Grounds with his parents, counting effigies of the luckless Ralph Branca hanging from Brooklyn light poles. The Yankees headed to a pre-Series bash at the Press Club; Mantle went to the hotel room of Tom Greenwade, the scout who had landed him there. Greenwade’s wife, Florence, answered the door. “He said, ‘Would you mind if I came into your room and just stayed here awhile ’til he gets back?’” their son Bunch recalled.
He didn’t offer an explanation for his appearance at her door or for his glum mood. Florence Greenwade assumed homesickness was the cause. It was a Mantle story she often told, and her daughter Angie remembers it well: “So he spent his evening sitting with my mother. She said he was so miserably unhappy; wondered what he’d gotten himself into. I think he was scared and nervous. He knew that so much was expected of him.”
Mrs. Greenwade didn’t ask any questions. She didn’t ask anything of him at all. Angie said, “He basically sat there quietly. I’m sure he knew nobody would be knockin’ at the door looking for him. He didn’t have to do anything but be. ”
On October 4, 1951, parking meters were installed in downtown Brooklyn, adding insult to the injury of the heartbroken borough. An American in Paris opened at Radio City Music Hall in Manhattan. And in the Bronx, Mantle played in his first World Series game.
Baseball was on the cusp of radical change. Babe Ruth was three years dead; DiMaggio was taking his curtain call. His successor, Mickey Mantle, the first telegenic star of the new broadcast age, was installed in right field. Mantle’s charismatic foil, Willie Mays, was playing center field for baseball’s first all-black outfield.
Unlike Mantle, Mays arrived in New York without tabloid fanfare. Unlike Mantle, Mays pleaded to be sent to the minors when he struggled during his first days with the Giants. But they had more in common than it appeared, more than a shared future on similar real estate.
Born the same year to fathers who rolled baseballs across the floor to baby boys who could not yet walk, they were in their major league infancy. What the 65,000 paying customers at Yankee Stadium saw that afternoon were two works in progress whose unlimited potential wouldfuel unending debate. They would improve each other and everyone who played with them and against them.
Arriving at the Stadium that morning, Mantle was startled to see his name in the starting lineup—batting leadoff. The Giants had had no time to catch their breath or sit still for the usual briefings. “We just went out and played,” outfielder Monte Irvin said. “We didn’t know anything about anybody.”
Their scouts had alerted them to Mantle’s uncompromised speed; nonetheless, when they saw him on the base paths in game 1, they were stunned by the fact of it. “Fastest white guy we’ve ever seen to first base,” shortstop Alvin Dark said.
Adrenaline carried the Giants to a 5–1 victory in the first of the sixty-five World Series games Mantle would play. The second of them would be the most pivotal game of his career.
Fifth inning, game 2. DiMaggio is in center; Mantle is in right. Mays steps to the plate. The collision of fates is almost operatic, triangulating the future of the game. On the mound, Eddie Lopat goes into his windup. Mays gets wood on the ball but not a lot. The result is a tepid opposite-field fly ball, not deep, not well hit, not difficult to catch except that it’s what ballplayers call a tweener, splitting the difference between DiMaggio in center and Mantle in right.
Here’s DiMaggio, shaded over toward left center, asserting his proud prerogative— This is my turf! Mine! And here’s Mantle, chasing the future across America’s most famous lawn. Isn’t that what Stengel had told him to do? The dago’s heel is hurtin’. Go for everything.
He was new at this outfield play. Hell, everything was new for him. Maybe he didn’t understand the etiquette—if the
He didn’t offer an explanation for his appearance at her door or for his glum mood. Florence Greenwade assumed homesickness was the cause. It was a Mantle story she often told, and her daughter Angie remembers it well: “So he spent his evening sitting with my mother. She said he was so miserably unhappy; wondered what he’d gotten himself into. I think he was scared and nervous. He knew that so much was expected of him.”
Mrs. Greenwade didn’t ask any questions. She didn’t ask anything of him at all. Angie said, “He basically sat there quietly. I’m sure he knew nobody would be knockin’ at the door looking for him. He didn’t have to do anything but be. ”
On October 4, 1951, parking meters were installed in downtown Brooklyn, adding insult to the injury of the heartbroken borough. An American in Paris opened at Radio City Music Hall in Manhattan. And in the Bronx, Mantle played in his first World Series game.
Baseball was on the cusp of radical change. Babe Ruth was three years dead; DiMaggio was taking his curtain call. His successor, Mickey Mantle, the first telegenic star of the new broadcast age, was installed in right field. Mantle’s charismatic foil, Willie Mays, was playing center field for baseball’s first all-black outfield.
Unlike Mantle, Mays arrived in New York without tabloid fanfare. Unlike Mantle, Mays pleaded to be sent to the minors when he struggled during his first days with the Giants. But they had more in common than it appeared, more than a shared future on similar real estate.
Born the same year to fathers who rolled baseballs across the floor to baby boys who could not yet walk, they were in their major league infancy. What the 65,000 paying customers at Yankee Stadium saw that afternoon were two works in progress whose unlimited potential wouldfuel unending debate. They would improve each other and everyone who played with them and against them.
Arriving at the Stadium that morning, Mantle was startled to see his name in the starting lineup—batting leadoff. The Giants had had no time to catch their breath or sit still for the usual briefings. “We just went out and played,” outfielder Monte Irvin said. “We didn’t know anything about anybody.”
Their scouts had alerted them to Mantle’s uncompromised speed; nonetheless, when they saw him on the base paths in game 1, they were stunned by the fact of it. “Fastest white guy we’ve ever seen to first base,” shortstop Alvin Dark said.
Adrenaline carried the Giants to a 5–1 victory in the first of the sixty-five World Series games Mantle would play. The second of them would be the most pivotal game of his career.
Fifth inning, game 2. DiMaggio is in center; Mantle is in right. Mays steps to the plate. The collision of fates is almost operatic, triangulating the future of the game. On the mound, Eddie Lopat goes into his windup. Mays gets wood on the ball but not a lot. The result is a tepid opposite-field fly ball, not deep, not well hit, not difficult to catch except that it’s what ballplayers call a tweener, splitting the difference between DiMaggio in center and Mantle in right.
Here’s DiMaggio, shaded over toward left center, asserting his proud prerogative— This is my turf! Mine! And here’s Mantle, chasing the future across America’s most famous lawn. Isn’t that what Stengel had told him to do? The dago’s heel is hurtin’. Go for everything.
He was new at this outfield play. Hell, everything was new for him. Maybe he didn’t understand the etiquette—if the
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