Read Online Summer of '68: The Season That Changed Baseball--And America--Forever by Tim Wendel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tim Wendel
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show we could put points on the board. That was our way to win over more fans.”
Of course, any football owner would have loved to woo fans away from baseball. But as farfetched as it may sound now, baseball was often the front-page news in 1968. It was the sport that kept everybody talking.
With five consecutive shutouts, Drysdale had tied Doc White’s record. Next up were the Pittsburgh Pirates on June 4 at Dodger Stadium. Before another capacity crowd at Chavez Ravine, Drysdale gave up only three hits, one to Maury Wills, the Dodgers’ former shortstop who was now with Pittsburgh. The streak had now reached fifty-four innings and counting.
Later that same evening, Robert Kennedy made his way through the crowded Embassy Ballroom to the podium at the Ambassador Hotel. When he positioned himself at the two microphones, nobody could hear him at first.
“Can we get something that works,” Kennedy asked, anxious for the technical difficulties to be ironed out.
Even when the problem was fixed, he asked several times, “Can you hear?” before going ahead. Only minutes earlier, the networks had named RFK the winner of the California primary. At this point in time, many believed he held the inside track to the Democratic Party nomination for president. With his wife, Ethel, at his side, Kennedy smiled again and ran his fingers through his hair. On either side, the media held out their microphones to capture every word, while others took photographs. Behind him, former professional football player Roosevelt Grier, who often traveled with Kennedy, broke into a wide grin, surveying the cheering crowd. To watch the scene decades later, on YouTube or elsewhere, is to be reminded how distant our heroes stand from us now, how wide the gap between the stage and the first row has become, and how much security is now in place. Of course, that’s due, in large part, by what happened on this evening.
“I’d like to express my high regard to Don Drysdale,” Kennedy said, and the packed ballroom broke into applause for the hometown pitcher. “Who pitched his sixth straight shutout tonight.”
Here Kennedy paused, suppressing a smile. The more jaded among us would say that the candidate was doing what any good politician does: dropping the name of a hometown favorite. An easy applause line to break the ice. Yet Kennedy certainly knew of Drysdale’s achievement. He, as much as anybody at that time, realized that politics had already become forever intertwined with sports.
“And I hope,” Kennedy continued, not wanting to let go of the Drysdale thread quite yet, “we can have as good fortune in our campaign.”
From there, he spoke for about fifteen minutes, a rambling address that was later compared to an Academy Awards acceptance speech rather than traditional political oratory. He concluded with a Churchill-like V-for-Victory sign and then, to the surprise of several of his handlers, he exited through the kitchen.
The networks had already cut away when the bad news began to filter through the ballroom at the Ambassador Hotel. Still, the cameras rolled as the rumor spread like a shadow and face after face dissolved into tears and anguish. Campaign workers began to hug each other out of nightmarish sadness rather than euphoric happiness. Later it was learned that Grier, along with Olympic gold medalist Rafer Johnson and writer George Plimpton, had wrestled Kennedy’s assailant, Sirhan Sirhan, to the floor.
Kennedy’s campaign held a genuine connection with the world of sports. The New York Times stated that “at least fifty star athletes, former athletes and coaches” had enlisted in his presidential bid. Their ranks included Vince Lombardi, Gale Sayers, Gary Beban, Stan Musial, Hank Aaron, Donald Dell, Bob Cousy, and Dave Bing. Oscar Robinson did advance work for the campaign in Indiana, while Bill Russell taped radio endorsements for Kennedy. The assassination devastated the nation, and sports, like any other
Of course, any football owner would have loved to woo fans away from baseball. But as farfetched as it may sound now, baseball was often the front-page news in 1968. It was the sport that kept everybody talking.
With five consecutive shutouts, Drysdale had tied Doc White’s record. Next up were the Pittsburgh Pirates on June 4 at Dodger Stadium. Before another capacity crowd at Chavez Ravine, Drysdale gave up only three hits, one to Maury Wills, the Dodgers’ former shortstop who was now with Pittsburgh. The streak had now reached fifty-four innings and counting.
Later that same evening, Robert Kennedy made his way through the crowded Embassy Ballroom to the podium at the Ambassador Hotel. When he positioned himself at the two microphones, nobody could hear him at first.
“Can we get something that works,” Kennedy asked, anxious for the technical difficulties to be ironed out.
Even when the problem was fixed, he asked several times, “Can you hear?” before going ahead. Only minutes earlier, the networks had named RFK the winner of the California primary. At this point in time, many believed he held the inside track to the Democratic Party nomination for president. With his wife, Ethel, at his side, Kennedy smiled again and ran his fingers through his hair. On either side, the media held out their microphones to capture every word, while others took photographs. Behind him, former professional football player Roosevelt Grier, who often traveled with Kennedy, broke into a wide grin, surveying the cheering crowd. To watch the scene decades later, on YouTube or elsewhere, is to be reminded how distant our heroes stand from us now, how wide the gap between the stage and the first row has become, and how much security is now in place. Of course, that’s due, in large part, by what happened on this evening.
“I’d like to express my high regard to Don Drysdale,” Kennedy said, and the packed ballroom broke into applause for the hometown pitcher. “Who pitched his sixth straight shutout tonight.”
Here Kennedy paused, suppressing a smile. The more jaded among us would say that the candidate was doing what any good politician does: dropping the name of a hometown favorite. An easy applause line to break the ice. Yet Kennedy certainly knew of Drysdale’s achievement. He, as much as anybody at that time, realized that politics had already become forever intertwined with sports.
“And I hope,” Kennedy continued, not wanting to let go of the Drysdale thread quite yet, “we can have as good fortune in our campaign.”
From there, he spoke for about fifteen minutes, a rambling address that was later compared to an Academy Awards acceptance speech rather than traditional political oratory. He concluded with a Churchill-like V-for-Victory sign and then, to the surprise of several of his handlers, he exited through the kitchen.
The networks had already cut away when the bad news began to filter through the ballroom at the Ambassador Hotel. Still, the cameras rolled as the rumor spread like a shadow and face after face dissolved into tears and anguish. Campaign workers began to hug each other out of nightmarish sadness rather than euphoric happiness. Later it was learned that Grier, along with Olympic gold medalist Rafer Johnson and writer George Plimpton, had wrestled Kennedy’s assailant, Sirhan Sirhan, to the floor.
Kennedy’s campaign held a genuine connection with the world of sports. The New York Times stated that “at least fifty star athletes, former athletes and coaches” had enlisted in his presidential bid. Their ranks included Vince Lombardi, Gale Sayers, Gary Beban, Stan Musial, Hank Aaron, Donald Dell, Bob Cousy, and Dave Bing. Oscar Robinson did advance work for the campaign in Indiana, while Bill Russell taped radio endorsements for Kennedy. The assassination devastated the nation, and sports, like any other
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