The Era, 1947-1957: When the Yankees, the Giants, and the Dodgers Ruled the World by Roger Kahn Page A
Authors: Roger Kahn
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municipal dump. The story that followed infuriated the Yankees’ feudal lords. But some fault traced to Yankee management, which was mean-spirited.
MacPhail, stuck with DiMaggio, called the star into his office at the Squibb Building immediately after the 1946 season. Aside from hitting under .300, DiMaggio had failed to bat in 100 runs for the first time in his major league career. His divorce was final now. Absolute. He wasn’t hitting. He was alone. DiMaggio did not feel good about himself
“We know what happened last summer, Joe,” MacPhail began. “We’re going to move on from there. We aren’t going to brood about the past.”
Brooding is an avocation with DiMaggio. He looked at MacPhail and exercised his right to remain silent.
“This yellow pad,” MacPhail said. “
I
’
m
taking one sheet. I’m giving
you
one sheet. Do you have a pen?”
DiMaggio nodded.
“We’re going to do numbers. Last year, Joe, coming out of the army you were paid $43,500. I want you to write down on that yellow paper what you think you should be paid for next year. I’m going to write down what I think. Then we’ll compare numbers.”
DiMaggio took his time. He didn’t trust baseball people. He wanted to be careful. But he wasn’t a thief. He’d had a lousy year. He got $43,500 and gave the team a lousy year. They finished third. He wasn’t worth another $43,500.
DiMaggio wrote down five numbers. The salary he proposed for himself, a significant cut, was $37,500.
MacPhail looked and nodded and said, “Now I want you to see
my
numbers, Joe.” MacPhail had written $43,500.
“I guess,” MacPhail said, “you’d rather play for my numbers than for yours.”
DiMaggio smiled. The somber presence lightened.
A satisfied DiMaggio was nobody you wanted to pitch to when a game was on the line.
A few days later, October 19, MacPhail traded Joe Gordon, a splendid second baseman, to Cleveland for Allie Reynolds, a right-handed pitcher of great strength, who for mysterious reasons had not won consistently.
Reynolds, an Oklahoma Creek Indian, was reborn in the Bronx and nicknamed Superchief. He could start and relieve and overpower every batter in the league, including Theodore S. Williams.
Years later Casey Stengel talked to me about Reynolds’s ability to win as a starter and win as a reliever with grammar unique to Stengel and, in the middle of all that crowded syntax, a quality of awe.
“Reynolds,” Stengel said, “is the greatest two ways, which is startin’ and relievin’, the greatest ever, and I seen the great ones, Mathewson, and I seen Cy Young and I wondered who that fat old guy was, which tells you what a dumb young punk I was. You could look it up.”
With a happy DiMaggio and a primed Superchief, the revived Yankees were ready to take over the world, come 1947 and the years that followed. MacPhail was an architect of that great team, which now awaited only a Second Coming, the arrival of Casey Stengel, ringed by light. But for that the Yankees would have to wait through another Christmas or two.
*And sometimes more than that. He won the 1946 American League batting championship at .353. But two years later he hit under .250.
+ This rule was demanded by Shor himself, a loud, beefy, softhearted character. I saw one of America’s most famous columnists drink himself into a stupor at Shor’s. The proprietor hired a limousine with driver to take the man home to Connecticut and had a headwaiter ride along and pour the columnist into bed.
That indiscretion stayed off record. My former wife, a pretty Pennsylvania girl, arrived one night noticeably pregnant. Shor pointed a finger at her navel and said, “You been doing that thing again.” After the baby was born a few weeks later, Shor sent two dozen red roses to the hospital room. I found it impossible to
stay
offended by blustery, gauche Toots Shor.
*But only DiMaggio was so graceless as to complain about the relative rigors of service. Greenberg,
MacPhail, stuck with DiMaggio, called the star into his office at the Squibb Building immediately after the 1946 season. Aside from hitting under .300, DiMaggio had failed to bat in 100 runs for the first time in his major league career. His divorce was final now. Absolute. He wasn’t hitting. He was alone. DiMaggio did not feel good about himself
“We know what happened last summer, Joe,” MacPhail began. “We’re going to move on from there. We aren’t going to brood about the past.”
Brooding is an avocation with DiMaggio. He looked at MacPhail and exercised his right to remain silent.
“This yellow pad,” MacPhail said. “
I
’
m
taking one sheet. I’m giving
you
one sheet. Do you have a pen?”
DiMaggio nodded.
“We’re going to do numbers. Last year, Joe, coming out of the army you were paid $43,500. I want you to write down on that yellow paper what you think you should be paid for next year. I’m going to write down what I think. Then we’ll compare numbers.”
DiMaggio took his time. He didn’t trust baseball people. He wanted to be careful. But he wasn’t a thief. He’d had a lousy year. He got $43,500 and gave the team a lousy year. They finished third. He wasn’t worth another $43,500.
DiMaggio wrote down five numbers. The salary he proposed for himself, a significant cut, was $37,500.
MacPhail looked and nodded and said, “Now I want you to see
my
numbers, Joe.” MacPhail had written $43,500.
“I guess,” MacPhail said, “you’d rather play for my numbers than for yours.”
DiMaggio smiled. The somber presence lightened.
A satisfied DiMaggio was nobody you wanted to pitch to when a game was on the line.
A few days later, October 19, MacPhail traded Joe Gordon, a splendid second baseman, to Cleveland for Allie Reynolds, a right-handed pitcher of great strength, who for mysterious reasons had not won consistently.
Reynolds, an Oklahoma Creek Indian, was reborn in the Bronx and nicknamed Superchief. He could start and relieve and overpower every batter in the league, including Theodore S. Williams.
Years later Casey Stengel talked to me about Reynolds’s ability to win as a starter and win as a reliever with grammar unique to Stengel and, in the middle of all that crowded syntax, a quality of awe.
“Reynolds,” Stengel said, “is the greatest two ways, which is startin’ and relievin’, the greatest ever, and I seen the great ones, Mathewson, and I seen Cy Young and I wondered who that fat old guy was, which tells you what a dumb young punk I was. You could look it up.”
With a happy DiMaggio and a primed Superchief, the revived Yankees were ready to take over the world, come 1947 and the years that followed. MacPhail was an architect of that great team, which now awaited only a Second Coming, the arrival of Casey Stengel, ringed by light. But for that the Yankees would have to wait through another Christmas or two.
*And sometimes more than that. He won the 1946 American League batting championship at .353. But two years later he hit under .250.
+ This rule was demanded by Shor himself, a loud, beefy, softhearted character. I saw one of America’s most famous columnists drink himself into a stupor at Shor’s. The proprietor hired a limousine with driver to take the man home to Connecticut and had a headwaiter ride along and pour the columnist into bed.
That indiscretion stayed off record. My former wife, a pretty Pennsylvania girl, arrived one night noticeably pregnant. Shor pointed a finger at her navel and said, “You been doing that thing again.” After the baby was born a few weeks later, Shor sent two dozen red roses to the hospital room. I found it impossible to
stay
offended by blustery, gauche Toots Shor.
*But only DiMaggio was so graceless as to complain about the relative rigors of service. Greenberg,
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