Ebbets Field begat the Sign Man of Shea.
Among the fans who were almost as legendary as the team, the Brooklyn Dodgers had Hilda Chester (with the fishwife yowl and the iron frying pan banged with a ladle) in the bleachers and the Dodger Sym-Phony Band (nine fans whose musical ability rivaled that of quadriplegic seals, but were beloved regardless) behind the dugout.
But the Bums also bequeathed a comparable character to the New York Mets, a former Dodger fan who took up residence in the Shea Stadium third-base box seats, brandishing perfectly lettered, often punny signs, ready to hoist at the drop of a ball, a strike, a travesty, or a miracle.
The Mets' advent either introduced or restored the art of banners in the stands, but Karl Ehrhardt — who died at 83 at his Queens home February 5th — refined it into a mad art from the season Shea Stadium opened, carrying a box of professionally block-lettered, 20x26 signs, colorful lettering on black folding placards, each tabbed, presumably, with its legend, the better to let him whip one up on the spot.
"Before I went to the ballpark," he told the New York Times two years ago, "I would try to crystal-ball what might happen that particular day. I would read all the newspapers to learn who was hot and who was in a slump, stuff like that, and create my signs accordingly."
A commercial artist by profession (he was graduated from Pratt Institute with a design degree after his service as a translator for American forces in World War II), Ehrhardt's ballpark art never went madder than his performance during the 1973 World Series. His inspiration was Oakland Athletics owner Charlie Finley trying to bury infielder Mike Andrews (including with a pressurized order for a medical exam) after a bad day with the glove helped cost the Mustache Gang a game.
Sure enough, in the following day's game an Athletic booted one. Sure enough, Ehrhardt had a sign ready and hoisted: YOU'RE FIRED! (Watching the camera pans on television, I could have sworn that even a few of the A's were laughing, even like Figaro, that they might not weep — or measure Finley for a necktie party.)
It isn't that Ehrhardt wasn't prepared to let a Met have it for feats of derring don't. When youthful first baseman Ed Kranepool hit a particularly arduous skid, Ehrhardt greeted him invariable with a sign saying IS KRANEPOOL OVER THE HILL? (Always the signs were in upper-case lettering.) When Jose Cardenal underwent a protracted spell of forgetting the strike zone, Ehrhardt was only too well prepared: JOSE, CAN YOU SEE? Fielders' boots were likely to be answered with LOOK, MA — NO HANDS. Hitters breaking out of long slumps were likely to be greeted with IT'S ALIVE!
He was magnificent during the Mets' first championship run, right down to October 16, 1969, Game 5 against the Baltimore Orioles. When Frank Robinson got into a broiling debate with an umpire over close play at second base? BACK TO YOUR NEST, BIRD! With two out in the top of the ninth? BYE, BYE, BIRDIES! When future Met manager Davey Johnson skied to Cleon Jones in left, Jones making the catch that sent New York into cheerful apoplexy: THERE ARE NO WORDS.
Perhaps only Ehrhardt himself could top that, when he was invited to sit in one of the open parade cars as the Miracle Mets were given the Canyon of Heroes treatment for the first time. There he was, hoisting for just about the entire drive, THEY SAID IT COULDN'T BE DONE.
Let the Mets knock an opposing pitcher out of the box early in a game? LEAVING SO SOON? But let an opposing pitcher hand a Met an intentional walk, however, and Ehrhardt proved he didn't need words all the time, a mere picture would do. One favorite for the intentional walk was an image of a chicken, which on camera resembled the logo of the ancient Chicken Delight takeout joint.
Ehrhardt may have pinned at least one player with a nickname, never mind that the player was ambivalent about it for a good while. When Dave Kingman launched his first mammoth regular-season bomb in Mets silks, Ehrhardt was prepared: KONG!
(To be fair, Ehrhardt didn't limit his Kingman raves to that motif. Once, as Kingman approached the plate, Ehrhardt hoisted THE KING OF SWING. On another occasion marked by a transcontinental Kingman launch, this one clearing the back-most bullpen fence: CALLING LONG DISTANCE!)
He was part of the Shea show from 1964 until the end of the 1981 season. No one has ever explained within my earshot just why he gave it up, and I don't remember reading anything about why he gave it up. But he wasn't even close to forgotten. As if to prove it, the Mets brought him back for the franchise's 40th anniversary. Ehrhardt, typically, was prepared for the occasion: THE SIGN MAN LIVES!
Eternally.
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