North County News 3/2/94

SCOOTER ARRIVES: BETTER LATE THAN NEVER

Phil Rizzuto was voted into baseball’s Hall of Fame by something called the veteran’s committee last Friday. It was a nice gesture by a group of peers righting sportswriter wrongs, and it arrived about 30 years late.

However, the absence of this honor never made the ever-popular Yankee great bitter or resentful. Since 1941 he has served the New York Yankees and the game of baseball with grace and humor, from champion shortstop, league MVP, to enthusiastic broadcaster.

Every season I inevitably meet up with “The Scooter” in the Stadium press box for a chat. Although our paths cross nearly every trip, just getting to him for a few minutes is no easy task.

One game alone could bring streams of fans wanting an autograph or a photograph with him. He can often be seen rushing in and out of the television booth between innings trying to accommodate them all; shaking hands and cracking jokes to a myriad of well-wishers, friends, and Yankee enthusiasts.

We've had several conversations over the years; and even though I cannot seem to sit him down for a formal interview, one particular talk we had two summers ago hit home last week when I heard the news of his entry into baseball’s hallowed roster.

He was standing surprisingly alone outside his booth, staring out at the majesty of the illuminated field, while carefully sipping a steaming cup of coffee. I asked him what I always seem to ask each and every year: After 50 years of service to the game, what keeps him coming back every spring like clockwork?

“Fear,” he answered, with tongue firmly planted in check, but a telling smile showing through. “I’m afraid to try anything else. I couldn’t do anything else, and I couldn’t imagine not being around Yankee Stadium.”

“Doesn’t all the attention form the fans wear you down over the course of the long season?” I probed further. His tanned, wrinkled face cracked with another grin as he straightened his glasses and let out a brisk sigh. “No way,” he snapped, pointing out toward the half-filled park. “These people are just like me, they’re Yankee fans. It’s really the fans that make it worth while.”

“Many of these people never saw you play,” I pointed out. “They only know you as an announcer.”

“When I played, there was always Dimag, and Yogi, and Tommy Heinrich,” he said. “They were the big stars. Even then I was a fan of the Yankees, a fan of baseball.”

I was one of those who’d never seen him play. For me Rizzuto's voice signified the Yankees. I told him of all the nights I would lie in bed and listen to him toil over every pitch. His voice sliding into monotone depression over a Yankee disappointment, or rise in excitement in a crucial moment.

“I miss doing radio most of all,” he said sadly. “It was much easier to communicate the flow of a game to the fan. I knew that they were in on every pitch, and my inflection could bring them closer to the game.”

After decades with the same team there are some who continue to badger him about being a homer. “I’ll never apologize for rooting for the Yankees,” he continued. “Come on, most everyone watching is a fan anyway. I’ve spent most of my life with this team, my heart always breaks a little with a loss.”

We were interrupted by another Scooter fan, and when he was done pressing the flesh and throwing out the complimentary “Holy Cow!” he turned to me and whispered, “That’s why I do it. I’m a lucky man to be loved by so many Yankee fans. I really don’t deserve it.”

“Do you deserve to be in the Hall of Fame?”

“Look, if those guys want me in, then I’ll be in.”

He forced a smile as he looked once more out at the game unfolding before us. The home team had brought a couple of runs across the plate and he was lost in the moment. “Run, you huckleberry! Get in there! All right!”

And that is why outside the Big Apple not everyone loves the Scooter. Even less so from the sporting press. “I’ve heard talk over the years how the writers kept me out because of my smug attitude over winning all those World Series,” he said. “But I’ll tell you, it was nothing but happiness for me. There was no place I’d rather be than at shortstop and turn around and see Joe DiMaggio standing behind me. I was a happy young man playing in the big leagues for the best team in the world.”

It was then I realized Phil Rizzuto never came in from the infield of his dreams. In many ways he’s still standing out there with Joe D. backing him up; the setting sun disappearing under the grand facade of the legendary stadium. He is still the “happy young man.”

He never did feel a sense of history in it all. It was as if it were still happening every day he walked into the ball park.

“Maybe, I’ll never get in,” he finished up. “Every year when the voting is done, I sit with my son and a bottle of wine and wait. We sit and talk and get a little tipsy, and I eventually get over the disappointment.”

I told him there isn’t a place in this country that should keep Phil Rizzuto out.

“Well, thank you,” he said. “Now I’ve gotta get going and watch the Yanks.”

A happy older man in the big leagues; and now finally in the Hall of Fame where he belongs.

Reality Check | Pop Culture | Politics | Sports | Music