Читать книгу Summer of Shadows - Jonathan Knight - Страница 21

Sam and Marilyn were the portrait of success. Their son, Samuel Reese (whom they called “Chip”), enjoyed a childhood in a relatively small but charming home overlooking Lake Erie in affluent Bay Village. With Sam’s increasing success, he was able to pay off the mortgage in two years.

In 1954, Dr. Sam Sheppard was an Adonis in a city of champions—one which that spring had received yet another crown.

The night before the Indians’ home opener on April 15, the Cleveland Barons defeated the Hershey Bears at musty Cleveland Arena to conclude the American Hockey League championship series in six games and capture the Barons’ second straight Calder Cup and seventh in fourteen years. Part of the original group of teams that had founded the AHL in 1936, the Barons had quickly built a dynasty that turned Cleveland into one of the best hockey towns in the country. Another pair of Calder Cups would follow in the next decade, and the nine championships would remain an AHL record until Hershey matched it fifty years later. Of course, Hershey had played in the league for sixty-six seasons at that point, while the Barons’ complete AHL history consisted of just thirty-six—meaning that they won a title, on average, once every four seasons. It was a rarity at any level of professional sport. But in the Cleveland of 1954, it was business as usual.

Still glowing from the latest crown placed atop their heads, Clevelanders treated the coronation of their triumphant Barons and the return of the Indians as a civic holiday, symbolized by the fanfare surrounding the Tribe’s home opener. The Plain Dealer conjectured that there would be many “grandmother’s funerals” that afternoon as the wheels of the workday came to a screeching halt. Fine spring weather added to the atmosphere. As fans streamed into Municipal Stadium, the sky was bright and clear, the memories of a harsh winter long forgotten.

The cost of entry was reasonable, though still considered somewhat pricey by many. A general admission ticket cost $1.25, a spot in the bleachers went for sixty cents. You could splurge for a boxed seat for $2.25. Of course, there were other, less traditional methods of acquiring tickets. With the purchase of a pair of shoes at Garfinkel’s, you’d get a reserved seat ticket for the home opener. And if you were willing to spend $1,727 for a new Chevrolet sedan, you’d receive a ticket to every Indians home night game.

The home ballpark itself was enticing, as Municipal Stadium was widely considered one of the finest places to watch a game. Decades away from its reputation of being a sewage-smelling rathole that attracted swarms of prehistoric insects off the lake, the stadium in 1954 was a baseball palace, the largest in the nation. During the ’54 team’s first workout at the stadium, rookie Rudy Regalado hopped up the dugout steps, arched his head around the bowl of the park, and whistled. “Holy cow!” he cried with Jimmy Olsen-like enthusiasm. “This is a big place!”

The 40,000-plus that marched into the ballpark on the lake were treated not just to a gorgeous spring afternoon, but a myriad of improvements to the ballpark. Near Gate A, a new concession area had been constructed that resembled a cafeteria more than a lunch stand. Patrons could walk inside and purchase never-before-available offerings such as hamburgers and fish sandwiches for thirty-five cents apiece. Of course, the stand also offered the usual wares at the usual fares: beer for thirty-five cents, hot dogs for twenty, peanuts for fifteen, and coffee for ten. The staff selling beverages to fans in their seats also enjoyed a technological breakthrough. Instead of carrying a bulky carton full of bottles, Coca-Cola was placed in portable thermos jugs that were carried via backpack and poured into cups through a spigot, reducing the number of trips for supplies. On the field, a shiny red Ford convertible transported pitchers from the bullpen to the pitcher’s mound—quite an upgrade over the Nash Rambler used in previous years.

By the time Ohio Governor Frank Lausche tossed the ceremonial first pitch to Mayor Anthony Celebrezze, the morning chill had burned off and the day had become a portrait of all that an April afternoon in Cleveland could be, a day in which all of the senses were pleasantly teased and tousled. The sky was bright and cloudless, a robin’s eggshell covering all of northeast Ohio. The breeze off the lake still carried some of the sting of winter, but it felt fresh and clean against the skin, while the sunshine gradually warmed everything it touched. Wafting through the stadium was the scent that defined baseball: crushed peanut shells, spilled beer drying on concrete, and everywhere, the pleasant, subtle tang of burning cigarettes. The ears received the shouts of concessioners and the noodling of the ballpark organ, the only auditory elements that stood out over the low murmur of the excited crowd. In the sunlight, the Indians’ uniforms looked so vibrantly white they almost hurt the eyes. Set against the emerald of the newly grown outfield grass, it was as if color had reappeared after four months of gray skies over an ashen landscape. That afternoon, life returned to Cleveland.

And like the balmy April morning, the Indians began their home opener unusually warm. After Mike Garcia enticed a double play to thwart a Tiger scoring threat in the first, the home team got going when its first two batters walked and advanced on a sacrifice bunt. As Cleveland’s cleanup hitter stepped to the plate, the crowd offered an ovation. With his cropped blonde hair peeking from beneath his batting helmet and his ice-blue eyes leveling on the pitcher, he gripped the bat and flexed his tremendous forearms, which bulged from his sleeves and somehow made his uniform look smaller than those of his teammates. He was the reigning king of baseball at the peak of his career.