by IGMS
1942
Big Al and the Yankee Clipper
Al's baseball career took off like a rocket. All through the spring and summer, whether at home in Boston or on the road in Philadelphia, New York, Detroit, Chicago, Washington, D.C., St. Louis, Cleveland, Al turned in a rookie performance unlike any on record. While he didn't hit a homerun in every at bat, Al always came to the plate with the intention of getting on base. And once he was on base, Al fixed his attention on home plate, and scoring a run.
Joe Cronin moved Al steadily up in the lineup, and in mid-June, when Johnny Pesky mentioned to Al that his batting average was just shy of .500, Cronin moved him into the fifth spot, and occasionally, into the fourth spot, batting cleanup. Al played well in the field, too, a good utility outfielder with speed and accuracy that more than made up for his mediocre throwing arm. He flip-flopped between center and right, but stayed out of left field. That piece of turf belonged to Ted Williams.
Al was so focused on getting hits and knocking in runs that he hardly noticed when sportswriters began using his name in the same sentence as DiMaggio. A year earlier, the Yankee Clipper, Joltin' Joe did the impossible, hitting safely in 56 consecutive games. It was a record that players and fans alike thought would never be broken.
One day late in June, following a tough loss to Cleveland, three reporters crowded around Al's locker as he stripped out of his clay-stained uniform. Al could never keep their names straight, but they were all local Boston reporters. He simply thought of them as Larry, Moe, and Curly.
"Off day today, Al?" Curly said.
Al frowned. He'd gone one-for-four, but that one hit was a two-run shot that supplied Boston's only runs. "Looks like it," he said.
"At least you got the hit," Larry said, a cigarette clenched between his yellow teeth.
"Not that it did much good," Al said.
"It preserved the streak," Curly said.
"Streak?"
"Don't kid a kidder, Al," Moe said.
But Al could not fake the puzzled expression that wrinkled his face.
Larry removed the cigarette from his mouth. "You really don't know?"
"Know what?"
The three reporters looked at one another. Moe said, "That hit you got tonight, Al, made this your fiftieth consecutive game with a hit."
Fifty games? "Really, fellas?"
They nodded. "Six more games and you tie DiMaggio's record."
Al considered this. Had he even played fifty games? It didn't seem possible, but when the reporters cleared out, Al checked the scorecard. Tonight's game was Boston's 66th game of the season. that would mean his streak started back around game sixteen. Thinking back, Al remembered a day in early May when he'd gone down swinging all three times he came to the plate. That was his last game without a hit. Now he had fifty more under his belt, in all of which he had hit safely.
The next six games were the most stressful of Al Shepard's young career, and he cursed Larry, Moe, and Curly for the knowledge they had planted in him.
Even so, Al showed the same calm and poise as he had in each of his previous at-bats. He hit safely in the next five games, quickly returning to form, spraying homeruns, doubles and an occasional triple to all parts of the field. Each hit brought louder cheers -- and those cheers began to follow him on the road. The story of Big Al Shepard chasing DiMaggio's record moved from the front of the sports page to the front page of the newspaper. Everyone knew what was coming on July 3, 1942, when the New York Yankees came to Fenway Park.
Al woke that morning with a ringing in his left ear. This was not an unusual occurrence since being hit in the head by Les McCrab's pitch. What made it unusual that morning was the volume and intensity of the ringing. When he climbed out of bed, Al felt a wave of nausea and the room seemed to sway around him.
On the field before the game, Al tried to ignore the ringing. It seemed to ebb when he kept his head still. He threw his warm up tosses with Ted Williams knowing Ted had an accurate throw which would allow Al to minimize his movements.
As Al was about to toss the ball back to Ted, the Fenway crowd broke into an enormous cheer. Al looked for the source of the cheering and saw Joe DiMaggio walking in his direction.
"Keeping your cool, kid?" DiMaggio said, holding out a large hand. Al shook his hand, feeling dizzy and grabbing it perhaps just a little too firmly in order to keep his balance. Around the two men, the crowd roared.
"As much as I can manage," Al said.
Joe's face became serious, almost stern. "Play hard, but play true," he said. Then his face softened a bit. "Do that, and just think of this as any other game. Good luck to you." He shook Al's hand again and headed back to the visitor's dugout.
Fifteen minutes later, Al stepped into the batter's box for his first at-bat of the game. He repeated Joe's words to himself under his breath: "Play hard, play true." He told himself he was just trying to advance the runner on first, but that wasn't true. A safe hit here would tie DiMaggio's record.
His sharp eyes fixed on the pitcher as he went into his windup and that is when the ringing in his ear grew suddenly, painfully loud.
1968
Powered Descent
Four hours before they began their powered descent to the lunar surface, Al Shepard learned from Houston that the Boston Red Sox were down three games to none in the World Series against the New York Mets. And yet even the news of the Red Sox impending collapse could not put a damper on his day.
The ringing in Al's ear had not stopped. It sang its warbling song through the night, making sleep difficult. An occasional wave of dizziness made Al feel as if the entire spacecraft was tumbling end over end, and he had to glance at the attitude controls to reassure him that the ship was stable. If this lasted much longer, Al would have to tell Houston about it. He'd have no choice. He had a crew for whose safety he was responsible.
At least now, although the ringing remained, the dizziness had vanished.
"That's everything," Ed Mitchell said, flipping closed his checklist.
Al touched the TALK switch. "Kitty Hawk, Antares. We are go for undocking."
Stu Roosa gave the men a countdown. That was followed by a bang, and then Antares floated free from Kitty Hawk. Al concentrated on positioning the spacecraft for its eventual descent to the lunar surface. When he glanced out the window he could see Kitty Hawk above him and upside down and that let loose another wave of dizziness, which he suppressed only with difficulty. Once his adrenaline kicked in, he'd be fine. Besides, the moon was right there. He was not going to allow a little queasiness to prevent him from walking on its surface.
He cursed Les McCrab under his breath.
A few hours later, just after 3 a.m. Houston time, Antares fired their rocket and began the powered descent. The rumble of the rocket vibrated through the spacecraft. Now came the tense moments when they waited for the landing radar to get a lock.
"Thirty thousand feet," Ed Mitchell said.
Al glanced at the radar. No lock.
Ed announced twenty thousand feet, and then fifteen thousand. Still no radar lock. If the landing radar did not get a lock on the lunar surface to verify their altitude --
The ringing in Al's ear began to scream and another wave of dizziness passed through him. It wasn't the worst he'd experienced, but to have it happen now was far from ideal. He tried to cast it aside as the lunar surface loomed ever closer.
And still there was no radar lock.
1942
Playing Hard, Playing True
In a typical game, Al would get four at-bats. In that potentially record-tying game, Al came to the plate four times before the eighth inning. He struck out in his first at-bat, and struck out again in the fourth inning. In the sixth inning, the Red Sox broke open the game with seven runs and that gave Al two chances in one inning. He walked the first time and hit a towering fly ball in his second attempt -- only to watch it fall into the glove of Joe DiMaggio.
Still, because of their big sixth inning, the
Red Sox gave their star rookie a fifth and final chance to tie Joltin' Joe's record when he came to bat in the bottom of the eighth. By then, the ringing and dizziness that had been plaguing Al for the entire game had finally trickled to a whisper. He dug his cleats into the clay and stared down toward the pitcher's mound.
As soon as the ball flew, Al could see it was outside.
"Ball!" the umpire said.
The next pitch came in so fast Al could hear it splitting the air before it. It looked low and Al held back.
"Strike!"
He stepped out of the box, glancing toward the dugout where his entire team seemed to be leaning forward on the bench. He took a practice swing and stepped back in.
Spud Chandler delivered and this time the ball was high in the zone. Al swung and felt the contact. He was off with the sound, but when he glanced up, he watched the ball go hooking foul out of play.
He trotted back to the plate, down in the count, but he'd regained his confidence. The ringing in his ear was a phantom memory. Chandler went into his windup.
Al hit the ball squarely, a hard line-drive that knocked Chandler into the dirt. Al dashed toward first base, a cloud of dust trailing his feet like a column of smoke and fire from a rocket. Yankee shortstop Phil Rizzuto cut across the field to nab the ball but it went under his glove. Al was thirty feet from the base.
From the corner of his eye he saw Joe Gordon, the Yankee's second baseman, grab the ball while running toward second. Gordon jumped and threw to first from the air.
Al dove.
As he slid across the base he rolled to his right in time to see the umpire pump his fist.
He was out.
Joe Cronin flew from the dugout like a cannon shot. He argued with the umpire until his cheeks glowed red. Al could almost imagine steam emerging from Joe's ears. Ninety seconds later, his manager was tossed from the game.
Al shook his head. He didn't hear the roar of the crowd, didn't notice his teammates patting him on the back. He glanced into the outfield and saw Joe DiMaggio tip his cap toward him as if to say, "Nice try kid. Better luck next time."
All Al could think was: So close. So close I could reach out and touch it. At the end of the day Boston won, but Al lost. Joe DiMaggio retained sole possession of his record. Al came in a close second, but who remembers number two?
So close, Al thought. So close.
1968
Mission Rules
Antares still had no landing radar. Ed Mitchell said, "Al, we're getting close."
"Cycle the breakers," Al said.
Ed gave that a try. "Still no radar, passing through twelve thousand."
The mission rules said that if the landing radar did not engage by ten thousand feet, they had to abort. Ten thousand feet -- less than two miles from the lunar surface.
Eleven thousand," Ed said. Al could hear the tension in his voice. Could they do something to buy more time? Slow their descent rate perhaps? Al considered this quickly. It would burn more fuel, meaning they'd have a higher likelihood of aborting closer to the surface if they didn't make a precision landing. Besides, it would only buy them a few seconds.
But what if those few seconds were all the landing radar needed to get a lock? Al decided in an instant. He increased the thrust to slow the descent rate. His left thumb hovered over the abort switch.
"Anything?" he said to Ed.
"Nothing. Still no lock. Ten thousand five hundred. We've got maybe five seconds, Al."
Another wave of dizziness fluttered through Al. He thought of the words Joe DiMaggio had said to him before the game that ended his hitting streak. "Play hard." Al fought back the dizziness as best he could. But if the radar didn't kick on soon --
"Ten thousand feet, Al," Ed said.
Al's thumb closed the gap to the abort switch. He tried to buy a little more time.
"Houston, Antares. We do not have L-R. Repeat, no L-R."
The delay in transmission brought them dangerously close to pitch-over, the point at which that they could see their landing site.
Before that happened, Al heard Houston say, "Antares, Houston. Understood. Recommend abort the landing."
Still, Al hesitated. He could see individual boulders on the surface, their shadows a stark blackness in the cement-colored sediment. He could ignore the rules and get them down to the surface, fighting off the dizziness until they were safely on the ground. Al was an excellent pilot. He didn't need the landing radar, and once they were on the surface, Ed Mitchell could take it from there if Al was still feeling dizzy.
But again, he heard Joe DiMaggio's words. "Play hard, but play true." Play true. The mission rules were there for a reason. If Al had been alone, maybe he could have ignored them, but had he been alone, the dizziness he was experiencing might have put him in even greater peril.
Ed Mitchell was looking at him. The CAPCOM's voice still echoed in his ringing ear.
Al imagined himself diving for the moon as he had dove into first base. Then his finger closed on the abort switch, and he knew that they had lost the moon.
"Roger, Houston. Abort," Al said.
Things happened quickly after that, but as Al caught a glimpse of the moon rolling away from them he heard Ed Mitchell curse under his breath. He knew exactly how Ed felt.
"So close," Al said. "So close."
II
"Could Big Al Shepard have landed Antares on the moon?" Gus Grissom asks the crowd of mourners. "I have no doubt that he could have, but he did what is expected of the commander of a spacecraft. He put the safety of his crew above the success of the mission.
"By the time the crew of Apollo 13 returned to Earth four days later, there was some good news waiting for Al. His Boston Red Sox, after being down three games to none against the New York Mets, won four games in a row, taking home their first World Championship in fifty years." The audience laughs lightly at this.
"NASA determined the cause of the landing radar problem was software-related. And although Al's ear injury was not listed as a contributing factor in the abort, he was taken off flight status upon the return of Apollo 13.
"Apollo 11 turned out to be my last mission," Gus says to the room, "But Al was determined to have another chance. I asked him once what kept him going? He repeated something that Joe DiMaggio said to him. "Play hard, play true." Al played hard. Or in the case of his flight status, fought hard.
"He had surgery to correct the damage inflicted by a fastball to the head, and a year later, returned to flight status. Deke Slayton kept Al in the rotation. Deke was a good guy. Al was assigned commander of Apollo 17. In the spring of 1970, when the baseball season was just getting underway, Big Al Shepard set foot in the Taurus-Littrow valley . . ."
1970
Big Al Shepard Plays Baseball on the Moon
All three EVAs on the lunar surface had virtually every minute scheduled out, despite each of them exceeding seven hours. To Al Shepard, the time flittered by in the blink of an eye, and before he knew it, his last romp on the lunar surface was coming to an end.
He felt incredible bounding across the dusty valley, admiring its stark beauty. The sharp sloping hills reminded him of the Green Monster back home.
Most incredible of all was the sight of home. Earth hung in the sky. Al could glance up over his shoulder no matter where he was and see it there.
"Challenger, Houston. It's about time to wrap things up and head back indoors."
Al sighed. "Roger, Houston. Give us a minute to collect these last samples and get ourselves dusted off."
"Clock's ticking, Al."
Wasn't it always, he thought.
Al turned to Harrison Schmidt, who everyone called Jack. He was standing by the Lunar Rover. "Can you bring the cart over here?"
Schmidt grabbed the handle of the pull-cart and half-bounced, half-waddled in Al's direction. The cart was loaded with rocks, but standing in one corner was the same 32¼ ounce bat he'd brought with him on Apollo 13. Just below the bat was a once-white baseb
all, now covered in lunar dust. The ball had been signed by every one of the surviving members of his 1942 Red Sox team.
"You want me to grab the camera, Al?" Schmidt said.
"No time." Al pulled the bat out of the cart with his right hand and reached for the ball with his left. He turned to face the hills on a horizon that seemed closer than it should be.
"Here goes," he said. He tossed the ball into the airless space, but despite the gentle toss, the ball went higher than Al expected. His timing was off and when Al swung the bat, he missed the ball and nearly spun into the dirt.
"Strike one," Jack Schmidt said.
"Very funny," Al replied, using the bat to lever back into a standing position. "One more time."
Al repeated the process, timing the gentle rise and fall of the baseball more carefully. He made full contact with the ball as it fell back toward the lunar surface.
"Holy cow!" Schmidt said in his best Harry Carey voice.
Al watched the ball go up, up, up, a white dot in the black sky.
"Look at it go," Al said.
Gene Cernan, Apollo 17's command module pilot, spoke up over the radio. "Sent it over the green monster, did you, Al?"
Schmidt said, "I wouldn't be surprised if they found that ball somewhere in the Charles River back home."
Big Al Shepard was still smiling an hour later after he and Schmidt were safely back inside Challenger.
Seven Tips to Enjoy Your Time in the Unreal Forest
by Van Aaron Hughes
Artwork by Nick Greenwood
* * *
Unreal Forest, under the silver fog of a winter dawn. That's where we waited for the school bus in junior high.
We could hear the bus coming four to five minutes before it arrived, its ancient engine growling like an irritable dragon. We lived on the absurdly winding road tracing the perimeter of Mercer Island, back before you had to be filthy rich to live there, when the houses were fewer and smaller, tucked under a dense canopy of trees. On a sunny day, we'd spot the bus on the next curve over, before it dove back into the bend. But we didn't get many sunny days in the Pacific Northwest. Come mid-October, mornings were too dark to see the next curve.