With all the publicity surrounding Blue Moon, Belcher was counting on a big crowd for the newest Baron’s debut at Rickwood in a couple of days. Despite the team being in first place, the Barons were now only sixteen hundred ahead of the 1961 attendance figures.
Belcher was also counting on another factor to boost attendance—if the Barons were in first place on July 5, they would get to host the Southern League All-Star Game on July 12, a contest pitting the first-place team against the league’s best players. In 1951, Birmingham had hosted a Southern Association All-Star game that drew an overflow crowd of nineteen thousand.
Belcher knew that the days of minor-league baseball drawing that kind of a crowd were gone forever, but by his estimate, if an All-Star Game could draw six thousand fans, the gate receipts would put another $12,000 to $15,000 in the coffers, plus concessions… which could be the difference in the team’s turning a profit in 1964. As much as he loved baseball, he wasn’t in this thing to lose money.
July was just around the corner and that meant hotter weather, which used to mean improved attendance. The theory was that as the temperature rose, people went to ball games to help take their minds off the heat. They could refresh with ice-cold beverages. But that was before air-conditioning and television. People now preferred sitting home in their climate-controlled living rooms watching Gunsmoke on a hot and humid Saturday night.
Belcher joked about hoping that television and air-conditioning manufacturers would go out of business. Although the days of ESPN and fourteen televised games every night were still years away, the reality was that the Game of the Week with Dizzy Dean and Buddy Blattner on Saturday afternoons was pulling people right out of the seats of minor-league parks, including Rickwood. Although he didn’t say it publicly, Belcher also worried that the hotter weather could mean more racial disturbances.
“But we’ll be all right if we can just get that fat lady stuck in the turnstile to stop blocking our fans,” he said.
On the eve of Blue Moon’s Rickwood debut, Sullivan pulled Belcher aside. “Is there any possibility of pushing back Max Patkin to the next night?” he asked. “I’d rather not have him here the night Blue Moon is pitching.”
“I seriously doubt it,” replied Belcher. “Patkin is booked almost every night.”
With attendance declining in minor-league cities, teams were adopting new marketing strategies and promotional gimmicks to attract fans to the ballparks—family night, ladies’ night, Little League night, fan appreciation night, farmers’ night. Almost every minor-league franchise featured a night with Max Patkin. The Barons had scheduled him way back in January.
Billed as the “Clown Prince of Baseball,” Patkin had been a minor-league pitcher until an arm injury ended his career. He joined the navy during World War II, and while pitching for a service team in Hawaii he gave up a home run to Joe DiMaggio. In mock anger, Patkin threw his glove down, and then trotted behind DiMaggio as he rounded the bases, much to the delight of the fans—and a career was born.
For two decades Patkin had been barnstorming the country, performing at a different minor-league ballpark almost every night. He could contort his rubbery face into a thousand shapes. He wore a baggy uniform that hung loosely on his skinny body, and instead of a name or number it had a big question mark stitched on the back. His hat was always on sideways (before it was fashionable); he spewed endless geysers of water in mock exasperation. Performing his antics mostly between innings, he would also coach third base for an inning or two for the home team. Fans loved him. Teams that ran into him at three or four different ballparks during a season, however, grew weary of his act. Vulnerable to Patkin’s commotion, pitchers sometimes got distracted and thrown out of rhythm.
“Blue Moon doesn’t need any more distractions than he’s already got,” said Sullivan.
“I’ll see what I can do,” said Belcher.
Prior to Blue Moon’s Rickwood debut, Belcher revealed to reporters a conversation he had on opening night. It wasn’t the secret about the bomb threat—it would be years before he’d reveal that—but rather the story about Finley coming to him after that first game and telling him he believed the Barons were in for an “ugly season” if he didn’t send them help.
“We talked about the importance of giving the city a winning team to help keep a lid on things around here,” said Belcher. “I should give Finley credit for sending us some talented players.”
The addition of Reynolds, Stahl, and now Blue Moon gave support to Finley’s promise. Losing Joe Grzenda didn’t.
“I guess the proof will be what happens the rest of the season,” Belcher said. His biggest concern was that Finley would call up Campaneris, who was now hitting .301.
While the Birmingham press continued to fall all over itself in praise of Finley (who was coming to town again for Blue Moon’s game), they also took note of Belcher’s role in bringing back baseball. Benny Marshall, sports editor of the News, put it this way:
Albert Belcher had the audacity to become a pioneer around here.
Let it be said loud and clear for all to hear… the new Barons have added a great deal to the summer of 1964 in Birmingham. It’s difficult to find a long face, any place around Rickwood most nights now.
Thank you, Mr. Belcher.
Sitting in his office, Belcher hung up the phone and shook his head. He’d just talked to Pat Friday, the A’s general manager. Friday had called to see if Belcher could help find a National Guard unit in Alabama that would have an opening for Blue Moon.
In recent months, major-league teams had become nervous about losing players to the military. As long as Blue Moon had been in school, he received a student deferment, but now that he’d graduated, a notice from the Selective Service Board was as certain as sunrise. Two years of military service would be required… or six months of active duty in a reserve unit, with an additional six years of two-week summer duty.
All over the country, sports teams were scrambling to find openings in these reserve units for their athletes. Players who had already completed their military obligation, such as Larry Stahl and Tommie Reynolds, were valued commodities. So were married men. Because married men were exempt, weddings were being rushed as a way to avoid the draft. Blue Moon and Perrie had even talked about it. But she still had a year left in high school, so that option seemed premature.
In the previous week, Vietnam had leaped from a small, back-page story to banner headlines, casting a dark sense of foreboding. On consecutive days the Birmingham News ran headlines about Vietnam that bumped the stories about Wallace’s campaign and the ongoing battle over the passage of the Civil Rights Act to the bottom of the page. One headline in all caps read: MCNAMARA DISCLOSES: BLANK CHECK FOR VIET NAM WAR.
The editorial page also reflected this mounting concern. A column titled “Darkness in Vietnam” stated: “To put it bluntly, it becomes more and more apparent that the situation there is going to hell.”
In another story, syndicated columnist William F. Buckley Jr. called the situation “a nightmare.” A poignant, full-page ad simply listed the names of the 130 Americans killed in the line of duty so far in Vietnam. The ad was paid for by parents, relatives, and friends of the dead Americans, and was posed as an open letter to President Johnson, simply asking: “Why?”
Belcher promised Pat Friday that he’d make some calls to Alabama National Guard units, but from what he’d heard, openings were scarce. The reality was that Blue Moon, despite his new career and sudden wealth, was nineteen years old, out of school, and in excellent health—just the sort of young man the military wanted. Belcher knew that it could be only a matter of weeks, maybe days, until that notice from the Selective Service arrived in the mailbox… and his new box-office draw could be gone.