147. Ford Meadows: Better Than The Babe

I love those "what if?" questions in history. You know, those major events in history that hinged on one minor and insignificant event or individual: what if Hitler had gotten into art school or what would America be like now if Lee Oswald was a lousy shot? Baseball has plenty of those great "what if's" as well, and it was one of those minor turn of events that gave the game its greatest player.

In the spring of 1914, Baltimore Orioles owner and manager Jack Dunn looked over his roster for the coming season and knew he had a problem - left-handed pitching, or more precisely, the lack of it. Fortunately Baltimore and the surrounding countryside was an untapped gold mine of amateur talent. Though the city had a major port, world-class universities and a many top-notch semi-pro teams, Baltimore's pool of ballplayers was often overlooked due to the close proximity of Washington, Philadelphia and New York City. For years the savvy Jack Dunn had it all to himself and he was famous for his meticulous scouting of local talent. When the time came for him to fill that left-handed spot in his pitching rotation Jack Dunn knew exactly who he wanted.

For a year Dunn had been following a local 19 year-old student at an Xaverian school who was mowing down every team he pitched against. He was a big fella and like most left-handers had a bit of a reputation for being a bit eccentric. To Dunn, a veteran judge of baseball talent, this kid was one of the greatest lefties he'd ever seen. In early February of 1914 the Orioles owner took his former third baseman and now New York Yankee Fritz Maisel along to talk to the Brothers who ran the school the young phenom attended. Dunn figured that by bringing along Maisel, a local boy, would make it easier to get the Xaverians to give up their star player if they could see that being signed by the Orioles was a stepping stone to the big time.

Brother Gilbert, the schools baseball coach and athletics director, met with the two men apprehensively. While one one hand he wanted the young man to succeed, on the other he also wanted a winning ball club for the upcoming season and this kid was his ace. Brother Gilbert thought about how he could keep him for just one more season and settled on the old bait and switch tactic.

"Sure my boy is great" he told the two men, "but this other lefty we faced last season was even better". Dunn, intrigued, must have wondered who this other unknown star was. 

"Ruth from St. Mary's" was Brother Gilbert's reply.

See, the pitcher Jack Dunn had scouted and called one of the greatest left-handers he'd ever seen was not the young Babe Ruth, but a student at Mount St. Josephs College named Ford Bernard Meadows. 

At the time, Meadows was hands-down the best pitcher in Baltimore. In the 1913 season the kid had shut out Georgetown, Boston College and Holy Cross - all in one week. His games were given as much coverage in the Baltimore newspapers as the Washington Senators and Orioles. There was no doubt that Meadows was a budding superstar. As far as anyone was concerned, no one had heard of this Ruth kid over at St. Mary's that Brother Gilbert had spoke of.

And in truth, the Xaverian Brother and baseball coach was fibbing a bit: he'd never actually seen Ruth pitch before. In all the games Mount St. Josephs played against St. Mary's Ruth appeared as a left-handed catcher. The big kid impressed Brother Gilbert not with his pitching but with his bat, a skill he used to eat up any pitcher Mount St. Josephs threw at him. Because both St. Mary's and Mount St. Josephs College were run by Xaverian brothers, Gilbert was familiar with Ruth's coach, Brother Matthias, and through him had learned of Ruth's strong and accurate arm. 

It was a brilliant tactic and Jack Dunn fell for it. Within days he'd signed the young George Herman Ruth without ever seeing him play an inning of baseball, all based on the little white lie of an Xaverian Brother who was trying to keep his prized ball club intact for one more season.

But what became of Ford Meadows? 

Well, he continued to dominate the collegiate scene. He kicked off the 1914 season with a brilliantly pitched game against the Orioles. Though he lost, the newspapers reported that had he been backed by a capable catcher and right fielder, Meadows would have defeated the Birds. A few weeks later he pitched a no-hitter and at the end of the college season was in Frederick, Maryland playing semi-pro ball and making headlines with his pitching feats. So while Ruth played half a season with the Orioles and made it up to the Boston Red Sox, Meadows was still an amateur, though a well-known and highly touted one. 

After school ended in the spring of 1915, Jack Dunn swooped in and finally signed the southpaw he'd originally wanted. Dunn's Orioles has been forced to relocate to Richmond after they were beaten at the box office by the upstart Baltimore Terrapins of the Federal League. While with Richmond the former phenom was less than mediocre. He was consistently wild and in 13 games could only muster an 0-2 record. But the New York Yankees saw something in him and in late August Dunn sold Meadows to New York for a $5000 profit. 

Meadows rode the Yankees bench for the rest of the season, never getting into a game but was invited to join the team in Macon, Georgia the next year for spring training. Unfortunately for Meadows he pitched poorly and was quickly let go, rejoining the Orioles, who had again set up shop in Baltimore after the demise of the Federal League. 

Now Jack Dunn began to sour on the former college star. Throughout the spring he failed to impress. He couldn't find the plate and Dunn complained he was sorely out of shape. Exasperated with Meadow's performance and attitude, Dunn suspended him. In what was a pretty ballsy move for the time, the southpaw filed a grievance with the minor league baseball commission and Dunn was told to play him or let him go. This kind of insubordination from one of his players couldn't have sat well with the autocratic manager and owner. While Dunn was well known for treating his ballplayers with unheard of respect, the Orioles were his team, an extension of himself. That one of his boys would have the stones to file a grievance against him and challenge his authority to run the club as he saw fit must have angered him immensely.

Dunn reluctantly took him back into the fold. 

Ford Meadows, the guy who was more highly touted than Babe Ruth, would finally get his own place in the baseball history books, but not in a good way. On June 30, 1916 Dunn put him in as a relief pitcher against Richmond. Down 8-2, Meadows took the mound for the home half of the sixth and started walking everyone in sight. By the time it was over he issued free passes to 11 Richmond batters and set what was then a record. Dunn, his point made, gave Meadows his unconditional release later that day.

As far as I can tell, Meadows never appeared in another professional game. He did, however, find love and on August 4th married Miss Grace Miller. Meadows was still so well known that the Baltimore newspapers wrote about his wedding and one article reported that the couple honeymooned in Atlantic City and that since his release from the Orioles he had been playing amateur ball around Baltimore. 

With the World War raging in Europe it was just a matter of time before Meadows, 22 at the time, was caught up in it. He served with the 514th Pioneer Infantry in France where he dislocated his shoulder and had his ear shot off in the fighting. He returned home on a transport ship with thousands of other wounded doughboys almost six months after the war was over.

I couldn't find any other traces of Ford Meadows after that. Most likely he returned to his wife and made a life for himself around Baltimore. While his ball playing career might not have lived up to the promise many expected from him, he was instrumental in launching the career of the greatest baseball player of all time.

146. Charlie Hoover: Talented But Troubled

When I was looking for any kind of reference on Humpty Badel, I could find only one other person who had written about him in the last 90 or so years - Thom Karmik. His website Baseball History Daily is a joy to read, a fact that I can personally testify to. After reading the Badel story I found myself going deeper and deeper into his archive of past stories until I had to restrain myself - I was getting dangerously off the track of my Badel research. His endless trove of interesting ballplayers and new (to me) stories had me hooked. Seeing that we both share a similar taste in obscure players and stories, I emailed Thom and asked him if he'd be interested in writing a story for my site as a guest author. Lo and behold he agreed and quickly sent me this great bit of original research on a really interesting guy from the early days of the game. So, without further delay, I'll turn it over to Thom Karmik...

Charles E. Hoover is one of a select group; Major League players for whom no information is available about when or where he died.  Like many 19th Century ballplayers he eventually became better known for his demons than for his ability, and eventually faded into obscurity.

Hoover was born in Mound City, Illinois in September of 1865; the town, upriver from Cairo was incorporated just seven years earlier and was the site of the Union Army’s largest hospital in the west and a shipyard that produced three Union ironclads:  the U.S.S. Cairo, the U.S.S. Mound City, and the U.S.S. Cincinnati.

Nothing is known about Hoover’s childhood, but at some point he settled in Hannibal, Missouri, where he would return throughout his life. 

His professional career began in 1886 with the Lincoln Tree Planters in the Western League.  Hoover played for three teams in the Western League in 1887, and his .342 batting average and growing reputation as a solid catcher with an excellent arm earned him a contract with A.G. Spalding’s Chicago White Stockings. 

Between the 1887 and ’88 seasons Hoover’s troubles began.

He was drunk in Lincoln, Nebraska (some contemporary papers said the incident happened in Kansas, but it appears Lincoln was the site) in early December of 1887 when he was arrested for shooting at a carriage driver.  In January a wire service report which appeared in several papers said Hoover had been released from jail and would be joining the white Stockings in the spring:

“(Hoover) has written a letter to President Spalding in which he proves by the court record that the charge preferred against him was entirely fictitious and the work of two men he whipped in a fight.”

The story said a fight broke out between Hoover and the two men and the gun “accidently discharged” and, “Spalding, after investigating all the evidence at hand has come to the conclusion that Hoover, while perhaps a little hotheaded, did nothing especially reprehensible.”

Hoover joined the White Stockings in the spring, but was released to the Western Association before the season began.  The catcher split time between the Chicago Maroons and the Davenport Onion Weeders.  He was purchased for $8500 at the end of the season by the Kansas City Cowboys in the American Association and made his major league debut in October, appearing in three games for the Cowboys.

The following season in Kansas City was a stormy one.  There were numerous reports that he and Kansas City manager Bill Watkins did not get along, and Hoover’s reputation as a talented, but “troubled” player grew.

After another disagreement with Watkins in July, The Sporting Life said:
“Hoover is a peculiar ball player. Fines, bad treatment and threats of expulsion don't seem to  have any effect on him. The management had tried everything on him. It was thought for a time that he would be released, but yesterday he was put in to catch and caught the best game ever played in this city. His work was simply wonderful.”

Then, a few days before the end of the season, Hoover fought with a fan in Kansas City.  The Sporting Life was not ready to give up on him and provided his defense, despite acknowledging he was probably drunk:

“Many a ball player has done worse and has been forgiven readily. Hoover had been drinking. He was mad and angry and when a spectator insulted him, he lost his temper altogether.”

Besides, The Sporting Life said “He did some of the best catching this season in the American Association.”

Despite his defenders, Hoover was finished with Kansas City. When he returned to the Western Association the following season, The Denver Republican said:

“(He) is a good backstop, an excellent thrower, fair hitter and rapid baserunner.  He is cursed however, with a tinder-like temper, which no manager has yet been able to control.”

There are no available statistics for the1890 season.  Hoover began the season with the Kansas City Blues and was acquired in August by the Lincoln Rustlers. 

Hoover’s troubles continued.  The Omaha World-Herald reported that summer that Hoover’s “Mistress” in Lincoln, was the “Keeper of a disreputable house at 6th and M Streets,” and shortly after the end of the 1891 season Hoover was arrested in Lincoln another incident involving Hoover shooting at someone while drunk.

The erstwhile catcher managed to avoid prosecution again when he was signed to a contract with the Sacramento Senators of the California League.  In February, The World-Herald said:

 “At 5 o’clock this morning Charley Hoover was escorted to the Burlington depot by an officer and put upon a train bound for California… (The) ballclub telegraphed $150 and from it he extracted $25 and paid his fine.  If he ever shows up in Lincoln again he will be prosecuted for assault with intent to kill.”

The Sporting Life said Hoover “Who but for his besetting sin, drink, would be one of the great catchers of the profession…He has signed a contract to abstain from liquor, a forfeiture of salary being the penalty for a violation of his agreement.”

By late May Sacramento manager John McCloskey had tired of Hoover and the catcher was released.  Hoover went first to Hannibal, and then signed a contract to play for a semi-pro team in Bozeman, Montana.  The next season he signed with the Omaha Omahogs of the Western League.  The World Herald said Hoover was:

“One of the best backstops in the business…he has been signed on the condition that he keeps straight.”

He didn’t, and was released before the season began.  Hoover spent the year working as a bricklayer in Butte, Montana.

He was next heard from in January of 1893 when The Sporting Life said “Hoover got into several scrapes in Butte, so the town became so hot for him that he shook the dust off his feet and returned to his Hannibal, MO home.”

That spring, Charlie Comiskey was desperate for a catcher to back up Farmer Vaughn and signed Hoover.  The Sporting Life’s opinion of Hoover had soured, and the paper did not support the move:

"Comiskey is sufficiently hard up for a catcher to take chances with an unreliable man, notwithstanding costly experience. He is trying Charlie Hoover, the ill-tempered and bibulously inclined ex-Kansas City catcher."

Hoover’s last chance at the Major Leagues ended when Comiskey chose to stick with Morgan Murphy, who had hit .197 and committed 18 errors in 74 games the previous season, as Vaughn’s backup.  Hoover dropped out of sight for the remainder of 1893, but returned the next two seasons playing in the Southern and Western Associations—the 29-year-old’s professional career was over after the 1895 season.

Hoover returned to Hannibal and was not heard from again until 1899.  Hoover was drunk when he attempted to pass a bad check at the Stillwell Packing Company in Hannibal.  He was arrested, and for the first time convicted and sentenced to prison—for five years. 

In 1902, Missouri Governor Alexander Dockery pardoned Hoover.  The St. Louis Republic said:
 
"Hoover’s propensity to gaze upon the wine when it was red has caused him all his trouble.”

But the paper was hopeful for Hoover’s future:

“He is considering several offers to play ball and will probably accept one of them.”
 
The 36-year-old Hoover did not sign with any professional team.  That was last that was heard from Hoover--one of the few who reached the Major Leagues and disappeared without a trace.

Be sure to visit Baseball History Daily. When I asked Thom to write about what his site is all about, this is what he said: 

“In the days before electronic media the players who toiled in hundreds of small and medium sized towns across North America were heroes, idols and sometimes villains; and they were household names.  While organizations like SABR have provided reams of research on professional baseball, so many of those household names, and the teams and the leagues in which they played, have been lost in the mists of time.”

"What I’ve also discovered is that just as many stories of the players who reached the pinnacle of their profession and played in the largest cities in country have also faded into obscurity."

"What has made it especially fun and satisfying for me is that I have actually heard from ancestors of some of the players I’ve profiled and had them tell me they learned something about a great-grandfather or uncle that they hadn’t known. I’m a former broadcast journalist and also worked on political campaigns for a decade;  I relocated to Las Vegas a year ago and no longer do either of those things." 

145. Humpty Badel: Almost Major League

Although I'm originally from New Jersey, I've come to adopt the Commonwealth of Kentucky as my home. It wasn't a quick decision - over the years I'd moved here and then left 2 times - yet last year when I was looking for a place to settle after 6 years in Los Angeles there was only one place that truly felt like home - Kentucky. I live right across the Ohio River from Cincinnati and within minutes I can go from a Reds game to the beautiful farm where my girlfriend boards her horse, Lefty (great name, huh?). For some reason, of all the places I've called home over the years, Jersey, Baltimore, Chicago, Colorado - Kentucky is where I want to be. And as a little private way to say thanks to my adapted state, I like to feature players with Kentucky roots like Pee Wee Reese, Carl Mays and Bill Niemeyer.

But there's one team I always wanted to do a card for: the short-lived Covington Blue Sox. Covington, Kentucky is the city directly across the Ohio River from Cincinnati and in 1913 was host to a franchise in the newly-formed Federal League. That first season was a trial run for what in 1914 would become almost a third major league. The Blue Sox lasted only a few months before they were forced to move west to Kansas City, becoming known as the Packers. Since I lived in Covington and know the spot Federal Park once stood, I have been avidly searching for the perfect player to represent Covington's brush with baseball history. After rummaging through pages and pages of 1913 Cincinnati newspaper files, I found that certain player and his story was better than I could have hoped for...

At a time when the only way someone with a handicap could get onto a professional ball club was as a mascot, hunchback Fred Badel came surprisingly close to making the major leagues. Badel came from Carnegie, one of the many gray steel towns outside Pittsburgh. He was born in 1881, or maybe before that, we just don't know for sure - like many ballplayers throughout the history of the game, he probably shaved a couple of years off as he grew older. Newspaper stories during his playing career make note of his peculiar accent and that he spoke German so he was probably the son of immigrants, of which the greater Pittsburgh area had no shortage of. He suffered from a severe curvature of the spine called Kyphosis which caused a hump to form on Badel's back. In those pre-politically correct times it inevitable he would be known as "Humpty". He could neither read nor write and contemporary sportswriters weren't shy in declaring Badel a bit on the slower side of things. He apparently had trouble remembering simple instructions and one manager said he lacked common sense. Newspaper articles called him "odd" and "picturesque." Humpty could, however, play ball.

Badel got his professional start around 1902 or 1903 playing for Youngstown in the Ohio-Pennsylvania League. In 1905 he surfaced with the Johnstown Johnnies of the "outlaw" Tri-State League. The "outlaw" brand meant that the league wasn't affiliated with the minor or major leagues which fell under the umbrella of the National Association. While playing outfield for the Johnnies, Badel attracted the attention of the Buffalo Bisons of the Class A Eastern League, which was the equivalent of today's AAA.

The manager of the Bisons was George Stallings, later manager of the 1914 World Champion Boston Braves. Stallings became very smitten with Badel during spring training. Accounts state that he was above average contact hitter with a good eye. On the base paths he was described as a "whirlwind" and fearless. Moreover, Badel used his disability to his advantage: due to his hump and curved spine his strike zone was quite small making him a hard man to pitch to. By the time the Bisons broke camp and headed towards Buffalo, he was penciled in as the starting right fielder.

Playing their way north, the Bisons stopped in Cincinnati to play the Reds. After a short series between the two clubs reds manager Ned Hanlon offered Stallings $5,000 then and there for Badel but was rebuffed. Stallings felt he had a budding star and wanted him for himself. 

The presence of a hunchback on the club was as much a source of interest and amusement for press as it was for his new teammates. It was a different time and like black children and midgets, hunchbacks were considered good-luck charms by superstitious ballplayers. "Rubbing the hump" for luck was as time-honored a tradition in baseball as spitting. Unfortunately for Badel, some of his new teammates couldn't differentiate between the ball-playing Badel and the lucky hunchback Badel.

Bisons' ace pitcher Rube Kisinger was so infatuated with Badel's hump that he would wait for him to come in from the outfield after each inning and rub his hump all the way to the dugout. While Kisinger probably meant no disrespect doing what a newspaper at the time called an "affectionate demonstration", Badel was mortified by the superstitious ritual and pleaded to the Bisons' management for relief. None came. Rube Kisinger was a former big leaguer and the best pitcher on the Bisons. Though Badel was warmly accepted by the Buffalo fans and he was holding his own in the league, by July the "humpstroking business" became unbearable. He was also having a hard time learning the club's field and batting signs and his teammates began to poke fun at his illiteracy and ignorance. Badel was also disgruntled with his pay on the Bisons which was less than what he was getting in outlaw ball. A 1907 Sporting Life article relates that Badel borrowed $100 from Stallings then told him he was jumping the club. A hundred bucks in 1906 was a hefty sum and Stallings had to have his lawyer talk him out of physically attacking Badel and beating his money out of him. On July 6th he quit the club.

By leaving the Bisons Badel effectively KO'ed his chances at making the majors. Breaking a professional baseball contract, especially one in the high minors, was career suicide. Not only would a club think twice about signing a known "jumper" but in most instances couldn't because the rebellious ballplayer would be blacklisted from any league that was part of the National Association. That's exactly what happened to Badel who had no other choice but to return to Johnstown. He hit a nice .302 for the remainder of the season but suffered a setback when health problems and the death of his mother and brother kept him off the diamond in 1907.

Back with the Johnnies in 1908, Badel played for Ed Ashenback, a life-long minor leaguer who also wrote a very funny and insightful book about his career called "Humor Among the Minors". Ashenback describes how Badel couldn't comprehend simple hit-and-run signs or any other instructions for that matter. Discovering Badel spoke fluent German like himself, Ashenback tried simply shouting base running instructions in that language. This too came to naught since Badel would become excited while speaking German and get picked off base. 

Badel spent the next decade in and out of baseball, mostly in the low minors or Midwestern independent and outlaw leagues. In 1912 he was with the outlaw Cincinnati Pippins. The Pippins were part of the United States League which was formed to challenge the National Association's vice-grip on professional baseball. The league tried to place teams in many big league markets but their brand of ball was of a much lower standard than the majors and fans stayed away. Badel was popular with the sparse Cincinnati fans who did turn out for Pippins games and in May was batting a smooth .364. Unfortunately poor attendance and sub-standard talent forced the league to fold after less than 30 games.

In late July Badel surfaced in the South Atlantic League where he managed the Columbia Comers. Stats show he hit a paltry .203 but he made headlines when he took the mound for the Comers and pitched a complete game win over Columbus. 

For 1913 Badel returned to the Cincinnati area. Crossing the Ohio River to Kentucky he joined up with the Covington Blue Sox. Covington was a franchise in the new Federal League which grew in part out of the ashes of the defunct United States League. The 1913 season was to be a trial run for the Federals who aspired to become a third major league. By this time Badel was mostly playing first base, likely due to his age being somewhere in the mid-thirties range. He apparently still possessed his legs because in June he was listed as leading the Federal League in doubles. The Blue Sox played in a bread box of a stadium called Federal Park that held a cozy 6,000 and boasted outfield dimensions of 218 feet down the right field line, 267 feet to center and 194 feet down the right field line. With the big league Reds a trolly car ride away, the Blue Sox couldn't make ends meet and wisely moved to Kansas City in June.

Badel had one more year of baseball with Maysville, Kentucky of the Ohio State League, batting .246 before he was released in June. After that I could find no other mention of Badel anywhere. Giving it one last try I stumbled on a very impressive blog by Thom Karmik called Baseball History Daily. Karmik wrote the only modern summary of Badel that I've come across and it was through his story that we can get one last glimpse of him (as well as his approximate date of birth and name of the condition he suffered). According to his World War I draft registration, Badel moved back to Ohio and became a carpenter. After 1919 he simply disappears from history.

SOURCES

• The Sporting Life (July 1, 1905)
• The Sporting Life (March 2, 1907)
• Washington Evening Star (January 23, 1907)
• Washington Times (August 3, 1912)
• Ashenback, Edward, Humor Among the Minors (M.A. Donohue & Company, 1911)
• Okkonen, Marc, The Federal League of 1914-1915 (Society for American Baseball Research, 1989)
• Thom Karmik (Baseball History Daily)

142. Stan Musial: Do widzenia Stashu!

The halfway point on the drive between New Jersey and Kentucky is Donora, Pennsylvania. Besides being my own personal milestone of almost being home or almost being to my Grandmother's house, Donora is the birthplace of 2 Hall of Fame ballplayers. I say 2, but it's actually just 1 at the moment - Ken Griffey, Jr. hasn't gone through the formalities of being inducted, but he will. In 35 years of watching baseball in person, Griffey was the absolute greatest ballplayer I had the pleasure of seeing in person. So I call him a Hall of Famer. The other Hall of Famer who hailed from that town of Donora was Stan Musial. Stashu. That Man. Stan The Man. 

He was THE budding superstar of the early 1940's. On a St. Louis Cardinals team that was loaded with talent, young Stan Musial stood out. Unlike tough and rough teammates like Whitey Kurowski or Enos Slaughter, Musial was a quiet, friendly fella. So nice was he that when radio announcers pronounced his Polish last name wrong, Stan was too nice of a guy to bring it to their attention. Thus, Musial (pronounced "Mu-shill") became Musial (pronounced "Mu-see-al"). He seemed to have come out of nowhere - a converted pitcher from the sticks of Pennsylvania who hit .315 and quietly forced his way into the starting lineup of the best team in the National League. It was while he was still relatively unknown that Stan got his famous nickname. Dodger fans at Ebbets Field began referring to the new ballplayer as "that man", as in "oh shit, it's that man again" when he came to bat against Brooklyn. It seemed that every time "that man" came to bat he tore Brooklyn pitching apart. Eventually it evolved to "The Man", the name he was forever known by. That rookie season was just a teaser - in 1943 he led the league in hits, doubles, triples, batting average, slugging percentage - being named the National League MVP was just a formality. 1944 was pretty much a repeat of the previous year and for the third year in a row the Cardinals went to the World Series. But there was that thing called World War II going on and it was inevitable that The Man would have to take part. Brooklyn's Pete Reiser pushed hard to get Stan to join the Army and play on his Fort Riley ball club but Musial wanted Navy instead. 

Seaman Stan Musial was posted to Bainbridge Naval Training Center in Maryland. During the war all military bases had football, basketball and baseball teams to keep the servicemen occupied and out of trouble. Team sports helped build an esprit de corps among the recruits and many of the larger bases fielded varsity teams loaded with former big leaguers. Teams like the Bainbridge Commodores, which Musial played on, would play exhibition games against major league teams and local semi-pro outfits for the benefit of the troops. Free admission to see Bainbridge take on the Philadelphia Athletics or Brooklyn Dodgers kept many a sailor out of trouble for the afternoon and take his mind off of what was to come when they shipped overseas.

While with Bainbridge Musial played with Lum Harris (A's), Dick Wakefield (Tigers), Thurman Tucker (White Sox), Stan Spence (Senators) and Dick Sisler (Cardinals). Not a bad variety of talent for a Navy base. It was while stationed there that Musial decided to tinker with his batting mechanics enabling him to pull the ball. Pulling the ball allowed him to hit more home runs to entertain the sailors. Besides making the white hats happy, the adjustment turned a great hitter into a power hitter.

Musial continued to play ball when he was shipped out to Hawaii. In 1945 the island was an arsenal of talent and it can be argued that the level of ball being played on any given weekend in Hawaii was better than what was being offered by the Major League back in the States. Playing ball the entire two years in the Navy gave Musial the edge when he rejoined the Cardinals for the 1946 season. He led the National League in all the same offensive categories that he did in 1943 and of course was again given the MVP Award as the Cardinals won the World Series over Boston. 

The Man went on to have one of the best careers in baseball history. Besides being arguably the best hitter of all-time, Stan was also one of the most respected. His cheerful personality and fair sense of sportsmanship earned him the respect of millions of fans. There's a story from 1947 that sums up what Stan Musial was all about. During a Dodger-Cardinals game, Jackie Robinson, playing first, was intentionally spiked by Enos Slaughter. This was Robinson's first year and he was under strict orders not to fight back. To do so would jeperdise the whole integration effort. Players from the other teams knew this as well and it was open season on Robinson. Enos Slaughter took full advantage. Out by a mile, Slaughter leaped into the air and slid his spikes down the defenseless Robinson's calf as he stretched for the ball. When Robinson got himself on base a few innings later, he stood on first, poised to spike the hell out of whoever was covering second. Stan was playing first for St. Louis and told Robinson that saw what happened and he wouldn't blame him for spiking whoever was covering second. Musial's sense of sportsmanship and empathy struck Robinson and made him realise that not everyone was against him. Stan's words that day totally defused a situation  that could have gotten totally out of control had Robinson intentionally hurt who ever happened to be covering second.

When Stan passed away last week at the age of 92, baseball lost a great man. What more can I say except Do widzenia Stashu!

In the meantime...

Yeah, I know I've been very behind in adding a new card and story to the site. See, for the past 2 weeks I've been working in South Jersey writing the descriptions for a sports memorabilia auction catalog. It's an interesting job and great people to work with and on top of that, I get to handle and write about some extremely interesting sports memorabilia. How many people can say they've held a real T-206 Honus Wagner card in their hands? Or a a bat last used by a member of the 1924 St. Louis Browns? Anyway, I'm fortunate that the auction house is near where my Grandmother lives so I have been able to spend all my time off with her. I brought the research for 4 or 5 stories with me on my trip but I haven't had the urge to really sit down and write. When I get back to my real life in Kentucky next week I should have some real good stories coming up. Until then, I hope that if you're impatient about reading something you check the list over to the left and click on a player you might not have read about yet. Going back through the past, here are a few of the stories and cards I particularly like:

Farmer Dean: I thought this story was just too good to be true when I stumbled on it, but by God, it is!

Ray White: Ray's family recently wrote to say they like the story so that's reason enough for me.

Tom Lasorda: The Dodgers skipper was one tough character back in the day.

Alabama Pitts: One of my favorite stories so far. Sing Sing, botched robberies and roadhouses...

Sig Jakucki: Perhaps the baddest mutha ever to grace the big leagues.

Chief Tokohama: How McGraw almost integrated the game half a century before Robinson.

Frankie Zak: And what list is complete without the Patron Saint of the Infinite Baseball Card Set?

If anyone else would like to recommend a favorite post that others might enjoy, please do in the comments section below...

141. Mickey Mantle: Got Them Kansas City Blues...

This is my final installment of Mickey Mantle's days in the minor leagues. The story of The Mick's Yankee days are well known, told and re-told by writers much better than I. However, like a lot of the stars I've featured in the Infinite Baseball Card Set, I like to look into the time before these guys became famous and see how their seasons in the bush leagues forged the player they eventually became. Mantle's pre-Yankee history is a little different than most. Right from the start he was proclaimed the next Yankee superstar, and his seasons in Independence, Joplin and Kansas City open a unique window through which we can see how a kid from the country painfully tries to live up to the expectations so many people have riding on him. Whether you are a Yankee fan or not, Mickey Mantle's minor league story will give even the most cynical baseball fan an appreciation for a boy who was picked to take the mantle of the next great Yankee superstar before he even played a single game in organized baseball.

Yankees' general manager George Weiss was nervous. More than nervous - his God damned heart was palpitating... Here it was, first day of 1951 spring training, and the most valuable kid to ever come out of the team's farm system failed to show up. What could it be? More money? The kid was signed for a song, maybe he and his Okie father were getting wise and wanted some more cash. Or maybe he was having some personal problems. Harry Craft, his manager for the past two seasons reported the kid had some sort of confidence issues. Or it could be vice. In Joplin he was starting to hang around with some unsavory characters and had developed a taste for the sauce. It could be it was a broad. A kid with all that talent would be a prime target for some seasoned chippy with keen foresight. After all, he was heralded as the successor to Joe DiMaggio without even having played a major league game.

Weiss couldn't take it anymore. He picked up the phone and put a call through to Commerce, Oklahoma. A few minutes later the Yankees general manager relaxed with a deep sigh. Turns out the kid hadn't received his transportation money to Phoenix. His own front office had screwed up. The future star of the best ball club on earth was biding his time working as an electrician's assistant 500 feet underground in a zinc mine. Weiss told the kid to stay the hell above ground and immediately wired the travel money.

The Yankees in 1951 was a team in transition. The most popular team in the country was starting to gray around the edges. What remained of the pre-war stars were fading fast and Stengel was in the tough position of trying to flawlessly transform the old team into a new team while not losing their position as the best in the league. Clearly Mickey Mantle was a key component in making the transition from old to new, but there was a problem for the impatient Yankees - the kid just wasn't a major league shortstop. Stengel and his coaches wisely acknowledged that it would take at least two seasons of additional minor league experience to bring his fielding up to professional standards. On any other ball club that would be acceptable but not for the Yankees. If the kid was supposed to be the successor to the great DiMaggio, why not make him an outfielder?

You would think that the great Yankee outfielder Joe DiMaggio would have been the perfect teacher, but he would have absolutely no part of his chosen successor. As with so many things in his life, the touchy DiMaggio imagined he was being insulted. Perhaps no one on the team was more unfriendlier to the rookie than the aging star. When the coaching staff decided on remolding the kid into an outfielder, DiMaggio told the press he didn't agree with the decision. 

He was the only one.

Casey Stengel brought in outfielder Tommy Henrich specifically to tutor him. Henrich had retired the season before and was now one of Stengel's coaches. "Old Reliable" lived up to his name and after working with Mickey every day turned out a respectable right fielder. Mantle for his part was happy with the change in position. He told The Sporting News "I like the idea of shifting to the outfield. It is not as tough as the infield, and out there I get to use my legs."

The sportswriters went nuts covering the rookie superstar and he didn't disappoint. 

Everything about the kid was special - hell, even his name was special. The name "Mickey" was always a nickname, a great baseball name, but a nickname given by someone else, short for Michael or something. This kid's given name was Mickey. Like his prodigious talents he brought with him from Oklahoma, he came with that great name. In all respects he was the complete package.

If anyone had any lingering doubts about the kid, what happened on Monday, March 26th would put them all to rest. Playing at Bovard Field against the University of Southern California, Mantle clubbed two home runs, a bases loaded triple and single. One of the homers was a 650 ft bomb that not only went over the outfield wall but it also cleared the football field behind it as well. After the game the Yankees' bus was almost tipped over when over-excited fans swarmed trying to get the kid's autograph. By the time the team headed East for opening day, right fielder Mickey Mantle was hitting well over .400. Center fielder Joe DiMaggio couldn't crack .200.

The rookie started off just like he was supposed to. Wearing number 6 on the back of his jersey, one couldn't help but notice it was the next number after DiMaggio's own number 5. Ruth had been 3, Gehrig 4. It was only natural the next great Yankee star follow in order. Throughout the first month of the season he was above .300 and batting second in the lineup. But then things started to fall apart. With the Korean War raging, many angry people were asking why this human God was wearing Yankee pinstripes instead of army green. It was a good question. The name "draft dodger" started being thrown around. In fact, Mantle had been given a military physical by his draft board in Tulsa twice, once in 1949 and again just days before opening day. Each time he was rejected as 4F. Due to an earlier injury he suffered from osteomyelitis, a bone infection that never completely goes away. He might be healthy now, but if he was inducted in the service and it flared up, the government would be on the line for a lifetime of disability payments. Because of the liability the military unilaterally flatly turned down anyone with osteomyelitis. Still, no matter how hard the Yankee publicity machine tried to explain the truth, Mickey was heckled on the field as a draft dodger and angry parents sent him hate mail on a staggering level.

The cold shoulder from fellow outfielder DiMaggio also made the rookie's life unnecessarily tough. In their first game against the Red Sox, photographers ushered DiMaggio and Mantle together with Ted Williams for a picture. DiMaggio greeted Williams but consciously neglected to introduce Mickey. After an awkward and wholly unnecessary silence, Williams took it upon himself to put out his hand and make the new kid's acquaintance.

For a rookie not yet 20 years-old, the pressure started to build. The way he was playing would have been more than acceptable for any other rookie, but Mickey wasn't any other rookie. He was supposed to be the next DiMaggio. To be a big league ballplayer was the only thing he was raised to be. Each slump or lapse on the field unleashed his uncontrollable temper. Inside he was seething at himself, unfortunately that anger sometimes overflowed and was propelled outward. After striking out he would swear loudly on his way back to the dugout. When one elderly season ticket owner rebuked him after one particularly nasty outburst he told the woman to "shut your God-damned mouth!" 

Off the field his life got complicated as well. With his long-time girlfriend back in Commerce, the most eligible rookie in New York started slipping around with a showgirl named Holly Brooke. Burke introduced the country boy to the glittering lights of Broadway. In order to cover his awkwardness at cocktail parties he discovered the magic of scotch whiskey. Shyster businessmen circled the 19 year-old kid and he quickly fell prey to countless uneven business deals that took whole teams of Yankee attorneys to extricate the naive rookie from.

His strike outs soon started snowballing. Stengel moved him up and down in the lineup like a slide ruler and was forced to answer daily questions from the beat writers about when he was going to admit defeat and send the kid back to the minors. Stengel stuck to his guns as long as he could but after he started striking out at least once in every game, he submitted to the inevitable. With real tears in his eyes, Stengel told the kid he was being sent down. To make room for a much needed additional pitcher, Mickey Mantle was optioned to the Kansas City Blues. It was back to the minors.

The Kansas City team Mickey joined in the summer of 1951 was a seething pot of dissension. Just like today, the Yankees never had to rely much on a farm system. Being the most successful team in the biggest market, the Yankees could purchase ready-made ballplayers unlike most other teams who had to grow their own. Though Kansas City was New York's top farm team, it wasn't so much stocked with budding stars as filled with has-beens and never-will-be's. While many on the team knew they would never show their mugs in the majors, everyone knew Mantle was just in K.C. temporarily. Before he was even with the team he was resented.

The guy at the helm of the Blues was probably the only man who could relate to Mantle's position as having to replace a legendary Yankee star. On opening day in 1935, George Selkirk put on a Yankees jersey with number 4 on the back and took Babe Ruth's place in right field. If anyone knew the pressure Mantle was under, Selkirk sure did.

Joining the team on the road, Mantle was handed a used jersey with number 20 on the back and promptly continued his batting slump. In his first handful of games he went 3 for 18. The first hit was a swinging bunt which he speedily beat out for a hit. When he reached the dugout at the end of the inning Selkirk chastised the kid. "We know you can bunt, Mick" he said. "You're not here to bunt. You're here to get some hits and get your swing back." Scorned by his teammates, ripped by the press and feeling more alone than ever before, he became depressed. But he did start to hit. When the team rolled into Milwaukee he had one 4 hit game, then began belting the home runs. In Indianapolis he hit two - one from each side of the plate. Against the Toledo Mud Hens he hit for the cycle and then added an additional homer for good measure. By the time the Blues headed back to Kansas City, Mickey was batting a nice .345.

Yet each night he sat in his hotel room and poured over the Yankee box scores. The longer he stayed in Kansas City, the less sportswriters mentioned him in the papers. He was fading away and fast. In Mantle's mind, no matter how many home runs he hit down in the minors, he was sure he'd blown his chance with New York. He was lonely and scared. He wrote to showgirl Holly Brooke and begged her to join him in Kansas City, knowing correctly she'd never hitch her star to a lowly minor leaguer. Each day brought more hate mail that piled up in his room. Especially hurting was the ones from the parents of soldiers calling him a draft dodger. 

When the Blues opened up their home stand at Municipal Stadium he started slumping again and making errors in the field. The depression closed in on him and he needed help. He craved some kind of advice from a friendly face. He called his father Mutt and told him he wanted to go home.

Mickey's father Mutt jumped in his truck and made the half-day drive to Kansas City. If he was expecting a pat on the back and sweet words, he was in for a rude surprise. In his son's hotel room after the day's game was rained out, Mutt listened stoically as his boy explained how he was a failure and wanted to quit and go home to Oklahoma. In what would be known as the most famous and successful pep talk in baseball history, Mutt Mantle stood up and started packing his son's clothes, telling him that he thought he'd raised a man. "I see I raised a coward." Emptying the dresser drawers into a suitcase, the father told his son he could come home and work in the mines with him. The shock treatment did the trick. 

After convincing his father to stop the packing, Mantle realised that if he quit now, that would be the real failure. He resolved himself to stick it out. Mutt got in his truck and drove back to Oklahoma, alone. With the rain gone, Mickey belted two home runs in the next game. He averaged over two RBI's a game and on top of all that, the kid was almost single-handedly leading the Blues on a late-season run for the American Association pennant. 

On August 20th, he got the call he was hoping for: New York wanted him back. Trading in his number 20 Kansas City jersey for a set of pinstripes with number 7 on the back, Mickey Mantle rejoined the New York Yankees.

As with the two other stories about Mantle's early days, I'd like to dedicate them to my Uncle Eddie, a great fan of The Mick. As a boy, my Uncle Eddie would come to my baseball games when my father couldn't make it, something I was always thankful for. More than 30 years later my uncle pinch hit for my Pop again, this time helping my brother and I settle my mother's affairs since her death in this past summer. Thanks again Uncle Ed, this ones for you.

SOURCES

• The Sporting  News (March 21, 1951)
• The Kansas City Star, column by Joe Posnanski (August, 1, 2001)
• Castro, Tony Mickey Mantle: America's Prodigal Son (Potomac Books, 2002)

140. Oscar Bielaski: Poles and Bats

There was a time when I was growing up when I had no idea what I was. I mean, I knew basically what I was - a 6 or 7 year-old boy growing up in New Jersey, just like all the other kids on my block. Then came the day when I suddenly had another name to describe what I was: "a Polack". It was one of the Irish kids' father from the next block who called me that. He was a rummy and there was always a stream of exotic-sounding words that shot out of his mouth as he stumbled home from the tavern, but this time it was directed at me. Later I asked my father what that word meant. I can still see the red in his face when I repeated "Polack" to him. After asking who'd called me that, he sat me down at the kitchen table and explained to me that what it meant was that my family was originally from a place called Poland. He went on to carefully say that while being from Poland is not bad, the word "Polack" is not a nice term. The proper word is "Pole" to describe a person from Poland. Having no idea of the world beyond Manhattan Island, hearing that my family came from some far away place was, well, neat. I knew both sets of grandparents spoke a different language when they didn't want me to know what they were discussing, now it was all starting to make sense. It was a little later when one of those Irish kids started in on the Polack jokes that I started to get the meaning of being lumped into an ethnic category. I didn't like it. After dispensing a few busted lips and bloody noses the Polack jokes dried up, but it started me on a life-long interest in my family's history and the land they came from. It was only natural that as a baseball fan I began looking for famous ballplayers of Polish heritage - Ted Kluszewski, Carl Yastrzemski and the brothers Coveleski were the obvious ones. Then came Al Simmons, aka Aloys Szymanski and Stan The Man Musial. If you dig deep you can find plenty of Poles in the big leagues, many with Americanized names like Johnny Podres and Jack Quinn. And then that got me thinking, who was the very first Polish-American big leaguer?

The people of the former kingdom of Poland, effectively wiped off the map at the end of the 18th century, seethed under the thumb of the combined rule of Prussia, Austria-Hungary and Russia. Their language was banned, religion eradicated and men conscripted into foreign armies. While many other countries under similar circumstances bent and withered, the Poles developed a proud and stubborn resilience inherent in their psyche to this very day. Under penalty of imprisonment they refused to forget their language and subversive schools and societies popped up to keep it alive. Their Catholic faith became stronger through threat of death and Polish soldiers honed their already formidable warrior reputation while biding their time in the armies of others. Freedom and the idea of liberty found a place in the heart of every Pole. By November of 1830 the Polish people had had enough and launched an insurrection against the Russian government in the eastern part of the country. Although terribly over matched in both numbers and weapons, the Poles fought valiantly capturing the attention of the world's press who overwhelmingly sided with the underdog Poles. The end came in September of the following year when the Russians succeeded in taking Warsaw after a bitter last-ditch stand by the Poles. It is this bitter determination to resist that became the root of the "stupid Polack" jokes. The Poles' natural inclination to fight back at all costs which they see as their only way to be free was perceived by other ethnicity's as stupid and useless. 

Survivors of the 1830 insurrection scattered to all corners of the globe in what became the first large wave of Polish immigrants. One ex-soldier, Russian-trained officer Alexander Bielaski, seriously wounded leading a commando-like unit during the final battle of Warsaw, landed in the United States. Settling in Illinois he made the acquaintance of a young lawyer named Abraham Lincoln. He made a living teaching sword fighting, then relocated to Washington, D.C. and put his engineering education to use for the U.S. General Land Office. Before Civil War broke out he took a wife, Mary and the two had six children: Rosetta, Victor, Oscar, Agnes Alexander and Eugene.

Being a bonafide, European-trained warrior, it was only natural the when war broke out Bielaski would offer his valuable experience to his adapted country. Quickly appointed a Captain he organized the Federal Army for it's first campaign in the Western theater, an attack on the Mississippi River Valley. It wasn't long afterwards that Captain Bielaski met his death in battle. Serving on the staff of General McClernand, Bielaski could have stayed out of combat but during the Battle of Belmont in Missouri he volunteered to lead troops at the front. Leading a massed attack, the Captain had his horse shot out from under him, then grabbed a Springfield Rifle from one of his fallen men and led the assault on foot. Seeing the flag bearer go down he dropped his rifle, took hold of the American flag and waved it aloft to inspire his men. As the attack continued he was hit in the head with a bullet, dead before he hit the ground.

After the heroic death of his father, 16 year-old Oscar ran away to join the army. Signing on with Troop A of the 11th New York Cavalry, he aimed to take up the fight just like his father. The 11th Cavalry had campaigned first around Virginia and Maryland, then penetrated into Mississippi and Louisiana. When Bielaski joined them in September of 1864, the regiment was camped in Louisiana awaiting orders. In the idle down time Bielaski learned a game that was spreading rapidly from regiment to regiment on both sides of the conflict - baseball. After serving as a trooper for a month his superiors found out he wasn't the 19 year-old he claimed he was and promptly discharged him from further service. Though I'm sure he was disappointed to have been thwarted in his attempt to avenge his father's death, the discharge may have saved his life: a month after he was sent home most of the regiment drowned when the troop ship North America sank off the Florida coast.

Bielaski returned to Washington and brought his interest in baseball with him. Still wanting to serve his country he joined the Navy when he turned 19 but missed out on any action. When his hitch was up he returned to Washington and continued to play baseball. He apparently trained as a clerk, which would have given him the opportunity to pursue his beloved sport since it was commonly played by young urban professionals. 

Apparently baseball had become a family affair for the Bielaski's as Oscar played in the same infield as his younger brother Alex on the Rosedale Club. Records show he then played for the Capitol and Union clubs in the years before any organized national leagues existed. In 1872, a year after the first professional league, the National Association was formed, Oscar Bielaski was signed by his hometown Washington Nationals, making him the very first professional Polish-American baseball player.

The Nats were a terrible club in 1872, losing all 11 games they stumbled through. Bielaski was one of their starting outfielders and though batting a paltry .174, he led the team in runs scored with 13, so when he got on base he at least made the most of it. The Nationals disbanded at the end of the season and were replaced by the Blue Legs who finished last of 9 teams but managed to win 8 of 39 games. Bielaski's .283 average was second best on the team and was about average for the National Association. He also led the team in walks. The Blue Legs folded too at the conclusion of the season and Bielaski packed his kit and moved over to Baltimore.

Besides having a terrible baseball name, the 1874 Baltimore Canaries were another lousy ball club, finishing in last in the National Association. Bielaski batted .241 and his 3 stolen bases led the team. Though this doesn't sound like much, Bielaski was a good player on bad teams. Newspapers called him a sure fielder and a good man to have in the clutch. Problem was, he was getting old and by this time he'd married his wife Mary and had a child on the way. Playing on lousy ball clubs that folded every Fall wasn't going to cut it for much longer.

In 1875 Bielaski migrated to Chicago to join the White Stockings. He hit .239, helping the team finish just under .500 for the season. When Al Spalding formed his own White Stockings the following year and entered them in the new National League, Oscar Bielaski was recruited to play outfield for them. Finally Bielaski had a berth on a real contender and the team, led by Cap Anson, Cal McVey, Deacon White and Al Spalding, stormed to the top of the standings becoming the very first National League pennant winners. 

That great championship season was the last for Bielaski. Taking his .243 career average with him, he returned home to Washington, D.C. where a stable career as a clerk in the auditor's office at the Navy Yard awaited him. In between raising his 3 sons and 2 daughters, the old outfielder kept his hand in the game by coaching teams made up of Navy Yard personnel. On November 8, 1911 while boarding a streetcar at 6th and G Streets, he had a massive heart attack and died on the way to the hospital. Following a funeral service attended by many ex-ballplayers, Oscar Bielaski was buried at Arlington National Cemetery. His simple headstone is inscribed with his name, company and regiment, but nothing about his being the very first Polish-American to play professional baseball.

The Bielaski family produced a few other notables - remember Oscar's younger infield-playing brother Alex? He became a very highly respected Reverend in the Methodist Episcopal Church. One of his sons, also a stand-out high school and college ballplayer, A. Bruce Bielaski, became the head of the Bureau of Investigation before J. Edgar Hoover (see a trend here with directors of the F.B.I. initializing their first name?). 


So that's the story of the first Polish-American professional ballplayer. I went back and forth over the Christmas holiday about this story. You see, though I'm proud of and identify with my Polish heritage, I'm first and foremost an American. My family all came here with dreams of becoming a part of something big and great - the United States of America. A country so special that it attracts people of all religions, colors and ideals would never have become that way if everyone insisted on clinging to those hyphens many insert before the word "American". Teddy Roosevelt (a life-long hero of mine) said it eloquently and succinctly in 1915:

"There is no room in this country for hyphenated Americanism... a hyphenated American is not an American at all. This is just as true of the man who puts "native" before the hyphen as of the man who puts German or Irish or English or French before the hyphen. Americanism is a matter of the spirit and of the soul. Our allegiance must be purely to the United States. We must unsparingly condemn any man who holds any other allegiance. But if he is heartily and singly loyal to this Republic, then no matter where he was born, he is just as good an American as any one else."

One of the reasons I love baseball so much is that it seems to have been one of the main things that helped new immigrants blend in and become American. The game was wholly an American one, a complex one but something everyone could learn if they tried hard enough. It wasn't something brought by Italians or Mexicans or Irish - it was something that was already here, something that could be found everywhere, no matter where one settled in the country. To play and understand baseball was your entry ticket to greater things. It made you an American.

That's why I struggled with this story. To call attention to "the first" anything - Pole, Jew, Italian, Japanese - simply erects walls that baseball had previously eliminated. I guess I finally decided to post this story tonight because of the story I related at the start of this piece. The day when that juicer called me a Polack, it helped me discover what it meant to be a Pole and the contributions Poles brought to the United States and how those blended and added to the contributions of all the other nationalities that make up the fabric of this nation, and that made me truly understand what this great country really was all about.

139. Jimmy Lyston: One of the Big Birds

In the Fall of 1988 I turned up in the city of Baltimore, Maryland for my freshman year of art school. I'd never been to the city before, in fact I never left a 40 or 50 mile radius of Manhattan until I was dropped off on Mt. Royal Avenue that Sunday in August. Growing up within subway distance of the Big Apple, I was sorely disappointed when I first arrived in Charm City - It was small. The people had weird accents. Their subway really didn't go anywhere. They only had big league baseball for less that 35 years (and American League no less!)... there was more, but they all soon became moot points, just the typical reaction of a lonely kid thrust into very different world from what he was used to. In time I grew to love Baltimore - the quaintness of the different neighborhoods, its people with their Cockney-Appalachian hybrid accent, the unique quirky qualities many cities sorely lack - but most of all I fell for it's rich baseball culture. The great blackball teams of the 20's, 30's and 40's were a favorite of mine to research, and later the deep major and minor league heritage of the first Orioles caught my attention. This was especially driven home in 1991 when I was doing my research for the graphics I was designing for the new Oriole Park at Camden Yards. I wanted the graphics for the new ballpark not to merely pay homage to those great teams and ballplayers, I wanted it to look like a place they would be proud to take the field, look around, and call home. The Baltimore fans, who I'd come to respect more than anything from the countless afternoons and nights spent in the bleachers of the old Memorial Stadium, deserved a worthy place to house their century of unwavering baseball support.

Even though I left the city over 17 years ago, I still have a soft spot for its ball clubs, the 1920's International League Orioles being a particular favorite. Many baseball historian's call them the best minor league team of all time. Problem is, except for brief mentions in Lefty Grove biographies no one has really written about them. It's a part of baseball history that is sorely overlooked and that's why I became very excited when my pal Dr. Bob Hieronymus called and told me he was having an author on his syndicated radio show who'd written a book about his grandfather, Jimmy Lyston, who played on the 1921 Baltimore Orioles. In fact, Dr. Bob said, the book wasn't just about his grandfather, but about a succession of generations of the Lyston's playing pro and semi ball in Baltimore. When the book arrived it exceeded all expectations - this was one of the best books on minor league baseball's glory years that I'd ever read. The author, Jimmy Keenan, traces his relatives as they navigated through the bush leagues from the 19th century to the 1930's. As an outsider baseball historian, a book like this means so much more to me - for every Mickey Mantle and Hank Greenberg, there were thousands of Jimmy Lyston's whose story will never be told. Fortunately for us, Jimmy Keenan was a good enough writer, loving grandson and baseball historian, to pay the ultimate homage to his family's personal connection to the national pastime. 

So it gives me great pleasure to finally have Jimmy Keenan tell you a little about his Grandfather, Jimmy Lyston...

Jimmy Lyston was born on January 18,1903 in the Waverly section of North Baltimore, just a stones throw away from the sites of many of Charm City’s most famous ballparks. He was the fourth child of Katherine and John M. Lyston, a major league pitcher in the late 19^th century and the nephew of former professional baseball players, Bill and Marty Lyston. Jimmy’s brother John C. Lyston was a standout pitcher in the Baltimore amateur and semi pro ranks. He signed with Frederick of the Blue Ridge League in 1922.

As a youth, Jimmy worked at Oriole Park at 29^th Street and Greenmount Avenue in a variety of capacities, including peanut vendor, batboy and groundskeeper. In the winter of 1921, team president/manager Jack Dunn signed seventeen-year-old Jimmy to a professional baseball contract with the International League Baltimore Orioles. Seven years earlier, Dunn, a cultivator of home grown talent, signed another Baltimore boy by the name of George Herman Ruth to an Oriole contract. Jimmy, who was an excellent student at Loyola High School and a standout quarterback on the local gridiron, turned down a football scholarship to the University of Maryland in favor of pursuing a career in professional baseball.

Dunn’s Orioles were coming off two straight International League championships and they would go on to win five more championships in a row. The 1921 Baltimore Orioles compiled 119 victories against 47 losses, the second highest win total in the history of professional baseball.

Jimmy traveled south with the Orioles to their training site in Goldsboro, North Carolina in the spring of 1921. He performed well and his steal of home off future Hall of Fame pitcher “Lefty” Grove in an inter-squad game was one of the highlights of the camp.

Jack Dunn decided in advance that Jimmy, who had now turned eighteen, would be sent to the Waynesboro Villagers of the Blue Ridge League to gain experience.

A broken finger suffered in practice shortly after his arrival in Waynesboro precipitated a trip back to Baltimore for medical treatment. While recuperating, Lyston worked out regularly with Dunn’s Birds who were in the midst of an amazing 27 game winning streak. In late June, a number of Dunn’s front line players came down with injuries and Jimmy was placed on the Oriole’s active roster.

For the next few weeks, Jimmy, a natural second baseman, saw duty at every outfield and infield position, except first base. The Baltimore newspapers regularly highlighted the great defensive plays that the youngster was making during this time. One of these excerpts from the Baltimore Sun of July 11, 1921, read, “ Lyston Makes Good – Jimmy Lyston played left field and drew the applause of the Buffalo fans by the manner in which he was pulling down flies. He also doubled with two on base, his hit giving the Birds a comfortable lead.”

All of Baltimore’s baseball fans were rooting for the Waverly lad to succeed. There was even a song written about young Lyston by a local musician who penned the verse, “Dunnie made a star out of the Babe and he’ll make a star out of you.”

In early August, on an overcast and rainy day, Jimmy was hit in the right elbow by a mudball thrown by Newark pitcher Joe “Happy” Finneran. The crafty Finnerran, a former major league hurler, knew that rubbing mud on the ball created considerable movement on his pitches and he used this trickery to great effect.

Lyston, unaware that Finneran’s pitch had broken his arm, kept playing for three more weeks until Dunn, noticing that the youngster was unable to throw, sent him to the team physician for an examination. The prognosis was not good as the doctor discovered that Jimmy’s arm had been broken just below the elbow. The Oriole’s doctor said that the break and nerve damage was so severe, there was a good chance that Jimmy would never be able to throw a baseball again.

Proving the doctor wrong, Lyston reported to the Orioles training camp at Winston Salem, North Carolina in the spring of 1922. After another good showing , he was farmed out to Waynesboro of the Blue Ridge League. Jimmy played well at Waynesboro, leading the league in double plays turned by a second baseman (53) while finishing fifth in the loop in stolen bases (23). His contract was sold to Charleston Palmettos of the South Atlantic League in 1923.

The “Class League Rule” was instituted in professional baseball in 1922 and it would have a great impact on Lyston’s career. A “class” man was generally defined as a player or manager that had participated in at least 25 games and 15 games for a pitcher in a league of higher than D classification. Some leagues differed in the variation of the rule but nonetheless, it was incorporated to keep the big name players out of the lower minors. There were also monthly team salary caps put in place for the same reason. Most leagues allowed three class men including the manager, who was usually an active player, on a team roster at any one time.

Jimmy played 33 games at the highest level of the minor leagues as a rookie in 1921 and was now considered a class man. The “Class League Rule” would follow him throughout his professional baseball career. The Baltimore native enjoyed brief yet successful stints with Wilkes-Barre (.333) in 1925, Spartanburg (.412) in 1928, and Hagerstown (.333) in 1931 but he enjoyed his best full seasons as a pro in the Eastern Shore League. Lyston posted career highs in batting average (.304) with the Laurel Blue Hens in 1923 and stolen bases (27) with the Salisbury Indians in 1924.

From 1921 through 1931 Lyston was a player on a number of semi-pro, professional and barnstorming baseball teams. During this time, he played with and against some of the true immortals of our national pastime. Hall of Famers Lefty Grove, Hack Wilson, Jimmy Foxx, Mickey Cochrane, Home Run Baker, Red Ruffing, Frank Frisch plus Negro League icons Oscar Charleston, Satchel Paige, Pete Hill, Jud Wilson and Biz Mackey were just some of the great stars that he crossed paths with on the diamond.

During the thirties, Jimmy played for the great Baltimore Police baseball teams that won numerous championships in the local amateur and semi-pro leagues. In 1964, Lyston retired from the Baltimore City Police Department with the rank of Captain. Jimmy married the former Edith Wade on December 26,1929. The couple had two daughters, Peggy and Nancy along with six grandchildren and ten great-grandchildren.

Lyston was a founding member of the Oldtimers Baseball Association of Maryland and the Maryland Professional Baseball Players Association. He was elected into the Oldtimers Hall of Fame in 1960. Jimmy Lyston died on March 21,1983 and is buried at New Cathedral cemetery in West Baltimore.

I highly recommend you pick up a copy of The Lystons by Jimmy Keenan. I don't think I've ever come across a book that better documents the life of a typical 1920's minor league ballplayer than Keenan has done. Besides being a valuable look at the life and times of roarin' 20's baseball, Keenan's book is a heart-felt tribute to the man who raised him and played such an important part in his early life. There are only so many times you can re-read the same retread bio's of Satchel Paige and Cal Ripken - "The Lyston" shines a bright light on a part of baseball history that is rarely told and that is unceasingly interesting.

138. Pete Hill: Friars, guns and umps

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you probably know that last year at this time I teamed up with Ron Hill and Gary Ashwill to produce a 15 card set of Hall of Famer Pete Hill. Ron Hill, Pete's nephew, was the driving force behind producing a nice card set to commemorate his famous uncle and he uses the set to teach kids about the great black ballplayers prior to Jackie Robinson. Baseball historian and statistical archaeologist Gary Ashwill uncovered some fantastic information on Pete's long and successful career that spanned the years just prior to the organized Negro leagues. Pete seemed to have played ball everywhere and with or against everyone! The list of teams he played on is basically a list of the best black teams prior to the first world war. The set is high on the list of favorite things I've done because I was able to really illustrate some fantastic looking early baseball uniforms as well as visually tell the story of a little-known Hall of Fame ballplayer. The card you see here is case-in-point: look at that unique caramel brown uniform, quilted pants and striped undershirt - a baseball artist couldn't ask for something better than that to work with! I was lucky in that most of the teams Pete played for sported interesting duds and you can see them all in the set.

Besides my illustrations, the running text on the backs of each card tells Pete's story for the first time thanks to Gary Ashwill's ground-breaking research (if his name sounds familiar, it should - Gary's the guy behind the massive Negro League Statistical Database on Seamheads.com). Below is the story on the back of his Club Fé card:

The Cuban League, which dated back to 1878, had only rarely featured North Americans, and had never seen any black American players, excepting only Negro league teams visiting for fall exhibition series-until 1907. That year the Fe Base Ball Club, nicknamed Los Fraíles (the “Friars”), hired several major black stars from the United States, including Rube Foster, Grant Johnson, and Pete Hill. Fe, which had finished dead last the previous year, mounted a serious challenge to the defending champion Almendares club (Los Azules, or the Blues). Going into the last game of the season, the two teams were knotted with identical 16-13 records. The Blues prevailed in a tight game, 4 to 2, with all the close decisions going their way. After the last out the Fe players surrounded the umpire, whereupon he drew a pistol and held off the angry Friars until he could escape in a police wagon.