Whatever Happened to Joey "Yank" Yankovich

It’s 2005 and the Houston Astros, with their rising star homerun hitter Carlos Beltran will finally be playing in their first World Series; back in 1969, they were called the Colt .45’s and they sat at home and watched on TV while their 1962 counterparts in the expansion of National League Baseball – “The Amazin’ New York Mets” – became World Series Champions…

I knew the Mets were going to do what they did back then, and I predicted it. I woul have nothing really better to do with my life, because I was no longer a real baseball player...

I had become a “Mets’ Man” in June of 1968 when the team respectfully refused to play on “Bat Day” against the Dodgers in LA, on the Saturday night of the same day their United States Senator, Robert Francis Kennedy, was laid to rest…

Like other fans of “The Game” I had born witness from 1962 through 1968 while the Mets displayed near-total incompetence during baseball season. However, I knew from day one that 1969 would be different, and despite the team’s opening game loss to Canada’s brand new Montreal Expos, I expounded upon the chances of this team to anyone willing to listen. I had difficulty explaining myself back then, especially if I had had too much to drink.

And these days I do drink too much, but you would drink too much alcohol, if the same thing had happened to you as happened to me when I was only ten…

Anyway, I experienced most of my difficulty explaining my New York Mets 1969 theory in the company of my antagonistic friend Matt Herr, who like me had once been a great Brooklyn Dodger fan: “Just think about what these Mets stood for Matt. As Plato used to say, virtue shall be rewarded; besides you’re forgetting this Mein Herr, Gil Hodges is their manager!”

“Oh Joey, I don’t think you’re being logical, Hodges and Plato? Do you really believe this stuff? - And, what’s this Mein Herr business, am I supposed to be a Nazi or what?”

“I base my ability to know the future of these Mets upon a single truth. Logical or not, who cares? Like I’ve already told you a thousand times, Plato himself stated virtue shall be rewarded - or something like that!”

There was nobody back then who knew more about baseball than “Mein Herr.” Therefore it seemed urgent that I convince him of this truth, this very important truth about the future of my Mets.

Herr’s right, I mean it’s true – a seething animosity had grown up between us; he named me “mute” because after my injury I stopped talking; and what was tragic is that everyone of my good friends including Connie, and even those kids who ordinarily wouldn't care enough to give Joey a single moment of their time - all were soon calling me "THE MUTE!"

You may be wondering: “Who the hell is this guy now doing all the talking?” Well, my name’s “Junior” – Joey Yankovich, Jr. But unlike my Daddy before me, I’ve been confirmed and now have three names, Joseph George Yankovich, legally the first of my line. However, I will respond to “Junior” to honor Dad, but “Yank” was once my favorite baseball nickname of all…

Back then, when I was just a boy my father was always teasing me... “I may be witty but the guy who wrote Snow-Bound is Whittier.” My old man told that one to everybody, maybe hundreds of times to me…

Then there’s the other one from John Greenleaf Whittier: “the saddest words of tongue or pen are these sad words what might have been.” – Or something resembling those words; these catchy sayings do take control of our lives and they do determine whatever happens to us. I’m positive of that because “what might have been” soon came into my life and jinxed me forever…

When I was a very young baseball fan rooting for Jackie Robinson and the Brooklyn Dodgers, only six years old back in 1950 – I was born on September 12^th of 1944 – anyway my very best friend Connie, who lived at 266 Kidder Street while my Dad’s grocery store was 280 Kidder, anyway Cornelius Michael McCarthy was a Phillies fan and his Philadelphia Phillies had two catchers back then: Stan Lopata and Andy Semnick and both were born on September the twelfth; thus I knew I would one day be a big league catcher and that’s just the beginning of my story…

When Connie and I were both eight, we were eligible to try out for the East End Little League Red Sox and so we did; "Cornelius" was an infielder and the coaches placed him on a minor league team nicknamed the “Baby Red Sox.” However, I told them that I was a catcher and since no one else wanted that position I made the “Big Red Sox.” I would be replacing last season's catcher, who was a legendary six foot tall, twelve year old giant who slammed a record 14 homers in 20 games his last season...

Of course I had no experience catching and certainly was not a real catcher, but the coach of the town team who was named Richard Wicker – “Dick Wick” for short – anyway the man dedicated himself and he willingly worked with me until I was good enough on opening day to be his catcher…

I was the only eight year old who made the team, which was made up of mostly eleven and twelve year olds. However, I surely had an advantage over Connie and many other players, and that was my Dad Joey Yankovich, Sr. – who before he purchased our family’s store was a local truck driver for a wholesale grocery distributor and worked from 6 am until three, Monday through Friday; these hours allowed Dad to pitch batting practice to me every evening, beginning when I was three...

In addition to that factor, we also lived up on Windy Hill where a lot of older kids played real competitive baseball every day during spring and summer. They were happy to "take their cuts" with my father and me, and thus from that time on I learned how to be a good hitter and by the time I turned eight I could drive a baseball more than 200 feet…

Matt Herr was our centerfielder in 1952 and the best hitter on the team; at eleven the lanky kid was capable of hitting homeruns and he did hit seven of them in 20 games and we ended up seventeen and three that season, which was good enough to tie the North End Cardinals for first place…

“Coach Wicker” and the Cardinals coach decided to have a three game playoff to determine the best team…

We beat them two straight and I slammed a homer, a triple, four doubles and drove in four runs for the Red Sox and Coach anointed me "the most valuable player." Matt had two walks, five singles and a double leading off for us and scored six runs and I believe he became mad at me after “Dick Wick” handed me the Championship Trophy that we had just received and named me the team’s “most valuable player” – right there in the middle of that baseball field of our rival Cardinals…

During the season Matthew Herr batted 0.450 with his seven homers and was easily the best fielder on the Red Sox, maybe even the best in the entire six team league?

I hit three homers and batted 0.333 with eight doubles and three triples. I kept hitting hard liners off the fences, just missing home runs by a few inches; as a catcher I kept improving and by the season’s conclusion I was pretty good on defense myself…

Connie came to every home game that first season because the minors played their schedule on Monday, Wednesday and Friday while the “Big Red Sox” played every Tuesday and Thursday; in the beginning I was happy with this situation, but after my friend began teasing me about Coach Wicker’s two pretty daughters I began to wish he wasn’t there. Anyway these two girls were both too old for me or my friend, I mean Shelia was ten and Louise was twelve, but Connie teased me relentlessly; my friend teased me about everything and so I had to simply take it with the proverbial “grain of salt” and besides Cornelius Michael McCarthy could be mocked because whoever heard of a "Cornelius" before he came around?

“I’m named after my Dad’s two brothers who arrived here from Ireland on a big ship – my Uncle Cornelius and my Uncle Michael! Are you making fun of them? Because if ya are, I’ll punch you in the nose Joey!”

“I’m sorry Connie, it’s just that I don’t like being teased about girls.”

My best friend laughed: “if ya didn’t get so mad and act so silly ’bout these things, the teasing might stop. Besides they’re real pretty girls and I would never mind if ya teased me back ’bout them – specially that Louise - she's so cute!”

The next season Connie made the team as a pitcher and a second baseman and after he had pitched two pretty good games, both shutouts – I approached Coach Wicker and asked if I might pitch too: “I have a very strong arm and maybe I could be a pitcher too Coach. I know I’m better than Connie.”

“You’re our catcher Yank and there’s nobody else who wants the position.”

I balked: “what if I got injured or something?” Right after I had uttered those seven words I became afraid, I mean what if I really did get injured? I was very superstitious anyway and wished I had not been so envious of my friend’s success on the mound…

Coach Wicker chuckled: “Y’all got me there Junior – what if you did get hurt or something? What would we do? Maybe I could let Davey play some catcher and give you a shot pitching. Let me think about it, okay?”

Davey James was our first baseman and had been the team’s second string catcher before I came along and took over for the “giant” kid who was now playing Teeners. I hoped Davey might be willing to play the position; I didn’t want Connie being our star hurler when I truly had the better arm…

I was named the starter in game 6 and pitched a perfect game against the Miners Mills Indians – against guys who were twice as big as Joey "Yank" Yankovich, but “not good enough” to hit my blazing fastball. I also threw a curve and snuck it in despite the warnings from “Dick Wick” about “absolutely no curve balls – they’ll ruin your arm!” I hit three homers and a triple and drove in seven runs and we won 10-0!

It would be the older daughter Louise who cheered wildly when I smashed my first homer with the bases loaded – my first ever Grand Slam! I could hear her loud and clear and was soon in love…

I was only nine but would lead the Red Sox with fifteen home runs and thirty-four runs batted in that second season. I actually batted 0.600, better than Herr, whose average dropped below four-hundred. I had become the Red Sox top hitter, that's when I wasn’t on the mound pitching my perfect game and three other no-hitters while going 7 and 0; as a team we won nineteen and I was the “best catcher ever!” – Or that’s what I overheard the beautiful Mrs. Betty Wicker say about “Yank!”

Then the thing happened when I was ten – whatever it was that I dreaded happening after saying to Coach Wicker “what if I get injured or something” – that’s exactly what happened to Joey Yankovich when these three bullies, these bigger guys kidnapped me one evening after I had just finished delivering the Times-Ledger Evening Newspaper. I had only been a “paperboy” since June and it was my first job ever and I liked making my own money – but it turned out to be my downfall when Schwartz and his two henchmen surrounded me and took me to an old coal bank pit…

Jack Schwartz: “git down in that hole Joey or I’ll kick you right into it.”

These boys were already in their teens and much bigger than me, but I stood my ground and then Schwartz did kick me and I fell down, and tumbled into that pit and I could hear my right wrist crack and the bone broke through my skin and the pain was the worst I ever felt. Worse even than when I had touched a hot pipe the winter of 1950 and got a bad burn on the palm of my left hand. I started to cry: “please don’t hurt me anymore. My arm’s broke.” My father tried to teach me to stand up for myself and whatever happens, “never cry!” Dad honestly believed that “crocodile tears” only made things worse: “you’re already at a disadvantage Junior, being smaller than almost everyone else. So no crocodile tears will be able to help you. Just don’t cry and you’ll be respected.” I couldn’t help it and I sat there looking at my wrist and sobbed like some little baby…

“The big baseball player’s not so big anymore!” Those three “juvenile delinquents” stood atop the bank and jeered and there was truly nothing I could do that might help me. I was very afraid of them. The adults in our neighborhood often referred to these three: “as juvenile delinquents who should be sent to reform school. They ought to be shipped straight to Kis-lyn already. Because one of these days they’re going to really hurt somebody.”

Before abandoning me, Jack Schwartz warned: “better not say nothing Joey or I’ll come back and finish the job.”

My X-rays were revealing… “I’m afraid son, that you’ve shattered just about every bone in your right hand and wrist.” Old Doc Sloan pulled no “proverbial punches” that evening in the emergency room of the Queenstown General Hospital.

I would begin training myself to bat and throw left-handed; I did make “Yank” into a decent hitter with fair power, but could no longer throw my signature fastball. Catching proved futile as well because I couldn’t make the necessary throws down to second base, the game’s required baseball standard once your pitcher had warmed up before an inning. Coach Wicker played me at first base, but at the age of ten my Major League potential had evaporated into nothing. Actually I might’ve been good enough to pitch for the 1969 New York Mets, along with Tom Seaver, Jerry Koosman, and Nolan Ryan…

Instead of the Mets, however, nowadays anybody from East End knows too well where you might find old “Yank” who’s usually lingering too long at the 112 Tavern, which is at the end of Kidder Street, near the railroad crossing where once upon a time a real railroad man sat in his tower, from which he would let down the gates whenever the train was passing through…

Nowadays, gates are automatic…

Nowadays, my favorite tavern is owned by my favorite bartender, who was once my childhood friend Cornelius Michael McCarthy and whose Dad, believe me or not, was once a railroad man himself…

And that’s what happened to Joey “Yank” Yankovich…