Should Dick Allen Be in the Hall of Fame?
Re-posted November 17, 2021
(original post 4/26/21)
Dick Allen was one of the best players to ever wear a Philadelphia Phillies uniform. He also starred for three other teams during his 15-year career. Some fans believe that Allen wasn’t just an outstanding Phillie; they feel he was one of the greatest players in major league baseball history.
Does Dick Allen belong in the Hall of Fame?
To begin, let’s examine Allen’s entire career. Baseball is a game where numbers have been faithfully and carefully accumulated for over 100 years, and therefore you can compare players from wildly different eras. Allen’s stats are impressive, no matter how you count them or whose you compare them to. During his first full season (1964), he hit .318 with 29 homeruns and 91 RBI to earn National League Rookie-of-the-Year honors. Two seasons later, he tore apart opposition pitching with a .317 average that included 40 homeruns and 110 RBI. (His 1966 figures would have been even more impressive had he not missed 20 games due to an injury.)
But Allen was not just a run-of-the-mill power hitter. He was a force of nature. Hall of Fame pitcher Tom Seaver listed the man from Wampum, Pennsylvania, as the player who scared him the most. Allen didn’t just hit homeruns; his round-trippers were often titanic blasts. During his first stint with the Phillies (1963-1969), the club played their home games at Connie Mack Stadium, which featured a two-deck grandstand in left field. Allen crushed balls that landed on and over the roof of these stands on several occasions.
In 1967, Allen hit a pitch thrown by Nelson Briles of the Cardinals at the old ballpark that traveled an estimated 529 feet. The ball was last seen sailing past the flagpole in dead center field. A year later, Number 15 hit one that cleared the gigantic 75-foot-high scoreboard in right field.
Allen’s offensive production continued through the late 1960s, but his relationship with many Philly fans was terrible. The problem began in 1965 when he and veteran journeyman Frank J. Thomas (not The Big Hurt) were both on the Phillies and were involved a pre-game altercation with racial overtones. This fight led to Thomas’ release, resulting in fans booing Allen unmercifully whenever he came to bat or made a mistake in the field. Of course, the boos would be replaced by thunderous cheers whenever the slugger would launch another moonshot into the North Philadelphia night sky.
Allen had been forced to tolerate verbal taunts from hometown Philly fans, including racial epithets. Some fans took to throwing small items at him from the stands, such as batteries, bolts, and coins. To protect himself from thrown objects, Allen wore a batting helmet while playing the field. Hate mail addressed to him regularly arrived at Connie Mack Stadium.
In the face of near-constant abuse, Allen publicly expressed his desire to be traded. Club management demurred, not wanting to part-company with their talented slugger. In frustration, Allen began to do things he felt would force the Phillies to deal him to another team. He showed-up late for games, occasionally arrived at the ballpark under the influence of alcohol and missed team buses and planes. It was during this phase of his career that Allen gained a reputation as a troublemaking problem child.
Allen himself has admitted that he didn’t always handle the adversity in the best manner. “At the time, I thought I was the victim of racism,” he explained years later. “I was also something of a jerk. There were others who had to deal with racism, and some of them handled it better than I did.”
To be fair, Allen was under a pressure that few have had to experience in any walk of life, not just baseball. Was it his responsibility to “just take it” from thousands of hometown fans who attended games at Connie Mack Stadium? Can he be faulted for trying to do something to improve his life and pursue his career? Would the morons who heaped abuse on this man stick around under similar circumstances or would they have looked for a way to escape?
The answers to these questions seem obvious.
Allen finally got his wish after the 1969 campaign when he was dealt to the Cardinals. After posting good stats for St. Louis in 1970 and the Dodgers in 1971, Allen found himself a member of the Chicago White Sox in the spring of 1972. There he enjoyed his best season since 1966. He hit .308 while walloping 37 homeruns and drove in 113 runs to go along with a .603 OBP. Allen was never considered a great fielder, but in 1972 he finished 2nd in the AL in first base fielding percentage. For his efforts, Dick Allen was named the American League MVP. It was a golden year and the highwater mark of his career. Injuries limited Allen’s playing time in 1973, but in 1974 he led the AL in homeruns (32) before announcing his retirement in September.
With the Phillies playing the next year in a new ballpark and expected to be in contention Allen was convinced to rejoin the team in 1975, but the layoff coupled with no spring training took its toll; Allen only hit .233 with 12 long balls in 1975. He rebounded somewhat in 1976 and was hitting well over .300 at the All-Star break when an injury slowed him down in the 2nd half and limited his playing time. In 85 games that year, Allen hit 15 homeruns and drove-in 49. Had he maintained that level of production over the entire season, his finally tally would have been close to 30 homers and over 90 RBI.
After the1976 season, the Phillies and Allen parted company again. The Oakland A’s were looking for some pop in their lineup and signed the aging slugger for 1977. After appearing in 54 games, Allen decided to call it quits for good.
The question of whether Dick Allen deserves a spot in Cooperstown can be answered by comparing his career numbers with those who are already in the Hall. It would be easy to favorably compare Number 15’s stats with those of, let’s say, Rabbit Maranville or Bill Mazeroski. Offensively, neither of these outstanding players came close to doing what Allen did at the plate. But that would be too easy and a bit unfair. Rabbit and Bill were tremendous glove men who got their share of hits, and they were also vital members of some great teams. But neither of them put up the kind of numbers that Allen did. Conversely, Allen never approached their greatness as fielders.
An excellent comparison can be made, however, between Allen and Tony Perez. Elected to the Hall of Fame in 2000, Perez played 23 years in the major leagues. Like Allen, he spent most of his career at third and first. They both played during the same era, so statistical adjustments won’t need to be made for factors like the dead ball, day-time baseball, seasonal league hitting and pitching norms, etc.
Let’s compare their overall career stats:
Perez .279 AVG, .341 OBP, .463 SLG, 379 HR, 1652 RBI, 1272 runs
Allen .292 AVG, .378 OBP, .534 SLG, 351 HR, 1119 RBI, 1099 runs
So, you can see that Dick Allen’s 15-year career compares favorably with Perez’s. It’s true that Perez had more life-time homers, ribbies, and runs than Allen, but he played eight more seasons. What kind of numbers would the “Wampum Walloper” have compiled had his career lasted 23 years? Allen had a higher lifetime average and on-base percentage than Perez, and in eight less seasons hit just 28 less homeruns. According to the Baseball Reference website, here what “typical” seasons for both players looked like:
Perez 22 HR, 96 RBI, .463 SLG, 74 runs
Allen 33 HR, 104 RBI, .534 SLG, 102 runs
As an every-day player, Dick Allen was clearly a better hitter than Perez. The genial Cuban, Perez, who spent most of his career with the Reds, added to his lifetime stats by playing several seasons at the tail end as a part-timer, including one year with the Phillies (1983). about:blankImageUpload an image file, pick one from your media library, or add one with a URL.UploadSelect ImageInsert from URL
Perez does get points for being an important part of some outstanding ball clubs, but should Dick Allen be penalized because his fate was to play for a few mediocre teams? It’s hard to imagine the 1964 Phillies almost winning the pennant without Allen in the lineup. And in 1972, Allen’s performance helped lift the White Sox into playoff contention.
The purpose of this comparison is not to diminish the fine career of Tony Perez. He was a gamer and one of baseball’s best clutch hitters. He deserves to be in the Hall of Fame. But if he does, so does Dick Allen.
A typical Allen season also compares favorably to other Hall of Famers who played first/third and played about 15 years. The power numbers for Frank Chance and Jimmy Collins are low because they played during an era when the balls weren’t as lively as they would be later in the twentieth century. It was harder to hit homeruns back then:
George Kell (15 years) .306 AVG, .367 OBP, .414 SLG, 7 HR, 79 RBI, 79 runs
Frank Chance (17 years) .296 AVG, .394 OBP, .394 SLG, 3 HR, 75 RBI, 100 runs
Jimmy Collins (14 years) .294 AVG, .343 OBP, .409 SLG, HR, 92 RBI, 99 runs
Dick Allen (15 years) .292 AVG, .378 OBP, .534 SLG, 33 HR,104 RBI, 102 runs
David Fleming points out at Bill James Online that Dick Allen was the best hitter in baseball over a ten-year period, using the “adjusted on-base-plus-slugging” stat (ops+). Here are the ops+ numbers for players between 1964 and 1973 (Allen’s prime). Seventeen Hall of Famers played 1000 or more games during those ten years. Dick Allen had a better ops+ than all of them, and there are some pretty good names on the list:
As Fleming concludes: “Dick Allen really was the best hitter in baseball, for a span of ten years.”
So, Dick Allen was one of the premier sluggers of his era and racked-up numbers equal-to or better-than many who are already in the Hall of Fame. The main stumbling block to his candidacy seems to be the rap that he was a troublemaking bad boy who caused problems in the clubhouse. Even if this was true (and there are many who played alongside Allen who said this was not the case), since when is a bad-boy image criteria for exclusion from baseball’s immortals? Ty Cobb, Rogers Hornsby, and even Ted Williams were all self-absorbed jerks at times. Those troubled souls are in the Hall of Fame and nobody asks why. (And let’s not even get into the steroid-era debate. Imagine what Allen would have done if he had been on the juice, which he never was.)
My argument is that—based on the statistics alone—Number 15 belongs in the Hall of Fame.
Whiskey and Beer are Alright in Their Place
One of America’s cultural icons of the past 100 years was the Reverend Dr. Billy Graham. The evangelist preached to an estimated 210 million people in 185 countries at indoor and outdoor “crusades” during a ministry that began in the 1940s. A fundamentalist that believed the Bible was the inspired word of God, Rev. Graham was in the public spotlight for decades and became a celebrity. American presidents sometimes sought his advice and he became close friends with President Nixon, visiting him often. Advancing age slowed Graham down in the early part of the 21st and he passed-away at the age of 99 in 2018.
Fifty years before Graham’s first crusade, there was fiery orator who mesmerized large crowds preaching a fundamentalist Christian message. Billy Sunday was the “Billy Graham” of his day, preaching to over 100 million people between 1896 and 1935. He, too, became a celebrity and a household name. When Sunday died, the New York Times called him, “the greatest high-pressure and mass Christian evangel that America, or the world has known.”
Sunday’s fame in the pulpit preceded another well-known profession that occupied a portion of his early adult years. Prior to becoming an evangelist, Billy Sunday was a major league baseball player. Even after hanging up his spikes, Sunday expressed his love for baseball and would occasionally preach in a baseball uniform or do things like slide like a ball player on stage to illustrate a point.
William Ashley Sunday was born in Ames, Iowa on November 19, 1862. His family was poor; his father died of pneumonia and the man who would become his stepfather was a drunkard who later deserted the family. At age of ten, Sunday was sent to live in the Soldier’s Orphans Home in Glenwood, Iowa. He was later shuttled to another orphanage in the state. It was during his years in orphanages that he was taught personal discipline. By the time he was 14, Sunday had worked several manual labor jobs These often-strenuous employments helped develop the youngster’s core strength and enhanced his athletic ability.
The lean and solid young man gravitated towards baseball, eventually playing for the Marshalltown, Iowa team in his free time. A speedster on the base paths, a flashy outfielder and a good hitter, Sunday caught the attention of a future Hall-of-Famer in 1882. Chicago White Stocking player-manager Cap Anson, a native of Marshalltown, was told about the dynamo who patrolled the outfield for the hometown team. Anson decided to check the kid out and was suitably impressed. Offered a contract to play for the White Stockings, Sunday signed with the American League club and joined them for the 1883 season.
Manager Anson used the future evangelist sparingly that first season. In only 55 plate appearances, Sunday batted .241 with a mediocre .255 OBP. Over the next four seasons, he continued the role of a part-timer, never playing in more than 50 games. His batting averages ranged from .222 to .291. Anson liked the youngster and considered him honest and intelligent enough to be the club’s business manager. For several seasons, Billy handled the team’s travel expenses and ticket receipts.
As a player, Billy Sunday had the reputation of being extremely fast. A rival league, the American Association, thought they had the fastest player in all of baseball, Arlie Latham. White Stockings skipper Cap Anson disagreed, thinking the fastest player was on his roster so a foot race was arranged between Latham and Billy Sunday.
In a 100-yardsprint, Billy won by ten feet.
It was during his later years in Chicago that Billy Sunday converted to fundamentalist Christianity after attending a service at the famous Pacific Garden Mission. Now believing that the Bible was the Word of God, Sunday began to wonder if God was calling him to ministry. He also began to share his new-found faith with everyone around him, including teammates. Ballplayers were a rough-and-tumble bunch those days, hard-nosed and often profane. More-than-a-few thought religion was for the weak and simply did not want to hear it. It is not known if Manager Anson was turned-off by his part-time outfielder’s new religious fervor but soon after his conversion, Sunday was sent to the National League.
Not ready to say “goodbye” to baseball quite yet, Billy Sunday opened the 1888 campaign as a starting outfielder for the Pittsburgh Alleghenys. For the first time in his career, Sunday was a regular. Although his batting average was a less-than-impressive (.236), he did manage to make the most of his times hits by swiping 71 bases. Over the next three campaigns, Sunday would steal 215 bases, an average of 71.6 pilfers per season.
During the 1890 season, with Sunday hitting a decent .257 and one of the league leaders in stolen bases with 57, he was traded to the Philadelphia Phillies for two players and $1,100. The Alleghenys were in-the-midst-of a terrible season but the Phils had a chance to win it all. Philly thought the fleet-footed outfielder would bolster their chances of capturing the pennant. Sunday played well, contributing a career-high .367 OBP and 28 steals over 31 games but the Phillies faded to finish in third place.
It was during the off-season between 1890 and 1891 that Billy Sunday made a decision that would eventually bring him world-wide fame. Certain that he was being called by God to ministry, he turned away from his 1,800 dollars-a-year salary to play baseball to work for 83 dollars-a-month at the Chicago YMCA. Initially, his duties included praying for and counseling individuals seeking guidance and visiting the sick. Prior to his conversion, Sunday was an occasional imbiber of alcoholic beverages, admitting that he did get drunk on a couple of occasions. In the ministry, he became a passionate devotee to alcohol abstinence. At the YMCA, Sunday was also assigned the task of talking to drunks about the “evils” of alcohol consumption.
“Whiskey and beer are alright in their place,” he would say, “but their place is in Hell.”
All-in-all, those early days on the streets of Chicago were a humble beginning for a man who would someday influence the lives of the millions who came to hear him preach.
As a baseball player, Billy Sunday never came close to the fame he would later attain behind the pulpit. His lifetime average was a so-so .248 and OBP a terrible .300. It was almost assuredly his speed that kept him in the big leagues for eight years, swiping a lot of bases whenever he did manage to get on. On defense, he was known as a daring outfielder, diving and sliding for balls that normally would be out-of-reach. But he made a lot of errors, committing as many as 31 in a season. Sunday must have had a good arm because his assist totals are impressive with his four best “kill” totals being 21, 25, 27, and 31.
Billy Sunday was an average player at best with his greatest asset being blazing speed. Had he not become a well-known preacher his baseball career would probably be long forgotten. But he was very famous and that makes his diamond career an interesting footnote in the annuals of baseball and American history.
September 28, 2020
The Big Man Became a Big Star
From the mid-1950s through the early 1960s, Westerns were all the rage on TV. Cowboys were everywhere with classic programs like Wagon Train, The Virginian, Gunsmoke, Have Gun, Will Travel, and Death Valley Days drawing big audiences. There were plenty of other lesser sagebrush lights and it seemed like America just couldn’t get enough of horse operas.
One of the most popular shows served-up to oater-hungry audiences was The Rifleman. Starring Chuck Connors as Lucas McCain, the program debuted on ABC in September 1958 and ran for five seasons. Not only did The Rifleman pack a lot of action and drama into a half-hour, it also featured a realistically endearing relationship between McCain and his young son Mark, played by Johnny Crawford. According to Connors:
Basically, the premise of The Rifleman was the simplicity of the love between the father and the son. That was the foundation. The rifle was for show, but the relationship was for real. There was some violence, but at the end, I would explain to the boy that the violence was not something we wanted to do but had to do.
With a 4th place finish in the ratings that first season, The Rifleman was a smash hit and made Connors a big star. It remains popular in in the 21st century, with reruns airing on cable TV and You Tube.
It wasn’t the 6’6” actor’s first role, his credits included numerous appearances in movies dating back to the early 1950s, including a major part in Disney’s film Old Yeller. But acting wasn’t the only profession found on his resume. Some fans of the show are surprised to learn Connors also played professional baseball AND basketball for several years.
Kevin Joseph Aloysius Connors was born on April 10, 1921 in Brooklyn, NY. After high school, Connors enrolled at Seton Hall and played baseball and basketball for the university. There are different accounts of how Connors acquired the nickname “Chuck.” Players who played with him on the Pirates’ diamond squad said as the team’s first baseman, he would often tell infielders to “chuck it” to him. In an interview Connors gave a different explanation:
“They called me Chuck when I started playing baseball because they thought Kevin sounded effeminate,” he said.
No matter the reason, he adopted the nickname and used it professionally for the rest of his life.
When Connors hit .360 for a semi-pro team in Burlington, VT in 1941, the New York Yankees took notice and signed him to a contract. In 1942, the towering left-handed swinger hit .264 in 72 games for the Yankees’ Class B farm team in the Piedmont League. After the season, he enlisted in the military and served stateside as a tank training instructor. On weekends during the warm months, he played semi-pro baseball and-in-the-fall and winter played pro basketball.
After getting out of the military, Connors was invited by the Yankees to join them for Spring Training 1946. His stay with the Bronx Bombers was extremely short as they put him on waivers after a quick look-see. The Brooklyn Dodgers picked him up and then sent him to their Newport News farm team. Connors thrived in the minors, smacking 17 home runs to lead the Piedmont League in 1946.
Chuck was also a member of the very first Boston Celtics basketball squad that debuted in 1946. Connors didn’t fare-so-well, in limited playing time he shot a mediocre 40% from the field and 41% at the free throw line. The “highlight” of his year with Boston was probably the day he shattered the backboard glass during pre-game warm-ups. Connors said he hadn’t been trying to dunk, it was just a standard set shot that did the damage. It was the first-time that a backboard had been splintered by a pro basketball player.
He also played roundball on-and-off for several other pro teams into the early 50s.
In 1947, Connors played for the Dodger’s farm team in Mobile, Alabama. He had a productive season, launching 15 home runs and plating 82 teammates. It was in the minors that he began to cultivate a reputation for being a bit of clown. Several times, he did cartwheels while rounding the bases after hitting a homer. Years before Jimmy Piersall did it as a member of the Mets, Connors once circled the bases backwards after clearing the fence with a long ball. Another time, a group of boisterous fans were treated to a shower of raw hamburger, courtesy of the man with piercing blue eyes. Occasionally, Connors would treat the umpires with short recitations from the works of Shakespeare.
Connors was productive so the Dodgers tolerated his occasional goofiness. In 1948, they promoted him to their top farm team in Montreal. The future star actor rewarded their confidence by batting .307. hitting 17 home runs, and driving-in 88. The towering first baseman began the 1949 campaign in Montreal, played well, prompting a call-up to the big club. However, his stay with Brooklyn was brief. The Dodgers didn’t really need his services as durable slugger Gil Hodges had a stranglehold on first base. Connors one plate appearance resulted in a rally-killing double play against the Phillies. Not long afterward, Chuck once again found himself playing ball north of the U.S. border. He finished the season in Class A with 20 home runs, 108 runs-batted-in, and a .319 average.
Connors spent the entire 1950 campaign with Montreal. His output dropped but was still half-decent (.290 AVG, 68 RBI). By this time, Chuck had given up hopes of being a pro basketball player and realized his future with the Dodgers was less-than-promising. After the season he asked to be traded and Brooklyn honored his request. They shipped him to the Cubs who assigned him to their Los Angeles farm team. Revitalized, Connors sizzled at the plate, hitting .321, slamming 22 homers and knocking-in 77 in the first half of the 1951 season. The big club was suitably impressed and summoned the lefty-swinging first sacker to the majors in June.
Any excitement was short-lived. Over 66 games, Connors only managed a mediocre .239 average, just two home runs and 18 runs-batted-in. After the season, the Cubs returned him to their farm team in Los Angeles where he played for the entire 1952 campaign.
“I was a bum of a hitter just not cut out for the majors,” he admitted.
During his time with the Angels, Connors rubbed elbows with many of the baseball-loving Hollywood elite. They enjoyed his antics on the field and believed he possessed the charisma of an actor.
“Now who goes to the games in LA? Producers, directors, writers, casting directors. So, because of the good year, I became a kind of favorite of the show businesspeople, unbeknownst to myself,” Connors explained.
Approached to do a bit part in the film Pat and Mike, he agreed to give it a try and ended up loving the experience.
“I said right then and there, this is my racket,” he said about his debut in front of a camera.
With a new-found affection for acting, Connors’ desire to succeed in baseball waned. His performance on the baseball diamond tanked in 1952. With his mind now almost entirely on acting, Chuck retired from professional baseball after the season. Using his showbiz contacts as steppingstones, Connors secured numerous bit parts in films and TV over the next several years. His television roles included spots on Gunsmoke, Wagon Train, The Millionaire, Tales of Wells Fargo, General Electric Theater and the Loretta Young Show to name just a few. He also had parts in the movies The Big Country, Move Over Darling, and South Sea Woman. His big break came in 1958 when Walt Disney cast him as the father in the classic movie Old Yeller. This memorable role didn’t make Chuck Connors a household name, full notoriety was achieved when he was given the lead in the TV program The Rifleman.
From that point on, he was a major star.
After portraying the rifle-slinging rancher for five years, Connors later starred in another series, Branded. When that show was cancelled in 1966, his handsomely rugged face didn’t disappear from the small screen. For the next twenty years-or-so he found work on numerous programs such as Night Gallery, Here’s Lucy, The Name of the Game, Police Story and The Six Million Dollar Man. He also captured notable parts in the films Support Your Local Gunfighter, The Tourist Trap, Soylent Green and The Mad Bomber and others. Connors was adept at playing both sympathetic and villainous characters. He was nominated for an Emmy for his portrayal of a slave owner in the lauded TV mini-series Roots.
A year before he died in 1992, Connors and Johnny Crawford reprised their Rifleman roles as Lucas and Mark McCain in the TV movie The Gambler Returns: The Luck of the Draw.
Despite a rough and tough exterior, Connors had a tender heart. He raised over 400,000 dollars for a disabled children’s foundation by holding a “Chuck Connors Invitational Golf Tournament” for several years.
A heavy smoker for over 30 years, Connors largely gave-up cigarettes in the mid1970s. However, in the years that followed he did occasionally light-up a cigarette or two. The habit finally caught up with him when he was diagnosed with lung cancer and then pneumonia, two scourges that claimed his life in November 1992.
He was 71.
Connors’ years as a two-sport professional athlete and famous actor is impressive. But athletic prowess wasn’t all that made him special. From all accounts, he wasn’t shallow and narcissistic like many in his chosen fields. His contemporaries thought he was an honest with genuine principles. His co-star on the Rifleman, Johnny Crawford, remained friends with him until Connors passed away.
“Chuck was a great guy, a lot of fun, great sense of humor, bigger than life, and he absolutely loved people. He was very gregarious and friendly, and not at all bashful,” Crawford eulogized at the funeral.
Perhaps it is those positive traits that truly mark the legacy of the man who entertained Western fans with a rapid-fire Winchester rifle, Kevin Joseph Aloysius Connors.
QUIET TONY GONZALEZ
One of the most-underrated outfielders of the 1960s was Tony Gonzalez. Largely forgotten today, Gonzalez starred for the Phillies from 1960-68 and was a key acquisition by the Braves on their way to the NL Western Division title in ‘69.
Gonzalez wasn’t flashy, overly-talkative or flamboyant. Unlike contemporaries such as Leon Wagner and Vic Power, he simply came to play, letting his bat and glove do the talking. This reluctance to draw attention to himself is probably the main reason why this talented Cuban has faded from our collective baseball memory.
Andres Antonio Gonzalez was a good hitter, logging a .286 lifetime average and .350 on-base-percentage. He had some power, hitting as many as 20 home runs in a season (1962) and finished in the league leaders in doubles and triples several seasons. According to Gonzalez, his success was due to the fact that he always went to the plate relaxed:
I don’t have any tension. Each time I go up to the plate I feel I’m gonna(sic) get a hit…If I hit the ball hard four times, at least I got to get two or three hits.
-pg. 242 The New Phillies Encyclopedia 1993 edition
Batting stats were down throughout the 1960s, making Tony’s numbers even more impressive. For example, when Gonzalez had an “off-year” in ’68 (.264), he actually hit 23-points higher than the typical National Leaguer that season (.243 league average).
His best offensive season was 1967 when he finished second in the NL (and the majors) with a .339 batting average.
The Phillies franchise was painfully slow to integrate black players. In addition, the team’s fans were painted by stars such as Richie Allen and Curt Flood as being more hostile to blacks than just about any city in the majors. Gonzalez, a dark-skinned Hispanic, was often mistaken for being an African-American during his playing career. The man who played for teams in five different cities had a different opinion.
“I don’t think it was any different in Philadelphia than it was in any major league city in those days,” Gonzalez said.
He also said that Phillies fans treated him “great from day one.”
Gonzalez is also an unsung baseball pioneer. How many fans know that Antonio was the first major league baseball player to wear a pre-molded ear flap on his batting helmet? After three seasons of being in the league leaders in being hit-by-a-pitch, Gonzalez was looking to cut down the possibility of a career-threatening beaning. This addition to the helmet looked weird at the time (1964) but ear flaps are now a mandatory part of equipment in the Bigs.
As a fielder, Gonzalez was outstanding. Three times he led National outfielders in fielding percentage (’62, ’64 and ’67) and was the first regular centerfielder to field 1.000 for a whole season (’62).
In 1961, Gonzalez made only 4 errors in the outfield for a Phillies team that lost a record 23-games in-a-row. He said that season was “a nightmare.”
“You would walk onto the field feeling like you would never win again,” Gonzalez recalled.
The Phillies did finally win again and GM John Quinn rebuilt the team into a competitive franchise, one that almost stole the pennant in 1964. Gonzalez continued his steady play throughout the decade but by late 60s, the club was fading and needed to retool with younger players.
In the 1968 expansion draft, the Phillies left the 31-year-old Gonzalez unprotected and the newly-minted San Diego Padres snapped-him-up. He played part of the 1969 campaign for the Padres before being traded to the Braves. His .294 batting average and 59 runs-batted-in for the Atlanta in 89 games helped them capture the National League Western Division.
In the League Championship series, he hit a blistering .357 but did commit a key-error in the Brave’s opening game loss. Gonzalez was sold to the Angels in August of 1970 and played his last major league game with the Halos in September ’71.
After calling-it-quits, the soft-spoken Gonzalez failed to find a job in baseball as a coach. For years, he worked as a security guard in Miami, FL while making other rounds, signing autographs at baseball card shows, mainly in the Philadelphia area.
Tony Gonzalez was not one of the greatest outfielders of the 1960s. That designation belongs to names like Mays, Aaron, Yastrzemski, Clemente and several others. Overshadowed by these “greats” and limited publicity-wise by his unobtrusive personality, Gonzalez quietly compiled impressive stats over a 12-year-career.
There won’t be a plaque in Cooperstown for Andres Antonio Gonzalez.
But, in his time, Number 25 was one of the best and deserves a little retrospective appreciation and recognition.
Done quietly, of course.
September 9, 2020
A Family Affair
Commissioner Bowie Kuhn said he was “appalled” but didn’t have the authority to stop it.
“We may have to call off ‘Family Day’ this season,” Yankees GM Lee McPhail joked when he heard the news.
“We didn’t trade wives, we traded lives,” Mike Kekich explained when he and fellow Yankee hurler Fritz Peterson announced that they were swapping spouses in 1973.
At separate news conferences held on the same day in March, the pitchers shared their plan to trade wives, kids and family pets. At the time, Fritz Peterson was one of the anchors of the Yankee pitching staff. In ‘72, he won 17 games while posting a good 3.24 era. Two years earlier, Peterson had won 20 games and earned a berth on the American League All-Star team. Kekich was coming off a season in which he won 10 and complied a career-low 3.70 era.
Since Peterson and Kekich played in America’s largest media market, the story received tons of coverage. Many fans across the country were shocked by what they felt was blatant immorality. In public, the Yankees feigned amusement but behind closed doors, new owner George Steinbrenner was not happy.
The two pitchers became close friends in 1969. According to Peterson, the whole “wife swap” thing got started at a party in the summer of ’72. After sharing some laughs over a few drinks, Peterson suggested he drive Susanne Kekich over to an eatery in Fort Lee, NJ and that Kekich take Marilyn Peterson. Everyone agreed and off they went.
They had a wonderful time and decided to repeat the driving arrangement to the same restaurant the next evening. The couples enjoyed themselves again and before too long, everyone had fallen in love with each other’s spouses.
“It just happened. It wasn’t planned,” Peterson said.
1973 wasn’t that far removed from the swinging, open-minded 1960s, so in keeping with the zeitgeist of the era, the couples thought that it would be a good idea to swap spouses and families. Mike Kekich says that all four had agreed that if anyone wasn’t happy, the whole thing would be called off.
After a few months of the new arrangement, Marilyn Peterson began to have serious doubts but it was too late. Her husband and Susanne Kekich were deeply-in-love and had no desire to return to their original spouses.
During the 1973 season, Peterson and Kekich were booed ferociously nearly every time they took the mound. The negativity adversely affected Kekich, who posted an astronomical 9.20 era for the Yankees before they dealt him to the Indians later in the season. Over the next three years, he won 5, lost 8 and was out-of-baseball by the end of 1977.
Peterson fared a little better. His 8-15 record in ’73 also earned him a one-way ticket to the then-baseball-hinterlands of Cleveland where he toiled before being traded to Texas for the ’76 season, his final year in the majors.
It’s possible that both pitchers would have seen declines in their performances had they not subjected themselves to an avalanche of ridicule by going public with their wife swap. Kekich, in particular, was never a great pitcher and may have been entering the decline phase of a so-so career in 1973 anyway.
Peterson, on-the-other-hand, had been a good pitcher and his stats in ’73, the year of the “trade,” took a sharp nose-dive. He did rebound to record 14 wins in 1975 but was clearly not the force as he had been prior after all the marital controversy. Career-wise, the whole affair seems to have hurt him the most.
Mike Kekich and Marilyn Peterson never tied-the-knot; he remarried and took up residence near Albuquerque, NM.
Fritz Peterson married the former Susanne Kekich in 1974 and they had four children together.
Did he have any regrets?
“I could not be happier with anybody else in the world,” Peterson said in 2013.
The big lefthander has battled prostrate cancer twice and in 2018 announced that he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease.
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