Take Me Out to the Ballgame
I began playing organized baseball at the age of ten and was forever “all glove, no bat.” (What is it they say: you can shake fielders out of the trees, but hitters? Hitters are a different story?) But, the fact that I was an error-less first baseman for the Chestnut Hill Academy twelve-year-old team got me invited, along with two other first basemen — a fifteen-year-old and a senior from local high schools — to play ball on TV with the Phillies’ first baseman.
The TV show was Happy Felton’s Knothole Gang and was broadcast live from the right-field corner of Shibe Park (later re-named Connie Mack Stadium) before a Saturday afternoon game against the St. Louis Cardinals. It followed a standard format: each young player introduced himself, named his school and his coach, and answered a few questions about his batting average and his team’s record. The big leaguer then threw grounders and popups to us and asked us to do things like cover our base, charge the ball, or make a throw. After all of us had taken our turns, we got to ask a question before the outstanding player was selected.
In 1950, the Phillies’ first baseman was Eddie Waitkus, who, early in his career, was nicknamed “The Natural,” a name that became the title of a book and movie loosely based on his life. He served in the Philippines during WW II and, in 1946, joined the Chicago Cubs. After three seasons, Chicago traded him to the Phillies. Although elected to the National League All-Star team twice (once with the Cubs and once with the Phillies) and a member of the 1950 National League champion Whiz Kids, Waitkus may be best remembered for being shot by Ruth Ann Steinhagen in Chicago’s Edgewater Beach Hotel in 1949.
I imagine I was wearing my CHA ball cap, and my dark blue jersey with light blue stripes on the sleeves was tucked into my white baseball pants. I know I was wearing cleats because I remember the lecture the three of us were given before going onto the field about not stepping on the TV camera’s electrical cable with our spikes. The idea of getting electrocuted in front of a few thousand fans made a lasting impression on me.
When we were through our fielding drills, it was time for our questions. Perhaps I went first because I was the youngest and asked Mr. Waitkus if I could make it to the big leagues as a right-handed first baseman. He encouraged me to give it a try, that Jimmie Foxx and Hank Greenberg were right-handed first basemen, and both were in the Hall of Fame.
I’m not sure, but I think the fifteen-year-old’s question had to do with hitting. I will never forget, however, what happened next. When it was the oldest player’s turn, he began by calling Waitkus by his first name, clearly startling the announcer and me as well. But none of us were prepared for what followed. In a confident, matter-of-fact manner the high school senior asked, “Eddie, do you think being shot by that broad in Chicago is the reason you’re in a hitting slump?”
Embarrassed beyond words, I looked down at my cleats. The announcer began to say something when Waitkus answered, “no,” in an equally matter of fact tone. Then, without skipping a beat, Waitkus handed the senior an autographed baseball and said he’d chosen him as the most outstanding of the three contestants.
Even though I didn’t win (my flaw was putting the wrong foot on the base, making me cross my feet when catching a throw), I did become a prepubescent rock star with some of the seventh graders at Springside, the local girls’ school, plus I was given a Rawlings Trapper Mitt, and a Louisville Slugger bat, by the show’s sponsor, Baby Ruth. I was also given what seemed like a lifetime supply of candy bars and received a letter from the Curtiss Candy Company’s president wishing me the best of luck with my baseball dreams.
But the story doesn’t end there.
Twelve years later, I began to date a girl named Lyn Richardson. As was the case with so many girls who had brothers, I had to receive Lyn’s brothers’ seal of approval before being accepted by her. With the Richardson boys, that translated to passing their physical tests and a sports Q & A that they’d spent hours preparing. While all were younger than me by at least seven years, two were already bigger than me, and all were better athletes. The oldest, Peter, became an All-American lacrosse player at Williams and an All-East tight end and captain of the football team and signed with the Denver Broncos. Toby played both freshman football and baseball at Rutgers. Rob, the youngest, became co-captain of the Tufts football team. (Depending on how you look at it, the high-point/low-point of my athletic career at Hamilton College was making the traveling squad on the hockey team for our opening game against West Point, only to have to tell the coach that I was still on academic probation and ineligible to compete in intercollegiate athletics, a fact that caused him to turn in my equipment for me if you consider throwing my gear at the team trainer “turning it in.”)
The brothers’ exam took place over lunch in the form of a sports trivia quiz. The questions were pretty benign until Peter pulled a crumpled note from his shorts’ pocket and smiled at me. “Here’s one you’ll never get. Who shot the Phillies’ first baseman, Eddie Waitkus?”
When I didn’t hesitate and answered Ruth Ann Steinhagen, all three were speechless.
It’s a story often told by Lyn’s brother Peter, the story that marked the passing of her brothers’ final exam, the story that began a lifelong love affair with his sister and a similar friendship with her brothers.
Eddie Waitkus died of esophageal cancer in 1972 at age 53. His stalker died in 2013. The New York Times ran a featured obituary on her with the headline, “Ruth Ann Steinhagen Is Dead at 83; Shot a Ballplayer.”
What is it they say: Coincidence is a small miracle in which God remains anonymous?
