Injuries prematurely ended Charlie Becker's big league dreams, but in his new job as a scout for the Cleveland Indians, he looks for the proverbial diamonds in the rough-amateur ballplayers with the talent and the determination to play major league baseball. When he hears about Randy Wilson, a centerfielder described as "another Mickey Mantle", he makes the trek to tiny St. John's College to see him play. Wilson, a junior at St. John's, displays both power and speed during the game against rival Valparaiso College, and he caps off his impressive performance by slugging a massive 400-foot home run. Becker realizes he might have a future star on his hands, and he offers Wilson a summer job and a spot on a men's team located in southern Illinois. Wilson jumps at the opportunity to hone his athletic skills and experience life outside of Crown Point, Indiana. He hops in his 1949 Ford and heads down Route 66 toward an uncertain future in Ashville, Illinois. From colorful teammates to prison-yard baseball to the Georgia Ann Championship, it would be a summer he would never forget.

One Home Run

By Art Voellinger

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Art Voellinger
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-1066-0

Chapter One

The lyrics of "Night and Day" allowed the driver to hum, share the melody with a Chicago radio station, and reminisce as he turned his well traveled, 1948 black, Buick Roadmaster onto the college campus in northern Indiana.

Reducing the volume with his right hand and then pushing the peanut bag on the passenger side farther back in the seat, he wondered if this trip in early May to scout another ballplayer would be like many others. See a player, recommend him, or place his name on file had become a repetitious routine only a lover of baseball could endure.

Thanks to playing in one professional baseball season after returning from the War, "WW II" as he referred to it, he had met R. W. Johnston, a pitcher whose career lasted much longer than that of his roommate, the catcher who too often blocked home plate too well.

As the song reached "only you beneath the moon and under the sun," he wound through the campus while visualizing the play in a Class D game at Fort Wayne that changed his life.

On a summer night in the lowest level of baseball's minor leagues, he had awaited an outfielder's throw through a steamy haze hovering over the field in the late innings. After clutching the one-hop throw, he leaned to his left in an attempt to block the runner's slide and make a tag only to hear a pop louder than the umpire's call of "out!"

Unfortunately, the aggressive play also featured a torn cartilage resulting in a road map of stitches on the catcher's left knee - a type of autograph marking the end of a pro baseball career.

Yet, the catcher was lucky because of R. W. - Richard Waldo Johnston, who achieved what was called a "cup of coffee" with Cleveland in the major leagues, and later married the daughter of a team executive. Regardless if from friendship or pity, the catcher became a scout and had a job in baseball.

"Another Mickey Mantle" were neatly penned words of a letter partially visible from beneath the peanuts.

As the former catcher turned scout drove past a sign proclaiming "St. John's College" and into a parking space in front of a one-story building, he ignored the reference to the sensational New York Yankees outfielder in deference to a note paper clipped to the letter.

"Charlie, please take a look and phone me ASAP. Regards, R. W."

"What college kid could be like Mantle?" thought the scout.

For Charlie "Peanuts" Becker, being a left-handed batter with power was enough for a Cleveland scout to offer $500 and a bus ticket to the minor leagues. But that was in 1945, and the strapping youth from the Hoosier State never recalled being compared to a Yankee.

After taking a light-weight jacket from the back seat and a worn brief case and folding chair from the trunk of the Buick, Cleveland scout Charlie Becker realized he was being watched but did not hesitate to approach his observer.

"Baseball field around the corner?" he asked a coed whose wholesome appearance stood in contrast to the weathered, brick building which served as a recreation center at St. John's.

"Down that path and around the back of the building," she said as her sun glasses reflected Charlie's stare but not thoughts that had him comparing her to beauties seen only in magazines or on movie theater screens.

"Oh to be in college," he said to himself while admiring each step of the leggy blonde's ascent on stairs leading to the roof top. In addition to serving as a baseball vantage point, the flat surface provided a place to soak in sunlight on a Saturday that erased a winter of memories.

Chapter Two

The finely ground gravel path he took was a first for Charlie, who had no previous need to visit St. John's. Like many other small Indiana colleges, this was a place known more for basketball than baseball. And, as he viewed the playing field that distinguished itself only because its outfield fence looked like the red snow fences he'd seen along two-lane highways, he again understood why he had never been there.

Looking directly toward the north, he knew the wind originating off Lake Michigan less than a hundred miles away could make games more suitable for kite flying than baseball. However, on this day, the noon sunlight contributed to baseball on a field cut from a farm pasture a half century ago but displaying the required home plate, bases and pitching rubber.

"Baseball is baseball," thought Charlie as he approached small metal bleachers behind a backstop that was a far cry from the setting in Chicago where the Indians would be playing the White Sox in a major-league game.

After stationing himself in the first row of the bleachers, he placed his folding chair in a position so that it became a holder for his valise featuring the Indian head of the Cleveland logo. Reaching into a pocket of his jacket, he removed the St. John's schedule and roster R. W. had sent.

St. John's vs. Valparaiso had an interesting ring since it meant a Catholic college opposing the representatives of a Lutheran-based university.

"Would the Pope throw strikes past Martin Luther?" he wondered.

After introducing himself to coach Barton Griffin of St. John's as his team prepared for infield-outfield practice, Charlie sensed the rivalry and its level of intensity.

"Let's get these bastards," said a player with lowered head as he laced his spikes while seated on the long player bench on the third base side.

With rosters in hand, Charlie looked for the name of Randy Wilson as the St. John's starters took the field. Listed third in the batting order and playing center field was No. 27, Wilson, whose particulars had been scribbled on the back side of the roster by his coach in response to the scout and their first meeting.

"Junior, Bats: Left – Throws: Left, 5-11, 180 pounds, Crown Point, Indiana," was limited information preceding equally brief verbal info, including "good kid, .350 hitter, fast, with power, and a strong throwing arm."

The bespectacled, scholarly-looking coach did not have enough pre-game time to expand on Wilson, but Charlie did not mind.

A nine-inning game would allow for enough at-bats not only for him to observe players from both teams, but to appraise the outfielder whose initials were the same as another R. W., but whose talent had best be superior.

In the absence of batting practice, infield-outfield practice provided Charlie with an eye-witness assessment of Wilson's throwing arm. Time and again he threw on-the-fly to second and third base, and both of his throws to home plate sailed past the first baseman as a cutoff target and to the catcher on one bounce.

By then, the scout had adjusted his sun glasses and reached into his valise for a notebook on which he began a player profile. After the first and third innings, he noted how the left-handed batter turned on fast balls thrown by the tall Valparaiso pitcher for first a line drive single and then a double to right center field.

If the logo on his valise and his position behind home plate had not been enough for the handful of fans to determine that a scout was in attendance, Charlie provided final proof when he revealed a stop watch.

No need to double check on the 3.4 seconds the watch recorded. Wilson's home to first base speed was as evident as the enthusiasm he showed after a steal of second in the first inning. A base on balls in the fifth inning prevented additional timing but did reveal the batter's patience...