The Victory Season Page 41

  Fans as diverse as baseball historian Hal Smith, a nine-year-old in Florida who escaped into baseball to ease the pain of his parents’ divorce, to this author’s own father, a ten-year-old boy in Westfield, New Jersey, got their start loving the game by listening to Slaughter’s Mad Dash. The incredible twists and turns of the season and the Series, coming so soon after the end of the war and the subpar baseball on display, galvanized the next wave of fans. They would infuse the coming decade with an outsized interest and significance that catapulted the era from being just another time when baseball was popular to being a special and beloved epoch.

  On April 21, 2012, the Red Sox staged a 100th birthday celebration for Fenway Park, which, unlike Ebbets Field and Sportsman’s Park and even Yankee Stadium, remains erect and pretty much the same as it was in 1946. The high point of the gala was the introduction of 213 former Sox players, culminating with the double-play duo from the 1946 team, Johnny Pesky and Bobby Doerr. The crowd roared as the ninety-two-year-old Pesky and the ninety-three-year-old Doerr were wheeled out to their old positions.

  Less than four months later, Pesky passed away. As of this writing, only Boo Ferriss and Doerr remain from that memorable team that was the first Sox side to lose a World Series. At his home in Texas, Ed Stevens kept a large photo of the ’46 Dodgers on his wall, one by one crossing out the names of each teammate as they departed this mortal coil. When Ed died in July of 2012, there were only three names not crossed out—Ralph Branca, sparingly used catcher Mike Sandlock, and pitcher Jean-Pierre Roy, who appeared in but three games. Of the 1946 Cardinals, Schoendienst, Garagiola, and Bill Endicott, who appeared in just a pair of games, remain with us. Freddy Schmidt, whose recollections livened up this narrative, passed away in November 2012.

  Eight men, all of them pushing or already past ninety years old. Writ small, this is the same story of the attrition of the citizen soldiers who fought World War II. The Department of Veteran Affairs has estimated that one thousand World War II vets die each day. Eyewitnesses to Slaughter’s Mad Dash and the Battle of Midway and the Eephus Pitch and D-day and Jackie Robinson’s Debut and the Liberation of Dachau are disappearing rapidly. The tides of history are lapping at the top of the seawall, soon to flood over this extraordinary era in the annals of our country. When the last of these men and women have passed, our collective loss will be considerable.

  But, as Cicero wrote, “The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.” This book aims to be a part of that remembrance.

  Acknowledgments

  Once again I have relied upon the excellent ambience and the thumbprint cookies (especially the raspberry) at Dancing Goats Coffee Bar in Decatur, Georgia, to help in the writing of this book. My great thanks to the staffers there. Thanks too to the folks at the Decatur Public Library and the Atlanta Public Library, where I also wrote a fair amount, in addition to conducting research.

  I spent a fair amount of time in other libraries as well. The fine folks in the Microforms Section at the New York Public Library were critical, as always. The central branch of the St. Louis Public Library was closed for renovations when I visited late in 2011, so I was relegated to the Compton branch. This turned out to be quite a stroke of fortune, as the staff there were very friendly and knowledgeable about the collections temporarily stored there. Frank Absher also helped me out from the Mound City, as did Paula Hogan and Jennifer Jackson with the St. Louis Cardinals, and the people at the Missouri History Museum Library and Research Center. The staff at the Boston Public Library not only answered all my questions but talked me into getting a library card, even though I live about a thousand miles away.

  Sara Abdmishani Price, the collection coordinator at the Louie B. Nunn Center for Oral History at the University of Kentucky, was extremely helpful, especially when she pulled my bacon out of the fire after I misplaced several key files. Thanks, Sara, and “Go Yankees!”

  Several historians in the United States Marine Corps aided my efforts, including Dr. Charles Neimeyer and especially Annette Amerman. Thanks too to my old TV producer pal Brian Natwick, now at the Military Channel, for helping point the way. And Dave Gallagher at WartimePress.com helped uncover some priceless information.

  I spent another fun week in the A. Bartlett Giamatti Research Center at the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum in Cooperstown, New York. Unlike my last journey to the heart of baseball in midwinter, the sun was out and the snow stayed away. Thanks to the staff there, led by Tim Wiles and assisted by Freddy Berowski, along with archivist Claudette Scrafford and photo guru John Horne. At Georgia State University, archivist Kevin Scott Fleming dug up answers to all my questions with alacrity.

  I received tremendous help from Japan from the wise and wonderful Robert Whiting, author of You Gotta Have Wa and the recognized master of knowledge concerning Japanese baseball. Miwako Atarashi at the Japanese Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum answered all my questions and put up with my horrible attempts at her language. Many thanks, Miwako-chan.

  Several other writers contributed kind words, support, and guidance. Michael MacCambridge, Mike Vaccaro, Jeff Pearlman, Thomas Mullen, Inman Majors, James Andrew Miller, and especially Jonathan Eig—thank you all, and I’m looking forward to your next books. Also thanks to Jason Stallman, Connor Ennis, and Jay Schreiber at the New York Times, Brent Cunningham at the Columbia Journalism Review, and all my editors and fellow wordsmiths who have helped make me a better writer along the way, in particular Bryan Curtis.

  One of the more pleasant aspects of researching this book was spending time with the players who were around for the 1946 season (sadly, just a handful remain who are alive and able to talk). Bobby Doerr, Boo Ferriss, Eddie Robinson, the late Freddy Schmidt, George Shuba, the late Ed Stevens, Virgil Trucks—thank you, gentlemen. Also thanks to the recollections of fans who passed along their memories from that time, including Hal Smith, Arnold Hano, Mike Dooley, Howard Alley, and especially William Jucksch, and all the men of the 71st Red Circlers. To the late Stan Musial and Johnny Pesky, and the others who were willing in spirit but not in health, thanks to you too.

  It seems extraordinary that the Jackie Robinson story seems so distant to so many people, when his widow, Rachel, is still alive and so vibrant. I spent a very special afternoon in her company at the Jackie Robinson Foundation in New York City. While she is ninety years young, and still as beautiful as a California sunset, Rachel shouldn’t be taken for granted. Her direct link to one of the greatest and most important athletes in American history is precious for historians and fans alike. Hopefully posterity will give Rachel her due as the all-important woman alongside the man.

  Once again, John Parsley at Little, Brown embraced this book when it was just a kernel of an idea and helped shape it into an actual narrative. His sound judgment and advice are in every nook and cranny of this book, be it through the pen or a softly spoken word in my ear when I needed it the most. John’s assistants, William Boggess and Malin von Euler-Hogan, gave important support. Karen Landry provided a hawklike pair of eyes in production editing, and her passions for baseball and proper syntax helped me avoid looking foolish, as did copyeditor Suzie Walker, who also gave the manuscript a once-over. Thanks as well to Heather Fain, Theresa Giacopasi, Anna Balasi, and Elizabeth Garriga for their efforts. Enormous thanks go to Michael Pietsch for the stroke of brilliance in conjuring the title of this book. And, as always, thanks to Reagan Arthur for all of her support. May she be baffled by my tweets for many moons to come.

  I’m proud to have once again relied on the services and oft-crucial advice of my redoubtable agent, Farley Chase of Chase Literary Agency, and even prouder to call him my friend. Cheers to you and the CLA, good sir. Thanks too to “our” cousin, Ben Wolf, and his family, to Corey and Carol Surett and the whole extended family, and especially to Mark Sternman, my oldest friend and interactive baseball research engine, who again contributed to this work in manners too numerous to elucidate.

  Most of all, I wish to expr
ess my gratitude to my family. My mother, Judith Weintraub, for instilling the love of books and reading at such a young age; my “two dads,” Arthur Weintraub and Peter Gibbs, whom I took care of in the dedication; my brother, Mark, the true writing talent in the family, his wife, Laura, and their kids, Kayleigh, Jack, and Ryan, whom I love as my own; and most especially to my beloved wife, Lorie Burnett, my best friend and editor, without whom none of this would be possible, and my children, Phoebe and Marty, young enough to wonder and utilize that crazy energy but old enough to recognize “Daddy’s book!” when they see it. Here’s another one for you two to point to with pride.

  Photos

  Boston Red Sox star Ted Williams was a marine pilot during World War II. His flying ability led him to become a trainer, and he wouldn’t see combat. He flew missions during the Korean War, leaving baseball once again to serve his country. (Transcendental Graphics / theruckerarchive.com)

  Joe DiMaggio (L) of the New York Yankees joined the Army Air Force. The discipline is for the cameras—Joe mostly played ball or nursed an ailing stomach during the war. (Transcendental Graphics / theruckerarchive.com)

  Bob Feller served on the USS Alabama as a gunnery officer but managed to work in some pitching on various islands and atolls across the Pacific. (National Baseball Hall of Fame Library, Cooperstown, New York)

  The Overseas Invasion Service Expedition All-Stars, the winners of the European Theater “World Series” of 1945. Negro Leaguer Leon Day is far right, bottom row; next to him is fellow Negro Leaguer Willard Brown. Jackie Robinson made his pro debut months after this integrated team took the diamond. (Courtesy of Gary Bedingfield)

  The best of frenemies: Yankees co-owner Larry MacPhail with his mentor and rival, Dodgers president Branch Rickey. The men would clash over numerous issues, none more contentious than Rickey’s signing of Jackie Robinson. (National Baseball Hall of Fame Library, Cooperstown, New York)

  Mexican League majordomo Jorge Pasquel, whose raids on major league stars scared the owners into meeting some of the players’ demands. He was known to suit up and manage teams when he felt the urge. Here he kibitzes Mickey Owen while holding Owen’s distracted young son. (Transcendental Graphics / theruckerarchive.com)

  Jackie Robinson, during his first spring training in Daytona, Florida. Robinson was chased out of Sanford, Florida, by hostile locals, so Branch Rickey moved all of Brooklyn’s minor league prospects to Daytona. (National Baseball Hall of Fame Library, Cooperstown, New York)

  The 1946 season gets under way as President Harry Truman throws out the first pitch in Washington before the Senators play the Red Sox. Opening-day attendance across baseball dwarfed previous records. (National Baseball Hall of Fame Library, Cooperstown, New York)

  Rising to the occasion: Jackie Robinson crosses the plate after homering in his professional debut for the Montreal Royals against Jersey City. Teammate George Shuba shakes his hand. Robinson and the Royals would go on to win the “Little World Series,” the top prize in the minor leagues. (AP)

  Leo Durocher testifies during his 1946 assault trial. The Brooklyn Dodgers manager would be acquitted of beating up a heckler. (National Baseball Hall of Fame Library, Cooperstown, New York)

  The beating heart of the Boston Red Sox lineup, double-play combination Bobby Doerr (L) and Johnny Pesky (R). (Transcendental Graphics / theruckerarchive.com)

  The nonpareil St. Louis Cardinals slugger Stan “the Man” Musial. Before a 1946 series in Brooklyn, he was known as “the Donora Greyhound” or simply “Stash.” Dodgers fans chanted, “Here comes the Man,” at Musial, and a nickname for the ages was born. (Transcendental Graphics / theruckerarchive.com)

  Harry “the Hat” (R) and Dixie Walker (L), the only brother combination to each win a batting title. Dixie’s hitting tips would pull Harry out of a slump just in time for October heroics. (National Baseball Hall of Fame Library, Cooperstown, New York)

  Bob Feller, in the midst of no-hitting the New York Yankees on April 30, 1946, at Yankee Stadium. Feller would break the major league single-season strikeout record later that summer. (Transcendental Graphics / theruckerarchive.com)

  American Baseball Guild director Robert Murphy outside the Pittsburgh clubhouse on June 7, 1946. Inside, the Pirates voted not to strike, dealing a deathblow to Murphy’s unionizing attempts. (AP)

  Jack “Lucky” Lohrke (seen here in the early 1950s), who survived World War II and several other close calls, including leaving his minor league squad moments before the team bus crashed, killing nine players. (National Baseball Hall of Fame Library, Cooperstown, New York)

  Leo Durocher heads for the clubhouse after his Dodgers fell to the Cardinals in the first-ever playoff series. Little did Leo realize he had just finished his last full season managing Brooklyn. (AP/Corbis)

  The MVPs of 1946, Ted Williams and Stan Musial, share a laugh. Unfortunately, neither star would have a good World Series at the plate. (AP)

  Ted Williams treats his injured elbow after being hit by a pitch in an exhibition game before the 1946 World Series. While Ted claimed otherwise, many felt the injury affected his performance against St. Louis. (AP)

  Harry “the Cat” Brecheen receives some love from teammates Enos “Country” Slaughter (L) and Red Schoendienst (R) after beating Boston in Game Six of the 1946 World Series. (Bettmann/Corbis)

  The decisive moment of 1946: “Slaughter’s Mad Dash” from first base ends with Enos sliding across home, easily beating Johnny Pesky’s late and off-target throw. It was the winning run in Game Seven of the World Series, which St. Louis won 4–3. (Transcendental Graphics / theruckerarchive.com)

  Ted Williams was disconsolate after losing the ’46 Series, the only postseason appearance the “Splendid Splinter” made in his long and brilliant career. Next to Ted is pitcher Mickey Harris, who lost two games in the Series. (AP)

  The Cardinals celebrate their title. #1—Whitey Kurowski, #9—Enos Slaughter, #4—Marty Marion, #6—Stan Musial. (Transcendental Graphics / theruckerarchive.com)

  Notes

  Introduction

  MacPhail was inconvenienced by the strikes that defined 1946 early on—in January he tried to make a long-distance phone call, only to be stymied by a telephone operators’ strike. He marched down to his local telephone office and tore up the place. Mac was fined $50 for his redecoration efforts.

  Other estimates of strike figures put the number of workers who walked off the job at 4.6 million, with 116 million workdays lost.

  American soldiers began shouting for demobilization while the ink on Japan’s documents of surrender was still wet. Troops being sent to the Pacific stretched signs over their transport trains that read WE’RE BEING SOLD DOWN THE RIVER WHILE CONGRESS VACATIONS. On September 15, 1945, the commander of the 95th Division, General Henry Lewis Twaddle, addressed his soldiers on the necessity of their being sent for occupation duty. “The boos from the soldiers were so prolonged and frequent that it took [General Twaddle] 40 minutes to deliver a 15 minute speech,” according to the Washington Post. Thirty-five hundred soldiers on Guam began a hunger strike to protest their continued service. Thousands of servicemen marched down the Champs-Élysées to rally in front of the US Embassy, shouting “Get us home!” Congress had little choice but to bow to such pressure abroad and from the families of soldiers at home.

  The Maginot Line was named for French Minister of War André Maginot and was a series of garrisons and fortresses along the French border with Germany. It was believed to be impregnable, but the German army simply bypassed it and conquered France in a matter of weeks.

  DiMaggio wouldn’t get a raise until 1948, when his salary increased to $70,000. The next year he became the first player to sign for $100,000.

  Phil Rizzuto on the postwar shortages: “You couldn’t get stockings, you couldn’t get girdles. [His wife] Cora didn’t need a girdle, I’ll tell you that. She’s pretty well built.”

  Hillerich & Bradsby, whose factories in Louisville had been reconfigured to pump out
a million or so M1 carbines during the war, reverted to its original product—baseball bats.

  Chapter 1: The “Mature Ted Williams”

  During World War II, spring training sites were determined by the head of the Office of Defense Transportation, Joseph Eastman, who drew a line at the Ohio and Potomac Rivers to create west and south borders for spring travel. Commissioner Landis signed off, thus creating the Landis–Eastman Line. Only the St. Louis clubs stayed put. Brooklyn moved from Havana to Bear Mountain, New York, while the Cubbies went from Phil Wrigley’s private California island to French Lick, Indiana, the vacation town better known today as the hometown of Larry Bird.

  Williams is known for having remarkable eyesight that allowed him to excel in two pursuits best avoided by the astigmatic: hitting and flying. Recent studies by ophthalmologists using Landolt rings (circles with a gap that the subject picks out) have determined that the average visual acuity of baseball players is 20–13. Williams was thought to have 20–10 or better vision.

  Later in his career, Williams would add a second ghostwriter. The joke went that he platooned them—one for lefties and one for righties.