1946: Chaos in Elysium

[SelzShoes]

Billy Herman bounced to his feet with an audible "whoop." Keller's throw was perfunctory making no effort on Reese sliding at home. The Brooklyn contingent jumped to the top of the dugout, welcoming the three returning Dodgers as heroes. Leo grabbed Dihigo and pulled him close, "Tell the kid he's off the hook for this one." Dihigo nodded and pulled Minoso aside and conveyed Leo's forgiveness.

Minoso was having a brutal day in the field; throwing away three easy ground balls. The kid didn't speak English and Leo knew little Spanish; there was no mistaking what was being said. All game long, Leo chewed on his liver. Now Leo needed the kid's head to be clear for at least three more outs.

McCarthy was making the switch on the mound; Leo looked for his notes, "Another damned player I don't have a scouting report on." Even if he did have a scouting report, Leo knew it was worthless anyway. The opinion based on a memory from four years ago.

Briefly Leo considered sending the left-handed Padgett to hit for Owen. Good match up for the struggling catcher. The roar of the crowd was growing again, making him sick to his stomach. Good match for Padgett, but Owen would move the runner. Mickey wasn't much of a hitter but you could trust him to put the bat on the ball.

Right to Gordon, right on cue. Hugh Casey paused in the on-deck circle long enough to hear Leo call him back to the dugout. "You got it today, Joe?"

Medwick nodded. Ever since the beaning in '41 the relationship with Durocher had become strained. Ducky had become an albatross. Paid $42,000 a year and playing not worth ¼ of it. Joe grabbed his bat and headed to the on-deck circle. Dihigo took a walk and Medwick strolled to the plate.

The crowd was back to a full boil; the lungs of 62,000 baseball mad fans. All but a small minority pleading with the Yankees to hold back those bums, to hold on to the lead. Just the day before the Yankees had reclaimed their rightful spot in first place, it was no time to surrender the lead.

Everyone knew Joe Medwick was swinging on the first pitch. Billy Herman edging down the line knew it. Joe McCarthy in the Yankee dugout knew it. Sixty-two Thousand Nine Hundred Sixty-four baseball fans standing as one knew it. Catcher Buddy Rosar set up on the outside edge; Norm Branch could throw the ball anywhere as long as it wasn't a strike.

It was not a good pitch. Down and away-but over the plate. Medwick contorted mid-swing changing the motion of his body. His right knee hung barely above the grown; it appeared to the closest of the crowd that Medwick held the ball the smallest of fraction of time. Enough time for him to change direction again and flip the ball towards the gap in right center. Herman broke into a jog while Dihigo ran full bore around second. The lead was finally Brooklyn's.

"You hear that boys?" Durocher yelled at his charges, "That's the sound of sixty thousand m**********rs shutting the hell up!"

[SelzShoes]

"Ok Bill, I'm going start mixing in some curves." Nicholson nodded from the batter's box at empty Shibe Park.

Pitching coach Roy Johnson went into his motion and let loose a ¾ speed curve-big and fat out over the plate. The kind of pitch a slumping player lays awake at night hoping for. Bill took a hefty swing and missed the pitch. Not late. Not early. Missed, nowhere near the ball. A soft "damm" from manager Charlie Grimm could be heard echoing through the park.

The two-time National League Home Run Champ swing had looked pitiful since reporting to spring training. Bill's performance in batting practice in Florida was so pitiful Grimm had kept him benched the whole exhibition slate. Never entering a game until almost a month into the season. Grimm wanted to believe Nicholson would come around and supply much needed power; the swing just was not there.

Jolly Cholly tilted towards Cubs' hitting coach Milt Stock, "He was just peppering the ball; now its like he can't see the dammed thing."

Stock spit on the ground. "Timings there just doesn't have the eye for breaking pitches yet." For his part, Stock was not as obsessive over the sluggers' struggles as the manager and newspapermen. Unlike so many others during the war, Swish had only a handful of games played against quality pitching. Yes there were some bad habits developed against the sub par arms of semi-pros and aspiring softballers, but a pro of Nicholson's stature-in Stock's mind-would eventually come around.

Bill Nicholson stepped out of the batter's box and rubbed his eyes. "Too much morning sun," he alilbied. Grimm and Stock nodded.

Stepping back into the box, Nicholson let a couple pitches go by. "Just waiting for my pitch," he yelled to Grimm and Stock. Slowly Bill started making contact-not solid contact, but contact nevertheless.

"Told you he's coming around," Stock said to Charlie.

Jolly Cholly reluctantly agreed, "Still couldn't hurt for him to take extra BP. He's getting better; we need the pop in the line up."

The group started to break apart for the morning. "Starting to look good Bill," Stock said patting the slugger on the back. "You'll be back in a groove in no time-the swing is coming back."

Bill walked behind the coaches shaking his head. His problem was not the swing.

[SelzShoes]

The final phase of our move is over, but now I'm having internet connection issues with the computer CIE is on. There won't be any post in the threads until we can fix my net connection. The good thing is I'll be using the break to work more on the "storyline" portion of the universe--so that should help push the quality of this thread back where I want it.

[SelzShoes]

When he arrived at the visitor’s park, his stomach started to settle. The Providence Chiefs were hemorging money, forced into a shotgun marriage with 5 southeastern teams into an unwieldy Southern Association. They would not pay for a ticket back once you started the road trip. Make the first game; you’re probably going to make the whole trip. And for the Chiefs, road trips were something else.

The schism in the major had ripped the minors apart; the Chiefs were surrounded by NAL affiliates but no teams representing the CL or PCL. The ownership in Providence wanted to stick it out a season, see it they could move the league more northerly, as ridiculous as that idea might be. The Chiefs were not just the opposing team; they were dammed Yankees. Three week long trips into Atlantic coast of America to sweat and be cursed. Hal Peck however preferred the cauldron of south to the calm of Providence.

It was, as all ballplayers say, some reporter’s fault. In the winter of 1943, while his countrymen were fighting and dying in Europe and Asia, Hal Peck was hunting in the wild of Wisconsin. A mishap with a rifle would separate Mr. Peck from several of his toes. The one-time schoolboy sensation found his major league dreams foiled by the twin forces of war and injury. An overeager writer in Providence heard about Hal’s injury, and assumed it was sustained in the war. Crafting a tale of heroism and courage to make Horatio Alger himself blush. Hal Peck, the struggling Hal Peck, could be forgiven his struggles, as he had given so much to Uncle Sam.

The hardest ones started with “my son-my husband-my dad died over there fighting with you”. The initial warmth, connection lost as Peck refused to take credit for another man’s work. Even though Hal righted the story even time he was approached, the look on the fans’ face was always the same: “You lied.” He had transformed from a hero to a coward who would shoot himself in the foot rather than serve his county. The .123 batting average could not be forgiven.

He had gone to the newspaper begging for a correction. And while the sports editor was good enough to acknowledge the discrepancies, he chose to do so with three lines on Page 4. Why should the truth get in the way of a good story? It was, in the editor’s opinion, Peck’s loss to not take advantage of the phony hero status. The yelling in the south was general; in Providence it had become personal.

But he could endure. Because as far from his dream as he was Peck knew the talent, the ability to play with the best was still there. He could endure the travel, the heat, the hate and all of the other thousands of indignities that came with his situation. It will all be worth it for that first moment his feet will touch the field in some major league city.

He would let nothing stop him until that day occurred.

[SelzShoes]

“We are in this to make money; I’m bringing a f-----g bag of gold to your feet,” MacPhail was filled with the passion of certain profit. “How many tickets are sold for the Army-Notre Dame game at Yankee Stadium this year? 70,000? 75,000? Imagine all that money going into our pocket and not having to share it.”

Del Webb harrumphed, “I’ve got businesses to run. You sir are wasting my time with this nonsense.” He motioned to Dan Topping to get his coat and hat too. But Topping didn’t move. The standing partner’s shoulders slumped down; as Topping remained sitting, “Don’t tell me you’re interested in this?”

Topping stirred his coffee. “The NFL was never the strongest league to begin with,” he began.

“Strong enough to push every other challenger out of business,” Webb interjected. “I’ve got enough money tied up with this venture to put anything into a football team.” Webb had become more and more uncomfortable with the amount of influence MacPhail had with the organization. Early in the partnership, Webb could count on Dan Topping to help keep the madman in check but he was letting the ever-mounting win total to cloud his judgment. Principles, Del felt, should not be at odds with victory.

This was not a viewpoint held by Topping. The reason MacPhail was taken on as a partner was his knowledge of baseball and sports business. The broadcast network, the huge signings, and all the other items they had battled over were proving Larry right on almost every point. MacPhail had promised millions, and Dan Topping was not a man to turn down any amount of money.

Larry MacPhail’s smugness filled the room; “We don’t need your money Del, if you are not interested. Just need your ok to use the Stadium and the name Yankees for the club.” The idea of he and Webb not working together pleased Larry to no end.

Webb sat back down, still holding coat and hat. “I might as well hear more; if I’m going to risk this ball club’s good name on a fly by night football league.”

“Arch Ward from Chicago is putting it all together. Jim Crowley, the Jim Crowley, has agreed to be the commissioner, I tell you, the All-American Conference will be first class all the way.” Larry MacPhail was in full snake oil mode each reveal more spectacular than the last. A group wants a team in Brooklyn! Don Ameche was putting movie money into LA! Gene Tunney wanted a team for Baltimore! Did I mention Eleanor Gehrig wanted to be involved?! At the end, his head glistened, almost twinkled, from the sweat on his brow. Steadily pouring yet another drink as the talking never stopped. “Best of all; there is no conflict for any of the ownership groups or stadiums with the NAL.”

The laughs and statements of approval from Topping reminded Webb of when the three of them banded together to buy the Yankees. He felt a creeping sick in his gut.

“Gentlemen,” Topping stood hoisting a whiskey high, “to the New York Football Yankees!”

[SelzShoes]

For what felt like most of his baseball life, Hal Anderson had been in Columbus. Managing and playing for the Redbirds he had grown to like the sleepy in summertime city. The fans would come to the park and cheer the budding heroes of Saint Louis.

When Columbus bought into the Contential League, the fans were ecstatic. Especially when the club went and signed men like Bobo Newsom and Myrill Hoag. This was a team built to win right out of the gate-none of this slow going that Minneapolis and Buffalo offered. They might not battle for the pennant, but they would battle. With all this experience, third place seemed a reasonable goal for the Clippers. Unfortunately, the wine had turned to vinegar.

Nothing was giving the team a spark. This was the most veteran club in all of baseball and all the old pros knew this was not a club that could be rallied to victory. The old bones could not deliver anything but leftover guile.

Trying to win small battles in a huge war is how Anderson came to view his job. Not enough tools to do the job; frantically cobbling men in various combinations hoping enough of them would be able to fool the baseball gods long enough to scrabble a win. Old bones and flesh looking for an untapped vein of youth. He would look toward the locker door hoping for a miracle and only finding heartache. A win today would win a series on the road good news to build on. Something to buck up on when the going gets worse.

To Anderson's relief the squad went about their job with solid professionalism. The grim determination of men with a job to do settled over dugout and clubhouse. Quietly suffering together; the security of a paycheck assured their all on the diamond, no matter how low the expectations begun to delve. Until today.

It began innocent enough, telling Jack Salveson to go down to the bullpen for the day. Salveson had not pitched in five day since a disastrous start against the Yanks. Jack had show promise in relief; it was in the team's best interest, thought Anderson, to not start Salveson again.

As Anderson handed out the bullpen assignments, Salveson did not budge. As the rest of the pitchers slated for the pen walked from the dugout, Jack Salveson stood his ground.

"Jack, better get going," the manager helpfully suggested.

The hurler refused to budge, "Yesterday was my turn. I'm ready to go."

"It's not the time for this Jack, get to the pen." The group heading to the bullpen had stopped hoping to see if Salveson could push Anderson for more innings. Hal tried to get away from the righty, but Jack was following him like a shadow.

"So I got ripped by the Yankees, what pitcher doesn't get ripped by them?" Anderson continued to address the line up, giving clichéd advice to drown out the complaints. The words grew more and more acidic. "Look at me you coward," Salveson escalated.

"Jack, if you don't go to the bullpen know, it will be even longer before you get in a game."

"Say it to my face."

Anderson kept his back to the pitcher, fully expecting to be blindsided by the angry man behind him. "I don't have to say it to your face Jack; just get down to the pen and we'll talk about it later."

The genie was out of the bottle.

[SelzShoes]

I've been caught up in setting up my ABA/NBA replay so I apologize for the lack of updates recently. But take heart, I have currently have 12 storyline post in various states of completion so once I get back into baseball full swing, there should be a couple weeks of uninterupted updates.

Keep watching, Dear Readers, hopefully the best is yet to come.

[fantastic flying froggies]

there's no rush, in your own time.

[SelzShoes]

Expect resumption after the NCAAs. In a basketball mood right now, and so it is basketball I am playing.