Sandy Koufax

by Jane Leavy

  That which made him different became subject to interpretation and reinterpretation. Oh, sure, he played golf like everyone else. But he invested his money in real estate and in a radio station, KNJO, 92.7 on your dial, the first station built for stereo in Southern California. He admitted to reading The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich and listening to classical music—and regretted it because no one seemed to believe he also read best-sellers; that he listened to Sinatra as well as Beethoven.

  He avoided Baseball Annies and compromising positions. (“He wants a wife, not a fan,” Murray wrote.) He lived alone. He hated talking on the telephone, so much so, it was said, he hid the phone in the oven or had the ringer removed. It was also reported that the Dodger front office had to send telegrams when they wanted to get in touch with him. Though he was a heavy smoker and the surgeon general’s report on tobacco hadn’t yet been released, he would not be photographed smoking a cigarette. In an era when caution labels were not yet required reading, he refused to endorse either tobacco or alcohol. He did a sweater ad. He owned a piece of a motel on the Sunset Strip, Sandy Koufax’s Tropicana Inn.

  Once, in 1963, he vented his frustration publicly to Milton Gross, a sports columnist for the New York Post: “I’m just a normal twenty-seven-year-old bachelor who happens to be of the Jewish faith. I like nice clothes. I like comfort. I like to read a book and listen to music and I’d like to meet the girl I’d want to marry. That’s normal, isn’t it?

  “You know the old stuff they keep writing about, that I read Huxley and Thomas Mann. I’m supposed to be an egghead. I may have read Huxley once in my life, but if I did, frankly, I don’t remember. I like to read the latest fiction, nonfiction.”

  On the mound, he was different too. Koufax don’t throw at nobody. He don’t need to throw at nobody. That was the refrain. “I tried to tell him once,” said Ron Swoboda, a writer better known as a member of the 1969 Miracle Mets. “Don Drysdale was a big, intimidating testosterone machine. Bob Gibson, the same thing, all intimidation and anger. When you faced Koufax, it was art.”

  He wasn’t one of the guys Brooks Robinson had in mind when he said: “Your heart’s in it but your rear end isn’t.” Gibson, Marichal, and Drysdale left .300 hitters sleep-deprived. Hitters didn’t fear Koufax; they feared being embarrassed by him. “Nobody could undress you the way Sandy could,” Gene Mauch liked to say.

  Koufax was a purist. “Too nice to be so great,” Wills always said. Unlike Drysdale, who glowered for effect and exploited his reputation for all it was worth, Koufax burned inwardly. Jeff Torborg thought his eyes might just burn right through his head.

  More than one of his African-American peers attributed Koufax’s rectitude and reticence to his being a minority. “Stayin’ right in his own house,” as Lou Johnson put it, knowing he would be held to a higher standard. Perhaps Johnson was projecting. But if Koufax had been a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant who played clean and kept his nose clean, he’d have been proclaimed the second coming of Jack Armstrong. But he was a Jew. So he was moody, aloof, curt, intellectual, different.

  His portrait hangs in the L.A. County Museum. The painting, by the esteemed Jewish artist R. B. Kitaj, is striking for several reasons: Among them it does not attempt to make him beautiful. The artist chose to illuminate duress, that portion of his delivery when his chest preceded his lower body and his elbow, cocked to a breaking point, trailed behind him like the tail of a kite. The squinched eyes, pursed lips, and skin drawn taut by effort, even the distorted maw of his glove make palpable his exertion. The artist’s palette is equally thought-provoking. Hues of muted peach inform the fabric of his uniform; his cap and arm a fiery orange. They leap from the pastel blue background of the sky. The choice of color is eclectic and disconcerting. It is not the color of baseball, decidedly not Dodger blue. It is, in fact, a perfect rendering of his Otherness. What baseball executive Dick Cecil calls “the mysterious Hebrew.”

  At the heart of any bias lies inchoate assumptions, the stereotypes to which we unconsciously yield. Thus: Jewish men are nebbishes or wise men, shylocks or scholars, concave-chested specimens with two left feet who walked to Hitler’s ovens rather than resist their fate. The stereotype is expressed in seventeenth-century European monographs and twenty-first-century on-line Haiku. “Seven-foot Jews/in the NBA slam-dunking!/My alarm clock rings.” Early-twentieth-century Zionist leaders advocated a new “muscular Judaism” to counter such bias. This did not deter Henry Ford, America’s best-known anti-Semite, who declared in 1921: “Jews are not sportsmen. Whether this is due to their physical lethargy, their dislike of unnecessary physical action, or their serious cast of mind, others may decide…. It may be a defect in their character, or it may not; it is nevertheless a fact which discriminating Jews unhesitatingly acknowledge.”

  In this regard, two incidents from the 1965 season are particularly revealing. On May 26, Koufax faced the Cardinals and his nemesis, Lou Brock, in Los Angeles. In the first inning, Brock led off with a bunt single, stole second, stole third, and scored on a sacrifice fly. In the dugout, Drysdale told rookie Jim Lefebvre: “Frenchie, I feel sorry for that man.”

  When Brock came up again in the third, Koufax hit him hard and with intent. “So darned hard that the ball went in and spun around in the meat for a while and then dropped,” catcher Jeff Torborg said.

  It was the first time, the only time, Koufax threw at a batter purposefully. He didn’t brag about it. He didn’t tell anyone he was going to do it. He didn’t acknowledge it until long after his career had ended. “I don’t regret it,” he told fans more than a quarter century later. “I do regret that I allowed myself to get so mad.”

  You could hear it all over the stadium. In the Cardinals’ dugout, it sounded like “a thud that had a crack in it,” outfielder Mike Shannon said. Other Cardinal players insist Brock was hurt doing the limbo prior to the game. Drysdale would remember, wrongly, Brock collapsing in the base path and being carried off the field, a story he loved to tell because for once Koufax wasn’t perfect. In fact, Brock stayed in the game—he played in 155 that season—and promptly stole second. The morning papers reported the incident in passing, noting that Brock left in the fifth inning and that X rays were negative. He appeared only once in the next five days, as a pinch runner.

  Three months later, the simmering violence of a savage summer erupted in Candlestick Park. Koufax was pitching for the Dodgers; Marichal for the Giants. It had been a season of enmity between the two teams, a series fraught with knockdown pitches and threats. On August 22, bad blood turned to spilled blood. Marichal, practiced in the art of intimidation, had already decked Fairly and Wills. Roseboro was equally adept in the subtleties of retribution. When Marichal came to the plate, Roseboro purposefully allowed Koufax’s 1-and-2 pitch to drop at his feet, whizzing the return throw just east of Marichal’s ear.

  Marichal raised the stakes when he lifted his bat and cracked it over Roseboro’s head, leaving a two-inch gash in his skull and an enduring dent in baseball’s beatific reputation. Koufax and Mays rushed to intervene. Koufax tried to grab the bat. The anguish was visible on his face as he raised his hand to prevent another blow. Mays dragged Roseboro away, stanching the blood and the violence, assuring him the wound wasn’t as bad as it seemed. Shag Crawford, the home plate umpire, still refuses to talk about it.

  Roseboro sued Marichal for $110,000, yet another unwelcome harbinger of the modern age. Nine years later, the suit was settled out of court and later still they became friends. Roseboro was one of the first people Marichal called when he was enshrined in Cooperstown. “Sandy talked to me after I was inducted into the Hall of Fame,” said Marichal, who traveled from the Dominican Republic to attend Roseboro’s funeral. “I felt so good about what he had to say. I couldn’t live with that inside of me. He told me all the details about what happened. It took some of the pressure off. I really regret what happened because I used the bat. I am not the type of person who would do that.”

  In the tell
ing and retelling of the tale, Koufax, the pacifist, allows Roseboro, the tough black enforcer, to take care of business. “We had talked about it on the bench,” Roseboro said. “I told him, ‘I’ll take care of it, knock him down behind the plate.’” Which is true as far as it goes. What Roseboro’s account leaves out, others who heard the dugout conversation say, is that Koufax prefaced his remarks with the pertinent question: “Who do you want me to get?” Also, the dugouts had been warned by Crawford. A knockdown would have resulted in Koufax’s suspension in the middle of the pennant race.

  The legend, as handed down, reinforced the already established notion that Koufax wouldn’t knock anyone on his ass, wouldn’t protect his players. In the machismo-driven world of professional athletics, this was not a compliment. It also wasn’t true. Koufax believed in protecting his players; he just didn’t believe in throwing at someone he couldn’t get out. In 1962, when Bill Skowron was still a Yankee, he made Marichal look bad in the world series. Next season, Moose was a Dodger. “First time up, he low-bridged me,” Skowron said. “I’m hitting like two-twenty. I go back to first base. Willie Mays comes up. Sandy threw one up tight and Willie’s cap flew off. They said Sandy didn’t throw at anyone, but he protected his players. I blew him a kiss.”

  Nor did he disdain throwing inside. “The art of pitching is instilling fear,” he always said. Wise batsmen avoided crowding his plate. Shannon still regrets a game-winning two-run home run he hit off Koufax in 1966—and the inside fastball he saw next time up. “I think you pissed the big Jew off,” Roseboro told him.

  When order was restored at Candlestick Park on Sunday, August 22, 1965, a rattled Koufax walked the next two batters he faced and gave up a three-run home run to Mays. “The only time I ever beat him with one,” Mays said.

  Koufax was stuck with a loss and a reputation. “Everybody else was a competitor,” he would lament to friends. Perhaps that explained the gleeful, uninhibited smile that came over his face when he was asked years later about hitting Brock intentionally. “I didn’t nail him in the shoulder,” he said. “It was in the ribs.”

  When, on September 9, 1965, Major League Baseball announced that the world series would open on October 6 in the American League city, it wasn’t at all clear that the Dodgers would be in it. But as they won eighteen of their last twenty-two games, headlines began to appear: “Koufax Problem: Jewish Holiday.” Koufax told reporters, lightly, “I’m praying for rain.” He also said he would consult the rabbis (as Greenberg had done) to discuss a dispensation. He was joking. He never intended to pitch on Yom Kippur. He never had.

  In the early Brooklyn days, management encouraged him to take off on Jewish holidays. It was a demonstration of good faith to their heavily Jewish fan base. And, given how much he was contributing, Koufax later said, “They were probably glad I was gone.”

  Alan Dershowitz, who knew him as a neighborhood legend, recalls the scene outside one Brooklyn synagogue when Koufax showed up for services with his father. He remembers people cheering and rumors spreading that Koufax had been called to the Torah. When they met in later life, Koufax told him it never happened.

  Twice, in the fall of 1960 and 1961, manager Walter Alston scheduled him to pitch on Jewish holidays. An hour after sundown marks the end of holiday observances in the Jewish faith. On September 20, 1961, after sundown, Koufax went to the mound and beat the Cubs 3–2 in thirteen innings, striking out fifteen. Soon after, a fan sent Alston a 1962 calendar marked with all the Jewish holidays. From then on, the manager made sure to consult Danny Goodman, director of advertising and novelties, before making out his starting rotation.

  Far from being distraught over Koufax’s willingness to pitch that evening—even if it meant missing afternoon services—Jewish authors of present-day on-line encomiums salute his toughness. Imagine pitching thirteen innings without eating or drinking! His observance of the fast is assumed without a shred of documentary evidence.

  (“Koufax never missed a meal yet!” his old roomie, Joe Pignatano, says, recalling a long-ago Chinese dinner along Highway 1 during spring training. “Fern Furillo, Carl’s wife, ordered for two. My wife ordered for two and Koufax ordered for two. The waiter said, ‘You expecting somebody else?’ Koufax says, ‘No, just bring it.’ Man, could he eat.”)

  Koufax was presumptively devout. Teammates still testify to the strength of his faith. “Like Muhammad Ali’s,” Lou Johnson said. “His Jewish belief was bigger than the game.” How else could they understand his decision not to pitch on Yom Kippur except as a reflection of compelling belief? Why else would anyone voluntarily skip the world series? Others needled him about getting religion only after he got famous. “I used to jokingly say that Sandy didn’t become Jewish until he had his first great years,” Stan Williams said.

  Their assumptions were rooted in ignorance. In fact, like Greenberg, Koufax was neither a devout nor a practicing Jew. “His Jewishness has nothing to do with whether he wears a yarmulke every day,” Fred Wilpon said. “And I will tell you this—he is very Jewish. He is a Jewish being. And unlike most of us who aren’t very religious, he is very Jewish in his thinking because he’s very New York in his thinking and his background.”

  It’s a sensibility. To wit: One night in Philadelphia, Koufax and the Sherry brothers went out for Chinese food. They got in a cab and told the driver to take them to a good place. Norm Sherry remembers: “The cab pulls up at a restaurant and Koufax says, ‘This is not where I want to eat.’” So, the cabbie takes them to another and another and another. “Finally, Koufax says, ‘This is okay.’ Larry says, ‘What the hell is the difference?’ Koufax says, ‘You don’t go to a Chinese restaurant unless it has an awning like they have in New York. It’s gotta have an awning.’”

  The Jewish boys from Southern California didn’t get the humor.

  He never spoke publicly about religion except to acknowledge his Jewishness, no small fact. After years of traveling with Koufax, Phil Collier could not recall a single conversation on the subject until one day at Los Angeles International Airport when a fan interrupted Koufax at a urinal to ask, “Would you mind settling an argument for me?”

  “Sandy said, ‘No, I don’t mind.’

  “The guy waited until we washed up. I swear to God, we walked halfway across the terminal. He introduces us to five or six people. He says to Sandy, ‘Are you Jewish? I bet money you’re Jewish.’

  “I wanted to knock the guy on his ass, dragging him across the airport for that. Sandy couldn’t have been nicer about it. He said, ‘Yes, I am. It was nice to meet all of you. I hope you’ll forgive us. We have a plane to catch.’”

  Yom Kippur is a day of denial. It is why Jews fast. In fact, Koufax’s sacrifice was greater than his teammates knew. Rabbi Hillel Silverman, who annually invoked Koufax’s name in his Yom Kippur sermon, spoke with him about it once. “He said to me, ‘I’m Jewish. I’m a role model. I want them to understand they have to have pride.’ Not being observant and feeling a connection with his people, it’s an even greater sacrifice.”

  The morning of the opening game of the 1965 World Series, the St. Paul Pioneer Press carried the following dispatch:

  Sandy Notes Holy Day

  Dodger pitcher Sandy Koufax left the team’s Hotel St. Paul quarters Tuesday evening to begin the 24 hour observance of Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement. He planned to spend the night with friends in suburban Minneapolis, will attend services today and rejoin the team tonight for his starting assignment in Thursday’s second game of the world series. He was asked whether he would view today’s game on television or listen to radio accounts. “No,” he said. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  He was apocryphally seen at synagogues throughout the Twin Cities—and even in Los Angeles. “Like Elijah, he was everywhere,” said Mindy Portnoy, rabbi at Temple Sinai in Washington, D.C.

  Bonnie Goldstein, now a private investigator in Washington, D.C., was a young congregant at the Temple of Aaron in St. Paul, the synagog
ue closest to the ballpark. The crowd was strictly standing room only and unusually devout that day in deference to Koufax. “Everyone was in their chairs,” she said. “None of the usual restlessness. There was so much speculation. Is that him? People who weren’t Sandy Koufax were getting a lot of attention.

  “Everyone agrees he was at the early service. Nobody got up and left. I was much more interested in boys than Sandy Koufax. But the boys were more interested in Sandy Koufax so I was a little interested.”

  The rabbi, Bernard Raskas, waited until afternoon services to address the issue, affirming to the congregation that Koufax had been there, seated in back, near an exit. In Raskas’s recollection, they nodded to each other, the rabbi noting the pitcher’s nice head of hair. He did not want to infringe on the pitcher’s privacy. Nor did he want to make an example of him. After all, Koufax wasn’t so observant.

  In fact, Koufax did not attend services there that day or anywhere else. A friend may well have made arrangements for Koufax to attend as Raskas was led to believe. But friends say he chose to stay alone in his hotel room. Raskas could not have seen him unless he was the room service waiter at midnight. Koufax never publicly contradicted the stories. He never commented at all—except for a mild written rebuke, in his autobiography, to Minnesota sports columnist Don Riley, who wrote that the Twins were looking forward to eating matzo balls when Koufax pitched the next day.