Harry Caray, Part 2

HARRY CARAY with RYNE SANDBERG

     Broadcaster Harry Caray and general manager Dallas Green did more than anyone else to turn the Cubs into one of the most popular and richest franchises in baseball, after decades of benign neglect under the stewardship of the eccentric chewing-gum heir P.K. Wrigley.
     Artistically, Caray’s best days were behind him when he joined the Cubs in 1982, but his popularity soared to new heights. At first, he was less than beloved even in his own booth, for his arrival quashed Milo Hamilton’s plans to assume the top spot in the wake of Jack Brickhouse’s retirement. When Caray got up to do his first rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” in Wrigley Field, Hamilton stalked out of the booth muttering “I don’t have to listen to this shit.”
     Hamilton—the only broadcaster who could, and did, make a transcendent moment like Hank Aaron’s record-breaking 715th home run as dull as dishwater—was advised to get used to Caray and his singing. He was relegated to radio only the next year, and was gone by 1985. Steve Stone became Caray’s partner in the TV booth, and, although the two could hardly have been more dissimilar, they had genuine chemistry on the air and became good friends away from the ballpark as well. They worked together for the rest of Caray’s career.
     Thanks to the reach of WGN’s cable-TV superstation, the Cubs’ magical, heartbreaking 1984 season introduced Caray to a far wider audience than he could have imagined even in his heyday with the St. Louis Cardinals. The Cubs became a national phenomenon, with Caray as ringleader of the summer-long celebration. He nicknamed Bob Dernier and Ryne Sandberg “the Daily Double” and Rick Sutcliffe “the Red Baron.” He serenaded Jody Davis with his own made-up lyrics to the old “Davy Crockett” theme song. He was, as William Nack wrote, “mirror and magnet for the emotions the team evoked.” When the dream turned into a nightmare in the National League Championship Series, Caray could not conceal the shock and dismay that he felt as deeply as any other Cubs fan.

     Despite his famous propensity for bar-hopping until the wee hours almost every day, Caray never missed so much as one inning in his first 42 years at the microphone. His incredible streak of 6,668 consecutive games ended in 1987 after Caray suffered a stroke in February while playing cards with some cronies in Palm Springs, California.
     If he didn’t already know, Caray learned during his recuperation how many people he had touched over the years. Every day, his wife Dutchie brought him box after box of mail from people who wanted him to know how much he meant to them and their families. “I can’t describe the effect it had on my entire being,” said Caray.
     He returned several weeks into the season with his enthusiasm intact, even enhanced, but with his skills diminished. After the stroke, Caray’s tendency to mispronounce names and to confuse contemporary players with those of earlier decades became more noticeable with each passing year.
     It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Caray was still at it, joyously selling baseball, beautiful Wrigley Field, and Budweiser. Fans realized that Caray was the last of the true originals, and that he would be sorely missed when he was gone. They could put up with a few mistakes from the most passionate, most entertaining announcer they’d ever know.
     In 1989, Caray received a long-overdue honor when he was admitted to the broadcasters’ wing of the National Baseball Hall of Fame. In his brief, eloquent induction speech, Caray pointed out that his was the first family to produce three generations of broadcasters; the audience for the ceremonies included his son Harry Christopher, Jr., and grandson Harry Christopher III (better known as Skip and Chip, respectively). He went on to say, “I think of the fans, and perhaps that’s who I represent today. We are all fans, and I know it’s the fans who are responsible for my being here. They are the unsung heroes. We are temporary actors on the baseball stage. We move on but the game remains. I’m very proud to have been a part of this piece of Americana.”

     In signing off the air at the end of the 1997 season, Caray said, “So long everybody. God willing, I hope to see you next year.”
     It wasn’t to be. On Valentine’s Day 1998, Caray collapsed in Palm Springs, while dancing with Dutchie. This time, there was no miraculous recovery. Caray never regained consciousness, and he died after a four-day vigil by family and friends.
     “Who wouldn't take this deal?” Bob Costas mused upon Caray’s death. “You live into your early eighties (no matter what the official bio said), you do what you love doing right up until the end, and in the end, this can truthfully be said: You made millions of people happy, and millions of people will never forget you.”

Part 2 of 2.

South Side Hit Men

BILL VEECK IN 1977

     “Don’t worry about doing a budget,” owner Bill Veeck told general manager Roland Hemond upon reacquiring the White Sox in 1976. “We don’t have any money.” The two soon unveiled their “rent-a-player” strategy for 1977. Using players who were in their last year before free agency—such as sluggers Richie Zisk and Oscar Gamble—or who were bargain-priced because of previous injuries, Veeck and Hemond transformed their hapless team into one of the most exciting in franchise history.
     Led by easy-going manager Bob Lemon, the White Sox became known as the South Side Hit Men and emerged as surprising contenders in the American League West Division. Their boisterous fans introduced two rituals that quickly caught on: dugout curtain calls after home runs and the serenading of departing enemy pitchers with “Nah-nah-nah-nah, nah-nah-nah-nah, hey hey, goodbye!”
     The high point of that memorable season came on Sunday, July 31. A lively crowd of 50,412 turned out for a sun-drenched doubleheader with the defending division-champion Kansas City Royals. In the first game, Kansas City’s Marty Pattin led 1-0 and held the Sox hitless until Chet Lemon homered in the bottom of the sixth. A homer by Amos Otis the next inning gave the Royals a 2-1 lead, which they held until the bottom of the ninth. With one out, Alan Bannister reached on a two-base error. Jorge Orta’s single to right scored Bannister and sent the game into extra innings.
     White Sox starter Steve Stone retired the first two Royal hitters in the top of the 10th before issuing back-to-back walks to George Brett and Joe Lahoud. Stone headed for the showers, and successive singles by Cookie Rojas and Al Cowens scored Brett, then Lahoud. Further damage was narrowly averted when first baseman Jim Spencer speared a line drive off the bat of John Mayberry for the third out.
     With the Sox now trailing 4-2, Spencer led off the bottom of the 10th with a single to left. Royals manager Whitey Herzog summoned righthander Doug Bird to face Chet Lemon, whose homer had tied the game earlier. This time, Lemon fell behind in the count 0-and-2, then socked a long home run into the center-field bleachers, again tying the score and sending the crowd into a frenzy. This occasioned another of the curtain calls that opponents found so annoying. “It’s bush [league] what they do,” Hal McRae declared. “It’s a disgrace to baseball.” After the commotion had died down, Eric Soderholm coaxed a walk, reached second on a sacrifice bunt by Brian Downing, and scored on a base hit by Ralph Garr.
     The stirring 5-4 win was the ninth in the White Sox’ past 10 games. It put them 25 games over .500, at 62-37, and 6½ games in front of the second-place Royals. “If we’re all dreaming,” said Stone, “I hope we don’t wake up.”
     The second game was also quite eventful. The teams exchanged several knockdown pitches, and as umpire Art Frantz informed them that no further shenanigans would be tolerated on the field, a fight broke out in the stands near the press box. The one-legged, 63-year-old Veeck waded into the fray to act as peacemaker and came away with a bloody lip. “It’s a hot day,” he said cheerfully, “but all I’ve had is iced tea.” Most of the fans, of course, had quenched their thirst with something stronger.
     A good time was had by all, but the White Sox lost the second game 8-4. “We took three out of four [for the series],” said Zisk. “I’ll take it.” As July gave way to August, the White Sox and the equally unlikely Cubs were both in first place. Unfortunately, neither was able to go the distance. The Cubs dropped out of first place a week into August and faded fast thereafter to finish 20 games out. The Sox held on a while longer, occupying first place until August 19, but eventually finished 12 games behind the Royals. Still, the South Side Hit Men won 90 games and set a new franchise attendance record.
     Veeck’s second stint with the White Sox featured softball-style uniforms with untucked shirts and no stirrups, a shower in the center-field bleachers, and the infamous Disco Demolition Night in 1979 which forced the Sox to forfeit a game. It was fun while it lasted, but Veeck’s shoestring operation was on borrowed time. Veeck sold the Sox in 1981 and never set foot in Comiskey Park again. He became a regular in the center-field bleachers at Wrigley Field, perched between the ivy he himself had planted and the scoreboard he had built while working for the Cubs in the thirties.

Reprinted from Heydays: Great Stories in Chicago Sports
(c) 2009, 2010 by Christopher Tabbert