Belinsky’s legacy short on pitching victories but long on cool
I was hypnotized by him. The coolest man I’d ever met. So cool, in fact, that instantly
I desperately wanted to be like Bo, off-handed, ironic, valuing nothing, playing everything for a laugh,
especially himself. He lived his life as if he were watching a movie unfold from the cheap seats.
Watching himself self-destruct, with amusement. The coolest man I’d ever met.
— Pat Jordan on Bo Belinsky
A friend emailed Pat Jordan’s story on Bo Belinsky, the former baseball pitcher, to me over the weekend. He thought I would like it, or at least find it interesting. Check and check.
But every good Bo story deserves another Bo story. This is especially true on a gorgeous Monday afternoon, three days before Opening Day. This is why I visited Davis Memorial Park, where Bo is buried, in the shadow of McCarran International Airport and 737s bearing the colors of Southwest Airlines.
First, a bit of background. Robert “Bo” Belinsky was born in New York on Dec. 7, 1936. He was raised in Trenton, N.J., where he learned to shoot a mean game of pool. He died in Las Vegas on Nov. 23, 2001, when he was 64.
In between, he won 28 games in the major leagues and lost 51. On May 5, 1962, Bo pitched the first no-hitter at Dodger Stadium, the first no-hitter in the brief history of the Los Angeles Angels, when he hypnotized Baltimore Orioles bats, 2-0. That made him sort of famous.
After that, as Pat Jordan wrote, Bo dated Ann-Margret, Mamie Van Doren, Tina Louise and Connie Stevens. Only Pat Jordan didn’t use the word “dated.” He used the word ballplayers use in the company of other ballplayers. That made Bo much more famous than that no-hitter against the Birds.
That’s when Bo Belinsky became the coolest man you’d ever want to meet.
I met him a little while before he died. He was still pretty cool then.
One of the other sports writers, who had bought a car from Bo when he worked at the local Saturn dealership, had invited him to Moose McGillycuddy’s, across the street from UNLV, for happy hour. This didn’t seem like a good idea, considering Bo was on the wagon and there were like 38 empty pint glasses on our table when he arrived. But Bo drank straight black coffee for all nine innings, or until the band started. His body looked frail, but his mind was strong. He could handle it. Three up, three down. Like pitching against the Orioles that night.
We were hoping he would regale us with stories about “dating” Ann-Margret and Ginger and all the rest. Spare no details, Bo. But Bo mostly sat there, sipped his coffee and listened to our stories. I told him about the first woman I saw without clothing. She had a staple in her navel. It was Jo Collins, Playmate of the Year, 1964. Bo’s first wife. I was pretty young, but as I recall, Bo’s first wife had an impressive strike zone.
After a verbal joust between my wife and the other sports writers, Bo nudged me in the ribs. He told me my wife had moxie.
Only he didn’t use the word “moxie.” He used the word ballplayers use in the company of other ballplayers.
I told that story to Lou Rodophele, one of Bo’s Las Vegas pals, at the cemetery on Monday. This Thanksgiving, it will have been 10 years since Bo called Lou and said he’d like to see Lou’s granddaughter. They talked for a couple of hours on the patio. Bo drank coffee and smoked English Ovals, those fancy cigarettes you could only get at the Paiute Tribal Smoke Shop. Lou recalled that Bo, who never looked very good then, looked even worse that night.
The next night, Lou received a call from the guy who lived upstairs from Bo at their condominium complex on Boulder Highway.
When Lou got there, Robert “Bo” Belinsky, the coolest man Pat Jordan had ever met, was sitting dead on the couch.
The official cause of death was a heart attack. Unofficially, Bo probably died from being Bo.
On Monday, Lou and I found his grave marker by first finding Sonny Liston’s grave marker and then counting five rows up. Somebody had the idea there should be a buffer zone between these two, because who knows what sort of ruckus they might have caused otherwise.
Overhead, a 737 bearing Southwest Airlines colors roared toward the runway. I was thinking about those Dos Equis commercials, about that guy with the beard who is supposedly the most interesting man in the world.
Well, yeah, I thought. Maybe now that Bo’s gone.
Las Vegas Review-Journal columnist Ron Kantowski can be reached at rkantowski@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0352. Follow him on Twitter: @ronkantowski.