By John Yevuta

Edited By Pete Adler, (Johns old Friend)

Dick Groat recently celebrated his 92nd birthday and it triggered the remembrance of an encounter I once had with him. Groat was an All-America basketball player at Duke University in the 1950s who went on to become shortstop, team captain of the Pittsburgh Pirates. He was the National League’s Most Valuable Player for the Pirates in their 1960 World Championship Season.

Groat is only one of twelve players in the history of both leagues to play in both the National Basketball Association and Major League Baseball. Michael Jordan tried but made it no farther than Double-A Birmingham. It is rarefied air.

After their 1979 World Championship, the Pirates fell on hard times. In 1984 they won just 75 games and followed in à85 by notching a paltry 57 victories. Attendance had tanked to under 800,000, an average of less than 9,900 fans per game in a stadium that held over 47,000 for baseball. To entice season ticket holders, the Pirates’ marketing gurus decided to hold a reception for high rollers, offering good food and drink along with the opportunity to meet many of the players from the glory days of 60s and 70s in attendance.

My pal, H. John “Herbie” Rogers, saw this as an opportunity for the two of us to get out of town and meet some of our heroes. Herb contacted the Pirates front office and listed our credentials as executives of the fictitious Wetzel County Coal Company. He was a master of larks like this. Sure enough, we received our invitations.

The event was held in the locker room of Three Rivers Stadium and, as hoped, many of my childhood heroes were there. It fit in well with the Soviet Union âstyleã stadiums constructed in the 70s and was not fancy. I remember it being concrete, cold and something that could be easily cleaned with a hose. There were probably 25 prospective season ticket buyers not counting the two impostors from Wetzel County.

Elroy Face who, in 1959, won eighteen games while only losing once ­ all in relief ­ was there spinning yarns. Bob Friend, who led the 1960 team in games started and innings pitched, while winning 18 games, was holding court. Hall of Famer and ’60 Series hero Bill Mazeroski was there. They were just a few of the stars I remember.

I talked politics with Friend who had been elected Allegheny County controller in 1967, listened to Face tell me about his off season carpentry jobs and shared Ohio Valley venues with Maz. These men came from a more humble era when most players still worked in the off season and they couldn’t have been more approachable. It was a dream. The food was plentiful, adult beverages were flowing and my heroes could not have been more gracious.

Everything was going well when I spotted Dick Groat across the room. He wasn’t an imposing figure. Just looked like a normal old guy to me, receding hairline and all. Fueled by the false bravado alcohol provided, I made my way toward the man whose baseball card had once lived in my back pocket.

Earlier in the day, with a clear head and good intentions, I’d prepared a question for Groat that he’d probably never heard before and one that would show how clever I was. As usual, I was too clever by half and had underestimated how the man who had stared down many a runner sliding cleats high into second base, trying to take him out while turning a double play, would deal with a fool such as I.

Dick was well into his cups when I popped my question: who was the worst pitcher you ever batted against? In a nanosecond, he lunged at me. I don’t remember if he threw a punch but let’s just say he tried to. A few of the old Buccos got between us and saved the teeth I still have. Somebody suggested I move as far away from The Captain as possible. It was good advice. Herb had a good laugh and, as he was wont to do, never let me forget what a coward I was.

On the way home, I wondered what had set him off. I was only asking a question. Then one day it hit me. Imagine a Greek citizen had sidled up to Achilles and asked him who was his least impressive foe. Achilles would have dispatched him quickly. Groat knew that the worst Major League pitcher he’d ever faced was better at what he did than I was at anything I’d ever done. His lunge at me was protecting the honor of the elite fraternity he belonged to from guys like who were lucky to hit .200 in Little League. It was justified.

Still, every year when his birthday comes around, I wonder if this is the year I could stand up to him and take him out. Then, I think better of it. Nope, not this year but maybe next.

Edited By my old friend Pete Adler!