Baseball Memories

[AstrosFan]

In light of the new information we have received regarding John Shoemaker's age, I feel we need this thread. Not too many people have had the good fortune to see Ruth, Gehrig, Foxx, and others in their prime. I was going to do this thread as "John Shoemaker's Memories", but then I realized that while John is probably close to our most senior member, he hasn't seen everything. Everyone here has experiences to share that perhaps no one else has seen. So I'm asking everyone here who has ever watched a baseball game to give us their stories. Tell us anything you can remember, the funny, the sad, the quirky, the heartbreaking. Whether your experiences began in the 1920s or the 2000s, we need your memories. Anything you can recall that might be of some interest, get it in this thread. We will create our own baseball history, just as Baseball Fever remembers it.


Note: Try to be as specific as you can about these memories. I realize that is difficult, and if you can provide no more than the basics, no worries. Just do your best.

[hellborn]

I remember being at a Cubs game when I was fairly small, and a boy sitting in front of me got a foul ball. I told my mom that I wanted one, too, and she told me to just take the one from the kid in front of me...he had put it under his seat. I didn't want to, and she forced me to take it. Later on, when she wasn't looking, I put it back.
She was funny at times, that lady. But, there was the time she found some hundreds of dollars on the street, then returned it to a woman who came out of the police station looking for the cash she had brought to bail out her son. The woman had no idea my mother had it.
I remember Steve Beuchele staring down a clueless gal at Arlington after she grabbed a ball off the field when it was still in play...the Rangers were throwing the ball around the infield and she grabbed it when it rolled to the wall. She had no idea that she had done something wrong. Sometime in the '87-'91 timeframe. I also remember quite clearly a bikinigram stripper doing her thing at that park, and the booing that security got for kicking her out.
I remember Dave Parker trying to engage a heckler at Wrigley before a game and then losing him temper and making threats. Kind of scary.
Saw Papi's HR to beat the Angels in the ALDS in '04. There was a noticeable delay between the ball disappearing over the Monster and the crowd reacting...I think that people just couldn't believe it.
One of the funniest moments was the Fenway crowd chanting, "JAR-RET...JAR-RET..." and really rattling Wright in Game 3 of the '99 ALDS.
The most shocking ball I ever saw hit was a line drive that Eric Anthony hit off the back wall of the Astrodome sometime around '90. It went about 10 feet foul, but the man just hit an absolute rope into the nether regions of that dead place. He struck out on the next pitch, but I couldn't believe how hard that ball was hit.
I think that Jack Clark hit a ball even harder in Busch I once, but it was a one hop liner to the LFer. 10 feet either way and he had extra bases...the ball seemed to teleport into the glove, it was crushed so hard. Didn't have quite the visual impact of Anthony's ball crashing off that wall. ('84-'87)
Worst moment in person was Scott Brosius ruining a great Pedro start at Fenway. He seemed to have been struck out twice on changes that were somehow called balls and had to pick up his jock from around his knees both times, but they came back with the same pitch and he hit a 3 run shot. Scott Brosius!!!! I saw quite a few Pedro starts and never saw him win. ('00???)

[AstrosFan]

I received a call from my parents as the fall semester was in full swing. They had just talked to my little sister, who works for the Houston Astros, and had a proposal for me. As I knew, Craig Biggio was in his final season. His last game ever in an Astros uniform, the only team he had ever played for in the big leagues, would fall on my birthday. They knew they didn't need to ask if I was interested. They just wanted to make sure I wouldn't fall behind in my studies. I told them not to worry, giving them my best sales pitch as I insisted attending this game would have no effect on my grades.
I flew in with my dad from Denver to Houston the Friday before, on Sept. 28. We stayed at my grandparents' place in Houston, getting psyched up for the big event. When we got to the ballpark on Sunday for the big game, we found our seats and settled in. While we watched the teams warm up, my sister came over and greeted us, and asked if we would like to say hi to some old friends. A friend of my mum's took a job with the Astros, and now works under my little sister. Her son was a good friend of mine when I lived in Houston. We spent some time catching up, and then returned to our seats, ready for the start of the game.
The second Craig Biggio stepped onto the field, the cameras started flashing. It seemed like every person in the ballpark had a camera and was taking photos. Biggio acknowledged every cheering fan, smiling and waving and tipping his cap. Biggio is probably the most popular Astro ever, because he is a true Hall of Famer who got there by maximizing his talent, through hustle and grit and determination. Sure, Craig Biggio had a lot of natural ability. But if he was a loafer, he'd be nowhere near the Hall. Now, he's considered a lock.
In the bottom of the first, center fielder Josh Anderson, a late season call-up, singled. Now Biggio stepped to the plate for his first at bat. The crowd cheered wildly, hoping to see Biggio finishing his career with a great day in an Astros win. Biggio did not let us down, ripping a double down the left field line that nearly brought the house down.
A check at Retrosheet says Biggio's double did not score Anderson, and it was the only hit of the night for him. He would score in that same inning on a bases loaded single by Carlos Lee, and that was all the Astros needed in a 3-0 victory. I remembered the Astros won that game, because I felt so happy that Biggio could go out a winner in what had been a rather frustrating season. After the game finished, the Astros and their fans began paying a final tribute to the legend of Craig Biggio.
With the crowd cheering throughout the ceremonies, Biggio was honored for his service to the Astros and to the Houston community. When he spoke his gratitude, the crowd went silent, listening respectfully, and then cheered and applauded their hero. Biggio finished his day by taking a lap around the ballpark, high-fiving fans lucky enough to get a seat that close. After circling the field, he waved again to the crowd, gave a final tip of his cap, and left. It was a sad day for Astros and Biggio fans everywhere, but for those who experienced it, it was a great way to pay tribute to one of the greatest players of all time.

[Astros4Life]

I received a call from my parents as the fall semester was in full swing. They had just talked to my little sister, who works for the Houston Astros, and had a proposal for me. As I knew, Craig Biggio was in his final season. His last game ever in an Astros uniform, the only team he had ever played for in the big leagues, would fall on my birthday.

where were your seats, i remember this game vividly too, i took almost 70 pictures that day we had seats in 434 ive sat all over minute maid, but it was the best we could get for that game

[AstrosFan]

Don't know the seat number, but we sat on the third base line underneath the overhang. I don't even know if we have actual tickets from the game, since we got in through a connection (my sister).

[shlevine42]

CHAPTER 1

The year was 1986, and I’d given myself a 50th birthday present by signing up for the Dodgers’ Adult Baseball Camp...a week during which 100 men who’d never really grown up could play ball and hang out with Dodgers of both Brooklyn and Los Angeles vintage. That year, the Boys of Summer were represented by Erskine, Labine, Roe, Drysdale, Branca, Podres, Campy, Furillo and Snider.

The week began with a full morning practice in which we fielded grounders, shagged fly balls and took our cuts against the pitching machine, while the former major leaguers, who would serve as our Managers and Coaches, followed us around and made notes about our respective abilities (or lack thereof)…notes that were later to be used in a “draft” that would disperse the lot of us into teams that would then play one another during the coming week’s round robin competition.

When the practice ended, the former Dodgers retired to a locked room to compare notes and conduct the draft, while we out-of-shape rookies sat at our lockers, half dressed and nearly spent, lamenting the muffed grounders and missed cut-off throws that had surely doomed our nascent major league careers. Next to me sat a distinguished, soft-voiced, silver-haired gentleman whose still-slender body belied the strength that once dispatched balls over the right-field screen at Ebbets Field with delightful frequency, and with room to spare. It was, indeed, the erstwhile Duke of Flatbush.

“Nice going this morning,” he said.
”Thanks, Duke,” I replied wittily.
“One thing, though,” he continued. “I noticed that in the batting cage this morning, you were pulling your left shoulder out a little too early. I think that’s why you were fouling off a lot of pitches to the right.”

“Could be,” I said, not daring to admit that facing a 90-mile-an-hour pitch for the first time in my life had paralyzed me with fear, or that even had I been 15 instead of 50, I could never have caught up to a pitch that fast.

“I think we can fix that,” he said. “If you have some time, why don’t you meet me at the batting cage tomorrow morning before camp starts and we’ll work on it.”

IF I HAVE SOME TIME??? Are you kidding me? I would have canceled a date with the Playmate of The Year to keep an appointment with The Duke!

“What time,?” I said.
”How’s eight o’clock?”
“I’ll see you there.”

I’m not ashamed to admit I didn’t sleep much that night, which probably explains why I was awake and dressed by seven. I strolled over to the batting cages (actually, I ran), and there he was...the author of 407 career dingers leaning casually against his bat, WAITING FOR ME!

And so for nearly an hour, I was one-on-one with a boyhood hero. He patiently explained, then demonstrated, what I was doing wrong, while I tried, failed and tried again to stay with the pitch, all the while marveling again at that fluid, graceful swing that we had all tried to copy so long ago.

I’d like to say that my session had a happy ending...that I found the key to hitting success and went on to lead the league during that fantasy week. A deep sense of honor, however, prevents me from altering the painful record: While I did connect solidly a few times, I was 0-14 before punching an opposite-field single in my last at-bat. My teammates – indeed the entire camp – who had almost given up hope of seeing me reach first base safely, stopped play to present me with the historic ball, which, along with one signed by Duke himself, remains one of my cherished possessions.

As does the memory of the warmth, kindness and patience of one Edwin Donald Snider.

...To be continued

[jjpm74]

Going to all 7 games of the 1986 World Series as a 12 year old is something I'll never forget. In game 6, when the ball rolled under Buckner I was about 12 rows back on the 1st base side of the field. That was quite a thrill. The only thrill that came close to that for me was watching the final out of the 1996 World Series at Yankee stadium from the outfield bleachers as an adult.

Outside of those events, some of my favorite current memories come in Bridgeport CT watching Tommy John coach the Bridgeport Bluefish. The last game I attended last year saw an aged Jose Offerman charging the mound bat in hand after being thrown at and assaulting the Bluefish pitcher, effectively ending Offerman's career and landing him in jail.

[Honus Wagner Rules]

I've seen just two game at Dodger Stadium my entire life. And both times I saw no-hitters! I was attending Cal Poly State University, San Luis Obispo in the mid 1990s. Cal Poly is about four hours north of Los Angeles. I have a good friend of mine that took me to these two Dodger games. She's a huge Dodger fan or course. Anyway the two no hitters were:

August 17, 1992 LA vs SF
Kevin Gross no-hits my beloved Giants. I wore a Giants hat and of course the fans in the left field bleachers gave me the business.

April 8th, 1994 LA vs ATL
Kent Merker no-hit the Dodgers. It had a fun time give the Dodger fans the business back!

I almost saw a third no-hitter on August 5, 1995. Hideo Nomo one-hit the Giants at Candlestick Park. The only hit was an infield single by Royce Clayton.

[yanks0714]

I'd seen a number of games at old Memorial Stadium and Camden Yards in Baltimore.

Being a Yankee fan I tried to get tickets whenever they were in Baltimore. I've sat in the Stadium Club seats in Camden Yards (borrowed tickets needless to say) watching the Yankees demolish the O's wearing a Yankee jersey and Yankee cap, cheering them on wildly. All the Oriole fans looking at me giving me dirty looks).

One game years ago, the Orioles were demolishing the Yankees something like 10 - 3 in the top of the 9th. With 2 out, John Ellis (anybody remember him?) hit a sharp grounder toward Brooks Robinson. Now Brooks is like a God in Baltimore. They love him. They cherish him. He's the most popular athlete of any sport to play in Baltimore. Oriole fans loved to talk about Brooks' defense.

In any event, Brooks booted the grounder with Ellis reaching 1B. The silence was deafening. No sound whatsoever. Dead quite. This was in Memorial Stadium with darn near seel-out crowd. With so many people I couldn't believe how quiet it was. Just the idea of Brooks booting a routine ground ball was just so shocking to the Oriole fans. You would have thought the ball had killed Brooks as quiet as it was.

Strangest thing I ever witnessed at a game.

[hellborn]

I love the Duke Snider story...that's beautiful.
The Brooks one is hilarious!
I was at a game at Wrigley when Brad Komminsk made a throw from the OF to home as a runner was coming around 3rd...the runner ended up holding, but the throw was a perfect strike on a line to C. It was such a great throw that thousands of people in the park said, "Ooooohhhhhhh", in unison...I've never experienced anything else like it.

Best single defensive play I've seen was Donnie Sadler turning a hard shot to his left (at 2B) that had single written all over it into a DP. The guy was a blur getting to the ball, and I think the SS was really surprised to see the ball coming to him...the crowd sure was. It would have been incredible if Sadler had been able to dive for the ball and go to 1B, but he stayed on his feet and got two out of it...incredible play.
Best dive I ever saw in the OF was Gary Mathews snagging a sinking liner...that guy played with wild abandon.
Worst defense I've experienced was Canseco playing two routine Greg Walker hits into triples (if you remember how slow Walker was) and any plays by Jason Giambi at first. Richie Sexson is close to Giambi.
Gutsiest play I've seen in person was Sandberg scoring from 3rd on a popup to 2B. Ryne saw the guy had to had to circle a bit due to the winds at Wrigley, and took a chance...safe by inches. I thought he was dead meat, but the 2B was just enough off balance to let Ryne sneak in.

[shlevine42]

CHAPTER2

Having owned up to my pathetic 1-15 performance at Dodger Camp, I think I’ve earned the right to explain that disaster, and to salvage some modicum of dignity by recounting the dramatic -- and far more heroic -- ending to my fantasy week.

First, the explanation: For six months prior to Camp, I had followed a rigorous exercise regimen, supplied to all campers by the Dodgers’ Trainer. It was designed to help us over-the-hill athletes avoid doing serious harm to ourselves, dazzled as we would likely be by playing on real grass and wearing major league uniforms with our OWN NAMES ON THEM, and therefore under the delusion that we were still lithe teenagers.

And so for six months, I stretched, bent and twisted my body in preparation for my week in the sun playing with the big boys. I even added my own workout of throwing a tennis ball against my basement wall to strengthen an arm that had not attempted a serious throw in almost 25 years. Not for me any injury caused by asking my body to do more than it was capable of; I WOULD BE READY!

And for the most part, I was. I was toned and limber, and felt young and strong. During practice, my throws from the outfield were straight and true, and surprisingly long for an old man. Everything was working fine; I began to believe that the week ahead would be a breeze. Then suddenly – disaster. On the second day, I awoke with noticeable soreness in an area of my body that I’d never given thought to before – - and therefore hadn’t exercised: My quadriceps.

The problem was brought to my attention when, in my second at-bat, I lined a clean hit over second base and took off for first. Not five steps down the line, my quads cried out in protest, slowing me to a Dennis Weaver-like limp as the center fielder took my scorching line drive on one hop and fired a strike to first base, the ball arriving there a full 5 seconds before my limping body carried my red face to the bag.

(And I used to make fun of Mel Queen being similarly nailed at first by Furillo!)

Fortunately, however, like all epic struggles, this one has a noble ending.

After limping through the remainder of the week and compiling the aforementioned 1-15 stat, I joined my fellow campers in the Grand Finale – a game against the Dodgers themselves, played before an appreciative throng of 6,500 of Florida’s most senior citizens in Holman Field …complete with real live dugouts, a PA announcer and a scoreboard!

At bat, I continued to embarrass myself as I had during the “regular season,” popping up on what I swear was a spitball thrown by one Elwin Roe, although in a post-game interview, the Preacher Man vehemently denied it. “I don’t need to waste my spitter on a guy who went 1-15,” he said. Talk about adding salt to the you-know-what.

In the field, however, which had always been my strong point, it was a different story.

I was stationed in right when, with two out and two runners on, a barrel-chested Dodger with arms like telephone poles strode to the plate. It was two-time batting champ and line-drive hitter extraordinaire, Tommy Davis.

Thinking that he could easily pull our 47-year-old, 47 MPH pitcher, I shaded Davis toward center, which only added drama to what came next. Davis lashed a low line drive that started out in my direction, then began to sink AND curve away toward the foul line. Ignoring my throbbing quads, I took three excruciatingly painful steps to my left (three was all I could manage without falling down in agony), extended my gloved hand, and, I think, closed my eyes.

I looked up to see Davis standing halfway down the line toward, first, hands on hips, head shaking in disgust and disbelief. I looked down to see the ball nestled in the webbing of my glove, just as the PA Announcer fulfilled my boyhood dream by intoning, “How about that catch by Steve in right field!”

I trotted off the field into the arms of my adoring teammates, my pitiful batting performance redeemed and all but forgotten in the glow of my run-saving catch.

No, it didn't happen in Game 7 of the World Series. But it did happen.

And for that one brief moment, at age 50, I lived a young boy's dream of being a baseball hero.

[yanks0714]

CHAPTER2

Having owned up to my pathetic 1-15 performance at Dodger Camp, I think I’ve earned the right to explain that disaster, and to salvage some modicum of dignity by recounting the dramatic -- and far more heroic -- ending to my fantasy week.

First, the explanation: For six months prior to Camp, I had followed a rigorous exercise regimen, supplied to all campers by the Dodgers’ Trainer. It was designed to help us over-the-hill athletes avoid doing serious harm to ourselves, dazzled as we would likely be by playing on real grass and wearing major league uniforms with our OWN NAMES ON THEM, and therefore under the delusion that we were still lithe teenagers.

And so for six months, I stretched, bent and twisted my body in preparation for my week in the sun playing with the big boys. I even added my own workout of throwing a tennis ball against my basement wall to strengthen an arm that had not attempted a serious throw in almost 25 years. Not for me any injury caused by asking my body to do more than it was capable of; I WOULD BE READY!

And for the most part, I was. I was toned and limber, and felt young and strong. During practice, my throws from the outfield were straight and true, and surprisingly long for an old man. Everything was working fine; I began to believe that the week ahead would be a breeze. Then suddenly – disaster. On the second day, I awoke with noticeable soreness in an area of my body that I’d never given thought to before – - and therefore hadn’t exercised: My quadriceps.

The problem was brought to my attention when, in my second at-bat, I lined a clean hit over second base and took off for first. Not five steps down the line, my quads cried out in protest, slowing me to a Dennis Weaver-like limp as the center fielder took my scorching line drive on one hop and fired a strike to first base, the ball arriving there a full 5 seconds before my limping body carried my red face to the bag.

(And I used to make fun of Mel Queen being similarly nailed at first by Furillo!)

Fortunately, however, like all epic struggles, this one has a noble ending.

After limping through the remainder of the week and compiling the aforementioned 1-15 stat, I joined my fellow campers in the Grand Finale – a game against the Dodgers themselves, played before an appreciative throng of 6,500 of Florida’s most senior citizens in Holman Field …complete with real live dugouts, a PA announcer and a scoreboard!

At bat, I continued to embarrass myself as I had during the “regular season,” popping up on what I swear was a spitball thrown by one Elwin Roe, although in a post-game interview, the Preacher Man vehemently denied it. “I don’t need to waste my spitter on a guy who went 1-15,” he said. Talk about adding salt to the you-know-what.

In the field, however, which had always been my strong point, it was a different story.

I was stationed in right when, with two out and two runners on, a barrel-chested Dodger with arms like telephone poles strode to the plate. It was two-time batting champ and line-drive hitter extraordinaire, Tommy Davis.

Thinking that he could easily pull our 47-year-old, 47 MPH pitcher, I shaded Davis toward center, which only added drama to what came next. Davis lashed a low line drive that started out in my direction, then began to sink AND curve away toward the foul line. Ignoring my throbbing quads, I took three excruciatingly painful steps to my left (three was all I could manage without falling down in agony), extended my gloved hand, and, I think, closed my eyes.

I looked up to see Davis standing halfway down the line toward, first, hands on hips, head shaking in disgust and disbelief. I looked down to see the ball nestled in the webbing of my glove, just as the PA Announcer fulfilled my boyhood dream by intoning, “How about that catch by Steve in right field!”

I trotted off the field into the arms of my adoring teammates, my pitiful batting performance redeemed and all but forgotten in the glow of my run-saving catch.

No, it didn't happen in Game 7 of the World Series. But it did happen.

And for that one brief moment, at age 50, I lived a young boy's dream of being a baseball hero.

Let me say both your posts are just simply....awesome! I'm glad you had the opportunity and took it.

[Sultan_1895-1948]

Mr. Shoemaker, where art thou?

[SHOELESSJOE3]

This was as strange an inning as any other I have seen. August 24 1983 with Baltimore 1/2 game out of first and Toronto 1 1/2 game out when the two teams met. To make it short I won't detail what led up to it, Baltimore ran out of catchers and were forced to use second baseman Lenn Sakata to catch in the 10th inning with the score tied 3-3. Baltimore was in trouble, last time Sakata caught was in Little League. Baltimore feels if any Jay gets on they will run wild with their regular second baseman Sakata forced to now play catcher.

10th inning first batter Cliff Johnson homers Jays up 4-3.

Barry Bonnell singles. Baltimore pitcher never throws single pitch to the batter in fear they may steal on catcher Sakata. Continues to throw to first till he picks off Bonnell, one out.

Next Jay batter Dave Collins walks, now Baltimore has a real problem. Collins with the Reds in 1980 stole 79 bases, he would finish with 60 in 1984.
Again the pitcher does not make a single pitch home. A number of throws to first, he picks off Dave Collins, two outs.

Next batter Willie Upshaw beats out an infield single. Again not a single pitch to the batter, throws to first picks off Upshaw, three outs.

Baltimore wins the game 7 -4.
This set a modern day record three runners retired in one inning with no batted balls being involved.
To hear this one is strange to see it really crazy. The pitcher in that entire inning never threw a single pitch to the batter when there was a runner on first, not one, throwing to first till he picks off all three runners. You would think the Jay runners would not stray off too far, stay close and then test Sakata's arm on an attempted steal, not one but all three got caught. I'm sure Lenn Sakata was relieved.

[RuthMayBond]

CHAPTER 1

The year was 1986, and I’d given myself a 50th birthday present by signing up for the Dodgers’ Adult Baseball Camp...a week during which 100 men who’d never really grown up could play ball and hang out with Dodgers of both Brooklyn and Los Angeles vintage. That year, the Boys of Summer were represented by Erskine, Labine, Roe, Drysdale, Branca, Podres, Campy, Furillo and Snider.

The week began with a full morning practice in which we fielded grounders, shagged fly balls and took our cuts against the pitching machine, while the former major leaguers, who would serve as our Managers and Coaches, followed us around and made notes about our respective abilities (or lack thereof)…notes that were later to be used in a “draft” that would disperse the lot of us into teams that would then play one another during the coming week’s round robin competition.

When the practice ended, the former Dodgers retired to a locked room to compare notes and conduct the draft, while we out-of-shape rookies sat at our lockers, half dressed and nearly spent, lamenting the muffed grounders and missed cut-off throws that had surely doomed our nascent major league careers. Next to me sat a distinguished, soft-voiced, silver-haired gentleman whose still-slender body belied the strength that once dispatched balls over the right-field screen at Ebbets Field with delightful frequency, and with room to spare. It was, indeed, the erstwhile Duke of Flatbush.

“Nice going this morning,” he said.
”Thanks, Duke,” I replied wittily.
“One thing, though,” he continued. “I noticed that in the batting cage this morning, you were pulling your left shoulder out a little too early. I think that’s why you were fouling off a lot of pitches to the right.”

“Could be,” I said, not daring to admit that facing a 90-mile-an-hour pitch for the first time in my life had paralyzed me with fear, or that even had I been 15 instead of 50, I could never have caught up to a pitch that fast.

“I think we can fix that,” he said. “If you have some time, why don’t you meet me at the batting cage tomorrow morning before camp starts and we’ll work on it.”

IF I HAVE SOME TIME??? Are you kidding me? I would have canceled a date with the Playmate of The Year to keep an appointment with The Duke!

“What time,?” I said.
”How’s eight o’clock?”
“I’ll see you there.”

I’m not ashamed to admit I didn’t sleep much that night, which probably explains why I was awake and dressed by seven. I strolled over to the batting cages (actually, I ran), and there he was...the author of 407 career dingers leaning casually against his bat, WAITING FOR ME!

And so for nearly an hour, I was one-on-one with a boyhood hero. He patiently explained, then demonstrated, what I was doing wrong, while I tried, failed and tried again to stay with the pitch, all the while marveling again at that fluid, graceful swing that we had all tried to copy so long ago.

You could have pretty much died happy then :bowdown::bowdown: