A Shot Heard by Not That Many

It never really was “the shot heard round the world,” of course. Fifty years later, there still are millions of cricket fans in India, soccer fans in Germany, rugby fans in Australia and even baseball fans in Japan who have never heard of Ralph Branca and Bobby Thomson.

The shot heard round Coogan’s Bluff is more like it. That’s the biggest thing Thomson’s 1951 pennant-winning home run off Branca had going for it--location, location, location.

It happened in New York, deciding a three-game playoff between teams from New York. And New York, being New York, believes that anything that matters in its backyard also matters in Cincinnati, St. Louis and Los Angeles, to say nothing of Paris, London and Buenos Aires. That much is assumed.

Would this one swing of the bat hold its place in baseball’s pantheon had it instead decided a long and bitter pennant race between the Pittsburgh Pirates and the Philadelphia Phillies? If the World Series is baseball’s grandest stage, there have been subsequent home runs that have carried more clout, home runs that ended the World Series in sudden-death style.

But HBO isn’t airing any documentaries about Bill Mazeroski or Joe Carter this week.

Thomson was certainly the right man in the right place at the right time; that much is made obvious by the cable network’s one-hour retrospective on the 1951 National League pennant race--titled, of course, “Shot Heard ‘Round The World.” Baseball was still the undisputed national pastime, the Dodgers and the Giants still belonged to New York, the teams and their fans still hated each other with a passion long since diluted by relocation, corporate ownership, ballpark sushi and two erstwhile rivals now looking up in the standings at the Arizona Diamondbacks.

As presented here, the Dodgers versus the Giants was more neighborhood spat than national event. Borough against borough. Brooklyn against Manhattan.

Much of the story is told through the eyes of old fans, with mixed results. Some of the fans are celebrities: Larry King is identified, simply, as “Dodger Fan,” Jerry Lewis is introduced as “Giant Fan.” But does anyone care if King can recite the Dodgers’ old starting lineup or Lewis used to hang out with Giant Manager Leo Durocher?

Fortunately, other voices ring louder. Giant fan Everett Parker crystallized the acrimony perfectly: “I would have rooted for the red Russians over the Brooklyn Dodgers. All I wished for them was 14-inning games played in the rain.”

Dodger fans, meanwhile, chip away at everything Giants: The Polo Grounds was dreary and ugly, Giant fans were jealous because they didn’t have Nathan’s hot dogs and Coney Island. They sound like family gathered around the dinner table, sniping about the next-door neighbors.

What all of this meant outside New York, however, really isn’t covered. Author Don DeLillo has written eloquently about the final game of the 1951 playoff series, using it to frame his novel about Cold War America, “Underworld.” His observations might have been useful here, but he wasn’t interviewed.

Most of America associates Thomson’s home run with Russ Hodges’ famous “The Giants win the pennant!” call. But as the documentary informs, not many actually listened to that call as it happened. In New York City alone, fans had three other listening options on the radio--one of them Red Barber on the Dodger network--and the game was televised nationally.

According to author Jules Tygiel, America is familiar with Hodges’ call only because a Dodger fan taped the last inning of the Giant network’s broadcast because he was sure the Dodgers were going to win and “wanted to hear Hodges have to cry as the Giants lost. . . . [That’s] the only reason we have that.”

The Giants Stole the Pennant?

The documentary digs deepest when examining whether the Giants cheated their way to the pennant by stealing signs from opposing catchers.

Jerry Schenz, son of Giant infielder Hank Schenz, displays the spyglass his father used to steal the signs during the second half of the 1951 season, helping the Giants erase a 13-game deficit and catch the Dodgers. Schenz would watch the game from Durocher’s Polo Grounds office, located in center field, and relay the signs to reserve catcher Sal Yvars, who would then pass them on to Giant hitters--all within a matter of seconds.

Giant players admit they used the stolen signals during the regular season, but claim they stopped before the playoff. Branca refuses to believe them, setting up a comically edited back-and-forth between the home-run hero and the losing pitcher:

Thomson: Of course I didn’t get the sign. It’s ridiculous.

Branca: I disagree with him. I think he got the sign.

Thomson: It’s laughable.

Branca: If you watch him swing at it, he attacks the ball. He leaps like a tiger pouncing on some wounded antelope.

Thomson: He can talk about all the signs he wants . . . but the answer is no. They’ll never take anything away from me. I’ve never claimed too many things in my life, but there’s never been a question in my mind that I won that day. And Ralph lost.

How About a Moment of Silence?

There were more on-field microphones at Tuesday’s All-Star game than you could swing a Louisville Slugger at. Microphones in the dugout, on managers, on catchers, on first basemen as Fox tried to turn Safeco Field into the country’s largest experimental sound stage.

The Good: Kansas City first baseman Mike Sweeney dissing Angel relief pitcher Tony Percival as Philadelphia’s Jimmy Rollins led off first in the eighth inning.

Sweeney: If the game wasn’t so out of hand, you could walk to second base on this guy.

Rollins: I’m going anyway--it’s the All-Star game.

Next pitch, Rollins steals second.

The Bad: Kevin Kennedy’s star-struck approach to mid-game dugout reporting. To Cal Ripken: “Cal, that is so awesome.” To Roger Clemens: “Roger, you were awesome again.” To Derek Jeter: “Are your parents the ones who keep you so grounded?”

The Ugly: Fox getting up close and personal with Don Zimmer’s cue-ball head. Egged on by play-by-play man Joe Buck, American League Manager Joe Torre sidled up to his New York Yankee bench coach, watched Zimmer’s dread-filled reaction when informed he was on the air live and then plucked the cap off Zimmer’s head for all of America to see. Zimmer played along only briefly.

“Let me tell you something,” he finally snapped at Torre, speaking for most viewers by this point, “we got a baseball game going on.”