25

Playing Out the Schedule

By Saturday morning, all of Tom Yawkey’s champagne had been drunk and the cigars smoked. Fortunately for the Red Sox players, there was no game scheduled for the weekend day, providing the team a much-needed day off. Following the two-game series in Cleveland, the schedule called for the team to take the train to Chicago for a doubleheader on Sunday before making their way to St. Louis for a series with the bottom-dwelling Browns.

Leading up to the clinching game in Cleveland, Joe Cronin had been deliberating on how best to approach the period between clinching the pennant and playing in the World Series. He hoped to balance respite with the need to stay sharp and competitive. This approach included a break from the game for certain players, allowing them to step away from the field with the risk of disrupting chemistry and momentum.

Twelve years previous Cronin was the player–manager of the Washington Senators and was confronted with the same predicament. His team had clinched the American League pennant weeks before the World Series was scheduled to commence, and he had elected to grant his players a hiatus. The Senators would go on to lose the series 4–1 to the New York Giants.

In reflection, Cronin realized his strategy was a mistake. “In 1933, I gave all my players a rest,” he recalled. “When the series came around, they weren’t properly attuned for it. I’m not going to do it this year. I’ll use my regulars during our five-game home stay. I want them to be in the groove for the series.”

It had been a long year for the home team. They were sore, tired, and exhausted, both physically and mentally. Williams was still nursing aches and pains from the season; Catcher Hal Wagner was one year removed from guarding POWs and lingering foot discomfort. And starters Tex Hughson and Dave Ferriss had combined for 45 complete games and were weary. Dom DiMaggio had yet to shake the nagging quad and leg ailments that had haunted him ever since spring training. He had missed 11 games before the All-Star Game and still felt a pull in his left leg whenever he tried to extend himself. It was an injury he had hoped wouldn’t linger as the season continued. But now it was September, and the injury had shadowed him for months. While in St. Louis for a game DiMaggio saw a specialist to try to solve those “charley horse” issues.

In the end Cronin channeled King Solomon and decided to provide an option to certain positional players and select starting pitchers—opportunity to leave the team and return to Boston for rest and recreation. The only condition for the players who elected to accept the sabbatical was that they return to the team for the final seven games focused and ready to play.

For some the decision to choose rest was easy, while others wrestled with playing out the schedule for a variety of reasons. Pitcher Joe Dobson had 11 victories and had an outside chance to win 15 games and earn a $1,000 bonus. Fellow pitcher Boo Ferriss was chasing history. The second-year player had a chance to break Grover Cleveland’s record of 47 wins in his first two seasons of a pitcher’s career. Ferriss had 45 wins with three starts remaining. “I know I’m tired,” he said. “I want to be ready for the World Series, but this is an all-time record I can beat. I’d like to do it. I hope to get the chance.”

While Ferriss would stay with the team and try to set the two-year win record, Ted Williams, Charlie Wagner, Tex Hughson, Dom DiMaggio, Johnny Pesky, Bobby Doerr, and even Cronin all boarded an eastbound train from Chicago. When the train arrived back in Boston, the players dispersed to their homes to convalesce. Joe Cronin took advantage of his time away from the team to scout the two National League teams that were battling for the pennant—the Brooklyn Dodgers and the St. Louis Cardinals. Ted Williams took time out to travel to New York to watch his friend Joe Louis in a heavyweight fight.

When the Wolves were at their worst and his average falling, Williams decided it was time to assess his own career and earning capacity. Hoping to measure his worth, Williams hired a local sports promoter by the name of Fred Corcoran, who was tasked with assessing the slugger’s options outside of the game.

Part of Corcoran’s plan was to showcase the brand known as “Ted Williams.” Over recent months Williams started to connect with stars from other sports to learn from their approach in the arena—and outside the arena. In Chicago Williams spent time with British Open champion Sam Snead debating the challenges of their respective sports. During an earlier series in St. Louis, Williams invited heavyweight wrestler Ed “The Strangler” Lewis to visit the locker room to discuss theories on strength building. It was said that the slugger was obsessed with getting stronger, to the point of developing a “fetish for developing muscles.” By the end of the conversation, Lewis had talked Williams into losing the barbells he had recently purchased and focusing on stretching with special elastics, because being pliable was more important than being stronger.

Snead’s and Lewis’s perspectives on sports fascinated Williams. But no athlete left Williams in awe like heavyweight champion Joe Louis. The Bronx Bomber was probably the most famous athlete in the world. Earlier in the year Williams had spent time with the champ, and the two struck up a friendship. So much so that when Cronin allowed Williams and some of his teammates time away from the game, the slugger traveled down to New York with his wife Doris and his agent to watch his new friend defend his championship for the 23rd time against a New York bartender and brawler named Stefano “Tami” “The Bronx Barkeep” Mauriello.

The electricity of the sport wowed Williams, as did the love his fandom showed Louis. The fight, which was held at Yankee Stadium in front of 30,000 fans, was predicted to end fast. And it almost ended in the first seconds when the underdog Mauriello clubbed Louis with a right-handed kill shot, staggering Louis into the ropes. The Champ would gather himself and knock out his opponent seconds later.

Flying to heavyweight championship fights and matching swings with Snead served to enhance Williams’s public image. Much the way Babe Ruth tried to capitalize on his success on the field. Williams’s talent had him on the same trajectory that Babe Ruth blazed in his last years as a Red Sox.

When Ruth felt trapped by forces that looked to limit his boundless potential, his instinct was to detach himself from those who sought to inhibit him. When management or binding legal documents restricted him, he sought outlets that allowed him to dictate his path.

By 1920 Ruth had hit more home runs than any player in the game’s history, and he expected to be treated like the royalty that he considered himself. When Boston management failed to raise their appreciation to the level he expected, he sought refuge in California and explored options where he hoped his talents would be realized.

Twenty-six years later the Red Sox again had the best hitter in the game on their roster. And like Ruth, Williams made the same determination as his predecessor.

In the off-season, Williams planned on following in Ruth’s footsteps and flying out to California, where he agreed to appear in a movie with Bing Crosby (earlier in the year Crosby tried to buy the team—now he was trying to distract the team’s best player). The visit to Hollywood was coordinated so as not to interfere with Williams’s scheduled visit to Mexico to fish and continue conversations with Bernardo Pasquel to discuss the possibility of the slugger playing the game next year south of the border, thousands of miles away from those “ingrate” Boston fans and the writers.

While the starters’ train traversed east, the Red Sox “B” team, led by their assistant coaches, made their way from the shores of Lake Michigan 300 miles south to St. Louis to play the seventh-place Browns. Joining the B team for the St. Louis series was starting first baseman Rudy York. When York was asked by the press why he didn’t join his fellow starters back to Boston, York answered with his deadpan face but firm voice, “I’m a 154-game player. I’m hired out to work.”

The burly first baseman was acquired by the team early in 1946 after Cronin pushed the front office to trade for the former Detroit Tiger. Originally York was reluctant to leave his former team. Unhappy about joining Boston, he decided not to report to spring training and was considered a holdout. When Cronin was asked about the whereabouts of his new first baseman, he simply answered, “He’s in some Georgia swamp.”

The Red Sox first baseman grew up in Georgia. On his mother’s side the family lineage included blood that was passed down through the tribe of the Cherokee. Throughout York’s career his heritage was linked to his play on the field. One writer called him “Part Indian and part infielder.” The Sporting News called him the “Big Injun first sacker.” After an impactful game, papers spun headlines such as “Rampaging Cherokee” or “York was on the Warpath.” His teammates would celebrate York’s heroics with lines such as, “I love Indians.”

York was a somber, proud man. His face revealed almost a sadness. The edges of his mouth sloped south, reflecting a natural frown. Under his hat he wore his hair in flat-top style. His seriousness was never more apparent than when he was in the batter’s box. With a bat held in his massive hands, he looked more caveman than world-class athlete. The 6-foot-tall, 208-pound slugger was built to hit the ball hard and often. As opposed to his teammate Williams, whose swing was like a symphony with hips and hands working in concert, York’s relied on brute strength to rip the bat head with violence toward the baseball.

It was York’s brute strength that allowed him not only to hit home runs and drive in runs but it gave the Red Sox a real professional with World Series experience. York was a seasoned veteran that held the team to the standard that demanded effort and sincerity. This included Ted Williams.

Following an incident in which a distracted Williams was picked off second base, the left fielder meandered back to the dugout in a state of indifference. But this time when he walked down the dugout steps, first baseman Rudy York was waiting for him.

York was a rock of a man chiseled in pride. It was this pride that compelled him to confront a teammate who was guilty of tainting an organization that he was associated with. The acquisition of York during the off-season was intended to provide Williams protection in the lineup. But it also meant that the lineup would have protection from Williams. York was the only player or coach willing to confront the mercurial star.

York met his unhappy teammate when he came back to the dugout and clearly articulated that his behavior was unacceptable. He then demanded in his low, scratchy voice, “You’re going to stop that. This means something to the rest of us. You’re not going to do that anymore.” York supposedly added, “Anywhere that I have ever played ball I have played to win and I’m playing to win here. Don’t you ever loaf out there again. We have a chance to win this pennant. And you are going to help us.”

The Patriot Ledger later reported that York extended the conversation after the game: “York had threatened to drive a set of knuckles down Ted’s throat in a none too happy clubhouse scene.”

In the dugout York had the unique ability to decipher team decorum and the codes of the game—pitching sequences, coaches’ signals, and pitcher “tells.” To prove how adept he was at code breaking, he went up and down the bench smoking cigarettes and predicting pitches and opponents’ plays.

Over his career York would knock in over 100 runs six times while being selected to seven all-star teams. During his rookie season in 1937, the new Detroit Tiger would set two major league records: hitting 18 home runs and knocking in 49 runs in the month of September, breaking Babe Ruth’s and Lou Gehrig’s milestones respectively.

His fantastic hitting exhibition in his rookie year only caused Detroit fans to set unrealistic expectations for their newfound star. Despite averaging 104 RBI a season for nine years, the fans booed their first baseman almost every at bat of his Tiger career.

In York’s first season with the Red Sox in 1946, he was selected by the Sporting News as Best Comeback Player just one year after being booed out of Detroit. The first baseman was liked and respected by his teammates, but socially he was content with his own company. He liked a drink or two. Lawton Carver of International News wrote, “York reputedly has been heap big troublesome when heap full of firewater down through the years.”

It was in this compromised state that the burly first baseman was known to fall asleep with a lit cigarette in hand. In fact he started more than one hotel fire in his time, including an almost fatal blaze at the Myles Standish Hotel in Kenmore Square, a block from Fenway Park. Fortunately for York and the other hundred evacuees, a woman on the same floor smelled the smoke and alerted hotel staff. They broke into York’s room and roused him from his state.

Teammate Eddie Pellagrini once said of of York, “One year with Detroit he led the league in home runs. One year with us he led the league in fires.”

York stayed with the B team and played in both games of the St. Louis series. For the year the all-star first baseman played in 154 regular-season games, hitting 17 home runs and knocking in 117 runs, making Cronin’s suggestion to trade for the Detroit first baseman one of the most important transactions of the season.

Following the series in St. Louis, the Browns were furious with the Red Sox for disrespecting the game by submitting a lineup devoid of their regular players. The Browns fans came to see Williams hit a home run and Pesky and Doerr. The Browns filed a complaint with the league offices and the American League. American League President William Harridge ignored the request for censure and fine. He had more important things to worry about than a team that was 38 games out of first place complaining about lineups. Harridge wanted to make sure the pennant-winning Boston team was positioned to bring the league back the World Series title.

The Browns, not content with the league president’s lack of action, took matters into their own hands and refunded fans in the amount of $500 after they were subjected to watching players who weren’t representative of the best the visiting team had to offer.

One week later the full roster rejoined the team in Washington, DC. Immediately Cronin recognized that the players seemed flat and distracted. He gathered the team in the locker room and expressed the opportunity that was available to them. To win the World Series, they had to “stay sharp.” He would tell the press that his team “would battle for every run and every ball game right down to the finish.”

While in Washington, DC, it was again about more than baseball. The Senators were desperately trying to reach the 1 million mark in attendance. The Senators asked the Red Sox if they could reschedule their matinee game to nighttime under the lights to allow more fans to attend. Cronin, who was married to the Senators owner’s daughter, was more than happy to accommodate their wishes. On that night, 24,386 Washington fans came to the park, giving the home team 1,011,410 fans for the season. It was the first time the Senators had ever reached the mark (and they never would again).

Before the game Williams was chosen to pick a ticket stub out of a hat. The holder of the lucky ticket was awarded a car. Proceeds from the game were donated to pay the medical expenses of the Senators’ greatest player, Walter Johnson, who was dying in a local hospital. Earlier in the day Cronin, a former Washington Senator, had visited his former skipper and was brought to tears when he left his friend’s room.

When the Red Sox won the pennant, Mayor Curley planned a lavish banquet for the team and their more prominent Royal Rooters. The Red Sox appreciated the offer but were concerned that the dinner and celebration would be both premature and distracting. But, no matter how hard Cronin tried to keep the team focused on baseball, the distractions and ancillary benefits of being American League champions triggered an avalanche of events that diverted the players’ attention.

One of the distractions was a late season exhibition game in Western Massachusetts where the players were to be presented gifts and be lauded by the locals. For the game, the players traveled by bus as a team. Williams elected to drive to the game in his new car along with his wife Doris and other associates rather than accompany the team. When he reached the town of Holliston, he crashed into an oncoming car, totaling both automobiles. Williams hurt his knee and hip, while his wife was knocked unconscious after hitting her head. One week later a local businessman bought Williams a brand-new car, while the driver of the other car, who had never heard of Williams, was left sore and annoyed.

The team would make to the game and their star would survive the crash. At the exhibition, players were presented gifts by the hosts, including shotguns and leather jackets. Cronin was given a car.

As well as the exhibition, there were games dedicated to different players. On Johnny Pesky Day, the city of Lynn, Massachusetts, presented Johnny and his wife with a collection of electronic gadgets for the kitchen and home. On Eddie Pellagrini Day, which was hosted by his Boston neighborhood of Dorchester, the back-up infielder was gifted a car.

But no event drew more attention than the celebration hosted by the local department store Filene’s. Earlier in the month, Filene’s ran an ad in the local papers congratulating the team after they won the pennant:

They’re in!

Yesterday afternoon millions of American’s men, women and children laid aside, for a few hours at least, whatever part of the world’s burden their shoulders bear, and thrilled to the crack of the bat and the roar of the crowd as Boston’s Own Red Sox clinched the Pennant.

We’ve got a greater kick out of Baseball this year . . . the mad homage of the Red Sox fans . . . the feel of a town gone berserk over baseball.

That’s America for you!

Good luck, Red Sox. Thanks for a wonderful season.

Rabidly Yours,

Filene’s

Before the first pitch of the team’s final regular-season game, Filene’s planned a celebration to send the team off to the World Series in style. As the players finished loosening for the game, a gigantic helicopter hovered over the stadium before lowering itself on the outfield grass just behind second base. As the doors slid open, bubbly models stepped out holding a collection of camel hair coats to present to each player, coach, and even batboy. The models stood behind smiling players, helping them on with their coats. After the presentation the players stood in the outfield with their red and blue stirrup socks sticking out from under the camel hair.

The Red Sox proceeded to lose the last regular season game 7–0. The Boston Globe headline the following day reported that the team “Look Listless.” Over their last 18 games, they finished with a record of 8–10. The team collectively hit .237 in the final month of the season and fell 1 game short of both Dom DiMaggio’s season-long goal of 105 wins and Dave Ferriss’s bid to tie the major league record with 47 wins in his first two years.

Pesky would win the hit title, recording 208 hits. It was his fourth season in professional baseball, and the fourth time he would lead his league in hits. “I’m a lucky son of a gun,” he said. “I must live right or something.” Williams came up 8 points short of the .350 he predicted back in spring training. He lost out on the Triple Crown that he coveted, finishing second in all three categories (the home run and RBI titles went to Hank Greenberg, and Mickey Vernon of the Senators had the best batting average).

For the first time in the team’s history, over a million fans came to Fenway Park. In total, attendance for 1946 equaled 1,416,944, compared to 730,340 the previous year (a 94 percent increase). Boston relished their year in the sun. Now they held their breath and got ready for the World Series.

Following their last out of the final regular-season game, the Red Sox players made their way into the clubhouse, hung up their new camel hair coats in their lockers, and packed their bags for the train ride to Game 1 of the World Series. But there was a problem: The National League pennant had yet to be determined.