Ever since I got voted into the Hall of Fame, my kids have been after me to write a book. Figured that after twenty-two years in the majors I gotta have some pretty darn interesting stuff to tell folks. Well, I suppose that’s true, but I ain’t no book writer. Yankee shortstop, that’s what I am. Don’t hardly see myself sittin’ down with one of them ghostwriters, either. I’d rather go fishin’. But I guess I’ll just kinda take a crack at it with this here tape recorder, if ya know what I mean. I was a lucky player. Guess that just about sums it up. Lucky. Never got hurt. Always played with great teams. And a great manager. Played my whole career for Old Eustus Starkey and loved every minute of it.
Old Eustus was somethin’ else. Ain’t nobody ever controlled a game like Old Eustus. Moved his outfielders around in the strangest ways, but darned if he didn’ keep robbin’ the other guys of doubles and triples alla the time. Pitchers? Got a hundred and ten percent outta a bunch of pretty darn good pitchers the front office gave him. Hittin’? Don’ matter how many hitters ya got, ya gotta have someone who knows what to do with em. Old Eustus knew. Played our team like a country fiddler, movin’ us up and down and in and out of the lineup. Most of the time I led off, but sometimes he’d move me down to third spot or even sixth. Just about never had me a real slump, and I averaged two hundred thirty-five hits a year over my career. I owe it all to Old Eustus. He was my teacher, and more of a pa to me than my own pa ever was. They shoulda put an asterisk near my records and mentioned Old Eustus somewheres down at the bottom of the page. Some folks thought Old Eustus was behind all that stuff in the pennant race of ’29, but heck, I tell ya he didn’ know nothin’ more’n the rest of us.
That summer of ’29 was a real scorcher, and it was us against the Orioles all the way. I don’ suppose I gotta tell ya too much about the teams.
E
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Future Hall of Famers wherever ya looked. We matched up real good against ’em. They had one heckuva tough lineup. Speedboat Monczak, their centerfielder, batted leadoff. Guy always seemed to be on base. Scratch hit, a walk, an error, somethin’. And once he got on base, wasn’ no holdin’ him on. Regular rabbit. Little chubby, but fast like ya wouldn’ believe. Dickie West, their second baseman, hit number two. Little guy really knew how to handle the bat. Then came the big guns. First baseman Marshall Robertson, rightfielder Grant Rowe, catcher John Sheridan and third baseman Kyle Andrews. Any of those guys could hit the ball a country mile. Leftfielder Aristotle White hit seventh. Solid hitter but a cokehead. Dynamite when he wasn’t in the tank getting’ dried out. Shortstop Jimmy George Saunders batted eighth. Not much of a hitter, but a regular vacuum cleaner in the field. Good, veteran bench. Bunch of sharp pitchers. And then there was Slick Tuttle, their manager. Shrewd as the blazes. Throwback to Earl Weaver of the ’60s and ’70s. Real tough team, those Orioles. Tough as nails.
Of course, us guys weren’t nothin’ to sneeze at neither. I was in my prime. Thirty years old and in my eleventh year with the club. Didn’ hit too many homers, but I sure could zip around those bases. That’s why they called me Muskrat Throop. I got my three thousandth hit that summer. Real big thrill. Centerfielder Honus Hawks hit behind me. We could read each other’s mind. Wasn’ nobody better at the hit-’n’-run than us two. Third baseman Sweetwater Banks led the league in hittin’ that year with a .369 average, batted third. Also won the Gold Glove that year. Rightfielder Bruno Spielman and leftfielder Cassius Jones were our big cleanup hitters. They both hit forty homers that year, and Cassius led the majors in doubles. Aurelio Casaverde hit seventh. Some kinda first baseman. Power to all fields and the best hands since Keith Hernandez, guy who played for the Cardinals and Mets way back in the ’80s. Jim Willoughby, our catcher, hit seventh. Probably would’ve batted cleanup for most other teams. Eighth was Tommy Whitehead. Slickest fieldin’ second baseman in the league and
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no slouch at the plate either. Knocked in sixty runs. No easy outs in our lineup.
The Orioles and us were just eatin’ up everybody in both divisions that summer of ’29, but when we played each other it was a struggle all the way. Along about the end of August, we were dead even with the Orioles when they came into the Stadium for a big four-game weekend series.
Friday night, we pitched Big Jess Harmony, our ace righthander. Big guy, some kinda friendly between starts but a real monster on the days he pitched. Wouldn’ talk to nobody, not even Old Eustus. Regular volcano. Didn’ make no difference to him if it was freezin’ out or if steam was comin out of the water cooler. He’d just get up on that mound, rear back and throw little aspirins on the corners for eight or nine innings. Orioles pitched Harrison Loomis. Strong pitcher with a nifty record. Big Jess struck out fifteen, and we won 2-1.
Saturday, they pitched a southpaw from Nicaragua named Julio Santamaria who was havin’ a crazy year. Loads of wins and about one or two losses. Old Eustus put up Barry Horton, a hardthrowin’ rookie. Wasn’ no sense wastin’ a good pitcher against Santamaria. Santamaria pitched a four-hitter, Horton got clobbered, and we lost.
First game of the doubleheader Sunday was a beaut. Tough pitchin’. Some real good-lookin hits and some great catches. Real highlight-type game. Orioles won 7-6 in eleven innings.
We had to win the nightcap. Couldn’ let ’em come into the Stadium and take three outta four. We had too much pride.
It was pretty late by the time the second game started. Scrub Riley pitched for us. Good veteran pitcher. None of us ever did find out how come he was called that. Karl Klapperfuss was pitchin’ for them. Big farm boy. Arm like a howitzer, but not too much control. Was kinda scary hittin’ against him.
Top of the first, Speedboat hits the first pitch right into the ground. It bounces real high into the air, and by the time Sweetwater grabs it,
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Speedboat is on first. First pitch to Dickie West, Speedboat is runnin’. Willoughby throws the ball to Whitehead at second. The ball and Speedboat arrive at the same time. Ball goes into centerfield, Speedboat goes to third. Next pitch is a ball to West. Willoughby goes to the mound. Me and Aurelio come too. Willoughby wants to see if Scrub is shook.
“All you gotta do is get this guy to pop up,” he says. “Then we walk Robertson, and get Rowe to hit into a double play. Those guys can’t run for beans.”
Then he pats Scrub on the rump and goes pack to the plate. Made it sound pretty simple. Next pitch is a strike. Next pitch West hits up the alley for a stand-up triple. Robertson was walked intentionally, but Rowe didn’ hit into no double play. Parked it in the seats instead. After that, Scrub hunkered down and got outta the first only four runs down, but ya knew that game was gonna be trouble.
I led off the bottom of the first against Klapperfuss. The first pitch went right by my helmet and knocked me flat. Walked me on four pitches, Klapperfuss did. Unintentionally. Honus walked on five pitches, but then Klapperfuss found the plate. Blew three pitches by Sweetwater. Then three more by Spielman. Cassius walked to load the bases, and Aurelio hit a deep fly ball to left which Aristotle White caught with his glove stretched over the fence. Score was 4-0 going to the second.
Both pitchers were wild for the next coupla innings, but all the good relievers were used up. Orioles scored one in the third, one in the fourth and two in the fifth. We scored two in the fourth and one in the fifth. Score was 8-3 going into the bottom of the sixth. Honus lined out to deep short. Sweetwater singled. Spielman doubled. Cassius fanned, but Aurelio brought both runs home with a screaming line drive single to right. Willoughby walked, and Aurelio moved to second. Whitehead reached on an error, and Scrub came to the plate with the bases loaded, two out and us three runs down. Times like that, Old Eustus probably wished we were still usin’ the designated hitter in the American League. There was a lot of stirrin’ on the
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bench, because this was a spot for a pinch hitter if ever there was one. I was waitin on deck, lookin into the dugout to see who’d come out.
Well, Old Eustus threw us all for a loop. Let Scrub hit for himself. I mean, Scrub could get a hit every now and then, but his battin’ average was lower than his temperature. Didn’ figure to let him hit in that spot, but ya didn’ tell Old Eustus how to run the club.
Scrub looked pretty wiped out as he stepped up to the plate. Guy’d just pitched six real gruesome innings and given up eight runs and lotsa hits and walks. Didn’ take the bat off his shoulder the first two pitches. One was a ball, one a strike. Klapperfuss missed outside with the next two pitches. Tying runs were on base, one out in the home sixth and a three and one count on the opposin’ pitcher. Klapperfuss grooved one, and Scrub hit the ball a mile.
Scrub hittin’ a grand slammer in that spot was mind-bogglin’ enough. But there somethin’ even more mind-bogglin’. Scrub had really hit the ball a mile. Or almost. Hit the ball clear outta the Stadium and halfway across the Bronx. The newspapers and the team were flooded with calls from folks who’d seen the ball anywhere from the Grand Concourse to the George Washington Bridge. All I can tell ya is that I was in the on-deck circle and I had me a pretty good view. Ball was hit three times higher than the longest tape-measure shot I’d ever seen. Took off like a rocket and just kept on risin’. Musta gone at least seven or eight hundred feet. Nobody’d ever seen nothin’ like it. Rest of the game was played in a kinda shock. We scored a run in the bottom of the eighth and won 10-8.
Scrub Riley’s homer made all the headlines. Nobody had any explanations to offer. Least of all Scrub. “Don’ know nothin’ about it,” he told reporters, “except I’m glad it helped us win the game.” What’d ya expect him to say anyway?
Nothin’ much happened the next coupla weeks. We went on the road and put together a nice streak. Took two outta three from the Orioles at home. Came home for a long home stand just halfa game behind the
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Orioles. Just one more short trip. Then home to play the Orioles on the last weekend of the season.
First team to come in to play us was the Indians. Scrappy young team. Outta the race, but tryin’ to get some respect. First game, Big Jess Harmony pitched for us. Can’t recall the Indian pitcher’s name right now. Big Jess musta had a virus or somethin’ cause the Indians jumped in front 6-0 after two. I was on board in the fourth when Cassius hit a line drive into the stands to cut the score to 6-2. Sweetwater tripled in the sixth, and Aurelio doubled him home. Score was 6-3 bottom of the eighth. Cassius walks to lead it off. Aurelio hits a ground single up the middle. Willoughby pops up. Whitehead hits a sharp grounder to short. Throw to second forces Aurelio, but Whitehead beats the throw to first. Runners at the corners, two out. Big Jess is up. He’d come around real nice. Pitchin’ terrific, just mowin’ em down. I could see it cross Old Eustus mind to let Big Jess hit for himself, but Spielman was restin’ on the bench that day. With two out and two on, Old Eustus couldn’ pass him up. Spielman hit for Big Jess and got nicked by the pitch. Bases were loaded. I was up.
The first pitch was a slow changeup low and inside. Next pitch was a hard fastball that tailed off to the right just as it reached the plate. I stepped into the ball and took a full swing. Bat and ball connected with what sounded to me like a small clap of thunder, and the ball took off like it’d been shot out of a rifle. Just stood there starin’ at it. Heck, this one’d gone even higher than Scrub’s homer. Reporters claimed it measured almost a thousand feet. Never saw nothin’ like it. Seemed pretty funny, Mickey Mantle hittin’ five-hundred-foot homers and Muskrat Throop hittin’ em a thousand feet. Didn’ seem right.
What’d feel like when I hit it? Well, its kinda hard to say. Seemed like everything sorta fell right into its perfect place. Wasn’ nothin’ in the world at that moment except for me, the bat in my hands and the ball comin in. Nothin’, not even a sound. When I hit that ball it was like a whole store of
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power I didn’ know nothin’ about just ripped right out from inside of me. Whole thing was so smooth. No effort. Just a darn good feelin’.
Papers were full of it the next day. Some government scientist said it was a freak thing. Somethin’ about the energy of the pitch meetin’ up with the energy of the swing in a perfect combination. Didn’ make much sense to me. Don’ suppose it made much sense to most folks neither.
Next day, Scrub Riley pitched. Had some pretty good stuff. Came up in the bottom of the first with bases loaded, two out and the score 3-1 ours. I know you’re gonna find this kinda hard to believe, but I’ll be darned if Scrub didn’ go and hit another one of those monster shots. And that wasn’ the half of it. Along comes the seventh inning, and Scrub comes up again with two out and the bases loaded, us leadin’ 8-3. Bam! He hits another one. Imagine little Scrub Riley hittin’ two grand slammers in the same game, each of them much longer than Mantle’s longest. And me hittin’ one the night before.
Nobody could figure it. Papers and television didn’ hardly talk about nothin’ else. Psychics and scientists and preachers all had their say. Even had a team of army guys come down and ask us all kinda questions. Said somethin’ about a secret weapon that didn’ make much sense to me.
Happened eight more times durin’ the home stand. I hit six of em; Scrub hit two. All of ’em grand slammers, all of ’em a country mile long. Last week of the season came around with us three games up on the Orioles and seven games left. Four with the Tigers on the road. Then back home to wind it up with three weekend games against the Orioles. Me and Scrub didn’ do nothin’ at the plate against the Tigers, except strike out with the bases loaded a bunch of times. We lost three out of four, while the Orioles were home sweepin’ four from the Red Sox. Orioles came into the Stadium dead even with us and three games to play.
Barry Horton pitched a pretty fair game for us on Friday. Complete game. But Santamaria was untouchable. Never put more ’n’ one man on in any one inning, and didn’ let nobody past second. Orioles won 2-0.
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Big Jess went up against Klapperfuss on Saturday. Real tight game. Still nothin’-nothin’ bottom of the fifth when Cassius leads off with a double. Aurelio hits one to the deepest part of the park, but too high. Speedboat catches up to it and makes a circus grab. Cassius tags up and goes to third. Willoughby runs the count full, fouls off a few pitches and works out a walk. Whitehead bunts out in front of the plate. Cassius makes a move towards the plate, but Sheridan’s on top of the ball in a flash. Cassius makes a quick reverse and just beats Sheridan’s throw back to third. Meanwhile, Whitehead reaches first on the fielder’s choice. Bases are loaded, Big Jess at the plate. Big Jess swings at the first pitch and hits a major league pop up to short center. “Muskrat Throop,” says the p.a. system. As if I gotta be reminded.
Big load weighin’ on me as I step up to the plate. Lose the game and the season’s over. Win and we got a chance to grab the pennant tomorrow. No score, bottom of the fifth. Bases loaded, two out and me at the plate. Tough spot.
First pitch from Klapperfuss goes by me at bout hundred miles an hour. Never even saw the thing. Next pitch was a little slower, and I saw it pretty good. Suddenly, I got that strange feelin’ again. Couldn’ hear a sound, except for the whoosh of that ball coming towards me. Wasn’ nothin’ in the world for that second but me, my bat and the ball. Even before I hit it I knew for sure it was gonna be another monster job. And it sure was. Still recall the look on Slick Tuttle’s face when that ball took off. And that wasn’t the end of it neither. Not by a long shot.
Bottom of the eighth I come up again with two out and the bases jammed. Same thing all over again. Only this time I didn’ get any height on the ball and it took off in a straight line for the centerfield wall. Didn’ stop there either. Smashed a hole right through the wall and kept on goin’ a good ways after that. Started a real rhubarb. Slick Tuttle ran out on the field, claimin’ it was a ground rule double, not a homer, cause it didn’ go over the
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fence and the fielders didn’ get a shot at it. Pretty sharp of him, if ya ask me.
Well, Old Eustus and Slick and the umpires argued themselves blue in the face. Then the umps went into a huddle and gave me the grand slammer. Slick played the rest of the game under protest. Didn’ matter, though, cause we won 8-1. It all came down to Sunday’s game. Winner takes the pennant. Harrison Loomis is pitchin’ for them, Scrub Riley for us.
Right after the game, Slick Tuttle called a press conference and read a letter he’d sent the Commissioner askin’ that the last game be played anywhere but the Stadium, cause of the strange things goin’ on. Claimed Old Eustus was up to somethin’ sneaky, and what with both me and Scrub in the lineup somethin’ was sure to happen tomorrow. Besides, the Oriole outfielders and maybe even some fans were in danger of being struck and maybe killed by one of those low liners like the one I’d hit that day or a shot into the seats. Slick move. Kinda logic to what he was sayin’, but it didn’ help none. Commissioner Jarvis wasn’ gonna mess around with the last game of the season. Took his phone off the hook and sat on Slick’s letter. Heard a rumor Slick was gonna ask for a court order, but wasn’ nothin’ to it. We played the game in the Stadium, just like it’d been scheduled.
Wasn’ an empty incha standin room for that game on Sunday. Kinda gray and overcast like it gets in New York come October. Every once in a while we’d get a few minutes of drizzle, but nobody paid it no attention.
Orioles scored a run offa Scrub in the top of the first, but Scrub hung tough. Struck out Kyle Andrews and Aristotle White to get outta the inning without no more damage. Loomis pitched a good game, but Sweetwater hit a two-run shot bottom of the fourth to put us up 2-1. Top of the sixth, Speedboat gets on. Robertson hits it out, and they re back in front 3-2. Real tough game. Gutsy pitchin’ on both sides.
Bottom of the seventh, Spielman leads off with a soft liner over second. Cassius walks, and Aurelio bunts and legs it out. Ball wasn’ even hit hard and the bases are loaded, nobody out. Slick Tuttle decides to leave Loomis
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in. Guy’s still pitchin’ real strong. Probably better ’n’ anythin’ they could bring in from the bullpen. Loomis blows three pitches by Willoughby and strikes out Whitehead on a full count. All he’s gotta do now is get the pitcher and he’s out of it. Slick looks like a genius for lettin’ him stay in.
Loomis is just gettin’ ready to pitch to Scrub when Slick comes runnin outta the dugout wavin’ both hands over his head. Runs straight to the mound and calls his whole infield together. Didn’ take much figurin’ to know what was on his mind. We’d already had it figured out for a while. Ever since that game in August, anytime either me or Scrub came to bat in the Stadium with the bases loaded and two out we’d hit one of those monster homers. Never failed. And here we were at the Stadium, bases loaded, two out and Scrub at the plate. Nowhere to put him.
Watchin’ em from the on-deck circle, I could pretty much picture in my mind the strategy meetin’ on the mound. Looked for sure like Scrub was gonna hit a grand slammer to put us ahead. Wasn’ much choice. If they walk Scrub to force in the tyin’ run, they re still not outta the woods. Cause then I come up with the bases loaded and two out. Pitch to me and I hit a grand slammer. Walk me, and they force in the winnin’ run. Can’t do that. Specially not in the seventh.
Powwow on the mound breaks up, and Slick goes back to the dugout. First pitch from Loomis to Scrub is a wild pitch. Goes all the way to the backstop. Spielman takes off for the plate, but Old Eustus comes runnin’ out, yellin’ for Spielman to go back to third. Real sharp of Old Eustus to figure out Slick’s plan so quick. If Loomis wild pitches and Spielman comes home, the bases won’t be loaded no more and Scrub becomes just a regular easy out ‘stead of a good bet to hit a monster homer. Well, Spielman goes back to third, Old Eustus back to the dugout.
Still bases loaded, two out and Scrub at the plate. Score one for Old Eustus. Or almost. Slick can’t go out to the mound no more without yankin’ Loomis, but I hear him yellin’ somethin’ from the top of the dugout steps. “Balk!” he’s screamin’. “Balk!” Loomis looks at Slick kinda funny, then he
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nods his head. Real slick one, that Slick Tuttle, tellin’ his pitcher to balk on purpose. Ain’ nothin’ Old Eustus can do about it. Loomis goes into a big windup, breaks off in the middle and throws to first. Umpire calls the balk. Spielman comes home. Cassius and Aurelio move up. Score’s tied 3-3. Scrub’s standin’ at the plate lookin’ kinda forlorn, if ya know what I mean. Good spot for a pinch hitter.
Old Eustus comes outta the dugout real slow and walks up to Scrub at the plate. Pulls him over to the side and talks to him real quiet like. Scrub gulps and nods. Old Eustus pats Scrub on the back and goes back to the dugout. Took a lotta guts for Old Eustus to let Scrub hit in that spot. Nobody else woulda dared.
Loomis starts Scrub off with a mean-looking screwball low and away. Scrub takes a wild swing and misses the ball by more’n a foot. Scrub takes the next pitch, and it’s just high. Takes the one after that, and it’s high too. Loomis is missin’ high. Next pitch is down low. Too low. The count is three balls, one strike. Sheridan flips his mask and runs to the mound. Doesn’t wanna walk Scrub cause that’ll bring me to the plate with the bases loaded and two out. That’d probably mean a monster grand slammer. Nobody in the park woulda bet a nickel against it. Loomis gotta do it against Scrub if he wants to get outta the inning.
Sheridan gets back behind the plate. Loomis takes a long look in for the signal. Then he throws a smokin’ fastball right down the heart of the plate. Scrub was takin’ all the way. Count’s full. Everythin’ is ridin’ on this next pitch. Scrub steps back and asks for time.
Ya coulda heard a pin drop in the Stadium when Scrub took himself a coupla deep breaths and got back in the batter’s box. Had a real determined look on his face, but I didn’ put much stock in it. Best I was hopin’ for was that Loomis would walk him. Also hoped Scrub wouldn swing at no bad pitches. Tough hittin’ spot for a pitcher. Loomis throws an off-speed sinkerball. Right off, I could see its gonna come in low. I’m gonna be hittin’. And then I see Scrub start to swing. Can’t look, but I look anyway.
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Scrub’s bat hit the ball just as it crossed the plate. Hits a towering fly ball to centerfield. Real good contact, but he got a little under it. Didn’ have the legs to go outta the park. Looked like it was gonna hit high up on the wall instead. Speedboat didn’ waste no time revvin’ up his outboards. Went after that ball like a shot. Reached the wall just before the ball and timed his leap perfectly. Looked like he was gonna rob Scrub of at least a double.
What happened next’ll always stay etched in my mind. Ball comin’ down towards the upper part of the wall, and Speedboat kinda soarin’ through the air to meet it. Last second, he stretches out his glove far as it’ll go. Ball caroms off the top of the glove and goes over the wall. Three-run homer for Scrub whose runnin’ round the bases like some kinda billy goat. Whole team comes outta the dugout to meet him at the plate. Stadium goes wild. Still two innings to go, but ya could see the Orioles were beaten. Like somebody stuck a pin in em and let out all the air. Wasn’ no more scorin’ for either side, and we won the game 6-3. Darnedest pennant we ever won.
Went all the way that year, we did. Took the Twins in five for the American League championship, and beat the Astros in seven in the World Series. Everybody was expectin’ me and Scrub to hit some of those monster jobs, but we came up a coupla times with the bases loaded and two out and didn’ do nothin’. Papers kept writin’ about us and waitin’ for somethin’ to happen, but fact is, we never did it again, neither one of us. Whole thing just stopped as suddenly as it got started. Just one of those fluke things that happen in baseball from time to time. Nothin’ like it ever happened again. Leastways, nothin’ I ever heard about.
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YANKEES (Old Eustus Starkey, manager):
1. Muskrat Throop, ss
2. Honus Hawks, cf
3. Sweetwater Banks, 3b
4. Bruno Spielman, rf
5. Cassius Jones, lf
6. Aurelio Casaverde, 1b
7. Jim Willoughby, c
8. Tommy Whitehead, 2b
9. Big Jess Harmony, rhp
Barry Horton, lhp
Scrub Riley, rhp
ORIOLES (Slick Tuttle, manager)
1. Speedboat Monczak, cf
2. Dickie West, 2b
3. Marshall Robertson, 1b
4. Grant Rowe, rf
5. John Sheridan, c
6. Kyle Andrews, 3b
7. Aristotle White, lf
8. Jimmy George Saunders, ss
9. Julio Santamaria, lhp
Karl Klapperfuss, rhp
Harrison Loomis, rhp