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Post by bigdawgs on Sept 9, 2023 15:35:06 GMT -5
Bill Mazeroski. My earliest sporting memory was listening to crackling Atlantic Cable AFN Europe broadcast of Maz's 9th inning home run to give the Pirates the 1960 World Series win over the Yankees in 7 games. PittND was kind enough to show me the spot at old Forbes Field where the ball cleared the fence. Certainly one of the most dramatic moments in the history of the game.
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Post by geauxtigerfan on Sept 9, 2023 23:28:32 GMT -5
Bill Mazeroski. My earliest sporting memory was listening to crackling Atlantic Cable AFN Europe broadcast of Maz's 9th inning home run to give the Pirates the 1960 World Series win over the Yankees in 7 games. PittND was kind enough to show me the spot at old Forbes Field where the ball cleared the fence. Certainly one of the most dramatic moments in the history of the game. Yeah I remember that series. The three games the Yanks won, they out scored the Pirates by a bunch, but Maz hit that homer. Another big moment in the game was the ground ball that hit Yank shortstop Tony Kubeck took a bad hop into the neck. From Wikipedia "Bill Virdon, a former Yankee farmhand (and future manager), hit a perfect double play grounder to Tony Kubek at short. It should have been two outs, no one on—but the ball found a pebble, took a bad hop, and got Kubek in the throat. It was scary enough to send Kubek to the hospital overnight." I was heading on my way to Oakland Army Terminal to get transportation to Japan for my two year tour. I was a big Yankee fan back in those days. What a series.
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Vespula
Senator
"Panzerkönigin"
Posts: 3,819
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Post by Vespula on Sept 10, 2023 6:53:24 GMT -5
I was eight years old, and our school principal, Miss Mary Simpson - a fearsome, large woman who was more Catholic Mother Superior than teacher - let the entire school come to the auditorium to watch the final game of the World Series that year. I was a Yankees fan because my dad had told my brother and me of how he grew up listening to the Babe Ruth / Lou Gehrig Yankees on a radio outside Spoon's Ice Cream shop in Depression Era Charlotte, North Carolina, but that day I caved to peer pressure. I clapped for the Pirates as we watched that Game Seven. The one clear memory I have of the game, beamed to us from Macon, Georgia, into an outside antenna and transferred by undulating electrons onto a small, 24" black and white screen, was a ball hit by the guy with the Russian-sounding name in the Pirate uniform. It sailed over a fence in a stadium so small by today's standards that there were no bleachers behind it. It must have been the bottom of the ninth inning because all the boys and many of the girls who wanted the Yankees to lose suddenly started cheering and applauding. I asked a boy next to me what happened, and he told me the Pirates won. The game was over. It was a wonder to me, and I was suddenly fascinated by this mysterious game called Baseball. I still am.
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