Seeing Home, page 19
Everyone came back to the house on Union Street to celebrate. The flow of well-wishers continued long into the night. I finally got to bed around three, exhausted and relieved that it was all over.
MANY PEOPLE ASKED me, and continue to ask, which piece of testimony do I think swayed the judge to make such a historic decision? I honestly don’t think that it was anything that anyone said or didn’t say, either in court or in the judge’s chambers. My feeling is that he based his verdict on one thing only: love.
I’m not trying to claim that Dee doesn’t love the boys. I know that she does, probably just as much as I do.
What I mean is that all things being equal, the only factor the judge had left to go on was which home radiated the most warmth and love for Eddie and Chris. Fair or unfair, I had an eight-year head start on my former wife. The majority of my boys’ lives were spent mostly with me, my sister, their cousins, and my parents. The Lucas family didn’t have a lot of money, a mansion, or all of the latest gadgets. We did, however, always have an overabundance of love and deep faith. It was something that I remembered fondly from my childhood days. We could always call on and rely upon our loving family members, who were there for us and never abandoned us, no matter the situation. I tried to create the same atmosphere for my sons. I took the verdict as a sign that I’d succeeded.
Eddie and Chris returned to Jersey City a few days later. The three of us, naturally, went out to celebrate in the one place that had become a second home for us: Yankee Stadium.
The Yankees were on their way to the playoffs once again in 1980. I took the boys to one of the last games of the season, versus the Tigers, on Thursday, October 2. It was a great evening. The team got its 101st win of the season, Reggie hit his fortieth home run, and Goose closed things by striking out three and allowing just one hit over two innings for his thirty-second save. The players were all in an excellent mood when the game was over.
The Yanks were on the road when the trial ended, so this was the first time I’d be seeing them since. Scooter had already told everyone the decision, something I discovered when I walked into the clubhouse and heard cheers from the team. Bobby Murcer, who had rejoined the club, gave me a big hug and told me how happy he was for me. The other players invited Eddie and Chris to eat from the postgame buffet of cold cuts. Some of them even brought bottles of Coke over to my sons, just as the Giants had done to me almost thirty years before.
Chris, still confused about the term, kept asking Goose why there were no knuckle sandwiches included with the cold cut spread. Everyone was having a great time. It was just the party my boys deserved.
I stood to the side of the clubhouse, smiling as I listened to Eddie and Chris joke around with the Yankees. I realized at that moment just how many times I’d been blessed in my life. I was humbled by the thought. I wanted to pay those blessings forward.
We are called, as good stewards, to give at least 10 percent of our time, talents, and treasure back. I was determined to give even more. My goal was to bring as much hope and opportunity to others as I had been given.
With the help of Scooter, Bob Diehl, the Lions, Mr. Steinbrenner, and many more special people who would come into my life, I was ready to do just that.
10
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Does Home Plate Look Like a Dinner Plate?
Chris wrote a letter to Mr. Steinbrenner in October 1980. He expressed his thanks to the Boss for all of the support that he, and the Yankees, had given to our family over the years, especially during the trial. I knew that my son was writing to George; what I didn’t know was that he’d included a special request in the letter.
The boys had heard the story of my accident thousands of times. They had also heard how their grandmother, along with the Giants, Dodgers, and Yankees, helped to pull me out of my deep depression. Chris remembered me saying that my dream as a boy was to throw out the first pitch in an important game. He wanted that dream to come true.
In his letter, Chris asked Mr. Steinbrenner to think of me when he was making selections for ceremonial first pitch honors at Yankee Stadium. George sent a very nice reply, promising to put me on the list when the Yankees reached the World Series. They missed out in 1980, but did return to the Fall Classic the following season.
The Yankees would be playing their old rival, the Dodgers, in the 1981 World Series. It would be their third championship match with Los Angeles in five years. A few days before the series began, George’s PR director called me.
I had made the list!
The plan that Mr. Steinbrenner laid out was for Hollywood legend Jimmy Cagney to throw out the pitch before the first game. Cagney’s most famous role was as George M. Cohan in the classic 1941 film Yankee Doodle Dandy. He won an Academy Award for the part. The guy was a living legend, a New Yorker through and through, and a true Yankee.
The second game was to feature Mr. Rizzuto, who had been the 1951 World Series MVP versus the Dodgers. I would be throwing out the pitch alongside him, to honor the thirty-year anniversary of his MVP award, and the unique friendship we developed starting that year. The Yankees would then go on the road to Dodger Stadium for Games 3, 4, and 5. Game 6 honors would go to Joe DiMaggio, who was celebrating the fortieth anniversary of his fifty-six-game hitting streak. Game 7’s ceremonial first pitch would be handled by Don Larsen. Twenty-five years earlier, Larsen pitched the only perfect game in World Series history. That also happened against the Dodgers.
I was excited; Chris was even more thrilled. One of my childhood dreams was about to come true in front of millions, thanks to my son. Then the commissioner stepped in to alter the plans.
Bowie Kuhn, baseball’s head honcho, gave an order that no celebrities or politicians were allowed to throw out World Series first pitches. It had to be someone connected to baseball. I made the cut—but Jimmy Cagney did not! George was forced to rescind the invitation to the silver screen icon. After a mad scramble, Joe DiMaggio agreed to move up his appearance to Game 1.
There was immediate outrage from Jimmy Cagney fans throughout the world. How could he be humiliated like that? To prevent an international black eye for baseball, Commissioner Kuhn reversed the order.
Good news for Cagney, bad news for me.
Rizzuto and I were bumped from Game 2, so that the Oscar-winning actor could throw out the pitch without having to wait another week. Don Larsen moved his game up from 7 to 6. Scooter and I were then rescheduled to throw out the first pitch at Game 7.
Sadly, that game never happened.
The Yankees lost to the Dodgers in six, giving L.A. the championship. I saw Mr. Steinbrenner after the game. His team had just been defeated, but all he was worried about was that my feelings would be hurt. George apologized profusely and asked me to say sorry to Chris for him. I appreciated that. He told me that I’d be at the top of the list the next time the Yankees got to the World Series.
They didn’t return for another fifteen years.
George also asked me what charities I supported. I named a few, like the Seeing Eye and Holy Family. Over the years, he quietly sent large checks to all of them. That was the type of man George Steinbrenner was. He was a kind soul. He never hesitated to help those in need, or to donate to good causes. I deeply admired him for that, and I tried to emulate his philanthropic spirit.
SHORTLY AFTER THAT, Holy Family hired a new administrator. I’d kept in touch with Sister Anthony Marie and the nuns who shaped my life, but times were changing by the early 1980s. Most school districts were assimilating blind students, which was amazing progress. It spelled doom for schools like Holy Family, which were dedicated solely to helping the blind. In an effort to keep afloat, the nuns welcomed students with other major disabilities. The increased workload was proving too much for the sisters to handle, so they turned to lay teachers and administrators.
Herb Miller was a born leader. As soon as he took the job as administrator at Holy Family, he put into motion a plan for the school that went beyond the walls of the building. He became a passionate advocate for the blind. Herb and his wife, Zinnia, loved the students as if they were their own children. Herb wasn’t shy about mingling with politicians and businesspeople to gain needed support for the school and to help create new laws making life easier for the disabled. He was already doing that on a local level, but wanted to broaden his horizons.
He reached out to me for help.
Other than the occasional fund-raising drive and speeches to Lions Clubs around New Jersey, I hadn’t done much directly for my alma mater. Herb asked if I would give him a hand in promoting the school and his mission. I leaped at the chance. I wasn’t officially an employee of Holy Family, but I became Herb’s teammate. It was the start of a productive partnership.
My list of guides was pretty long. I had no shortage of volunteers to take me to games. Even so, Herb became my most frequent companion, followed closely by Gene Mehl and Bob Diehl.
The Yankees of the 1980s were a fun group, though a little tamer than the Bronx Zoo 1970s crew. Sparky, Reggie, and Goose were gone by then. There were a few holdovers. Willie Randolph, Ron Guidry, and Graig Nettles were among the last links to the championship teams. All three would be named Yankee captains. Two young guys, first baseman Don Mattingly and pitcher Dave Righetti, made an immediate impact and became close friends.
Mattingly started joking with me almost from the first day he arrived. He would tease me about everything from my escorts and wardrobe, to the size of the microphones and recorders I used. I played right along with him, and even pulled some pranks of my own.
I was standing with Herb Miller at Yankee outfielder Dave Winfield’s locker, interviewing the future Hall of Famer about an upcoming series with the Detroit Tigers, when Charlie, the clubhouse guard, came over to say, “You have about ten minutes left before I have to close the locker room, Eddie.”
I checked my watch and said, “Got it, Charlie, I’ll leave in ten.”
Mattingly happened to see me check the watch, missing the part where I flipped up the glass to feel the Braille. He was astonished. Racing over from his locker, Don said, “Eddie, how the heck can you tell time with a wristwatch? You can’t see that thing. It probably doesn’t even work. C’mon, you probably just wear it for show!” I took the watch off and handed it to him, so that he could see that it was functioning like any other timepiece.
This frustrated Mattingly no end. He could see the Braille on the inside of the glass, but didn’t realize there was a secret button to push to flip the glass up. He spent the next three minutes feeling the face on the watch again and again, as several players looked on with curiosity.
Finally, he gave up. Mattingly handed the watch back to me and said, “Eddie, I don’t know how you do it, pal. You can feel those bumps through the glass and I can’t. That’s amazing!”
“Well, Don,” I replied with a grin, “some guys can hit curveballs, some can’t. Some guys can feel Braille through glass, some can’t. We’ve both got our talents.”
As Herb walked me toward the door and away from Mattingly, I turned to him and called out, “Hey, Don!” As soon as I had his attention, I held my wrist up, pushed the button, and revealed the secret of the watch. Other players roared with laughter. I had to run out the door to avoid the barrage of towels the freshly pranked Mattingly good-naturedly tossed in my direction.
DAVE RIGHETTI, LIKE Ted Williams and several other players, loved seeing my dog. I would bring Flo with me whenever I could. Dave always took time to pet her. Flo was very well-behaved in the clubhouse. One afternoon, she started jumping around and barking. This was totally uncharacteristic. It went completely against her training. I couldn’t figure out what was spooking her until a few days later when Graig Nettles shared with me that he’d brought a sonic dog whistle into the locker room and was blowing it to see what Flo would do. Only she could hear it.
Players were actually pranking my dog! I don’t think any other media members could say that.
By the end of 1981, Flo began slowing down to the point where she had to retire. Once again, I was heartbroken, but knew that she would be happier on the farm. Another three-week trip to the Seeing Eye brought me together with my third dog, Bessie.
She was a yellow Lab, and was definitely more active and alert than Kay or Flo had ever been.
A few weeks after Bessie came home, she showed us just how remarkable she was.
In December 1981, my sister, Maureen, gave birth to her third child, a daughter whom she named Erin Rose. Bessie loved the baby. Whenever Maureen came downstairs with Erin and my dog was off duty, Bessie would stay close to my infant niece.
One Sunday evening in April 1982, we were all seated at the table for our weekly family dinner. Bessie was lying at my feet. Erin was in a bouncy seat that had rollers, so that she could move around the room. Without warning, Bessie bolted from my side, raced over to Erin, and knocked her little bouncy seat a few feet backward.
The baby started crying.
As they ran to comfort Erin, my mother and sister yelled at me to scold Bessie for scaring the baby. Then they realized what actually happened. Someone had left the door to the basement slightly ajar. It was an opening small enough that nobody noticed it. Nobody except Bessie, that is. When my dog saw how close the baby was getting to the door, Bessie realized that one push by Erin’s bouncer would open it, sending her forward into a dangerous tumble down the stairs.
Bessie used her Seeing Eye training to take action and to save a child’s life.
My dog was a hero.
Almost exactly a year later, Bessie would prove her heroism once again, with an act of canine bravery and sacrifice that still brings me to tears.
I was in the middle of my nightly 11:00 p.m. routine of walking Bessie when I heard an odd sound coming from down the street. I quickly identified it as that of a car scraping and smashing into other cars. Union Street had a tavern at the end of our block. Occasionally, patrons would drink too much and get behind the wheel. The Jersey City Police Department usually did a great job at stopping them. Tonight, one of the drunks got through their net.
My brain processed the fact that a car was speeding out of control, on a direct course toward me. I froze. I wanted to react, but my body was gripped by fear. Not Bessie. She recognized the danger as soon as I did. Before I knew what was happening, my dog ran in front of me and knocked me backward, just as she had done for my niece.
I was safe.
Bessie suffered for her heroism. Her leash was violently ripped from my hands as the car struck her head-on. She was dragged one hundred yards up the block. I sat on the ground in shock, screaming for help. My neighbors ran out of their homes to come to my aid.
Unfortunately, the driver had escaped the scene and was never caught, leaving Bessie’s crumpled and bloody body in the middle of Union Street. She was rushed to the emergency animal hospital, but it was too late.
I held my brave and lovely partner in my arms as she breathed for the very last time.
It took me a few months to return to the Seeing Eye for another dog. Several players expressed their condolences. Dave Righetti was especially kind. His career was in full bloom by then, as the heir to great Yankee pitching legends. I told him that I thought he was next in line to throw a no-hitter, something no Yankee had done for a quarter-century. He laughed at the notion.
On July 4, 1983, I was at the Seeing Eye, listening on the radio as Righetti struck out Wade Boggs of the Red Sox to complete a no-hitter. I was thrilled for him, but felt bad that I couldn’t be there to congratulate him in person. When I saw him at the Stadium a few weeks later, accompanied by my new dog, a male black Lab named Tommy, Dave gave me a ball inscribed: “To Eddie, You predicted it! Dave Righetti 7/4/83.” Then he whispered, “That’s for Bessie.”
Holy Family had an annual fund-raising variety show that was languishing by the time Herb Miller came along. He was always looking for new ideas to help the school, or trying to revitalize old ones. This show would be a perfect project for us. The benefit gala had actually been started by my mentor Jerry Molloy in the 1950s. Jerry passed away in 1977, so it was an honor to follow in his giant footsteps. Just as I had done for the telethon a few years earlier, I reached out to celebrity friends to participate in the gala show to raise the profile. Ted Brown, a local radio legend from WNEW, presided over the show and would often arrange for singers and comedians to appear on the bill. Established names like singer Jerry Vale and up-and-coming talents like comedian Joy Behar all pitched in.
Dolly and Marty Sinatra were big supporters of the school throughout their lives. They were both gone by then, but Herb thought it might be a good idea to honor them posthumously. We reached out to Frank Sinatra’s representatives in California to let them know about our show and the tribute to his parents. To our amazement, we got word that Old Blue Eyes himself was so touched by Holy Family’s salute to his mother and father that he was going to drop by the benefit show to represent them and accept on their behalf.
There were some conditions. Mr. Sinatra would not be performing, just making a short acceptance speech. He would only stay for about thirty minutes. We were not allowed to publicize his appearance at all. They were all fair requests. Herb and I were just excited that one of the biggest stars in the world would be on hand to speak to supporters of the school.
I was as excited as I’ve been at almost any other time in my life. I’d be meeting my musical idol. I couldn’t wait to share stories with him about how kind his parents were to me.
We kept the secret pretty tight. Nobody knew about our special guest.
The night before the show, I got an urgent phone call from California. Sammy Davis, Jr., had died. Given that he was one of Mr. Sinatra’s best friends, naturally, plans had changed. Funeral arrangements were being made in Los Angeles, and there was no way Sinatra could come to New Jersey for the show. Of course, we understood.
