‘The Kid from Cleveland’: A Celebration of the Postwar Cleveland Indians

As baseball movies go, The Kid from Cleveland is strictly second division. The film, which came to movie houses in 1949, is no Field of Dreams or Bull Durham—nor does it rate with the more entertaining baseball films of the post-World War II era, from Kill the Umpire and the original Angels in the Outfield to Rhubarb and It Happens Every Spring.

Yet, in a modest way, The Kid from Cleveland is a noteworthy film. It is so for its on-location filming throughout the city, allowing contemporary viewers a Polaroid portrait of Cleveland as it looked sixty years ago. But what really makes the film special is the number of real-life Cleveland Indians in its cast. Their appearances not only lend the film authenticity but also make for a valuable visual and historical record of a place and time in baseball history.

Bona fide major-leaguers may be seen in feature films from Right Off the Bat in 1915 and Somewhere in Georgia in 1916 to Analyze That (2002), Anger Management (2003), and Fever Pitch (2005). None of these films—including the Major League movies, which remain the best-known films that spotlight the Tribe—feature entire big-league ball clubs. The Kid from Cleveland does. Practically the whole Cleveland organization appears in the film: players from Gene Bearden and Ray Boone to Bob Kennedy and Ken Keltner, Early Wynn and Sam Zoldak; team owner Bill Veeck and player-manager Lou Boudreau; coaches Tris Speaker and Bill McKechnie; pitching coach Mel Harder; trainer “Lefty” Weisman; and the recently retired Hank Greenberg, then working in the Indians front office. A celebrated ex-Indian, Lew Fonseca, is credited as the film’s “Baseball Supervisor.”

Also cast in The Kid from Cleveland, whose working titles were Pride of the Indians and The Cleveland Story, are real-life sportswriters (local scribes Gordon Cobbledick, Franklin Lewis, Ed McAuley) and umpires (American League arbiters Bill Summers, Bill Grieve). They and the “Members of the Cleveland Indians Baseball Club,” are thanked at the film’s finale. Movie-star-handsome player-turned-actor John Berardino, who later played Dr. Steve Hardy on the TV soap General Hospital—and who, as Johnny Berardino, graced the rosters of the Browns, Indians, and Pirates between 1939 and 1952—is the one baseball personality who does not play himself. He is cast as Mac, a shady character who fences stolen goods. (As a publicity stunt, Veeck insured Berardino’s mug for $1 million during his tenure in Cleveland.) The film’s associate producer was a local celebrity: K. Elmo Lowe, a fixture at the Cleveland Play House for almost a half-century as actor, director, and artistic director. Lowe appears onscreen as well, playing an undercover cop.

The title character in The Kid from Cleveland is neither a fireballing “Nuke” LaLoosh-like rookie nor a composed Henry Wiggen-like veteran. He is Johnny Barrows (Russ Tamblyn, when he still was billed as “Rusty”), a troubled youth. Johnny’s alienation stems from his lack of rapport with his stepfather. But he loves baseball, and in particular the Cleveland Indians. During the course of the story, Johnny finds a mentor in Mike Jackson (George Brent), the team’s kindhearted radio broadcaster.

It is the presence of the Indians, however, that makes the film essential viewing for the baseball historian or buff—and, more pointedly, the Cleveland sports aficionado. When The Kid from Cleveland was released, the Indians were the reigning World Series champs. They play the role of the “godfathers” recruited by Jackson to help Johnny. Furthermore, interspersed throughout the film are shots culled from the team’s official 1948 World Series promotional film, and footage from a postseries victory parade and regular-season games at Municipal Stadium.

Most of The Kid from Cleveland was filmed on a twenty-two-day production schedule in May and June of 1949, with many of its exteriors shot on location on the city’s streets, bridges, and playgrounds. For example, sequences featuring the ballplayers in spring training were filmed not in the hot desert sun of Tucson, Arizona, but in Cleveland’s League Park, the team’s home field (and known as Dunn Field from 1916 through 1927) from 1910 to 1932 and 1934 to 1946. A scene set outside Tucson, on a ranch where the ballplayers consume a barbecue supper was shot on East 87th Street, north of Euclid Avenue.

In a 2005 post on the film’s Internet Movie Database “user comments” page, an anonymous Clevelander recalled:

I was an “extra” in the movie, which was filmed at the end of [the] street where I lived, near Hough Ave. It was very near League Park, at [the] other end of my street! Some of the kids in [the] neighborhood were also in the movie, of course we were all not paid but did have a lot of fun with the “stars” and were treated to a ballgame, taken by bus [to Municipal Stadium], where we ran around under the bleachers.

Upon seeing the film on television several years ago, the writer observed that it was “a bit of a ‘tearjerker’ as [it] brought back many memories of the days after WWII and the pride we in Cleveland had, and I still have, for our Indians.”

It is wholly appropriate, then, that The Kid from Cleveland opens with the following written prologue: “This is the story of a city, a kid and a baseball team.” (This line was slightly altered for the marketing campaign. The film was publicized as “the story of a kid… a city … and 30 Godfathers!,” with headshots of twenty Indians lining the top of its advertising poster.) It also was appropriate for the Indians organization to be involved with a film about a troubled teen. At the time, Veeck and his ballplayers were supporting efforts to fight juvenile delinquency in Cleveland.

Combating underage misbehavior is not the only critical issue explored in the film. Two years before The Kid from Cleveland went into production, Larry Doby became the first African American to play in the American League. This landmark event is paid homage onscreen. Near the finale, Bill Veeck offers a well-intentioned (but entirely fictitious) anecdote in which he describes Doby’s first major league at-bat:

When Larry first joined the club, he was kind of in a spot, something like Jackie Robinson of the Brooklyn Dodgers …. His first time up, he was nervous. Very nervous. Much more nervous than the average rookie. Because, you see, he had the additional load of some 15 million people riding on his back. And that’s quite a load. Larry wasn’t just batting for himself. He was batting for some 15 million people—15 million people who really believed in him.

And so when he struck out, he felt he let all those people down …. And after Larry struck out, he made that long trip to the dugout, and he went down the dugout steps and walked the entire length and sat down at the extreme corner. He was the picture of absolute dejection. And the next hitter was Joe Gordon, one of baseball’s really great hitters. [Gordon is shown on screen taking two strikes.] Joe took a terrific cut at the ball. He missed it by at least six inches more than Larry had. I don’t say that he did it intentionally. But I know he’s never missed a pitch by that much before. Joe too made that long trip back to the dugout. He didn’t stop, but walked the entire length to sit next to [Doby]. He too sat in exactly the same position, to prove to this boy that, here at least, he was just another ballplayer.

The critic for Variety, the show-business trade publication, described this sequence as “heart-warming,” adding that it “should enhance [Doby’s and Gordon’s] popularity.” Even though its content is fabricated, what really matters is the essence, rather than the specifics, of the anecdote and what it reveals about Larry Doby’s plight, Joe Gordon’s character, and Bill Veeck’s commitment to integrating major league baseball. Moreover, other sequences in which Doby and Satchel Paige casually mix with their fellow Indians are extraordinary for the late 1940s, a time when the civil-rights movement was in its infancy and Hollywood movies of recent vintage mostly depicted black characters as comical caricatures: maids and mammies, janitors and train porters who fecklessly wrecked the English language.

Perhaps it was the social-issue aspect of the film that drew its director, Herbert Kline, and screenwriter, John Bright, to the project. Kline was most acclaimed as a maker of humanist, anti-Fascist documentaries, while Bright was a co-founder of the Screen Writers Guild. By the early 1950s, in the wake of the House UnAmerican Activities hearings in Washington and the dawn of McCarthyism, both were blacklisted from Hollywood.

During the shoot, fiction and reality clashed in other ways. Just as the film was released, Leonard Lyons, the syndicated Broadway columnist, reported:

Republic Pictures hired Bill Summers to umpire a ballgame in The Kid from Cleveland, in which Lou Boudreau is called upon to hit a home run. The script provided that the first pitch to Boudreau was to be a strike, the second a ball—and the Boudreau homer …. Summers called the first one a strike, and then called the second one “strike two” … The director, Herbert Kline, corrected the umpire. “That’s a ball. Look at your script” … ‘I’m looking at the plate,” Umpire Summers replied. “Tell your pitcher to look at the script.”

The Kid from Cleveland had its world premiere at the Stillman Theater in the city on September 2, 1949, several days before going into national release. The Sporting News reported that “the premiere … was staged in Cleveland with all the fanfare of a Hollywood opening,” with many of the stars, professional actor and ballplayer alike, on hand to scribble autographs and wave to onlookers.

The film earned mixed notices, with the negative far outweighing the positive. A representative review was penned by Howard Barnes, writing in the New York Herald Tribune. Barnes described the film as

a quasi-documentary which is a silly patchwork of clips, amateur acting and a case history. Ball fans will find interest in authentic shots of the 1948 World Series …. Film fanciers will discover an extraordinarily inept production.

New York Times critic Bosley Crowther dubbed The Kid from Cleveland “a labored tale” and “generally routine.” His piece ran on September 5, and he noted, “In fact, Mr. Veeck and the Indians pay so much attention to [helping Johnny] that one perceives (since the time is the present) why maybe the Indians are in third place.” (Bob Dolgan, writing in the Plain Dealer in 2001, observed that the “distraction” of filming The Kid from Cleveland during the baseball season “is blamed for [the] Indians’ fall to third place” in the 1949 campaign.)

One of the few who liked The Kid from Cleveland was the Variety reviewer. After labeling the film “a sermon on juvenile delinquency,” the scribe admitted that its story was “nicely developed,” noting that it was “best when it focuses on the diamond triumphs and defeats of the 1948 World Champions.” The critic also observed that the film “incorporates the intense baseball enthusiasm in Cleveland.”

Ed McAuley, writing in The Sporting News, gushed over The Kid from Cleveland-perhaps because he appeared in the film. Among his observations: “The players prove surprisingly adept at switching to the world of make-believe” and “the baseball sequences are excellent.” At least he admitted, “This writer, being no movie connoisseur, can only say he got a big kick out of seeing a bunch of guys he knows so well act themselves.”

McAuley offered various witticisms, culled from his baseball knowledge and insider status as a sportswriter. He noted that Gene Bearden “talks much more than he did in The Stratton Story [another 1949 release, in which he played himself], when his contribution to the culture of his times consisted of the muttered word: ‘Okay.’” He observed that Ken Keltner “says more words in the picture than I’ve heard him speak in 13 years, but maybe that’s only because he doesn’t like to talk to sports writers.” McAuley added:

The script writer pulled an amazing boner when he ended the 1948 World Series with Dale Mitchell making the last putout. Lou Boudreau will wonder why he took the trouble to put Bob Kennedy in left field to bolster the defense in the final innings.

McAuley may have been the only “nonactor” participant who did not toss beanballs at the film. In Everything Baseball, James Mote quoted Lou Boudreau on The Kid from Cleveland: “I would like to buy every print of the film and burn it. Boy, that picture was a dog.” Added Veeck, “I have one unwritten law at home that I adhere to: I never allow my kids to mention or see that abortion.” On another occasion, the owner commented on the ballplayer performances by observing, “We failed at playing ourselves.” While interviewing Bob Feller in Cooperstown several years ago, I asked him if he had any memories of making The Kid from Cleveland. He had nothing whatsoever to say about the experience. In his book, Now Pitching, Bob Feller: A Baseball Memoir, he described it as “an entirely forgettable movie” and quipped, “Those ’30 godfathers’ must have been the only people who ever saw it. At least that’s what we hope.”

Despite this negativity, some contemporary Tribe fans and movie aficionados treasure The Kid from Cleveland. In 2006, Plain Dealer film critic Clint O’Connor published a piece on the all-time best baseball movies. The Kid from Cleveland was not one of them. He later reported that he received “about 50 e-mails and phone calls” from readers who suggested films they felt had been “tragically omitted.” Near the top of the list was The Kid from Cleveland. “Some callers suggested I was out of my mind for not including this one,” O’Connor reported, “and that it not only was a great baseball movie, but a great movie, period.”

Whatever one’s opinion of the film’s artistic merits, it is undeniably fun to watch The Kid from Cleveland and savor the presences of its long-ago ballplayer-heroes. One scene in the film features Johnny Barrows on a ballfield during spring training. Johnny has been warming up, and he asks Satchel Paige, “Is this the right windup for your hesitation pitch?” Paige advises him to “watch old Satch” as he shows him the correct way to throw. The youngster tries, but fails miserably. “Don’t worry about that, Johnny,” a supportive Paige declares. “It took me twenty years to get that pitch.” Bob Feller, who has been observing the scene, promptly quips, “Satch, some folks say it took you thirty years.” A second voice chimes in that it might have been forty.

In The Kid from Cleveland, ballplayers comment on their real-life opponents. At one point, Lou Boudreau pronounces, “I wish all my problems were that easy,” in response to a plot development, “Like getting rid of Ted Williams without the Boston Red Sox putting me in jail for it.” In another scene, Boudreau asks Hank Greenberg if he ever batted against a ghost. “I sure did,” Greenberg observes. “His name was Dizzy Dean. I never even saw the ball.”

Much of the dialogue might have been penned by a team publicist rather than a Hollywood screenwriter. After Greenberg’s remark about Dean, Johnny exclaims, “Bet he couldn’t pitch faster than Feller, or Lemon, or Bearden.” Predictably, the youngster wants to grow up to be “a ballplayer on the Indians, a shortstop like Lou Boudreau.” This is not surprising, as Mike Jackson volunteers that Boudreau is “one of the greatest clutch hitters in the game.” Of Tris Speaker, the broadcaster declares, “Mr. Speaker is as well-known in baseball as Shakespeare was a playwright.” In a glaring comment that mirrors life in America during the postwar years, Jackson observes, before Game 5 of the 1948 World Series, “It was a wonderful day for the game. Even the ladies turned out in large numbers, grateful for the nursery that Bill Veeck had introduced to play host to the next generation of Indians fans.” During this game, Veeck notes that over 86,000 spectators have packed into Municipal Stadium. Jackson tells his radio listeners, “Today’s gate raises the Indians total to almost three million people this season. No other team, not even the Yankees in their heyday with Babe Ruth, ever drew that many.”

Of all the nonprofessionals, Boudreau and Veeck have the biggest parts. Given his legendary flair for theatrics, it is no surprise that Variety reported that Veeck “shapes up surprisingly well as a thespian.” One would have to agree with Ed McAuley’s assessment of Veeck’s performance, with the sportswriter describing the owner as “the best of the amateurs.” McAuley might have been thinking of Veeck’ s Doby-Gordon “anecdote” when he observed that Veeck “is so natural that I half expected him to wink and say, ‘Stick around. When this is over, we’ll get together and tell a few lies.’”

The Indians organization received no compensation for participating in the film. The ballplayers also were not paid, but were promised a percentage of the profits. Only trouble is, there were none. The Kid from Cleveland cannot be found on the Variety list of top ninety-two moneymaking films released in 1949. Other baseball movies made the cut: Take Me Out to the Ball Game earned $3,350,000, for thirteenth place; It Happens Every Spring grossed $1,850,000, for fifty-eighth place.

In June 1952, The Sporting News noted:

Hal Lebovitz of the Cleveland News reports that the producers of the movie The Kid from Cleveland sent Lou Boudreau a financial report which showed the film … to be in the red by approximately $150,000 …. The producers added the note, “We hope the Indians win the pennant so we can reissue the film and wipe out the deficit. … Causing Lebovitz to observe, “They obviously forgot that Boudreau is now manager of the rival Boston Red Sox.”

 

FILM CREDITS

The Kid from Cleveland. Released by Republic Pictures. PRODUCER: Walter Calmes. DIRECTOR: Herbert Kline. SCREENPLAY: John Bright, from a story by Kline and Bright. CINEMATOGRAPHER: Jack Marta. EDITOR: Jason H. Bernie. MUSIC: Nathan Scott. ASSOCIATE PRODUCER: K. Elmo Lowe. BASEBALL SUPERVISOR: Lew Fonseca. RUNNING TIME: 89 minutes. CAST: George Brent (Mike Jackson); Lynn Bari (Katherine Jackson); Rusty (Russ) Tamblyn Johnny Barrows); Tommy Cook (Dan Hudson); Ann Doran (Emily Novak); Louis Jean Heydt (Carl Novak); K. Elmo Lowe (Dave Joyce); Johnny Berardino (Mac); The Cleveland Indians Baseball Team with Bill Veeck; Lou Boudreau; Tris Speaker; Hank Greenberg; Bob Feller; Gene Bearden; Satchell (Satchel) Paige; Bob Lemon; Steve Gromek; Joe Gordon; Mickey Vernon; Ken Keltner; Ray Boone; Dale Mitchell; Larry Doby; Bob Kennedy; Jim Hegan. Appearing uncredited: Bobby Avila; Al Benton; Allie Clark; Gordon Cobbledick; Mike Garcia; Bill Grieve; Mel Harder; Franklin Lewis; Ed MacAuley; Bill McKechnie; Frank Papish; Hal Peck; Bill Summers; Mike Tresh; Thurman Tucker; “Lefty” Weisman; Early Wynn; Sam Zoldak. Appearing in archival footage: Alvin Dark; Bob Elliott; Tommy Holmes; Phil Masi; Nelson Potter; Al Rosen; Sibby Sisti; Warren Spahn; Eddie Stanky; Earl Torgeson.

 

SOURCES

Barnes, Howard, “On the Screen.” New York Herald Tribune, September 5, 1949.

Crowther, Bosley. “The Kid from Cleveland.” New York Times, September 5, 1949.

Dolgan, Bob. “Lou Boudreau Highlights.” Plain Dealer, August 12, 2001.

Edelman, Rob. Great Baseball Films. New York: Citadel Press, 1994.

Feller, Bob, with Bill Gilbert. Now Pitching, Bob Feller: A Baseball Memoir. New York: Carol, 1990.

Gee, Michael. “Take me out to the movies.” Boston Herald, May 14, 2004.

Hanson, Patricia King, ed. American Film Institute Catalog of Motion Pictures Produced in the United States: Feature Films, 1941-1950. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999.

“Kid From Cleveland.” Variety, September 7, 1949.

Lyons, Leonard. “The Lyons Den.” Washington Post, September 3, 1949.

McAuley, Ed. “Indians’ Reel Roles Marked by Realism.” The Sporting News, September 14, 1949.

Mote, James. Everything Baseball. New York: Prentice-Hall, 1989.

Motion Picture Production Encyclopedia, 1950 Edition. Hollywood: Hollywood Reporter Press, 1950.

O’Connor, Clint. “Baseball-flick fans tweak the lineup: Readers choose their favorite of critic’s picks, send in their own choices.” Plain Dealer, May 7, 2006.

Ruhl, Oscar. “From the Ruhl Book.” The Sporting News, June 11, 1952.