The crowd erupted, a full-throated cheer echoing off the steel columns supporting the upper deck above us. I turned to my father, asking, “Why’s everybody excited?”
He pointed down at the field. “Kluszewski’s coming out,” he said.
Seven years old, in my first season playing knothole baseball, my father had taken me to my first major league game at Crosley Field, home of the Reds in Cincinnati. While I understood the rudiments of the game – nine men with gloves spread out over the impossibly green field, awaiting a swing from someone at home base with a bat – I was more interested in the ancillary activities which accompanied the actual play.
A floppy net hung above the fans behind home. Every time a batter hit a ball directly backwards, it shot up the net, slowly reached an apex, and then gathered steam as it rolled back down, to be caught by a young man in a sleeveless Reds uniform with no number on the back. As this happened, the crowd would hum in unison, a rising pitch as the ball rose up the net, then a reversal in tone as it fell back down, followed by a satisfying “pop” sound of ten thousand lips smacking when the ball boy caught it.
Men in white paper hats and floppy linen coats roamed the aisles carrying trays on straps over one shoulder. “Gitch yer beer here! BEER HERE!” they hollered, followed by the brand, “Hudie [Hudepohl], ice-cold Hudie!” A fan would raise his hand, the vendor would stop, lift a dark brown bottle from the tray, pop off the cap with a little opener he kept cradled in one palm, drop the cap in the tray, grandly pour the brew into a paper cup with a swooping up and down arc, spilling a bit of foam into the tray and beer onto the concrete steps. Then he’d hand the cup (no top) to the first person on the aisle, from who it would pass, one person at a time, to the thirsty fan, who sent a fifty cent piece (or sometimes a dollar bill!) back down the aisle. The vendor would pop the coin into a small set of metal tubes on his belt, push a clicker dispensing a quarter (or three) out, and pass the change back down the aisle. All three trips back-and-forth were intently followed by all eyes in that section, making sure the beer got to where it was intended, the money as well. You can imagine the complexity if more than one beer was purchased at a time.
While I couldn’t buy beer, I could get some peanuts. The men selling those cried, “Peanuts! Roasted peanuts!” Although I loved the taste of warm peanuts, and the joy of cracking open a shell, then licking the nut from within, grabbing a taste of salt as I did, my real reason for the purchase was to see how the vendor would toss it over to me. Overhand, underhand, a hook shot, behind-the-back – they had all the moves. And never missed their target. And, I got to participate in the ritual coin exchange as an endpoint, not just a conduit. The sound and feel of newly crushed shells beneath my feet meant the game was moving along, probably past the fifth inning by now.
Crosley Field was built in the early days of the twentieth century, before urban renewal tore down tenements and sweat shops which allowed a stadium to be any size or shape wanted. The Reds park had to fit within the confines of its awkward city block, defined by the street grid already there. Which made for an asymmetrical outfield wall, and fences closer in than most other parks. In addition, the underlying topography rose slightly from the infield to the outfield. The designers gave up on the re-grade, and simply built a slight slope towards the left field wall, starting about two-thirds of the way from the second-third base line. That left field wall extending out to center abutted directly on a street, with a three story factory on the other side. Weekend days, the roof would fill with fans who climbed the fire escape to watch for free. Over in right field, there was enough room for the about 20 rows of plank benches, the “bleachers”. In honor of Crosley Field’s distinction as the first host of night-time baseball in 1937, the area was called the “Moon Deck.” Day games, a tarp with “Sun” covered the first word. The bleacher stands featured rows which got progressively longer as they descended towards the field, creating a triangular space beyond the wall in right-center field, a no-man’s land occupied by the groundskeeper’s equipment. A vertical white line rose from that junction to the top of the center wall, with the admonishment, “BATTED BALL HITTING WALL ON FLY TO RIGHT OF WHITE LINE • HOME RUN”.
The Reds that year were filled with home run hitters, to better take advantage of the cozy fences, 322 feet down left, 384 to center, and 366 to right. They hit 221 homers in 1956, a major league record at the time. Their outfield of Wally Post (36), Gus Bell (29), and Frank Robinson (38) was particularly productive. Behind the plate, Ed Bailey hit 28. The double-play duo of Johnny Temple and Roy McMillan hit 5 between them. Robinson, age 20, was in his first major league season, and the first Black player for the Reds. He won Rookie-of-the-year for his home-run total, 120 runs scored, and 20+ bases stolen.
From 1953-55, the Reds’ first baseman, Ted Kluszewski, hit 136 home runs, a prodigious, almost Ruthian total. He kept that up in 1956, hitting 35, while batting .302 and driving in 102 runs in 138 games.
But he was not just a slugger. Kluszewski became the first and only player in Major League history to hit 35 or more homers in four seasons in which he had fewer strikeouts than homers. Only three other major leaguers achieved the feat even twice: Lou Gehrig, Joe DiMaggio and Johnny Mize, all Hall of Fame members. He had a lifetime average of .300, and is still the all-time Reds’ leader in slugging percentage (0.692), OPS (1.049), and home runs per at bat (11.4).
Near the end of the 1956 season, he began having “back issues”. He took several weeks off to try and heal his “slipped disc”, finally returning to a pinch-hit role in September. It was that return may father and I witnessed.
“Big Klu” was 6’2”, 225 pounds, but looked much bigger, due to his massive arms and hips. He tore the sleeves off red flannel shirt worn underneath the jersey, exposing those biceps and allowing him a freer swing. When the Reds famously shifted to sleeveless jersey, hoping to accommodate his desires, he simply tore the sleeves off at the shoulders. It was that sight which greeted us in Crosley Field that day, Big Klu kneeling in the on-deck circle, leaning on his 38-ounce Louisville slugger, face tilted towards the slanting sun, waiting his turn to impress the fans one more time.