Terror in the City of Champions (4 page)

Dean said yes promptly. Some men were reluctant. Most were terrified. They had been tricked into coming to the meeting and now they were ensnared in an organization that was apparently capable of a multitude of atrocities. To what degree they could not have guessed. There were passwords and secret gestures to remember. “Put none but Americans on guard,” they were instructed to say. Or “Until Death,” which would be answered with, “Under the star of the guard.” A member could identify himself in two ways: by making three and a half circles with a lighted match or by tipping back his hat once and, if answered with the same, repeating the movement and, if answered again, doing it a third time to be certain. In times of distress a member could signal for help by clicking his flashlight on and off three times or by drawing three half arcs with a torch.

As ordered, Dean kneeled and covered his heart with a hand. A colonel directed an armed legionnaire to draw his loaded pistol and train it on Dean as he repeated a final oath, the Black Oath, “in the name of God and the Devil,” pledging his life to his peers in the organization, promising never to betray any of them, and inviting that his own heart be roasted, his brain split and spread, his bowels disgorged, and his body ripped asunder should he violate the promise. “And, lastly, may my soul be given to torment . . . through all eternity. In the name of God, our Creator. Amen.” Finally Dean, like every new member, was handed a .38-caliber bullet cartridge and told an identical one would be used on him should he violate his vow of secrecy.

This was the stuff of movies and radio shows and Dean delighted in it. It infused his mundane life with a sense of importance and excitement. He quickly threw himself into the organization, his fervor making him a favorite of local leaders. He was assigned to Detroit’s third regiment, one of four in the city, and also to a regiment in nearby Highland Park, where he enthusiastically accepted orders to assist Mayor N. Ray Markland, a member who would be facing a tough reelection.

Soon after, Dean and other legionnaires followed George Washer home in their cars after he heckled Markland at a council meeting. On Church Street they pulled to the curb. Dean emerged first and surprised Washer with a punch to the jaw. Washer fell, and the pummeling continued with fists, feet, and a blackjack.

Dean rose rapidly through the ranks, from sergeant to first lieutenant to captain to major. “It was his religion, his whole life,” said Margaret, his wife. “He thought of nothing else.” Legion officials liked Dean’s passion. More assignments followed quickly. The first significant one—his chance to really elevate his stature—involved a crusading newspaper editor, Art Kingsley, who was causing trouble for Mayor Markland. Dean’s mission: Kill him.

A Friend Disappears

The first day of 1934 was drawing to a close.

Edward J. McGrath sat having dinner with Art Kingsley and Sidney Michaelson in a restaurant along Woodward Avenue. Kingsley was the publisher of the
Highland Parker
weekly newspaper. His friend McGrath, sixty and unmarried, was active in fraternal organizations. He served as the secretary of the Highland Park Masonic Temple and belonged to the Knights Templar and Moslem Temple Shrine.

Around eight o’clock McGrath bid Kingsley farewell. McGrath lived on Waverly Avenue, a block from Kingsley’s residence. He said he would be heading home “to get a good rest.” An hour later, he was spotted reading papers in a local drugstore, as was his habit. He looked dapper at five-foot-five, standing there in a velvet-collared black overcoat with a white scarf draped over his shoulders and a tan felt hat atop his head.

It was the last report of anyone seeing him.

Spring in Lakeland

Frank Navin’s chauffeured car pulled up to the Terrace Hotel in Lakeland, Florida, on a Saturday night. It had been four years since Navin had bothered to go to spring training. But this season felt different. He wanted to see the confident Mickey Cochrane in action. The two had grown close over the winter. Married but childless, Navin had introduced Cochrane around Detroit as if he were a son. They had gone to a Red Wings hockey game, where word of Cochrane’s presence blew like a polar gust through the packed Olympia stadium, bringing the audience to its feet. They had been to speaking engagements together, with Cochrane entertaining gatherings of grocers, car sales agents, fire chiefs, boys’ club members, Rotarians, Optimists, yacht owners, and Kiwanists. Everywhere, Cochrane had enthused fans and impressed newsmen. He had also intrigued Navin with his high expectations. Last year had been miserable financially for the club and Navin desperately needed to see an increase in revenue. Cochrane was helping to sell tickets with his fervor.

In Lakeland Navin paused when he stepped from his vehicle into the muggy night air and onto the brick-paved road. Even in Florida, he wore a vested suit and starched hat. From the hotel emanated the raucous clatter of men and women singing and cheering. It sounded like a party.
“ . . . In all my dreams, your fair face beams. You’re the flower of my heart, Sweet Adeline.”
Navin groaned. For a moment he remembered the rowdy, drunken gatherings of ballplayers in the days of his former manager Hughie Jennings. Wary of what he might find, he headed into the hotel. In the lobby with its white-and-black checkered floor and to-the-ceiling arched windows, Navin saw Cochrane and several players holding court. To his great relief the men were entertaining a group of elderly tourists. The cheering ladies were gray-haired matrons, not babes, broads, or dolls.

“What do you say if we all sing ‘Mammy’?” shouted Gee Walker, who at twenty-five could often be found at the center of team commotions. It would be said that in any discussion with Walker on one side and everyone else on the other the volume would be roughly the same.

Cochrane had a Hollywood-worthy cast, a veritable circus of characters. There was a Flea, a Firpo, a General, and a Chief, as well as a talisman-carrying, hard-drinking son of an absent trapeze artist, an outfielder branded “The Madman from Mississippi,” a reserve who subsisted on bananas and donuts, and a 155-pound pitcher named for both a Founding Father and a confederate president: Thomas Jefferson Davis Bridges. The 1934 Tigers were nearly as varied as their fans and like them they carried their biases and prejudices everywhere. They were sons of miners, doctors, and tobacco farmers and they came from Dixie and Jersey and Texas, from privilege and homeless poverty. Among them were college fraternity brothers, elementary school dropouts, and, in at least one case, a raised-by-the-streets orphan. There were whiskey guzzlers and teetotalers. Most smoked. Some liked to brawl and some kept to themselves. There were Baptists, Methodists, Lutherans, Catholics, a Quaker, and a Jew, which made for complicated allegiances for the many Black Legionnaires who rooted for the Tigers. Two of the team’s most prominent players—Charlie Gehringer and Hank Greenberg—belonged to faiths abhorred by the secret society.

In the burgeoning Catholic community, mothers saw the devout Gehringer as an athlete worthy of their sons’ adulation, a figure they imagined as close to earthly sainthood as any they would find on a professional sporting field. “There’s never been another like him,” said Navin, a fellow Catholic. Gehringer was also co-owner Briggs’s favorite player—a “perfect model for the [clerical] collar ads,” according to the
Detroit Times
. Gehringer had grown up in a large farming family in Fowlerville, shirking his duties in favor of the game. He spent two semesters at the University of Michigan studying physical education before being discovered as a ballplayer. In 1926, his first year with the Tigers, he fell under the tutelage of Ty Cobb, who recognized his hitting talent but wished Gehringer were more fiery. Now entering his ninth full season, Gehringer was regarded as the game’s best second baseman. Still he remained quiet and humble.

One of the city’s most famous Catholics—only radio priest Father Charles Coughlin, Bishop Michael Gallagher, and former mayor Frank Murphy could compete—Gehringer possessed a dry sense of humor, delivering cutting lines softly and subtly. His style would soon be on display on Monday nights on WJR, where his radio show, “Gehringer at Bat,” would be debuting. Gehringer lived with his diabetic mother and attended church daily, vowing to remain single while she was alive, believing it unfair to bring another woman into the household. He glowed as husband material, one of the city’s most eligible bachelors.

Hank Greenberg was another. A year ago, at age twenty-two, Greenberg had become the Tigers’ first baseman—and, along with boxer Max Baer, one of the best-known Jewish athletes in the country. If not for Lou Gehrig and his consecutive games played streak, Greenberg might have signed with the Yankees. “I had to pick a team on which I was reasonably sure of obtaining a regular job,” he said. The decision, according to
Free Press
baseball writer Charles P. Ward, showed Greenberg had a mind of his own. “Like most members of his race,” Ward wrote, “he is also a smart businessman.” Such stereotyping was a daily part of Greenberg’s life. Jews and blacks—“darkies” in some stories—regularly endured such indignities and typecasting. (Ward had recently published what he no doubt viewed as a complimentary article about an honorable black Baptist deacon whom he praised for recovering foul balls for the Tigers. Ward peppered the piece with cartoonish dialogue: “Dah she comes. . . . Yassah, I preaches to ’em and sing to ’em . . .”)

In his first season Greenberg, six-foot-three, had hit twelve home runs and knocked in eighty-five runs, a solid showing for a rookie. But he had also led the team in strikeouts and often looked as unsteady as a rangy colt. At camp Cochrane worked with Greenberg. He modified his stance, shortening his swing. Doing so, he reasoned, would help him hit more home runs. Not knowing that Greenberg was self-motivated, Cochrane brought Harry Davis to camp to pressure Greenberg to improve. Davis had lost his job the previous season to Greenberg. He was the fallback.

Greenberg’s faith was an issue for some teammates. It usually simmered beneath the surface. After a disappointing loss in Bradenton, Florida, Gee Walker boarded the team bus and noticed a grim expression on Greenberg’s face. As he passed him, Walker waved his hand in front of Greenberg.

“Get that sour look off your puss, Greenberg,” Walker said.

Greenberg wasn’t in a pleasant mood, having gone hitless against Dizzy Dean’s Cardinals. As the bus departed, cold air rushed through Greenberg’s window. Near the back team trainer Denny Carroll yelled for Greenberg to close the window because it was getting cold. Carroll had a thing about drafty air and the health of his players. Greenberg didn’t respond. Carroll asked again. Still no response. Rip Sewell was two seats behind Greenberg. In the row between them sat minor leaguer Jelly Collier.

Sewell tapped Collier’s shoulder. “Hey, Bush,” he said. “Pull the window.”

“Bush” was slang for “minor leaguer.”

Greenberg thought Sewell was talking to him.

“Who you calling a Bush, you southern son of a bitch?”

“Well, you—you big Jew bastard,” said Sewell.

Greenberg told Sewell he was going to beat his ass once the bus stopped. When it arrived at the Terrace Hotel, Greenberg followed through. He and Sewell fought in the street for several minutes before a plainclothes cop interrupted their battle. Greenberg had won. The next morning Mickey Cochrane, who hadn’t been on the bus, told Sewell that though he respected him for standing up to Greenberg, he was cutting him from the team. He needed the big first baseman. A day later, he announced Sewell’s release.

The team was entirely white, of course. Black athletes were prevented from playing in the American and National Leagues. Instead, they competed in all-Negro leagues. The Stars had been Detroit’s local entry but had moved to Columbus, Ohio, after the 1933 season. The semi-pro black Cubs would draw some of their fans in the coming year. But the Tigers had black fans too. They sat mostly in the informally segregated sections in the bleachers.

The Tigers were youthful. The club featured seven men twenty-five or younger who figured to contribute substantially. At camp those players received the bulk of Cochrane’s attention. Like other player-managers, Cochrane found himself in the tricky position of leading several men who were his age or older. With them he adopted a mostly hands-off approach, bolstering their confidence but affording them the respect he felt they had earned.

Cochrane’s greatest challenge was mental, getting his players to see themselves as something other than second-tier. “You’re better than any team in the league,” he told them repeatedly. “No club ever had the chance that you’ve got. You can hit and you can field and you’ve got pitching. . . . You can go around without that hang-dog expression that you’ve carried all these years.” The speech, delivered over and over again, began to penetrate the young players’ minds. This was the renowned Mickey Cochrane after all. A winner. He knew what it took. The guys in their twenties mostly ate up his encouragement. But with a few veterans, the pep talks provoked mental eye-rolling.

Leon “Goose” Goslin was the other champion who had been to the top. One day at camp, he came upon two older players doubting Cochrane’s expectations. Goslin confronted them, calling them quitters. “You’ve been a second-division team for years because you believe you’re a second-division team,” he said. “No man is ever better than he thinks he is, and neither is any ball club.”

Cochrane had plenty of projects at camp. But his major concern stood an inch taller than anyone else. Arkansan Schoolboy Rowe had impressed baseball observers in his 1933 debut season. But he had appeared in just one game after injuring his arm in July. Rowe arrived late to camp with the arm still sore. “It feels like it’s going to fall off,” he told trainer Denny Carroll, who rubbed him down. Two days later, the pain returned. Cochrane was growing frustrated. He remarked that Rowe might be sent to the minor leagues to rebuild his strength. The comment, combined with his glowing remarks about other prospects, amounted to psychological gamesmanship: Work through it or be replaced. The Tigers sent Rowe to Miami to be checked by a specialist. Cochrane’s view of Rowe worsened when he learned from the doctor that Rowe had only minor inflammation. Nothing serious. Injuries he could deal with, but Cochrane had no respect for those he viewed as milking their ailments. Even if his arm were hurting, Rowe should be energetically going about his other duties.