Johnny Callison! Johnny Callison! (or, “Go, Phillies!”)

Wednesday, Octobger 15, 2008
Meters: 5,300
Time: 25:00
500-meter pace: 21-22
Total Meters Rowed: 66,659

How ’bout dem Phillies, huh?

Up 3-1 on the Dodgers, with maybe the end-game tonight. Having grown up in York, 90 miles from Philadelphia, having grown up in Pennsylvania, I can lay legitimate claim to geographic loyalty. And so I will. I remember clearly the 1964 season, when the Phils were up 6 1/2 games with 12 to play and then they lost ten in a row to finish a game behind the St. Louis Cardinals. I don’t care, it was still a magical season.

It began for me with the All-Star Game that year. Philliues right fielder Johnny Callison, a late-inning sub for Roberto Clemente, hit a three-run homer in the bottom of the ninth off Dick Radatz to beat the Americans 7-4. I watched the game at the Flicks house. An afternoon game, but Mr. Flick, a BIG Phillies fan, was home and so were his three boys, Jeff, Steve and Greg. Steve was a huge Phillies fan; Jeff and Greg Milwaukee Braves (and Hank Aaron!) fans. But we were all National fans. And then Johnny Callison came in and hit the homer that won the game, proving that sometimes baseball delivers on it promise. And for the rest of July and August and almost all of September it was the Summer of Phillies, until, of course, it suddenly wasn’t anymore, proving that sometimes — most of the time, really — baseball doesn’t deliver on its promise. Or maybe it does, cruelly.

We went to one of those final dozen games. At least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Every year Mr. Flick and my dad would pile us boys in the car after work and bomb it down to Connie Mack Stadium for a night game. Against the Braves, so Jeff and Greg could see their Hank. Route 30 east to Philly. What I remember best about it all, even to this day, is how when we got to Wrightsville, about a dozen miles east of York, we had to cross the Susquehanna River on the Wrightsville Bridge, this old-fashioned cement span a good mile-or-more long. To cross that bridge was to leave behind everything you knew about everythig there was to know. I can remember feeling that, exactly like that. By the time we got to the other side I was someplace I had never been before. No matter how many times we made that trip, it was always exciting.

Meanwhile. Johnny Callison! Johnny Callison! Say it again: Johnny Callison! A big-league name if ever there was one. (Never “John”; always “JOHNNY,” Johnny Callison!) He threw righty but batted lefty — just like me. He had a fabulous arm, so of course he played right field, the better to make the longest throw in the game: the cannon from deep in the right-feild corner to third base, just in time to get the runner foolishly stretching an easy double into a hard and impossible out. Is there a more exciting moment in all of sport? If there is, tell me.

1. On February 11th, 2009 at 5:14 pm, Jim Riley said:

   Good Luck @ BU. I am out of town that weekend or I would come and cheer. I just got back from a 5K run. Your book has had an effect on staying in shape. Give our best to the family.
   Jim & Sue

   PS: I can still see Johnny Callisons homer in the ’64 All Star. What a SHOT !

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