Tag Archives: Mantle, Mickey

1955-1961 Part 3: Baseball

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Small-time ball in a big-league town. Continue reading →

Worst logo ever.
Worst logo ever.

Kansas City officially became a big-league town in 1955, when the laughingstock of the American League, the Philadelphia A’s, moved to Kansas City. Arnold Johnson, the owner of Yankee Stadium, had been allowed to purchase the club from the long-time owner of the A’s, Connie Mack. If this seems bizarre, remember that major league baseball is not subject to any antitrust laws. Johnson intended to move the franchise west. He chose the town in which he already owned the stadium, Kansas City.

Arnold Johnson.
Arnold Johnson.

The people in KC were definitely ready. In the first year the team drew an impressive 1,393,054 fans, more than they ever had in Philadelphia. The team was very bad when it arrived, and over the years it got even worse as Johnson made one deplorable trade after another, mostly with the Yankees. The 1961 world champion Yankees, considered by many to be the most dominant team ever, boasted ten former A’s, including two-time MVP Roger Maris.

The A’s played in Municipal Stadium, the same stadium that had hosted the top Yankee minor-league team, the Blues. My dad had seen Mickey Mantle play there. The parking situation was bad, but no worse than at Fenway. By the time that the team left, the neighborhood was not too good.

This was the very card that I got in trade for my 1954 Mickey Mantle.
This was the very card that I got in trade for my 1954 Mickey Mantle. My dad was aghast.

My dad took me to games every year, or at least nearly every year. When the team arrived, my favorite player was a Puerto Rican named Victor Pellot, who played under the name of Vic Power. He was the A’s first All-Star, unquestionably the best fielder in the league, and a decent hitter as well. I loved the way that he passed the bat from one hand to the other while waiting for the pitch. The A’s ended up trading him to Cleveland to acquire Maris.

When we went to the games, I always bought a program and kept score for both teams. We really got our money’s worth at my very first games, April 23, 1955. The Chicago White Sox edged out the home team 29-6. The gory details are here. At least I got to see Vic Power hit a dinger.

Monte_Moore

In later years I liked to follow Norm Siebern, Bob Cerv, and Harry “Suitcase” Simpson until they too were traded away.

My dad listened to the A’s games on his transistor radio while he was watering the front lawn on summer evenings. He really despised the team’s announcer Monte Moore, who would never say anything bad about the management. As year after year of frustration mounted, all of Moore’s optimistic talk became almost unbearable for dad. Everybody in KC thought that Arnold Johnson was crooked. If you don’t think so, you should read this list of his transactions with the Yankees.

Betty_Caywood

For the last fifteen games of the disastrous 1964 season Charlie Finley, who had putchased the club after Arnold Johnson died in 1960, hired Betty Caywood to attempt to attract ladies to Moore’s broadcasts. It is definitely wrong to think of her as a dumb blonde. She had a masters degree from Northwestern. However, she had one big problem, which she admitted to her boss, “Charlie, I don’t know the first thing about baseball.”

The A’s stayed in KC for thirteen seasons. They never had a winning record. The worst year was 1964, when they were an appalling 57-105. Their best effort was just two years later, when they finished only twelve games under .500. In their last year in KC, 1967, however, they finished last in the American League. By then Finley was sponsoring all kinds of stupid enticements to try to get people to come to the games—absolutely anything to distract from the team’s abysmal performance.

Worst mascot ever.
Worst mascot ever.

Over the course of thirteen seasons the A’s tried nine different managers. I don’t think that their primary roblem was the manager.

The most frustrating thing for the long-suffering fans of Kansas City was that by the time that the A’s departed for Oakland in their Kelly green and Finley gold clown suits, the team had amassed a very impressive stable of young players. How could a team that had Reggie Jackson, Rick Munday, Sal Bando, Vida Blue, Bluemoon Odom, Rollie Fingers, Campy Campaneris, and Catfish Hunter have been so awful?

Smaks

3&2: When I was growing up in suburban Johnson County, KS, there was no Little League. Is that surprising? Well guess what, we did not have McDonald’s either, and no one cared. Just as the local chain Smaks provided people in the KC area with low-priced hamburgers, 3&2 baseball in Johnson County took the place of Little League. The kids in my neck of the woods were (and still are) more than satisfied with 3&2.

This is PART of the current Johnson County 3&2 complex that includes 27 baseball fields!

The organization, which is now called the 3&2 Baseball Club of Johnson County1, provided an opportunity for young people at all levels to play hardball (with bats made of wood!) in a well-organized and supervised situation. They now even have teams for pre-kindergaten youngsters! My precocious nephew Joey Lisella, who carried a bat around with him on his fourth birthday, would have loved it!

As many games as possible were played at Segner Field, a complex that included a handful of fields complete with lights, grandstands, dugouts, and refreshment stands. I considered this place paradise. I fell in love with it at first site. I could think of nothing that could possibly match the thrill of playing there, and I was right!

Not Sunflower Drugs, but similar.

My baseball career did not get off to a great start. I began at the lowest level, Midget C. I think that this was after fourth grade, which would be 1958, but I may be off by a year. My team was sponsored by Sunflower Drugs, a local store that still had a soda fountain counter large enough to serve our whole team at once. Midget C teams dressed in ball caps, blue jeans, sneakers, and tee shirts. Our shirts were red and white, with our sponsor’s name prominently displayed.

I suspect that I was allowed onto the team because of the influence of Mr. Wood, who was, I think, one of the coaches. I was a good fielder and one of the fastest runners. However, my arm was weak, and my hitting left a lot to be desired.

We had a good team. We won most of our games. Whenever we prevailed we were transported to Sunflower Drugs to get free ice-cold cherry cokes. We often were ahead by substantial amounts, which let the coach put me in to play. We did not win our league. My recollection is that we lost to the winners because they bunted us to death.

I think that we played at Segner once or twice. Most of our games were at fields at nearby schools. We practiced at Tomahawk School.

One time near the end of the season our team’s entire practice was devoted to a fielding contest. Nine guys took the field. A coach hit ground balls and fly balls. You had to leave the field for a time if you made an error. I stayed on the field longer than anyone else. This was probably the highlight of my season.

In the games that I got to play in I did OK in the field, but I was atrocious in the batter’s box. I actually batted .000. I did get on base a few times with walks, and I even scored a run or two. On every other occasion (except two) I struck out. I never even hit a foul ball.

It happens to Major Leaguers, too.
It happens to Major Leaguers, too.

The first exception was the time that I reached first because of catcher’s interference. When I swung at a pitch my bat grazed the catcher’s mitt. I thought that I had accidentally done something illegal and dangerous, but the umpire firmly told me to take first base, which I gladly did. Who says that you can’t steal first?

After the coaches explained the rule to me, I could not help myself from thinking that the catcher’s mitt just a few feet behind me would be a lot easier to hit than most of those pitches. Nevertheless, I did not try to do it again. I was a Boy Scout and an altar boy, remember.

The other exception was my very last at-bat in that red and white tee shirt. I actually hit a weak fly ball over the first baseman’s head. Unfortunately he had time to take a couple of steps back. He then reached up and caught it. Nevertheless, I was thrilled that I finally had a chance to sprint down the first base line after making contact.

Red_Goose

I tried out for Sunflower Drugs the next year, but I did not make the team. I thought that my ignominious baseball career was over, but my parents told me that other teams needed players. I ended up playing with some guys from QHRS on another Midget C team, Bauman’s Red Goose Shoes. You might think that our tee shirts would be at least partially red, but they were actually green and yellow.

By this time I had a season of experience under my belt and a pair of glasses in front of my very myopic eyes. I was just an average player on an average team, but at least I was not a laughingstock at the plate. I got my share of hits, but nothing exciting. I played every position except pitcher and catcher. My favorite positions were first base and second base because neither required a strong arm.

If you are wondering if our sponsor provided treats for us at the shoe store, the answer is no. No cherry Cokes, no free shoes, nothing. In baseball parlance, a goose egg.

In my third and last year I played for the Prairie Village Optimists Club. This was a Midget B team, which meant that we had real baseball uniforms with bloused pants, long socks, and cleats. We would also be playing more of our games at Segner Field.

I started almost every game even though I was not in the official starting lineup. My family did not take on a vacation that summer, but many of the other players did. I played seven positions again, mostly replacing whoever was on vacation at that time.

Our team had was peculiar in one regard. We had two starting pitchers. One of them was probably the best in our league. He was actually too old to play in Midget B, but because he had polio when he was younger, he was granted an extra year of eligibility. Whenever he pitched, we were at least in the game. The problem was that he was totally undependable. The manager, Mr. O’Neil, never knew if he would show up or not.

Our other pitcher was Mr. O’Neil’s son. He could throw strikes, but his velocity was not great, and he had no “stuff”. It was only one step up from batting practice.

With only a game or two remaining we faced the only undefeated team, Bill Cook’s Standard. Our shortstop was on vacation, and I replaced him. I could field grounders well enough, but if I had to move in either direction, the throw to finrst was difficult for me. To avoid putting my rag arm on display, we dispensed with fielding grounders between innings. Instead we just lobbed the ball around around the infield.

Our good pitcher took the mound, and he had a great day. With a couple of innings to play, neither side had scored. I had hardly been tested at shortstop, and I was the lead-off hitter when we took our cuts. I don’t remember to which field I hit the ball, but I got all the way to third base. I never hit a home run in 3&2; this was my best hit ever. I was so psyched.

The guy batting behind me then struck out. The batter after him popped up to an infielder. If either of them had even hit a ground ball, I was primed to race toward home.

Now, however, there were two outs, and I was still stuck on third. I decided to follow the advice of Egbert Sousé and take a chance while I was young. I broke for home on the first pitch. I was hoping for a passed ball or wild pitch, but I was prepared for a hot box. The catcher caught the pitch cleanly. He made a move toward me and then—a moment too soon—he threw the ball past me to the third baseman. I had not yet committed to going back to third. I put on a burst toward the plate, got past the catcher and scored before he could grab the throw back from the third baseman and tag me. We were up 1-0. Incidentally, the next batter made an out. My gamble was a good one, better than Og Oggilby’s.

Ice_Cream

The other team also scored in their half of the inning. We got two runs in the next inning to take the lead back 3-1. Our pitcher got tired in the last inning. I don’t remember the details, but they somehow had the bases loaded with two out. The batter hit a pop fly into short left field. I raced back as fast as I could. I thrust out my left hand and I nabbed the ball on the far end of my glove’s webbing. The ball looked like a scoop of vanilla ice cream on a cone.

Just then my parents were arriving at the field to take me home. They missed seeing my catch, but they arrived just in time to see my teammates literally carrying me off the field on their shoulders. I have had a few great moments in my life. I am not sure that any topped this one.

1. Johnson County abuts KC KS on the north and KC MO on the east. It now boasts a population of over 600,000—20 percent more than KC MO and five times the size of Hartford.

1948-1954 Kansas City, KS Part 1: Me

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My early days in KC KS. Continue reading →

Hot stuff!

Hot stuff!

My parents told me that it was over 100° when I was born in St. Luke’s hospital in Kansas City, MO, on the afternoon of August 17, 1948. I was two days overdue. I have always claimed that I stayed inside until it was warmer outside. My recollection is that my parents told me that I weighed seven pounds and eleven ounces. In most respects I was quite healthy. My eyes were what people call hazel—brown in places, green in places, some other colors, and changeable. My hair, when it arrived, was a very dark color that matched that of both of my parents.

I lived the first twenty-two years of my life in the KC area, but on the west side of the Missouri River and State Line Road, i.e, in Kansas, the Sunflower State. I have almost no memories at all of my first four years. Since I spent those years in and out of hospitals, it might be a blessing. I was born with a cleft lip, which the doctors fixed with a series of operations that in those days were quite novel. I will spare you pictures of what people with this condition look like.

Fortunately for the family, my dad worked for an insurance company that provided health insurance for all its employees. I am certain that my parents and grandparents would have done anything that they could for me anyway, but it would definitely have entailed some hardships. When I was little, we did not have much money.

I have retained only two memories of being in the hospital during that period. I recall a plastic toy tank that someone gave me. A rubber dart could be mounted on its gun barrel. There was also a round semi-spherical rubber piece on the top of the tank. When you pressed on it the dart went flying. I loved it.

The other memory is shorter but less pleasant. I vaguely remember being strapped down in my bed. Somehow I had become dehydrated. The family legend relates that my grandmother, Hazel Wavada, could see that something was wrong with me, and she raised hell until the hospital staff addressed the problem by pumping me full of something. To this day the only phobia from which I suffer has to do with needles. If you see me with a tattoo or a piercing, you will know that aliens have taken control over my mind.

I think that our house used to be white. The Milgrams' house is on the right.

I think that our house used to be white. The Milgrams’ house is on the right.

We lived in a house owned by my maternal grandparents, John and Clara Cernech. I don’t remember them ever living with us, but they might have when I was an infant. A man whom I called Uncle Richard did live with us. His last name was Keuchel (rhymes with cycle), which indicates that he was related to Clara. He might have been her brother—Clara had lots of brothers and sisters. He might have been a cousin.

I am pretty sure that, as my dad would say, we didn’t have two nickles to rub together. We did not have a car or modern appliances, but I certainly never felt deprived.

I can easily visualize parts of the house. I had my own bedroom. My most precious possession was a green cowboy blanket, which I dragged around with me. I kept one of the corners between my right forefinger and middle finger. Those areas were all worn out. I named the four corners after political figures. My favorite was Adlai Stevenson, my dad’s political hero.

The basement was a spooky place. There was a coal chute. I have no idea how the coal got into the heater. I can hardly imagine my dad shoveling it. Maybe we no longer used coal. I also remember a washtub with a wringer. Later my dad and Joey Keuchel built a rather elaborate train set on two or more ping-pong sized tables. This was supposedly mine, but they messed with it more than I did.

The kitchen was a very wholesome place. My mother painted an apple tree on one of the walls, and she did a very good job. I have no absolutely no artistic taste, but everyone said so.

I sometimes went to the store with my mother. There was a monetary currency that I have nowhere else encountered, plastic coins called “mills”. My recollection is that the green ones were worth one tenth of a cent, and the red ones were worth half a cent. I might have this backwards. They were used for sales tax.

I have a few other vivid memories of those years. I had two friends, Larry Boatman and David Milgram. They were both about my age, but I do not remember going to kindergarten with them. I think that David might have been visiting his grandparents, who lived next door. There was a third kid whose birthday was the same as mine. Beyond our back yard was a alley, and he lived in the house directly across the alley from ours.

There were no girls in my age group in our neighborhood. At least I have no memory of any. It is quite possible that I just ignored them.

I was called Mickey, probably after Mickey Mantle, who played for the Kansas City Blues before the Yankees called him up. My dad told me that he saw him hit two homers in one game—one right-handed and one left-handed.

One day I announced that I would no longer be called Mickey. The other kids had been taunting me: “Mickey Mickey Mickey Mouse; when he grows up he’ll be a rat.” Thus was born Mike Wavada.

We had a black and white dog named Trixie. I think that she was a terrier. I don’t remember much about her except that she could really jump. She might have been my mom’s dog. She must have died before we moved to the suburbs.

Before I was old enough for school my parents enrolled me in speech lessons. Despite my rather severe birth defect, I can never remember anyone having trouble understanding my speech. I am not sure that I needed the speech classes. At any rate I aced them. I got a sticker of a hippopotamus for reciting my assignment well. Because “hippopotamus” was considered a difficult word to pronounce, the hippo sticker was considered a valued prize.

Who was going through the front door and who would sneak around to the back?

Who was going through the front door and who would sneak around to the back?

I cannot remember much of the pre-television years. A family legend persisted for years about the occasion on which my parents and I were all attending mass at St. Peter’s cathedral. At some point I got bored and started complaining vociferously about the fact that I was missing the Lone Ranger.

Despite the presence of so many heathens there, my parents sent me to Prescott School for kindergarten. St. Peter’s, our parish, had a grade school, but no kindergarten. I do not remember my kindergarten teacher’s name. I think that I walked to school. It must not have been far. (The school does not exist any more. I tried to determine where it was, but I failed.) Maybe a few of us walked together, or maybe my mother walked with me.

I don’t remember learning much in kindergarten except when to keep my mouth shut. I fondly recall that we each had a towel or blanket that we used at nap time. This instilled a napping habit that has served me very well for my entire life. I also remember making an imprint of my hand in clay, which someone painted dark green. It was on display in our house for quite a while.

One kid in our class was BAD. In addition to other high crimes and misdemeanors, he threw rocks at the other kids at recess. Did we even have recess? Maybe it was after school or before.

The boys, of course, would never report him because of the sacred obligation of omertà that males feel instinctively. The girls may have reported him to the teachers; I don’t know. All I know that he was still at large.

Believe it or not, I was the biggest kid in kindergarten. One day I had had enough of the rock-thrower. After school I hid behind a bush that I knew that he had to walk past. When he approached, I sprung out and punched his lights out. Actually, I don’t remember the details. I may have only hit him once, and then he may have run away. The next day my teacher took me aside and told me that I must never do that again. I nodded agreement.

My recollection is that the teacher did not promote the other kid at the end of the year. He actually flunked kindergarten.

I passed with flying colors.The other kids were learning their letters at school, but I was learning to read and write at home. My mother took me with her on the streetcar to the library where I got to pick out a book or two from the children’s section. I favored the ones about cowboys. By the time that I started first grade, I could read pretty well.

All my relatives are Catholics. There was never any question that I would go to St. Peter’s School for first grade. I walked there, too, but I think that a group of us walked together. I remember a candy store near the school. I seriously doubt that I often had any money for candy, but it is possible that Uncle Richard occasionally gave me a nickle or a dime once in a while.

This is St. Peter's Cathedral. I think that the school building that I attended may no longer exist.

This is St. Peter’s Cathedral. I think that the school building that I attended may no longer exist.

My teacher was a nun; I don’t remember her name either. She was not as nice as my kindergarten teacher. Also, there were no daily naps, and the classes were at once boring and frustrating. We probably did some craft things that I don’t remember. I have always been terrible at anything vaguely artistic. The activity that I do remember involved slates and boxes.

The boxes contained little light green cardboard letters. The other kids’ boxes contained a reasonable number, but mine had between four and five million. The teacher would write a word or a phrase on the blackboard. Each student’s job was to find the letters in their own personal box and to place them on their personal “slate”, which was actually a paper and cardboard arrangement the size of a standard sheet of paper with rows in which the letters could be mounted.

It was kind of like Scrabble, but the letters were smaller and in boxes. The problem was that the letters in my box would hide from me. This shortcoming has dogged me all of my life. If you asked me to get a bottle of Worcestershire sauce from the fridge, I probably would not be able to find it even if you told me what shelf it was on. Other bottles would conspire to conceal it, or maybe the target bottle would don a disguise.

At any rate Sister Whatever concluded that I was dumb, and she informed my parents of this at the parent-teacher conference. I can almost hear my mother saying, “But sister, I know that he can read and write already. He does both all the time at home.”

It does not look familiar, but it is a 1954 Ford.

It does not look familiar, but it is a 1954 Ford.

This episode occurred in 1954. It was perhaps the only bad thing that happened that year. My dad must have gotten a promotion because he bought a blue and white Ford. We had our own car!

From KC KS to PV.

From KC KS to PV.

The other big news in 1954 was that the hapless Philadelphia Athletics were moving to Kansas City. We were going to be a major league city!

My travails at St. Peter’s school were short-lived. Early in 1955, while I was still in first grade, we moved south to Prairie Village. For the rest of the year I attended (or at least was enrolled at) Queen of the Holy Rosary School. My teacher was Sister Mildred, and she taught her students to read and write, not to extract nonexistent letters from a cardboard box.

Note: in my day problem students were not diagnosed with ADD or ADHD. Instead they were considered “dumb” or “bad”.