Philip Beuth - Limping on Water

A 23-Year-Olds Lucky Day

Wednesday, Oct. 4, 1955, began like many other breezy, autumndays for most New Yorkers. But for the faithful, as stalwarts ofAmericas favorite pastime in the borough of Brooklyn were known, this dayfound Dem Bums fans perched on the edge of their bleacher seats,hoping against hope the day might hold that special, oh so long-awaited promiseof snatching the World Series crown from their indomitable foes whohappened to be my favorite team just a short subway ride north inthe Bronx.

The seventh and final game of the 1955 World Series, pitting theBrooklyn Dodgers against my Damn Yankees, was about to get underway inbaseballs fabled Yankee Stadium. The Boys of Summer had their work cut outfor them. Theyd never won the classic Series from anyone in 49 tries!! Andthough theyd taken the pennant a tantalizing seven times, theyd beensummarily whipped in every one of the ensuing Series matchups and thelast five times by the very same pin-striped Bronx Bombers I was rooting for ontodays field.

As an avid fan of the sport and the Yanks since I was swaddled, Ihardly ever missed a game and certainly not one as critical as this. Infact, if I hadnt been born with an obscure strain of cerebral palsy, known asspastic paresis, I might have allowed myself, like most boys, to dream of acareer on the diamond. The condition, though less grave than other forms of CP,nonetheless gave me a signature, pigeon-toed, minor limp that Ive carried allmy life.

So, on this day I was perched on a stool, nursing a Ballantinebeer, my attention fixed to the TV screen behind the bar at Hurleys Saloon not todays bland retread on 48th Street, but the long-gonesacred watering hole for Big Apple sports enthusiasts and TV professionals on the corner of 6th Avenue and 49th Street.

Pitching for Brooklyn that day was a young southpaw from theAdirondack Mountains with a changeup so tricky it was known as pulling downthe lampshade. Young Johnny Podres had thrown brilliantly and clinched thecritical third game of the Series, reviving Brooklyns hopes after bitterdefeats in games one and two. Heading into game seven, the stakes couldnt havebeen higher with the Series tied three games all. Warming up in the bullpen to thedin of the stadiums pipe organ, peddlers hawking hot dogs and 62,000 roaringfans, Podres called to the teams lynchpin captain and shortstop, Pee WeeReese, Just get me one run to win it all. Embattled Bums fans, whosemantra year after year after year had been a doleful Wait till next year,were about to hold their collective breath and pin their hopes to the pluckyleft-handed pitching ace who had celebrated his 23rd birthday justfour days earlier.

Like Podres, I had a lot on my mind. With a young wife andnewborn baby, I needed a job and was looking for an entry-level position in thestill nascent industry of television. Through luck and hard work, Id obtaineda tuition scholarship to that select institution of higher learning founded in1795, Union College in Schenectady. While working toward my degree, I held downa full-time job at the General Electric-owned NBC affiliate, WRGB-TV. I didwell at the station, inveigling myself into every nook and cranny of theoperation so much so that upon graduation from Union, stationmanagement enrolled me in the highly reputed Master of Science inRadio-Television program at Syracuse University on GEs dime, no less!! Justget that degree, station manager Bob Hanna promised, and we canleap-frog you into management. So, when my year at Syracuse ended, I racedback to the coop like a proud carrier pigeon, with the newly minted MastersDegree folded under my wing only to find our plan flummoxed by a companywide GEhiring freeze. Bob Hanna, abashed and scrambling to protect his protg, wasnow trying to find something to tide me over until the freeze thawed. Hed setup interviews with the CBS and NBC affiliates in New York City. Both madeoffers that were remarkably similar and equally unappealing. Forty-one dollarsa week in the mailroom, with the admonition,