Homage to the Scooter

It occurs to me, not without a small measure of guilt, that I feel the passing of Phil Rizzuto more than the loss of some relatives. This, from a writer who has met and interviewed more than his share of so-called celebrities, but one who is not normally caught up in fame. In my life, I've asked for only two autographs, and one was for a friend.

But the day I first met Phil Rizzuto, I was sniveling pile of mush, ready to let him run me over in the parking lot if it would help preserve the treads on his tires.

Allow me to provide a little context. Now on cusp of age 50, I grew up in the 1960s and came of age in the 1970s. The youngest of an extended family, with older parents, I always had trouble fitting in with the clan. But one thing we all shared was a love of the Yankees. In truth, in my family, it was God, Notre Dame and the Yankees, not necessarily in that order. And the face, the voice, the heart and the soul of the Yankees, particularly following their post-dynasty era beginning in 1965, was Phil Rizzuto.

I was 8 years old in 1965, and all I knew was that the Yankees were the best team. The grown-ups knew times had changed, but I didn't. And neither did Phil. I grew older and wiser, but the Scooter continued to see his beloved Yankees through the eyes of an innocent child. And I loved him for it.

My fondest memories of childhood were of watching the Yankees, as a family, on our plastic black-and-white TV, at least when the vertical hold wasn't on the fritz. When it was, we went upstairs and listened on the radio. Back then, the three TV anchors would rotate to the radio side for three innings apiece, so Phil sometimes would come upstairs with me and keep me posted on the misadventures of Horace Clarke, Ruben Amaro and Joe Pepitone. It took a decade for the Yanks to regain their championship form, but the Scooter kept me faithful to the cause. I could no more turn my back on the Yankees and Phil Rizzuto than I could my own family.

When the game was close, and Rizzuto's buzzing baritone would soar a few octaves, my mother, bless her soul, would get so nervous, she would flee to the kitchen and ask us for updates, because she just couldn't watch. And when he would go off on one of his abstract monologues on movies, current events or the cannolis he just ate, she would laugh until she cried.

Even when I was in college, and rejecting family values for alternative points of view, I couldn't shake the Scooter. As a Rutgers student in the late 1970s, we were early participants in "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" craze, frequently attending midnight shows at the Art Cinema (since razed for an office building). So we were hip to Meatloaf and first on line when his debut album came out. To my amazement, who would be featured on "Paradise by the Dashboard Light"? Get out! Rizzuto? The poor guy, (allegedly) ignorant of the song's sexual connotations, had gone hip without even knowing it. Holy Cow.

Later in life, in a previous career as a salesman at Crazy Eddie's in Union, I got to meet Rizzuto, who shopped there many times, always with his beloved Cora at his side. He was shy and gracious, and bought whatever she liked.

Still later in life, while working in Springfield, I ran into him several times at Stanley's Diner (since razed for a Rite Aid). I greeted him each time, stuck out my hand and he always accepted it with genuine appreciation. Again, always with Cora at his side.

So, while there is some guilt, I don't apologize for loving the man, because he was as lovable as any man who ever walked the earth.

Just ask Cora. Or my mother, may she rest in peace.

Forgive me for getting off topic. But there's no point in being a writer if I let milestones such as the passing of Phil Rizzuto pass silently. And when they finally get around to conducting a public memorial, you will find me among the faithful, wearing a Yankee jersey and a smile.