Authors: Jim Piersall,Hirshberg
Williams, DiMaggio—and Piersall! What an outfield! Now it’s less than a year away.
I hurried to Scranton by air. Mary and Eileen had driven home in the car a month ahead of time, since Mary’s sister Ann, who had been with us all summer, had to get back in time for school. My dad came down to watch the Dixie Series, and he and I flew as far as New York together. Since we were no longer living together, we got along better than we ever had before. He recognized me as an equal and he never raised his voice or showed any signs of annoyance.
We settled down with Mary’s father in his house at the corner of Capouse Avenue and Woodlawn Street in Scranton. Life looked wonderful to me. I had had that marvelous season in Birmingham, there was a little money in the bank and I was almost a sure shot to stick with the Red Sox—and play regularly—in 1952. Mary was expecting a new baby in the spring, and she seemed to be taking it in stride. All I had to do was get a job for the winter, and everything would be fine.
By this time I was pretty well known in Scranton so I figured I would have no trouble finding something to do. I loafed around the house for a week, then called up a few people I knew to see what sort of work I could get. Nobody was particularly discouraging, so I started out confident that there would be no snags.
I didn’t have any trouble getting to see people, but jobs turned out to be scarce. Scranton is practically a one-industry city. When things go well in the mines, they go well everywhere. That winter, the mines were slow, and the economy all over town was affected. There not only weren’t any part-time jobs in Scranton; there weren’t any full-time jobs either. On the contrary, people were being fired left and right. Even George, my father-in-law, who was rarely out of work, was expecting to be laid off any day.
The days became weeks, and I still couldn’t find a job. Now a whole new cluster of worries loomed to plague my days and harry my nights. My Red Sox bonus money was all used up, and I would collect no more from the ball club until my salary began when the 1952 season opened.
I would get the big-league minimum of six thousand dollars, but that wasn’t doing me any good in November of 1951. I still had to send my parents thirty-five dollars a week, and that was beginning to make a serious dent in my pocketbook.
Now it’s almost Thanksgiving and I still haven’t got a job. It doesn’t look as if I’m going to get one either. What will Mom and Dad do if I have to stop sending them money? And how much longer can I send them anything? There’s nothing coming in. What about Mary and Eileen—and the new baby? What if Mary should get sick again? She was so sick before! How do I know it won’t happen again? And how about Mom? She’s been all right, but will she always be? What if Dad should have another heart attack? Mary’s dad can help if we want him to, but he has obligations of his own. Besides, he might lose his job any day.
Panic was setting in again, but Mary knew the signs now. One day she said, “Honey, why don’t you start going to the gym again? You can play some basketball and work out, and get yourself into good physical condition.”
“I don’t want to waste any time,” I replied. “I ought to be out looking for a job.”
“There aren’t any jobs this year. There won’t be any now. I know this town. But we’ve got money in the bank, honey. We’ll live on that.”
I felt better after I began going to the gym. It helped, if for no other reason than that it gave me something to do and somewhere to go every day. Until I started working out there, I was doing nothing but mope around the house. Now I played basketball and pulled on weights and did calisthenics, and, what with one thing or another, I managed to work off some of the tension.
One day, about two weeks before Christmas, I was sitting on the porch, idly leafing through the December 12 issue of the
Sporting News
, the weekly newspaper that is known in sports circles everywhere as baseball’s Bible. The
Sporting News
carries weekly dispatches about all of the major-league clubs throughout the year, both in and out of season, and I don’t know of any ballplayer who doesn’t read it, particularly during the winter, when the daily newspapers carry very little about baseball.
I found the dispatch about the Red Sox near the back of the paper. The story was a routine discussion of Vern Stephens, the club’s shortstop, who had been having trouble with one hip. Lou Boudreau, who had succeeded Steve O’Neill as manager of the club, was quoted at great length on the subject of Stephens. As usual, I read the story through, never expecting to find my own name in it. But suddenly the printed page seemed to leap up and crack me right across the face. This is what it said:
“One planned move is the converting of Jimmy Piersall, minor-league outfielding sensation with Birmingham last season, into a shortstop. Piersall will be the chief target of the Red Sox brass at the special training camp which opens in Sarasota January 15.”
Shortstop! Me?
I stared, unbelieving, through rapidly misting eyes.
What were these people thinking of? I wasn’t a shortstop. I’d never be a shortstop
. Somehow, I made myself read on.
“ ‘We may be able to turn him into a top-notch shortstop,’ Boudreau said. ‘The kid has great natural instinct on ground balls.’ ”
Natural instinct, my foot! Maybe I had natural instinct on fly balls, but not on ground balls. What’s this guy Boudreau talking about?
“Boudreau will tutor Piersall personally at the special training session,” the story went on. “The manager himself will decide whether or not the youngster has a future as a shortstop.
“ ‘If he does,’ Boudreau said, ‘I’ll farm him out a year. I’d never take him up as a shortstop right off.’ ”
It’s impossible! I’m not a shortstop. I’m a center fielder, the best center fielder in the American League. Dominic DiMaggio himself had told me that. They can’t be planning to shift me now! It doesn’t make sense. What makes them think they can make a shortstop out of me? Just trying to shift from the outfield might ruin me.
Ruin me? Wait a minute. I’ll bet that’s just what they want to do. They know that if I’m going to stay with the Red Sox, it has to be as an outfielder. But they want outfielders who can pull the ball to left field—guys like Karl Olson. O.K. And they know I’ll never be a big-league shortstop. That’s pretty obvious. Look what Boudreau said—it’s right there in the Sporting News. He said if it looked as if I could make the club as a shortstop, he’d farm me out for a year. That means I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. If I look good as a shortstop, I’ll go to the minors. If I look bad, I’ll go to the minors anyway.
Now everything slides into its proper place like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. The Red Sox don’t want me at all, and this is their way of brushing me off. All I have to do is think back—it’s all as plain as day. First O’Neill made me sit on the Red Sox bench. He put his arm around me and told me how good I was going to be some day, but he didn’t mean a word of it. He knew I couldn’t stand being on the bench. He knew that sooner or later I’d ask to be sent out somewhere. He had this all planned out—either he or somebody higher up in the Red Sox outfit had it planned out. Anyhow, getting me away from the Red Sox was the first step.
Then look what happened. They sent me to Louisville, where they knew I wasn’t wanted. Higgins had his lineup all planned, and it didn’t include me. Sure, he went through the motions of playing me for a couple of weeks, but then he benched me. Higgins knew that was the quickest way to get rid of me. It had worked for O’Neill in Boston and it was bound to work for him in Louisville. It did, of course. When I told Doherty I wanted to go elsewhere, I was playing right into their hands. Getting me away from the Colonels was the second step.
And where was my good friend Doherty all this time? He was Higgins’s boss. He could have ordered Higgins to play me. But he didn’t. Instead, what did my wonderful pal Doherty do? He sent me to Birmingham, that’s what. He didn’t lift a finger to help me in Louisville.
Well, they thought I’d get discouraged and quit when I got sent down to the Southern Association, but I fooled ’em. I had such a good season that they had to carry things further. They had to send Murphy to Birmingham to tell me to work out in the infield. Oh, but that Murphy was shrewd! “You’ve got a fine arm,” he said. “You handle ground balls well,” he said. “Why don’t you fool around a little in the infield?” he said. Sure I’ll fool around in the infield. It’ll finish me, but I’ll do it—and fall right into their trap. Sending Murphy down there to tell me to fool around in the infield was the third step.
And now here’s the fourth step, the crusher—Boudreau, the new manager, announcing that he’s going to shift me to shortstop. He knows I read the Sporting News. He made that announcement just for my benefit. He knows I’ll never be a big-league shortstop. The Red Sox don’t want me. Why, their whole organization has ganged up on me!
I don’t know how long I sat on George’s porch in Scranton, staring sightlessly at the
Sporting News
. It might have been ten minutes or it might have been an hour. I saw nothing, heard nothing and was aware of nothing but my thoughts until, as if from a long distance away, I heard my name being called.
“Jimmy! Jimmy, honey! What’s the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
It was Mary, crouched in front of me, her hand on my shoulder, her eyes brimming, her forehead wrinkled.
“What’s wrong, dear? What happened?”
“Nothing, honey. Not a thing. I’m just through, that’s all.”
“Through? What do you mean, through?”
“The Red Sox don’t want me.” I pointed to the paper on my lap.
“Don’t want you? Did they trade you?” she asked.
“No—they didn’t trade me.”
“Then how do you know they don’t want you?”
“Look—read it—right down here—see?”
I pointed to a paragraph about me, and Mary read it rapidly. Then, with a long, low sigh, she looked at me and smiled.
“Why, honey, that’s wonderful!” she exclaimed. “They’re going to need a shortstop and they’ve picked you. You’ll be trained by Boudreau personally—and he was one of the best shortstops in the business. Why, they’re making a place especially for you.”
“Mary—” I tried to talk slowly, like a patient parent about to explain a tragic event to an innocent child. “You don’t understand at all. This isn’t wonderful. This is a brush-off. They want to get rid of me, but they can’t just drop me. Instead, they’re using this means of getting me to quit. That’s how they got me away from Boston last spring and that’s how they got me out of Louisville. They thought I’d fall apart in Birmingham, but instead I had the best year of my life. When they saw what was happening, they sent Murphy down to get me to work with the infielders, and now they’re going to make me do something they know I can’t do. They’re going to shift me to shortstop knowing that I’ll never make it. Then, they figure, I’ll quit and they’ll be rid of me. Can’t you see that, Mary?”
She looked at me for a long time. Then she reached out with one hand and gently stroked my cheek. I thought her mouth quivered a little, but I couldn’t be sure. All I knew was that I loved her very much and her hand felt cool and I wished I could make her understand.
At last she said, “Jimmy, honey, I’m sure you’re wrong, but let’s not talk about it now any more. You just keep right on going to the gym to work out and stay in shape, and then when they order you to the special training camp in January, you go on down and do what they tell you.”
She didn’t understand it at all. She’s like an ostrich. She’s got her head buried in the sand so she can’t see what she doesn’t want to see. I’m not going to the gym any more and I’m not going to that special training camp in January. But why bring it up now? It will only cause an argument.
The next morning I took my basketball shoes and shorts, kissed Mary and the baby good-by and started down the street in the direction of the gym, but I never got there. As soon as I turned the corner and was out of Mary’s sight, I headed towards a downtown movie house which opened early in the day. I didn’t take a direct route, because that would have involved walking along the main thoroughfare. Instead, I ducked through back streets and alleys, approaching the theater from a side street, so that I had to walk only a few feet on the crowded avenue. I looked furtively around, to make sure no one I knew was watching me, then bought a ticket and stepped into the movie.
The place was nearly empty—it was still an hour before noon—but I tiptoed my way down the aisle. I didn’t want to sit too far back because I might be seen by people first coming in, and I didn’t want to be on an aisle for the same reason. I picked a spot right in the middle of the theater, moved in, sat down and idly watched the picture. I don’t remember what it was about even though I saw it through three times. I wasn’t interested in the picture. All I wanted to do was hide.
I sat in the theater all day, and didn’t walk out until I was certain it was dark outside. Then I started back for the house, using the same devious route I had taken that morning. It was about seven o’clock by this time—I would be only a little late for dinner. When I walked into the house, Mary greeted me with a kiss and said, “How was it?”
“All right,” I replied, vaguely.
“Did you have a good workout?”
“Yeah—real good.”
“You must have taken a stiff one,” she said. “You’re late for dinner.”
“I’m sorry, hon.”
“That’s all right. Sit down and eat. Oh, by the way, want a canasta game tonight? Ann and Dan are coming over.”
Ann O’Brien and Dan Kuchar, who were going to be married soon, were among our closest friends. I was fond of them both and liked to play cards with them. But I said, “Mary, tell them not to come.”
“What’s the matter? Don’t you want to see them?”
“Uh—it isn’t that. I’m tired, that’s all.”
“They won’t stay late,” Mary said.
“I’m tired, I tell you. I don’t want to see them. Understand?”
“Yes, I understand. I’ll phone them.”
That night I went to bed with a terrific headache, one of the worst I had ever suffered. I lay in bed, twisting and turning and muttering to myself. Suddenly, Eileen woke up and started to cry. She had been sick off and on all fall. I always got up in the night because I usually was awake anyhow. Besides, I wanted Mary to sleep so she would have no complications. She had to get up early enough in the morning as it was.