My necrological team

Baseball arrived too early in my life. At first it was only a matter of curiosity, of knowing about that game my brothers not only lasted hours playing at the field in front of home at daylight time, but stayed for hours adhered to the old bulb radio placed at the end of the dining room, listening to the games broadcasts. I really asked myself why they were so attracted to that game. As a six-year-old kid I just enjoyed very explosive dynamic games, so I got this kind of sadness each time I saw Felipe and Jesus Mario, turning on the radio to listen to another ballgame. The first impact baseball made on me was on September 1967, my brothers were really excited, euphoric, Dad had to come to our bedroom to call their attention, they were being very noisy. That day they had tuned the short wave radio station that broadcasted major league baseball games. One of their baseball idols, the righthander Isaías “Látigo” Chávez came to relieve the San Francisco Giants starter Bill Henry in the fourth inning. Even when I didn’t know anything about baseball, I got very impressed by seeing my brothers’ excitement when the game ended. It had meant Isaías Chavez first win in the big show, they went in such a frenzy that I thought they were really nuts. I had to learn about baseball, I had to search about that Isaías Chavez. By 1968 I knew a little bit about baseball, no matter how many times Felipe had to explain me what was a ball hurled in strike. But I hardly could improve my knowledge about Isaías Chavez performances. He got an injured ankle while playing for the Phoenix Giants in the Pacific Coast League AAA. Then when he recovered from the ankle injury, he started to feel pain in his throwing elbow and couldn’t play in the venezuelan winter league because of a surgery for removing calcium chips from his elbow. Around early March 1969, Isaías Chavez finally recovered from the surgery and prepared to travel to the spring training. That March 16, I was listening some music on the radio. Suddenly the song was interrupted for a breaking news bulletin. I felt as if the whole atmosphere was drained out from the room. I stopped whistling, stopped seeing, stopped breathing. Isaías Chavez had died in an air crash at Grano de Oro airport in Maracaibo, Venezuela, while flying to Miami, Fla., to report to the San Francisco Giants training camp in Casa Grande, Arizona. I got paralyzed. I didn’t speak for the next three hours. Felipe didn’t know how to explain that. I cried through many days. Each day after coming from school I went to the back passage of the house and kept regretting that accident. I felt very depressed because I wouldn’t be able to listen or watch a game where Isaías Chavez was the pitcher, in fact I hadn’t listened to a complete game hurled by him.

The first half of 1969 major league baseball season I remained out of listening the games broadcasts and even from reading the baseball news in papers and magazines. I resisted to accept that Isaías Chavez had died. I even had my own breaking news from the 1969 spring training: Isaías Chavez had recovered from the surgery and made the opening day San Francisco Giants team. He even had a great performance in his first start. He hurled six scoreless innings before the Saint Louis Cardinals, a non decision game for him, the Giants ended winning 3-2. Then I had to realize the bitter truth, the fact that I wouldn’t listened to a game where Isaías Chavez was on the mound. I started collecting my particular scrapbook with newspapers and magazines clipping about the air crash, the expectations the San Francisco Giants had with Isaías Chávez, remembrances of his minor league and winter league teammates and lots of fotographs of him with the different teams he played in the minor league system, with the Magallanes Navigators in the Venezuelan league, and even with Los Celis, his team while playing amateur baseball. Anytime I looked at that scrapbook I went far away to the rear passage of the house, to avoid anybody could see me crying. I hardly got back to read the baseball news at the beginning of August 1969; and I only listened my first game on the radio at the beginning of September, since the ending of the venezuelan winter league in February. I hardly remember that was the Miracle Mets season. Then it began the venezuelan winter league and in the opening game the Magallanes Navigators announced they were retiring Isaias Chavez number. I listened to that game dreaming about Isaias Chavez being the starting pitcher. So I got very depressed each time Felipe and Jesus Mario told me the starting pitcher for Magallanes that night was Roberto Muñoz, maybe the greatest rival of Isaías Chavez on being the best Venezuelan starting pitcher in the 1960s. Little by little I recovered from that griever, but the mourn remained at the back of my soul. I enjoyed the Magallanes Navigators winning the 1969-70 venezuelan winter league and the Caribbean Series championships and everything seemed to be funny around baseball. Then came the 1970-71 season and the Magallanes Navigators started their defense of the championship, everything was going on well until December 14th, 1970. That evening Felipe y Jesus Mario suddenly changed their smiling faces for darkened ones. They had listened on the radio that Herman Hill, the afroamerican outfielder who was performing great at the Magallanes Navigators left field, most of all because of his speed for chasing flies and line drives in the field and while running the bases, had drowned at Guaicamacuto beach, Carabobo, Venezuela. Hill had agreed with his teammates, Dale Spiers, Ray Fosse and John Morris, to go to the beach because Mondays were the league’s day off.

I got paralyzed for a couple of minutes. Felipe tried to say something but he didn’t have a voice, the radio almost fell from his hands an Jesus Mario caught it just a few inches from hitting the ground. I got away to the darkness in front of the house and stayed there for more than twenty minutes in front of a large pond of rain water. The frogs sang what for me was a requiem for Hill. I couldn’t believe that in less than two years, my favorite team had lost two great players, both of them very young ones. I asked myself how could that happen. The same way I couldn’t imagine the Magallanes Navigators line up without Isaias Chavez as the starting pitcher every four days, I asked myself in the middle of the frogs’ song, how the team was going to replace Hill. It was impossible. The guy literally flew in left field and on the bases. Even a week later from the accident, when I came back to listen the games’ broadcasts again, I kept reciting in my mind Herman Hill’s name when it came the slot of the left fielder in the line up. More than thirty years later I talked to Gregorio Machado, a reliever for the Magallanes Navigators during those years. He told me that the whole team was shocked by Hill’s death. They didn’t return to play until the rescue corps found Herman Hill’s body. They went to see their teammate for the last time and noticed he died while stretching his arms as if performing the classic crawl swimming style. Hill was a great swimmer, but unfortunately this time he couldn’t beat the turbulence of the waves at Guaicamacuto beach. The outfielder Jim Holt who had suggested Hill to come to play for the Magallanes Navigators was the one that went to the United States with Herman Hill’s body to deliver it to his parents, a very hard and emotional task. Machado told me that many times they referred to the left fielder by the name of Hill and immediately got mute. That pain remained with the team for the rest of the season. The Magallanes Navigators’ front office moved quickly and got a replace player. They got the young outfielder Richard Chiles (He had played in 1970 for the Oklahoma City 89ers in the American Association League AAA. In 414 AB, he hit for .304, 56 runs, 36 RBI) who performed very well in the season and in the playoffs, but I always kept asking myself what would have happened if Herman Hill would have played for the Magallanes Navigators for the rest of the 1970-71 season and of course in the playoffs. I still believe that with him in the line up the Navigators would have won its second championship in a row instead of losing it in seven games before the La Guaira Sharks. When that seventh game was over I remained in front of the radio for more than 15 minutes. I kept remembering a game where Herman Hill ran very fast to reach a pop up almost behind third base and at the last moment he dropped the ball, the only one outfielder who could reach that ball was him. He had played for the Minnesota Twins in the 1970 season. In 27 games, he had 2 hits and 8 runs. He also played for the Evansville Triplets in the American Association League (AAA): In 112 games, he hit for .248, 50 runs, 35 RBI, 24 stolen bases.

I had enjoyed a lot the 1971 World Series, the magnificent glove and accurate arm of Brooks Robinson at third base, the great pitching performances from Dave McNally, Jim Palmer, Mike Cuellar, the response capacity of Steve Blass, Bruce Kison, Bob Moose and Nelson Briles from the mound and the greatness of Roberto Clemente as a right fielder and as contact hitter. The 1972 new year’s day was a real nightmare for me. I couldn’t believe what the radio of my father’s Plymouth 1970 was saying: “…in an air crash in front of Puerto Rico island, the plane where baseball player Roberto Clemente flied to carry help for the Managua earthquake victims, dropped to the ocean…” The rest of the journey to Cumanacoa, Sucre, Venezuela; I hid below the rear seat. I felt as if baseball was running out of ballplayers since I had begun to follow it. Maybe I should quit on listening to the games and watching then on tv. From that day on I couldn’t stop remembering all the games I’ve read and listened with Clemente leading his team. One of the images I had more vivid in my mind was a game from 1956 where Clemente hit an inside the park walk off homer to beat the Cincinnati Reds in extrainning while ignoring the third base coach Bobby Bragan, to stay at third base. I didn’t listen to that game, I even haven’t been born. But I can remember it as if I had been at Forbes Field that day, Clemente’s swing, the crack of the bat against the ball the desperation of Cincinnati’s outfielder, and the running of Clemente from home plate through the bases, each time fastest, each time more determined to arrive at home. That morning, Dad had to come to the rear seat of the Plymouth to persuade me of getting out from the car. “I know it’s a tough news son, but you can’t remain at the car. The sun is getting very burning, Another image I had from Clemente was and at bat against Juan Marichal at Candlestick Park, he hit something like 25 fouls and afterwards hit a two-base hit against the right center field wall. Not even the modification of Baseball Hall of Fame rules to induct Clemente before the normal period of time required, calmed my sorrow for the passing away of the Puerto Rico’s baseball hero. I tried to calm myself down by searching about Clemente`s assists as a right fielder. It was strange to me that he hadn`t any defensive record since he had the best rightfielder arm of his time. Then I read and listened to the experts saying that most of the time Clemente didn’t have to make any throw to the bases or home plate because the runners knew about his arm and didn’t risk taking an additional base, that was the reason Clemente’s assists were not abundant.

I had enjoyed a lot the 1971 World Series, the magnificent glove and accurate arm of Brooks Robinson at third base, the great pitching performances from Dave McNally, Jim Palmer, Mike Cuellar, the response capacity of Steve Blass, Bruce Kison, Bob Moose and Nelson Briles from the mound and the greatness of Roberto Clemente as a right fielder and as contact hitter. The 1972 new year’s day was a real nightmare for me. I couldn’t believe what the radio of my father’s Plymouth 1970 was saying: “…in an air crash in front of Puerto Rico island, the plane where baseball player Roberto Clemente flied to carry help for the Managua earthquake victims, dropped to the ocean…” The rest of the journey to Cumanacoa, Sucre, Venezuela; I hid below the rear seat. I felt as if baseball was running out of ballplayers since I had begun to follow it. Maybe I should quit on listening to the games and watching then on tv. From that day on I couldn’t stop remembering all the games I’ve read and listened with Clemente leading his team. One of the images I had more vivid in my mind was a game from 1956 where Clemente hit an inside the park walk off homer to beat the Cincinnati Reds in extrainning while ignoring the third base coach Bobby Bragan, to stay at third base. I didn’t listen to that game, I even haven’t been born. But I can remember it as if I had been at Forbes Field that day, Clemente’s swing, the crack of the bat against the ball the desperation of Cincinnati’s outfielder, and the running of Clemente from home plate through the bases, each time fastest, each time more determined to arrive at home. That morning, Dad had to come to the rear seat of the Plymouth to persuade me of getting out from the car. “I know it’s a tough news son, but you can’t remain at the car. The sun is getting very burning, Another image I had from Clemente was and at bat against Juan Marichal at Candlestick Park, he hit something like 25 fouls and afterwards hit a two-base hit against the right center field wall. Not even the modification of Baseball Hall of Fame rules to induct Clemente before the normal period of time required, calmed my sorrow for the passing away of the Puerto Rico’s baseball hero. I tried to calm myself down by searching about Clemente`s assists as a right fielder. It was strange to me that he hadn`t any defensive record since he had the best rightfielder arm of his time. Then I read and listened to the experts saying that most of the time Clemente didn’t have to make any throw to the bases or home plate because the runners knew about his arm and didn’t risk taking an additional base, that was the reason Clemente’s assists were not abundant.

While I thought that finally baseball would come back to give me great moments, since the Magallanes Navigators were having a very good performance in the 1974-75 venezuelan winter league season; all of a sudden sadness ghost invaded my days. During my regular look to the sports pages of El Nacional daily newspaper I got almost breathless when reading that Don Wilson, the ace of the Houston Astros pitching staff, had been found dead inside his car at his home’s garage. He had intoxicated with carbon monoxide and even his little son died for that reason. It happened on January 5th, 1975. At first it was said that Wilson committed suicide, but further research showed that the fact was an accident. That news really shadowed my happiness for the Magallanes Navigators good season. I almost stopped following the games. I remained several days recalling Wilson`s greatest performances with the Houston Astros, his two no hitters ( before the Atlanta Braves on June, 18th 1967, a 2-0 victory where he allowed 3 walks, but had 15 struckouts, the other one was against the Cincinnati Reds on May 1st, 1969, there he got seven runners on base due to 6 walks and a batter hit by his deliveries, but still he managed to strike out 13 Reds. Wilson took revenge from the Reds, the day before the Reds’ pitcher, Jim Maloney had hurled a no hitter before the Astros and nine days before the Reds had beat the Astros 14-0 while embarrassing them. So Wilson took the mound in a very angry mood that night at Crosley Field). Another game I remembered a lot was the one where manager Preston Gomez took him out when Wilson had pitched eight no hit innings before, yes, the Cincinnati Red on September 4th, 1974. The Astros were trailing 2-1, when Gomez pulled Wilson for a pinch hitter in a controversial move that prevented a possible third no hitter. I remembered being mad at Gomez while reading the news back in September, 1974

As I remained sad and a little depressed no matter the great season of the Magallanes Navigators, Felipe tried to raise my mood by telling me the story of Ken Hubbs. How a promising ball player who even had won the Rookie of the Year award died unexpectedly in an air crash. It was a very tough moment for Hubbs’ family, the Chicago Cubs who counted on him as the cornerstone of the team in the near future, and for the Cubs fans. Although he was beginning his baseball career, Hubs was a very well estimated player for his teammates and for the fans. Felipe told me time is the best medicine in such situations. And that was proved in Hubbs’ case and many others. Although, still, from time to time, you find people who keeps regretting and asking what would have been if…Anyway I didn’t think it would apply for me, I still had very weak scars about Isaías Chavez, Herman Hill, Roberto Clemente, Mark Weems and now Don Wilson. By September 1978, I got another stab at the left side of my chest, I almost clashed against a light pole in the street while reading an evening newspaper. Lyman Bostock that skinny and magnificent outfielder who could hit the ball to all directions was shot in the rear seat of a cab after the California Angels game at Comiskey Park on September . At the moment I felt terror for baseball, in eleven years I had followed the game, six players had died in the middle of their baseball careers. Bostock had been one of the key players for the Aragua Tigers team that beat the Magallanes Navigators in the Venezuelan winter league final playoff of the 1974-75 season. At the end I had to recognize his value as a great ballplayer. But now I couldn’t decipher life’s designs . Why do all those young players have to die? While reading the paper I recalled Bostock’s words during his struggling time that 1978 season. He has offered to give back the money of his contract to the Angels front office for not being able to hit well the ball. Many years later I identified what I felt reading the paper with what I read in Don Baylor’s autobiography. Baylor felt very sad for not being able to take Bostock to dinner after a very hard defeat, the day of the killing. He came to blame himself for being responsible of Bostock’s death.

Then it came the hardest days of my life, on June 19th, 1979 I got a hone call from Mom, it was very early in the morning. Her voice sounded seized, rusted, silent. I didn’t want to believe what she told me. No, Dad couldn’t go just when I just was 18 year old. I had many questions to make, many pendants talks with him. He couldn’t leave that way. I remained isolated for many days between the grievance of Dad`s passing away and the regrets for not being able to share more time with him, to go walking with him on Saturdays morning as I had promised so many times, to be more persistent on asking him to teach me how to prepare the arancini (a typical Sicilian dish consistent on rice balls filled with grinded meat cooked in tomato sauce); that experience of sharing time with dad in the kitchen had remained for almost forty years, I still can see him making his particular signs for me to go to the backyard looking for some basil leaves, or to take the white wine bottle from under a side table in the kitchen, to accompany his pesto spaghetti. What I most blame on myself is not being able of telling him how much I loved him. I keep telling myself I only had time to argue and discuss with him. One of my thoughts while looking at Dad’s face in the coffin, was how had he done to handle the grievance for losing no one player at a time but his whole favorite team and later on in the 1960’s he also had to deal with the passing of another great player from the Torino’s team. Maybe I could learn to assimilate the deaths of my baseball heroes, but it took me many more days, to hardly understand Dad’s passing away. I remained talking to him at nights, in the bathroom or even sometimes while strolling in the street. Sometimes I remained at the cemetery in front of his grave site until darkness was so thick I couldn’t even see my hands. I didn’t care about ghosts, bad spirits or mobsters. I knew Dad was nearby by the side of Jesus Christ, that was my way of being closer to him. Among the infinite questions I asked Dad at his grave site one of the newest ones came after August 2nd 1979, when Thurman Munson passed away while flying a private plane. Yes, Munson played for the hated Yankees, he was Carlton Fisk’s great rival as the American League greatest catcher of the 1970’s, but I still admired his competitiveness, his quickness while releasing his throws to the bases, his mastery at handling veteran pitchers, his courage before Reggie Jackson’s arrogance. I kept asking Dad a lot why my favorite players, including him, had to leave away so early. In the middle of that darkness I could see all those fights between Munson and Fisk around home plate during the 1970’s. Through the excitement of the radio broadcaster I could feel the intensity, the giving it all sensation from those players, an attitude each time more difficult to see in current baseball. For me Munson was the real leader of those Yankee teams which won the World Series in 1977 and 1978.

Through the 1980’s maybe I was a little away from baseball most of all because the Magallanes Navigators were experiencing very bad seasons. I just tried to refuge myself in MLB, but even there the Boston Red Sox were having hard times in the American League. So when first baseman Gonzalo Márquez died in an automobile accident at Autopista Regional del Centro, Venezuela, on November 1984, I renewed my anger with baseball. Why did my favorite players have to disappear in such an abrupt way? Why couldn’t I keep following their performances at real baseball parks? In just a second I conformed a line up with all the players I had seen passing away in the middle of their playing time. Márquez played for the rivals Caracas Lions, but I enjoyed his defensive skills while catching balls in the dirt at first base. In current baseball, each time is harder to find a first time who can take regularly throws in the dirt. I also remember Marquez as a reinforcement player for the Magallanes Navigators in the 1969-70 playoffs and later in the 1970 Caribbean Series, when the Navigators won it all. Of course a significant part of my grievance implied a remembrance from the Game 1 of the 1972 American League Championship Series, Marquez told his teammate Bert Campaneris that he could connect a base hit to Chuck Seelbach who was relieving for the Detroit Tigers in the bottom of the eleventh inning. Campaneris told that to Dick Williams and he sent Marquez as a pinch hitter. Marquez single drove in the tying run for the A’s and in the same play Gene Tenace also scored as right fielder Al Kaline threw the ball away. A’s 3 – Tigers 2. The last but not the least painful punch to the liver of this particular series of events happened on late October 1991. That day I was listening to a baseball program in the radio and they started to talk about Baudilio (Bo) Díaz in such a way I started to suspect something wrong had happened and unfortunately I was right. That 1991-92 venezuelan baseball winter season Díaz had returned to play baseball with the Caracas Lions after some years being absent. Since Díaz wasn’t performing well at the field, manager Phil Regan decided to replace him in the line up with rookie Carlos Hernández. Díaz didn`t like Regan`s decision and left the team after taking with him all his belongings from the clubhouse. I still can feel the depth of the stabbing I felt in mi spine when I listened that Diaz had died while handling the parabolic dish at the roof of his house. His head got smashed by the gigantic dish presumably in a movement generated by a sudden wind. While I tried to recover from the pain in my back, the first images that came to my mind were those two great plays at home in the 1979 Caribbean Series’ fifth game. Each time Diaz handled Oswaldo Olivares throws from right field and planted his spikes in front of home plate to retire the runners Miguel Diloné and Nelson Norman. A pair of doubleplays instrumental in the Magallanes Navigators championship.

This is maybe the most tearful line up I’ve kept in mind for my whole life with Isaías Chavez and Don Wilson flashing as starters, Mark Weems appearing from the bullpen, Herman Hill sprinting at left field, Roberto Clemente floating at right field, Ken Hubbs performing at second base, Lyman Bostock flowing at left field, Thurman Munson leading from home plate, Gonzalo Marquez taking balls from the dirt at first base, Baudilio Diaz hustling as a catcher, and my Dad always there to explain me why life was so cruel. All of them gone suddenly, when they still have a lot to do in life.

Alfonso L. Tusa C. July 07th, 2017.