Lenny Shecter is perhaps best remembered as the man behind Jim Bouton’s classic Ball Four. But for a generation of sports fans and writers who followed Shecter’s columns in the New York Post in the late Fifties and the early Sixties, he stands as one of the great sports writers of them all. John Schulian, Vic Ziegel (who was a pup covering high school sports for the Post in the early Sixties when Shecter and the other Lenny, Leonard Koppett were covering baseball there), and Roger Kahn all point to him as a major figure.
Perhaps because he was a newspaper writer first and foremost, Shecter is largely forgotten today. He had a quick-witted but thoughtful style and did write a handful of books, including The Jocks, a scatching a cynical collection of essays about the world of sports that was released the year before Ball Four. Shecter’s take on the famed Yankee teams of Mantle-Berra-and-Ford was much tougher in The Jocks than in Bouton’s book.
Shecter’s name did resurface this past September when Alan Schwarz wrote about piece about him in The Times. The following week, Stan Issac’s wrote a follow-up piece on Shecter. Both are worth taking a look at.
So leave it up to me, old Dorkasaurus Rex, to hit the microfilm room at the main branch of the New York Public Library, in search for old Shecter columns. Here is just a small sampling of some of his ledes that caught my attention:
April 7, 1961
The Yankee spring training camp had to be the strangest in ten years. It was run as though it was a St. Petersburg subdivision of General Motors and while there has long been an air of cold efficiency which hovers about the Yankees like the odor around the beach at low tide, an important softening ingredient was missing. Casey Stengel.
October 2, 1961
Great events of history are over swiftly. A ball, even if it’s the first in the long and noble history of baseball to be hit for a 61st home run, takes only a few heartbeats of time to be propelled from home plate to the outfield seats.
For those who were at Yankee Stadium yesterday, some 24,000 people, it was over all too quickly. It would have been better if the ball leaped in exaltation, turned in the air and wrote a saucy message (like WHEEE!) against the blue sky, dipped nobly and shed a tear over the monument to Babe Ruth in center field.
But the way it was the count was two balls and no strikes. Roger Maris hitched up his trousers, pumped the bat once toward the pitcher, Tracy Stallard, young Boston righthander, then waited.