Doubleday's Game of Second Chances
Robert Conover
Abner knew this would be the case. There would always be the
chance to atone. For that strikeout in the ninth, for that attempt
to swipe second in vain. For that costly base on balls that prolonged
the rally, for that first step in for the outfielder that proves fatal.
For virtually every instance in the rules book and out. It had not
happened for Hatch Combs, that chance to make it all up to the fans
and to Hatch Combs. That one-hop screamer past third base off the
heel of his glove with the winning run on third and two out late last
September. It had opened the floodgates and emptied the turnstiles
although there were still three games to play.
Forget it Combs could not.
Come next September the second chance had not come in
a game critical to the race.
Until now.
Until this split millisecond with 39,482 looking on, an identical
two-out scorcher down the third-base line and that same wicked
in-between skip-skip.
This time.
This time he stabbed.
And the ball stuck,
driving him to one knee.
Recovering
from momentum
and from memory,
Combs calmly got up
and threw the
speedy Ramirez
out by two strides.
No appeal
except the
one in his
baseball
heart.
Hallelujah!
Doubleheader___________________________________________ Nightcap
Where Have You Gone, Billy Martin?
Frank Dattilo
Had I gone too far?
I seriously pondered the battered second baseman's
mitt in the crinkly silver gift wrap the dealer thoughtfully
dressed it in. But what would Robin think when she
found out how much of our hard-come, scrape-saved
cash I had paid for it-- authenticated autograph or not--
of fellow Yankee and running mate of Mickey and Whitey?
She was there when I walked up the little porch. She had
known where I was going and there was no use trying to
hide what I had done, what I counted out, dollar by dollar,
to buy what I had bought.
Together we walked into the small dining room, the
table all cleared with a new cloth and two bright apples
in the center bowl.
Suddenly, I was not feeling like such a bright apple at all.
Without a word, I asked her to open the gift wrap and
watched.
Robin removed the old fielder's glove with delicate care.
It was then I saw the first tear.
She looked into my own teary eyes and said:
"There is no one I loved more than Billy Martin--"
she paused to help me gather myself, "after you,
Alan my love."
Robert Conover
Abner knew this would be the case. There would always be the
chance to atone. For that strikeout in the ninth, for that attempt
to swipe second in vain. For that costly base on balls that prolonged
the rally, for that first step in for the outfielder that proves fatal.
For virtually every instance in the rules book and out. It had not
happened for Hatch Combs, that chance to make it all up to the fans
and to Hatch Combs. That one-hop screamer past third base off the
heel of his glove with the winning run on third and two out late last
September. It had opened the floodgates and emptied the turnstiles
although there were still three games to play.
Forget it Combs could not.
Come next September the second chance had not come in
a game critical to the race.
Until now.
Until this split millisecond with 39,482 looking on, an identical
two-out scorcher down the third-base line and that same wicked
in-between skip-skip.
This time.
This time he stabbed.
And the ball stuck,
driving him to one knee.
Recovering
from momentum
and from memory,
Combs calmly got up
and threw the
speedy Ramirez
out by two strides.
No appeal
except the
one in his
baseball
heart.
Hallelujah!
Doubleheader___________________________________________ Nightcap
Where Have You Gone, Billy Martin?
Frank Dattilo
Had I gone too far?
I seriously pondered the battered second baseman's
mitt in the crinkly silver gift wrap the dealer thoughtfully
dressed it in. But what would Robin think when she
found out how much of our hard-come, scrape-saved
cash I had paid for it-- authenticated autograph or not--
of fellow Yankee and running mate of Mickey and Whitey?
She was there when I walked up the little porch. She had
known where I was going and there was no use trying to
hide what I had done, what I counted out, dollar by dollar,
to buy what I had bought.
Together we walked into the small dining room, the
table all cleared with a new cloth and two bright apples
in the center bowl.
Suddenly, I was not feeling like such a bright apple at all.
Without a word, I asked her to open the gift wrap and
watched.
Robin removed the old fielder's glove with delicate care.
It was then I saw the first tear.
She looked into my own teary eyes and said:
"There is no one I loved more than Billy Martin--"
she paused to help me gather myself, "after you,
Alan my love."
Presented by Paul Lubanski
