At the time, it was generally reported that Pete changed his name in order to change his pitching luck.i But decades later, James published a different take on the matter. As maintained in The New Bill James Historical Baseball Abstract, the pitcher became Pete Appleton to please his new bride, one “Aldora Lesczynski” [sic] who, having already been saddled with one multi-syllabic Polish name, “just couldn’t stomach the prospect of going through the rest of her life as Aldora Lesczynski Jablonowski.”ii Although James botched the woman’s name—it was actually Aldona Leszczynski—acquaintances have informed the writer that James’s tale is not an implausible one, noting that Aldona’s brother Thaddeus Leszczynski eventually changed his name to Ted Lesh. But whatever the reason behind her husband’s name change, Mrs. Pete Appleton led a life of distinction, reaching far greater heights in her chosen professions of politics and law than her spouse ever did as a pitcher. Among other things, she was a pioneering female attorney, a significant actor in Central New Jersey political affairs, and a distinguished New Jersey judge, serving on the bench until age 88. By any measure, Aldona Appleton was much more than just a ballplayer’s wife.

Aldona Eugenie Leszczynski was born in Perth Amboy, New Jersey, on September 9, 1900, the older of two children born to Thaddeus Leszczynski (1875-1941) and his wife, the former Leokadya (Lottie) Mieszkowski (1881-1952).iii Aldona’s parents separated when she was a child, and thereafter she grew up in the home of grandparents Michael and Josephine Mieszkowski, ethnic Poles who had emigrated from Czarist Russia in 1891. Grandfather Michael ran a barbershop from the family residence in Perth Amboy, hometown to a sizeable bastion of Polish émigrés. Aldona attended local public schools, graduating from Perth Amboy High School in 1918.

Bright and ambitious, she then worked for several years to raise tuition costs before entering the New Jersey College for Women (now Douglass College, a part of the vast Rutgers University undergraduate system). Aldona graduated in 1924 with honors, but abandoned plans to pursue a career in medicine, because it was too costly and time-consuming. Instead, she enrolled in the New Jersey School of Law (now Rutgers Law School), teaching school part-time to finance her continuing education. Following law school graduation in 1927, Aldona was admitted to the New Jersey Bar, one of only a handful of women from her native Middlesex County to be licensed to practice law. A photo of the 1929 Middlesex County Bar Association membership reveals Aldona Leszczynski to be a blonde-haired woman of striking good looks, and one of only two females portrayed.iv

Early in her legal career, Aldona maintained a modest family law-oriented practice in Perth Amboy and soon took an interest in local politics. Good looking and an excellent dancer, Aldona also led an active social life. In the early 1930s, she met a handsome pianist-bandleader named Peter Jablonowski at a Manhattan dinner dance. A courtship thereafter ensued. As Aldona soon came to appreciate, her new beau was more than just a musician. He was also a professional baseball player, then struggling to revive a major league pitching career that had begun with the Cincinnati Reds in 1927 and thereafter included stints with the Cleveland Indians, Boston Red Sox, and, briefly, the New York Yankees. By 1933, however, Pete was back in the minors, having spent most of the season with the Newark Bears of the International League.v But two life-changing events were on Pete’s horizon. With Aldona shepherding him through the process, Pete legally changed his surname from Jablonowski to Appleton, the Polish word jablon meaning apple in English.vi Then on November 9, 1933, Pete and Aldona were married at St. Stephen’s Roman Catholic Church in Perth Amboy, the city where the newlyweds would make their home for most of their 40-year marriage

The succeeding years were good ones for the Appletons. By 1936, Pete had worked his way back up to the majors, his contract having been purchased by the Washington Senators. Following his standout initial campaign (14-9, with 12 complete games and a 3.53 ERA), both Pete and the Senators went downhill for the rest of the decade. Still, Pete pitched well enough to hang on as a big leaguer. After going a combined 20-34 in his last three Senators seasons, Pete was traded to the Chicago White Sox in December 1939 and hurled mostly relief ball for the Pale Hose until July 1942, when he was released. Pete then signed with the St. Louis Browns, going 1-1 with a 2.96 ERA in 14 late-season appearances.

Although the now 38-year-old pitcher was well past military draft age, Pete Appleton thereupon enlisted in the United States Navy, accepting an officer’s commission in November 1942. For the next three years, Pete’s military duties consisted mainly of pitching for various State-side naval bases, when not entertaining both officers and enlisted men at the piano. On July 3, 1945, Lieutenant JG Peter W. Appleton was honorably discharged from duty. Still reserved to St. Louis, Pete thereupon reported to the Browns. But after being hit hard in two relief outings, he was let go. Determined to continue his pitching career, Appleton promptly re-signed with Washington, where one final major league thrill awaited. On September 8, 1945, he took the mound at Griffith Stadium before President Harry S Truman, cabinet officials, and more than 20,000 fans and threw a five-hit complete game at the Browns, winning 4-1. After the game, Pete described what would be his 57th and final major league win as “a birthday present to my wife.”vii True enough, the following day (September 9) was Adona’s birthday.viii

While Pete was making his baseball comeback, his wife’s professional career was also in ascendance. The key to advancement for Aldona Appleton was a close association with Perth Amboy attorney David T. Wilentz, who became Attorney General of New Jersey in 1934. To this day, Wilentz lingers in public consciousness as the chief prosecutor in the trial of Bruno Hauptmann, who was tried, convicted, and executed for the kidnap-murder of the Lindbergh baby. Locally, however, Wilentz was renowned as the architect and overlord of the Middlesex County Democratic Party, the powerful political organization that maintains a stranglehold on local governmental office to this day. Aldona served Wilentz as a political aide and a valuable liaison to the numerous Polish voters of greater Perth Amboy.ix Era photos of area political gatherings frequently contain Aldona, usually the only woman in the frame. When not attending to her law practice and political chores, Aldona put miles on the family automobile, driving up and down the East Coast to see Pete pitch.x

In the early 1940s, Wilentz arranged Aldona’s appointment to the position of deputy clerk of the Middlesex County courts. She was also the first woman to be elected president of the Perth Amboy and Middlesex County Bar Associations. In 1952, Aldona E. Appleton was the Democratic Party candidate for New Jersey’s Fifth District congressional seat. Running against Republican Peter H. B. Frelinghuysen, II, the scion of a New Jersey political dynasty in a heavily Republican venue, Aldona had little chance of winning and was swamped that November, collecting only 37.8% of the popular vote. Still, her willingness to be a sacrificial candidate was not forgotten by her party.

In July 1958, Democrat Governor Robert B. Meyner appointed Aldona to the New Jersey bench as a judge of the newly created Juvenile and Domestic Relations Court. Sworn in on September 3, 1958, Judge Appleton became only the second female jurist in state history. For the next 12 years, she would preside over the often heart-wrenching matters that came before her with diligence and compassion, ordering the incarceration of even the most incorrigible juvenile offender only as a last resort.

Given Pete Appleton’s education—he was a University of Michigan graduate—and his musical talents as both a pianist and bandleader, Pete did not lack for employment options when his major league pitching career ended. In time, he also returned to school, obtaining the credentials needed for a New Jersey school teaching certificate from Rutgers University. Pete even took classes at New Jersey Law School. Yet apart from some substitute teaching during winters, Pete Appleton spent the remainder of his life in the employ of professional baseball, first as a minor league pitcher, player-manager, and then bench manager, and thereafter as a talent scout for the Washington Senators/Minnesota Twins.

Meanwhile, Aldona continued her duties as a Middlesex County judge until reaching the mandatory judicial retirement age of 70 in 1970. Shortly after Aldona’s retirement from the bench on October 1, the Appletons moved their home to nearby Colonia, New Jersey, as Pete continued his scouting assignments. In the spring of 1973, Pete was placed in charge of the Twins minor league camp in Melbourne, Florida. Soon thereafter, his health began to deteriorate. Diagnosed with cancer, he was later admitted to St. Francis Hospital in Trenton where he died on January 18, 1974, at age 69. Following funeral services, Pete Appleton was interred next to Aldona’s mother at St. Gertrude’s Cemetery in Colonia.

A year later, Aldona’s grief was multiplied by the death of her only sibling, brother Ted Lesh. To combat the effects of loneliness and depression, Aldona subsequently accepted a longstanding offer to return to the Middlesex County bench as a retired judge on temporary recall.xi Given her experience handling family-related related matters, Judge Appleton was assigned to the court unaffectionately known as “Pay or Stay,” where those delinquent in alimony or child support payments are generally afforded the option of satisfying their arrearages or going to jail. Commencing in 1975, this “temporary” return to judicial duty would last for the next 14 years, during which time courthouse observers would marvel at the efficiency and finesse this now elderly jurist brought to her difficult (and often disputatious) judicial post. And characteristically, Judge Appleton sought payment solutions, rather than imposing incarceration, whenever possible, no matter how large the deadbeat hauled before her.

In August 1987, Aldona Appleton, now 86 years old, expressed her appreciation for the recall assignment, telling the New York Times, “If I am not working, I doubt if I’d be around at all.”xii Besides, she added, there was so much work for the county’s judges to do and “I happen to have the experience and I love what I am doing—helping children and families that have problems.”xiii Judge Appleton continued her duties for another two years, retiring from the bench for good in 1989.

On April 17, 1997, Aldona Leszczynski Appleton died quietly at her retirement home in Cranbury, New Jersey. She was 96. Tributes from colleagues flowed in on her passing. New Jersey Superior Court Judge Joseph F. Deegan, Jr., a fellow Perth Amboy native, remembered Aldona as “a very gracious lady and a compassionate judge [who would] be missed by all who knew her,” while her friend Judge Martin Kravarik recalled that Judge Appleton “believed being a judge was the highest calling in the world.”xiv Following a Funeral Mass at St. Stephen’s Church, Aldona was laid to rest besides her husband and mother at St. Gertrude’s Cemetery. Without children, she was survived by sister-in-law Helen Lesh and Pete’s youngest brother, Alex S. Jablonowski, Jr.

During her lifetime, Judge Appleton had been honored by organizations including the New Jersey Association of Chosen Freeholders, the New Jersey Catholic and Jewish War Veterans associations, the New Jersey Chiefs of Police Association, and the New Jersey Association of Free Public Libraries, often being feted as their “The Woman of the Year.”xv To preserve the memory of this selfless and dedicated attorney/jurist after her death, the Middlesex County Bar Association subsequently named its annual laurel for women achieving excellence in the legal profession the Aldona E. Appleton Award. And in Spring 2001, Middlesex County dedicated a handsome new five-story courthouse building, its foyer graced by a large oil painting of Judge Aldona E. Appleton, the judicial pioneer who served as the county’s first juvenile and family court judge – a fitting reminder of a woman who was far more than just a ballplayer’s wife.

Acknowledgement

The writer, a retired 27-year member of the Middlesex County Prosecutor’s Office, was introduced to Judge Appleton in 1980, but never appeared in court before her and knew her only slightly. The biographical aspects of this profile have been drawn largely from US Census data, the extensive Aldona Appleton obituaries published in The (Newark) Star-Ledger and The (East Brunswick, NJ) Home News Tribune, and the reminiscences of New Jersey Superior Court Judge Martin Kravarik, distinguished Woodbridge attorney Warren W. Wilentz, and other colleagues and acquaintances of Judge Appleton who spoke to the writer after the Bill James anecdote about Pete Appleton’s name change was published in 2001.

Notes

Three seasons and one legal name change later, he resurfaced as Pete Appleton, notching a career-best 14 wins for the 1936 Washington Senators. For the next nine years, with time out for World War II naval service, Appleton remained in uniform, hurling his final major-league game as a 41-year-old in September 1945. The remainder of his life was likewise devoted to the game, first as a player-manager in various minor leagues and thereafter as a fulltime scout for the Senators and Minnesota Twins. By the time of his death in early 1974, Pete Appleton had spent 47 years associated with professional baseball.

A life in baseball was far from foreordained for Peter William Jablonowski when he was born in Terryville, Connecticut on May 20, 1904. It certainly was not the ambition harbored for the oldest of their four boys by Pete’s parents, Alex Jablonowski, a lock maker of Polish descent born in Pennsylvania, and wife, Mary.1 With the musical talents of her eldest child evident from an early age, Mary Jablonowski, in particular, envisioned her son forging a career in the arts as a concert pianist, perhaps becoming another Paderewski (rather than another Coveleski).2 But Pete’s athletic abilities could not be denied. At Terryville High School, he excelled in basketball and was a premier track and field man, setting a state record for the shot put.3

But it was on the baseball diamond where Pete really shined. A converted shortstop, Jablonowski pitched high school no-hitters against Woodbury and Litchfield, striking out 24 batters in the game against Woodbury.4 He also attracted attention pitching in the Waterbury City Amateur League. Although a professional career beckoned, furthering Pete’s education was the priority of his parents. Accordingly, he matriculated to the University of Michigan as a music studies major, his enrollment arranged by Terryville High School Principal Harry Fisher, who just happened to be the older brother of Wolverines baseball coach Ray Fisher, formerly a standout major-league pitcher.5 At Michigan, Pete Jablonowski performed capably in both the classroom and on the field. An excellent student, Pete was a member of the Polonia Literary Society at the university, as well as a sought-after pianist and fledgling band leader. On the diamond, he alternated between the mound and third base, where he formed part of the tongue-twisting around-the-horn combo of Jablonowski to Puckelwartz to Oosterban.6 By his senior year, Pete was the pitching ace of the Wolverines’ 1926 Western Conference (Big Ten) championship team. At campaign’s end, he then commenced his professional baseball career, signing with the Waterbury Brasscos of the Class A Eastern League.7

Joining the club in June, Jablonowski posted unspectacular numbers (7-6, with a 4.30 ERA in 23 games) for the lackluster seventh-place Brasscos. But his maiden pro season was highlighted by a 3-0 no-hitter against Bridgeport on August 17, and a last-day 15 strikeout relief appearance versus New Haven. This latter performance was witnessed first-hand by Cincinnati Reds manager Jack Hendricks, and resulted in Jablonowski being drafted by the Reds in the offseason. Optioned to Eastern League Hartford the following spring, Pete was a creditable 9-8 with a 2.99 ERA in 226 innings for the sixth-place Senators, earning himself a late-season promotion to the big club. On September 14, 1927, Jablonowski made his major-league debut, relieving starter Jakie May in what appeared to be a lost cause against the Phillies. A ninth-inning rally, begun with an RBI single by the good-hitting Jablonowski and completed by a bases-loaded triple by Rube Bressler, made Pete the winning pitcher. After several more relief appearances, he got his first start against Brooklyn, but was himself the victim of a ninth-inning rally that cost him a 5-3 defeat. On October 2, Pete bounced back, outdueling Pittsburgh’s Lee Meadows with a four-hit 1-0 complete game victory. In six games for the 1927 Reds, Jablonowski finished at 2-1 over 29 2/3 innings, but had recorded only three strikeouts (compared to 17 walks), an early indication that his stuff was something less than overpowering when pitted against major-league opposition.

Pete made the Reds roster the following spring but did not stay with the club the entire season, being optioned at mid-year to the Columbus Senators of the American Association. Before he went down, Jablonowski experienced the great thrill of his early baseball career. Taking over for a battered Jakie May in the first inning of a June contest, Pete thereafter outdueled Dazzy Vance for a 5-3 win in 11 innings. Recalled from Columbus in August, he ultimately saw action in 31 contests for the 1928 Reds, going 3-4 with a 4.68 ERA, mostly in relief. The following season, Jablonowski was once again assigned to Columbus, where he posted a solid 18-12 mark in 246 innings pitched. As the Senators’ campaign drew to a close, Cincinnati again recalled Pete, but Commissioner Landis, disturbed by the coziness of the Cincinnati-Columbus arrangement, would not allow it. He voided the transfer and declared the now 24-year-old hurler eligible for the upcoming draft. With that, Columbus promptly sold Jablonowski to the Cleveland Indians for $20,000.8

While waiting for his American League career to commence, Pete took post-graduate courses at the Michigan Conservatory of Music and sought engagements as a pianist and band leader. Back on the field, he spent the next two seasons entirely with Cleveland, going 8-7 (1930) and 4-4 (1931), again mostly in relief outings but with an occasional start. As in the NL, American League hitters did not find Jablonowski’s stuff overpowering, and he walked more batters (82) than he fanned (70). He began the 1932 season with several dismal relief appearances for the Indians, and was then traded to the Red Sox for 18-game loser Jack Russell. Pete’s downward slide continued in Boston. After going 0-3 in 11 games, he was sent to the Sox’ International League farm team in Newark. There, Pete suddenly regained his form, posting a sterling 11-1 record in 12 starts for the pennant-bound Bears. But in the minor-league Little World Series against the American Association champion Minneapolis Millers, he dropped his only decision, a route-going 3-2 loss in 10 innings.

That winter, the upturn in Pete Jablonowski’s fortunes extended from the diamond into his personal life. At a Manhattan hotel dinner dance, the handsome ballplayer-pianist met Aldona Leszczynski, an attractive female attorney from Perth Amboy, New Jersey, and courtship promptly ensued. On November 9, 1933, the two were wed at St. Stephen’s Roman Catholic Church in the bride’s hometown, the place where the newlyweds would reside throughout their 40-year marriage. Pete’s marital status was not the only thing that changed that year. Assisted through the legal process by Aldona, Pete officially changed his surname from Jablonowski to Appleton, the Polish word jablon being the equivalent of apple in English.9

Back on the baseball front, Pete was now the property of the New York Yankees, being among the assets acquired when the Newark franchise was purchased from Boston. He got little chance with New York, his tenure as a Yankee confined to a two-inning relief stint in a lone 1933 contest.10 He spent most of the season with Newark, going 13-7 for the Bears. Thereafter, Pete was sold to Baltimore of the International League which subsequently optioned him to the rival Rochester Red Wings.

After he had posted a combined 11-13 record for the 1934 campaign, Baltimore reclaimed Pete Appleton and then sold him to another International League competitor, the Montreal Royals. There, the rejuvenation of his pitching career would begin. Going 23-9 with a fine 3.17 ERA for the pennant-bound Royals, Pete Appleton was the IL’s leading winner and generally acclaimed the circuit’s best pitcher. That winter, appreciative Montreal owner-manager Frank Shaughnessy cleared the way for Pete to get another major-league shot, selling his rights to the Washington Senators for $7,500.

The 5’11” and 183 lb. veteran was now almost 32 years old. As described by Washington Post sports columnist (and soon-to-become ardent Pete Appleton booster) Shirley Povich, Appleton was a deliberate worker who did not throw hard, delivering his assortment of pitches via an over-the-top motion.11 But while his stuff was still adjudged no more than adequate by major-league standards, Washington brass hoped that Pete, if used judiciously, would prove a useful addition to a Senators pitching corps in serious decline from the pennant-winning performance of three seasons earlier. Alternating between the rotation and the bullpen, Appleton vindicated his acquisition, going 14-9, with 12 complete games and a creditable 3.53 ERA for the 1936 season, one that saw the Senators (82-71) post a 15-win improvement over the previous campaign. Unhappily for the DC faithful, neither the Senators nor Appleton would continue the good work, with the 1937 season seeing both the club (73-80) and the pitcher (8-15) headed in the wrong direction. The following two years, Appleton worked primarily in relief, turning in sub-par (7-9 and 5-10) logs for second division Washington teams.

In December 1939, Appleton was a throw-in in the trade that sent hard-hitting Taft Wright to the Chicago White Sox in exchange for outfielder Gee Walker. Appleton was used sparingly by Chicago, going 4-0 with a high 5.62 ERA in 25 relief appearances in 1940. He near reversed that win-loss mark the following season, posting a 0-3 record, with a 5.27 ERA in 13 games. Pete remained on the Sox roster for the 1942 campaign, but was released in early July after pitching less than five meaningless innings. Shortly thereafter, he signed with the St. Louis Browns, going 1-1 with a 2.96 ERA in 14 relief appearances.

Although the 38-year old pitcher was well beyond exposure to the military draft, Pete Appleton then enlisted in the United States Navy, accepting an officer’s commission in November 1942. Like many big leaguers, his military service in World War II consisted mainly of playing baseball on States-side armed forces teams, first with the Navy Pre-Flight nine at Chapel Hill, North Carolina (where Pete also entertained staff and cadets with his musical talents), and thereafter at Naval Air Station Quonset Point in Rhode Island.

On July 3, 1945, Lieutenant JG Peter W. Appleton, now age 41, was honorably discharged from duty. Still reserved to St. Louis, Pete thereupon reported to the Browns. After being hit hard in two relief outings, Appleton was released. Determined to continue his playing career, Appleton then signed with Washington, where one final major-league thrill awaited. On September 8, 1945, he took the mound at Griffith Stadium before President Harry S. Truman, cabinet officials, and more than 20,000 fans and threw a five-hit complete game at the Browns, winning 4-1.12

The spring of 1946 saw Appleton in camp with the Senators, but he drew his unconditional release just before the club headed north. Press friend Shirley Povich informed readers that Appleton was “undecided about his future. He doesn’t want to pitch in the minors and is toying with the idea of jumping to the Mexican League, teaching school, or organizing a band.”13

While making up his mind, Pete returned to his home in Perth Amboy, where, among other things, he could reflect upon a respectable, if unspectacular, major league career. In 14 seasons, he had gone 57-66,14 with a 4.30 ERA in 1,141 innings pitched, striking out 420 batters while walking 486. He had also helped his teams with the bat, hitting .233 in 374 lifetime at-bats.

In time, Pete returned to school, obtaining the credentials needed for a New Jersey teaching certificate from Rutgers University. He also took classes at New Jersey Law School.15 Try as he might, Pete Appleton could not shake baseball from his system. In 1946, he hooked on with the Buffalo Bisons, the Detroit affiliate in the International League, posting a 9-5 record that season, followed by a 7-7 log for the Bisons in 1948. He returned to Buffalo in 1949, but after a single appearance, dropped down to the Sherman-Dennison Twins of the Class B Big State League, going 12-4 in 17 starts. The following year, Pete began his minor-league managing career, taking the helm at Sherman-Dennison in midseason and bringing the Twins (70-78) home in fifth place, all the while continuing to take his turn on the mound. Appleton’s combined 9-10 record for 1949 includes a 1-0 mark in six games for the Dallas Eagles of the Class AA Texas League, as well.

In 1950, Appleton became a full-time manager, guiding the Augusta Tigers of the Class A Sally League to a 66-87 (seventh place) finish. But he proved unable to resist the temptation to insert himself into the action, going 2-2 with a 2.25 ERA in 13 relief appearances for his club. Pete Appleton made his final pitching appearances at age 47, appearing in ten games without a decision for the pennant-winning (85-40) Erie Sailors of the Class C Middle Atlantic League, while being named co-manager of the league all-star team.

In 1952, Pete found himself as non-playing manager for the Roanoke Rapid Jays of the lowly Class D Coastal Plain League. The following season, the Appleton-guided Charlotte Hornets captured the post-season championship of the Class B Tri-State League. The 1954 season saw the Charlotte club and manager Appleton promoted to the Sally League, but with the team languishing at 27-45, Pete was replaced as Hornets manager by Ellis Clary, thus bringing the first phase of his managerial career to a close.

Once again back in Perth Amboy, Pete accepted a baseball scouting position, scouring the East Coast in search of prospects for his old club, the Washington Senators. He also made use of his teaching license, substitute teaching during the offseason. In addition, Pete was a loyal member of the Perth Amboy Elks, actively involved in the affairs of St. Stephen’s parish, and a reliable attendee at NY/NJ Hot Stove gatherings. Perhaps more important, his presence at home lent support to wife Aldona, a rising star on the local political scene and headed for appointment to the bench, becoming in 1958 only the second female state court judge in New Jersey history. All this activity, however, did not ease Pete Appleton’s itch to get back into uniform. And on June 21, 1964, 60-year-old Appleton replaced Jack McKeon (a neighbor from next-door South Amboy, NJ, and decades later, the manager of the 2003 World Champion Florida Marlins) as skipper of the last-place Atlanta Crackers of the International League. At season’s end, Pete surrendered the Atlanta reins, but the following season he was back in harness, albeit only briefly, serving a one-week tour of duty as interim manager of the Wisconsin Rapid Twins of the Class A Midwest League. Appleton’s final managerial stint occurred in 1970 when he returned to Charlotte, replacing Harry Warner at the Hornets helm late in the season.

Between managing assignments, Appleton had remained a scout for the Senators, and thereafter, the Minnesota Twins. In spring 1973, he was placed in charge of the Twins’ minor-league camp in Melbourne, Florida. But soon thereafter, Pete’s health began to deteriorate. Diagnosed with cancer, he was later admitted to St Francis Hospital in Trenton, where he died on January 18, 1974 at age 69. Following a Funeral Mass at St. Stephen’s Church, Pete Appleton was interred at St. Gertrude’s Cemetery in Colonia, New Jersey. Without children, he was survived by wife Aldona, and brothers Joseph, John, and Alex Jablonowski, Jr. Unlike the situation of many who entered the game almost a century ago, baseball was not the only means toward upward mobility available to Peter William Jablonowski/Appleton. Handsome, intelligent, well-educated, and musically talented, he had various career options at his disposal. A life as a journeyman pitcher, minor league manager, and baseball scout was entirely a matter of choice for Pete Appleton. And the game was surely made better because of the path chosen by this honorable and dedicated professional.

Notes

DiMaggio married Dorothy Arnold of Duluth, Minnesota, on November 19, 1939, in San Francisco, his hometown. With 30,000 onlookers gathered on the streets of North Beach and newsreel cameras rolling, the storybook wedding captured the nation’s attention.

Dorothy Arnoldine Olson was born on November 21, 1917, the third of five daughters of V. Arnold and Clara (née Kolbak) Olson. Her father, born in Duluth’s twin port of Superior, Wisconsin, won the Duluth city ski-jumping championship in 1910 and worked as a conductor for the Northern Pacific railroad. Clara hailed from Duluth.

Arnold first went on stage as a teenager during amateur nights at Duluth’s Lyric Theater, which led to her taking lessons from the Geraldine Butler School of Dance. Billed with Dorothy Tetzman as “Dot and Dot (With a Little Bit of Dash),” the girls performed song-and-dance routines in Duluth and the surrounding area.

Arnold graduated from Duluth’s Denfeld High School in 1935. Allowed to take her final exams early, she left home that spring to join the Band Box Revue out of Chicago. She adopted her stage name around that time.

Moving on to New York, she attended the Paramount School of Acting. “Between classes, she worked at NBC as a [radio] staff singer, posed for shots in magazine stories, modeled for ladies’ wear in ads, modeled clothes, and was in short-subject films,” wrote Joyce M. Hadley in her biography of her sister, Dorothy Arnold: Joe DiMaggio’s First Wife.1

In 1937, she appeared on the cover of True Romances magazine and met DiMaggio while working as an extra on the set of Manhattan Merry-Go-Round. DiMaggio had a few speaking lines in the film, which featured musicians Cab Calloway, Louis Prima, and Gene Autry.

Then it was off to Hollywood, as she signed a contract with Universal Studios. She appeared in four films in 1938, the first of which was called The Storm. A comparison to Hedy Lamarr ensued in Erskine Johnson’s gossip column.

Arnold notched seven acting credits and two uncredited parts in Hollywood features in 1939. Her first significant role was in The House of Fear. She also starred in the 12-part serial The Phantom Creeps, with Béla Lugosi. On a seemingly unstoppable roll, she recalled her beginnings in Paul Harrison’s “Harrison in Hollywood” syndicated column in the spring of 1939:

“As a kid in Duluth I was an awful tomboy — always playing baseball and football with the sandlot boys. But that was only until I got to be 13 and decided to be a singer and dancer. By the time I was 15 I looked 22 and was doing torch songs in night clubs. … I went into vaudeville with a song and dance specialty … and the next season went east, where I tried little[-]theater work, and stock, and tried to crash Broadway. I almost starved, and sometimes I sang with cheap dance orchestras. Ever since then I’ve been a sucker for hard-luck stories; whenever anybody mentions ‘landlord,’ I reach for my purse.”2

The year ended with her most prominent role yet — Joe DiMaggio’s bride. Since she’d met DiMaggio, the arc of her life zipped like a Bob Feller fastball. After the wedding, it moved like a Tommy Bridges curveball.

Arnold quit acting. A product of his times, DiMaggio expected his wife to be at home.

The couple came to the Midwest in January of 1941. In Duluth, DiMaggio visited the All-Sports Municipal Stadium (called Wade Stadium since 1954), still under construction at the time. They then traveled to Northfield, Minnesota, where Arnold’s sister Leone’s husband, Duluth native Orville Dahl, taught English and was dean of men at St. Olaf College (he later became the first president of California Lutheran University). Their final stop, Rice Lake, Wisconsin, is where Joyce and her husband, Les Hadley, lived.

The stay in Wisconsin exposed the peaks and valleys of the relationship.

DiMaggio, disquieted by the attention Arnold gave to Les’s boss and coworker who stopped by to meet the celebrities, silently left the gathering at the Hadley residence. Les discovered DiMaggio down the street in a tavern and persuaded him to return.

Olson family lore has it that Joe DiMaggio Jr., born on October 23, 1941, was conceived in Rice Lake, within the paper-thin walls of the Hadleys’ apartment.

If Arnold thought that having a baby would smooth out the rocky marriage — DiMaggio, emotionally unavailable, spent most evenings away from their upper Manhattan home — it had the opposite effect. (Perhaps Arnold had the best insight as to what Paul Simon meant by “Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?”)

They separated in 1942 but reconciled. Another separation occurred in 1943. DiMaggio’s military service during World War II delayed the inevitable and they divorced in 1944. They resumed an on-again-off-again relationship that turned off in 1946 when Arnold married George C. Schubert in Baltimore, Maryland.

The Schuberts lived a life of “dining, dancing, and fabulous parties” at the Waldorf Astoria hotel in New York, according to Hadley. Schubert, a stockbroker, took over Arnold’s finances. By the time they divorced in 1950, Arnold had lost everything except DiMaggio’s $150-per-month child support. She sued unsuccessfully to have it raised to $650 in 1951.

She tried acting again and appeared on a television episode of The Lone Wolf in 1954. In 1957, her credits included one episode each of TV’s The Adventures of Jim Bowie and Dragnet, and the film Lizzie. Her final screen role was in a 1958 film called Fräulein.

Although acting parts eluded Arnold in the 1950s and ’60s, she found success in the nightclub circuit.

Arnold married Ralph Peck (Peckovich) in Reno, Nevada, in 1970. Peck played football for Arizona State and received a Purple Heart while serving in the Navy during World War II. The couple owned and operated Charcoal Charlie’s, a restaurant in Cathedral City, California, for 14 years. Arnold provided the entertainment by singing and dancing. She also kept the business’s books.

After spearheading a successful grassroots movement to halt the construction of a road in her neighborhood, Arnold was elected president of the Cathedral City Chamber of Commerce in 1973. She held the position for two years.

Arnold, raised as a Presbyterian, converted to Catholicism to marry DiMaggio and eventually believed in the teachings of Christian Science. When she fell ill in 1984 — some sources cite pancreatic cancer — she requested that Peck take her to the Gerson Therapy Center in Tijuana, Mexico. She died in Tijuana at age 66 on November 13, 1984, after a two-week stay. Her body was shipped to a crematory in San Diego and the ashes were then placed in the Pacific Ocean.

In 1992, the crematory company settled a class-action suit in which it was alleged to have committed several improprieties in its operations between 1981 and 1991. Because no family members saw the body, Hadley had her doubts as to the actual whereabouts of her sister’s remains. Peck died in his native Arizona in 2007.

Joe DiMaggio died on March 8, 1999. Monroe’s death in 1962 affected him deeply; he never remarried. Joe Jr. died five months after his father. The younger DiMaggio struggled with drug abuse and homelessness for the last 20 years of his life and was estranged from both of his parents. He was 57.

Hadley, the last living Olson sister, appeared on the PBS documentary series American Experience when it dedicated an episode to the life of DiMaggio in 2000. She died in Illinois in 2016.

Acknowledgments

This biography was reviewed by Len Levin and fact-checked by Chris Rainey. It first appeared, in slightly different form, in the Spring 2018 edition of Rootprints, the newsletter of the St. Louis County (Minnesota) Historical Society.

Sources

Besides the sources cited in the Notes, the following were consulted:

Engelberg, Morris, and Marv Schneider. DiMaggio: Setting the Record Straight (Minneapolis: Motorbooks International, 2003).

Ouse, David. Forgotten Duluthians (Duluth, Minnesota: X-presso Books, 2010).

“Clara F. Olson [Obituary], Duluth News Tribune, May 26, 1981.

Ralph Dan Peckovich [Obituary], Arizona Republic (Phoenix), May 8, 2007.

V.A. Arnold (Clara) Olson [Obituary], Duluth News Tribune, March 27, 1979.

“Dorothy Arnold,” imdb.com/name/nm0036419/, accessed February 2, 2018.

“Joe DiMaggio: The Hero’s Life,” American Experience, Season 12, Episode 14, youtube.com/watch?v=_8ugjGF1PZ8, accessed February 2, 2018.

“Joyce Meredith Olson Hadley,” findagrave.com/memorial/158311432/joyce-meredith-hadley, accessed February 2, 2018.

Duluth Public Library.

Notes

1 Joyce M. Hadley, Dorothy Arnold: Joe DiMaggio’s First Wife. (Oak Park, Illinois: Chauncey Park Press, 2004).

2 Paul Harrison, “In Hollywood,” Trenton (New Jersey) Evening Times, April 18, 1939.

Once Brush became active in baseball, the only competitor for his time and affection was family. A guarded, humorless man in conference with his peers or in dealing with the sporting press, he could be surprisingly convivial in private, particularly when in the company of trusted friends and family. And John T. was never more at ease than when in the company of the important women in his life: second wife Elsie Lombard Brush (pictured at right), elder daughter Eleanor Brush Hempstead, and Eleanor’s 25 years younger half-sister, Natalie.

Although not constant influences, the Brush women occasionally assumed significant roles in the events that shaped the Brush legacy — to date an aspect of the magnate’s life neglected in assessments of his place in baseball history. This essay is an attempt to fill that void.

John Tomlinson Brush was born on June 15, 1845, in Clintonville, New York, a remote upstate hamlet situated near the Canadian border, and was descended from Scotch-Irish stock.1He was born into a family that had just lost its breadwinner. His father, also named John Tomlinson Brush, had died a month earlier at the age of 35. Soon thereafter, widow Sarah Farrar Brush and her four young children relocated to the village of Lawrence, New York, where Sarah succumbed shortly after the 1850 US Census was taken.2 The Brush orphans were then taken in by grandfather Eliphalet Brush and his second wife, Melinda Pier Brush.3 Work on the Brush farm in Hopkinton was hard and the accommodations spartan. Cramped living quarters required young John and his brother George to sleep in a barn. Escaping rural drudgery at 17, John took a short course of study at Eastman’s Business College in Poughkeepsie, New York, winning a $25 prize for a pen sketch of an eagle.4 Thereafter, he proceeded to Boston, where he got his first taste of the retail clothing trade.

On September 2, 1864, 19-year-old John T. Brush enlisted as a private in the 1st New York Artillery Regiment and likely saw action at the Civil War front. Mustered out unscathed in June 1865, Brush proceeded to Troy, where in time he was befriended by George Pixley, a principal in the newly formed retail clothing business of Owen, Pixley & Company. Within a few years, Brush advanced from clothing salesman to store manager to firm partner in Owen, Pixley. Somewhere along the way he met Margaret Agnes Ewart, a woman about whom little is known except that she was born in upstate New York and married John T. Brush on October 18, 1869. One intriguing but unsettled detail about the first Mrs. Brush is her age. In the 1880 US Census, Margaret Brush is estimated to be about 27 years old, which would have made her a 16-year-old bride in 1869. (This was not particularly remarkable for the time.) But New York pioneer family historian Carlton E. Sanford and Brush family tree poster Vicki Corkhill give Margaret Agnes Ewart a precise birthdate: December 26, 1855. If true, that would indicate that John T. Brush married a 13-year-old. And that this child bride began bearing his children at a tender age, delivering daughter Eleanor Gordon Brush (pictured at right) in Albany on March 18, 1871, at the age of 15.

More than a hundred years after the fact, Natalie Brush de Gendron, a late-life Brush daughter by his second wife, asserted that the Margaret/John Brush marriage was not a happy one and that the couple divorced shortly after Eleanor’s birth.5 But census and other records appear to tell a different story. First of all, Margaret (or Agnes, as she was sometimes referred to), bore Brush a second child, a daughter named Adalaide who did not survive infancy. New York census records, moreover, place John T. Brush, Margaret, and Eleanor under one roof in Lockport, New York, where Brush managed an Owen, Pixley store in 1873-1874. Later in 1874, Brush was dispatched to Indianapolis as Owen, Pixley expanded operations westward. After frustrating delays, a company outpost, the whimsically named When Store, was opened on March 20, 1875. With consumer interest whetted by the dour Brush’s improbable flair for promotion and advertisement, the operation proved a resounding success, eventually becoming the largest department store between New York and Chicago.6 The store’s boss quickly immersed himself in the commercial and civic affairs of his new hometown and was soon a leading figure in various Indianapolis civic and fraternal organizations. All the while, local and US census data have John, Margaret, and Eleanor Brush living in Indianapolis. But all may not have been well in the Brush marriage. Beginning in the early 1880s, Indianapolis city directories list John and Margaret Brush as residing at different addresses, with Margaret identified as the widow of (the very much alive) John T. Brush.7 On June 9, 1888, Margaret Brush died quietly in Indianapolis. Despite the prominence of her husband, no obituary was published in the local newspapers.8 All that is known is that Margaret Ewart Brush was laid to rest in the Brush family plot in Crown Hill Cemetery in Indianapolis.9

The Brush family women appear to have played no role in John T. Brush’s entry into baseball. Local legend has it that Brush first became enthusiastic about the game after reading a Spalding Guide confiscated from an idle store clerk. Or that Brush’s interest stemmed from acceptance of stock in an Indianapolis ballclub as payment for a debt. The facts are more prosaic. Brush was first exposed to baseball while working at company stores in upstate New York, a hotbed of the early game. Later he seized upon baseball as a vehicle for advertising the When Store. In 1882 Brush organized a municipal baseball league, building a diamond with a grandstand in northwestern Indianapolis for league games and engaging Jack Kerins as player-manager of the When Store team. When the major leagues mushroomed in 1884 in response to the Union Association threat, Brush and other local investors gained an American Association franchise for Indianapolis.10 The Hoosiers were a noncompetitive (29-78) 11th-place finisher in the swollen 12-team league and were eliminated from the American Association in the league contraction after the season. But the dismal performance of the Indianapolis nine was no discouragement to John T. Brush. He had become smitten with baseball.

Determined to remain involved with the game, Brush backed an Indianapolis team in the newly formed Western League. Outclassing the competition, the club record stood at 27-4 when the Western League collapsed in early July of 1885. Brush then made overtures toward acquiring the National League’s Detroit Wolverines, but was rebuffed. He and other Indianapolis investors had better luck purchasing the financially ailing National League St. Louis Maroons. Taking title in late 1886, the Brush group immediately relocated the franchise to Indianapolis, where John T. assumed the post of club president. On the domestic front, meanwhile, Brush and Eleanor lived comfortably in an Indianapolis mansion. In time, nieces Carrie and Cora Brush joined the family household.11 Sometime during this period, however, a silent, existence-altering event occurred in the life of John T. Brush. He contracted syphilis. Largely untreatable at the time, the disease would manifest itself in the form of locomotor ataxia, a painful wasting disorder that slowly disabled Brush’s legs and inflicted other miseries.12 Signs of the disease were evident by 1890 and Brush’s health entered a slow but irreversible decline.

In addition to guiding the fortunes of the Indianapolis club, Brush threw himself into the administration of the National League, sitting on various policymaking committees. The adoption of one Brush initiative by the league, a tightfisted player salary classification plan, was a major cause of the player revolt that led to the debilitating Players League War of 1890. Ironically, Brush himself was among the first casualties of that conflict, with the NL liquidating his Indianapolis franchise as a preemptive wartime measure. But Brush had no intention of being forced out of the game. He exacted stiff reparations from the league, remained a member of the National League ownership council, and obtained the promise of the next available National League franchise from fellow magnates. Then, in July 1890, he took a stake in the New York Giants by accepting club stock in lieu of payment for players under contract to the defunct Indianapolis club who had been transferred to the roster-depleted Giants. By April 1891 Brush was back in National League ownership ranks as president and majority shareholder of a reorganized Cincinnati Reds franchise. For the next decade Brush served as a convenient target for the brickbats of local sportswriters and Reds fans aggrieved by the lackluster play of his also-ran Cincinnati teams.

Diversion from the disappointments occasioned by the Reds’ lack of success took an unlikely form: a young stage actress who would become the second Mrs. John T. Brush. Elsie Boyd Lombard was born in Baltimore on November 26, 1869, the only child of George Washington Lombard and his wife, the former Anna Snow Claridge. George Lombard, the manager of the Western Union telegraph operation in Baltimore, was stage-struck and had his daughter on the boards while she was still a teenager. Elsie progressed from ingénue to supporting player to female lead in various stock companies, including the prestigious Lyceum Theatre Company of New York. In early 1894 Elsie appeared in a production entitled A Temperance Town.13 Among the patrons was theater lover John T. Brush. Immediately drawn to her, Brush began paying court to the actress. A handsome woman if not a beauty, Elsie did not lack would-be suitors, but her father had always kept them at arm’s length. But George Lombard had died the previous fall, leaving the path clear for a new beau, one twice Elsie’s age. When the couple was married on June 6, 1894, the groom was almost 49 years old. The bride was 24, or only 16 months older than Eleanor Brush. In a late-life interview with the Indianapolis Star, Natalie Brush de Gendron ungallantly implied that her mother’s acceptance of John T.’s marriage proposal was prompted by her desire for security, not romance.14 Whether true or not, Elsie Brush would prove devoted to her husband.

Later the same year, Eleanor Brush married Harry Newton Hempstead, then a 26-year-old executive with a freight transportation company. A man of principle and sound, if cautious, judgment, Hempstead would become invaluable to John T. Brush, in time serving both his business and baseball interests. In January 1896 a new daughter entered Brush’s life: Natalie Lombard Brush (pictured at right).15 Whatever the unhappiness at the ballpark, John T. reveled in his new family life. His young wife excelled as a hostess and the Brush estate, renamed Lombardy in her honor, was a frequent destination for theatrical stars (Sarah Bernhardt, Henry Irving, Ellen Terry) and literary lions (Arthur Conan Doyle, James Whitcomb Riley) traveling through Indianapolis. In 1901 Brush severed the connection to Owen, Pixley and reorganized his retail business as the When Clothing Company, Inc. He then prevailed upon son-in-law Harry Hempstead to relocate to Indianapolis and assume effective control of corporate operations. Entrusting his business interests to Hempstead allowed Brush to concentrate on achieving his overarching ambition in baseball: ownership of the New York Giants.

Brush, a minority shareholder in the Giants club since July 1890, had long coveted the franchise. Since January 1895 the Giants had been controlled by Andrew Freedman, an able but volatile New Yorker who had made a fortune in real estate and municipal finance. Brush and Freedman were frequently at odds in gatherings of National League team owners, and had once even come to blows in a Manhattan Hotel. But the two had reached an understanding in October 1898 and had thereafter worked in concert, often to the dismay of fellow magnates and a hostile sporting press. Starting in 1900, Freedman and Brush collaborated on schemes – the contraction of the National League from 12 teams to eight, the elimination of syndicate club ownership, an ill-fated baseball trust plan, exclusion of New York from the American League – that left the baseball world in near constant turmoil.16 By 1902, however, Giants ownership had lost its charm for Freedman and he was preoccupied by other demands on his time, particularly myriad duties attending the construction of New York City’s first subway system. As soon as Brush could raise the necessary cash (by selling his majority interest in the Cincinnati Reds to local politicos), Freedman would transfer control of the New York Giants to him. But before the franchise changed hands, the two launched a devious plot to gut a prospective Gotham baseball rival, the American League team then playing in Baltimore. Assigned a small but pivotal role in maneuvers was none other than Elsie Brush.

Key to the plan was the wooing of Orioles manager John McGraw, chafing under the disciplinary yoke of American League President Ban Johnson and fearful of being cut out of the anticipated removal of the Baltimore franchise to New York for the 1903 season. Under 15-day suspension by Johnson for abusing umpires, McGraw paid a discreet predawn visit to Indianapolis. To preserve the confidentiality of McGraw’s arrival, Brush dispatched his wife to pick McGraw up. An intimate carriage ride to Lombardy with the vivacious and worldly Elsie Brush rendered the quarry suitably weak-kneed and, in short order, John McGraw was secured as new Giants manager.17 By means equally clandestine, control of the Baltimore franchise was then rendered to Freedman, who promptly released the Orioles’ best players, including future Hall of Famers Roger Bresnahan, Joe McGinnity, and Joe Kelley. They and the others were then signed by either the Freedman Giants or the Brush Reds. Only swift and resourceful action by Ban Johnson acting under the league charter wrested the Baltimore franchise away from Freedman and preserved the Orioles for the American League and their long-planned removal to New York.

In September 1902 John T. Brush became the majority owner of the New York Giants. He and manager McGraw quickly set about reversing the club’s recently dismal fortunes. The two men, both products of impoverished childhoods in upstate New York and intensely competitive, meshed perfectly. Brush left roster decisions and diamond strategy entirely to his manager and reaped almost immediate dividends. The Giants captured the NL pennant in 1904. But much of the luster from that accomplishment was lost when the club declined to meet the American League winners in a postseason championship match. The following year the Giants repeated as pennant winners and then captured the 1905 World Series, defeating the Philadelphia A’s in a celebrated all-shutout Series played under rules devised by Brush that remain largely in effect to this day.

Although his baseball fortunes were ascending, Brush’s health was precarious. He was frequently ill, and by 1905, almost entirely wheelchair-bound. In a bow to his lack of mobility, Brush took to observing home games seated in his massive Deauville limousine, usually parked alongside the right-field foul line. Elsie Brush was often at John T.’s side, while daughter Natalie was permitted to sit in a field box but sheltered from the Giants players. The chivalrous Christy Mathewson was the only Giant whom Brush permitted to be introduced to the young and impressionable Natalie, much to her disappointment. Although retired from the stage, Elsie remained interested in the theater. In February 1910 she even made a one-performance comeback, playing a supporting role in a benefit staged for the Indianapolis Boys Club.

One more supporting role remained for Elsie Brush during her husband’s tenure as New York Giants boss. In April 1911 an early-morning fire almost totally destroyed Polo Grounds III (nee Brotherhood Park), the wooden ballpark that had served as the Giants’ home base for the past 20 seasons. Brush wanted to rebuild but, faced with his own fast-approaching mortality, had to weigh the likely $1 million cost of stadium reconstruction against the future financial needs of his family. Thus, he would not go forward with rebuilding plans unless Elsie approved. Happily for New York baseball, she did. And within less than two months, the Giants were playing home games in a new concrete and steel ballpark, the iconic bathtub-shaped Polo Grounds IV.

A National League pennant in 1912 was John T. Brush’s last hurrah. After the World Series, lost in heartbreaking fashion to the Boston Red Sox, a rapidly failing Brush convened a meeting of the board of the National Exhibition Company, the Giants’ corporate alter ego. There, son-in-law Harry Hempstead, long a board member, was designated board president-in-waiting and Brush successor. John T. then embarked on a health-restorative railway trip to the West Coast. He never made it, dying outside Seeburger, Missouri, on November 25, 1912. He was 67. Hempstead and longtime Brush friend and junior baseball partner N. Ashley Lloyd were designated as executors of the Brush estate. Brush’s majority share of New York Giants franchise was divided equally among his widow and two daughters. With Natalie still a minor, this put effective control of the Giants in the hands of Elsie Brush. Although a capable woman, Elsie decided to entrust operation of the Giants to Hempstead. For the next six seasons, the low-key Hempstead followed his late father-in-law’s example, leaving roster and game decisions to manager McGraw while focusing his attentions on the financial wellbeing of the Brush family women.18

Over time Harry Hempstead became concerned about the family investment in the Giants. First, the costs precipitated by conflict with the upstart Federal League, and thereafter the uncertainties associated with World War I-shortened 1918 baseball season persuaded the always-cautious Hempstead that continued club ownership was a risky proposition. He therefore counseled the sale of the Giants. This recommendation produced a private split in family ranks. Elsie Brush esteemed Harry’s judgment and was disposed to follow his advice. And while now an adult, Natalie would do what her mother told her. Eleanor Hempstead was another matter. A private woman, Eleanor had her father’s business acumen and was fiercely protective of his legacy within the game. Ultimately, the sale recommendation prevailed. But the majority interest in the New York Giants conveyed in 1919 to a syndicate led by stock trader Charles Stoneham did not include Eleanor’s share.19 That was retained by the Hempsteads until sold to a former St. Louis Cardinals co-owner named Anderson in June 1924.20

The family divested itself of the clothing business in 1922.21 The Hempsteads spent the remainder of their days in a comfortable retirement, punctuated by frequent travel. Harry Hempstead suffered a stroke and died in his Park Avenue, Manhattan apartment on March 26, 1938. He was 69. His widow outlived him by five years. On January 8, 1943, Eleanor Brush Hempstead died quietly at the Hempstead country estate in Irvington, New York, at the age of 71. She was interred next to her husband and father in the Brush family plot at Crown Hill Cemetery in Indianapolis. She was survived by sons Gordon Brush Hempstead and John Brush Hempstead.22

An attractive 43-year-old woman at the time of her husband’s death, Elsie Brush never remarried. As Elsie Lombard, she returned to her theater roots, appearing on stage in matronly roles into the early 1930s. Elsie also served as chairwoman of the Sconset Casino (Nantucket Island) movie committee for many years. She died in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, on December 28, 1957. Elsie Lombard Brush was 88 years old. Her daughter Natalie led a long and lively life. She made her society debut in 1915, and thereafter attended Columbia University, the New School for Social Research, and the City College of New York, but never graduated. In the 1920s Natalie was active in the Junior League of Indianapolis, eventually rising to the post of national vice president. In 1925 she married hotel owner A. Bennett Gates but the union ended in divorce. Forty years later, a brief second marriage to Rene de Gendron was also unsuccessful.

Although she was only 16 years old when John T. Brush died, Natalie revered her father’s memory and took steps to preserve it. Shortly after his passing, half-sister Eleanor had destroyed their father’s private papers, lest they someday fall into the hands of an unfriendly journalist. Thus, much of what survives about the personal life of John T. Brush derives from the 1975 interview that Natalie provided to the Indianapolis Star. She also collected the obituaries and remembrances that now constitute the John T. Brush file maintained by the Indiana Historical Society. Late in life Natalie turned novelist, penning two published Cold War spy thriller-romances under the name Natalie Gates.23 Natalie Lombard Brush Gates de Gendron died in her Manhattan apartment on June 16, 1980, age 84. Childless, she was survived by stepdaughter Marjory Gates Wilson.

In the history of the game, Elsie Lombard Brush, Eleanor Brush Hempstead, and Natalie Brush de Gendron hardly rate a footnote. But each exerted at least some degree of influence upon the life and legacy of John T. Brush, a truly important figure in turn-of-the-century baseball. If for that reason alone, the Brush family women are worthy of remembrance.

Notes

John Tomlinson Brush (some suggested the T stood for “Tooth”) was born in Clintonville, New York, on June 15, 1845. Orphaned at age four, John lived with his grandfather until going to Boston at age 17 to seek his fortune in the clothing business. After serving with the First New York Artillery during the Civil War, he opened a department store in Indianapolis when he was only 30 years old. Brush’s first contact with baseball came in 1887 when he bought into the upstart Indianapolis Hoosiers of the National League as a means of advertising his store. In 1889 he formulated the “Brush Classification Plan,” under which players were placed into one of five groupings based on both on- and off-field performance. Each class had a corresponding salary cap—Class A players could earn $2,500 annually, and the salaries decreased $250 in each lower class so that Class E players could earn $1,500. The plan, which was approved by Brush’s fellow owners, caused a backlash among the players, leading directly to the formation of John Montgomery Ward‘s Players League.

The NL dropped Indianapolis in 1890 so Brush bought stock in the New York Giants and became owner of the Cincinnati Reds the following year. In Cincinnati he came under fire from Ban Johnson, then a local sportswriter. When the newly formed Western League was searching for a president in 1894, Brush interceded to make sure Johnson got the job, thus ending criticism from the young reporter’s pen. The two continued to lock horns, however. Brush still owned stock in the Indianapolis franchise of the American Association, and Johnson criticized his shady dealings involving the rosters of the AA Hoosiers and the NL Reds. The upshot was that the Cincinnati owner was forced to divest himself of his stock in the Indy club. Prior to the 1898 season Brush floated another “Brush Rule” past his fellow owners, this one stating that any player who addressed an umpire or fellow player in a “villainously filthy” manner would be brought before a three-man disciplinary board and banished for life if found guilty. The players received the rule about as well as Brush’s 1889 edict limiting their salaries, and it had about the same lasting impact.

In 1901 Brush attended a meeting with fellow NL owners Andrew Freedman of New York, Frank Robison of St. Louis, and Arthur Soden of Boston at Freedman’s estate in Red Bank, New Jersey. Earlier this quartette had decried syndicate baseball, but now they were formulating a plan for an even larger syndicate, the National League Base Ball Trust, which would hire all managers and assign players to teams that would no longer be individually owned. The four robber barons proposed that the former owners would hold shares in the trust, with Freedman receiving a 30% share, his three compatriots receiving 12% each, and the others not present receiving less (the Brooklyn ownership would receive only 6%). The syndicate plan died on the vine because, not surprisingly, it didn’t gain the fifth vote necessary for approval.

On August 12, 1902, Giants owner Freedman announced, “I will turn the inside affairs of the business over to Mr. Brush, as I have little or no time to give to baseball, while Mr. Brush will be able to devote practically all his time to the game.” In retrospect it seems clear that Brush had favored New York all along. In 1900 the Giants purchased Christy Mathewson from Norfolk of the Virginia League. When the rookie did nothing to distinguish himself in three games, Freedman sent him back to Norfolk where he went 21-2. After the season Brush drafted him for the Reds, then “traded” him to the Giants for sore-armed Amos Rusie, who hadn’t pitched since 1898. Mathewson, of course, went on to win 372 games for New York, while Rusie didn’t win a single game for Cincinnati.

Brush purchased the Giants outright from Freedman in 1903. At the time the department-store mogul still owned the Reds and also owned the American League’s Baltimore Orioles, and the rash of personnel transactions that preceded the sale of his Cincinnati and Baltimore shares positioned New York to be a juggernaut for the first third of the twentieth century. The most important of those moves was the signing of John McGraw away from his own Orioles to manage the Giants, but he also released from their Baltimore contracts future Hall-of-Famers Roger Bresnahan and Joe McGinnity, both of whom signed with New York. When the loaded Giants ran away with the NL pennant the following year, Brush (with prodding from McGraw) became responsible for the cancellation of the 1904 World’s Series. “There is nothing in the constitution or playing rules of the National League which requires its victorious club to submit its championship honors to a contest with a victorious club in a minor league,” he announced.

Brush lived to see his Giants play in three World’s Series (1905, 1911, and 1912). Shortly after the last of those fall classics, he was thrown from an automobile in Harlem and sustained a serious hip injury. On November 26, 1912, while en route to a sanatorium in Southern California for recuperation, Brush died aboard a train as it was passing through Missouri. He was survived by his second wife, stage actress Elsie Lombard, who was 25 years his junior. Brush’s obituary in The New York Times described him as “one of the wisest and ablest counselors in the National League.”

Note: A slightly different version of this biography appeared in Tom Simon, ed., Deadball Stars of the National League (Washington, D.C.: Brassey’s, Inc., 2004).

Sources

http://www.crosswinds.net/~thedeadballera

http://enel.net/beisbol/history/people/executive/johnb101/johnb101.html

Nemec, David. The Great Encyclopedia of 19th Century Major League Baseball. Donald Fine, 1997.

Solomon, Burt. Where They Ain’t. pp. 217-218. The Free Press, 1999.

Sowell, Mike. July 2, 1903. Macmillan, 1992.

Total Baseball. Total Sports, 1989

Ward, Geoffrey C. and Ken Burns. Baseball: An Illustrated History. Knopf, 1994.

“I would not have traded two minutes of the joy and grief with that man for two decades of anything with another,” she wrote in her memoir, My Luke and I. “Happy or sad, filled with great expectations or great frustrations, we had attained it for whatever brief instant that fate had decided.”2

The romance between Eleanor Twitchell and Lou Gehrig has been trumpeted as the great American Love Story: the mismatch of a former Chicago “society” girl and a shy immigrants’ son. However, true happiness proves fleeting, when a mysterious fatal illness comes between them. Their relationship didn’t need any special pathos, but decades before “love means never having to say you’re sorry,” Pride of the Yankees provided plenty. Eleanor, naturally, had approval rights in the film, produced by Samuel Goldwyn a year after her husband’s death.

“You know, when I first sat down in the projection room,” she said, “I thought to myself, ‘I won’t look at the picture. I cannot bear to have those memories come back to haunt me.’ But I knew that I must see if the story of Lou Gehrig had been handled correctly.

“Well,” she continued, “I didn’t ask for one solitary deletion or addition. I accepted the picture exactly as it was made. That’s how good I think it was.”3

Sometimes life proves more powerful than art. Eleanor Grace Twitchell was born on March 6, 1904 in Chicago, a thousand miles from the streets and sandlots of upper Manhattan where Henry Louis Gehrig, a year older, learned how to wallop a baseball. Her father, Frank Bradford Twitchell, claimed to be a descendant of the first governor of Massachusetts and was a “dead ringer” for Tyrone Power4; her mother, Nellie Mulvaney Twitchell, came from a Canadian-Irish background; they married before she turned eighteen.

Frank Twitchell was truly a self-made man—his first job was as a price-maker, moving the family around the country to set the odds on horse betting, which he did “to keep from remaining the idle poor,” Eleanor wrote.5 The family had eventually settled down on Chicago’s South Side when Eleanor’s younger brother, Frank, was born in 1910.

The Twitchells climbed another rung on the social ladder when their patriarch became manager of the well-known Heidelberg Café, and another when his connections led to him being appointed the official concessionaire of the Chicago parks. They relocated to the more affluent South Shore.

Frank Twitchell’s success was so public that Nellie Twitchell discovered from a newspaper headline his extramarital affair with an assistant. Her attempt to speak with a divorce lawyer a few years later was met with disdain—Frank Twitchell kept the family comfortable financially, the lawyer reasoned, so “What the hell do you want to divorce a guy like that for?”6 She returned home to stitch up her marriage.

Caught in the crossfire of increasing tension between her parents, Eleanor didn’t recount her adolescence as an unhappy one. She spent her free time ice skating (and was apparently fairly good at it),7 riding horses, playing golf, sneaking into the Palace or the Majestic to see the latest vaudeville show.

“I wasn’t a tomboy, even with all the sports activity,” she wrote. “But the dainty little-girl outfits and the dainty little-girl conversations of my schoolmates struck me as a waste of time.”8

Nor was she much of a student. While Lou Gehrig was setting records for perfect attendance in grade school en route to an athletic scholarship at Columbia University, Eleanor was setting records for truancy—twenty-one days straight.9

Her closest friends were a pair of sisters who had married brothers. Mary was married to Joe Grabiner, a prolific professional gambler; Dorothy was married to Harry Grabiner, the secretary and vice-president of the Chicago White Sox. So Eleanor learned to keep score at the ballpark and at the racetrack, and had fringe encounters with the bigwigs of organized crime—one of her poker partners was Mrs. John Torrio, the wife of Al Capone’s predecessor.

“I suppose, in the 1920s, you could say I fiddled while Chicago burned,” she wrote. “I was young and rather innocent, but I smoked, played poker, drank bathtub gin along with everybody else, collected $5 a week in allowance from my father, spent $100 a week, made up the difference from winter-book jackpots at the racetrack that filled a dresser drawer with close to $10,000 at one point, and learned to become a big tipper.”10

Like the Roaring ’20s, it couldn’t last. Frank Twitchell, never a big drinker, began to pound down the Scotch, perhaps as a reaction to some poor investments and mistresses who wiped him out. When his lease on the Chicago parks concessions came up for renewal, his bid to retain the business was rejected. “The Twitchells were ahead of the times,” Eleanor observed sardonically. “We were going broke before the Depression.”11 Frank Twitchell eventually skipped town for New Orleans, succumbing to a stroke in 1934, somewhat estranged from his family.

Eleanor, too, had to scale back on her parties and nightclubs upon diagnosis of a mild heart condition. Tolstoy and Voltaire replaced her nine-iron; Gregg Business School courses replaced the race books. Her few months’ experience with shorthand and a few white lies landed her a job as the secretary to the general manager at Chicago’s branch of Saks Fifth Avenue, in March 1929. When the stock market crash left many destitute and jobless seven months later Eleanor was still pulling in $30 a week as the “director of personnel,” firing employees the store could no longer afford to keep. When eventually even “Miss Twitchell had been sacked by Saks”12 in 1931, Eleanor immediately found work as a secretary for the Century of Progress—the planning committee for the upcoming Chicago World’s Fair—at a 50% increase in salary.

Among the other fortunate few gainfully employed in the age of “brother, can you spare a dime?” was Lou Gehrig. He had turned his football scholarship at Columbia University into a full-time position at first base with the New York Yankees, and a salary high enough to raise his working-class German-born parents out of their Washington Heights tenement into the Westchester suburbs. He had not missed a day of work since before June 1, 1925.

There are at least two extended first-person accounts about how Eleanor Twitchell became acquainted with Lou Gehrig. One, penned for Collier’s in 1935, has the benefit of contemporary recollection; the more “official” memoir, My Luke and I, co-written with Joseph Durso in 1976, lacks much of the puffing and gloss popular in old-time nonfiction.13 They may have met at a party in the fall of 1927,14 or at Comiskey Park, which Eleanor frequented as a guest of the Grabiners, only “because it was the Thing To Do.”15

“That young guy has a great future,” she was told.16

They had little contact, until 1931, when Eleanor’s poker companion Kitty McHie urged her to stop by her penthouse apartment for a beer. Lou Gehrig would be there, she said.17

“Big, handsome, successful, I thought. All those things,” Eleanor wrote, “And, as luck would have it, painfully shy.”18 However, that night, “The ‘shy one’ suddenly became the bold one, singled me out and spent the whole time giving me a shy man’s version of the rush.”19

Rush or no, the Yankees had a midnight curfew, and Gehrig was one to follow the rules. Feeling obligated to leave; he offered to walk Eleanor home, then “abruptly said good night and disappeared into the dark.”20

Eleanor was stunned by this display of affection—or lack thereof—but few could mistake Gehrig’s intentions when a week later a package arrived for Eleanor containing a diamond-cut crystal necklace he’d brought back from a barnstorming voyage to Japan. From there, a correspondence ensued, that blossomed into love over the next year.

There may not have been an official proposal. According to the Collier’s article, it happened on the way home from dinner with a friend from Detroit; Gehrig “began to stutter to himself, saying incoherent things.” Finally, Eleanor broke in: “Honey, I know what you’re trying to say, and the answer is ‘yes.’”21

In My Luke and I, Eleanor presents a much more dramatic picture. Following a misunderstanding over the telephone the previous night, Lou showed up outside her office window first thing in the morning,

motioning me with open arms and that mile-wide grin. I did a double-take and raced downstairs, and then, in front of the whole Century of Progress staff arriving for work, we kissed madly in the center of Grant Park. We went to the Drake Hotel for breakfast. I don’t remember who proposed to whom. We just plotted and planned.22

She followed him to Comiskey Park that afternoon, where “You bet your life he hit a home run, strictly following the script in the corniest way imaginable.”23

The press devoured information about the woman who had won the heart of the Yankees’ most eligible bachelor. Photos of Eleanor were plastered alongside the daily Yankees-White Sox box score; articles were written speculating about the bride-to-be and the upcoming nuptials. She was sometimes (erroneously) reported as having attended the University of Wisconsin—and of course, she was always a huge baseball fan.24

Often-published half-truths and misinformation came with the territory of being involved with a celebrity. Eleanor had read much about Gehrig’s fondness for pickled eels, and she worried that her inability even to “know how to begin” to prepare them would send him into a batting slump and destroy their relationship. Lou only laughed: “Mom fixes ’em up for the boys,” he said. “Babe Ruth likes them. But I can’t stand ’em.”25 (Eleanor allegedly hired a German cook after they were married to make up for her inadequacies in the kitchen.26)

Lou’s parents presented a larger hurdle. Eleanor never quite felt comfortable in the Gehrig home, where the family would converse in German, of which she knew none. And Christina Gehrig, whose relationship with her son seemed borderline Oedipal, frequently clashed with her daughter-in-law to-be. “Mom” Gehrig—“formidable, built something like a lady wrestler”27—had broken up Lou’s previous relationships with women before, and Eleanor was yet another intruder swooping in to steal away her only surviving child.28

To smooth the transition, Eleanor agreed to move in with the Gehrigs in New Rochelle while searching for an apartment. Instead, it nearly broke them—one night, Eleanor decided “the hell with it all” and called off the engagement.29 They had reconciled by the time they reached the ferry across Long Island Sound. However, Eleanor would stay with her aunt and uncle in Freeport in the days leading up to the wedding, scheduled for the Saturday evening following the Yankees’ next-to-last game of the 1933 season.

The day before they were to be married, Friday, September 29, Eleanor was directing plumbers and carpet-layers around their new apartment when Lou burst in after the latest row with his mother. He’d had it with Mom Gehrig coming between them and picked up the receiver. Within minutes, the Mayor of New Rochelle was on his way to pronounce them husband and wife amid a tangled mass of dust and furniture. The mayor’s motorcade then escorted the newlywed couple to Yankee Stadium for the afternoon game, where Lou went 0-for-4. A small reception was held in Long Island the following day, as planned; Bill Dickey was the only Yankees player in attendance; Mom Gehrig almost didn’t attend.30

To ensure he hadn’t forgotten about his parents, Lou invested all his savings into a trust fund for his mother. Then he handed over his checkbook to Eleanor. “Our old age is in your hands,” he told her.31

So was his image, which had some rough edges. Eleanor had few qualms about spending money at Abercrombie & Fitch to replace her husband’s threadbare clothes with a shiny new wardrobe that he had previously been too tightfisted to purchase. She encouraged him to hold out into Spring Training for a higher salary on his annual contract when he had previously been so afraid to negotiate he would sign right away. And she persuaded him to embrace his celebrity, rather than hide from it—parking his car closer to the Yankee Stadium main entrance, for instance, so he could sign autographs after the game.

Eleanor also introduced him to arts and culture, particularly opera, where he would get excited about Wagner, because he could understand the German. Her love of music even inspired a forgettable song that she co wrote with songwriter Fred Fisher, “I Can’t Get to First Base With You.” 32

And she became a little too enamored with her suddenly public life. According to Maye Lazzeri, wife of Tony, “There were times when Eleanor was impressed with the fact that she was Mrs. Lou Gehrig.” Mrs. Lazzeri recalled a particular incident at the ballpark where Eleanor had to be reminded of her place: “‘Listen Eleanor,’ I said, ‘I’m only married to Tony Lazzeri. I have nothing to do with all the home runs and the honors. I’m just lucky I’ve got him. And the quicker you learn that you’re not Lou Gehrig, the better off you’re going to be.’” June O’Dea Gomez, Lefty’s wife, also had an unfavorable reaction to some of Eleanor’s “highfalutin remarks.”33

“Looking back, I realize Eleanor was young and it was easy for her to lose perspective,” Mrs. Lazzeri continued, however, noting that she and Eleanor became close after they both lost their husbands prematurely. “Her every step met with adulation from the fans and the press. To be fair, she was marvelous to Lou.”34

Gehrig was enraptured with his new bride—perhaps it is no coincidence that in his first season after marriage, 1934, he won the Triple Crown (.363 batting average, 49 homers, 165 RBIs). A few years later, he had all the hardware he collected from his numerous awards—rings and stick pins representing pennants, world championships, All-Star appearances and other accomplishments—melted down to make a bracelet for Eleanor.

There was another side to Gehrig she came to understand – he could be overly sensitive. Eleanor could instantly tell if the Yankees had lost that day by Lou’s demeanor when she picked him up from the ballpark – “silence for the half-hour ride to New Rochelle,” and he’d still be “playing it all over again through dinner.35 As a new couple, they were obviously learning how to relate to each other’s moods and habits.

Eleanor’s inadvertent callousness may have widened the growing rift between Gehrig and his one-time friend and idol Babe Ruth. The home run twins were barely speaking to each other when they embarked with several other major league stars on a barnstorming tour of Japan, wives in tow. Onboard the ship, Eleanor ran into Claire Ruth, who invited her for a drink in their cabin, where she found Claire’s husband, “the resplendent Babe, sitting like a Buddha figure, surrounded by an empire of caviar and champagne.”36 In the two hours that Eleanor had gone “missing,” Lou feared that she had fallen overboard. When he found out where she’d been, Gehrig refused to accept any sort of peace offering from the Bambino, who had just completed his final season in pinstripes.37

The Gehrigs extended their tour across the Orient around the world, making stops in Singapore, Bombay, Cairo, Naples, Rome, Munich, Paris, London. And according to Eleanor, they made a pact that regardless of how well (or poorly) he was playing, Lou Gehrig would hang up his spikes for good on June 19, 1939, his thirty-sixth birthday.38

Perhaps they were looking forward to starting a family, but they never had children. Eleanor may have had trouble conceiving. By early 1939, they had spoken of adoption, but according to Lou Gehrig, his mother “wouldn’t have any of that. She said she didn’t want a grandson if it wasn’t a Gehrig. ”39

Gehrig proved uncomfortable with the uncertainty of a ballplayer’s life, especially in the team owner-controlled days of the reserve clause. And he was superstitious. When Eleanor “went all out and decorated wall to wall” their new apartment in Larchmont (where they moved from New Rochelle a few years later), he was distraught.

“My God,” he said, “you know I might be traded at any moment?”40He never was, of course, and by 1938, when Yankees were in the middle of what would be their third straight championship season. Gehrig, their captain and cleanup hitter, was on the verge of playing his 2,000th consecutive game. Eleanor playfully urged him to quit at 1,999, for the headlines it would make. The Yankees planned a ceremony for him, but “all they’ll do is hang a horseshoe of flowers around your neck,” she said. Gehrig appalled at the suggestion left for the ballpark, and returned to an uproarious Eleanor that evening wearing a giant horseshoe and an embarrassed grin.41

In spite of the Yankees’ continued success, Lou had less to laugh about as the summer turned to winter then spring. At first there were just prolonged batting slumps and slowness afoot attributed to poor mechanics, or maybe just age. But Eleanor began noticing little things, at home, kitchenware inexplicably slipping through his strong hands, the “unnatural clump” his foot made stepping off the curb,42 losing his balance on ice skates more frequently than usual.

A doctor diagnosed Gehrig with a gallbladder condition during the offseason. During Spring Training, despite taking extra weeks of conditioning, he looked worse. Eleanor feared a brain tumor. On May 2, 1939 in Detroit, he removed himself from the Yankees lineup after 2,130 consecutive games because he felt he was hurting the team. He wrote Eleanor:

It was inevitable, although I dreaded the day, and my thoughts were with you constantly—how the thing would affect you and I—that was the big question and the most important thought underlying everything. I broke before the game because I thought so much of you. Not because I didn’t know you are the bravest kind of partner but because my inferiority grabbed me and made me wonder and ponder if I could possibly prove myself worthy of you.43

Friends of Eleanor’s had a contact at the Mayo Clinic, and she arranged for Lou to secretly deviate from the Yankees’ road trip and fly from Chicago to the facility in Rochester, Minnesota. Then she asked her headstrong husband if he would do her the “favor” of going. “Yes, pal,” he said. And he went.44

Eleanor invited over sportswriter Fred Lieb and his wife, Mary, close friends of Lou’s, the day the diagnosis was revealed. The phone rang, and Eleanor closed the bedroom door.

“I guess I need a drink, a real stiff drink,” she said upon returning. “You know what that Dutchman just told me? ‘Don’t worry, Ellie, I have a fifty-fifty chance to live’—just as though he were asking about the weather in Westchester County. Something is really wrong with him, and I think his spinal cord is affected.”45

Eleanor knew more than she was letting on, because the doctors had already told her—amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or ALS, is fatal, incurable and irreversible. She instructed the doctors at Mayo to dull the blow. So her husband learned he had a sort of “chronic infantile paralysis,” and that there was a fifty-fifty chance of arresting the disease. His playing career was over.

The date was June 19, 1939—Lou’s thirty-sixth birthday.

Two weeks later, on July 4, Lou Gehrig stood before the masses at Yankee Stadium, a broken man considering himself the “luckiest man on the face of the earth.” He thanked everyone who had made a difference in his life, including Eleanor for having “been a tower of strength and shown more courage than you dreamed existed.”46

Gehrig traveled with the Yankees as a non-playing captain until the end of the 1939 season, after which Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia offered him a job at the New York City Parole Commission To satisfy the residency requirements of being a municipal employee, the Gehrigs relocated from Larchmont to a two-story house in the Riverdale section of the Bronx.47

Eleanor thereafter became Lou’s secretary and personal assistant, typing his dictated letters and signing his name when he could no longer grasp a pen; turning the pages of his books when he could no longer hold them; lighting his cigarettes when he could no longer strike a match; chauffeuring him to lower Manhattan each day when he could no longer drive. She also became a sort of gatekeeper, secretly corresponding and conspiring with Gehrig’s doctors at the Mayo Clinic to keep her husband in the dark over his illness’s actual prognosis.

“I feel we must all lie like mad,” she wrote at the time. “I want him to keep a thread of hope; there is no point in adding mental torture to the horrible experience he is now going through.”48

If Gehrig ever fully comprehended it was all a ruse, he put up enough of a front that he wholeheartedly believed it.49 He was the type that if he thought he was going to be a burden on me, he might take that extra pill,” Eleanor justified years later. “If he had gotten his hands on a medical book and found out what I was in for, he wouldn’t have allowed it.”50

In the meantime, in spite of all the doctors and medical assistance, the Gehrigs staged distractions from Lou’s deteriorating condition. They hired a butler, and a maid, but neither was allowed near Lou’s room. Nellie Twitchell, who also moved in, delivered his meals when he was confined to bed. There was a constant carousel of parties and visitors, including comedian Pitzy Katz, Fred Fisher, actress Tallulah Bankhead, sportswriter and neighbor John Kieran (who sometimes featured Lou in his columns),51 and old Yankees teammates, over the course of those final two years.

Lou gradually weakened—“like a great clock winding down,”52—and Eleanor never left his side as the end neared. He slipped away quietly, the night of June 2, 1941, surrounded by Eleanor, his parents, and his mother-in-law.

“The most beatified expression instantly spread across Lou’s face,” wrote Eleanor, “and I knew the precise moment he had gone.”53

The funeral two days later was a short, private affair, with about 100 people in attendance and no eulogy “because you all knew him,” the reverend said.54 The Associated Press reported Eleanor remarkably composed—“rigid and desperately calm.”55

As became clear, Eleanor was far from fine. Her way of coping with loss was to devote herself to promoting her husband’s legacy—becoming his spokesperson and serving as the connection to all those who had worshipped the great Iron Horse while he was alive. , She was always introduced as “Mrs. Lou Gehrig.”

“The widow of a national hero has an uneasy public sorrow,”56 Eleanor wrote, which perhaps explains why she never remarried. Who could possibly devote oneself to another when your husband’s famous specter hangs over your every obligation?

“I kept up all right as far as appearances are concerned,” she continued of those first few years, “with the help of Lou’s old friends and associates. I did what everyone expected. Whenever tributes were paid to Lou, they’d want me to appear and speak; I was asked to raise funds for charities, give speeches lay cornerstones. . . . [sic] But behind my closed door, in the long nights, I thought at times I would never find peace.”57

Pride of the Yankees was the first big test. Eleanor received $30,000 for the rights of Samuel Goldwyn’s production studio to Gehrig’s story. Gary Cooper played Lou (“Gary studied every picture of Lou’s. He had everyone [sic] of his mannerisms down to a science and he is so like my husband in the picture that there were times when I felt I couldn’t bear it.”58); twenty-four-year-old Teresa Wright played Eleanor.

“When Sam first told me that Teresa would play me I felt that she was much too young. I said, ‘Barbara Stanwyck, Jean Arthur or an actress with more experience would be better.’ But now I know no one could do better, or even as well as little Teresa. Of course she’s prettier and younger but then no woman could object to that, could they?”59

To add to the realism, Eleanor lent various personal items to be used in the production, including the bracelet Lou had made for her. The movie grossed over $3 million and was one of the top ten films of 1942, nominated for eleven Oscars, including both Cooper’s and Wright’s performances.

During World War II, Eleanor used Gehrig’s wholesome all-American image to sell war bonds, raising over $6 million by auctioning off some of Lou’s memorabilia. She also joined the local Red Cross, chauffeuring the disabled, for which she received Presidential recognition.60

Through Christy Walsh, her husband’s agent, Eleanor secured a position with the All-America Football Conference, first as secretary-treasurer, then, after she resigned because (ironically) she “couldn’t even balance my own bank account,” she was somehow promoted to vice president in 1946.61

But Eleanor’s greatest contribution came with her tireless efforts to promote ALS research—if she couldn’t bring Lou back, she could at least attempt to slay the “tyrant” that had killed him. Partnering with the Muscular Dystrophy Association, she testified before Congress to fund research in various debilitating paralytic diseases. She would eventually will much of her estate to the cause. To this day, the Eleanor and Lou Gehrig MDA/ALS Multidisciplinary Care Center at Columbia University (Lou Gehrig’s alma mater) remains a hub for clinical trials and treatment for ALS and related paralytic diseases.

The lack of companionship often gnawed at her, though, long after she moved into an apartment on East Fifty-Third Street and Third Avenue in Manhattan. She sent for her mother back in Chicago, and Nellie Twitchell began making the necessary preparations to move in with her.

“In the meantime,” Eleanor wrote, “I was thoroughly alone—for even the closest friend that a couple has shared is peculiarly remote when one is a half-couple.”

Mrs. Twitchell’s sunny presence helped Eleanor to heal. “After all, she was a widow, too!” Eleanor wrote. “The love she could no longer pour out on one life-partner, she rained on all, heroes or hall boys, celebrities or scrubwomen.

“That was the ticket, I realized. My own widow mother could show me a few short-cuts to adjustment, back to the path of the world, away from the bleak detours of Eleanor Gehrig.”62

Relations with her in-laws, however, never improved, as a dispute arose over the division of Lou’s estate. Lou had left behind the entirety of his $171,251 of assets to Eleanor, the executrix of his will, but had bequeathed the interest received from stock investments and monthly payments from a $20,000 life insurance policy to his parents. Heinrich and Christina Gehrig believed that Eleanor was withholding these payments and sued for $5,188.53 in August 1943. The matter was settled privately, the discord between the Gehrigs and their daughter-in-law never resolved 63

Another disagreement arose over Lou’s ashes. A plan was quietly in the works to move them from their resting place in Valhalla, New York, to underneath the Baseball Hall of Fame. As of 1949, Eleanor favored it, since she had gotten tired of the throngs of fans crowding his grave daily in Kensico Cemetery.64 But when word leaked in one of the newspapers of plans to start a shrine for the remains of baseball immortals in Cooperstown, she swiftly changed her mind, further distancing her from Christina Gehrig.65 (Since Eleanor had legal control, what Lou’s mother felt didn’t much matter.)66

The one-time social butterfly retreated into her cocoon, as she grew older. Days would pass that Eleanor spent locked away in her apartment with nothing but her memories to console her. And she drank heavily—sometimes seemingly having little regard for her own personal safety. Her friend and attorney George Pollack (who would become executor of her estate) once became so worried when he found her passed out drunk that he rushed her to the hospital. Another time, she let her mattress catch fire from a lighted cigarette and the place almost went up in smoke.

A concerned Pollack encouraged her to write a memoir, hoping it might lift her spirits. My Luke and I afforded her some reprieve, and the book was successful enough it led to a television movie, A Love Affair: The Eleanor and Lou Gehrig Story, starring Blythe Danner and Edward Herrmann. The film aired on NBC in 197867 to mixed reviews. Because Eleanor had signed away the film rights to her life story for Pride of the Yankees, she ended up losing at least $35,000 in the process to buy them back from the studio.68

Eleanor Gehrig died on her eightieth birthday, on March 6, 1984, leaving behind no survivors 69 and few friends. Pollack and his wife, Dorothy, were astonished to find that in spite of the sizeable tent assembled at Kensico Cemetery (in expectation of a large turnout for the death of a public figure); they were the only mourners in attendance at her funeral.70

Eleanor bequeathed all her husband’s baseball possessions to the Hall of Fame.71 She left $100,000 to Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, and another $100,000 to the Rip Van Winkle Fund for ALS research.72 Pollack licensed the Gehrig name and likeness to the Curtis Management Group to increase those initial donations; by 1995, the ALS fund at Columbia Presbyterian had more than tripled.73

If the fruits of her estate someday help bring about a cure for ALS, perhaps those four-plus lonely decades Mrs. Lou Gehrig spent keeping her husband relevant will be justified as more than the long aftermath of a tragic marriage.

Notes

Gehrig was a shadow of his former self. The pinstriped uniform hung loosely from his weakening body. His handsome face was gaunt and tired. He walked slowly across the infield. He was obviously exhausted. Yet he stood before the crowd in the muggy summer heat, forcing a smile as he greeted former teammates and accepted gifts from the Yankees, the opposing Washington Senators, Stadium employees and the mayor of New York City. When it came time for him to speak, Gehrig was fighting back tears, and at first, it didn’t seem that he would be able to address the crowd. But then, just as he had done in each of the 2,130 consecutive games he played in his career, the Iron Horse gathered his strength and forged ahead.

What followed was an address for the ages. Gehrig’s heartfelt speech, in which he proclaimed that despite his illness, he still felt like the luckiest man alive, left not a dry eye in the house. It was a bittersweet end to a brilliant career, one that dated back to 1923 and included two Most Valuable Player awards, nearly 2,000 runs batted in and playing on eight teams that won world championships. The next day, the story of Gehrig’s speech dominated newspapers nationwide.

Today, decades after Gehrig said goodbye to the National Pastime, he is remembered as both a baseball legend and an American hero.

Henry Louis Gehrig was born on June 19, 1903 to Heinrich and Christina Gehrig, two first-generation German immigrants who lived in the Yorkville section of Manhattan. He was a very big baby, by some reports weighing in at a massive 14 pounds. Lou was not the couple’s only child, but he was the sole Gehrig baby who would survive to adulthood. An older sister, Anna, died on September 5, 1902, when she was just three months old. A second daughter, Sophie Louise, contracted a combination of measles, diphtheria and bronchopneumonia when she less than two years old, and passed away in the winter of 1906. Heinrich and Christina had another child, a boy, but he died almost immediately after birth, and was never given a name.

Lou’s father was a part-time sheet metal worker who was frequently unemployed because he sometimes drank too much and was subject to spontaneous bouts of ill health. Even when he did work, Heinrich maintained a generally poor attendance record, often missing several days in a row without explanation or excuse. Accordingly, Lou’s mother served as both the breadwinner and the disciplinarian for the family. Christina, already having lost three children to illness, became very protective of her only surviving child.

When Lou was five years old, the Gehrig family moved from Yorkville to Washington Heights. Their new apartment was within shouting distance of Hilltop Park, home to the New York Highlanders of the American League. Also nearby was the grandest stadium in sports, the Polo Grounds, home to the New York Giants of the National League. Living close to these parks gave Lou an early appetite and appreciation for baseball. He began playing pickup games in his neighborhood and quickly discovered that he was better than most of the other kids. He soon became one of the best sandlot players in the city.

As a boy, Lou was a fan of the Giants, and he attended games at the Polo Grounds whenever he could save up the 25 cents needed for a left-field bleacher seat. Years later, he recalled, “The Giants had been our favorites, and our quarters had all gone for a seat in the left-field bleachers.”

Unfortunately, Lou’s parents were not exactly thrilled about their son’s newfound devotion to baseball, something Christina Gehrig called a mere schoolyard game. After all, she was a hardworking, poor, first-generation immigrant who had little opportunity for a better life. But her son could have that opportunity. Christina wanted her son to be “in business” someday, and therefore, she thought, Lou should devote all of his time to his studies, and not waste time with a mere hobby. Lou followed his mother’s stern advice for a time, dedicating himself to his studies in elementary school, where as a youngster he was a better than average student. However, he still found time to play baseball during the summers and on weekends throughout his childhood and adolescent years.

In 1917, Gehrig enrolled at Commerce High School in Manhattan, where he starred in both baseball and football. He first gained national attention on the baseball field on June 26, 1920, when the city of Chicago sponsored a game between the New York City high school champions, Gehrig’s Commerce team, and the Windy City champion, Chicago’s Lane Tech High School. The game was played in front of a crowd of more than 10,000 spectators at Cubs Park (which would be renamed Wrigley Field six years later).

In the top of the ninth inning, Commerce led, 8-6, when the 17-year-old Gehrig came to the plate with the bases loaded. A hit would put the game out of reach. But Gehrig didn’t get any old hit. Rather, he hit the first pitch over the right-field wall and out of sight. A grand slam, and a monumental one at that. The next day, an article in the Chicago Tribune’s sports section read: “Gehrig’s blow would have made any big leaguer proud, yet it was walloped by a boy who hasn’t yet started to shave.”

The New York Daily News reported that “the bright star of the inter-city game was ‘Babe’ Gehrig.” It may have been the first time that sportswriters compared Lou to the Babe, but it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

During his high school years, Gehrig’s mother worked as a maid for at the Sigma Nu Theta fraternity house at Columbia University. Lou often went to the fraternity house to help Christina serve dinner and wash dishes afterward. He also worked part-time jobs in butcher shops and grocery stores to help supplement the household income. During this time, as with most of his life, Lou’s father was only sporadically employed, and despite their son’s best efforts, the Gehrig family was very poor.

Gehrig graduated from Commerce High on January 27, 1921, and in February, he enrolled at Columbia University on a football scholarship. At the time, college baseball was not very well organized, and most teams played brief schedules. Therefore, not many pro scouts visited college baseball fields searching for talent. But Gehrig’s exploits at the game in Chicago had made him well-known in his hometown, and before he’d even put on a college uniform, a scout from the Giants approached him and asked if he’d like a tryout. The scout, Arthur Irwin, told Lou that manager John McGraw had seen him play, liked what he saw and was interested in signing the 18-year-old to a contract.

Encouraged by these enticements — and by his parents’ need for financial support — Gehrig attended a tryout at the Polo Grounds in June of 1921. Contrary to what Irwin had told him, the Giants’ manager had never seen Lou play and had certainly never promised a contract. But when Gehrig hit six consecutive home runs in batting practice, he caught the attention of everyone on the field, including McGraw. His performance in the field wasn’t so good, however; Gehrig let the first grounder hit his way roll through his legs.

“Get this fellow out of here!” McGraw told his coaches. “I’ve got enough lousy players without another one showing up.”

Gehrig went home, temporarily crushed, but not defeated. Arthur Irwin wasn’t deterred, either. He told Lou that he could get him a contract to play for the Hartford Senators of the Class A Eastern League for the rest of the 1921 season. Gehrig played a dozen games for Hartford under two different assumed names, “Lefty Gehrig” and “Lou Lewis.”

It is not clear whether Gehrig knew that playing for money with Hartford could jeopardize his college eligibility. Some sources say that he asked Irwin that very question, and Irwin assured Lou that it would not. Of course, one would have to question why Gehrig wasn’t more suspicious about having to play under a false name.

Regardless, Columbia’s baseball coach, Andy Coakley, soon discovered that Lou Lewis of Hartford was actually Lou Gehrig of the Columbia nine. Lou had indeed violated eligibility rules by playing professionally and could be banned from college sports. Coakley then did a smart thing. He contacted the coaches of all of Columbia’s biggest rivals (Dartmouth, Cornell, Amherst, and Middlebury) and asked each of them for special dispensation for what he called Gehrig’s “innocent mistake.” The coaches agreed not to expel Gehrig, but merely to suspend him for one year.

When Gehrig finally took the field in 1923, his sophomore season, he set the college baseball world on fire. In a 19-game season, Lou set new school records for batting average (.444), slugging percentage (.937), and home runs (seven). His power at the plate soon became the stuff of legend. More than a half-century later, one of Gehrig’s Columbia teammates, second baseman George Moisten, recalled a blast that Gehrig hit against Cornell: “That right field at Cornell had a high fence, then there was a road back of it, then a forest. Lou lifted his home run into the forest. I looked over at Coach Coakley, sitting near me on the bench, and he was slapping his head in wonder.”

Lou was also the team’s top pitcher. His greatest mound performance came on April 18, 1923, the same day that Yankee Stadium opened, in a game against Williams College. Gehrig struck out 17 batters, setting a school record that stands to this day. For the season, the big lefty pitched in 11 of the team’s 19 games, put up a 6-4 record and struck out 77 batters.

Eight days later, on April 26, 1923, a Yankees scout named Paul Krichell took a train from New York City to New Brunswick, New Jersey, to watch a game between Columbia and Rutgers. While on the train, Coakley struck up a conversation with Krichell and told him about Gehrig, advertising the sophomore as a pitcher who was “also a good hitter.” Gehrig hit two home runs in three at-bats against Rutgers, and Krichell was so impressed that he telephoned Yankees general manager Ed Barrow and told him that he had just discovered another Babe Ruth.

In Gehrig’s next game, against NYU, he went 2-for-3 and hit a prodigious home run. He also pitched a complete-game victory. Krichell didn’t need to see any more. He approached Gehrig after the game and set up a meeting between Lou and the Yankees general manager Ed Barrow for the next morning. Barrow offered Lou a contract that paid him a $1,500 bonus and $400 a month, a veritable fortune to the impoverished Gehrigs. Lou accepted the deal, happy to be able to earn money and not terribly sad about leaving a college where he’d made few ties. So he signed the contract, and Lou Gehrig was a New York Yankee.

The Yankees had hoped that the young slugger was major league-ready, but after Gehrig played just seven games in early 1923, Yankees manager Miller Huggins asked him to play out the season in the minors, once again with the Hartford Senators.

Gehrig achieved phenomenal success with the Senators; in only 59 games, he hit .304 with 24 home runs. When Hartford’s season ended in September, the Yankees called Gehrig back to the team, where he played six more games and hit .476 with four doubles, a home run and eight RBIs. Because of Gehrig’s hot-hitting down the stretch, Huggins wanted to add him to the team’s roster for the upcoming World Series against the cross-town Giants. Huggins’ request to Commissioner Kenesaw Mountain Landis, however, was rejected, mainly because of the objections raised by Giants skipper John McGraw, the same manager who rejected Gehrig just two years earlier. Ultimately, it didn’t matter that Gehrig wasn’t added to the postseason roster, as the Yankees won the World Series in six games.

Although Gehrig attended spring training with the Yankees in 1924, the team couldn’t find him a permanent position, and management wanted him to get more seasoning in the minors. Accordingly, Gehrig signed on once more with Hartford, where he hit .369 with 37 home runs, 40 doubles and 13 triples in 134 games. When Hartford’s season ended, Huggins once again invited Gehrig to join the Yankees in September.

Gehrig played well in limited action, hitting .500 and picking up five RBIs in 12 at-bats. The most memorable event from that brief stint came during a game against the Detroit Tigers. Gehrig had hit a two-run single to right field, but turned too far while rounding first and got caught off the base. This led to an extended rundown in which Ty Cobb sprinted in from center field while Gehrig was caught in the pickle and tagged out the young slugger. Cobb swore at Gehrig as he tagged him.

Gehrig was, for the most part, a dignified player who rarely raised any kind of a ruckus on the field, but now Cobb had made him furious. He cursed at Cobb as he walked off the field and continued screaming at the Georgia Peach from the steps of the Yankees dugout. The umpire warned Gehrig to pipe down, but he kept at Cobb. After another warning that went unheeded, the ump ejected Gehrig from the game, which only fanned the flames of his anger. When the game ended, still steaming from the altercation, Gehrig went after Cobb in the tunnel between the dugout and the clubhouse, and, despite teammate Babe Ruth’s best efforts to contain him, Gehrig got loose and hurled a punch at the meanest man in baseball history. Unfortunately for Gehrig, he fanned on the haymaker, stumbled forward, landed on his head on the hard concrete floor and was temporarily knocked out.

When he awoke, he said only one thing: “Did I win?” He hadn’t, but then again, few men ever got the best of Ty Cobb.

The Tigers took two of out three in the series, and the Yankees ended up in second place, only two games behind the Washington Senators. Their season was over, but Lou Gehrig’s big league career was just beginning.

In 1925, Huggins decided that Gehrig was ready to play for the Yankees. There was, however, one small problem: the Yankees already had a first baseman. His name was Wally Pipp, and he was coming off one of the best years of his career. In 1924, he hit .295 with 19 triples, nine home runs and 114 RBIs. Pipp had been the starter for almost a decade and was in the prime of his career at 32 years old. So despite Gehrig’s obvious potential, there still wasn’t a position on the field or a spot in the Yankees lineup for him to fill. Gehrig served as a backup player and pinch-hitter throughout April and May. On June 2, Huggins decided to give Gehrig a start, and to give Wally Pipp a rest.

Why Huggins made the decision to replace Wally Pipp has been the source of much confusion over the years and part of that blame is attributed to Wally Pipp himself.

According to the once-popular version of the story, which first appeared in a 1941 New York Times article, Pipp came into the Yankee clubhouse before a game on June 2, 1925, with a terrible headache, and asked his teammates, “Has anyone an aspirin tablet?”

Huggins allegedly overheard Pipp and told him, “Suppose you take the day off. I’ll use that big kid, Gehrig, at first base today.”

In 1953, Pipp told a much different story to New York Times reporter Arthur Daley:

It’s a very delightful and romantic story. I realize that it’s grown to be accepted as the truth. But it just isn’t correct. I won’t deny that I had a headache that day. I had one which was a pip, ha ha. And I’m not trying to make a pun, either. Here’s what actually happened.

I was taking batting practice that day and the guy who was pitching that day was a big, strong kid from Princeton, Charlie Caldwell [who later went on to an outstanding coaching career at his alma mater and was inducted into the College Football Hall of Fame]. Charlie whistled one in, and somehow or other, I just couldn’t duck. The ball hit me right there on the temple. Down I went and I was much too far gone to bother reaching for any aspirin bottles.

I was in the hospital for two solid weeks. By the time I returned to the Yankees, Gehrig was hitting the ball like crazy, and Huggins would have been a complete dope to give me my job back. He wasn’t a dope, so he didn’t do it. Not only was Gehrig a better ballplayer than I was, but he was 22 and I was 32. It was as simple as that. But please don’t believe the aspirin story. It just isn’t true.

Actually, neither story is true. While Pipp did get beaned in batting practice and suffer a severe concussion, that event did not occur until July 2, a full month after Gehrig had already replaced him. Nor was it a headache or a hangover that kept Pipp on the bench that day. In truth, it was Pipp’s play (he was hitting .244), and indeed the entire team’s performance — the Yankees were floundering in seventh place, where they would finish the season — that prompted Huggins to sit Pipp and play Gehrig.

According to a contemporary account of the events, which appeared in a New York Times article the very next day:

Miller Huggins took his favorite lineup and shook it to pieces. Wally Pipp, after more than ten years as a regular first baseman, was benched in favor of Lou Gehrig, the former Columbia fence-wrecker. The most radical shake-up of the Yankees lineup in many years left only three regulars of last season in the batting order — Dugan, Ruth and Meusel.

Batting sixth, behind Ruth and Bob Meusel, Gehrig went 3-for-5 with a double in his first game at first base that season; Huggins obviously liked the results. Before the start of the next game, he approached Gehrig in the team’s clubhouse and told him, “You’re my first baseman, today and from now on. Now don’t get rattled. If you muff a few, nobody’s going to shoot you.” It was the beginning of what would eventually become the most famous streak in all of sports. Actually, the official start of the streak was the day before, when Gehrig came in as a pinch-hitter for Pee Wee Wanninger in the eighth inning, but June 2 was the first game in the streak in which Gehrig started and played first base.

As the starter, Gehrig may have gotten rattled at times, but he quickly proved to Huggins and the Yankees that he could play every day and that he could hit big league pitching. In 126 games, Gehrig hit .295 with 23 doubles, 10 triples, 20 home runs and 68 RBIs. Still officially a rookie, he finished 24th in voting for the American League’s Most Valuable Player.

Gehrig’s showing was good enough to convince Huggins and the Yankees ownership that he was the first baseman of the future, and Pipp was the first baseman of the past. On January 15, 1926, the Yankees sold the veteran to Cincinnati for $7,500, where Pipp played the final three years of his career with the Reds.

Gehrig continued to improve in 1926, hitting .313 with 47 doubles, 20 triples, 16 homers and 109 RBIs. He also played in every one of the Yankees’ 155 games. His best day of the season came on August 13, when the Yankees faced Walter Johnson of the Washington Senators. Johnson, who won 417 games in his career, surrendered only 97 home runs in 802 career games, and had never surrendered two over-the-fence home runs to any player in one game. But Gehrig smashed two of Johnson’s pitches over the right-field fence at Griffith Stadium, earning the 23-year old a unique place in baseball history.

A month later, on September 19, Gehrig smacked three doubles and hit a home run against the Cleveland Indians, leading the Yankees to a win and their first American League title since 1923. New York faced the St. Louis Cardinals in the ’26 World Series. In his first Fall Classic game, Gehrig drove in both of the Yankees’ runs in the 2-1 victory. Overall, he hit .348 in the Series, but the Yankees lost to the Cardinals in seven games.

Despite Gehrig’s impressive sophomore season, manager Miller Huggins criticized him in the offseason for not trying to pull the ball more. He wanted the big first baseman to take advantage of the short right-field fences in many American League parks, including the one that was just 295 feet away from home plate in Yankee Stadium. Huggins told Gehrig that he could pull any pitcher — and indeed any pitch — if he set his mind to it. It was a lesson that Gehrig would never forget, and the next season, he heeded his manager’s advice and had a breakout year.

In 1927, Gehrig batted cleanup for a lineup that was so deadly, the New York press dubbed them Murderers Row. They led the American League in every hitting category except for doubles, where they ranked second. The main attraction that year, however, was the home run race between Ruth and Gehrig.

For the first time in his career, Ruth had a worthy challenger who matched him homer for homer most of the season. By the end of May, Ruth led Gehrig, 16 to 12. By the end of June, however, they had 25 home runs apiece.

A New York Telegram headline proclaimed, “The Odds Favor Gehrig to Beat Out Ruth in Home Run Derby.” It was a bold prediction, considering that Ruth was far and away the most impressive home run hitter the game had ever seen, while Gehrig was still just a 24-year-old kid.

By the end of July, Gehrig had 35, Ruth had 34. The two kept on slugging through August, and by Labor Day, they each had 44 home runs. The following day in the opener of a doubleheader, Gehrig hit his 45th to take the lead, but the Babe responded with two homers in his next two at-bats, and then another in the nightcap, to take the lead by two. The next day, Ruth added two more to take the lead by four. Then he went on a tear, hitting another 11 home runs in the final 21 games of the season, and finishing the year with a new record of 60 home runs. Gehrig went into a late-season slump and hit only two more home runs to finish with 47. By comparison, the entire Boston Red Sox team hit 28. The Cleveland Indians hit just 26.

Although Gehrig did not win the home run title, he still had a remarkable year. He hit .373 with 47 home runs, a league-leading 173 RBIs, and a new Yankees record for doubles with 52. Gehrig also had 18 triples, and his 117 extra-base hits are still the second most in major league history, just two behind Ruth’s 119 in 1921. Once again, Gehrig played in every game of the season.

The Yankees won 110 games and lost just 44; which at the time was the best record in the history of the American League. They went on to sweep the Pittsburgh Pirates in the World Series. Gehrig had a respectable series, hitting .308 with four RBIs. The winner’s share was $5,592 per player, a nice bonus considering that Gehrig only made $8,000 for the entire season.

In October, Gehrig was named the American League’s Most Valuable Player. However, according to the rules that governed voting in 1927, no former winners were eligible. That included Ruth, who had taken home the award in 1923, and arguably would have given Gehrig a serious run for the money, with his .356 batting average, record number of homers and 164 RBIs.

By this time, Ruth and Gehrig had become friends, in spite of their disparate lifestyles and contrasting personalities. Gehrig took the Babe fishing. Ruth tried to take Gehrig to the bars. But their real bond was probably Gehrig’s mother, Christina. Ruth often went to the Gehrigs’ for dinner and was so appreciative of their hospitality that he gave Mrs. Gehrig a Chihuahua puppy as a thank you.

They were also pretty good business partners. Well, not exactly partners; no one could really partner with the Babe. But the two men were good for each other’s wallets. That fall, Ruth’s publicist Christy Walsh took his client and Gehrig on a three-week-long nationwide barnstorming tour. Along the way, the two big leaguers captained all-star teams made up of local players from Ohio to Missouri to the California Coast. Gehrig’s team was known as the “Larrupin’ Lous” and Ruth’s was the “Bustin’ Babes.” The tour drew more than 250,000 fans, and when it was over Ruth told anyone who would listen that Gehrig made more on that tour than he did in an entire season with the Yankees. Gehrig remained silent on the matter, but Walsh estimated that the young slugger made $10,000, which was $2,000 more than his 1927 salary. Ruth netted a cool $30,000.

The Babe also gave Gehrig advice on how to negotiate with their mutual employer. Before parting after the barnstorming tour, he told him, “Don’t accept the first contract that [Yankees owner Jacob] Ruppert offers you this winter. No matter what offer he puts on the table, insist on $10,000 more, and when the negotiations are over, make sure you don’t settle for a penny less than $30,000.”

Gehrig took Ruth’s advice, at least initially. The Yankees sent him their usual contract, which Gehrig had signed automatically the last few years, but this time he let it sit on his desk. Neither Gehrig nor the Yankees ever revealed what the team had offered, but it obviously didn’t impress him. The standoff didn’t last long. A few weeks later, Gehrig visited Ruppert at his brewery, and the two men reached a three-year contract that would pay Gehrig $25,000 a year. The money may have been less than Ruth had suggested Gehrig was worth, but it was a big raise. More importantly for the conservative Gehrig, who was seeking financial security for himself and his parents, it was three years in length.

Gehrig and the Yankees came back strong in 1928, winning 101 games and beating out a very good Philadelphia Athletics team that featured Al Simmons, Jimmie Foxx, Eddie Collins, Lefty Grove and a pair of aging Deadball legends, Ty Cobb and Tris Speaker.

The Yankees then went on to sweep the St. Louis Cardinals in the World Series. Gehrig had a monster Series. In the four games, he hit .545 with four home runs (two of them, one which was an inside-the-park homer, in Game 3) and nine RBIs. Despite these remarkable numbers, Gehrig was still in the Babe’s shadow. Ruth hit .625, which at the time was the highest average in a World Series. He also hit three home runs in Game 4, thus stealing the spotlight once again from his friend and teammate.

The 1929 season saw the rise of a new American League dynasty. This one was in Philadelphia, not New York. Under the leadership of Connie Mack, the A’s won 39 of their first 50 games, and by June 25, the team had extended its lead in the American League to 10 games. The Yankees never caught them; Philadelphia clinched the pennant on September 19. The next day, manager Miller Huggins, who had been ill for weeks, checked himself into the hospital. Doctors determined that he had been suffering from a rare skin infection called erysipelas, which had infected his bloodstream. Despite receiving four blood transfusions in less than a week, Huggins died on September 25, 1929. He was 51 years old.

Huggins was the only major league manager that Gehrig had ever known, and his loss crushed the usually stoic first baseman. “I guess I’ll miss him more than anyone else,” Gehrig told reporters. “Next to my mother and father, he was the best friend a boy could have. He taught me everything I know. There was never a more patient and pleasant man to work for. I can’t believe he’ll never join us again.”

A little more than a month after Huggins died, the stock market crashed, and the nation soon fell into the Great Depression. After a decade of glitz, glamour and overindulgence, an era exemplified by Babe Ruth, the country was entering hard times, and it needed a new kind of baseball hero, one who was solid, dependable and dignified. They would find that hero in Lou Gehrig.

With Huggins gone, the Yankees found a new manager in their former star pitcher Bob Shawkey, who had never managed in the major leagues. Gehrig had one of the best seasons of his career, batting .379 with 41 home runs and a league-leading 174 RBIs. What makes those numbers even more astounding is that Gehrig played the last three weeks of the season with a broken finger that required surgery after the season ended. While he was in the hospital, doctors discovered bone chips in his left elbow, another injury that required surgery. Despite the injury, Gehrig again managed to play in every one of the Yankees’ games.

Because the Yankees only won 86 games and finished in third place, 16 games behind the Athletics, the team did not renew Shawkey’s contract. Instead, general manager Ed Barrow replaced Shawkey with Joe McCarthy, who had managed the Chicago Cubs for the previous five seasons, and led the team to the 1929 National League pennant. McCarthy was a disciplinarian who imposed a strict dress code and a rigorous exercise regimen on the team. From the day he was hired, McCarthy made it clear that players had to be well conditioned or they would be benched. It was an attitude that mirrored Gehrig’s approach to the game. Gehrig stayed in shape year round and showed up to play every day — literally. By the time that McCarthy took the helm in April 1931, Gehrig had already played in 888 consecutive games.

In 1931, the Yankees improved to 94 wins, but the A’s won 107 games and took the pennant with ease once again. Gehrig had another astounding season, hitting .341 and leading the American League in hits (211), runs scored (163) and total bases (410). He also set a new American League record with 184 RBIs, a mark that still stands today. Gehrig also tied Ruth for most home runs in the American League with 46.

Gehrig actually hit 47 homers that year, and should have won the title in his own right. Unfortunately, a home run that he hit on April 26, 1931, against the Washington Senators was disallowed. Fellow Yankee Lyn Lary, who was on first base, incorrectly thought that the ball that Gehrig had batted out of the park had been caught by outfielder Harry Rice. Lary left the base path, and Gehrig was declared out for passing the runner. In defense of Lary, after Gehrig’s shot cleared the wall, it smacked into the outfield bleachers and bounced back into play, where it landed in Rice’s glove. Nevertheless, his mistake cost Gehrig his chance of outdoing the man who overshadowed him for most of his career.

While many at the time argued that Gehrig was even better than Ruth, none could dispute that Ruth was the superior negotiator and businessman. After his first three-year deal ended after the 1930 season, Gehrig played the next two years under a pair of one-year, $25,000 contracts. By comparison, Ruth made $80,000 each season.

By 1932, the nation had fallen deeper into economic despair. Banks all over the country had collapsed. Unemployment had risen to 25 percent, and it was affecting the business of baseball. Attendance at Yankee Stadium fell more than 20 percent in 1931. Given the country’s dim financial prospects, Yankee management didn’t expect a rebound at the gates in 1932. The team had to cut costs, and Gehrig could only get $23,000 out of Barrow. It was a $2,000 pay decrease for the man who knocked in 184 runs.

After three years of falling short, the Yankees bounced back and won the American League pennant in 1932. They won 107 games, scored more than 1,000 runs and won the pennant by 13 games over Philadelphia. Gehrig had yet another stellar season, hitting .349 with 34 home runs and 151 RBIs, his third straight year of more than 150 RBIs. His best day of the season, and perhaps of his career, came on June 3 in Shibe Park against the Athletics.

Gehrig always liked hitting at Shibe. In fact, the only parks where he had hit more home runs were Yankee Stadium and Sportsman’s Park in St. Louis. In his first at-bat, Gehrig drove a George Earnshaw fastball over the fence in left-center field. In his second time up, he hit his second round-tripper against Earnshaw, this one a blast over the wall in right. In the fifth inning, he took the big right-hander deep a third time. It was the fourth time Gehrig had homered three times in a game, a new major league record.

Only two players had ever hit four home runs in a game: Ed Delahanty did it in 1896, and Bobby Lowe accomplished the feat in 1894. In Gehrig’s next at-bat, he joined the elite club by driving his fourth home run of the game, this one against reliever Roy Mahaffey. The Philadelphia fans, who were notorious Yankee haters, gave Gehrig a standing ovation as he crossed the plate.

In his fifth at-bat, Gehrig grounded out, but a six-run rally by the Yankees in the top of the ninth inning gave him a sixth at-bat and another shot for the all-time record. He drove a pitch to deep center field. Although it first appeared that the ball was headed for the center-field fence, Al Simmons leapt and made a remarkable catch, robbing Gehrig of a chance for a record fifth round-tripper. After the game, Gehrig told reporters, “I think that last one was the hardest ball I hit all day.”

Gehrig should have grabbed all of the headlines for his record-tying performance. On the very same day, however, John McGraw announced that he was retiring after 30 years as the Giants’ skipper. The New York Times ran a front-page story reflecting on McGraw’s long and accomplished career, with his 10 National League pennants and three World Series titles. As for Gehrig, the story of the man who smacked four home runs for the first time in the modern era was relegated to a much shorter piece in the same sports section.

In the 1932 World Series, the Yankees swept the Chicago Cubs. Gehrig hit .529, cracked three homers, scored nine runs and drove in another eight. Despite his splendid showing, Gehrig was once again in the Babe’s shadow. In the fifth inning of Game 3, Ruth hit his famous “called shot” home run off pitcher Charlie Root. Although the controversy surrounding whether or not Ruth pointed to center field before homering continues to this day, the plain fact is that the home run grabbed so much attention that it, rather than Gehrig’s fantastic series, became the story of the 1932 Fall Classic.

Perhaps even more important than winning the Series, prior to Game 3, Lou Gehrig had been courting his future wife. At a party thrown by one of their mutual friends, Gehrig met Eleanor Grace Twitchell, a 25-year-old secretary from Chicago. Unlike Lou, Eleanor was an extrovert. She liked the social life and, at a time when most women didn’t drink alcohol or smoke cigarettes in public (particularly with Prohibition in effect), Eleanor was not afraid to indulge in both. In her autobiography, My Luke and I, Eleanor described herself as “young and rather innocent, but I smoked, played poker and drank bathtub gin along with everyone else.”

Despite the obvious differences in personality, Lou and Eleanor got along well at the party. After Gehrig headed to spring training, the two maintained a courtship by correspondence, writing each other often until their reunion in Chicago, when the Yankees came to play the White Sox on May 8, 1933..

Although they had barely spent any time together alone and had mostly talked in letters, Gehrig proposed to Eleanor the day after the Yankees pulled into the Windy City. Eleanor accepted. Gehrig’s mother, so protective of her only boy and so very conservative in her ways, did not approve of Eleanor or the marriage, but that didn’t stop Gehrig, and the two were married on September 29, 1933.

Gehrig and the Yankees failed to win the pennant for the next three years. Despite the lack of team success, Gehrig had some of the most memorable — and some of the most pivotal — experiences of his career.

Early in the 1933 season, a fact that should have been obvious to Gehrig was brought to his attention by New York World-Telegram sportswriter Dan Daniel. In early June, Daniel approached Gehrig and asked him if he knew how many consecutive games he had played. “No, I don’t,” said Gehrig. “I know that I started in 1925, and this is 1933, so I guess I’ve played somewhere in the hundreds.”

“It’s much more than that,” Daniel said. He then told Gehrig that as of that day, he had played in 1,250 straight games, and that he was only 57 shy of the record set by former Yankees shortstop Everett “Deacon” Scott, who strung together 1,307 games between 1916 and 1925. Due to Daniel’s work, the streak, and the impending breaking of a big-league record, soon became public knowledge, and sportswriters all over the country began to write about “The Streak.”

Gehrig kept right on playing.

On July 6, 1933, Major League Baseball held its first-ever All-Star game. Gehrig won the starting first base job on the strength of almost half a million votes from the fans, more than three times that of runner-up Jimmie Foxx. In the game, Gehrig came to the plate four times, walking twice, grounding out and striking out. The American League won, 4-2.

A few weeks after the All-Star game, on August 17, 1933, Gehrig played in his 1,308th consecutive game, surpassing Scott’s all-time mark. When the first inning of the game ended, Gehrig was called to home plate, where American League President Will Harridge presented him with a silver statue to commemorate the occasion. That night, Yankees owner Colonel Jacob Ruppert sent Gehrig a telegram that read: “Accept my heartiest congratulations upon the splendid record of continuous service which you have just completed. My best wishes are with you for many additional years of success.”

Gehrig downplayed the accomplishment, reminding writers who inquired that ballplayers had off-days and rain delays and only worked about eight months out of the year. “I think it’s a real stunt,” he told Daniel, “but I don’t think anybody else will try it again.”

By his own lofty standards, Gehrig had a modest season in 1933, batting .334 with 32 home runs and 139 RBIs. By anyone else’s standards, of course, he had a banner year.

The 1934 season marked the last year that Ruth and Gehrig played together. Slowed by age, poundage, and overindulgence, Ruth hit .288 with only 22 home runs, his lowest total in 15 years. While Ruth faded, Gehrig flourished. The 32-year-old first baseman became only the third player in baseball history to lead both the American and National Leagues in batting average (.363), home runs (49) and RBIs (165).

In the offseason, a disgruntled Ruth left the Yankees for the Boston Braves. He retired early the next season. With the Babe now out of the picture, Gehrig began the 1935 season as the undisputed leader of the Yankees. On April 21, Joe McCarthy officially named Gehrig team captain. Initially, when he first heard the news, Gehrig told his wife, Eleanor, that he didn’t know if he was right for the job. He didn’t consider himself enough of a vocal leader to be a captain. Eleanor encouraged him to accept the title and to lead as he had always done: by example.

Unfortunately, the 1935 season was a statistical disappointment for Gehrig. Over the previous five seasons (from 1930 to 1934), he had averaged 40 home runs and 163 RBIs. But in 1935, he didn’t have the supporting cast he’d had in the past. Tony Lazzeri struggled through injuries. Ruth’s replacement, George Selkirk, played well, but he was no Babe. Bill Dickey’s batting average dropped nearly 50 points from the prior year.

With a weak lineup surrounding Gehrig, many pitchers chose to work around him. As a result, he drew a career-high 132 walks that year, which helped him lead the league in on-base percentage (.466) and runs scored (125). However, his power numbers were down; he hit “only” 30 home runs and collected 119 RBIs.

After enjoying one season as the undisputed star of the Yankees, Gehrig was upstaged in 1936 by the arrival of Joe DiMaggio to Yankee Stadium. The 21-year-old phenom of the Pacific Coast League was already something of a celebrity even before he arrived in New York. In 1933, DiMaggio hit in 61 consecutive games, a streak that captured the attention of sportswriters and baseball fans throughout the nation. The local press immediately embraced DiMaggio, calling him “the replacement for Babe Ruth.” Gehrig echoed their praise, saying: “I envy this kid. He has the whole world before him. He has everything, including the mental stability, to be a great one.”

With Ruth gone, Colonel Jacob Ruppert, the Yankees owner, felt that he needed another big star to draw the large crowds that had once come to see the Babe play. Gehrig may have been the best hitter in the game, but he didn’t give writers good quotes, he was shy and quiet, and he evoked no sense of mystery in the Yankees fan base. Accordingly, just as he had always been overshadowed by Ruth, Gehrig found himself playing second fiddle to a rookie; a marvelous rookie, but still a rookie.

Although Gehrig had a better season statistically than DiMaggio, the younger player grabbed most of the headlines. “Joe became the team’s biggest star almost from the moment he [joined] the Yanks,” pitcher Lefty Gomez said, “and it just seemed a terrible shame for Lou. He didn’t seem to care, but maybe he did.” Alluding to Gehrig’s reticent personality, Gomez added: “They got along, but how could you ever know how Lou really felt?”

Despite all of the press, and despite DiMaggio’s marvelous rookie campaign, Gehrig was clearly the better player in 1936. He hit .354, led the American League in home runs with 49 and finished second in RBIs with 152. Gehrig also led the league in runs scored (167), on-base percentage (.478), slugging percentage (.696) and times on base (342). In October he was named the American League’s Most Valuable Player for the second time in his career.

In the World Series, Gehrig hit .292 with two home runs and seven RBIs as the Yankees took out their cross-town rivals, the New York Giants. Gehrig’s biggest moment in the Series came in Game 4, when in the bottom of the third inning, he drove a Carl Hubbell pitch into the right-field seats. The Yankees took the Series in six games and won their first championship in four years.

The 1937 season was Gehrig’s last great year. It was also the last time he would play an entire year of baseball in good health. The Yankees continued their dominance of the American League, winning the pennant for the second straight season. DiMaggio, in just his second year, led the team in home runs (46) and RBIs (167), but Gehrig hit .351 to lead the team in average, with 37 home runs and 159 RBIs. Again, he played in every one of the Yankees games, extending his record streak to a remarkable 1,965 games.

The Yankees faced the Giants again in the ’37 Fall Classic and won in five games behind strong starting pitching from Lefty Gomez, Red Ruffing and Monte Pearson. Gehrig played well in the Series, batting .294 and driving in three runs. In the ninth inning of Game 4, Gehrig homered off Carl Hubbell, just as he had done in the ’36 Series. It was the last of his 10 career World Series blasts.

In 1938, for the first time in his career, Gehrig came to spring training a few pounds overweight. Talking to reporters, he said: “Ruth always told me to stop eating. He warned me that when I got into my 30’s, I’d put weight on. But I was dumb, I kept right on eating.” But Gehrig immediately went to work on his conditioning, running and working out and hitting as much as he’d done in his 20’s. When asked if he felt that he could scale back on his intensity because he was now a senior statesman with the Yankees, he answered: “Nope, not a bit. You can’t make dough saving yourself. I’ll be out there hustling as hard as ever and taking my chances. I’m not trying to be modest or anything like that. It’s just that I’m a lucky guy.”

The training worked. Gehrig whipped himself into playing shape by Opening Day. On May 31, 1938, he was set to play in his 2,000th consecutive game. But his wife, Eleanor, who saw him every morning and evening, became worried about the toll that the streak appeared to be taking on his body. She suggested that her husband skip the game.

“Why not stop at 1,999?” she said. “People will remember the streak better at that figure.”

Gehrig told her that Colonel Ruppert would never forgive him if he sat out. Accordingly, he ignored her advice and went to the park. He played that day and got a hit, and his streak was at an even 2,000 straight games.

But as the summer progressed, Gehrig began to break down. “Somewhere in the creeping mystery of that summer,” Eleanor later remarked, “Lou lost the power.” A lumbago attack forced him out of a game after five innings against the Cleveland Indians. A few days later, Gehrig caught a low throw from pitcher Spud Chandler, severely jamming his thumb and knocking him out in the seventh inning of the contest. The Yankees team doctor wanted Gehrig to get an x-ray on his hand, but he refused, saying: “I’ll shake it off. That’s what I’ve always done.”

He continued to play through the pain, but unlike years past, Gehrig was not hitting. An extended drought at the plate in July and August led some to ask if the Iron Horse, now 35 years old, was on the decline. Manager Joe McCarthy suggested that Gehrig try a lighter bat, which he did, choosing a 33-ounce bat to replace the 38-ounce club he’d used for his entire career. He also changed his style of hitting, relying more on his hands and arms to punch the ball rather than using his entire body to drive it. He now collected singles instead of extra-base hits. The lack of power led some to speculate that Gehrig’s age and constant effort were finally catching up with him.

Those who had watched Gehrig since his early days thought differently. One such person, Jim Kahn of the New York Sun, wrote: “I’ve seen players go overnight, but I think there’s something deeper than that in Lou’s case. He takes the same old swing, but the ball doesn’t go anywhere.” Teammate Lefty Gomez echoed the sentiment: “To see that big guy coming back to the dugout after striking out with the bases loaded would make your heart bleed. He couldn’t understand what was wrong.”

By the middle of August, Gehrig had had enough. “Hell, I’m not hitting with all these changes of stance and other things,” he said. “I’ve tried just about everything. So I might as well go back to my old way.”

In the waning days of the regular season, Gehrig reflected upon his up-and-down season: “I must confess that forcing myself to a feverish pitch day after day, I lost some of my zest for play. But now my confidence is as strong as ever, and I can’t wait for game time. I may be down, but Gehrig has not quit on Gehrig.”

Despite an entire season of struggles, Gehrig still put up respectable numbers in 1938, hitting .295 with 29 home runs and 114 RBIs.

The Yankees won their third straight American League pennant, outpacing the Red Sox by 9 1/2 games. They went on to sweep the Cubs in the World Series. Gehrig hit .286, but failed to pick up an extra-base hit.

During the offseason, Gehrig met with Ed Barrow to discuss his salary for the upcoming season. Barrow told Gehrig that because he had a “down” year statistically, the Yankees were going to cut his pay from $39,000 to $36,000. Gehrig didn’t challenge the salary reduction, but rather told Barrow that he would “strive mightily” to regain his old form. He exercised all winter, often ice-skating with Eleanor at the Playland Casino ice rink in Rye, New York. On a few occasions, Gehrig inexplicably lost his strength and collapsed on the ice. Eleanor was concerned. She ordered that he see a doctor, who diagnosed him with a gall bladder problem and placed him on a bland diet.

It didn’t work. Gehrig continued to feel weak and listless throughout the winter. When spring training arrived, he hoped that a month in Florida would do him some good. It didn’t. In his first 10 exhibition games, Gehrig was hitting a miserable .100 with no extra-base hits. Gehrig attempted to mask his concern. “I’ve been worried about my hits since 1925,” he said. “But you know that I never hit in spring training. I just have to work harder than ever.”

During one spring training batting practice session, teammate Joe DiMaggio looked on as Gehrig swung at — and missed — 19 straight pitches. “They were all fastballs, too, the kind of pitches that Lou would normally hit into the next county. You could see his timing was way off,” DiMaggio commented. “Then he had trouble catching balls at first base. Sometimes he didn’t move his hands fast enough to protect himself.”

In the clubhouse one afternoon, Gehrig collapsed while trying to put on his uniform pants. DiMaggio and clubhouse attendant Pete Sheehy rushed over to help the fallen Yankee captain, but he just waved them off, saying, “Please, I can get up.” A few days later, while talking in the locker room with pitcher Wes Ferrell, who had joined the Yankees the year before. Gehrig suddenly fell backward and hit the floor. “He fell hard, too, and lay there frowning, like he couldn’t understand what was going on,” Ferrell later told reporters.

By the time the Yankees broke spring training, everyone had noticed that something was very, very wrong with their first baseman. McCarthy, however, was reluctant to sit Gehrig. After all, he was the captain of the team, and there was that matter of the 2,122 straight games played by the Iron Horse.

The Yankees opened the season at home against the Boston Red Sox. In his first at-bat, Gehrig came to the plate with two men on base. The fans rose to their feet, cheering the old Yankee, urging him on, hoping for a sudden return to greatness. But Gehrig hit a weak liner to right field that was caught by a rookie named Ted Williams. The crowd may not have known it then, but the at-bat symbolized the end of one era and the beginning of another.

Gehrig played in the next seven games, hitting just .143 with no extra-base hits and only one RBI. At that point, even he could no longer deny that he needed rest.

On May 2, Gehrig told Joe McCarthy that he thought it was time for him to sit out, at least for a while. McCarthy told the press before the game: “Lou just told me that he thought it would be best for the club if he took himself out of the lineup. I told him it would be as he wished. Like everybody else, I’m sorry to see it happen. I told him not to worry. Maybe the warm weather will bring him around.” Gehrig’s consecutive games streak was finally over, at 2,130 games.

After the game, Gehrig spoke to reporters, saying: “I decided last Sunday night on this move. I haven’t been a bit of good to the team since the season started. It would not be fair to the boys, to Joe or to the baseball public for me to try going on.”

Although Gehrig described the move as temporary and said that he hoped the rest would do him some good, many of his contemporaries spoke as if they were witnessing a premature retirement. Hank Greenberg, the Tigers’ great first baseman, said: “It’s tough to see this thing happen, even though you know it must come to us all. Lou’s doing the right thing. He’s got to use his head now instead of his legs.”

For the next month, Gehrig traveled with the Yankees, but he did not play. With his condition continuing to worsen, Eleanor contacted the famed Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. A team of doctors headed by Charles William Mayo himself reviewed Gehrig’s case. After six days of intensive testing, the doctors diagnosed Gehrig with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS). The disease caused a hardening of the spinal cord, which led to a slow, painful, deterioration of muscles and nerve endings. Gehrig’s great, strong, athletic body would deteriorate, and he would eventually become paralyzed by the illness. At some point, his heart or his lungs would stop working, and he would be dead. The doctors gave him three years, at best.

The cruelest part of ALS is that while it ravages the body, it leaves the mind unaffected. Patients are usually fully cognizant and coherent until the final weeks. They are condemned to witness their own slow demise. This was Lou Gehrig’s fate, and he learned of it on his 36th birthday.

On June 21, 1939, the Yankees announced Gehrig’s retirement and that July 4 would be “Lou Gehrig Appreciation Day,” a day to celebrate the life and career of their ailing hero.

Almost 42,000 fans turned out for the ceremony, which took place between games of a doubleheader against the Washington Senators. Notable members of the great 1927 team showed up, including Babe Ruth, Earle Combs, Bob Meusel and Tony Lazzeri. Wally Pipp was there. So was Everett Scott, the man whose record Gehrig had broken for consecutive games played. Mayor Fiorello La Guardia delivered a speech in which he proclaimed: “You are the greatest prototype of sportsmanship and good citizenship. Lou, we are proud of you.” Joe McCarthy spoke, and so did the Babe.

Then Gehrig took the microphone. Overcome with emotion, he was temporarily unable to speak. But then he rallied, regaining his composure to deliver one of the most famous speeches in sports history. To the crowd, he said:

Fans, for the past two weeks you have been reading about a bad break. Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.

I have been in ballparks for 17 years and have never received anything but kindness and encouragement from you fans. Look at these grand men. Which of you wouldn’t consider it the highlight of his career just to associate with them for even one day?

Sure I’m lucky.

Who wouldn’t consider it an honor to have known Jacob Ruppert? Also, the builder of baseball’s greatest empire, Ed Barrow? To have spent six years with that wonderful little fellow, Miller Huggins? Then to have spent the next nine years with that outstanding leader, that smart student of psychology, the best manager in baseball today, Joe McCarthy?

Sure I’m lucky.

When the New York Giants, a team you would give your right arm to beat, and vice versa, sends you a gift — that’s something. When everybody down to the groundskeepers and those boys in white coats remember you with trophies — that’s something.

When you have a wonderful mother-in-law who takes sides with you in squabbles with her own daughter — that’s something.

When you have a father and a mother who work all their lives so you can have an education and build your body — it’s a blessing.

When you have a wife who has been a tower of strength and shown more courage than you dreamed existed — that’s the finest I know.

So, I close in saying that I might have been given a bad break, but I’ve got an awful lot to live for.

The end had come. Gehrig never played another game. His career was over. His final statistics were among the best ever. A .340 batting average, 493 home runs, 1,995 RBIs, 534 doubles, 163 triples and a .632 slugging percentage. A comprehensive list of Gehrig’s accomplishments as a ballplayer could fill an encyclopedia. But here are a few highlights that boggle the mind:

He drove in more than 150 runs seven times in his big league career, more than any other player. Ruth did it five times. Hank Greenberg and Al Simmons did it three times. No other player has done it more than twice. He hit 23 grand slams, a major league record finally broken by Alex Rodriguez in 2013. He averaged .92 RBIs per game, which is the best average for any player whose career began after 1900. His OPS of 1.0798 is third-highest ever.

“Don’t think I am depressed or pessimistic about my condition at present,” Lou Gehrig wrote following his retirement from baseball. Struggling against his ever-worsening physical condition, he added, “I intend to hold on as long as possible and then if the inevitable comes, I will accept it philosophically and hope for the best. That’s all we can do.”

In October 1939, Gehrig accepted Mayor La Guardia’s appointment to a 10-year term as a New York City Parole Commissioner and was sworn into office on January 2, 1940. He had rejected other job offers that paid far more than the $5,700 a year commissionership. Gehrig performed his duties quietly and efficiently and was often helped by his wife, Eleanor, who would guide his hand when he had to sign official documents. About a month before his death, when Gehrig reached the point where his deteriorating physical condition made it impossible for him to continue in the job, he quietly resigned.

On June 2, 1941, at 10:10 p.m., 16 years to the day after he replaced Wally Pipp at first base, Henry Louis Gehrig died at his home at 5204 Delafield Avenue, in the Fieldston section of the Bronx, New York. Upon hearing the news of the Iron Horse’s passing, Babe Ruth and his wife, Claire, went to the Gehrig house to console Eleanor. Mayor La Guardia ordered flags in New York to be flown at half-staff, and major league ballparks around the nation did likewise.

Following the funeral at Christ Episcopal Church of Riverdale, Gehrig’s remains were cremated and interred at Kensico Cemetery in Valhalla, New York. The graveyard is also the final resting place of Yankees former general manager Ed Barrow; team owner Colonel Jacob Ruppert; Paul Krichell, the scout who discovered Gehrig; and Andy Coakley, Gehrig’s coach at Columbia. Located next door to Kensico is the Gate of Heaven Cemetery, which is the site of Babe Ruth’s grave. Somehow, it seems quite fitting that these men, all of whom were great influences on Gehrig’s life, will spend eternity in such close quarters.

Sources

Luckiest Man: The Life and Death of Lou Gehrig, by Jonathan Eig, 2005.

Iron Horse: Lou Gehrig in His Time, by Ray Robinson, 1990.

The New York Times “Gehrig Sent to Hartford” April 15, 1923 (AP)

The New York Times, “Ruth Hits 25th, But Yanks Lose,” August 2, 1923 (AP)

The New York Times “Gehrig Leaves Yanks to Play Under Option at Hartford.” April 15, 1924 (AP)

The New York Times, “Best Player Award Goes to Lou Gehrig,” October 11, 1927 (AP)

The New York Times, “Ruth to Make Tour with Gehrig to Coast,” September 27, 1927 (AP).

The New York Times, “Yankees Again Beat St. Louis, Two Homers for Gehrig,” James R. Harrison, October 8, 1928.

The New York Times, “Yankees Win Final, Gehrig Ties Ruth,” by William E. Brandt, September 28, 1931.

The New York Times, “Many Brilliant feats Performed by Gehrig on Way to New Endurance Record,” August 18, 1933 (AP).

The New York Times, “Eight Marks Made, One Tied, By Gehrig,” December 25, 1938 (AP).

The New York Times “Gehrig Voluntarily Ends Streak at 2,130 Games,” by James P. Dawson, May 3, 1939.

The New York Times, “75,000 Expected at the Stadium for Lou Gehrig Appreciation Day,” July 4, 1939 (AP).

The New York Times, “61,808 Fans Roar Tribute to Gehrig,” John Drebinger, July 5, 1939.

The New York Times, “Gehrig, Iron Man of Baseball, Dies at 37,” June 3, 1941.

Sports of the Times, “Man in a Shadow,” August 31, 1953, by Arthur Daley.

The Largents were equal partners in their scouting endeavors, with Bessie being the first full-time paid female professional baseball scout. The Sporting News said in 1933 that the Largents have “the eyes and judgment of a man; the cleverness and intuition of a woman.” According to the Dallas Morning News the White Sox regarded them as a tandem, paid them accordingly, with checks monthly, the year round.

According to published reports, the Largents signed over a hundred and fifty players for the White Sox system between 1925 and 1943 with twenty five of them making the major leagues. Their most distinguished signee was Hall of Fame short stop Luke Appling.

Roy Issac Largent was born September 28, 1879 in Collin County, Texas, the son of Issac Largent and Laura (Huffman) Largent. The 1900 census says he worked in a dry goods store. Roy then played college baseball at the University of Texas in 1902. He was offered a minor league baseball contract but turned it down to work for the Dallas News because he would make more money.

For a time he worked as a sportswriter and served as the official scorer of the Texas-Oklahoma league. Roy served as the President of a Sunday school league, which he was quoted as saying was his toughest job. He was the Director of Athletics at McKinney High School for about fifteen years. He also coached baseball at McKinney which served as his entry point into the scouting profession.

Roy’s main occupation was serving as the Secretary of the Local Elks club. He held this position for twenty six years. Known as a great games player, Roy was said to have held checkers championship in three states. He was called a shark at chess, an expert in billiards and pool and one of the best dominos players in baseball.

Bessie Hamilton was born March 24, 1882 in McKinney, Texas, daughter of John William Hamilton and Leona (Bailey) Hamilton. Her father served in Co. I, 30th Texas Cavalry of the Confederate States Army during the Civil War. He was a prominent contractor and builder of the city of McKinney. Bessie lived her entire life on family property on North Church Street in McKinney. Roy and Bessie were married in 1904 and Roy moved into the Hamiltons’ home.

Bessie worked as a music teacher before marrying Roy. She played the pipe organ, piano and violin. She basically traded her music career for one in baseball. She was a Sunday school teacher and organist at the First Methodist Church. She served for a time as President of the Owl Club, a literary society, President of the City Federation and a sponsor of the Free Library. Having no children of their own, the Largents helped raise three orphan children. One was a niece, Marie Hamilton.

Roy’s playing background and coaching experience led to scouts asking his opinion on local players. He began his career in scouting serving as a sort of recommending scout, offering advice on players to full-time scouts. Chicago White Sox official Lou Comiskey asked him to check out a player, was pleased with the information provided, and decided to hire him as a full-time scout in 1925.

Bessie first became interested in baseball when Roy was the coach of the McKinney High School Lions and she served as the scorekeeper. Published accounts say that Bessie had a knack for picking out the best players. Bessie actually began her scouting career as Roy’s secretary. Referred to as shy and timid she soon grew into the role, becoming “Roy’s ears,” due to his being hearing impaired. It appears Roy had lost part or all of his hearing by about 1910.

Bessie handled the communication with players, managers, minor league club owners and the White Sox front office. She often communicated with Roy using a note pad. It wasn’t long before newspapers were recording that “Mrs. Largent is just as much a scout as Roy.”

Published accounts give an idea of the work ethic of the Largents during their scouting years. In a fourteen-year span the Largents traveled 840,000 miles and attended 2,800 games in search of prospects. They saw as many as four games a day, between two hundred and two hundred and fifty in a season.

One of their earliest signings, in 1926, was George Cox of McKinney, their hometown. A right handed pitcher Cox debuted with the White Sox in 1928, winning one game and losing two in his only season in the big leagues. Three years later the White Sox defeated the McKinney High School team 20-4 in a preseason game that honored Roy and George. Cox hurled most of the game for the White Sox while his brother Red Cox hurled part of the game for the McKinney Lions.

With his experience in running tryout camps Roy was sent in February of 1931 to San Antonio to check on preparations for the White Sox’s spring training site. He was in charge of making sure the field conditions were adequate and accommodations for players were ready.

The Largents did not always agree on the players they scouted, each serving as a sounding board for the other. In what might a good cop/bad cop routine the Washington Post reported in 1932 that Roy had discovered Carl Reynolds, the shortstop of Southwestern University at Waxahachie. Roy talked to him, but Reynolds did not sign a contract. Largent brought Bessie with him the next time, and Reynolds signed.

Perhaps their greatest sign was shortstop Luke Appling, who went on to a Hall of Fame career. The October 27, 1936 edition of the Chicago Daily Tribune gave the inside scoop. Arch Ward, in his “Talking it Over” column said ” the alertness of Mrs. Roy Largent, wife of the White Sox scout, was responsible for Lou Comiskey’s purchase of Luke Appling… she thought so well of Appling’s major league possibilities that she telephoned the Chicago office to sign him, although the price was considered rather high at the time.” Appling went on to hit .310 in his twenty-year career.

The Largents’ ability to sign prospects was never better shown than in a 1936 Dallas Morning News feature. The story reported the White Sox had opened their spring training camp at Pasadena, California, on February 23 with sixteen players and coach Billy Webb–all Largent products out of a squad of thirty-one!

In 1937, Honus Wagner, the former player, was serving as the high commissioner of Semi-Pro baseball. He named Roy as the representative of the White Sox on the All-American board comprised of sixteen scouts, one from each major league organization. This group of scouts selected an All-American team from amateur and semi-professional players each year during the National Semi-Pro finals at held in Wichita, Kansas. Both Roy and Bessie consistently attended the National Semi-Pro tournament each summer.

The following year, Bessie was named as chairman of the board of the National Baseball Congress to select the All-American semi-pro team for 1938. She had the responsibility to select the other scouts to serve with her. Bessie retained this position for the next few years.

In 1939, the Los Angeles Times reported Bessie mailed seventy five letters to scouts inviting them to attend the eight hundred semi-pro tournaments conducted by the National Semi-Pro Baseball Congress with a view of selecting the All American team. The White Sox scout was the selection committee chairman.

The Largents in the late 1930s were being noticed in circles outside of baseball. A news story stated Roy had accepted a Lt. Colonel’s position on Governor James V.Allred’s staff. Another said Bessie would appear on the radio program “It Can Be Done” on Chicago station WLS.

In 1938 a tragedy occurred that had a link to the Largents. Monty Stratton, a pitcher they had signed, was hunting rabbits and accidentally shot himself in the leg with a pistol. The leg had to be amputated, thus ending Stratton’s career, or so it seemed. Stratton had pitched parts of five seasons in the majors, twice winning fifteen games and being a member of the American League All Star team in 1937.

Stratton, pitching on a wooden leg, attempted a comeback in 1942, but was not successful. After World War II he tried again. In 1946, pitching for Sherman of the East Texas League, he won eighteen games! Stratton went on to pitch in the 1947, 1949, 1950 and 1953 seasons in the minor leagues. His tale was filmed in the movie The Monty Stratton Story, starring Jimmy Stewart.

Roy passed away on September 26, 1943, and was buried on his birthday in the Pecan Grove cemetery in McKinney. Some sources say for a short time after Roy’s death, Bessie continued to scout before her arthritis forced her to retire. Other sources say the job ended with Roy’s death. During the last five years of their scouting career Bessie’s arthritis became so bad she had to be helped from the car into ballgames and hotels. She eventually used a wheelchair. She later became bedridden, cared for by her sister Daisy and niece Marie Hamilton, who resided in the family home.

In 1946 Edith Houghton was hired as a scout by the Philadelphia Phillies. Some news stories erroneously referred to her as the first female scout, which was quickly refuted by George White in the Dallas Morning News. In the February 28, 1946, edition he said “Philly scribes calling Edith Houghton the first female scout are wrong. For many years Bessie Largent has been an accredited, full-salaried scout of the ChiSox.”

In 1949 a crippled Bessie received a wonderful tribute from the hometown Burnett Field fans. Bedfast, unable to walk, she was brought to Dallas by ambulance and honored in a moving ceremony at home plate. Monty Stratton was on hand to pay tribute. She received $425 in cash earned from the sale of prized autographed balls and other baseball memorabilia.

Even though Bessie could not easily leave her home, she tried to keep her hand in the game. An article in The Sporting News quoted Bessie asking former players she had signed to correspond with her. She was a member of the Poetry Society of Texas, and spent much of her time composing verse. She had some poems published, including one published in The Sporting News quoted below.

Together in death as in life Bessie died at the Wilson Rest Home in McKinney on September 26, 1958, at age 76. She is buried beside Roy in the Pecan Grove cemetery.

“The Rookie”, by Mrs. Roy Largent

A rookie went up in the spring,
And utmost confidence wore,
His own praises always would sing,
Until all the team at him swore.

He said “Just watch how I swing,
I’ll soon be a Ty Cobb or a Babe Ruth.
Get your best pitcher to fling,
To show you I’m telling the truth.”

The manager, who was always joking,
Called in a catcher to pitch.
He threw in one that was smoking,
And tried the poor boy to bewitch.

He told them “To just throw a curve
And I will hit with a wham.”
It must be that he lost his nerve,
For he got himself in a jam.

Crestfallen, he walked from the plate,
With bowed head sat on the bench.
Thought ’twas time he was pulling his freight
As both of his fists did clench.

A ballplayer is such a good fellow
And when they saw how he felt
They rushed out to him with a “Hello,”
And put their arms round his belt.

“Say, boy, that was your initiation,
We know just what you can do,
But don’t be a poor imitation,
Just Honest to Goodness You.”

Roy and Bessie’s signings include: Luke Appling, George Blackerby, Zeke Bonura, Bruce Campbell, Bud Clancy, George Cox, Larry Drake, Vic Frazier, Dave Harris, Ira Hutchinson, Irv Jeffries, Smead Jolley, Harry Kinzy, Hugo Klaerner, Mark Mauldin, Tom McBride, Alex Metzler, Randy Moore, Bill Norman, Rip Radcliff, Carl Reynolds, Art Shires, Monty Stratton, Joe Vance, George Washington, and Johnny Watwood,

Sources

Obituary, Daily Courier Gazette, McKinney, Texas,Friday, September 26, 1958

Leona Hamilton’s Widow’s Application for Confederate Pension.

World War I Draft Registration card

Dallas Morning News, 1906, 08, 20, 22, 25, 26, 29, 31-3, 35-41, 44, 46, 49

Washington Post, 1932, 37, 38

New York Times, 1941

The Sporting News, 1933, 35, 37, 39, 58

Chicago Tribune, 1936, 37, 39

Los Angeles Times, 1937-9, 43, 58

“Who signed who” database of the Scouts Committee, Society for American Baseball Research.

Scouts roster database of the Scouts Committee, Society for American Baseball Research.

McKinney, Collin County, Texas, Census: 1860, 1870, 1880, 1900, 1910, 1920, 1930

www.ancestry.com

Ethel Posey became a part of the management team, but she did not take an active role in the team. Jackson continued to serve as the Grays’ president and brother-in-law Seward Posey retained his position as the business manager. After Jackson died in March 1949 Mrs. Posey and Helen Jackson continued to operate the team before turning it over to See, who did not believe that a woman had any business running the team and wanted to buy her out. Mrs. Posey, wanting to protect her husband’s legacy and name, resisted for nearly three years before selling her share.2

Ethel Shaw Truman and Cum Posey had been married in 1913, when she was just 20, and they had four daughters, Ethel, Mary, Anne, and Beatrice. Their daughter Ethel married pitcher Ray Brown. While Posey was often on the road with the Grays, Mrs. Posey stayed at home with the girls. That did not mean she did not take an interest in the team or have a role to play. Ethel Posey said that she tended to be the steadying influence on her husband, providing counsel and logic when he often wanted to act too quickly. He consulted her on financial issues in particular, which gave her insights into the running of the club after he died.3

After turning over the ballclub to her brother-in-law, Mrs. Posey went to work for the Allegheny County Prothonotary Office until her retirement in 1963. She also served as a member of the Homestead District School Board for 23 years and was a member of the local Samedi Club and the Junior Mothers. In 1984 she moved to Atlanta to be closer to her daughter Beatrice, and she died there due to a heart ailment in 1986. Beatrice moved to New York City, where she spent many years working for the city’s Board of Education, before she died in 1998.4

In describing Ethel Posey’s role with the team, retired Pittsburgh Courier city editor Frank Bolden said, “Mrs. Posey was supportive of everything her husband did with the team. You might put her in the same class with any of the wives of well-known baseball magnates.”5 Others saw Mrs. Posey as a mother to many of the young men who moved to the North to play for the Grays. A number of Grays players were from the rural South and had never been to a big city. She helped them find places to live, occasionally cooked meals, and generally watched out for them. When asked about her new role with the ballclub after her husband’s death, Mrs. Posey asserted, “I am confident that Mr. Jackson and I will get along together. I am not unfamiliar with the operation of a baseball club and will content myself with being an observer throughout the seasons.”6 Though her role indeed appears to have been that of an observer, Ethel Posey nonetheless belongs to the fairly small group of women who have owned a professional baseball team, white or black.

This biography appears in “Bittersweet Goodbye: The Black Barons, the Grays, and the 1948 Negro League World Series” (SABR, 2017), edited by Frederick C. Bush and Bill Nowlin.

Notes

1 Pittsburgh Press, April 22, 1946: 11.

2 Brian McKenna, “Cumberland Posey,” sabr.bio/posey; Altoona Mirror, August 26, 1947; “Widow Takes Club,” Altoona Mirror, April 12, 1946.

3 Uniontown (Pennsylvania) Morning Herald, March 29, 1946; Chester (Pennsylvania) Times, April 11, 1946.

4 Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, December 1, 1998: 25.

5 “Ethel T. Posey, Wife of Founder of Grays Team,” Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, November 27, 1986: C4.

6 “Widow Gets Grays’ Share,” Uniontown Morning Herald, April 12, 1946: 24.

Yet her role as guardian was just one of her many accomplishments. Rachel was also a distinguished professor at Yale, a psychiatric nurse, a vocal civil rights activist, a cunning businesswoman, and a generous philanthropist. Hers is a stunning résumé for anyone, but most especially a Black woman born nearly a century ago.

Rachel Annetta Isum took her first breath on July 19, 1922, in Los Angeles, to parents Zellee and Charles Raymond Isum. Zellee Jones was born in Texas, and after moving to California became a gourmet cook and self-employed caterer with elite clientele in Beverly Hills and Hollywood. Charles was a second-generation Californian, and an Army veteran who’d fought in World War I and was gassed by the German army in France. After the war he got a job as a bookbinder for the Los Angeles Times, though he never fully recovered from the gas attack and was forced to retire while still a relatively young man.1 Believing in the importance of exposing her children to art and culture, Zellee took Rachel to violin lessons, the museum, and the Exposition Park Rose Garden, not far from the family home at 1588 36th Place.2 Rachel attended the acclaimed Manual Arts High School, which counted among its notable alumni filmmaker Frank Capra and California Governor Goodwin Knight. Her parents provided her with opportunities that few Black families could give their children.

When it was time for college, Rachel went to UCLA. She longed to be a doctor, but Zellee convinced her that nursing was a more appropriate career path for a woman who was destined to have a family.3 Rachel lived at home, and drove her old, beat-up Ford V-8 to school. It was a largely isolated existence, living off-campus.4 That changed when she met Jack Roosevelt Robinson. Prior to their introduction, she had seen Jack play for Pasadena Junior College, a rival of her own beloved Los Angeles, and had instantly disliked him. She found the popular athlete to be “cocky, conceited and self-centered.” She even found the way he stood in the backfield during football games, with his hands on his hips, to give off an air of arrogance. In truth, Jack was rather shy around women. When the two, now both attending UCLA, were introduced by Jack’s more outgoing friend Ray Bartlett, she found her earlier prejudices challenged.5

There was an instant spark between the two. Jack was attracted to her “looks and charm,” she found him “impressive — a handsome, proud, and serious man with a warm smile and a pigeon-toed walk.”6 When she brought Jack home to meet her family, her mother and brothers were impressed. Her father was a harsher critic, and Rachel sensed that he harbored some jealousy of the successful athlete who was wooing his daughter. For their first formal date, Jack took her to the Bruins football homecoming dinner, an affair at the Biltmore Hotel. Rachel later remembered her anxiety about stepping out into such glamorous surroundings. The racism she faced in Los Angeles was often “unexpected and inexplicable,” and an event at a place like the Biltmore was rife for a surprise reminder. There was also an underlying sexual tension that was new to the innocent Rachel. Still, despite the occasional awkwardness, the night went off seamlessly, as she and Jack danced the fox-trot and flirted, two kids in love. The road ahead for Rachel and Jack would not always be so smooth. 7

Charles Isum died on March 6, 1941. His death deeply affected Rachel, who thought of herself as her father’s guardian angel. One of the roles assigned to her by Zellee, even when she was a young child, had been to serve as a caretaker to her often-ill father. Her grief brought Rachel and Jack even closer together, as he was a loving salve for her during that difficult time. Just three days before Charles’s death, Jack had dropped out of UCLA, only a few credits shy of graduation. He always claimed that it was financial hardships that forced him to leave school. He had to find work to help his mother, Mallie, with the bills. However, Rachel would note years later that she always believed that the real reason was not a financial one. Rather, by that spring he had used up his athletic eligibility. With no sports, school no longer held his interest.8 He found work, first with the National Youth Administration in Atascadero. He was hired as an assistant athletic director, a position he enjoyed, but the approaching war cut the job short in July. After a brief tenure playing for the Los Angeles Bulldogs of the Pacific Coast Professional Football League, he quickly signed with the Honolulu Bears of the Hawaii Senior Football League, a position that came with an attached construction job.9 Rachel supported his decision, even though it meant they would be separated. Before he left, Jack gave her a charm bracelet, a symbol that they were committed to one another.10

They were not separated for long. While he had some success on the gridiron in Hawaii, Jack was often hampered by injuries and he left Honolulu just two days before the attack at Pearl Harbor. Upon his return, he and Rachel immediately began spending as much time together as work and school allowed. Their reunion was short-lived. On March 23, 1942, Jack received notification that he was to report for induction into the US Army.11 Rachel suddenly had three important men in her life serving — her brothers, Chuck and Raymond, both saw active combat. Chuck, a pilot, was even missing in action for a time, after his plane was shot down over Yugoslavia. It was while Jack was on leave from the Army in March 1943 that they formalized their engagement when he presented Rachel with a diamond ring. They promised to wed once she finished school, though in truth she was in no hurry. While she loved Jack, she had come to realize that much of her life had been lived to fulfill the goals her family had for her. She understood that with marriage, she was likely surrendering another piece of her autonomy, a reality she was happy to delay.12

Rachel did her part toward the war effort by taking a job as a riveter at Lockheed Aircraft, working nights while she went to school during the day. In September 1943 she transferred to the U.C. San Francisco School of Nursing, where she then worked eight-hour shifts in hospital wards, all while juggling her studies.13 Jack wrote Rachel weekly, and arranged for a box of chocolates to appear at her dorm room every Friday. The distance was difficult for them both, especially Rachel, who was now living over six hours away from home. She watched all of her new friends go on adventures with their romantic interests, while Jack was 1,700 miles away at Fort Riley, Kansas. Worse, he and Rachel clashed when she wrote to him and informed him that she had decided to join the Cadet Nurse Corps. Jack mistakenly believed she had actually enlisted in the Army, and wrote her back, insisting she withdraw. He was certain that were she to be surrounded by enlisted men, she would quickly be seduced by them. Rachel, not one to be told what to do, returned the ring and bracelet. She joined the Corps, glad for the extra $20 a month it provided and for the chance to serve her country.14 The two remained estranged until Jack was discharged from the Army in November 1944. At first, he hesitated to contact Rachel, but after some convincing by his mother, Mallie, he called her. Rachel was eager to rekindle their romance and he rapidly drove to San Francisco. The two reconciled, and reaffirmed their engagement when he gave her back the ring.15

Jack was again on the road at the beginning of 1945, playing shortstop for the Kansas City Monarchs, while Rachel was completing her studies. She graduated in June, with honors, from UCLA, receiving a B.S. in Nursing. She also won the Florence Nightingale Award for clinical excellence, a superlative for which she was chosen by her peers. After graduation, she took a job working in the nursery of Los Angeles General Hospital.16 Two months later, Jack was contacted by the Dodgers. It was at his August 28, 1945, meeting with Branch Rickey that the Mahatma famously asked Jack, “You got a girl?” and told him to marry her right away. In truth, Jack and Rachel had already set the date for their wedding, but before she settled into the role of wife, she wanted an adventure of her own. Rachel and her college roommate, Janice Brooks, moved to Harlem in October. There, she found work as a hostess in a restaurant, a job she left when she learned the establishment was segregated. She then found a position at the Hospital for Joint Diseases in Manhattan. Growing up in her largely White world in Los Angeles, her experience in Harlem was revelatory and it brought herself and Jack, who had spent considerably more time with fellow BIPOC, closer together. At the beginning of January, her adventure complete, Rachel and Jack returned to California to prepare for their wedding.17 They married on February 10, 1946, an affair that was largely planned by Zellee. Jack, who adored his mother-in-law, was happy to join Rachel in indulging Zellee’s flower-drenched whims.18

The two took an abbreviated honeymoon in San Jose, California, staying at the home of Rachel’s aunt. But the future was calling and barely three weeks after the wedding, armed with a basket of fried chicken and boiled eggs given to them by Jack’s mother Mallie, Rachel and Jack were on their way to Daytona Beach, Florida, for spring training with the Montreal Royals. While Rachel had experienced “unexpected” racism in California, the journey through the American South was eye-opening. Inexplicably booted from their connecting flight in New Orleans, they were forced to stay in a second-rate, grimy hotel. Unable to find a restaurant that would serve them, the only food they had was Mallie’s chicken. Bumped from another flight the next day, they had to take a bus from Pensacola, where they suffered the additional indignity of being sent to the back to make room for White passengers. Jack, who had suffered court-martial rather than be forced to the back of a military bus, moved without a word. Throughout the 16-hour ride, Rachel wept at the pain she knew it caused her proud husband to stay silent.19

They were largely welcomed in Daytona, where they met influential community leaders and stayed with a prominent Black family, the Harrises. The city was fairly progressive for the time and place, though even there they witnessed reminders of the Jim Crow South. While it was acceptable in Daytona for Black shoppers to try on shoes, it was against the law to try on clothing in the local stores.20 Their experiences around the rest of Florida were even more challenging, and Rachel felt Jack’s nightly struggles to withstand the hatred and still manage the rather difficult task of hitting a baseball. Recognizing that Rachel would be integral in helping Jack weather the storm ahead, Rickey allowed her to join the other players in camp — the only wife allowed to do so. She quickly realized that her role in the important work that Jack was doing was to lend support, to “be a consistent presence to witness and validate the realities, love him without reservation, share his thoughts and miseries, discover with him the humor in the ridiculous behavior against us, and, most of all, help maintain our fighting spirit.”21

Jack’s first season in Organized Baseball brought them to Montreal, where Rachel was pleasantly surprised to learn that the housing discrimination she had been anticipating was not as prevalent north of the US border. After a month in a guest house, they found a home in a French-speaking neighborhood, a modest apartment at 8232 de Gaspé Avenue not far from Jarry Park. In May, she and Jack were delighted to learn that she was pregnant with their first child. She enjoyed their stay in Montreal, and would later remember that time as “blissful.”22 Still, within all the joy, the year had its obstacles. The psychological pressure was physically grueling on Jack, who by midseason was suffering from exhaustion. Rachel helped him bear the burden, while simultaneously remaining quiet about the unexpected complications she was having with her pregnancy, a struggle Jack did not learn about until much later.23 Occasionally she traveled with him, but often she stayed at home, sewing, shopping, and generally living the domesticated home life she anticipated would come with marriage.24 Despite his physical woes, Jack excelled on the field that season, leading the Royals to the Little World Series championship on October 4, 1946. Eight months pregnant, Rachel was on the field with her husband when he celebrated with his teammates.25

After the season, the family returned to Los Angeles, living in Rachel’s childhood home. Their first child, Jackie Jr., was born on November 18, 1946, at Good Samaritan Hospital. Jack and Rachel had the luxury of the early support of their families, but challenges awaited them. Needing money, Jack signed on with a local basketball team, the Los Angeles Red Devils, for $50 a game, an experiment that lasted only a few weeks.26 In late February, Jack left for spring training in Cuba, and this time Rachel (and Jackie Jr.) were not allowed to accompany the team. When they reunited it was in New York, where they established a temporary life at the McAlpin Hotel, on Broadway near Herald Square, a frequent Dodgers haunt. It was from this space, too cramped for the blossoming family, that they changed the world on April 15, 1947. Rachel was at Ebbets Field that day with Jackie Jr., and she watched her husband make history. Sitting between Ruth Campanella, whom she had befriended when Jack and Roy had been teammates in Montreal, and Roy’s mother-in-law, she left her seat only to warm up the baby’s bottles at the hot-dog stand. A California girl, she underestimated how cold an April day in Brooklyn could be, and by game’s end Jackie Jr., who was also suffering from an upset stomach, was stuffed inside the fur coat of Ruth’s mother to stay warm.27 Minor inconveniences aside, she watched the game before her and contemplated the possibilities of social change. She understood, even in that moment, how much Jack’s elevation meant to “Black America, and how much we symbolized its hunger for opportunity and its determination to make dreams long deferred possible.”28

While Jack continued to make headlines, Rachel established their lives at home. After two weeks at the McAlpin, they received an offer from a woman to share an apartment at 526 MacDonough Street, in the Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood of Brooklyn. The apartment was a roach-infested tenement, but it had a small room for Jackie Jr., a separate bedroom for them, and access to a kitchen, none of which the McAlpin provided.29 Still, it was too small and dreary, and the uninspiring quarters led to increased tensions between the couple, a situation exacerbated by Rachel’s unwillingness to give voice to her own trials as part of her mission to support Jack. In an effort to fill the need for there to be more to her life than just domesticity, she took a course in interior decoration. She also began to slowly make friends with some of the other Dodgers wives, including Joan Hodges and Dottie Reese.30

Before the end of the playing season, the Robinsons moved again, to 407 Stuyvesant Street. Rachel oversaw all these moves while caring for an infant, and still managed to attend every home game. She embraced the role of Jack’s protector, including oftentimes intercepting the mail before her beleaguered husband could read it. At first, she threw away the threatening letters that came to their home, but when they grew in ferocity, including threats to the life of Jackie Jr., she started sharing them with the Dodgers.31 The couple grew to love Brooklyn, and thought of it as a haven. The real test to their fortitude came when Jack went on the road, where the racial taunts would be most vile. At times, Rachel went with him. She remained silent on these occasions, but sat upright in her seat, imagining herself a shield that could keep the invectives from reaching the ears of Jack on the field.32

Even in Brooklyn, there was the occasional reminder that they were Black citizens trying to integrate a White world, not just in baseball, but on the streets of their own home. They moved again, this time to the top-floor apartment of a two-family home at 5224 Tilden Avenue in the largely White and Jewish neighborhood of Flatbush, in April 1948.33 Although Jack was immensely popular in Brooklyn (he had, in fact, been elected the second most popular person in America in a nationwide contest, trailing only Bing Crosby), there were still rumors of a petition being circulated in the neighborhood to prevent their Black landlady from buying the house. Some of their neighbors came to their defense, including the Satlows — Arch and Sarah — and their three children. The two families grew close. Rachel helped Sarah learn how to bake, and Jack hired her to prepare the massive amounts of fan mail he answered. The Satlows ultimately became lifelong friends; but even amid all the national adulation, the family remained isolated with few close companions.34

For the first time in their brief married life, they did not return to California after the season. By 1948 the family had come to think of New York as home, and with that decision, Rachel prepared for another move, this time to a house of their own. The timing was fortuitous — not long after she found a place, she learned that she was again pregnant. Their new home in the St. Albans section of Queens, near Idlewild Airport,35 was just the right size for their burgeoning family. It was there, at 112-40 177th Street, that they finally found a place that most resembled their California childhoods, with a big backyard, a play area, and old oak trees. The house itself needed some work, but the open space, after the continually close quarters of their first two years in New York City, was a literal breath of fresh air. They purchased the house for $100 and “other good and valuable considerations.”36 Their racially mixed neighborhood included the Campanellas, who had moved there just before the Robinsons, as well as musicians like diva Leontyne Price and Count Basie. Groundbreaking education innovators Gus and Jeanne Heningburg were their neighbors, and played a role in devising the school system that the Robinson children would learn by during their stay in Queens.37

Sharon Robinson was born on January 13, 1950. Rachel was overjoyed that she had had a girl, as she had long harbored secret fantasies that she would have a family like her own as a child — a willful girl born between two boys. After the birth of Sharon, Jack and Jackie Jr. flew to California in February 1950 so that Jack could film the motion picture The Jackie Robinson Story. Rachel was to stay home with the baby and Mallie, but Jack struggled with the unfamiliar world of a film set. After two weeks, Rachel and Sharon joined him in Los Angeles, where they once again lived at her childhood home. Her arrival allowed Jack to relax and enjoy the remainder of the experience. By this point in their relationship, it was clear to both of them that her influence extended far beyond how well he handled his struggles on the diamond. Jack not only looked to her succor in private, but he recognized how his wife’s brilliant mind and beautiful looks could help relieve the tremendous pressure he felt in a different way. Rachel eased Jack’s suffering by simply being charming enough to occasionally direct the spotlight away from him.38

Despite the high drama that Jack experienced on the baseball diamond, playing an integral role in the storied battle between the Dodgers and their crosstown rival New York Yankees, for the children and Rachel the early 1950s marked an extended period of peace. Rachel delighted in being a mother, and the birth of their youngest child, David, in May 1952 finalized the picture-perfect family for which they longed. There was just one ultimate, vital piece that the Robinsons needed to achieve their familial dreams. Not only did the latest addition make the house start to feel crowded again, but Jack and Rachel had grown tired of the attention they were receiving from unwanted guests, who would show up on the front lawn of their St. Albans home and take pictures at all hours.39 Rachel began the process of finding her dream home, a place where she and her family could finally settle, long-term. She could not have anticipated that her hunt would put her on the pages of the newspapers.

She was stymied in her searches, in both Westchester County and Connecticut, by realtors who, upon meeting her, told her that her family wasn’t “the right fit” for the neighborhood. By this point, Jack was no longer under any restraints regarding how he conducted himself on the field and, on a larger scale, in his personal and political life. He started to become more vocal in his politics, and Rachel joined him. As the civil rights movement blossomed, they recognized the weight that came with their voices and they used their influence. When a reporter with the Bridgeport Herald, who was doing an exposé on racist housing practices, contacted the Robinsons about their struggles, she willingly spoke to him. The Robinsons became central characters in the subsequent article. When residents of North Stamford, Connecticut, read the story, they came to the family’s aid.40

One family in particular, Andrea and Richard Simon (founder of the publishing house Simon and Schuster, and parents of future music star Carly Simon) were particularly kind. Andrea went far beyond emotional support, and used her influence with local realtors, who had been dismissive to Rachel, to help acquire the land where the Robinsons built their dream home, in North Stamford. The exotic Andrea had a Swiss father and a Cuban mother, and was 13 years Rachel’s senior. Still, the two formed a lifelong friendship that “crossed all boundaries of age, race, and culture.”41 With Andrea’s aid, as well as that of a pair of local Jewish bankers, the Spelke brothers, who provided the loan, the family purchased land at 103 Cascade Road in Stamford from contractor Ben Gunnar.42 They then hired Gunnar to build them their dream home. When the house wasn’t ready in time for the 1954 school year, the Simons offered the Robinsons use of their summer home so that the children could start school in Connecticut and Rachel could oversee the build.43

In many ways, the move was all the family longed for, but it came at a price. While they had the space and luxuries that country living provided, the largely White community of Stamford increased the feelings of isolation in the children, especially in Jackie Jr., who more than the others struggled to thrive in his father’s very long shadow. Eventually, the Robinsons formed relationships with the families around them, and the kids found friends to play with them, both Black children and White. But they never stopped being reminded of their race, and the increasingly important and complex struggle of the civil rights movement. At the same time that Jack, perhaps the most famous Black man in America, was denied membership at a Connecticut country club, Emmett Till was lynched in Mississippi. Rachel recalled weeping when nine Black children were escorted into Central High School in Little Rock.44 The news was a daily reminder of how far there was left to go, and how important a role Jack, Rachel, and the Robinson family played in that narrative.

Only a week after Rachel and Jack returned from a December 1956 series of exhibition games in Japan, where he had appeared alongside some of his fellow Dodgers, Jack announced his retirement from baseball on the pages of Look magazine. It was again Rachel who provided him counsel and respite at the outset of this new stage in his life, but she also found herself in a unique position. She completely sympathized with her husband’s need to move on to his new business ventures and quit the physical toil he suffered playing ball. Certainly she was overjoyed that her husband was going to be spending more time at home with the family, a coexistence she had long longed for.45 But she also felt the keen loss that, as a fan, came with the end of his career. Jack had been an athlete for the entire length of their relationship. They had faced many challenges in the 16 years they had been together, but what came next was truly uncharted territory.46

Jack embroiled himself in the affairs of his new business life, as a vice president of Chock Full O’ Nuts Coffee and as an activist for the NAACP and the civil rights movement. Rachel enjoyed the first real opportunity to focus on herself since her college days. She yearned for self-improvement and independence. Jack, who had witnessed his own mother work long, tiring hours, was troubled by the thought of Rachel finding work.47 Undeterred, she applied to the Graduate School of Nursing at New York University. She was admitted to the psychiatric nursing program in 1959 and reentered college life at the age of 37. Her initial concerns, of being “a helpless and befuddled ‘old lady,’” were quickly replaced by the confidence she gained when she realized that her real-life experiences had prepared her quite well for academia. Throughout her studies, she attempted to keep her connection to Jack a secret. It was important to her that she succeed on her own merits, and not because of her famous husband.48

Jackie Jr. shared this particular desire with his mother, perhaps most keenly of all of the children. Part of the challenge for Rachel, in her pursuit of her degree, was that this time marked the first in which she was not consistently present for her children’s needs. Jackie Jr. had started to struggle in school, particularly with reading. Sharon was studious and reserved, and she kept many of the personal struggles she felt as a Black child surrounded by White playmates buried deep inside. David, who unlike his siblings was sent to a private school, found strength in isolation in a way that few children do. Rachel and Jack believed it was best if the harshness of the world was absent from the dinner-table discussions, instead choosing to encourage their children’s natural inclinations toward fairness and honor. As well-intentioned as the choice was, it was one that Rachel would later come to regret.49

Rachel graduated from NYU in 1961, and after a brief tenure as a clinical nurse at the First Day Hospital in the Bronx, got a job as a psychiatric nurse at Albert Einstein College of Medicine, in its Department of Social and Community Psychiatry, of which she soon became the head.50 For the next five years, she was part of a study that was dedicated to proving that family assistance was the key to a more independent, and safe, life for the mentally ill. The program statistically proved their point, but the funding never materialized to create the housing that would be necessary to enact such a program. Days at the college, spent searching for a better world for her patients, were followed by nights at home with the family, including her mother. Zellee had moved in with the family when Rachel went to school, and her steady presence led to a feeling of solidarity in a family filled with individuals who were now largely each going their own way. Jack was proud of what his wife was accomplishing in her new career, but he also struggled to adapt to their new dynamic. It was now Rachel who was absent for long stretches of time, embroiled in her important work.51

As Jack played a larger and larger role in the NAACP and the children were growing older, politics become a more frequent topic at home. Rachel and Jack found themselves on opposite sides of the aisle when he famously gave his support to Richard Nixon in the 1960 presidential election, a decision he later regretted. Rachel, a third-generation Democrat whose entire adolescence was spent under FDR, was troubled to see her husband side with conservatives.52 Despite this rift, they remained a unified force for civil rights. One of the most enduring memories for the whole family was the uplifting day in August 1963 when they attended the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom, and witnessed Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech on the steps of the Washington Monument. Rachel listened to King’s words with tears in her eyes, and left that day “filled with hope and pride.”53

Jack and Martin Luther King were frequent collaborators, especially when it came to fundraising. In 1963, when the Robinsons learned that King needed bail money for those who were arrested on the marches, they put together a fundraiser on their six-acre homestead. They staged “An Afternoon of Jazz,” featuring some of the most legendary names in the industry, including Dave Brubeck and Dizzy Gillespie, both of whom donated their union minimum salaries.54 The festival was a hit, with over 500 attendees raising $15,000 for the cause. It became an annual event, raising money for various charities over the years. Even after Jack died, Rachel (and later, Sharon) kept it going until 2001, a nearly 50-year tradition in Connecticut.

Professionally, Rachel continued to make quite a name for herself. After leaving Albert Einstein, she took jobs as the director of nursing for the Connecticut Mental Health Center in New Haven, and as an assistant professor of nursing at Yale University. At CMHC, she applied the research she had done at Einstein, and found a whole new level of reward in her work. At the same time, as Jack went deeper and deeper into politics, taking a pay cut to do so, he began to appreciate the salary that Rachel was bringing home in a whole new way.55 Just five years after moving past the phase of her life that was dedicated solely to her husband and her children, Rachel was a respected educator and nurse. She was enjoying the well-deserved benefits of her hard work, her keen mind, and her intense compassion.

This period of fulfillment, for her and for Jack, was not destined to last. Always in his father’s shadow, Jackie Jr. led a troubled life, one that took him to Vietnam. There, he suffered an injury that led to drug addiction. After returning home, he was arrested in March 1968, on both drugs and weapons charges. His tabloid-fodder struggles dragged their private family pain into the light. Rachel was able to arrange for him to be given a room at Yale New Haven Hospital, but the family quickly learned that this was a poor choice. Surrounded by patients who were mentally unwell, but not addicts like himself, Jackie Jr. resented the setting and quickly persuaded doctors to release him. Once freed, he returned to his addiction.56 Jackie Jr.’s troubles were just the beginning of the nightmare that was the spring of 1968. Within the next three months, the Robinsons witnessed the murders of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy, and the death of Mallie.

Jackie Jr. gave the family some hope when, faced with a choice between prison and rehab, he chose to enter the Daytop drug rehabilitation program. Jackie thrived at Daytop, not only successfully fighting his addiction, but later serving as a counselor to others in need.57 The success of his heroic struggle made his untimely death from a car crash on June 17, 1971, all the more tragic. Rachel was out of town when he died, attending a conference in Massachusetts. Jack and Sharon quickly drove to her, desperate to give her the news before it hit the press. Rachel collapsed under the weight of the emotional devastation, and Jack and Sharon had to help her to the car. When they returned home, she ran through the fields surrounding their home, mad with grief. Her tears did not stop for days.58

In the aftermath of Jackie Jr.’s funeral, Rachel and Jack decided to stage that year’s jazz concert, scheduled for just two weeks after the death of their son, and make it a tribute to their lost child. That year’s event was already intended to be a fundraiser for Daytop, and Jackie Jr. had played an active role in securing the acts. That event was the culmination of his final work, and the day was poignant and cathartic. Rachel remembered walking around “in a daze, on the edge of madness.”59 The weeks that followed were tense in the Robinson household, as Jack failed to address his own grief over Jackie Jr.’s death. Instead, he transferred his pain into an increasing frustration with the amount of time Rachel dedicated to work. It all came to a head when Sharon came home one night to find her father crying, alone in the living room. Uncertain how to ease her father’s suffering, she told her mother, who was reading upstairs in the bedroom. Once more, Rachel went to her husband and provided him comfort. From that point, they would slowly begin to heal from the wound of their lost son.60 Sadly, there was even still more pain that awaited her.

Jack had been struggling with medical issues caused by his diabetes for years. He was losing his eyesight and he suffered tremendous pain in his legs. By the summer of 1972, his sight was failing enough that Rachel needed to hire a chauffeur for him.61 That year also marked the 25th anniversary of Jack’s integration of the Dodgers. Commissioner Bowie Kuhn recognized the date by presenting him with an award dedicated to his philanthropic efforts helping young people learn about the dangers of drugs, a cause he embraced after Jackie Jr.’s troubles. In a ceremony prior to Game Two of the 1972 World Series, Bowie Kuhn presented Jack with the award. His family by his side, it was Rachel who took him by the arm and led him to Kuhn when it was time for him to accept the honor. The NBC cameras respectfully cut away from his labored journey to a shot of the crowd on their feet, honoring this aged hero.

One week later, on the morning of October 24, while Rachel was making breakfast, Jack came rushing from the bedroom and into her arms. He collapsed to the floor, and quickly fell unconscious. She attempted to do what she could while she waited for help to arrive, but it was too late. Jack Robinson died of a heart attack, at the tragically young age of 53. The final words he spoke before he lost consciousness in Rachel’s arms were, “I love you.”62 At his funeral four days later, over 2,500 mourners joined Rachel in saying goodbye to her husband at Riverside Church in Harlem. Even in her pain, she understood the role that Jack had played in the lives of so many, and she insisted that two-thirds of the pews be set aside for anyone who wished to join them, including a special section for the kids who played hooky from school that day to attend. “Jack loved children, so,” she told the press.63

Her journey would have to carry on without him by her side, but Rachel was far from finished being Mrs. Jack Robinson. Just as her guidance helped shape his baseball career, her stewardship of his legacy is largely responsible for how the public thinks of him today. Within weeks of his death, she resigned from Yale and took over as the head of Jack’s various financial interests. It had long been his dream to start a construction company that built affordable housing for underserved families. She quickly realized that they didn’t have the resources for such a venture but, as a long-time veteran of fundraising, she did see how they were well-equipped to be real- estate developers. With the help of some of Jack’s partners, she founded the Jack Robinson Development Corporation. Working with the Halpern Building Corporation, the JRDC built and managed over 1,300 units of low- and moderate-income housing in New York City and Yonkers. Rachel herself oversaw the training of the various property managers who were the caretakers of Jack’s dream.64

Once the Jack Robinson Development Corporation was on stable footing, she turned her eyes toward honoring the rest of Jack’s activism. In 1973 Rachel, along with her brother Charles Williams, lawyer and ambassador Frank Williams (no relation to Charles), and family friend Marty Edelman, formed the Jackie Robinson Foundation. The foundation’s mission was to further the education and leadership development opportunities of minority children with few economic resources at their disposal. Beginning in 1975, the foundation became the sole beneficiary of the Afternoon of Jazz annual fundraiser. In 1978 the first recipient of a foundation scholarship, Debora Young, graduated from Boston College. Rachel was on hand to give Debora her diploma. Since then, more than 1,500 students have received financial support from the foundation, which as of 2020 had an annual operating budget of $9 million.65

Jack was the recipient of numerous posthumous accolades, and Rachel was frequently on hand to accept them. The first was just a few months after his death, when in March of 1973 the New York Urban League awarded him its annual Frederick Douglass tribute, presented by Jack’s old ally, New York Governor Nelson Rockefeller.66 In 1984 she accepted Jack’s Presidential Medal of Freedom, the highest civilian award in the United States, from President Ronald Reagan. In a strange twist of fate, also honored at that event was Maria Shriver, founder of the Special Olympics and niece of Jack’s earlier political foil, John F. Kennedy. Rachel returned to Washington in 2003 when he was awarded the Congressional Gold Medal, this one the highest honor a civilian can receive from Congress, turning a rare double play.67

Rachel received numerous superlatives of her own, including the Candace Award for Distinguished Service from the National Coalition of 100 Black Women, given to a “Black role model of uncommon distinction who ha[s] set a standard of excellence for young people of all races.”68 She also won the Equitable Life Black Achievers Award and the Associated Black Charities Black History Makers Award. She received 12 honorary doctorates, including one from her alma mater, New York University.69 Her other alma mater presented her with the UCLA Medal in 2009, the University’s highest honor. In 2017 she was given the Buck O’Neil Lifetime Achievement Award by the Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum, presented every three years to a person who enhances baseball’s positive image on society.

Rachel also played an integral role in securing Jack’s legacy within major-league baseball. She was a living connection to baseball’s finest moment, and she understood the magnitude of that reality. Even when baseball disappointed her, she persevered and made them do better. When Dodgers vice president Al Campanis appeared on Nightline in 1987 and questioned the mental fitness of potential Black managers, Rachel did not shy away from her criticisms of both Campanis and the systemic racism that still existed in baseball’s front office. Embarrassingly for baseball, Campanis’s comments came as they were celebrating the 40th anniversary of Jack’s integration of the Dodgers. Speaking to the importance of that moment, Rachel acknowledged the achievement, but quickly followed that by saying that “until there’s a change in all aspects of the game — the executive structure, front offices and ownership — I don’t feel any real change had occurred at all.”70 Her words moved Commissioner Peter Ueberroth to bring her into his inner circle as he attempted to confront baseball’s ongoing race issues.

The culmination of her efforts came in 1997 when, with the assistance of National League President and Jackie Robinson Foundation Chairman Len Coleman, it was announced that baseball would celebrate the league-wide retirement of Robinson’s number 42. While Commissioner Bud Selig spoke of the “considerable progress” that baseball had made since Ueberroth began his initiatives, Rachel remained undeterred. When the retirement was announced, she was grateful, but even while still basking in the glow of that unprecedented honor, she made sure to let the world know that “racism is still with us and the struggle is still on. We need to have a vision and we need to have a plan.”71 Rachel was able to check another US commander-in-chief off the list, when President Bill Clinton was on hand at Shea Stadium to speak at the April 15 ceremony that prefaced the contest between the New York Mets and the Los Angeles Dodgers.

Intermingled with the host of other responsibilities she took upon herself, Rachel also played an occasional role in the dramatic interpretations of Jack, serving as a creative consultant on multiple TV, stage and book projects. Despite the vast quantity of fictionalizations, including the commercially successful 2013 film 42: The True Story of an American Legend, starring Chadwick Boseman as Jack and Nicole Beharie as Rachel, none of those works could truly capture the full depth and breadth of his expansive life. It was her desire to see the whole of Jack’s story told, which led Rachel to reach out to Ken Burns in hopes that the creator of the 10-volume omnibus, Baseball, might be willing to be the one to tell the tale. At first Burns hesitated, but as Rachel passed her 90th birthday, the documentarian became concerned that he was going to lose the opportunity to speak to the best firsthand witness to the life of Jack Robinson.72 Rachel appears throughout the four-hour film; her memories, both joyful and painful, are crystal clear and told with the wisdom and humor of a woman who had seen much in her long life. And still she was not done.

On July 19, 2020, Rachel, along with three generations of Robinsons, celebrated her 98th birthday. It was, in the bizarre world of that pandemic-shortened season, Opening Day for the Los Angeles Dodgers. She looked resplendent in a bright red dress, surrounded by an array of floral arrangements in her New York City apartment. The family enjoyed the well-wishes that flooded in from social media, as well as a compilation of tributes that had been put together by the Jackie Robinson Foundation.73 Rachel sold the house in Stamford in the 1990s, and split her time between her home in North Salem, Connecticut, and New York City. In September 2020 she moved to Delray Beach, Florida, with Sharon, into a home they designed together.74

The 2020 season marked the 75th anniversary of Jack’s first meeting with Branch Rickey, and this time it was Sharon who handled the bulk of the publicity when Major League Baseball celebrated the event. The festivities were particularly poignant, as America was once again gripped by racial justice protests, sparked by repeated police violence against BIPOC citizens, a familiar refrain for Rachel. There will be more anniversaries in the years to come, as Jack’s legacy, one that Rachel assured, will likely be celebrated for all time. Maybe one day, those celebrations can take place in a world that Rachel and Jack sacrificed so much for — a world of true equality for all.

Last revised: April 30, 2021 (zp)

This biography was originally published in “Jackie: Perspectives on 42” (SABR, 2021), edited by Bill Nowlin and Glen Sparks. Click here to purchase an e-book copy or paperback edition.

Notes

1 Arnold Rampersad, Jackie Robinson: A Biography (New York: Ballantine Books, 1997), 76. See also 1940 US Census, accessed through Ancestry.com.

2 Gary Libman, “Rachel Robinson’s Homecoming: She Recalls a Legend and Her Days in L.A.,” Los Angeles Times, September 2, 1987.

3 Rampersad, 78.

4 Rachel Robinson and Lee Daniels, Jackie Robinson: An Intimate Portrait (New York: Abrams, 1996), 20.

5 Jackie Robinson, I Never Had It Made (New York: Harper Collins, 1995), 11.

6 I Never Had It Made, 10

7 Intimate Portrait, 22-24; Rampersad, 79.

8 Ken Burns, director, Jackie Robinson. Florentine Films, 2016.

9 Rampersad, 84-86.

10 Author email exchange with Jennifer Jensen, curator of Jackie Robinson Foundation, October 26, 2020.

11 Rampersad, 89.

12 Rampersad, 94.

13 Intimate Portrait, 27-28.

14 Rampersad, 99.

15 Rampersad, 111.

16 Jensen email exchange, October 26, 2020.

17 Rampersad, 131-132.

18 Intimate Portrait, 40.

19 Rampersad, 137-139.

20 Rampersad, 140.

21 Intimate Portrait, 50-52.

22 Ingrid Peritz, “Jackie Robinson’s Wife Remembers a Welcoming Montreal,” Globe and Mail (Toronto), April 28, 2013. https://theglobeandmail.com/news/national/Jack-robinsons-wife-remembers-a-welcoming-montreal/article11602715/.

23 I Never Had It Made, 53.

24 Rampersad, 152.

25 Intimate Portrait, 54-58.

26 Rampersad, 158-159.

27 I Never Had It Made, 66.

28 Intimate Portrait, 66.

29 I Never Had It Made, 66.

30 Rampersad, 180-182.

31 Intimate Portrait, 72.

32 Intimate Portrait, 75.

33 Jensen email exchange.

34 Intimate Portrait, 88; Rampersad, 195, 196.

35 Idlewild Airport was later renamed for the slain President John F. Kennedy.

36 Nicholas Hirshon, “Jackie Robinson’s House Not Safe,” New York Daily News, April 7, 2008. https://nydailynews.com/new-york/queens/jackie-robinson-house-not-safe-article-1.280057.

37 Intimate Portrait, 94-96.

38 Rampersad, 198.

39 Hirshon.

40 Susan Muaddi Darraj, Jackie Robinson (New York: Chelsea House, 2008), 71.

41 Intimate Portrait, 130-132.

42 Rampersad, 274.

43 Jensen email exchange.

44 Intimate Portrait, 133.

45 Rampersad, 310.

46 Intimate Portrait, 139.

47 Intimate Portrait, 144.

48 Intimate Portrait, 161.

49 Intimate Portrait, 160-161.

50 Rampersad, 360.

51 Ramersad, 361.

52 Intimate Portrait,175.

53 Intimate Portrait, 174.

54 “Jazz Festival Earns Funds for Rev. King,” the Record (Hackensack, New Jersey), June 24, 1963: 5.

55 Intimate Portrait, 176.

56 I Never Had It Made, 219.

57 Intimate Portrait, 201.

58 I Never Had It Made, 247.

59 Intimate Portrait, 202.

60 Rampersad, 449-450.

61 Rampersad, 210.

62 Rampersad, 216.

63 “The Plain and Poor Remember Jack Robinson,” Democrat and Chronicle (Rochester, New York), October 28, 1972: 3D.

64 Intimate Portrait. 220.

65 “History.” Jackie Robinson Foundation website. Jackierobinson.org/timeline/#/home. Accessed October 23, 2020; Jensen email exchange.

66 “Urban League Gives Posthumous Award to Jack Robinson.” New York Times, May 4, 1973.

67 “History,” Jackie Robinson Foundation website.

68 National Coalition of 100 Black Women, Inc. ncbw.org/.

69 “Rachel Robinson Bio,” Jack Robinson Foundation website. Jackierobinson.org/people/rachel-robinson/. Accessed October 24, 2020.

70 “After Campanis: What About Blacks’ Chances,” Bismarck (North Dakota) Tribune, April 12, 1987: 19.

71 Ronald Blum, “Baseball to Honor Jack Robinson in ’97,” News-Press (Fort Myers, Florida), February 27, 1997: C1.

72 Author interview with Sharon Robinson, September 18, 2020.

73 Author email exchange with Sharon Robinson, October 26, 2020.

74 Author interview with Sharon Robinson, September 18, 2020.