I remember listening to the radio announcer that day, when he coined the now-famous phrase, Goodbye, Mr. Spalding! It was the first game of my first A’s World Series. I was eight years old.
Every inch of our house was packed with neighbors. Lola, Santa, Ralph, Matty, and I were on the steps overlooking the living room through the spindles, watching Ma and Pop and all their friends gathered around the radio. It was the seventh inning when Jimmie Foxx hit the bomb to tie the game at one apiece. The entire house erupted when we heard the crack of the bat and the announcer yell, “GOODBYE, MR. SPALDING!”
Goodbye, Mr. Spalding! It was like the announcer was shouting to a friend who was unexpectedly leaving the ballpark. With that call, baseballs became more than just a white ball with random words and colored thread. Baseballs suddenly had a personality.
Bing Miller came through in the ninth to drive in two runs for the win. Jimmie and Bing. And Mr. Spalding. It always seems to come down to them. The memory is as clear as if it happened yesterday.
“Snap out of it!” Lola nudges my shoulder, and I come back to focus.
Foxx hasn’t been great in the batter’s box today. He’s been up three times with nothing to show for it. The game is tied 4–4. The players look lazy, and the fans seem bored.
The view from this side of the field is different than I am used to. I hear some betting from the left-field stands. You’d think two guys gambling would be a little quieter. I look up and realize I can see my whole family watching from the roof.
Pop has his friends around him. He stretches his arms out with some sort of punchline and everyone laughs. Ma is leaning on the side of the bleachers, watching the game. Nina is by herself at the top, arms crossed. Santa, Ralph, and Matty are in the usual spot, probably wondering where we are. I wave my arms above my head.
“They can’t see you, dummy!” Lola says, and I slowly bring them down.
A chorus of giggles breaks out to the right and I notice three Knothole girls. Two of them start to whisper when I look. The third looks annoyed. She reminds me of Lola.
Something beneath the left-field stands catches my eye.
“What is that thing?” I squint, not sure of what I am seeing. Something sleek and long, deep red with a white pinstripe.
“Is that a boat?” Lola exclaims.
We both lean for a better look when we hear the crack. The ball is soaring high above the field. Washington’s Fred Sington in right field is stepping back and back and back. He’s going to catch it.
The ball starts to drop as Fred leaps, using the right-field wall as a boost, and stretching his glove hand toward the top edge. He momentarily grabs the ball, which sticks out of his glove like an ice cream cone—gasp from the crowd!—before falling over the fence for a home run. It was the greatest almost-catch I have ever seen.
But he didn’t catch it.
“GOODBYE, MR. SPALDING!” I shout.
“Now that’s something you should say to Foxx today!” She shakes her head in disbelief. “What are the chances he hits a right-field home run today! Of all days! Who would have guessed!”
“I think it’s our lucky fish,” I reply. We both can’t stop smiling as he finishes rounding the bases. “That’s two, you know.”
“What’s two?”
“His last two home runs went to right field. That doesn’t happen with a Spite Fence.”
“This really could work,” Lola says.
“It will work. Jimmie Foxx will help us stop this wall.”
12
The Athletics took a double header from the Washington Senators, 5 to 4 and 3 to 0. Jimmie Foxx’ forty-fourth homer of the season helped the A’s win the opener …
—The Sporting News, September 27, 1934
I stand by the clubhouse door, holding Jimmie Foxx’s peach pie and patiently waiting for the players to return. The hallway is jammed with happy fans taking a break between games. They are all telling the same story, reliving that Foxx home run over the right-field wall. The security guards are laughing and patting each other on the back. Nobody is paying attention to me. I take a deep breath and easily slip inside.
“Mr. Foxx?” I say, peering around the corner inside the clubhouse. “I have your pie.”
“Over here,” he calls, from the back. I make my way through the players, holding a piece of warm peach pie tightly in both hands.
“Where’s Ronny?” he asks, surprised.
“He needed to take care of something. He asked me to bring this to you. I’m going to work for the A’s next year.” I sound ridiculous.
“Yeah, where?” he asks, taking the pie. He doesn’t tell me to scram, and I linger a few feet away.
“Batboy. I was told to come by after the season.”
“A new batboy, huh? Did ya ask them to heat up my pie?”
“Yes, sir. Is it cold?”
“It’s just right,” he replies, licking the fork. “And I do love a warm pie.”
“Me too. It’s one of my rules.”
“What rules?”
Why did I say that?
“Well, I have these rules, see. And Rule #18 is never to eat cold pie.” I sound like a dummy.
“I like that rule,” Jimmie Foxx says. “Sure could use someone like you in the clubhouse.”
I don’t want clubhouse duty—running errands and cleaning up after the players. Except for the tips, there is nothing good about it. I’d much rather be in the dugout.
“Sure thing, Mr. Foxx.” The MVP thanks me and starts looking for some change.
“I don’t need a tip. Ronny took care of me.” I pause and clear my throat. “Mr. Foxx. Can I ask you a question?”
“Depends on what it is,” he replies. I can’t tell if he is kidding. He is kind of like a happy-go-lucky gentleman combined with a cowboy from the West.
“Right. Well, Mr. Foxx.” I clear my throat again. “I’m wondering what you’ll do when they build that wall in right field.”
“Aw, they’ve been rambling on about that for years. Free baseball. Outlaw stands. Stealing the profits. I’ve heard it since I got here in ’27. It’ll never happen.” He’s so casual. He really believes it.
“I’m not so sure, Mr. Foxx. There was some sort of lawsuit, and the folks in the neighborhood say the wall is going up for sure.”
“Like I said, I don’t think it will go up. Stop worrying,” he says. “Besides, most of my dingers go left.”
“Not the last two at home. The game winner against Lefty Grove a few weeks ago, and today’s. If that wall goes up, they’d be doubles at most.”
“True,” he replies. “True.”
“You know, I live right across the street. It will really change the neighborhood, too.”
“Not sure I can do anything about it, kid.” He leans back and watches me for a moment.
“Any chance you might put in a good word to Mr. Mack? Remind him that it might take some runs away from you? From the team? Don’t forget, in ’32, you were only three runs from beating Babe Ruth’s home run record.”
He looks at me for a few more seconds. It seems like hours.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“James Frances, but everyone calls me Jimmy Frank.”
“That name’s got a nice ring to it,” he chuckles. “You sure are persistent, Jimmy Frank.” He shakes my hand. “I’ll mention it. Doubt it will make a difference, but I’ll mention it. I sure will have a lot of time to talk to him. He’s got some of us going on a baseball tour after the season. Barnstormin’ Canada and then heading to Japan to show us off.”
I nod and smile. The Japanese all-star tour is well known among fans, and it’s all the papers have been about lately. “Thanks, Mr. Foxx. Wow, thanks. Good luck in game two.”
He gives me a two-finger salute, and I know it is time to leave. I float out of the clubhouse, through the hallway, and around the turnstile. I’m ready to burst and can’t get out of the ballpark fast enough.
“Woo-hoo!!” I finally yell,
once I’m on the street. Nobody even notices, and I begin to sprint home. It’s going to work! I can’t wait to be on the roof. I can’t wait to tell everyone.
The street is game-time crowded and I skip in between food carts and jump over curbs. A half-ball barely misses my head, and I dodge out of the way. I hear the Polinskis’ laughter and break to my left before they can nail me. Nobody can touch me today.
“Ma, Pop. MA, POP! LOLA!” I yell their names from the street, all the way up the stairs, climbing the ladder, and through the hallway skylight.
“Goodness, Jimmy!” Ma comes to me. “What’s wrong?”
I rest my hands on both knees to catch my breath. “Wait ’till you hear this. Hey Lola, Mr. Sheridan! Come here!”
Once everyone is gathered, I tell the story. How the great Jimmie Foxx is going to save the view. How he wants to save his home runs. How he is going to talk to Connie Mack when they tour Japan, and how he is going to shut this stupid idea down.
I finish my story out of breath again. I look around, waiting for the applause and the ‘great job!’ Only Lola is beaming, writing furiously in her tablet. Pop and Mr. Sheridan exchange glances, and Ma comes over and puts her arm around my shoulder.
“Well done, my dear,” she says, in a soft-spoken voice that I hear her use while serving in the church soup line. “Well done.”
“Well done? What’s wrong with everyone!” I’m frustrated by their ho-hum looks and their stolen glances at each other. It’s like someone died, and I am the only one who doesn’t know. “Didn’t you hear what I said? Jimmie Foxx is going to save our view!”
“Let’s hope,” Ma offers.
“You’ve all given up already, haven’t you?” I ask. Nobody really answers. They just look at each other, and from the corner of my eye, I see Nina walking toward us. Her eyes are bloodshot.
“You think just because you brought him some warm peach pie, he’s going to make it his life’s mission to make sure they don’t build the wall? A guy like that has more important things to think about than you.” Nina storms off in tears before I can respond.
“What was that all about? This will help her, too!” I look at Ma.
“Yes, well, until that happens, she still needs to find a job. Nobody is willing to hire her. Not yet, at least. Unless she quits school, she doesn’t have many choices,” Ma says.
“You did good today, kid,” Pop says. He tussles my hair on his way to the skylight. “I’ll go talk with her.”
“Yes, you did very well today. We are just so tired of it all. I’m sorry, dear,” Ma motions her hand toward Shibe Park where game two is under way.
“Hey, Jimmy. Run down and buy me a Red-Hot and a pop?” Mr. Fletcher asks, and I realize we still have a few weekday customers for game two. He hands me a quarter. “Keep the change.”
I tug Lola’s sleeve and we start the climb down the ladder leading to the backyard.
I glance back up toward the rooftop, watching as it starts to feel farther and farther away.
13
There was some doubt up to sailing time if Jimmie Foxx would make the trip at all.
—The Sporting News, October 18, 1934
Despite everyone else’s lukewarm reaction to my Jimmie Foxx encounter, for weeks I am still floating on air. I know they don’t think it will work, but I have a feeling about him.
“Jimmy! Jimmy!” I hear one morning, followed by an excited knock on the door.
“Hello, dear,” Ma welcomes Lola as she rushes past her to the kitchen.
“Hi, Mrs. Frances! Jimmy, did you see the news?”
“What news?” Jimmy asked.
“Jimmie Foxx is in the hospital!”
“What?”
She scans the newspaper in her hands. “It’s right here. Barney Brown, some lefty in Canada, hit him square in the head. Knocked him out cold!”
“Let me see that!” I grab it from her and look at each page for more information. “Oh no. He’s in the hospital.”
“Sorry, kid.” Pop slaps my back and starts to clear the breakfast dishes.
“Oh no,” I say over and over again. “He just has to be okay.”
“You won’t hear much news from Canada. Or Japan,” Pop says. “The players aren’t due back until the end of December.”
“I’m sure he’s okay, sweetheart,” Ma says. “Now let’s not become too distracted. Don’t forget it’s inventory day.”
“What?” I look up. “Oh, right. Lola, come with me. Let’s check the other papers first.”
She nods, and we rush out the door, practically knocking the milkman down along the way.
“Foxx never gets hit by pitches,” I pout. None of the other papers had anything to add. “Now he has more important things on his mind.”
“If he got hit as hard as they say, he might not have anything on his mind,” Lola says.
“Right. Maybe he’s asking the nurse to warm up his peach pie,” I say sarcastically. “What a stupid idea anyway. I bet he forgot about me as soon as I walked out of the clubhouse.”
“Well, we can’t control anything about it,” she says.
“That’s the problem. We can’t control anything about it.”
“We can control finishing this inventory so we can get to the park faster.”
“You’re right. Let’s hurry.”
An hour later, we are deep into the inventory, counting boxes of nails and hammers and hoses and bolts.
“Two Disston D-12 hand saws,” I yell down to Lola from high on the ladder.
“24- or 26-inch?” she yells back up, checking the clipboard.
“Um, 26. One Philadelphia Tool Company broad axe,” I yell back down.
“Did you say one, Jimmy?” Pop calls, turning down the radio. Bing Crosby is crooning “Just One More Chance.”
“Yes, Pop. And one Peck, Stow & Wilcox 6-inch monkey wrench, Cleveland,” I reply. Pop is at the front with Mr. Fletcher, and I hear him say that he’ll run down to Fishtown to pick up a few broad axes, but he’ll let the Peck wrenches sell out.
“Desperate times, Fletch,” Pop says. “We can’t be shipping in things from Ohio anymore.”
A few more guys come in to talk while Lola and I continue the work. One of them mentions the other big headline in today’s paper.
“Babe Ruth? Manage the A’s?”
“It’ll never happen,” Pop says. “Mack will never leave. And Babe will never come, no matter what the headline says.”
“Babe Ruth,” I whisper to Lola. “I could meet him next year, you know.”
“You are going to meet a lot of great players,” she whispers back.
“Except Jimmie Foxx, if his head isn’t fixed.”
“Well you already met him, anyway,” she says. “You know he might have already said something to Connie Mack. Before he got beaned in the head.”
“You think?”
“Why not? They’ve been traveling a lot already.”
“I sure hope so. All the players will thank me next year when they learn that I stopped the wall from being built.” I grin at the thought.
“The pitchers won’t thank you.”
“Good point,” I laugh.
“Hey Jimmy, what’s so funny up on that top shelf?” Mr. Fletcher says.
I clear my throat, “Nothing, Mr. Fletcher.” Quickly, I get back to work. I much prefer it when they don’t even realize we’re here. I hear one of them call me a “wide-eyed daydreamer” from below. Two aisles later and the men are still in the store.
“Sure would go faster if they did some work!” Lola says in a huff.
With each beer, their conversation becomes louder. In between inventory numbers, I hear bits and pieces:
… seven daughters!
… lost two big orders this week alone …
… Eagles will never be as good as the Frankford Yellow Jackets …
… arrested some guy named Hauptmann. Bruno Hauptmann …
… Bing Miller released …
I
jerk and the ladder shakes a bit under me. Lola grabs and steadies it. We look at each other, eyes wide and straining to hear. I whisper no, no, no, and Lola covers her mouth in disbelief. Not Bing Miller. Not our right fielder. Not my lucky fish.
“I don’t believe it.” Pop sounds just as shocked as us.
“It’s in last night’s Evening Bulletin. Released and taking a manager role with some minor league team in Richmond.”
“Virginia?”
“Yeah, Virginia,” Mr. Fletcher says. There is a swoosh that sounds a lot like a newspaper hitting the back of someone’s head.
“He’s better off. With that Spite Fence coming,” Pop says.
“Say, when’s that hearing?”
“The end of November. That’ll settle it all, Fletch. No more appeals, no more fights. By noon on the thirtieth, we’ll know if the wall will be built or not.” There is a long pause. “That lawyer Dilworth is one slick character.”
“Tryin’ to make a name for himself,” Mr. Fletcher says in agreement. “So, we’ll know on the thirtieth. The day after Thanksgiving, no less.”
“Hey, let’s invite Dilworth to Kilroy’s Tap Room and pour some liquor in him for the holiday. Throw him off his game the next day,” Pop jabs.
“Nah.” Mr. Fletcher doesn’t see the humor. “As long as he shows up, we don’t stand a chance.”
As long as he shows up. The words ring in my head over and over. As long as he shows up. As long as he shows up.
“Lola!” I say in an urgent whisper. “I got it!” I scramble down the ladder. Lola follows.
“You got what?”
“A new idea. A way to save our view. And this one is going to work.”
14
Ruth-To-A’s report blows up in Philly. Mack plans to run team as long as he’s physically able.
—The Sporting News, November 1, 1934
We leave the store quickly and sprint toward home when Lola practically slams into Mrs. Sheridan, who is carrying groceries.
“Take these home, dear, and put them away. And take this bag to Mrs. Carson,” she says to Lola. “I need to stop by the shop.”
Goodbye, Mr. Spalding Page 6