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Sunday, October 3, 2010

50 Years Later, a Slide Still Confounds

The play — a pivotal moment in Game 7 of the 1960 World Series — demanded expert analysis.
Barton Silverman/The New York Times
After watching Mantle’s slide, Keith Hernandez, the Mets’ analyst on SNY, said, “It was like the elephant and the gazelle.”
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The kinescope of Game 7 of the 1960 World Series showed Mickey Mantle’s inexplicable ninth-inning slide beneath the tag of Rocky Nelson, which allowed the Yankees to tie the game.
But when Mickey Mantle slid headfirst back into first base in the top of the ninth inning to avoid a game-ending double play and allow the tying run to score, there was no analyst working in the TV booth with Mel Allen at Forbes Field. There was no one to set up the situation beforehand nor to break down the play after it occurred. There was only one live camera angle and no instant replay.
It was a different world then, and a much simpler one. Allen and Bob Prince made up the World Series TV pairing — one play-by-play announcer from each team, each calling half the game. It was Allen’s turn in Game 7 to call the second set of four and a half innings.
“The old way depended largely on the skill and panache of the local-team announcers” who knew the teams well, said Curt Smith, a sportscasting historian.
Today, that legendary ninth inning, which began with theYankees tying the score at 9-9 and ended with Bill Mazeroski’s home run winning the Series for Pittsburgh, would have been produced far differently on television.
In the top of the ninth, with the Yankees trailing by 9-8 and with one out, Mantle on first and Gil McDougald on third, today’s cameras would have made clear whether thePirates’ infielders were at double-play depth or playing in for a play at the plate. The broadcasters would have debated which of the two was the right strategy. To enhance the end-of-game tension, there would have been rapid camera cuts to Mantle and McDougald, to Yogi Berraat bat and to Harvey Haddix on the mound.
And the dramatic, and confounding, play that followed — Berra’s sharp grounder to first baseman Rocky Nelson for the second out; Mantle’s subsequent elusiveness, moxie and perhaps outright recklessness in then diving safely under Nelson and back into first as the tying run scored — would be synchronized on a split screen and then examined and re-examined. Questions would be asked, answered and asked all over again, on the broadcast.
The 50-year-old kinescope of the game — which The New York Times reported last week was found in Bing Crosby’s old wine cellar — does not do any of that. Why, for instance, didn’t Nelson, upon fielding Berra’s grounder, throw to second to start a double play that would have ended the game?
Why, after instead stepping on first for the second out, did Nelson try to tag Mantle for the third out instead of firing home to Hal Smith, the Pirates’ catcher, for a tag play on McDougald? If he had thrown home, would McDougald have been safe or out? And what was Mantle doing so close to first base anyway? Why didn’t he immediately take off for second when Berra hit the ball on the ground?
Providing that analysis 50 years later was an interesting challenge. Asked to watch and comment on the play, Keith Hernandez, the Mets’ analyst on SNY and a former first baseman, was, more than anything, astonished by Mantle’s evasive slide back into first.
“An amazing presence of mind to do what he did,” Hernandez said while studying the sequence on his laptop at Citi Field. “What a play, huh?”
An e-mail response from Berra, through his spokesman, provided a bit of insight. “I hit the heck out of it,” he said of the one-hop grounder that the left-handed Nelson backhanded before quickly stepping on first.
But in doing so, Nelson’s momentum pulled his left foot into foul territory. “The ball ate him up,” Hernandez said of Nelson.
The camera then shows Nelson turning back to the field, his left arm briefly cocked to throw. But to where? To shortstop Dick Groat, who was covering second? That might mean getting Mantle in a rundown play, but meanwhile the tying run would score easily. To Smith, at the plate? Smith said in a phone interview that he thought Nelson was going to throw home to him so he could tag McDougald and end the game.
“I thought we had a shot at McDougald,” Smith said, adding that he asked Nelson years ago why he did not throw home and that Nelson told him, “To be truthful, I didn’t see you.”
What Nelson did see was Mantle standing right near him, maybe eight feet away, temporarily frozen in a predatory crouch.
“I understand Rocky’s position,” Smith said. “He sees a runner right there and thinks he can get him. He thought he could get Mantle.”
Groat said in a phone interview that it was “easy to say in hindsight” that Nelson should have thrown home. Hernandez said that although Nelson probably had the time to throw home, he might have been thinking, “Oh, my God, there’s Mickey!”
As Hernandez watched the final part of the play unfold in slow motion, he saw that Nelson, as he moved to tag Mantle, was too far from the bag, with his feet on the outfield side of first base. Still, Mantle must have looked to him like a certain out — except that Nelson was not a nimble match for the still-quick Yankee star, who was a week from turning 29.
“It was like the elephant and the gazelle,” Hernandez said.
For a split second, Mantle and Nelson eyed each other. Mantle made an initial move toward first, then gave a head fake toward second. He quickly reversed himself, sliding and sprawling toward first on the inner side of the bag with his left hand reaching out.
Nelson lunged forward, angling himself toward Mantle instead of moving to the base.
“I would have caught him right in front of the bag and blocked him,” Hernandez said of Mantle.
There were numerous New York newspapers in 1960, but their accounts of the play were not elaborate. However, Mantle, who died in 1995, did tell The Daily News that he started for second base when Berra hit the grounder but knew that Nelson “had me dead either way, so I ducked down and went underneath as he tried to tag me.”
Of course, even if Mantle had been tagged as he dived back to first, is it possible McDougald would have already crossed home plate, which would have meant the run still counted? One more question that is not easy to answer.
Looking back 50 years, Hernandez said that he would have done what Nelson did — step on first immediately, then try to tag Mantle to end the game instead of throwing home. “I can’t blame the guy,” he said of Nelson, who died in 2006. “You have to make the play. It’s right there in front of you.”
“Kudos to Mantle,” he added. “What a deke.”

Friday, September 24, 2010

Pristine film of '60 Series Game 7 found


Pristine film of '60 Series Game 7 found

Associated Press
NEW YORK -- Bing Crosby often found himself dreaming of the Pittsburgh Pirates, too, even while on vacation in Paris during the 1960 World Series.
His zealous support and superstition wound up being a good thing for baseball fans: Found in his wine cellar was film of the deciding Game 7, in which Pirates second baseman Bill Mazeroski hit a game-ending homer to beat the New York Yankees, that was thought to be lost forever.

It was thought that one of the greatest games ever played had survived only through radio broadcasts, grainy photographs and the written word. The five reels have since been transferred to DVD, and fans will get a chance to view the game during the offseason on the MLB Network.

The New York Times reported in a story published in Friday's editions that the complete NBC broadcast had been discovered in Crosby's longtime home near San Francisco.
The silver-tongued crooner, whose recording of "White Christmas" has sold millions of copies worldwide, was part owner of the baseball team from 1946 until his death in 1977. But the avid sportsman was such a nervous wreck watching the Pirates that when they played the Yankees in the World Series, he went on a European vacation with his wife, Kathryn.
"He said, 'I can't stay in the country. I'll jinx everybody,' " Crosby's widow said.
It was thought that one of the greatest games ever played had survived only through radio broadcasts, grainy photographs and the written word. Then in December, while Robert Bader was combing through tapes and reels of Crosby's old TV specials, the vice president of Bing Crosby Entertainment stumbled across two gray canisters in a pile stretching to the ceiling.
They were labeled "1960 World Series" and looked as though they hadn't been touched in years. An hour of searching revealed three more reels.
Bader screened the 16-millimeter film and realized it was the complete broadcast of Game 7, with the Yankees' Mel Allen and Pirates' Bob Prince calling the action. The conditions of the wine cellar -- cool and dry -- meant that the film had survived in pristine condition.
"I had to be the only person to have seen it in 50 years," Bader said. "It was pure luck."
Crosby couldn't bear to watch the game live, although he did listen by radio while in Paris, so he had hired a company to record the broadcast by kinescope. The early relative of DVR meant that he could go back and watch the 2-hour, 36-minute game later if the Pirates won.
The five reels have since been transferred to DVD, and fans will get a chance to view the game during the offseason on the MLB Network. Bob Costas is set to host the special, which will include interviews with former players and other additional programming.
"Bing Crosby was away ahead of his time," said Nick Trotta, senior library and licensing manager of Major League Baseball Productions, the sport's archivists. "It's a time capsule."
The game at Forbes Field in Pittsburgh that October day was filled with high drama.
The Pirates scored four runs in the first two innings off Yankees starter Bob Turley, then watched New York score a run in the fifth and four more in the sixth, when Yogi Berra's home run gave the Yankees the lead. Two more runs in the eighth made it 7-4.
Pittsburgh rebounded with five runs in the bottom half, pulling ahead on Hal Smith's three-run homer, before New York tied the game in the ninth on a heads-up baserunning play by Mickey Mantle that allowed Gil McDougald to cross the plate.
Minutes later, Mazeroski stepped into the batter's box leading off the ninth inning. With one ball and no strikes, he connected with Ralph Terry's pitch and drove the ball over the left field wall. The Pirates poured out of the dugout, the Yankees stood in disbelief, and Mazeroski rounded the bases after the first game-ending home run to win a World Series.
Only later did Crosby get to see the spectacle unfold, in the comforts of his own home.
"It was such a unique game to begin with," said the Pirates' Dick Groat, the 1960 league MVP who will turn 80 in November but remembers the game as if it happened yesterday. "It was back and forth, back and forth. It was unbelievable."
Almost as unbelievable as finding the long-lost film of it in a wine cellar.

Copyright 2010 by The Associated Press

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Baseball Boxscores


Sad end to a man's quest for knowledge

With newspaper box scores going the way of the dinosaur, an obsession goes away


KurkjianBy Tim Kurkjian
ESPN The Magazine
Archive
We interrupt the stretch run of this fascinating baseball season with something completely irrelevant, epically ridiculous and wildly unimportant. A most absurd streak quietly ended in 2010: For the first time since 1989, I no longer clip every box score of every baseball game from the nearest newspaper and tape each one into a spiral notebook, a daily task that I've estimated, at roughly 15 minutes per day, has cost me 40 days of my truly pathetic life.
[+] EnlargeTim Kurkjian
Kathy KurkjianTim Kurkjian still makes it a daily ritual to read baseball box scores, but he no longer does it via the newspaper.
This official announcement comes with some sadness because I love box scores. I've always loved box scores. From 1990-2009, I never missed one day of clipping and taping box scores, a streak that our best baseball fans must acknowledge is far more impressive than Cal Ripken playing in 2,632 consecutive games. On one memorable night in 2002, I went to bed at 11 o'clock, realized in horror I had forgotten to do my box score book, got dressed, clipped and taped my box scores, then lay down for a restful six hours of sleep as my wife looked at me and wondered how she could have married such an unfathomable geek.
I now know how Joe DiMaggio felt when his 56-game hitting streak ended that July 17 day in 1941. He was stopped by Indians third baseman Ken Keltner's two great defensive plays; my equally unbreakable streak was stopped by the slow death of the newspaper business, the business I grew up in, the business I will always love. But in 2009, it became clear that my Washington Post, due to deadline issues, was no longer providing enough box scores in the edition delivered to my house in Darnestown, Md. When only seven boxes out of 15 made it to my driveway, part of the next 24 hours were spent tracking down the missing ones. I couldn't find them all. So I decided 2009 would be my last year.
I probably should have quit my obsession in 2004 when I returned home from a trip to find what had to be considered an omen: A signal to become slightly less obsessive than Rain Man's Raymond Babbitt, Valenzuela is pitching on Thursday. My closet was a shambles, the top shelf had collapsed from the weight of 15 years of box-score books, two books per year, a total of 30. My suits were on the floor, covered with plaster and covered with box scores from 1990. Two suits were ruined, which was especially troubling since it's hard to find size 32 short anywhere other than Nordstrom For Kids.
But my brother, Matt, rebuilt my closet and I continued my quest to save every box score. My wife reminded me several times over the last few years that box scores are available on the Internet, something I was keenly aware of, but being an old newspaper guy, I enjoyed having the hard copy of the box score at the ready, be it in a car, a cab or a plane. Having every box score of a season by my side wherever I went gave me a sense of comfort. If I wasn't sure how the Padres were using their bullpen, for example, I could go through a month of Padres box scores, and I would know. I remember in 1993, right about the start of the steroid era, counting by hand the number of players that had gotten four extra-base hits in a game that season. The search took from Dallas to San Francisco. I couldn't have done that on my computer on a plane. It was more satisfying than reading Sky Mall magazine.
But now, it's over. Now I read the box scores most days on ESPN.com on my computer. I'm not comfortable doing it but I have no other choice. I have saved time, as well as money on scotch tape and scissors. Since 9/11, I estimate having lost at least six pair of scissors because I forgot to remove them from my bag and the security men and women at airports thought I might hijack the plane using scissors as dull as NFL preseason games.
But I still read box scores with the same vigor and interest every day for there is so much to learn in box scores, almost everything you need is in box scores, especially with the expanded ones that tell you, in some cases, more than you wanted to know. Twice a year, I have lunch and talk baseball with George Will and Dr. Charles Krauthammer, who write and speak about important issues in the world, such as war and gay marriage. At one lunch, Krauthammer said, "I read the front page for 30 seconds every day, then I go straight to the box scores.'' To which Will said, "Why do you waste the 30 seconds?''
Former major league manager Gene Mauch once showed me how to determine which player made the last out of a game by reading a box score, calculating the at-bats, runners left on base, double plays, etc. Mauch had better things to do, yet that fascinated him, so it fascinated me that one of the most brilliant managing minds in baseball history would sit at breakfast and determine that Dan Ford made the last out of an Orioles-Royals game.
The box scores start every day for me because there's always a chance you'll see a pitching or batting line that you've never seen before, and might never see again, such as Ben Petrick's 3-0-0-4 a few years ago. Four RBIs without a hit! "I thought I had a bad day,'' Petrick said, "until I looked at the box score.'' The box score is where we once saw the battery for the Tigers of Glenn Abbott and Marty Castillo -- Abbott and Castillo -- and the Giants' famed Bud Black-Steve Decker battery -- Black and Decker, of which great writer Steve Rushin wrote: Decker wore "the power tools of ignorance.''


The box scores start every day for me because there's always a chance you'll see a pitching or batting line that you've never seen before, and might never see again.

In the upper left-hand drawer of the desk in my office, I keep the box score from the Rangers' 30-3 victory over the Orioles on Aug. 22, 2007, because it was historic in so many ways, including the batting line of the eighth and ninth hitters for the Rangers: Saltalamacchia 6-5-4-7 and Vazquez 6-4-4-7. And I can still remember John Kruk laughing at me in the background as I made a complete fool of myself on national TV when I could not control my enthusiasm at the sight of a box score never seen before in baseball history.
This year, like every year, has been filled with great box-score items, including one from Wednesday night when the Red Sox, for the first time in their history, got a home run from their first baseman, second baseman, shortstop and third baseman in the same game. Also this year, the White Sox became the first team to use five pitchers in a game and all five recorded three strikeouts. The Blue Jays got home runs from Jose Bautista, John Buck andTravis Snider, the first time in Toronto's 34-year history that its 7-8-9 hitters homered in the same game. Chase Utley, Shane Victorino and Ryan Zimmerman homered in the same game, the first time that players with the last name starting with U, V and Z did so in the same game. And Gavin Floyd started against Brian Bannister, the first Floyd-Bannister pitching matchup; Floyd Bannister is, of course, Brian Bannister's father.
I still devour box scores every day, making sure to check, among other things, that the Mets' Angel Pagan didn't get hit by a pitch: He has never been hit by a pitch in his major league career. The difference is, I just don't cut the box scores out anymore and tape them in a book like a fifth-grader doing a current events project. I don't miss the black ink on my fingers, I don't miss lugging around a notebook as thick as a phone book and I don't miss the looks of disbelief from my wife that a grown man would do such a stupid thing for 20 years.
But there are still days that I reach for my box-score book and it's not there. And I miss it