There were the home run numbers and distances
and the way Mantle shot across center field
to track down fly balls and line drives to save runs
and win contests (and preserve Larson’s perfect
game in the World Series in ’56), but if you are a
person who finds splendor in physical artistry,
there were no more treasured moments than
those generated by Mr. Muscles laying down a
drag bunt from the left side and watching the
frantic and surprised second baseman rush
to get the ball and with futility sling it to the
elastically stretched first baseman while the
blur that was young Mickey Mantle electrically
hit first base from his running start 90 feet away
in 3.1 seconds — safely every time. And you, an
ordinary teenager living in the Bronx in the 1950’s,
let your breath burst forth at last, accompanied by
a fanatic’s smile.
There are captivating paintings and statues and
even items of furniture and multi-colored windows
in art museums but none of those (and I lived in the
Big Apple) – – – none of those works of art elicited
the pure joy that a single drag bunt by Number 7,
the Commerce Comet, brought forth. Luckily, I had to
hold my breath only for a step over 3 seconds every
time. His home runs were bolts of power. His drag
bunts were beauty in motion . . . and brought forth
emotions that I often anticipated and too rarely felt
as the decade changed and Father Time joined the
other team.