Sing One Happy Song, Johnny

By Roger Kahn

He is, quite simply, the best catcher in baseball history, after which simplicity ends when one considers Johnny Lee Bench of Binger, Okla., and Cincinnati. "Binger," Bench says, with only the smallest curl of smiles, "is easy to find. It's half a mile back of Resume Speed."

Bench is powerful, handsome, poised, witty and possessed of an exceptional intelligence. "I was valedictorian of my class at Binger High School," he says. Again the small smile lights his broad face. "Of course, you can ruin that by writing something else. There were only 21 in my graduating class."

At the age of 28, he is already a folk hero on merit, and Reuven Katz, his attorney, hopes to make Bench a millionaire before John becomes 30. Bench sings. He sings on key and with a quiet intensity, but all the songs are sad. One tells of a broken marriage. In another an old man is bereft of everything but a dog and watermelon wine. A third describes young people who are desperate in a wash of ruined dreams.

"Can you sing a happy one?" someone asked last week in Sardi's as Bench and the Reds were continuing their assault on the New York Yankees.

"Oh, sure," Bench said, and presently we braved the night, where truck-drivers for the New York Times fell upon him demanding autographs and offering one free copy of the paper as thanks. It was late and he was tired and he signed for everyone who asked. But he had not thought of a happy song.

Last week's baseball did not shape up as a classic World Series. My fearless forecast liked the Reds in three. I know you need four victories to win a series, but I thought the Reds would win the first three games. Then the Yankees would descend into communal depression, drink hard liquor and fail to show up for Game 4.

Within certain limits, the Series followed The Forecast. The Reds are gloriously gifted young men, performing with flair under George Anderson, white-haired at 42, who once sold cars in the yellow air of Van Nuys, Calif.

In the first inning of the first game, Joe Morgan proclaimed his presence by hitting a home run. In the second inning, Lou Piniella of the Yankees doubled to right and took third on an infield out. Piniella assumed a modest lead. Bench fired a pick-off throw to Pete Rose. Piniella was safe by a millimeter. Now the Yankees had seen Johnny Bench's arm. With one out in the sixth, Mickey Rivers, the speed of the Yankees, reached first. He tried to steal and Morgan was a shade slow covering second. Bench started to throw. He held the ball and waited. Then he fired. This was the 24th consecutive postseason game in which no one would steal a base off Johnny Bench.

By the time we got to Sardi's, the Reds were leading the Series, three games to none. Bench was batting over .500 and yes, he conceded, intimidation was a factor in the game. But he didn't much want to talk baseball. His divorce from a model called Vickie Chesser had almost been resolved, and he preferred to enjoy a New York night.

"The song you liked," he said, "is by the Statler Brothers. They're from West Virginia, but it could be Binger." He offered a slow, dramatic recitation.

Tommy's selling used cars

Nancy's fixing hair.

Harry runs a grocery store,

And Margaret doesn 't care.

And the Class of '57 had their dreams.

We all thought we 'd change the world

With our great works and deeds.

Or maybe we just hoped the world

Would change to fit our needs.

Oh, the Class of '57 had its dreams.

I don't know if you can change the world by catching baseball games with Mr. Bench's excellence. But if we keep our minds and spirits open, we can all learn from this glittering, poignant American youth from Oklahoma.

Hell, if he signed on for three debates with Gerald Ford or Jimmy Carter, my forecast would be Johnny Bench in one.

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