One Pitch

Playing for the New York City Little League championship was a big deal for College Point, my part of Queens. Not much else to cheer about in the summer in 1966. Vietnam protests, transit strike, Yankees mired in last place. The hapless Mets! The Civil Rights Act had passed two years earlier but redlining was still legal. The headline in the Daily News on August 1 read “Chicago Whites Rout Negro Marchers,” reporting on the MLK-led march against housing discrimination. Racial tensions simmered in New York City, but not in College Point; a remote, not-yet urban, all-white, blue-collar, don’t-call-me-racist enclave in the shadow of the Whitestone Bridge. Win this game, then who knows? Maybe the Little League World Series in Williamsport, PA. 

To get here, we had to win six games in twelve days in single elimination format. Lose, you’re out. Our opponent for the city title was the Hollis-Bellaire All Stars from Jamaica, Queens. The winner would play Haverstraw from upstate NY, who already advanced to the next round. Mr. Guiro was appointed manager by virtue of his team winning the regular season title the year before. His teams, in fact, almost always won, so he was widely known as the best baseball guy in the league. 

Little League coaches across the country assembled their town’s best twelve-year-old players (the maximum age limit). College Point had a strong team that year. 

Harry Nungesser, our slow moving, thick-chested catcher was solid behind the plate and our main power hitter. Our two frontline pitchers were John Rafferty and Joey Romano, who alternated starting assignments. They each won three complete 6-inning games during our playoff streak.

Joey was a waif, my mother would say. “When he turned sideways, you couldn’t see him.” But could pitch and hit. He had a high leg kick like old-timer Mel Ott, except Joey hit from the right side. He also played a slick shortstop when not pitching. Both he and Rafferty were dominant. I was on the team as the third pitcher if needed. I started in right field during our playoff run and was happy with that.  On game day, August 5, I proudly donned my College Point all-star uniform and rode my bike the two miles to Clancy Field. Teammates soon arrived, along with our manager Mr. Guiro, two coaches, and a few parents. At 4PM, the bus departed to a far-off place called Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. 

Bus Ride

Mr. Guiro had a scouting report on the Hollis team and told us the game plan on the bus. He spoke about their cleanup hitter, a kid named Ed Kurpiel, with a kind of respect we weren’t accustomed to. Kurpiel could “hit the ball a Queens mile and would hit it anywhere it’s pitched,” our manager warned us. “A home run machine.” He told us we may intentionally walk him when he came to bat. 

Kurpiel pitched too, and was scheduled to start our game. Mr. Guiro went on to talk about their catcher, Ronnie Pastorini, and their second pitcher, a lefty, Mike Howley. “Pastorini’s got a good arm. Tough to run on. Don’t know much about Howley. He plays first base when he isn’t pitching.” 

Mr. Guiroread the lineup. No surprises. Rafferty’s turn to pitch and Joey would be at short, Harry behind the plate. I would be in the seventh spot in the order, and play right field as usual. Mike (Scootch) Sqiccerini played centerfield. Bobby Kohler played third and lefty Dennis Slavin played left. Dennis was also the backup catcher and to this day, the only left-handed catcher I’ve known.

We sat in rush-hour traffic most of the way. Our coaches were huddled in the front of the bus, arguing with the driver. “Get off the BQE – I know a shortcut!” Mr. Guiro must have planned the route in those pre-GPS days, because he kept mumbling, “it NEVER takes this long, must be an accident up there.” Finally, we pulled up to the field at 6:00 and Mr. Guiro yelled “Boys, as soon as we stop, grab your gloves, and run -- get on the field.” And we did. 

The Game - Kings Bay Field

Mr. Guiro jogged after us as the coaches followed, struggling with the equipment bags, dropping bats, a helmet, a catcher’s mask. Two balls escaped and bounced behind them. The two umpires met Mr. Guiro as he entered the field and one of them said, “You boys are five minutes away from a forfeit, and you’re still on the clock.” By 6:15, without so much as a practice swing or warmup toss, we were in the dugout and the game was underway. Since we were up first, Rafferty had a chance to warm up his arm. 

Kurpiel, a lefty, threw very hard, but after striking out the side in the first, he developed a sore arm and had to move to first base. A kid named Gennaro Russo came in from shortstop to pitch for Hollis and Howley took over at short. He was no bargain either. We managed only one hit and one run through five innings and trailed 2-1. The one hit was by Scootch, our left-handed hitting centerfielder who ran like the wind. He reached on one of his patented swinging bunts – where he started running to first and slapped at the ball in one motion. He beat those out every time because he’d be halfway up the line before the ball even hit the ground. 

We decided to pitch to Kurpiel the first two at bats and he delivered two singles. We walked him intentionally the third time.

I fielded a clean right field and had good at-bats, but didn’t get on base. When we came off the field at end of the fifth, Mr. Guiro told me to get loose; Rafferty’s arm was hurting and I’d pitch the 6th. This was my chance. 

While we batted in the top of the sixth, I went down the left field line and warmed up in foul territory. 

I felt good warming up. I was sure the fans and players were impressed with the “pop” from the catcher’s mitt each time I threw a fastball. I imagined my teammates thinking, that Bo can bring it! In College Point, I was Bo. Still am. 

Most pitchers in our league, including Rafferty and Romano, had one pitch – the fastball. Wind up and fire. I had a decent fastball but also had a curveball that I learned from my older brothers. But I couldn’t always throw it for a strike, so I didn’t use it very much. Mr. Guiro told me to not throw it unless I was way ahead in the count. 

Maybe we’d use it on Kurpiel.

As I warmed up, I had a clear view of the action while we batted in the top of the sixth -- we had a rally going. Rafferty singled then Harry doubled him home to tie the score 2-2. But Harry overran second and was thrown out by Pastorini to clear the bases with two outs and Bobby Kohler up. I followed Bobby in the order so I stopped warming up and ran down into the on-deck circle. Kohler singled and I followed with a walk. After John Rodin pinch ran for Kohler at second, Dennis Slavin lined a hit to right but as Rodin -- trying to score the go-ahead run -- was thrown out at the plate on a perfect relay from right fielder Ed Venzo-to-Russo-to-Pastorini. 

Hollis must be an Italian neighborhood.

I headed to the mound to pitch the bottom of the sixth. Dennis Slavin replaced Harry behind the plate and Harry moved to left.

I walked Kurpiel intentionally to start the sixth. Hollis then loaded the bases with two outs, threatening to end it. I threw a wild pitch past Slavin and Venzo broke from third but Dennis hustled to the backstop, grabbed the ball and fired it to me as I covered home. I tagged Venzo out to end an eventful sixth and force extra innings.

The seventh was relatively quiet; neither team mounted much of a threat. 

As we came off the field in the seventh, the umps called the two managers over for a conference. It was getting dark. Next thing we knew, the umps were waving their hands in the air, signaling that the game was suspended and would be completed the next night. 

The bus ride home was joyous. We were going to win this thing. 

Game Day 2

Word of the extra inning affair spread through town and when I arrived at Clancy at 2:45 the next day, a few “fans” were waiting to go to the game with us. One of the regular season team sponsors, maybe College Point Savings Bank, had hired an extra bus. So, in addition to family members, maybe 30 more die-hard College Point fans showed up to travel to Brooklyn with us. The two buses left Clancy at 3:30. 

The team, our coaches, and equipment bags rode together along with about 10 of our new fans. I’d be back on the mound when the game resumed, so to pump me up, one man began to chant “Let’s go Bo, go get ‘em Bo. Let’s go Bo, go get ‘em Bo!” Then the whole bus joined in, looking at me and thrusting fists in the air each time they said “Bo!” This went on for a long minute and I remember feeling embarrassed, trying to take it in stride. But I loved it. 

Mr. Guiro again went over the strategy for the game. “Kurpiel’s up in the bottom half of the eighth and we may not walk him this time. In-game decision,” looking at me. “We may pitch to him, but around him, very carefully.” Nobody knew what he was talking about but we nodded knowingly, the way we always did. 

“We get up first and the meat of our order is up! Let’s get a lead and put this thing away.” 

We arrived with a few minutes to spare. Mr. Guiro, stressed out for a second night in a row, barked “players and coaches get off first!” The fans obliged and we ran on the field. 

Since we were up first, I was able to warm up as our fans exited the buses behind us. Through the chain link fence, I saw fans from both buses making a B-line to the growing queue at the lone porta potty. Two hours on a bus is a long time. Others headed to the hot dog cart for a dirty-water dog and a soda before settling in for the game. 

As I warmed up, I could see the action on the field. Russo was back on the mound. Joey walked but Scootch, Rafferty, and Harry struck out.

As we trotted onto the field, I took the mound for my warm-up tosses as Howley waited to step into the box, with Kurpiel on deck. The first of our fans were trickling into their seats. I finished my warm ups and shot Mr. Guiro a quick glance, but he and the coaches were huddled at the edge of the dugout, no doubt discussing the Kurpiel strategy. 

I started Howley with the heater; let’s get ahead in the count. I reared back, the high leg kick, then released my best fastball, hurtling toward the plate. 

It never arrived. 

Most of our fans didn’t see Howley send my first pitch into orbit, but they heard it. Everyone did; from the porta-potty line to the hot dog stand, to College Point.

Crack.

That unmistakable sound of a bat crushing a baseball. 

I later imagined our fans, still standing in line, looking up suddenly, mouths open in stunned silence, searching the sky, like looking for the rocket after an Apollo launch. 

The ball rose high and fast toward left. Harry turned and took one step, then stopped. It had already passed him and was still rising. It disappeared into the Brooklyn night, rising, rising, plunging somewhere into Sheepshead Bay halfway to Rockaway Beach. 

There was a collective gasp from the College Point faithful -- the few who had found their seats, followed by the Hollis eruption. Game over. Season over.

I numbly walked off the field into our dugout. I vaguely remember Mr. Guiro saying something -- maybe about what a great season we had, how proud everyone was of us. 

I was aware that I was on a bench, in a dugout, wanting desperately to be anywhere else. My cheeks and ears burned intensely. I gazed straight ahead into the distance, ready to pop. Voices seemed far away. 

Please don’t talk to me. 

Nobody on my team knew what to say to me. Nobody tried. 

Just plow through this.

Then Howley, Pastorini, Kurpiel, and the rest of the Hollis team came into our dugout to congratulate us. One after the other, they made their way down the bench towards me -- “good game, good game, good game.” 

Don’t talk to me.

They reached me, “good game (it wasn’t), it’s not your fault (it was).” When they tried to console me, I cracked; letting go a torrent of tears and sobs. I guess everyone felt helpless. The harder they tried, the worse it got. 

The ride home was quiet.

Brother Billy called me One Pitch after that.

Hollis lost to Haverstraw the next day.

Epilogue

I wrote this essay in 2020 during the MFA program in creative writing I’d started at Fairfield University. My goal for the program was to compile a series of personal essays to chronicle for posterity some experiences from my childhood and this story, the most memorable by far, became my first assignment. But while I vividly remembered the emotion and what I felt that day, the details of the events were foggy.  

I remembered the crack of the bat and looking to left, silently pleading, Harry, run. It can’t end this way. But I could not recall many details about the game or the Hollis team. I didn’t even know the name of the kid who hit the homer or the names of many players on my team. I didn’t want to relive it, I suppose.  In doing some research for this essay, however, I found game details in the archives of the Long Island Star Journal located in the Levittown, NY Library. I was surprised to learn, for example, that this game was not the NYC championship game we all thought it was; it was something called the Metropolitan Area Section 3 Little League Championship. In College Point and Hollis Bellaire, though, it will always be the NYC Championship game.

I remembered Ed Kurpiel only because I played against him later in high school, where we continued to “pitch around” him. Gratefully, Ed did not recognize me then as that pitcher from 1966, and I never mentioned it. We never even spoke, in fact. Ed went on to have a successful career, playing professional baseball for the St Louis Cardinals’ and NY Mets’ minor league teams for over 10 years.  So, in 2020, I contacted Kurpiel, explaining who I was and that I was writing a little essay about “the game.” He couldn’t remember much about the game either, except that he had started pitching the game but seriously blew his arm out in the first inning and that Mike Howley was the player who hit the homerun. I contacted Howley and then the story took an interesting twist. 

Hopeful but realistic, I emailed Howley in April of 2020 with the subject line “Hollis little league game 1966.” I explained that I was taking a writing class and that I’d gotten his name from Ed Krupiel. I also confessed that that pitch still burns in my brain and that my brothers still call me “One Pitch.” I was delighted to hear from Mike the next day. 

“That moment is still very much alive in my brain too. I’ve told that story over the years to my kids and grandkids” and that, coincidentally, they were with him when my email arrived. “When I showed them your email, they got a chuckle out of the ‘One Pitch’ nickname.” I too chuckled imagining his kids secretly doubted the old man’s tale about the “walk off homerun” to win the city title.

Howley went on, “Of all my years playing baseball, that is the sharpest memory. I can still feel the bat in my hands and remember the thrill I felt when I saw that the pitch was going to be in the strike zone because I had every intention of swinging at the first pitch if it was a strike.” He described a couple sensory memories. “I remember the sound within my helmet as I waited for you to deliver, kind of like when you put a seashell to your ear. When I swung, I remember the solid feeling in my hands that told me I had connected pretty well. I didn't stand there looking at the ball after I hit it, so the next thing I remember is rounding first base, then seeing the umpire making the homerun sign. Next, I remember jumping onto home plate and my teammates surrounding me.” But there was more.

On the ride home with the Kurpiels after the game was called due to darkness, Mike recalls, “I boasted as only a 12-year-old could that I was going to hit the first pitch out of the park when we returned the next day and since we were the home team, that would end the game. Of course, I knew that no one would hold me to it when it didn't happen. Well, when it did happen, my prediction became even more of a story among them than the actual homerun.”

A very cool twist. Cool too that I parachuted into Mike’s den these many years later to validate his tall tale. And I was able to almost accept that for every Bobby Thompson, there is a Ralph Branca.

Bob Hannafin is an educator and writer. He is a faculty member in the Ed Leadership program at Fairfield University in CT. He writes about growing up in Queens during the 1960s in an Irish Catholic family. The youngest of seven children born within ten years, his mother often quipped about the only Catholic-approved form of birth control, “this is what Rhythm gets you.” His essays share sometimes humorous episodes from childhood.