The Fight of Their Lives

by John Rosengren

  Johnny kept a hand in baseball in the mid-1990s by evaluating umpires. One of five Major League Baseball evaluators, he watched umps at the major league and Triple-A levels and filed his reports with the league presidents. He spent free time with people like his brother’s son Tony, an attorney who appreciated his uncle’s wit. “He would find humor in little things on TV or observations of people around us at a restaurant,” Tony said. “He was very funny.”

  Johnny also spent time in his home office fiddling with some writing ideas. He loved to read, with a particular appetite for Mickey Spillane’s detective stories. He tried to write some of his own but never had any of them published. He was a natural storyteller, whether talking about his glory days or relating an anecdote from the car wash. He also thrived on his second chance at fatherhood. By the mid-1990s, with the three children from his first marriage grown into adults, he had reconnected with them independent of their mother. He took pride in his son’s success. Drafted by the Mets in 1986, Jaime played seven seasons of minor league ball, peaking the summer of ’92 with the Tidewater Tides in Triple A. Johnny’s children now had children of their own, whom he got to know and delighted in. He frequently talked to his five grandchildren on the phone and visited them when he could.

  With Nikki, whom he called “a smart little son of a gun,” Johnny formed a special connection. Perhaps it was because he was older, more mature, that he didn’t have the tension in his marriage, that he wasn’t constantly leaving on road trips, that he was able to be home and present, and that he now had only one child instead of three. For whatever reason, Johnny was able to be more of the father he wanted to be with Nikki. He indulged her when she was little, playing with her and letting her fashion barrettes in his hair. When she grew older and The Cosby Show became popular in the 1980s, Nikki’s friends told her, “That’s your dad.” He told the same jokes, offered the same sort of advice, and even had some of the same mannerisms as Dr. Cliff Huxtable. Her friends sometimes came over just to hang out with Johnny. She found them downstairs in his office, chatting away. “I don’t remember anyone not liking him because he was so fair, so honest, so open,” Nikki said. “He was the easiest man to know and love. Never judgmental. You always knew where you stood.”

  She paused. “I could not have asked for a better father.”

  John Roseboro Sr. had moved back to Ashland in 1984. He continued to play pool, go to ball games, and hang out with his cronies. Ever in his place behind the wheel, he drove about town in his big yellow Buick. In 1995 the Cincinnati Reds honored the former Negro League player at a game. But the following spring, two months after his 91st birthday, John Sr. died of natural causes. Johnny returned to Ashland for the memorial service at Denbow-Primm-Kemery Funeral Home, the last time he visited his hometown.

  John Sr.’s sons would not inherit his longevity. Johnny’s younger brother, Jim, the Ohio State football star, had settled in Columbus and remained a strong presence in the community, coaching youth teams, serving on the city council, and sitting on various boards. After being diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease, he moved with his wife to Moreno Valley, California, in 1993, closer to Johnny and his family. The disease slowly dismantled Jim’s body over five years. When Jim finally surrendered to it in December 1997, the former athlete dying at the relatively young age of 62, Johnny was with him. That was hard, to lose his younger brother.

  Johnny’s own health problems had announced themselves with the heart attack in the Dominican. For years before then he had not had to worry about his physical condition and, like many former athletes, even considered himself invincible. “I never thought I would be unhealthy because I was always in such good shape,” he said.

  His heart attack and brother’s death—the reality of mortality—startled him. Johnny loved to eat, a passion that had astounded his first wife and concerned his second. His tastes did not include kale and tofu but ranged toward red meat and Coke and all those processed foods doctors tell you not to eat in bulk. He had started smoking late in his playing career and had a steady habit by the time he retired. The years of unhealthy indulgences had accumulated and hit him in his genetic Achilles’ heel, his heart, a vulnerability he inherited from his mother. Barbara and Nikki had badgered, cajoled, and pleaded with Johnny to quit smoking. To eat better. To exercise. But he was stubborn and wouldn’t change his habits. “I’ll die with a full stomach,” he told them. “And that’s that.”

  Until the doctors informed him in 1999 that his heart couldn’t take the punishment any longer. He needed a transplant. They put him on a waiting list for a new organ. He had by then battled prostate cancer, strokes, and persistent heart trouble. He had endured so many surgeries, treatments, and nights at Cedars Sinai that if the hospital awarded frequent flyer miles he could have orbited the moon with them. The fact that his heart had reached its limit finally convinced him to quit smoking and take a more active role in caring for himself. He gobbled nine pills a day for his various ailments. But then the cancer came back, which took him off the heart transplant waiting list.

  The circumstances sent him into seclusion. His condition made it hard for him to get around, but really he didn’t want others to see him so feeble. That’s not the way a ballplayer wants to appear in public. So he sequestered himself in the basement office of his home in Bel Air, watching Dodgers games and shouting at the television set, complaining about current players being lazy. He didn’t answer the phone and didn’t return calls. Johnny had hit another bottom.

  He could not make it to his 50th high school class reunion back in Ashland even if he had wanted to, but he did consent to taping an interview with his classmate Bonnie Sharp, who traveled out to see him. Johnny sat behind his desk in a black leather chair, absently holding a Bic pen. He wore a simple gray polo shirt. He did not look sick, just older, the hair gray on the sides of his head. For an hour he spoke about his days in Ashland, reminisced about his years in baseball, and discussed his health. “I wish I could be there with you, but unless you can come up with some spare parts, I can’t make it,” he told his white classmates back in Ohio. “When your heart’s no good, you don’t make any long-range plans.”

  He spoke slowly, thoughtfully, sometimes bluntly, sometimes wistfully. Toward the end he seemed to be tiring. He let Barbara, seated on the couch next to his desk, tell the story of their trip to Santo Domingo to play in Marichal’s golf tournament. “We wanted to give good press to what the sportswriters had deemed an ugly, negative story,” she said. “As a result of that golf tournament and our families being together, Juan was inducted into the Hall of Fame. He called to thank John. It was a very moving and tearful moment for him.”

  “Barbara’s right,” Johnny added. “Marichal and I are kissing cousins now.” He laughed at his joke. But he also smiled sincerely.

  The following summer, on June 13, 2002, Barbara found Johnny sitting on their bed. He couldn’t speak. He had suffered another pair of strokes. She rushed him to the emergency room, the way she had 50 times already in the past 14 years. That’s where the doctors discovered the two blood clots that had caused the strokes. They seemed to be the final blow to him. “I’m done,” he mumbled to Barbara and Nikki.

  Not yet, Barbara decided. She put out the word that Johnny seemed to have reached his end and needed some love.

  Peter O’Malley called to send his good wishes. Tommy Davis called. So did Maury Wills. And Sandy Koufax. “Tell John he didn’t make much sense before the stroke,” Sandy joked, knowing his battery mate’s sense of humor.

  Juan Marichal called, too. “Please tell Johnny to hang on,” he said. “Please tell him I’m praying for him.” Those were heartfelt words from a man as devout as Marichal.

  Perhaps the messages and prayers sustained Johnny. His condition stabilized, though he remained in the hospital.

  But the inevitable only waited a short while. Two months later, on August 16, 2002, John Roseboro passed into ete
rnity.

  Every obituary—from the Ashland Times-Gazette to the Los Angeles Times—mentioned Juan Marichal. Most in the first line. Many with the photo of him flailing his bat. John Roseboro was “the target of a 1965 bat-swinging fight with San Francisco Giants pitcher Juan Marichal,” the USA Today obit opened. The New York Times ran a photo with the lead, “[He] was remembered as the victim of an astonishing bat-wielding attack by the Giants’ star pitcher Juan Marichal . . .”

  John Roseboro­—this man who was a professional ballplayer for 19 years, twice a husband, four times a father, a friend to many, a hero to others—had his memory distilled to that singular moment. His life had included so much more that it seemed somehow unfair, yet, in its own way, the incident did complete him—that is, with its full story. It revealed a determined competitor and competent ballplayer, prone like any man to making mistakes in anger, being sentenced to live with a regret, yet also a man unwilling to hold a grudge, unable to sustain enemies, willing to forgive and befriend his nemesis, capable of bestowing both with a second chance and transforming their moment of weakness into redemption. Seen that way, he had lived a good life.

  Representative Diane E. Watson of California made sure the full story was recorded for posterity when she entered an account of the John Roseboro–Juan Marichal altercation into the Congressional Record, concluding, “The incident tarnished Marichal’s reputation, who was only voted into baseball’s Hall of Fame after Roseboro publicly stated that he thought Marichal was being unfairly kept out of the Hall of Fame. Roseboro’s nobility of mind and heart defined him in his life both on and off the baseball diamond.”

  Juan had dreaded the phone call. Barbara reached him in the Dominican Republic. He had prayed for Johnny. Now his friend was at peace with his Creator. But the news thudded in Juan’s gut.

  Barbara asked him to be an honorary pallbearer.

  “Yes, certainly. I would be honored.”

  And to deliver a eulogy. “Johnny would have wanted that.”

  Juan swallowed. “Of course.”

  Juan caught the first flight he could to Los Angeles.

  Saturday morning, August 24, 2002, was a perfect summer day in Southern California, clear and sunny, temperatures in the low 80s. Juan arrived at the Forest Lawn Mortuary chapel along with a couple hundred other mourners. The Dodgers had a large presence headed by Johnny’s former teammates Sandy Koufax, Don Newcombe, Tommy Davis, Lou Johnson, and Maury Wills. Other members of the Dodgers’ extended family ranged from Roy Campanella’s widow to former general manager Fred Claire to Tommy Lasorda, an honorary pallbearer. Fellow pallbearers included baseball dignitaries Hank Aaron, Reggie Smith, and Bill White. Former Los Angeles police chief Bernard Parks was there. So was city councilman Nate Holden and Representative Watson. Five physicians who had worked with Johnny at Cedars Sinai, along with nurses and other staff members, filled the pews alongside Johnny’s friends and relatives. Johnny’s children were there with their children, his treasured grandchildren. And, of course, Nikki and Barbara, who had overseen the funeral preparations. All those people were there for a service Johnny had said he didn’t want, but had he seen them gathered in his memory, he certainly would have been touched.

  Juan and the other mourners filed past a glass display case assembled by Barbara that included many of Johnny’s personal items, such as a toiletry travel kit, one of his catcher’s mitts, his spikes. Juan picked up one of the funeral programs, an eight-page, full-size handout entitled “The Man Behind the Mask” with a color photo of Johnny on the cover in his Dodgers uniform and a MacGregor catcher’s mitt. Inside, beneath another color photo of Johnny with Nikki, Shelley, and one of his grandnephews, Nikki had written a tribute to her “Daddy”: “Although John was undeniably great on the ball field, his greatest accomplishments lie in his legacy off the field. He was generous in his purchases for loved ones, but his best gifts were always of the non-monetary persuasion: unparalleled insight, laughs, great stories, and lots of love. Any time spent with him was guaranteed to be an unforgettable treat and its own reward.”

  The handout also contained the agenda of the memorial service, a biography of Johnny, and a page acknowledging “Special Friends.” But the back of the program caught Juan up short. Barbara had laid out the two-page spread from Life magazine of their fight. There it was again. “I wasn’t thinking about seeing that,” he said. “I went there to let the widow and daughter know I was sorry for the death of Johnny.”

  Johnny had understood. Juan was coming to. This would outlive them.

  Reverend Chip Murray opened the service with a prayer, followed by a song, a scripture passage, and the silent reading of Johnny’s obituary accompanied by a guitar solo. Then Juan approached the microphone, the first of a dozen speakers scheduled to share their memories. He stood for a moment in front of the hundreds gathered there who had fallen suddenly very quiet. He felt the sadness of the occasion. He was also very nervous, more so than when he had delivered his induction speech in Cooperstown. Everybody knew. This was the first time he would speak of it publicly. And in front of Johnny’s family and friends and all of these people from baseball. They waited patiently and silently for Juan to compose himself.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice succumbing to the emotion. “I wish I could’ve pulled back those 10 seconds.”

  He made it clear to Barbara and Jeri and everyone else how much he regretted that moment and how much it meant to have Johnny clear his conscience.

  “Johnny’s forgiving me was one of the best things that happened in my life. . . . When I became a Dodger player, Johnny told all the Dodger fans to forget what happened that day. It takes special people to forgive.”

  And then Marichal, the Hall of Fame pitcher who would forever be remembered alongside the man they were memorializing, concluded, “I wish I could have had John Roseboro as my catcher.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to the following for the help they provided in various ways: Freddy Berowski, John Horne, John Odell, and Tim Wiles at the National Baseball Hall of Fame; Chris Box at the Ashland County Historical Society; Morgan Fouch-Roseboro; Jaime Frias; Jack Kelley of Kelley’s Collectibles in Ashland, Ohio; Mark Langill, Dodgers team historian; Yvette Marichal; Chris Nietupski; Betty Plank; Shelley Roseboro; Miranda Sarjeant at Corbis; and Roger Guenveur Smith.

  A special thanks to Juan Marichal for his willingness to talk to me and his patience with my questions.

  Thank you to Keith Wallman, my editor at Lyons Press, for his early belief in this book and his willingness to consider my ideas—even as they changed. Thanks to Bret Kerr for his persistence and patience in designing a great cover.

  Thank you to Lukas Ortiz at the Philip G. Spitzer Literary Agency for his diligence in finding a home for this story.

  A final thank you to my family—Maria, Alison, and Brendan—for their support while I researched and wrote this book. Our trip to Cooperstown will long remain a happy memory.

  SOURCES

  (Page Numbers refer to the printed book)

  Prologue: A Moment of Madness

  ix. camera trained on the mound.: San Francisco Chronicle, September 4, 1965.

  Chapter One: El Rey de Ponche

  2. world Juan was born into.: www.npr.org; www.csmonitor.com; Turtis, “A World Destroyed,” 590.

  2. letrina, or outhouse, in the back.: Time, June 10, 1966; Marichal, My Journey, 11–14; Marichal, A Pitcher’s Story, 36; Kaplan, Greatest Game, 17.

  2. day,” he told her frequently.: Marichal, A Pitcher’s Story, 27; Marichal interview with Markusen; Marichal, My Journey, 14–16.

  3. explains in Nota Acerca del Beisbol.: Kaplan, Greatest Game, 13–14; Klein, Sugarball, 1.

  3. pitched,” Marichal recounted years later.: Kaplan, Greatest Game, 21; Marichal, My Journey, 19.

  3. and the Pitching Duel of the Century.: Kaplan, Greatest Game, 13.<
br />
  4. has remained firm ever since.: Marichal, My Journey, 21–23.

  4. he pitched the team to victory.: Kaplan, Greatest Game, 22; Ruck, Tropic of Baseball, 66–67.

  4. Dominican Aviacion (Air Force) team.: Marichal, My Journey, 23–24; Kaplan, Greatest Game, 22; Regalado, Viva Baseball, 127; Time, June 10, 1966.

  5. United Fruit team with a 2–1 performance.: Ruck, Tropic of Baseball, 32, 73; Kaplan, Greatest Game, 24.

  5. he volunteered for service.: Marichal, My Journey, 24–25.

  5. escape Mexico without injury.: Marichal interview with Markusen; Kaplan, Greatest Game, 22–23; Ruck, Tropic of Baseball, 70–71.

  6. lose a doubleheader,” Marichal said.: Marichal, A Pitcher’s Story, 24; Marichal, My Journey, 26–27; Studio 42 with Bob Costas, November 24, 2009; Ruck, Tropic of Baseball, 73; Time, June 10, 1966.

  6. Marichal lost only three games.: Marichal, A Pitcher’s Story, 30–31; Marichal, My Journey, 26–27; Ruck, Tropic of Baseball, 72–73; Kaplan, Greatest Game, 24.

  6. want to pitch in the major leagues, you can.”: Marichal, A Pitcher’s Story, 30–31; Ruck, Tropic of Baseball, 72–73.

  7. give Escogido’s rival his top pitcher.: New York Times, October 21, 1962; Ruck, Tropic of Baseball, 74; Kaplan, Greatest Game, 25; Sports Illustrated, August 9, 1965.