Gibby’s Ball

I grew up in Los Angeles, the City of Angels. As a child we lived in a mostly Hispanic neighborhood just a few miles from Chavez Ravine, home of my all-time favorite sports team. In my house we bled Blue and from the beginning of April until late October, if the baseball Gods deemed us worthy, it was all Dodgers all the time. My room was painted Dodger Blue, adorned with pennants, bobble heads, and photographs of my favorite players, many of them signed. Orel Hershiser hung out there. Next to him was Mike Scioscia. John Shelby occupied a prominent spot on the far wall right next to Fernando Valenzuela. I even had some of the old timers. Ron Cey, the Steves; Garvey and Yeager, Dusty Baker, and Rick Monday. But my all-time favorite memento was an autographed poster of Kirk Gibson, arm in mid cock, as he rounded the bases after hitting probably the most famous home run in World Series history, bottom of the ninth inning, first game of the World Series on October 15, 1988. It certainly was, and still is, the most famous home run in Los Angeles Dodgers history. I was only seven years old at the time, and I clearly remember sitting with my mother, father and two brothers in front of our ancient but serviceable television set. The image of Gibson hobbling up to the plate in obvious pain; almost falling on the first swing; quickly falling behind no balls and two strikes; battling back; fouling off pitches and taking the count full; and with one swing writing his name in the history books. I loved baseball and those guys, major league ball players, were my heroes. Growing up, all I wanted was to be a major league ball player. There was only one problem with that grand ambition. Simply put, I couldn't play worth a lick. In high school I settled for covering sporting events as a reporter for the school newspaper. In college I majored in sports journalism, eventually earning a degree and landing a job at a small neighborhood newspaper in Southern California covering the sports beat. “And look who's coming up! All year long they looked to him to light the fire and all year long he answered the demands until he was physically unable to start tonight. With two bad legs, a bad left hamstring, and a swollen right knee.” -Vin Scully -October 15, 1988 It was in that capacity, as a reporter, that I got to interview one of my childhood heroes, when Kirk Gibson was in town. He was working as a commentator for the Detroit Tigers and the team was in town for a series against the Angels. We sat down over lunch and had a very nice conversation. I asked him about his battle with Parkinson's disease, which he had been diagnosed with in 2015. We talked about the current crop of young ball players coming to the big leagues. Of course, we talked about the Dodgers and the unbelievable season they were having this year, 2017. And we talked about his playing days. I mentioned the autographed poster I still had (somewhere) and how I had seen that at bat, lasting over nine minutes, at least a couple of hundred times. Towards the end of the interview, I asked him about that home run. More specifically, the ball. Where was it? Cooperstown in the Hall of Fame I bet. "You know," he replied conspiratorially, a smile playing across his face, "it's a funny thing but I don't know where that ball is. As far as I know, no one knows where it is. In all the excitement nobody thought to go find it and no one ever came forward with it. A few months later I got a letter with a photograph from a young woman. In the picture she had a badly bruised thigh where the ball supposedly hit her but that's all I've ever heard about it." That interview got me thinking. Where was that ball? Why had no one ever come forward with it? If for no other reason than the price it would bring as a collectible. The more I thought about it the more curious I became. If nothing else, the mystery of the missing ball might make a good story. I looked at old film footage of the home run. There was a quick shot, lasting all of about two seconds of the right field pavilion as the ball sailed into the mass of screaming fans. After that, the cameras were all trained on the drama on the playing field as Gibson gamely ran-limped around the base paths, famously pumping his right arm as the entire team charged out of the dugout to mob him at home plate. On a whim, I called Gibson a few weeks later. I explained that I was doing a story on the ball and did he by any chance still have that letter and photograph? As it turned out he did. It took him awhile to find them, but he soon emailed me copies of both. The woman's name was Harriet Bird. Unfortunately, she no longer lived at the address on the letter. It took me several days of research to track her down but hey, that's what we reporters do, right?