JIMMY PIERSALL, the old Red Sox center fielder who was immortalized in a 1957 movie, re-emerged a few weeks ago as "guest of honor'' in Birmingham, Ala. The Class AA baseball team in that city was doing some nostalgia stuff and brought back the 78-year-old Piersall, who played there in 1951-52.
JIMMY PIERSALL, the old Red Sox center fielder who was immortalized in a 1957 movie, re-emerged a few weeks ago as "guest of honor'' in Birmingham, Ala. The Class AA baseball team in that city was doing some nostalgia stuff and brought back the 78-year-old Piersall, who played there in 1951-52.
Those of us who remember his visits to Watt Powell Park throughout the 1989 season can appreciate Birmingham's need to grant him a "guest of honor'' distinction.
Piersall was different. He was likeable and interesting, dominated every conversation and commanded attention whenever he entered the Watt Powell clubhouse, manager's office or press box. He talked incessantly, sometimes delivering insight but often assuming an annoying know-it-all posture. He enjoyed making references to Ted Williams, his famous teammate in Boston, and he informed us of his many national television appearances.
In that 1989 season, Piersall worked as a roving minor-league instructor for the Cubs, who were the Charleston Wheelers' parent club that year. His job was to teach outfield play but, as a dominating presence, lectured the Wheelers in all facets of the game. The players seemed to like him.
On his visits to Charleston, he would watch each game from the press box, where he jotted down notes and pretty much talked from first pitch to last. If a player committed a blunder, he would rise from his seat in a rage, lean out the window and direct obscenities at the offending player.
In batting practice, he advised the players to choke up on the bat with two strikes to increase their chances of making contact. If they ignored that advice in game situations, he would rise from his seat in a rage, lean out the window and shout, "Choke up!'' If he didn't like a player's batting stance, he again would get out of his seat and, gritting his teeth with intensity, position himself in what he considered the proper stance.
He seemed incapable of relaxing. He sat beside me in the press box and nudged me every few minutes to point out something on the field. Maybe the third baseman was playing too deep against a speedy hitter adept in bunting. Or he would detect flaws in hitters' swings and feel the need to talk about it.
After one particularly dreadful performance by the Wheelers, he hurried down to the clubhouse to berate them, calling them gutless and spewing profanities.
An old-school guy, he believed weightlifting served no baseball purpose and said Ted Williams built strength in his wrists and forearms by lifting chairs by gripping the leg. Seeing a Wheeler lifting in the clubhouse one day, he loudly suggested what the player might do with his weights.
JIMMY PIERSALL, the old Red Sox center fielder who was immortalized in a 1957 movie, re-emerged a few weeks ago as "guest of honor'' in Birmingham, Ala. The Class AA baseball team in that city was doing some nostalgia stuff and brought back the 78-year-old Piersall, who played there in 1951-52.
Those of us who remember his visits to Watt Powell Park throughout the 1989 season can appreciate Birmingham's need to grant him a "guest of honor'' distinction.
Piersall was different. He was likeable and interesting, dominated every conversation and commanded attention whenever he entered the Watt Powell clubhouse, manager's office or press box. He talked incessantly, sometimes delivering insight but often assuming an annoying know-it-all posture. He enjoyed making references to Ted Williams, his famous teammate in Boston, and he informed us of his many national television appearances.
In that 1989 season, Piersall worked as a roving minor-league instructor for the Cubs, who were the Charleston Wheelers' parent club that year. His job was to teach outfield play but, as a dominating presence, lectured the Wheelers in all facets of the game. The players seemed to like him.
On his visits to Charleston, he would watch each game from the press box, where he jotted down notes and pretty much talked from first pitch to last. If a player committed a blunder, he would rise from his seat in a rage, lean out the window and direct obscenities at the offending player.
In batting practice, he advised the players to choke up on the bat with two strikes to increase their chances of making contact. If they ignored that advice in game situations, he would rise from his seat in a rage, lean out the window and shout, "Choke up!'' If he didn't like a player's batting stance, he again would get out of his seat and, gritting his teeth with intensity, position himself in what he considered the proper stance.
He seemed incapable of relaxing. He sat beside me in the press box and nudged me every few minutes to point out something on the field. Maybe the third baseman was playing too deep against a speedy hitter adept in bunting. Or he would detect flaws in hitters' swings and feel the need to talk about it.
After one particularly dreadful performance by the Wheelers, he hurried down to the clubhouse to berate them, calling them gutless and spewing profanities.
An old-school guy, he believed weightlifting served no baseball purpose and said Ted Williams built strength in his wrists and forearms by lifting chairs by gripping the leg. Seeing a Wheeler lifting in the clubhouse one day, he loudly suggested what the player might do with his weights.
His job as outfield instructor paid only $28,000 a year, he said, and he didn't need the money. He just needed something to occupy his time and burn up all of that energy. "If I didn't have this job,'' he told me, "I'd go nuts.''
His high-energy personality probably reflected the manic depression that plagued him in his younger days and led to his confinement in an institution. His bout with mental illness, of course, was the basis of "Fear Strikes Out,'' the movie that chronicled his troubled years as a baseball player and still makes an occasional appearance on cable.
Not surprisingly, Piersall found fault with the movie. "The only thing they got right,'' he said, "was the name of my home town.'' He disliked Anthony Perkins' portrayal, saying he "threw like a girl.'' He said the graphic scene in which he climbed the backstop never happened.
A man of candor, he also once told me sportswriters didn't know anything about baseball. But he was obviously pleased with a story I wrote about him. The story described his brilliant and fearless outfield play in which he crashed into walls and even dived over them to make catches. The story noted that Curt Gowdy, the Red Sox play-by-play broadcaster, once said that of the five greatest catches he ever saw, Piersall made three of them.
The Associated Press picked up the story and circulated it nationwide. One of his friends clipped it out of the paper and sent it to him. He kept it in his briefcase.
Piersall, incidentally, must have been a high-energy guy as a 21-year-old outfielder in Birmingham. In one three-week stint with the team, he was ejected from four games.
To contact staff writer Mike Whiteford, send e-mail to mikewhitef...@wvgazette.com or call 348-7948.
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