Raymond Sinibaldi - 1967 Red Sox: The Impossible Dream Season (Images of Baseball)

1967 RED SOX

THE IMPOSSIBLE DREAM SEASON

The ring: the symbol of championships in all sports. This one recognizes the Boston Red Sox as the 1967 American League champions and belongs to Carl Michael Yastrzemski, who led the Red Sox to their first World Series in 21 years. (Authors collection.)

FRONT COVER: Joy was unleashed in the Red Sox clubhouse at Fenway Park and on the diamond outside. In the feature photograph, Carl Yaz Yastrzemski pours champagne over Jose Tartabull (bottom) and Tony Conigliaro (left) while Mike Andrews (center) and Rico Petrocelli (partially hidden by Yaz) absorb the moment. (Authors collection.)

COVER BACKGROUND: The fans swarmed the field at Fenway Park and did not want to leave, taking with them trinkets from the scoreboard as well as dirt and grass from the field; some even scaled the screen behind home plate to shake hands with the broadcast crew. (Authors collection.)

BACK COVER: The Boston Red Sox starting lineup for the second game of the World Series stands on the first base line. From left to right are Elston Howard, Rico Petrocelli, Jerry Adair, Reggie Smith, George Scott, Carl Yastrzemski, Dalton Jones, Jose Tartabull, and manager Dick Williams. Starting pitcher Jim Lonborg was warming up in the bullpen. (Authors collection.)

1967 RED SOX

THE IMPOSSIBLE DREAM SEASON

Raymond Sinibaldi
Foreword by Billy Rohr

Copyright 2014 by Raymond Sinibaldi
ISBN 978-1-4671-2093-7
Ebook ISBN 9781439644652

Published by Arcadia Publishing
Charleston, South Carolina

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013944626

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For William Sinibaldi, my big brother Willie and my first hero; for Ralph Costanzo, who gave his last full measure, and for all who served, fought, and died in the nightmare that was Vietnam.

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

I will never forget the words Youre going north. They were spoken to me by Dick Williams one Spring morning on the practice field at Chain-o-Lakes Park in Winter Haven, Florida. I was going to the Show, and what a show it was. We had a Triple Crown winner and a Cy Young winner. We had the obligatory brawls with the Yankees. We had sellouts, shutouts, and blowouts. We had a Boston icon felled by a fastball to his head. We even had a kid get his 15 minutes of fame in Yankee Stadium. When all was said and done, we had a pennant and a crack at a world championship, Bostons first since Harvard was a prep school. And the fans went crazy!

On a more personal note, I have come to very peaceful terms with my role, my contributions; indeed, my 15 minutes.

Throughout the many years since 1967, the wonderful Fenway Faithful have welcomed us, welcomed me, back to Boston on numerous occasions. As time has crept forward, I have noticed a palpable difference in the universal perception of my little part in the Impossible Dream. For a good many years, the focus was on Yaz and Lonnieas well it should be. Yet, in the past decade or two, there has seemed to me a bit more all-inclusive view of the team. More kudos for George Scott, Reggie Smith, Rico Petrocelli, Gary Bell, John Wyatt, Mike Andrews, Jerry Adair, and my dear pal, the late Russ Gibson. While still recognizing the stars, the role players have become beloved members of the Impossible Dream.

As dreams go, the fondest memories blur through the prism of time into a landscape of history seen to anyone under 50 as that distant miracle described indelibly by Kenny Coleman in The Impossible Dream. I do not hear it much anymore, have not for a good many years, but, make no mistake, it still brings chills. I suppose winning the pennant by one game gives each individual victory some added meaning, and if you do not think the stars were in alignment on April 14, 1967, all you need do is once again hear the voice of Ken Coleman screaming from the Yankee Stadium radio booth: Yastrzemski going back, way back, and he dives and makes a tremendous catch.

Impossible? Probably.

Dream? Oh yeah.

Thanks, Boston,
Billy Rohr

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book was a poignant journey filled with joy, angst, and self-revelation, and I am indebted to so many. First, thanks to Billy Rohr, Rico Petrocelli, and Jim Lonborg for sharing their time, energy, and recollections. Billy, you were the perfect choice.

Thanks to Sarah Coffin of the Red Sox, a constant source of assistance and guidance, and to the Boston Red Sox for the graciousness and generosity; Ron Noble, for the contacts; John Umbergamo, for his treasures; Kerry Keene, my friend and fact checker; and Margeaux Sinibaldi, for reeling me in. Thanks also to Caitrin Cunningham and Ryan Easterling of Arcadia Publishing for the latitude. Ryan, you are the consummate professional.

To Ginny, Carolyn, Lisa, and Diane: thanks for your ears. Willie and Paula: thanks for your sanctuary. Greg Gibson, Domenic Carota and his family, Fran and Kevin Quill, Larry McNeil, Smitty, Mike Cricco, Randy Wehner, Col. David Blizzard, and William Sinibaldi: you all have honored me. The resources of baseball-reference.com and the SABR BioProject were invaluable. And last, most, and as always, Lynda, who came to me in the best year evah: you are all my reasons.

Unless otherwise noted, all images are courtesy of the authors personal collection.

INTRODUCTION

The mere mention of the year 1967 brings smiles to the faces and warmth to the hearts of generations of Red Sox fans who lived and breathed their Impossible Dream.

Yet, for some, it invokes mixed memories. The sweetness of Yastrzemskis swing and the gnarl on Lonnies face while uncorking a fastball are interwoven with the smell of napalm and fear and blood. There were many Red Sox fans whose Impossible Dream summer was turned into a nightmare, as they were plucked from the phenomenon unfolding in John Updikes lyric little bandbox and transported to the valley of the shadow of death. Several of them you will meet within these pages.

It is to those boys, now approaching the winter of their lives, that this story is told; told so that they may once again see the smiles and feel the warmth of a sun-splashed Fenway Park. So they may go home again; home to Yaz and Lonnie, Rico and Reggie, Conig and Boomer, and the band of brothers called the Cardiac Kids.

Hey you awake? I can still hear my fathers voice as he quietly nudged me. I shot out of bed, put my feet on the floor, and was ready to go. It was 1:00 a.m. on October 1, 1967, and we were on our way to Fenway Park. First stop was Sunday mass at the Arch Street Church downtown, then a trip up Commonwealth Avenue and the wait in front of the ticket window on Jersey Street. We were fifth in line! By sunset, history would unfold at Fenway Park, and dad and I would be witness to it.

The morning of October 15, 1967, dawned steamy in the jungle of the Binh Duong province in South Vietnam. It was here, in the Iron Triangle, where the lives of two fans intersected. Specialist 4th Grade Ralph Costanzo of New Haven, Connecticut, and PFC William Sinibaldi of Weymouth, Massachusetts, were part of a sweep-and-destroy mission with the third platoon of Company C, 3rd Battalion, 22nd Infantry, 25th Infantry Division. Costanzo was a short timer, with less than 60 days to go in country. Sinibaldi had arrived less than a month before and had seen action in just one firefight.