Heroes
Sometimes it takes a while to know who your real heroes are.
Mine were always the New York Yankees. Only the Yankees. Growing up in Rochester, New York, they were the ones I worshipped: god-like warriors like Mantle, Maris, Ford, Berra, and so many others.
They were what I wanted to be. Their pictures occupied every inch of wall space in my bedroom. Their names were scribbled into my baseball glove.
I was a kid back then. . .
. . .a pitcher for Pittsford Central High School, and a pretty good one according to press clippings.
My dream was to be a big league pitcher, for the Yankees of course, which didn’t seem so far-fetched since one of the scouts watching me was with the Yanks.
At an awards ceremony in my junior year, Johnny Antonelli, a star pitcher for the New York Giants, autographed a baseball for me. The ink, now faded, said, “To Pittsford’s winningest pitcher. With best wishes, Johnny Antonelli, 1960 season.”
Okay, he wasn’t a Yankee, but I was still thrilled. After all, Johnny was from Rochester, too. If he could make it, maybe I could as well.
Fifty-seven years later, I was rifling through my old baseball cards when I came across one of him.
Wouldn’t it be neat, I thought, if I could get Johnny to sign it. Then I would have two souvenirs, one from when I was young and one from now.
When I learned that a local sportswriter named Scott Pitoniak had done a book, Johnny Antonelli: A Baseball Memoir, I called him. I said that I lived in France and explained what I had in mind. Scott offered to help, pointing out that Antonelli spent part of the year in Florida but that he would contact him on my behalf as soon as he returned to Rochester. In the meantime, Scott asked if he could toss me a few questions for a column he wanted to write, one about my playing days, how I became involved in French baseball and the years I spent as a network television correspondent for CBS and ABC News.
No problem, I said. I spoke briefly about the latter, explaining how I had gone into journalism after my dreams of playing baseball professionally came to a sudden end. “I was still in high school,” I said. “I was doing pull-ups when something popped in my right shoulder. The following spring when I tried to throw a ball, there was nothing there. It happened just after Antonelli autographed that baseball for me.”
“Was he your hero?” Pitoniak asked, noting that we’d both come from Rochester.
I knew I should say yes.
Antonelli had been a six-time All Star, his career starting with the Boston Braves in 1948 when he signed for what was then a record bonus of $52,000. In 1953, when the team became the Milwaukee Braves, he was traded to the New York Giants where, the following year, he compiled a 21–7 record and led the Giants to the pennant.
He then won Game 2 of the World Series against the Cleveland Indians and saved another in what became a four game sweep of the Tribe.
Given all that, how could he not have been my hero?
Well, for one simple, if not silly, reason: Antonelli wasn’t a Yankee. That’s how absorbed I was with the Bronx Bombers. I couldn’t see past the pinstripes. So when Pitoniak asked that question — “Was he your hero?” — I replied, “Not exactly.”
It sounded lame and I felt like apologizing, especially after hearing that Antonelli would be happy to sign my baseball card. I quickly mailed it off along with a short letter telling him about the ball he autographed for me in 1960 and “what a thrill it would be after all these years if I could have your signature on my baseball card, too.”
As I waited for the card to come back, I thought more about that ball and recalled how it had inspired me to work even harder at my pitching. I also began watching a collection of World Series clips that Major League Baseball had just released, one showing Johnny in that 1954 Series against the Indians. I remember thinking, Man, his delivery is so fluid, so smooth and effortless.
A few days later, an envelope from Rochester arrived. I opened it quickly. There was my baseball card with Antonelli’s signature. There was also a letter from his wife Gail saying how “delighted” Johnny was to sign the card. “In the past, he tried to be nice and sign all requests but, when some fool accused him of stealing his baseball cards, John felt he must stop. Now he only signs at events when all proceeds go to charity.”
That’s when something dawned on me. When it comes to having heroes, one doesn’t always grow up with them. Sometimes you grow up into them.
Though I’m still a Yankee fan, I’m no longer that kid who used to sit glued to a black and white TV as his heroes in pinstripes took to the field. I am seventy-three-years-old and the word hero has a much different meaning for me now.
Johnny Antonelli, 87, was not only a great pitcher. He was also a genuinely nice person — kind, courteous generous — things Scott Pitoniak’s book brought out, qualities which I now understand define a real hero.
Was he your hero? If Scott were to ask me that question again. . .
. . .I know I would have a different answer.
