Dick "Richie" Allen has died

[Beau Vine 54258]

Probably the best player I have ever seem who is not in the HoF.  I seem to remember as a kid that he hit approximately .800 against the Rangers with a 2.600 SLG% while playing for the White Sox.

This guy agrees:

 

So does Stark:

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A great baseball player, and a thoroughly misunderstood human being, died Monday. What makes his passing especially heartbreaking is that Monday should have been one of the most beautiful days of his lifetime.

Dick Allen was 78 when he died of cancer in Wampum, Pa., the town where he was born. It was hard not to think of what might have been.

Sunday was supposed to be election day for the players on baseball’s Golden Era Committee ballot. Which meant Dick Allen almost certainly would have been voted into baseball’s Hall of Fame that day.

He was one vote short of election six years ago, the last time that committee voted. So unless something strange happened, this would have been his time, his year, his day.

And that meant Monday would have been the day of his Hall of Fame press conference — a day which, perhaps, could have melted away some of the many years of pain for a player whose unique ability to crush a baseball is only now beginning to be fully understood.

But this, of course, was the year the world spun backward. So there was no Golden Era election. Because of the pandemic, it was postponed until next December.

Is there a way to make sense of how sad it is that Dick Allen will never know the joy of that election day which feels so inevitable now? If there is, I haven’t been able to make my mind grasp it.

So I’m writing this tribute now because Dick Allen was more than just my favorite player as a kid. He was the first favorite player I ever had.

He’s a big reason I fell in love with baseball. And I guess that means he had a lot to do with the path that led me to write about baseball for all these years. I’m just sorry I never had a chance to tell him thank you.

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For us kids who grew up in Philadelphia in the 1960s, Dick Allen was a force of nature, a magnetic larger-than-life attraction who was to us then what LeBron or Patrick Mahomes is now to the kids of the 21st century. Except it was in a different sort of way, because it was such a different time.

So on Monday afternoon, I called my friend, filmmaker Mike Tollin, because no one I know was as close to Dick Allen as he was. We shared some laughs. We shared some tears. We shared so many memories.

“I don’t know if kids have heroes like that anymore,” he said. “Sports is so ephemeral now. Guys get traded. We know too much. Social media creates a closeness on one hand, but it also takes away that aura of fan to hero, that blind devotion.”

As kids, the two of us mostly weren’t aware of the racism and ugliness Dick Allen spent those years battling. We didn’t understand the forces that were gradually turning the cheers to that sound that Philadelphians have become so famous for.

Me & you, we never booed Richie Allen
I never understood why people did
He hit a homer every time he stepped up to the plate
That’s what I remember as a kid
–  From “Letters in the Dirt,” by singer-songwriter Chuck Brodsky.

 

All we knew was that Dick Allen had a gift we’d never experienced before in our young lives. We had a certain idea of what was possible for any human being to do with a baseball bat in his hands … and then this guy came along to show us we had no idea what was truly possible, at least for men as gifted and strong as Dick Allen was.

So on Monday afternoon, Mike Tollin and I tried to remember all the superhuman feats, all the places we remember Dick Allen hitting all those baseballs that may still be flying for all we know. We conjured up the image of old Connie Mack Stadium that still lives on in our memory banks. Then we brought those monstrous home runs back to life.

Over the Coca-Cola sign and the Philco sign and every other sign attached to the distant roof above the left-field stands … over the massive tin wall that extended beyond the 447-foot sign in dead center … over the clock atop the towering Ballantine Beer scoreboard in right-center … off the top of what we would describe now as the Phillies’ version of the Fenway green monster, except that it was in right field, not left, and it was a faded silver-blue, not green.

“He had that aura,” Tollin reminisced. “He created that expectation that the impossible was possible.”

He was the first athlete of my lifetime, in any sport, who made me interrupt whatever dumb stuff I was otherwise doing, just to watch him swing a bat. I wasn’t the only one.

“In the days before DVRs,” Tollin said, “he was that guy who, when your mom called you, you said, ‘I’ll be right in … I’ve got to watch this at-bat.’”

“There was something regal about him,” Tollin went on, “that got me fixated and mesmerized every time he came to bat … That big wool uniform. The number 15. That 41-ounce war club he swung. The way he stood at home plate. The demeanor. The way he chopped wood when he swung.”

Yep, we remembered it all. We could see it in our mind’s Tivo, so many years later. Dick Allen, man. What couldn’t he do?

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Me & you, we never booed Richie Allen
No, we’d pound our mitts & we’d yell, “We want a hit”
How could they call a guy a bum after he’d just hit a home run?
That didn’t make any sense to a kid

It didn’t end well. It’s Philadelphia. It almost never does. No need to recap it all here. But it ended messily, with Allen scrawling messages in the dirt around first base: BOO … FREE … NO … WHY? He was a man begging to be traded. In October 1969, the Phillies granted his wish.

He would bounce to the Cardinals, then the Dodgers, then the White Sox, where he would win an MVP award in 1972, the signature season of his career. Ultimately, he would return to Philadelphia in 1975 and 1976, where he would leave his mark on a core group that would go on to win a World Series four years after he exited — again.

But it would be more than four decades before all was finally forgiven. This past summer, Phillies managing general partner John Middleton broke with his team’s long-standing tradition and announced that, for the first time, it was retiring the number of a player who was not in the Hall of Fame (yet).

That player was Dick Allen. That number was 15.

There were no fans in the seats of Citizen Bank Park that day, sadly. But those who were there could still feel the love — especially No. 15 and the owner who made this moment possible.

“I told Mike Tollin and Mike Schmidt that day is one of the two most special moments in my 25-plus years of being an owner,” Middleton said Monday. “The other, of course, is the day we won the World Series (in 2008).

“I also told them,” Middleton said, “that if I were forced to choose just one of those days to experience and forgo the other, I would probably choose Dick’s retirement ceremony.”

That is a remarkable sentiment to express, in a city that has seen just two World Series champions in 138 seasons of Major League Baseball. But that’s how powerful that day was for a player who never thought he would live to feel that sort of affection and respect from a city that had pushed him away in the prime of his career.

“Seeing and feeling the impact retiring his jersey had on him and his family is humbling,” Middleton said.

“Dick felt so alive that day,” said Tollin, who has spent two decades working on a Dick Allen film that was supposed to culminate in his Hall of Fame election. “He had such a sparkle in his eye that day. It felt like the day that (the pain) all went away. There was no bitterness. No animosity. Just appreciation. There was so much outpouring of love, it was truly overwhelming.

“Then afterward,” Tollin continued, “we sat in the conference room, just him and me. There weren’t a lot of words. Finally, he shook his head and said, ‘Man, I can’t believe this.’ He kept shaking his head. He was so grateful. I really did feel like that was his Hall of Fame day.”

---

In a decade and a half on the BBWAA’s Hall of Fame Ballot, Dick Allen never received more than 18.9 percent of the vote. I’ll admit I was one of the 81 percent who never checked his name.

Back in the ’90s, a player’s counting numbers mattered a lot more than they do now. And because Allen missed so many games — for many complicated reasons — his counting numbers weren’t enough to meet the Hall of Fame standards so many of us had drawn in our minds.

He never reached 2,000 hits. He was well short of 400 home runs. And voters deducted points for all those games he didn’t play. But we were looking at his career through a prism of that time, not this time.

Now, we have different views, different standards, different ways to evaluate a player. So now, we hone in on Dick Allen’s staggering 11-year peak (1964-74) and see this:

BEST OPS, 1964-74

Hank Aaron: .941
Dick Allen: .940
Willie McCovey: .937

BEST SLUGGING PCT., 1964-74

Hank Aaron: .561
Dick Allen: .554
Willie Stargell: .541

BEST OPS+, 1964-74

Dick Allen: 165
Willie McCovey: 164
Hank Aaron: 159
Frank Robinson: 159

And now, we have Hall of Fame comps for Dick Allen that suggest it’s these metrics, not the counting numbers of yesteryear, that should take precedence. We look at Edgar Martinez, who was elected with “only” 2,247 hits and 309 homers. We look at Larry Walker (2,160 hits, 383 homers). We see the times have changed.

So when you look at those numbers above, it seems obvious that Cooperstown was finally getting ready to wrap its arms around Dick Allen.

But a few years ago, the Hall of Fame revamped its Veterans Committees and their timetables. So instead of Allen’s next chance arriving in December 2017, the Golden Era panel was shuffled back another three years to December 2020. Then this year, it was shuffled back one extra year, because COVID-19 was going to make it impossible for that committee to meet in person.

Sure, it could have met via Zoom, the way the rest of us meet these days. But that wasn’t how it turned out.

“So in 2014, he missed by one vote — and then, instead of three years … they postponed his next shot three additional years,” Tollin said. “If he’d been up for election in 2017, three years after missing by one vote, there’s a pretty good chance he gets in, right?

“And then,” Mike Tollin said softly, “he would have had his day.”

Well, Dick Allen will never have that day. But he did have Sept. 3 at Citizens Bank Park. And the meaning of that moment only grew Monday, for those who had hoped back then it was just the prelude to that next great day in Cooperstown.

“What is most extraordinary about Dick,” Middleton said, “is, having endured the bigotry and racism he did, it would have been understandable for him to be bitter and angry. Instead, he was filled with love and forgiveness. … His detractors for the Hall of Fame cite his 20-something attitude and behavior, ignoring the unconscionable behavior of too many teammates, reporters and fans, but fail to see that how he lived his post-baseball life is worthy of being honored and praised.

“He was at peace with himself and his place in the world,” Middleton said. “And if Sept. 3, 2020, gave him more peace, then I am pleased to have played a small part in doing so.”

Yet we can’t help but think of what these last couple of days could have represented for a man who endured so much. A vote he’d waited six years for. An honor he’d waited a lifetime for. It could have been a day of elation and celebration. Instead, we got a day of tears, a day of mourning and one more day of wondering about what might have been.

 

[Beau Vine 54258]

[Beau Vine 54258]

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Dick Allen was Philadelphia’s Jackie Robinson | Opinion

Posted: December 7, 2020 - 4:04 PM

 

William C. Kashatus, For The Inquirer

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Dick Allen, who played for the Phillies in the 1960s and the Chicago White Sox in the 1970s, taught me that Black lives matter long before the phrase became popular. He was my childhood hero at a time when the city’s sportswriters and Major League Baseball rebuked him as an antihero. He was also a valued friend who trusted me to write about his life.

Allen, who died on Monday at the age of 78, was the most misunderstood athlete in Philadelphia’s sports history. A shy, private individual by nature, he unwittingly became a symbol of the growing Black consciousness in the 1960s and paid for it dearly. Yet, for many youngsters — Black and white — who grew up in the city during that racially turbulent time, “Richie,” as he was known then, was our very own Jackie Robinson.

» READ MORE: Dick Allen and the riots of ’64 show us where we were. Carson Wentz and Tobias Harris show us where we still can be. | Mike Sielski

Allen was the Phillies’ first African American superstar. In 1964, he was voted the National League Rookie of the Year. Over the next seven years, he batted over .300 three times, averaging almost 30 homers and more than 90 RBI. But fans never forgave him for allegedly instigating the trade of Frank Thomas, a popular white veteran, in 1965. They booed Allen every night, often using the N-word, and threw pennies, bolts, or beer bottles at him. Off the field, they sent him hate mail and dumped garbage on his front lawn. Philadelphia’s sportswriters excoriated the beleaguered star as a rebel who manipulated race and expected special privileges. In fact, Richie was a sensitive individual who was hurt by the horrific treatment and internalized it.

 

 

No, Richie was not perfect. When his repeated requests for a trade were denied by ownership, he tried to force a deal by arriving late to games, making controversial remarks to the press, and scrawling letters in the dirt around first base to show his displeasure. But unlike Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb, and many other baseball immortals, Richie never lowered himself by shouting back at abusive fans, flipping profane gestures, or charging the stands.

DICK ALLEN,

In an ongoing skirmish with fans and the front office, Dick Allen sends messages (here, "Mom") via the dirt in the cutout at first.

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My teachers at the small Quaker school I attended admired Allen’s example, referring to it as “speaking truth to power,” a nonviolent protest against racism. They compared his restraint and human dignity to that of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and taught us to honor their examples. As a result, I developed an early interest in African American history and the civil rights movement; subjects that continue to captivate me as a writer and historian.

When Allen retired from the game in 1977, he was a seven-time All-Star and the American League’s Most Valuable Player in 1972 when he played for the White Sox. During a 15-year career, he batted .292 and hit 351 home runs and 1,119 RBI. In addition, Allen’s impressive slugging and on-base statistics rank him as arguably the best offensive player in the majors between 1964 and 1974.

 

 

» READ MORE: Hall of Famer Mike Schmidt hopes Dick Allen joins him in Cooperstown

Despite these impressive achievements, Allen, who was eligible for the Hall of Fame in 1982, was discriminated against by the Baseball Writers’ Association of America, who never gave him more than 19% of the vote. More recently, the hall’s board of directors created obstacles to prevent the Veterans Committee from electing him during his lifetime, which should have happened in 2014 when he missed by a single vote. Instead, they chose to operate on a tainted view of Allen’s character, one that was imposed on him by the white baseball establishment more than half a century ago.

I wish I could have done more to get Dick elected to the Hall of Fame. That was my objective in 2004 when I wrote about his early career in Philadelphia, and again in 2017 when I wrote a complete biography of him. Those books were based on more than two dozen interviews with Dick, family, friends, and former teammates.

I learned that he was exactly the kind of person I intuited as a youngster: a proud but humble man with a wonderful sense of humor; a good teammate who mentored younger players, including future Hall of Famers Mike Schmidt, Ferguson Jenkins, and Goose Gossage; and a person of integrity who was deeply loyal to his family and to a small circle of friends.

 

Dick Allen forced Philadelphia to come to terms with the racism that existed in our city in the 1960s. He may not have done it with the same tact as Jackie Robinson, but he did it with tremendous moral courage and self-respect. For that, Dick’s life and example will always be much greater than a bronze plaque in Cooperstown.

 

[Pato del Muerto 52529]

He wore a helmet in the field?

[Guest Lobo]

8 hours ago, Pato del Muerto said:

He wore a helmet in the field?

Dude, go read the story about him.  He led a remarkable life, that he didn't beat the fuck out of more people is a testament to his character.  Philly fans, and even some White Sox fans used to throw shit at him when he was walking in/out of stadium and in/out of dugout, including batteries.  And yeah, it was because he was black.  And this was in the 1970's mind you, not like fans were new to colored people on the field.  So he took to wearing a batting helmet in the field for that short little jaunt from the bag to the dugout.  Everytime I read about a story about how sports and the military are breakers are racial barriers, I think about Dick Allen.  And how stupid so many people still are in this country and why I shouldn't be surprised at what I see out there when I look away from baseball.  

[Shoxthemonkey 1981]

I don't remember why he changed from Richie to Dick , maybe he hated the nickname, but he was always Richie to me. One hell of a player and one that my folks made me aware of for the abuse he endured. As racist as my grandfathers were, it's amazing that my folks took every opportunity to preach tolerance and love to us kids.

[Beau Vine 54258]

5 hours ago, Lobo said:

Dude, go read the story about him.  He led a remarkable life, that he didn't beat the fuck out of more people is a testament to his character.  Philly fans, and even some White Sox fans used to throw shit at him when he was walking in/out of stadium and in/out of dugout, including batteries.  And yeah, it was because he was black.  And this was in the 1970's mind you, not like fans were new to colored people on the field.  So he took to wearing a batting helmet in the field for that short little jaunt from the bag to the dugout.  Everytime I read about a story about how sports and the military are breakers are racial barriers, I think about Dick Allen.  And how stupid so many people still are in this country and why I shouldn't be surprised at what I see out there when I look away from baseball.  

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In 1963 the Phillies’ Triple-A farm club relocated from Buffalo to Little Rock, Arkansas. Without telling anyone, the Phillies decided to integrate the team. Little Rock had found itself in the middle of the civil-rights movement in 1957 after Governor Orval Faubus refused to integrate Central High School in Little Rock.

For Allen, who grew up in racially tolerant Wampum, Little Rock was a startling experience. As the first black to play there, he experienced racial segregation and pressure on a daily basis. “I didn’t know anything about the racial issue in Arkansas, and didn’t really care. Maybe if the Phillies had called me in, man to man, like the Dodgers had done with Jackie Robinson, at least I would have been prepared. Instead, I was on my own.”5

Governor Faubus attended the season opener, and the opening night crowd waved placards that read, “Let’s not NEGRO-ize our baseball.” The very first pitch of the game resulted in a routine fly ball to Allen, who promptly dropped it. The racially charged atmosphere frightened young Allen. He came from a small town where blacks and whites got along and socialized to some degree. He heard racial taunts from the crowd and found threatening notes on his car after games. Allen told a writer in 1964, “I didn’t want to be a crusader. I kept thinking, ‘Why me?’ It’s tough to play ball when you’re frightened.”6 Allen was harassed at a local store and by a policeman, and was afraid to walk around town. Things got so bad that he considered quitting the team. His older brother, Coy, went down to Little Rock and told Allen that if he quit, he would have to get a job in one of the mills in Wampum. Allen stuck it out.

 

[Guest Lobo]

nmnm

Edited December 8, 2020 by Lobo

[Beau Vine 54258]

3 hours ago, Shoxthemonkey said:

I don't remember why he changed from Richie to Dick , maybe he hated the nickname, but he was always Richie to me. One hell of a player and one that my folks made me aware of for the abuse he endured. As racist as my grandfathers were, it's amazing that my folks took every opportunity to preach tolerance and love to us kids.

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In what would be the first of many controversies surrounding him, Allen complained about being called Richie, For whatever reason, the Phillies insisted on referring to him as Richie on all printed rosters, scorecards, and team correspondence. “To be truthful with you, I’d like to be called Dick. I don’t know how the Richie started. My name is Richard and they called me Dick in the minor leagues.”9 He added, “It makes me sound like I’m ten years old. I’m 22. … Anyone who knows me well calls me Dick. I don’t know why as soon as I put on a uniform it’s Richie.”10 The moniker stayed with him until 1966, when the Philadelphia sportswriters began referring to him as Rich Allen.

 

[Guest Lobo]

Richie "Dick" Allen is in the Hall of Fame.  And the "best" guy that threw batteries at him, cursed him in Little Rock, and fought minor league integration in the South.  The best guy of all those people got his cousin pregnant, died of diabetes, penniless, and insane.  

If 2020 teaches us nothing, it's that my side will always win.  We will always bury the ignorant and bigoted.  In baseball, in warfare, in politics, in business, in education, in integration.................the Dick Allens of the world and the people who support him will always win.  His is a great, and underappreciated story, that is very appropriate for 2020.  He didn't ask to be in the fight, but you throw enough shit at a man's head, choke to death enough of his friends, don't be surprised his cousin takes a bat to your drug store window.  You'll never, ever, ever win.  All there is degrees of shame for your grandchildren to carry around their necks.  You'll always be a zero.  Always.  Whether it's the hall of fame, or history books, or people like me.......we'll always be around to remind your grandchildren you were wrong.  You were dead fucking wrong on the evil side of history.  Baseball or otherwise.  You're human shit and don't ever fucking forget it.  Not for one fucking day.  I can't find the people that threw batteries at Allen's head.  But I can sure as fuck find you and make sure you never get business legitimacy for the rest of your fucking days.  /rant  

[shadow_operative 15932]

https://www.instagram.com/p/CIipd_PHcLj/?igshid=nanv2sl1gv0d

 

 

[EZ$ 2105]

15 hours ago, Beau Vine said:

 

I worked for that Little Rock team in 2002. Not much changed since 1963.