Uniform Day...
Andy Harrington felt special as he ripped the strings off the box. He knew what was inside the package, as he tore into the paper and tossed the lid across the room. He knew it was a Pirates’ uniform. Grandma Harrington and the Pearl City Lady Auxiliary had come through, just like they said they would. It was just two days before the trip to Grand Valley, and his new uniform was in his possession — his name stenciled on the back — H-A-R-R-I-N-G-T-O-N, the Number Six centered just below his name.
The young man shook his head and questioned himself, “What am I, a 10-year-old?”
“No,” Anne said jokingly. “You’re a 17-year-old and you’re officially a member of the Pearl City Pirates.”
About fifteen miles southeast of the Harrington House, it seemed more like Christmas Eve as Jane and Ace Hightower stood in the McPherson’s living room, along with Gladys, Joel, and Coach Dugan, and watched, with smiles on their faces, as Ricky and the four McPherson brothers tore into the boxes.
“Hey, look at this, Boomer, they have our nicknames on the back of our uniforms — Bugs, Bumper, Booker T, and Boomer. Fancy that!”
Ricky eyed the back of his jersey — H-I-G-H-T-O-W-E-R, 11. “Hey, they say eleven is a lucky number.” Ricky tried on the jersey and pulled hard on the sleeves; his broad shoulders made the task a bit difficult.
“Perfect fit, don’t you think, Coach Dugan?”
“It looks good to me.”
The dinner party commenced. The uniforms were forgotten as Gladys placed a pot roast in the center of the family dinner table. “Let’s eat,” Joel McPherson said.
Walker Sullivan turned off the lights at the gas station, locked the front door to the office, and put his arms around his son. “You did a great job this afternoon getting Helen Trotter’s old Dodge tuned up. I want you to take a couple of days off and get ready for some BASEBALL.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Oh, and by the way, Coach Dugan dropped by a while ago. You were busy under the hood of Trotter’s jalopy. I thought you might need this.”
Mr. Sullivan tossed the package to his son.
“It’s my new Pirates’ uniform. What do you think, Dad?” Silky said as he tore into the package and raised his jersey. “Number 16 on the back and that’s our name…S-U-L-L-I-V-A-N!”
“I think I got a ball player in the midst,” Walter said. “Let’s go get some grub.”
Jackie Williams sat across from her daughter, Elizabeth. For the past four years, she had raised her only child by herself. Her husband never returned from the Vietnam War, listed missing in action during the summer of 1965. It had been tough on her and especially tough on “string bean” — a nickname her husband, Malcolm, had bestowed on his daughter when she was just four years old.
Her teammates on the 1968 Pearl City High track team had quickly thrown another handle her way, Lightning Bean Williams.
As she sat across from her daughter, watching her pull her Pirates’ uniform out of the box, she wiped away the tears and wished Malcolm were seated beside her. Malcolm was just nineteen when Elizabeth was born. Elizabeth had just turned thirteen when Malcolm returned to the service for his third tour of duty at the age of thirty-two.
“It looks like Anne Harrington had a personal hand in your uniform,” Jackie said, as she helped her daughter button the jersey. Jackie turned her around and admired the name on the back — L-I-G-H-T-N-I-N-G B-E-A-N.
The following morning, Coach Dugan handed out the remaining uniforms. The Johnson brothers and the “Ridgeway Four” joined their teammates as the entire team assembled in left field. It was picture day, and the media were on hand to take photos of all the players.
A small crowd had gathered in the bleachers along the third base line — all friends and family of the new Pirates.
The excitement was building.
“You must be Coach Dugan?” said the reporter.
“Yes, I’m Johnny Dugan. Can I help you?”
“Willard Smith here. I drove down from Grand Valley and brought my photographer with me. “Any chance of getting some personal shots of you?”
“I’m not much into posing for a camera.”
“It won’t take long, and we’ll get some nice shots of your boys, too.”
“All right, Mr. Willard. Have at it.”
With all the commotion behind them, the Pirates got back to work. Johnny had the Pirates work on their outfield play, using his fungo bat to hit balls with a high trajectory to left, center, and right. He, once again, spent time on the cutoffs with relay throws to second, third, and home. A tough forty minutes of infield followed, and he wrapped up practice with a good hour of batting practice.
Booker T was last to bat. “Come on, coach. Give me your best stuff.”
“Okay, Booker T. You make sure that batting helmet is nice and tight.”
“Oh, coach. Come on, give me a hard one.”
The rest of the team gathered around. Johnny toed the rubber. Booker T stepped out of the box. The ball was already in the pocket of Bug McPherson’s catcher’s mitt.
“Wow, did you see that?” Silky said, questioning Boomer, who was standing next to him.
“I certainly did.”
“Coach, do that again,” yelled Boomer.
Johnny toed the rubber again, went into his windup, and unleashed the pitch. The blazing fastball was two feet over the head of Booker T and tore a hole into the backstop. The ball rolled twenty feet and came to rest at the feet of the Grand Valley Dispatch reporter.
Willard Smith stared at his photographer. “Did you get that?”
“That’s enough, Booker T.” Johnny stepped off the mound and rubbed his right eye. The team gathered around him. “That’s enough for today. The bus leaves at eight. Everyone meets in the parking lot at 7:15.”
Johnny grabbed a towel, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and walked across left field and headed for his office.
The Pirates stood near the mound, all stunned at what they had just witnessed.
Boomer looked at the hole in the backstop, shook his head, and said. “Let’s pack up, guys.”
The reporter and the photographer had left the premises.
*****
Grand Valley ruled the roost when it came to sports on the Western Slope of Colorado, except for one blip on the radar, back in 1962, when the Green River Rats surprised everyone by blowing by all comers in the northern region. They made it to the District Little League Final before losing to the southern region finalist, Johnsonville. 2-1.
As for football and basketball, every gymnasium at the two Grand Valley high schools had a lobby full of trophies. Very seldom was there a first-place trophy that didn’t make its way inside the glass cases at Grand Valley Central and Grand Valley Union High School.
As for the Rocky Mountain Summer Baseball League, it was the same old story, as Roy Thornton saw to it that his town of Grand Valley was well represented. Thornton not only owned the Western Slope Insurance Company, but was part owner with Forrest Rudemacher in the three auto dealerships in town, plus he owned a clothing store, a pizza parlor and just for the fun of it, owned a baseball and softball batting cage and a driving range for all the golfers in town. He was certainly the man about town, and he had all his bases covered. He had an ego to prove it.
Of course, Johnny Dugan knew very little about Mr. Thornton or Grand Valley, for that matter. He was focused on the Pearl City Pirates. He sat in the first seat of the Pirates’ bus, conversing with his new driver, Walker Sullivan. Not only did Silky’s father do the repair work on the old school bus, but he also offered his services.
“Hey, what can I say?” Walker said to Johnny two hours ago, when the Pirates first boarded the vehicle. “I love baseball, and this will get me a ringside seat.”
Johnny glanced back at his fourteen players, ranging in age from fifteen to nineteen, all of them ready for action against an older and more seasoned opponent. Johnny knew his players had become a unit in just over a month of practice, they came from the pastures of Green River, from the garage floor at a local gas station, from a community up north called Ridgeway — a town Johnny had never sat foot in, to a local girl — a track star who never played organized baseball in her life, to a couple of hometown “good old boys” who were more familiar with a football field then a baseball diamond…and to a young man learning how to play the game of baseball without three fingers on his left hand.
To top it off, Johnny’s Pirates would take the field in front of a hostile and very boisterous crowd, all of them rooting for the Grand Valley White Sox.
*****
“Batter up,” said the home plate umpire, a burly man with a crew cut. “Let’s play ball.”
Silky stepped to the plate and eyed the first pitch from a tall, lanky right-hander with a wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth. Gordo Hammerstadt looked to be about twenty-five years old, one of the returning players on Thornton’s roster. Returning all right. Gordo worked at the local steel plant and has been playing for the White Sox for six years, after dropping out of college in ’63, due to the fact he went 0-5 as a freshman at a small university — somewhere in the middle of Kansas.
As a member of the White Sox, it’s a different story. Gordo owns a lifetime record of 13-12, including one no-hitter in the summer of 1965. He had lost a little on his fastball, but Gordo could still pound the strike zone and his curveball broke late and was tough to pick up.
Silky, down in the count 0-2, let a Gordo curveball go by and the umpire rang him up.”Strike Three!”
Things didn’t get any better in the top of the first inning as the Grand Valley hurler struck out Bugs and coaxed Tank into grounding out to third. It was Boomer’s turn and he could hear Thornton giving last-minute instructions to his starting nine. “Let’s get to this guy early and pound him into submission.”
Boomer had other ideas. It took just twelve pitches for Boomer to get out of the bottom of the inning as he fanned the leadoff batter on four pitches, used a breaking pitch to force the next batter into grounding out to short, and the third batter to pop up to Tank in short left field.
Thornton stood on the dugout steps and shook his head. “What did they do, find themselves a Bob Gibson?”
Boomer was greeted with high-fives from his teammates as he walked off the field. “Way to go, Boomer!” Johnny said, patting his starter on the back. “I believe we have ourselves a ball game.” Johnny looked across the field and caught the stare of Roy Thornton. Johnny tipped his cap.
Gordo dug in to face Boomer, Bumper, and Dusty Johnson. All three hit the ball hard. Boomer pulled the ball to left, Bumper drilled a two-hopper to third, and Dusty ripped a come-backer to Gordo, but once again the Pirates went in order. Boomer was on fire in the bottom of the inning as well, fanning all three batters he faced.
The White Sox fans were stunned. Johnny heard the roar down the third baseline as a group of Pearl City fans were on their feet. Johnny smiled. It was the “boys of summer” with Sam Marino leading the cheers. They were not alone. Dean Johnson, Mayor Oldham, Walker Sullivan, Jackie Williams, and Anne Harrington waved their Pirate hats in unison.
The Pirates went quietly in the third. Corky Simpson struck out on three pitches, Booker T got wood on the ball and sent a fly ball to center and Billy Bob hit a one-hopper to third for the final out. In the bottom of the inning, Boomer unleashed a new pitch, a slider. The ball sailed away from the right-handers and in on the lefties. Coach Dugan had been working with Boomer on his new pitch. “You get them down in the count, you fire that baby. It’s going to be your out pitch.”
Surprisingly, the two teams failed to score in the fourth, fifth, and sixth innings. An old-fashioned pitching duel ensued between the hard-throwing Boomer McPherson and the crafty veteran, Gordo “the Hammer” Hammerstadt. Both pitchers took no-hitters into the seventh. Johnny was elated. Thornton was dismayed.
“This can’t be,” Thornton muttered as he paced up and down the dugout.
In the top of the seventh, the Pirates collected their first hit when Bugs beat out a slow roller to break up Gordo’s chance for a no-hitter, but the White Sox broke the ice in the last of the seventh — loading the bases on two singles and a walk. Boomer bore down with two outs and recorded his sixth strikeout of the night, leaving the runners stranded.
“Boomer, you’re pitching great,” said Johnny. “Are you tired?”
“I can do it, Coach Dugan. I can do it.”
And he did just that.
He fanned three straight in the bottom of the eighth and the Pirates came to bat in the top of the ninth inning —needing to manufacture a run. With one out, Johnny called time out and motioned for Ricky Hightower to grab a bat. Reluctantly, Ricky grabbed his bat and met his coach in the on-deck circle. “When you get on — and you will get on, I’m going to pinch run for you. Ricky, the pitcher is tiring. I can see it in his motion. If he throws you one on the inside part of the plate, you jump on it, just like you’ve been doing in practice. Flex those muscles, Ricky. Drill one!”
Ricky could feel his confidence building as he stepped into the batter’s box. He had faced tougher opponents on the grounds of the Denver detention center. Facing the Hammer, or whatever he calls himself, is a piece of cake. “See the ball, hit the ball,” is what Coach Dugan preaches.
His coach made it sound so simple, but Ricky knew otherwise.
The first pitch was right down the middle. “Strike One.” The second pitch caught the outside corner. “Strike Two.” Ricky dug in and The Hammer hung the next pitch. Ricky swung. He got all of it. The ball hit just inside the third baseline and rolled to the corner. Ricky rounded first, clipped the front edge of the bag at second, and went in standing up at third with a triple.
The “boys of summer” roared their approval. Standing on the top of the bleachers were Ace and Jane Hightower. Ace waved his cowboy hat, left and right. He yelled loudly, “that’s my boy.”
Johnny called timeout and motioned for Lightning Bean Williams. Johnny took her aside. “Now listen to me. We practiced this play. This is why you’re on this ball team. On the second pitch. Do you hear me? On the second pitch.”
“Lightning Bean Williams for Hightower.” The home plate umpire made note of the change. Thornton laughed. “You gotta be kidding me.”
Silky received his instructions from Coach Dugan and settled in at the plate. The Hammer toed the rubber and went into his windup. The pitch caught the outside corner. “Strike One.”
Silky stepped out of the box and took a deep breath. He stepped back in and awaited the next offering from The Hammer. Coach Dugan flashed the sign. The ball was on its way. Williams broke for home. Silky squared to bunt. The ball squirted down the third baseline. The third baseman one-handed the ball and threw it to the plate.
“Safe!” Exclaimed the umpire.
The Pirates had taken the lead 1-0, as the most unlikely hero, Lightning Bean Williams, had scored the first run of the game.
Gordon ended the inning by throwing blazing fastballs to Bugs and Tank, but the damage was done. The Pirates had squeezed home a run and are three outs away from stealing a win from the league’s defending champions.
Boomer finished his warmup pitches. Bugs threw down to second, and the Pirates whipped the ball around the infield. Bumper handed the ball to his big brother. “Let’s end this thing.”
Thornton sent three pinch hitters to the plate — all three of them capable of tying the game with one swing, all three of them heavily recruited, college-bound players from the Denver area.
Boomer was simply locked in. He fanned Sam Worthington on three straight pitches and mowed down Bobby McDowell on four pitches. One out away from an upset win. Tony Ramson took a stroll to the plate. A big left-hander, Ransom let two pitches go by and then hit the next pitch, just inside the bag at first base. The ball rolled to the right field corner. Woody Harrington chased the ball down, flipped his glove in the air, gripped the ball, and threw a strike to Silky.
Silky caught the ball just off his left shoulder and unleashed a throw to second. Shortstop Corky Simpson applied the tag. Ramson was out by two feet.
Pirates win!
Johnny met Roy Thornton at home plate. He glanced back for a moment and watched the boys lift Lightning Bean above their shoulders, bouncing her around like a rubber ball as she held her batting helmet high above her head.
“Who are you?” Thornton said to Johnny.
“My name is Johnny Dugan.”
“Well, I don’t know where you’re from, but in all my years, I’ve never seen anything like what I just witnessed today. Beaten by a girl with lightning speed on a squeeze play and a one-armed right fielder, who flipped off his glove and made a perfect relay throw to save the game. Believe me, we don’t lose too many games around here…ever, but to lose a game the way we did today. It’s just mind-boggling.”
Cameras flashed. “Please, Willard. No more pictures,” said the annoyed Grand Valley coach.
Grand Valley Dispatch reporter Willard Smith interrupted the conversation at home plate. “How about you, Coach Dugan?”
Johnny shook hands with Thornton, lifted his hat, and acknowledged the reporter. “It was a great game!” Johnny turned and walked away, and spread out his arms as fourteen cheering Pearl City Pirates surrounded him.
Thornton, Smith, and the photographer stood motionless, and then all three vanished from the ball field.
*****
The Howard Johnson restaurant was packed. It was eight o’clock on Saturday morning. “Table for twenty-seven, please.”
Johnny thought he might be asking for the impossible, but the hostess said. “You must be the Pearl City Pirates.”
“Yes, we are,” said a proud Coach Dugan.
“Right this way.”
Johnny looked up and stood in the doorway of the back room where the four boys of summer, along with Mayor Oldham, Ace Hightower, and Jim Johnson, were. The ladies — Anne Harrington, Jackie Williams, Anne Hightower, and Lightning Bean Williams- were seated first, and then the rest of the Pirates followed, battling for seats.
“Save a seat for our bus driver,” Johnny said, as Walker Sullivan entered the room.
Johnny stood up and proposed a toast. Everyone raised their water glass. “To the 1-0 Pirates!”
The waitress took all the orders and rushed off to the kitchen. The hostess returned and walked over to Johnny. “Are you Johnny Dugan?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I have four people waiting in our check-in area and would like to have your autograph.”
“My autograph!”
Not wanting to be rude to the autograph-seekers, Johnny motioned them over.
“Johnny Dugan? We’re all from Los Angeles,” said the more boisterous member of the group. “We saw you play against the Giants three years ago. It was a ball game all of us will never forget.”
Johnny smiled. “Well, it’s nice you can remember. I sure can’t.”
The woman looked puzzled and handed Johnny a pen. Johnny signed their restaurant napkins — his signature on top of each napkin and the letters “HJ” on the bottom. The four baseball fans walked away, mumbling to each other.
“What was that all about, Coach Dugan?” Bumper asked.
Johnny shook his head as Jim Johnson walked over and handed him the Grand Valley Dispatch. “You’re in the news, my friend.”
“Hey!” Booker T said, looking over the shoulder of his coach. “Lightning Bean is sliding into home and the headline says, Boomer McPherson, shuts down mighty White Sox.”
“Look!” Bugs said. “There’s a picture of Coach Dugan in a Dodger uniform.”
“It says read more on page two,” Woody said.
The Pirates gathered around.
“Coach, it says you got hit by a line drive against the San Francisco Giants,” said the suddenly interested Tank Parker. “There’s a picture of you as a kid, standing on the steps next to a man in a Baltimore Orioles uniform. It says 11-year-old Johnny O Dugan with his father, the hitting coach of the Orioles, Dutch Dugan.”
Corky Simpson glanced at the headline: Former Pitching Star Johnny Dugan Alive and Well in Pearl City.
“Wow, Coach Dugan. “You’re famous.”
Johnny looked up at Jim Johnson and shook his head. Johnson gave a half smile, more like a smirk, and said, “This Willard Smith must have been a busy man after the game yesterday.”
The pancakes arrived. “Everybody eat up,” Johnny said. “I’m ready to get out of this town.”
Walker Sullivan pulled into the Pearl City College parking lot. The Pirates opened their windows and eyed the crowd — a good one hundred fans or more, cheering loudly for the team’s arrival.
“There’s Mom and Pop!” Bugs exclaimed.
Coach Dugan opened the luggage compartments as the Pirates retrieved their gear and said goodbye to their coach. “See you at practice,” said Rusty Johnson. Billy Bob Stilwell gave Johnny a high-five. “The four of us are heading back to Ridgeway. We’re gonna spend Sunday with our folks. We’ll be back down on Tuesday for practice. Remember, coach, you gave us Monday off.”
“I remember,” Johnny said. “You take it easy in that old van of yours. That baby could use a tune-up. Maybe Walker can take a look under the hood next week.”
“That would be great, Coach Dugan,” Tank said as he waved a final goodbye.
Johnny put away the rest of the equipment, walked across the field, and headed for his office. He threw his duffle bag in the corner of his office and hung his cap on the hat rack. He took the Grand Valley Dispatch out of his briefcase and cut out the photo of Johnny O and Dutch Dugan. He pinned the picture to the cork bulletin board, located on the south side of the room. He then cut out the two articles, written by Willard Smith, and pinned them to the board.
Johnny eyed the board and read the lead paragraph of both articles: Johnny Dugan, a top major league prospect for the Los Angeles Dodgers in 1966, is the new coach of the Pearl City Pirates, the latest member of the Rocky Mountain Summer League. Dugan was hit by a pitch in the final spring exhibition game…
He shook his head, glanced at the box score, and then read about the Pearl City Pirates. Ricky Hightower tripled in the ninth inning, and pinch runner Lightning Bean Williams stole home on a squeeze play as the Pirates upset the Grand Valley White Sox 1-0 in the season opener for both teams. Boomer McPherson, a hard-throwing right-hander, who reached 90 mph in the later innings, pitched a complete game, striking out eleven and walking only two…
Johnny looked up at the bulletin board and smiled. “I’m finding my way, Dutch. I’m finding my way.”
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