After the All-Star break, my average dipped into the .260s in August. Then, steadily, my average began to rise again. With two weeks left to play, my average was at .291. Entering the final week, it was at .295. Heading into the final day, it was at .298. A .300 batting average is a magical number for players, but there was added significance to my average because at that point I was the only Yankee with the chance to hit .300 for the season. No one could imagine a Yankees team without at least one .300 hitter.
Before we closed out the season against the Baltimore Orioles in an otherwise meaningless game, Casey told me I needed two hits to raise my average to the .300 mark. If I could get those two hits, he would then pull me out of the game so the team would have a .300 hitter.
Billy O’Dell was starting on the mound for the Orioles that day. Billy was from Newberry, South Carolina, and was a good friend I sometimes hunted with back home. The day before our final game, Billy had sent word over, “Tell Bobby I’ll be throwing it right in there for him tomorrow.” Orioles third baseman Brooks Robinson was another good friend. He also sent a message: “Tell Bobby that I’ll be playing real deep if he wants to bunt.” Joe Ginsberg was the Baltimore catcher, and I didn’t know him too well, so I was surprised when he told me he would let me know what pitch was coming. First base umpire Ed Hurley told me on the field before the game, “Just make it close. You’ll be safe.”
My first time at the plate, leading off the bottom of the first, Ginsberg said, “Fastball.” I was shocked and immediately wondered whether he was just messing with me when a curveball was actually coming. Confused, I didn’t swing at the pitch, and it was indeed a fastball. The catcher appeared to be shooting straight with me.
Before the second pitch, Ginsberg again said, “Fastball.” I looked for a fastball, and Billy threw one right down the middle of the plate that I hit for a double. Trust me when I say I wasn’t doing this exact math on the field at the time, but that hit raised my average to .2997. That would have officially been rounded up to .300 if that had been my final at bat, but no player wants to hit .300 by having the numbers rounded up.
I came to the plate again in the third inning, one hit shy of the milestone average. I was confident, too, knowing that the pitcher and catcher were working with me, the third baseman was in my corner if needed (although I had no intention of bunting my way to .300), and the first base umpire was in a generous mood too.
Notice that the right fielder wasn’t a member of that group. In my second plate appearance, I smashed a line drive toward right field. Albie Pearson, one of my closest friends in baseball, made a diving catch to rob me of a hit!
My spot in the order came around again with one out in the sixth. The score was 0–0, and if we happened to take the lead on a solo home run and not bat in our half of the ninth, my third at bat would be my last chance to reach .300. That probably wouldn’t happen, but it wasn’t a chance worth taking.
With O’Dell still pitching, I hit a grounder up the middle and into center field for a clean single.
Casey used the dugout phone to call the Yankees’ statistician and get my updated batting average. It was .301. As he’d said he would, Casey pulled me from the game so I would finish the season above .300.
The people of Sumter have always treated my family so graciously. After that season, because I had topped .300, they held a special day in my honor. They presented me with shells to go with a shotgun they had previously given me, provided Betsy and me with a washer and dryer and some furniture, and gave little Robby and Ronnie each a small fire truck with pedals that they could ride around in.
It felt strange, though, being back in Sumter while the World Series was being played.
Chapter 9
A Series to Remember
It is amazing how one week of swinging a hot bat can forever determine how a ballplayer is viewed.
Although the 1960 regular season was far from a standout year for me, it is the one year most associated with my name. I was chosen Most Valuable Player of the World Series that year, even though we lost the Series in seven games to the Pittsburgh Pirates. That honor has made me the answer to a trivia question. I’m the only player ever selected World Series MVP from a losing team.
Nothing during the regular season indicated that I would have that type of postseason success.
I played in 150 of our 154 games in 1960 and started 138, including 134 at second base. I batted first or eighth in almost all those starts. With Casey’s emphasis on platooning and the way he liked to play hunches, I never allowed myself to think I had settled permanently into the second base position. But though there was always a chance I might be moved in and out of the lineup or bounced around the batting order, that never actually happened. The relative stability allowed me to focus on assuming a role that I thought could serve the team best: playing solid defense at second base and, on offense, either setting the table for the heart of the lineup from my leadoff spot, or moving runners and getting on base from my spot at the bottom of the lineup.
My numbers in 1960 didn’t match what I had done the year before. I hit .252, drove in twenty-six runs, and stole six bases. I was never much of a home run hitter, and I hit only one that season. In fact, as far as I was concerned, I had an unproductive regular season. At least that was happening during a year when our injuries were minimal and it seemed that just about everyone in the lineup was playing well.
Moose Skowron was back to his old self at the plate, hitting .309 during the regular season to finish among the American League leaders. Roger Maris, whom we had acquired in the off-season in another trade with Kansas City, won the regular season MVP award, and Mickey Mantle finished second. Mickey hit a league-leading forty home runs, and Roger set a career high to that point with thirty-nine. He also led the league with 112 runs batted in. And our pitching was dominant again, with Whitey Ford, Art Ditmar, Bob Turley, and Ralph Terry all finishing among the league’s top ten in earned run average.
We needed their performances that season because we were locked in a tight pennant race with the Baltimore Orioles and the Chicago White Sox. The Orioles swept a three-game series from us in Baltimore in the first week of September to take a two-game lead over us and a three-and-a-half-game lead over Chicago. The next time we played Baltimore, on September 16, we were coming off back-to-back losses at Kansas City that had dropped us into a tie for first, two games ahead of the Sox.
Whitey was on the mound to start the four-game series with the Orioles in Yankee Stadium. From all my years as a Yankee, Whitey was the pitcher that I would want holding the ball to start a big game. As expected, he was outstanding for us that day. Whitey took a shutout into the ninth inning, Roger hit a big two-run homer in the fifth, and we won the first game of the series 4–2 to take back sole possession of first place.
That game started one of the great closing stretches in baseball history. We swept that four-game series from the Orioles and led both them and the White Sox by four games, with eleven games remaining. We won all eleven of those, too, ending the regular season on a fifteen-game winning streak and claiming the pennant by a deceptive-looking eight games over Baltimore and ten over Chicago.
It was on the heels of that winning streak that I experienced one of the more embarrassing moments of my career. I had been elected as the Yankees’ player representative for the first time. A player rep back then would be somewhat similar to a team captain today, with the biggest difference being that a player rep had more business-type responsibilities in the clubhouse.
One of my duties was to organize the team photograph late in the regular season that would be used in the World Series program, in Yankees history books, in baseball yearbooks, and other such publications. It would serve as the official team photograph for that year. I set up the team photo to be taken before a day game in Yankee Stadium. The day beforehand, I kept reminding all the players, “Everybody be here at nine o’clock tomorrow for the picture.”
My sister Inez’s husband,
Heyward Strong, flew in for a visit the night before our team photo. He stayed at our in-season home in Ridgewood, New Jersey, and we were up late that night talking and laughing and having a good time. Heyward had an early flight the next morning, and I dropped him off at the airport at six o’clock. I drove by the Stadium about an hour later, but I thought, Man, it’s so early. I’ll just go on back to Ridgewood.
I forgot all about the team photo.
When I arrived at the Stadium later that morning, Big Pete Sheehy asked, “Where have you been?” That’s when I realized I had missed the photo.
Casey was really steamed at me about that—and rightfully so, considering I had set up the photo and reminded everyone to be there, then been the only no-show. I can still point to the spot on the right-hand side of the front row where I was supposed to be, sitting with arms and ankles crossed like everyone else on that row.
So here’s another trivia question: Which World Series Most Valuable Player was not in his team’s official photo in the World Series program?
Me.
Grand Slam!
While we had qualified for the World Series for the tenth time in twelve years, it was a different story over in the National League, where the Pittsburgh Pirates had won a pennant for the first time since 1927. Their World Series opponent in ’27 had been the Babe Ruth–led Yankees, who swept the Pirates in four games.
Because of our postseason experience and the momentum we carried from our season-ending winning streak, we were tabbed as heavy favorites to defeat Pittsburgh in 1960. But the Series got off to a bad start.
The environment at Pittsburgh’s Forbes Field was much like what we had faced in 1957, when the Braves were making their first World Series appearance since moving to Milwaukee. Pittsburghers had waited thirty-three years to see their team return to the World Series, suffering through some lean seasons in the process. Pirates fans had plastered “Beat ’em, Bucs” signs everywhere. The entire city was excited for the start of Game 1.
Going into that first game, Casey Stengel made a decision that I believe wound up costing us the Series and, ultimately, cost him his job: he didn’t start Whitey Ford in the first game. There had to be an underlying reason, but to this day I have not heard what that might be. I’ve heard some rumors and much speculation, but nothing I could ever substantiate.
Instead of going with Whitey, Casey gave Art Ditmar the first postseason start of his career. Art was a fine pitcher and had led our team in victories during the regular season, but Whitey had been given the nickname “Chairman of the Board” for his control in high-pressure situations. Whitey was our best postseason pitcher, but Casey decided to hold him back until Game 3 at Yankee Stadium. He told the media that he thought we could win in Pittsburgh without using Whitey and that Whitey could then pitch at our park, where there was a short fence in right field. That explanation didn’t make sense, though. Whitey could have both started the important first game on the road and then been available to pitch three times in the Series instead of two, including once at Yankee Stadium with the short porch.
In the top of the first, Maris homered off Vern Law to give us a 1–0 lead. That lead didn’t last long. Art faced only five batters, retiring one and leaving the game with a 3–1 deficit. Law, a twenty-game winner that season, was tough on us, holding us to two runs through eight innings. By the time Law left the game, the Pirates had stretched their lead to 6–2. In the ninth, Elston Howard belted a pinch-hit, two-out home run to make the score 6–4, and Tony Kubek singled to bring the potential tying run to the plate. But a double play ended our comeback. Pittsburgh had grabbed the first game.
I am convinced that the Pirates’ winning Game 1 was the key to their winning the Series. And I remain convinced that if Whitey had pitched the opener, we would have won that game.
Games 2 and 3 would symbolize our frustration with how the Series played out. We plastered the Pirates 16–3 in the second game, pounding out nineteen hits. Mickey hit two home runs—one to right center, where it was 436 feet from the plate to a twelve-foot wall. Mickey was the first right-handed batter to hit a home run to that part of Forbes Field, and that ballpark had opened in 1909, so it had a lot of history even then. That homer has been estimated as traveling 475 feet. I witnessed Mickey hitting longer home runs during our time together, but to see the ball leave that part of the field and clear that high wall makes it one of the most memorable home runs I ever saw.
After going hitless in four at bats in the opener, I went 3 for 4 in Game 2 with a double, two RBIs, a walk, and three runs. As most of us felt that day, I was comfortable in the batter’s box. But I had no idea what was coming in Game 3.
Back at Yankee Stadium, Game 3 was another runaway victory for us, 10–0. That was Whitey’s start, and not surprisingly, he was almost untouchable. He pitched all nine innings and held the Pirates to four hits.
We took control of the game early, scoring six runs in the bottom of the first. With one out, Moose singled in one run. Then Ellie Howard’s dribbler down the third base line for a base hit scored another run and kept the bases loaded—with me up next.
To be honest, I was expecting Casey to put in a pinch hitter for me there in the first inning—perhaps Enos Slaughter—because with Whitey pitching we had a chance to pretty much put the Pirates away with an extra-base hit. I wasn’t going to look back over my shoulder to the dugout and perhaps give Casey an idea he hadn’t considered, but I was listening for that familiar voice to bark out, “Hold that gun!” I never heard those words, though.
Before I stepped into the batter’s box, I looked down to third base coach Frank Crosetti as he flashed through the signs. I almost did a double take when I saw the bunt sign. With the bases loaded and the pitcher batting next in the ninth spot, I was more stunned to see Crosetti telling me to bunt than I’d been that day in ’53 when he walked over and handed me a pair of his spikes. I replayed the signals in my mind just to make sure I had read them correctly.
Clem Labine had replaced Pittsburgh starter Wilmer “Vinegar Bend” Mizell, a close friend of mine, before Ellie Howard’s at bat. Labine started his delivery to the plate, I squared to bunt, and I fouled the ball off.
Surely he’ll have me hitting now, I thought.
But again, Crosetti gave me the bunt signal.
Again, I squared and fouled off the bunt attempt.
With two strikes I was sure the bunt signal wouldn’t come again. It didn’t.
“Hit the ball to right field!” Crosetti shouted down the baseline to me. “Try to stay out of the double play!”
A double play would have brought us to three outs and ended the inning. But with the bases loaded, even a ground ball out would have given us a 3–0 lead.
As instructed, I intended to hit a grounder to the right side that would be difficult for the Pirates to turn into a double play if it didn’t get through the infield. But Labine threw a high fastball that was in on me a little bit. Because of that, I had to bring my hands through the swing quickly. That’s a pull swing instead of a go-the-other-way swing. The ball jumped off my bat and soared toward the left field corner, where it was 301 feet to the fence.
Man, oh man, I hit that pretty good!
I took off running right away, anticipating an opportunity for extra bases, and didn’t look to see where the ball was until I was rounding first. Pirates left fielder Gino Cimoli was standing at the short wall in the left field corner and looking at his glove. My heart sank a little, thinking he had caught the ball and I had lost a double that would have scored two, maybe three, runs. Then I caught sight of second base umpire Dusty Boggess, who was twirling his index finger in the air—the signal for a home run.
I knew it was a home run, but I didn’t truly realize I had homered until I reached home plate and Ellie, Moose, and Gil McDougald were there waiting after scoring ahead of me.
“Good bunt!” Casey teased me when I walked past him and into the dugout.
I had hit only one homer during the r
egular season, and that had been all the way back in April, in the eighth inning of a game we were leading 15–0. The Stadium scoreboard posted a note: “Richardson 1 of 7 to hit World Series grand slam.”
(As a humorous sidebar, my home run was included in a nice short film about me called The Bobby Richardson Story. The film shows my swing on the grand slam, but after the ball leaves my bat, the footage switches to Mickey’s mammoth home run in Game 2. How can I tell? First, Mickey’s home run was to right center, and mine was to left. Second, Mickey’s happened at Forbes Field, and mine came at Yankee Stadium. Third, Mickey’s soared out of the ballpark, and mine snuck into maybe the third row. Bill Virdon was the Pirates’ center fielder, and about twenty years later, when he was manager of the Houston Astros, he mentioned to me that he had seen the film but hadn’t remembered my hitting a home run at Forbes Field.)
Our 6–0 lead with Whitey on the mound was enough at that point, but it was one of those days when everything was going right for our offense and we knew we would keep scoring runs.
I struck out in the third, and by the time I came up to bat again in the fourth, Mickey had homered for an 8–0 lead. Moose, Gil, and Ellie had all singled, and for the second time that day, I batted with the bases loaded. With Red Witt pitching, I lined a single to straightaway left that scored Moose and Gil and gave us a 10–0 lead. The scoreboard provided Yankees fans with another statistical note: “Richardson’s 6 RBIs today set all-time Series record.” In only the fourth inning, I had broken the record for the most RBIs in a World Series game.
Memorable Finish
With us leading the Series 2–1, Pittsburgh gave the ball back to Game 1 starter Vern Law for Game 4 at Yankee Stadium. This time Casey chose Ralph Terry to oppose Law. Game 4 was a good one. Once again, Law was tough to hit, holding us to two runs in six and a third innings. Ralph pitched well too, and the Pirates were able to get to him in only one inning, the fifth. But they scored three times that inning and beat us 3–2 to even the Series at two games apiece.
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