When news arrived last winter that our former newspaper colleague Paul Hoynes was entering the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, the road trip immediately began to take shape.
Induction weekend can be daunting if you fret about crowds, hotel rooms, traffic and parking, but credentials for the ceremony and receptions would be tricky. Throw in a few thousand fans, spilling out of bars and straining to see their favorite baseball players parade down Main Street, and you had a prescription for chaos.
Friend and longtime Cleveland Indians photographer Chuck Crow managed all this like a bases-loaded jam in the ninth inning. One, two, three, ballgame.
Our attendance was never in question. It was a measure of loyalty to a writer who emerged from our small suburban daily, The News-Herald in Mentor, Ohio, graduated to the Cleveland Plain Dealer, sweated over 6,000-plus Cleveland Indians and Guardians stories in 43 years, showed us rookie writers and editors how to craft phrases and capture scenes, gave us glimpses of how a devoted father acts, yet still retained the party animal nature honed during his days with the Marquette University rugby team. He was a writer, a gamer, a grinder.
Hoynes had been celebrated for the All-Star Games and World Series he had covered, the disgruntled players who took exceptions to his stories, the endless waits in airports, and his signature, shrill Hawk Call performed in the press box.
He accepted the handshakes, glowing speeches, and congratulations with his hearty laugh and typical modesty. But what he may not have realized was how he assembled our posse of 50 years for a romp through our own memories.
Before we could celebrate Hoynes, we had to revisit the frugality of our old roommate, The Beaver, never known for rounding off a bill, always insisting on each penny. There were tales of how Chuck and my college friend, Terry Keating, met during a party at our farmhouse that doubled as a newspaper dormitory. Of course, Leo Roth and I had to categorize each silly moment when we shared a bedroom as Two Broke Boys, learned our craft under our managing editor, Ted Diadiun, then split for Rochester while our colleagues migrated downtown to the Plain Dealer. In the mix were a few good stories about Hoynes being dropped off on his front lawn after too many beverages.
That was what led us last Saturday to the Glimmerglass Opera House where Hoynes was recognized with the Baseball Writers’ Association of America Lifetime Achievement Award. He joined Ford C. Frick Award winner Joe Buck, Buck O’Neil Lifetime Achievement Award winner Bill White, and Rick Monday, who was recognized for saving an American flag from being torched by protesters in the Dodger Stadium outfield 50 years ago.
“I can honestly say,’’ Hoynes told the assembled baseball royalty, “that besides being one of the Beatles, this is the only job I would ever want.”
We would mingle with diehard fans soon at the parade, but this was a more sedate yet still appreciative crowd. Sandy Koufax and Peter O’Malley, representing the Dodgers, sat in the row ahead of us. A few rows ahead of them, Joe Buck’s NFL broadcasting partner, Troy Aikman, listened intently. A few rows behind us sat one of the zaniest pitchers Hoynes had ever covered, curveball specialist Bert Blyleven.
To cover sports, you can’t present yourself as a starstruck fan. My mantra: “I can’t hit a curveball; the guys I cover probably can’t write. We’re even.’’
That sensibility carried over to the parade as we watched Hoynes and Joe Buck wave and acknowledge cheering fans from the back of a pickup truck.
The fans saved their loudest cheers for players from their homeland, perhaps Puerto Rico. Or they showed off their team jerseys to players from their favorite teams, most often the Yankees.
As the baseball legends crept past in the truck beds, the newsman in me recalled their off-field stories:
Jim Rice: The Boston Red Sox leftfielder saved a 4-year-old boy’s life in 1982. After the child was struck by a line drive, Rice jumped into the stands, scooped up the boy who was bleeding profusely from a head wound, and carried him to the dugout and into the clubhouse for life-saving emergency medical attention.
Juan Marichal: The San Francisco Giants were locked in a tense pennant race with the rival Dodgers in August 1965 when Los Angeles catcher John Roseboro whizzed a return throw past Marichal’s ear to Koufax. Marichal responded by striking Roseboro over the head with his bat. The brawl lasted 14 minutes. The catcher required 14 stitches to close the wound. Marichal was suspended and fined. Somehow they reconciled and became friends.
Rod Carew: He accumulated 3,053 hits and 18 All-Star appearances, despite enduring death threats for his interracial marriage. The Panamanian Episcopalian had the audacity to marry a white Jewish woman in 1970. Twenty-three seasons after Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier, baseball was not immune from racism.
Bill White: During his Yankees broadcasting career, he teamed with Phil Rizzuto from 1971-88. One day, he glanced at the Scooter’s scorecard and asked what the initials “WW’’ represented. Admitted Rizzuto: “That stands for wasn’t watching.’’
Joe Buck: He was criticized during the 2016 World Series for fawning over Kyle Schwarber of the Chicago Cubs when they won their first World Series in 108 years, defeating my beloved Indians in seven games. One fan found the chatter so obnoxious that he/she entered Buck and Schwarber in a Cleveland department store wedding registry.
Through all the adulation and revelry, Hoynes delivered one of the best lines at a reception after his induction. I’ll paraphrase.
“Where else do you get to travel, go to ballgames, and eat in great restaurants on someone else’s dime? This would be a great job if you didn’t have to write.’’
Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/
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