A Tale of Three Cities: The 1962 Baseball Season in New York, Los Angeles, and San Francisco (review)

Oh, my. How to put this?

Let’s say that if author Steven Travers was a relief pitcher he blew the save after coming in with a three-run lead, two outs in the bottom of the ninth, the bases empty, and an 0-2 count on the seventh-place hitter.

Hopefully this baseball analogy conveys just how thoroughly Travers has failed to execute, to convert on a baseball historian’s can’t-miss opportunity. What more could one ask with regard to set-up: not one, not two, but three of the most vibrant and fascinating cities in the world; three ball clubs (the Yankees, Dodgers, and Giants) bursting with talent, character, and tension, and a fourth (the Mets) hilariously short on talent; a scintillating months-long pennant race and a seven-game, down-to-the-last-line-shot World Series. Toss in the turbulent historical, economic, and political landscape upon which the drama played out, and it’s an embarrassment of content riches—this book just writes itself!

Except, of course, that it doesn’t. The most crucial step from great source material to great book is that of great writing. And here, well, let’s just say that step isn’t capably negotiated. Not that Travers fails to bring enthusiasm to the task: blandness is decidedly not his problem. Travers leaps into the effort all too passionately, instantly surpassing the point at which style and perspective add spice to the brew. The result is an overheated mess.

Consider the opening chapter, which compares and contrasts the relocations of the Dodgers and Giants from New York to California, and the constructions of their respective new ballparks, Dodger Stadium and Candlestick Park. Conceptually, it’s spot on: this is an inherently intriguing situation, presenting not just central characters Walter O’Malley and Horace Stoneham, but all three of the book’s roiling, complex cities. How can Travers foul this up?

Well, let’s start with the simplest factual blunders: the Dodger organization hadn’t once employed General Manager Lee MacPhail, as Travers writes (2), but rather Larry MacPhail, his father. In the inaugural game at Candlestick Park in 1960, Willie Mays didn’t drive in all three Giant runs, as Travers writes (18), but rather they were batted in by Orlando Cepeda. And most assuredly, on the very first batting practice swing Mays ever took at Candlestick, the wind did not “shear his bat in half,” as Travers writes (18)—even at that infamously windswept ballpark, the laws of physics do apply.

But this is far from the worst of it. Awkward, clumsy constructions abound. Time and again, we’re presented with sentences that must be re-read to be deciphered, such as this one concerning Jackie Robinson in 1956: “He was traded to the Giants, but chose to retire instead of becoming a teammate of Willie Mays, possibly returning to his home state to finish out a Hall of Fame career” (8). Huh?

But this, as well, is far from the worst of it. Travers fully fouls up the book by going overboard in expressing his unsubstantiated opinions. Comparing the San Francisco and Los Angeles newspapers, Travers informs us that the northern city’s morning daily, the San Francisco Chronicle, was “a rag” (21), while “Los Angeles excellence manifested itself . . . in the form of The Los Angeles Times” (22). The latter publication was, Travers elaborates, “the best newspaper in the world” (22).

Chronicle columnist Herb Caen, we’re told, “was a talentless hack whose stock in trade was indentifying people more impressive than he was” (21). Caen’s fellow Chronicle columnist Art Hoppe was a “politico” who was “paid good money every first and 15th of the month to dispense lies about America” (21). Meanwhile, Jim Murray of the Times “was, quite simply, the best sportswriter who ever lived” (23).

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