Home-grown Ennis was underappreciated

Liz Ennis had the message ready, just as soon as Ryan Howard supplanted her husband as the Phillies' No. 2 all-time home run hitter.

"Continued success as you add to your home run total for many years to come," the note to Howard read. "Congratulations on your new place in Phillies history."

Ennis is the widow of Del Ennis, the man Howard supplanted Saturday night with his 260th home run to move into second place behind Mike Schmidt. Ennis ended his Phillies career with 259 homers.

Liz Ennis said Howard seemed like "a good, likable kid" and she hoped he would pass Schmidt, who hit all of his 548 homers as a Phillie, as quickly as possible.

In 1980, when Schmidt passed him, Ennis immediately sent a congratulatory telegram. Schmidt, Liz Ennis recalled, told reporters he'd never heard from Del Ennis, never even heard of Del Ennis.

"I don't know why he would do that," she said.

Fifteen years after Ennis died at 70 of complications from diabetes, Liz Ennis is at last at peace with his mixed legacy.

Even though there were logical reasons for both rejections, she chafed whenever the Hall of Fame passed over Ennis, and again when the Phillies refused to retire his number.

"Richie Ashburn always said that if Del had hit 12 more homers he'd have had a better chance" to get into the Hall, she said.

Ennis hit 288 career homers in an era of far more modest offensive production. He drove in 100-plus runs seven times, finished with 1,284 RBIs and had a career batting average of .284.

But those numbers merited him almost no consideration, either from the writers who vote on Hall inductees or, later, from the Veterans Committee.

"That ship," Ennis, who still lives in Huntingdon Valley, said of her Hall hopes, "has sailed."

As for the Phils and Ennis' number, it's team policy to retire only the numbers of Hall of Famers.

Curiously, the team has retired his No. 14, but in honor of Jim Bunning, not Ennis.

"Bunning said at the time that it would have been nice if the Phillies had retired it for Ennis at the same time," she said. "But now that the Carpenters no longer own the team, that's just not going to happen."

Though Ennis was one of the few native Philadelphians ever to star for the Phils, his career here was not always cheery. He played in a different Phillies era, and he had the scars to prove it.

Unlike today's team, the Phils weren't a marketing phenomenon in Ennis' 11 seasons. They rarely sold out. They played in a decrepit ballpark in a decaying neighborhood. And for most of those years between 1946 and 1956, they were a bad ball club, one more likely to be berated than beloved.

No one endured more of the fans' frustrations than Ennis. He became a favorite target, the first in a line of oft-booed Philadelphia sluggers that would include Gus Zernial, Dick Allen, Schmidt and, more recently, Pat Burrell.

For the rest of his life, Ennis never really understood why.

"When there was a lot written about Mike Schmidt being booed, Del couldn't believe it," Ennis' widow said in 2003. "He'd say, 'They think that's booing? That's nothing.' He didn't think that was anything compared to what he got every game, every at-bat, every move he made. Del was just lucky that he was a strong person. A lot of people couldn't have survived in this town with the abuse he took."

No one is certain why the boobirds focused so fervently on him. Except for his sometimes clumsy defense, most of the reasons typically cited don't hold up to statistical scrutiny.

Critics claimed Ennis struck out too much, though his season high was 65, 134 fewer than Howard managed in 2007 and 2008. They said he didn't hit in the clutch, though he knocked in 100-plus runs six times as a Phillie. They alleged he didn't hustle.

"Del lumbered in from the outfield. He wasn't dashing like Richie Ashburn," the late Phillies scout Maje McDonnell, a coach with the team in the 1950s, said in 2003. "But he bore down, every play, every day. On balls hit back to the pitcher, he ran harder than anyone I've ever seen. I saw him drive second basemen into center field breaking up double plays. He hustled all the time."

It all made even less sense when you consider that Ennis grew up on Godfrey Avenue. His father worked for Stetson Hats in Kensington. He was signed right out of Olney High in 1942.

"Cincinnati embraced Pete Rose," Liz Ennis said. "You would have thought that would have happened with Del. Del loved Philadelphia. He was born and raised here. His parents were. My parents were. But it didn't happen. Del should stand alone in this city. . . . He was the hometown boy. You'd have thought he'd have been worshipped."

Ennis was finally traded to St. Louis in 1957 and proceeded to hit .286 with 24 homers and 105 RBIs in his first season as a Cardinal. Not surprisingly, given the fickle nature of fans here, he was greeted warmly on his return to his hometown.

"His first game back in Philadelphia, the fans gave him a standing ovation," Liz Ennis said. "He couldn't believe it. They just cheered and cheered."

Ennis moved on to Cincinnati and the Chicago White Sox in 1959, his final big-league season. He came back home, opened a bowling alley in Huntingdon Valley and, for the rest of his life, answered questions about the booing.

"The booing was hurtful to him," Liz Ennis said. "It really was."