Mickey Mantle’s Last Home Run

Copyright © 2018 Steven A. Falco.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-5208-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-5209-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018911038

iUniverse rev. date: 06/12/2019

CONTENTS

Chapter 1     Number 535

Chapter 2     The Mick

Chapter 3     Frankie

Chapter 4     Jonathan

Chapter 5     Peanuts, Cracker Jack, and Peep Shows

Chapter 6     The Revolt of the Golgi Bodies

Chapter 7     Roosevelt Field, Darrell, and the Hawk

Chapter 8     The Wrecker Strikes

Chapter 9     Somebody Always Gets the Good Ones

Chapter 10   Lendora to the Rescue

Chapter 11   That Mr. Tambourine Man Fellow

Chapter 12   Somebody Always Gets the Good Ones: Part 2

Chapter 13   Maggie

Chapter 14   Darrell’s Demise

Chapter 15   Mickey Mantle’s Last Home Run

For Martin, Bobby and the Mick

and for George

CHAPTER 1

Number 535

September could be a lousy month for a baseball fan, especially for a baseball fan whose team was twenty games out of first place with only nine games to play. But that was how it was for Yankees fans last September. Even so, I decided I had to go to one more game. I wanted to go with my girlfriend, Maggie, but she had color guard practice or something stupid like that. I knew she didn’t really like baseball, but well, I’d kind of hoped she’d make an exception. I knew my friend Frankie was too busy getting into trouble, and my genius friend Phil was too busy studying. My friend Jonathan was noncommittal.

Still, I had to go. I had to go to one more game to see the Mick. Now, I wasn’t saying the Mick wouldn’t be back in ’69. As a matter of fact, I was sure he would be, and he’d probably double his home run production. But I knew I just had to go to one more game.

I’d listened to yesterday’s game when I got home from school, and well, I didn’t like the way the announcers were talking about the Mick. I mean, yeah, it was great and all that—he hit his 535th home run and surpassed Jimmy Foxx for third place on the all-time home run list. Only Willie Mays and fat old Babe Ruth had hit more home runs than the Mick. The broadcasters said that Denny McClain, the Tiger pitcher, grooved the pitch for the Mick to hit out. After all, the Tigers were winning the game 6–1, they had already clinched the pennant, and McClain was on his way to winning his thirty-first game of the year, which sure as heck was enough wins for anybody. But I didn’t even care if Denny McClain grooved the pitch. What really bothered me was how the Tigers fans gave the Mick such an ovation. Heck, no one had to tell me that the Mick was great and deserved an ovation, but they said on the radio that the fans were cheering so much because they thought it might be the Mick’s last appearance at Tiger Stadium and that McClain grooved the pitch because McClain, who deep down was really a Mickey Mantle fan, figured the Mick might not have many more opportunities to surpass Jimmy Foxx’s record.

I thought the big fuss was all pretty stupid because the Mick would be back next year and maybe he’d even catch up to good old Willie Mays.

Well, I was going, and that was that. It was a nice, warm Friday night. I ate a quick supper and told my parents I would be going to the game with Jonathan and Frankie. Of course, I lied about Frankie, whose interest in baseball seemed to have faded and who was planning to go to some dopey Iron Butterfly concert with Murray and his gang. I only half lied about Jonathan, because Jonathan had said he wanted to go, but he had to help his father with something, so he’d meet me there. I told him I’d be getting general admission upper-deck seats, and since the crowd probably wouldn’t be very big, I’d get a spot behind home plate. I was counting on Jonathan to show up because it would feel a little funny going all the way to Yankee Stadium alone—but I could have belted Jonathan when he said he wanted to go only so he could pay his respects to the Mick. Jonathan said that 1968 was a year when everybody did a lot of respect paying, so he might as well do it for Mick’s playing career. That statement made me sick to my stomach. I even called up my brother at college to see if he’d like to take a trip home to see one more game. Now, there was no doubt I would have belted my brother for what he said if he hadn’t been seventy-five miles away and on the other end of the phone line.

So you want to see the great Mickey Mantle one more time before he hangs up his spikes.

Bam! My brother would have been missing some teeth if he’d said that to my face. Oh, and besides, my brother was too busy with more important stuff, like burning down the college administration building. Somehow, things were different with my brother those days. In fact, everything was different those days.

I hopped the ole 145 bus at 5:40 and headed on out to New York City. I always liked the bus ride to New York. I liked to gaze out the window and check out the scenery. It was a heck of a lot more interesting than the boring scenery on my family’s drives out to Pennsylvania to visit Aunt Tillie. It was amazing how many things I could see on the bus ride to New York City. I liked to check out all the little stores, used-car lots, and cozy houses. A lot of the houses were real close together, and I wondered how people could stand living jammed next to each other. Of course, the best part of the trip was the New Jersey Turnpike. It was fabulous. Seriously. The bus passed by all the factories, with their grimy windows and tall smokestacks. Then there were the junkyards with smashed-in old cars and beat-up yellow school buses all piled on top of each other. I could see it all from the turnpike. There were truck yards with row after row of truck trailers parked but ready for action, and there were railroad yards with tracks leading all over the place. There were junky old freight cars, big black oil cars, and boxcars, just like in my old train set. Then the bus passed by the old Budweiser factory, with its flashing neon sign that changed into an eagle flapping its wings, and of course, there was Newark Airport, with the big, loud jets roaring right over the bus. Then came my favorite sight of all: the Pulaski Skyway. We used to take it when my father took us to Yankees games. I kind of missed riding on it, with its heavy iron railing that seemed to disappear as I peered through it while going fifty miles an hour. From the turnpike, I could see how long the old Pulaski Skyway was and how it spanned the roads, truck yards, and murky river inlets on its way past Jersey City to the Holland Tunnel. It was a real sight. Seriously.

The other thing I liked to do on the bus ride to New York City was just sit and daydream. This time, I couldn’t help but think back to last spring. I’d known back then that things were gonna be different. I’d just never expected all the yelling, crying, bleeding, and dying, and I’d never expected to be right in the middle of it.

CHAPTER 2

The Mick

As the spring of 1968 began, I knew that year was gonna be different. The previous year, our freshman baseball team was a joke. Our team had a record of one win and seventeen losses—nothing much to be proud of. Sure, we had lots of characters who weren’t really JV material, and I didn’t expect a lot of them to try out this year. Dionne, our left fielder, went out for the golf team. It was just as well. I mean, he was the only guy I’d ever seen who thought the strike zone was from the shoe tops to the knees. But he was deadly. If a pitcher made a mistake and got one too low to ole Dionne, he’d drive the ball three hundred feet, and boy, could he put a slice on the ball. Reggie, our center fielder, didn’t come back either. He said he wanted to stick with a real sport: basketball. Reggie thought he was an all-around athlete. He thought he could play baseball, but I thought the real reason he didn’t go out for the JV team was because he never lived down the time he tried to make a Willie Mays basket catch of a line drive. Reggie made the catch all right, but he didn’t realize that when Willie Mays made his basket catches, they were always swishes, not bank shots. Poor Reggie took the line drive squarely on the chest, and the ball bounced right into his glove. The batter was out, but so was hot dog Reggie for a whole month with a cracked rib.

I was ready. Of course, I hadn’t stopped practicing since last season ended. All during the fall, I’d gone to the batting cages in Brookfield, and during the winter, I’d worked out down in the cellar. I knew it would be tough this year. There could be no messing around, and I wanted to be ready. I did the usual garbage exercises, including push-ups and sit-ups, both of which I despised. I’d swing my lead bat about thirty to forty times. I’d also throw my cement balls, which were pretty great. Maybe I should patent the idea, I thought. Sell ’em to the Yankees. Maybe get together with Ellie Howard and sell my cement balls with his batting doughnuts. Last summer, my father put a patio in the backyard. While he was working, I put some of the cement through the holes in some whiffle balls I had. When they hardened, I had me a few cement balls. I stored them until the winter, and after the first snowstorm, I took out the little gems and went up to the snow-covered field, where I threw them around. I’d throw them as far as I could. It wasn’t easy to throw them, but it built up my arm. I was so used to the cement balls that when the season came along, a normal baseball felt like a whiffle ball, and unfortunately, when I started throwing a regular baseball again, it would curve like a stupid whiffle ball. I’d always had some trouble throwing the ball straight anyway.

I was going out for shortstop, but my secret desire was to play center field like the Mick. However, I figured I was better defensively, and if I was going to make the team, I’d have to do it with my glove, unless my hitting made a miraculous improvement. Anyway, the Mick started out as a shortstop. I was going to continue my switch-hitting, even though everybody was telling me I should stick with batting righty. Heck, they were probably right since I could hardly even hit righty, but I was thickheaded. I had always been a switch-hitter. I figured I might as well go down as a switch-hitter. I mean, most of us grew up as switch-hitters. All of us Yankees fans sure did. Back when I was a kid, my friends were divided into Yankees fans and non-Yankees fans, and way out on the outskirts were the ones who didn’t even like baseball. If you were a Yankees fan, you had to like the Mick, and since the Mick was a switch-hitter, well, everybody had to try it. Most of us were natural righties, so we’d have to learn to bat lefty. The few guys who were weird enough to be natural lefties had enough trouble learning to hit lefty with any coordination to begin with, so they really didn’t try to imitate the Mick.

I always had the best success switch-hitting, probably because I was the most dedicated Mickey Mantle fan in town. Way back when I was four years old, my brother and I would play the Mickey Mantle and Yogi Berra Game. It was just a dopey game in which my brother would pretend he was Yogi Berra, and I’d be the Mick, and we’d whack an old, beat-up tennis ball around the backyard. Since I was the Mick, I’d have to bat lefty and righty. So I guessed I kind of had gotten a head start on everybody, and I guessed that was why I refused to change. I mean, you couldn’t just go around changing something you’d been doing for eleven years. I probably started the switch-hitting craze in our town. When I started playing Little League, there I was, imitating the Mick and switch-hitting, so everybody else gave it a try—except for the lefties. Gradually, as I got older, everybody kind of gave up on the idea, except me—and I wasn’t about to when we tried out for JV.

I thought the Mick was the greatest. I mean, that was an objective opinion. At fifteen, I probably was a little too old to have baseball players for heroes, but in all honesty, the Mick was the greatest. Seriously. The first Yankees game I ever went to was really a big deal, and heck, it should have been. People made a big deal out of the first day you walked, your first trip to the stupid dentist, your first day of school, and all that kind of crap. Well, as far as I was concerned, none of that even came close to that first day at Yankee Stadium. Oh, and I knew how my father liked to make a big deal out of taking his little kids to the big ballpark in the Bronx. He had to get his kicks about his little fatherly duty. But heck, it was all right with me. I felt sorry for any kid with a father who wouldn’t take his kid out to the big ballpark. Anyway, my father played it up rather well. It was a summer afternoon when I was six, and my brother and I were doing—what else?—playing baseball. We had progressed beyond the Mickey Mantle and Yogi Berra Game. We were pretending we were other players, such as Whitey Ford and Hank Bauer. Well, my father arrived home around his usual time, at about four o’clock, so we knew we had about an hour before we’d get the supper call. That was just fine with me because my brother’s team was beating mine, and I’d need a few more innings to try to catch up. Well, my father said, Come on, boys. Let’s go. Supper’s going to be early tonight.

I was understandably pissed off and threw away my bat since I was behind in our game. My brother, though, was smiling from ear to ear. Not only was he ahead in the score, but it seemed he had a good idea what my father was up to. He bolted to the back door and left me—actually, Hank Bauer—up at the plate with two out and two on in the bottom of the seventh. I started whining and tore after him. I just about tackled him at the back door, and while I was screaming my head off, my father told us to go wash up, as supper would be early. Then we heard my mother ask my father if he was going to call Tony. Well, that did it for my brother. He knew right then because whenever my father was going to a ball game, he’d ask my uncle Tony to come. My brother tore into the house, and I stayed out on the porch, brooding. A few minutes later, my father came over to the screen door and said, Hey. You know, I hear Whitey Ford’s pitching tonight.

I just sat there and pouted.

Yeah, and I’d sure hate to miss the first inning, he said. It sure is a long ride over to the stadium. Sure hate to miss Mickey Mantle’s first at bat.

Well, that did it. I nearly broke the door down. We’re going to Yankee Stadium? I yelled.

We sure are, my dad said, and he picked me up and spun me around while I practiced my best Yankee Stadium cheer. I kind of lost my cool, but what the heck? I was only a little squirt, and that was the biggest day of my life up to that point.

The rest of the night was one big succession of oohs and aahs. Ooh, the Holland Tunnel is long. Aah, we