Rube Waddell and the Los Angeles Looloos

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.


Rube Wadell (kneeling, far left) with Connie Mack (center, in bowler hat) and the Philadelphia Athletics.

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).

Who Wore Short-Shorts? The Hollywood Stars!

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.

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:

"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".

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.

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."

Hollywood manager Fred Haney shows off some leg in this publicity photo. Above, Portland manager Bill Sweeney could not resist poking some fun at his Hollywood rivals.

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.

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.

The Miami Beach Flamingos of the Florida International League allegedly wore pink shorts. We have not seen a color photograph.

Chuck Stevens' quotes were excerpted from "The Grand Minor League" by Dick Dobbins. Thanks to Bob Woodling for Ft. Lauderdale info.

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!

In late May we will bring you Flannel of the Month from Havana, Cuba.

A Brooklyn Childhood 1958-1965

It was my fate to be born into a Brooklyn 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 Brooklyn 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.

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.

My world as a child was limited to the block of 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.

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.

The Congress Theater in 1958, the year I was born. I do not know the gentleman in the photograph.

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, 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).

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”).

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.

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.

The doors of P.S. 191 were formidable indeed to this six-year-old.

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 England 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”.

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 Brooklyn. 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.

Things were changing fast. There was the Blackout. John Lindsay was elected mayor. Tommy Newsome’s family was moving to someplace called “Long Island”. And soon it was announced that we were planning on going to New Jersey, which the other kids called “the country”. I'll cover that next month…

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.

Our flannel special this month is the 1915 Federal League Brooklyn Tip-Tops road jersey. It is available for $99 for a limited time.

Willie Mays - Thoughts On The Say Hey Kid

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.

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 both 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.

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.

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.

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 after 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. And he had to start thinking 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 The Throw.

A teenage Willie Mays (back row, center) celebrates winning the Negro American League pennant with his teammates in 1948.

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.

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 any price. The neighbors were against the sale as well. They did not want to live next to a black man even if he was Willie Mays. 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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

A brief run through of our Willie Mays flannels:

- Mays' professional career started at the tender age of fifteen with the Negro Southern League's Chattanooga Choo-Choos.

- Mays joined the Birmingham Black Barons 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.

- 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 Minneapolis Millers 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.

- Mays played winter ball for the Santurce Cangrejeros, where wore #24 and shared the outfield with Roberto Clemente.

Mays with Giant manager Herman Franks in Puerto Rico.

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.

TEGWAR - The Exciting Game Without Any Rules

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

Vincent Gardenia as N.Y. Mammoths manager Dutch Schnell.

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.

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).

Tommy 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.

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.

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.

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.

Henrich in the home version of the Pelicans jersey in 1936.

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).

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.

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.

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.

The Mystery Of The Crimson Rims

A few weeks ago my friend Terrie Ekin forwarded me a newspaper article from Jay Mark of the Arizona Republic 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.

Tempe History Museum

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".

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!

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.

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.

Anonymous said...
I found a 1901 newspaper article with the following Rims lineup:C PriestP Carroll1B Schureman2B Valenzuela3B UrbanoSS SigalaRF I. CelayaCF SurrateguiLF H. Celaya

From The Arizona Republican August 26, 1901:
"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.
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."

See Comments for more.