1946: Chaos in Elysium

[seth70liz76]

The dowdy grey woman took the stairs briskly; weaving around the turns and rails with the footwork of a boxer. Feint, feint, push, feint, feint, and push. She glided with an ease unsuggested by her stature. Mrs. Fallon moves with such grace her sudden stop caught him off-guard.

Her hands flipped through the keys like a sharp with a new deck. It appeared she could find the right set by touch alone. The door swung open and stale air filled the hall.

“Smallest room I got; not much to look at.” A dress, bare bed and table crowded what little space there was.

“I’ll be on the road a lot.” He sat the cardboard suitcase down. The landlady did not know it, but she was looking at all of his worldly possessions.

“What’s your line again?” Mrs. Gertrude Fallon had little use for the salesmen who would come for rooms. They would always end up trying to sell their widgets and goo-gahs to the other tenants and her. Bothering everyone with the latest thing. An unlike the relief cases who made up her long timers; the salesmen would always end up skipping out on a day or two of rent.

“I’m a ballplayer. I’ll be traveling a lot.”

Gertrude’s face disapproved. “Had some ballplayers years ago. Left with two weeks unpaid. Drinking men too.” Dishonest and drunk was no way to present yourself to a Latter Day Saint.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty. Manger Paul Waner had enough heart to forward a loan so he would not have to sleep in the clubhouse. “I’ll pay two weeks now, if you don’t mind.”

The landlady turned from grey to green at the sight of the cash. “I don’t mind a bit!” Bills were exchanged as she started to enumerate the house rules. “Now, I don’t do laundry. I do clean each room once a week—provided you don’t live like a pig. I’ll take care of yours when you are gone,” her voice sing-songed over her list. But he had stopped listening once the money was in her hands.

For the first time in years he had a home.

[seth70liz76]

Originally Posted by ifspuds

Hey, that's my guy! Woohoo! Take that, Yankees!

I have to share the inspiration for that post.

Just for fun I was clicking on the "Shop Around" on our created players to see who the AI felt were comps. For the veterans, like Charlie Denton, the comps were other MLB superstars or prospects who became MLB superstars. Except for one. The Yankees were willing to think that Charlie Denton--who should be one of the top CF in all of baseball--was worth a one on one trade for . . . George Selkirk. Now I think Twinkletoes was a decent major leaguer, but it just stood out as so far from what everyone else "offered". I thought to myself--what a tribute to Yankee arrogance (Though, they are the one MLB franchise that deserves to be arrogant).

[seth70liz76]

Loyal Readers,

Sorry that we are in a patch where the story is a little thin. On the plus side, we are very close to having actual factual games being played. When I finish posting the PCL rosters I will run a couple more test season just to be sure and then OPENING DAY!

To this point, stories have been all over the place, with no particular connection to time. With the start of the season the post will be more ‘real time;’ meaning if I just played March 3, 1946 and post a storyline post—that post happened on March 3, 1946. There will be at least one storyline post for every CIE week of play.

Regular created player updates will be posted every Sunday of CIE play. If a created player is hurt, traded, sent down, called up, etc, then there will be an update for those events. There will be a post for each player’s debut as well.

Just as a point of reference, here is the editing I did with our LahmanDB import that makes up the league (aside from correcting the “Mcc” things and such):

All on the 1-100 scale.

Ernie Lombardi’s speed is set to 1. As is his range at C.

Pete Gray’s arm (C/INF/OF) is set to 1.

Since the league set up requires me to rely on a lot of ‘cup of coffee’ players I did make a universal adjustment to talent ratings. The minimum talent at any of the 5 hitting or 3 pitching categories is 35. Why 35? Well, if I recall correctly, that’s what FPS used as ‘replacement level’ ratings on its 100 point scale. So a player may not develop into an all-star or hall of famer, but they do have a chance to at least contribute something more than a 17-1-11 contact/power/eye imported talent could do. My reasoning—probably wrong--is that a guy would not be on a major league roster if he did not have the potential to be a ‘replacement level’ player. Actual ratings were not touched, only the talent.

Frankie Kelleher has his Power talent increase by 25 points—as long as he is the property of the Hollywood Stars. In one of those cosmic intersections, Frankie was assigned to the Stars—the team which he was the fan favorite for his home run hitting in the late 40’s and early 50’s. I’m giving him a chance to be that fan fav in Hollywood—otherwise his talent will be knocked down to his more human levels if he moves on.

(on a related note, here is a link about a huge fight Frankie was involved in with the Stars

That is all I can think I’ve done. If you’ve got any ‘technical’ questions,
as well as comments about the story, the league, anything, don’t hesitate to post.

Thanks for reading!

[seth70liz76]

“Powell is very upset with your last broadcast. How embarrassed do you think he is, carrying your show over WLW, with you telling the world the Reds are a last place club? How are they supposed to fill their stadium if the fans think they’re just going to lose?”

Barber closed his eyes to reflect a moment. “Mr. Shotton, if Powell Crosley does not want people to criticize the Reds; I suggest his daddy field a better team.”

[seth70liz76]

“Relax! Relax? Larry, the season hasn’t opened yet and we’re already $300,000 in the hole?”

MacPhail seethed at his partner. Topping and Webb had brought money but no baseball sense to the matter. Now, sooner than expected, one of the money boys was trying to run the club too. “Everyone had restarting costs; ours are just a bit higher. We’ll be in the black by seasons end.”
Dan Topping placed his hands on MacPhail’s desk, as if trying to intimidate the General Manager, “Not everyone has close to a million dollar payroll! And you’re trying to trade for Dixie Walker? Another $17,000 in salary?”

“Actually he makes $16,600. We need a centerfielder and those chumps in Portland won’t trade their guy to us.” MacPhail loved to catch people on details, made it seem like he was the only on paying attention to the conversation. In reality it just made the other person angrier.

“Del and I agree you have been far too casual with the payroll.”

MacPhail said nothing.

“We have decided that until this club is showing a profit, you are forbidden to add payroll.” Topping and Webb entered into this partnership with MacPhail because of the allure of owning, and profiting from, the most popular ball team in the world. Leland MacPhail seemed only concerned with winning.

The smug started rising from MacPhail, “the Yankees do not cut payroll.”

The money man shook his head, “This isn’t a church—there is nothing sacred about a f-----g baseball team.”

In one swoop MacPhail swung his arm and cleared his desk onto the feet of Topping. Glass, paper and metal hit the floor in a symphony of chaos. Topping jumped back startled. His aggressive stance had evaporated. MacPhail’s reputation for moments of insanity pushed with tremendous force.

“How many pennants are you responsible for Dan?” The words dripped with acid. “I built the Reds that won in 39 and 40. I won in Brooklyn in 1941. How many pennants can you take credit for?”

Topping tried to speak.

MacPhail was too quick, “That’s right zero. Z-E-R-O. Now when we lose because you refuse to open the purse strings, don’t blame me. I know I’ll get no credit when we win.” Topping was so focused on MacPhail’s eyes and words; he did not see Leland grab the lamp.

The lamp shattered against the wall producing a flurry of glass. Dan fought his instinct to run. “You are to make no more moves without the approval of Webb and I.” Topping eased out towards the door, careful not to completely turn his back on MacPhail.

“Slink on out like the girl you are Topping. When I line your pockets with wads of cash, remember who made it possible.”

[mikev]

Awesome. I can't believe I'm just discovering this.

Subscribed.

[seth70liz76]

University of Notre Dame
South Bend, Indiana

May 30, 1946

Mr. MacPhail

While we appreciate the interest of the New York Yankees in forming a partnership with the University of Notre Dame for a broadcast network; the trustees do not feel such an alliance is in the long term best interest of Notre Dame.

We take great care in assuring our radio network services the spiritual and educational goals of the university. The “Network of Champions” you have proposed would limit our ability to achieve the primary mission of Notre Dame via our sports broadcast.

The University of Notre Dame wishes another great American institution well in their future endeavors.

{signature} Rev. Fr. John J. Cavanaugh {/signature}

Leland MacPhail
Yankee Stadium
The Bronx, New York

[seth70liz76]

The legend stood on the top step leading into the dugout; pausing to digest the moment. Buck O'Neill approached the Babe cautiously. "Nervous?"

Ruth looked down, "God dammed right I am." One more step and he would finally be 'Babe Ruth, manager'. Ruth spat on the floor as he prepared to step up into the dugout. "It would have to be the Dodgers."

"Why's that skip?" Buck asked.

"That S.O.B. Durocher. Caught the little bastard stealing from me when he was with the Yankees." Decades after the incident you could how much the Babe still hated the Lip. "Beat the s-t out of then. Hope to hell we do the same today."

With that Ruth crossed the threshold and entered the dugout.

O'Neill piped up again, "Still nervous?"

The Babe turned slowly with a huge grin covering his moon face. "Not anymore; this is the best I've felt in years."

[seth70liz76]

"Mr. Bogart, I'm so glad you could make it," William Cox was all over his famous guest. He had hoped the actor would respond to the usher sent note (tip that kid!) but here he was at the visiting owner's box with Cox and his entourage.

Bogey flicked a cigarette and winked, "Well, I may want to see a game in Philly someday." The two men shook and sat down, talking about baseball.

"Normally, I'd be over at Gilmore, but I can't pass up a chance to see Joe's first game in LA."

"Real coup for the league to get him."

"Don't know how much better they are with him, but love to watch him play."

"Bah-Lancers don't have nothing on my Phills!"

Humphrey stopped for a moment, as an usher brought hot dogs and beers to the box. "You really think the Phillies are better than the Lancers?" Cox nodded, to which Bogart responded with a dismissive tsk.

Cox felt insulted. He had seen this club all spring and they won most of their games. Didn't that mean the Phillies were pennant contenders? He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out his wallet. Cox quickly thumbed through his cash before throwing a wad onto the arm of Bogart's chair.

"$5,000 that the Phillies beat your Lancers."

Bogart drew back, "Can you do that?"

"I'm betting on my team to win, it's ok."

The guest drew in on his cigarette, something didn't feel quite right. But it was a chance to make a quick 5 G's, so why not. "I don't have that much on me; I assume you'll want cash for that."

"Your word is good enough for me," Cox replied. Hell, win, lose or draw-he was talking with Humphrey Bogart!

[seth70liz76]

The chilly Buffalo night turned absolutely frigid. Rickey could not bring himself to say anything to Veeck. It was because of Veeck this night was going horribly wrong.

Late in spring training Satchel Paige, the best known if not the best Negro pitcher, had come down with a tender elbow. Paige, notorious for his durability insisted he had pitched through worse. Rickey, on advice from the training staff, shut Satch down. Clyde Sukeforth, despite the daily pleas from the most veteran of rookies, agreed and refused to put Paige in.

Bill Veeck, the primary moneyman in the organization, had been feeling pressure from the League to start Paige in Buffalo. The opening day had been lackluster, although it was an all-time record for a ball game in Buffalo, and attendance had dipped each day. The cold was keeping the people away. While Rickey wanted to hold Paige back for the opening day at Yankee Stadium Veeck was swayed to the league's point of view. "Normally, I can be a pain in the ass," Veeck told Earle Mack, still working for his father, but now as the President's liaison, "But your dad could have stood in the way of what we wanted to do with the blacks. I owe you this much."

In the middle was poor Clyde Sukeforth. His loyalty lay with Rickey, but the chain of command started with Veeck. "Awful cold tonight Satch, sure you're ready?"

"Get me in today, and I can go again Sunday against the Yankees!"

Now it was the third inning, and Paige was coming out. It was hard to tell what happened. The pitch was fluid, the follow through textbook-yet there was Paige. Bent over, holding his right elbow.

Rickey left the box, with Veeck slowly in tow.

"I thought we agreed I was to make the baseball decisions around here," Rickey's voice quivered with rage. Of all the men who deserved this moment, none had waited as long a Satchel. It was a waste of God's gift.

Veeck lit a cigarette looking for words. "This is as much my team as it is yours Branch." Too much power had been surrendered without thought. Now that Veeck understood what type of relationship Rickey wanted from an owner, he didn't like it. "I'm team President. I have the last word on everything."

[seth70liz76]

"What the hell are you doing, trying to get on this train," MacPhail's slurred words and discolored eyes told all one needed to know about his condition.

Joe McCarthy stood on the steps, just waiting to get back to New York. Extra innings on getaway day was rough on everyone. MacPhail was making it impossible. "Larry, just let me on, we'll talk about it when we get back with Topping and Webb. . ."

"Going behind my back are you!" The mood flashed from intransient to violent at the mention of his co-owners' names. MacPhail reached for Joe's shirt in an attempt to intimidate the manager. His swipe missed, and the already teetering drunk fell to the platform in a soft pile of a man.

McCarthy walked up the stairs of the train, "We need a couple husky porters down here."

After recovering from the initial shock of the fall, Leland had risen to his hands and knees. "You fired McCarthy. That's what you deserve for losing to that s---hole team. You're fired."

The Yankee manager slipped the porters a five each, instructing them to take Leland to his berth. "We'll talk about it with Webb and Topping in New York Larry."

[Dark Horse]

[seth70liz76]

He muscled up and slugged the fat pitch deep. One of the deepest shots longtime Indian fans could ever remember being hit. For a moment the word "Ruthian" was whispered among the observers. Joe himself could never remember hitting one harder. By the time the Tribe recovered from the shock, the Lancers had plated another run. "Will to win," more than one fan said about Joe, "he just has a will to win."

Despite the early season success of the team, Joe was finding the going away from the Yanks rough. The average, while rising, was well below what a player like Joe expected from himself. Yes the team was winning now; any long-term success depended on him.

"What the h-l is he doing?" DiMaggio said to Guy Curtright as they jogged to the outfield. Ted Lyons, manager, starting pitcher was strolling out to the mound to start the 8th. Lyons had walked 8 to that point, weaving in and out of trouble all day. It was clear from centerfield the manager was out of gas, why could Lyons not feel it.

Ted Lyons, at 45 years old, was one of the oldest active players in baseball. The sudden expansion of major league teams allowed a handful of plus 40 players to have a vital role. Joe had been lead to believe his manager would be an emergency hurler. An extra arm for the Lancers to burn in extra inning games. No way DiMaggio ever would have left the Yankees if he thought Lyons would put his ego before the team's chance to win.

Two pitches later, the game was tied. Some scrub named Jim Carlin took one just inside the foul pole. It would be five more batters before an out was recorded.

As Joe trotted back into the dugout, Lyons shouted, "Gotta make that throw, Joe." DiMaggio had made a grab in deep center, with no chance to get the runner it had been returned to the infield. "Cost us a run, you know."

Joe burned inside. This was no Joe McCarthy or Miller Huggins telling him what he needed to improve on. This guy could tell when his own arm was past it, now he was going to give the great DiMaggio advice. Joe kept walking back into League Park's clubhouse. The end was inevitable as 1-2-3.

The Tribe was the first good team the Lancers had faced, and Joe did not like what he saw. He would have the normal replies for the radio guys. "Yeah, the 200th felt good, but the team lost." A first place team never felt so empty.

[Eugene Church]

seth70liz76, I knew I shouldn't start reading any dynasties, I just don't have the time to get hooked.

But you have been good to check out mine, so I thought I should at least return the favor.

You hooked me.

I only read the first page.

You are an extremely fine and gifted writer and storyteller.

Great job on the beginning.

[seth70liz76]

On time as usual, Leland MacPhail arrived at the Stadium's office. The Dodgers, the team he left, the team he built, had just finished sweeping the Yankees. In a flash, the most expensive team in the history of baseball was under .500.

As MacPhail strode through the office the clusters of worker bees broke quickly towards their individuals desk. Work started the moment MacPhail entered the office and woe unto the desk jockey who was caught tardy to his desk. Nothing infuriated the General Manager more than the lack of effort.

He stopped at the entrance to his office, door already open, lights turned on. Whip fast his body snapped to face the sea of desk. Purple with rage, Leland's teeth clinched so tightly no one understood the question he asked. The puzzled looks in response to his gurgling only angered him more.

"Larry, get in here," the voice of co-owner Dan Topping came from his office. For no reason, MacPhail wagged his finger accusingly at the office, as if warning of hell to come.

"Dan. Mel. How lovely to see you this morning," MacPhail's voice had the sickly sweet aroma of bourbon. "Let me guess, that p---y McCarthy cried to you again to save his job."

"You can't fire a manager for losing a game or a series Leland," Mel Webb, usually the quiet of the two went on the attack. "Joe McCarthy is one of the finest managers in baseball, he needs time with this club."

"I am the General Manager, I need the authority to fire the manager whenever I want." MacPhail made his way to his sidebar and started to pour a drink. "First you take my budget and now you take my authority." Topping and Webb, since the start of Spring Training had tried to be more involved in the day-to-day operation than their original intentions indicated. If they wanted a war for the soul of the team; then war they would have.

[Dark Horse]