Edition: U.S. / Global

Brooklyn Mourns Dodger Who Anchored a Borough

Published: August 16, 1999

At the bar at V.F.W. Post 1380 in Brooklyn, a yellow-brick box a few blocks from Prospect Park, Bill Reilly and Jack Farrell were arguing yesterday about an old neighbor who excelled on the baseball field.

''My God, he was like a vacuum cleaner,'' said Mr. Farrell, 81, a retired heating engineer.

''I disagree with you,'' said Mr. Reilly, 72, a retired cargo weigher. ''He gave the team stability, but he wasn't a Marty Marion,'' the St. Louis Cardinals' gracefully rangy shortstop. ''What he was was the essence of the team.''

The neighbor, of course, was Pee Wee Reese, who captained the great Brooklyn Dodgers teams of the 40's and 50's from a spot somewhere between second and third base, thereby anchoring not just an infield or a team but a whole borough.

On Saturday, Reese died of lung cancer at the age of 81, and his death afforded Brooklynites of a certain age yet another opportunity to revisit the days when a ballplayer meant something to a town. Like Joe DiMaggio, Reese was remembered for leading his team with class, but unlike DiMaggio, Reese was a king who lived among his subjects, in a little brick duplex in Bay Ridge.

''Back in those days,'' Mr. Reilly said as he pointedly ignored the Yankees-Twins game on TV behind him, ''the Dodgers were a community team. You have to understand, nobody made any money, so you lived in the neighborhood. You had Reese and Snider living in Bay Ridge, hanging out in the same gin mill. You know what it's like now? It's like going to the movies. Who cares!''

Today, Reese may be best remembered as the Dodger who did the most to ease Jackie Robinson across the color barrier, and Mr. Reilly was annoyed that Reese ''became known as a humanitarian, and it overshadowed his baseball prowess.''

Yet yesterday, no one was remembering a diving backhand stab or a clutch r.b.i. They were remembering that Pee Wee was the Dodgers, and the Dodgers were Brooklyn, and now Pee Wee, who long ago moved on with the Dodgers to sunnier climes, was dead, and that was it.

Outside 9712 Barwell Terrace, the aforementioned little brick duplex, James Millar was kicking himself all over again for having given away Reese's autograph to a family who moved into Reese's house, only to move later to Staten Island.

''The first thing I said today,'' said Mr. Millar, 58, a flagman for New York City Transit, was '' 'Son of a gun, I gave that thing away.' Does anybody know where ballplayers live today?'' he asked. ''Nobody does. They live on their three-quarter of an acre in what's the name of that place over the G.W.B.''

Howard Samara, who grew up on 97th Street, vividly recalled seeing Carl Erskine, the pitcher, pick up Reese in his car on his way to Ebbets Field. ''I'd say hello, but I liked to not bother them too much,'' he said. ''I'd try to respect their privacy.''

At the V.F.W., Mr. Farrell and Mr. Reilly seemed to be coming to an agreement. ''We lost a guy who loved to play baseball, and perhaps had more moral fiber to his character than any of those so-called multimillionaires you have today,'' Mr. Farrell said.

''Pee Wee was Pee Wee,'' his friend replied. ''He was a good guy, a decent human being. But the point is this: in all of your life, have you ever heard a bad word about Pee Wee?''

''No,'' Mr. Farrell said solemnly. ''Never.''

Photo: Pee Wee Reese in 1953. (Associated Press)