Keeping Score

My earliest memories of baseball date back to a hot summer afternoon in the summer of 1965, when my Cub Scout troop and I trekked across southeastern Pennsylvania to Connie Mack Stadium in Philadelphia to watch the Phillies play the Cincinnati Reds.  Along with my dad and several troop leaders, I sat with the other kids in the bleachers through a very long 11 inning game, finally won by the Reds by the score of 2‑1.  Because of the fact that I could hardly see the action from what seemed like half a mile away, I wasn’t very interested in the game itself, although I had fun pestering the ushers and the nearby fans with my Cub Scout buddies.  Dad was annoyed by the heat and the huge poles that blocked our view, but especially by the ushers, who had locked the bleacher gates, preventing freeloaders from entering the park, but also preventing us from leaving until the game was over.  Not the greatest of introductions to baseball fandom…

A few years later, a much more classic matchup than the Phillies vs. the Reds inspired a quantum leap forward in my budding passion for baseball.  The 1967 World Series featured the St Louis Cardinals and pitching ace Bob Gibson against the Boston Red Sox and triple-crown winner Carl Yastrzemski.  Dad was excited that his favorite team, the St Louis Cardinals, had made it to the Series, and in the days leading up to the opening game, he began telling me stories of the great Cardinals teams of the ‘40s.  I was particularly fascinated by the story of the Mad Dash, the famous play where Enos Slaughter scored from first base on a single to win the 1946 World Series for the Cards.  I later came to realize that Dad had a special nostalgic interest in this series, as it not only featured his beloved Cardinals, but also the very same Boston Red Sox whom Slaughter and the Cards defeated in 1946.

I would have loved to have followed that entire Series, but to my dismay, I quickly realized that World Series day games during the week were essentially "blacked out” for all elementary school children who didn’t have a radio hidden in their desk.  Because of this dilemma, I sought to eavesdrop on the conversations of the veteran radio-concealing eighth graders during class changes for any tidbits from the ongoing Series games.  My first bit of exciting World Series news came during Game 2, when I overheard some eighth grade fans talking about how Jim Longborg of the Boston Red Sox was just then throwing a no-hitter.  A no-hitter in the World Series!  As soon as the last bell went off, I raced the mile home from school, turned on the 13-inch black and white family TV, and discovered to my dismay that Julian Javier of the Cardinals was standing on second base after breaking up the no-hitter in the eighth inning.  As I watched Longborg finish off the one-hitter, I had but one thought in my mind – I’ve got to get my own radio!

Of course I missed all but the final inning of the seventh-game clincher from the 1967 Series (the game was on a Thursday, yet another school day), but the fire had been lit.  With my interest thus piqued, I sought out Dad more and more to expand my baseball perspective.  I soon discovered that he was a fountain of baseball knowledge, giving me his eye-witness accounts of things like Stan Musial’s cobra-like stance, Marty “The Octopus” Marion’s impenetrable defense, Ted Williams’ unerring eye for the strike zone, and Leo Durocher’s fiery managerial style.  Dad had grown up in Brooklyn, and had seen many a game at Ebbets Field in the ‘40s and ‘50s featuring the greatest National League stars of the time.  I wanted so much to carry on Dad’s love of the game, and to cement my own unique relationship with him as a devoted follower of the great American pastime.

A prime opportunity to do just that occurred on a lazy Sunday afternoon in July, 1968.  My mom along with my brothers and sisters were out at the YMCA community pool, but I felt like staying home that day with Dad.  I was just relaxing on the couch watching a movie on TV, and Dad was working in the garage.  When he came inside, he mentioned that the Mets were playing the Phillies in a doubleheader that afternoon.  I eagerly switched the channel to the pregame show, and we listened as the lineups were read by the TV announcer.  Just then, Dad asked me if I wanted to learn how to keep score.  With a bit of uncertainty, I said OK, so Dad went and grabbed a pad and pencil from the desk.  After drawing out the grid and writing in the starting lineups, he gave me the pad and designated me as the official scorekeeper of the Mets-Phils game.

With great care and patience, Dad showed me how to write down each play on the scoresheet using the coded symbols and numbers known only to rabid baseball fans.  As the game progressed through the first few innings, I began to feel like I was part of some secret club as I wrote down the 6-3 shortstop-to-first groundout and the partial diamond figures to designate base hits and baserunners.  I began to realize that Dad was giving me a great gift, the ability to understand and interpret the game of baseball at its most fundamental level – the play-by-play scoring record.  The entire story of the game was there to see on the scoresheet, complete with inferred strategies, lineup logic and complete statistics.  The simple idea of keeping score would soon propel my love of baseball to stratospheric levels.

As the opener of the doubleheader progressed into the middle innings and Dad went back outside to finish his work, I diligently filled out the scoresheet, and began to ponder the most important question in sports: which team should I root for?  The Phillies were a mostly average team, somewhere in the middle of the standings, but the Mets were horrible.  Dad told me before the game started that the Mets finished in last place for their entire existence except for one season where they finished ninth.  Dad took a shine to the Mets, not only because they were so bad, but also because he could never forgive the Dodgers for moving to LA, and the Mets were the only logical substitute.  After mulling all of this over, I decided to root for the Mets.

Through the first four innings, the game remained scoreless.  In the top of the fifth, the Mets led off with singles by Ed Kranepool and Kevin Collins, putting men on first and third with none out.  Phillies pitcher Rick Wise got Al Weis to hit into a double play, but the run scored.  The Mets were leading 1-0!  I got even more excited in the eighth when RBI singles by pitcher Dick Selma and left fielder Art Shamsky knocked out Wise and gave the Mets a 3-0 lead.  A solo homer by Johnny Callison in the bottom of the eighth cut the lead to two, but I was sure that the Mets would still wrap up the win.

I was only slightly disappointed in the top of the ninth, when the Mets failed to score even with the bases loaded and none out, but began to feel uneasy when Roberto Pena and Tony Gonzalez hit consecutive one-out singles for the Phillies in the bottom of the ninth.  Up until this July day, I had never paid attention through an entire baseball game, but with the magic of the scoresheet and the inspiration of my dad, I was riveted to this one.  One out, bottom of the ninth, two on, and Richie Allen coming up.

I didn’t know that Richie Allen was the best hitter on the Phillies, so I thought that Mets’ reliever Ron Taylor would have no trouble getting him out.  As Allen worked the count full, I was yelling with every pitch…”C’mon, strike him out!  Strike him out!!”  The three-two pitch came into Allen’s wheelhouse, and he crushed it deep to left…I watched in horror as the ball disappeared into the left field bullpen…Phillies win 4-3…I can’t believe what I just saw…

When Dad came back in the house, he saw me sitting there in shock.  I was staring at the three completed diamonds from the bottom of the ninth inning at the edge of the scoresheet, the third of which was in Richie Allen’s row.  Right above Allen’s completed diamond was the inscription “HR”, and in the lower right-hand corner of the box were three small x’s signifying 3 RBI.  I had been rooting for the Mets all of one day, and I felt at that moment as if they had just lost the World Series.  I asked Dad, “How could this have happened?”

He just smiled and said, “That’s baseball."

Thank you to Baseball Reference for refresing my memory as to the play-by-play details of the Mets-Phillies game played on July 7, 1968.  Photo Credits:  1967 World Series program, World Series Game #2, Ebbets Field, Mets Rookies, Richie Allen, Jack Buck home run call

This post is dedicated to my Dad...thanks for giving me the gift of baseball!  Happy Father's Day!!