Summer of '49: The Yankees and the Red Sox in Postwar America

by David Halberstam

  In notes to himself in the mid-sixties, a time when such problems seemed even more severe, Boston sportswriter Harold Kaese wrote, “Who would ever advise a friend to take a job under the present alcoholic axis of Yawkey and [Mike] Higgins?” A few years later, Higgins, who had held virtually every job in the Red Sox organization, was sentenced to a four-year prison term in Louisiana for negligent homicide after his car hit and killed a Louisiana state highway department worker and injured three others.

  Yawkey was a generous man, but on his own terms. He was quick to reward players for exceptional performances. Boo Ferriss in his rookie year made $700 a month for five months, or a total of $3,500. He was also pitching brilliantly. He won his first eight starts. Cronin kept telling him, “Don’t worry about the money—whatever you do, that’s not a problem. Mr. T will take care of you.” At the end of the season Yawkey called Ferriss in and gave him a bonus of $10,000. There were endless stories like that. He handed Mike Kelley, the head of his Minneapolis farm team, an envelope after Ted Williams had spent a year there. Inside the envelope was a note that said, “Thanks, Mike, for making a ballplayer out of Williams,” and $10,000 in cash.

  But Yawkey could also act like a spoiled child. Once when a Boston sportswriter mentioned some of the things about the team that bothered Boston fans, Yawkey’s temper quickly flashed. “Just remember, I have the last word,” he said. “I always have the last word.” Generally, if a sportswriter wrote a story that annoyed him, he would rant that by God the next day he was going to buy the paper and put the SOB out of work.

  Some thought Yawkey was merely trying to have a belated childhood by playing with grown-up toys. When Earl Johnson first arrived at spring training in 1940, he noticed a heavyset man dressing at the locker next to him. How can that fat guy play baseball? Johnson thought. That’s disgraceful—he’s way out of shape. Just then the man spoke. “Aren’t you Earl Johnson?” “Yes,” answered the rookie. “I’m Tom Yawkey,” said the man. He stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Yawkey,” mumbled Johnson. “Cut out that Mister stuff, my name’s Tom,” Yawkey said. In fact, the owner liked nothing better than to put on a Red Sox uniform and, with a handful of substitute players helping out and local urchins running down the balls in the outfield, take batting practice. At these times no one else was around in his own ball park, and there was a hard rule: No photographers were ever to capture this moment. The batting-practice pitchers were under orders to groove the ball on all occasions (according to Kaese they substituted tightly wound, hopped-up balls—Phillips 99 balls they were called—so that the ball would carry and hit the wall). The ball boys were handsomely tipped for their efforts. The scorer was at best biased: Anything Yawkey hit, no matter how flagrant the mishandling in the field, was a hit; anything hit by others and mishandled by others was an error. The bench players who participated were considered sycophants by their teammates (the “ass-kisser all-stars” was the exact nickname).

  Though he loved his players and the idea of being a part of the game, Yawkey became increasingly reclusive. He had been close to Grove and Foxx and that generation of stars, for they were his own age and would go on hunting and fishing trips with him. But by the time of the Williams-Pesky generation, he was close only to Williams, the superstar. Dick O’Connell, one of the front-office men, would push Yawkey to get out and visit with the other players, which he did, though somewhat reluctantly. He would invariably spot Eddie Pellagrini, a utility infielder. “Eddie, how are you,” he would say. “Gee, he really likes me, doesn’t he?” Pellagrini would say, beaming, to Dick O’Connell after one such visit. “Eddie,” answered O’Connell, “you’re the only one he knows.”

  All of this showed in the attitude of the team, and also in the bottom line. The Yankees in those days were, by outside estimate, making an annual profit of about 5 or 6 million dollars. In 1948, despite the feverish pennant race and the fact that Boston set an attendance record, the Red Sox showed a profit of only $55,000. That meant that without the profits from the playoff game, the Red Sox might have run in the red. In only four of Yawkey’s sixteen years did the team show a profit. Perhaps Yawkey did not want to make a profit because he would only have ended up paying more income tax. But the statistic says something important: He never regarded baseball as a business.

  Despite their encouraging victory over the Yankees in May, in June the Red Sox continued to slip. McCarthy was becoming irritable. He could not wait to unload Sam Mele, who had played a fair amount for him in right field in 1948. After one game the previous year in which Mele had not gotten to a ball, McCarthy turned to the bench and said, “Henrich would have stuck that in his ass.” The criticism had stung, for it was an unfavorable comparison with the Yankees. The next day Mele went into McCarthy’s office to order some bats. “I thought you might want to order a glove, not bats,” McCarthy said.

  In May, still looking for a right-fielder, Boston bought Al Zarilla, a skilled outfielder, from the hapless St. Louis Browns. Zarilla was following in the footsteps of Kramer, Stephens, and Kinder. The price tag was said to have been between $125,000 and $150,000. THE BOSTON BROWNS, the Red Sox should now be called, the Globe said in a headline. Luke Sewell, a former Browns player and then manager with the Reds, said of the Red Sox, “They must have the most profitable franchise in baseball. It’s the only club that’s supporting two teams in the same league—their own and the St. Louis Browns.” But even the purchase of Zarilla did not seem to improve the way the Red Sox were playing. They were impressive at home and in games where they established big leads early, but they had trouble in close games.

  McCarthy responded by spending more time at the end of the bench with Gus Froelich, the trainer who had come up with him from the Yankees. One of Froelich’s jobs was to keep a towel discreetly wrapped around a bottle of whiskey and, when things were going badly, to make himself available to the manager.

  In early June the Red Sox went on the road and lost two of three to the Indians. Nothing seemed to go right. Lemon beat Kinder 8-3. Kinder had given up ten hits and didn’t even make it through the third inning. With a record now of 4-3, he seemed on his way to a most ordinary season. The next day Early Wynn beat Dobson 8-1. On the train from Cleveland to Detroit, McCarthy walked through the Pullman cars to find his players slumped and asleep in their seats in broad daylight. “What the hell is this?” he shouted with reporters within hearing distance. “If they had to play a doubleheader after a night game there might be some reason for this—for sleeping in the daytime.”

  Detroit turned out to be even worse. Parnell started in the first game and at one point Boston led 7-1. But, bothered by what he felt was a flat mound, Parnell lost his control. McCarthy went to Tex Hughson, whom he did not like. By the eighth Boston was still ahead, 9-6, and McCarthy called on Earl Johnson. Johnson was one of the better relief pitchers on the Red Sox—a sinker-ball, screwball pitcher who made hitters hit the ball down. In 1948, he had been 10-4. But McCarthy had never, in Johnson’s view, hidden his contempt for him. On this day Johnson was sick with an intestinal flu, and had not even wanted to come to the ball park. When McCarthy told him to go down to the bullpen, Johnson felt he could barely walk. He gave up a hit to George Vico, and then walked three men in a row, forcing in Vico. That made it 9-7, with the bases loaded. He had never walked three men in a row before in his life. As Johnson walked to the bench, McCarthy never looked at him. But his voice was very clear: “Big-league pitcher my ass! Can’t even get the goddamn ball over.” Having your manager talk like that in front of your teammates, Johnson thought, was like dying a little. Next, Ellis Kinder came in from the bullpen. He gave up an outfield fly, which scored a run and made it 9-8. Then he walked a man, and the bases were loaded. He gave up a single, which made it 9-9. Up came a pinch hitter named Connie Berry, who was hitting .085 at the time. Kinder walked him on five pitches and the Tigers had the lead and the game, 10-9.

  The next day there was a doubleheader. Joe Dobson asked to pitch the first
game and won 5-3. But in the second game Mickey Harris started. His arm hurting him, he gave up 7 runs in the first six innings. By the eighth inning it was 7-2. With the game virtually gone, McCarthy again called on Johnson, who was still sick. He stood out there, weak and feeble, and, in his own words, pitched as if it were batting practice. He gave up 6 hits and 4 runs in one inning. McCarthy left him out there. When Johnson walked back to the dugout, again he heard McCarthy’s voice: “Christ sake, if you kept them from scoring we might actually win a game sometime.” This time Johnson turned and said, “I’ll tell you one fucking thing—at least I didn’t walk anyone this time.” Johnson knew he was finished on the team.

  McCarthy could not control himself. He was furious at Johnson. He was furious at Kinder. Kinder was always breaking rules; he was always the last man on the bus and he looked like the party had been going on all night and was still going on. He was going to learn. A day after the Detroit defeat, McCarthy imposed a midnight curfew, the first curfew he had ever given the team. Kinder was hardly bothered by it. He had decided that McCarthy ruled by a double standard: one for the stars and another for the other players. He had no intention of observing the curfew.

  Within a week Sam Mele and Mickey Harris were gone, traded to Washington for Walt Masterson. The Boston Globe was underwhelmed. Its headline said: SOX TRADE ENDS SENTIMENT FOR POSSIBLE PENNANT.

  CHAPTER 8

  IN MID-JUNE JOE DIMAGGIO got up one morning and stepped cautiously on the floor, expecting the pain to shoot through his foot once again. Miraculously, the pain was gone. He touched his heel with his hand. Until then it had felt hot to the touch. Now it felt normal. He began to smile. He walked around the apartment and felt no pain.

  That day, for the first time in weeks, he went out for both lunch and dinner. On the street when people recognized him he was pleased. He was delighted to sign autographs. Soon, he decided to take batting practice. The team was on a western trip, but Gus Niarhos, a backup catcher who was injured, and Al Schacht, a former pitcher known as The Clown Prince of Baseball, were available. Schacht could still throw reasonably hard. For fielders they got a bunch of neighborhood kids who hung around the Stadium. The workout lasted an hour.

  Soon DiMaggio expanded the workouts. He had Niarhos hit fly balls to him, and he would run them down. He was easily winded, and his legs were not in shape, but there was no pain. The Yankees came home from their road trip, and he showed up at the park in uniform. No one asked questions about whether he was ready. One morning he called Curt Gowdy, who lived in the same hotel, and they drove out to the Stadium together so that Gowdy could watch him take batting practice. When he finished, Gowdy took a look at his hands. They were completely covered with bloody blisters caused by the batting.

  “Jesus, Joe, look at that,” Gowdy said.

  “Oh, that’s nothing, forget about that,” DiMaggio answered. “I took too much batting practice, but that doesn’t matter. There’s no pain in my foot. That matters.”

  Cleveland was in town for the first series of the home stand and Lou Boudreau, the Cleveland manager, was also the manager of the American League in the All-Star Game. It was still two weeks away and Boudreau told DiMaggio he hoped he would be able to play. “I’m not even in the running,” DiMaggio said, for the fans voted then.

  “I think it could be arranged,” Boudreau said.

  After the first game with Cleveland, when everyone else had left the park, DiMaggio asked Niarhos to hit fly balls to him in the outfield for half an hour. Then he ran around the outfield a few times. Again there was no pain. After the Cleveland series, the Yankees had an exhibition game with the Giants at home before going up to Boston for three games. Stengel told DiMaggio simply to let him know when he was ready, and DiMaggio decided to try the exhibition game.

  Before the game there was a home-run-hitting contest, and by far the biggest cheers were for DiMaggio. He hit only one out, but it drew even wilder cheers from the crowd. He went hitless in four trips during the game, but the Giants had used Kirby Higbe, who was throwing a knuckle ball at the time. It was not the optimum pitch to return against. The next day the team left for Boston, and until the last minute DiMaggio did not know if he would make the trip. He was torn between the desire to play and the fear that he wasn’t ready for real pitching. He did not want to embarrass himself and hurt the team. The other players went up by train in the morning. He waited and then finally jumped on a 3:15 plane. On the plane he saw a friend who asked if he was going to play. “I don’t know,” he answered. At 5:15 he arrived at the clubhouse. Stengel was surrounded by writers who were asking for the lineup. He was still waiting to hear from DiMaggio. DiMaggio was dressing slowly, pondering what to do, and Stengel was stalling the writers. Finally DiMaggio said yes, he could play, so Stengel put him in the lineup.

  In their dugout the Red Sox watched DiMaggio come out to warm up. One of the younger Boston players predicted that DiMaggio would have a hard time running out an infield hit. McCarthy, a great DiMaggio fan, immediately interrupted him. “You don’t know him. You watch him the first time there’s a chance for an infield hit. Watch how he runs,” he said. There was an ominous note to the way McCarthy said it, one of the Boston pitchers thought, as if he were saying, “They are the real professionals.”

  In the first game Mickey McDermott was pitching for the Red Sox. He was young, skinny, and wild. In the second inning DiMaggio led off. McDermott was very fast, one of the three or four fastest pitchers in the league. DiMaggio found it hard to adjust his batting eye to McDermott’s speed and he fouled off six or seven pitches. Each one went off to the right, which meant that he was swinging late. Finally McDermott came in with a fastball, belt-high, and DiMaggio slapped it over Junior Stephens’s head for a single. That was a hit well earned. Then Lindell walked and Hank Bauer hit a home run. The Yankees were up, 3-0. In the third Rizzuto singled to start the inning, then DiMaggio came up again. That man, McDermott thought, does not seem to me like a player who has missed two months of play, that looks to me like the real Joe DiMaggio. On the mound he said a prayer: “Please, dear God, help me get this man out. I won’t ask anything else from you today.” Then, he remembers, “I heard this deep voice answering me: ‘I’ll help you get him out, Maurice, if you’ve got a really good fastball today. Other than that, son, you’re on your own.’ ” He was, it appeared, on his own. This time DiMaggio put his body into a pitch and hit it over the wall. How sweet the feeling was. Rizzuto jumped up and down like a little kid as DiMaggio crossed home plate. The Yankees won 5-4 behind Reynolds and Page.

  Ellis Kinder pitched the second game against Tommy Byrne. Byrne, a lefty, was intimidated by Fenway. He never made it past the first inning. He walked three and gave up three doubles in a row to Williams, Stephens, and Doerr. In the second, with the Yankees playing deep, Williams bunted for a hit and then Stephens hit a home run. The Red Sox took a 7-1 lead into the fifth. Even in Fenway, that was a huge lead against a tough pitcher. But in the fifth, Kinder seemed to lose his control. He walked Rizzuto and Henrich, which brought up DiMaggio. Kinder was a hard pitcher for DiMaggio, who preferred a fastball pitcher; Kinder usually relied on subtlety instead of power. This time, though, DiMaggio got the pitch he wanted and drove the ball over the fence in left center. The score was now 7-4.

  In the seventh Gene Woodling doubled off Earl Johnson with the bases loaded. In the eighth, with the score tied 7-7, and with two out and no one on, DiMaggio came up again against Johnson. The Boston fans, aware that something remarkable was going on, had started cheering for DiMaggio as well as for their own team. Johnson, the top Boston relief pitcher, was determined not to give DiMaggio anything good to hit. He was aware that Williams and DiMaggio were in a dead heat for the title of best hitter in baseball. A few years earlier, with a game on the line, Johnson had pitched to DiMaggio with two out and men on second and third. Joe Cronin had come out to the mound. “Whatever you do, Earl,” he had said, “don’t throw him a strike. Don’t let him beat u
s.” Johnson had placed the ball exactly where he wanted it, about six inches on the outside, but DiMaggio had pounced on it and, even more remarkably, pulled the ball past third for the game-winning hit. A few months later Johnson ran into DiMaggio at a postseason banquet. “Joe, how in the hell did you pull that ball?” Johnson asked. “I figured that when Cronin came out he told you not to give me anything good to hit. I was sure he told you to pitch on the outside. So I waited, and I was ready,” he answered.

  Johnson decided to give DiMaggio a low inside curve, a hard pitch for a hitter to get in the air. He put the ball exactly where he wanted it. To his amazement DiMaggio reached down and golfed the ball way over the wall and onto the screen. It was the hardest kind of swing for a good hitter, particularly one who was out of tune. As DiMaggio neared the dugout, Stengel, never one to miss an opportunity for theater, came out and starting bowing toward him like a Muslim to Mecca.

  Even before the Boston game, DiMaggio’s return had become, day-by-day, an occasion of national drama. Now it was a national sensation, so much so that he later sold his account of it to Life magazine for $6,000, a very large figure of the period. DiMaggio’s own memory was of the noise and cheering, which grew and grew, inning by inning, until it was deafening.