The Baseball Whisperer Page 11

  Pontious, with two outs, was running on contact. As he rounded third he saw that Steen was throwing to first, and he just kept on running. Mucha, watching from the dugout, said it was “like slow motion.” The throw ended up in the dirt, and first baseman Mike Rubel couldn’t dig it out. Waite had crossed the base and, looking to his right, saw the umpire signal that he was safe at first. Pontious scored standing up, delivering a national championship to the little town that could. “If I get thrown out, Merl would have been really mad,” Pontious said. “People were telling me he actually had the stop sign up.”

  His teammates mobbed Pontious at home plate. Merl gave him a bear hug he will never forget. “It was amazing. We had never really won anything in my hometown. To have a stage like this, where it comes down to the last out of the game, then have your teammates there celebrating with you—it was something that has never been done in southwest Iowa. I was giddy and happy and am sure that I didn’t even sleep that night.”

  Lutz said that no baseball people had thought Clarinda could win against the teams from Alaska or against Liberal. “That was viewed as a pretty monumental achievement,” he said.

  Pontious’s teammates had iced-down beer and champagne in the bathtubs of their hotel rooms, and when they returned they partied until 5:00 A.M. Normally, Merl didn’t condone that kind of behavior. In Clarinda, if a player misbehaved, Merl called him out and sometimes sent him home. “You could not get away with anything in this town without him finding out,” Ascherl said. “If you went out at night and broke curfew, he knew, and then you knew you were going to run laps for it.” But on this night in Wichita, Merl let it go. He joined in the celebration back at the motel by immediately going to the swimming pool, stepping on the diving board, and doing a cannonball—in full uniform. Alice had hired an off-duty police officer, in case the celebration got out of hand, but the precaution proved quite unnecessary as fans and players sat in the hallways talking, waiting for that morning’s Wichita Eagle to arrive.

  Shupe, the old pro, had seen more talented Clarinda teams, but this one was special for other reasons. The A’s had finished last in their division of the Jayhawk League that season and had come to the NBC World Series as a number-five seed.

  “The people we had this year weren’t blessed with all that much God-given talent,” Shupe told All-America Baseball News. “But I have never seen young players who are as aggressive and hard working as these kids. We just decided we were going to go down to Wichita and win.”

  The next morning a weary but happy team boarded their rattling, rolling cage of a bus as a band of baseball brothers soon to be local heroes. Raymond Petty was behind the wheel for this drive home, a job he had shared with Darwin Buch for the tens of thousands of miles of transporting the A’s over the years. The Blue Goose took the team 310 miles north to their summer home, where they would pack up and then return to their colleges. It was quiet as they drove onto the turnpike. Players and coaches alike were feeling ample fatigue from fifteen days of tournament play, followed by a long night of celebration. As Merl looked back at the rows, noticing that many of his sleeping players had their arms draped around their trophies, he thought about his town and how the people there would now think of themselves as a “national championship community.”

  “The silence on the bus was eerie but at the same time a feeling of pride came over me,” Merl would write years later. “I will never forget that moment which led me to reminisce about the tourney, the season and the tough moment of saying goodbye to team members. They would no longer be my players but friends when we arrived home.” By the time they reached Shenandoah, the players were signing baseballs for each other and exchanging phone numbers and addresses.

  As they neared the Stanton corner on Highway 2, Merl noticed that a few cars were starting to fall in behind the bus. About five miles outside of town, Waite and his teammates heard a siren, and they thought that for some reason their luck had run out and now their trip home would be delayed. The opposite was true. It was just the start of their escort by the police and fire departments, sirens on and lights flashing. As the bus reached the last hill west of town, it was clear that the team had returned to Clarinda to the equivalent of a ticker tape parade, to honor the national title they had just won. People pridefully lined the streets and cheered. “It seems everyone has their little thing to do for the community,” Merl told the Herald-Journal. “Coaching or bringing baseball to the community is my little thing.”

  “People did care,” Merl wrote. “The caravan led us all around town, the square and later to the ball field. People were standing and waving in their yards as we passed, people on the square and later a good crowd at the ball field—we were overwhelmed and proud to share with the community our outstanding achievement. In a sense it belonged to them. We represented them and their town and we had won them a national championship and many were showing they were proud too.”

  When Merl and Pat finally made it home that night, they saw that some kids in the neighborhood had put a homemade sign in the front yard, proclaiming the national title. Merl had wanted to build something that the community could embrace, but this success was beyond even what he had hoped for. The man who had dedicated his life to providing opportunity for young men—just as John Tedore had done for him—had a moment of profound validation.

  Players made lasting connections with the Eberlys and Clarinda, and with the NBC World Series win, even more elite players now wanted to come and be part of the A’s. “It became a tradition,” Alan Ascherl said. He had come to Clarinda from California, where he played at Pepperdine. He joked about his college coach telling him where he would be going to play that summer. “I slept through geography class,” he said, clueless about Clarinda’s location. All he knew was that “they needed a catcher.” A left-handed-hitting catcher, just like Merl, he instantly fit in with the team. Soon after he arrived in town, his host family took him to a track meet at Clarinda High School. Several hundred people were there—including Merl and Pat—to support the high school athletes, and Ascherl was struck by their enthusiasm.

  During Ascherl’s first night in Clarinda, there was a tornado warning. The next day he was on the grounds crew, working on the field, and at noon the tornado siren wailed. He looked to the south and saw his first tornado. He loved it.

  While he was working the fields, he also noticed an attractive young woman helping coach a Little League team. Her name was Rebecca, and they started dating that summer; after the national championship season, they were in a serious relationship. He transferred from Pepperdine to Texas Wesleyan, so that he could see her more. They decided to get married, and the guy from California didn’t hesitate when his wife said she wanted to live in Clarinda. They would make their home there for more than thirty years, and their son, Austin, became a catcher for the Clarinda A’s.

  The NBC championship had carried a $12,000 first prize. Merl insisted that the money never be spent, but rather be saved in the event that the team dissolved and had outstanding debts. He had no problem soliciting money—he was in fact relentless at it—but he never wanted to owe anyone.

  Over the years the team had to borrow against the $12,000 certificate of deposit when times were tough, but the A’s kept the original winnings.

  Unless otherwise credited, photographs are reproduced courtesy of Nodaway Valley Historical Museum Archives.

  Ozzie Smith played for the Clarinda A’s for two summers, 1975 and 1976.

  Courtesy of Pat Eberly

  While in Clarinda, Ozzie Smith worked construction by day and played baseball by night.

  Reprinted with permission from the Omaha World-Herald

  Von Hayes left the A’s during his first summer because he did not think he could compete.

  Courtesy of Pat Eberly

  After playing for the Clarinda A’s, Bud Black became a star pitcher in the majors and later a big league manager.

  Merl Eberly was a power-hitting catcher known for his abili
ty to handle pitchers.

  Reprinted with permission from the Omaha World-Herald

  Merl (front row, far left) as a player for the A’s.

  Yearbook photos of Pat and Merl Eberly. They were high school sweethearts.

  John Tedore, a World War II hero, was the coach who helped change Merl Eberly’s life.

  Courtesy of Pat Eberly

  Bud Black, Von Hayes, and Ozzie Smith often return for the A’s annual banquet.

  Merl Eberly (center) persuaded business and civic leaders to support the A’s.

  Scotty Kurtz pitched for the A’s for more than a decade, well into his thirties.

  Merl didn’t often yell, but players knew what this expression meant.

  © Wichita Eagle

  Merl conferring at the mound at Municipal Stadium in Clarinda.

  Merl and one of his coaches, Milan Shaw, at the National Baseball Congress tournament in Wichita.

  The A’s celebrate their National Baseball Congress championship in 1981.

  Merl at Municipal Stadium in Clarinda.

  Merl’s view from the dugout.

  Merl Eberly in the 1980s, flanked by his sons. From left: Rod, Ryan, and Rick.

  © Gaines DuVall Sports Portraits, Cave Creek, Arizona

  Merl and Pat Eberly with Ozzie Smith and Chuck Knoblauch.

  Courtesy of Pat Eberly

  When Ozzie Smith was inducted into baseball’s Hall of Fame, he had front-row seats reserved for Merl and Pat.

  Courtesy of Pat Eberly

  In the summer of 2008, a fire destroyed the team bus, the Blue Goose, but no players were injured.

  © Michael Ghutzman

  Ozzie Smith commissioned this bronze bust of Merl, which is on display at Municipal Stadium.

  Photo © Michael Tackett / Sculpture © Harry Weber

  Ozzie and Pat.

  © Michael Tackett

  7

  Merl’s Rules

  THE NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP brought instant validation for Merl as a coach and the A’s as a program. By the early 1980s, recent alums of the Clarinda A’s included three big league stars—Ozzie Smith, Von Hayes, and Buddy Black. Each of them generously donated thousands of dollars to the program to help Merl defray costs, and he needed the help.

  A punishing recession had swept across the country, and it was hurting the Midwest more than most places. The farm economy was lagging, unemployment was high, as were interest rates, and President Ronald Reagan, whom Merl admired, had not yet claimed it was “morning in America.” In Iowa, the recession caused some of the greatest financial carnage since the Great Depression. Thousands of families were driven from their farms, and the trend of depopulation of rural areas was accelerated as people moved to cities for what they hoped would be a more secure life. Farm foreclosures were a sad reality, and it would be some time before the issue was addressed by Hollywood movies, congressional hearings, and roiling anger and activism across rural America.

  The people of Clarinda, while not immune to the harsh economy, nonetheless largely stayed put, and the population remained remarkably stable, just above five thousand people. Businesses came and went, but a core of them remained, their loyal customers perhaps even paying a slight premium so their neighbor could stay open on the town square. The Lisle Corporation was an anchor for light manufacturing and helped attract similar firms. A large Japanese company built a ball bearing plant in Clarinda, convinced that the work ethic and low-tax environment would prove profitable.

  Its stability was one of many things that Merl loved about Clarinda. People there didn’t just know you superficially—they knew you deeply and probably knew about your family going back at least a generation. They knew your hardships and your joys and were there for you for both. They helped you keep watch over your children, as you did for theirs. That stability was one factor that helped Merl and Pat keep their own large family so close. For Merl, baseball was often merely the vehicle to try to teach something more enduring, and that something, which he wanted his players to experience, was the sense of community that was such a binding force in his hometown.

  The A’s provided a counterweight to the grim times, a pleasant diversion that enabled the people of Clarinda to spend summer nights enjoying the slower, almost meditative qualities of a baseball game. Tickets for the A’s were $2 (a price that would hold for thirty-two years, before rising to $3), and for the two-plus hours spent watching a game, larger concerns could wait. Players like Jeff Livin, a pitcher from Texas, wanted to provide the fans with the kind of quality baseball they had come to expect in the southwestern corner of Iowa. As a player at Southwestern University, he had just started getting interest from professional scouts, so he knew he needed to go to a summer program with formidable competition. One of those scouts, a man from Houston, had sent him a list of options. They included the obvious ones: teams in Alaska and the Cape Cod League. The other team on the list was the Clarinda A’s. That list alone was a measure of just how far Merl’s program had come in a relatively short time. Livin had contacted all three, and Merl was the first to reply, offering him a spot on the A’s. Livin accepted, but after he arrived in Clarinda he received a letter from the Fairbanks Goldpanners, saying that they too wanted him on their roster. Even with a recent national championship, it was hard to compare the reputation of Clarinda and baseball in the Midwest with the Alaska League or the Cape Cod League. But Livin chose to honor his commitment.

  When he saw Clarinda and Municipal Stadium, he later said that “it was like Field of Dreams. When that movie came out, all I could think about was Clarinda,” Livin said. He meant that Merl’s program had the same simple elegance, spare surroundings, and commitment to doing things the right way, with a real love for the game. “There were never any airs about the program,” said Livin, who later coached at Angelina College in Lufkin, Texas. “It was straightforward. No bold promises. This is what it is. Merl said, ‘I can’t promise you this or that, but if you work hard, you will earn it.’ So that is what I have tried to do in my career. Shoot straight with kids. I don’t think Merl Eberly knew how to lie.”

  Municipal Stadium was a throwback as well. In the best days of the A’s, the bleachers were packed and fans listened to a former radio personality announce the lineups and implore people to visit the concession stand, a source of traditional ballpark food, like “Merl’s hand-dipped hot dogs,” as well as a source of revenue. Some fans brought their lawn chairs and sat alongside the chain-link fence along the third-base line.

  Livin feared the competition when he got to Clarinda. He told his host family, Charlie and Connie Richardson, that he was essentially a “walk-on” and wasn’t sure he could even make the team. Merl had recruited several All-American-caliber players from big-name schools. But Livin soon proved that he belonged among them. He had a pitcher’s lanky frame and a show-no-emotion demeanor on the mound. For that summer, he was living the life of a professional, off on his own, isolated, growing as a man. When things weren’t going well, he would go to the Eberlys’ unpretentious frame house on Lincoln Street and find refuge. The concrete front porch was wide and welcoming, with soft and comfortable couches and chairs that had endured years of use. And Pat always seemed to be cooking something, so there was a good chance that he could also get something to eat, even with all the mouths she had to feed on a daily basis. “If you went over to talk to Pat or Merl, by the time they were done hugging you or feeding you, you felt better,” he said.

  The Richardsons embraced him as well. They frequently loaned him their pickup truck to drive to and from the baseball games. One night Livin asked Charlie Richardson whether he knew all these people, or “did everyone in this town wave at everyone else?” In Clarinda, people didn’t just know your name, they knew who you were by what you drove.

  Merl and Pat did this all while raising three boys and three girls on one paycheck that Merl earned from the Clarinda newspaper. When they were growing up, the Eberly children didn’t realize how tight the money was,
but they didn’t crave a lot in the way of possessions. Joy Eberly said the family may have been poor, “but we didn’t know it.” Merl used to keep a “shoe list” in his wallet, showing which child was next in line for a new pair when they could afford it. He kept a dime jar in the front window and saved all year for money for vacation. Rick Eberly described his family as “tweeners”: they straddled the upper-middle class that Pat’s family had represented and the more working class of Merl’s clan. The kids felt comfortable in either setting, perhaps because their parents had shown them the way.

  Having grown up without the benefit of a two-parent family, Merl was unusually devoted to his children and was present for them in every sense of the word. He was their cheerleader, their disciplinarian, and the person they looked to for answers. He treated the girls and boys much the same. None were spared his hand if they were punished, nor were they denied his affection. For the boys, baseball provided an obvious point of connection. The girls, it turned out, were pretty good with a bat too, playing softball and showing arms that would lead no one to say they “threw like a girl.” Jill Eberly was an exceptional athlete and a collegiate-caliber runner; her father helped her train by riding a bicycle alongside her to pace her and almost never missed one of her meets. There is a photo in the Eberlys’ home of Jill crossing the finish line after winning a race, her face and body forming a portrait of exhaustion. Merl’s lessons about leaving it all on the field applied to daughters as well as sons.