“100th Anniversary of Baseball” by Norman Rockwell

"100th Anniversary of Baseball"
from July 8, 1939

It would appear that this cover is historically inaccurate. The Saturday Evening Post decided that since Abner Doubleday “invented” the game of baseball in 1839, who better to commemorate the event in 1939 than America’s favorite artist, Norman Rockwell? Apparently the Doubleday story has no basis in truth, and the beginnings of baseball are rather nebulous. All this aside, we have to agree that the combination of the all-American pastime and the all-American artist is a happy one.

“Baseball Catcher” by J.C. Leyendecker

"Baseball Catcher"
from May 15, 1909

Giving life to this cover is none other than Rockwell’s friend and mentor, artist J.C. Leyendecker. This 1909 cover is not typical of Leyendecker’s often lavish and “artsy” style.

“Baseball Catcher Looking Up” by Robert Robinson

"Baseball Catcher Looking Up"
from October 1, 1910

Where did it go? We love the catcher’s mitt in this 1910 cover from Robert Robinson.

“Gramps at the Plate” by Norman Rockwell

"Gramps at the Plate"
from August 5, 1916

In this 1916 Rockwell cover, grandpa is taking no prisoners. We’re not sure how good a batter he is, but he’s one of the few players around in spats.

“Dad at Bat” by Alan Foster

"Dad at Bat"
from June 1, 1929

Dad gets into the act in this 1929 cover by artist Alan Foster. A littler overdressed, but good stance, pops.

“Island Game” by Stevan Dohanos

"Island Game"
from April 21, 1945

The U.S. Marine Corps did not let a world war get in the way of a good game. Okay, a contentious game. In the background to the left is Lt. Howard Munce who told artist Stevan Dohanos about this game when he was stationed in the South Pacific. Lt. Munce was an artist as well, and later fought at Iwo Jima. Notice the Corsair in the background getting patched up. We don’t know if the final call favored the Marine Air Corps or the South Pacific League.

See other great covers, including John Falter’s painting of the great Stan Musial in “Great Post Baseball Covers.”

Classic Covers: Baseball The Saturday Evening Post

Baseball Fight – James Williamson

Baseball Fight
James Williamson
April 28, 1962

We’ve shown you baseball covers before, but not one as dignified and touching as this one, which depicts a baseball team standing at attention for the national anthem. Francis Scott Key would be proud. At least until he noticed that this is a fold-out cover (see below).

Baseball Fight (PART 2) – James Williamson

Baseball Fight (PART 2)
James Williamson
April 28, 1962

Well, as the editors pointed out, Francis Scott Key did say, “Conquer we must, when our cause it is just.” However, I suspect Key wasn’t thinking of a free-for-all over a questionable call in a baseball game. Artist James Williamson did eight Post covers in the late 1950s and early ’60s. Or is that eight-and-a-half?

Watching Baseball Through a Fence – Worth Brehm

Watching Baseball Through a Fence
Worth Brehm
June 6, 1908

This rare 1908 cover shows another sort of baseball free-for-all. Honestly, they should put more knotholes in fences—a guy can barely squeeze in for a look-see. This was by artist Worth Brehm.

Knothole Baseball – Norman Rockwell

Knothole Baseball
Norman Rockwell
August 30, 1958

Fifty years later, Norman Rockwell shows us the view from the knothole. Most knotholes are nature made, but sometimes a trusty pocketknife or stone would help nature along when no one was looking. Unless some rat caretaker covered it up by nailing a piece of tin over the hole, you had a great viewing spot. Ever realistic, Rockwell’s wooden planks are so true to life, you can almost smell the wood. And ever playful, he “carved” his signature into the fence.

Boy’s Baseball Team – Eugene Iverd

Boy’s Baseball Team
Eugene Iverd
April 17, 1926

A boy’s baseball team, 1926. We’ve shown great covers of boys by Post artist Eugene Iverd, and this one is a gem. The artist captures every boy’s character, and we see some of the same faces over and over again in covers showing boys rafting or throwing snowballs or whatever groups of lads do. (Search “Art and Literature” for Eugene Iverd for some beautiful covers of kids.)

Fly Ball – E.M. Jackson

Fly Ball
E.M. Jackson
July 28, 1923

It’s a high fly ball and it’s being caught by… Gramps! This 1923 cover is by E.M. Jackson, one of several Post artists often mistaken for Rockwell. Oh, and guys, love the straw boater hats!

Two Boys Playing Baseball – George Brehm

Two Boys Playing Baseball
George Brehm
May 24, 1924

Seriously, so many baseball covers, so little time. But here’s another rare one for you from a 1924 Country Gentleman issue (CG was a sister publication of the Post‘s). These two farm boys spoiling for a game look completely natural. As an interesting aside, this issue featured “an interview with President Coolidge.” Reprints of Country Gentleman and Saturday Evening Post covers are available at curtispublishing.com. Comment on your favorite below!

Classic Art: More Great (and Rare!) Baseball Covers The Saturday Evening Post

But his greater accomplishment was achieving this under the intense scrutiny and hostility aimed at the first black man in Major League Baseball.

Many Americans opposed the introduction of black players into the league—for 60 years, the sport was played only by white men. And not all the opposition came from fans. The introduction of black players into Major League Baseball provoked a storm of opposition in the upper echelons of the baseball leagues. As Arthur Mann wrote in “The Truth About the Jackie Robinson Case”:

The general public never did realize just how violent a storm it was. Jackie Robinson came into the Brooklyn organization over the expressed opposition of much of baseball’s top brass. There were official prophecies of rioting and bloodshed. Various ballplayers engaged in undercover protest movements.

Mann’s article, appearing in the May 13, 1950, Post, gave readers a unique insight into the drama. He was an assistant to Branch Rickey, president of the Brooklyn Dodgers, who recruited Robinson. Rickey’s idea was to bring Robinson up from a blacks-only team in Missouri to play for Montreal, then—if Robinson looked like he could handle the pressure—to the Dodgers.

The real question was not whether Robinson could play to the Dodgers’ standards, but whether he could handle all the extracurricular pressures—the opposition, taunting, and isolation that would greet the first black player. Rickey sent his manager, Clyde Sukeforth, to set up a preliminary meeting.

This 1950 Post article gave readers an insight into the drama behind Jackie Robinson’s major league debut.

It was hardly surprising that Jackie Robinson was skeptical when Clyde Sukeforth first approached him in Chicago. There was skepticism on Sukeforth’s side too. Jackie had just injured that questionable throwing arm, tumbling headlong on his shoulder during a game. But Sukeforth felt that Robinson was good enough to bring in. He had checked well in all departments, particularly off the field.

Robinson had a good American-boy background—poor parents, working his way through school, tremendous athletic achievement, college experience at UCLA, Army service with an honorable discharge as a lieutenant in the cavalry, professional-football experience, track and field achievements, and a record as one of the great basketball stars on the Pacific Coast.

Jackie Robinson, accompanied by Clyde Sukeforth, appeared in Branch Rickey’s office in Brooklyn on the afternoon of August 29, 1945. Rickey rose from his chair behind the mahogany desk as they entered. He came out from behind the desk, held out his hand and said, “Hello, Jackie.”

Robinson was wary. He had heard a lot about Rickey, read considerable about Rickey, and much of it was unflattering. What did the man want? What, if anything, would he give in return? Finally, Rickey spoke.

“Do you have a girl, Jackie?” he asked unexpectedly.

Robinson opened his mouth to answer, but the words wouldn’t emerge. Finally he said, “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Rickey

“Well,” Robinson stammered, “the way I’ve been traveling around the country and not writing as I should—well, I don’t know if I have a girl or not.”

“Of course you have a girl,” Rickey scoffed, “and you need one. You ought to marry her quick as you can. But sit down. Make yourself comfortable. We have a lot of things to talk about, and we’ve got plenty of time to do it.”

With that, Robinson settled into an overstuffed leather chair that somehow failed to relieve his uneasiness.

“Are you under contract to the Kansas City Monarchs?” Rickey challenged.

“No, sir,” Robinson replied quickly. “We don’t have contracts.”

Rickey nodded and his bushy brows mashed into a scowl. He toyed with his ever-present cigar, trying to find the right words for the beginning.

“Do you know why you were brought here?” he asked suddenly.

Robinson’s head moved from side to side. “Not exactly,” he murmured. “I heard something about a colored ball team at Ebbets Field. That it?”

“No. That isn’t it. You were brought here, Jackie, to play for the Brooklyn organization. Perhaps on Montreal to start with, and—”

“Me? Play for Montreal?” the player gasped.

Rickey nodded. “If you can make it, yes. Later on—also if you can make it—you’ll have a chance with the Brooklyn Dodgers.”

Robinson could only nod at this point.

“I want to win pennants and we need ballplayers!” Rickey whacked the desk for emphasis. “Do you think you can do it? Make good in organized baseball?”

“If—if I got the chance,” Robinson stammered.

“There’s more here than just playing,” Rickey warned. “I wish it meant only hits, runs and errors—things you can see in a box score. You know, Jackie,” he mused, “a baseball boxscore is really a democratic thing. It doesn’t say how big you are, or how your father voted in the last election, or what church you attend. It just tells what kind of a ballplayer you were that day.”

“Isn’t that what counts?” the player ventured.

“It’s all that ought to count! Maybe someday it’s all that will count. That’s one of the reasons why you’re here, Jackie. If you’re a good enough ballplayer, we can make a start in the right direction. But it will take a lot of courage.”

“Yeah,” Robinson whispered. “It sure will.”

Sukeforth said, “It might take more courage for the Brooklyn management than for you, Jackie. Have you thought of that?”

Robinson shrugged. “I haven’t thought of anything. It’s all so sudden. It kind of hits me between the eyes.”

Rickey turned to Sukeforth. “Do you think he can take it, Clyde?”

“He can run. He can field. He can hit,” the scout said.

“But can he take it?”

“That I don’t know.”

Then began an extraordinary scene. Rickey leaned close to Jackie and spoke with a crescendo of feeling. “You think you’ve got the guts to play the game, no matter what happens? They’ll throw at your head!”

“Mr. Rickey,” Robinson said bitterly, “they’ve been throwing at my head for a long time.”

Rickey’s voice rose, “Suppose I’m a player in the heat of an important ball game!” He drew back and prepared to charge at him. “Suppose I collide with you at second base! When I get up, I yell, ‘You dirty black—’” He finished the excoriation and then said calmly, “What do you do?”

Robinson blinked. He licked his lips and swallowed. “Mr. Rickey,” he puzzled, “do you want a ballplayer who’s afraid to fight back?”

“I want a ballplayer with guts enough not to fight back!” Rickey exclaimed almost savagely. He paced across the floor again and returned. “You’ve got to do this job with base hits and stolen bases and fielding ground balls, Jackie. Nothing else!”

He moved behind his big desk again and faced the cornered Robinson. He posed as a cynical clerk in a Southern hotel who not only refused sanctuary but handed out invective. What would Robinson do? He posed a prejudiced sports writer, ordered to turn in a twisted story. How would Robinson answer the sports writer? He ordered the player from imaginary dining rooms. He jostled him in imaginary hotel lobbies, railroad stations.

“Now I’m playing against you in the World series!” Rickey stormed, and removed his jacket for greater freedom. “I’m a hotheaded player. I want to win that game, so I go into you, spikes first. But you don’t give ground. You stand there and you jab the ball into my ribs and the umpire yells, ‘Out!’ I flare—all I see is your face—that black face right on top of me. So I haul off and I punch you right in the cheek!”

An oversized white fist swung through the air and barely missed Robinson’s sweating face. The dark eyes blinked, but the head didn’t move.

“What do you do?” Rickey roared.

The lips trembled for an instant, and then opened. “Mr. Rickey,” he whispered, “I’ve got two cheeks— is that it?’

Rickey nodded and blinked away the mist from his own eyes.

You don’t have to be a fan of baseball to appreciate what Robinson accomplished. Again and again, through that season and the next, he rose above his own doubts and those of his critics to show what “grace under pressure” looked like. In his first game as second baseman for Montreal, Robinson appeared before 25,000 people in Roosevelt Stadium, Jersey City, for his first official contest in organized baseball.

He opened in very humble fashion. In his first time at bat, he swung at a three-and-two pitch and grounded out to short. Then he muffed an early throw for an error on a potential double play, and not only lost both men but permitted a runner on third to score.

But then the fun began. In his second time at bat, with two Royals on base in the third inning, Jackie drove a hall into the left-field bleachers for a home run. In the fifth inning he bunted toward third and beat it out for a hit.

He stole second, went to third on an infield out and so tantalized the Jersey City southpaw, Warren Sandel, that the rookie balked and permitted Robinson to score. Jackie singled cleanly to left in the seventh, stole second and scored on a single. He bunted safely once more in the ninth, went to third on a single, and again so annoyed the pitcher that a balked permitted him to score. Montreal won, 14 to 1. Most of the 25,000 spectators stormed the field after the game, and it took Robinson five minutes to reach the clubhouse.

While this triumph was in the making, Robinson’s bride of a few months, his sweetheart from UCLA days, was wandering through the large crowd, her ears picking up the assorted comments, threats and intimations. She heard enough to frighten the daylights out of her. If this was the sentiment in Jersey City, she thought, what would it be like in Baltimore?

Though his performance on the field in Baltimore was not quite so outstanding, Robinson did have another impressive day. The Baltimore fans didn’t like him at first, and said so with cat-calls and jeering. But his speed afoot and his accurate bat won most of them over, and before the game was ended, they were cheering him loudly.

Occasionally, Robinson learned, to his relief, that he wasn’t the only player with guts.

One barrage was halted in 1947 with amazing suddenness, just as it got into full swing. The whole rival team started on Jackie, his color, his antecedents, his fans and his immediate family. And then out of nowhere came little Wee Reese from the shortstop position. The Kentuckian jogged across the grass and stood talking with the Negro.

“My head was swimming, and I don’t recall what he said,” Jackie declares. “Or even if he said anything. All I know is that the bench just went silent. And stayed silent. I’ll never forget Pee Wee for that.”

Grace Under Pressure: Jackie Robinson The Saturday Evening Post

All concentration, still sturdy on the aging legs, still sharp of eye, Musial takes one tight.

We’ve come to believe that character comes with quirks, that you can’t achieve without eccentricity, arrogance, or some type of peculiarity. If that’s true, though, how do you explain Stan Musial? An extraordinary ball player, he is generally known as an all-around nice guy, a baseball hero who’s a decent, likeable person. One sports writer has called him one of the last untarnished icons in baseball history.

Late in 2010, the White House announced it would present the 90-year-old Musial with the Presidential Medal of Freedom, our highest civilian honor.

The Post dedicated a fair amount of print to “the man,” and from a 1942 article called “Rookie of the Year” to an editorial announcing the approach of his last game, we covered the professional and personal side of this beloved baseball player.

Post writer Furman Bisher gave readers a glimpse of a nonchalant but confident champ.

Opening day had drifted into night, the St. Louis Cardinals had defeated New York’s pre-eminently defeatable Mets and now, at Toots Shor’s restaurant Stan Musial was sitting at a big table talking baseball,” wrote Furman Bisher for the Post in May 1963. “‘Yeah,’ he was telling Joe E. Lewis, the comic, and Shor, the proprietor, ‘we got a pretty good club. Good club, you know?’ Then someone who had not been in the stands for the 25th opening day, in the incredible career of Stanley Frank Musial, approached, ‘Get any hits, Stan?’ the stranger asked.

A look of mild surprise crossed Musial’s sharp features, ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘Of course, I got one.’ It was, Musial seemed to be hinting, a rather foolish question. Get any hits. Stan? Got any girls’ phone numbers in this town, Mr. Sinatra?

In the quarter century since he became a professional, Stan Musial has made 3,545 major-league hits, including his opening-day single against the Mets. That’s what he does better than anyone else in his time—make hits. They come so regularly and Musial treats them with such outward nonchalance that anyone might think they were routine. But Musial is now 42 years old. There is absolutely nothing routine about a 42-year-old man slugging a baseball that has come hurtling toward him at 95 miles an hour.

The Post article, “The Mystery of Stan Musial” from 1954 discussed the myth that “the only interesting thing about him is his ball playing.” Despite the fact that he was the highest-paid player in National League history “fans know less about what he’s really like than they do about most colorful rookies.” That salary, by the way, was $80,000 a year.

One reason he was a mystery was simple: he wasn’t a troublemaker.

He has not disregarded training rules with the reckless abandon of a Babe Ruth, once fined $5,000 for failure to keep in shape. He has not feuded with sports writers and spectators in the manner of a Ted Williams. He has not held himself aloof with the intriguing moodiness of a Joe DiMaggio.” This is not to say he isn’t interesting, however. Writer Bob Broeg described him as “a bright-eyed, lighthearted thirty-three-year-old businessman who laughs heartily at all jokes, including his own, performs parlor magic tricks with a professional patter and thrives on everyday living.

Stan the Man
John Falter
May 1, 1954

If the Presidential Medal of Freedom is our greatest civilian honor, perhaps the greatest honor from The Saturday Evening Post was having your picture painted by one of our cover artists. Some of the fans in this 1954 cover are friends of artist John Falter, and some were lucky St. Louis kids the artist managed to get excused from school to pose with Stan the Man Musial. Said the editors, “Imagine how lucky those St. Louis models felt when they wound up with 40 revered Musial autographs. ‘Wow!’ one said in awe. ‘Will we clean up selling these at school!’” Ah, youth.

By our 1958 article “A Visit With Stan Musial,” the Cardinal veteran was considered baseballs $100,000-a-year-man. Very much the family man, he was devoted to St. Louis.

“At times baseball men have said to me, ‘If you’d been in New York or out East, with all the big publicity, you’d have made more money and everything”, Musial said. “But I always say I don’t see how I could have. I’ve been with a good organization here in St. Louis, we’ve general had winning teams. … I’ve been paid very well. My press in St. Louis has been terrific. My wife likes it even better than I do, if possible.”

The affection was mutual. In a 1957 Post article (“Baseball’s Got Me!” May 18, 1957), Cardinals’ owner, August (Gussie) A. Busch, Jr. described Musial as a close friend.

Cardinals' owner August A. Busch, JR., with veteran Stan Musial—"one player who will never be traded."

“After we wound up taking over the Cardinals, I continued to hunt and fish with Stan and enjoyed his company. Some baseball people didn’t think that was proper. They suggested that our relationship be changed. They advised me that a president of a team shouldn’t socialize with a player.

“I can’t think of anything in my baseball experience which bothered me more than that. I fretted about it enough to regret my investment in the team. I had begun to learn there are special ways in baseball, and I’d made up my mind to conform, but in this case I was unwilling to go along. I refused to sit still for the idea that my new position could put fetters on my personal relationships.

“For one thing, I knew Musial as a fine man and a wonderful companion. For another thing, shortly after we acquired the Cardinals, I’d make a trip around the National League with the team, and it was one of the most enriching experiences of my life. I was amazed at Stan’s contact with the fans and their feelings toward him. Wherever he went, people gathered about him. Stan always did the right thing and said the right thing at the right time. I determined right then that any organization was lucky to have such a man in its employ. He was an asset to the uniform.”

Harry T. Paxton wrote “A Visit Stan Musial” for the Post the following year (1958) and noted “although Musial doesn’t make inflammatory statements, this isn’t because he’s afraid to say what he thinks for publication.”

In his own level-headed way, Stan spoke his mind as freely as any pop-off artist, giving forthright appraisals of other leading ballplayers and opinions on a variety of topics. When it came to his pet specialty of hitting, Musial was fascinatingly expressive. He went into fine points I hadn’t known even existed. Maybe some of them don’t exist for the average big-league hitter.

In September 1963, this Post editorial ran:

A reader e-mailed that he was the young man in the T-shirt to the left, walking away with a treasured Musial autograph while his older brother is stepping up to The Man. This photo is from a 1954 Post article.

One day before this month ends, the familiar figure will come up to bat for the last time.

With that appearance Stan (The Man) Musial, by his own decision, sill bring to a close one of baseball’s classic careers. He came up to the St. Louis Cardinals before Pearl Harbor, in the summer of 1941. Since then, with time out for service in the Navy, he has broken more records than any other player in the history of baseball. He holds 17 major-league, 30 National League and nine All-Star records.

Everyone who follows big-league baseball closely has his own recollection of Stan the Man. Ours is an afternoon in 1948 at Ebbets Field, a ball park that he practically owned for many years. He went five for five that day, and every time he made a hit, he had two strikes on him. One day in 1954 he hit five home runs in a doubleheader against the Giants in St. Louis. That was probably the peak of his career.

As he bows out, we wish him well, and we extend our sympathy to those who never saw him play. Watching him in action was a treat that will not be matched.”  (“The Man Bows Out”, September 21, 1963)

Remembering Stan ‘The Man’ Musial The Saturday Evening Post

What’s It Worth?

Getting an honest and accurate appraisal of a treasured collectible can be tricky, but the Internet has made the job a little easier.

For decades, the Kovels’ guides have been the gold standard of antiques and collectible pricing. In addition to Kovels’ well-regarded price guides (available in bookstores and libraries), kovels.com offers a range of news, information, and resources, whether you’re trying to find the value of heirloom jewelry or want to know if Grandma’s antique pie cabinet is worth repairing.

Collectors flock to online auction site eBay.com, not just to bid on hard-to-find items, but to search previous auctions to check the sale prices of pieces they own.

Nice Catch

Baseball memorabilia is one of the country’s most popular and diverse collectible fields. Vintage baseball equipment is particularly hot these days. Just ask Joe Phillips, editor and creator of The Glove Collector newsletter that covers the history of glove companies, which gloves were worn by famous players, and how to find and appraise collectible gloves. The most valuable gloves, Phillips says, are of course those owned or endorsed by famous players. Lou Gehrig’s game glove was auctioned for $387,000. Mickey Mantle’s went for $239,000. Older models, like the pre-1900’s cutoff finger gloves, are also very collectible. Prime examples can fetch $5,000 to $8,000.

Sky-High

Comic books from the 1930s and 40s are valuable (many were lost in wartime paper drives), but none more so than those featuring the debut of a popular character. Earlier this year, a 1939 copy of Detective Comics #27 (the first appearance of Batman) went for the sky-high price of $1,075,500. A few weeks later, Superman beat the Caped Crusader when auction house ComicConnect.com sold a 1938 copy of Action Comics #1 (the Man of Steel’s debut) for a record $1.5 million.

G.I. Bills

Most coin and currency enthusiasts build collections based on rarity and value, but some prize the history behind the hard cash, as in the case of a “short snorter.” During World War II and the Korean War, short snorters were typically $1 bills that servicemen carried as good luck charms. When soldiers gathered, they sought out other short snorters and signed each other’s bills, often including dates and locations. High-ranking officers and even celebrities signed them, too. For more about these unique pieces of history, visit the Web site shortsnorter.org.

Roaming Gnomes

Gnomes are a popular and decorative collectible for many gardeners (and tempting targets for pranksters). The most famous gnome-knapping occurred in 2008, when Murphy, a leprechaun gnome, vanished from his owner’s garden, then turned up months later, accompanied by a photo album. His abductor took him on a world tour, and the album featured shots of Murphy swimming in Thailand, rappelling down a mountain in New Zealand, and more. Securing beloved gnomes to a concrete base or garden stake is usually enough to prevent unexpected walkabouts.

—Chelsey Fleming

What do you love to collect? Tell us about your favorite collectibles. E-mail us at editor@saturdayeveningpost.com, or write to Collecting Column, 
The Saturday Evening Post, 1100 Waterway Blvd., Indianapolis, IN 46202.

Collectible News & Notes The Saturday Evening Post

Reprints of these and other Post covers are available at curtispublishing.com.

Stan the Man – John Falter – 5/1/54

Stan the Man
John Falter
May 1, 1954

Not only did these St. Louis kids have to miss school (awww!), they had to sit and pose with Stan the Man Musial. What a rough life. The lucky youngsters wound up with forty Musial autographs. “Wow!” one said in awe. “Will we clean up selling these at school!” We’re sure at least one of them has wished he’d kept it.

Yogi Berra – Earl Mayan – 4/20/57

Yogi Berra
Earl Mayan
April 20, 1957

Who doesn’t love Yogi Berra? Long before he became famous for maiming the English language, Berra was catcher for the New York Yankees. Artist Earl Mayan got him to pose in Yankee Stadium for this cover. Love the fan faces! The editors informed us they were friends of the artist and “were real nice-looking people till he asked them to look like baseball fans.”

Family Baseball – John Falter – 9/2/50

Family Baseball
John Falter
September 2, 1950

While we admire the pros, there’s nothing like a family baseball game. It’s 1950 and Uncle Baldy can’t decide whether to pitch or throw to Aunt Sally in the yellow dress on second base and catch the guy out. We have to say Aunt Martha’s batter’s stance is interesting. The editors speculated that the umpire was selected “because he has a natural chest protector”. Well, a natural belly protector, anyway.

Sliding into Home Place – Fischer – 4/16/10

Sliding into Home Place
Anton Otto Fischer
April 16, 1910

It’s no surprise that they played baseball in 1910, as we see in this cover. What surprised us was the artist – none other than Anton Otto Fischer. Mostly famous for his masted ships rolling over foaming waves, Fischer also was great at painting people. This slice-of-landlubber-life captures the action perfectly. Interesting catcher’s mitt!

Oregon Baseball – Clymer – 4/21/51

Oregon Baseball
John Clymer
April 21, 1951

Artist John Clymer was known for his beautiful landscapes. Sure, he manages here to paint Oregon in all its spring glory, pink blooms, Mount Hood and all. But the eye is drawn here to the fine pitching form of Miss Pigtails and the concentration of the batter. The trees may be budding and the grass greening, but kids’ thoughts turn to baseball. It must be spring!

Classic Covers: Baseball The Saturday Evening Post

He knew that, at his age, his career was in the ‘now or never’ stage, and it seemed this season was the one that would make it ‘now.’ Through May, Cerv was leading the American League in home runs and RBIs while batting .344 with the Kansas City Athletics’ (now in Oakland).

Then, fate struck.

On May 17, Cerv was rounding the bases trying to score against the Detroit Tigers. As he rounded third, he knew the throw was going to beat him to home plate. There are only a few things a baseball player can do in that situation. One is try to slide below or jump over the tag by the catcher. Unfortunately, at 6 feet and 220 pounds, agility was not Cerv’s forte. This left him one option—lower his shoulder and run head-on into the catcher to jar the ball loose.

Base runners make this decision to this day. It is a scary situation: the catcher is standing still, concentrating on trying to catch a ball often thrown from all the way across the field, while an opposing player is running at him full speed, with every intention of knocking the ball — and the daylight — out of him. (This is why the catcher is typically the stoutest and strongest player on the team.)

In Cerv’s case, it did not work out. Not only was he tagged out, but the collision left him with a broken jaw.

Bob Cerv (right) fractured his jaw in this home plate collision with Detriot Tigers catcher Wilson.

Doctors said he would be out for six weeks, but Cerv was having none of it. He was back three days later. After six weeks playing with his jaw wired shut, Cerv was still batting .310 and leading the American League in home runs and RBIs.

The Saturday Evening Post covered this story in 1958, and we recently caught up with Cerv, for a follow up interview.

Not surprisingly, he is still going strong. “I may be 85, but I still have a pretty strong brain,” Cerv says.

He recalls that season like yesterday, especially eating with his jaw wired shut: “That was my best season. I hit 38 home runs, finished third in hitting; RBIs and runs, and beat out Ted Williams to start in the All-Star Game. I remember when I first had to eat after I broke my jaw. We got a ½ pound of steak, green beans, and potatoes, threw it all in a blender, and I had dinner through a straw.”

Although he was with the Kansas City A’s in ’58, he spent the beginning and end of his career with the Yankees, playing with all-time greats like Mickey Mantle, Joe DiMaggio, and Yogi Berra, to name a few. He still stays in touch with the ones that are still around. “I just saw Yogi recently,” says Cerv. “Our birthdays are only a week apart. I was born on May 5, and he was born May 12.”

Cerv was Roger Maris’ roommate when he hit home run number 61. Cerv and Maris often roomed together, because the Yankees’ manager didn’t understand Maris’ personality and wanted Cerv, the seasoned veteran, to help him figure it out. “Roger asked me ‘Why are you my roommate now?’ when I first roomed with him,” recalls Cerv. “I told him, ‘To tell the truth, the skipper wants to know what makes you tick.’ We were best buds after that.”

Free at last: Cerv could open his mouth, but sore jaws forced him to forgo the sirloin steak he craved.

Cerv also recalls playing with another Yankee legend, Billy Martin. “He was a ballplayer. A little hotheaded, though. He didn’t take any crap.” Many New York fans know this is true. Although Martin played with the Yankees on several World Series teams, he is best remembered as the fiery manager who got in umpires’ faces, got angry with veteran players (especially Reggie Jackson), and won games.

Although his playing days are long over, Cerv still reminisces about his time in the big leagues and compares his experience to players today. “When I signed, it was for $5,000.” Obviously, a little less than what players are making now. “Pitching was the name of the game back then. There were only eight teams in the National League and eight in the American, so teams stockpiled the very best pitchers,” he said. “That was also before they lowered the pitching mound. If you got a hittable pitch across the middle and fouled it off, you screwed up.”

After baseball, Cerv became a family man. He has 10 children, all of whom went through college, 32 grandkids and 10 great-grandchildren (with one on the way). He currently resides in a quiet condo in Nebraska.

Read Bob Cerv’s original 1958 article, “I Played Without Eating” [PDF].

A True Tough Guy The Saturday Evening Post

(Batting for the “Pro” side is Aaron Rimstadt)
Pro 1. Fans like home runs. Purist may enjoy watching intricate, defensive games, but casual fans, kids, and people who put together highlight reels love homers. DH’s provide them the fireworks they want in a game.

(The “Con” is handled by Kelsey Roan)
Con 1: Fans may love a homer, but fans also love a stolen base, and the National League (the one without Designated Hitters) has more of the latter on average. National League hitters—including pitchers—are not willing to waste energy on a slim chance to fire the ball out of the park. Instead, they wisely choose to slap smart hits into the field and run them out. Designated Hitters and other big sluggers are slow and cumbersome. Base hitters are crafty and fast, making energetic leaps and dusty slides to get their base. Call me a purist, but that’s more enjoyable baseball than watching a bulky, overpaid old player hitting another home run.

Pro 2. Great Designated Hitters like David Ortiz, Frank Thomas, Paul Moliter, Harold Baines, Carl Yastrzemski. ‘Nuff said.

Con 2: Don Drysdale, Rick Wise, Greg Maddux, Roger Clemens, Cy Young, BABE RUTH. That’s right, we’ve got the Babe himself.

Pro 3. Who wants to see a bad hitter hopelessly flail at the ball? Or watch a good hitter get intentionally walked because the pitcher knows he can strike out the opposing pitcher who is up next?

Con 3: Who wants to see a good hitter hopelessly flail at a ball? Sluggers are considerably more likely to strike out swinging, because they will swing at anything that looks right—and there are many pitches in even a mediocre pitcher’s arsenal that exist only to trick the eye. (Also, people love to argue that pitchers can’t hit, but a DH can’t field for beans. I, for one, prefer to see smart fielding than big hitting.)

Pro 4. The NFL—by far the most popular sports league in America—uses specialized players for offense and defense. Major League Baseball, on the other hand, is struggling with attendance. Why not use specialized players? What’s wrong with a manager utilizing various players’ specific talents?

Con 4: The charm of baseball is that all the players are versatile. Specializing players sucks the soul out of the game. Instead of talking about a great all-around player who hits and fields like a champ, fans find themselves asking “Who’s that? Oh, the guy who bats seventh.”

Pro 5. The DH lets aging stars and fan favorites play a few more years. A 10-time all-star who has lost the quickness needed for fielding can still fill seats with his hitting. In fact, the DH provides a one-two punch for ticket sales. He provides more offense, and he extends the careers of marketable players.

Con 5: It allows aging stars to play well past their primes. Everyone likes to see a big name play, but the best baseball is played by the young guns, who bring fresh enthusiasm and athleticism to the game. An aging star is big and bulky and can no longer run well. Give me a rookie any day.

Con 6: The DH Rule robs managers of a key bit of strategy: the double switch. If the pitcher is due up in a tough patch like the bottom of the ninth with two men on and two outs, the manager can push the pitcher to a different section of the batting order, and move a good hitter into that key segment.

Pro 6. Well, the DH Rule lets managers use a strong hitter instead of waiting to send in a pinch hitter in the ninth inning. In fact, it allows the manager to not have to worry about his worst batter at all.

Con 7: The DH Rule started with the intention of making baseball more flashy and exciting. Yet, there is not a great difference between the stats in the American League, where they use Designated Hitters, and the National League, where the pitcher must take his turn at bat. The American League tends to accumulate more wins in interleague play, but the general stats are inconclusive. If one league has a superiority over the other in any area, the difference isn’t large enough to matter to anyone but the most scrupulous statistician.

Pro 7. The batting averages for the American League have been better than the NL every year between 1973, the year that the DH was instituted, and 2008. In 2009, the three teams with the best batting average (Angels, Yankees, and Twins) were in the AL. So were the top two HR teams (Yankees and Rangers), top three scoring teams (Yanks, Angels, and Red Sox), top four in total hits (Angels, Yankees, Twins, and Blue Jays), top three in RBI’s (Yanks, Angels, and Red Sox), and top three in On-Base Percentage (Yanks, Red Sox, and Angels). Admittedly, the difference in batting averages between the two leagues has been relatively small every year (for example, the AL edged the NL in ’07 with a batting average of .271 versus .266), but the fact that it has done so every year is significant.

Pro 8. The American League has better teams. It won six of the last 10 World Series, and it is hard to believe that the DH didn’t help. The Red Sox might not have won two titles in the past decade without a certain DH known as “Big Papi.” Another all-time great, Frank Thomas, helped the White Sox to their ’05 title as a hit-only player.

Con 8: The American League also has worse teams. They may have the Yankees and Red Sox (which are only as great as they are because they spend outlandish amounts of money for big players), but they also have the Cleveland Indians, the Kansas City Royals and the Oakland A’s. The DH Rule has made the AL a real hit-or-miss league, instead of fostering a strong, stable league. When teams in a league are closer together, there is more excitement because it is not completely clear who will come out on top.

For our last inning, we’ve reversed the batting order.

Con 9: The National League sells more tickets. Isn’t that the whole goal of the Designated Hitter Rule: to bring in more fans? Why is it, then, that the American League doesn’t sell nearly as many tickets as the National League, despite keeping a Designated Hitter at the ready? Maybe it’s that people would rather see baseball than a Home Run Derby. I know I would.

Pro 9: History tells us that the DH actually improved ticket sales. In 1972, the year before the DH rule, nine of the 12 AL teams drew an attendance of less than a million. In ’73, there were only four. Two of those four were over 900,000 (seven AL teams were under 900,000 in ’72). Attendance also went up for the NL in ’73, probably because the new rule created a buzz around the game in general. Considering that teams from the AL have also won more World Series (the AL boasts a 21 to 15 advantage since ’73, including eight of the last 12 champs), they will have benefited from the increased revenue from jersey sales, corporate endorsements, etc.

The Designated Hitter Debate The Saturday Evening Post

We could offer hundreds of examples of the challenge of maintaining tradition, but this week is the anniversary of a particularly good example: the 1973 introduction of the Designated Hitter Rule to major-league baseball.

Baseball's 10th Man
by Joseph Durso
July/August 1973

Keep in mind that baseball continually changes. It has altered so much since its earliest form that a game played by 1880 rules looks oddly quaint to modern viewers. Year after year, the baseball commission had imposed rules to improve the game: making it safer, more competitive, and more enjoyable to play and watch. Some of the changes, though, were made to increase the profitability of the baseball. The Designated Hitter (DH) Rule falls into this last category. Team owners hoped that the DH would boost scores and, more important, revenues.

The rule was a response to a generally accepted fact of baseball: pitchers were generally the weakest batters on the team. They might be able to hurl thunder and lightning across home plate, or make a ball dance slowly toward home plate to seduce batters into fevered swinging, but they rarely had the additional talent for hitting the ball. So when it came time for a pitchers turn at bat, it was often the sleepiest part of the game.

The DH rule allowed a team to add a 10th player who would go to bat for the pitcher. Inevitably, the DH was a powerful batter who would rarely play the field. The first DH stepped into the batter’s box in 1973. Larry Eugene Hisle batted in place of the Minnesota Twins’ pitcher in a pre-season game and hit a home run with two men on base, then a grand slam.

According to a Post article,

“when nine of the twelve clubs in the American League drew fewer than a
million customers in 1972, the stampede was on. The villain: the 6-foot-4-inch pitcher with overpowering stuff. The victim: the man waving a baseball bat 60/2 feet away. The reason, suggested Gabe Paul: “The pitchers and the stadium grew too big.”

“Larry Hisle didn’t realize it at the time, but that was his cue. Actually, the cue had been sneaking up on him. In 1895, the infield fly rule was adopted to keep smart infielders from tricking unsmart base-runners. In 1901, it was revised to protect the innocent. In 1920, the spitball was outlawed. In 1950, the strike zone was defined (armpit to top of knee). In 1963, it was defined again (top of shoulder to bottom of knee). In 1969, would you believe armpit to top of knee again?

“Then men walked on the moon, the Mets won the pennant and the redink wretches of the American League began clamoring for somebody, anybody, to put more clout into the old ball game. Enter the tenth man: the ‘designated hitter.’

“He arrived in 1969, during the same summer Neil Armstrong arrived on the
shore of the Sea of Tranquility, but nobody paid much attention. Still, in places like Rochester and Syracuse and Toledo, he was often the talk of the town: the man who did nothing but bat for the pitcher… He was experimental that summer, his stage was the [highest level of the minor league] and his impact on the seas of baseball tranquility was immediate.

“Batting averages in the league promptly rose by as much as 17 points for the first-place club. More runs were scored. The designated hitters collectively batted 120 points higher than the pitchers they replaced. The pitchers — who were allowed to stay in the
game strictly as pitchers — began to stick around a lot longer.

“Also, since nothing takes so much time in a baseball game as changing [an exhausted] pitcher, the games zipped along: ten minutes shorter on the average. The fans, reported George Sisler, the league president, “overwhelmingly liked it” when polled.”

Today, the support is far from overwhelming. Many fans still refuse to accept the idea. To them, the DH rule is the worst change ever introduced to the game. They consider the DH an alien on the team — a creature spawned in the box office to ruin the spirit of the game.

Fortunately, baseball offers an alternative: the DH Rule is used by only half of the major-league teams; there are no designated hitters on National League teams. So when fans debate the virtues and evils of designated hitters, they can compare the performance of teams between the two leagues.

You don’t have to be a rabid baseball fan to see an intriguing question beneath the controversy. The Designated Hitter Rule is a fundamental controversy that can be found in art, goverment, philosophy, and religion: is it better to change the rules to achieve desired results, or should we improve our performance within the existing rules? This question in this controversy is similar to that which launched the Reformation and split the artistic community over Modernism.

We can argue that altering the game of baseball to make it more appealing will ensure the survival of the sport. We can also argue that a game that’s changed to make it more amusing is no longer the original game. When we change the form of a baseball game, we also change its substance. And after 36 years, a lot of people don’t like the new substance that is Designated Hitter baseball.

At one level, it is just an argument about what makes good baseball. At another level, though, it is a debate about playing with tradition.

Some will say baseball is a metaphor for life. We believe what the learned theologian Rev. Arthur Heinze says: “Life is a metaphor for baseball.”

The History of Baseball’s Designated Hitter Rule: Or, The Decline and Fall of Western Civilization? The Saturday Evening Post

But his story (illustrated by Norman Rockwell) might have achieved more: it probably inspired one of the most bizarre events in the history of baseball, and in doing so forever changed the rules of the game and the record books.

You Could Look It Upby James ThurberApril 5, 1941

In 1951, St. Louis Browns owner Bill Veeck signed 3’7” Eddie Gaedel as an amateur free agent. The little person appeared for only one at bat, and, despite catcher Bob Swift’s futile advice for his pitcher to “keep it low,” was walked in four throws. Gaedel was replaced by a pinch runner and received a standing ovation as he returned to the dugout.

The gimmick permanently changed baseball, as it created the rule that nobody can appear in a game until the commissioner approves his contract. Gaedel also holds two Major League records that will probably never be broken: one for being the shortest player ever, the other for the highest on-base percentage (1.000).

Veeck never admitted that the Post story inspired his publicity stunt, but it’s hard to believe it was just a coincidence.

Click here to read “You Could Look It Up”

The Post Story That Changed Baseball The Saturday Evening Post

Everybody knows the Babe. The great Bambino comes up whenever fans discuss the baseball greats. Ruth was a natural—truly comfortable fielding, pitching, and (especially) hitting. His records are well-known, but his over-sized personality has been flattened over the decades. The quick glimpses we get of him today present an overweight, ungainly, crude yokel, extremely fond of beer, hot dogs, parties, and female companionship. The picture doesn’t do him justice.

In 1931, the Post offered a four-part series on the Babe, entitled “And Along Came Ruth.” It explained a lot about Ruth, including what made him a hero to America. First, though, it gets the nickname out of the way.

“ ‘In those days,’ Ruth explains, ‘Dunn [Jack Dunn, owner and manager of the Baltimore ball club] was always digging up youngsters for try-outs with his ball club. When I came out of Jack’s office after they had signed me to a baseball contract eighteen years ago, the players saw me from a distance. ‘There’s another one of Dunn’s babies,’ one of them remarked. The minute I put on a uniform they called me ‘Babe’ and, in baseball, I have never known any other name. I’m not kicking, though. I rather like it. I was such a big fellow that the nickname of ‘Babe’ struck the other boys as funny. I guess it would still be funny if we hadn’t all got used to it.”

Being called “Babe” was appropriate for George Herman Ruth Jr. Newspaper articles from the 1920s and 30s give us the impression he was very much a big kid. He enjoyed sports. He golfed and spent a lot of time watching baseball, polo, and horse racing. He enjoyed wandering around cities on a bike, cruising around in a fast car, or taking ride after ride in elevators.

He had a simple, yet sharply accurate, way of speaking, much like any street kid from the time. Once, in 1930, a reporter asked Ruth about how he could justify earning more that year than President Herbert Hoover ($80,000 to Hoover’s $75,000), since he was just a professional baseball player. Ruth replied, “What the hell has Hoover got to do with it? Besides, I had a better year than he did.”

In the off season, Ruth would also go barnstorming: playing exhibition games in farm towns. He did this more frequently than any other player at the time, and he’d put on as big of a show as possible to make sure everyone had a good time. He once said about it, “Got to be friendly with folks like that … Besides, no one could ever earn 70 or 80 thousand bucks a year by being a crab.”

“Ruth is often hard put to remember the name of his opponent, but that is no check on his friendliness. He disposes of this problem in a way that is generally satisfactory, if not perfect. All men under the age of forty are addressed by Mr. Ruth as ‘Kid.’ [pronounced “keed”] Those who have gray hair or wear spectacles are ‘Doc.’ Rarely do they fail to answer to their names.”

Ruth selecting his bat. (Acme News Pictures, Inc.)

Early in the interview, the Post writer asked Ruth how long he expected to keep playing baseball. “I figure that about two more years ought to do me, but you can’t tell about that. You know how it is. Clarke Griffith may have been right when he said that no ball player ever voluntarily quits the game until they cut the uniform off him. Anyway, I won’t be in there until I trip on my whiskers and the boys begin feeling sorry for me. I won’t have to do that.”

The interviewer asked, “Which do you get the most thrill out of—your pitching or your hitting?” ‘That’s hard to say,’ he replied after some thought. ‘I don’t believe I could ever get anymore thrill than I did in pitching those scoreless innings in the World Series back in Boston. Still, anybody gets a big kick out of taking a cut at that ball and hitting it on the nose. Anyway, I know the public gets a bigger kick out of seeing a fellow hit ‘em than in seeing him pitch ‘em.’ ”

Ruth terminated the first interview abruptly after he checked his watch. “Listen,” he suddenly exclaimed, “I’ve got forty minutes to report at the ballpark. Always try to be on time. Young fellows seeing me late might think I’m trying to get away with something. The older and more prominent you get in baseball the closer you’ve got to follow the rules. Don’t you think so?”

Babe Ruth was a soft touch when it came to children, even tolerating kids who clung to his moving car or pressed their faces on restaurant windows just to get a glimpse of their hero. Once, in 1929, Ruth attended a World Series game in which he was not playing and found himself inundated with hundreds of eager people asking for his autograph. He obliged, but declared that once the game started, he would not sign any more autographs. When the starting batter was announced, Ruth said “No, that’s all. No more till tomorrow. None after the game either.” Then he heard a weak voice say, “I’m sorry. I had to come up on crutches and just got here.” Ruth, with more care than with all the other autographs, signed the kid’s ball after saying, “What’s that? Crutches? Well, that’s different.”

“The boys of this same nation look on Babe Ruth as a pal. They have the feeling of knowing they can meet him at the gate, can climb on his back, can clamber on the running-board of his automobile, can get him to sign a baseball. To them, Ruth is still just another boy, and he feels exactly the same way about it. His sympathetic understanding of these kids is no pose. Ruth really likes the association, and they know it instinctively. He feels it a keen responsibility to keep faith with his youthful admirers.”

Legend seemed to gather naturally around Ruth. Some of them seemed fantastic and improbably sentimental, but they were too numerous to simply be inventions. For example, the story of the handicapped boy in Florida:

“The baseball grounds in Tampa are within a race-track enclosure, the same grand stand being used for both sports. It is customary for many spectators to arrange themselves around the circular track and watch the ball game from automobiles. On this particular day a father had parked his car near the press box on the lawn, so that his little boy, almost completely paralyzed, could see Babe Ruth. The cushions were so arranged that the little boy could look over the edge of the car and see the players. At first his eyes alone expressed his interest. Finally Babe Ruth appeared to take his turn at bat.

“ ‘There he is, daddy! There he is, daddy!’ exclaimed the excited youngster. Moreover, to the astonishment of his father, the lad tried to raise himself to see better, and partially succeeded.

“It so happened that Babe Ruth hit a home run. ‘At-a-boy, Babe! At-a-boy, Babe!’ shouted the lad in the general excitement.

“The father looked around, and to his further amazement the little boy had raised himself almost to a sitting position—the first time he had been able to do such a thing for a year.

“ ‘It’s all right, son. It’s all right, son,’ cautioned the overcome father, and as he repeated the phrase he wept. ‘Lie down now. But we know you will be able to sit up! Son, you did it!’

The Babe and Mrs. Ruth at Home, 1931. (Wide World Photos.)

“Ruth, hearing of the incident a few minutes later, went over and shook hands with the little boy.

“ ‘You have made him very happy, Mr. Ruth,’ said the father, ‘and I want to thank you. This is a big day in his life. It may really help him to recover.”

“ ‘Bet your life he’ll make it,’ said Ruth, ‘and more power to him.’ ”

And there’s the one about the boy in Mississippi, which could happen only in cheap fiction or real life:

“In Vicksburg one rainy morning about eight o’clock, an aged, bewhiskered man with wet clothing and muddy feet came into the lobby of the hotel. At the desk he asked for Babe Ruth. He was given the number of Ruth’s room on he second floor at the head of the steps. That hotel had not yet surrendered to the idea of visitors’ having to be announced. A few minutes later Ruth, in bed, heard at rap at his door. He grunted and got up. In night clothes and with hair tousled, the Babe went to the door.

“ ‘I’m sorry to disturb you like this, Mr. Ruth,’ the old gentleman apologized, ‘but I have come to ask of you a great favor.’

“ ‘What is it, old-timer?’ asked Ruth, somewhat puzzled, but immediately sympathetic. ‘Sit down.’

“ ‘Mr. Ruth,’ the stranger explained, ‘I want to get you to sign this baseball. It’s for a little boy out in the country—very sick. He may not get well. Ever since last Fall, when we heard that the Yankees were coming here to play a game, the little fellow has looked forward to seeing you. Now that he knows that he can’t get out of bed, his mother thinks the disappointment has made him worse. She is very much distressed. I figured out that it would help some if I could get you to sign this ball. That would at least comfort him for a while.’

“And Along Came Ruth”
by Bozeman Bulger
November 28, 1931

“ ‘Where is the little fellow?’ asked Ruth.

“ ‘He lives out in the country about twelve miles. It was quite a trip for me, too, with all this rain and bad roads.’

“ ‘Sure, I’ll sign two or three balls for him,’ declared Ruth. ‘Not only that, but I’ll take them to him. Let’s go!’

“As the astonished old gentleman looked on, Ruth called for a bellboy, ordered a big touring car and began to get dressed. Two hours later he arrived at the little boy’s home. The mother instantly recognizing Ruth, could hardly believe her eyes. Without any preliminary conversation, she led the Babe immediately to the little fellow’s bedroom. At the expression on the little boy’s face, as he rose up in bed, the mother burst into tears.

“ ‘He’s been delirious,’ she said, ‘and he thinks he’s dreaming.’

“ ‘No, mamma,’ spoke the boy. ‘It’s Babe Ruth himself, isn’t it?’

“Ruth went over and sat on the side of the bed. Taking three baseballs from his pocket, he began signing them, all the while talking to the little fellow, as a pal, about the game. He asked about the boy’s old ball club and made several suggestions as to how they should play next summer. It was the happiest moment of that boy’s life.

“ ‘He’ll get well, all right,’ Ruth said to the mother, in the presence of the little fellow, ‘and this summer he’ll be out there hitting that baseball as hard as any of them.’

“Nobody knew of this incident … until we were aboard the train en route to Jackson that night. The writer of this happened to pick up a local afternoon paper, and on the front page found the story as just related, evidently told to the editor by the old gentleman.

“ ‘Certainly it’s true,’ said Ruth, when asked about it. ‘That as little as anybody could do, isn’t it?’

A few days later, a journalist on a big city paper wrote that he doubted the story. He boldly stated that the whole incident had been manufactured by a publicist. Ruth, who had never sought any notoriety for the incident, felt crushed by the accusation.

Babe Ruth went well beyond his 500-homer record. When he retired in 1935, he had 714 home runs to his credit. His record remained unbroken for 39 years, until the great Hank Aaron surpassed him in 1974.

The home-run record is now held by Barry Bonds, with 762 homers. Bonds’ accomplishment has been diminished by allegations of his using performance-enhancing steroids. There are no allegations, of which we know, that he has been visiting sick children and signing baseballs for them simply for the publicity.

Click here to read the PDF.

The Homely Hero The Saturday Evening Post

“Stella,” he said, as his fork speared another lunch lamb chop, “today I will prove for all time that I’m the best semipro pitcher and the best hitter ever seen in these parts.”

Stella, who at 28 had consistently failed to prod her beau into a formal commitment to matrimony, was more given to tart comment than soothing pronouncements. “Ty Cobb must be out of his mind with jealousy.”

Skid—a nickname derived from a nose shaped like a playground slide—responded only to what suited his hearing. “I should never have given up professional baseball.”

“Wasn’t it the other way around?”

“The Dog Who Knew Baseball”Lewis S. SalsburgFall 1971

Skid kept to his one-track mind while continuing to feed his slight physique. “Today, starting at three o’clock. I am going to win the Championship of the State for the old home town. Pass the ketchup.”

“There will be eight other players on the field, modest one.”

“Me and Pepper could do it alone.”

“My dear Kelly. Your Pepper is still a dog . . .”

Read more, click here to download PDF.

The Dog Who Knew Baseball The Saturday Evening Post

Long before there were performance-enhancing drugs, though, players were cheating by less sophisticated means. In the article “Dirty Baseball” from the April 11, 1946, Saturday Evening Post, broadcaster Ernie Harwell explains:

“Years ago, crafty pitchers discovered that a ball which is roughed up will jitterbug through the air and be very difficult to hit. Hence, they began to doctor the spheres. Some used saliva, some tobacco juice. Others scraped the covers of balls with sandpaper or rocks. A few even stuck phonograph needles into the balls, forcing their rotation off center.

“Under so many quack treatments, the game began to suffer. So the powwowers-that-be passed a rule forbidding such tactics. However, the officials, realizing that a new ball is hard to grip, did authorize the umpires to take off the gloss.”

Thus, for years, umpires in the American League rubbed all new baseballs with mud before the game.

“The man who supplies muck to club owners is ‘Lena’ Blackburn, former coach with the Philadelphia Athletics. ‘Lena’ dredges it from the Delaware River, which flows behind his home in Palmyra, New Jersey. One small can of it is enough for an entire season of ball massaging.”

Today’s baseballs are manufactured to allow a better grip. Both American and National Leagues use the same standard ball, 9 to 9.25 inches in circumference.

For those of you unfamiliar with the name, Ernie Harwell went on to become one of the great sportscasters in American history. He was the official voice of the Detroit Tigers from 1960 to 2002 and still appears on sports programs.

Page 1 of "Dirty Baseball"

Playing Dirty The Saturday Evening Post

The New York Giants, Washington Senators, Boston Braves, St. Louis Browns—thousands of diamond enthusiasts still hold allegiance to these bygone teams. They organize fan clubs, celebrate great moments at meetings, and swap items on eBay every day all in the name of honoring the past of America’s pastime.

And their own youths.

Ron Gabriel grew up two miles from Ebbets Field, home of the Brooklyn Dodgers, at a time when you could hear radio announcer “Red” Barber’s play-by-play “from every open window in Brooklyn,” he recalls. These days Gabriel lives in Chevy Chase, Maryland, but Brooklyn never quite left the boy. On October 4, 1975, at 3:44 p.m., he formed the Brooklyn Dodgers Fan Club. It was 20 years to the minute of the team’s first and only World Series victory.

“I realized this intensity needed someone to bring [Dodgers fans] all together, to kind of act as a clearinghouse. I was confident I could do that.”

Gabriel hosted annual meetings at his home (serving hot dogs and Schaefer Beer, a longtime Dodgers’ sponsor). When the 50th anniversary of the team’s World Series victory rolled around in 2005, he organized a commemorative dinner and passed out bumper stickers: We Loved the Brooklyn Dodgers — and we still do!!

But for Gabriel and thousands of fans of Dem Bums, the world changed when the team moved to Los Angeles beginning with the 1958 season. “I went into a state of shock,

and I still am, still can’t believe it.” Diehards were devastated and many, like Gabriel, never transferred their allegiance to another team. “Once a Brooklyn fan, always a Brooklyn fan,” he says.

There is a common thread that binds fans of defunct teams, a certain poetry in their recollections that are valentines to the boys of summers past. You can hear it in the way they share stories —always in the present tense. Bobby Thompson hits the “shot heard round the world,” Willie Mays makes his magical over-the-shoulder catch. With each retelling, there are new insights, a deeper understanding. The drama of the game continues to unfold. Instant replays, never distant replays.

“We’re in the Twilight Zone,” says Bill Kent, founder of the New York Baseball Giants Nostalgia Society. “To us, the old Giants are still alive. We relive their exploits.”

Kent grew up in the Bronx, a trolley and subway ride away from the old Polo Grounds in upper Manhattan. As a youngster, Kent would sometimes sneak into the ballpark by climbing over the fence before crews arrived and stake out empty seats with his friends. Other times, he’d get picked to turn the turnstiles at the entrance gate, earning spare change and free admission to the game. It was a highly coveted role. “There were always more kids than jobs.”

The Giants society is a loosely knit group of baseball fans, lawyers, teachers, sports writers, and even “a lady umpire and a lady baseball player” among them, who participate in an online discussion group and get together three times a year for what Kent calls schmoozing. Three or four people showed up at the first meeting held at a Chinese restaurant. Word spread, and Kent had to find larger quarters at an Italian restaurant. These days, meetings attract upwards of 50 and are often held in a church basement. Ten dollars pays for the pizza. There are even a couple of Dodgers fans and a sprinkling of Mets fans. “We don’t care. We have nice people, and if they’re not nice, they’re out,” he says.

The 1950s was a turbulent decade for baseball fans. In 1953, the St. Louis Browns played their last game at Sportsman’s Park before moving to Baltimore. Brownies pitcher Ned Garver, who won 20 games for the 1951 team that ended with a 52-102 record, once famously said: “Our fans never booed us. They wouldn’t dare. We outnumbered ’em.” At least their legacy is alive and well. The St. Louis Browns Historical Society and Fan Club is celebrating its 25th anniversary this year.

In 1954, the Philadelphia Athletics moved to Kansas City; in 1953 the Boston Braves moved to Milwaukee. And, of course, there was the twin sting for New Yorkers in 1958 when both the Dodgers and Giants made their way to California.

When the Philadelphia Athletics moved to Kansas City starting with the 1955 season, it wasn’t a surprise. But that didn’t make it any easier for fans like Dave Jordan. “For a couple of years it was clear the A’s were running out of money,” he says. The city couldn’t support both the A’s and the Philadelphia Phillies. Still, Jordan says when the mayor announced a “Save the A’s” committee, “I was one of few people who took him seriously.”

Jordan is chairman of the board of the Philadelphia Athletics Historical Society in Hatboro, Pennsylvania, a robust organization of 800 members spread coast to coast. The society puts out a bimonthly newsletter, runs a museum, and holds functions to which original players are invited. There are a few younger members, but Jordan says that for the most part, its ranks are filled with people who were Shibe Park regulars in the days of Lefty Grove, Jimmie Foxx, Eddie Collins, and Mickey Cochrane. One of Jordan’s favorite ballpark memories was the 24-inning game against the Detroit Tigers on July 21, 1945, called due to darkness.

“I kept score for 22 innings until I ran out of space.” He donated that incomplete scorecard to the Philadelphia A’s Society Museum and Library.

When the team moved on to Kansas City, Jordan stayed a fan. “In 1955 and 1956 I went to Yankee Stadium when Kansas City was in town, but it wasn’t the same. They changed the numbers of quite a few players, and eventually I had to face the fact that the Phillies were what we had left.”

Middle-aged fans are now golden agers and elder statesmen. “That’s something we at the society think about,” Jordan says. “Until recently, we always had a big breakfast in the fall, selling out with hundreds of fans showing up.” But, he says, as volunteers get older, functions are being scaled back.

There are also fewer players alive who wore the uniform.

The repercussions are showing up in the sports memorabilia market. Mike Heffner, president of Lelands.com, the oldest and one of the largest sports memorabilia auction houses, says the 1980s and ’90s were the boom days in memorabilia of defunct teams. “In the past few years, we’ve noticed a slowdown. People who were following teams in the 1940s and ’50s are mostly retired, some have passed away, and their collections have been sold.”

Some team items are valuable not because of the passion of their fans but because of their scarcity. The Seattle Pilots, for instance, played one year in 1969 before becoming the Milwaukee Brewers. “They didn’t have a huge fan base. There aren’t a tremendous

amount of them out there. But a uniform patch or a team-signed ball is very rare, so it’s tremendously collectible,” Heffner says. The Colt .45s (1962-1964), a squad that became the Astros, “were a terrible team, but they had really neat uniforms with a pistol on the front, so they’re highly collectible.” The latest franchise to join the brotherhood of bygone teams is the Montreal Expos, now the Washington Nationals. But don’t look for big returns there. “Canada and baseball don’t go together that well,” Heffner says.

Of course, for fans it’s not about money and not even about memorabilia. Their teams may not be in the box scores, and the ballparks may long be gone, but the boys of summer never grow old.

Reveling in the Past of America’s Favorite Pastime The Saturday Evening Post