"Where’s

Dick Allen?"

Where's Dick Allen?

It's a question that has puzzled some of baseball's greatest minds and has become the game's longest-standing" where-are they -now" story.

They started asking the question around 20 years ago in Philadelphia, where the young infielder quickly established a reputation for making both himself and pitched baseballs disappear in dramatic fashion.

He was potentially among the game's greatest talents, putting together a Rookie of the Year season in 1964 that had baseball men drawing comparisons to Willie Mays. But before long, Allen started drawing up his own rules. He missed team flights. He missed games. He missed whole series. He fought with his teammates and angered his managers. Soon, public fascination with the talented kid who hit home runs to places virgin to horsehide was replaced with public resentment of the angry black man who raised to an art form the business of breaking rules. In Philadelphia, in the 1960s, Allen made an inviting target.

There were constant jeers and taunts, obscene phone calls to his children, rocks through his window. Allen soured. He stopped giving autographs or interviews. The more they squeezed the more he resisted. In an era when team owners regarded players as their property, Allen refused to be anyone's boy. The fines grew so enormous that one newspaper story computed their effect on the city wage tax. He was blamed for getting one Phillies manager fired and forcing another to quit. And when it was suggested to one of those that Allen was a loner, Gene Mauch replied, "Yeah, and he's hanging out with a bad crowd."

Near the end of his stay in Philadelphia he commented that his idea of a perfect game would be one played in an empty stadium, with the gates locked to sportswriters and fans. His farewell note to the city in 1969 was a series of cryptic scrawls in the infield dirt -"Why," "Long," "Pete," "No." He would return in 1975 for a brief stay that stirred the fonder memories of a career that would span close to 15 years and five cities where he consistently gave spectators goose bumps and managers ulcers.

And through it all, the question "Where's Dick Allen?" rarely went out of season.

But on this summer day in Chicago the coach's nightmare is back in baseball as a coach himself-the White Sox "roving minor league hitting instructor." If there is one lesson to be learned from the past 25 years of baseball, it is that you don't put the word "roving" in front of Dick Allen's job description. The White Sox are still learning this the hard way.

Two weeks ago Allen excused himself for a weekend at home. Team officials haven't seen him since.

They combed the minor league system, called his home, called his friends. Nobody knew where Dick Allen was.

Finally Allen called in-to the ticket sales department -to have them book his flight for this rare old-timers appearance.

And now two White Sox publicists sort through rumors of a Dick Allen sighting in the hotel lobby.

"I heard he went upstairs to take a nap." "A nap?"

Mindful of Allen' s reputation for rarely allowing an alarm clock to cheat him of anything, another call is placed to Allen' s suite. This time he picks up, saying that while he will not be attending the press conference, he will be at tonight's cocktail party.

"He says he's busy with an interview," one publicist tells the other.

"Right," says the other. "He's doing an interview with his pillow."

Allen is one of the first to arrive for cocktails. A self styled man, he shows up in a three-piece velvet suit accented with a gold pocket watch and cowboy boots. His heavy lids make him appear streetwise and world-weary. But this affair has put some bounce in his step and he looks every bit the ballplayer as he nimbly makes his way to the complimentary bar.

Though he has already cancelled two interviews and disappeared for a third, there is no mention of this. Talking to writers has never been one of Allen's priorities.

"They're running me all over the place," he says with a tired shake of the head. "This past couple weeks have been the first break I've had in a while. I needed some time to rest."

A scotch and water warms him further and he guides the conversation's size and place. He keeps it small and he keeps it in Philadelphia. Shared knowledge of streets, questions about the weather. He speaks of the city with more affection than you have any reason to expect.

"They didn't like the outlaw," Allen says of his trouble here, not displeased with the description. "Everyone knows one version of what happened, but I never got a chance to tell my side of it. I want to tell it, but I'm saving that for a book. I'm hoping to get one published and make a little money off it. This divorce just cleaned me out."

Allen pulls back, chats some more, careful to avoid telling too much. Then the room becomes busy with the voices of everyone Allen missed at this afternoon's press conference. He gets a refill and heads off with the promise to meet tomorrow at the clubhouse at 11 a.m., sharp. Sounds unlikely.

"Yeah, I'll sit down with you," he says cheerfully. "I didn't know you were from Philly."

The next day he makes it to the ballpark on time, despite what has been a long, foggy night with the boys. As Allen steps into the clubhouse it is empty of sound except for a television show about the Mississippi River. He finds a locker and gives a long sigh as he sorts through the equipment bag that reads "Coach Allen. " Several empty Heinekens roll around inside as he pokes through his gear.

Allen doesn't want to talk about himself. He wants to talk about horses. His brothers' horses. In Maryland. They run them there. He helps them buy, raise, develop, sell. He's a good judge of horseflesh. Lousy handicapper, though. ...

"Dick Allen! Whaddya say, buddy? Glad you could find the park."

"You're lucky I'm at the park after last night."

"Where are you living at these days?"

"Maryland. My brothers have some horses down there…"

"I was sure you'd be living in Philly."

"No, brother," he chuckles. "I got run out of there."

"You're not in Philly? I thought you'd be mayor by now."

Everyone laughs, even Allen.

Once, at the height of his troubles in Philadelphia, Allen took to dressing in a storage room, apart from his teammates. But he is comfortable here in Chicago, in the depths of the stadium where he had his greatest season. That was in 1972, an MVP year when they finally stopped talking about "potential."

Unlike most of the others, Allen still wears his White Sox uniform with a lot of credibility. He looks like a ballplayer. He just doesn't feel like one today.

"I enjoy seeing the old guys but I'll be glad when it's over with, to tell you the truth. These games are just for show. That's not what I'm all about. I'm about being real."

Allen trots up the worn wooden dugout steps of this, the oldest stadium in the majors. Comiskey Park is-like most old-timers-more than a little ragged.

He assumes a batting stance for photos and signs autographs, mostly for the dads. There is a glad, boyish rhythm of baseballs being thrown, batted, fielded, thrown again. And Allen does his best to join in the sunny mood.

"Awful bright out there, coach," says a fellow old-timer.

"Man, I’m tellin’ you…"

"I had to leave you guys last night. Whew! You sure you're awake?"

"You tell me."

Some of the players greet Allen with a half-serious "coach." Even Allen can't resist the joke of his reputation.

"I'm working with a few players with some potential down there. The problem is they have to learn to love the game. You can't teach that. It's different than it was in our day.

"With us, it was 'Tough day today, boss, let's grind.' It was grab it, throw it, run it-not all drawn out like today. You play a series in New York-that' s four days of Rheingold. Come back to Philly for a home stand-that's a week of Ballantine…" Though as a player Allen avoided batting practice, he hurries into the box with exaggerated glee when his turn comes. There is a small rumble in the stands among those few fans who have turned out early for just such a moment. Allen looks good taking mighty cuts with his heavy bat, but rarely makes contact. He calls several shots over the fence. No luck.

The introductions take as long as the game. Allen gets the loudest cheers.

On his first time at bat, Allen gets brushed back by what looks like about a 50-mile-an-hour fastball. The next pitch is a change-up and Allen is fooled. Finally he chops a weak ground ball that is relayed from the shortstop to the pitcher to the first baseman. After a certain age you get through it any way you can.

It goes on this way. .

Allen finally manages to reach base, but gets hit by a batted ball. He clowns for the crowd in a way that suggests a changed man in the familiar uniform. But so does his turn at bat. The crowd wanted to see the ball loft and disappear. But Allen has no luck.

The game lasts long enough for just about everyone to look bad. Allen leaves the field after a few final autographs. He agrees to meet again, in Sarasota, where he will resume his duties as batting coach next month. He writes down his home number with an air of secrecy. "Don't give this out to anyone," he says. "It'll ring and ring and ring but just keep trying."

Allen takes an early flight out of town, skipping the post-game events. Within several weeks the White Sox have lost track of him again.

Where's Dick Allen?

The phone at his Savage, Maryland, apartment rings and rings and rings. For days and days and days. This continues on and on and on until one day when the receiver is lifted to an overheard " ...This might be the exacta now…" followed by a curt " Allen."

It turns out that Dick is taking another one of his sabbaticals.

"I'm taking a little time off now. Trying to get things squared away with the horses."

What happened to Sarasota?

"Oh, yeah, well they were out of the race and they didn't really need me, so I decided to spend some time at home."

Allen agrees to meet at a baseball card convention next month in Atlantic City.

"I'll be there with some friends, so I'll be busy. Maybe after the autographs. I like to lie down after I do the autographs, but we’ll find a few minutes somewhere.

Maybe after I rest."

That's what they're asking at the baseball card show here at the Atlantis Hotel Casino.

"He'd better be here," the promoter says. "We're paying him enough." Allen is receiving $4,500 to sign his name to anything for anyone. They call them "investment autographs" these days, although there are some exceptions.

"It's not really an investment with Allen," the promoter says." After all, he's been around 100 years. It's more just for the love of the guy. Especially Philly. Philly loves him. And, you know, he's really one of the nicest guys once you get to know him. I just wish I knew where he was…"

It turns out to be a bum rap, but that's what happens when you have a bad rep. It turns out Allen has been here all along, hidden by a line of fans hunting autographs and a few words. They ask him why he changed his name from "Richie." They ask him about the fistfight with teammate Frank Thomas on the field in 1965. They ask him about his 42-ounce bat. They ask him about the slashed wrist tendons of controversial

origin that threatened his career 20 years ago.

The afternoon is long on questions and short on answers. "It was just one of those things," and "That was a long time ago," and "I'll be telling all of that in the book I'm trying to do" are among the more common responses.

He'll go on at some length, proudly, about his son Dickie, a promising college ballplayer who landed a summer job with the Phillies ground crew.

But there are no clear answers to the other often-asked question: "Where's Dick Allen been?"

He won't talk about the fire that destroyed his Bucks County home in 1979, a disaster that is said to have left him financially shattered. He won't talk about the years that followed-years when even some of Allen's friends couldn't find him. He won't talk about the speculation over exactly what it was that had gotten the better of him. But most of the autograph collectors are content to talk about the home runs, searching Allen's expression to see if the memory thrills him the way it thrills them.

"I saw you hit a home run off Don Cardwell that's still in orbit," one of the last says as Allen prepares to leave. Allen just nods acknowledgment, born to be cool.

"COME ON, let's go chill."

Allen heads out of the card convention with two pals-former major-leaguer Jose Cardenal and a boyhood friend of Allen's from Wampum, Pennsylvania. He's buoyant now, a man with a destination.

"Where're we going, man?"

"We're going to the Shangri-La, brother!" Allen says.

On the walk to the casino lounge, another recurring question is asked. "Where's Wampum?"

"Right below Lower Chuten," Allen's pal replies.

"One traffic light," Allen adds. "A lot of memories there. I used to cut off one of my mother's broomsticks and bat stones. Went through the entire Dodgers lineup Carl Furillo, Duke Snider, Jackie Robinson. Yes sir. Yeah, good old Wampum. They still loved me in Wampum even when they were booing me in Philly."

Allen and company find a table as he and Cardenal air a shared complaint. Both were released from the White Sox last week.

"They waited until all the teams had their coaching staffs and then they cut us," Allen says. "We've got no chance to find a spot now. I mean it's hard enough for a black man to get a job coaching-at least give us a chance. I don't want to be hanging around just to be around. But there's a shortage of fine-tuned hitting instructors. I could make a contribution.

"But a fella like me-an outlaw-he's got no chance. It's like Jesse James trying to get a job in a bank."

Cardenal agrees with sad, mad, beaten-dog eyes. "There's no place in baseball for guys like us," he says. "Jose loves baseball, but baseball doesn't love Jose. We get a bad rap, guys like us. They used to say I was an asshole. I wasn't an asshole. I just had problems, man. I was from Cuba, I didn't know nobody.

"It's the same with Dick. People say he's an asshole. Dick is his own man. If he doesn't want to go out to dinner, if he wants to eat alone, that's his business. He's no asshole. But people in baseball don't understand. They want everyone to be the same."

Cardenal stares urgently now, a man who knows the importance of reputation.

"He's no asshole."

"Yeah, well…" Allen says. "I really wasn't an organization man out there anyway. I might take another job, if it came along. Maybe the Phillies. I had some hard times here, but that was a different regime. The new regime, they made it up to me by bringing me back. I just wish I was younger when I came back so I had something more to give them. In my heart I'll always be a Phillie."

Two drinks melt a lot of cool. Allen pulls out a wallet-size photo album like a kid with a Christmas present.

"A Philly cop gave me this," he says, opening to the first page. "There you go--Connie Mack Stadium. There's the Lehigh Avenue side…this one's inside…there's the stands…look at that field."

He produces a final photo with a smile that magicians save for their best tricks. It is a shot viewing the field from home plate-the hitter's perspective.

"OK," he says, starting his finger at home plate and looping it majestically to a spot of sky. "Don Cardwell."

"OK," he starts again, "Nelson Briles." A litany of victims is recited almost reverently as Allen sits there charting the course of balls batted many years ago, remembering their loft more vividly than their location.

"HEY, YOU'RE Richie Allen, right?"

Allen is approached by a fan who smells like a distillery accident.

" Dick Allen!" Cardenal corrects.

"Oh, I'm sorry, man. You changed your name and shit, right?"

"That's all right, brother," Allen says with an amused grin. "This is Jose Cardenal."

As the fan tries to match name with face with memory, another layer of gauze is cast over his inebriated gaze. He invites himself to pull up a chair.

"You shoulda come later, man. You know? Later? After The Beatles."

"The Beatles?"

"Yeah, then people woulda been ready for you. You catch my drift? Either that or you shoulda played in New York."

"Right. New York. Then I'd show up late and mugged."

As he sometimes does in uncomfortable situations, Allen steers the talk toward horses. They're a different breed, but you can use horse talk to say something about yourself. Maybe it's safer that way.

"You can look a horse in the eye-you can look at him hard and he 'll look at you hard. It's like a rookie. You can tell. A horse will give it all to you. That's what I like. Me and my brothers. He's competitive like us, and it's a little bit of you out there racing around that track.

"Now, we've got an old gray horse-a 12-year-old. Name's Briar Bend. We stand him stud in California. And he should be getting more mares than he does. But, see, there's a difference between worth and value…"

"I remember!" the fan blurts. "You said, 'If my horse can't eat it, I don't want to play on it.' Right? Right? Am I right?"

"You got it," Allen tells the fan.

"You know what? I parked Kool and the Gang's limo. You believe me? I did."

"Hey, you could go to the brothers' side of town and do OK."

It goes on this way, with the tipsy fan tilting the conversation toward sensitive areas. It begins with some comments about the tightness of Allen's uniform and works its way to topics of even greater strain.

"Hey. Hey! How come you had so much trouble, man? Come on man, tell the truth."

Allen smiles. It's not the smile that's worn when a man's pride is being swallowed-it is the opposite. It is the smile that says his pride is hidden safely away. It looks like he's had practice.

The fan finally asks for an autograph the same chore Allen is being paid $4,500 for. Allen considers it.

"OK. But after that you let me chill with the boys, all right?"

"Hey, is that the wrist you got cut up?"

"No," Allen says softly, "It's the other one, brother."

The fan goes away drunker still from the experience, and the conversation does not resume easily. Allen sits there for a while, examining the subtle swirl of ice cubes deep in his fourth drink. He's looking for something more than ice, distant even to his friends. For a time the question of "where's Dick Allen" covers a lot of ground.

Philadelphia April 1987

Picture by Philadelphia Phillies