By the last week in March, the weather had started to

improve. The coach wanted to start getting us ready for

some real competition, so he set up an intrasquad game.

I got to play shortstop on one team, and my archrival,

Darrell, got to play shortstop on the other team. Jonathan

was on my team, so we warmed up together. Jonathan

didn’t figure he’d get a chance to pitch, so he told me he

was planning to coach third base. The third-base coach

also got to umpire, which appealed to Jonathan. Jonathan

asked me if I remembered any of last year’s signs, and I

said, “No, I don’t hardly want to remember any of last

year’s signs. I’m still trying to learn this year’s signs.” Then

he asked me if I still remembered the steal-nullifier sign,

and I just looked back at him as meanly as I could.

Jonathan cracked up and said, “Don’t try that stupid

white-person scowl on me. You just ain’t got what it takes,

boy.” He went on laughing.

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We were the home team, so we took the field first.

Since we barely had enough players to make two teams,

the coach had to stick some of his excess pitchers out

in the outfield, and he stuck Jonathan in right field.

Jonathan would coach third base when we were up. I had

the normal first-game jitters because I knew I had to make

a good impression, or else it would be Scrub City for me.

I hoped I’d get my first grounder over with soon because

the first was always the hardest.

Sure enough, the leadoff batter, Willie, hit a slow,

easy grounder off the bat handle to me. The problem was,

Willie happened to be the fastest player on our team, so I

charged the ball and, without really thinking, fired an offbalance

sidearm throw to first. The throw was perfect, and

we got Willie by a half step. I felt great—like a real pro.

But then I heard the coach yelling, “Overarm! Overarm!

Nice play, kid, but when are you going to learn to throw

overarm?” As usual, the coach took me down a notch.

I turned my back and kicked the dirt a bit. I knew I’d

never really be able to throw overarm, but I figured I’d

better try.

I was batting second, which kind of made me feel

good, but I knew the only reason I was batting second was

because the team was split in half. With the regular squad,

I probably would have been either on the bench or batting

ninth. I swung real late on a pitch and sliced it down

the right-field line. It looked like it was going foul, but I

was running as hard as I could anyway, and as I reached

first, I saw that it landed just fair and took a wicked hop

away from the right fielder, so I raced for second. When

I rounded the bag, I saw Jonathan coaching third and

waving me on over. As I approached third, he yelled for

me to slide, so I went into one of my patented Yogi Berra

headfirst slides. The play was close, but through the big

cloud of dust, Jonathan called me safe, which almost

caused a rhubarb with the third baseman, who started

jumping up and down, saying I was out. Jonathan was

relishing his new role as third-base coach and umpire and

sure wasn’t going to change his mind. If Jonathan the

umpire called a base runner out, it would make Jonathan

the coach look pretty bad. I was stranded at third as the

next two batters made outs.

I made it back to third base in the fourth inning,

when I reached first on an error, went to second on a wild

pitch, and moved to third on a slow grounder to the first

baseman. We were down by only a run thanks to an RBI

double by my nemesis, Darrell. I didn’t expect the squeeze

sign with our number-three hitter, Big Billy, up, so I was

kind of surprised when I saw Jonathan tug at his cap and

pull his ear, which was the squeeze sign. Or was it? I wasn’t

sure. Anyway, there was a sign I was supposed to give

Jonathan to tell him I’d gotten the original squeeze sign.

When I signaled that I had the sign, Jonathan would relay

it over to the batter. Well, Jonathan was standing right

there next to me, so I just shook my head and whispered,

“No.” I didn’t want to go flying in on a suicide squeeze

if I wasn’t sure the squeeze sign was really on. Jonathan

then flashed a sign to Big Billy. Old Billy laid down the

most beautiful bunt ever, and there I was with my feet in

cement, still standing at third base. The coach went crazy.

Mickey Mantle’s Last Home Run | 123

He screamed, “Why the hell didn’t you run? Why didn’t

you run?” I felt like a real jerk, and there was innocent

Jonathan, looking out toward center field. The next batter

flew out, and when I went back to the bench, the coach

chewed me out again.

“A perfect squeeze bunt, and you just stand there.

Wake up, will you?”

“But I didn’t get the sign,” I said.

“If you don’t get the sign, you’re supposed to ask for

time-out.”

“But—”

“No buts about it,” the coach said, shaking his head

in disgust. “Get out there and play.”

During the next inning, when we were on the bench,

Jonathan wouldn’t even look at me. I went over to him

and said, “Why’d you give Billy the squeeze sign when I

said no?”

“You’re supposed to call time-out if you’re not sure

the squeeze sign has been given. I thought you were just

acting to confuse the other team. Don’t go trying to get

me in trouble when you screw up.” Jonathan walked away.

Playing ball just wasn’t fun anymore, and it seemed

to get less and less fun. By the seventh inning, my team

had managed a 3–2 lead, but Darrell led off the top of

the seventh with a line-drive single to left. It was his third

hit, and each one was a solid line drive. I had managed

only my sliced triple in the first inning. Of course, he also

threw the ball overarm, and the coach loved that.

One thing Darrell didn’t have was speed, so nobody 

expected it when he took off for second on the first pitch

to the next batter. It must have been a hit-and-run play

because the batter swung and hit a hot one-hopper to     

the second baseman. There was one thing I did excel at:

taking the throw at second for the double play. I might not

have had the greatest arm, but I could get rid of the ball

fast, and the relay back to first on the double play was the

one time when I could actually get away with throwing

the ball sidearm without hearing it from the coach. It was

a bang-bang play, the old 4–6–3 double play, and the

shortstop had to catch the ball, touch the base, and throw

back to first all in one motion. It wasn’t the easiest thing

in the world because if I wanted to get the batter running

to first, I really had to move it, and I couldn’t afford to set

myself and make the nice, picturesque overarm throw to

first that the coach always raved about. In that situation,

my sidearm flip worked out well—in practice, of course.

There was, however, a bit of a problem in a game with a

base runner barreling toward second, ready to bowl me

over or slash my ankles with his spikes. That problem got

even worse when the guy barreling toward me had gotten

a head start because it was a hit-and-run and when the

barreling guy was big and reckless, just happened to be

fighting for the same position on the team I was, and

probably would have loved to slide into me hard enough

to break both of my kneecaps. Add to all that a low

throw by the second baseman, and I had the makings of

a disaster.

I couldn’t say if Darrell really wanted to bowl me

over or if he just was making a late slide, but I sure didn’t

intend to do what I did. I was just determined to make

Mickey Mantle’s Last Home Run | 125

that double play and win my job as the starting shortstop.

I caught the low throw at my shoe tops and, all in the

same motion, touched second base with my foot and fired

a sidearm throw toward first. It never got there. The ball

hit Darrell right between the eyes as he came sliding in.

The ball made a horrible thud and rolled out into the

outfield. My first instinct was to go out after it, but then

I realized what I had done. Poor old Darrell was bent over

on his knees, moaning away with his hands over his face.

I could see blood all over his face and hands. All the other

players came running over to see Darrell. When the coach

got there, he took charge and yelled for everybody to get

out of the way and let Darrell get some air. I felt sick to my

stomach and kind of drifted away. Then I heard somebody

say, “And the Wrecker strikes again.”

Somebody else said sarcastically, “Hey, nice throw,

Wrecker.”

Then one of Darrell’s buddies, a big guy named

Calvin, came over and said, “Why’d you go and do that,

white boy?”

“Hey, I didn’t mean it,” I said.

He poked me in the chest. “Why’d you go gunning

for my boy, whitey?” Calvin continued to taunt me.

“You’re gonna pay for this.”

Just then, Jonathan came along and said, “Hey,

Calvin, lay off, will ya? The guy didn’t mean it.”

“Yeah, well, man, the friggin’ guy hit my man Darrell

right in the head.”

“Hey, man, the guy didn’t mean it. That’s why they

call him the Wrecker, man,” Jonathan said. 

Soon the ambulance arrived, and the ambulance

squad carefully placed Darrell on a stretcher. A few other

guys came over to me and started razzing me.

“Nice going, Wrecker. That’s one way to get a starting

spot. Eliminate the competition.”

Then the coach announced that practice was over. He

went with Darrell in the ambulance, and they drove off

to the hospital. Everybody headed back to the field house.

Big Billy came up to me.

“Even if you was as big as me, I wouldn’t want to be

you when Darrell gets better. He’s a mean one,” Big Billy

said.

“Thanks,” I said, and Big Billy walked on ahead. I

was the last one to leave the field, and I felt terrible. What

a jerk I was. I’d hit the guy right in the head. Just then,

Jonathan popped up out of nowhere.

“I figured I’d better wait around and walk you back to

the field house,” he said. “It’s dangerous out here for you

after what you did today. Word spreads fast.”

“Thanks a lot, Jonathan. Thanks for the

encouragement,” I said.

“Hey, look. Don’t worry about it. Darrell will be

fine. His head is harder than any ole baseball anyway,”

Jonathan said, and for the first time since the accident

had happened, I began to feel a little better.

“Seriously, I wouldn’t worry about Darrell if I were

you,” he added. “He’ll probably be okay. But I would

worry about you if I were you. You know these black kids

from Roosevelt School have a bit of a different way of

dealing with things than we integrated folks. And they

don’t hardly like it when one of their boys is flattened with

a baseball between the eyes, especially from someone with

such an obvious motive like you.”

“But I didn’t mean to do it, Jonathan,” I said.

“I know. But you may have trouble convincing some

of Darrell’s buddies,” Jonathan said.

He was right about that.