Authors: Jim Piersall,Hirshberg
“When Vollmer is hot,” Boudreau used to say, “I wouldn’t put Ty Cobb or Babe Ruth in his place. And you never know when the guy might get hot.”
But when Vollmer was cold, he was just another journeyman ballplayer. A big, somewhat clumsy man, he was not fast enough to be a top-notch outfielder. He could be used effectively only when he was in a hitting streak.
When Vollmer started cooling off at the plate, Boudreau put me in his place during the later part of ball games, mostly for defensive purposes. That set me off on a new series of stunts which attracted so much attention that I became a national baseball figure almost overnight. When I got into a game late, I was able to make a flamboyant entrance, and I took full advantage of the opportunity.
The right fielder at Fenway Park has thousands of fans sitting within hailing distance, both in the corner of the grandstand which extends all along the foul line and in the right-field section of the bleachers. The fans began calling for me about the fifth or sixth inning, and the ball park would ring with the chant, “We want Piersall! We want Piersall!” At first, I simply exchanged a few wisecracks when I ran out to the position to replace Vollmer, but I developed new bits of business every day, and pretty soon I had a ritual to which the fans responded wholeheartedly.
When I first ran out to my position, I took off my hat and waved it, bowing in all directions. Then, I began a complicated set of mock calisthenics, which took several minutes. After that, I started playing catch with someone in the Red Sox bull pen, which was in right center field. This game lasted only a short time, because the boys in the bull-pen crew were most reluctant to co-operate. Besides, the umpires were always after me to settle down so the ball game could be resumed.
In the meantime, the fans were roaring and cheering and clapping their hands, and every gesture of encouragement goaded me on to new heights of clowning. When I caught a ball, I bowed with elaborate exaggeration, no matter how easy the chance. If I made a sensational catch, I shrugged it off as routine. After a while I couldn’t make a move without drawing laughter and applause from the stands.
When the inning was over, I always let DiMaggio get ahead of me, and then went through that routine of shadowing him with his own step, and I guess that brought the house down. In those days it was customary for fielders to leave their gloves at their positions instead of taking them into the dugout when going in to bat. According to today’s rules, fielders take their gloves with them after each inning.
When we’d go back to take our positions, the fans got into the habit of maintaining a dead silence as I ran out. Then, when I picked up my glove, they burst into a tremendous cheer, and I waved my hat, then clasped my hands together like a boxer before going through the calisthenics act.
“I must have killed them,” I said, soberly, to Mary. “What are those fans going to do to me, do you suppose?”
“They’re not going to hurt you,” she said. “No matter what caused you to do those things, the fans enjoyed watching you.”
“Do you suppose they’ll expect me to do all that stuff again, honey? Because I never did it before, and I could never do it again.”
“All the fans want to do is help you. That’s all anyone wants to do. They won’t expect you to do anything that will be harmful to you.”
I turned the pages of the scrapbook. I was starting a game here and there, because Vollmer’s hitting streak was over, but Boudreau was also using Faye Thronsberry, a rookie, and Ken Wood, a veteran, in right field. I was showing no signs of settling down, and Boudreau, confused and upset himself over the situation, didn’t know whether to play me or not. If he played me, I went through my act and distracted everybody in the ball park. If he didn’t I hounded him to death. One course of action seemed just as bad as the other.
One afternoon in early June, the Red Sox pulled a big trade with Detroit. We sent Walt Dropo, Fred Hatfield, Johnny Pesky, Bill Wight and Don Lenhardt to the Tigers for George Kell, Johnny Lipon, Dizzy Trout and Hoot Evers. Dropo was a first baseman. Pesky and Lipon were shortstops who could also play second base. Hatfield was a third baseman, Lenhardt and Evers were outfielders and Wight and Trout were pitchers. Kell, the best third baseman in the American League at the time, was the key man in the trade.
We had a night game in Boston against the Cleveland Indians on that date, while the Tigers were playing the Athletics in Philadelphia. As soon as the trade was announced, the five men leaving our club flew out to join the Tigers. The four former Detroit players coming to us were due in town in time for our game that night.
But they were delayed, and none of them had arrived when Boudreau posted the lineups in the locker room. It looked as if we were going to be short of infielders. According to Mary, Boudreau called me into his office and said, “Jimmy, I’m putting you down to play shortstop tonight. Now just go out there and take it easy. Don’t try to be funny. Just concentrate on getting ready for the game. And remember—this is only a provisional lineup. If Lipon shows up in time, he’ll be our shortstop.”
I galloped out to the field and worked around shortstop like a man possessed. I cut in front of other guys to take balls during infield practice. I jumped around getting throws meant for somebody else, I ran back and forth between second base and third, yelling encouragement and instructions to everyone within hearing, and I generally made a pest of myself. But I was happy, because I was back in action, and I was sure everything would be fine when Boudreau told me to take batting practice with the regulars.
But half an hour before the game, when I walked into the dugout, Boudreau pulled me aside and said, “The others just arrived. I’m sorry, Jimmy, but Lipon’s going to play short tonight.”
I went off in a corner of the dugout, broke down and cried. I wept for ten or fifteen minutes, right out there where everyone who went near the dugout could see me. The next day the sports pages carried the story of my sobbing breakdown. It was right there, in print, for all the world to see. I blushed to my ears as I read it in the scrapbook.
A few days after the weeping incident, Boudreau decided to give me a real chance to make the club as the right fielder. He announced that I would play there regularly, and I was greeted by my constituents out there like a long-lost brother. After bowing and waving and tipping my cap in response to the reception, I stepped up close to the bleachers, and led the fans in a prolonged and organized cheer for myself. They loved it.
I looked up at Mary and mused, “Y’know, honey, bad as this all looks, I’ll have to admit I was a pretty funny guy, at that.”
“I should say you were a pretty funny guy. The fans thought you were a real comedian.”
“I guess they were right. But where do you suppose I got my ideas from? I never was much of a gagster before. I must have had a suppressed desire to be a clown or something.”
“You must have, honey. All I know is I didn’t dare pick up the papers every day. I never knew what I was going to read next about you.”
I saw what she meant, for the next headline I came across in the scrapbook read, “Rookie Piersall Teases Old Satch Paige.”
The story was a graphic description of a game against the St. Louis Browns (now the Baltimore Orioles) the night before at Fenway Park. It had been a real thriller, for the Red Sox scored six runs in the ninth inning to come from far behind to win. Going into that inning, the Browns were ahead, 9–5, and Satchel Paige had gone in to protect their lead.
Paige was a tall, skinny, ageless Negro who, in spite of the fact that he must have been close to fifty then, was one of the best relief pitchers in baseball. Old Satch had every pitching trick in the book and he invented a lot more of his own. When he had his stuff, he was almost impossible to hit, although because of his age he couldn’t be used for more than a few innings at a time. He had already pitched two innings that night, but there didn’t seem to be any doubt that he’d be able to hold a four-run lead. The fans were beginning to file out of the park when we went up to bat for the last time.
Piersall was the leadoff man, and he wasn’t figured to have much chance to do anything with the old guy. But, according to the stories, Piersall cupped his hands and yelled, “I’m gonna bunt, Satch!” He not only bunted the first pitch, but beat it out for a hit, and then, as a base runner, he began driving Paige crazy with a new set of zany antics.
When Paige wound up to pitch, he looked like a cross between Ichabod Crane and Rip Van Winkle. Instead of giving his arms full play, as most hurlers do, so they can put all their strength into a pitch, Paige, his bony elbow sticking out at right angles to his body, only brought his long right arm up halfway, and he did it in slow motion. Then he brought his hands down in front of him and fired the ball. He was easy to imitate and funny to watch, unless you were the batter trying to hit against him.
Hoot Evers was up for the Red Sox, but the fans were watching Piersall. As he led off from first base, he began putting on a vaudeville act that convulsed the customers and had Paige mumbling to himself. Every move Paige made Piersall made. Every time Paige turned towards first base, Piersall mirrored the turn as he skipped back to the bag. When Paige stood still and looked towards the plate, Piersall flapped his arms like a chicken and made noises like a pig. The fans were yelling and laughing and clapping their hands, but all the harassed Paige could hear was Piersall’s “Oink! Oink! Oink!” from first base.
Paige finally managed to start pitching to Evers, who eventually got an infield hit that moved Piersall to second base. George Kell was the next hitter. Piersall danced and howled and mugged and imitated and flapped and oinked from second base now, and Paige was trying very hard not to pay any attention. In the meantime, the cagy Kell ran the count to three balls and two strikes, then fouled off a succession of Paige’s best pitches. The old man was beginning to feel his age, perhaps, because he finally threw a fourth ball at Kell and that filled the bases with nobody out.
Now on third base, Piersall cupped his hands and oinked and kept repeating, “You’re the funniest sight I ever saw, Satchmo,” and aped his motion and whistled and screamed, while Paige went to work on Vern Stephens, the next hitter. Stephens popped out, and that brought up Billy Goodman with the bases still full, one out and the Red Sox still trailing, 9–5.
But Paige had lost control of the situation. He walked Goodman on five pitches, forcing Piersall home with the sixth run. As Piersall trotted between third base and the plate, he laughed and screamed and imitated Paige some more, and Satch tried to ignore him, but was really upset by then. Ted Lepcio followed Goodman by hitting a clean single to drive Evers home, and that cut the Browns’ lead to 9–7. The bases were still full, and Sammy White, the Red Sox catcher, was up.
By this time, the stands were in an uproar. Piersall was crouching on the top step of the dugout, his hands cupped over his mouth, and the oinks were pouring out as fast as he could say them. White was a right-handed hitter with a lot of power. Old Satch kept his back to the Red Sox dugout so he couldn’t see Piersall, but he knew Piersall was still yelling at him.
He turned and tried to concentrate on White, and for a while it looked as if Satch might get him. The count went to two strikes and one ball, but then Paige threw one pitch too many. Sammy whipped his bat around and the ball sailed over that short left field-fence for a grand-slam home run. White was so happy that he did a little clowning himself. As he came home from third base, he got down on his hands and knees, then crawled the last ten feet and kissed the plate.
White’s homer won the game, of course, but Piersall got most of the publicity. John Drohan, veteran
Boston Traveler
baseball writer, put it this way:
“Jim Piersall, who threatens to become the greatest baseball attraction the Red Sox ever had—if he doesn’t get killed by a pitched ball—took last night’s spotlight away from the game’s pitching attraction for three decades, Pitcher Satchel Paige.
“Even though Sammy White hit the grand-slam homer that beat the Browns 11–9 in one of the greatest Donnybrooks ever seen in Fenway Park, Sam pointed to the laughing Piersall and said, ‘There’s the guy who made it possible.’”
The reference to the danger of my being killed by a pitched ball, while facetious, did contain a grain of sobriety. Both pitchers and umpires had developed an intense—and understandable—dislike for me. From what I was told and from what I read in the scrapbook, I spent a lot of time on my back, hitting the dirt to get out of the way of pitches that might otherwise have crowned me.
Ever since the Yankee Stadium incident with Honochick, my relations with umpires (and theirs with me) had been very shaky indeed. They cracked down on me whenever they could find an excuse, and I gave them plenty. Before I was through, I paid so many fines to Will Harridge, the president of the American League, that I finally sent him a note reading, “If this keeps up, I’ll be paying some umpire’s salary.”
One day, while I stood at the plate, clowning and mocking every move made by Connie Marrero, veteran Washington Senators pitcher, he threw three straight strikes at me. I just watched them go by without taking my bat off my shoulder. Then, when Art Passarella, who was umpiring the plate, called me out, I whirled and yelled, “I wouldn’t want to have that on my conscience!”
Two days after the Satchel Paige game in Boston, the Red Sox started on a Western trip. Since our home stand had been a long one, most of my clowning had been at Fenway Park.
Now the fans around the country, who had been hearing about Piersall through their local newspapers, were looking forward to watching him perform in the flesh.
Chicago was the first stop. Comiskey Park, where the White Sox play, is almost surrounded by a high double-decked grandstand, so the fans and the right fielder are, as at Fenway Park, within easy hailing distance of each other. Piersall spent his first day there getting acquainted. He exchanged wisecracks, did some calisthenics, took a few bows, and generally gave the customers a taste of what to expect from him.