HOME RUN OF A STORY
Blinded by ball, but still loving game Fond tale of Yanks’ pranks & kindness
Ed Lucas took a baseball between the eyes during a Jersey City sandlot game and lost his sight at 12 years old. But he never lost his love of the game. After he went blind, his mother wrote letters to a number of his baseball idols — and Yankee Hall of Fame shortstop Phil Rizzuto took little Eddie under his wing. The game that took his vision became Ed Lucas’ career.
With an uncanny ability to tell where a ball is going to land just from the sound of ball hitting bat, Lucas has worked as a broadcaster and print journalist for six decades. As part of the Yankees family, he enjoyed amazing access to the Stadium. George Steinbrenner even had snow cleared from the field so that Lucas could get married at home plate early one March.
In the inspirational book “Seeing Home: The Ed Lucas Story,” written with his son Christopher, Lucas shares his life story — and brings you inside baseball’s most revered clubhouse. In this excerpt, he tells about some of the Yankees’ practical jokers:
Billy Martin was a close friend of Mr. Rizzuto. The whippet-thin manager fancied himself a cowboy, but he was, in reality, an Italian-American kid from the urban streets of Berkeley, California. Even though I was Irish, he called me “paisan,” which is Italian for “friend.” He’d kiss me squarely on the cheek every time that I saw him. We got along great. Martin could be tightly wound, prone to temper tantrums, but he knew how to win. The public rarely saw his lighter side. He was a decent man and quite the practical joker. More than once, as I waited in the clubhouse for an interview, Billy would silently grab my arm and walk me around. Thinking it was my guide, or a security guard, I’d follow along. Before I knew what was happening, he would lead me right into the showers, turning them on at full blast. As I stood there drying off, I could hear his distinctive highpitched laugh, which gave him away as the culprit every time.
Martin never actually admitted that he did it.
That might sound like a cruel trick to play on a blind man, but I loved it. Baseball players have a long history of playing practical jokes on each other, and on those whom they consider one of the “boys.” By subjecting me to his shower prank, Martin was sending a clear signal that I was now a member of this exclusive fraternity. I was free to be hazed.
The master of practical jokes was Sparky Lyle. He was having a Cy Young-caliber season in 1977, but still found the time to tease me and others. Every time I’d walk into the locker room, Sparky would toss towels in my general direction. Most would whiz harmlessly by. I would actually catch some, just by reflex alone. When that hap- pened, Lyle would shout loudly to the clubhouse guard, Charlie Zabransky, “Arrest him, Charlie, he’s trying to steal our towels!”
Sparky also loved giving hot- foots. I was not immune to them.
A “hotfoot” is a time-honored baseball trick in which a player will sneak up on another player or reporter while he is giving an interview in the dugout. The unsuspecting victim then has a match or two placed gently in the back or side of his shoe, with the head facing out. When the moment is right, the prankster will light the match head and slink away to watch from a distance. As soon as the flame from the slowly burning head reaches the victim’s shoe, it’s hot enough to be felt. The general result is a startled yelp. I had more than one interview interrupted by Lyle’s antics.
So one day, I had my guide distract Sparky as I snuck a match into his shoe. I’d pranked the prankster. Turnabout is fair play.
Sparky was later joined in the bullpen by another intimidating closer, Rich “Goose” Gossage. He was a country boy from Colorado and, like Lyle, had an excellent sense of humor. Goose used to kid me incessantly.
I often rushed to get to the ballpark, sometimes making mistakes with my wardrobe. Most players were discreet enough not to mention it. My pal Goose spoke his mind. After spotting an error in my footwear one afternoon, he called me out on it. “Hey, Eddie, do you know that you are wearing one black shoe and one brown shoe?”
I gave him the first explanation that popped into my head. “Of course I know that, Goose. I
have a pair just like them at home.”
My guides were also in Goose’s line of fire.
I brought my son’s pediatrician, Dr. Frank Cardiello, with me to a game. Goose spotted him and said, “Geez, Eddie, you have a different person with you each day. Who is this clown?”
I wanted to pull a fast one on Goose so I said, “This is Dr. Frank Cardiello. He’s my eye doctor.”
Goose came right back with, “So you’re Eddie’s eye doctor? Let me tell you, that’s one heck of a job you did there, Doc. You evened his eyes out!”
Reggie Jackson, who happened to be walking by, was horrified. He chastised Goose. “You can’t say that to Eddie! He’s a good guy!”
I eased Reggie’s concerns. “It’s okay, Reggie. I’m pretty fortunate to be blind. That means I don’t have to stare at Goose’s ugly mug every night.”
Without missing a beat, Goose topped me. “You’re even luckier than you think, Eddie. Yogi’s coming out of the shower right now without a towel. You don’t have to see what we’re seeing.”
Even my sons weren’t above the genial banter.
Chris was waiting for me in the clubhouse after a game. He told me that he was hungry. I promised to get him something to eat once we left the Stadium. He wasn’t happy. Despite having eaten his fill of hot dogs and
Cracker Jack, Chris kept loudly moaning that he wanted something to eat. He was putting on a world-class show. The whole locker room could hear him, including Goose.
Gossage called out, to nobody in particular, “If someone doesn’t shut this kid up, I’m gonna give him a knuckle sandwich!” He was just kidding, of course, but Chris misunderstood the warning. He rushed over to Goose’s locker and said, “You have a sandwich for me, Mr. Gossage? Can I have some mustard on it?” Goose, and everyone around him, burst into laughter. To this day, whenever Goose sees Chris, he asks him if he wants a knuckle sandwich.
I took Chris to his first Old Timers Day game in 1978. He was nine years old. I was thrilled to be able to introduce him to the men who shaped my life and childhood. (Older son) Eddie had already been to one, but this was all new for Chris. He loved it. As the ceremony was about to start, I sat in the dugout with Chris. I heard a familiar clacking of spikes on the runway. It was Mickey Mantle’s trademark gait. I told Chris to run over and say hello to him before he had to take his place on the diamond with the other Yankee veterans.
Chris approached the legendary center fielder. He was too young to have seen the Mick play, but he’d heard all of my stories. Mantle was his hero. Chris shared that with Mickey as soon as he got close enough. Mantle, who was quickly surrounded by throngs asking for autographs and handshakes, had a habit of sometimes brushing off admirers, depending on his mood.
He asked Chris how a kid his age could say that he idolized him if he wasn’t even alive in the 1950s and 1960s. “It’s because my daddy told me all about you.” As he started to walk away, Mickey asked, “Oh, yeah, who’s your dad?”
When Chris identified me, Mickey froze in his tracks.
Mantle came back over to Chris, leaned down to his level, put his arms on his shoulders, and said, “Kid, I hear people telling me that I’m their hero every single day. I want to tell you something. Your dad is my hero. You are very, very lucky.”
With that, Mantle resumed his trot out to the first-base line for introductions, leaving my son standing there, in awe of him for reasons that were deeper than anything that had to do with baseball.
On the ride home later that night, Chris casually mentioned what Mickey had said. I was glad that my son couldn’t see me in the front seat as I tried my best to hide the tears that were streaming down my cheeks.