bask in the glory of a superb year and talk on the banquet circuit about his plans for the 1952 season. Those plans appeared to get an unexpected lift when Jerry Coleman was called to duty by the Marines. The Korean War had dragged on and the country needed the services of the Yankee second baseman.
McDougald was hopeful that Coleman’s loss was his gain. And so he openly talked with the press about his desire to play second base instead of third. “Around second base,” he explained, “you get more action. You have more fun. You figure in more double plays. At third, you don’t see the signs so often, and the first thing you know, a batted ball comes at you without warning.”
However much he may have understood McDougald’s perspective, Stengel had another second baseman in the wings whom he liked (Billy Martin), and McDougald wound up playing most of the games at third base for the next two seasons (until Martin was drafted into the army). Other decisions by Stengel, however, sometimes seemed incomprehensible. On one occasion in a game against the Washington Senators, the manager lifted McDougald for a pinch hitter with the bases loaded even though McDougald was on a hitting streak. While McDougald simmered in the dugout, the pinch hitter—Johnny Mize—hit a home run. “Right then and there,” McDougald later said, “I figured I’d never second-guess the manager.”
McDougald’s faith in Stengel’s choices did not always ensure a harmonious relationship. In fact, there were points of frustration and anger as McDougald tried to persevere under Stengel’s regime. One matter of contention was McDougald’s batting stance. Although the results had been rewarding in 1951, McDougald could never pull his average above .300 in the years that immediately followed. Stengel kept pressing Gil to make a change, not only to increase his average but also to enhance his ability to move a runner from first to third. McDougald had a tendency to pull the ball, and a hit to left field, Stengel explained, was likely to leave the runner at second. The runner could more often move to third base, he said, if McDougald could “spray the ball” to center field or right field.
At first, McDougald was “mad as heck” at Stengel, but then he too saw that there were benefits in hitting the ball up the middle and to right field. In 1956, he finally yielded to the pressure, changed his batting stance, and batted .311—the second-highest batting average on the team that year and the first time he had batted over .300 since his rookie season. It was enough to make him feel good about his manager— especially because they had already cleared the air on their running feud before the 1956 season began.
It had happened when the Yankees took a goodwill tour in Japan after the 1955 season. Stengel—a man who savored his liquor and liked to keep his players at bay—told them that they were not to congregate in the hotel bars during the trip. That venue was reserved for him (where he would often stay until the early-morning hours, talking with sportswriters or whoever else might be there). But on one evening during the tour, McDougald, feeling warm and thirsty, decided to go down to the bar for a beer. It was about one o’clock, and there was no one there. And then suddenly, out of nowhere, Stengel appeared. McDougald thought the old man might be angry, but the Yankee manager sat down next to him at the bar and began an amiable conversation. It gave the young player the courage to confront Stengel about something that had been troubling him for years. “You must hate my guts,” he told his manager. “Five years now, and there isn’t one thing I’ve ever done that’s made you happy. Why don’t you just get rid of me, and you’ll save a lot of aggravation, and I certainly won’t get an ulcer, which will have to come along.” “Well, I’m not trading you ever,” Stengel responded. Then why, McDougald shot back, “are you
McDougald was hopeful that Coleman’s loss was his gain. And so he openly talked with the press about his desire to play second base instead of third. “Around second base,” he explained, “you get more action. You have more fun. You figure in more double plays. At third, you don’t see the signs so often, and the first thing you know, a batted ball comes at you without warning.”
However much he may have understood McDougald’s perspective, Stengel had another second baseman in the wings whom he liked (Billy Martin), and McDougald wound up playing most of the games at third base for the next two seasons (until Martin was drafted into the army). Other decisions by Stengel, however, sometimes seemed incomprehensible. On one occasion in a game against the Washington Senators, the manager lifted McDougald for a pinch hitter with the bases loaded even though McDougald was on a hitting streak. While McDougald simmered in the dugout, the pinch hitter—Johnny Mize—hit a home run. “Right then and there,” McDougald later said, “I figured I’d never second-guess the manager.”
McDougald’s faith in Stengel’s choices did not always ensure a harmonious relationship. In fact, there were points of frustration and anger as McDougald tried to persevere under Stengel’s regime. One matter of contention was McDougald’s batting stance. Although the results had been rewarding in 1951, McDougald could never pull his average above .300 in the years that immediately followed. Stengel kept pressing Gil to make a change, not only to increase his average but also to enhance his ability to move a runner from first to third. McDougald had a tendency to pull the ball, and a hit to left field, Stengel explained, was likely to leave the runner at second. The runner could more often move to third base, he said, if McDougald could “spray the ball” to center field or right field.
At first, McDougald was “mad as heck” at Stengel, but then he too saw that there were benefits in hitting the ball up the middle and to right field. In 1956, he finally yielded to the pressure, changed his batting stance, and batted .311—the second-highest batting average on the team that year and the first time he had batted over .300 since his rookie season. It was enough to make him feel good about his manager— especially because they had already cleared the air on their running feud before the 1956 season began.
It had happened when the Yankees took a goodwill tour in Japan after the 1955 season. Stengel—a man who savored his liquor and liked to keep his players at bay—told them that they were not to congregate in the hotel bars during the trip. That venue was reserved for him (where he would often stay until the early-morning hours, talking with sportswriters or whoever else might be there). But on one evening during the tour, McDougald, feeling warm and thirsty, decided to go down to the bar for a beer. It was about one o’clock, and there was no one there. And then suddenly, out of nowhere, Stengel appeared. McDougald thought the old man might be angry, but the Yankee manager sat down next to him at the bar and began an amiable conversation. It gave the young player the courage to confront Stengel about something that had been troubling him for years. “You must hate my guts,” he told his manager. “Five years now, and there isn’t one thing I’ve ever done that’s made you happy. Why don’t you just get rid of me, and you’ll save a lot of aggravation, and I certainly won’t get an ulcer, which will have to come along.” “Well, I’m not trading you ever,” Stengel responded. Then why, McDougald shot back, “are you
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