The Arms of Royalty |
I struck it rich on my 13th birthday in 1959 when my father surprised me with a gift that has continued to thrill my thoughts to this very day. Often away on business trips, he took this time, my coming of age, to be with me and show me something precious and special. He drove us in his black and gold '57 T-bird to a high school baseball field in Leonia, New Jersey, the next town over from its sports rival, Ridgefield, where we lived. The parking lot was jammed full, but dad managed to find one of the few unclaimed grassy spots near the adjacent football arena. Hundreds, perhaps a thousand people thronged around the baseball field for some extraordinary event being sponsored by the local police and fire departments. I expected to see something unique, especially when we had to fight for positions on the fence just past the first base dugout. I remember being initially disappointed when I discovered that it was a lowly softball game, but my father, an erudite baseball enthusiast and connoisseur, answered my questioning looks and frowns with words that etched themselves permanently into my brain. "Time you learned something about ball," he said. "Little League was good, so far as it goes. But this is the King and His Court, the best there ever was or is likely to be." It was an exhibition game between the King and the Leonia Cardinals, one of the better fast pitch teams in Bergen County. Dad didn't say much. He preferred that I learn by doing and observing. On this day I absorbed several critical lessons, the least of which included the fact that softball is no less exciting than hardball, merely less publicized. The first thing I recognized was the imbalance between the teams, an ironic condition that didn't reveal its importance to me until later in the game. The Cardinals were at bat in the 3rd inning when we arrived, had a full complement of players, some of whom were ringers gleaned from the ranks of macho wannabes. They had twelve mixed-uniformed athletes in the dugout, but were surrounded by a lingering assortment of hopeful, spare tires who hung the perimeter, pleading for action and a chance to take a hack at the legend. According to dad, he was considered immortal even back then. By contrast, the Court fielded four players. Four! Eddie Feigner, of course, was on the mound, perhaps the most hard-nosed, overly skilled competitor I've seen to date, barring none. Behind the plate was the required catcher, Snooker I think, a behemoth of a man with wide shoulders and long, Popeye arms, though his body was more reminiscent of Bluto. The other two were fielders, Dash and Sprint in my recollection, Johnny Unitas All American look alikes right down to their short crewcuts. They didn't appear to have an ounce of fat on their lithe, compact physiques and they could run like steam engines. "They've only got four guys," I shouted in amazement, nudging by father. "Feigner doesn't need any more than that," he replied, tongue in cheek. Before I could raise an objection, the King pitched to the batter and my education commenced. His underhand windup seemed no better than those I had previously witnessed on Sundays at the home park, where I sometimes stopped to watch an inning or two of pick-up games. There the resemblance ended. I could see that the ball was no longer in the King's hand, but my eyes were unaccustomed to the speed and power of his blazing delivery. Rather, I heard it pop noisily into Snooker's mitt, in spite of the crowd's clatter. He proved this by plucking the huge sphere out of the gigantic webbing with his thick, right hand. Sounds of that decibel nature are more usually reserved for cracks of the bat, not catches. The pitch was accompanied by a chorus of unison oohs and ahs from the fans. I swear it took me three innings before I could train my eyes to isolate the ball in mid flight, it was hurled that quickly. "100 miles an hour at least," commented dad with assurance, smiling at my disbelief. "The catcher needs to be big with steel wrists." That was under-expressed. Most softball pitchers barely achieve 85. Subsequent pitches showed the accuracy of that statement and the comparison to the Cardinal pitcher was ludicrous. I don't know how anyone can receive a Feigner pitch without a custom mitt, reinforced meatlocker hands and natural padding along with whatever science can provide to cushion the King's lethal bombardment. Perhaps he has a backup roster of self-destructive, masochistic giants waiting in the wings for their opportunity to be pounded into oblivion. Snooker, drenched and quite red after the game, sweated off at least ten pounds, a clear testimonial to the formidable nature of Feigner's arm. The Cardinals were supposed to be the cream of the crop, I later learned. I'm sure they would have fared better aginst a normal opponent. The score, after two outs in the bottom of the 3rd, was 7-0 in favor of the King. I began to focus on the contest with heightened interest. The batter was the Cardinal pitcher, a man with stand-out veins in his ropy, hairy arms. He did his best to appear menacing at the plate, but was unable to get the bat around on the first two strikes, right down the middle. He was lucky to make contact with the next salvo but the impetus of the missile revealed the futility of hitting a Feigner laser bolt without perfect timing. There was a dull, sickening thud against wood, like a cannon shot piercing a tree. The ball limped and wobbled into the King's waiting glove and the inning was over, nine men having struck out in succession. His numberless victims readily attest to the fact that he is the most difficult pitcher to hit, let alone score upon. It doesn't matter that they know where he is going to throw it. He can also vary his style with a selection of wicked curved and offbeat stuff, should he sense a batter's ability to gauge his fastball. It was the quartet's turn in the 4th. Feigner makes no claims as a hitter and accumulated the outs for his team. The others are remarkable in and of themselves. Dash and Sprint could do more than field exceptionally well but could place the ball where they wanted and run the bases with superior agility. Time after time they stretched singles into doubles and doubles into triples. Snooker was a quantum leap better than anyone else on either team at the plate. I saw him hit three immense homers well beyond the centerfield fence and his lesser shots were not cheap by any means. For a big man, he was neither slow nor cumbersome. The score soon became a joke and the Court visibly settled into the next phase of their game, entertainment. Laughter and hopelessness reverberated in the Cardinal dugout, though they showed good sportsmanship about being smeared so badly and took their punishment like men. Two of my questions were answered in the 5th. How did the King handle a runner at 1st? He walked a batter, probably on purpose for the exhibition. He was off the rubber slightly when he made as if to pitch to the next batter when the runner took an infinitessimal lead. Dash didn't hold the man on at all and Sprint was between short and the outfield. Feigner's windup went quickly behind his back as he fired the ball like a rifle shot, accurately and unbelievingly , regardless of the awkward angle, into Dash's diving, outstretched glove. This mesmerized everyone including the runner who was easily picked off. People just shook their heads at the feat. "I told you," said dad. "He's the King!" "Wow!" was all I could think of. Behind his back. How did the Court handle the rare, legitimate hit, I wondered? A Cardinal managed to lift one to right, the first of three decent connections that day, the others being caught because they were high pop-ups to center field. Sprint picked it up at the fence after a rapid jog while the runner attempted an inside-the-park home run. Feigner was at 2nd for the relay while Snooker braced himself for collision, looking like a whale with cleats. The King gunned the relay like a tracer bullet, just as the prematurely grinning Cardinal started his slide, egged on deliberately by Dash. He was called out at the plate by a hair, trading his grin for the ump's normally grim countenance. One doesn't often witness officials smiling like that fellow did when he took off his mask to shake his bewildered head. With Feigner in the equation, a four man team makes sense. Lesser limbs could never pull off the plays I was being shown. Obviously, they had the timing town to precision. During the 6th, Feigner opted for more showmanship, striking out one batter while blindfolded, another from 2nd base and a 3rd from between his legs. You could taste the exasperation in the Cardinal dugout, though there was more admiration than hostility. They were as dumbstruck by the devastation as the rest of us, excepting my father who twiddled his thumbs in amusement. The spectator's cheers grew more raucous for the heroic King with each passing inning. "I didn't think anyone could do that." "Hard to believe, in spite of seeing it." "The man's a Houdini." Feigner struck out three times in the 6th, using a tiny, impossible bat. I became intimately familiar with speed in that inning. Dash and Sprint were on 1st and 3rd when Snooked caromed a shot off the leftfield fence. Dash scored easily from 1st. Sprint befuddled the Cardinals by running to 2nd, the wrong way, shaking hands with Snooker who blasted into 3rd after shaking hands on 2nd. True, it's illegal to do that, but no one objected and it was fun to watch. Fans continued to pay homage as vendors walked among us barking their wares of beer, soda and hot dogs. The air was thick with comments amidst the popcorn and mustard aromas. "Feigner's a genius." "Never seen nuttin' like it." "Talk about talent." My father glanced at me after we overheard these tributes. I nodded my understanding, smiling as we turned to watch the continuation of the show, wondering how the King would top off the performance. The 7th answered this question with the greatest play I have ever seen. It was so spectacular that the King and his Court were applauded with a long, sustained ovation of appreciation and awe. Feigner walked. Snooker and Sprint singled to load the bases. Dash came to the plate nonchalantly and proceeded to create an absolute, stupendous miracle, a play that has remained with me all my life. The Cardinal pitcher released the ball, Dash having waited for one in a specific location. He crossed the plate before the ball arrived and ran toward 1st, gently and artistically leveraging the bat behind him in the air. There was no time for us lesser mortals to gasp at the stunning move. How could anyone start running before hitting the ball? That question was answered with a sparkle. The bat hung suspended for a second where it made perfect contact with the pitch, totally silencing the spectators for an instant. Dash was halfway to 1st with Snooker sliding home as the bat laid down a perfect bunt down the 3rd base line. Nothing will ever dispel the magic of that display. It required tremendous athletic ability, fantastic coordination and the most cunning intellect possible to pull it off. People went absolutely wild after that one, for they were knowing baseball folk, accustomed to traveling to New York for Yankee, Dodger and Giant pro games. They knew the worth of what they had just seen and the howls were terrific. The poor Cardinals, who had long lost any sympathy from the fans, stood impotently in the dust, hanging their heads limply with clenched fists on their hips. To their inestimable credit, many tipped their hats to the wizardry of the Court in homage. The King was mobbed after the game as he well deserved. "What'd you think?" asked my father. "You were right, dad," I replied. "Nobody can beat him. I'll never forget it." "Happy birthday, son." Feigner features newer weaponry today with a stable of journeymen, still barnstorming America with exhibitions, still eliciting major unbelievability wherever he decides to hold court, often giving the proceeds to charity. He is at least in his mid 70's now and limits his energies to a few innings, though the arm is still durable and golden. With him as the exception to the rule, all pitchers retire in their 40's before age withers them on the mound and makes them look feeble. Not so the King, who has publicly declared his intention to die on the throne, a fitting tribute to the greatest man to cast the hide-covered orb with such boldness, strength and skill. God save the King, Eddie Feigner, who's diamond decrees taught me insight and a genuine love for the game. W.A.Rieser |
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