by Gary Moore
Baseball legend Jim Morris, former pitcher for the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, read a draft of the manuscript and graciously agreed to write the Foreword for Playing with the Enemy. His own story is inspirational and truly one of the greatest baseball sagas of all time. Jim, I am honored to have your name associated with my father’s story. A special thanks is also due to Jim’s friend, associate, and agent Steve Canter, for helping put all this together. Steve is the best sports agent in the business. Thank you both for your help
John C. Skipper, an example of the writer I hope to become, is the author of numerous books and provided an invaluable eye for baseball detail. John served as the book’s historical editor and his input helped to make this a much better book. He also penned the Introduction, for which I am thankful.
The Pittsburgh Pirates gave my dad a second chance. It was an experience he always cherished and made this story possible. Dad always said, “The Pittsburgh Pirates, they’re a class organization.” Dad was right then and it’s still true today. Go Pirates!
The Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago is the able custodian of U-505. Recently, the large German submarine has been moved underground into a hi-tech facility that is breathtaking to behold. At first glance, U-505 appears to be floating in air. It has been completely restored and is in pristine condition. The able staff of the museum has done an incredible job of restoration and preservation. Generations to come will visit this display and imagine what it was like to be aboard a German Unterseeboot. I urge everyone to visit and experience U-505. It is well worth your time. You can learn more about this remarkable boat by visiting www.msichicago.org.
My dear friends Tim Duggan, Nicole Bonham, John Lopez, and David Thompson also deserve my thanks. It is said that a friend is someone who walks into your room when everyone else is walking out. David walked in, while Tim, John, and Nicole were the only ones who didn’t walk out. Thank you for your friendship and loyalty. I am forever grateful.
Thanks are also due my youngest son and the best writer in our family, Travis. I don’t think you realized it, Travis, but I felt I was always trying to write up to your expectations and in the process, it forced me to be better than I probably am. Thank you for being a wonderful son and a great inspiration. I love you, Travis.
Thank you to my beautiful daughter, Tara Beth. Like her mother, Tara Beth is a woman of great faith and tremendous leadership ability. Thank you for your continuous encouragement and for being the most wonderful daughter a father could ever have. I love you, Tara Beth.
Thank you to my oldest son, Toby. There are no words that can describe the enjoyment I have received talking back and forth with you about this story. Your creative ideas, loving criticisms, and continuous encouragement have been my catalyst to get this done. I love you, Toby.
I would also like to thank the love of my life, Arlene, who encouraged me every step of the way. Arlene, you are everything I admire that I am not. You are a woman of deep faith and incredible emotional strength. At many times in my life, I have strangely felt like a kite—soaring in the wind far above where it is safe to be. Yet, I always know you were holding the string and will never let me go or fall. I love you, Arlene, now and forever.
Thank you also Mom and Dad. This book is about you, this book is for you. This is your son’s interpretation of who you were, so others may know. It is a celebration of the life and the times in which you lived. I wish you were both here to read it, but why would you need to—you lived it. I agree with Tom Brokaw, that yours was indeed the “Greatest Generation.” Thank you for loving me.
Most importantly, I give thanks to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, who continues to change and mold me into the man He wishes me to be, even though I sometimes fight it, every step of the way. God has blessed me with a wonderful church, dear friends, and a loving family. I am grateful beyond my ability to express it on this page.
I pray that you, the reader, will enjoy this book, and I thank you in advance for your interest in my father’s story.
Dad … this is for you.
Foreword by Jim Morris
Playing with the Enemy is a book about many things on many levels, but to me, it is a heartwarming story about what we do with second chances.
Gary Moore’s touching book about his father serves as a reminder that life is all about second chances and people inspiring each other to chase their dreams. Long after I quit baseball, it took the belief of others (my high school baseball kids) for me to chase my dream of playing baseball again, just like it took the belief of Gene Moore’s scout to get him a second chance with the Pittsburgh Pirates.
Life is full of second chances. Gene Moore never got to the big leagues, but instead of feeling sorry for himself and packing it in for good, he went out and played the game to the best of his ability until he ultimately sacrificed his own dream to help his friend and pitcher, Ray Laws, reach the majors. Gene realized that taking advantage of a second chance isn’t always about your own glory: sometimes it’s about making other people successful. Sometimes that is your opportunity. Any good parent will tell you that.
Gene Moore lost his dream of becoming a big league ballplayer because of the Second World War and his desire to play with the enemy. But his love for the game never died. You don’t have to be a Yale graduate to know that everyone has to have hope in their life or they will eventually become your enemy. Sometimes you have to put yourself in the place of the enemy to make second chances happen. That’s why Heinrich Mueller, one of the German U-boat prisoners of war he taught the game of baseball, came back and inspired Gene to move on with life once there were no more balls for him to catch behind the plate.
Your dream doesn’t have to be baseball—that isn’t really important. Your second chance can be a new job after you’ve been fired, a chance to repair a relationship with a parent or a spouse, a second chance at marriage, or a fresh opportunity to start a new family and another business—like Gene Moore did when he finished playing baseball.
Sometimes we go through life feeling sorry for ourselves and feeling like victims. I did that, and so did Gene Moore. We’ve all been down on the floor, drowning in our sorrows. Second chances in life, however, are often about self-sacrifice: you always have to remember that it’s not all about you.
Judy Moore knew that when she picked a drunken stranger off the floor of a dusty bar to help him stand again on his own two feet. By risking her own safety, Judy ended up with a rich and fulfilling life. Gene eventually became her husband, they had a family, and then, decades later, when confronted with “the letter,” Gene sat down and bared his soul to his son about his brush with destiny and fateful odyssey through World War II and minor league baseball. That saga, in turn, became the basis for this book.
I loved Playing with the Enemy. You will, too.
Introduction
“For all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: It might have been.”
—John Greenleaf Whittier
A word of warning as you venture into Playing with the Enemy, Gary Moore’s riveting story of his father’s life. Don’t skip any pages or peek ahead to try to figure out what’s coming. Read it like you would watch a ballgame. Inning by inning. Page by page. Because you won’t believe what happens in about the seventh inning of Gene Moore’s life—but you must have watched the first six innings to fully appreciate it.
Gene was a farm boy living with his parents, sisters, and a brother in Sesser, Illinois, a town so small that even map makers ignored it. As a teenager, when he wasn’t in school he was helping his pop on the farm, slopping the hogs and doing other chores with his older brother, Ward. Usually, though, Gene could be found down at “The Lumberyard” playing baseball with the guys on the town team, some of whom were twice his age. The older fellows didn’t mind having the Moore kid on their team because he could hit a baseball farther than any of the rest of them. And, as the team’s catcher, even at the age of 15, he called a pretty good ball game—and nothing got by him behi
nd the plate.
One thing that was as true in the 1940s as it is today is that if you have talent, someone will notice—even if your team is made up of guys you know from the local bar—and they also serve as the grounds crew at the ball diamond across town. The Brooklyn Dodgers noticed Gene Moore. Word had spread halfway across the United States about the country boy who could hit the ball a country mile. The Dodgers wanted to take a look at this 15-year-old farm kid, barely old enough to shave and still awaiting his first kiss, but brash enough to call the pitches from behind the plate and motion to the infielders and outfielders as to how they should position themselves for certain hitters.
These were the Dodgers of Branch Rickey, the feisty general manager who squeezed a dollar so tightly that onlookers swore they could hear George Washington choking; of manager Leo Durocher, who many thought could fight better than he could hit and who would be forever remembered in baseball lore as the man who said, “Nice guys finish last”; and of Mickey Owen, the veteran catcher, the man who, if the fates would have it, would be succeeded behind the plate by Gene Moore one day. That same Mickey Owen would come to symbolize how the gods of baseball can sometimes turn on you. It was Owen whose dropped third strike in the ninth inning of the seventh game of the 1941 World Series turned the game around and allowed the New York Yankees to walk away with the victory.
A veteran Dodger scout ventured out to Sesser, Illinois, to take a look at Gene, and he liked what he saw. But back on the farm old “Pop” Moore was skeptical about having a son play professional baseball. It was a game, not an occupation—and what if he didn’t make it? What then? These were the kinds of thoughts and questions that most any father would have in looking out for his son’s best interests. But “Pop” Moore took some time away from the crops and the pigs and came to the ballpark one day and saw his son play for the first time. He saw the talent, he heard the roar of the crowd, and he sensed the potential his son had for a great future in baseball. With his parents’ consent, Gene signed with the Dodgers.
On December 7, 1941, Japanese planes bombed Pearl Harbor and America was thrust into World War II. Gene Moore went into the Navy and served his country in a unique but important way as part of a traveling baseball team that went overseas and provided much-needed entertainment and times of relaxation for the fighting troops. The games kept Gene in shape for the Major League baseball career that awaited him back in the States. Later in the war he came back to America and was assigned to Camp Ruston, Louisiana, where his duty was to oversee the day-to-day activities of a select few—and very special—German prisoners of war. These U-boat (submarine) sailors were so special, in fact, that the Red Cross was not notified of their capture, and their families were left believing they were dead.
Gene’s experience with these Germans was another turning point in his life, one that would turn his baseball world upside down—and it would never quite right itself again. The road to Ebbets Field in Brooklyn was a difficult one to traverse, and Gene’s effort to walk it demonstrated the character of a brave and caring man far beyond any heroics he performed with a bat or catcher’s mitt in his hand.
In reading the story of Gene Moore, some will think of Roy Hobbs, the slugger in “The Natural” or of Ray Kinsella, who was reunited with his father on a baseball field in “Field of Dreams”; or even Jim Morris, the Texas school teacher whose story is depicted in “The Rookie,” a man who beat enormous odds to make it to the major leagues. All of these men, fictional and real, bear a resemblance to Gene Moore, the farm boy from Southern Illinois.
But when I think of Gene Moore, I think of Johnny Bench, the great catcher for the Cincinnati Reds who could do it all: hit, hit with power, control a game from behind the plate, and was the best ever at throwing out base runners, either by standing and firing the ball to second base or by making snap throws to first or third from his crouch behind the plate. Johnny Bench got his chance in the big leagues and made the most of it. He is in the Hall of Fame. Gene Moore had his chance, too, but you will never see his name there. Yet, his story is just as compelling. Read on. You’ll see.
And so we end where we began … “It might have been.”
John Skipper
Mason City, Iowa Splooie
Splooie …
Chapter 1
The Letter
How would I do it?
How could I ever make the leap from the chair I was in onto the speaker’s platform? The thought coursed through my mind as I sat in the sales meeting, listening to the president and owner of the company. He was dynamic, charismatic, and everyone loved him.
Me? I was young then—a bit reserved, very insecure, and in total awe of the man I intently watched and listened to as he addressed us from the platform at the front of the room. He had the leadership qualities I could only dream I might one day possess. I hung on his every word, every syllable, even though I had heard it in one form or another from this man my entire life.
Gene Moore spoke with an animated, passionate style. He talked about the highest levels of achievement and made the group of thirty sales people assembled at the Chicago Heights branch of Moore Industries, Inc., want to sell and excel with passion. He brought out the best in each of us. We wanted to perform for him. We wanted to be like him. We all yearned for a pat on the back or a wink from his smiling face telling us, “good job” or “way to go.” He made us believe that what we did was important, admirable, and honorable, even though what we did was sell vacuum cleaners door-to-door. Gene Moore made us believe what we did would change the world. It certainly changed our worlds. Many of those in his audience went on to achieve levels of success with Filter Queen or in other chosen professions. Most would attribute some or all of their success to the time they spent working with this man. “There is just something special about him” was a phrase heard over and over again.
As Gene was beginning to wind down his motivational talk he raised his arms in excitement—and then suddenly stopped. His eyes sought me out. “Gary take it from here,” he said calmly, a small smile on his face. And then he walked out of the room. Although unusual, Gene was prone to theatrics, so I jumped up from my chair and tried to pick up where he left off, which was an insurmountable task.
Once the meeting ended a young salesman named Ed walked up to me and said something I would never forget. “What happened to Gene?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I replied.
“Didn’t look like nothing to me,” continued Ed, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. A dark look of concern had crossed his face.
“What?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”
“When he walked out of the meeting, he stepped into the next room, doubled over, and was holding his left arm.” The words sent a chill through me I still feel to this day.
I ran to the door, threw it open, and looked outside, but his gray Cadillac was gone. A glance at my watch told me the meeting had continued almost forty-five minutes after Gene had left. I stepped toward the phone to call our headquarters in Bradley, Illinois, which I assumed was Gene’s destination. Before I could dial the phone number, a secretary tapped my shoulder, “Gary, your mom’s on the line. She sounds real upset.”
I stepped into the closest room and picked up the phone. Judy Moore was crying on the other end. “Why did you let your father drive home when he was having a heart attack?”
“A heart attack! Mom, is he okay? Where is he?”
I listened just long enough to hear her answer before dropping the phone and running to my car to speed to Riverside Hospital in Kankakee. It was normally a thirty-minute drive, but I made it in record time.
When I arrived in the emergency room the first thing I heard was laughter. Puzzled, I edged my way past bustling nurses and small knots of strangers before coming to a stop next to a curtained-off area. I slowly pulled the curtain back to find Gene sitting up on the edge of the bed. Around him were several nurses and an emergency room doctor laughing at something he had just said. As usu
al, Gene controlled the room and everyone in it.
My sister Debbie was there too, her eyes swollen from crying. My mother was standing next to her husband’s side, rubbing his shoulder and holding back the tears. A few moments later my youngest sister Kim and her new husband Keith rushed into the emergency room.
“Calm down,” Gene commanded with a sturdy laugh. “It’s a false alarm. You’re not getting rid of me this easy,” a comment that brought more laughter from the hospital staff, but only concerned looks from his family members.
Until that moment it had never occurred to me that my mentor, my employer, and my father, all one and the same, would ever die. He was only 57, and he had always seemed indestructible.
While Gene was sharing a story with the nurses, Doctor Burnett, our family physician, arrived with what he claimed was good news. “I don’t think Gene had a heart attack. He only suffered from a little overexertion. We’re going to keep him overnight for observation and send him home tomorrow.” The doctor also told us he would set up a round of tests with a heart specialist in Chicago. “You folks go home now and don’t worry any longer about this. Gene is going to be fine.”
The next day Gene took a stress test, passed, and was released. As was his nature, he walked out of the hospital and went straight to work. It was April 29, 1983.
The test with the heart specialist was eventually scheduled for Thursday, May 12, at St Luke’s Presbyterian Hospital in Chicago. Our appointment was at 4:00 p.m., and my mother insisted I go along. She was afraid Gene might not tell her if the news wasn’t good. I agreed, and my dad and I drove to the hospital together. The specialist agreed with Dr. Burnett: he was certain Gene did not have a heart attack. In fact, he told us Gene was in great shape and we had nothing to worry about.