[SelzShoes]

Theodore Samuel Williams detested events such as these. The annual Boston Hot Stove Dinner, something he would have avoided before the war but as a condition of his new contract, he was required to attend. “In an uncertain off-season,” Yawkey had told him, “the press and fans need to see the stars.” At $150,000 a year, Williams agreed he owed Yawkey that much.

The various Sox came and went from the podium. Making the pronouncement this Red Sox club was going to be the one to return Boston to the top of the baseball world. Maybe it would not carry the cache of the champs of the past, but first is still first, whether it be the American League or the National-American League.

A priest gave a mock eulogy for the departed Braves that broke the hall with the laughter. Ted just sorted through the hundreds of postcards with questions from the crowd. The rest of the Sox were fielding the questions live, softballs with no meat behind them. But Ted just knew the assembled press would lie in wait to pepper him with the heat. Preparation, just like in batting, was the key to a success. No way would Williams let Webb or the others trip him up with some stupid question about the Yankees’ courting. Contracts and money were his business, not theirs. All the damn reporters needed to know was he signed with Boston, anything else was irrelevant.

So the reasons why a man who fought with the press and sometimes the fans would turn down more money ($185,000) to play in a park perfect for his swing might seem interesting, but in the end, it came down to winning. The Yanks were sure to roll the thinned rosters of their Continental League foes, but victory in Boston would be earned. Anything accomplished for New York would be lost in the quality of the opponent.

A tap on the shoulder alerted Ted to his introduction, and he rose to thunderous applause. “The reigning batting champion of baseball, Ted Williams,” the flash of bulbs and echo of the crowd made the room almost stand still in his mind. Just remember, he told himself, they will turn just as quickly. A scorpion is still a scorpion.

“There isn’t much I can say that these guys already haven’t said, so I’ll just go straight to the questions you were kind enough to fill out. We don’t have time for them all, but I selected what I feel are the best.” Ted answered the obligatory questions about his service during the war, the thrill of .400 and the other questions he was expected to answer. “For our final question,” he started a scant ten minutes later, “something a little different. What do I think of Kansas City signing Negroes? I’ll tell you what I think—I think it has been too long in coming. I saw these men playing on service teams, and believe me, there are some ballplayers there; some that could help Boston to the title. And the sooner the men who run these clubs decide to sign the best players, and not just the best white players, the better this game will be. Thank you, and good night.” Ted turned and walked from the podium to a confused smattering of applause. He sat down next to Yawkey, who looked daggers at his star. Williams leaned over to whisper, “I bet you never ask me to one of these things again.”