The Glory of Their Times

by Lawrence S. Ritter

  Luckily, my arm came back a month or two later, a few weeks after the season started. We went into Salt Lake City, and was it ever hot. Suddenly, during fielding practice, my arm felt like it stretched out at least a foot longer, and it felt real supple and good. It caught me by surprise, and I was afraid to really throw hard. But I did, a little more each time, and it felt fine!

  Duffy Lewis was managing Salt Lake City and he knew about my bad arm, so he’d told his players, “Run on Waner. Anytime the ball goes to him, just duck your head and start running, because he can’t throw.”

  There was a pretty short right-field wall at Salt Lake City, and in the first or second inning one of their players hit one off the wall. I took it on the rebound and threw him out at second by 15 feet. Someone tried to score from second on a single to right, and I threw him out at home. Gee whiz, I could throw all the way from the outfield to home plate! I threw about four men out in nothing flat, and after that they stopped running on me. I never had any trouble with my arm after that. It never bothered me again.

  I had a good year in the Coast League that first season; hit about .370. Then the next season I did the same thing, got over 200 hits, and batted in about 100 runs. I was figuring by then that maybe I should be moving up to the Big Leagues. Joe Devine, a Pittsburgh scout, was trying to get the Pirates to buy me, but the San Francisco club wanted $100,000 for me, and the Pittsburgh higher-ups thought that that was a little too much for a small fellow like me. I only weighed 135 pounds then. I never weighed over 148 pounds ever, in all the years I played.

  So Joe said to me, “Paul, it looks like you’ll have to hit .400 to get up to the majors.”

  “Well, then,” I said, “that’s just exactly what I’ll do.”

  I was kidding, you know. But darned if I didn’t hit .401 in 1925. I got 280 hits that season, and at the end of the year the Pirates paid the $100,000 for me. San Francisco sold Willie Kamm to the Big Leagues for $100,000 in 1922, and then did the same thing with me three years later.

  After I got to Pittsburgh early in 1926, I told Mr. Dreyfuss, the president of the club, that I had a younger brother who was a better ball player than I was. So the Pirates signed Lloyd and sent him to Columbia in the Sally League to see how he’d do. Well, Lloyd hit about .350 and was chosen the league’s Most Valuable Player.

  The Pirates took Lloyd along to spring training in 1927, mostly just to look at him a little closer. They never thought he could possibly make the team, ’cause Lloyd only weighed about 130 pounds then. He was only twenty years old, and was even smaller than me.

  Our outfield that season was supposed to be Kiki Cuyler, Clyde Barnhart, and myself. But Barnhart reported that spring weighing about 260 or 270 pounds. He was just a butterball. They took him and did everything they could think of to get his weight down. They gave him steam baths, and exercised him, and ran him, and ran him, and ran him. Well, they got the weight off, all right, but as a result the poor fellow was so weak he could hardly lift a bat.

  So on the trip back to Pittsburgh from spring training, Donie Bush came to me and said, “Paul, I’m putting your little brother out there in left field, and he’s going to open the season for us.”

  “Well, you won’t regret it,” I said. “Lloyd will do the job in first-rate style.”

  And he did, too, as you know. We won the pennant that year, with Lloyd hitting .355. I hit .380 myself, and between the two of us we got 460 base hits that season: 223 hits for Lloyd and 237 for me. It’s an interesting thing that of those 460 hits only 11 were home runs. They were mostly line drives: singles, doubles, and a lot of triples, because both of us were very fast.

  Don’t get the idea that we won the pennant for Pittsburgh all by ourselves that year, though, because that sure wasn’t so. We had Pie Traynor at third base, you know, and Pie hit about .340 that season. Pie was a great ballplayer, I think the greatest third baseman who ever lived. A terrific hitter and a great fielder. Gosh, how he could dive for those line drives down the third base line and knock the ball down and throw the man out at first! It was remarkable. Those two Boyer brothers who are playing now are both great fielding third basemen, but Pie could do all they can and more. In addition to his hitting and fielding, Pie was a good base runner, too. Most people don’t remember that.

  It’s a funny thing, but Pie always said that I was the best first baseman he ever threw to. I played first once in a while, not too much, but every so often. I didn’t know very much about how to play first base at the beginning, but one of the greatest fielding first basemen of all time practiced and practiced with me, until I knew my way around the bag well enough to make do. That was Stuffy McInnes, the great first baseman of the Philadelphia Athletics’ “$100,000 infield” back in 1911 and 1912 and around there.

  When I joined the Pirates in 1926, Stuffy was there as a substitute first baseman. He must have been close to forty at the time, and I think that was his last year in baseball. He’d been in the Big Leagues since 1910 or so. But he could still field that position like nobody’s business, and he tried to teach me all he knew. I was his roommate in 1926, before Lloyd came up the next year, and Stuffy would spend hours with me in the room showing me how to play first base, using a pillow as a base. Gee, even at that age he was just a flow of motion out there on the field, just everywhere at once and making everything look so easy.

  Actually, I was a little too small to make a good first baseman. On the other hand, I was almost as tall as Stuffy McInnes and George Sisler. Neither of them were six-footers. They were a lot bigger than I was, of course. They must have weighed at least 170 or 180. But neither of them was real tall, like most first basemen are.

  They say Hal Chase was the greatest fielding first baseman of all time. I never saw him, so I don’t know about that. But I did see Stuffy McInnes and George Sisler, and I don’t see how he could have been better than them. They were the best I ever saw. I guess every generation has its own, and it’s hard to compare between generations.

  Although I did see Honus Wagner play, I really did. Honus came back as a coach with the Pirates during the ’thirties. He must have been sixty years old easy, but goldarned if that old boy didn’t get out there at shortstop every once in a while during fielding practice and play that position. When he did that, a hush would come over the whole ball park, and every player on both teams would just stand there, like a bunch of little kids, and watch every move he made. I’ll never forget it.

  Honus was a wonderful fellow, so good-natured and friendly to everyone. Gee, we loved that guy. And the fans were crazy about him. Yeah, everybody loved that old Dutchman! If anyone told a good joke or a funny story, Honus would slap his knee and let out a loud roar and say, “What about that!”

  So whenever I’d see him, the first thing I’d say would be, “What about that, Honus,” and both of us would laugh. I guess there’s no doubt at all that Honus was the most popular player who ever put on a Pittsburgh uniform. Those Pittsburgh fans were always fine fans, did you know that? They sure were. And I presume they still are, for that matter.

  I remember soon after I came up, Pie Traynor said to me, “Paul, you’re going to be a very popular ballplayer. The people like to pull for a little fellow.”

  And that’s the way it turned out. In all the 15 years I played with Pittsburgh, I was never booed at home. Not even once. The same with Lloyd. No matter how bad we were, no booing. We never knew what it was like to be booed at home. I don’t imagine it would help a fellow any.

  Now on the road, I liked to be booed. I really did. Because if they boo you on the road, it’s either ’cause you’re a sorehead or ’cause you’re hurting them. Either one or the other. In my first year in the Big Leagues, the players all told me to watch out for the right-field fans in St. Louis. “That right-field stand is tough,” they said. “They ride everybody.” And, of course, the fellows didn’t know whether I could take a riding in the majors or not.

  So the first time we went into St. Louis, I figur
ed if they jumped on me I’d have a little fun. And sure enough, as soon as I showed up in right field they started in and gave me a terrible roasting. I turned around and yelled, “They told me for years about all you fans in St. Louis, that all the drunken bums in the city come here. And now that I’m here, I see it’s true.” I said it real serious and madlike, you know, never cracked a smile.

  Oh, did they scream! Well, such as that went on back and forth between us for two or three months. Then one day in the middle of the summer we were giving them an awful licking. I bounced a triple out to right center and drove in two or three runs, and after the inning was over and I came running out to my position they stood up and gave me the very devil. And then, for the first time, I laughed and waved to them.

  It so happened that on the very last out of that game a fly ball was hit out to me. I caught it, and then ran over to the stands and handed it to some old fellow that I’d noticed out there every time we played in St. Louis. Well, by golly, they started to clap, and soon all of them were cheering, and do you know that from then on all of them were for me. And that old fellow, any time I got the last ball after that I’d run over and give it to him.

  Stuffy McInnis: “The great first baseman of the Philadelphia Athletics’ $100,000 infield”

  Anyway, like I was saying, we won the pennant in 1927, the first year Lloyd and I played together in the Pittsburgh outfield. That was a great thrill for us, naturally. We even brought Mother and Dad and our sister to the World Series. But then the Yankees beat us four straight, so we weren’t very happy about Mother and Dad seeing that.

  The one thing I remember best about that Series is that I didn’t seem to actually realize I was really playing in a World Series until it was all over. The first time we came to bat in the first game, Lloyd singled and I doubled, and from then on the two of us just kept on hitting like it was an ordinary series during the regular season. Neither of us was a bit nervous.

  Finally, we came into the bottom of the ninth of the fourth game, with the score tied, 3–3. We were playing at Yankee Stadium, and the Yankees had already beaten us three times in a row. Before I knew what had happened, the Yankees had loaded the bases: Babe Ruth was on first base, Mark Koenig on second, and Earle Combs on third. And there were none out. But then Johnny Miljus, who was pitching for us, struck out Lou Gehrig and Bob Meusel, and it looked like we’d get out of it. While he was working on Tony Lazzeri, though, Johnny suddenly let loose a wild pitch that sailed over catcher Johnny Gooch’s shoulder, and in came Combs with the run that won the game, and the Series, for the Yankees.

  Out in right field, I was stunned. And that instant, as the run that beat us crossed the plate, it suddenly struck me that I’d actually played in a World Series. It’s an odd thing, isn’t it? I didn’t think, “It’s all over and we lost.”

  What I thought was, “Gee, I’ve just played in a World Series!”

  And you know, I think that’s the first time I really realized it. It’s funny how much your frame of mind has to do with your ability to play ball. I guess I forced myself not to think about playing in a World Series, so I wouldn’t get nervous.

  It’s the same way with superstitions. Most ballplayers know that such things are silly. But if it gives you a feeling of confidence in yourself, then it’ll work. You figure, “If it helps, why not? What have I got to lose?”

  Like the time I got six straight hits in a game. That was in 1926, my first year up. I used six different bats, and swung six different times, and came up with six different hits. You just know there has to be a lot of luck in a thing like that. It so happened that Bill McKechnie, who was our manager that year, changed our batting order a little that day, and I was put hitting second instead of third, where I usually hit. So I was in the corner of the dugout, smoking a cigarette, not figuring it was my turn yet, when somebody yelled, “Hey, Paul, hurry up, you’re holding up the parade. Get up to bat.”

  I hustled out to the plate and just grabbed a bat on the way, any bat, I didn’t even look. And I got a hit. So I thought, well, maybe that’s not such a bad way to do. The next time up I did the same thing, just grabbed a bat blind, not looking, and off came another hit. So I did that all day. Six bats and six hits. (However, that system stopped working the next day, unfortunately.)

  After that disastrous World Series, Mom and Dad and Lloyd and I went back home to Oklahoma, and darned if they didn’t have a parade and all for us in our home town. Everybody was so happy that I was hard put to figure it out. After all, we hadn’t won the Series, we’d lost it, and in four straight games to boot.

  Well, it turned out that there had been a lot of money bet there, but it hadn’t been bet on the Pirates against the Yankees. It had been bet on the Waner brothers against Ruth and Gehrig. And our combined batting average for the Series had been .367, against .357 for Ruth and Gehrig. So that’s why everybody was so happy.

  Well, after that 1927 pennant we never won another one, not one single one, all the years Lloyd and I played in Pittsburgh. Gee, that was tough to take. We ended second about four times, but never could get back on top again. We had good teams, too. You know, Pie, Arky Vaughan, Gus Suhr, Bill Swift, Mace Brown, Ray Kremer, all good boys. But we never quite made it.

  It’d just tear you apart. We’d make a good start, but before the season was over they’d always catch up with us. And when you’re not in the race any more, it gets to be a long season, really long.

  The closest we came was in 1938. God, that was awful! That’s the year Gabby Hartnett hit that home run. We thought we had that pennant sewed up. A good lead in the middle of September, it looked like it was ours for sure. Then the Cubs crept up and finally went ahead of us on that home run, and that was it.

  It was on September 28, 1938. I remember it like it just happened. We were playing in Chicago, at Wrigley Field, and the score was tied, 5–5, in the bottom of the ninth inning. There were two out, and it was getting dark. If Mace Brown had been able to get Hartnett out, the umpires would have had to call the game on account of darkness, it would have ended in a tie, and we would have kept our one-half-game lead in first place. In fact, Brown had two strikes on Hartnett. All he needed was one more strike.

  But he didn’t get it. Hartnett swung, and the damn ball landed in the left-field seats. I could hardly believe my eyes. The game was over, and I should have run into the clubhouse. But I didn’t. I just stood out there in right field and watched Hartnett circle the bases, and take the lousy pennant with him. I just watched and wondered, sort of objectively, you know, how the devil he could ever get all the way around to touch home plate.

  You see, the crowd was in an uproar, absolutely gone wild. They ran onto the field like a bunch of maniacs, and his teammates and the crowd and all were mobbing Hartnett, and piling on top of him, and throwing him up in the air, and everything you could think of. I’ve never seen anything like it before or since. So I just stood there in the outfield and stared, like I was sort of somebody else, and wondered what the chances were that he could actually make it all the way around the bases.

  When I finally did turn and go into the clubhouse, it was just like a funeral. It was terrible. Mace Brown was sitting in front of his locker, crying like a baby. I stayed with him all that night, I was so afraid he was going to commit suicide. I guess technically we still could have won the pennant. There were still a couple of days left to the season. But that home run took all the fight out of us. It broke our hearts.

  I still see Mace every once in a while, when he comes down this way on a scouting trip. He’s a scout for the Boston Red Sox. Heck of a nice guy, too. He can laugh about it now, practically 30 years later. Well, he can almost laugh about it, anyway. When he stops laughing, he kind of shudders a bit, you know, like it’s a bad dream that he can’t quite get out of his mind.

  The Waner family at the 1927 World Series: Lloyd, mother, sister, father, Paul

  Well, there’s a lot of happiness and a lot of sadness in playing baseball. T
he last full season that Lloyd and I played together on the Pirates was 1940. That was my fifteenth year with Pittsburgh, and Lloyd’s fourteenth. Heck, I was thirty-seven by then, and Lloyd was thirty-four. Of course, we hung on in the Big Leagues with various teams for about five more years, but that was only on account of the war. With the war and all, they couldn’t get young players, so I played until I was forty-two, and then my legs just wouldn’t carry me any more.

  I remember one day when I was with the Boston Braves in 1942. Casey Stengel was the manager. I was supposed to be just a pinch hitter, but in the middle of the summer, with a whole string of doubleheaders coming up, all the extra outfielders got hurt and I had to go in and play center field every day. Oh, was that ever rough! One doubleheader after the other.

  Well, that day—I think we were in Pittsburgh, of all places—in about the middle of the second game, one of the Pittsburgh players hit a long triple to right center. I chased it down, and came back with my tongue hanging out. I hardly got settled before the next guy hit a long triple to left center, and off I went after it. Boy, after that I could hardly stand up.

  And then the next guy popped a little blooper over second into real short center field. In I went, as fast as my legs would carry me. Which wasn’t very fast, I’ll tell you. At the last minute I dove for the ball, but I didn’t quite make it, and the ball landed about two feet in front of me and just stuck in the ground there. And do you know, I just lay there. I couldn’t get up to reach that ball to save my life! Finally, one of the other outfielders came over and threw it in.

  That’s like in 1944, when I was playing with the Yankees. I finished up my career with them. Some fan in the bleachers yelled at me, “Hey Paul, how come you’re in the outfield for the Yankees?”

  “Because,” I said, “Joe DiMaggio’s in the army.”