Sport: Giants v. Yankees

The World Series, U.S. sport's most celebrated annual ritual, was on. From Bangor to San Francisco, men gathered around television sets, elbowed along bars, huddled beside radios. Business was suspended, politics deferred, and idle conversation shushed. A weather bureau official studied the forecasts and solemnly announced that expected conditions—grey sky, a stiff northeast wind—were good for fastball pitchers, bad for curve-ballers.

But the crowds that flowed out of Manhattan's subways and clotted the intricate ramps into Yankee Stadium last week for the series opener were curiously subdued. The Yankee fan is always confident, never vociferous. His team was a far cry from the great Yankee teams of the past. Only one man—Rookie Infielder Gil McDougald—was hitting over .300. But the Yankees had one supreme asset: they always expected to win, and acted that way. Giant fans seemed too emotionally exhausted by the blazing pennant finish to care much about what happened next.

The Pantheon. Under the sullen October sky, the grass of the infield gleamed, a green patch on the city's blotched and gritty drabness. In the deep rows of private boxes, maintained by Manhattan firms for the pleasure of their customers, and in the special seats reserved for the favored, were the notables, the affluent and the politicians—the FBI's J. Edgar Hoover, ex-President Herbert Hoover, Douglas MacArthur, Margaret Truman and Heavyweight Champion Joe Walcott. Among them sat the aging stars of past series—Rogers Hornsby, Carl Hubbell, Mel Ott, Frankie Frisch—a shadowy, wistful, watching pantheon.

Stiffly, the two teams lined up on either side of home plate—the Yankees in gleaming white, the Giants in grey road uniforms. The announcer asked everyone to stand for a moment's silence "in the cause of peace." Accompanied by Guy Lombardo's band, Lucy Monroe sang the Star-Spangled Banner. Basebell's new Commissioner Ford Frick threw out the first ball, and the series began.

The Steal. The Giants struck hard in the first inning. With two Giants out, Yankee Pitcher Allie Reynolds carelessly walked the next batter. Up stepped 30-year-old Monte Irvin, a lanky Negro with the easy, relaxed grace of a dancer. He bounced on his feet, then hit sharply into right field. The Giants' First Baseman Whitey Lockman doubled. A run scored and Irvin was on third.

The Yankees were elaborately unruffled. Reynolds deliberately went through the ritual of the pitcher—glaring at the man on second, tucking his chin down as if in thought. Suddenly, there was a swelling roar from the crowd. There on the base path Irvin was digging for the plate. In that paralyzed instant, the startled Reynolds looked up. Irvin was ten steps from home. Reynolds drew back his arm (eight steps) and threw hastily to Yogi Berra (six steps) and Irvin hurtled into his slide. Berra stretched for the high throw, and Irvin was across. With a roar of delight, the crowd leaped to its feet. The brash Giants had stolen home on the proud Yankees. They were ahead 2-0. In discomfiture, Berra glared wildly around the bases looking for a pickoff, and Reynolds scuffed unhappily.