By Charlie Danrick

It happened in the summer of 1957-the Dodgers last year in Brooklyn. I doubt if it was the last time I saw the Brooklyn team in person since I used to go into Jersey City to watch them in Roosevelt Stadium. Peter O’Malley simply wanted to prepare the people of Brooklyn in ’57 that their beloved Bums were on shaky ground in their Ebbets Field temple of great times. Never had there been greater treachery in our national pastime; never will we see anything as treacherous.I remember it was on a Saturday afternoon and I, plus some NY Giants fans from Palmer Street, Passaic,NJ, hopped on a subway to see the Milwaukee Braves versus the Dodgers.Even though I was friendly with these pro Giants creeps,they’d ride hell out of me when my Bums lost so why not in person?And of course I’d return the favor but with trepidation because of being outnumbered 5-1.

So we arrived at Ebbets way before game time and as my “buddies” wandered I decided to stand behind the screen to the right of home plate to watch the great Warren Spahn warm up with Del Crandall. The Squatting Crandall must have been no more than five feet from me. So here he was, pounding his mitt, Spahnie wound, the left foot went way up and in came his fastball. I stood there and said nothing because I was in awe of one of the greatest southpaws who ever took the hill. Crandall must have then given him the sign for the curve because the next few pitches came in at Del’s right shoulder and broke down and away to his left knee. A thing of beauty but being a Dodger fan I couldn’t stand it anymore.

Having been a wiseguy in my youth plus a Milwaukee hater, I said something like,”Why don’t you jackasses go back to beer town where you belong? Why are you stinking up Ebbets?” I stood right there at the screen with my fingers wrapped around it. Crandall turned around, lookerd at me and said nothing. Spahn continued warming up as I continued warming up also. “Spahn looks like a has been today,” I yelled. “The old guy ought to retire.” Crandall once again, from the squatting position turned to me and said, “Kid, shut your mouth.” Then I came out with something like,”Look at these two old Brewtown drunks. One’s a has been and the other a bully.” Spahn stopped throwing while peering in for the sign. I stood there oblivious to what was about to happen. Spahn then wound and threw an absolute dart—right at my fingers gripping the fence. Had I not been a young stud with fast reflexes, I’d be tapping out this piece with my toes. I let ! go of that fence just in time. The ball hit with such a resounding thud, it knocked me back right into a vacant seat.

I must have turned from white to albino. Crandall got up,looked at me and asked,”Had enough?” Spahn had a smirk from ear to ear. And I? I had the living spit scared out of me. But there’s more to this story.

Having been a Major League Baseball Properties licensee beginning 1988, I and my son were invited to the ’88 All Star Game in Cincinnati. We flew out and took a bus from Erlanger Airport in Kentucky to the Omni Netherland Plaza, downtown Cincy. Little did I know that this was where the Old Timers were put up even though I did get into nice discussions with Gaylord Perry and Larry Doby who sat very close to me on the flight.

Remember the Old Timers Day game preceding All Star Games? The good old days and Gaylord started the one I saw.

So my son and I walked into the Plaza to register and to bring our luggage to the elevator since a bellhop was nowhere to be found. Standing and waiting too I said hello to and got replies from Luke Appling, Bob Feller and Bob Lemon. Then there he was-Warren Spahn.

I said hello. No answer. Maybe he had become a bit deaf. So I repeated myself in a louder voice. No reply; he ignored me. Then I said to myself,”Maybe he remembered me way back from 1957?”