tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14013481918412489562024-03-15T00:19:20.526-07:00Rule 19 Blog"Every Club shall adopt uniforms for its players, and the suits of each team shall conform in color and style".Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-1390130566241133522013-01-22T10:01:00.001-08:002013-01-24T15:32:13.253-08:00Musial, Weaver, and the Wandering Kings<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Stan Musial and Earl Weaver</div>
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This week saw the passing of two baseball greats, Earl
Weaver and Stan Musial. Although in some ways these two personalities could not
be further apart – one the steady consummate gentleman, the other the
impulsive firebrand – there are some interesting parallels between the two men.
Musial, of course, spent his entire 22-year career with the St. Louis
Cardinals. Weaver, while never appearing in an official major league game, came
up with the Cards organization, and spent part of spring training of 1952 with
the Redbirds, where his fiery temperament apparently made him know. (Here he is
below, wearing the leftover ’51 Cardinal road uniform). The two men were in the same
lineup exactly one time: One March 8, 1952 the Cardinals faced the Yankees with
Weaver put in the lineup, replacing regular second baseman Red Schoendienst
(as Cardinal player-manager Eddie Stanky was also a second-sacker, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Weaver’s chances of making the club were slim
to none). The normally light-hitting Weaver went 2-for-5 (Musial was
1-for-three), but Earl didn’t make the big club, and played for the Houston
Buffs that season. His lack of hitting ability kept him out of the majors, but the Orioles saw managerial potential in him, and the rest is history.</div>
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An interesting stat about Stan The Man: Although he played
for Cards for 22 seasons, he appeared in 24 All Star Games. How was this
possible? The interleague classic was played twice a season from 1959-1962.</div>
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Kings Wanderlust Continues</div>
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The news broke this week that the NBA’s Sacramento Kings
will likely be coming to Seattle next season. If this happens, the club will adopt the
departed Sonics’ name and colors, but Seattle will actually be getting one of the
NBA’s original franchises. In fact, the team pre-dates the NBA by decades,
starting in the 1920s as an semi-pro club sponsored by the Seagrams booze
people in Rochester, NY. The team changed its name to Royals when they went
professional and played in the National Basketball League and Basketball
Association of America before teams from those two leagues combined to form the
NBA in 1945. In 1957 the club moved to Cincinnati and seemed content until the
journey west continued and they became the Kansas City-Omaha Kings for the
1972-73 season, with home games split between two cities. In 1975, the “Omaha”
was dropped, and ten years later KC was abandoned as well in favor of Sacramento. So,
assuming the Seattle move goes through, and counting Omaha, this franchise will
have called six cities home, giving “traveling” in basketball a new meaning. Six
home towns is also easily the record for North American major league sports
teams.* While redeemed Seattle fans bask in the past glory of Spencer Heywood,
Shawn Kemp, and Gary Peyton , perhaps the players from past years to be
celebrated should be the likes of Al Cervi, Red Holzman, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and Tiny Archibald.</div>
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<i>*It has been pointed out that the Nets franchise (who started
life in the Teaneck Armory as the ABA’s New Jersey Americans and now grace
Brooklyn’s new Barclay Center) have played more different cities than even the
Royals/Kings, however they have only been known as the New Jersey Nets, New
York Nets, and Brooklyn Nets (in addition to the Americans).</i><br />
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<i>Thanks to EFF customers Kenneth Mall, Adam Klawitter, and Paul Dylan for contributing research to this post. </i></div>
Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-29683566773366775172012-08-13T20:49:00.007-07:002012-08-13T21:20:37.523-07:00Let's Talk Dives...Ladies and gentlemen pull up a chair - or rather a bar stool - as the subject of this month's missive is...dives. No, not that kind. I know the Olympics just ended and this is supposed to be a sports-related blog, but I mean real dives. The kind of place that you might not bring your parents or a first date to, but which otherwise fits you like a glove. A really comfortable, tipsy glove. Every one's definition of what makes a good dive is different, but here's my criteria: 1. It must be relatively cheap. 2. It must be free of pretension. It is exactly what it is - no more, no less. 3. It must be immune to gentrification or hipsterization (ok, I made that word up, but it describes a real social ill). 4. It must attract characters - both as patrons and employees. 5. (and this one is really important): It must make both regulars and newcomers feel welcome.<br />
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I happen to be in Los Angeles while I write this, so I will discuss two of my favorite L.A. dives, Chez Jay's in Santa Monica, and the HMS Bounty in Koreatown. I discovered each of these joints quite by accident and have returned to both countless times and have never been disappointed. First, Chez Jay. I first stumbled into this little seafood shack across from Santa Monica pier in the early 90s, but Jay's has been serving stiff drinks and seafood to folks since locals pronounced a hard "g" in "Los Angeles". I will never forget the way owner Jay Fiorendella greeted me at the Dutch door entryway the first time, resplendent in a suit with open-necked shirt - with the words "Hello, I'm Jay". (OK, not very dive-like, but bear with me). The crunch of peanuts and sawdust on the floor, red and white checked tablecloths, and seafairing bric-a-brac on the walls sets the mood. A bar takes up most of the space on the left side. The food here will never receive a Michelin star, but it's quite serviceable (the Steak Sinatra is my personal favorite), and when combined with the low lighting and 1960s ambience (I'm talking Mad Men 60s, not Haight-Ashbury 60s) more than makes up for any lack of haute cuisine aspirations. On one of my early visits I was chatting with Jay when he pointed to a stool a few yards away. "See that chair?", he said. "That's where Angie Dickinson would wait for a call from Peter Lawford telling her where to go meet Jack." (That's Jack, as in Kennedy. The young president was also rumored to favor the private back room for trysts). On my last visit, in October, I was saddened to learn that Jay had passed away a few years ago. But the place was still going strong. Steak Sinatra was still on the menu, and the same faded UCLA pennants were on the wall, next to the ancient metal diving suits. The jukebox shuffled from Chuck Berry to Roy Orbison to Steppenwolf. The lovely bartender was cracking wise, and when a hipster asked for an "energy drink" we all held our collective breath. "This is a <i>bar</i>, honey", was all she said. It sure is.<br />
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<i>Note: I just read that wrong-headed civic planners (read "morons") are trying to have Chez Jay's replaced by a more tourist and family friendly restaurant (as if Santa Monica doesn't have enough of those). Read about it <a href="http://losangeles.grubstreet.com/2012/05/chez-jay-endangered-by-garden-walkway-santa-monica.html">here</a>. </i><br />
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I had the pleasure of discovering the HMS Bounty more recently when I started using Koreatown as my base during my L.A business trips. This stretch of Wilshire Blvd. is a treat for Los Angeles history buffs. The famed Brown Derby restaurant was next door, and the Ambassador Hotel, site of Robert F. Kennedy's assassination in 1968 was across the street, as was the Coconut Grove nightclub. Founded in 1948, the Bounty was at different times a haven for sports bookies, and one of L.A.'s great pick-up bars (due to all the single gals living in the nearby apartment buildings in the 1960s). The Bounty itself is nestled in the lovely art deco Gaylord Apartment building, still home to aspiring actors and other interesting Angelenos of all stripes. Baseball games play on flatscreen TV's in the corners, but this is the Bounty's only concession to modernity. Another nautically-themed establishment (a thing with me, I guess), the HMS Bounty attracts an interesting combination of lower show biz life, hipsters, and Gaylord residents. I was there on a Monday night recently and the place was crawling with old jazzmen talking shop. If you squint in the light of the nautical lanterns you will see photos on the wall of long-forgotten sax players ("Corky Corcoran - Sensational Young Tenor Star - Endorses Conn Saxophones"), or 1940s entertainers like the Harry James Orchestra. The great jukebox follows suit, with selections by Dean Martin, Glenn Miller, and Artie Shaw. For serious diners, there is a separate formal dining room, which is rarely used. I prefer to take my meals at the bar or at one of the big banquettes in the same room. Best of all, the bartenders and servers always seem to be having as much fun as the patrons. When nature calls (which it surely will after your third gin and tonic), one steps through a side door into the ornate lobby of the Gaylord where the public facilities are located. One can meander (or stumble) back toward the HMS while appreciating the fine architectural details as well as the historic photographs of the building (so you can get your buzz on and your culture in one setting). I was just there before writing this, and I'm going back tomorrow. <br />
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What are some of your favorite dives? Let me know and maybe I'll post some of them (or better yet, visit). Until next time, pass the nuts.Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-8892865488860237922012-05-31T21:22:00.000-07:002012-06-01T14:16:40.757-07:00A Goodbye To Our Friend Mr. Surkin<span style="font-size: small;">I received a phone call early in May from my dear friend and sometime mentor, sometime competitor, Peter Capolino. Peter founded Mitchell & Ness Nostalgia Co. in Philadelphia around the same time that Lisa and I were starting up EFF, and I suppose it was inevitable that the only two lunatics attempting to re-create a dead athletic apparel product at precisely the same time when the entire U.S. manufacturing base was in serious decline get together. We all became fast friends in those early, heady days, and often shared resources and knowledge. (More on that friendship at another time). Peter was calling to tell me that Martin Surkin, owner for many decades of Maple Manufacturing Company was not long for this world, and that perhaps I should call him and say my goodbyes. I had not spoken to Mr. Surkin in several years, and he sounded initially distant and somewhat confused by my call, though he fortunately soon realized who I was, and we had a pleasant, though brief, chat. I was grateful that I had a chance to express my thanks to him and tell him how much he meant to us.</span><br />
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Back in the late 1980s when we decided to start a baseball clothing company there were still a number of old time manufacturers who made the very items from the "golden age" of athletic apparel we were trying so hard to emulate in our business. My first caps, for example, were made by a little company in Boston's Chinatown who used to deliver the Red Sox hats right to the clubhouse at Fenway. There were still a few woolen mills and jacket makers around (all gone now), and I visited or called all of them in the first years of EFF's existence, soaking up every bit of knowledge I could. Maple was one such company, and I met Martin Surkin and his sister Pearl through Peter, who was using Maple to make all of his flannel baseball jerseys at the time. Mr. Surkin had acquired Passon Sporting Goods around 1933. Its founder, Harry Passon, was instrumental in outfitting the many black and Jewish athletic teams in the Philadelphia area and was also a co-founder (with Eddie Gottlieb) of the Philadelphia SPHAs professional basketball team. <br />
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Going to Maple was always a bit of an adventure. The company - on Noble Street in the Callowhill section of Philadelphia - was in the Art Deco Lasher Building. What once had been a beautiful, modern edifice was now a crumbling relic. The elevator ride to Maple's offices and factory was a bit creepy, and on my ride up to the fourth floor I always felt vaguely like I was traveling through ghosts of Philadelphia's industrial past, which in a way I was. Although once in the confines of Maple it was perfectly fine, by the 1990s neither the building nor the neighborhood were places one would want to linger after dark.<br />
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Mr. Surkin - I could never quite bring myself to call him "Martin", it seemed almost disrespectful - was an interesting man. He walked with a pronounced limp (a vestige of childhood polio), carried a cane, and smoked a pipe. He never married. He lived with his sisters Natalie (who passed away before I met him) and Pearl, who did Maple's bookkeeping. On his desk was always a jar of pretzels. He seemed to have no hobbies or vices other than buying himself a new Cadillac every year, and going to DiNardo's on Race Street for steaks or crab nearly every night. He was the first person I knew who watched his stock portfolio on a computer. He was thoughtful, very intelligent, enjoyed a good joke, but did not suffer fools gladly. To me he was a wise old sage, and I would pester him questions about how things were done in the good old days. I always got the impression he must have been somewhat amused that these younger people had so much fascination for something that to him must have been old hat.<br />
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Pearl handled the bookkeeping, and she was a character in her own right. Under five feet tall, with a cigarette dangling from her mouth, and enough hairspray to turn her head into a silver helmet, she could play the sweet Jewish grandmother. But if you crossed her (especially if you owed Maple money) she could be tough as nails. Her worst insult was "oh go sit on a tack!" And she meant it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9F0D6ymqn8v5cX0MD6z8X-xn78z84FEJzkibXUKKLLVmmaoG8XiLqZZOrNRLdiLHryEAo2RVMnFApmKO2kL0l-aqusH5xeIrdyf-446Fep5DLfete-FJCSnwVHp65SGY84NiMgD8Jlkwo/s1600/MartinPearl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9F0D6ymqn8v5cX0MD6z8X-xn78z84FEJzkibXUKKLLVmmaoG8XiLqZZOrNRLdiLHryEAo2RVMnFApmKO2kL0l-aqusH5xeIrdyf-446Fep5DLfete-FJCSnwVHp65SGY84NiMgD8Jlkwo/s320/MartinPearl.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martin and Pearl Surkin</td></tr>
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Mr. Surkin may have seemed like a kindly grandfather at times, but he could be very tough about business. Throughout much of the 1990s, we made David Letterman's annual big Christmas gift to staff and friends, which was always a varsity style wool and leather jacket. These jackets went to famous friends like Johnny Carson and Tom Hanks, as well as to the show staff. Dave himself took an active role in the design each year, often designing and re-designing the jacket right up until the point of production. This order was a big deal for us - both financially and for the prestige we gained from it. One particular year, it must have been around 1994, we had Maple make the Letterman jackets, and as Christmas approached, we grew concerned about Maple's delivery. This concern was heightened when Dave's personal assistant Laurie Diamond called me (almost never good to pick up the phone and have "Diamond", as she liked to call herself, on the other end). She was clearly alarmed that the jackets were not going to make it in time, and franly, so was I. No Christmas jackets meant no $50,000 payment, which funded the company through the first slow post-holiday months; a very disappointed David Letterman, and one very pissed off Laurie Diamond. I made a call to Mr. Surkin. Ebbets Field had a bit of an overdue balance to Maple at the time, and Mr. Surkin made it clear that without us becoming current on that balance, he could not assure us that the David Letterman Christmas order would have priority in his production schedule. Not having the cash on hand, I explained that when we got paid for the Letterman jackets we would have plenty of money to pay our back balance, and how it would adversely affect my business if we were to not deliver these jackets on time, but Mr. Surkin was unmoved: The jackets "might" make it, or they might not. No guarantees, when I guarantee was what I desperately needed.<br />
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I made a snap decision to take the red eye that very night to Philadelphia and try to take charge of the situation. For a week I trudged into the Noble St. factory at 9 AM with the rest of the employees. Mr. Surkin neither hindered nor helped me. Early on I figured out who made things happen in the factory and made sure I became friendly with the people who would decide my fate - or at least my relationship with my biggest and most important customer. I begged, pleaded, and cajoled Maple's employees to push my jackets through the production line. I pressed jackets, trimmed threads, counted garments, and packed them into boxes. This being a Union shop, perhaps the worse thing was seeing boxes of jackets nearly ready for Fedex at 5 PM, but when 5 o'clock struck, the shipper put his hands down, even though five more minutes of taping boxes shut would have meant dozens of Letterman Christmas jackets going out that day instead of the next. The situation was not made better by periodic phone calls from Laurie Diamond, who had somehow tracked me down at Maple, demanding progress reports and assurances. I dealt with all the pressure by copious drinking in the evenings with a few sympathetic Mitchell & Ness employees and their friends. But the next morning I would make my way through the December muck back to my work station at Maple. On my breaks I would retreat to the fortress of an office where Martin and Pearl held forth. I would eat my lunch while behind me Pearl would type Maple's invoices by hunt-and-peck method on an electric typewriter (she refused to learn to use a computer), while smoking a cigarette and carrying on a running commentary to no one in particular on the quality of their customers. "Six jackets," <i>tap-tap,</i> <i>drag</i>, <i>puff</i>...."Like he's doing us a favor!"...<i>TAP, TAP, TAP</i>!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi26TTss7D-PhgUbgPOmYkC-uih9nsNakIP7Ujis9m6iAYlY7rXvK2zhkReQguqsUuen5J9aSf8xOvuQTgXyFKHJEXREruhL42UXgu0d4GycPJHI8SUlSYB_mRuqr6b_2azt-dmnRlMpI3l/s1600/LasherBldg..jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi26TTss7D-PhgUbgPOmYkC-uih9nsNakIP7Ujis9m6iAYlY7rXvK2zhkReQguqsUuen5J9aSf8xOvuQTgXyFKHJEXREruhL42UXgu0d4GycPJHI8SUlSYB_mRuqr6b_2azt-dmnRlMpI3l/s320/LasherBldg..jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Lasher Bldg., home of Maple Mfg.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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By the end of my week-long "apprenticeship" at the factory the jackets got out - barely. To add insult to injury, I missed my flight back to Seattle when the airport shuttle driver agreed to turn around at JFK and take a passenger to La Guardia when the passenger realized he was headed to the wrong airport. I capped off my trip East by spending a miserable night at an airport hotel. We paid for the Letterman jackets as well as the back balance we owed, and despite the stress this experience caused me I always respected Mr. Surkin for taking the stand he did. I knew it was just business - just like Mr. Surkin knew our decision to give the Letterman jacket order to a different supplier the following year was just business.<br />
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We continued to use Maple periodically over the next several years, but advancing age and a changing sporting goods market meant Mr. Surkin finally had to sell Maple in the late 1990s. The new owners were full of big plans, but they ran the company into the ground almost instantly, ending over 60 years of apparel-making heritage. In the meantime Pearl passed away and Mr. Surkin eventually had to move into an assisted living facility.<br />
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Mr. Surkin passed away on May 12th, 2012 at the age of 92, a few days after our phone call. He was a friend to us, and a mentor whom I learned a great deal from. I keep a Maple catalog from 1941 on my desk and leaf through it from time to time. The rough, aged paper feels good in my hands, and the work Mr. Surkin did over 70 years ago is still an inspiration. I am a better businessman - but more importantly a better man - for having known him. <br />
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<br />Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-68709495696116234452012-03-01T22:23:00.021-08:002012-03-02T07:47:38.137-08:00The Fits And Starts Of Baseball IntegrationBy now even the most casual baseball fan is familiar with the story of Jackie Robinson and his breaking of the "color line" in organized baseball. Robinson's fearlessness, temperament, grace, not to mention pure baseball ability and exciting style of play, made him the perfect symbol of the changing of the guard in the fusty world of professional baseball from the Old to the New. In Branch Rickey, we have the perfect benevolent and wise father figure, who ushered in the new age of enlightenment in the face of resistance from his less reasonable brethren - his fellow owners. Like many mythologies, the story, although over-simplified, has the power over us that it does because it is basically true. But integration in baseball did bot begin with Robinson, nor sadly, did the floodgates of goodwill and fairness toward African-American players open immediately after Robinson's heroic first seasons.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb0IIndOoomofTir3R4qU0Y4NGmI5Ch2HGhAkB8CWyzdWQs_v6ON7VlF0Wb_ZSQ5o6AYKvrASbyJvhyphenhyphenezlqLox-G8VBl-_QXy2dutUeGu5XHvS_B4PbcWr2VaNrlvO_Dfek8cIZ6TFpcCU/s1600/CharlieGrant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="241" width="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb0IIndOoomofTir3R4qU0Y4NGmI5Ch2HGhAkB8CWyzdWQs_v6ON7VlF0Wb_ZSQ5o6AYKvrASbyJvhyphenhyphenezlqLox-G8VBl-_QXy2dutUeGu5XHvS_B4PbcWr2VaNrlvO_Dfek8cIZ6TFpcCU/s400/CharlieGrant.jpg" /></a></div><i>Left: Charlie Grant, or "Charlie Tokohama".</i><br />
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As far back as 1901, the very first year of what is considered the "modern era" of major league baseball, efforts were made to challenge - or at least circumvent - the so-called "gentleman's agreement" which barred only black players from the game. In that season John McGraw of the Baltimore Orioles (forerunners of the franchise we know today as the New York Yankees) hired one Charlie Grant, and tried to pass him off as Native American "Charlie Tokohama". When many of Grant's suspiciously non-Indian looking friends came out to the ballpark to see "Tokohama" play, McGraw's ruse was exposed, and the experiment quickly ended.<br />
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In 1916 Canadian Jimmy Claxton was briefly signed by the Oakland club of the Pacific Coast League, again using the Native American ruse, and Claxton's time with the Oaks ended as suddenly as it began. It would be 30 year before the PCL would see another black player.<br />
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The great baseball owner and raconteur Bill Veeck often stated that he tried to buy the hapless Phillies in 1943 and stock them with top Negro league stars. Although it is very easy to believe that Veeck's lively mind came up with this idea, there is scant evidence beyond Veeck's own claims to suggest he ever tried to go through with it.<br />
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Another story has to do with Senators owner Clark Griffith watching the Homestead Grays (who played home games in Washington) take batting practice. It didn't take much more than seeing Josh Gibson and Buck Leonard crush ball after ball out of Griffith Stadium for him to realize what kind of team the lowly Senators would be if he could sign these sluggers. But alas it was not to be.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhteOohfgRR9KkT_IWC475C6ojlcM5F0QbGMZWShxhfZjkoWCCkCbhvPC_pltX68EOkPi8xkHzvyWIG6a4ZwOZTRpAUo2IvtJecnkIJlgTIAjisCkU23TJ9GGM0GTUi6b59tWAnlHXFwAFw/s1600/silvio-garcia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhteOohfgRR9KkT_IWC475C6ojlcM5F0QbGMZWShxhfZjkoWCCkCbhvPC_pltX68EOkPi8xkHzvyWIG6a4ZwOZTRpAUo2IvtJecnkIJlgTIAjisCkU23TJ9GGM0GTUi6b59tWAnlHXFwAFw/s320/silvio-garcia.jpg" /></a></div>Then there is the story told to me by Cuban baseball historian Edel Casas in Havana many years ago: Branch Rickey had been looking for that special player for some time before he eventually set his sites on Robinson. The Dodgers used to play exhibition games in Cuba and the great slugging shortstop and pitcher, the dark-skinned Cuban player Silvio Garcia went 8 for 21 against the Brooklyn club in a 1942 exhibition series. Rickey supposedly asked the Cuban the same question he would later pose to Robinson: "What will you do the first time a white player slaps your face?" Garcia's answer? "I will kill him". Needless to say, Garcia was not chosen to fulfill the role Rickey had in mind.<br />
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It should also be noted that the minor leagues - as part of organized baseball - followed the same rigid code of segregation as the majors, but there were pockets of resistance. The Provincial League of Quebec was a haven for black ballplayers during the years when the league was "independent", and therefore not subject to the strictures of organized ball. But when the league joined organized ball as a Class C circuit, the ban on black players was strictly enforced. In the South - with Jim Crow laws very much still on the books - the story was predictable. The most important loop - the Southern Association - never did integrate, a fact that partly explained its demise in 1960. When the Hot Springs Bathers tried to field two black pitchers in 1953, the club was initially ousted from the league, and a major crisis ensued for minor league baseball.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzop96PVESqAtOS6G7BpV6VfIg4Ms-tTpLRoA4b-ORuTKPcRzHY05aSiXL_grE8JsSCCSynhBtTPR7l1hm8xx2pZOMYtNLaiQuhFx4X1eWfLbkJt7sEeQlr8h1F_qL7P3TaveFmcpoJtNg/s1600/ElstonHoward.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzop96PVESqAtOS6G7BpV6VfIg4Ms-tTpLRoA4b-ORuTKPcRzHY05aSiXL_grE8JsSCCSynhBtTPR7l1hm8xx2pZOMYtNLaiQuhFx4X1eWfLbkJt7sEeQlr8h1F_qL7P3TaveFmcpoJtNg/s320/ElstonHoward.jpg" /></a></div><i>Left: Elston Howard as a Kansas City Monarch</i><br />
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Let's look at the majors <i>post</i>-1947, when one might think that after having seen Robinson succeed in the majors, and knowing full well the depth of talent available in the Negro leagues, that there would have been a rush from all sides to scoop up the best players. Yet this didn't happen. Teams like the Dodgers and Giants were very aggressive in signing black (and later Hispanic) players, and clearly benefited from the infusion of talent and excitement stars like Robinson, Satchel Paige, Willie Mays and Hank Aaron brought to their new clubs. At the other extreme, the Boston Red Sox simply found it quite impossible to find the "right" black player for over a decade. It was not until 1959 that the Bosox grudgingly brought up the frankly mediocre Pumpsie Green to "integrate" the club as its sole African-American member. The great and mighty Yankees looked far and wide before settling on Elston Howard. "The Yankees will bring up a Negro as soon as one that fits the high Yankee Standards is found", sniffed GM George Weiss. It was not until 1955 that Howard was finally found fit for pinstripes. This event was greeted by a comment from Casey Stengel too vulgar to post here, but it should be noted that Howard always said he was made to feel welcome by his Yankee teammates.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr2HnV8tlgl0Hw_zSeZboZ4kO5FHleIfkGZ_3k1WEQSXjxXA0RckmA4qJ9l_dMnzk71Uz2txStneectnfvdKzx5211rVGBV2x7eHV_8G6NZuLD-G-zSJi4w0GD-D6Yuc5BIybuDjPWlHZ9/s1600/larry-doby-jackie-robinson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr2HnV8tlgl0Hw_zSeZboZ4kO5FHleIfkGZ_3k1WEQSXjxXA0RckmA4qJ9l_dMnzk71Uz2txStneectnfvdKzx5211rVGBV2x7eHV_8G6NZuLD-G-zSJi4w0GD-D6Yuc5BIybuDjPWlHZ9/s320/larry-doby-jackie-robinson.jpg" /></a></div><i>Two pioneers: Larry Doby and Jackie Robinson</i><br />
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Nor was each league equal in the pace of integration. Until at least the mid-1960s, the National League far outpaced the American in signings of African-American players. Cleveland (with Bill Veeck in charge) took the lead in the junior circuit by signing Newark Eagles star Larry Doby (who had to go through the same tribulations in 1947 as Robinson, with far less fanfare and without the benefit of seasoning in the minor leagues that Robinson had). The Indians also have the honor of fielding the first black manager - Frank Robinson - in 1975.<br />
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So, as we rightly celebrate Robinson and Rickey, it is appropriate to also be cognizant of the struggles before that triumphal year of 1947, and the ones that continued for too long a time after.Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-48132230973746962982011-10-24T22:20:00.000-07:002011-10-25T08:38:20.909-07:00The DH and Other Strange RulesI was recently on a Rolling Stones discussion site when the subject of the Designated Hitter rule came up (of all things). If there is one sure fire way to stir up the cyber equivalent of a bar fight among baseball fans, just type "I hate the DH" (or "I love the DH") and wait for the fun to begin. But the discussion got me thinking about odd or unusual rules in baseball and other sports. I do not wish to make this month's edition of FOTM exclusively about the DH, so allow me to dispense with it here, before moving on to our main topic:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl4YFQfWdLNz5dMxBm_WrRw0KiCzEP8WOHlNx7rhQREAWtX6iv9DS_OAltQl3RAzjiP6jYh52ntz3hnXBJtfGMxiJLK7CtcALYvk6T22iTlRAse98iZrWKsCfeFOkxJKEu7vs8blax_XeC/s1600/mackc9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="330" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl4YFQfWdLNz5dMxBm_WrRw0KiCzEP8WOHlNx7rhQREAWtX6iv9DS_OAltQl3RAzjiP6jYh52ntz3hnXBJtfGMxiJLK7CtcALYvk6T22iTlRAse98iZrWKsCfeFOkxJKEu7vs8blax_XeC/s400/mackc9.jpg" /></a></div><i>Connie Mack first advocated use of a designated hitter in 1906.</i><br />
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In my humble opinion, the designated hitter rule is an abomination against God and Nature, a scourge on the National Game, a violation of the most basic and sacred tenets of baseball, and contrary to all that is Right and Good in the universe. It is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Among its many evils is that it has immeasurably dumbed down the game, taught two generations of pitchers that they needn't bother to learn how to use a bat, and is based on the false premise that more offense necessarily makes a better game. Worst of all, it violates the very first rule in the rulebook, which says "Baseball is a game of two teams of nine players each". Get that? Nine. Not ten, eleven or fifteen. You want a historical reason I'm against it? Okay. If the DH rule had existed at the time, there would have been no Babe Ruth, as Ruth was a pitcher and his batting prowess might never have seen the light of day in a major league game. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIkvPVWmHdn3_Z4FRGnSZhCIcpmyt3rWxgWyjzrVO-OnO3TmTNBAYbN7NE2-QCVLfzCchjWsuc5OEdlM8DPCeEhWr06D-TD5qbNEdI70GcUvS13fI1bDhBRqrldKLt3fVyi56mmB3nHESK/s1600/Blomberg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="220" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIkvPVWmHdn3_Z4FRGnSZhCIcpmyt3rWxgWyjzrVO-OnO3TmTNBAYbN7NE2-QCVLfzCchjWsuc5OEdlM8DPCeEhWr06D-TD5qbNEdI70GcUvS13fI1bDhBRqrldKLt3fVyi56mmB3nHESK/s400/Blomberg.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<i>Ron Blomberg became the American League's first designated hitter on April 6, 1973. He was walked by Luis Tiant.<br />
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I can almost hear some of you go for your keyboards already. Please save yourselves (and me) some time. Yes, I know I am in the minority. I know that most "fans" prefer the DH. I know that virtually all professional and college leagues use it. I know it isn't going away. I know that you "don't pay to see managers manage". I have heard all the arguments. I've heard them and I remain unconvinced. The DH is an artificial and completely unnecessary rule, and the fact that it is still around is an embarrassment, akin to someone you know wearing an open necked polyester shirt with gold medallions long after the disco era ended. (The 70s were not a great era for baseball rule changes <i>or</i> popular music, but unlike the Bee Gees, the DH is still inexplicably with us). Even the name of the position - "designated hitter" - sounds forced and artificial. Yes, lots of fans prefer the DH. Lots of fans are wrong. Glad I got that off my chest, let's move on...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil7nZI_774HL60JRUrALKzzXmeuI3J9pobdiUqHqoL9DDrRSAi-t7LkdYd99xGO582ynB7smXIQojbXYKCbCUr3e3q7dotNwl9SyYTL23UgyeAMO7NFIgdQRbU9Q4-6KRJYe_amnR8mEyO/s1600/Owen_Mickey.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="135" width="90" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil7nZI_774HL60JRUrALKzzXmeuI3J9pobdiUqHqoL9DDrRSAi-t7LkdYd99xGO582ynB7smXIQojbXYKCbCUr3e3q7dotNwl9SyYTL23UgyeAMO7NFIgdQRbU9Q4-6KRJYe_amnR8mEyO/s400/Owen_Mickey.gif" /></a></div>A rule that has always intrigued me is the uncaught third strike rule. This rule (No. 6.09) states that if there are two outs or first base is open, a strikeout victim can advance to first if the ball is not cleanly fielded by the catcher on the third strike. In one of the best examples of the wonderful symmetry of baseball, it was thought that the failure of the batter was not enough to cause an out - the defense must do its part too. In the instance where a batter reaches base successfully the pitcher is credited with a statistical strikeout, but no actual "out" is recorded. (This means that it is technically possible for a pitcher to have four or even more strikeouts in one inning). Of course, throwing the runner out is usually a formality, but in the 1941 World Series this play loomed large. With the Brooklyn Dodgers about to tie the Series at two games each, Mickey Owen's passed ball on what should have been the game-ending pitch by Hugh Casey allowed the Yankees to eventually turn the game around and take a 3-1 Series lead over Brooklyn. New York went on to win the next day and take the Series. One of the writers at the time described it like this: "The condemned jumped out of the chair and executed the warden". (Poor Mickey Owen, no one remembers that in the same season he set a National League record for most chances without an error by a catcher. When he passed away, his New York Times obituary was headlined "Mickey Owen Dies at 89, Allowed Fateful Passed Ball"). <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Q3GzioeHTRjQOqAruX9LPKxyKFR_Vf3p7gkafTKdRUIcvyWQbTl23WK5eFH3KpA65_N5jJHQvqa5QQeSAP9U6uHtEAfBZdH6NHBmwfQ_6EEpY8IxkVkrqFRf9_uXbY6qiQvX9IctWm6Q/s1600/rayMcLean.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Q3GzioeHTRjQOqAruX9LPKxyKFR_Vf3p7gkafTKdRUIcvyWQbTl23WK5eFH3KpA65_N5jJHQvqa5QQeSAP9U6uHtEAfBZdH6NHBmwfQ_6EEpY8IxkVkrqFRf9_uXbY6qiQvX9IctWm6Q/s400/rayMcLean.jpg" /></a></div>Let's turn to the great game of American football. In the early part of the 20th Century the drop kick was a popular way to score field goals and extra points. But by 1934 forward passing had become such a big part of the game that the shape of the ball was made pointed and could no longer be dropped with a reliable bounce. The last successful drop kick for decades was made by Roy "Scooter" McLean of the Chicago Bears (left) against the New York Giants in the 1941 Championship game (Joe Vetrano of the 49ers kicked one against the Browns in 1948, but at the time the two teams were in the AAFC, not the NFL). But the rule is still on the books, and Doug Flutie successfully drop kicked for an extra point on January 1, 2006 against Miami for his very last play in the NFL. <br />
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An even more obscure football rule is the fair catch kick, in which the receiving team may attempt a field goal from the spot of a successful fair catch. Unlike a field goal attempt from scrimmage, the defense must line up ten yards away. The ball is spotted at the scrimmage line and the kicker can have a full running start. A place kick or drop kick may be used. The last successful fair catch kick in the NFL was by the San Diego Chargers' Ray Wersching in 1976. (Mark Moseley attempted a record 74 yard fair catch kick against the Giants in 1979, but it fell short).<br />
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In soccer, one rule that is really not at all strange, but has been blamed in part for the past failure of professional soccer in the United States is the offside rule. Many Americans just cannot understand why perfectly good scoring drives should be nullified for no apparent reason. In the 1970s, in the interest of more scoring, the North American Soccer League modified the rule and created a "blue line" at 35 yards, similar to hockey's, but it was not enough to mollify offense-hungry Americans, and after a brief surge of popularity the league bit the dust in the 1980s. (The MLS is fairing much better). But in recent years, soccer's international governing body FIFA, has looked at eliminating the offside rule altogether. Maybe those American fans were right in the first place.<br />
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<i>Our Flannel Of The Month is the 1934 U.S. Tour Of japan jersey. Order it with Ruth or Gehrig's number, or any number you like. Chain stitch embroidery on the chest and left sleeve patches. Red, white, and blue rayon trim. $129 (reg. $195).</i>Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-61632033327528580022011-09-26T20:11:00.000-07:002011-09-27T17:12:23.126-07:00Ted Williams and the .400 ClubSeventy years ago, on September 27th 1941, Ted Williams achieved something in baseball no one has accomplished since - a season batting average over .400. Actually, Williams could have sat out the final day of the season - a double header in Philadelphia. At .39955, he was statistically at .400, and there was a strong likelihood that the eight or more at bats Williams would see in the two games would cause his average to dip below the .400 mark. The Bosox, already long out of the running, faced two meaningless games against the lowly Athletics, and player-manager Joe Cronin had given his permission for Williams (in only his third year with Boston) to skip the twin bill and preserve his .400. But Williams was not that kind of player, saying "If I'm going to be a .400 hitter, I want more than my toenails on the line." The man who would become known as Teddy Ballgame went 6-for-8 on the day and finished the year at .406. (Perhaps emphasizing his point, hist last hit of the day was lined off the speaker in right-center field for a double). In seven decades, nobody has come closer than ten points to this phenomenal mark. (Williams also led the American League in home runs that year with 37, but it still wasn't enough to snag the MVP, which went to the Yankees' Joe DiMaggio).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSzyzBVTaO_5y0nu3YurhqzRLqMQTA8M3ctezCRAVu9Yo9N986ZtML-whUr8Ecmkg67sMr5ZmVkGX7DJPnkqHPDFilZdYs1tvQw4CprRjDvb8FNM8BqcQ3QecAkWPHFP1lFCcjOmJ148mt/s1600/ted-williams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSzyzBVTaO_5y0nu3YurhqzRLqMQTA8M3ctezCRAVu9Yo9N986ZtML-whUr8Ecmkg67sMr5ZmVkGX7DJPnkqHPDFilZdYs1tvQw4CprRjDvb8FNM8BqcQ3QecAkWPHFP1lFCcjOmJ148mt/s400/ted-williams.jpg" /></a></div><i>That sweet, sweet swing...</i><br />
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The interesting thing is how little the Splendid Splinter's accomplishment was noted at the time. Only 10,268 souls bothered to show up at Shibe Park that late September afternoon, and most of the major newspapers failed to make much of the story. Why? In the four decades of the modern era up until that time, the .400 barrier had been broken eleven times by seven different players. Five of those times had occurred in the previous twenty years, so .400 was not considered the insurmountable achievement it would later be perceived to be. Also, another equally astonishing feat had been achieved that same season - Joe DiMaggio's 56-game hitting streak, and with the New Yorkers running away with the pennant that year, DiMaggio was the bigger story. <br />
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Who are the other members of the modern-era .400 club? The first was Nap Lajoie, who hit .426 for the Athletics in 1901. (In one of those delicious twists that occur in baseball, Connie Mack was Lajoie's manager for the A's in 1901, and was still the Athletics' skipper forty years later when Williams topped .400 in Philadelphia).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdtEePJGp1Z1BPMBq4DfYXtzk5kAqL-YFYuugwTJtt-UJ3D7X31lETtDwUTKp7OMmGsJnBrOv7GeuElk1PqJz0s7ik5cksVlR9STBG1Vp-2n47btVi-fAUvtgHv_cmMv1KBLhUlvrVf6nr/s1600/CobbLajoie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="221" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdtEePJGp1Z1BPMBq4DfYXtzk5kAqL-YFYuugwTJtt-UJ3D7X31lETtDwUTKp7OMmGsJnBrOv7GeuElk1PqJz0s7ik5cksVlR9STBG1Vp-2n47btVi-fAUvtgHv_cmMv1KBLhUlvrVf6nr/s400/CobbLajoie.jpg" /></a></div><i>Ty Cobb and Nap Lajoie, bitter rivals and fellow .400 hitters.</i><br />
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Future member of the 1919 Chicago "Black Sox", Shoeless Joe Jackson, hit .408 in 1911, for Cleveland.<br />
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Ty Cobb is one of three players to hit .400 twice or more. He did it in 1911 and 1912, and would have had a .401 average in 1922 if the American League had not determined that he was wrongly awarded and extra hit by the scorekeeper in a May 15th game. (As it was Cobb finished the season with an official .399 average).<br />
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Next was St. Louis Browns first-sacker George Sisler, who hit .407 in 1920 and .420 in 1922. Sisler was never the same after an attack of sinusitis in 1923, but had a long career with the Browns, Boston Braves, and Washington Senators.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmBndGsBIbgWVDiMfO-kOVzCFwTcArr0iaukweEW94ZfNBdqXLvO6L2qnoYq7UwPOfWpF9SH6th491mg1vTY6XIXOoH4RbLD8P3lpq6qz3vcCHxTs7TRUm9yWm_Ieprdw8RgCeWT8Ojb5C/s1600/HeilmannSeals.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmBndGsBIbgWVDiMfO-kOVzCFwTcArr0iaukweEW94ZfNBdqXLvO6L2qnoYq7UwPOfWpF9SH6th491mg1vTY6XIXOoH4RbLD8P3lpq6qz3vcCHxTs7TRUm9yWm_Ieprdw8RgCeWT8Ojb5C/s320/HeilmannSeals.jpg" /></a></div>Harry Heilmann (at left in a San Francisco Seals uniform) hit .403 in 1923 while winning one of his four American League batting titles as a member of the Detroit Tigers.<br />
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Turning to the National League, the only man who broke the .400 mark <i>three</i> times was the Cardinals' Rogers "The Rajah" Hornsby, who hit .401 in 1922, .424 in 1924 (the live ball era record) and .403 in 1925, the same year he won the Triple Crown and incidentally, managed the Cardinals.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJwPfOzjLJzUdeMzcw6jJ5QhVm1cziP702W44OfDCLcRzQ7sS6aDH4BkBh3T0QwzU9Kl75XuVoqq8cisk2v4tOguNkLincQHYwlOHgGNhou0wCsoFnuvnMCqQx5CWvZaTAGQkAI7XJ1j8o/s1600/hornsby+62.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJwPfOzjLJzUdeMzcw6jJ5QhVm1cziP702W44OfDCLcRzQ7sS6aDH4BkBh3T0QwzU9Kl75XuVoqq8cisk2v4tOguNkLincQHYwlOHgGNhou0wCsoFnuvnMCqQx5CWvZaTAGQkAI7XJ1j8o/s400/hornsby+62.jpg" /></a></div><i>Rogers Hornsby was a hitting coach for Casey Stengel's expansion New York Mets in 1962. Supposedly, when asked how he thought he would fare against current pitching he said "I guess I'd hit .280 or .290". Asked why so low he replied "Well, I'm 66 years old!". Hornsby died of a heart attack in 1963.</i><br />
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That leaves Giants first baseman Bill Terry as the last man before Williams to reach the .400 plateau, with his .401 mark for the 1930 season. It has been eight decades and counting since a hitter from the senior circuit has hit .400.<br />
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Many factors have conspired to prevent anyone from reaching a .400 average in the last seventy years. The switch to a 162-game season is one. More games, more chances. The law of averages just works against a hitter as the at bats pile up. The evolution in relief pitching is another huge reason. A starting pitcher in 1941 was expected to go the distance. Relief pitchers were mainly for emergencies. When a hitter got a fourth or fifth look at a tiring starter, it was a huge advantage. There were no Mariano Riveras to contend with in the eight or ninth inning.<br />
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After 1941 Williams was always convinced that someone else would come along and hit .400, but it still hasn't happened. George Brett hit .390 in 1980 for Kansas City. Tony Gwynn was at .394 on August 11, 1994 before the players went on strike. In 1993 John Olerud took a .400 average into August, but ended the year at .363. And Teddy? He never hit .400 again, but he did lead the league with .388 in 1957 at the ripe old age of 39, and hit .316 in 1960, his last season, when he was 42 years old, 19 long years after he become possibly baseball's last .400 hitter.<br />
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<i>Our Flannel Of The Month is, of course, Ted Williams's 1937 San Diego Padres jersey, bearing the young slugger's #19.</i>Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-73989179383265582132011-08-29T21:26:00.000-07:002011-08-30T08:36:17.939-07:00A Trip To The Friendly ConfinesPerhaps the only thing I like in baseball as much as historical uniforms is old ballparks. Sadly, I never got to see a game at Ebbets Field, the Polo Grounds, Tiger Stadium, or Forbes Field. We only have two of these gems left, and the good citizens of Boston and Chicago are lucky indeed to still have Fenway Park and Wrigley Field.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizo6dauTtx0u-R-RmVSrwuJgSwMJuXiJoWPiAzQG54y8fgCKh_VbYmb_88-Qz2-oAq4NB4Z1lZ3Oft_NfI4zV9IaR5FvwTdtVraChH-twQjPTUpVt2C9e4xvvQ6ZxhHfNhBcWGolVSPWzk/s1600/WeeghmanPostcard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="254" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizo6dauTtx0u-R-RmVSrwuJgSwMJuXiJoWPiAzQG54y8fgCKh_VbYmb_88-Qz2-oAq4NB4Z1lZ3Oft_NfI4zV9IaR5FvwTdtVraChH-twQjPTUpVt2C9e4xvvQ6ZxhHfNhBcWGolVSPWzk/s400/WeeghmanPostcard.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<i>Weeghman Park, as it looked in 1914</i>.<br />
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The first time I visited Wrigley was in the late 1980s. I had just started the Ebbets Field Flannels, and was full of idealism and a renewed love for the game. I had already been to a Sox game at old Comiskey on this trip. The Cubs were out of town, but it was a glorious summer day, and I decided to head to the North Side anyway and have a look. After walking from the Addison L station, I stood on the sidewalk on Clark Street greedily eying the entrance. The wisp of green that lay a fleeting few steps away beckoned me. A maintenance worker was spraying the ground with a hose, and when he turned his back to me I made one of those instant decisions and slipped in behind him. I quickly made my way up the ramp into the stands and walked down the right field side looking over my shoulder, as I expected to be ejected at any moment. But no one said a word. There was just the beautiful summer day, the row upon row of empty seats, the towering hand-operated scoreboard above the bleachers, and the dazzling emrald green of the outfield. It was strangely quite and peaceful, with the only sounds being the sprinklers and the distant sounds of the neighborhood. I didn't push my luck by going down to the field, but with the park all to myself I just sat back and enjoyed the moment, then quietly left the same way I came in.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1dJb7DdB_D8-MZTYyrMPH3x3Uuxhj2Qpu32ZxvAYEkK9ayV1p-RC3swacWCJFPVeQTEpxEGxQsW70yVG3pqrlocBQEMP5xZiWHNGS-5BjP6AHNdePV1VMBAcK4651ssa5sHLmZoREsMef/s1600/Ruth1932-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="216" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1dJb7DdB_D8-MZTYyrMPH3x3Uuxhj2Qpu32ZxvAYEkK9ayV1p-RC3swacWCJFPVeQTEpxEGxQsW70yVG3pqrlocBQEMP5xZiWHNGS-5BjP6AHNdePV1VMBAcK4651ssa5sHLmZoREsMef/s400/Ruth1932-1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<i>One of the most legendary - and controversial - moments in baseball history. Babe Ruth calls his shot in the 1932 World Series at Wrigley Field...or does he?<br />
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A recent trip to Chicago found me with some time on my hands. Again, the Cubs were out of town, and having no interest in the South Side team since they tore down old Comiskey I decided I'd be "legit" this time and take the Wrigley tour. If you are a baseball history buff like I am, it's the best 25 bucks you'll ever spend. The tour guides are informative and entertaining and you get to go into a lot of nooks and crannies of this lovely old park, including the clubhouses and press box (but alas, not the manual scoreboard in center field).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJdC4a7v_4Ms0-TycUDkKS02MaY8JebMbY_8Erm6bNCzJ9uAsK6VqHSVB16WP1R0OOIAEs7hHNefbLndxSakghyphenhyphen833SpShi8n67PmdpdlESQma3TzUjUsN1fhRff6KG1fswXLs1qRIjw0w/s1600/brown_2_g.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="252" width="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJdC4a7v_4Ms0-TycUDkKS02MaY8JebMbY_8Erm6bNCzJ9uAsK6VqHSVB16WP1R0OOIAEs7hHNefbLndxSakghyphenhyphen833SpShi8n67PmdpdlESQma3TzUjUsN1fhRff6KG1fswXLs1qRIjw0w/s400/brown_2_g.jpg" /></a></div><i>Left: The Whales won the 1915 Federal League crown behind the pitching of Mordecai "Three Finger" Brown. This photo of Brown's disfigured right hand was taken at Weeghman Park.</i> <br />
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A few fun facts, EFFers might already know: Wrigley Field started out as Weeghman Park, and was built not for the Cubbies, but for the Chicago franchise of the fledgling Federal League. Chi-Feds owner Charles Weeghman wanted to best both the Cubs and the Sox, and built the most modern facility in baseball at that time in just five weeks. The park at that time featured only the main seating bowl - no upper deck or bleachers. Also, the Cubs must have brought their own bad luck when they moved into the park later, as Weeghman saw a championship in only its second season, as the Feds (now christened the Whales) won the pennant in the Federal League's final campaign of 1915. When the league passed into history after the 1915 season, Weeghman put together a syndicate to buy the Cubs, and the National Leaguers moved into the park in 1916. It was renamed Cubs Park in 1920, and finally Wrigley Field in 1927, after the chewing gum magnate had gained control of the team.<br />
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1927 also saw the upper deck completed, and the current bleachers and scoreboard were added in 1937 by Bill Veeck, who also planted the famous ivy (amazing how often Veeck's name pops up in these stories). As we all know, lights were not installed until 1988 - the last major league park to do so.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKiHsLxWLIguX_CdFe6u3wnRr2DAjIPUWBzyY5cn6PbDyPyttVP1oPFJz7TMrDn6mUuhg53rnx8fp8SF2ml9aBg7qyLzGcZUB4S0I7U9svHfIv-I3wHsS0BKKvztUnspvX_Ul2nyNxX2nn/s1600/Wrigley_Fieldbears.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="292" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKiHsLxWLIguX_CdFe6u3wnRr2DAjIPUWBzyY5cn6PbDyPyttVP1oPFJz7TMrDn6mUuhg53rnx8fp8SF2ml9aBg7qyLzGcZUB4S0I7U9svHfIv-I3wHsS0BKKvztUnspvX_Ul2nyNxX2nn/s400/Wrigley_Fieldbears.jpg" /></a></div><i><br />
The NFL Bears were accommodated with an extra bleacher section that held 9,000.</i><br />
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What struck me most about the contrast of Wrigley Field today with my first visit was not in the park itself, but across the street on Waveland and Sheffield Avenues. The apartment buildings that literally look into Wrigley always had lucky tenants who could watch the game from the rooftops. But by the early 1990s, this evolved into a full-fledged commercial operation. The tenants have been cleared from most of these buildings, and professional stadium seating (sometimes double-decked) has been installed. These seats are sold through ticket brokers, just like the seats inside the park. While it is hard to deny the role revenue plays in every aspect of major league baseball these days, this phenomenon seems not really keeping in the old neighborhood spirit of the thing. (Rather than put up a "spite" fence, the Cubs made a deal with these operators and take 17% off the top).<br />
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Wrigley, of course, has not meant just baseball. The Chicago Bears called it home until 1970. (A Northwestern University college football game was played in Wrigley last season but seats added since the Bears left meant that all offensive plays had to be run in one direction!). The NHL played its Winter Classic here in 2009.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSnpQ1b5iMQdI38dRVK1dHKI_b53MIxOzRl7Mktdsrt2eUAwp8rw8bKjeCM5L84KsH9zozMSZmO1hjeiVsZRabvxdlmYaMW8UC9sHPClI-hxbmIjhqeY4e7s9oACjkPahMNM-dSE3VwtQm/s1600/wrigley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="256" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSnpQ1b5iMQdI38dRVK1dHKI_b53MIxOzRl7Mktdsrt2eUAwp8rw8bKjeCM5L84KsH9zozMSZmO1hjeiVsZRabvxdlmYaMW8UC9sHPClI-hxbmIjhqeY4e7s9oACjkPahMNM-dSE3VwtQm/s320/wrigley.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<i>Wrigley Field today, from the press box.</i><br />
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There are very few places left in the world where I can truly feel like a kid, and Wrigley is one of them. To sit in the bleachers and bask in the sun under that magnificent scoreboard while the timeless sights, sounds, and rhythms of baseball seep into your pores along with the sunshine is one of life's remaining simple pleasures. As Harry Caray might say: "Holy Cow!".<br />
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<i>Our Flannel Of The Month is the 1915 Federal League champion Chicago Whales home jersey. The team was known as the Chifeds or simply Federals its first season, but a fan naming contest was held in 1915 and "Whales" was the second most popular entry. The top vote-getter? Chickens!.</i>Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-80563352541276689752011-07-21T21:35:00.000-07:002011-07-21T22:46:45.404-07:00Pete Gray, The "One-Armed Wonder"When the nation was put on a war footing after the Japanese Empire attacked Pearl Harbor, President Franklin Roosevelt decreed that professional baseball continue as a home front morale booster. Obviously the quality of the product would change due to manpower shortages, and MLB's 16 teams were stocked with older veterans, kids, men who had been classified 4-F (not fit for service), and other players who for one reason or another could not join the fight in Europe or Asia, but who could still swing a baseball bat. It was a situation, for example, in which a 15-year old by the name of Joe Nuxhall could find himself going from a high school mound to suddenly wearing a Reds uniform and staring down Stan Musial. (After leaving Cincinnati with a 67.0 ERA, Nuxhall returned to the Reds in 1952 and pitched for them for 15 seasons,and then became a beloved Reds broadcaster after his playing days).<br />
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It was also a situation in which a one-armed man wound up in the outfield of the St. Louis Browns. The brief black and white footage of Pete Gray in his Browns uniform always was conflated in my mind with the image of the midget Eddie Gaedel, who had one at-bat with the Browns in 1951: symbols of Browns ineptitude and desperation, publicity stunts, freak shows. (Side note about Gaedel: After the American League president voided Gaedel's contract, Brown's owner Bill Veeck demanded a ruling on whether Yankees shortstop Phil Rizzuto was a "short man or a tall midget", but we'll deal with Veeck another day.)<br />
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However the story of Pete Gray is much more complicated and interesting, as Gray was quite a ballplayer. Pete Wyshner was born on March 6, 1915 in Nanticoke, in the anthracite coal filed region of northern Pennsylvania. Six-year-old Petey lost his right arm when he was thrown from a truck and it had to be amputated above the elbow. The boy was right handed, so it took fierce determination on his part to learn how to use his left arm to bat and field, a determination that eventually led all the way to the big leagues.<br />
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Having exhausted his prospects in the local anthracite leagues, Wyshner (having changed his name to Gray to appear less "ethnic") set out for New York, where he impressed Max Rosner, owner of the Brooklyn Bushwicks. The Bushwicks were one of the top semi-pro teams in the country and faced talented opposition, including the best teams in the Negro leagues. Gray was a crowd pleaser from the beginning, and his baseball abilities attracted the attention of a scout for Trois Rivieres of the Canadian-American League. The scout had failed to mention that Gray had only one arm, and when Pete first met the Foxes manager he was, to say the least, quite surprised at his new prospect. <br />
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In the outfield, Gray developed a technique by which he could transfer the ball from his glove back to his hand and throw to the infield almost as fast as a two-armed player. It involved catching the ball, then quickly tucking his glove under the stump of his right arm while rolling the ball across his chest and into his hand. He did this so effortlessly he seemed to achieve these maneuvers in one smooth motion. At the plate Gray was an effective bunter and despite having only one arm, he managed to have very quick bat speed, although his power was limited for obvious reasons. His good eyes meant that he did not often strike out, and he was an aggressive and speedy baserunner.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLdDlh9QgnKd53s6b8xlEKEZyZ64pEOEQ_fHaxW1cB6qaA4Lq-_FmGJqmaFCIH5JQd47Yv-Lbw-gI0g-p5EMYyqlgkPhO0HBlwfuZELDnw2u-VZEDbxuPRuAHFJ74RwDtXGYiLqv-ghG70/s1600/GrayFielding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="243" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLdDlh9QgnKd53s6b8xlEKEZyZ64pEOEQ_fHaxW1cB6qaA4Lq-_FmGJqmaFCIH5JQd47Yv-Lbw-gI0g-p5EMYyqlgkPhO0HBlwfuZELDnw2u-VZEDbxuPRuAHFJ74RwDtXGYiLqv-ghG70/s400/GrayFielding.jpg" /></a></div><i>Pete Gray's fielding technique</i><br />
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After an impressive season with Trois Rivieres, Gray's contract was purchased by the Toronto Maple Leafs of the International League, one step away from the majors. However after making the first cut, he was released by Toronto. (One account has it that an insult about manager Burleigh Grimes got back to the manager and that Gray was cut in retribution). After contacting over a dozen teams and coming up empty, he was finally given a shot by veteran manager Doc Prothro of the Memphis Chicks. Gray performed admirably for Memphis in 1943, batting .289 with 231 hits and 42 RBI. He distinguished himself with the gritty style of play which he had learned back in the Pennsylvania coal leagues. Gray also inspired servicemen fighting overseas, many of whom had returned home with missing or amputated limbs. He often visited recovering servicemen, and his exploits were documented in newsreels which were shown all over the country. The Memphis club invited a young boy named Nelson Gary who had also lost his arm to meet his hero and watch Gray play, and in a performance worthy of the legends associated with Babe Ruth, Pete responded by hitting two singles, a double, and a triple during the game.<br />
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But it was in 1944 that Gray peaked as a ballplayer. He hit all five of his career home runs during the '44 campaign, and his .333 average, 60 RBI and 68 stolen records (tied for the league record) were enough for him to be voted Southern Association MVP for 1944. His accomplishments did not stop at his offensive exploits, as he boasted an incredible .996 fielding percentage as well. I mention these statistics because it is important to note that despite the manpower depletion caused by the war, Pete Gray earned his promotion to the majors due to his achievements on the baseball diamond. Gray was also enormously popular with Memphis fans.<br />
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The usually lowly St. Louis Browns had seen their fortunes change in 1944 when they won the American league pennant and faced off against their intracity rivals the Cardinals in the World Series. Although the two teams shared a stadium - Sportsman's Park - that's about all they had in common, and it was usually the Redbirds who had the upper hand in the standings, as well as the box office. Led by crafty manager Luke Sewell, the Browns pitching and defense was just good enough to capture the pennant despite a .252 team batting average and no fewer than 13 players with a military 4-F classification, the most of any team in the majors. But despite the Brown's change of fortunes on the field, the club still was in a precarious financial state, and there is no doubt that owner Donald Barnes saw Gray as not just a ballplayer, but as a gate attraction, an idea that was anathema to Pete Gray, who wanted to make it purely on his skills.<br />
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Gray singled in his first major league game, against the Detroit Tigers, but then went into a slump and was removed from the starting lineup. He soon returned to form, however, and began to see more playing time. Pete was so popular with St. Louis fans that many would call the Browns' box office the day of a game to see whether he would be in the lineup before deciding to head to the park. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsSEDuKmv53zVhJjB5uxZrF2z7nrS1apqM6MdEYynh42yLZ8D_MUogBNZznPcC8z5Bon57doXHTCSm-gz7tvCcDLsACsjzbDAEv_Xp_J6olsYC-uDJ5qmMV1AsF5fHrjgj3pEKhnByv9_9/s1600/stlouisbrownspetegraycap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="188" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsSEDuKmv53zVhJjB5uxZrF2z7nrS1apqM6MdEYynh42yLZ8D_MUogBNZznPcC8z5Bon57doXHTCSm-gz7tvCcDLsACsjzbDAEv_Xp_J6olsYC-uDJ5qmMV1AsF5fHrjgj3pEKhnByv9_9/s200/stlouisbrownspetegraycap.jpg" /></a></div><i>At left, Pete Gray's St. Louis Browns cap</i>.<br />
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Browns' manager Luke Sewell had a dilemma. Because of Gray's popularity with fans both at home and on the road there was pressure to play him. The Browns fell behind the pace early in the season, and it was Sewell's job to win ballgames, not please fans, so although he treated Gray fairly he gave him less and less playing time as the season wore on. <br />
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Events conspired on and off the field to ensure that 1945 would be Pete Gray's only season in the majors. Pitchers soon found out that without a right arm, Gray could not check his swing or adjust very well to curve balls, so rather than trying to overpower him with fastballs, Gray was fed a steady diet of breaking pitches. Outfielders, knowing his lack of power, would play him in. Runners were able to exploit the small amount of extra time it took Gray to deliver the ball to the infield and would routinely take the extra base. VJ day meant the end of the war, and the beginning of the return of major leaguers to their rosters. When Donald Barnes sold his interest in the Browns in August, Gray no longer had a champion in the front office. Pete Gray finished the 1945 season with a disappointing .218 average and 13 RBI in 77 games. He managed to steal only five bases.<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1UG6bxkq5L4"></a><br />
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Pete's relationships with his teammates were also complicated. A few grumbled (unfairly) that he cost them a chance to repeat for the pennant because management chose to play him as a gate draw rather than a more able player. Outfielder Mike Kreevich, who had hit .301 the previous season, resented having to platoon with him. Gray, like many ballplayers of the time, was also a heavy drinker, and any tension with his fellow players could not have been helped by his alcohol intake.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW6POUXmuMGkS0CEO860kyDPQ3IhWOhE5xQVfj-PKf05dS1HEz5Iocrvqqy_4MRbnLSXPOTGDrb7IhvHP5CVsySrKPxIPxwfHZKZwUsNmbuz9ZDZyRAMRCpmcbt0jWwfr0oad-UOT6rpH4/s1600/PeteGray1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW6POUXmuMGkS0CEO860kyDPQ3IhWOhE5xQVfj-PKf05dS1HEz5Iocrvqqy_4MRbnLSXPOTGDrb7IhvHP5CVsySrKPxIPxwfHZKZwUsNmbuz9ZDZyRAMRCpmcbt0jWwfr0oad-UOT6rpH4/s400/PeteGray1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
The Browns organized a West Coast barnstorming trip for Pete after the season, and even arranged for him to appear in a Hollywood movie, playing himself. But when he learned he would only be paid $15,000 for his services and would have to wear a hairpiece, he nixed the idea.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbYoZ2b6jc5eixliGg57RfuLmK8k7KSutI-lv2Njlu5HlSqfpNXqO9DRCrjiN0AvgvF7JoLpNu1ZuKnFdFBdwsO2fwlR4c-eDz0t1z3Ir33_mFHt8zGrANBJ-0vYFhBRK4ulfYJyJRDXCr/s1600/PeteGrayMemphis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="285" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbYoZ2b6jc5eixliGg57RfuLmK8k7KSutI-lv2Njlu5HlSqfpNXqO9DRCrjiN0AvgvF7JoLpNu1ZuKnFdFBdwsO2fwlR4c-eDz0t1z3Ir33_mFHt8zGrANBJ-0vYFhBRK4ulfYJyJRDXCr/s400/PeteGrayMemphis.jpg" /></a></div><i>Pete Gray in a Memphis Chicks uniform.</i><br />
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After being released by the Browns, Gray was offered a contract by the Toledo Mud Hens but almost lost his eligibility when he held out for the first month of the season. He was suspended in 1947 for failing to report, but came back and hit .290 for Elmira in '48. Pete Gray ended his professional baseball career with the Dallas Eagles of the Texas League in 1949, then returned to his hometown of Nanticoke where he lived quietly, avoiding the limelight and most interview requests, until his death in 2002.<br />
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<i>Our Flannel Of The Month is of course Pete Gray's 1944 home Memphis Chicks jersey. It has the war-era "Health" patch on the right sleeve and Indian head patch on the left. The back is adorned with Pete Gray's #3.</i>Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-12545931298358331772011-06-16T13:19:00.000-07:002011-06-16T23:05:26.449-07:00What's In A Name? Baseball Team Names Throughout HistoryEvery so often someone not terribly familiar with what we do walks into the showroom and breaks into a snicker upon encountering an Atlanta Crackers jersey. "Was there really a team called that?", they invariably ask. Without missing a beat, we always say "not only was there an Atlanta Crackers, there was an Atlanta <i>Black</i> Crackers", at which point the snicker usually turns into a guffaw.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip8Tv9hVniPCkkiu4eICe413x6ohTz69O2lJF89jPkUB-TnbS4mv3So9t2wBJ_WCcSwNzsA0A4DO068tNepf1pwR6jpeoD-J8BQ0Mfgtesl3ojZ1XKuW0I2T_5uOTMwl0bCvxzsw-ERB9C/s1600/atlanta_bcrackers.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="168" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip8Tv9hVniPCkkiu4eICe413x6ohTz69O2lJF89jPkUB-TnbS4mv3So9t2wBJ_WCcSwNzsA0A4DO068tNepf1pwR6jpeoD-J8BQ0Mfgtesl3ojZ1XKuW0I2T_5uOTMwl0bCvxzsw-ERB9C/s400/atlanta_bcrackers.gif" /></a></div><i>It may seem odd for a Negro league team to call itself the "Black Crackers" but they were simply following a common practice of adapting the major or minor league team name from the same city.</i><br />
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This brings us to the subject of this month's blog, which is team names. In contemporary times, tens of thousands are spent by teams on consultants, focus groups and "branding" companies to develop team "identity", which often includes a new nickname. Professional baseball at all levels is a big business today, and these things are not left to chance. Although a few clubs have hung on to their traditional identities (thank you, Rochester Red Wings, Durham Bulls and Buffalo Bisons), the trend of the past two decades has leaned toward lots of cutesy animal logos and names like SeaDogs, River Cats, Hillcats, Warthogs - you get the picture. Good or bad, nicknames today are another part of the corporate branding process. One can also argue that the contrived and trendy names many minor league clubs have adopted are at least unique and preferable to the trend of the 1960s through 1980s, which was simply to adopt the parent major league club's nickname. <br />
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It was not always thus. In the beginning (the 19th century) professional baseball teams rarely had formal nicknames. Nicknames evolved when reporters, headline writers, and fans needed a shorter and more affectionate way to refer to the local nine, so team nicknames gradually developed organically. One common way to refer to a ballclub was by the color scheme on their uniforms, so we got "Red Stockings", "White Stockings", "Browns", etc. These have evolved into some of the team names that are still with us in the majors today. Another approach was to use the league name as shorthand for the team, as in "Philadelphia Americans" as an alternative for "Athletics". Baseball cards were often marked this way, "Detroit Americans" or "Pittsburgh Nationals". (This system was slightly confused by the American League Washington club taking the name "Nationals" for a time.) Or teams were simply referred to by a plural of their city name, as in "the Brooklyns". Sometimes, a simple geographic feature could spark a nickname, as was the case for the New York Highlanders, who played at Hilltop Park (who we know know as the Yankees). The important point here is that for several decades team nicknames were unofficial and and rather elastic. Most fans know the Dodgers tried on "Bridegrooms", "Superbas" and "Robins" before settling on Dodgers, and Boston's National League club was known as the "Beaneaters" and the "Bees" before they were the Braves. It took time for clubs to develop traditions and histories which were the foundation needed to give life to names that stuck. In the rare case that club owners tried to force a new nickname on fans it was not always successful, as when Philadelphia's National league club announced in 1945 that they would henceforth be named the "Bluejays". The new name didn't stick (perhaps the fact that the team neglected to take "Phillies" off the uniform didn't help).<br />
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When the Federal League came on the scene to challenge the majors in 1914, the lack of acknowledged nicknames created an identity problem for the fledgling circuit, and baseball writers struggled to come up with names that reflected the new league's name, so we ended up with the rather awkward "Brookfeds", "Buffeds" and "Chifeds". When Indianapolis' "Hoosierfeds" moved to Newark for the 1915 season, writers dubbed them the "Newfeds" (Fortunately sanity prevailed, and the alternative "Peppers" or "Peps" seems to have won out). It was not until the second and final Federal League season that "Tip-Tops" stuck for Brooklyn, "Whales" for Chicago, etc. <br />
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Getting back to the minor leagues, hundreds of cities and towns meant hundreds of names. When you read through some of the league standings over the years, you cannot help but crack a smile at the ingenuity, humor and pure fun of many of these team names (or be puzzled by some of the odder or more archaic ones). I thought I would go over some of them, and I have divided them into several categories for your reading pleasure. One could form entire leagues just based on the nickname type:<br />
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<b>Alliteration Division</b>: Some names just roll off the tongue. We have the Lincoln Links, Hopkinsville Hoppers, Goldboro Goldbugs, Terre Haute Terriers, and Sioux City Soos, Palestine Pals, and Crookston Crooks. This category would not be complete, of course, without the Hannibal Cannibals, who took the Illinois-Missouri League title in 1908.<br />
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<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZDkzE-8-owZEVSEF01s2Wa-NTw26fl_CP-LsOPzsT06lqsGHUgKWMUywE1Vc4GaaoFhRDx-VHBeGRavJ4rlrndNrT9IhFn75sKsB511bDALLTAIugnsFUEUEZypPb7nyM59BlaFMTWwvo/s1600/lincolnbaseballclub1934.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZDkzE-8-owZEVSEF01s2Wa-NTw26fl_CP-LsOPzsT06lqsGHUgKWMUywE1Vc4GaaoFhRDx-VHBeGRavJ4rlrndNrT9IhFn75sKsB511bDALLTAIugnsFUEUEZypPb7nyM59BlaFMTWwvo/s400/lincolnbaseballclub1934.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618694676354189970" /></a><br />
<i>Your 1934 Lincoln Links.</i><br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">Industrial Division</span>: It was common for ballclubs to acquire a nickname related to a local industry, so we got the Brockton Shoemakers, Gloversville Glovers, Bassett Furnitute Makers, Tulsa Oilers, and all manner of Fruit Pickers, Raisin Eaters and Manufacturers. However, the Findlay Natural Gassers of the Inter-State League must have been relieved when their name was changed to Oilers.<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">Institutional Division</span>: Nearby institutions led to the Joliet Convicts, Leavenworth Convicts, Auburn Prisoners, Utica Asylums, and Nevada (MO) Lunatics.<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">International</span> and <span style="font-weight:bold;">Ethnic</span> Division features the Paris Parisians, Dublin Irish, London Cockneys, Rome Romans, Troy Trojans, Cairo Egyptians, Shreveport Creoles, Baton Rouge Cajuns, Edmonton Eskimos, Coronado Arabs, Shenandoah Hungarian Rioters, and, we regret to mention, the Canton Chinks of the Illinois-Missouri League. To make matters worse, Canon City, Colorado's Rocky Mountain League club was called the Swastikas, and their uniform featured the symbol on the jersey sleeve, but this was 1912 - many years before the swastika was adopted by the Nazis.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI0uWyL7dQPo_0BQMKhOJgSO9TbZ4cMIh8_3alTRAgUjnYIrLrizHfHKGmAH9P-anDgHXszAbcb2S_xcLYVmveehynMBxsgn7W3jlbZ0J7CgmtO8nsJJje-D3rCVcpMG_76HlW-b5jvluh/s1600/Eskimos55.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="203" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI0uWyL7dQPo_0BQMKhOJgSO9TbZ4cMIh8_3alTRAgUjnYIrLrizHfHKGmAH9P-anDgHXszAbcb2S_xcLYVmveehynMBxsgn7W3jlbZ0J7CgmtO8nsJJje-D3rCVcpMG_76HlW-b5jvluh/s400/Eskimos55.jpg" /></a></div><i>Edmonton Eskimos, Western Canada League champs, 1955</i><br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">Religion</span> anyone? We bring you the Battle Creek Adventists, St. Paul Saints, Selma Christians, Enid Evangelists, Natchez Pilgrims, Palmyra Mormons, Salt Lake City Elders, Battle Creek Adventists, and Charlotte Presbyterians. <br />
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We've done religion, now how about <span style="font-weight:bold;">politics</span>? In addition to the dozens of teams named "Senators", we also have the Marion Presidents, Guthrie Legislators, Albany Governors, and Topeka Populists. The Decatur Commies played during the McCarthy era, and was beer available in the ballpark when the Des Moines Prohibitionists took the field? One wonders.<br />
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Historical Division</span>: Paris Bourbonites of Kentucky played in the Blue Grass League, and it really must have been a battle when the York White Roses faced the Lancaster Red Roses in Inter-State League action.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifDgRGetC3gQ18SQfeHm3E9Bj4HmwSRSLUvSYXzT_xbSyJ_yNflV0gAUBWor9X5db5gHXTlVEg5QnD-NYIhxtWVoi3reO3yTpXb2pTrSIEznakTSjgK3yEIhAlnhAbNOSBEwBzSvzxRT0c/s1600/HoptownHoppers1950.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="324" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifDgRGetC3gQ18SQfeHm3E9Bj4HmwSRSLUvSYXzT_xbSyJ_yNflV0gAUBWor9X5db5gHXTlVEg5QnD-NYIhxtWVoi3reO3yTpXb2pTrSIEznakTSjgK3yEIhAlnhAbNOSBEwBzSvzxRT0c/s400/HoptownHoppers1950.jpg" /></a></div><i>The 1950 Hopkinsville KITTY League club had a dual nickname, as they were known as the Hoptown Hoppers.</i><br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">Criminality Division</span>: Omaha Kidnappers, Asheville Moonshiners, Lowell Highwaymen, and Corsicana Desperadoes. <br />
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<b>Teams we feel sorry for</b>: It's doubtful the Kirksville Osteopaths struck fear into the hearts of their opponents, and pity the poor player who had to listen to the taunts of enemy fans as a member of the San Jose Florists, Hopewell Powderpuffs, or Salem Fairies.<br />
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We could form an <span style="font-weight:bold;">NFL division</span> from these teams: Bears (Mobile), Packers (Dubuque), Lions (Lodi), Patriots (Gettysburg), Seahawks (Port Arthur), Cowboys (Tucson), Colts (Orlando), Raiders (Cedar Rapids), Bengals (Columbus), Eagles (Dallas), Browns (Valdosta), and Jets (Ponca City).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO2umBHeK57c3U58q1RKLdp-B-9rmID-UQcgxOnX7cW5W-OZ3vQWCeWj7q9BnsxEjJC0SmXaMhdhwM6lceuKZEeQWGyrqyVXqvo129PjhKlMpOCDrDRteTCsUwgqP9kXto2iz00w6K1JFH/s1600/ColCFLorenBabe.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO2umBHeK57c3U58q1RKLdp-B-9rmID-UQcgxOnX7cW5W-OZ3vQWCeWj7q9BnsxEjJC0SmXaMhdhwM6lceuKZEeQWGyrqyVXqvo129PjhKlMpOCDrDRteTCsUwgqP9kXto2iz00w6K1JFH/s400/ColCFLorenBabe.jpeg" /></a></div>In the <b>Oxymoron Division</b> the Columbus (GA) Confederate Yankees must have been very confused, as were the above-mentioned Atlanta Black Crackers.<br />
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There was all manner of royalty in the minors: The Bisbee-Douglas Copper Kings toiled in southeastern Arizona. The Ottumwa Coal Palace Kings took the Illinois-Iowa league crown in 1890. The Brenham Kaisers fittingly played during World War I in 1914-15, at least before the Middle Texas League folded.<br />
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Long before the Washington Senators moved to Minnesota, it was common for teams shared by two cities to be called <b>"Twins"</b>, as in Fargo-Morehead (ND-MN), Dunn-Erwin (NC), and Sherman-Denison (TX). Leakesville-Spray-Draper, NC was of course the "Triplets". But Johnstown-Amsterdam-Gloverville, NY addressed this same challenge by calling themselves the "Hyphens".<br />
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Lastly, there are historic team names we just love that don't fit into any category: The Lima Bean Eaters, Zanesville Flood Sufferers, Memphis Fever Germs, Kearney Kapitalists, and Regina Bonepilers, to name just a few.<br />
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<i>Our Flannel Of The Month for June has nothing to do with the subject matter of the blog, but it's a beauty nonetheless: Tony Lazzeri's 1925 Salt Lake Bees home jersey, with a glorious bee manually embroidered on the chest. Available for $129 for a limited time.</i>Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-47959598790535471322011-05-13T10:31:00.001-07:002011-05-15T22:18:20.104-07:00The Strange Story Of The Vernon TigersMy interest in the history of the Pacific Coast League Vernon franchise was piqued by a recent story in the New York Times describing the efforts to de-certify the current city of Vernon, Cal. The municipality of Vernon is a factory town right smack in the middle of Los Angeles County that once was home to the best professional baseball team on the West Coast. Rarely has a story had such a wonderful confluence of corruption, celebrity, greed, alcohol, and baseball. Vernon has it all. What Vernon does not have are libraries, parks, schools, or people.<br /><br />The city of Vernon (described by the Times recently as looking like "a backdrop to David Lynch's 'Eraserhead' ") was founded in 1905, when a few astute businessmen took note of the confluence of three major railroads five miles south of Los Angeles, and decided this would be an ideal location to attract business. One of the founders was man of Basque descent named John Leonis. In 1907 the city fathers decided to add sports as another of Vernon's attraction and built a 7,000-seat arena to house boxing matches and other events. However what was assuredly Vernon's single biggest attraction was that the sale of alcoholic beverages was legal within its city limits - as opposed to the bordering city of Los Angeles, which was dry (I know, difficult to fathom). Doyle's Tavern, which billed itself as the "longest bar in the world" was built in the town, and employed 37 bartenders to serve the thirsty patrons, mostly Angelenos who crossed the city line to enjoy the privilege of imbibing legally.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga0uH6Jsiw4Rk44mBhYDJSH6WdqfN0HimUc-WA6DvdclyBLhW-Dooo243Ftc5GgkVp6v-odSTfmCzZeGeuD3-8DECCdBv1lsoNJGlcl7XNdplWUxMgel3_FlP_ptjjZd3nXl3zMxJVuM-k/s1600/Vernon1910.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 254px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga0uH6Jsiw4Rk44mBhYDJSH6WdqfN0HimUc-WA6DvdclyBLhW-Dooo243Ftc5GgkVp6v-odSTfmCzZeGeuD3-8DECCdBv1lsoNJGlcl7XNdplWUxMgel3_FlP_ptjjZd3nXl3zMxJVuM-k/s400/Vernon1910.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606416153901024786" /></a><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">Your 1910 Vernon Tigers</span><br /><br />Meatpacker Peter Maier was a businessman who knew a good thing when he saw it. The business-friendly atmosphere of Vernon, the ability to serve liquor, and a built-in natural rivalry with the Los Angeles Angels made for a good business opportunity. Maier Park was built next to Doyle's (the bar abutted left field, and had its own entry to the ballpark), and the Vernon Tigers were born. On the field the team struggled at first, but the popular Happy Hogan led Vernon to a second-place finish in only their third season, two games behind Portland (in an odd quirk though, the 1911 Tigers actually won five more games than the Beavers, but lost eight more).<br /><br />Despite an even better finish in 1912 (one game back of champion Oakland), the Tigers were having trouble drawing fans, and the club was moved to the beachside community of Venice, 14 miles away (and not coincidentally the only other "wet" town in LA County). The first "drive in" ballpark in the country, with spaces for 80 cars, was built at the confluence of Virginia Avenue and Washington Blvd. The team played well on the field but continued to have trouble drawing fans (many "home" games were in fact played at Washington Park when the rival Angels were on the road), so in mid-season of 1915 the entire operation was moved back to Vernon. This included the ballpark itself, which was put on rollers and moved in sections, at a cost to Maier of $7,000.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr1q7EjHPaO-aBmfoJZg0y3YAfWfJkt2PUjij78kINWyf3atPtgYVOUI3k4YJ__nOM-MJ49AxfMU8QQ2OaUYRRrCUr1biw-yI1xqb5v17kXN9IH0pcZWeV7Kg6lWaAaMbnUlfjZbczcTC0/s1600/fattyarbucklecard.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 257px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr1q7EjHPaO-aBmfoJZg0y3YAfWfJkt2PUjij78kINWyf3atPtgYVOUI3k4YJ__nOM-MJ49AxfMU8QQ2OaUYRRrCUr1biw-yI1xqb5v17kXN9IH0pcZWeV7Kg6lWaAaMbnUlfjZbczcTC0/s400/fattyarbucklecard.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606417147136379682" /></a>In the war-shortened season of 1918, the Tigers (now led by manager Bill Essick) won the first of three consecutive PCL championships. Here's where our story takes it's next strange turn. The rotund comedian and silent film star Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle was one of the biggest (in both senses) celebrities of the era. (Arbuckle mentored the young Charlie Chaplin, discovered Buster Keaton and later, Bob Hope). Arbuckle signed a million-dollar film contract in 1918 (real money in those days) and had cash to burn. Fatty thought it would be fun to own a ballclub, and in 1919 purchased majority interest in the Vernon Tigers. Zee Nut even printed a Fatty Arbuckle baseball card.<br /><br />In 1919, the three-season pennant run of the Tigers was severely tarnished by the PCL's own version of the Black Sox scandal, which occurred the same year. After whisperings that Vernon's success was due to something more than just excellent baseball skills, an investigation was launched and Tiger first baseman Babe Borton was expelled for conspiring to throw games. Other PCL players were also suspected, and just like his counterpart, Commissioner Keenesaw Mountain Landis back East, PCL president McCarthy chose to throw out all the suspected players - their actual guilt or innocence were never determined.<br /><br />In the meantime owner Arbuckle had tired of his new toy, acknowledging that he was a figurehead who was just expected to sign checks, and complaining of exhaustion from all the personal appearances he was required to put in at Tigers games to promote the team. In the meantime, Prohibition had become the law of the land in 1920, and Vernon's appeal as LA's backyard den of sin immediately vanished.<br /><br />In 1921 Arbuckle and a friend rented three hotel rooms at the St. Francis Hotel in San Francisco for a party. Sometime during the festivities a minor actress with a history of instability named Virginia Rappe became ill and later died. Arbuckle was accused of sexually assaulting Rappe and endured three lengthy trials for manslaughter. With the Hearst press sensationalizing details of the incident (as well as making them up out of whole cloth) it was difficult for Arbuckle to receive a fair trial. Although eventually vindicated, his career was ruined (though he later became a director under the pseudonym William Goodrich, and enjoyed a comeback under his own name before his death in 1933 at the age of only 46).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhliPMff6saTJvQJzDaQbFqWpllhl8dzKH4YwXfpfTE6MSBf8UfW6AwF7I_tQdT_Zrn6jaadsXkrcYYQCS7oQA9_MFJvJAMMTPlgNt3v7ewbIJRE7dTEsWghGAF-zxgVEU6WY1RVjxu76cD/s1600/VernonCalSawyer.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 322px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhliPMff6saTJvQJzDaQbFqWpllhl8dzKH4YwXfpfTE6MSBf8UfW6AwF7I_tQdT_Zrn6jaadsXkrcYYQCS7oQA9_MFJvJAMMTPlgNt3v7ewbIJRE7dTEsWghGAF-zxgVEU6WY1RVjxu76cD/s400/VernonCalSawyer.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606420969386153090" /></a>The Vernon Tigers - now playing most of their games in Los Angeles - stumbled on for another few season. After a last-place finish in 1925, they packed up again (this time leaving the ballpark) and moved to San Francisco where they endured a dozen seasons as The City's second-favorite team, before returning to Los Angeles and adopting (ironically, perhaps) their new identity as the Hollywood Stars.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq570WWN51EuDVxFAOdl7-kMW8obKs_0aYdizpxKkBhfJb2gvRaNVoydsK3B4TcUgCbeGgjiPhaFqgC0-fCtSo6TJ0TV44rp-sWULifW6OyW4J9ONXHjTtxU07ec6NBZ_AueLQEZBW7Wqj/s1600/Vernon-Seal.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 277px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq570WWN51EuDVxFAOdl7-kMW8obKs_0aYdizpxKkBhfJb2gvRaNVoydsK3B4TcUgCbeGgjiPhaFqgC0-fCtSo6TJ0TV44rp-sWULifW6OyW4J9ONXHjTtxU07ec6NBZ_AueLQEZBW7Wqj/s320/Vernon-Seal.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606413942907114034" /></a>Although its dreams of sports grandeur faded, Vernon continued on as an industrial mecca and civic oddity. Studebaker built cars there, Alcoa built a factory, and at aome time there were 27 slaughterhouses in town. But with only 30 city-owned houses in its limits, and all the "residents" being beholden to the city bosses, it's municipal status was a farce and corruption was rampant. There were no elections held from 1980 to 2006, and four out of five city council members were appointed rather than elected. Mayor Leonis Malberg, grandson of founder John Leonis ruled his fiefdom for decades, though later investigations would reveal that he actually lived in upscale Hancock Park. In 2006 eight people moved into a vacant building in Vernon and three of them announced plans to run for municipal office. The city of Vernon's response was to send eviction notices and cut off power. (In another strange twist, these eight people were linked to convicted felon Albert Robles and an attempt to take over the town). In 2009 Mayor Malberg, his wife and son, were indicted of perjury and voter fraud. <br /><br />With under 100 residents, the contention is that the city of Vernon is a "factory town masquerading as a city", and exists primarily as a means to enrich a small group of people. The California State Legislature and County of Los Angeles have both embarked in efforts to take away Vernon's status as a city. The city of Los Angeles would love to absorb it. Vernon is fighting back, however, and hired a former California Attorney General, as well as pricey lawyers and a PR firm to make its case. Maybe they should build a ballpark and attract a team.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">About the flannel: This reverse pinstripe jersey was worn by the Venice version of the Tigers in 1913. It has a sun collar and elbow-length sleeves. No number on back in this era.</span><br /><br /><b>1918 Series Fixed? Say It Ain't So!</b><br /><br />Speculation continues to build that the Chicago Cubs may have thrown the 1918 World Series to the Red Sox. The Bosox won the series, with Babe Ruth winning two games as a pitcher. A link to an article in the New York Times is <a href= "http://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/15/sports/baseball/a-year-before-the-black-sox-whiff-of-scandal-wafts-over-1918-world-series.html?ref=sports"><b>here.</b></a>Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-21590256186087948612011-03-01T09:44:00.000-08:002011-03-05T10:50:06.250-08:00The Duke<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDo91HUiIlC_S5lCfK8AvxkRN7aZblQFbs8UgXFz5cqdYu1a1IJhBWPMP_Xd9D_khkBwgehvyImgNjv2l5GMA3al5PATSBP9x1IkHBIsfLWQYHJT0eM0cN3mwifGqmD_yMwSaPlHiD2DY/s1600/SniderBirthday.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDo91HUiIlC_S5lCfK8AvxkRN7aZblQFbs8UgXFz5cqdYu1a1IJhBWPMP_Xd9D_khkBwgehvyImgNjv2l5GMA3al5PATSBP9x1IkHBIsfLWQYHJT0eM0cN3mwifGqmD_yMwSaPlHiD2DY/s400/SniderBirthday.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580086418518480178" /></a>Been away from the blog for a while. First I did some traveling last fall, to Thailand and Laos (anyone curious about my adventures there please check out my travel blog, hochiminhsusedcars.blogspot.com). Then there was the busy EFF Holiday season, then there was the Seattle January doldrums...you get the picture. I admire those bloggers who have something erudite to say on a weekly (let alone daily) basis. All I can promise is that I will try to post a bit more regularly than I have lately.<br /><br />We lost the Duke this week. Edwin "Duke" Snider was the last living player who was on the field for the last out of the Dodgers' historic (and only) World Championship, in 1955, and hit the final home run at Ebbets Field. He also was an EFF customer, a fact that we were greatly honored by. Through the years he would occasionally call to order items from us, and we had the privilege of outfitting him and fellow Bums Johnny Podres and Don Zimmer for a Turn Back The Clock game in St. Petersburg, FL. Duke was always gracious when we spoke to him, and I regret I never got the chance to meet him personally.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx4Zvm2kEo2eYazHRoP-cO12jnLzMV0JRCdbNg_RXVAv96cwPfEVODiaa05Hk2QKqC3YyWAZX_YKXdk-yVuEw9rBkYlGcSwebWRQE_iggaAa885eSTxfIIGS-t0JUiX0jvuDy7uVOmNWRJ/s1600/SniderFTW.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx4Zvm2kEo2eYazHRoP-cO12jnLzMV0JRCdbNg_RXVAv96cwPfEVODiaa05Hk2QKqC3YyWAZX_YKXdk-yVuEw9rBkYlGcSwebWRQE_iggaAa885eSTxfIIGS-t0JUiX0jvuDy7uVOmNWRJ/s400/SniderFTW.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580092182397503698" /></a>Before joining the Dodgers, Snider played on all three top Brooklyn affiliates, getting in a couple of at-bats for Montreal in 1944 before joining the Navy. After being discharged from the service, he sported his famous #4 for the great Ft. Worth Cats team of 1946 in the Texas League. Snider's performance with St. Paul in 1947 earned him a shot with Brooklyn, but Mr. Rickey thought he needed more seasoning, and he started the 1948 season back in Montreal. He was called up to stay in mid-season, and of course went on to be one of the iconic "Boys Of Summer". Those were the days when ballplayers lived in the neighborhood, not in gated communities, and Snider lived in a rented house on Marine Avenue in Bay Ridge. He would often car pool to games at Ebbets Field or the Polo Grounds with teammates Pee Wee Reese and Carl Erskine, who also lived in the neighborhood.<br /><br />Snider took the Dodgers famous slide from their 13-game lead over the Giants in 1951 especially hard. His average dropped to .277, and the pressure on him was so great that he asked Walter O'Malley to be traded, reasoning he wasn't doing the Dodgers any good. Fortunately O'Malley did not heed his request, and the Silver Fox became, with Mays and Mantle, one of the three famous New York center fielders during that city's baseball Golden Age, hitting 40 or more home runs for five straight seasons from 1953-1957.<br /><br />The Dodgers' move to Los Angeles was a cruel blow to the Duke's power, as he now faced the cavernous dimensions of the L.A. Coliseum. Nagging injuries also slowed him down. In 1963, he found himself part of Casey Stengel's hapless expansion Mets. When Charlie Neal refused to surrender #4, Snider wore #11 for the Amazins. While seeing Snider stride the grasses of the Polo Grounds no doubt brought tears of joy to nostalgic New York fans, it was no fun for Snider to be on such a laughable ballclub, and he was traded to the Giants for the 1964 season, his last.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMZsqwGNUxjhv8P3yFI-IWjQCPqw8EryGB43XW31kVeYkCvlh9tQhAf5yI4AT_Ec0A-8NZMcAmAIkxRAc4tDS_DU6ntqyy2Tc-iDneO2sYsDYVkHB2z4kkVS-OpdzStScjtvJl_1U4SOZ0/s1600/duke-snider-willie-mays-in-1964.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMZsqwGNUxjhv8P3yFI-IWjQCPqw8EryGB43XW31kVeYkCvlh9tQhAf5yI4AT_Ec0A-8NZMcAmAIkxRAc4tDS_DU6ntqyy2Tc-iDneO2sYsDYVkHB2z4kkVS-OpdzStScjtvJl_1U4SOZ0/s320/duke-snider-willie-mays-in-1964.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580093587754457314" /></a> <span style="font-style:italic;">Odd to see the Duke in a Giants uniform.</span><br /><br />After doing some managing in the minors (with Spokane in 1965, Alexandria in 1972) Snider turned to broadcasting, and had a lengthy career in the booth with the Montreal Expos.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">About the jersey: The Ft. Worth Cats jersey is interesting because although the trim pattern is nearly identical to the same period parent Brooklyn road, the color scheme is navy instead of royal. Also, unlike most major league players who became identified with a jersey number only after making the majors, Snider was already wearing his famous #4 in the minors with Ft. Worth.</span>Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-13882755415859483312010-09-26T14:27:00.000-07:002010-09-27T13:41:09.927-07:00A Return to HavanaDespite the bitterness and division that brought Fidel Castro to power in 1959, there was still one thing that united all Cubans - baseball. In fact, one of Castro's pledges on assuming power was that the new Cuban government would underwrite the debts of the Havana Sugar Kings, the island's entry in the AAA International League (this before he discovered his identity as anti-free enterprise Marxist).<br /><br />Events soon overtook Castro's good intentions however. On July 26, 1959 celebratory gunfire in or around Havana's Gran Stadium injured Sugar Kings shortstop Leo Cardenas and Rochester Red Wings coach Frank Verdi. The Red Wings left Havana immediately. The 1959 Little World Series between Havana and Minneapolis was a travesty, with bearded armed rebel soldiers in the stands and on the field, and an obviously intimidated Millers team (which included a young Carl Yastrzemski) feeling lucky just to escape Cuba with their lives. On July 8, 1960 Castro nationalized all foreign-owned businesses, and the Sugar Kings were pulled out of Havana by Commissioner Ford Frick and hastily transferred to Jersey City. Then the trade embargo took hold, and for the next four decades, no professional U.S. baseball team would visit Cuba.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0inNzO-recjPJlQTlxtBNu01Dt1Mpv0_vZseyDVyQTcPTsTH74rsBbmupy0ZFyu066XkX_ChzsywqYNpVxapcj4NAQ7lwJPP7arH6tBZ9pXuKKdiu6jaDHU5-lZjwKa6JISi1dXe5lcJK/s1600/CastroMillers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0inNzO-recjPJlQTlxtBNu01Dt1Mpv0_vZseyDVyQTcPTsTH74rsBbmupy0ZFyu066XkX_ChzsywqYNpVxapcj4NAQ7lwJPP7arH6tBZ9pXuKKdiu6jaDHU5-lZjwKa6JISi1dXe5lcJK/s400/CastroMillers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521364109365372754" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Fidel Castro poses with nervous members of the Minneapolis Millers during the 1959 Little World Series in Havana.</span></span><br /><br />Fast forward to 1999. After extensive negotiations between Major League Baseball and the Cuban government, and with the acquiescence of the State Department, who could have quashed the event, it was announced that the Baltimore Orioles would travel to Havana to play an exhibition game against a hastily-assembled team of Cuban all-stars on March 28th. This is something I had to witness, but with the travel ban very much still on, how?<br /><br />I wrote previously (August 2009) about my trip to Cuba in 1993 as part of a group of baseball-playing (if aging) Americans. That trip had been organized by a group who had obtained all necessary licenses for travel to Cuba, so all I had to do was pay and show up. Six years later was quite a different story. My efforts to attach myself to one of the baseball or media groups licensed to travel with the Orioles game came to naught. It was also a darker, tenser time in my life. Business was extremely stressful and my marriage was unraveling. Still, I just had to go.<br /><br />In the end I opted to go under the radar - that is illegally - purchasing a seat on a Canadian charter flight from Vancouver bound for the beaches of Varadero, about two hours east of Havana. My inquiries had shown that it was possible to ask the Cuban immigration officials to stamp one's visa (a loose piece of paper) rather than your passport, thereby not leaving any evidence of your trip when you returned home. This was a bit more serious than it sounds. Because of the trade embargo, one cannot use U.S. credit cards or ATM machines in Cuba, nor can you depend on the U.S. Interest Section (there is no embassy) for help if you get into trouble, as you are not supposed to be there in the first place. I booked and pre-paid for my hotel with a Canadian travel agency, at least assuring (I hoped) that my lodging would be ready when I got there after a long day of travel and that I would not have to carry quite so much cash with me into the country.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfNfiA9b1a6MmgUJAVEehe6k3783khvD8isRIDcGes0_cYJ7sAzF3pgUNjeQr94QCUjzp-kEgtGrnBzUfUKIGhA5-pD6yHo6y2ubqNPvM-RKZCQHImTlpSSSoEaNOtZC3XMrT5Fx8bHJaD/s1600/CastroBarbudos.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 231px; height: 161px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfNfiA9b1a6MmgUJAVEehe6k3783khvD8isRIDcGes0_cYJ7sAzF3pgUNjeQr94QCUjzp-kEgtGrnBzUfUKIGhA5-pD6yHo6y2ubqNPvM-RKZCQHImTlpSSSoEaNOtZC3XMrT5Fx8bHJaD/s400/CastroBarbudos.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521365313435489698" border="0" /></a>My arrival into Havana could not have been more different from 1993. Getting there after dark during one of the city's regular blackouts was unnerving enough, but it was quite unexpected when the desk clerk at the Hotel Plaza (the same place I had stayed in '93) told me the hotel was full and refused to even look at the "confirmed reservation", which I had thoughtfully produced for his inspection. His advise was that I should walk around Havana and find another hotel. The total lack of streetlights makes this part of Havana seem somewhat sinister, and after trying to locate a hotel in these circumstances proved unproductive, I returned to the Plaza and in my best Spanish summoned all the indignation I could and demanded a room. One was magically found for me on the second floor (this despite the hotel being "full").<br /><br />The next challenge was actually procuring a ticket to the game. All the Cubans I spoke with were aware of the game, but no one seemed to know how to get a ticket. Cuba is a closed society with only official media allowed, so (as in the old Soviet Union) rumor and speculation fill the vacuum where reliable information normally would be. Whole days were literally spent (and wasted) trying to find an elusive ticket. The Americans I encountered who were there to cover the game for the media treated me like I had the plague as soon as they found out I was there "unofficially". No help there. The Cubans were all very interested in helping me, just no one knew how. I even ran into Mets shortstop Ray Ordonez' uncle outside the ballpark and he tried and failed to get me in. I soon learned that no tickets at all were being sold, and that passes to the game were only being passed out to selected loyal citizens at their workplaces.<br /><br />There was also the matter of security. This event was a very big deal for the Cuban government, and they were not taking any chances. I learned that a five-ring perimeter of security would be formed around Estadio Latinamericano (formerly Gran Stadium) on game day. Not only did I not have a ticket, it appeared unlikely I would even get within blocks of the ballpark. It was looking like I came all this way, and took all this risk, for nothing. (Well, not quite nothing. The city has certain charms, and I kept myself busy partaking of Cuban rum, tobacco and other temptations that Havana has to offer).<br /><br />Eventually when game time came I decided I had to try to get in. I hitched a ride in a motorcycle sidecar (in itself a great adventure) and rode toward the stadium. The motorcyclist took me as far as he dared, for there were indeed men in military dress everywhere. I still am not sure I had a definite plan in mind at this point. Fortunately, as in many dictatorships I have traveled in, security was ample, but not necessarily very efficient. I found a gap down one of the side streets, and ambled toward the park, keeping a careful eye behind me to make sure I wasn't being followed (don't try this yourself, kids!) Not only did I remain unmolested, but I saw a young man standing by himself nonchalantly holding a piece of paper that turned out to be a coveted pass to the game. After a five dollar bill changed hands, I was in! (There would be one more scare when the security officer who examined the passes sized me up and looked momentarily confused, but he waved me in).<br /><br />Once inside the stadium I could hardly contain my excitement. The atmosphere was electric, with Cuban flags being waved everywhere in an expression of nationalistic pride. Almost all of Cuba's best players were on hand to face Los Orioles. There were no rock videos or scoreboard antics. Treats seemed to be limited to bottles of Mexican Coke and ice in brown paper cones. This was pure baseball, and I was in one of the most ecstatic and knowledgeable baseball crowds in the world.<br /><br />The fans around me were obviously curious about my presence (all the "official" Americans were seated in the same section near home plate), and gave me a good-natured ribbing about the Americans' chances. Suddenly there was an announcement and every single patron around me stood up immediately and became absolutely rigid with attention. Fidel Castro, in his famous olive fatigues, strode across the field and went to greet the Oriole players. After then talking with the Cuban team he took a seat behind home plate between Commissioner Bud Selig and Orioles owner Peter Angeles, as the Cuban national anthem was played.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCmzmCiNDen_VKnjcXgbO_IvGZFlYsR8WXt9yVmY6AV9hkvmxt2t5aJpA6sH3N_bYJ4r3CkTOWVBfx8A6e0ad99uwrEol3PgaB4chaMavJtKx7QEueAmUlDX87nabHmwf072Pv9LDwLWJD/s1600/millercuba1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCmzmCiNDen_VKnjcXgbO_IvGZFlYsR8WXt9yVmY6AV9hkvmxt2t5aJpA6sH3N_bYJ4r3CkTOWVBfx8A6e0ad99uwrEol3PgaB4chaMavJtKx7QEueAmUlDX87nabHmwf072Pv9LDwLWJD/s400/millercuba1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521367567417035458" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> Castro greets Oriole manager Ray Miller.</span></span><br /><br />I will never forget what happened next. Over the ancient public address system I heard the scratchy sound of a needle being dropped in a groove on a very well-played phonograph record. Next came the sounds of the Star Spangled Banner. I am not normally given over to displays of patriotic emotion, but as this happened it occurred to me that this was the first time our national anthem had been played in this ballpark since July 1961, and that this was likely the exact same record that was last played then. I was literally moved to tears. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNg0vjY9aY-eBG9apmQViQZD8tITk4gSy9oTw6dalMcj3ry-41AhwDxULKuldUbFtUL2_QnvsGEYazftCN3sQshciWyTObVHZT6d45zILMvyWu0LmPymGoSZ-NoNRP3c3GnLiBnwBjrJl2/s1600/CubaOriolePlayers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNg0vjY9aY-eBG9apmQViQZD8tITk4gSy9oTw6dalMcj3ry-41AhwDxULKuldUbFtUL2_QnvsGEYazftCN3sQshciWyTObVHZT6d45zILMvyWu0LmPymGoSZ-NoNRP3c3GnLiBnwBjrJl2/s400/CubaOriolePlayers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521366110590324114" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Oh, the game itself. It could not have been any better. A 3-2 Oriole win in the 11th inning in a game that featured great pitching, stellar fielding and clutch hitting. To put this result in perspective: You had the Orioles, a team in the top echelon of U.S. professional baseball and an $80 million payroll barely beating a squad of hastily-assembled players from a poor country who had just come together the week before, and whose average pay was $10 a month (Cuba would go on to rout the Orioles in their re-match later that year in Baltimore).<br /><br />It was assumed at the time that this would be the beginning of the end of the freeze between the two countries (at least in the baseball sense) and that games like this would soon be routine, but it was not to be. Eleven years later, no U.S. major league team has returned to Cuba. A different Castro is now president, but the other one lingers on, still not ready to relinquish the stage he has commanded for a half-century. Cuba still produces some of the best baseball players on the planet, and maybe, just maybe, that old phonograph record of the Star Spangled Banner is in some office in Havana's ballpark, waiting for next time.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Our Flannel of The Month is Fidel Castro's (#19) jersey from Los Barbudos ("the Bearded Ones"), the Cuban leader's barnstorming team. Although Castro was not known for his baseball prowess, he managed two strikeouts in two innings of work in an exhibition game against a Cuban police team. No doubt friendly umpiring was a factor. Next month's FOTM post will come to you from Laos!<br /></span>Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-18146639487551106082010-08-23T21:41:00.000-07:002010-08-24T14:01:30.784-07:00Bobby Thomson, Jackie Robinson, and Destiny<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRfiVBPEkd6-PIjSkn4MX98pSPCaxp17oyvod1AhzPPim6yABSPqv5Sv_1TDAbN1SeaKi3OYqJg90wR65pGl-J8LuvHKSzZAujDbMf14kdjaM3bYXdgqUqsOdKFfz9Ep-Q_buk4zkpg0nY/s1600/bobby-thomson_1699329c.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 250px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509010761334615554" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRfiVBPEkd6-PIjSkn4MX98pSPCaxp17oyvod1AhzPPim6yABSPqv5Sv_1TDAbN1SeaKi3OYqJg90wR65pGl-J8LuvHKSzZAujDbMf14kdjaM3bYXdgqUqsOdKFfz9Ep-Q_buk4zkpg0nY/s400/bobby-thomson_1699329c.jpg" /></a>Bobby Thomson, "The Staten Island Scot", passed away last week at the age of 86. Thomson is of course best known for the "Shot Heard 'Round The World", baseball's most famous walk-off home run, decades before that term was coined.<br /><br />Thomson - wearing #7 - debuted with the Giants organization on April 18, 1946 in Jersey City. If we don't know much about Thomson's performance or feelings that day, it is understandable, as he was overshadowed by another young player making his debut for the visiting Montreal Royals. After all no one knew that in five years the young Thomson would be responsible for perhaps baseball's most famous home run. But no one watching Jackie Roosevelt Robinson that day had any doubt that history was being made. With the eyes of the nation on him, the first African-American player in an official game in organized baseball went 4-for-5 (including a three-run homer and two bunt singles), batted in four runs, and scored four. The fact that the Royals walloped Jersey City was 14-1 was almost incidental.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzuJgZnGLXYQ8CAmXddpPcdNYrk30shQGyCTecRxb4lHfgGYdNnTGabsEPuCMd9Otvp7VtWKs17E2wLqtjLkE_vdL6S4CuNbKpZiM9Jq2189nOTUbKZW7Mre3WCfiedey8GQ6fei62D99h/s1600/RoyaldebutSN.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 371px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508854315250914354" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzuJgZnGLXYQ8CAmXddpPcdNYrk30shQGyCTecRxb4lHfgGYdNnTGabsEPuCMd9Otvp7VtWKs17E2wLqtjLkE_vdL6S4CuNbKpZiM9Jq2189nOTUbKZW7Mre3WCfiedey8GQ6fei62D99h/s400/RoyaldebutSN.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Robinson being congratulated after his first home run, at Roosevelt Stadium, Jersey City, April 18, 1946.</span></span><br /><br />Both players were promoted to their respective big league clubs after their one season in the International League. Robinson led the league in almost everything. Although Thomson's accomplishments were more modest, he set a Little Giants home run record with 26, and the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Scotsman's</span></span> power was enough reason to make the move across the river to the Polo Grounds by the end of the year.<br /><br />Fast forward to 1951. The trajectories of these two players lead inexorably to the October day that ended the National League season. Having now spent five full seasons with these rival teams, these two players were hardened veterans, and they knew each other well. (The Dodgers and Giants played each other 22 times a year in those days). Robinson, having been freed of the shackles imposed by Branch Rickey his first two seasons was now a defiant, confident, and controversial player, at the height of his skills. Thomson, never a great fielder, had to abdicate his center field position and move to third base to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">accommodate</span> the most sensational black player since Robinson, the young Willie Mays. But both were having great seasons (Robinson and Thomson finished sixth and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">eighth</span>, respectively in MVP voting that year).<br /><br />The Dodgers got off to a roaring start, and by August 11<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">th</span> had amassed a 13 1/2 game lead. Brooklyn manager Charlie <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Dressen</span> had famously (if ungrammatically) declared "The Giants Is Dead". But Leo Durocher's Giant club fought back ferociously, winning 37 of their last 44 games, including their final seven. Only a Brooklyn victory against the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Phillies</span></span> on the last day of the season (on Jackie Robinson's dramatic 14<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">th</span>-inning home run, no less), salvaged a tie for first with New York. The stage was set for a special three-game playoff to decide the National League pennant and the right to face the remaining New York club - the Yankees - in the World Series. (The Yankees were having a historic year of their own. It was the last season of Joe DiMaggio and the first of Mickey Mantle).<br /><br />Playoffs were only used to break ties in the days before the leagues had divisions, so there was far more drama to this series than there is for today's league playoffs. Dodgers manager <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Dressen</span></span> won a coin toss and oddly chose to play only the first game at <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ebbets</span></span> Field (he could have elected to start the series in Manhattan and have the final two games in Brooklyn). What few remember today is that the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">Giants</span> won the first game 3-1 on a Bobby Thomson two-run homer off (you guessed it) Ralph <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">Branca</span></span>. The Dodgers easily dominated the Giants at the Polo Grounds the next day (if the Giants were indeed stealing signs, as was learned years later, it didn't do them much good that day against rookie Clem <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">Labine</span></span>, who shut them out 10-0). This set up the deciding Game Three on October 6.<br /><br />Seven taut innings of baseball produced a 1-1 tie, with those 1946 rookie opponents Robinson and Thomson each responsible for batting in the lone run for their respective team. But in the top of the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">eighth</span> the Dodgers broke it open, scoring three against future teammate Sal <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">Maglie</span></span>. The Bums confidently took the field in the bottom of the ninth, sitting atop a 4-1 lead, and needing just three outs for the pennant. However a tiring Don <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">Newcombe</span>, pitching on just two days' rest, allowed a double to Whitey <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Lockman</span>, scoring Alvin Dark. (It was Robinson who had persuaded <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">Newcombe</span> to stay in the game). Two on, one out, Dodgers up by two. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">Dressen</span> had Carl Erskine and Ralph <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">Branca</span> warming up in the bullpen. Thomson had hit <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">Branca</span> hard all year and homered off him for the game winner in Game One, so Erskine was the obvious choice. But bullpen coach Clyde <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">Sukeforth</span> thought he saw Erskine bouncing his curve and recommended <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">Branca</span> instead. (<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error">Sukeforth</span> would later pay for this decision with his job).<br /><br />Thomson stepped to the plate saying to himself "If you're gonna hit one, hit one now, you S.O.B". Willie Mays was in the on-deck circle praying the game not be left up to him. As Mays admitted years later, as a 20-year old rookie he simply was not ready for the pressure of that moment - not yet anyway. Thomson took the first pitch for a strike. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-error">Branca</span> reeled back and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-error">delievered</span> his second pitch. We all know what happened next. Thomson drove <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-error">Branca's</span> high inside fastball over the left field wall, and into history. "The Giants Win The Pennant! The Giants Win The Pennant! The Giants Win The Pennant!". The Dodgers had lost the title on the last day of the season for the third time in six years.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lrI7dVj90zs">Watch here</a><br /><br />At the Polo Grounds, the clubhouses were beyond center field, more than 500 feet from home plate, and the Dodger players, who had to suffer the indignity of trudging all the way across the field to escape the joyful delirium of the Giants and their fans, began their long painful exit. All the Dodgers that is, except one. Jackie Robinson stood quietly and waited until he was sure that Bobby Thomson had touched every base.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5oN9m9HBADnD-odzi_HRCMGMR3ydmoqlPsAc9haQxee9iuEMa_j696hksGeR0AdqKdXn5lWdLjHLsW8UIvXeFwbAetZf-XbHAt1yqJ6Yn1-mVuKGoVs_Tp1ld1nmIhLoBdGZie9vG7V17/s1600/RobinsonWatches.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 360px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 275px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508856416920381538" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5oN9m9HBADnD-odzi_HRCMGMR3ydmoqlPsAc9haQxee9iuEMa_j696hksGeR0AdqKdXn5lWdLjHLsW8UIvXeFwbAetZf-XbHAt1yqJ6Yn1-mVuKGoVs_Tp1ld1nmIhLoBdGZie9vG7V17/s400/RobinsonWatches.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Jackie Robinson watches the Giants celebrate Bobby Thomson's home run.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Our flannel of the month is Bobby Thomson's 1946 Jersey City Giants shirt, #7.</span>Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-17385379233554616262010-07-26T08:48:00.000-07:002010-07-28T21:16:01.831-07:00Cosmo Como Cotelle - EFF's Player of the CenturyOne of the wonders of baseball is how much can be gleaned from its statistics. Players of different eras can be contrasted and compared. Old arguments can be settled, and new ones begun. Bill James, for example, has made an entire career of the study of baseball statistics.<br /><div><div><div><br />In my line of work, I see a lot of statistics from lesser-known teams and players. The Negro leagues, for example, were notoriously poor at record keeping, so even won-and-loss records can be suspect. Many records in the lower minors were also spotty, and a few dedicated researchers have painstakingly reconstructed some of these records only in relatively recent times.<br /><br />Sometimes very little real information can be gleaned. A ballplayer's entire career can be reduced to one sentence in a reference book. More questions are raised than answered. Other times just by looking at seemingly bland lines of text, a story begins to emerge, though the totality of that story remains shrouded in mystery. Such is the case of one Cosmo <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Como <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Cotelle</span></span>. Born in 1904 in St. James Parish, LA, on the Cajun Coast, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Cotelle</span></span> played 21 seasons for 21 different clubs in minor league baseball. He had a lifetime .323 average, hit over .300 in eighteen of those seasons, and yet never played a single major league game.<br /><a href="http://www.baseball-reference.com/minors/player.cgi?id=cotell001cos#standard_batting"><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Cosmo <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Cotelle's</span></span> lifetime statistics</span></a><br /><br />Despite his impressive statistics and lengthy career, little beyond the dry numbers on the page seems to be known about <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Cotelle</span></span>. I could not locate a single photograph of Cosmo, or any mention of him besides his career stats and a brief listing on a few of the many rosters he was on. When we look at his career as a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">chronological</span> table of data, the mind wants to fill in the blanks of the story. For example, it seems <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Cotelle</span></span> started out as a left-handed pitcher, compiling a middling 7-8 record his rookie season for the Rock Island Islanders of the Mississippi Valley League. The fact that the 21-year old hit .336 that season and only pitched seven games the following year with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Marshalltown</span></span> probably means that his bat was more noticed than his arm, and the fledgling southpaw hurler was converted to an outfielder.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBvAYK8N7ICJs0a7QUUFbqBotruoH4tudnoMpoUmUOVX4KT5Hg7rulP4v25cZzMHmEVcGT8EsuDzStdSeSuDVuh5V7LeaHRn03W1eFL-Sls0qkm7TMcouWHbO-98xgtslVRSHQxIUryoXH/s1600/Davenport1933.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px; display: block; height: 312px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498337599582412530" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBvAYK8N7ICJs0a7QUUFbqBotruoH4tudnoMpoUmUOVX4KT5Hg7rulP4v25cZzMHmEVcGT8EsuDzStdSeSuDVuh5V7LeaHRn03W1eFL-Sls0qkm7TMcouWHbO-98xgtslVRSHQxIUryoXH/s400/Davenport1933.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Members of the Davenport Blue Sox in a photo op with sponsor Iowana Farms Milk Co. Cosmo <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Cotelle</span></span> hit .407 as a member of the 1933 Blue <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Sox</span></span> (leading the Missouri Valley League), but he is strangely missing in the above team photo. Maybe he thought being photographed in uniform drinking from a milk bottle was undignified? </span></span><br /><br />The fact that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Cotelle</span></span> spent 21 years playing for as many teams is also interesting. Starting in Class D, he quickly moved up and down the minor league levels, and through different major league organizations, with startling frequency. Up from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Marshalltown</span></span> to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Danville</span></span>, then Houston, then back to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Danville</span></span> (all in the Cardinals organization). Still with St. Louis, he got as far as Rochester before being acquired by Hartford, a Brooklyn affiliate, in 1932. His best season proved to be 1933, when he hit .407 for Davenport, scored 106 runs, and stole 31 bases. The majors must have seemed very close. (Cotelle was involved in a controversy while with Davenport. Because he never had his contract notarized, he was able to sign as a free agent with another team for a $500 bonus for the 1934 season. The Blue Sox' management was not happy to lose his services because of this technicality).<br /><br />After lingering at the top levels of the minors through the early and mid 30s, he hit a peak at age 31 in 1936 when (by now with the New York Giants organization) he hit .309 for the Memphis Chicks and was promoted to AA Indianapolis, where he seems to have been a disappointment, as he ended up back down at A-level Albany the next two seasons, and then started a gradual decline as he aged, landing at Class C Erie in 1941 after passing through five more major league organizations in dizzying succession. His age seems to have been the reason there is not a big gap in his stats during the war, as he was probably too old by this time to serve. The vacancies created by the temporary disappearance of so many players in wartime also probably explains why <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Cotelle</span></span> was promoted back up to the higher levels of the minors in the twilight years of his career. But his peripatetic ways continued, as he played for six different teams his last six seasons, ending with Scranton (where he hit .314 at the age of 40), and finally Louisville, in 1945.<br /><br />It must have <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">occurred</span> to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Cotelle</span></span> that with thousands of players due to return to organized ball in 1946, the chances for a 40-year old minor league outfielder were pretty slim, but Cotelle was not quite finished with baseball just yet. He joined the El Paso Texans of the Mexican National League in 1946, hitting .347 at the ripe old age of 41 before finally hanging up his spikes.<span style="font-style: italic;"> (The Texans were managed by Andy Cohen. A teammate on the '33 Blue Sox was pitcher Irving Cohen. Hey, we Cohens notice this stuff, as there has been a serious shortage of Cohens in the baseball profession.)</span><br /></div><div></div><br /><div>So it remains something of a mystery. How could a player of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Cotelle's</span></span> obvious offensive ability never breath the rarified air of a major league ballpark? What must have gone through his mind each time he would get close to the big leagues - in Rochester, Indianapolis, Louisville - only for his hopes to be dashed yet again? This part may not be as mysterious as it sounds. There were only 16 major league teams during <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Cotelle's</span></span> era, and therefore only about 400 roster positions in all of major league baseball during his era. These jobs were not yielded easily. The minors were full of players who could hit, yet lacked that certain something that took them the rest of the way. Perhaps major league scouts were dismissive of Cotelle because of his diminutive 5' 5" stature. Or was it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Cotelle's</span></span> temperament? Twenty teams in as many seasons suggest that perhaps he wore out his welcome more than once. There is some evidence to support this theory. Cotelle was fined for assault for attacking a fan in Davenport in 1933, and in 1939 while playing for the Albany Senators he reportedly set the outfield on fire. "The lighting was bad and I couldn't see", was his explanation.<br /><br />So we tip our hat (our 1933 Davenport Blue <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Sox</span></span> hat!) to Cosmo <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Cotelle</span></span>. Maybe not one of baseball's legends, but we can think of no player who more typifies the journeyman ballplayer of the mid-20<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">th</span></span> Century. The kind of player whose legacy only exists in a few fading memories, in some correspondence in a file, or in the cold black and white of a sheet of baseball statistics.<br /><br />Cosmo Como Cotelle amassed a .323 lifetime average and 2,730 hits in his long career. We do not know what kind of life he lead from 1946 when he gave up his baseball dreams, to his death in Chicago on Christmas Day in 1975.<br /><br />If <span style="font-style: italic;">you</span> know more about Cosmo <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Cotelle</span></span> (or better yet, have a photograph of him) please let us know. We will reward you with a free 1933 Davenport Blue <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Sox</span></span> cap.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Our Flannel of the Month is Cosmo <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Cotelle's</span></span> 1945 Scranton Miners jersey. It has the World War II Stars & Stripes patch on the left sleeve and number on back, and is available for the special $99 Flannel of the Month price for a limited time. We also have Cosmo <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Cotelle's</span></span> 1933 <a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://www.ebbets.com/product/DavenportBlueSox1933Ballcap/Ballcaps">Davenport Blue <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Sox</span></span> cap</a> in stock. And of course, if you want </span><span>any</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> jersey from Cosmo's 21 different teams, you know who to ask).</span><br /><br />This just in: Our readers are the best! Received three photos of Cotelle this morning. Best one is from Bud Holland. Cosmo is shown second from left in bottom row:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIaN2RUJuLzTvKZHDiQd2k_wR_Oy-7hgSN1YuvDERsmahDev7eW9HdeX4DKjZbTvhsB6QjPWywRbKiUFnIFG9HXSncRB-Ho_hCGIoFDx8dINWEDCP7uva0vhizTh85xJ4JhRn-BAVVJGmk/s1600/DavBlueSox.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 287px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIaN2RUJuLzTvKZHDiQd2k_wR_Oy-7hgSN1YuvDERsmahDev7eW9HdeX4DKjZbTvhsB6QjPWywRbKiUFnIFG9HXSncRB-Ho_hCGIoFDx8dINWEDCP7uva0vhizTh85xJ4JhRn-BAVVJGmk/s400/DavBlueSox.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498600915003189010" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /></div></div></div>Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-46881157289245025192010-06-22T09:09:00.001-07:002010-06-23T09:15:34.916-07:00Jim Tugerson and the Cotton States LeagueI sometimes wonder what would have happened if Branch Rickey's "Great Experiment" had gone awry - if Jackie Robinson had been unable to withstand the pressure of being the major leagues' first African-American player (let alone become perhaps its <span style="font-style: italic;">best</span> player in his rookie season); if the abortive strike by the St. Louis Cardinals had caught on with the rest of the National League, or if the other owners had moved to block Rickey. In the case of Rickey and Robinson, it certainly helped to have a visionary owner and an exciting, dynamic player seemingly from central casting to carry out this athletic and social revolution.<br /><br />When we look back at the events of 1947 and marvel at Robinson's triumph, we sometimes have the mistaken impression that the floodgates opened in 1947, discrimination was banished, and we all lived happily ever after. But a full six years after Robinson's groundbreaking first season, only half of major league clubs had in fact integrated. In fact, baseball integration came in fits and starts, and in some places it seemed it might not come at all.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgtuEnZO3fD3p03edn6zHH8I2bA8Pzx7MVeX1GdBMH-gYgJfqu3gsMcxdY1OvAGY8Ds6ipk5qemYARJfjuNJUq7QxEPHPwsbv6qAlLNfuTaNFXw-KL04TZJomdBw1EzdQPERKf4fYYknby/s1600/HotSprings53.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 253px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgtuEnZO3fD3p03edn6zHH8I2bA8Pzx7MVeX1GdBMH-gYgJfqu3gsMcxdY1OvAGY8Ds6ipk5qemYARJfjuNJUq7QxEPHPwsbv6qAlLNfuTaNFXw-KL04TZJomdBw1EzdQPERKf4fYYknby/s320/HotSprings53.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485651344052032242" border="0" /></a><br />After a post-war boom in the fortunes of minor league baseball, by the early fifties televised major league games had begun to take a huge toll on the minors' coffers. The Cotton States League, with teams in Arkansas, Mississippi and Louisiana was no exception. The owners of the Hot Springs Bathers decided to try to reverse their fortunes by signing two African-American pitching prodigies, the Florida-born brothers Jim and Leander Tugerson. Both were members of the Negro American League's Indianapolis Clowns (Jim having roomed with rookie Henry Aaron in 1952).<br /><br />The move sent shock waves throughout the league, and also exposed deep regional divisions (the Arkansas and Louisiana clubs were generally tolerant, while the Mississippi teams were adamantly opposed). The Bathers were accused of "treason" by League president Al Haraway, and Mississippi's attorney general J.P. Coleman claimed that his state's constitution prohibited integrated games. The Bathers' offer to use the Turgesons only in home games was not accepted, and on April 6 the league voted to expel Hot Springs. To his credit, National Association president Trautman ruled against the league, but bowing to pressure, the Bathers reassigned both brothers to the Knoxville Smokies of the Mountain States League, with whom they had a working agreement.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMFQaKxE4M6fel_PuZw11nBDmIm1mzvFqQhURxEtZOLL-lW6-ZAUKbc5pFTKoXZNuUrsilZ391HaL4IYT_oy8u43Tin5QCtxE79DsDrfMKYVpI0U42lrEQp3i4No5hyphenhyphenJCd8c67Vizwq2f/s1600/TugersonSmokies.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 188px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMFQaKxE4M6fel_PuZw11nBDmIm1mzvFqQhURxEtZOLL-lW6-ZAUKbc5pFTKoXZNuUrsilZ391HaL4IYT_oy8u43Tin5QCtxE79DsDrfMKYVpI0U42lrEQp3i4No5hyphenhyphenJCd8c67Vizwq2f/s320/TugersonSmokies.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485651712868472882" border="0" /></a>Desperately needing pitching help, and doing poorly in attendance, Hot Springs recalled Jim Tugerson from Knoxville on May 20th. Haraway issued instructions to the umpires to forfeit the game if Tugerson's name appeared in the line-up. To the displeasure of a capacity crowd, the game was indeed forfeited. Although the forfeiture was later voided by Trautman, it came too late for Tugerson, who was sent back to Knoxville where he received a much warmer welcome, winning 33 games (including four playoff victories) a league record. The Smokies even had a "Jim Tugerson Night" where black fans were admitted free.<br /><br />Integration was postponed in the CSL for the time being, but Jim Tugerson was not finished. He sued the Cotton States League for having his civil rights violated and denying him the opportunity to earn a living playing baseball. Circuit court judge John Miller dismissed his claim on the basis that it was a private, not federal matter, but Tugerson's contract was sold to Dallas, thereby giving him an opportunity to play professional ball at a higher level. He eventually retired in 1957, having also pitched at Amarillo and in Panama, but made a dazzling comeback back with Dallas in 1958, using a new sidearm delivery. Sadly, AAA Dallas was as close as he got to the majors, and Jim Tugerson finally retired for good in 1959. His brother Leander had worn out his arm back in Knoxville and never recovered his form. The Cotton States League finally integrated in 1954, when the same Hot Springs Bathers signed local outfielder Uvoyd Reynolds and first baseman Howard Scott. The league folded for good in 1955.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">We are offering both the Jim Tugerson Hot Springs Bathers flannel and Knoxville Smokies flannel for $99 each for a limited time.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Research used in this post came from the SABR bio project and the Encyclopedia of Arkansas History & Culture.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /></span>Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-39034017842289287292010-05-18T10:26:00.000-07:002010-05-19T22:03:02.852-07:00Rube Waddell and the Los Angeles Looloos<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfesHvNl506qyEF6roQFfLd_ueX68ifzs3o46zoOV6RyNdvIaTE24eXkRTxehgC85djyrMiz9TxntDmFO407VhFyxF3hTd_wF95sZaDl9ojosBMThzduRvE3AC2gWE9ymXUxkW1K8_-WE/s1600/Wadell.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px; float: left; height: 264px; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472690716634958082" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfesHvNl506qyEF6roQFfLd_ueX68ifzs3o46zoOV6RyNdvIaTE24eXkRTxehgC85djyrMiz9TxntDmFO407VhFyxF3hTd_wF95sZaDl9ojosBMThzduRvE3AC2gWE9ymXUxkW1K8_-WE/s320/Wadell.jpg" border="0" /></a>Baseball is a game that has always had a place for eccentrics and misfits, but never has the combination of eccentricity and pure talent come in the same package in quite the same way as it did for pitcher Rube Waddell.<br /><br />Waddell was an imposing 6' 1" 190 pounds, and had an intimidating fastball, which he combined with a wicked curve, as well as great control. He was the most dominating strikeout pitcher of his era. He pitched for five major league clubs, but it was his colorful personality and odd behavior that prevented him from staying with any team for very long, and perhaps from having an even greater career than he did.<br /><br />A few of the stories about Waddell: He would leave the dugout and wander off in the middle of games. Opposing players would hold up puppies and shiny objects, knowing Rube could be easily distracted. He was so bad with money that the A's paid him in dollar bills - doled out a few at a time. Waddell once wrestled an alligator. He was contractually prohibited from eating crackers in bed. He claimed to have lost track of how many women he had married. He would miss starts because he was fishing or playing marbles with street kids (though the stories of him running off the mound in the middle of a game to chase fire engines are probably apocryphal). Alcohol certainly exacerbated his behavioral eccentricities. Today he might be diagnosed as autistic, or a borderline personality. Thousands would no doubt be spent by his team on therapy and medical tests, or most likely, his personality quirks would prevent him from reaching the big leagues at all. But at the time the most common description of him was that of a big kid who wouldn't grow up.<br /><br />George Edward Waddell was born on Friday the 13th, October 13, 1876 in Bradford, Pa. He grew up in Butler County - oil country - the son of a Scottish immigrant. News of his prowess on the mound in local semi-pro leagues was enough to be offered a contract by the Pittsburgh Pirates in 1897 without ever having spent a day in the minors. However it was Rube's fate to be seated next to Bucs manager Patsy Donovan for his first team meal. After hearing Waddell speak, Donovan released him immediately, without ever having Rube throw a pitch. Waddell spent most of the next two seasons playing semi-pro and minor league ball, before finally joining Louisville (major league at the time) and winning seven of nine decisions. Waddell went back to Pittsburgh when most of the Louisville players were transferred there in 1900, and finished second in the league in strikeouts, though he was suspended by player-manager Fred Clarke, who had no use for Rube's eccentricities. Waddell found himself playing semi-pro ball in Puxsutawney, Pa. when he was spotted by Connie Mack - at the time managing Milwaukee in the new American League. However, as he was still the property of Pittsburgh and Mack had to return Waddell to the Pirates after Rube won ten games in one month with Milwaukee and the Pirates wanted him back.<br /><br />After quickly wearing out his welcome again in Pittsburgh, he spent some time with the Chicago Orphans, and then went back to semi-pro and barnstorming. It was on a western barnstorming swing that Waddell was enticed to sign with the Los Angeles Looloos of the California League (the forerunner of the Pacific Coast League). The Looloos (whose nickname, incredibly, had nothing to do with Waddell) were locked in a pennant race with the Oakland Dudes, and the league (which the next season would become the legendary Pacific Coast League) was an outlaw circuit fighting for west coast legitimacy against the rival Pacific National League.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpYF6Rx9OOt-khawHlEmfE2d5NT1fkuQ9zhrkOOv20b-pRPqCbtn-ZljH-IzEQh865EOjdRpsR1LwKNJt6SYyDwRl4xdcUfm5STBlhSPTTqGXulRmZt5JeHCDIlNs08rUMBaFNWysOhW4c/s1600/Waddell0001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 155px; float: left; height: 320px; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472691336848491106" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpYF6Rx9OOt-khawHlEmfE2d5NT1fkuQ9zhrkOOv20b-pRPqCbtn-ZljH-IzEQh865EOjdRpsR1LwKNJt6SYyDwRl4xdcUfm5STBlhSPTTqGXulRmZt5JeHCDIlNs08rUMBaFNWysOhW4c/s320/Waddell0001.jpg" border="0" /></a>During the 1902 season Connie Mack - now in Philadelphia and desperate for pitching - learned that Rube was playing ball out on the Coast. He dispatched two Pinkerton agents to Los Angeles with instructions to return with Waddell. It was under the patient tutelage of Mack that Waddell experienced his only period of relative stability. He found an ideal battery-mate (and drinking buddy) in catcher Osee "Schrek" Schrecongost, and won 24 games and led the league in strikeouts despite playing only slightly longer than half the season. The Athletics doubled their attendance from the year before, and Waddell was such a popular draw around the league that he was credited with saving the junior circuit from bankruptcy. Numerous products, from soap to cigars, bore his name.<br /><br />1903 was a rocky year for Waddell. In July league president Ban Johnson suspended him for climbing into the stands and attacking a spectator who had baited him. After missing one too many starts, Mack also had had enough, and suspended him in late July for the duration of the season. Waddell spent the off-season tending bar in Camden, NJ, and appearing in a theatre company melodrama called "The Stain Of Guilt". Waddell's thespian exploits soon came to an end, though, when he was unceremoniously dumped from the production after a dispute over pay.<br /><br />In 1904 Waddell was the opposing pitcher and made the last out during Cy Young's perfect game. He struck out 349 batters that season, his second straight 300+ season, a record that would not be equalled until Sandy Koufax did it in 1965-66.<br /><br />Waddell's long decline began with a strange incident late in the 1905 season. He fell and injured his shoulder while fighting over a straw hat with teammate Andy Coakley. Tensions had also developed between Waddell and Schrecongost, who had "taken the pledge" to stop drinking. Mack - who believed Rube was never the same after the straw hat incident - sold him to the St. Louis Browns in 1908 in the "interest of team harmony". At the same time, Waddell's wife sued him for divorce and Rube was accused of assault against his wife's parents, a situation which prevented him from pitching in Boston when his team traveled there. His tenure with the Browns was still a success, however, as St. Louis nearly doubled its attendance after signing him. In what must have been sweet revenge, Waddell struck out 16 of his former teammates on July 29th, tying the league record. But by 1910 his skills were fading, and the Browns released Waddell, leaving Rube to bounce around the minors for a few more seasons (including a 20-game winning campaign for the Minneapolis Millers of the American Association).<br /><br />Waddell contracted pneumonia in 1912 while spending hours standing in icy water in Kentucky, helping a town trying to ward off a flood. His health declining, he moved to a sanatorioum in San Antonio, Texas, with Connie Mack paying the medical bills. He died at the age of 37 on April 1st, 1914, April Fools Day. Rube Waddell was elected to the Baseball Hall Of Fame in 1946.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4AmgNKOmUBX2p7NPz1N8bFGgUSPc863_oIUmZzFUgfSvrFtaovwDtsh1_DwcZFHE7GbwXw6q7zcVXncMKpOMGNVOk8SQhcc_1jegs-XYRh8uMu_DKTDosEPDoCfcq8WSqHMYx5wGS9QUx/s1600/WaddellAs.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px; display: block; height: 321px; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472691838617356322" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4AmgNKOmUBX2p7NPz1N8bFGgUSPc863_oIUmZzFUgfSvrFtaovwDtsh1_DwcZFHE7GbwXw6q7zcVXncMKpOMGNVOk8SQhcc_1jegs-XYRh8uMu_DKTDosEPDoCfcq8WSqHMYx5wGS9QUx/s400/WaddellAs.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> Rube Wadell (kneeling, far left) with Connie Mack (center, in bowler hat) and the Philadelphia Athletics.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Our new Flannel of the Month is the 1902 Rube Waddell Los Angeles Looloos jersey, $99 for a limited time. (No jersey numerals were worn during this era).</span>Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-31592849539763298142010-04-21T07:00:00.001-07:002010-04-21T16:08:40.273-07:00Who Wore Short-Shorts? The Hollywood Stars!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZwYBkKHnFpvcqLO1gQPCR9M6WNnKN_2HgQ6rAAILY1-oMEN1WjB7_StdschtgpDfllw4w2tQbETwglqEYc3RhSL-GVXiHlpME2UHmdAfZV9SpRD6HSLraS6XomsNma2IA1hN7PQ_Kc_O-/s1600/Haney0001.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462637418080124258" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 280px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZwYBkKHnFpvcqLO1gQPCR9M6WNnKN_2HgQ6rAAILY1-oMEN1WjB7_StdschtgpDfllw4w2tQbETwglqEYc3RhSL-GVXiHlpME2UHmdAfZV9SpRD6HSLraS6XomsNma2IA1hN7PQ_Kc_O-/s320/Haney0001.jpg" border="0" /></a>In 1970 baseball uniforms were revolutionized, as baggy woolens were replaced by form-fitting polyester doubleknits. The advantages claimed by the uniform manufacturers were twofold: ease of laundering; and comfort (we here at Ebbets have been disputing the comfort myth for years, but that's for another column). However twenty years earlier there was a brief (pun intended) experiment in radical uniform design change in the minor leagues, when at least three teams doffed pullover cotton rayon shirts and short pants in an effort to give players relief from hot weather.<br /><br />The most famous of these experiments occurred 60 years ago in the Pacific Coast League - where colorful and unusual uniforms were already a proud tradition. Hollywood Stars manager Fred Haney had been thinking about the problem for some time. He had also been influenced by a column in the Los Angeles Times by Braven Dyer musing why baseball was so slow to change its fashions. Haney then saw a touring British soccer team, and the idea of the shorts was born. The manager still had to think of how to present his brainstorm to his players, however - ballplayers being a somewhat conservative bunch sartorially. I'll let Hollywood player Chuck Stevens take it from here:<br /><br />"The players walked into the clubhouse and there were clothes boxes from the concrete floor to the ceiling. We knew nothing about this. There were four or five people with measuring tapes around their necks. When the whole club had arrived, Fred Haney suggested to our clubhouse man that he lock the door. Then he opened the boxes. There were shorts! Wasn't anybody escaping. Kewpie Barrett and some of those guys were thinking about it. Those people in civilian clothes were tailors, and we all had to put on the shorts and have them measured. We had the worst looking legs you could imagine, but we were a captive audience".<br /><br />Sliding was potentially a problem, but Haney had thought about this too: Folding the sanitary sock over the top of the stirrup gave you and extra layer of padding, but there was still a gap between the bottom of the short and the top of the sock, and raspberries were often the result.<br /><br />The shorts were a hit with PCL fans. "We filled every park in the Pacific Coast League with those things", said Stevens. "Every time we wore them the park was sold out. We only wore them on weekends, and after two years they disappeared."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWHMXfocb2qO4WQEYp6inBnTnLvP5DN5iWMFHPOb0iLnyaFfPRvXxveKtgHU1O2cJpGmPIv3h8wqBwcD0RcLCLyWlMa9oxlGh5JnyWbIvJ533tE7Q9QSoKoC7QSWy55lHtMbIyMk5nQ-H4/s1600/Shorts10001.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462637874405811346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 282px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWHMXfocb2qO4WQEYp6inBnTnLvP5DN5iWMFHPOb0iLnyaFfPRvXxveKtgHU1O2cJpGmPIv3h8wqBwcD0RcLCLyWlMa9oxlGh5JnyWbIvJ533tE7Q9QSoKoC7QSWy55lHtMbIyMk5nQ-H4/s320/Shorts10001.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Hollywood manager Fred Haney shows off some leg in this publicity photo.</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Above, Portland manager Bill Sweeney could not resist poking some fun at his Hollywood rivals.</span></span><br /><br />The shorts were the same flannel material as the normal baseball pants, however a white cotton-rayon henley shirt went with the shorts (a blue pullover was worn on the road). This was the "durene" fabric used at the time for hockey and football jerseys. Wilson supplied the uniforms.<br /><br />The fact that at least three other teams experimented with the shorts-rayon pullover combo at the same time (the Miami Beach Flamingos, Ft. Lauderdale Lions and Houston Buffs are known to have also worn this style of uniform, with the Flamingos rumored to be in pink shorts!), and the fact that Wilson seems to have developed the durene shirt already, is evidence that perhaps Haney was not the first to think of this idea. Regardless of whose idea the shorts and rayon shirt was, the experiment would soon be abandoned and it would be another two decades before professional baseball would adopt radically new fabrics and uniform styles, though alas, the shorts would not make a comeback.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1-5IdcDQbwXLIPItYOuca4uhLB7llWbgscMhVI1plP_AmTDDbTlm-upNKzo5kmkJYMvl8JHSBnjAP_0oZOT9aaEFEWUUHl30W07c77sfha7l7FwAeIqsp60EQhyphenhyphenrt9aZTO5EhZwYAFwUo/s1600/MBFlamingos0001.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462648088074090946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 194px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1-5IdcDQbwXLIPItYOuca4uhLB7llWbgscMhVI1plP_AmTDDbTlm-upNKzo5kmkJYMvl8JHSBnjAP_0oZOT9aaEFEWUUHl30W07c77sfha7l7FwAeIqsp60EQhyphenhyphenrt9aZTO5EhZwYAFwUo/s320/MBFlamingos0001.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">The Miami Beach Flamingos of the Florida International League allegedly wore pink shorts. We have not seen a color photograph.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Chuck Stevens' quotes were excerpted from "The Grand Minor League" by Dick Dobbins.</span> <em>Thanks to Bob Woodling for Ft. Lauderdale info.</em><br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Ebbets Field Flannels is offering the 1950 Hollywood home durene pullover in the original fabric as our "flannel" of the month for $99. Shorts not included, but we'll make them for you if you like!</span><br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">In late May we will bring you Flannel of the Month from Havana, Cuba.</span>Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-8177626421964266452010-03-30T19:11:00.001-07:002010-03-30T21:42:35.991-07:00A Brooklyn Childhood 1958-1965It was my fate to be born into a <st1:place>Brooklyn</st1:place> facing its first spring without the Dodgers. I always felt a little cheated. I never experienced the rush of green on emerging from the dark corridors of Ebbets Field into the stands. I never heard the wild rooting of Hilda Chester or the joyful, dissonant sounds of the Dodgers Sym-Phony Band, and by the time I was aware of the Giants, they were just a team on a faraway coast, not the hated rivals from across the river. I left <st1:place>Brooklyn</st1:place> early (I was only seven), but to me the experience was a profound one, as my earliest impressions of the world were formed while I was there. If my readers will indulge me, I would like to share a few of those moments here – fragmentary and incomplete as they are.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVdjDP5d108r-yWCYGWQpqUm4WRuqJ5fRcVYA5xipJ0WYm7xniN3nxDL5sYRVfP_VpdkvHaP1y0GkarBSHiVEZ_mXkEoAY4_JcTP7V7rSsuUWKc-FhaxTtNpMsKxqYpZuBNgGuCxsYhbLF/s1600/EFdemo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVdjDP5d108r-yWCYGWQpqUm4WRuqJ5fRcVYA5xipJ0WYm7xniN3nxDL5sYRVfP_VpdkvHaP1y0GkarBSHiVEZ_mXkEoAY4_JcTP7V7rSsuUWKc-FhaxTtNpMsKxqYpZuBNgGuCxsYhbLF/s400/EFdemo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454637166785985426" border="0" /></a><p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Demolition of Ebbets Field in 1960, less than a mile from where I lived on Lincoln Place. In what today seems a perverse and needlessly cruel gesture, the wrecking ball was painted to look like a baseball, and Dodger players were invited to witness the desecration.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My world as a child was limited to the block of <st1:street><st1:address>Lincoln Place between Rochester and Buffalo Avenues in the Crown Heights neighborhood, where our four-story brick apartment building was. The block was bookended by two synagogues: a simple brick one on our end of the street (which became a Baptist church by the time we left) and a grand one at the other end and around the corner, where we would go for the High Holy Days (now also a church). The next street over was St. John’s Place, the nearest commercial artery. This was where most of the shopping got done, where one got a haircut, shopped for groceries, or had one’s shoes repaired. There was bookstore next to the Key Foods where my mother brought me after shopping. I was encouraged to pick out one book. I usually chose a Dr. Seuss, “The Cat In The Hat”, “Green Eggs and Ham”. There was also a fabulous knish restaurant whose name I regretfully cannot remember.</st1:address></st1:street></p><p class="MsoNormal"><st1:street><st1:address>When I started going to school, my world expanded several blocks to take in the walk to P.S. 191 on Park Place. This took me past the magnificent Congress Theater on St. John’s Place, designed by noted theater architect Charles Sanblom. It was there that I saw films like "101 Dalmatians" and "The Ten Commandments". While I loved the movies we saw there, of course, it was the building itself that fascinated me: the brightly lit marquee at night, the grand lobby. Once, on my way to school, I noticed that the side door on Buffalo Avenue had been left open. I walked in and just stood there in the darkened theater among the plush red seats. It was a strangely delicious feeling.</st1:address></st1:street></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzVYVDtf9bVCjOKUkkpwJueNlCT-EzmzbwicPPd8JRjfREQIGcklmc1H1HGiWnDTjuMP0-Su_inRkUf-wVvX_EQUDQLQWYC79O4p_vwc6C1f8VKtGJvjL3mxoSqciFqDyDtPpAnsT9M5GB/s1600/Congress.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 398px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzVYVDtf9bVCjOKUkkpwJueNlCT-EzmzbwicPPd8JRjfREQIGcklmc1H1HGiWnDTjuMP0-Su_inRkUf-wVvX_EQUDQLQWYC79O4p_vwc6C1f8VKtGJvjL3mxoSqciFqDyDtPpAnsT9M5GB/s400/Congress.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454631266750684034" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> The Congress Theater in 1958, the year I was born. I do not know the gentleman in the photograph.</span></span><br /><br />Ethnically, ours was what was euphemistically called by some a "neighborhood in transition”. Our block had secular Jews and a few Hasidic Jews (though the Hasidim mostly lived farther down Eastern Parkway), African-Americans<st1:street><st1:address></st1:address></st1:street>, and people we called “Spanish”, though if you called them that they would explain that they were from a place called “Puerto Rico". Our best friends were a black family who lived at the other end of the block. The father was a New York City policeman, and a rather exotic creature – an African-American who had converted to Judaism (the rest of his family had not joined him on his quixotic spiritual path).<br /><br />It is amazing to me today, in the world of “play dates”, bicycle helmets, and highly supervised activities just how free a child’s world was back then. As long as you stayed within the geographic bounds of the terrain, stayed out of trouble, and were home for supper, you could pretty much do as you pleased. This was particularly true in the summer, when school was out and the nights were long. People came out on the stoops and brought cold drinks and transistor radios. They watched each others kids. This freedom allowed us to create a world in which adults mostly did not intrude. We could ride our bikes and play in the narrow alley next to our building as long as we didn't make too much noise (there was a lady on the fourth floor who would threaten to pour boiling water on us if we got too loud). I was also warned to stay out of the subterranean passage where someone called “the Super” lived. That wasn't much of a problem because it always smelled funny down there. (This smell was later explained to me as something called “whiskey”).<br /><br />The Dodgers were gone, but there was baseball everywhere. Nearby Lincoln Terrace Park had a grass field where Police Athletic League games were held, and there was a blacktop softball diamond with painted baselines where local teams played. (These were serious games played for money – the blacktop did not stop players from sliding). For the older kids there was stickball, of course. And the Mets, in the early thralls of their ineptitude, and newly installed in the Polo Grounds, were being watched on black and white rabbit-eared TV sets by former Dodger fans like my father. It was in trying to fathom my father’s world while he watched these games that my education on baseball, and more importantly – baseball history – began.<br /><br />Other fragmentary memories: Playing checkers and hearing the strange sounds of Yiddish at my grandparents' apartment on Park Place; Memorial Day parades on Eastern Parkway my father chasing a mugger through the alley; taking a subway car with cane seats to the Botanic Garden; the grandeur of the war memorial, library and Brooklyn Museum; the six-sided cobblestones of Prospect Park; hearing something strange on the bakelite radio in the kitchen and telling my mother that I think someone just shot the president.<br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgydwyibvkaapbqGPLwtKqJD3kMNqXV18K31M8lXGIW1BrUSahrO-uhYU-Do8YfWvUDVIgqU8wUhChmQtw_RyIbOlJCIOh6saVK91iEpqjmrdKq2A3Tmh7winFS17klK-8EW4ep4nNJRpgE/s1600/PS191.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgydwyibvkaapbqGPLwtKqJD3kMNqXV18K31M8lXGIW1BrUSahrO-uhYU-Do8YfWvUDVIgqU8wUhChmQtw_RyIbOlJCIOh6saVK91iEpqjmrdKq2A3Tmh7winFS17klK-8EW4ep4nNJRpgE/s320/PS191.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454638879090886434" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> The doors of P.S. 191 were formidable indeed to this six-year-old.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br />Brooklyn was also the beginning of the other fascination of my life: popular music. My best friend on the block, Tommy Newsome, was obsessed about a group of singers from <st1:country-region><st1:place>England</st1:place></st1:country-region> called the Beatles. He harangued me until I listened to them on the radio, and I quickly agreed that it was the greatest thing I had ever heard. Tommy and I would stand around the front stoop of one of the two-family houses next to my building and mime the drums and guitars while we shouted out the words. Soon after that my father came home from work and casually gave me a package: a shiny new copy of “Meet The Beatles”.<br /><br />In April 1965, there was really exciting news. The mother of one of my friends agreed to take a group of us to one of Murray The K’s rock & roll shows at the Fox Theater in downtown <st1:place>Brooklyn</st1:place>. Murray Kaufman was a colorful radio personality who immodestly referred to himself as "the Fifth Beatle". The headliner was Gerry & The Pacemakers, another Liverpool group. It wasn’t the Beatles, but it was close. But as we approached the Fox in the car there was a scene of chaos, with girls screaming hysterically and running through the streets. My friend’s mother panicked, turned the car around, and took us back to the apartment building where she lived to wait it out until she could take us home. The girls played with dolls. I sulked. It would be many more years before my first rock concert. The apartment building? Ebbets Field Houses, the projects built on the hollowed ground where the Boys of Summer had once roamed.<br /><br />Things were changing fast. There was the Blackout. John Lindsay was elected mayor. Tommy Newsome’s family was moving to someplace called “<st1:place>Long Island</st1:place>”. And soon it was announced that we were planning on going to <st1:state><st1:place>New Jersey</st1:place></st1:state>, which the other kids called “the country”. I'll cover that next month…</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1le5X6YaRO1d_4JVeHeY7pgxvnQTnA01knu1luWOgxmmhfCmlFhMBftq_eZBe3m4O2tcQcdb3Yo3wpM3WA72zl-QjVbNJOpcWRQKUJO388XJYxrGomFQVodi7RHtLFuJ6AY7eUlEcvtpq/s1600/FoxTheatre.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 289px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1le5X6YaRO1d_4JVeHeY7pgxvnQTnA01knu1luWOgxmmhfCmlFhMBftq_eZBe3m4O2tcQcdb3Yo3wpM3WA72zl-QjVbNJOpcWRQKUJO388XJYxrGomFQVodi7RHtLFuJ6AY7eUlEcvtpq/s400/FoxTheatre.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454632462585286722" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The sign on the marquee tried to put the best face on things by saying only "Temporarily Closed". But the Brooklyn Fox closed in 1966 and was demolished in 1971.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Our flannel special this month is the 1915 Federal League Brooklyn Tip-Tops road jersey. It is available for $99 for a limited time.</span><br /></span></span>Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-8788259083343722932010-02-25T19:40:00.000-08:002010-03-01T13:42:41.359-08:00Willie Mays - Thoughts On The Say Hey Kid<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggpbhxIeI6A0y4xEFtfu5zzv9U7jZdYsZ2_4IFygOoot6EH1tveDQ2qNoyCnTONcTndtzwZp4whibcuRydrqNWsQndUajbZhh3HYuIij7-IBtulrdMBERwTVP-BWbE0-OFzW3f6DhOTjOJ/s1600-h/willie-mays-catch-24.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442464778347184482" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 246px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 298px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggpbhxIeI6A0y4xEFtfu5zzv9U7jZdYsZ2_4IFygOoot6EH1tveDQ2qNoyCnTONcTndtzwZp4whibcuRydrqNWsQndUajbZhh3HYuIij7-IBtulrdMBERwTVP-BWbE0-OFzW3f6DhOTjOJ/s320/willie-mays-catch-24.jpg" border="0" /></a>I only have one physical artifact that connects me with the legendary Golden Age of New York baseball - a dark blue wooden slatted seat from Ebbets Field, painted with a white stenciled number 1. I do not know what row or section of that famed ballpark the seat was in, but I do from time to time think of all the people who sat there and witnessed the history that I only heard and read about.<br /><br />New York from 1947 to 1957 was the center of the baseball universe. Of the city's three major league clubs, at least one appeared in the World Series ten times during this period, and in seven of those years <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">both</span> Series contestants hailed from New York. One cannot think of this era without thinking of the three great centerfielders of the respective teams: Mantle (who took over from another legend, Joe DiMaggio), Snider, and of course Willie Mays. With the end of Black History Month and the appearance of James S. Hirchs's excellent new biography "Willie Mays, The Life, The Legend", I thought it appropriate to take a brief look at the "Say Hey Kid". My talents are too humble, and this space too small to shed much new light on Willie Mays as a baseball player, but I offer a few observations on the man who - despite his fame - continues to be a surprisingly elusive personality.<br /><br />We Americans love a simple, satisfying narrative. We are not so good with nuance and complexity. It is possible that in no other subject is this more true than in the history of race relations in this country. From the narrative that has become familiar, it seems like Martin Luther King delivered his "I Have A Dream" speech in 1963 and we all lived happily ever after. Instead of playing the same excerpt from that speech every year on MLK Day, I wish we could hear his "Bootstraps" speech, or his speech denouncing the war in Vietnam. King may have believed in non-violence, but he was no starry-eyed dreamer. His idealistic vision of equality was accompanied by sharp critiques of the American society, which were not popular with many people at the time. It is also useful to be reminded of just how many senatorial arms had to be twisted by Lyndon Johnson to advance the legislation that made it illegal to prevent people from voting or be discriminated against in housing based on skin color. Extending the protections of our Constitution to all of our citizens was still a controversial idea in 1964.<br /><br />Likewise we have been handed down a narrative that Jackie Robinson integrated the majors, and afterward all was peace and harmony on the baseball diamond. In fact it took some teams almost a decade to find a black player "qualified" enough to play on the same field with whites. When Robinson was finally allowed to speak his mind, he was resented by some of his teammates and criticized in the press as a loudmouth and troublemaker. We like our heroes to stick to the script.<br /><br />I mention this because Willie Mays - as great as he was - had to endure indignities of a subtler but no less damaging kind than Robinson. Although fans and the sporting press definitely took to the enthusiastic, amazingly gifted youngster from the start, some context is useful. Mays was often described as an "instinctive" player. This was a sort of backhanded compliment that was typical of the descriptions of black players at the time. Blacks were never described as "intelligent" players, or lauded for their strategic talents. They had "natural" talent. Take "The Catch", Mays' amazing grab of Vic Wertz' drive in game one of the 1954 Series at the Polo Grounds. The catch itself was incredible, there's no denying that. But it's what Mays had to do before and <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">after</span> the catch that is really impressive. He had to get the ball into the infield quickly in order to prevent possibly two runs from scoring, and he had to do this from almost 500 feet away from home plate with his momentum taking him in the wrong direction. <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">And</span> he had to start <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">thinking</span> about what to do with the ball after he got to it from the crack of Wertz' bat. What bothers Mays to this day is that no one ever talked about <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">The Throw</span>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMlIYDg9E0gfoWvbFl5e_5B6FLytx82WQlHOD5BQHbE-0DLscP4EAj6H51OK-YuTFi9yuRpTmoPOtE9gK6gfbYF0TbtJFQwFyDz7kNXj-x-FnxleNfyfjJ9VbNuyPbAOzhqv5aaVZxsQaN/s1600-h/MaysBBB2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442437833683102322" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 292px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMlIYDg9E0gfoWvbFl5e_5B6FLytx82WQlHOD5BQHbE-0DLscP4EAj6H51OK-YuTFi9yuRpTmoPOtE9gK6gfbYF0TbtJFQwFyDz7kNXj-x-FnxleNfyfjJ9VbNuyPbAOzhqv5aaVZxsQaN/s320/MaysBBB2.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">A teenage Willie Mays (back row, center) celebrates winning the Negro American League pennant with his teammates in 1948.</span></span><br /><br />By no means were Mays' difficulties limited to the prejudices of some of white America. At a time when blacks were struggling to change negative stereotypes, many African-Americans were uncomfortable with Mays' relationship with Giants manager Leo Durocher, which bordered on paternalistic on Durocher's part. (It could not have helped matters that Willie referred to Durocher as "Mr. Leo"). No less than Jackie Robinson criticized Mays' reluctance to speak out more forcefully on racial issues. It was not that Mays cared any less about discrimination, after all he grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, perhaps the most ruthlessly segregated city in America - it was just not his style or in his comfort zone to be outspoken or overtly political. But this in no way means that Mays accepted any less than was his due as a man, as he showed by his response to an unfortunate incident in the early days of the Giants' adopted new home.<br /><br />When the Giants pulled up stakes and headed to San Francisco, Mays was at first prevented from buying the house he and his wife had chosen. He offered the purchase price (there were no competing offers) and waited. After going some time with no response it was learned that the owners, as well as the builder, did not want Mays to have the house at <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">any</span> price. The neighbors were against the sale as well. They did not want to live next to a black man <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">even if he was Willie</span> <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Mays.</span> The mayor of San Francisco eventually had to get involved and extreme pressure applied to the recalcitrant parties before Mays was permitted to buy the house of his choice. This was eleven years after Jackie Robinson broke baseball's color line, and in urbane, sophisticated San Francisco. The incident was a huge publicity black eye for the city. When word of his dilemma got out, Mays was offered other homes in more "appropriate" neighborhoods, but although Mays was no activist, he politely refused these offers and quietly held his ground until the right thing was done. The publicity from this episode exposed the hidden exclusionary practices of the San Francisco housing market. Had Mays accepted the invitation to move into a "Negro" neighborhood and avoid controversy, these practices might have continued for years to come.<br /><br />Another area of misunderstanding for some was Mays' playing style. Mays brought an exuberance to his play that some fellow players mistook for showboating. But Willie came from the Negro leagues, where the emphasis on entertaining the crowd was deemed almost as important as one's baseball skills. Mays honestly believed he owed the paying fans a good show. He simply loved to play the game, and his love of playing was reflected in his style of play. (The stories of him finishing a game at the Polo Grounds and then playing stickball with kids in Harlem are true.) He was accused of "hogging" balls in the outfield, when actually he was told to catch any ball he thought he could reach. Cleveland pitcher Bob Feller even suggested Mays wore a hat that was too big so that it would easily fly off his head and therefore make his plays look more exciting.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR7dWHVbbSRoGGYXYsPitiK7iq9JW1pLM5J3NcPynndFzH8XtIzTPm-PcIoEfrwZBBHRugWGJyNgrGeFSAa6z2qRxekMdqmnieP2oUuJqHubMc_m6XW7YDHieRRgfAFKi0aulViGj2fjb2/s1600-h/MaysMpls.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442442132495789106" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 254px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR7dWHVbbSRoGGYXYsPitiK7iq9JW1pLM5J3NcPynndFzH8XtIzTPm-PcIoEfrwZBBHRugWGJyNgrGeFSAa6z2qRxekMdqmnieP2oUuJqHubMc_m6XW7YDHieRRgfAFKi0aulViGj2fjb2/s320/MaysMpls.jpg" border="0" /></a>It is interesting that it took Bay Area fans several years to warm up to Willie. Part of it was that ironically he was competing again with the ghost of DiMaggio, in a new city. Joltin' Joe was the best centerfielder to come out of San Francisco, and some fans did not want anyone challenging the sanctity of his status. Another reason was pure provincialism. Willie Mays was "imported" from New York, and San Franciscans wanted their own home-grown hero (it's interesting that Orlando Cepeda - who had no New York connection - became a more popular player than Willie Mays in his first few seasons).<br /><br />By the time I got to see Mays in the flesh, he was a fading legend, but still a powerful force on those great 1960s Giant teams that included McCovey, Marichal, and the Alou brothers. As with all great veterans, what was lost in speed and physical ability was at least partly made up for by wisdom and experience.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"></span></span>Mays returned to New York for his last two seasons only at the insistence of Mets owner Joan Payson, who was the only board member of the Giants who had voted against the move West back in 1957. Although resented by manager Yogi Berra and treated shabbily by the front office, Mays was used much more than initially intended due to injuries to the team and even got to finish his career by playing in one last World Series, which ironically pitted a New York team against a team from the Bay Area - the Oakland Athletics.<br /><br />A brief run through of our Willie Mays flannels:<br /><br />- Mays' professional career started at the tender age of fifteen with the Negro Southern League's <a href="http://www.ebbets.com/product/ChattanoogaChooChoos1947Home/BaseballJerseys">Chattanooga Choo-Choos</a>.<br /><br />- Mays joined the <a href="http://www.ebbets.com/product/BirminghamBlackBarons1948Road/BaseballJerseys">Birmingham Black Barons</a> while still in high school. The Barons of the late 1940s were one of the top black clubs of all time, and defeated the Homestead Grays in the 1948 Negro World Series with a teenage Mays in the outfield.<br /><br />- After being signed by the Giants, Mays had a brief sojourn in Trenton, where he integrated the Inter-State League, then started the 1951 season with the <a href="http://www.ebbets.com/product/MinneapolisMillers1951Home/BaseballJerseys">Minneapolis Millers</a> where he was so wildly popular, that Giants owner Horace Stoneham took out an ad in the Minneapolis newspapers apologizing to fans for taking Mays away from them. Mays was hitting .477 for the Millers when he was called up.<br /><br />- Mays played winter ball for the <a href="http://www.ebbets.com/product/SanturceCangrejeros1954Road/BaseballJerseys">Santurce Cangrejeros</a>, where wore #24 and shared the outfield with Roberto Clemente.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS1i3MbPBQNiT4F-55N9sckihsGhONvEQKnvc4CnwO1j44TpcZvsB7KTD2lzkm2MVuny66mJGAKXa7Z58zknykJrx48V-lY-46Z62m6MTNSPvu024SRMGTihDPfnTXVjXVU1IRZEj_8eDB/s1600-h/franks-mays.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442443608172215746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 247px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS1i3MbPBQNiT4F-55N9sckihsGhONvEQKnvc4CnwO1j44TpcZvsB7KTD2lzkm2MVuny66mJGAKXa7Z58zknykJrx48V-lY-46Z62m6MTNSPvu024SRMGTihDPfnTXVjXVU1IRZEj_8eDB/s320/franks-mays.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Mays with Giant manager Herman Franks in Puerto Rico.</span></span><br /><br />The Washington State Senate passed a resolution today honoring Ebbets Field Flannels for our work in preserving baseball history and for donating uniforms to the Iraq National Baseball team last year. I was in the gallery to watch the reading and vote on the resolution, and got to stand up and tip my cap when introduced (I brought a 1957 Seattle Rainiers - 7 1/4). It was a thrill to go into the ornate classical Capitol building and watch the proceedings on the Senate floor. We are truly honored to receive this recognition.Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-73117968342545785922010-01-26T09:29:00.000-08:002010-01-26T20:36:37.151-08:00TEGWAR - The Exciting Game Without Any Rules<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpy4IZwmmPFxjgY3-cVQfSkglbMFO4I-tg6StW3GQDx0VepCl7DyHqzHKvv8ekBx1MFkUix_lYbuPc8d2dGO2CymG4IH_1mNxLaz6kwxKudeUpDFVDjW57C7JRcFUpHN3OIjqUQypIITSI/s1600-h/deniro.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431110869518314818" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 247px; cursor: pointer; height: 320px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpy4IZwmmPFxjgY3-cVQfSkglbMFO4I-tg6StW3GQDx0VepCl7DyHqzHKvv8ekBx1MFkUix_lYbuPc8d2dGO2CymG4IH_1mNxLaz6kwxKudeUpDFVDjW57C7JRcFUpHN3OIjqUQypIITSI/s320/deniro.jpg" border="0" /></a>For all of baseball's resonance in our culture, the paucity of quality baseball films is surprising. Hollywood is 0-2 on perhaps the most natural subject for an epic film - Babe Ruth - having produced two truly horrible biopics about the Bambino, starring William Bendix and John Goodman respectively. Spike Lee finally gave up after years of trying to get his Jackie Robinson movie funded - even after having secured the participation of Denzel Washington in the starring role. Fairing somewhat better were a pair of late 80s films touching in different ways on the 1919 Black Sox scandal, the quasi-mystical "Field of Dreams" and John Sayles' "Eight Men Out". "Bull Durham" also rates a mention as an enjoyable romp through the minor leagues.<br /><br />One of my personal favorites is "Bang The Drum Slowly" from 1973. The film is based on Mark Harris' novel (a bare bones television adaptation with Paul Newman had been attempted in 1956). The film introduced many people to Robert De Niro, and his sensitive understated performance is a revelation to watch considering the roles that he would become known for later ("Mean Streets" was released shortly after "Bang The Drum Slowly" and would form the template for his characters for years to come).<br /><br />In the film, De Niro's character is Bruce Pearson, a catcher of modest talent and even more modest intellect. Pearson forms an unlikely friendship with pitcher Henry "Author" Wiggen, wonderfully played by Michael Moriarity, who passes for somewhat of the intellectual on the team, having written a book and set up an insurance business on the side. (Some thought Wiggen's character was based on Tom Seaver). Henry's newfound loyalty to Bruce is based on a secret they share about the doomed catcher's health. We get to see how this friendship is played out against the dynamic of a major league ballclub during the throes of a pennant race.<br /><br />A sublot of the film is Wiggen's holdout (this in the days before free agency, of course). Wiggen wouldn't report to camp unless he was paid the ungainly sum of - wait for it - $127,500 a year. How times have changed.<br /><br />The film wisely steers clear of too many action sequences (footage of the 1969 and 1970 World Series was used) but instead focuses on the more meditative rhythms of the baseball life, and the tribal nature of professional baseball players: The clubhouse, spring training, etc. One of the enjoyable aspects of the film is the card game Tegwar (The Exciting Game Without Any Rules) which is a time-honored way for ballplayers to separate suckers from their money. Pearson - not being considered mentally agile enough to help in the scam - is not welcome at the Tegwar games. It is a sign of Wiggen's increasing loyalty to his teammate that he after learning his secret he refuses to play Tegwar without including the catcher.<br /><br />The film was shot in 1972, and both Yankee Stadium and Shea Stadium were used as locations for the fictional New York Mammoths. (Mets fans would be interested to know that the Kiner's Korner set was used for the singing players scene). In an interesting side note related to our specific area of interest, the actual last Yankee flannel uniforms were used by the Mammoths (the emblem was changed on the home pinstripes, the road "NEW YORK"s were left unchanged). I would also like to take a moment to praise Vincent Gardenia, who was nominated for Best Supporting Actor for his performance as the crusty and suspicious Mammoths skipper, Dutch Schnell.<br /><br /><br /><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMq5LDV0PLLJ2b2Pj3EyEl0SIDJDwlyDTcgajL9FW2YUtsQIsuezZinGBHKAHxSXW_CfdjxtTreXkok89Gv7lqGkmuTJ3rQ06NklJuW0ED3hHtOTJk3OgEN2NMwlwbEsBVyDsWfUDx3Ziq/s1600-h/NYMammoths.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431114402839946018" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; cursor: pointer; height: 200px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMq5LDV0PLLJ2b2Pj3EyEl0SIDJDwlyDTcgajL9FW2YUtsQIsuezZinGBHKAHxSXW_CfdjxtTreXkok89Gv7lqGkmuTJ3rQ06NklJuW0ED3hHtOTJk3OgEN2NMwlwbEsBVyDsWfUDx3Ziq/s320/NYMammoths.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" > Vincent Gardenia as N.Y. Mammoths manager Dutch Schnell.</span> </p><p>Anyone wanting to see a more meditative film about baseball players than say, "Major League", will be well-rewarded with this nuanced and heartfelt baseball film.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">About the jersey: The Mammoth home pinstripe flannel jersey is available with Robert De Niro's #15, or with the numeral of your choice. It is specially-priced at $99 for a limited time (reg. $185). </span></p>Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-1549612099511288852009-12-21T09:49:00.000-08:002009-12-23T07:13:22.591-08:00Tommy Henrich, The First Free Agent?On December 1st Tommy Henrich - the oldest living Yankee - passed away at the age of 96. Henrich was christened"Old Reliable" by Yankee announcer Mel Allen for his performance in key situations, but it is the unusual way he became a Yankee that we wanted to talk about here.<br /><br />Thomas David Henrich was born on February 20th, 1913 in Massillon, Ohio, football country. Despite his proximity to Cleveland, young Tom became a Yankee fan. The Cleveland Indians signed him in 1934 and sent him to Class D Monessen, the lowest level of the minors at that time. In those days when minor league clubs acted independently it was common practice for major league teams to hide promising players in the minor leagues until they were ready to be brought up, with the hope that they would not be drafted by another club. This practice - known as "covering up" - was strictly illegal, and enforced py the powerful Commissioner, Kennesaw Mountain Landis. An individual player, however, had very little say in the matter, as they were considered bound to the team that signed them.<br /><br />Henrich thrived in the minors, moving quickly up the ladder, first to the Class-C Zanesville Greys, and then in 1935 to the New Orleans Pelicans of the Southern Association. In 1936 - his second season with the club - he drove in 100 runs and batted .346, but a major league promotion was still not in the offing.<br /><br />In 1937 Henrich and his father wrote to Commissioner Landis and complained that the Indians were unfairly denying Tommy a chance to advance to the big leagues. In April of 1937 Landis ruled in Henrich's favor, instantly making him a free agent. (Many thought Landis' ruling was payback for allowing Cleveland to keep Bob feller in a similar dispute a year earlier). He was signed by his boyhood favorite team - the Yankees - four days later. After a 7-game stint at Newark, Henrich was in the Bronx.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoVfJUmjsV0SQ0qyQY75a6Q_bkpLJiJ6AWgNtkxZ5hKAWVDUrq1tYmGq5mkx5yo79WVcIDCIh1X3l2jv58H2jANgZp-Mm5EQGLZKDVqArYxgiplC_Y1spUBFIZoy66Kisx0MB4NbpWiFu-/s1600-h/Henrich(2).jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417752862695280226" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 260px; cursor: pointer; height: 400px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoVfJUmjsV0SQ0qyQY75a6Q_bkpLJiJ6AWgNtkxZ5hKAWVDUrq1tYmGq5mkx5yo79WVcIDCIh1X3l2jv58H2jANgZp-Mm5EQGLZKDVqArYxgiplC_Y1spUBFIZoy66Kisx0MB4NbpWiFu-/s400/Henrich(2).jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Henrich in the home version of the Pelicans jersey in 1936.</span></span><br /><br />Henrich took over the right field spot for the Bombers from George Selkirk, who had succeeded Babe Ruth. His eleven seasons with the Yankees was interrupted for three years by military service. Although not in the top tier of Yankee performers statistically, Henrich was involved in many key plays, including in two World Series. Henrich hit baseball's first World Series walk-off home run in 1949, but it was a play in the 1941 Series for which he became famous (and infamous to Brooklyn Dodger fans).<br /><br />To set the scene, it's Game 4 at Ebbets Field. The Yanks lead the Bums, two games to one, but Brooklyn has a 4-3 lead with two outs in the ninth. One more out ties the Series at two. Henrich is at the plate with two strikes. He tries to hold up his swing but can't, missing the pitch for strike three. Game over...or is it? Dodger catcher Mickey Owen can't handle the sharp curveball from Hugh Casey. The ball scoots away and an alert Henrich dashes to first base, safe. Instead of three outs and a Dodger win the Yanks score four runs to win the game and take the Series the next day on Henrich's homer. "Old Reliable" indeed.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">About the jersey: The 1936 New Orleans Pelicans road jersey features block felt lettering in a slightly compressed style. The sleeve has a felt star with an "NO" superimposed - the "O" encircling the "N". Research indicates that Henrich likely wore #6 in New Orleans. The jersey is featured for $99 through January 2010.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:0;">We here at EFF wish all of our friends and customers and their families a joyous holiday season, and offer our best wishes for the new year.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-16532808119517062252009-11-18T14:18:00.000-08:002009-11-19T20:23:28.226-08:00The Mystery Of The Crimson RimsA few weeks ago my friend Terrie Ekin forwarded me a newspaper article from Jay Mark of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Arizona Republic</span> newspaper that I thought would make an interesting subject for November's Flannel of the Month. Peering out from the clipping was a proud group of ballplayers carefully grouped in front of palm trees with "Crimson Rims Tempe" emblazoned on their uniforms. Upon close inspection, what is curious about the team (other than the quilted sliding pants fashionable at the time) was the presence of an African-American player, posed with his bat and glove. While segregation in baseball was not always formalized, it would seem somewhat unusual for there to be an integrated team at this time. This photo shared with the newspaper by the curator of the Tempe History Museum, James Burns, with the hope that some light could be shed on this team. Given the savvy group of readers that this space has (response to last month's John Lennon post was amazing) I thought I'd throw this little mystery out to them and see what they came up with. It should be noted that Arizona was still a Territory until 1912.<br /><br /><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxZ-LM2sxAv2oPLgCgghbjjLuUYicFqrwKQPq4joYuqRK0ZNc6tM1708LdrAa-ke3gTwOCYatKSNt7znYzfJnnF3BhGjotmurqa4OXP_d1_1rXSCz6niAgjtLH2P9ntJN5tnsMcxxOXwbB/s1600/CrimsonRims.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405577293698573170" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 400px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxZ-LM2sxAv2oPLgCgghbjjLuUYicFqrwKQPq4joYuqRK0ZNc6tM1708LdrAa-ke3gTwOCYatKSNt7znYzfJnnF3BhGjotmurqa4OXP_d1_1rXSCz6niAgjtLH2P9ntJN5tnsMcxxOXwbB/s400/CrimsonRims.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Tempe History Museum</span></span><br /><br />The only detail on the photo was a written "circa 1910". After the initial article appeared, local historian Ken Reid promptly came up with two newspaper articles from 1900 and 1901, which described games played by the Crimson Rims. The 1900 article describes a defeat for the Crimson boys at the hands of "the DeMund Nine". The 1901 piece reflected the propensity of newspaper editors of the day for hyperbolic headline writing: "An Atrocious Proceeding - National Game Hit In The Solar Plexus Yesterday". This article went on describe a 28-11 drubbing of the Crimson Rims by an opponent identified simply as "Phoenix".<br /><br />My limited research into this team has come up nearly empty. There apparently was a brand of bicycle known as "Crimson Rim" in the late 1800s. It is possible that this was a company-sponsored semi-pro team. The team was not a member of any professional league we are aware of, yet was well-known enough to be covered by the local newspapers of the time. If anyone can identify the league they played in, or any of the players, the Tempe History Museum and EFF would love to know!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">About the jersey: This is a byron-collar pullover style, common at the turn of the last century. It features a contrasting red wool collar and red felt letters. No numeral on back, as they were not worn at the time. It is available for a limited time at $99.<br /><br />This just in: Blaise Lamphier and an anonymous poster have unearthed a roster from the Rims (see Comments). Based on Lamphier's research it appears possible that the team was sponsored by a Tempe bicycle shop...ed. </span></p><p><span style="font-style: italic;">Anonymous said...<br />I found a 1901 newspaper article with the following Rims lineup:C PriestP Carroll1B Schureman2B Valenzuela3B UrbanoSS SigalaRF I. CelayaCF SurrateguiLF H. Celaya</span></p>From<span style="font-style: italic;"> The Arizona Republican </span>August 26, 1901:<br />"A regrettable incident occurred about the time the seventh inning was ushered in and it no doubt partly caused the poor playing at that time.<br />A Mexican named Bernal sat under the grand stand and on the grounds, in violation of the rules of the game, along with several other people No objection was made, however, until the attention of the Phoenix team was called to the fact that Bernal was tipping off the signals of the Phoenix catcher to the Mexican boys in the other team. Alexander, Captain of the Phoenix team, ordered the ground cleared and took particular pains to escort Bernal outside the fence. This resulted in personal remarks which ended later in a mix-up. Before the smoke cleared away Alexander had a painful but not serious wound in his cheek that looks like the work of a pocket knife though the presence of a knife in the melee is denied by some who saw it. The Mexican came in contact with a monkey wrench and also had a sore place to look after."<br /><br />See Comments for more.Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-1145467927505995652009-10-20T11:41:00.000-07:002009-10-28T18:52:08.082-07:00Imagine - A John Lennon Jersey<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNVRmfzfDHa7ytsvv2eK62-SJjZGx-z8w7vyTAt3QUrJ4eMyZVlY0x_jTvr4mHjplfbofaLRgt1ew4K1LxzOWqaSAPrSJ3GkdYcTfgb_nHMi4v-Af188H8cg31ARjz0sblHBif9Nl0z_Er/s1600-h/lennon1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394907832455285794" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 150px; cursor: pointer; height: 113px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNVRmfzfDHa7ytsvv2eK62-SJjZGx-z8w7vyTAt3QUrJ4eMyZVlY0x_jTvr4mHjplfbofaLRgt1ew4K1LxzOWqaSAPrSJ3GkdYcTfgb_nHMi4v-Af188H8cg31ARjz0sblHBif9Nl0z_Er/s400/lennon1.jpg" border="0" /></a>This month's blog allows me to tie together the two passions of my childhood - music and baseball.<br /><div><br />Very few people who know me from my current incarnation as a historical baseball uniform merchant know that I had a previous career in rock & roll. Nor should they. I was spectacularly unsuccessful. But from that day in February 1964, when as a six-year-old, I watched transfixed as The Beatles performed for the first time on The Ed Sullivan Show. That date began a lifelong love affair with the group - and with music -that continues to this day.<br /><br />Although my father did not share my interest in this newfangled music, he knew it was important to <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span>, and every six months or so he would come home with a package: The latest Beatles LP, purchased in Manhattan. I would take the shiny wax disc out of the sleeve and put it on the old mono turntable, careful to avoid the mild electric shock that sometimes came with contact with the needle. I would listen to the new exciting music while deciphering the photographs and liner notes on the album cover as if they were newly-discovered sacred texts (which in a way they were). This, with only minor changes, was the routine from "Meet The Beatles" through "Abbey Road" and into the solo years (though we would eventually get a real stereo).<br /></div><div></div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=myW96tojeLU"></a><div></div><br />Of the four talented musicians in the group, Lennon was the guy I aspired to be like: Brilliant, acerbic, honest (sometimes painfully so), tortured. He was one of the first pop musicians the word "artist" was applied to. He was political before it was fashionable, when popular musicians were risking much of their appeal by taking political stands. As an instrumentalist, he was not as technically dazzling on the guitar as contemporaries like Clapton and Hendrix, but he could "make a rock move" in his words. (His searing, nasty solo on "Happiness Is A Warm Gun" is Exhibit A.) And his songwriting was revolutionary (pun intended).<br /><div><br />In the days before MTV and VH1 (let alone YouTube), rock musicians on television were extremely rare, and usually came in the form of performances "for the kids" on the establishment network variety shows of the time. To get to The Beatles on Sullivan ("now for you youngsters!..."), one had to sit through crooners, a plate-throwing act, a Borscht belt comedian or two, and inevitably, the puppet Toppo Gigio. When the Stones appeared on The Dean Martin Show, they had to put up with Martin's drunk shtick and his blatant mockery of the band (after a trampoline performer segment, Martin remarked "that was the Rolling Stones' father. He's been trying to kill himself ever since").<br /><br />So it was indeed a radical departure when in February 1972 talk show host and sometime nightclub singer Mike Douglas allowed John Lennon and Yoko Ono to co-host his show for a full week. John & Yoko were good sports, enduring Douglas' lounge singer rendition of The Beatles' "Michelle" ("I love you, I love you, I <span style="font-style: italic;">looooove youuuuuu</span>". No doubt the fact that it was a McCartney-penned tune being mauled made it easier for Lennon to tolerate ). The couple participated in cooking segments and took questions from the audience. But the living rooms of middle America were also treated to Chuck Berry, Yippie leader Jerry Rubin, Ralph Nader, and much of Ms. Ono's art. Best of all, Lennon - backed by Elephant's Memory Band and Ono gamely banging a bongo drum - performed his signature tune "Imagine" sporting a pinstripe flannel baseball jersey with "EASTON" across the front. See the clip here <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=myW96tojeLU">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MyW96tojeLU</a><br /><br />The Lennons had recently moved to New York and had became involved with the anti-War movement and The Yippies, and (we know know) earning themselves the official enmity of Richard Nixon's White House and the FBI (Lennon was harrassed and wiretapped for years, and efforts were made to deport him). He soon fell out with the Yippies, but fell in love with New York, finally settling at The Dakota on the Upper West Side after a stint in Greenwich Village. He never returned to Great Britain. After the brilliance of his first two post-Beatle albums, the records grew more erratic and less frequent, and finally stopped altogether. There was a long retirement, and an all-to-brief comeback.<br /><br />On that night in December I was visiting my parents in Scottsdale, Arizona. It was a low-key evening, with a "Lou Grant" rerun on television. When the bulletin was read, I went into the den and called my girlfriend at the time. "Did you hear?" I asked. "Yes" she replied. There was nothing more to say. I hung up the phone and sat in the darkened room for a very long time.<br /><br />I personally don't think Lennon would have approved of his canonization as the sort of "peace saint" he has been turned into. While he sincerely believed in and fought for peace, he would be the first to acknowledge that like many great artists, he was a complex and imperfect figure. Lennon had huge insecurities to go along with an enormous talent and outsized ego. He could be verbally cruel and cutting, even with those he loved. But he also was willing to laugh at himself - often saying he was willing to be the world's clown if it helped get his message out. He was probably the wittiest musician who ever lived.<br /><br />I have the great fortune to count Michael Lyndsay-Hogg - the director of "Let It Be" and many other Beatle projects - as one of EFF's most loyal customers. Michael patiently indulges my inexaustible thirst for firsthand accounts of my heroes. Lennon was aloof and uninterested during much of the recording and filming of what became "Let It Be". It fell to McCartney to try to motivate the group during their last days. Even while standing in the hallway moments before the famous "rooftop concert" that ends the film - their last public performance - The Beatles could not decide whether or not to actually go through with it. Finally they looked to Lennon and he said "Fuck it, let's do it". He started the group, and in the end he was still the leader.<br /><br />I lived on the Upper West Side briefly earlier this decade. The Dakota apartment building where the Lennons lived (and where Lennon died) was a short walk from my apartment on 71st street. Across the street was Central Park, and the Strawberry Fields section, with the simple marker saying "IMAGINE" in the cobblestone sidewalk, was a place I often went to collect my thoughts and sometimes find a bit of inspiration and peace in the city I was born in and one of my heroes made his own.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">This just in: EFF customer James Poisso has sent us a photo with "Easton" players posed with a player from Lafayette College. Since Lafayette is in road uniforms, it is possible that Easton was their opponent. (Scroll down past Comments to see the photo).<br /><br />The jersey is a gorgeous cream pinstripe with unusual red, white and blue trim. We have replicated Lennon's #30 on the back. This authentic jersey is $99 for a limited time only.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXQmICV4zgzIdhqzXCraxEzN66LZO7OF5j7T_FWIirIO70yndhyphenhyphenIGu_gflfdN_2HDee39fcpItvVh5IiiRBupqKKdsyteDNVOalk-juA8RDn9i9KWErznTdF-_M9GEcSWZvAi5y1fvKy4m/s1600-h/lennon2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394908205410430370" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 160px; cursor: pointer; height: 120px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXQmICV4zgzIdhqzXCraxEzN66LZO7OF5j7T_FWIirIO70yndhyphenhyphenIGu_gflfdN_2HDee39fcpItvVh5IiiRBupqKKdsyteDNVOalk-juA8RDn9i9KWErznTdF-_M9GEcSWZvAi5y1fvKy4m/s400/lennon2.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div></div>Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-71395405512850992692009-09-22T13:40:00.000-07:002009-09-22T23:02:06.229-07:00The Iraqi National Baseball Team<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGpEWQD28hvL0DCS1QKWnZy-14YnOG6sLOw2i81-wOLy3VTUisy3PV77OFeYKR2wpJ8tHXJuum5BB52D1vTwgBSfcWczfIzpxvajLHaFyAhSkq-xmtl9NoAndmKDmsdr_GhD4iZ_NQiBz-/s1600-h/16web-iraq-basebqll-minor.standalone.prod_affiliate.91.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 262px; height: 325px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGpEWQD28hvL0DCS1QKWnZy-14YnOG6sLOw2i81-wOLy3VTUisy3PV77OFeYKR2wpJ8tHXJuum5BB52D1vTwgBSfcWczfIzpxvajLHaFyAhSkq-xmtl9NoAndmKDmsdr_GhD4iZ_NQiBz-/s400/16web-iraq-basebqll-minor.standalone.prod_affiliate.91.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384506685808523874" border="0" /></a>This month's flannel of the month is not a flannel.<br /><div><br />It was an evening at home like any week night. I was getting some dinner ready in the kitchen. The Rachel Maddow Show was on in the background. I heard the word "baseball" and ran into the living room to see what baseball could possibly have to do with the day's political events. Rachel was talking about the Iraqi National Baseball team. Intrigued, I sat down and watched.</div><div> </div><br /><div>It turns out that the game of baseball was introduced to Iraqis by three young Iraqi-American men who had played the game at their high schools in the States. "We loved it because it's a new and strange game for our society", said Ysir Abdul Hasan, "especially for the striker who plays against the whole other team." Their first attempt at organizing a baseball team failed when the players received death threats from Sunni insurgents who accused them of playing "an occupation game". This would have been enough for most folks, but these guys were literally willing to risk death for their new found love of baseball, and soon a new team was formed by coach Hamza Madlool.</div><div> </div><br />The Iraqi Olympic Committee gave recognition and some funding to the fledgling team, but not enough to cover the cost of uniforms or equipment. The only bat - a Chinese-made softball bat - bent after the first contact with horsehide. There were no cleats, no batting helmets, and no uniforms. Enter Roy Gutman of McClatchy News, who picked up on the story, and Rachel Maddow, who followed up the McClatchy piece with a segment on her television show, and an appeal to help what was now dubbed "Operation Iraqi Baseball".<br /><div> </div><br /><div>The story of these young players, literally risking life and limb; and facing searing heat, poor equipment and a complete lack of playing fields in order to play "our" game moved me profoundly. I immediately went to my laptop and e-mailed a mutual friend, asking him to tell Rachel that EFF would be honored to make the uniforms. She got back to me within the hour, and we got to work the next day.<br /><br /></div><div> </div>Now that Ebbets Field Flannels was Official Uniform Supplier to the Iraqi National Baseball team, what to do? Obviously, wool flannel and 110-degree heat do not go well together, so we chose a lightweight poly mesh jersey. I had design ideas, but a call from Roy Gutman set me straight. The Iraqis knew what they wanted: A blue jersey (apparently someone on the team is a Dodger fan) with the post-Saddam Iraqi flag on the chest and "IRAQ" on the back. We completed the uniform with gray pants, old-school stirrups (my own subtle way to get the Iraqis off to an appropriately traditional start), undershirts, belts and matching blue hats (adjustable, as the concept of cap sizing was, well, foreign).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNzydtx_ZL8eA_YW2R0DlKJqe49ncvBfiCK8lbJqYpqOmvhItxRPpaRWhC-s-_N2Hn_4kG8yqDZJeat8_mHZ9boZHnQeg83aHH2IjH8brGIwdu5hKGqMu-Bmhk6u-ateML6C2EfoWghLw0/s1600-h/IraqTeamGear.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 234px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNzydtx_ZL8eA_YW2R0DlKJqe49ncvBfiCK8lbJqYpqOmvhItxRPpaRWhC-s-_N2Hn_4kG8yqDZJeat8_mHZ9boZHnQeg83aHH2IjH8brGIwdu5hKGqMu-Bmhk6u-ateML6C2EfoWghLw0/s320/IraqTeamGear.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384516326798350674" border="0" /></a><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> Iraqi players unpacking their new gear from CTG. Rachel Maddow</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> contributed a rule book and box of </span><span style="font-style: italic;">baseballs. Star USA donated their shipping services.</span></span><br /><br />Next up was actually getting the uniforms to the team. Easier said than done. First there's the small matter of shipping into a war zone. Fortunately one of the companies that joined "Operation Iraqi Baseball" was a freight carrier with some expertise on getting deliveries into the country. We arranged for the uniforms to be picked up.<br /><br />The media arrived to watch us pack up the boxes and with great fanfare the uniforms were finally sent off. And then...nothing. Weeks passed. I finally got a call from Roy explaining the situation. Iraqi bureaucracy is legendary. Apparently the uniforms were "appropriated" by someone in the Iraqi Baseball Federation. This individual took it upon himself to "distribute" the uniforms as he saw fit. Alas, a negotiated settlement was reached, and the unis were finally handed over to a delegation of six players. The payoff for us was seeing a photo of a group of Iraqi ballplayers beaming in their new uniforms.<br /><br />On seeing the players in uniform top hitter Bashar Salah said "Now we're a real team". All I can say to that is "<span style="font-style: italic;">Ilaab!" </span>("Play ball!")<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">About the jersey: The Iraq National Team jersey is a lightweight poly mesh shirt with sewn tackle twill letters and numbers. An embroidered Iraqi flag is sewn onto the left chest. The shirt is $99. You may choose the number. Ebbets Field Flannels will donate 10% of the gross sales of all Iraqi jerseys to the Iraq-Afghanistan Veterans Association, a fine organization which helps American veterans from the current conflicts.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />Thank you to Roy Gutman, McClatchy News, Rachel Maddow and the other donors (as well as all who offered to donate) for helping the Iraqis plant the seed of our great game in fertile new soil.</span><br /></div>Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1401348191841248956.post-16875553420361788382009-08-23T19:05:00.000-07:002009-08-26T12:21:58.458-07:00Our Man in Havana<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj475lVZdgRZIQWl5OK4UWj-bN5wwUnql1SWeMdqsx24MpiJ_TXrugMHfZXw8uI_KRiLRUCG_Sw-KzWb67hDvfMJ8ZuWRyWsFnMi-bZcH3It4afDY4h_59Z6hMvIN4um_GzsNRXjlzd0KMK/s1600-h/CubaBoy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373688969946642578" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 230px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj475lVZdgRZIQWl5OK4UWj-bN5wwUnql1SWeMdqsx24MpiJ_TXrugMHfZXw8uI_KRiLRUCG_Sw-KzWb67hDvfMJ8ZuWRyWsFnMi-bZcH3It4afDY4h_59Z6hMvIN4um_GzsNRXjlzd0KMK/s320/CubaBoy.jpg" border="0" /></a>Sometime in 1993 I went to pick up the EFF mail at the local post office. Among the orders and bills was a flier inviting me to play baseball in Cuba in November. Baseball? In Cuba? Being an adventurous sort, my only question was "how do I sign up?" This was a group trip (individual leisure travel to Cuba for U.S. citizens was - as now - not legally possible). The travel company got the necessary Treasury Dept. licenses and took care of all travel arrangements. All I had to do was pack a glove, a wad of cash (can't use ATM's or U.S. plastic in Cuba) and show up in Miami.<br /><div><br />After boarding an unlisted flight on a Bolivian airline at the Miami airport, and only 30-minutes enroute, we landed in another world. Although the Soviet Union had collapsed, and the Soviets' former European satellites were busy transforming themselves, Cuba was having none of it. All the trappings of the communist state were in place, although tourists were pretty much allowed to roam free - their dollars welcome, if not their ideas.<br /><br />Our group was a curious mix of middle-aged baseball players, lefty activists, and even one token right-wing DC attorney, Arnold, who bore a striking resemblance to Nikita Khruschev (and, who despite our political differences I developed a great fondness for). We were met at the airport by our government-appointed guides, who whisked us away in a Mercedes mini-bus to a park for "orientation".<br /><br />The first thing one noticed was the complete lack of motor vehicle traffic - in fact our bus often appeared to be the only vehicle on the road. The recent collapse of the Soviet Union (along with the subsidies that kept Cuba's socialist economy afloat) had initiated what the government and our guides euphemistically called the "Special Period". This meant that gasoline, as well as other staples, was unavailable or strictly rationed. The population appeared to be moving around on newly-imported cheap Chinese bicycles, or long flatbed trucks that served as buses.<br /><br /></div><br /><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggU4SiMNRNRWCefe9MW9-0rszJAgVwys1vwLM41c-SyTCaoymeiG2mK64fXUyQqECTc1qLeTvsDfrSn41ssoj-lO_S-bmlq9UvsDMrYOYulryjFwKL_monbxcPClzsDjT7rvtvRimWVrAH/s1600-h/Castro.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373368979315142642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 309px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 203px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggU4SiMNRNRWCefe9MW9-0rszJAgVwys1vwLM41c-SyTCaoymeiG2mK64fXUyQqECTc1qLeTvsDfrSn41ssoj-lO_S-bmlq9UvsDMrYOYulryjFwKL_monbxcPClzsDjT7rvtvRimWVrAH/s320/Castro.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">In 1959, Fidel Castro pitched two innings in an exhibition game before the contest between the Rochester Red Wings and Havana Sugar Kings. Los Barbudos ("Bearded Ones") were a team of revolutionary leaders. Contrary to popular myth, Castro was never seriously scouted by the U.S. major leagues, though he was an exceptional basketball player at the University of Havana.</span> </span><br /><br />At our orientation (which by the way, was my introduction to Cuban cigars, a habit only recently given up) it was apparent that our guides had planned a typical boring propaganda schedule of government health clinics and other not-so-thrilling officially-sanctioned activities. We patiently allowed the guides to finish their presentation of our proposed itinerary and then one of us said "we're here to play baseball. If you want to help us, you'll arrange some baseball games". This seemed to take our guides aback momentarily, but they promised to work on it for us.<br /><br />After checking into the Hotel Plaza (where Babe Ruth lost a bundle to Cuban gamblers and Albert Einstein was feted by Havana's Jewish community), I went for my first walk through the streets of Havana. What was notable was the complete absence of commercialism - no McDonald's, no billboards, in fact hardly any shops or commercial enterprises of any kind. What I did see was baseball - plenty of it. Within five minutes of my walk I came upon a traffic circle where no less than three separate pick-up games were taking place - each involving a different age group. There were very small kids playing in one area, young teenagers in another, and in a third group young adults. After stopping to watch the latter bunch play I was invited to join in. There was no infield or bases to speak of. The rules were explained to me in Spanish and broken English: Pitching was "<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">suave</span>" - soft. The pitcher tossed the ball to the plate, allowing the batter to hit it. I took a turn at bat and then borrowed a beat up glove to play the field. Although there were no umpires, uniforms, or even a common language, this was perhaps the most joyful game of baseball I have ever played.<br /><br />After a couple of days - itching to play a "real" game of baseball - we finally received word from our guides: Show up at the Plaza de la Revolucion under the giant image of Che Guevara at 10 AM. We did, and as we waited bicycles dangling baseball gloves began to approach from all directions. Our guides had apparently put the word out that the Yanquis were here to play. I honestly don't remember the score or the highlights of the game, but I do recall joyously swapping jerseys with the Cuban players, most of whom seemed about 18 or 19 years old (I was proud to give my EFF 1952 Habana Leones home jersey shown here to one of the kids).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw6k8noLgTg2_Xxj9Ruw3S9e85qWW3l9ScEMlCCwQo9ULsrC8UM9kuyNYn9NFRhJAB-WdlkB0fFCE3wyH3Z1NfnB9I2aYS0_CJsk1912avYF814tRPG9avheryynBE9lGcY1HrjE_ma4Eq/s1600-h/CubaCerveza.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373696463917369874" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 238px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw6k8noLgTg2_Xxj9Ruw3S9e85qWW3l9ScEMlCCwQo9ULsrC8UM9kuyNYn9NFRhJAB-WdlkB0fFCE3wyH3Z1NfnB9I2aYS0_CJsk1912avYF814tRPG9avheryynBE9lGcY1HrjE_ma4Eq/s320/CubaCerveza.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Soon our little group had a regular routine. Each day we would be driven to some officially-sanctioned event in our bus, the bus invariably being greeted by a small group playing "Guantanamera" (God, did I get sick of that song!). Many of these were essentially propaganda events, how Cuba had the freest elections in the world, etc. We would mostly listen politely, but Arnold, our stout, short and bald right-wing lawyer would get right in the face of the Cuban leading the discussion and say "that's a bunch of bullshit!". After a few seconds of edgy silence, usually someone would bring out the rum, and then the discussion invariably became more animated, but always friendly. These encounters were interrupted by ballgames every couple of days. We seemed to never run out of cigars or rum. Not a bad way to travel.<br /><br />The common language we had with the Cubans was baseball - and it was a language they spoke very well. I kept noticing a group of men in Parque Central near our hotel who would gather every evening and have animated discussions and arguments. I finally could no longer contain my curiosity and waded into the crowd. It turns out these men were arguing about the previous night's televised game, acting out plays from the night before in rich pantomime. Another image I remember is wandering into a rundown apartment complex and seeing a little boy who could have not been older than three or four swinging a stick in lieu of a bat (see photo at top). Older men would come up to me unbidden and recite major league statistics from the 1950s (one odd thing about the embargo is an awareness of U.S. popular culture by older people that seems to cut off around 1960). We have the equipment, stadiums, and money, but Cuba has the <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">passion</span> for the sport that we have lost. Kids don't play sandlot ball in our country anymore, and grown men certainly do not gather in parks and bars just to talk baseball.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSAlkE-VreyhFIo5vaFybI7iIdIhPds74N17S7351Y-QUNFCSBL_HKCb9zu8SoSDnZPo0tSZEs89FSEbbBAdO6opbKdLVbpSKUHkBNSGuAHq_9xOhRJvK_uHm9gIuCBaRM8voP5kNNionk/s1600-h/Cubans-Jerseys.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373689966557012514" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 282px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSAlkE-VreyhFIo5vaFybI7iIdIhPds74N17S7351Y-QUNFCSBL_HKCb9zu8SoSDnZPo0tSZEs89FSEbbBAdO6opbKdLVbpSKUHkBNSGuAHq_9xOhRJvK_uHm9gIuCBaRM8voP5kNNionk/s320/Cubans-Jerseys.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Manager Napoleon Reyes looks less than thrilled about modeling his hastily-made Jersey City Jerseys shirt, after the Sugar Kings were transferred out of Havana in the middle of the 1960 season under pressure from the U.S. State Department.</span></span><br /><br />Cuba once had a thriving professional league that played in the winter, as well as a Havana franchise in the U.S. minor leagues (the Havana Cubans - later Sugar Kings). When Fidel Castro decided to throw his lot in with the Communist bloc, it spelled the end of professional baseball in Cuba. The decades-old Cuban League was finished (an amateur system was put in its place) and the Sugar Kings of the International League were pulled out of Havana and transferred to Jersey City in the middle of the 1960 season, as tensions between the U.S. and Cuban governments mounted. </div><br /><div></div><div><div>When the Havana franchise was promoted to AAA classification their slogan became "Un paso mas y llegamos!" ("One more step and we arrive.") Maybe some day, they will take that final step and there will be a Havana entry in the major leagues.<br /><br /><em>About this flannel: The 1947 Cubans won their second of five consecutive Florida International League pennants. Cubans uniforms used both Spanish ("Cubanos") and English versions of the team and city name at different times. The 1947 home jersey has the Cuban flag shield on the left sleeve</em> and "Havana Cubans" in sewn felt. <span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-STYLE: italic">Our Flannel Of The Month is available now for a special price of just $99.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzl3XHXB6KwmYLfGent2-L8-Z2ErTIfMHMCe_hWcG8r5vpNe0tz43ZVjtBTYjDGYjWVermEUazhDd1GIDZ7sZASBn_JlC2E9vIivFdl_MS7wNE7WkxI_d24RJ6-7rTbFXeKjpReiiHMmI6/s1600-h/CubaCars.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373703160972496482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 234px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzl3XHXB6KwmYLfGent2-L8-Z2ErTIfMHMCe_hWcG8r5vpNe0tz43ZVjtBTYjDGYjWVermEUazhDd1GIDZ7sZASBn_JlC2E9vIivFdl_MS7wNE7WkxI_d24RJ6-7rTbFXeKjpReiiHMmI6/s320/CubaCars.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">American cars from the 1950s ares still a common site in Havana, kept alive by the ingenuity of Cuban mechanics, who often machine their own parts.</span><br /></span><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-STYLE: italic"><br /></span></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>Jerry Cohenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13896782376228724701noreply@blogger.com12