In the summer of 1960, however, the short-term and long-term prospects of baseball in Baltimore suddenly improved, and a tradition of competitiveness that would eventually produce championships was born. The drastic improvement of 1960 was unanticipated, because the contributions of several key players were considerably more significant than expected given their youth, lack of major-league experience, or past performances. In retrospect, the swift evolution from second-division status to pennant contender can be explained by the maturation of five young pitchers within a one-year period, the simultaneous emergence of a free-swinging slugger, solid play by a rookie at the crucial position of shortstop, and the coming of age of a future Hall of Famer. Analysis aside, the team’s sur- prising success and the appearance of new stars created a level of excitement unprecedented in Balti- more’s modern baseball history and fostered a new attendance record for the Orioles.

Magazines on newsstands in the spring of 1960 did not lead readers to expect a reversal in the Orioles’ for- tunes. Sports Illustrated predicted that the team would again finish in sixth place and commented that “the Orioles are now fully committed to their youth program   It will pay off—someday.” Dan Daniel, a

prominent sportswriter of the time, wrote in Street and Smith’s 1960 Baseball Yearbook that he foresaw a fifth-place finish. A panel of representatives convened by Sport Scope Magazine did the same and said that “if the Orioles could add some offensive punch to their infield, [Manager] Paul Richards would have something to look forward to.” Sports Forecast magazine also predicted a fifth-place finish while commenting that “Richards needs more surprises at the plate to crash the first division.”

Paul Richards himself predicted that his club “should be vastly improved” due in large measure to the acquisition of Jackie Brandt in center field. Brandt had been obtained in a trade with the San Francisco Giants on the previous November 30. Whether Richards actually sensed that improvement was on the horizon or was merely expressing optimism as a “managerial duty,” his prediction was more accurate than those of the presumed experts from the world of journalism. And which players were to deliver the “vast improvement” that Richards either believed or hoped was coming?

The young pitchers: Chuck Estrada, Milt Pappas, Steve Barber, and Jack Fisher. This quartet, with all members under 23 years of age, became known as the “Kiddie Korps,” as it accounted for nearly two-thirds of the Orioles’ 89 wins. Brooks Robinson would say that “Pappas, Estrada, Barber, and Fisher . . . all came in at the same time (and) threw as hard as any four guys I ever saw on one team.”

The free-swinging slugger: “Diamond Jim” Gentile. Pur- chased from the Los Angeles Dodgers’ organization after the 1959 season, the big first baseman, who had toiled for eight years in the minor leagues, hit .292 with 21 home runs and 98 RBIs. Several of his homers were “tape-measure shots.”

The rookie shortstop: Ron Hansen not only tagged 22 home runs and drove 86 runs across the plate, but also participated in 1 0 of the Orioles’ 172 double plays as necessary improvement was noted in the team’s defense. He was named “Rookie of the Year” by the Baseball Writers’ Association of America (BBWAA) on 22 of 24 ballots. (Gentile and Estrada split the other two votes.)

The future member of the Hall of Fame: Brooks Robinson. The 1960 season was Robinson’s sixth in the major leagues, but it was his “breakout year.” His offensive production (14 home runs, 88 runs batted in, and a batting average of .294) and defensive talents justified the 21 votes that he earned from members of the BBWAA for the American League’s “Most Valuable Player” award. Only Roger Maris with 225 votes and Mickey Mantle with 222 surpassed Robinson’s total. Other than finishing in first place, Nothing is more exciting than a first pennant race.

 The road followed by the Orioles in 1960 featured twists, turns, and an occasional bump. But, between the conclusion of spring training in Miami and the end of the regular season, their path was generally smooth and enjoyable, until a serious roadblock was encountered late in the journey.

The regular season began in Baltimore on April 19 with a 3—2 victory over the Senators. All but one of the position players in Richards’ starting lineup on Opening Day would remain very important to the team’s success throughout the year: Gentile at first base, Marv Breeding at second, Hansen at shortstop, Robinson at third base, Gene Woodling in left field, Brandt in center, and Gus Triandos behind the plate. The only exception was Johnny Powers, the starter in right field who hit .1 1 in ten games before being sent to Cleveland on May 12 for the waiver price. Al Pilarcik and Gene Stephens (who would be obtained in a June 9 trade with Boston) patrolled right field for the rest of the season. Walt Dropo, Jim Busby, Clint Courtney, and Dave Nicholson came off the bench to fill utility roles. Hal “Skinny” Brown and Hoyt Wilhelm more than supplemented the “Kiddie Korps” on the pitching mound.

The Orioles came out of the gate slowly but, with five consecutive victories capped by Brown’s 2—1 win over the Yankees on April 29, their winning percentage passed the .500 mark. The month of May then brought better results and elevation in the league’s standings. Despite the loss of Triandos for five weeks following surgery on May 8 to address a pinched nerve in his throwing hand, the team moved into the first division to stay on May 14 and, with a fifth straight win on May 16 (a 2—1 victory in Kansas City in which Brandt and Hansen each hit solo homers), the Birds claimed sole possession of the top spot in the standings for the first time in franchise history.

After moving between first and second place for ten days, the Orioles returned to the top of the mountain on May 27 with a 3—2 win in Yankee Stadium, but that victory and the jump into first place were over-shadowed by a headline-grabbing innovation by Paul Richards: a catcher’s mitt 50 percent larger than the standard glove that could be used to handle Hoyt Wilhelm’s dancing knuckleball. The introduction of the revolutionary concept seemed to be an act of genius, especially when Clint Courtney allowed no passed balls as Wilhelm pitched all nine innings to defeat the Bronx Bombers on that day in May.

The outlook appeared more promising the follow- ing week when the Yankees traveled to the city of Babe Ruth’s birth only to lose three games. The decisive run in the May 31 contest resulted from a sacrifice fly by Courtney; Hansen tagged a three-run home run and Brown hurled a one-hitter in a 4—1 Orioles’ victory on June 1, and Gentile, Woodling, and Robinson homered in a 6—5 win on June 2. With the three-game sweep, Baltimore led the league by two and a half games.

The lead didn’t last long. On June 9, with the third of four consecutive losses to the Detroit Tigers as the Orioles dropped out of sole possession of first place. Dependence on the combination of veterans and youngsters was still producing positive results, however, and that mixture was never more evident than in a doubleheader in Detroit on June 19. In the opener, Wilhelm pitched a two-hit shutout and rookies Gentile and Hansen each hit solo homers in a 2—0 win. In the nightcap, a ninth-inning sacrifice fly by Robinson drove in the game’s only run and rewarded Pappas for a three- hitter by enabling him to edge Don Mossi in a tight pitching duel.

Between June 8 and June 26, the team moved in and out of first place. On the latter date, Estrada fired a two-hitter in Kansas City and Gentile hit two home runs (a three-run blast in the sixth inning and a grand slam in the seventh) off the Athletics’ Dick Hall.

The Orioles’ success at midseason was reflected by Hansen’s designation as the starting shortstop on the American League’s All-Star team based upon a poll of players, managers, and coaches, and by the selections (by AL manager Al Lopez) of Estrada to the pitching staff and of Gentile and Robinson as reserve infielders. But, just prior to a break for All-Star games in Kansas City’s Municipal Stadium and at Yankee Stadium, the club fell four games behind and into fourth place by losing five straight home games—two to the Yankees and three to the Washington Senators.

One month later, on August 13, the Orioles and Yankees were tied for first, but the O’s trailed the Bombers by four percentage points following an eight-game winning streak. But on the heels of that encouraging stretch, the Birds lost four in a row (including two one-run defeats in the “House that Ruth Built”) and fell to third place, two and a half games behind the Yankees.

All that came before would be merely a prelude to the pressurized circumstances and intense emotional swings that would lie ahead in September. The real drama began on September 2 with the first of three Oriole wins over the Yankees in Baltimore, as Pappas out-pitched veteran Whitey Ford to assure a 5—0 victory. Jack Fisher matched Pappas’s performance the next day, scattering seven hits and posting another shutout as Robinson drove in both runs (one with a homer) in a 2—0 victory. Then, in the finale, Estrada and Wilhelm combined to post a 6—2 win. With these victories, and with the four wins over the Chicago White Sox and Cleveland Indians that preceded them, the Orioles again climbed into the league lead.

If the reality of the pennant race had not registered with the team previously, the Orioles were aware of the circumstances when they took the field in that key series with the Yanks. Under a bright spotlight and before a total of 1 4,604 fans, however, the club withstood every challenge in a very impressive manner. At the close of play on Labor Day—after a 3—1 win over the Senators at Washington’s Griffith Stadium in which Brown pitched a three-hitter and struck out 1 —the Orioles led the Yankees by one game and the White Sox by four.

The success in New York was not sustained. Balti- more had fallen into second place by September 10 after losing three of four games. Tension increased as a final, four-game series with the Yankees approached. Recent results did not bode well for the Orioles: the fellows in pinstripes had won seven of 1 games since leaving Baltimore nearly two weeks before, while the Birds dropped five of nine during that time frame.

When the series began in the “Big Apple” on September 16, the two teams were separated in the standings by a percentage differential of .001. Either team would gain an obvious advantage by taking three of the four games, and a sweep would place the losing club at a considerable disadvantage for the rest of the season. At this time and in arguably baseball’s most majestic setting, the “experience factor” finally surfaced. Whitey Ford got the best of Steve Barber by a 4—2 score in the opener, and the Yankees proceeded to take the three other games by margins of 5—3, 7—3, and 2—0. A crowd of 53,876 witnessed a Sunday doubleheader that featured the final head-to-head match-ups of the teams in 1960, observing a group of Orioles who competed well but were ultimately unable to make the “big play.” Richards would admit that his players were “out-pitched, out-hit, out-fielded, and (the Yankees) got all the breaks.” And Casey Stengel was apparently linking impatience on the part of the Birds to their youth when he asked reporters at the conclusion of the series, “Did you notice they didn’t get many bases-on-balls?” Stengel went on to say that the Baltimore club “swung at

 anything.” (The Orioles received ten bases-on-balls in the four games, while the Yankees strolled to first base 19 times.)

The Yankees had at last taken control of the pennant race with only eleven games left on their schedule, and they locked up the flag by winning every one of those remaining contests. Nearly 50 years later, record books fail to indicate how competitive the Orioles were for most of the 1960 season, simply stating that the Yankees captured the American League flag by eight games.

The Orioles of 1960 deserve to be recalled in a more favorable light than as a team that lost a pennant by such a margin. Their winning percentages were impressive both at home (.571) and on the road (.584), and they won 64 percent of their one-run games. After suffering severe late-season disappointment from the devastating losses in New York and falling—with the loss of the second game of the September 18 double- header—into a tie for second place with the White Sox, they rebounded to win six of nine remaining games to snatch the runner-up spot from Chicago. (The Chisox’ record was 4—5 after September 18.)

Notable individual feats were achieved during the season by veterans and young players alike. No

t to be outdone by the experienced Skinny Brown’s one-hitter against the Yankees in Memorial Stadium on June 1, Steve Barber registered a similar result on the same field against Kansas City on July 28. (Both bids for no- hitters were spoiled by current or former Yankees: Mickey Mantle’s home run was the only hit off of Brown, and Hank Bauer’s single for the Athletics marred Barber’s effort.) And, while former Yankee Gene Woodling hit .283 at the age of 38, fresh-faced Jack Fisher did not allow a run over 29 2/3 innings from late August through mid-September.

How should the Orioles’ 1960 season be summarized? The Birds won more often than they lost against every team in the league except the Yankees and the fifth-place Senators. (They compiled a record of 1 —1 against the Nats.) The outcomes of games against the Yanks were actually predictable despite a reasonable division of victories: the Orioles won nine of 22 games, but their only win in Yankee Stadium was posted on the day that Courtney first used the oversized catcher’s mitt. Regardless, as significant as those games against New York were, it is important to note that, while the Yankees won four more games than the Orioles in head-to-head competition, New York won the pennant by eight games. The season consisted of much more than the showdowns in Memorial Stadium and the Bronx.

Why did the Orioles fail to win the pennant after coming so close? Lack of experience was undoubtedly a factor in the crucial closing series with Yankees. So was the general lack of offensive production by out-fielders, and especially a lack of power from the fly-chasers. (Brandt, Woodling, Pilarcik, and Stephens combined for only 35 home runs—a number that was surpassed by the three most active outfielders on every other team in the league except last-place Kansas City.) And, given the team’s lack of collective power and the fact that the dimensions of Memorial Stadium were not conducive to a strategy built around the long ball, one may conclude that the Birds should have been more aggressive on the base paths and that Richards should have been more faithful to tactics that might have generated runs in small batches. (Their 37 stolen bases equaled the number swiped by the hard-hitting Yan- kees and exceeded only the totals of the Red Sox and Athletics; their 72 sacrifice hits placed them seventh in the league in that category.)

The 1960 season remains significant to Baltimore’s baseball history not only because it produced excitement at the time and memories decades later. It also provided evidence that a franchise that had lingered in the second division for many years was finally prepared to contend for pennants. And, by an interesting coincidence, this significant period of transition to a higher competitive level occurred six years before a world championship would be celebrated along the Chesapeake Bay—in 1966!

Sources

Books

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Bready, James H. The Home Team. N.p.: James H. Bready, 1979.

Deane, Bill. Award Voting: A History of the Most Valuable Player, Rookie of the Year, and Cy Young Awards. Cleveland: Society for American Baseball Re- search, 1988.

Dewey, Donald, and Nicholas Acocella. Encyclopedia of Major League Baseball Teams. New York: HarperCollins, 1993.

Eisenberg, John. From 33rd Street to Camden Yards. Lincolnwood, Ill.: Con- temporary Books, 2001.

Fitzgerald, Ed, ed. The American League. New York: Grosset and Dunlap, 1966. Hawkins, John C. This Date in Baltimore Orioles and St. Louis Browns History.

New York: Stein and Day, 1983.

James, Bill. The Bill James Guide to Baseball Managers from 1870 to Today.

New York: Scribner, 1997.

James, Bill, and Rob Neyer. The Neyer/James Guide to Pitchers: An Historical Compendium of Pitching, Pitchers, and Pitches. New York: Simon and Schuster, 2004.

Lowry, Philip J. Green Cathedrals. Cooperstown, N.Y.: Society for American Baseball Research, 1986.

Patterson, Ted. The Baltimore Orioles: Four Decades of Magic from 33rd Street to Camden Yards. Dallas: Taylor, 1994.

Peary, Danny, ed. We Played the Game: 65 Players Remember Baseball’s Greatest Era, 1947—1964. New York: Hyperion, 1994.

Reichler, Joseph L., ed. The Baseball Encyclopedia. 6th ed. New York: Macmil- lan, 1985.

Rosenthal, Harold. Baseball’s Best Managers. New York: T. Nelson, 1961.

Thorn, John, and Pete Palmer, eds. Total Baseball. New York: Warner Books, 1989.

Vincent, David, Lyle Spatz, and David W. Smith. The Midsummer Classic: The Complete History of Baseball’s All-Star Game. Lincoln: University of Ne- braska Press, 2001.

Zanger, Jack. Major League Baseball: 1966. New York: Pocket Books, n.d.

Periodicals and Websites

Dell Sports Magazine 1, no. 19 (April 1961).

1961 Major League Baseball Yearbook. New York: Fawcett Publications, 1961.

1966 Baseball Register (The Sporting News). 1969 Baseball Dope Book (The Sporting News) Retrosheet

Sports Illustrated, 11 April 1960

Sports Illustrated, 10 April 1961

The Sporting News

Street and Smith’s 1960 Baseball Yearbook. Charlotte, N.C.: Street and Smith, 1960.

Street and Smith’s 1961 Baseball Yearbook. Charlotte, N.C.: Street and Smith, 1960.

NBC Complete Baseball Magazine. 1961. Sport Scope Magazine (summer 1960) Sports Forecast (May 1960)

Hardy, born Joe Boyd in 1934 in Hannibal, Missouri—exact birth details are frustratingly missing, something that Hardy/Boyd today attributes to sloppy record-keeping at the city clerk’s office, exacerbated by an understaffed municipal government during the throes of the Great Depression—played just one year, 1956, for the Senators. But what a year it was!

Coming seemingly from out of nowhere, exhibiting talent that made it seem as if he had made some kind of deal with the devil, he helped the perpetually second-division Senators—“first in war, first in peace, last in the American League”—make a stunning run at the New York Yankees’ hegemony atop the junior circuit.

It may be that, with some 160,000 minor leaguers to track, the Society for American Baseball Research just hasn’t gotten around to it yet, but like his birth information before it, Hardy’s minor league records are missing from the SABR Minor Leagues Database.

Because he joined the club midseason, Hardy—the erstwhile “Shoeless Joe from Hannibal, Mo.,” as he was enshrined in “Damn Yankees,” the stage and movie musical that told his story—never accumulated the minimum number of plate appearances needed to qualify for the batting title, nor did he tally big enough numbers to be listed among the season’s leaders in any cumulative category, but the 22-year-old Hardy was an instant hit.

“Came upon the scene, fresh as Listerine,” noted one scribe. “Arms of steel, like Hercules, fleet of feet, as Mercury’s,” rang the hosannas to Hardy’s talents as a sleepy nation’s capital awoke to its first real pennant chase in more than a decade. Hardy’s .354 batting average, coupled with 27 homers—an astounding number given the cavernous dimensions of his home ballpark, Griffith Stadium—and 78 RBIs not only made the team better by his presence, he also made his teammates play better.

“They’ll build a new wing for you in that baseball museum in Cooperstown,” declared “Mister Apple- gate,” Hardy’s self-styled representative. Hardy seemed to shun Applegate but didn’t come close to disowning him and his assertions until near the end of the season. Maybe it was because Hardy was too busy smacking extra-base hits and ranging deep within the nether re- gions of Griffith Stadium to chase down fly balls as the Senators began their long, Sisyphean climb up the AL standings. It was more likely due to allegations that Hardy was really Owen “Shifty” McCoy, a career bush leaguer who had once thrown games in the Mexican League. Although Hardy had a hard time proving who he was at a hastily called inquiry during the season’s final weekend, he had a much easier time proving who he was not, and was cleared to continue playing.

The National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum never did establish a separate shrine to Hardy. Still, his feats remain the stuff of lore that no four walls could contain.

In fact, it was during the season’s final game—as fate would have it, against the Yankees—that Joe Hardy made an exit that no four walls could contain. Charging after a fly ball off the bat of pinch-hitter Bob Cerv—in which a hit meant a pennant for New York and an out meant a pennant for Washington—Hardy seemed to visibly age before a packed Griffith Stadium crowd as he ran after the spheroid. Somehow, he caught up to the fly, speared it at knee height, then kept on running—through the groundskeeper’s gate, down a tunnel, and out the stadium, where, still in uniform, he caught a cab to an unknown destination. Few, if any, spectators would have believed that Hardy’s exit from the ballpark also represented his exit from the sport. He sent a telegram to Senators management saying he was retired. “I’ve fulfilled my dream,” Hardy wrote. “Now it’s time to be an average Joe again.” Fans would never accept that Hardy approximated average. But the retirement stuck. The Senators, without Hardy, were swept in the World Series and returned almost immediately to their jocular, but predictable, losing ways.

Not even the spirit or memory of Joe Hardy could help the team in later years, as it bade farewell to the District of Columbia to take up residence in the Minneapolis–St. Paul region of Minnesota as the Twins. Nor did it help the second, expansion incarnation of the Senators, who also lost with consistent frequency and turned tail to Texas after the 1971 season.

In a 1973 interview, Hardy’s manager, Benny Van Buren, said, “Y’know, I always thought you’ve gotta have heart to play this game, but that Joe Hardy played with both heart and soul. To this day, I never seen a ballplayer with as much natural skill.”

There was speculation that Hardy was being distracted not only by Applegate, but by a “baseball Annie,” Lola, or “Senora McCoy,” who even dared to enter the Senators’ locker room—which, a half-century ago, was still a sacred, men-only spot. But whatever charms Lola might have had, Hardy did not ultimately succumb to them. Rather, Hardy settled down and married Meg Boyd. One irony is that Boyd bore the surname Hardy had when he was born. Compounding the irony is that Boyd’s first husband was also named Joe, and that he was a passionate Senators fan who apparently had deserted Meg after watching yet another Washington loss on television.

But Joe Hardy and Meg Boyd, two lost souls on the highway of life, lived the prototypical happily-ever-after story. “A man doesn’t know what he has till it is no longer around,” Hardy said in a post-retirement interview. “I didn’t know what I had till I said ‘Goodbye, old love.’”

Hardy said he was snuck into the 46th Street Theatre on Broadway to see a matinee show of “Damn Yankees.” “The last thing I wanted or needed was to be treated like a celebrity. That’s why I gave up after one year in the majors,” he said. He remembers sitting in the third row and watching Gwen Verdon as Lola dancing seductively around Stephen Douglass, who landed the role of Joe Hardy for the Great White Way. He also recalls not leaving his seat during intermission, in part to keep from being spotted but also to soak in his one amazing year as it was being retold as a musical comedy.

“It’s not like they gave some kind of veto power over the script,” Hardy said. “They never gave me any money for my life story, which I guess is OK since I never thought anybody would pay attention to a Broadway show about baseball, much less about me and baseball.” “Damn Yankees” ran two-and-a-half years— 1,019 shows in total—on Broadway, a feat that still makes Hardy shake his head in amazement. “My goodness,” he said upon being told the numbers. “I didn’t know there were that many guys who hated the Yan- kees that much in New York City. Must’ve been a lot of Dodgers and Giants fans who brought their wives with them to the show.” By coincidence, the show concluded its run just as the Dodgers and Giants announced they were deserting the Big Apple for the West Coast.

Verdon, Ray (“My Favorite Martian”) Walston as the devilish Applegate and some other cast members from the Broadway show made the trek westward as well, reprising their Broadway roles in a film version of “Damn Yankees” that hit the silver screen in 1958. Hardy said he was asked to join a promotional tour for the film as it debuted in a host of downtown movie palaces throughout the country, but demurred. Instead, he waited until it came to the old Newton Theatre in northeast Washington, where he settled after his brief but brilliant career. The Newton was a second-run movie house that now houses a drugstore. Hardy also keeps his own counsel as to whether he preferred the Broadway or Hollywood version. “I tell you one thing,” he chuckled, “I don’t know if Gwen Verdon’s legs looked better from 12 feet away or blown up to two or three times their real size.”

But he does admit to catching the occasional high- school or community theatre production of “Damn Yankees.” “They may not be the most talented actors on earth, but they put so much enthusiasm into what they do. When the guys in the locker room sing ‘You’ve Gotta Have Heart,’ that’s what makes me smile more than anything. It reminds me more of myself when I was playing, and it’s nice to take that trip back in time when I was young and innocent. I’m not as young today, but I hope I’m close to being that innocent.”

Asked where his travels might take him in the near future, Hardy replied, “Oh, hell.” He paused for a moment, and then added, “Everybody asks me that question.” 

Sources

Baseball-Reference, http://www.baseball-reference.com. Internet Broadway Database, http://www.ibdb.com.

Internet Movie Database, http://www.imdb.com.

Kindred Spirits, Dave. “The Hardy Boy.” The Sorting News, 29 April 2002. Thorpe, Gloria. “Benny and the Jet That Was Joe Hardy.” Washington

Post-Mortem, 3 April 1973.

Ujest, Shirley. “You’ve Gotta Have Heart—But Not a Heart Attack.”

Washington Post-Partum, 30 August 1956.

Rarely did the Nats win four in a row in the 1950s—and none of the regulars on that 1954 club are enshrined in the Baseball Hall of Fame. (Harmon Kille- brew, he of the tape-measure homeruns, debuted that season, but appeared in just nine games. In thirteen at-bats, the eighteen-year-old had four hits.)

But there was hope for the Senators—at least in the world of fiction, the world of baseball fantasy. That year, a writer by the name of Douglass Wallop—a perfect name for the author of a baseball book—published The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant, a comic-melodramatic novel about baseball, sex, and restored youth. In the story, the mighty Bronx Bombers, who just completed a still-unprecedented five-year run as World Series champions, are dethroned by a Washington Senators nine led by an unlikely phenom: Joe Boyd, a portly fanatic who makes a pact with the Devil and is transformed into Joe Hardy, a strapping home-run hitter and savior of the D.C. baseball club. A half-century later wrote Jonathan Yardley in the Washington Post, Wallop’s story “is by now as deeply embedded in American legend as is Goethe’s ‘Faust’ in German legend.”

In 1956, The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant was transformed into a hit Broadway musical, Damn Yan- kees: a title that remains melodious to the ears of Yankee-haters of all eras. Two years later, Damn Yankees was adapted to the screen and released by Warner Bros. The story that evolved into Damn Yankees was the brainchild of Wallop, a Washingtonian, University of Maryland graduate, and long-suffering Senators fan. A journalist as well as a novelist, Wallop, who was born in 1920 as John Douglass Wallop, authored 13 novels. Among them were Night Light—his first, published in 1953—and his last, The Other Side of the River, which came out in 1984, a year before his death. Baseball: An Informal History, his one work of nonfiction, hit bookstores in 1969. Inarguably, however, The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant, which Wallop wrote after Night Light, remains his most celebrated and enduring work. On his death, the novel had sold over 2.5 million copies.

Wallop’s yarn opens on July 21, 1958, four years in the future. The Bronx Bombers are solidly ensconced in first place, on their way to their tenth consecutive pennant. (Clearly, the story was penned before the Cleveland Indians won the ’54 AL flag.) It was the Yankees’ style, according to Wallop, “never to patronize or belittle the opposing team They courted you

with good fellowship and then beat your brains out.” On that July day, the Senators are a sixth-place ball- club, closer to falling to seventh place than rising up to fifth.

Joe Boyd is a 50-year-old real-estate salesman, an Average Joe who lives quietly in the Washington suburb of Chevy Chase. An armchair player-manager-coach, Boyd agonizes as his beloved Nats wallow in the second division. On that midsummer evening, after offhandedly declaring that he would sell his soul in exchange for a slugger who would reverse his team’s fortunes, he is recruited by the glad-handing, nattily attired Mr. Applegate, aka the Devil. In exchange for selling his spirit to Applegate—but with an escape clause, allowing him to opt-out of the deal by Septem- ber 21—the years peel off Boyd and he is transformed into Joe Hardy, strapping 22-year-old Boy Wonder.

Hardy is quickly signed by the Senators and, in less than two months, bashes 48 homers and compiles a

.545 batting average. He becomes a celebrity, a national phenomenon. But Joe is lonely. He misses his home and his devoted wife, Meg. In order to lure him into keeping the contract, Applegate provides him with a companion: the lovely Lola, a seductress and Applegate underling who once was the ugliest woman in Providence, Rhode Island, and who has agreed to eternal damnation.

With Hardy leading them, the Senators become a top contender to wrest the AL flag from the Yankees. But further complications arise as Gloria Thorpe, a skeptical sportswriter—and, given her gender, a rarity for the era—investigates Hardy’s personal history. Meanwhile, Applegate not only schemes to hold Boyd to the contract but plots to have the Yanks edge out the Senators for the flag.

Although The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant is pure whimsy, Wallop does include real-life baseball references. At one point, for example, the Yankees come to Griffith Stadium to play the Nats. In one of the games, Joe Hardy smashes a “titanic clout” that soars over the center-field wall. Previously, Wallop re- ports, only three other major leaguers had achieved this feat: Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and Larry Doby.

Granted, Wallop had been a lifelong Senators fan, but not all sports enthusiasts, even those who are professional writers, come to author classic baseball stories. Wallop readily admitted that he conjured up the plot on nothing more than “inspiration, a brainstorm.” According to Mark Judge, the grandson of Joe Judge, the writer based the Joe Boyd/Joe Hardy character on the longtime Nat who manned first base in 1924, the year they won their lone world championship. “For several years in the late 1940s, Wallop dated Judge’s daughter, my Aunt Dorothy,” he noted in 2004. “Now in her 70s, she recalls that Wallop ‘was steeped in Senators history’ and would spend hours exchanging stories with her father at their house in Chevy Chase, Maryland.” Judge added, “My grandfather apparently watched baseball games and talked back to the television, indignant at the Senators’ poor play. That scene is recreated in the opening of the Broadway and Hollywood productions of Damn Yankees. ‘That man was my father,’ my father would say whenever the film was on TV.”

It took Wallop three months to pen The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant, which he finished in one draft. Conversely, he had labored over Night Light for four years. Sunken Garden, the novel he wrote after The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant, took him three years to complete.

On June 14, 1954, the New York Times announced that “Big-league baseball and the Faust theme are the ingredients of a novel by Douglass Wallop that Norton will publish July 13. The protagonist is a tired, middle-aged, fattish and fervid fan of the Washington Senators. Through the offices of the Devil, he becomes ‘the greatest and most unnatural’ outfielder in baseball history. The story, which begins with the Yankees well on ‘their despised way’ to a tenth straight pennant, has been titled ‘The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant.’”

The novel earned sparkling reviews. Charles Poore, writing in the New York Times, raved, “Mr. Wallop’s breezy fable is the best use of the legend of the man who sold his soul to the devil since Thomas Mann, and the best baseball story since Ring Lardner.” Added Gilbert Millstein, also in the Times, “In an era when the handling of humorous fantasy is . . . pretty generally humorless and almost certainly fantastic, [this book] stands out as authoritatively as a .400 hitter on the Pittsburgh Pirates. Through the extremely complex devices of writing well and refusing to make

his point more than once, the author has avoided the excessive archnesses and the groaning injunctions associated with a project of this kind.”

The book sold briskly, and was snapped up by the Book-of-the-Month and Reader’s Digest mail-order book clubs. References to it began appearing in the media. On September 19, an anonymous New York Times writer humorously noted, “Last week, as the Cleveland Indians were bringing to an end the Yan- kees’ five-year hold on the American League pennant and world championship, there were dark mutterings among Yankee fans that some of the Cleveland players had been playing all season like men possessed. But there was no real evidence, at least nothing that would stand up before a hearing before the Baseball Commissioner. As for the Senators, their hands were clean. They were still in sixth place.”

That same month, Harold Prince, a rising young stage producer-director, happened upon Wallop’s book. Most recently, Prince, along with Frederick Brisson and Robert E. Griffith, had co-produced the hit musical The Pajama Game, which had opened on Broadway in May. The Pajama Game had settled in for a lengthy run at the St. James Theatre; Prince, along with the show’s composer and lyricist, Richard Adler and Jerry Ross, was poring through dozens of books and manuscripts, vainly searching for a follow-up project. As he immersed himself in The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant, Prince became convinced that he had found it. One September evening, during a performance of The Pajama Game, Prince excitedly described the story to Adler and Ross. The duo crowded together in the back of the theater, and began looking over the book. They were as enthusiastic as Prince, and, before the end of the final act of The Pajama Game, the trio agreed to transform the book into a musical.

On September 28, it was revealed in the New York Times that Wallop’s book had been optioned for the Broadway stage. Brisson, Griffith, and Prince would produce the show. George Abbott, the legendary theatrical producer-director who had co-authored and co-directed The Pajama Game, would adapt the novel with Wallop. Abbott would direct, and Adler and Ross would pen the score.

Transforming the novel into a stage show was no simple process. “In writing the book,” Wallop explained, “the plot kept running away with me.” According to Abbott—who described the work-in-progress as the “first musical about baseball in Broadway history”—the novel was far too plot-laden for the stage. It needed to be pared down, with all

excess story elements eliminated. He divvied up the sections of the book, assigning some to Wallop and keeping others for himself. Occasionally, the two labored over the same sequence.

Furthermore, The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant was too long a name to fit on a Broadway marquee. It was Abbott who conjured up the title Damn Yankees, which he felt was dramatic and to the point. In 1955, the phrase “damn Yankees” was not uncommon. For example, in December 1954, reported The Sporting News, “Bob Turley, who had received a new automobile and $1,000 [because of his regard among fans] as a member of the Orioles last season, discovered how quickly his popularity dwindled when he walked outside his home the morning after he was traded to New York. Inscribed on the dust of his automobile trunk, the right-handed hurler found the words, ‘Damn Yankee.’<HR>”

Adler and Ross began work on the score when the final script was still a jumble of disjointed scenes. At their disposal was an outline penned by Abbott, Wallop’s book, and the constantly evolving script. The first song they completed was the first in the show: “Six Months Out of Every Year,” in which Meg Boyd and other baseball wives lament their husbands’ inat- tention during the baseball season. Even though the story told in Damn Yankees is pure fantasy— as much for the fact that the Washington Senators become a first-division ballclub as for its Faustian element—the show’s creators agreed to keep the narrative anchored in the real world. Thus, the New York Yankees remain the New York Yankees, and do not become the New York Knights (the fictitious team in Bernard Mala- mud’s The Natural). The Washington Senators are the Senators, and not the Representatives. The opening number references Willie Mays, who may not have been a Bronx Bomber—but it was easier to rhyme the Say Hey Kid’s surname. In the song, “Mays” is rhymed with “pays” and “plays.” It might have taken an Ira Gershwin or Lorenz Hart to conjure up a clever word or phrase to go with “Mantle.” Additionally, once the show reached Broadway, the voice of Mel Allen was heard onstage broadcasting several games—and describing the heroics of Joe Hardy.

The other Adler-Ross songs were employed to develop the characters, or communicate their feelings and views. They reflected on the spunk and spirit of the pre—Joe Hardy Senators (“Heart”), explained the “history” of Hardy (“Shoeless Joe from Hannibal, Mo.”), irreverently presented the coquettish Lola (“Whatever Lola Wants [Lola Gets]”), and allowed Ap- plegate to revel in his devilish past (“Those Were the Good Old Days”). In most musicals, the love songs involve passion between two young people. Adler and Ross found especially challenging the penning of the romantic songs in Damn Yankees, as they explore the emotions of Joe and Meg Boyd: a middle-aged couple, married for two decades, and their longing for each other after they are separated.

In addition to The Pajama Game, Adler and Ross, both native New Yorkers, had penned songs for the Broadway revue John Murray Anderson’s Almanac, which opened in 1953. They authored “Rags to Riches,” which became a number-one hit for Tony Bennett. But Damn Yankees would be their final collaboration. A few months after the show made its Broadway bow, Ross died of bronchiectasis, a lung dis- order. He was twenty-nine years old.

In early January 1955, it was announced that Damn Yankees would open at the Forty-sixth Street Theatre on May 5. In mid-month, the casting of Ray Walston as Applegate was announced. Walston was then appearing on the New York stage in House of Flowers, a musical. He would leave the show in early March, when rehearsals for Damn Yankees would begin.

From the outset, all the behind-the-scenes person-

Neil agreed that one actress, and one actress alone, could play Lola: Gwen Verdon, who had won acclaim in Cole Porter’s Can-Can in 1953. The red-haired Ver- don could dance up a storm, and was sufficiently sexy to play a siren. She was to emerge from Damn Yankees a full-blown star. Stephen Douglass, who had replaced John Raitt as the male lead in The Pajama Game, was cast as Joe Hardy.

Bob Fosse, who choreographed The Pajama Game (and married Verdon in 1960), signed on to stage the dance sequences. Murray Schumach, writing in the New York Times, reported that Fosse “had to work out a ballet for baseball players, using movements from the game. A baseball fan—partial to the Cubs because he was born in Chicago—he considered, for a time, working in the liquid movements of the double play. He found this impractical, though theatrical. However, with the hoedown rhythm dictated by the music he worked in the motions of batting, pitching, fielding, and sliding and tossed in a sort of juggling act with baseball bats.”

William and Jean Eckart, the show’s set and costume designers, created a grandstand section and the Senators’ dugout and locker room by researching at the New York Public Library and from images provided them by the Senators ballclub. The Eckarts also designed a show curtain consisting of 1,645 major-league baseballs attached by colored cords.

The principal actors began rehearsals on March 7. All went smoothly and, prior to opening on Broadway, Damn Yankees played out-of-town previews—the the- atrical equivalent of spring training—in New Haven and Boston. In mid-April, the Yankees were battling the Red Sox in Beantown, and it just so happened that Damn Yankees was playing there. To drum up press for the show, the Yanks were invited to attend a preview. Quite a few of the players showed up, including manager Casey Stengel. Soon afterward, when asked to venture an opinion about the show, the skipper barked, in pure Stengelese, “I ain’t gonna comment about a guy which made $100,000 writin’ about how my club lost.”

It was around this time that an outlandish-sound- ing musical number was deleted from the show. Reportedly, it was a ballet featuring a gorilla garbed in a New York Yankees uniform and dancers dressed in Baltimore Orioles—like bird costumes.

The Damn Yankees company returned to New York and, on the first of May, Murray Schumach described the scene as the show “went into the final phases of frenzied change and rehearsal”: On the stage, accompanied by a pit piano with the drive of a pneumatic drill, singers chorused almost by the syllable. Behind them, indifferent to the music, dancers spun, leaped and shouted with wanton energy. In the lobby, actors bellowed lines up wide staircases to the lofty roof of the echoing theatre. Up and down the aisle, between stage and lobby, raced the resonant voice and long legs of Mr. Abbott, shaving off minutes from the show as a boxer sweats off ounces as the bout nears.

Damn Yankees premiered on Broadway on May 5. The opening night tickets were designed to resemble tickets to a ballgame, complete with date, gate, and seat numbers, and even rain-check specifications. Just as Wallop’s novel, Damn Yankees received rave re- views. Lewis Funke, writing in the New York Times, began his critique by noting that the show was “as shiny as a new baseball and almost as smooth.” He ended his first paragraph by pronouncing, “As far as this umpire is concerned you can count it among the healthy clouts of the campaign.” Funke dubbed Ver- don “alluring” and “vivacious,” described Walston’s performance as “impeccable,” and “authoritative and persuasive,” and noted that Douglass made “a completely believable athlete.” He declared that Adler and Ross “have provided a thoroughly robust score” and that Fosse’s dance routines “are full of fun and vitality.” And he added, “But even the most ardent supporters of Mr. Stengel’s minions should have a good time.”

Writing in the New York Daily News, John Chapman called Damn Yankees “a wonderful musical. In it, Miss Verdon appears as a splendid comedienne, an extraordinary dancer and just plain fascinating person.” He added, “Old Manager Abbott, the Casey Stengel of the music-show business, has kept control of the whole show. His casting is unerring, as usual.”

Not all the show’s reviewers were professional theater critics. “The music and dancing routines are as slick as a Dark-to-Williams-to-Lockman double play,” pronounced Russ Hodges, the New York Giants’ play-by-play man, “and the lyrics have the wallop of a Ted Kluszewski.” Shirley Povich, the celebrated Washington Post sports reporter and columnist, noted that the show’s producers “got more baseball onto a stage than was believed possible. The dugout scenes are downright amazing for their faithfulness to the majors, even down to the correct piping of the suits.” The real Washington Senators, in fact, had donated game-worn jerseys that were employed as costumes. Povich added, “They do a shortstop ballet in ‘Damn Yankees’ that ought to win a pennant in that league.” Of the show’s female star, he commented, “Gwen is both the pennant and the World Series of Broadway play-acting.”

Povich took a more contemplative tone when he observed that New York theatergoers who found the show frivolously entertaining “wouldn’t understand, natu- rally, that ‘Damn Yankees’ is not a jesting term and that it is actually full of hate for the Yankees. They would understand. If they were Washington baseball fans. The play . . . is not a joke in two acts. The true Washington fan lives and dies and lives again with ‘Damn Yankees.’” Povich added, “How can you challenge the authenticity of Joe Boyd? [Is] there a Washington fan, middle-aged or otherwise, who has not yearned for that long-ball hitter for the Senators, or who has not envisioned himself as the Walter Mitty who could de- liver that long ball and beat the dratted Yankees at their own game? There is a Joe Boyd in every household in Washington, or maybe I should amend that to

say in every household worth calling a home.”

Not long after the show opened, the Nats came to New York to battle the Yankees—and the players were invited to see Damn Yankees. “They liked the show,” according to Povich, “especially Gwen Verdon, the devil’s damsel who puts on the locker room dance that the late Judge Landis would have outlawed.” Washington skipper Chuck Dressen was asked to take a bow from the stage. Years later, Mickey Vernon, the team’s

first-sacker and one of its few quality players, recalled that he and Dressen went backstage and had their picture taken with Gwen Verdon.

The Yankees, meanwhile, were collectively oblivious to the show. On September 14, 1955, New York Times columnist Arthur Daley reported that, even though the Bronx Bombers were mired in a mini-losing streak, “none of the ballplayers seemed to notice” when tunes from Damn Yankees began filling the air during batting practice at Yankee Stadium.

A month before, the Damn Yankees cast played a team representing Silk Stockings in a Broadway Show League ballgame, and lost by a 13—6 score. The Damn Yankees actors played the same positions as their characters, but with one exception. Stephen Douglass begged off participating, because he never before had played baseball.

The Broadway cast album of Damn Yankees became a best-seller. And the show earned seven Tony Awards, most significantly as Best Musical. Verdon was named Best Actress in a Musical. Walston and Douglass were pitted against each other as Best Actor in a Musical, with Walston emerging victorious. Russ Brown, cast as Benny van Buren, the Senators’ crusty manager, was named Best Featured Actor in a Musical. Fosse won for his choreography, as did conductor- musical director Hal Hastings and stage technician Harry Green. Rae Allen, playing Gloria Thorpe, was nominated as Best Featured Actress in a Musical.

Damn Yankees ran for 1,019 performances, closing on October 12, 1957; during its Broadway run, it moved from the Forty-sixth Street Theatre to the Adelphi. Meanwhile, the show’s national company traversed the U.S., with the celebrated stage clown Bobby Clark starring as Applegate.

Back in the 1950s, hit stage musicals regularly were adapted for the screen—and Damn Yankees was no exception. Warner Bros. purchased the rights to film the show with the studio, according to different sources, paying between $500,000 and $750,000. The celluloid version was codirected and coproduced by George Abbott and Stanley Donen, a veteran helmer of screen musicals. Frederick Brisson, Robert Griffith, and Harold Prince, the trio who mounted the stage show, were listed as associate producers. Abbott earned sole screenplay credit, The Eckarts designed the production and costumes, Fosse did the choreography (and also appeared on-screen as a mambo dancer), and most of the original Broadway cast recreated their roles. The major exception was Tab Hunter, who replaced Stephen Douglass as Joe Hardy. At the time, Hunter was a hot commodity in motion pictures—unlike Walston, Verdon, and the supporting players.

Interiors for Damn Yankees were filmed at Warner Bros.’ Burbank studios. Ballyard scenes were shot on location over ten days at Los Angeles’ Wrigley Field. According to Jonathan Yardley, a self-described “devout Yankee hater,” the minor-league ballyard was made up to look “for all the world like good old Griffith Stadium.” Meanwhile, in-game footage was filmed during the 1957 season when the Senators took on the Yankees at the real Griffith Stadium. This footage is edited onto the staging of the pennant-deciding game, and watching it today is great fun for Baby Boomers. Could that be Camilo Pascual on the mound for Washington? That must be Yogi Berra catching a foul popup. In the sequence, Joe Hardy/Joe Boyd makes a game-saving catch off the bat of none other than Mickey Mantle.

Hunter was cast primarily to ensure a healthy box office. But the film’s marketing campaign spotlighted the presence of Gwen Verdon. Its tagline was, “It’s a picture in a million! Starring that girl in a million, the red-headed darling of the Broadway show, Gwen Verdon!” Originally, the publicity featured Verdon posed in a baseball uniform. But in the mid-1950s, bats and balls did not necessarily translate to box-office gold. So the promotion was changed to emphasize the star’s sex appeal, with the theatrical poster highlighting a leggy, skimpily clad head-to-toe image of Verdon. In a number of non—U.S. venues, the film’s title was changed to What Lola Wants because foreign audiences would not understand the meaning of Damn Yankees.

As to plot, the film version adheres to the stage show. However, three musical numbers were deleted: “Near to You,” a love ballad (which was replaced by the similar “There’s Something About an Empty Chair”); “A Man Doesn’t Know,” a profoundly moving song that reflects on the feeling that lovers abuse love, and do not appreciate one another until after they are separated; and “The Game,” a semi-risqué comical routine in which some of the Senators recall how their sexual exploits are interrupted by thoughts of remaining true, pure, and in training.

For baseball fans, one of the highlights of the screen version of Damn Yankees is the dancing in the “Shoeless Joe from Hannibal, Mo.” number. Here, Bob Fosse’s expressive choreography incorporates pound- ing gloves, fielding grounders, tossing balls, and sliding into bases with the dance steps. Aficionados of classic 1970s television will savor hearing the distinctive voice of All in the Family’s Edith Bunker on-screen. Jean Stapleton, who also appeared onstage in Damn Yankees, employs it in her role as Meg Boyd’s friend, Sister Miller. She is a delight as she gets all aflutter upon meeting Joe Hardy—the Joe Hardy— and, later, sings a few verses of “Heart.”

The screen version of Damn Yankees premiered on September 26, 1958. Its reviews were favorable, with New York Times critic Bosley Crowther lauding Gwen Verdon as “the sort of fine, fresh talent that the screen needs badly these days” and adding that the production “has class, imagination, verve.” Variety, the show-business trade publication, described the film as “sparkling” and noted that “it does loom as a crackling musical comedy hit in the domestic markets for Warner Bros.”

All this success served to forever change the life of Douglass Wallop, the man who conjured up the saga of Joe Hardy. Now he was a celebrity, and was in demand as an after-dinner speaker at baseball banquets. When Damn Yankees was packing in audiences on Broadway, he purchased stock in the Washington Senators, explaining that he had wanted to do so for the longest time. Ever the optimist, he declared in a February 1956 interview that he had not yet earned “all the privileges of being a stockholder yet, but I hope it entitles me to buy tickets to this year’s opening game (against the Yankees) and to World Series tickets when Washington wins the pennant—maybe in 1958.” Wallop was in a more reflective mood on the first anniversary of the show’s Broadway run when he admitted that, almost immediately after handing The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant in to his publisher, he decided that penning it was a blunder. For after all, he wanted to be a serious writer. He desired to explore issues, examine the human condition. To his way of thinking, The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant was a fantasy, a trifle. How could a book about baseball be in any way significant?

Furthermore, he felt he was succumbing to the lure of fame. “It wasn’t long before my wife began to suspect that I, too, had sold my own soul to Applegate,” he noted. “The fact is, I, too, began to think that I was hearing Applegate’s voice. ‘In a couple of weeks or so,’ he’d say, ‘you can go back to the life of a writer, but it’s such a humdrum, boring life that I personally don’t see how you can stand it.’” Wallop also ruminated on the price of fame. Even though he was determined to author a “serious book,” “people asked, when are you going to write another book like ‘The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant?’ Write a book that will make another musical. Write a funny book. Be funny.”

Wallop never again was “funny.” None of his other books were transformed into Broadway shows, let alone hit ones. But in the parlance of the theater, Damn Yankees certainly had legs. Scant weeks after it closed on Broadway, Casey Stengel and Fred Haney, the respective managers of the New York Yankees and Milwaukee Braves, were each offered $1,000 per week to appear in Damn Yankees in a Las Vegas nightclub. The skippers, who had just squared off in the 1957 World Series, both politely refused.

Across the decades, the show frequently has been revived on college campuses and in community and dinner theaters, and in venues from Melbourne, Australia, to Schenectady, New York. In 1967, NBC broadcast a made-for-TV version starring Phil Silvers as Applegate and Lee Remick as Lola, with Joe Garagiola appearing as himself. In 1981, Joe Namath played Joe Hardy at the Jones Beach Theatre in New York’s Nassau County. Five years later, 99-year-old George Abbott—who lived to the age of 107—directed a revival at the Paper Mill Playhouse in Millburn, New Jersey, that featured Orson Bean as Applegate.

A version that began life at San Diego’s Old Globe Theatre, toplining Bebe Neuwirth as Lola and Victor Garber as Applegate, opened at Broadway’s Marquis Theatre on March 3, 1994. The show’s creative talent worked in conjunction with Abbott, who was present at some of the rehearsals. This version ran on the Great White Way for 718 performances, closing on August 6, 1995. Before the final curtain went down, Jerry Lewis took over as Applegate. He went on the play the part in venues from Washington’s Kennedy Center to San Francisco’s Golden Gate Theatre to London’s Adelphi Theatre.

In 2002, Dan Duquette was fired as general manager of the Boston Red Sox. A year later, he resurfaced in a Pittsfield, Massachusetts, production of Damn Yankees, playing Benny van Buren. The show was presented in the town’s minor-league ballyard, 1 1-year-old Wahconah Park. In 2005, Washington’s Arena Stage revived the show. “With the Nationals as a new neighbor, the theater has a perfect excuse for a baseball musical,” wrote Peter Marks in the Washing- ton Post. He added that, for “transparent reasons,” an “actor playing a stadium vendor sells both Senators pennants and Nationals programs”—even though the setting is the 1950s. Another version, presented at the North Shore Music Theatre in Beverly, Massachusetts, in 2006, substituted the Boston Red Sox for the Senators. Then in 2007, the show was further reworked in a version mounted in Los Angeles and directed by Jason Alexander. Here, the story was updated to 1981, and the Los Angeles Dodgers replaced the Nats as the team forever thwarted by those damn Yankees. And in 2008, the show enjoyed a brief summer run at New York City Center with Sean Hayes and Jane Krakowski starring as Applegate and Lola.

In 1964, W. W. Norton published a second edition of The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant. Most recently, the book was reprinted in 2004, with an introduction by Bill James. A year earlier, Harvey Weinstein, then co-chairman of Miramax Films, announced plans to remake Damn Yankees and film the 1970s Broadway hit Pippin. “Now, with Damn Yankees and Pippin, the ghost of Arthur Freed [the famed lyricist and legendary producer of musicals at Metro- Goldwyn-Mayer] is alive at Miramax,” Weinstein pronounced. Neither project ever made it to celluloid.

The saga of Joe Hardy has enjoyed great success in its various forms, and it may be a Washington Senators fan’s fantasy-come-true. But of course, it is fiction, pure and unadulterated. In 1955, as Damn Yankees lit up Broadway, the ballclub from the Bronx made it to the real Fall Classic—yet again. Even though they lost to the Brooklyn Dodgers, it was little solace to Senators supporters. That season, the Washington club came in dead last in the American League, winning 53 and losing 101.

In 1956—57, Chuck Stobbs, a Senators pitcher, lost sixteen straight games before notching a victory. He ended the 1957 campaign with an 8—20 record, and his team again held up the AL rear. As a rejoinder to Benny van Buren’s counsel to his players that they “gotta have heart,” Cookie Lavagetto, who replaced Chuck Dressen in May as the Nats skipper, moaned, “Believe me, brother, you gotta have a sense of humor.”

It was around this time that Harmon Killebrew often found himself compared to Joe Hardy. At one point, when “the Killer” was slumping, Washington sportswriter Bob Addie kidded the ballplayer by asking him, “What happened to Joe Hardy?” Then he noted, “Now you’re starting to hit like Andy Hardy.”

In 1958, the year Douglass Wallop’s Yankees lost the pennant, the real Bronx Bombers won the AL flag and bested the Milwaukee Braves in the World Series. And what of the Senators? Predictably, they finished the campaign at 61—93—in the American League cellar. 

Sources

Books

Edelman, Rob. Great Baseball Films. New York: Citadel Press, 1994. Thorn, John, Pete Palmer, Michael Gershman, and David Pietrusza.

Total Baseball. 5th ed. New York: Viking Penguin, 1997.

Wallop, Douglass. The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant. New York: Norton, 1954.

Damn Yankees: Original Stage Production

Forty-sixth Street Theatre, New York City, May 5, 1955—May 4, 1957

Adelphi Theatre, New York City, May 6, 1957—October 12, 1957

Producers: Frederick Brisson, Robert E. Griffith, Harold S. Prince, in association with Albert B. Taylor. Director: George Abbott. Music and Lyrics: Richard Adler, Jerry Ross. Book: George Abbott, Douglass Wallop, from Wallop’s novel The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant. Musical Director: Hal Hastings. Music Orchestration: Don Walker. Dance Arranger: Roger Adams. Dances and Musical Numbers Staged by: Bob Fosse. Scenic Designers/Costume Designers: William and Jean Eckart. Sound Designer: Harry Green. Primary Opening Night Cast: Stephen Douglass (Joe Hardy); Gwen Verdon (Lola); Ray Walston (Applegate); Rae Allen (Gloria Thorpe); Richard Bishop (Welch); Shannon Bolin (Meg Boyd); Russ Brown (Van Buren); Nathaniel Frey (Smokey); Del Horstmann (Lynch, Commissioner); Elizabeth Howell (Doris); Janie Janvier (Miss Weston); Jimmie Komack (Rocky); Al Lanti (Henry); Albert Linville (Vernon, Postmaster); Eddie Phillips (Sohovik, Dancer); Robert Shafer (Joe Boyd); Jean Stapleton (Sister).

Damn Yankees: Screen Version

(1958) Warner Bros. Color. 110 minutes. Directors-Producers: George Abbott, Stanley Donen. Screenplay: George Abbott, based on the musical play Damn Yankees, book by Abbott, Douglass Wallop (from Wallop’s novel The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant ). Music and Lyrics: Richard Adler, Jerry Ross. Cinematographer: Harold Lipstein. Production/Costume Design: William and Jean Eckart. Art Director: Stanley Fleis- cher. Film Editor: Frank Bracht. Sound: Stanley Jones, Dolph Thomas. Set Decorator: John P. Austin. Makeup Supervisor: Gordon Bau. Choreography: Bob Fosse. Music Supervisor: Ray Heindorf. Associate Producers: Frederick Brisson, Robert Griffith, Harold Prince. Principal Cast: Tab Hunter (Joe Hardy); Gwen Verdon (Lola); Ray Walston (Mr. Applegate); Russ Brown (Benny Van Buren); Shannon Bolin (Meg Boyd); Nathaniel Frey (Smokey); Jimmie Komack (Rocky); Rae Allen (Gloria Thorpe); Robert Shafer (Joe Boyd); Jean Stapleton (Sister Miller); Albert Linville (Vernon); Bob Fosse (Mambo Dancer); Elizabeth Howell (Doris Miller); William Fawcett (Postmaster Hawkins)

Periodicals

Barcella, Ernest L. “Life and Hope in Baseball’s Cellar.” New York Times, 22 September 1957.

Barnes, Bart. “‘Damn Yankees’ Novelist Douglass Wallop, 64.”

Washington Post, 4 April 1985.

Berman, Rob. “A Lot of Brains, a Lot of Talent.” Playbill, 11 July 2008.

Byrne, Terry. “Diamond in the Round; Musical ‘Damn Yankees’ Gets an Update for Red Sox Crowd.” Boston Herald, 24 April 2006.

Calta, Louis. “‘Damn Yankees’ at Bat Tonight.” New York Times, 5 May 1955.

———. “‘Ice Review’ Opens Its Run Tonight.” New York Times, 13 January 1955.

———. “Play Is Planned by Nancy Davids.” New York Times, 4 January 1955.

Chapman, John. “‘Damn Yankees’ a Championship Musical and Gwen Verdon’s a Doll.” New York Daily News, 6 May 1955.

Crowther, Bosley. “Screen: Damn Yankees.” New York Times, 27 September 1958.

Daley, Arthur. “”Sports of the Times’: Overheard at the Stadium.”

New York Times, 14 September 1955.

———. “’Sports of the Times:’ The Killer.” New York Times, 20 March 1960. Funke, Lewis. “Rialto Gossip.” New York Times, 17 April 1955.

———. “Theatre: The Devil Tempts a Slugger.” New York Times, 6 May 1955. Garaventa, Joseph. “The Senators’ Triumphant Comeback.” Washington Post,

16 December 2005.

Gelb, Arthur. “Thurber Stories on Stage Tonight.” New York Times, 7 March 1955. Heller, Dick. “Play Ball Once More; Arena Presents a Revival of ‘Damn Yankees.’”

Washington Times, 20 November 2005.

Hodges, Russ. “Sounding Off with Russ Hodges.” The Sporting News, 8 June 1955.

Judge, Mark Gauvreau. “’Backtalk’: Washington Baseball Is Not for the Birds.” New York Times, 22 August 2005.

Marks, Peter. “‘Damn Yankees,’ Batting Solidly in the Mid-Fifties.”

Washington Post, 19 December 2005.

Millstein, Gilbert. “A Devil of a Game.” New York Times, 12 September 1954. Poore, Charles. “Books of the Times.” New York Times, 9 September 1954. Povich, Shirley. “‘Damn Yankees’ Stirs Nat Fans to Cheers Instead of Chuckles.”

The Sporting News, 25 May 1955.

———. “Chuck Trying Conga Contingent in Effort to Quicken Nats’ Step.”

The Sporting News, 1 June 1955.

Rohter, Larry. “Theater: At 106, George Abbott Is Still Batting for ‘Damn Yankees.’” New York Times, 27 February 1994.

“Ron,” “Damn Yankees.” Variety, 17 September 1958.

Ruhl, Oscar. “From the Ruhl Book.” The Sporting News, 8 June 1955.

———. “From the Ruhl Book.” The Sporting News, 27 November 1957. Schumach, Murray. “Devil Damns Yankees.” New York Times, 1 May 1955. Wallop, Douglass. “Perils of a Successful Musical Writer.” New York Times,

13 May 1956.

Yardley, Jonathan. “A Deal with the Devil That Still Pays Dividends.”

Washington Post, 11 August 2005.

Zolotow, Sam. “Denham Is Named to Direct ‘Seed.’” New York Times, 28 September 1954.

———. “Inge’s ‘Bus Stop’ to Open Tonight.” New York Times, 2 March 1955.

———. “Theatre Wing’s ‘Tony’ Awards Presented at Dinner Here.”

New York Times, 2 April 1956. “Books—Authors.” New York Times, 5 June 1954.

“John Douglass Wallop Dies; Author of Novel on Yankees.” New York Times, 5 April 1985.

“Nats Acquire New ‘Wallop.’” The Sporting News, 15 February 1956. “The Nation.” New York Times, 19 September 1954.

“The Rialto Gossip.” New York Times, 3 October 1954.

“Turley Learns He’s DamYankee.” The Sporting News, 1 December 1954. “Tuning In: ‘Damn Yankees’ Lose on Field.” The Sporting News, 31 August 1955.

Internet

Internet Broadway Database: http://www.ibdb.com/index.php

Internet Movie Database: http://www.imdb.com/

Expansion baseball was launched in 1884 with two 13-team leagues; the Union Association, which lasted one year, competing against the already established American Association. Washington, although one of the smaller cities in the nation, ambitiously fielded teams in both leagues. And that began the confusion. Since its first professional team had been known as the Nationals before its demise, it seemed appropriate to continue using that moniker.

But for which team? The answer, in the political tradition of the city’s principal business: both.

The Union club was sometimes the Unions, some- times the Washingtons, sometimes the Nationals. The AA team was also called the Nationals. Readers of the Washington Post, confronted with headlines like “The Nationals Win and the Washingtons’ Lose,” had to read on to discover who did what.

There being nothing official about any of these tags, the newspapers exercised a journalistic fielder’s choice. When the capital entered the National League in 1886, the Post revived the Nationals; the Evening Star chose to call the team the Statesmen. By 1888, Senators began replacing Nationals.

But they were still losers, by whatever name. In 1890 the entire roster decamped for Buffalo in the Players League, leaving D.C. with no professional team until they took a one-year lease on the American Association’s basement in 1891. Game accounts continued to use both “Nationals” and “Senators,” sometimes in the same paragraph, even the same bank of headlines.

Washington rejoined the National League in 1892. When the season opened on April 12, the Post tried to stay with the Nationals, but other papers would have nothing to do with it. The Post headline read: “The Nationals Yield to the Superior Work of the Bostons.”

The Boston Globe’s read: “Boston Cools the Marrow in Senators Bones.”

A week later the Post surrendered, and from then until the club once again expired after the 1899 season, the Senators reigned in the papers, if not in the standings.

When the American League declared war on the National League in 1901, they moved the Kansas City franchise to the vacant Washington territory. Under- financed and undermanned, the club began life with AL president Ban Johnson running things behind the scenes. To differentiate between the leagues, newspapers used such terms as “Boston Nationals” and “Boston Americans.” Calling the new American League Washington team the Nationals just wouldn’t work. Besides, “National” was a dirty word to Ban Johnson. From opening day they were the Senators in most papers.

A year after the two leagues ended their war in 1903, Ban Johnson persuaded two newspapermen in Washington to take the team off the league’s hands. Thomas C. Noyes was city editor of the Star; Scott C. Bone was managing editor of the Post. It took until 1905 to completely extricate the league from the operation of the team.

The new owners wanted to end all confusion and come up with a single universal team name. In March 1905 they asked the fans for suggestions that would clearly identify the team with the nation’s capital. The replies, like the results of a psychologist’s word association test, ranged from Diplomats to Grafters. A committee of local writers favored the old original Nationals. The new owners preferred Senators. Left to the fans to choose between them, the overwhelming winner was Nationals.

But the issue was never really settled to anyone’s satisfaction. And perhaps that is what most truly identifies the team with the nation’s capital. For the next 55 years, the local papers used Nationals or Nats while the rest of the world continued to call them the Senators. Bowing to the marketplace, in 1954 the Putnam series of team histories published The Washington Senators, by the Post’s Shirley Povich, while his paper’s sports pages were still using Nats. The same is true of other histories and biographies, from Morris A. Bealle’s Washington Senators¹ in 1947 to biographies, by Cecil Travis (2005)² and Sam Rice (2007),³ of “the Senators.”

And then they packed up and moved to Minnesota. Their replacement in D.C. continued the name “Senators” until they packed up and moved to Texas in 1971. By the time the latest version was reincarnated in 2006, nobody wanted anything to do with the tag “Senators.” Or maybe they just didn’t want any name tag that might identify them with that particular group of one hundred. Under the Lerner ownership, the team is now officially the Washington Nationals Baseball Club LLC

Notes

¹Morris A. Bealle, The Washington Senators: An 87-Year History of the World’s Oldest Baseball Club and Most Incurable Fandom (Washington, C.: Columbia Publishing, 1947).

²Rob Kirkpatrick, Cecil Travis of the Washington Senators: The War-Torn Career of an All-star Shortstop (Jefferson, C.: McFarland, 2005).

³Jeff Carroll, Sam Rice: A Biography of the Washington Senators Hall of Famer (Jefferson, C.: McFarland, 2007).

One former Washington Senator who played during Hudson’s tenure as pitching coach, Del Unser (center fielder, Washington Senators, 1968—71)2 explains the esteem Hudson earned in the capital city. “He’s a gentle- man,that what he is, a Texas gentleman,” Unser said.3 Hudson first took the mound for Washington on April 18, 1940.The tall, lanky, rawboned rookie, 6′ 4″ and 180 pounds4 of nerves, was the losing pitcher in Washington’s 7—0 defeat against the Boston Red Sox.5 Hudson finished his rookie season with a 17—16 record, 252 inningspitched, and a 4.57 ERA for the woeful 60—94 Senators. He led all major league rookies in starts (31) andcomplete games (19). He Hudson soon became the club’s top pitcher, earning berths on the 1941 and 1942 American League All-Star teams.6

Hudson played a major role in the 1941 Mid-Summer Classic. He surrendered Arky Vaughan’s first home run, launched to the right-field upper deck of Detroit’s Tiger Stadium (then Briggs Stadium) in the seventh inning. Hudson’s performance helped set the stage for Ted Williams’s legendary game-winning homer off of Claude Passeau with two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning.7

Hudson and Williams crossed paths again in Boston during the last week of the 1941 season. Hudson’s Senators hosted the Red Sox. Teddy Ballgame intercepted Hudson on his way out of the Washington clubhouse. According to Hudson, Williams asked, “You pitching today?”

Hudson replied, “Yeah, I am. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll throw you nothing but fastballs unless I’m in a jam and then you’re on your own.”

Williams looked at him and said, “You wouldn’t do that.”

Honest to the core, Hudson kept his word. He recalled, “I got him out three out of four times. The center fielder had to take a couple off the wall, but he didn’t get a hit. Of course, he got six or seven hits the last day of the season [to hit above .400].”8 The two would face each other and work together many times in the future.

In October 1942, 27 years old and poised to enter his prime as a ballplayer, World War II intervened. Hudson served as a sergeant in the U.S. Army Air Force for three years, serving at the Waco Army Air Base and in the Pacific theater.9 He came back an older and less effective pitcher. In his first three seasons, Hudson never pitched fewer than 239.3 innings and earned a 40—47 record for Washington teams that never won more than 70 games. On his return, he never pitched as frequently (237.7 innings in 1950 was closest) or as well (64—105) when he returned from war.10

In 1952, the Senators traded Hudson to Boston, reuniting him with Williams. The veteran pitcher enjoyed having baseball’s best left-handed hitter as a teammate. He described his favorite memory of their three seasons together, September 17, 1953:

“Ned Garver of the Tigers was pitching against me. In the eighth inning the score was 1—0 in favor of Detroit.We have one man on first and it’s Williams’s turn to hit. He patted me on the fanny and said, ‘Go on and get your shower. I’ll hit that little slider of Garver’s into the right field seats.’11

“And he did. He was something.”12

Hudson retired as a player in 1954, but soon returned as a scout for Boston. He joined the new Washington Senators organization in 1961, serving as the team’s pitching coach for manager, former teammate, and life-long friend Mickey Vernon, who died September 24, 2008.

The two remained close. In 1998, Hudson helped arrange a surprise party for Vernon’s eightieth birthday. “He sure was surprised, too,” Hudson remembered. Hudson coached Washington pitchers for nine seasons, 1961—65 and 1968—71.13

One season, he watched a right-hander in the San Francisco Giants’ farm system pitch with poise and pinpoint control. Hudson learned the impressive hurler’s name—Dick Bosman. He said, “He looked like a veteran. Itold our organization that if we had a chance to get this kid, why, don’t hesitate. That year (1964), the Giants left him off the roster and we got him.14

“He learned how to move [his pitches, how to pitch to different hitters, and became a good pitcher. He threw a sinking fastball, a slider, and he could really spot it.”

Bosman, the expansion era Senators’ (1961—71) most successful pitcher, with 49 wins,15 credits Hudson for refining his mechanics. He said, “Sid was really the first pitching coach I ever had. He taught me a lot of the physical parts of pitching. How you spin this curveball, how you make this ball sink, how you hold it.”16

When he became a pitching coach himself for the Baltimore Orioles (1992—94) and Texas Rangers (1995— 2000)17 Bosman often visited his mentor and friend for counsel and to catch up on old times. Bosman, who now instructs minor-league pitchers in the Tampa Bay Rays organization, explained, “Sid’s style, his modus operandi of coaching and teaching is a lot of what I do.”

Former Washington relief pitcher and SABR member Dave Baldwin, who threw with a sidearm motion, also praised Hudson. He said, “Sid was a side-armer. He knew how a side-armer should grip and release the various pitches. Sid also understood when I was slinging the ball. In order for my ball to move, I had to have an awful lot of arm action, a really flexible arm, and a real snap on the ball in order for the ball to sink or for the curve to curve or for the screwball to screwball. Sid watched me very carefully. He would tell me, ‘you’re beginning to sling the ball again, you’re beginning to sling.’”18

Baldwin also remembered a unique device Sid Hudson invented to teach pitchers the proper grip for a curve ball. The “Hudson Harness” included an elastic band that held the pitcher’s thumb behind the ball. Once a pitcher learned the proper grip the ball spun faster and had, according to Baldwin, “greater deflection,” making the pitch more difficult to hit. Ever generous, Hudson shared his unique device with other major-league and college pitching coaches. A photograph of the Hudson Harness appears in an article by Baldwin, Terry Bahill, and Alan Nathan entitled “Nickel and Dime Pitches” in Baseball Research Journal 35.19

In 1969, when Senators owner Bob Short persuaded Ted Williams to become the team’s manager, the Splendid Splinter decided to keep his old foe and teammate on the coaching staff. Twenty-eight years after their conversation outside the visitors’ clubhouse at Fenway Park and 15 seasons after they played together in Boston, the two men joined forces again.

Hudson said Williams “just turned the pitchers over to me. He called me into his office and said, ‘Sid, I’ve known you for a long time. You have all this experience. I’ll just turn it over to you and if I don’t like what you’re doing, why, I’ll tell you so.’’’

Williams rarely needed to say a word to Hudson. In 1969, Senators pitchers turned in a 3.49 ERA, fifth-best in the American League.20

Hudson’s service to Williams included some unpleasant collateral duties, like weighing in massive slugger Frank Howard. Hudson recalled, “Frank got pretty heavy back then. I could never get him on the scale, so I begged him and begged him. Well, one day he finally got on and topped it at 300 right on the button.”

Howard said, “Sid could never get me on the scale because I was always overweight.”

Howard, known for his kindness to teammates and fans alike, gives Hudson high praise. “Sidney Hudson is an outstanding man,” Howard said.21

Hudson went out of his way to introduce new members of the Washington organization to the joys of living in the D.C. Metro area. Senators broadcaster Ron Menchine (1969—71) fondly recalls the kindness and generosity of the southern gentleman. Menchine recalled many instances when Hudson invited newcomers out for dinner or showed them the best place in the area to rent an apartment or get a tasty, affordable meal. The Senators pitching coach also helped a rookie broadcaster cope with baseball’s constant travel. Menchine said, “Sid introduced me to the top restaurants in major-league baseball.”

Menchine said that Hudson made him and countless others feel connected to the team, welcome and valuable.“Sid was a classy guy all the way. He was one of the greatest men I ever met in my life,” he said.22

Like most coaches, Hudson enjoyed the camaraderie that developed between members of Williams’ staff—Nellie Fox, Wayne Terwilliger, Joe Camacho, George Susce, and Doug Camilli.23 He especially enjoyed pitching batting practice to Fox and Williams in the morning hours before players and fans arrived at RFK Stadium. He tried to throw pitches between belly laughs as the two Hall of Famers exchanged good-natured debate over who hit better. Hudson said, “Boy, we had a lot of fun.”

When Short moved the Senators to Texas for the 1972 season, he retained Williams as manager. Hudson followed the Splendid Splinter to Texas to coach the Rangers pitchers. He remained with the Texas organization until 1986 After leaving the Rangers, Hudson coached Baylor University’s pitchers for seven seasons. In 1993, he retired with 56 years devoted to baseball. “I figured 56 was enough,” he said.

Of those five and a half decades, Hudson contributed more than a third to Washington baseball.

Other than the 1969 season, when the Senators thrilled the city with an 86—76 record, Hudson usually knew defeat on the ball field or watched it unfold from the dugout or bullpen.

He refused to let losing diminish his generosity or blunt his desire to play and teach the game. Hudson dedicated his life to baseball, sharing his craft, inventions, experience, knowledge, and oral history as a labor of love, day after day,season after season. His longevity and quiet dignity won him honor from peers, students, and friends. Though few Washington baseball fans remember him, Hudson made lasting contributions to the history of the game in this city. When baseball greatness is measured in kindness, faithfulness, creativity, and zeal to help others, Sid Hudson stands near the top of Washington’s all-time best. 

Notes

1. Retrosheet, Sid Hudson: http://retrosheet.org/boxesetc/H/Phudss101.htm.
2. Retrosheet, Del Unser:http://www.retrosheet.org/boxesetc/U/Punsed101.htm.

3. Author’s interview with Del Unser, 18 March On October 10, 2008, Sid Hudson, who had been living in Waco, Texas, died there at the age of 93.
4. Pete Palmer and Gary Gillette, The Baseball Encyclopedia (New York: Barnes and Noble, 2004), 963.
5. Retrosheet, 1940 Washington Senators regular-season game log: retrosheet.org/boxesetc/1940/VWS101940.htm.
6. Palmer and Gillette, The Baseball Encyclopedia (2004), 963.
7. Retrosheet, American League 7, National League 5: retrosheet.org/boxesetc/1941/B07080ALS1941.htm.
8. Author’s interview with Sid Hudson, 29 May In the last week of the season, in the game (it was at Washington) in which the Red Sox faced Hudson, Williams got a double, going 1-for-3. Hudson may have conflated hismemory of that game with the game of August 17 (also at Washington), the first time the Red Sox faced Hudson since theAll-Star Game; on this earlier occasion, Williams did go hitless, 0-for-3, against Hudson.

9. Gary Bedingfield, Baseball in Wartime, baseballinwartime.com/player_biographies/hudson_sid.htm.
10. Palmer and Gillette, The Baseball Encyclopedia (2004), 963.
11. SABR, Home Run Log, Ted Williams, 17 September 1953, http://members.sabr.org/.
12. Author’s interview with Sid Hudson, 29 May 1998.
13. Retrosheet, Sid Hudson.
14. Retrosheet, Dick Bosman: http://www.retrosheet.org/boxesetc/B/Pbosmd101.htm.
15. Palmer and Gillette, The Baseball Encyclopedia (2004), 784.
16. Author’s interview with Dick Bosman, 6 January 1999.
17. Retrosheet, Dick Bosman.
18. Author’s interview with Dave Baldwin, 25 April 2007.
19. Dave Baldwin, Terry Bahill, and Alan Nathan, “Nickel and Dime Pitches,” Baseball Research Journal 35 (2007): 26—27.
20. Palmer and Gillette, The Baseball Encyclopedia (2004), 1539.
21. Author’s interview with Frank Howard, 9 February 1999.
22. Author’s interview with Ron Menchine, February 2005.
23. Washington Senators 1969 Press-Radio Television Guide, 4—8.

Players of note can be considered chronologically by order of their appearances on American League All-Star teams, although the first two individuals mentioned under such an approach failed to gain the stature of other men who would later display their talents in Griffith Stadium.

Cass Michaels was the lone player from the fifth- place team of 1950 to be selected to appear in the Midsummer Classic. Because he had been traded to the Senators by the Chicago White Sox only six weeks before the All-Star Game was played in his former stomping ground (Comiskey Park), Michaels was actually rewarded for solid play while with the Pale Hose. His batting average had been .312 in 36 games with the Chisox but dropped to .250 at season’s end, after donning Washington flannels. Following a respectable but less-than-sensational season in 1951, he was traded to the St. Louis Browns in May of 1952.

Connie Marrero was the only representative of the Washington franchise in the 1951 game. Less than four months’ shy of thirty-nine years old when his career as a major-league pitcher began, the 5′ 7″, 165-pound right hander from Cuba pitched for the Senators from 1950 through 1954, but was most successful in 1951 and 1952. He posted a record of 1 —9 and an earned-run average of 3.90 in 1951 with a supporting cast that finished the season in seventh place, and then won 1 and lost 8 in 1952 with an ERA of 2.88. His best performance? On April 26, 1951, a fourth-inning home run by Barney McCosky of the Philadelphia Athletics was the only hit he allowed in a 2—1 Washington triumph.

Jackie Jensen and Eddie Yost were named to the 1952 team. The promising Jensen had begun the season with the Yankees but was traded to Washington on May 3.  He proceeded to steal 17 bases as a National (he had swiped one sack as a Bronx Bomber) and trailed only Minnie Minoso and Jim Rivera among American League base thieves. He hit at a .266 clip the following season and stole another 18 bases (again finishing third in that category behind Minoso and Rivera) before being dealt to Boston on December 9, 1953, in exchange for Mickey McDermott and Tommy Umphlett. (That trade did not turn out well for the Nats!)

Eddie Yost is much more prominent in Senators’ history than Michaels, Marrero, or Jensen. Yost played in 838 consecutive games from August 30, 1949, until he was sidelined on May 12, 1955, with tonsillitis, tied the American League with 36 doubles in 1951, and topped junior-circuit third basemen in putouts a record eight times. But, despite his durability and dependability, Yost became best known for an exceptional ability to draw bases-on-balls—a skill that earned him the nickname of “The Walking Man.” (While with the Nats, he led the league in free passes in 1950, 1952, 1953, and 1956 and, with Detroit, in 1959 and1960.) His phenomenal talent for reaching first base without putting a bat on the baseball disguised his effectiveness as an offensive influence: his on-base percentage peaked at .440 in 1950 and was impressive throughout his stay in Washington.

Yost was a star of considerable magnitude, but when he threw the ball across the infield from third base, the man who caught it had an even longer resume. When Mickey Vernon—who had been the American League’s batting champion in 1946 with a .353 average—became the only Nationals’ player to travel to Cincinnati for the 1953 All-Star game, he was in the middle of a season that would culminate in a second batting title (albeit a controversial one, due to questionable and perhaps intentional base-running lapses by teammates Mickey Grasso and Kite Thomas on the final day of the season). He also produced 1 5 RBIs in 1953, one of eleven years in which he knocked 80 or more runs across home plate.

Vernon was selected to six All-Star teams (1946, 1948, 1953, 1954, 1955, and 1956), and he led the league in doubles in 1946, 1953, and 1954. In 1953, he ranked third behind Al Rosen and Yogi Berra in voting by members of the Baseball Writers’ Association of America (BBWAA) for the American League’s “Most Valuable Player” award.

Vernon’s most memorable moments on a baseball field may have occurred on the opening day of the 1954 season with President Dwight Eisenhower in attendance. Having been held hitless in four plate appearances, Vernon came to bat against Allie Reynolds in the bottom of the tenth inning with the Senators and Yankees tied, 3—3. (Yost was on first base after having received—what else?—a base-on-balls.) Vernon delivered a Washington victory with a home run that became memorable in the city’s baseball history and gave new life to a popular belief that Vernon was Ike’s favorite player.

Vernon was not one of baseball’s most prominent long-ball threats (he pounded 172 homers in his twenty-year major-league career), but his 20 round trippers in 1954 established a new club record for left-handed hitters. Fellow infielder Pete Runnels was on base when he hit several of those four-baggers, and the line-drive-hitting Runnels—who took advantage of Griffith Stadium’s generous dimensions in the power alleys to record 15 triples in 1954—was an important contributor to solid Washington infields in the first half of the 1950s.

Vernon was accompanied by pitchers Dean Stone and Bob Porterfield to the “clash of the leagues” in 1954, and developments in the final two innings of that contest in Cleveland would ensure Stone’s place in trivia books forever. The 6 4, 205-pound rookie left hander received credit for the pitching victory without officially facing a single batter. When Stone was brought into the game to relieve Bob Keegan, with two out in the eighth inning and Red Schoendienst on third base for the senior circuit, the National League had hopes of increasing its tenuous 9—8 lead. After Stone had thrown only two pitches (a ball and a strike) to Duke Snider, Schoendienst attempted to steal home. Stone nailed him at the plate with a throw to catcher Yogi Berra and then became the winning pitcher when his teammates for a day scored three runs in the bot- tom of the eighth inning.

With the Senators, Stone registered more victories in his initial major-league season of 1954 than in any other, although he started only 23 games that His record dropped off in 1955 to 6—13, but it should be noted that seven of those losses came in games in which a zero appeared next to the word “Washington” in the final score. But Dean Stone was not the only Senators pitcher to suffer the fate of losing seven shutouts during the decade, for Bob Porterfield had been linked to the same dubious distinction in 1952! Porterfield, a right hander, was nicknamed “Hard Luck Bob” for good reason. He posted a record of 13—14 in 1952 despite an earned-run average of 2.72 that was the seventh-best in the American League. He hurled three shutouts that season, but his offensive support was often absent: Porterfield was the victim of a no-hitter by Virgil Trucks, a one-hitter by Mickey McDermott, two-hitters by Allie Reynolds and Billy Pierce, and three-hitters by Mel Parnell, Pierce, and Eddie Lopat.

Porterfield’s luck and record improved drastically in 1953. He won 22 games while losing only 10, leading the league not only in victories but also with a very impressive total of 9 shutouts. (Casey Stengel was criticized in many quarters for failing to include Porterfield when he chose pitchers for the ’53 All-Star team.) He then tied with Bob Lemon for the American League lead in complete games in 1954 and finished that season with a 13—15 record. A review of Porterfield’s statistics reveals that, while he won more than 13 games in only one season, he was usually effective on the mound and maintained an earned-run average of 3.14 during a three-year period extending from 1952 through 1954.

Any listing of Washington’s greatest baseball stars must include a slugger who represented the franchise on All-Star teams in 1956, 1957, and 1959. Roy Sievers was obtained from the Baltimore Orioles on February 18, 1954, and wasted no time in becoming a favorite in the District of Columbia. He tagged 24home runs in 1954 to break the previous club record, and drove in 95 or more runs in each of his first five seasons in a Senators uniform.

Sievers led the American League with 42 homers in 1957 and, with 114 runs batted in, became the first Washington player to top all sluggers in RBIs since Goose Goslin in 1924. He blasted a ball over Griffith Stadium’s fence in six consecutive games during that ’57 season and the sixth (off of Al Aber of the Tigers) won a 17-inning game on August 3. At season’s end, he finished third—behind legends Mickey Mantle and Ted Williams—in voting by the BBWAA for the American League’s Most Valuable Player. He maintained a similar level of performance in 1958, hitting 39 home runs despite an early-season slump. He slammed a total of 180 homers in six years as a Senator.

The slow start in 1958 cost Sievers a place on the All-Star team, and Rocky Bridges—who was hitting approximately .300 when selections were made—received the honor. (Bridges would ultimately post an unremarkable batting average of .263 in his only full season as a Washington infielder.) A colorful and quotable player who always had a big wad of tobacco in his mouth, Bridges possessed, on the field, ordinary ability.

Yet another member of the Senators generated quite a stir and plenty of curiosity during the ’58 campaign. Albie Pearson, standing all of 5′ 5″ and weighing 140 pounds, had a batting average of .275 and received 14 of the24 votes in the polling of BBWAA members for the AL Rookie-of-the-Year Award. But, unfortunately, Pearson’s tenure in Washington was brief; his batting average had tailed off to .188 by May 26, 1959, when he was sent up the road to Baltimore.

After the number of annual major-league All-Star games was doubled in 1959 to generate additional revenue, Sievers and a young Harmon Killebrew represented the Senators in the meeting in Pittsburgh of baseball’s best. And, with expansion of rosters permit- ted for a second game in the Los Angeles Coliseum, they were joined in Southern California by Bob Allison, Camilo Pascual, and Pedro Ramos.

Killebrew had been the first bonus player signed by Clark Griffith’s club, having placed his signature on a Nationals’ contract in June of 1954, ten days before his eighteenth birthday. His progress and assignments within the organization were affected not only by his ability but also by rules applying to “Bonus Babies” of his era. By 1959, he was prepared for stardom. He secured his spot in the starting lineup by knocking two pitches by future Hall of Famer Jim Bunning into the bleachers of Briggs Stadium in Detroit on May 1, 1959. (The second home run came in the tenth inning and gave Washington a 4—3 victories.) The very next day, he tagged two more homers in a 15—3 rout of the Bengals. “The Killer” went on to brighten the ’59 season by rapping 42 round-trippers and driving in 105 runs for his cellar-dwelling team. He would continue to mature as a player and enjoy a truly great career in Minnesota in the 1960s and 1970s after the Senators franchise had moved to the upper Midwest.

Bob Allison’s career followed a similar course. The big outfielder contributed to a productive offense for the hapless ’59 club, tagging 30 home runs and succeeding Pearson as Rookie of the Year. He slumped slightly in his sophomore season of 1960 but, like Killebrew and catcher Earl Battey (who played one season in Washington after being acquired by the Senators from the White Sox on April 4, 1960), became a dependable force in the league after the franchise left town.

Camilo Pascual and Pedro Ramos served as the foundation upon which Senators pitching staffs were built in the mid and late 1950s. The two Cuban hurlers were linked in the minds of many baseball fans especially young ones who obtained baseball card number 291 in the 1959 Topps set, which featured them side by side and dubbed them “Pitching Partners.” Pascual led the Washington club in appearances in his rookie year of 1954 with 48 games, and Ramos later recalled that “Camilo was a tough pitcher. He had a good fastball and one of the best breaking balls I’ve ever seen.”

By 1959, when he had mastered control of his two basic pitches as well as a change-up, Pascual had become one of baseball’s best. He posted a 17—10 record that year despite occasional discomfort in his right arm and, on opening day of the 1960 season (April 18), fanned 15 Boston Red Sox batters and threw a three-hitter as the Senators romped, 10—1. In recognition of such achievements, he was selected to the American League’s roster for the “second” All-Star games in both 1959 and 1960.

Ramos relied on a fastball, a “Cuban palm ball” (which he later admitted was actually a spitball), a curveball, and a sinker. A workhorse on the mound during his prime, he started more games than any other pitcher in the junior circuit in 1958 and tied for the league lead in that category in 1960. Ramos pitched 767 innings from the spring of ’58 until the curtain closed for the original Senators franchise in September of 1960, but that level of activity carried a cost. He became unjustifiably identified with failure throughout his early career: Mickey Mantle ripped one of Pedro’s pitches off of the right-field façade in Yankee Stadium on May 30, 1956; Ramos surrendered league- high home-run totals of 43 in 1957 and 38 in 1958. He led the league in losses from 1958 through 1961.

Despite these unfavorable marks, Ramos’ skill and the fact that he was severely handicapped by poor support were obvious. He never reached the heights attained by Pascual in terms of respect from hitters, but he complemented Pascual very capably.

Pascual’s manager in ’68 was Jim Lemon, another former Senators star who had been an All-Star player eight years before. Lemon’s record as a slugger was thankfully much more impressive than his tenure in the dugout: the club he managed finished last in a ten-team league during modern America’s most torrid summer.

Lemon displayed power at the plate, speed on the bases, and a strong throwing arm during his All-Star year of1960. Although he struck out more times than any other American Leaguer for three consecutive sea- sons (1956—58), the aforementioned qualities enabled him to rank high among his peers from 1956 through 1960 in-home runs, runs batted in, slugging average, and total bases. The 6′ 4″ free-swinger tagged three homers in consecutive turns at bat against Whitey Ford on August 31, 1956, and had two round-trippers and six RBIs in the third inning of a game with the Red Sox on September 5, 1959. He posted an impressive total of 30 triples between 1956 and 1960 and, as an out- fielder, participated in six double plays in 1956.

To the chagrin of fans typified by the fictitious Joe Boyd in Damn Yankees, the Senators finished in the second division of the American League every year from 1950 through 1960, while placing last in four of those eleven seasons. However, despite the club’s consistent futility, the men previously mentioned as well as several others—outfielder Jim Busby (a smooth-fielding out- fielder with base-stealing ability), southpaw pitcher Chuck Stobbs (who lost his first 1decisions in 1957 on the way to an 8—20 record), and manager Charlie Dressen (who led Brooklyn Dodger flag-winners in 1952 and 1953 before posting a 1 7—212 mark in slightly more than two seasons at the helm of the Senators)—gave their losing teams a certain “star quality” and enabled the Senators to remain relevant in individual categories even as the club dropped precipitously in the standings. Furthermore, as this article concludes like one of relief pitcher Dick Hyde’s 18 saves of 1958, it should be emphasized that not one of these faces from the past sold his soul to the devil in the process! 

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Reichler, Joseph L. The Great All-Time Baseball Record Book. New York: Macmillan, 1981.

Reichler, Joseph L., ed. The Baseball Encyclopedia. 6th ed. New York: Macmillan, 1985.

Rosenthal, Harold. Baseball’s Best Managers. New York: T. Nelson, 1961. Shatzkin, Mike, ed. The Ballplayers (New York: William Morrow, 1990). Thorn, John, and Pete Palmer, eds. Total Baseball (New York: Warner, 1989). Treder, Steve. “Cash in the cradle: The bonus babies.” Hardball Times, 1 November 2004.

Vincent, David, Lyle Spatz, and David W. Smith. The Midsummer Classic: The Complete History of Baseball’s All-Star Game (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2001).

Wolff, Bob. It’s Not Who Won or Lost the Game—It’s How You Sold the Beer.

South Bend, Ind.: Diamond Communications, 1996. 

Periodicals and Websites

1953 Washington Senators Yearbook

1955 Washington Senators Yearbook

1966 Baseball Register (The Sporting News)

Retrosheet 

Sports Illustrated

The Sporting News

As Ben Chapman stood on first base, Buddy Myer, Washington’s second baseman, wondered what Chapman’s next move would be. Chapman, the aggressive outfielder for the Yankees, had spiked him the day before hand once during the previous season. Myer knew there was a good chance he would get spiked again, and as precaution he moved closer to the second-base bag in case he had to cover the base on the next play.

There was friction between the Senators and Yankees that had started on the Fourth of July of the previous season. Since then the anger had begun to intensify to the point that there was no doubt that something would give in the form of a bench clearing brawl.

The feud began on July 4, 1932, at Griffith Stadium, when the two teams met for a doubleheader. Before the game Yankees catcher Bill Dickey was warned by his skipper, Joe McCarthy, to be on guard. The day before in Boston, Dickey was knocked down by Roy Johnson of the Red Sox on a play at the plate. Johnson plowed into Dickey so hard that he knocked him flat on his back. Dickey was dazed, and had lost consciousness for a few seconds. In addition, as the New York Times reported the next day, one of his teeth was “loosened.” “Dickey, “according to McCarthy, “said the next man who roughed him up had better watch out.”

In the seventh inning of the first game, the Senators had runners on first and third when Johnny Kerr attempted to bunt, and missed the ball. The third-base runner, Carl Reynolds, had danced a bit too far off the third base bag, and Dickey fired the ball to Joe Sewell, the Yankees third baseman, in an attempt to pick off Reynolds. As Reynolds retreated back to the base, the ball hit him in the back and bounced toward the third-base dugout. As Sewell ran after the ball, Reynolds broke for home, and Dickey got ready for a play at the plate by taking off his mask and stepping in position to block the plate.

Sewell retrieved the ball, then threw to Dickey, and the throw and Reynolds both arrived at the same time. Reynolds came in standing up and bowled Dickey over for the second straight day. The ball rolled back to the screen, and the runner from first base, who had made it safely to second on the play, was now on his way to third base. But Dickey did not go for the ball. Instead he trailed Reynolds, who was on his way back to the dugout, with his right fist clinched.

Reynolds shook the batboy’s hand, and then thought he may have missed the plate during the cold- lesioned decided it might be best to walk back to the plate and touch it to be sure. As he made an about face, he was greeted by a right cross from Dickey. Both benches cleared in a heartbeat. The two teams congregated at home plate, but no punches were thrown.

Meanwhile 17,000 Washington fans were in an uproar. “Why not put your mask back on, you have all your other equipment on!” an angry fan shouted. Three fans ran onto the field. Two were headed off, while one made it to the meeting at home plate. He was arrested.

After being punched, Reynolds stumbled back and was caught by a teammate before he hit the ground. He lost his senses, and when he recovered, one umpire was warning him against retaliating, while another umpire was telling Dickey he was disqualified. A player ejected from the first game would be ineligible to play in the nightcap.

Reynolds was taken to a hospital, where X-rays were taken and revealed a broken jaw. After his jaw was wired, he managed to open his mouth to form words and said, “The only regret I have is I did not get to hit Dickey back.”

The Senators took the first game, and when they took the field for the nightcap, they knew there would be trouble. It didn’t take long. In the bottom of the first inning, Yankees pitcher Johnny Allen knocked down Buddy Myer with a pitch aimed at his head. The next time Myer batted, Allen plunked him (the second time Allen had hit Myer that year). When Manush followed with a home run, Myer delivered a message to Allen as he rounded third base. “At least you are a fair hotel clerk,” he told him, a reference to Allen’s former occupation, and a not-so-nice reference to his pitching.

The Yankees were not through with Myer. In the fourth inning Gehrig made a hard slide into second base and knocked him down. In the bottom of the inning Myer retaliated by purposely chopping one to the pitcher, and then slid into first base with his spikes in the air, and his cleats ripped Gehrig’s trousers. He then quickly came to his feet in anticipation of a fight, but Gehrig just looked at him with a good natured smile. An inning later it was Ruth who knocked Myer down with hard slide. Fed up with the Yankees going after Myer, Manush made a hard slide into third base that sent Joe Sewell back-peddling ten feet.

The Nat’s went on to win the nightcap for the sweep; afterward the question was: what would happen to Dickey? He was suspended indefinitely the following day, then a few days later American League Commissioner Will Harridge made his verdict. He suspended Dickey for thirty days and fined him $1,000 for his “malicious and unwarranted attack.” McCarthy and Yankees owner Jacob Ruppert were amazed. They protested over the severity of the penalty, and made their appeal, but the American League Board of Owners backed the decision.

When the injury healed, Reynolds was reactivated against the Yankees on August 13. In the tenth inning of a 1—0 game, he came up in the ninth as a pinch- hitter. As he headed toward the plate he was swinging two bats, and moved close to Dickey to the point where he was described as being “dangerously close.” When he put down one bat and stepped into the batter’s box, Dickey took a step forward and leaned in to say something to Reynolds. Was it an apology? “Ask Reynolds,” Dickey told reporters after the game. “Ask Dickey, “Reynolds said when asked.

Reynolds hit a long fly ball to bring the crowd to its feet, but Earle Combs ran it down for a long out. The next day Reynolds appeared again as a pinch-hitter, with the bases loaded, but struck out. “Lefty Gomez made Reynolds look as foolish with three hooks as Dickey did with one,” quipped a New York sportswriter. The Senators and Yankees had five more meetings after the fireworks on the Fourth of July. With Will Harridge in the stands to make sure there was order, the players were on their best behavior, although there were some angry remarks made, and Chapman did take the opportunity to spike Myer on a play at second base.

When the Senators and Yankees met for the first time in 1933, the two teams resumed the feud. The first game was played without an incident, but not the second game. Early in the game Ruth was caught in a rundown between home and third, and as he lumbered back to third he made a hard slide at Cronin, who hit the Babe with a hard tag. While on the ground, Ruth looked up at Cronin and made a remark about his glorious ancestors. A few innings later Chapman carved a four-inch gash into Myer’s calf to go along with the one Chapman had engraved the previous season. Then Heinie Manush retaliated by making a sprawling slide into first base that Gehrig was able to sidestep in time.

Before the game the next day, Myer spoke about Chapman, and promised he would “wreak vengeance immediately” if Chapman dared to spike him. In the fourth inning Chapman singled, and Myer wondered what Chapman’s next move would be. With Tony Lazzeri, a right-handed hitter, at the plate, there was a good chance he would hit the ball to the left side of the infield, thus making Myer cover second base as the pivot man in a double play attempt. Myer moved closer to the second base bag to give him time to receive a throw and make the relay.

Sure enough, Lazzeri grounded one to the short stop, and after Myer took the throw from Cronin, he stepped toward the infield to give Chapman a clear path to the base. The Yankees left fielder was no less than three yards from the base when Myer had the ball, but Chapman kept running, then lunged forward with a hard slide, and aimed his cleats at the second baseman’s right foot.

Myer stumbled and was unable to make the throw. He felt the pain, looked down, and noticed he was spiked so hard the heel was separated from the sole of his shoe. That was it! Payback time. This meant war.

As Chapman sat on the ground after his slide, Myer wheeled around, swung his foot, and kicked him in the back of his thigh as hard as he could. He swung his foot and booted his enemy a second time. He kicked him again, and again. Chapman quickly came to his feet. Myer threw his glove away. The two seized each other and began to throw punches. Both dugouts emptied, and Cronin and umpire George Moriarty, who were closest to the fight, tried to separate the two players. Players from both teams swore and exchanged insults when they arrived on the scene. They pried the two players apart, and a few of Myer’s teammates pulled him away from Chapman.

Myer didn’t wait to be informed that fighting was an automatic ejection. He trotted toward the tunnel in the Nats dugout, which led to both teams’ clubhouses, as eight thousand hometown fans applauded.

Chapman remained on the field and surveyed the Senators as if he were looking for another fight. After being ejected, Chapman walked to the New York dugout to a salvo of boos. On retrieving his mitt, Chapman headed to the Washington dugout, since this was the only route to the Yankees clubhouse, and this meant trouble.

After sending both teams back to their dugouts, the two umpires, Moriarty and Harry Geisel, were so engaged in listening to Cronin and McCarthy scream over which players should be ejected, they failed to notice that Chapman was unescorted as he headed toward the Washington dugout. Chapman’s roommate, Dixie Walker, did notice, and he joined Chapman to make sure he made it to the safety of the Yankees clubhouse. Asthey approached the dugout, Chapman heard it from the Senators. “You’re yellow! That’s right, you are yellow!” they told him, but he hardly noticed their aunts. Instead he focused on Buddy Myer, who was waiting for him inside the tunnel; when Myer saw Chapman, he charged. Then, for whatever reason, Myer halted and remained in the tunnel.

After Chapman entered the Washington dugout, he encountered Earl Whitehill, who had something to say and blurted it out. Chapman resented whatever was said and threw a right hook that connected with Whitehill’s mouth. Whitehill grabbed Chapman and the two began to duke it out. Chapman connected with another punch, sending Whitehill to the floor. He toppled onto the hurler and, realizing whose dugout he was in, he covered up. The Washington players pulled him off of their teammate and began to punch him. Walker came to his roommate’s aid, while the rest of the Yankees cleared their dugout and stormed across the field.

Gomez grabbed a bat, and Dickey, whose life was not safe in Washington, grabbed one of Ruth’s 54 ounce clubs. A few of the Yankees grabbed him, pulled him back into the dugout, and told him to stay there for his own safety.

The Yankees rampage across the diamond incited the fans behind the Washington dugout, and several of them spilled onto the field. Fearing a riot was about to erupt, a call was made to Washington’s Second Precinct police station.

One New York reserve slugged a fan in the face, knocking him to the ground. Lazzeri punched his way through a crowd. “Don’t let Tony Lazzeri get in there, he’ll kill somebody!” yelled a young female fan. Lazzeri heard the compliment and laughed. “I didn’t realize I was supposed to be such a tough guy,” he said later with a smile. “I didn’t kill anybody, but I threw a few good punches, and for a minute I had a lot of fun.” Chapman, buried under area of bodies, punched away for his life. He heard a voice say, “I’m going to throw you in jail!” Realizing he was socking a policeman instead of a Senators player, he replied, “All right, but take me to the clubhouse so I can exchange my clothes.”

Gomez was placed under arrest after striking a detective (wisely with his fist instead of his bat). He was handcuffed, and as the two officers walked him toward the right-field gate, an executive from the Senators front office came out of the stands and convinced the two officers to release him.

A fan on top of the dugout roof jumped into the melee and the police arrested him along with another fan that got too involved.

After the war ended, the Yankees headed back to their dugout, and Chapman made it to the safety of the clubhouse (and did not encounter Myer on the way),  another fight broke out in the stands down the right field line, this one involving two fans by the name of George. The George who won the fight lost the decision, and he became the third fan to be arrested.

During the fireworks, Ruth and Gehrig remained in their dugout and enjoyed the action as if it were entertainment. When asked why he did not participate, Ruth’s reply was that his “cold was too bad to mix in anything like that these days. It might make my nose run more.”

When he received word of the brawl, Will Harridge announced he intended on making a full investigation. He suspended Chapman, Myer, and Whitehill indefinitely. He left his home in Wilmette, Illinois, and headed to the East Coast to interview players from both teams. His first interview was with Chapman, who asked him, “what would you do if I, a trained athlete, called you the name Whitehill called me?”

“I’d punch you right in the nose,” Harridge replied. “That is what I did to Whitehill,” said Chapman.

When Harridge interviewed Myer, the second baseman told him that Chapman had spiked him the day before the brawl, and once last year. He also mentioned that the Yankees had been out to get him and that Allen had thrown at him ten times last season, and had plunked him twice.

When Harridge finished his investigation, he made the anticipated decision, based on the fact that he was more fed up with the hostility between the two teams than with who was right and who should get the harshest punishment.

“In my decision I felt Myer had provoked Chapman by kicking the Yankee outfielder. I did not get any report from our umpires Messrs Moriarty and Geisel that Chapman has deliberately spiked Myer. Apparently it was a play such as we see very often an effort by a runner to prevent a double play.

“I also did believe that Chapman’s assault on Whitehill had been provoked, but with all that, Chapman had no right to strike either Myer or Whitehill.

“With all facts evening themselves out, I decided that a warning, five games and one hundred dollars would be sufficient punishment.”

When asked how he felt about the decision, Myer replied, “the president of the league has made his decision, and it is not for me to make any comment.”

Clark Griffith, president of the Washington Senators, had plenty to comment about. “Chapman should’ve been suspended for a total of the amount given to Whitehill and Myer. He was the one who provoked the affair at second base, and he started the business in the dugout.”

Griffith also had something to say about the umpires. “If they had been on the job there wouldn’t have been a riot. And if they said in their report to Mr. Harridge that Chapman didn’t go out of his way to spike Myer, then they either didn’t see the play or they are trying to make themselves look good. The things that are done by our umpires wouldn’t happen if they didn’t try to protect themselves. Whenever they make a report to the league president they are thinking about their jobs, and you could quote me!”

There were no more brawls between the two teams for the reminder of the 1933 season, but there were plenty of heated exchanges and some pushing and shoving. The two teams battled it for the American League penthouse, and when Washington took control of the pennant race, the feud came to a quiet end. As for Chapman and Myer, they buried the hatchet in mid-Au- gust. Before a game at Griffith Stadium Chapman was walking by the Senators dugout and spotted Myer.

“Hey Buddy, we sure could’ve bought a lot of gasoline for that $100 we were fined,” yelled Chapman.

“Yeah, that’s for sure. There goes that bird dog I was saving up for,” Myer replied.

That season, he wore the uniform of the International League Baltimore Orioles and led the loop with 54 round-trippers. It happened in the year immediately following his one and only bittersweet trip to the major leagues. It was also the year when he made his last desperate attempt to earn a trip back to the big show. Russell Loris Arlett was born in Elmhurst, California, on January 3, 1899; he was the youngest of four baseball-loving brothers. Oldest brother Al was a member of the Oakland Oaks in 1918, when Russell arrived one spring day as a walk-on. Urged by his mom try out, he took the mound and proceeded to mow down veteran hitters with a dazzling spitter, fast ball, and curve. His ability to “buzz saw” through the opposing lineup earned him his nickname. The 6 3 185-pound youngster was signed, and from 1919 to 1922, the right hander blossomed into the ace of the Oakland staff, posting an overall 95–71 record. In 1920 alone, he won 29 games, while toiling 427 innings.

By 1923, the massive workload—nearly 1,500 innings in four seasons—had irreparably damaged his pitching arm. Arlett was considered one of the betterhitting pitchers in the league, so he was shifted to the outfield. Because his bad right arm inhibited his swing, he learned to switch-hit, and posted a .330 average. But he was slow to learn the intricacies of playing the outfield, and a reputation as a poor glove man would persist throughout his career. Buzz’s fielding would improve when playing for a winner; on a losing team, his concentration would drift. Scouts noticed this phenomenon and referred to it as his “lack of gameness.”

The Buzzsaw continued to put up big numbers, hitting .382 with 25 home runs in 1926. In 1927, Buzz led Oakland to the PCL pennant with 123 RBIs, 30 home runs, and a .351 batting average. Toward the end of that season, Oaks manager Ivan Howard commented that Buzz made perhaps the greatest play he had ever witnessed. After a long run in right field, Buzz dove, made the catch and rolled several times before triumphantly rising to his feet with the ball secured in his glove. The year 1928 marked another fine season; Buzz hit .365, poked 25 home runs, and added 1 3 runs batted in. The ’29 campaign was even better; in the 200-game PCL season Buzz chalked up 270 hits for an average of .374, with 39 homers, 189 RBIs, and 22 stolen bases. Movie-star handsome and popular with fans, the cordial Arlett was clearly a major star in the minor leagues; he earned a high salary, and when big-league suitors hovered, “the Oakland club set a prohibitively high price on his services.”

Early in 1930, Buzz was reportedly as good as signed by the Brooklyn Dodgers when an altercation with umpire Chet Chadbourne resulted in a serious cut above his left eye. Brooklyn needed a healthy player and withdrew its offer. Buzz recovered and returned to the Oakland lineup, to hit .361 with 31 homers and 143 RBIs.

With the initiation of the major-league draft, the Oaks realized they’d better entertain any legitimate offer for their aging star and ultimately sold his contract to the Philadelphia Phillies late in 1930. After a poor spring, Buzz started strong when the 1931 season opened. The 32-year-old rookie became the most talked-about player in all of baseball. Newspapers across the country carried stories about the career minor leaguer finally being given his big chance. Six weeks into the season, Arlett led the league with a .385 average and placed second with 1 homers. It looked as if he’d proven his worth as a major leaguer—until injuries dragged him down. His performance deteriorated, and his old lackadaisical attitude returned. He probably sealed his fate on a hot August day, when he misplayed a routine fly to right. Pitcher Jumbo Jim Elliot was livid with the miscue and recommended an on-field rocking chair for the aging player. Buzz had ballooned to 230 pounds, and playable drives hit in his direction often dropped for hits.

Arlett finished 1931 with a .313 batting average, 18 homers, 72 RBIs, and a slugging percentage of .538, but Philadelphia placed the big outfielder on the waiver list. Phillies star Chuck Klein had played out of position in left field, and management wanted to move him back to his natural spot in right, making Arlett expendable. Depression-era owners decided to cut rosters from 25 to 23 for 1932, further limiting the value of an aging, out-of-shape player. Phils manager Burt Shotton bluntly explained why he agreed with the move: “He would have to hit .613 to be any use in our park.” Add Buzz’s high salary into the mix and the Phillies made an understandable business decision. After no other big-league club claimed him on waivers, Buzz was traded to the International League Baltimore Orioles for outfielder Russell Scarritt.

Unhappy at being “railroaded” out of the majors, Arlett worked hard to get into top shape for the 1932 season, stating that “he intended to prove his worth as a major leaguer.” Off to a fast start, he exhibited his power in Buffalo on May 5, when he reportedly hit a drive that sailed over the right field fence and through the window of a home where neighborhood ladies had gathered for an afternoon of bridge. The unsuspecting homeowner was struck on the head by the towering drive. Arlett reportedly once hit a homer that rocketed out of the park and through the front window of a house where a funeral was in progress. It’s said that the deceased was a baseball fan, and the ball ultimately stopped rolling at his casket.

On Wednesday, June 1, 1932, Buzz enjoyed a fourhomer day at Reading, Pennsylvania, hitting three from the left side and the last one right-handed, as the O’s posted a 14–13 victory over the Keys. Arlett scored five runs and batted in seven. He hit his first three round-trippers off of right hander Clayton Van Alstyne. His last homer, served up by lefty Carroll Yerkes, was the game-winner. All four homers were hit over the right-field fence.

He followed this outstanding performance with another explosive day at the plate that gave new meaning to Fourth of July fireworks. The big slugger again destroyed the Reading Keys with a four-home-run outburst. In the first game of a doubleheader, Buzz initially struck out. Then in the second inning, he hammered a grand slam from the right side of the plate, against Carroll Yerkes. He hit his second dinger of the day off of right hander Emery Zumbro in the fifth inning. His next two homers were also hit lefthanded, served up by right-handed pitcher Buck Newsom. The Orioles defeated the Keys 21–10.

As an encore, in his first at-bat of the second game, Arlett again connected off righty Clayton Van Alstyne, giving Buzz a total of five circuit blasts for the day. He later added a double, providing the offense leading to the Orioles’ sweep of the Keys. This gave Buzz an amazing 41 homers after only 82 games. The major leagues started to call again; this time it was the New York Giants showing interest in the big slugger, but it was not meant to be.

On August 1 against the Newark Bears, Arlett caught his spikes while racing in to catch a pop fly hit by Red Rolfe; Buzz fell and landed heavily on his shoulder, putting him out of the lineup. Despite missing almost a month, Arlett’s totals during the 1932 campaign included league-leading numbers in home runs at 54, runs at 141, and runs batted in with 144. His batting average stood at .339. Buzz stayed with the Orioles until the end of 1933, posting a league-leading 39 home runs and contributing 135 runs scored, while hitting .343.

In 1934, his contract was purchased by the Minneapolis Millers of the American Association. Buzz entertained the Minneapolis fans on May 27 with his hitting and fielding. Buzz smacked a homer and two doubles to lead the club to victory over the Toledo Mud Hens at Nicollet Park. But it was a spectacular running barehanded catch that earned him several minutes of deafening cheers. The Minneapolis Tribune noted that this was “from a man whose fielding supposedly kept him out of the big leagues.” In 1934, he led the loop with 41 homers, while batting .319.

Age and injuries caught up with Buzz, and by 1936 and he was relegated to part-time status with the Millers. His last appearance as a player came with the Syracuse Chiefs in 1937, when he went hitless in four plate appearances as a pinch hitter. After his playing career he managed in the low minor leagues and scouted for the Yankees, Reds, and Dodgers.

In retirement, Buzz operated a successful restaurant in Minneapolis. He passed away on May 16, 1964, after suffering a heart attack. All told, during his minorleague career, he hit 432 home runs in 2,390 games, with a .341 lifetime batting average. He was clearly one of the game’s most talented switch-hitters and the first major-league player with significant power from both sides of the plate. In 1984, the Society for American Baseball Research voted him the all-time greatest minorleague player. Contemporary Lefty O’Doul once offered a sobering commentary on Buzz’s career: “Had Arlett been in the big show, five years earlier, he would’ve been the Babe Ruth of the National League.”

Sources

Bready, James H. Baseball in Baltimore. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998.

Kermisch, Al. “Baltimore, Eastern Shore and More.” The National Pastime 1, no. 1 (1982).

Lavoie, Steven. Northern California Baseball History. Cleveland: Society for American Baseball Research, 1998.

McEligot, Warren J. “Martyrs of the Baseball Diamond.” Baseball Magazine (June 1934).

Reichler, Joseph L., ed. The Baseball Encyclopedia. New York: Macmillan, 1982.

Selko, Jamie. “Single Season Wonders.” The Baseball Research J ournal 19 (1990).

Snelling, Dennis. The Pacific Coast League: A Statistical History, 1903–1957. Jefferson, N.C.: McFarland, 1995.

Tholkes, Robert. “Toledo Toppled By Buzz Saw.” Baseball Research Journal 11 (1982).

Thornley, Stew. On to Nicollet: The Glory and Fame of the Minneapolis Millers. Minneapolis: Nodin Press, 2000.

Tomlinson, Gerald. The “Mightiest Oak.” Baseball Research Journal 17 (1988).

Vitty, Cort. SABR BioProject: “Buzz Arlett.”

Zingg, Paul J., and Mark D. Medeiros. Runs, Hits, and an Era: The Pacific Coast League, 1903–58. Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 1994.

Baltimore Sun, Chicago Tribune Los Angeles Times, Minneapolis Tribune, New York Times, Oakland Tribune, Philadelphia Inquirer, San Francisco Examiner, The Sporting News, Washington Post

• Babe Ruth (b. Baltimore), 714 career HRs, no. 3 all-time
• Jimmie Foxx (b. Sudlersville), 534 HRs, no. 16
• Cal Ripken Jr. (b. Havre de Grace), 431 HRs, no. 38
• Al Kaline (b. Baltimore), 399 HRs, no. 44 (tie)
• Harold Baines (b. Easton), 384 HRs, no. 53

Marylanders dominated HR hitters for the decades of 1910, ’20, ’30, and ’40. Ruth is the leading home-run hitter of any of the decades from 1900 to 2008 (1920–29 = 467 HRs); Foxx is second for any decade (1930–39 = 415 HRs). Frank Baker (born and died in Trappe) is no. 2 for the Deadball period of 1910–19 (76 HR and no. 1 AL; Gavvy Cravath, with 1 6 HRs, led the majors for the decade of the ’10s). Bill Nicholson (born and died in Chestertown) is no. 3 in MLB and no. 2 NL = 21 HRs for the ‘40s. (Ted Williams is no. 1 in MLB for the ’40s = 234 HRs; Johnny Mize led the NL with 217.) (See table 1.)

All of the above are in the Hall of Fame except Baines and Nicholson.

Table 1. Maryland’s Best MLB HR Hitters, by Decade, 1910s–1940s

(Click image to enlarge)

Other notable career sluggers born in Maryland:

• Brady Anderson (b. Silver Spring), 210 HRs (hit 50 in 1996, “the year of the homer”), no. 258 tie
• Mark Teixeira (b. Severna Park), 203 HRs, no. 275 tie*
• Charlie Keller (b. Middletown), 189 HRs, no. 309 tie
• Brian Jordan (b. Baltimore), 184 HRs, no. 323 tie
• Bob Robertson (b. Frostburg), 151 HRs (hit three HRs and drove in five runs for the Pirates in Game Two of the NL playoffs in 1971).

* As of the close of the 2008 season

That means Maryland is the birthplace to 10 of the top 325 all-time homer hitters (Nicholson with 235 is tied for no. 222).

A little about each of the Old Line State’s native sluggers: What more can be said that hasn’t already been written about Babe Ruth? His legend, more than 1 0 years after his birth and more than 60 years following his death, continues to grow. I daresay Ruth’s name and image appear in the media today more than any other person’s, save the president of the United States. He is the most famous baseball player of all time. He was born and raised in Maryland’s largest city, went to “school” there, broke in with the International League’s Baltimore Orioles, and has a museum at his birthplace, 216 Emory Street, Baltimore, a few blocks from Orioles Park at Camden Yards. His single-season record of 60 homers in 1927 stood for 34 years, and his career HR record of 714 lasted for 39.

Jimmie “the Beast” Foxx was born and raised on a farm outside the tiny town of Sudlersville on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. There is a statue of Jimmie in the center of Sudlersville (population 390); the town honored him in 2007 on the one hundredth anniversary of his birth.

Foxx won baseball’s Triple Crown in 1933. He batted .356 with 48 homers and 163 RBIs. He nearly had three TCs: in 1932, he led the AL with 58 HRs (his career high) and 169 RBIs. He narrowly missed the batting title, as his .364 (a career high) was second to Dale Alexander’s .367. The third assault on the TC came in 1938, when he drove home a career-best 175 runs and batted .349 for league leads, but his 50 circuit clouts were second to Hank Greenberg’s 58. He was named Most Valuable Player in those three years—1932, ’33, and ’38.

Cal Ripken Jr., a living legend, is, of course, best known for his consecutive-games playing streak, 2,632 games. He played his entire major-league career—21 years— with the Orioles. The record streak may never be broken. He is now owner of the Class A Aberdeen (Maryland) IronBirds, an affiliate of the Orioles in the New York–Pennsylvania League. The IronBirds play in beautiful 6,000-seat Ripken Stadium. It’s a hard ticket to an IronBirds game; every home game has been sold out since 2002.

Cal is from a Maryland baseball family. Brother Bill played in the majors for the Orioles, 1987–92 and ’96, and for three other AL teams (Texas, Cleveland, and Detroit), spanning 1 seasons (he hit 20 HRs in 912 games). Father Cal Sr. was a player, scout, coach, and manager for 36 years with the Baltimore Orioles organization. He managed the big club in 1987 and part of ’88. He is also credited with managing one game in 1985. He died in 1999 at age 63.

Al Kaline never played in the minors. His 22 years with the Tigers tie him with Mel Ott of the Giants and Stan Musial of the Cardinals for the second-longest career with one team. (Brooks Robinson and Carl Yastrzemski lead, with 23 years.) He won the AL batting title in 1955, .340. He is still in the Tigers organization.

Harold Baines likewise played 22 years in the majors, but with five teams, belonging to two teams more than once (Baltimore and White Sox three times each). He is presently coach for the White Sox and still makes his off-season home in St. Michaels, a picturesque fishing village and tourist destination on the Eastern Shore.

Only one of these three sluggers—Ripken, Kaline, and Baines—ever hit as many as 30 home runs in a season; Ripken cracked 34 in 1991. (See table 2.)

Table 2. Maryland’s Best MLB HR Hitters, by Decade, 1950s–2001

Frank “Home Run” Baker’s name says it all. Playing third base in the Deadball Era (before1920), when a home run was a novelty, he led the AL in HRs four times and RBIs twice (see table 1). He got his nickname by hitting a dinger in two successive World Series games in 191 , one a game-winner, the second a game-tier for the victorious Philadelphia Athletics. He discovered Jimmie Foxx and recommended him to Connie Mack.

It may come as a surprise that Bill “Swish” Nicholson was a leading home-run hitter of the 1940s, when there were other sluggers around (besides Williams and Mize), such as Ralph Kiner, Hank Greenberg, Rudy York, Ott, Joe DiMaggio, Keller, and Stan Musial. But Big Nick was the only one of these big hitters to play all 10 seasons of the ’40s. Swish clouted more roundtrippers—96—than anyone else during the four World War II campaigns, 1942–45. He edged out Ott, who had 95 big ones, and York from the AL, who hit 91 in the war years. Bill’s small hometown (population 7,500 in 2000) is only about 18 miles from Foxx’s home. Nicholson and Double-X were on the same team, the 1944 Cubs, and Nicholson has a statue, too.

Brady Anderson, he of the long sideburns, had his big year while batting leadoff for the Orioles. This was a spike in his career; his next-best season for homers was 24, less than half as many as his big-output season. (Other batters also “spiked” in their playing days.) He played for the Birds for 14 years, 1988–2001, with partial seasons with the Red Sox in 1988 and the Indians in 2002.

Mark Teixeira is carrying the torch for Maryland homerun hitters today, as the only native of the state hitting ’em out regularly. He debuted in 2003 with Texas and hit 43 HRs for the Rangers in 2005. He was traded from the Braves to the Angels in 2008, and the 29-year-old signed an eight-year deal with the Yankees before the 2009 season.

Charlie “King Kong” Keller (he never liked the nickname) was born in Middletown (present population 2,670), a village in north central Maryland near Frederick. His best year for the long ball was 1941, when he cracked 33 for the powerful world champion Yankees. He knocked three out as a rookie for the victorious Yankees in the ’39 Series. He was the brother of Hal Keller, another major leaguer. Following his playing days, he founded Yankeeland farm outside Middletown and was a successful horse breeder. Born in 1916, he died in 1990, at age 72.

Brian Jordan performed in the big leagues with four teams (Atlanta twice) in 15 seasons, from 1992 through 2006. His high-water mark for round-trippers, 25, came in two different years, 1998 and 2001.

Bob Robertson had his 15 minutes of fame in the Pirates’ 1971 postseason. He walloped six homers in 1 contests, hit .317, and batted in 1 runs for the world champions. His best HR year was 1970, when he swatted 27 for the Bucs. He played first base for 1 years with Pittsburgh, Seattle, and Toronto from 1967 through 79, missing 1968 and 1977.

At least one of the 12 players discussed here has been on a major-league roster every one of the past 100 years, from Baker in 1908 through Teixeira in 2008.

What is it about Maryland homer hitters? Is it the water? Maryland has plenty of that!

Sources

Baseball-reference.com.

Bucek, Jeanine, ed. The Baseball Encyclopedia, 10th ed. (New York: Macmillan, 1996).

Neft, David S., R. M. Cohen, and M. O. Neft. The Sports Encyclopedia of Baseball, 27th ed. (New York: St. Martin Griffin), 2007.

Wikipedia.org.

One day when the senators were on the road, Al Schacht called Moe Berg in his hotel room to tell him he was with two ladies who wanted to meet him.

“Moe, this is Al. I’ve got a couple young ladies down here in the lobby. I’ve been telling them about you being the ‘Don Juan’ of the team and they’re hollering for you. Can you come right down? I can’t hold them any longer.”

Berg bathed, shaved, put on his best-pressed suit, and went down to the lobby. There was Schacht holding the hands of a nine-year-old and an eleven-year-old.

“They want your autograph, Moe.”

WALTER JOHNSON

When Walter Johnson managed the Senators (from 1929–1932), he would sit by himself in the hotel lobby and read the newspaper. When fans recognized him, they would approach him and tell him of their memories of seeing the Big Train when he pitched. One fan interrupted to tell him, “I saw you pitch your first-ever game thirty-five years ago.” Johnson told the fan he appreciated him sharing his memory, but when the fan walked away Johnson did the math and thirty-five years ago meant he pitched his first game when he was seven years old.

A few minutes later, another fan interrupted the Big Train. “That sure was tough, Walter, to lose a 1–0 game in game seven of the 1925 World Series.” Johnson didn’t have the heart to tell him he lost by a score of 9–7. “It sure was,” he replied with a smile.

WALTER JOHNSON PITCHED THREE SHUTOUTS IN FOUR DAYS!

On Friday, September 4, 1908, Walter Johnson shut out the New York Highlanders on six hits. He started the following day and again shut the New Yorkers on four hits. The following day there was no baseball, due to the Blue Laws prohibiting baseball on Sunday. On Monday the Highlanders were shocked when Washington manager Joe Cantillon announced he was going to start Johnson again. “He’s kidding,” a nervous New York player said. He wasn’t kidding. Johnson hurled a two-hit shutout.

The next day, Tuesday, Johnson overheard Cantillon talking about pitching him again. “Oh no,” Johnson said. “I’m not pitching until Wednesday.”

GRIFFITH’S FIRST HONESTY LESSON IN BASEBALL

While growing up in Vernon County, Missouri, Clark Griffith played baseball with the other kids around the county. Their field was by the hanging tree, and as the boys played, Griffith would peek at the condemned to see if he knew any of them.

The boys played their games with homemade baseballs, but one time they were able to save enough to buy a ball from an older lad. The first time someone batted the ball it went flat, and Griffith and the others spent the rest of the day looking for the dishonest vendor. The next day the crook showed up—swinging from the hanging tree. “That was my first honesty lesson in baseball,” Griffith would often say.

TELEGRAMS

When the Washington Senators returned home after losing game seven of the 1925 World Series, Bucky Harris received a telegram at the train station from Ban Johnson, the President of the American League. Johnson’s telegram criticized the Senators manager for not relieving Walter Johnson, who gave up nine runs on fourteen hits in a 9–7 loss. Harris immediately sent a telegram to the League president to explain that he had no alibis for going down with his best.

Nick Altrock, the comical coach of the Senators, also received a telegram, this one from an angry fan.

“I took your advice and bet fifty dollars on Washington. Please lend me fifty dollars on my seven-jewel watch.”

CLOWNING HAS A PRICE

Clowning could be a dangerous business. Washington coaches Nick Altrock and Al Schacht, both known for their clowning more than for their coaching, used to perform their zany skits before games. One time their act called for Schacht to whip baseballs across the diamond to Altrock. Mixed in with the baseballs was a rubber ball for Schacht to throw, and for Altrock to let it hit him in the head. Before Schacht threw the rubber ball he was to signal to Altrock by tugging his belt. But Altrock thought he saw the sign and took a baseball on the noggin. He was out like a light, and when he came to, he had a big lump on his forehead.

Altrock got even when the two comedians mocked a boxing match, using first-basemen mitts for boxing gloves. During the match Altrock hit Schacht with a right hook that gave him a bloody nose and knocked him on his can. “Now we’re even,” Altrock told him.

CAN HANK GREENBERG HIT? JUST ASK DAVE HARRIS

The Senators arrived a day early in Detroit for their series with the Tigers during the 1933 season. After checking into the hotel, they went to Nevins Field to see the Tigers battle the Athletics. When a rookie first baseman for the Tigers named Hank Greenberg came to the plate, Dave Harris, a reserve outfielder for Washington, said, “This guy couldn’t even hit the ground,” although Greenberg had homered against the Senators twice already earlier that season. Greenberg swung and crushed the ball, and sent it for a long ride beyond the left field fence.

Harris’s teammates turned and looked at him. The Senators outfielder took a swig of his coke, then sat back and said, “I still say this guy can’t hit.”

The next day Greenberg hit two homers against Washington, including a walk-off homer to beat the Nats. That gave him three homers in two games. Not bad for a guy “who couldn’t hit the ground.”

GOSLIN WINS THE 1928 AMERICAN LEAGUE BATTING TITLE

One of baseball’s most colorful umpires was Bill Guthrie. He was known as the “Bull” because of his bowlegged, barrel-chested physique. He was also known as “Dese-Dem-Dose” for his ability to butcher the English language that often left players, coaches, and managers speechless. Most of all, he was known for saying, “it’s either dis or dat.”

Guthrie was the home-plate umpire when Goose Goslin stepped up for his last at-bat of the 1928 season, with the batting title on the line. Goslin was the American League’s leading hitter, leading Heinie Manush by a single point. If Goslin made an out, he would lose his title. Before he knew what happened, he watched two strikes go by to put his title in trouble. Goslin stepped out of the batter’s box and looked at Guthrie. He knew the Bull had a short fuse, and was quick to throw a player out of the game. With this in mind, Goslin decided to start an argument so he would be ejected: he wouldn’t be charged with the at–bat, and his title would be saved.

“Why, those pitches weren’t even close,” Goslin told Guthrie.1

“Listen, wise guy,” Guthrie said, “there is no such thing as close or not close. It’s either dis or dat.”

After hearing this, Goslin acted like he was mad. He began to yell, and he stepped on Guthrie’s big feet. “Okay, are you ready to bat now?” Guthrie asked. “You’re not going to get thrown out of this ballgame no matter what you do, so you might as well get up to that plate. If I wanted to throw you out, I’d throw you clear to Oshkosh. But you’re going to bat, and you better be swinging to. No bases on balls, you hear me?”

Goslin heard him, all right.

He hit the next pitch and lifted a fly ball into rightcenter field. Outfielder Beauty McGowan, knowing if he made the catch Manush would win the title, ran hard, extended his glove hand, but couldn’t get to the ball in time, and when the ball landed on the outfield turf, Goslin won the batting title.

THE SENATORS WON AN AMERICAN LEAGUE CHAMPIONSHIP?

It is hard for some to believe, but the Washington Senators won three American League pennants—in 1924, 1925, and 1933. After winning the 1933 American League pennant, the Senators bottomed out. From 1934 to 1947 the Nats had just three winning seasons. During the 1948 season, with the Senators heading for 97 losses, the team went to a theater one night to see “The Babe Ruth Story,” starring William Bendix. During one of the scenes, as Miller Huggins is hearing it from Colonel Ruppert about the Yankees’ poor showing in 1925, the Colonel says, “The Washington Senators won the pennant in 1925. Of all teams.” Upon hearing this, the entire Senators team laughed.

BATTER UP!

During August 1933, the Senators were on a thirteengame winning streak, and were in great spirits as they waited for their next train, bound for Detroit. Cronin stepped up to an imaginary plate and held his umbrella like a bat. “Throw something,” he said. Goose Goslin grabbed John Kerr’s hat off his crown and

pitched it. Cronin hit it and the hat landed in someone’s cereal bowl. Suddenly everyone pitched their hats, with Clark Griffith pitching his own, and Dave Harris throwing General Crowder’s. Cronin swung, and in his follow-through he knocked a lamp off a table that hit the floor with a loud crash.

A few minutes later, as the team stood on the platform, Buddy Myer decided to restart the game. He swiped Luke Sewell’s hat, and the Washington catcher responded by pulling Myer’s bowtie off of his collar. Myer looked at this finger and noticed he had cut it. Team trainer Mike Martin, annoyed, had to dig through his luggage to find a bandage for Myer.

A CONVERSATION WITH JOE CRONIN AND SHIRLEY POVICH

Joe Cronin didn’t want to say who his pitcher would be for the first game of the 1933 World Series. Shirley Povich, longtime writer for the Washington Post, kept badgering him for an answer.

Povich: “What’s the dope, Joe?”

Cronin: “Dope, there is no dope. I may start Whitehill. I may start Stewart. I may start Crowder. I will let you know at 1:30 on Tuesday. I told you that the other day, didn’t I?”

Povich: “Yes, Joe, but, no kidding, who do you like at this time?”

Cronin: “I like ’em all, they will all be ready. Drop around and see me Tuesday about 1:29. I’ll have some news for you.”

Povich: “Who is going to pitch the opening game?” Cronin: “Scram, Povich!”

GOSLIN’S MYSTERIOUS ARM INJURY

Goose Goslin was the only outfielder that had the privilege of having his own caddy. In 1928, he had injured

his arm during spring training. While practicing at Plant Field in Tampa one day, Goslin looked beyond right field and noticed a high-school track-and-field team throwing a shot put Intrigued, Goslin wandered over to the high-school field and joined the practice. While trying to throw the shot put as far as he could, he didn’t use the proper form, and the next morning he couldn’t lift his arm above his shoulder.

Goslin’s arm injury affected his throwing, but not his hitting, and since the Senators needed his big bat in the lineup, he played every day at his usual position of left field. To compensate for his lame arm, shortstop Bobby Reeves was required to sprint into left field whenever the ball was hit there, and he would take Goslin’s lob, then make the relay throw—thus giving Goslin his own caddy.

Goslin went on to hit .379 to win the American League batting title, but for all the runs he helped produce, he gave them back by his inability to throw, and this allowed other teams to take an extra base whenever Goslin was forced to handle the ball.

How did Goslin cure his arm? After the 1928 season, he met Ed “Strangler” Lewis, the world heavyweight wrestling champion, who had once suffered a similar injury. He told Goslin he cured it by going on a meat-free diet. Goslin thanked him for the advice, did not eat meat for the rest of the year, and, sure enough, the shoulder healed. In 1929, Goslin’s strong arm returned to full strength, and no longer did opposing teams dare to try for an extra base.2

Notes

1. This conversation appears in The Glory of Their Times: The Story of the Early Days of Baseball Told by the Men Who Played It, by Lawrence Ritter (New York: Macmillan, 1966), in the chapter on Goose
2. But see Cort Vitty, “Goose Goslin,” The Baseball Biography Project, http://bioproj.sabr.org: “In 1929, his stickwork suffered and his arm was definitely not back to ”