Almost by definition, Praying for Gil Hodges was the kind of project that demanded at least an attempt at mixing apples, oranges, pears, peaches, and strawberries.
For most of my life, I have carried with me vivid memories of the seventh game of the 1955 World Series, but I always sensed that simply reconstructing one of the most exciting baseball games ever played would not do justice to those memories. Fortunately, I had a lot of help as I tried to puzzle through it all.
My wife, Susan Spencer; my best friend and longtime colleague, Curtis Wilkie; and my literary representative, Deborah Grosvenor, would not permit me to take refuge in a one-dimensional reconstruction of a famous baseball game fifty years after it was played. They insisted that I deal with the Brooklyn Dodgers of that long ago October afternoon in context to both explain the power of my own memories and their unusual resonance at the time and ever since in the country.
There was, of course, the game that dramatically ended a literary seesaw World Series. But there was also this unique team that represented part of a city, its wild and usually heartbreaking history, its hold on Americans for whom the underdog is a very easy metaphor, its roots in a special part of New York City that has deep and lasting ties to the rest of the country, its direct relevance to the story of my own family and of my early years, and its special role in helping end the grip racial segregation still had on post-World War II America.
Before I got started I also had the help of two special friends who happen to root for their home team, the Los Angeles Dodgers. Katherine Reback, a deft screenwriter by trade, helped me understand that drama needs pacing and that words can help make narrative almost visual. And Lynne Wasserman, with typical graciousness, helped open some of the first doors that made my research possible and then rewarding.
Because there was so much juggling of topics and narratives, the completion of my first stab at manuscript was just the beginning of my long journey. My editor at Thomas Dunne, Peter Wolverton, was a patient, exacting, and simply marvelous partner in helping shape the draft so that its many digressions had a chance of fitting together. Working at times on a daily basis with his assistant Kathleen Gilligan, was pure joy. I also enjoyed a father’s special pleasure—the assistance of one of my favorite writers, my daughter, Wendy, who both pruned much of my verbosity and helped shape the introduction. A final pleasure was the chance to spend a little time learning from two of my writing heroines, the historian Doris Kearns Goodwin and the novelist Marylouise Oates. Doris shared my love for the Dodgers, lived a story not dissimilar from my own, and wrote an inspirational memoir about that special time, Wait Till Next Year. Marylouise is both my dear friend and a superb get-to-the-point editor.
As an organization, the Dodgers have always been most careful to preserve and honor their past, including the team’s heart-shattering move to the West Coast in 1958. My research spanned the period when their ownership changed from Rupert Murdochs Fox Entertainment Group to Frank and Jamie McCourt of Boston. Bob Graziano, then the team’s president, could not have been kinder in helping me get started. And the McCourts were both gracious and generous. The link for me was a most remarkable person, Mark Langell, who keeps the Dodger flame burning with astonishing dedication and diligence. As the team’s historian, he gave generously of his time helping me get in touch with people, recommending books and other research materials, some long out of print, and offering helpful suggestions.
Every writer delving into baseball’s past, especially anything associated with the Brooklyn Dodgers, has two special treats in store. The first is the New York Public Library, a huge influence in my childhood and still a unique temple of learning. I spent two unforgettable weeks lost in its newspaper and periodical rooms, a delicious experience tempered only by sorrow that budget problems restrict the great place’s hours. The second treat is the research wing of baseball’s Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. Baseball lovers who visit are often surprised to discover that anyone can walk into it, ask for some bit of the game’s past, and get lost in the joys of history. My days there, helped immeasurably by research associate Gabriel Schecter and his colleagues, were a delight.
It has often been noted that not many of the players who suited up on October 4, 1955, are still living. Just eleven of the Brooklyn Dodgers are still alive, and only a few of them played pivotal roles in the game. Because I was interested in the depth above all, it was vital to talk to the pitchers. The thrill of actually spending a day with the person who dominated Game Seven and gave me the happiest moment of my life up to the age of ten is indescribable. My gratitude to Johnny Podres knows no bounds. But an unexpected delight was another day spent with his opponent that day for the Yankees, Tommy Byrne. Witty and gracious, he was the perfect bookend for Podres.
I am also grateful to players like George “Shotgun” Shuba, who played critical roles in the game’s still unbelievable sixth inning, for sharing memories of their brief moments on that stage. It is also sometimes forgotten that some of the Dodgers wrote memoirs that included important facts about Game Seven. Manager Walter Alston wrote two, as did Roy Campanella. Gems are also available from works published by Jackie Robinson, Carl Erskine, and especially the marvelous memoir written by Duke Snider with Bill Gilbert. Above all, in my search for depth and perspective, I am eternally grateful to two icons of Dodger history who made time to help me understand the 1955 triumph in context. Vin Scully shared a morning with me before broadcasting a game from Chicago’s Wrigley Field. And E. J. “Buzzie” Bavasi, a truly fascinating man with an institutional memory stretching back to the late 1930s, was kind to spend an afternoon regaling me with stories at his home in La Jolla, California.
To even attempt to understand Brooklyn required, I believe, the assistance of contemporaries who were there—not just that one day, but throughout the Dodgers’ tortuous but glorious journey after World War II. Hearing their personal stories as well as their baseball memories transported me back to those days that never really leave me. I cannot come close to adequately expressing my gratitude for the courtesy and generosity showed to me by Florence (Rubenstein) Hart, Jill Schuker, Carey Aminoff, Billy Delury, and Gary Hymel. A pal in politics for many years, I am also grateful beyond words to Hymel for providing what to me is the priceless souvenir of my research—the scorecard he kept from the center-field bleachers in Yankee Stadium that unforgettable afternoon.
Every important American story is punctuated by race. In the case of the Dodgers, the enormous attention that accompanied Jackie Robinson’s historic step onto Ebbets Field in 1947 tended to ebb as time passed, in part because the Dodgers were trying to make integration work and not simply to make headlines. In my view, the special impact the Dodgers had on post-war America is incomprehensible without an understanding of this vital element of their inspiring story. To help me put it in context, I was helped by a special person in my life—Vernon Jordan, the civil-rights leader and Washington power broker. Jordan not only added delightful detail to his memories of a Dodger tour through his native Georgia when he was a child (told originally in his widely praised memoir, Vernon Can Read), he also helped me understand how huge the Dodgers’ frontal challenge to segregation loomed nationally at a time when none of the other race news was good. As if that weren’t enough, he also helped hook me up with his own mentor, still in Brooklyn—Reverend Gardner Calvin Taylor. Now in his eighties, Reverend Taylor was kind enough to spend a few hours helping me understand what it was like to be in Brooklyn in the 1940s and ’50s. He had not only helped the team take strides forward behind the scenes, he also spoke eloquently and in detail of what it was like to be African-American at that time in that town. He is both a theologian of worldwide repute and a person of deep faith and I am forever grateful for his assistance.
Every writer who has ever tackled a book project with a spouse in the house gets reminded daily why he remains head over heels in love. My Susan was with me long before the takeoff, and through every stage of the research and writing and editing (much of which was based on her famous preference for clarity as one of CBS News’ best correspondents). In the face of unconditional love, one does not express gratitude so much as awe. I am also forever indebted to my three children—Tom, Wendy, and Jeremy (along with his wife, Jennifer, who did some of the organizational work that helped me get started)—for their understanding of an often distracted father.
Every writer also begins every project aware of his enormous dependence on others and then grateful in the extreme for the help he has received. In the end, however, I recognize the ultimate truth—that each and every error, whether of conception or execution, is mine alone.