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June 7 - July 11, 2019
As he grew older, Berg was quick to tout baseball’s democratic charms. To him baseball was “the great leveller,” a green field in the spring where men of every height, breadth, shade, and creed were joined in harmonious competition. Skill and nothing else made you special.
As he despaired in the dugout, Schalk heard a low, measured voice say, “You’ve got a big league catcher sitting right here.” It was Berg. He was referring to the husky backup first baseman Earl Sheely, who’d done some catching in the minor leagues, but Schalk didn’t know that. “All right, Berg, get in there,” he said. Dutifully, Berg began buckling on a chest protector and a pair of shin guards. Not only is it difficult to catch a baseball that is dipping and swerving at more than 90 miles an hour, for the unprepared it’s also dangerous. “If the worst happens,” Berg is supposed to have said,
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“I just want to tell you he speaks seven languages,” said Povich. “Yeah, I know,” Harris retorted, “and he can’t hit in any of them.”
Not a lot of playing, either. Berg batted 33 times in the 14 games. “Gentlemen,” he would say when Cronin sent him in, “does everyone still get three strikes out there?”
When people like Diane Roberts, whose lover had died in Washington, or Marjory Sanger, on the verge of divorce in Cambridge, were vulnerable, he liked to see, and to know the details. Perhaps it felt like intelligence work, knowing something you weren’t supposed to know. It’s also possible that a man whose life has gone awry achieves comfort from assisting people in worse straits than he is.
