by Mark Harris
Now, as constant—bless ’em—readers of this column are aware, I am constitutionally opposed to pre-season predictions. It is a dangerous practice, leading to severe cases of embarrassment after the fact. But I hereby break my own rule. I predict. I say, and you may quote me, that the pennant flag will fly from the center-field mast in Moors Stadium this very summer.
No? Okay, you are entitled to your own opinion. But who’s your choice? Boston? Boston is the most obvious suggestion. It has the pitching, to be sure, but it lacks power. It owns baseball’s most fearsome long-distance hitter in Casey Sharpe, but its attack ends there.
Brooklyn, you say? No, I can’t see Flatbush repeating last year’s triumph. Can Bill Scudder pitch every day? Hardly. Those of the Greenpernt persuasion must therefore doff their rose-colored glasses and face up to reality. Brooklyn looks like a shoo-in—a third-place shoo-in, that is.
Cleveland: a fourth-place finish.
St. Louis: will top the second-division, garnering such honors as may go with that position, honors (not cash) being about all the Mound City lads will enjoy this year.
Pittsburgh and Washington: these two clubs will battle for the sixth-place berth.
Chicago: the cellar, as usual, until a certain club owner I could name overcomes his excessive zeal for money and becomes willing to buy the ballplayers only money can buy by building a farm system that extends beyond the playgrounds of the Windy City.
That Certain Age
There is, it seems to me, an age factor involved in the sensational spring showing of the Mammoths, and it is this age factor, too, that will fortify the club through the long campaign. At first glance one might opine that it lacks balance, that its old dependables are just a shade too old, its youngsters a bit too young. This, however, is more than likely to work in favor, rather than against, the boys who will be playing under that amiable gentleman, Dutch Schnell.
Let’s look first at that outer garden. The pickets who will patrol the far reaches of Moors Stadium along about mid-afternoon today—Lucky Judkins and the Brothers Carucci—are seasoned ballplayers who have not yet begun to slow down. Is there a better outfield in the league? Name it, please. And you might almost say that the second-best outfield in the league is sitting on the Mammoth bench. Swanee Wilks, the grand old man of the Mammoths, will be thirty-five in June. Nevertheless, our Swanee is still a better than fair country ballplayer. He led the club in hitting this spring with a resounding .395.
Behind the plate, too, the Mammoths are the class of the circuit. The learned Berwyn Phillips Traphagen, at thirty-two, may find himself sitting out the second game of double-headers now and then, but the tempestuous redhead, popular again with the fans after his eccentric wartime behavior, is the league’s wisest backstop. Williams and Pearson have the necessary equipment to serve as able replacements when, as, and if, needed.
In the infield, George Gonzalez and Sid Goldman are young men with futures. Jones and Park, if they are older than ever, are also more dependable than ever. Both boys hit hard, and they, with Traphagen, provide that punch in the lower half of the batting order which has won so many ball games for the Mammoths in the past and can be expected to do so again. It is only on the bench that the infield is weak, Roguski, Flynn and Simpson being untried and untested, with Canada-born Earle Smith slated to return for further seasoning at Queen City under Mike Mulrooney, the jovial gentleman whom Red Traphagen has described as baseball’s Harvard and Yale.
A Kingdom for a Southpaw
A strange phenomenon often commented on by baseball-wise observers has been the inability of the extensive Mammoth farm system to produce first-rate left-handed pitchers. Sam Yale, he of the lugubrious physiognomy, almost alone, year after year, has carried the brunt of the Mammoth’s southpaw chores.
Skipper Dutch Schnell seems to have a certain amount of faith in young Henry Wiggen. Wiggen was the sensation of the Four-State Mountain League last year, and he has twirled creditably this spring. But whether he can carry his load throughout the summer is a moot question. It is well-known that Dutch would give his right eye, several ballplayers and a barrel of Moors cash for a left-hander of the caliber of Brooklyn’s big Bill Scudder. This failing, the Mammoths will be forced to rely upon Sam the Sad and Wiggen, the latter a doubtful quantity. In any case there are a battery of formidable right-handers—Johnson, Carroll, Sterling, Macy and Willowbrook, Horse Byrd, the dependable fireman, Castetter and Burke. Burke’s tendency to wildness after three or four innings is a regrettable affliction which Dutch and his corps of aides have sought in vain to cure all spring. But Burke may yet settle down and pitch winning ball.
A crackerjack ball club, you must admit. The crackerjackest, you might say. That’s why I fully expect, come October, to be viewing portions of the World Series from the elegant press box at Moors Stadium. And I’m not afraid to say so, even at this early date, and even despite my constitutional aversion to the ancient and honorable—but frequently embarrassing—practice of crystal-gazing.
Play ball!
Chapter 23
MONDAY we drilled from 11 till a little after noon. I come up through the dugout with Perry and Coker and Canada, and we stood on the steps. “There she blows,” said I.
“This is a ball park,” said Canada, for he never seen it before, nor did Perry nor Coker. Perry whistled between his teeth. Coker said, “I suppose if you was lost up there in the stands somewheres they could send a dog out after you.”
For a drill that was supposed to be closed to the public there was certainly a large number of people present. There was men on scaffolds riding up and down along the fences, putting in a last little dab of paint here and there. There was about 100 more sweeping and scrubbing in the stands and bleachers. There was a bunch of men crawling up and down on the towers, testing all the lights. There was 3 men on power mowers, and about another dozen down on their knees clipping with a scissors what the mowers missed. There was 1 man painting the top of the visiting dugout. You could hear hammers and saws in all corners of the park, and there was a fellow testing the loud speaker, “testing, 1, 2, testing, 1, 2,” and the lights on the new scoreboards was flashing on and off. That scoreboard shows just about anything, up to and including a running box score, plus a line score, plus how other games are going in both leagues, plus of course balls and strikes and hits and errors, plus even the names of the umpires. It takes 3 men to run it.
And then of course on top of everything there was the usual plague of writers circulating around the clubhouse and the dugout and the batting cage. Me and Perry no sooner hit the field then a colored photographer run up wanting a picture of the 2 of us with our arm around each other. It come out quite nice in the Harlem paper later on in the week. Other writers come around asking questions and trying to get somebody to say something worth writing down. Soon Dutch come up out of the dugout and made them all clear off the field.
We got some work done. There was a good infield drill plus some mighty impressive hitting. Some of the boys parked a few in the stands. Sid hit 1 over the Gem sign, a mighty blast when you consider that the cage was moved clear back to the screen, and Red walloped 1 that went in just above the Blatz. Squarehead hit the longest of the morning, a drive that went 450 feet that I took without moving, for me and Gil Willowbrook was shagging flies in center. It seemed like I waited 20 minutes at least, for it went so high before it dropped. I said to Gil, “I guess I know where Squarehead hits them.” When Squarehead finished hitting me and Gil moved in about 50 feet.
After awhile Dutch yelled at me to come in and hit a few. I suppose it should of made some impression on me at the time, for since when does a lowly relief pitcher take batting practice? But it did not, and I trotted in and took a bat and went in the cage. Lindon was throwing. “Now,” said I, “not too hard, Lindon old boy, for I am no hitter.”
Bruce Pearson was catching. “Dutch says to throw fast,” he said.
“Okay,” said I. “If I catch a glimpse of it I will st
ick out the bat.”
I poled the first 1 a terrific drive that Lindon picked up with his bare hand when it stopped rolling. Then I swang at 5 and missed them all. Lindon give me a twist of the wrist, meaning that he would throw a couple curves. I swang at 3 and missed. I poled the next 1 a gigantic clout that went about 150 feet in the air and come down on the screen above my head. “Bunt a couple,” said Bruce, and I bunted 3. I consider myself just about a perfect bunter. A pitcher has got to know how to lay them down.
When me and Coker and Canada and Perry got back to the hotel a fellow come to see us from the TV show put on by Fireball Gas called “People, U. S. A.,” and he said he would give us all 100 each to sing on the air that night. The m.c. of the show is Larry Hatfield. Larry would throw a few questions at us and then we would sing 2 songs.
This fellow was a very swishy sort of a character. I notice that there’s quite a few like that in and around TV studios. Just before he left Canada made some little remark, using a nasty word. “That reminds me,” said this fellow, “you have got to watch your language on TV. If someone was to cuss there would be the most awful consequences.”
“Cuss?” says Coker. “Why, dear me, nobody on this ball club ever says so much as the nastiest little word. Heavens to Betsy, if we was to be vile or not act like gentlemen Dutch Schnell, our sweet manager, would wash out our f—ing little mouth with soap.” Coker never cracked a smile, and this fellow did not know if he was being took for a ride or not. Perry cut in and made Coker lay off. Perry said it is okay to ride a man, but not when you are libel to get him mad and it cost you 100.
We went down to lunch, and then I telephoned home. I could hear the Perkinsville operator switching in, and the next thing I heard was Pop’s voice.
“Pop,” said I, “this is Hank.”
“Hello, boy,” said Pop, “how is the flipper?”
“Never better,” said I.
“Why do you never write a letter?” said he.
“I am too busy,” said I.
“I guess you are at that,” said he.
“Listen,” said I, “the reason I called is that me and Perry and Coker and Canada is going to sing on the TV tonight.”
“Sing?” said Pop.
“Sure,” said I.
“What time?” said Pop.
“8,” said I. “We get 100 each.”
“For singing?” said Pop. “Maybe you ought to quit baseball and go into singing.” He laughed. “We are coming down to New York tomorrow.”
“Coming down?” I said. “What do you want to come all the way down just to see me sit on the bench?”
“I got a hunch you might pitch,” said he.
“You are nuts,” said I.
“Dutch would want to get off to a fast start with a win,” said Pop. “His best bet would be a lefthander, would it not? And Sam pitched Sunday.”
“Who all is coming?” I said.
“Me and Holly and Aaron,” said he.
“After the game come up to the hotel,” I said.
“Hank,” said Pop, “I got a letter from the club. It said you done well and listened to what you was told and never spoke back and kept good hours and no monkeyplay. You keep that up. Study Sam and listen to Dutch. I am convinced that Dutch will use you as a starter.”
“Do not pay no attention to that piece by Krazy Kress,” I said.
“What piece?” said Pop. “I never seen it. When the hell was it?”
“That is right,” said I, “it will not be out until tomorrow.” Perry was laying on his bed. “You want to speak to Perry?” said I.
“Sure,” said Pop, and I give the phone to Perry.
“Howdy,” he said. “Do not forget to see us on the TV tonight.” He went bippy-de-bop-boop-bop in the phone a few times, and Pop got a kick out of that.
“Get to bed early afterwards,” said Pop. “Gene Park is libel to bust his leg.”
“Leave us hope so,” said Perry. “Hank told me all about you, playing ball yourself and all.”
“I played a bit with Cedar Rapids in the Mississippi Valley League,” said Pop. “Then I played a lot of semi-pro. I am still at it.”
“Hank says you were pretty fair,” said Perry.
“Well, maybe so,” said Pop. “I see where you stole a good many bases this spring.”
“That is me,” said Perry. “I do not like to stay too long in 1 place. I am 1 of the roving kind.” Then he done the bippy-de-bop-boop-bop again, like Bing Crosby done on the record, and Pop laughed and asked for me back, and I took the phone.
“I do not want to run up your money,” said Pop. “I hope you ain’t throwing the screw too much. You got time for that.”
“That is what Red says,” said I.
“You follow Red and do what he says,” said Pop. “Say,” he said, and he lowered his voice a bit. “Is Flynn in the room?”
“No,” I said.
“Why does he not hit?” said Pop.
“He does not pull,” I said. “It ain’t like Q. C. where we had that short center field. These parks is big, Pop. Big! We drilled this morning and he done the same.”
“That is too bad,” said Pop. “It seems like he would learn. We got seats square behind home about 15 rows up. We wrote away in the middle of March. If Dutch does not start you tomorrow he will start you Thursday. I will stake my life on that. We will lay over till Thursday if need be.”
“That is crazy, Pop,” I said. “But if you wish to come and see me sit on the bench that is okay with me.”
“You will work,” said Pop. “Listen, boy, I do not wish to run up your money. Get your sleep tonight. Well, we will see you tomorrow. We will be pulling out of here with the birds.”
“Pop,” I said, “is my car still in the depot?”
“Still sitting there,” said he. “I pass by now and then and take a look. Hank, Perkinsville is gone mad. Business stands still when they get the Mammoths on the radio. They stopped the show when you was down in Baltimore the other night. Bill Duffy telephoned it in play by play. I guess you seen Bill.”
“Yes,” I said. “He was in Baltimore and then again in Philly. He done “Casey at the Bat” for a crowd of us up in the hotel in Philly.”
“Well,” said Pop, “I do not want to run up your money. Good luck, son. We will see you tomorrow.”
“So long, Pop,” I said.
“Goodby, son,” he said, and then we hung up.
Me and Perry and Coker and Canada spent the afternoon deciding on what to sing. We chose “I Love You As I Never Loved Before” for we liked it and knowed the words, but we could not decide on another. We thought about “On Top of Old Smokey” but Hams Carroll was always singing it to the tune of these very vulgar words and we would of probably busted out laughing in the middle. We liked that 1 about the girl where her hair hung down in ringulets, and finally Perry remembered that it was on the juke in the Manhattan Drugs in the lobby, and we went down and played it a few times, copying off the words. By about 5 we had them down pat. We ate early so as to get the burps out of our system, and about 7 we caught a cab in front of the hotel. “Radio City,” said I to the cabbie, and away we went.
“Who is going to win the ball game?” said the cabbie.
“Heavens to Betsy,” said Coker, “Notre Dame, I suppose. Notre Dame always wins.”
“Oh,” said the cabbie, “I thought you was ballplayers. The ballplayers stay up in that hotel.”
“Ballplayers?” said Coker. “Lordy me, that is too strenuous. We are singers.”
Well, Coker been on that kick ever since we spoke to the swishy fellow from the show early in the day.
“It is pretty strenuous,” said the cabbie.
“I bet at the day’s end them poor ballplayers is all wore down to where they ain’t got enough energy to trim their nails,” said Coker.
“Yes, they get worked pretty hard,” said the cabbie. “It is a tough life.”
“Heavens to Betsy,” said Coker, “they start playing
ball in February and sometimes they play clear into October. Then them dear boys have only got November and December and January and part of February to theirselves.”
“That is right,” said the cabbie. “It is a rough life.”
“Good gracious but I would never be a ballplayer for all the perfume in Paris,” said Coker.
“It is sure tough,” said the cabbie.
“What hours do you work?” said Coker.
“I work 12 hours a day with every other Sunday off,” said the cabbie.
“You lucky stiff,” said Coker.
The program was fairly corny. Larry Hatfield is rather flatnosed, and he said if we was to make a remark or 2 about his nose he would not mind, for it always brung a laugh. There was 3 acts before us.
Then the band swung into “Take Me Out To The Ball Game,” and we was introduced. “Well,” said Larry Hatfield, “I see where Brooklyn is leading the league.” That was true, for Brooklyn opened down in Washington that afternoon. The opener is always a day earlier in Washington, the President throwing out the first ball and all that crap. Bill Scudder won it, 6–1. The audience give out with a great hand for Brooklyn.
“That is right,” said I, “and they better make the most of it, for just as soon as the Mammoths get rolling there will be little to clap for over in Brooklyn.” This remark got a tremendous amount of applause. Hatfield give me the sign to keep on talking. “It ain’t where you stand the first day,” said I. “It is where do you stand along about September 30. Now, if it rains 3 days until Scudder rests up Brooklyn is safe. But it ain’t going to rain 3 days in 4 the whole summer through, so these folks that clap so hard for Brooklyn might just as well save their breath.” This just about brung the house down.