It was golden - Baseball in the '60s and '70s
Neil Leifer. Ballet in the dirt. The golden age of Baseball. Excerpt from the introduction by Ron Shelton.
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When Martin Luther King was writing his letters from the Birmingham jail, when JFK and then his brother were gunned down, when body counts and flag-draped coffins were part of our TV news diet, when Jimi and Janis, free love, Kent State, and civil rights marches to Selma, Alabama, were our daily bread, there existed a parallel universe mostly untouched by these events. There existed the golden age of baseball.
Like most golden ages, I suppose, we didn't know we were in one 'til it was over. I know. I made my living at this game as "property" of the Baltimore Orioles. The Vietnam War was never discussed on team bus trips or in hotels in Little Rock, Amarillo, or Louisville—it was as if the war didn't exist. In fact, baseball players were consumed with only two things, then as now. First, their own statistics, because that is how they are judged. Every hitter knows that when you're suffering through a "one for six" batting slump, your next at-bat is the difference between hitting .143 or .286. Two for seven is .286—you know that as soon as the ball gets through the infield and you're running to first base. The second thing baseball players were consumed by was getting laid. Guys chased women.Women chased guys. And most of the time there wasn't much chasing required. Stats and chicks, numbers and women, bar to bar, ballpark to ballpark—it was an endless journey to hit, to score, to throw the heat, to make the play, to score the ladies—ongoing and forever. Amen.
The church of baseball had no assassinations, no Vietnam, and no protest marches. There was only the game. Through Neil Leifer's eyes we see the beauty of baseball in the 1960s and '70s—the best the game has ever been. The gods are everywhere in Leifer's photographs: Mantle, Mays, Clemente, Koufax... And they look like us, only better. These aren't men with artificially built bodies. These often aren't even very big men—Henry Aaron was slight,Willie Mays was short, and Denny McLain? He's the chunky guy playing a B3 organ in the Holiday Inn lounge. He's also the last pitcher to win 30 games. The game was different then. It was better. That's not nostalgia, that's a fact, and, as Casey Stengel said,"You could look it up"—but if you did look it up you'd discover that Casey stole the line from James Thurber, American humorist. After all, it's OK to steal in baseball.
Today, we live in an age when .280 hitters sign $50 million multiyear contracts. Willie Mays made $100,000 in '66. Contemporary star Alex Rodriguez's agreement guarantees him a quarter billion for ten years. Mays and Mantle, if playing today, would own the team. It all changed in '69 when Curt Flood refused to be traded and became the Rosa Parks of baseball. Eventually, through an arbitration system established in the early 1970s, the hated reserve clause (under which players had a lifetime obligation to their original employer) was killed, freeing them to go to the highest bidder after five years with a single team. Fans cried foul, but a great injustice was corrected, and gradually baseball changed. Throughout the '70s the game stayed pure, even though the 1960s sensibility crept into the game in small ways. Facial hair appeared and baseball caps perched precariously on Afros, colorful and wild. Brawling teams like the brilliant Oakland A's of the early '70s seemed to confirm that social chaos and change would not affect the quality of play. Oakland players fought among themselves incessantly, then walked onto the field and won three World Series in a row. They had a pitcher named Catfish, a pitcher named Blue Moon, and one named Vida Blue. And Reggie and Rudy and Campy and... Neil Leifer was there, not just for the World Series games but for the glorious banality of everyday baseball. The greatest ball players who ever lived played to both packed and empty stadiums. It's a game played every day and, unlike pro football, baseball doesn't wait till Sunday afternoon, just 16 times a year. It doesn't exist as a product of television and the concomitant hype.
Page [1] [2] [3]
Page [1] [2] [3]
When Martin Luther King was writing his letters from the Birmingham jail, when JFK and then his brother were gunned down, when body counts and flag-draped coffins were part of our TV news diet, when Jimi and Janis, free love, Kent State, and civil rights marches to Selma, Alabama, were our daily bread, there existed a parallel universe mostly untouched by these events. There existed the golden age of baseball.
Like most golden ages, I suppose, we didn't know we were in one 'til it was over. I know. I made my living at this game as "property" of the Baltimore Orioles. The Vietnam War was never discussed on team bus trips or in hotels in Little Rock, Amarillo, or Louisville—it was as if the war didn't exist. In fact, baseball players were consumed with only two things, then as now. First, their own statistics, because that is how they are judged. Every hitter knows that when you're suffering through a "one for six" batting slump, your next at-bat is the difference between hitting .143 or .286. Two for seven is .286—you know that as soon as the ball gets through the infield and you're running to first base. The second thing baseball players were consumed by was getting laid. Guys chased women.Women chased guys. And most of the time there wasn't much chasing required. Stats and chicks, numbers and women, bar to bar, ballpark to ballpark—it was an endless journey to hit, to score, to throw the heat, to make the play, to score the ladies—ongoing and forever. Amen.
The church of baseball had no assassinations, no Vietnam, and no protest marches. There was only the game. Through Neil Leifer's eyes we see the beauty of baseball in the 1960s and '70s—the best the game has ever been. The gods are everywhere in Leifer's photographs: Mantle, Mays, Clemente, Koufax... And they look like us, only better. These aren't men with artificially built bodies. These often aren't even very big men—Henry Aaron was slight,Willie Mays was short, and Denny McLain? He's the chunky guy playing a B3 organ in the Holiday Inn lounge. He's also the last pitcher to win 30 games. The game was different then. It was better. That's not nostalgia, that's a fact, and, as Casey Stengel said,"You could look it up"—but if you did look it up you'd discover that Casey stole the line from James Thurber, American humorist. After all, it's OK to steal in baseball.
Today, we live in an age when .280 hitters sign $50 million multiyear contracts. Willie Mays made $100,000 in '66. Contemporary star Alex Rodriguez's agreement guarantees him a quarter billion for ten years. Mays and Mantle, if playing today, would own the team. It all changed in '69 when Curt Flood refused to be traded and became the Rosa Parks of baseball. Eventually, through an arbitration system established in the early 1970s, the hated reserve clause (under which players had a lifetime obligation to their original employer) was killed, freeing them to go to the highest bidder after five years with a single team. Fans cried foul, but a great injustice was corrected, and gradually baseball changed. Throughout the '70s the game stayed pure, even though the 1960s sensibility crept into the game in small ways. Facial hair appeared and baseball caps perched precariously on Afros, colorful and wild. Brawling teams like the brilliant Oakland A's of the early '70s seemed to confirm that social chaos and change would not affect the quality of play. Oakland players fought among themselves incessantly, then walked onto the field and won three World Series in a row. They had a pitcher named Catfish, a pitcher named Blue Moon, and one named Vida Blue. And Reggie and Rudy and Campy and... Neil Leifer was there, not just for the World Series games but for the glorious banality of everyday baseball. The greatest ball players who ever lived played to both packed and empty stadiums. It's a game played every day and, unlike pro football, baseball doesn't wait till Sunday afternoon, just 16 times a year. It doesn't exist as a product of television and the concomitant hype.
Page [1] [2] [3]
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Neil Leifer, Baseball - Ballet in the Dirt
Hardcover, slipcase, 39.6 x 33 cm (15.6 x 13 in.), 302 pages
$ 700.00
$ 700.00
This superb collection of 60s and 70s baseball images reflects the total access Leifer had to the players on the ball field, in the dugout, and in the locker room. Limited to 1,000 copies, each numbered and signed by the photographer.
View from second base, Los Angeles Dodgers vs. Philadelphia Phillies, April 25, 1965. A camera rigged under second base captures the fielder's foot about to step on the bag as Willie Davis of the Dodgers starts to slide, all under the gaze of the crowd packing the multitiered amphitheater of Dodger Stadium. Photo (c) Neil Leifer
Hank Aaron, outfielder, Milwaukee Braves County Stadium, 1964. In the stillness that precedes action, Hank Aaron stands poised and relaxed, bat raised, eyes focused on the pitcher. Known for his impassive, seemingly effortless greatness, he also had the perseverance to set career records for home runs and runs batted in. Aaron set numerous records during his lengthy career, 1954–1976, most notably the career home run record of 755. Photo (c) Neil Leifer