[The] player I liked best was Stan Musial, the lithe slugger of the Cardinals, just back from the war, who always seemed to be smiling as he went about his business of smiting terror in Brooklyn. Stan the Man, as we had named him, seemed to represent all the daily goodness of his sport – the workaday regularity, the possibilities, the joy. – George Vecsey in Stan Musial: An American Life (Ballentine Books, 2012)
Sometimes it is the mind that
rescues us, the imagination of a grown man with a boy’s heart that soothes a
beaten and tired soul. Another arctic freeze brought ice storms and power
outages to the Philadelphia suburbs at the start of February, forcing Andrea
and I into temporary exile as we fled our dark and heatless home. How I long
for relief from winter’s grip. The lingering cold has cast a cruel glare upon
the fragile and traumatized life in its path. More snow arrived this week,
adding to record accumulations. And yet, there is hope, a glimpse of sunshine
in the awakened slumber of the American South.
Pitchers and catchers reported to
work on Wednesday, marking the beginnings, in Florida and Arizona at least, of
the annual rite of spring. From aging veterans and newly-signed free agents to
aspiring rookies and hopeful minor leaguers, players stretch and toss and run
wind sprints in an effort to get ready for opening day, when everyone believes
in miracles. The 32 baseball teams that form the elite version of the American
pastime have gathered to prepare for another season.
I willed the start of spring earlier than usual
this year, buying a copy of the annual Sporting
News Baseball Preview at a local newsstand in the tunnels of Suburban
Station on my daily commute home. Glancing at the pages of this year’s issue warms
my spirit if not my body as I peruse the projected rosters for each team, the
predicted winners and losers, and last season’s statistics. Looking from my
window at the snow-covered ground below, I glance at this year’s preview and am
energized by photographs of Yadier Molina squatting behind home plate in
the glare of the summer sun; of Matt Carpenter finishing his swing as he
accelerates from the batter’s box; of Adam Wainwright in an extended leg kick
as he releases his curve ball, the momentum of his body thrusting forward so
that he can almost touch where the pitcher’s mound meets the infield grass.
This is the time of year when I once again dream of a glorious season. When the
youthful endeavors of grown men playing a boy’s game allow for memories of childhood;
for the smell of grass and dirt and a leather glove, and of spikes and sweat
and the cool scent of spring.
* * * *
Although he left us a year ago, I
made it a point recently to learn more about one of the most underrated and
underappreciated players of all time, the late great Stan Musial of the St.
Louis Cardinals. I was only four years old when Musial retired at the end of
the 1963 season, not yet awakened to my love of baseball or of the Cardinals. Within
a few years, I would be forever hooked as a loyal and dedicated member of
Cardinal Nation, a devoted follower of Bob Gibson, Lou Brock, Orlando Cepeda,
and every player lucky enough to don the red-and-white birds-on-the-bat. I would
hear good things about Stan the Man, always good things – that he was a kind
and generous human being, one of the greatest hitters of all time, the face of
the franchise for nearly 22 seasons. But he was a face of the past, an old
timer, an irrelevancy to the life and passions of an eight year-old boy who
fell in love with baseball as it was then being played. Like most young boys, I
failed to appreciate the people and events of yesteryear, which continue a long
line of history and tradition that contributes to the greatness that is
baseball.
Last week, I finished Stan Musial: An American Life by George Vecsey, the talented and long-tenured sports columnist for The New York Times. An uplifting biography, as much a tribute to the man as the ballplayer, I feel at long last connected to Musial’s life and career in ways that have eluded me all these years. A lifetime .331 hitter, Musial was a twenty time all-star and three-time MVP. He led the National League in batting seven times and today remains fourth on the all-time hit list (3,630) despite missing the entire 1945 season to serve his country during the Second World War. At the height of his career, he held more than 50 National League and Major League hitting records. He led the league eight times in doubles, five times in triples and, in 12,717 plate appearances, struck out only 696 times. He was a natural, a real life Roy Hobbs without the drama.
“He could have hit .300 with a
fountain pen,” said his former teammate and baseball announcer Joe Garagiola. “There
is only one way to pitch to Musial,” said Leo Durocher, the fiery manager of
the Brooklyn Dodgers, “under the plate.” Preacher Roe, a four-time all-star
pitcher, developed a different strategy: “I throw him four wide ones, then try
to pick him off first base.” Carl Erskine, who won twenty games for the Dodgers
in 1953, said he always had “pretty good success” with Musial “by throwing him
my best pitch and backing up third.”
Life is easier for some people
than for others. One can almost sense God smiling, puffing his heavenly cigar
and taking a break from the world’s pain and daily struggles whenever Musial
stepped to the plate. For Musial, baseball was a simple game, hitting a simple
pleasure. “You wait for a strike,” he said, “then you knock the shit out of
it.” The type of pitch didn’t much matter to him. “When a pitcher’s throwing a
spitball, don’t worry and don’t complain, just hit the dry side like I do.”
Musial was not a flashy man. A working-class kid
from Donora, Pennsylvania, he grew up in steel country during the Great
Depression. His father, a Polish immigrant who labored in a mill outside of
Pittsburgh, drank heavily and was, by most accounts, a distant father and
unsupportive husband. It was a hard life, but Musial never showed it and never
talked much about it. He instead developed a positive, optimistic air, a
genuine humility that, even after years of stardom and celebrity, never left
him.
Unlike the ballplayers of today,
Musial almost never turned away an autograph seeker, sometimes standing around
long after a game ended to sign every scrap of paper put before him. He played in America’s heartland, outside of
the New York and Boston media spotlights. He didn’t marry Marilyn Monroe or
carry an attitude. He married his high school sweetheart and remained in love with her for the rest of his life. He never got tossed from a game
and didn’t stand at home plate after hitting a home run to admire his work – he
never tried to show up anyone. When Jackie Robinson and other African American
players arrived to the major leagues amid racism and prejudice, Musial was
recognized for his decent and respectful nature. He treated everyone the same.
Mickey Mantle once said that he
had more natural ability than Musial; Mantle was more powerful and could run
faster. If not for injuries, hard drinking and hard living, Mantle may have
been the best ballplayer to ever live. But late in his life, Mantle let it be
known that he maintained a special respect for Musial, for the ballplayer and
for the man. “Stan was a better player,” Mantle said, “because he’s a better
man than me. Because he got everything out of life and his ability that he
could. And he’ll never have to live with all the regret that I have to live
with.”
“All Musial represents,” said sportscaster Bob
Costas, “is more than two decades of sustained excellence and complete decency
as a human being.” He was, wrote the Los
Angeles Times following Musial’s death in January 2013, “incredibly good
for an incredibly long time and an unbelievably nice guy.”
In hindsight, it is not difficult
to see why Musial was such a happy, content human being. He was a humble man
who loved life, remained devoted to his family, and appreciated the gifts he
had. He understood just how lucky he was to have the opportunity to do what he
loved the most, to play the greatest game on earth, a young boy’s game in a
man’s world. “I love to play this game of baseball,” Musial told Sport Magazine in 1963. “I love putting
on this uniform.” For Musial, it was that simple.
If heaven exists, you can bet Musial is there
now, wearing his familiar number six and kneeling in the on-deck circle,
waiting patiently for his turn at bat. He may not have a lot of company up
there – many of his fellow ballplayers may not have made the Great League in
the Sky – but Musial undoubtedly dons his uniform and grips the handle of his
favorite wooden bat. He is surely keeping God company, playing his harmonica
every now and then, and graciously wishing the best for all of us.
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