1946: Chaos in Elysium

[seth70liz76]

“I wish you had come earlier, Dad is much more alert in the mornings,” Earle Mack burned with a cool rage at the guest. After 65 years of play and service to the game, Branch Rickey had arrived to force his father out the door. With no money and no park, Earle knew this was the inevitable outcome of his father’s situation, but the Grand Old Man of the Game deserved; no, earned the right to decide when to close the doors himself. The promise of a buyer for the club and a ceremonial post as President of the Contential League did not soothe the son, only agitated him more. “If Dad wants to fight,” Earle had told his brothers, “then he has every right to.”

“I’ll be as gentle as I can,” the perfunctory politeness of Earle Mack did not set well with Rickey. If this were the best of all possible worlds, Connie Mack would be allowed to run his club into the ground until he had to sell. But MacPhail’s lone demand (“his lone stated demand,” Rickey quickly corrected himself) was Mack was no longer welcome as an owner, not if the Yankees were to play ball, as it were.

The door opened on the cramped modest office. Since the shut down of play, the remains of the Athletics were now collected in this space. No equipment, no accoutrements, just contracts and legal papers residing in boxes and overstuffed cabinets. The old man sat at his desk, moving and wringing his hands purposelessly. “It is nice to know I haven’t been completely forgotten by my brethren.”

“You know why I am here, Mr. Mack?”

“You want me to sell or fold my club. Is that right?” Rickey was actually relieved the conversation had gone on point so quickly. He loathed disingenuous small talk.

“There is a group of gentlemen in Baltimore—they are willing to offer $2 million for all the contracts and rights to the club.”

Mack rose and stiffly walked towards the lone window in the office. “I can see Shibe from here. Athletics used to own that park. Last week, I got a letter from the fellow, what’s his name, Cox, who bought the Phillies, telling me our lease was not to be renewed. And we used to own the place.”

“Things have been tough for everyone the last 15 years, Mr. Mack. You’ve had a good run.” Rickey pulled some papers out of his case. “We would like to offer you the Presidency of the Contential League. It pays well; you won’t have to worry about money anymore.”

“It’s not about the money Branch,” Mack snapped. “You know when I first had piece of ownership? I put $500 into the Brotherhood team in Buffalo. Everything I had, and I lost it. Ruined me—but it did not break me. I withstood the Federals, gambling scandals and the Depression, and now you just walk in and tell me it is over?” Mack slumped against the window, the strain of his anger was becoming too much to bear.

Rickey took a place next to Mack. “There are only a handful of us who the Good Lord allows to choose their time. There are changes coming Mr. Mack, some have already started—we need someone who the public trusts, admires, to help make the medicine go down easier.”

“So that is what I am reduced to? Selling the papers other men’s ideas?”

There was no answer; none Rickey could articulate and not insult the Grand Old Man further. Mack started back to his desk, his legs started to give way. Branch assisted as best he could. “I’m just so tired,” Connie mumbled softly. As Rickey eased his host into the desk chair, Mack wondered softly, “Where are we going to find the money to resign McInnis?” Elbows on desk and hands in face, Mack quietly regained control.

“Mr. Mack, I hesitate to keep pressing, but if you do not sell, the Yankees will not support our league. Without the Yankees there is no league.”

“Colonel Ruppert wouldn’t do that.”


“Ruppert is dead Mr. Mack, he has been for years. It is in everyone’s best interest for you to sell.”

Connie hung his head, “Sometimes, I forget when it is.”

The two men sat in uncomfortable silence, while the Grand Old Man considered the situation. Rickey only hoped it was the situation of today occupying Mack’s mind.

“If I do what you ask, can I have your word as a Christian on something?”

Branch nodded.

“Earle wants to stay in baseball; can I have your word he will have a job in the game as long as he wants?”

“As long as I am affiliated with a club, Earle will have a job in baseball.”

“I suppose that will have to do. Set up the meeting with the Baltimore gentlemen with Earle. I should not let my pride ruin the rest of you.” Rickey shook his hand and turned to leave.

“Branch.”

“Yes Mr. Mack.”

“You know, the moment the Yankees feel it is in their best interest to jump leagues, they will.”

Rickey nodded and continued out the door.

[seth70liz76]

Sam Breadon entered the office of his general manager. In the rapid fire month and a half since Germany’s surrender, Rickey had worked tirelessly bringing the “excluded” clubs together in the semblance of a new league. The fragile alliance still faced hurdles, most prominently two clubs still bickering about Saint Louis, but Rickey felt the Contential League was going to make a decent go of it. For now though, Rickey was content of resuming some of the long neglected GM duties.

All of the clubs were facing the same quandary as Rickey; who is on the roster? To that end, Rickey was combing through contracts, both major and minor league, trying to get a handle on who actually was still a Cardinal. Marty Marion had sent notice he was ready to report to spring training when the club needed, but beyond him the roster was a muddle.

Breadon stood in the doorway and cleared his throat. “Have you heard?”

“About the new National Agreement?” The National American League was trying to force through a new arrangement solidifying the majors hold on the minor leagues. In principle, Rickey was in total agreement with what they were trying to accomplish. However, he understood the real purpose of the move was to choke off the pipeline of the minors to any competing League. Word was the minors were heading for a similar spit as the majors as the American Association and International League clubs with working agreement with Contential clubs opposed to its passage.

“The Dodgers have hired Burt Shotton as their GM.” Rickey paused and lifted his head from his work. He had assumed when the matters of league formation were done with, the Dodger job, almost his in 1942, would come to him. “I guess they didn’t know how long you were going to be tied up with me.”

“We still have a team to build here.”

Breadon shook his head. “Branch, if it wasn’t for the shutdown, you and I would have parted company a long time ago. I’m exercising the option in your contract—I’m buying you out. As of midnight tonight you are no longer in the employ of the St. Louis Cardinals. I just had to be sure you weren’t going to a team that I think can beat us. Nothing personal, it is just—I didn’t want you to do for them what you did for me.”

Rickey stood and collected his coat and hat. “I’ll be back to clear out my things in the morning, Sam.”

[seth70liz76]

“Yeah . . . You got him . . . Yes . . . I could be there today if . . . No, tomorrow is fine . . . 10 am . . . Do I know where to go? Hell, I practically built the God dammed place . . . I’ll see you then; sure as sh*t you won’t be disappointed!

They called! The God Dammed Yankees finally called!”

[seth70liz76]

"Clyde, I've got a job for you. Yes, I know I don't have team right now, leave that to me. I need you to go south for a couple weeks . . ."

[Vris]

Still reading Seth.

[ifspuds]

This dynasty accomplishes more in a pair of two-sentence posts than a lot of dynasties do into a whole page of posts. A great read, as expected.

[Dark Horse]

:stands and applause:

Good to see you back, Seth!

[seth70liz76]

For a man who was seemingly loved by millions, Joe DiMaggio was never comfortable with the glare of the public eye. The money was great, as was playing ball for a living; but as he became more successful he became more detached from teammates and fans. A lonely man in a sea of seven million who trusted no one he did not know before coming east.

Since his discharge from the army, Joe had spent more time back home on the west coast. Everything was more leisurely, not the quickquickquick of New York. Sure he was recognized when he went out to restaurants and theaters, but he was not mobbed. These people, his people, respected his space and privacy.

More than anything, this is why he was heading to this party. Normally, Joe hated these get togethers; people he did not know fawning over him. Telling him how they “knew what kind of guy he was,” when even Joe did not know what kind of guy he was sometimes.

DiMaggio grabbed the invite and looked himself over in the mirror. “A picture of cool,” he observed to no one. “Well, Bing, let’s see what game you want to play.”

[seth70liz76]

Hey Kids! Bing wants your help in finding a name for Los Angeles' new MAJOR LEAGUE baseball club. Bing put together this list of names he likes, but just can't decided which would be the best one for the team. Check the appropriate box and mail this coupon to:

Name Game
c/o Los Angeles Times
Box 74
Los Angeles, CA

10 kids who vote for the winning name will recieve complementary membership in the Los Angeles Baseball team's Kids Club. Benefits include Kids Club Tee-Shirt, tickets to selected games, an autographed team ball and invitation to a special Father's Day picnic at Wrigley Field with Bing and his kids!

[NOTE]I wanted this to be part of the regular thread[/NOTE]

[seth70liz76]

During the war, while major leaguers toiled for industrial and military teams, one somewhat familiar name kept playing on: the Kansas City Monarchs. Despite fuel and tire restrictions, J. L. Wilkinson and Tom Baird managed to keep the club going and profitable, when all logic dictated the team should have closed operation like every other team. To be sure the Manleys and other still operated their clubs as barnstormers, but the Monarchs were different. The Newark Eagles rarely traveled west of Pennsylvania, the Monarchs covered not just the United States, but Canada, Mexico and the Caribbean too. Of course the Monarchs had the one thing even white folks wanted to see: Satchel Paige.

Paige’s legend was such the Monarchs could pay the most famous Negro hurler in America $37,000 a year with a slapdash schedule and enormous travel expenses. Satch would come on, pitch two or three innings and the crowds would go home happy. It had gotten to the point that if Paige was not able to pitch, it was better to cancel the game and refund tickets than deal with the messy aftermath of a Satchel-less game.

Paige’s presence had drawn many of the top Negro players to the Monarchs. It was, according to some of the top black newspapers, like watching half of the East-West Game when the Monarchs came to town. Now, with the end of the war in sight, the Negro American League and Negro National League were both starting to show signs of life. Wendell Smith of the Pittsburgh Courier spoke for many when he wrote, “It is the hope of the fans of Negro baseball that the moguls involved will use this new beginning to correct the multitude of missteps made before the war.” Smith, and other sportswriters, had been urging the leagues to adopt a set schedule, formalize contracts, employ statisticians and hire a commissioner to oversee disputes between the leagues. With budgets that before the war were on the level of a typical white D league club, some wondered if Negro baseball would ever clean up its own house to get the respect many felt it deserved.

But those were debates for the future—though all too often in Negro baseball the future never came. John “Buck” O’Neil was concerned with the here and now. A tour through the normally unprofitable south was pulling in crowds comparable to some northern cities before the war. The players hated these trips; accommodations and dining were lacking in many towns. And players sometimes skirted the mores that southern blacks and white knew all to well. Difficult trips to make.

"He's here again," Jackie Robinson said to Buck as they left the field. O'Neil nodded; he had seen the white man too. Memphis, Little Rock, Jackson, Birmingham and all the spots in between, there he had been. Furiously scribbling as the games went on with no effort to hide his attendance. "Do you think he's a scout?"

"Only two reasons why he'd be following us," O'Neil replied. "And I hope he isn't a private detective." There had been rumblings that Gus Greenlee, a big player in Negro ball in the 1930's, was forming a league that had the formal accoutrements of the white leagues. "I suppose I owe it to JL to find out." Buck wrote a note on a scrape of paper and called for an usher. "Take this to the gentleman with the notebook in the section behind home, and please direct him to the team bus." The young man nodded and headed towards the section. "Gene, I need you to take over at first for me--Quincy, run the team for me; make sure Satch gets in by the 6th, let him go as long as he wants--I'll be in the bus if you need me."

[seth70liz76]

. . . So the son of a bitch is standing there, holding the girl and he say, "Honest skip, I didn't know she was your daughter." Dumb bastard finds himself on the next train to Georgia and never made it back. So the lesson is never screw some nameless bimbo, at least ask what her last name is before you nail her. Oh brother, can you believe it--KSD wants me to do a baseball show for NBC with Frank Eschen, since the majors or something similar to it at least is going to be starting up, get people back in the mood for the game, that sort of thing. Doing the same thing I'm doing now, 'scept I'd be getting paid instead of buying drinks and steaks for you freeloaders every night. Just telling stories, not the same ones I tell you boys. Thems strictly for the fathers, if you know what I mean. They give me enough trouble with how I talk on the radio; I don't need anymore grief from the teachers and all those other do-gooders. They want something for the kids, I guess—people who don’t have the spirit we’ve got, eh fellers. I’ll drink to that. Anyway, I got to thinking to myself, “Diz, you’ve given that ol’ wing of yours a rest for a couple years, why not see if they can use a wily ol’ vet on the club.” Yeah, I’m serious about that. With all the garbage goings on with the whatever the hell they’re calling the two leagues now—somebody like me, put some asses in the seats to see ol’ Diz; I think I could give a club some wins. You saw how I threw in the War Bond game last year—plenty of zip back on there. Ok, maybe I’m not like I was in 1933 or 34, but I’m at least as good as I was with the Cubs back in 1938. Man, I was a pitcher that year, now if I got the pop back on the ol’ number 1, look out brother I’m coming back. Hell, all I needs is a chance to show what I can do; bet the Brownies would give me a shot, and even if I don’t I got something to talk about in the booth when I get back to call their games. Yeah, I know, I know, they ain’t gonna be in St. Louis next year, that’s flat out bullsh*t, all this hullabaloo, I don’t know what everyone is all up in arms about. This is a Cardinals town now, and there ain’t but room for one club here. Still think of all the ticket I could sell wherever the Brownies end up, man, I’m telling you brother it will be beautiful. Anyway, that reminds me of a story I was told about when the Federals were playing, it seems . . .

[seth70liz76]

"I must admit, you would make a great salesman Mr. Rickey.” Long time Cubs executive Bill Veeck was intrigued by the Browns’ situation. Veeck had been considering a bid for the Cleveland Indians, but the Browns had the potential to be a more valuable purchase. “Still I’m not wanting to buy a charity case, I’d like to make some money on this deal eventually.”

“Well, Mr. Veeck the Cardinals would love to own Sportsman’s Park; the lease is $35,000 each season.” During Rickey’s tenures with both Saint Louis clubs he had been all too aware of the financial pressures they existed under. Even with the edge in attendance, the Cardinals were always one of the more cash-poor squads in the National League. Rickey, not without reason, attributed a large portion of the Cardinals successes to his superior roster manipulation. “Breadon could buy either directly from DeWitt or from us. Our cost could be as little as $1.5 million.”

“So, where do we move them?” Veeck edged closer to his suitor. The projections in attendance for the three clubs that had already announced were astronomical. The value of the club would at least double from the change in venue. But long term profits were contengent on two main factors: the stadium and the level of play on the field.

“An AA or IL city would make the most sense: Minneapolis, Kansas City or Columbus.” Branch saw a the markets on the west coast as offering even larger profits, but the outcry and threats from the Pacific Coast League over the former White Sox club’s move made it a risky move at the moment.

Veeck slapped his hands in excitement. ”I got it! We buy the club and do a whirlwind tour of interested cities. Check out the facilities, that sort of thing. Tons of press—we go to the city we feel gives us the best chance to succeed.”

“I honestly think that Kansas City may turn out to be our best option.”

“Off the record, I agree with you, but the tour would drum up a tremendous amount of publicity for the Contential League.” The energy suddenly disappeared as Veeck begun to calculate the negatives of the transaction. Most notable of the worries: the quality of the Browns roster. “The thing I worry about most is will the people show up for this club. People won’t go to a loser, even if it is Major League.”

“I have a plan to make this team an instant contender,” Rickey stated calmly.

“You old horse trader. I don’t doubt your talent, but can you give me an idea before I commit?” Veeck knew Rickey could turn a bad team into a elite squad if given the time to build an infrastructure. The Browns would be lacking in the organizational depth Rickey was famous for winning with.

“When Cox bought the Phillies, you had an interest at that time, correct?”

“Yes. Made the mistake of telling Landis what my intentions were.”

”And those were?”

“Are they the same as yours with the Browns?”

Rickey nodded.

“Will Mack approve the contracts? Great baseball man, but he was born during the Civil War, will he be friendly to the idea?”

“I assure you, Connie Mack will do what is necessary to keep this league afloat. Do not underestimate his bitterness towards the NAL teams for taking his livelihood.”

“So, how many negros are we talking about? The public, even in Kansas City or Minneapolis, might not be too supportive of an all-black squad.”

“I have a man on it now, obviously it depends on who is determined to be on the roster.”

“Branch you glorious bastard. You rise to every challenge with something like this. I toast you.”

“So, we have a deal?”

“I think we do.”

[Dark Horse]

[seth70liz76]

The whole ride over, the great Babe fidgeted like a schoolboy. His suit was too tight and his wife kept nagging him to bring along his attorney; the nerves had not been this shaky since he returned from his suspensions back in 1925.

There was disappointment when his arrival was not met with the throng of reporters and photographers such an announcement warranted. “Must want to be sure I want the job first,” he said to his wife to reassure himself. On the way into the offices he obliged a newsboy with an autograph. He signed the sports section with, ‘Babe Ruth, Yankee Mgr.’

As he entered Ruppert’s office (It would always be the Colonel’s office to him) Ruth only recognized MacPhail, Topping and Webb—and that only from their pictures in the papers. The other two men were unknown, “Probably bean counters,” Ruth whispered to himself.

MacPhail, still sober, introduced his co-owners and a Mr. Hoffberger of Baltimore. Leland started to speak of tradition, and how much Ruth meant to the Yankees and Baseball. Droning on and on about publicity and getting things off to the right start for the Contential League—and how the Babe could be a large part of that. “The old traditions mix with the new ones,” MacPhail said. The money talked about seemed low for a man of the Babe’s stature, but they explained he had no experience managing and it was just a starting point, but if he had success . . .

“So, you don’t want me to manage the Yankees?”

The suits looked nervously back and forth at each other. “Babe,” MacPhail said, almost pleading, “We thought you wanted to get back in the game?”

“With the Yankees, not with Baltimore. I don’t think I should have to start in the minors,” Ruth had always felt implying he needed the minors to ‘learn the trade’ was an insult to his intelligence.

Webb shook his head, “No, this is the old A’s squad—it is every bit major league.”

MacPhail raised his hand and asked everyone but the Babe to leave.

[seth70liz76]

The room felt small to Ruth. Not the ‘I’m larger than life’ small he was used to either. No, this was a disquieting small; suffocating and uncomfortable. Leland MacPhail pace around the Colonel’s old desk, clucking his tongue with snide disapproval.

“I thought we could count on you Babe,” MacPhail oozed an oily confidence. “We need star power in Baltimore to put some asses in the seat; and everyone hoped it would be you.”

Ruth dropped his head, the idea that people were counting on him and he let them down bothered him greatly. He took great care to play the part of the beloved superstar; always making sure the reality of the Babe came close to the fans image of him. “I just had thought the Yankees needed me.”

“I know Babe, but look at the League’s situation here. The club in Baltimore, we don’t know if they will be any good. Think how many people will come to see you in uniform again! Think of all the kids who never saw you play who will be able to see you on the field, where you belong.” Leland watched as the great man slowly began to crumble before him.

“I hadn’t thought about the kids,” Ruth muttered softly.

Leland kneeled next to the Babe, placing his hand on the great man’s back. “Babe, the Yankees are asking this one last favor from you: Take the Baltimore job. We need everyone to draw well. The Yanks, we’ll be fine whoever we put in the dugout—but you could be the difference in Baltimore.” MacPhail began to rise, explaining how Ruth was the star who would not just save Baltimore’s season, but possibly the whole league as well.

The Yankees’ GM had a well-deserved reputation as a shrewd trader. He would say, “There is a moment in every negotiation when the other fellow will crack. The key is recognizing that moment, and offering just enough more to have him agree.” The idea was the extra bit would always seem bigger at the right moment in the negotiation; now was that moment with Ruth.

“Babe, if you take the Baltimore job, I promise you the next time the Yankee job is available, it is yours.”

“Are you serious or are you just jerking me around?”

“The Yankees are always serious. We’ll have to keep this between ourselves, I would hate for you to lose out because of a tampering charge.”

“Well, Bub, if I got you’re word on that, then tell them, the Babe is coming to Baltimore!”

[ifspuds]

I feel bad for the Babe, getting manipulated like that.

[seth70liz76]

“George, I don’t have a good feeling about this—you really should have got something in writing.”

“But then that would be tampering, and they wouldn’t be able to hire me when the time comes. Look, one year in Baltimore, and then we’re back here, like nothing happened.”

“I wish you would have brought our lawyer and . . .”

“Hey, the day a man’s word isn’t good enough for Babe Ruth is the day I’ll be dead.”
---------------------
“So how did you get him to agree to the Baltimore job, he seems so dead set against it?”

“I told the big monkey that he’s next in line for the Yankee job.”

“My God, you aren’t serious?”

”You think I’d let that buffoon anywhere near our club—give me some credit Dan. With that club, he’ll be lucky to not finish last; then we have all the reason in the world not to hire him.”

“You had me worried there a moment Larry. Great publicity for the league having him as a manager though.”

[seth70liz76]

The two men situated themselves on the benches of the bus. Clyde Sukeforth had suspected the Monarchs were aware of his trailing the club. It was the mores of the South, he thought, had kept any representative of the club from approaching him. They exchanged pleasantries before John O’Neil began the conversation.

“Any of my men in trouble?”

Sukeforth had to hold back a laugh; it never occurred to him that his presence was thought of in such a dark way. “I work for Branch Rickey, I’ve been doing some scouting for him.”

“Answers my second question too,” O’Neil however was more confused now he knew that detail. “So what does a white league GM want to know about us?”

Rickey had given Sukeforth a tremendous amount of leeway in what to say if confronted by members and officials of the teams being followed. He had rehearsed the cover story over and over, but Clyde had expected to be confronted by executives, not the player-manager. Sukeforth started to tell the tale of how the Contential League was looking to add two more teams, and raise the possibility that they could be all-negro teams. Stammering and tripping over his words, it was clear the cover story would fool no one.

“I’m not stupid Mr. Sukeforth, give me some credit.”

“You’re right Mr. O’Neil. I want to apologize for trying to lie to you.”

“I’ll only accept your apology if you give me the truth.”

“Branch is putting a group together to buy the Browns. The plan is to stock the rosters with you fellers.”

Buck’s face lit up, this is what all the struggles of the Negro Leagues had been for. “Just Monarchs?”

“I have a trip to see Newark and the Stars later this month.” Sukeforth saw the joy and hope in the face of his host. He looked down at his shoes on the floor of the bus. “You aren’t one of the players we are interested in.”

O’Neil felt a sharp pain in his heart. He was sitting in on the biggest moment for the black ballplayer, only to hear it was not to be for him. A few awkward moments passed before he softly stammered, “Who?”

“Robinson, Trouppe, Piper—maybe Paige,” Sukeforth had broken many boy’s dreams, but never a man’s. “The idea is for us to sign the best of the colored players and then have a tryout camp for any other club that might want to sign you.”

The two men sat silent until the cheers of the crowd—welcoming Satchel Paige to the mound—broke the tension.

“You don’t want Piper,” Buck finally said. “He’s had some troubles. Artie Wilson, I think he’s with the Elite Giants now, would be a better man. Much more sense about him, especially for dealing with white folk.”

Sukeforth could barely contain his shock. It was beyond what he understood that someone like O’Neil would try to ‘hold back’ one of his own. Buck read the reaction, “You don’t just need good players, you need good men. That’s the only way this will work.”

A half-hour later, Sukeforth stood to leave the bus, with scouting reports of various players O’Neil felt he should consider. “I have you word, John?”

O’Neil nodded, “Yes, this is between us.”

“We should have our decisions made in a couple months. I’ll make sure you get an invitation to the tryout camp. It’s the least I can do.”

”Least you could do is nothing.” The two men shook hands, “All a man wants is a chance.”

“Thanks John, I’ll be in touch.”

”My friends call me Buck.”

“Thanks, Buck.”

[seth70liz76]

“Swinging party, Bing,” after playing under the glare of the New York lights, very little impressed Joe DiMaggio. Still, meeting top star after top star from music and movies was too much for the most stoic men in baseball. “I’m more of a Sinatra man myself, but this has been nice.”

“Oh, I understand—you paisans stick together,” Bing winked as he cleaned out his pipe. “You added much needed class to this little soiree.”

Joe shifted on the couch. He knew what was coming next; it had been coming from the moment he received his invite. “Probably shouldn’t be fraternizing with the enemy. I should be going.” Joe rose to shake his host’s hand.

“Say no more, son. I’d be insulting you if I didn’t try to pitch you to coming to LA, playing for my Lancers.”

“I have a contract with the Yankees, I can’t change teams.”

“Do you? Our attorney looked at the standard Major League contract and he found two very interesting things.” Crosby turned on an overhead projector, putting a photographic image of Joe’s 1941 contract on the wall. “First, the option clause is only for 1 year, you signed this 4 years ago. And second, the organization approving this deal doesn’t exist anymore. The American League is no more. That doesn’t sound like a man who is under contract to me, but what do I know, I’m just a singer.”

Joe started to get up again, the thought of leaving the Yankees making him a little sick to his stomach. “I really need to get out of here, Mr. Crosby.”

“Now, now—wait,” Bing threw up the stop sign like a third base couch. “All I’m asking is you listen, no pressure, son.” Bing walked to the overhead and circled the dollar amount on the photo. “You were paid $37,500.00 in 1941.”

“Yes, sir,” as wrecked his insides felt, he was every bit the cool operator he appeared on the field.

“What are the Yankees offering you for the upcoming season?”

“I don’t know, $40,000, $42,000.”

“Could be more.”

“Sure, it could be more,” Joe didn’t like talking about his money with a stranger.

“Could be less too?”

Joe nodded.

“Joe, you lost four prime earning years to the war. How many years do you have left?” Crosby walked around the room, easy as easy can be. “Me, an actor, singer, I’ve got years to earn my money back, but how long does a ballplayer have?”

“Look, I really need to go.”

“Son, how much did you lose because of the war? $160,000? $250,000? And you think you are going to make that back at $40,000 a year.” Crosby handed Joe a pen and notepad. “Tell me what you are worth.”

Joe wrote a number down and showed it to Bing.

“Think bigger, son. Don’t let those cheapskates make you undervalue yourself.”

Joe pulled the notepad back and crossed out $50,000. He stared at the page, hoping the number would form by themselves. Crosby walked next to the ballplayer, putting his hand fatherly on Joe’s shoulder. “It’s not just the money. You’re a west coast boy, so much closer to your people. You know how your people are treated in New York. Sure they treat you like a king, but you strike out and suddenly your just another God damned wop bastard.” DiMaggio thought about the ‘No Italians Wanted’ some business put on their ‘Help Wanted’ signs. He thought about how much he missed he calm of the Pacific Coast.

Bing reached over a took the pen and wrote a number on the pad. “That is what you are worth to me.”

Joe felt like he was going to faint. He thought about his bitter holdout in 1938 for just over $38,000. He thought about how hard he had to fight the Yankees for every nickel and how the fans gave him the business for it.

“You think that over, son. Give me a call in couple days, no pressure. If you want to stay in New York, no hard feelings—just business. I’ll get one of the boys to show you the way out.”

DiMaggio nodded and started towards the door. He dropped the top page from the note pad into a trash bin as he walked out. If one looked into the bin, the figure Crosby wrote remained visible: 200,000

[seth70liz76]

[Newsreel with narration] Just days after purchasing the St. Louis Browns, Bill Veeck and Branch Rickey start a cross-country tour to find a home for the beleaguered club. Toady they are in Columbus, Ohio; touring the facilities of the Columbus Redbirds. With Milwaukee, Los Angeles and Baltimore adding their names to the roster of Big League Cities, the next in line is soon to arise to the occasion. With Newark, Minneapolis and Kansas City scheduled for stops, another of America’s great cities will be able to boast, “We’re in the Majors!”[/newsreel]