San Francisco Chronicle - (Sunday)
When I was jolted by Joe, and thrilled by ’62 Giants
When the Sporting Green asked readers to submit their fondest sports recollections, the responses offered a balanced mix of the recent and the long ago.
In this, the fourth installment of the series, we’re going exclusively old school.
Entries have been edited in some cases for brevity and clarity. In terms of exact dates and names, factchecking was performed for accuracy.
Look, it’s Joe DiMaggio
I’ve been blessed to have seen Mays, Gretzky, Jordan, Federer and Montana all play live. But the biggest thrill? Seeing Joe DiMaggio walk near me, wearing a suit. It was the Giants’ Opening Day at Candlestick, mid’80s, and we were sitting field level behind the plate, many rows back. At some point, with no handlers around him, DiMaggio was walking up the aisle heading straight toward me and my wife. I had
seen him throw out the ceremonial first pitch moments before and that was very cool. But this was different, bigger — private, sort of. He never looked up, never waved. Must have been busy thinking, well, what do you think when you’re Joe DiMaggio? He got to within about 10 feet of us, then turned left and went off to wherever he was going. But that was close enough. I got a chill, literally, and said to my wife, “That’s Joe DiMaggio.” She said, “I know,” equally in awe. I thought of the painting of him above my desk, I thought of the story of him leaving flowers for Marilyn (Monroe), I thought of the goofy images of Joe palling around with his teammates. And I thought of his swing. He was bigger than baseball, the kind of guy you see in history books.
— Gene Kahane, Alameda
Our son was in Little League in Concord, sometime in the ’70s, and we were in the stands. Sitting far down on the rightfield side, and all by himself, was Joe DiMaggio. I think he had a granddaughter who was playing that day. Most folks always stayed away from Joe, as that was his wish and he made it clear that was his desire. But I took the chance of approaching him. He looked up at me with a frown. I apologized but asked if he remembered Ernie Sulik. He smiled right away and asked how I knew him. Ernie was my former wife’s father and had played with Joe on the San Francisco Seals (of the Pacific Coast League).
Joe told me he had some nice memories of Ernie, and he was sorry when I let him know Ernie had passed away. He and I talked for about 10 minutes while the game was going on, then we said our goodbyes. He was very nice, friendly. Had a nice sense of humor and he really made me feel good.
— Lynn Fischer, Pittsburg
Stanford, Plunkett slay the Trojans
Perfect fall afternoon in Palo Alto, 1970, Stanford 24, USC 14. Stanford hadn’t beaten USC since 1957, and quarterback Jim Plunkett said he came back for his senior year to do just that. There was consistency to those 24 points for Plunkett against the Trojans: a 2724 loss to the O.J. Simpsonled team in 1968, and a 2624 loss on a lastsecond field goal in ’69. Finally, 24 was enough, thanks to Dave Tipton and his fellow Thunder Chickens running roughshod over the USC offense. It was a privilege to be in the stands.
— Wade Jones, Fresno
Marichal’s nono
June 15, 1963: Juan Marichal’s nohitter against the Houston Colt .45s at Candlestick. I was 11 and was there with my dad to celebrate Father’s Day. It was a classic pitcher’s duel (Dick Drott went the distance for Houston), and neither team scored until the bottom of the eighth inning when my favorite player, Jim Davenport, doubled to lead off the inning. Just when it looked like he’d be stranded at second base with two outs, Chuck Hiller doubled him home. Marichal made quick work of the Colt .45s in the ninth and the nohitter was in the books. We relived every part of the game on the Muni bus ride home, and when I started feeling sick — maybe it was the crowded bus and all that cigarette smoke — we got off and walked all the way back to our house at the top of Castro Street. Years later, I met Marichal at a Giants Fantasy Camp in Arizona, and he couldn’t have been more gracious. He told me how lucky I was to have such a wonderful father, and how glad he was to be a part of it.
— Matt Mullan, Santa Rosa
Miracle Mets
I was 16 in 1969, and
Memories continues on B5
our gang of Jersey girls didn’t much care for baseball — except for our friend Karin, who was crazy for the New York Mets. Why would she have such a passion? The Mets had been a joke during their eight measly years of existence, but not to Karin, ever the champion of the underdog. So when she invited me to go to a game that summer (May 10), how could I say no? Of course, the Mets played in a place called Flushing, but the name belied the beauty. The symmetry of the diamond, the park’s exquisitely manicured green outfield, all contained within an immense architectural miracle. If there could be such a vast and perfect space in this most urban of cities, then surely anything was possible. Tom Seaver, then a handsome rising star, pitched a completegame masterpiece. Our guys won the game, beating the Houston Astros 31. The Mets became a story, one helluva harmonic convergence, and they beat the Baltimore Orioles to win the championship. It launched a whole new phase of life for me, something I really and truly cared about. I loved my family and friends, but baseball had an altogether different grip on me. I had become one of the faithful.
— Linda Gebroe, San Francisco
Namath’s guarantee
I was born and raised in Miami, and my dad worked for a billboard company that had four Dolphins season tickets. That team was so bad in the mid’60s, the company often couldn’t give those seats away — but imagine our sense of wonder when Super Bowl
III came to town in January 1969. We were so excited to see Joe Namath: white shoes, long hair peeking out of the back of his helmet, 50yard spirals with just a flick of his wrist. We’d been watching him destroy the Dolphins for several years, and Joe Willie played with such panache. He was like a pirate out on the field, the coolest man in the world outside of rock and roll. We believed it when he guaranteed the win, too. Sitting in the stadium as the game ended, Jets over the Colts with a largely AFL crowd going crazy, gave me a buzzing sensation. I knew that we had seen something special. — Mike Cochrane,
Walnut Creek
Giants make the ’62 playoffs
Sept. 30, 1962, at soldout Candlestick, last day of the Giants’ regular season. The Giants won the game against Houston 21 on a Willie Mays home run, but we needed the Dodgers to lose to get into a playoff. No one left the park. We all stood frozen in place. Amazingly, the P.A. announcer was giving us playbyplay results from L.A., where the Dodgers were locked in a pitcher’s battle with Curt Simmons and the Cardinals. Finally, last of the ninth, two out … game over! Dodgers lose, 10! It was a miracle comeback by the Giants, who had trailed by four games with seven games to go. They beat L.A. in the playoff and finally lost the World Series to the Yankees of Whitey Ford and Mickey Mantle, but on that day, 41,327 of us exulted at Candlestick and yelled our joyful heads off. — Al Cavagnaro,
San Francisco