Undervalued Heroes
Undervalued Heroes
By R. Bremner
Sandy Amoros
Sandy Amoros
awoke to many mornings
When he approached
the Gates of Heaven,
St. Peter said, “Oh
yes, you made that catch
on DiMaggio in the World
Series.
Come on in.”
“Oh no,” said Amoros.
“That was Al Gionfriddo
who made that catch.
My Series catch was
on Yogi Berra.”
“Oh,” said St. Peter.
“Sometimes my memory
is fuzzy. Well, come in
anyway, we hate
the Yankees up here.”
Marvelous Marv
Throneberry!
The very name evokes
a royal jewel
and that you certainly were
to a buck-toothed, knobby-kneed
nine-year-old in that magical
summer of ’62.
You had slumps, you had stumbles,
but certainly no more than I did
in Little League, and I and
your many many little fans
lived and died with you
each time you came to the plate.
Sure you struck out a lot,
but not nearly as much as me and
your other loyal kid fans.
And sixteen homers!
I could only dream of hitting one!
Sixteen thrills and sixteen chances to yelp
out loud as you rounded the bases,
ecstatic at any little exploit!
And how could you field at first base
the throws that hopped and skipped
or rocketed over your head?
These Mets were hapless. But lovable.
And none moreso than you.
Years later, you had the humility and grace
to laugh at your foibles in a T.V. ad,
as a lesser man would not have been capable.
And that famous triple which
fed your myth? Who cares if you didn’t
touch second, or even first?
You hit a triple!
Who among us has not
made a far worse mistake?
Marv, you truly were marvelous
and a royal jewel, Mr. Throneberry.
Yogi
Yogi, oh Yogi!
They respected your bat.
They respected your glove.
They respected your arm.
They never respected your brain.
The “tools of ignorance”, your
mitt, chest protector, and mask were called.
Yet you caught great pitchers made
greater still by your wisdom. Later,
you managed the deteriorating Yankees
to a great seven game World Series.
Your reward? They fired you
and hired the manager you lost to!
But the year after they fired you
the Yankees finished sixth!
It proved your acumen that you could
manage an aging, griping band to
within one win of grabbing it all.
In ’73 you managed a puny Mets team
to an impossible Series, and almost won it –
Yet the blame for the loss fell on only you.
Yogi, Yogi, Yogi
Did you ever want to cry out,
to scream at the top of your lungs
“I’m smart, dammit! Stop treating me
like a fool!”
When even your old friend, Garagiola,
who wasn’t one tenth the catcher you were
reveled in jokes about your stupidity.
No, you were patient in your calm wisdom,
outlasted all the fools who put you down.
Carmen knew. And Casey knew.
They knew how keenly your brain worked.
And you always knew that,
against all odds:
“It ain’t over till it’s over!”
The ’73 Series
It was the night of the 3rd game
of the ’73 World Series at Shea Stadium..
Tom Seaver pitched for the Mets in a 3-2 loss.
The loss came in extra innings but
My college friends and I were sure
that the guy who was to score
the tying run for the As in the eighth inning
was thrown out trying to steal second.
“Out!” we screamed in unison as the snowflakes fell
on that chilly October evening.
But the umpire called Bert Campaneris
“Safe!” as he dusted off
and was shortly singled home
in a race over our thumping hearts.
The Athletics won in extra innings
after Seaver left the game.
“We wuz robbed” as the saying went.
After the game the three of us
gathered near the parking lot
behind the Mets’ bullpen.
We waited and waited,
pumped up with beer and tired as heck.
It was 3AM before any Mets showed up.
Out came Seaver with his wife Nancy.
“Tom! Hey Tom!” we shouted.
But Seaver kept walking, ignoring us.
“You take the Porsche, I’ll take the Cadillac,”
he said to his wife.
“No, I want the Caddy,” she said.
In a flash, they were gone
Next up was Jerry Koosman.
“Hey Jerry! Over here!”
The Minnesotan turned his head, a
wry grin etched on his face. “Hi,
gang,” he said in a normal speaking voice,
But he didn’t come over.
The next batter was shortstop Buddy Harrelson.
We called “Hey, Buddy!” but he replied
“Gimme a break! It’s 3AM!”
My college pal Steve Finn shouted,
“It’s 3AM for us too! Don’t be a bozo!”
But he frenetically jumped into his sedan
and headed out.
Next up to the plate was relief pitcher Tug McGraw,
wearing an outlandish cowboy hat.
He laughed at us, saying “You gotta be kidding!”
“No, Tug,” instructed Frank Gargano, another
of my college mates. “It’s ‘You gotta believe,”
reminding Tug of his own slogan
throughout the season. Tug didn’t answer,
but climbed into his little sports coupe
and rolled on out.
We spotted a chubby fellow
just hanging out on the other side
of the fence.
“Who are you?” asked Steve Finn.
“Are you anybody?”
He walked over to us.
“I am Felix Millan’s brother,”
he proudly announced.
This was exciting.
“Oh yeah?” Frank Gargano asked.
Felix must be feeling bad that
he couldn’t tag Campeneris out.”
“Felix tagged him. He was out,” the brother said.
We murmured in assent.
“Can we meet your brother?
“Sure. Felix is a good guy.
He loves the fans. He just
don’t speak the English so good.”
And just as he said that,
There was Felix Millan at his shoulder.
And he was right.
Felix was a terrific guy, and he didn’t
speak English so well, but still he chatted
and walked us over to a gate, where
we could slip our scorecards through
for him to sign.
So we left happy in the wee early morning
on a deserted empty Northern Boulevard,
still respecting Tom Seaver for his talent
and respecting even more Felix Millan
for his humanity. The next season we
were all Felix Millan fans!
R. Bremner has been writing of incense, peppermints, and the color of time since the 1960s. He appeared in the legendary first issue of the Passaic Review in 1979, which also featured Allen Ginsberg, and has appeared in International Poetry Review, Sigmund Freud in Poetry, The Leonard Cohen Tribute Anthology, Jerry Jazz Musician, Paterson Literary Review, Red Wheelbarrow, and elsewhere. Ron has published seven books of poetry, including Absurd (Cajun Mutt Press) and Hungry words (Alien Buddha Press). He has thrice won Honorable Mention in the Allen Ginsberg awards, and has featured at the Bowery Poetry Club in NYC, at the Brownstone Poets in Brooklyn, and elsewhere. He lives with his beautiful sociologist wife, son, and dog Ariel in wonderful Northeast New Jersey.