I thought about what Italy might have looked like if the World Baseball Classic had existed in 1948 with Joe DiMaggio, Yogi Berra, Roy Campanella, and Carl Furillo.
I thought we would have won it.
So, with a little imagination, I told the story of how.
“Would you have said it, Ernie?”
“No, Babe. You know optimism has never been my strong suit.”
On the morning of March 21, 1948, Babe Pinelli and Ernie Lombardi were having breakfast while looking out over the ocean from the terrace of the Nacional Hotel in Havana. Neither of them had slept. Too much adrenaline.
The night before, Italy had silenced the Latinoamericano, the new stadium inaugurated just over a year earlier.
Fulgencio Batista had insisted on hosting the final stage of this first World Baseball Classic there, certain that Cuba would win it. And that they would do so in the final against the United States. Just to spite all those womanizers who came to his country on vacation.
That was why the groups had been… let’s say… slightly suggested.
The problem was that the United States had reached the final, but only with great difficulty. They had sweated it out against Poland. But in the end, they made it, thanks to a hit by Pee Wee Reese in the 11th inning.
Cuba did not.
Cuba, in its own stadium, in front of its own people, had surrendered the night before.
Against Italy.
“Who the hell could have expected that?” the Cubans were saying as they drifted under the stands and walked sadly toward the Malecón.
Well, they might have had some idea… if they had taken a look at the Italian roster.
Now there were only a few hours left.
Ernie and Babe poured milk and coffee and tried to gather their thoughts about the lineup to put on the field that night.
“After the beating we gave them last night, I wonder if they’ll cheer for us?” Pinelli asked the breeze.
Marino Pieretti, Rugger Ardizoia, Lou Lombardo, and Vic Lombardi had been heroic the night before. They had all been thrown onto the mound, and they had made it work. They had kept the Cuban bats under control.
Which meant that now Italy’s three best pitchers were fresh and ready for the final.
At that moment Ping Bodie arrived at the table.
Unlike his dugout companions, he had slept those few hours like a pasha.
“Last effort, boys,” he said. “Tonight we beat up our beloved United States too, and then we go celebrate in Italy.”
Ping’s real name was Francesco Stephano Pezzolo. In the days when he played, the times were not ripe for having an Italian last name on the field, so he had changed it. And while he was at it, he changed his first name too.
The rest of his fame came from his Yankees roommate: Babe Ruth.
To be precise, he always said:
“I was the roommate of his suitcase. He was never there. He went chasing women every night.”
Ping sat down and started talking.
“Can you believe what idiots Connie Mack and the others were? They let Ted Williams play for Mexico. He had to honor his mother…”
Even Ernie Lombardi smiled.
“And yesterday they almost got themselves killed against Gene Hermanski and Stan Musial. Imagine the beauty of it: a Baseball World Championship final between Italy and Poland.”
“Come on,” Ernie cut in. “Before the guys start arriving, let’s figure out tonight’s lineup.”
“Well, for sure our pitcher will be right-handed,” Ping laughed. “And we’ll go all game with righties.”
“That’s certain,” Babe said.
“I’d start Sal,” Ping suggested. “He’s mean as vinegar even on a normal day. Now that he’s banned from MLB and forced to play in that damn Mexican league, he’s furious like a dragon. The first two batters he sees he’ll drill with a fastball, then the game starts.”
“Exactly,” Lombardi sighed, thinking about the terrifying reputation of Sal Maglie. “No, better not.”
“I’ve decided on the pitchers. Vic Raschi starts. Ralph Branca first relief. Sal closes. If we’re ahead by the seventh, they won’t catch us.”
Bodie and Pinelli nodded.
“Let’s talk about the catcher,” Lombardi continued.
“You played with them all your life,” Babe said. “No one can decide better than you.”
“That’s the problem,” Ernie replied.
Ping laughed.
“Who cares? We can pick at random. Roy, Yogi, and Joe are the three best catchers in MLB. And we even had poor Phil Masi that we had to leave home.”
“I’ll tell you this,” Ping added. “I’d play Campanella. That way if in fifty years some idiot starts singing ‘There are no Black Italians,’ we’ll show them the photo.”
Pinelli jumped in.
“There should be a rule where the pitcher doesn’t bat and gets replaced by a hitter the manager chooses. Then we put one of Campanella or Berra there and the other behind the plate. With Joe Garagiola ready.”
“Great idea,” Lombardi said.
“But Raschi can hit better than some position players,” Ping laughed. “Better than the ones on France, that’s for sure.”
“Catcher later,” Lombardi said. “My other doubts are about the infield. Everyone except shortstop. Scooter is a sure thing.”
“I’d put Phil Cavarretta at first,” Pinelli said.
“I’m thinking Dolph Camilli,” Lombardi replied. “I know he retired and I called him back. Precisely because of that. And because of what happened to his brother.”
Dolph Camilli’s brother had been a challenger for the heavyweight boxing title. But America didn’t like that a potential world champion had a last name from the hills near Urbino, too Italian, too foreign.
So he changed it to Campbell.
“And he died in the ring,” Ping sighed.
Killed by Max Baer.
“Maybe with the blue jersey and ‘Italia’ across his chest he has something to say to the United States.”
“And third base?”
“I’m thinking Dario Lodigiani. He’s not in MLB anymore, sure. Plays in Oakland in the Pacific League. But he’s the kind of guy who gets a hit when it’s needed.”
“And second base?”
“Maybe I’d like to try the kid…”
“Who? The Big Nose?” Ping said. “He’s twenty years old and already fought half of MLB.”
“Yes, but when a hit is needed…”
“Frankie Crosetti is a guarantee,” Ping replied.
“And besides,” he added, “Billy Martin is the only one of us without an Italian last name. Imagine if someone in Italy complains we sold passports…”
Ernie chuckled.
“I’d play him just for that. His mother’s name is Salvini. Imagine if in 75 years someone with that name becomes a minister in Italy and is always angry with immigrants. Maybe he’ll remember the stories of our families, leaving Italy with nothing and coming here to be treated like beggars.”
Silence.
“For that reason too,” Ernie said softly, “tonight we must beat the United States.”
Meanwhile the players began arriving for breakfast.
“Stop speaking English. We’re Italy. We should speak Italian,” Lodigiani joked.
“He’s right,” said Dino Restelli. “And we should call Ernie ‘Mister’ like in soccer.”
“Monsù,” Lombardi corrected. “That’s what we say at my house.”
“Holy cow, what the hell does that mean?” Phil Rizzuto asked.
“Hey idiot, show respect to your manager,” Berra said, smacking him lightly.
Joe DiMaggio watched them, half amused, half exasperated.
At 10 a.m. they held the final meeting.
Lombardi, Bodie, and Pinelli discussed the opponent.
“We know them well,” Campanella said. “Three or four good players. My Dodgers teammates. The rest are nothing special. Jackie Robinson might play first. At second they already have Bobby Doerr or Red Schoendienst. And watch out for Pee Wee at shortstop.”
“If Boudreau hadn’t chosen France, he wouldn’t even be playing,” someone said from the back.
“Outfield,” Lombardi continued. “I expect Dale Mitchell, Tommy Henrich, and either Richie Ashburn or old Hoost Evans. Ken Keltner at third.”
Joe DiMaggio thought:
“Damn him.”
But he said nothing.
“I’m curious to see if Connie starts Satchel Paige or Bob Feller.”
“And catcher I think will be Walker Cooper,” someone added.
Garagiola and Berra smiled.
Campanella slapped both of them on the back.
A man from Rome then spoke. He said he represented the Italian Olympic Committee.
He talked about the honor of representing Italy, the land of their parents. Even though down there, only this year, for the first time, they were starting a baseball championship.
“And practically nobody even knows how the game is played,” he admitted.
“Honestly, I doubt anyone even knows this World Classic is happening.”
“Actually…”
Everyone turned.
Vic Raschi spoke.
“I have a cousin who’s a sports journalist. From Vigolone he moved with his family to Borgotaro. He studies in Turin. I think he writes about cycling for a newspaper in Parma.”
“What the hell is Vigolone?” Carl Furillo laughed.
“You know where Parma and Turin are at least,” Dom DiMaggio said.
“Turin yes.”
“Miracle. Even Crosetti spoke,” someone shouted.
“In Italian it’s Il Corvo,” Lodigiani corrected.
Even the Italian delegate laughed.
“Don’t worry,” Vince DiMaggio said. “If we win, I’ll sing the Italian national anthem.”
That evening, in the bowels of the Latinoamericano stadium, the shyest man in the world, Ernie Lombardi, announced the lineup.
First base: Phil Cavarretta
Second base: Frankie Crosetti
Third base: Dario Lodigiani
Shortstop: Phil Rizzuto
Center field: Dom DiMaggio
Left field: Joe DiMaggio
Right field: Carl Furillo
Catcher: Roy Campanella (sorry Yogi)
Pitcher: Vic Raschi
“Let’s hope your cousin in Italy hears about it.”
“Everyone else be ready. Ralph will come in. And hopefully only at the end, Sal.”
“Sal, remember: we’re here to win. For Italy. Not to settle personal scores.”
“There will be moments when we’ll need Yogi, Dolph, Joe Garagiola, Al Gionfriddo, Billy Martin, Frank Verdi, Dino Restelli, and Vince.”
“At some point in this final, there will be three Sicilian brothers on the field together.”
Joe DiMaggio smiled.
Without saying a word.
“Alright boys, let’s go.”
“You know what Abba said to Garibaldi, right? Either we make Italy… or…”
“Hey, who the hell is Garibaldi?” someone shouted in the distance.
Then they played.
And Italy, as was inevitable with a lineup like that, became World Champion.
Mario Salvini is a sports writer for Gazzetta dello Sport in Italy. He has been covering Italian baseball for many years.
