Jim Bunning’s Father’s Day Perfection

I received a terrific birthday gift form my wife, Cindy, yesterday: an autographed, framed photo of Jim Bunning in the process of making the last pitch of his perfect game against the New York Mets on Father’s Day, June 21, 1964. We are just a few days away from the 50^th anniversary of that event, and it brings back special memories for me, at the time a just-turned 17 year-old about to begin my senior year of high school. I saw the game, sort of.

In those pre-cable days, there were not nearly as many games broadcast on television. In fact, the only day you could really depend on a televised Phillies game was Sunday. My memory of the game is also in black and white, because, though color TV had been invented, very few households that I frequented had a color set.

I watched the first three innings of the game at home with my dad on our old console Philco TV, while simultaneously getting dressed for our Father’s Day trip for Sunday dinner at my grandparent’s house. There was no excitement about the game yet, just a typically good outing from Bunning. After three innings, my dad, mom, two sisters and brother all climbed into the copper-colored Ford station wagon for the trip from Levittown to the Juniata Park section of Philly.

Interstate I-95 had just opened from Bristol down to Castor Avenue in Philly, so the ride that formerly took an hour or more, had been reduced to about 45 minutes - good thing. We listened to three innings of the game in the car and by then things were getting exciting. We knew by then that Bunning had a perfect game. Not that the announcers were any help. Holding to long held tradition, announcers Bill Campbell, By Saam and Richie Ashburn refused to mention what was happening.

You would get little clues, like “Looking up at the scoreboard, we see nothing but zeroes for the Mets.” Or, “Bunning is really pitching a classic today.” But no one said the words “no-hitter” or “perfect game.”

In the dugout, Bunning did not stand on tradition. He was chatting about the perfecto from the fifth inning on. Johnny Callison (who would homer in the game) said, “You don’t talk about a no-hitter right? But [Bunning] was going up and down the bench telling everybody what was going on. Everybody was trying to get away from him, but he was so wired he would follow us around.”

I clambered out of the car and ran into my grandparents’ house, waving a quick, “Hello”, to my grandmother in the kitchen and making a beeline for the den, where I knew I would find my grandfather sitting is his red leather Morris chair, smoking a Lucky Strike, and watching the Phillies game. Sure enough as I entered the smoke filled room, he said, “You better sit down, kid, Bunning’s got a no-hitter going.”

It’s a perfect game, Dad.” My father said, joining me on the couch.

“Right. How about that.”

In those days, perfect games were so rare that few people were fully aware of them. Even the home plate umpire, Ed Sudol, did not realize Bunning was pitching a perfect game until he was told so by Mets announcer, Ralph Kiner, after the game. “Do you mean I umpired a perfect game?”, he asked.

It had been eighty-four years since a perfect game in the National League. That one was pitched by a young right-hander named John Montgomery Ward for the Providence Greys. In 1956, Don Larson of the Yankees famously pitched a perfecto in the World Series, but in the American League the last regular season perfect game was in 1922. In 1964, perfect games were the rarest of all baseball feats.

On the television it was the bottom of the seventh and Bunning was 9 outs away. Pesky Ron Hunt of the Mets ripped a ball to third that was fielded nicely by rookie Richie Allen and Bunning was 8 outs away. Hunt’s smash was one of only two hard hit balls by the Mets all day. In the fifth, while I was in the car listening on the radio, Phils’ second baseman, Tony Taylor, made the play that saved the day. Met catcher, Jesse Gonder, hit a hard two-hopper to Taylor’s left. Tony dived, snagged the ball, leapt to his feet and threw out Gonder at first.

Bunning made easy work of the Mets in the eighth. In the ninth he knew he would face two left-handed pinch hitters, George Altman and John Stevenson. Altman was a powerful, dangerous hitter. Bunning hoped to get Altman before Stephenson. This is how Bunning told it after the game.

I knew if I got Stephenson up there with two out, I had it. I knew I could get him out on curve balls, no matter what. Altman, I wasn’t so sure of. I didn’t know if I could still jam him with the ball.

Bunning retired the first hitter in the ninth, former Phil Charley Smith, on an easy pop-up to defensive replacement Bobby Wine at short. Then, as he hoped, George Altman strode to the plate. My grandfather muttered a quick, “Uh, oh.” I was too nervous to speak.

At this moment my grandmother yelled back from the kitchen, “Dinner’s ready.” Her call was greeted by a chorus of male voices young and old, “Not now!”

Altman launched a high fly ball to right that Johnny Callison chased, but it drifted into the stands, foul. Strike one. Altman fouled off the next pitch. Strike two. Bunning next delivered a curve ball that looked like it stopped half way to the plate. Altman swung hard and early and missed. Five curve balls later John Stephenson became Bunnings 10^th strikeout victim and the perfect game was complete.

Bunning slapped his pitching hand to his mitt, while what Mets announcer Bob Murphy called his “happy teammates” came out to congratulate him. The celebration was mild by today’s standards, but it was clear that Bunning knew what he accomplished.

And so did I. I watched a perfect game, even if only on TV, on Father’s Day, with my father and my grandfather.

We all adjourned to dinner with plenty to talk about.

To top it off, later that evening we all sat around the TV to see Jim Bunning, local hero, appear on the Ed Sullivan Show. Things were good in Phillies land.

A little later in the year of 1964, things were not so good, but that is a story for another day.

Booing Del Ennis

In looking back at his record for the Philadelphia Phillies, Del Ennis would appear to have all the makings of the ultimate local hero. Ennis was born and bred in Philadelphia. He graduated from Olney High School, he turned down a big money (for the time) offer from the Yankees to play for the Phillies and he was an outstanding player and one of the greatest sluggers in Phillies history. Yet instead of becoming the hero he richly deserved to be, Ennis was booed unmercifully by Phillies fans throughout much of his career here.

Let's first provide a little context. Del Ennis was signed in 1942 out of Olney High by the Phillies and played one season at Double AA Trenton before enlisting in the Navy during World War II. Upon his discharge from military service in 1946, he joined the Phillies and was an immediate success, hitting .313 with 17 homers and 73 RBIs in his rookie season. Ennis was named to the National League All-Star team.

Over the next ten years with the Phillies, Ennis was a consistently reliable slugger, averaging 25 home runs and 109 RBIs, with a very respectable .286 batting average. To this day, Ennis ranks behind only Mike Schmidt and Ryan Howard in Phillie home runs, behind Schmidt and Delahanty in RBIs and in the top 10 in nearly every conceivable offensive category including hits, runs, doubles and even, incredibly, triples.

On the 1950 Whiz Kids team, Ennis was the primary offensive threat. As indispensible as Robin Roberts and Jim Konstanty were to that team,the Phillies would not have won the pennent without Ennis' heroics. He hit .311 that year, with a career high 31 home runs and a league leading 126 RBIs.

So why the booing for this certifiably outstanding local slugger? Phillies fans are famous for their booing, and especially for the booing of sluggers. Schmidt, Dick Allen and Pat Burrell were all targets of vociferous boo birds at various times in their careers. But Schmidt, as great as he was, could be wildly inconsistent at the plate and a bit enigmatic with the press and public. Phillie fans don't like their athletes introspective. Burrell, too, was maddeningly inconsistent and in his later years,  a defensive liability. Allen, as the first great African American Phillie player, had a target on his back from the start and tended to garner negative publicity for his off field activities.

But what can we point to in Ennis? He was certainly no gazelle in the outfield, with a lumbering gate that made him look more awkward than he actually was. Eddie Sawyer, manager of the Whiz Kids, said "He was a good outfielder, had a good arm and ran good for a big man." In truth, Ennis did make quite a few errors in the outfield. Robin Roberts remembered that he once dropped a routine fly ball with the bases loaded, inviting a chorus of boos that could be heard all the way up in Bucks County. The next day he hit a grand slam to win the game.

Nothing can invite booing in Philadelphia like lack of hustle. Jimmy Rollins hears the boo birds on those occasions when he fails to run out a ground ball. By all reports Ennis was a full out hustler all the time. Richie Ashburn said, "Del played every game as hard as he could. He hustled all the time. He hustled like Pete Rose, but he never looked like he hustled that much." Maybe their is a clue in that last part of what Ashburn said. Ennis didn't appear to be hustling. In Philadelphia you not only have to hustle, you must also look like you are hustling. Long-time Phillie coach, Maje McDonald, said "Del loped in from the outfield, Ashburn dashed. Del looked like he wasn't trying, but he was one of the toughest and hardest-working guys we ever had."

What about strikeouts? The image of the big slugger striking out with the game on the line has invoked boos since mighty Casey was at the bat. Like most sluggers, Del struck out some, but not at the level of most sluggers. In fact, Ennis never struck out more than 65 times in a season. For perspective, Ryan Howard has struck out 68 times as of June 1, 2014, after one-third of a season.

According to Ennis' wife, Liz, the booing really did bother him. 

"The booing was hurtful to him. It really was. Every time he was interviewed, the very first question everybody would ask is, ‘Why did the fans boo you like they did? He always said that as long as they paid money to get into the ballpark, they were entitled to boo. But the fact of the matter was, he didn’t understand it. He really didn’t understand it. And I don’t either.”

Make no mistake about it, the booing Ennis endured was prodigous. Here is how his wife Liz remembered Del's comments about it.

"When there was a lot written about Mike Schmidt being booed, Del couldn't believe it. He'd say, 'They think that is booing? That's nothing.' He didn't think that was anything compared to what he got every game, every at-bat, every move he made."

In retirement, Ennis seemed to be more famous for being booed than for being a great player. The first question out of every reporters mouth was about the booing and not about his near Hall of Fame worthy career. The booing came to define Ennis more than his considerable on field achievements did. His number fourteen was retired by the Phillies to honor Jim Bunning, the Hall of Fame pitcher who wore the number in the 1960s. No such honor has been afforded Ennis.

So, there you have it. Fine player, all-out hustler, consistent performer, RBI machine, pennant winner and target of unremmitting boos. After the 1956 season the Phillies traded Ennis to St. Louis where he enjoyed his final stand out season. When he returned to Philadelphia for the first time, the fans stood and cheered and cheered. As Joni Mitchell says in the song, "Don't it always seem to go, you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone."

As to those thousands of fans who mistreated Del Ennis over the years, I have just one word for you, "Boo."