Posts Tagged ‘History’

Oscar Charleston: One of the Greatest

February 16, 2011

 

Played CF like a Tris Speaker.

Handled the bat like a Babe Ruth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Consult with sabermetrics genius Bill James and Oscar Charleston rises to number four on the list of best players of all time. Check with 92-year old Monte Irvin, and the old bats left throws left star of the Negro League also rises all the way to the apex as a serious candidate for the forever arguable title, “the greatest of them all.” According to Monte Irvin in a brief conversation we had on our drive together to this year’s National SABR Day celebration in Houston, Oscar Charleston in his own say-hey-day had to have been the ultimate personification of what we think of today as the five tool guy. That’s not exactly what Monte said. What Monte said was, “Oscar Charleston! Oh my! He may have been the greatest! He could do it all! From what I heard, there just wasn’t anybody else like him for all the things he could do better than most.”

That translates to me that Oscar Charleston could hit for average and power. He could throw hard with accuracy. He could run like a deer. And he could catch anything that he could get his glove on. And I have to trust Monte’s judgment on this one. After all, Monte Irvin was there to see him, and in time to know those players personally who saw him performing at his earlier best.

Monte Irvin only saw Oscar Charleston play once, and that was late in his career, after age had forced him to move from center field to first base, but that ravage had not stopped the outpouring of legend that occurred even then. Older players and fans regaled in retelling stories of how Charleston could take a fly ball in medium deep center field and then throw a strike to the catcher at home plate. We’re not talking one-bounce here; we are talking on-the-fly and through the strike zone on throws from the healthy hits region of center field.

Oscar’s hey-days range was so great that the left and right fielders basically guarded the lines and tended long foul balls. Charleston covered the rest of the ground. When Willie Mays came along, people compared his fielding ability to that of Oscar Charleston. Oscar Charleston actually started with comparisons as the “black Tris Speaker,”  but, as Willie Mays achieved fame in his own right, people began to shift comparisons to the newst star light, and Oscar Charleston’s legend lived on as the old-school version of Willie Mays.

The world forgets most of us and whatever we do, but the world remembers forever the truly great at things we care about. And that list of forever famous American investments definitely includes baseball. And a center fielder named Oscar Charleston.

Oscar Charleston was born on October 14, 1896 in Indianapolis, Indiana. He joined the Army at age 15 and served out most of his enlistment time in The Philippines. After the service, he immediately began his baseball career with the Indianapolis ABC’s in 1915. Over time, Charleston served as a center fielder, fist baseman, and manager for the ABC’s, the Chicago American Giants, the Lincoln Stars, the St. Louis Giants, the Harrisburg Giants, the Philadelphia Hilldales, the Homestead Grays, and the Pittsburgh Crawfords. His career batting average was .348, but like most of the other great Negro Leaguers, integration came too late for Oscar Charleston against “official” major league pitching.

Oscar Charleston was an intelligent, fiery leader who once pulled the hood off a KKK buffoon in a down South confrontation with racists that threatened to grow ugly until Oscar made his bold move. Ignorance and evil backed off under the exposure to light and all further ugliness was avoided.

Sadly, death came early for oscar Charleston. He passed away on October 6, 1954 at the age of 57.

Oscar Charleston was later posthumously inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1976.

 

 

 

 

Ray Dandridge: The Greatest 3B, All Time

January 31, 2011
 

Color Line Quota System Robbed Ray Dandridge of Big League Time.

Two days ago, while I was transporting the nearly age 92 years old Hall of Famer Monte Irvin to the National SABR Day program at the Houston Sports Museum at Finger Furniture, things were going calmly in our discussions until I brought up the name of Ray Dandridge. I told Monte that I always wondered and felt sad about the fact that a great former Negro Leaguer like Ray Dandridge never got his chance to play in a single major league game.

I could sense the change in Monte’s passenger-seat posture as I spoke these words, but Irvin’s own voice soon enough took control of the floor.

“Oh my,” Monte sighed. “That was so wrong that Ray Dandridge never got his chance. We (The New York Giants) could have won it a lot easier in ’51 had we been able to bring up Dandridge from Minneapolis to play third base early enough. Heck! We could won the pennant in 1950, had we been allowed bring him up from the same Millers club, but it just never happened.”

And why not? Why didn’t the Giants ever call up Dandridge? They controlled his contract from 1949 through 1952 – and all he did in that time was tear up AAA with a .362 average in ’49, a .311 mark with 11 homers in ’50, a .324 BA in ’51 and a final .291 in ’52, when he was then age 39.

Did the Giant consider Dandridge too old for the big league jump?

“That wasn’t it,” Monte Irvin says. “I pled with (manager) Leo (Durocher) to call up Ray in 1951. He’d always just fumble around for an answer as to why we were standing pat, but I felt I already knew the answer. You see, we may have broken the color line in 1947, but there was still an unspoken quota system in place in the late ’40s and early ’50s. The Giants already had me and infielder Hank Thompson as their black players and they were reluctant to add more.”

As one result of this color cautious culture, the great Ray Dandridge was denied his performance-earned twilight shot at big league playing time while he was still performing better than most others between ages 36 and 39. Dandridge crossed the age 40 mark late in the 1953 season, finishing out his last season as an active player by hitting .268 with Oakland and Sacramento of the Pacific Coast League.

Ray Dandridge broke into the Negro Leagues with the 1933 Detroit Stars. He spent the next five seasons with clubs in Newark (1934-38) before jumping to the Mexican League for nine of the next ten seasons, returning only in 1944 for another year at Newark. He returned to the States to take over as the playing manager of the New York Cubans before signing with the Giants and a minor league assignment in 1949.

Ray Dandridge, Hall of Fame, 1987.

After his playing career, Dandridge did some scouting for the San Francisco Giants and he also ran some other businesses outside of baseball. He retired in Florida and passed away there in early 1994 at the age of 80. Before he died, Ray Dandridge enjoyed one day for hollow redemption when he was inducted into the Hall of Fame in 1987. How much sweeter could that moment have been had Ray Dandridge been allowed to help the New York Giants win a pennant or two or three in his talented twilight years?

A short time ago, I picked Judy Johnson as my All Negro League Third Baseman, but Monte Irvin has now dented that choice for me in favor of Ray Dandridge. “He was simply the greatest there ever was,” Irvin says. “Ray could out-field and out-hit any other third baseman I ever saw in the Negro Leagues – and the New York Giants really missed out by not bringing him up while he was at Minneapolis.”

I can’t argue with Monte Irvin. I always liked the guy, anyway, but now I’m a full-blown Ray Dandridge fan. Move over, Judy Johnson. My eyesight for greater talent just received a major boost from somebody who ought to know.

SABR DAY IS FOUR-BAGGER

January 30, 2011

L>R: MONTE IRVIN, LARRY DIERKER, JIMMY WYNN.

The Larry Dierker Chapter of SABR (The Society for American Baseball Research) had a tag-em-all meeting yesterday, Saturday, January 29th, from 2-4 PM in celebration of our National SABR Day gathering at the Houston Sports Museum inside the Finger Furniture Store located on the historic site of old Buff Stadium (1928-1961) on the north side of the Gulf Freeway at Cullen. Sixty-eight members and guest signed the reception book and another twenty to thirty later unregistered show-ups ran the attendance count close to 100. Those who stayed for the whole baseball rodeo hardly missed a subject that had anything to do with the game, and especially with Houston history of same.

Chapter Leader Bob Dorrill

Chapter leader Bob Dorrill spoke about the importance of National SABR Day as the one day of the year that all chapters unite through out the land in a united effort to promote the purposes of SABR to all persons interested in the preservation and celebration of baseball’s history.

As General Manager of our vintage base ball club, The Houston Babies, I received a beautifully framed team photo of the unforgettable club itself, thanks to a brief, but forever appreciated acknowledgment from field Manager Bob Dorrill. All I can say is thanks. I love you guys to pieces. – I just wish that you’d stop going to pieces in the middle of a game. Maybe this year will be better. Go further – I really think it will be. Take it one more foot slide forward: I believe in you, Babies! This year we are going to scorch the pastures of Southeast Texas with all the power of our innate, but, so far, unused playing ability.

In that light, Chapter namesake Larry Dierker talked about Houston’s early professional start in the 19th century as the Houston Babies. On a kidding note, Dierker wondered if any city or town ever began with a more humiliating nickname. Seriously, he then launched into an interesting summary of how Houston flowed and ebbed as a baseball town over the years. He painted a moving picture of the mind with his account of how Houston Buffs fans once started out from homes as far away as five miles away and began their walks to the ball games played at Buff Stadium, the park pictured in the mural behind the table in first featured photo. – By the time these walking fans reached the ball park, their singular steps had flowed together into a river of Buff fans, now converging upon that earlier version of our baseball heaven.

Jimmy Wynn and Monte Irvin both talked openly about their playing days in response to questions from the crowd. Scott Barzilla of SABR spoke briefly about his new book, “The Hall of Fame Index,” and visitor Dick “Lefty” O’Neal was also recognized for his book, “Dreaming of the Majors; Living in the Bush.” Those two gentlemen, along with Jimmy Wynn and SABR’s Bill McCurdy, who recently collaborated on “Toy Cannon: The Autobiography of Baseball’s Jimmy Wynn,” were also on hand after the meeting to sign copies of their various works.

Former Houston Buff Larry Miggins told some of his best anecdotal baseball stories. No one tell ’em quite as well as the old Irishman. Miggins and Vin Scully attended the same high school in New York City. While they were there, Scully predicted that he would be broadcasting major league games and would be behind the mike on the date that Miggins broke into the big leagues with a home run –  and that’s exactly what happened. Scully was calling the game for the Brooklyn Dodgers when Larry Miggins broke into the big leagues for the St. Lois cardinals by hitting a home run off Preacher Roe. – How’s that one for A SABR Day spine-chiller?

Ton Kleinworth of SABR designed and presented a brand new trivia contest called “Name That Player.” SABR’s Mack WIlson then followed Tom with a nice little multiple choice trivia contest. The winner, Mark Wernick of SABR, received a Larry Dierker action figure donated by Mike Acosta of the Houston Astros.

Dave Raymond of SABR and the Houston Astros radio broadcasting crew gave us a nice conservative, but optimistic evaluation of the 2011 club. Dave sees the Astros as having a lot more pop up the middle with the additions of Cliff Barnes at shortstop and Bill Hall at second base. Both are hardscrabble infielders with long ball capacity, but low OBP figures. Low OBP was a problem last year and needs to improve, according to both Raymond anyone else who is paying attention. The pitching is adequate and we may be only a key player development breakthrouh away from getting back into the thick of things.

Greg Lucas of SABR and Fox Sports followed Raymond with a nice cap on the NL Central for 2011. According to Greg, the Cards, Brewers, and Reds are the frontrunners, but the Astros and Cubs may get back into contention on an eye-flick. Lucas only discounts the Pirates due to their bad pitching.

Between the lines of these comments from Raymond and Lucas, the gentle hum of spring hope was beginning to germinate – and isn’t that exactly what it’s supposed to do this time of year?

As for me, I dove deep into history. I (Bill McCurdy) offered the challenge that we need to develop a chapter plan for researching and accurately writing Houston early baseball history from 1861 to 1961. That century span covers the documentable era of time that passed between the formation of the first Houston Base Ball Club through the last season of our minor league Houston Buffs.

Curator Tom Kennedy welcomed one and all to the beautifully refurbished Houston Museum of Sports History. Couched on the site of the still embedded home plate from Buff Stadium on its original spot, owner Rodney Finger and the Finger family deserve incredible appreciation for all they have done and continue to do to preserve this important artifact marking on the trail of Houston’s baseball history. Now, if we can only rouse the same effort on the task of tagging and noting the significance of earlier venues, where the first Houston Base Ball Club was formed in a room above J.H. Evans’s store on Market Square in 1861; where the Houston Base Ball Park existed downtown when our first professional club took the field here in 1888; and when and where, for sure, the first game was played at West End Park on Andrews Street. I refuse to go in the ground until those facts are sorted out and published somewhere by someone who cares about Houston baseball history.

The Giants finally retired Monte Irvin's #20 in 2010.

My extra treat was all tied into the ninety minutes or so that I spent driving Hall of Famer Monte Irvin to and from the meeting, between downtown and the west side. I couldn’t begin to share everything we talked about in the space we have here – and I wouldn’t, anyway, on the grounds that he spoke to me in confidence on a lot of baseball subjects with opinions that are his and his alone to divulge in a public forum.

You probably have figured this one out from hearing him speak: Monte Irvin is one of the kindest, truest gentleman you could ever hope to meet. He attributes his long life to having a wonderful, guiding mother and a whole lot of luck. When pressed, he will concede that genes help out too, but he clings pretty close to the wisdom too that “to become an older person you first have to survive being a younger person” and, as far as Monte is concerned, that’s where the luck comes in.

I can share one Monte Irvin Story. Almost apologetically, I asked Monte about that 1951 steal of home in the first inning of Game One in the Giants’ 5-1 World Series victory over the Yankees. I realize that I probably was about the 5,000th fan to ask, but I couldn’t help myself.

Monte was on third with a triple. Allie Reynolds and Yogi Berra were the battery for the Yankees. And Bobby Thomson, a right-handed batter, as you well better know by now, was at the plate. All of a sudden, Monte breaks for the plate. He is stealing home, and he does so successfully, sliding under Berra’s tag for the Giants’ second run in the first stanza on one of the too few days the ’51 Series went the Giants’ way,

“When did you know for sure you were going to try that steal of home?” I asked.

“I pretty much knew it going in,” Monte says. “I had stolen home five or six times during the season and I also was quite familiar with that slow deliberate delivery style of Allie Reynolds. Reynolds threw hard to make up for the slow delivery, but he usually threw high, which was what he was doing in that moment with our batter, Bobby Thomson. I knew I had a good chance of making it. I also had talked with Leo Durocher prior to the game and he had given me the green light to try, if I saw the opportunity.  By the time Reynolds saw what I was doing, he was already in motion to launch another high, hard one. That didn’t change. The pitch came in high and hard. I came in low and hard. By the time Yogi can get his glove down to tag me, I’m safe. Had Allie thrown it low and hard, he probably would had me. It didn’t work out that way.”

Near 90 showed up for SABR Day in Houston

Before we arrived back at Monte’s place at the end of the day, he had started reminiscing about the many Giant teammates that are now gone. That pretty much is going to happen when you live as long as Monte has. He turns 92 on February 25th.

I finally blurted out, “Listen, Monte, you may have gotten this far by being lucky, but you are here for a reason. And part of that reason, as I see it, is to help baseball people remember what’s really important about the game and life itself. We need you to hang around forever as our role model, our teacher, and our national treasure.”

Monte smiled. “I’ll give it my best shot,” he promised.

SABR Day in Houston was a great day in general. A lucky day for some of us. And a blessed day for us all.

Brother Orchid Wasn’t Up for Tonys or Oscars

January 28, 2011

Yesterday I had reason to visit my old St. Thomas High School on other research business that took me enjoyably through all of our old “Eagle” newspapers from the time I was there, 1952 to 1956. Neither the material for this story, nor any of my personal misadventures from back then, had anything to do with the reasons that fellow 1956 classmate Ed Szymczak and I were there to meet with STHS curator Anna Henderson, but I simply could not pass on this copy and a few others I digitally photographed for today’s story in The Pecan Park Eagle. It was “funnest” thing I ever did back in the day.

For our Senior Class play in November 1955, Father Walter Scott, CSB, had decided to stage a production of Brother Orchid, an early 1940’s B Grade movie that had starred Edward G. Robinson in the dual personality role as the title character Brother Orchid and his pre-transformational personna, Little John Sarto.

Brother Orchid was a no-brainer for St. Thomas as a good play choice: (1) As an all male school, it eliminated the need for recruiting female actors from Incarnate Word Academy or St. Agnes; and (2) It rode on a Catholic theme. – a bad guy reforms by falling into the healing hands of a Catholic religious order after he’s almost killed running from his old crum-bum companions in crime and is found dying in the woods by one of the flower-breeding brothers.

Long story short: I tried out for the play and got the lead role as Brother Orchid/Little John Sarto. t age 17, I suddenly had more lines to learn in Brother Orchid than I would ever see again. It would prove to be, with cause, my only rodeo as a leading man on stage, but I loved every minute of it, as I think did everyone else who took the ride as actors and stage hands. I can’t see Sam Sacco to this day without getting into the first performance night in which Sam forgot his lines and was simply making things up to say to me.

“&$%@##*&, Sam,” I would say between scenes, “give me the right lines. Everything I’m saying out there sounds stupid because you can’t remember what you’re supposed to say.”

“A good actor doesn’t need lines,” Sam Sacco would shoot back. “A good actor just needs to feel his part and speak from those feelings.

In case you never saw any other plays or movies from Sam Sacco or yours truly, there’s reason enough right there in the Sacco pronouncements.

Delbert Stewart as The Gimp (right above in photo) and I also had our moments with the dialogue. Even in 1955, we thought the dialogue was often a little too corny to say, but we still accepted Director Scott’s will – and tried to say our lines, anyway. In the scene above, I’m supposed to turn around and confront The Gimp, who does have the drop on me. I’m supposed to interrupt The Gimp’s stream of vitriol toward me with this brilliant little dirge of dialogue: “Can it cluck-brain! You’re the one who got us all in the hot water!”

In our final rehearsal, I reached a point in which I could not say that line without breaking into laughter. That break would then get Delbert Stewart started on the same hilarity kick. It got worse from there. Pretty soon, all I had to do was turn around and make eye contact with The Gimp and we both would crack up. Thank God for the patience of Father Scott. We worked it out in rehearsal and delivered on stage – with no further fumbles in this area, anyway.

Something did happen shortly before the play that effected the rest of my life, but you need to hear this part in context. It was a very different era and none of our Basilian order mentors would ever have given us advice that was designed to harm our health in any way. Father Scott was just trying to help make up the visage gap that apparently existed between the way the grizzled Edward G. Robinson appeared in this role on-screen and the way I looked as a soap-behind-my-ears 17-year old in a high school play version of the same story.

“Say, Bill,” Father Scott asked me after rehearsal one day, near opening night, “do you smoke?”

“No, I don’t Father.”

“Well, why don’t you think about taking up cigars for the play? It would help you look the part,” Father Scott said. “You can always quit again once the play is finished.”

Made sense to me. I bought some cheap cigars on the way home. And I did quit after the play was finished – but it was fifty years later.

My love affair/addiction with/to tobacco was firmly launched with Brother Orchid. I loved the little kicky rearrangement of my brain cells that came from smoking – and I also learned on stage that I could use the smoke to enhance the attention people paid to my character. In fact, we had a whole scene that was virtually a throw-away until I figured out it all could change with one puff of smoke.

In this early scene, my old gang is on stage discussing my imminent return from prison and fearing the changes it may bring. They pretty well paint me for the audience as a cigar-smoking meanie who could punish those who had horned in on his territories while he was locked up. I’m supposed to enter the scene from the right after one gangster/actor expresses the vain hope that i won’t show. But, after listening to the scene off stage with my lighted cigar in hand, I pick what I think is a better route of entry. – I stay out of sight, but first blow this big cloud of blue smoke on stage  as the announcement that I’m coming.

The audience roars. Then I walk on the stage for the first time to applause. And I’m hooked. If not on the stage, a hundred per cent on smoking.

That one’s on me. I don’t blame Father Scott. And I did finally pull up from cigarettes fifty years later in better shape than I deserved to be.

In the final scene of Brother Orchid, I get shot by a character named Dum-Dum, but I live long enough to deliver one more cornball line: “I go to my God with a good heart because the Florentines have been preserved to do His Work!”

The trouble is – Dum-Dum’s gun doesn’t go off as scheduled. The blank bullet doesn’t fire.

In the interest of time, I fall to the ground, anyway. – Then the gun goes off. And I say my final lines to the titter of murmuring laughter. Then I stand up and we all take a bow for the mercy applause of our supportive audience. Stage careers end for all of us that night. Exiting left and right.

The cast for our play beyond my humbling “Bill McCurdy as Brother Orchid/Little John Sarto” role included; Sam Sacco as Fat Duchy; Delbert Stewart as The Gimp; Marcus Saha as Freckles; Michael Storey as Dum-Dum; Ralph Marek as Solomon; Buddy Negrotto as Dominic Battista; Kenneth Hogan as Brother Nasturtium; Joe Carlotta as Brother Geranium; Marshall Seavey as Brother Hollyhock; and Tom Withey as Abbot Jonquil.

The 1940 movie version of Brother Orchid pops up on Turner Classic Movies every now and then and it is also available from TCM on DVD.

No, I do not have a copy of the film.

Rube Foster and Christy Mathewson

January 24, 2011

Rube Foster

Christy Mathewson

Rube Foster established himself as one of the great early Negro team pitchers at the very dawn of the 20th century. Foster went on to establish the Negro National League in 1920 as his major contribution to the survival of organized black baseball during the doleful days of wholesale player segregation prior to Jackie Robinson breaking the so-called color line with the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1947.

Christy Mathewson was a contemporary younger lifetime peer to Foster. Pitching mainly for the New York Giants, Mathewson went all the way to the Hall of Fame with a 17-year record of 373 wins, 188 loses, an ERA of 2.13, and 79 career shutouts. Much of his hard and clear success Christy rode on the back of his warhorse pitch, the “fadeaway.” That was Mathewson’s name for a pitch that would eventually spread to others and achieve greater identity as the “screwball.”

An ancient legend, one going all the way back to that early time, is – where did the young Mathewson learn how to throw such a deadly pitch at his at his tender age? Most suspicious eyes turned immediately to his New York Giants manager and close personal mentor, the one and only John McGraw.

The story with greatest adhesion centered on McGraw’s character and his history of trying to recruit talented “Negro” players and then passing them off as either Native Americans or Latin American players with the help of a name change. As far as we know, McGraw never got away with this ruse, but it wasn’t hard to hem that history to either the possibility, or the probability, that McGraw finally settled for the next best thing to actual black player recruitment. – “How about bringing in one of the great Negro pitchers and paying him to teach my greatest young white guy how to throw his best pitch?”

Sounds reasonable and doable to me. It’s also reasonable to assume that a hungry Rube Foster could have used the money and been willing to trade his knowledge for cash. Isn’t that what teachers get paid to do?

Accessibility was no problem for the Foster-Mathewson legend either. In 1903, Rube Foster was pitching for the black club known as the Philadelphia X-Giants. In 1904, he moved over to the Philadelphia Giants, another Negro team of that era. Either way, Foster was just a short train ride away from New York City and the home of McGraw, Mathewson, and the famous New York Giants.

The problem here is the same set we always have with delicious legends that most people hope are true: (1) There’s no proof anywhere that it actually occurred; (2) Everyone who could know the truth is long ago dead; and (3) there is some suggestion that something else happened.

Mathewson says he learned the fadeaway in 1898 while pitching for the semi-pro Honesdale (PA) club. He picked it up from a left handed teammate named Dave Williams, a fellow who later had a short-term stay with the Boston Americans in 1902.

It helps to think of a fadeaway/screwball as a curve ball that breaks the other way because of the inverse twist of the wrist the pitcher applies to the ball at its release point. Viewed from a right-handed pitcher’s perspective, a screwball works basically in this way: Instead of breaking in on a right-handed batter, it falls away from the outside of the plate as it reaches the hitting zone. That fading-away motion, of course, is the reason that Mathewson called it his “fadeaway” pitch. Because it messes with a batter’s head, it later became more famously known as a “screwball.”

People who argue that Mathewson needed the fadeaway to even stick in the big leagues haven’t spent much time researching this incredible athlete’s background. As a fullback in football at Bucknell, for example, Christy Mathewson was named to the Walter Camp All American team in 1900. His baseball pitching success prior to the Giants seemed to be doing pretty well too with a superior fastball and his incredible pitch placement control. Had he not learned the fadeaway, he would have added or improved upon his curve to the extent of making a nice career for himself in the majors, anyway. That’s my guess.

The fadeaway may have been the pitch that exalted Christy Mathewson from good to great, but it wasn’t all he had, – and we’ll never know for sure where his total learning experience began and ended.

Personally, and in spite of Honest Christy’s own proclamations, I would not be surprised to know that Rube Foster may have also later taught something to Christy Mathewson. Christy was a very honest man, but he was also human and subject to the way personal perception interprets reality. For instance, I can see Mathewson taking lessons from Foster and also thinking, “Hey! This is what Dave Williams was trying to show me back in 1898!”

We’ll just never know.

Mythology in Baseball History

January 19, 2011

Rube Foster: Did he really teach the fadeaway pitch to Christy Mathewson?

Speaking of subjects that are way too big for any singular blog column, “mythology in baseball history” probably sits at the mountaintop of those that fit the thesis that such topics even exist. That being said, we shall give it a humble try, anyway.

Why does the subject even matter? Easy. We may as well be asking: What does the game’s attraction feed upon? It isn’t the mere tonnage of stats generated by the game, or the base line scores of all past World Series games. None of these detailed facts even matter unless … unless they spring from or generate some new myth, or some sensational fact that eventually shall evolve into a myth that almost all fans know or help distort further and higher onto some new accepted level of factual assimilation.

Perception is reality, right? Well, it isn’t really, if you break down reality on the basis of discernible and measurable facts, but it sure puts a lot of individually constructed realities on collision courses with each other, which is often. We humans are much more comfortable with the fly-by-our-eyes assumption that how we see things is the way they are – and many are prepared to fight in defense of that idea. Now, given that little hot tonic of human tendency, myths are often the “the straw that stirs the drink” of argument.

One of the lesser known myths in baseball history concerns Rube Foster, the great old Negro League pitcher and later founder of the 1920 Negro National League. Legend has it that New York Giants manager John McGraw once hired Rube Foster to teach the fadeaway, or screwball, pitch to a young hurler named Christy Mathewson. That would be a great fact to nail down, but it cannot. As with almost all myths, the original source of this idea cannot be discernibly identified – nor has extensive research turned up anything in writing from that era to confirm it ever happened. The Foster-Mathewson Connection will continue to hang there on the myth rack of baseball history and, every now and then, someone will write about it as though it actually happened as a proven fact – thus, pumping up the perception’s credibility as pure reality.

Got that?

My guess is that “Ruth’s Called Shot” at Wrigley Field in the 1932 World Series is probably the biggest revered facts-challengeable myth in baseball history, right behind the Red Sox’ infamous “Curse of the Bambino,” which offers no hope for logical proof or disproof beyond the acceptance or rejection of logical thinking itself.

Did Babe Ruth really predict when and where he would hit a home run as he stood in the batter’s box at Wrigley Field that famous day? Just about the time we seemed on our way to putting this one to bed as a practical joke that even Ruth had prolonged for the fun of it a few years ago, a man comes up with a grainy home movie that he claims his grandfather took of Babe Ruth during that time at bat against Charlie Root. The movie clip clearly shows Babe Ruth raising his arm and pointing somewhere in the direction of center field.

Now the called-shot beast will never die.

Happy baseball fact-finding, folks. And try to remember something that even baseball research scholars seem to too often forget: When you see something in print, that fact alone doesn’t make the information true – nor does it make the author of this material either an authority or a primary source. These are the basic facts that serve as the foundational platform for all investigative reading, but they don’t scream out loud for themselves unless you bury them deep in your own researcher bones.

My Negro League All Stars

January 9, 2011

Back in the early 20th century, two Rubes, one black and one white, hit the winter barnstorming trail on their own terms, and mostly in the west, where white America was less bothered by the mixture of races. Note the images behind pitchers Rube Waddell and Rube Foster. The Waddell image is the same one that was later used to characterize the “Mad Magazine” comic book.” As the founder of the 1920 Negro National League, Rube Foster stands tall and alone as my all time favorite Negro League executive.

In picking my starting nine players from the old Negro Leagues, I worked with two simple parameters: (1) I restricted my choices to only those former Negro Leaguers who never made it, or had a chance to make it to the major leagues of organized baseball due to segregation; and (2) I made my selections from those players who also have since been inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame at Cooperstown. As a result, I found that, with the exceptions of Hank Aaron and Willie Mays, and only perhaps, I would not have picked any differently without these restrictions. And, from what I’ve read, I would not have taken Satchel Paige over Smoky Joe Williams as my starting pitcher.

At any rate, here are my choices, by position. For a thumbnail on their career strengths and accomplishments, check out the Hall of Fame website link for further facts and commentary:

http://baseballhall.org/hall-famers/members/bios

My Negro League Starting Nine All Stars

Smoky Joe Williams, Pitcher

Josh Gibson, Catcher

Oscar Charleston, First Base

Martin Dihigo, Second Base

Judy Johnson, Third Base

Willie Wells, Shortstop

Turkey Stearnes, Left Field

Pete Hill, Center Field

Cool Papa Bell, Right Field

Notes: Most players from the Negro League era possessed and developed great versatility at several positions. It was a survival thing. The more you did, the longer you lasted. Some, however, went far beyond the call to greater utility into a rarefied territory of all around playing genius. The greatest of these greats was most likely a Cuban fellow named Martin Dihigo, now regarded by many historians as possibly the greatest player of all time. I put him on second base because he had to go somewhere for the sake of making sure this lineup contained all my choices for the best team I could put on the field, given the self-imposed restrictions I first place upon my selections. I also ended up with an outfield of speedy guys with strong arms who could all play center field well and easily handle the spots down each line.

Have a nice Sunday, everybody!

 

That First AFL Championship Game

December 30, 2010

January 1, 1961: A half century ago - and I was there to see it.

It was January 1, 1961 and, ah yes, I remember it well!

In their first year among the other founding partners in the new American Football League, the Houston Oilers were preparing to take on the Los Angeles Chargers in the first ever new professional football conference’s championship game at Jeppesen (now Robertson) Stadium on the University of Houston campus. And I was there with my girl friend, Sandy, to take it all in. We were young and fresh out of UH as new Cougars on the Houston job market back then, but we were able to obtain affordable tickets on about the north end 20 yard line in the preferred sun-at-our-backs west grandstands – in spite of that now seemingly dire financial fact.

What was the bare bones of that money fact? Well, as a 1960 psychology graduate, and waiting on an affordable opportunity for graduate school at Tulane, I was getting paid $339 a month as a full-time family case worker at what was then known as DePelchin Faith Home and Children’s Center here in Houston. Sandy was doing what most young women did with college training in 1960. She was not working as a teacher or nurse, so she had taken a job as a legal secretary. Of course, this was the era in which guys were expected to pick up the tab on all social outings, anyway, and, make no doubt about it, going to see the first AFL championship game of a half century ago was 99% my need and idea. Our female partners back in that day simply did not speak up and say, “Hey, Boob! Why don’t you make sure we get tickets for that first major sport championship game in Houston history!”

January 1, 1961: Our Game Faces Were On! You also dressed up for big games back then.

The game was great and quite exciting. The weather started brisk, but seemed to heat up with the action on the field before the 32,183 capacity crowd that showed up to view the biggest sporting event to that time in Houston history. “Old Jepp” was the Oilers’ home field during the 1960 inaugural season under Coach Lou Rymkus as Quarterback George Blanda and LSU Heisman Trophy Winning Running Back Billy Cannon led the baby-blue-sky adorned Oilers through their half of the first major championship season. Now all the men in blue had to do was knock off the visiting impostors from the West Coast to grab hold of the big boast that our Houston would be the permanent home to the first AFL football kings.

For those who stayed home that day, the first AFL championship game was being televised over ABC-TV with Jack Buck handling the play-by-play and George Ratterman and Les Keller handling the analyst/color roles. Forget instant replay and watching the game on a VCR later. There was no such thing back in 1961. You either saw it live or missed it completely.

The pre-San diego Chargers gave the Oilers all they could handle.

The Oiler offense sputtered in the first quarter as the Chargers’ Ben Agajanian banged home field goals of 38 and 22 yards for a 6-0 Los Angeles lead.

A 17-yard TD pass from George Blanda to Dave Smith early in the second quarter drew first blood for the Oilers, pulling the club ahead, 7-6, but that advantage failed quickly when Agajanian kicked another field goal from 27 yards to put the Chargers back on top by 9-7. A George Blanda field goal of 17 yards would put the Oilers ahead at halftime by 10-9.

The afternoon and our Houston fan appetite for winning went into halftime with a decided hot flash for the idea of winning it all.

#20 Billy Cannon racks up another gain on the ground.

The Oilers added some breathing room in the third quarter when QB George Blanda capped a drive hitting receiver Bill Groman in the end zone from 7 yards out for a 17-9 expansion on the lead. LA came back with a drive capped by a Paul Lowe dive run that again narrowed the Charger deficit to a single point at 17-16.

Going into the fourth quarter it was still anybody’s game at 17-16 Oilers and we all began to feel that curious teeter-totter between joyous hope and dreadnought fear of something going terribly wrong. Fortunately for Houston fans, the realization of dreadnought fears was little more than the hint of Houston’s future back in 1961.

Late in the fourth quarter, with the ball on the 12-yard line down near the south end zone, Oiler QB Blanda dumped a little pass off to RB Billy Cannon on the right side. Cannon took it on the fly and poured his heels into g-force traction. He took off down the sideline, coming our way on the other side of the field, and leaving all pursuers in the dust. Just as he once had done to Ole Miss while at LSU in 1959, Billy Cannon had stunned a foe and done the deal.

Our 32,183 voices roared as one. With little time remaining in the game, Houston now led 24-16 and we were on our way to our first citywide celebration of something that felt like a world championship.

After the game, many of us went to Valian’s for pizza. What better way to commemorate a championship. We poured pepperoni and anchovies all over the thing.

Now I’m just glad to be around long enough to remember things that happened in Houston a half century ago.

In spite of all the bad things people have learned to say about you since that time, Bud Adams, thanks for acting upon a dream that made big league sports in Houston available to the rest of us. And thank you, “Old Jepp,” for lasting this long as a daily reminder of Houston’s salad days in big time sports. It will be too bad for local history if UH decides to take apart all of your architectural exterior in the construction of its new venue on your current site.

Happy New Year and Fondest Memories, Houston! – And remember too – our best days are still out there – still yet come! Let’s all try to hang around for the party, OK?

The Art of Time Framing Our Lives

December 28, 2010

“The only difference between me and a madman is that I am not mad.” - Salvador Dali

I still remember the first time I embraced this thought. It was June 1950, the day after North Korea’s invasion of South Korea. I was only 12 years old, but I was also a product of my generation. We didn’t need a political conference in Washington to discuss what this action meant. Even we kids knew what it meant. – It meant war, even if the official description of our United States military “police action” presence on the Korean peninsula was never updated to “war” status over the next three years of hostile fire action and the loss of American lives.

I remember thinking: “It’s 1950. Five years ago, in 1945, we were all celebrating the end of of World War II – and I was just a little kid. Hey! Five years from now, in 1955, I’ll be 17, almost 18, and going over to fight in Korea too.” It didn’t happen because the “war” didn’t last long enough to wait for me, but today we have a war blazing in Afghanistan that is using up the lives of young Americans who also were little more than small children when the thing started for us nearly ten years ago.

Where does it all end? It doesn’t. Like Old Man River, it just keeps rolling along.

I’ve never written on this subject prior to this morning, but my real subject here is not war and peace, but something I’ve always called out to myself as “time framing.” Time framing is simply a way of seeking another timeline perspective on the events of our lives. Why do it? Beyond its prurient pleasure payoff, it’s a way of time-altering our perspective on the events and scope of our lifetime experience for the sake of improving our more limited experience of things in the actual moments these occur.

It’s a way of drawing from, and learning from, the generally similar and our pretty-much-the-same past personal experiences as each applies to what is going on in our lives now. In other words, it’s something that may help us learn the lessons of history as they apply even to each of us in a moment of pain, threat, or risk, especially.

1939: "Gammy and me." My maternal great-grandmother and me at her place in the country near Beeville, TX. She was born in 1857, four years prior to the start of the Civil War- and she was once a big everyday part of my early life.

I will turn 73 years old this coming Friday, December 31st, and I make no apologies for my years. As far as I’m concerned, we are all here on borrowed time. When you time frame my first 72 years back to the last day of 1937, my actual natal day, we find that there has been something approaching a 98% turnover rate in the actual faces of Earth’s living, breathing residents since that moment.

Time frame it further. Do this one with your own age too. This past summer, on July 4, 2010, and we Americans were all celebrating the 234th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, that date alaso meant that I personally had been around for 30.77% of this nation’s formal history since that starting date.

Here’s a more personal time frame: I graduated from St. Thomas High School in Houston in 1956. That was 54 years ago this past May 2010. If I now slide the older me at 72 back to 1956 for an encounter with the 18-year old me that owned that year, what does the younger me think of the older me? Based upon my memories of him, younger me is thinking: “Man! If this old cat is 72 in 1956, that means he graduated from high school back in something like 1902! – What the the heck did people like him know about anything back in 1902?”

And what does the 72 year old me say to the 18 year old me? I don’t know. Maybe something like: “Age humbles. It teaches us what we were unwilling to learn earlier. It is a voice that only gets heard once we outgrow the ideas that (a) we are exempt from the laws and truths that apply to others; (b) we don’t need any teachers outside our own experience; and (c) our education begins once we open up to the wisdom of our elders. The elders can’t teach us everything, but they may help us skip over some bad spots on the road.”

Ask yourselves as you time frame – in whatever way you do it – who were the important teachers in your own life? If you cannot find any, you probably are not looking hard enough. Everyone we meet is our potential teacher at any age – whether we like like the lesson they bring to us or not.

At any rate, have fun getting ready for New Year’s Eve. It’s one of the great places for both celebration and reflection on this river of no return we all travel.


My 19th Century MLB All Stars

December 24, 2010

"Hit 'em where they ain't." - Wee Willie Keeler.

It’s Christmas Eve, but I could not resist completing my cycle on the historic all-star teams by taking on the 19th century icons who started it all for the great game of baseball. My only trouble here was finding a lefty I preferred to any of the wildly famous righties we all mostly know about. So, in a growing mood of seasonal generosity and complete reversal on reality, I chose to select four pitchers, all right handers,  to my 19th century team from the era. So, the team that often made it through whole seasons with only one starter and a talented backup, hereby  gets a lights-out stable of four great ones on my club.

A little irony is a nice seasoning almost every time.

For starters, I had to go with the man who won 48 games in 1883 and then followed that by posting 59 victories in 1884, the great Old Hoss Radbourn. My next guy eventually became more famous for making balls then throwing them. That would be Al Spalding, who went 252-65 with a 2.13 ERA in only seven 19th century seasons of work. 19th Century hurler # 3 is the man we annually associate with “best two pitchers in the major leagues this year.” – Cy Young had an incredible 511-316, 2.63 record over 22 seasons in the big leagues. His service time in seasons split equally between the 19th and 20th centuries, but his best winning years came early. 372 of his wins came in the 19th century. Finally, my fourth guy, Tim Keefe, would most likely be my first guy, if you really pushed me to picked one from the litter. From what I’ve read, many people far closer to that era than any of us shall ever be considered Keefe to have been the best pitcher of his time.

At any rate, here are my guys. Not surprisingly, all are members of the Hall of Fame. If you have time on this bust Christmas Eve, please, feel free to post yours here too. If not, and God Willing, we’ll still be here after cross over the holiday season bend.

Meanwhile, here is My 19th Century MLB All Star Club:

RH Pitcher # 1 – Charles “Old Hoss” Radbourn (309-194, 2.68 ERA in 11 19th century seasons)

RH Pitcher # 2 – Al Spalding (252-65, 2.13 in 7 19th century seasons)

RH Pitcher # 3 – Cy Young (511-316, 2.63 in 22 total seasons; 372 wins in 11 19th century seasons)

RH Pitcher # 4 – Tim Keefe (342-225, 2.63 in 14 19th century seasons)

C – Mike “King” Kelly (.308 BA)

1B – Dan Brouthers (.342 BA)

2b – Ed Delahanty (.346 BA)

3B – John “Muggsy” McGraw (.334 BA)

SS – Hugh Jennings (.313 BA)

LF – Joe Kelley (.321 BA)

CF – Wee Willie Keeler (.341 BA)

RF – Billy Hamilton (.344 BA)

Happy Christmas, Everybody! ~ And may your days be merry and bright!