Tony had a straight overhand delivery with his throwing motion—perfect for a batting practice pitcher—so I asked if he would feed some fat pitches to Mickey so he could wow the people with long home runs.
Tony agreed. I should have become suspicious when he readily agreed.
On his first pitch to Mickey, Tony decided to cross him up and threw a changeup. Mickey was caught off guard, tried to recover with an off-balance swing, and his front leg went out from under him. Mickey stepped back and gathered himself, but it was obvious he had hurt his leg reaching for Tony’s changeup. If Mickey could have run on that bad leg, he would have chased Tony.
Mickey got back into the batter’s box and took more swings, but his leg was bothering him so much that he didn’t have the strength to hit a home run. He hit line drives, but not a single homer. We also had a fun exhibition game scheduled, and Mickey was unable to play because of his leg. Tony and I played, though, and his first time at the plate, Tony hit a home run into the top of the light tower in right field.
To help handle the huge crowd, we had lined a rope around the outfield for the fans to stand behind. In one of my at bats, I hit a fly ball to left that carried just over the rope for a home run. When I rounded third base for home, Tony and Mickey were sprawled out on the ground near the plate, acting as though they had fainted over my power display.
Some folks reading this book will recall Tony as a broadcaster, not a Yankees shortstop. After he retired, Tony became a color commentator on NBC’s Game of the Week Saturday broadcasts. Tony also worked broadcasts for the Toronto Blue Jays and the New York Yankees.
The funny thing is that back when Tony was a player, he was so shy that he wouldn’t take part in any radio or television interviews. Yankees TV broadcaster Red Barber tried to have every player on his show at least once each season, but he couldn’t persuade Tony to consent to an interview. Tony would tell him, “Sorry, Red, I just don’t do that.”
One day Red came up to me and asked, “Do you think you could talk Tony into coming onto my show?”
I pitched the idea to Tony on Red’s behalf.
Tony relented, under one condition: “I’ll go on it only if you’ll get on it with me and be the one who interviews me.”
I passed that along to Red, who told me, “Absolutely. You interview him.”
We got through that interview fine. And years later, the shy Tony—who practically had to be begged to appear on Red Barber’s program—became not only a broadcaster, but an excellent one. In 2009, the National Baseball Hall of Fame presented Tony with its Ford C. Frick Award, given annually to a broadcaster who has made major contributions to baseball.
Tony worked NBC’s Game of the Week broadcasts until the network lost its television rights for baseball after the 1989 season. Tony had also broadcast Toronto Blue Jays games when he wasn’t calling NBC games. From there, Tony moved over to the MSG Network to announce Yankees games.
Even though Tony was making great money in broadcasting, he left the TV booth for good when the players went on strike during the 1994 season. Tony had become fed up with the greed that had become prevalent in baseball and decided that if he was going to watch a baseball game, it would be one of his kids’ games. As far as I know, since the ’94 strike, Tony has not watched one major league game.
Tony’s honesty is what made him a great announcer. To Tony, the truth was the truth, and he harbored no concerns about expressing it, regardless of whose feathers that might ruffle. I know his viewers appreciated that. Tony had no fear of publicly criticizing the way George Steinbrenner ran the Yankees, though it created hard feelings toward Tony from the top of the organization. Even if someone were to disagree with Tony’s opinions on a matter, there was no need to search for any hidden meanings or agendas behind Tony’s words. Whatever Tony said, he spoke from his heart, with conviction, and for the benefit of others.
I’ve stated publicly many times that Tony would have made a great commissioner of Major League Baseball. Tony is a smart, smart man. More important, if he had been commissioner, he would not have been afraid of the owners and would not have taken sides between the owners and the players. As a former player, he certainly would have looked out for the players, but he would have done the same for the owners. All his decisions would have been made with only the best interests of baseball in mind.
Tony put a premium on the word teammate. If you were Tony’s teammate, he had your back, whether you were a superstar or a rookie just trying to hang on to a roster spot. A good example of how Tony cared for all his teammates is the way his excellent book, Sixty-One: The Team, the Record, the Men, came to be written.
A publisher asked Tony to write an insider’s look at Maris and Mantle and their pursuits of Babe Ruth’s home run record in 1961. Tony said he would write the book, but he wouldn’t just focus on Roger and Mickey. It would be about the entire team.
“I have twenty-four teammates,” Tony told the publisher, “and I’ll be glad to write on all of them. But I won’t write only about two individuals like that.”
The publisher said it wasn’t interested in such a book. Tony said that was too bad. But he didn’t change his stance.
The publisher wound up coming back to Tony and saying it would be interested in a book done his way. Tony got in touch with all of us, interviewed us, and produced the first book I recommend to anyone who wants to learn more about our ’61 team.
Tony remained a close friend long after our playing days were over and is still a friend today—we talk on the phone about once per month.
Roger Maris: Family Man
My fellow infielders were not my only memorable teammates, of course. During my years as a Yankee, I was blessed to play baseball—and build indelible friendships—with a number of talented and interesting men.
Roger Maris, for instance, is associated with power hitting because of his home run record, but people forget how good an all-around player he was. He was a great right fielder with a strong and accurate arm. He was faster than most people realize too, and he possessed an aggressive mind-set on the base paths. Those who claim a triple is the most exciting play in baseball would have loved watching Roger leg out a three-bagger. He was as adept at turning a double into a triple or going from first to third on a single as anyone I saw play.
More important, I think, Roger was the most dedicated family man I knew in baseball. He came to us for the 1960 season from the Kansas City Athletics and chose not to bring his family with him to New York. He and his wife, Pat, believed their home near Kansas City provided a better environment for their kids to grow up in. But being away from his family for a big part of the year was clearly difficult for Roger.
When he interacted with my sons in the locker room, it was obvious that he missed having his kids around during the season. It was evident how caring a father he was too. Whenever we did see Roger with his kids, we could see how well he related to them. The Marises had a close family, and our family always enjoyed being with them.
I was tickled to death when we traded for Roger and brought him to New York—and it wasn’t just because I wanted a great ballplayer on our team. From my second baseman’s perspective, I also didn’t want him on an opposing team. Second basemen take note of who’s running at first base in a double play situation. When Roger was with the Athletics, I really disliked seeing him standing on first base next to Moose. He was the player I least wanted sliding into my bag when I was turning a double play.
The way I preferred to turn a double play was to straddle the bag, catch the throw, turn toward first, make my throw, and jump over the runner as he slid into second. When Roger was on first, however, I had to take the throw going across the bag so that I was a full step away when I threw. That was slightly slower and not quite as easy as my preferred way, but it would keep me from getting spiked or getting knocked all the way to our left fielder. And Roger would do that. As nice a guy as he was, he had no qualms about taking out a second baseman to protect the
batter running to first.
Like Moose, Roger had a football background. He had been a three-sport star—in football, basketball, and track—at his high school in Fargo, North Dakota, and played American Legion baseball like me. Although he’d been offered a football scholarship to the University of Oklahoma, he’d chosen to stick with baseball and had signed with the Cleveland Indians. But football had made its mark on him as a player.
I had to go across the bag when Roger was running at first because if I tried to jump over him, he would come up and throw a rolling block. Bob Allison of the Washington Senators/Minnesota Twins threw a similar rolling block with his slide, but Roger had slightly more speed than Bob and got to a second baseman a little quicker.
Roger and I hit it off right away when he came over from the A’s. Because he was a quiet guy, we had a more reserved friendship than I had with other teammates, but we were close nonetheless.
Roger took a particular interest in my baseball mentor from back home, Harry Stokes. Roger knew how important Harry was to me as a player and as a person, and he went out of his way to make sure Harry was welcomed as a member of the Yankees’ extended family when he came to visit me.
Once when Harry had come up to New York to visit and take in a couple of games, Roger said, “Hey, Harry, we’re going to Kansas City next. Why don’t you come out with us? You can stay at my house and enjoy a couple more games in Kansas City.” Because Roger’s family lived in Kansas City, he usually flew out ahead of the rest of us so he could spend more time with them. Roger arranged for Harry to fly with him. He stayed at Roger’s home and had a great time. I barely even saw Harry on that trip.
On Bobby Richardson Day near the end of my final season, the players presented me with a beautiful gun case as my going-away present. That wasn’t enough for Roger, though. He had a watch made for me with my uniform number all the way around the face, so there were twelve 1s. I was touched that he made the effort to present me with an extra gift.
While we were teammates, Roger would sometimes call out of the blue during the off-season and say something like, “I’m going to be playing golf at Pinehurst in North Carolina. Would it be all right if I stopped by to see you?” We enjoyed some delightful visits in our home. He kept on doing that even after we both were out of baseball.
On one visit Roger went with us to watch Robby and Ronnie play an American Legion game in nearby Manning. Ronnie was playing right field, and early in the game a line drive was hit in his direction. Ronnie started in, then stopped when he realized the ball had been hit harder than he thought. The line drive carried over Ronnie’s head as he turned to chase it.
“Looks just like me,” Roger told me. “Sorry for that influence.”
After the game a friend came up to us, looked at Roger, and said, “Boy, you look a lot like Roger Maris.”
“Well, thank you,” Roger replied with a smile. “I appreciate that.”
We didn’t tell my friend otherwise, and when he walked away, Roger and I enjoyed a good laugh over that one.
Elston Howard: Man of Dignity
Growing up in the South in the middle of the century, I was quite familiar with segregation, but I was still shocked when I encountered it in the major leagues.
Jackie Robinson had broken the color barrier in major league baseball in 1947 with the Brooklyn Dodgers. Later that season, Larry Doby of the Cleveland Indians had become the first African American player in the American League. I entered professional baseball six years later, and while I saw how the black fans were seated apart from the white fans while I was with the Norfolk Tars, I wasn’t an eyewitness to much open segregation on the teams. Of course, there were attitudes that were slow to change throughout the sport, but it really wasn’t until I first reported to spring training with the New York Yankees that I saw something that made me doubt whether progress was being made.
During spring training, the players stayed at the Soreno Hotel in St. Petersburg, Florida. Not all the players, though. Elston Howard was not allowed to stay at the team hotel. I couldn’t believe that still happened in the big leagues—and not just with the Yankees.
Elston, who had played for Buck O’Neil with the Kansas City Monarchs of the Negro Leagues, was the Yankees’ first African American player. The Yankees were among the last integrated teams, with Ellie making his big league debut in 1955—eight years after the color barrier had been broken. I heard that the Yankees could have integrated earlier but had held off because they believed it would require a special person to handle the pressure of being the franchise’s first African American player.
Whether that story was true or not, Elston Howard was indeed a special person.
At six feet two and nearly two hundred pounds, Ellie was a gentle giant, big enough that someone would be foolish to pick a fight with him. But Elston certainly wasn’t going to start a fight, and I think someone would have had to work hard to provoke him into one.
I’m sure that being the Yankees’ first African American was tougher than Ellie let on at the time. I’ve read interviews from after Ellie’s career in which he addressed difficulties he had faced. But he never brought up those issues in the locker room or on our train rides and flights. Dignity is a word that comes to mind when I think about how Ellie handled the pressure. Ellie was a true gentleman.
I don’t think there was a more respected man on our team than Elston Howard. He also may have been the best liked. However, that didn’t exempt him from being the target of good-natured jokes, much as I was because of my faith.
Once when Elston boarded our bus, Mickey Mantle was already sitting in the front, on the left-hand side. When Ellie started to sit next to Mickey, Mickey laughed and said, “Oh, no, no. You go to the back of the bus.”
“No,” Ellie shot back, “I want to sit by you.” Then big ol’ Ellie plopped down right next to Mickey in the front. Everybody on the bus broke out in laughter, including Mickey, who knew Ellie had gotten him on that one.
From my nonminority perspective, it seemed that the attitudes concerning race in baseball progressively improved during the time I was a player. I hate that racism was ever a part of our sport, not to mention our society, but I am glad I was able to see a man I admired handle a difficult time with such grace.
In a way, I benefited from my fellow Yankees’ respect for Ellie. When I scheduled a chapel service for the team, Elston would be the one going around to the players and saying, “Richardson’s having chapel, and we’re gonna be here tomorrow. Make sure you’re there.” Our small services were well attended, and I wondered at times how much of that was because Ellie delivered the invitations and said he would be there.
As a player, Elston’s talent was immense, though he remained humble. He made nine consecutive All-Star teams from 1957 to ’65. What makes that especially impressive is that for about half of that period, he did not have his own position. Ellie was an outfielder converted to catcher, but Yogi Berra was our starter at catcher. Ellie was his backup and also played left field, right field, and first base. It wasn’t until the 1960 and 1961 seasons that Ellie took over the starting catcher spot, with Yogi gradually playing outfield more. In 1963, Elston became the first African American to win the American League Most Valuable Player award, and he finished third the next season behind Brooks Robinson and Mickey Mantle.
The Yankees traded Ellie to the Boston Red Sox during the 1967 season, and his career ended when the Red Sox released him after the ’68 season. When he retired, he held the record for the highest fielding percentage ever for a catcher: .993. But numbers cannot reflect how well he called games for our pitching staff. His even-keeled personality had a calming influence on our pitchers. Ellie had a way of making them feel like everything was under control with him behind the plate.
Ellie wasn’t happy about being traded from the Yankees. (He told me later how much it had hurt.) But he was able to return to the franchise as an assistant coach—the first African American coach in the American League. He cou
ld have been the first black manager in the majors too—Frank Robinson became the first in 1975—and that was a strong desire of his. But for some reason he never was given the chance to manage a team. I know he would have been a great manager.
Ellie left us way too soon. He died in 1980, at age fifty-one, from myocarditis, an inflammation of the heart muscle. His number—32—was retired four years later, and a plaque in his honor was dedicated at Yankee Stadium’s Monument Park. I like the way the inscription on that plaque describes him: “A man of great gentleness and dignity.” It concludes with these words: “If, indeed, humility is a trademark of many great men—Elston Howard was one of the truly great Yankees.”
Whitey Ford: A “Slick” Ace
It should be no secret by now that I believe Whitey Ford was a great pitcher, definitely one of the best. I may be up in years, but I can’t go all the way back to the days of Walter Johnson, Cy Young, and Christy Mathewson. During the era in which I played, though, I would put Whitey on top of the list—even over Sandy Koufax, because Whitey’s career lasted longer.
The Chairman of the Board was a pleasure to play defense behind. Because he stayed ahead in the count and rarely walked batters, Whitey gifted us with a slew of two-hour games. We also could depend on Whitey pitching deep into games. If he didn’t go the full nine, we knew he would at least get us to the ninth. Then Luis Arroyo could come in to close out the victory.
When Casey Stengel was manager, he worked the pitching rotation so that Whitey not only pitched against the best teams, but also against the best teams’ best pitchers. When Ralph Houk replaced Stengel, he pitched Whitey every fourth day regardless of the opponent to get him extra starts.
It’s enough of a testament to Whitey’s talent to point out his place in the Hall of Fame. The fact that there were several years during his career when he pitched with a sore throwing arm ups my respect for him. With Whitey on the lineup card, we believed we had the upper hand on our opponent before the first pitch was thrown.
Impact Player Page 21