Close enough to taste

You are in search of Joe Maddon’s past, on a trip that runs through this Pennsylvania cradle of managers.

There’s the turnoff to Upper Darby. Mike Scioscia grew up there.

Here’s the exit for Norristown. Tom Lasorda grew up there.

And then you leave the Pennsylvania Turnpike behind, for twisting two-lane roads surrounded by the majesty of fall foliage. You’re two hours outside Philadelphia, off State Route 209 and onto State Route 63 and finally into Hazleton, where the gas station on Broad Street invites motorists to stop in for something called a 3rd Base Hoagie.

One storefront advertises “Home Made Chicken Pot Pies.” Another warns “Real Men Go to Real Barbers,” with a working barber pole standing sentry against any mousse that is not edible.

It is Sunday, and the middle school is closed, with not a child in sight. The diner is across the street, the one with the weather-beaten bricks and the faded lettering that reads, 3rd Base Lunch.

Maddon attended that school, dropped in here, lived in the apartments behind the family plumbing supply business around the corner. On the weekends, he hung out in the back room of the diner, watching his St. Louis Cardinals on a black and white television.

The diner was a family business too, since 1949, and still is. The counters are the original ones. So are the stools, all 20 of them. The rotary phone on the wall still works, at GLadstone 5-0631.

Dave Mishinski runs the place now. He is Joey’s cousin. Maddon is Joey in this town. No one calls him Joe, not here.

The diner is closed on this day, but Dave is working. So are his wife, and his son, and his daughter.

There are hoagies to be made, hundreds of them, for that gas station on Broad Street and the other 14 places that sell the best hoagie in town. You can get one here, of course, packed with salami and ham and cheese and onions, for $3.50.

Dave says he isn’t tired, but you look at him, in his faded “3rd Base” T-shirt, and you wonder. Cousin Joey’s Tampa Bay Rays played Game 6 of the American League Championship Series on Saturday night, but Dave says he couldn’t afford to pay undivided attention. He was working until 2:30 a.m.

“I was downstairs slicing,” he said.

It’s 2:30 p.m. now, six hours before Cousin Joey’s team plays Game 7, with the World Series at stake. Richie Palermo, a family friend, stops by.

“I woke up at 4:30 this morning,” Richie said. “I had a dream: I saw on the ticker that Ben Zobrist hit a home run and the Rays won.

“Then I woke up, and I turned on the TV. My nerves are shot.”

Beanie drops by too. She is Joey’s mom, 75 years young, still working the 7:30 a.m. to 2 p.m. shift during the week, dishing out eggs and coffee and good-natured grief to customers of all ages. Her real name is Albina, but everyone calls her Beanie.

“Just get there,” Beanie said. “Just get to the Series. I’ll have to call Big Papi and tell him to lay down. When he gets up, I get so nervous.”

Beanie is dressed in jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt, wrapped in a light blue fleece. She can barely sit still. She lives around the corner, but she does not want anyone to watch Game 7 with her.

“Oh my God, my nerves,” Beanie said. “I’m making a pot of chicken soup. I’m trying to calm my nerves.

“I don’t know, Richie. One more tonight.”

One more victory, and Beanie will be headed down the Pennsylvania Turnpike to watch Joey manage in the World Series. It will be her second trip to the World Series. She traveled to Anaheim in 2002, to watch Joey coach for the Angels.

“Oh my God, those thunder sticks,” Beanie said.

Joey brought home a present from that World Series, just for Beanie.

“He bought me a car,” Beanie said. “He drove it cross-country.”

In Hazleton, everyone talks about how Joey is the son of his late father, calm and cool and collected. Yet, in the display case in the diner, the one with the Rays cowbell and all of Joey’s autographed memorabilia, there is a newspaper clipping of Joey getting ejected.

“We had to do that,” Dave said. “That’s the Beanie part of him.”

Consider that fair warning to any foul-mouthed Philly fans that might be sitting near her at tonight’s game: Mess with her son, and she can dish it out, just as she does every morning at the diner.

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bill.shaikin@latimes.com