Postscript: Close Really Counts

      "Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades," quipped new Cleveland Indians player-manager Frank Robinson before opening day of the 1973 major league baseball season. I'd also throw in bocce, being from Bound Brook, New Jersey in the mid-twentieth century. So why does it matter that a boy's team almost won the state title over fifty years ago?

     It mattered a lot to the small working-class town. Less than two weeks after hosting the state finals, Bound Brook was devastated by Hurricane Doria's direct hit on the Raritan Bay. Nine inches of rain in a night washed out the flash boards on the Chimney Rock reservoir, releasing a three-foot wall of water down First Watchung Mountain. The rampaging Middle Brook leapt it's banks at 3am and gouged a new bed across the west end of town. Many cars, bicycles, and outdoor pets were lost to the muddy torrent, but the early hour kept  pedestrians from it's path.  Only a lone lineman was washed away in his work vehicle, leaping first from it's submerging roof onto my father's work shed and then onto our cemented-in clothesline pole where he was rescued by boat. In a miracle of timing my father had ended the separation and moved back home just in time to help save both the lineman and the house from the flood.

     The Kennedy Memorial Field was not so fortunate. All the upgrades for hosting the state finals - bleachers, toilets, turf equipment, food service implements, electronic scoreboard - were gone. The trash-strewn runnel from the flash flood settled in downtown Bound Brook along with the rising Raritan River, breaking records for water depth and property damage. People came together, just like they did for hosting the finals, to help with rescues and clean-up, but the week-long power outage and business bankruptcies were the last straws for the flood prone borough. Many businesses would move uptown, and the bustling downtown would never return to it's former prosperity. State and federal disaster aid initiated a flood control project that started channelizing streams between levies. The old Little League field that had brought the town together and shown us who and what we were playing for never recovered. It was moved a few years after the flood to a new location protected by a dyke.

     Coach Robinson was right that close doesn't count for the outcome of any one baseball game, but the process of getting there does matter. It takes cooperation, dedication, effort, and commitment - from players, coaches, families, and fans - to keep a winning streak going long enough to make it to a championship game. That lesson still rings true a half century later.

    

Game 8: Wallington

     "Let's go Bound Brook, we're right behind you," echoes into our dugout in an impromptu cheer from somewhere in the home stands.

"Now boys, we'll take this one batter at a time," commands Coach Zujk from in front of the dugout to bring our attention back to the field on a steamy Saturday afternoon in mid-August.

     Our all-star team had won seven games in a row against mostly larger towns. We'd done it with crafty pitching, skillful fielding, or strong hitting, sometimes all three in one game. In the process of winning we'd found a clutch relief pitcher and a prolific pinch hitter. We felt poised to take home the title.

     This would be our first contest against an equally small Little League from a similarly working class town, though Wallington had many players of Slovak origin while we were mostly Italian and Polish. The match would be for the New Jersey title and a trip to the eastern region championships. A team from Wayne, New Jersey had won it all in 1970 and we were starting to believe that the World Series was possible for little Bound Brook.

     The larger crowd would be on our side and we'd be playing on our own field, though the coin toss gave the Bergen County borough the home advantage in last at bats. The hubub about a team from the host town making it to the finals had an unforeseen consequence that suddenly raised the stakes for us local boys as the game was starting. Twelve-year-old girls from our sixth or seventh grade classes would be watching us play. We tried not to look, but how could we not hear Annie and Tina, Bernadette and Barb, Cheryl and Robin, Laura and Rosemary, Patty and Darlene, the Marshas and others screaming from the bleachers?

     "Let's go Bound Brook!" croaks Coach Tomaro with frantic clapping from the third base coaching box in the top of the sixth inning.

We've got runners on first and second base and are behind one run in what's been a back-and-forth game.  Our coaches had used all our resources against a talented lefty with a wicked screwball that cut away from our right-handed batters. The use of pinch hitters, a relief pitcher, fielding substitutions, and even a pinch runner had depleted our bench. It came down to our last available player, and a hit now could tie it. An out would end our quest for Williamsburg. 

     "I'm proud of you young men," Coach Zujk consoles as behind him Coach Tomaro throws down his red and white BB cap onto the infield and in the dugout we players fight back tears. "Now let's hold our heads up and go shake their hands."

Final score: Wallington 4, Bound Brook 3

     

 Coach Tomaro, Eric Winchock, Coach Zujkowski, and
Tony Thomas after the 1971 NJ Little League final

Pre-Game 8: Wallington

     “There is nothing so clean…” sings a guy from Wallington lining up his cue for the next shot in our bumper pool match, “…as my burger machine.”

“Stick that in your burger machine!” I mutter, landing a double carom to win it.

     Most of the boys from the four New Jersey finals teams were splashing in the Codrington Park pool opened for us on the Friday night before consolation and championship games. Catari's had delivered a dozen  pizzas and the Bound Brook Little League supplied chilled cans of Coca Cola and 7Up. After eating, a few of us twelve-year-olds stayed in the field house, normally for thirteen and over, to play ping pong, shuffle board, and billiards.

     I hadn’t been in the big pool since a scare in the deep end at age four. A sister had taken me over after I passed swimming lessons in the kiddie pool. I was embarrassed to tell her I was faking it with an occasional surreptitious hand on the bottom, so I jumped when she said jump and sank to the bottom at six-feet. A desperate push into the concrete as my breath ran out propelled me through the surface where I grasped the edge, but that moment of underwater panic kept me away after that.

     Players from the three visiting teams were staying with local families, and I was suspicious of sharing a bedroom with one from the team we’d face the next day. Just as strange was a different Wallington kid constantly humming about his burger machine. It was my first encounter with someone more socially anxious than me.

     “What’s with that guy always mumbling about a burger machine?” I call over the thrum of a window fan to my roommate after the lights are out. 

“Just…the coach’s…son,” he yawns into the darkness. “Good luck tomorrow.”

“If I say good luck back will they cancel out?” I whisper across the room, but a snore tells me he’s already out cold.

Game 7: New Milford

Sean Doremus is carried off by Tony Izzo and Mike Fassano

     "Charlie, no!" screams Officer Frank Cornaccione running toward the field where our coach is dousing the infield with a red gas can.

"The show... " grumbles Coach Tomaro dropping his Philly Blunt to the edge of a puddle and hopping back onto the neatly mowed grass, "...must go on."

"Jeez Coach," chides the policeman turned field crew shaking his head side-to-side as bluish-orange flames flicker along the base path.

     An errant cloud had drenched the field two hours before the first semifinal game on a mid-August Friday. That Little League season, normally done by mid-June, had ambled into late summer's frequent thunderstorms along the coastal plain of central New Jersey.

     The John F. Kennedy Memorial Field at the corner of Tea Street and Route 28, where now stands a Shop-Rite grocery tucked into a former bend in the Middle Brook, had been meticulously prepared for the town's first hosting of the state finals. Bleachers, normally confined to the first and third base infield, now bordered the fence along the foul lines and the outfield. The small snack shed behind home plate had been expanded with a line of grills on one side and iced barrels of drinks on the other. Rows of blue and white porta-potties were stationed behind the nearby firehouse, and a fancy electronic scoreboard had replaced the old wooden and cardboard display beside right field. It was a huge and expensive community effort that involved coaches, parents, borough personnel, and community volunteers. 

     We were opening the single elimination tournament against New Milford North, and it was our first game of the entire post-season against a similarly sized town. The prosperous Bergen County borough, better known for football all-American and new Minnesota Viking Ed Marinaro, was actually twice the size, population, and average income of Bound Brook, but it supported two Little League teams to make it a relatively matched contest. 

     "Hey Sean, hey Sean, keep it down, keep it down," I chatter from shortstop as he takes the stretch position, glances at the runners on second and first base, and delivers a wicked slider that cuts over the strike zone.

New Milford is threatening a comeback in the top of the sixth inning after we thought they'd been put away in the fourth by home runs from Tony Izzo and Mike Fassano.

"Thwack," vibrates across the field with a hard bouncer up the middle as I lunge and miss it near second base.

"Shit," I hiss, turning to follow the ball and finding our second baseman back-handing it in shallow center field. 

In a slow-motion instant Eric Winchock flips the ball behind his back and I grab it bare-handed, brush the bag with my right foot, and whip it to first.

"You're out," screams the umpire as the Bound Brook crowd erupts at the game-ending play.

"Way to go boys!" marvels league president Ed Gabrielski as we carry our winning pitcher off the field.

Final score: Bound Brook 11, New Milford North 8

Game 6: Old Bridge

 

     “Win this one and you’re home for the …” growls Coach Tomaro through his Philly Blunt before the New Jersey Section 3 final at Lincroft Field.

“Now guys, we take it one game at a time,” interjects Coach Zujk before his assistant can get the word “finals” out. “Florczak will keep it close so let’s get those bats going.”

     Two of those big bats were from Zujkowski’s regular season team with the black trimmed uniforms sponsored by Research-Cottrell Incorporated. Everyone called them Research and Tony Izzo and Glen Gulyas provided the data, ending the year second in home runs (Izzo) and batting average (Gulyas). 

     Glen was a stocky catcher and a classic clutch hitter, knocking in runs with long doubles to left or right center field. For the all-stars he’d been relegated to backup backstop and pinch hitter since the league leader in all batting statistics was the starter behind the plate. This second string role didn’t harness our Hungarian stallion one bit - he led the team in runs batted in.

     Baseballs players and coaches are notoriously superstitious. Our Little League team didn’t step on the white foul line and we didn’t mention a developing no-hitter or long batting streak. We also didn’t say anything out loud about our winning, though getting to the finals was on all of our minds. It was just better not to jinx it even though we knew it would take more than magic to get that home field advantage for the push to Williamsport.

     “Gulyas will hit for you,” utters Coach Zujk as I swing a bat in the on-deck circle with runners on first and second base.

We’re behind by a score of 3-1 in the top of the sixth inning and I’m eager to knock in a run or two to get us back in the game.

“Why?” I cry mid-swing with visions of hitting something or someone going through my head.

“Don’t worry Cuz,” Glen consoles as he slips on a batting helmet and Richie Schenck walks to load the bases. “You’re still our number one shortstop.”

Final score: Bound Brook 3, Old Bridge 2

Game 5: Manalapan

      "Isn't that Doc Vischetti?" wonders Sean Doremus from the back of the bus as we stop at a red light on Route 28. 

"I don't know those people," Matt quips as his five family members wave wildly and blow air horns from a royal blue WV beetle with the top down.

"Me neither," laughs Sean, though he can't resist a wave and a grin.

     We were on the way to a neutral field in Middlesex for a face-off with the shore district champion. Manalapan Township is a populous Monmouth County suburb with a huge draw of players, putting tiny Bound Brook in our usual underdog position. 

     We didn't know it until game time, but Manalapan had won their previous games behind a strong lineup of lefty hitters. Most pitchers, like most people, are right-handed with an advantage against most batters, also right-handed. Righty against righty requires a greater turn of the hitter's head, and the distance is shorter between ball release and bat. The pitched ball appears to be coming at the batter before crossing over home plate, making swings more tentative and called strikes more likely. The converse is true for lefty hitters facing left-handed pitchers. 

     Sean Doremus was a lean lefty with a shock of blond hair that swayed with each pitch. His family lived across the street from our Little League field so he'd grown up chasing foul balls and working the hand-changed scoreboard, eventually graduating to official scorekeeper when not playing for the blue Tri-boro Lions. He really knew baseball, but his passionate play and strong reactions sometimes thwarted control of his throws, like after a good hit or in a close game.

     “I don’t know those people,” quips catcher Matt Vischetti when the Manalapan crowd cheers for a walk in the bottom of the sixth inning.

We’re ahead 3-0 behind a one-hitter as Sean repeatedly struck out their five lefties and got the four others on grounders. The walk is only their second base runner of the game and it brings up the third and best hitter, a strong lefty.

“Me neither,” Sean scowls, barely concealing a smile as he delivers three sweeping sliders for the third out.

Final score: Bound Brook 3, Manalapan 0

Game 4: Hillsborough

      "There's a crowd up from Hillsborough," warns Mrs. Shumsky as a half dozen mothers man the hut behind home plate. "Whoever takes a window might get a peek at our boys, but it could be non-stop orders."

"Many hands make light work," quips my mother moving over to one of the counters as we take the field for final warm-ups.

     The district championship was being played across the Raritan River in South Bound Brook, but it felt like a home game because our parents were staffing the concession stand. Hillsborough was a wealthy Princeton suburb that had splurged for matching spandex all-star uniforms while we Brookers still wore the wools from our regular season teams. Our stands along the third baseline were already packed, and the visitor side was rapidly filling. This turnout was our first inclination that the winning streak was causing a stir.

     Just as I was starting to feel hopeless about my home and hitting life, my twelve-year-old world seemingly turned. Richie Schenck was back in the lineup, and it was a surprise that my anxiety-prone mother had volunteered to work in the snack stand. At home she'd even asked about games, calling my teammates pet names like Sean Do-Re-Me and Matt Machete. My bat was also finally picking up as the hand numbness faded. I'd come to see my late place in the batting order not as a failure but instead as an opportunity to get another runner into scoring position for our big bats. 

     As the game started I was so shocked to spy my father leaning on the top plank of the wooden bleacher beside our dugout that I nearly bobbled a routine double-play, recovering the ball just in time to tap the runner and make a quick throw. 

     

     "Florczak will keep them in the park," Coach Zujk decrees before we take the field with an 8-2 lead in the top of the sixth inning. "Just take care of business on defense and we'll have this one."

"Ozzi Ynot!" I whoop after Tony Izzo makes a diving catch of a lined drive down the right field line for the first out.

The next batter draws a walk in six pitches to put a runner on first for their cleanup hitter, a tall righty with an immaculately neat uniform. On the first pitch he slaps a chopper to third that bounds over Schenck's upstretched glove and into mine. My hard throw to Eric Winchock at second and his twisting toss to first completes the double play.

"Way to go Davy," as I run to the dugout nearly knocks me down as the team bounces in jubilation. There's only one person who calls me that.

Final score: Bound Brook 8, Hillsborough 2