Joe Garagiola’s Just Play Ball is Baseball Talk Written Down

Joe Garagiola was a catcher for the St. Louis Cardinals, and a few other clubs, about 60 years ago. He always said his was a unique story because most major leaguers were the best kid in their town, or county or college. He wasn’t even the best kid on his block; he grew up across the street from Yogi Berra (so technically, Yogi lived on a different block). In his new book, Just Play Ball, Mr. Garagiola reflects on the position of catcher in particular, and baseball in general in a way that reads more like broadcaster’s chatter during a rain delay than high literature. That’s not an insult.

Mr. Garagiola did make it to the Baseball Hall of Fame, but unlike his childhood pal, he came in as a broadcaster, not a player, and won the Ford Frick Award for outstanding broadcast accomplishments. He is, perhaps, the best color man of his generation. Where Vin Scully of the Dodgers can call a game all by himself (and do it better than anyone, including the late Red Barber), most broadcasts are punched up by having a second man (often an ex-player) to toss in some analysis. Where Mr. Garagiola excels is usually in knowing not only what to say, but also when to shut up, and for that reason, he actually worked well with Mr. Scully back in the 1980s.

As for the book itself, it is something of a ramble through his memories, occasionally arguing a point (catchers are the Rodney Dangerfields of baseball; they get no respect), almost always entertaining. He has been around long enough to have seen baseball go from a blue-collar factory operation to a glitzy multi-national. While he acknowledges that baseball has become more technologically advanced, he is dubious that quantitative analysis has improved it. For example, the radar gun merely backs up a scout’s assessment that a pitcher can throw hard. What it can’t do is measure the movement of the ball as it approaches the batter.

On the subject of catchers, he isn’t objective at all. In his own words, “Being a catcher is like being a fire hydrant at a dog show. If a catcher was asked to march in a parade, they’d make him march behind the elephants . He’d have the same lousy view the whole parade and get dumped on at the same time. Thinking of it that way makes it easy to understand that even Charlie Brown’s catcher would rather play the piano . . . .” Amusing, but buried in this book are some of the finer points of catching. “If a catcher moves too soon after giving the signal, that can alert the coach who is watcher of even a player on the bench. If the catcher gives a curveball sign and inches forward, this could tell you he wants to catch the breaking ball before it hits the ground. If he gives the signal and just spreads his legs, it’s a sure fire fastball.”

This isn’t the greatest book about baseball ever written, and Mr. Garagiola would be the first to admit it. It’s not really even a book. It’s a collection of stories, observations and theories in a colloquial tone. It’s hot-stove talk. In the end, though, it is about a man who did something with his life that he obviously loved. He starts his final chapter with, “As a kid, I was happiest when I was telling somebody, ‘I’m going to the ballgame’.” At 71, he’s still a kid.

© Copyright 2007 by The Kensington Review, Jeff Myhre, PhD, Editor. No part of this publication may be reproduced without written consent. Produced using Fedora Linux.

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