CHAPTER 1
Rain Delay
Rain delay. Just minutes before, the grandstands had hosted a cadre ofNAIA officials and spectators willing to brave the elements to watchthe championship game. Now those same grandstands stood motionlessagainst the elemental onslaught, their previous tenants having abandonedtheir vigil and retreated to drier locales. Ballplayers from both teamsheld their ground, huddling in their respective dugouts ... to wait. Andwait they would. It was the biggest game of their lives. They weren'tgoing anywhere until a winner was determined.
CHAPTER 2
Spring Fever
Wind and rain defined most of Whitworth's 1960 baseball season,dating back to early April. The Pirates hadn't gotten outside to practiceor to scrimmage as a team, nor had their pitchers thrown a single pitchoff the mound, before they headed to Seattle for their first games thatspring. When they did hit the road, their coach, my father, wasn't withthem. Instead, Ross Cutter, the newly hired men's tennis coach, steppedin and accompanied the team on their first road trip.
Ross was an energetic sprite of a man, a California native, muchmore acclimated to the warmth and sunshine of the Bay area than thecold dampness of a Washington spring. He made quite a spectacle. Hislong black rain coat flapped like a landlocked raven in the unrelentingwind and rain as he paced outside the dugout or around the third basecoach's box, his oversized galoshes providing further testament to hisdiscomfiture on the field. Not wanting to appear totally useless, CoachCutter had flapped out to the pitcher's mound during one of those firstgames when it appeared that Spike Grosvenor, Whitworth's youngstarting pitcher, was losing control.
"Are you worried, son?" he asked Spike.
"I'm okay, but ...," the end of his thought trailed off as Spike kickedthe rubber and cast an anxious glance toward the opponents on base.
"Hmmmm, well, the seven of us on the bench are mighty worried,"Coach Cutter proclaimed as he turned and flapped back to the visitors'dugout, leaving Spike to work his own way out of a bases-loaded jam.And all the while, my father remained homebound.
Dad had spent much of February and March in bed with pneumonia.It was a tough case from the beginning, probably because the coachdidn't know how to "take it easy." Finally, he was given no choice. Iremember those days and weeks clearly; he on the couch in the livingroom while I or my two younger sisters entertained him or sat withhim in front of the old black-and-white television set, watching varietyshows or whatever else happened to be broadcasting. But he lived for thenews, when he could catch up on the scores and highlights from gamesand sports that were not adequately covered by our local newspaper. Inthose days, the Spokesman Review's sports page was just that—a page,two at most.
Not being the most compliant patient and wanting desperatelyto be on the field with his players, it was necessary to find an activityto occupy both my Dad's mind and his time while he was virtuallybedridden. That activity turned out to be stamp collecting. I was tenyears old at the time, and being the eldest, it was an endeavor that I wasable to share with him. I reveled in every minute of it. Professors andadministrators at Whitworth would save stamps off of envelopes comingfrom all over the world and package them up for delivery throughthe campus mail. At home, we would open bulging manila envelopescontaining hundreds of stamps of every denomination and every color;from countries I hadn't even read about in school. He would pick outthe stamps he wanted to mount in his massive collection book and,with feelings of great importance, I would take them to the bathroomand soak them carefully in the sink or bathtub until the stamps pulledaway from the envelope to which they adhered. As the stamps dried ontowels spread out over the bathroom floor, I carefully kept them flatand unharmed until I returned them to my Dad to mount in his stampbook. It was, perhaps, a poor substitute for being at baseball practiceand accompanying the team on their first road trip, but sharing thatkind of time with the coach was unusual for me, and once he regainedhis health, it was an occasion that never happened again.
* * *
April and May had come and gone. It was June now and the third inningof the championship game had just reached a soggy conclusion. Myfather had returned to the baseball field a little over two and half monthsago and now everything was at a standstill, waiting for the rain to recedeenough for play to continue. Pitchers for both Whitworth and GeorgiaSouthern were in their respective dugouts, desperately trying to keeptheir arms warm. Sioux City, typically hot and sticky that time of year,had been unusually wet during the last three days of the NAIA NationalIntercollegiate Baseball Championship. In fact, rain had punctuatedplay throughout most of the loser-out game the day before, as well.You had to give credit to NAIA officials and to the groundskeepers;they tried everything they could to keep the infields playable at SoosPark Ball Field, including an attempt to hover a helicopter over thefield, hoping that, if nothing else, the rotor action would dissipatethe larger pools of water. Today, Championship Saturday, the infieldwas still plagued with standing water, the base paths were muddy andtreacherous, the outfield was sodden. Earlier in the morning, as soonas a break in the clouds was spotted, the field crew poured gasoline onthe base paths, torching the volatile fluid to help burn off some of thestanding water in anticipation of the first pitch. It may have smelledbad, but the technique, while inherently dangerous for those tossingthe matches, worked surprisingly well.:
Under ordinary circumstances, officials probably would haverescheduled the game for another day. But this was the championshipgame, and both teams were under strict deadlines for returning home.There was nothing left to do but wait out the gloom and hope forenough daylight to finish the game.
CHAPTER 3
Ticket Punched
What a ride this had been for Whitworth's baseball team. The year before,in 1959, this same group had qualified for the national tournamentand been invited to participate as Evergreen Conference Champions.Unfortunately, Whitworth's athletic budget rarely stretched far enoughto include the cost of post-season travel, and there was no money to funda trip to the national championship. When Whitworth had to decline theinvitation, Western Washington College was afforded the opportunityto go in their stead. The disappointment was bitterly felt by everyone,none more so than my father. Most of the players were underclassmen,many of whom were lettering in other sports, a typical situation forsmall-college athletes. Coach Merkel had delivered the bad news to histeam and guaranteed, on the spot, that if each one of them came backto play the next year, they would once again be invited to participate inthe NAIA national tournament. And this time, he promised that theywould go to the tournament if he had to mortgage his house to do so.The team believed him and they all returned, including Ray Washburn,their fire-balling right hander; Tom Ingram, another ace right-hander;and Norm Harding, a fiercely talented shortstop. Whether my motherever knew about the promise her husband made that day is unclear, butlikely she would have stood beside him and joined in his somewhat rashpronouncement.
Eighteen Whitworth baseball players made the trip to Sioux City,Iowa, in June 1960. As Evergreen Conference Champions, the Piratescarried the banner for Area 1 (including the states of Washington,Oregon, Idaho, California, Nevada, Montana, and Wyoming) in theFourth Annual NAIA Baseball "World Series." Still in its infancy,the tournament was nevertheless beginning to attract interest acrossthe country not only from participating colleges but also from MajorLeague Baseball scouts.
In all, eight teams were invited to participate in the doubleelimination tournament. It was the first time the tournament was heldoutside the state of Texas, and this year Morningside College in SiouxCity served as the host school with all games being played at Soos Park,a minor league ball field not far from campus. Accommodations wererudimentary; teams stayed in the dormitories at Morningside and atemeals in the campus dining hall. Because the facilities at Soos Park wereinadequate for all eight teams to use, players were forced to dress andshower in the dorms before and after games.
Soos Park was the home of the Sioux City Soos, a minor leagueaffiliate of the New York Giants. In 1959 the farm club had beendowngraded from Class A (Western League) to Class B (Illinois-Indiana-Iowa League). Originally constructed in 1947, the stadium was designedto seat approximately 5,000 spectators, but by 1960, attendance waswaning and it was falling into disrepair.
The accommodations hardly mattered to the Whitworth ballplayers.They were just happy to be there.
At the end of the regular season, Pirate team members had eagerlyawaited word as to which team would be selected to represent Area 1 inthe tournament. Sophomore pitcher Tom Ingram refused to go to classuntil he heard one way or another, camping outside of Coach Merkel'soffice on the day the invitations were handed out.
The "official" announcement was made during chapel. A telegramhad arrived from Bob Livingston, the Area 1 chairman, directed to PaulMerkel, in his position as director of athletics:
"Whitworth Is Area 1 Rep. Oregon College of Education is alternate.Send complete Publicity immediately to A.W. Buckingham MorningsideCollege Sioux City, Iowa. Sincere personal congratulations."
Coach Merkel beamed as he made the announcement and calleda special team meeting immediately afterwards. He explained to theteam that he didn't know how they were going to get there, but he hadaccepted the invitation on Whitworth's behalf and practice started thatafternoon.
It was May 22, 1960, and the end of the school year not only forWhitworth but also for other colleges in the area. As a result, no collegiateteams were available for practice games before the tournament started.Ever resourceful, my father managed to scout out a couple of intramuralsquads at Fairchild Air Force Base who agreed to scrimmage with thetournament-bound Pirates. They were little match for Whitworth, allthree games providing lopsided wins for the Pirates. But it was goodpractice and provided the necessary playing time to keep team membersgame ready. It also afforded senior captain Jim Glennon the unexpectedopportunity to add a statistic to his baseball career that had to that pointeluded him: a recorded stolen base.
For all his skill at catcher, Jim was ponderously slow on the bases. Hehad never stolen a base, nor had he even attempted the feat, knowing,first of all, that Coach Merkel would neither condone nor supportwasting a man on base for an attempt that was doomed to failure. Aman on base meant the possibility of a run, and you didn't sacrifice apotential run on a whim, or in this case, on the highly unlikely premisethat Jim could beat out a throw to second. Norm Harding used tojoke that you couldn't tell if Jim was moving unless you looked behindhim. However, during one of the games against Fairchild, Jim foundhimself on first base with an opposing catcher he knew was sufferingfrom bursitis. The catcher's pain made him barely able to throw the ballback to the pitcher. Jim stepped off first base and caught the attentionof Coach Merkel, who was standing in the third base coach's box. Jimhopefully flashed the steal sign, addressed more as a question than astatement. Now my father was not without a sense of humor, and thisgame did not pack the same importance of a conference game, but Ican imagine the look that was exchanged with his stalwart catcher, whowas now crouched a little off first base. To his credit, Dad didn't crack asmile; he just turned away with a shrug, leaving the decision to stay orrun up to Jim. Knowing that was as much of a blessing as he was goingto get, Jim took off running with the next pitch. He got his stolen base,but just barely. He also got a fair amount of good-natured teasing fromteammates and coaches after the game.
As soon as the invitation to play was received and accepted, coaches,ballplayers, and administrators got to work trying to piece togethertravel money to get the team to the tournament. Girlfriends canvassedthe dorms collecting donations from students, a dollar at a time; localbusinesses were called and every service organization on campus wassolicited for contributions. As was his custom, my dad kept meticulousrecords of the donations the team received for their trip: individualdonations from friends and businesses ranged from as little as $2 toas much as $250. The Whitworth Student Body fund contributed$150 and the Whitworth Pirateers generously added $400 from theirbooster club. All contributions, no matter how large or how small, werewelcomed.
In the end, just over $1,600 was raised for the weeklong trip toSioux City. It wasn't a lot of money, but Coach Merkel was used torunning the program on a shoestring. It would simply have to sufficeto cover gas and hamburgers for their 2,500-mile trip to and fromSioux City. Coach Merkel secured a rental car from Avis. Pitcher RayWashburn's sister lent them her car, while catcher Denny Rieger offeredto drive his relatively new '56 Dodge and utility second baseman JerryMcCracken volunteered the use of his eye-catching convertible. Thosewho drove their own cars were each allotted a $200 stipend for the costof gas and wear and tear on their vehicles. With gas at 25 cents a gallon,the stipend was considered a generous one.
Four cars and sixteen ballplayers, including Coach Merkel andAssistant Coach Ken Wittenburg, left campus at 6:20 a.m. on Fridaymorning, June 3, 1960. My mother had uncharacteristically roustedmy sisters and me out of bed early in order to accompany our father tothe team's rendezvous point on campus. We watched through eyes stillheavy with disrupted sleep as the ballplayers were divided between thefour waiting cars, their gear safely stowed in the trunks. It was the onlytime I can remember actually being there to see them off. And yet westill had no idea that this trip was any different from any of the othersthat took our father and his baseball team on the road. At the ages often, eight, and six, we did not attend many games and so it was difficultfor Coach Merkel's three young daughters to feel connected to his work,either on or off the field. All we knew was that during baseball season,Dad was seldom home. In our bubble of oblivion, exactly where hewent and what he did eluded us. However, even seen from a distance,the young men with whom my father spent the greatest percentageof his time conjured within each of us a degree of awe and reverencenormally reserved for TV stars or super heroes. They were The BaseballTeam. Nothing further was required to fit iconic status in our eyes.Occasionally my father would bring one of his student athletes home fordinner, particularly during Thanksgiving or Easter, when some of thestudents remained on campus rather than make the long, often costlytrip home. At those momentous times, our eyes wide with wonder, wewould shyly approach the dining room table, our best manners in place.We were especially careful not to giggle or "carry on" in a manner thatmight embarrass the coach and bring his disfavor on us. For my sistersand me, those dinners created a tangible connection with our father'sbaseball world.
