John, Red Schoendienst and me

John, Red Schoendienst and me

Red Schoendienst, Cardinals Star and Oldest Hall of Famer, Dies at 95


When I read the headline, last week, that Red Schoendienst, the St Louis Cardinals all-star second baseman, had died I immediately wanted to call my brother John and talk about an incident that involved Schoendienst, John and myself.

My brother, an avid Cardinal fan, died two years ago.

The situation with Red Schoendienst occurred during the early 1950s. We were at the Polo Grounds, a stadium in New York and home of the then New York Giants. The Giants were playing the St Louis Cardinals. 

We, Dad, John and myself, always arrived early, to watch warm-ups. Once through the gates, an energetic young man, took our tickets and led us to our seats, whereupon he wiped each seat with a large wool mitten. He then slid the tickets between his first two fingers and held out his hand, palm up. Dad tipped him and we sat down. After a few seconds John and I raced down the steps to the field level railing for a closer look at the players. Here, with other youngsters, we tried to get autographs, leaning over the fence, waving pencil and paper. I had a collection of almost fifty names, which today, somehow, has vanished.

One day, as we stood there, watching pepper games, Red Schoendienst emerged from the dugout carrying his bat. He walked toward us and when he reached the railing he suddenly handed me his bat. I looked up at him in disbelief.

Schoendienst's bat was like none I had ever held or seen before. It was big, probably 35 inches and shaped like a milk bottle, overly fat at the hitting end and a thick handle also. And it seemed light, especially for its size. Schoendienst's name was branded into the barrel.

John and I retreated to our seats with our prize. As a scrawny eleven year old, Red's bat was a bit large for me. John, however, was an adult size teenager and the starting second baseman on the Warwick (NY) high school varsity. He used the bat through much of the remainder of his season.

Over time the bat began to show signs of wear and tear. There were cracks, splinters in the handle and eventually it became a broken bat, but we didn't want to give it up. We examined it, surgeon-like, and decided that it needed "stitches," so we hammered small brad nails around the splits and finished the repairs by tightly wrapping the handle with black friction tape. The bat was weakened, had lost it's power, but it was still Red Schoendienst's bat.

Finally, after a few more surgeries the bat was taken out of the high school dugout. One might say, the heavily bandaged bat was “sent down” to the minors - i.e. little brother’s sandlot league. Its varsity days were over.

Exactly when the bat was officially retired, I'm uncertain. Nor do I know where it ended up. Of course I wish we had saved it, but as children, with eternity before us, well - we didn't give much thought to the storage location of mementos, however cherished. If I had to guess, I’d blame my mother who likely spotted the aged lumber with Red’s script autograph on one end and unraveled tape at the other, in the back of the kitchen closet and thought, “there hasn’t been a baseball game in the backyard in years. So …"

Which is why I wanted to call my brother to discuss the bat, its life and times..

It's a feeling I have often, wanting to share moments from my childhood, with the only person who was there with me. 

In this case I would have said, "Did you hear about Red Schoendienst?" and then, immediately, I'd mention the bat: asking if he remembered it, what it looked like, how and when it broke, how long did he use it and finally what happened to it? That would take some time, and, of course, we'd keep going, drifting back in time and rehashing old baseball (Cardinals) lore that we remembered like, "Do you remember where Schoendienst batted in the order?" He batted second. Or we'd try to name who played each position on the Cardinals and where they stood in the batting order. We knew that Stan Musial batted third, but who batted clean-up in the 1950s? I'd say Enos Slaughter.

Things like that - Just one of a thousand reasons I miss my loving brother every day.

Of course, we never know what to say about death, but we often make up little stories to give us solace. My story is, "John probably met Red Schoendienst in heaven and right now they're talking about the bat he gave us at the Polo Grounds."

I'd bet on it.

Thanks Red