I turned 13 during 1967’s Summer of Love.
There was no time more eventful for a red-blooded American boy to become a teenager.
A cultural phenomenon was developing in San Francisco where the largest migration of young people in American history had gathered.
My own interests had pivoted toward two things when La Cumbre Junior High School released me into that same glorious summer:
Baseball … and girls.
I’d become a Laguna Park regular at the tender age of 8 when minor league baseball returned in 1962.
By the time my 13th birthday approached in 1967, the Santa Barbara Dodgers were in contention for the California League’s Class A pennant.
First place was at stake when the San José Bees arrived in Santa Barbara to close out the first half of the season.
And to add the icing to my birthday cake, a team of local TV and radio personalities were going to play a pregame softball exhibition against …
… The Playboy Club Bunnies.
That’s right. This pubescent boy was about to learn about the Bunnies and the Bees.
But then good ol’ Dad — who covered the local team as sports editor of the Santa Barbara News-Press — put the kibosh on the whole thing.
“Sorry, son,” he told me. “Your mom and I are headed up to British Columbia on a second honeymoon … You and your brother, Greg, are going to the Bay Area to stay with the Bentons.”
No brush-back pitch ever floored me so completely.
I lashed back while trying to recall the geography final that I’d just barely passed.
“British Columbia? Britain is nowhere near Columbia!”
Pops just gave me a sad frown, obviously disappointed that he also would be missing Bunny Night.
But brother and I were nevertheless going to make our first trip ever to San Francisco — the wayward station of flower children and home of Nick Benton, one of dad’s former sportswriters.
Land of the Giants
We really liked Nick and his wife, Carrie, but our sullen mood came through loud and clear.
“Why so glum, chums?” Nick asked.
I was about to tell him about the Playboy Bunnies when his neck collar reminded me why he’d left the News-Press in the first place.
He was now the pastor of the Piedmont Lutheran church.
“Uhhh … because we’re missing the Santa Barbara Dodgers game,” I replied.
Nick thought for a moment before asking, “Would a trip to Candlestick Park perk you boys up?”
It did indeed. The San Francisco Giants — the accursed rivals of my beloved Dodgers — were playing host to the Atlanta Braves that day.
This could turn into a very gratifying Summer of Hate.
Willie Mays seemed intent on spoiling it when he ripped a double to score Jesús Alou during the Giants’ half of the first inning.
But my spirits rose an inning later when the Braves’ No. 12 tied the game by blooping his own double.
I had bought enough baseball cards to identify some of the Braves’ better players by their uniform numbers, which were printed on the back of the cardboard collectables.
Everybody knew that Hank Aaron was No. 44. But I was also aware that No. 29 for the Braves, Felipe Alou, was Jesús’ brother.
And then there was No. 6 Clete Boyer, No. 43 Rico Carty, and No. 15 Joe Torre.
“But who in the heck is No. 12?” I asked.
“I think he’s their catcher,” my brother replied, noting that he’d removed his shin guards while in the on-deck circle.
“Isn’t Joe Torre their catcher?” I shot back.
I thumbed through my game program to solve the mystery:
“It’s Bob Uecker,” I finally announced.
“Who the hell is Bob Yucker?” my brother asked.
I shrugged and turned back to the game.
Grand-Slam Old Time
The Braves had loaded the bases the next time No. 12 came to bat.
Starting pitcher Joe Gibbon was struggling mightily, so the Giants relieved him with Ron Herbel.
No. 12 promptly greeted him with a grand-slam home run over the left-field fence.
My brother and I leapt into each other’s arms, convinced that we had just watched the emergence of the next Hank Aaron.
“That Yucker guy is going to make it to the Hall of Fame some day, and we just saw him hit a slam!” I declared.
The Braves won the game, 9-2 … and I waited anxiously the next morning for Rev. Benton’s newspaper to plop on his doorstep so I could read all about my new baseball hero.
The United Press International’s article on the game, however, wasn’t at all what I expected.
It quoted Uecker himself as saying that the grand slam “must have been a mistake.”
“Either I made a mistake hitting it or Herbel made a mistake throwing it,” he continued. “I was just happy with that two-base hit.
“Heck, I’m happy even when I hit a hard grounder.”
The writer mentioned that Uecker had been “pressed into the starting lineup when Joe Torre sprained his ankle last week.”
“Uecker, batting just .057 for the Braves and .114 for the season, was obtained in a trade for Gene Oliver on June 6 mainly to catch Phil Niekro’s tricky knuckleball pitches,” the article continued.
I clipped it out for my scrapbook, anyway. I was convinced that Bob Uecker would fool them all and indeed make it to the Hall of Fame.
The Summer of Love, however, turned out to be the last of his six seasons in the big leagues.
Send in the Clown
Baseball, however, hadn’t heard the last from Bob Uecker. He had a voice for the game: a hilarious, mostly self-deprecating voice.
He regaled fans for more than half-a-century as the announcer of Milwaukee Brewer games with stories of his misadventures in the game.
When asked about the art of catching Niekro’s fluttering pitches, he replied, “The easiest way to catch a knuckleball was to wait until it stopped rolling and just pick it up.”
Uecker told the story of one game in 1967 when Niekro pitched against his brother, Joe.
“Their parents were sitting right behind home plate,” he said. “I saw their folks that day more than they did the whole weekend.”
His reputation as a joker had actually delayed his entry into Major League Baseball, according to Santa Barbara’s own Eddie Mathews. They were roommates during Uecker’s first two seasons with the Milwaukee Braves in 1962 and ’63.
Mathews recalled manager Charlie Dressen sending Uecker to the minor leagues in 1961 with the words, “There’s no room in baseball for a clown.”
Uecker didn’t play much when he made it to the big leagues in 1962, “but he sure kept the ballclub in stitches,” Mathews said.
“On the last day of the season he hit his first home run, his only one as a Milwaukee Brave,” he continued. “I hit one that day, too, my 399th.
“All winter Bob kept telling people, ‘My roommate and I have 400 home runs between us.’”
Uecker’s fame grew after he left the playing field.
TV’s Johnny Carson dubbed him as “Mr. Baseball” while giving him a regular forum on The Tonight Show.
That led to a starring gig on Mr. Belvedere, a TV sitcom that ran from 1985 to 1990.
Uecker was also cast as a broadcaster in the 1989 movie Major League and its 1994 sequel, Major League II.
But it was in a series of Miller Lite Beer commercials where Uecker was most famously quoted as saying, “I must be in the front roooow.”
I pulled out the yellowed clipping of that 1967 baseball game when he proved me right in 2003: I watched with immense satisfaction as Bob Uecker arose from his front-row seat in Cooperstown, New York, and gave his induction speech for Baseball’s Hall of Fame.
And nobody appreciated it more when he recalled the biggest home run of his career.
“I hit a grand slam off Ron Herbel,” he said, “and when his manager Herman Franks came out to get him, he was bringing Herbel’s suitcase.”
He was just fooling, of course. But he had also fooled old Charlie Dressen.
There was room for a clown in baseball.
My Summer of Love could have been the Summer of Lost. The San José Bees beat the Santa Barbara Dodgers, and I lost my one and only chance to ever meet a Playboy Bunny.
But I was reminded of a very special memory from those days when I learned of Bob Uecker’s death last week at age 90.
It was one of only 14 homers that he hit in his entire career — 498 less than Eddie Mathews — but his passing was the top news of the entire sports world.
He’d gotten the last laugh on them all.
