opened his own restaurant in Cincinnati. Now, he said, it was time to get married. All he needed was the perfect wife. He saw Vickie Chesser in an Ultra Brite toothpaste commercial on television. She had a nice smile.
Vickie liked the way he looked. Johnny had a round-faced handsomeness; there was something vulnerable in the way he looked. And yet, at the same time, he seemed bulletproof. He seemed so sure all the time—sure of where he was going, sure of what would happen when he arrived, sure of their future together. Their courtship happened in a rush; within days of their meeting, he was talking marriage. He overwhelmed her. Vickie did not care for baseball, but her father back in South Carolina explained that Johnny Bench played with such vividness and authority that you could not take your eyes off him. Vickie understood that. He had power. When he proposedto her three weeks after they met, she could not think of anything to say except yes.
Johnny liked that she knew nothing about baseball. It made him feel like something deep in them connected. He also liked the way they looked together. At first, Vickie had talked about having the wedding in her hometown, in Mount Pleasant, South Carolina, but they both knew that could not happen. Well, he knew it for sure. Johnny was a Cincinnati star. He had a Cincinnati wedding in mind, one that would stop the town cold. He did it all—wedding planner, press agent, groom. A friend offered to buy the liquor. A thousand invitations were sent out. Thirty cooks were hired to prepare the food. “It’s a chance to show my artistry,” Stuart Johnsen told the Associated Press; Johnsen was in charge of decorating the eighteen-pound baked salmon. Story after story appeared in the newspapers about the happy couple. When Johnny was asked how he would describe his future wife, he said: “Shapely.”
Vickie marveled at Johnny’s certainty; it was like he had been planning for this wedding his whole life. He wanted a big, gaudy, celebrity-filled wedding; well, that’s what she wanted too. She chose a china pattern but happily switched to Lennox Laurent because she saw how much Johnny liked it. She chose a crystal pattern and changed that too when Johnny showed a preference for Genova by Baccarat. Well, the Genova was nicer. She let him open their wedding presents. “He gets such a kick out of it,” she told a reporter. “I just like to watch him.”
While the reverend spoke at Christ Episcopal Church that day, Johnny leaned over to Vickie and whispered: “Hey, you clean up pretty nice.” And she said: “You look pretty good yourself with your hair combed.” It was like something out of a movie. At the reception, Pete Rose kidded Johnny about a quote in the paper where he talked about being a fan of bigamist Brigham Young. Pete and Merv Rettenmund were the only players from the Machine at the wedding; the others already were down in Florida getting ready for the season.
“You know what they say about married guys?” Pete said.
“What’s that?” Johnny asked.
“They can’t pull the ball no more,” Pete said. Johnny laughed. He would always pull the ball. Across the crowded room, Vickie was getting tossed and twisted and hugged from every direction. She had a nice smile.
Johnny and Vickie cut the cake, shoved pieces in each other’s mouths, kissed for the cameras. The day after the wedding, Johnny and Vickie headed for Florida and the start of a new baseball season. Before leaving, though, they got a phone call. Little Phillip Buckingham had died.
February 28, 1975
TAMPA
Spring training
The players would each remember Sparky Anderson’s spring training speech a little bit differently in later years, but everyone recalled his main point. He announced that the Machine was made up of two different kinds of players. First, there were the superstars. To be more specific, Sparky said, there were four superstars—Pete Rose, Johnny Bench, Joe Morgan, and Tony Perez.
Vickie liked the way he looked. Johnny had a round-faced handsomeness; there was something vulnerable in the way he looked. And yet, at the same time, he seemed bulletproof. He seemed so sure all the time—sure of where he was going, sure of what would happen when he arrived, sure of their future together. Their courtship happened in a rush; within days of their meeting, he was talking marriage. He overwhelmed her. Vickie did not care for baseball, but her father back in South Carolina explained that Johnny Bench played with such vividness and authority that you could not take your eyes off him. Vickie understood that. He had power. When he proposedto her three weeks after they met, she could not think of anything to say except yes.
Johnny liked that she knew nothing about baseball. It made him feel like something deep in them connected. He also liked the way they looked together. At first, Vickie had talked about having the wedding in her hometown, in Mount Pleasant, South Carolina, but they both knew that could not happen. Well, he knew it for sure. Johnny was a Cincinnati star. He had a Cincinnati wedding in mind, one that would stop the town cold. He did it all—wedding planner, press agent, groom. A friend offered to buy the liquor. A thousand invitations were sent out. Thirty cooks were hired to prepare the food. “It’s a chance to show my artistry,” Stuart Johnsen told the Associated Press; Johnsen was in charge of decorating the eighteen-pound baked salmon. Story after story appeared in the newspapers about the happy couple. When Johnny was asked how he would describe his future wife, he said: “Shapely.”
Vickie marveled at Johnny’s certainty; it was like he had been planning for this wedding his whole life. He wanted a big, gaudy, celebrity-filled wedding; well, that’s what she wanted too. She chose a china pattern but happily switched to Lennox Laurent because she saw how much Johnny liked it. She chose a crystal pattern and changed that too when Johnny showed a preference for Genova by Baccarat. Well, the Genova was nicer. She let him open their wedding presents. “He gets such a kick out of it,” she told a reporter. “I just like to watch him.”
While the reverend spoke at Christ Episcopal Church that day, Johnny leaned over to Vickie and whispered: “Hey, you clean up pretty nice.” And she said: “You look pretty good yourself with your hair combed.” It was like something out of a movie. At the reception, Pete Rose kidded Johnny about a quote in the paper where he talked about being a fan of bigamist Brigham Young. Pete and Merv Rettenmund were the only players from the Machine at the wedding; the others already were down in Florida getting ready for the season.
“You know what they say about married guys?” Pete said.
“What’s that?” Johnny asked.
“They can’t pull the ball no more,” Pete said. Johnny laughed. He would always pull the ball. Across the crowded room, Vickie was getting tossed and twisted and hugged from every direction. She had a nice smile.
Johnny and Vickie cut the cake, shoved pieces in each other’s mouths, kissed for the cameras. The day after the wedding, Johnny and Vickie headed for Florida and the start of a new baseball season. Before leaving, though, they got a phone call. Little Phillip Buckingham had died.
February 28, 1975
TAMPA
Spring training
The players would each remember Sparky Anderson’s spring training speech a little bit differently in later years, but everyone recalled his main point. He announced that the Machine was made up of two different kinds of players. First, there were the superstars. To be more specific, Sparky said, there were four superstars—Pete Rose, Johnny Bench, Joe Morgan, and Tony Perez.
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