1946: Chaos in Elysium
 

The White House
Washington

January 15, 1942.

My dear Judge:

Thank you for yours of January fourteenth. As you will, of course, realize the final decision about the baseball season must rest with you and the Baseball Club owners -- but what I am going to say is official and not a solely a personal point of view.

I honestly feel that it would not be best for the country to keep baseball going. There will be many tasks at hand and everybody must work longer hours and harder than ever before.

And that means sacrificing recreation and taking minds off work; this could be the price of victory.

As to the players themselves I know you agree with me that individual players who are of active military or naval age should go, without question, into the services. If any individual has some particular aptitude in a trade or profession, he ought to serve the Government. That is a matter which I know you can understand with complete justice.

Here is another way of looking at it -- if 300 teams use 5,000 or 6,000 players, are these players an asset to at least 20,000,000 of their fellow citizen? In my judgment, the wants of a single industry are outweighed by the needs of the world.

With every best wish,

Very sincerely yours,

{Signature} Franklin D. Roosevelt {End of signature}

Hon. Kenesaw M. Landis,
333 North Michigan Avenue,
Chicago, Illinois.

actual text of letter by FDR

May 8, 1945
 

[Newsreel footage with narration] Victory In Europe. The streets of New York fill upon word of Germany’s surrender! Word from Allied command relates the German war machine’s unconditional capitulation, and the joy can not be contained. This sailor knows the way to celebrate. Now with the Nazis smashed, our boys can focus on delivering the final blow to Tojo’s minions in the Pacific. After four long years it seems America can get back to the business of being America. [/end newsreel]

May 9, 1945
 

[Newsreel footage with narration]While sports fans were entertained by the collegiate ranks during the war, it looks like the professional games are set to resume. Commissioner Bert Bell announced yesterday the National Football League would resume play this fall. The National Hockey League is expected to resume play in the United States after 4 years of being confined north of the border. And what’s this? Two competing pro cager loops as well. But the big question on fans of sport is the return of baseball. Since the passing of Judge Landis last year, there is no one to give the official word of the status of America’s pastime. Too late to start up this season, but by 1946 every red blooded American man and boy hopes to see the old favorites return to the diamond. [/end Newsreel]

The Return of the Babe, part 1
 

The room came into slow focus; hazy--enough to make him believe the doctor's request he wear spectacles, then melting into soft clarity. Just like every other morning for as long as he wanted to remember. His wife still lay motionless; her constitution was unfamiliar with the rigors of such celebrations. She was not dry, just not accustomed to the lifestyle. Truthfully, his body was not as young as it once was. Back in the Twenties, last night's celebration would have been a warm up; a Tuesday night. Now, he really felt like an old man. Bones and muscles cricked and cracked as he lumbered towards the basin.

It was hard to believe anyone could have slept with all the celebrating; a city, a nation, had exhausted itself with the collective explosion of joy. People were offering champagne, the real thing, in beer glasses to strangers. Hell, he had passed out at least a dozen of his best cigars to random people. Gave them a great story: "Yeah, the Babe gave this smoke to me, can you believe it! Peach of a guy, said not to be surprised if he's managing the Yankees next season. Still looks like he could clout 30 easy." Imagining the last line made Ruth chuckle slightly. With all the weight he had lost, he doubted the power was still there. But he did still strike an impressive figure moving through the city in his camelhair coat. Amidst all the confetti and huzzahs people would reach out to him; not to shake his hand or pat him on the back--just to touch him. Hell, to come close to touching him.

He dried his face while aches and pains shot through all the usual places. He tried to clear his throat; damn tickle was back. Babe buzzed his manservant, "Bring me a hot brandy." It had been years, the glory days of Murder's Row, since Ruth had drank this early. The throat pain however had not flamed so intensely in months. "Damn, just overdid it".

The end of the war was great, no more of our boys dying to protect freedom. But, a twinge of guilt sat there and nagged at his selfishness. The first thought when the news came was not joy for victory, but joy for knowing baseball would be coming back. That damn red Roos-e-velt tried to kill the game; telling Landis the players were needed to fight Hitler and the Japs. Krauts and Nips; America could have taken them without sacrificing the game. Most of the players ended up on service teams anyway. It was great for the boys who got to see the games, but it was a shame the fans missed out.

Could not let the fans down; no matter never let the fans down. That is what made all this possible; the comfort and security. Even with rationing it was sometimes hard to tell a war was going on, but he had played the part of a good citizen. The Babe had worn more cotton shirts rather than silk in the last four years since he came to New York. The people needed to know their hero was standing with them. A lifetime of giving them what they wanted, now it was his time to want.

The game is coming back, he thought as the hot brandy hit the back of his throat. Burning the pain away. The game is back and it would need him. He had waited for the call to manage since he retired. "Ten years is a long time," he said to no one. His eyes darted back to the phone; this time it would ring. The greatest game's greatest player leading the greatest team. No more of Fuchs' Funnies and the Dodgers' lies about a future position, "This time it will ring," he assured himself. The tickle in his throat came back (damn summer cold) he called for another brandy. "Can't be sick when they name me manager of the Yankees," he winked at his manservant.

"Of course, sir."

He told himself not to be too impatient. The F------g moneymen would have to bicker about contracts and player assignment and all that sort of crap. Sooner than later, the phone would ring and the Yankees would be asking, no begging for him to manage. After four years of no baseball, they would pull out all the stops to bring the fans back.

"It just has to happen," he said quietly, ignoring the tears in his eyes.

Which way the wind blows, part 1
 

Ever since acquiring interest in the Boston Braves along with the American Association Milwaukee squad in January 1944, Lou Perini, along with partners Guido Rugo and Joseph Maney, had patiently waited for the day their investment would pay off. Now with the war over, Perini felt he was close to being able to place a team on the diamond. The goal however, was not just to be happy in the fraternity of owners; no, the goal was to build value in a value-poor asset. There was only one obstacle to the Braves becoming the profitable in Boston: it was a Red Sox town.

In all of the two team cities—except New York—one club was seemingly fated to playing the role of the poor sibling; squeezing out an existence and hoping for that one or two year hot streak to capture the imagination of the public. The Braves’ best days were 30 years behind them, and the future, as long as the Sox held the majority of baseball fans’ fancy was equally as bleak. A change was possible; Saint Louis had been a “Brown’s town” for a quarter of a century, until the mid-1920’s when the Cardinals went to the World Series. Lou and his partners did not want to wait 25 years to change the minds of a city to bring crowds to the banks of the Charles River; two years of expenses and little revenue eat at a man’s tolerance.

Perini had, like all the other owners, kept informal contacts with one another; discussing how to handle the resumption of play, rights to players and all of the details necessary to recreate an industry. Until recently, this had all been theoretical—dreaming if you will, especially for the men who had purchased interest in clubs during the shutdown. Now, opportunity was at hand, and Perini felt he had the vision of what baseball could look like not only for the upcoming season but the decades over the horizon. “This war is going to change America,” he would tell his partners, “if we don’t strike fast our opportunity to change baseball will pass.” To return baseball to it’s prewar station, with no attempt to correct mistakes both geographical and economic, would be lunacy in Perini’s eyes. The four year hiatus was a blessing to a man with such grand plans; several prewar owners had sold out rather than risk losing more money. The public should be open to new ideas; while the time off had not erased memories of what had been, the vacuum of the war years had created a desire for recreation. In the public lust for baseball, John Doe and his brethren would be more accepting of new ideas that would have been baseball heresy at the start of the decade. While the new war time owners, Cox of the Phillies for example, would need little prodding to accept his ideas to increase franchise values and opportunities to win, an alliance with one of the established owners was key to broad support. Baseball owners were notorious for approaching new ideas with all deliberate speed; if one of their own, someone they knew and could rely on was the lynchpin. Fortunately he had one in his own city: Tom Yawkey.

Yawkey had purchased a Red Sox club as uninspiring on the field as it was at the gate. Fenway Park, a jewel when opened, had deteriorated to an ad plastered dump unfit for man, beast or New Yorker. The money and enthusiasm brought to the forlorn club in 1933 changed the philosophy and direction of the club. When the war hit the Sox were on the verge of challenging Yankee dominance, something unheard of since the days before Frazee. Even the four years off had not dampened Red Sox fever in the city and sport pages. Yawkey’s fortune and the batting eye of Theodore Williams lead many to hope a pennant would fly over Boston when the game returned. Perini had the bait to catch the noted sportsman’s attention. Once hooked, Perini was sure most of his plans would find favor with Yawkey, and a true new era of baseball would begin. “This is not for us alone,” Perini would tell his partners, “this is about what is best for the game.”

Which way the wind blows, part 2
 

“I appreciate the visit, but Lou, don’t you think we should wait until we have a formal owner’s meeting to talk about the future of the leagues.” Yawkey and Perini had met several times since Perini’s group had bought the Braves. It was an uneasy relationship for Tom Yawkey, a man competing for the same dollars attempting to be ‘friends’. Yes, they had similar interest in getting the leagues started again, but this was a man who apparently was willing to spend money to bring a competitive squad to Braves Field. Despite the smarmy sentimentality of that one movie, Gimbel’s and Macy’s did not really get along. Boston did not lack for baseball fans, but Tom Yawkey felt it could use more Red Sox fans. Perini wanted something; it bothered Yawkey tremendously to not know what.

The meeting was barely old enough for idle chatter, let alone jumping right to the point. Lou could sense the unease in Yawkey’s words. Their previous meetings had been friendly, if a bit sterile. Perini understood the manufactured distance; if the Braves were the baseball power in town, his reaction would be the same. “Well Mr. Yawkey,” Perini spoke slowly and deliberately, uncertain of how warmly his ideas would be received, “perhaps we don’t want all the owners involved with this.” Yawkey sloshed his drink around in his glass, letting the word soak through.

“Go on,” curiosity had been piqued. Perini’s heart jumped; the concept of exclusion, even if the extent unknown was not rejected out of hand.

“It seems to me if, speaking theoretically, if we wanted to make changes to baseball, its structure if you will, now would be the time to do it, right?” A tentative nod answered as Yawkey tried to get a handle on how sweeping of change the Braves chief was looking at. “Say a team wanted to change its situation, like getting out of a two team city . . .”

“Like Boston?”

“Yes, like if we wanted to move the Braves to another city, now would be an ideal time to do so.”

“Because the Red Sox aren’t going anywhere.” Yawkey was clearly pleased with the thought of having Boston to himself, no longer needing to worry about if the other team in town should steal patrons from his park. All the press, all the fans would Red Sox focused. “But are you going to convince the Phillies to move as well, because Mack isn’t going anywhere.”

“Maybe we don’t give Mack a choice. Maybe we don’t ask the Athletics back and just let them fade out of existence.”

“Are you suggesting we tell Connie Mack to get out of baseball?” The idea of the grand old man of the game being forcibly retired was nothing short of blasphemy.

“The Depression nearly ruined him and the time off couldn’t have made his financial situation any better. The A’s are done with or without Mack—at least the chap that bought the Phillies has fresh capital to put into the club. Connie, for all he has done for the game just can not field a competitive squad anymore.”

Yawkey sat down; Perini was speaking the truth. Ever since Connie dismantled his dominating club of the late twenties the Athletics had faded to irrelevancy and near insolvency. Mack, unlike other owners, made his living strictly off baseball. His plight, while heartbreaking to those who knew him, was becoming an embarrassment to baseball. “We could convince him to sell, or at least give him a chance to prove to himself he can’t make a go of it?”

“If we resume play and have franchises fold, it would be bad for baseball. Now is the time to make changes.”

“Who else do we not invite back?”

“Both of the Saint Louis clubs.” Perini knew both teams had been eyeing Milwaukee for a possible move; their opposition could prevent his planned move.

“Browns lose, make no money; Cardinals win, and still make no money. Damn shame. But wouldn’t one team do well there?”

“As it stands now, a move requires unanimous approval from a league. If Breadon wants to block a move; then we stay in Boston. But if we reorganize the league into something else, moving a club should not be difficult.”

“So to have Boston, I need to get rid of Saint Louis. Doesn’t seem right.” The conflict in Yawkey’s voice was pronounced. Perini was making sense, from a business standpoint. Connie Mack, St. Louis, getting rid of those clubs only made the Red Sox a more valuable commodity. Still, had the line always been baseball was more than just another business. A public utility of sorts, isn’t that the line always used to gain favor from the neighborhoods and politicians? “That would leave 13 clubs, we’d have to cut at least one more team.”

Perini quickly made the argument for eliminating the Reds, another team on shaky financial footing since nearly folding during the Depression. “But I think you are missing the point on the Saint Louis clubs. We keep them out of the loop while we change the landscape—the only reason to exclude them is to allow the Braves to move without protest.”

“Still, three teams in New York, two in Chicago—goes against your idea of paring down the multiple teams cities.”

“There is a group of actors who want to get into baseball, I think we could arrange a meeting with the Comisky estate—that could open up the west coast for us.”

“And New York?”

“We do something like we’re doing with Saint Louis. Invite one in, and then see who wants to play ball. I suggest the Giants; Manhattan is too valuable a territory to up a leave.”

Yawkey smiled big, “And make the damn Yankees beg to join us. I love the idea.” The American League had tried for years to find a way to check Yankee dominance, they finally had a chance. Play by our rules or don’t play at all.

When he had finished, Yawkey had come around somewhat. “I’ll speak to Briggs and Griffith—I think Bradley wants to sell and this can only assure a higher price for him. The only question mark would be the White Sox, I don’t know if they have ever gotten that mess straightened out since Louis died. How do you think the National owners will go?”

“Cox is like me, bought the interest during the shut down; the Benswenger family wants out like Bradley. Wrigley worries me, he can be forward thinking and stuck in the past all at the same time—but a solid majority should sway him.”

The Legend of the Perfesser, part 1
 

Braves Field
Boston
May 22, 1945.

Mr. Stengel,

Please consider this letter notice of termination of your services as manager of the Boston National League Club.

We are grateful for your service to the club during this difficult time; however with the resumption of play, we have decided to pursue a different direction.

Good luck with your future endeavors.

Very sincerely yours,

{Signature} Louis Perini {End of signature}

Charles Stengel,
Kansas City, Missouri

Which way the wind blows, part 3
 

[Newsreel with narration]LA is Major League! Here is crooner Bing Crosby and funnyman Danny Kaye signing papers which will bring the new 10 team National-American League to the City of Angels. The complicated transaction costing nearly $3 million, which involved purchasing the Chicago White Sox from the Estate of Charles Comiskey and the Los Angeles Angels of the PCL from Cubs' owner P. K. Wrigley. The Pacific League protest the loss of prime real estate, but the summer of change continues for the big leagues![/Newsreel]

So, let me try to follow here. Braves move to Milwaukee. Yankees, Browns, Cards, A's, Reds, Senators all gone. White Sox move to LA and become the Angels. Let's see, that means...Boston, NY Giants, Brooklyn, Milwaukee Braves, Detroit, Cleveland, Phillies, Cubs, Pirates, and Angels.

It's a bit of a stretch to me to see the Yankees disappear, but it will definitely mean interesting times during the 50s without their domination. Do you plan to stay at 10 teams or will you expand? Are you planning on division play with ten teams, or will it just be two best teams at the top play the World Series?

I assume this will be played out as you see things going, but I assume this will mean the Dodgers and Giants will stay in the New York area instead of heading west. Or at least one of them will because baseball probably needs one NY team to stay in the public eye as much as possible.

My curiosity is piqued. :)

Close: the National American League contains: Red Sox, Giants, Milwaukee Braves, Tigers, Indians, Phillies, Cubs, Pirates, LA White Sox and Nationals. The Cardinals, Browns, A's, Reds, Dodgers and Yankees are the ones left out of the agreement.

Something like this would not be completly out of the minds of the real hardcore baseball fan. In 1920, when the Black Sox scandal hit, the 8 NL clubs and 3 AL clubs had an agreement for a 'new' National League, with Landis as comissioner. Four of the 5 excluded clubs (backers of AL president Ban Johnson) sued for peace and saved thier teams (it was made clear only 1 of the 5 would be allowed to join the new NL).

Yankees aren't gone; they just haven't been asked to join the NAL. Obviously the hope is that leaving the Yanks out will break the franchise.

Right now the plan would be for 1 10 team division, but the question of the World Series will become an important one.

If you are familiar with my other dynasty here, you are going to be shocked how slowly this one unfolds. All the moves to set up the season are not done yet.

Yeah, I know you tend to putter rather than race through things, but I don't mind much. You put such a good amount of detail into things that it reads like a good history.

Judging by what you are saying, I'm gathering the Yankees are the only team who get "left out" rather than folded, then? Interesting. (Must stop speculating about what's going to happen...many questions to ask, but that's unfair to you and your storyline development.)

As promised, I'm here, reading and enjoying it so far!

Faith as a grain of mustard-seed, part 1
 

General Manager Branch Rickey picked over his breakfast trying to imagine a worse situation for his Saint Louis Cardinals. Sam Breadon’s club had value, but little capital. The Browns were insisting if anyone moved from Saint Louis, it should be the Cardinals, because, after all, the Browns owned Sportsman’s Park. Breadon and Rickey hardly spoke as relations between the two men had deteriorated over the hiatus. Crosley refused to deal with Brooklyn because of GM Leland MacPhail. Leland MacPhail would not speak to Saint Louis because he, quiet rightfully, thought Rickey wanted the GM job in Brooklyn. The Yankees were still tied up in the Estate of Colonel Ruppert and Connie Mack, well, was Connie Mack—trying to make a living from a failed club in an unforgiving city.

The only way the situation could be worse is if there were only four of us and not six, Rickey pondered over his tea. Six could make a league, especially if the Yankees were one of the six. “Judas Priest, they’ll let it all fall apart for weak held principles.” As rewarding principles are for the next life, an attorney friend once told him, are sometimes are prohibitively expensive in this one. For one of the few times in his life, Rickey was inclined to agree.

The problem, as Rickey saw it, every one of the owners (with the exception of Mack) felt the longer they held on, the more likely it was for them to be invited back into the fold. The hue and cry around the country about the Yankees not being invited to join was telling. The pressure could become so great the NAL would have to take in the Yankees and at least one more. “Then we would be four, and be forced to fold.” He scribbled on his legal pad for a few moments. Realistically only Brooklyn, Cincinnati and the Cardinals had a chance of being invited in with the Yankees. He laughed quietly, all we have to do is find buyers for the Browns and A’s, and convince everyone else it is in our best interest to form our own league.

It could be done, with enough work and sweat, it could be done. But someone would have to make the first step in bringing about order. “If you wait for someone else to save you; someone else will save himself and leave you to die. I do not intend to die.”

Faith as a grain of mustard-seed, part 2
 

“You know, when all is said and done, you’re going to wish you were nicer to ol’ Larry.” MacPhail was even more full of himself than usual; and with good reason. With Dan Topping and Del Webb he had just purchased the Yankee Empire for an unbelievable $2.4 million dollars. (“Less than Ruppert spent on the ground for Yankee Stadium,” he would boast to anyone who would listen.) Even the ice dropped into his glass seemed to be singing his praises.

Rickey’s feud with MacPhail was over a decade old; since McPhail ran the Columbus Redbirds as the Cardinals top minor league club. Rickey resented Leland putting the Redbirds interest over the organization’s; Leland just resented anyone telling him what to do. “Both Crosley and you will end up with a whole lot of nothing, and all I have to do is say ‘the Yankees would love to be apart of the NAL.’ And I’ll just suggest the Browns or Dodgers as the other club, leaving you two out in the cold.”

“Leland, they will only let the Yankees back if they think they can cripple the organization. This whole power play isn’t about the rest of us; it is about bringing the Yanks back to square one.”

“I know,” the smug so and so said between sips. “Still, it is a matter of would I rather screw you and Crosley or be screwed by the rest of those a------s.” MacPhail swung his feet up onto his desk. “Have you dealt with Mack yet?”

Branch shifted uncomfortably, “I’ve been saving that for last. Hard to tell a man like that he isn’t wanted anymore.”

“Well, either you do it or I will.”

“Leland, stop with this.”

“Branch, don’t you get it. I don’t need you. I don’t need the Browns, the Reds, Connie F-----g Mack or any of you. I got the god dammed New York Yankees. And I’m surviving either way.” MacPhail loved watching the pious Rickey flinch at the ‘taking of the lord’s name in vain.’

Rickey rose to leave. “Where the hell are you going?”

“I’m going to report back to Crosley and the rest that the Yankees refuse to work with us. We will fold our clubs, and see how badly the NAL wants you.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“The only leverage you have over the NAL is the possibility of forming a league with us. The Yankees only have value as a major league club—but I dare say you are to be faced with the choice of joining the International League or folding.”

MacPhail laughed. “You are pretty ruthless for a Christian.” He lay back in his chair and pondered for a moment. “I’ll make a deal with you Branch. You get Connie Mack to sell and I’m on board. You have the Yankees as your flagship; Dodgers will go along with whatever we’ll do. And there you have your nice little league.”

“I am not sure Mack wants to sell, he’s been a part of the game so long. . .”

“Damn it Branch, offer to make him league president or something worthless like that. It would be great publicity for us. Means more than the National Commission or whatever those other f----rs are putting forth. Figureheads mean more to the common fan than fancy agreements.”

“We’ll still have the problem of the two Saint Louis clubs.”

“Not my problem Branch. Not my problem. You work it out like big boys so only one of your crap teams is left in the city.” MacPhail worked his way back to the wet bar as Rickey started to leave. “Don’t think this is over Branch; you don’t deal with the devil and expect to get the best of him.”

Faith as a grain of mustard-seed, part 3
 

“I wish you had come earlier, Dad is much more alert in the mornings,” Earle Mack burned with a cool rage at the guest. After 65 years of play and service to the game, Branch Rickey had arrived to force his father out the door. With no money and no park, Earle knew this was the inevitable outcome of his father’s situation, but the Grand Old Man of the Game deserved; no, earned the right to decide when to close the doors himself. The promise of a buyer for the club and a ceremonial post as President of the Contential League did not soothe the son, only agitated him more. “If Dad wants to fight,” Earle had told his brothers, “then he has every right to.”

“I’ll be as gentle as I can,” the perfunctory politeness of Earle Mack did not set well with Rickey. If this were the best of all possible worlds, Connie Mack would be allowed to run his club into the ground until he had to sell. But MacPhail’s lone demand (“his lone stated demand,” Rickey quickly corrected himself) was Mack was no longer welcome as an owner, not if the Yankees were to play ball, as it were.

The door opened on the cramped modest office. Since the shut down of play, the remains of the Athletics were now collected in this space. No equipment, no accoutrements, just contracts and legal papers residing in boxes and overstuffed cabinets. The old man sat at his desk, moving and wringing his hands purposelessly. “It is nice to know I haven’t been completely forgotten by my brethren.”

“You know why I am here, Mr. Mack?”

“You want me to sell or fold my club. Is that right?” Rickey was actually relieved the conversation had gone on point so quickly. He loathed disingenuous small talk.

“There is a group of gentlemen in Baltimore—they are willing to offer $2 million for all the contracts and rights to the club.”

Mack rose and stiffly walked towards the lone window in the office. “I can see Shibe from here. Athletics used to own that park. Last week, I got a letter from the fellow, what’s his name, Cox, who bought the Phillies, telling me our lease was not to be renewed. And we used to own the place.”

“Things have been tough for everyone the last 15 years, Mr. Mack. You’ve had a good run.” Rickey pulled some papers out of his case. “We would like to offer you the Presidency of the Contential League. It pays well; you won’t have to worry about money anymore.”

“It’s not about the money Branch,” Mack snapped. “You know when I first had piece of ownership? I put $500 into the Brotherhood team in Buffalo. Everything I had, and I lost it. Ruined me—but it did not break me. I withstood the Federals, gambling scandals and the Depression, and now you just walk in and tell me it is over?” Mack slumped against the window, the strain of his anger was becoming too much to bear.

Rickey took a place next to Mack. “There are only a handful of us who the Good Lord allows to choose their time. There are changes coming Mr. Mack, some have already started—we need someone who the public trusts, admires, to help make the medicine go down easier.”

“So that is what I am reduced to? Selling the papers other men’s ideas?”

There was no answer; none Rickey could articulate and not insult the Grand Old Man further. Mack started back to his desk, his legs started to give way. Branch assisted as best he could. “I’m just so tired,” Connie mumbled softly. As Rickey eased his host into the desk chair, Mack wondered softly, “Where are we going to find the money to resign McInnis?” Elbows on desk and hands in face, Mack quietly regained control.

“Mr. Mack, I hesitate to keep pressing, but if you do not sell, the Yankees will not support our league. Without the Yankees there is no league.”

“Colonel Ruppert wouldn’t do that.”


“Ruppert is dead Mr. Mack, he has been for years. It is in everyone’s best interest for you to sell.”

Connie hung his head, “Sometimes, I forget when it is.”

The two men sat in uncomfortable silence, while the Grand Old Man considered the situation. Rickey only hoped it was the situation of today occupying Mack’s mind.

“If I do what you ask, can I have your word as a Christian on something?”

Branch nodded.

“Earle wants to stay in baseball; can I have your word he will have a job in the game as long as he wants?”

“As long as I am affiliated with a club, Earle will have a job in baseball.”

“I suppose that will have to do. Set up the meeting with the Baltimore gentlemen with Earle. I should not let my pride ruin the rest of you.” Rickey shook his hand and turned to leave.

“Branch.”

“Yes Mr. Mack.”

“You know, the moment the Yankees feel it is in their best interest to jump leagues, they will.”

Rickey nodded and continued out the door.

Faith as a grain of mustard-seed, part 4
 

Sam Breadon entered the office of his general manager. In the rapid fire month and a half since Germany’s surrender, Rickey had worked tirelessly bringing the “excluded” clubs together in the semblance of a new league. The fragile alliance still faced hurdles, most prominently two clubs still bickering about Saint Louis, but Rickey felt the Contential League was going to make a decent go of it. For now though, Rickey was content of resuming some of the long neglected GM duties.

All of the clubs were facing the same quandary as Rickey; who is on the roster? To that end, Rickey was combing through contracts, both major and minor league, trying to get a handle on who actually was still a Cardinal. Marty Marion had sent notice he was ready to report to spring training when the club needed, but beyond him the roster was a muddle.

Breadon stood in the doorway and cleared his throat. “Have you heard?”

“About the new National Agreement?” The National American League was trying to force through a new arrangement solidifying the majors hold on the minor leagues. In principle, Rickey was in total agreement with what they were trying to accomplish. However, he understood the real purpose of the move was to choke off the pipeline of the minors to any competing League. Word was the minors were heading for a similar spit as the majors as the American Association and International League clubs with working agreement with Contential clubs opposed to its passage.

“The Dodgers have hired Burt Shotton as their GM.” Rickey paused and lifted his head from his work. He had assumed when the matters of league formation were done with, the Dodger job, almost his in 1942, would come to him. “I guess they didn’t know how long you were going to be tied up with me.”

“We still have a team to build here.”

Breadon shook his head. “Branch, if it wasn’t for the shutdown, you and I would have parted company a long time ago. I’m exercising the option in your contract—I’m buying you out. As of midnight tonight you are no longer in the employ of the St. Louis Cardinals. I just had to be sure you weren’t going to a team that I think can beat us. Nothing personal, it is just—I didn’t want you to do for them what you did for me.””

Rickey stood and collected his coat and hat. “I’ll be back to clear out my things in the morning, Sam.”

The Return of the Babe, part 2
 

“Yeah . . . You got him . . . Yes . . . I could be there today if . . . No, tomorrow is fine . . . 10 am . . . Do I know where to go? Hell, I practically built the God dammed place . . . I’ll see you then; sure as sh*t you won’t be disappointed!

They called! The God Dammed Yankees finally called!”

The Mahatma and the Master of Ballyhoo, part 1
 

"Clyde, I've got a scouting job for you. Yes, I know I don't have team right now, leave that to me. I need you to go south for a couple weeks . . .

Hey Kids!
 

Hey Kids! Bing wants your help in finding a name for Los Angeles' new MAJOR LEAGUE baseball club. Bing put together this list of names he likes, but just can't decided which would be the best one for the team. Check the appropriate box and mail this coupon to:

Name Game
c/o Los Angeles Times
Box 74
Los Angeles, CA

10 kids who vote for the winning name will recieve complementary membership in the Los Angeles Baseball team's Kids Club. Benefits include Kids Club Tee-Shirt, tickets to selected games, an autographed team ball and invitation to a special Father's Day picnic at Wrigley Field with Bing and his kids!

The Seduction of Joe DiMaggio, Part 1
 

For a man who was seemingly loved by millions, Joe DiMaggio was never comfortable with the glare of the public eye. The money was great, as was playing ball for a living; but as he became more successful he became more detached from teammates and fans. A lonely man in a sea of seven million who trusted no one he did not know before coming east.

Since his discharge from the army, Joe had spent more time back home on the west coast. Everything was more leisurely, not the quickquickquick of New York. Sure he was recognized when he went out to restaurants and theaters, but he was not mobbed. These people, his people, respected his space and privacy.

More than anything, this is why he was heading to this party. Normally, Joe hated these get togethers; people he did not know fawning over him. Telling him how they “knew what kind of guy he was,” when even Joe did not know what kind of guy he was sometimes.

DiMaggio grabbed the invite and looked himself over in the mirror. “A picture of cool,” he observed to no one. “Well, Bing, let’s see what game you want to play.”

A death unmourned, part 1
 

During the war, while major leaguers toiled for industrial and military teams, one somewhat familiar name kept playing on: the Kansas City Monarchs. Despite fuel and tire restrictions, J. L. Wilkinson and Tom Baird managed to keep the club going and profitable, when all logic dictated the team should have closed operation like every other team. To be sure the Manleys and other still operated their clubs as barnstormers, but the Monarchs were different. The Newark Eagles rarely traveled west of Pennsylvania, the Monarchs covered not just the United States, but Canada, Mexico and the Caribbean too. Of course the Monarchs had the one thing even white folks wanted to see: Satchel Paige.

Paige’s legend was such the Monarchs could pay the most famous Negro hurler in America $37,000 a year with a slapdash schedule and enormous travel expenses. Satch would come on, pitch two or three innings and the crowds would go home happy. It had gotten to the point that if Paige was not able to pitch, it was better to cancel the game and refund tickets than deal with the messy aftermath of a Satchel-less game.

Paige’s presence had drawn many of the top Negro players to the Monarchs. It was, according to some of the top black newspapers, like watching half of the East-West Game when the Monarchs came to town. Now, with the end of the war in sight, the Negro American League and Negro National League were both starting to show signs of life. Wendell Smith of the Pittsburgh Courier spoke for many when he wrote, “It is the hope of the fans of Negro baseball that the moguls involved will use this new beginning to correct the multitude of missteps made before the war.” Smith, and other sportswriters, had been urging the leagues to adopt a set schedule, formalize contracts, employ statisticians and hire a commissioner to oversee disputes between the leagues. With budgets that before the war were on the level of a typical white D league club, some wondered if Negro baseball would ever clean up its own house to get the respect many felt it deserved.

But those were debates for the future—though all too often in Negro baseball the future never came. John “Buck” O’Neil was concerned with the here and now. A tour through the normally unprofitable south was pulling in crowds comparable to some northern cities before the war. The players hated these trips; accommodations and dining were lacking in many towns. And players sometimes skirted the mores that southern blacks and white knew all to well. Difficult trips to make.

"He's here again," Jackie Robinson said to Buck as they left the field. O'Neil nodded; he had seen the white man too. Memphis, Little Rock, Jackson, Birmingham and all the spots in between, there he had been. Furiously scribbling as the games went on with no effort to hide his attendance. "Do you think he's a scout?"

"Only two reasons why he'd be following us," O'Neil replied. "And I hope he isn't a private detective." There had been rumblings that Gus Greenlee, a big player in Negro ball in the 1930's, was forming a league that had the formal accoutrements of the white leagues. "I suppose I own it to JL to find out." Buck wrote a note on a scrape of paper and called for an usher. "Take this to the gentleman with the notebook in the section behind home, and please direct him to the team bus." The young man nodded and headed towards the section. "Gene, I need you to take over at first for me--Quincy, run the team for me; make sure Satch gets in by the 6th, let him go as long as he wants--I'll be in the bus if you need me."

Drinks with Dizzy, part 1
 

. . . So the son of a bitch is standing there, holding the girl and he say, "Honest skip, I didn't know she was your daughter." Dumb bastard finds himself on the next train to Georgia and never made it back. So the lesson is never screw some nameless bimbo, at least ask what her last name is before you nail her. Oh brother, can you believe it--KSD wants me to do a baseball show for NBC with Frank Eschen, since the majors or something similar to it at least is going to be starting up, get people back in the mood for the game, that sort of thing. Doing the same thing I'm doing now, 'scept I'd be getting paid instead of buying drinks and steaks for you freeloaders every night. Just telling stories, not the same ones I tell you boys. Thems strictly for the fathers, if you know what I mean. They give me enough trouble with how I talk on the radio; I don't need anymore grief from the teachers and all those other do-gooders. They want something for the kids, I guess—people who don’t have the spirit we’ve got, eh fellers. I’ll drink to that. Anyway, I got to thinking to myself, “Diz, you’ve given that ol’ wing of yours a rest for a couple years, why not see if they can use a wily ol’ vet on the club.” Yeah, I’m serious about that. With all the garbage goings on with the whatever the hell they’re calling the two leagues now—somebody like me, put some asses in the seats to see ol’ Diz; I think I could give a club some wins. You saw how I threw in the War Bond game last year—plenty of zip back on there. Ok, maybe I’m not like I was in 1933 or 34, but I’m at least as good as I was with the Cubs back in 1938. Man, I was a pitcher that year, now if I got the pop back on the ol’ number 1, look out brother I’m coming back. Hell, all I needs is a chance to show what I can do; bet the Brownies would give me a shot, and even if I don’t I got something to talk about in the booth when I get back to call their games. Yeah, I know, I know, they ain’t gonna be in St. Louis next year, that’s flat out bullsh*t, all this hullabaloo, I don’t know what everyone is all up in arms about. This is a Cardinals town now, and there ain’t but room for one club here. Still think of all the ticket I could sell wherever the Brownies end up, man, I’m telling you brother it will be beautiful. Anyway, that reminds me of a story I was told about when the Federals were playing, it seems . . .

The Mahatma and the Master of Ballyhoo, part 1
 

"I must admit, you would make a great salesman Mr. Rickey.” Long time Cubs executive Bill Veeck was intrigued by the Browns’ situation. Veeck had been considering a bid for the Cleveland Indians, but the Browns had the potential to be a more valuable purchase. “Still I’m not wanting to buy a charity case, I’d like to make some money on this deal eventually.”

“Well, Mr. Veeck the Cardinals would love to own Sportsman’s Park; the lease is $35,000 each season.” During Rickey’s tenures with both Saint Louis clubs he had been all too aware of the financial pressures they existed under. Even with the edge in attendance, the Cardinals were always one of the more cash-poor squads in the National League. Rickey, not without reason, attributed a large portion of the Cardinals successes to his superior roster manipulation. “Breadon could buy either directly from DeWitt or from us. Our cost could be as little as $1.5 million.”

“So, where do we move them?” Veeck edged closer to his suitor. The projections in attendance for the three clubs that had already announced were astronomical. The value of the club would at least double from the change in venue. But long term profits were contengent on two main factors: the stadium and the level of play on the field.

“An AA or IL city would make the most sense: Minneapolis, Kansas City or Columbus.” Branch saw a the markets on the west coast as offering even larger profits, but the outcry and threats from the Pacific Coast League over the former White Sox club’s move made it a risky move at the moment.

Veeck slapped his hands in excitement. ”I got it! We buy the club and do a whirlwind tour of interested cities. Check out the facilities, that sort of thing. Tons of press—we go to the city we feel gives us the best chance to succeed.”

“I honestly think that Kansas City may turn out to be our best option.”

“Off the record, I agree with you, but the tour would drum up a tremendous amount of publicity for the Contential League.” The energy suddenly disappeared as Veeck begun to calculate the negatives of the transaction. Most notable of the worries: the quality of the Browns roster. “The thing I worry about most is will the people show up for this club. People won’t go to a loser, even if it is Major League.”

“I have a plan to make this team an instant contender,” Rickey stated calmly.

“You old horse trader. I don’t doubt your talent, but can you give me an idea before I commit?” Veeck knew Rickey could turn a bad team into a elite squad if given the time to build an infrastructure. The Browns would be lacking in the organizational depth Rickey was famous for winning with.

“When Cox bought the Phillies, you had an interest at that time, correct?”

“Yes. Made the mistake of telling Landis what my intentions were.”

”And those were?”

“Are they the same as yours with the Browns?”

Rickey nodded.

“Will Mack approve the contracts? Great baseball man, but he was born during the Civil War, will he be friendly to the idea?”

“I assure you, Connie Mack will do what is necessary to keep this league afloat. Do not underestimate his bitterness towards the NAL teams for taking his livelihood.”

“So, how many negros are we talking about? The public, even in Kansas City or Minneapolis, might not be too supportive of an all-black squad.”

“I have a man on it now, obviously it depends on who is determined to be on the roster.”

“Branch you glorious bastard. You rise to every challenge with something like this. I toast you.”

“So, we have a deal?”

“I think we do.”

The Return of the Babe, part 3
 

The whole ride over, the great Babe fidgeted like a schoolboy. His suit was too tight and his wife kept nagging him to bring along his attorney; the nerves had not been this shaky since he returned from his suspensions back in 1925.

There was disappointment when his arrival was not met with the throng of reporters and photographers such an announcement warranted. “Must want to be sure I want the job first,” he said to his wife to reassure himself. On the way into the offices he obliged a newsboy with an autograph. He signed the sports section with, ‘Babe Ruth, Yankee Mgr.’

As he entered Ruppert’s office (It would always be the Colonel’s office to him) Ruth only recognized MacPhail, Topping and Webb—and that only from their pictures in the papers. The other two men were unknown, “Probably bean counters,” Ruth whispered to himself.

MacPhail, still sober, introduced his co-owners and a Mr. Hoffberger of Baltimore. Leland started to speak of tradition, and how much Ruth meant to the Yankees and Baseball. Droning on and on about publicity and getting things off to the right start for the Contential League—and how the Babe could be a large part of that. “The old traditions mix with the new ones,” MacPhail said. The money talked about seemed low for a man of the Babe’s stature, but they explained he had no experience managing and it was just a starting point, but if he had success . . .

“So, you don’t want me to manage the Yankees?”

The suits looked nervously back and forth at each other. “Babe,” MacPhail said, almost pleading, “We thought you wanted to get back in the game?”

“With the Yankees, not with Baltimore. I don’t think I should have to start in the minors,” Ruth had always felt implying he needed the minors to ‘learn the trade’ was an insult to his intelligence.

Webb shook his head, “No, this is the old A’s squad—it is every bit major league.”

MacPhail raised his hand and asked everyone but the Babe to leave.

The Return of the Babe, part 4
 

The room felt small to Ruth. Not the ‘I’m larger than life’ small he was used to either. No, this was a disquieting small; suffocating and uncomfortable. Leland MacPhail pace around the Colonel’s old desk, clucking his tongue with snide disapproval.

“I thought we could count on you Babe,” MacPhail oozed an oily confidence. “We need star power in Baltimore to put some asses in the seat; and everyone hoped it would be you.”

Ruth dropped his head, the idea that people were counting on him and he let them down bothered him greatly. He took great care to play the part of the beloved superstar; always making sure the reality of the Babe came close to the fans image of him. “I just had thought the Yankees needed me.”

“I know Babe, but look at the League’s situation here. The club in Baltimore, we don’t know if they will be any good. Think how many people will come to see you in uniform again! Think of all the kids who never saw you play who will be able to see you on the field, where you belong.” Leland watched as the great man slowly began to crumble before him.

“I hadn’t thought about the kids,” Ruth muttered softly.

Leland kneeled next to the Babe, placing his hand on the great man’s back. “Babe, the Yankees are asking this one last favor from you: Take the Baltimore job. We need everyone to draw well. The Yanks, we’ll be fine whoever we put in the dugout—but you could be the difference in Baltimore.” MacPhail began to rise, explaining how Ruth was the star who would not just save Baltimore’s season, but possibly the whole league as well.

The Yankees’ GM had a well-deserved reputation as a shrewd trader. He would say, “There is a moment in every negotiation when the other fellow will crack. The key is recognizing that moment, and offering just enough more to have him agree.” The idea was the extra bit would always seem bigger at the right moment in the negotiation; now was that moment with Ruth.

“Babe, if you take the Baltimore job, I promise you the next time the Yankee job is available, it is yours.”

“Are you serious or are you just jerking me around?”

“The Yankees are always serious. We’ll have to keep this between ourselves, I would hate for you to lose out because of a tampering charge.”

“Well, Bub, if I got you’re word on that, then tell them, the Babe is coming to Baltimore!”

The Return of the Babe, part 5
 

“George, I don’t have a good feeling about this—you really should have got something in writing.”

“But then that would be tampering, and they wouldn’t be able to hire me when the time comes. Look, one year in Baltimore, and then we’re back here, like nothing happened.”

“I wish you would have brought our lawyer and . . .”

“Hey, the day a man’s word isn’t good enough for Babe Ruth is the day I’ll be dead.”
---------------------
“So how did you get him to agree to the Baltimore job, he seems so dead set against it?”

“I told the big monkey that he’s next in line for the Yankee job.”

“My God, you aren’t serious?”

”You think I’d let that buffoon anywhere near our club—give me some credit Dan. With that club, he’ll be lucky to not finish last; then we have all the reason in the world not to hire him.”

“You had me worried there a moment Larry. Great publicity for the league having him as a manager though.”

No pinstripes for the Babe then? :(

Karma should be served up in large doses of "Baltimore wins a championship" for this....

Unfortunatly for the Babe, he spent alot of his post-Yankee years being lied to. When he went to the Braves in 1935, it was in part because Judge Fuchs promised him the managers job; same with his coaching gig with the Dodgers a few years after that (when he would volunteer to play firstbase in exhibition games despite failing eyesight that put him in serious danger of being hit by a throw). True the Yankees did make the offer of thier top minor league club, the Newark Bears, but rightly or wrongly, Babe wanted that major league job. He is one of those men who did so much for the sport that no one gave him a shot to manage is borderline criminal.

A death unmourned, part 3
 

The two men situated themselves on the benches of the bus. Clyde Sukeforth had suspected the Monarchs were aware of his trailing the club. It was the mores of the South, he thought, had kept any representative of the club from approaching him. They exchanged pleasantries before John O’Neil began the conversation.

“Any of my men in trouble?”

Sukeforth had to hold back a laugh; it never occurred to him that his presence was thought of in such a dark way. “I work for Branch Rickey, I’ve been doing some scouting for him.”

“Answers my second question too,” O’Neil however was more confused now he knew that detail. “So what does a white league GM want to know about us?”

Rickey had given Sukeforth a tremendous amount of leeway in what to say if confronted by members and officials of the teams being followed. He had rehearsed the cover story over and over, but Clyde had expected to be confronted by executives, not the player-manager. Sukeforth started to tell the tale of how the Contential League was looking to add two more teams, and raise the possibility that they could be all-negro teams. Stammering and tripping over his words, it was clear the cover story would fool no one.

“I’m not stupid Mr. Sukeforth, give me some credit.”

“You’re right Mr. O’Neil. I want to apologize for trying to lie to you.”

“I’ll only accept your apology if you give me the truth.”

“Branch is putting a group together to buy the Browns. The plan is to stock the rosters with you fellers.”

Buck’s face lit up, this is what all the struggles of the Negro Leagues had been for. “Just Monarchs?”

“I have a trip to see Newark and the Stars later this month.” Sukeforth saw the joy and hope in the face of his host. He looked down at his shoes on the floor of the bus. “You aren’t one of the players we are interested in.”

O’Neil felt a sharp pain in his heart. He was sitting in on the biggest moment for the black ballplayer, only to hear it was not to be for him. A few awkward moments passed before he softly stammered, “Who?”

“Robinson, Trouppe, Piper—maybe Paige,” Sukeforth had broken many boy’s dreams, but never a man’s. “The idea is for us to sign the best of the colored players and then have a tryout camp for any other club that might want to sign you.”

The two men sat silent until the cheers of the crowd—welcoming Satchel Paige to the mound—broke the tension.

“You don’t want Piper,” Buck finally said. “He’s had some troubles. Artie Wilson, I think he’s with the Elite Giants now, would be a better man. Much more sense about him, especially for dealing with white folk.”

Sukeforth could barely contain his shock. It was beyond what he understood that someone like O’Neil would try to ‘hold back’ one of his own. Buck read the reaction, “You don’t just need good players, you need good men. That’s the only way this will work.”

A half-hour later, Sukeforth stood to leave the bus, with scouting reports of various players O’Neil felt he should consider. “I have you word, John?”

O’Neil nodded, “Yes, this is between us.”

“We should have our decisions made in a couple months. I’ll make sure you get an invitation to the tryout camp. It’s the least I can do.”

”Least you could do is nothing.” The two men shook hands, “All a man wants is a chance.”

“Thanks John, I’ll be in touch.”

”My friends call me Buck.”

“Thanks, Buck.”

The seduction of Joe DiMaggio, part 2
 

“Swinging party, Bing,” after playing under the glare of the New York lights, very little impressed Joe DiMaggio. Still, meeting top star after top star from music and movies was too much for the most stoic men in baseball. “I’m more of a Sinatra man myself, but this has been nice.”

“Oh, I understand—you paisans stick together,” Bing winked as he cleaned out his pipe. “You added much needed class to this little soiree.”

Joe shifted on the couch. He knew what was coming next; it had been coming from the moment he received his invite. “Probably shouldn’t be fraternizing with the enemy. I should be going.” Joe rose to shake his host’s hand.

“Say no more, son. I’d be insulting you if I didn’t try to pitch you to coming to LA, playing for my Lancers.”

“I have a contract with the Yankees, I can’t change teams.”

“Do you? Our attorney looked at the standard Major League contract and he found two very interesting things.” Crosby turned on an overhead projector, putting a photographic image of Joe’s 1941 contract on the wall. “First, the option clause is only for 1 year, you signed this 4 years ago. And second, the organization approving this deal doesn’t exist anymore. The American League is no more. That doesn’t sound like a man who is under contract to me, but what do I know, I’m just a singer.”

Joe started to get up again, the thought of leaving the Yankees making him a little sick to his stomach. “I really need to get out of here, Mr. Crosby.”

“Now, now—wait,” Bing threw up the stop sign like a third base couch. “All I’m asking is you listen, no pressure, son.” Bing walked to the overhead and circled the dollar amount on the photo. “You were paid $37,500.00 in 1941.”

“Yes, sir,” as wrecked his insides felt, he was every bit the cool operator he appeared on the field.

“What are the Yankees offering you for the upcoming season?”

“I don’t know, $40,000, $42,000.”

“Could be more.”

“Sure, it could be more,” Joe didn’t like talking about his money with a stranger.

“Could be less too?”

Joe nodded.

“Joe, you lost four prime earning years to the war. How many years do you have left?” Crosby walked around the room, easy as easy can be. “Me, an actor, singer, I’ve got years to earn my money back, but how long does a ballplayer have?”

“Look, I really need to go.”

“Son, how much did you lose because of the war? $160,000? $250,000? And you think you are going to make that back at $40,000 a year.” Crosby handed Joe a pen and notepad. “Tell me what you are worth.”

Joe wrote a number down and showed it to Bing.

“Think bigger, son. Don’t let those cheapskates make you undervalue yourself.”

Joe pulled the notepad back and crossed out $50,000. He stared at the page, hoping the number would form by themselves. Crosby walked next to the ballplayer, putting his hand fatherly on Joe’s shoulder. “It’s not just the money. You’re a west coast boy, so much closer to your people. You know how your people are treated in New York. Sure they treat you like a king, but you strike out and suddenly your just another God damned wop bastard.” DiMaggio thought about the ‘No Italians Wanted’ some business put on their ‘Help Wanted’ signs. He thought about how much he missed he calm of the Pacific Coast.

Bing reached over a took the pen and wrote a number on the pad. “That is what you are worth to me.”

Joe felt like he was going to faint. He thought about his bitter holdout in 1938 for just over $38,000. He thought about how hard he had to fight the Yankees for every nickel and how the fans gave him the business for it.

“You think that over, son. Give me a call in couple days, no pressure. If you want to stay in New York, no hard feelings—just business. I’ll get one of the boys to show you the way out.”

DiMaggio nodded and started towards the door. He dropped the top page from the note pad into a trash bin as he walked out. If one looked into the bin, the figure Crosby wrote remained visible: 200,000

The Mahatma and the Master of Ballyhoo, part 2
 

[Newsreel with narration] Just days after purchasing the St. Louis Browns, Bill Veeck and Branch Rickey start a cross-country tour to find a home for the beleaguered club. Toady they are in Columbus, Ohio; touring the facilities of the Columbus Redbirds. With Milwaukee, Los Angeles and Baltimore adding their names to the roster of Big League Cities, the next in line is soon to arise to the occasion. With Newark, Minneapolis and Kansas City scheduled for stops, another of America’s great cities will be able to boast, “We’re in the Majors!”[/newsreel]

Which way the wind blows, part 4
 

“Does anyone have any additional comments? Mr. Perini.”

Lou Perini stood before his fellow NAL owners. “Please, we have to be patient. Yes the press is hard on us for excluding the Yankees, and it appears the Contential League is getting the positive press—but if we just wait a couple more months, I’m telling you the Yankees will come to us. The plan is not to exclude them, but to wait until we have the upper hand.”

“My God, do you hear what the New York papers are saying about me,” Stoneham of the Giants yelled. “I will not have me and my club savaged so.”

“And what kind of hero will you be when we let the Yankees in? All the people care about is if the Yankees are part of our league—the date of admittance does not matter. Have you given thought to who the second team added should be?”

Phil Wrigley chimed in, “It should be a National League club. St. Louis seems to be stable now.”

Perini was red with rage, “There is no National League. The only thing that matters is this league right now, the old structures, rivalries, they are dead now.”

“Since this discussion is going nowhere, I suggest we vote: Do we approach the Yankees to join us.” Briggs of Detroit suggested. After a seconding, the matter went to the owners. Fourteen to two to invite the Yankees back, with only Milwaukee and Los Angeles against.

“Tom, I thought you understood what we were trying to do here?” Perini pleaded with Yawkey.

“Lou, the papers are just ripping us. I can’t take that kind of negative press.”

Perini stood, “Fine, go find out what they want to join. If you had just waited, we could’ve dictated the terms, but now. You are right back where we started on this. Don’t bitch to me when the Yanks have left us all in the dust because of your cowardice.”

Just a note
 

Just a note to anyone reading on what is going on. Right now, I have only two post close to ready. Since I have three more storylines I'd like to start building before I start the season, I'm putting this thread aside until at least next weekend. I will update the roster thread (linked in my last post).

Ultimately, there will be a couple CIE threads on the board. This thread will be the main one, telling the story of the leagues. The TSN Roster thread will be used for transactions and roster commentary (that is, commentary not part of the storyline). When I start the season, I plan on keeping the game reporting in another thread as well; I don't like scrolling through a week of game reports before a storyline post--keeping them seperate will make it easier to follow. And there will be occasional supplements like "Hey Kids" for things that don't quite fit anywhere else.

Anyway that is the direction this is heading; I hope you stay with us awhile.

Good luck. You've got a reader.

Sports and alternate history in one storyline. Good stuff. :)

Amazing read. You are a wonderful writer and had me at the edge of the seat a few times. Great job in mixing in actuality within a new scenario - the mark of a true alternate historian. When you get back, can you provide us with a summary of where the two leagues stand?

Clyde Sukeforth's Scouting Reports
 

Robinson, Jackie: Possibly too muscular to play short regularly, has shown himself to be adequate defensively all over the field, best bet would be on the corners somewhere. Seems to be good for 12-15 HR a season, with plenty of doubles. Not the fastest of the negroes I’ve seen, but a very cunning base runner. Was All-American at UCLA, has shown ability to thrive while playing in mixed situation. Articulate. Temperament is well suited for the increased pressure. No ‘set’ position, but versatility makes him an asset

Davis, Piper: No power. Style of play would have fit with the McGraw/Speaker era. Cat quick and sure handed on diamond. Risk taker on base paths and in field; not sure how well that will translate with faster opponents. Personal life does not bear well under close scrutiny. Loses focus in lop sided games; a little too much ‘fancy dan’ play. Could hit .300, but it would be a very empty .300.

Trouppe, Quincy: Very good bat for a catcher, not elite, but the next level down. Lifestyle of the barnstormer begs the question: but for how long? Strong throwing arm, but again, how will that translate with faster, smarter base runners. Adaptable—handles 2-3 pitchers a game. Good feel for the game, has understanding of fielder placement—makes in game adjustments because of lack of scouting reports. Game calling ability still unknown—level of opposition makes strategic pitch calling useless.

Paige, Satchel: At least 40, but still a formidable presence on the mound. Durability is a question—has only had a handful of appearances over 3 innings since the war. Probably more useful as a Fred Marberry type pitcher than regular starter. Motion is clearly a balk; don’t know how effective he could be under major league rules. Control is still impeccable, but may throw too many strikes. ML hitters could foul off his borderline pitches. Being paid $37,000 by Monarchs, might not be worth it as a sometime pitcher.

The Seduction of Joe DiMaggio, part 3
 

Yankee Stadium
New York, NY
August 15, 1945.

Mr. DiMaggio,

Please find enclosed a standard Contential League contract for you to sign. Our offer of $40,000.00 for the 1946 is more than fair, given the financial difficulties of our club during the break in play.

Return the contract in the enclosed envelope as soon as possible. Postage must be included for proper return.

Respectfully,

{Signature} Larry MacPhail {End of signature}

Joseph DiMaggio,
San Francisco, California

Which way the wind blows, part 5
 

The faces of most of the 11 other National American League owners were white with terror. Phil Wrigley finally said what they all were thinking, “Bing, what have you done.”

“I signed the best player I could for my team,” Crosby stated matter of factly. “We’re doing what we can to win. Look, fellas, the Yankees are only popular because they win—they start losing players, losing games, then no one will care the if the Yankees are big league or small time.”

“Bing, we’re near a deal to have the Yankees jump—we already have the Cardinals on board, this ruins everything,” Briggs of Detroit was near tears.

The only other owner smiling was Lou Perini. Cries of player raids and lawsuits were shouted across the meeting table. When the noise had settled, Perini rose to speak, “I assure you there will be no lawsuits gentlemen. MacPhail may bark, but the risk is too much.” Insults were spat at the maverick owner with little regard to offending anyone.

“Bub’s right about that one,” Bing cheerfully volunteered.

“What do you know about anything Crosby, you’re new here.”

“Well I do know that if the Yankees sue, and we win, then the whole idea of the reserve clause could be overturned. It’s in there best interest to shut their yaps.”

Perini continued the thinking, “A player without a signed contract is fair game. Excuse me; a Contential player without a contract is fair game.”

“But what is to stop them from raiding our players?” Phil Wrigley looked like he was going to be ill.

“Nothing, but our clubs are in better financial shape. The better players will come to us; the Contential will wither and die. And then we take the Yankees back, if it is worth it to us.”

The Man from the Bronx comes home, part 1
 

The Man from the Bronx comes home, part 1

"Hank, the phone," Carol Gimble, heir to the Gimble Department Stores called for her fiancée. Hopefully, this was the call telling him Rudy York had finally been traded. "I'm almost 35 and spent four years in the army," he had told Walter Briggs, "I'm not running around the damm outfield anymore." The Tigers weren't even willing to give something similar to the 'position change' bonus he had received in 1940 when Baker put York at first. Greenberg had managed to get some leverage, threatening to retire if forced to play left again; no signature on the contract until Rudy was an ex-Tiger.

"It's the Yankees," she whispered, huge smile on her lips. Greenberg snatched the phone quickly.

"Greenberg, Larry MacPhail here-I want you to come down to my office. We want to find out what it will take to bring you to the Yankees," the voice on the other end was liquor quick and full of venom. With DiMaggio jumping to the Lancers, the Pinstripes had a massive right-handed void in their line up.

"Mr. MacPhail, I'm here with my fiancée, I don't really want to make a trip if it isn't worth my time. Unless you are willing to start at $75,000 and a guarantee of not having to play anywhere other than first, I won't even come down."

Hank was surprised; MacPhail answered without a pause. "Hell, I was going to start at 100 grand, but if you want to go lower, fine by me." The bourbon was thick in the GM's voice. Larry MacPhail was notorious for trying to negotiate deals and contracts while three sheets to the wind; then not recalling any details, sometimes not even remembering there were negotiations at all.

"Can we set up a breakfast meeting Mr. MacPhail, I do have a very busy day before me," Greenberg hoped catching Leland early would mean a sober MacPhail. The two made plans and exchanged good byes. Carol was next to him in an instant.

"The Yankees want you to play in New York?" Her faced glowed with anticipation. "That would be most wonderful.

"Yeah, I guess. Hard to tell, the guy was drunk," Carol's smile faded somewhat. "But I do have a meeting, so they must be serious."

"I do so hope it is true, I don't really want to live in Detroit."

"Hey, that town's been good to me," he playfully snapped at his bride-to-be, grabbing her around the waist. He looked into her eyes, "They gave DiMaggio $200,000, what do you think I'm worth?"

"You are every bit the romantic, Mr. Greenberg."

Just a note
 

I'm going to be away from a computer for a few days, so this should be the last post for a few days. Might do some editing of the last two post, but definately will be making a lengthy post (or series of post) that sets up the next act of getting ready for the season.

Thank you again for your readership.

Reader Mail
 

I wanted to address this part of a PM from a LoyalReader. If that is how you are feeling, then I’ve done part of what I wanted to accomplish in this first part of this dynasty. The “who is playing where” in the pre-television day would have been acute in a quickly shifting scenario like this one. The movement of teams and players, especially in a situation where status quo would have been assumed, would have confused the ‘typical’ fan. I’m not saying they wouldn’t be able to understand what was going on, but they would not had anywhere near the information we take for granted.

So we are done with phase 1: League building. The next post, which will be coming later, closes out phase 1 and starts on the team building aspects of the story. Hope you stick with us.

Interlude: The Sporting News Reports, part 1
 

Without a pitch being thrown; one of the most monumental summers in the history of baseball has just ended. More ‘experienced’ writers whose memories extend back to the days of the Federal challenge can not remember a time of such upheaval and displacement. Only the wake of the Black Sox controversy pushed the structure of the game to such a breaking point; and even then, calmer heads prevailed. The basic fabric of the game had not been broken.

Now with spring training a mere four months away, the geography of the game--a static comfort for almost fifty years--has shifted dramatically. From a steady eleven cities to a teetering giant of nineteen, the national game truly is that for the first time.

However, as the reach of the highest level of baseball extends westward the question of quality rises in even the most casual of fan. Bigger is not always better to Mr. and Mrs. Sportfan, the proof will be in the play. We here at The Sporting News have prided ourselves on being the best source for baseball news and notes. So, for you fans who find the shifting of teams and players as hard to figure as we do, we offer the following recap of the last half-year.

Interlude: The Sporting News Reports, part 2
 

Interlude: The Sporting News Reports, part 2

Just when sanity seemingly was restored with a 10 team and a 6-team league, a trio of announcements shook the game further.

The conference was, obstinately being used to announce the final destination of the former Saint Louis Browns. Owner Bill Veeck and General Manager Branch Rickey had more in store for the assembled press. In addition to announcing the agreement to bring the club to Kansas City's Ruppert Stadium, Rickey and Veeck announced the signing of seven Negro ballplayers to the club. League President Connie Mack, in attendance, confirmed he had approved the contracts for the upcoming season. The seven players added-infielders Jackie Robinson, Ray Dandridge and Artie Wilson; outfielders Monte Irvin and Willard Brown; pitchers Leon Day and Satchel Paige-are by all accounts, decent ballplayers. With Paige being the most well known of the lot. Even though Veeck has a reputation as the type of man who values publicity more than results, the pair insists the signings are not for press alone. Rickey, who indicated more Negroes could be signed, stated emphatically the goal is the fly the Contential pennant over Ruppert Stadium.

Rickey further noted a try out camp would be held in the Kansas City area for Negro players, for any club-from either league-interested in tapping this source of players. As of press time, no NAL club and only a handful CL clubs have accepted the invitation.

Less than a week later, a story broke in the St. Louis Post: the Saint Louis Cardinals were preparing to switch leagues. In an unfortunate account of race relations in the Gateway City, owner Sam Breadon stated he did not believe the City of Saint Louis would take to integrated ball. The Cardinals' ownership, whose Sportsman's Park is the only major league field left with segregated stands, felt "now is not the time for mixed race baseball. "

Eyes moved east, as the public fully expected the Yankees to jump as well, and ending the tradition of two-league baseball. The public outcry over the Yankees' exclusion had consumed more newsprint than any story since the Babe swatted 60. This seemed to be the best solution for all fans; eliminating four bad clubs seemed to be in the offing. General Manager Larry MacPhail was coy about the Yankees' intentions, but the rumble of rumor said it was a done deal. Until Joe DiMaggio signed with the Los Angeles Lancers for a record $200,000. The Yankees publicly demanded the return of the superstar as price of their entrance into the NAL. When LA owner Bing Crosby refused under any circumstances to do so, MacPhail withdrew back into the Contential. Within days, the Yankees in revenge had signed Hank Greenberg and Bob Feller. Ted Williams reportedly turned down $175,000 to jump from the Red Sox to the Yankees. And the final act of vengeance came with the Contential announcing Buffalo, Columbus and Minneapolis would be added to their roll. The three cities just happened to house the number one farm team for Detroit, Saint Louis and the Giants respectively.

The NAL has since convinced the San Francisco Seals of the Pacific Coast League to make the jump the major league level, bringing their number to 12. The PCL had already approved a squad for Phoenix to replace the valuable Los Angeles territory; now they face the decision of whether to find another city for expansion or fold one franchise.

For those scoring at home
 

Geez, the Yankees truly are carrying the Continental League at the moment, aren't they? Anything less than a league championship every year ought to be considered a failure. Brooklyn probably is the only team who could realistically compete yearly with them. Then again, if all the best teams are elsewhere, it will eventually have to start dragging down the Yankees at some point in the future.

Will the NAL split into divisions? (I know, all in good time....)

Dissent in the Empire, part 1
 

Anger did not begin to explain how Jerry Priddy felt. For the latter part of the 1930’s it was he, not that upstart Rizzuto, who was the darling of the Yankee system. The keystone sacker so smooth he forced Joe Gordon to move to first base. Unfortunately, the bat could not catch up with the glove, and by mid-season, Priddy rode the pine. Now, if only he had known not to sign that f-----g low ball contract. $6,000.00, barely over the minimum. Some n-----s had signed for more than that; wasn’t he worth more than one of them?

Options were limited—at this point a hold out seemed like the only choice, but that did not have much bite with a signed contract for the upcoming season. The only choice would be to force a trade, or better yet, his release. “Marse Joe don’t take crap from anyone,” Priddy thought to himself, “but Job he is not.” The first smile in months crossed his face, “make their lives hell to make me free.”

And how is that different from now? :p Even the Dodgers can't be put into the 'challenge yearly' column. While 1941 was a pennant year in Brooklyn, dem Bums had always been the 3rd team in New York--the great teams of the mid-40's never happened here.

Yes, all in good time . . .

is the 2nd league really the "Continental"?

I only ask because you type 'Contential' every time? :p

Still reading with avid interest (and another 5* rating!)...

Whoops. I'll have to go back and correct that :o

Once, there were heroes, part 1
 

Theodore Samuel Williams detested events such as these. The annual Boston Hot Stove Dinner, something he would have avoided before the war but as a condition of his new contract, he was required to attend. “In an uncertain off-season,” Yawkey had told him, “the press and fans need to see the stars.” At $150,000 a year, Williams agreed he owed Yawkey that much.

The various Sox came and went from the podium. Making the pronouncement this Red Sox club was going to be the one to return Boston to the top of the baseball world. Maybe it would not carry the cache of the champs of the past, but first is still first, whether it be the American League or the National-American League.

A priest gave a mock eulogy for the departed Braves that broke the hall with the laughter. Ted just sorted through the hundreds of postcards with questions from the crowd. The rest of the Sox were fielding the questions live, softballs with no meat behind them. But Ted just knew the assembled press would lie in wait to pepper him with the heat. Preparation, just like in batting, was the key to a success. No way would Williams let Webb or the others trip him up with some stupid question about the Yankees’ courting. Contracts and money were his business, not theirs. All the damn reporters needed to know was he signed with Boston, anything else was irrelevant.

So the reasons why a man who fought with the press and sometimes the fans would turn down more money ($185,000) to play in a park perfect for his swing might seem interesting, but in the end, it came down to winning. The Yanks were sure to roll the thinned rosters of their Continental League foes, but victory in Boston would be earned. Anything accomplished for New York would be lost in the quality of the opponent.

A tap on the shoulder alerted Ted to his introduction, and he rose to thunderous applause. “The reigning batting champion of baseball, Ted Williams,” the flash of bulbs and echo of the crowd made the room almost stand still in his mind. Just remember, he told himself, they will turn just as quickly. A scorpion is still a scorpion.

“There isn’t much I can say that these guys already haven’t said, so I’ll just go straight to the questions you were kind enough to fill out. We don’t have time for them all, but I selected what I feel are the best.” Ted answered the obligatory questions about his service during the war, the thrill of .400 and the other questions he was expected to answer. “For our final question,” he started a scant ten minutes later, “something a little different. What do I think of Kansas City signing Negroes? I’ll tell you what I think—I think it has been too long in coming. I saw these men playing on service teams, and believe me, there are some ballplayers there; some that could help Boston to the title. And the sooner the men who run these clubs decide to sign the best players, and not just the best white players, the better this game will be. Thank you, and good night.” Ted turned and walked from the podium to a confused smattering of applause. He sat down next to Yawkey, who looked daggers at his star. Williams leaned over to whisper, “I bet you never ask me to one of these things again.”

A death unmourned, part 4
 

January 25, 1946.

Mr. Rickey:

I must protest in the strongest terms the theft of Newark Eagles Leon Day and Ray Dandridge by your organization. In all my years in running a baseball club, I have never been witness to such egregious disrespect.

The theft by you and your organization of some of our top players has greatly endangered the livelihood of thousands of American Negroes. It is not enough that you steal our players, but you have also seen fit to uproot the Kansas City Monarchs, one of the top clubs of Negro baseball. It appears you will not be satisfied until our organizations; our investments will be rendered valueless.

The Newark Eagles demand compensation for the above ballplayers, and any players you may see fit to take from us in the future. For Day and Dandridge the sum of $20,000.00 will be acceptable to end this matter before we are forced to take legal action.

Yours,

{Signature} Effa Manley {End of signature}

Branch Rickey,
Kansas City, Missouri.

----------------------------
Ruppert Stadium
Kansas City, Missouri

January 29, 1946.

Mrs. Manley:

The Kansas City Blues are more than willing to compensate any organization we acquire players from; however, neither of the players you have named were under contract with your club. In fact, Mr. Day has stated the arraignment with the Eagles was informal and only veiled verbal assurances of compensation were made.

I would also like to note our organization did provide the owners of the Kansas City Monarchs compensation for the contracted players of theirs we signed.

If you can provide a signed contract for Mr. Dandridge and Mr. Day, we will gladly pay the fee you have suggested.

Yours,

{Signature} Branch Rickey {End of signature}

Effa Manley,
Newark, New Jersey.

Dissent in the Empire, part 2
 

“Mr. MacPhail, are you drunk?”

“And what if I am you you, ah, forget it—can’t have my star player pissed at me. So, who’s the horse?”

“That’s my fiancée.”

“Damn, you got to marry that to get a little bit, in my day . . .” Greenberg landed a forceful right to the face of the Yankee GM.

“Get up and say that again you bastard,” the slugger stood over the motionless MacPhail.

“Jeez Hank, I think you knocked him out.”

Looks like the ownership of the Yankees is doing a bang-up job in this new world. :)

MacPhail's drinking and fighting drove him out of Cincinnati and New York in real life. He had the habit of going on a binge and fireing the manager. Durocher said he must have been fired hundreds of times in Brooklyn, but knew the next morning MacPhail would be sober and forget the whole thing.

I think, and I have no reference before me to make sure of this, he showed up drunk at the team's celebration of the '47 series win, punched a reporter, showered the crowd with insults and tried to fire the manager. He was bought out by Topping and Webb the next day. The DiMaggio/Williams almost trade was brought about by his drinking (but he wasn't drunk enough to throw in Yogi Berra to the deal!).

Reality Check: Life of Larry MacPhail
 

This link has a great bio from Baseballlibrary.com, one of my fav bio sites, on Larry MacPhail. Baseball is the family business, current Cubs CEO Andy MacPhail is his grandson, and son Lee MacPhail was long time AL League President.

Does the sun rise or set, part 1
 

[Note]To this point, I've tried to integrate real characters into the storyline, but my knowledge (and resources) regarding the PCL is limited. Whenever possible, I've used real people, but for the most part, the PCL characters are completely fictional. [/Note]

"So, as these charts show, the loss of the Angels and San Francisco economically is crippling. Hollywood and Oakland are seriously endangered; I'd say they have five years, at best, before relocation is necessary." The crew cut consultant continued to deliver the grim news to the assembled PCL owners.

"And all because the Eastern Leagues are playing there," Oakland owner Paul Rolph shook his head distastefully. The other six owners nodded in agreement.

"Well, it isn't the 'Major League' label that gives them status-it is the wages paid," the consultant offered. "Their five thousand dollar minimum makes it very difficult for the PCL to compete with the Eastern Leagues"

John Clearwater of Sacramento snorted, "Ridiculous! We have always been able to field players of equal talent to the American and National Leagues." Several owners harrumphed in agreement.

"And those players eventually left because the PCL would not pay like the National and American Leagues. With air travel and two west coast teams, the number of players willing to stay with the PCL for less money will be further reduced. The only way to protect your markets is to bring your salary structure in line with the NAL and CL. Do that, and the PCL has a chance to survive as an independent league."

"That would be at least $120,000 on payroll alone; probably $250,000! That would more than double our player expenses," Herbert Joski of Portland cried. "I can't afford that."

The consultant was measured in his reply. "I don't believe every owner, every city, can do it. But to keep the PCL profile high you must meet their standards."

"I could almost run a club for the monies being thrown at DiMaggio and Greenberg."

"And a D-League club can do it for a whole lot less. My job was to assess the situation the PCL is in; frankly it isn't a good situation. As I see it, you have two choices: Increase salaries and start making a play for stars in their prime; or do what you have always done and end up like the American Association and International Leagues. Your best cities taken over and the PCL reduced to developing talent for the Eastern Leagues."

"You've seen what they did in Columbus and Buffalo," President Rowland interjected. "Didn't offer a dime to the owners there; brought in their own people-with the cities just giving away the stadium leases."

"Don't they have what they want," San Diego owner Mac Roegers said hopefully. "I can't see Seattle or San Diego ever being territories they would want."

"Take that chance if you like," the consultant said. "But know this: if you keep to the status quo, all the PCL will be able to lay claim to is being the best minor league in America."

Does the sun rise or set, part 2
 

[Newsreel with narration] Spirits are high in Sacramento; after a lengthy owner's meeting, the Pacific Coast League declares itself Major League. Seeking to protect the west coast territories from the encroaching NAL, the PCL agreed to bring their salary structure in line with the former National and American Leagues. Long a showcase for near top-flight ball, the PCL has decided to back-up years of bluster with action. President Charles Rowland says, "We call upon the bickering league, for the betterment of baseball, to appoint a new commissioner to oversee player and territorial disputes. We of the Coast League nominate Connie Mack for such a position." A few months ago the World Series was assumed dead; but now a 3-sided series seems possible. [/newsreel]

Does the sun rise or set, part 3
 

Statement by NAL President Ford Frick

While we respect the Pacific Coast League's right to think itself of the same quality as the National-American League, the historical record indicates otherwise. Further, the suggestion to appoint Connie Mack as commissioner of Baseball is equally laughable. Mr. Mack has approved the blatant piracy of some of the National-American League's biggest stars.

The member franchises of the PCL, instead of trying to garner public support by attacking the 'Eastern Leagues', should focus on improving the quality of their players. The American sporting public, over the course of a long season, cannot be fooled into thinking an AA league anything near Major League quality.

The Legend of the Perfesser, part 2
 

"Well, I've been just as good as the player I have had; Dodgers and Braves have never been known for spending money, as least not when I was there. Overall I'd say I was 10-12 games better than the players that I had under the terms of my employment with my former team. Which is to say without me, they would have been worse than they were."

"I understand you can make a bad team better, but how Mr. Stengel? What do you do?"

"Well, say you got a lefty pitching, then I bring in a righty to swing since this is what John McGraw used to do back with the Giants. It is doing the opposite of what the other guy wants you to do, because that is what you should do; unless of course, you don't have the man who can do the job, then I just go by my instinct. See Mack, we'd call him Mack-never to his face mind you, no, it was always Mr. McGraw to his face, but it was Mack when we just talked amongst ourselves, Mack would put me in the best position to succeed, unless he thought the other guy was better than me, then Mack would use him and not me, but usually me instead."

"So, you play percentage baseball, then?"

"Well, any amount you do of anything is a percentage, even if it is zero."

"I see. Well. What do you think you can accomplish here in Oakland?"

"Who is on the roster?"

"That's not settled yet."

"Then I can't answer your question."

"Every other man I've interviewed has talked about winning the PCL pennant."

"Every other man you have interviewed is a liar. Look, you should finish at least 6th because there are two teams getting late starts putting a team together. I don't know how much better I can make them beyond that, unless you let me know who I have to work with."

"I have the provisional roster here."

"Hmmmm. Too many kids, not enough pitching. With this roster I can finish 6th. Get me another starter and a catcher who can hit, we can finish over .500. I'll have to watch them play before I can tell you what we'd need to win it all."

"So, all you can promise is 6th place? That is best you can do?"

"In all honesty, yes. But without me, you'll finish last."


[Honestly, I don't care for this post, but we must keep moving forward]

Me and the Devil, part 1
 

“What a god forsaken place this is,” PCL president Charles “Pants” Rowland as the air cooled car moved through the dusty roads.

“And Phoenix isn’t?” replied his right hand man and league treasurer Jackson Millbyrn replied. Sheepishly, Rowland nodded in agreement. The Pacific Coast League was now finding itself reaching out into the dessert to find almost suitable homes for its franchises. Long ago the mild weather of the coast made the endless summer of ball one of the most pleasant things in the world. Now, players and officials had July and August in the cauldron of Phoenix to look forward too.

The car pulled up to the hotel, almost completed, rising above the dead land majestically. A tribute to man’s ability to make nature conform to his needs. They two men strode towards the entrance, where the doorman greeted them, “Welcome to the Flamingo; we hope you have a pleasant stay.”

Me and the Devil, part 2
 

“There it is gentlemen, $3 million, cash for the entry fee into the PCL.” The money almost glowed in the case; the bills packed tight and uniform, waiting to be released.

“The entrance fee is only $1 million, Mr. Siegel,” Charles Rowland was having trouble containing the urge to reach out and touch that much money. Sweat started beading on his forehead, even in the air cooled room.

“Well, I figured a little extra couldn’t hurt,” Benjamin Siegel’s brash confidence made Rowland feel more and more like this was a bad decision to come to Las Vegas. “This is a growing city, tripled in population since the start of the war. A ball club, a Major League ball club, that would really help sell the city to the rest of America.”

“But even with the population explosion that is still, what, only 50,000 people in the whole county. How can you support a club if you are counting on half of the county to show up every night?”

“Let me worry about that,” the sharp dressed man laughed. “I’m not worried about losing some money with a ball club; I’m trying to help build a city here.” Siegel strolled around the room trying to create an easy going atmosphere where nothing but tension lived. “Besides, the tourist will love to see a major league game. Most people who follow baseball, don’t go to the games, we’ll give them a game.”

The question rested on the tip of Rowland’s tongue, “but how do you make your money?”

There was a flash of anger in Siegel’s eyes; a moment away from fury, before reason took over, “The casino, for the most part. I have other business ventures as well, all of them legitimate.” Benjamin poured himself a cool drink. “Look, I know that you baseball types have a problem with gambling because of that World Series thing. But I’m willing to have our sports book not take any action on the team, just to keep it on the up and up.” Siegel closed the case and handed it to Rowland. “That cash would help out the other teams wouldn’t it?”

Charles Rowland fought himself to keep from grabbing the case. “We would require a cashiers check, not cash Mr. Siegel.”

“An honest man. I like doing business with honest men; know where you stand when a man has integrity. I’ll have one of the girls cut you a check.”

“We do have one more group to meet with; some gentlemen from Salt Lake City.”

“Do you what you have to do. But I can cut through the red tape to have a park built, and can absorb the losses. I wonder if your Utah friends can do the same.”

Rowland stood to leave. “The league will meet in Sacramento to evaluate both offers. I will inform them of your willingness to triple the entry fee to get the franchise. Someone will call with the decision then.”

Bugsy!

You know, when I was thinking about where to put the last PCL team, first question I asked was, "Was Bugsy still alive?" Granted, I know little outside what Warren Beatty taught me, but that's more than some of the people I'm writing about.

All a man wants, part 1
 

The bus pulled up to the former military training complex, a canvas and wood city in the middle of nowhere, Arizona. After a brief tryout camp, the hundreds of Negroes who had shown up for a chance to be scouted by Major League teams had been whittled to these 80. Hours ago they had watched friends and teammates turned away after only minutes to show their abilities. Even in this moment of triumph, there was no joy to be had.

Blues manager Clyde Sukeforth, who had scouted many of these same men during the tours of late 1945, addressed the bus. Seven Pacific League and seven Continental League teams-the Yankees abstaining; Larry MacPhail saying "To give tryouts to players whom you do not intend to employ is sheer hypocrisy"-- would be looking for players to sign. There were no guarantees of a contract. They would spend the next month, working out with coaches from the various clubs and play ball. Each player would receive $500 for the month; food and boarding would be at the military training facility. No radio, no movies, no music; just baseball all day long. "We don't just want to know what kind of players you are, we need to know what kind of men. We want to know who wants it most."

"This isn't good Buck," veteran Willie Wells whispered to Buck O'Neill. "Tell a man the only chance he has is at the expense of his friends."

O'Neill nodded, "Still, they wouldn't go to all this trouble not to sign anybody. Each one of us that gets a contract out of this makes it easier for the next one. Besides, I think they would rather have us fight each other than some of the southern boys on those teams." The men grabbed their bags and slowly exited the bus. As they exited, Sukeforth pulled Buck to the front seat.

"Buck, we want you to act as team captain for one of the squads," Clyde started. "You know these players, you know how to use them in a game." Sukeforth leaned closed and scanned the empty bus to be sure no one else was in earshot. "Baltimore is looking for someone who can advise Ruth, help him along but," Sukeforth paused.

"But what Clyde?" O'Neill bit his lip, knowing what was coming next.

"But they don't want someone who will undermine his authority," Sukeforth felt sick to his stomach saying those words. "They don't think the team would respect a Negro enough to undermine Ruth's position." For the first time that day Sukeforth could look Buck O'Neill in the eyes. "I'm sorry Buck. Sorry it has to be that way." After months of watching the Monarchs grind out game after game with limited resources and substandard conditions, Sukeforth knew he was sitting with one of the five best managers he had ever seen.

Buck O'Neill extended his hand. "Clyde, it's not how it should be; but it is the best I got right now. And I'm not going to turn it down because it's not perfect. I'll be waiting too long for that day."

All a man wants, part 2
 

“Mr. MacPhail, Mr. MacPhail” the young assistant was bursting with joy. This thrilled Larry MacPhail to no end. “Always have these empty suits who think because ‘Yankees’ is on their paycheck that they know something about baseball. All they know is three strikes and you’re out, and even then, they usually bug me or Topping just to be sure.” Disdain did not begin to describe what he felt for most of the staff.

“What! I’m a busy man, don’t waste my time.” In truth, MacPhail was looking to meet some of his army buddies for a couple drinks, and did not want to waste time working.

“Our man in Arizona; I didn’t think we sent anyone to the Negro tryout camp—he has sent a telegram,” the office assistant was anticipating the praise and reward to come his way by being the one to bring the good news to MacPhail.

Larry rolled his eyes at the hopefulness of the faceless gray flannel suit. “Oh, enough of them bitched about our not being there that Topping and Webb thought we should send someone. They still are ticked about that Powell thing from, God, ten years ago.” MacPhail moved some papers around while mimicking a Stepen Fetchit voice about the protest of the Yankees boycott of the camp.

The assistant laughed, because that is how one moved up the ladder in any business, at least that’s what the book he read told him. MacPhail grabbed the telegram to confirm that no one in this organization knew anything about baseball.

PROBLEM AT THIRD SOLVED
SEEN MAN WHO WILL CHANGE GAME
ORESTES MINOSO CAN DO EVERYTHING
A STEAL AT THE LEAGUE MIN—AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS

MacPhail looked thoughtfully or at least the look he had when he wanted someone to think he was being thoughtful, and then dropped the telegram into the trash. He looked at the young go getter, “Did you see what I just did?” The faceless suit nodded vigorously. “That’s what I want you to do with every telegram that comes in from the Arizona camp. Do you understand?”

“But, what if the player . . .”

“Son, this isn’t some two-bit operation you are working for. We are the New York Yankees. And I’m not letting just any colored bastard come in and wear that uniform. Especially not one who has a non-American name and probably can’t speak a word of English either. We have standards.” The suit felt very dejected, what he thought was a moment of glory had turned sour.

All a man wants, part 3
 

Buck O’Neill to Josephus Bricker:

“Joey, I’m telling you this because you’ve got a chance to make it. Stop trying to kill the ball, that’s only going to result in strikeouts. Shorten up, just drive the ball. And defensively, think about your positioning more—those ‘just missed’ balls that go for doubles stay in those scouts minds longer than the occasional fancy dan play. I’m putting you out there because I believe you can do this. But that’s all I can do for you—the rest is on you.”

Drinks with Dizzy, part 2
 

Yeah, I guess I’ve been a little quiet tonight—only told you guys 10 stories instead of my usual 12. Well, I got an invitation to spring training—wait, wait, don’t raise those glasses to me yet. I’ll be dammed if it isn’t just a piss-ant little Coast League team. Phoenix. That’s right the middle of the f-----g dessert. And get this—it isn’t even a invite to the, well, I guess ‘major league’ camp, if the Coast League could have such thing. Yeah, they want me to maybe make a minor league’s minor league. Can you believe it? I told them I needed to think about it, cuz, well, I’m not spending any more time than I have to working for a roster spot. If I don’t have it in March, I’m not gonna have it in June. No I don’t know what I’m gonna do. Rickey wants me to come to Kansas City to do radio; NBC wants me to do a show and this Phoenix team might want me to pitch. Huh? Man, I thought at least Columbus would want me, with the veter’ns they signed, they’d surely have a slot to give ol’ Diz a shot, wouldn’t you think? Hell, I’d rather freeze my n—s off in Minnesota or Buffalo than swelter in Arizona. God, it’s bad enough in the summer here in St. Louis, can’t imagine how miserable it’d be in August out there. I’m so ready to pitch again, and not just exhibitions neither. But, I don’t know if I want it that bad. Radio sure looking purdy good to me now. Well, I can always go to camp, and if it doesn’t work out, do the Kansas City or NBC thing. Man, I thought once I decided to pitch, it would be easy to go down that road again, but man, it’s always sumthin!

Note to my readers
 

A word of warning: there are some ‘out of chronological order’ posts coming up. We are in February 1946, but I’m going to start doing some post for Spring Training for the NAL clubs. Since these clubs will not be integrating this season, there is no reason to wait for the end of the tryout camp to start some ST post for those clubs. Each club will have its ST roster posted in the roster thread (separated into the 40 men at Major League camp and the rest at the minor league camp), and most will have a storyline post or two. Spring training games will begin after the tryout camp. For ease of storytelling, all the NAL clubs are in Florida, the CL and PCL will be out west.

The Worst Place in the World, part 1
 

William Cox was the happiest man in America. Three years prior he had outbid John Kelly Jr to acquire the Philadelphia Philles, and now they were finally coming together as a club. As lead investor, he called the shots and answered to no one. He was 35 and living the American Dream.

Players had been filing into the sleepy Hialeah complex for the past few days. Cox had moved training to this area because of the proximity of the Horse and Dog tracks. The racing season would not be in full swing until June, but there would still be plenty of action to be had on and off the tracks.

Howard Bruce, the club’s director of Physical Fitness and Cox’s high school track coach, approached his former pupil. “Looking good in that uniform, Billy.” Even though he was in Cox’s employ, the coach still couldn’t help but be informal.

To the untrained observer, Cox appeared every inch the athlete in his Phillie jersey. “Fit and young, it is the only way to be.” The owner did a quick mock calestinic routine to show he was ready for spring. “When is the morning workout scheduled?”

”Well, Billy, hasn’t the manager posted the schedule or anything like that?”

“Oh s—t! I haven’t hired one yet.” Turning to his personal secretary Dorothy Massey, he asked, “Has Chuck Klein reported yet?” Miss Massey flipped through the pages of her notebook to affirm what she thought she knew.

”Yes, he is in bungalow A-10.” Chuck Klein, once a feared slugger was not expected to make the club. Like many veterans who saw the war take away the end of their career, Klein received a courtesy invitation to Spring Training. A chance to spend a few days in camp, remind fans of the good old days, and then bow out respectfully on ‘their’ terms.

“Well, that’s taken care of then,” Cox triumphantly crowed.

Massey and Bruce gave each other a double take. “Shouldn’t you ask him to be sure he wants the job?” Mr. Bruce finally asked.

Cox half-suppressed a giggle, “What player doesn’t want to manage? Dorothy, write a quick release for the press. The fans back in Philly will love this move.”

Ah. A Daniel Snyder in his previous life sighting.

The bit about dressing up in uniform and working out with the team: That's true. He fired manager Bucky Harris by announcing it at a press conference in Philadelphia while the Phils were in Saint Louis getting ready to play. Harris did not know he had been fired until the press told him.

Inerlude: Stories I Didn't Tell, part 1
 

In the roster thread I mentioned I wanted to do a storyline of the 4 big free agents who both leagues were courting: Johnny Mize, Hooks Wyse, Schoolboy Rowe and Arky Vaughan. Try as I might, I just never seemed to get something together that read well. So, I scrapped the idea, and just moved on. There were some, well, not important, but things that would have set down some of the ground rules this universe is working with.

The main problem I had with the storylines I was dropping almost exclusively into dialogue, which is not my strong suit. It is very hard to make negotiations sound interesting and even harder if you have several negotiations to do. The Greenberg and DiMaggio bits worked because the negotiations were not directly addressed; I couldn’t think of a similar way to do the four free agents. I just kept repeating myself; which to me is worse than not doing anything at all. (Ok, ok, so there are similarities to this world and the Prologue/Prequel world—but in fairness to me, Prologue/Prequel initially was going to build to this timeline, it just didn’t make it that far)

I did think about doing the newspaper reporting style to tell these stories, but I’ve (other than some newsreel post) purposely stayed away from that motif. That style was so big in Prologue/Prequel, I wanted to hold off on that and work on other storytelling devices.

Anyhoo, since setting up the rosters is more involved than I thought it would be (what with the adjusting salaries and such) I’m going to take a little break from posting of the narrative. Instead, for the next couple days, I’m going to focus on two storylines I, for one reason or another, didn’t think I could pull off, but think are important enough to warrant some mention:

1. The first true free agents
2. A rose by any other name

Interlude: Stories I didn't tell, part 2
 

The First True Free Agents

"In January of 1942, faced with the uncertainty of the status of Major League Baseball and, more importantly, the uncertainty of their contractual obligations to their players; the Saint Louis Cardinals released Johnny Mize. It would be almost four years before Mize realized this was the best thing to happen to him."

I wrote that over a year ago. When I was in the waning days of 3rd&4th League, I started the planning of what would become CIE. Integration, expansion, great personalities, the late 40's was perfect for an alternative time line. So, I started taking notes and reading more about the era. And I now have these notebooks filled with bits about players and persons involved with baseball. Some of our key players-Ruth and DiMaggio for instance-I've got several pages and places in books indexed for reference. Other players like a Bobo Newsom, have a line or two; just in case. Then there is Johnny Mize, HOFer, All-Star, key part of the early Stengel Yankees. Maybe I was looking in the wrong places, but it seemed I was able to find more out about lesser players and Lou Perini than a player of Mize's caliber. I did know that his trade from the Cardinals was financially motivated (conflicting stories: either to cut the budget, or Branch Rickey, who received 20% of the Cards' profits was trying to paid his pocket), so I chose Mize to be the player I to be my first "true" free agent. As I found out, not have a decent image of who Mize was made the story difficult to tell. From there it was all downhill.

Summary of the story

True, Joe DiMaggio and Hank Greenberg have jumped leagues, but a team in the other league owned their rights. Mize had no attachment to any club. He was free to auction his services to the highest bidder. As alluded to in a couple post, he would set his asking price at $100,000 and listen from them. This would actually backfire on Mize since it would limit who could get into a bidding war. The Yanks had Greenberg (though Mize would actually be a better fit), Boston still has the ghost of Jimmie Foxx; basically only the Lancers, Cubs and Giants-all NAL squads-would be able to bid on him. As a show of league support, the Lancers and Cubs drop out and the Giants get him $85,000.

Arky Vaughan and Schoolboy Rowe would follow Mize's model, signing for more than they normally would, but not as much as they wanted, Hooks Wyse would usher in a new era: Overpaying mid-level pitchers. Hooks, in this storyline, had a brilliant career pitching in the military circuit. Truthfully, the talent level of the military circuit is somewhere between what we now call AA and AAA, but the numbers against Major Leaguers seems to indicate success. By setting his starting price relatively low, he watches the three leagues bid up the price for a pitcher with no major league experience to almost $50,000.

Why didn't I do it?

So, other than showing that the Yanks will overpay in any era, what would have been the purpose of this storyline. Well, I was trying to set down the "rules" of free agency without telling you "These are the rules of Free Agency," which I've ended up doing anyway. I've tried hard, to this point, not to address you from the perspective of Seth. I really wanted to stay in "in the era" as much as possible. Unfortunately, some things are too boring to do this with. And try as I might, this was just too boring of a story (at least how I was trying to tell it) to inflict upon you, loyal reader.

I mean, this is important for the long-term life of the league. Hooks Wyse would be his era's Curt Flood by opening the door wider than the previous Free Agents. But each story was so similar, and there was too much dialogue (I don't think I do good dialogue), I just couldn't keep my interest level in the story up. DiMaggio leaving the Yankees is exciting; Schoolboy Rowe going to Cleveland isn't. Now, in June when Hooks Wyse is getting booed like Ed Whitson, I might have some regret about not doing a little more with his story, but I don't think we'll miss it.


So what does this mean?

Free agency will work like this:

The PCL and CL will respect each other's contracts and reserve option; they will respect the NAL's contracts, but not their reserve option. NAL has the same attitude. So, leagues will not steal a contracted player, but a player without a contract is fair game-players who have been released are the only ones who can go to any league. In this era of the 1-year contract, everyone has limited free agency. A Red Sox can either resign with the Red Sox, or with any interested CL/PCL team. A Red can resign with Cincy or see if a NAL club has a better offer. The owners don't want to push the issue, since they'd rather have limited control and massive free agency (to keep cost down, they used the war as an excuse to curb many salaries) than 100% free agency and no control at all.

Don't underestimate yourself, you write dialogues better than just about anybody here.

Jolly Cholly and the Good Guy Club, part 1
 

“Does he ever put that damn banjo down?” Arky Vaughan laughed at the impromptu sing a long lead by the Cub manager. Coming from the high rolling, hard living Bucs, the spectacle of a leader filling down time with songs struck the shortstop as quaint. Odd fellows, these Cubs. Jolly Cholly and Smilin’ Stan; the nicknames did not inspire fear or respect, just reflected the joy surrounding the team. “It’s like the part in that Gable/Lombard movie,” as the team went into the second verse of ‘The Daring Young Man (on the flying trapeze)’.

“Hey Cholly, we need to trade for that Musial kid in St. Louis,” one of the giddy shouted, “I hear he plays a mean harmonica.”

“Accompaniment throws me off,” Grimm laughed back. “Beside, we got Eddie!” On cue the veterans and rookies alike threw up a whoop for young Eddie Waitkus.

The good cheer and congeniality of the camp should have put the shortstop at ease. He had seen teams lose it down the stretch, being too tight from trying to be all business. The Dodgers tried to go the other way, yukking it up with Uncle Robbie, but not having the focus or talent to contend. Grimm had won two titles, and never was worse than third in his full seasons. Something had to be working for that to happen. But, winners, in Vaughan’s eyes, needed something other than constant joy to win. They needed an edge; a killer’s conscience. “They’d make great neighbors,” Arky thought to himself, “but a ball club?”

A hand landed firmly in Arky’s back, “So, waddya think?” Phil Cavaretta, the captain in waiting, was also in the good humor business.

“Too many left side batters, but if the pitching holds, we should be ok.”

Spit flew out of the outfield/first baseman’s mouth as he stifled a laugh. “Heck, don’t worry about that yet. I mean camp. Not as tight as some clubs, from what I hear.” Phillibuck was incredulous over such concern so early in camp, “Man, worried about the season already—just be glad we’re playing again, my friend. Time for worry is September.” Cavaretta grab the arm of the Cubs’ newest jewel in the line up. “We need to get you to spend more time with Stan; no one worries less about everything than him.”

“That’s why he’s called Smilin’ Stan,” Vaughan repeated the line he had heard already a dozen times at camp.

“Now you’re thinking right!” Phil started leading Arky back to the sing a long. “It’s all sunshine and baseball down here friend, not a care in the sky.” The plink of the banjo called from around the crackle of the bonfire. “It’s a great bunch of guys, just stop thinking so dam much and have a good time.”

“And why shouldn’t I have a good time,” Vaughan thought as they drew closer to a scene straight out of an old college football movie. “Money, baseball and beer—what else can a man want?”

Me and the Devil, part 3
 

Charles Rowland was near tears; it appeared the votes would allow Las Vegas to enter the league. All of his pleading, arm twisting and invocation of the sacred rule of baseball—thou shall not gamble—fell to mostly deaf ears. The money was too good to pass by. Portland, Sacramento and San Diego would be able meet payroll for an entire year with the check Siegel would cut to the league. Only Seattle and Hollywood, announced their opposition to expanding into the barely there city. Seattle wanted the Salt Lake City group to be awarded a team, just to even out the north/south balance of the league. Hollywood, and Rowland, felt the admittance of Siegel could undo all of the agreements forged with Connie Mack’s Continental League. “Men who lived through the Black Sox scandal have no interest in allowing such men into their fold,” Rowland implored the owners before the vote. “Admitting Vegas would be the final step in dooming the Pacific League to serial mediocrity.”

“Please announce your preferred bid when I call your club. Seattle?”

“Salt Lake.”

“Portland?”

“Las Vegas. We need that money to compete, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar.”

“Please, no politicking. I think the stance of Portland on matters financial is well known. Sacramento?”

“Las Vegas.”

“Oakland?”

“Salt Lake.”

“Could you please repeat?” Oakland had long been chalked up to the Las Vegas camp. This switch at least added some drama to the proceedings.

“I said Salt Lake. After talking with Casey, I don’t see how we can turn a team over to someone who owns a casino. It just; I don’t think we can do this and feel the games are 100% clean.”

”Hollywood,” Rowland moved quickly before Portland could object.

”Hollywood proudly backs the Salt Lake bid.”

“San Diego?”

“Vegas.”

All eyes turned to Phoenix. The poor expansion club, surely they would go the money and the natural rival Vegas could provide. “Phoenix?”

“Salt Lake City.”

Portland exploded as the vote was made. “You goddamned fool! How can you turn your back on so much money, you’ll ruin us all?”

“Phoenix, as per our entrance agreement, does not receive any of the expansion monies. That was a clause you sponsored I believe. So, why should I hand more money over to you, when you went to great lengths to keep us poor?”

“We can work something out, we can do something,” the Portland owner was gasping like a drowning man. “A share of everyone’s cut, we can work this out.”

“I’m sorry, but now is not the time for new business. We have settled the matter, Salt Lake is the newest PCL member,” the anxiety of the vote was now passing. The owners, Rowland felt, had done the right thing, barely.

Interlude: Stories I didn't tell, part 3
 

A Rose by Any Other Name

Early on, Wolfpack at FOFC asked the following:

"Are you planning on division play with ten teams, or will it just be two best teams at the top play the World Series?"

Well, this was going to be the storyline dealing with what to do with the World Series.

Summary of the story

With the PCL and CL announcing their agreement to respect contracts, the two leagues also agree to a post-season series. The CL also agrees to extend its season to 168 games to fit with the PCL's habit of longer seasons. Now, while they don't call their series "the World Series", the press does start suggesting this is the new "World Series," since the NAL only has a regular season and no post-season arraignments. Lou Perini, who is always ahead of the curve, even if the rest of the owners do not seem to follow through on his plans, would suggest a divisional setup. Still angry over the Yankee debacle (which was not his fault), the other owners explore other options.

When Frick announces a Shaughnessy Playoff right before spring training, it is a public relations disaster. And as a bonus, Joe Cronin gets to ask his "Who'd watch a 12th place team" question 20 years earlier. The NAL realizes it's error and, with tails between legs, they vote to adopt a divisional set up. The NAL also, to stay even with the CL adopts a 168 game schedule.

Why didn't I do it?

In some ways the hardest thing about writing about this was not the subject matter; it was the man I picked for the lead. It would be very easy to cast Frick as a Bud Selig (or more appropriately, what the caricature of Bud Selig is). But I think the proper way to play it would be Frick as honestly tortured over this decision. He is the commissioner who suggested, though never officially adopted, the asterisk on Maris. He believed in the 154 game schedule and 1 winner from a league. This conceivably is the breaking point for this man. So much of what he held dear about the game was already fractured.

But did I want to waste that kind of emotion over a schedule? Shouldn't tears be saved until they are better spent?

Taking the Frick option off the table, all I had left was a repetitive cycle of owner meetings-really, how often do owner's meet. Even granting a couple more just because you are putting things back together differently, it can't be as many as I needed to do this. It just didn't work without the Frick angle.

So what does this mean?

I think the divisional setup for the NAL was a forgone conclusion. If you know anything about OOTP you know it won't support a 12-team league. All 3 leagues have a 168 game schedule, with the PCL and CL meeting in a post-season series. The is no plans to 'officially' have a PCL/CL versus NAL series (I think I have to have one for the game, but it won't count.)

This dynasty is so good that I started my annual OOTP career a little early this. I normally start the league after the war but decided this time to start in 1939. I know more players in the 50s and 60s (because of my card collection) but it is interesting to see the players of the 40s (as well as those leftover from the 30s) in my league and in this dynasty as well.

Hope you will do a dynasty with it Buccaneer.

Dissent in the Empire, part 3
 

Dissent in the Empire

[newsreel with narration]The newest Yankees show off their stuff in a workout for the cameras before heading to spring training. There’s Hank Greenberg showing the form that should drive in plenty of runs for the Bombers. And hurler Bob Feller shows his form on the mound of the House that Ruth Built. Yes, with additions like these, expect another pennant to fly over the Bronx. [/newsreel]

After spending the workout avoiding Hank Greenberg, Larry MacPhail approached the Movietone crew hired to film the workout. The three men were gathering the equipment preparing to leave. “You fellas, do you have anything to do with the editing?”

“Not really,” the crew chief said. “Sometimes we’ll make suggestions to the editor, on what the good stuff we filmed is.” The young men nodded.

Larry bunched his nose in thought. “You boys like the Yanks?” The GM moved his hand inside his coat and started to remove an envelope.

“Love ‘em, I was here for Gehrig’s farewell.” The crew nodded in unison. Who didn’t love the Yankees in this town?

“How about your editor? Yankee fan?” MacPhail stroked, nearly caressing the envelope in front of the men. Again, the question was answered in the affirmative. A smile cracked across Leland’s face. “I bet you boys would go to more games if you could, probably the same for your editor, right?” The nods continued. “Great, well I’ve got four season passes here as a thank you, if you do me a favor.”

“Sure, Mr. MacPhail, anything for season passes.”

“Now I know you shot a lot of film, and only have a few minutes you can show. Well, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t use any footage of those swats of Hank’s that just died out there in left. There was a couple that left the park, just use those. Be a big favor to me if you did.”

The crew looked at each other. “I don’t think there would be anything wrong with that Mr. MacPhail. After all, he did get . . . a couple out of the park. Heck, we could probably use the same shot a couple times; make it look like he was hitting ‘em like the Babe.”

MacPhail slapped the crew chief on the arm playfully. “That’s what I wanted to hear. You’re doing the Yankees a great service.”

Interlude: Populations
 

These are the populations of all of the member cities according to the 1950 census. New York City's total population (7,891,957) is divided as such: Manhattan goes to the Giants, the Bronx to the Yankees, Brooklyn to the Dodgers; Staten Island and Queens give 1/3 credit to each team. For Los Angeles the total population (1,970,358) is divided as follows: 2/3 to the Lancers, 1/3 to the Stars.

A death unmourned, part 5
 

[NOTE]I’ve tried to track down some of Wendell Smith’s columns to try and get a better flavor of what his style was; unfortunately, I have not been able to find more than a paragraph or two lifted from larger pieces. If someone has more insight to the man’s writing, I would appreciate a link. [/NOTE]

I received a very angry telephone call from the owner of one of the ECL’s clubs accusing me of using my column to ‘drive fans away from the negro game’ and into the arms of the new major leagues. This owner, who watched ‘home’ attendance dwindle into the hundreds by the start of the war, feels the attention I and others in the black press have paid to the integration of the former Saint Louis Browns has contributed to the unmarketability of black baseball in many cities. Yes it is true that a few bastions of black baseball are watching the fans, such as they were, show more excitement over the integrated club in their city, but this is not the case in every city where black ball was king.

Philadelphia, Chicago, Detroit and Newark are all in cities without an integrated major league team, and even there the excitement is not for the NAL or ECL. The mismanagement of the past has unsurprisingly failed to create a feeling of loyalty on behalf of the Negro baseball fan. Even in the city of New York, with three major league clubs and only one Negro at spring training, the word in the barbershops and corners is about that one player; and not the Black Yankees or Brown Dodgers.

For years I and other members of the reporting community have urged the moguls of the NAL and ECL to adopt a formal schedule, major league style contracts, and a commissioner to oversee the disputes of territory and player rights which were a yearly occurrence. To illustrate my point, of all of the Negro players in at major league spring training, only one—Satchel Paige—was signed to a formal contract. Demands of compensation for these players, notably from the Newark Eagles, have fallen on deaf ears. The NAL and ECL are Leagues in name only.

Will I be saddened when the last of the all-negro teams closes shop for good? Only a little, as I cut my journalistic teeth covering and writing about the Stars, American Giants, Crawfords and Elite Giants. Overall, it will be a sense of relief. Relief that segregated businesses of any race can not survive integration. Relief that the yearly charade of an organized league will no longer be foisted on the Negro baseball fan. And relief that our best and brightest stars will no longer struggle in anonymity, but have the opportunity to win more of white America to our cause by their example and hard work.

When Rube Foster founded the Negro National League in the 1920’s, he said it was to prepare the black ballplayer for the day integration came. The press is ready. The fans are ready. The players are ready. The only one not ready is the owners; even though they were the only participant with anything to lose. Cry not for those who refuse to prepare.

--Wendell Smith, Pittsburgh Courier

The Man Unhappy, part 1
 

Something did not sit well with Stan Musial; it showed in his smile, it showed in his walk. To the uninformed the easy target was $6,400 salary the big hitting first baseman was drawing. While not out of line with players of similar experience; it was greatly reduced for a player of his caliber. “A Williams for the Midwest,” the local papers called him counting the number of triple crowns this batsman would win for the Cardinals. Money, however, was not a concern for Stan; the money would come as easy as the hits once the leagues started rolling again. This was something deeper, something that, on the surface concerned him not.

During his time with the Cards in the 1941 pennant chase the thrill of the bigs kept the city of St. Louis from making an impression on him. Trying to help push the Cards over the top was all that mattered. But as training camp opened, a darker side of St. Louis was exhibiting itself in the humid cool of the Florida morn. Reporters and fans alike were jubilant over the Cardinals defection to the National American League. Not because of the (expected) higher level of play or the chance the Cards would be playing meaningful games the last weeks of the season. No, the joy was the fact the Cards had left the “n----r league.” One sportswriter, who had writing a glowing piece on Stan when he first came up, had related his initial disgust that “Those people” would be playing at Sportsman Park, maybe even for the Cards. “That’s not what our city is about,” he told Stan, “things like this make them forget their place.”

What bothered Stan most was, if not for the war, he might feel the same way. The time in the service had affected him more as a man than he thought it had. The separate accommodation seen during his service in Maryland, contrasted with the relative openness with his time in Hawaii was the first time he had ever thought something in the American Way was wrong. Men senior to him in service treated like dogs even though they wore the same uniform.

Stan knew what “their place” was; it was no different from “his place.” It was too late to do anything for this season, but the PCL and CL offered leverage. “If I’m the hitter everyone thinks I am,” Stan thought, “then I can make a stand for what is right.” If the Cardinals will not integrate for 1947; The Man resolved to take his trade elsewhere.

The Crash of the Casino on Wheels, part 1
 

“Waddyameanurthrownusout?” Frankie Frisch, the Fordham Flash, had a tendency to speak quickly when he was upset. This morning, three in the am to be precise, he felt justified in his rage.

The night manager of the hotel was very firm in his stance. “We can not have caterwauling—drunk—baseball players disturbing our other guest as yours have done the past 3 nights.”

“Drunk? FanymyboysrdrunkthenImmamonkey,” Frisch’s argument of the sobriety of his players at this point was only relative. The players were not drunk, at least when compared to their manager. Frisch took a swing at the manager missing by a country mile. The only real effect was Al Lopez, one of the few Pirates who had been sleeping, lost his grip on the shoulders of the besotted skipper.

"Geez Frank," Lopez wheezed under the effort of trying to hold up the Flash, "Give it a rest." The prospect of trying to move scores of players in the middle of the night, with no set destination did not hold much appeal to the veteran catcher. Lopez knew he had to act quickly before any hope of finishing the night in bed and not on the street. "Look, can't this wait until morning?"

The manager quickly shook his head to the negative. "I've had 12 complaints since midnight alone. This will not stand."

Frisch had slowly settled onto the floor, laying his hot head on the cool tile. He was mumbling something about showing the hotel manager some manners.

"Look, if I can get the boys to bed, let us just finish out the night." Al Lopez was noted for his occasional lapses into passion; tonight that fire would not suit his purpose. "That many men trying to move out would cause quite a ruckus--more than they're kicking up now. You know what kind of trouble kicking one drunk out can cause--this many, whew. Better just call John Law now if you know what I mean."

Frisch gurgled a not-so-veiled threat against the ancestors of the hotel manager. A threat thankfully obscured among the spit and vomit that had collected in his mouth.

The manager was doing math in his head. The cost and consequences of throwing out an entire ballclub at this hour, as compared to the cost and consequeces of throwing them out in the morning. Time and sleep, as well as the day manager, made it entirely possible this scene would repeat itself in the near future. "How long before they are confined to rooms?"

"Only a handful left."

"I'm in a forgiving mood--have them in quarters in ten minutes, we will delay discussion of your eviction until the morning." While the Pirates slept, the manager knew he would have the time to craft his argument to the day manager. They may not be thrown out come morning, but the noose would at least be tied.

Lopez pulled Frisch back to his feet, before turning to the Buccs assembled to watch the show. "What are you waiting for bums, get yer asses back upstairs--NOW!" The men scrambled towards the elevator without stopping to help thier fallen manager. "Bastards," Lopez whispered under his breath as he only was left to navagate the Fordham Flash back to his room.

The All-American A-----e, part 1
 

“I understand a few of you boys are not happy with the presence of two n-----s in training camp. I want to make a couple points:

First, the n-----s are coming. They will be here in numbers you never imagined in a few years. The only way you will be on a team without them is if you crawl back south to play in some piss-ant Industrial or County League. Hell, I’m pissed I don’t have more than two—because they will help us win; they will help make us rich.

Second, if you really don’t want to play with n-----s then let me tell you your options. Only two clubs we deal with don’t have n-----s, the Yankees and a PCL team in Salt Lake City. We will accommodate your request for a trade—but we ain’t trading you to the Yankees. If they don’t want, or can’t use you in Salt Lake City, then you are going to our top minor league club until your contract runs out—We’re not releasing you so you can sign with whoever you want. So before you’re bitching about who your teammates are gets out of hand think about where you want to spend your summer. Here, Salt Lake City or Montreal?”

Saints and Sinners, part 1
 

How did it come to this?

Stuck out west on some B League squad, praying just to make the team.

How did it come to this?

I was a Yankee. A m-----------g New York Yankee. 3-time champion.

Now? Hoping none of these young bucks played much in the army. Hoping the legs can cover more ground than I know they can. Praying that a man can be forgiven his sins and finally the Lord will take that boot off my back.

God, I need that money.

Lord, show some mercy. Make those line drives fall. Put me in the right spot to catch every fly. Show me that I am worth saving.

Give me a reason to put the gun down.

How did it come to this?

The Man Who Never Was, part 1
 

Four years went by so quickly. Four years went by so slow. It was like his grandma always said, “the journey means nothing if you don’t know where you’re going.” At 35, Claude Thoby was pretty sure where he was going; what that meant for the journey, he was unsure.

If not for the war, this would be the beginning of Thoby’s 12th year in Sacramento. He had become something of a local legend; known by even the youngest of Solon fans who dreamed of playing pro ball. In the spring of 1934, Thoby talked his way into a tryout and showed enough to make the team at the end of the bench. After a couple key injuries, the Solons had no choice but to play him everyday—and play he did. The result: .325, 15, 75 in just over a half a season of regular play. The gamble on the unknown paid off. While never showing superstar skills or statistics, he became one of the iconic players of Sacramento. Faces came and went, but you could count on Thoby to be at first, right, left, or anywhere else the Solons needed a bat.

Sportswriters occasionally pressed for the scoop on Thoby’s life before coming to California. He would always politely refuse saying, “the only thing that matters to me now is the Solons.” Speculation ran rampant: he was an escaped convict, he was running from a bad marriage, he was an amnesiac. But the truth was much worse than that.

Claude Thoby was a black man.

Drinks with Dizzy, part 3
 

“Pitching coach? I thought I was here to throw. Good Lord, what is a man to expect?”

Al Simmons held his next bite of steak aloft. “Diz, both of us are pulling double duty too. Sam is the hitting coach. The club is just getting off the ground, we got to make every dollar stretch a little bit further than other teams,” Bucketfoot Al lobbied the ownership group hard to spend the money to bring Dizzy west, now he was lobbing Dizzy to stay. “Look, would you be having these doubts if the Phillies or the Browns had called you.”

Aside from the fact the Browns no longer existed, Dean accepted the point. “Yeah, but I don’t know anything about coachin. That’s not what I do.”

“But brother, you know about pitching. Sam is in the same boat—he’s never coached, but he can hit. I’ve never managed, but I know the game.” Simmons was somehow managing to devour his dinner while conversing; word and bites never seemingly mingling. “The beautiful thing is: They don’t expect us to win. We can have a helluva great time, and if we win, that’s just gravy brother. That’s just gravy.”

Dean leaned back in the booth. “Just how bad is it going to be?”

Knife and fork lay crossed on the plate. “We’re going to be young. Tony Cuccinello just backed out. But we got a couple crack Negro players, but, man, it’s going to feel like varsity day most days.” Simmons reached out and put his hand on Dizzy’s shoulder. “They need someone to teach them to win.” The gravity in his voice started to slip, “and if we have a great time doing it, well, then life is good.”

Dizzy pushed his potato around with his fork. “So all of the fun, none of the pressure?” Simmons and West nodded in tandem. “I’m willing to give it a shot gents.”

Beautiful City, Lousy Team, part 1
 

Spring; the time when a young man’s fancy turns to love. Or if you have already got the love (or given up on it completely) then the young man turns to baseball. For Lefty O’Doul, there was no difference between the two.

This should have been a joyous time for the San Franciscan; the City’s greatness was getting more attention, simply because it’s baseball team now wore the “Major League” label. Lefty knew better than to be excited about this team. For a Pacific League club, it was nothing special; for a major league club it could be downright ugly. The management, so struck by the offer to play with the big boys did not put any thought into how the new arraignment should have affected player signings. No thought at all. The only thing about joining the NAL O’Doul found somewhat satisfying was as long as the Phillies were around the Seals would not be the worst team in the league.

Even if the Seals future at the "Major League" level was better than he could imagine, O'Doul wondered if this was the road he should travel. He had wrote to Douglas MacArthur offering his services to help restart the Nippon Baseball Leagues. "The game," O'Doul had observed to friends, "encourages democracy." It stung Lefty that Tokyo's main stadium had been reduced to a trash heap in the aftermath of Japan's surrender. The people of the rising sun loved the game like Americans, if he could help bring the formerly warring nations together with a game; that would be more worthwhile than trumpeting the virtues of his beloved home town.

And it would be better than watching this club struggle.

Lie Still, Little Bottle, part 1
 

"I just don't know how you can be so full of it so early in spring."

"Meet my new best friend. Uncle Sam gave these out to his nephew paratroopers. I'm telling you, no wonder we stuck it to the Nazis."

"They work that good?"

"If you ain't feeling your best after one of these, you're already dead."

Dissent in the Empire, part 4
 

It was nine in the morning, and already the heat was unbearable. Leland MacPhail, hunched over his desk in the Yankees temporary Arizona office, longed for the Florida days of his Brooklyn and Cincinnati experiences. When a man could go to the cooling breeze of the ocean to find relief from too much John Barleycorn. Instead, he was packed inside a trailer with too many (noisy) worker bees.

The support staff had seen this before from MacPhail; and tried their best to not bother him, less he rage at any and all of them. A taste of blood was all that was needed; someone would be taking a long trip home today. MacPhail waited for his excuse to rage.

Fate, however, decided to spare the drones.

To say Jerry Priddy was fresh from the morning workout was to use ‘fresh’ in the sense of the immediate—not in the sense of a crisply cut lawn or just washed sheets. His entrance, coupled with the noticeable reek of sweat dripping from his uniform and body, filled the trailer with no regards to the nostrils of those assembled.

Lee MacPhail choked back vomit from the stench.

With great pride and confidence, Priddy approached MacPhail. The office staff sighed relief, someone else was foolish enough to engage the General Manager. “Mr. MacPhail?”

Leland lifted his head slightly, only to return to his hunch upon seeing who was disturbing his attempted rest.

“Mr. MacPhail, I feel my talents and value to this club deserve to be appropriately compensated. And in light of this I wish . . .”

“Who. The. Hell. Are you?”

“J-Jerry Priddy, your second baseman.”

MacPhail raised his head slightly. “Joe Gordon is my second baseman, and you look nothing like him.” Slowly the General Manager raised his body to sitting upright. “Are you even one of my players?” he asked dismissively.

Priddy nodded.

Lee moved papers around, pulling out a neatly typed roster sheet. “You have a contract with us?”

“Yes sir.”

“How much?”

“Well, I was hoping for ten thousand.”

The office staff began to draw back, lest MacPhail decided to batter the player with objects and not words. “No you moron, what did you sign for. Not what you want.”

“$6,800.”

“And what did you do for the Yankees in 1941, refresh my memory.”

“I started the season as the everyday second baseman,” Priddy truthfully, but incompletely offered.

“And? What did you do with the stick?”

Jerry mumbled an answer.

MacPhail stood motioning to the office staff. “I’ll tell you what he did, he hit .213 and was such a load of c—p with the glove his a— was shipped to Kansas City. And this bastard has the nerve to come to me--a man who should have his head examined for giving such a piece of s—t a second chance with the New York Yankees—and he asks me for Ten Thousand Dollars?”

“If this is a bad time, I can. . .”

“NO! This is a perfect time. You know why? I’m in the f-----g mood to just throw money away.” MacPhail took his wallet out and pulled a wad of cash out, and then proceeded to throw the bills towards the office staff. “See, those people work. They deserve everything they get and more—pick it up boys, don’t be shy. But you. Man, if I gave you $6,800 I must be drinking too much, because the best you should hope for is making enough on relief so you don’t starve to death.”

Priddy turned, realizing that this was not a good time at all.

“Trying to sneak out on me? Alright, you’re suspended—15 days without pay.”

“But, that’s most of the rest of spring training, I, I . . .”

“You want to make it 30? Then get the hell out of my office. I don’t want to see you, smell you or hear about you for two weeks. And by God if I’m lucky enough to find someone stupid enough to take you .213 hitting a--, Hell, Red Ruffing hit .303, you’ll never wear that uniform again as long as I’m around. You got that.”

Priddy nodded weakly and scampered out the door.

MacPhail turned to his office staff. “Good morning so far boys. Hell, let’s take an early lunch. Oh, and someone tell Joe that he will be without the services of that nobody for a couple weeks.”

I thought Priddy would have been killed and buried in one of those holes in the desert.

You only kill the players with no trade value. :p

The King of the Blues, Part 1
 

“Now why are you out here?” Satchel Paige was indignant; he was settling into a groove and Sukeforth once again interrupted him.

Sukey, as the players called him, was quick to the point. “That last throw, looked like you were having some pain.”

“Sukey, a pitcher who don’t feel pain ain’t pitching.”

“The homilies only work on the press and the kids. You’re coming out, we’ll have the trainer look at you.”

“All these people, come out to see Ol’ Satch, and you pull me out for a little twinge. Lord, I thought you white boys knew how to run a league.”
_______

“So, what’s the Doc got to say?”

“Satchel, we’re going to shut you down for a week or so. Your elbow has some swelling and we just want to be sure you’re ready to pitch when the season opens.” Paige lay back and laughed that loud country laugh of his.

“Man, how do you get a season done if you so scared of a little swelling; I’ve thrown with much worse than this.” Paige shook his head. “But if you are going to pay me not to pitch, then Satch has no problem with that.”

Paige had been, to be gentle, something of a prima donna in spring training. While the other negroes at the Blues camp had been quiet, almost deferential, in their relations with management and their white teammates; Paige made no bones about being a star. He was paid almost twice as much as any teammate, white or black. On days he was scheduled to pitch, the crowds tripled. Everyone wanted to see Paige pitch against the best.

“Know what the problem is, Sukey?”

Sukeforth shook his head, eager to see how Paige would turn this into his benefit.

“See, you’re not throwing me enough.” Satch held his right arm high, “This old wing needs to flap to stay loose. This two or three days off stuff is killin’ me Sukey. I need to pitch more. Now you expect me to stay loose just sittin round for a week. Shoulda stayed a Monarch, they’d let me pitch.”

Rajah's Kingdom, part 1
 

[NOTE] As I've said before, the Spring Training post are NOT chonological[/NOTE]

“Where do you boys think you’re going,” Rogers Hornsby held his arm out as the trio started to enter the bus. The three negroes—Josh Gibson, Lennie Pearson, and Larry Doby–had expected a confrontation from a teammate at some point, but not their manager. The plan, as agreed upon by the group, was to not confront any hostility, to let the moment go. The players on and around the bus gathered quickly. Gibson refused to allow the group to be humiliated in front of the club.

“We’re getting on the bus to the game,” his face and chest now inches from the Rajah.

Hornsby chuckled and spat at the ground. “No, you’re not getting on this bus.” He licked his fingers like a gunfighter of old. “This bus is for veterans; you boys belong on that bus.” His thumb jerked back to the beat-up, patched-up and generally ill maintained vehicle the rookies were expected to take. Luxury was for men who had earned it.

“I’ve been playing longer than some of those kids have been alive.” The black Babe Ruth felt Pearson and Doby take his arms to pull back. Together they still did not have the strength to move him.

Hornsby cocked his cap, “How many hits you got n----r?” Pearson gripped Gibson’s right arm as tightly as he could, trying to hold back the uncoiling power. “How many?”

“I got more hits than you can count cracker.”

Hornsby didn’t move. “Funny, never seen your name among the league leaders. See, the games we play count for something—not just getting hooch money.” Hornsby pressed even closer to Gibson, “Now, if you can show me anything showing you’ve played in the Pacific, American or National League—then you can ride in this bus. Until then, you ride with the rookies.”

“You know I can’t show you that,” Gibson’s teeth were clinched so tight, they almost exploded in his mouth.

Pearson started to pull harder on Josh. “This isn’t the time Josh, this isn’t the time,” Lennie kept repeating. Even as his stance softened, Gibson’s glare did not.

Hornsby turned to the white rookies, “See that. Everyone falls in line behind me. Is that clear?”

The Man Who Never Was, part 1
 

“I mean, how would you feel if you lost your job to one of them?” Jo-Jo White had reason to fear for his roster position. The Solons had taken a waiver on the ex-Yankee to vie for a “teaching” role for their explosive kid centerfielder, Jim Rivera. Even early in the spring there was thought, in both White and manager Bill Sweeney, that the veteran had seen his moment pass. The sudden influx of Negroes changed the stakes in spring training. Under the old older, White would figure on having bench slot sewn up early in camp. Major League experience and that old Yankee magic would weigh heavily in his favor. Now, White saw a world wear his abilities and talent would have to carry him. Abilities and talent which were quickly slipping away.

Thoby laced them up quietly, listening to the frazzled White trying to rally support to his cause. Sacramento had signed only one Negro in the off-season. Unlike the Kansas City Blues, most teams stepped wearily into the first year of integrated play. “It’s only one roster spot,” Thoby calmly stated, “No need to be all in a panic.” Claude stood tall after his shoes were laced, “Anyway, this guy is a first baseman, no need for you to worry.”

“No need to worry?” White was beside himself, “Kansas City might play seven—SEVEN—at a time. How long before that happens with every team?” Jo-Jo was pacing excitedly, “Won’t be any place for us when that happens.”

“Heck, Claude probably is sad only one is on the club,” Bill Knickerbocker playfully chided.

Thoby was quick to the utility infielder’s face. “What do you mean by that?”

Knickerbocker held his arms up defensively. Thoby was a man of few words, but his once in a blue moon rages were legendary. “N-n-nothing man. I just; I know how you. Well you.”

“WHAT?” Thoby lifted and pushed the slight fielder up and into the nearest locker. Pressing hard, feeling the resistance of the metal doors as the flesh pushed hard.

The gathered Solons found themselves caught halfway between wanting to watch the show and keeping Knickerbocker from being strangled in front of them. The unspoken consensus being to wait until Knickerbocker at least started to turn blue.

Bill stained to speak, his wind slowly betraying him. “You just. Seem to like. Hanging out at. Spook joints. Jazz. Clubs. That’s all.” Thoby eased his grip and Knickerbocker slide to the floor. Gasping to refill his lungs.

With the matter safe at hand, the remaining players crowed to help Knickerbocker to his feet. Anton Gogolak and Spider Jorgensen pulled the slugger out of the room.

“Christ Claude, what the hell got into you?”

Thoby’s face remained sullen, filled with hurt. “I didn’t like where he was going with that.”

Gogolak slapped his head mockingly. “You got a thing for black women, and you don’t think anyone is going to say something about it? Especially now?”

The slugger held his head down. The captain was right.

“If you get this riled about one of us ribbing ya, what are you going to be like in Oakland?” Jorgensen offered. “I don’t know you that good, but we can’t have a guy blowing up like that on the field.”

The Worst Place in the World, Part 3
 

Highlights from the Philadelphia Inquirer’s coverage of Spring Training:

“Chuck Klein has been running the show but without the passion expected of a field manager. Who, however, can blame this once proud warrior?”

“Instead of two clubs for the city to hope and root for; there is only one hopeless city.”

“Jimmy Outlaw, playing centerfield as well as a third baseman can be expected to . . .”

“Perhaps, the wrong team left Philadelphia.”

The Return of the Babe, part 6
 

The Babe wanted to see more of the minor leaguers. He had embraced the role of manager to its fullest and felt he needed to know what the future of the Athletics looked like. Hastily a game was arranged with one of the local college squads.

With little notice a crowd of a couple dozen showed up at the game. Mostly bored girlfriends from the college, but sprinkled were the die-hards. The men and women who were, as they said in the olden times, baseball mad. Nothing was amiss, until the Bambino found out the crowd was charged admission.

“This is horses—t!” He bellowed loudly in the dugout cage. For what little advertising there was, it all shouted the same: Athletics v Miners. To the Babe, that meant the patrons were expecting real live major leaguers, not this group of kids. “Screw this, give me that line up card,” Ruth scratched and scribbled before handing it to the umpire. It now read, in part:

3. Ruth, G 1B

“You sure this is a good idea,” Buck O’Neill asked his manager. Ruth had been, to the surprise of the A’s management, extremely receptive to the advice of O’Neill. In the dugout and after games, O’Neill was almost attached to Ruth at the hip. Talking game situations and breaking down what needed to be done in a regular season game as opposed to an exhibition. For Ruth, that was proving to be the hardest part of his learning process. “This is not the time to manage to win, you just need to see what everyone can do,” Buck had told him. “You’ll get killed managing like this during the regular season; but you’ll get killed if you don’t manage like this during the spring.”

Ruth nodded back to Buck. “Those people paid good money to watch this; they deserve at least one star on the field.”

O’Neill smiled back, “Just don’t forget your specs out there.”

“Don’t need them to strike out,” Ruth laughed.

After a single and pop out, the umpire announced Ruth. The small crowd roared with the sound of twice their number. Even the bored girlfriends sensed the moment and stood with the rest of the crowd. The Babe tipped his cap, and took his place in the box.

The Junior on the mound felt his knees start to buckle. As he thought he was expected to, the first pitch was an easy lob, very hittable. Ruth let it pass for a strike.

“C’mon kid, pitch to me!”

The next two were as wild as the first one was slow. The A’s rookie on base now stood at third, waiting for a long fly ball. The fourth pitch approached; Ruth swung mightily.

And lined it foul down the first base side.

Ruth dug in, determined to give the small crowd a thrill. The kid pitcher reared back and let loose.

This time, Ruth didn’t even make contact. The crowd did not care. They stood and applauded the great man for the effort on their behalf. Even the collegians clapped. Ruth tipped his cap again, and strolled to the dugout.

Reinvigorated by the sound of the crowd, Ruth took his position at first. O’Neill tried to talk him out of taking the field, but Ruth felt he owed the crowd two at bats. The glove was a little small for his hand, but he managed to make it through the warm ups with little problem. But the lights were not fully on, and the dusky haze was making it harder and harder to see.

The collegians were quickly down to two outs after a fly and strikeout. The third batter rolled one to the shortstop. The infielder gloved the ball threw in one solid motion.

Ruth put out his glove and stretched as much as his body would allow.

He never saw the ball.

OOO. cliff-hanger