It had been five years to the day since Erica Johnson went
to Cincinnati Mercy Hospital because of a stroke that nearly turned fatal. It
was remarkable to me because I was sitting in the stands just behind home plate
at Veteran’s Memorial Stadium in Philadelphia. In fact, we were all there,
including Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, my dad and mom, Fitzie, Lee, Mr. Heinz, and my
grandma.
And, of course, Erica and me, who moved to the front row
just after the announcer called the daily line-ups. Fitzie and Lee soon joined,
sitting on either side. Erica opened the program to the centerfold and broke
the spine. She followed along, filling in names and positions until she filled
in the seventh Philadelphia Phillies batter, when she dropped her program on
the concrete beneath her seat. When the announcer got to the eighth guy in
Philadelphia’s lineup, he was met with a loud cheer and a standing ovation.
“Byron baby!” shouted Fitzie. His shout echoed clear across
the field. We continued applauding.
“Get on out there,” said the Phillies’ coach.
“Me?”
“Of course you, don’t let your fans down.”
Byron tipped his cap and mask at us, his adoring fans. A
crowd of other fans joined in as Mrs. Johnson was quick to point out that Byron
was ‘my son’. Strangers patted Mr. Johnson on the back. Mr. Johnson’s smile was
bright white, a stark contrast to his dark black skin. It looked even brighter
as his smile was pasted on the Jumbotron at the other side of the stadium.
When Byron came to crouch behind home plate at the beginning
of the game, he had to endure another standing ovation. He just smiled and
motioned for us to sit down.
He knew.
He must have always known.
I met Byron Johnson at the beginning of the 1974 Major
League Baseball season when our fathers took us to watch Hank Aaron hit his 714th
career home run. Byron was thirteen and I was twelve. He had baseball swagger
even back then. As I watched him step to the plate and pull on his catcher’s
mask, it wasn’t much different than it had been eight years earlier. He
crouched into his position and waited for the pitch. This time, though, he was
right where he should be: in the Majors.
Sure, he was playing for the Phillies, but just like the
rest of the world, everything that is right comes in the right time.
Yes, it had been almost five years since Erica went to the
hospital with her brother and me by her side. Now, I was at her side, just
behind home plate, shaded toward first base and the home team dugout, just like
always since I started going to baseball games with Byron’s family.
We sat and waited for the first batter to approach the
plate. It was Los Angeles second baseman Steve Sax. My Dodgers were playing
against Byron’s Philadelphia Phillies.
Still, I had worn a faded Cincinnati Reds t-shirt and faded
Reds cap, which blended well with the pinkish Philadelphia colors. Erica wore
Byron’s old Bond Hill Phillies ball cap, which looked just like the authentic
caps other fans wore. She pulled it down hard on her head so the bill completely
shaded her eyes.
The Dodgers and Phillies had split the first two games of
the three game series. During the second game, Bo Diaz, the Phillies’ starting
catcher, had bruised his knee during a collision at home plate with Sax. The
Phillies immediately looked to Byron to fill-in for Diaz
As Sax stepped into the batter’s box, Byron crouched and
Erica mimicked him, pulling her knees to her chest and placing her feet
squarely on the concrete barrier in front of us.
Larry Christensen started on the mound for the Phillies. He
was one of a string of talented veterans in the Phillies bullpen. He delivered
on that promise, even though Ron Roenicke hit a single and Dusty Baker got to
first on an error by third baseman Mike Schmidt. Still, he made it out of the
first with a double play. The second inning was much easier, with three up and
three down..
In the top of the third, he faced the bottom of the Dodgers’
batting order. Bill Russell, the eighth batter, grounded to third for an easy
out. Pitcher Fernando Valenzuela singled, followed by a double for Sax. Now,
two runners were in scoring position. Christensen tossed an intentional walk to
Roenicke to load the bases, with only one out.
Slugger Dusty Baker stepped to the plate and immediately
clipped Christensen’s first pitch to shallow left field, allowing two runs to
score.
Byron joined Mike Schmidt, Pete Rose, and coach Dallas Green
on the mound.
“Larry, you alright?” asked the coach.
“Yeah, I’m fine, that slider to Baker just sort of hung in
the center of the plate.”
“Just relax,” interjected Byron, “we’ll feed that slider to
Cey. He loves to swing at junk.”
Christensen raised an eyebrow.
“Listen, kid, I pitched to Roy Campanella and Yogi Berra
before you were a twinkle in your mama’s eye.”
Byron stood there silently.
“Leave him alone, Christy. He’s just trying to do his job,”
said Schmidt. Then, he gave Byron a pat on the rump with his glove hand. Rose
followed with a pat with his own gloved hand. Christensen capped it off by
palming the top of Byron’s head with his glove.
“Hey!” interrupted Green, “we’re at a ball game, not the
circus! Let’s get these guys out and get back to business!”
Byron trotted home, a little embarrassed, but a little
wiser. Christensen threw three straight junk pitches: slider, curve, slider. Baker
attempted to steal on the second pitch. Byron shifted his feet as Baker
increased his lead from first. When the pitch came, Byron was already in
position. His hand was on the baseball as soon as he stabbed it with his mitt.
He reeled back and fired towards second. Second baseman Manny Trillo had
simultaneously shifted towards the base. The throw steamed over Christensen’s
head and landed perfectly in Trillo’s glove just before Baker made it to third.
Byron’s first put-out attempt sent a clear message to all of the National
League speedsters: “Don’t even think about it.”
Cey did connect on
the last pitch. However, with Baker out, his pop fly would leave Roenicke
stranded at third. The Dodgers now led, 2-0.
The Phillies, however, responded in the bottom of the third.
Byron was also the first of the Phillies to bat.
Fernando Valenzuela didn’t have the advantage of scouting
reports on Byron. Still, Valenzuela relied on his powerful fastball for his
first two pitches. Both pitches were low and inside. Byron swung at both. The
count was 0 and 2. One more strike and Byron was out.
Valenzuela reared back and tossed high heat. It sailed along
at chest height until it reached the plate. Byron pulled his bat around and met
the baseball squarely. It headed directly back to Valenzuela, but bounced on
the front of the mound and caromed to the left, towards shortstop Bill Russell.
It caught Russell off-guard. The ball hit the heel of his glove and dropped to
the ground. Russell quickly picked it up and fired it to first. It flew into
the stands. Byron advanced to second. Although the scorekeeper counted both the
hit and the extra base as errors, Byron made it to second. Our entire section
gave him another standing ovation. Second baseman Steve Sax displayed the
rookie catcher with his hands.
“Take a bow, kid.”
Indeed, Byron took a bow. It was slow in coming, but a
growing contingent of fans stood and applauded for the twenty-one year old
rookie.
Like I said, he knew. Byron also scored the first run of
that three-run inning, off a Pete Rose single to right field.
In the fourth inning, the Dodgers scored a third run to tie
the score 3-3. The Phillies answered with a Manny Trillo home run to give the
Phillies a 4-3 lead. Unfortunately, Byron struck out after an eight-pitch battle
where he ripped a couple fouls down the right field foul line after patiently
waiting through three curve balls that were low and far outside the strike
zone.
“You want to take a walk around?” Erica said to me.
“Sure, that sounds good. I’m a little hungry anyway.”
We circled the stadium and watched the people enjoying the
game. Phillies fans were a varied bunch. Some young, some old, some men and
some women, not even all the fans were wearing Phillies garb. Some were in
green Eagles t-shirts. Others were wearing New York Mets caps and Dwight Gooden
Jerseys. Still others were even wearing the black and gold of cross-state rival
Pittsburgh Pirates. One thing was absolute: there wasn’t anyone wearing Dodger
Blue, not even me.
“What would you like to eat?”
“I’ll eat whatever you’re eating.”
“How would you like a Philly Cheese Steak?”
“Like I said, I’ll eat whatever you’re eating.”
I ordered a couple of cheese steaks, a bucket of vinegar
fries, and a large pop. We continued around the stadium, taking turns holding
the food and eating it as we returned to our section. By the time we returned,
it was the bottom of the sixth. Byron was in the on-deck circle.
“Get down here,” said Mr. Johnson.
“I thought you were going to miss him,” said Fitize.
If we had returned another five minutes later we would’ve
missed his turn. On the very first pitch, he nipped the lower half of the ball,
sending it straight up into the air. It came down just in front of us, where
the catcher fielded it for a foul out.
By the beginning of the seventh inning, Christensen’s pitch
count was already 114. Traditionally, starting pitchers were expected to last
around 100 pitches before the skipper yanked them. Coach Green had been
reluctant to use another pitcher’s arm, especially since the Phillies would be
facing the New York Mets next, their divisional rival. The Phillies needed
every win they could muster.
The top of the seventh, however, got off to a rocky start.
Dusty Baker tripled to right and Christensen managed to walk Ron Cey. The next
batter was slugger Pedro Guererro. Rose and Schmidt approached the mound. Byron
joined them.
All three veterans looked to Byron. Christensen was the
first to speak.
“Whaddya think I should do, kid?”
Byron pointed to himself with the catcher’s mitt.
“You’re asking me?”
“Yeah, I’m asking you.”
“Guerrero’s tough. He’s got a good eye and can hit just
about any pitch you give him. I say you send him only fastballs, low and
inside. Hug the plate, but make him swing. He’s likely to hit the ball near his
knuckles. It’ll be a choppy grounder to first. If Pete plays it tight, we’ve
still got the option to come home and set up the double play. No runs scored,
nothing harmed.”
Christensen nodded and everyone returned to their positions.
Christy delivered two straight fastballs and both landed
just inside the plate for a 2-0 count. Still, Byron signaled for another
fastball and placed his mitt out to the left, framing the very same area for
Christy’s third pitch.
Christy nodded. Then, he contorted into his wind up. His delivery
was strong, but smooth. The balll, which was originally headed directly at
Guerrero’s knees, slowly drifted in towards the plate. Guerrero pulled his bat
down, fast and hard, towards the ball. He did manage to connect with the thin
part of the bat, but he hit a line drive straight up the middle. Christensen
put out his glove and stabbed it for the first out. He then fired to Schmidt,
who was already covering third base. The throw beat Baker back to third, and
just like a game of pitcher’s mound, Baker was called out as Schmidt converted
the double play.
Christy walked the next batter and Coach Green trotted out
to the mound and told Christy to hit the showers. His time was up.
The skipper called to the bullpen. Reliever Ron Reed came
out and dispatched the next four batters with two strike outs and no hits.
Byron came out to the corner of the netting after the Dodgers’ last at bat in
the top of the ninth.
“What are you guys doing tonight?”
“We’re headed back to the hotel,” said his father, “and then
maybe we’ll go out for dinner. How long will it be until you’re ready?”
“Aw, I don’t think I can go out tonight. We’re headed to New
York at midnight.”
“That’s okay. We’ll take a rain check.”
Byron nodded before he trotted back to the dugout and joined
his teammates in the locker room for an after-game pep talk. Then, they’d
shower and load onto the bus for the eight-hour drive to Manhattan.
Meanwhile, we loaded into our three cars and headed out to
the Ramada Inn by the freeway. It was an old ramshackle of a place that sat
next to a gas station with a Stuckey’s at the far end of the road. Our hotel
rooms were located at the end of a third floor balcony that overlooked the
road. Each of the rooms had two double beds. I’d be rooming with Fitzie and my
parents. The Heinz and Johnson families both had their own rooms. As soon as we
picked out our places, Fitzie and I were ready to go.
“Can we go over to the Stuckey’s?”
Sure,” said mom, “but don’t bother the others. They probably
want to get their rest.”
We both agreed, but we immediately went next door to fetch
Lee. Then, we knocked on the Johnson’s door. Erica answered.
“Want to go to the Stuckey’s?”
“Absolutely!”
“Erica,” said her father, “I don’t know if it’s safe.”
“I’m with the boys,” she insisted.
Mrs. Johnson nodded to her husband and he nodded to Erica.
We were off in a snap.
“Let’s get something to eat,” said Fitz.
“You’re hungry at this hour?”
“If we don’t eat now, we’ll have to wait until the morning.”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
We squeezed into a booth near the back and waited for our
menus. When the waitress arrived, I suddenly realized that Fitzie and I were
the only white people in the place. Sure, Lee was sort of white, but his skin
had a dark complexion. Fitzie and me – well, we were as white as white could
be.
“What’ll you have?”
“What do you got?” asked Fitz.
“Anything you can imagine. Pecan pie, corn fritters, sweet
yams, black-eyed peas…”
I glanced over the menu. Everything on it was soul food.
“What do you think?” I asked Erica.
“To be honest, I don’t know what any of it tastes like.”
“It’s all good food. What kind of things do you guys like?”
“Meatloaf, potatoes and gravy, tacos, hotcakes…”
The waitress scrunched her nose and dug the eraser of her
pencil into her scalp.
“You’ve just about got me stumped…how about if I get you
four different dishes and you can figure out what you like and what you don’t?”
I looked around the table. Everyone’s face was blank.
“Sure!” I said.
“How much money do you have?”
“Twenty bucks,” I said.
“Oh, then this’ll be easy.”
A few minutes later, she returned with a complete selection
of food.
We cleaned all of our plates, mostly through trial and
error. If one of us didn’t like something, we surely liked the other. At the
end of the meal, we even had enough money left over for malts.
“That was great!” said Fitz. We all agreed.
There were people gathered outside; all were black. For some
reason, the four of us were both invisible and outstanding. Still, nobody said
a thing to us, even though I could feel the weight of their stares as we headed
across the lot and towards the hotel.
As we climbed the stairs, a voice called out. It was one of
the boys from the parking lot.
“Hey,” he shouted, “what are you guys doing out here?”
“We went to the ball game.”
“You were at the Phillies game?”
“Yeah,” added Erica, “my brother plays for them.”
“Nun-uh.”
“Yeah-huh. He’s the catcher.”
“Your brother is Bo Diaz?”
“No, he’s Byron Johnson.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“Well, you will. He just came up from the majors.”
“That’s cool.”
He ran back to the parking lot and we headed up to our
rooms. It was just around sunset, so we dragged the wire-backed chairs from our
rooms and sat on the porch. I rocked my chair onto its back legs and propped my
feet on the railing. Soon, the boy returned with a few friends.
“You want to do something?”
“Nah,” Lee responded cautiously.
“We’ve got cards.”
“Come on up,” said Erica.
They rushed up the stairs and ran towards us. Their feet
pounded on the concrete balcony, which provoked Mr. Johnson to poke his head
out the door.
“What are you kids up to?”
“We’re going to play some cards,” said Erica.
“Alright, but be quiet. People are trying to get their
rest.”
We organized ourselves into two groups of four and played
spades late into the night. Finally, my father told Fitzie and me to come
inside. Lee and Erica followed suit as everyone said their goodbyes.
For the trip home, I do remember traveling with the
Johnsons. Erica and I sat in the back seat. Mr. Johnson drove while Mrs.
Johnson rode shotgun. Erica sat behind her, to my right. It was good because I
offered up my right pinky and she locked it down with her left pinky.
It is only faintly
that I recall that, because the trip was otherwise unremarkable. We likely
played car games like I Spy, Perdiddle, or Slug Bug, but it was so long ago
now, I’m really unsure.
That weekend, however, was the last time my family took a
road trip with the Johnsons or the guys.
Erica went to college in Boston that fall. Both Lee and I
graduated from UC the following spring. Fitzie finished officer training and
went on to serve in the Army for the remainder of his life.
As for Byron, he only played three more games for
Philadelphia, remaining hitless in his next 11 plate appearances. He was sent
back to Reading for the remainder of 1082. Then, he was traded to the Montreal
Expos for a pair of young prospects. The Expos, who had future Hall of Fame
catcher Gary Carter behind the plate, really didn’t have any use for Byron at
all. He was relegated to AA for the first half of 1983. When he refused the
opportunity to be a minor league catching coach, he refused. Then, he was
dropped altogether.
He returned to Mount Adams for a short time before heading
the whole way back t o Bond Hill. He married a local girl and they had two
kids. He coached both of his boys in his father’s old league for a few years
while holding down a mid-level job at a local bank.
A short time later, Erica was married and living somewhere
near downtown Boston.
I stayed near Cincy and raised two girls. One played soccer.
The other begged to play a new musical instrument each and every autumn. I
spoiled them as much as possible, even if neither of them liked baseball at
all.
Still, Byron and I got together for day trips to Riverfront
to watch the Redlegs. Whether it was the Dodgers or not, I’d always be sure to
wear my old faded blue ball cap and Byron would be sure to wear whatever brand
new Reds cap he’d just purchased from the Team Shop. Afterwards, we’d head to
one of our houses, adjourn to the porch with a bucket full of iced-down bottles
of beer and talk about the good old days.
With every fresh bottle of beer, he’d unscrew the bottle cap
and pinch it between his thumb and middle finger. Then, he’d lean back and snap
his fingers sharply. The bottle cap spun away from him and fluttered through
the air in a soft arc. Then, it would clank against the pavement as it landed
in the roadway in front of the house until it skittered to a stop.
Sometimes, those most golden of moments would surface out of
nowhere – just like loading the JUGS machine with tennis balls, swatting at
fireflies, or just telling jokes in the dugout while waiting for Coach Klein’s
latest variation of his same old pep talk.
And, as Coach Klein always used to say, “The more things
change, the more they stay the same.”
.
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