1948 was a long time ago, but I remember some things like yesterday. The War was over … and we had won. What a thing that was! People were tired and beat up, but, oh, what a sense of victory and pride! Some people had lost too much, and they were dispirited. But many Americans … most, I think … felt that victory had been worth the price that many people had paid. In 1948, a lot of Americans had gone farther, and had dug a lot deeper, than they, or anyone, thought they could. Someone would later call them “The Greatest Generation”, a bunch of regular folks who together had somehow done a great thing. They had won a total victory in, arguably, the only just war in history.
Back then, I was only a little boy, but I could still feel that elixir of confidence, the gentle state of good will and generosity that comes from knowing you have done something good that can never be taken away. Yeah, we’ve got a few scars and sores, but isn’t it great to just sit on the porch and be a plain, old American? I can remember this feeling like yesterday … those were good times! As a little kid, my earliest memories (1948-1952) are of almost everyone around me feeling pretty good!
I remember our car radio signing:
“Enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think.
Enjoy yourself, while you’re still in the pink!”
My dad was going to work on Saturday morning, like he often did, and I was invited to go with him. Not many people were in the office when we got there, so it was OK for me to play around under somebody else’s desk with a couple of toy cars. Dad was drawing stuff on a white pad with little blue squares. It was a design sketch of a piece of equipment. He was some kind of an engineer, and his company made all sorts of things. I wasn’t sure exactly what.
When he was through with the sketch, we picked up our stuff and went over to another office. A guy named Larry, with glasses, gave my dad some tickets, and we vamoosed out the door, past the uniformed guard who smiled warmly. Like I said, everybody seemed pretty happy, even company cops.
It turned out the tickets were for a Cleveland Indians game the next day versus Boston, a double-header. This got my brother and me pretty excited. We had been to two games this year, and we were pretty jazzed about the Indians. Even my mom liked the games. She knew most of the players’ names, and talked about them like they were friends and neighbors. During the first game we ever attended, when I fell asleep and missed half the game, my brother Mel had teased me about being a sleeping baby. I vowed to never sleep again during a game. A double-header would be my big chance to stay awake for 18 innings and show them I wasn’t a baby. I was fired up!
When we got home and showed the tickets to my mom and my brother Mel, everyone was on fire! We all started singing: “Take me out to the ball game, Take me out to the park,” and so on … It sounds dippy now, but at the time, it seemed pretty cool.
The next day, we got up and jumped in the car for the drive to Cleveland. It would take about an hour if there was no traffic. There was never much traffic until you got close to the ball park which was downtown on the lake front. Mom had packed some fried chicken. She said the ball park food was awful, and, if we started eating it, we would grow up sick or crooked. Her food was pretty good, and we figured she was probably right.
On the way to Cleveland, we drove past farms and ponds, and across hills, lakes, and streams. Eventually, we got to the edge of Cleveland. We knew it was Cleveland, because you could see a few tall buildings in the distance, notably the Terminal Tower, 33 floors high, with a distinct pointy top, the tallest building west of New York at the time. On top of the Terminal Tower were two gigantic flags, though they looked tiny from the car, because we were miles away. Dad said that one flag was the American Flag and the other was the Cleveland Indians flag. The Indians flag would fly only if there was a game that day. If the game was rained out, they would pull down the Indians flag. It was a little cloudy, but we were happy to see two flags flying. We couldn’t really see what was on the flags, but we believed my dad.
A lot of baseball fans like to tell about their first time walking into a big league baseball park … how they walked from a concrete city into concrete building, then, all at once, into a huge green pasture, with a bunch of seats around it. I was no different. In 1948, Municipal Stadium was the largest baseball park in the country, slightly bigger than NY’s Yankee Stadium. Both parks were built in the roaring 1920’s when lots of money was around. The sea of green grass at Municipal Stadium was definitely the biggest pasture I had ever seen inside a building.
For many years, the Indians had a lot of trouble filling a 70,000 seat stadium in a city of 700,000 people, but in 1948, that was no problem for Tribe’s owner, Bill Veeck, who set an attendance record that stood for a long time. In 1948, from April to September, the Indians were locked in a three-way battle with the Boston Red Sox and New York Yankees. Every game seemed like a cliff hanger, and the city (and everyone within radio range) hung on every pitch all summer long.
What a day! There was the legendary Lou Boudreau (the boy player-manager) warming up at shortstop, along side Joe Gordon at 2nd and Kenny Keltner at 3rd, comprising the most powerful offensive infield in history. Behind the plate, Jim Hegan, my personal favorite, and the best defensive catcher in baseball, received a pitch from Bob Lemon and threw down to second base easily. Backing up the throw I glanced out at Larry Doby, the first black player in the American League, signed by Veeck as soon as the ink dried on Jackie Robinson’s deal with Branch Rickey. Doby had that tight body language like Jackie, not relaxed, like Willie Mays and later Negro stars. Too much was riding on what he and Jackie did for them to be relaxed.
Bob Lemon would later be my favorite, but in 1948, I was more interested in the hitting and fielding guys … like Boudreau, the 4F college boy who failed the Army physical due to bad knees, but, in the male-depleted war years, talked the owner into making him a 23-year old player manager. I liked Hegan because he took charge on the field. He was 6’4”, looking down on pitchers, and telling them what to do. When there was a popup in the infield, he was out there directing traffic. Once I saw him catch a popup that drifted halfway from the pitcher’s mound to second base. Nobody ever saw Yogi Berra or Sherman Lollar (White Sox) go that far for a popup.
This game was special, because Ted Williams was playing. Ted was so amazing, and so different from other players, it was as if he had come down from a higher league. You had to watch every move he made at the plate, and you wanted to see him to hit the ball hard, even if it hurt your team. You just had to hope he would hit a long drive and Larry Doby would make a diving catch. In those days, Municipal Stadium was 420 feet to dead center and 380 in the power alleys, so there was a lot more room to roam. When I was a kid, Yankee Stadium was 466 ft in the left center power alley. Babe Ruth was a lefty and could care less, but Joe Dimaggio must have been pretty ticked about that 466 ft to the power alley.
This game was memorable as Ted Williams, Ken Keltner, and Larry Doby each hit a home run, while the Tribe won both games behind strong pitching performances by Bob Lemon and Steve Gromek as I watched intently … with no napping.
There was a famous game (this wasn’t it) in which Larry Doby hit a game-winning home run, and Steve Gromek, the winning pitcher, was photographed in the Cleveland Plain Dealer kissing Larry on the cheek. A few people up from West Virginia didn’t like that picture, but it went down OK with most northeast Ohioans. Even people who didn’t care for interracial marriage could see that a pennant race versus the Yankees was like World War II … i.e., it might call for extraordinary measures, like a white guy kissing a black guy.
You’re probably doubtful that a 3-year old could remember all this stuff. We talked about the summer of 1948 so much in later years, it is hard to say what I remember directly and what I remember from the re-telling the tales later. Anyway, I was at the ballpark for 8 games of the greatest baseball season ever. Later, when baseball added all the extra play-off games, the play-off games were what you would remember. But, in 1948, the regular season was everything. Every day, in the papers, a new set of scores, and a new look at the standings.
To northeastern Ohioans, it was right out of Tennyson …
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight.
If you came in second in the American League, as Cleveland usually did, the season was over on September 30. … but , not this year!
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About the time our family got back home to Logan Falls, Ohio and I was in bed, my cousin Billy McGill and his friend Brenda Beck were walking into a tavern in Cleveland to celebrate the two wins over Boston. Billy was a steel worker at the big US Steel plant south of the city, and, like my dad, had gotten his game tickets at work. I later learned that Mr. Veeck, the Indians’ owner, had a way of getting tickets into a lot of places where they would get used.
Brenda was awash with excitement, a combination of the pennant race and liking Billy quite a bit. As they ordered something with their beer, they noticed a bunch of well-dressed people at a nearby table. One was a balding guy with red hair who was exclaiming: “Boudreau is too young to be a big league manager, but what the hell, we’re in first place! Ha, ha, ha!”
A younger guy with a very black crew cut was saying: “Veeck agreed with you, but he asked the fans, and they voted to extend the boy manager’s contract. You know what else, I hear Veeck is going to sign Satchell Paige. He would be a 48-year-old rookie.”
“Don’t that beat all?” the redhead chortled, “A manager who is too young, and a pitcher who is too old! What the heck will Veeck do next?”
Black crew cut was ready for that: “They already have an alcoholic reliever, a war veteran with a metal plate in his head, and a guy with a leaky heart valve who turns blue after 18 pitches.”
Brenda was whispering behind her graceful hand to Billy: “Who are these guys, anyway?”
Billy thought they were nobody in particular, but he thought the people at the table behind them might be some of the so-called “The Jolly Set”, a bunch of newspaper columnists and local politicians who hung out with Bill Veeck after hours, talking about the pennant race and the state of the world. He whispered: “Listen to that table behind us and see what they say. I am pretty sure the white-haired couple is Plain Dealer columnist Gordon Cobbledick and his wife. The friendly-looking guy with the horn-rimmed glasses looks like Mayor Burke.”
The while-haired woman was lifting her glass and toasting: ”To another attendance record … 77,488 people at the ballpark today.”
A bespectacled guy, looking like an accountant raised his glass, saying: “Next Saturday night, if Satchell were to take the mound versus the White Sox, we will draw 80,000.”
Billy whispered that they should have another beer and see if Mr. Veeck himself would show up. He had just whispered the words when a tall, red head with freckles in an open necked Hawaiian shirt burst in and sat down. Suddenly all eyes were on the red head, who they believed must be Bill Veeck.
The white-haired guy who looked like Cobbledick looked straight at the redhead saying: “Well?”
The redhead smirked, looked down, and placed a folded, yellow telegram onto the table. The Cobbledick-looking guy picked it up and read aloud: “satchell now is the time STOP go to union station at kansas city and pick up your ticket STOP meet me at municipal stadium Wednesday at noon STOP bill veeck.”
Suddenly there were gasps around the table and muffled shrieks of elation. Everybody looked around to see if others in the room were listening. Only Brenda and Billy were listening, trying to look deadpan. The group at the table were all whispering and hugging each other.
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At the same moment, in Kansas City, a mousy, accountant-looking guy, Harry Truman, was sitting in the Savoy Grille talking with cronies about his chances in the coming Presidential election. Tom Dewey had been nominated by the G.O.P., and the smart money was on Dewey. F.D.R. had been extremely popular, but his sudden death had put Truman, a guy the media did not know or trust, into the highest office. The post-war boom had begun, and many middle Americans thought, after 16 years, maybe the Republicans should have a shot.
One of Truman’s oldest pals, in a dark suit, was holding forth: “Well, Harry, let’s all relax about this. You’ve had a hell of a run! Back in the 30’s, nobody ever thought you would be President of anything, let along the whole USA. Now, whether we win or not, we’re playing with the house’s money. Let’s just keep doing what comes naturally, and see what happens.”
Truman puffed on a thin cigar, then began to get a bit philosophical. “People are rightly celebrating our victories and the post-war boom. They think the future looks bright, and they don’t see the threats that are coming. Telling them about the Russians and eastern Europe being in chains isn’t going to get anybody elected. We need to run on our record, stress the economy, and smile a lot.”
Another fellow in a gray suit spoke up: “When the economy is working, nobody trusts the Democrats. Maybe we need to tell people about the external threats that only ‘Give ’em Hell Harry’ could deal with.”
“I am not sure if it’s ‘Give ‘em Hell Harry’ or ‘Go to Hell Harry’ ”, the bespectacled mild-mannered Truman smiled modestly, “The Communists are taking over China, and the Russians are locking up the Balkans.”
Gray suit held up his hand to stop the conversation. “Look, before the War, nobody in America gave a damn about what happened in ether of those places. Except for a few people in Chicago came in from there, most Americans don’t even know where the Balkans are.”
“I think we just smile a lot and take credit for winning the war and the post-war boom.”
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A little later in the Faculty Club at the University of Chicago, a group of white-haired people were enjoying sips of brandy in front of a fireplace. One particularly distinguished-looking fellow in a blue, pin-striped suit with well-groomed eyebrows and a mustache like Conrad Veight in Casablanca seemed to be holding court.
“Our recent conflict, though calamitous in the extreme, has resulted in a clear victory for liberal democracies in the fight for the ideals of the Enlightenment. Thinking people across the world are amazed by the surprising might of an American economy that was able to supply ships, planes, tanks, bullets, medicine, clothing, and food while other armies ran out of everything.”
“The late entry of the USA into both world wars demonstrates their essential modesty, a general feeling among middle Americans that they should not insert themselves into the business of other countries. Now, the whole world is looking here to see what will happen next.”
Most of the assembled academics, who spoke English with various European accents had arrived in Chicago as a result of a turmoil that engulfed Europe during and between the two great wars. Most had directly experienced the political bullying and anti-semitism that was the signature of Europe in the 1930’s and 40’s … which they hoped they had now escaped.
A younger, more nervous, and less-dignified guy in a cheap brown suit, blinked and stood up suddenly. “I zink dat is true, but da vurld iz full of people who do not vant to zink, who never heard about ze Enlightenment, and are under the control of bullies like the vones we have recently escaped. At present, only a few countries are under the control of liberal democracies.”
The distinguished guy was impressed, but was not backing down. “Indeed. That is why we are sitting here talking. The world continues to get better, but as Mr. Frost said, we have ‘miles to go before we sleep’. “
A new voice now entered the conversation, a middle-aged man with a plain, Sears Roebuck suit, and no detectable accent. “In my view, the biggest thing we have to fear is the people who, as you said, ‘do not vant to zink’”. The second great war has shown that individual freedom in a constitutional republic leads to great economic strength, and in a great conflict, great economic strength trumps everything.”
“The USA did not have the best generals, the best soldiers, or the best strategies. They had a strong business community, a dynamic economy, and a strong desire to retain their free way of life. None of that will necessarily make other people under an oppressive regime, who have never known freedom, want to establish a constitutional republic or a strong business community.”
“Yes, that is certainly true.“ A new voice coming from a coming from a gray-looking guy in a gray suit chimed in. “The new respect for America comes from its surprising strength, not from any understanding or love for its principles. Many European academics and most Asians sneer at “the American way of life”. They are only impressed with the money and sheer power that this country now possesses.”
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As I lay on my back in bed, I could see a big new moon waxing and lighting up the pasture outside my window. At this moment, at the beginning of life, after taking two from the Red Sox, everything seemed pretty all right to me.
Categories: Baseball, Baseball, Life Stories, Stories
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