The Red Smith Reader

by Dave Anderson

  The man was a boy, simple, artless, genuine and unabashed. This explains his rapport with children, whom he met as intellectual equals. Probably his natural liking for people communicated itself to the public to help make him an idol.

  He was buried on a sweltering day in August 1948. In the pallbearers’ pew, Waite Hoyt sat beside Joe Dugan, the third baseman. “I’d give a hundred dollars for a cold beer,” Dugan whispered.

  “So would the Babe,” Hoyt said.

  5.

  Politics

  RED TROTSKY TALKS TO RED SMITH

  MEXICO CITY, 1937

  The red fire of revolution which forged the reputation of Leon Trotsky and was to become a worldwide conflagration is flickering out in the oldest, sleepiest village of the Western Hemisphere.

  Today the arch-plotter of modern time sits in the study of a borrowed home in Mexico City’s suburban Coyoacan, a mild and amiable and aimless old man pottering with old ideas.

  The Great Revolutionist is somewhat bigger than a growler of beer and somewhat less fiery. Fumbling with the writings by which he earns a living, he exhibits all the wild-eyed revolutionary fervor, all the sinister aspect, all the mastery of men, all the compelling powers of oratory, all the irresistible ardor and magnetism of an elderly and not very successful delicatessen keeper in the Bronx, inking his fingertips over the month-end statements.

  Leon Trotsky does not admit he is through any more than he says in so many words that he will return to the Soviet Union some day to lead Russia and the workers of the world.

  But the latter obviously is what he means when he says:

  “Stalin’s biggest mistake was in exiling me. He thought if he sent me out of the country, he could ruin me by reviling and libeling me in the press, in all the agencies of propaganda which he controls.

  “But outside of Russia I have gathered a new group around myself. I still do harm. My writings, my books, what I say, they penetrate into Russia. I do harm.”

  Harm. He says it like a small boy insisting “I’m tough. I carry matches.”

  It was mid-afternoon when word came to the Athletics training camp that Trotsky would see the Philadelphia newspapermen. Probably he had not been told these newspapermen worked only in the children’s department, the sports staff.

  Probably, too, it was the first time in his life any group of interviewers met him on a completely equal footing of understanding; they knew precisely as much about Communism as he did about baseball.

  The suburb in which the exiled war minister of Lenin is holed up became the first permanent white settlement on the continent when Hernando Cortez made it his headquarters for the assault upon the Aztec capital of Mexico City. Today it is the quiet, characterless sort of middle class residential district you might notice as your train pulls out of Des Moines.

  Its placidity emphasizes the incongruity of the squad of armed Mexican police lounging in the dusty, half-paved street that leads to a house owned by Señora Frieda Rivera, wife of the revolutionary artist Diego Rivera, who collects so many capitalist dollars for painting murals lampooning the capitalist system.

  Behind the tall gate of heavy oak, kept closed and barred, live Rivera’s guests—Trotsky and his wife; an American secretary, Bernard Wolfe, former instructor of political science at Yale and Bryn Mawr; a French-Dutch secretary; a Czech secretary. The Riveras live elsewhere.

  Wolfe admitted the newspapermen. A pistol butt protruded from his waistband. An ornament, he said, as Trotsky had no fear of violence.

  Wolfe ushered the visitors through a tiny patio, knobby with stone Aztec gargoyles, across the narrow brick veranda which makes a promenade along the bright azure wall of the house, and into the study.

  No stage setting in this room, a rather bare rectangular chamber containing a half-dozen leather-backed chairs, a long table cluttered with papers, a few shelves of books, three crystal balls suspended from the ceiling.

  Trotsky entered briskly, almost, but not quite, dapper in dark gray pin-striped suit without a vest, soft striped shirt with attached collar, dark tie. His mustache and goatee are gray, his pompadour white. He seems older than his fifty-seven years, possibly because, like the very young and very old, he talks only of himself.

  “Any Hearst papers?” he inquired as introductions were made. None. He seated himself at the desk, exchanged shell-rimmed glasses for pince-nez, showed flashing white teeth in a smile.

  “That is a great advantage.”

  Hearst papers are to him the “fascist press.” How could he keep them from getting his statements? Possibly they got them through the Mexican papers.

  “When the next trials start I shall not give statements to the Mexican papers,” he continued. “Not through unfriendliness, but because the reactionary interests and the Soviet try to use them to make it appear I am meddling in politics here.

  “It was so in Norway. Although I kept aloof from politics, the Stalin Government kept trying to entangle me, and succeeded, until the Norwegian elections revolved about my personality.”

  He spread his hands in a deprecatory gesture that said “Innocent little me in Norwegian politics!”

  His English is fairly fluent, heavily accented. Now and then he gropes for an Americanism, turns quickly to Wolfe for prompting or assurance that he has used the right word.

  Mention of the next trials sent him off pell-mell into his favorite subject, the conspiracy trials in Russia, which he contends are pure fake, trumped up for propagandist purposes.

  How long does he expect such trials to follow one another?

  “Until world opinion has become finally convinced either of the truth or falsity of the Gaypayoo’s charges and the alleged ‘confessions.’

  “You see, each trial has left doubts. In the recent Radek trial it was mentioned that I had a meeting, a friendly conversation in Berlin, with Rudolf Hess, the Vice Führer. Many people wondered how I could be on friendly terms with Hess.

  “I predict the next trial, of the Germans accused of sabotage, will purport to give details of that meeting.”

  Does he believe Kamenev and Zinoviev and other convicted “plotters” have been shot?

  “Yes. Keeping such men in prison would be too dangerous, like storing up bombs. There were, for example, two political adversaries of mine who were arrested and ‘confessed’ to conspiracies. When I read the confessions, it did not seem possible they could be false, for I knew the honesty of these men.

  “Later I heard their story. They had been promised freedom for confessing, but were not given their freedom. So they began to stir up trouble in prison. Then they were shot.”

  Why do men continue to “confess” if they are shot anyway?

  “Common sense would tell them to refuse, to say, ‘No, it is not true. I will not compromise my memory, the memory of my children so.’

  “But a man is in a row of cells. Now and then one is taken out and shot. The Gaypayoo comes and says, ‘You see what happened to your friend. Confess and you will live.’

  “‘Those who confessed are dead, too,’ the man says, but the Gaypayoo says, ‘No. Radek, he is not dead. Others are not dead. You have a chance.’

  “So for a hope, for a straw to grasp, this man confesses to what he did not plot. And the infernal conveyor, the endless belt of trials by which the Stalin bureaucracy justifies itself before the world, moves on.”

  What of Stalin, the man?

  “He is the complete bureaucrat. He could exist only in a bureaucracy. He did not build the machine; he is a product of the machine. Separate him from the machine and he is nothing.”

  Why does the Soviet feel the need of making Trotsky the archvillain, the man behind the plots in all these trials?

  A shrug. “Because I am their adversary.”

  Then do they still fear him so much?

  This pleased him. He smiled broadly. “I, too, am astounded, but so it is.”

  He closed the interview on that note, his blue eyes sparkling with what seemed a juve
nile exultation over being considered a very tough party.

  Departing, the newspapermen surveyed the premises briefly, found the single-story house slightly cramped, inquired as to how the Great Revolutionist spends his day.

  Seems he arises about 7:30 A.M., walks in the patio, eats, writes some, dictates some. Mostly, it seems, he just putters.

  HARRY TRUMAN RETURNS

  CHICAGO, 1956

  The old champ came striding down the aisle with outriders in front of him and cops behind, and memory recaptured the classic lines which once described Jack Dempsey’s entrance in a ring:

  Hail! The conquering hero comes,

  Surrounded by a bunch of bums.

  This was Harry (“Give ‘em hell”) Truman, last Democrat to hold the heavyweight title, coming out of retirement now to slug it out with the clever young contender, Ad Stevenson. The arena was a hotel ballroom, the ring a curving battery of microphones, the crowd made up of working stiffs assigned to a press conference. Stevenson wasn’t there in the flesh but you could sense his presence, a stick-and-move guy, tough for even a young adversary to hit solidly.

  The old champ looked fit, square of shoulder and springy of tread, his skin clear, his eyes bright behind the glittering glasses. No roll of middle-aged flesh showed under the gray double-breasted; his blue polka-dotted bow tie spread wings for bold flight.

  But how about the old legs?

  At the bell, the left flicked out in a practiced jab. “I am deeply touched by the anxiety of the press and so many of our illustrious columnists about my political judgment.” It was a light jab but he felt it get home.

  He glanced about the room with a cocky, crooked grin. McGurk used to give that same grin to the fighter he drew to illustrate H. C. Witwer’s Leather Pusher stories. Jim Braddock’s ruddy kisser wears it today.

  Inwardly, a ringsider applauded. “Attaboy, Harry! Tell ‘em what you did to Pawling Tom Dewey.”

  A moment more of light sparring, then Harry moved to the attack. His voice was cold and level. Stevenson’s counsel of moderation “was, in fact, a surrender of the basic principles of the Democratic party.” “I am shocked that any liberal Democrat would advocate or encourage the abandonment of the New Deal and the Fair Deal as out of date.” Stevenson is not “a dynamic and fighting candidate.” “He cannot win the election by himself.”

  “There is nothing personal about my attitude toward Governor Stevenson.” In the room there was undeceived laughter, but the old champ kept his face straight, going through with the feint. “In fact, I like him personally.

  “That’s all.” He stepped back, as though to let his adversary fall forward.

  Stevenson didn’t go down. The attack had been meant to shatter him, explode his title pretensions and leave the field to Ave Harriman, but Ad was still on his feet and coming in. Questions hit Harry from all directions.

  “Mr. President, you just said that recent events showed that Adlai Stevenson lacks a fighting spirit. What recent events are you referring to?”

  “I didn’t say that, I said his recent actions show that he lacks the fighting spirit to win an election.”

  “Which recent events would you refer to, sir?”

  “His moderation, his tie-up with the conservatives of the Democratic party.”

  “Any specific actions?”

  “Your judgment is as good as mine.”

  He was backing and circling, grabbing and parrying, doing a Missouri waltz, and the legs were going. He came up on his toes. “I think he [Stevenson] would need the help of an old man from Missouri,” and he laughed with the crowd.

  Ken Overlin was like this in his last days as middleweight champion, still sure he could lick any bum they threw in with him. The young ones came along, though, and licked Ken. They always do.

  Once Harry slipped but recovered swiftly. He said he had told Stuart Symington by telephone: “Get yourself out here if you expect to—uh”—win the nomination?—“do anything about the Missouri delegation,” he finished, laughing over the slip with the others.

  Toward the end he seemed impatient for the final bell. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I think that is enough,” and he lifted his hands. Somehow, one was reminded of Abe Attell as an old man fighting a kid in St. Louis. A few fast rounds, and then Abe turned to the crowd.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “I am Abe Attell, featherweight champion of the world. I have always given you a good show. This is as far as I can go.”

  The old champ had come in briskly. Now he went out slowly. They never come back.

  YOU PAY FOR THIS

  1951

  Ever since Senator Estes Kefauver and His Rascals burst upon the television scene as the biggest act in show business since Little Egypt, this nation has been undergoing government-by-flashbulb. It is an underprivileged lawmaker indeed who does not sit on a committee investigating something, with full benefit of camera. If the inquiry concerns sports, so much the better, because sports are widely read and the politician is thus forced to submit to the distasteful experience of seeing his name in headlines. This mortifies the flesh and chastens the timorous statesman, making him a better public servant.

  Congressman Emanuel Celler of Brooklyn is chairman of a judiciary subcommittee examining baseball for traces of acute monopoly. In an effort to avoid publicity, the group started by interviewing that celebrated authority on constitutional law, Mr. Ty Cobb. Since then the caliber of witnesses has diminished and lately the congressmen have been calling in sportswriters.

  When instructions to appear and give testimony were received here, a tiny worm of suspicion reared its impertinent head. Considering the scarcity of lawyers, baseball players, managers and club owners in the ordinary press box, one wondered whether the statesmen were primarily interested in first-hand information or in straightening out columnists who had viewed the subcommittee’s project without enthusiasm.

  Mr. Celler was advised by telegraph, prepaid: “Have nothing to contribute and could serve no useful purpose. If you insist on wasting my time and the taxpayers’ money, will arrange to appear.”

  The chairman replied by letter: “I am disappointed you feel assisting the subcommittee would waste your valuable time. Your wire will be read into the record.”

  On the chance that this was not done, the message is quoted here, for the record. On that comradely note, arrangements were made to use up two working days, not enormously valuable, going to Washington. Other witnesses have traveled farther at greater expense.

  Not all eleven members of the subcommittee and its six-member staff attend every hearing. Of those present at this particular session, the most articulate were Mr. Celler, who likes witnesses to mention Brooklyn; Patrick J. Hillings, a pleasant young man whose voters live in California and who keeps asking how about a third major league on the West Coast; Kenneth B. Keating, a pretty good needier from Rochester; and William M. McCulloch of Ohio, who remarked at one point, “Now let’s see if I know where we are.’

  They heard Thomas J. Halligan, president of the Central League, tell stories about what he once said to Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis and what Happy Chandler once said to him.

  Then Bill Werber, a former third baseman who now sells insurance, said baseball was dandy.

  Then Russ Lynch, sports editor of the Milwaukee Journal, said the owners of major league clubs operating farm teams were selfish dastards. He said they’d go and grab players like Willie Mays and Hank Thompson out of the minors and pay them major league salaries just because the owners were greedy for pennants.

  As noon approached, Mr. Keating got up to depart. Mr. Lynch halted him. “You’re from Rochester,” Mr. Lynch said. Mr. Keating smiled.

  “I think I can predict,” Mr. Lynch said, “that you’ve got a pennant coming up soon in Rochester.”

  Mr. Keating beamed all over. He said he had heard the Red Wings were acquiring half a dozen new players. Were they pretty good?

  “Some of them,” Mr. Lynch said.

  M
r. Keating said he was delighted.

  Mr. Celler declared a recess, explaining that some bills were coming up in Congress. Seems there was something to do with appropriating money for a centennial celebration at West Point, or something, and unexpected argument developed in the House, so the hearing resumed after lunch with Joseph R. Bryson of South Carolina, presiding, and E. Ernest Goldstein and John Paul Stevens, of counsel for the subcommittee, asking questions in the absence of others.

  Mr. Bryson is one of the group’s two Southerners. The other, Edwin E. Willis of Louisiana, had spoken up once. He had asked Mr. Lynch how “your fraternity” felt about the farm system, and what the press reaction would be “if I signed a recommendation” to abolish farms.

  In the afternoon, Franklin Wetherill Shepard Yeutter of the Philadelphia Bulletin said he liked baseball the way it is.

  The last witness was just about finished when Mr. Celler returned. The witness had been asked whether a team in a big city was likely to draw more customers than one in a smaller city. The answer, after some thought, was probably.

  Mr. Celler said issues before the subcommittee were complex. He said several bills applying to baseball were pending and it was up to the committee to study them, wasn’t it?

  “You will forgive my conviction,” the witness said, “that in these times, there are graver matters to consider.”

  ONE DRUNK, UNARMED

  1963

  Between halves of the Army-Navy football game last year, cadets and midshipmen formed a double row across the field and John F. Kennedy walked between the ranks from a flag-draped box in the west stands to another in the east.

  Hatless and without an overcoat in the November cold, he went jauntily—one football fan among 100,00. He was a Navy veteran but he was also Commander in Chief of the Army. In the first half he had seen Navy take a lead of 15-6.

  Halfway across, a drunk broke through the line and was almost within arm’s reach of the President when Secret Service men grabbed him. Laughter started in the crowd but choked off.

  Suppose the drunk hadn’t been drunk? Suppose he had a gun? It could have happened there in Philadelphia, before 100,000 witnesses.