A FALL CLASSIC

Jack Lemmon is on his deathbed. On a television screen in Al Gionfriddo’s den, a videocassette of the 1989 film “Dad” is fast-forwarded to a scene in which Lemmon’s character looks up at his son (Ted Danson) and says, with a weak voice, “You know what I’ve been thinking about? Baseball. The 1947 World Series. At a time like this, I should be thinking very deep thoughts.”

“What about the ’47 World Series, Dad?” the son asks.

“It produced one of the great moments in baseball history, between the Yankee center fielder, Joe DiMaggio--you know, prince of players, star of stars--and the Dodger left fielder, Al Gionfriddo, a second-stringer. He only played that day because the regular left fielder, Carl Furillo, he got hurt. Do you know this story?”

“Tell it to me,” urges the son.

“Well, the sixth game, bottom of the sixth inning, it’s 8-5, Dodgers. Two on, two out, up steps DiMaggio. Hit a smash, deep left field, had home run written all over it. Everyone in the stands knew it. I knew it. DiMaggio knew it. It was perfect.

“But here comes this little Gionfriddo guy. He’s racing after the ball, like he doesn’t realize it was hit by Joe DiMaggio. At the last possible moment, he jumps, reaches over the rail, robs DiMaggio of a three-run homer. Incredible catch. It’ll live forever.

“But . . . then comes the really amazing thing. DiMaggio was just approaching second base when he sees Gionfriddo, you know, make his catch. He got so upset, he kicked the dirt.

“This man, who never showed any emotion, he was human after all. It took Al Gionfriddo to bring it out. Do you know what that means to me?”

His son asks, “What?”

“In America, anything is possible if you show up for work.”

Dad squeezes his son’s hand.

Al Gionfriddo’s hand aims a remote-control at the TV, to stop the tape.

He finds the scene touching, in every detail.

“Lemmon pronounced my name exactly right,” he says.

*

To get to Solvang, you turn right at the ostriches.

After a turnoff on the freeway, 30 miles or so north of Santa Barbara, there is an ostrich park, with scores of awkward, two-toed birds roaming to and fro, uselessly flapping their wings. The road leads into Solvang, the self-styled “Danish Capital of America,” quaint as can be, with windmills interspersed amid Dane-themed commerce, Hamlet Square, the Royal Copenhagen motel, a Hans Christian Andersen museum and such.

A fat goose honks at the entry to Al Gionfriddo’s ranch-style home. Ducks and geese scatter. A hand-carved signpost lets a visitor know, “A Nice Person And A Grouch Live Here,” one of whom is Sue, who is chief probation officer for Santa Barbara County. Al feels he should cross out one of the words and replace it with “guy,” to make it clear which identity is his wife’s.

The doorbell chime plays “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”

Fifty years beyond the catch that will live forever, Gionfriddo, 75, looks healthy and spry. There aren’t all that many of the 1947 Brooklyn Dodgers left, and for months now, much appropriate attention has gone to Jackie Robinson, on the golden anniversary of baseball’s integration. But the summer of ’47 had other great players, other great plays.

“Did you know Rex Barney?” Gionfriddo asks.

The morning’s news is reporting Barney’s death. Barney pitched for the Dodgers in three games of that World Series. He started Game 5 against DiMaggio and the Yankees and took a hard-luck loss.

Next day, Oct. 5, 1947, Gionfriddo made his immortal catch.

So many things happened to that team. Gionfriddo--pronounced (bravo, Jack Lemmon) Jee-on-free-doe--did not become a Dodger until a few days into the season, when Pittsburgh traded him. The hubbub about Robinson would not abate for months. Adversaries took votes on whether or not to play the Dodgers and their “colored guy.” Teammates such as Dixie Walker had to be persuaded to play by Robinson’s side.

Gionfriddo was so offended by that kind of bigotry, he says, “I made sure Robinson had the locker right next to mine.”

The memories of that season remain indelible, although alterations are possible. In a dining room of Gionfriddo’s home is a portrait of him, in his Brooklyn cap and white jersey. But one thing is missing: The artist forgot to paint the Dodgers’ insignia across the chest.

“I’m thinking of having someone write it in,” Al asks. “You think anybody would mind?”

The man in the picture was small, 5-feet-6, 165 pounds, a young Pennsylvanian who threw and hit left-handed. He spent three years with the Pirates but got little opportunity to prove himself, except in 1945, when he batted .284, striking out only 22 times in 409 turns at-bat.

The Dodgers were loaded in the outfield, with Pete Reiser, who hit .309; Furillo, .295; and Walker, .306, from left to right. Gionfriddo filled in on defense, the only time he could show what he could do. He made appearances in 37 games, batting .177.

A likely World Series hero, he was not.

But even before the big catch, there was Game 4. Baseball fans often point to a 1975 game between the Cincinnati Reds and Boston Red Sox as the greatest World Series game, but historians often mention Game 4 of the 1947 World Series, the one at Ebbets Field in which Floyd “Bill” Bevens of the Yankees pitched a no-hitter until there were two out in the ninth inning . . . and lost the game.

Gionfriddo scored the tying run.

He pinch-ran for Furillo, who had drawn a one-out walk. Spider Jorgensen fouled out. That brought to the plate, as Brooklyn’s last chance, Reiser, a dangerous hitter but barely able to run, because of a leg injury.

“I looked over and there was Ray Blades in the coaching box, giving me the steal sign,” Gionfriddo recalls. “I couldn’t believe my eyes. If I get thrown out, the game’s over.”

Yogi Berra tried, but he couldn’t gun Gionfriddo down.

The Yankees’ first-year manager, Bucky Harris, took a major gamble at that point. He ordered Reiser to be intentionally walked.

Gionfriddo considered this a blunder, because, “Pete’s leg hurt so bad, if he’d hit one off the fence, I honestly don’t know if he could have run to first base.”

Eddie Miksis pinch-ran for Reiser. On deck stood Eddie Stanky, but the Dodger manager, Burt Shotton, played a hunch and went with Cookie Lavagetto instead.

Lavagetto lined the second pitch by Bevens off the right-field wall. Gionfriddo scored, Miksis crossed home plate behind him and the Dodgers won the game . . . on one hit.

Moments like these are worth having, because you never know what the future holds.

After that World Series, for example, Bevens never appeared in another major league game.

Neither did Lavagetto.

And neither did Al Gionfriddo.

What would happen to him in Game 6 of that Series would have to last a lifetime, because never again, after robbing DiMaggio with one of the greatest plays ever made, did Gionfriddo play another inning in the majors.

He was 25 years old.

*

To some of the guys at the Sandpiper golf club, where he works as a marshal a couple of days each week, maybe Al really is a grouch. The image is one he cultivates. The message on his phone-answering machine says, “If you are calling to sell me something, push one, 65 times. If you are calling for a donation, push two, 66 times. If you are calling to tell me I won a million dollars, call this number, any time.”

Being a grouch is all an act.

Al enjoys his life, his 15 grandchildren, his three great-grandkids, his memories, getting together with the guys from the old days at the occasional card shows they attend, like the one on Long Island back in January where he last saw DiMaggio.

But if any old ballplayer has a right to a grumpy moment or two, it’s probably he.

He can still hear Branch Rickey, the owner of the Dodgers, telling him after the team lost Game 7 of the 1947 World Series, to work hard, do a good job in the minors, prove he could crack that great Brooklyn outfield.

“Mr. Rickey says, ‘You go to Montreal, have a great year, hit .330 and I’ll bring you up right away. So, I go hit .330. And he says, ‘Well, you go have another great year and we’ll take care of you.’ And I did. And, nothing.

“Then they turned around and bought the [minor league Los Angeles] Angels and put them at the old Wrigley Field, and now they want me to go play in the minors there. They tell me, ‘They need a left-handed hitter.’

“And I said, ‘Take Chuck Connors.’ ”

Kevin Joseph Aloysius Connors was a first baseman, nearly a foot taller than Gionfriddo, who at Montreal had been a teammate of his. Tom Lasorda was another. They were the club practical jokers. Connors was also a wannabe actor, who eventually would come to Hollywood and gain fame as “The Rifleman” on TV.

Gionfriddo remembers, “That’s how Chuck got out here. I said, ‘I’m not going to go. Send me anyplace else. You promised to bring me back up to the big leagues. I’ve got four years in. Just at least get me enough years for my pension.’ ”

He deserved some kind of compensation, merely for putting up with Connors and Lasorda.

“They used to do the craziest things. Lasorda was his roomie. They used to drop paper bags filled with water, from 10 or 12 stories up. I said, ‘You hit somebody in the head, it’s like dropping a rock.’

“Or we’d go to a restaurant, with a long line out the door. Connors would go, ‘Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me,’ barge his way to the front of the line. Then he’d start asking people, ‘Did you ever eat here? This food is lousy! Get out of here now.’ And some of them would leave, and Chuck could move up in line.

“He always swore he’d be an actor. He’d get up on a table in a restaurant and start reciting ‘Casey at the Bat.’ ”

Sometimes, the jokes went too far. Gionfriddo was given $1,000 worth of new clothing in Albany, N.Y., at a tribute. That night, he was studying a menu when he felt something hot. His suit pocket was on fire. Connors was standing there, dropping lighted matches into Gionfriddo’s pocket.

Gionfriddo grabbed some silverware. He said, “You know what I should do with this knife, Connors? I should stick it right through your gut.”

Those were the days.

And then there were the perfect gentlemen, such as DiMaggio.

At a banquet after the 1947 World Series, Gionfriddo will always remember DiMaggio telling an audience, “I admire what Al did, because I know he worked his rear end off, just like I did.”

Game 6, Yankee Stadium:

Brooklyn is playing for its life. One more loss and the Yankees are the champs. The Dodgers score four quick runs, then fall behind, 5-4, then regain the lead in the top of the sixth, 8-5.

Joe Hatten is trying to hold it. So is the manager, Shotton, who for defensive purposes puts Gionfriddo in left field. (Furillo is in center. The movie “Dad” got this part wrong.)

Pitching with two on, two out, Hatten grooves one to DiMaggio, who belts it toward the bullpen fence. Up goes Gionfriddo, right at the 415-foot marker, to snatch it. DiMaggio, in disbelief, kicks the dirt. Brooklyn wins, 8-6.

Gionfriddo’s glove is in the Hall of Fame. He has another of his 1947 gloves at home, and his No. 30 jersey, and white T-shirts with a cartoon of him making “The Catch.”

It was his final game. He didn’t play in Game 7. He spent nearly 16 years in professional baseball, but without the requisite five full years in the majors, never qualified for his baseball pension.

“If you work in a factory, I don’t care if you’re sweeping the floor, you’re working, you’re in the business. Why, in baseball, do you have to be a top executive to be approved as an employee?” Gionfriddo wonders. “If you’re in the minors, you’re still a professional baseball player.”

He eventually came to California as a scout. Then spent 15 years in Goleta, running a restaurant, Al’s Dugout.

Several years ago, people began bugging Gionfriddo to go see a movie.

“Everybody’s telling me to go see ‘Dad,’ you gotta see ‘Dad.’ I couldn’t figure out what the hell’s the big deal about ‘Dad.’ ”

He went with his friend, Sut Pauolia, to a Santa Barbara cinema. Sut kept nudging Al, to make sure he was still awake for Dad’s last scene.

He was.

Looking at a tape of it again, Gionfriddo says as far as he’s concerned, Lemmon should have won an Academy Award.

He knows a classic performance when he sees one, having done one.