DON’ I’m deviating from my usual writing style


to share a story that is part baseball and part a tale of a shared magical two hours and six minutes with my mother. I inherited a love of baseball through my


mother’s side of the family. My grandfather played the game until he was in his seven- ties. My brothers and cousins all played ball, but I think I was the most addicted. It was two days before my fourteenth


birthday and game five of the World Series between The New York Yankees (my fa- vorite team) and the Brooklyn Dodgers (not my favorite team) was being played at Yankee Stadium. The series was tied at two games apiece. It was October 8, 1956. Not to bore you, but in those days all the


World Series games were played during the day, and although games were tele- vised most people listened to the games on the radio and virtually everywhere you might go a radio was on. Even in my school the game sounds were played soft- ly over the public address system. The school lunch hour coincided with


the start of the game and I remember viv- idly running the four or five blocks home so that I could watch a few innings of the game on what was our very first television, bought a few months earlier. My mother had my lunch ready and


even let me eat in the living room (a novel- ty). The game was only in the third or fourth inning when my mother said to me “Your lunch hour is almost over, time to turn off the television and head back to


12 PHF MAGAZINE


S CORNER


“The Best Birthday Present Ever” By Don Reed


school.” I, of course, didn’t want to leave and


began pleading my case, “But mom, he’s throwing a no hitter.” “It doesn’t matter, it’s time to go back


to school” she replied. “Can I just stay until someone gets a


hit?” I begged. I could see the word “no” forming on


her lips and I played the only trump card I had, “And you can count it as part of my birthday present.” The “no” went away and was replaced


by “Well…” and I knew I had my wish, she finished by adding “…but as soon as someone gets a hit you have to go back to school.” Those that know their baseball history


know that on October 8, 1956, Don Larsen of The New York Yankees pitched the only perfect game in World Series history. No runs. No hits. No er- rors. No walks. 27 batters faced, no one reached base. By the end of the game, both mom and her almost fourteen year old son were nearly in tears. We both knew we had watched something im- portant. There have now been 109 years of


World Series history, and still there has been only one perfect game. Few would argue that a baseball game


is more important than school, and in 108 years they may have been right. I know she didn’t give me this gift because she somehow knew that this would be an


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