(The beginning of this memoir goes back to 1949 for those interested in scrolling back)

                                           THE LAST GOOD SUMMER

1961

     We reached the quarter finals before El Segundo slaughtered our pitching staff with booming homeruns, one by future big leaguer Bobby Floyd, and our high school careers were finished. School consisted of Angus and me playing pool and barely graduating, so that a couple major colleges wrote me off as an athlete/student because of my terrible grades. I had no desire to pursue college. I wanted to play ball. I wanted to play every day or night out from under Dad’s shadow. In Connie Mack and Legion I played shortstop and began tearing up both leagues in the summer, hitting over .400 and driving in more runs than anybody in the line-up and stealing bases and tearing around the bases like a precision madman. Bill Lentini wanted me to sign and felt I could steal 50 bases in the minors. He told me it was a “natural course that I, like any other kid my age, sign a contract, get away from home, and spread my wings playing ball somewhere a thousand miles away.”

     Bill informed me that if he had the power to sign me he would in a heartbeat. I asked him if Doc Bennett, his White Sox boss, who was sold on Angus, liked me.

     “He’s scared of your temper, and he’s not sure about your arm, but he’ll sign you if I ask him to. He trusts my judgment.”

     When I discussed the possibility of signing with Dad, he grimaced, and said, “Listen, a guy like Lentini, he’s never played ball, he doesn’t have the sense to realize you’re not ready for pro ball. When the time comes that you are, well, you’re a late bloomer and you’re going to be better than any of these 18 year old kids like Angus. None of these kids’ll last a season in the minors, trust me. I’ll know when you’re ready.”

    Sometimes Dad sat with scouts at my games. I had no idea what they talked about, but realized no scout could bullshit my Dad about baseball. One of them signed Bob Bailey for over $100,000. Stephenson got around $60,000 and through a loophole was able to pitch for our Connie Mack team, a literal Orange County all star team. He was sensational, mowing down hitter after hitter with an overpowering fastball and tight slider, throwing shutouts. Angus signed with the White Sox. Tom Quick and Nash signed. Our Legion team won a few games in the Anaheim tournament and this year I was picked as the starting second baseman out of 80 teams to play the Dodger rookies team. Every player on our team eventually signed, except Keith Erickson, a shortstop who went on to play pro basketball in the NBA. Several of the all stars made the big leagues.

     “Just be patient,” Dad urged. “You’re blossoming, getting stronger and faster. It’s a big advantage if you start as a man, not a kid.”

     “You waited until you were 23,” I countered. “By the time you got to the big leagues you were 28 and they wanted to play younger guys. I’m playing better than any of these guys who’ve signed.”

      “Look, you’re not ready. You’re not gonna get a big bonus because you’re not strong enough yet. In a couple years you’ll have more power, you’ll be mentally more mature to deal with the ups and downs, you’ll be strong enough to hold up to the grind of a long season, and you’ll get more money, believe me. Right now you’ll just be another expendable kid with a small bonus, playing for $400 a month, Angus, Nash, Quick, none of ‘em’ll last a year, trust me.”

     If I didn’t sign, I’d have to play in junior college. Already Mile Scoba, coach at Fullerton High and due to be the coach at Fullerton JC, promised I’d be their starting shortstop. “You demolished our pitching staff,” he told me. “I think you’re the best ball player in Orange County. Come play for me. I can’t promise you much at the JC level in terms of scholarships, but I’ll get you a job.”

     Lentini told me to go play for Scoba, a fair man who knew baseball, if I didn’t sign. But the school was over 20 miles away. I began to consider nearby Cerritos JC, a baseball power dominating its level of ball and felt to be on a tier with most major colleges under a great coach, Wally Kincaid. I made up my mind to visit him, with no idea what I was getting into, feeling I was good enough to play anywhere and succeed on a grand scale.

(Next Sunday Installment: “Nobody’s Clean-cut All American Student/Athlete.”