Peter Dreier / Research & Analysis / Players
by Peter
Dreier
Hardball Times
March
3,
2020
https://tht.fangraphs.com/johnny-antonelli-and-me/
Johnny
Antonelli, a boyhood hero to many, was lost on
Friday. (via
Public Domain)
Johnny
Antonelli,
a star pitcher for the
New York Giants in the 1950s and my boyhood hero, died
at
age 89 on
Friday.
Some
people who get to meet their childhood idols are disappointed to
discover they
are not very nice people. I was fortunate to meet my boyhood hero and
discover
he was a warm, gregarious, generous, and humble person.
It
happened two summers ago. I was scheduled to give a talk at a symposium
at the
Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. A few weeks before my
visit to
Cooperstown, I wrote a letter to Johnny, who grew up and still lived in
Rochester (three hours from Cooperstown), and asked if I could take him
lunch.
I explained that in 1954 – when I was six years old — my uncle
Augie, the
day after going to a game at the Polo Grounds, brought me an 8-by
11-inch
glossy photo of Johnny in his New York Giants uniform, posing as though
he had
just completed his follow-through. In the upper right-hand corner, in
dark
black ink, it said: “To Peter Dreier (a future major leaguer) Your
friend,
Johnny Antonelli.”
It
was my
first baseball autograph, and I have treasured it ever since, making
sure
whenever I moved, it came with me. Sixty-four years later, I still had
the
photo. The ink had faded, but it was still legible. My wife had the
good sense
to put it in a frame as a birthday present. I included a copy of that
photo in
my letter to Johnny, hoping it might entice him to allow me to visit
him.
A
week
later, I received an email from Johnny’s wife, Gail. She wrote: “John
rarely
opens mail from someone he does not know. However, he could not resist
opening
that big envelope from you.”
Gail
said
Johnny was thrilled to get my letter, and she invited me to visit them
at their
home and to have lunch with them at the Oak Hill Country Club. “You can
buy us
lunch the next time we get to Los Angeles,” she wrote. “Start saving
up. John
doesn’t drink but I do.”
The
next
part of her email, however, was devastating: “I wish you had not sent
the copy
of the autographed picture because the handwriting is not John’s. John
wants me
to assure you that he never ever had anyone sign for him. Who signed
that photo
for you will always have to be a mystery.”
After
carrying that autograph around with me for six decades, I had to
confront the
existential truth that my uncle Augie, with the best intentions, was
surely the
person who had inscribed that glossy photo to me in 1954. But a few
week’s
after that email from Gail, I received a package in the mail from
Rochester that
included another 8-by-11 glossy photo with the inscription, “To my
friend Peter
Dreier, Best Wishes, Johnny Antonelli.” The two photos – from 1954 and
2018 –
now both hang on the wall in my home office.
A
few
weeks later, I drove from Cooperstown to the Antonellis’ modest house
in
Rochester. Johnny met me at the door, shook my hand, and welcomed me
with a big
smile. At 88, he had shrunk a few inches from his 6-foot 1-inch frame
during
his ballplaying days, but he was fit and energetic. He showed me around
his
house, including his many mementos from his baseball days and his
subsequent
career as a Rochester businessman and local celebrity. Then we drove to
the
country club for lunch.
During
the meal, Johnny told me that for many years, the swanky club, host of
many top
PGA tournaments, did not allow Jews or Italians (much less
African-Americans)
to join. Even though he had become a successful businessman – with a
chain of
popular tire stories across upstate New York – as well as being the
greatest
all-around athlete ever to come from Rochester, the snobby club refused
to
admit him for many years. Eventually he was allowed to join, but, as
the proud
son of Italian immigrants, he never forgot the slight.
Johnny
was charming. His memory was solid. During our two-hour lunch –
throughout
which he regaled me with stories he must have told hundreds of times,
but which
sounded fresh as he told them – we were interrupted at least a dozen
times by
club members who came over to say hi to Johnny and Gail. Knowing I am
Jewish,
Johnny made a point to tell me which of those friends were Jews,
recounted
their civic and professional accomplishments, and winkingly told me
that his
closest pals at Oak Hill were the children and grandchildren of
immigrants – a
small triumph in the nation’s battle over bigotry.
Growing
up in Rochester’s immigrant enclave, Johnny was unaware of racial
segregation
in his hometown or elsewhere. He arrived in the majors in 1948 – a year
after Jackie
Robinson had
broken baseball’s
color line. The Braves integrated their roster in 1950 with Sam
Jethroe and
two years later
had three Black players.
Johnny
was shocked by how his black teammates were treated, especially when
they
traveled in the South. He recalled an incident when the Giants went to
St.
Louis in the 1950s to play the Cardinals. The visiting teams stayed at
the
Chase Hotel, which didn’t allow African-Americans in the hotel
restaurant,
requiring them to eat in the kitchen. Without informing the team’s
owners or
executives, Johnny, the Giants’ player rep, told the hotel manager if
they
didn’t allow his black teammates into the restaurant, the Giants would
move to
another hotel. The hotel relented. Johnny didn’t publicize his role,
but six
decades later, he was still proud of his stand for civil rights.
Born
in
1930, Johnny grew up in Rochester’s west-side immigrant neighborhood.
He was a
three-sport star (baseball, basketball, and football) at Rochester’s
Jefferson
High School. He was probably the best high school baseball player in
the
country. His father, Gus, a railroad construction contractor who had
immigrated
to the U.S. in 1913, made sure major league teams knew about his son’s
baseball
prowess. Gus wrote letters to scouts about his son’s accomplishments
and even
went to spring training camps in Florida with Johnny in tow and with
newspaper
clippings of his diamond triumphs. After Johnny graduated from high
school in
1948, Gus rented out Silver Stadium, home of the International League
Rochester
Red Wings, and invited scouts from nine major league teams to watch his
son
pitch against a top-notch semi-pro team. Johnny struck out 17 hitters
and
pitched a no-hitter.
That
began a bidding war to sign Johnny to a major league
contract. The Red Sox, Yankees, Giants, Indians, Tigers, Cardinals,
Pirates,
Reds, and Boston Braves all expressed interest. The Braves’ scout told
Lou
Perini, the club president, Johnny was “by far the best big-league
prospect
I’ve ever seen. He has the poise of a major league pitcher right now
and has a
curve and fastball to back it up. I think so much of this kid’s chances
that if
I had to pay out the money myself, I wouldn’t hesitate to do it — if I
had the
money.”
The
Braves signed Johnny to a contract with a $52,000 bonus ($570,000 in
today’s
dollars), the second-largest in baseball history at the time. Under the
“bonus
baby” rule of the time, teams that signed players for over $4,000 were
required
to put the athletes on their major league rosters, even if they would
have been
better off spending a year or two in the minors.
That
meant Johnny spent 1948, his first season as a professional player,
with the
Boston Braves. Some players resented him and his huge bonus. The team’s
left-handed pitching ace, Warren
Spahn,
initially refused to talk
with the 18-year old Antonelli. Its other star pitcher, Johnny
Sain –
whose $21,000
salary was less than Antonelli’s bonus – threatened to quit, but he
stayed
after the team gave him a new contract in midseason for $30,000.
Although
the Braves won the National League pennant that year, Johnny mostly was
consigned to serving as a batting practice pitcher, appearing in only
four
games as a reliever. When the season ended, he
attended Bowling
Green University in Ohio (where sang in the choir and intended to
major in
voice), but he only stayed for a semester in order to make it to the
Braves’
1949 spring training.
Antonelli
was used sparingly in 1949 and 1950, then served for two years in the
Army,
where he won 42 games and lost only 2 games for the Fort Myer team,
gaining the
kind of regular experience (and self-confidence) he missed by not
playing in
the minor l199eagues. In 1953, he rejoined the Braves, who had moved
from
Boston to Milwaukee, and became part of the starting rotation. He had a
12-12
win-loss record, but showed signs of his promise by finishing fifth
among
National League pitchers in earned run average (3.18).
In
February 1954, the Braves traded Johnny to the New York Giants as part
of
six-player deal that sent Giants third baseman Bobby
Thomson to
the Braves. Many
Giants fans weren’t pleased with the trade because Thomson – who had
hit the
legendary ninth-inning walk-off home run to beat the Dodgers for the
1951
pennant – was one of the most popular players in New York.
But
Johnny earned Giants’ fans respect in 1954. He was not only the best
pitcher in
baseball that year but also led the team to a World Series victory
against the
heavily favored Cleveland Indians.
Baseball
talk was a constant in our New Jersey home, but it wasn’t until I was
six that
I began paying attention to the players and the teams, and inherited my
father’s loyalty to the New York Giants. His boyhood heroes were Giants
outfielder Mel
Ott (who
once held the National League career home run record) and pitching
ace Carl
Hubbell.
My dad maintained his
allegiance to the team through good times and bad. His favorite joke,
which he
never tired of telling, and which I laughed at because I knew that’s
what he
wanted, was to have me ask him, “Dad, are you a Giant fan?” and he’d
answer,
“No. I’m an air conditioner.”
It
was a
wonderful accident that my baseball awakening and Johnny’s best year in
baseball both took place in 1954. That was when I was just old enough
to
realize that everyone had to have a favorite team.
The
timing was perfect. That was the year that my friends and I began
collecting
baseball cards and comparing our favorite players and teams. Most of my
friends
rooted for the Brooklyn Dodgers or the New York Yankees. Throughout my
adolescent years, one of the favorite topics of conversation among my
friends
was which team had the best center fielder (the Dodgers’ Duke
Snider,
the Yankees’ Mickey
Mantle,
or the Giants’ Willie
Mays)
and the best pitcher (the
Dodgers’ Don
Newcombe,
the Yankees’ Whitey
Ford,
or the Giants’
Antonelli). I kept a scrapbook of newspaper and magazine articles about
the
Giants and taped photos of my favorite players – Johnny, Willie, and
pinch-hitter Dusty
Rhodes —
on my bedroom wall.
At
age
six, I had just begun playing catch with my father at a park near our
home and
he convinced me that, being left-handed, I should be a pitcher. So, it
was only
natural that I’d feel an affinity with Antonelli, the Giants’ ace
lefty. And
when my uncle brought me the autographed Antonelli photo, my loyalty to
the
24-year old pitcher grew exponentially.
Antonelli
had an incredible 1954 season — the best in his 12-year major league
career. He
led the league in shutouts (six), earned run average (2.30), and
win-loss
percentage (.750) with 21 victories and only seven defeats, and was
selected
for the All-Star game. At season’s end, he came in third in the voting
for the
league’s Most Valuable Player, behind Mays and Cincinnati Reds
slugger Ted
Kluszewski.
Two years before the
first Cy
Young Award
was created to honor the best pitcher, The Sporting News gave
Johnny its Pitcher of the Year award.
The
Cleveland Indians were highly favored to beat the Giants. They had won
111
games, the most in American League history, led the league in home runs
and had
one of the greatest pitching rotations ever.
At
six
years old, I didn’t know that the Giants weren’t supposed to win, and I
didn’t
understand the concept of “beating the odds.” I remember watching the
Series on
our black-and-white television, but I don’t remember any details. I
don’t even
have any memory of “the catch” — what some considering the greatest
outfield
play in baseball history. It took place during the first game of the
World
Series, played at the Polo Grounds, the Giants’ stadium in upper
Manhattan.
With the score tied 2-2 in the top of the eighth inning, Cleveland
slugger Vic
Wertz crushed
the ball about 420 to deep center field. Mays, who had been playing in
shallow
center field, made an on-the-run, over-the-shoulder catch on the
warning
track. He then spun around (losing his cap in the process) and threw
the ball
to a waiting infielder, keeping the Indians’ Larry
Doby,
who was at second base, from advancing, and
allowing the Giants to win the game in the 10th inning.
The
following day, Antonelli started Game Two and gave up a home run
to Al
Smith on
the first pitch of the game. But he
didn’t allow another run for the rest of the game, pitched a complete
game, and
beat the Indians and Early
Wynn, 3-1.
Giants
pitcher Ruben
Gomez beat
the Indians in
the third game with some help from ace reliever Hoyt
Wilhelm,
who would go on to become
one of the greatest knuckleball pitchers in baseball history. Don
Liddle won
the fourth and final game, but needed
help not only from Wilhelm (who pitched the seventh inning), but also
from
Antonelli, who took over relief duties and shut down the Indians. He
got the
last five outs on three strikeouts and two popups, clinching the
victory as the
Giants pulled off a clean sweep. Rochester feted him with a parade, he
was
invited to speak at an assembly at his alma mater, Jefferson High
School, and
he was given a Buick by the local Italian-American Businessmen’s
Association.
Johnny
pitched well for five more years and made four straight All-Star teams
from
1956 to 1959. He won 20 games for a sixth-place Giants team in 1956. In
1959 he
won 19 games for the San Francisco Giants, tied for the most shutouts
(four),
and was the winning pitcher in the first of the two All-Star games that
year.
After mediocre seasons with the Giants, Indians, and Braves in 1960 and
1961,
he retired at age 31, tired of traveling and wanting to spend more time
with
this family.
In
12
major league seasons, he won 126 games, lost 110, and threw 25
shutouts. In
1,992 1/2 innings, he allowed 1,870 hits and 687 bases on balls,
striking out
1,162. His career earned run average was 3.34. He was particularly
proud that
he completed 102 of the 268 games he started and that he hit 15 home
runs
during his career, tied for 21st most career homers by a pitcher.
Johnny’s
entire big league career was before the Major League Baseball Players
Association overturned the reserve clause, allowed players to hire
agents, and
catalyzed the salary revolution. Like most players at the time, Johnny
had to
find work during the offseason to make ends meet. During his
outstanding 1954
season, he earned $12,000 (equivalent to $115,000 today), made some
extra money
with postseason appearances on TV games shows, and did endorsements for
a
cigarette company and a jock strap firm. His top salary — $42,000 in
1958,
$375,000 in current dollars – is a far cry from today’s average major
league
salary of $4 million.
Following
the 1954 season, Johnny invested his $8,750 share of the Giants’ World
Series
bonus in a tire store in Rochester, becoming the exclusive Firestone
dealer in
the area. After he retired from baseball, he returned to Rochester and
built
the business to 28 locations across update New York. To promote the
business,
and to express his gratitude to his hometown, Antonelli’s company and a
local
radio station jointly sponsored “Captain Friendly” — store managers who
cruised
around Rochester in a van and helped motorists fix flat tires and make
other
repairs, for free.
Many
upstate New York residents who grew up after Johnny retired from
baseball knew
his name because of his association with the tire business, not sports.
He
became a civic leader and a local philanthropist and was a popular
speaker at
fundraisers for nonprofits and in support of amateur sports leagues,
surely
telling many of the same stories that he told me during my visit. He
served on
the board of the Rochester Red Wings, a Triple-A minor league team, and
loved
to attend its games. Johnny sold the tire business in 1994.
After
he
retired from baseball, Johnny became an outstanding golfer, winning
local
tournaments into his early 80s. He had three daughters and one son with
his
first wife, Rosemarie, who died in 2002. He married Gail Harms in 2006.
The
couple celebrated their 10th wedding anniversary by traveling to
California,
starting in Los Angeles so they could visit Del
Crandall,
Johnny’s Boston Braves
teammate, and close friend, and then driving to San Francisco, to spend
time
with his Giants teammates Willie Mays, Orlando
Cepeda,
and Willie
McCovey.
In
1958,
when the Giants moved to San Francisco, they broke my heart. I would
never
again cheer for the Giants as a team, but I reserved a special place in
my
heart for Johnny as well as Willie Mays and Dusty Rhodes.
I
grew up
in a Jewish family in postwar America. Issues of immigration,
discrimination,
and assimilation were never far from the surface. Baseball became a
metaphor
for the nation’s social changes, including the drama of racism and
civil
rights. So I’m not surprised that my first baseball heroes were a
polyglot
group. Antonelli was the son of working-class Italian immigrants who
viewed
baseball as their son’s route into the middle class. Mays grew up in a
segregated town outside Birmingham, Alabama — where his father worked
in a steel
mill and as a Pullman porter. Mays played in the Negro Leagues before
signing
with the Giants.
Rhodes
also grew up dirt-poor in rural Alabama. He was white, but his best
friends on
the Giants were its black players. When he retired from baseball in
1959,
rather than return to the South, he moved back to New York, where he
worked as
a tugboat captain in the Staten Island Harbor and as a Pinkerton guard
at the
1964 World’s Fair. My other baseball hero was Jackie Robinson, despite
his
playing for the rival Brooklyn Dodgers. In most Jewish homes at the
time, he
was as iconic a figure as the late Franklin D. Roosevelt.
As
a kid,
I not only followed the exploits of my favorite players daily. I
learned
geography and math by reading their baseball cards and newspaper
stories about
them. I learned how to debate, engaging with my friends in arguments
about our
favorite teams and players. I learned how to deal with victory (in
1954),
disappointment (1955, 1956, and 1957), and loss and betrayal (when the
Giants
moved to the West Coast). I gained an understanding that there are
always new
beginnings and new horizons. I also learned – a bit late in life – that
my
uncle Augie had forged Johnny’s signature in order to bring joy to a
six-year-old fan – a counterfeit for which I would have forgiven him if
he were
still alive. Six decades later, those are still valuable lessons.