Crash, Sonny, Clarkie, and Dr. J

 “I’ll play first, third, left.  I’ll play anywhere – except Philadelphia.”  Dick Allen

I loved watching Dick Allen play baseball with flair and authority.  Before joining the Philadelphia Phillies, he was the first Black player on Little Rock’s Arkansas Travelers; segregationists not only booed him but held protests demanding his ouster.  When Allen joined the parent club in 1964, sportswriters dubbed him Richie, like Whiz Kid Richie Ashburn despite his objections that Richie was a kid’s name and he’d always been Dick.  He enjoyed a stellar season, earning Rookie-of-the-Year honors for a half dozen slugging honors. I attended many home games before heading off to Virginia Law School.  With 12 games left, the Phils had a six and a half game lead in the National League, then dropped ten in a row despite Allen batting over .400 during that harrowing stretch.  Listening from Charlottesville on radio, I sensed doom when Chico Ruiz stole home in the ninth for a Reds 1-0 victory. The following year in the clubhouse, Allen stood up to Frank Thomas, known to be a racist and bully, and Thomas hit him with a bat.  Management released Thomas the following day but refused to allow anyone to divulge details.  Some fans blamed Allen and threw fruit, ice, and flashlight batteries at him when he took the field.  He began wearing a batting helmet both on offense and defense, acquiring the nickname “Crash,” short for “Crash Helmet.”  After Allen hit several 500-feet-plus HRs that left the ballpark, Willie Stargell joked that folks booed him because he hits the ball so far, there are no souvenirs. The situation got so dire that Allen began writing “Trade me” in the dirt.

 

Allen had a sweet tenor singing voice and recorded soul tunes with a group called the Ebonics.  Asked to perform at halftime of a Philadelphia 76ers game, Allen drew boos as he began but got a standing ovation after the Ebistonics completed their short set. Ah, The City of Brotherly Love, whose fans famously booed Santa but fell in love with Charles Barkley and Alan Iverson, and eventually came to appreciate Dick Allen.

In 1970 Philadelphia traded Allen to the Cardinals for Curt Flood, who refused to report and sued (unsuccessfully) to be a free agent.  Instead, the Phillies obtained Willie Montanez, who became a fan favorite nicknamed “Willie the Philly.” Two years later, Allen came to the White Sox in a trade for Tommy John and had an MVP season that probably saved the Chicago franchise from moving to Florida. I became an instant White Sox fan and attended several games.  Once, sitting in leftfield, I watched a line drive off Allen’s bat appear to be rising as it landed in the stands ten rows above me.  In one game in spacious Comiskey Park he had a record two inside-the-park home runs. It was a glorious year to be a Dick Allen fan.

 

In 1975, amazingly, Allen was back on the Phillies, thanks to lobbying by All-Stars Mike Schmidt and Larry Bowa. I began an evening practice of trying to pick up the Philadelphia radio station (WFIL, I believe) on the car radio dial while in phone contact with Philadelphian Fred Chary, doing the same thing. Once, in the ninth inning, Allen shocked everyone, including this listener, by laying down a bunt single to drive in the winning run. The Phils finished second that year and first in 1976 before bowing in the playoffs, the club’s first in a quarter-century, to Cincinnati’s “Big Red Machine” with Johnny Bench, Pete Rose, Joe Morgan, and Tony Perez. When incompetent Phillies manager Danny Ozark had left off the playoff roster Tony Taylor, who had been a Philly since 1961 through all the hard times and had a quite good .261 batting average as a pinch hitter, Allen had raised a ruckus.  Management decided he was expendable. 

 

In 1977, playing for the Angels, Allen opted to retire in midseason and return to his Pennsylvania horse race farm.  Hearing the news, I called Sox owner Bill Veeck to suggest bringing Allen back to the “Windy City,” where he was beloved. Veeck’s secretary put the call right through; Veeck told me he made Allen a generous offer; Allen thanked him and declined.

 

When Allen and Tim Whitaker put together Allen’s autobiography, he decided to title it “Crash,” a nickname that he embraced.  Regarding artificial turf, he quipped that “if a horse can’t eat it, I don’t want to play on it.”  Famously averse to batting practice and hitting pitches that in no way resembled game conditions, he noted: “Your body is just like a bar of soap.”  It gradually wears down from repeated use.” While some setbacks were self-inflicted, more often the pressures came from management, sportswriters and fans who, in his opinion, took the fun out of baseball.

In recent years the Phillies have honored Allen and sportswriters once his nemesis have endorsed his enshrinement in Canton. Last year he fell one vote short of entering baseball’s Hall of Fame.  Let’s hope “Crash” lives to get in, he’s more than earned the honor.  Allen was popular with fellow players and had their respect.  White Sox teammate Rich “Goose” Gossage said, “I've been around the game a long time, and he's the greatest player I've ever seen play in my life.  He's the smartest baseball man I've ever been around in my life. He taught me how to pitch from a hitter's prospective, and taught me how to play the game right.”  Manager Chuck Tanner concurred: “Dick was the leader of our team, the captain, the manager on the field. He took care of the young kids, took them under his wing. And he played every game as if it was his last day on earth.”

 

My favorite football player, Hall of Famer Sonny Jurgensen, was born in Wilmington, North Carolina, in 1934 and in high school starred in the three major sports as well as tennis.  At Duke he played defensive back as well as quarterback.  Drafted in the fourth round of the1957 draft by my Philadelphia Eagles, he backed up QB Norm Van Brocklin during the 1960 championship season.  I attended the final game since a friend’s uncle was athletic director at Penn, hosting the game Philadelphia’s Franklin Field when tickets weren’t hard to come by.  In 1961 with Van Brocklin retired Jurgensen set NFL records for passing yardage and touchdowns.  The Eagles finished 10-4 but lost the deciding game, 28-24, to the 10-3-1 Giants when punter Don Chandler faked being roughed, drawing a 15-yard penalty. 

 

By 1966 when I started grad school at Maryland, Sonny had been traded to Washington, and I got to watch his heroics and root for the team then known as the Redsskins. In 1969, legendary Packer coach Vince Lombardi became took over the team, and skeptics doubted they’d get along; but they were dead wrong.  Washington had its first winning season in years and Lombardi, forced to retire when stricken with cancer, called Jurgensen the best quarterback he’d ever seen, who “hangs in there under adverse conditions.”   When Jurgensen was injured the following year, new coach George Allen signed journeyman Billy Kilmer, who, much to my chagrin, remained the starter in 1972.  In the Superbowl against the undefeated Miami Dolphins, Allen stubbornly kept Kilmer in despite the offense producing zero points until less than a minute to go. In 1974, Sonny’s final year, he won the passing title despite spitting time with Kilmer. He then commenced a career as a color commentator until his retirement just last year. His gentle Carolina drawl, good sense of humor, and unchallenged expertise made him a natural.

Because Philadelphia did not have a professional ice hockey team until 1969, my first introduction to the sport came when my family moved to a Detroit suburb in the mid-1950s at a time when the Red Wings were dominant led by Gordie Howe, Alex Delvecchio, Glenn Hall, and Ted Lindsey.  Saturday evenings, the Canadian TV station broadcast a game featuring either the Maple Leafs or the mighty Canadians. Though I couldn’t ice skate very well, my brother and I would compete in our rec room with tennis balls. Moving to Northwest Indiana in 1970, I began watching Chicago Black Hawk games and cheered for Bobby Hull, Stan Mikita, and goalie Tony Esposito. The 1971 Stanley Cup finals got my attention, as Chicago went up 3 games to 2 before bowing to the mighty Canadians due to the heroics of Montreal goalie Ken Dryden.

 

Before long, however, my loyalties belonged to the Philadelphia Flyers, thanks in large part to Bobby Clarke. Born in 1949 in Flin Flon, Manitoba, Clarke, despite growing up with diabetes and undersized compared to most teammates, played with the flair of an crafty veteran and the heart of a lion. Not yet 21, he was an NHL All-Star his rookie season.  In 1974 the Flyers reached the Stanley Cup finals against heavily-favored Bruins led by center Phil Espisito and Bobby Orr, perhaps the greatest defenseman of all time. After losing game one in Boston, Clarke scored an overtime goal in game 2 to even the series. In game 3, I was at a party and listened to the final minutes of the Flyers victory in the host’s bathroom. By game six the Flyers needed to clinch at home or play game 7 in hostile Boston Garden.  It happened that we were in New Jersey watching with brother-in-law Sonny, an ardent fan who had taught his youngest daughter to shout “Bernie-eee,” the first name of goalie Bernie Parent. Management brought singer Kate Smith in as a good luck charm to sing “God Bless America.”  The game was scoreless until Clarke and Orr got in a fight; while both were in the penalty box, Flyer Rick MacLeish scored the only goal of the game. With a minute left, Clarke stole the puck and was pulled down from behind by Orr, drawing a penalty and clinching the victory.  Philadelphia became the first NHL expansion team to win the Stanley Cup.  Clarke had won 48 of 66 face-offs from Esposito during the series and pretty much neutralized Orr. The following week, one of the largest crowds in history attended the victory parade.

 

The Flyers would repeat in 1974-1975 and reach the finals in 1976, during which time they became known as the Broad Street Bullies for their rough style of play personified by “enforcer Dave “Dutch” Schultz.  By then I had purchased an official Flyers jersey with Clarke’s number 16 on the back.  Though Black Hawks home games were inevitably sell-outs, Milan Andrejevich managed to obtain 2 standing-room-only tickets, and I naively showed up wearing the Flyers jersey. Less than a minute into the game, Keith Magnuson gave Clarke a hard check into the boards.  Coach Freddy Shero immediately sent Schultz into the game, who made a beeline for Magnuson and began pummeling him as someone near me yelled, “Get him, Schultzie.” Eyes turned to our section, and there I was, standing with my Flyers jersey in full view.  After someone almost spilled beer on my head, I spent the rest of the game wearing my trench coat.

Clarke in 2011

Clarke played his entire 15-year career with the Flyers and over 30 years as the franchise’s general manager and senior vice president.  In 1,144 games he scored a remarkable 1,210 points; and his grit and crowd-pleasing charisma, punctuated by a boyish, toothless grin and wink, made “Clarkie” by far my favorite hockey player ever.

 

Julius Erving, my favorite basketball player and a class act, revolutionized his sport by turning slam dunks into pure artistry and in addition was a consummate team player who brought Philadelphia its first and only NBA title since Wilt Chamberlain left town with the city’s Warriors franchise.  Born in 1950 in East Meadow, New York, he claimed a friend started calling him “the Doctor” after he nicknamed his buddy “the Professor.” When onlookers on a Harlem playground called him “Houdini” and the “Black Moses,” he told them his nickname was “the Doctor,” which morphed into Dr. J.  After two years starring a UMass, Erving turned pro and played for the Virginia Squires and New York Nets in the expansion ABA, whose teams adapted an exciting, offensive-minded style in contrast to the more traditional NBA.  Dr. J, though not the first player to slam dunk the ball, invented acrobatic moves, often starting 15 or 20 feet from the basket, that were unprecedented.

When the ABA and NBA merged in 1976, the Philadelphia 76ers acquired Erving from the Nets, and the franchise immediately went from cellar-dweller to title contender. Teamed with former ABA star George McGinnis, future Hall of Famer Lloyd Free, Doug Collins, and Darryl Dawkins, a colorful big man known as “Chocolate Thunder,” the 76ers reached the NBA finals against the Portland Trail Blazers coached by canny Jack Ramsey and featuring Bill Walton, Maurice Lucas, and Lionel Hollins. The Sixers took a two-game lead, but momentum swung after Dawkins and Maurice Lucas got in a brawl.  Portland won the next two at home and then stole game 5 in Philly despite Dr. J’s 37 points.  In game 6 at Portland Erving scored 40 and the game was tie, 107-107.  I was at Paul Kern’s Miller apartment on a warm June day.  With less than 20 seconds to go, Lloyd Free literally got mugged attempting a shot but no foul was called.  Portland scored at the buzzer to deny the Sixers the championship.

 

Dr. J in "The Fish That Saved Pittsburgh (1979)

Starting in 1980, with Larry Bird joining Celtics, Boston and Philadelphia vied in the Eastern Division finals four out of five years. In 1980 and 1982 the Sixers prevailed only to lose to the talent-laden L.A. Lakers led by Magic Johnson and Kareen Abdul Jabbar. Then the Sixers acquired dominant big man Moses Malone and came within one game of fulfilling Malone’s prediction of “four-four-four” – winning every playoff game but one.  Erving showed his versatility by setting up teammates Maurice Cheeks, Anthony Toney, Bobby Jones, and Malone.

 

Dr. J proved to be a gentleman on and off the court and paved the way for superstars such as Michael Jordon, who strove to emulate Erving’s demeanor as the face of his franchise. By the time he retired after the 1987 season, Dr. J had broken almost all team records and is considered one of the two dozen best players of all time.  I recall his final All-Star game appearance when he showed off all his moves and scored 22 points.  I teared up as he accepted the MVP trophy, knowing an era was ending. On my Glen Park Eagles softball team Terry Hunt nicknamed me Dr. J and had “Doc” inscribed on my jersey.