For my next several posts, I thought I'd try something different. Ever since I began this blog back in 2010, I consciously made an effort to not have any rhyme or reason to the order in which I presented my stories. One week would bring the story of Negro League legend Leon Day and the next could be turn of the century Federal League player Guy Zinn or a 1930's Japanese baseball player. I like the freedom to present whomever I am interested in at the time, and I think those of you who keep checking back here, or have purchased my books, do as well.
However, while working on this most recent story, I thought it would be interesting to do a series of three (or, to draw on my fancy art school background: a "triptych"), focusing on the trio who held the professional baseball single-season record for most home runs before it was broken by the steroid-addled Barry Bonds in 2001. I wanted to go back to a time when home runs and their records actually meant something. When the numbers 60, 61, 714 and 755 evoked a sort of hushed reverence, a marker that was seemingly unattainable. In the years before the Major Leagues expanded exponentially, dozens of star-quality ballplayers were stranded in the high minors, trapped in second and third rate cities where they tallied seemingly impossible records for most wins, hits or home runs. Because they were achieved in the minor leagues, their names are mostly a footnote today, but if one looks under the blankets and in the deep recesses of baseball history, you'll find guys like Joe Hauser waiting to tell their story.
In the five and a half decades after he retired in 1942, Joe Hauser was the go-to man for "what if", "hard-luck" and "where is he now" baseball stories. Hauser's career stretched from the Deadball Era of Ty Cobb through the Roarin' Twenties of Babe Ruth and on into the hardscrabble Depression Era 1930's. That he lived to be 98 years old made him one of the most interviewed ballplayers and a direct and priceless link back to the game’s Golden Age.
Joe Hauser was born on January 12, 1899 to blacksmith Andreas Hauser and his wife Mary, also called “Mamie.” The couple had emigrated from Austria to Milwaukee’s German-speaking 19th Ward in the 1880’s, and Joe was the fourth of an eventual six children that made up the Hauser family. With a large amount of mouths to feed, Joe quit school at the age of 14 and began working in a mill that built cement mixers. Hauling the heavy machine parts strengthened his wrists and forearms, inadvertently giving Hauser the attributes that would later make him a power hitter. Like all kids in his Milwaukee neighborhood, Hauser grew up playing baseball on any available vacant lot. He eventually graduated from the sandlots to a semi-pro team in one of the city’s saloon leagues where he became a pitcher with a blazing fastball. Known for high strikeout games, Hauser became known as “Zep” or “Zip” for the velocity of his fastball.
When he reached the age of 18, Hauser was recruited for a town team in Waupun, Wisconsin, where he played with and against men much older than him, many of which had previous minor league experience. When he began regularly striking out more than a dozen batters each game, he attracted the attention of Philadelphia Athletics owner and manager Connie Mack. Mack invited Hauser to the Athletics spring training in 1918, but the teenager proved to be too wild and raw to be any use for the Athletics. The kindly Mack paid for Hauser’s train ticket back to Milwaukee and $100 for his time, something that was rarely, if ever, done for failed prospects at the time.
When Joe got back to Milwaukee, his hometown Brewers signed him up. The Brewers played in the American Association, rated by organized baseball as an AA league, one level below the majors. Hauser was still too inexperienced for the AA level and he was optioned to the Providence Grays of the Eastern League. When he was unimpressive in his only outing on the mound, the Grays switched him to the outfield where he began hitting. After spending 1918 and 1919 in Providence where he batted .271 and .273 respectively, Hauser was recalled back to Milwaukee by the Brewers. While his average stayed well over .300, his fielding left much to be desired. At this time, Hauser acquired the curious nickname he’d have for the rest of his long life: “Unser Choe.” When fans at Milwaukee’s Borchert Field heckled or ridiculed Hauser’s play, the local German-American’s in the grandstand would yell back “leave him alone, das ist unser Choe!” “Unser Choe” was German for “Our Joe,” pronounced in the dialect particular to Milwaukee.
Though his batting average was going up each season, his lackluster fielding threatened to keep him a bush league ballplayer for all eternity. Fortunately, Brewer’s manager Jack Egan came up with the brilliant idea to move the budding slugger to first base, and just like that, everything came together for Joe Hauser. When the Athletics came to Chicago to play the White Sox, Connie Mack traveled to Milwaukee to see Hauser play. Tipped off that the great man was in the stands, Unser Choe banged out four hits including a home run. The notoriously budget-conscious Mack shelled out a reported $50,000 and four players to obtain Hauser’s services for 1922. When his contract came in the mail early in 1922, Hauser sent it back to Mack, telling the Athletics owner he would have to boost the pay. It seems that the Brewers had promised a bonus to any player who hit a home run in Milwaukee, and Hauser wanted his money. Mack tried playing hardball with the brash rookie, telling him that his beef was with the Brewers and not the Athletics, but Unser Choe wouldn’t budge. Finally, with the Athletics headed to Fort Myers for spring training, Mack appealed to Henry Killilea, Brewers owner, to convince Hauser to sign. After fruitlessly chasing Hauser’s shadow all over Milwaukee, Killilea finally got the kid’s signature on a Philadelphia contract when he told him to either sign or be out of organized baseball. It worked, and Killilea bundled Hauser onto that evening’s train south to Florida.
Though he was untried at the big league level and lacked the polish of a veteran, Hauser had confidence in his talent. When he made mistakes, he listened intently to the advise of his teammates and Connie Mack, firm in his belief that he would never make the same mistake again. Won over by his positive attitude, the veterans on the Athletics took to the friendly Midwesterner, dubbing him “Dutch” for his German accented phrases.
Unser Choe played 111 games for the 1922 Athletics and hit big league pitching at a .323 clip. He recorded only 15 extra base hits, but 9 of them were home runs. When the Athletics came to Milwaukee to play an exhibition game, it was “Joe Hauser Day” at the Borchert Field, and the hometown hero was showered with gifts including a bowling ball and shoes to go with it. The next season his average dipped a bit, but he almost doubled his home run production, thus solidifying his place as the Athletics starting first baseman for the foreseeable future.
With baseball as his only profession, Hauser was careful to ensure that he was in top condition to practice his trade. He ate heartily - but in moderation, and kept himself to only a single beer when out with teammates - two when he really wanted to cut loose. He had also gotten married to Irene Kaye, lovingly called “Mama” by her husband. The couple set up house in Philadelphia where they lived in serene domesticity during the regular season. Mama would be by his side for the next 62 years as he traveled the country playing baseball. Back in Wisconsin during the off-season, Hauser played indoor baseball with Athletics teammate and fellow Milwaukeean Al Simmons to keep in shape. This strict regimen, plus his natural talent, combined to make 1924 Unser Choe’s breakout season.
Today, when one looks at the list of home run totals for 1924, Babe Ruth’s name appears at the number one spot, and just below him at number two is Joe Hauser. His 27 home runs that year was something of a feat, especially since the next highest total was 19. In fact, Unser Choe hit more home runs by himself that year than the entire Boston Braves (25) and Washington Senators (22) did collectively as a team. All those teenage years spent working in the cement mixer factory had made Hauser’s wrists into home run hitting machines. At just 25, Unser Choe looked like he had a long, successful big league career ahead of him, following in the wake of Babe Ruth as one of the game’s first power hitters.
Just before the 1925 season, the Athletics played their traditional “City Series” against the Phillies for the championship of Philadelphia. With no one on the bases, a Phillies batter hit a ground ball to the shortstop. As the fielder retrieved the ball, Hauser ran towards first to receive the throw and touch the base for the out. A simple, textbook play, one Hauser had executed hundreds of times – only this time something unexpected happened. For no apparent reason, Hauser’s right kneecap snapped in two pieces. Surgeons operated and managed to secure the two broken pieces with gold wire, then covered the whole leg with a cast to begin the long recovery process. With a long recuperation on the horizon and no guarantee he’d ever play ball again, Hauser was voluntarily retired from professional baseball and he and Irene returned to Milwaukee. When the cast was removed, Hauser tried to stay active, even appearing in exhibition games with the Athletics when they played close to Milwaukee. Mack sent him to farm team in Federalsburg, Maryland for a short time to work with young players. Hauser would draw on this brief experience many years later when he would become a minor league manager.
After sitting out the entire 1925 season, Hauser was pleased to report that by Christmas he was able to walk and move the knee with no perceivable side effects. That spring Hauser worked with Kid Gleason, former manager of the 1919 White Sox, now Connie Mack’s right hand man on the Athletics. Gleason had Hauser walk backwards, to strengthen the muscles. The walking evolved to running, and soon Gleason deemed Hauser ready for The Show again.
Unfortunately, the year off had played havoc with his batting eye, and Hauser was mentally not ready to subject his broken knee to rigors required of a big league first baseman. With his knee still stiff and bothered by the discomfort caused by the wires holding it together, Hauser batted a disappointing .192 after 91 games. For 1927, Mack sent him to the Kansas City Blues in exchange for their first baseman, Dud Branom. While in K.C., Unser Choe regained his home run swing and cemented his reputation as a long-ball prodigy. Kansas City’s Muehlebach Field was a home run hitter’s worst nightmare, with a right field wall some 400 feet from home plate, surmounted with a 30-foot fence. No one hit home runs out there – until Unser Choe came to play. When his blast cleared the wall, fans collected over $250 dollars to give to Hauser in recognition of his achievement. The next afternoon, Hauser repeated the feat, again raking in a couple hundred dollars from grateful fans.
That summer, Hauser really murdered the ball, bashing 49 doubles and 22 triples to go with his 20 home runs and gaudy .353 batting average.
After Dud Branom proved worthy of his nickname, Mack brought Hauser back to Philly in 1928, but by this time the Athletics were a much different ball club. With Mickey Cochrane, Jimmie Foxx, Joe Boley, Al Simmons, Lefty Grove and George Earnshaw, Mack had assembled what may have been the greatest dynasty in baseball history, winning three pennants and two World Championships from 1929 to 1931. The 1928 team featured the great Ty Cobb, now wrapping up his Hall of Fame career with Mack’s club. Hauser started the first month of the season hitting .375 with 7 homers, then he began to slump. Hauser later blamed his plummeting average on none other than Ty Cobb, who he claimed sabotaged his batting style with bad advice because he was jealous of being out-hit by Unser Choe. Cobb reportedly advised Hauser to crowd the plate, which just resulted in him fighting off pitches and robbing him of his greatest asset, those strong wrists and forearms. Why did Hauser listen to Cobb? Maybe because he was the greatest hitter ever to play the game and even at the age of 41 he would hit .323 that season.
With Hauser’s average sliding backwards and Jimmie Foxx moving from catcher to first baseman, Mack sold Unser Choe to the Cleveland Indians. Unfortunately, with future batting crown winner Lew Fonseca already ensconced at first base, Cleveland had no use for Hauser besides as an occasional pinch hitter. When all he could manage was .250 off the bench, Cleveland sold the now 30 year-old to the Baltimore Orioles.
Baltimore played in the International League, one of the three AA leagues that, like the American Association, were right below the majors. While many ballplayers would have been discouraged by the demotion, Unser Choe resigned himself to a minor league career. Part of his contentedness might have been that because of his major league contract, he was still drawing his big league paycheck. As the country slipped deeper into the Great Depression, the $6,500 salary took the sting out of being back in the minors. When he arrived in Charm City, Hauser took the advice of the team’s shortstop, Heine Sand, and switched to a slightly lighter bat. The lightened stick enabled Hauser to get around quicker on the ball, bringing to bear all the power of his wrists. That summer Unser Choe pounded home run after home run as he chased the professional baseball single-season home run record. While Babe Ruth set the major league record with 60 in 1927, several minor leaguers surpassed that total, the most recent being 62, set in 1926 by Moose Clabaugh. Aided a little by some of the league’s short fences, Hauser closed in on the magic number and bested it by a single round tripper, setting the bar at 63.
The next year when the Orioles were in New Orleans for a spring training exhibition game, a local radio station invited the new home run king to come into the studio and give a little talk over the airwaves. Since Joe was a school dropout at 14, he felt more comfortable having his wife Irene write a 16 sentence speech for him to read. More concerned with baseball than broadcasting, Unser Choe read the entire 16 sentences without pausing for any comma or period, finishing the speech in one mad dash. When asked about his breakneck reading after it aired, Unser Choe simply replied that it “wasn’t any use to stop and tag all the bases during the exhibition season.” It’s peculiar eccentricities like this that makes it a shame that Unser Choe wasn’t more of a success in the big leagues. With a vocabulary punctuated with phases like “gin!” and “yaaaaah!” when excited and “grab me?” to ask if one understood what he was trying to say, Hauser really was a sports writer’s dream come true.
Hauser finished the 1931 season again at the top of the home run leader’s list, though this time with a more human 31 homers. Troubled by a nagging groin injury, his average also buckled to a low .259. With his age now at the elderly 32 mark, Baltimore figured Unser Choe was on the downside of his career and put him up for sale. The Minneapolis Millers of the American Association snapped him up, a move that quickly paid off when he hit 49 home runs and brought his average back up to .303. His bat helped win the Millers win the 1932 pennant, where they faced the Newark Bears in the Junior World Series. In the 6-game loss to Newark, Hauser managed only 5 hits, but three of those were home runs.
1933 began with a crushing disappointment when Hauser received his new contract. Instead of the $6,500 salary his former big league contract ensured him, Unser Choe was now required to accept a standard minor league contract. The $2,400 number was quite a comedown, but with the country engulfed by unemployment, Hauser had no choice but to sign.
Perhaps smarting from the pay cut, Hauser began 1933 in a tough slump. No home run came off his bat in the team’s first nine games, all played on the road. In the Millers’ home opener, Unser Choe finally connected for a long-awaited home run, a three-run shot over the left field wall. The next afternoon Hauser pounded out three homers, including a grand slam, and never looked back. In June he had more than 30 to his credit; in July he homered in seven straight games and in early August broke the old American Association home run record of 54 - and the home runs kept coming. On August 20 he hit number 60, becoming the only man in the history of the game to record two seasons of sixty or more home runs. He ended the season with 69, the new single-season record for home runs. He also set the league record for total bases with 439 and led the league with 182 RBIs.
Now the Home Run King of the Minor Leagues, great things were expected from Joe Hauser in 1934, and from the start, he delivered. He hammered 17 home runs in the month of April, then injured his left knee - his good one, and sat out three weeks. Still, Hauser came roaring back and with 33 homers going into the last week of July, looked to be on a pace to eclipse his own record. Then, havoc struck. Rounding third and headed for home trying to score, Hauser collapsed in a heap, his left kneecap shattered into three pieces.
Unser Choe’s baseball career was effectively over.
When the knee healed enough to think about resuming some kind of baseball career, Unser Choe was in his late 30’s, ancient by baseball standards. His name and reputation was still potent enough that several low-level minor league teams offered him contracts, but the money was a far cry from his Minneapolis salary and not enough to support he and Irene. Then, the semi-pro Sheboygan Chairmakers offered Hauser a $300 a month contract to be their player/manager in 1938. The team soon joined the Wisconsin State League, and Hauser piloted the team to back-to-back pennants in 1940 and 1941. The war shut down the league and Hauser went to work outside baseball for the first time since he was a teen. After the war, Sheboygan became part of the Dodgers organization and Unser Choe managed his team to pennants in 1947, 48 and 51. By this time, another player had matched Unser Choe’s magic number of 69, and in 1954 his hallowed record would be broken. After a short stint with another Brooklyn farm club, Unser Choe and Irene returned to Sheboygan and opened up the Joe Hauser Sports Shop.
The Home Run King retired in 1984, and his beloved Irene passed away in 1986. The couple had made the decision early on not to have children because they did not want to subject them to the transient life of a ballplayer, so Hauser spent his twilight years more or less alone, with baseball fans and historians as his only company. And that seemed to be alright with Unser Choe, spending the last decade of his long life as one of the most entertaining bards of the old game, never tiring of telling the story of his unique place in baseball history to anyone who sought him out.
Like most old time ballplayers, Unser Choe was both bemused and disgusted by the modern player. He never understood how players from opposing teams engaged in friendly interaction during games. In his time, when one had the other uniform on, you were the enemy. He found it silly when young fans asked him about Babe Ruth, implying that he must have been on great terms with the Yankees slugger. Hauser always insisted that that wasn’t the case. Sure, he said hello to the Bambino when he ended up at first base, but that was the extent of it. The Babe played for the Yankees and Unser Choe was an Athletic. It was as simple as that. Watching the prolonged curtain calls, fist-pumps and backslapping that now went on after every single major league home run, Hauser reflected on how in his time, there was none of that. One just ran around the bases and returned to the dugout, waiting and hoping to do it again.
This story was partially built from several very good interviews Unser Choe gave during the last few decades of his life, in particular the one included in Tony Salin’s terrific book Baseball’s Forgotten Heroes: One Fan’s Search for the Game’s Most Interesting Overlooked Players. Also, Norman Macht’s Connie Mack: The Turbulent and Triumphant Years, 1915-1931 contains some great material on Joe Hauser and how well respected he was by the Athletics’ manager. Both those books are must have’s for any baseball library. Of course, the life’s blood of any great baseball history story are the original newspaper articles written during the time the events took place. Since Joe Hauser and his minor league home runs were such great news back in the 1930’s there are many detail-packed feature stories on the ball player to be found in Milwaukee, Baltimore and Minneapolis papers.
Stop back late next week when I bring you the second of this three part feature on the single-season home run kings of yesteryear…
I've been on a bit of a break lately - well, not really a break. You see, I kind of got bogged down with some research-heavy stories and I keep getting sucked further and further into them. I don't want to spoil anything, but one is a big Joe DiMaggio story about a period in his career that no one has really written about in any depth before. I want to do as thorough a job as I can, and that means exhausting all possible leads, and in this case it actually involves a cross-country to the west coast to explore an untapped archive. This story is so involved, with all kinds of sidebars, so I'll probably make it the cover story of the next issue of '21' (you should SEE the illustration I did for it - it's one of my best so far!). I'm also traveling for business, and although I brought two giant folders of other research with me, I haven't finished anything yet.
Usually the hard part is finding time to do the drawings, but in this case I have at least 10 new drawings ready to go, just waiting for a story to go with it. In the meantime, I thought I'd toss out an oldie but a goodie. I'm currently writing for a major auction house and I've had some pretty major Jackie Robinson memorabilia cross my desk this week. So, in honor of the man himself, I re-give you Jackie Robinson and the very beginning of his pro baseball career...
In
the summer of 1944 2nd Lieutenant Jack Robinson found himself at Camp
Breckinridge, an infantry replacement training depot in the hills of
western Kentucky. The war had been rough for Robinson - not on the
battlefields of France or a nameless island in the Pacific, but at home
in a racial war whose injuries were not physical but mental.
Before
the war Jackie Robinson was a well-known collegiate athlete. His
exploits as a track star at UCLA set numerous records and his skills on
the gridiron made the sports page from coast to coast. If he had been
white, Jackie Robinson would have had to fight off offers from National
Football League teams upon graduation. Instead Robinson took a position
with a government-run athletic program which quickly folded. Looking for
employment, Robinson took the most lucrative sports job he could find -
semi-pro football in Hawaii. After a successful 1941 season, Robinson
booked passage on a steamship back to Los Angeles. On Sunday, December
7th, 1941 he was contemplating his next move when the Japanese decided
it for him.
The
23 year-old Robinson received his draft notice in early 1942. After
basic training with a cavalry regiment he and several other black
soldiers requested a transfer to officer's candidate school. Robinson's
natural leadership qualities and UCLA education made him ideal officer
material but his skin color worked against him. His transfer was put on
the back-burner until boxer Joe Lewis stepped in to help open the gate
allowing black soldiers to attend officer's school. By January 1943 the
former college star was 2nd Lieutenant Jack Robinson,U.S. Army.
Robinson
was assigned to the 761st Tank Battalion at Ft. Hood Texas. Known as
the "Black Panthers", the 761st would go on to earn a distinguished
combat record serving under General Patton in Europe. For two reasons
Lt. Robinson wasn't one of them.
Years
of strenuous athletic activity had left Robinson with an old ankle
injury that required testing to guarantee he was combat-ready. On
afternoon while awaiting the results of the test, Robinson boarded an
integrated Army bus and took a seat near the front. When the driver told
Robinson to sit in the back he flatly refused. The driver reported the
incident to the Military Police who took the insolent lieutenant in
custody. The commander of the 761st flatly refused to prosecute his
young officer but the matter was taken out of his hands when Robinson
was transferred to another battalion. His new commanding officer happily
signed off on court-martial proceedings before the ink was dry on his
transfer papers.
After
a humiliating trial in which he was acquitted of all charges, Robinson
found himself a soldier without an army. His unit had deployed to Europe
during his court martial and medical tests found his ankle was tender
enough to keep him out of combat. The trial had made news and his
superiors at Ft. Hood didn't want him around so he was transferred to
another black unit, the 372nd Infantry Regiment.
The
372nd had a brilliant battle record from the first world war. The units
shoulder patch was a red hand on a white disk trimmed in blue and red.
This striking insignia was bestowed on the regiment by the French Army
of Africa with which the unit had fought with in 1918. By the time Lt.
Robinson caught up with the regiment at Camp Breckinridge, Kentucky it
was being used as a feeder unit that trained replacement infantry
troops. As a distinguished college athlete, Robinson was named the
regiment's athletic director.
It
was only a temporary assignment. Robinson's fight against the bogus
court marshal gained him a reputation as a hard case, and with a bum
ankle he wasn't any good for combat. The army decided to discharge him.
In the meantime, Robinson waited for the slow moving paperwork to wind
its way through Army bureaucracy by keeping the recruits occupied with
baseball.
One
afternoon Robinson happened upon a soldier throwing big league curve
balls on the baseball field. The soldier was Ted Alexander, a former
pitcher with the Kansas City Monarchs of the Negro American League.
Robinson had had a brush with Negro League baseball back before the war
when a traveling blackball team had played a pickup team which Robinson
was a part of. When the game ended the team took off without giving
Robinson his agreed upon money for the exhibition. The whole experience
left Robinson with a bad taste in his mouth and a lingering distrust of
black baseball operations. When Robinson told Alexander
of his concerns about post-army employment, the pitcher revealed the
the Monarchs were always hiring good talent. The war had hit black
baseball as hard as the white version with many of its good players in
the service. However with many blacks now employed in high paying war
industry jobs, blackball was the most popular diversion for their
new-found disposable income. The Negro Leagues were experiencing their
most profitable period in their history.
The former Monarchs pitcher surely related all this to Robinson and before the two men parted ways Alexander
had given the Lieutenant Kansas City Monarchs' owner Tom Baird's
contact information. When he received his honorable discharge in
November of 1944, Robinson wrote to the Monarchs inquiring about a
position. In the meantime he took a job as athletic director at Sam
Huston College in Austin, Texas. When spring rolled around the Monarchs
sent Robinson a $400 a month contract and instructed him to report for
spring training.
Jackie Robinson's baseball career had begun.
If you're anything like me, you probably think that cap Jackie is wearing is pretty darn cool, right? Will Arlt at the Ideal Cap Co. thought the same thing, too, and decided to reproduce these little babies. You can check them out HERE.
Whether you think his movies are hysterical (like I do) or dopey (then I pity you), one thing's for sure: you know who Jerry Lewis was. I saw "was", because the comedian passed away this week at the age of 91. Very few performers could boast a career arc as broad as Lewis' seven decades of work. From nightclubs to radio to movies, as part of a comedy team and as a solo act, the name Jerry Lewis is synonymous with American comedy. For over 40 years his Labor Day fundraisers for the Muscular Dystrophy Association helped raise millions of dollars for a disease that was unknown and unpronounceable before he brought attention to it. Millions, maybe billions, of people found comfort in the laughter he created over the years. Even actors and comedians who take cheap shots at his being perceived by the French as a "genius" all owe at least a small amount of credit for their careers to this comedic trailblazer. One can go on for eternity cataloging Jerry Lewis' life in show business, but that's not what this story is going to be about. This post will reveal a little-known side of this giant of American comedy, for beyond the movies and fame, Jerry Lewis was a baseball fan.
Jerome (some say it was Joseph) Levitch was born in Newark, New Jersey in 1926. At a young age Lewis was exposed to the entertainment business - his father was a vaudevillian and his mother was a professional piano player. Much of Jerry's early life was spent being passed off to relatives and family friends while his parents traveled the vaudeville circuit. This transient lifestyle made the only child feel rootless and vulnerable much of the time. It's not recorded where Jerry Lewis first got his appreciation for baseball, but it is not out of line to opine that the lonely boy found solace in being able to follow one team through newspaper box scores and radio, no matter where he was temporarily living.
When they were able to, the Lewis' took their son with them when they had a lengthy engagement at a club in the Catskills or Jersey shore. As early as age 5, Lewis began appearing on stage with his parents. One of his earliest original comedy bit was to exaggerating lip-sync to a phonograph record - a routine Andy Kaufman appropriated and make his own some forty years later. Lewis knew he was destined for a life in showbiz, and dropped out of high school when he was 15 to pursue his dream. During World War II Lewis was rejected for military service due to a heart murmur, and he spent the war years honing his comedy chops working Manhattan's nightclub circuit. At the Glass Hat Club in 1945, Lewis shared the bill with a slick looking Bing Crosby sound-alike named Dean Martin. The two hit it off and quickly formed a comedy team, Martin and Lewis. With Dean as the suave straight man and Lewis as the zany sidekick, the unscripted act was unlike any other that came before. By 1947 they had reached the pinnacle of New York nightclub acts when they headlined the Copacabana. The following year the duo appeared on Ed Sullivan's "Toast of the Town" TV show. The Sullivan appearance combined with their own NBC radio show quickly made Martin and Lewis the country's most popular comedy act.
Because of their celebrity, the two comedians were soon making the acquaintance of all categories of celebrity. While Dean gravitated towards the Sinatra crowd, Jerry palled around with ballplayers. One of the first big names Lewis formed friendships with was New York Giants manager Leo Durocher. Leo was a fixture of Manhattan's swankier nightclubs and its only natural that he would have caught Martin and Lewis' act on numerous occasions. Durocher piloted the Giants to the pennant in 1951 and after the World Series returned to his home in Los Angeles. In late October the Giants manager and his opponent in the World Series, Casey Stengel, were asked to manage teams in a charity ballgame. It was only natural that Leo reached out to his pal Jerry Lewis who was in Hollywood with Dean at the time. The comedy duo appeared in the late innings of the game, sharing the field with All-Stars such Warren Spahn, Mike Garcia, Bob Lemon and Hank Sauer.
By this time, Martin and Lewis had transitioned their nightclub and radio
act into a full-blown comedy movie franchise. In the years since their
first movie in 1949, Martin and Lewis had made over 12 films before
1954.
Lewis' baseball connection to Durocher and his Giants continued through the years. Both Martin and Lewis appeared at the Giants spring training camp in Phoenix in 1954 where the two each managed their own team in an inter squad game. Martin, wearing uniform number "00" played third base while his partner donned a jersey with "?" on the back and played first base for his team. Martin managed a triple when the Lewis' outfielders unwisely played him too shallow. Lewis had a single to his credit and his Giants beat his partner 5-3 before 5,000 fans at Phoenix' Municipal Stadium.
Just after their Giants game, both men's love of the game led to the team optioning an original screenplay for a musical called "Safe at Home". The story revolved around two New York Giants players who desert the team to play ball in Mexico. The two get mixed up with a crooked bullfighter and, you guessed it, hilarity ensues. There was even talk of who would play Durocher in the picture (considering Leo's later penchant of TV and movie cameos, it's only natural go imagine the Giants manager playing himself). Unfortunately for both cinephiles and baseball fans, "Safe at Home" was never produced.
Lewis and his wife Patti lived in Pacific Palisades, a neighborhood on LA's westside. The Lewis family consisted of two boys, Gary and Ronnie, and father passed his love of baseball down to his sons. To encourage the boys, Lewis purchased the vacant lot next to the family's home and constructed their own private ball field. Lewis also added his star power and sponsorship to a local kids ball club named the "Jerry Lewis Stars".
In the spring of 1956, Martin and Lewis again combined their love of baseball with their comedy when the two appeared in a charity game at LA's Wrigley Field. The game pitted a team of major leaguers against a squad of PCL League stars. This time Lewis and Martin appeared on the same team, Lewis at first and Martin at third. The duo acquitted themselves well, with newspaper accounts complimenting their teamwork in the infield and Lewis' errorless play at first. Lewis went 0 for 4, but Martin got himself a single in four at bats.
Exactly ten years to the day of their debut performance in 1946, Martin and Lewis split up. Dean went on to be a leading man in more serious movies like "Rio Bravo" and "Some Came Running", and teaming up with Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis, Jr. as the core of the uber-cool "Rat Pack". Jerry forged ahead as a solo act, establishing himself as more than just a sidekick to Dean Martin. Besides his Vegas act, Lewis branched out and recorded a successful album of standards for Capitol Records that shot to number 3 on the charts. A succession of hit movies followed, making Jerry Lewis one of the most bankable performers in the country.
When the Brooklyn Dodgers relocated to Los Angeles in 1958, Jerry Lewis was reported to be one of the first season ticket holders. With a real big league team in the city, Lewis quickly befriended many of the Dodgers players, Gil Hodges in particular. Hodges was one of the teams most popular players and a perennial All-Star. Hodges was also, like Lewis, a first baseman.
In 1959 Lewis was back again at LA's Wrigley Field for a charity game. This time Lewis was playing for the Los Angeles Dodgers as they faced a Major League All-Star team piloted by Gene Mauch. Wearing number "55", Lewis took the field alongside Dodgers stars Sandy Koufax, Don Drysdale, Johnny Roseboro and Charley Neal. Roseboro's two home runs powered the Dodgers over Mauch's All-Stars, 9-7. Lewis went 0 for 4 against the big league pitching and was credited with three errors of a comedic nature.
Ever since the movie industry moved from New York and New Jersey to Southern California in the 1920's, both studios and prominent actors formed baseball teams. Fatty Arbuckle, one of Hollywood's earliest and popular comedic actors, even owned the Vernon Tigers of the Pacific Coast League. Tom Mix had a team and Paramount hired Black Sox outcast Fred McMullin as a ringer for their team. Later in the 1940's, Frank Sinatra formed his own team called the Swooners who's rotating roster boasted everyone from Nat King Cole to Robert Wagner and Anthony Quinn. With Jerry Lewis' baseball interest it was only natural that he would do the same, and the "Jerry Lewis Clowns" were formed.
By the early 1960's these celebrity pickup teams had evolved into the Hollywood Entertainment League. Besides the Clowns there was "Garner Gems" led by James Garner, singer Bobby Darin's "Darin's Demons", and Pat Boone's "Boones". Even Lewis' old partner had his own team, "Dean Martin's Dino's". Lewis outfitted his Clowns with home white flannels supplied by Rawlings with "Clowns" in red script across the front. The left sleeve sported a large caricature portrait of Lewis which would become his trademark. Red stirrups with white stripes and a red cap with a white "JL" monogram topped off the uniform.
Besides owning his own team and appearing as a ringer at first base for the Dodgers, Lewis' baseball interest was acknowledged by the game's writers when he was tapped to be the master of ceremonies for the Baseball Writers Awards in January, 1966. The gig was especially personal to Lewis as the event would also honor his beloved Dodgers, that years' World Series champions.
With the advent of television and the popularity of football and basketball, baseball's popularity began a steady decline throughout the 1960's. The Hollywood Entertainers League folded by the end of the decade, yet the game still held some popularity among the stars. The Dodgers and Angels hosted "Hollywood Stars" benefit games fairly regularly, and Lewis would suit up with fellow baseball fans like James Garner, Mickey Rooney, Ricky Nelson and Walter Matthau.
Perhaps the pinnacle of Jerry Lewis' baseball career came on July 19, 1973. The Houston Astros were hosting a rare in-season exhibition game against the Detroit Tigers. Lewis' old pal, Leo Durocher, was now skipper of the Astros, and he had a great time writing "Jerry Lewis" batting lead off and playing first base in his line up card. Lewis wore number "9" and hit a single off Detroit's Mike Strahler. Later the Tigers sent their pitching coach, Art Fowler, to the mound, off whom Lewis drew a walk. Tigers first baseman Norm Cash acknowledged that the comedian looked pretty good in his 4 innings of work, noting that he played errorless ball and didn't drop a single throw.
Jerry Lewis' last big brush with baseball came at the tail end of his long career. Having conquered nightclubs, radio, TV, and film, only Broadway remained unchecked on his list of successes. That changed when he took over the roll of the Devil in the revival of "Damn Yankees". For those of you who don't know the play, the story is about a long-suffering Washington Senators fan who sells his soul to the Devil to become a star baseball player and finally defeat the Yankees. Lewis drew great reviews, then began a semi-retirement with select guest spots in movies and TV shows.
Jerry Lewis passed away on August 20, 2017 after a long illness. I had wanted to do a card and story on him ever since I found a photo of his Clowns baseball team several years ago. When I was writing my book, The League of Outsider Baseball, I had Jerry penciled in for the "People's Game" chapter which had stories and illustrations of people who you wouldn't think were baseball fans or players. But, unfortunately, Jerry got cut during the outline phase. His baseball interest was a little more dynamic than most, and I wanted more than a page or two in order to give his story a proper telling. Unfortunately, it wasn't until he passed away last week that I revived my story and pulled together all the newspaper clippings I had accumulated and sat down to write. For all the joy his movies gave me ever since I was a kid, and all the good he did with his Muscular Dystrophy telethons, I hope he'd get a kick out of his very own baseball card.
When
I first started this blog back in 2010, I started
receiving many requests for players to be profiled and given The
Infinite Baseball Card Set "treatment." Out of all the emails, I began
to notice that it was not one particular player that was asked for the
most, but rather an ethnic group: Jewish ballplayers. Early on I had illustrated cards
and written stories on the site of Sandy Koufax and Moe Berg, but I began slowly researching different players who shared the Jewish faith,
trying to find characters who would fit in with the kind of stories I
like to write - players with interesting stories who may not be known to
the casual fan of baseball history. The modest research I did culminated in the Test Issue of "21: The Illustrated Journal of Outsider Baseball" which featured 12 profiles of Jewish ballplayers. This prototype became the model in which I based the current incarnation of "21".
I was never happy with that original product, and eventually I plan to do a more elaborate "21" dedicated to Jewish ballplayers. In the years since the original, I have been steadily adding to my Jewish ballplayers file, one the characters in there being Cy Malis.
Cy's single game for the 1934 Phillies earned him place in all the books on Jewish ballplayers, but it is the rest of his story that makes him so much more interesting. Plus, digging into Cy's career was for me a researchers delight, as I found that the extent of his pro career that can be found in record books and online is quite incomplete. Old box scores and creative searching enabled me to fill out Cy's minor league career quite a bit more than any other source that I've been able to find. And then, from an artistic point of view, the uniforms worn by one of Cy's semi-pro teams were so visually stunning that I couldn't wait to depict Cy in full color.
So, with that teaser, I'll get right into Cy's story...
Cy Malis was born in Philadelphia, the second son of Frank and Anna (called "Ray") Malis. Both Frank's parents were from Russia while Ray's father immigrated from Jerusalem and her mother from Russia. Frank worked an an inspector for the Philadelphia Rapid Transit Company and Ray kept house in the family's apartment on 10th Street. Ray and Frank were married around 1905 and their son Charles was born shortly afterward. The Malis' second son, Cyrus came along on February 26, 1907. Both boys played baseball, working their way up the sandlot ranks. Charles was an infielder while Cyrus - who was now going by "Cy" - was, appropriately enough, a pitcher. While Charles played for Central High, Cy starred for Brown Prep School, lettering in basketball and football as well as baseball. In his sophomore season with Brown, Cy posted a 15-4 record and struck out 22 in a game against Villanova Prep. It appears that Cy left school after his second year, joining the vibrant semi-pro baseball circuit around Philadelphia.
Like other large eastern cities, Philly boasted many top-rank semi-pro clubs. Youngsters began playing for their local neighborhood athletic clubs, then, if they were good enough, were either hired by a large company who sponsored a team or was invited to join one of the semi-pro traveling clubs who were just a step below the minor leagues.
Cy Malis' first stop was with the Waco Athletic Club. His brother Charles may have preceded him on the team, for both their names frequently appear in box scores at this time. Waco played other medium-level teams in Philadelphia and South Jersey. Then, in mid-August, Cy began pitching for the formidable Hebrews club.
The Hebrews, also known as the Sphas (South Philadelphia Hebrew Association), were one of the better semi-pro clubs in the Philly-Trenton area. The South Philadelphia Hebrew Association began sponsoring athletic teams around World War I, and by the early 1920's had become known not only for baseball, but for their basketball team as well. In fact, the basketball team actually turned pro, first joining the Eastern League in 1929, then the American Basketball League in 1933. When the NBA was formed after World War II, the Sphas best players splintered off to form the nucleus of the Philadelphia Warriors.
With the baseball Sphas, Cy not only had a first rate ball club backing him up, but he also had good press coverage with would help further his career. His competition was also of a higher class, playing against the various traveling teams that criss-crossed the country before World War II, such as Jim Thorpe's Indians and various Negro League clubs.
Cy's half season with the Sphas earned him an invitation to spring training with the minor league Wilkes-Barre Barons in 1925. The April 24 edition of the Scranton Republican said the Malis "has shown plenty of form in the preliminary workouts", but just two days later he was back in Philly pitching for the Waco A..A. and later the Sphas again. Still only a teenager, Cy had plenty of time to develop into professional material.
Malis' second chance at organized ball came along the following spring when he was signed by Petersburg Broncos of the Virginia League. In his professional debut on April 14, 1927, Malis was sent in to relieve Petersburg starter Lefty Fowlkes, pitching an inning and third, allowing a hit and two walks plus a balk. Richmond scored a run, but it was charged as an error since the outfielder dropped the ball. Soon both Cy and Lefty Fowlkes were shipped to the Northampton Red Sox of the Eastern Shore League. Malis started off the season well, winning five consecutive games, but overuse took a toll on his arm. When Cy asked management for some time off to rest his tired flinger, the Red Sox handed their ace pitcher his release. 1920's baseball was a cruel and impersonal sport, and back then a pitcher, especially a young one, was expected to pitch a complete game every time he took the mound. With minor league rosters consisting of only 15-18 players, clubs couldn't afford to carry too many pitchers, so the ones they had were used as often as possible. When Cy raised an issue about over use, it was only natural that the club would choose to jettison their ace instead of working with him, the reason probably being that if his arm is feeling fatigue now at this low level, how could he make it all the way to the majors? Minor league teams back then made their payroll by selling off their good players to higher level clubs - thus, a sore arm pitcher was of no monetary value to them. Sound front office reasoning in 1927. Fortunately for Cy, one other team in the league, the Cambridge Canners, were willing to take a chance with him. Working out of the bullpen, he finished out 1927 with a 5-6 record.
Despite a mediocre record, a team quite a bit higher up the food chain than the Cambridge Canners became interested in Cy - his hometown Philadelphia Phillies.
Like
most big league teams, the Phillies were always on the look out for
home grown talent, a native son that could blossom into a star that
would in turn put more fans in the stands. As the Phils were perennially mired in last place, it would take something or someone interesting to get fans to shell out the money to watch a lousy team. With his well publicized
mound exploits with Brown Prep and the Sphas, Cy Malis was a perfect candidate to be that someone interesting. The
Phils signed him for 1928 and shipped him off to their Lynn Papooses farm team in the New England League. From the skeleton of statistics it looks like control was Cy's biggest obstacle - for instance in the June 1, 1928 game against Salem, Cy pitched the first 3 2/3 innings, giving up 4 bases on balls and a hit batter, taking the loss. On June 12 Cy lasted 5 1/3 inning against Brockton, issuing five free passes and 12 hits for another loss. By mid-June his record was no wins and four losses in 12 innings pitched. The Papooses released him, and Cy went back to the Philly semi-pro circuit.
Every source I found on Cy Malis has no professional record for him in 1929, but I dug up some newspaper articles that say otherwise. A small article written about Cy a year after his death in 1971 states that he had played in the Philadelphia A's farm system. I thought that perhaps this was a misprint, mistaking the Philadelphia Phillies for the Philadelphia A's. Or, I thought it might have been Cy or a relative of his doing a little creative remembering, switching out the last place Phillies for the 1929 World Champion A's. Much to my relief (I don't relish debunking little white myths held dearly by old ball players and their descendents), the article actually held up to my research.
Seems that Cy had attracted the eye of his hometown's other big league team, Connie Mack's Philadelphia Athletics. The A's were right at the beginning of what would be an incredible three pennants and two World Championships, a team thought to be the greatest ever assembled in Major League history. The A's signed Cy to a minor league contract, sending him to their Martinsville White Elephants team in the Blue Ridge League. I found several box scores that record his record with Martinsville. On April 25, 1929, Cy pitched 4 innings, giving up 6 hits, 2 walks and striking out 2 against Hagerstown. On May 11 he gave up 5 hits in 5 1/3 innings of relief, walking no one and picking up the win over Chambersburg. Cy pitched one more game before he was released, his final 1929 record set at 13 hits, 6 runs, 13 walks, 3 strike outs and a wild pitch in 16 innings.
Once again Cy returned to the Philadelphia scene where he was now a much sought after arm for hire. Besides his regular gig with the mighty Sphas, box scores show Cy appearing for several other teams in the area. The Jersey Shore was a particularly lucrative spot for semi-pro ball, as all the beach communities competed against one another to field the best ball team. Not content to hire just a few ringers to supplement their team, some town hired complete semi-pro outfits to represent them. Cy was with the Trenton Club when they were rented out to represent the town of Bradley Beach.
In 1933 Cy was hired by the Berlin, Maryland team to help them beat rival Dagsboro in the five-game Eastern Shore Championship Series. Malis pitched Game 2, shutting out Dagsboro on six hits. The "Quaker City speedball artist" was tabbed to pitch the deciding Game 5, but served up three home runs early on which gave Dagsboro the game and championship.
In 1934 he was back with the Sphas. On July 29, Malis pitched and won a 14 inning marathon at Paterson, N.J., then came back to Philly where the next night he pitched a one-hitter for the Bartram club. Cy's continued good press inevitably was noticed by the moribund Phillies. For the second time, Philadelphia signed Cy Malis to a contract, but where as back in 1927 he was farmed out to the sticks, this time he was issued a uniform with number 49 on the back and sent to join the big club.
On Friday, August 17, 1934 Cy Malis made his major league debut against the Cardinals at Sportsman's Park in St. Louis. The Gas House Gang Cardinals were on their way to a World Championship with a line up that featured future Hall of Famers Joe Medwick, Frankie Frisch, Pepper Martin and sluggers Ernie Orsatti and Ripper Collins. Their mound corps was led by the Dean Brothers, Dizzy and Paul, who would collectively win 49 games that summer. In the bottom of the 5th, the Cards were up 7-2 with Phillies reliever Reggie Grabowski on the mound. Burgess Whitehead led off with a single and with one out, advanced to second when Frankie Frisch got a base on balls. Joe Medwick smashed a long single to center, scoring Whitehead and moving Frisch to third. Medwick then stole second, sending Grabowski to the showers.
Phillies manager Jimmy Wilson waved Cy Malis in from the bullpen. With men on second and third, Malis faced Ripper Collins who quickly hit a double to riht field, scoring Frisch and Medwick. Cy got Bill Delancey to fly out to center field but then lost Chick Fullis to a base on balls. Now with two on and two away, Leo Durocher stepped in and hit a flyball to right which was caught to end the inning. Wilson left Malis in to pitch the 6th, during which he gave up a single to lead off hitter Paul Dean, then got two quick pop outs. Frankie Frisch reached base on an error but Malis got Medwick to fly out to left, ending the 6th. Cy Malis' spot was first up in the top of the 7th and he reached base when he was drilled by a Paul Dean pitch. Malis watched Dean expertly dispose of the next three Phillie batters and was left standing on second base when the inning ended. In the bottom of the 7th Malis gave a lead off walk to Ripper Collins who was then caught stealing second. A fly ball out and a strike out ended the seventh. The Phils failed to score in the top of the 8th and the score remained 10-2. In the Cards half, Mailis gave up a single to Durocher, followed by a Paul Dean fly out. Burgess Whitehead ripped a triple to left-center, scoring Durocher. Whitehead scored on a long fly out to right field but an infield pop fly by Pat Crawford ended the inning. All the Phillies could manage in their last frame was a harmless single as St. Louis clobbered Philadelphia 12-2. Paul Dean picked up his 13th win of the year and Phillies starter Cy Moore took the loss.
All told, Cy's big league debut wasn't a disaster, but it wasn't lights out either: 3 2/3 innings, 4 hits, 2 runs, 2 walks and a strikeout. Remember, he was facing the eventual World Champions with a lineup overflowing with powerful bats. Still, that single game was to be the extent of Cy Malis' major league career. The Phillies released him shortly afterward.
Now a free agent, Malis was invited to spring training with the Los Angeles Angels of the Pacific Coast League. Despite reporting to camp overweight, Malis worked hard and lost twenty pounds in three weeks. Sportswriters were impressed with the hard work he put in, as were the Angels, especially after he held the team's veterans to a measly three hits in an intramural game. At this time the Angels were the top farm club of the Chicago Cubs and usually finished at, or near the top of the PCL each season. The Angels pitching staff boasted future Brooklyn Dodgers ace Hugh Casey, 28 game winner Fay Thomas, 20 game winner Mike Meola and future journeyman major leaguer Newt Kimball, but Cy's hard work gained him a spot as a reliever when the 1935 season started.
On March 28, Malis relieved Hugh Casey in the sixth inning when the Padres jumped on him for 6 runs. and pitched three innings, giving up three runs on three hits. In the April 3 game against Oakland, Malis was thrown in to stop an Oaks rally, but quickly got knocked off the mound himself as Oakland bulldozed two other Angels pitchers on the way to a 12-3 win. Malis then came down with the flu, which sidelined him for a few games. He pitched 1 1/3 inning of relief on April 12, giving up a hit and two walks. Two days later threw three innings against Portland, relinquishing 5 hits and 2 runs in the 10-4 loss. On April 16, the Angels handed Malis his walking papers. As he had back in Philly, Malis fell back on the semi-pro scene to make a living. In Los Angeles, Cy was eagerly picked up by Twentieth Century-Fox, which played in a league made up of all the major Hollywood movie studios.
Being recruited by a film studio not only let Cy keep a foot in baseball, but also opened up the door to his second career - acting. Malis made his celluloid debut in the MGM boxing picture "The Crowd Roars", as an uncredited extra. At this time dozens of studios were filming in the Los Angeles area and Cy found plenty of work. By 1940, he was married to an Alabama native named Jane, and the couple were living in a residential enclave of movie people on North Argyle Street in LA. Cy listed his occupation as "actor" and was recorded in the 1940 census and pulling in the nice yearly salary of $1500, a nice bump above the average worker at that time.
In 1942, a 35 year-old Cy enlisted in the Navy. It was during his short stint in the service that his life took an unexpected, and what could have been a tragic, turn. While undergoing gunnery training, one of the massive gun turrets swung around and slammed into Cy, breaking his neck and back. The accident landed him in the hospital for what would be a long, painful recovery period. From the start, the pain was so intense that Cy was unable to help loudly thrashing around in his bed and gnashing his teeth. To save both Cy's teeth and let the other patients get an undisturbed night's sleep, doctors prescribed morphine, the highly addictive opiate commonly used at the time for pain management. In small doses, under strict observance and over a short period of time, morphine was perfect for the job. However, in a crowded Naval hospital in wartime, Cy's use of morphine went unchecked.
Months later, when he finally was able to get his broken body out of bed, Cy came to the realization he could not function without morphine. He was hooked. Like shell shock (now called PTSD), morphine addiction was one of those little-talked about side effects of war. Thousands of wounded soldiers were treated and released back to their civilian lives with a dependence on the morphine that was supposed to heal them. Addiction to drugs and alcohol was something not fully understood during this time, yet Cy somehow recognized that his dependence was something he needed to get control of. With no program or treatment readily available to him, Cy began the difficult process of weening himself off the drug. However, behind Cy's morphine dependence was the still crushing pain of his injured neck and back. To make this constant pain manageable, the old ballplayer turned to alcohol. Looking back from the 21st century, we know that this was just substituting one evil for another, but in 1943 being alcohol dependent was much more acceptable than being a junkie. In the spring of 1943 the Navy gave Cy his discharge and he returned to civilian life. While his back and neck gradually healed, Cy went to work ratcheting down his intake of alcohol as a pain killer. It must have been unbelievably hard work, taking almost superhuman inner strength, but somehow he managed to do it.
With his part in the war through and his addiction under control, Cy threw himself back into Hollywood. He quickly became an often used extra, working with famed directors John Ford, William Wellman and Robert Wise. The list of actors he shared the screen with reads like a who's who of Hollywood's Golden Age: Gregory Peck and Lauren Bacall (Designing Woman), Lucille Ball (The Fuller Brush Girl), Cary Grant and John Garfield (Destination Tokyo), John Wayne and Richard Widmark (The Alamo), even Shirley Temple (The Story of Seabiscuit). Malis is even credited with being a stand in in for two different Stooges, Larry and Shemp. Besides his work in front of the camera, Cy was able to leverage his pro baseball experience into a couple technical advisor rolls on the baseball pictures "It Happened in Flatbush" and "Flashing Spikes".
Through all this Hollywood work, Cy still had to deal with his morphine and alcohol withdrawal. In 1953, a forward thinking LA Sheriff's narcotics detective approached an Alcoholic Anonymous member with the idea that a similar organization focusing on drugs might help the growing number of heroin and speed addicts in his city. In mid-July, the very first meeting of what would become Narcotics Anonymous was held in a church in the Moore Park neighborhood of Los Angeles. Among the handful of people present was Cy Malis and Jimmy Kinnon. The small group hashed out the pillars of the budding organization and in a few weeks Kinnon would be elected Narcotics Annonymous' first leader and accepted "founder".
Despite being present at the very beginning and taking part in its initial program, Cy charted his own course separate from NA. In his spare time he appeared before groups telling the story of his own addiction and the long, painful route he traveled in order to kick it. In the 1950's this was a very brave thing to do as drug addicts were considered the lowest of the low, and to admit to being one took an awful lot of guts. By the late 1950's Cy realized that while groups such as Narcotics Anonymous helped people out on the streets, nothing was being done for addicts behind bars. It was in the prison system that Cy Malis found his calling.
Cy Malis now became the main driving force behind helping convicts overcome their addiction and subsequent withdrawal. So successful was Cy that when the assistant warden of San Quentin was being interviewed about drug addiction problems in his prison, the jailer responded "they have improved vastly since Mr. Malis started his program. But perhaps the greatest compliment came from a former inmate and admitted addict who, when introduced to Cy called him "the best friend we dope fiends have". This wasn't a hollow compliment - back in the 1960's when this took place, dope addicts were an ignored and disparaged part of society, one for which good people did not consort with, let alone try to help. In this hostile atmosphere, Cy Malis bravely stepped forward to offer a hand to those who needed it, and he in turn was revered for it.
In between acting and technical advising in Hollywood and offering a lifeline to thousands of addicts behind bars, Cy also found time to coach Little League. The old ballplayer even managed his club to the league championship in his first summer as skipper. A kick by a horse on the set of a movie injured Cy to the point that it effectively ended his movie career and his health deteriorated. Cy's brother told a sports writer that shortly before Cy's death in 1971, the two brothers were visiting New York when a friend showed Cy a copy of the 1970 Philadelphia Phillies yearbook. Inside was a list of all the players who appeared in a Phillies uniform over the course of the team's history. There, under M's was Cy Malis. Charles told the sports writer that his brother was quite pleased at the remembrance of his one day as big leaguer.
Cy passed away on January 12, 1971, just 63 years old.
Cy Malis' big league career might have lasted but a single afternoon and takes up no more than a single line of statistics, yet his life can not be measured in stats or amount of space in a record book. Cy's personal experience of taking a tragic turn of events and making it mean something helped thousands of people. With them, Cy Malis' winning percentage was 1.000, no matter what the record book shows.
The photo-hosting site I used for my website has decided to charge an insane amount of money to continue using. Without warning, all my pictures (and everyone else who uses this site) were taken down and replaced with a (poorly designed, I might add) icon. I will be slowly replacing all the illustrations, so please be patient and all the art will return...
UPDATE: So far I've replaced the illustrations for all the stories going back to number 199.
This week we have a special guest author, John Klima. John wrote the very well reviewed Willie's Boys: The 1948 Birmingham Black Barons, The Last Negro League World Series, and the Making of a Baseball Legend. If you haven't read it already, I highly recommend it. As the title suggests, Willie's Boys is the story of the 1948 Black Barons. Today, the Black Barons are overshadowed by the more well-known teams like the Monarchs and Grays, yet Birmingham can boast some really great alumni, such as Satchel Paige, Mule Suttles, Artie Wilson, Sam Bankhead, Charley Pride, Sam Streeter, Lyman Bostock, and of course, Willie Mays. Throughout the 1940's Birmingham was the strongest club in the Negro American League, winning pennants in 1943, 1944 and 1948. The '48 squad was piloted by by their 4-time All-Star second baseman, Lorenzo "Piper" Davis, and it is Piper who John Klima has so graciously written about, coinciding with the 100th anniversary of his birth. So, without further ado, here's author John Klima...
Happy 100th, Piper Davis
Piper Davis was born to play in the big leagues. Time and circumstances got in the way of his destiny but never changed the way he viewed his life. He played until his bones ached and his body became bridle, swinging the bat long enough to afford to put his children into college, and with enough years behind him to influence decades of baseball players who gravitated to his knowing pull. They followed the scent of his swirling pipe smoke and listened to him speak. His voice was booming and robust, soulful and soothing. He saw things in the game others could not readily see and he freely shared his knowledge.
There was not a touch of greed within him, and when he died there was no regret or lament. Time had taken a toll on his memories but not his spirit, and from the time he was born on July 3, 1917 to the time he died on May 21, 1997, Birmingham's favorite son was sure of one thing -- though he had never appeared in a major league game, Piper Davis knew he was a big leaguer. Never had a doubt about it. He didn't need you to tell him that. He knew it all along.
I got to know Piper, posthumously, when I wrote my book Willie's Boys, which was published in 2009. The book was about how Willie Mays, Piper's young charge on the 1948 Birmingham Black Barons, navigated the world of segregated baseball and was eventually signed by the New York Giants in 1950. I still maintain that this is the greatest single story in the history of free agent scouting, for all the moving parts and behind-the-scenes connections and contacts that made the career of Mays possible. Piper's part in all this was unreported and enormous, and the fingerprints of his character were all over Mays's career. Simply put, Piper put the youngster first.
When a talented young amateur player comes around, you will find if you stay in baseball long enough, that greedy adults will do everything in their power to manipulate the player to their advantage. They will do so for personal benefit and at the expense of the young player's development. This dynamic exists today, and it always gets dicey in June and July.
Piper was a rarity -- a man of immense character, a man of God and a man of Family, who refused to deviate from the time he knew Mays needed to become a pro. He taught him and pushed him. He preached and he punished. He left in the bus without him. He also hit him cleanup and played him in center field when he decided Mays was ready. When white scouts came to ask about Mays, it was Piper they sought. Though Piper himself wanted out of the Negro Leagues before it was too late, never once did he tie his future to Mays. He refused to compromise Mays for his own personal gain.
Willie's Boys was about Mays but the story belonged to Piper, because the reason baseball had Willie Mays is Piper Davis. When I called Willie, he very genially reflected and said, "You know this stuff better than I do." And when I asked about his fondness for Piper, he simply reflected and said, "He was a very special person to me."
Piper had that affect on players he met and people who never met him. So on the occasion of what would have been his 95th birthday, July 3, 2012, I decided to do something that hadn't been done before. I decided to try to get Piper Davis into a major league game.
Luck was on my side. The Cincinnati Reds were in Los Angeles, at Dodger Stadium. The manager of the Reds at the time, Dusty Baker, has an affinity for history and a deep awareness of those who came before him. These characteristics were handed down to him as a young man when he was placed under the wing of Henry Aaron and when Satchel Paige made the young Johnnie B. Baker tote his fishing poles. As a Dodger, Dusty admired the heritage of Jackie Robinson and Roy Campanella. Though the decades, Dusty has shown he has a lot of Piper Davis in him, too -- a guy whose instincts and feel for the game, for talking to young ballplayers and older players alike is unique. In the modern era where baseball is a game of massive information drops on a daily basis, there still comes a need for a communicator with the feel of a baseball man. And so Dusty was just the right man for this job.
I went to the visiting manager's office at Dodger Stadium and sat down inside one of the old locker stalls and asked Dusty to get Piper into a big league game. My idea was to have him write Piper's initials on his wristbands. Dusty had a better idea.
"What position would he play?" Dusty asked.
"Second base," I said. "Right-handed hitter."
So Dusty took his black pen (black for right-handers, red for left-handers) and where his second baseman for the day, Brandon Phillips was written, Dusty instead wrote in PIPER DAVIS, batting fourth, playing second base.
Cleanup hitter on a first place club. That would be just fine.
Dusty handed the new card to his bench coach, Chris Speier and asked him to print it off. A few minutes later, here comes Chris with the lineup. He hands it to Dusty, who signs it, making it (unofficially) official. Dusty handed me the lineup card. I told him it was going to Birmingham.
The Reds lost that game, 3-1, but the only run the Reds scored was an RBI double to center field in the fourth inning off the bat of the cleanup hitter, second baseman Brandon Phillips. Fitting -- it was a short, compact powerful swing from a second baseman, to straightaway center. It was as if Piper was swinging the bat himself. You can dream on that if you like.
I did.
After the game, I made a color copy to keep for myself. I sent the original to Faye Davis, Piper's daughter, who over the years has done an admirable job keeping her father's memory alive. I told her, on Piper's birthday, he finally "appeared" in a major league game. Even got himself a double, so to speak.
She was moved by the gesture. She also showed the lineup card to her mother, Piper's widow Laura, who after all those years waiting, finally saw her husband's name in a big league game. A few years later, she passed away, but not before Dusty Baker signed Piper Davis into the big leagues. As Piper always said, without reservation, he knew he was a big leaguer all along.
The
path Piper Davis took to professional baseball was as long as winding
as the dirt roads leading to the coal mines in his hometown of Piper,
Alabama. From the coal mining company teams of his boyhood, Piper
realized that baseball was his path to prosperity. He joined the
Birmingham Black Barons in 1942 and spent the next two seasons playing
baseball in the summer and basketball in the winter for the Harlem
Globetrotters. He was an All-Star in the Negro Leagues and was
frequently mentioned as an integration candidate for "White Folks Ball,"
as the black players referred to organized baseball. The St. Louis
Browns took an option on him in 1947, which proved to be a fruitless
endeavor, and in 1948 he became player-manager of his hometown Black
Barons.
From
the moment he perched his front foot onto the top step of the dugout at
Rickwood Field, Piper's personality had a pull on his players. He
understood how to be their teammate and their manager. He drew lines. He
was a married man and so he did not partake in the nightlife. He did
not drink or use profanity. The years after 1947 were a trying time for
Negro League players, who could see their once proud league dying a slow
death, and who recognized that the white majors were not in a hurry to
sign them all despite the successful arrival of Jackie Robinson.
Piper's
1948 Black Barons were special for the arrival of the young Willie
Mays, then a high school sophomore. Mays played with the Black Barons
until the time of his high school graduation in 1950. In 1948, the Black
Barons beat their rival, the Kansas City Monarchs, to win the Negro
American League. They played in the last Negro League World Series,
losing to the Homestead Grays.
When
the Boston Red Sox purchased Piper and made him the first black player
the organization purchased, he was released shortly before Mays
graduated when it became clear the Red Sox were not going to acquire
Mays. Shortly thereafter, Mays was signed by the Giants. The great
ballplayers of the '48 Black Barons scattered, including Piper.
He
settled into the Pacific Coast League in the 1950s, playing his best
years for the Oakland Oaks and winding down with the Los Angeles Angels.
While with the Angels, he often schooled a young infielder named Gene
Mauch, who loved Piper for his personality and his wisdom. Piper
finished his career with Fort Worth in the Texas League, playing until
1950.
You
can find his career path online but to feel his contributions, you had
to talk to the people who knew him. When I wrote Willie's Boys, Piper
was a constant. I would listen to those who knew him and read what he
had to say. When you write books, sometimes you feel as though you "get
to know" people who have died long ago. Piper's lessons, as it pertains
to developing ballplayers, guide me to this day. Piper once said, in all
humility, that "if he had played today, he'd have been a million dollar
ballplayer," but never once complained. So here on his 100th birthday,
we think it is fitting that we share Piper Davis' story, and how he posthumously made it to the big leagues -- a centennial for a man born to be a big leaguer.
