Kiner’s Korner, 1963: When Baseball Met the Borscht Belt

It was April 29, 1963. The Mets beat the Dodgers 4–2. One of those rare early Mets wins that made fans feel like maybe, just maybe, Casey Stengel wasn’t managing with a Magic 8 Ball.

And after the final out, Ralph Kiner—Mets slugger turned smooth-talking broadcaster—served up something the world didn’t realize it already loved: a postgame show that felt like your uncle’s basement poker night collided with The Ed Sullivan Show. This early episode of Kiner’s Korner—brought to you by the Rambler ’63, the car of the year that looked like a toaster and drove like one too—was already embracing its oddball charm.

For this particular outing, Kiner didn’t reel in any Mets players. Instead, he pulled two wiseguys from the stands who were louder than the bullpen phone: comedians Buddy Hackett and Phil Foster. Imagine if two Borscht Belt comics crashed MLB Tonight and never got the memo to stop roasting each other—or Ralph.

Let’s set the scene.

“Hackett is a fink! Hackett is a fink!”

This was the chant raining down from the stands at the Polo Grounds, not because Hackett insulted the queen, but because he dared to show up in a Los Angeles Dodgers cap. “Well, here's what happened,” Buddy explained, attempting some damage control that would’ve made Nixon proud. “I came with that [LA] hat. They took it off, and they bought me the Met hat.”

Foster chimed in like the setup man he always was. “Right before the game, all the new breed started yelling, ‘Hackett is a fink!’ So he took off the hat, and they chipped in, and they bought him a hat.”

New York: where insults come with a receipt.

Hackett, at the time, was sporting a beard that looked like it had a Social Security number. Ralph, ever the straight man in this improv act, asked why. Hackett deadpanned, “I’m very orthodox… My wife said if I don’t shave, she won’t kiss me. And it works every time.”

In truth, the beard wasn’t for religious reasons or even marital mind games—it was for a movie. Hackett was in the midst of filming The Golden Head, a 1964 American-Hungarian comedy in which he played Lionel Pack, a bumbling sidekick type opposite George Sanders’s suave Basil Palmer. The plot involved a stolen relic—the golden head of St. Ladislaus—and a band of suspiciously clever children trying to clear their names. But on this night in Flushing, Hackett’s only caper was hijacking Ralph’s show with punchlines instead of plot twists.

Then came the conversation about the new balk rule—because why not go from facial hair to baseball infractions?

In 1963, the National League had started strictly enforcing rule 8.05(m), requiring pitchers in the set position to come to a complete stop—hands together—for a full second before delivering the pitch. This rule had previously been about as enforced as jaywalking on a farm road, but under orders from NL president Warren Giles, umpires were suddenly calling balks like they were going out of style. And they kind of were: by the end of April, the league had shattered the single-season record for balks. Even that night, both starting pitchers—Roger Craig for the Mets and Ed Roebuck for the Dodgers—got nailed by third base umpire Al Barlick for failing to hold their pose.

Phil Foster, channeling his inner Bob Costas with a Brooklyn accent, weighed in: “I think it’s ridiculous. They’re taking the play right out of the game… it should be uniform in both leagues. Not just one.”

Buddy Hackett, never one to let a rule change go unheckled, chimed in with a theory: “I think Walter O’Malley did it to help Maury Wills. He can’t get on base anymore.”

Ah yes, the good old days, when conspiracy theories weren’t about space lasers, but about base stealers and crusty owners with cigar ash on their lapels.

Phil Foster didn’t pull punches: “The fans out in Los Angeles… they're not really fans. They don’t make very much noise. The way they cheer is ridiculous. Like, ‘Oh, they’re running. Oh, see how they run.’”

Hackett, trying to defend his bicoastal loyalties, came off like a man trying to explain to his mother why he missed Passover.Still, Buddy defended his fandom with logic that could only come from a man who made a career playing nervous wrecks and lovable weirdos. “You root where you live,” he said. “If I lived in Duluth, I’d root for the Twins.”

To which Ralph, clearly tickled, asked, “What would you be doing in Duluth?”

“I dunno,” Hackett shrugged. “But I wouldn’t like it.”

The two old pals then detoured into a story about their softball days — a fictional dynasty of underhand pitching and relentless banter. “We played with the talking ball,” Foster said. “I’d say to Buddy, ‘He don’t look so hot to me, Phil.’ And Buddy’d say, ‘I’m getting nauseous looking at him.’ Then I’d throw it.”

According to them, it was unbeatable. According to history, they never won a game. But hey, they did win over Kiner’s Korner.

The final score that day? Mets 4, Dodgers 2. A banner day for the “new breed.” A day of great baseball, greater comedy, and probably the greatest postgame show never quite meant to be one.

No Korner segment was complete without Ralph handing out the parting gift — a miniature model of the 1963 Rambler, “the car of the year.” Hackett took one look at the tiny toy in his hand and, with pitch-perfect timing, muttered:

“No wonder they don’t use much gas.”

Even Ralph laughed. And somewhere, an ad exec groaned.

The episode ended, mercifully, after 12 minutes of glorious chaos. Ralph Kiner smiled like a man who had just survived a tornado made of pastrami. The Mets had won. Hackett escaped a mob with his dignity and a new hat. Foster proved once again that baseball and stand-up comedy share one golden rule: timing is everything.

And just like that, Kiner’s Korner was on it's way to becoming a New York institution—part postgame show, part roast, all charm.

As Buddy Hackett might say, “I always like to walk out with the hat of whoever won.” In this case, the winner was television.

And also the Mets.

But mostly television.

Presented by your nearby Rambler dealer—because nothing says ‘63 like a car shaped like a lunchbox.

You can listen to the full episode below—and we’d love to hear your thoughts, memories, or your favorite “Korner” moments in the comments.