Polka King by Jimmy Sturr

Author:Jimmy Sturr [Sturr, Jimmy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781937856359
Publisher: BenBella Books, Inc.

Phil Niekro, number 35, dancing the polka at Yankee Stadium with the band in the background.

The following spring—right in the middle of spring training—our band was playing a show down in West Palm Beach, Florida. During one of our breaks, in came Phil and his brother Joe (the Yankees had signed him during the off-season, much to Phil’s pleasure), along with a burly catcher named Ron Hassey, the talented pitcher Dave Righetti, and a utility infielder by the name of Mike Fischlin. The place was mobbed, so I decided that it was the ideal time to goof around with my good friend Phil.

After the first tune of the second set, before the clapping even died down, I picked up the microphone and said, “Thanks for your kind applause, ladies and gentlemen. I have some news for everybody. There are a few members of the New York Yankees with us here tonight, and one of them is the great Phil Niekro. Now everybody knows that Phil throws one hell of a knuckleball, but what you might not know is that he’s a wonderful clarinet player. Do you want to hear him play a song?” The crowd roared its approval, and I said, “Phil, where are you, buddy? Get on up here and join us for a number or two!” Phil was a good sport, so he made his way up to the front of the room. As he took to the stage, he gave me a funny look, after which I covered the mic and said, “Trust me, it’ll be okay. Just go along with me.”

While all this was going on, our clarinetist quietly picked up his instrument and a microphone, then walked off stage and ducked behind the curtain. I then handed Phil my clarinet and said, “This song is called ‘Clarinet Polka.’ You know that one, don’t you, pal?” Before Phil could answer, I whispered into his ear, “We’ve got one of our guys set up backstage with a mic. He’s gonna do the song. Just stick the clarinet in your mouth, and then when I count us off, pretend to play.” He followed my instructions to a T, and unless someone was paying really, really close attention, it looked like Phil was wailing away on the ol’ licorice stick. Since it was a polka party, the drinks were flowing, so I’d venture to say that there weren’t too many people paying really, really close attention.

A couple of weeks later, I went to visit Phil at the Yankees spring training location in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, just an hour away from West Palm Beach. I met him outside the stadium, and, after we said our hellos, he said, “You want to come in and see the clubhouse?”

“You bet!” As was the case with most Major League spring training facilities, the clubhouse wasn’t nearly as nice as the digs at Yankee Stadium, but I was polite and told Phil how nice it was.

He said, “It’s a dump. Want to sit in

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