In the 1960s, if you wanted to watch baseball on TV, you watched the CBS-owned Yankees, in black and white with two camera angles and Dizzy Dean and Pee Wee Reese announcing. I learned the terms “frozen rope” (a line drive) and “dying quail” (a weak pop fly) from Diz.
But I was a budding San Francisco Giants fan. Transistor radios with 9-volt batteries and limited volume were all we had. During baseball season, all five family members would walk around with radios pressed against our ears listening to announcers Russ Hodges and Lon Simmons. Baseball was an exercise of imagination as descriptions came alive in my mind. I had mental pictures of Willie Mays going back on a fly ball, Willie McCovey blasting a home run to right, Juan Marichal’s high leg kick to home.
My dreams hit reality one day as I walked in downtown Redwood City with my dad and two brothers. In a drugstore window was a sign: “Willie McCovey here today.”
As we pondered if that could possibly be true, a man came out the door and assured us it was. We boys — ages 8, 10 and 12 — were so excited we ran through the open door yelling, “Willie, Willie!”
