Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.
Day One Hundred Twenty-Three: Edgar Renteria, San Francisco Giants (via Bobby Thomson)
In 1951, my grandparents lived with my mom in an apartment on Victory Boulevard in Tompkinsville, a working-class neighborhood on the North Shore of Staten Island. Their landlords, Mr. and Mrs. Nellis, lived above them and rooted passionately for the Brooklyn Dodgers. My grandparents gave them a hard time in September of ’51, as the New York Giants stormed back from 13½ games back to force a three-game playoff with the Dodgers for the National League pennant.
On October 3rd, when Bobby Thomson hit a three-run home run in the ninth inning of the deciding Game 3, my grandparents couldn’t help themselves. They picked up a broomstick and started banging on the ceiling. They, like almost all of New York, had been following this pennant race closely. Thomson’s home run had them whooping and hollering, while it had their landlords sobbing. Neither landlords nor tenants were alone in their reactions.
Bobby Thomson died a week ago at age 86, and he spent a lot of time over the last 59 years of his life talking about that home run. Not many people know what it’s like to electrify the world with one swing. But Thomson knew.
There have been players who’ve experienced the thrill of ending a postseason series with a game-winning hit. Bill Mazeroski and Joe Carter have clinched World Series titles with home runs, while Aaron Boone has, like Thomson, launched his team into the Fall Classic with one. Luis Gonzalez, Edgar Renteria and Gene Larkin have clinched world championships for their teams with singles. All of these hits are among baseball’s most exciting moments ever.
But when you’re talking about New York City in 1951, it’s a bit different from Minnesota in 1991, Miami in ’97 or Phoenix in 2001. There has never been a more fascinating setting for baseball than Gotham in the 1950s, as countless sports writers and historians have explained through books and articles over the years. And to think that of the three New York baseball teams, one was already in the World Series in October ’51, while the other two were playing a three-game series in order to get there and face the Yankees. That’s a level of excitement never experienced before, and never since.
I met Bobby Thomson once, while covering the unveiling of a postage stamp that commemorated his famous home run. Thomson seemed humble, reserved, and still in love with the game of baseball. He seemed to understand just what his “Shot Heard Round the World” meant to people, but he also surely knew that he would have never gotten the chance to hit such a historic homer were it not for so much amazing baseball played that season by Giants and Dodgers players alike.
To the people of New York, Thomson’s homer brought tears of joy, tears of sadness, screams of all kinds, and pandemonium in the city that never sleeps. It led to broomstick-knocks from the apartment below you, as your tenants shouted with joy while you covered your face to hide from the truth.
Bobby Thomson brought the frenzy of 1950s New York City baseball to its nirvana. He delivered it, savored it, and heard about it for six decades afterward. It was the kind of day that you don’t mind reliving for the rest of your life. Or telling your grandkids about. It was, most assuredly, the kind of day you remember forever.
Showing posts with label Bobby Thomson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bobby Thomson. Show all posts
Monday, August 23, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
Take Me Home
Out here on the roads of central Jersey, there’s a roundabout known as the Watchung Circle. It’s a tidy little traffic circle up in the hills of Watchung, and I hit the circle whenever I’m driving down the mountain from Interstate 78.
As I enter the circle, for a brief moment I see a green and white sign that looks as if it’s been written just for me. There are two arrows pointing left, and just three words on the sign. One of them is “WARREN,” and the others are “NORTH PLAINFIELD.” It’s as if the sign is calling me by name to remind me of where I live.
I follow the arrows and keep to my left. A moment later, at the next exit off the roundabout, another arrow and sign points the way toward the town of Warren, N.J. I stay on for another second and take the exit for North Plainfield. It’s in this town, below the hills, where I find my house. My home.
It’s not always this easy to find your way to a place you call home. I’ve lived in four different states over the past 16 years, and each one had its advantages and disadvantages. The weather in North Carolina was superb, as were the dogwood trees, the basketball and the barbecue. But there was no good pizza, no Brooklyn Bridge, and no Yankee Stadium in Carolina.
Living in my hometown of Staten Island was fun for a while as an adult, and there was an abundance of great pizza, the great bridge and ballpark were just a quick trip away, and family was all around. But sometimes, an adult in his 20s can feel closed in by too much of his hometown. The wings want to fly, and so he breaks from the nest.
We did just that, and gave Massachusetts a try. The pizza was still pretty good in Boston, and both Boston and Salem (where we lived) had tons of charm. But as soon as we had children of our own, the lure of family became too powerful. We headed south and set down new roots once more.
For more than five years now, home has been this town called North Plainfield, a gloriously diverse and friendly place down the road from the aforementioned circle. We love our home, we see our family more often, and the big city is just a short train ride away. But we’re not living by the water like we were in Salem. And we don’t have a bustling downtown like we did in Chapel Hill. And we don’t have all the great Italian restaurants that we had on Staten Island.
Sometimes you wish you had a green and white sign in front of you all the time, to help guide the way. What is home? Where is home? Were some of these towns better suited for us than others were? Are we in the right place here? Should we look for something better than this? Or should we just settle down, take a deep breath, and sink some roots into the ground for once? You can always search some more, but sometimes the thing you’ve been looking for is right in front of you.
Just off the Watchung Circle, there’s a plaque in the nearby park honoring Bobby Thomson, who as a New York Giant hit the most famous home run in baseball history to win the 1951 National League pennant. On the October afternoon when he hit that famous homer to beat the Brooklyn Dodgers, Thomson took the Staten Island Ferry home from the Polo Grounds in Manhattan. He lived in my hometown from the age of 2 until he was in his mid-30s. Then Thomson and his family decided to leave Staten Island and move west a little ways, to Watchung. They liked it enough to stay in those Jersey hills for nearly 50 years.
The neighbors across the street from us are on the move in search of home, having chosen to leave our town for one closer to family. As Laura and Nick packed up their belongings this weekend and headed west to Pennsylvania, they appeared happy to be settling into a town near Nick’s family. Their son, Chase, is bound to find his own name a lot more common in his new town, as there have surely been plenty of Phillies fans naming their kids after Philadelphia’s second baseman extraordinaire, Chase Utley. Laura and Nick don’t follow baseball, but they said they expect they’ll learn all about Mr. Utley real soon.
I shook Nick’s hand, hugged Laura, and wished them well. As they drove off, they left an old leather suitcase by the road for someone to take. As I walked back across the street, I joined Amy and the girls in the backyard. We were preparing the vegetable garden for another growing season.
Katie was planting the tomatoes. Amy nestled the broccoli and lettuce plants into the soil. They covered the plants with topsoil, peat moss and fertilizer.
The roots will take hold, as they always do. They know a good home when they feel one. As for the old suitcase across the street, it’s gone now. Probably in someone’s car, winding its way around the Watchung Circle. Looking for a sign.
As I enter the circle, for a brief moment I see a green and white sign that looks as if it’s been written just for me. There are two arrows pointing left, and just three words on the sign. One of them is “WARREN,” and the others are “NORTH PLAINFIELD.” It’s as if the sign is calling me by name to remind me of where I live.
I follow the arrows and keep to my left. A moment later, at the next exit off the roundabout, another arrow and sign points the way toward the town of Warren, N.J. I stay on for another second and take the exit for North Plainfield. It’s in this town, below the hills, where I find my house. My home.
It’s not always this easy to find your way to a place you call home. I’ve lived in four different states over the past 16 years, and each one had its advantages and disadvantages. The weather in North Carolina was superb, as were the dogwood trees, the basketball and the barbecue. But there was no good pizza, no Brooklyn Bridge, and no Yankee Stadium in Carolina.
Living in my hometown of Staten Island was fun for a while as an adult, and there was an abundance of great pizza, the great bridge and ballpark were just a quick trip away, and family was all around. But sometimes, an adult in his 20s can feel closed in by too much of his hometown. The wings want to fly, and so he breaks from the nest.
We did just that, and gave Massachusetts a try. The pizza was still pretty good in Boston, and both Boston and Salem (where we lived) had tons of charm. But as soon as we had children of our own, the lure of family became too powerful. We headed south and set down new roots once more.
For more than five years now, home has been this town called North Plainfield, a gloriously diverse and friendly place down the road from the aforementioned circle. We love our home, we see our family more often, and the big city is just a short train ride away. But we’re not living by the water like we were in Salem. And we don’t have a bustling downtown like we did in Chapel Hill. And we don’t have all the great Italian restaurants that we had on Staten Island.
Sometimes you wish you had a green and white sign in front of you all the time, to help guide the way. What is home? Where is home? Were some of these towns better suited for us than others were? Are we in the right place here? Should we look for something better than this? Or should we just settle down, take a deep breath, and sink some roots into the ground for once? You can always search some more, but sometimes the thing you’ve been looking for is right in front of you.
Just off the Watchung Circle, there’s a plaque in the nearby park honoring Bobby Thomson, who as a New York Giant hit the most famous home run in baseball history to win the 1951 National League pennant. On the October afternoon when he hit that famous homer to beat the Brooklyn Dodgers, Thomson took the Staten Island Ferry home from the Polo Grounds in Manhattan. He lived in my hometown from the age of 2 until he was in his mid-30s. Then Thomson and his family decided to leave Staten Island and move west a little ways, to Watchung. They liked it enough to stay in those Jersey hills for nearly 50 years.
The neighbors across the street from us are on the move in search of home, having chosen to leave our town for one closer to family. As Laura and Nick packed up their belongings this weekend and headed west to Pennsylvania, they appeared happy to be settling into a town near Nick’s family. Their son, Chase, is bound to find his own name a lot more common in his new town, as there have surely been plenty of Phillies fans naming their kids after Philadelphia’s second baseman extraordinaire, Chase Utley. Laura and Nick don’t follow baseball, but they said they expect they’ll learn all about Mr. Utley real soon.
I shook Nick’s hand, hugged Laura, and wished them well. As they drove off, they left an old leather suitcase by the road for someone to take. As I walked back across the street, I joined Amy and the girls in the backyard. We were preparing the vegetable garden for another growing season.
Katie was planting the tomatoes. Amy nestled the broccoli and lettuce plants into the soil. They covered the plants with topsoil, peat moss and fertilizer.
The roots will take hold, as they always do. They know a good home when they feel one. As for the old suitcase across the street, it’s gone now. Probably in someone’s car, winding its way around the Watchung Circle. Looking for a sign.
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