Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Below are a couple of nice photos of Baseball and Dodger legend Branch Rickey during his playing days with the Cardinals.
Here is a original Paul Thompson photograph of Hall of Famer and former Dodger Zach Wheat- from the days when the "Boys in Blue" wore pinstripes.
Charles Conlon produced the Nap Rucker photo below. It has to be from 1916 since it was the only year Rucker was on the team when they wore checkered uniforms.
From either 1916 or 1917, below is a Charles Conlon photograph of Chief Meyers. (Most likely from 1916, because of the little "B" on the chest.)
Once again, I can never get enough of Babe Ruth in a Dodger uniform. I think I like this photo the best since it shows Ruth in the 1st base coaches box during a game. This is a UPI Press Photo.
Hometown Piece for Messrs. Alston and Reese
"Millennium," yes; "pandemonium"!
Roy Campanella leaps high. Dodgerdom
crowned, had Johnny Podres on the mound.
Buzzie Bavasi and the Press gave ground;
the team slapped, mauled, and asked the Yankees' match,
"How did you feel when Sandy Amoros made the catch?"
"I said to myself"—pitcher for all innings—
"as I walked back to the mound I said, 'Everything's
getting better and better.' " (Zest, they've zest.
" 'Hope springs eternal in the Brooklyn breast.' "
And would the Dodger Band in 8, row 1, relax
if they saw the collector of income tax?
Ready with a tune if that should occur:
"Why Not Take All of Me—All of Me, Sir?")
Another series. Round-tripper Duke at bat,
"Four hundred feet from home-plate"; more like that.
A neat bunt, please; a cloud-breaker, a drive
like Jim Gilliam's great big one. Hope's alive.
Homered, flied out, fouled? Our "stylish stout"
so nimble Campanella will have him out.
A-squat in double-headers four hundred times a day,
he says that in a measure the pleasure is the pay:
catcher to pitcher, a nice easy throw
almost as if he'd just told it to go.
Willy Mays should be a Dodger. He should—
a lad for Roger Craig and Clem Labine to elude;
but you have an omen, pennant-winning Peewee,
on which we are looking superstitiously.
Ralph Branca has Preacher Roe's number; recall?
and there's Don Bessent; he can really fire the ball.
as for Gil Hodges, in custody of first—
"He'll do it by himself." Now a specialist versed
in an extension reach far into the box seats—
he lengthens up, he leans, and gloving the ball defeats
expectation by a whisker. The modest star,
irked by one misplay, is no hero by a hair;
in a strikeout slaughter when what could matter more,
he lines a homer to the signboard and has changed the score.
Then for his nineteenth season, a home run—
with four of six runs batted in—Carl Furillo's the big gun;
almost dehorned the foe—has fans dancing in delight.
Jake Pitler and his Playground "get a Night"—
Jake, that hearty man, made heartier by a harrier
who can bat as well as field—Don Demeter.
Shutting them out for nine innings—a hitter too—
Carl Erskine leaves Cimoli nothing to do.
Take off the goat-horns, Dodgers, that egret
which two very fine base-stealers can offset.
You've got plenty: Jackie Robinson
and Campy and big Newk, and Dodgerdom again
watching everything you do. You won last year.
- © Marianne Moore, 1956