The Shot Heard ’Round Our Block
We went to the top of the eighth. Maglie got Carl Furillo, then gave up back-to-back base hits by Pee Wee Reese and Duke Snider, with Snider’s single moving Reese all the way to third.
All I said was one word and suddenly Whitey was sitting on my chest, pinning down my shoulders, glaring into my eyes, his face red.
“You watch your mouth,” he hissed at me.
I didn’t know what I’d said wrong, and I didn’t know what to say now. It was hard to think when your brother was sitting on your chest. I stared back into his burning eyes.
“You never say that word,” he said, giving me a shake to make sure I understood. I didn’t even know what the word meant. I had heard him and some other kids say it at school and figured it was for general use. Why would anyone get so mad about a simple word like fuck anyway?
“And don’t ever say that around Mom or Dad,” he insisted, and then he got off me, still staring me down. I sat up and straightened my shirt and put my Giants’ hat back on.
Jackie Robinson was up. Maglie pitched, and the ball flew past Wes Westrum to the backstop. By the time he tracked it down, Reese was across the plate and Snider had moved up to second base.
“Damn it,” Whitey cursed. Sure, it was okay for him to swear.
Durocher went out to the mound to check on his pitcher, and decided to let Maglie intentionally walk Robinson. Andy Pafko came up.
“Bear down, Sal,” I said to the radio. Maglie delivered the pitch. Pafko chopped a bouncer to Bobby Thomson at third base.
“Double play ball!” Whitey yelled.
The ball took a tricky hop past Bobby and headed for the left-field corner. Snider raced for third and was waved home with the Dodgers’ third run. Robinson hurried into third base. Whitey collapsed onto the bed again.
“Jeez,” he said with disgust, “they should’ve got Maglie out of there.”
They should have. They didn’t. We were sunk. Gil Hodges came up and Maglie got him on strikes for the second out, but Whitey and I weren’t excited. That brought up Billy Cox, who smashed another one toward Thomson at third. Bobby tried to block this one with his body, but the ball skipped past him into left. Robinson scored, at now it was 4-1.
“Thomson,” Whitey muttered in disgust. An inning ago, Thomson could have stroked a home run and we’d have been sitting pretty; now, he’d let two hits get past him, and it was as good as over. Rube Walker made the final out for the Dodgers in the eighth, and the Giants came up for their turn at bat.
Bill Rigney led off and Newcombe got him on strikes. Henry Thompson followed as a pinch-hitter for Maglie and was an easy second out, bouncing one back to the mound.
“They should have got Maglie out of there last inning,” Whitey muttered. Eddie Stanky came up for the Giants’ last chance in the eighth inning, and Newcombe made quick work of it, blowing a called third strike past him. Whitey shook his head. I got up off my bed and went to the window.
Somewhere at the far Harlem edge of Manhattan on that cool, gray October afternoon, the Giants and Dodgers were playing. I closed my eyes and imagined myself looking down on the ballpark, seeing all the players and all the fans, and the grass and the light towers, and all the colors and all the sounds. I imagined myself there, inside the Polo Grounds, as a sort of spirit, wishing that I could bring magic power to the Giants; anything to make them win.
I remained standing at the window as the Dodgers came up in the ninth. Larry Jansen, normally a starter, came out to pitch for us. It was not an especially strange move, Russ Hodges explained: there was no reason to save Jansen for tomorrow if there wasn’t going to be a tomorrow. Jansen breezed through the three Dodger batters he faced quickly, and then the entire baseball season came down to this moment. The Giants had one final opportunity — three outs — to keep their 1951 season alive.
Don Newcombe went out to the mound for Brooklyn. So far, he’d been invincible, virtually untouchable, and even seemed to gain strength as the game went on. Al Dark led off for the Giants, falling behind quickly with two strikes, then got around late and drove a ground ball toward the hole between first and second. Robinson at second and Hodges at first broke toward the ball. Robinson missed it, but Hodges lunged and got a piece of it, keeping it from rolling into the outfield, but Dark was already in safely with a single. That brought up Don Mueller.“Get away from the window,” Whitey said to me. “You’re making me nervous.”
What did he want? I had so far gotten us through the Dodgers’ half of the ninth without any damage, and got us a base hit to start out with. I was really trying my hardest. I went over to my bed and laid on my back with my eyes closed and tried to concentrate again, focusing my thoughts toward the Polo Grounds.
I had just gotten comfortable when Newcombe threw to Mueller, and Mueller smacked one toward first base. Hodges, trying to hold Dark close to the bag, made a dive but the ball darted by into right field. Dark raced around second and made it safely to third. The Giants had men on the corners, no one out, and the tying run coming to the plate. I opened my eyes and looked at Whitey. He was looking at me, shaking his head. I sat up on the bed. Maybe we had something here.
Monte Irvin was coming up. Chuck Dressen came out of the dugout to check on Newcombe. Maybe, finally, Newcombe was coming apart.
“Leave him in there,” Whitey muttered. “Leave him in there for us.”
Dressen walked back to the Dodger bench, leaving Newcombe out there to face Irvin, the National League’s RBI king during the regular season. Ready to be our hero, Monte went after a high and outside pitch and sent a high, lazy foul ball near first base, where Hodges waited to haul it in. One down.
Whitey Lockman stepped to the plate. Newcombe’s second pitch — high and outside like the one to Irvin — looked good to the Giants’ first baseman, and he ripped it over third base and into the left-field corner. Al Dark came in to score. Mueller gave it everything he could to beat Pafko’s throw to third, sliding in safely ahead of the tag. Lockman watched the whole thing from second base, where he stood with his RBI double.
The crowd was going crazy. Whitey went back to pacing, grumbling “I don’t believe it … I don’t believe it.” It was now 4-2, and we still had a chance. Russ Hodges mentioned that Don Mueller was hurt, laying on the ground at third. As the Giants’ trainers attended to Mueller and assisted in getting him off the field and into the clubhouse beyond center field, Clint Hartung came in to run. Dressen was back out on the mound. Newcombe was done for the day.
“Damn,” Whitey said. “We were just starting to hit him good.”
Ralph Branca headed to the mound for Brooklyn. The crowd was growing louder and louder behind Russ Hodges on the radio. My heart was pounding and I could feel sweat on my forehead under my cap.
I tried to relax but couldn’t. Whitey was in agony, too. Russ Hodges mentioned we should light up a Chesterfield and stay tuned. I thought about Larry Elkins. I wondered if maybe a smoke would calm me down right about now. My breathing was ragged. This was it.
“Bobby Thomson, up there swinging,” Russ Hodges continued. “He’s had two out of three — a single and a double — and Billy Cox is playing him right on the third-base line. One out, last of the ninth. Branca pitches … Bobby Thomson takes a strike, called, on the inside corner. Bobby, hitting at .292 … He’s had a single and a double and he drove in the Giants’ first run with a long fly to center. Brooklyn leads it, 4 to 2. Hartung, down the line at third, not taking any chances. Lockman, without too big of a lead at second, but he’ll be running like the wind if Thomson hits one.” My brother looked woozy. Now his entire body was weaving back and forth.
Whitey grabbed his pillow and clutched it to his stomach. He looked like he was going to barf any moment now. He kept shaking his head over and over again.
“Branca throws again,” Russ said. “There’s a long fly —”
I gasped. Whitey’s jaw dropped and he froze.
Russ Hodges’ voice rose a notch — two notches: “It’s gonna be, I believe — The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant! Bobby Thomson hits into the lower deck of the left-field stands!”
By the second The Giants win the pennant! I was on my hands and knees on the floor, still gasping for breath. I looked up at my brother. Whitey was standing, dumb-struck, his hands over his ears, his mouth wide open, unable to make a sound. I began shaking my head no, and then I began repeating the word “yes” over and over.
“The Giants win the pennant and they’re going crazy!” Russ Hodges shouted. “They’re going crazy! Oh-hoooo!”
I looked back up at Whitey. He had both of his arms raised to heaven and his teeth were clenched. I scrambled to my feet and yelled “Hey!” at him. He snapped out of his trance and broke into a huge face-splitting grin. I reached out my hand and he gripped it and shook it up and down wildly, letting out a war-cry as he did.
“We did it!” he bellowed. “I can’t believe we did it!”
My eyebrows raised and I grinned, too. He lifted his arms up toward the ceiling and let out the war-cry one more time, then spun around, dropped to his knees and began slamming his fists into his mattress. “We did it!” he shouted, over and over.
I tried to hear what was happening on the radio; the roar of the crowd sounded almost like static. I thought we’d lost the signal until Russ Hodges began bellowing hoarsely once again.
“I don’t believe it,” he croaked. “I don’t believe it! I do not believe it! Bobby Thomson … hit a line-drive into the lower deck of the left-field stands, and this whole place is going crazy! The Giants — Horace Stoneham is now a winner! The Giants won it by a score of 5 to 4, and they’re picking Bobby Thomson up and carrying him off the field!”
I felt weak and giddy and began laughing, deliriously. I staggered over to the bedroom window, trying to unclench my fists. I was breathing again.
I looked out the window. Somewhere at the far Harlem edge of Manhattan on that cool, gray October afternoon, in a rickety steel-and-concrete ballpark, the Giants were celebrating. It was unbelievable. They had done it. I felt the tears starting to come up in my eyes. I couldn’t get the grin off my face.
We had done it.
