The date was October 8, 1956. I was 13 years old and just starting eighth grade at Pine Plains Central School. A diehard Yankees fan, I was elated that the New York Yankees were playing the Brooklyn Dodgers in the 1956 World Series which was then tied at two games apiece.
Ed Schaehrer’s shop class was my last for the day before going upstairs to Helena Wagner’s homeroom and being dismissed to my bus around 3:15 pm. I was probably working on a colonial pine knick-knack shelving unit as a gift for my mother. Now, 67 years later, it is one of my prized possessions. I was also listening intently to the baseball game as Mr. Schaehrer, being a fan himself, had the game on his shop radio.
The game was only an hour old in the fourth inning when the bell rang, ending the class. My hero, Yankee center fielder Mickey Mantle had just hit a solo home run off Dodger’s pitcher Sal Maglie. The score was 1-0 and the game was so exciting that I couldn’t leave the captivating voice of Yankee’s venerable radio announcer Mel Allen.
So, I didn’t. Impulsively, I chose to miss my bus, deciding to walk home after the game instead. It was early October, the corn was in the silo on our family dairy farm and I had no evening chores. I figured that I could be home by suppertime if I jogged and walked briskly. After all, I had ridden the 10-mile distance on my bike several times with my brothers over the years; it usually took us about an hour. “Tell mommy that I’m walking home,” I shouted to one of my brothers as they boarded the school bus.
The second half of the baseball game was even more exciting as Yankee pitcher Don Larsen was in a pitcher’s duel with Maglie. “We” scored another single run in the sixth inning as Larsen continued to shutout the Dodgers. “Shutout”? Larsen was pitching a no-hitter! “No-Hitter”? He was pitching a perfect game!
Yes, that fall afternoon in 1956, I missed the bus as I listened to baseball history being made. Don Larsen indeed pitched the only perfect game ever in a World Series. The Yankees won 2-0. I was euphoric, but a long walk lay ahead.
The two hour and six minute game ended around 4:20 pm so off I headed on foot towards Chimney Hill Farm, approximately 10 miles to the north. I literally jogged up “Hammertown Hill,” going east on Rt. 199. At Righter’s Corners, I turned left on Rt. 82 north towards Ancramdale, some 4.3 miles away.
I wasn’t really “shoed” for this extended trek. I was wearing laced dress shoes with leather soles because that’s what teenage boys wore back in the 1950s. But I was a healthy, hardy farm boy. I would surely be up to the task. At first, I jogged more than I walked, but quite soon I was walking more than I jogged. Why I didn’t hitchhike I’ll never know. It was safe and actually fun back then. Plus, most of the cars which passed me were probably driven by people who knew me. On I trudged, stoically.
At Ancramdale, my feet and ankles were sore from pounding the pavement. Did I think of calling my mother from the Ancramdale General Store? Probably so, but pride apparently got in the way of reason. Beyond Ancramdale, I passed the Hoag farm, then Card’s Mill and finally Clay Hick’s garage where many a farm implement was welded back to serviceable shape. I sighed resignedly; only a mile and a half to go up a dirt road. By now, I was “road-weary” up to my waist.
It may have been around 6:30 pm when I saw it. Here came the “Easter Egg,” a name given to our three-tone 1952 Ford car, with my mother at the wheel. Rescued at last! Suppertime had passed and my mother had finally relented, thankfully. This “hardy” farm youth was plumb tuckered out!
Was it worth it? Damn right it was; especially when the soreness in my legs, ankles and feet subsided. Oh yes, the Yankees went on to win the 1956 World Series in seven games. They, in fact, won six championships during the 1950s decade. In 1965, I secured Mickey Mantle’s autograph in the dugout at Fenway Park in Boston.
Roger Snyder grew up in Ancramdale on his parents’ Chimney Hill farm, now the site of the Cricket Hill equestrian center. Snyder and his wife, Cyndy, live in Manassas, Va.
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