Thursday, March 7, 2019
There are some books that are just fun to read. They bring back memories, good and bad, of a particular moment in time. Phinally! by J. Daniel is one such book. It focuses on the events of the summer of 1980, providing a perfect time-capsule of the baseball season and popular culture. The 1980 season certainly contained it's share of memorable events and personalities and Daniel does a good job of covering them all.
The book opens with an entertaining review of the Philadelphia Phillies history of ineptitude, to prepare the reader for what the fans and players of the 1980 Phillies team were up against, battling not only other baseball teams, but the weight of ingrained institutional incompetence. Although the Phillies had experienced success in the late 1970s with several divisional titles, they had won only two pennants (none since 1950) and zero World Series championships in roughly a century of professional baseball.
In addition to baseball, Daniel also supplies an ample amount of cultural nostalgia to help set the scene. He opens spring with the "Who shot J.R.?" phenomenon and intersperses tales of the Blues Brothers, The Empire Strikes Back and Airplane!.
On the baseball field, the 1980 season was momentous for a number of reasons. Nolan Ryan became the first major leaguer to sign for the now-quaint sum of one million dollars. Billy Martin resurfaced in Oakland, took a team of underachieving no-names and drove the American League crazy for four months with Billy Ball. A curious rookie named Joe Charboneau showed up in Cleveland opening beer bottles with his eyelids, snorting jello (and other things) through his nose, all while lighting up American League pitchers and generating an excitement in Cleveland that would not be seen again for a rookie until Willie Mays Hayes and Rickie "Wild Thing" Vaughn. Despite having a player break the million dollar mark, players and agents were not happy as owners sought to re-establish control of both the game and their own checkbooks. The result was a labor unrest that hung heavy over the season and would result in the catastrophic strike that wiped out a third of the 1981 season.
George Brett mesmerized the nation throughout the summer of 1980 with one of the greatest hitting seasons of the last half-century, carrying a .400 average as late as September 20. He finished with more RBIs than games and more home runs (24) than strike outs (22). As fate would have it, Brett, sitting on more hype than any other player, developed a hemorrhoid that knocked him out of a World Series game. After emergency surgery, he quipped, "Hopefully my problems are all behind me."
Mike Schmidt shook off a sometimes testy relationship with Philadelphia fans and had a monster last month to finish with 48 home runs and 121 RBIs. He won the MVP award in the finest season of his Hall of Fame career and took the World Series MVP as well.
The NLCS between the Astros and Phillies was one of the most exciting postseason series in history. The last four games of the best-of-five series went into extra innings and the championship was not decided until the tenth inning of the final game--after the Phils, playing on the road, had dropped 5 runs on the Astros in the eighth, only to watch the Astros come back and tie it and send it into extra innings.
Daniel not only allows the reader to closely follow the pennant races, but gives ample time to the brawls, the oddities and the other aspects of the season. He presents the season in an organized, chronological style that moves quickly, preventing the reader from getting bogged down and shows a good eye for an anecdote.
Overall, this is a well-written, fun read. It's not just a book for Phillies fans, but baseball fans in general, particularly those who remember the 1980s or enjoy the history of the game.
Sunday, January 20, 2019
*And where did those home runs come from?
One of the unfortunate byproducts of Ernie Banks' Mr. Cub image being so great is that sometimes it obscures exactly how good of a player he was in his prime, before bad knees forced a move to first base. The present generation may not realize how he single-handedly revolutionized the position of shortstop.
Before Ernie joined the Chicago Cubs in September of 1953, shortstops were valued for their fielding and intrinsic virtues, but little was expected of them offensively. They were almost uniformly quick, feisty, pesky little guys with names like Scooter or Pee Wee (some were even named Pesky). They were respected leaders on the field and on offense might draw a walk for you, steal second base or slap a ball to right on a hit and run. Anything more was a bonus. If their team happened to win a pennant while they were hitting .267 with 6 homers and 63 RBIs (as Marty Marion did in 1944) or .324 with 7 homers and 66 RBIs (as Phil Rizzuto did in 1950), they walked away with an MVP trophy.
And then Ernie Banks started hitting. He had a solid rookie season in 1954 with 19 home runs and 79 RBIs--well above what was normally expected for a shortstop. The next year, he loosened up and the position was never viewed the same.
Ernie hit 44 home runs (including a major league record 5 grand slams) in 1955--a year in which he would not turn 24 until December. The previous National League record for home runs by a shortstop was 23--Ernie had that by the first week of July.
He proceeded to top 40 home runs in 5 of the next 6 seasons (a wrist injury in 1956 cost him 15 games and his power over the last two months).
Ernie was no slouch as a fielder. He didn't have the range of Aparicio, Reese or Wills, but he had sure hands and rarely threw a ball away. In 1959 he set a record for fewest errors in a season by a shortstop, with 12 and in 1960 he won a Gold Glove. These were nice accomplishments, but his value as a slugger in the middle of the infield would forever be unsurpassed.
Manny Machado, with his 37 home runs, generated a lot of talk last season of what an asset he was when installed into the lineup at shortstop because of his offense. Many modern writers mistakenly note that Cal Ripken is the prototype of the modern offensive-minded, slugging shortstop. While Ripken, at 6-4 and 200+ pounds, towered over Ernie's 6-1, 180 pounds (if he had 10 pounds of sweat in his flannel uniform), Ripken never hit more than 34 home runs in a season, even as he played half his career in a decade in which 66 home runs in a season wouldn't even win you a title.
In fact, until the steroid era, the top five slots for home runs by a Major League shortstop were all held by one man: Ernie Banks. And only one other player has ever topped Ernie's slugging numbers for a shortstop and that player is a documented serial steroid-abuser.
Only one other shortstop has ever hit 40 home runs in a season (Rico Petrocelli, 1969). Ernie remains as the most potent non-steroid-aided offensive force ever to take the field at shortstop in the major leagues.
But Where Did the Home Runs Come From?
Until the past few decades, amid the weight training, launch angles, walk/strike out/home run mentality and other factors, it was relatively difficult for any man to consistently hit major league pitches over the fence. While most players could hit home runs, only a few on each team did so with any regularity, say at a clip of 30 or more a year, and only a handful in each league did so for as much as a decade.
The men who were able to hit those home runs were all very impressive physical specimens. While muscles are certainly not the only requirement--extraordinary reflexes, eyesight and practice were also required--there was little doubt as to the source of the home runs of behemoths like Gehrig and Foxx.
The newer generation of power hitters in the 1950s, with Willie Mays, Mickey Mantle and Frank Robinson, used overall athleticism and bat speed rather than raw brute strength.
But, again, seeing these guys up close--looking at the menacing layers of muscles, the guns, the brawny forearms, the six-packs--leaves little doubt that you would never want to throw a mediocre-fastball in the same zip code as these mashers.
In modern times, we had the confluence of talent and science to help provide even more home runs:
And then there was Ernie Banks.
But consider the six years from 1955 to 1960:
Banks: 248 home runs, 693 RBIs
Mantle: 236 589
Mathews: 236 605
Mays: 214 611
Aaron: 206 674
Ernie was clearly the top slugger in the game over that period.
The source of Ernie's power, given his unimpressive physical attributes, sparked spirited debate during the last half of the 1950s. No one came up with a good answer. Ernie himself, along with most so-called experts, always gave credit to his wrists. But beyond basic anatomical facts (the wrist is composed of skin, bones and tendons--the muscles are in the forearms) that seems much too simplistic of an answer.
Most likely, the answer lies in the combination of many things--abnormally acute vision, a perfect weight shift, an abundance of fast-twitch muscle fibers and the carefully-honed ability to pull most pitches into his power field. It was a natural phenomenon like the Grand Canyon or Niagra Falls; beautiful to behold but impossible to recreate in the lab or on a field.
But few could do it better with less.
Friday, September 14, 2018
The scene opens as men are standing around a batting cage before an exhibition game between the Yankees and Giants:
Casey: Say, is that where you got those ears? I remember a feller on my team in Brooklyn back in '13 had ears like that. Couldn't hit worth a damn.
Spock: I've spent the last hour analyzing your scorebooks from the previous ten years and I believe I can help improve the efficiency of your decision making. Most importantly, I find that your reliance on human emotions, intuition and so-called tradition does not allow you to make the most logical of choices. I have compiled some facts which should help you. As you know, without facts you cannot decide with logic.
Spock: First, the selection of players for your roster is most illogical. That can be improved immediately by proper statistical analysis to allow you to identify the most efficient players.
Spock: Take your former man Stanky, for example. He could not hit, he could not run, he could not field . . .
Leo: Yeah, all the little sonovabitch could do was beat ya.
Spock: The little, to borrow your colorful metaphor, sonovabitch, could do one thing however: get on base. In 1950 he walked 144 times. That allowed him to reach first base in 46 % of his at bats. This, more than any nebulous intrinsic factor or annoying antics, was responsible for his value to winning games. This leads me to the next point: simply dividing the number of hits by the number of at bats is a poor evaluation of a batter's efficiency. I would submit that the percentage of times a batter reaches base, by either a hit or a walk, termed the on-base percentage, represents the highest good.
Leo: So you're saying that a walk is as good as any kind of hit?
Spock: Obviously not. This is where the OPS, or On-Base Plus Slugging Percentage comes in. A hitter is rewarded for extra-base hits.
Leo: Aw, you're just throwing out an alphabet soup. Give me a good pair of binoculars in the centerfield clubhouse, a bunch of scrappers and I'll win ya a damn pennant. I want guys who hustle, bunt, hit and run and steal. That's the type of club that wins.
Spock: I fail to understand your fascination with the so-called hit and run. First, it is an obvious misnomer as the runner runs, then the hitter hits. It should be called the run and hit. Second, according to my analysis, the risks far outweigh the benefits. I can find no plausible reason to employ this tactic.
As far as the bunt is concerned, I find it to be a most inefficient maneuver. While logic dictates that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the individual, which would seem to favor the sacrifice, my research shows that a man on first with no outs has a 32.0381 % chance of scoring, whereas a man on second with one out has only a 27.57286 % chance.
Leo: But you're not taking into account who's at the plate and who's coming up behind him. Or whether the man on the hill is tired or can't field bunts. And what the crowd is doing. There's a lot more going on that your stats can't tell.
Spock: Also, it can be shown that unless you can be certain that a runner will be safe 72.95398 % of the time or more, it is illogical to attempt a steal. The advantage of gaining the extra base is simply outweighed by the risk of losing the all-important out.
Leo: But stealing unsettles the pitcher, moves the fielders and gets your team into the game. Not to mention the fans. Once they all get on their feet, everybody starts playing better. We get momentum.
Spock: I find your insistence on the archaic notion of rallies and momentum to be quaint, if not misguided. These concepts simply do not exist in nature.
Leo: You're full of it. Why, I've seen games won merely because the boys in the dugout got on the pitcher and he lost his edge. I've seen great hitters go into a slump after a pitcher sticks one in his ear. I've seen an entire Series lost by a rally that started with only a ground ball hitting a pebble. How do you and your numbers account for that?
Spock: The question is irrelevant. The facts are the truth merely because they are. No amount of arguing can change that. Once we eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, is indeed the truth.
Another erroneous assumption is that of the so-called clutch hitter. Logic dictates that a .300 hitter will be successful in 30 of 100 clutch situations, while a .250 hitter will be successful 25 times. The result is pure math. Human emotion and collective euphoria provide the impression that some men are better in tight situations than others, but in reality, they are not. Also, the RBI is perhaps the most flawed of your statistics. RBIs are merely the result of a man coming to bat with many men on base, nothing more.
Leo: Don't tell me that bull. I know in my heart that some guys are better when the chips are down. Take a nice guy. He won't win you as many games because he doesn't want it as much.
Spock: If you continue to rely on emotion, sir, you will forever be incapable of making a rational decision. You must accept the fact that many of your tactics are simply not supported by logic.
Leo: I'm getting tired of this guy. He ain't said nothing that makes any sense yet.
Spock: Sir, your disregard for simple grammatical rules is becoming alarming. As far as pitching, your insistence on keeping the statistic of Wins is not logical. A Win for a pitcher is a most ineffective measure of his success as it is dependent on far too many variables of which he can not control. Alternatively, I would suggest Walks Plus Hits Per Innings Pitched or WHIP.
Leo: I'll whip you, you pointy-eared freak. I've heard just about enough of your . . .
Spock: Also I would like to suggest a new measure of effectiveness for all players: Wins Against Replacement, or WAR. I would not expect someone with your primitive math skills to understand how it is calculated. You should just accept the efficiency of it.
Leo: Okay Tinkerbell, that's it. (Leo lunges for Spock and takes a swing. Spock side-steps the punch, places his hand on Leo's shoulder and squeezes. Leo slumps quietly to the ground).
Casey: (looking at Leo's prone body) There's a lot of guys in this game that have been trying to do that for years. You know young feller, a lot of what you're saying makes sense and then some of it is pretty darn sound. I've always said that sometimes it's better to understand things than it is to figure them out. Why, as far as what you said about lineups, I've been doing that for years. Now, take my guy over there. There's a chance he'll hit off this guy pitching for them today and he probably will. But take this other guy. He'll probably hit him better because he always has and what's more, he's a lefty.
And another thing, they say that some of my players drink whiskey, but I've found that them that drink milkshakes don't win many ballgames. You could look it up.
Now look at this feller over here. He's twenty and in ten years he's got a chance to be a real superstar. Now that feller over there, he's twenty and in ten years he's got a chance to be thirty.
Spock: Fascinating. You have a most remarkable ability to speak at length and yet say virtually nothing. Also, your ability to completely destroy the English language is unsurpassed. But somehow, there is a certain perverse logic to your speech and your recent history of success in the postseason is undeniable.
Casey: Now there's them that will tell ya they knew me before I wuz a genius and they probably did. And also they'll tell ya that them things can't be done, but sometimes that don't always work. Now I've always thought that good pitching beats good hitting and vice a versa . .
Spock: I must return to my ship now. Live long and prosper Old Perfessor.
Saturday, July 14, 2018
He was Paul Bunyan in a baggy flannel uniform with a number on the back. Like Bunyan, he spawned tall tales of superhuman feats and was a pioneer. But instead of a giant blue ox, he rode a massive Buick, and instead of an axe he carried a large hunk of Pennsylvania white ash. For Pacific Coast fans in 1949, two things were certain: 1) they had never seen the likes of Luke Easter, and 2) they couldn't get enough of him.
While there have been many great players in the annals of baseball, only a handful sparked genuine box office sensations, bringing fans out to ballparks in staggering numbers single-handedly: Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson, Sandy Koufax, Mark Fidrych, Hideo Nomo, Fernando Valenzuela. These men combined transcendent talent with charisma and a never-before-seen "It Factor." When Luke Easter hit the Pacific Coast League in 1949, he caused a turnstile phenomenon every bit as impressive as anyone else in history.
In the days of a mere 16 major league teams--and none west of the Mississippi--the Pacific Coast League was more than just a AAA minor league, it was as close to the bigs as possible. It was generally felt that the top PCL teams could compete with lower-level teams in the majors and it was not uncommon for players to remain on the coast rather than go east--preferring the lifestyle and the fact that often they made more money.
The PCL had possessed plenty of great players in the not-so-distant past; men with names like Lazzeri, Doerr, DiMaggio and Williams who had stepped straight into the major leagues and, with very little adjustment period, launched Hall of Fame careers. But none of them ever drew the crowds Luke Easter was to draw in 1949.
The PCL had integrated the preceding year with a solitary player. San Diego, with its recent affiliation with the Cleveland Indians and integration-minded owner Bill Veeck, had signed hometown product John Richey. A catcher by trade, Richey had been met with few theatrics and little fireworks. While he was a solid player, a regular .300 hitter, and drew quite a few curious whites and many more proud blacks to games, he was a workmanlike player and could not remotely be called a star. Easter, on the other hand, was a super nova.
Signing with Bll Veeck after helping the Homestead Grays win the final Negro League World Series (the Negro National League disbanded soon after, throwing the rosters of its teams into limbo), Easter was joined on the 1949 Padres by fellow Negro League alumni Artie Wilson and Minnie Minoso.
Although Wilson was a slick fielder and Minoso a Hall of Fame talent, Easter quickly overshadowed them both by force of personality and deeds, in addition to sheer size. But then, the 6-foot-4, 240 pound man had the natural gifts to do so. Easter arrived toting an already-impressive legend. He was accustomed to being a headliner. In addition to his dominating heroics during winters playing in Puerto Rico and Venezuela against many major leaguers, there was the home run he hit in the Polo Grounds while playing with the Grays that landed in the distant center field bleachers--a spot reached by no man in the stadium's more-than-half-century of existence [it would later be reached by Joe Adcock and Lou Brock].
Luke had a past that was complicated by both mystery and hyperbole. He had told Bill Veeck he was only 26 when he signed (a little fudging was not uncommon in those days by men for whom segregation had robbed their youth), but his true age was uncertain, even, at times, to Luke. Later research of census reports, his social security application and an old family Bible confirmed that he was born in 1915, making his 1949-age 34 years old, past the prime of most baseball men of the era. Although some said he had only played softball until 1947, in reality he had played on a topnotch St. Louis black industrial semipro team, a teammate of Sam Jethroe, from 1937.to 1941. After a stent in the Army, he played for an Abe Saperstein traveling baseball club before joining the Grays in 1947, replacing the tragically short-lived Josh Gibson as the resident power-hitting legend of the lineup.
Luke Easter was a colorful player in a time in which the game, like television and society, was strictly black and white. He liked living the way he liked his cars, cigars and the length of his home runs: large. A card-playing, back-slapping slick dresser with a constant smile and a deep-throated chuckle, he lit up more rooms than Con Edison.
While there were those who questioned the honesty of his card-playing, he was generally given a pass due to his exuberant personality (of course there was that story of the time on the Homestead Grays' bus that 5-foot-2-inch pitcher Groundhog Thompson took exception to Luke's winning ways with the cards and, challenging his integrity, pulled a knife and offered to cut him down to size, but that story merely added color to the legend). Luke was the kind of guy who could take all your money and have you walk away thinking you enjoyed yourself and, what's more, that he was a good guy. How else to explain the fact that he won so much dough from Homestead Gray owner Cumberland Posey that by midseason teammates learned to collect their pay early on road trips, lest they find the owner tapped out and unable to make the payroll, thanks to Loveable Luke.
Upon arrival with the Padres in the spring at their Ontario, California camp, Luke quickly served notice that the stories about his prowess were true--if not actually understated. He hit exhibition pitching to the tune of .474 with four home runs in 38 at bats. And he began a tradition of launching awe-inspiring 400+ foot home runs. Equally as impressive as the home runs were a succession of savage line drives that witnesses swore would have carried forever had they not collided violently with fences. When he stepped into the batting cage teammates, opponents, vendors and fans all stopped what they were doing to watch, hoping they would see something they had never seen before. They were seldom disappointed. Luke was nothing if not a showman with impeccable timing.
Like any new hotshot in any league, Luke had to prove he was impervious to assaults--both verbal and with weaponized horsehide. Due to his physical size, the immensity of his preceding press and, especially, his color, Luke was forced to handle more than the usual dose of both, but handle them he did. Soon pitchers learned that it was best to let sleeping giants lie as stories of what he did to hapless baseballs after getting up from being brushed back only added to his legend (the most impressive, which survived years, was that he mashed a line drive home run to center field that, seemingly defying the laws of physics, narrowly missed the terrified pitcher's head on it's trajectory toward the fence).
The press, which uniformly loves anyone who makes easy copy, immediately fell in love with Luscious Luke. They ate up his act. They were thrilled when, soon after he received his signing bonus, he drove into the ballpark in the "longest, loudest 1949 Buick that's built--one of those racy models with four portholes on each side amidship." They all laughed when manager Bucky Harris enviously told them his new Buick only had three portholes. They reveled in the story of Luke sitting in the back of his new car while diminutive roommate Artie Wilson drove, telling everyone Wilson was his chauffeur (and also when the story morphed to Wilson riding in back and telling everyone the large man driving was his chauffeur and body guard--the better to keep away the throngs of Wilson's admirers).
They loved it when Luke, asked by a reporter where he got the large diamond ring he wore "that looked like the headlight on the Santa Fe Chief," replied (with a wink?) "I stole it."
Luke got off to a fast start once the season began. After a 15-game hitting streak in May, he was batting over .400 and he and teammate Max West were neck and neck for the league home run lead.
Soon, it was reported that attendance was up drastically all over the league compared to 1948 and there was little doubt about who was responsible. Coast fans turned out to see Luke in numbers that far surpassed those that had turned out for guys like Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio and, instead of fading after the initial curiosity was satisfied, only increased. It was a genuine spectacle. A frenzy. Like a century before, news began filtering back east of the gold rush, causing excitement and dreams of riches (among owners). The May 25, 1949 headline in the Sporting News informed the sporting nation, "Giant Negro First Baseman of San Diego Padres--The No. 1 Coast League Box Office Draw."
Initially, there was little hiding of, dare we say it, the elephant in the room: "Easter, Padre Negro From St. Louis . . ." began one headline, "Luke Easter, the giant St. Louis Negro . . . " led off another article. It was always up front--reminding fans of the obvious--throughout the early season.
May 22, with the Padres in San Francisco for a Sunday double header against the Seals (in the former House of DiMaggio), 23,366 fans showed up. In addition, it was reported that more than 5,000 were turned away and another thousand stood on car tops to peer over the walls. It was the largest Sunday crowd in PCL history. While the papers stated that an "estimated 8,000 Negroes were in the stands to see the Padres' sensational colored star, Luke Easter," that left almost 16,000 non-Negroes in the stands, no less enthusiastic to see Luke. His appeal crossed all boundaries.
All reserve and box seats were sold out two weeks in advance of the initial appearance of Easter and company at the Hollywood Stars' Gilmore Field. That series, June 7-12, produced the largest single-series count in the history of the field. "Any way you analyze the record series crowd at Gilmore Field," a newsman wrote, "Luke Easter, the Padres' Negro first baseman, was the magnet." And Luke didn't miss the opportunity to show off: he hit .393 with four home runs for the week. For good measure, he pounded three balls over the 18-foot-high center field scoreboard (which stood 400 feet from home plate) in batting practice one day. At the time, only two players had ever cleared it in games.
Through the first ten series of the year, the third-place Padres had drawn almost 350,000 fans at home and on the road--far outdistancing the next-closest team.
Sniffing something more than a baseball story, Life magazine dispatched photographers to the coast for a photo-chronicle of Easter, further increasing Luke's legend to the rest of the country.
Although the headlines and articles, which invariably invoked his race in the first sentence, seem anachronistic and the phonetic spelling of Stepin Fetchit-grammar patronizing if not insulting, there is no mistaking the impact Luke had for his race: there in the first sentence about a player packing stadiums and hitting dramatic home runs, and inspiring deep concern about his health, was the fact that he was an African-American. All could see that men of his race could not only play, but play with the best, and make money for owners at the same time (which is always nice).
It could be said accurately that Luke Easter single-handedly made black players acceptable on the Pacific Coast. After Luke hit the coast, only the most bigoted idiot would suggest that blacks weren't able to compete, or welcome, or couldn't be serious drawing cards for white fans. Soon, other coast teams signed black players.
"Prompted by the record-breaking box office draw of Luke Easter, the Portland Beavers became the third Coast league club to bid for the lucrative patronage of colored fans by adding two Negro players to their roster . . ." the Sporting News reported after they signed two Newark Bears, Frank Austin and Luis Marques, June 1. In mid-season the Angels signed Kansas City Monarch pitcher Booker McDaniels, becoming the fourth PCL team to integrate after San Diego, Oakland (Wilson had moved to the Oaks early in the season) and Portland. The Padres added another black player, Venezuelan short stop Parnell Woods, in June.
While it was nice that Luke made black players acceptable in the league, he was much more than just a black man who played baseball; he was a man who played baseball great, who just happened to be black. His fame and appeal was due to much more than just his color. Or his home runs. It was the way he hit them. And also his charisma. He had the charming ability to be at once humble and cocky; possessing an easy-going, down-to-earth disarming humor that allowed him to fit, and be liked, everywhere. He could aw-shuck his way through an interview with the best of them, but there was little doubt that he recognized, and appreciated, his own talent. Years later when someone told him, "I saw your longest home run," Luke answered, "Did you see it land?" When the answer was affirmative, Luke shook his head. "If you saw it land then it wasn't my longest."
As Luke continued to hit (after 75 games, he was hitting .357 with 23 home runs and an astounding 87 RBIs), he was compared with the very best, the Holy Grail of all baseball comparisons--the Great and Powerful Bambino--and, somehow in view of his impact, no one laughed at the comparisons. "His power is prodigious," wrote one reporter. "There aren't many like him. . . Like the late Babe Ruth, Easter attracts record-breaking crowds wherever he goes."
Sacramento manager Del Baker, who had played, coached and managed in the PCL and major leagues for for 37 of his 57 years, and had literally seen them all, said, "I've seen alot of powerful batters in my time, but for sheer ability to knock a ball great distances, I've never seen anybody better than Easter--and I'm not excluding Babe Ruth."
Reporters, learning that Easter had been given a $2,000 signing bonus and was earning a salary of $4,700 for the year, observed the massive crowds he was drawing throughout the league, quickly did some basic math and sensed something was amiss. They began badgering Padre President Bill Starr with annoying questions about bonuses and pay raises. "At no time has Easter mentioned salary to me," Starr told them in June. "As far as I know he's well satisfied."
When asked himself, Luke denied any concern, told them that Starr had assured him he'd be given a sizeable bonus at the end of the season, and added amiably, "His word is good enough for Ol' Luke."
But suddenly, it was all over. In spite of hopeful news that the trainer had devised a new knee brace to help Luke, his condition continued to worsen. He could still hit, but he was in obvious pain moving around the bases or playing first base. In late June, Dr. Worth Martin, San Diego team physician, consulted an orthopedic specialist who took further x-rays and exams and recommended that Luke stay out of the lineup for a few days to rest the knee.
And then he was gone. Luke left for Cleveland June 24 at the request of team vice-president Hank Greenberg to have his knee examined. As if to underscore the fears of PCL owners, only 6,769--the smallest Sunday crowd of the season--turned out to San Diego's Lane Field June 26.
A great cry of gnashing of teeth and wailing was heard from owners up and down the Pacific coast.
An operation was performed on Luke Easter's knee at the Cleveland Clinic July 1. It was announced that he was expected to be out for six weeks, but there was growing suspicion on the coast that he was gone for good. Still, the hearty still held out hope. Two weeks later, it was breathlessly reported in the papers that Luke had started walking after an 11-day stay in the hospital and had wired that he hoped to return to play with San Diego by mid-August.
But it was not to be.
The Indians, American League pennant winners in 1948, had struggled all season, particularly with their hitting. Owner Bill Veeck was in serious trouble and reportedly entertaining offers for the purchase of his team. He needed some help. Veeck announced on August 11 that he had purchased Luke Easter from the San Diego Padres.
PCL owners, realizing that their cash cow was not coming back, grumbled that the purchase cost them at least $200,000 collectively in lost gate receipts. The Coastal Gold Rush of 1949 was over.
Luke Easter had played in 80 games and hit .363 with 25 home runs and 91 RBIs. He had drawn more fans to stadiums in the Pacific Coast League than anyone in history. And he had done it all while playing with a broken knee cap.
Luke spent the next three seasons as a mainstay in the lineup of the Cleveland Indians. He hit 28 home runs and 107 RBIs in 1950, then followed with seasons 27 and 103 and 31 and 97.
A series of injuries to his legs slowed him in 1953 and finally in 1954, at the age of 39, unable to play defense in the major leagues, he was cut loose by the Indians. Luke made his way to Buffalo and proceeded to pound AAA pitching--leading the International League in home runs and RBIs in both 1956 and 1957. In 1959, at the age of 45, he went to Rochester, another AAA team, and played another five seasons.
At each stop, Luke was loved by both teammates and members of the community. He was known as a man who would do anything to help someone out. Teammate need a buck, a good laugh or an introduction to Luke's buddy Louis Armstrong at a jazz club? Community member need a favor, an autograph or an appearance for charity? Big Luke was the man. He never disappointed.
"Easter was a big, strong happy guy, the kind of guy you wanted on a ballclub." said a Cleveland teammate in 1994.
"Luke, who was still a star in the minors, was a great person," said a teammate from his later years in the minors. "I loved him. He was an everyday guy who was good for young people. He gave me more encouragement than my manager. He told me, 'You'll be there. Don't worry about it. You'll make it.'"
After finally giving up baseball, Luke returned to the Cleveland area and took a job in the auto industry. He was elected Union Steward and, as a favor to fellow workers, often took a load of payroll cash to the bank. On one of those trips in 1979, he was confronted by two men, one of whom pulled the trigger of a sawed-off shotgun aimed at the big man's chest. More than 4,000 people paid tribute to him at his funeral, many making the long drives from Buffalo and Rochester.
Luke Easter left behind a pile of smiles in ballparks and clubhouses across the country:
And awe: everywhere he went, he deposited baseballs in previously unexplored places. There was the one at Cleveland's Municipal Stadium over the auxiliary scoreboard in right field (the longest ever hit at the stadium). There was the one over the center field fence scoreboard in Buffalo's Offerman Stadium (only person to ever do that) that was so dramatic in it's majesty that it was immortalized on the plaque commemorating the stadium when it was torn down:
He left a legacy in every city. Consider:
"Few have ever attained the near-mythical status accorded by Luke Easter. Never in the city's sports history has an athlete made such an impact on the community."--statement at the Greater Buffalo Sports Hall of Fame in 1997.
"He was considered the most popular baseball player in the Rochester Red Wings' History,"--1979 Rochester newspaper article.
If the designated hitter rule had been adopted earlier, he might have played in the majors until he was 50.
If he had joined the Negro Leagues ten years earlier, he might have been as celebrated as Josh Gibson.
If the major leagues had integrated ten years earlier, he might have been . . . . .
Monday, July 9, 2018
For me, Don Kessinger was one of the guys who defined the era of the 1960s and 1970s in baseball--a solid player with a reputation as being an even more solid character. So I was happy when he accepted my request for an interview while researching my upcoming Ernie Banks book [shameless plug--watch for it March, 2019].
Although Don Kessinger always looked like he only weighed a buck and a quarter by the time those steaming Chicago August day games rolled around, he possessed a rare graceful athleticism that made him stand out even among professional athletes. He grew up in the small Arkansas town of Forrest City where he starred in every sport. Heavily recruited as a basketball player by every major university in the region, he picked the University of Mississippi because it boasted one of the best baseball programs at the time and he was offered the chance to play both sports. He not only played, but he excelled in them, making All-SEC and All-America in both.
On the basketball court, the 6'1 Kessinger was a prolific-scoring guard (without the aid of the three-point shot). His high game occurred during his junior year when he dropped 49 on Tulane. He came close to achieving a rare double his senior year by topping the SEC in batting (.436) and narrowly missing in basketball (averaging 23.5, second only to the 24.6 of Kentucky's Cotton Nash).
Signed by the Cubs in 1964, by the next year Don was with the major league club in Chicago and he teamed with fellow rookie Glenn Beckert to form one of baseball's most stable keystone combos for nearly a decade. Added to future Hall of Famers at first and third, Ron Santo and Ernie Banks, that gave the Cubs one of the all-time classic infields. "They used to say we had a Million Dollar Infield," says the 75-year-old Kessinger, "but Beckert would always say, 'Yeah, but $900,000 of it is on the corners.'"
"I was really lucky with the timing to join a club like that," he continues. "There was a chance to play fairly soon and I was accepted pretty much immediately. On some teams, especially back then, rookies weren't welcome, there's a lot of garbage going on. But there was none of that on the Cubs. All the older guys were just great. Ernie, Billy, Ron--they were not only great players, but they were very welcoming to younger players. And we ended up with a group of players that turned into a pretty good team."
"Of course I was in awe of Ernie Banks when I got there. I think all the young guys were just because of who he was and his stature and what he had done in the game. And you found out very quickly that he was just a great guy; very relaxed, always optimistic, always saying something on the field to keep you up. He made the young guys feel welcome and a part of the team."
"It developed into a very close team; the most close-knit of any team I've ever been a part of. After a few years, we had a core of guys--there was very little change. We would go to spring training every year knowing what the lineup was going to be."
It was evident right away that Kessinger had the ability to play shortstop in the major leagues. Hitting was another matter. Manager Leo Durocher played an important role in Kessinger's development. He not only plugged him into the lineup on a regular basis, but he encouraged him to become a switch hitter and stuck with him through early struggles. Kessinger eventually became the leadoff hitter and table setter for the team.
"Being a former shortstop, I think Leo took more of an interest in that position. The one great thing Leo brought was there was absolutely no doubt about who was in charge. That was a big change for the Chicago Cubs. I will always be grateful that he played me and Beckert when we were kids. Even though we might not have been ready yet, he stuck with us. Maybe he could see what we would become."
Durocher, who joined the Cubs to great fanfare before the 1966 season, was not an immediate success. "In 1966 we lost 100 games. It was a long, long year. But Leo wasn't worried about wins that year. He knew he was building something for the future. We could all see that we were going to be a good team, regardless of our record in 1966. We added guys like Randy [Hundley] and Fergie [Jenkins] and we could see they were going to make us better. We felt the future was very promising. It was exciting to know that we were going to be a part of something special."
The Cubs of the '60s probably had one of the greatest backcourts in baseball history: utility infielder Paul Popovich had set the West Virginia high school scoring record with more than 40 a game and played on a great West Virginia University team with a guy named Jerry West. Who would have won a one-on-one contest between infielders? Kessinger diplomatically laughs. "Paul was a great basketball player. We're still good friends. We played a lot of basketball together as a team during the winter in those years, playing local teams for charity and stuff. I don't know who would win if we played one-on-one. Let's just say we both liked to shoot a lot."
Kessinger made his first major league All-Star team in 1968, then followed with his finest season in 1969, hitting .273 with 38 doubles and 109 runs. He repeated on the All-Star team and won his first Gold Glove. The year 1969 will always be bitter sweat to Cubs fans as the team lit up the baseball world for five months, but was overtaken in September by the charging Miracle Mets. Many historians have placed the blame for the finish on manager Durocher, but don't expect Kessinger to throw Leo under the bus. "I will always believe that we had the best team in baseball that year," he says. "All those day games might have worn us out by the end, but that's not an excuse. And it wasn't really Leo's fault for not playing other guys more either. You have to remember what Leo did for the franchise. Without him, we probably wouldn't have even been in that position. Later Leo was very helpful to me when I was managing the White Sox and we talked quite a bit. Sometimes when we talked, he alluded that if he had to do it all over he would make some changes."
Regardless of the finish, the '69 team holds a special place in the hearts of fans. "That was just such a fun year, and a fun team. Also, it wasn't just the closeness of the players. It was the relationship between the player and fans; it was very special."
Years later, catcher Randy Hundley started the cottage industry of fantasy camps--his Cubs camps were the first, giving the players and fans a chance to interact. "Randy Hundley's fantasy camps were great. It was good to see all the guys every year. And when it started we were still all young enough to move a little. Now, frankly, I have a hard time fitting into a baseball uniform."
Kessinger went on to a 16-year career as a six-time All-Star. He was traded to the Cardinals in 1975, the last of the old gang to leave the Cubs. He returned to Chicago in 1977, joining the White Sox. In 1979 Bill Veeck made him the last American League player-manager. He kept the job for one year before retiring. While on the South Side, Kessinger became a footnote to history as the manager the night of the infamous Disco Demolition game: "Craziest thing I ever saw in a ball park."
Speaking of superlatives, Don Kessinger did one of the scariest things I ever saw in a ballpark when I was young: he got up in front of a packed stadium at a Billy Graham crusade and gave his testimony. In my ten-year-old mind, batting with two outs in the ninth inning of a tie game was fun--that's what you wanted to do--but talking about Jesus in front of a big crowd? Terrifying.
"I had an opportunity to speak at the Billy Graham crusade in Chicago in 1971 because I was a Chicago player," says Kessinger. "But I wanted people to realize that I wasn't there just because I was a baseball player. I wasn't a baseball player who was a Christian. I was a Christian who happened to play shortstop for the Cubs. Religion always played an important part of my life and I don't mind sharing that. They gave me an opportunity to speak. The only scary thing about it was that when they say six minutes, they mean six minutes because of the TV schedule. There's not a lot of room for error."
Don returned to University of Mississippi as head baseball coach from 1991 to 1997, then became associate Athletic Director. In the mean time, his wife and son had founded Kessinger Real Estate in Oxford. Don joined them in the business in the 1990s. The Kessingers and the business thrived in the college town.
Two of Don's sons followed him to star on the Ole Miss baseball field and now there is a grandson on the team. Don Kessinger is a humble guy who was always aware of his position as a role model and who readily admits that he's lived a charmed life. It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.
Sunday, June 17, 2018
As Father’s Day arrives, I am reminded of an episode from my childhood. While helping clean out my mother’s garage not long ago, I came across a once-familiar object. It had stiff, dark-brown, cracked, musty smelling leather (or artificial leather), with tattered gray threads that had previously been laces. An old NFL emblem was barely visible on one side. The once white stripes on either end were almost worn off. It had formerly held air but was now shriveled. I looked closely and there, on one side, just next to where the thumb goes to throw a perfect spiral, was a smooth, worn area that previously held an autograph--no longer discernible to anyone except me; a name long-forgotten by most people. A name, an autograph, a football I would never forget: the Donny Anderson football.
In 1969, in my eight year old mind, Donny Anderson was the coolest pro football player not named Joe Namath. He was my second-favorite player on the Green Bay Packers—a big-bonus running back, the acknowledged future star of the team. He had scored a touchdown in Super Bowl II. He was regularly seen on commercials combing Vitalis (not the “greasy kid stuff”) into his flowing blond hair with one arm while holding a gorgeous blond with the other.
One day, while loafing in the sports section of a department store, waiting for my parents to finish shopping, I came face-to-face with my hero’s smiling image. It was on the side of a box and the box was wrapped around a football. Not just any football, this was an official NFL size and weight football—it said so right on the ball, just beneath the official NFL emblem. There was a picture of Donny Anderson on the box, confidently looking at me, cradling this very ball in his arm (holding it just the way Vince Lombardi had surely taught him to prevent fumbles), wearing his glorious number 44 Green Bay Packer uniform. And, most importantly, the ball was imprinted with Donny Anderson’s own autograph—it was actually embedded into the ball! In my wildest dreams, I could never have imagined a treasure of such immense proportions.
Normally in our cash-poor family, gifts were exclusively reserved for birthdays and Christmas. We knew better than to even ask for exceptions. But this was different—it was a Donny Anderson football. I just had to have it. Playing with a ball like this, running like Donny Anderson, how could I possibly not grow up to follow in his footsteps and play running back for the Green Bay Packers?
But sometimes Moms don't seem to understand. They tend to worry more about tangible things; like having enough money to pay the rent and buy groceries. I pleaded my case in vain. But I couldn't just give up easily. I desperately searched my brain to come up with just the right words, just the right phrase that could somehow illustrate the importance of this object. I had to make her understand the gravity of the situation; to force her to realize that a prize like this comes along once in a person’s life—and sometimes never.
All I could manage was: “But Mom, it’s a Donny Anderson football.”
After we got home, following one of the longest car rides of my life, my Dad, with a combination of great benevolence and sheepishness, pulled the football out of a bag. From the look on my mother’s face, I immediately knew that one of us was in big trouble. But my Dad quickly deflected all the blame to himself and I was spared maternal wrath.
That night, as I lay in my bed, the football held tightly in the crook of my arm under the covers, I could hear my parents talking in the living room and I knew my Dad was still catching heck, and might continue to catch heck for quite some time. I strained to hear the conversation but the only words I could make out with certainty were:
“But Honey, it’s a Donny Anderson football.”
Over the years, the imprinted autograph on the ball was gradually rubbed out as I bobbed and weaved through the backyard, dodging imaginary would-be tacklers and scoring spectacular touchdowns. Similarly, Donny Anderson’s own NFL career was rubbed out too quickly due to injuries (and possibly too many blonds). I never did get to play running back for the Green Bay Packers and the ball was eventually abandoned in the back of a cluttered garage. Time has a way of changing our values and once-treasured objects become forgotten.
I have come to realize that objects themselves are not nearly as important as the memories associated with them. Looking back, I sometimes think it would have been nice to have mentioned this episode as my Dad lay dying of cancer thirty five years later; to share the memory once again of the Donny Anderson football, of when he bent the rules, just one time, because he understood. But I didn’t. Sometimes, you just don’t think of these things until it’s too late.
Thursday, May 31, 2018
It's always interesting to hear about the post-baseball careers of former major league players. Once upon a time, pro baseball players weren't millionaires, they were regular guys who just happened to be bigger, stronger, faster and have much better hand-eye coordination than the rest of us. Alot of them played for $10,000 to $20,000 a year and when they finished playing, most of them needed to look for real honest employment. Some were more prepared than others. I recently had the chance to talk to one of those guys: Cubs pitcher Rich Nye.
Rich Nye was always an inquisitive sort. A 6-5 left-handed pitcher, he graduated from the University of California at Berkeley with a degree in civil engineering. While studying engineering, he also pitched for the school's baseball team--well enough to get himself drafted by the Chicago Cubs in 1966 in the 14th round, the 265th player taken.
Rich was sent to Rookie ball, then quickly promoted to Class A. He impressed enough in those two stops that he was called up for a cup of coffee at the end of his first year and compiled a 2.12 ERA over 3 games, warranting a closer look in the spring of 1967.
Nye made the team coming out of spring training and was installed into the starting rotation. He had a live arm, a devastating change up and one of the best pickoff moves around. He went on to a 13-10 record with a 3.20 ERA in 30 starts for the Cubs that year, earning the Cubs' Rookie of the Year Award. He pitched his way into team lore with a 6-3 win over the Reds at Wrigley Field July 1, 1967, putting the Cubs into position to take over first place the next day--the first time the team had held first place past June in 32 years. "That was my favorite moment in the majors," Nye says. "It was just such a great atmosphere at Wrigley. The year before, we lost all the time and nobody came to the games--in some of the games in September it looked like there were more vendors at Wrigley than fans. But in 1967, everything was different. The more we won, the more fans came out. The day we took over first place the people in the stands wouldn't leave until they raised the flag on the scoreboard that showed we were in first. It was like a World Series atmosphere. I'll never forget it."
Nye's life course was further changed when he did an externship before his senior year with a well known expert in birds. "I always loved birds," he says. "It was just natural that I gravitated in that direction." He became one of those lucky guys who are able to combine his passion with full-time employment.
At the time, the specialty of avian medicine did not exist in the veterinarian world; there were no boards or extra training available. But that didn't deter Nye. With exotic birds being imported by the millions at the time, he went to pet shops and performed free exams on birds, learning while building a reputation as the go-to guy for all problems avian. Soon, word got around the midwest: your parrot feeling poorly? Cockatiel have a cough? Toucan with a tummy-ache? Dr. Nye is your guy.
Rich joined another like-minded vet and used the dough from his trading gig to bankroll a different kind of practice--one of the first exotic-only animal clinics in the country. He became a charter member of the Association of Avian Veterinarians in 1980. He later served on the board for more than a decade and also served as president of the organization. In addition, he authored several book chapters on the subject.
Although birds are his main thing, Nye treats all sorts of exotic patients. A typical day at the office for Dr. Nye might include cleaning the teeth of a chinchilla, incising and draining a turtle's abscess, fixing up an iguana and operating on a blue cockatiel. And loving it.
The hands that once hurled baseballs proved quite adept at maneuvering surgical instruments in tiny places. He became renowned for performing hysterectomies on exotic birds.
Question: bird hysterectomies?
Visions of winged creatures crowding in to his waiting room complaining of painful menstrual cramps comes to mind (had he suggested this as a life's work while in Berkeley, one of his classmates might have justifiably asked what he had been smoking).
"It's actually more of an oviductectomy," he explains casually, only partially clearing up the confusion. "Pet birds have no way to control egg laying. That becomes a problem. So the procedure takes care of that." The 45-minute operation is performed with a hot wire and forceps while Nye sits down at the operating table wearing magnifying loops and a head lamp. The bird is anesthetized as a human would be--using monitors and positive pressure ventilation.
Nye is semi-retired now, but still practices one day a week, lending his expertise and serving as a mentor to the younger doctors in the busy practice. "I've been a vet for more than 40 years and I still love it."
Nye remains proud of his baseball career, particularly the part he played in the resurgence of modern Cub Nation. And he never lost the love of the game. He continued to play senior league, over-40 and over-50 baseball for decades, mostly playing outfield to spare his ailing wing.
"Playing baseball was not for the money for most of us back then" he says of his major league days. "It was a passion." He regularly gets together with several former Cubs for charity appearances and enjoys discussing his career. Looking back, a particular major league thrill was the first time he faced his idol Willie Mays. "I grew up in the bay area and he was my hero. It was a spring training game. I had retired eight batters in a row and he came up. Standing on top of the mound, I remember thinking, 'I thought he'd be bigger.' In Phoenix Stadium there was a green wall in center field that was about 30 or 40 feet tall and 430 feet from home plate. I get two strikes on him. The count's two-and-two. I've seen other guys go up the ladder with high fastballs and get him out, so I throw my best fastball and he hits it off the top of the fence. But at least I held him to a triple. It was so great just being on the field with him, though, watching him do his thing. He rounded first and second, then, without slowing, turned and backpedaled into third, never taking his eye off the ball. You knew if they'd bobbled the relay, he would have spun and went home."
"1967 was exciting. The whole atmosphere changed. We bred a whole bunch of Cub fans in those years."
Rich Nye: a lucky guy who got to earn a living while living out his passion--twice.