Schoolboy: The Untold Journey of a Yankees Hero
Autor Waite Hoyt, Tim Manners Cuvânt înainte de Bob Costasen Limba Engleză Hardback – apr 2024
Based on a trove of Hoyt’s writings and interview transcripts, Tim Manners has reanimated the baseball legend’s untold story, entirely in Hoyt’s own words. Schoolboy dives straight into early twentieth-century America and the birth of modern-day baseball, as well as Hoyt’s defining conflict: Should he have pursued something more respectable than being the best pitcher on the 1927 New York Yankees, arguably the greatest baseball team of all time?
Over his twenty-three-year professional baseball career, Hoyt won 237 big league games across 3,845 ⅔ innings—and one locker room brawl with Babe Ruth. He also became a vaudeville star who swapped dirty jokes with Mae West and drank champagne with Al Capone, a philosophizer who bonded with Lou Gehrig over the meaning of life, and a funeral director who left a body chilling in his trunk while pitching an afternoon game at Yankee Stadium.
Hoyt shares his thoughts on famous moments in the golden age of baseball history; assesses baseball legends, including Ty Cobb, Stan Musial, and Pete Rose; and describes the strategies of baseball managers John McGraw, Miller Huggins, and Connie Mack. He writes at length about the art of pitching and how the game and its players changed—and didn’t—over his lifetime. After retiring from baseball at thirty-eight and coming to terms with his alcoholism, Hoyt found some happiness as a family man and a beloved, pioneering Cincinnati Reds radio sportscaster with a Websterian vocabulary spiked with a Brooklyn accent.
When Hoyt died in 1984 his foremost legacy may have been as a raconteur who punctuated his life story with awe-inspiring and jaw-dropping anecdotes. In Schoolboy he never flinches from an unsparing account of his remarkable and paradoxical eighty-four-year odyssey.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9781496236791
ISBN-10: 1496236793
Pagini: 260
Ilustrații: 21 photographs
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 15 mm
Greutate: 0.57 kg
Editura: Nebraska
Colecția University of Nebraska Press
Locul publicării:United States
ISBN-10: 1496236793
Pagini: 260
Ilustrații: 21 photographs
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 15 mm
Greutate: 0.57 kg
Editura: Nebraska
Colecția University of Nebraska Press
Locul publicării:United States
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Notă biografică
Waite Hoyt (1899–1984) pitched twenty-one seasons in the Major Leagues, most notably with the Yankees’ first dynasty, leading them to three World Series championships in the 1920s. He played for a total of seven clubs before retiring in 1938. Hoyt became a popular broadcaster for the Cincinnati Reds and was elected to the National Baseball Hall of Fame in 1969. Tim Manners is a writer, communications consultant, and baseball fan. Bob Costas was a broadcaster for NBC Sports television for four decades and now does play-by-play and commentary work for MLB, MLB Network, and CNN.
Extras
1
The Family Web
The original Hoyts were from Manchester, Vermont. My father’s
mother’s maiden name was Waite. It makes a strange first name for a
child. It’s not like John or Tom or Frank or Henry or Jim. When there’s
trouble and someone says, “Who did that?” there are lots of guys by
the name of Jim. Which Jim was it? But when they say it was some guy
with a strange name, it could only be me, Waite Hoyt.
When I was attending school at PS 90 in Brooklyn, we had a fire drill
one day and lined up in the hall. I gave the kid ahead of me a shove,
and he inadvertently pushed the kid ahead of him, which knocked
down about twelve others. The principal called my mother and said I
had knocked down twelve boys. How in the hell could one guy like me
knock down twelve kids? I was lucky if I could knock down one, but
they all fell down anyway.
I was a kid born to trouble, and being named Waite didn’t do me
much good.
I was born on Second Place in Brooklyn, but while I was still an infant,
we moved out to Hawthorne Street in Flatbush. It was a beautiful place.
The oak and chestnut trees were planted near the curb and, in full
bloom, would reach over toward each other and sort of shake hands.
My earliest memory is when I was about four years old. The streets
of Brooklyn in 1904 were not paved, and out in front of our house
at 241 Hawthorne, the avenue was badly rutted. Vegetable hucksters
came through with their carts and wagons, which completely tore up
the streets.
My dad was such an enthusiastic baseball man. He and a neighbor
named Herman Bank created a baseball diamond, Hawthorne Field,
about three blocks down from us. It was quite an athletic field. Dad
played third base on a team called the Hawthornes and was a pretty
good ballplayer. Heinie Zimmerman, who at the time was playing with
the Chicago Cubs, I believe, brought an exhibition team down there,
and the Hawthornes beat them.
Dad would take me out and teach me how to catch a ball, field, and
throw. We’d stand in the middle of the street, and the ball would bounce
badly because of those ruts. Once in a while I’d get hit in the face,
throat, or neck, and he would yell, “Keep your head down! Keep your
head down!” If I cried, he’d shout, “Shame on you! Shame on you!”
Every good ballplayer keeps his head down on ground balls, and I
had to learn this no matter how much it hurt because, as my father
said, you have to accept the bad with the good. I was taught to scoop
up the ball with a backward motion. Fielders don’t shove their hand
forward because that knocks the ball away.
My father would stand behind me, grab my wrists, bring my arms
above and behind my head and then propel my right arm forward. He
repeated this until I could do it by myself. Then a body turn was added,
and finally, I was given an actual ball to throw. At first, we’d throw it
back and forth on the lawn and then across the street, about fifty feet. I
could just about reach him. Little by little I grew stronger and stronger.
He would toss the ball high in the air, and I was supposed to catch it.
Of course, I missed a lot. I had trouble finding it in the air.
I can still smell that baseball. It was made of horsehide and just had
an aroma of its own: lovely, lovely—clean and burnished in a sacrificial
aura, soon to be hit and scuffed. To a young disciple of the game, it was
a thing of beauty to be petted, turned, and tossed with careful affection.
Actually, there were several kinds of baseballs. The nickel rocket was
stuffed with old scraps of leather, and then there was the ten-cent ball;
the twenty-five-cent lively bounder, which was rubber-centered and
bounced like a golf ball; the fifty-cent ball; the seventy-five-cent ball;
the dollar Junior League size, a big ball. Then of course there was the
regular League ball, which cost a dollar and a quarter.
Gradually, the knack for throwing a baseball came to me, and oh,
my father was so overjoyed. He told me that his grandfather (Walter
Fowler Hoyt) invented the curveball. Others have made that claim, of
course. In any case, I’m quite sure my great-grandfather’s curveball was
better than mine. I never did get the hang of that curveball.
The Family Web
The original Hoyts were from Manchester, Vermont. My father’s
mother’s maiden name was Waite. It makes a strange first name for a
child. It’s not like John or Tom or Frank or Henry or Jim. When there’s
trouble and someone says, “Who did that?” there are lots of guys by
the name of Jim. Which Jim was it? But when they say it was some guy
with a strange name, it could only be me, Waite Hoyt.
When I was attending school at PS 90 in Brooklyn, we had a fire drill
one day and lined up in the hall. I gave the kid ahead of me a shove,
and he inadvertently pushed the kid ahead of him, which knocked
down about twelve others. The principal called my mother and said I
had knocked down twelve boys. How in the hell could one guy like me
knock down twelve kids? I was lucky if I could knock down one, but
they all fell down anyway.
I was a kid born to trouble, and being named Waite didn’t do me
much good.
I was born on Second Place in Brooklyn, but while I was still an infant,
we moved out to Hawthorne Street in Flatbush. It was a beautiful place.
The oak and chestnut trees were planted near the curb and, in full
bloom, would reach over toward each other and sort of shake hands.
My earliest memory is when I was about four years old. The streets
of Brooklyn in 1904 were not paved, and out in front of our house
at 241 Hawthorne, the avenue was badly rutted. Vegetable hucksters
came through with their carts and wagons, which completely tore up
the streets.
My dad was such an enthusiastic baseball man. He and a neighbor
named Herman Bank created a baseball diamond, Hawthorne Field,
about three blocks down from us. It was quite an athletic field. Dad
played third base on a team called the Hawthornes and was a pretty
good ballplayer. Heinie Zimmerman, who at the time was playing with
the Chicago Cubs, I believe, brought an exhibition team down there,
and the Hawthornes beat them.
Dad would take me out and teach me how to catch a ball, field, and
throw. We’d stand in the middle of the street, and the ball would bounce
badly because of those ruts. Once in a while I’d get hit in the face,
throat, or neck, and he would yell, “Keep your head down! Keep your
head down!” If I cried, he’d shout, “Shame on you! Shame on you!”
Every good ballplayer keeps his head down on ground balls, and I
had to learn this no matter how much it hurt because, as my father
said, you have to accept the bad with the good. I was taught to scoop
up the ball with a backward motion. Fielders don’t shove their hand
forward because that knocks the ball away.
My father would stand behind me, grab my wrists, bring my arms
above and behind my head and then propel my right arm forward. He
repeated this until I could do it by myself. Then a body turn was added,
and finally, I was given an actual ball to throw. At first, we’d throw it
back and forth on the lawn and then across the street, about fifty feet. I
could just about reach him. Little by little I grew stronger and stronger.
He would toss the ball high in the air, and I was supposed to catch it.
Of course, I missed a lot. I had trouble finding it in the air.
I can still smell that baseball. It was made of horsehide and just had
an aroma of its own: lovely, lovely—clean and burnished in a sacrificial
aura, soon to be hit and scuffed. To a young disciple of the game, it was
a thing of beauty to be petted, turned, and tossed with careful affection.
Actually, there were several kinds of baseballs. The nickel rocket was
stuffed with old scraps of leather, and then there was the ten-cent ball;
the twenty-five-cent lively bounder, which was rubber-centered and
bounced like a golf ball; the fifty-cent ball; the seventy-five-cent ball;
the dollar Junior League size, a big ball. Then of course there was the
regular League ball, which cost a dollar and a quarter.
Gradually, the knack for throwing a baseball came to me, and oh,
my father was so overjoyed. He told me that his grandfather (Walter
Fowler Hoyt) invented the curveball. Others have made that claim, of
course. In any case, I’m quite sure my great-grandfather’s curveball was
better than mine. I never did get the hang of that curveball.
Cuprins
Foreword by Bob Costas
Preface by Tim Manners
Prologue: Brick by Brick
Part 1
1. The Family Web
2. There Goes Our Boy
3. Odyssey of Oddities
4. In the Bag
5. Great Big Fellas
6. When Schoolboys Cry
7. The Joy Clubs
8. Miss Scoville’s Advice
9. A Bath in Badness
Part 2
10. Industrial Strength
11. Red Sox Hop
12. Me and the Babe
13. Turn of the Twenties
14. Art of Baseball
15. Young and a Yankee
16. The Merry Mortician
17. The Roaring Yankees
18. Little Big Hug
Part 3
19. Skating with Lou
20. Dear Ellen
21. The Unartful Dodger
22. Radio Days
23. The Last Drink
24. Then and Now
Epilogue: Christopher’s Question
Acknowledgments
Preface by Tim Manners
Prologue: Brick by Brick
Part 1
1. The Family Web
2. There Goes Our Boy
3. Odyssey of Oddities
4. In the Bag
5. Great Big Fellas
6. When Schoolboys Cry
7. The Joy Clubs
8. Miss Scoville’s Advice
9. A Bath in Badness
Part 2
10. Industrial Strength
11. Red Sox Hop
12. Me and the Babe
13. Turn of the Twenties
14. Art of Baseball
15. Young and a Yankee
16. The Merry Mortician
17. The Roaring Yankees
18. Little Big Hug
Part 3
19. Skating with Lou
20. Dear Ellen
21. The Unartful Dodger
22. Radio Days
23. The Last Drink
24. Then and Now
Epilogue: Christopher’s Question
Acknowledgments
Recenzii
"Blindsidingly fantastic. . . . Could be the most entertaining and don’t-put-down baseball book for the '24 season."—Tom Hoffarth, fartheroffthewall.com
"Tim Manners wound up writing an autobiography of Yankees great and Reds announcer Waite Hoyt. The miracle is, Hoyt passed 40 years ago, in 1984. The book? It sat unfinished in a box of Hoyt's things. Fate waited for someone to discover its existence . . . . Magic.”—Pete A. Turner, The Break it Down Show
"A fascinating read. . . . Wonderful job. . . . Highly recommended!"—Chris Russo, Mad Dog Radio, Sirius XM
“Guided by the deft hand of Tim Manners, Waite Hoyt shares rollicking stories and sharp insights from a Hall of Fame career fashioned at the dawning of a dynasty unrivaled in sports: the New York Yankees. Manners takes us back to the days of Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig—and well beyond—through the eyes of an early mound master whose story can finally be told.”—Tyler Kepner, baseball columnist for the New York Times and best-selling author of K: A History of Baseball in Ten Pitches
“From the trove of writings left behind by Hall of Fame pitcher Waite Hoyt, Tim Manners has woven together a warm, intensely candid, and very human story of the highest realms of success as well as the coldest moments of the ultimate realities. Very few baseball biographies have the range of triumph and anguish, of poignance and redemption, as this self-told tale of the ace of the legendary 1927 Yankees.”—Donald Honig, author of Baseball When the Grass Was Real
“What a great find to tell the story in Hoyt’s own words.”—David Maraniss, author of Path Lit by Lightning: The Life of Jim Thorpe
“Nearly forty years after his passing, baseball’s greatest storyteller finally tells his own story in his own words. From baseball to vaudeville to broadcasting, and just about anything and everything in between, Waite Hoyt led baseball’s most unique and eclectic life. Tim Manners painstakingly pieces together moments and memories to reveal fascinating insight into not just Hoyt but also the times he lived in. Hoyt’s story needed to be told, and like his legendary rain delay stories, Schoolboy makes it worth the wait. . . . What a wonderful read!”—Lance McAlister, host of 700WLW Sports, Cincinnati
“For baseball fans, the University of Nebraska Press is a perennial MVP—most valuable publisher. This biography shows why. Waite Hoyt, an underappreciated cog in a great Yankee machine, had a two-decade Major League career that illuminates the game a century ago.”—George F. Will, author of Men at Work: The Craft of Baseball
“The Yankees famed ‘Murderers’ Row’ era wasn’t just about the power of Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig. There were Hall of Fame–bound pitchers on that great team as well, none more prominent than the colorful local star Waite Hoyt, whose life story continues to fascinate students of the game’s history.”—Marty Appel, Yankees historian and author of Pinstripe Empire
“Manners’s skillfully edited and seamless narrative, compiled from Hall of Famer Waite Hoyt’s lifetime of memories, is a real baseball treasure. Success, failure, doubts, and achievements, in baseball and Hoyt’s personal life, are all here in his own words. This book will enhance Hoyt’s status as a baseball star, as well as a man.”—Alan D. Gaff, author of Lou Gehrig: The Lost Memoir
Descriere
The never-before-published memoir of Waite Hoyt, Hall of Fame pitcher for the New York Yankees in their first dynasty decade, longtime Cincinnati Reds broadcaster after his playing career, and vaudeville star, funeral director, oil painter, and alcoholic.