1963, Yankee Stadium, New York

By John Cannatella

The year was 1963, a time of change and a personal epiphany in my 19-plus years on the planet.

I was almost a man. In fact, I was living independently since my parents had made the move to California from the Bronx the year before to follow in the pioneer footsteps of my older brother and sister and their families.

I was, of course, included in the transition, but my heart and ambitions were in New York, and I had returned to follow my fortunes after a short and futile adaptation phase on the West Coast.

I felt ready to tackle life on my own terms, and my mother conceded in permitting her headstrong youngest to depart the herd. Yeah, I pestered her to distraction.

My father, an accomplished carpenter, cabinetmaker, and independent contractor with a sterling reputation in the New York area, had returned to the Bronx to attend to unfinished business in the spring of that year. It was a rare occurrence when we had quality time together in my youth, so this opportunity was priceless for me.

I decided that it was time to assert my adult status and take him to a ball game at Yankee Stadium. Although not a baseball enthusiast, he had taken me to ball games when I was a kid, and I wanted to return the favor. I purchased tickets for the May 22 game between the Yankees and the Athletics, a team then based in Kansas City.

We had seats in the grandstand along the third-base line, and I proceeded to pepper my father with every fact I knew about Mickey Mantle, whom I believed to be the greatest baseball player ever. Not only was he the most powerful hitter in the game - the first switch-hitter to be so, I informed him - but he was also the fastest, another first.

Every time the Mick came to bat, I went into spasms of ecstasy. “Watch him, Dad. Watch what he does,” I would alert, just in case he might miss some great eminent feat.

My father, a very patient, tolerant man, would try to assuage my exalted expectations. “That’s all right, John. He doesn’t have to prove it every time. I believe you.”

I knew that in his infinite wisdom, he was trying to protect me from major disappointment. That wasn’t enough for me. I wanted him to see greatness with his own eyes. I wanted him to know that I wasn’t just a frenzied fan, that all my hyperbole was truly warranted.

In his first at bat, the Mick hit a screaming line drive that handcuffed the right fielder for a hit. He was intentionally walked twice in the course of the game and struck out once, if memory serves, which threw me into fits of frustration, my father exerting his calming influence each time.

When the Athletics tied the game at 7 to send it into extra innings, I was delighted because that meant that Mickey might get another at bat. Witnessing this, my father questioned whether I was a Yankee fan or a Mantle crusader.

I was embarrassed and dejected. I just wanted my dad to see that I was right about something and my passion not misplaced. I was the youngest, after all, and was never taken seriously within my family circle. My best shot at validation was through my father, who was always loving and supportive. I wanted to reward him with proof of my facility to estimate excellence.

When I was younger and playing ball, my family never came to any of my games. My older brother played basketball, and his contests were regularly attended. My parents drove by while I was coming to bat once and, having hit a home run earlier, I was determined to impress them with a prodigious shot.

I, of course, struck out. That was it, the only instance where I might have been lauded for my talents. I remained unappreciated and disregarded when it came to attempts at achievement, a strong inducement to leave the family bosom a couple of years later.

Now here I was, freshly liberated and treating my dad to a ball game as a significant rite of passage, and I wanted the moment to shine. This was my last shot at being taken seriously, and I dumped the responsibility of the moment on the muscular shoulders of a crippled and fading athlete who would hit only a total of 15 home runs that year and was clearly approaching his decline.

I was thrilled to see the Mick draw near the plate to lead off the bottom of the 11th inning, and I’m sure that my father worried for my state of mind if a desired result wasn’t achieved.

In an instant that stands in crystal relief in my mind’s eye, Bill Fischer threw a fastball that Mickey Mantle met with perfect precision and force, and he drove the ball against the right-field façade with a bang that echoed throughout the stadium and startled all in attendance.

This was no ordinary game-winning home run. The façade at Yankee Stadium, an overhang at the very pinnacle of the third deck, was only hit once before. That was on May 30, 1956, by none other than … Mickey Mantle!

That shot, hit off Pedro Ramos of the Washington Senators, was a high Ruthian arc that hit the façade on the way down (620 feet) and made headlines. This time, with my father and I attending, the ball was a rising laser that hit the façade on the way up, almost leaving the stadium altogether, and is considered the longest home run ever hit in the history of the game - an estimated 734 feet.

I watched as the Kansas City players strolled slowly off the field, looking up in amazement and pointing to where the ball hit. Instead of raucous cheers, there was awed silence, as the fans filed out of the stadium that night. There was a palpable sense of having witnessed something inhuman, and quite impossible, pervading the crowd, and the only appropriate response was respectful stillness.

My father didn’t speak until we were in the car and almost back at our rented room. Even I had the presence of mind to recognize the moment and keep my enthusiastic mouth shut. I was, in fact, quite awestruck and at a loss for words. The events of the evening had exceeded all expectations and needed no further accounting. It would be blasphemy.

I have since grown into the world and, while sustaining enthusiasm as a valued approach to living, I no longer wax manic at the achievements of others - or myself, for that matter. It’s all good, and substance can be found in humble surroundings. Still, the contribution that Mickey Mantle unconsciously made to the relationship of a loving father and his coming-of-age son will stay with me until my last day.

At just the right moment, in the right place, Mickey Mantle did something uncommon to confirm my estimation of him, his abilities, and his hero status. He stood up for me, as I had for him, and accomplished something miraculous.

With one swing of the bat, he heralded my entrance into manhood and presented me with the gift of self-assurance that would endure and sustain me for the rest of my life.

John Cannatella is a professional actor.

Posted by Common Ties on Monday, November 19th, 2007 | Email This Post

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