Don Larsen, Sanita Hills and Me
by John Delach
WCBS News Radio informed me that the former baseball pitcher, Don Larsen, had passed on New Year’s Day at 90. Both this announcement of his passing and his obituary deserved being noticed as Larsen once pitched a perfect game against the Brooklyn Dodgers in the 1956 World Series.
Curiously though, this announcement took me back to the weekend following his perfect game when I was twelve. At the time I was an active First-Class Boy Scout in the Rattlesnake Patrol of Troop 178 then domiciled in PS-81 on Cypress Avenue in Ridgewood, Queens.
Although I was aware of Larsen’s accomplishment, I was more excited about our upcoming weekend camping trip to Camp Sanita, located in Holmes, NY. The camp had been developed years before by the Department of Sanitation as a summer getaway and vacation spot for department employees and their families. It had been recently seeded to the Boy Scouts.
Rustic, even by the standards of the day, it would be considered uninhabitable by today’s campers except for the most adventurous. The camp’s main attraction was fifty former New York City elevated subway cars that Sanitation had salvaged from the hundreds scrapped after the Manhattan els had been torn down. Called, “Pullmanettes”, they populated the camp providing indoor living spaces although I doubt if they had running water, toilets or decent kitchen facilities.
What excited me most about this trip was that my father would be joining us. He was then a Major, stationed at Homestead Air Force Base in Florida, at that time, home to B-47 bombers belonging to the Strategic Air Command.,
John Sr. made periodic trips to Long Island to see his sisters, Ann and Joan, his brother, Marco and me. When he informed me of his upcoming visit, I explained that I was supposed to go on this camping trip that weekend and I asked if he could join me. Surprisingly, he said yes. The sequence of how this all came together is lost to history, but I do know that it worked out and he joined me as one of the adult supervisors.
I was ecstatic that he would be there with me, for me.
Understand, back in 1956, divorce was rare in my blue-collar neighborhood. Husbands went to work, and wives were homemakers. My father was absent, and my mother went to work. I stood out and no twelve-year-old wanted to stand out as being different. I was a kid without a dad.
As much as I tried to explain who John, Sr. was and what he did, I felt diminished each time I did so. Other kids’ fathers were real flesh and blood and they were present be they office workers, beer truck drivers, construction workers or mechanics. My father was nothing but an idea.
Not that weekend. Once John Sr.’s participation was confirmed, our scout master, Bernie C, (a Polish name that included complex consonant combinations like “CJZ”) invited my father and me to ride in his 1953 monster Chevrolet station wagon. This was a high honor and one never offered to me before. I wasn’t one of Mr. C’s favorites and reveled in this honor.
The weekend didn’t disappoint. My old man charmed Mr. C and the other fathers as only he could do. John was a slick fox and a snake in disguise.
As for me, that radio report of Larsen’s death awakened my memory of the moment when I knew that John’s being there finally validated my standing as a member of our troop.
Mr. C was driving on 69th Street in Maspeth, Queens about to turn onto the service road for the Long Island Expressway when my Dad turned toward Mr. C and the three of us in the back seat.
He put his left arm on the seat and said: “I hope you all appreciate what happened in Yankee Stadium last Monday. Don Larsen threw a perfect game. Twenty-seven men up at bat, 27 men out and he did it in the World Series. This was the first World Series perfect game ever and you will probably never see the likes of that performance again in your lifetime.”
Don Larsen’s perfection and the old man’s eloquence allowed me to become a made-kid at Troop 178, at least for that weekend.
RIP Don Larsen.
Nice, touching. It’s funny how we both remember and associate that perfect game with our dads. I agree, Don Larsen, R.I.P. Bill
Hi John, I love the emotional vulnerability of this piece. One of your best! Keep up the great work.
Tom Briggs +1.917.842.6791
Gah Dad. Now I’m crying on the subway.
This is a beautiful piece and a testament to what a wonderful Dad you are. I’m lucky to have had you in all parts of my life – including wearing a garbage bag at a rainy Giants game. I love you.
I had a baseball from that game which was signed by all of the Yankees including of course, Don Larsen. I, too, was12 at the time. I did not have the full appreciation for the ball and its history, past and present. To demonstrate that lack of appreciation, I played with it a few days later hitting fungos in the ball field.
Seems there are a number of us whose fathers lauded Don Larsen’s singular achievement. My dad (who I lost to a heart attack when I was 13) told me that I had an extra reason to appreciate Larsen’s perfect game; he pitched it on my fifth birthday, 10/8/1956. I have a baseball and framed copy of the game’s final pitch, both hand signed by Don Larsen and for several decades I’ve counted them among my most prized possessions. Yours is a very poignant story and was well worth reading.
Hi John—Great Post. Memories of our past (and Parents) when we were young. Funny how we never forget certain things that happened so long ago….Best, Mike