SO LONG, SCARLETT SCOUT; BARRY ALLEN BIDS FAREWELL

By Bruce Johnson, Central City Picture News

CENTRAL CITY, Oct. 5, 1980

On a sunlit afternoon in early October with a slight chill in the air, the Central City Diamonds honored a legend. Barry Allen, the steadfast centerfielder with a quiet demeanor, wry sense of humor, and a work ethic that bordered on the supernatural, announced his retirement after nearly two decades of brilliance. Disbelief rippled through the crowd when the news broke. Here in the press box, where open displays of emotion are strictly forbidden, the reporters stood slack-jawed. Cigar ash fell. Glances of wide-eyed shock swept through the box.

Barry Allen never hit the towering home runs that fans remember like old songs, nor did he swagger with the bravado of men whose names are etched in neon. His was a different kind of greatness - subtle, persistent, and deeply rooted in the fundamentals of baseball. For 18 genuinely awe-inspiring seasons, he was the heartbeat of the Diamonds, the man who seemed to glide rather than run, to anticipate rather than react, to know rather than guess.

The numbers tell part of the story. Allen's .361 career batting average, his 3,638 hits, and his record of 1682 stolen bases place him firmly among the all-time greats. But the statistics only scratch the surface. They fail to capture the artistry of his glove or the unerring precision of his instincts. Centerfield is often described as the loneliest spot on the field, but Barry turned it into a stage. He turned running down fly balls into an act of poetry - his routes so direct, so exact, that he often seemed to be waiting under the ball before it had fully arced.

"Barry always knew," said former manager Joe West during Allen’s farewell ceremony. "I used to call him Dillinger when he first came up. Robbing homeruns and stealing bases. Robbing and stealing, just like Dillinger.”

I used to call him Dillinger when he first came up. Robbing homeruns and stealing bases. Robbing and stealing, just like Dillinger.

-Former Diamonds’ manager, Joe West

The story now is well-documented. He didn’t play baseball until his senior year at Central High. On a lark, he tried out for the Triple-A Storm Chasers in Omaha, made the team, and was installed immediately as the centerfielder, a position he would never leave in 18 seasons. When long-time Diamonds slugger and centerfielder Jay Garrick pulled up with a back injury in May of ‘63, Allen got the call-up. He wasted no time.

He burst on with a rookie record of seven consecutive hits and five stolen bags in his first two games. By the end of June, Barry’s batting average was second in the league, and he had stolen more bases than entire teams. When Garrick made his way back after the All-Star Break, he gracefully accepted a move from center to right, and that’s where Barry stayed until about two hours ago.

The fans took to him immediately. Who could ignore the hometown-kid-made-good news angle? Two young boys in the centerfield bleachers changed everything and gift-wrapped a marketing strategy to executives nationwide when they unfurled a banner behind Barry one sun-drenched afternoon at Diamonds Park. It read “The Man of Steal.” A perfect pun served up by the game’s perfect crowd - young boys cheering for the home team, unencumbered by modernity, by cynicism, or the trappings of middle age.

Moments of Barry’s on-field brilliance are etched in the annals of baseball lore and will likely circulate the crowd at his Hall of Fame induction ceremony. The last game of the ‘64 season comes to mind. Against the division-leading Keystone Comets in a 3-3 ballgame with a ticket to the postseason on the line. The Comets’ cagey veteran catcher Joe "Cannonball" Kline had this to say years later, when the sting of the loss had worn away to a dull ache, “Scored from second on a sacrifice fly. You know, we all heard about Cool Papa Bell in the Negro Leagues pulling that off, but, but that’s folklore, you know? You don’t do that in real life.” Then it turned personal for the 13-year veteran. “He beat me on the play at the plate. Swam over me plain as day. He beat me. It’s as simple as that.”

Scored from second on a sacrifice fly. You know, we all heard about Cool Papa Bell in the Negro Leagues pulling that off, but, but that’s folklore, you know? You don’t do that in real life.

-Keystone Comets’ catcher Joe “Cannonball” Kline

Then there was the catch in 1968, a balletic display of athleticism replayed in highlight reels for years. The Diamonds were clinging to a one-run lead against the Gotham Knights. With two outs in the ninth, a deep fly ball seemed destined to clear the fence in left-center. Barry, stationed near straightaway center, took off in a blur. He scaled the wall with a grace that defied physics, robbing the batter of a sure home run and securing the win. "I thought it was gone," said pitcher Wally Grant. "Then Barry happened."

I thought it was gone. Then Barry happened.

-Diamonds’ pitcher Wally Grant

His contributions weren’t always flashy. In a pivotal 1970 matchup against the Star City Archers, he executed a perfectly timed hit-and-run that caught the defense entirely off guard. His uncanny ability to read the game, to know not just what was happening, but what was about to happen, earned him the nickname "The Scarlet Scout" among his teammates.

Perhaps no moment defined Barry’s career more than Game 7 of the 1975 League Championship Series. With the Diamonds tied 5-5 in the bottom of the ninth, Barry came to the plate. “He told me ‘I won’t see a pitch to hit,’” said longtime friend and second baseman Hal Michael. “Barry said, ‘He (Pitcher Leo Snart) doesn’t want me on base, but he can’t throw me anything to hit. He’s gonna walk me and I’m gonna break his heart.’” Barry drew a walk on five pitches.

To take a game entirely into one’s own hands at its highest level is, in this writer’s estimation, the pinnacle of greatness. In that regard, Barry stamped his passport to the Hall of Fame that evening. He took his base, and the crowd came back to life, trying to will a Diamonds victory with their cheers. Barry took a lead off the bag best described as suicidal. Keystone City pitcher Leo Snart, himself a Hall of Famer, checked over twice, finding “safe” calls from first base umpire Lou Dawson each time. Snart settled in, kicked, and delivered, and Barry was gone. Let us be clear: second base was Barry’s as if he owned the deed to the base in every ballpark in which he played. He was the landlord. Everyone else paid rent.

He slid in two beats ahead of the ball. Stealing third is an entirely different matter. It’s 127 feet, 3 and ⅜ inches from home to second. It’s 90 feet between home and third. Stealing bases remains a time-speed-distance problem. This is the law, and you, dear reader, see the problem. The Man of Steal took a gigantic lead, intent on toying with Snart’s emotions, but Snart never let on. He came set, kicked, and delivered a high fastball, and Barry departed second base for his second home, third base. Barry slid in low under the tag and was safe. The Central City crowd was on their feet. Fathers pounded their sons on the back. Cars stopped on the freeway. Central City came to a halt to watch the Diamonds and Barry Allen, Roman god Mercury made flesh, will his team and this city to the World Series. Barry, again with a suicide lead, Snart, a lefty, with his back to Allen and his preposterous lead off the base… And he was gone. A vapor trail on the way to home plate. Snart uncorked, sending a missile of a fastball to his catcher, but Barry was already there. “SAFE!” yelled umpire Mike LaFleur.

The first and only walk-off straight steal of home belonged to our Barry Allen. On his back and through his will, he carried us to a gentleman’s sweep of the Gotham Knights, and we won our fourth title.

Some called it uncanny. Pitchers swore Barry could read their minds, hitting pitches they hadn’t yet released. Catchers marveled at how he stole bases with surgical precision, his slide so perfectly timed that he seemed to evaporate under the tag. Opposing managers would grumble in their dugouts, convinced they’d been outmaneuvered by a man who saw the game in four dimensions.

Allen’s teammates, meanwhile, spoke of his relentless humility. "Barry never wanted the spotlight," said longtime friend and second baseman, Rafe Dibny. "He’d deflect attention, crack a joke, or talk about how someone else won us the game. But make no mistake, Barry was the guy who made us all better."

Off the field, Barry was just as enigmatic. He avoided the endorsements, the nightlife, and the ego trips that swallowed so many of his peers. He drove the same car for years, lived in the same modest house, and spent his winters volunteering at local shelters. In interviews, he spoke in measured tones, always careful to shift the conversation to the team or the city. He belonged to Central City in a way that few athletes ever truly belong to a place - not as a celebrity, but as a neighbor, a friend, a symbol of what grit and grace could achieve.

Locals know they can find him at the Little League fields, clapping up the youngsters on his days off and signing autographs. In 1967, deep in contract negotiations, he accepted an incentives-laden deal that many sports writers, this one included, declared a disaster. He made a quiet deal that would send $100 to the Central City public school system for every stolen base he accrued that season. He swiped 137 bases that season, shattering his own single-season stolen base record by a baker’s dozen. He accounted for 22% of the school budget and never accepted credit for it until years later

The farewell ceremony was a masterclass in restraint, just like Barry. He’d declined elaborate tributes, requesting only a simple gathering at Diamond Park. Fans packed the stands nonetheless, holding signs that read, "Thank You, Barry!" and "Our Forever Centerfielder,” and those two young boys, now fully grown, carried the famous sign back into the park. The Man of Steal. As he stepped onto the field, the ovation was deafening, a roar that carried the weight of two decades of gratitude.

"Baseball’s been good to me," Barry said, his voice steady but thick with emotion. "But more importantly, you’ve been good to me. Central City is home, and it always will be."

His words were brief, but the message was clear. Barry Allen wasn’t just saying goodbye to the game. He was saying goodbye to an era, to the long summers and packed stadiums, to the cheers that washed over him like waves. Yet there was no regret in his voice, no trace of unfinished business. He had given everything to baseball, and it had given back in ways he could never fully articulate.

As the sun dipped below the horizon and the shadows crept across Diamond Park, Barry stood at home plate one last time, tipping his cap to the fans who had cheered him through every stolen base, every diving catch, every line drive into the gap. Then, with a final wave, he turned and walked off the field - not quickly, not slowly, but with the measured stride of a man who knew exactly where he was going.