A TALE OF THREE CITIES
NEW YORK, L.A. AND SAN FRANCISCO IN OCTOBER OF ‘62
STEVEN TRAVERS
Copyright, 2007
FRONT AND BACK DUSTCOVERS
1962 was the last year of American innocence; before the assassination of John F. Kennedy, before Vietnam; before the protests, the drugs and the "sexual revolution"; before Watergate and the great division of American culture. But 1962 also represents one of those years that stand out in history, like 1776, 1865, 1927, 1945, 1989 and 2001. It was a year of enormous cultural change, in which the tides of modern politics were formed, thus shaping the world we have lived in ever since.
1962 was also one of the greatest years in the history of sports; a particularly great California sports season in which the Southern California Trojans won the national championship in football, the recently-arrived Los Angeles Lakers started their famed rivalry with the Boston Celtics; and the transplanted New York teams, the San Francisco Giants and Los Angeles Dodgers, intensified their rivalry in ways never even seen back east.
In one of the greatest pennant races of all time, the Giants survived to overtake the favored Dodgers, only to face the winner of New York’s war of baseball attrition, the fabled Yankees, in a classic World Series for the ages. While all of this was going on, events were taking place in Washington, Moscow and Cuba that would have profound consequences on the Cold War and beyond.
The easygoing Beach Boys persona of L.A., the last vestiges of San Francisco sophistication, and the final throes of Sinatra swank in the Big Apple, were threatened by the Earth-shaking fact that the Soviets were planting missiles in Fidel Castro’s enslaved Communist Cuba. While baseball games were being played, a deadly serious chess match was fought between President Kennedy, Castro and Soviet Premier Nikita Kruschev.
Here are the heroes: Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford; Willie Mays and Willie McCovey; Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale. Here is Hollywood adoration of the Dodgers; San Francisco’s psychic battle between inferiority and superiority; and New York: the New Rome, rulers of sport and society. We see the Angels in the "Sunset Strip summer" of '62; across the continent, the comical Mets as a sideshow; and of course, the “missiles of October.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
STEVEN TRAVERS
(with photo)
Steven Travers is a USC graduate and ex-professional baseball player. He is the author of the best-selling Barry Bonds: Baseball’s Superman, nominated for a Casey Award (best baseball book of 2002). He is also the author of The USC Trojans: College Football’s All-Time Greatest Dynasty (a National Book Network “top 100 seller”); One Night, Two Teams: Alabama vs. USC and the Game That Changed a Nation (subject of a documentary and major motion picture, a 2007 PNBA nominee); five books in the Triumph/Random House Essential series (A’s, Dodgers, Angels, D’backs, Trojans); The Good, the Bad & the Ugly Los Angeles Lakers; The Good, the Bad & the Ugly Oakland Raiders; The Good, the Bad & the Ugly San Francisco 49ers; The Last Miracle: Tom Seaver and the 1969 Amazin’ Mets; College Football's All-Time Top 25 Traditions TITLE WILL CHANGE and A Tale of Three Cities: New York, L.A. and San Francisco in October of ‘62. Steve was a columnist for StreetZebra magazine in Los Angeles and the San Francisco Examiner. He also penned the screenplay, The Lost Battalion. Travers helped lead Redwood High School of Marin County, California to the baseball national championship his senior year; attended college on an athletic scholarship; was an all-conference pitcher; and coached at USC, Cal-Berkeley and in Europe. He also attended law school, served in the Army, and is a guest lecturer at the University of Southern California. A fifth generation Californian, Steve has a daughter, Elizabeth Travers and still resides in the Golden State.
Books written by Steven Travers
One Night, Two Teams: Alabama vs. USC and the Game That Changed A Nation (also a documentary, Tackling Segregation, and soon to be a major motion picture)
A’s Essential: Everything You Need to Know to Be A Real Fan!
Trojans Essential: Everything You Need to Know to Be A Real Fan!
Dodgers Essential: Everything You Need to Know to Be A Real Fan!
Angels Essential: Everything You Need to Know to Be A Real Fan!
D’Backs Essential: Everything You Need to Know to Be A Real
The USC Trojans: College Football's All-Time Greatest Dynasty
The Good, the Bad & the Ugly Los Angeles Lakers
The Good, the Bad & the Ugly Oakland Raiders
The Good, the Bad & the Ugly San Francisco 49ers
Barry Bonds: Baseball’s Superman
College Football’s Top 25 All-Time Greatest Traditions TITLE WILL CHANGE
The Last Miracle: Tom Seaver and the 1969 Amazin’ Mets
A Tale of Three Cities: New York, L.A. and San Francisco in October of ‘62
God's Country: A Conservative, Christian Worldview of How History Formed the United States Empire and America's Manifest Destiny for the 21st Century
Angry White Male
The Writer’s Life
Praise for Steven Travers
Steve Travers is the next great USC historian, in the tradition of Jim Murray, John Hall, and Mal Florence! . . . The Trojan Nation needs your work!
- USC Head Football Coach Pete Carroll
I knew you loved USC, but you really love USC! This is a book about American society. It sheds incredible light on little-known events that every American must know to understand this country . . . In 20 years, people will say of this book what they said about Roger Kahn's The Boys of Summer.
- Fred Wallin, CRN national sportstalk host
Steve Travers combines wit, humor, social pathos and historical knowledge with the kind of sports expertise that only an ex-jock is privy to; it is reminiscent of the work of Jim Bouton, Pat Jordan and Dan Jenkins, combined with Jim Murray’s turn of phrase, Hunter Thompson’s hard-scrabble Truths, and David Halberstam’s unique take on our nation’s place in history. His writing is great storytelling, and the result is pure genius every time.
- Westwood One sports media personality Mike McDowd
Steve Travers is a great writer, an educated athlete who knows how to get inside the player’s heads, and when that happens, greatness occurs. He’s gonna be a superstar.
- Dave Burgin/Editor, San Francisco Examiner
Steve Travers is a phenomenal writer, an artist who labors over every word to get it just right, and he has an encyclopedic knowledge of sports and history.
- StreetZebra magazine
Steve Travers is a Renaissance man.
Jim Rome Show
Travers' new book finally explains the phenomenon . . . the Bonds tale is spelled out in the most thorough, interesting, revealing, concise manner ever reached.
- Maury Allen/www.TheColumnists.com, Gannett Newspapers
Travers appears to have the right credentials for the task: He is a former minor leaguer who also penned screenplays in addition to a column for the San Francisco Examiner. He calls on that background in crafting a straightforward, warts-and-all profile that remains truthful without becoming a mean-spirited hatchet job . . .
- USA Today Baseball Weekly
This is a fascinating book written by a man who knows his subject matter inside and out.
- Irv Kaze/KRLA Radio, Los Angeles
Get this book. You've brought Bonds to life.
- Fred Wallin/Syndicated sportstalk host, Los Angeles
This promises to be the biggest sports book of 2002.
- Greg Papa/KTCT Radio, San Francisco
This cat struck out Kevin Mitchell five times in one game. I'll read the book for that reason alone. Plus, he hangs out with Charlie Sheen. How do I get that gig?
- Rod Brooks/Fitz & Brooks, KNBR Radio, San Francisco
. . . gossipy, easy-to-read tale . . . explores the sports culture that influences this distinguished slugger . . . entertaining.
- Library Journal
Warts-and-all . . . Travers explores Bonds' mercurial temper and place in baseball history.
- Novato Journal
… the first comprehensive biography of Barry Bonds.
- Bud Geracie/San Jose Mercury News
Travers thought he hit the jackpot . . .
- Furman Bischer, Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Travers…hit the big time . . . Travers . . . established himself as a writer of many dimensions . . . a natural . . . You were ahead of your time with the Bonds book. I still think it is the best biography of him I've seen. It does more to capture his personality than all the steroid books and articles.
- John Jackson/Ross Valley Reporter
Travers is a minor league pitcher-turned-sportswriter, and therefore qualified to evaluate [Larry] Dierker's thought process in ordering all those walks regardless of the score or the situation.
- Stan Hochman/Philadelphia Daily News
. . . looks at all of Barry's warts, yet remains in the end favorable to him. Not an easy balancing act. This is not your average sports book. It is edgy and filled with laughs . . . and inside baseball. Good, solid reading.
- www.Amazon.com
It's a great read.
- Pete Wilson/KGO Radio, San Francisco
This is a good book that really covers his whole life, and informs us where Bonds is coming from. His entire life is laid out. He is very qualified to continue to write books such as this one. Good job.
- Marty Lurie/Right off the Bat Oakland A’s pre-game host
. . . a quality piece . . . (Travers) uses his experiences in baseball . . . providing a humorous glimpse into the life of a player. Would I recommend this book? Absolutely . . . laughed out loud several times at Travers' unique way of explaining his experiences. This book is definitely worth the time.
- John Kenny/www.esportnews.com
Travers’ account mentions everything from cocaine to sex to car crashes to what Bonds said he would do to Roger Clemens . . . more than a “hit” piece.
- Johnson City Press
Travers' book does do a more well-rounded job of solving the mystery of who Bonds is . . . appealing . . . is the more inside look at Bonds in Travers' book.
- San Jose Mercury News
. . . Travers' work is every baseball aficionado's dream.
- Fairfield Daily Republic
You've created quite a stir here at the station, with the Giants, and throughout baseball.
Rick Barry/Hall of Fame basketball star and sportstalk host, KNBR Radio, San Francisco
You've stirred a hornet's nest here, man.
- J.T. “The Brick”/Syndicated national sportstalk host
This is a controversial subject and a controversial player, but you've educated us.
- Ron Barr/Sportsline, Armed Forces Radio Network
A baseball player who can write . . . who knew? This one sure can!
- Arny “The Stinkin’ Genius” Spanyer/Fox Sports Radio, Los Angeles
You know baseball like few people I've ever spoken to.
- Andy Dorff/Sportstalk host, Phoenix, Philadelphia & New Jersey
Congratulations . . . a tour de force.
- Kate DeLancey/WFAN Radio, New York City
I can't stand Bonds, but you've done a good job with a difficult subject.
- Grant Napier/Sportstalk host, Sacramento
Steve's a literate ex-athlete, an ex-Trojan and a veteran of Hollywood, too.
- Lee “Hacksaw” Hamilton/XTRA Radio, San Diego
A great book about a great player.
- KTHK Radio, Sacramento
A gem.
- Roseville Press-Tribune
Here's the man to talk to regarding the subject of Barry Bonds.
- John Lobertini/KPIX TV, San Francisco
He's enlightened us on the subject of Bonds, his father, and Godfather, Willie Mays.
- Brian Sussman/KPIX TV. San Francisco
I hate Bonds, but you're okay.
- Scott Ferrall/Syndicated national and New York sportstalk host
One of the better baseball books I've read.
- KOA Radio, Denver
. . . the "last word" on Barry Bonds . . .
- Scott Reis/ESPN TV
. . . a hot new biography on Barry Bonds . . .
- Darian Hagan/CNN
. . . one of the great sportswriters on the current American scene, Steve Travers . . .
Joe Shea/Radio talk host; Bradenton, Florida and editor, www.American-Reporter.com
To a real pro.
- Jeff Prugh, former Los Angeles Times Atlanta bureau chief
It was a good read.
- Lance Williams/Co-author, Game of Shadows
You’ve done some good writin’, dude.
- KFOG Radio, San Francisco
A very interesting read which is not your average . . . book . . . Steve has achieved his bona fides when it comes to having the credentials to write a book like this.
- Geoff Metcalfe/KSFO Radio, San Francisco
Steve Travers is a true USC historian and a loyal Trojan!
- Former USC football player John Papadakis
Pete Carroll calls you “the next great USC historian,” high praise indeed.
- Rob Fukuzaki/ABC7, Los Angeles
You’re a great writer and I always enjoy your musings . . . particularly on SC football - huge fan!
- Oakland A’s general manager Billy Beane
A's Essential: Everything You Need To Be a Real Fan offers a breezy history (with emphasis on the Oakland years), player biographies, Top 10 lists, trivia questions and more about the Athletics' franchise that has resided in Philadelphia, Kansas City and, since 1968, Oakland.
- Bruce Dancis/Sacramento Bee
Steven Travers is one of the most accomplished sports journalists in our nation today . . .
- Strandbooks.com
Wow what a great job!!!! . . . I love the book . . . It's one of those you look forward to reading at special times . . . I can't say enough!
- Lonnie White, Los Angeles Times
Steve is the USC historian whose meticulous attention to detail is a revelation. He is the best chronicler of USC ever.
- Chuck Hayes, CRN “Sports Corner”
This is fabulous, just a terrific look at our history. Travers is one of the best writers around.
- Rod Brooks, “Fitz & Brooks Show,” KNBR/San Francisco
You have created a work of art here, an absolutely great book. We love your work.
- Bob Fitzgerald, “Fitz & Brooks Show,” KNBR/San Francisco
When it comes to sports history, this is the man right here.
- Gary Radnich, KRON/San Francisco
Steve combines . . . social and historical knowledge in his writing.
- University of Southern California
Author Steven Travers discusses his new book . . .
- Orange County Register
. . . Join Steve Travers . . . at the Autograph Stage . . .
- ESPN Radio
. . . Steve Travers, author of One Night, Two Teams: Alabama vs. USC and the Game That Changed a Nation . . .
- Los Angeles Daily News
Steve Travers, a sports historian . . .
- Los Alamitos News-Enterprise
Here this dynamic speaker tell how this famous game changed history.
- Friends of the Los Alamitos-Rossmoor Library
Travers presents this particular game in 1970 as a metaphor for the profound changes in social history during the emancipation of the South.
- Publishers Weekly
. . . Explored in rich, painstaking detail by Steve Travers.
Jeff Prugh, L.A. Times beat writer who covered the 1970 USC-Alabama game
This is a fabulous book.
- Michaela Pereira/KTLA 5, Los Angeles
To America
The Promised Land
That I love
Photo captions
Contents
Photo captions
Contents
Acknowledgements
Foreword
Introduction: The worship book
A palace in the hills
Go ahead, take a bite out of the Big Apple
The rivalry
The cultural divide
The heroes
The New Rome
Empire
A midsummer's dream
There's no business like show business
Los Angeles
San Francisco
Death struggle
Beat L.A.!
Meltdown
The Missiles of October
The brink
Rivals then and now
Carthage is destroyed
The October of their years
Bibliography
Index
Notes
Bibliography
Acknowledgements
My thanks go to my wonderful literary manager, Peter Miller of PMA Literary and Film Management, Inc. in New York City, and to his assistant, Adrienne Rosado. Also to John Horne and Pat Kelly of the Baseball Hall of Fame, Ron Martirano, and Mary at George Brace Photos in Chicago. Thank you to: the New York Yankees, the Los Angeles Dodgers, the San Francisco Giants, the New York Mets, and the Los Angeles Angels. Thank you, Bruce Macgowan, Lon Simmons, Blake Rhodes, Vin Scully, Donna Carter, Willie Mays, Willie McCovey, John Shea, Glenn Schwarz, the late Bo Belinsky, and the late Bill Rigney. Thanks to my wonderful daughter, Elizabeth Travers, and my supportive parents. Above all others, my greatest thanks go to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, the source of all that is decent and true.
Foreword
Introduction
The worship book
It was a dark and snowy night, some time in the early-to-mid-1960s. The place was my parent’s ski cabin in Squaw Valley, California, home of the 1960 Winter Olympics. It was a small alpine-style lodging with a perilous, icy pathway leading from a narrow, pine tree-shrouded street to the door; to be negotiated using small, mincing steps so as to avoid falling on one’s face, or worse, fracturing a hip.
Located on the side of the mountain, we overlooked the valley. Below us was a cabin owned by Walt Disney. In the distance, the Olympic Village, which had since been turned into a ski Mecca by the visionary Alex Cushing; an ice rink where the United States had defeated the mighty Soviets in hockey a few years before, a pre-cursor to the 1980 “miracle on ice”; the daunting KT-22, for only the most advanced of ski experts; and east of that the ski jump ramp. With good binoculars one could see the competition from our balcony without paying a ticket.
But all of that was over with, and on this night my folks were out to dinner. I was left in the cabin with my babysitter, a neighbor girl whose family lived there year-round. We had no television and boredom set in quickly. I looked around for something to occupy my attention. A board game, some toys perhaps. I opened a drawer and there it was, in paperback, black-and-white, 225 pages: the 1963 Official Baseball Almanac. On the cover, Yankees shortstop Tony Kubek completing a double play at the Stadium despite the best efforts of Chicago’s “Jumbo Jim” Landis barreling into second.
Edited by Bill Wise, published by Fawcett Publications of Greenwich, Connecticut, it was the “most authoritative . . . most complete baseball book on the market! A great buy for any fan at 50 cents!”
In the re-make of Planet of the Apes, the apes discover an astronaut’s manual along with a chimpanzee. They determine that the manual is their “Bible,” the chimp their “savior,” and his “return” foretold as Holy Scripture. The 1963 Official Baseball Almanac had a strangely similar effect on me. It was, for me then and in succeeding years, my “Bible,” a holy book to be revered, memorized and worshipped.
Now, what this says about me, a four- or five-year old boy, which was my age at the time of discovering this document, is questionable. I was definitely not normal. Discovering rock music, singing, guitar-playing, a hidden copy of Playboy, or the actual playing of baseball; those are all typical events that might stir like passions. Reading books in and of itself was certainly not an unusual thing for a little boy to learn and love; Jules Verne, Alice in Wonderland, the Brothers Grimm; something like that, yes. But the 1963 Official Baseball Almanac? Are you kidding?
Half that book was statistics that looked thus:
PLAYER AND CLUB G AB R H TB 2B 3B HR SB RBI PCT
Pena, Orlando, KC 13 31 2 5 5 0 0 0 0 4 .161
Okay, it had pictures, too. Not pictures, as in illustrations, but photographs, and truth be told that was what attracted me at first. I still have that dog-eared little paperback, and leafing through it reveals its true, original purpose: I turned it into a coloring book. I used crayons and a pen, outlining the features of players apparently onto a piece of paper pressed against the back in order to create images, but I also colored in the uniforms. I favored black-and-orange, particularly the San Francisco Giants’ color scheme. I somehow sensed certain things, too, such as a photo of Los Angeles Angels manager Bill Rigney with pitcher Bo Belinsky. I was too young to know that Bo was a major playboy and denizen of the night, but I drew a “five o’clock shadow” on his face, apparently out of reference to the fact that he was haggard from his nocturnal activities.
But over the course of years, I started reading that book, and I really mean reading it. I poured over it, memorizing every single piece of data; every stat, every player, the fortunes of every team, the All-Star Game (there were two played in those days), the Cubs’ “revolving managers,” the pennant chase and play-off between the Giants and Dodgers, and of course the Fall Classic; a rain-delayed thriller won by the slimmest of margins by the Yankees over San Francisco.
I became a “62er” of the first order. Over the years, as my knowledge base increased, other things became apparent to me. I learned about John Glenn, the astronaut who became a hero in 1962. I learned that my favorite football team, the Southern California Trojans, had won a National Championship that year. American Graffiti came out and asked, “Where were you in ’62?” The sense of nostalgia for that year became palpable.
I learned that John Kennedy had been President in 1962. He seemed to be something out of the past, and that year was part of the past in ways that increasingly seemed to be impossible to re-capture; in style, in politics, in music and culture. Then there were the teams: the Yankees, Giants and Dodgers. As I developed into a baseball fan, the championship teams seemed to be the Twins, the Red Sox, the Tigers, the Orioles, the Cardinals and the Reds. The Yankee dynasty was a myth to me; in my formative years they were “New York’s other baseball team,” the Big Apple’s passions stirred by a team that was comically bad in 1962, the Mets. The Dodgers of Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale seemed to be an old B movie, like one of those CinemaScope features in which the screen narrows in the artistic stylings of the late 1950s and early 1960s. The Giants were a shell of whatever I knew them to have been in 1962; fans stayed away from Candlestick, which within a decade was old, resembling a prison, their stars over the hill. Bay Area sports excitement resided in the East Bay: the three-time champion A’s, Al Davis’s marvelous Raiders, and Rick Barry’s shoot ‘em up Warriors.
I developed an incredible baseball library: The Glory of Their Times by Lawrence Ritter, Ball Four by Jim Bouton; Pat Jordan’s wry reminiscences of a failed minor league career; anything and everything. I still have all those books, wonderful works inscribed with love by my mom and dad: “To our darling boy from Mommie, X-mas 1969,” or “To Champ, this brings back memories, Love, Dad, 1970.”
Above all others was a book called The Summer Game by Roger Angell (1972). Angell did not even think of himself as a professional sportswriter. He wrote from a fan’s perspective, choosing to mingle with fans in the stands instead of a press box. Every year he took a baseball journey and wrote about it in The New Yorker. He devoted a particularly large amount of attention to the 1962 season; first, the nascent Mets, then the unfolding pennant chase played in the glorious California sunshine between the Giants and Dodgers; and finally a World Series that combined all the old “subway series” elements of John McGraw vs. Babe Ruth updated to Mickey Mantle vs. Willie Mays, complete with jet air travel. Angell stirred all my old pangs, shedding new light on the summer of ‘62.
In a high school history class they showed a docu-drama starring William DeVane as JFK and Martin Sheen as Bobby Kennedy called The Missiles of October. It was a hard-hitting, sober look at the Cuban Missile Crisis, but what struck me was that it all happened in 1962, the year of my great fascination. To think, all I cared about was Pete Runnel’s batting average and the fact that Sandy Koufax hurt his finger at mid-season, but now I learned that much had occurred beyond the bounds of Fenway Park or Chavez Ravine.
Through baseball, I developed a focal point for history. If something happened in 1914, I knew that Chief Bender had jumped to the Federal League that year. Pearl Harbor occurred the same year Joe DiMaggio hit in 56 straight games and Ted Williams was the last of the .400 hitters. I had remembered Bobby Kennedy running for President in 1968, but all I recalled was that he was always surrendered by Mexican farmworkers, which seemed incongruous. The Missiles of October showed him to be a man of power, a hawk and war architect suddenly questioning the use of force, and therefore instructive to understand the RFK I knew from 1968. A man tempered by his experiences.
Three things occurred to me since I came to “worship” the 1963 Official Baseball Almanac. First, I went beyond just reading about baseball to actually playing it . . . pretty well. Well enough to help Redwood High School, located in the San Francisco suburb of Marin County, win the mythical national championship in my senior year of 1977. Well enough to earn a full-ride scholarship to college and make all-conference as a pitcher. Well enough to play a few years of professional ball, in the St. Louis Cardinals and Oakland A’s organizations; to strike out 1989 National League MVP Kevin Mitchell three times in one game and K 14 Kingsport Mets on a hot July night in 1981. As Casey Stengel once said, “You could look it up.”
The next thing that happened to me was that while I never lost my passion for baseball, as a fan and a player, I developed just as much passion for history, politics, and as a direct result, for writing. Being a millionaire baseball star was not my destiny. Being a writer and historian was.
Most importantly, I stopped “worshipping” the 1963 Official Baseball Almanac, or The Sporting News Official Baseball Guide, or the works of Pat Jordan and Roger Angell. I started worshipping The Holy Bible instead, directing my admiration not for Mickey Mantle or Willie Mays or Don Drysdale, but for the Lord Jesus Christ.
So it is that I temper my writings with an understanding of the things that are truly important. But somehow baseball has never slipped too far away, even as I endeavor to find Truth. My love for baseball is in fact spiritual, as is my love for America. This is a book not merely about baseball, but about America. We are, in my view, the new Promised Land, and as we have struggled against evil in the form of slavery, two world wars, terrorism and, in 1962, the threat of nuclear bombs, it is my belief that His guiding hand has led us to safety time and time again.
STEVEN R. TRAVERS
(415) 455-5971
USCSTEVE1@aol.com
A palace in the hills
“GET YOUR WHEELBARROW AND SHOVEL” – STOP – “I’LL MEET YOU IN CHAVEZ RAVINE.”
- Walter O’Malley’s telegraph to L.A. Mayor Norris Paulsen, 1957
The Los Angeles Dodgers and San Francisco Giants moved to California in 1958. Roy Campanella’s special night in 1959 was seen as the “debutante ball” of the Dodgers. Five months later Los Angeles won the World Series. For decades, the University of Southern California Trojans and UCLA Bruins were America’s dominant collegiate sports powerhouses. Crowds of over 100,000 came out to watch football games at the Coliseum; USC, UCLA and the Rams. The 1932 L.A. Olympics had been the most successful to date. Hollywood was the world’s cultural touchstone, and politically the Golden State was now the most important in the nation.
Despite this, Los Angeles and California were seen as “minor league,” far removed from long-held Eastern salons of sports influence. It was not until April 10, 1962 that they entered the “Major Leagues.” That was the day that the Dodgers hosted the Cincinnati Reds in the first game ever played at Dodger Stadium.
When the world got a look at Dodger Stadium in all its glory, the true greatness of the Golden State could not be denied. Here was the finest sports palace ever conceived; Manifest Destiny for the 20th Century, something greater than the sum of merely human parts. Baseball, America and Los Angeles, California would never be the same.
Until Dodger Stadium was built, the Dodgers and Giants were roughly equal rivals. The Giants had won five World Championships (1905, 1921, 1922, 1933, 1954); the Dodgers’ two (1955, 1959), but they seemed to have achieved an edge in the final New York years and the early California seasons.
That edge had demonstrated itself in the winning of the 1955 World Series followed by the National League championship in 1956. Manager Walt Alston presided over the “Dodger way,” a victorious formula of sorts that had been the product of such baseball minds as Lee MacPhail, Branch Rickey, Buzzie Bavasi, Fresco Thompson and Al Campanis.
The Giants, on the other hand, had fired Leo Durocher and gone through a succession of managers. They had opened their new stadium, Candlestick Park, two years earlier, but it was a dud; immediately old, dirty and uninviting. Dodger Stadium was a shot across the bow at the Giants, but it was also a signal moment in a long-held rivalry that existed before Californians ever thought about Major League baseball.
San Francisco despised Los Angeles. San Franciscans despised Los Angelenos. Los Angeles and Los Angelenos did not particularly care. San Franciscans hated them even more for caring so little. San Francisco was a schizophrenic town with equal parts inferiority complex and superiority complex. They thought of themselves as the Paris of the West, New York of the Pacific; L.A. was a land of rubes. There was no city there, no base, no monument to greatness . . . until now.
San Francisco started out as the important California city, but the building of the Owens River Valley aqueduct and two world wars had changed that. The University of California and Stanford University built impressive stadiums in the early 1920s. Stanford lobbied for the Rose Bowl game to be moved up north. Southern California responded by building two stadiums, the Rose Bowl in Pasadena and the Coliseum near downtown L.A. Both dwarfed the northern stadiums. Instead of being compared to Cal and Stanford, they were compared to the “House That Ruth Built” (Yankee Stadium) and the Roman Colosseum.
California’s “Wonder Teams” and Stanford under coach Pop Warner were the two great college football dynasties of the early 1920s, but they quickly became overshadowed by Knute Rockne and Notre Dame. When Southern California started their great rivalry with the Fighting Irish, it established the Trojans as the other major grid power, further pushing Cal and Stanford into the shadows. A sense of jealousy pervaded the northern schools, infusing the region in ways that became socio-political. Then UCLA came into their own. The Bruins, not the Golden Bears or Indians, were USC’s main conference rival, winning the 1954 National Championship in football and later establishing themselves as the greatest basketball dynasty of all time.
In the 1950s and early 1960s, reeling from a recruiting scandal in which Stanford “turned them in,” California scaled back sports. A program that had produced four National Champions in football, two in baseball, one in basketball, plus numerous Olympians, became a joke and has never truly recovered.
Political power shifted from the north to the south. Earl Warren was from the Bay Area and attended the University of California. He became Governor and was tapped by Thomas Dewey as his Vice Presidential running mate in the losing 1948 election. Richard Nixon was from the Los Angeles area. He represented a growing, more powerful electorate than Warren, and rose to greater heights. Ronald Reagan would also tap into the same Orange County conservatism that propelled Barry Goldwater to the 1964 Republican nomination, and eventually would become the dominant political ethos in America.
All of these factors: the Rose Bowl and Coliseum being better-recognized than Cal’s and Stanford’s stadiums; the Trojans and Bruins dominating the Golden Bears and Indians; political power shifting to the Southland, leaving Northern California marginalized towards the Left; combined to frustrate denizens of the San Francisco Bay Area. On top of that, they saw that the center of business in the Pacific Rim was no longer San Francisco, but Los Angeles. Then there was Hollywood. The imprimatur of glamour, of beautiful women, hot nightlife, golden beaches and Tinseltown fame overshadowed foggy San Francisco, which seemed to fall short in every way a city can be measured against another one. San Franciscans looked at their beautiful scenery, their identifiable, skyscraper city center, their supposedly more literate, cultured population, and tried to look down their noses at the church-going Midwestern transplants who made up the L.A. Basin. They seemed to be desperately attempting to convince themselves of their elitism. The harder they tried, the more they failed.
When Dodger Stadium was built, it was the final insult. San Francisco had gotten a stadium done faster, in 1960, but there was little hiding the reality of Candlestick Park: a dismal failure in every way. Now Los Angeles had created pure excellence. It was self-evident truth. It needed no commentary. Los Angeles was superior to San Francisco.
During the 1956 World Series between the Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Yankees, Dodgers owner Walter O’Malley observed something that more than piqued his interest. He saw Kenneth Hahn, a rising and influential Los Angeles City Councilman, in the company of Washington Senators owner Calvin Griffith. Everybody knew what they were speaking about: Hahn was trying to talk Griffith into moving the moribund Senators franchise to Los Angeles.
Los Angeles had been discussed as a potential destination for Major League baseball since 1941. The weather was perfect and the population grew and grew and grew. Capacity crowds filled the Rose Bowl and the Coliseum. Fans were rabid for athletics in California. On top of that, an enormous number of superstar athletes in all sports were from the Golden State. The success of the 1932 Los Angeles Olympics seemed to demonstrate that Los Angeles had the ability to choose not to participate in the Great Depression. Out west, there was a different mindset, a new way of thinking, an enlightened approach to race, to culture, to society, that was more forward-looking. It was the future.
On December 7, 1941, the St. Louis Browns were expected to announce at the winter meetings that they were moving to Los Angeles. When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, and the West Coast was threatened in the early days of World War II, those plans went by the wayside.
When the war was finally won in 1945, the country began to turn its attention to other endeavors. In 1946, Branch Rickey signed the first black player, a young infielder from UCLA named Jackie Robinson. In 1947, in the skies over the high California desert, Chuck Yeager broke the “sound barrier.” This made jet travel feasible, and more importantly, commercial.
In the early and mid-1950s, a flurry of franchise shifts took place, with varying degrees of success. The Browns did move, but not to Los Angeles. Chicago Cubs owner Philip K. Wrigley owned the L.A. market. His team trained at Catalina Island, off the Southern California coast, during Spring Training. The Los Angeles Angels’ franchise played in the West Coast version of Wrigley Field, a quaint little ballpark located on a street called Avalon, in south L.A. The Pacific Coast League was competitive, successful and had loyal fan support. Numerous well-known big leaguers competed in the PCL. Many of the league’s greatest stars were local products, who moved from nearby high schools to the Angels, Hollywood Stars, San Diego Padres, San Francisco Seals, Mission Reds, Oakland Oaks, Sacramento Solons, Seattle Rainiers and Portland Beavers. But it was still the minor leagues.
With L.A. apparently controlled by Wrigley, who would never consider moving the Cubs out to the coast, the Browns – long in the shadow of the Cardinals - moved to Baltimore. The Boston Braves, who despite having played in the World Series as recently as 1948 were a distant second in popularity to the Red Sox, moved to Milwaukee. The Philadelphia A’s, a one-time American League powerhouse, had lost a war of attrition to the Phillies. They packed up their bags and made their way to Kansas City.
The most successful of these franchise shifts were the Braves. County Stadium in Milwaukee was a wide-open facility with a large parking lot and easy road access. The car culture was in full swing. It was the Baby Boomer generation, a period of post-war prosperity of unprecedented proportions. The Great Depression, the Dust Bowl, the New Deal, the failed America of John Steinbeck’s novels, was completely overshadowed by the success of free market capitalism. In Oklahoma, Bud Wilkinson’s Sooners were the dominant college football power; their games sold out, eclipsing old stereotypes of Okie poverty. In Milwaukee, attendance topped 2 million. Families of four came out to the park. They bought expensive new cars, paid for gas and parking. They paid for souvenirs and ballpark food. After the game they frequented local restaurants and businesses. Baseball in Milwaukee was integrated into the economy of an entire community.
Post-war success seemed to have resonated everywhere except in Brooklyn. During World War II, blacks from the South moved to big cities to work in the shipyards. It was a new, mobile population, and the demographics of Brooklyn changed. Blacks and Puerto Ricans began to replace the traditional Irish Catholic and Jewish citizenry of Brooklyn. Levittown was built; a planned, suburban community on Long Island. “White flight” took place. Whites moved out of the city to Westchester, to Long Island and Queens, to New Jersey and Connecticut. Retirees found new lives in Miami.
Walter O’Malley and Branch Rickey had courted the black and Puerto Rican fan base. When Robinson was signed and brought to Brooklyn in 1947, they were an integral part of the team’s support, financially and otherwise. But a fissure occurred between O’Malley and Robinson. O’Malley, who had been born into wealth and graduated from Fordham Law School, hated Rickey and bought him out after annexing shares over a period of years. He had total control of the Brooklyn franchise. O’Malley fired employees who so much as mentioned Rickey’s name. Only those considered indispensable to the club’s operation were retained from the Rickey era. Robinson admired the “savior” Rickey and openly supported him, which infuriated O’Malley.
The Dodgers of the late 1940s and 1950s were some of the most successful in the club’s long history, but attendance dipped. It perplexed O’Malley. Here he was, a smart, successful attorney and businessman, living in America at a time of huge economic growth, but he was not benefiting from it. Other cities were. The new franchises out west, particularly Milwaukee, were breaking new ground, creating paradigm shifts in what a sports business could be. Just over the Brooklyn Bridge, Manhattan was prosperous, a glamorous, Frank Sinatra town of Broadway shows, hot night spots, business tycoons and their trophy women. Wall Street executives lived posh country lifestyles in Greenwich and New Canaan, Connecticut, or Westchester County; easy train access whisking them back and forth from the city where they seemingly ruled this brave new world; masters of the business universe, patricians of the New Rome.
With all of this going on, O’Malley sat in his office with Buzzie Bavasi and looked out his window. What he saw filled him with despair. A long line of blacks and Puerto Ricans were standing outside the welfare office, waiting for relief checks. These were not people with discretionary income who were going to spend what they did have on Dodger tickets.
“Why are we catering to these people?” O’Malley asked Bavasi. There was no good answer to that question.
A conundrum developed. O’Malley wanted a new stadium and new fans. There was little available land in Brooklyn, but worse, there was no freeway access. The “new fans” were really the old ones who had moved away. They would have to come from the suburban enclaves of Jersey, Long Island, and Connecticut. They would need to come in cars. Without freeways, getting in and out of antiquated Brooklyn was problematic. Little Ebbets Field only held only 32,000 fans. O'Malley commissioned famed architect Buckminster Fuller to draw plans for a domed stadium at Atlantic and Flatbush, above the Long Island Railroad depot.
To New York City building czar Robert Moses, the answer seemed obvious. He wanted a modern park built in Flushing Meadows, adjacent to La Guardia Airport and across from the future site of the World’s Fair. He formulated plans to erect a new stadium in Queens. But the Dodgers were psychologically tied to their Brooklyn identity. A move to any other borough was seen as betrayal. Already struggling in a three-way battle for the New York fan base with the Giants and Yankees, O’Malley was concerned that if he lost the Brooklyn identity the team would suffer at the gate.
In Moses, O’Malley had met a man he could not defeat in a political power struggle. As in Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, O’Malley understood that withdrawal might be his best option. There were rumblings that the Dodgers might move, but nobody took it seriously. It was out of the question, unthinkable, heresy. But there were signs of impending doom. O’Malley played a series of games in Jersey City, New Jersey, ostensibly testing the waters.
Brooklyn’s great rivals, the Giants, also suffered attendance downturns. Their stadium, the Polo Grounds, was located in an even worse neighborhood. Coogan’s Bluff in Harlem was now crime-ridden. Their Bronx neighbors, the Yankees, faced similar problems, but the pinstripers were a dominant team that won the battle for the Manhattan, New Jersey and Connecticut fan base needed for success. Yankee Stadium also had the advantage of easy freeway access, meaning suburban fans could pop in an out without risking the mean streets as they did in Brooklyn.
A bitter novel, Last Exit to Brooklyn, embodied the desultory situation of the borough in the 1950s. O’Malley’s plans for a new stadium, for a “geodesic dome” and other alternatives, were put down at every turn. But he showed his hand when he turned down a deal with a firm that planned to build a Brooklyn stadium. However, the Queens stadium project did not appeal to O’Malley. He felt that if he acquiesced to such a venture, not only would the club lose its Brooklyn identity, but a palpable shift in power and even club control might be lost to Moses, who ruled over all he surveyed in New York like a modern Caesar.
When Jackie Robinson was traded to the Giants and Sal Maglie, a longtime hated Giants pitcher, became a Dodger, all seemed to have been turned around. It was a foretaste of cataclysmic change. So it was during the 1956 World Series when O’Malley saw Kenneth Hahn talking shop with Cal Griffith. He knew the future was in Los Angeles. Whoever harnessed it would ride the whirlwind. O’Malley could not stomach the prospect of Cal Griffith being such a pioneering figure. New York literally was not big enough for O’Malley and Robert Moses to co-exist. A three-team big league city was apparently a failure, especially in the car culture. O’Malley wrote a note to Hahn and had an usher deliver it. It asked Hahn not to accept any deal with Griffith or anybody else until he had a chance to speak with O’Malley.
"Being two miles away was the same as being 3,000 miles away," Buzzie Bavasi said. "Walter wanted to own his own stadium, even in New York. And Los Angeles was prepared to help him get it."
After losing a seven-game Series to the dominant Yankees, the Dodgers immediately departed for an exhibition tour of Japan. Disappointed over the World Series loss, nobody had the heart for it. Jackie Robinson refused, and it was the last straw. He was traded to the Giants, but chose to retire instead of becoming a teammate of Willie Mays, possibly returning to his home state to finish out a Hall of Fame career.
The team’s plane stopped in Los Angeles on the way to Japan. O’Malley met with Hahn, who held some major cards. Aside from Griffith, he was entertaining inquiries from Giants owner Horace Stoneham, who was rumored to be ready to move his team somewhere out west. O’Malley knew he needed a rival in California, and that would naturally be Stoneham’s Giants. O’Malley also knew that the jewel in the Golden State would be Los Angeles; not San Diego, not San Francisco. He immediately set about securing L.A. and steering Stoneham to San Francisco. San Diego, located 100 miles south of Los Angeles, would be “Dodgers country.” Its minor league operation would fall by the wayside, replaced by media and radio attention devoted to the new team in L.A.
O’Malley tried to keep his cards close to the vest, but Hahn put on a full court press. Hahn played the Senators and Giants against O’Malley, as if any big league operation would be of equal value. In truth, he salivated over the Dodgers. They were by far the most attractive prospect for a number of reasons. O’Malley understood what he had and acted on it, secretly committing to the City of Angels.
What clinched the deal was O’Malley’s declaration that the city would not be required to build him a stadium. In bureaucratic New York, old school corruption going back to the days of Democrat-controlled Tammany Hall was still in place, embodied by Moses. The concept that a private corporation could secure a plot of land large enough for a ballpark, build it on its own, and operate such a venture in an act of unfettered capitalism, was unheard of. It would certainly take Moses out of the picture, and that was not to be.
But Los Angeles was still a Republican city; a wide-open, business-friendly atmosphere in which entrepreneurial capitalism was the driving force of a growing, unbounded, we-can-achieve-anything culture. It was O’Malley’s kind of place. Hahn and the L.A. politicians knew their biggest hurdle would be the stadium issue, resulting in the inevitable, age-old complaints about such an expense when schools, hospitals and the poor needed the money instead. Then O’Malley delivered a bombshell; Manna from Heaven.
He would build the ballpark. He would also reap the benefits. The city of course would be spared the initial costs, but the value, public relations and monetary, would be incalculable.
All O’Malley wanted was land. The city and county of L.A. had plenty of that. It was a huge, wide-open swath of mountains, hills, valleys, and basins, all criss-crossed by new modern freeways, courtesy of a visionary highway act signed by President Dwight Eisenhower. O’Malley seemingly had his choice, but that choice was not a hard one to make. A couple of miles from downtown Los Angeles was a pleasant hill and wide plateau overlooking the city. It was perfect. He originally found it on a map at a gas station. It was called Chavez Ravine. The city had tried to make it a recreation site, but squatters' shacks and scattered herds of goats still roamed amid the refuse. O'Malley swapped the Watts property where Wrigley Field was for the 300-acre landfill. A close referendum would grant it to the Dodgers, and groundbreaking would take place in 1959.
But first O’Malley had to deal with the exodus from New York. It was an incredible high-wire act of deception, all designed to slowly, imperceptibly prepare the public for an inevitable outcome in a manner with as little shock to the system as possible. Throughout 1957, O’Malley pretended to negotiate with the powers that be, but eventually played his hand when he sold Ebbets Field to a commercial developer. When no alternative was effectuated – a Brooklyn stadium site or the Moses site in Queens – the writing, as in the Old Testament, was on the wall. O’Malley would be the modern Moses who led the Dodgers to the Promised Land of California. Robert Moses would be left to pick up the pieces in a city he ruled like a Pharaoh.
Fans observed this; one small step followed by another, instead of a single announcement. They began to accept the inevitable. Both the Dodgers and Giants had disappointing seasons in 1957, so attendance was down at both Ebbets and the Polo Grounds. O’Malley pointed to this as reason for the move.
When the news hit that O’Malley had purchased the Cubs’ minor league franchise in Los Angeles, along with L.A.'s Wrigley Field, the cat was out of the bag. Then O’Malley got Stoneham on board. Stoneham was painted a dark scenario. If he went it alone in New York, or moved to Minnesota, he would not have his main rival to help power the transition. Stoneham was doing so poorly financially that he owed money to the stadium concessions.
The Giants’ owner was completely fed up with the ancient Polo Grounds, now a war zone. He was prepared to move to Minneapolis anyway, regardless of O’Malley’s departure. O’Malley simply made him change his plans for the better; San Francisco, California, a New York-style town steeped in the traditions of Joe DiMaggio and the PCL Seals, the most legendary of all minor league teams. The rivalry would flourish on the West Coast.
The Boston Red Sox owned the San Francisco Seals. Red Sox owner Tom Yawkey sold his territorial rights to Stoneham in exchange for Minneapolis, at a price of $25,000. On May 29, 1957 the Dodgers announced the move. In August, the Giants followed suit.
"I feel sorry for the kids, but I haven't seen much of their fathers lately," Stoneham said.
For Brooklyn fans, the re-telling of this story resembles the Zapruder film, as if in watching it somehow it will turn out differently, but it never does. Their team was a beloved institution. There was a sense of family in Brooklyn that had not existed with the Giants (at least not recently), and certainly not with the corporate Yankees, who like the Americans in Iraq simply prevailed in a war of attrition and strength because they were too big, powerful and rich to be toppled.
The relationship of the players and owners, however, was the polar opposite. Stoneham was a "real baseball fan as an owner," his close aide, Chub Feeney said. "Winning meant a lot to him and the team meant a lot to him. He was a rooter." Stoneham was known for his generosity with Giants players, who he viewed as part of a larger family. O'Malley, with slick hair, three-piece suits and a large paunch, looked the part of a big city bank president. Stoneham, with his rosy cheeks, thinning hair, and thick, dark glasses, was a round-faced man who resembled the comic Drew Carey. His persona was more like a regional branch manager.
Stoneham loved to drink, an occupation that coincided with watching his team. According to rumor he killed a man in a drunk-driving incident in Scottsdale, Arizona. He had been duped into accepting San Francisco, as if it was equal in value to Los Angeles. There was a sense that California was one big tropical paradise, with little regard for the enormous physical disparities within its 900-mile north-south borders. Even within the Bay Area itself, temperatures varied greatly. Walnut Creek for example, a bedroom community located over the hill past Oakland, in the East Bay, could be steaming hot at 90 degrees on the same day that San Francisco was foggy and wind-swept at 55 degrees.
Stoneham made one thing clear, emphasized above all other criteria: he wanted parking at his new stadium. Parking, parking, parking. Neither L.A. nor San Francisco had much in the way of public transportation. San Francisco’s bus service was better than L.A.’s, and a commuter train connected people between The City (its denizens used caps) and the peninsula towns of Burlingame, San Mateo, Palo Alto and Mountain View, but for the most part its citizenry traversed the freeways and numerous bridges (the Golden Gate, Bay, and eventually the Richmond-San Rafael, San Mateo, Dumbarton, Carquinez, and Benicia) by car.
There was available downtown land near Powell and Market Streets, which would have been an excellent spot. Located not far from where the current AT&T Park now is, it would have offered reasonable weather. Certainly there would have been wind and fog, but it would have been acceptable. Financial district foot traffic, cable cars, ferry service, municipal bus lines, the Southern Pacific train, and eventually the Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) would have provided easy access. Stores, bars and restaurants would have benefited from the nightlife and "this is the place to be" vibe that AT&T Park now provides. It was not chosen because local businesses did not want increased traffic congestion. Stoneham lacked the vision to fight for the downtown stadium; all he saw was a big parking lot. In addition, eminent domain laws would have cost The City $33 million to pay off citizens forced to leave properties.
San Francisco Mayor George Christopher saw how O'Malley had manipulated the gullible Stoneham. He set out to do the same thing. Christopher had a sweetheart deal with a construction magnate named Charlie Harney. Harney owned tons and tons and tons of dirt. Regular old dirt. He needed a place to put it that would pay him for it. Within the jurisdiction of the city there were only so many places that could accommodate Harney’s dirt.
They decided on non-descript Candlestick Point, sitting on a section next to San Francisco Bay that was not officially in The City. It was an unincorporated area owned by Harney. Candlestick Point was located next to the Bayshore Freeway, which connected The City with the airport, almost as much of a boondoggle that was likewise not in The City. Stoneham was told of the bayshore location. He had visions of a baseball version of Fisherman’s Wharf, a marina-style stadium perhaps, accompanied by waterfront vistas. In fact, the section of bay that Candlestick Point is located on is one of the farthest from the East Bay on the other side. Furthermore, the East Bay area across from Candlestick is much flatter than the scenic Oakland and Berkeley hills to the north; the lights of Oakland and the Bay Bridge providing spectacular visuals. Trying to locate the East Bay from Candlestick Point is little more visually spectacular than trying to spot England on the horizon across the channel from France.
A bluff overlooked the site, which was curved away from the downtown Embarcadero area in such a way that there was absolutely no evidence of the beautiful downtown San Francisco skyline to the north, or even the mountainous peninsula to the south. It just sat there. The neighborhoods adjacent to Candlestick Point; Bayside, Hunter’s Point and Potrero Hill, were headed in the same direction as the Harlem slums where the Polo Grounds had been. Stoneham was painted a portrait of racial harmony, of new thinking in California, but in truth the black community of San Francisco lived in sullen isolation, well away from The City’s frolicking financial district or the tony neighborhoods of St. Francis Woods, Mt. Davidson, Twin Peaks, and the Sunset.
There was no fan-friendly business for miles and miles and miles near Candlestick; just slaughterhouses, packing plants, and a few liquor stores. An eyesore for the ages, a huge crane dominating a nearby Naval shipbuilding facility, blocked whatever views of the bay that there might have been. Fans exiting the 101 freeway found themselves on narrow streets that quickly became boondoggles before and after games with any kind of large attendance. Local kids threatened to vandalize cars unless money was extorted from scared drivers. But all of this was nothing compared to the elements.
Christopher and Harney knew that Stoneham was a man who wanted to get to his drinking early. They arranged for a tour of Candlestick Point around 10:30 in the morning. Mark Twain once said, “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.” The best time of year there is the fall, the Indian summer months of September, October and early November. Instead of directing Stoneham to Candlestick on one of those Mark Twain days – cold, drizzly, windy – they drove Horace out on a sunny, clear morning. All Stoneham seemed to see was room for parking. Of course, that room was still part of the bay. This was where Harney’s dirt would be dumped, creating landfill and a toxicological disaster. On top of that, nobody understood much about earthquakes back then, other than the Big One had virtually destroyed the entire city only 50-some years before that. Sure, go ahead, build a stadium on the shifting sands of loose dirt dumped into the water!
Stoneham enthusiastically endorsed the whole plan; hook, line and sinker. Christopher and Harney just looked at each other. This was a savvy New York businessman? The West Coast rubes had pulled the sheet, er, the dirt right over his head. Stoneham was spirited away and by 3:00 P.M. was in his cups. Around that time, a violent windstorm descended on Candlestick Point. It was like something out of Lawrence of Arabia, or Biblical fogs that might have killed every first-born child on the point if it had been fit for human habitation in the first place. Dust from the nearby bluffs swirled in a sea of drifting garbage wrappings. Fetid smells filled the air, but Stoneham neither saw, felt nor smelled it. It was cocktail hour.
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