No matter how many home runs he hit, no matter how much fun he had with Whitey Ford and Billy Martin, and no matter how beautiful the women he squired about town while his dutiful wife raised their sons in Dallas, he could not escape what he was convinced was the Hodgkin's, just waiting to ravage his great body as it had his elders. Asked why he did not take care of himself - drink less, sleep more, come to the park early for treatment – he said that he did not expect to live much past 40 and therefore would live the way he chose.

Mantle married his high school sweetheart, but she never lived in New York. He usually stayed in swank hotels like the St. Moritz, living a room service existence of parties and excess. Ford, a sophisticated New Yorker who Mick nicknamed "Slick," showed him the Latin Quarter, Toots Shors, the Copacabana, and dozens of other hot sports. Ford pitched every four or five days and could pick and choose his party nights, but Mantle was often hung over. Billy Martin was almost as much of a rube as Mantle. The feisty second baseman from Berkeley, California got hooked on the alcoholic lifestyle, too. A 1957 brawl at the Copa involving numerous Yankees was the "last straw." Mantle and Ford were superstars. Martin was a fine player but expendable with Bobby Richardson, a devout Christian, waiting in the wings. Martin was shuffled off to Kansas City, a virtual Yankee "farm club" in the 1950s.

Mantle's father, nicknamed "Mutt," was a huge baseball fan. He named his son after Tigers catcher Mickey Cochrane. As a child, Mick accompanied his old man to Sportsman's Park in St. Louis to watch the Cardinals play. The father taught him how to switch-hit and he was simply extraordinary. Discovered by Yankees scout Tom Greenwade, Mantle signed and reported to Spring Training in 1951. That year, the Giants and Yankees traded Spring Training sites, so the Yanks were in Phoenix, Arizona. One of their owners, Del Webb was a hotelier and construction magnate who owned resorts in Arizona and California.

Mantle was 19 years old. His high school and minor league record was the talk of the sporting press. Manager Casey Stengel built him up as the next great star center fielder to replace DiMaggio. The pressure was intense.

"This is the kind of kid a scout dreams of," said Bill Essick, who signed Tony Lazzeri, Lefty Gomez, Frank Crosetti and Joe DiMaggio. "If you come up with one like this once in your lifetime, you're lucky."

With DiMaggio in center field, Mantle was tried out at several other positions, including shortstop. His wild throws were a danger to fans sitting behind first base. "I could never begin to fill the shoes of Joe DiMaggio," said Mick. "All I can do is my best, and I'll sure give that. It's a great break for me."

In his rookie year (1951), the teenage switch-hitter slumped and was sent to Kansas City. He called his father, telling him he was not good enough for the big leagues and wanted to come home. Mutt drove from Commerce to Kansas City, knocked on his son's hotel room door, and without sitting down demanded that the boy pack his bags before wasting any more time.

Mickey was dumbfounded. He expected support from his dad. Instead, his father told him if he was a quitter he might as well get it over with. Mick held back – "not so fast" – suddenly realizing the implications of his actions. Mutt made his son defend himself, letting him talk his own way back to the team. Realizing he really wanted to play ball, Mickey began to hit at Kansas City and was called back up to New York. In the remainder of the 1951 season, Mantle was effective in right field while DiMaggio played out his last year.

He batted .267 with 13 home runs, but displayed remarkable speed on the base paths and in the field. Mantle was an expert drag bunter, often dropping one down in order to break a slump. The Yankees were never a team that stole bases very much, so Mantle did not make many attempts, but had he chosen to in his prime and without injuries, he would have been a stolen base champion.

Stereotypes have often painted the picture of the black player as the better "natural" athlete. Mays certainly was a gifted, athletic player _par excellence_ , but Mantle _sans_ injury may have been the most incredible physical specimen in baseball history. His injuries and osteomyelitis, which sidelined him during the winning 1951 World Series (against Mays's Giants) foreshadowed his entire career.

Mantle's speed (he is said to have been the fastest man ever to run around all four bases) was always hampered by physical ailments. Pain was an impossible-to-ignore factor. But in the 1950s, at least until mid-decade, these factors did little to diminish his greatness. Historians who look over his entire career and say he could have been better may point to Mantle in the 1960s, but the Mick from 1952 to 1961 was such a marvel that it defies logic to state that anything actually _held him back!_

Mantle put up incredible numbers. As a second-year player in 1952, he batted .311 with 23 home runs and 94 runs batted in, leading what was now _his_ team to a third straight World Championship in the first year of DiMaggio's retirement. In 1953, 1954 and 1955, his physical maladies kept him from reaching his full potential, either sidelining him entirely or slowing him down. He had been so good in 1952, combined with youth and obviously unmatched talent, that anything less than performances matching DiMaggio, Babe Ruth or Lou Gehrig in their primes was met with some scorn.

Yankee Stadium crowds were like overfed Roman Colosseum patricians, bored and unshocked no matter the gladiatorial spectacle below. They had seen it all and were utterly spoiled by it, in contrast with hungry Ebbets Field patrons begging for their "Bums" to finally give them victory.

Yankee beat writers and New York sports columnists were just as unforgiving, finding fault in Mantle's toothy country demeanor, Okie accent (read: lack of intelligence) and, with Korea still raging, his 4-F status after unsuccessfully trying to enlist in the Army. .300 was not good enough. His 37 homers in 1955 were shy of 40; if he had hit 47 they would have said he should have hit 50. After five straight World Series champions, the 1955 Yankees were beaten by the skin of their teeth by Brooklyn. Mantle's .200 average and one RBI in the Series did not help his cause. Snider of the winning Dodgers was the toast of the town; a more media-savvy Californian. The astonishing Mays was more . . . astonishing, with his insane catches and throws, his cap flying off, the stolen bases and look-over-the-shoulder base running style.

In 1956 Mantle simply went out and did things on the field that shut all critics up, but good. If 10 knowledgeable baseball people were to descend upon a sports bar and enter into a discussion based on the question, _Who had the greatest season ever?_ then Mantle's 1956 campaign is as worthy as anybodys.

He earned the Triple Crown by leading the league in batting average (.353), home runs (52) and RBIs (130), not to mention an incredible .705 slugging percentage with 132 run scored (all of this in a 154-game schedule). He was sensational in center field and added three home runs in a redeeming World Series win over Brooklyn. It was the perfect season.

Mickey followed that up with a .365 average in 1957, which incredibly did not lead the league because ancient Ted Williams batted .388. In 1958 he powered 42 homers with 121 RBIs. His two series clouts led New York to victory over the Milwaukee Braves in the World Series.

With Duke's Dodgers and Willie's Giants gone to California, Mantle seemingly was king of New York, but despite doing all that seemingly could be done, he found critics who noticed that he had not quite repeated the heroics of 1956. His .285 average and 31 homers were not enough, it was said, when Chicago edged the Bronx Bombers for the 1959 American League pennant (after the club had won eight of the previous nine).

In 1960, frustration set in. Mantle hit 40 home runs and drove in 119, but batted only .275. He was spectacular in the World Series, slamming three homers while batting .400, but nobody cared since the club managed to lose an improbable seven-game slugfest to Pittsburgh. But what really tarnished Mick's gold was Roger Maris, a newcomer from the Kansas City A's. Maris hit fewer homers (39) and drove in fewer runs (98) while batting .283, but the writers awarded this lesser player with the Most Valuable Player award that should have been awarded to Mick for the third time (he had won back-to-back MVPs in 1956-57).

Mantle was a victim of his own success. In the mid-1950s, he played the game of baseball as well as it can be humanly played. In succeeding years, he had continued to be a superstar, but it was not enough for many, especially in the Big Apple. Fans booed and catcalled him. The press found fault with him. Maris, the new kid on the block, was favored.

Stories of Mantle's carousing were now out in the open. The 1957 incident at the famed Copacabana nightclub had opened the lid on Yankee party habits. Hank Bauer and Billy Martin had gotten involved in a fight, with Martin scapegoated by the club. But the New York newspaper scene was becoming more like the tabloid press we see today. A gossip columnist named Dorothy Kilgallen took to detailing Mantle's escapade's around Manhattan - Jilly's, Toots Shors, P.J. Clarke's, the Latin Quarter – with veiled references to beautiful women (not his wife) in his company. The club did not like it. Neither did Merlyn Mantle, the "little woman" back in Texas.

But events turn on strange peculiarities. In this case, Mantle found his star in New York because Maris was better. In 1961, Ralph Houk took over for the aging, rubber-faced Casey Stengel. Houk was a former Yankee player, a hard-nosed combat veteran who had a human touch to him. Oddly, Mickey and Casey had never quite meshed, even though Casey had mentored and led the young Mickey through the thicket of youthful fame to full-blown superstardom. Houk revered Mantle, making it clear it was his team to lead.

Maris was a simple Midwesterner from Fargo, North Dakota. The Oklahoma country boy Mantle identified with him and they became friends, known as the "M&M Boys." Maris was happily married, a "fish out of water" in New York. Whereby Mick caroused, chased girls and lived the New York high life, Maris wanted none of it. Mantle admired Roger's dedication, on and off the field. Maris lived in a quiet neighborhood in Queens, far off the beaten path of New York celebrityhood. Early in the season, Mantle had to be carried by Ford and teammates back to his fancy suite at the St, Moritz after imbibing too much. Maris was concerned, not for moralistic reasons, but because he wanted his teammate at his best for the club's betterment.

Maris suggested that Mantle move into his place in Queens, where he roomed with Bob Cerv and had an extra room. Mantle resisted at first but decided to re-dedicate himself. Living with Maris, he slept more, drank less, and ate Roger's home cooking. The two found further common bond, and went on a tear. By August, both men were making a serious run at Babe Ruth's all-time single-season home run record of 60, set in 1927.

An odd dynamic played itself out. Mantle, considered a slight underachiever after his consecutive MVPs of 1956-57; blamed for some post-season failures despite one of the game's greatest October records; became a fan favorite because of the contrast with Roger Maris. The fans chose to anoint hero worship status to Mantle, favoring him over his teammate to break Ruth's total.

With both players passing the 50-home run mark and well on pace towards 60, Mantle came down with the flu. Broadcaster Mel Allen suggested his personal physician, a quack named Max Jacobsen who supplied Marilyn Monroe, John F. Kennedy and other celebrities with "feel good" drugs that were barely disguised narcotics. Amazingly, the needle the doctor used to inject the medicine into Mantle's side was infected. A huge abscess developed; a horrible, puss-filled sore that sidelined Mantle for a key period. Mick missed so many games that he lost his chance at the record, settling for a career-high 54 homers to go along with a .317 average and 132 runs batted in.

New York won 109 games, beating out a strong Detroit club to capture the American League championship. They blasted the overwhelmed Cincinnati Reds in a five-game World Series, establishing themselves as one of the greatest teams in baseball history.

For the second straight season, Mantle was beaten out for the MVP award by Maris, a fine player whose overall statistics, talent and accomplishments were not of Hall of Fame level and certainly did not match Mick's. But re-capturing the World Series after a two-year "drought" made everybody happy. Mantle was now at the height of his fame and status as a true New York Sports Icon, that most rarefied of athletic figures; a position in American and world society that surpasses Hollywood celebrity. Only such world figures as war heroes, astronauts and political giants shone brighter.

Roger Maris was supposed to have been overshadowed by Mickey Mantle, but he beat out his heralded teammate for the MVP award two years in a row. It was Maris who broke Ruth's record, not Mantle. Few if any players brought more grief upon themselves for doing something spectacular than Roger Maris. In light of today's steroid-induced statistics, the way Maris was treated is viewed as unconscionable.

Maris was born in Hibbing, Minnesota, the hometown of rock legend Bob Dylan, in 1934. He grew up in Fargo, North Dakota. Few great athletes have come from North Dakota. Maris is by far the best. He was a fantastic all-around athlete. In the small town atmosphere of Fargo, facing country competition, Maris was a man among boys; his legendary feats on the football and baseball field inspiring awe among the locals.

Maris was fast. He ran kicks back for touchdowns in football and hit majestic high school home runs. He was recruited by college football programs like Mantle had been, but chose professional baseball, coming up with Cleveland in 1957 at the age of 22. He was six-feet tall and weighed about 200 pounds. Maris was a first class defensive right fielder with a strong, accurate arm. A right-handed thrower and left-handed batter, he was a dead-pull, line drive hitter with power. In the days before weights, he had tight, muscular arms; not the kind of massive upper body strength Mantle possessed, but explosive, quick.

In 1958 Maris was traded from Cleveland to Kansas City. He hit an impressive 28 home runs for both clubs. The A's had been a mainstay in Philadelphia for decades under legendary owner-manager Connie Mack, but the old man retired and quickly passed away. Under subsequent management, the A's became a virtual Yankees "farm club." They developed prospects and then sold them to New York. By the late 1950s it was a joke.

The Maris trade was the "last straw." In 1958 and 1959, rumors spread that Maris's trade from the Indians to the A's had been organized by the Yankees in order to ease his transition to the Big Apple. The Indians could not outright trade a star to their greatest rivals at a time in which they were yearly contenders. In 1959, New York struggled to a 79-75 finish, in third place well behind Chicago and Cleveland. The press found plenty to blame: Casey Stengel, who fell asleep during games; Mantle, who batted .265 with 75 RBIs; or the general nature of the club, seemingly more interested in the post-game party than on-field success.

Weiss had his eye on Maris, who was a reasonable home run threat normally, but whose dead-pull left-handed swing was made for the short, 290-foot right field line at Yankee Stadium. More importantly, however, was Maris's attitude. He was a grinder, a hard worker. The Yankees were becoming a country club, blinded by New York's bright lights. A happily married Christian fella was just what the doctor ordered. On December 11, 1959, the trade was effectuated. Hard-livin' Hank Bauer, one of the players involved in the infamous Copa brawl, was dealt to K.C. along with Don Larsen, the perfect game ace whose nocturnal activities hurt his cause. Over-the-hill Joe DeMaestri, prospect Norm Siebern and little-regarded Kent Hadley were also dealt to the Athletics.

Bob Cerv, an unassuming Midwesterner who fit the new mold, came shortly thereafter and roomed with Maris. The league immediately cried foul. Roger had been leading the American League in hitting in May of 1959 before having his appendix removed. White Sox owner Bill Veeck and Cleveland general manager Frank "Trader" exchanged barbs. Lane was roundly criticized for negotiating a Maris trade that had opened the door for his arrival in New York. Weiss made it clear that the Maris trade was meant to shake up the club, and punctuated that statement by cutting salaries across the board. Mantle held out and finally signed with a $7,000 cut. Weiss originally wanted to reduce Mick's pay for $17,000. The salary cuts, while not directly attributable to Maris's presence, were still seen as a message to the club. He was part of that message. Mantle did not resent Maris. He was happy to have another bat in the line-up, but the press read into the situation, looking for controversy.

On Opening Day, 1960 Maris announced his presence with authority, going four-for-five from the leadoff position in an 8-4 win over Ted Williams and Boston. His short left-handed stroke soon began delivering line drive homers down the right field line at the Stadium, and he was moved into a power slot in the order. Mantle and Maris protected each other in the order. Mantle delivered as in past days.

Stengel turned 70 on August 1, with New York in second place behind Chicago, one and a half games back. On August 23 the White Sox arrived at Yankee Stadium for a bizarre two-game series. Fidel Castro's Communist takeover of Cuba dominated the politics of the day, and anti-Castro protestors stormed the field with counter-revolutionary banners. As if to assert their dominance, which always mirrored American global hegemony, the Yankees went on an eight-game tear. Their 97-57 mark was eight games better than second place Baltimore.

Maris earned the MVP award with 39 home runs and 112 runs batted in. He hit two homers in the World Series loss to Pittsburgh. His home run total, while impressive, had been shortened by cracked ribs he suffered after having hit 25 through June 30. Maris's early-season home run production prompted _New York Daily News_ sportswriter Joe Trimble to write an article speculating on the chances of breaking Ruth's hallowed mark.

Trimble said that Ruth's 17 September 1960 home runs made the early pace immaterial, and that the best chance among sluggers of the era were among Mantle, Mays, Eddie Mathews, Ernie Banks, and Harmon Killebrew. But Yankees broadcaster Phil Rizzuto said Maris, with his pull-hitting power at Yankee Stadium, had the best opportunity.

New York's three victories over Pittsburgh in the 1960 World Series came by football scores of 16-3, 10-0 and 12-0, but the Bucs eked out wins in the other games, including a dramatic, comeback 10-9 seventh game win at Forbes Field when Bill Mazeroski slammed a walk-off home run. The seven-game loss to the Pirates led to profound change beginning in 1961. The "Ol' Perfessor" was history. Stengel was fired along with George Weiss. Both ended up with the fledgling New York Mets. 58-year old Roy Hamey replaced Weiss.

The Series defeat also spurred Maris, Mantle, Ford and the Yankees to great heights in 1961 under new manager Ralph Houk. With two first-year teams – the Los Angeles Angels and Washington Senators - added to the American League in 1961, the schedule expanded from 154 to 162 games. The creation of two extra clubs diluted the talent base, particularly among pitching staffs. Commissioner Ford C. Frick was based in New York, and sided with the Yankees. He had not favored the creation of the Mets, but political elements made their formation inevitable. Frick was a traditionalist who walked a fine line. On the one hand, he presided over profound changes in the game in terms of expansion of teams, schedule and geography, but he also resisted change.

The Yankees got off to a slow start in 1961, but adjusted to Houk. He had played with many of them and despite his gruff military demeanor was more personable in his relations with the players than Stengel had been. He also instituted a set line-up, which went over well with regulars. Stengel had constantly platooned, shifting roster spots via trades and minor league call-ups.

Beginning on May 17, Maris went on a tear, hitting 23 homers in 36 games. Early in the season, Houk switched Maris from clean up to third. The move could have engendered animosity from Mantle, for the beneficiary was Roger, but Mickey was a team player who was willing to do anything as long as it "helps the ball club." Mantle continued to protect Maris, who got many pitches to hit, but he also got hot and stayed hot, matching his "M&M" partner longball for longball.

As the summer approached the fall, talk of Mantle's and Maris's chase of Ruth heated up. The comparisons with 1927 were convoluted. In 1927, Ruth was the greatest sports hero in all of American history. Nobody today can truly relate to his place in the pantheon. No current sports star, no matter how great, approaches Ruth's revolutionary place as an athlete or celebrity.

But it goes beyond that. One could argue that, through the travails of man, no country has ever grown, prospered and exploded as American did in the "Roaring '20s." Having won World War I, the United States entered a period of _hubris_ , prosperity and excess never seen at least since Rome's "bread and circuses." They took to sports with unadulterated fervor. With no television and radio a nascent technology, sportswriters were the new heralds, as in the golden throats who informed Romans of Caesar's latest victory, or astounding events in the Colosseum. These writers painted a vivid picture of Ruthian glory.

The country went through two startling decades of Depression and war, with all the profound changes therein. The 1950s resembled the 1920s in that the U.S. now stood on top of the world, the ultimate global powerhouse. Life was seemingly idyllic. The American Way was an unchallenged notion.

But by 1961, there were fissures. The Cold War had reached its height. Half the world opposed us. The threat of nuclear war, of World War III, hung in the air. The Central Intelligence Agency was a shadowy arm of American power, with uneasy repercussions. The Bay of Pigs was its first known failure. Civil rights was now an issue. The media was skeptical. Television changed the nature of the news and entertainment business. Hollywood was turning to the Left. Furthermore, the old Dodgers' and Giants' writers now covered the Yankees. This meant that the Yankee Stadium clubhouse resembled a madhouse. Beyond that, many of these new scribes had no love for the Yankees.

When Maris assaulted Ruth's record, he found unfriendly elements among the fans and writers. He was not "worthy" of Ruth's greatness. Mantle was better, worthier. The expanded schedule made records less consequential. Maris maintained a better pace than Ruth heading into September, but it was generally felt to be of little importance. Ruth had hit 17 home runs in September to break his own previous record of 59 homers. Maris would not be able to match that.

Maris handled the home run chase poorly. So did everybody else, except for Mantle and his teammates. The chase made competitors out of Mickey and Roger, but this was natural and healthy. They continued to be friends who rooted for each other to the benefit of the team. In truth, Mick's popularity made him the favorite among the Yankees. Pitcher Whitey Ford, his best friend on the team, admitted rooting a little harder for Mantle, but insisted he liked Maris, respected him and wanted him to get it. The consensus was that teammates wanted _both players_ to catch the Babe.

This was not the case with the press or fans. They preferred Mantle and were clear about it. The Yankees' front office tried to steer clear of the controversy, but it was natural that Mantle, their longtime superstar, was favored. Frick, the traditionalist, preferred Mantle to Maris, but in truth wanted neither to pass the hallowed Ruth, especially not amid the question of expansion and attendant dilution of the product.

But Maris did himself no favors. He was a nice guy but could have used a course on public relations. Asked if he could beat the record, he responded, "How the (expletive deleted) would I know?" Mantle drank beers with writers in the clubhouse, laughing and letting them in his privileged world. Maris hid in the trainer's room. Maris lacked personal appeal. He took criticism personally, snubbing writers and paying for it through further poor press.

Maris never approached .300. One writer asked him if he would rather hit 60 homers or bat .300. Maris asked the writer, "What would you rather do?" The writer, obviously a pinhead, said, "Hit .300." This was beyond ridiculous. The man was saying he would rather accomplish this goal, attained by countless players before and since, instead of attaining the most cherished statistic in history.

"Well, it takes all kinds," Maris responded wryly.

Mantle, on the other hand, was a complete player, batting well over .300 and enjoying his best season since the consecutive MVP years of 1956-57. He was more handsome, a matinee idol who, despite being married, lived a _Playboy_ lifestyle that writers, while not writing about it, admired vicariously. Maris had a wife and kids back in North Dakota. He went home every night and called her, having long conversations in which he expressed his frustration and loneliness. But Maris's pious ways helped Mantle, his roommate. When Mick brought groupies home to their Queens apartment, he felt Maris's disapproval, even though Roger was not holier-than-thou about it. The result was that Mick toed the line, drinking and chasing less. His performance on the field improved exponentially. But the writers somehow saw virtue as a vice. They found fault in Roger's approach.

At mid-season, Frick announced that unless Maris broke Ruth's 60-home run mark within the first 154 games, an asterisk would be affixed to the record. More pressure. As the Yankees pulled away from the powerhouse Detroit Tigers, the Maris-Mantle chase became a feeding frenzy. Maris took question after question. He was polite and respectful, but when the attention interfered with his game preparation or personal life, he cut them off. He was excoriated for it.

Maris was accused of being bored, angry, and uppity. One fan asked him to put "your X" on a baseball. Maris wrote "X" instead of his signature, either a mistake or a bad joke. It made news and he was destroyed over it. Fans booed him, but gave standing ovations to Mantle, who ascended to Ruth-like status in the Big Apple, which is saying something.

Mantle's mid-September abscess did him in, leaving the chase up to Roger. Mantle was disappointed but gave his teammate the go ahead to "go after that fat (expletive deleted)." However, with Mantle out of the line-up, Maris no longer had the great slugger protecting him in the order. He also had to adjust to taking his position in center field.

The 154-game cut-off loomed, and forces of nature literally seemed to work against Maris in the form of Hurricane Esther, blowing wind and rain in from right field at Baltimore. In the 154th game, Maris hit his 59th home run, but failed against knuckleballer Hoyt Wilhelm in the ninth inning. In the post-game pennant-clinching celebration, Maris sat alone. The pressure had gotten to him. His hair began to fall out. It was not over yet.

The press said Maris was a "failure," but he still had eight games left. In game number 159 on September 26, Maris blasted his 60th home run off of Baltimore's Jack Fisher. Oddly, only 19,000 were at Yankee Stadium to see it, but number 60 changed the relationship Maris had with the fans, who cheered his efforts. But when the exhausted star took game number 160 off, the press was incredulous.

Finally, in the 162nd and last game of the year, Maris connected off of Boston's Tracy Stallard for his *61st homer of 1961. A crowd of 23,154 gave him a standing ovation and Maris made a curtain call, tipping his cap in relief and appreciation. Announcer Phil Rizzuto's signature, "Holy cow Maris did it!" lives on in memory. A 19-year old man named Sal Durante caught the sphere. Roger never objected to his keeping it and selling it for profit. The famed circuit clout was all the scoring in a 1-0 New York triumph, their 109th of an incredible season.

Maris hit a home run in the anti-climatic World Series. Mantle, still recovering from his abscess wound, hardly played. It did not matter. Cincinnati was no match for the Bronx Bombers.

By 1962, Yogi Berra had been moved to left field, replaced behind the plate by Elston Howard. However, Berra goes down in history as one of the greatest catchers of all time. Berra is also one of the luckiest, most improbable baseball stars ever.

Berra was born on May 12, 1925 in St. Louis, Missouri. He grew up in the Italian section of town known as The Hill. His best friend was Joe Garagiola, who went on to become the catcher for the hometown St. Louis Cardinals. Berra, like Garagiola, was a catcher. He was funny looking and seemingly unathletic, but blocked everything, threw runners out and hit line drives all over the field. One day a carnival rolled through time. One of the circus performers was an Eastern character, a mystic known as a Yogi. Berra's friends said he looked like the Yogi and started calling him that.

He pursued baseball but World War II got in the way. Like many ballplayers, Berra served in the war. Many played on service teams or avoided combat. A Naval enlisted man, Yogi found himself on a torpedo boat steaming its way towards Normandy Beach on June 6, 1944. He recalled later that it was "fun." Somehow, his sector was not pounded by German ordnance. He and his fellow boat crew all survived.

The Yankees had to make adjustments after World War II. Many of their star players had retired, or had careers interrupted by the war. It was a period of transition. Berra took over for Hall of Fame catcher Bill Dickey. Dickey was the embodiment of a big league catcher: over six feet tall, muscular, athletic, handsome, with a gun for an arm, fundamentally sound skills behind the plate, and a powerful bat. In all the years in which the great Yankees won World Championships with Lou Gehrig and Joe DiMaggio, Dickey had been the glue who guided their sterling pitching staff; a dynamic team leader.

Dickey tried to make a comeback in 1946 after missing all of the 1944 and 1945 seasons, but he was over the hill. When Berra took over for him, the fans were aghast. _Yogi Berra?_ His defensive skills were not at the big league level yet. He was clumsy, looked funny, and inspired no confidence. In St. Louis, his pal Garagiola, while a light hitter, was the embodiment of big league smooth behind the dish, helping the Cardinals to the 1946 World Championship.

But a funny thing happened. Every time Yogi came to the plate, he swatted base hits. In seven games in 1946 he hit .364. In 1947 the Yankees won the World Series. Berra played part time but batted a respectable .280 with 11 homers in 83 games. In 1948 he was given the starting catcher's job and hit .314. In 1949, Casey Stengel took over. Berra still had his detractors, but Casey made it clear that Yogi was his starting catcher. The press hooted that the "clown" Casey had picked a cartoon character for his catcher. The "Yogi and Boo Boo" jokes abounded. Then another funny thing happened. Yogi hit 20 homers, batted .277, guided a New York staff of Vic Raschi (21-10), Eddie Lopat (15-10), Allie Reynolds (17-6), Tommy Byrnes (15-7) and closer Joe Page (27 saves, 2.59 ERA) to 97 wins and a World Series victory over the vaunted Brooklyn Dodgers.

Over the next two years, the Yankees made the transition from the DiMaggio era to the Mantle era. The guiding force behind this successful effort was Berra. By 1951 he was a _bona fide_ Yankee legend, a popular figure in Yankee lore approaching the Ruths, Gehrigs and DiMaggios. He swatted .27 homers, batted 294, and led the Bronx Bombers to their third World title while winning the '51 MVP award.

While Mickey Mantle struggled; enduring press scorn and fan enmity for not serving in Korea, for striking out too much, and for not being DiMaggio, Berra – the veteran of Normandy – was a crowd favorite. The pitching staff swore by him, as did Casey. He was 5-7 1/2, weighed 185 pounds; a chunky little guy, but he had cat-quick reflexes and a great throwing arm. Opposing runners did not test him. When they did they paid for it, getting thrown out regularly. He could block home plate with the best of them, although in one famous piece of classic World Series footage, Jackie Robinson stole home against him. The replay to this day does not clearly show whether he was safe or out. Berra still claims he tagged him first.

Berra was a steady hitter who hovered at or near .300, usually hitting around 30 homers and driving in 100 runs. In 1954 and 1955 he won consecutive Most Valuable Player awards, giving him three before Mantle had won his first. But Elston Howard was on the rise. The Yankees, like the rest of the American League, had been slow to integrate. Their fan base was corporate, Wall Street, patrician pinstriped country club Republicans. The club was very careful that when black players wore the pin stripes, they not be "agitators." A talented black farmhand, Vic Powers, had been traded because he was flamboyant and liked white women.

Howard fit the Yankee mold to a tee. To Berra's credit, he never stood in his way even when Howard took the job. The team player Berra was moved to the outfield, the transition occurring between 1959 and 1961. Yogi was continually productive at the plate. While not a great outfielder, he had baseball instincts and was never a liability. His only regret was the "loneliness" of outfield play. Behind the plate, Berra was a chatter box, asking opposing players what they had for dinner, where they were going after the game, did they know their shoes were untied?

"Stee-rike one."

Yogi asked Ted Williams about fishing in the Florida Keys. Teddy Ballgame told him, "Shut up, ya little dago." Others instructed the umpire to tell Berra to pipe down.

"Don't take it personally," Yogi responded.

In 1961, Berra hit 22 home runs, catching 15 games while playing 87 in the outfield. He was 36 years old when he reported to Spring Training in 1962.

Edward Charles "Whitey" Ford was born on October 21, 1926 in New York City. He attended Aviation High School in Queens, a Yankees fan since his first trip to the Stadium in 1938. For various reasons, New York has not produced a plethora of baseball stars. Great athletes more often than not come from the South or the West. In the Yankees' case, California – particularly the San Francisco Bay Area – was a breeding ground for the pinstripers. Ford, Phil Rizzuto and Lou Gehrig were New Yorkers, but relative exceptions to the rule.

Ford grew up fast, as so many do in the Big Apple. He was already worldly, a young man with a taste for martinis, hot night clubs and fast women, when he came up through the minor leagues and reported to Yankee Stadium in 1950 at the age of 23. He originally signed with the organization in 1946 and started at Binghampton of the Eastern League the next year. At first, Ford struggled to break through the rugged minor league competition that populated the Yankees' farm system. He played at Butler of the Class C Middle Atlantic League. At 5-10 and less than 180 pounds, Ford was not an impressive physical specimen. In order for a young pitcher to establish himself as a prospect in the amateur and minor league ranks, he must throw hard. Ford did not. He needed to establish his presence without a great fast ball.

In this respect, however, Ford was fortunate to be a Yankee. The club had a long history of excellent hurlers who did it with guile, smarts and control. One of those pitchers was Lefty Gomez, a Hall of Famer from California who was one of the first to take Ford under his wing. During Ford's first Spring Training, there were so many pitchers that Gomez could remember all their names. Pitchers went by "Blondie" or "Whitey." Ford had bleach-blonde white hair, so his nickname was obvious.

Despite Gomez's nickname, Ford went by Eddie for years, signing autographs "Eddie Ford." But Gomez kept calling him Whitey, promoting him within the organization. Gomez was a practical joker who played one on the young Ford. Ford and a teammate went to a carnival in North Carolina and took the ferris wheel. They had just enough time for one whirl before making it back to the hotel in time for Gomez's 10:00 P.M. curfew, except that Gomez paid the ferris wheel operator to keep it going until the curfew had passed. Ford and his teammate ran back but were met by Gomez, who maintained a straight face while he fined them for breaking curfew.

If Ford had known it was a joke he would have known he was headed places. Gomez would only play a practical joke on one of his favorites, not an also-ran. Years later, Ford found out about the joke and demanded his money back, which Gomez laughingly gave up. The fact is, however, that Ford was brimming with confidence. He _knew_ he was headed for the big time.

Ford came up in 1950. One pundit immediately called him "the oldest young man I've ever seen." With his shock of blonde hair and baby face he still looked like a teenager, but the crooked smile and twinkle in his eye belied that. He was street smart, completely sure of himself on and off the field. Ford won nine games against one defeat with a 2.81 earned run average and 8 2/3 innings of shutout pitching in a World Series win over Philadelphia, as New York captured the 1950 World Championship.

He had total control and command; a superb curve and slider; a nasty sinker; and a wide array of "trick" pitchers: spitters, cutters, and other illegalities, all performed with the guts of a cat burglar. Billy Martin was a wide-eyed rube from West Berkeley, California. On a team of veterans, he and Ford were young players. Ford made fun of Martin's unsophisticated ways, but Billy hardly knew he was being razzed. Martin gravitated to the charismatic Ford.

In 1951, Mickey Mantle joined the Yankees. Martin was as erudite as Dean Acheson compared to the 19-year old Mantle, who now found Ford _and_ Martin aiming their good-natured ribbing at him. He gravitated to them. Ford, nicknamed the "Chairman of the Board," quickly assumed the role of social director in the adult playground that was Manhattan in the 1950s. He always got his rest the night before his starts, but the rest of the time it was Fun City. Poor Mickey and Billy found themselves dragging with no off-days like a starting pitcher gets. Ford just laughed. Everybody was so young, so immensely talented, and the team so successful, that all was well with the world.

Throughout the 1950s, Ford's record was as consistent as any pitcher has ever been. Year in and year out, he won around 18 games, never 20. His earned run average was invariably below or near 3.00. He compiled a 2.71 World Series ERA, consistently winning key games en route to Yankee World Championships. His lifetime winning percentage was .690.

Ford's record is worth examining for what it was and what it was not. Baseball historians tend not to rank him among other left-handed stalwarts such as Warren Spahn and Sandy Koufax. His lack of an explosive fast ball knocks a few points off his record. Yankee Stadium's left-center field area was known as "Death Valley" in those days. Ford could give up monstrous longballs to right-handed hitters, only to watch while the great Mantle flagged them down.

Casey Stengel used him selectively, arranging for him to pitch at the Stadium as often as possible, sometimes missing road starts in favor of home stands. In World Series play, Ford was used at Yankee Stadium as exclusively as possible. Stengel did not want Whitey hurling at little Ebbets Field, but rather used him against the slugging Dodgers at cavernous Yankee Stadium, where their power was neutralized.

In the 1960 World Series, Stengel's strategy backfired, and Casey admitted he was responsible for losing to Pittsburgh because of it. Stengel held Ford out of the first two contests at Forbes Field, even though its dimensions were pitcher-friendly. Ford shut out the Pirates in game three at Yankee Stadium, 10-0 and in game six at Forbes Field, 12-0. However, since he had been held out, he only pitched twice (during which time he broke Babe Ruth's all-time record for most consecutive scoreless innings in World Series play). When New York lost a game seven slugfest, Stengel accepted the blame.

Ford's "failure" to win 20 games year after year are sometimes viewed as negatives when comparing him to Spahn, a multiple 20-game winner, or the dominant Koufax. In truth, Stengel's selective use of him, combined with his being held out late in the season year after year, explains this dynamic. In most seasons, the Yankees clinched the American League pennant with time to spare in the regular season. Stengel invariably "rested" Ford for World Series play instead of leaving him in his regular spot in the rotation until the end of schedule.

In truth, Stengel was obeying orders from general manager George Weiss. Weiss did not want Ford winning 20 because he would use that as a bargaining chip in contract negotiations. The same thing applied to players who were platooned. A pitcher might win 18 instead of 20; a position player (other than Mantle or Berra) might hit 28 home runs instead of 30, or drive in 95 instead of 100, because of the way they were used. Weiss would then knock down demands for raises by saying the player had "not won 20," or "did not even hit 30 homers." As a general rule, the club's position was that playing for the Yankees, the extra money earned from World Series shares, and the general ancillary benefits of being in New York on the world's most recognized athletic franchise, were worth more than any raises. The players knew they had a good thing going and did not rock the boat. Ford certainly did not.

In 1961, however, new manager Ralph Houk took an entirely different approach. With Weiss gone, he did not hold Whitey back. Ford responded with the greatest season of his career, a sterling 25-4 (.862) record, a 3.21 earned run average, and the Cy Young award.

****

When the 1962 baseball season began, Willie Howard Mays had a chip on his shoulder. He had something to prove. The fact that he had something to prove was the reason he had a chip on his shoulder.

One of the things sports historians love to argue about is the question of who is the greatest of all time. The best baseball player? The best all-around athlete? These arguments are tempered by myriad criteria, such as modern vs. old-timer, the effects of integration, and the like. The premise that Willie Mays is the greatest baseball player who ever lived is a popularly held one to this day. Over time, the notion that Babe Ruth was has been dispelled in large part because he never played against blacks, which is true but is also not Babe's fault.

Mays is a player who has gotten considerable mileage out of the obvious comparisons between himself and his Godson, another San Francisco Giant named Barry Bonds. Mays played in the new, integrated era. His career spanned expansion, West Coast baseball and the jet flight that made it possible. Like Joe DiMaggio, he uniquely belongs to both coasts.

Had Mays retired after the 1961 season, or been injured and unable to play beyond that year, he still would have contributed a body of work not only worthy of the Hall of Fame, but his name would have been bandied about among the list of players considered the greatest of all time, albeit with the caveat that he could have done so much more. He had not yet attained the milestones of his great career; 600 home runs, 3,000 hits, and the like.

In Mays's mind, he _was_ the best already. Unlike Mantle, who never lost his awe of Joe DiMaggio and even in private thought Joe D. superior, Mays was almost scornful of those players who might be considered his betters. Ruth and Ty Cobb, in his opinion, were white crackers who could not hold his dirty jockstrap. Mays was bitter at suggestions that DiMaggio was superior in any way. His recent move to DiMaggio's hometown of San Francisco re-inforced his bitterness, and was a big reason he felt the need to constantly prove himself.

Mays's grandfather, Walter Mays, was a pitcher for a team in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. His father, William Howard "Kitty Kat" Mays, was an excellent semi-pro player. Willie was not born a "Junior." His given name is Willie. He was born in Westfield, a suburb of Birmingham, Alabama in 1931. His parents were divorced and Willie lived with his Aunt Sarah in what can be described as a middle class Southern black household. The youngster was a natural athlete with aptitude for baseball. He was a fine football and basketball player at Fairfield Industrial High School, but idolized DiMaggio. He played center field but because he had a gun for an arm also pitched like his grandfather, which helps explain why his instincts and overall field presence was so exemplary. Willie's early nickname was Buckduck, which became Buck, the name his friends called him throughout his playing career. Mays played semi-pro baseball in addition to the regular prep schedule. He was a legend in Jefferson County; a scoring demon in basketball, a star football quarterback, and of course his baseball talents were in full bloom. Mays was no late developer. His greatness was a manifest truth. Kitty Kat directed him to baseball and the outfield to the exclusion of pitching. He knew the boys' future was on the diamond and did not want him risking injury on the mound. Willie was not academically inclined; not for a lack of intelligence, but because his father made it clear baseball was his ticket.

College football was not out of the question, but there were several reasons not to go that route. One of his boyhood friends, Charley Willis, had been badly injured. Willie was not enthused about four years of school, and of course his only choices in the South were black colleges like Grambling. The Alabama Crimson Tide was strictly off-limits.

At the age of 17 in 1948, Willie's father took him to Lorenzo Piper Davis, manager of the Birmingham Black Barons of the Negro National League. He was an immediate sensation defensively, but took a season learning how to handle professional pitching. In 1949 and 1950, however, Mays hit .316 and .350. The Boston Braves offered a contract for his services, but could not sign him until his high school class graduated. Eventually, the White Sox and other teams scouted him. According to reports, both the all-white Yankees and Red Sox passed on him because he was black, even though Jackie Robinson broke the "color barrier" in 1947 and by 1950 black players were becoming relatively commonplace; at least in the National League.

It was said that Mays wowed the Red Sox, and that there failure to sign such an obvious talent was particularly egregious; perhaps the real "Red Sox curse." The story of how Mays became a Giant is a well-told one. On the recommendation of a Negro League scout named Alex Pompez, two Giants scouts named Bill Montague and Bill Harris came to Birmingham to see whether Barons first baseman Lou Perry might be able to fill an open spot in Sioux City of the class-A Western League.

Perry did not impress. But in a phone call to Giants scouting director Jack Schwarz and his top aide, ex-Hall of Fame pitcher Carl Hubbell, the center fielder could literally not be believed.

"He can hit, run, and throw – like nobody," exclaimed Montague. "Don't ask any questions. Just grab the boy."

The $10,000 offer was perfect timing; the Braves had been waiting for Mays's high school graduation, which came shortly after Montague's breathless account. Mays and his father held out for a $6,000 bonus. Owner Horace Stoneham okayed it. What followed would be legend, except it actually happened. Mays played at Trenton in 1950, then moved up to Minneapolis of the triple-A American Association in 1951. By its very nature, minor league baseball is subject to myth, not unlike the Negro Leagues where word of mouth was as prevalent as actual statistics or eyewitness reporting.

Mays only played 116 minor league games; 81 at Trenton in the remainder of the 1950 campaign and 35 at Minneapolis in 1951 before ascending to the Major Leagues, but in that abbreviated schedule he put on a display that arguably was the most impressive in minor league history. In some respects, the fact that he was black was helpful to him. The Negro Leagues had always been couched in mystery to the white world, with players such as Satchel Paige representing a sense of myth and wonder. Robinson's immediate success and the like talents of early black pioneers Roy Campanella, Don Newcombe and Larry Doby lent credence in some quarters to the notion of black physical superiority.

The stories coming out of Trenton and then Minneapolis had the same hyperbole attached to them as Montague's statement that, "I saw a young kid of an outfielder I can't believe." In Trenton Mays hit .353 at the age of 19, but with only four home runs and seven stolen bases. But what people saw in Mays and tried to put in words describing him had a quicksilver quality. Mays played baseball the way a roverback plays football, a whirling-dervish guard plays basketball. His hat would fly off, he ran the bases looking behind him with bursts of energetic speed that took people's breath way. He made impossible catches and insane bullet throws. He hit spears, frozen ropes that could be hung on laundry lines.

In 1951, Mays was batting _.477_ in May when the call came. With all due respect for a Georgia Peach named Ty Cobb; an incorrigible Baltimore reform school drop-out named Babe Ruth; a San Francisco phenom named Joe DiMaggio; an Iowa farmboy named Bob Feller; a San Diego whiz kid named Ted Williams; or that year's Commerce Comet, Mickey Mantle; Willie Mays's arrival at the Polo Grounds may have been the most anticipated in baseball history.

The rest of course is well known, apocryphal and true at the same time. Mays was achingly young and out of place in New York. Manager Leo Durocher took him under his wing. He started 0-for-12 and begged "Mista Leo" to send him back to Minneapolis because he could not handle big league pitching, but was told he was the Giants' starting center field for his defense no matter what he hit, or did not hit. Mays broke his slump with a homer off of no less a star pitcher than Warren Spahn, whom he "owned" all their parallel careers. The numbers for 1951 are relatively pedestrian: 20 homers, 68 RBIs and a .274 average, but Mays's arrival in New York jumpstarted a moribund team that made the mother of all comebacks to win the National League pennant. When Bobby Thomson hit the "shot heard 'round the world," Mays was nervously waiting on-deck. The press was agog over the feature story of the World Series; the rookie center fielders Mantle and Mays taking the spotlight from the retiring DiMaggio.

But Mantle injured himself and Mays did nothing (.182) in one of the greatest anti-climaxes of all time, a bloodless Yankee six-game Series win. Mays served in the Army in 1952 and 1953, but this only served to make his return in 1954 almost as anticipated as a certain Jewish ex-carpenter executed by the Romans 2,000 years earlier. His raw numbers – 41 homers, 110 RBIs and a .345 average – do not do justice to Willie Mays in 1954, when in fact he produced one of the greatest single seasons the game has ever known. He led the Giants to the National League pennant that Brooklyn had won four of the previous seven years, but it was his World Series heroics that sealed his place in the all-time pantheon; namely a game one catch of Vic Wertz's fly to the deepest part of the Yosemite-like Polo Grounds. It is known as _The Catch_. The Catch was followed up by The Throw. Announcer Russ Hodges, who had yelled, "The Giants win the pennant" about 18 teams in 1951, simply declared that Mays's catch-and-throw "must have been an optical illusion to a lot of people."

What The Catch and The Throw did was take all the air out of the 111-43 Cleveland Indians, one of the greatest baseball teams ever to take the field. Not only did the Giants beat Cleveland, they beat them in four straight. It was nuts. Between 1955 and 1960, Mays led the league in stolen bases every year. While Mantle could have done it had his team let him and his body had not denied him, Mays _actually_ did it. He also led the league in triples three of four years between 1954 and 1956, including the 1955 campaign when he hit 51 homers, drove in 127 and batted .319, an even better year than his MVP-winning 1954 campaign.

There was a list of Mays's attributes, and nobody else ever had a list like it. Only Ruth, who was not close to Mays as a complete everyday player but had been a superstar pitcher, offered a similar dimension that nobody else ever offered. Mays played every day, all out, to the point of exhaustion (causing periodic fatigue, dizziness and even pass-out spells requiring hospitalization). Defensively, Mays was better than the previous "title-holders," center fielders Tris Speaker, Harry Hooper and Joe DiMaggio. He was faster, played shallower, went deeper, had a stronger and more accurate arm than anyone before or since. Only Pittsburgh right fielder Roberto Clemente possessed an arm of Maysian quality.

There was the combination of home run power combined with the excitement of triples, hard-charging doubles, league-leading slugging percentages and a consistently high batting average (.345 in 1954, .333 in 1957, .347 in 1958). He beat out infield hits, stole bases, took extra bases, and scored runs as if he was a leadoff man. He played baseball with an infectious "Say Hey," cap-flying enthusiasm that has never been equaled.

Then, the Giants moved to San Francisco and it all changed. Not statistically. Not on the field, although adjustments had to be made. He continued to be a marvel, but The City did not take to Mays. In New York, Mays was a kid who played stickball in the Harlem neighborhood he lived in. The pictures of the nattily attired Mays playing with local black kids is richly nostalgic. A millionaire athlete of any color who exposed himself on the mean streets of Harlem or the south Bronx today would be robbed and maybe beaten, too, probably by local drug gangs.

But it was the "golden age." The comparisons with Mantle and Snider were endless and wonderful. The Giants were the third wheel in New York. The Yankees, of course, were kings of the sports world. It was the best of times in Brooklyn. The Giants had their struggles, albeit with two World Series appearances and one title. During the New York years, despite loyalty to the Duke, true baseball experts knew that the real question was whether Mays or Mantle was better. At that time, there was no margin to differentiate them. For all of Mays's tools, Mantle's supporters had a legitimate answer. Yankees World Championships could not be argued against, either. Obviously, one player can only do so much. Mick's team was better, so he had more to work with, but those rings mean everything.

As to why San Francisco was slow to accept Mays, this is a hard question to answer. There are several possibilities. Mays might have felt that racism was a part of it. As a black man from Alabama, he knew racism up close and personal, yet in a strange way it was clear and made life simpler. After his retirement, Mays was employed by a Nevada gambling casino as their spokesmen, which caused Commissioner Bowie Kuhn to declare him temporarily unemployable by organized baseball.

Crowds would gather to hear his addresses. College teams, Rotary clubs, conventions, groups of all kinds. It was a disaster. Mays was filled with bitterness, possibly because of his exile status at that time (the idea that a player of his stature could be banned from baseball was abhorrent to his pride). The audiences, invariably white and usually of a certain age, were appalled at being lectured to by Mays. They wanted to hear about The Catch, about "Mista Leo," the duels with Don Drysdale and Sandy Koufax, the Dodgers-Giants rivalry. Instead, they got a birds-eye view of being black in the Alabama of 1948, filled with invective and bile. There was none of the "Negro wisdom," to coin a Hunter S. Thompson phrase, that came from the wily gentleman Buck O'Neil, who saw the same things but had the power of discernment and understanding tempering his descriptions. Mays and the casino thankfully parted company.

The rural South is small, life there relatively uniform. Despite everything, there was a sense of familiarity that people of all colors had with the region. San Francisco is a large, cosmopolitan city, a glamour destination for tourists and businessmen from all over the world. It was a place that prided itself on its openness, its progressivism. Despite that, there was racism different in form from Southern Jim Crow. It came with a smile attached. Lew Alcindor (later named Kareem Abdul-Jabbar) saw this at UCLA in the late 1960s.

"In New York, where I was from, you knew where you stood," he said in _Sports Illustrated._ "If you ventured into the Italian or Irish neighborhoods they'd attack you. They hated your guts, but you knew it. In California these blonde guys would flash me the Pepsodent beach boy smile then call me a n----r behind my back."

If Mays had high expectations that the West Coast was a racial paradise, he quickly discovered it was not. He started to be become bitter, but it was not just because of fan reaction. He entered into a bad marriage to a woman named Marghuerite Wendelle Kenny Chapman. According to reports, Mays married her without fanfare, announcing it after the fact when he entered the clubhouse one day. His declaration was met by stony, uncomfortable silence. Rumors as to why this was so vary. She was seen as a "gold digger," a typical breed of woman found in all professional sports circles. There were other "circumstances" apparently involved that made many of the Giants' players, who now had to co-habitate with her new hubby, uncomfortable.

The dynamic between women, players, their teammates and even opponents can be a dicey one. Years later another superstar baseball player decided to marry a girl who had worked at a strip club, apparently sleeping with most of the National League's leading sluggers. The superstar reportedly got on the phone, urging various big leaguers, "Say, dude, I'm gonna marry this girl, so, uh, you know, as a favor to me dude, uh, would'ja, ya know, please stop sleepin' with her?!"

This led to a foreseeable flurry of cell phone calls to all National League cities, highlighted by variations on the following: "Man, you wouldn't believe who just called me, and what he asked me to do . . . or not to do." That marriage failed.

Former baseball player Jimmy Piersall once called baseball wives, "A bunch of horny broads." With time on _their_ hands and their spouses on the road for a week to 10 days at a time, these oft-attractive young women can play around as much as the men. One wife of a New York baseball player found love in the arms of other New York baseball players when her man's team was traveling. The player loved her, requested a trade to a one-team city in the hopes of salvaging the marriage, but she found what she needed in the arms of "civilians."
When Mays got to San Francisco, _his_ marriage was disintegrating. His son, like Jackie Robinson's son, like Mickey Mantle's kids, was growing up in a pressure cooker of expectations. None of these offspring would amount to a great deal, at least by the definition of success of the day, or their parent's fans, and in some cases according to their own fathers. Mays had ridden a smooth path of success and pagan adoration in New York City, where his status among that rare breed known as the true New York Sports Icon had been joyously attained. Now, he seemingly had to start over; to _prove himself_ to this minor league village.

In their first four years in San Francisco, the Giants usually contended. They never won. Their "close but no cigar" status rubbed San Franciscans the wrong way, especially when Los Angeles reached the Promised Land in year two (1959). Mays had all the stats, the reputation, the records. In 1958 he batted .347 and led the league in stolen bases. The locals wondered why he only hit 29 homers and drove in 96. He was actually booed. Cepeda was voted the club's MVP in a vote of the fans.

When he got his power numbers up (40 homers in 1961, 100-plus runs batted in consistently beginning in 1959), they complained that he did not league the league in hitting. Fundamentalists complained about his "basket catch," which taught youngsters bad technique. With the team faltering under different managers in pennant chases with the Braves, Dodgers, Pirates and Reds, fans blamed Mays, who always seemed to reserve his best work – Alex Rodriguez-style – for non-clutch situations. In the ninth inning with the game on the line, they called him "pop up Mays." The team's revolving door of managers was seen as Willie's fault. Southern-bred Alvin Dark, a teammate of May's on the 1954 World Champions, openly questioned his minority teammates.

Mays's assertion that racial animosity explained his up-and-down relationship with San Francisco were bolstered when he attempted to buy a home in exclusive Miraloma. No white neighbors welcomed Mays and his family. In 1959 a bottle was thrown through the window with a racist note inside. Mays sold the property.

In 1962, Mays recorded a single called "My Sad Heart." The divorce had killed him financially. The press made the most of reports of Marghuerite's . . . activities. He owed the Giants over $65,000 in salary advances and was $9,000 in arrears to the Federal government in back taxes. Mays had many "foolish investments," including the proverbial "big car" that was the stereotypical first act of blacks when they made money. Clothes, vacations, fancy dinners, pool tables, drapes, carpets, wallpaper, marriage . . . it all added up.

There was alimony, a second home in New York, lawyers' fees, private detectives, income tax on salaries that disappeared into the payment of debts. On April 17, 1962, his estranged wife's attorney's hauled Mays into San Francisco Superior Court. He stood with his attorney, Bergen van Brunt, while Marghuerite's attorney levied a laundry list of expenses against him. He already had lost custody of his son, Michael, then three years old. Now he was hung out to dry by a greedy viper and her snake-lawyer. It was all recorded in brutal detail by the papers, adding to his humiliation.

It went on and on and on. The Giants played Los Angeles that afternoon at Candlestick Park. At game time Mays was still absorbing his punishment. Finally it ended. Mays left the court facing possible bankruptcy and maybe worse. He drove to the stadium, fighting tears, dressed in the empty clubhouse, and moped into the dugout. Dark and his teammates knew what he was going through and did not press him about arriving late. Mays sat with a warm-up jacket on until Dark called on him to pinch-hit in the seventh with two runners on base. He struck out. In the ninth he came up with the tying run on, but popped out. The crowd booed him vehemently. "Pop up Mays."

Mays lived a rock star existence. The people who booed him begged for his autograph. He usually took room service. Never a big partier or drinker, he avoided those scenes. He also had to deal with the women who threw themselves at him. He had been burned so terribly by the awful Marghuerite that he was totally gun shy about ever finding love. One night on the road he got the shakes and called Dark. Dark invited Mays to sleep in the extra bed in his hotel room. That night he lay in the dark talking about life. Sedatives and Dark's friendship helped him finally find sleep.

Dark was big on treating everybody the same, but Mays was an exception; his friend, ex-teammate, star, but most importantly, he was going through extraordinary difficulties. Dark allowed Willie to always travel first class. Nobody resented it. He was quiet and did not let his teammates know the extent of his troubles, but the papers and too many obvious events made it impossible to keep under wraps. Fans, however, did not know the full extent of it - or, if they did, they cared less and demanded only greatness - treating him harshly.

"Once he got to know you, he was a terrific guy," said Billy Pierce. "Baseball was fun for him, the game was his release. He just blocked everything else out."

When Mays felt like he could handle it, he would invite friends over to his house for cards. He was color-blind about his associations. Stu Miller, Harvey Keunn, and Jim Davenport played pinochle with him. Mays kept the liquor cabinet stocked for others, but he abstained himself. He did not drink or smoke.

But socializing was fairly rare. Mostly he lived his life alone. It was "more than loneliness" wrote biographer Arnold Hano. "It is withdrawal. Mays slipping out of the group and into his own cocoon-like environment, where he is by himself, with himself, and the rest of the world is nearly shut out."

Mays simply was a loner and always had been. His parents had split when he was a child. His mother was dead and his beloved Aunt Sarah too. When he visited Birmingham he lived in a hotel instead of with family. Marriage was a money pit he was trying to crawl out of.

Expectations for Mays went beyond mere spectacular baseball exploits. In 1962 Mays was approached by a man named Eldrewey Stevens in Houston. Stevens said he was the president of something called the Progressive Youth Association, a local rights organization.

Stevens observed Mays, Willie McCovey and Orlando Cepeda approaching a segregated movie house. Stevens asked Willie not to patronize it out of principle. Willie politely declined. Cepeda and McCovey were willing to follow Mays's lead either way, so they went in. Black civil rights leaders wanted Mays to speak out as Boston Celtics' basketball star Bill Russell did, much to the detriment of his popularity. Mays had enough troubles without bearing that cross.

On May 27 in a game with New York at Candlestick, Mets pitcher Roger Craig buzzed Mays and beaned Cepeda. A donnybrook was broken up. There were some rough plays; guys hit in the head by thrown balls; some high-flying spikes; and bad blood between Mays and Elio Chacon, who said Mays had spiked him the year before. Craig tried to pick Mays off at second, but the effort was really to try and hit him with the throw. Chacon spiked his leg and applied a rough tag that became a series of punches. Chacon's spike to Mays just missed cutting his Achilles tendon, a career-ending injury especially in those days. Mays, who always avoided baseball fights, was surprised. He picked Chacon up with his enormous strength "as though he were a bag of cement," according to one report, and deposited him to the ground before belting him like a rag doll.

Afterward, Chacon claimed Mays had tried to "spike me" on the play. Charles Einstein pointed out that Mays had dove into second headfirst. Chacon's lie was exposed, but that was his story and he was sticking to it. He realized later he was wrong, and was mortified upon realizing that the game had been televised back to New York. He would face booing fans in the Big Apple who felt Willie Mays was a god. San Franciscans did not bow at his altar.

In 1959, after Soviet Premier Nikita Kruschev, one of the most avowed enemies of America in the Cold War, toured the United States, San Francisco newspaper editor Frank Conoff stated, "It's the damndest city I ever saw in my life! They cheer Kruschev and boo Willie Mays."

Mainly, The City embraced other players of color. First on the list was Orlando Cepeda, a Puerto Rican slugger who had all the makings of a Hall of Fame career and was clearly the more popular player. "The Baby Bull" <Cepeda's nickname> was no Polo Grounds transplant," wrote Jack McDonald.

Then there was Juan Marichal, a Dominican pitcher. San Franciscans seemed to like Latinos who were not from the U.S. more than American blacks, a non-uncommon sentiment at one time. Willie McCovey was like Mays an Alabama-bred black man. He had a cadre of fierce supporters, but was embroiled in a controversy over the first base spot with Cepeda. Neither adapted to the outfield, but both needed to be in the line-up. While Cepeda was right-handed and McCovey left-handed, both were equally effective against all pitching and therefore beyond platooning. But both were more popular than Mays. Why? They were San Francisco's players, not former New York Giants. Mays belonged to the Big Apple. There was a sense of sophistication and odd provincialism that disdained Mays's stickball _persona_. Mainly, however, Mays suffered in comparison with DiMaggio, which chafed his hide.

"The fundamental trouble Mays had out here was that he took DiMaggio's place," said his biographer, Charles Einstein. Mays was the "symbol of New York being thrown down San Francisco's throat."

It was an odd assertion, but not untrue. It was odd because DiMaggio had played in New York, too. His greatness was all about the New York Yankees. True, he was from The City and had been a star some 30 years earlier with the San Francisco Seals, but if he had not made his legend in the Big Apple, Joe D. would have been just another minor league legend on the West Coast, like Steve Bilko and the "Mad Russian," Lou Novikoff.

Mays vented to Jack McDonald, acknowledging that it was "Joe's hometown," but said that while DiMaggio was their idol, "He was mine too . . . I didn't come to San Francisco to show Joe up." Privately, he resented DiMaggio and probably blamed race. His true feelings would manifest themselves some day, but not back then.

His build-up had simply been too huge. He was the "Say Hey Kid," a larger-than-life black baseball star, the greatest of the great; unless he performed superhuman feats and the team won the World Series, he would be a disappointment.

But Dark's hiring raised his morale. Dark sent him a letter in which his ex-teammate said that managing the Mays was "the greatest privilege any manager could ever hope to have."

"When we played together, we had a great relationship," said Dark. "I loved Willie as a player and as a friend. When I became his manager, I felt I had to build him up to the public and with the writers to let them know the type of player he really was. I was trying to give him the credit he deserved and wake San Francisco up to the facts of life."

Sportswriter Ray Robinson predicted big things of Mays since the league's pitching would be diluted by expansion. Mays hit a home run off Warren Spahn on Opening Day. He wore the great Braves left-hander out. He always had since hitting his first homer off Spahn in 1951. He made $90,000 and, despite the celebrity status of Roger Maris and Mickey Mantle in the Big Apple, was determined by fan polling to be the most recognized figure in sports. This was still a golden age, in which Mays "beat out" the likes of Johnny Unitas, Bart Starr, Paul Hornung, Bill Russell, and Wilt Chamberlain, all giants of the American athletic landscape. The only athlete who approached him in 1962, oddly, was Bo Belinsky of the Angels, the playboy lefty whose Hollywood exploits were so well publicized by columnists Walter Winchell and Bud Furillo that summer.

Mays turned 32 in May of 1962. The pressures of the pennant race, fan expectations, his divorce and finances combined led to an episode in September. During a game in Cincinnati, he collapsed from nervous exhaustion. "I play all out," he said. "That's the only way I know."

"He was so intense," said Orlando Cepeda. "He played so hard in every game that he just wore out."

"Mays had a comprehensive physical examination that included all the routine tests," said Dr. Harold Rosenblum, chief of medicine at San Francisco's Mt. Zion Hospital. "All yielded normal findings. His condition is perfectly healthy. There is no medical problem. His condition is superior to other men his age. He is in prime physical condition."

"I thought the pressure was greater on Mays that year than ever before in his career, even more than 1954 when we won the pennant," said Dark. "I don't think he felt like he was under as much pressure then." By 1962 he was "a more mature guy" expected to carry the club, which Dark attributed to his getting so tired.

Mays became more reclusive. Friends and teammates tried to get closer to him, to help to him; all to no avail. "He had very few close friends and he fought his own battles," said teammate - and look-alike - Carl Boles.

Several strong sports organizations were built on the strength of enlightened integration policies. The University of Southern California had a black All-American football player as early as 1925, and later coach John McKay turned the Trojans into a juggernaut using superstar black athletes.

UCLA went from being a commuter school to a national sports powerhouse because they took advantage of all the available black talent, not just in Southern California high schools but in the South, where all-white colleges were off-limits to them. John Wooden's basketball dynasty is attributable in large measure to his recruitment of black stars while Atlantic Coast Conference competition, for instance, did not.

The Brooklyn Dodgers, long a laughing stock, became a fabled franchise when they brought Jackie Robinson, Roy Campanella, Don Newcombe and others into the organization.

The Giants decided to follow a similar strategy. While the New York Giants signed black stars such as Willie Mays and Monte Irvin, they also recognized a new source of talent in Latin America, placing great focus on the region. The early San Francisco Giants were a team with a disproportionate amount of Latino star power.

Latinos had never been banned from Major League baseball. Cuba was a source of talent, producing the likes of pitcher Dolf Luque, a 27-game winner with Cincinnati in 1923. This posed quite the conundrum: black American citizens were denied rights accorded to foreigners.

Long before Robinson's breakthrough, Giants manager John McGraw had employed a black player "disguised" as a Cuban, but the ruse was discovered. Jokes were made of blacks, particularly light-skinned ones, that they were "Cubans" or "Puerto Ricans," but no real breakthroughs occurred. Cubans, Mexicans, Puerto Ricans and Dominicans could play organized ball as long as they were more Spanish than Negro.

Negro League barnstormers made baseball popular in the Dominican Republican when the dictator Rafael Trujillo recruited them in the 1930s, ostensibly to divert public attention from his oppressive methods. Branch Rickey, the man responsible for Robinson, also opened doors for dark-skinned Latinos in the early 1950s. Robinson had been kicked out the door by his nemesis, Walter O'Malley, but took over the operations at Pittsburgh. The Dodgers had the first shot at Roberto Clemente, a dark-skinned super outfield prospect from Puerto Rico. No longer benefiting from Rickey's leadership, they faltered on the issue of signing Clemente, leaving the door open for Rickey and the Pirates.

The Giants had already taken steps towards fulfilling the promise of Latin America, a place of great political turmoil after World War II. Latin dictators strangely affiliated themselves with Adolf Hitler, who would have considered these brown-skin types to be worthy of the ovens once they had served his purposes. Nevertheless, many Nazis found save haven in Argentina, Brazil and other countries. Anti-American sentiment became popular in the 1950s, mainly as a reaction to U.S. business interests monopolizing these "banana republics."

Cuba went Communist, thus ending the steady flow of baseball talent that included the likes of Camilo Pasqual and Tony Oliva of Minnesota. The rest of the region picked up the slack. Excellent year-round weather made it a game played in the winter as well as the summer. Soccer had always been popular, but basketball and football did not take. Baseball did. Fans were gaga over the game. Winter leagues were created in which numerous American stars and prospects honed their off-season skills - sometimes in harrowing political and criminal circumstances - beginning in the 1950s. Coups, revolutions, banditry and kidnappings were commonplace happenings along with baseball.

The Giants did not land Clemente, but they saw more where that came from in Puerto Rico, an American protectorate and therefore friendlier to U.S. interests, not to mention easier to obtain visas. Their man in charge was Allesandro "Alex" Pompez. Pompez was more than a baseball scout; he was a cultural liaison. The transition for Latino players was a shock to the system in the 1950s and 1960s. Most minor league and Spring Training towns were in the South, with profound effect on these youngsters.

First, Pompez put a sales pitch on the families, assuring them that he would oversee the development of their children, handling contracts, explaining wages and work rights, not to mention instructing them on haircuts, shoe shines, clothing styles, and myriad aspects of American life. Pompez steered many a Latino player away from other clubs and towards the Giants.

A dandy figure, well dressed and stylish, Pompez was a "father figure" to the Latino players. A native of Key West, Florida, he spoke fluent Spanish but was an American who could cross racial, cultural and national lines. Pompez was a pioneering black baseball executive with the New York Cubans of the old Negro League. He also was involved in the bootlegging rackets of the Prohibition era. His financially successful operation was partnered with Arthur "Dutch" Schultz, known as "The Beer Baron of New York." Pompez supervised Schultz's profitable numbers rackets.

Later, Schultz was murdered in a feud with the notorious Charles "Lucky" Luciano. When New York special prosecutor Thomas Dewey went after him, tying him to the Mob, Pompez escaped to Mexico, but returned when he agreed to testify against organized crime syndicates in return for immunity.

"He became the only guy who ever snitched on the Mob and lived to tell about it," said Negro League pitching star Leon Day.

Pompez regained control of his team, which played at the Polo Grounds. He developed a cordial business relationship with Giants owner Horace Stoneham. When Robinson signed with Brooklyn Pompez was hired as the club's point man in an effort to keep the Giants even with the Dodgers when it came to signing black stars.

But Pompez's Latino background made him indispensable in the Caribbean. He was involved in the scouting and signing of Mays and of course other Negro Leaguers, but the Caribbean was quickly developing as a hotbed of baseball talent. The Pirates and Senators were the main early competition for Latino players, but Pompez kept the New York Giants head and shoulders ahead of the rest.

Many saw California as the future, a progressive place where racial intolerance was not acceptable. The Giants discovered that while it was different, in some ways their Harlem digs had been more accessible to minority players than "liberal" San Francisco. The early San Francisco teams were derided by "poison pen" letters who complained about "Rig's Jigs" (manager Bill Rigney), "Sheehan's Shines" (manager Tom Sheehan) and "Dark's Darkies" (manager Alvin Dark). In their first season in the Bay Area, the Giants' roster included minority players Leon Wagner, Willie Kirkland, Bill White, Ruben Gomez, Sam Jones, Ray Monzant, Andre Rogers, and Valmy Thomas. By 1962, one-quarter of the team was black or Latino.

Yearly complaints about the club's ethnic make-up was squelched most completely by Orlando Cepeda. Cepeda started the first game in San Francisco, at the old Seals Stadium on April 15, 1958. It was his rookie debut. He had none of Mays's New York baggage. He homered that day to power an 8-0 win over Los Angeles. The 21-year old Cepeda won the 1958 National League Rookie of the Year award when he hit .312 with 25 homers and 96 runs batted in. In 1959 Cepeda batted .317 with 27 homers and 105 RBIs. In 1961 he slammed 46 homers with 142 RBIs while batting .311. He appeared to be a Hall of Famer, a superstar, and was not simply more popular than Willie Mays from a personality standpoint, but statistically as well. The nickname "Baby Bull" fit him like a glove.

Cepeda's father was a legend, considered the greatest player in the history of Puerto Rico. The elder Cepeda played with such Negro League stars as Josh Gibson, Satchel Paige, and "Cool Papa" Bell. When aspiring young Negro Leaguers, about to break into the big leagues, would come to Puerto Rico to play in the Winter League, they would pay homage to the Cepeda household. He was known as the "Babe Ruth of the Caribbean."

The elder Cepeda was "a great player, a very intense player," said Cepeda. At the age of 44 he went four-for-four against Allie Reynolds, Vic Raschi and Eddie Lopat when the New York Yankees toured Puerto Rico in 1946. He never played organized baseball in the U.S. ostensibly due to the racial barriers, and for the most part was a weekend semi-pro in his home country before the advent of strong Winter Leagues.

Orlando's older brother Pedro gave up baseball but his younger brother Jose played in the Detroit and Cincinnati organizations. Orlando came along just as Pompez and the New York Giants were establishing a strong Caribbean presence, signing with the Giants at the age of 17 for a $500 bonus in 1955. Pedro Zorilla, who owned the Santurce club, was credited with the signing. He had brought the likes of Mays, Josh Gibson, Satchel Paige and Monte Irvin to the island for exhibition tours, and had a close relationship with Stoneham as well as Walter O'Malley.

Giants farm director Jack Schwartz did not think much of Cepeda at first, but Pompez fought for him. Instead of releasing him, the Giants sent him to an independent club in the lowly Appalachian League. Cepeda faced difficulties in the South, but on a plane flight to Miami sat next to Roberto Clemente, who spelled out the "rules" of conduct for Latino players in the States. Cepeda in turn helped his friend, Felipe Alou, who faced similar problems.

Cepeda's father passed away while he was in the minor leagues and it hit him hard. He slumped and was actually released, but an injury to another player opened a roster spot up at the last minute. Cepeda came under the wing of a "father figure" named Walt Dixon, who "really opened his arms for me." Under Dixon in Kokoma, his 10-day fill-in assignment turned into a 21-homer, 91-RBI, .393 season. He was on his way.

Cepeda saw prejudice, or at least what he perceived to be prejudice. At St. Cloud in 1956 he won the Northern League triple crown, but was not even voted his _team's_ MVP. Cepeda blamed manager Charlie Fox (later the manager in San Francisco). For every slight, however, he found "love." In the Puerto Rican Winter League, Cepeda hit .311 and lobbied the big club for a contract to play at triple-A Minneapolis in 1957. The Giants laughed at him, but Orlando was persistent and got his shot. When the regular first baseman was called up for Army Reserve duty, Cepeda found himself playing regularly, just one level below the Major Leagues.

He found Minnesota to be hospitable, with restaurants open to him as opposed to the segregated South. After a terrific season in triple-A, Cepeda was ticketed for the big leagues in 1958. The Giants had just moved to San Francisco and there was a distinct feeling within the organization that change was in the air; that young up-and-comers now had their shot. The new San Francisco franchise had a wealth of riches in the minor leagues, especially at first base, where Cepeda, Willie McCovey and Bill White were competing for the position. Cepeda had the inside track. In 1958 Bill Rigney asked coach Whitey Lockman how Cepeda was doing. "He's three years away," said Lockman.

"Three years away?" asked Rig.

"Yeah, three years away from the Hall of Fame."

At Spring Training Willie Mays told him he would "love San Francisco." Cepeda had spoken to Puerto Ricans in the Winter League who played in the Pacific Coast League. They told him the same thing. Indeed, The City opened itself up to the young star, an immediate sensation from Opening Day on. But road trips were still perilous, with "difficulties in St. Louis, Cincinnati, Pittsburgh and Chicago," he recalled. Cepeda was not allowed to eat in the hotel restaurants. He had "great white teammates then, like Johnny Antonelli, Hank Sauer and Jimmy Davenport <from Alabama>, but nobody spoke on our behalf in those restaurants."

Cepeda said that of his 17 years in the big leagues, "1958 is the one I hold dearest to my heart." He chatted with fans and became a favorite with Latinos who made up a small but lively minority in the Mission District neighborhood near Seals Stadium. Mays would strike out or make an error, inducing boos from fans who had heard him built so high by the press that "the fans figured that every time he came to the plate he'd hit a home run, or steal a base, and never make an error," Cepeda recalled.

The handsome young star was immediately installed as San Francisco's most eligible bachelor, dancing away in The City's Latin music nightclubs. His relationship with fans in the early days was similar to the one Dodgers players had with Brooklynites. Cepeda lived in nearby Daly City, but shopped and partied in the neighborhood near Seals Stadium. Other Giants tended to live in the peninsula suburbs, but San Franciscans wanted players who were part of the community.

Cepeda lived with Felipe Alou and Ruben Gomez. They would go on Thursday nights to the Copacabana for Latin music, or to the Blackhawk for jazz. He met the likes John Coltrane, Miles Davis, Cannonball Adderly and Cal Tjader. He wanted to go to a place on Broadway called the Jazz Workshop, but was carded and could not enter because he was not yet 21. When they found out who he was they let him in and he sat in a dark corner, listening to Wes Montgomery. Tjader did a bossa nova piece called "Viva Cepeda." Cepeda was a music junkie.

"Franklin Mieuli, who produced the Giants' radio broadcasts, also had connections with the local jazz stations, and he'd get me a lot of records," said Cepeda.

It was a heady, exciting time in San Francisco. Jack Kerouac's _On the Road_ had recently come out. In The City's North Beach section, a growing Beat movement was underway. The sidewalk cafes of Columbus Avenue north of Broadway became their hangout. Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and others held long poetry sessions, haranguing the "system," questioning everything from patriotism to the military to Christianity to America itself. Lawrence Ferlinghetti opened The City Lights Bookstore, making available all form of "alternative" books, many censored by the government or schools because of references to drugs, homosexuality or other "perverted" concepts of the era.

The Beats welcomed all people, regardless of race, creed or nationality. It was this environment that Cepeda found himself both attracted to and accepted by. After toiling in small Southern minor league towns, where he could not eat in the restaurants, it was a revelation.

The Giants had six Latinos on the 1958 roster. Manager Bill Rigney, a former middle infielder in New York, handled the club. Cepeda enjoyed playing for him. He gave him freedom to swing away, even though this cost Willie Mays a number of stolen bases. The reputation of Latinos as "bad ball hitters" may have emanated from Cepeda and Clemente. It drove Rigney crazy, but the manager backed his young star. Cepeda earned Rookie of the Year honors, and in 1959 he was batting .359 in June when Rigney brought him into his office.

"Orlando, we're gonna bring McCovey up from Phoenix," Rig told him. "He's hitting .380 or .390." Cepeda had fended off Bill White, a very talented first baseman whose considerable defensive skills, power and high batting average were traded to St. Louis, where he became a mainstay.

But McCovey was a Hall of Fame talent who could not be denied, and Cepeda knew it. They had grown up in the system together. Rigney asked Cepeda to try and play third base, or left field. At first, Cepeda said he would do "anything for the team." But at age 21 he was too young and immature to handle the position switch. He was an immediate failure at third base and not much better in left field, where he chatted in bored manner with fans.

Divisions were formed. Many got in Orlando's ear, telling him he should be the first baseman. On top of that, Ruben Gomez was traded. He and his wife, Maria, had been his close friends. Many saw Orlando's lack of dedication to defense in left field, describing him as lazy or insolent. There was a racial edge to the barbs.

Then, in 1960 the Giants moved to Candlestick Park. The Seals Stadium neighborhood was like the tropics compared to the windy, bayside Candlestick. Cepeda hated it immediately. Its dimensions and wind currents were anathema to right-handed sluggers,

"Mays never complained," Cepeda said of Candlestick's conditions. "McCovey never complained. I knew it was hard to play there but I had to just go ahead and do it. I missed Seals Stadium very much. Seals was cool, too, but not like Candlestick."

Despite this, batting in between Mays and McCovey he got so many pitches to hit that he responded with a huge season in 1961, slamming 46 home runs with 142 RBIs. Cepeda felt that in another park he may have broken Babe Ruth's home record, which Roger Maris did that year. He also felt that he deserved the MVP award, which went to Cincinnati's Frank Robinson. The Giants contended but fell to the Reds for the National League pennant.

It was the second straight year that a Latino player complained that the Most Valuable Player award had been denied him, ostensibly because of his race. In 1960, Pittsburgh's Roberto Clemente loudly stated that he deserved the trophy instead of white teammate Dick Groat. A conservative element within the media began to find fault with Cepeda, who was seen as being too big for his britches.

When Dark took over, he spent hours working with Cepeda on his defense, especially his infield throwing. On one occasion, a brawl broke out but Dark tackled Orlando before he could get involved, which probably saved him injury, a fine and suspension. When ex-manager Bill Rigney made unflattering remarks about Cepeda, Dark soothed the sensitive man's feelings.

"We had a preacher back home when I was growing up who always said, 'Never back a man into a corner,' " Dark said to the slugger. " 'Always leave him some room to come out.' After what you said, it'd be hard for <Rigney> to say he was <misquoted>. I didn't want to see you worrying about what somebody said. That's past and done with."

But Dark had his problems with Cepeda. He agreed with the 1961 MVP vote. Cepeda felt that his dating white women miffed Dark. "I'm sick and tired of people leading the league in home runs and runs batted in and not helping us any," said Dark.

He also prohibited "Cha Cha" from bringing his music into the clubhouse. Cepeda's Puerto Rican Winter League schedule also peeved the manager, who said he was exhausted at season's end..

Prior to a game with Cincinnati, Cepeda was chatting in Spanish with teammate Jose Pagan. The Reds' ace pitcher, Joey Jay, overheard them. "Don't you know how to talk English?" Jay asked caustically.

"Kiss my ass, you (expletive deleted)," Cepeda replied. "Is that English enough for you?"

The Dark feud reached a simmer on August 19, 1962. After splitting the first two of a four-game series, the players woke up on Sunday morning at the Pfister Hotel in Milwaukee. The club had a double-header against the Braves. At10:30 the team bus rolled up for an 11:15 departure. Orlando was in the bus by 11. However, some friends of Orlando appeared. They were a Puerto Rican family who lived in Minneapolis. They knew him from his minor league days there. Cepeda had been very close to them. Cepeda was told they were in the lobby, so he went to look for them. When they found each other, Cepeda and the family meandered out towards the bus. The family's daughter had a very light complexion. When they said good-bye to each other, Cepeda kissed the daughter. Dark saw it and flipped out, apparently disturbed that the Puerto Rican player was kissing a "white girl" right in front of him. He ordered the bus to go. There are varying reports on what happened. According to one, Cepeda was forced to take a cab to County Stadium.

However, Mays told the bus driver to stop and, according to an alternative report, Cepeda got on. Dark says it never happened. Either way, that afternoon a rift occurred between player and manager. McCovey started and Cepeda was scratched. Cepeda felt it was because of the hotel incident, but Dark later claimed it was because his legs were sore. A 1961 collision with John Roseboro of Los Angeles had re-injured the knee Orlando hurt at age 15.

"My knees were in bad shape so many times, but I didn't tell anybody, and <Dark> jumped on me for not playing hard," said Cepeda. "He thought I was faking. I was afraid to say I was hurt. They always say I did not want to play, so I was afraid."

Dark never mentioned the knee to the writers that day. With Milwaukee leading 10-6, Dark passed over Cepeda in a pinch-hitting capacity. A double play killed the rally, but Dark called on Cepeda in the ninth inning with the game lost. Cepeda was peeved. He hit a grounder to second, threw the bat away and walked off the field. Dark went ape and fined him.

Cepeda called the manager a "son of a bitch." Dark ignored the preacher's advice about backing men into corners. "I treated him very badly that day," he admitted. Dark eventually said he did not know about his knee and later apologized. The next day Cepeda belted two home runs. He went on a hitting streak, slamming nine hits, four home runs, and eight RBIs in a three-game set with Philadelphia. Dark went out of his way to praise him.

The San Francisco press psychoanalyzed him, mainly favorably. The general consensus was that he was a huge talent with a bruised ego, and that the Latin players needed special handling. In that respect, it was a condescending view.

Cepeda 's numbers dropped off from his 1961 season. Stoneham made a big point of talking about his salary. He was paid $47,000 but had asked for 60. The owner made it clear he had not earned what he received.

"If a guy hits .300 and knocks in a hundred, how can he be hurting the ballclub?" asked Mays in his defense.

"I think Orlando had more problems with <management> than the rest of us because he was more vocal," said Felipe Alou. "He was a better player and kind of the leader of the Latins, so the confrontation was there."

Art Rosenbaum of the _San Francisco Chronicle_ speculated that Cepeda could be the "Stan Musial" of the Latino players. By 1962, Cepeda was a super hero in Puerto Rico. Despite the vagaries of a long Major League season, it was demanded of him that he play a full Winter League schedule, which he did. Cepeda arrived at Spring Training in 1962 haggard, mentally and physically. He had had no off-season and was tired. His problems with Dark, who criticized him for not taking time off, and his public commentary, led to his being booed for the first time by San Francisco fans.

The story of Mobile, Alabama is in many ways the story of America. It was a typical antebellum Southern town, run by a white establishment. A coastal city, it did not have the black population of other Alabama towns that made up the "cotton kingdom" of its agrarian heartland.

When World War II broke out, however, Mobile became a shipbuilding center. Blacks arrived to work in the yards. There was grumbling and segregation, to be sure, but the war effort superseded it. It was one of the first concentrated efforts undertaken by both whites and blacks in the South.

After the war, jobs dried up, but a substantial black population still existed on the town's fringes. Whites complained, but it was the new order of things. The black families began to grow and raise kids. Great athletes came of age in Mobile. Among cities of comparable size, there are few if any that have produced as many great athletes.

Alabama quarterback Scott Hunter came from Mobile. He replaced Bart Starr with the Green Bay Packers. John Mitchell of Mobile was ticketed for USC, but when the Trojans beat Alabama in 1970 in the seminal game opening the door to widespread integration, he switched from the Trojans, playing instead for Bear Bryant and the Crimson Tide.

But baseball was the ticket out of Mobile for Hank and Tommie Aaron, Tommie Agree, Cleon Jones, and Willie McCovey. Hank Aaron of course became baseball's all-time home run champion. Agee and Jones sparked the 1969 "Miracle Mets" to an improbable World Championship. McCovey would become the city's second Hall of Famer.

Born on January 10, 1938, McCovey grew up to be tall and powerful. At 6-4, 225 pounds he was known as "Stretch." Today, many big men play baseball at all positions. In McCovey's day a man of his relatively gargantuan proportions was seen exclusively as a first sacker. At first, people thought Willie was clumsy. He was criticized as a "bull in a China shop," a buffoon of sorts, and to add racial insult to injury, called a _baboon_ because of his long face and ultra-black skin.

McCovey would be saddled with the reputation of a bad defensive first baseman who could not hit left-handers. It was long after he had proved his critics wrong when it was generally accepted that not only was he not bad in the field, he was _excellent_. His troubles against southpaws, seen as a reason to platoon him and to favor Cepeda, dissipated quickly. McCovey's fielding prowess was exhibited early on when he led Georgia State League first basemen in double plays with 73 in 1955.

McCovey's travels through Southern minor league life were difficult, as they were for all black and Latino players, but unlike Cepeda or West Coast blacks like Frank Robinson and Curt Flood, it was his "neck of the woods." He was used to it. The 17-year old tore up the Georgia State League when he hit .305 with 19 homers and 113 runs batted at Sandersville.

The next year at Danville he hit 29 homers with 89 RBIs and a .310 average. He also led the league with 38 doubles. Here was a huge left-handed hitter with an enormous, loping swing. His slow approach and all-out stroke lulled people into thinking that he was a Goliath with a hole in his swing, but he did not strike out much; he hit for average as well power. He handled lefties just fine in the minors, and he legged out his share of extra-base hits, too.

As he moved up the ladder, scouts, coaches and managers in the Giants' system extolled his virtues. His statistics went down at Dallas of the double-A Texas League in 1957, but at Phoenix of the triple-A Pacific Coast League in 1958 McCovey hit .319 with 89 RBIs. That was the year Cepeda broke in with such aplomb in San Francisco. The comparison did not favor McCovey. Cepeda, lithe and handsome, was seen as the typically flashy Latino first baseman, a positive stereotype that worked to his benefit. Despite getting the job done, people just _looked_ at McCovey, figuring that he was a defensive liability.

Cepeda's outgoing personality helped him, too. Black players, while certainly common, had to be handled carefully. In the first year at San Francisco, there was a perception that The City was more receptive to a Puerto Rican (Cepeda) than an American Negro (Mays).

But the biggest problem was that in 1958, while he hit for average, McCovey only powered 14 home runs. First base was a _home run_ position. It required power production. His 168 hits, 37 doubles and 10 triples in 1958 helped produce 89 runs batted in and 91 runs scored over 146 games at Phoenix, but the powers that be wanted homers. Seals Stadium was a bandbox, a home run hitter's park. Candlestick would favor left-handed sluggers, so that was what the Giants wanted out of McCovey.

Then, in 1959 he could not be denied. Sent back to triple-A Phoenix, instead of sulking McCovey put on a legendary hitting display that may have overshadowed the one Mays demonstrated at Minneapolis in 1951. In 95 games, McCovey hit 29 home runs, drove in 92 runs and batted .372. He also had 26 doubles and 11 triples. Rigney and the club's development people could no longer keep him away from Seals Stadium. His abbreviated homer and RBI numbers would hold up as Pacific Coast League-leading totals.

At San Francisco, McCovey broke in with one of the all-time greatest starts in baseball history, slamming 13 homers with a .354 average in 52 games down the stretch. The Giants appeared to be headed to the World Series, but inextricably faded when the hated - and seemingly less talented - captured the flag instead.

Now what to do? Cepeda had been moved to the outfield and McCovey played first base exclusively except when he was benched and Orlando took over the position. Cepeda was temperamental and none too happy about being moved out of _his_ first sacker's job, but McCovey was too dazzling to argue against. People were also beginning to notice that McCovey was no liability at first, and none too slow, either. He hit an astounding 16 triples between PCL and the big leagues in 1959. At Spring Training in 1960, McCovey ran a series of races of races against other Giants farmhands. He beat them all. He was an athlete!

But everything came crashing down in 1960. It was as if the league caught up to him, discovering his weaknesses. He batted a dismal .238, a terrible disappointment, and was even demoted for 17 games to Tacoma of the PCL. When Candlestick opened, Cepeda and Mays were shocked to discover that the winds blew their home runs right back into the outfield, but the stadium favored McCovey. It did not matter. Worse, it was a year in which San Francisco appeared to be the class of the league, a sure champion, but in the end they faltered again as Pittsburgh captured the title.

Cepeda still played the outfield and first base when McCovey sat in 1961. He had trouble with southpaws, but Cepeda did not. McCovey batted .271 with 18 homers and only 50 runs batted in. Cepeda had a monster year, but it was not enough. Again, San Francisco lost the National League championship to a team considered its inferior, this time Frank Robinson's Cincinnati Reds.

McCovey was a weak left fielder, at least in the beginning. "Don't give <Willie> a glove," one player quipped. "Give him a cigarette and a blindfold." Entering the 1962 campaign, there was a feeling that it was a make-or-break year for "Willie Mac." He demonstrated enough potential to warrant extra consideration. Bill White had been traded away and was a budding star in St. Louis. Nobody wanted to see McCovey become a hero in another city. Among the Giants' faithful, Cepeda was still the apple of their eye, McCovey a suspect. But in 1962 the club tried to incorporate both of these skillful players in a better blend. Cepeda would play more at first, and McCovey would play some in the outfield. Many questioned this plan, but McCovey had demonstrated speed, agility and genuine defensive prowess at first base. Nobody expected that he could be a Gold Glove outfielder, but he was improving and would not be expected to flop, either.

Besides, McCovey like Cepeda was very comfortable in San Francisco. While Mays dealt with a troubled marriage, Cepeda and McCovey were swinging bachelors. McCovey enjoyed the club scene, the myriad jazz places dotting The City. Pretty black girls \- not to mention other kinds of girls - made themselves available to him. He was loving life. It was certainly a long way from Mobile, Alabama. He was happy and popular, made easy friendships, and developed what would be a lifelong love affair with San Francisco.

As a young boy growing up in the Dominican Republic, Juan Marichal helped worked the plantations. The tradition was for families to take turns working the various neighbor farms. The children were always fed first. They were also allowed to swim in the irrigation ditches for recreation. One day, after loading up on rice, Marichal went for a swim. He woke up six days later. He had gone into a coma. The doctor told his mother on the sixth day that if he did not wake up by midnight he was "gone." Juan awoke at a quarter to 12.

For a great athlete, he was still always battling physical maladies throughout his career. He himself said he had genetic "weaknesses," and Giants trainer Doc Bowman said that weakness and injury were related, especially for pitchers.

Marichal lived in Santo Domingo. His neighbors included the Alou brothers; Felipe, Jesus and Mateo. Marichal's mother was dismayed when she received reports that her son was stopping on the way home from school to play ball, but word was spreading that "ball" was a ticket out of the island's poverty.

The Dominican Republican shares the island of what used to be called Hispaniola with Haiti. It is said to have been the place where Christopher Columbus first landed. Naturally, Christianity became the dominant religion. But the island became divided. In the early 19th Century, French dictator Napoleon Bonaparte decided for some reason that Haiti, not Louisiana, carried more promise as part of the French colonial empire. He sold Louisiana to U.S. President Thomas Jefferson, but was immediately met by rebellion in Haiti. According to legend, the Haitians made a "deal with the devil," promising to practice voodoo forever if the Dark Prince would help them defeat the French.

Against impossible odds, the rag-tag Haitian rebels kicked what was at that time the strongest army in the world out of Haiti. They have practiced voodoo ever since, never took to baseball, and to this day Haiti is one of the poorest, most hellish places on the face of the Earth. The people of the Dominican, however, favored Catholicism. Over time, they replaced the dictator Rafael Trujillo with a nascent Democracy. While still poor, they appear blessed. Their multi-million-dollar baseball players regularly send money earned in the United States to their homeland, funding schools, hospitals and other largesse.

Trujillo recruited Negro League stars to play Winter League baseball in the 1930s. According to Buck O'Neil, the players were told that if they lost any games, it might mean their lives. How literal Trujillo's threats were was never demonstrated, since the black Americans went unbeaten. Baseball was on in the Caribbean, and throughout Latin America.

Nobody has ever really explained why so many unbelievably talented baseball stars have emerged from the Dominican since the 1950s. One scout theorized that Arab pirates had once populated the region, and that their "hot blooded" competitive juices run through Dominican veins. Great Dominicans have included blacks and light-skinned Spanish; bulked-up sluggers and lithe middle infielders; both catchers and pitchers.

San Pedro de Macoris would became the city most associated with Dominican baseball, but Santo Domingo was where the action was, especially in Marichal's day. Marichal honed his skills throwing rocks at oranges and pineapples. He could knock fruit off the vine with the precision of an Old West gunslinger, or the legendary bow-and-arrow marksman William Tell.

As a teenager, Marichal began to pitch in the Dominican leagues. He pitched for United Fruit, beating the Dominican Air Force team. It was widely assumed that the path to baseball success came through military induction, and that was Marichal's story. His mother was afraid that her son would be made to become an enforcer in Trujillo's hard-line military, but instead he was cultivated for his pitching skills. The dictator still used baseball as a diversion from his despotic ways, just as he had done with the Negro Leaguers two decades earlier.

Marichal pitched for the Air Force team in the Pan American Games. His teammate was future Giant and Dodger Manny Mota. It was a wild adventure. At one point the players were jailed for losing. Marichal never performed real military duties, just as he never worked actual jobs when he played for company baseball teams.

By the time Marichal's skills were noticed by American scouts, he had never really done anything except play baseball, with the exception of the plantation work he engaged in as a youth. The Washington Senators, Brooklyn Dodgers and other clubs courted him. It was all very exotic, with scouts announcing that some such club was going to sign him, only to disappear from the scene; or another asking him to "try out." Marichal did not know what the phrase "try out" even meant. He was savvy and confident enough of his abilities, however, to hold out for a contract offer worthy of his talents.

The Yankees came calling, but Alex Pompez entered the picture. In September of 1957 Marichal signed with Pompez and the Giants for $500. He was assigned to the Escogido club of the Dominican Winter League, who had an arrangement with the Giants. Before that, the Air Force tried to get Marichal to pitch against a group of American barnstormers led by Willie Mays. Because of his contractual commitment to the Giants he was unable to pitch against the American club. Told that it would be his only chance to meet Mays, Marichal expressed confidence that "maybe I will get to meet him later."

In his first game for Escogido, Marichal came on in relief to strike out three big leaguers - Harry Chitti, Dick Stuart and Howard Goss - with sidearm fastballs. Given a start, he fired 17 strikes in his first 18 pitches, but gave up a few hits and trailed, 2-1. Manager Salty Parker said he hoped Marichal would never pitch for him again, "Because you have to learn how to pitch." By that, Parker meant that while Marichal had pinpoint control, he actually needed to learn how throw _balls_ , waste pitches, set-ups.

In 1958 Marichal got his first whiff of the American South when he trained at the Giants' minor league Spring Training complex at Sanford, Florida. He was like a machine on the mound at class-D Michigan City, dominating with a 21-8 record, 246 strikeouts against just 50 walks, and an earned run average of 1.87.

After pitching for Escogido again in the winter of 1958-59, Marichal was assigned to Springfield of the double-A Eastern League. Manager Andy Gilbert was a perfectionist who repeated over and over again, "You are a professional." He also taught Marichal the high leg kick that became his signature style. His catcher was Tom Haller, a former quarterback at the University of Illinois.

Marichal was 18-13 with 23 complete games, 208 strikeouts against 47 walks, and a 2.39 ERA. But pitching batting practice one day, he was hit on the groin by a line drive that disabled him. This started a trend of injuries that nagged him throughout his career. In 1960, Marichal was elevated to triple-A Tacoma of the PCL, where he was 11-5 when, at mid-season and 21 years of age, he was elevated to the Major Leagues.

The only big league baseball he had ever seen "was on television, mainly the Cub games when I was playing with Michigan City," he recalled. He immediately felt right at home on a club that included childhood pal Felipe Alou, Cepeda from Puerto Rico, and within a year Felipe's brother Matty, Jose Pagan and Manny Mota. Felipe Alou lived next door to "a wonderful grandmotherly woman named Mrs. Blanche Johnson, and she and her husband took me in as a boarder . . ." Marichal recounted.

Marichal fell in love with San Francisco, and the town in turn loved him back. He quickly became Americanized, savoring barbecued foods and other treats of his new culture while staying in touch with his roots. Scouting director Carl Hubbell issued a standing order: "Leave him alone." Marichal was that rarest of pitchers; a fully formed package, a pure natural. He was born to pitch. There was virtually no learning curve. He instinctively knew what to do, even when pitching against the best Major League hitters.

In the middle of a tense pennant race, manager Tom Sheehan immediately installed the Dominican _wunderkind_ into the starting rotation, whereupon Marichal beat rival Pittsburgh, 3-1 and the Milwaukee Braves, 3-2. He finished 6-2 with a 2.67 ERA. He was already as good as any pitcher in the National League.

In 1961, new manager Alvin Dark was determined to "snap the club out of its lethargy of the year before," wrote Charles Einstein. Perpetual favorites for the pennant, San Francisco had yet to win one and Dark felt that his starting pitchers were too reliant on the bullpen. In late July he "pretended tonight he had no bullpen," according to the _San Francisco Examiner_. Dark announced that Marichal was "going to go all the way" no matter what. With the bullpen devoid of humanity, Marichal threw a complete game shutout, defeating defending World Champion Pittsburgh before 17,855 fans at Forbes Field.

"I just got plain sick and tired of pitchers standing out there looking for help," Dark explained after the game.

Marichal was 13-10 in 1961, but San Francisco again fell short in the standings, finishing third behind Cincinnati and Los Angeles. He was an established big leaguer, tested in two pennant races and well versed already in the Giants-Dodgers rivalry, which at this time was being played out in the new Candlestick and the old L.A. Coliseum with the same intensity as in New York.

In the winter prior to the 1962 campaign, Marichal had a second near-drowning incident in the Dominican. This time, he was skin-diving with his good friend Felipe Alou. Marichal spotted a shark. "I swam much too hard and too fast, and I got cramps and I knew I was sinking," he said.  
Alou pulled him to safety, from the shark and from drowning. Alou modestly said that if Marichal wanted to think he was a "hero, fine," but later that the pitcher faced greater danger on a separate occasion. That same winter a boy fired a speargun at a fish that narrowly missed Marichal's belly.

In 1962, Marichal was expected to be the club's ace, but entering Spring Training in Phoenix he had other things on his mind. Rafael Trujillo had recently died, causing political unrest that later would require President Lyndon Johnson to send in the Marines. Marichal had met a pretty Santo Domingo girl named Alma in 1958. He was never the playboy "man about town" that Cepeda was, and after getting to camp Marichal decided he wanted to be married. He was concerned about Alma amid the Dominican turmoil at the time. Dark told him to go home, get married and come right back, which he did. With his personal life in order, stardom awaited.

"You could call just about anything you'd want and Juan was gonna be awful close to a strike," recalled catcher Ed Bailey. "He was the best pitcher I ever caught."

"He could throw it sidearm or over the top, with a screwball, fastball, slider, curve, a change-up you couldn't hit - with deception - he had everything," said pitching coach Larry Jansen. Jansen told the sportswriters all he ever had to do was get Marichal in shape. He never needed to work with him on technique or repertoire. He was an untouchable.

The press took to calling him the "Dominican Dandy."

He was highly religious like Felipe Alou. His close calls swimming and with spearguns certainly reinforced his belief in Jesus Christ, and probably as Felipe Alou - whose brother's name was Jesus - as a his "guardian angel."

The only drawback with Marichal was his tendency to come down with some kind of malady, and in 1962 he suffered but overcame the mumps. His pitching helped power San Francisco into an early lead, and he was the winning pitcher for the National League in the first 1962 All-Star Game.

****

There may never have been a professional athlete more perfectly suited for the team he played for than Don Drysdale. He was the ultimate Hollywood athlete; a Los Angeles native with the looks of a matinee idol and a budding film career on the side. Even his name had marquee value, like John Barrymore or Errol Flynn. He made guest appearances on _The Beverly Hillbillies_ , whose banker character was also named Drysdale.

His background was straight out of Tinseltown, too. At Van Nuys High School, his classmates included the acclaimed actress Natalie Wood, already an international child star, and Robert Redford. Redford, known then as Bobby, was the star outfielder on Drysdale's baseball team. He was good enough to garner a baseball scholarship to the University of Colorado.

Don's father was a semi-pro pitcher who played on the same field where Annabelle Lee learned how to play baseball. Annabelle was the aunt of future USC and Boston Red Sox pitcher Bill "Spaceman" Lee, as well as the model for the star pitcher in _A League of Their Own_. Mr. Drysdale taught his son pitching fundamentals, encouraging him to throw three-quarter arm. Don was also an outstanding hitter who played the infield, but when he got to American Legion ball he emphasized pitching.

Drysdale had it all. Aside from height, a perfect pitcher's build, an overpowering fastball, astonishing talent and the admiration of every girl on the Van Nuys campus, he was a scholar of the first order, recruited to Stanford University on an academic scholarship. USC coach Rod Dedeaux also vied for his services. But after pitching for a Dodgers amateur team, the Giants, Yankees, White Sox, and Cardinals all bid for his services. Instead of becoming the "big man on campus" at Stanford, Drysdale signed a large bonus contract with the Brooklyn Dodgers, who won the competition for him. He rose quickly and without obstacle through the talent-laden Dodgers' minor league system, ascending to the big club in 1956. He was 19.

Drysdale contributed to Brooklyn's 1956 pennant. He won his first game, beating Philadelphia, 6-1 with nine strikeouts. He started 12 games with a fine 2.64 earned run average. In 1957, the team suddenly seemed to age. Amidst the turmoil of an impending move to Los Angeles, and absent the great Jackie Robinson, Brooklyn suffered on the field and at the gate. Their biggest bright spot was Drysdale, an emerging ace who went 17-9 with a 2.69 ERA.

The 1957 Dodgers (84-70, third behind Milwaukee and St. Louis) included several Californians (Gino Cimoli, Duke Snider and Drysdale). Snider was a Brooklyn icon, and despite being from nearby Compton was underwhelmed by the move to Los Angeles, where the dimensions at the Coliseum rendered him a shell of his powerful old self. Cimoli was from San Francisco, so presumably he was not overly excited about the move, but Drysdale was ecstatic.

Drysdale learned how to throw brushbacks from Sal "The Barber" Maglie, who had come over to Brooklyn after a star turn with the New York Giants. "Just remember, every time a batter gets a hit off you, it's like he picked your pocket for a dollar," he told Drysdale.

On a team of veterans, Drysdale befriended another young pitcher, Sandy Koufax. The two would take turns as each other's personal cultural ambassadors and social directors. Drysdale, the Californian amidst the strange-yet-wonderful Brooklyn environment, was welcomed into the Koufax household and shown the sights by the local boy Koufax. In Los Angeles, it was the other way around. Drysdale's family made the homesick Jewish kid feel like he was among friends, while Don gave him the tour of his beloved L.A.

The two were made for the town. Both were handsome and personable. In 1960, Drysdale made his acting debut, playing an Old West lawman in a show appropriately called _The Lawman_. The 6-6, 207-pound right-hander was the embodiment of the rugged Westerner, a big man in the Clint Eastwood mold. There are few athletes whose on-field personality was more different from his off-field demeanor. When Drysdale matured, he became the embodiment of class and intelligence. He had a kind word for everybody and, despite his star status and Hollywood connections, treated the "little people" with as much respect as his star friends. He was also smart, a fabulous interview who benefited from the terrific L.A. sportswriting and radio corps of the era.

On the mound, however, Drysdale was surly and mean, "one of the finest competitors I have ever known," according to Duke Snider. "Don hated to lose - at anything. He didn't even like to hear the word lose."

His reputation for throwing at hitters spread quickly throughout the league.

"Everybody knew about it and they were scared to death of him," said catcher John Roseboro. "Hitters came to the plate talking nice to me in hopes I wouldn't call for the close pitch . . . if you've ever had a ball come about 90 miles an hour at your head, it screws up your thinking . . . Drysdale lived on that."

Drysdale did not shave on game day, looking like a Western villain from one of those TV shows he acted in. Despite his pleasant off-field demeanor, he had a "mean streak," said relief pitcher Ron Perranoski.

Dick Groat compared batting against Drysdale to seeing the dentist when he knew he had cavities. Cincinnati pitcher Jim Brosnan said Big D's "idea of a waster pitch is a strike."

"You just try to hit him before he hits you," said Orlando Cepeda.

The steely-eyed fan favorite worked the inside of home plate as well as any pitcher who ever lived. With no designated hitter to protect him, he knew he would be retaliated against by other National League pitchers, and he worked during an era of some of the hardest-throwers in baseball.

"Drysdale had the reputation of being a headhunter," recalled Snider. "Well, maybe only a slight exaggeration. Don wasn't always trying to hit batters, but he didn't hesitate to throw inside, which a pitcher has to do to be successful, and he didn't mind capitalizing on his reputation to get an edge."

Drysdale was known to approach the other club's best hitter during batting practice on his day to pitch and ask them, "Where would you like it today?" Facing Frank Robinson, his equal as a fiery competitor who crowded home plate like a subway masher, Drysdale once hit Robinson instead of walking him intentionally so as to gain the psychological edge.

"I figured, why waste three pitches?" he said.

"It's rough batting against him," said Robinson. "You can't get set. Other pitchers throw faster but nobody fights harder."

"My success as a pitcher determines the size of my salary," Drysdale reasoned. "My salary buys food for my wife and daughter." His adage was "one of ours, two of yours . . . you don't have to go to Harvard to figure it out." Drysdale said he never intentionally hit a batter, but after retirement he told the _Los Angeles Times_ , "Sure I hit guys." He also threw Vaseline balls and spitters with the best of them.

He used gel on his stylized Hollywood hair. "A little dab'll do ya," Mickey Mantle said in a Brylcreem commercial, and that was all Big D needed to make the ball dance and dive. Drysdale may have looked for every advantage, whether it be the psychology of beanballs or illegal substances, but he was an incredible talent with a 90-mile per hour fast ball. He threw a natural sinker and had one of the great sliders in the game. He also threw a "heavy" fast ball. Koufax undoubtedly threw _faster_ , but his rising heat tended to land lightly in Roseboro's glove. Drysdale's spin, causing a downward spiraling sinker action, would leave Roseboro's hand black and blue. It also was responsible for many a broken bat, double-play grounders, jammed thumbs, stinging fingers, and of course great pain when the ball plunked into a hitter's side.

Drysdale was a great athlete, a cat-quick fielder with a great pick-off move, and may have been the best-hitting pitcher other than Babe Ruth. It is not an exaggeration to say that, had he not been a pitcher, he could have played first base in the Major Leagues.

He was a workhorse, always in great shape, dedicated to his craft, and a team leader. Everybody admired him as well as liked him. Opponents who hated him met him at All-Star Games or after their playing days, discovering a prince of a man. But during his impetuous youth, he developed a reputation as a loud complainer.

In the first year in Los Angeles, Drysdale adjusted, like all his teammates, to the odd Coliseum dimensions. He was batted about in the opener at San Francisco's Seals Stadium and struggled to a 12-13 record with a 4.17 earned run average. The club finished seventh (71-83).

"My knuckles are scraping that wall every time I throw a pitch," he muttered about the Coliseum's left field dimensions.

In 1959 he re-established himself as the staff ace and one of baseball's best pitchers, winning 17 games to lead L.A. to the World Championship. While the Giants collapsed in September, Drysdale's clutch pitching made the difference. He won game three of the World Series in front of more than 90,000 fans at the Coliseum, besting Chicago's Dick Donovan, 3-1. He engendered controversy when umpires accused him of throwing beanballs.

But Drysdale's complaints about the Coliseum irritated some people. Buzzie Bavasi sent him a plaque that read: "To be seen, stand up. To be heard, speak up. To be appreciated, shut up."

Drysdale said he believed that keeping anger inside contributed to ulcers, but Walter Alston liked his fiery attitude, which he wished Koufax had. "I like a player who gets a red neck once in a while," said the manager. Alston also liked the contrast between the workhorse, ready-every-start Drysdale, vs. the perennially injured Sandy.

In 1960 Drysdale led the league with 246 strikeouts, had a 2.84 ERA, but in what would amount to the story of so much of his career, received little support in a 15-14 season. Los Angeles failed to repeat. In 1961 he was 13-10, but the Dodgers finished a disappointing second to the Reds. Drysdale hit 20 batters in 1961, mostly out of frustration.

Entering the 1962 campaign, Drysdale was the biggest name on the team, an established All-Star and fan favorite. He was the unquestioned ace of the staff despite Koufax's presence and emergence as a budding star after years of struggle. As good as he was, however, his career had not taken off the way it should. The reason was the Coliseum. First the bandbox Ebbets Field, then the crazy Coliseum; Drysdale had been forced to pitch with a short left field fence.

"At the Coliseum his best pitch, a fastball on the fists, became a fastball into the seats," wrote Steve Gelman in _Sport_ magazine. Drysdale complained long and loud about the Coliseum, stating. "I'll never win in this place as long as I live," he said. The hometown hero even asked for a trade . . . anywhere. His blustery attitude engendered some boos in the Coliseum years. Finally, after the 1961 season, Dodgers pitchers came to the Coliseum and symbolically tore down the left field fence once and for all.

Now, at Dodger Stadium, he was in his element. He talked less, worked more, and pitched marvelous baseball, winning 11 in a row at one point. On August 3 he reached 20 victories for the first time.

Aside from his Hollywood gigs, Drysdale did public relations work for a local dairy and opened restaurants. "The Meanest Man in Baseball" donated hours to charity, dressing as Santa for a Christmas party at an orphanage, among many of his good deeds. He had it all. His wife, Ginger was literally a beauty queen. The former Tournament of Roses princess told the writers that tough guy Don helped around the house, waxing floors, doing dishes, and "I never have to ask him to do a thing."

"If you had seen Sandy Koufax the first time I saw him, you never would have imagined that he would become what he became - the greatest pitcher I've ever seen and possibly the greatest ever," recalled Duke Snider of his old teammate.

Koufax was a long, long ways from becoming "the greatest ever" when he was growing up in Brooklyn. His birth father's name was Braun, but his mother divorced and married a man named Koufax who was "the only real father I ever knew," according to Sandy. Koufax's upbringing is steeped in myth and legend, some of which is true, some of which is false. It was said that he grew up in an "intellectual Jewish household," that he was raised on the opera and classics; that his parents knew nothing of sports. Perhaps his mother had little interest in athletics, but Koufax made great pains to dispute the notion that he was "an intellectual," or that his baseball career was an accident.

Certainly, he was gifted with great athletic skills. He was 6-2, 210 pounds, with enormous hands, powerhouse legs, excellent jumping ability, dexterity and strength that belied the notion of physical weakness that, perhaps out of some sense of anti-Semitism, has pervaded the Jewish stereotype.

Koufax starred for the local Jewish Community House basketball team that took the 1952 National Jewish Welfare Board title. He was a hoops star at Lafayette High School in Bensonhurt, and in his senior year held his own against the New York Knickerbockers' Harry Gallatin in a charity exhibition.

"I'm going to be looking for you in future years," Gallatin told him after the game ended.

Koufax never played high school baseball until his senior year, when he was used at first base. He earned a basketball scholarship to the University of Cincinnati, where he scored 10 points per game for the freshman team. When the season was over it was still winter time and the weather was freezing cold. Koufax never liked the cold. He heard that the Cincinnati baseball team was planning a trip to New Orleans for a series of games against colleges there. Trying to finagle a free trip to paradise, Koufax approached the baseball coach during a practice held in the gymnasium. He was given a try-out as a pitcher. After warming up, he took the "mound," which was the free throw line with a catcher approximately 60 feet, six inches away. He wore basketball sneakers and had no elevation. Told to air one out, he wound up and delivered a blazing fast ball. According to the legend, the impact of the ball caused the catcher to slide backwards, the slickness of his sneakers sliding on the wood floor. It was like a scene from the comedy baseball movie _The Scout_ , where the superhuman Brendan Fraser delivers a pitch that blows the catcher away as if by hurricane force winds.

Koufax won a spot on the roster and accompanied the team to New Orleans, but was wild and ineffective. Nevertheless, word of the speed of his fastball spread like wildfire throughout baseball circles. The Dodgers' scouting staff included the likes of Buzzie Bavasi, Al Campanis and Fresco Thompson. Here was an 18-year old Jewish kid from Brooklyn reputed to throw 100 miles per hour. He was a basketball star, not a baseball player. His family were people of education, not sports. It was something out of novel. A legend. His religious background made him especially attractive to the Dodgers, since Brooklyn had the largest Jewish population in America. It made him less attractive to teams like St. Louis and Cincinnati, whose populations were not as . . . enlightened.

The Dodgers figured they had best grab the kid now instead of leaving him available to another club. Koufax realized his financial potential and ran a hard bargain. Brooklyn was "forced" to sign him to a $14,000 bonus. Big league rules of the time required that he had to go straight to the Majors. A "bonus baby" had to be kept on the Major League roster for two years. He could not be sent to the minors. The idea was to prevent wealthy franchises - like the Dodgers and Yankees - from stockpiling talent. It could easily have been the undoing of Koufax. The agreement guaranteed the 19-year old could return to college, and over the next few years there were many times when that appeared to be his best option.

Koufax was a prospect of untold potential, but desperately needed seasoning. Had he pitched three or four years in college, then a few more years in the minor leagues, he probably would have made a smooth transition to the big leagues. Instead, he sat on the Dodgers' bench for years, his progress stilted by lack of work or even attention. He was 19 years old in 1955, officially a member of the first World Championship club in franchise history. In reality, he took a roster spot that could have been given to a worthy player.

"Facing him in batting practice was like playing Russian roulette," joked Snider. At Vero Beach, Koufax was too embarrassed to pitch in the regular bullpen, preferring to hide his wildness in sessions held on a distant practice field mound.

He pitched in 12 games and never demonstrated that he was close to big league readiness. On a pennant-contender, he could not be used in meaningless games, since there were never any. Manager Walt Alston resented Koufax's forced presence. An old school Midwesterner, Alston could not relate to Koufax at all. Alston was devoutly Christian. Some claimed he was an anti-Semite, but in truth he simply could not understand Koufax's personality. Alston understood tobacco-chewing, gutter-mouthed, hardcore baseball types. Koufax sat in the dugout watching the games as if he was at the opera. He was not a yeller or screamer. His quiet demeanor was mistaken for a lack of resolve or competitive fire.

Perhaps this was Koufax's nature, but his youth and distance from his famous teammates made it difficult to exert himself in any way, on the bench or off. The veteran Dodgers observed him with curiosity and some resentment, since he took up a roster spot that could have gone to an important pinch-hitter, a defensive replacement, or a middle inning reliever. But _The Boys of Summer_ were a worldly lot. They had lived through the "great experiment" of Jackie Robinson's breaking into the bigs, and were well-acculturated by their Flatbush environment.

For three years in Brooklyn it went on like that. When the Dodgers moved to Los Angeles, Koufax felt a sense of relief. He was no longer the homegrown "Jewish hope." Don Drysdale had befriended him and in Los Angeles showed him a fun new culture. He was also pleased to learn that a large Jewish population lived in the San Fernando Valley. L.A. Jews were much different from their Brooklyn brethren; they were far more assimilated and did not place all their hopes and dreams on the "nice Jewish boy" as Brooklynites had.

Slowly but surely, inch by inch, Koufax developed. It was at times agonizing, and more than a little difficult for Alston to deal with. In 1958, the 22-year old Koufax was 11-11 on a seventh place team in the Coliseum. With the club out of the pennant race early, he was able to get more mound time; 26 starts and 40 appearances.

In 1959, Koufax seemed to take a step back. The club was on its way to a pennant in a season in which every game counted (it took a play-off to beat Milwaukee), and he could not be coddled. "He's either awfully good or awfully bad, just the way I play pool," said Alston.

Shortly before the All-Star break, Koufax struck out 16 Philadelphia Phillies in a night game. In August, San Francisco visited the Coliseum. Koufax, facing the likes of Willie Mays, Orlando Cepeda and hot rookie Willie McCovey, broke the National League record for strikeouts in a single game (previously held by Dizzy Dean), while tying Bob Feller's big league standard of18. Koufax struck out the side in the ninth, but the game was tied. A notoriously bad hitter, Koufax was not pinch-hit for in the bottom of the ninth. He singled, and Wally Moon's "Moon shot" home run over the short-but-high left field fence won the game, 5-2.

On the season, Koufax was 8-6, getting 23 starts in addition to 12 relief appearances. Los Angeles rallied to win the pennant. In game five of the World Series at the Coliseum, Koufax started against Bob Shaw, a notorious spitball artist with the Chicago White Sox. Koufax was dominant but touched for a run in the fourth when Nelson Fox scored on a double-play grounder hit by Sherm Lollar. Despite his five-hit performance over eight innings, it was not enough to match the shutout pitching of Shaw, Billy Pierce and Dick Donovan in a 1-0 Chicago victory.

Other teams constantly made trade offers, but the Dodgers resisted. Koufax's relationship with Alston continued to be rocky. With former aces Carl Erskine, Don Newcombe and even Sal Maglie no longer in the picture, Alston had hoped that finally Koufax could be relied on, but he was still a project akin to the Hoover Dam. One night Koufax and rookie pitcher Larry Sherry broke curfew. Alston caught them and came pounding on their door. The two pitchers were like frightened children while the manager tried to literally break the door down, causing Alston to break his World Series ring.

During the disappointing 1960 campaign, the 24-year old Koufax was a bust. By this point he had been in the big leagues for six years and was the same age he would have been had he played three years of college ball and a couple more in the minors. Had he been a rookie in 1960, his 8-13 record would not have been so disappointing. His 197 strikeouts in 175 innings was phenomenal, but he also walked 100 batters. Koufax, unlike Drysdale, was afraid to work inside, worried that his explosive fastball could kill a hitter.

The turning point in his career apparently came about on a plane ride to a 1961 spring "B" game against the Twins. Roommate Norm Sherry told him that if he fell behind the hitters he should "let up," because when he thew his hardest "your fastball comes in high." Sherry also suggested that he throw more curveballs.

For Koufax, he had heard every bit of advice, but by 1961 was desperate and "ready to listen" because "I didn't have anything to lose." He eased up and discovered his fastball did not lose any heat, but suddenly could be controlled. His curve, previously unused, was unhittable. That day he tossed a seven-inning no-hitter.

In 1961, he finally hit his stride, winning 18 games with a 3.52 ERA, striking out an incredible (and league-leading) 269 hitters with only 96 walks in 255 2/3 innings. Again, however, the season ended in disappointment for the team, but the young southpaw finally had arrived.

"He'd throw his fastball that started at the letters, but by the time the batters would swing, the pitch was already out of the strike zone," said pitcher Stan Williams. His curve dropped from shoulders to knees and was all-but untouchable. They often did not look like strikes but ended up in the strike zone. He learned how to change speeds. Using his natural intelligence, he was mastering the pitching arts.

"He shortened his stride on his front foot," said pitching coach Joe Becker. "That helped his control. Batters used to read his pitches. He showed the ball when he brought it up. Now he hides it and takes his time . . . he'll be one of the all-time greats."

Entering the 1962 campaign, Koufax was a mature man of 26. His first start came on "Chinatown Night." Reeled in on a rickshaw, Koufax then defeated Cincinnati, 6-2 for the club's first-ever win at Dodger Stadium.

Two weeks later he struck out 18 again against Chicago, becoming the first to do it twice. In mid-May, the index finger on his throwing hand started to go numb. Nobody could determine its cause. By the summer time, he had won 10 games and led the league in ERA. On June 30 he faced the fledgling New York Mets in front of 32,000 at Dodger Stadium.

The first three New York hitters went down on strikes, which took the minimum nine pitches. Los Angeles scored early and everybody settled in to watch Koufax. A great play was made by shortstop Maury Wills, who went deep into the hole and threw out Frank Thomas in the second inning. Koufax walked four but two double-plays helped him out. By the eighth, Koufax had 13 strikeouts.

"Either he throws the fastest ball I've ever seen, or I'm going blind," lamented New York center fielder Richie Ashburn, a former Philadelphia star destined for the Hall of Fame.

In the ninth, pinch-hitter Gene Woodling walked to lead off. Ashburn hit a curving foul down the left field line, then forced Woodling at second on a grounder. Rod Kanehl also grounded out. Felix Mantilla, who had beaten Koufax in a Spring Training game with a ninth-inning single, bounced to Wills for the force out and Koufax had a no-hit game.

However, the numb finger kept getting worse. Nobody knew what caused it, or how to treat it. It looked dead, with a white pallid color. Koufax would fool with it, pushing and probing at it. His finger started to have the feel of wax.

Koufax pitched through it, effectively. He hit a home run off Milwaukee great Warren Spahn, beat the Mets again, defeated Philadelphia on July 4, and was scheduled to face arch-rival San Francisco on July 8. While warming up, the finger turned red. When pressure was applied, it felt "as if a knife were cutting into it," said Koufax.

Koufax held the ball lightly and threw only fastballs. He clung to a 2-0 lead and a no-hit game until the seventh. The pain became intolerable, however. After throwing two balls to Willie Mays, Koufax had to remove himself. Drysdale closed and held on for the win, but Koufax was unavailable to pitch at the All-Star Game in Washington, D.C. because the pain got worse. It went from red to blue with an ugly blister at the tip.

Hoping the mid-season break had alleviated the pain, Alston went with his ace after the break. Koufax could still not apply enough pressure to throw his curveball, but managed to go seven innings in a 3-0 win over the Mets. Finally, he lost all feeling in his entire hand and was lifted. It was his 14th win, and his last.

At Cincinnati, the finger "split open" and he was lifted after one inning. The trainers came out and saw a "raw, open wound." He flew back to Los Angeles to be examined by Dr. Robert Woods.

After consultation,, he was taken to a cardio-vascular specialist, Dr. Travius Winsor, who concluded that he had a blood clot. The doctor told him that if he kept pitching without treatment, he might have lost his finger and his career. Drugs, shots and ointments were prescribed. The injury may or may not have been a malady known as "Reynaud's Phenomenon." Frustrated, seemingly having reached greatness after so many years of struggle, he watched his team battle San Francisco without him.

Koufax lived in a hillside ranch home in Studio City, surrounded by books and records that ran the gamut of classical to rock. The home's location was perfect for its occupant, located on a sharply ascending curve of a narrow street, with a high retaining wall with heavy growth of landscaping.

"If you didn't know what you were looking for, you couldn't possibly have found it," wrote his biographer, Ed Linn.

His home was "a polyglot of decorating styles: contemporary living room, early-American kitchen, a den in Oriental," wrote David Plaut in _Chasing October: The Dodgers-Giants Pennant Race of 1962_. "Stacked high along the shelves were dozens of books and more than 300 record albums."

"He enjoyed music, and the one thing he really loved to talk about was hi-fi components - woofers and tweeters," recalled Vin Scully. Sandy built a do-it-yourself "boombox," which consisted of a radio, tape recorder and speaker wired into a lid, which he carried on road trips. He did not like jazz.

He also co-owned an FM music station in Thousand Oaks. He liked fine dining, gardening, golf, and beautiful women. He never talked about his girlfriends, however.

"Whatever I do off the field, after baseball, is my own business, so long as I don't cause any trouble," he told _Sport_ magazine. "If I live alone, so what? If I like to do something, who has to know? Who cares? I figure my life is my own to live as I want. Is that asking too much?"

Handsome and intelligent, his reputation as an eligible bachelor was built up by the media. Koufax certainly liked the ladies, but since he was quiet about his love life, any portrayals of a Don Juan image were dissuaded. Drysdale was helping him make in-roads into Hollywood, however, which increased his public profile.

Vin Scully said that Koufax was as nice a man as there was on the team; "charming, always cooperative," he said. "A lovely guy," but he was always by himself, had no close friends, and if he did hang out with anybody it was usually a back-up catcher or utility infielder. He liked Drysdale, but as fame and Hollywood stardom linked both, he shied away from promulgating the image of "Dodger gunslingers," subject to tabloid rumor.

Koufax ordered room service on the road instead of going out and getting recognized. "I don't even remember him going to movies much," recalled roommate Daryl Spencer.

Koufax would occasionally "go with the other pitchers after a game," recalled Johnny Podres. "He'd have one drink with us, put 50 bucks down on the bar and say, 'okay, boys, have a good time.' Then he'd finish his drink and go home."

Dodger Stadium, set to open in 1962, was built for Koufax and Drysdale, with its distant fences. Expectations for Koufax were sky high. The Dodgers played mostly night games, which worked to the pitcher's advantage. This included Saturday nights, a novelty but very popular as it gave fans a chance to enjoy their day and still make the game. The heavy smog of the era also worked to reduce well-hit balls.

Tommy Davis turned 23 years old during Spring Training in 1962. Like Koufax, he was a Brooklynite; born in the borough in 1939. The Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood he was raised in, which housed Ebbets Field, was by the time he reached high school a rugged area, infested with crime and drugs. Church helped keep Davis out of trouble, but he was street smart, too. He gravitated towards sports, starring in baseball and track at Boys High School. The big sport in Brooklyn among black youth, however, was basketball, and it was his first love. The problem was that "I couldn't shoot a lick, I was a garbage man," he said.

Pure athletic ability, however, made him competitive enough on the court to earn a place on the all-city team with Doug Moe and Satch Sanders. He and his pal Lenny Wilkens were offered scholarships to Providence, but his grades were not up to snuff so he signed with the Dodgers. Dreams of being a hometown hero went up in smoke when the club moved to Los Angeles

Davis was a 6-2, 200-pound right-handed batter with a natural line drive stroke. Before Charlie Lau taught hitters like George Brett to swing down on the ball, Davis was doing just that. His vicious drives reminded old-timers of Napoleon Lajoie, who hit balls that posed danger to pitchers, first basemen and third basemen in the first decade of the 20th Century.

Davis, who enjoyed modern jazz, hit .325 in 43 games at Hornell of the Pony League in 1956. The next year Davis established himself as a major prospect when he lit up the Midwest League, batting a league-leading .357 with 104 RBIs for the Kokoma club. After hitting .304 at Victoria of the double-A Texas League in 1958, he was elevated to Montreal, where he played out the remainder of the season.

In 1959 Davis was on fire at Spokane of the triple-A Pacific Coast League. There was hardly a statistic that did not bear his star on it, indicating a league leader. This included games (153), at-bats (612), hits (211), average (.345), put-outs (414), plus 32 doubles, 18 homers and 78 runs batted in. Davis had the power to be a 40-homer man, but went for line drive average instead.

Davis was called up at the end of the 1959 campaign, but broke in successfully during his rookie campaign of 1960, when he batted .278. He was a left fielder but could also play third base, a problem position that the Dodgers were not able to solve in the years between Billy Cox and Ron Cey. In 1961 Davis hit .278. Los Angeles expected to win with pitching in 1962, but they certainly had bats in the line-up. Like Koufax, Davis hid his competitive nature behind a placid disposition.

"The first impression you get of Tommy is that he's too nonchalant and a little lazy," Alston observed of him. "He appears half asleep, but he's quick as anybody. It's just that his actions and the way he walks around are a little misleading."

In 1961, Davis occasionally came out late for batting practice, prompting a tongue-lashing from Alston, who was normally placid until his ire was stirred.

"This is the only thing I can do, maybe the only thing I can do well," Davis said. "Don't you think I want to make as good a living out of baseball as I can?"

Pete Reiser took it upon himself to handle Davis personally. "I'm Tommy's father and his nursemaid," said the former star. "I figure out what he needs. Sometimes I bawl him out. Other times I treat him nice. I told him he has to be mean and mad at everyone in the world to be a good hitter."

"Tommy was probably the best pure hitter I ever saw," claimed Dodgers broadcaster Jerry Doggett. In 1962, Davis learned how to hit to right field, but he got off to a slow start. Bavasi used financial incentives to get his charges to improve their production. Bavasi offered him $100 if he tried not to pull everything. Davis's hits to right and right-center would cost the general manager $3,500 ($100 per hit).

Davis was married with two daughters. "When I see those ribbies on the bases, I see dollar signs," Davis said. "It means more money in the bank" for his family. He definitely proved himself a better hitter with men in scoring position. "He was a great clutch hitter," said pitcher Ed Roebuck. "It seemed as if he knocked in an awful lot of runs with two outs."

"Every time there was a man on base, he'd knock him in," said Sandy Koufax. "And every time there were two men on base, he'd hit a double and knock them both in."

"With no one on, he goes for power and presses," said team vice president Fresco Thompson. "With men on, he concentrates better. He simply is a better hitter with men on base."

Those men were usually Maury Wills, Junior Gilliam and Willie Davis.

"He'd go up there and look bad on some pitches, but he'd do it on purpose," said catcher Norm Sherry. "So the pitcher would throw the same thing to him again and he'd knock the cover off the ball."

"Down in his heart he wants to play, win and bear down as much as anyone," said Alston. "But he likes to relax. It's our job to keep him wound up."

Davis hung out with Wills, Willie Davis and John Roseboro for musical jam sessions. Wills handled the banjo. Davis was a baritone. Roseboro fooled around with bongo drums, harmonics and a ukulele. Tommy was a "utility man," more often playing producer/critic. Davis did some promotional work for Capitol Records in the off-season. The great singer, songwriter and piano impresario Ray Charles was a business partner of Davis's, in a travel agency called Gulliver's.

Davis also enjoyed playing golf with Wills, Willie Davis and Roseboro. Eventually he shot in the low 70s. While Davis had shown great ability in the minors and terrific potential in his first two years in the big leagues, nobody could have predicted what he had in store in 1962.

In the early days of baseball, bunting, stealing and moving runners over from base to base was the formula by which winning teams thrived. Great singles hitters and base stealers such as Ty Cobb were the idols of the game. Then Babe Ruth came along. His power hitting prompted the establishment to "liven up" the baseball, outlaw spitters, and usher in a new era of home run hitting. The stolen base became a secondary weapon until after World War II, when Jackie Robinson broke in and a new wave of black players started a style that came to be called "National League baseball."

Maurice Morning Wills was the epitome of this aggressive style; stealing bases, taking the extra base, forcing errors on pick-off throws and outfielders trying to nab runners stretching out hits. He was, as Cobb had once described himself, a "scientific" player, a "thinking man's" ballplayer. At 5-11 and only 170, the wiry little shortstop needed to develop the skills he had - namely, speed and smarts - instead of focusing on what he did not have; power, a strong throwing arm . . .

Wills made friends of the groundskeepers, who tailored the dirt areas to his liking. Philadelphia manager Gene Mauch said it was "an education just to watch him" before games; testing his footing, practicing turns, "like a guy tuning a violin for a concert."

"I think I can steal against anybody," he said. "Stealing is about 40 percent lead, 40 percent jump, and 20 percent speed." Indeed Wills was fast, but others - Lou Brock, Rickey Henderson, to name two - were considerably faster. "The score doesn't have much to with stealing bases as far as I'm concerned. Even if we're four or five runs behind, I like to play it as if the game was even. I'll try to steal sometimes just to get us one run closer. If we can edge up on 'em one at a time we might win it."

Writers quickly noted that Wills had that special talent known as "killer instinct." He said he would like to "win every game 100-0 if we could." Wills was also skilled in the art of the "disrupted throw." Not only did he steal bases, but he had the ability to cause infielders to miss throws by jamming his legs and body into their gloves and bodies as he was sliding safely into the bag, popping up, and taking an extra base on the forced error.

Wills had seemingly come out of no where. Four years earlier he was unknown. The son of a Baptist preacher, born in Washington, D.C. in 1932, Wills was one of 13 children who grew up in a rat-infested government housing project. His father also worked as a Naval yard machinist. His mother was an elevator operator and domestic. Maury had to care for himself. Constantly worried, Maury became a bedwetter, a big problem in a house in which children were forced to sleep in the same beds.

Wills was all-city in baseball, basketball and football his senior year of high school. At the age of 17 he eloped. His new bride, Gertrude was 16. Their first child was born shortly thereafter.

Nine colleges offered him athletic scholarships, including Syracuse and Ohio State, but with a young family Wills went for pro baseball. He entered as part of the wave of black and Latino players who came after the likes of Jackie Robinson, Willie Mays and Roberto Clemente opened so many doors. Many were called, but few were chosen. He did not impress the people who mattered, spending years toiling in the minor leagues. Even his strengths were seen as weaknesses under the code of 1950s society. A light-skinned black, Wills was extremely smart; too smart for some of his white managers and counterparts, who called him a "clubhouse lawyer."

Wills played minor league ball from 1951 to 1959. It seemed he would never make it. He made no money, lived in squalid conditions, endured the vagaries of the South, and was separated from his family. In 1955, Wills broke the Texas League "color barrier." He ended up in Spokane, the Dodgers' triple-A farm club, and was there so long it became his residence.

In 1959 the Tigers purchased an option on Wills, who spent Spring Training with them, but was dumped back into the Dodgers' laps when Detroit decided he was not worth the $35,000 they needed to spend in order to keep him. Wills returned to Spokane, beaten. He had been all-but given-up on by two teams. But Spokane manager Bobby Bragan, a seasoned big leaguer, believed in him. He also taught him the art of switch-hitting. Wills batted .313 in the Pacific Coast League.

Finally, in 1959 Wills replaced Pee Wee Reese as the Dodgers' shortstop. In 1960 he slumped, but hitting coach Pete Reiser started working with him. The two arrived before anybody else and practiced in the batting cage.

"He gave up three hours every day that he could have spent with his family," Maury remembered. "Pete taught me to believe in myself. He gave me the inner conceit that every athlete needs if he hopes to be great."

Wills became a creditable Major League hitter, but what separated him from the competition was his penchant for the stolen base. He led the National League in that category in 1960 (50) and 1961 (35). From the lead-off position, Wills drew many walks, forced pitches to throw a lot of pitches and pick-offs, while setting the table for the likes of Tommy Davis hitting behind him .

Wills's banjo playing gained him some notoriety, but he got caught up in playing "Bye, Bye Blues" so much that Sandy Koufax finally told him he would "personally cut the strings off your banjo," if he played it again.

The little orchestra of Wills, the two Davis's and Roseboro included a clavietta, described by Wills as "a wind instrument that's a combination harmonica and accordion." Wills even played some Las Vegas dates. When the threesome performed they preferred standards such as "My Funny Valentine," "Stella by Starlight," and "Moon River" which, according to Wills, was particularly nice on the clavietta.

Wills's years of anxiety - his childhood and then minor league life - caused him to become a man of routine. Part of that routine revolved around neatness and planning. This carried over to the way he conducted himself and dressed.

"Look, I spent eight and a half years in the minors, came from a family of 13 kids and six of my own," said Wills. "I never had much to spend on clothes until I got to the big leagues. So it was important for me to look nice.

"Other players drove flashy cars. I was happy with my Ford station wagon. But I wanted to look sharp. We did a lot of shopping at Cy Devore's in Hollywood. That was the ultimate, because that's where the movie stars went."

Wills and Tommy Davis were friendly rivals, but sometimes it got out of hand.

"Tommy Davis lived four houses away from me," said Wills. "He came over for coffee. Our kids played together. But when we got to the ball park, we fought like cats and dogs" over card games.

"One time on the team bus in Milwaukee, he started riding me unmercifully about a new sweater I just bought. I had really picked it out with care, but he says, 'Where'd you get it - at a fire sale?' Soon everybody on the bus was laughing at me. Jim Gilliam, who was an excellent dresser, too, also used to criticize my wardrobe, but not in front of everybody like Davis was doing. At the park I challenged Tommy to step outside the clubhouse. When he got there, I was already in tears.

" 'C'mon, let's fight,' I said. 'I'm tired of this crap.' Tommy just laughed. 'I'm not gonna fight you. You're too little.' But I kept shoving him in the chest. My pride and my ego were hurt, but he refused to fight me and he wouldn't apologize."

Wills once gave a signal to re-position Davis in the outfield, but Tommy refused to move, giving Maury the finger instead. In the dugout, a fight did ensue, broken up by 260-pound Frank Howard.

On another occasion Wills drew half a dozen pick-offs with Gilliam at the plate. Gilliam finally took a third strike while Wills stole second, but shot an angry glance at Wills. Howard again had to be the peacemaker when Gilliam and Wills took their argument into the runway. He held both players in mid-air and told them "you can't fight" in the dugout, as aghast at the concept as the Peter Sellers' character who declared, "There's no fighting in the War Room" in _Dr. Strangelove_.

Both San Francisco and Los Angeles got off to good starts in 1962, but it was the Dodgers who established the pace of the season. Wills led that pace. If Jackie Robinson and Willie Mays had created "National League baseball" - stolen bases, aggressiveness - that had always marked the old Negro Leagues, then Wills was the embodiment of what that meant now.

No longer in the Coliseum, the club adjusted perfectly to Dodger Stadium. The infield was a hard, red brick and clay surface that sometimes resulted in bad bounces, but was perfect to propel flying feet. The distance fences meant there was no single "home run alley." The thick Los Angeles smog and night-game heavy schedule tended to keep baseballs in the park, too.

"Dodger Stadium today is still a good-sized park, but the playing field was even bigger back then," recalled homegrown Norm Sherry, the brother of pitcher Larry Sherry. "Home plate was much closer to the stands in '62, making it at least 15 feet farther to the fences. And in Dodger Stadium, those coastal breezes made the nighttime air a little heavier, so the ball didn't travel as well."

"This park separates the men from the boys," related one of the Cubs' "revolving managers," Elvin Tappe. "There will be very few .300 hitters around here."

Andy Carey of the Dodgers said he would rather have four singles than one home run, and that for him at least, the only chance to hit one was out was to pull it right along the line. All of this steered the team towards a certain strategy based on speed, with Wills the driving force.

Wills was a danger to steal at any time but speed manifested itself beyond the statistics. The club would swipe 198 bases, the most of any National League team since the end of the "dead ball era," and "that doesn't show how many doubles were stretched into triples, how many singles into doubles," wrote Jim Murray in the _L.A. Times_. " 'The Los Angeles Larcenists,' they should call them . . . they should play in masks and blackjacks. You know the Dodgers are in town by the cloud of dust around second base."

The Dodgers of later years were known for being speed-friendly and "Hitless Wonders," but for all their swiftness in 1962 this was still a team with power in the form of Wally Moon, Frank Howard, Duke Snider, Tommy Davis and Ron Fairly. Unlike the Yankees and Giants, power teams that never stole bases, Alston preferred to use all the tools at his disposal. He was not averse to giving his speedster the "green light" or ordering something even in a hitter-friendly situation. The power guys learned to live with it, quickly realizing it created advantages; pitchers' concentration was affected, thus creating mistakes pitches. But as the season played out, an interesting dynamic presented itself. Los Angeles scored most of their runs on the road, where many teams still played in old, cozy parks like Forbes Field, the Polo Grounds, Colts Stadium and Crosley Field. At home they relied more on pitching.

"Being a line drive hitter, the larger playing area gave me a better chance to run," said Wills. "The infield was fast so I was now able to hit ground balls through the hole and also beat out a lot of high choppers."

Alston allowed Wills to run whenever he wanted to. The manager had confidence not only in his star's ability to steal the base, but in his sense of diamond intelligence. Wills was a field captain who new the game inside and out. His strategic mind was always working.

"I've never seen a better base runner," said Alston. "He knows when to take a chance, how to get a good lead, how to get the jump on the pitcher and how to slide."

Scouting director Al Campanis always gave the lectures on base running at Vero Beach, but the job was given to Wills while still an active player.

"I watch every move the pitcher makes and jot down every item in the book I keep in my head," Wills told _Life_ magazine. "You always steal on the pitcher, not the catcher.

"Just about every pitcher in the business shows a telltale sign with a man on base - a dip of the head or a turn of the shoulders. These signs tell me this pitch is heading for home plate and that I'm heading for second."

Dodger Stadium crowds exhorted him with chants of, "Go, Maury, go!" Vin Scully called him _The Roadrunner_ , from the popular cartoon. Broadcasts made the "beep-beep" sound from the show whenever he stole a base. Wills "stole" the show in the All-Star Game, thrilling President Kennedy and Vice President Lyndon Johnson with daring-do on the base paths that fueled the Nationals' 3-1 victory.

By the end of July, Wills had 50 steals, equaling his personal best. Talk of breaking Ty Cobb's all-time record of 96 began. It was not an empty record by any means. Aside from the fact Cobb was a Hall of Famer, the record was symbolic; a black man breaking the record of the Georgia Peach was significant. The stolen base can be used to win games or just to steal bases. In this case, Maury's steals propelled his team to great heights. Just as importantly, he generated huge excitement that manifested itself in record-breaking crowds in Los Angeles as well as on the road.

"The guy that got under our skin the most was Maury Wills," admitted Giants catcher Tom Haller. "He was so competitive and did so many little things that hurt you. Our perception was that it seemed like everything he was doing was trying to rub it in. Of course, he was just playing hard, but we still didn't like him. We always wanted to beat him - get him, knock him out on the double-play, whatever you could do."

Wills more than anybody else represented the intensity of the Giants-Dodgers rivalry. It had been super intense in New York, especially in the 1950s. Some had speculated that it would lose its edge in California. The "new breed" of modern ballplayer was not as likely to get caught up in the rivalry, it was speculated, but in Wills it was every bit as heated as Jackie Robinson vs. Sal Maglie.

Some teams took to cheating, not unknown in the sports rivalries between the north and the south. When Cal's All-American running back tandem of Vic Bottari and Sam Chapman came to Los Angeles to play USC on a hot, dry September day in the 1930s, they found the grass was soggy. A Trojan groundskeeper had "forgotten" to turn off the sprinklers in an effort to slow down the speedy Golden Bears runners.

National League teams tried a similar tactic with Wills, watering down infields or letting grass grow to slow his high choppers. Candlestick Park's groundscrew was the most blatant about it, which heated the rivalry up even more. Desperation crept into the opposition's efforts, with pitchers throwing at his legs and catchers risking errors by trying to hit him on picks to third base.

But it was the constant sliding that took the biggest toll on Wills. He endured a bruised right hand, black and blue hips, hamstring spasms, and brutal "strawberries." Wills was a constant in the trainer's room, where Bill Buhler and Wayne Anderson offered vitamins, diathermy, whirlpools and foot massages. Will wore inch-thick pads on his knees, and even consulted a psychiatrist to held him overcome the pain.

The New Rome

"Carthage must be destroyed."

\- Roman statesman Cato's last line in every speech

The Roman political figure Cato uttered these words at the conclusion of all his public addresses. It referred to the looming danger of the Carthaginian General Hannibal, the greatest threat to their empire until the Romans - finally - did destroy Carthage.

The threat to Rome resembled the threats that long faced America. One by one, colonialism, slavery, Nationalism, Nazism, Communism (and soon terrorism?) have been, as President Ronald Reagan famously said, deposited into the "dustbin of history."

In 1945, the United States found itself at the top of the heap, but threats still remained. The main threat was Communism, and this was the dominant concern of the body politic that concerned us for 17 years and was very much priority number one in 1962.

An observation of American history leaves one astonished. Americans have been inculcated with the notion that God graces this nation. We sing songs like "God Bless America." Our money says, "In God we trust." Our founding documents are filled with references to God's grace. Many of our cities and towns have Biblical names and references: _Bethel_ , Pennsylvania; New _Canaan_ , Connecticut; _Saint Peter_ sburg, Florida; Los _Angeles_. When the U.S. decided to expand Westward, we called it Manifest Destiny.

There is little in the American experience between our Declaration of Independence in 1776 and the year 1962 to dissuade most from the idea that we are a new Promised Land. The Bible and world history books tell the story of nations, empires and armies that ascended to great heights. In most cases, they were ancient countries that took 1,000 years to reach power, often to fall precipitously. Great powers have included the Persians, the Greeks, the Roman, British and Austro-Hungarian Empires. The French, the Germans and the Soviets all had grandiose visions of such glory, but fell short.

Then there is America. A small group of agrarian colonies, completely separated from the salons of influence, politics and religious or military power. A tiny population, naturally pre-disposed to avoid "big government" and its trappings: armies, navies, groupthink over self-reliance. A bunch of individuals who wanted to be left alone, much less invade other countries.

Yet this little, disparate group of loosely confederated states grew in less than 200 years to become the single biggest, most powerful, influential, and richest empire . . . power . . . military . . . _idea_ . . . ever conceived by Mankind. This was the state of America in 1962.

In 1939, we were happily ensconced in isolationism; a Pacifist, anti-military country, weakened by a Great Depression that left us questioning our very _modus operandi_. The idea that we had what it took to "rule" the world was laughable. John F. Kennedy's father, Ambassador to the Court of St. James Joseph P. Kennedy, advocated that "we join with Adolf Hitler and do business with him, since we obviously can't beat him."

Our future looked to be the landscape Ayn Rand described in _Atlas Shrugged_ , which seemed to be an America that never recovered from the Great Depression, and certainly never entered or won World War II.

But we did enter World War II, from the weakest possible position. Our Army was a shell of its victorious World War I self, and after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor our Navy was barely afloat. In our first battles with the Nazis in North Africa and the Japanese in the Pacific, we were soundly beaten.

Four years later, we were the greatest military juggernaut ever conceived, an all-conquering, indestructible force that ruled by complete fiat over all she surveyed. More important, we were a _reluctant_ empire, dragged kicking and screaming into a new role as the world's policeman, arbiter, shaper and decider. People were not ruled by us, but rather _looked_ to us. They _wanted_ us to be in their countries. They begged for our industries, our American know-how, our can-do spirit to help their war-ravaged countries rise from the rubble. We were benevolent kings, masters happy to free those who served us. Our international policy was a microcosm of Christian freedom.

We had "the bomb" when nobody else did. We had the capacity to use it, and therefore to eliminate any future threat, to establish total dominance over and above all previous conceptions. Had the Romans, Napoleon, the Nazis, the Soviets, or most any other great power with the exception of the British, possessed a weapon with such unilateral ability to use it without response, they all surely would have. We decided not to conquer every inch of the world for one reason: the decision not to do it. Why? Because our leaders knew that a just God would not approve of it. Therefore we did not do it.

Spared annihilation by our kind charity, the Soviet Union set out to defeat the U.S. Their policy was the baseball version of Leo Durocher's phrase, "Nice guys finish last." If we were too soft to murder them, then they would murder us. They would take advantage of our gullibility to destroy us. If we were ahead 7-0 in the eighth inning but refused to steal an open base in order to keep the score down; well, the Soviets figured if we did not have the will to win 20-0 then we did not deserve to win, period!

Again, the concept of God's relationship with Mankind, and most notably with America, comes into play. The Soviets had peace and could have existed in comfortable partnership with America. They chose to oppose America. America was a free country filled with grateful, religious people. Communism was an atheistic, evil concept. Therefore, it was simply _natural_ , pre-ordained really, that they would try to beat us. It was good vs. evil. It could only be this way.

So, over the next 17 years, this was the dynamic that played itself out. They called it the Cold War, but there was plenty of "hot" war, too, and in America, the "land that I love," treachery was afoot. Righteousness was opposed. Evil reared its ugly head.

The Nazis were easy to hate. They were up-front about what they intended to do and then set out to do it. Their crimes were obvious and out in the open. They dared us to stop it, and somehow we did. But Communism slithered around under the guise of "equality" and "fairness," amorphous terms that the world has desperately tried to live up to, always to be slapped down by the reality that life is not "outcome based" or fair.

The Soviets engaged in an espionage program, mostly based on the East Coast, beginning in the 1920s. Dictator Joseph Stalin also understood that the new medium of film was the most powerful tool of propaganda yet devised. Adolf Hitler had built his Nazi empire using the documentary talents of Leni Riefenstahl. Stalin wanted to take a step further; plant his own moles in the American film industry, therefore destroying the enemy via a cancer from within.

The U.S. was mostly oblivious to this until 1947, when Soviet espionage became the dominant news item of the post-war era. At the heart of this dynamic was the wrinkled little man, Whittaker Chambers. Out of his revelations to California's freshman Republican Congressman, Richard M. Nixon, did the House Un-American Activities Committee come to dominate political dynamics. After Alger Hiss's conviction, the country focused on Communist treachery and treason. Left wing Berkeley professor Robert Oppenheimer leaked atomic secrets to the Soviets. Ethel and Julius Rosenberg furthered that effort, and in 1949 the U.S.S.R. exploded their first atomic bomb. Harry Truman's failure to support Nationalist forces in China was credited by the Right with "losing" Red China to Mao Tse-Tung. A confrontation in Korea led to accusations that the Democrats had failed to let General Douglas MacArthur defeat the "Red menace" once and for all. Out of this rose a Republican Senator from Wisconsin named Joseph McCarthy. McCarthy had exaggerated his World War II exploits, all-but giving himself the sobriquet "Tailgunner Joe" in reference to his experience in a Marine fighter plane.

McCarthy saw the issue of Communism and seized on it. In fact, he was right in that the Communists had infiltrated government, but he was a demagogue who went too far; namely accusing such stalwarts as President Dwight Eisenhower and former Joint Chiefs chairman George C. Marshall of treachery. He was discredited and run out of the Senate. However, McCarthyism became the symbol that the Left used to discredit Republicans, even saying that despite the evidence and the guilty conviction, Hiss and many others were innocent.

It was not until after the Cold War had been won and the Soviets opened their KGB archives that the Venona Project was revealed, de-classified, demonstrated beyond doubt that Hiss had been a paid agent, and that McCarthy - misguided as he was in many cases - was essentially right.

But in the 1950s, the Cold War had _not_ yet been won. In 1950, Communist North Korea invaded South Korea. President Harry Truman ordered the U.S. to defend the south. Led by MacArthur, the Americans stemmed the tide. MacArthur orchestrated an amphibious invasion at Inchon, one of the most daring and brilliant strategies in war annals. The harbor was a muddy flat, not navigable by heavy boats, but for about five hours every three or four months, the tides were high enough to allow ships to pass. MacArthur staged the attack at the precise moment of tidal heights. It was successful and the Americans captured the Communist capital of Pyongyang. At that moment, it appeared, symbolically at least the United States had literally triumphed over Communism.

Then, 1 million Red Chinese crossed the Yalu River and came to the aid of North Korea. MacArthur urged an advance into China, literally conquering the Chinese menace in their homeland, replacing symbolic victory with actual victory. Fearing a nuclear World War III, Truman refused to allow MacArthur to proceed. When MacArthur bucked Truman's orders, he was relieved of duty.

The war ended in a stalemate in 1953, under the auspices of new President Eisenhower. Between 1954 and 1961, the battle for world supremacy between the Communist East and the free West was fought in a series of covert actions and proxy wars. This policy worked hand-in-hand with a long-held concept called "containment," originally conceived by George Kennan. The Kennan plan was not to "win" the world struggle against Communism, but rather to contain it; to disrupt its efforts at expansion. Major military action was not called for under the containment method.

When the Communists tried to starve Berlin, Germany into submission, the Americans airlifted food and supplies to the free west, thus preventing the entire city from falling to the Soviets. The CIA engaged in a series of actions in a long "game" with their Soviet counter-parts. The Shah of Iran was propped up by American interests. A friendly government was installed in Guatemala. American organized crime families took over in Cuba with the tacit approval of the CIA.

In 1960, Democrat Senator John F. Kennedy of Massachusetts ran for President of the United States. He was the second son of former Ambassador to Britain Joseph P. Kennedy, the man who said America should "do business" with Hitler because we could not defeat him. JFK and his older brother Joseph Jr. set out to distance themselves from "old man Joe." Both were war heroes. Young Joe was killed in a daring aerial mission when the plane he was carrying with sensitive materials destined for the atomic bomb exploded in mid-air. John's Naval PT boat was sunk when a Japanese destroyer rammed it, but the young Lieutenant (j.g.) subsequently saved the lives of his crew, effectuating a courageous rescue.

Kennedy was elected to the Congress and the Senate, but had little record. He was young, handsome and a playboy, not considered a serious political figure. His marriage to the lovely Jacqueline Bouvier had helped him politically, but he remained a rambunctious character in his private life.

The Republican opponent was Richard Nixon, a hated figure on the Left because of his staunch support of Whittaker Chambers in the Alger Hiss affair. Nixon was one of the most virulent anti-Communists in the nation, and had been elected to Congress and the Senate in California by painting opponents as sympathetic to the Communists. He was perhaps the first to effectively demonize Hollywood for its Left-leaning ways.

With post-war California booming in population growth, Nixon represented the new political power of the West, and in 1952 the 39-year old junior Senator was chosen by Eisenhower to be his Vice President. Nixon angered the Democrats throughout the campaign and over eight years in office. He was a "Red baiter" and staunch conservative by the standards of the era, advocating "battlefield nuclear weapons" at Dienbienphu in 1954 (rejected by Ike); facing hateful mobs in a goodwill tour of Latin America; and was the front man in a series of confrontations with Nikita Kruschev.

Kennedy and Nixon squared off in a series of televised debates. To listeners on the radio, Nixon had won. To TV viewers, JFK had won big. His telegenic good looks won out in contrast to Nixon's beady eyes and sweaty upper lip.

Kennedy stole the election from Nixon using time-tested Democrat fraud techniques, honed in the back rooms of Tammany Hall, the Pendergast machine that produced Harry Truman, "old man Joe's" Boston, and the Hill Country of LBJ's Texas. In the closest election yet held, JFK "won" when thousands of Democrat votes in Cook County, the wards presided over by Chicago Mayor Richard Daley, were duplicated in a "vote early, vote often" scheme. In Texas, thousands of dead Texans "voted" for the Kennedy-Johnson ticket. It was the same method LBJ had used to steal the 1948 Senate election.

Nixon was immediately apprised of the fraud, urged to contest the election. He felt that if he did that he would be viewed as a "sore loser," his efforts at future political viability hurt by his efforts at "hurting the country."

Kennedy took over the White House. He was the youngest President in history, having turned 43 a little over two months prior to his January 20, 1961 inauguration. He was also the first Catholic. Kennedy's family escaped Ireland's potato famine like so many other of their countrymen in the mid-19th Century. They found America to the be the Promised Land.

It was the Fitzgeralds, not the Kennedys, who first made a splash on the American political scene, however. John Fitzgerald was elected Mayor of Boston. One of his best campaign issues was his close identification with the Boston Red Sox, arguably the greatest baseball dynasty of the first two decades of the 20th Century. In 1912, "Honey Fitz," as he was known, made heralded public appearances with the Red Sox, a team led by young phenom "Smoky Joe" Wood and future Hall of Famers Tris Speaker and Harry Hooper. It was the year that Fenway Park was built and Boston beat the hated New York Giants of John McGraw and Christy Mathewson to capture the World Series.

"Honey Fitz," who consolidated his popularity by handing out patronage and "walking around money" in the Boston wards like a modern Santa Claus, had a lovely teenage daughter named Rose. She was viewed as "Irish royalty," an "American princess" of sorts, whose hand in marriage was coveted by every ambitious, eligible young bachelor in Boston.

Enter Joseph P. Kennedy, a Harvard-educated, upwardly mobile Irish Catholic who was bound and determined to break into the Bunker Hill society long dominated by the Protestant elites. Kennedy quickly established himself as an entrepreneur and financier of the stock market. Handsome and slick, he won over "Honey Fitz," then Rose's hand in marriage.

Young Joe used influence and bribes to avoid service in World War I. In the Roaring '20s economy that developed after the U.S. won the war, he became one of the wealthiest men in the world. Rose produced a large brood of children. Joe became one of the early investors in silent movies. On trips to Hollywood he had numerous affairs with glamorous actresses, including the great star Gloria Swanson.

In the late 1920s, Kennedy had inside information about a coming stock market collapse. Instead of using his influence to warn the nation in time to avoid a financial meltdown, he "sold short" millions of shares; in essence, betting on the collapse. When "Black Monday" hit in October of 1929, Kennedy made many more millions out of the nation's misery.

When Prohibition became law, Joe entered into partnership with the Mafia to "bootleg" whiskey into the country. To this day, the Kennedy family still gets a kickback for every case of Canadian Club imported into America. The illegal whiskey business made Kennedy wealthy beyond imagination.

During the Great Depression of the 1930s, the Kennedy's lived like American kings. Later, JFK said he "learned about the Great Depression in books." Joe Kennedy wanted to be President of the United States. The landslide defeat by Al Smith, a Catholic Democrat who lost to Republican Herbert Hoover in 1928, demonstrated that in his prime the country was unprepared to elect a Catholic. He set out to become a mover and shaker behind the scenes, helping fellow Democrat Franklin D. Roosevelt win the Presidency in 1932.

FDR rewarded Joe Kennedy by appointing him as the Ambassador to the Court of St. James. It was in many ways an even greater honor than the White House; an Irish Catholic was now the American Ambassador in Great Britain. But Joe's tenure in London was a stormy one. Initially popular, with the British press enamored by his large, rambunctious family, the advent of World War II became his undoing.

In September of 1939, the German Blitzkrieg began. Only England stood up to Adolf Hitler. After appeasing Hitler at Munich in 1938, British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain was ousted in favor of the hard-line conservative Winston Churchill, who vowed to oppose Hitler "on land . . . on the sea . . . and in the air." Joe Kennedy, on the other hand, publicly stated that the English would lose to Germany; that the U.S. could not defeat Hitler; and that since this was the reality of the situation, Americans might as well make the most of it by working with Hitler. Kennedy's attitude was also fueled by virulent anti-Semitism.

Despite an official "isolation" policy, the United States sided with Churchill's England. Kennedy's stance made him _persona non grata_ in England and a source of scorn in many American quarters. When America entered the war after Pearl Harbor in 1941, Kennedy was a pariah. He never repudiated his remarks and made it clear that he wanted to avoid war with Germany so his sons would not have to fight it.

But his sons disagreed with their father. Joseph Jr. was the eldest. Handsome, charismatic, a Harvard scholar and athlete who had unlimited political potential, Jack went against the wishes of his father and joined the Army Air Corps as a fighter pilot. Late in the war, he volunteered for a risky assignment, delivering dangerous materials for use in the planning of the atomic bomb. Something went wrong and his plane exploded, killing him instantly. His father immediately blamed Roosevelt for "getting us into this war that killed by son."

Next in line was John Fitzgerald Kennedy, named after "Honey Fitz." He, too, disagreed with Joe. While visiting pre-war Europe, young JFK saw first hand the rise of militarism in Germany and the tepid appeasement of pacifist England. He wrote a Harvard treatise called _While England Slept_ , which criticized the Chamberlain government for failing to stem the Nazi tide. Joe Kennedy arranged to have it published, figuring that his son's disagreement with him over war policy would act as a fallback position later should America enter and win the war he opposed.

After Pearl Harbor, Jack entered the Navy. Like his brother Joe, he could have avoided military service since his father had the connections to make it so. In some ways, however, both sons were "forced" to join because if they did not, they would have been excoriated politically. In this most political of families, that was unacceptable. However, both Joe and John did believe in the war effort wholeheartedly.

Jack took over the famed PT 109 and became a war hero, albeit by "accident" since he himself claimed his own poor navigation of the small boat was responsible for it being sliced in half by a Japanese destroyer. After saving his crew, he was made into a huge hero, mostly on the strength of a public relations machine financed by his father, and a movie starring Cliff Robertson.
With Joe Jr. gone and the war over, Joe Sr. decided Jack would take his brother's place politically. Next in line was Robert, who joined the Navy at the end of World War II. The Harvard-educated Robert would become a lawyer with a degree from the University of Virginia, and Jack's most-trusted advisor.

Jack at first wanted to pursue journalism and in fact covered the first meeting of the United Nations in San Francisco, but he was unable to say no to Joe's entreaties that he run for Congress in Boston in 1946. The Kennedy money could not be overcome. Neither could Jack's youthful appeal to the ladies. The playboy politician was elected, but found Washington boring when not dallying with secretaries and other women who made up much of the D.C. party scene.

After Jack was elected to the U.S. Senate in 1952, Joe decided he needed to be married. The perfect political wife materialized as if by magic in the form of Jacqueline Bouvier, a society girl from New York. Her father, "Black Jack" Bouvier, was a bit of a rapscallion, but her _bona fides_ \- namely her Catholicism - were in order. She was beautiful, intelligent and cultured. The Kennedy wedding was the social event of 1953.

Jack never established himself as a Senator of substance, achieving little record in the 1950s. He often missed sessions and made numerous trips to Florida with his pal, the bachelor Congressman George Smathers, to party with girls he was not married to. When Jackie gave birth to the couple's first child, daughter Caroline, Jack and Smathers were on "bikini patrol" off the Florida coast.

When Jack's name was bandied about as a possible Vice Presidential running mate for Illinois Governor Adlai Stevenson in 1956, Joe began to think about the logical next step: his dream of a Kennedy in the White House. Planning on how to position Jack for the Vice Presidency quickly changed to a strategy for the _Presidency_. When Jack demurred, Robert made the point that the Republicans seemed to have a lock on the White House. Dwight Eisenhower was the most admired of all American heroes. Richard Nixon seemed to be like a prince-in-waiting until the throne was his. Courageous men who seemed to embrace the Republican "warrior spirit" had won World War II. The Democrats were, thanks to Joseph McCarthy, considered the party of Alger Hiss, Soviet spies and Communist "fellow travelers."

Robert said the Democrats needed a change in direction after old school pols like Stevenson, twice a loser, had failed to bring home victory. The idealism of the young Jack and Robert, he said, could only be implemented if they had "the power." Joe insisted his money would give them just that.

"If not now, when?" Robert asked rhetorically. "If not us, who?"

In the late 1950s, Robert became almost as well known as his older brother when he went to work as an investigator in the McClellan hearings investigating Mob corruption of organized labor, pitting him in direct confrontation with AFL-CIO boss Jimmy Hoffa.

Nixon was the polar opposite of Kennedy, yet they were friends, "like brothers," according to Nixon. Both were freshman Congressmen in the "war veteran's" class of 1946. "Old man Joe" may have been a Nazi appeaser but was virulently anti-Communist, probably a by-product of anti-Semitism and the fact that many of the Communist "fellow travelers" were liberal Jews.

He gave the anti-Communist Nixon money for his Congressional and Senate campaigns. Robert Kennedy even worked for Joseph McCarthy, a close family friend of Joe Kennedy's, before his investigations of the Mob and management of his brother's political affairs.

In 1961, Major League baseball was expanding. With the Dodgers and Giants having broken ground in California three years earlier, and with jet travel now common place, the West was where the future lay, in sports as in politics. Nixon represented a symbiosis of the two. A former scrub football player from Whittier College who squired his wife, Patricia, at USC football games (where she was a student), Nixon was a rabid sports fanatic.

Having lost to Kennedy, Nixon was now looking for his next high-profile opportunity. It came in the form of the Commissionership of baseball. Los Angeles Dodgers owner Walter O'Malley, a Republican and Nixon supporter, wanted a Californian. With the creation of the Angels in 1961, along with the new Washington Senators replacing the old senators (now the Minnesota Twins), and with the National League set to add the New York Mets and Houston Colt .45s in 1962, the influence of the West, particularly California, was paramount. But Nixon turned the job down.

Instead, he moved back to Los Angeles, bought a home in the fashionable Trousdale Estates section of Beverly Hills (where he was a neighbor of Leo Durocher's) and took a job with the corporate law firm Adams, Duque & Hazeltine in downtown Los Angeles. He also finished his autobiography, the critically-well-received _Six Crises_ , which lay the groundwork for his comeback. In 1962, Nixon ran for Governor of California. His opponent was the old school Irish Democrat Edmund "Pat" Brown, the father of later Governor (and Presidential candidate Jerry Brown).

Governor Brown was popular and had a string of successes to hang his hat on, making Nixon's an uphill effort. Brown had overseen some of California's greatest modernizations, namely the implementation of Dwight Eisenhower's highway bill which symbolized the Golden State's - particularly L.A.'s - mobility. He also orchestrated the University of California and state university systems. This expanded beyond Berkeley and UCLA to a string of U.C. campuses that would include Irvine, Riverside, San Diego and many more. The state universities - Fresno, Sacramento, San Diego, just to name a few - made affordable education available to the masses. A second-to-none junior college system was also created. It was a revolution in the Democratization of education, and Nixon could not overcome it. Brown won and Nixon, taken down from the high horse of national stature, rejected by his home state, was embittered. He blamed the press, taken aback that the _Los Angeles Times_ had not carried his water.

For years, the _Times_ , owned by the conservative Chandler family, had supported Nixon in his efforts to expose Alger Hiss, fight Communism, and to thwart increasing attacks from the Hollywood Left. But Otis Chandler made the conscious decision to expand the paper from a parochial Republican mouthpiece to a world-renowned paper, on par with the _New York Times_ and the _Washington Post_. He succeeded. Nixon felt betrayed, and at his "last press conference," held at the Beverly Hilton Hotel the night of his loss to Brown, he told the assembled media "you won't have Nixon to kick around anymore."

Racism was still alive and well in 1962. In 1960, the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. was jailed in Birmingham, Alabama. His "Letter from a Birmingham Jail" inspired the Civil Rights Movement. Richard Nixon, who as a Duke University law student had argued on behalf of black rights in debates with his Southern classmates, now failed to come to King's aid. He was afraid of white backlash. John Kennedy did help secure King's release. The black baseball icon Jackie Robinson, a Connecticut Republican and longtime friend of the fellow Californian Nixon, swung his support to JFK. Black votes in Cook County, Chicago may well have made the difference for Nixon losing Illinois . . . and the Presidency.

George Wallace had reached out to black voters in Alabama, much as Louisiana's Huey and Earl Long had done in 1930s Louisiana. Wallace lost to John Patterson in 1958 and vowed he would never be "out-n------d again." In 1962 he ran as a strict segregationist and won, announcing at his 1963 inaugural that his policy was "segregation now, segregation forever."

In 1962 James Meredith became the first black man to enter the University of Mississippi. Democrat Governor Ross Barnett, theoretically an ally of President Kennedy by virtue of their shared membership in the Democrat Party, instead used every tactic at his disposal to block Meredith's enrollment. JFK was forced to use troops to enforce Meredith's civil rights.

The "space race" was in full throttle by 1962. After the Soviet launching of Sputnik in 1957, the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) was formed. Using American technology and the brilliant minds of a handful of former German rocket scientists, most notably Werner von Braun, by 1961 the U.S. was able to launch Naval aviator Alan Shepard into space. The Mercury program lasted from 1961 to 1963 and was a huge success. In 1962, John Glenn successfully circumnavigated the Earth, then survived a harrowing return home when the heat shields on his Friendship 7 space craft threatened to unloose itself during re-entry, thus burning him alive.

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The symbolic way Americans felt about Vietnam in 1962 could be summed up by the phrase, "Trapped inside every Vietnamese is an American just dying to get out." It was a jingoistic view, typical of the times, and emblematic of America's _hubris_ in Vietnam, where John Kennedy had increased the number of "advisors" in country.

Many Americans had never even heard of Vietnam in 1961-62, but it was well known by the political class and had been a for a long time. For 1,000 years, the Vietnamese had fought for independence; against the Chinese, the French, the Japanese and again the French. The French had colonized it in the 18th Century, and when the U.S. defeated the Japanese in World War II, re-claimed it.

The Chinese eyed their old territory, as well. After the Korean War, it became the central battlefield between the forces of freedom and the forces of Communism. Ho Chi Minh, like so many Oriental Communist revolutionaries was a French-educated intellectual, originally wanted the country to be re-shaped using the U.S. Constitution as a model. The U.S. said after World War II that one of the results of the victory would be a rollback of colonialization. Algeria would successfully split from the French. Jamaica, Trinidad-Tobago and Uganda would brake from their mother countries. In Syria, Peru and Yemen, old regimes would be toppled.

The U.S. now understood that its flowery sentiment favoring de-colonization, a bulwark of the Atlantic Charter, the agreement between President Franklin Roosevelt and Prime Minister Winston Churchill to, in effect, "transfer" the British Empire into the hands of the U.S., was much easier theorized than practiced. They determined that it certainly did not apply to Vietnam. Ho appealed to President Harry Truman for help in liberating his country from the French, but the U.S. was too invested in France's post-war restoration to back the dissolution of such an important allied colony. Its fertile lands produced many lucrative natural resources, mostly rubber in a world in which rubber production was on the rise.

In 1954, the Communists defeated the French at Dienbienphu. Vice President Nixon advocated the use of "battlefield nuclear weapons" to repel the Communists, but Dwight Eisenhower refused. The total defeat by the French shocked everybody and forced their expulsion from the country. The Americans began to send military advisers to support the South Vietnamese government in its struggle against the Communists. Ike supported the South Vietnamese government of Ngo Dinh Diem, his brother Ngo Dinh Nhu and his wife, the notorious Madame Ngo Dinh Nhu.

A cultural divide, however, took shape in Vietnam in which the government and elites, propped up by the Americans, tended to be French-trained Catholics. Ngo Dinh Diem was a French-educated, aristocratic Catholic in a nation of Buddhists. Madame Nhu was more French in her mannerisms than Oriental and became one of the most hated women in the world when she cheered the self-immolation of Buddhist monks. Catholicism was seen as a vestige of French colonial times, and not popular within the citizenry. Ngo Dinh Diem was a strongman who resisted Democratic reforms, and irritated Kennedy by using his military more to protect his palace from constant threats of _coup d'etats_ rather than fighting the Communists attacking from the north. Kennedy hoped that the Green Berets, a special unit trained to fight in the jungles, could win the nascent war in Vietnam without escalating forces, but the government was teetering. A "domino theory" was posed, a carryover from the Truman years, based on the idea that if one nation (Vietnam) went Communist, then it would cause a series of countries (Laos, Cambodia . . . ) to do the same. By 1962, it was an increasingly American operation, with U.S. advisors in country increasing from 700 to 12,000 in 1962.

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In 1961, young operatic Robert Goulet was the sensation of Broadway in _Camelot_. The play, and the times, would become the embodiment of the Kennedy era, its mythology expounded upon by Jacqueline Kennedy herself after JFK's death when she used the phrase "Camelot" in an interview with journalist Theodore White.

The "blacklist," which described the period from the late 1940s throughout the 1950s in which known Communists were not allowed to write screenplays - or were forced to do so under assumed names - came to its official end in 1960. Producer/star Kirk Douglas and director Stanley Kubrick hired Dalton Trumbo to pen _Spartacus_. Some have called _Spartacus_ the first "political" film. This might be a stretch. Certainly, _The Sweet Smell of Success_ (1957) starring Burt Lancaster and Tony Curtis, was a referendum meant to disgrace the "witch-hunting" Red-baiter Walter Winchell. The former New York columnist moved to Hollywood, where in 1962 he re-invented himself as a gossip monger. His protégé was Los Angeles Angels rookie pitcher Bo Belinsky. Winchell arranged for Belinsky to date "every broad that matters," all of whom Winchell knew. Then Winchell would write about it, making for column fodder that turned Bo into a celebrity.

_Spartacus_ , which used most of the USC football team (including assistant coach Marv Goux) as gladiators, told the story of a slave uprising against the Roman Empire, disguised by Trumbo as an illustration of American repression. It was a profound switch from such religious epics as _The Ten Commandments_ , _Ben-Hur_ and _Moses_ that marked the previous years.

A key scene involved a black gladiator, played by the former UCLA football star Woody Strode, who sacrifices himself so that Douglas's _Spartacus_ can live.

In 1961, Jimmy Cagney starred in an old school studio film called _One, Two, Three_ that featured Cagney as Coca-Cola's man in West Berlin. The film poked good-natured fun at the Communists in East Berlin, using a love affair between a radical (Horst Buchholz) and the Southern belle daughter of Coke's main honcho as a metaphor for how young Communists are really just yearning to become Americans.

The early 1960s were the last vestiges of the old studio system. In 1962, Darryl F. Zanuck produced _The Longest Day_. Its cast of superstars was led by the ultimate symbol of American superiority, John Wayne. The film was a flag-waving _paean_ to U.S. glory, telling the story of the successful D-Day invasion of June 6, 1944. But other films of 1962 went in a different direction.

David Lean's _Lawrence of Arabia_ was a panoramic epic, its rich colors and sound making full use of the new panavision film that marked movies of the era. It was the tale of T.E. Lawrence, a low-level British Army officer who led the "Arab revolt" that helped Great Britain defeat Germany's ally, the Turkish Ottoman Empire, in World War I. The film was remarkably prescient and worth watching today as a lesson in "what went wrong" in the Middle East. It certainly was not uncritical of the British Empire.

In 1962, Frank Sinatra produced and starred in _The Manchurian Candidate_ , which was oddly either anti-Communist or anti-American, depending which way one views it. Sinatra insisted it was not anti-Communist, but its story - Communist "brainwashing" of an American soldier, thus turning him into an assassin of the U.S. Presidential candidate in order to install a Communist front man in the White House - is hard to be seen as anything other than anti-Communist. On the other hand, it featured a drunken McCarthyite character and Angela Lansbury apparently as a staunch conservative who orchestrates the Communist plot (?).

The film was screenwritten by the talented Rod Serling. Serling also produced _The Twi-Light Zone_ , which by 1962 was in its fourth season. The _Zone_ was a groundbreaking television series with strong social messages, usually liberal in nature as befitting Serling's tendencies (found within his work in _The Manchurian Candidate_ and 1963s _Seven Days in May_ ). _The Twi-Light Zone_ also was an entrée for every hot young actor and actress of the late 1950s and early 1960s, including the likes of Robert Redford, Lee Marvin, Burgess Meredith, Carol Burnett and many others.

Also in 1962, screen icon Marilyn Monroe died, possibly from an overdose of sleeping pills. There is evidence that the Kennedy's may have been involved, but it has never been proven. Marilyn had an affair with Jack and perhaps a brief flung with Robert Kennedy prior to her August, 1962 passing. Her ex-husband, Joe DiMaggio, always insisted the Kennedy's had her killed to avoid embarrassment.

Music of the era was embodied by the swank sounds of the Rat Pack; Sinatra, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. The bossa nova orchestrations of these talents marked the time and place, a unique combination of Manhattan glamour and Las Vegas glitz. Youthful America tuned into new musical stylings. On the East Coast, the "Philadelphia sound" was male in nature, featuring harmonic convergences on street corners where would-be lotharios tried to woo passing girls with talent and bravado.

In Detroit, black voices were heard. Old style jazz was fused with rock 'n' roll in a style called Motown. It was picked up on by white groups like The Righteous Brothers. In the South, Elvis Presley was "The King," having brought country twang and black stylings to rock music. On the West Coast, the Beach Boys and Jan and Dean were influencing millions of people into pursuing the "California dream" of surfing, girls and cars. Ray Charles, Connie Francis, and The Four Seasons were all at the height of their popularity in 1962. Shelley Fabares's "Johnny Angel" was constantly heard on the radio. Chubby Checker hit it big with "The Twist," and a toy called the hula-hoop sold big on the strength of this concept.

In England, groups like The Beatles, The Who and The Rolling Stones were forming in garages and clubs, but their "invasion" of America was still a couple of years away.

In 1962, America was a "car culture," as depicted by George Lucas's _American Graffiti_. Madison Avenue dominated advertising, seen as the great post-war profession that made sexual harassment into an art form. Scantily clad girls were the vehicle for attracting buyers to any and all products. "Sex sells," was the mantra.

On June 25, 1962 the Supreme Court handed down the _Engel vs. Vitale_ decision, thus making it un-Constitutional to hold prayer in public schools. Bishop James Pike of California called it "deconsecrating the Union." Former President Herbert Hoover called it "a disintegration of one of the most sacred of American heritages." Both the House and Senate tried to overrule _Engel_. The Democrats blocked them.

In November of 1962, Rachel Carson's _Silent Spring_ was published. The book has been credited with spawning the environmental movement. The first-ever public service warning that cigarettes were dangerous to health was issued.

Australia's Rod Laver won his first tennis "grand slam" in 1962. Wilt Chamberlain scored 100 points in a single game while averaging 50 per contest. The Boston Celtics defeated the Los Angeles Lakers for the NBA title. The Green Bay Packers were 13-1 and captured the National Football League championship. The Toronto Maple Leafs won their 10th Stanley Cup. Golfer Arnold Palmer captured his third green jacket at The Masters.

Emile Griffith killed Boxer Benny Paret in the ring.

Empire

"I am not superstitious, but I do think it is bad luck to bet against the Yankees."

\- Ring Lardner

The history of the New York Yankees up until 1962 was of course magnificent; over and above any sports franchise at any level, anywhere. There had been many times in the past when the Bronx Bombers were deemed unbeatable, at the top of their game, a surefire favorite to win the pennant and capture the Series. There may never have been any season, however, in which Yankee confidence was greater than it was entering the 1962 campaign.

This was the baseball version of America at the very peak of its glory. They were Rome after Caesar's triumphs; MacArthur on the deck of the "mighty Mizzou." First, they won the battle for New York that had long been fought between the Giants, Dodgers and themselves. In the beginning, the Giants owned the town. The Yankees were "Johnny-come-latelies," a low rent team of . . . renters in a new league. It took years before they even settled on the name Yankees. Somehow this had to happen, because it would have been hard to imagine such a force of nature going by the name Highlanders.

The Dodgers never matched the Yankees on the field, but they engendered a love that the pinstripers could never seem to get. They were like Marcus Licinius Crassus, the Roman general played by Sir Laurence Olivier in _Spartacus_ , who steals the slave girl Varinia from Kirk Douglas. He lavishes her with the good life, but cannot buy her love. Olivier's response was to crucify Douglas and the rest of the slave rebellion in a gruesome spectacle along the Appian Way.

The New York City baseball version was less horrible but served the Yankees' purposes just the same anyway. The Dodgers and Giants were run out of town, leaving the Big Apple uncontested. The New York Yankees owned the city; every single borough. Whether they liked it or not, the residents of Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, Harlem and the rest of the city had been colonized by the New York Yankees, Inc.

With the Dodgers and Giants gone, New York immediately consolidated its power, like a politician who runs unopposed in the primaries and spends all his money to easily win the general election. They captured the 1958 World Championship. In 1961, the Yankees did not merely win; they rolled through opposition like George Patton's tanks in the late winter and early spring of 1945.

Many people still refer to the 1927 Yankees as the greatest team of all time, but the 1961 version may well have been better. New manager Ralph Houk's team got off to a relatively slow start and faced competition from a strong Detroit Tigers ball club (101-61) that featured Norm Cash (.361 with 41 homers and 132 RBIs allegedly using a corked bat), Rocky Colavito (.45 homers, 140 RBIs), the great Al Kaline (.324), pitchers Jim Bunning (17-11) and the "Yankee killer" Frank Lary (23-9).

But once the "M & M boys," Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris got going, New York could not be stopped. Maris led the way, earning his second straight Most Valuable Player award while breaking Babe Ruth's all-time home run record with 61 along with 141 runs batted in. Mantle, burdened by a late-season injury that prevented his breaking Babe's mark, still finished with 54 home runs, 117 runs batted in and a .317 average. First baseman Bill "Moose" Skowron added 28 homers and 89 RBIs. Second baseman Bobby Richardson played great defense, and teamed with shortstop Tony Kubek to form one of the best middle infields in baseball. Clete Boyer was a fine-fielding third basemen.

Yogi Berra mainly played left field, having ceded catching duties to Elston Howard. In 1961 Berra hit 22 homers and batted .271. Mantle (center field) and Maris (right field) were exceeded defensively only by two National Leaguers, Willie Mays and Roberto Clemente. It was as complete a line-up as can be imagined. Houk had kept it set throughout the year, instead of platooning right-handers and left-handers as Casey Stengel (1949-60) had done. Utilityman _extraordinaire_ Johnny Blanchard contributed 21 home runs and a .305 average.

The pitching staff was airtight, led by Cy Young award-winner Whitey Ford in his best year ever (25-4, 3.21 ERA). Bill Stafford (14-9, 2.68), Ralph Terry (16-3, 3.15), Rollie Sheldon (11-5), Jim Coates (11-5), Bob Daley (8-9) and ace relief pitcher Luis Arroyo (15-5, 29 saves and a 2.19 earned run average) gave New York mound dominance.

New York had powered their way to a 109-53 record, eight games better than Detroit, then obliterated the Cincinnati Reds in an anti-climatic five World Series games. Ford shut out the Reds, 2-0 in the Series opener. In game four at Crosley Field, Ford had to retire in the sixth inning after suffering an ankle injury, but was the winning pitcher in a 7-0 victory. That extended his streak of consecutive scoreless innings in World Series play to 32, eclipsing the old record by Boston's Base Ruth set in 1918.

Cincinnati's Frank Robinson was held to a .200 Series average. Maris contributed only one homer and Mantle was still wobbly from late-season health issues, but there was, aside from Joey Jay's 6-2 win in game two, no stopping the Yankees.

As the team gathered in St. Petersburg, Florida for Spring Training in 1962, they were the kings of baseball, of all sports, and perhaps most importantly, of New York, which some people considered to be more important than all of America or even the world. There was a mosquito in their midst, but they hardly noticed it. The expansion New York Mets were congregating for their first season.

Commissioner Ford Frick, who always adhered to the Yankees' interests as if he was on their payroll, had opposed the Mets, but inexorable forces within the media and political circles had made their creation a _fait accompli_. They would play at the Polo Grounds (Ebbets Field had been torn down to build apartments immediately after the Dodgers' departure), which seemed to be a joke. But the Mets had one little, tiny card in their deck. Casey Stengel was their manager. They featured several old Dodgers who were expected to draw fan support.

The Yankees, for all their bluster, had not really increased their attendance in the four years between the Dodgers and Giants leaving, and the arrival of the Mets. It was the old "love me . . . how much can I pay you to love me?" theme. But on the field, and in the general psyche of baseball, they were all-powerful and gave scant thought to anything the Mets were doing.

The club assembled in sleepy St. Pete was now Ralph Houk's team through and through. In 1961, Houk had replaced a legend. He immediately established his own identity by deviating from Stengel's old strategems. After some early ups and downs, his methods proved to be at least as effective, if not superior.

Houk described himself "as corny as Kansas in August." He was born near Lawrence in 1919 and grew up on a farm. A high school football hero, he turned down scholarships to Kansas and Oklahoma in the pursuit professional baseball. Two Yankees scouts teamed up to get his name on the dotted line for $200. One "negotiated" while the other regaled scouts of other teams with old Babe Ruth stories to derail them from signing Houk. By the time they caught on, the young catcher was a Yankee.

After Houk had a few promising years in the low minor leagues, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor in 1941. Houk and his brother Harold immediately decided to enlist. The Coast Guard was their first choice, but Houk failed the test for color blindness. The Army took him. At first, he was assigned to the camp baseball team, but he and his brother wanted to see combat. They applied for Officer Candidate School and were accepted despite not having attended college or even gone through basic training.

Houk made it through and was assigned to England in 1943, where he punched a paratrooper captain after he made crude remarks to a local girl. Like Yogi Berra, Houk landed at Normandy Beach, albeit a couple of days after June 6, 1944. The fighting in the Hedgerow countryside just beyond the beach was intense, with British General Sir Bernard Law Montgomery dismally failing to punch a hole in the German defenses.

"To the individual soldier nothing mattered except to take orders, to execute them to the best of his ability - and to survive," recalled Houk.

Houk avoided talking about his war experiences for years, but when he became manager the New York press "pictured me as a sort of Sergeant York." He chose to enlighten the public in order to dissuade such a notion.

Houk fought his way across France, but by December of 1944 he was in the Ardennes Forest of Belgium, feeling like most of his comrades that the war was all but over. Then the Germans launched a ferocious attack. Two other lieutenants, both commanders of platoons, were killed. Houk suddenly found himself in command of the remaining forces in the town of Waldbillig. The Battle of the Bulge was on.

Houk oversaw the repelling of a ferocious Nazi attack. His "machine guns and mortars cut down the Nazi infantry until the snow turned red," he recalled. "Yet on they came, and fell." Through field glasses, Houk saw six tiger tanks approaching. If they got a fix, he and his men would be wiped out. Houk knew a tank-destroyer was available in the rear.

"Life or death depended on getting that message through" to the tank-destroyer, Houk recalled. He could not risk sending a courier who might be killed, so Houk went himself. Using a shroudy mist as cover, Houk evaded the German guns and found the tank-destroyer, rode it back to the battle, positioned it advantageously, and oversaw its destruction of the German tanks. The town of Waldbillig had been saved. The Americans, led by General George Patton, eventually prevailed in the Battle of the Bulge and Houk, along with the rest, began the march on the Rhineland, the heart of Germany. But more harrowing experiences lay ahead for "the Major," the nickname that would stay with him in baseball.

Sitting in a jeep with Private Gus Smith, "an Indian from Neak Bay, Washington," said Houk, who "could see in the dark," and Private Ken Pidgeon, "a New York jazz drummer," Houk was struck in the helmet by a German sniper's bullet. He slumped and the others thought he was dead until he rose as if _from_ the dead.

"The sniper's bullet had perforated the front of the helmet, passed through the helmet-liner and come out in the back," explained Houk. "It hadn't even clipped my hair."

From there, Houk helped the American units fight across the important bridge at Remagen, and from there the U.S. advanced to ultimate victory. Houk received the Silver Star for his brave efforts in saving his men from the German tiger tanks, and further received war-time promotions from first lieutenant, captain and then major.

"Hey, Maj', how are you?" teammate Gene Woodling exclaimed to him when he

returned to the Yankees, and that nickname stuck with him all the years since. A catcher, Houk was overshadowed by Yogi Berra but was a loyal organization man and reached the Major Leagues. Houk loved to fish and once took Whitey Ford and Woodling on a fishing trip during Spring Training. Hearing what an ace fishmaster he was, Ford - a prankster - decided to play a joke on him. With Houk positioned in the front of the boat, he and Woodling caught three fish but kept hooking up the already-caught ones, pretending to catch a new fish every couple of minutes. Houk was steamed, having caught nothing while his teammates were supposedly having a field day.

Finally, at the end of the day, Houk looked in on the "big catch." He saw three measly fish with multiple bruises where Ford and Woodling kept re-hooking them, and caught on to the fact he had been had. He chased his laughing teammates all the way down the dock.

After a few years mostly catching pitchers in the bullpen, he retired and took over the Yankees' triple-A farm club at Denver of the American Association. The Yankees were successful because of their farm system in those days. Houk oversaw the development of Bobby Richardson, Tony Kubek, Norm Siebern, Johnny Blanchard, Ryne Duren and Ralph Terry.

In 1958, Casey Stengel hired him as a coach and he was back at Yankee Stadium, where he served under the "Ol' Perfessor" for three seasons that included two pennants and one World Championship. Rumor had it that he was being groomed to replace Stengel. Offered several managerial opportunities with other teams, Houk turned them down because the Yankees' job would be his. After losing to Pittsburgh in 1960, the Yankees decided on wholesale change. Stengel was "discharged," telling the press that the club's effort to disguise his departure at age 70 as retirement was not true.

Owners Dan Topping and Del Webb then fired 65-year old general manager George Weiss, the architect of their dynasty, and replaced him with Roy Hamey. The 41-year old Houk got a call from Hamey asking him to meet at Del Webb's suite at the Waldorf-Astoria shortly after the series concluded. He parked his car two miles away, rode a cab, and called from a pay phone to make sure the "coast is clear" of any prying eyes from the media. The meeting was short and sweet. The Yankees had a new manager.

The club made the move when they did because they did not want to lose Houk to another club. He had been a scrappy player, a war hero, hard but fair, and was admired by his teammates. Houk was also intelligent and a straight talker, which some people wanted after years of "Stengelese."

In November of 1960, Houk's first task as manager was to control the expansion draft. The trick was to limit the damage and lose as few key men to the new Angels and Senators as possible. Possible trades were discussed as part of this strategy, including one with the St. Louis Cardinals, who offered Larry Jackson for Elston Howard and Whitey Ford.

"I said what General McAuliffe said at Bastogne," recalled Houk. "I said: 'Nuts!' "

"I think the war really gave Ralph his understanding of men - that's where it started," his wife, Betty, told writer Charles Dexter. "Ralph started at the very bottom. He's been through everything in baseball and he's seen and lived it himself. He understands those boys. He knows what they're going through. He looks back on his own experiences, and knows how to talk to them."

Despite his tough exterior, Houk had the "human touch," as espoused by his autobiography, titled _Ballplayers Are Human, Too._

After his hiring, Houk attended a college basketball game at Madison Square Garden between St. John's and Kansas. He knew people at KU. Whitey Ford had friends at St. John's and was in attendance.

"I'm glad you're here," Houk said to Ford when he saw him. "I've been meaning to call you. There's something I want to talk to you about. How would you like to pitch every fourth day this season?"

"Great," replied Whitey. Ford said that under Stengel he had pitched every fifth day, but "I couldn't complain about it." However, he had never won 20 games in a season, and figured under Houk, "I would have six or seven more starts a year," thus increasing his shot at a 20-victory campaign.

"I never liked waiting four days before it was my turn to pitch," he recalled. "I found it boring. I enjoyed pitching. I didn't like watching."

The five-day rotation had been the brainchild of Stengel's pitching coach, Jim "the Chicken Colonel" Turner. Turner believed Cleveland's great pitching staffs - Bob Lemon, Bob Feller, Early Wynn and Mike Garcia - tired late in the season pitching on four days' rest. Houk's pitching coach was Johnny Sain. Sain believed pitchers increased their arm strength by throwing a lot, both in games and between appearances.

Sain had been part of the famed 1948 Boston Braves pitching duo known as "Spahn and Sain and pray for rain," in which he and Warren Spahn hurled the Braves to the World Series. Ford was a control pitcher, anyway. His sinker was even more effective when he was a little tired. He often completed games with 100 pitches or less.

Houk did a masterful job in 1961 of using Elston Howard, Yogi Berra and Johnny Blanchard behind the plate, maximizing each one's best performance. Berra and Houk had roomed together in 1947. Despite having been a fellow war veteran, Yogi was still a child of sorts, so homesick that he followed Houk around like a little kid. Houk was a man's man already, but tolerated Berra. He took him under his wing, even when Berra established himself as the starting catcher with Houk in a back-up role. Houk never complained. The final installation of the plan to move Yogi from his regular spot behind the dish to an outfield position, so as to transition Howard behind home plate, was handled with aplomb on all sides. Berra loved Houk and would do anything for him.

Berra was already a fabled character by 1962, his "Yogiisms" spread far and wide as fables of the English language. A popular book about his life story was "selling good," Yogi explained, but he was still unsure of his grammar. "In fact, I hear they might make a movie out of it." Asked whether Yogi would play himself, he screwed up his homely face and replied, "Well, it's a toss-up between me and Tab Hunter," a handsome screen idol of the era.

Ryne Duren was a Yankee fireballer of the 1950s who had played with Houk. It was Houk who suggested the "Coke bottle" glasses that were his trademark. After donning them he became effective. After a pennant-clinching celebration, the hard-partying Duren had too much to drink and smashed Houk's cigar in his face. Houk reacted furiously and the two had to be pulled off each other. The next day, however, Houk and Duren had breakfast together, acting "as if nothing had happened." They were and remained friends, but the press made a big deal of it, later saying Duren's departure from the club was because of it. In truth, Duren's effectiveness deteriorated mostly because of his lifestyle, and he had become expendable.

In 1961, Houk and Johnny Sain liked a lanky kid who had won 15 games in 18 starts at class-D Auburn, between leaving college in June of 1960 and season's end. Roland Sheldon had a good fast ball, curve, slider, change of pace, control, and the self-assuredness of a pitcher older than the 21-year old he . . . supposedly was.

"He seemed remarkably self-possessed for a 21-year old," remarked Houk. Sheldon had seemingly come out of no where and had a good chance at making the club in 1961, so Houk started to look further into his background. He discovered that he had started at Texas A&M, then served in the Army before going to the University of Connecticut.

"How old were you when you entered college?" Houk asked him.

"Well, Mr. Houk, I guess I must have made a mistake when I filled out the club questionnaire," said Sheldon, all innocence. "You see, I'm figuring on sticking up here for a long time. When I'm in my 30s I want people to think I'm younger than I'll really be."

He was 24. Houk and Sain were none-too-pleased about the deception and were ready to send Sheldon back to the minor leagues, but the press loved him, calling him a major young prospect. After a brilliant three-inning spring appearance against the Milwaukee Braves of Eddie Mathews, Hank Aaron and Joe Adcock, followed by a cool-headed performance against Baltimore, he made it the big league roster.

When Sheldon broke into the starting rotation mid-way through the 1961 campaign, Houk told Joe Trimble of the _New York Daily News_ , "It's just as well he's older than we thought. That little white lie about his being 21 had me puzzled at first. Kids with terrific speed like Bobby Feller's sometimes get by in the Majors before they've taken their first shave. Those three years Rollie forgot about when he signed with us came in handy. They were three years of valuable experience."

In the bullpen, Houk was hoping that southpaw reliever "Papa Luis" Arroyo would turn in another command performance in 1962. Arroyo had overcome a broken bone in his left wrist in 1961, posting a great season at age 34. In street clothes, fans rarely recognized Arroyo. He had wavy gray hair and looked like "a businessman vacationing in Florida," said Houk. A native of Puerto Rico, Arroyo started pitching at the age of 12, forming a battery with his brother Ramon. At 17 he made an amateur all-star team, then attended George Stirnweiss's baseball school in Florida, where he was signed by class-D Greeneville. Aside from two years shelved by a sore arm, he pitched consistently for the next 17 years with the Cardinals, Pirates, Reds, and a dozen minor league clubs.

Every season Arroyo went home to Puerto Rico to pick up $25 or $50 a game in winter ball. He pitched for Houk in 1956 with San Juan, and was already a seasoned performer. In 1958 he was on the brink of giving up. Pitching for Columbus of the International League, he watched Al Hollingsworth, a former St. Louis Browns' right-hander, demonstrate a variety of deliveries, including a screwball. Arroyo began working on the pitch, and by 1960 had mastered its intricacies.

In July of 1960, with New York in a neck-and-neck battle with Cleveland, Arroyo was at Jersey City in the Cincinnati organization. Steve Souchock, the manager of New York's Richmond farm club, was impressed with him and added a post-script to his weekly report to New York: "Arroyo might help the Yanks in relief. Suggest you scout him."

Bill Skiff, one of the Yankees' player development men, watched Arroyo have his way with Richmond the next night. 24 hours later the Yankees purchased his contract. In 29 innings down the stretch in 1960 Arroyo was 5-1, helping the club capture the title, and in 1961 he was Houk's ace out of the bullpen.

After his MVP season of 1960, Roger Maris entered the 1961 campaign with high hopes, but after a slow start, Harold Rosenthal of the _New York Herald Tribune_ asked Houk, "What's wrong with Maris?"

"Nothing far as I know," replied Houk. When his Spring Training woes carried into the season, Houk decided to switch Roger from the clean-up spot to third, with Mantle hitting behind him. The move worked wonders and he went on to hit 61 home runs, with Mantle right behind at 54.

The Yankees had two clubhouse men, known as the "two Petes," Sheehey and Previte. They were typical crusty clubhouse gatekeepers. Told to buy more orange juice, a typical reply was, "When I buy it you just drink it up." Complaints about the post-game spread were met by guffaws and expletives with typical friendly-but-cutting banter between the clubhouse men and the players. Also, Pete Previte signed thousands of baseballs supposedly signed by the great Mickey Mantle instead.

Houk's most-trusted coach was Frankie "Cro" Crosetti, a standout Yankee shortstop of the1930s who, like Joe DiMaggio and many others, hailed from the green playing fields of San Francisco's Big Rec Park. Crosetti resisted any vestige of change; baseball games were to be played, practiced and prepared for the same way in 1962 as in 1932.

Ralph Terry was expected to be a Yankee ace in 1962.

"He might have been ruined by that 'gopher ball' he threw to Mazeroski in the Series," Houk wondered, in reference to Terry's having given up the game-winning home run to Bill Mazeroski in game seven of the 1960 Fall Classic. But Terry had responded with an excellent season in 1961. Houk had full confidence in his considerable abilities. Johnny Sain worked hard with him on a fast-breaking curve ball, and Houk had learned to let him work out of jams.

"I didn't want him to sit in the clubhouse mooning over his bad innings," said Houk. "I wanted him to believe in himself."

Houk also dealt with a unique challenge in 1961. With expansion to Los Angeles, the team faced 7,700-mile road trips. Prior to an 11-day, 12-game swing to the West Coast, Houk advised his charges prior to the first stop, in Minnesota, not to turn their watches back.

"East and sleep like you do in New York," he told them.

The team maintained "Eastern time" in Minnesota and won three straight, then made their way to Wrigley Field in Los Angeles. It was a bandbox of a park and the big Yankee sluggers figured to feast on the Angels' expansion-quality pitching and short porches. But the club ran into something else in Los Angeles, and it would continue to hold them back in successive years in L.A. They were "Johnny Grant parties."

Johnny Grant was the "unofficial Mayor of Hollywood," a local celebrity who presided over ribbon-cutting ceremonies, the hand-printing on cement of movie heroes, and the famed naming of stars on Hollywood Boulevard. He also threw wild shindigs at his plush home in the Hollywood Hills.

The New York Yankees were as big as they come, in the sports world or any other world. The arrival of Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, Whitey Ford and company was tantamount to the arrival of Presidents, astronauts, religious leaders, or any other kind of superstar. They were especially big deals in those early days. The Yankees had been to Los Angeles on numerous occasions during Spring Training, when they would play exhibitions against PCL clubs or coach Rod Dedeaux's USC Trojans. But in 1961 they came out to play for real.

Grant invited the entire team to his place, promising to have his swimming pool stocked with bathing beauties and starlets. Mantle, who loved to party and had a real eye for the chicks, took to Johnny Grant parties with great fervor. Of course, where Mickey went, so too did his teammates. As a result, the Yankees were hungover whenever they played the Angels; much to Houk's consternation. In 1961, most of the Angels' pitching staff could not contain them, drowning in alcohol or not. But in 1962, the Angels would move to Dodger Stadium and feature a rookie sensation named Dean Chance. The Dodger Stadium location made the young Angels more prominent and therefore helped make the Johnny Grant parties even more special. Chance's offerings would be especially hard to deal with the day after those parties.

Houk had a temper. His face would puff up and get red, his cheeks - already bulging from an incessant tobacco plug - bulging. He got like that when his authority was challenged, especially by young players or upstarts accusing the Yankees of treating them unfairly, but he especially blew up when arguing with umpires. As a player, he was always bandaged up from some fight. He and teammate Hank Bauer - a gruff ex-Marine - were cut out of the same cloth. Houk's wife, Betty extracted a promise to pay her the same amount as the fines he received for being thrown out of games.

Houk, after regaining his composure, would come back to their Saddle River, New Jersey home with his tail between his legs. Gone was the huge tobacco plug. He was suddenly a house-broken husband. Betty always knew when he had been fined. When the club paid Ralph's fines, he still had to pay Betty.

The 1962 Yankees were a team in semi-transition, but it was a good thing. For years, they had produced young players through their great farm system but also brought in numerous key players in trades with the Kansas City A's. Charlie O. Finley was a cantankerous Midwestern insurance magnate by way of Alabama. He now owned the A's after the death of Arnold Johnson, and vowed to cut off that spigot. In the spring of 1962, the club had numerous young stars threatening to break into the big leagues. It appeared that the Yankee dynasty would never end; they had an endless supply of talent to keep the train rolling.

At first, base, veteran Moose Skowron was trying to fend off the advances of a hotshot rookie named Joe Pepitone. Skowron, born in Chicago in 1930, had been a Yankee mainstay since breaking in 1954, hitting .340 in 87 games. He hit .319 his first full year (1955), and bested the .300 mark three times after that. Skowron hit for solid power, slamming 28 homers in 1961.

Moose, 31 in 1962, was in many ways the typical Yankee. He was big, powerful, self-assured, and proud to wear the pinstripes. Players who showed any lack of respect for Yankees tradition had to deal with Moose. He was a man's man and enjoyed life on a team of life-enjoyers.

The player creeping up on him, ready to take his place as the Yankee first baseman, was one of those youngsters who lacked what Moose and others saw as the proper respect for Yankees tradition. 21-year old Joe Pepitone was a 6-2, 185-pound left-handed gloveman straight out of a Martin Scorsese movie; a swarthy, bushy-browed, Italian-American, a young Al Pacino-type. Pepitone loved to party, loved the ladies, found baseball to be a means to an end, and despite his Bronx upbringing did not bow at the altar of Yankee glory.

In the minor leagues, Pepitone found a kindred spirit, an Orioles farmhand named Bo Belinsky. In Aberdeen, South Dakota, Pepitone and Belinsky hooked up, chasing local girls. Belinsky's manager was Earl Weaver, who later skippered the big club to the 1970 World Championship.

"Pepitone shows up in a convertible," recalled Weaver. "I see Bo get in the passenger's seat, and I call out to him to be careful, not to get in trouble. He never paid any attention as the car fishtailed out of there, kicking up dust all over the place, tires screeching. I thought, 'Where the hell are they going, there's nothin' to do in Aberdeen?' but those two, they'd find it. Oh my, they were pistols."

Houk had little idea how to deal with this "new breed" of player, but Pepitone was a slick fielder who would eventually have his day. Skowron was determined to hold him off at least one more season.

The team was divided between the partiers - Mantle, Ford, Blanchard - and the family men. Richardson and Maris were the leading family guys. It was this quality of his personality that had given Richardson the edge in the first place.

Born in Sumter, South Carolina, the 5-9, 170-pounder was a devout Christian who did youth work in the off-season. He came up in 1955, but the job belonged to fan favorite Billy Martin. George Weiss and the Yankee brass, however, were not enamored with Martin, who not only drank too much but did not hold his liquor well. Martin, according to the company line, led Mantle astray. There was hypocrisy in this, of course, since Whitey Ford was in on the fun, too. But Ford was the "Chairman of the Board." Casey Stengel loved Martin, a scrappy Berkeley, California native who had played for him with the Oakland Oaks when Casey's team won the PCL pennant. Martin, however, did not fit the Yankee image of the 1950s.

He was part-Portuguese, and despite being a believing Catholic himself, constantly gave in to the temptations of the road and the allures of groupies. When Martin got into the celebrated brawl at the Copacabana in 1957, it was the excuse Weiss needed to get rid him. He was shipped to Kansas City and Richardson was made the starter.

In 1958 Richardson seriously thought about quitting baseball to pursue the Christian ministry. "I didn't feel as though my future was too solid as I had played only on a part-time basis in 1956 and 1957," he said. "I was thinking of going to school to get prepared for youth work."

In 1959 Richardson hit .307, and in the 1960 World Series set a record with 12 RBIs, earning the MVP award; the only player from a losing team to win the award. He slammed two doubles, two triples, a grand slam and batted .367.

"I always thought records like this belonged to men such as Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig and Joe DiMaggio," said Richardson. "I certainly shouldn't be classified in their category."

"He has wonderful hands, so quick and sure," remarked Houk. "He can make the double-play on the pivot and he can make it on the starting end."

Clete Boyer had no competition at third base. His brother, Ken was a star with the St. Louis Cardinals who, two years later, would lead the Redbirds to the 1964 World Series victory over the Yankees. The Boyer's hailed from Missouri. Both came to the Major Leagues in 1955. Ken was the better hitter, but other than Baltimore's Brooks Robinson, Clete was as good a defensive third sacker as there was in baseball. He was a quiet, unassuming Midwesterner, the consummate professional overshadowed by Robinson, who captured all the Gold Gloves he otherwise would have won. Clete came to the Yankees as part of the Kansas City pipeline in 1959. He only hit .224 in 1961, but that was what was expected of him.

At shortstop, 25-year old Tony Kubek was a 6-3 Milwaukee native whose size foreshadowed the big shortstops of later years; Cal Ripken, Alex Rodriguez and others. Kubek replaced Phil Rizzuto and provided solid play offensively and in the field. However, his career was marked by one unfortunate incident. In game seven of the 1960 World Series a seemingly-routine groundball took a bad hop and hit Kubek in the Adam's apple, giving Pittsburgh the life they needed to win an improbable 10-9 clincher. Pictures of Kubek, sitting on the infield dirt, his hand to his throat while surrounded by concerned teammates, still frustrates Yankee fans to this day.

Behind the plate was Elston Howard. Few teams in Major League history had so much talent behind the plate as the early 1960s Yankees. Aside from Howard was the Hall of Famer Berra, the steady John Blanchard, and in the minors a future big leaguer named Curt Blefary.

Among social sports pioneers, Howard was an unsung hero. Jackie Robinson broke the "color barrier" in 1947, and the National League set the pace. Between 1949 and 1961, 10 National League MVPs were black. All the American League MVPs had been white. Bill Veeck, owner of the Cleveland Browns, had followed up on the Robinson signing by bringing in Larry Doby and Satchel Paige in 1948, the year the Indians won their last World Series. However, Veeck went to the St. Louis Browns before taking over ownership of the Chicago White Sox. His travels derailed some of his efforts at further breaking social barriers. The junior circuit tended to follow the lead of the Yankees and Boston Red Sox.

Boston was alleged by the likes of Bill Russell and Reggie Smith, among others, to be the most racist city in sports. Owner Tom Yawkey was a leading dissenter when Branch Rickey introduced Robinson, and a few years later the Bosox turned down Willie Mays. If the Yankees were a racist organization, they kept that under wraps. There was no evidence of official policy or directive against the signing of black players, and their ownership had not protested integration.

Certainly, New York was a liberalized town, as receptive as any other than California cities to black pro athletes. Columbia University had All-American black football players during the1910s. After initial resistance, Brooklyn took to Robinson with open arms. Willie Mays was a folk hero at the Polo Grounds, located in a Harlem neighborhood that could be seen from Yankee Stadium. The Bronx, traditionally a Jewish, Italian and Irish borough, was by the 1950s becoming filled more and more by blacks, so the Yankees were well situated to lead the way in the American League in this area.

But the Yankees were conservative. They were the Republican party, country club elites, Wall Street pinstripers. Their crowds resembled the New York Stock Exchange. Women in fur stoles and vanity sunglasses accompanied the men. Fans sat in the stands like Roman senators contemplating the proceedings. The front office calculated that the club won, they filled Yankee Stadium, and if the "wrong" black player were brought in; well, why rock the boat?

A handsome, womanizing Caribbean first baseman, Vic Power was traded from the organization before he could make his big league debut because he liked white women too much. The Power situation served as a cautionary tale to the club. Even Robinson by the 1950s, originally perceived as the "perfect" black pioneer, was to the Yankee way of doing things a real "clubhouse lawyer." They did not want some pinstriped black player on a racial soap box.

Elston Howard would take some heat for not speaking out, but in the context of his times, the way he handled his business did as much if not more for black athletes in his way as he would have as an agitator; probably he was more effective. Born in St. Louis in 1929, Howard broke in as the first black Yankee in 1955. It was not easy, not because he was black but because he "threatened" three-time Most Valuable Player Yogi Berra, the regular catcher. A strong, line drive-hitter from the right side, Howard was an important utilityman who played in the outfield and, year by year, caught more and more games.

The staff liked him. Berra, for all his talents, did not look the part. He was short and squatty, getting the job done but looking funny doing it. Howard was the quintessential big, athletic catcher. His respectful manner around white people worked well with the great Yankee pitching staff, and a form of affirmative action began to take place, with many going out of their way to praise Howard. He needed no extra help. Howard was a tremendous talent, albeit one who developed steadily over a period of years.

In 1961 he finally caught more than 100 games (111) and batted a sterling .348 with 21 home runs and 77 runs batted in for the World Champions. By 1962, the catcher's position was all his. Yogi was still around, but to his credit he had been only helpful with Elston when he took over his position. Howard was a quiet, dignified family man who lived with his wife in the white suburb of Teaneck, New Jersey. Many black athletes in New York, like Don Newcombe, made the rounds of black jazz clubs and were considered ladies men. Howard was a church-goer who spoke glowingly of his love for the Yankees, of whom he was eternally grateful for the opportunity. While the inequities of society were obvious, and such talk might have seemed obsequious to some, it rang with truth. Howard meant it. And after all, he _had_ been given a fabulous opportunity, the chance to be part of the Yankee legacy, which most players would do anything to do.

Back-up catcher Johnny Blanchard was a throwback, a rough 'n' tumble old school guy who loved to hoist a few in the company of Mickey Mantle. Blanchard liked the ladies and the New York night life. He was a shot 'n' a beer guy from Minnesota, big and burly. His voice and laugh filled up the room. His visage was that of a pioneer in a covered wagon; a handsome, tough guy face out of the John Wayne mold. He was a hardcore American, typical of athletes in his political views, which leaned like so many toward Red-baiting during this era of Cold War tensions. He was proud to be a Yankee, knowing that he had a reputation because he wore the pinstripes. He may have started someplace else, but would have done so anonymously. Like Skowron he clung tenaciously to the Yankee way, setting rookies straight if they veered from the path.

In 1962, there were a few of these 1960s kids starting to infiltrate the system, but it was not yet subversive. Blanchard did not play much, but like Ralph Houk before him never complained about his role as a bullpen catcher. He hit over .300 in 1961. Newcomers were taken aback that a player of such marginal importance in the scheme of things was such an important man in the club's social order, but on a club that included Mantle and Ford, the ability to drink and chase women was a big plus.

The hottest of the hotshot rookies was left fielder Tom Tresh. He was seemingly born to be a Yankee, and certainly not one of the so-called "subversives." Expectations for him engendered talk of Joe DiMaggio and Mickey Mantle. Tresh used a Mickey Mantle model glove, wore t-shirts with portraits of Roger Maris and Yogi Berra printed on them, and grew up cutting and saving clippings of Yankee games in the newspaper.

In 1962 he was 24 years, a blonde All-American who had signed for $30,000 out of Central Michigan University. Tresh was an outfielder-shortstop, a rare combination. With Tony Kubek set to do a stint in the Army Reserves in 1962, Tresh entered Spring Training in a battle with another minor leaguer, Phil Linz, for the spot to fill Kubek's place in his absence. Tresh won the job and would play shortstop until Kubek's return.

Tresh's father, Mike, had been a catcher for the Chicago White Sox, but "Even when I went to a game when my father was catching, I always dreamed of one day being a Yankee," Tresh said during Spring Training. "I'd rather sit on the Yankee bench than play for any other team"

Right-handed pitcher Ralph Terry turned 26 prior to Spring Training in 1962. Despite having gone 16-3 in the 1961 regular season, he still had something to prove because of the pitch to Mazeroski in 1960; one of the most bitter pills the club ever swallowed.

In the 1961 Fall Classic, Terry was the single mound failure in a five-game win. Cincinnati's Joey Jay beat him, 6-2 in game two to even the series at one. In game five Terry was knocked out of the box in the third inning, but the Bronx Bombers overpowered Jay and the Reds, 13-5 to take the title.

After throwing the hanging curve to Mazeroski, Terry gulped down five martinis and did not taste anything. "I was in a state of shock," he said. Terry was everything Whitey Ford was not, yet he was no Ford. Whitey was a mound maestro. Terry, at 6-3, 195 pounds, was physically the ultimate pitcher. He came up out of Dust Bowl Oklahoma, which by the 1950s had seen a major image change courtesy of Mickey Mantle, Bud Wilkinson and the OU Sooners. He made his big league debut in 1956, but over the next seasons his great potential was stifled by the fact that he was part of the revolving door that seemingly switched players in musical chairs fashion with the Kansas City A's. The Yankee pitching staff of the era was so solid and veteran that Terry could not break into it. He was 10-8 in 1960, but his great win-loss record the next year was tempered by criticism that anybody could win with that line-up behind him.

Bill Stafford was a young New Yorker, born in the Catskills. He lived in Yonkers and was only 21 when the 1962 season started. He had gone 14-9 in 1961, but his record was well deserved. His earned run average was a fabulous 2.68. Rollie Sheldon, who lived in nearby Connecticut, wanted to prove his 11-5 mark of 1961 was no fluke. Jim Coates was a tall, slim Virginia-born right-hander, a 29-year old four-year Yankee veteran entering the season. Coates had what might be described as a "dark" sense of humor and often held court in the bullpen, letting the younger pitchers know what was. He had finished 6-1 in 1959, 13-3 in 1960 and 11-5 in 1961. Bud Daley was a veteran southpaw from Southern California, where he was born in the town of Orange in 1932, and where he still resided in the off-seasons. Daley broke into the Majors with Cleveland in 1955, but the Indians' staff was one of the best in baseball history so mound time was precious. His trade to Kansas City meant, in effect, he had been traded to the Yankees, where as soon as he established himself after consecutive 16-win seasons he was traded to. Daley went 12-17 in 1960 and 7-5 in 1961. As a lefty, he was extra-valuable and could be used as a starter or out of the bullpen. Marshall Bridges was right-hander from Mississippi who had shown promise with St. Louis and Cincinnati before coming to New York in 1962.

Then there was Jim Bouton, perhaps the unlikeliest of Yankees. He was only six feet tall and weighed 170 pounds, but possessed an impressive fast ball. This was unlikely, too. Born in Newark, New Jersey in 1939, Bouton grew up hating the Yankees because they were too dominant and too white. He was like one of those people who thinks it better for America to occasionally lose a war and be humiliated, just to make things fair. The fact that the Yankees were all-white probably escaped the attention of most suburban New Jersey kids, but not Bouton. He rooted for Willie Mays and the egalitarian New York Giants. As a kid at the Polo Grounds he once chased a ball hit into the stands. He and a local black kid got their hands on the sphere at the same time. Bouton relinquished it out of a sense of social equity.

Bouton's family moved to Michigan, where he attended high school. He played other positions and was no barnburner at any of them. With no scholarship offers, Bouton's father gathered the few clips extolling his son and mailed them to the baseball coach at Western Michigan University, along with a note reading, "Here's a kid who can really help our Broncos. Signed, a Western Michigan baseball fan." The ruse worked and Bouton was invited to Western Michigan, which was not then (nor is now) a college baseball powerhouse. He turned few heads in Kalamazoo, but during the summer pitched for a semi-pro outfit that played in the American Baseball Congress, a prestigious amateur event. Bouton beat a strong team from Cincinnati, and for the first time gained some attention. In those days, before computers, the Internet, and blanket area scouting, players could slip under the radar. Word of mouth was a big factor. Scouts started to take notice of the kid who beat the Cincinnati team.

Initially, offers and opportunities to play professionally were discussed, but nothing came of it. The tournament ended and Bouton returned to Michigan, where he waited in vain for the phone call that never came. The signing period was quickly coming to a close, so Bouton's father went back into action. He sent letters to the clubs that had scouts who saw Jim pitch in the ABC. The letter intimated that bids were streaming in. In order to be fair, the Bouton family would entertain all offers for a specified period of time before deciding what to do.

Bouton himself said the Yankees were the only club he fooled into making an offer, but considering that he would develop into an effective Major League hurler, it appears the Yankees knew precisely what they were doing. Bouton was signed and sent to the low minors, where he toiled in places like Amarillo, Texas and Kearney, Nebraska. He loved every minute of it, mainly because he was at heart a fan who could not move past the concept that he had fooled his way in, was being _paid to play baseball_ , and the jig would be up any minute.

But Bouton, despite a lack of height or an overpowering body, developed a straight-overhand delivery that maximized his strength. Year by year, his fast ball got faster. His years spent fooling high school and college hitters with junk had developed a keen sense of control and mound finesse. An intellectual anyway, Bouton used his smarts to outthink hitters, and slowly began to get noticed in the Yankees' organization.

Bouton's oddball ways always made him a bit of an outsider. He did not play cards and found his minor league teammates to be Neanderthals, but he did drink beer, was a great practical joker, and managed to fit in, at least a little bit. He gravitated to other collegians and blacks, who regarded the liberal white boy with suspicion until they found out his desire for racial friendship to be genuine. But both in baseball and in his Army service, Bouton was a conundrum. He made fun of "small-minded people," who he found in both occupations, but still worked hard to please his superiors.

Bouton worked extremely hard. He ran until exhausted, built up his body, and insisted - often to the consternation of pitching coaches - on throwing more than was expected in between starts. When he was coming up, he was a kindred spirit with Sain. Either Bouton was a disciple of Sain or happened to believe in Sain's approach already. He had different ideas about training methods, which were mostly rejected when suggested, but Sain was open-minded. On the mound Bouton developed a "bulldog" reputation. He was a gritty competitor who never gave an inch. Against all odds he made it into big league Spring Training camp in 1962, where he impressed everybody enough to eventually make the roster.

Bouton found himself in the starting rotation, and in his first big league game in May threw perhaps the ugliest shutout of all time. He gave up hits and walks in bunches, constantly throwing out of the stretch, but made it anyway. After the game he was interviewed on the post-game show. Thrilled, he returned to the Yankees' clubhouse, where his teammates had made a row of towels to his locker, symbolizing a "red carpet." Just as Bouton entered the clubhouse, he saw Mickey Mantle himself laying down the last of the towels. He had arrived.

In the broadcast booth, the Yankees featured Mel Allen and Phil "Scooter" Rizzuto. Allen was a homespun Alabamian, and in this regard part of an odd tradition of announcers from that most Southern of states. He and Red Barber announced in one of the most Northern of cities, New York. Nobody could ever remember Allen not fitting in. His wonderful, "How about that!?" after a wondrous play is remembered to this day, and has become, like many Yogiisms, a cultural touchphrase that covers all things of awe and wonder.

Rizzuto was from Brooklyn and had, against all odds it seemed, become a Yankee staple at the shortstop position. He was the quintessential "little guy" in the middle infield. Offensively, he bunted, hit-and-ran, and stole some bases. Defensively, he made every play that counted. He was the 1950 American League Most Valuable Player. There have been better shortstops, and if he had not been a Yankee he would not have been as well remembered, but he _had_ been, and he was beloved.

Rizzuto was Catholic and superstitious. Spiders scared him to death. He famously excused himself from games in the seventh inning to beat the traffic out of the Stadium and cross the George Washington Bridge into Jersey. He was there, however, when Maris hit number 61, emphasizing it with his high-pitched, _"Holy cow Maris did!"_

As the 1962 season played itself out, several things were made apparent. One was that Maris would not repeat his feat of 61 home runs in 1961. Roger was wary of his place in the Yankee hierarchy. On the one hand, he had broken the record and was a two-time Most Valuable Player, highly paid and a New York icon. On the other hand, he was not Mickey Mantle, and the carping about his play continued.

Maris was never a .300 hitter, or close to it, at last not since coming to New York. Mantle combined awesome power with a high batting average. Maris was an excellent right fielder, although not as good as Mantle who, despite injuries, was a great center fielder. But his high salary and higher expectations made him a target, of both fans and writers. He was certainly not in a slump, but his home run pace was not Ruthian . . . or Marisian, for that matter. If he could have replaced the home runs with a .300 average, it might have made a difference, but the expectations were too great to overcome. He looked like he did in 1960, which back then was worthy of the MVP, but now earned him boos and desultory press.

Mantle also did not look like he was going to match his 1961 performance. In previous seasons he missed game with a tonsillectomy, a cyst, an abscess, injuries to his right knee, right thigh, right shoulder, a right index finger. He tore a muscle in his thigh on May 18. A photo of Mantle on crutches with highlights of where on his body he had suffered debilitating injuries looked like a war map.

Despite the fact that Mantle's pace looked to be about his average, or even by his standards a little below his average, he was granted a pass. He was by now a true New York Sports Icon of the first order, a legend every bit as hallowed at Yankee Stadium as Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, or Joe DiMaggio. He could do no wrong, and was simply idolized.

The season was summarized by Whitey Ford, who said, "We always figure we'll win the pennant." The Yankees handled their competition in business-like fashion, like a banker shoring up his portfolio. There were no surprises, no key series, no moments of great tension. It was not the 109-win explosion of 1961, but no challenger emerged as Detroit had the previous season.

"There was a sense of inevitability to the 1962 season, even as the Yankees got off to their customary slow start," wrote Glenn Stout in _Yankees Century_. A double-header loss to Cleveland on June 17 was their fourth straight loss and seventh in eight games, pushing them three back of Cleveland. Still, the club was "laughing it off and the Indians were almost on their knees apologizing," wrote Leonard Koppett in the _New York Post_.

"We got 100 games to play," said Houk. "We ain't gonna quit." Ford missed some starts - and his chance to repeat as a 20-game winner - with a muscle strain, and Mantle's injury occurred on May 18 (torn right hamstring). He also pulled ligaments behind his left knee as he tried not to fall. Only Mickey could sustain an injury trying not to get hurt worse while sustaining another one. At age 30, his injuries were annual affairs.

"All I have is natural ability," he said. Writers started to note that injuries such as his chronic joints can be caused by de-hydration, a common result of alcohol abuse. When he played, his legs were wrapped like a mummy, but he never backed off, playing hard every out.

In August, the Yankees stumbled and lost five straight to Baltimore. Nobody blinked. "Don't bet too much against us," said Houk. "We ought to get caught up on things in September."

Howard gave Ford his nickname "Chairman of the Board," which was also Frank Sinatra's nickname. Stengel had called him his "Banty rooster." "It's amazing how many outs you can get by working the count to where the hitter is sure you're going to throw to his weakness, then throw to his strength instead," said Ford. He threw a three-hitter in his first game after his injury and won nine of 10 decisions.

Mantle may have come back too soon. "They <the Yankees> say I can't hurt it anymore by playing," he said, so he played. When Mantle injured himself and was recuperating away from the team, Roy Hamey asked him to return. "Maybe the players will feel better if he's around," he reasoned. Upon his return, Bobby Richardson approached him.

"I just walked up to him and shook his hand," he remarked. "It's hard to explain, but just seeing him gave me a lift."

When Mantle limped back into the starting line-up on June 22 after another nagging injury, his teammates started calling him "B & G" (for "Blood and Guts"). 10 days later the Yankees were back in first place. With Mantle out of the line-up, the club trolled along at a .500 pace, but upon his return won 12 of 18, in the process lifting the team batting average from .248 to .265. Mantle played right field for the first time since 1954, and New York continued to win, capturing won 29 of 40 games to put the pennant away.

With Mantle establishing himself as the clear star and team leader, the press simply could not acknowledge that Maris was also a key component. He always suffered in comparison to the Mick.

"One really can't compare him to Mantle in real value," wrote Koppett. Maris was even benched in September, mainly an effort to rest him but seen by his detractors as proof that he was a lesser player. "Maris didn't seem upset by this. In a strange sort of way he feels a kind of vindication . . . <He> has always insisted he isn't a 'superstar' <and> has resented being treated like one."

Houk had a "take no prisoners" attitude about the regular season that Stengel did not. If "the Major" did not see blood, he expected his charges to play, so if Maris sat then it must be viewed as indicative of his weak character, or so said the "Knights of the Keyboard," as Ted Williams derisively dubbed the press box know-it-alls.

The early key was Tresh, who made the All-Star team as a shortstop on his way to Rookie of the Year honors. When Kubek returned from the Army he moved to the outfield.

"We felt he was a big league hitter, but no one expected that he'd develop that kind of power from both sides of the plate," said Houk. When Tresh moved to the outfield it portended the end for Yogi Berra, who hit only .224 with 10 homers and 35 RBIs in limited action. Yogi never complained.

"I figure I still got enough to help the Yanks win another pennant," he said.

"It's a home run outfield, yet all of them can cover ground and throw," Houk said of the Tresh-Mantle-Maris triumvirate after the season. "That outfield is very strong. Mantle is a very young 31, Maris is 28 and Tresh, at 24, looks as though he'll be around for a long time."

Tresh's switch to the outfield was a cause for some alarm with the media, who wondered whether it was wise to tinker with success. "I never considered that a gamble," said Houk. Tresh had youth, speed, a strong arm, and the ability to get after fly balls. "You could tell that by the way he got a jump on those Texas League pop-ups."

By 1962, Mantle not only had filled DiMaggio's shoes, but the argument could be made that he was better not only than Joe D., but very well may have been ahead of Willie Mays in the pantheon. He certainly had surpassed Duke Snider, the third New York center fielder, who had been destroyed by the L.A. Coliseum's dimensions.

Mantle hit .321 with 30 homers and 89 runs batted, statistics that failed to match some of his better years in the past, but were slightly skewed by injury. His place on the team, his position as a leader, however, was secure, as was his place in the glory halls of Yankee Stadium. After having lost the MVP award by four points to Maris in 1960 and three points in 1961, Mantle beat out Richardson for the award in 1962.

"I thought Bobby would win," Mantle said modestly, as if there was any chance of that. "I'm happy to receive the award, and I'd like to be the first Major Leaguer to win it four times."

Up until that time, Mays had only won it once (1954). Begun by the Baseball Writers Association of America in 1931 (the MVP had been awarded in inconsistent manner prior to that), Jimmie Foxx, Joe DiMaggio, Stan Musial, Roy Campanella and Yogi Berra had each won it three times. Mantle could easily have had five, and there seemed a good chance he would capture it again in future years.

34-year old Whitey Ford did not match his fabulous 1961 Cy Young performance, but he remained the Chairman of the Board. The "red-faced" Ford had in 11 seasons "grown chubbier, wiser, wittier, and more impressive," wrote Bill Wise in the _1963 Official Baseball Almanac_. Blending control, curves and guile (which included using his wedding ring to throw mean cut fastballs), Ford went 17-8 with a 2.90 earned run average.

"If I could get away with it now, I'd throw nothing but fast balls," the 5-10, 182-pound southpaw said. "No matter how fast you throw it, the fastball doesn't put real strain on your arm because the motion is natural. But you can't get a big league hitter out on fastballs alone, no matter how hard you throw the ball."

Still pitching on the four-day rotation that Houk had instituted beginning the previous season, Ford remained remarkably free of strains and muscle pulls. "I've taken good care of myself and I've been lucky," he said. "It's got to end sometime, but I want to win 200 first."

"When he thinks about it, which is often, 28-year old Roger Maris realizes he has finally found a shadow he can't escape," wrote Bill Wise in the _1963 Official Baseball Almanac_. In 1962 Maris "met his match," when by hitting 33 home runs and driving in 100, "the moody, temperamental outfielder" demonstrated that he was not only not as good as Mickey Mantle and Babe Ruth, but "not as good as Roger Maris and probably never would be."

"Even when he hit 61, Roger knew he wasn't that good," one anonymous Yankee said. "He's a fine ballplayer, but when people know you've done it once and they're paying you $100,000 to do it again, they expect perfection."

Maris rebelled against perfection beginning in Spring Training. He dealt with dismal slumps, worried as was his custom, and lashed out in an angry explosion against the New York press. He was called a "problem ballplayer" and "the most unpopular Yankee." He announced a moratorium on interviews. His silence did not improve his batting average. Hitting around .200 at mid-season, he was being booed unmercifully at home and on the road. The media destroyed him.

"After a while I just tried to forget about everything and everybody and just try to salvage something out of the season," he said. In the second half, Maris finally found his stroke, raising his average to .256. His 33 homers and 100 RBIs were better than Mantle and led the club.

Bobby Richardson improved from being a solid second baseman to a genuine star in 1962. His fast start kept the club afloat when they struggled, Maris slumped, and Mantle was hurt. Playing in 161 games, he batted .302 and finished second in the MVP balloting.

"With our big sluggers not hitting the homers the way they did last year, there is no denying that Bobby's steady hitting, especially with those timely two-baggers, played a tremendous role in putting us over the top," said Houk.

Ralph Terry, who became a new father, learned to control his emotions and became the staff ace, winning 23 games. Tom Tresh, the All-Star and Rookie of the Year when he successfully transitioned from shortstop to left field, hit .286 with 20 home runs and 93 runs batted in (four more than Mantle).

Luis Arroyo slumped after his great 1961 campaign, but Jim Bouton announced his presence with authority, going 7-7 with a 3.99 ERA. He also took to the Yankee lifestyle in a big way; particularly the "Johnny Grant parties" when the team visited Hollywood. At one shindig, he "tread water in the swimming pool, stripped to my underwear holding a martini in each hand while shimmying to the theme song from _Lawrence of Arabia_ ," he recalled.

Marshall Bridges was 8-4, Jim Coates was 7-6, Bud Daley was 7-5, and a new rookie from Trenton, New Jersey named Al Downing was briefly called up from Richmond. Rollie Sheldon finished 7-8 and Bill Stafford was again 14-9.

Reliable Johnny Blanchard baptized Bouton with a beer shower when he won his first game, but hit only .232. Elston Howard was firmly in control of the catcher's position, playing great defensively while hitting 21 home runs with 91 RBIs and a .279 average. Clete Boyer improved with the bat to .272. Tony Kubek batted .314 after returning from the Army. Outfielder Hector Lopez batted a creditable .275.

As a team, the Yankees led the league with a .267 mark. Their 199 home runs were second to Detroit's 209 but better than Minnesota's 185. The Yankees, as usual, eschewed the stolen base and had only 42. The league batting champion was Pete Runnels of Boston (.326), followed by Mantle at .321. Bobby Richardson's .302 placed him among the league leaders.

Mantle's .605 led the league in slugging percentage. Harmon Killebrew of the Twins led in homers (48) with Maris tied with Jim Gentile for fifth (33). Killebrew also led the league with 126 RBIs. Mantle's 122 walks set the pace as did Richardson's 208 hits. Bobby scored 99 runs and had 38 doubles, too.

On the mound, New York's team ERA was 3.70, third behind Baltimore and Los Angeles. Ford's 2.90 earned run average was third behind Detroit's Hank Aguirre (2.21) and the veteran Robin Roberts (2.78), now toiling for Baltimore. Terry's 23 wins led the A.L., and he was the league workhorse with 299 innings pitched.

In addition to Tresh's Rookie of the Year and Mantle's MVP honors, both Richardson and Mantle won Gold Gloves.

The early-season prognostications featured Detroit, winners of 101 games under manager Bob Scheffing, as their chief rival. If Maris saw a drop-off in production, it was nothing compared to Tigers first baseman Norm Cash. It has never really been proven, but many suspect he corked his bat in 1961 when he hit .361. In 1962 his average fell to an abysmal .243. He would enjoy a creditable career, but the Hall of Fame potential of his early years never materialized.

But what killed Detroit's chances was a shoulder injury suffered by pitcher Frank Lary. He went from 23 wins in 1961 to 2-6 in 1962. Hall of Fame outfielder Al Kaline was headed for his best year when he broke his collarbone and missed 61 games.

Defensively, the Tigers - especially without Kaline - looked like they all had club feet, which outfielder Rocky Colavito actually had. Colavito had come over from Cleveland in 1960 and continued to hit for power, but he struck out far too much. The Tigers resembled the 1947 Giants, a team that set the all-time home run record but finished in the middle of the pack. In June, an anticipated battle between contenders turned into a marathon when New York prevailed, 9-7 in a 22-inning, seven-hour drag. Detroit never seriously contended and finished 85-76, 10 1/2 games back of the 96-66 Yankees; tied for fourth place.

The other known contenders started to drop off, too. Over the past years, New York's main competition, aside from Detroit, had come from Cleveland and Chicago. Indians general manager Gabe Paul and manager Birdie Tebbets were now presiding over an aging club, but the loss of Colavito had cost them wallop. Playing in spacious Municipal Stadium - the infamous "mistake by the lake" - they needed strong pitching, the staple of their success in the years of Bob Feller and Bob Lemon. 35-year old veteran right-hander Dick Donovan won 20 games, but the rest of the staff faltered. They were either too old or too young. Jim "Mudcat" Grant (7-10), Sam McDowell (3-7) and Jim Perry (12-12) would have better years later. Gary Bell was 10-9. He would later help Boston win the 1967 pennant. Weak-hitting catcher Jerry Kindall would make his baseball name later, too, as the coach at the University of Arizona. The Indians actually held their own in direct competition with the Yankees, winning 11 of 18, but were never able to mount a threat, settling into a mediocre 80-82 season, 16 games back.

The Chicago White Sox were the single American League team to make a dent in Yankee hegemony over the previous seven seasons, having captured the 1959 flag before falling in six games to Los Angeles in the World Series. Veteran right-hander Ray Herbert won 20 games, and outfielder Floyd Robinson drove in 109 runs with a .312 average, but it was not enough. The old "Go Go White Sox" who gave Bill Veeck the pennant three years earlier could not continue to do it with mirrors. The double-play combination of second baseman Nelson Fox and shortstop Luis Aparicio was solid, but not enough, and Chicago tied Detroit for fourth at 85-77.

Baltimore's roster included several names that would make up their dominant teams of the late 1960s - Dave McNally, Brooks Robinson, and Boog Powell - but they were a few years off. The Oriole way was about pitching, and they had talent, such as hard-throwing southpaw Steve Barber (9-6), but there was no offense outside of San Francisco native Jim Gentile's 33 home runs. The Orioles, like Cleveland, played New York tough but laid down against the rest of the American League to finish 19 games out (77-85).

When dashing young southpaw Bo Belinsky of the Los Angeles Angels went to Beantown, he said wryly, "I looked Boston over pretty good. The only bright lights they ever had in Boston was the lantern in the Old North Church." References to the Revolutionary War aside, there were no bright lights in the old town, circa 1962. The Red Sox fumbled their way to a 76-84 mark. The Red Sox had not won the pennant since 1946, and had not competed since Ted Williams returned from the Korean War. Attendance and interest were way down. Williams retired after the 1960 campaign, replaced by a hotshot who attended Notre Dame in the off-season, Carl Yastrzemski, who hit a creditable .296. Like Baltimore, their organization included a fair number of names that would make up the 1967 "Impossible Dream" team, but they were a long ways off.

The "rivalry" between the Yankees and Red Sox was non-existent in 1962, at least from the Yankees' standpoint. It had existed in fits and starts since the sale of Babe Ruth and other stars to New York in 1920. It certainly had reached fever pitch in 1949, when Williams and Joe DiMaggio were at the height of their powers, pushing their respective teams in a tight, wire-to-wire pennant race. In later years, the rivalry more resembled the "Troubles" in Ireland, with New York symbolizing Great Britain, Boston the IRA, with similar results. Even that comparison lacked oomph in '62.

Kansas City (72-90) finished 24 games back. They were mere cannon fodder for Yankee guns, winning five of 18 games against New York. Their star was a former Yankee, Norm Siebern, who hit .308 with 25 home runs and 117 runs batted in.

Washington - "first in war, first in peace, and last in the American League" - lived up to that moniker, going 3-15 in heat-to-head competition with New York en route to a desultory 60-101 record, 35 1/2 games back. 10th place was their normal destiny. However, this was a cruel joke on what was left of the baseball fandom in the District of Columbia. These were not the old Senators. These were the expansion Senators. After JFK threw out the first ball at the Presidential Opener, the first three Senators struck out. Their only bright spot was two straight shutout wins over Cleveland, nailing the coffin on the Indians' chances in August. That prompted Indians GM Gabe Paul to remark, "I've never seen such a sudden and complete collapse. Hitting, winning and losing are contagious." In September the Senators called up Jack Kennedy, a rookie shortstop who even shared the President's birthday and "responded with vigor," wrote Bill Wise. The only reason to come out to Griffith Stadium was outfielder Chuck Hinton (.310) and journeyman center fielder Jimmy Piersall, who responded to boos by "nose snubbing" the fans. It was emblematic of the Broadway musical that was still touring. _Damn Yankees_ proffered the notion that only a deal with the devil could orchestrate victory for the Senators.

The "cruel joke" played on Washington manifested itself half a continent away, in Bloomington, Minnesota. The old Senators were now the Minnesota Twins. After years of last place finishes, the Twins were now a powerhouse - and would remain one for the rest of the decade, more or less . . . using players developed when the club was in Washington prior to the 1961 move west. Harmon "Killer" Killebrew was one of the most dangerous sluggers the game had ever known, slugging 48 homers and driving in 126 runs. Both statistics eclipsed those of either Mantle or Maris.

In seven seasons with the old Senators, Cuban-born curveball artist Camilo Pasqual had gone 57-84. At age 29 in 1962, backed by a solid club, he dominated, winning 20 games while leading the league in strikeouts with 206. Catcher Earl Battey dropped out of UCLA to pursue baseball, and at age 28 was an All-Star. Rich Rollins hit .298. Manager Sam Mele also featured 18-game winner Jim Kaat, ex-Yankee prospect Vic Power (.290), and power-hitting outfielder Bob Allison (102 RBIs). Their 91-71 record, good for second place, was five games back of New York. Four of those five games came in head-to-head competition with the Yankees, who bested them 11 wins to seven defeats. It would be this Twins team, largely comprised of players on their 1962 roster, who would break up the Yankees' dynasty three years later, but they were still not ready for prime time.

Between 1959 and 1962, there were two All-Star Game played each of those seasons. The first in 1962 was played at Griffith Stadium in Washington. 45,479, including Kennedy, came out and were thrilled by Los Angeles's Maury Wills, who was not allowed in the stadium by a security guard who said, "He doesn't look like a ballplayer." Once inside, Wills stole the show, stealing two bases to key the National League's 3-1 win. The second game was held at Chicago's Wrigley Field. Leon Wagner of the Angels and Rocky Colavito of the Tigers powered the American League to a 9-4 triumph, which turned out to be their last until 1971. They would keep losing after that until finally turning things around beginning in 1983.

While the Twins were the closest competition, at least in the final standings, the surprise challenger to the Yankees' throne was an unlikely group of upstarts, playboys, party animals and evangelical Christians in Los Angeles. Only in Hollywood.

A midsummer's dream

" 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."

\- Lord Alfred Tennyson

On May 4, 1962, the Sunset Strip of Los Angeles was hopping with Mexican festivities for Cinco de Mayo. Bo Belinsky, a rookie left-handed pitcher for the second-year Angels, was scheduled to pitch the next night. Never one to favor rest and preparation when he could make the scene, Bo ventured to the strip where he met a lovely brunette. They spent the evening at her pad. Bo departed with dawn's early light, but this encounter inspired him. He asked for her phone number and meant it.

"I'll see you again," she assured him. Bo told her he was leaving tickets for that night's game against Baltimore and insisted she make it, because "You're my lucky charm."

"I never saw her again," Bo told writer Pat Jordan in 1972. "It was like she was my lucky charm and once she was gone that was the end of that."

Eventually, maybe, but first Bo Belinsky was about to skyrocket to the heights of Hollywood fame and glory. That evening he threw a no-hit, no-run game against his old team, the Baltimore Orioles.

1962 was not supposed to be a memorable year for the Los Angeles Angels. An expansion team in 1961, the Angels were a creditable 70-91 in their first year, playing at dilapidated Wrigley Field in south-central L.A., at the corner of 42nd Place and Avalon Boulevard. In '62, they rented Dodger Stadium from Walter O'Malley, who "nickel and dimed" them with surcharges on just about everything, as well as relegating their ticket booth next to a storage shed in a remote part of the stadium. The Dodgers were the toasts of Hollywood. The Angels, a combination of cast-offs and kids, were tenants who played before family and friends. The first Angel to receive attention was Belinsky. The Angels thought he would attract female fans (he did). Another rookie, Dean Chance, was an emerging star, winning 14 games. Former Giant Leon "Daddy Wags" Wagner hit 37 home runs and knocked in 107 runs.

Belinsky started the year living in Ernie's House of Surface with Laker wildman "Hot Rod" Hundley, but apparently Bo's consumption of women and alcohol was too much even for the Rodster. Belinsky then moved his act to the Hollywood Hills, where some adoring girl almost killed herself trying to climb a tree into his bedroom window. When Bo was not wining and dining Tina Louise and Ann-Margret, he was winning games. By August, an early-morning run-in with the L.A.P.D. and escapades with the Hollywood crowd had slowed his win total down, but the man had put the club on the map.

On July 4, Los Angeles was in first place in the American League. Bill Rigney and Fred Haney were shrewd baseball men. Rig had been schooled under Leo Durocher in New York. Haney had developed the great Milwaukee Braves' pennant winners of 1957-58. The Angels played them tough, finally succumbing in the dog days of late August and September. Their 86-76 record earned Rigney Manager of the Year honors. Haney was named Executive of the Year. Chance was the best rookie pitcher in the game. Movie stars like Carey Grant and Doris Day cheered them on.

"Chance was the best pitcher I ever managed," Rigney said. "He was a farmboy who started hanging out with Bo and the Hollywood crowd. Oh, what a pistol those two were! But he was the best chucker from the right I ever saw, " which was an amazing statement.

What about Belinsky?

"Oh my," said Rigney, who had a shock of white hair. "He's the reason I had white hair." Behind his back, Belinsky called him "the White Rat."

"He also looked like a cab driving down the street with the doors open," recalled Bo of Rigney's rather oversized ears.

"Working for Gene Autry, managing Bo Belinsky, and dealing with Hollywood," Rig said of the 1962 season, "made that the most interesting year of my career."

The story of Bo and the Angels in their early years in Los Angeles is so interesting because the team's character was utterly different from what modern fans came to know about the team in Anaheim. It was night and day. In 1962 they were owned by "the Singing Cowboy," Gene Autry, who was old Hollywood all the way. Belinsky had garnered his "15 minutes of fame" holding out for the enormous sum of $6,500. Writer Bud Furillo captured some of Bo's choice comments about women, sex and hustling pool on a slow news day.

Fred Haney tired of negotiating with Bo over the phone. He sensed that if he were brought out to Palm Springs, it would create needed publicity in the shadow of the mighty Dodgers. He was right.

"He was the greatest thing to ever happen to us," said publicity director Irv Kaze. Kaze showed up at the airport and, without having to ask, immediately recognized Belinsky, oozing charisma in an open-collared shirt, sportscoat, long, slick hair, and "the biggest pair of sunglasses you've ever seen."

"Damn," said Bo when Kaze introduced himself, "I expected Autry."

Bo was immediately driven to the Palm Springs Desert Inn, where Kaze arranged for a poolside press conference complete with a full bar and strategically placed bikini-clad girls lounging about. For a couple of hours Bo regaled them with stories of his pool-hustling exploits, which he made out to sound like "Minnesota Fats."

His sexual descriptions were explicit. Nobody had ever heard anything like this guy, and in reality nobody has ever heard anything like it since. As a "kiss and tell" artist Belinsky put Jose Canseco, Derek Jeter, even Joe Namath to shame. The bizarre poolside scene; part carnival act, part "true confessions," part striptease show, was "the greatest thing I'd ever seen," recalled Kaze. All of this was over between 1,000 and 1,500 1962 dollars for an unproven career minor leaguer who said he would not sign "unless Autry begged me personally."

For three days Belinsky never suited up or came close to "training" for baseball, preferring instead to seek out those bikini-clad "chickies" by day and night. Finally Haney called him and said, "this is enough." A gentlemen's agreement to re-negotiate if he made the club and proved himself was hammered out.

"Don Hoak when he was managing in the Winter Leagues down in Latin America once held up his finger and thumb just this far apart," Bo said years later. " 'Boys,' he said. 'There's only this much difference separating you from 'big league p---y!' "

Thus did Bo have his motivation. Out of shape, and continually distracted by the Palm Springs "scenery," Bo inspired nobody on the mound, however. Rigney wanted to ship him out. Haney tried to trade him back to the Baltimore organization, where he had been before getting plucked in the expansion draft. They had seen all of Bo's act they could handle.

While in the Oriole chain he had to be snuck out of one town when an underage girl whose mother was, uh, "seeing" the chief of detectives, threatened rape if he not marry her.

Earl Weaver watched in despair when Bo and Joe Pepitone would somehow find hot nightspots in Aberdeen. In Miami Bo hooked up with a married woman. Later he found himself drinking with her husband, an Army general, and in a moment of supreme honesty owned up to being the guy she had left with, offering a toast with the statement, "we sure had a helluva time with your money." He had gone AWOL in Mexico. Oriole pitchers Steve Dalkowski, Steve Barber and Bo were fined by Baltimore manager Paul Richards for drilling holes in Belinsky's hotel room to sneak a peak at the reigning Miss Universe, staying next door.

Like Rod Steiger rejecting Sidney Poitier's offer of "pity" in The Heat of the Night, the Orioles said, "No, thank you," to Haney's offer to take back Bo.

Autry stepped in and, in a rare act of ownership control, informed his employees that Bo was to make the squad, at least for the first few weeks of the regular season. His hope was that the Spring Training publicity might sell a few tickets. Rig was none too pleased but carried out the orders. Then injuries depleted his rotation. On April 16 Bo was given an emergency start against Kansas City at Dodger Stadium.

Given the news of his start the next day, Bo went out to the Sunset Strip, made "friends," and finally fell asleep at four or five. "Sex always relaxed me, nobody ever died from it," Bo told sportswriter Maury Allen in 1972.

In the locker room Rigney handed him the game ball and said simply, "Win or be gone." Bo won 3-2. It earned him a second start, which turned out to be a brilliant 3-0 shutout against Washington. When he won in his next start, the publicity was enormous, and of a national character. Furillo's original story had made the wire services. His Palm Springs quotes received major attention. Suddenly Bo was the subject of every media report. He was invited to major Hollywood parties. Actresses and starlets were calling him.

One of Bo's favorite Sunset Strip haunts was the famed Whisky-a-Go-Go, which gave rise to such 1960s L.A. acts as The Doors, The Byrds, Jan and Dean, and Jefferson Starship, among many others. Belinsky once played pool with Jim Morrison of The Doors and rubbed elbows with numerous superstars, usually before they were famous.

When Bo threw his no-hit game on May 5, immediate rewards were proffered. His contract was increased to the promised $8,500, along with a "lipstick red" Cadillac, a gift from the club. Bud Furillo assumed the role of Bo's "social director," introducing him to Beverly Hills attorney Paul Caruso, who in turn introduced him to the controversial gossip columnist and movie voice, Walter Winchell.

Winchell was the staccato voiceover of the TV show The Untouchables, starring Robert Stack as Elliot Ness. Winchell used his New York column to rail against Communist infiltration during the McCarthy era. McCarthy's demise put Winchell on the outs in New York. The scathing film The Sweet Smell of Success portrayed him through a fictional character played by Burt Lancaster as an incestuous brother who uses his column to destroy people through Communist aspersions.

Winchell had moved to Hollywood, hoping to start over. When Furillo introduced Belinsky to the show biz crowd, the Bo-Winchell relationship became a marriage made in . . . Hollywood.

"I know every broad who matters," Winchell told Bo. Winchell arranged through his publicity contacts for every aspiring model and actress in L.A. to date Bo Belinsky, alerting the press to each liaison so that it could all be dutifully recorded in the trades.

Gilligan's Island beauty Tina Louise; actress Connie Stevens (and her younger, blonder sister); Dinah Shore; Queen Soraya, the divorced ex-wife of the Shah of Iran; a DuPont heiress; Carnal Knowledge star Ann-Margret; Bo squired all of them and many more to every haunt on the Sunset Strip: Peppermint West, Barney's Beanery, Dino's, Chasen's, LaScala, the Rainbow, Gazarri's, the Whisky.

He found himself invited to party with the Beautiful People: Jane Wyman, Merle Oberon, Maureen O'Hara, Frank Sinatra, Lionel Hampton. In New York he was feted by Toots Shor, given tables reserved for celebrities and Mobsters at the Copa, the Forum of the Twelve Caesars, and 21.

In Washington, Bo and Dean Chance were told that FBI director J. Edgar Hoover wanted to meet them.

"Jesus Christ, they're turning it into a Federal case," exclaimed Chance, who thought Hoover's invite was an inquest into some kind of illegal inter-state activity. Hoover just wanted to meet them.

"J. Edgar?" Bo later told Pat Jordan. "Man, he's a swinger. He let Dean and I shoot Tommy guns at FBI headquarters."

As the season played out, Bo continued to "pitch and woo." His record went to 6-1, but then he began to lose. Off the field, he was as wild as ever. Naturally, Rigney and Haney questioned whether he could effectively pitch on little or no rest. The papers and trades were filled with near-daily Belinsky items, mostly fed by Winchell. Madonna at her hottest never got so much attention. Belinsky courted it. He never hid from the publicity. He ate it up with a fork and spoon.

The team would arrive at L.A. International Airport in the wee hours of the morning, hoping only to get home and sleep. Bo would be met not by one but two delicious girls. He would depart into the L.A. night, leaving his bags to the equipment manager while his teammates watched in awe and wonder, exploding into an ovation.

He moved into a Hollywood Hills pad that had once been occupied by the abstract Spanish artist Pablo Picasso, who had painted a mural on the wall of what was now Bo's living room.

The club tolerated it because the publicity was good for business, the team was winning, Bo was still effective, and Autry admired his employee's style. But a five A.M. incident on Wilshire Boulevard brought everything to a boil. Bo and Dean went out for a night on the town, picking up on two girls. Bo's was some kind of "showgirl," or so she said. The four of them piled into Bo's "lipstick red" Caddy.

"Now we are tooling down Wilshire Boulevard and everything is fine," Bo recalled. "Well, one thing led to another, and this girl starts mouthing off about she loves me and will stay with me and wants to cook breakfast and all that bull. I'm really in no mood for that, so I tell her to keep her big mouth shut or I'll throw her out."

According to Bo, the girl kept yakking, so he pulled the car over to a side street, demanding she get out. She resisted. Bo tried to force her out. In the process she smashed her head against a window, cutting herself, and causing her to start screaming bloody murder.

Just then, an L.A.P.D. squad car pulled up. Chance, who had a pregnant wife back in Ohio, made a run for it but was caught. Arrests were made and it all hit the papers, to the great consternation of Haney and Rigney.

The girl decided not to press charges on the condition that Bo stay with her for a week, but later she found an attorney and sued Bo, forcing him to pay her off.

"You just can't trust broads," was Bo's assessment.

While all of this was happening, Bo discovered to his chagrin that the "lipstick red" Caddy, a "gift" from the club, was late in payments. He assumed that it was paid for in full. Instead, he had to "assume" the monthly installments plus insurance payments. He was trying to live the life of Frank Sinatra on $8,500.

The Angels, in first place on July 4, pushed the Yankees into August before tailing off towards the end, but the season was a spectacular success for a second-year team. Their veterans had played well, and youth was served. The future looked bright.

Bo finished 10-11, a disappointment after starting 5-0 with a no-hitter, but a solid year nevertheless. The team's brass held its breath, hoping that perhaps he would mature, calm down, and make use of his natural talents in a way that would allow him to enjoy a good career for the Angels.

Chance was 14-10 with a 2.96 earned run average. One of the greatest schoolboy athletes in American history, he had been a high school basketball rival of future Indiana coach Bobby Knight in Ohio. Chance became Bo's "wingman" in swingin' Hollywood, never lacking confidence on the field or in the bar. A combination of his wicked slider, blazing fastballs and the after-effects of "Johnny Grant parties" made him virtually unhittable in head-to-head match-ups with New York. Mickey Mantle was virtually helpless against him and once said, "Every time I see his name in the line-up card I feel like throwing up." It was a half-reference to alcohol consumption as well as Chance's pitching skill.

"All we gotta do is beat Roger Mustard and Mickey Mayonnaise and we can win this pennant," said Chance. "The only difference between them and me is they get paid more."

Bo was always playing practical jokes on the farmboy Chance, who could be taken in and was still a gullible youth. On one occasion, Bo had one of his girlfriends call Dean in his hotel room from the lobby. She identified herself as "Jane, Jane from Sacramento," and told the pitcher that she was pregnant, he was the dad, and "what are you gonna do about it?"

Dean hung up and rushed down to the lobby, where he saw Bo. "Bo, Bo," he exclaimed. "I gotta talk to you."

"What's the matter, Dean?" asked a calm Bo. "You look like an expectant father."

Dean blanched, realizing he had been had.

Then there was center fielder Albie Pearson. He was 5-5 1/2 and weighed 141 pounds. A local kid from the L.A. suburbs, Pearson was the opposite of Bo and Dean; a devout Christian and happily-married family man. His way of life was always coming into conflict with Bo.

During Spring Training, Bo set up one of his writer friends with a blind date. When Albie showed up in the hotel lobby and said hi to Bo, she thought he was her guy. "Albie's real cute and adorable and this broad wants to mother him," recalled Bo. " 'I love you, I love you,' she kept saying to Albie. 'Let me take you home and take care of you.' "

Albie broke away and drove from Palm Springs to Riverside to be with his wife. He called every hour on the hour to make sure she was gone before he returned. Albie's only vice was a "lipstick red" Caddy, just like the one Bo drove. One night one of Bo's minor league flames, an Oriental honey named Zenida, showed up in L.A. Bo told her to meet him in the player's parking lot, where he parked his Caddy. She found the "lipstick red" Caddy, all right, except it was Pearson's.

"So Albie comes out of the clubhouse and he's with his wife," recalled Bo. "Zenida sees this guy with a broad on his arm and figures it's gotta be me, so she starts waving at him; her legs twitching out of this tight Suzie Wong dress. Albie's wife sees this Chinese chick sitting on her husband's car and she's just pissed."

****

_"You_ can _play for the Mets. If you want rapid advancement, play for the Mets. We've got the bonus money. We'll even buy you a glove. So join us. Take the bonus money. Play a year or two. Then you can go back to school."_

\- Casey Stengel

Between 1958 and 1961, some former Dodgers and Giants fans went out to Yankee Stadium to heckle the Yankees, which was like booing an F-16 as it bombs the enemy into submission. But as great as they were, the loss of the Dodgers and Giants was a void they could not fill. Very few really and truly switched allegiance to the Yankees. The Yankees "did not benefit from having the city all to themselves," said longtime New York baseball scribe Jack Lang. They failed to fill the vacuum, maintaining a sense of complacency.

Dodgers and Giants supporters were "staunch National League fans." Some rooted for the Los Angeles Dodgers and the San Francisco Giants; some hated them. Despite everything, rooting for the Dodgers and Giants was made slightly palatable because both teams were strong.

"I was a little disgusted with Giant and Dodger fans who remained fans of the teams that had left," said Stan Isaacs of _Newsday_. "They were traitors. I could see rooting for Pee Wee Reese and Sandy Koufax. But not for O'Malley's Dodgers."

No sooner had the Dodgers and Giants departed than talk began of replacing them. There was mixed reaction to this. These time-honored traditions could not be replaced, but then again something _had to be done_. The concept of franchise shifts and expansion was obviously in the air. Four teams – the Braves, A's, now the Dodgers and Giants – had switched cities. The West lay open for modern Lewis's and Clark's. Two teams could survive in one city; or in New York, three teams. Los Angeles would get the expansion Angels in 1961. The Washington Senators moved to Minneapolis and became the Twins, an inevitable move that Horace Stoneham says he would have made had California not opened up. A new expansion Senators franchise filled their place.

Pro basketball would move out to L.A., with the Lakers leaving Minneapolis. Pro football was at the forefront, first with the Los Angeles Rams and San Francisco 49ers; the merger of sorts between the National Football League and the All-American Football Conference; and then the creation in 1960 of the AFL. Teams rained like Manna from Heaven on Los Angeles (then San Diego), Oakland, and other virgin territories.

In 1958, New York City Mayor Robert Wagner formed a study group called The Mayor's Baseball Committee, a "blue ribbon" panel of political heavyweights. One of its members was a leading New York powerbroker named William A. Shea. A partner in a major Manhattan law firm, he was considered Mayor Wagner's top advisor. Shea's circle of influence was as "blue blood" as it gets. There was New York's Republican Governor Nelson Rockefeller, one of the wealthiest men in the world, with ambitions for the Presidency.

Then there was U.S. Senator Prescott Bush (R.- Connecticut). Bush lived in tony Greenwich, _the place_ to live in the 1950s (if not still today). He was a member of the "old money" Bush-Walker clan, a distant relative to British and Dutch royalty. His family founded the Walker Cup golf tournament that Tom Seaver's father had won in 1932, and ruled over the oldest, most prestigious Wall Street stock brokerage firm, Brown Brothers Harriman. The Bush family would be part of the ownership group of the team that eventually came into being. Bush's son, George H.W. Bush, had been a World War II flying ace and eventually President of the United States from 1989 to 1993. _His_ son, George W. Bush, would occupy the White House eight years later.

The Republican Senator Bush reached across the aisle and got the support of the Democrat Senate Majority Leader, Lyndon B. Johnson of Texas, and Democrat House Speaker Sam Rayburn, for a New York franchise. The _quid pro quo_ was reciprocal support for a second franchise in Houston, where Senator Bush's son George was a millionaire oilman, planning to run for Texas's U.S. Senate seat in 1964.

Shea himself was not from money. His family was hit hard during the Great Depression, but he married well, worked hard, and his Irish wit stood him in good stead. He worked his way through law school and to a job with the state of New York. He wanted to enter politics but his wife insisted he not, so Shea resolved to always be a "mover and shaker" behind the scenes. His clients and contacts included the Brooklyn Dodgers and urban planner Robert Moses. When Larry MacPhail left the Dodgers, ostensibly to join "Wild Bill" Donovan's famed OSS, the pre-cursor of the Central Intelligence Agency, a "sweetheart deal" to buy cheap shares of Dodgers stock was made available. In the end, Walter O'Malley got the Dodgers, but it allowed Shea to maintain a broader political scope. When O'Malley and the Dodgers departed, they left all their power and influence in New York City. Shea filled that vacuum.

Shea knew sports, having played football and lacrosse in college. He cultivated the press, but had an obstacle to overcome. Commissioner of Baseball Ford Frick did not want another team in New York. The Yankees' ownership influenced him on this issue. But the powerful New York media, led by Red Smith, Dan Parker, Dick Young, Barney Kremenko and Jack Lang, created a steady drumbeat of interest in getting a team.

There were eight teams in the National League. It was not considered plausible that an American League franchise could shift. Only three clubs, Philadelphia, Cincinnati and Pittsburgh, were doing poorly enough to consider New York, but each remained out of loyalty to their traditions. But the expansion of pro football and basketball was already happening. The focus went to this avenue.

Then Shea came up with the idea of a whole new baseball organization, called the Continental League, to be run by none other than Branch Rickey. This gambit was probably just a ploy, a form of "blackmail" to force the issue in his favor. Also, being a lawyer by trade, Shea went with his best pitch: the law. He brought up Constitutional issues and court cases; anti-trust laws that previously exempted baseball from standards others had to uphold; a 1922 court Supreme Case he said could be overturned; and the question of the game's business monopoly.

"Bill Shea looked to Senators and Congressmen from states that didn't have teams," said his law associate, Kevin McGrath. "He became allies with the most powerful people at that time in Congress, Lyndon Baines Johnson and Sam Rayburn, who were from Texas. No baseball team there. He made allies with men from Washington, D.C. <who lost their team> . . . From Florida, no baseball team."

Minneapolis. Dallas/Ft. Worth. Houston. Atlanta.

"Shea knew if they put teams in those towns, they would get the politicians to back him," said McGrath.

Between Shea and the highly respected Rickey, an attorney in his own right, they were well received in Washington. Shea is obviously credited with creation of the New York Mets. In so doing he also deserves some credit for creating the Houston Astros, the second Washington Senators, the Minnesota Twins, the Texas Rangers, and the Atlanta Braves.

Shea put together a consortium of rich, powerful people that included Edward Bennett Williams, and Jack Kent Cooke from the ownership standpoint; then such baseball men as Bob Howsam. The Continental League had financing and was planning to open for business in 1959 or 1960 with proposed franchises in Denver, Dallas/Ft. Worth, Minneapolis/St. Paul, Buffalo, and Houston; with more to follow in New Orleans, Miami, Indianapolis, San Diego, Portland, Seattle, and San Juan, Puerto Rico.

At the heart of all this maneuvering was one primary motivation: a team in New York. It was the "jewel in the crown." Pete Davis, one of the creators of the Davis Cup tennis competition, was approached. He in turn recommended the wildly wealthy heiress, Mrs. Joan Whitney Payson. Mrs. Payson did not need to invest in a second rate baseball league. She and Rickey already understood that the Continental League would be just that. They were doing it all to force Major League Baseball's hand. Rickey explained this to Mrs., Payson, who admired the art of the deal. She consequently brought her wealthy circle into the game: Dorothy Killiam, William Simpson, and Senator Prescott Bush's nephew, G. Herbert Walker. Mrs. Payson and Davis then bought Dorothy Killiam's shares. At $4 million she owned 80 percent of the stock in a "New York baseball franchise," which is like a movie producer who buys an unproduced screenplay, paying $4 million for "120 pieces of paper." M. Donald Grant and Herb Walker owned the remaining 20 percent.

There was virtually no chance that the CBL would be a competitive league that could dilute the two established leagues. The Shea/Rickey group, however, had created momentum, particularly in the form of two of the most powerful political figures in American history, LBJ and "Mr. Sam" Rayburn. Both lined up with them. Major League Baseball decided "if you can't beat 'em, let 'em join you." On August 17, 1960 the owners met with Branch Rickey at the Hilton Hotel in Chicago, agreeing to add Denver and Minneapolis to the American League in 1961; New York and Houston to the National League in 1962.

None of this pleased Walter O'Malley, but it was nothing compared to the eventual decision to switch the American League franchise awards; the Senators to Minnesota, an expansion team to replace them in D.C., and to his consternation, Gene Autry's awarding of the Los Angeles Angels.

Shea got several other balls rolling. Naturally a new team would need a new stadium. Robert Moses's plan for a state of the art facility next to the airport in Queens was fast tracked. With that, Harry Wismer came on board to bring an AFL franchise to New York. They would share the stadium with the baseball operation. Many pro football teams had previously played in New York, including teams called the Yankees and Bulldogs. None had survived in the wake of New York Giant dominance. The Jets would succeed.

The football team proved to be a major part of the baseball investor group, working hand in hand. Eventually, this led to the New York Nets of the American Basketball Association (now an NBA team) and the New York Islanders' ice hockey team on Long Island.

Tom Deegan, the public relations head of the Triborough Bridge and Tunnel Authority, began a campaign to name the stadium after Bill Shea. Shea did not agree. No stadium had ever been named after a living person. Stadiums were named after teams, after cities, or they were memorials to war dead. With America having won two world wars in the previous four and a half decades, there were more than enough monumental figures to choose from outside of Bill Shea.

Robert Moses tried to get it named after him, which might have paved the way for a million canned lines about the "Promised Land" and the "parting of the Red Sea" after beating Cincinnati, but thankfully it did not "come to pass." Most felt that Shea Stadium was properly named. Bill Shea brought the team to New York and made it possible to erect it. Moses unquestionably was the one who actually built the structure.

With the benefit of 45 years hindsight, this accomplishment is viewed for what it was and is. At the time, it was a feat of engineering, a trendsetter in that it was built outside the downtown inner city (although the same could be said of Yankee Stadium). San Francisco's Candlestick Park, completed in 1960, was also outside the downtown corridor, but it was most definitely not in the suburbs. Shea Stadium was in Flushing Meadows, Queens, obviously a part of New York City proper, but especially back then considered safe; a suburban enclave absent the kinds of problems that plague urban cores.

This hopeful view of the neighborhood did take a major body blow in 1964, the year of Shea Stadium's opening. A woman named Kitty Genovese was brutally, repeatedly attacked outside a Queens housing complex. Despite her anguished pleas for help, nobody came to her rescue or even called the police in a timely manner. People they said they "didn't want to get involved." That became a catchphrase for detached big city life; a portent for things to come. Despite this, Queens did have a neighborhood quality. It was a place firemen and cops raised their families, the home of the mythical Archie Bunker of _All In the Family_ fame _._

Moses "made over his city as dramatically as Caesar transformed Rome," wrote Peter Golenbock in _Amazin': The Miraculous History of New York's Most Beloved Baseball Team_. Moses in fact fancied himself a modern Caesar, calling his West Side commerce center The Coliseum, and designing Shea to be an up-dated version of the ancient edifice. Ambitious as this was, Moses failed to achieve what builders of the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum and the Forum _were_ able to do. At a cost of $20 million, financed through the issuance of city bonds, Shea did draw raves in the beginning. As recently as the early 1970s it held up as one of baseball's better facilities. The building of "cookie cutter" monstrosities in Cincinnati, Pittsburgh and Philadelphia did not make it look bad. Busch Stadium in St. Louis, Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium, and the Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum, all built at roughly the same period, were not substantially better. Candlestick was worse. But the stadium by which all baseball parks were judged and to a large extent still is, Dodger Stadium in Los Angeles, was head and shoulders better.

Over time, Shea was referred to as a "dump," a place of many conspicuous faults. Baseball palaces in Baltimore, Cleveland, San Francisco and many other cities just made it worse, while Dodger Stadium continues to hold up, eliciting no complaints. Shea's original plusses became minuses. Being next to the airport seemed a good idea, in that teams could get to and fro easily; fans could fly in; hotels were close by. But the roar of jets during games became a bad joke.

It had what seemingly all new stadiums of the 1960s seemingly _had_ to have: lots of parking; 20,000 spaces worth. This was the new frontier; the car and the freeway were gods to be worshipped. Horace Stoneham chose an abominable location for Candlestick for this reason alone. Lack of parking was cited as the reason for the Dodgers' exit. But Fenway Park has thrived without it. Many modern stadiums in downtown centers have limited parking and do just fine, partly because the game has changed.

In 1964 it was a family affair, affordable for a husband, wife and two kids. Today, prices are so high that big league crowds are often as not corporate types. They come one or two at a time, a client outing. Many come to the stadium from a nearby, accessible office instead of from a home, children in tow, which is a sad statement.

Shea was also right on the subway lines, but they targeted an audience that drove in from Long Island, Westchester County and Connecticut. It was the same upscale constituency of people from Manhattan Beach, Pasadena and Sherman Oaks that Walter O'Malley had in L.A.

Its building in conjunction with the 1964 World's Fair made it a place of great celebration. Few stadiums have ever opened in a timelier manner. Its first five to six years, Shea Stadium was conspicuously modern and preferred over Yankee Stadium, located in the increasingly unlivable Bronx. By the end of the 1960s, the Bronx was becoming a war zone. A movie called _Fort Apache, The Bronx_ , depicted the situation in stark detail. But Yankee Stadium renovated in time for the 1976 season. With the Yankees returning to glory, against all odds the Stadium, as they call it, stood tall and proud until its final sold-out game.

The Mets were trendsetters in a number of ways, not the least of which was majority ownership by a woman. Joan Whitney Payson's father, Payne Whitney, was the third richest man in America during the era of the Rockefellers and Carnegies. A minority shareholder in the New York Giants, she loved baseball dearly. Hers was the lone dissenting vote cast to keep the team in New York in 1957. She then offered to buy the team from Horace Stoneham before selling her interest.

Her sister married legendary CBS chairman William Paley. Her circles included the famed Harriman clan, the Astors, the Bush's of Greenwich, Connecticut; and others who made up a modern version of F. Scott Fitzgerald's vision of Hamptons society. She bought her way into an 80 percent ownership share and agreed with the writers who said the team should be called the "Mets."

"Okay, let's go, Mets," someone responded Mrs. Payson said she liked the name.

Mets seemed to make sense. It was shortened from Metropolitans, which symbolized what New York City and the tri-state area of New York, Connecticut and New Jersey truly was. Of course, it was what the civic opera house was called, the Metropolitan, known far and wide as "The Met" (old and new). The team's color scheme, orange and blue, was a combination of both the Dodgers and Giants. Its pinstripes resembled the Yankees. The "NY" insignia was similar to both the Giants and Yankees.

Branch Rickey's involvement in the team changed when it became an expansion club in the National League instead of a linchpin of the Continental League. Rickey had been the "selling point," the imprimatur of respectability convincing owners to avoid a "war" with the CBL like the one the NFL was embarking on with the AFL. They simply accepted expansion instead.

Mrs. Payson wanted Branch Rickey to be the general manager. At 80 years of age Rickey was very old and asked for an enormous amount of money and control. It was his way of begging out of a job beyond his years, since he correctly assumed the terms would not be met. He was involved in the early Mets before returning to the St. Louis Cardinals, the team he built more than 30 years earlier. Rickey set up his nephew, Charles Hurth, to be the GM. Then the Yankees fired George Weiss. It was irresistible and he was brought on instead of Hurth.

Weiss developed a first class organization. While mistakes were made, and the team floundered with veterans instead of youth in the early years, it is important to note in light of later success that it was not all such an accident as it has been portrayed. Branch Rickey, George Weiss, Johnny Murphy, then Casey Stengel; scouts like Rogers Hornsby, Red Ruffing, Cookie Lavagetto, minor league managers like Solly Hemus; brilliant baseball men built the New York Mets!

Weiss was, like all the Bushies, a Yale graduate who came from money, which he used to buy his way into a minor league ownership position. From there his business acumen, flair for promotion, and baseball eye elevated him from being an "owner" into being a "baseball man," a distinct difference. Weiss joined the Yankees. His name and reputation grew. It was the Yankees. Anybody associated with them was gold. But Weiss earned his reputation not by riding on the success of Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig and Joe DiMaggio, but by building the team into the most efficiently run organization in the game.

After the departure of DiMaggio, the Yankees were not as talent-laden as in the "Murderer's Row" years, but they won just as consistently. Weiss was a big reason. The roster turned over quite a bit. He was a trader, a "wheeler-dealer" and a farm system developer. Weiss always stocked the club with key players who could replace others just as they were going downhill just a little bit. It was ruthless but that was the Yankee way.

Branch Rickey developed the first farm system in St. Louis and later brought his organization to Brooklyn. Weiss perfected it, mainly because the Yankees had the economic ability to do what other teams could not. The club did not pay players high salaries, preferring to tout their World Series shares, New York connections and endorsements. They developed young players, sold them for profit, then bought them back for less. He bought Joe DiMaggio, Tommy Henrich and a handful of others for a total of $100,000, but sold players for $2 million. He bamboozled other general managers the way Billy Beane of the A's is said to have done in the 2000s. Weiss's conscience never bothered him. He would have made a great Roman Caesar, more Octavian than Julius.

Arthur Richman, after having worked for William Randolph Hearst, was hired as the Mets' director of promotions. A first class organization was in place. They would play at the Polo Grounds for a year then move into Shea Stadium in 1963 (a bog was discovered while building, pushing back the opening to 1964). They had solid ownership and a top-notch front office. All they needed was a field manager.

Charles Dillon "Casey" Stengel was the perfect choice. He _was_ New York baseball. He had played in the World Series with both Brooklyn and the New York Giants. An outfielder for John McGraw, he batted .400 in the 1922 World Series victory over Babe Ruth's Yankees. He was a fan favorite and showman, with sparrows flying from his hat, always a practical joker.

Stengel managed the Dodgers from 1934 to 1936 and the Boston Braves from 1938-43, but failure at both led him to the minor leagues. He managed at Kansas City, part of the Yankees' chain, then led Oakland to the Pacific Coast League title in 1948.

In 1949 the Yankees hired him, causing howls of protest. Casey Stengel was antithetical to the Yankee image, although Babe Ruth had never been a Wall Street type himself. But after Ruth the players, managers, even their fans, became "company men." Manager Joe McCarthy instilled in the team a "Yankee way" of doing things; of carrying themselves, that covered the way they dressed, the approach to practices and games, the conducting of interviews and inter-action with the public. A Yankee was like a Republican political candidate. Players like Lou Gehrig and Joe DiMaggio performed majestic feats on the field, showing little in the way of emotion. It was expected. Their fans cheered in polite arrogance.

Now a "clown," a Dodger reject, a minor league outcast, was brought in to manage the _Yankees_. It was a tough year to make a good showing, too. The 1949 Boston Red Sox were a powerhouse led by the great Ted Williams at the height of his career. The Yankees had faltered down the stretch the previous season, losing out in a tight three-team race won by Cleveland over the Red Sox and New York. Joe DiMaggio suffered a painful bone spur in his heel and was out indefinitely. It was a transition period; the great stars being replaced by untested youth. The New York catcher was a St. Louis rube named _Yogi Berra_ , of all things.

The Red Sox got out of the gate fast. But New York hung tough. In June, DiMaggio returned in a four-game series at Fenway Park that will be lauded over as long as men speak of baseball. The Bronx Bombers beat out Williams and the Bosox for the 1949 league pennant, then knocked off Jackie Robinson's Dodgers for the World title. They repeated in 1950. Stengel's teams won nine World Series between 1949 and 1960. It was the most dominant run in baseball history, even greater than the Ruth-Gehrig or Gehrig-DiMaggio Yankees of the 1920s and '30s.

The Yankees of the 1950s were certainly talented, featuring superstar pitcher Whitey Ford and mega-superstar center fielder Mantle, but the dominance they displayed was beyond their abilities. It must be attributed to Stengel. Stengel and Weiss did not play a pat hand. The line-up changed. Kansas City became their _de facto_ "triple-A club." Young players replaced old with little regard for a veteran's prior service. When the National League was integrating wholesale, the Yankees did so in small steps and with a particular "kind" of player. Read: Elston Howard.

Stengel revolutionized the platoon system, using righties against southpaw pitchers, lefties against right-handed hurlers; late-inning defensive replacements, pinch-runners, pinch-hitters, double-switches. The old "starter goes nine" mentality made way for a functional bullpen of middle relievers, set-up men and closers. As great as the New York Yankees were, they won more than they should have. A comparison of the Dodgers' and Yankees' line-ups and pitching staffs in that decade very well may favor the Dodgers in terms of talent, but Casey's Yankees beat them over and over again. Weiss kept costs down. The platoon system reduced players' statistics, which was used against them in contract negotiations.

"You didn't hit 30 homers."

"You didn't drive in 100 runs."

Looking at Stengel's career as a player, failed manager in Brooklyn and Boston, then his Mets years, there seem to be two Caseys. When he came to the Mets, he reverted back to the "clown" he had been before his Yankee tenure. In truth, Casey was always the same. The imprimatur of Yankee pinstripes and glory, however, made him an elder statesman; his "double talk" words of wisdom, his rubbery on-field antics suddenly works of genius as he led the "corporation" to record profits. He loved to drink, regaling writers with wild stories well into the evening. He may have been the most colorful, quotable figure the game has ever known. Eventually, his age, his "un-Yankee" _persona_ , and maybe even his popularity, made him vulnerable.

He personally admitted mistakes that cost New York the 1960 World Series in seven games to Pittsburgh; mainly a failure to have Ford available in the final game because of the way he used Whitey. Casey was unceremoniously let go. The success of the Yankees continued for several more years, with new manager Ralph Houk using Ford in a manner that allowed him to enjoy his best years ever. This casts some doubt on Stengel, but Houk was unable to sustain the run as Stengel had. In the end, credit for such a long showing of dominance must be given to the "Ol' Perfessor."

No sooner was Stengel fired than Weiss, also fired by the same team, decided he would manage the New York Metropolitans. Stengel's wife, Edna urged him not to do it. He had other offers, including a lucrative memoir in the _Saturday Evening Post_ and a cushy banking position out in California. The allure of baseball and maybe even proving the Yankees' wrong in New York was too great. His hiring made the Mets' "good guys" and the Yankees' villains.

Stengel had no pretense whatsoever. He loved everybody and gave his time to fans and old acquaintances. Once the team arrived at two in the morning to their hotel in San Francisco where the Women's Republican Club of California was holding a convention.

". . . These old dowagers had waited up for him," recalled beat writer Jack Lang. "They were standing in the lobby, and he stood there regaling them with stories for another hour. He was a charmer with everybody. He really was."

"All the kids in New York are growing up, and they want to see the Metsies, the Metsies, the Metsies," he told interviewers. He put out an "invitation" to the "youth of America" to come "try out" for the Mets, an unprecedented approach that seemed to say that the club was so bad they would accept scrubs, walk-ons, unknowns, since few players ever really "try out."

That term is a misnomer, at least in the modern era and especially since the institution of the draft in 1965. People who said they had "a try-out" with some team or another use the term loosely. It is a sure indication the "player" knows not what he speaks of and never was a prospect. "Try-outs" are occasionally held for all comers, but these events are jokes, PR stunts in which 500 hopefuls show up and one or two is signed, if any. Half the time a player signed from one of these events is the guy who ran the fastest 40-yard dash. If a legitimate player is signed out of such a try-out, he is not a guy "discovered" there. Rather, he is probably a known quantity, recently released by another organization perhaps; or a local college player of some recognized ability who for various reasons (injury, grades, quit the team?) was not drafted or signed. Modern scouting is a sophisticated process in which few players go "under the radar." Some clubs sponsor "winter league" teams called the "Phillies rookies," "Dodgers rookies" or some such thing, but many scrubs exaggerate their claims to professional or "prospect" status based on nebulous "semi-pro" affiliations. But Stengel seemed to indicate that all comers were welcome and actually had a shot. He knew better but the PR value was terrific.

"The Mets is a very good thing," said former Brooklyn pitcher Billy Loes. His statement seemed to reflect the comedy of those early Mets in a way that nobody talks anymore. "They give everybody a job. Just like the WPA." The WPA was the Works Projects Administration, a New Deal construction outfit started by President Franklin Roosevelt (which as the Venona Project later revealed was rife with Communist espionage).

Hobie Landrith was made the first Met ever picked in the 1961 National League expansion draft. "You gotta start with a catcher or you'll have all passed balls," Stengel explained. This of course is true, but somehow Stengel had a way of talking as if to a six-year old child.

"Stengel was a comedian, and he was bright, and he had total recall so there wasn't anything that didn't happen that Stengel couldn't refer to, one way or another," said sportswriter Stan Isaacs.

Stengel could see through phonies. He immediately determined that Howard Cosell was just that, but if a reporter was honest Stengel liked them and gave young writers attention, feeding egos. According to Robert Lipsyte of the _New York Times_ , one of the reasons so many of the early Mets' stories had a comic angle was because the _Times_ de-valued sports. They decided to make the Mets more of a feature than a legitimate sports story, and nobody wanted to miss a thing the "Ol' Perfessor" said.

"I couldn't drink along with him, obviously, but I didn't want to leave early, just in case he said something," Lipsyte said of Stengel.

Weiss and Stengel decided to go for veteran talent instead of youth, for several reasons. In 1961, the Los Angeles Angels used veterans with some success, which carried over to actual pennant contention in 1962. The Mets wanted to satisfy the old Dodgers' and Giants' fans by bringing back some of the names from the past, in the hopes that they might have a little magic left and would sell tickets. The magic was gone but they did sell tickets. The other National League expansion franchise, the Houston Colt .45s, went for youth.

Among players selected after Landrith in the original draft were Don Zimmer, Roger Craig, and Gil Hodges. Others included Jay Hook, Bob Miller, Lee Walls, Gus Bell, Ed Bouchee, Chris Cannizzaro, Elio Chacon, Choo Coleman, Ray Daviault, John DeMerit, Sammy Drake, Al Jackson, Felix Mantilla, Bobby Gene Smith, Jim Hickman and Sherman Jones. Richie Ashburn, Frank Thomas, Clem Labine and Charlie Neal, all talents, were also included. Ashburn and Thomas still had some juice left.

The 1962 Mets were a force of nature. If there is any possible truth to George Burns's statement in _Oh, God!_ that the1969 Mets were his _Last Miracle_ , then the '62 version was somehow struck by supernatural forces, too. It was a comedy of errors, of flukes, of crazy plays, players and situations, almost defying logic, therefore lending credence to the notion that the deity got involved. Never has a team played so badly, and never has failure been so loved.

Certainly the "Daffiness Boys" were popular, but Dazzy Vance was a Hall of Famer, Babe Herman a line drive impresario. It seems completely improbable that a bad team could be received so well in New York City. Today it would not happen. This is a town built on excellence. The George Steinbrenner mentality, the Donald Trump way of thinking, has completely overshadowed the old concepts. But with the Dodgers and Giants gone, with the Yankees resembling a shark in a tank full of minnows, somehow the whole thing played.

That spring, Stengel's explanations of his team were classics of baseball humor, even though it seems the "Ol' Perfessor" was deadly serious in his analysis. After announcing that "Chacon" was batting second, he got into this _tete a tete_ with _New York Post_ columnist Leonard Schecter and a few others:

"Chacon?" asked Schecter.

"Mantilla," said Stengel. It sounded liked like _scintilla_. "I mean Chacon. I mean I said Chacon, but I meant Mantilla . . . I don't know who to hit third. If it's a right-handed pitcher, which it is, I might go with Bell in right field . . . You asked me for a line-up and I can't give it to you . . . I got two center fielders. Christopher and Smith."

Christopher was in the minors.

"Christopher?" inquired Schecter.

"Ashburn," said Casey. "Smith and Ashburn. Whichever one I play I'll put leading off."

This contradicted previous Stengelese about Neal leading off, Mantilla hitting second . . .

"Didn't you say that Neal was going to lead off?" asked Schecter.

"Well, put Neal third and Mantilla second," as if Schecter was making the decisions and Casey now just offering advice.

From there: "Let's see. You can put Hodges fifth. No, put Bell fifth. Hodges sixth." He looked at a reporter's notebook. "Better write it down so I'll remember it." Now the scribes were his secretaries. "And put <Jim> Marshall along with Hodges. Maybe I'll put Hodges in for a while and then Marshall."

Batting fourth?

"Thomas. That's right, Case?" a writer inquired. "Thomas in left field batting fourth."

"That's right," assented Casey, followed by some discussion of Don Zimmer hitting seventh and playing third.

Schecter: "One more thing. Who's the catcher, Landrith or Ginsberg?"  
"It's Ginsberg or Landrith," replied Casey. "Ginsberg caught him <it turned out to be Roger Craig> pretty good. I'll decide when I get there."

"This was the process by which Casey Stengel made up his line-up every day," Schecter, whose bright idea became _Ball Four_ in 1970, later recalled.

Perhaps Stengel talked like this when he was with the Yankees, maybe even made out his line-up that way – although when you have Mantle, Berra, Howard and the like it tends to make itself – but the Mets, as Robert Lipsyte pointed out, were a _feature story_ , not a sports story. The press coverage looked for this angle and played it up. Still, there were comedies that went beyond seeming coincidence. The names of players certainly had a ring.

There was "Butterball" Botz, who apparently was one of the "youth of America" Casey invited to try out . . . and fail. It was like the old Dodgers of the "Daffiness" era, up-dated now to "Choo Choo" Coleman and "Marvelous Marv" Throneberry.

The opener told the whole story in a nutshell. According to legend, _nine Mets got stuck in an elevator_ , making them late for the first game in St. Louis, an 11-4 loss. They dropped their first nine games and celebrated the first win, behind Jay Hooks at Pittsburgh, as if the Series had been won.

Casey on Don Zimmer, who had a plate in his head after having been beaned: "He's the perdotius quotient of the qualificatilus."

??

Stengel told Zimmer he would "love the left field fence." He meant the left field fence at Cincinnati's Crosley Field, where he had just been traded to, only Zim had not been told that part yet.

In May, Stengel got back on the "try-out" bandwagon. There was a little more reasoning behind his invitation for young folks to come out and play for the Mets because you " _can_ play for the Mets. If you want rapid advancement, play for the Mets. We've got the bonus money. We'll even buy you a glove. So join us. Take the bonus money. Play a year or two. Then you can go back to school."

It was like an Army enlistment commercial, but old Stengel was smart despite his contortions of language. His enticement of college money applied to pitcher Jay Hook, an engineer out of Northwestern University who certainly was academically inclined. It would later resonate with the likes of Tom Seaver, who signed with the Mets based on specific guarantees that they would pay for him to continue at USC. Then there was his Fresno High teammate, Dick Selma, in 1962 being scouted by everybody. The draft was a few years away. A high school or college prospect like Selma was a free agent who could choose the team he might sign with, rather than subject himself to the vagaries of a wide-open draft. Selma had choices within the pro and college ranks, but went for the Mets because he could advance, which he did, all the way to the big leagues. When Seaver was waiting to see whether the Phillies, Indians or Mets would draw his name out of a hat in 1966, he rooted for the Mets for the same reason: rapid advancement.

The lyrical stories of the early Mets did not become so famous by accident. They were in New York, the media capital of the world, and the writers in that city were the most talented. Aside from Jimmy Breslin, Jimmy Cannon, Red Smith, Maury Allen and many others, a self-professed "non-professional" named Roger Angell was assigned their version of the "baseball beat" by _The New Yorker_. A highbrow arts and leisure magazine, it seemed the last place great baseball writing would come from, but it was.

A huge baseball fan who mourned the loss of the Dodgers and Giants, Angell viewed the Yankees from a pedestrian's point of view. He wanted color, humanity; the essence of the "Bums" from Brooklyn, of Willie Mays's cap flying off. The Yankees just shut everybody up, like the time at Ebbets when the crowd hooted and hollered at Mickey Mantle incessantly. Then Mick hit a gargantuan home run which mockingly bounced and caromed and broke windshields and dented car doors belonging to Dodgers' fans outside the park.

Angell resisted the Polo Grounds in April and May of 1962 despite frequent invites to see "those amazin' Mets." But by late May Angell was fascinated with the team's strange habit of actually leading in late innings before blowing games. The Mets are thought to be the worst team of all time, but despite the numbers, this may not be accurate. They lost by a landslide often enough, but not every time. They often lost in crazy ways. Among their 40 wins in 1962 were some impressive performances, including a series of come-from-behind efforts. After they actually swept Milwaukee in a double-header on May 20, Angell made it to the Polo Grounds for five days until June 2.

He bought his seats instead of taking a press pass, sitting in the stands with his then-14-year old daughter and 197,428 fans who came to see the Mets take on the Los Angeles Dodgers and San Francisco Giants. The villains had returned to the scene of the crime.

The Dodgers utterly destroyed the Mets. It was like O'Malley was a Roman general ordering his legions to crush the rebellion. Angell's daughter compared it to the "fifth grade against the sixth grade at school."

Old Dodgers were wearing "LA" caps, and some old Dodgers were wearing "NY" caps, plus there were a few new stars in the Los Angeles constellation. Amid everything the stomping fans started to chant, "Let's go, _Mets!_ Let's go, _Mets!"_

Angell was stunned to find goodwill in the air, not bitterness. The next day the Dodgers had to scrape for a win, but New York pulled off a triple-play. After Los Angeles completed the sweep, San Francisco ran New York's losing streak to 15 with a lopsided four-game explosion of power and pitching. The losses to Los Angeles and San Francisco surprised nobody; after all, the 1962 Dodgers and Giants, respectively, were two of the best in each team's storied history. The Giants eventually won the league championship. Both clubs won over 100 games before San Francisco captured a play-off.

But Angell fell in love with the Mets. Apparently so did "The 'Go! Shouters," the name of his _New Yorker_ piece, later published in one of the finest baseball books ever written, _The Summer Game_.

"The Mets' 'Go!' shouters enjoyed their finest hour on Friday night, after the Giants had hit four homers and moved inexorably to a seventh inning lead of 9-1," wrote Angell. "At this point, when most sensible baseball fans would be edging towards the exits, a man sitting in Section 14, behind first base, produced a long, battered foghorn and blew mournful blasts into the hot night air. Within minutes, the Mets fans were shouting in counterpoint – _Tooot!_ 'Go!' _Tooot!_ 'Go!' _Tooot!_ 'GO!' – and the team, defeated and relaxed, came up with five hits that sent Billy Pierce to the showers."

It was all "exciting foolishness," of course, since San Francisco did win the game going away. Angell thought about the demographical possibility of New York City producing "a 40- or 50,000-man audience made up exclusively of born losers – leftover Landon voters, collectors of mongrel puppies, owners of stock in played-out gold mines - who had been waiting for years for a suitably hopeless cause."

This was a Friday night in June, with the sensory pleasures of the New York bar scene beckoning in "a city known for its cool," but these people had no place they would rather be. Angell wanted to know what was going on. Two apparent Yankee fans sitting next to him derided the Mets in snide tones, going over the line-up and announcing that each was a player who would not even make the Bronx Bombers. Angell determined that it was not bitter, anti-Dodgers or anti-Giants sentiment. Rather, these people and this team were the _anti-Yankees_ , who Angell had no love for.

The Giants won, their impressive stars – Willie Mays, Willie McCovey, Juan Marichal – all shining, but Angell observed that the Mets were "like France in the 1920s," with a "missing generation between the too-old and the too-young." He determined to see the Mets "as a ball team, rather than a flock of sacrificial lambs," calling Stengel "an Edison tinkering with rusty parts"; noting the receding star of Felix Mantilla, Charlie Neal, Frank Thomas, Richie Ashburn and Gil Hodges; the eager, opportunistic, oft-dumb baserunning antics of Rod Kanehl and Choo Choo Coleman; Stengel's "bowlegged hobble" walking style; Elio Chacon's hesitancy costing an out; a pitching staff of Hook, Jackson, Anderson and Roger Craig ("the Mets' own Cyrano"), delivering glimpses of competence, even brilliance, before falling apart.

San Francisco won a Sunday double-header. Angell departed to write what was not merely a brilliant story, but perhaps the most telling explanation of the early Mets and their fans. There was prescience in it, too, in describing some youth with promise that seven years later made him a small-time prophet of sorts.

On June 17, Marv Throneberry was at first base when the Mets caught a Chicago base runner in a rundown between first and second. Throneberry ran into the runner without the ball in his possession and was called for interference. Chicago scored four times after that. When Marv came to bat in the bottom half of the inning, he hit a drive to the right field bullpen, pulling into third with a "triple" just as the umpire called him out at first for having missed the bag. Stengel came out to argue but was rebuffed by news from his own bench that Throneberry also missed second. In July the Mets were 6-23.

Throneberry had some power and four times hit a sign for a clothing company, who awarded him a $6,000 sailboat. Richie Ashburn was also given a boat for winning the team MVP award. Judge Robert Cannon, legal counsel for the Major League Baseball Player's Association, told Throneberry not to forget to declare the full value of the boat.

"Declare it?" Throneberry asked. "Who to, the Coast Guard?"

"Taxes," Cannon replied, as in the IRS. "Ashburn's boat was a gift. He was voted it. Yours came the hard way. You hit the sign. You _earned_ it. The boat is _earnings_. You pay income tax on it."

At season's end, Jimmy Breslin visited Throneberry in his hometown of Collierville, Tennessee.

"In my whole life I never believed they'd be as rough a year as there was last season," said Throneberry, who believe it or at one time was considered a prospect with the _Yankee_ s. According to most accounts of his career he was, if not a really good player, not a terrible one; not the "worst player who ever lived," or whatever moniker has been attached to him.

The "worst ball player" never made the Major Leagues, or even signed a professional contract. If such a player existed in the big leagues he lasted one day, one inning, like the midget Eddie Gaedel. He did not pick up big league paychecks for the better part of a decade, as Marv did. "Terrible" Mets pitchers like Roger Craig (10-24), Al Jackson (8-20), Jay Hook (8-19) and even Craig Anderson (3-17) were not that terrible. Roger Craig was in fact a very food pitcher, Jackson a genuine talent. The truth is, a man cannot last long enough to _lose 20 games_ if he is that bad; he would be drummed out of the corps long before given the chance to compile such a record.

Throneberry's home in Collierville was at least 100 miles from anything resembling a _sporting waterway_ , and the man was never going to be part of the "skiff off the Hamptons crowd," wrote Breslin.

"And here I am, I'm still not out of it," said Marv. "I got a boat in a warehouse someplace and the man tell me I got to pay taxes on it and all we got around here is, like, filled-up bathtubs and maybe a crick or two. I think maybe I'll be able to sell it off someplace. I think you could say prospects is all right. But I still don't know what do about the tax thing."

It was that kind of year.

"We get to the end of the season, and I might need a couple of games to finish higher and what am I going to get?" Stengel said. "Everybody will be standing up there and going, whoom! Just trying to win theirselves a nice boat while I'm sittin' here hopin' they'll butcher boy the ball onto the ground and get me a run or two. I don't like it at all."

??

Hall of Famer Rogers Hornsby, an irascible sort who could not stay hired in his post-playing gigs, was hired by Weiss to scout Major League games, looking for players the Mets could use. Hornsby lived in Chicago and attended White Sox games, played at night in Comiskey Park. He spurned Wrigley because their day schedule interfered with his horse track pursuits.

"They say we're gonna get players out of a grab bag," he said. "From what I see, it's going to be a garbage bag. Ain't nobody got fat off eating out of the garbage, and that's just what the Mets is going to have to be doing. This is terrible. I mean, this is really going to be bad."

Stengel celebrated his 73rd birthday in a private party room at the Chase Hotel in St. Louis. He ordered a Manhattan.

"I've seen these do a lot of things to people," he said of the Manhattan. He smoked cigarettes and let his hair down, so to speak, with Jimmy Breslin. He spoke with trepidation of the Mets' initial visit to the brand new Dodger Stadium. "We're going into Los Angeles the first time, and, well, I don't want to go in there to see that big new ballpark in front of all them people and have to see the other fellas running around those bases the way they figured to on my own pitchers and my catchers, too. <Maury> Wills and those fellows, they start running in circles and they don't stop and so forth and it could be embarrassing, which I don't want to be.

"Well, we have Canzoneri <catcher Chris Cannizzaro> at Syracuse, and he catches good and throws real good and he should be able to stop them. I don't want to be embarrassed. So we bring him and he is going to throw out these runners.

"We come in there and you never seen anything like it in your life. I find I got a defensive catcher, only he can't catch the ball. The pitcher throws. Wild pitch. Throws again. Passed ball. Throws again. Oops! The ball drops out of the glove. And all the time I am dizzy on account of these runners running around in circles on me and so forth.

"Makes a man think. You look up and down the bench and you have to say to yourself, 'Can't anybody here play this game?' "

Hours later, "the bartender was falling asleep and the only sound in the hotel was the whine of the vacuum cleaner in the lobby," wrote Breslin. "Stengel banged his empty glass on the red-tiled bar top and then walked out of the room."

Casey walked to the lobby, stopping to light a smoke

"I'm shell-shocked," he told the guy working the vacuum cleaner. "I'm not used to gettin' any of these shocks at all, and now they come every three innings. How do you like that."

No answer.

"This is a disaster," he continued. "Do you know who my player of the year is? My player of the year is Choo Choo Coleman, and I have him for only two days. He runs very good."

"This, then, is the way the first year of the New York Mets went," wrote Breslin, an old-time scribe whose clipped style was reminiscent of Ring Lardner (and Mark Twain before that), in _Can't Anybody Here Play This Game?_ "It was a team that featured 23-game losers, an opening day outfield that held the all-time Major League record for fathering children <19; "You can look it up," as Casey would say>, a defensive catcher who couldn't catch, and an overall collection of strange players who performed strange feats. Yet it was absolutely wonderful. People loved it. The Mets gathered about them a breed of baseball fans who quite possibly will make you forget the characters who once made Brooklyn's Ebbets Field a part of this country's folklore. The Mets' fans are made of the same things. Brooklyn fans, observed Garry Schumacher, once a great baseball writer and now part of the San Francisco Giants management, never would have appreciated Joe DiMaggio on their club.

" 'Too perfect,' said Garry."

Bill Veeck announced that the 1962 Mets were "without a doubt the worst team in the history of baseball," claiming that he spoke with authority since his St. Louis Browns were the previous "title holders."

Technically, statistically, and by the record, he was right, but the '62 Mets were not the worst. Veeck's Browns had no name players, nobody worth remembering. The Mets had former big names like Ashburn, Hodges, Craig, Gene Woodling and Frank Thomas. Over the hill, yes; but there is something not quite right about saying a team with so many one-time stars was the worst ever assembled. Sometimes, not so bad. Ashburn batted .306; Thomas hit 34 homers and drove in 94 runs. Then again, sometimes they sure looked terrible. In June, Sandy Koufax struck out the first three Mets on nine pitches, finished with 13 Ks, and a 5-0 no-hit win.

Certainly no team nearly that bad has been analyzed and talked about so much. Being in New York was part of that. Casey Stengel was part of it. But it went beyond these obvious factors. Sportswriter Leonard Koppett said it was part of a larger social revolution, embodied by the new, youthful President John F. Kennedy; the young taking over from the old.

"The times they are a-changin'," sang Bob Dylan.

The players poked fun at each other. There was much self-deprecation in the Mets' clubhouse. When Ashburn won the team MVP award, he said, "Most Valuable on the worst team ever? Just how do they mean that?"

He made fun of Throneberry, but the big ol' country boy took it in stride. The fans picked up on their humble, comical ways and ate it up. Strange, confusing things happened to that team that somehow did not happen to others. They had two pitchers named Bob Miller: Robert G. Miller, left-handed and Robert L. Miller, right-handed. Robert L. made 21 starts with an 0-12 record and was preferred among the two.

One day Stengel called to the bullpen.

"Get Nelson ready," he told the bullpen coach.

"Who?" was the reply.

"Nelson," Stengel said. "Get him up."

The bullpen coach looked around. There was no Nelson. Nelson was broadcaster Lindsey Nelson. But Robert L. Miller knew that when Casey called for Nelson, he meant him, so he warmed up and went in the game. Later the Miller's appeared on the TV quiz show _To Tell the Truth_. When the MC called, "Will the real Bob Miller please stand up?" both did so to confused delight.

Stengel would occasionally call on some past star of the Yankees or Giants to go into the game. He confused Jim Marshall with John Blanchard, a Yankee reliable of the 1950s. In a strange twist of coincidence, when his protégé, USC's Rod Dedeaux (who played for Casey at Brooklyn) got old (sometimes showing up late for games after attending a cocktail party), he reportedly would call out, "Lynn, get your gun," or "Seaver, get loose." These were references to past Trojans like Fred Lynn or Tom Seaver who had graduated 10 or 15 years earlier.

Banners and placards made their appearance at the Polo Grounds, possibly for the first time. Certainly, the existence of this kind of fan signage began a trend. "Marv." "Marvelous Marv." "Cranberry Strawberry We Love Throneberry." "MARV!" "VRAM!" ("Marv" spelled backwards). The Mets responded with a team sign of their own: "To the Met Fans – We Love You Too."

Stengel called it all "Amazin'." "Come out and see my 'Amazin' Mets,' " he said in an open invite to the public. "I been in this game a hundred years but I see new ways to lose I never knew existed before."

Stengel got into a taxi with several young writers and inquired whether they were ballplayers. They said they were not.

"No, and neither are my players," said Stengel.

Of the Northwestern engineer Jay Hook, Stengel said, "I got the smartest pitcher in the world until he goes to the mound."

When Yale's Ken MacKenzie entered a game Stengel advised, "Now just make believe you're pitching against Harvard."

Throneberry was "Thornberry." Casey never came close to Cannizzaro's proper pronunciation. Gus Bell was an established player but Casey never got a handle on who he was.

"And in left field, in left field we have a splendid man, and he knows how to do it," Stengel said. "He's been around and he swings the bat there in left field and he knows what to do. He's got a big family <six children, including future big leaguer Buddy Bell> and he wants to provide for them, and he's a fine outstanding player, the fella in left field. You can be sure he'll be ready when the bell rings – and that's his name, _Bell!"_

"About this Cho Choo Coleman," Casey told Dan Daniel of _The Sporting News._ "Is he a catcher or an outfielder? . . . Watch this carefully."

First baseman Ed Kranepool, a native of nearby Yonkers, spent most of 1962 in the minor leagues but got called up and hit .167 in his brief stint. He was only 17 years old.

Infielder "Hot Rod" Kanehl, a one-time Yankee prospect, hit .248. Married with four kids, he was one of those "record breaking" fathers of multiple kids, supposedly something the '62 Mets did better than anything.

"He can't field," George Weiss told Casey.

"But he can run the bases," Stengel replied.

"But Weiss always wanted to get rid of me, and now he couldn't because I had become a hero in New York," said Kanehl. "All of New York was asking, 'Who is this guy?' and the front page of the _Daily News_ had a picture of Stengel pulling me out of a hat like a rabbit."

Kanehl was one of those strange hybrids of baseball; a Yankee farmhand who never made it there, but became a household name, still fondly remembered, because he played for the Mets. It did not last long. A few years later he was playing for the Wichita Dreamliners against USC's Tom Seaver, then pitching for the Alaska Goldpanners.

"Even though we lost, we were still upbeat," said Kanehl. "And so was Casey, who was leading the parade down Broadway. A lot of people identified with the Mets – underdog types, not losers – quality people who weren't quite getting it together.

"In May we beat Cincinnati, and we beat the Braves at home, we were playing well, but then we went on the road and lost 17 games in a row. We sure could dream up ways to lose."

When the Mets were mathematically eliminated from the National League pennant the first week of August, Casey called a meeting.

"You guys can relax now," he told them.

The season ended, appropriately enough, with a triple-play and a worst-ever 40-120 record. More than 900,000 fans attended Mets games at the Polo Grounds, a significant improvement over the attendance of the New York Giants, a team featuring such stalwarts as Willie Mays, playing at the same park in their last year (1957).

"It's been a helluva year," Casey remarked.

There's no business like show business

"If you build it, they will come."

_\- "The Voice,"_ Field of Dreams

Indeed, Walter O'Malley did build Dodger Stadium, and Hollywood sure did come a-callin'. Sports and Hollywood were already a natural fit in Los Angeles. Marion Morrison, a football player for coach Howard Jones at the University of Southern California, quit the Trojans when he injured his shoulder surfing in Newport Beach and went to work for Fox Studios. He became a big star using the name John "Duke" Wayne. USC built their program in large measure on the recruiting advantages of nearby Hollywood, which was an advantage unavailable to the likes of Iowa or Alabama.

According to a late 1990s edition of _Los Angeles_ magazine, Duke arranged for the USC team to satisfy the insatiable sexual appetites of silent screen "it girl" Clara Bow on Saturday night orgies at her Hollywood Hills mansion. A search of the Internet, however, reveals that while this rumor has lived for decades, it is false; an "urban legend" if you will.

Wayne did arrange for USC players to be used for the football scenes in a movie about the Naval Academy called _Salute_. His college teammate, Ward Bond, was his film sidekick in many movies, including _The Quiet Man_. Bond was often the friendly priest or rival for the affections of a lady who would get in knock down, drag out fisticuffs with Wayne and then, when it was over, share a shot of whiskey with him.

UCLA quarterback Bob Waterfield became a star with the Los Angeles Rams, but was never a bigger name than his girlfriend, the busty actress Jane Russell, who starred in the infamous close-up-on-her-breasts shot in Howard Hughes's _The Outlaw_.

But the cross-pollination of film and sports never reached greater heights than when the Dodgers arrived, reaching its crescendo in 1962, the year Dodger Stadium was unveiled to _bravura_ reviews.

Hollywood and the entertainment industry were on the verge of major change in 1962. The studio system was still in place, but it was only a few years before Gulf + Western would nearly shut the doors at Paramount; United Artists would begin a slide towards dissolution; and the1960s generation would shun old-style movie fare in favor of edgier stuff.

The post-modern architecture of the 1950s, which manifested itself in the ranch 'n' kitsch style embodied by homes in the Hollywood Hills, began to find its way into art forms. Jackson Pollack's paintings led to Andy Warhol's new "pop art' exhibition in New York. Out of Greenwich Village, the folk-revival movement offered _The Free-Wheelin' Bob Dylan_. On Broadway, audiences shocked to the acid-tongued _Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf_. Vladimir Nabokov's _Lolita_ , which dared to explore forbidden love between a middle-aged man and a teenage not-yet-at-the-age-of-consent girl, was made into a controversial film by director Stanley Kubrick, starring James Mason and Shelley Winters. _To Kill a Mockingbird_ (Gregory Peck), developed from the Harper Lee novel, dared the South to change its racist ways.

_One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ by Ken Kesey was published, as was the stimulating _Sex and the Single Girl_ by _Cosmopolitan_ editor Helen Gurley Brown. Traditional fare still had its place, in the form of _How the West Was Won_ , a standard Western of epic proportions, with a stirring sound track.

ABC debuted a color cartoon, _The Jetsons_. _Perry Mason_ , _Andy Griffith_ and _Candid Camera_ were all still black-and-white. Other popular programs included _Wagon Train_ , _Bonanza_ , _Gunsmoke_ , _Rawhide_ , _Lawman_ , _Maverick_ , _The Rifleman_ , _Danny Thomas_ , _My Three Sons_ , _Dennis the Menace_ and _Dick Van Dyke_.

_The Beverly Hillbillys_ hit home with Los Angelenos. Starring Buddy Ebsen as Jed Clampett, "a burly mountaineer . . . barely kept his family fed" who strikes it rich on oil and "loaded up the truck and moved to Beverleee . . . Hills, that is . . . swimmin' pools, movie stars . . ." it struck a nerve with the public. America was fascinated with _the life_ , which was the world of movies, money and moguls, all with some nice window dressing in the form of scantily-clad young lovelies. People enjoyed living vicariously through Hollywood, like a married girl who enjoys hearing about the sexual dalliances of a single girlfriend.

Dodger Stadium's opening had a similar effect. Color photos and footage depicting the "Dodger blue" uniforms, the green grass, the red, white and blue stands, and the blue skies, were panacea to cold Easterners shivering in front of their TV sets with wintry conditions outside. This phenomenon played itself out in football, too. New Year's Day viewers were in awe of the Rose Bowl, a sunsplashed panorama in the dead of winter. The USC Trojans and UCLA Bruins became the glamour teams of college football for the same reason; fans in beach attire on sunny days; pretty cheerleaders; and gladiators in colorful uniforms doing battle on the green plains below.

Sports and entertainment were fused by television. The fan in the stands might, and often did, see celebrities at Dodger Stadium, but the TV camera caught them up close and personal, where they could be interviewed, their clothes and maybe even dates scrutinized in tabloid style.

The Dodgers solved their colorless infield problem using movie methods. Heavy rain rendered the field thin and pallid prior to Opening Day in 1962, but Walter O'Malley followed the advice of his good friend, film director Mervyn LeRoy, who suggested green dye. That solved the problem. The Stadium Club was packed with celebrities for the opener, including Frank Sinatra, Jack Warner and Jimmy Stewart. The opener against Cincinnati came at the same time as the Academy Awards. " _West Side Story_ Sweeps Oscars," read the _L.A. Times_ , above the fold.

Hollywood had already played a big role in getting the Dodgers to L.A. in the first place. In 1957, comedians Jack Benny, Groucho Marx and George Burns hosted a telethon in support of a land referendum to build the proposed Dodger Stadium. Ronald Reagan, president of the Screen Actors Guild, lobbied for the stadium to be built in the downtown area, not away from the action.

"For years we have been watching golf courses and other recreation areas destroyed to make room for sub-divisions and factories," stated Reagan. "Where is a baseball stadium to go, in the suburbs, away from the freeways?" The five-hour telethon was a critical Dodgers success.

In the Coliseum years, Gene Autry, Lauren Bacall, Spencer Tracy, and Nat King Cole were regulars. Celebrity all-star games became popular fare, with line-ups that included Phil Silvers, Dinah Shore, Doris Day, and Mickey Rooney. Local radio celebrities also got involved. Actor Edward G. Robinson "mowed down" an umpire with a mock Tommy gun in 1960.

The celebrity events were even more popular at Dodger Stadium, when Dean Martin, James Garner, and Nipsey Russell became regulars. Two ex-ballplayers were also popular actors. Chuck Connors was a former Dodger, now the star of _The Rifleman_. John Berardino played at USC and for the Yankees, and was now a soap opera star on _General Hospital_.

"Jack Benny used to sit with Walter O'Malley almost every night," recalled general manager Buzzie Bavasi. "I gave Danny Kaye a key to my office and my private box. Rosalind Russell really loved the game. Fred Astaire and Bing Crosby were there a lot, and Randolph Scott, Milton Berle, and Cary Grant were real fans."

"Cary Grant was probably the most glamorous regular \- and he was a very good fan," said Vin Scully. "He was not coming to the ballpark because it was _de rigeur_ , the thing to do. Cary came because he really loved baseball."

"Once, when I was going to pitch the second game of a double-header, I was sitting next to him and he asked me, 'Is there any chance sometime that I could go into the clubhouse?' " recalled pitcher Joe Moeller. " So I took him in with me and he was so excited to be there - like a little kid. Believe me, the players were just as much in awe of him."

Movies loved to include shots of Dodger Stadium. _That Touch of Mink_ , starring Grant and another baseball fanatic, Doris Day, featured scenes of game action. "At that time, a lot of films included shots of the park. It seemed as if the producers, directors, and writers were going out of their way to incorporate Dodger Stadium in their movies."

Like USC and UCLA football players for years before them, many Dodgers played small roles in movies. "Most of the time, we just did cameos, playing ourselves," remembered pitcher Stan Williams. "That way, we didn't have to join the actors' union." Williams, Larry Sherry, Sandy Koufax, Ed Roebuck and Vin Scully appeared as themselves on the detective show _Michael Shayne._ Williams and Sherry appeared in _The Tom Ewell Show_. Sandy Koufax gave pitching pointers on an episode of _Dennis the Menace_. Don Drysdale, whose rugged good looks and caramel-rich voice were made for the screen, appeared frequently. He went beyond cameos, playing cowboys on _The Rifleman_ and _The Lawman_. He had a fairly big role in _The Millionaire_ , and appeared in variety shows with Red Skelton, Groucho Marx and Steve Allen. Big D also appeared on screen with Jack Webb and Robert Mitchum in the comedy _The Last Time I Saw Archie_.

Drysdale was on _The Donna Reed Show_ twice and appeared as himself in an episode of _Leave it to Beaver_. In "Flashing Spikes," an episode of the _Alcoa Premiere_ anthology series, Drysdale played a fictitious baseball player in a show that included Jimmy Stewart, Jack Warden, and Edgar Buchanan, all directed by the great John Ford.

The Giants and Candlestick Park also got involved. Famed director Alfred Hitchcock had long made San Francisco a backdrop for many of his films. The movie industry followed suit by utilizing its vistas, skylines and bay. _Experiment in Terror_ was a thriller starring Glenn Ford, Lee Remick, Stefanie Powers and Ross Martin (later Robert Conrad's sidekick in the TV program _The Wild, Wild West_ ). In it, a murderer kidnaps a young woman. The climax occurs at Candlestick during a Giants-Dodgers game.

"They told us they were going to film the game that night," recalled San Francisco pitcher Mike McCormick, a Los Angeles native. "We all had to sign releases and were paid $50 apiece for being in it. They just said to go play and not even think about what they were doing.

"I pitched a complete game win that night, so I was on the post-game show in the clubhouse when they brought Lee Remick down and we were introduced. I signed my cap and gave it to her. Then she left because they were setting up to shoot other scenes.

"All the shots with fans in the stands were done after the game. They were there until three or four in the morning. We had no idea what it was all about until we saw the finished film in '62."

Director Blake Edwards ( _Peter Gunn_ , _The Pink Panther_ , _10_ ) shot additional close-ups of John Roseboro, Wally Moon and Drysdale back in L.A. Vin Scully's play-by-play was integrated into the film. Henry Mancini's score provided a stunning sound track.

Andy Carey of the Dodgers parlayed his journeyman career into a photography business. A business-savvy fellow who wore three-piece suits to the park after having conducted meetings beforehand (he was also a stockbroker), Carey began a side business called "Hero of the Day."

"I'd always been an avid photographer and I had my own portrait studio," recalled Carey. "So one day I brought my Polaroid camera with me to the park and thought if I took some shots it'd loosen the guys up. Well, we won the game and the next night we won again and I took another 'Hero of the Day' picture. After a few more wins, it kinda got to be old hat just taking pictures with the guys in their uniform, so I went to John the clubhouse man for help."

John "Senator" Griffin, the clubhouse man, was an old school guy with a Hollywood twist. He would wear outrageous garb like grass skirts, flowered hats, loud ties and kimonos, leaving it on as long as the Dodgers won. He had more props than a costume designer - hats, gag glasses, moustaches - and let Carey borrow them for his pictures. Players had photos taken wearing wigs, cigars, shaving cream, and other clown acts. The team went on a winning streak, and Carey's "assistants," Daryl Spencer and Lee Walls, helped him take pictures after wins all year. At season's end _Life_ magazine ran the best of them.

A recording by "The Dodgermen" was released, featuring songs such as "The Dodger Song" and "Dodger Calypso." Danny Kaye sang a song that made good-natured fun of O'Malley. Kaye and his wife, Sylvia Fine, collaborated with Herbert Baker to perform a five-man musical drama about the team, which did brisk sales. The music was played over the P.A. system during batting practice.

"We all thought it was pretty amusing," recalled catcher Doug Camilli.

Art Rosenbaum of the _San Francisco Chronicle_ wrote that O'Malley was offended by the song's premise, which was that he was less interested in victory and more so in sell-out attendance.

"That's absolutely false," said Bavasi. "We sold the record at the park all summer. It was a big item at the concession stands. Besides, Danny sat with me almost every night."

Other musical hits of the year included "Hully-Gully," "Watusi" and "Monster Mash." Dance tunes were Little Eva's "Locomotion," and the "Peppermint Twist" by Joey Dee and the Starliters. Young America was seized by a dance craze.

But O'Malley _was_ upset by the relationship between 29-year old black shortstop Maury Wills and 38-year old lilie-white actress Doris Day. On top of the inter-racial issue, Wills was married and had a family in Spokane, Washington.

Rumors were rampant, although Wills did not speak of it with teammates. Both were asked about it repeatedly, yet denied it. Some 30 years later, however, Wills wrote in his autobiography, _On the Run_ , "We had a mutual need for one another. We were in love - as I understood it at the time. I only had so much love for another human being because I was so much in love with baseball. As much love as I had, it was extended to her, but it was too much for me. I couldn't handle it. I was a baseball player."

Other Dodgers dated starlets and singers, although none as conspicuously as the Angels' Bo Belinsky. Aside from actresses, the town was filled with beautiful girls. The sexy clothing styles of the West Coast were in, and players met young lovelies at the beach, in bars, nightclubs, restaurants, the stadium, and everywhere else. It was an adult Disneyland.

O'Malley did not like that. He knew the boys would be boys, and could not prevent them from playing the field. He was no moralist himself, but the team's core image and fan base was family-oriented. The club went to great lengths, just like Disneyland in Orange County, to sell a wholesome image. Groupies, one-night stands and the many results thereof - venereal disease, abortions, broken marriages, blackmail - were to be kept to a minimum.

Hollywood was always a potential distraction. For Wills, it had definitely become one, so he would "pull the shade and block it all out when I got to the park." In May, Marilyn Monroe appeared at Dodger Stadium. She was rumored to be involved with Bo Belinsky, but it was just a rumor, probably stirred up by Bud Furillo or Walter Winchell. Albie Pearson of the Angels was tasked with escorting her on the field, and later said that he saw "desperation" in her eyes. She had recently sung her notorious "Happy Birthday" song to JFK, but the aftermath had been toxic politically and emotionally for her. The Christian outfielder wanted to talk to her about Jesus and salvation, but the opportunity did not present itself. She would soon be dead, either by her own hand, by accidental overdose, or worse. Hers was a cautionary tale in Tinseltown: "All that glitters is not gold."

Los Angeles

"Pull up a chair."

\- Dodgers announcer Vin Scully's common pre-game invitation to radio listeners

Dodgertown, the Spring Training home of the Los Angeles Dodgers, was in its day the finest facility in baseball. It was a self-contained village that met most every need the players had. One of the reasons for this was because Florida was, as late as 1962, still not hospitable to black players. Built out of old Navy barracks in Vero Beach, Florida, it had over the years been modified to become a shelter of sorts for Jackie Robinson, Roy Campanella, and other black Dodgers.

By 1962, racial conditions had not improved. The Dodgers had some hip, mod black guys like Maury Wills who were not one bit happy about the conditions. Unlike many quiet black players of past years - or even quiet teammates like Junior Gilliam - Wills thought it was time for the world to wake up. John Roseboro was not a big talker, but in a less-public way he, too, was fed up with racism. How could they be treated so well in Los Angeles, and most of country, and so poorly in Florida? Why did the Dodgers have to train in Vero Beach anyway? Wills was asked why he did not bring his family to Vero Beach.

"There's no good accommodations for wives of Negro players down here," he replied. "I really hope to see the day when the Dodgers train in the West so she has a decent place to stay."

The black wives were not able to enjoy the Florida sunshine like their white counterparts, among them Ginger Drysdale, Beverly Snider, Sally Sherry and Sue Perranoski.

Black Dodgers ventured out of Dodgertown with caution. They could not play on the golf courses, had to sit in black balconies at the movies, could not drink out of "whites only" drinking fountains, and often were refused restaurant service. Fishing boats were not rented to them, auto rental agencies refused them service, and Roseboro was so badly cut by a barber trimming his sideburns that it caused a severe infection, requiring a doctor's care. The black players took to cutting each other's hair.

But O'Malley was committed to Florida. The club had this great facility. They were not going to abandon it. O'Malley outfitted Dodgertown with an Olympic-size swimming pool, volleyball, shuffleboard, tennis and badminton courts. He had a practice golfing green laid out.

The club built a theater and showed first-run movies. There was a day room with a TV, table tennis, a library and further entertainment options. The rec hall featured lively billiard games. Jim Gilliam was a shark with a pool cue.

Besides, the move west did not deter many New Yorkers from rooting for the team. The Florida location allowed many of their old fans to see them in Spring Training, which was a financial and public relations bonanza that made the Dodgers a national team. By the 1960s, half of Brooklyn had seemingly moved to Florida anyway.

O'Malley was determined to make his club the classiest in baseball. For years he had taken a back seat to the New York Yankees. Now, in his fifth year in Los Angeles, he was ready to move his franchise past even the vaunted Yankees in every way. His team trained in the best facility in baseball. They were ready to move into a stadium that was the best in the world. For all of Yankee Stadium's tradition, it was not close to the spanking new Dodger Stadium. The Dodgers had played at the Coliseum, which was at least as famous and filled with tradition as Yankee Stadium, but they knew all too well that ghosts and past glories could not replace a state-of-the-art palace.

O'Malley sensed as the nation did that Los Angeles was the city of the future, and he was cresting this wave like a surfer on a wild ride. All was in his favor; the stadium, the weather, the Beautiful People, and of course his team, which was favored to win and looked fabulous. But he had one more ace up his sleeve, and when Elektra II was introduced, that was the kicker. The Dodgers had their own plane. Not even the Yankees had their own plane, a "hotel in the sky." While O'Malley was the architect of Dodger opulence, his son Peter, a graduate of the prestigious Wharton School of Business at the University of Pennsylvania, was more active in the daily operations of the club than ever before.

While Junior Gilliam may have been a billiards ace, he was no match for manager Walter Emmons Alston. The two developed a friendship that would last for years, with Gilliam becoming the first black coach under Alston, in large measure because of the hours they spent shooting pool.

Alston was beginning his ninth year at the helm. He was less than a marginal player, and had been a rube in the eyes of many, especially in sophisticated New York. His hiring inspired the headline, "Walter Who?" in the _New York Daily News_. Born in 1911 in Venice, Ohio, Alston's father was an automobile worker who owned his farm. Alston's early nickname was "Smokey" because he was the fastest pitcher on the town team (Alston would play semi-pro ball for fun until he was 60).

He played at the University of Miami (Ohio) but dropped out to get married. During the Great Depression he found no work so he returned to school, borrowing money from a local church and taking odd jobs to help with tuition. He was the captain of the baseball and basketball teams, earned a bachelor's degree, and signed with the St. Louis Cardinals. But the big club was loaded with stars like Johnny Mize, Enos Slaughter and Stan Musial, so advancement was a problem.

In his single Major League at-bat with St. Louis in 1936 he struck out. He was returned to the bushes and never returned as a player. His break came when Branch Rickey took over the Dodgers. Rickey knew him from his days as general manager in St. Louis. They had a lot in common. Both were Midwesterners, very religious, and had gone to college in an age in which college men were not the norm.

Alston's managerial career began at Portsmouth of the Mid-Atlantic League. To supplement his income Alston taught biology and mechanical drawing while coaching in the off-seasons at a local Ohio high school. He managed in the Dodger farm system for 13 minor league seasons. Eventually, Alston took over the club's triple-A farm club at Montreal, where he gained the reputation of a man who could manage black players.

When the Dodgers hired him prior to the 1954 campaign, one sportswriter wrote, "The Dodgers do not _need_ a manager and that is why they got Alston." The team he inherited, the 1953 National League champions, had so many veterans that few had any minor league association with him.

From the beginning, Alston seemed to constantly fight an uphill struggle. He took over from Charley Dressen in 1953. Dressen had demanded a multi-year deal and was summarily shown the door. Alston was happy to sign a one-year contract, so the message was clear from the get-go: "No multi-year deals." It took a certain kind of man to accept that premise, especially when it kept repeating itself. Alston had been hired less because of his merits, and more because of personal - not on-field - dissatisfaction with the previous man. Winning recognition in his own right would prove to be the Great White Whale of his career. Because he was not a "baseball Ahab," Alston would some day achieve what an Ahab could not.

After two straight National League pennants, the Dodgers under Alston lost to the New York Giants, who featured the return of Willie Mays from Army service. Right off the bat, Walt Alston had produced results that failed to match his predecessor. To make matters worse, the Giants under Leo Durocher won the World Series, the "wait 'til next year" goal that seemed unattainable, no matter how close the club so often had come to attaining it.

1955 might have been the Great White Whale, and it certainly was "next year," but in the eyes of many, while Alston was given credit, he was seen as skippering a luxury cruise liner across placid seas. _Anybody_ could have managed the 1955 Dodgers to the Promised Land. True, they started out hot; and true, they ran into a rough patch in which Alston's calming influence was credited. But capturing a seven-game World Series from the New York Yankees; _that_ no Dodger manager had done before. The world gave credit to the fabled _Boys of Summer_ , the title of Roger Kahn's book.

If the Dodgers had stayed in Brooklyn and Alston had done there what he did in Los Angeles, he would have eventually become an iconic figure. Of course, he may not have survived some of his biggest trials if he had been forced to do it with the New York press as opposed to the relatively-friendly L.A. media. But the 1955 World Championship earned Alston much goodwill should he face tough times, and he would need every inch of it.

"With a year under his belt, Alston became a better manager," said Duke Snider, who was never president of the Walt Alston Fan Club.

In 1956 the Dodgers again won the pennant, but the Series was lost. Alston and Jackie Robinson had no love for each other. Robinson was injured and Alston suspected he was malingering. When Robinson announced to the media that he was healthy and ready to play, Alston continued to bench him. Alston took him on for taking the internal matter to the press. A shouting match ensued. It got so bad that Alston "invited" Robinson into the manager's office, telling him, "Only one of us is gonna come out."

Robinson backed off. It was a tactic Alston, who at 6-2 and 210 pounds with huge hands and forearms, employed on a few select occasions in his career. He was quiet, religious and unassuming, but if he got "backed up," watch out. Robinson was adept with his fists; his courage was undisputed, but he also knew, as he had told Branch Rickey way back when, that "I can turn my cheek." Later, when Robinson got into an argument with an umpire, Alston failed to come to his defense, and that meant more bad blood.

When Robinson refused to accompany the team on the Japanese exhibition tour at season's end, that was the last straw. He was traded to the Giants, the ultimate insult. Robinson's real problems were with O'Malley, who resented his great love for Branch Rickey, a man O'Malley despised. Instead of accepting the trade, Robinson retired.

The Alston-Robinson feud caused some in the black press to accuse the manager of racism, but that charge had no merit. Alston had been hired by Rickey in large measure because he wanted to replace some of the racists who _were_ managing in the organization, principally to pave the way for his grand "emancipation" plan. Alston's rise through the system was largely based on his good performance with young black players. Roy Campanella, Don Newcombe and Jim Gilliam were given special care by Alston in the 1950s. They respected him.

In 1957 the team performed below their usual expectations. They were beginning to age. Alston's homespun demeanor was not considered ideal for the move to Los Angeles in 1958. More pizzazz would have been preferred, but he was what he was. After the club's seventh place finish in L.A., Alston was frustrated at how many over-the-hill veterans he was forced to keep on keep on the roster in order to attract fans. The first year in California was considered a disaster by some, who felt that the club only had one chance to make a first impression. Walt was on the hot seat. He knew the team needed a youth overhaul, but was not allowed to make the moves he wanted to. The club wanted aging-yet-big names to sell tickets, but Alston knew they were costing him victories that the talented youth was not allowed to deliver.

Despite having argued for youth, Alston was universally blamed for the use of veterans. Dressen was brought back as a coach. According to some reports, Dressen had no loyalty except to himself, lobbied behind the scenes to take over his old job, and nobody made any effort to dissuade the notion. Alston was charitable and said Dressen was a good baseball man and he appreciated having him around.

Again, he reached into his bag of tricks and produced an improbable World Championship. The 1959 Dodgers won a mere 88 regular season games. They were a hodge-podge of the old, the young and the cast-off. However, enough of Alston's young charges were allowed to play and it paid off. They played in a football stadium, and nobody could quite figure out how to strategize the Coliseum, to make it an advantage. Against the odds, Alston led his team to a comeback when San Francisco fell apart; a play-off win over Milwaukee; and a six-game Series victory against Chicago. It was the first time a team had ever ascended from seventh place to a World Championship the next season. Dressen was let go. So was Bobby Bragan, another high-profile ex-manager hired by the club as a coach.

At that point, Alston should have been the "king of L.A.," a crown later worn with glory by the likes of John McKay, Pat Riley and Pete Carroll. He well could have been accorded near-Hall of Fame status. Instead, he was made fun of, still not respected,

On top of that, Alston's character was impugned in that, despite his reputation with black athletes at Montreal and in Brooklyn, some people still viewed him as a racist and anti-Semitic. His disagreements with Robinson had led to tensions with the younger black players. In 1961, the Dodgers featured two young Jewish pitchers, Larry Sherry and Sandy Koufax. One night Alston caught the two of them coming in late after curfew. Alston became so enraged that he banged their locked door down, breaking his World Series ring. He was a lit fuse who took the lack of respect often accorded him only for so long before exploding. He could be mighty ornery.

Alston and Koufax took years to get on the same page. To Walt, a baseball player chewed tobacco, was vocal in his dugout exhortations of teammates; loved, ate and breathed baseball. Koufax was quiet. He did not yell and scream, using swear words as a sign of "toughness." His interests included classical music and fine dining. Alston could not relate to that, even though he was not a yeller or a foulmouth. But Sandy's development was a long time coming. To Alston, it was a sign that the pitcher lacked competitive fire. His efforts at reaching Koufax, to get him to meet his expectations, were mistakenly taken by some as disparagement over the fact Sandy was a Jew. There was in the early 1960s a growing divide, in which people felt only "hip" whites from the East or West Coasts could relate to minorities of any kind. Walt was neither hip nor from either coast.

When Los Angeles lost the 1961 pennant to Cincinnati, Buzzie Bavasi gave him no vote of confidence. The general manager said finishing second behind the Reds was "no disgrace," but when asked if that meant Alston's job was secure, he replied, "I didn't say that," which must have made Walt feel warm and fuzzy all over. Alston was allowed to twist in the wind. Public "votes of confidence" for Alston never served the purpose; they seemed to have the opposite effect.

"The Dodgers never plan to fire Alston," said one observer. "They prefer to torment him."

Enter Leo "the Lip" Durocher and the beginning of Greek tragedy, or comedy, L.A.-style. Fired by the Giants, Durocher had moved to Beverly Hills. It was typical of Leo that he had not moved to Santa Monica, or Woodland Hills, or Pasadena, or any of the other comfortable locales where successful Los Angelenos tended to live. No, he moved to Beverly Hills, where _Frank_ and _George_ and _Dino_ lived. He was _not_ a sympathetic figure. This was a guy who said he would knock down his own mother to win a game. Babe Ruth beat him up when, as his roommate, Durocher stole his watch. He was a gambler, a hard drinker, a womanizer who cheated on his wives. He ordered his pitchers to throw at the opponents, often to outright hit them. He wanted spikes flying, did not mind if the other guy got hurt. He probably used a spy in the scoreboard to flash signals to the Giants, giving them an edge in 1951. He went for every advantage; legal, illegal or immoral.

He was a backstabber, a "table for one" guy who played politics, went after the other fellas' job, position, wife, girlfriend, sister, friend. Durocher had an exclusive Hollywood tailor, a mansion, drove a Caddy. Alston lived modestly, went back to Darrtown in the winter, and wore clothes off the rack. Leo had guys in the press do his dirty work. He made fun of people on a lower pay scale ("My dry cleaning bills are bigger than his salary"). His endorsements were for cigarettes and beer. He smoked, got in guys' faces, reeked of tobacco. The umpires felt his spittle on their faces, his shoes "accidentally" kicking them during arguments. He had a deal with Schlitz beer, an appropriately ugly name for an ugly man. Durocher was no matinee idol, but he could "dirty talk" a woman into bed.

"Always try to get her in the sack the first five minutes of a date," he advised. "That way if she says no you've got time to score another broad. You'd be surprised, there's a helluva lot of famous broads who say yes quick."

Durocher bragged of his sexual conquests, mostly lying, not carrying if he spread rumors or impugned the reputation of an actress in the tabloids. He was from Massachusetts, seemed like he was from the Bowery, but thought of himself as Beverly Hills or Park Avenue. He cultivated big shot friends like Frank Sinatra, the Rat Pack, George Raft, New York Mob boys, gang hitters. It was always "Frank called" and "Frank's comin' by," and most everybody looked at each other, rolled their eyes. BS

He thought money was class, a fancy car defined you, a gold watch, a big ring. He was like the Alec Baldwin character in _Glengarry Glen Ross_ who waves his expensive timepiece at poor Ed Harris and says, "My watch is worth more than your car. That's who I am, pal."

Branch Rickey fired him for immoralities, using the cover of his gambling suspension of 1947. What an odd couple _those two_ made. Leo and Walter O'Malley got along. Not surprising. Strangely, the word that most appropriately suits Leo is not _im_ moral, but _a_ moral. He was not evil. If the right thing was convenient, that was okay by him. If anything good can be said of Leo, it was that he was not a racist. Maybe an anti-Semite, probably used the N-word, but for effect more than anything. He gave Willie Mays his chance, stuck with him when Willie needed a friend. It was a shining moment for "Mista Leo" and he deserves credit. Famed Los Angeles sportswriter Mel Durslag wrote there was a "good Leo" and a "bad Leo," which was better than just a "bad Leo." When he was dying he appealed to God during an interview, expressing hope that his sins would be forgiven and Heaven opened for a wretch. John Wayne did a similar thing. At least Leo acknowledged the existence of the deity, which is _certainly_ better than nothing.

But beyond all other considerations, Leo Durocher was a winning baseball man. He was a Yankee in their heyday, a member of the St. Louis "Gashouse Gang" – winners – and resurrected losers into winning outfits in Brooklyn, New York, later Chicago, even in Houston, for a while at least. He was Billy Martin before Martin, cut out of the same cloth. He always wore out his welcome but left his mark wherever he went.

Durocher was old school, brother. His starters went every fourth day and they went nine innings. His regulars did not beg out, take days off, sit out the nightcap of a twin bill, a day game after a night game, or with hangovers, hangnails or hangdog attitudes. They played through injuries and pain. Durocher played to win. If the season was lost he would dog it, not care, let his work ethic slide, but he did not tolerate it in others. If the pennant was still on the line he was relentless. He did not care about second place money, which some players and coaches needed in those days. He had his, probably got dough from his actress ex-wife, keeping him in style. Maybe he did a little gigolo work on the side.

Mel Durslag was a modern Iago, _Othello's_ (expletive deleted)-disturbing "friend." He had a reputation for writing arbitrary columns advocating the position of selected patrons. Lakers owner Jack Kent Cooke would use Durslag to spread nasty rumors about players in order to gain the upper hand. Durocher advocated his cause through Durslag too.

After his firing and move to L.A., Durocher did some commentary on nationally televised baseball broadcasts, but he was not very good at it. His place was in the dugout, managing. He was not built to be a "second fiddle" to anybody. Durocher approached Durslag and had him write a national article he called "an explanation to my friends," which was as self-serving as it sounded. In it, Durocher made it clear that the fact he was not managing was not his idea. He intimated that he had been "blackballed" by baseball. Leo made it clear he wanted to manage, and since he lived in L.A., well . . . Durslag managed to make Durocher look sympathetic, no mean feat.

It was around this time that the expansion Angels came into being. With Dodger Stadium not yet built, and the club struggling after the 1959 title, O'Malley decided to add some spice to the mix. Durocher was hired as a "celebrity coach."

"Though Alston had nothing to with Leo's appointment, he was solicited to make the official announcement," wrote Durslag in an article penned for _Look_ magazine called "Manager in a Hair Shirt." "After a flight from Darrtown to California, he had the privilege of revealing to the world the newest candidate for his job."

Durslag pointed out the obvious differences between the two. Alston's "comfortable but modest home" as opposed to Leo's $150,000 mansion. Alston's hobby: woodworking. Leo's? Women . . . gambling . . . Alston's Mercury, Leo's Cadillac. Alston's off-the-rack clothes from a store in Ohio; Durocher exclusive tailor whose clientele included major movie stars.

Alston preferred to "carry a beef" until cooler heads prevailed, while Durocher preferred to handle disputes in the here and now. When Durslag rebuked Alston in print over a dugout berating of Durocher, Alston confronted the writer and snapped, "You're pretty sensitive about Durocher's feelings, but you don't seem to care much about mine."

Alston demonstrated thin skin on this and other occasions. A strange Kabuki theatre with Leo, the press and the club was in full swing in 1962. Alston was on his usual one-year contract status. In later years, Alston's tenuous position with the club was recalled with a certain amount of historical revisionism.

"Walter knew he had a job as long as I was there," recalled Buzzie Bavasi. "He was the type of person you liked to have running your business because you knew where he was all the time. If you needed him, you'd call his hotel room and he'd always be there."

By contrast, Leo Durocher could be anywhere; the race track, a bar, or _incognito_ with somebody else's wife. Alston was "a quiet, strong and honest man who never makes excuses \- I have always felt he should have ridden shotgun through Indian territory in the old days," broadcaster Vin Scully said of him. He "manages as he lives . . . and he has done it almost without your noticing it."

But the Los Angeles always wanted more. By 1962, a talented core of sports scribes included the likes of Bud Furillo and Mel Durslag of the _Los Angeles Herald-Express_ , and some excellent writers at the _L.A. Times_ : Jim Murray, John Hall and Mal Florence. This was Hollywood, and they wanted color, some tabloid flare. Every sports story was a feature. New rules were being written when it came to the coverage of athletics.

Over at USC, young coach John McKay held court at a nearby pub called Julie's. Twirling his cigar, drinking whiskey, and dispensing Irish wit, humor and vitriol in one entertaining package, he was a sportswriter's dream. Every time he opened his mouth it was story time, and they wanted something similar from the other coaches and managers in the L.A. constellation. There was no shortage of interesting characters on the L.A. sports scene: Bo Belinsky and Dean Chance, Bill Rigney, "Hot Rod" Hundley. UCLA football coach Red Sanders was still fresh in their minds, too. Sanders was one of the all-timers, a whiskey-drinking, skirt-chasing Southerner who died _in flagrante delicto_ in a Sunset Strip brothel just a few years earlier.

Naturally, the writers gravitated to the fast-talking Durocher and found Alston boring. From the standpoint of selling newspapers, his honesty was not the best policy. _Sports Illustrated's_ Robert Creamer called him, "Whistler's Mother with a scorecard in his lap."

"If you were to meet Walter Alston, you'd come away convinced you hadn't been introduced," another writer wrote.

"I appreciate a good shotgun," Alston said. "I appreciate a good target rifle. I appreciate a good pool table. The fancy clothes and big dinners don't appeal to me much. Any time a man tries to be something he's not, he's only hurting himself."

"He played the game by the book," recalled catcher John Roseboro. "He knew baseball as well as anyone, but he missed some opportunities because he didn't see them soon enough and seize them fast enough. He didn't want to be second-guessed by the press and the public and didn't want to be criticized by the front office."

"Alston's greatest ability was to do nothing - having confidence with the guys to say, 'Don't let me screw things up because your talent will come out somewhere during the ballgame,' " said first baseman Ron Fairly. "His patience allowed our abilities to eventually surface."

Alston loved "little ball," a style of play he had to adapt when _The Boys of Summer_ departed; the power supply was depleted; the Coliseum demanded a new style; and the club moved into pitcher-friendly Dodger Stadium. He platooned, double-switched, ordered intentional walks, and always seemed to know in the third inning what to expect in the eighth, a sign of a hard-working manager. Alston's quiet ways meant that when he did have a temper outburst, it had an effect, as opposed to the blustery Durocher, who always seemed steamed about something.

"He was a man's man and when he talked to you, he looked you straight in the eye," recalled pitcher Ron Perranoski. "But you just didn't want to fool around with Walter. He could physically break you in two and was capable of doing so 'til the day he died."

An example of Alston's physical strength came when he arm-wrestled mammoth Frank Howard, one of the biggest, strongest baseball players who ever lived . . . and won.

"We didn't let those gray hairs on his head fool us into thinking he couldn't take any of us on," recalled Fairly. Once or twice a year, Alston would call a closed-door meeting, and if his ire was up, "he'd have a rough time lighting his cigarette," said Fairly. Alston would go around the room, pointing accusatory fingers, laying it all on the line. But these were rare. His normal method was to wait a day, until tempers - probably his own more than anybody's - had died down, and then have a private meeting with a player

The Alston-Durocher controversy built up in the spring of 1962 when Durocher arrived at Dodgertown and was assigned Spartan quarters in the single men's barracks. Durocher immediately tried to move "off base" where he could utilize his maid and cook from Beverly Hills, but team rules only allowed married men to live off base. When word of that leaked out, Durocher was inundated with marriage proposals from local women willing to make him "eligible" for the married men's housing allowance. But Durocher upgraded his accommodations with lavish touches, then personally oversaw his meal preparations. He ate specialty dishes while the rest of the club ate what was offered them.

The writers, who got zero from Alston beyond platitudes and baseball cliches, went to Leo. Alston accepted the situation. He knew his "celebrity coach" was a colorful figure, and insisted there was mutual respect. Alston quietly coached his players, trying to instill confidence. Leo's style was to belittle. He was like the devil, using psychology to get within their heads, and had an endless storage of knowledge about them that he used to inflict maximum effect. He knew inside stuff about players' parents and their personal lives, using it to embarrass or discredit. The singled-out player would endure teammates' nervous laughter. Anybody could be next.

Pitcher Johnny Podres said "there was conflict because Leo wanted Walt's job - he wanted to manage the Dodgers." Alston's dislike of Durocher was hard to hide. He never liked him, going back to the two years when they managed against each other in New York.

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.

In short order, Howard became a player of legend, his long-distance home runs being of a Paul Bunyan quality. Off the field, he was also an All-American; religious, honest, no swearing.

"He would 'yessir' you to death," recalled Al Campanis.

"He was such a courteous young man that you'd feel kind of silly," said pitcher Stan Williams. "It was like meeting a 12-year old boy who was nine feet tall. He'd call everybody 'Mister,' then shake your hand and almost tear your arm off."

"Because he was so polite, other players teased him, and he was often the butt of jokes," said Vin Scully. "But he was very good-natured, thank goodness, or he would have dismantled the clubhouse."

Howard would polish off three steaks in one sitting. He was said to have eaten six airline dinners during one flight, but claimed he only ate four.

As great an athlete as Howard was, his size made him prone to strikeouts and he was also not a fundamental base runner, which stood out on a team of base running experts. He had one of the best throwing arms in baseball, but lacked accuracy. He was ahead of his time, with the designated hitter not coming into existence until 1973.

The league figured Howard out in 1961. "You just keep teasing him with bad pitches and changes of speed, and you can forget about Howard," said St. Louis pitching coach Howie Pollet.

"You drill him day in and day out, and finally you think you've got him straightened out and then all of a sudden he's swinging at balls he couldn't reach with a 10-foot bat," said batting coach Pete Reiser. "One of these days, the pitcher will throw over to first and Frank will take a cut at it."

"The tragedy of Frank Howard was that one day he could hit a 500-foot home run and the next day strike out five times," wrote Bill Wise in the _1963 Official Baseball Almanac_.

"All I can do is try," said Howard. "Maybe if I just keep working at learning the strike zone, I'll surprise a few people."

His worst habit was hitting off his left foot and overstriding, but he corrected that in 1962. "All Frank ever needed was to put his many assets together," said Alston. "If he makes contact enough, he'll break every home run record whether he's trying or not. Frank had a bad habit of hitting off his left foot and overstriding. He corrected that in '62. By 1964 he should break the home run record. All he needs is a little more experience and confidence."

"If Howard gets better, he could break every home run record around," said Solly Hemus of the Mets.

The short left field at the Coliseum got the best of Howard, and Wally Moon played ahead of him, but he was expected to provide much-needed power at Dodger Stadium in 1962. By mid-June Howard re-gained the right field job and went on a tear, driving in 41 runs with 12 homers and a .381 average over 26 games. He also improved his throwing accuracy, nailing 19 runners to tie the great Roberto Clemente for the lead in assists with 19. Howard elicited oohs and aahs from the Dodger Stadium throngs.

The man Howard replaced, Wally Moon, was a fan favorite whose "Moon shots" made him a legend in Dodger annals.

On the field, Alston had some decisions to make. Moving out of the Coliseum would hurt 32-year old Moon, who had batted .328 with 88 RBIs in 1961. Duke Snider was 34 and had hit almost .300. Theoretically, Dodger Stadium would help him; after all, anything was better than the Coliseum for a left-handed hitting slugger. But Tommy Davis, Willie Davis and Frank Howard were young talents who needed to play. So was Ron Fairly, who could handle first base or left field. Offensive considerations gave way to defensive ones, and in that respect Willie Davis needed to be out there. The left-center field gap at Dodger Stadium would have to be covered. There was no more playing singles off the screen.

Moon and Snider were given symbolic "send-offs" of sorts. On May 7, Moon was honored by his home state of Texas when the Dodgers traveled to Houston. Moon, who earned a master's degree from Texas A&M, was given the key to the city while an annual school trophy was named after him.

Snider was made team captain, an honor he took seriously. He told the writers that the club had young players who had heard of him growing up, and "I think they will listen to me when I make suggestions."

Now 35 at the beginning of the 1962 campaign, Edwin "Duke" Snider was already a Dodger legend and sure Hall of Famer. In 1958 he was still only 31 when the club moved to his hometown of Los Angeles, but his career out west never approached the greatness of the Brooklyn years, when he was known as the "Duke of Flatbush." Like another Los Angeleno, Don Drysdale, the Coliseum was more or less his undoing. In Duke's case, he was not young enough to overcome it when the club finally moved to Dodger Stadium. He was a key player on the 1959 World Champions, but after that his career whittled down. He was none too impressed with Alston, who increasingly benched him.

Snider was cursed at an early age, "robbed of the gift of perspective," according to Michael Shapiro in _The Last Good Season_. Growing up, he was "that most envied and exalted of young men: the best ballplayer around."

His father worked at the Goodyear Tire plant and gave Edwin the "Duke" moniker, which fit perfectly from the beginning. He earned 16 letters at Compton High School, was popular, and met his future wife in their junior year. He never knew adversity.

Signing with Brooklyn at age 17, he did a short Naval stint then came back and rose through the ultra-competitive farm system to debut in 1949. His lifetime of success did not prepare him for big league failure, but Branch Rickey recognized his potential. He was also an excellent teammate for Robinson. On a team of Southerners, Midwesterners and East Coasters, it was good for Jackie to have a fellow Californian. Snider had grown up watching Robinson play football at the Coliseum. Snider, a veteran by the time Duke arrived, helped hone the youngsters' competitive juices, understanding that failure was a natural part of baseball.

It was a team of veterans, led by the strong personalities of Robinson and shortstop Pee Wee Reese. Roy Campanella, a three-time MVP, was their star player. But as the 1950s played out, Snider emerged as the team leader. Comparisons with New York's Mickey Mantle and the Giants' Willie Mays became inevitable. By the middle of the decade, there was no truly discernible difference between the three.

Carl Erskine told a story about a group of Dodgers riding from Brooklyn to the Polo Grounds for a game against the Giants. Pee Wee Reese was stopped by a cop, but when he told the policeman he was with the Dodgers, was let go. The next day Snider drove and was stopped. He volunteered that he played for the Dodgers.

"I don't like baseball," said the cop.

"I don't like cops," Snider replied. "Gimme the ticket."

Snider's breakout year was 1950 when he hit 31 homers with 199 hits, 107 runs batted in and a .321 average, but Brooklyn lost on the last day to Dick Sisler and Philadelphia.

He tailed off toward the end of the 1951 campaign along with the rest of the club but still had 101 RBIs. From 1952 to 1954 he batted over .300 each season. He hit 40-plus home runs from 1953 to 1957, and drove in 100 or more from 1953 to 1956.

Snider's roots were deep in Brooklyn, and even though he married a California girl, he had misgivings about Los Angeles. He also had problems with Alston's "youth movement," which eventually reduced his playing time. In a classic photo in Glenn Stouts _The Dodgers: 120 Years of Dodgers Baseball_ , Snider is shown wearing a crisply-tailored suit with a tie clasp. Two young lovelies wearing Dodger caps and tight shorts are with him, Duke's arm around the brunette's waist while the blonde smiles at him adoringly. His hair is slicked back and he is indeed "the Duke" in all his glory. The three pick chocolates out of a giant box, so that the empty slots spell "Los Angeles is Sweet on the Dodgers."

The enormous Coliseum dimensions in right-center reduced him to 15 homers in 1958 and caused Willie Mays to tell him "They're killin' you, man." Snider hit .308 with 23 homers and 88 RBIs in the World title year of1959, but it was his last hurrah. Alston finally got his way, moving the old out in favor of the new. In 1960 Snider hit .243 and played only 85 games in 1961.

Aside from Don Drysdale and Sandy Koufax, the Dodgers' pitching staff still consisted of talented professionals. They were a rough, veteran group - with some youth mixed in - who enjoyed drinking together.

"We'd go to dinner together, have drinks together, and talk baseball together," said Ron Perranoski. "We were a very close-knit pitching staff."

"Playing at home in L.A., we used to sit around in the clubhouse an hour and a half after the game, have a couple of beers and talk about baseball," said Johnny Podres. "When we went out, it was pretty much just us. We generally didn't let too many of the other guys come along. It was a pitchers' fraternity."

Whatever they did the night before, it did not seem to affect their control the next day.

"I loved to catch those guys because they could all throw to spots," said Roseboro.

Their good control only made their occasional brushbacks more effective. They followed the lead of Don Drysdale, the leading "barber" of the era.

Perranoski came to the club from the Chicago Cubs. A native of Patterson, New Jersey, he signed a hefty $30,000 bonus in 1958, played a couple of years in the minors, then came to L.A. in the Don Zimmer trade of 1961. He was one of the first young pitchers ticketed for the bullpen from the beginning. After starting one game as a rookie, he went to the bullpen and never left it. With few exceptions, relief pitchers were usually cast-offs who were not good enough to start, but Perranoski became a closer.

"I don't care if I never start another game as long as I live," he stated. "I can't wait to throw the ball when I get in there."

Perranoski had a hard sinker and good curve ball that was slow enough to throw hitters off stride. His control was impeccable, plus he was courageous and smart. In 1962 Alston used him on a very regular basis.

"I loved it," he said. "The more work I got, the better it felt. I had the type of arm it never bothered me to throw every day, and if I threw four out of five days, I would have better stuff and better control on the fourth day than I would on the first."

In 1961, Perranoski was used against both right- and left-handed hitters as opposed to his 1961 role against lefties. He also replaced Larry Sherry as the ace of the bullpen corps.

That actually worked out for Sherry. He was an effective short relief pitcher, but thought of himself as a starter and never adjusted to the limited work. When Perranoski assumed that role, Sherry went to long relief, giving him a chance to work longer periods. He threw seven shutout innings in one extra-inning victory over the Cubs.

Born in Hollywood, Sherry and his brother Norm went to Fairfax High School. They were rarities in sports; excellent Jewish athletes, but unlike Koufax Sherry was combative. Born with two clubbed feet, Larry made up for it with a competitive attitude.

"He was a little troublemaker, always fighting," recalled Norm. "If he didn't like the way a game was going, he'd break the bat."

Eventually, Larry grew to be 6-2 and 205 pounds. He had piercing dark eyes that resembled the actor Sal Mineo. He was a typical Dodger pitcher who employed the brushback, even knocking down brother Norm in a 1959 Spring Training intra-squad game.

"Larry was a guy who would enter a ballgame and take over," recalled teammate Ed Roebuck. "He would knock you down if you didn't play his way." Roebuck gave him a nickname: "the Rude Jew." Instead of taking offense, Sherry considered it a badge of honor.
It was in 1959 when Sherry established his name forever in the Dodgers' glory halls. A rookie that year, Sherry was the winning pitcher in the first play-off game against Milwaukee. Then he won two games and saved two others in the World Series triumph over the White Sox, earning the MVP award. Three days later he appeared on _The Ed Sullivan Show_.

"I had to go out and buy a suit for that," Sherry said. "I didn't own one. I didn't even make the minimum salary that year."

In 1960 Sherry compiled 13 wins in relief, but he had a sore arm in 1961. He complained to Alston that he should be a regular starter, but the staff was so loaded he could not break into the rotation. In 1962 he nursed shoulder troubles, but was still effective.

Ed Roebuck started with the Dodgers in the World Championship 1955 season. By 1962, at the age of 30 he was the dean of the staff. Scout Kenny Meyers helped Roebuck rehabilitate his arm after suffering a shoulder injury in 1961. He threw "long toss" and repeated the repetitive process of throwing against a fence until the adhesions in his arm somehow fused and got better.

Dr. Robert Kerlan, the Dodgers' respected surgeon who later revolutionized treatment of rotator cuffs as well as the "Tommy John surgery," called Roebuck's recovery "miraculous." Roebuck a was a sinker specialist who, like Perranoski, could throw on a daily basis.

1962 was a tough year for him because in addition to coming back from injury, both his father and brother died and he suffered from insomnia. He "could not separate the reality from the unreality," but camaraderie with his fellow pitchers proved to be his saving grace.

He made 60 appearances on the year. "It was almost as if I was in a trance," he recalled. "I was making great pitches. I felt I couldn't lose - I didn't even care how or when they used me; short or long relief, starting - it just didn't matter."

Roebuck's next-door neighbor was Stan Williams. A few years earlier, Williams, Roebuck, pitcher Roger Craig, and first baseman Norm Larker all built homes on the same street in suburban Lakewood, a pleasant community nestled in between Long Beach in L.A. County and Los Alamitos in Orange County.

But in 1961 Craig and Larkin were lost in the expansion draft. Williams's family grew out of the house so they moved to Long Beach. Because Williams was the first of the group to become a father, he was given the nickname "Big Daddy." Later he was called "Big Hurt" because his pitching assignments often were tailored around the disabled list. Plus, a song called "Big Hurt" had come out.

The large, powerful Williams would sneak up on teammates and put a half-Nelson on them until the other guy screamed. "I guess I was kind of a playful giant with a lot of energy," recalled the 6-4, 225-pound Williams. Norm Sherry said he was the hardest-throwing pitcher on the staff; maybe his speed was not as great as Koufax's, but the bruises on the catcher's hand were more blue.

Williams's professional debut was . . . dubious. Arriving late for his first game at Shawnee in 1954, he entered the dugout just as the umpire was turning to the dugout to throw out a player who had made a caustic remark. Mistaking Williams for the offending man, he tossed him before he had even arrived.

Williams won 18 and 19 games in separate minor league seasons, then hooked on with Los Angeles for good in 1960 when he was 14-10 with a 3.00 ERA, making the All-Star team. His 205 strikeouts in 1961 trailed only Koufax in the National League. He kept notes, was smart, and like the rest of the guys pitched inside, keeping track of batters he hit. He was strategically wild, just enough to intimidate the opposition. In 1961, Alston was concerned that he was working the count too deep. He took a lot of time in between pitches and his fielders were sometimes caught flat-footed. Alston thought he was frivolous.

"We were never very close," Williams said of his relationship with the manager. "I always had the impression he thought I was a big dummy, and even when I pitched well I didn't feel a lot of respect coming from him. I never cared a lot for Walter and I think he felt the same way about me."

In 1962, Williams was expected to have a breakout year, but his control problems made him inconsistent. During one month-long stretch he did not complete or win a single game. In a relief appearance against the Mets, he walked eight batters in five innings. A week later against Philadelphia, however, Williams tossed a shutout with no walks in the second game of a double-header.

Johnny Podres started the season opener at Dodger Stadium but lost, and struggled all year, especially at home. In the first game of a July 2 twin-bill, however, Podres won his first-ever game at Chavez Ravine, 5-1. He retired the first 20 Phillies and struck out a then-big league record eight straight batters.

The southpaw Podres was a native of New York state, where he was born in 1932. His mother had double pneumonia when he was born and his father worked in the mines for $18 a week. Despite that, he enjoyed his childhood.

"A small town is the only place to live," he said. "I knew everyone and everyone knows me, but nobody bothers me. I can find more friends there in one day than in the rest of the world over."

His passions were ice fishing in the winter, baseball in the summer. Baseball paid better: a $6,000 signing bonus by the Dodgers. His father's encouragement kept his hopes up as he struggled through the low minor leagues and a back injury.

At the age of 23, Podres was a regular starter on the famed 1955 Dodgers' staff, winning game seven of the World Series, 2-0 over the hated Yankees. A carefree man about town, he liked to party and was the toast of Brooklyn, but other than that such pitching stalwarts as Carl Erskine and Don Newcombe overshadowed Podres. He was a good pitcher year in and year out, however. While Newcombe won the Cy Young and the MVP award, he was the vanishing man in the World Series, whereas Podres stepped up.

"When something was on the line, I guess I rose to the occasion more than I did during other times during the course of the year," he said.

Podres was a "money pitcher," said Perranoski, with "one of the best change-ups in the history of baseball." Norm Sherry described it as a "pull-down-the-window-shade" change of pace. Buzzie Bavasi said if he needed one pitcher to win one game, he would pick Podres, and so would Alston. This on a team with Koufax and Drysdale!

Podres loved Los Angeles, particularly the night life and the ladies. Like Angels southpaw Bo Belinsky, he was renowned for his amorous adventures, and at 29 was still a bachelor and loving it. Podres enjoyed drinking with the other pitchers as well as the playing the horses at Hollywood Park.

Alston, the malted milk drinker, did not like it, but Bavasi said, "I never thought malted milk drinkers were good ballplayers, and that's why I always had a soft spot for guys like John." Apparently, Podres abstained from alcohol and sex the night before he pitched, and was, like Whitey Ford, always ready to go. He adhered to the principle enunciated by another fun-loving guy, USC baseball coach Rod Dedeaux, who told countless Trojans, "No drinkin' before the game, but afterwards there's nothin' like a tub 'a suds."

In 1961 Podres was 18-5, but his father died of lung cancer, probably the result of working in the mines. He missed a few September starts. At the beginning of the 1962 campaign Podres pitched poorly. Some speculated that the loss of his dad was still affecting him.

Joe Moeller was 19 years old in 1962, the youngest player in baseball. He was in only his second year of organized baseball. The previous season he won 20 games with almost 300 strikeouts in three different minor league stops. Despite plans for more seasoning, Moeller impressed Alston so much at Vero Beach that he made it to Los Angeles.

"Everything he throws jumps and moves," said _Sports Illustrated_.

Moeller had mixed success in 1962, getting sent back to the minor leagues before getting called up again. He was a local kid from the Manhattan Beach strand. Playing for the Dodgers was a dream come true.

"Two years before I signed, I was still getting players' autographs," he said. "I collected every article about the Dodgers, going back to when they were in Brooklyn. I got higher offers from other ballclubs, but I really wanted to play for the Dodgers."

On a pitching staff that liked to drink beer, Moeller was not old enough to tag along, and there was some resentment. The Dodgers always had the biggest farm system in baseball. Getting to the Major Leagues meant a lengthy process of "paying dues," but Moeller had avoided all of that.

Nobody even wanted to room with the kid, so he became one of the first Major Leaguers to have his own room, which made for a "pretty lonely existence." It was a tough experience for him, especially after having dreamt of it all his life, but Moeller dealt with his rookie woes as best as he could.

San Francisco

". . . And it's bye, bye baby . . . !!"

\- Giants announcer Russ Hodges's standard call of home runs

In many ways, the story of Alvin Dark is the story of America: a nation's reconciliation, redemption and new understanding, followed by socio-political restructuring. This describes how the American South struggled to find, as Abe Lincoln called them, "the better angels of our nature." In many ways through sports, the South came to grips with new racial realities, then saw the Republican Party husband the region "back into the Union" until they became not a marginalized New Deal voting bloc, but "rose again" to emerge as an economic and political powerhouse.

Al Dark was that walking conundrum of Dixie: the hardcore Baptist Christian burdened by racial prejudice. Through baseball, he was able to get out of the South and become a man of the world. It first led him to New York, where he starred for the 1954 World Champion Giants. A great picture exists of Dark and the black superstar Willie Mays, smiling in each other's company during the team's Broadway ticker tape parade.

The Giants of the early 1960s were one of the first truly integrated teams. Mays, Willie McCovey, Felipe Alou, Juan Marichal, and Orlando Cepeda were black and Latino stars of the first order.

Dark, who lived in Atherton, appeared at religious functions. The Holy Bible went everywhere with him and he read it . . . religiously. The Giants were in contrast to the secular nature of The City. Aside from Dark, they had a large number of Christian players. The Latinos, in particularly, were strong Catholics. Mays and McCovey, while never known for being outgoing Christians, were from the Bible Belt and could not help but be influenced by that upbringing.

Despite that, Dark refused to make the Giants' clubhouse a church. "He had a rule against presenting his Christian testimony to any of the players while in uniform, a rule I was also to abide by," said Felipe Alou. "He told me he felt there was ample time to talk about my beliefs, but that while I was in the clubhouse and on the field I was to be dedicated to winning baseball games."

Dark was particularly careful about talking religion with the San Francisco press corps, among which there were Jews and Left Coast secularists. In Spring Training he did draw a parable, calling the cut-off play "just like the Bible. You don't question it, you just accept it."

Off the field he neither smoked nor drank. On the field he was aggressive, a gambler who "instilled an aggressiveness in that ballclub," recalled catcher Tom Haller. "He wanted us to play hard. Alvin loved to win, but hated to lose. And he did curse. He'd get hot under the collar and could get quite angry at times."

After screaming profanities to umpire Shag Crawford, he "confessed" that "the devil was in me," that it was "not a Christian thing to do," to the San Francisco Examiner. "Never before have I so addressed any man - and with the Lord's help, I hope to have the strength to never do so again." Dark could be a martinet, lumping the good in the with bad after a tough loss which embittered all.

Dark was born on January 22, 1922 in Commanche, Oklahoma, the son of an oil well engineer. The family moved to Lake Charles, Louisiana where he grew up in a staunch religious household. Life in the Bayou state of his childhood was heavily Baptist, with strong racist and segregationist overtones. Laws outlawing integration had been on the books since the Civil War era. When Felipe Alou played in Louisiana in 1956, he and a minority teammate were banned from future action by a law forbidding whites and blacks from playing with or against each other.

Dark's religious convictions were the shield against instinctive racism. His years in New York with black and Latino teammates certainly moderated him further. "Since I had been a kid, the ways I have used to express myself have been mostly physical . . . I was not good at expressing my thoughts verbally or on paper," said Dark.

Dark was not alone in the Southern white's interpretation of the racial dynamic. "I felt that because I was from the South - and we from the South actually take care of colored people, I think, better than they're taken care of in the North - I felt when I was playing with them it was a responsibility for me," he said in Jackie Robinson's 1964 book Baseball Has Done It. "I liked the idea that I was pushed to take care of them and make them feel at home and to help them out any way possible that I could playing baseball the way that you can win pennants."

Alvin played football and baseball, but his love was baseball. At age 10 he played against 19-year olds. He was all-state in football, captain of the basketball team. LSU beat out Texas A&M for his services. He played football and baseball for the Tigers. In 1942, his sophomore year, Dark was the running back along with Steve Van Buren, later a Hall of Famer with the Eagles.

Dark was in the Marines during World War II, and was assigned to officer candidate school at Southwestern Louisiana State, where he earned football All-American honors. He played halfback on an overseas team in 1945 before going to China. Sports kept him out of major combat, as it did for numerous college and pro athletes. Despite being drafted by the NFL and the All-American Football Conference, Dark went for the Boston Braves, breaking into the big leagues in 1946. He played all of 1947 at triple-A, then helped lead the Braves to the 1948 World Series at age 26.

The middle infield of Dark and Eddie Stanky was distinctively Southern. Stanky taught the youngster the intricacies of the game. Dark's .322 average earned him Rookie of the Year honors over Philadelphia's Richie Ashburn. In 1949 Dark and the Braves tanked. Manager Billy Southworth lost his son and drank heavily. Dark learned from Southworth things not to do. Dark and Stanky were too opinionated. Both were traded to the New York Giants.

Leo Durocher loved Dark's fiery ways. When Dark turned down $500 to make a smoking commercial, Durocher paid him the money and made him captain. He thought of Dark as a player-coach, a manager on the field.

Over the years, Dark played for Gene Mauch, Charley Dressen and Fred Hutchinson, all respected baseball minds. "You get the chance to learn managing from a Durocher or a Mauch - that's a pretty good education," he said.

Dark helped New York win two pennants and the 1954 World Series before being traded to St. Louis. He later played for the Cubs, Phillies and Braves. Whenever a new man joined teams Alvin played for, Dark would take him out to dinner, which was "something as a player that only one other man in baseball did to my knowledge," said ex-teammate Lee Walls, who played for the Dodgers in 1962.

In 14 years he had more than 2,000 hits and batted .289. In late 1960 Milwaukee traded him to San Francisco for shortstop Andre Rogers, and he took over as their manager in 1961.

"I never thought I'd say this about anybody," Willie Mays told writer Charles Einstein a few years later, "but I actually think more of 'Cap' <Dark> than I did of Leo. You know what he did when they made him manager? He sent me a letter, telling me how glad he was we were going to be back together again. How can you not want to play for a guy like that?"

Dark's hiring both fell in line with but deviated from owner Horace Stoneham's normal methods. On the one hand, the Stoneham family had hired former Giants players in the past; Bill Terry, Mel Ott and Bill Rigney. They liked loyalty and tradition. There was a feeling that to be a Giant was something bigger than to be a Phillie or a Red. But Stoneham also liked hail-fellow-well-met types who he could share a cocktail and camaraderie with. Leo Durocher had not played for the Giants, but was certainly not averse to drinking. So was the Irishman Tom Sheehan.

"Normally, Horace insists that his managers drink with him," recalled Bill Veeck. "It goes with the job. When he drinks, everybody drinks. Especially if he is paying their salaries."

Dark, 39, did not drink. He was loyal to Stoneham and would perform his job 100 percent, but he would not drink. Stoneham understood and did not press the subject. Dark's coaching staff, hired in 1961, came straight out of the great 1951 pennant winners: Larry Jansen (40), Whitey Lockman (34) and Wes Westrum (38). The coaches as well as Dark were all active players in 1960.

"He had a lot faith in our judgment," said Jansen. "Wes was a solid defensive catcher and a great guy. Lockman really knew how to deal with people, and I guess Alvin thought I knew enough about pitching to help him."

"I know what each of us can do," Dark told the media. "When I assign them their work at Spring Training, I can relax. I know the job is getting done because they know what I want done. And they do it."

Dark's temper was difficult for him to control in those days. "We were playing the Phillies and lost three straight games by one run," Dark recalled. "We had our opportunities, but couldn't score. After one of those ballgames I heard some guys at the other end of the clubhouse laughing. What they were laughing about, I don't know. It was probably something I should have found out before I got so mad. But it hit me all at once. How could anybody laugh in a situation like this?"

Dark picked up a stool and threw it with full force against a door. His finger had lodged into the chair and he lost the tip of his little finger. On another occasion Dark turned over the food trays in Houston, ruining one of Willie McCovey's cherished suits. Willie Mac was a clothes horse. Dark provided the first baseman with a check the next day to pay for a new outfit.

Dark had not been away from the playing field long enough to gain the proper perspective for managing. He wanted his players to play as he had, and was upset at the "new breed" of athlete that was just starting to emerge in the 1960s. It was not just a matter of race, although the game was rapidly changing its "complexion"; but the modern player was different, less intense, more worldly.

Great managers and coaches have always been identified as those who could change with the times. That was the key to John Wooden's success at UCLA, and Bear Bryant's at Alabama. Dark was old school. San Francisco Chronicle columnist Charles McCabe said that Dark's attitude was a "very dangerous thing," that the manager felt that he needed to "win every game himself."

Dark stood in the dugout "like Washington crossing the Delaware," one writer quipped. He did not have time for jokes or tobacco-jawing, saying that he had seen too many managers let the games pass them by. He had no use for individual achievements, even though his team had some of the greatest individual stars in baseball. It was a challenge for him.

Dark immediately noticed at his first Spring Training that the team was divided between whites, blacks and Latinos. He had equipment manager Eddie Logan mix the cubicles so that blacks would be next to whites, Latinos next to blacks, and the like. "It went over like a lead balloon," Dark admitted.

Dark also had a sign posted in the clubhouse that read: "Speak English, You're in America." Dark had a meeting of the Latinos and said the others complained that they jabbered in Spanish. There were worries that they were telling jokes or hatching plots behind teammates' backs. But Cepeda called Dark's complaints "an insult to our language," and the Latinos kept talking in their native tongue.

Felipe Alou understood what Dark was trying to do, which was to assimilate these players into the culture, their new country, and with their teammates, but said it was forced. "Can you imagine talking to your own brothers in a foreign language?" he said, and he should know; brothers Matteo and Jesus were all in the Giants' organization. Besides, many of the Latinos spoke poor English, so it was hard for them.

Dark, however, was not rigid. When he imposed an edict that did not work, he realized it and stopped the practice, as he did with the cubicle-assignments and the "only English" rules.

"My intentions were good but the results were bad, so I stopped it," he said.

Unlike Walt Alston, Dark was not a "by the book" manager, said pitcher Billy O'Dell. He thought out every move and had reasons for them. He liked using defensive replacements and went to his bullpen early by the standards of the day. He juggled his batting order, tried to apply defensive strategy based on his interpretation of the shifting Candlestick winds, and warmed up relievers just to bluff opponents.

"Alvin overmanaged, but even he admitted that," said Charles Einstein. The writers called him the "mad scientist." He had fake pick-off plays and other gadget maneuvers.

"I don't think I ever managed thinking some move was the 'safe' thing to do," said Dark. He said he wanted to "have some fun. But you only have fun when you win."

Dark was competitive at everything; gin rummy (which he was taught by Leo Durocher, a master) and golf. He beat his players on the greens and used that to extract a psychological advantage.

Dark could play "little ball" even with the slugging Giants, and had a grading system that awarded points to players whose obvious statistics were not comparable to a Mays, McCovey or Cepeda. If a player moved a runner along 30 or 40 times in a season, Dark had kept a record of it and the players were able to use that in contract negotiations.

When Dark told the writers that third baseman Jim Davenport's plus/minus record was excellent, but that Orlando Cepeda's was "terribly minus," he asked that it not be printed in the headlines. The papers ran it anyway. Look magazine printed Cepeda's so-called "minus-40" rating, and the sensitive first baseman sued for defamation of character. He lost.

In March of 1962, the conflict between Cepeda and Dark took a turn for the worse when, after a brilliant 1961 campaign, Orlando held out of Spring Training for $60,000.

Dark's biggest concern entering Spring Training was the age of his pitching staff. Sam Jones and Billy Loes, both effective pitchers in the 1950s, had nothing left. Dark was relying on 32-year old Don Larsen and 35-year old Billy Pierce. Larsen was a hard drinker whose lifestyle made him a decade older. Pierce had been an outstanding pitcher with the Chicago White Sox, but in the Cactus League he was terrible. His spring ERA hovered around 16.00. He gave up a plethora of home runs.

Billy O'Dell held out and Jack Sanford was an unknown quantity; maybe excellent, maybe a bust. Stu Miller was the bullpen ace. A host of untested young pitchers included Jim Duffalo, Bob Bolin and Gaylord Perry. 23-year old Mike McCormick offered huge potential but was always seemingly troubled with arm injuries. Juan Marichal was worried sick about his girlfriend, Alma. Dominican dictator Rafael Trujillo had been assassinated, and violent extremists threatened to throw a bomb through the window of her families' home.

Marichal requested a leave so he could go to the Dominican Republican, marry Alma, and bring her to America. Dark never hesitated.

"He was terribly unhappy and needed to get that gal up here," recalled Dark.

Marichal was deeply grateful and wanted to do something for Dark. He asked Willie Mays for advice.

"Win," said Mays.

Dark certainly could count on Mays to provide veteran leadership, hustle and his usual brilliance. Ed Bailey was a veteran catcher. Tom Haller was a youngster. 32-year old Harvey Kuenn could still hit. Jose Pagan would provide good defense. Jim Davenport was solid at third base. Chuck "Iron Hands" Hiller was the second baseman. Dark decided to make him a project in Spring Training; to improve him defensively.

"That showed me that Dark could be a teacher, and he made Hiller into a second baseman," said San Francisco Examiner sportswriter Harry Jupiter.

First base was a festering controversy, albeit an embarrassment of riches: Orlando Cepeda and Willie McCovey. After Cepeda finally signed, Dark needed to find a place for Willie Mac. Left field was the only solution, but his outfield was also full: Kuenn, the Alou brothers, and of course Mays in center.

Team trainer Frank "Doc" Bowman posted a sign on the clubhouse wall in Phoenix: "Work hard this year - and eat corn on the cob all winter." It did not make a lot of sense but its meaning was clear. They had potential, and if they made the most of it a championship was theirs for the taking.

Felipe Alou, 27, averaged .274 in four previous seasons. When he was out with a sore elbow, the club lost six of eight. When he returned they won eight straight. In June Alou was hitting .345, one point from the National League lead. "I just am hitting better through the middle than I ever did," he said. "I have no worry about whether I hit .170 or .300. I have great confidence since Al Dark play me regular. Don't worry. I just swing."

Batting fifth instead of first as in 1961, the six-foot, 195-pounder said "This year I like where I am batting. I am too big for a lead-off man. I cannot try to get walks. I am a swinger, not a waiter."

Alou embarked on consecutive-game hitting streaks of 11, 10, nine, and eight games in 1962. He was also very mature; a solid influence on moody fellow Latinos Cepeda and Marichal; as well as a pathfinder for younger brothers Matty and Jesus.

"Felipe was a very classy person, and a good team ballplayer," said Billy Pierce. "He led a great life and carried himself well. He would try to work with the guys. If some of the Latin fellows got a little excited, he would be the man to calm them down. I don't know if Felipe would ever swear about anything."

Felipe carried his Bible with him at all times, which helped him form a bond with Dark. But he spoke up to writers and was no "shrinking violet," according to writer David Plaut. When Dark kicked over the food table, Alou picked the food off the floor and ate it while staring at Dark. The message was clear: food was a gift from God. Born into poverty, Alou never wasted it.

Alou was born in the fishing village of Haina, Dominican Republic in 1935, the eldest of four sons. His father, Rojas, was a blacksmith and, like Jesus of Nazareth, a carpenter. He made hand-carved bats for his sons, who practiced by hitting lemons.

In high school Felipe was a track star, but played baseball in the summer leagues. At 16 he worked in a concrete mix facility and became a legend when he _wrestled sharks with his bare hands!_ His grades were excellent and he attended the University of Santo Domingo to study medicine. He played on the baseball team, coached by a Giants "bird dog" named Horacio Martinez. Alou's father lost his job and Felipe quit school to support his family. He signed a $200 bonus for the Giants and went to Lake Charles, Louisiana of the Evangeline League.

He was barred by his color and sent to Cocoa Beach, where he led the Florida State League at .308. He impressed the Americans by learning English and in 1958 made it to San Francisco. In 1961 he became a starter, but pitchers could get him out on the outside corner.

He arrived at Spring Training in 1962 and closed up his stance. It paid off immediately. He hit .500 in the Cactus League and stayed hot in regular season play, was moved from lead-off to fifth, and displayed power. Alou went on a 12-game tear. His homer in Cincinnati shattered the letters on an advertisement atop the Crosley Field scoreboard.

He killed the Dodgers in an April series, prompting a Dodger fan to send a telegram to San Francisco: "Roses are red, violets are blue . . .we'll give our team for Felipe Alou."

He continued hitting well in the first half and made the All-Star Game. He had nine straight hits at one point.

For all of Alou's on-field exploits, however, his greatest contribution might have been when he saved Juan Marichal from drowning off the coast of Haina.

Jim Davenport made the National League All-Star team in 1962. He finally came into his own after years of injuries. He already was generally viewed as the best-fielding third sacker in the senior circuit. If he could stay healthy he was destined for greatness. The press dubbed him "a man for all lesions."

His injuries were an anomaly, since he had been a college safety at Southern Mississippi without any health problems. Alabama originally recruited him but 'Bama had a rule against married players. Since Davenport was wed, the scholarship was rescinded and he ended up at Southern Miss instead. In his sophomore and junior years he led his team to upsets over the Crimson Tide. The losing quarterback both times was Bart Starr.

Davenport was an original 1958 Giant, but suffered rib and ankle injuries. In 1959 it was an eye infection. On his 26th birthday he tore his knee up in a collision with then-Reds catcher Ed Bailey. Larry Jackson 's pitch cracked his collar bone. Bleeding ulcers landed him in a Milwaukee hospital. He hurt his groin. His injuries made it tough to run and train properly. The lack of conditioning affected his stamina. The writers speculated that the missing ingredient between 1958 and 1961 was Davenport. Despite his injuries, he led the league in fielding percentage three years in a row.

"Here was a guy who was so quiet, and he never sought out publicity, but he is still the best fielding third baseman I ever saw," said Bob Stevens, a legendary baseball writer for the _Chronicle_ who eventually had the press box named after him.

Second baseman Chuck Hiller, on the other hand, was a defensive liability who would lead the National League in errors in 1962.

"One time in Cincinnati, we went to see the very first James Bond movie," recalled Tom Haller. "At the end of the picture, it was discovered that the bad guy, Dr. No, had no iron hands. So poor Charlie got nailed with 'Dr. No' for awhile."

That was inter-changed with "Iron Hands." The play-on-movie-words repeated itself two years later with San Carlos, California-born first baseman Dick Stuart of the Boston Red Sox. A power hitter with zero defensive skills, Stuart was given the nickname "Dr. Strange _glove"_ after the title character of the film _Dr. Strangelove._

Hiller had actually led two minor leagues in fielding after being signed by the same Cleveland scout who had inked Bob Feller. The Giants picked him up in 1959 and he hit over .300. Hiller was a talker who Cepeda called "Abner," as in Doubleday, because "he talked like he invented the game."

But Hiller began to press, and the more he pressed the more it affected his play at the plate and in the field. After spending 1961 at triple-A, Hiller was told by Dark he was the starter in 1962. Hiller spent the spring fretting over whether he would blow the opportunity, but when the season started and he was the starter, he was his old "Abner" self again. His fielding, despite the errors, was adequate and he was adept at turning double-plays. None of the Giants pitchers was a strikeout artist; certainly not like Koufax and Drysdale, so they needed those twin-killings.

Hiller's partner was Jose Pagan, who "has been making me look good on double-plays . . ." said Hiller in 1962. "When <he> gained confidence in me, we started to function as a combination. We're at ease with each other now."

Pagan was probably the least-publicized player on the team. He was a Latino on a team of high-profile, high-temper Latinos, but he remained quiet and reserved. "With big stars like Mays, Marichal and so many others, it's too bad Jose never really got the recognition he deserved," said Cepeda. "He was there every day, made all the plays and he could hit."

"You didn't have to worry about Pagan at all," said Billy O'Dell. "He was in the right place all the time. Some of the other guys, you might have wanted to move them a little bit, but not Jose."

Pagan had been signed by Pedro Zorilla, credited with the Cepeda signing. He played five years of minor league ball, and stuck in 1961 when he beat out Ed Bressoud for the job. Teammates called him "Humphrey" as in Bogart because of his non-plussed facial expressions, which the actor effectuated on-screen.

When the club had a scare flying to Chicago in 1962, the cabin went silent until Pagan broke the quiet with a blessed joke: "I say we should take a vote. I'm for taking the bus."

The remark eased the tension. Pagan hit eighth but drove in a lot of clutch runs. His fielding percentage in 1962 led the National League.

Harvey Kuenn was a former American League batting champion. He had hit .300 in eight of the previous nine seasons. Kuenn graduated from the University of Wisconsin in 1952 and announced that he was accepting bids for his services, which came in. Detroit won the "bidding war," signing him to a $55,000 package.

After 63 minor league games the shortstop was brought up in September, 1952. In 1953 he was named Rookie of the Year. The 21-year old picked up the tab for a lavish team party at his hotel. He was barely old enough to consume the alcohol that flowed, and in some ways Kuenn was the first of the "new breed"; college-educated, rich and savvy.

He hit .300 every year, switched to the outfield and was a perennial All-Star. On a team that included Al Kaline, he was the captain. His .353 batting average in 1959 won the batting title.

In 1960 a controversial trade sent Kuenn to Detroit for Rocky Colavito. Kuenn was booed, but he batted .308 and was the player representative. Cleveland fell below .500 after years of success and general manager Frank Lane traded him to San Francisco for Willie Kirkland and Johnny Antonelli. Harvey chewed Red Man on the field and smoked big cigars off it. _Sports Illustrated_ did a piece on him. Writer Tex Maule said he kept the team loose, entertained and united.

"I don't think there was anyone on the club who enjoyed life or playing in the big leagues more than Harvey," said Billy Pierce.

One day Mays arrived to find a gift-wrapped package in his locker. The box of candy was opened to reveal two dozen decoratively wrapped pieces of horse manure.

"I know you done it," giggled Mays at the laughing Kuenn. "I know you done it."

At mid-season Kuenn's dad died, but the club rallied around their friend.

"He taught the younger players about hitting, volunteering his own time which was something Mays didn't do," said Bob Stevens. "He also became very close to Stoneham. He loved drinking margaritas with Horace during Spring Training."

Charles Einstein noted that Kuenn was effective "drunk or sober."

Matty Alou, the younger brother of Felipe Alou (and older brother of Jesus Alou) was born on December 22, 1938 in Haina, Dominican Republic. At 5-9 and 155 pounds he was much smaller than his powerful brother. He grew up with Juan Marichal and was part of the wholesale exportation of Dominican baseball talent to the United States that has become more than a cottage industry.

Matty played four Major League games in 1960 and 81 in 1961. He was a decent outfielder who threw and batted left-handed.

Carl Boles's only year in Major League baseball was 1962. He was called up from El Paso in mid-summer. He would play the rest of his career in Japan. He had one distinctive trait, one reason for being memorable: he was a dead ringer for Willie Mays.

"It was really noticeable when we made a trip back to the Polo Grounds," said Boles. "Willie would get these huge ovations there. That night I came out through the center field bleachers before he did and the crowd thought I was Mays."

The Mets' fans gave him a standing ovation, until they noticed that his number was 14, not Mays's 24. Then they booed him. After games, fans wanting Willie's autograph would mob Boles. Sometimes he would sign Mays's name as a joke. He got excellent service at restaurants and roomed with Willie McCovey, which further made people think he was Mays, since the two Willie's from Alabama were linked.

Catcher Ed Bailey, 31, loved to talk about women, which is the favorite subject of most athletes anyway. His spicy descriptions of girls, alcohol and his golf game earned him the nickname "Words" and "Mr. Clean."

"He loved to give guys the hot foot," said McCormick. Wes Westrum was his favorite target because he fell asleep on the team bus.

Hailing from Strawberry Plains, Tennessee, Bailey broke into the bigs in 1953 and developed into a three-time All-Star catcher. In 1961 he was traded to San Francisco to make room for Johnny Edwards. The Reds won the title but Bailey was still happy to be in San Francisco. Cow-milking contests were occasionally held in big league stadiums, and the country boy Bailey usually won.

Just as Bailey had been traded to make room for young Johnny Edwards, he discovered a young catching sensation on his new team. Tom Haller, 24, had been a quarterback at the University of Illinois. Born on June 23, 1937 in Lockport, Illinois, he was the prototypical athlete/catcher. Haller was boyishly handsome, the All-American type possessing great leadership skills; a first rate throwing arm; and a powerful left-handed bat. He was 6-4, 195 pounds, and had been called up to play 30 games in 1961. He was the Giants' future behind the dish. Bailey was there in case he was not ready, but Haller was ready in '62.

"Alvin told us we were both going to play, but it's only natural for them to want to go with the youngest guy they've got and look to the future," recalled Bailey. "And Dark liked having me available to come off the bench."

Bailey was involved in several "pier six brawls" in his career. In 1962 he followed Cepeda after a homer, and Pittsburgh's Bob Friend went after him. Catcher Don Leppert tackled Bailey. He and Friend exchanged shouts while being restrained. Then Bailey hit a 400-foot home run, giving rookie Gaylord Perry an 8-3 win, the first of his career. It started a 10-game winning streak.

Bailey and Haller provided 35 homers and 100 RBIs out of the catching position.

Billy O'Dell liked Bailey so much that the two operated _without signals_. Theirs was almost a telepathic relationship.

O'Dell was from Newberry, South Carolina; like Bailey south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Baltimore signed him out of Clemson. Given the name "Digger" after the main character in _Life of Riley_ , he never pitched in the minors.

He gained needed weight in the military and in 1957 made the bigs for good. He was an All-Star in 1958. Pitching for Baltimore in front of the Orioles' fans, he threw three scoreless innings in a 4-3 American League win, but hurt his back the next year. O'Dell's back injury plagued him, and eventually he and Billy Loes were traded to San Francisco.

At first he and Dark feuded over how he was used. He was fined and they had shouting matches. Dark wanted to put him in the 1961 expansion draft but Stoneham insisted he be kept.

In 1962 Spring Training Dark told him he was the fourth starter "until you show me you can't do it." After an awesome spring he started game two of the regular season, beating the Braves with a four-hitter. The key was his relationship with Bailey. He was effective and consistent all season.

"He never really got credit for being a good catcher, but I thought he was a great receiver," said O'Dell.

Billy O'Dell's catcher was Ed Bailey. Jack Sanford's guy was Tom Haller. Sanford was 33 years old and won 16 games in a row in 1962, his best year in the big leagues by far. The six-foot, 196-pound right-handed pitcher from Wellesley, Massachusetts had been the 1957 Rookie of the Year with the Phillies before a 1958 trade to the Giants.

"Jack wasn't the easiest guy to know," said Haller. Sanford was from the "wrong side of the tracks" in a rough Boston neighborhood. Like all Boston Irishmen, it seemed, he had to "battle for everything in his life."

He was not a prospect in high school, which in cold Massachusetts was not much anyway. The Red Sox rejected him in a try-out, but Philadelphia took a shot at Sanford. He spent eight years in the minors and even drove the team bus. He was the hardest thrower in the Philadelphia organization, but could not control his emotions. He almost punched a club official when told he was being sent to minors. When traveling secretary Johnny Wise told him he was being sent down on another occasion, Sanford tried to plead his case, but Wise just told him he had a bad attitude. Then the Army drafted him. He hurt his arm pitching in an Army game and developed a clot in his pitching hand after a fight. The Army wanted to operate and cut into his clavicle, which would have ended his pitching career. He got up and left.

Out of the service he came back and, in 1957 at 28 Sanford won Rookie of the Year honors with 19 wins and a 3.08 earned run average. But he had worn out his welcome in Philly and was traded to the Giants, where he was 40-35 over the next three years.

He was surly on game days and his family avoided him. He maintained silence all through the pre-game routine. He was a loner anyway. The clot made it hard for him to complete games and he was called a "composer of unfinished symphonies." The Candlestick weather did not benefit him, and his reputation was that of a "six inning pitcher," a bone of contention during contract negotiations.

In Spring Training of 1962 Dark told the hard thrower to worry less about strikeouts. This and Haller's influence helped him reduce his pitch counts, maintain stamina and pitch longer into games. He went less for the big strike and more for ground ball outs on the corners. He became one of the best pitchers in baseball, compiling his 16-game streak between June and September. He refused to celebrate it, however, calling it a "fluke." Rube Marquard of the Giants had won the all-time record of 19 straight, but Sanford just said it was "ridiculous" and that the record meant nothing to him. It was his nature to be surly.

Billy Pierce was already a veteran star pitcher by 1962.

"If he didn't win, it didn't quite cut him as bad as it did people like Sanford," said O'Dell. Perhaps that was because Pierce had never made a practice of losing much; not in Chicago, certainly not with the Giants, and at Candlestick Park in 1962: never. Twice a 20-game winner with the White Sox, he was a seven-time All-Star and helped the Chisox to the 1959 American League crown, only the second time since 1948 a team other than the Yankees won the flag. He lost a perfect game with two outs in the ninth inning against Washington in 1958.

At 35 the White Sox decided his best years were behind him and he found himself San Francisco-bound. Pierce wanted number 19, Dark's number. Dark said fine. In Spring Training, however, Pierce was awful, and the Giants had second thoughts. When the regular season started, however, Pierce won his first eight decisions.

Pitching coach Larry Jansen was convinced that the cool Candlestick weather was the key to Pierce's success. Chicago was brutally hot in the summer and could wear a pitcher out. Dark used Pierce as Casey Stengel used Whitey Ford, holding him out for homestands.

"And the results were about as good as I could expect because I won 13 in a row at home," said Pierce.

He missed a month of the season with a spike wound, but that made him fresh late in the year.

The player who came over in trade with Pierce was Don Larsen. He is a legend in New York because he pitched the only perfect game in World Series history, but the native of Point Loma, California near San Diego was a legendary drinker. His buddies were Billy Martin, Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford, major drinkers all. They called him "Goony Bird."

Mike McCormick said drinking was more common in baseball then than today, but "even I marveled at how much he could consume."

After the perfect game, great things were expected of Larsen, but he never found his form in New York. He was traded to Kansas City then went to the minors. In 1961 Larsen was 7-2 at Chicago, giving life to his career. When the Pierce trade was negotiated, San Francisco insisted on Larsen's inclusion. He pitched effectively in 1962. Against Pittsburgh, Larsen came in with the bases loaded and none out, striking out the side on nine pitches. Larsen enjoyed frog-hunting in the Sacramento Delta and cooked the delicacies.

Stu Miller never threw more than 85 miles per hour, but his junk was effective as a closer.

"Stu had the best off-speed pitch of anybody in the history of baseball," said Ron Fairly of Los Angeles.

Choo Choo Coleman went from the Phillies to the Mets in 1962. He said when he swung at a Miller pitch "the ball was THERE! I swung where it was. How could I miss it?"

They called Miller "the Killer Moth" because his pitches resembled one. Dark had felt in 1961 that the staff relied on Miller too much, and forced pitchers to go the distance instead of bowing out in favor of the reliever.

Miller loved crossword puzzles. Miller and Mike McCormick, a native of Los Angeles with great promise, were the only former New York Giants on the staff. Bob Bolin was "the hardest thrower on the staff," according to Bailey. Gaylord Perry was a rookie from North Carolina. At 6-4, 205 pounds he was the younger brother of Jim Perry, who was a star pitcher for Cleveland.

Bob Garibaldi was a huge prospect from Stockton who had starred at the nearby University of Santa Clara, where he pitched the Broncos into the College World Series and earned Most Outstanding Player honors. At the time of his signing, he was considered "can't miss."

Death struggle

"Man, that's what we're playing the season to find out."

\- Willie Mays, when asked who would win the 1962 pennant

When Spring Training broke up, the Dodgers boarded their team plane for the flight west. They stopped for exhibitions in Las Vegas and San Diego. On April Fool's Day in Los Angeles, the annual Baseball Writers' Banquet was held at the Beverly Hilton Hotel. Danny Thomas hosted it. Comedian Bob Newhart and singer Gogi Grant performed. Maury Wills played banjo. He had already performed on Dinah Shore's show in Vegas. Then Koufax, Drysdale and Tommy Davis did some crooning. Walt Alston stayed in his seat.

The cover of the Dodgers' 1962 media guide was the team plane. The minimum big league salary was $7,000; the average was $16,000 per year. A gallon of gas cost $.21.

52,562 attended the opener at Dodger Stadium, won by the Reds, 6-3. San Francisco won their opener, 6-0, when Mays hit a homer on the first pitch of the season off Warren Spahn of Milwaukee.

On April 11 Los Angeles won its first-ever game at Dodger Stadium, 6-2 over the Reds behind Koufax. On April 12 Pete Richert struck out six straight to tie the big league record in an 11-7 win over Cincinnati. On April 16 the Giants won 19-8 over the Dodgers in their first meeting of the season. Mays, Alou, and Davenport homered. The next day Sherry pitched well in an 8-7 Dodger win, their first at Candlestick since March of 1961. On April 24, Koufax struck out a Major League record18 (broken with 19 in 1969 by Steve Carlton, and 19 again by Tom Seaver in 1970) vs. the Chicago Cubs at Wrigley, winning 10-2. On April 25 Bailey hit his homer run after the knockdown from Bob Friend, spurring the 8-3 win over Pittsburgh. Four days later, San Francisco defeated Chicago, sweeping two games of a double-header with shutouts by Pierce and Sanford, 7-0 and 6-0.

On May 4 an emergency forced the Giants to land in Salt Lake City, Utah, delaying their arrival into the Windy City until 6 A.M. Groggy from a lack of rest, they still beat the Cubs in an afternoon game at Wrigley Field for their 10th victory in a row. On May 21 Los Angeles hammered San Francisco, 8-1 at Chavez Ravine behind three RBIs from Tommy Davis and a dominating 10-strikeout performance by Koufax. Back in San Francisco, the Giants swept the fledgling New York Mets, 7-1 and 6-5 at the 'Stick. On May 30 the Dodgers swept the Mets at the "scene of the crime," in New York, by scores of 13-6 and 6-5. Wills homered from both sides of plate. At the end of May the Giants were 35-15, the best record in baseball.

"Will the Giants, carving out a whirlwind, pell mell early pace, as usual in the first month of the season, go _kerplunk_ in June, as has been their pattern the last five seasons, or are they going to prove the _bone fide_ Yankees of the National League?" wrote Jack McDonald of _The Sporting News_.

They called it the June swoon. A cartoon in the San Francisco newspaper depicted a smiling bride and said, "June Bride Happy - What About Giants?" On June 1 the Giants beat the Mets, 9-7 at the Polo Grounds behind two Willie McCovey home runs and a solo shot by Mays, but the Dodgers swept Philadelphia, 11-4 and 8-5, igniting an eventual 13-game winning streak. San Francisco's "swoon" started on June 6 when, after leading by two games over Los Angeles they lost six straight, then went 6-6 over a dozen games to fall out of first. Their sixth straight defeat was a crushing loss at the hands of the Cardinals, by a score of 13-3 in St. Louis. Jim Murray of the _Los Angeles Times_ wrote a scathing piece about the seemingly-annual June demise of the San Franciscans, stating that "a business executive is standing in his office looking down over the city and is chatting to his secretary. Suddenly, a falling figure shoots past the window. 'Uh oh,' says the man, glancing at his chronometer. 'It must be June. There go the Giants.' "

On June 8 the Dodgers beat the expansion Houston Colt .45s, 4-3 on the road, ascending to the top of the National League standings for the first time all year. On June 12 San Francisco began a comeback, sweeping Cincinnati in a double-header, 2-1 and 7-5. On that day, F L. Morris and two brothers, John and Clarence Anglkin, used spoons to dig out of Alcatraz Federal Prison, located in the middle of San Francisco Bay. They were never found, probably drowned in the swirling, cold waters, their bodies likely swept out to sea. Sanford begin his 16-game winning streak with a 6-3 win over the Cardinals on June 17. The next day, Koufax and young Bob Gibson of St. Louis dueled for nine classic, scoreless innings in a game won by a Tommy Davis home run, 1-0 in the 10th inning. On June 29 O'Dell went 12 innings and struck out 12 in 4-3 win over Philadelphia. On June 30, Sandy Koufax threw a no-hitter, striking out 12 in a 5-0 win over the Mets.

July marked mid-season, and on the second Los Angeles swept Gene Mauch's Phillies, 5-1 and 4-0. Podres retired the first 20 batters he faced, setting a record (broken with 10 in 1970 by Tom Seaver) with eight consecutive strikeouts. On the fourth of July both Los Angeles teams, the Dodgers and the surprising Angels, were in first place, but San Francisco, recovered from the "June swoon," continued to hang tough. Two days later Juan Marichal's 12 strikeouts keyed San Francisco to a 12-3 over Los Angeles. On July 8, the two rivals played a classic October-style game. Koufax, with Don Drysdale coming on in relief, shut out San Francisco, 2-0. L.A. held a slim one-half-game lead at the first All-Star break. They would hold that lead until the last day of the regular season. On July 10, Maury Wills singled, stole bases, and scored twice in leading the Nationals to a 3-1 triumph over the Americans. Marichal was the winning pitcher. On July 17 Koufax was forced to sit down when his mysterious finger ailment became too much for him to bear, but the Dodgers were hot without him.

In late July before the second All-Star break, the Dodgers led by one game.162,000 fans packed Dodger Stadium for a monumental three-game series that had the whole sports world buzzing with excitement and anticipation. Certainly, it appeared that Walter O'Malley and Horace Stoneham were geniuses, the move to California a 20th Century successful beyond all previous conception. Milton Berle joked that he was going to fly to San Francisco so he could watch the games on TV, avoiding the congestion but also getting in a backhanded swipe at O'Malley's no-home-games-on TV policy. Frank "Hondo" Howard hit three home runs and drove in 12 runs as L.A. swept their rivals; 2-1, 8-6, and 11-1. Howard was the hottest hitter in baseball, having driven in 47 runs since June 28. The Dodgers were a perfect 5-0 at home vs. the Giants and had split the first six games in San Francisco, which accounted for their essential edge so far. On July 29 the Dodgers were threatening to pull away, now up by four games at the break.

The Giants were hoping that the "dog days" of August would favor them; that the cool summer weather in Frisco would refresh them while the desert heat would tire out their rivals. After all, "The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco," Mark Twain had once said.

"San Francisco isn't a city - it's a no-host cocktail party," wrote Murray. "It has a nice, even climate: it's always winter."

The onset of August had the effect of heightening pennant race sensibilities. First, it was impossible not to compare this with the 1951 drama, but the 1959 race was also fresh in the minds of all concerned. The players, the fans and the media began to view the season in larger than life terms. With the Dodgers now playing in their new stadium, there was a distinct sense that 1962 was truly a "big league" season, a debutante ball of sorts for the West Coast. John Wooden's UCLA Bruins had not yet won an NCAA basketball championship, but in 1962 they had come close and were obviously on the verge of great things. The Lakers and Trojans were all the rage.

Los Angeles seemed to have everything that San Francisco lacked. The former Los Angeles area Congressman, Richard M. Nixon, looked to be an obvious favorite over the old style San Francisco pol, incumbent Governor Edmund "Pat" Brown. Nixon was the former Vice President and standard bearer of the Republican Party. Democrat-heavy San Francisco hated the idea of losing to Nixon and voter-rich, still-Republican L.A.

The Giants were their last, best hope, and if they failed a sense of inferiority would infect the "superior" San Franciscans with a sickness that would be hard to heal. The college teams, Cal and Stanford, were dominated by their Southern California rivals and it had, for the most part, been that way for at least a decade. The north-south rivalry took on political and cultural overtones that surpassed the New York years. The papers, particularly the provincial San Francisco dailies, began to give the pennant race front page space alongside a huge stock market crash, the Israeli execution of Adolf Eichman, the Kennedy Administration's obsession with Fidel Castro, and the Mercury astronauts.

"You can talk all you want about Brooklyn and New York, Minneapolis and St. Paul, Dallas and Fort Worth, but there are no two cities in America where the people want to beat each other's brains out more than in San Francisco and Los Angeles," said American League President Joe Cronin, a native of The City.

The writers started to get personal, with particular jealousy and vitriol aimed at the Southland by San Francisco's scribes. The _Chronicle's_ Art Rosenbaum called the Dodgers "Smodgers," sniping that L.A. was a "city whose women would attend the opera in leopard shirts and toreador pants if indeed they attended the opera at all."

"Isn't it nice that people who prefer Los Angeles to San Francisco live there?" wrote  
Herb Caen, as bitter and spiteful a man as has ever abused the privilege of a free press.

The players could "feel . . .definite tension in the air," said Wills. "It reminds me of a homecoming college football game. Each time we face San Francisco, it's different than any other National League series."

Veterans taught youngsters like Ron Fairly, who already was imbued by a sense of north-south rivalry against California and Stanford from his USC days, to "hate the Giants more than any other team," he said. "I'm sure the Giants weren't too fond of us, either - and that 's exactly the way we wanted it."

Junior Gilliam called Willie Mays "one of the best friends I ever had in my life, but there was no way we would talk to each other on the field. Not even hello."

"Against the Giants, you just tried that much harder," recalled Joe Moeller. "Even if the Giants had been in last place, we would've wanted to beat them worse than the frontrunners."

"I don't care how you play these games - the Dodger-Giants rivalry is always intense," said Al Dark, insisting it had not lost a thing on the West Coast.

"Usually, in the batting cage, guys on the other teams would come over and exchange ideas, say hi," Orlando Cepeda said. "When we played the Dodgers, we wouldn't talk to them."

"It was a special event that required a much greater level of preparation," said Felipe Alou.

"When you stepped off the plane in Los Angeles, you could _hear_ the electricity," Willie McCovey recalled. "Even the skycaps at the airport were all wrapped up in the rivalry. It carried over to the hotel and finally the ballpark."

"It may not have matched the spirit of the New York days, but it was still a great rivalry," said Podres. "You always got fired up playing the Giants."

If the Giants thought they had a weather advantage in August that would manifest itself into their overtaking Los Angeles, they found that it was not to be. On the third of the month Drysdale beat the Cubs, 8-3, to become the earliest 20-game winner since Jim "Hippo" Vaughn in 1918. The "no man's land" nature of the race, in which both teams had a distinct advantage in their home stadiums, continued to keep San Francisco from catching up.

"I seems to be an incontrovertible fact that neither team can play well in the other chaps' ballpark," wrote San Francisco beat writer Joe King. "The Giants are sad sacks in L.A.; nobody may ever see a team drop dead like the Dodgers in Candlestick."

"We would go to San Francisco with our great pitching staff, and there were games where we'd get blown out, 12-3 or whatever," Perranoski said. "Then they'd come down to Dodger Stadium and we'd win low-scoring games by a run. The two ballparks dictated the action."

With Los Angeles maintaining an overall lead, the tit-for-tat nature of the home-and-home rivalry was not helping the Giants. Both teams built their advantages using dirty tricks that intensified feelings on both sides.

The Giants kept tall grass and a slow infield. The Dodgers used a roller to pack their dirt for their speedsters. The Dodgers sloped the third base line so that bunts by Wills, Gilliam, and Willie Davis would stay fair. Their grass was short. Much of it was meant to gain a psychological advantage over San Francisco more than an actual one. Al Dark instructed the Candlestick groundscrew to water down the paths in order to slow Wills.

On August 4 a "Miracle at Coogan's Bluff" celebration was held at Candlestick Park, with Bobby Thomson, Eddie Stanky and Monte Irvin attending. San Francisco's own Joe DiMaggio was invited to attended all three games, but had to cancel when his ex-wife, Marilyn Monroe, died on August 5. On August 9 L.A. beat Philadelphia, 8-3. On August 10 the Dodgers came to San Francisco (who had lost three straight at Chavez Ravine) with a five and a half-game lead, their biggest of the year. At 5:30 A.M. Matty Schwab, Candlestick's head groundskeeper, dug a pit where Wills normally took his lead, filled it with water, sand and peat moss, then covered it with topsoil. During infield practice the Los Angeles players noticed and brought it to the attention of head umpire Tom Gorman. Gorman ordered the pit dug up, but Schwab's crew replaced it with more mud than before. Schwab's wheelbarrow of sand, supposed to dry up the pit, contained all the old, hidden ingredients that had previously been dug up. It was worse than before. Wills said the whole episode "demoralized" him. Mays hit a homer with four RBIs and the Dodgers came unglued in an 11-2 loss.

The next day the Dodgers came out doing mock breastrokes, and further hi-jinx followed. A Dodger stole San Francisco's leaded bat. A Giant stole L.A.'s practice bat. Dark kept a straight face, saying that unless the infield is watered down, the three o'clock winds kick up the dust. Drysdale started with an 11-game winning streak. Tommy Davis, hitting .452 against Giants pitching, hit a three-run homer off of Pierce.

In the third Wills kept stepping out against Pierce to unnerve him, but when the umpire ordered him in Wills exploded about the field, calling the umpire "gutless." Wills shouted it again and the man in blue thumbed Wills. San Francisco scored two runs in the fourth, and the Giants sensed that L.A. was psyched. Their comeback was on. Then the winds _did_ start to blow. There were delays and the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Clinging to a 3-2 lead, Drysdale allowed a Felipe Alou bloop double. Haller struck out and Drysdale, then hit Jim Davenport, causing him a hairline fracture. Despite Big D's reputation as a headhunter, it was not intentional. He was the go-ahead run. Drysdale apologized on the spot (and called him later; Davenport was out two weeks). Drysdale struck out Pagan but McCovey pinch-hit for Pierce. Alston came out to talk it over with his ace. Willie Mac always wore him out, and was "the only batter who could consistently destroy Drysdale," said Roseboro.

McCovey had homered off of him a month earlier, and a year earlier had hit a 475-foot shot off of him; the longest to date in Candlestick history. Alston had Perranoski up and ready but stuck with Drysdale. The count went full, then McCovey slammed a home run and the place went crazy. Stu Miller preserved Pierce's 5-4 win, the 200th of his career. Wills was fined $50 and the Giants were back in it.

On Sunday afternoon, Juan Marichal shoved Dodger bats "where the sun don't shine" in a dominating 5-1 win. Los Angeles was now thoroughly discombobulated, finding excuses for their failings. Buzzie Bavasi called the Giants "bush" and vowed protests, but they were off their game and it would affect the race. Alston said the field was dangerous, that Mays could have broken his leg. Vin Scully called Al Dark "the Swamp Fox."

"One more squirt and the Red Cross would have declared a disaster area and begun to evacuate the Dodgers by rowboat . . . an aircraft carrier would've run aground," Murray wrote.

The Giants exhibited "The most disgraceful case of poor sportsmanship since Major League baseball came to the coast," wrote writer Sid Ziff.

Wills paid his fine in pennies, dragging an 80-pound bag to National League president Warren Giles's desk in Cincinnati, turned it over and letting them spill everywhere. He then asked them to count it and give him a receipt. Alston tinkered with his heretofore successful line-up, putting Tommy Davis at third and veteran Wally Moon in left field. Frank Howard started to slump. The Dodgers were not a good defensive team anyway. Moon's presence made them worse. Also in August, the Alston-Durocher feud reached a head. Third base coach Durocher had been disregarding Alston's signs for a month.

"Forget the signs," Durocher wrote in _Nice Guys Finish Last_. "We had a manager who sat back and played everything conservatively. To hell with it. Alston would give me the take sign, I'd flash the hit sign. Alston would signal bunt, I'd call for the hit-and-run."

Duke Snider, relegated to the bench, led a cabal of "Leo's guys," all of whom were bench-warmers. Daryl Spencer called Alston "wishy-washy" and called Durocher a decision-maker. Some veterans questioned Alston's decisions. The starters were Alston's loyalists. Against the Cubs, Durocher badgered young third baseman Ron Santo relentlessly, saying he was going to be traded to L.A. Tampering charges were made and Bavasi said it would stop.

Alston called a team meeting and laid down the law, saying "Leo, that means you." If Durocher missed a sign, Alston said he would be fined $200; the player an additional $200. A few days later Fairly missed a sign and Tommy Davis ran into his own bunt.

"Somebody oughta take some money from these kids," shouted Durocher.

Alston confronted him then and there. "You do the coaching, Durocher, and I'll do the chewing out and fining," Alston declared.

It did not stop there. Alston had to whistle three times in order to get Leo's attention, and signs were still missed. Mel Durslag castigated Alston for embarrassing Durocher in front of the team. Walt screamed at the writer for his concern over Leo's feelings, but what about his?

"What about the times he has shown me up in front of the players?" Alston yelled. "How much of this do I have to take?" Alston and Durocher moved their cubicles away from each other and stopped sitting next to each other on buses and planes.

Internal dissension was not relegated to the Dodgers, however. After a frustrating loss on August 19, Dark and Cepeda engaged in a shouting match. San Francisco slumped but ended a six-losses-in-seven-games stretch with a 2-1 win over New York on August 23.

On August 24, the Durocher-Alston feud took a strange turn. Durocher had a reaction to penicillin, and thinking he was having a heart attack, was placed on a clubhouse table. Alston rushed in.

"I think this is it, Walt," said Durocher, as if it was the "George Gipp scene" from _Knute Rockne: All-American_. "Go got them." Durocher was given dosages of vitamin B, however, and restored to full health. He was still absent from the team for two weeks.

Los Angeles won seven of eight and led by three and a half by Labor Day. On September 3 at Dodger Stadium the infield dirt was "as dry as Pharaoh's tomb" wrote Charles McCabe. 54,418, the biggest crowd of the season, came out wearing feathers and doing duck calls. 3.000 duck call sounders were sold by the concessions. Two brought in a real duck and a chicken, throwing them on the field. Dodger batboy Rene Lachemann had to remove them. The Giants came out for batting practice and saw a "gift" on their dugout steps: a watering can.

Over the loudspeakers Danny Kaye's popular "Hiller-Haller-Miller" song played:

Cepeda runs to field the ball

And Hiller covers first

Haller run to back up Hiller

Hiller crashes into Miller

Haller hollers 'Hiller!'

Hiller hollers 'Miller!'

Haller hollers 'Hiller,' points to Miller with his fist

And that's the Miller-Hiller-Haller-Holler-lujah-twist!

The Giants had a10-game losing streak at Dodger Stadium dating back to 1961. Dark shuffled his batting order and Mays, hitting fifth, clubbed a three-run homer off of Stan Williams. Sanford walked none in a complete game 7-3 win, his 20th of the season.

After the game the Giants were guests at blonde bombshell Jayne Mansfield's house. It included cocktails and a buffet by the swimming pool, but some Giants were disappointed. Half expected Jayne would be wearing a bikini and the party would be a full-scale sex orgy, with the actress satiating all their "needs." Instead, she was not "anything like her image on the screen," said Pierce, which of course promoted that very fantasy. "She was pleasant, but very businesslike and proper. We knew she was a big baseball fan, but I think there was also some kind of promotion or commercial involved. To the ballplayers, this was a big deal. We went because we wanted to see Jayne Mansfield, her house, and that heart-shaped swimming pool." Wives and girlfriends had a hard time believing the truth, which was that nothing amorous happened.

The next night, perhaps still fantasizing about her, the Giants lost 5-4 when Willie Davis scored from first on a single, Roseboro stole home, and Perranoski struck out Mays and Cepeda to end the game. On September 5, Mays doubled and singled in a 3-0 win but Marichal, dominating Los Angeles, injured his foot on a play at first base, just as he had a year earlier at the Coliseum. X-rays revealed no fracture but he would miss several starts.

Dark accused Marichal of "jaking" it. It was his 18th last win of the season.

On September 6, the Armed Forces Radio Network conducted a live satellite call-in interview with the presumed World Series managers, the Yankees' Ralph Houk and the Dodgers' Walt Alston. It did not escape Dark's attention, and he took exception to it.

That day McCovey killed Drysdale again with a single and double, staking San Francisco to 4-0 lead. Los Angeles rallied behind Tommy Davis's single and a Howard home run. Drysdale then knocked down both Willie's with furious inside buzz. Billy O'Dell returned the favor, buzzing Drysdale when he came to the plate.

A volatile exchange ensued between umpire Ed Barlick and both managers. Tommy Davis's homer tied it and 54,263 Dodgers fans went wild. Perranoski came on in the ninth. Hiller beat out an infield single. Davenport, back from the disabled list, laid down a sacrifice bunt, and Perranoski tried to get the lead run at second. His throw went into center field for an error, and Giants runners were now at second and third. Felipe Alou walked to load the bases. Mays tapped a forceout at home. Cepeda worked Perranoski to a full count, but the southpaw reliever just missed, walking in the go-ahead run. Perranoski sagged perceptibly. Harvey Kuenn doubled and it was "Katy bar the door." 9-5, Giants.

"Certainly, it was the biggest hit of my career," said Kuenn, which was saying something. Larsen came in to protect the lead. Typical Dodgers fans rushed to the parking lot and their appointments with the Pasadena, Harbor, Golden State, Hollywood and Santa Monica freeways. In front of growing numbers of vacant seats, L.A. loaded the bases for the "Giant killer," Tommy Davis, who already had two hits and two RBIs in the game. Stu "the Killer Moth" Miller came in. Davis's drive to left field looked to be a homer, but Kuenn speared it. Dark dripped to knees in the dugout. A run scored but there were two outs. Howard, who hated facing Miller and previously struck out four straight times against him, came to the plate. Miller got him to swing clumsily, but then laid one in there. Hondo hit a towering shot, barely foul down the left field line. Then Howard popped to Davenport and it was over. Dark called it, "The most important game I've ever managed."

The Giants returned to San Francisco. It was now September, the best time of the year in the Bay Area. They trailed by a mere game and a half with three weeks left. San Francisco and Los Angeles had no more regular season games left with each other. As if giving thanks for "deliverance" after the Dodger Stadium dramatics, Felipe Alou invited his manager to the Peninsula Bible Church in Palo Alto, where 2,000 people heard the outfielder's testimony on "what the Lord meant to me."

Among Alou's blessings at that time were hits in seven straight plate appearances and the fact that his club was as hot as a pistol. They stayed hot, sweeping Chicago and Pittsburgh to increase their winning streak to seven games. However, L.A., who refused to buckle amid the late-season pressure, demolished both of those clubs. Both teams left for their final road trips - 10 for the Dodgers, 11 for the Giants. On September 12 it was hot and muggy in Cincinnati. Starter Gaylord Perry said the change from the moderate San Francisco weather to the Midwest humidity was "a jolt for everyone." Perry changed his shirt twice that night.

Mays was affected, but not just by the weather. The pressures of the pennant race, in which he was carrying his team on his shoulders, combined with his troubles - a contentious divorce, tax problems, debts, an unhappy personal life \- came to a head after the long plane flight from the cool West Coast to the sweltering Queen City. To top it off, he ate junk food that day and it did not sit well with him.

Mays shortened his batting practice turns and struck out his first time at the plate. In the third inning he staggered and fainted in the dugout. Mays was carried by stretcher to the clubhouse and then transferred to Christ Hospital. Mays rested and felt okay the next day, asking to re-join the team. He was released after 24 hours of observation.

The San Francisco papers treated Mays's health in tabloid manner with rumors of venereal disease, a dugout fight, epilepsy, a heart attack, and even the influence of Kentucky gamblers supposedly slipping him a "Mickey Finn" to affect the betting line. He was, simply, emotionally, mentally and physically exhausted. Later Mays was given a clean bill of health by a San Francisco doctor.

But their star's collapse was a blow to the club. The Giants lost two to the Reds and their momentum was gone. Dark sat him some more to be sure and they lost two straight at Pittsburgh. In the last 19 games Mays had missed, his team was 0-19! The Giants blew a 2-1 ninth inning lead to the Pirates when pitcher Earl Francis hit a homer to win his game. The next night the Pirates broke an eighth inning tie on Bob Bailey's triple.

Mays returned the next night and homered to send the game into extra innings but Smoky Burgess homered for Pittsburgh to hand the Giants their fifth straight loss. The next night the Pirates beat Mike McCormick to sweep the series. Dark was furious, throwing food around the clubhouse. They trailed by four games.

The Dodgers had won seven straight but struggled. Stan Williams beat the Cubs at home but gave up a grand slam at Wrigley Field in a loss. He was pulled from the rotation and, with no explanation, never returned in regular season play. "It really hurt my pride that they felt I wasn't good enough to do the job," said Williams.

Los Angeles lost two of three in Milwaukee. In St. Louis, a meeting was held on Thursday, September 20 at the Chase Park Plaza Hotel. Traveling secretary Lee Scott assembled Alston, Snider, and the coaching staff. Walter O'Malley flew in. It was an off-day.

"Get tough, Walter," advised O'Malley. "You've got to ride herd on 'em. They're going to blow this thing, sure as hell, unless you can light a fire under them. Warn them that if they blow the pennant, they'll lose more than just the World Series money. It will be reflected in their salaries next year."

Alston disagreed, preferring a vote of confidence. O'Malley responded that "These are not high school kids \- they're professionals," insisting that Alston get tough and "make me the heavy."

Alston held his ground, but O'Malley told him that if the team lost, "some heads will roll." Snider told O'Malley not to worry. That night, oddly, the Dodgers attended the Giants-Cardinals game at the old Busch Stadium. The Giants had snapped their six-game losing streak when Tom Haller homered twice, but that night the Giants blew a 4-3 lead in the ninth on a balk and Ken Boyer's game-winning single, 5-4.

The Giants and Dodgers were both staying at the Chase Park Plaza at the same time. Perranoski told Felipe Alou after the game he would "see you guys next year," and "we win and you won't." On September 7 Wills broke the National League record, previously set by Cincinnati's Bob Bescher in 1911, with his 81st stolen base. "My sincere congratulations," wired league president Warren Giles, apparently willing to let Wills's "nickels, dimes and pennies" fine-paying incident go. "Now go all the way and break the record held by the great Ty Cobb."

Cobb had stolen 96 bases in 1915 and had died one year earlier. Considered one of the very best players ever to play baseball, Cobb was a portrait of human contrast: a virulent racist who was also a believing Baptist and major contributor to black colleges in the South. One year earlier, Al Stump's article about Cobb had been published in _Look_ magazine. It told the story of a bitter old drunk, estranged from friends and family, utterly unable to make sense of the new world he lived in.

Most incomprehensible to Cobb was the existence of blacks in the Major Leagues; not just participants, but veritable matinee idols of sports. One of those very men, the symbol of the "new breed," Maury Wills was about to break his most cherished record. Cobb, wrote many a writer, was "turning in his grave."

But the day of the 154th game of the season, Commissioner Ford Frick did the same thing he had done to Roger Maris in 1961, stating that Wills had to break the record in 154 games for the mark to stand. Because of two ties, Cobb had played 156 games in 1915, two more than the regular 154-game schedule. Frick still insisted that the 154-game standard would apply.

"I wouldn't have minded so much had Frick made his ruling earlier," Wills said. "But why did he wait until the last day?" Wills could have broken the mark earlier had he sensed urgency. "Cobb got 156 games to set his record and I thought I would, too."

On September 16 Bob Buhl of the Cubs shut out L.A., 5-0. Koufax returned in mid-September. The team won 17 of 21 after his injury in July, opening their five and a half-game lead of August 8, but there was little doubt that his absence had helped San Francisco stay in the race.

"If we'd had Koufax the whole season we would have waltzed to the pennant," said Norm Sherry. "His injury was the opportunity that gave us a chance to get back in the race," said Al Dark.

On September 23, O'Dell won his 19th game,10-3 over the Colt .45s. On that same day, a classic Koufax vs. Bob Gibson re-match of their earlier scoreless duel was in the offing, but Gibby fractured a bone during batting practice.

"There was this tremendous sigh of relief from the Dodgers because they hadn't been hitting, and now they wouldn't have to face this future Hall of Famer," said Scully. "Curt Simmons, who was very much nearing the end of his career, was rushed into the breach to pitch for Gibson."

"I could get out of bed in the middle of December and steal two off Simmons," said Wills.

But Koufax had nothing, giving up a first-inning grand slam. Now the score altered Wills's stolen base strategy. He could not afford to run the team out of a rally just for personal gain. In the sixth, with the Dodgers trailing 4-1, Wills walked and stole number 95. He then took off for third to tie the mark in the 154th game. He had it easily. At the last moment, Jim Gilliam laid down a totally useless bunt. He was thrown out, credited with a sacrifice that was a joke. Wills lost the stolen base. He had no further chances and St. Louis won, 11-2.

After the game, George Lederer of the _Long Beach Press-Telegram_ asked Wills if Alston had called for a bunt. "Why don't you ask him?" Wills replied, pointing to Gilliam. Lederer went to Gilliam and repeated the question. Gilliam had had enough. He disliked Wills, was tired of playing "second fiddle" to him all year, and had obviously bunted to deprive him of glory.

"If looks could kill, Gilliam's expression would have struck the man dead," wrote David Plaut in _Chasing October_. "Mind your or Godd--n business," said Gilliam.

"You must have seen that Wills had the base stolen," Lederer continued. "What was going through your mind."

Gilliam had been caught red-handed, backed into a corner, and reacted angrily by threatening to punch the writer in the nose, but Wills wisely avoided stirring further trouble by repeating the company lie that Gilliam was trying for a base hit with a legitimate bunt try, an effort to spark a rally; not trying to screw up his record-breaking effort.

"I haven't asked anybody to sacrifice for me all season, and I'm not about to now," said Wills. The next night Podres and Larry Sherry combined for a 4-3 win, number 100. Wills did not steal a base. Game number 156 was against the tough Larry Jackson, the most difficult guy in the league for Wills to steal on.

In the third Wills singled and stole second for number 96, as the crowd cheered. But St. Louis went out to an 11-2 lead. Wills batted in the seventh. Alston told him to try for the record regardless of the score. Wills poked a two-strike single and the Cardinal crowd cheered him on. Jackson threw over to first half a dozen times. First baseman Bill White applied hard slap tags to Wills's skull.

Wills shortened his lead to indicate "that Jackson had me buffaloed." Jackson delivered home and the Cardinals relaxed. Then Wills took off for second - a delayed steal, which he never did before, but Al Campanis had suggested he try - sliding in safely. Catcher Carl Sawatski, who was in the process of throwing back to Jackson, had to make a hurried throw to second that bounced. Wills slid head first and had the record.

In the ninth Wills was presented with the bag. Later, Frick backed off his 154-game edict, saying the mark would stand without an asterisk in the official records after all.

Hall of Famer Max Carey, a one-time practitioner of the base stealing arts, had watched Wills closely all year; stealing home, rattling pitchers, and changing the dynamics of the game. "It does me good to see a fellow operate like that," he said.

"I didn't see how I could ever improve on that," Wills said of the club record 50 bases he stole in 1960. "I was even sure more sure of it the next year, when I only stole 35. Even that was good enough to lead the league.

Wills set a goal of 50 in 1962, but got there by July 27. "I didn't think of the record until I had upped my figure to 72 by stealing three against the Mets on August 26," he continued. "Then, for the first time, Ty Cobb's record of 96 looked possible."

Whenever Wills reached first, fans chanted "Go! Go! " giving him renewed strength and confidence despite the raspberries, fatigue bordering on physical exhaustion, pulled hamstrings, and internal bleeding.

On September 29, San Francisco visited Houston's brutally-hot Colt Stadium, home of the Colt .45s before the Astrodome was built and the team became the Astros. Flies said to be as large as a man's fist buzzed about. The Giants won on Friday night, 11-5. On Saturday Miller was wild and Sanford was brought in for a rare relief appearance. Roman Mejias stroked a hit past a drawn-in infield to beat the Giants. They trailed by four with seven games left. It seemed to be over. On Sunday they kept hope alive with a victory, but had gone 3-8 in their disastrous last road trip.

Los Angeles was 100-56. The Giants, at 97-59, trailed by three. On Monday both teams rested. Both were at home to finish the season. Giants booster Bud Levitas threw a backyard barbecue, and it felt like a farewell party, but Dark made a speech about never giving up. His Christian faith - not to mention the experience of 1951 which he shared with three coaches, Willie Mays, announcer Russ Hodges, owner Horace Stoneham, among others - was the rock he used to maintain strength.

"We're gonna catch these damn Dodgers and we'll beat 'em in the play-offs," Dark exclaimed.

"Everybody thought he was nuts," said Carl Boles.

The Dodgers - Snider, O'Malley, Bavasi, Scully, _Leo Durocher_ \- also remembered 1951. But Orlando Cepeda claimed that Dark told him if the club failed to finish second (Cincinnati was pushing and would win 98 games) he would not support their contract demands. Dark denied having done that, certainly not if "we had any mathematical chance to win."

Dark apparently did tell Billy Pierce he had "pitched enough this year," and was free to go home early "as soon as we're out of this thing." Pierce made some flight reservations, but events that week forced him to keep changing them, finally canceling them altogether. By the third or fourth call the airline reservation clerk knew him by name.

Beat L.A.!

"What the hell are they saving me, the first spring exhibition game?"

\- Don Drysdale's reaction to not being named the starter in the second 1962 play-off game

On Tuesday and Wednesday, San Francisco beat St. Louis twice while L.A. split with Houston. On Thursday, Gene Oliver 's homer sparked the Cardinals to a 7-4 win at Candlestick. In the sixth, Mays lost track of how many outs there were, an unbelievable reversal from his regular baseball instincts, which were flawless. Cepeda struck out and Mays casually walked away from third. The catcher tossed to Ken Boyer, tagging the stunned Mays out while the crowd booed. It got worse when he proceeded to strike out with two men on.

That night, Koufax tried to clinch it at Chavez Ravine. He had good stuff at first, retiring 11 straight with four strikeouts. In the fifth he still led Houston 4-2, and the Dodgers could taste it. But Sandy tired and Alston went to the bullpen. Roebuck, Sherry and Perranoski were shelled in an 8-6 loss. They still were up by three, but blowing Koufax's lead to an expansion team was devastating to their psyches.

"That loss was the turnaround game," Perranoski admitted.

L.A.'s Daryl Spencer had been with St. Louis in 1961. He said the Cardinals loved the Hollywood nightlife. "There was quite a bit of chasing around out there with some gals," he recalled with a smile.

With nothing to play for, in-coming Cardinals players hit the Sunset Strip and hung out until four in the morning. They were loose; the only visiting team to post a winning record at Dodger Stadium in 1962.

"They made pitches that they might not have thrown if they'd gotten a good night's rest," said Ron Fairly. "And that's how they got us out."

In game one, St. Louis won, 3-2 in 10 innings. The tension in the Los Angeles clubhouse, what with Wills and Gilliam on less than friendly terms; Alston and Durocher mortal enemies; Drysdale complaining; Koufax's courage questioned; and Tommy Davis giving the "evil eye" to anybody who looked at him askance; was thick and heavy.

On top of everything, the specter of 1951 hung over them like a ghost. The Dodgers hit incessant grounders to shortstop. It got so bad that they laughed, in gallows humor-style, as if to say hungover St. Louis needed only a pitcher, catcher, shortstop and first baseman to beat them. The fans were apoplectic, the media aghast. Doom. Creeping terror. It was 1951 redux.

On Friday a rare September rain canceled San Francisco's game. On Saturday afternoon, Houston's Joey Amalfitano, a talkative native of San Pedro, which serves as the Port of Los Angeles, asked Willie Mays if the Giants "could score a run?" Mays just stared at him. Amalfitano told Mays that Los Angeles _could not_ score anymore, so all the Giants needed was to score and the pennant was theirs. He was not far from wrong.

In the opener, San Francisco scored 11. Cepeda, McCovey and Haller provided the offense behind Sanford and Miller. L.A., playing that Saturday night, looked on at the televised game in abject desperation. Marichal started the second game of the double-header. His foot still hurt him. X-rays showed no fracture and Dark distrusted the "Dominican Dandy," thinking he was weak-minded and could not handle the pressure of the pennant chase.

"He said very little, but the look in his eye told me that he thought I was trying to quit under pressure," recalled Marichal.

Marichal pitched in pain, but it affected him in a 4-2 loss. After the game, the Latin players gathered at his cubicle. Marichal was hurting and his teammates - friends - felt Dark had risked his career pitching him, but the X-rays of 1962 had mysteriously not caught any fracture.

When Dark benched both Cepeda and Alou on the final Sunday, the Latinos were convinced it was a statement, that Spanish-speaking players could not handle the stress of big games.

That Saturday night, the players went home and listened to a telegraph wire re-creation by Giants announcers Lon Simmons and Russ Hodges. It was not unlike 1951, when they took a train from Boston to New York listening to Hodges while traveling through Connecticut, giving them "play-by-play" over the train's loudspeakers of Brooklyn's final game with Philadelphia. Hodges later announced the famed _"Giants win the pennant!"_ when Bobby Thomson hit the "shot heard 'round the world."

The bachelor Willie McCovey, a man about town, was on the town with a date and later recalled San Franciscans straining to pick up the Dodgers' broadcast from Los Angeles, which could be picked up at night. The static-voice of Vin Scully was heard on the streets, in cabs, coming out of cars, on transistors in The City. Scully, the ultimate professional, trying to maintain calm despite his team's freefall; Giants fans desperately rooting the other way. At the opera house, the downtown theatres, Union Square, on Market Street, Van Ness Avenue, the Embarcadero, the financial district, Fisherman's Wharf, the Marina, Cow Hollow, the Western Addition, Russian Hill, Noe Valley; out by the Great Highway, the Sunset District, Twin Peak's, from St. Francis Wood to Hunter's Point to Potrero Hill; at Original Joe's, Bardelli's, Trader Vic's, DiMaggio's, Marin Joe's; along the peninsula, across the bridge in Oakland, Berkeley and the East Bay; in the hinterlands of Stockton, Sacramento and Modesto; down towards Fresno where Central California sympathies were evenly split between the Giants and the Dodgers; on the 101 where motorists rooting for both teams traversed the state, past Big Sur and Monterey; Scully's voice told the tale.

Ernie Broglio, who hailed from the East Bay Area, out-dueled Drysdale, 2-0 at Dodger Stadium. San Francisco's hopes were alive, and in all the aforementioned places and a thousand others, cars honked, people whooped and hollered. The Giants was not dead yet. In keeping with St. Louis's "loosey-goosey" style of partying and playing baseball that final weekend, the happy-go-lucky Broglio was throwing curves on 2-0 and 3-2 counts.

"That had to be the best game he ever pitched," said Perranoski. Frank Howard's mis-play of a fly ball gave Broglio all his support. The next day the _Times_ read, "Should O'Malley tempt fate by ordering champagne for the Dodger clubhouse today, he'd best order it on consignment."

They led by a game with one day to go. Amalfitano continued to be right: they _could not score_.

It all came down to September 30, 1962. On that day, James Meredith attempted become the first black to enroll at the University of Mississippi. A riot ensued and much white and black blood was shed. Mississippi Governor Ross Barnett provided no assistance to his fellow Democrat, President John Kennedy, who called it the "worst thing" he had ever seen.

The "Mississippi burning" caught the attention of San Francisco's black and minority players, most of whom had experienced prejudice first hand playing in the South, but when Cepeda and Alou did not see their name on the line-up card, they figured they were dealing with it on the West Coast, too. Dark's Southern heritage was an albatross he could not shake.

Dark started the Southern-born Billy O'Dell against Houston's Turk Farrell, who told the writers he did not intend to lose. In the fourth, Ed Bailey hit a long foul ball, then got the same pitch and hit it fair for a homer to give San Francisco a 1-0 lead. The score was 1-1 when Mays came to the plate in the eighth. He had not had a hit in 10 at-bats and the Candlestick crowd booed him. He was considered a poor clutch hitter, "pop-up Mays."

Organist Lloyd Fox tried to simmer things down by playing, "Bye Bye Baby." It was a phrase Hodges used to describe home runs, and a song was made out of it:

Oh when the Giants come to town

It's bye, bye baby

Always when the chips are down

It's bye bye baby

Then Mays deposited a Farrell fastball deep into the left field seats for a 2-1 lead.

"It became a blur of white, smashed through the noise of roaring throats, sailing high into the blue," wrote Bob Stevens, "and it gave San Francisco the best shot it has ever had at the long-awaited pennant." Mays had homered on the first pitch he saw in 1962, and now on the last pitch he saw . . . of the regular season, at least.

It was number 48 of the year for Mays, the most in the league. Stu Miller retired Houston in the ninth, striking out Billy Goodman for the last out as the crowd of 41,327 roared to its feet. The Giants mobbed Miller and celebrated on the green plains until the special police escorted them off the field.

The fans stayed in the stands. It was Fan Appreciation Day and five cars were to be awarded to winners of the promotion, but just as important, the score from Los Angeles was not a final. The Dodger game had started an hour later than the San Francisco game.

L.A. entered the final day having won twice in eight days, both times behind the clutch hurling of Johnny Podres. On the final Sunday, Podres faced Curt Simmons. It was Podres's 30th birthday.

The game was scoreless for seven innings. Los Angeles, supposedly the best base-running team in baseball, blew several opportunities. Lee Walls was thrown out trying to stretch a single into a double. Willie Davis was caught on a decoy play. The crafty Simmons picked off Tommy Davis. The Dodgers were reduced to a Little League team, their sense of fundamentals completely gone. They were desperate, befuddled and bamboozled. _They could not score!_

The Dodgers' strong radio station was again heard; at Candlestick during the Fan Appreciation day event, and of course at all the places it had been listened to the previous evening. In addition, Russ Hodges maintained up-dates on KSFO. Cars pulled up to curbs. 49ers fans at Kezar Stadium, where the team was playing Minnesota, listened in. The Giants gathered around the radio in their clubhouse. A Western Union ticker revealed the play a minute after it happened. The Dodgers' broadcast could not be heard in the Giants' clubhouse.

Podres dominated. He called it one of the best games of his career, better even than his 1955 game seven triumph over the New York Yankees in the World Series. But with one out in the eighth, Gene Oliver, whose three-run homer had decided an earlier win at Candlestick, deposited a Podres curveball barely over the left field fence.

Fans were being awarded cars when news of Oliver's homer was announced, and a "Giant roar" came up. When an attractive blonde ambled onto the field to claim her prize, the crowd roared even louder.

At that moment, John Brodie of the 49ers was calling signals at Kezar. It was fourth-and-one at the Vikings' 18 and he suddenly was drowned out by a crescendo of cheers, thinking it was for him. He waved for quiet so his signals could be heard. The 49ers won, but fans stayed at Kezar to hear the Giants-Dodgers reports.

In the bottom of the ninth, Ken McMullen and Maury Wills flied out. It truly did look as if they simply lacked any capability of scoring, so woeful were the Dodgers offensively. The long season, the dispute between Alston and Durocher, Wills's histrionics, the Koufax injury, Don Drysdale's loud complaints about everything; they were sapped of all strength, like the General Ripper character in _Dr. Strangelove_ who fears being drained of his "precious bodily fluids."

The players listened to Hodges. Chub Feeney's footsteps could be heard in the background. Finally, Hodges told them that Jim Gilliam had popped to Julian Javier. There would be a play-off. Bedlam ensued; everywhere. Dark proclaimed it a comeback for the ages, and he had been there in '51.

The contrast between the Giants and Dodgers clubhouses was extraordinary. It was also a little different from 1951. On the last day 11 years earlier, the Giants beat Boston and, with the Dodgers losing big against Philadelphia, seemed to have the pennant locked up. Then Brooklyn rallied. Jackie Robinson saved the day with a remarkable catch, and Brooklyn jumped for joy. By evening time, when the Dodgers won, it was the Giants who had the heart taken out of them. This time it was all Giants.

Dodgers players swore and threw things. Podres was beside himself, one of his greatest efforts having gone for naught. He drove to the Mayflower Hotel, his L.A. residence, where friends were waiting to throw a surprise birthday party, but he was in no mood to celebrate. Alston was full of recriminations, self and otherwise. 21 innings had come and gone without a Dodger run, and this was no light-hitting squad. They were stars, winners of over 100 games, World Champions three years earlier; the fabled Dodgers' franchise. There were no excuses.

In the last 13 games, San Francisco was only 7-6, but Los Angeles had gone 3-10. "It was like two drunks having a fight in a saloon and trying to stagger to the safety of the swinging doors," wrote Arthur Daley in the _New York Times_. "Both kept falling down. The Giants, however, could crawl better than the Dodgers."

The Dodgers had led for 111 days compared to 54 for the Giants, and entered the final two weeks up by four. The two teams were 9-9 against each other in the regular season, most of their victories coming at home. The L.A. media began an anatomy of their collapse. Aside from internal dissension, defense in particular had failed the club down the stretch. They had finished last in the league in double-plays. Koufax's injury, Drysdale's late-season failing after winning 25 games, bullpen collapses, power hitters reduced to an endless stream of grounders to shortstop, bad base running by the so-called Swift Set, and above all terrible fundamentals were cited. Others said they had "gone Hollywood," tempted by beautiful starlets, too much nightlife, the glitz, their press clippings . . . it went on and on.

San Francisco pitching was seen as the primary reason for the club's success, and in this regard they had benefited from three starters - Sanford, Pierce and O'Dell - who had come over from other teams, in some cases as reclamation projects. "Sometimes a change of atmosphere helps," says Dark. "It certainly didn't hurt our pitchers."

**"** Wanted, one nearly new 1962 National League pennant, slightly soiled with tear stain in center," wrote the great Jim Murray. "Last seen blowing toward San Francisco . . . Warning: if you return pennant to Dodgers direct, be sure to tape it to their hands."

****

After everything, there was still more baseball to be played before the National League could send a representative against the rested, waiting, all-conquering New York Yankees. A coin toss determined that the play-offs would open at Candlestick, then switch for the second and, if needed, third game at Dodger Stadium. Dark, Jansen, Lockman, Westrum, Mays . . . Durocher, Snider . . .

The Yankees had to cancel their flight to Los Angeles. Ralph Houk was concerned that they had been scouting the Dodgers and now they might be facing the Giants, but at least he did not have to deal with Mickey, Whitey and company spending three or four days in Hollywood with nothing but "Johnny Grant parties" to keep them busy. They headed to San Francisco's Towne House Hotel to wait it out. 11 years to the day after the "shot heard 'round the world" the teams started again. It was the fourth best-of-three play-off in Dodgers history.

Matty Schwab went to work on the basepaths. He had already warned the drivers of cars on Fan Appreciation Day not to park on the infield dirt because they would "sink to their hubcaps." Schwab kept it up all night on Sunday. When Wills and company arrived Monday they were again beside themselves, totally psyched by it.

Dodgers public relations director Red Patterson tried to lodge a protest with Warren Giles, who made himself scarce. He then appealed to umpire Jocko Conlan, who approached Dark, who assumed an uncooperative, hard-line stance. Conlan found Schwab, ordering him to dry up and solidify the basepaths. Conlan ordered it rolled, as was the custom at Dodger Stadium, and Dark exploded, saying it was because O'Malley ran the league.

"His word is law," said Dark, as if his knowledge of his own team's cheating should not have been allowed.

The Dodgers were mollified and encouraged by the October weather, which tends to be the best the Bay Area has to offer; warmer than the summer, mid-70s, no wind, perfect for sailing (a popular pastime).

Koufax started but struggled, allowing a two-out double to Felipe Alou. Mays hit a "Candlestick shot" over the right-center field fence. He had learned to adjust his swing for opposite field power so as to avoid hitting straight into the wind blowing from left field, instead "going with the flow" towards right. An inning later, when Jim Davenport homered and Ed Bailey whistled a single past Koufax. Sandy was sent to the showers, his season over.

"I can't be the same after two months off," said Koufax. "My finger is okay, but I felt like the third week of Spring Training."

The Dodgers "displayed the muscle, the frightfulness, and the total immobility of a woolly mammoth frozen in a glacier; the Giants, finding the beast inert, fell upon it with savage cries and chopped steaks and rump roasts at will," wrote the fabulous Roger Angell, who had in the spring detailed the extraordinary popularity of the expansion Mets when the Dodgers and Giants made their initial visits to the Polo Grounds. His great works initially appeared in _The New Yorker_ , and later were memorialized in _The Summer Game_.

Billy Pierce breezed past L.A., tossing a three-hit shutout with six strikeouts. "It was the most satisfying game I ever pitched," said Pierce, who upped his record to 12-0 at Candlestick Park and 16-6 on the year. Pierce thanked Conlan afterwards, possibly a peace offering after the pre-game consternation over the infield rolling. "I congratulated him on calling an excellent game and he congratulated me - sort of a mutual admiration society." L.A.'s scoreless streak was now 30 innings and they had not threatened in any way to break it.

In the opening play-off contest, Mays walked, singled and hit two homers in four at-bats. The Dodgers played dirty, knocking him down a couple of times, but it only steeled his resolve. His second home run came after Sherry brushed him back. The crowd seemed to adopt him at that very moment. It was the line of demarcation in his relationship with the fans.

"I think it was the moment where the San Francisco fans finally took him to heart," said Pierce.

"I think the fans are starting to warm to me," said Mays, grinning.

"No team can be as bad as we've been," said Alston. ""We've got to snap out of it sometime. I still don't know who I'm going to pitch in the second."

Alston then announced he was going with Stan Williams, who had been relegated to virtual obscurity since allowing a grand slam in a key game. It was an odd movie, hotly debated by the Dodgers players, brass and media on Electra II's flight back to Los Angeles.

"What's he saving me for?" complained Drysdale to anybody who would listen. ""The first spring exhibition game?"

The Giants flew to the City of Angels, checked into the Ambassador Hotel (in 1968 the sight of Robert Kennedy's assassination), and some watched young comedian Johnny Carson debut as host of _The Tonight Show_. Singer Tony Bennett performed "I Left My Heart in San Francisco."

October 2 was hot and smoggy. A town of notorious front-runners had given up on their team. Cars drove straight into the parking lot. Only 25,231 showed up. The Dodgers had set the all-time attendance mark of 2,755,184 in 1962, eclipsing previous records by the Cleveland Indians and Milwaukee Braves.

Snider was in left field, Tommy Davis at third, and Moon at first. At the last second, Alston went with Big D on two days' rest. He had nothing and tried to rely on his famed spitball, drawing warnings from umpire Al Barlick. In the sixth Drysdale ran out of gas completely. With one out, Haller walked, followed by Jose Pagan's double, a successful sacrifice bunt by Sanford moving them along, followed by singles off the bats of Chuck Hiller and Davenport. The score was 4-0, Drysdale was headed for the shower, and the sparse crowd began to thin out. All that was left, it seemed, were Giants rooters wearing orange-and-black hats and gear; transplanted San Franciscans living in L.A. or those who had driven eight years on the 101 to be there.

McCovey's RBI single seemed to seal it, and the remaining Dodger "fans" grumbled, booed, left. Alston's team was as done as a Thanksgiving turkey. 36 straight scoreless innings without a peep, they had gone down "not with a bang but with a whimper," as the poet T.S. Elliot so famously wrote. There was none of the dramatics of 1951, of heroism in defeat. They were the French Army in 1940.

"Down in the dugout, manager Walt Alston was poring over the stagecoach schedules to Darrtown," wrote Jim Murray.

Gilliam's walk to lead off the sixth scarcely caused a ruffle, but Sanford's reputation was that of a six-inning pitcher. Additionally, the hard-throwing right-hander, already tired from the long season, was nursing a head cold and had to run the bases in the previous inning. Sanford looked "like five miles of bad road," according to Bob Stevens. Dark overreacted and called on Miller, instead of saving him for the closer's role.

Miller had nothing. Neither did O'Dell. Dark was now into his starters, panicking. O'Dell "threw some gas" on the fire that Miller admitted having started. Larsen came in and the Dodgers suddenly were scoring at will. The 36-inning shutout streak fell like the Siegfried Line when George Patton's Army knocked it down. After Los Angeles poured seven runs across, the Giants could see the Promised Land evaporating before their eyes.

"By the end of that inning, they were ahead and I could feel the goat horns sprouting," said Miller.

The sixth inning took an hour and 11 minutes to play. The seventh lasted 10 minutes. Fans started coming back. In the eighth, San Francisco scored twice to tie it, and Dodger frustration was again at an all-time high. Davenport and Mays got hits, Bailey contributed a pinch-hit RBI single, but Tommy Davis threw Mays out at third on a bad call. Stan Williams, now in the game, walked to load bases but pitched out of it. He settled down, gaining some redemption, and in bottom of the ninth Wills walked. Bob Bolin was lifted for Dick LeMay. Gilliam walked, Spencer hit for Snider, and Gaylord Perry came in. Dark gave him instructions to get the lead man. On the ensuing bunt he had Wills at third but panicked and went to first. Dark ripped the dugout phone off the wall and threw it to the end of the bench, stormed to mound, wordlessly ripped the ball from Perry's hand, and called for McCormick.

Tommy Davis was intentionally walked to load the bases. Ron Fairly, who was one-for-31, hit a short pop to center. Wills took a chance. A good throw by Mays would have nailed him, but Willie's effort was up the line and Los Angeles won, 8-7.

The Dodgers picked up Wills and carried him off field. It got so out of hand he had to hide in the training room from teammates, in order to avoid injury. "I didn't want to get killed," he said. "Those guys were acting crazy."

"The feast continued here for a time yesterday . . ." wrote Angell. Trailing 5-0, "At this point, the Dodgers scored their first run in 36 innings, and the Giants, aghast at this tiny evidence of life, stood transfixed, their stone axes dropping from their paws, while the monster heaved itself to its feet, scattering chunks of ice, and set about trampling its tormentors."

It was a total resurrection for Los Angeles. Williams was the happiest of them all, having redeemed himself after a month of purgatory. The Giants were filled with remorse at having blown a sure win. Alston called it "the biggest scrambler I've ever seen. I've never been in a wilder, woolier one, personally." There were recriminations about Sanford's effort. "One fella said to his face that he'd quit on us," O'Dell said.

The game "is best described in metaphor and hyperbole," wrote Angell, the master of the genre, "for there is no economy in it." The Mets (40-120), "could have beaten both teams."

Suddenly it was the Giants who were arguing and shouting. It looked like all the momentum had swung back to the Dodgers; shades of 1951, after Brooklyn's Clem Labine tossed a 10-0 shutout to force a deciding game. Game two required 42 players and took four hours, 18 minutes to play, the longest nine-inning game ever. NBC lost $300,000 when _The Huntley-Brinkley Report_ and _Phil Silvers Show_ were both pre-empted. Six years later this game resonated in the minds of NBC executives, who chose to cut away just as the Oakland Raiders were staging a last-minute comeback over the New York Jets in the infamous _"Heidi_ game."

Actor Rock Hudson watched game two at a bar in Universal City: "We've got it made," he announced. "Those Dodgers will kill them. The Giants won't have a chance tomorrow. They won't come close. You wait and see."

Director Alfred Hitchcock, dining at Chasen's, sounded like Winston Churchill predicting victory over Adolf Hitler. He said he had "the utmost confidence in the ultimate defeat of the Giants. The good guys always win in our fair city."

On Wednesday afternoon the "what have you done for me lately?" city transformed itself back into a Dodgertown of loyalists. 45,693 front-runners, including Doris Day, Rosalind Russell and Frank Sinatra, arrived at Dodger Stadium.

The crowd contrasted with the "embarrassing acres of empty seats yesterday, when the park was barely half full," observed Angell. "Los Angeles calls itself the Sports Capitol of the World, but its confidence is easily shaken. Its loyalists are made uneasy by a team that appears likely to lose. Today, with a final chance at the pennant restored, the Dodger rooters were back, and there was hopeful violence in their cries. Fans here seem to require electronic reassurance. One out of every three or four of them carries a transistor radio, in order to be told what he is seeing, and the din from these is so loud in the stands that every spectator can hear the voice of Vic Scully, the Dodger announcer, hovering about his ears throughout the game."

The modern electronic Dodger Stadium scoreboard invited the fans to sing "Baby Face" and ordered the battle cry, "CHARGE!" during rallies. The scoreboard struck Angell, an observer of baseball for years in the venerable Polo Grounds and Ebbets Field, as a "giant billboard . .. like a grocer's placard," and that the "new and impressive Dodger Stadium . . . was designed by an admirer of suburban supermarkets. It has the same bright, uneasy colors (turquoise exterior walls, pale green outfield fences, odd yellows and ochers on the grandstand seats); the same superfluous decorative touches, such as the narrow rickraff roofs over the top row of the bleachers; the same pre-occupation with easy access and with total use of interior space; and the same heaps of raw dirt around its vast parking lots. There is a special shelf for high-priced goods - a dugout behind home plate for movie and television stars, ballplayers' wives, and transient millionaires. Outside, a complex system of concentric automobile ramps and colored signs - yellow for field boxes, green for reserved seats, and so forth - is intended to deliver the carborne fan to the proper gate, but on my two visits to O'Malley's Safeway it was evident that the locals had not yet mastered their instructions, for a good many baseball shoppers wound up in the detergent aisle instead of the cracker department, with a resultant loss of good feeling, and had to be ordered to go away and try again."

These descriptions represent some of the most vivid descriptions of a time, a place, an era, and a stadium ever written.

Ron Fairly told Willie "Three Dog" Davis before the penultimate game that "this one is ours." Durocher wore the same T-shirt, shorts and socks he wore the day of Thomson's 1951 homer. "I wore them yesterday when we won, and they have magic powers," said Durocher, somehow overlooking the possibility that those items might have a "mojo" that would favor the Giants, not his new team.

The writers asked Dark if he brought along anything from 1951. "Yeah," he said. "Willie Mays."

The starters were the ailing Marichal vs. the bone-tired winner of the 1955 game seven, Podres on two days of rest. In the third inning San Francisco took a 2-0 lead on three Dodgers errors, including one by Podres. A Snider double and an RBI grounder by Howard cut it to 2-1. Roebuck replaced Podres with the bases full in the sixth.

"Even so, I pitched pretty good," said Podres of his exhausted effort. "I got us into the sixth inning before Eddie Roebuck bailed me out."

Roebuck, making his sixth appearance in seven days, pitched out of the jam with a force at home and double-play. In the bottom of the inning Snider singled and the "Giant killer" Tommy Davis hit a 400-foot homer to give the Dodgers a 3-2 lead. Hope sprang eternal in the breasts of large-busted starlets!

Then the scoreboard flashed news that astronaut Walter Schirra, a USC graduate, had orbited the Earth six times. American Exceptionalism seemed to give the crowd a burst of adrenaline, exacerbated by the home team's increasing its lead to 4-2 in the seventh. Wills's fourth hit and 104th stolen base, his third of day, led to the fourth run. A famed photograph shows the throw skipping past Davenport, with Wills totally disrupting him. Durocher ran all the way down the line with Wills as if he were Bobby Thomson and it was over. Durocher _slid_ as Maury scored, and the Giants seethed. Felipe Alou said right then and there that it steeled the Giants' resolve.

"For a time today, it seemed that all the recent doubts and discomforts suffered by Dodger fans were finally to be rewarded . . . " wrote Angell, who in his _New Yorker_ piece described how the club forged ahead "in the happiest fashion imaginable," behind the "old demi-god," Snider and the "young demi-god," Tommy Davis, "who studies each pitch with the eye of a jewelry appraiser . . ." Wills was "the ranking deity in Los Angeles this year." The Giants "forgot their newly discovered stratagem for getting Wills out," describing how the previous day Wills had stolen second, only to be cut down at third by "the best arm on the club," the sturdy right wing of Mays.

San Francisco went down quietly against Roebuck's sinker in the eighth. Los Angeles had chance to increase their lead in the bottom half of the inning. Dark walked two batters intentionally, loading the bases. Roebuck came to the plate. He had thrown three innings and was dead tired. Alston allowed him to hit. The Dodgers groaned. Koufax and Podres begged Durocher to talk sense into Alston, to pinch-hit for the reliever and use Sandy or Drysdale in the ninth. Drysdale shouted and screamed for the chance. One of the best-hitting pitchers of all time, with some managerial foresight he could easily have been used as both the pinch-hitter and the closer. Instead, Roebuck made the last out and trudged out for the ninth.

"I'd rather have Roebuck pitching for us with a two-run lead than anybody I've got," Alston later said.

"You're damn right I would have liked to pitch," Drysdale later told Bud Furillo. "Only they didn't ask me. I didn't think Roebuck should have started the ninth. He did enough."

Roebuck said Walt's theory was that his sinker would be more effective since he was exhausted, but the pitcher said he was "the most uncomfortable I've ever felt in a game." The smog was debilitating, and he just wanted to get it over with.

In the Giants' dugout, the silence was broken up by Dark. "Matty, grab a bat," he said.

Felipe Alou's little brother Matty, a contact hitter, was the worst guy a sinkerballer like Roebuck could face in that situation. Matty drilled Roebuck's second pitch to right field for a single.

"You can't imagine the pressure I was feeling by now," Roebuck admitted. He made $14,000 that year, and the Series share was $10,000. Wills tried to calm him down. Roebuck got Kuenn to hit a perfect one-hop double-play grounder to Maury, but _somebody_ had moved Larry Burright two steps away from second base. He was a split-second late in the force at the bag, just enough to allow Kuenn to beat his throw to first base. No double-play.

The question would swirl around Dodger circles like the famed "Who lost China?" accusation that dominated politics in 1949. "Who moved Burright?" According to Roseboro, Lee Walls yelled for Burright to play Kuenn as an opposite-field hitter.

Roebuck walked McCovey. Felipe Alou came to the plate. Alston visited the mound. Still no Drysdale. Big D seethed. Roebuck told the manager he just wanted to "finish this thing one way or another." It would turn out to be "or another."

"The clatter of typewriters died away in the press box," wrote Angell. Many writers were already in the elevator headed towards the Dodger victory celebration. Now, silence befell the cramped Dodger Stadium press box. None of the LA. writers wanted to have to re-write their stories. Half wanted more drama. Half just wanted it to end.

Roebuck had enjoyed success with Mays in the past, but Willie inside-outed a jam sinker up the middle.

"This white blur was coming right at me," Roebuck recalled. He had a large glove he called "The Claw." He stabbed, barely missed catching it for the second out and possibly setting up a double-play. Instead it squirted off the webbing for an infield hit and a run scored. Bye Ed.

Drysdale?

"Stan Williams!" roared Durocher, not caring who heard him. "He'll walk the park."

Drysdale was beside himself as Williams entered.

The Giants were stunned. Alston had _Koufax and Drysdale_ in the bullpen, but went with _Stan Williams_.

"He must have been saving them to pitch in the Series," deadpanned O'Dell.

Dark said that if he had Drysdale, "I'm thinking pretty seriously about seeing if he can't finish the ballgame," that in a game of this magnitude "there is no tomorrow."

Williams thought he was brought in because he had pitched well the day before - even though that increased the fatigue factor - and that he had won two play-off games against Milwaukee in 1959.

Alston figured the right-handed Williams would get the right-handed Cepeda, then the southpaw Perranoski could be brought in against the left-handed Bailey. Williams jammed Orlando, who hit a short fly to right. Fairly had a decent arm but was a first baseman, not an outfielder. His throw was late. The Giants tied it at 4-4. Cepeda said it was one of the biggest RBIs of his great career. Consternation bordering on hatred was palpable in the Dodgers' dugout and bullpen, with open, verbal questioning of Alston. A pall fell over the Dodger Stadium crowd, broken up only by the wild shouts of scattered Giants rooters and the San Francisco players themselves.

Alston and Durocher "stalked slowly back and forth in their dugout, staring at their shoe tops and exuding an almost invisible purple cloud of yearning; they wanted the National League season extended by a few more innings or a few more games," wrote Roger Angell. "This wish, like so many other attitudes to be seen in this city, must be regarded as excessive . . . the twitchy, exhausted athletes on both squads was reminiscent of action in the winter softball games played by septuagenarians in St. Petersburg, Florida." The Dodgers had permitted their "gasping pursuers" to catch them, and now they were about to pass them.

Alston _did not go to Perranoski_ against the left-handed Bailey, who later admitted he had little chance against Perranoski. Williams threw a wild pitch. Mays moved to third, Felipe to second. Alston ordered Bailey walked intentionally. Roseboro came to the mound. He did not want the wild Williams loading the bases; he could easily walk in the go-ahead run, just as Durocher predicted. They looked towards the dugout to get Alston's attention; to come out and get Williams, or at least talk it over, but _"we couldn't find him,"_ said Roseboro. Alston was in the runway . . .

Smoking . . . a . . . cigarette . . .

Bailey was walked intentionally.

Davenport, a .320 lifetime hitter vs. Williams, came to bat. The first two pitches to him were balls, then a strike. Williams, aiming now, walked him. Alou trotted home and San Francisco led, 5-4. The pall in the dugout and the stands barely concealed indignation.

_Finally_ , too late, Perranoski was brought in. Naturally, Burright booted Pagan's grounder and it was 6-4. Bob Nieman flied out.

The press box loudspeaker announced that United Airlines would have a special flight leaving at seven o'clock for San Francisco and the World Series.

Pierce was called on for last three outs. He was as calm as a commuter waiting for the 5:15 to Greenwich. Wills grounded out, Gilliam hit "can a corn," and "I knew we were in pretty good shape," said Pierce.

The .205-hitting Walls stepped in for Burright and lifted an easy, soft fly to Mays, who did not make his usual "basket catch." Asked about it later, he yelled, "Are you crazy? That was $15,000 a man." In a year in which he owed money to everybody, he was not about to take any chances. There is a photo of the shirtless Mays, displaying the muscles of a steroid user long before such enhancements were thought of, in the post-game clubhouse. Willie displayed a "million dollar" smile.

The game was over and the stunned crowd spilled onto the freeways, the streets, the bars . . .

The Giants "went into the ritual Autumnal dance of victory in front of their dugout, leaping into the air like Watusi," wrote Angell.

"One of the most dramatic and nerve-racking pennant races in years came to an astounding end today . . ." wrote John Drebinger in the _New York Times_ , calling the crowd of 45,693 "incredulous" at the sight of their beloved home nine blowing a two-run lead in the ninth inning of a deciding play-off game for the second time in 11 years.

Park maintenance moved cases of champagne three different times in anticipation of the celebratory locale. The NBC crew barely moved their equipment out of the Dodger clubhouse before the angry home team stomped in. The cramped Giants' clubhouse was a madhouse.

"This is the greatest moment of my life!" shouted McCovey, who posed for a wide-smiled photo with his rival Cepeda and pitching hero Pierce. Then they broke into a conga line. Dark smilingly begged off the champagne.

"If we drink all this stuff, we'd be sick for a week," exclaimed Bailey. "And if we had blown that game today, we'd have been sick for a year."

Former race Vice President Richard Nixon, trolling for votes in his neck-and-neck Gubernatorial campaign against incumbent Governor Pat Brown, the election only a month away, told Dark, "You're players have heart. You'll beat the Yankees."

The first game of the World Series was less than 24 hours away. The Yankees had been idling away the whole time; a relatively early pennant-clinching, then waiting out the play-offs. The Giants were loosey-goosey, carefree.

"This was it - this was the pressure," said Mays. "We've got no time to worry about the Yankees now. We'll deal with them as they come."

"Winning those play-offs was better than the Series," Felipe Alou later said. "Because of the rivalry, the animosity between the Dodgers and Giants, the way we came from behind. This was the biggest thing that ever happened to me in baseball - even more than the day I played in the same outfield with my two brothers."

The team started to party in the clubhouse, managed to deal with the press, showered, and were still partying as they made their way to the Los Angeles Airport for the flight to San Francisco.

Dark reminded them that they had a game to play the next day. They managed to cool it, but as the plane approached San Francisco International Airport, pilot Orv Schmidt announced, "There's a little disturbance down below."

People showed up _en masse_ at SFO. When the parking lot filled up, many just parked on the side of the 101 freeway and walked to the airport. Fans, estimated at between 25,000 and 75,000 strong overran the runway. The plane circled for an hour and there was talk of landing in Oakland, across the bay. Many feared a crash. Felipe Alou in particular hated to fly.

Eventually, the DC-7 was allowed to land at a United maintenance base. A small gathering of mechanics and the Giants' bus driver politely applauded. The bus would drive the team north to Candlestick Park, where their cars were, but the players who lived on the peninsula, to the south, decided to find their own way home. Cepeda, the Alou brothers, Pierce and Marichal waded their way through the crowd. They eventually were given rides by fans they had never met before. They all made it.

The rest boarded the bus. At the main concourse, wives and family awaited but beyond that was a semi-dangerous throng. The day had been long and alcohol-fueled. People broke through police barricades, French Revolution-style, converging on the bus.

"Those folks meant well, but they really shook us up," recalled Dark. They started to shake and rock the bus. Several recalled being terrified that the bus would be rolled over and they would be crushed. Writer David Plaut said it was a "miracle" the team escaped without serious incident or injury, to players or fans.

A chant began: _"We want Mays! We want Mays!"_ But Willie had found a cab to take him to his peninsula home. Somebody suggested to "throw 'em Boles," his look-alike, but Boles wanted none of it. He literally feared for his safety.

Chub Feeney said that he had never seen anything like it in New York. "It certainly wasn't this way when we won in 1951," he exclaimed.

"But that was all in hysterical New York, not sedate San Francisco," said Art Rosenbaum sarcastically.

The event certainly suggested something about The City that nobody ever quite realized before that; exactly what is still not sure, but its image did change somewhat from its sophisticated reputation.

The bus made its way out of the parking lot, but Feeney ordered it to stop at a nearby motel. Because of the late hour, rental cars were hard to come by, and due to the strange events normal plans were askew. Feeney figured that the motel was a good place for players to arrange for rentals rather than at Candlestick, which is off the beaten path.

It was after midnight, the team had to play the Yankees in less than 12 hours, and "We're walking along the highway, across this empty field, in total darkness," recalled Feeney. "I thought to myself: here we are. Here come the champions of the National League."

****

In 1962, the Giants and Dodgers played each other 21 times, with San Francisco winning 11 and Los Angeles 10. 1 million fans (including the play-offs) watched those games in person, while TV ratings reached 70 percent, plus three-quarters of the radio listening audience. A Bay Area phone service provided a paid service, providing play-by-play to 25,000 callers per day.

The Giants finished 103-62, followed by the Dodgers at 102-63, one game back. Cincinnati was 98-64, three and a half-games behind. Pittsburgh (93-68) trailed by eight. The Braves ( 86-76) were 15 and a half back, the Cardinals at 84-78 trailed by 17 and a half, followed by Philadelphia (81-80), Houston (64-96), Chicago (59-103), and at 60 and one-half games back, the lowly New York Mets (40-120).

Orlando Cepeda finished with 35 home runs, 114 RBIs, a .306 average, and 191 hits. Chuck Hiller batted .276 and Jose Pagan .259. Jim Davenport won a Gold Glove while batting .297 with 14 homers. Felipe Alou hit .316 with 25 homers and 98 runs batted in. Willie Mays had one of the best seasons of his career, finishing with a .304 batting average, a league-leading 49 home runs, 141 RBIs and a .615 slugging percentage (third in the N.L.). Harvey Kuenn batted his customary .300 (.304). Rookie Tom Haller batted .261 with 18 homers, while Ed Bailey contributed 17 home runs. Playing part-time, Willie McCovey hit .293 with 20 homers and 54 RBIs in 229 at-bats.

San Francisco's ability to match the Dodgers arms was ultimately what kept them in the race. Billy O'Dell was 19-14 with a 3.53 earned run average. Jack Sanford was nothing less than spectacular, finishing 24-7 with a 3.43 ERA. Juan Marichal's injury prevented him from winning 20, but he finished with 18 victories and a 3.36 ERA. Billy Pierce, thought to be an American League re-tread after his bad spring, was unbeaten at home and 16-6 with a 3.49 ERA on the season. Stu "the Killer Moth" Miller finished with 19 saves and avoided the "goat horns" that he would have been forced to wear after his second play-off-game performance. Mike McCormick would take years to reach his potential and finished 5-5. Hard-throwing Bob Bolin was 7-3 and hard-partying Don Larsen was 5-4. Gaylord Perry was 3-1 but in Dark's "dog house," considered timid on the mound after failing to throw out the lead runner at third base on a bunt in a key play-off situation.

Dodgers statistics for 1962 are some of the most pleasing-to-the-eye in the club's history. Many, many Dodgers teams that went all the way could not match the overall numbers of the 1962 squad.

Ron Fairly batted .278 with 14 homers and 71 RBIs. Larry Burright hit .205. Maury Wills batted .299 with 208 hits in 695 at-bats, and an all-time base stealing record of 104. He won a Gold Glove and was voted the National League's Most Valuable Player in a year in which some of the greatest names in baseball history competed against him in their primes. Jim Gilliam batted a .270. Frank "Hondo" Howard's hot summer helped spur his overall .296 average with 31 homers and 119 runs batted in. Willie "Three Dog" Davis established himself as one of the best defensive center fielders in baseball while hitting .285 with 21 homers, 85 RBIs and 34 stolen bases. Tommy Davis's numbers were simply astonishing: a league-leading .346, 230 hits and 153 RBIs, along with 25 homers, 356 total bases, nine triples, and 18 stolen bases. It was one of the finest non-MVP seasons in history. John Roseboro hit .249 and earned kudos for stellar work behind the plate. Wally Moon batted .244. Duke Snider, on his "last hurrah," batted .278 with no power. Doug Camilli batted .284.

Don Drysdale's season is looked back upon with melancholy. It was the best of his career, or close to it, with a league-high 25 wins and 232 strikeouts against nine losses and a 2.83 earned run average, good for his only Cy Young award (which in those days was awarded to only one pitcher in both leagues) but is remembered as the year he lost control emotionally, failing to win clutch games when his team needed him most. Big D would have gladly traded his gaudy statistics and honorary hardware for a World Series ring. Johnny Podres was a solid 15-13 with a 3.81 ERA. Stan Williams was 14-12 with a 4.46 ERA. Sandy Koufax was so close, yet so far. His 14-7 record included no victories (and two losses) after the finger injury that shelved him at mid-season. His 2.54 earned run average still led the National League. Like Drysdale, Koufax failed in the clutch and had not completely thrown the stigma of his early years; that of a pitcher lacking inner fire. Ed Roebuck's 10-2 record and 3.09 ERA was overshadowed by his ninth inning failings in the third play-off, as was Ron Perranoski's 20 saves and 2.85 ERA. Larry Sherry was 7-3 with 11 saves and a 3.20 earned run average, but had not come through when he was given the chance to be the hero as he had been in 1959. Young Joe Moeller, returning in lonely solitude to Manhattan Beach after each home game, or to a single hotel room after each road contest, finished 6-5.

A look at the National League in 1962 reveals that it was indeed a golden age of Hall of Famers, veterans and youth, perhaps unequalled. Cincinnati's Frank Robinson, who at .342 was better than his MVP-lead-the-Reds-to-the-pennant year of 1961, followed Davis's .346. The great Stan Musial of St. Louis did not slow down, hitting .330. Ex-Giant Bill White of the Cardinals batted .324. Milwaukee's Hank Aaron batted .323.

Frank Robinson led the league with a .624 slugging percentage. Aaron's 45 homers trailed Mays, followed Robinson with 39, Chicago's Ernie Banks (in his initial year as a first baseman after breaking in as a shortstop) with 37, and Cepeda with 35.

Davis's 153 RBIs led Mays (141), Robinson (136), Aaron (128), and Howard (119).

Jack Sanford's .774 winning percentage was second to Bob Purkey of Cincinnati (.821), followed by Drysdale (.735) and Pierce (.727). Koufax's 2.54 ERA led Bob Shaw of Milwaukee (2.80), Purkey (2.81), Drysdale (2.83), and Bob Gibson of St. Louis (2.85).

Drysdale's 25 wins led Sanford (24), Purkey (23), another Red (Joey Jay with 21), Art Mahaffey of the Phillies and Billy O'Dell (both with 19).

Elroy Face, the veteran reliever of the Pittsburgh Pirates, led the National League with 28 saves, followed by Perranoski with 20 and Miller's 19.

Drysdale's 232 strikeouts were followed by Koufax's 216, Gibson's 206, Dick Farrell of Houston (203), and O'Dell at 195.

Milwaukee ace Warren Spahn, still going strong at age 42, managed a league-leading 22 complete games. O'Dell had 20, Drysdale 19, and despite his late-season injury, Marichal had .18

Ken Hubbs of Chicago won the Rookie of Year award, but later would meet a tragic fate when he drowned.

****

Roger Angel returned from the third and final play-off game to his hotel in Los Angeles on October 3. An art exhibit of life-size pastel portraits of Dodger heroes were arranged in a semi-circle, each elegantly framed and bearing a gold identifying plate. A velvet rope surrounded it, "like the new Rembrandt in the Metropolitan Museum," he wrote, guarded by a uniformed Pinkerton.

It was not unlike a portrait given to Brooklyn manager Charley Dressen mid-way through September of 1951 bearing the inscription, "To the manager of the 1951 National League champions."

"No one was looking at the pictures," wrote Angell of the 1962 art exhibit. Angell then made his way to the airport and departed on that special United Airlines flight reserved for the media, transporting them from Los Angeles to San Francisco. The citywide party was still going strong when _The New Yorker_ scribe arrived in . . . The City. The faces of fans "all had the shiny-eyed, stunned, exhausted expression of a bride at her wedding reception," wrote Angell.

Bars and restaurants in San Francisco had been filled to capacity during game three of the play-off. When it ended, Market Street resembled V-J Day, with cars honking, orange-and-black confetti hung out windows, strangers shaking hands, hugging, and in the case of men and women, some doing a little more than that.

A matinee playing of _Oliver_ was broken up by transistor-tilting theatergoers shouting with glee. A restaurant owner poured champagne on the sidewalk, clubhouse-style. Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus" broke out at Grace Cathedral.

As the night wore on, the sense of religious deliverance turned into something ugly, with the cops called out to deal with drunk driving, fighting, and vandalism that caused tremendous property damage. Cable cars were tilted and rolled over, roads were closed, and numerous arrests were made.

The San Francisco bar scene was in full swing well past midnight. All of Northern California celebrated the Giants' monumental victory. It was more than just a great win for the Giants over the Dodgers. For the strange, schizophrenic _superior_ -San Franciscans-with-an- _inferiority_ -complex, it meant much more than that.

Los Angeles, Southern California, the Southland, La La Land, Tinseltown, Hollywood . . . the city that wasn't, they called it, but it was. They had everything; better weather, movie glamour, gorgeous girls, famed nightclubs, the endless strand, a bigger population, political and economic clout, better stadiums filled with more fans, and better teams at every level . . . high school, college and professional. The Trojans and Bruins had little regard for the Golden Bears and the Indians, reserving their emotions for a national rival like Notre Dame. Cal's reaction was to _sue_ USC, which made them look even more pathetic.

But now . . . finally, they had _beat L.A.!_ In so doing, they had validated, confirmed their superior, narcissistic view of themselves as "gents," not "rubes"; as "sophisticates," not "yokels." The great dragon of Los Angeles, not just the Dodgers but the very _idea_ of L.A., had been slayed. It was a cultural, socio-political victory; a victory for clean air and water over smog; of cable cars over traffic jams; of literature and poetry over celluloid trickery. Allen Ginsberg over John Wayne. Rudolf Nureyev over Shirley Temple. Liberalism over conservatism.

This all seemed to carry forward when, one month later, San Francisco's liberal Democrat, Edmund "Pat" Brown defeated Los Angeles's conservative Republican, Richard M. Nixon for Governor. At the time, it seemed to be Nixon's political obituary, which could not come too soon for San Francisco Lefties. The north had its revenge over the south. They had validation.

Hannibal had crossed the Alps. Laying in wait was the Roman Empire of sports, the Yankees, who represented a city - the Big Apple, New York - that posed a whole new challenge. San Franciscans thought they lived in The City. New Yorkers knew they lived in _the_ city!

Meltdown

"Let's wait a few minutes before you come in. It's pretty grim in there. The guys are kind of in a daze."

\- Duke Snider advising the writers not to come into the locked Dodger clubhouse after the game three play-off loss

While the City of Angels contemplated what might have been, a drama, a war, a meltdown for all times, was still occurring and would continue for hours in the Dodger Stadium home clubhouse. It would last all night and expand to the Sunset Strip, to the San Fernando Valley, and other locales.

The Dodgers' team policy was to allow immediate press access to their clubhouse. They played mostly night games and writers needed to fill their stories under late deadlines. This had been a day game, but they were still clambering outside the locked doors. 20 minutes passed before Duke Snider emerged. He had lost in 1951, and he had lost again 11 years later.

"Let's wait a few minutes before you come in," he told the press. "It's pretty grim in there. The guys are kind of in a daze."

The writers strained to hear accusatory shouts, whimpered cries and shattered beer bottles from inside. Snider went back in and Wally Moon replaced him. "How the hell would you feel if you'd just lost $12,000?" he asked.

The press was not let in until an hour had passed. Many Dodgers were gone by then. Those still there were drunk or in shock. The stadium crews had not moved all the champagne. Bavasi heard about it and called down an order that if anybody drank any of it they could not expect a contract offer over the winter. The response to this riposte was too foul to repeat, and what was left was consumed by the players without any care what Bavasi told them. Then equipment manager John "Senator" Griffin delved into his private stock of whiskey. The Dodgers were not in a beer drunk; they were in a vicious whiskey-mixed-with-champagne drunk, consumed on empty stomachs after playing a day game, on top of a day, a week, a season of intolerable tension.

John Roseboro was not much of a drinker, so he dressed and left. "It was the worst scene I ever saw with the Dodgers," he said. "It was the one time we did not conduct ourselves with class."

They guzzled liked pirates or old-time Western saloon cowboys, getting nastier and louder. The scene was unprecedented in sports history and has probably never been equaled; not by the fightin', hairy "swingin' A's," _The Bronx Zoo_ Yankees, or the mid-'80s Mets. Alston locked himself inside his office. Listening to the clawing, screaming players trying to get at him from outside, it was like George Romero's _Night of the Living Dead_ ; the poor manager huddled inside, waiting out the darkness.

"Come on out here, you gutless sonofabitch!" screamed one veteran. "Tell us about your strategy, skipper. How we gonna play the World Series, you bastard?"

"Walt, you stole my money," screamed Tommy Davis, apparently oblivious to the fact that Alston also was out his Series share. "$12,000. You stole it."

"Smokey lost it, boys," cried Podres, who had seen the agony and the ecstasy in seven years. "Old Smokey lost the pennant for us."

"We should have won," another screamed. "We could have won, too, if Durocher was managing this club."

Bottles crashed about, players walking amongst the broken glass. Uniforms were ripped to shreds, other times tossed in fury. Some were blind drunk. Daryl Spencer and two others passed out in the shower. Spencer, who did not drink, had consumed a fifth of VO in 30 minutes and later said he did not know how he got home. The club apparently made no provisions for drunk driving. No cabs were called. The players were left to their own devices. Dodger Stadium is not near where most players lived, which meant a perilous traversing of the L.A. freeways.

Griffin was annihilated, fell down wedged into a cubicle, and needed three men to pry him loose. Roebuck, one of the day's goats, dressed quickly and drove home in silence with his wife. "It was like a death in the family," he stated.

Williams stayed in the clubhouse, filled with remorse and self-recrimination. He eventually played putt-putt golf on the clubhouse carpet, but despite his poor performance, the wrath was deflected off of him and directed at Alston.

Of all the players, Drysdale spilled the worst bile. He was known to be loud and opinionated, but Don was always a man of class; friendly, helpful and not ostentatious. But that day was not his finest hour. Oddly, his tantrum could have been directed at himself. The 25-game winner and Cy Young award recipient had not pitched well in key games. Exhausted without Koufax in the rotation, taking it all on himself, he had not been reliable when most needed.

Bavasi lost his composure entirely, locking himself in his office, where he grabbed a blanket, turned off the light, and lay on the couch in the dark. He was literally ill from the stomach-churning game, speaking to nobody because he knew he would say something terrible. His phone rang in vain. Knocks on the door were repeated, shouts un-unanswered. His wife could not get through and she became concerned. He re-played the season over and over in the dark, hating everything, filled with doubt and guilt in a self-imposed hell on Earth. He stayed in his office for seven hours and left, stunned, at 12:30 in the morning. Drunk Dodgers were still pounding away in the clubhouse.

In Bavasi's mind, Alston had blown it, no question about it. Years later, despite his affection for Alston and subsequent glory attained by the Dodgers, he still blamed the manager for not bringing in Koufax or Drysdale.

"You've gotta go with your best," he said.

The Giants won the game on "spotty pitching,, and spottier managing," according to the _1963 Official Baseball Almanac_. That was one of the kinder assessments. When the press finally was allowed into the clubhouse, Alston proved to the one, single stand-up guy of the lot of 'em. He led the writers out of the clubhouse so as to avoid confrontations, and was calm, candid and honest, answering every question regardless of how baited or cutting. He defended all his moves; perhaps he had made mistakes, but he gave reasons for all of them instead of threatening to punch people in the face, as Gilliam had done when asked why he personally denied his teammate (Wills) the stolen base record in St. Louis.

According to Walt, he would have done everything the same if given a second chance. This did not endear him to anybody, and perhaps it was wrong-headed, but it was a stand-up performance. His voice never wavered while he patiently smoked cigarettes and took the questions. The writers, who had clambered that they had deadlines to meet, took their time questioning him, as if this was an inquisition after a shipwreck. It was in truth a day game and they indeed had the time to dissect all of it, bit by bit, before filing their stories.

"I'm going to work their tails off on fundamentals next spring," said Alston, expressing no concern over the possibility that he might not be the manager by then. Finally, he _thanked_ the writers and returned to the clubhouse, shutting the door behind him.

Andy Carey went home and burned all his World Series tickets, not realizing that they had already been deducted from his paycheck and he could not get his money back.

A lot of the Dodgers lived in the San Fernando Valley. They drove drunk to Drysdale's restaurant and got even more plastered, filled with hate for Alston, fueled by Big D's alcoholic venom. They went through the liquor stock, then went to TV personality Johnny Grant's house for more. The bars were closed and that was where the booze could still be found. They drank all night, "and it was pretty rough," said Perranoski. It was a miracle nobody crashed a car or was jailed for DUI.

The most classless of all was Leo Durocher, who stoked emotions like Javert in _Les Miserable_ , performing the act of _j'accuse_ against Alston. In the clubhouse he was approached by everybody, never making any effort to dissuade the premise that had he been in charge they would have won, they would have their World Series shares, they would be getting ready for the Yankees the next day.

A victory celebration had been planned at the Grenadier Restaurant on the Sunset Strip. Stadium club caterer Tom Arthur owned it. There were no players in attendance, but Durocher was there. Liquor flowed and emotions were hot. One Dodger official allowed that if Leo had been the manager, "we'd have won." Reports as to what happened next vary. According to some, Durocher told the club official he would have won the pennant.

According to other reports, he simply stated, "Maybe."

Others stoked him on and Durocher allowed it all to build to a head. Later Durocher said that all he said that night was, "Who wouldn't like to go into the ninth inning with a two-run lead?" adding that "I was asked a question and I answered it." The Grenadier party was "not exactly a call to mutiny," he recalled.

But regardless of the particulars at the Grenadier, Durocher had worked and would continue to work behind the scenes trying for Alston's job. He looked down on the "country bumpkin," considering Walt unworthy of something he considered his birth right of sorts. He had the opportunity to show class and did not.

Somewhere during his seven hours in the darkness, Buzzie Bavasi decided that he would not fire Walter Alston. Loyalty, respect, and also the fact the team had just made oodles of money, breaking the big league attendance mark; whatever reason motivated him, Bavasi decided to stick with the manager.

O'Malley had told Walt that if his plans backfired - principally, the decision to go against O'Malley's St. Louis admonitions to "get tough" - then "heads will roll." Walter respected Alston, but was inclined to fire the manager until Bavasi told him, "If you fire Alston, then I go out the door with him."

O'Malley had a good front office in place and didn't want to tinker with it. A win here, a hit there; glory had been so close. It was not a bad season. It was, in fact, one of the best years in Dodger history if one could separate the final result for what came before it. O'Malley told Bavasi it was his call.

The next day, Bavasi met Alston. "I wouldn't blame you if you fired me right now," said Alston, the stand-up guy.

"Everyone 's entitled to a bad game, a bad year," Bavasi told him. They shook hands and that was that. Then, after Walt left, the phone rang. Hank Greenberg, a Hall of Fame slugger who was then the president of the Chicago White Sox, had been at the Grenadier. He told Bavasi about Durocher popping off, saying that Leo second-guessed and humiliated Alston in full view of everybody, including the varied Dodgers officials. The story got out and was printed in the papers.

Bavasi was very angry. Soon afterwards a Friar's Club roast was held for Maury Wills. Bavasi was coming down the stairs with Vic Scully when Leo appeared. Bavasi confronted him, calling him "an ungrateful sonofabitch." Leo tried to lie his way out of it, but Bavasi knew what he had said. He fired him on the spot.

"Don't come around here anymore, you're through," Bavasi screamed. "I gave you a job when you needed one, and this is what you do to me?" Scully, thinking there would be a fight, "turned white."

Durocher later claimed that Bavasi "conducted an investigation," and when he found out Leo had been the telling the "truth," he rescinded the firing. That was a lie. Durocher had said it and the "investigation" confirmed it. What did happen is utterly remarkable, perhaps the most benevolent act in baseball history.

Alston told Bavasi not to fire Durocher. Alston knew that many Dodgers were "Durocher guys," and he would need them in 1963. If Leo was a fired martyred, they would gather against him. He wanted to win it on his own, with nobody feeling sorry for Leo. It was a move not unlike the one Reggie Jackson made in 1977. Feuding with manager Billy Martin in New York, Reggie told owner George Steinbrenner not to fire Martin after a publicized shouting match between the two in Boston. Reggie felt that he would be blamed for the popular Martin's firing and all would suffer for it.

The _1963 Official Baseball Almanac_ provided a thorough encapsulation of the memorable campaign, written in the light of full disclosure. "It is a high-strung team of talented malcontents and aging veterans who blame each other a little and their manager a lot for 1962," it reported. "When Los Angeles lost the play-off, several of the veterans, passing around several bottles, began to abuse manager Alston, whose greatest ability seems to be winning pennants (three in nine seasons) and retaining his job title doing little and saying less than any other manager in the game. "

"You never know what's going on," said Drysdale. "General manager Buzzie Bavasi makes all the decisions anyway."

"It took a combined effort of 25 players to lose the pennant," Bavasi said. "It's not easy to win a game when you don't get a run in three straight games. I don't place the blame on Alston or any one player. I blame 25 of them."

"The more you think about it, the more impossible it seems," said Alston. "We should never have let it happen and we don't plan to let it happen again."

The Missiles of October

"Same size as 'FIDEL DEAD!' "

_\- News editor,_ San Francisco Chronicle _, when asked how big the headline proclaiming the Giants' pennant-clinching victory should be_

While Vietnam simmered amid Cold War tensions in Southeast Asia, the most pressing dilemma for the United States in October of 1962 was closer to home. The situation had come to a head when Cuban strongman Fulgencio Batista was ousted by the revolutionary forces of Fidel Castro on New Year's Eve, 1959. Shortly thereafter, Castro declared himself a Communist ally of Soviet Premier Nikita Kruschev.

In 1960, Senator John F. Kennedy, the Democrat nominee for President, was told of a top secret CIA plan called Operation Mongoose. Using Cuban nationals, it was designed to launch an invasion of Cuba and oust Castro. Both Kennedy and Vice President Richard Nixon, the Republican nominee, were told in no uncertain terms that the plan was not for public consumption and could not be discussed during the campaign. Despite this, JFK strongly urged that such a plan be put in operation to oust Castro from Cuba. Nixon was one of the plan's main originators and backers. He was forbidden to talk about it, much less advocate or reveal Operation Mongoose. Indeed, Nixon was already planning to do what Kennedy accusingly said he should be doing . . . prior to Kennedy accusing him of not doing it! It was typical "hardball" politics from the Kennedys; the kind that Nixon took to be a lesson for the future.

Nixon was forced to accuse Kennedy of making an unfounded, reckless accusation, thus denying - for national security reasons - that any plans were in effect. After JFK assumed office, the new President inherited the very Eisenhower/Nixon plan he advocated during the campaign; to invade the Bay of Pigs in April, just three months after taking office. Faced with the reality of an invasion as opposed to campaign talk, Kennedy was skeptical but was swept along with the CIA's plan anyway.

Exiled Cuban forces stormed the Bay of Pigs in April of 1961, but the operation was fraught with mistakes. Despite everything, it still could have succeeded, thus effectuating the ouster of Castro and the liberation of an imprisoned island, except that Kennedy refused to allowed U.S. jets to provide air cover for the Cubans. It is seen to this day by Right-wing Cubans as an act of treachery on the part of JFK.

The Bay of Pigs was a failure and embarrassment for the U.S. and began the disintegration of the CIA, the principal Cold War tool of the Eisenhower years. Ike much preferred covert operations to full scale military assaults that were costly in terms of blood and treasure.

Shortly after the Bay of Pigs fiasco, JFK met Soviet Premier Nikita Kruschev in a "summit" in Vienna, Austria. It went poorly for the young President. Shaken by the Cuban failure, JFK was unimpressive. Kruschev, on the other hand, was at the height of his powers.

A round-faced, squat man from the peasant class, he had been assigned a "suicide mission" during World War II by Joseph Stalin: defense of Stalingrad. In one of the bloodiest, most horrible sieges in the history of warfare, the Nazis encircled the city and bombed her incessantly. Amid the freezing Russian winter, the population starved; suffering unspeakable horrors; hope was virtually lost that Stalingrad and all of Mother Russia would be lost; but Kruschev ruthlessly opposed every German onslaught.

Commanders who failed or showed anything less than 100 percent bravery (read: stupidity) were put in a locked room with a loaded gun, told by Kruschev to handle the situation themselves as to avoid "bureaucracy," as in a firing squad, show trial and lasting persecution of their families.

Using fear and bravado to the extreme, Kruschev somehow led the Soviet forces to a bitter victory over their German occupiers. Winston Churchill said of the 1943-44 battle that, "it is not the beginning of the end, but it is the end of the beginning." Indeed, it was one of Germany's first major defeats after having marched from victory to victory since 1939, and helped the Allies to win the war.

Kruschev was a tremendous hero of the "Patriotic War," as the Soviets called it, but immediately found himself mired in the labyrinthine world of Soviet politics, where a popular war hero was immediately seen by Stalin as a threat. Many who served loyally were summarily shot, a fate Kruschev avoided by carefully reading the tea leaves.

When Stalin died in 1953, Kruschev survived a grueling Politburo selection process to emerge as the Premier. He faced immediate crises: a workers' revolt in East Berlin; the Hungarian Revolution of 1956; and the Egyptian nationalization of the Suez Canal. But Communism also saw its greatest glories under his rule. In 1957, Sputnik was launched. In 1958-59, Castro took power in Cuba. The Soviets began adventurous forays into Latin America and Africa.

Kruschev argued the merits of Communism vs. capitalism with Vice President Nixon; the famed "kitchen debate" in Moscow, and the argument over availability of fine foods at Petrini's Stonestown supermarket in San Francisco.

In 1960, Kruschev spoke at the United Nations. He removed his shoe, pounded it on the podium, and told the West that "we will bury you." It was an alarming moment in East-West relations, convincing many - especially on the Right - that Soviet Communism was an evil threat that needed to be stopped at all costs.

But Kruschev had problems within his own circles. Long-simmering feuds going back to the Korean conflict came to a head, and in 1959 Mao Tse-Tung and Red China split from their alliance with the Soviet Union. This set off a mad scramble among the Western intelligentsia to manipulate and benefit from the fissure.

When Kennedy met Kruschev in 1961, the Soviet leader not only boasted of Communism's superiority, he actually believed it to be true. Many Communists toed the "company line" but knew the truth. Kruschev was a "true believer." Nixon himself had complained in 1960 that some 800 million people lived under Communism, while only 500 million lived under freedom. This was the kind of statistic Kruschev could fall in love with. Now, in 1961, the battle for world supremacy would be fought over the "Third World"; the vast, largely indigenous peoples of underdeveloped, non-industrialized nations that stretch from the Pacific to Latin America to Africa, to the Middle East and Asia.

Kruschev respected Nixon, a man of intellect and toughness. He knew the conservative Republican was a military hard-liner, held back from nuking the Communists in Vietnam by Ike. But JFK was like a boy sent to do a man's job, in his view.

"Kruschev was so cocky and sure of himself because he believed that President Kennedy indeed was a 'rookie,' I mean he has 'no experience,' " said former KGB Major General Oleg Kalunin.

After shaking Kennedy's hand at Vienna, Kruschev returned to Moscow determined to exploit the young President's inexperience. In the summer of 1961 he ordered the Berlin Wall to be built, dividing the free West from the Communist East. JFK reacted impotently. Kruschev was convinced he could continue to poke holes in the American armor.

By 1962, JFK had settled into the job. He presided over tax cuts that spurred the economy and acquitted himself well in dealing with a steelworkers strike. Both John and Bobby Kennedy saw domestic politics as their chief concern. Vietnam was on the horizon, but not yet a major issue; certainly not with voters. After the Bay of Pigs and the Berlin Wall, a period of relative East-West calm presided, with the question of how to "handle" China being the major area of foreign concern.

Castro was a thorn in America's side. The Kennedy's used the CIA and the Mafia - eager to regain the casino empire they lost to Castro - in a series of failed attempts to liquidate the Cuban leader. One plot involved rigging a cigar to blow up in his face, but all efforts were unsuccessful. Nevertheless, there was a feeling that both sides were unwilling to test the other in a dangerous confrontation. No showdowns appeared imminent.

****

Los Angeles mourned the loss of the pennant race to the Giants, but their attentions were quickly turned to the exploits of John McKay's Southern California Trojans, who were in the process of going unbeaten en route to their first National Championship since 1939.

Sports fans in San Francisco and New York were spellbound by a classic World Series, one of the greatest ever played. America was innocent still. The portrait of her painted by George Lucas's American Graffiti was an accurate one. President Kennedy's biggest domestic concern were the upcoming Congressional mid-terms. He also followed closely the campaign of his rival, former Vice President Nixon, locked in a knockdown-drag-out battle with incumbent Governor Pat Brown in California.

Then on Monday, October 15, photos taken by American U-2 pilot Richard Heyser revealed SS-4 nuclear missiles in Cuba. President Kennedy was informed of the missiles at breakfast the next day. He convened his 12 most important advisors, known as EX-COMM. Most of them supported an air strike followed by an invasion. However, they weren't aware that Kruschev, knowing communications between Moscow and Cuba were unreliable, had authorized Soviet field commanders in Cuba to use tactical nuclear missiles if the U.S. invaded.

Kennedy wanted to appear tough yet avoid military confrontation. Some advisors recommended a blockade. No matter what action the U.S. took regarding Cuba, EX-COMM expected Kruschev to retaliate.

Between Wednesday, October 17 and Saturday, October 20, Kennedy and his inner circle maintained tight secrecy, but they knew the public could be diverted from the crisis for a finite amount of time. Kennedy followed his planned schedule, taking campaign trips to Connecticut and the Midwest, where he appeared on behalf of the man he owed so much from the 1960 elections, Chicago Mayor Richard Daley. In between trips, a U-2 flight discovered SS-5 missiles, which could reach most of the continental U.S. Kennedy and Soviet Foreign Minister Andrie Gromyko met. Kennedy told Gromyko the U.S. would not tolerate offensive weapons in Cuba, but did not play his hand. The tacit warning, however, was meant to tell Gromyko that he knew about the missiles in Cuba without actually telling him he knew. Playing "cat and mouse," Gromyko denied the Soviets had any missiles in Cuba.

On October 20, Attorney General Robert Kennedy called the President in Chicago to tell him he needed to return for an urgent meeting with EX-COMM. Feigning an "upper respiratory infection," he returned to Washington, but the press began to get suspicious.

The East-West Fall Classic

"Total triumph is unsettling."

_-_ San Francisco Chronicle _columnist Charles McCabe after the Giants barely missed winning the World Series_

On the evening of the day the Giants won the pennant, the circulation manager of the _San Francisco Chronicle_ , which uniquely printed its sports section on green and pink paper, asked the editor what the headline was for the next day's editions.

"It's 'WE WIN!' - white on black," the editor replied.

"How big?"

"Same size as 'FIDEL DEAD!' "

The papers cared only about the Giants. Richard Nixon's campaign was noteworthy because he had appeared in the Giants' clubhouse, a move meant to usurp San Francisco votes normally ticketed to the Democrat Party.

There were human interest stories about little kids using their piggy bank savings, running away from home to buy Series tickets. A constant refrain from the provincial writers harkened back to the "gay '90s," when owner Jim Mutrie called them "my giants." Now, in San Francisco, they were "our Giants." The social set was aghast.

"Good God!" one member of the landed gentry exclaimed. "People will think we're like _Milwaukee_ , or something!"

_Chronicle_ columnist Charles McCabe, who was not a sportswriter, normally wrote of the comings and goings at Trader Vic's, city hall, the Sausalito _avante garde_ scene, and other uniqueness' of San Francisco life. He now directed his attention to the Giants, who he saw as a metaphor for his vision of what America should be. McCabe did not like greatness, as embodied by American Exceptionalism, because for America to be exceptional, other countries had to be unexceptional. That was . . . unfair.

Therefore, he determined that despite having won 103 games, with perhaps the greatest superstar of all time in his prime playing center field, the Giants displayed "lovable incompetence." McCabe warned San Franciscans (who cringed at the moniker "Frisco" applied to them by out-of-towners, of whom thousands were flocking in alarming numbers) that victory would bring on a smugness that would be less comfortable than defeat. It was _not_ what George Patton told his troops before they embarked on the rescue of Bastogne.

For the better part of two decades, whenever classic baseball was played (and often when very mediocre baseball was played), the great Roger Angell was there to chronicle it for _The New Yorker_. Angell's political and social sensibilities, which had not cottoned to the Los Angeles scene, were much more attuned to the San Francisco he found in October of 1962.

The City changed _drastically_ as a result of the Free Speech Movement, the anti-war movement, the gay liberation movement, the women's liberation movement, and in particular, the "Summer of Love" (1967). The San Francisco that emerged in the years after that event, after Vietnam and Watergate, bears little resemblance to The City that Angell found in 1962. There are still vestiges of it that will always be there, if one chooses to search them out and find it, but in '62 it was a way of life.

San Francisco was indeed sophisticated, cultured and foggy. It was The City of Dashiell Hammett's _Maltese Falcon_ , with Humphrey Bogart leading moviegoers while "Spade turns up Powell Street." This was a far, far cry from Clint Eastwood's _Dirty Harry_ a mere decade in the future. It was a city of men in suits, elegant women, coifed hair, and evening manners; of the theatre and the opera; of letters and iconoclasm.

"We've had a lot of trouble in the past few years," a woman told Angell, who by virtue of his _New Yorker_ pedigree tended to run in effete literary circles. Thinking she was talking about a scandal in her family or some such thing, Angell was surprised to discover she was talking about the Giants' tendency to lose in September since their arrival in 1958. Instead of pointing out the long history of September pratfalls that afflicted the New York Giants, Angell said nothing to the matron, "for I realized that her affair with the Giants was a true love match and that she had adopted her mate's flaws as her own. The Giants and San Francisco are a marriage made in Heaven."

How they were, and whey they were, is not easy to describe. McCabe had a point, truth be told; they were _almost good enough_ , just as San Francisco was. Almost good enough was good enough in these parts. Somehow, these people could turn their noses up at the team, the city, the political figure that finished ahead of them. It was snobbery. Beating Los Angeles was like winning a competition with Howard Hughes to build rocket boosters for NASA (did they really want to do _that?_ ), but now - almost to their relief - another obstacle, even more daunting, had been set before them.

"You win the pennant, then you have to go out the very next day and play the Yankees," said Orlando Cepeda. "That didn't give us much time to savor our win against the Dodgers."

"The way the season ended, and the way the play-offs went, it took away a lot of the excitement of the World Series, " said O'Dell. "We never really got the thrill of the Series that I believe everybody else gets."

This may well have been what made them so effective. For decades, National League teams that clinched the pennant early would spend an inordinate amount of time staring at the mounting Yankee forces, and soon they were defeated Gauls slain at the feet of the Roman Legion. Better to know death up close and quick, rather than see it marching toward you over the horizon, across the valley, into their very homes and villages . . .

Angell was shocked when he got a gander at Candlestick Park, especially after spending two days in Taj O'Malley and a pleasant evening in the salons San Francisco cafe society. Candlestick was _nooooo_ Dodger Stadium, Angell noted, "with its raw concrete ramps and walkways and its high, curving grandstand barrier, it looks from the outside like an outbuilding of" - yes, Angell got it the very first time he saw the place - "Alcatraz. But it was a festive prison yard during the first two Series games here."

The Giants used 12 pitchers in the play-offs, and the Yankees were well-rested. The only advantages the Giants had was that it opened at Candlestick and they were tired, which _was_ a strange advantage.

"Man, I'm tired," said Mays. "Man. We're all tired." Yes, they were exhausted, but they had _adrenaline_.

They also had the advantage of surprise.

"It's funny, we spend a week going over the Dodger hitters and here I am pitching against the Giants," said 33-year old Whitey Ford.

When San Franciscans got a glimpse of the _New York Yankees_ they felt like Belgians watching the victorious Americans arriving, but these larger-than-life icons were not there to liberate them. It was like somebody had hauled the statues from center field at Yankee Stadium and now they were come to life, walking about Candlestick Park. There is a truth about the Yankees; it existed then and it exists now. They _do_ still have Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig in their line-up. Those guys are _not dead_.

As if Ford, Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, and Roger Maris needed Ruth and Gehrig; these guys broke those guys' records. In 1962, there were a very small handful of people walking the Earth who were a bigger deal than Mickey Mantle and company. Dwight Eisenhower and John Glenn. Doug MacArthur, maybe. The only guys bigger than the Yankees, it seemed, were _former Yankees_ , and in this a conundrum was posed. "Joltin' Joe" DiMaggio, San Francisco's own, the pride of North Beach, was unquestionably rooting for the Bronx Bombers.

This being 1962, it was before the Super Bowl; before Larry and Magic and Michael; and baseball still reigned supreme, the _World Series_ a near-religious event, its day-games-played-during-school-days giving off a slight Holy Ghost quality, to be seen by kids whose fourth period teacher had a TV and let them watch; whose fifth period teacher did not. Snippets from the radio, 12-year olds who were fans feeling superior to clueless classmates who were not.

The West Coast games started at noon to avoid late afternoon winds, which for the Giants, whose trip from LA. to San Francisco and subsequent scramble for cabs, rental cars and hitch-hiked rides home, meant little sleep. They would need to rely on that adrenaline, which can often propel one to greater heights than standard preparation, at least in the short term.

The crowd arrived early, bearing picnic hampers for much gin-and-tonic tailgating. It was a polite, cheerful, well-dressed gathering, as if they were attending an outdoor opera concert, or "a country horse show," wrote Angell.

The fans watched the great Yankees take batting practice. A sense of creeping Doubt <ED: capital D> began to replace the cheerful optimism engendered from the Dodger Stadium heroics. Mickey Mantle slammed four straight balls over the fence, causing one man to turn to his wife and say, "Well, at least we won the pennant." Berra, Maris and Ellie Howard put on a pre-game show. The sight of Whitey Ford confidently heading to the bullpen for warm-ups caused further shudders. At that point in his career, not only was Ford unbeatable in October play, he seemingly could not be _scored on!_

When the game started fans were in a perpetual state of worry, as in "uh oh, here comes Berra," or "don't relax, Mickey's comin' up this inning." New York jumped out to a 2-0 first inning lead and the crowd feared a blowout. When Mays faced Ford in the second inning, they sensed that a great Hall of Fame treat had been offered them, that all the ups and downs of the crazy season were now well worth it. Mays singled and came around to score, breaking up Ford's World Series record of 33 2/3 consecutive scoreless innings. Ford, who dispatched teams like an executioner, could not get Mays out and knew it.

"It doesn't matter what you throw him," Ford said. "Willie can hit it."

When Mays later drove in the tying run the crowd seemed more relieved than happy, as if they had half-expected their heroes to fall flat on the national stage. The Giants had nine hits against Ford through six innings, but could not put him away.

"Ford stands on the mound like a Fifth Avenue bank president," wrote Angell. "Tight-lipped, absolutely still between pitches, all business and concentration, he personifies the big city, emotionless perfection of his team."

Nevertheless, Mays's success against him and the flurry of hits by the home team did have the effect of demonstrating the possibility, at least, that the Giants could compete. O'Dell had better stuff and racked up strikeouts, but his control suffered. In the seventh Clete Boyer homered. New York added two more runs in the eighth and another in the ninth. The Giants also made mental and physical errors, "clustering under pop flies like firemen bracing to catch a baby dropped from a burning building," and making base running blunders.

"Ford retired the Giants on a handful of pitches and left the mound as if on his way to board the 4:30 to Larchmont," wrote Angell of Whitey's six scoreless innings after the Giants scored in the third, posting a 6-2 victory.

"I'll never forget that homer," Clete Boyer said of his leadoff blast in the seventh, which broke up the 2-2 tie and was the game-winner. "I never got a hit against that guy when he was with the Orioles."

"The big play of the game was Ford," said Dark.

The night before the second game, Jack Sanford nursed a heavy cold while going over the Yankee hitters with O'Dell and Billy Pierce, two former American Leaguers.

"I need all the help you can get," said Sanford. "The Yankees scare the hell out of you." The game featured 23-game winner Ralph Terry vs. the 24-game winner Sanford. Nursing his cold and with antihistamines, using a handkerchief constantly, Sanford was brilliant blending a sneaky fastball, a deceptive slider, a sharp curve and pinpoint control to hurl a three-hit shutout, evening the Series at one in a classic October pitcher's duel, 2-0.

McCovey's monster homer off of Terry in the eighth made the score 2-0 and, in this game at least, it seemed like 10 runs. Scoring almost appeared to be against the law. In the seventh and eighth, McCovey's homer, three singles, a walk, two sacrifice bunts and a Yankee error produced just the one run. Terry pitched three-hit shutout ball until Bud Daley relieved him in the seventh.

"Our staff was in terrible shape but Jack fixed it today," said pitching coach Larry Jansen. "The name of the game is pitching. That's why we're still in it."

"When you pitch a Series victory against the Yankees, you can't complain about anything," said Sanford. "I just kept blowing my nose and pitching strikes. I guess I did pretty good for a dumb Irishman."

"Jack's always had good stuff, but today he had perfect control," said Jansen. "He kept the ball low and he wasn't afraid to go with his slider when he fell behind."

"We know we're in the Series," said Dark. "We played good ball in both games. We're every bit the pros the Yankees are supposed to be."

Giants fans filed joyously out of Candlestick Park filled with hope.

When the Series shifted to New York City, it took an entirely different tone. There was none of the hopeful joy of San Francisco. The Big Apple more resembled General MacArthur's forces, having been dealt a blow, re-grouping for the final surge, confident of victory and entirely aware precisely how to attain it; the methodology and the cost. They were in the _business_ of winning. It was not a contemplated possibility; rather, Series victories were accomplished past acts.

The Yankees were like a veteran writer of books, the Giants a first-time novelist. The veteran scribe knows precisely how and when he will finish his book because he has so much experience and has done it many times. He is confident of his ability because there is no mystery in how he achieves his goals.

The first-time novelist, on the other hand, is armed with a great idea and inspiration, but is beset by writer's block and procrastination, doubts about his ability, alarmed by the looming deadline. Nevertheless, the Giants were filled with talent and it could not be denied.

The Yankee crowds were a total 180 from Candlestick. Photo shots reveals fans that more resembled bankers; or Sam Giancana lookalikes, gangsters and their molls in sunglasses, suits and mink stoles. There was little cheering or pleading. They almost looked like foreigners dispassionately watching a game they did not comprehend.

The San Francisco women had been elegant, and in this regard the New York women looked similar in their expensive coats and coifed hair, but there was none of the noise, no excitement despite the fact that the crowd was a standing room only 71,431. The only emotion seemed reserved for Maris, who was booed lustily.

"C'mon, bum!"

Radios were tuned to a New York Giants football game. Conversation seemed more concerned with the latest Wall Street events, or advertising trends. This was the New Rome at the height of _hubris_. The athletes below were merely paid gladiators brought forth for their amusement. In sixth inning, large clusters of businessman-fans started to leave, "preserving their ticket stubs to the persevering verticals," Angell wrote, so they could "tell their friends they had been to a Series game." _The New Yorker_ columnist suspected that many of the fans were not even New Yorkers; but rather out of town business execs whose tickets were perks.

Despite the lack of enthusiasm, however, those athletes on the green plains below engaged in an astonishing brand of great baseball; the building October tension that marks it as the very best of all sports. For six scoreless innings, Billy Pierce and Bill Stafford matched each other in dominating form.

In the sixth, Maris came to the plate, a tragic hero, unloved despite incredible accomplishments. Had he led Cleveland, or Kansas City, or St. Louis into a similar situation, he would have been elevated to the worshipful status of Rocky Colavito or Stan "The Man" Musial, but in New York all he was not the Mick. Ignoring the flack, like a bomber intent on hitting the target regardless, Maris delivered a clutch single to drive in two runs, breaking up the deadlock.

"We didn't want to give him anything good to hit, but I missed with a fastball and put it down the middle and Maris had his hit," said Pierce. The Yankees added a third run. Pierce was gone, replaced by Larsen, another oddly unheroic Yankee returning to his scene of triumph.

Stafford had a shutout until Ed Bailey's two-run homer closed the gap to 3-2 in the ninth. What was left of the crowd looked on, sure that "the Major," manager Ralph Houk, would quell the rebel uprising in time for the cocktail hour. Houk visited Stafford.

"I didn't see any blood on the mound, so I decided to leave Bill in," the grinning skipper said. "He was pitching a great game and I didn't want to deprive him of a chance to go all the way."

Houk left, the fans and his team supremely confident that any battlefield decisions he made were infallible. When Stafford got the last out with little trouble their confidence was now full arrogance. There seemed no stopping the Bronx Bombers from wrapping up the Series at home, winning in five as they had done in dispatching over-matched Cincinnati the previous year.

The fourth game was "sink or swim" for the Giants. To lose and fall behind, three games to one, giving New York the chance to close it out at home, would be an impossible hole to crawl out of. The crowd also transformed itself from the tourists of game three, replaced by real fans, a fair number of whom were rooting for the Giants. These were the same people who had been witnessing the Giants getting slaughtered at the foot of pinstriped hegemony since their last triumph, when manager John McGraw, pitcher Art Nehf and infielder Frankie "the Fordham Flash" Frisch led the club to victory over Babe Ruth's Yankees in 1922. At that time, the Giants were the kings of baseball, the Yankees mere upstarts who rented the Polo Grounds and had never won a World Series.

Beginning in 1923, when the Yankees moved into Yankee Stadium, "the House That Ruth Built," they had won 19 World Championships, the Giants just two. Angell described the Giants rooters as "filled with the same pride, foreboding, and strong desire to avert one's eyes that was felt by the late General Pickett." For the first time, the full resonance of what this World Series really was hit home.

It was an East-West Fall Classic. For most of the season, the New York fans and media mentally prepared for the Dodgers and the first re-match of "Subway Series" opponents from the 1940s and 1950s. It was the Dodgers, more than the Giants, who dominated the last decade of three-team baseball in the Apple, and it was the Dodgers whose exodus brought on the most tears, the greatest angst, and now the most yearning. It was the Dodgers, above all others, who seemed to inspire the new Mets, whose line-up was chock full of the former _Boys of Summer_.

The first greatly anticipated Yankees-Dodgers World Series had not happened. In the odd 1959 season, Los Angeles never looked to be a real contender until they won at the end, while the Yankees stumbled for their only loss of the pennant in what would be the span of a decade. Throughout all of 1962, the battle of titans, Broadway vs. Hollywood, had been built up to fevered anticipation.

Drysdale and Snider would return, along with the hated O'Malley, and the prodigal son, Koufax. The Yankees' trips to Los Angeles to play the Angels, and their princely reception at "Johnny Grant parties," had served as build-up for the eventual arrival of the Bronx Bombers at Dodger Stadium for actual World Series games.

Dodger visits to the Polo Grounds for series with the Mets had served a similar purpose, whetting the appetite of their legion of Brooklyn fans, now spread throughout the tri-state area in the aftermath of "white flight."

The surprise ending to the season, resulting in San Francisco's victory, had shocked many. It had taken much of the country, including most New Yorkers, a few days to get used to it. The first game of the World Series had been played less than 24 hours after game three of the play-offs, and there had been no time for the press to build up the battle of an inexorable object vs. an impenetrable force.

But game four at the Stadium changed all that. It was a classic with classic moments that live on in Series memory. The fact that a great October duel was occurring played itself before the eyes of New York on October 8. Suddenly ,the realization that the Giants vs. the Yankees had every bit as much _panache_ as the Dodgers vs. the Yankees eased into the conscience of the sports world. It was, in fact, the New York Giants, not Brooklyn who first opposed the great Yankees in the 1920s and 1930s, and in the beginning at least they gave as well as they got.

Suddenly, memories of Giant glory flooded across. 1951: Joe DiMaggio's "last hurrah," the rookies Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays debuting on the world stage, the shadow of Leo Durocher looming larger than life over the proceedings. 1954: the Giants beating Cleveland for the World Championship, with Mays making The Catch, as memorable a moment as any before or since.

After all, Yankees fans suddenly asked themselves, what was so great about _Milwaukee, Pittsburgh and Cincinnati_ anyway? Boring middle American villages. Sure, L.A. had those "Johnny Grant parties," but San Francisco was built in the image of New York City. It had been that way since the Trans-continental railroad was completed. Its citizenry, its skyline, and now its baseball team were _paeans_ to Manhattan. What was not to like about a place that practiced imitation, the sincerest form of flattery?

Plus, they had _Willie Mays!_ It was occurring to these New Yorkers that for all the love they exuded for Mantle, and all the traditions of Ruth, Gehrig and DiMaggio, it was possible, just possible, that the very best of them all was the San Francisco center fielder.

The game four starters had the ring of a true classic: Marichal vs. Ford. How many times in baseball history have two Hall of Fame pitchers faced each other in the World Series? It has happened; it has not happened often.

Up until game four, the Giants tended to respond to enemy scores, but this time they staked the "Dominican Dandy" to a 2-0 lead in the second inning. Marichal seemed completely recovered from his September injuries and dominated New York bats with a two-hit hit shutout through four innings. Watching Juan's high kick and unhittable deliverance of spheres, the Yankees realized that they were in for the fight of their lives; in this game and in the Series, which suddenly seemed inevitably headed back to the West Coast, where anything could happen because in 1962 it already had!

Then in the fifth Marichal tried to bunt and took an inside pitch from Ford on his hand, clutching the bat. The Giants did not score. Dark looked askance at Marichal, who somehow was still suspect in his eyes. He blamed the pitcher for getting hurt, too much it seemed. Sal Maglie, in Dark's view, would have pitched through it, but it was the end of the line for Juan and Bob Bolin, a flame-thrower but no Marichal, took over in the fifth.

The 23-year old was inexperienced and the Yankees circled him like hungry wolves, the tension getting thicker by the minute. Bolin pitched in and out of a tough jam, but in the sixth he got wild, walking Mantle and Maris, leading to the Yanks tying the game. At that point, hope was hard to keep afloat for the San Franciscans, minus the great Marichal; trying to stem the legion in unfriendly territory. The fans, who had slowly built up momentum, now were into it, realizing for the first time that their team needed them.

For the Giants, some act of surprise, of great consequence, needed to occur in order to stop the bleeding, reverse the momentum, and keep them in the World Series. They looked to their most likely heroes; Mays, Cepeda, McCovey were all curiously slumping, but the hero would be the most unlikely of all.

In the top of the seventh, with Ford out of the game, the Giants loaded the bases on a pinch-hit double by Matty Alou sandwiched in between two walks. Chuck Hiller and his three 1962 home runs stepped to the plate against Marshall Bridges. Hiller, who had struck out with men on in the fifth, got something he could sink his teeth into and lifted a fly ball towards the right field fence.

A famed photograph taken from beyond right field tells the story. The look on Hiller's face, as he drops his bat and heads out of the box, is one of hope and astonishment at what he may have just done. Catcher Elston Howard looks _worried_. The fans seated in the expensive box seats behind the screen have that same weary I've-seen-it-all expressions that capture the time and place; the Madison Avenue haircuts, the sunglasses, the mink stoles. But these modern Roman senators are also just realizing that the gladiator, slated to die before thine eyes, has instead won the day against their chosen favorite.

Hiller, with 21 total homers in eight years, hit a grand slam and suddenly the Giants led, 7-3. Larsen was the winning pitcher six years to the day after his 1956 perfecto and now, whether the Yanks had left their hearts in San Francisco or not, they were returning there, looking for another ring.

With momentum on their side, the key fifth game was San Francisco's golden opportunity to swing things around some more, giving them the all-important 3-2 lead heading back to Candlestick. But it was the ability to quell just such threats that had always marked the Yankees, and it was to be on October 10.

The 1962 Series produced a series of classic October photos, and in game five it was Willie McCovey stretching the full length of his 6-4 frame while Bobby Richardson slides safely into first base. Richardson later scored. The Giants made the mistake of handing the unsentimental Yankees a chance to get back in the fifth game. Bailey just missed a tying two-run homer by 15 feet.

Sanford struck out 10, but a wild pitch in the fourth and passed ball in the sixth led to two New York runs in a 5-3 Yankee win. Tresh, establishing himself as a hero in a Series that increasingly saw little out of Mantle, Maris, Howard, Berra or Richardson, hit a three-run homer and Terry earned the win, his first in five post-season tries.

"I'm not particularly happy about it," said Dark. "I would have been happier if we won three in a row here."

Unlike the play-offs, each Series game had been taut and filled with professional tension. Each club showed not merely a desire to win, but the right to victory, which had not marked the final pangs of the N.L. pennant race and play-offs. Each game had been decided by a key, game-of-inches play; important strikes delivered, a double-play just missed; and it appeared obvious that these were indeed the two best teams in baseball. A classic finish was in the offing.

Nobody on the Left Coast said anything about "global warming" when a freak Pacific storm laid siege to San Francisco just as the two teams were getting ready for the sixth game. There were no games between Wednesday, October 10 and Monday, October 15. The massive storm hit Northern California with hurricane force winds, caused five deaths, knocked out power lines, ravaged property all the way to the Oregon border, and dropped nearly two inches of rain on The City. Commissioner Ford Frick post-poned the games until the weather abated. Both teams trekked to the hinterlands to practice and wait it out. Dodger executive Fresco Thompson quipped, "Why call the game? When we play it's wetter than this."

Local and national pundits had ample time to extrapolate on the fate of the Giants, and the increasing awareness that the '62 Fall Classic may indeed be one for the ages. It was the media's opportunity to say all the things they were originally unable to say because of the short time frame between the play-offs and the Series. Many posited the notion that Yankee victory would add to their smugness, but ultimate victory would result in a horn-blowing Market Street celebration, drawing rubes from the outlying provinces of Marin County, San Mateo and Oakland, all to the consternation of the sophisticates.

"Total triumph is unsettling," wrote Charles McCabe, the resident "oracle of Mission Street."

Future defeat was seen as a fatal virus, and "Giant fans, like all neurotics, are unappeasable," wrote Angell. "I can see it now - the Dodgers should have won the pennant." L.A., after all, was the "city that could," where champions resided; the 1952 Rams, 1954 Bruins, 1959 Dodgers and1962 Trojans; victory mostly attained on the backs of opponents from Berkeley, Stanford and San Francisco who ranged from losers to worthy challengers.

When the rain finally stopped, bad drainage on the Candlestick playing surface post-poned game six an additional 24 hours Three helicopters were brought in to buzz the field, but the grass remained soggy. Frick called it "miserable conditions," but play resumed October 15. One man who could not wait for the rain to stop was Horace Stoneham, dismayed to see his booze supply depleted in the hospitality room of the Sheraton-Palace Hotel, where hundreds of writers had nothing to do but get drunk.

The Yankees, in typically smug fashion, made return plane reservations for the night of the sixth game. Instead, Billy Pierce tossed a sweet three-hitter. He was perfect until Maris homered in the fifth, but coasted to a 5-2 win over Ford, now human for the first time, it seemed

The rain had allowed the Giants to rest, and to get their arms lined up. First and foremost, that meant ace right-hander Jack Sanford, the game seven starter. He allowed only a single by Tony Kubek in the first four innings. His opponent was up to the task. Ralph Terry retired the first the 17 batters he faced.

In the fifth, the Yanks opened with two singles and a walk. Kubek then hit a 6-4-3 double-play grounder, but Moose Skowron scored and it was 1-0, Yankees. Tresh made a marvelous catch of a long drive to left field by Mays. Another classic photo shows Tresh fully extended, the ball "snow coned" on the tip of his glove.

Billy O'Dell relieved Sanford with the bases loaded in the eighth but pitched out of the jam. It all came down to the excruciating bottom of the ninth inning, with San Francisco trailing 1-0, hoping to get to Mays and McCovey, scheduled fourth and fifth up in the inning.

It looked promising when pinch-hitter Matty Alou's bunt single led off the inning. It was Matty whose hit of Ed Roebuck started the fateful ninth inning rally in the game three play-off with the Dodgers. Alou's drag bunt hit was only the third of the afternoon against Terry.

Terry was working hard and had much on his mind. He had given up Bill Mazeroski's "walk-off homer" to lose the 1960 World Series to Pittsburgh and certainly did not want to be the "goat" again. The crowd was pleading, hope against hope, a wall of sound and violent, anguished cries. Bearing down, Terry struck out Felipe Alou and Hiller while Matty stood forlornly at first base.

Now, the moment all had been waiting for, the Giants _raison d'être_ ; what San Franciscans had expected since the Giants came west: Willie Mays with everything on the line. Baseball does not get better than this!

Terry worked Mays low and way, which may have been an old scouting report. Mays, reacting to the Candlestick winds, had adjusted his power towards right field. Terry thought he put "real good stuff on it, but Willie opened up and just hit it with his hands." He wristed the ball, powering a shot into the right field corner.

Matty Alou had speed and at first it seemed that he could score the tying run from first base, but Mays's double got stuck in the soggy grass. Roger Maris got to it, whirled and made a good throw. Coach Whitey Lockman held Alou at third base. To this day, the decision is disputed, but replays seem to indicate that Lockman made the right call.

"I'd make the same decision 1,000 times out of 1,000," Lockman insisted. Dark agreed. Both Maris and the cut-off man, Bobby Richardson, had strong, accurate arms.

"Matty would have been out by a mile," said Ralph Houk.

"Roger Maris was playing me to pull, and he cut the ball off before it could get to the fence," recalled Mays. "If that field was dry, the ball rolls to the fence, Matty scores, and I'm on third."

Instead, Mays was on second, Alou was on third, and McCovey was coming to the plate. Leading 1-0 with two outs, Houk came to the mound to confer with Terry and Howard. McCovey had scorched a triple in a prior at-bat and had hit a homer in an earlier Series game. First base was open but Terry felt, "I could get McCovey out. I felt I had a pretty good line on him . . . Maybe I was overconfident."

The decisions that were made doubtfully would be made today: leave Terry in, don't intentionally walk McCovey, and pitch to him. McCovey stepped in, a left-handed threat against the right-handed Terry. The odds seemed to favor Willie Mac, but then again . . . these _were the Yankees!_

Terry threw a slow curve, down and away, hoping to fool the slugger. McCovey hit what at first looked like the last out, a fly ball to Maris in right. Then the wind got ahold of it for a three-run game-winning home run . . .except that at the last second the wind pushed it foul.

The crowed was shocked . . . up, down. Standing, imploring, they watched McCovey pick up his bat and get back into the box. Next was a fastball, Terry challenging him. McCovey leaned into it and hit one on the screws, a searing line drive. Richardson moved just a step to his left, stuck his glove up as much to protect himself as anything, and caught it. The impact knocked him to his knees, where the devout Christian bowed before jumping up to join his teammates in celebration of the Yankees' 20th World Championship in 39 years.
"I hit that ball as hard as I could," said McCovey. "I wasn't thinking about anything when I connected, but when you hit it good, you assume it's going to be a hit."

Photos of the post-game scene show kids with "flood" pants, varsity jackets, and various officials wearing visors, a popular item of the day, surrounding the celebrating Yankees, who carried Terry off the field on their shoulders

"I said it would go seven, because you don't beat the Yanks in less than seven," said Dark,

"I was afraid I was going to faint when McCovey hit that ball," said Terry. "I probably would have fainted if it had gone through . . . A man rarely gets the kind of second chance I did . . . I was real thankful I had a chance to redeem myself in the seventh game of the World Series, because I'd been the loser in the seventh game at Pittsburgh in 1960."

"This was the best pitched Series game I've ever seen," said Joe DiMaggio. "In fact, the pitching was great all Series."

"It may be noted that the Yankees are the least popular of all baseball clubs, because they win, which leaves nothing to 'if' about," wrote boxing writer A.J. Liebling, in San Francisco during the last two games for a prize fight.

There was plenty to "if" about for the Giants. "What ifs?" cropped up about the length and sogginess of the outfield grass; _if_ not "a foot either way" McCovey's liner would have won it, although replays showed Richardson could have gone much further than that to spear it.

Dark was asked if Mays would have scored from second had McCovey's liner gone to the outfield. Dark replied that Willie would have been dressed by the time the Yankees got the ball home, an ode to his instincts as a baserunner and speed.

"I'm just as proud of my players as if they had won the Series," said Dark. "They played just great. When you go down to the last out and the Series is decided by maybe one foot on a line drive, you've battled all the way."

It was the most time-consuming Series since the 1911 Fall Classic lasted 13 days.

"It was a crazy Series, but it was a crazy season," said Dark. "You never forget a year like '62."

Horace Stoneham threw a party in the stadium club, which included 400 people and all the players. In those days, rings only went to the winners. He bought the players solid gold money clips reading "San Francisco Giants - 1962 National League Champions," with crossed bats and balls. Each player's name was carved on the bat, personalized. McCormick said he carried his for years, but stopped because "I think its value is probably too great" to risk theft or loss.

In the end, all the star power on both sides failed to live up to their ultimate billing in a Series dominated by great pitching. Terry was the Series MVP and Outstanding Pitcher, but with a few lucky bounces those honors could just as easily have gone to Jack Sanford, whose hard-luck 1-2 record was accompanied by a 1.93 earned run average in 23 1/3 innings pitched.

"We were told he was a six or seven inning pitcher," Mantle said of Sanford. "We figured if we kept it close, Sanford would lose his stuff by the eighth."

"We learned a lot of things about the Giants in the Series, but we were wrong about Sanford," said Houk. "He's a heck of a pitcher."

The Yankees hit .199, the third lowest for a winning team ever. The Giants outhit them by 27 points and out-scored them, 21-20, but it was a reversal of fortune from 1960. The batting averages were: Tresh (.321), Clete Boyer (.318), Mantle (.120 on three-for-25), Maris (.174), Howard (.143), Pagan (.368), Mays (.250), Cepeda (.158), and Kuenn (.083). Much of the post-Series anguish was directed at Orlando Cepeda, who disappeared against the Yankees.

"I know better than anybody else how terrible I was," said Cepeda. "I do nothing right. I try everything but nothing helps. I feel bad because I let the others down. It's terrible when you're not doing your share. I'm very tired. Between here and Puerto Rico, I play 300 games this year. That is too much."

The Giants thought about trading him. "He just couldn't get his bat around," said Stoneham. "Sometimes he was missing pitches by six inches. That's not what he's being paid $47,000 a year for."

In the Series, Felipe Alou hit third, second, first, sixth, third, and first. His .269 average included a hit in every game but the third and the seventh. San Francisco lost both by a run.

"Davenport surprised me more than any other Giants," said Ralph Terry. "We didn't think he was that good and even though he didn't hit too high, he hit the ball real well."

Charles Schulz, a Bay Area resident, Giants fan, and creator of the "Peanuts" cartoon strip, may have captured San Francisco's sense of longing as well as anybody. In three panels, Charlie Brown sits quietly in a near-catatonic trance, then burst into tears, cursing to the Heavens: "Why couldn't McCovey have hit the ball just three feet higher?"

The brink

"We're eyeball to eyeball and the other fellow just blinked."

\- Secretary of State Dean Rusk

On Sunday, October 21 President Kennedy asked if the Air Force could take out all the missiles. The reply was, "Only the ones we know about." The President then asked about casualties, both civilian and military. The answer was 10 to 20,000. This influenced Kennedy's decision to forego an air strike and set up a blockade around Cuba.

Another U-2 flight discovered bombers being rapidly assembled and cruise missile sites being built on Cuba's northern shore.

The press learned there were offensive weapons in Cuba and questioned Kennedy. The President asked the reporters not to break the news until he informed the American people on network television the next evening. If they denied him the element of surprise, he warned, "I don't know what the Soviets will do."

The public phase of the crisis began on Monday, October 22. When Senate leaders were told about the missiles in Cuba, they called for air strikes, but Kennedy stood firm on his decision for a blockade. Great pressure was placed on Kennedy, particularly from Joint Chiefs Chairman General Maxwell Taylor - a close personal friend of Robert Kennedy's - and Air Force General "bombs away with" Curt LeMay, a staunch Republican not predisposed to agreement with the Democrat President.

U.S. ships prepared for the quarantine. Marines reinforced the base at Guantanamo Bay. The military alert was raised to DEFCON 3. Instructions were given to be ready to launch missiles within minutes of the President's speech. In response, Castro mobilized all of Cuba's military forces.

On Wednesday, October 24, Soviet ships approached the quarantine line. EX-COMM wondered if Nikita Khrushchev had had enough time to instruct the ship captains. Later that day, they got their answer. Soviet ships stopped dead in the water after receiving a radio message from Moscow.

"We were eyeball to eyeball and the other guy just blinked," said Secretary of State Dean Rusk.

The crisis was not over. Throughout America, public and private bomb shelters were built. Students were taught to "duck 'n' cover" under their desks. On October 25 the military alert was raised to DEFCON 2, the highest ever in U.S. history. The military could, at a moment's notice, launch an attack on Cuba or the Soviet Union.

U.S. Ambassador Adlai Stevenson confronted the Soviets at the United Nations. When they "stonewalled" him, Stevenson stated he was "prepared to wait until hell freezes over" for an answer.

On October 26 the U.S. Navy searched the Soviet ship Marcula and cleared it to Cuba when they found only paper products. EX-COMM received a letter from Khrushchev in reply to Kennedy's speech. The letter clearly was painstakingly written. The Soviets would remove their missiles if Kennedy publicly guaranteed the U.S. would never invade Cuba. Another U-2 flight revealed the Soviets were camouflaging the missiles.

The worst day of the crisis was Saturday, October 27. One U-2 flew off course into Russia; another was shot down. A second letter arrived from Khrushchev.

A U-2 on a routine mission picked the wrong star to navigate by and wandered over Russia. In trouble, the pilot alerted the rescue station which dispatched F-105s. Unknown to the American pilot, the fighters carried nuclear tipped missiles. If the Soviets had interpreted this as a final reconnaissance mission before a nuclear attack, this could have touched off a nuclear war.

Another U-2, attempting to get up-dated pictures of the missile sites, was shot down over Cuba on orders of a Soviet commander on site. The orders had not come from Moscow. This worried Khrushchev. Due to poor communication, similar incidents could occur again, without his consultation.

Khrushchev second letter to Kennedy raised the price for removing the missiles. In addition to a public statement about not invading Cuba he also wanted U.S. missiles removed from Turkey. This suggested that hard-liners had pressured Khrushchev. EX-COMM debated how to handle this letter. Robert Kennedy suggested they ignore it and respond only to the first.

On Sunday, October 28, Khrushchev announced over Radio Moscow that the Soviets would dismantle their nuclear missiles in Cuba. Khrushchev could have insisted that the U.S. respond to the greater demands in the second letter, but he did not. By backing down, Khrushchev ruined his career but prevented nuclear disaster.

Poor communication had contributed to the escalation of the Cuban Missile Crisis. In 1962, there was no direct and immediate link between the American and Soviet leaders. Once the crisis entered its public phase on October 22, it took Kennedy and Khrushchev seven days to reach a compromise. They used various written communiqués and television and radio speeches to negotiate with one another. This somewhat unreliable and indirect form of communications nearly led to nuclear war. If Khrushchev had not agreed to remove the missiles, the U.S. would have invaded Cuba within days. In that event, the Soviets would have launched their battlefield nuclear weapons. Then Kennedy would have had no choice but to launch U.S. missiles at Cuba or, more likely, the Soviet Union. Realizing how close they had come to disaster, Kennedy and Khrushchev established the "hot line" between the White House and the Kremlin so they could speak directly.

Nine months after the crisis, Kennedy and Khrushchev signed an agreement to ban nuclear testing in the atmosphere. This marked the beginning of what seemed to be a new willingness to cooperate and communicate. However, on November 22, 1963, President Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas. 11 months later, Premier Khrushchev was removed from office by Communist hard liners.

The prospect of nuclear conflagration has been painted as being nearly unavoidable, but this is probably not so. Various scenarios have depicted the crisis as an escalating one, starting with an invasion of Cuba, followed by the Soviets "moving" on Berlin, followed by an "August of 1914"-style beginning of the World War III.

The Kennedy's demonstrated leadership above and beyond the call of duty. They are what they are. Some of what the Kennedy's are is rather despicable. Some of the things they did were shining moments in Presidential history. This was one of them.

****

Khruschev's tape-recorded memoirs, smuggled to the West and published in 1970 after his death (further installments followed in 1974 and 1990), shed some doubt on Bobby Kennedy's role in the process. Kruschev did not believe that Kennedy was facing a near-mutiny within his own military. This was the "dilemma" that has been painted more and more frequently by those who prefer to think the American military was a rogue outfit bent on overthrowing and assassinating the attractive young Democrat in the White House. The fact that this is a lie is knowledge possessed by millions. The "cabal" was supposed to be led by General Maxwell Taylor, who was apparently so willing to usurp the Democratic process through military takeover that Bobby later named one of his children after him.

"President Kennedy said that in exchange for the withdrawal of our missiles, he would remove American missiles from Turkey and Italy," Kruschev's posthumous memoirs recalled.

Secrecy was the key at the time. National Security Advisor McGeorge Bundy and Secretary of State Dean Rusk publicly insist that RFK had simply made informal assurances, not specific promises regarding the American arsenal. After glasnost in 1989, Theodore Sorensen admitted that he had taken it upon himself to edit out a "very explicit" reference to the inclusion of the Jupiter's in the final deal. The following are excerpts of recollections of the crisis by key participants:

Robert F. Kennedy

"I telephoned Ambassador Dobrynin about 7:15 P.M. and asked him to come to the Department of Justice. We met in my office at 7:45. I told him first that we knew that work was continuing on the missile bases in Cuba and that in the last few days it had been expedited. I said that in the last few hours we had learned that our reconnaissance planes flying over Cuba had been fired upon and that one of our U-2s had been shot down and the pilot killed. That for us was a most serious turn of events. President Kennedy did not want a military conflict. He had done everything possible to avoid a military engagement with Cuba and with the Soviet Union, but now they had forced our hand. Because of the deception of the Soviet Union, our photographic reconnaissance planes would have to continue to fly over Cuba, and if the Cubans or Soviets shot at these planes, then we would have to shoot back. This would inevitably lead to further incidents and to escalation of the conflict, the implications of which were very grave indeed.

He said the Cubans resented the fact that we were violating Cuban air space. I replied that if we had not violated Cuban air space, we would still be believing what Khruschev had said - that there would be no missiles placed in Cuba. In any case, I said, this matter was far more serious than the air space of Cuba - it involved the peoples of both of our countries and, in fact, people all over the globe.

"The Soviet Union had secretly established missile bases in Cuba while at the same time proclaiming privately and publicly that this would never be done. We had to have a commitment by tomorrow that those bases would be removed. I was not giving them an ultimatum but a statement of fact. He should understand that if they did not remove those bases, we would remove them. President Kennedy had great respect for the Ambassador's country and the courage of its people. Perhaps his country might feel it necessary to take retaliatory action; but before that was over, there would be not only dead Americans but dead Russians as well.

"He asked me what offer the United States was making, and I told him of the letter that President Kennedy had just transmitted to Khruschev. He raised the question of our removing the missiles from Turkey. I said that there could be no quid pro quo or any arrangement made under this kind of threat or pressure and that in the last analysis this was a decision that would have to be made by NATO. However, I said, President Kennedy had been anxious to remove those missiles from Italy and Turkey for a long period of time. He had ordered their removal some time ago, and it was our judgment that, within a short time after this crisis was over, those missiles would be gone.

I said President Kennedy wished to have peaceful relations between our two countries. He wished to resolve the problems that confronted us in Europe and Southeast Asia. He wished to move forward on the control of nuclear weapons. However, we could make progress on these matters only when the crisis was behind us. Time was running out. We had only a few more hours - we needed an answer immediately from the Soviet Union. I said we must have it the next day.

"I returned to the White House...."

(Robert F. Kennedy. Thirteen Days: A Memoir of the Cuban Missile Crisis. New York: New American Library, 1969, 107-109.)

Nikita Khruschev

"The climax came after five or six days, when our Ambassador to Washington, Anatoly Dobrynin, reported that the President's brother, Robert Kennedy, had come to see him on an unofficial visit. Dobrynin's report went something like this:

"'Robert Kennedy looked exhausted. One could see from his eyes that he had not slept for days. He himself said that he had not been home for six days and nights.' 'The President is in a grave situation,' Robert Kennedy said, 'and does not know how to get out of it. We are under very severe stress. In fact we are under pressure from our military to use force against Cuba. Probably at this very moment the President is sitting down to write a message to Chairman Khruschev. We want to ask you, Mr. Dobrynin, to pass President Kennedy's message to Chairman Khruschev through unofficial channels. President Kennedy implores Chairman Khruschev to accept his offer and to take into consideration the peculiarities of the American system. Even though the President himself is very much against starting a war over Cuba, an irreversible chain of events could occur against his will. That is why the President is appealing directly to Chairman Khrushchev for his help in liquidating this conflict. If the situation continues much longer, the President is not sure that the military will not overthrow him and seize power. The American army could get out of control.'"

(Khruschev Remembers, introduction, commentary, and notes by Edward Crankshaw, translated and edited by Strobe Talbott. Boston: Little, Brown, 1970; citation from paperback edition, New York: Bantam, 1971, pages 551-52.)

Theodore Sorensen

"...The President [Kennedy] recognized that, for Chairman Khruschev to withdraw the missiles from Cuba, it would be undoubtedly helpful to him if he could say at the same time to his colleagues on the Presidium, 'And we have been assured that the missiles will be coming out of Turkey.' And so, after the ExComm meeting [on the evening of October 27, 1962], as I'm sure almost all of you know, a small group met in President Kennedy's office, and he instructed Robert Kennedy - at the suggestion of Secretary of State [Dean] Rusk - to deliver the letter to Ambassador Dobrynin for referral to Chairman Khrushchev, but to add orally what was not in the letter: That the missiles would come out of Turkey.

"Ambassador Dobrynin felt that Robert Kennedy's book did not adequately express that the 'deal' on the Turkish missiles was part of the resolution of the crisis. And here I have a confession to make to my colleagues on the American side, as well as to others who are present. I was the editor of Robert Kennedy's book. It was, in fact, a diary of those "Thirteen Days". And his diary was very explicit that this was part of the deal; but at that time it was still a secret even on the American side, except for the six of us who had been present at that meeting. So I took it upon myself to edit that out of his diaries, and that is why the Ambassador is somewhat justified in saying that the diaries are not as explicit as his conversation."

(Sorensen's comments; Bruce J. Allyn, James G. Blight, and David A. Welch, editors, Back to the Brink: Proceedings of the Moscow Conference on the Cuban Missile Crisis. January 27-28, 1989; Lanham, Maryland: University Press of America, 1992, pages 92-93.)

McGeorge Bundy

"... Later [on Saturday], accepting a proposal from Dean Rusk, [John F.] Kennedy instructed his brother to tell Ambassador Dobrynin that while there could be no bargain over the missiles that had been supplied to Turkey, the President himself was determined to have them removed and would attend to the matter once the present crisis was resolved - as long as no one in Moscow called that action part of a bargain. [page 406]

"...The other part of the oral message [to Dobrynin] was proposed by Dean Rusk: That we should tell Khrushchev that while there could be no deal over the Turkish missiles, the President was determined to get them out and would do so once the Cuban crisis was resolved. The proposal was quickly supported by the rest of us [in addition to Bundy and Rusk, those present included President Kennedy, McNamara, RFK, George Ball, Roswell Gilpatrick, Llewellyn Thompson, and Theodore Sorensen]. Concerned as we all were by the cost of a public bargain struck under pressure at the apparent expense of the Turks, and aware as we were from the day's discussion that for some, even in our own closest councils, even this unilateral private assurance might appear to betray an ally, we agreed without hesitation that no one not in the room was to be informed of this additional message. Robert Kennedy was instructed to make it plain to Dobrynin that the same secrecy must be observed on the other side, and that any Soviet reference to our assurance would simply make it null and void. [pages 432-441>

"...There was no leak. As far as I know, none of the nine of us told anyone else what had happened. We denied in every forum that there was any deal, and in the narrowest sense what we said was usually true, as far as it went. When the orders were passed that the Jupiters must come out, we gave the plausible and accurate - if incomplete - explanation that the missile crisis had convinced the President once and for all that he did not want those missiles there.... [page 434]"

(Bundy, McGeorge. Danger and Survival: Choices About the Bomb in the First Fifty Years. New York: Random House, 1988.)

Dean Rusk

"Even though Soviet ships had turned around, time was running out. We made this very clear to Khrushchev. Earlier in the week Bobby Kennedy told Ambassador Dobrynin that if the missiles were not withdrawn immediately, the crisis would move into a different and dangerous military phase. In his book 'Khrushchev Remembers', Khrushchev states that Robert Kennedy told Dobrynin that the military might take over. Khrushchev either genuinely misunderstood or deliberately misused Bobby's statement. Obviously there was never any threat of a military takeover in this country. We wondered about Khrushchev's situation, even whether some Soviet general or member of the Politburo would put a pistol to Khrushchev's head and say, 'Mr. Chairman, launch those missiles or we'll blow your head off!'

"...In framing a response [to Khrushchev's second letter of Saturday, October 27], the President, Bundy, McNamara, Bobby Kennedy, and I met in the Oval Office, where after some discussion I suggested that since the Jupiters in Turkey were coming out in any event, we should inform the Russians of this so that this irrelevant question would not complicate the solution of the missile sites in Cuba. We agreed that Bobby should inform Ambassador Dobrynin orally. Shortly after we returned to our offices, I telephoned Bobby to underline that he should pass this along to Dobrynin only as information, not a public pledge. Bobby told me that he was then sitting with Dobrynin and had already talked with him. Bobby later told me that Dobrynin called this message 'very important information.'"

(Rusk, Dean as told to Richard Rusk. As I Saw It. New York: Norton & Co., 1990, pages 238-240.)

Dobrynin's Cable to the Soviet Foreign Ministry, October 27, 1962

TOP SECRET Making Copies Prohibited Copy No. I

CIPHERED TELEGRAM

"Late tonight R. Kennedy invited me to come see him. We talked alone.

The Cuban crisis, R. Kennedy began, continues to quickly worsen. We have just received a report that an unarmed American plane was shot down while carrying out a reconnaissance flight over Cuba. The military is demanding that the President arm such planes and respond to fire with fire. The USA government will have to do this.

I interrupted R. Kennedy and asked him, what right American planes had to fly over Cuba at all, crudely violating its sovereignty and accepted international norms? How would the USA have reacted if foreign planes appeared over its territory?

"We have a resolution of the Organization of American states that gives us the right to such overflights," R. Kennedy quickly replied.

"I told him that the Soviet Union, like all peace-loving countries, resolutely rejects such a 'right' or, to be more exact, this kind of true lawlessness, when people who don't like the social-political situation in a country try to impose their will on it - a small state where the people themselves established and maintained [their system].

"'The OAS resolution is a direct violation of the UN Charter,' I added, 'and you, as the Attorney General of the USA, the highest American legal entity, should certainly know that.'

"R. Kennedy said that he realized that we had different approaches to these problems and it was not likely that we could convince each other. But now the matter is not in these differences, since time is of the essence. 'I want,' R. Kennedy stressed, 'to lay out the current alarming situation the way the president sees it. He wants N.S. Khrushchev to know this. This is the thrust of the situation now.'

"'Because of the plane that was shot down, there is now strong pressure on the president to give an order to respond with fire if fired upon when American reconnaissance planes are flying over Cuba. The USA can't stop these flights, because this is the only way we can quickly get information about the state of construction of the missile bases in Cuba, which we believe pose a very serious threat to our national security. But if we start to fire in response - a chain reaction will quickly start that will be very hard to stop. The same thing in regard to the essence of the issue of the missile bases in Cuba. The U.S.A. government is determined to get rid of those bases - up to. In the extreme case, of bombing them, since, I repeat, they pose a great threat to the security of the USA. But in response to the bombing of these bases, in the course of which Soviet specialists might suffer, the Soviet government will undoubtedly respond with the same against us, somewhere in Europe. A real war will begin, in which millions of Americans and Russians will die. We want to avoid that any way we can, I'm sure that the government of the USSR has the same wish. However, taking time to find a way out [of the situation] is very risky (here R. Kennedy mentioned as if in passing that there are many unreasonable heads among the generals, and not only among the generals, who are itching for a "fight"). The situation might get out of control, with irreversible consequences.

"'In this regard,' R. Kennedy said, ' the president considers that a suitable basis for regulating the entire Cuban conflict might be the letter N.S. Khrushchev sent on October.26 and the letter in response from the President which was sent off today to N.S. Khrushchev through the US Embassy in Moscow. The most important thing for us,' R. Kennedy stressed, 'is to get as soon as possible the agreement of the Soviet government to halt further work on the construction of the missile bases in Cuba and take measures under international control that would make it impossible to use these weapons. In exchange the government of the USA is ready, in addition to repealing all measures on the "quarantine," to give the assurances that there will not be any invasion of Cuba and that other countries of the Western Hemisphere are ready to give the same assurances - the US government is certain of this.'

"'And what about Turkey?' I asked R. Kennedy.

"'If that is the only obstacle to achieving the regulation I mentioned earlier, then the president doesn't see any unsurmountable difficulties in resolving this issue,' replied R. Kennedy. 'The greatest difficulty for the president is the public discussion of the issue of Turkey. Formally the deployment of missile bases in Turkey was done by a special decision of the NATO Council. To announce now a unilateral decision by the president of the USA to withdraw missile bases from Turkey - this would damage the entire structure of NATO and the US position as the leader of NATO, where, as the Soviet government knows very well, there are many arguments. In short. if such a decision were announced now it would seriously tear apart NATO.

"'However, President Kennedy is ready to come to agree on that question with N.S. Khrushchev, too. I think that in order to withdraw these bases from Turkey,' R. Kennedy said, 'we need 4-5 months. This is the minimal amount of time necessary for the US government to do this, taking into account the procedures that exist within the NATO framework. On the whole Turkey issue,' R. Kennedy added, if Premier N.S. Khrushchev agrees with what I've said, we can continue to exchange opinions between him and the president, using him, R. Kennedy and the Soviet ambassador. ''However, the president can't say anything public in this regard about Turkey,' R. Kennedy said again. R. Kennedy then warned that his comments about Turkey are extremely confidential; besides him and his brother, only 2-3 people know about it in Washington.

"'That's all that he asked me to pass on to N.S. Khrushchev,' R. Kennedy said in conclusion. 'The president also asked N.S. Khrushchev to give him an answer (through the Soviet ambassador and R. Kennedy) if possible within the next day (Sunday) on these thoughts in order to have a business-like, clear answer in principle. [He asked him] not to get into a wordy discussion, which might drag things out. The current serious situation, unfortunately, is such that there is very little time to resolve this whole issue.

"'Unfortunately, events are developing too quickly. The request for a reply tomorrow,' stressed R. Kennedy, 'is just that - a request, and not an ultimatum. The president hopes that the head of the Soviet government will understand him correctly.'

I noted that it went without saying that the Soviet government would not accept any ultimatums and it was good that the American government realized that. I also reminded him of N.S. Khrushchev's appeal in his last letter to the president to demonstrate state wisdom in resolving this question. Then I told R. Kennedy that the president's thoughts would be brought to the attention of the head of the Soviet government. I also said that I would contact him as soon as there was a reply. In this regard, R. Kennedy gave me a number of a direct telephone line to the White House.

"In the course of the conversation, R. Kennedy noted that he knew about the conversation that television commentator Scali had yesterday with an Embassy adviser on possible ways to regulate the Cuban conflict [one-and-a-half lines whited out]

I should say that during our meeting R. Kennedy was very upset; in any case, I've never seen him like this before. True, about twice he tried to return to the topic of 'deception,' (that he talked about so persistently during our previous meeting), but he did so in passing and without any edge to it. He didn't even try to get into fights on various subjects, as he usually does, and only persistently returned to one topic: time is of the essence and we shouldn't miss the chance.

"After meeting with me he immediately went to see the president, with whom, as R. Kennedy said, he spends almost all his time now."

27/X-62 A. DOBRYNIN

(Source: Russian Foreign Ministry archives, translation from copy provided by NHK, in Richard Ned Lebow and Janice Gross Stein, We All Lost the Cold War, Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1994, appendix, pages 523-526, with minor revisions.)

Lebow and Stein comment

We All Lost the Cold War (excerpt):

"The cable testifies to the concern of John and Robert Kennedy that military action would trigger runaway escalation. Robert Kennedy told Dobrynin of his government's determination to ensure the removal of the Soviet missiles in Cuba, and his belief that the Soviet Union 'will undoubtedly respond with the same against us, somewhere in Europe.' Such an admission seems illogical if the administration was using the threat of force to compel the Soviet Union to withdraw its missiles from Cuba. It significantly raised the expected cost to the United States of an attack against the missiles, thereby weakening the credibility of the American threat. To maintain or enhance that credibility, Kennedy would have had to discount the probability of Soviet retaliation to Dobrynin. That nobody in the government was certain of Khrushchev's response makes Kennedy's statement all the more remarkable.

"It is possible that Dobrynin misquoted Robert Kennedy. However, the Soviet Ambassador was a careful and responsible diplomat. At the very least, Kennedy suggested that he thought that Soviet retaliation was likely. Such an admission was still damaging to compellence. It seems likely that Kennedy was trying to establish the basis for a more cooperative approach to crisis resolution. His brother, he made clear, was under enormous pressure from a coterie of generals and civilian officials who were 'itching for a fight.' This also was a remarkable admission for the Attorney General to make. The pressure on the President to attack Cuba, as Kennedy explained at the beginning of the meeting, had been greatly intensified by the destruction of an unarmed American reconnaissance plane. The President did not want to use force, in part because he recognized the terrible consequences of escalation, and was therefore requesting Soviet assistance to make it unnecessary.

"This interpretation is supported by the President's willingness to remove the Jupiter missiles as a quid pro quo for the withdrawal of missiles in Cuba, and his brother's frank confession that the only obstacle to dismantling the Jupiters were political. 'Public discussion' of a missile exchange would damage the United States' position in NATO. For this reason, Kennedy revealed, 'besides himself and his brother, only two-three people know about it in Washington.' Khrushchev would have to cooperate with the administration to keep the American concession a secret.

"Most extraordinary of all is the apparent agreement between Dobrynin and Kennedy to treat Kennedy's de facto ultimatum as 'a request, and not an ultimatum.' This was a deliberate attempt to defuse as much as possible the hostility that Kennedy's request for an answer by the next day was likely to provoke in Moscow. So too was Dobrynin's next sentence: 'I noted that it went without saying that the Soviet government would not accept any ultimatum and it was good that the American government realized that.'

"Prior meetings between Dobrynin and Kennedy had sometimes degenerated into shouting matches. On this occasion, Dobrynin indicates, the Attorney General kept his emotions in check and took the Ambassador into his confidence in an attempt to cooperate on the resolution of the crisis. This two-pronged strategy succeeded where compellence alone might have failed. It gave Khrushchev positive incentives to remove the Soviet missiles and reduced the emotional cost to him of the withdrawal. He responded as Kennedy and Dobrynin had hoped."

****

The Kennedy image was burnished in the 1980s by Robert McNamara and McGeorge Bundy, who felt President Ronald Reagan was embracing brinkmanship. They joined other former Kennedy aides warning that the Cuban Missile Crisis had not been resolved by America's nuclear superiority, but conventional superiority in the Caribbean, enabling restraint and quarantine to replace nuclear war.

Declassified U.S. government documents in the mid-1980s included notes and transcripts of Kennedy's top advisers, portraying a President devoted to peace in direct contradiction to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Led by Air Force General "bombs away with" Curt LeMay (who prosecuted the Dresden firebombings), the military was supposed to be itching to go to war. The chiefs could not guarantee the destruction through air strikes of all the Soviet missiles in Cuba. If JFK thought he could achieve through the crisis what he had failed to do at the Bay of Pigs, perhaps he would have endorsed a strike. But he faced, instead, the prospect of killing a lot of Russians and Cubans, creating a huge international imbroglio, and in the end not only failing to destroy the nukes but giving the Communists the excuse they wanted to keep them there.

In 1987 Dean Rusk revealed the proposal of a public Turkey-Cuba trade through the United Nations. Theodore Sorenson admitted that while editing Thirteen Days he cut references in RFK's diary to the Turkey-Cuba deal. JFK had dismissed such proposal as appeasement, attributing it to U.S. Ambassador to the U.N. Adlai Stevenson (who JFK disliked and called a "swisher" because he felt he lacked manly sexuality). A declassified cable from Dobrynin (published in the Cold War International History Project Bulletin) showed that RFK made the deal explicit, commenting to Dobrynin that such a document "could cause irreparable harm to my political career in the future."

Held between 1987 and 1992, a series of conferences were organized by James Blight and Janet Lang of the Thomas J. Watson Jr., Institute for International Studies at Brown University. Many introduced revelations of "critical oral history," and included Kennedy aides, Soviet participants, and Cuban veterans (among them Fidel Castro). Along with intermediate-range missiles, the Soviet arsenal in Cuba included tactical nuclear warheads that might have been used if the United States had invaded. Cuba was apparently more in control of their destiny than originally painted, although Castro's survival and the downfall of the Soviet Union and their leadership allows him to create this picture more easily. He is supposed to have said to Kruschev "use 'em or lose 'em."

Most Soviet recollection was uncorroborated, diluted by age, or came from children, like Khrushchev's son. One Hell of a Gamble by Russian scholar Alexandr A. Fursenko and Yale University historian Timothy Naftali, cited quotations from still-secret Moscow archives, and were compared with new U.S. documentation.

The crisis was the beginning of the end of Kruschev, who was ousted by hard-liners in an October, 1964 coup. A military intelligence officer named Georgi Bolshakov reportedly met with Bobby Kennedy on a backchannel basis 51 times in 1961 and '62. KGB intelligence failed the Politburo. KGB station chief Alexandr Feklisov reported in March, 1962 that he had at least three well-placed sources whose names "the Russian government continues to protect." Wanna bet their Democrats? Despite this, the KGB ended up relying on inaccurate invasion tips from a bartender at the National Press Club!

Khrushchev ended up believing nobody. He dealt with a non-KGB inner circle and did not delegate authority or consult with his intelligence agencies, probably out of fear from his own experiences moving up the Stalinist ladder during the Beria era. The Politburo was infuriated at his habit of inviting prominent American businessmen visiting Moscow to the Kremlin, as if the head of Westinghouse could enlighten him as to U.S. military intentions. While trying to decide whether to place tactical nuclear weapons in Cuba, Khrushchev was visited at his dacha by the poet Robert Frost!

The Kennedy version of the crisis is designed to make them appear particularly heroic, saving the world from Armageddon. The odds of nuclear war have been said to be one in three. McGeorge Bundy said one in 100. That is quite a differential.

"In this apocalyptic matter the risk can be very small indeed and still much too large for comfort," Bundy added.

Much of the history related to the crisis centers on the aftermath of it, not the causes. Cuban leaders were expecting another invasion, and there is little doubt that they were going to get something - an invasion, an attempted assassination, a CIA-organized coup, or a combination of the above. Notably, former Secretary of Defense McNamara acknowledged in 1989, meeting with former Soviet and Cuban officials, that "if I had been a Cuban leader, I think I might have expected a U.S. invasion. Why? Because the U.S. had carried out what I have referred to publicly as a debacle - the Bay of Pigs invasion...Secondly, there were covert operations. The Cubans knew that. There were covert operations extending over a long period of time."

Kennedy had ordered a huge expansion over the Eisenhower military. Ike, the military man, knew about waste and corruption in the Military Industrial Complex. He purposely kept his forces low. Deputy Secretary of Defense Roswell Gilpatric said that U.S. strategic forces far surpassed the Soviet military of that era, and nuclear first strike plans against the Soviet Union were considered viable. Throughout the '50s, military planners frequently used terms like "tactical nuclear weapons," "battlefield nuclear weapons," and other phraseology designed to give the impression that these bombs could be employed if necessary without the kind of "end of days" scenarios that were later attributed to their use.

The Soviets, products of a history of invasion and 19 years removed from Nazi attack, worried about worst-case scenarios. They saw in the U.S. a young country, inbued by the "cowboy" mentality handed down from Teddy Roosevelt; a nation almost untouched by war and misery, led by the swashbuckler Kennedy. The Russians and the Cubans were understandably nervous, which was the intent of U.S. diplomacy, but was a strategy that required a certain amount of delicacy.

Soviet placement of nukes 90 miles from Miami was risky and dangerous, but it did not foreshadow Communist intent to destroy the West. Make no mistake, if the Soviets thought they could have done it and gotten away with it (or incurred "acceptable" retaliatory damage), they would have bombed us to smithereens with as much glee as Hitler. But they did not have that capability. The missiles in Cuba were a clumsy diplomatic message, and despite the fact this episode cost Kruschev his job, it worked. Keeping the nukes there was not necessary to the message. The entire framework of Western thought regarding these weapons changed after October of 1962. No longer did people accept "battlefield nuclear" capability as anything but a lose-lose proposition. The American anti-war, anti-nuke, peacenik Left was thrust into action by the crisis. That was to the distinct advantage of the Communists. Once all the layers are stripped away, the world gained the in long-run advantage, too.

The "battle" between Kennedy and the J.C.S., the argument over use of these kinds of weapons, and the resulting split between hawks and doves, brings up some interesting points. Plato spoke about the "warrior spirit," and he appreciated the courage and heroism of soldiers. But he felt that government needed to be tempered by a civilian restraint. Stevenson has been depicted as the "coward" who counter-balanced LeMay in the struggle for Kennedy's soul. The Stevenson-LeMay points of view are emblematic of the larger struggle between conservatives and liberals in the West.

The Founding Fathers wanted this kind of argument to take place, figuring that the end result would be something in the middle, a moderate approach that might not satisfy everybody but would, after all the checks and balances, be the safest course. Occasionally, bold action is required. Kennedy himself wrote about this; politicians who "go against the grain," in "Profiles in Courage". The two-party system is meant to create advocates who occasionally venture towards extremism, but are tempered by a majority will in the end.

History has demonstrated that conservatives are in the right when it comes to the Cold War, the Great Society and most of the pressing issues of the second half of the 20th Century. There are members of the Left who have been shown to be outright traitors, like the Rosenberg's and Alger Hiss. Certain vitriolic haters, like Noam Chomsky and Gore Vidal, seem to be nothing more than histrionic carriers of the Emma Goldman strain. These people, left to their own devices, would do things so drastically bad to America that their exposure and discreditation is much more than mere sociological bragging rights.

However, liberalism and the Democratic party, when presented as the loyal opposition in the proper spirit, offer much for America. Democracy is a fragile thing. The Framers wanted a two-party system because they wanted argument. Liberals have provided the civilian side to counter-balance Plato's warrior spirit, and the Cuban Missile Crisis is as good an example of this as we have seen. When America goes to war, flag-waving conservatives advocate patriotism, "coming together," politics ending "at the water's edge," and support for the troops. All of this is fine. Some of the anarchists whose protests are simple appeasement and moral equivalency are rightly identified and marginalized. But the liberal point of view - intelligent, reasoned, passionate yet still respectful - is not only allowed, it is necessary. The right does need counter-balancing. When properly reigned in, it does the work of greatness, but it can not always be counted on reigning themselves in.

The true "useful idiots" who have dotted the landscape for 50 years are a joke, and the challenge the Left faces is in not letting them take over. While Republicans might secretly (or not so secretly) root for this, since it means electoral success for them, America is better off with a few Adlai Stevenson's willing to stand up and offer enough alternatives so the entire gamut of decision-making is available.

Politicians are human and subject to irrational thought. In retrospect, the crisis saw its share of irrationality from all sides. It also pointed out some extremely important lessons, learned mostly by Nixon. The Communists may have been evil incarnate, the architects of mass death and horror. But the battle between the forces of good and evil were not to be won in one fell swoop. The "great game" needed to be played out, and the devil had to be dealt with. Any reader of Sun Tsu's "Art of War" knew this. The Soviets and Cubans needed to be manipulated before they could be defeated. Nixon learned how to play them against each other. It required a deft touch.

The crisis was not won by brinkmanship. It was won when Khruschev understood that events had the potential of spiraling beyond his ability to manipulate them. Mortality turned out to be our greatest ally. While the Soviets were evil, they pursued an evil of worldly creation. They had no Osama bin Laden-type desire to create a maelstrom, won by nobody. They wanted to rule the world, but there had to be a world to rule.

The crisis also proved the importance of executive leadership. Eisenhower was a "consensus gatherer" most of the time, but the most important decisions of his career were his alone. Kennedy easily could have deferred to the "best and the brightest." His old man no doubt would have said that he could blame the generals later if things went wrong. But for the first time, JFK made the tough decision, instead of waiting passively for the group to manipulate him.

The other lesson that may or may not be important is the value of first impressions. Kennedy came off as an inexperienced playboy when Kruschev met him in Vienna, and the Communists decided to test his resolve. However, Kennedy's growth as a man under fire dispels the concept that the first impression is a true harbinger.

Rivals then and now

"You can talk all you want about Brooklyn and New York, Minneapolis and St. Paul, Dallas and Fort Worth, but there are no two cities in America where the people want to beat each other's brains out more than San Francisco and Los Angeles."

\- Hall of Famer and San Francisco native Joe Cronin

The Dodgers-Giants tradition remains the greatest sports rivalry in athletics. Arguments can be made by advocates of the Yankees-Red Sox, Cardinals-Cubs, Cowboys-Packers, Giants-Bears, Celtics-Lakers, USC-UCLA, USC-Notre Dame, Ohio State-Michigan, Alabama-Auburn, Oklahoma-Texas, and Duke-North Carolina. When adding everything up: tradition over a long time, competitiveness, socio-cultural factors, and ultimately the fact that it has successfully spanned two coasts, the edge remains with the Dodgers-Giants.

In the 2000s, the Yankees-Red Sox rivalry has become far more impassioned. Perhaps it will stay that way, but until recently this was less a rivalry and more a war won by the Yankees and lost by the Red Sox with no in-between. The Dodgers-Giants rivalry has swing up and down with even results going back to the 1890s.

One can argue when the rivalry reached its zenith. Certainly, the 1951 pennant race comes to mind, but upon further study the 1960s in general and the 1962 season in particular overshadows it. In terms of attendance, television ratings, radio listenership, and the sheer numbers of people who followed and cared, 1962 has it all over 1951. Over the years, the numbers only grew larger, although that has not necessarily translated into passion.

The Dodgers unquestionably found a much larger, loyal and awesome fan base out west. That said, they are a Hollywood crowd who leave games early to beat the traffic. The easygoing nature of the Los Angeles fan, which carries over to all sports, college and professional, is either something scorned by East Coast people who think fans should be maniacs; or a badge of honor by folks who feel life offers more important pursuits than wins or losses.

In the case of the Giants, it is more problematic, but in reality one probably needs to go back to the John McGraw-Bill Terry era to find a time in which Giants fans were as rabid or more rabid for their team as they were in San Francisco.

Between 1963 and 1971, the Dodgers-Giants rivalry was at its best, consistently maintaining passions close to the 1962 level. The Angels never cut into the Dodger fan base, but the arrival of the Oakland A's, combined with social factors in the Bay Area, severely cut into the Giants.

Los Angeles totally and completely redeemed themselves in 1963, a year that probably marks (or at least ties with 1955) as the high point in the club's great history. Sandy Koufax won 25 games, earned Cy Young and Most Valuable Player honors, the club blew past the Giants and second place St. Louis to capture the National League championship, and for good measure slay the mighty Yankees in four straight games. Koufax beat Whitey Ford and totally shut down Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris. Don Drysdale dominated the Yankees in like manner. Victory came in front of a home crowd at Dodger Stadium. It was complete and total, without any reservation. Los Angeles was not in the least bit "unsettled" by it, as the Chronicle's Charles McCabe fretted San Francisco would have reacted to such unfettered triumph.

The Giants and Dodgers (except for L.A.'s late-season collapse in 1964) competed for the National League pennant every year between 1963 and 1966, along with St. Louis, Cincinnati, and Pittsburgh. Alvin Dark and the Giants were unable to maintain the level of success attained in 1962. This has been attributed to Dark's problem with minorities, in particular his statement that they are a "different kine' " of player than whites, which was disputed but probably reflected his attitude in some way. But Willie Mays did not lose a step between 1963 and 1966; Willie McCovey and Juan Marichal became genuine superstars, Hall of Famers; and Orlando Cepeda's numbers were just as impressive until a 1965 injury and a 1966 trade to St. Louis. The Giants did not repeat their 103-victory performance because their veteran pitchers got old. Jack Sanford, Billy Pierce and Billy O'Dell quickly went downhill and Gaylord Perry's ascension did not occur until those guys were gone.

In 1965, with Herman Franks at the helm, San Francisco again made a run. Marichal was spectacular, but Perry was a year away and pitching was the difference. Mays hit 52 homers and won his second MVP award. Both the Giants and Dodgers ran off long winning streaks, but the Dodgers got hot later and longer. Cepeda was injured, but so was Tommy Davis. Whereas the 1962 Dodgers were a strong offensive club, at least until the last week, the '65 crew was known as the "Hitless Wonders." The pitching duo of Koufax and Drysdale that season reached a level of lore and myth perhaps unmatched by any mound combo before or since. True, they were Los Angeles media sensations and Hollywood idols, but in terms of dominance, clutch pitching and winning low-scoring games, they are unequaled.

In August of that season, the rivalry went overboard when Marichal clubbed John Roseboro over the head with his bat at Candlestick Park. It was beyond soccer hooliganism, ugliness personified, and something that everybody attributed to Dodger-Giant tensions; it would not have happened with the Cardinals or Pirates. It also cost San Francisco the pennant on several levels. Marichal was suspended for several key starts, the Giants slumped, Los Angeles used it as motivation, and the sense of karmic justice favored the Dodgers, who then beat Minnesota in the World Series.

Los Angeles and San Francisco battled, along with Roberto Clemente's Pirates, in a similarly tight pennant race in 1966 that featured all the same elements: Dodger pitching and speed overcoming the Giants' power. But a look at the statistics bears the question, How did Walt Alston do it? Unburdened of Leo Durocher, Alston established himself as the best manager in baseball during the 1960s; the master of "little ball" because he had no choice in the matter. The memory tells us Los Angeles won because Koufax and Drysdale were so much better than San Francisco's arms. Koufax was 27-9, but Juan Marichal was 25-6. After a celebrated double-holdout with Koufax, Drysdale was a pedestrian 13-16, albeit on a team that seemingly had a rule against scoring for him. His counterpart, Gaylord Perry, was 21-8. Mays, McCovey, Haller, and Jim Ray Hart were superb. The 1962 offensive numbers of Tommy and Willie Davis, Frank Howard, and even Maury Wills, were a thing of the past. Nevertheless, Alston's team won the pennant before succumbing to Baltimore in the World Series.

The retirement of Koufax after that had the immediate effect of making Los Angeles mediocre in 1967 and 1968. They had a successful rebuilding movement in 1969 and 1970. The Giants continued to lose for the same reasons as before, only now it was the pitching of St. Louis and Bob Gibson that beat them instead of the pitching of Koufax, Drysdale and Los Angeles. San Francisco finished second to the Cardinals in 1967 and 1968, then came in number two behind Atlanta in the 1969 National League West.

In 1971, San Francisco got hot early and pounded their way to the lead behind the pitching of Marichal and Perry; the slugging of McCovey; and an aging Mays in his "last hurrah." After the Giants' celebrated "June swoon," the Dodgers' youngsters, who struggled at first, made a mighty run before falling a game short on the last day of the season.

After the season the Giants made one of the worst trades in baseball history, sending Gaylord Perry to Cleveland for Sam McDowell. The Giants of the 1960s and 1970s made a series of such disastrous moves, which also included Orlando Cepeda to St. Louis in 1966 for Ray Sadecki, and George Foster to Cincinnati for Frank Duffy and Vern Geishert.

McDowell was an alcoholic who could barely walk. Perry won Cy Young awards at Cleveland and San Diego, and over 300 games in his career. Cepeda was the 1967 National League Most Valuable Player, and led the Cardinals (1967-68) and the Atlanta Braves (1969) to victory over the Giants. Foster hit over 50 home runs for Cincinnati in 1977. Geishert and Duffy were journeymen at best.

In 1972 and 1973, Los Angeles was competitive but Cincinnati's "Bed Red Machine" could not be derailed. In 1973, the Giants featured one of the most potent offensive clubs of the era, led by Bobby Bonds and a still-effective McCovey, but they to, could not compete with the Reds.

From 1974 to 1981, however, the San Francisco Giants became a joke. Only in 1978 did they show life. The team was a joke, the stadium a joke, the uniforms were a joke, and they almost moved to Toronto before meat-packing executive Bob Lurie bought them from the buffoon Horace Stoneham.

During this period, the Dodgers were very close to being the class of baseball. At a time of great upheaval, in sports and in society, the Dodgers' traditional ways stood above all floundering competitors. Only the Yankees, who made a comeback after an 11-year downturn, matched Los Angeles. In 1974, 1977 and 1978, the Dodgers beat and eventually replaced the Big Red Machine as the best team in the National League. They lost the World Series in each of those seasons (Oakland '74, New York '77-'78), however, but managed to win the 1981 Series against New York, concluding a convoluted, strike-shortened season.

Dodger Stadium towered above all stadiums. In every way, the Dodgers out-classed the rest of baseball, from their farm system, their travel, their fans, and their performance on the field. The Giants, in the mean time, were wretched. Candlestick stank, their teams were pitiful, fan attendance was bad, and interest was nil. Giants fans sank further and further into the abyss, yelling foul epithets at Dodger manager Tommy Lasorda, throwing garbage on the field, and displaying zero class. In fact, their reaction to their superiors was nothing less than class envy, the reaction of unimpressives to those who are better than they are.

This was reflected in the general manner of the Bay Area fan to Southern California teams. USC and UCLA continued to dominate California and Stanford. Fans at Berkeley dumbly waved their credit cards while the Trojans stomped the "Golden" Bears. The Stanford band stupidly gave Nazi salutes while Troy dismantled the Tree, or the Cardinal, or whatever they became.

49er fans tended towards drunkenness and semi-violence. Candlestick went through re-construction in 1970-71, in order to accommodate the Niners' move from Kezar Stadium. No improvement to the fetid place was effectuated. In the mean time, the glory halls of Los Angeles towered above them; the gleaming Dodger Stadium, the almost-as -good Anaheim Stadium, the "Fabulous" Forum, sparkling Pauley Pavilion, and the historic Coliseum.

In 1982, the mouse roared. The Atlanta Braves got off to a fast start, but Los Angeles caught them and turned the National League West into a pennant race in September. The Giants managed to stay close but fell out of it on the last weekend. On the final Sunday, with the Dodgers needing a victory to stay alive, ex-Red Joe Morgan, a Bay Area native and future Hall of Famer, broke Dodger hearts with a "walk-off home run," giving the division to the Braves over L.A. Candlestick went wild. It was considered revenge for a decade of indignities, not the least of which was the Dodgers' general feeling that San Francisco was no longer a rival, a competitor; that neither the city nor their team was worthy of much concern.

For Los Angeles, there had been "bigger fish to fry." Their real rivals had been Cincinnati, Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Oakland and the Yankees, teams they needed to beat in order to capture the division, the pennant, or the World Series. Oakland's part in this equation was a particular thorn in San Francisco's side. The East Bay town had always been considered low rent in comparison to high-falutin' San Francisco, but in the 1960s and 1970s the A's became a dominating three-time World Champion (1972-74); the Raiders (1976 World Champions) the most exciting, dynamic organization in pro football; and even the Warriors moved from The City to Oakland, where they won the 1975 NBA title.

Aside from the Giants' abysmal performance throughout most of the 1970s, the 49ers were, if it was possible, even worse. Their main rivals, the Los Angeles Rams, dominated them, although they also developed a habit for losing "the big one." In basketball, the Warriors' single NBA title was overshadowed by the dominance of the Los Angeles Lakers, who in 1972 won 33 straight games, a league-record 69 in the regular season, and their first World Championship since moving from Minneapolis.

Aside from the major colleges, Southern California dominated at the high school and junior college levels, with few exceptions. Among those exceptions were the baseball dynasty under coach Al Endriss at Marin County's Redwood High School, and the unlikely football dominance of the City College of San Francisco under coach George Rush.

Joe Morgan's 1982 home run had the effect of breathing new life into the rivalry between the Giants and Dodgers, and was part of a major revitalization in interest not just between the two baseball teams, but a sports power shift between the north and the south.

After 1982, the Giants again fell on hard times, but in 1987 under manager Roger "hum baby" Craig and young first baseman Will Clark, the club rebounded to win the division crown. In 1989, they won the division, beat the Chicago Cubs in the National League Championship Series, then lost in four straight in the "earthquake" World Series against Oakland.

Attendance improved, and the Dodgers-Giants rivalry certainly heated up again, although Lasorda wryly noted that Giants fans reserved their patronage, money and vitriol for all things "Dodger blue" while showing little interest in the rest of the Giants' schedule.

In the mean while, the Dodgers experienced great heights under Lasorda. Attendance went up and up and up, eventually topping the previously-unheard-of 3 million mark. They contended almost every year, winning division crowns in 1983 and 1985, and in 1988 defeating the powerful A's in a five-game World Series featuring ace pitcher Orel Hershiser breaking Don Drysdale's all-time scoreless innings streak with 59 before shutting down Oakland twice. Most Valuable Player Kirk Gibson's home run off of Oakland relief ace Dennis Eckersley goes down with Bobby Thomson's "shot heard 'round the world" as one of the most dramatic moments in baseball history.

Los Angeles finished second to Cincinnati in 1990 and came within a game of Atlanta (again) in 1991, knocked out in some measure by the Giants' "ambush," motivated as they were nine years earlier to spoil their rivals' season. In 1992, however, both teams were abysmal.

New York called the 1950s its "golden age" of sports. In addition to the three center fielders - Willie Mays, Mickey Mantle and Duke Snider - the combined 14 pennants and nine World Championships won by the Yankees, Dodgers and Giants, it was the decade of Frank Gifford and the "New York Giants defense," which also included the 1957 Colts-Giants NFL championship game, considered by many to be the best in pro football history.

For fan intensity and passion, it may be impossible to ever match the rivalries of New York in the post-World War II period, but nothing in New York remotely compares to the real golden age in sports. The years vary depending upon one's interpretation. Perhaps it started in 1958, when the Giants and Dodgers came west; or in 1959, when the Dodgers won the World Series; in 1962, the year of the great pennant race and play-offs; or in 1963, when L.A. beat the Yankees in four straight in the World Series.

Perhaps it was a narrower period, from the late 1960s until the early 1980s; or perhaps it lasted longer, until 1997 or maybe even until the 2000s. The geographical boundaries of this new golden age are much larger than the boroughs of Brooklyn, Manhattan and the Bronx that defined New York's golden age. This was California's golden age, and it encompassed Los Angeles and San Francisco; Orange County and the East Bay; Northern California and the Southland.

Unquestionably, for a young sports fan coming of age in the state of California during the late 1960s and early 1970s, there has never, ever been a better time and place. Nobody who loves sports could possibly have asked for better, more exciting teams to root for. 1962 was a particularly good California sports year; 1972 was even better. Consider that in that season the Oakland A's won the World Series, the Los Angeles Lakers won the NBA title; Southern Cal won the football National Championship; and UCLA won the NCAA basketball title.

But it expands well beyond that. The golden age includes:

  * Los Angeles Dodgers: World Champions (1959, 1963, 1965, 1981, 1988); National League champions (1966, 1974, 1977, 1978).

  * San Francisco Giants: National League champions (1962, 1989, 2002).

  * Anaheim Angels: World Champions (2002); division champions (1979, 1982, 1986, 2004, 2005, 2007).

  * San Francisco 49ers: World Champions (1981, 1984, 1988, 1989, 1994).

  * Oakland/Los Angeles Raiders: World Champions (1976, 1980, 1983).

  * Los Angeles Rams: National Football Conference champions (1979); perennial contenders (1960s-1980s).

  * Southern California Trojans: National Champions (football 1962, 1967, 1972, 1974, 1978, 2003, 2004; baseball 1963, 1968, 1970, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1974, 1978, 1998); Heisman Trophies (Mike Garrett, 1967; O.J. Simpson, 1968; Charles White, 1979; Marcus Allen, 1981; Carson Palmer, 2002; Matt Leinart, 2004; Reggie Bush, 2005).

  * UCLA Bruins: National Champions (basketball 1964, 1965, 1967, 1968, 1969, 1970, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1995); perennial powerhouse (football, 1960s-1990s).

  * Stanford: Rose Bowl champions (1971, 1972); Heisman Trophy (Jim Plunkett, 1970); National Champions (baseball 1987, 1988).

  * California Golden Bears: National Champions (basketball, 1959); College World Series (1980, 1988, 1992).

  * Los Angeles Lakers: World Champions (1972, 1980, 1982, 1985, 1986, 1987, 2000, 2001, 2002).

  * Golden State Warriors: World Champions (1975).

  * College baseball National Champions: Cal State Fullerton (1979, 1984, 2004); Pepperdine (1992).

  * Southern California (track and field, tennis, women's basketball); UCLA (volleyball, track and field, water polo); Stanford (tennis, women's sports).

  * 1984 Los Angeles Olympics; Pebble Beach golf; Los Angeles Kings, Anaheim Mighty Ducks, California Golden Seals, and the San Jose Sharks.

  * Concord De La Salle High School (151 straight football wins, 1992-2003; five national championships); Long Beach Poly (football); Santa Ana Mater Dei (football, basketball); Los Angeles Verbum Dei (basketball); Los Angeles Crenshaw (basketball); Larkspur Redwood (baseball); Lakewood (baseball); San Mateo Serra (baseball); Fullerton J.C. (football); City College of San Francisco (football); Mission Viejo (swimming).

The 1962 pennant race and season ranks among the greatest in baseball history, along with:

  * 1908 Cubs-Giants pennant race.

  * 1912 Red Sox-Giants World Series.

  * 1927 Babe Ruth's 60 home runs.

  * 1934 Cardinals-Tigers World Series.

  * 1938 Gabby Hartnett's "homer in the gloaming."

  * 1946 Cardinals-Red Sox World Series.

  * 1949 Dodgers-Cardinals pennant race, Yankees-Dodgers World Series.

  * 1950 Phillies-Dodgers play-offs.

  * 1951 Bobby Thomson's "shot heard 'round the world."

  * 1961 Roger Maris's chase of Babe Ruth's homer record.

  * 1964 Cardinals-Reds-Phillies pennant race, Cardinals-Yankees World Series.

  * 1965 Dodgers-Giants pennant race.

  * 1969 "Amazin' Mets."

  * 1978 Yankees-Red Sox play-off.

  * 1986 post-season.

  * 1998 Mark McGwire-Sammy Sosa chase of Roger Maris's homer record.

  * 2001 Diamondbacks-Yankees World Series.

  * 2004 Red Sox win World Series.

Joe Morgan's game-winning home run of 1982 was part of an era in which San Francisco, long doormats culturally, politically and athletically, began a comeback.

That season, the Oakland Raiders, winners of the 1977 and 1981 Super Bowls, moved to the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. They captured another Super Bowl in 1984, but fell on difficult times. By 1994, their silver-and-black ensemble were little more than gang colors in south-central L.A. They returned to Oakland in search of lost glory but never found it. A 2003 trip to the Super Bowl was the closest they got, but they were humbled and have fallen into disrepair since.

With the Raiders gone, the unlikely San Francisco 49ers took over the Bay Area in a manner similar to that of the New York Yankees when the Dodgers and Giants left New York. For decades, the 49ers had been a decided "second fiddle" to the Los Angeles Rams. The Rams played to enormous throngs in the historic Coliseum. Winners of the 1952 NFL title, they were the toast of L.A. Under coach George Allen in the 1960s they were perennial division champions, although they could not make it to the elusive Super Bowl.

In the 1970s, the Rams continued to be a powerhouse. In 1975 they featured one of the best defensive teams in pro football annals, and in January, 1980 played as the "home team," a close Super Bowl loss to Pittsburgh at Pasadena's Rose Bowl. But it was during this time when owner Carroll Rosenbloom was mysteriously drowned; a power struggle for club ownership was won by his widow, Georgia Frontiere over Rosenbloom's son; and the club moved from the Coliseum to suburban Anaheim.

Rosenbloom's death and the subsequent events revolving around Frontiere and the Anaheim move, seemed to sap this once-proud franchise of its greatness. This occurred at the same time coach Bill Walsh, quarterback Joe Montana and safety Ronnie Lott turned the 49ers into the greatest dynasty in the history of the National Football League.

The 49ers won four Super Bowls with Montana at quarterback. Walsh left after the third, but they captured two more under his replacement, George Seifert. The fifth, won in the 1995 Super Bowl over the San Diego Chargers, featured Hall of Fame quarterback Steve Young. When Seifert left, coach Steve Mariucci replaced him. The 49ers and Young maintained a championship-level performance through the 1997 campaign. The 49ers success between 1981 and 1997 must be considered the greatest sustained run of excellence in pro football history. Perhaps the most incongruous aspect of this achievement is that it was all done at that symbol of ineptitude, Candlestick Park!

In 1992, the Giants sunk to the lowest point in their up-and-down history on the West Coast (76-92). It got so bad that the club started handing out a _Croix de Candlestick_ to fans who braved the freezing elements to the conclusion of losing games. Nobody could be paid to go out there.

They seemed headed to Tampa/St. Petersburg, Florida, where they would have been destined to an existence at Tropicana Field as the Tampa Bay Giant Devil Rays. Such a move "would have put the Giant-Dodger rivalry on its deathbed," said the New York Times.

West Coast fans can add the rivalry "to a list of endangered species," lamented Dave Anderson of the Times.

This desultory fate was averted by Peter Magowan, a Safeway supermarket magnate who bought the club and immediately brought in Barry Bonds as a free agent. Bonds, the son of former Giants star outfielder Bobby Bonds and the Godson of Willie Mays, was a product of San Mateo's Serra High School. Serra may have no equals when it comes to producing star athletes, who include Bonds, New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady, former Angels All-Star Jim Fregosi, ex-USC football coach John Robinson, and Hall of Fame Steelers wide receiver Lynn Swann; just to name a few.

Bonds, a two-time National League MVP at Pittsburgh, won the 1993 Most Valuable Player award with San Francisco. The Giants put on an amazing display and exhibited one of the all-time greatest turnarounds in sports history, going from 72-90 in 1992 to 103-59 in 1993 under new manager Dusty Baker.

After leading the National West Division all season, San Francisco was caught at season's end by Atlanta, featuring the great pitching exploits of Greg Maddux, John Smoltz and Tom Glavine. In a reversal of 1982, San Francisco could have pushed themselves into a first place tie on the last "black Sunday," but Mike Piazza and the Dodgers humbled them, 12-1 at Dodger Stadium to send them home. Atlanta captured the division.

But the very nature of the Dodgers-Giants rivalry was completely turned around beginning in 2000, when San Francisco moved into Pacific Bell Park (since re-named SBC and later AT&T Park). For years, the Dodgers had been better on the field, but substantially better at the gate. The main reason for this was their marvelous Dodger Stadium, a symbol of excellence compared to the atrocious Candlestick.

In the 2000s, for the very first time, the San Francisco Giants displayed all-around superiority over the Los Angeles Dodgers. Dodger Stadium remains an aging jewel, but Pac Bell, built on the shores of the bay, with visuals that include the downtown skyline, the Bay Bridge, and the lights of Oakland shimmering across the water; with yachts and ferries delivering party-happy fans to its gates; and every superior amenity imaginable; gave the Giants a rivalry edge over the Dodgers. After years in which the superiority complex of San Francisco was a mere façade for their inferiority, they finally were superior.

This superiority manifested itself not just by the obvious greatness of their stadium, but by the club's outstanding play on the field. In 2000, second baseman Jeff Kent won the National League's Most Valuable Player award as the Giants captured the division title. In 2001, Barry Bonds broke the all-time Major League home run record with 73. In 2002, the Giants won the National League pennant before losing a thrilling seven-game World Series to the Anaheim Angels (an ironic twist in which ultimate victory by NoCal over SoCal was not to be). Bonds captured four MVP awards in the 2000s and, in 2007, broke Hank Aaron's all-time career home run record when he hit number 756.

The Giants not only overshadowed their rivals in Los Angeles, but finally seemed to have won the war of San Francisco Bay, long dominated by the Oakland A's, who had won four World Series to San Francisco's none. Oddly, while the A's won ultimate victory on numerous occasions, consistently out-performed the Giants over the years, and often out-drew them, particularly in the "Bask Brothers" years of Mark McGwire and Jose Canseco (1988-90), the Giants always remained the "in" team of the Bay Area.

Obviously, being a San Francisco team was an advantage over an Oakland team, but in their heyday the Raiders were everything, the 49ers nothing, while the Warriors saw fit to leave The City (their uniforms even called themselves that) for the East Bay, if not printing the actual name "Oakland" on their chests.

The sense of nostalgia and special feeling that San Francisco developed for the 1962 Giants explains as well as any other factor why the Giants, through good times and bad, remained the "in" team, no matter how great the A's were. However, the Giants have always had a "close but no cigar" moniker, a shadow of sorts, hanging on them since arriving from New York in 1958. This shadow grew darker when Bonds's steroid use became a public scandal, shedding doubt on his home run records.

San Francisco Chronicle columnist Charles McCabe's assertion that "total victory is unsettling," while shattered by the 49ers' utter dominance, still applies to the Giants. They have never won any of three World Series they have played in since the move to the coast. With Boston's 2004 World Championship, the Giants' 1954 title remains the third-oldest among all baseball franchises, behind only the Chicago Cubs (1908) and the Cleveland Indians (1948).

Therefore, while the Giants of the 2000s have unquestionably been more successful and exciting on the field, and equally successful at the gate, they cannot lay claim to total victory over the Dodgers since they have no World Championships to show for themselves.

The Dodgers have remained an inconsistent team since their 1988 World Series victory over Oakland. They have won division titles and wild card berths; competed for division crowns; but too often flounder late in the season, a disturbing sign of a weak organization. Their post-season record is abysmal.

Free agency and the 1997-98 sell-off of the club by the O'Malley family to Fox is a continuing disaster for this proud organization. Their soul left when Peter O'Malley, claiming that Bill Clinton-era tax policies prevented him from being able to maintain family ownership, allowed them to become a corporate entity. Fox may be a fine company but they were a "fish out of water" when it came to baseball ownership. They sold their interests a few years later, but there is little to be impressed by subsequent caretakers. For years, Dodger heroes were well-recognized stars known for their longevity in Los Angeles. By the late 1990s and 2000s, a star Dodger was little more than a hired hand playing out his contract.

As Bonds's steroid allegations and his age reduced his greatness, the Giants became an also-ran again. The Dodgers appear poised to regain the upper hand in the rivalry. Attendance at Dodger Stadium and the re-named Angels Stadium, as well many other cities, is extraordinary, averaging near-sellouts each game. Once-a-week-pro-football-size crowds pay their way into these arenas six, even days per week. However, until another World Championship banner is hung with care at Dodger Stadium, their soul will be in the purgatory seemingly plunged into when Peter O'Malley sold them to Fox. Until the Giants can hang their first one, they will remain slightly second rate.

****

What has never been second rate and probably never will be are the New York Yankees. The Yankees were without question the greatest organization in all of sports in 1962, and have only strengthened their position since.

Great athletic dynasties over the past century have included the Green Bay Packers, the Dallas Cowboys and the Pittsburgh Stealers; the Boston Celtics and the Los Angeles Lakers; the Montreal Canadiens; Notre Dame, Southern California and UCLA; and the U.S. Olympic team. None remotely compares to the Yankees.

In 1963 and 1964, the Yankees won their fourth and fifth consecutive American League pennants, but a slight chink was found in their armor. In the 1963 World Series they were manhandled four straight by Dodger pitching. In a thrilling seven-game set, St. Louis defeated the pinstripers in 1964.

Subsequent ownership by CBS marked the so-called "Horace Clarke era." Between 1965 and 1975, the Yankees floundered between dead last and quite good, but with no post-season appearances to show for it they became "New York's other baseball team." The 1969 "Amazin' Mets," led by Tom Seaver, reversed seven years of complete ineptitude to win a World Series that is still viewed as a pure miracle, as in the kind miracle actually performed by the hand of God.

In 1972, a former Purdue assistant football coach named George Steinbrenner, who had inherited his father's Florida ship-building company, bought the Yankees. His was not an auspicious start. He was convicted of illegal campaign contributions to Republican Richard Nixon, and oversaw the club's two-year residence of Shea Stadium (1974-75). With Yankee Stadium re-modeled and new manager Billy Martin leading the way, the Yankees won the 1976 pennant. With free agent superstars Reggie Jackson and Catfish Hunter no longer wearing Oakland green but Yankee pinstripes, the Bronx Bombers captured the 1977 and 1978 World Championships with victories over Tommy Lasorda's Dodgers.

The 1980s and early 1990s were a time of difficulty for the Yankees. They went through a succession of managers but could not reach the Promised Land. In 1996, manager Joe Torre and young shortstop Derek Jeter propelled them to the pennant and then victory over Atlanta in the 1996 World Series. The club's dynasty of 1996-2000, which included four World titles in five seasons, remains one of the greatest accomplishments in sports history.

Over a decade's time, the rivalry between the Yankees and the Boston Red Sox grew in intensity until it has reached its current peak as the single fiercest and intense among all athletic teams; college, pro or international. While the cultural, social and political dynamics that have marked Dodgers-Giants battles in New York and California remain an active force in what stirs this pot, the same off-field factors inculcate the Yankee-Red Sox war.

The conservative-liberal divide of San Francisco and Los Angeles is no longer as prevalent. L.A. is now reliably Democrat, although moderate enough to have elected Richard Riordan as its Mayor. The conservative enclaves of the Southland are increasingly pushed further away from the city-center, to south Orange County, north San Diego County, and the Inland Empire. San Francisco flirted with a moderate Democrat Mayor, Frank Jordan, then took a great big bite out of the liberal sandwich by replacing him with Willie Brown, veering farther and father to the Left ever since.

While New York is and apparently always will be a Democrat city, they have elected two Republican Mayors, Rudolph Giuliani and Michael Bloomberg. Boston, a strangely schizophrenic old town that is considered racist, yet liberal (?), views the Yankees as the embodiment of a rich, elite, Wall Street ideology.

For years, the Yankees looked like the British Empire crushing poor Boston, whose identity more closely resembled the Irish Republican Army during their darkest hour. But beginning in 2001, the Yankees somehow managed to lose in the post-season every year, occasionally defying all odds and imagination in so doing. No matter how much money they paid in salaries, and no matter how stacked their All-Star line-up was, they somehow lost to Arizona (2001), Anaheim (2002), Florida (2003), Boston (2004), Anaheim (2005), Detroit (2006) and Cleveland (2007).

All mojo, all previous assumptions, all of history in fact was turned on its head in 2004. With Alex Rodriguez now on board, the Yankees led the Boston Red Sox three games to none with a late lead in game four of the '04 Championship Series. In what simply must be the most impossible comeback ever staged, Boston rallied in that game and in that series to win, four games to three. From there, the Red Sox defeated St. Louis in four straight for their first World Series title since Babe Ruth was their ace pitcher in 1918. Having rid themselves of the "Curse of the Bambino," the Bosox won again in 2007, ascending to a place of power in the game of baseball seemingly as implacable as one-time Yankee hegemony.

Carthage is destroyed

"Ronald Reagan won the Cold War without firing a shot."

  * British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher

On November 22, 1963, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas. In August of 1964, after the Gulf of Tonkin incident, his successor, President Lyndon B. Johnson, thrust America into the Vietnam War.

The United States fought in Southeast Asia until January, 1973. Approximately 58,000 Americans lost their lives; some 1 million people died in the war overall. The Vietnam conflict was concluded when President Richard M. Nixon, Secretary of State Henry Kissinger, and the North Vietnamese reached an agreement hammered out over a period of years at the Paris peace talks.

The agreement was an artful triangulation on Kissinger's part, pitting Soviet, Red Chinese and North Vietnamese Communist interests against each other, thus maximizing American global gains; all exacerbated by a heavy U.S. bombing campaign meant to put pressure on her enemies. At the time, it appeared that a division between North and South Vietnam would be created, not unlike the DMZ separating North Korea from South Korea since 1953.

In 1975, the Communists broke the agreement and invaded the south, overrunning Saigon and causing a max exodus of panic. Between 1975 and 1979, Communism indeed spread in realization of the long-held "domino theory" throughout Southeast Asia; to Laos and Cambodia. 1.5 million human beings were murdered by the Communists, most infamously by Cambodian revolutionary Pol Pot. In 1979, American diplomats were taken hostage in Iran, which was overrun by Islamic fundamentalists. Between 1977 and 1980, the term of American President Jimmy Carter, Communism spread throughout Latin America, Asia, and Africa. It appeared that the battle for the Third World had been won by Communism; that the "long twi-light struggle," to use Kennedy's 1961 words, between the forces of freedom and the tyranny, had been lost by America.

Over the next 27 years, those losses would be reversed. Just as in most of American history, the concept that this happened simply by accident, or because Americans are smarter or more diligent than other humans, defies common sense. Rather, it would appear the only valid theory is that the hand of God favored us.

Lyndon Johnson was the Democrat torchbearer of 1964. His opponent, Senator Barry Goldwater (R.-Arizona) represented the nascent conservative values of the West. Richard Nixon had tried to harness its power but McCarthyism, combined with "tombstone votes" in Texas and fraudulent votes in Illinois, had prevented him from riding the whirlwind. This was just one part of the three-act Shakespearean drama that was Nixon's long, strange, twisted struggle with the Kennedy family.

Johnson won in a landslide and in 1965 the Democrat Party appeared to be all-powerful. They controlled the White House with veto-proof majorities in the House and the Senate. Democrats won at every level; they controlled state houses, governorhips, and the Supreme Court. LBJ certainly appeared poised to create a "permanent majority" when America's Hitler-conquering forces would wipe out Communism in Vietnam.

When his civil rights bills were passed, LBJ had the most "perfect" majority imaginable. He and his party not only controlled the "black vote," they also controlled the segregated Jim Crow South. But Johnson was a wily politico who sensed that trouble lay ahead.

"We've just handed the South to the Republican Party for 40 years," he told aide Bill Moyers at the civil rights signing.

Towards the end of the long, hot summer of 1965, a routine traffic stop by a white Los Angeles police officer of a black motorist in the Watts section of south-central L.A. sparked furious riots. The reaction to the riots was a demand for law 'n' order by the white conservative base. Its champion: the former movie actor Ronald Reagan.

In 1966, Reagan ran a Right-wing campaign against incumbent Governor Edmund "Pat" Brown, the man who had beaten Richard Nixon in 1962. Reagan won in a landslide. This immediately vaulted Reagan into the national spotlight, and his successful eight years in Sacramento served to strengthen his national position all the more.

Reagan was a reactionary because he had much to react against. Primarily this meant the disturbances on California college campuses in the 1960s. The University of California-Berkeley - the school and the city - allowed itself to become the de facto staging grounds of American Communism, openly providing "aid and comfort" to Hanoi.

An enormous divide split the country. Hollywood took a Leftward turn, with actress Jane Fonda traveling to Hanoi to pose for photo-ops, while the motion picture industry increasingly made anti-American movies. The conservative movement, which had in the 1950s consisted of little more than a few intellectuals sitting around William Buckley's mother's Connecticut house for readings of Hayek, Kirk and Rand, had been charged up and Westernized by Goldwater; infuriated by the anti-war Left; and given life by Reagan. Its base was Orange County, California, the suburbs just south of Los Angeles.

Reagan bided his time, however. The initial benefactor of the Right's new life was Nixon. In 1968 he ran for President. Johnson announced he would not run for re-election. Robert Kennedy would run. In April, civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated in Memphis. In June, Kennedy was assassinated at the Ambassador Hotel in the mid-Wilshire District of Los Angeles. Ironically, he had spent the day at the Malibu home of his friend, John Schlessinger, who directed The Manchurian Candidate, which depicted the assassination of a Presidential candidate!

Had RFK run against Nixon in 1968, he may well have won. Nixon "benefited" from the death of another Kennedy, but the three-act drama was not over. Nixon also benefited from the total depravity of the new Left, which manifested itself in anti-war protests, hippies, excessive drug use, long hair, dirty people, sexual lasciviousness, and various other forms of unimpressiveness. The anti-war Left was placed in full view of the television cameras during the Chicago riots at the 1968 Democrat National Convention. The protestors chanted, "The whole world is watching" while the Chicago police rounded them up, thinking that the world would favor them. The world was aghast not at the police, but at them. The essence of what they wanted; ending the war - replacing the government with peace activists - was the opposite of what they in actuality got.

One positive thing seemed to come out of the era, however: great music from The Who, The Doors, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Credence Clearwater Revival, The Beach Boys, The Byrds, Jefferson Airplane, Buffalo Springfield, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and many others..

Nixon inherited the Vietnam War, which by 1969 had lost the support of the American public. Lacking the kind of backing that might have led to ultimate victory if implemented several years earlier, he decided to make the most of it, using "carrot and stick" diplomacy.

In 1972, Nixon re-opened diplomatic relations with Red China. It was a bold move that he alone could accomplish at that time. Had a liberal Democrat tried it, he would have been excoriated. Nixon's anti-Communist credentials buffered him from conservative criticism. Combined with the impending end of the Vietnam War, Nixon consolidated the support of both the Right and moderate Democrats, winning re-election in 1972 by the largest margin in American history. He took all 50 states and 62 percent of the popular vote.

In 1973 and 1974, however, revelations of White House burglars breaking into Democrat National Headquarters at the Watergate Hotel in Washington, D.C. led to Nixon's resignation.

Deprived of political and public support by Watergate, facing a Democrat majority in Congress, Nixon's plan of triangulation unraveled. John and Robert Kennedy's younger brother, Teddy, was the key player in the third act of the Nixon-Kennedy drama. The agreement with the Communists had been that if they were break it, the U.S. would resume support of the South Vietnamese government; if not a return of the troops who departed in 1973, at least money, arms, materiel.

At this point, Kennedy made the decisive move, that point of departure that ultimately made conservatism the winning ideology of the 20th Century, if not of 2,000 years of Christian history, thus marginalizing the Democrats, then and now. By 1974, the fact that some 100 million human beings had been or were in the process of being murdered in the century was no longer hidden. Mao Tse-Tung's Cultural revolution, said to have claimed 55 million lives, was in its eighth year; its evils exposed.

Somehow, the Left, almost as if mesmerized by evil forces, did not see that with which was placed before thine eyes. Stanford University, for instance, had become radicalized, and its marching band actually did a tribute to Chairman Mao during the precise time in which he was murdering the maximum number of his citizens.

The Venona Project was not yet revealed; the Soviet and KGB archives that would be opened in the 1990s, revealing Alger Hiss's guilt and the full extent of the Communist holocaust, were not yet available to the public; but Kennedy and his party did know the political ideology this country was fighting had already killed substantially more people in its gulags and re-education camps than had died in the Nazi Holocaust. Despite this full knowledge, Kennedy and his party made the conscious (and unconscionable) decision not to oppose them; but instead to do all they could to oppose America's efforts at stopping them.

Teddy Kennedy did not kill the 1.5 million people who died as a result between 1975 and 1979. To say so would be moral relativism. The Communists killed them and they must shoulder the guilt, but had Kennedy and his party stood against them at this critical moment in history they would not have died.

From the short-term political analysis, it appeared in the mid-1970s that Ted Kennedy had "avenged" Richard Nixon on behalf of his two slain brothers. This brings forth one of the great "what if?" scenarios of all time. Had JFK not stolen the 1960 election from Nixon, several things may very well not have happened. First, Nikita Kruschev would probably not have been as adventurous; the Berlin Wall may not have gone up, and missiles may well have never been placed in Cuba.

Furthermore, Nixon probably would have allowed air cover to be used at the Bay of Pigs, which means the invasion probably would have succeeded, which means Fidel Castro would have been ousted, and Cuba would have been freed! Had this happened, there never would have been a Communist government to welcome the Soviets' delivery of nuclear missiles on Cuban soil.

Given these developments, the Communists may well have not given the go-ahead to Hanoi as they continued to amp up the Vietnam War, which could have been averted. Another possibility, which given Nixon's hard-line position - not adopted - at Dienbienphu in 1954, is that Nixon may have successfully won the war as early as 1964-65 by cutting it off at the head.

Had Vietnam not been fought, or had it been won in the mid-1960s by the Nixon Administration, this creates a host of further "what ifs?" that go in many directions. First, had the Cuban Missile Crisis been averted and the war either not fought or was won by America, there may never have been the need or the political will on both sides to implement the arms control treaties that Nixon put into place with Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev.

It goes beyond this. With Nixon in the White House in 1963 instead of John F. Kennedy, JFK would not have been assassinated. Most likely, Robert Kennedy would not have been running for President when he was assassinated in 1968. Teddy Kennedy would not have been the leader of the Democrat Party, in place to destroy the carefully-laid peace agreement of Nixon-Kissinger.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect of these "what ifs?" concerns Ronald Reagan. Had Nixon been seen as the "winner" of conservatism's ageless struggle with Communism, there may have never been a Reagan Revolution. Or, Reagan might have been the natural successor to Nixon. Or, John and Robert Kennedy may have won, or lost, Presidential elections in 1964, 1968, 1972, 1976 . . . all with consequences too complicated to effectively explore?

What _did_ occur as a result of Ted Kennedy's actions, in concert with the Right's reaction to the American Left - anti-war protests, the gay liberation movement, the sexual revolution, the drug culture, treachery and lack of patriotism - _was_ the success of Reagan, of conservatism, and of the Republican Revolution that followed. Richard Nixon rehabilitated his image in concert with Reagan's carrying on policies he started. Ted Kennedy became the despised face of the Left. That was his penalty.

The Vietnam War coincided with very bad economic times. Labor strikes and general malaise led to the near-downfall of New York City. In 1968-69, Mayor John Lindsey campaigned for and won re-election on the strength of his association with the Super Bowl champion Jets and the World Series champion Mets. But New York continued a long slide in which crime, the Mafia, the unions, racial and social strife tore the very fabric of the Big Apple. The 1950s swank of Madison Avenue, of Frank Sinatra, of Fun City, which was the New York of 1962, was gone by 1969, seemingly never to return. In 1977, the Summer of Sam when a deranged killer stalked the streets, New York was seen as corrupt, depicted by movies like Serpico; its streets dirty, its people unlikable; or a source of laughter as seen through the film Saturday Night Fever. A '70s laugh track.

New York's panache as the great city of the world was replaced by Los Angeles, the "in place" to be in the 1960s and 1970s. Nixon himself said of 1968 in general, and his home state in particular, that "this is the place" he would rather be; astride human history in 1968. L.A. was viewed as the place where they had gotten it right in race relations, and its defense industry was booming. Hollywood had a golden era in the 1960s and 1970s: Dr. Strangelove, In the Heat of the Night, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Patton, M*A*S*H, The French Connection, The Godfather, The Godfather II, Three Days of the Condor, Chinatown, Marathon Man, Rocky, Network, The Deer Hunter and Apocalypse Now.

Just as Los Angeles was taking its place on the world stage, buoyed by its great sports teams, the prestige of USC and UCLA, of Hollywood and its defense industry, San Francisco \- the mirror of New York - was suffering a similar fate. Its image was also captured on film, by the Clint Eastwood movies that spoke for the conservatives, increasingly at odds with activist judges and liberal lawmakers who invested their emotions on behalf of criminals instead of decent, law-abiding taxpayers.

The social dynamic of the 1970s directly correlated with the social one. L.A. was symbolized by its great Dodgers, Trojans and Lakers teams, playing on the national stage in gleaming stadiums. San Francisco had taken a back seat to gritty Oakland, its teams playing to sparse crowds with no stakes in stadiums that smelled of urine. There was no glamour, no panache in The City. Its politics took a Leftward turn for the worse, its businesses brought to a standstill by dockworkers, labor strikes, and Mob-controlled parking lot vendors. In 1981, the gay lifestyle, given such free reign, began to spread the AIDS virus.

In 1961 the United States launched the Mercury space program. In 1962, John Glenn circled the globe. The "space race" with the Soviet Union, one of the most dramatic symbols of the Cold War, was on in earnest. The U.S.S.R. got off to a fast start and consistently led the U.S., but American technological superiority prevailed.

Amazingly, America's great space accomplishments occurred simultaneously with the ravages of Vietnam and great social angst at home. Nevertheless, in 1969 Apollo 11 fulfilled President Kennedy's admonition that we "land a man on the Moon, and return him safely to Earth."

The first man was Neil Armstrong, who like many of the astronauts had an advanced degree from the University of Southern California (because NASA built a "bubble" on campus for the pilots to train in).

"One small step for man, one giant leap for Mankind," said Armstrong.

America's landing a man on the Moon, an achievement repeated a couple of years later, not only meant that the U.S. had defeated the Soviet Union, but it reflected this nation's exceptionalism. Since the founding of the country, America had consistently achieved things that were unthinkable anywhere else on Earth; the building of things, the completion of projects on this soil years - decades - before any other country did anything similar.

The Trans-continental railroad; the Los Angeles Aqueduct; the building of the Brooklyn Bridge, the Golden Gate Bridge, the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge; the Tennessee Valley Authority, Hoover Dam; the Manhattan Project, jet propulsion, the breaking of the "sound barrier," missile technology; medical advancements, elimination of childhood diseases, maladies that be-deviled man for all times; movies, automobiles, highways, scientific breakthroughs; accomplishments previously considered unthinkable, futuristic and fantastic; were routinely made into American reality!

In 1976, Democrat Jimmy Carter of Georgia defeated Republican Gerald Ford of Michigan for the Presidency. At that moment, the Left may well have felt that they were indeed the "winners" of American history; that the victory achieved by Lyndon Johnson and their party 12 years earlier, its Great Society ruined by Vietnam, had been given second life.

Carter was a direct result of the Civil Rights Act of 1964-65; considered moderate, yet friendly to blacks and palatable to whites. He represented a Southern base that political pundits knew would be the battleground for the future of America. The nation had "won" the civil right battle and extricated itself from Vietnam, using Watergate shame to incorrectly blame Nixon.

During his four years in office, however, America experienced what Carter himself called a "malaise." It was an era of bad hair, bad music, bad clothing styles, bad drugs, and bad morals. All the negatives of the 1960s with none of the political passion. America had lost her way. Nobody used the term "Cold War" anyway, preferring detante, which Reagan said was the relationship a farmer has with his turkey prior to Thanksgiving. Under Carter, we were the turkey.

Carter and his party mis-read American public opinion, thinking that Vietnam had worn us out, sapped us of our jingoism. His appeasement of the Soviets while they engaged in adventurism in Africa, Latin America, Asia and increasingly, the Middle East, enraged the Right. Our economy was tepid; gas lines, high interest rates, home ownership and the "American Dream" a bad nightmare instead.

In 1980, Reagan opposed Carter and won in a landslide. Between 1981 and 1989, the American economy boomed under Reagan. The stock market and real estate exploded. Reagan restored patriotism and built up the national defense, particularly through the funding of the Strategic Defense Initiative. It bankrupted the Soviet Union.

Reagan's Vice President, George H.W. Bush, was elected President in 1988. On his watch, the Berlin Wall fell in 1989, and on Christmas Day of 1991, the Soviet Union had collapsed. The United States had won the Cold War. Had the U.S. achieved this political victory by virtue of winning a war in which 40 million people had died, but the result was the same as it was in the early 1990s, historians would have judged it to be worth the cost, just as they judged winning World War II worth that cost.

"Ronald Reagan won the Cold War without firing a shot!" declared his partner, the conservative British "Iron Lady," Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher.

In 1991, Bush launched the Persian Gulf War, pushing Iraq's Saddam Hussein out of Kuwait and establishing America as the dominant force in the Middle East. Combined with American ally Israel's having won Arab wars in 1967 and 1973, and the Soviets loss of Afghanistan in the 1980s, there was a sense that President Bush's "New World Order" was now the dominant global ethic, with America holding a special place of power over and above all previous conceptions. Author Francis Fukuyama's The End of History and the Last Man (1992) outlined this world. He was 16 years off the mark. There were more wars to fight, at home and abroad.

When the San Francisco 49ers won the Super Bowl in January of 1982, it had an enormous effect on The City. Its long-held "superiority complex" was long gone by then. There was simply no use trying to pretend. The town, its people, its politics, all it stood for, was seemingly low rent. It was not New York, and New York was in the doldrums. Los Angelenos could care less whether San Franciscans made fun of them. San Francisco was irrelevant. L.A. simply went forth and produced excellence. In all ways that people measure greatness, Southern California dominated Northern California.

While sports victories really have no direct connection with society, somehow they seem to spur people, to give them confidence and even hope. For years, the 1962 Giants had been a source of The City's nostalgia, of a better time not just on the field but in life. The collapse of the team mirrored the collapse of The City.

Suddenly, in 1981 the 49ers went out and beat the hated Los Angeles Rams (who seemed to have been sapped of their "precious bodily fluids" once they moved to Anaheim) twice. Led by a former Stanford coach (Bill Walsh), an ex-Notre Dame quarterback (Joe Montana) and a rookie safety from Southern Cal (Ronnie Lott), the 49ers captured the Super Bowl from the Cincinnati Bengals. In 1984 they proved it was no fluke; their 18-1 Super Bowl champs of that year are one of the greatest teams ever assembled. By January of 1995 they had won five Super Bowls and totally reversed the long inferiority complex of San Francisco. This time, they had something real and actual to feel superior about. The Rams were on their way to St. Louis.

Perhaps it was coincidence, but the 49ers' rise coincided with the Bay Area's rise. First, the Silicon Valley, stretching from San Francisco to San Jose, became the hub of America's economic and technological engines, its tentacles spreading into every area of global life.

Then, in 1992, two Jewish Democrat women from San Francisco, Dianne Feinstein (a moderate) and Barbara Boxer (an unabashed liberal), were elected to the Senate from the Golden State in the "Year of the Woman" election. This reversed years in which political power and influence, embodied by a conservative boys network characterized by the likes of Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan, had dominated California - and Western - politics.

The 1992 elections were a strange reversal also of the Reagan-Bush era; 12 years of Republican domination. Bill Clinton's victory was a result of odd twists of fortune not unlike the "what ifs?" that embody the Nixon-Kennedy relationship. In some ways, the election of the opposing party mirrored England's shift to Labor over the Conservative Winston Churchill after winning World War II.

When the U.S. ousted Saddam from Kuwait, resulting in wild celebrations and parades when the victorious troops returned home in 1991, George H.W. Bush had a 91 percent approval rating. His re-election seem assured. What happened, in part, was that Bush and the GOP became victims of their own success.

When the United States won the Cold War it produced an immediate "peace dividend," which manifested itself in the form of greatly reduced defense spending. The result of this were mass layoffs in the defense industry, located principally on the 405 corridor of Los Angeles between Westchester and Long Beach; i.e., Howard Hughes's L.A.

This snowballed into a mild recession. Clinton and his campaign advisor, James Carville, somehow managed to paint this as "the worst economy since the Great Depression." Bush still would have won in 1992, except that a Texas billionaire, Ross Perot, ran as an independent, siphoning off the Republican votes otherwise ticketed for the incumbent President. Clinton won with well under 50 percent of the vote, and was re-elected in 1996, again with less than 50 percent when Perot threw his hat in the ring a second time.

The job losses in Los Angeles hit during the worst decade in the region's history. In 1991, L.A.P.D officers were videotaped hitting a black motorist, which sparked riots in 1992. A stray gang bullet hit a USC football player. Orange County declared bankruptcy. Los Angeles experienced its worst sports decade. The only championship won by a Southern California team was UCLA's 1995 NCAA basketball title, which was quickly dissipated by coach Jim Harrick's firing over an expense report. USC's football team fell on hard times. The Dodgers were mediocre. The Angels blew the 1995 pennant in a September meltdown.

The Silicon Valley and San Francisco, on the other hand, experienced boom times. The beneficiary was President Clinton, who inherited a world in which "peace broke out all over" in wake of the Cold War's end. When the Republicans swept the 1994 mid-terms, they kept his "feet to the fire," pushing through Republican policies that spurred an economic recovery. The "Information Superhighway" created the Internet and its enormous investments. All those smart tech-savvy defense workers, laid off by Cold War victory, landed on their feet in the new dot-com era.

In 1999, Los Angeles began its recovery. It was embodied first by the building of Staples Center in downtown Los Angeles. This coincided with a three-year NBA championship run by the Los Angeles Lakers, led by coach Phil Jackson and two superstars, Shaquille O'Neal and Kobe Bryant.

The downtown L.A. corridor was refurbished by a gentrification project run by Mayor Richard Riordan. In addition, air quality standards were put in place, creating vastly cleaner air than Los Angelenos had been forced to breathe in 1962. When Pete Carroll took over and created one of the all-time great football dynasties at Southern California in the 2000s, it helped revitalize downtown L.A. even more, building on the momentum of Staples Center and Laker glory.

This helped in the building of the Galen Center, USC's new basketball arena, which in turn helped the creation of new businesses and nightlife in the heretofore moribund south-central Los Angeles area around USC.

The San Francisco Examiner went out of business. Many of its writers joined the San Francisco Chronicle. The Chronicle actually improved its sports section, largely on the basis of absorbing talent from the Examiner and also writing about prep sports. The political tone of the paper continued to be liberal, with columnists like Herb Caen, Charles McCabe and Art Hoppe replaced by even-less impressive scribes, most of whom found little alliance with Truth. As a direct result, the Chronicle's subscription base has gone down . . . down . . . down. At the same time, two local radio stations, KNEW and KSFO, went to conservative formats, and even in liberal San Francisco have blown ratings competitors away. Whether this fact is scientific proof of conservatism's superiority over liberalism is not known but worth exploring.

The Los Angeles Herald-Examiner went out of business. Former sports editor Bud Furillo passed away in 2006. The Santa Monica Evening Outlook also went out of business. The Orange County Register thrived in the growing suburbs of the Southland. Jim Murray passed away in 2000, and this had a direct effect on the quality of the Los Angeles Times. Its sports coverage went downhill and, especially after the Chandler family sold its interest to the umbrella company of the Chicago Sun-Times, of all things, the paper became reliably Left-leaning in the Bill Clinton years. As a direct result, its subscription base, like the New York Times for essentially the same reason, has plummeted. The Rupert Murdoch-owned New York Post became much more popular.

In 2000, George H.W. Bush's son, George W. Bush, was elected President of the United States. This anguished Teddy Kennedy, who had long felt that his was America's "royal family," and that he was the "crown prince." Instead, a former alcoholic, tobacco-chewing, born again Christian fighter pilot from Midland, Texas was the man turning the Bush family, not the Kennedys, into America's political dynasty.

George W. Bush's election and subsequent re-election in 2004 symbolized the face of America's changing political landscape, traced back to the 1964-65 Civil Rights Act, and Richard Nixon's 1968 "Southern strategy," when he made himself palatable to voters who otherwise would have cast ballots for the segregationist Alabama Governor, George Wallace.

Despite his family's Greenwich, Connecticut pedigree, Bush was a Southerner. His father had ventured to west Texas in the 1950s, where he made his millions as an oil "wildcatter." The odd conundrum was that the Civil Rights Movement was probably the greatest accomplishment of liberalism in the 1960s. Its benefactor was not the Democrats; it was the GOP when Nixon successfully husbanded the South into the mainstream of the union by making the party palatable to Southerners who abhorred the Left in the 1960s. Integration occurred with seamless success under the auspices of the GOP, much of it brought about when conservative football coaches like Alabama's Paul "Bear" Bryant recruited blacks in confluence with his team's home loss to the black-dominated USC Trojans at Birmingham in 1970. Ronald Reagan had harnessed the new sentiments and consolidated them. Clinton and his Vice President, Al Gore, briefly made the Democrats competitive in the South, but in 2000 Dixie, unimpressed with the Clinton's immorality, rebuffed them.

On September 11, 2001, Islamic terrorists flew two jets into the World Trade Center in New York City. Mayor Rudolph Giuliani ascended into heroic status for his handling of the crisis. Giuliani had made his name in the 1980s when, as a Reagan Administration prosecutor he all-but ended Mob rule in New York City, using the RICO statute to dismantle the organized criminal network of John Gotti and the Mafia.

Giuliani was elected Mayor and cleaned up Times Square of prostitutes, pimps, drug peddlers, porn shops, and other undesirables. He beefed up the police force, reduced crime, and performed what seemed to be a miracle. Single-handedly, Giuliani returned New York to its 1962 splendor, if not greater panache.

In 2000, the Republican Giuliani ran for the U.S. Senate seat from New York against Democrat Hillary Clinton. He easily would have won, but had to drop out when he was diagnosed with prostate cancer, which he subsequently overcame. In 2008, Giuliani ran for the Presidency.

After 9/11, President Bush launched two wars against Islamic Jihadism, in Afghanistan and in Iraq. Initially, the fall of the twin towers created terrible economic conditions. Against great odds, Bush restored the economy to its greatest levels in history. Whereby the Clinton economy had risen on the strength of the "peace dividend," courtesy of the GOP; policies put in place by a Republican Congress; and the false investments of the "dot-bomb" era; the Bush economy rebounded from 9/11 on the strength of sound financial principles.

In 2002, the Republicans swept the mid-terms and in 2004 Bush and his party were re-elected with the largest number of votes ever recorded. By 2008, victory was achieved in Afghanistan and Iraq. When this occurred, it had a profound effect on the Democrat Party, which as a result may actually dismantle and, by 2012, not even be a viable political entity.

The Cold War, while considered "Reagan's victory," in fairness was won by America, Republicans and Democrats alike. Harry Truman, John Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson fought it and deserve a share of the credit. But Ted Kennedy's decision to abandon our South Vietnamese allies in 1974 led the party on an inexorable path of destruction. The very same strategy was attempted during the dark days of the Iraq War.

Republicans, like Winston Churchill standing alone against Adolf Hitler, were the only ones who stayed the course instead of cuttin' 'n' runnin'. When victory was attained, they and they alone were able to take credit and thus reap the rewards.

Osama bin Laden was forced to look upon the world's landscape and gulpingly realize that of all things he may have wanted to occur when he ordered the planes to fly into the World Trade Center in 2001, the very opposite is what actually occurred!

Francis Fukuyama's prediction that history had "ended" in 1992 had been premature. "World War III" had been the Cold War, won by America, led by Ronald Reagan. "World War IV" was the failed effort by bin Laden and the Jihadists to fuel a worldwide Islamic revolution. He had failed and American had won. Instead of bin Laden's goal coming true, the United States now was the dominant political-military force in the Middle East, buttressed by the second-most powerful entity, Israel. The Palestinian Intifadas had been rebuffed, replaced by Fatah holding sway over a divided Hamas, with a peace deal resulting in Palestinian statehood now on the agenda, orchestrated by Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice.

The "Axis of Evil" was now dismantled by Bush: Iraq, suddenly America's second-best ally in the Middle East; North Korea, acquiescing to arms inspector's demands after years of obfuscation; Iran, unable to gain a foothold or expand its "Persian Empire" in neighboring Iraq when General David Petraeus's "Surge" was successful, suddenly demonstrating they were no longer pursuing nuclear weapons with its previous bellicosity.

` In 2008, the United States of America stood astride the world like a colossus, a power over and above all previous assumptions, even American ones after World War II or the winning of the Cold War. The only power greater was God, which many Christian Revelationists are predicting will return at the End of Time, said to be between 2011 and 2012.

Whether Jesus Christ returns soon or not, the U.S. - his favored country? - has seemingly vanquished as much evil as possible in preparation thereof. Colonialism, slavery, nationalism, Nazism, Communism, terrorism; each deposited into the "ash heap of history" by the United States.

Carthage, the enemy of the Roman Empire, which according to the statesman Cato "must be destroyed" in order that the glory of Rome be allowed to prosper unfettered, had been destroyed.

The October of their years

"You have to have a lot of little boy in you to play baseball."

  * Roy Campanella

When I pitched in the Oakland organization, I had a chance to get to know Bill Rigney personally. In 1994 I wrote a screenplay, Once He Was An Angel, about former southpaw Bo Belinsky, who pitched for Rig. Even though I had not been a major prospect with the A's, Rig remembered me, and gave me valuable insight into that period. One funny anecdote involved a friend of mine, Kevin McCormack, who for years would call my house and identify himself to my dad as some well-known sports figure; say, Reggie Jackson or Vin Scully. One day Rig calls me, my dad answers and asks who is on the line, and Rig says, "Bill Rigney." My dad said, "Yeah, right, Mac," before recognizing the voice as Rig's.

Bob Case was the Angels' clubhouse attendant when the team played at Dodger Stadium. He remained close friends with most of the old Angels, and eventually came to own one of the best baseball memorabilia collections in the nation. His Westlake Village neighbor, Charlie Sheen, a rabid baseball fanatic, regularly perused Case's collection, buying many items. When he saw a photo of Bo Belinsky, Sheen said, "There's my hero. I wanna play him in a movie."

"Once He Was An Angel" was the name of Pat Jordan's chapter – excerpted in Sports Illustrated – about Bo Belinsky in his masterful book, The Suitors of Spring. My screenplay was based on Jordan's article and Maury Allen's book, Bo: Pitching and Wooing.

For several years Bo and I went through the odyssey of trying to get that script made into a movie. Getting to know Bo Belinsky personally turned out to be one of the most fascinating experiences of my life. I re-visited the Belinsky epic in 1999 when, as a columnist for the L.A. sports magazine StreetZebra, I wrote a "Distant Replay" about Bo.

Between 1962 and 1964 Belinsky, who was talented but never lived up to his potential beyond the night of his 1962 no-hit game against the Baltimore Orioles, was the most publicized athlete in the nation. More than Sandy Koufax, Willie Mays, Johnny Unitas, Wilt Chamberlain or Bill Russell; all superstars of the era.

"I don't know that there were more words written about Bo than anybody else," Maury Allen said in 1999, "but he was up there." This despite an ultimately losing record in 1962 and a bad 1963, in which he was demoted to the minors.

Rigney and Belinsky feuded from 1962-64, when Bo was arrested for throwing a lovesick showgirl out of his "lipstick red" Cadillac, later assaulted L.A. Times sportswriter Braven Dyer, and showed up "reeking of booze and broads," only to find the club's Boston hotel burning down.

"See me at the ballpark first thing in the morning," was all Rigney, who had thought Bo was burning up inside, said when he observed him try to "blend in" with the pajama-wearing group.

It was around this time that Bo had a well publicized fling with B movie starlet Mamie van Doren. "Rig was always trying to hit on Mamie when I'd bring her to team parties," recalled Belinsky, who lived in Las Vegas until his 2001 passing. "They all tried to get in her pants. Every time I'd get in trouble, Rig would call me on the carpet and say he was my friend, but behind my back he'd say I was bad for the game."

Rigney certainly had no hard feelings. He said his sole motivation in helping the research of a screenplay about Bo's life was, "I'll do it if it helps Bo."

An older, mellower Belinsky had fond memories of his old manager.

"If I'd listened to him then," he said in 1994, "I would have had a much better career."

Bo bought Mamie a rock but the engagement broke up. Later he married Playboy Playmate of the Year Jo Collins, but that ended in divorce. Belinsky was unable to control his taste for wine, women and song, and for a while was homeless. He eventually saved the life of an heiress in the Hawaii surf and married her, but that marriage also failed. Finally, his old teammate Albie Pearson came to him and helped Belinsky find Christ prior to his passing in the early 2000s.

Some of the other Angels proved to be one-year wonders. The team moved to Anaheim. By the time they fired Rigney in 1969, their Sunset Strip personality was gone. Some say an "Angels Curse" hung over them, in the form of various tragedies and quirks of fate that befell players wearing the Halo. The nostalgic memory of the Sunset Strip "Summer of '62," however, remained, in many ways, the highlight of their history until their 2002 World Championship year.

****

Walter Alston was re-hired shortly after the 1962 World Series. Buzzie Bavasi called him in Darrtown, Ohio.

"Smokey, if you haven't got anything better to do next spring, meet me in Vero Beach," he said to him. There were no more hard feelings. The fact that Los Angeles had just set the all-time attendance record certainly played a part in the decision.

Alston dealt with Durocher until 1964. In 1963, he led the Dodgers to ultimate glory; a pennant and four-game sweep of the New York Yankees, won in front of a Dodger Stadium throng.

With Durocher out of his hair, he repeated the act in 1965. His managing of that team is considered one of the most masterful of all time. The Dodgers had zero offense, leaving it up to Alston to manufacture runs, then make maximum use of the Koufax-Drysdale duo to win numerous 1-0 and 2-1 games en route to a pennant and World Series triumph over Minnesota.

Alston did the exact same thing in 1966, when Los Angeles captured another pennant before their hitting woes caught up to them in a four-game sweep at the hands of Baltimore.

Alston oversaw another "youth movement" between 1969 (when the club was known as The Mod Squad after a popular TV show) and 1973. In 1974 he steered the club to 102 victories and a Championship Series triumph over Pittsburgh, but the vaunted Oakland A's beat them for their third straight World Championship.

Alston retired at the end of the 1976 season with 2,040 career victories. Aside from his five pennants and three World Championships, he managed five teams to second place finishes. Alston was elected to the Hall of Fame in 1983.

"Out of my whole managerial career, I'd like to have back the last week of the '62 season, and the play-offs," he said. It was his only known regret.

Alston passed away in 1984.

Leo Durocher got what he deserved . . . eventually.

Before that, his re-hiring surprised everybody. When it was announced at a press conference, Walt Alston's voice was heard on a squawk box. "I am not convinced he said those things <at the Grenadier>," Alston stated. "And I've always gotten along well with him."

Durocher stayed on through the successful 1963 campaign and the 1964 season, when Sandy Koufax's injury derailed the club's chances in August. He took over the Chicago Cubs in 1966, ending the club's policy of "revolving managers." His first observation of the Cubs was that they were not a ninth place team. In his first year they were a 10th place team, but Durocher steered Chicago to respectability for the first time since 1945.

In 1969, he had the Cubs flying high, in first place all season, but was blamed for overmanaging, playing tired players, insisting on a four-man rotation with little bullpen relief, and placing undue pressure on his team, when they blew the lead against the "Amazin' Mets." The man who claimed he would have steered the Dodgers to the 1962 pennant had failed to produce when placed in similar circumstances seven years later. Alston, by then as respected a manager as there was in the game, refrained from gloating.

Durocher managed a few more years in Chicago, then briefly in Houston, before retiring. Only five managers had more wins. All were in the Hall of Fame, but "the Lip" never got in while he was alive. Embittered, he told friends to reject his induction after his death, which occurred in 1991 the age of 86. In 1994, the Veteran's Committee voted him in.

In 1963 baseball's rules committee expanded the strike zone, restoring it to the pre-1950s standard; the top of the shoulders to the base of the knees. This propelled Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale to great heights in what may be the greatest pitching decade ever. Drysdale matured, resurrected his relationship with Alston, apologizing to the manager and anybody else he offended. He was a temperamental man who got in trouble with his mouth during his career and later as a broadcaster with the Angels, but he was also a gentleman who knew when he was wrong and was not afraid to admit it. All who knew him said he was a class act who never put on airs. He just wanted to win.

In 1963 Drysdale beat Jim Bouton of the Yankees, 1-0 in a classic Dodger Stadium match-up en route to a Los Angeles four-game sweep. While he won his only Cy Young award and a career-high 25 games in 1962, 1965 must go down as his best season. He was 23-12 with a 2.77 ERA, but pitched with broken ribs (unknown by the manager) down the stretch; all clutch victories that led Los Angeles to the pennant. He pitched brilliantly in the World Series, a seven-game thriller over Minnesota.

However, Drysdale was hit hard in the first game of the 1965 Series. Koufax was slated to start, but the game fell on Yom Kippur. Sandy sat it out and Big D took his place. After losing, he approached Alston and wryly told him, "I bet you wish I was Jewish, don't you?"

Pitching at Dodger Stadium, he atoned for his poor performance in Minnesota and the club won the title. In 1966 Drysdale and Koufax held out in contentious contract negotiations with Bavasi. Drysdale threatened to join the Screen Actor's Guild, to leave baseball for the movies. He and Koufax made a movie with David Janssen, Warning Shot, and told the press they were individually wealthy and did not need baseball. Bavasi told the writers "good luck with their acting careers."

When they returned, Koufax was brilliant, Drysdale was not (13-16), but they still combined to pitch the Dodgers into the 1966 World Series. Drysdale again pitched below-par in the Series opener with Baltimore, but was excellent in an outing at Memorial Stadium. Lack of offensive support - which marked his career in L.A. - made him a 1-0 loser.

When Koufax retired after the season ended, Drysdale resumed his role as staff ace, which he had held from 1957-62. In 1968, the "Year of the Pitcher," the 31-year old pitched six straight shutouts, completing a Major League record of 58 2/3 straight scoreless innings. The record was attained at Dodger Stadium on June 8, just a few days after and a few miles away from the Ambassador Hotel, where Senator Robert Kennedy was assassinated. Drysdale was a Kennedy admirer who was shaken by the experience.

After attaining the record, Drysdale's season fell flat and he finished 14-12 with a 2.15 ERA on an average club. He retired in 1969; the sturdy right-hander suddenly experienced arm troubles after a durable career. His record was 209-166 with a 2.95 ERA and 2,486 strikeouts.

Drysdale announced for the California Angels during Nolan Ryan's prime years. He later joined Vin Scully in the Dodgers' broadcast booth. He was elected to the Hall of Fame in 1984. Drysdale had a strange incident occur in Montreal when he was apparently drugged, possibly by a woman at the hotel bar, who may have wanted to lure him to her room to steal from him or worse. His marriage to the beauty queen Ginger did not last, but he did re-marry, to the great UCLA women's basketball star Ann Meyer, but died tragically young in 1993 at the age of 56.

Sandy Koufax also benefited from expansion of the strike zone in 1963. All previous assumptions or questions; about his toughness, his competitiveness, his relationship with Walt Alston; were dispelled that season when he exploded above and beyond all expectations.

He was 25-5 with a 1.88 earned run average, 11 shutouts and 306 strikeouts, earning the Cy Young as well as National League MVP awards, then was named the Most Valuable Player of the World Series when he beat the New York Yankees twice, 5-2 and 2-1. It was one of, if not the most, dominating seasons ever recorded.

In the opener at Yankee Stadium, a ballyhooed Koufax-Ford match-up was all Sandy when he set the big league record for strikeouts in a World Series game, with 15. Koufax shocked the mighty Yankees. Their commentary was laced with defeatist phraseology, with Ralph Houk stating they had "27 outs left" before facing him in game four. Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra and others expressed amazement that Koufax had managed to _lose five games_ that season.

Koufax was just as good in 1964, carrying a 19-5 record with a 1.74 ERA and 223 strikeouts in 223 innings pitched when he was injured in August. With Koufax out for the year, Los Angeles dropped out of the pennant race. In 1965 he may have been better than ever, going 26-8 with a 2.04 ERA. His perfect game against the Chicago Cubs was the fourth no-hitter of his career, and his 382 strikeouts set the new Major League record. He won his second Cy Young award and added two wins over the Twins as the Dodgers won the World Series.

Could Koufax be better? Yes, he could, and he was in 1966 when he was 27-9 with a 1.73 ERA and 317 strikeouts, leading the anemic-hitting Dodgers to the National League title. Squaring off against rookie Jim Palmer of Baltimore in the World Series, Koufax was betrayed by Willie "Three Dog" Davis, who despite being a superb defensive center fielder somehow could not handle catching or throwing that day in a 6-0 loss at Chavez Ravine.

Duke Snider felt that Koufax from 1963-66 was the greatest pitcher ever. "He comes closer to being unhittable than any other pitcher I ever saw," said Frank Shaughnessy, the late president of the International League, who had seen Christy Mathewson, Grover Cleveland Alexander and Walter Johnson.

"Against that guy we should get four strikes," one batter said. Koufax announced his retirement after the 1966 season. He was 30 years old with a 165-87 record, 2.76 ERA and 2,396 strikeouts. He said the pain of injuries was too great; that he wanted to enjoy his life without enduring a debilitating ailment that would prevent him from living like a normal man. Koufax said the pain of hot salves applied to his arm before games was even greater than the pain of pitching. He hated the freezing ice applied to his arm after games, and claimed he was on so many medications to dull his senses that he was constantly "high," worried about operating a car or thinking straight.

Koufax's acting career never amounted to anything. He tried broadcasting and was on the national _Game of the Week_ crew for a few years, but his personality was so dull that he was not very good at it. He wrote an uninspiring autobiography and had biographies written about him, the best of which was written by Jane Leavy in 2002. He remained, for the most part, mysterious. Of all the myths he was most eager to dispel, the one he worked the hardest at was the idea that he was an intellectual, uninterested in baseball greatness; as if it had all been an accident. He had worked too hard, he stated, for that to have been the case.

Koufax married the daughter of movie star Richard Widmark and tried to live a quiet life in Santa Barbara, but the marriage was not successful. In 1970, the Associated Press named him Player of the Decade.

"I'm not being modest, but I never had 10 good years in the decade," said Koufax. "I had about five. A lot of people had 10 good ones. . . . this award was a very big one. But there were so many great players in the decade, it had to be hard to single out one.

"I might have chosen Mays or maybe Mantle or Aaron. I'm still surprised I got it, because I haven't pitched since 1966 . . . It's hard to single out the highlights, because big years are more important than single big moments. Consistency is the main thing."

Koufax made a point in his autobiography that he approached games in May the same as September pennant-clinchers. The moments that did stand out for him included "the perfect game against the Cubs," which "might be the biggest, but I'll never forget my victory in the seventh game of the 1965 World Series and that win over the Yankees in New York to start the 1963 Series . . . You know, I never won 30 games in a year, but that doesn't gnaw at me at all. To do it, you have to be terribly good and terribly lucky.

"But you have to get the decisions, too, and if you don't get a lot of runs, you won't. 30 is a heck of a number. Heck, I would have liked to win 40, or all of them for that matter . . . As the years go by, I miss baseball less, but I still get the urge to pitch when Spring Training comes around. Or when the pennant race goes into the last week.

"But you gave to face the fact that everything ends."

He was named to the Hall of Fame in 1972 at the age of 36, the youngest inductee ever. For years, Koufax's public appearances, which always generated enormous excitement, have mostly been when he worked with Dodger pitches in Spring Training. In a recent episode of HBO's _Entourage_ , an untrue rumor of Sandy's demise was the premise for the Kevin Dillon character's purchase of a vintage 1966 Koufax number 32 jersey.

Tommy Davis won the batting title again in 1963, and seemed headed straight to Cooperstown until, early in 1965, he suffered a terrible leg injury on the basepaths. Without Davis, the Dodgers - known as the "Hitless Wonders" - had little offense, but won the World Championship behind the extraordinary pitching of Koufax and Drysdale. After the 1966 pennant-winning campaign, Davis was traded to his hometown New York Mets. His injury healed buy he never approached the explosive athletic prowess of 1962-63 again. Still, he was a consistent .300 hitter who played for the White Sox, Pilots, Astros, A's, Cubs, Orioles, Angels and Royals in a well-traveled career. He was a strong contributor to the A's champions and on Orioles contenders. Davis retired at the end of the 1976 season with a .294 career average. He was Seattle's hitting coach in 1981.

Maury Wills had a star-struck Dodger career. He batted .302 in 1963; stole 94 base in 1965 and 38 in 1966, leading the National League in that category for six straight seasons. After the 1966 season, he made outspoken contract demands of Bavasi. Walter O'Malley developed an open dislike of him and ordered him dealt to Pittsburgh. He went to the expansion Montreal Expos in 1969, but returned a "prodigal son" after playing 47 games for the Expos.

In that 1969 season, the first year of divisional play, the veteran Wills helped lead _The Mod Squad_ into contention in _The Wild, Wild West_ (the name of another popular TV series). Wills played through the 1972 campaign, until Bill Russell was able to assume the mantel. He finished with 586 stolen bases and a .281 lifetime average, and later managed the Seattle Mariners (1980-81). His son, Bump played at Arizona State University and made it to the big leagues. In the 1970s, Wills lived in the swingin' singles community of Marina Del Rey, where he fell into the cocaine habit that marked the disco era. He managed to overcome his demons and, like many Dodger icons, had a long career as a special instructor, naturally focusing his specialty on the art of baserunning.

Ron Fairly felt that the 1962 loss spurred the Dodgers to future successes.

"The disappointment in '62 was definitely a springboard for the success we had in '63," he said. "We were just about the same ballclub, but we had greater resolve during the course of the '63 season. We swore we wouldn't let 1962 happen again."

Fairly was a reliable Dodger, at first base or the outfield, until 1969. With Wes Parker fixed at first base, he was traded to the Expos in 1969 and was a mainstay under manager Gene Mauch at Montreal, then went to the St. Louis Cardinals in 1975, then the Oakland A's and Toronto Blue Jays. He retired in 1978 with 215 career homers and a .266 average. Fairly became a broadcaster for the Angels and, of all teams, the Giants, then the Mariners in 1993.

Willie "Three Dog" Davis played with Dodgers until the end of the 1973 season. He made two of the worst defensive plays ever in the same inning of a 1966 World Series game at Dodger Stadium, then followed that up with one of the best. In 1969, Davis went on a 31-game hitting streak. Overall, he was considered one of the finest defensive center fielders of his era, but was generally an underrated player. He played at the same time as Willie Mays and Mickey Mantle. Davis retired in 1979 with 182 career homers, 398 stolen bases and a .279 batting average.

Jim "Junior" Gilliam played through the 1964 season and became one of Walt Alston's most trusted colleagues. He was re-activated in 1965 and again in 1966, helping the club win pennants down the stretch both years. His lifetime batting average was .265 with 203 stolen bases. He mastered the art of the sacrifice bunt, the sacrifice fly, and moved countless runners along with ground balls to the right side. When Jackie Robinson publicly asked for a black coach in 1972, it was Gilliam who first fulfilled that wish. Junior, 49, tragically died too soon died in 1978 of a brain hemorrhage. Alston cried while giving his eulogy.

Frank "Hondo" Howard was traded to the Washington Senators after the 1964 season. Over the next seven years he was considered one of the most dangerous sluggers in the game, winning two American League home run crowns. He was constantly considered a threat to break Roger Maris's record. Howard slammed 10 home runs in one week in 1968 and 48 in 1969 under new manager Ted Williams. He went to Texas when the Senators moved there in 1972, and finished with Detroit in 1973. He had 382 lifetime home runs and a .273 batting average. He played briefly in Japan, managed the Padres in 1981 and the Mets in 1983. Hondo also coached for several teams.

In 1965, Juan Marichal clubbed John Roseboro over the head with a bat at Candlestick Park. Marichal claimed that Roseboro "buzzed" his ear with his throws back to the mound while he was at the plate, a highly possible event that was part of the intense rivalry between the two teams. Willie Mays came to his rescue, murmuring, "John, oh John!" while holding his bloody head in his hands, and preventing a riot from breaking out. Sandy Koufax, nursing a shutout until that point, was so shaken up he delivered a home run pitch to Mays, who helped San Francisco win the game on the strength of that clout.

Roseboro recovered from his injuries and helped the Dodgers win the pennant and World Series. Roseboro was the Dodgers' catcher through 1967 before a trade to the Twins along with Ron Perranoski. He starred under manager Billy Martin on their 1969 division champions, then went to the Senators, where he played for Ted Williams in 1970. "Gabby" finished with 104 career home runs and a .249 average. He coached for the Senators, and with the Angels from 1972-74. Roseboro founded a public relations firm, Fouch-Roseboro in Beverly Hills, which dedicated itself to black-owned businesses and causes.

Marichal was deeply sorrowful over what he had had done. Eventually, he asked Roseboro for forgiveness, and it was granted. They became close friends, regularly seen at old-timers games and charity events. Roseboro was gracious with Marichal's family, and Juan became emotional when the former catcher passed away in 2002.

Duke Snider went to the Mets in 1963, then the Giants in 1964. He retired with 407 career homers, a .295 career average, and was elected to the Hall of Fame in 1980. Duke was a broadcaster for the Dodgers and wrote a book called _Few and Chosen: Defining Dodgers Greatness Across the Eras_ (2006).

Doug Camilli was a Dodger catcher through the 1964 campaign and was traded to Washington, where he played until 1969. His career average was .199. He coached for the Red Sox in the early 1970s.

Wally Moon stayed on the L.A. bench though 1965. He retired with 142 homers and a .289 batting average. Moon coached for two decades at the college, minor league and big league levels.

A headline in _The Sporting News_ after the 1962 season ended read, "Dodger Yelpers to Face Bavasi's Pruning Shears." It referred to outspoken players, particularly those who had ranted and raved in the post-game meltdown in the Dodger Stadium clubhouse after the last play-off game. Norm Sherry, exposed as one of the "yelpers," was sold by his hometown team to the New York Mets. He retired at the end of the 1963 season and managed the California Angels from 1976-77. Later he became the pitching coach for the Expos, Padres and Giants.

Larry Burright was traded with Tim Harkness to the Mets. His big league career ended in 1964 with a .204 average.

Andy Carey was released and retired. Daryl Spencer was released in May of 1963, finishing with Cincinnati, then eight years in the Far East. He hit 152 home runs in Japan. Lee Walls was a bench player for two more seasons, then went to Japan. He coached for several teams through 1983, but died at the age of 60 in 1993.

Stan Williams was traded to the New York Yankees in 1963.

"I felt very badly about that trade," he said. "I thought I was being used as a whipping boy for the '62 season, for the play-off loss. I resented their making an example of me. Sure, I was part of it, but I'd have liked the chance to redeem myself."

Williams was a member of the 1963 American League pennant-winning Yankees who lost to Los Angeles in the World Series. Williams went to the Cleveland Indians in 1965, staying in that organization until 1970. He was 10-1 pitching for manager Bill Rigney's 1970 American League West champion Minnesota Twins. Williams pitched for St. Louis and Cincinnati before retirement in 1972 with a 109-94 mark, and a 3.48 earned run average. He moved back to the Long Beach area where he had lived on the same block with several teammates from 1962. His son Stan was a star under legendary coach John Herbold at Lakewood High School, which in the 1970s was one of the all-time great prep baseball dynasties in history. He earned a scholarship to the University of Southern California, where he pitched for another legend, Rod Dedeaux, then played in the minor leagues.

Ron Perranoski was named Fireman of the Year in 1963, and was a Dodger bullpen ace through 1967, when he left as part of the club's "youth movement" in the post-Koufax era. Perranoski was a star at Minnesota, the team that lost to L.A. in the 1965 Series and, after a downturn, revived themselves in large measure with players obtained from Los Angeles. He was the best closer in the American League on Minnesota's 1969-70 division champions, then returned to Los Angeles in 1972. He was with the California Angels in 1973, then retired with a 79-74 record, 179 saves and a 2.79 ERA. Perranoski was the Dodgers' pitching coach under Alston and Tom Lasorda until 1981, and later worked for the hated Giants.

Johnny Podres pitched for Los Angeles until 1966, then went to the Tigers, and eventually joined the expansion San Diego Padres in 1969 before retirement with a 148-116 record and a 3.67 earned run average. He later became a highly respected pitching coached for San Diego, Boston and Minnesota; perhaps getting his best recognition for the work he did with the Phillies' staff.

Ed Roebuck was sent to Washington in the middle of the 1963 season, then was part of the infamous Phillies' squad that blew the 1964 pennant. He finished his career in 1966 with a 52-31 record, 62 saves, and a 3.35 ERA.

Joe Moeller pitched parts of seven years in Los Angeles, living in his idyllic South Bay during The Beach Boys era of the 1960s. He left the club after the 1971 season..

Pete Richert was traded to Washington after the 1964 season, then went to the Baltimore Orioles in 1967. He became one of the top relievers in the league, but in the 1969 World Series his throw up the first base line hit Mets' pinch-hitter J.C. Martin, who was running inside the base line, on the arm, skirting into foul territory and allowing New York to win game four, 2-1 in extra innings. Richert came to back to Los Angeles in 1972, and retired in 1974 with an 80-73 mark to go with a 3.19 ERA.

Larry Sherry went to Detroit in 1963, Houston in 1967, then the Angels before retiring with a 53-44 record and a 3.67 earned run average. He was a coach with the Pirates and was on his brother Norm's staff at Anaheim in late 1970s.

Batboy Rene Lachemann graduated from Dorsey High in Los Angeles. 1962 was his last year as the Dodgers' batboy. He joined his brother Marcel at the University of Southern California, and later signed as a catcher with the A's organization, reaching the big leagues in Kansas City and Oakland. He managed at Seattle in the early 1980s, and was a coach under Tony LaRussa during the "Bash Brothers" era at Oakland in the late 1980s. He managed with the Florida Marlins in the 1990s, and returned as a coach in Oakland. His brother, Marcel played in the big leagues with Oakland, was Rod Dedeaux's pitching coach at USC, and managed the California Angels (1994-95).

Vin Scully was already a legend; the finest baseball broadcaster and likely the best all-around sportscaster in the business by 1962. His description of Koufax's perfect game against the Chicago Cubs in 1965 is considered less announcing and more poetry, but it is not a singular moment in his career. He is simply the very best who has ever done what he does, and long, long ago was recognized as the "most valuable Dodger," responsible for the team's image, its great attendance, and its joyous relationship with the fans of Los Angeles. Scully may be the greatest ambassador baseball has ever known; as respected a sports figure as can be conceived, and an icon in Los Angeles matched by none ( _possibly_ John Wooden).

"1962 was a crucible year for a lot of the players," Scully recalled. "They added a healthy Sandy Koufax and that '63 team was off and running. To win the pennant and then sweep the lordly Yankees in four straight - that's probably the greatest moment in the history of the Dodger organization."

Walter O'Malley, the most powerful man in baseball by 1962, continued to be one of _The Lords of Baseball_ , the title of a book describing the impact he and a handful of visionaries had on baseball. Despite his hated status in Brooklyn, he goes down as a hero in Los Angeles and one of the most remarkable executives in baseball history. By the end of the 1960s, O'Malley was ceding authority to his son, Peter, who was cut out of a different mold. A graduate of Penn's Wharton School of Business, Peter O'Malley successfully husbanded the Dodgers into the succeeding decades with no bumps in the road. Walter O'Malley passed away in 1979, but Peter sold the family interest to Rupert Murdoch and News Corporation, the parent company of Fox News, in the late 1990s. In 2008 Walter O'Malley was inducted into the Hall of Fame.

Buzzie Bavasi left the Dodgers to run the fledgling San Diego Padres in 1969, and later was involved with Gene Autry and the California Angels. His son, Peter Bavasi, became a respected baseball executive.

Fresco Thompson ran the Dodgers' farm system through 1968, and in 1969 was slated to take over from Bavasi when he died of a heart attack.

Al Campanis ascended to the position instead, and was extremely successful running the Dodgers when they captured five pennants and a World Championship in the 1970s until the mid-1980s. In 1987, he was a guest of Ted Koppel on the ABC national news show, _Nightline_. The subject of Jackie Robinson and the question as to why there were so few blacks managers was posed. Campanis may have been intoxicated, having been imbibing in his Astrodome suite. He told Koppel blacks lacked the "necessities" to manage. The hue and cry was far-reaching and resulted in his immediate dismissal. His grandson was an All-American catcher at USC.

****

The Giants slipped to third place under manager Alvin Dark in 1963. In 1964 they contended in a tight five-team race. The Dodgers dropped out when Koufax was hurt in August. The Giants fell by the wayside in September, leaving it up to St. Louis, Cincinnati and Philadelphia to slug it out in the last week.

Dark's remark that minorities players were "a different kine' " of ballplayer combined with additional personal and professional troubles in 1963-64. His problems with Orlando Cepeda never went away, and Dark's marriage also was on "the rocks." Horace Stoneham questioned his ethics. In 1964, Stan Isaacs of _Newsday_ wrote about Dark's troubles with black and Latino players.

"We have trouble because we have so many Negro and Spanish-speaking players on this team," Dark was quoted saying. "They are just not able to perform up to the white ballplayer when it comes to mental alertness. You can't make most Negro and Spanish players have the pride in their team that you can get from white players."

Dark denied it, stating that nobody would be so stupid as to say such things to a writer, which actually made sense, but Isaacs said he had taken notes and, regardless of whether they were direct quotes, many felt it reflected Dark's attitude at some level. It was speculated that Dark may not have said it to Isaacs, but that it was a cumulative of remarks overheard by Dark over time. New York writer Leonard Schecter, who later edited Jim Bouton's _Ball Four_ and was not popular - some called him "a pariah - confirmed he had heard similar comments from Alvin in past

This was 1964, a seminal year in the civil rights struggle. A side show of those heated times was animosity not just between Southern whites and blacks, but also between Southern whites and Jews, who were seen as making up a disproportionate amount of the white "Freedom Riders" descending upon Dixie to "stir up trouble." Some speculated that Dark's Southern Baptist background was seen as anathema to Jewish writers from New York (Isaacs, Schecter). Many questioned the veracity of the writers.

Jackie Robinson rushed to his former opponent's defense. "I have known Dark for many years, and my relationship with him has always been exceptional," he said. "I have found him to be a gentleman and, above all, unbiased."

_Sports Illustrated_ , _Newsweek_ , and _Time_ all printed follow-ups favorable to him. Dark kept his job but was later fired when the team floundered. If he could manage the Giants to 103 wins and the seventh game of the 1962 World Series, it was speculated, than why could he not repeat the act in succeeding years? The answer was obvious: the Giants' veteran pitching staff of Jack Sanford, Billy Pierce and Billy O'Dell would not ever be as effective again. Juan Marichal was a genuine star, but Gaylord Perry, Bob Bolin, Ron Herbel, Bob Garibaldi - the hope for the future - had not yet come to fruition and in some cases never would. In cosmopolitan San Francisco, his way of doing things was seen as part of the past.

"You never forget a year like '62," Dark said. "Even with all the Giant-Dodger battles I've been a part of, I still have to rank that season right at the top.".

Charlie O. Finley, who was always part of the past, the present and the future, had been born in Alabama before moving to the Midwest, and then of course associating himself with the West Coast. He was an innovator who embraced New Age concepts like flashy colors, long hair and the sexualization of culture. While nobody ever could say he was a man of prejudice, he was a man of his surroundings and past. Finley befriended Bear Bryant, 'Bama's legendary football coach, who entered the Birmingham locker room and supposedly said Reggie Jackson was "just the kind of n----r boy" he could use to integrate his program, five years before he did just that in confluence with a loss to Southern California.

In 1966, Finley gave Dark another chance when he hired him to manage the Kansas City A's. Under Dark, the team improved. By 1967, much of the team's future foundation was in the system, either breaking into the Majors or enjoying success in the minors. But Dark ran into trouble with Finley in the aftermath of a "plane incident" involving pitcher Lew Krausse. Finley accused Dark of colluding with the players in the drafting of an open letter to, and critical of, Finley.

Between 1:30 A.M. and 5:30 A.M. on a late August night in 1967, Dark and his coaching staff were fired, re-hired and fired again by Finley. Finley at first fired Dark because the players had supported him. Dark then "saved" his job by providing an optimistic, and ultimately prophetic, prediction of future championships with the young players under contract.

Dark, who had informed his coaches they had lost their job, called to say he had saved them after all. Then Finley called pitcher Jack Aker, a major instigator of the "letter campaign." As fate would have it, Aker was not in his room, having broken curfew, a big no-no for Finley. Finley apparently put announcer Monte Moore on the hunt, looking for Aker in nearby watering holes, or with a local "Baseball Annie."

Aker was finally produced, and like a prisoner hauled before the King, was taken to Finley's room. Moore provided the details of his escapades, detailing them as if he was a private dick assigned to the case. Aker was in no moral position to argue his side, if indeed at 5:30 in the morning he had the wherewithal to make any cogent points.

Then Aker, trying to "save" himself, said that Dark had been in on the letter, contradicting Dark's assertions that he had nothing to do with it. Apparently, Dark did possess knowledge of it before it was released, even though he did not help draft it, and did not urge its release. Dark was fired and Aker stayed with the team for several years.

Dark managed in Cleveland with no success before getting re-hired by Finley in 1974. Dick Williams, winner of consecutive World Championships, had enough of Finley's all-night phone interruptions, and thought (incorrectly, as it turned out) that he would be hired by the Yankees, his dream job.

The world had changed drastically between 1967 and 1974. Al Dark looked like a dinosaur by this time. His Christian upbringing and Southern demeanor seemed more out of place than ever. In the Bay Area, the only "cool" Southerners were "wild eyed" party animals like Ken Stabler, or rockers like Lynyrd Skynrd, who packed the Coliseum's "day on the green" concerts.

But it was precisely Dark's Christianity that allowed him to own up to his own flaws as a man. He pointed to Biblical teachings, freely quoting New Testament verse in describing the transformation he had gone through in response to questions about his handling of minority players.

The A's were a free-wheelin' bunch, more like the "Hell's Angels" who were headquartered in Oakland than the "better angels of our nature." They were not a bad group. They pretty much stayed out of trouble, avoided police blotters and the like. Perhaps if they had played in New York their off-field habits would have been more exposed, but like the party-hearty Raiders, they benefited from the low key Bay Area press corps. But they were no tent revival. Dark was.

Sal Bando said Dark "couldn't manage a meat market." Early in 1974, I sat behind home plate at the Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum with my dad. Dark made a move my father disagreed with, and he made no bones about it. A well-dressed lady sitting with several of the most well heeled children on the planet tapped him on the back. She told my dad that she would appreciate more "kindness of heart." An inning or so later I was looking through the A's program and saw a photo of Al Dark and his family; the well-coifed woman and the well-heeled children sitting behind us.

How much Al Dark contributed to the A's 1974 World Championship is debatable. Their regular season record of 90-72 was in decline from those of the previous three seasons, but their post-season run was the best of any of those teams (Baltimore and the Dodgers falling like Poland during the Blitzkrieg). Dark benefited from a healthy roster of All-Stars and future Hall of Famers in their prime, which never hurts. This included one of the most airtight pitching staffs, top to bottom, in the history of the game. But like Pat Riley in Los Angeles and Phil Jackson in Chicago, credit must be given to coaches who did not screw it all up, because many others with talent-laden clubs have done just that. It was certainly viewed as redemption for Dark; for his baseball sins and otherwise. The fact that Oakland defeated Walter Alston's Dodgers was almost too perfect.

Like all of Finley's managers, Dark was eventually fired when all his talent began to go the free agent route. He managed the San Diego Padres in 1977.

"I would certainly do lot things differently today," Dark said years later of the 1962 campaign. "I tried to treat all the players the same. I would treat them all differently now."

Willie Howard Mays, exhausted or not exhausted, near-bankrupt or not, was at the very height of his game in 1962. He maintained that high level for four more seasons. In 1964 he led the league with 47 home runs while driving in 111. In 1965 he slugged a league-leading 52 home runs with a .645 slugging percentage, drove in 112, and batted .317. He earned the Most Valuable Player award, but the Giants finished second.

In 1966 he hit 37 homers and drove in 103, but again San Francisco finished behind the Koufax-Drysdale Dodgers. Baseball was slightly frustrating, what with the bridesmaid finishes behind L.A. and battling the constant winds that blew his home runs in from beyond the left field fence.

Sluggers like Hank Aaron, Eddie Mathews, Roger Maris and even teammate Willie McCovey benefited from short porches or prevailing winds, but not Mays. In 1967, the year he turned 37, Mays started to slow down. Today, 37 is not considered old, but Mays lost a considerable step or two and never got it back. McCovey replaced him as the club's _bona fide_ home run slugger, star and even marquee name. Every year, the second place syndrome continued to haunt Mays and the Giants. After the Dodgers it was the St. Louis Cardinals. In 1969, they placed second behind Henry Aaron and Atlanta in the National League West. In each of three seasons, _Orlando Cepeda_ played on the team that beat them (St. Louis, 1967-68; Atlanta, 1969).

Mays's performance between 1967 and 1971 fell substantially from that of his 1951-66 levels, but he continued to play at or near an All-Star performance. Whether he deserved to make the All-Star Game every year or not was immaterial; he was an icon and he was on the team each season, setting records and even earning game MVP honors in 1968 at the Astrodome.

In 1970 Mays got his 3,000th career hit. Long considered the most likely to break Babe Ruth's career home run record, his late-career tailoff and the Candlestick winds combined to prevent the attainment of that goal, leaving it up to Hank Aaron (who got there in 1974). Mays turned 40 in 1971, but his career was revitalized by an exciting Giants club that raced out to the lead, overcame the "June swoon," and held on to beat the Dodgers in another thrilling divisional pennant race. He batted .271 with 18 homers but seemed to run with a little extra bounce in his step. San Francisco lost to Pittsburgh in the play-offs, however, and it was Willie's "last hurrah."

He was shockingly traded to the New York Mets in 1972 for Charlie Williams. _Sports Illustrated_ dutifully recorded some early Maysian heroics at Shea Stadium. The prospect that he could revive the Polo Grounds ghosts, and along with Tom Seaver make the Mets "Amazin' " again, was quickly determined to not be in the cards. In 1973, under manager Yogi Berra, the Mets were improbable winners of the National League East, and even more improbable winners over Cincinnati's "Big Red Machine" in the N.L.C.S.

The 43-year old Mays, who hit .211 and had nothing to do with the Mets' success, found himself playing center field in front of the Bay Area fans, at the Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum, when the Mets battled the A's in the World Series. Mays had no business being out there, but Berra could not bring himself to sit the aging hero; hoping against hope there was one last miracle left. It was not to be.

Mays looked befuddled, on a routine ground ball single that snaked under his glove; on his knees arguing a call at home; and the Mets lost in seven. He retired, and people have lamented for decades that this was the very picture of how a great athlete should _not_ go out.

He finished with 660 home runs and a .302 average, entering Cooperstown in 1979. Somewhere along the line, Mays became bitter. His remarks to writers, fans and banquet rooms full of people paying to hear what he was paid to say, were stories of racism and unfairness. He had avoided bankruptcy in the 1960s, but never made the big dough. Watching Tom Seaver, Reggie Jackson, and Dave Winfield cash in filled him with bile.

Fans asking for autographs, sitting next to him in planes, or other situations, were likely to hear foul epithets instead of grace. He respected baseball, worked with Giants youngsters and helped many, but when asked to compare himself with all-time greats showed zero humility.

He taught Bobby Bonds to be wary of the media and see racial prejudice and dark clouds behind all inter-action. He later taught his Godson, Barry Bonds, the same thing. Bonds, one of the least impressive personalities in baseball history, is a mirror reflection of Mays. Mays never reproached Bonds for juicing, even though the younger man likely passed Mays's records because of it.

The Giants kept him around. Provincial San Franciscans found a way to love him, just as they love Bonds. He offered some helpful hints in Spring Training and some public relations value, but scribes approaching him do so cautiously, knowing that his buttocks must be kissed in order to get cooperation.

The difference between Willie Mays and his contemporary, Ernie Banks of the Cubs, is a vast chasm as wide as all space.

Orlando "Cha Cha" Cepeda never really ceded the first base job to Willie McCovey. The outspoken Puerto Rican slugger hated playing the outfield. He would talk to the fans and show little hustle. He was young and immature.

"When I was with the Giants, I didn't like playing for Alvin, but I feel much differently today," said Cepeda. "I was 24, 25 years old and he said certain things to me that got me very upset. Now, I wish I had paid more attention, because he'd been through it, he was a good ballplayer, he knew the game. Instead of fighting him, I should have listened to him and learned from him.

"Back then, he did some things that were hard to figure out. Sometimes, I believe he had it out for me personally. But I wasn't always easy to live with, either. It worked both ways \- my fault, his fault."

Cepeda's best year was 1961, but he was consistent in 1962, 1963 and 1964, hitting more than 30 home runs each season, and finishing with 97 RBIs in each of the 1963 and '64 campaigns. His ability was unquestioned, and Cepeda appeared to be a Hall of Fame contender.

In 1965 he sustained an injury that limited him to 33 games. It probably cost San Francisco the pennant, although the loss of Tommy Davis around the same time was an "equalizer" for the Dodgers. After playing 19 games in 1966, Cepeda was traded to St. Louis for left-handed pitcher Ray Sadecki, a 20-game winner for the Cardinals who never panned out in San Francisco.

Cepeda hit .301 overall in 1966, but in 1967 he led _El Birdos_ to the National League pennant . . . over the Giants. One of his teammates was Roger Maris. The two stars who had opposed each other in the 1962 World Series, both of whom had "worn out their welcomes," found comfort in what many consider the best baseball town in the Majors. Orlando had better years - he batted .325 with 25 home runs and 111 runs batted in - but he assumed a leadership role that he never had before. Playing in the shadow of Mays, with McCovey battling for his position, at odds with Dark, and beset by his own youth, Cepeda had not been in this kind of position in San Francisco. He loved The City, but at the age of 30 in 1967, he reached a comfort level with St. Louis. The Cardinals defeated the Boston Red Sox in the World Series.

In 1968 the Cardinals came within one game of a repeat championship, but were beaten by Detroit in a seven-game Series. Cepeda was traded to Atlanta, and in 1969 helped the Braves win the National League West. From 1967-69, Cepeda's teams finished in first place, always with San Francisco in second. It was a period of vindication for him. He batted .305 with 34 home runs and 111 RBIs in 1970, but Cepeda's legs and various injuries took their toll on him. Had he remained healthy he likely would have compiled lifetime statistics worthy of Cooperstown, but it was not to be. He made a brief return to the Bay Area, along with Matty Alou, when Charlie O. Finley acquired him for the Oakland A's in 1972, the year they won the first of three World Series. Injuries prevented him from making any contribution, but the designated hitter rule allowed him to make a comeback at Boston in 1973 when he batted .289 with 20 home runs and 86 runs batted in. After playing 33 games for Kansas City in 1974, Cepeda retired with 379 career homers and a .297 average.

In 1988 Cepeda and Dark reconciled at an old-timers game. Dark apologized and Cepeda said he felt it took a big man to do that. Cepeda, like Mays and McCovey, became a regular at Giants games. When the club moved to Pacific Bell Park in 2000, they did an excellent job of paying homage to their history. Rightfully, Orlando was a big part of that. He maintained a home in Puerto Rico but also lived in the Bay Area. His identity, despite success in St. Louis and elsewhere, was with San Francisco.

Cepeda had on occasion brushed with the law, mainly drug-related. Some speculated that being kept on the Giants' payroll with little responsibility tended to lead him astray. His drug problems were said to have kept him out of the Hall of Fame, but in truth it was his knees, which prevented him from achieving the 400 career homers that might have made the difference. Had he batted .300 lifetime instead of .297, that might have helped.

Willie McCovey played 135 games in the outfield, 23 games at first base in 1963, when he materialized as a genuine superstar with 44 home runs and 102 runs batted in. In 1964 he played 83 games in the outfield, 18 games at first base, but slumped badly (.220). In 1965 he assumed the first base position from the injured Cepeda, hit 39 homers, and followed that up with 36 (1966) and 31 (1967).

Mays's productivity began to tail off markedly in 1967, and McCovey picked up the slack. He was _The Sporting News_ National League Player of the Year in 1968, when the "Year of the Pitcher" apparently had no effect on him. Willie Mac slammed 36 homers, drove in 105 runs, and had a .545 slugging percentage.

His best season was 1969, when his two home runs earned him the MVP of the All-Star Game played in Washington, D.C., and he finished with 45 home runs, 126 RBIs, a .656 slugging percentage and a .320 average. He was widely hailed as the most feared hitter in baseball, and many felt of all time.

The Giants were a close second in 1969, but were still second. Late in the season, they were beaten soundly by Tom Seaver and the New York Mets. Seaver won 10 straight games to finish 25-7, personally leading the "Amazin' Mets" to the East Division title, the National League pennant and a World Series victory. It was nothing less than spectacular. Seaver's season goes down as one of the greatest in baseball history; his contributions bordering on the other-worldly. It was considered a _fait accompli_ that he would win the Most Valuable Player award as well as the Cy Young award, not to mention the Hickock Belt (Professional Athlete of the Year) and _Sports Illustrated's_ Sportsman of the Year honor.

However, two pitchers (Bob Gibson of the Cardinals, Denny McLain of the Tigers) had won the MVP awards in 1968's "Year of the Pitcher." Sandy Koufax had won the MVP award six years earlier and very easily could have repeated the trick in 1965 and 1966. In response to pitching dominance, the mound was lowered in 1969, although it did not stop Seaver.

Many members of the Baseball Writer's Association of America had been complaining that since pitchers had the Cy Young award - which in 1967 became an award to the best pitcher in each league, not just all of baseball - they should be excluded from MVP consideration. They had "their own award" (the Cy Young) in the view of some. When the BBWAA voted for the National League MVP in 1969, several excluded Seaver from their ballots entirely. The system includes votes for one (the top pick) through 10. 10 points are awarded for the first, eight for the third, one for the 10th, et al. McCovey barely edged Seaver out. All the Mets' pitcher needed was a couple of seventh or sixth place votes, which he more than deserved by a long shot, but by being excluded entirely he lost vital points that he needed to beat out McCovey.

The vote, despite McCovey's great season, was considered a fraud, especially from the influential New York media base. Furthermore, the writers who excluded Seaver remained anonymous. The BBWAA voted thereafter to publicly reveal the voting of their members in future ballots, but Seaver was denied what was rightfully his. A class act, Seaver never complained and had only kind words for Willie Mac.

In 2001, McCovey and Mays were at Pac Bell Park. Both displayed zero humility, bragging and talking themselves up like there was no tomorrow. Mays, asked whether Barry Bonds's recent 500th home run and good reception from the home crowd reminded him of the moment in 1962 when the Candlestick fans "warmed up" to him after favoring Joe DiMaggio, veered from the essence of the question.

"You can't compare Joe to me," said Mays, as if Joe D.'s World Championships, three MVP awards and general deity status of the Yankee Clipper meant nothing. Mays went on to repeat his memorized statistics, indicating he had been making this same argument to anybody who asked long before this moment.

Then McCovey was asked about the 1969 MVP vote. He, too, took umbrage at the concept that his obvious greatness should be questioned. "Of course I deserved that award," said McCovey. "Seaver had no business winning the MVP. I should have won it in '68 instead of Bob Gibson, too."

In 1968 McCovey's Giants finished second to Gibson's Cardinals. That was the year Gibson pitched 48 straight scoreless innings and compiled a Major League record 1.12 earned run average. Many consider it the greatest single season pitching performance ever recorded, and Gibson was so obviously deserving of the award over all challengers that he won it with 14 first place votes and 242 points. Cincinnati's Pete Rose, not McCovey, was second with the Giants' first baseman a distant third. Pitcher Denny McLain won unanimously in the American League.

McCovey was often given cover by the press, possibly out of a sense of Political Correctness that is especially practiced in San Francisco. He has always been described as a class act, and in truth is a decent, enough fellow, but those who have dealt with him personally have found him to be a piece of work. When invited to functions such as golf club banquets and the like he insists on payment, ostensibly referring to his "stature" as a man. There is a racial twinge to his near-extortions, as if the prejudice he experienced in the South of the 1950s must be "paid for" by liberal whites in the Northern California of the 2000s.

McCovey hit 39 home runs and drove in 126 runs in 1970, but by 1971 his knees were aching. The pain had a considerable effect on his performance, reducing him to 18 home runs, but San Francisco still won in the West. He made a big comeback with a 29-home run season in 1973, but was dealt to San Diego for the 1974, 1975 and 1976 seasons. Early in 1976 he was traded to Oakland, but in 1977 he came home to the Giants. He ascended to godlike status, above and beyond anything Mays ever experienced and was probably even more popular than Barry Bonds later was. In 1977 McCovey hit 28 home runs, and in 1978 contributed a series of remarkable clutch hits as San Francisco shocked baseball.

They led the two best teams in the league, Cincinnati and Los Angeles, well into the summer before fading down the stretch (with the Dodgers winning). Attendance and excitement returned to Candlestick after a moribund period, helped by the fact that cross-bay Oakland was a shell of their earlier dynasty. McCovey struggled in his last two seasons, 1979-80, as did the team. Interest again waned and he finally retired with 531 lifetime home runs, a .270 average, and in 1986, induction to the Hall of Fame.

The Giants, as with Mays, Cepeda and Juan Marichal, did a good job of respecting their past, particularly when Pac Bell Park was built. McCovey became a regular, hob-nobbing with fans, players and writers. Beyond right field, past a walkway, a part of San Francisco Bay was named McCovey Cove. Barry Bonds has been virtually the only left-handed slugger able to reach it, but his "splash shots" amidst kayakers and boaters have made for spectacular visuals. A statue outside the stadium was erected for McCovey, who for the most part has been a class act.

When Juan Marichal came out of game three of the 1962 World Series at Yankee Stadium, there was still some hope that he might be available to pitch in some capacity later in the Series. When it shifted to San Francisco and was delayed by rain, the writers speculated that the "Dominican Dandy" might start game six or seven.

"He won't pitch again in this Series even if it rains for a week," Alvin Dark said. While the manager had Billy Pierce and Jack Sanford ready, Juan took it that Dark was mad at him, first for the bone fracture in his foot and second for the hand injury he suffered in game four. The media took Dark to mean this, too. It bothered Juan all winter. In 1966, a new set of x-rays found the broken bone that 1962 x-rays had not!

Marichal recovered after 1962 to win 20 games six times between 1963 and 1969, but in a league dominated by Sandy Koufax, Bob Gibson and Tom Seaver, never won the Cy Young award. In 1968 he and Denny McLain threatened to win 30 games all summer. McLain got there but Marichal finished 26-9 with a 2.43 earned run average. With Gibson pitching St. Louis to the pennant and setting the ERA record of 1.12, Marichal's best shot at the Cy Young fell by the wayside.

Marichal was pleasant and intelligent. His marriage to Alma was a good one and he was a fan favorite. He wrote a book called _A Pitcher's Story_ that, despite being ghostwritten by Charles Einstein, reflected his unique voice, his Dominican heritage, and gave insight into the Latino ballplayer's mind. Still, a dark cloud seemed to hover above him. The controversies with Dark started it, but when he clubbed John Roseboro over the head with his bat in 1965, he was demonized, especially in Los Angeles. He was sorrowful in the succeeding years, made up with the Dodger catcher and, by 1971 when his 18 wins and victory on the last day gave San Francisco the division, was as popular as any Giant.

Marichal always seemed to have maladies and small injuries, and after 1971 they became debilitating. He pitched until 1975, finishing with Boston and, like Sal Maglie going to Brooklyn, he wore Dodger blue in 1975. He finished with a 243-142 record and a 2.89 earned run average, and was elected to the Hall of Fame in 1983. However, his failure to win any Cy Young awards, falling well short of 300 career victories, the fact he was not a strikeout pitcher, and the lack of any lasting image - as with Koufax and Drysdale - of him victorious on the World Series stage, reduce Marichal in the minds of many when comparing him to the all-time greats, including contemporaries Koufax, Gibson, Seaver, and Steve Carlton. While he was undoubtedly the ace of a staff that included Gaylord Perry, Perry's longevity (and 300 wins) may have pushed him ahead of Marichal in the pantheon.

Marichal remains an iconic figure on the Dominican island, and has successfully straddled his role there with his role as a baseball hero in America. In this respect, he is a cultural ambassador.

In the wake of the Cuban Missile Crisis of October, 1962, Cuba and Fidel Castro were public enemy number one in America. Ford Frick banned big leaguers from playing in any games against Cubans. Felipe Alou appeared in an exhibition game against a Cuban team in Santo Domingo. He feared reprisals in his home country if did not help them beat the Cubans. He was fined, and said it proved Latinos "were, are, and will always be foreigners in America and we cannot hope that we will ever be totally accepted."

He played in San Francisco through the 1964 season, then with the Braves through 1969. Alou returned to the Bay Area with the Oakland A's in 1970, hitting .271 on a second place club. From there Alou played for the New York Yankees, Montreal Expos and Milwaukee Brewers, retiring after the 1974 season with a .286 lifetime average and 206 homers. He became a coach, then a well respected manager of the Expos. When Dusty Baker left after the 2002 season, Alou was hired as manager of the Giants, where he handled Barry Bonds as well as his own son, an excellent outfielder, Moises Alou.

The respect he received from players, fans and media during his managerial career proved that his 1962-63 off-season statement that Latinos "were, are, and will always be foreigners in America and we cannot hope that we will ever be totally accepted," was not a truthful statement, although he honestly felt it to be at the time.

Alou remained deeply Christian, outspoken and erudite. In Montreal he dealt with French-speaking reporters and mastered the repartee. He was a thinking man's manager, but despite achieving things he may have thought unavailable to him in the 1960s, kept his distance and was sensitive. A sportstalk host on the "Giant 68," radio station KNBR, complained that Giants hitters on Alou's team swung at everything instead of showing plate discipline. They were "brain dead Caribbean" hitters, said the radio host.

Alou went ballistic and called the radio host "Satan." It all might have blown over except that KNBR made fun of Alou's use of the term "Satan," re-playing an old _Saturday Night Live_ skit in which a "Church Lady" character blames all ills on _"Sataaaan!"_ Alou took all of it the wrong way, and in a matter of major Political Correctness the radio host was fired while Alou acted as if the KKK had burned a cross on his lawn. When the Giants stumbled Alou left managing altogether.

Tom Haller played for San Francisco through the 1967 season. His best year was 1966, when he hit 27 home runs. He played four years in Los Angeles, where he was a mainstay, then went to the Tigers in 1972. He hit 134 career homers and batted .257, coached for the Giants, then became their vice president of baseball operations from 1981-86. He died at the age of 67.

Ed Bailey made the All-Star Game in 1963, and was traded to the Braves in 1964, where he was involved in a big fight with the Mets. He came back to San Francisco in 1965, and retired in 1966 with 155 home runs and a .256 average.

Chuck Hiller was traded to the Mets in 1965 and later played for the Phillies and Pirates, retiring with a .243 average. He later was a coach with several teams, including the Giants.

Jim Davenport played his whole career with the San Francisco Giants and was a fan favorite. He retired after the 1970 campaign with 77 home runs and a .258 average, but his longball numbers were a big drop after the 14 he hit in 1962. He hit only four in 1963, and never reached double figures again. Davenport managed San Francisco in 1985 and was a coach at Philadelphia and Cleveland. His son played at the University of Santa Clara. In a game in which I was one out away from a complete game victory against the Broncos, young Davenport hit a home run to break up my shutout.

Jose Pagan was traded to Pittsburgh in 1965, stayed through 1972, playing for the 1970 and 1972 division champions, and the 1971 World Champions. He finished with Philadelphia, a .250 hitter, and later was a coach with the Pirates.

Harvey Kuenn was with the Giants through the middle of the 1965 season, when he was traded to the Chicago Cubs. He was the last out of Sandy Koufax's '65 perfect game at Dodger Stadium. Vin Scully's famed description of that out, his sing-song delivery as he says, "two-and-two to Harvey Kuenn, Sandy one strike away," may have made Kuenn more famous than anything else he did in his outstanding career. He retired after the 1966 season with a .303 average and from 1971-82 was a coach with his home state Milwaukee Brewers. In the middle of the 1982 season he was named manager of the Brewers, a heavy-hitting crew led by Robin Yount known as "Harvey's Wallbangers," after the cocktail. The Brewers rallied to defeat Gene Mauch's California Angels in the play-offs but lost a thrilling World Series to St. Louis. He left Milwaukee after the 1983 season and died in 1988 at the age of 57.

Matty Alou played for the Giants until 1965 and was part of the famed "three brothers outfield," consisting of Felipe, brother Jesus and himself, in 1963. He led the National League with a .342 average at Pittsburgh in 1966, and was a perennial batting title contender in the late 1960s. Matty played at St. Louis in 1971, but late that season Charlie O. Finley acquired him. He was instrumental down the stretch, helping the Oakland A's win the 1972 World Series title. He retire after the 1974 season with a .307 average. Brother Jesus, known for his neck contortions before taking his place in the batter's box, was a productive Giant hitter through 1968, and played in the big leagues until 1979, including two A's World Champions (1973-74).

Carl Boles played in the minors for three years, then in Japan before retiring after the 1971 season, having hit 117 homers with a .265 average over there. Ernie Bowman played one more year in San Francisco. His career ended with a .190 average.

Manny Mota was sent to Houston at the end of 1962, then traded to the Pirates, where he played from 1963 until 1969. He joined the Dodgers, where he was a pinch-hitter de luxe until 1982. His 1,560 pinch-hits are the most in history. Mota batted .312 in his career, and became the Los Angeles batting coach. His son played at Cal State Fullerton and became a sportscaster.

Jack Sanford stayed with San Francisco through the middle of the 1965 season, when he was dealt to the Angels, then the A's, finishing 137-101 with a 3.69 ERA. He was a coach with the Indians.

Billy O'Dell was a Giant through 1964, then went to the Braves prior to a mid-1966 trade to the Pirates, retiring at the end of the 1967 season with a 105-100 record and 3.29 ERA.

Billy Pierce pitched two more years in San Francisco. He retired after the 1964 season having won 211 games against 169 defeats with a 3.27 earned run average.

Mike McCormick was traded to Baltimore after his sub-par year, and dealt with strange arm problems. He went to the Senators in 1965 but returned to the Giants, where he blossomed for one season, 1967. With both Juan Marichal and Bob Gibson hurt that season, McCormick's 22 wins earned him the National League Cy Young award. He stayed in San Francisco until mid-1970, then concluded his career with the Yankees and Royals. His record was 134-128 with a 3.73 earned run average.

Stu Miller went to Baltimore. "I did not have a very good outing in a clutch situation during the play-offs, and I think that had a lot to do with it," he assessed. Miller lasted five more years with the Orioles and Braves, retiring at the end of 1968 with a 105-103 record, 154 saves and a 3.24 ERA.

Bob Bolin pitched for San Francisco through the 1969 season, and later with Milwaukee and Boston, retiring after 1973 with a 88-75 record and 3.40 ERA. Don Larsen was traded to Houston in 1964, then played for the Orioles and Cubs. He retired in 1967, 81-91 with a 3.78 ERA. He continued to maintain some heroic status in New York because of his perfect game in 1956; cheered when he was on hand in 1998 the day fellow Point Loma High School graduate David Wells pitched _his_ perfect game at Yankee Stadium. Bob Garibaldi never reached his potential. He became a basketball referee.

Gaylord Perry was in Alvin Dark's "doghouse." Despite great tools, he continued to disappoint, and was certainly not the pitcher his brother Jim was. In 1964 Perry entered a game at Shea Stadium in New York with men all over the bases and the outcome on the line. According to his autobiography, _Me and the Spitter_ , out of desperation he went to his infamous "spitball," pitched out of the jam, and with the staff depleted threw the equivalent of a complete game in a marathon extra inning win, completing a double-header sweep.

He finally reached his potential as a 20-game winner in 1966, and toiled for nine years with San Francisco. After the 1971 campaign, the two-time 20-game winner, one of the best pitchers in baseball, was traded to Cleveland for the drunken "Sudden Sam" McDowell. While McDowell was the butt of jokes in San Francisco, Perry won the 1972 Cy Young award in Cleveland.

In 1974, Perry won 15 straight games and was approaching the 16 consecutive wins of Jack Sanford in 1962; the American League record of 16; and the Major League record of 19 by Rube Marquard of the New York Giants. He was beaten in a ninth inning rally at Oakland.

Perry won another Cy Young award at San Diego in 1978 and also pitched for the Yankees, Braves, Mariners, and Royals. He retired after the 1983 season with a 314-265 record, a 3.10 ERA, and was inducted into the Hall of Fame in 1991. He and Jim hold all combined records for brother victories. Jim helped Minnesota win the 1965 American League pennant and 1969-70 West Division titles. He was the 1970 A.L. Cy Young award winner and was a minor league pitching coach in the Oakland A's organization when I played for them in the 1980s. Despite the trade to Cleveland and his many travels with different clubs, Gaylord - like a number of Giants who played for different teams - always considered himself a Giant, and has long been a favorite at old-timers games.

Horace Stoneham sold the Giants to Bob Lurie and Bob Short in 1976. He died in 1990 at the age of 86. Chub Feeney almost became Commissioner of Baseball in 1968, but the job went to Bowie Kuhn instead. Russ Hodges announced Giants games with Lon Simmons until he passed away in 1971. He was elected to the Hall of Fame.

Lon Simmons announced for the Giants and the Oakland A's, off and on, into the 2000s. When I pitched in a 1982 Major League Spring Training exhibition game for the Oakland A's against the San Francisco Giants at Phoenix Municipal Stadium, both Simmons and the great Bill King announced parts of my three scoreless innings, a thrill and highlight of my short pro career.

Simmons was the San Francisco 49ers' announcer. His call of Jim Marshall's  
"wrong way run" in 1964 for Minnesota at Kezar Stadium lives forever in NFL Films. He retired as the 49ers' play-by-play man prior to the 1981 season, the year the Niners won their first Super Bowl. Simmons was brought back and was in the booth when the club won their third World Championship in January of 1989.

When baseball moved into the cable era, Simmons was able to free lance radio and TV work. He lived in Half Moon Bay and also in Alameda, and was in the Pac Bell Park booth when Barry Bonds hit his 73rd home run in 2001, graciously handing the microphone to a younger colleague. Even after moving to Hawaii, Simmons was periodically brought back to announce, do guest appearances, or be the master of ceremonies at events honoring Giants of the past.

Lon Simmons is one of _the_ all-time class acts, in sports history or any other history. When I was a columnist for the _San Francisco Examiner_ , a newcomer with the Bay Area sports media in 2001, Lon showed me around, introducing me to people. I was a nobody, but he treated me as if I was the deciding vote on his Hall of Fame induction. With no help needed from me, Simmons is a member in good standing of the broadcaster's wing of the Baseball Hall of Fame.

****

"Can you imagine Brooklyn and New York players standing around the batting cage, telling stories?" Roger Craig asked when he was the San Francisco Giants' manager. "We've got <L.A.> outfielder Brett Butler coming into our clubhouse. What would Sal Maglie have said if Jackie Robinson walked into the Giants' clubhouse? This is what happens with free agency. Everyone's friends."

Indeed, Craig was right and free agency has since continued to dilute the Dodgers-Giants rivalry. Many have speculated that the rivalry is just for the fans now. When Barry Bonds broke Mark McGwire's home run record in 2001, one of his best friends in baseball was Garry Sheffield of Los Angeles. The two palled around before games and went club-hopping afterwards. Bonds, a native of the Bay Area, even moved to Beverly Hills and never expressed any particular feeling one way or another about the Dodgers.

The rivalry _has_ been kept alive by the men who forged it, and during Spring Training in 1987, members of the 1962 Dodgers and Giants got together for a six-inning re-match to raise funds for Phoenix Memorial Hospital's child development center.

"We're out here to win," said Tommy Davis before the game played on February 8 at Phoenix Municipal Stadium. "I'm not coming out here to lose 25 years later."

"As they were announcing the San Francisco line-up, they were calling out the names - Mays, Cepeda, McCovey, Felipe Alou, Marichal," said Johnny Podres. "I said to myself, how did we ever even make it to the play-offs against guys like that?"

Willie Davis hit a three-run homer off of Billy Pierce. "I knew I could do it," said Three Dog. "I can do anything I want to. Man, I'm in shape to play right now!"

When Stu Miller struck out Frank Howard, it created great laughter. Hondo _still_ could not touch "the Killer Moth." Howard whined in mock anger towards Al Dark: "That's dirty pool." Willie Mays made basket catches. Harvey Kuenn lined a hit. He had an artificial leg and died a year later. Stan Williams entered the game, eerily leading 4-2, which he called "ironic." This time, he struck out Mays to hold on. "It took 25 years, but I finally got Willie out," gloated Williams.

When the Dodgers added a run to make it 5-2 they were relieved to erase the karma of the 4-2 score. Willie McCovey noted that the Dodgers "really wanted this game bad," as they drag-bunted and used all the angles to win. On the final play, Joe Moeller got Tom Haller on a sinking fly to Willie Davis.

"We couldn't let that happen again . . . we reversed the tide," said Three Dog. "They beat us then, but the victory today means just as much."

****

Ralph Houk managed the 1963 New York Yankees to a 105-57 record, but after losing the World Series to the Dodgers became the general manager. His tenure as GM (1964-65) was not considered a good one. Whatever made him a good manager did not seem to make him a good front office executive. The "new breed" player was on the scene, and Houk was unprepared for this type of character.

The Yogi Berra-Johnny Keane fiasco of 1964-65 was a black mark in Yankee history. According to reports, the team did not respect Berra when he managed in 1964. Houk gave up on the season by August, determined to fire Berra at season's end. An arrangement was made to replace him with Keane, then managing the St. Louis Cardinals. The Cardinals were floundering, seemingly out of the chase with Philadelphia in control. It was widely reported that the Cardinals would fire him.

Then both the Yankees and Cardinals rallied to win the pennant, meeting each other in the World Series. By then, the dye was cast. Berra and his team knew they were facing a manager who would be replacing him in 1965. Even though it was an open secret, many in the media argued that the decision should be reversed; that Berra was a competent manager and Keane should stay in St. Louis. But there were too many personalities involved, and feelings had been hurt. Houk did fire his longtime friend Yogi, a sad day that started a decade of estrangement between the Hall of Fame catcher and his team.

Keane was brought in. The Yankees were confused by the whole sequence of events. Within a short period of time it was obvious that the Keane hiring was a mistake. In 1966 Houk returned as field manager, but the club was old, a shell of their greatness and, at 66-73, in last place in the American League. Houk led a re-building project and the club was 83-79 in 1968, then 93-69 in 1970, but the 1969 "Amazin' Mets," not to mention "Broadway Joe and the Super Jets" and the NBA champion Knickerbockers, owned the town. 93-69 and second place in the East was far from Yankee standards, especially since Baltimore dominated at that time.

After managing clubs that played around the .500 mark in the early 1970s, Houk went to Detroit from 1974 through 1978, then did a stint with the Boston Red Sox, of all teams. He finished with 1,619 career wins.

Mickey Mantle, who won his third Most Valuable Player award in 1962, could easily have had one or two more, and said he wanted to add a couple more in future years, never did. In 1963 Mantle had more injuries, reducing him to 65 games. It did not stop his club from blowing past all American League competition. Mantle was available for the Fall Classic, but against the incredible Dodger pitching staff in the World Series he was rendered useless (.133 in the four-game loss).

The "Johnny Grant parties" just got wilder and wilder. It was rumored that Angels owner Gene Autry helped encourage them so as to tire out the opposition. Mantle and his mates probably stayed fairly safe and sound during two 1963 World Series games played in Los Angeles, but during regular season trips to the West Coast to face the Angels, they regularly got out of control. In 1964, Dean Chance of the Angels had a season for the ages. His dominance of the Yankees was the highlight of his 20-win, 1.65 ERA, Cy Young season.

In June, Chance threw a 14-inning shutout against New York. He beat them every time he faced them, usually by shutout. Mantle told writers he was ready to vomit whenever he faced Chance. He had a France-surrenders-to-Germany attitude, telling Angels catcher Buck Rodgers, "This is a waste of time. I got no chance." His heavy partying at the "Johnny Grant parties" assuaged his despair the night before games, and helped him drown his sorrows afterwards.

But Mick, sober or not, was so great he still managed to hit .303 with 35 homers and 111 runs batted in during the 1964 season. After three consecutive sub-par World Series performances (1961, 1962, 1963), he had a big Series against St. Louis, slamming three homers and batting .333. It was his last World Series. He finished with 18 Series homers and 40 RBIs.

Hampered by injuries, his lifestyle, and the general _malaise_ surrounding the Bronx Bombers after that star-crossed season, Mantle suffered a drastic drop in his performance from 1965 on. In 1968 Mantle was set to pass Jimmie Foxx. Struggling, a shell of his old self, he appeared unable to hit one out. Detroit's Denny McLain, cruising on his way to a 30-win season and with victory in hand, tossed a batting practice fastball to Mick, who jumped on it for his 536th career home run. It was his last.

Mantle thought about playing in 1969, but he had nothing left and retired in the spring, weeping at his announcement. His final desultory years, in which he tried to play first base before there was a D.H., unfortunately dropped his lifetime batting average under .300, to .298. He had 1,509 RBIs.

Mantle was inducted into Cooperstown in 1974. His appearances at old-timers games brought thunderous cheering. His status as a true New York Sports Icon was over and above almost all others. His blonde, All-American boy _persona_ was the stuff of legend, his memory enhanced by nostalgia for the 1950s and early 1960s; the age of innocence.

Mantle retired to Dallas, where he tried to live a normal married life with his wife Merlyn. After years of dalliances with groupies, all of which she knew about, it was not easy. Billy Martin would come out for "hunting" trips, which were little more than intense drinking sessions in which both were lucky they did not kill each other with an inadvertent shotgun blast. On one occasion, Martin claimed that Mantle killed a neighbor's cow.

Mick and Whitey Ford would get together at Fort Lauderdale during Spring Trainings, which meant more drinking. His alcoholic "vacations" were a relief from the daily grind of domestic life in Dallas. Eventually, Mantle's sons came of age. He never had much in common with any of them; none were great players. Drinking became their common denominator, father and sons getting drunk together. The kids, naturally, struggled with sobriety for years as a result.

In the 1980s, the growing memorabilia market made anything touched, worn, hit by, or signed by Mickey Mantle worth huge sums. Mantle became the star of the memorabilia-and-signing-session industry. It helped make him wealthier than he ever was in his pre-free agency career, but with time on his hands he drank day and night, often embarrassingly inebriated in the presence of fans and kids.

Mantle had a foul mouth and a short temper. He was often asked to endorse products, but hated the takes and re-takes he had to endure in the making of commercials. Nobody really cared. He was Mickey Mantle, a bullet proof hero. Whether race played a part or not; whether his New York imprimatur made him extra special; for whatever reason, Mantle's faults were overlooked, whereby people were peeved at Willie Mays's bitter attitude. At least Mays maintained sobriety and good health.

It all caught up to Mantle, who died of liver disease in 1995. His most heroic act occurred in the final year of his life. Looking like death warmed over, knowing he was going to die, Mantle made numerous public appearances, begging people not to drink as he had. He was the ultimate cautionary tale, a tragic hero in the end.

Roger Maris was also hurt in 1963, reducing him to 90 games and 23 home runs, but the club won with ease anyway. Fans and critics said it proved that Roger never meant that much to the team. In 1964 he hit 26 home runs as the Yanks won their fifth straight pennant. Maris never did much in the post-season with New York. In 1960 he had two homers and a .267 average, but after that he hit .105 (1961), .174 (1962), .000 (1963) and .200 (1964). His work ethic, sobriety, and family man reputation meant little in the Big Apple; they loved the martini-swiggers of the Sinatra age. In 1965 he was hurt again. With the team struggling, suddenly his production was essential to the club's success, and he was "blamed" for being hurt.

Many athletes have complained about the New York "fish bowl." None were ever hurt more, or more unfairly, than Roger was. Mercifully, Maris was traded to St. Louis prior to the 1967 season. It was a wonderful jolt for his career. Even though he only hit nine home runs, the great Cardinal fans took to the Midwesterner Maris, applauding his great defense in right field on a club that won with pitching and fundamentals. He was well paid and appreciated for his efforts helping St. Louis, where he was teammates with Orlando Cepeda, to the World Championship. He did the same thing in 1968 on a club that lost in seven games to Detroit in the Series, then retired when a Budweiser distributorship was arrange for him by Cardinals owner August Busch.

His part-ownership in a beer company seemed a little strange. He was never a teetotaler but no drunk. After all, that was Mick's forte. Maris had a low key retirement, occasionally receiving cheers at old-timers games. He eventually made appearances in New York, where time had healed wounds and he was given standing ovations. He, too, was a tragic figure who died far too soon, in 1985 of cancer.

In 1998, Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa chased and both broke his 61-home run record. Both paid homage to Roger throughout. His widow and kids were in the stands at St. Louis when Big Mac hit number 70. It was a gracious moment. In 2001, Billy Crystal directed an excellent movie, _*61_ , for HBO. That same year, Barry Bonds hit 73 homers. It was the "steroid era." Bonds, McGwire and Sosa all blasted past Maris's record of 61 over this time. Many others came close. It was a joke. In light of what we now know about performance-enhancing drugs, Maris's records, his character and place in history deserve all the respect denied him when he played. Those who broke his records deserve little respect and much scorn.

Lawrence Peter "Yogi" Berra was a 15-time All Star who played in 14 World Series and holds numerous World Series records including most games by a catcher (63), hits (71), and times on a winning team (10); first in at-bats, first in doubles, second in RBIs, third in home runs and bases on balls. Yogi was elected to the National Baseball Hall of Fame in 1972.

But he is really best known for saying things like this:

"Surprise me." (On where his wife should have him buried.)

"You've got to be very careful if you don't know where you're going, because you

might not get there."

"If you don't know where you are going, you will wind up somewhere else."

"If you can't imitate him, don't copy him."

"You better cut the pizza in four pieces because I'm not hungry enough to eat six."

"Baseball is 90% mental - the other half is physical."

MOR

i"What's everyone blaming me for? Blame Felix. I wouldn't have hit into the double-play."

"It ain't over 'til it's over."

"Nobody goes there anymore; it's too crowded."

. . . Among many, many more Yogiisms.

Everything Yogi Berra ever touched turned to gold. If it was a military operation, that meant D-Day, the greatest in all history (he actually said taking part in the beach landings at Normandy "was fun"). If it was playing baseball, that meant 11 World Championships and three MVP awards with the Yankees. If it was friendship, that meant Joe Garagiola, his boyhood pal from the Italian "Hill" section of St. Louis, who became America's baseball buddy, Best Selling author and announcer. If it was coaching, that meant World titles with the Mets and Yankees. If it was managing, that meant taking the 1964 Yankees and 1973 Mets to the seventh game of the World Series. If it was marriage, that meant a long and happy one. Fatherhood? His son went to Harvard and played in the big leagues. Investments? Ivan Boesky called him for advice. Endorsements? Countless, his face known and loved by millions, including a long running AFLAC commercial. His words carry more resonance, it seems, than Hemingway or Dickens. His sayings are legendary. It could fill a book and has. Several of them.

If Yogi had been at the World Trade Center on 9/11 nobody ever would have heard of Osama bin Laden. If he had been on the Titanic, "global warming" would have melted that iceberg. You want this guy sitting next to you during turbulence. You want to share a hospital room with him before surgery.

In 1964, the Yankees all made fun of Yogi and he was going to be fired. He told Phil Linz to stop playing his harmonica on the bus but Linz refused. Berra knocked it out of his hands. "On any other team, they would have folded," said Jim Bouton. "With the Yankees, we won 40 of 50 and the pennant."

In the 1973 play-offs and World Series, every move he made seemed to work out. He is the one guy associated as a hero with both the Mets and Yankees. Berra is as much a symbol of New York as the Statue of Liberty, and has an accent that is straight out of the Bronx even though he is from Missouri. He lived in New Jersey for years. Mob guys give him respect.

Whitey Ford was 24-7 with a 2.74 earned run average in 1963, but lost the Series opener to Koufax 5-2. He was beaten twice in the four-game sweep. He was 17-6 with a 2.13 ERA in 1964, when Yogi made him player/pitching coach. He lost his one start to St. Louis in the World Series, and retired in 1967 having won 236 games with a 2.75 earned run average. He was 10-8 with a 2.71 ERA in Series play, earning induction to the Hall of Fame in 1974, when he fittingly entered with Mantle.

Like Juan Marichal, Ford is slightly below the likes of Koufax, Bob Gibson, and Tom Seaver in the all-time pantheon, but as a big game pitcher his name ranks among an elite group that includes Christy Mathewson, Koufax, Gibson, Catfish Hunter, Curt Schilling and Josh Beckett.

Bill "Moose" Skowron was traded to Los Angeles in 1963 where he hit .203 for the World Champion Dodgers. He played until 1967 with Washington, the Chicago White Sox, and California, hitting .282 with 211 homers, and a .293 average in 39 World Series 39 games, along with eight homers.

Joe Pepitone took over as the starting first baseman when Skowron left in 1963. He was immediately hailed as one of the next great Yankee stars when he hit 27 home runs. A review of Pepitone's career in the 1960s indicates that the term "star" may have applied to him; or close to it. He hit 28 home runs in 1964, 31 in 1966, and 27 in 1969 with 100 RBIs. He went to Houston in 1970, then the Cubs until 1973 before retiring after a stint with Atlanta. His career numbers: .258 with 219 homers. Pepitone, however, is best known as symbolizing the "new breed." He was the first player to bring a blow dryer into the clubhouse. Jim Bouton and pitcher Fritz Peterson once secretly filled it with talcum powder during the seventh inning of an apparent easy Yankee win. After blowing the game the clubhouse was silent when Pepitone turned on the blow dryer. The powder made him look like "an Italian George Washington," wrote Bouton in Ball Four. On another occasion, Pepitone put a piece of pop corn on his genitals and brought it to the attention of the team's trainer, claiming some new form of venereal disease.

"Jesus, Joe, what the hell have you done to yourself?" the trainer exclaimed. Pepitone's prowess with women, his career coinciding with the "sexual revolution" in the funnest Fun City of them all, was legendary. He was proud of his size, happy to publicize it so the women of America would be enticed.

When he played in Chicago, he tooled to and from the ball park, on the road and at home, in a limousine, and wore a fur coat, Joe Namath-style. He grew his hair long, sported a Fu Manchu, and epitomized the style of his day. He drank and experimented with drugs.

The polar opposite of Joe Pepitone was Bobby Richardson. He never hit more than .267 after his near-MVP performance of 1962, and retired as a Yankee in 1966 with a .266 lifetime average. He became a Christian pastor and successful coach at the University of South Carolina. He helped make college baseball popular in the South. Long dominated by Southern California, over the next decades the Southeastern Conference came to achieve parity with the Pacific 10.

Clete Boyer played for the Yankees through 1966, then went to the Braves, where he played between 1967 and 1971 (including their division champions of 1969). He retired with a .242 average, but did not win the Gold Gloves he otherwise deserved because his career paralleled Baltimore's Brooks Robinson. His brother, Ken was the Most Valuable Player of the National League when he starred for St. Louis in 1964, leading the Cardinals to a World Series win over Clete's Yanks.

Tony Kubek's production dropped each year after 1962. He hit only .188 vs. Los Angeles in the 1963 Series, and retired after 1965 with a .266 average. He became Joe Garagiola's popular broadcast partner on NBC's Saturday Game of the Week.

Elston Howard became the first black American League MVP in 1963 when he hit 28 home runs, drove in 85 runs and batted .287 (no less than 11 blacks had won in the N.L. since 1949). He batted .313 in 1964 and finished his career with Boston, ironically the last club to bring a black player to the big leagues. He helped the Red Sox down the stretch of their "Impossible Dream" pennant, then retired in 1968 having batted .274 lifetime with 167 homers. He became a coach under Billy Martin and helped keep the peace during the volatile Bronx is Burning summer of 1977, when Martin and Reggie Jackson feuded. He coached under other managers and remained a loyal Yankee.

Tom Tresh never realized his great potential. He hit .269 with 25 home runs in 1963 and slammed 26 home runs in 1965, but was traded to his home state Detroit Tigers in 1969, retiring shortly thereafter with a .245 average.

Hector Lopez played in New York through 1966 and hit .269 in his career. He batted .286 in 15 Series games. Johnny Blanchard was traded to Kansas City and retired in 1965 with a .239 average, but he was a .345 hitter in 15 Series games.

Ralph Terry was 17-15 in 1963 but did not start a game in either the World Series with the Dodgers (1963) or the Cardinals in (1964). He was traded to Cleveland in 1965, where he was 11-6. After stints in Kansas City and with the Mets he retired in 1967 with 107 wins.

Bill Stafford was never effective again, not winning more than five games for the Yanks and A's until 1967, finishing at 43-40 lifetime. Rollie Sheldon was 5-2 in 1964 and went to Kansas City in 1965 before retiring after playing for Boston in 1966. Jim Coates went to Washington in 1963 and later pitched for the Reds and Angels through 1967, finishing with 43 wins. Bud Daley retired after 1964 with the Yanks, a 60-64 pitcher. Marshall Bridges went to the Senators in 1964, then retired after the 1965 season. Luis Arroyo pitched six games in 1963 and retired with 44 career saves.

Mel Allen hosted a popular national TV baseball program called This Week in Baseball, his "How about that?" line heard by millions for years. Phil Rizzuto stayed on as the Yankee announcer for many years. Eventually, former Cardinal Bill White became his partner (before White became president of the National League). Aside from exclaiming "Holy cow!" he was also famous for stating, "How about that Bill White?!" White was his "straight man." "Scooter" passed away in 2007.

Jim Bouton became a true star in 1963 and 1964. He was 21-7 with a 2.53 ERA in 1963. In the World Series, he lost a classic 1-0 pitcher's duel at Dodger Stadium to Don Drysdale. In 1964, Bouton was 18-13 with a 3.02 earned run average, then pitched New York to two wins over the Cardinals with a 1.56 ERA in the World Series. His unnatural straight-overhand pitching delivery, which caused him to knock his hat off his head on most pitches, put too much strain on his arm and he suffered a debilitating injury in 1965, when he had a 4-15 record.

Bouton had not built up any goodwill with the Yankees. He hung out with Pepitone and Phil Linz, "new breed" types who were not considered sufficiently respectful of the Yankee tradition. He did a "crazy Guggenheim" face that the club felt was a disgrace to the pinstripes. The writers loved him because he dealt them all the dirt they wanted, but teammates and club executives knew it was coming from Bouton. As the Vietnam War heated up, Bouton's outspoken opposition made him popular with liberal writers, unpopular with patriotic teammates and Yankee bigwigs.

Bouton noted that when the police came on the field to break up a fight, Ralph Houk wandered what in the hell they were doing there. "They should be over at the university where they belong," he said, in reference to protests at Columbia.

A more conventional player may have survived his injuries, but the club was just waiting for an excuse to unload him, even though he was popular with the fans; "my public," he called them.

Bouton struggled, did a turn in the minor leagues, and became a knuckleball pitcher. He was rescued by expansion when he made it with the first-year Seattle Pilots (later the Milwaukee Brewers) in 1969. He was traded to Houston late in the season, and was a member of the hard-throwing Astros' pitching staff that kept the surprising club in The Wild, Wild West into September.

Bouton could not get pitching out of his system. He played on an independent minor league club, where one of his teammates was Kurt Russell, later a marquee actor. In 1978, kindred spirit Ted Turner, who shared Bouton's Left-wing political views, signed him to an Atlanta Braves contract. He made it back to the Major Leagues, more a side show than a legitimate big leaguer, but fans enjoyed seeing him.

What made Bouton's return to The Show even possible in 1978, however, was the publication of his book, Ball Four in 1970. Ball Four is to this day the highest-selling sports book, and one of the greatest Best Sellers, of all time. Controversial as it was, and in some cases still is, it may well be the best baseball book - and sports book - ever written. It made Bouton rich and famous; it changed his life, and changed baseball the way Babe Ruth's home runs and introduction of the lively ball did in 1920.

It was the brainchild of New York sportswriter Len Schecter, who suggested that Bouton tape record his observations on baseball and life in diary form throughout the 1969 season, all to be edited by Schecter in time for a release date in the summer of 1970 by an obscure publishing house. Schecter was a hated figure among athletes, coaches and front office executives. His style was to hang around like a parasite, overhearing snippets of conversation not meant for his years, then print it as fact in his articles.

Bouton spent parts of 1969 with Seattle, in the minor leagues, and with Houston. While it centered on events on those teams and in that year, he also spiced the book up with ribald memories of the Yankee clubs he played on in the 1960s, his feelings about Vietnam, and the political attitudes of teammates. One of the key selling points of the book was Bouton's "oddball" reputation, which he never ran from, and how he differed from average baseball players.

What infuriated most was his unmasking of Mickey Mantle as a diva, albeit a good guy at heart; total lack of respect for Ralph Houk, particularly his tenure as the general manager; or Yankee pitching coach Jim "the Chicken Colonel" Turner; the backwards attitude of coaches and baseball people in general; the sexual antics of married players and drug use of players, mainly the use of "greenies," which were amphetamines that pepped players up before games; and his own politics, which caused several teammates to call him "a Communist."

Ball Four was read by every young kid in America, it seemed, including me. When young minor leaguers like myself got to professional ball, we knew what to expect - clubhouse rituals, groupies, partying, humor - because Bouton had described all of it perfectly.

It spawned many books, by Bouton and others, in particular The Bronx Zoo by Sparky Lyle. It created a genre: the "tell all." Bouton was the Jacqueline Susann of baseball, only his book was not a novel. Bouton did not get into any of the 1962 World Series games, but he was a member of the Yankee staff. He returned to San Francisco as a member of the Astros in 1969 and wrote that it brought back good memories, particularly the unique smell in the Candlestick visitor's clubhouse.

When the book came out Mantle, his former Yankee teammates, and everybody else associated with the Yanks, was incensed at Bouton. He was persona non grata at Yankee Stadium. Mickey did not talk to him for a long time. He was called a "(expletive deleted) Shakespeare." He and Schecter were described as "pariahs." Commissioner Bowie Kuhn investigated the drug allegations. Numerous players faced angry wives suddenly apprised of previously-hidden road trip dalliances, even though Bouton's descriptions were tame and did not name names. He was a "traitor" who broke the unwritten clubhouse "code of silence" for money; lots and lots of it.

Bouton also cashed in as a New York sportscaster, but he was not very good at it. A television version of Ball Four was laughable and short-lived. Bouton was not a good actor, either. Many felt he got what was coming to him when his own extra-marital affairs were exposed, causing his wife to leave him. Later, his beloved daughter passed away. By that time, the exposes of Ball Four and athlete's peccadilloes far above any of that were well known. Time healed most of the wounds. Bouton never re-entered baseball in an official capacity not because of the book, but because at heart he was not cut out for it. He had ability and was competitive, which led him to brief success, but baseball's customs and even the game itself bored him.

Nevertheless, he became a caretaker of baseball purity. He found the likes of Barry Bonds, with his steroids and an attitude that made Mantle look like Mother Theresa, to be a stain on the game.

****

In 2002, with inter-league play now a regular event, the San Francisco Giants visited Yankee Stadium. With the reigning single-season record holder, Barry Bonds, the return of the Giants caused enormous excitement in the Big Apple. At the time, it was seen as a preview of the World Series (the Giants made it, but New York was upset by eventual World Champion Anaheim). The games were total sell-outs, although by this time all Yankee games sold out, with attendance now topping 4 million per season. Average crowds at Yankee Stadium are now over 50,000, a virtually unheard-of concept in 1962, and a testament to the remarkable popularity of baseball since several teams approach this kind of support. In San Francisco, the "Giant 68," KNBR, re-played game seven of the 1962 World Series. A large audience tuned in.

In 2007, the Yankees visited AT&T Park in San Francisco for the 45th anniversary of the '62 World Series. A ceremony was held including the likes of Ralph Terry as well as numerous Giants luminaries. Many retrospectives of the Series were offered, with the _San Francisco Chronicle_ running large-scale articles about the Series, its impact on the Giants and The City.

ESPN Classic and other sports stations have showed game seven of the 1962 World Series many times, along with numerous highlight reels. In 2008, the Los Angeles Dodgers honored their 50th year in Los Angeles by playing a special game at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. In 2009, the Yankees will move into a brand new Yankee Stadium.

****

The 1962 season and World Series remain among the very most exciting in the history of baseball. The year itself is seen as a touchstone of American culture; like the Declaration of Independence (1776); Abraham Lincoln's assassination (1865); Babe Ruth's 60 homers, the Jack Dempsey-Gene Tunney fight, and Charles Lindbergh's Atlantic crossing (1927), symbolizing the "Roaring '20s,": the winning of World War II (1945); later winning the Cold War when the Berlin Wall fell (1989); and 9/11 (2001).

It was the last year of innocence before Jack Kennedy's assassination, Vietnam, the protest generation, and 1968 assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy; before Watergate, corruption and political divisiveness that appears unhealable.

It remains the ultimate in nostalgia; far off enough to be part of our past, for sure, but modern enough to be part of our times. It was the "Sunset Strip summer" of Bo Belinsky; the end of sophistication and elegance that marked both San Francisco and New York.

For those who lived through it, 1962 was a year of memory like none other, particularly for Californians and New Yorkers; the recounting of tales of this magical season, from March to October, washing "like magic waters" over folks who, again in the words of James Earl Jones in _Field Of Dreams_ , are perpetually searching for "something good."

The end.

Notes

Introduction: The worship book

# A palace in the hills

Go ahead, take a bite out of the Big Apple

#### The rivalry

The cultural divide

The heroes

The elder Cepeda was "a great player, a very intense player," said Cepeda. Bitker, Steve.

_Original San Francisco Giants, The_. Champaign, IL: Sports Publishing L.L.C., 2001.

Told that it would be his only chance to meet Mays, Marichal expressed confidence that

"maybe I will get to meet him later." Marichal, Juan with Charles Einstein. _A Pitcher's_

_Story_. New York: Doubleday & Co., Inc.,1967.

On the mound, however, Drysdale was surly and mean, "one of the finest competitors I have ever known," according to Duke Snider. Travers, Steven. _Dodgers Essential: Everything_

_You Need to Know to Be a Real Fan!_ Chicago: Triumph Books, 2007.

"Everybody knew about it and they were scared to death of him," said catcher John Roseboro. Plaut, David. _Chasing October: The Dodgers-Giants Pennant Race of 1962_.

South Bend, IN: Diamond Communications, 1994.

"It's rough batting against him," said Cincinnati's Frank Robinson. _1963 Official Baseball_

_Almanac_ , edited by Bill Wise. Greenwich, CT: Fawcett Publications, Inc.

"If you had seen Sandy Koufax the first time I saw him, you never would have imagined that he would become what he became - the greatest pitcher I've ever seen and possibly the greatest ever," recalled Duke Snider of his old teammate. Travers, Steven. _Dodgers_

_Essential: Everything You Need to Know to Be a Real Fan!_ Chicago: Triumph Books, 2007.

"He's either awfully good or awfully bad, just the way I play pool," said Alston. Whittingham, Richard. _Illustrated History of the Dodgers_. Chicago: Triumph Books, 2005.

"He shortened his stride on his front foot," said pitching coach Joe Becker. _1963 Official_

_Baseball Almanac_ , edited by Bill Wise. Greenwich, CT: Fawcett Publications, Inc.

"The first impression you get of Tommy is that he's too nonchalant and a little lazy," Alston observed of him. _1963 Official Baseball Almanac_ , edited by Bill Wise. Greenwich, CT:

Fawcett Publications, Inc.

"Tommy was probably the best pure hitter I ever saw," claimed Dodgers broadcaster Jerry Doggett. Plaut, David. _Chasing October: The Dodgers-Giants Pennant Race of 1962_.

South Bend, Indiana: Diamond Communications, 1994.

Philadelphia manager Gene Mauch said it was "an education just to watch him" before games; testing his footing, practicing turns, "like a guy tuning a violin for a concert."

Graham, Jr., Frank. _Great Pennant Races of the Major Leagues_. New York: Random

House, 1967.

"He gave up three hours every day that he could have spent with his family," Maury remembered. Plaut, David. _Chasing October: The Dodgers-Giants Pennant Race of 1962_.

South Bend, Indiana: Diamond Communications, 1994.

"Being a line drive hitter, the larger playing area gave me a better chance to run," said Wills. Plaut, David. _Chasing October: The Dodgers-Giants Pennant Race of 1962_. South Bend,

Indiana: Diamond Communications, 1994.

The New Rome

Empire

Houk described himself "as corny as Kansas in August." Houk, Ralph, transcribed and

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"I always thought records like this belonged to men such as Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig and Joe DiMaggio," said Richardson. _1963 Official Baseball Almanac_ , edited by Bill Wise.

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Tresh's father, Mike, had been a catcher for the Chicago White Sox, but "Even when I went to a game when my father was catching, I always dreamed of one day being a Yankee," Tresh said during Spring Training. _1963 Official Baseball Almanac_ , edited by Bill Wise.

Greenwich, CT: Fawcett Publications, Inc.

"Don't bet too much against us," said Houk. _1963 Official Baseball Almanac_ , edited by Bill

Wise. Greenwich, CT: Fawcett Publications, Inc.

"With our big sluggers not hitting the homers the way they did last year, there is no denying that Bobby's steady hitting, especially with those timely two-baggers, played a tremendous role in putting us over the top," said Houk. New York Times _Book of Baseball History_ , _The_ ,

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A midsummer's dream

"Chance was the best pitcher I ever managed," Rigney said. _Angels Essential: Everything_

_You Need to Know to Be a Real Fan!_ Chicago: Triumph Books, 2007.

There's no business like show business

"Jack Benny used to sit with Walter O'Malley almost every night," recalled general manager Buzzie Bavasi. Plaut, David. _Chasing October: The Dodgers-Giants Pennant Race of_

_1962_. South Bend, IN: Diamond Communications, 1994.

Los Angeles

"With a year under his belt, Alston became a better manager," said Duke Snider, who was never president of the Walt Alston Fan Club. Travers, Steve. _Dodgers Essential: Everything_

_You Need to Know to Be a Real Fan!_ Chicago: Triumph Books, 2007.

Alston was "a quiet, strong and honest man who never makes excuses - I have always felt he should have ridden shotgun through Indian territory in the old days," broadcaster Vin Scully said of him. Alston, Walter with Jack Tobin. _One Year at a Time_. Waco, TX: Word,

Inc., 1976.

"I appreciate a good shotgun," Alston said. Plaut, David. _Chasing October: The Dodgers-_

_Giants Pennant Race of 1962_. South Bend, IN: Diamond Communications, 1994.

"I'm one of the lucky ones," said Gilliam in 1969. _From Cobb to Catfish_ , edited by John

Kuenster. Chicago: Rand McNally & Co., 1975.

"He was a little troublemaker, always fighting," recalled Norm. Plaut, David. _Chasing_

_October: The Dodgers-Giants Pennant Race of 1962_. South Bend, IN: Diamond Communications, 1994.

"Two years before I signed, I was still getting players' autographs," he said. Plaut, David.

_Chasing October: The Dodgers-Giants Pennant Race of 1962_. South Bend, IN: Diamond Communications, 1994.

San Francisco

"Since I had been a kid, the ways I have used to express myself have been mostly physical . . . I was not good at expressing my thoughts verbally or on paper," said Dark.

Plaut, David. _Chasing October: The Dodgers-Giants Pennant Race of 1962_. South Bend, IN: Diamond Communications, 1994.

"Felipe was a very classy person, and a good team ballplayer," said Billy Pierce. Plaut,

David. _Chasing October: The Dodgers-Giants Pennant Race of 1962_. South Bend, IN: Diamond Communications, 1994.

"It was really noticeable when we made a trip back to the Polo Grounds," said Boles. Plaut,

David. _Chasing October: The Dodgers-Giants Pennant Race of 1962_. South Bend, IN: Diamond Communications, 1994.

Death struggle

"Usually, in the batting cage, guys on the other teams would come over and exchange ideas,

say hi," Orlando Cepeda said. Plaut, David. _Chasing October: The Dodgers-Giants Pennant Race of 1962_. South Bend, IN: Diamond Communications, 1994.

"I didn't see how I could ever improve on that," Wills said of the club record 50 bases he stole in 1960. Reichler, Joseph. _30 Years of Baseball's Great Moments_. New York: Crown

Publishers, 1974.

Beat L.A.!

Meltdown

The Missiles of October

"Kruschev was so cocky and sure of himself because he believed that President Kennedy indeed was a 'rookie,' I mean has has 'no experience,' " said former KGB Major General Oleg Kalunin. _In the Face of Evil: Reagan's War in Word and Deed_. Capital Films I, LLC.

The East-West Fall Classic

"You win the pennant, then you have to go out the very next day and play the Yankees," said Orlando Cepeda. Plaut, David. _Chasing October: The Dodgers-Giants Pennant Race of_

_1962_. South Bend, IN: Diamond Communications, 1994.

The brink

Rivals then and now

Carthage is destroyed

The October of their years

"I don't know that there were more words written about Bo than anybody else," Maury Allen said in 1999, "but he was up there." Travers, Steven. "Once He Was An Angel."

_StreetZebra_ , 1999.

"He comes closer to being unhittable than any other pitcher I ever saw," said Frank Shaughnessy, the late President of the International League, who had seen Christy Mathewson, Grover Cleveland Alexander and Walter Johnson. _From Cobb to Catfish_ ,

edited by John Kuenster. Chicago: Rand McNally & Co., 1975.

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#### Web sites

 http://library.thinkquest.org/11046/briefing/index.html#Confontation

####

#### Films

Missiles of October, The.

Thirteen Days.

Index

Acknowledgements

Miller, Peter,

Rosado, Adrienne

Horne, John,

Kelly, Pat,

Martirano, Ron,

Macgowan, Bruce,

Summons, Lon,

Rhodes, Blake

Scully, Vin,

Carter, Donna,

Mays, Willie,

McCovey, Willie,

Belinsky, Bo,

Rigney, Bill.

Travers, Elizabeth,

Christ, Lord and Savior Jesus,

Introduction: The worship book

Rigney, Bill,

Belinsky, Bo,

Glenn, John,

_American Graffiti_ ,

Kennedy, John,

Davis, Al,

Barry, Rick,

Ritter, Lawrence,

author of _The Glory of Their Times_ ,

Bouton, Jim,

author of _Ball Four_ ,

Angell, Roger,

author of _The Summer Game_ ,

Pat Jordan

_The Missiles of October_ ,

starring William DeVane as JKF,

starring Martin Sheen as Bobby Kennedy ,

Cuban Missile Crisis

Mitchell, Kevin,

# A palace in the hills

O'Malley, Walter,

Paulsen, Mayor Norris,

Alston, Walt,

MacPhail, Lee,

Rickey, Branch,

Bavasi, Buzzie,

Thomspn, Fresco,

Campanis, Al,

Dewey, Thomas,

Nixon, Richard,

Reagan, Ronald,

O'Malley, Walter,

Hahn, Kenneth,

Griffith, Calvin,

Rickey, Branch,

signing Jackie Robinson,

Yeager, Chuck,

Wrigley, Philip K.,

Steinbeck, John,

O'Malley, Walter,

Rickey, Branch,

Sinatra, Frank,

O'Malley, Walter,

Bavasi, Buzzie,

Ebbets Field,

Moses, Robert,

Robinson, Jackie,

Maglie, Sal,

Moses, Robert,

Robinson, Jackie,

Mays, Willie,

Stoneham, Horace,

Stoneham, Horace,

Feeney, Chub,

Christopher, George,

Harney, Charlie,

Caen, Herb,

McCabe, Charles,

Hitler, Adolf,

Frick, Ford,

Gils, Warren,

McIntye, James,

Go ahead, take a bite out of the Big Apple

DiMaggio, Joe,

Rockne, Knute,

Rice, Grantland,

Ruth, Babe,

Gehrig, Lou,

Stengel, Casey,

Mantle, Mickey,

Ford, Whitey,

Houk, Ralph,

Maris, Roger,

DiMaggio, Joe,

MacArthur, General Douglas,

Dedeaux, Rod.

Robinson, Jackie,

Thomson, Bobby,

"shot heard 'round the world,"

Snider, Duke,

Mays, Willie,

Mantle, Mickey,

#### The rivalry

Mutrie, Jim,

Ebbets Field

Stengel, Casey,

"Daffiness Boys,"

McGraw, John,

Mathewson, Christy,

Kennedy, John F.,

Fitzgerald, John F.,

Ruth, Babe

Durocher, Leo,

Stengel, Casey,

Lardner, Ring,

Rickey, Branch,

Robinson, Jackie,

Mays, Willie,

Dressen, Charley,

Thomson, Bobby ,

"shot heard 'round the world,"

Brance, Ralph,

The cultural divide

De Tocqueville, Alexis,

author of Democracy in America,

Lincoln, Abraham Lincoln,

War Between the States,

Manifest Destiny,

Barbary Coast,

Alamo,

Serra, Father Junipero,

California, University of,

Berkeley

Stanford University,

Southern California, University of,

"City Fathers,"

Mulholland, William,

Hitler, Adolf,

Eisenhower, Dwight D.,

Taylor, Brice,

Bush, President George H.W.,

Dedeaux, Rod,

San Francisco 49ers,

DiMaggio, Joe,

USF,

Kezar Stadium,

_Dirty Harry_ ,

Nixon, Richard M.,

Chambers, Whittaker,

Hiss, Alger,

Roosevelt, Franklin,

Christ, Lord Jesus,

Ickes, Harold,

Hoover, J. Edgar,

Churchill, Winston

House Un-American Activities Committee,

McCarthyism,

Venona Project,

Castro, Fidel,

Brown, Edmund "Pat,"

Reagan, Ronald,

The heroes

Mays, Willie,

DiMaggio, Joe,

Mantle, Mickey,

Snider, Duke,

Gifford, Frank,

Maris, Roger,

Mays, Willie,

Bonds, Barry,

Mantle, Mickey,

Williams, Ted,

Wayne, John,

Monroe, Marilyn,

Ford, Whitey,

Martin, Billy,

Richaredson, Bobby,

Greenwade, Tom,

Maris, Roger,

Houk, Ralph,

Allen, Mel,

Jacobson, Dr. Max,

Monroe, Marilyn,

Kennedy, John F.,

Maris, Roger,

Topping, Dan,

Weiss, George,

Hamey, Roy,

Frick, Ford C.

Berra, Yogi,

Howard, Elston,

Ford, Whitey,

Mays, Willie,

Pompez, Alex,

Montague, Bill,

Perry, Lou,

Schwarz, Jack,

Hubbell, Carl,

Stoneham, Horace,

Durocher, Leo,

Thomson, Bobby,

"shot heard 'round the world"

Catch, The

Hodges, Russ,

"The Giants win the pennant!"

Clemente, Roberto,

Drysdale, Don,

Koufax, Sandy,

Chapman, Marghuerite Wendelle Kenny,

Pierce, Billy,

Miller, Stu,

Kuenn, Harvey,

Davenport, Jim,

Hano, Arnold,

McCovey, Willie,

Cepeda, Orlando,

known as "Baby Bull, the,"

Marichal, Juan,

"Say Hey Kid,"

Pompez, Allesandro "Alex,"

Rigney, Bill,

Sheehan, Tom,

Cepeda, Orlando,

Alou, Felipe,

Fox, Charlie,

White, Bill,

Aaron, Hank,

McCovey, Willie,

Marichal, Juan,

Mota, Manny,

Drysdale, Don,

Wood, Natalie,

Redford, Robert,

Lee, Annabellem

Lee, Bill "Spaceman,"

_League of Their Own, A_ ,

Koufax, Sandy,

Perranoski, Ron,

Robinson, Frank,

Koufax, Sandy,

Bavasi, Buzzi,

Campanis, Al,

Thompson, Fresco,

Koufax, Sandy,

Sherry, Larry,

Alston, Walter,

Sherry, Norm,

Becker, Joe,

Wills, Maury,

Scully,Vin,

Spencer, Daryl,

Davis, Tommy,

Reiser, Pete,

Mauch, Gene,

Reese, Pee Wee,

Sherry, Norm,

Sherry, Larry,

Campanis, Al,

Haller, Tom,

Buhler, Bill,

Anderson, Wayne,

The New Rome

Kennedy, John F.,

Kennedy, Joseph P.

Hitler, Adolph,

Rand, Ayn,,

author of _Atlas Shrugged_ ,

Riefenstahl, Leni,

McCarthy, Senator Joseph,

Eisenhower, President Dwight,

Marshall, George C.,

Truman, President Harry,

Kennedy, Robert,

Hoffa, Jimmy,

Kennedy, Jacqueline,

White, Theodore,

Sinatra, Frank,

Serling, Rod,

produced _The Twi-Light Zone_ ,

screenwriter of _The Manchurian Candidate_ ,

Kennedy, Jack,

role in Marilyn Monroe's death,

Kennedy, Robert,

role in Marilyn Monroe's death,

Monroe, Marilyn,

DiMaggio, Joe,

believed Kennedy's were involved in Marilyn Monroe's death,

Wallace, George,

Ho Chi Minh,

Empire

Lardner, Ring,

Houk, Ralph,

Mantle, Mickey,

Maris, Roger,

Ford, Whitey,

Frick, Ford,

Stengel, Casey,

Houk, Ralph,

at the Battle of the Bulge,

Patton, General George,

Houk, Ralph,

Ford, Whitey,

Turner, Jim "the Chicken Colonel,"

Sain, Johnny,

Spahn, Warren,

"Spahn and Sain and pray for rain,"

Berra, Yogi,

Duren, Ryne,

Sheldon, Roland,

Arroyo, Luis,

Crosetti, Frank,

Sheehey, Pete,

Previte, Pete,

Grant, Johnny,

host of "Johnny Grant parties,"

Dedeaux, Rod,

USC Trojans,

Chance, Dean,

Bauer, Hank,

Finley, Charlie O.,

Skowron, Bill "Moose,"

Pepitone, Joe,

Weaver, Earl,

Richardson, Bobby,

Weiss, Georhe,

Martin, Billy,

Richardson, Bobby,

Boyer, Clete,

Howard, Elston,

Veeck, Bill,

Blanchard, Johnny,

Tresh, Tom,

Stafford, Bill,

Sheldon, Roland,

Bouton, Jim,

Allen, Mel,

Rizzuto, Phil,

Maris, Roger,

Mantle, Mickey,

Ford, Whitey,

Maris, Roger,

Terry, Ralph,

Bouton, Jim,

Kaline, Al,

Colavito, Rocky,

Donovan, Dick,

Herbert, Ray,

Veeck, Bill,

Fox, Nelson,

Aparicio, Luis,

McNally, Dave,

Robinson, Brooks,

Powell, Boog,

Belinsky, Bo,

Yastrzemski, Carl,

_Damn Yankees_ ,

Killebrew, Harmon,

Pasqual, Camilo,

A midsummer's dream

Belinsky, Bo,

Chance, Dean,

Wagner, Leon "Daddy Wags,"

Autry, Gene,

Rigney, Bill,

Haney, Fred,

Furillo, Bud,

Winchell, Walter,

Chance, Dean,

Pearson, Albie,

Casey, Stengel,

There's no business like show business

Sinatra, Frank,

Reagan, Ronald,

Martin, Dean,

Kaye, Danny,

Drysdale, Don,

Griffin, John "Senator,"

Wills, Maury,

Day, Doris,

Los Angeles

Scully, Vin,

O'Malley, Walter,

Gilliam, Jim,

Alston, Walter,

Snider, Duke,

Robinson, Jackie,

Durocher, Leo,

Furillo, Bid,

Durslag, Melvin,

Murray, Jim,

Hall, John,

Florence, Mal,

Gilliam, Jim,

Roseboro, John,

Fairly, Ron,

Dedeaux, Rod,

Davis, Willie,

Howard, Frank,

Murray, Jim,

Clemente, Roberto,

Moon, Wally,

Snider, Duke,

Perranoski, Ron,

Podres, Johnny,

Sherry, Larry,

Roebuck, Ed,

Kerlan, Dr. Robert,

Williams, Stan,

Podres, Johnny,

Moeller, Joe,

San Francisco

Hodges, Russ,

Dark, Alvin,

Haller, Tom,

Mays, Willie,

Einstein, Charles,

Stoneham, Horace,

Jansen, Larry,

Lockman, Whitey,

Westrum, Wes,

McCabe, Charles,

Davenport, Jim,

San Francisco Examiner

Jupiter, Harry,

Alou, Felipe,

Davenport, Jim,

Stevens, Bob,

Hiller, Chuck,

Pagan, Jose,

Kuenn, Harvey,

Alou, Matty,

Boles, Carl,

Bailey, Ed,

Haller, Tom,

O'Dell, Billy,

Sanford, Jack,

Pierce, Billy,

Larsen, Don,

Miller, Stu,

Bolin, Bob,

Perry, Gaylord,

Garibaldi, Bob,

Death struggle

Mays, Willie,

Thomas, Danny,

Newhart, Bob,

Koufax, Sandy,

McCovey, Willie,

Murray, Jim,

Gibson, Bob,

Koufax, Sandy.

Marichal, Juan,

Howard, Frank,

Twain, Mark.

Murray, Jim,

Rosenbaum, Art,

Caen, Herb,

Fairly, Ron,

Gilliam, Jim,

Mays, Willie,

Cepeda, Orlando,

Alou, Felipe,

McCovey, Willie,

Marichal, Juan,

Giles, Warren,

Alston, Walter,

Durocher, Leo,

Snider, Duke,

Lachemann, Rene,

Mansfield, Jayne,

Kuenn, Harvey,

O'Malley, Walter,

Cobb, Ty,

Beat L.A.!

Simmons, Lon,

Hodges, Russ.

Cepeda, Orlando,

Alou, Felipe,

Dark, Alvin,

O'Dell, Billy,

Conlan, Jocko,

Angell, Roger,

Meltdown

Snider, Duke,

Bavasi, Buzzie,

Alston Walter,

The Missiles of October

Batista, Fulgencio,

Castro, Fidel,

Kruschev, Nikita,

The East-West Fall Classic

McCabe, Charles,

The brink

Rivals then and now

Carthage is destroyed

The October of their years

Belinsky, Bo,

Alston, Walter,

Drysdale, Don,

Koufax, Sandy,

Davis, Tommy,

Wills, Maury,

Dark, Alvin,

Mays, Willie,

Cepeda, Orlando,

McCovey, Willie,

Marichal, Juan,

Hodges, Russ,

Simmons, Lon,

Houk, Ralph,

Mantle. Mickey,

Berra, Yogi,

Ford, Whitey,

Maris, Roger,

Bouton, Jim,
