Stan Musial (19 page)

“
Oh, man, we were fearless,” Garagiola said of the 1946 Cardinals—all players, really, but certainly the Cardinals. “Anything you did, you felt you were ahead of the game. Not that you’d been in the trenches necessarily. But you were so glad to be back.”

Garagiola was outwardly brash, but he also felt like an outsider. When he was called up in May, Garagiola was told to room with Marion, but he arrived late at night and was too timid to knock. Rather than disturb Mr. Shortstop, he spent the night sleeping in the hallway.

The Cardinals trailed the Dodgers by five games at the All-Star break when Musial and four teammates got a sample of Fenway Park and Ted Williams, both imposing. Musial was hitless in two at-bats as the American League pounded the Nationals, 12–0. Williams merely hit two home runs and two singles and drove in five runs.

DESPISING DUROCHER
just might have been worth a game here or there.

“
Durocher would say anything, like, ‘Hit him in the head, knock him down.’ He was always trying to intimidate you,” Musial said.

Musial added: “We had some tough guys. You know, you had to fight back, and when they’d knock us down, we’d knock them down. You know, there was something happening out at second base, why, next time, you
know, one of our guys were there, they’d do it, or vice versa. So, it was, it was a common thing but good tough action.”

Durocher’s voice had that chalk-on-the-blackboard screech that cut through other ballpark noise. Usually he was obnoxious. Once in a while he was funny.

“
I remember one time Leo came out here and said, ‘You couldn’t get a pint of blood from your whole infield,’ ” Marty Marion said, referring to Musial, Schoendienst, Marion, and Whitey Kurowski. Durocher’s remark made Marion laugh in the retelling, four decades later.

The Cardinals caught the Dodgers by the final day of the season, touching off the first playoff of the century. Under the best-of-three format, Durocher opted to open the series in St. Louis and then play two at home, rather than open with one game at home, a decision debated at the time by Dodger fans—still debated by aging Brooklyn fans, to be honest.

The night before the first game, the Cardinals held a team dinner in Ruggeri’s, the popular Italian restaurant on the Hill. J. Roy Stockton, the powerful columnist at the
Post-Dispatch
, twitted Breadon about getting rid of Mize and Cooper: “Sam, you’ve always liked to slice the baloney thin, but this year you may have sliced it a little too thin.”

On October 1, in hot, sunny weather, Garagiola kept up a running dialogue with the home-plate umpire, Beans Reardon, until Reardon snarled, “Shut up, dago. You’re lucky you’re not pushing a damn wheelbarrow selling bananas.” That ethnic insult, common at the time, spurred Garagiola, who went three for four and drove in two runs as the Cardinals won, 4–2.

The Cardinals took the train east, with Moore working the lounge, going from player to player, encouraging, goading, teaching. They don’t make captains like that anymore, but then again, teams don’t ride the trains; players are isolated on charter planes, lost in their headsets and their video games. Those Cardinals talked baseball, made music, watched the country go past their windows.

Two days later, Murry Dickson, with relief from Harry “the Cat” Brecheen, beat the Dodgers, 6–4, to win the pennant—the Cardinals’ fourth in five seasons.

As his team celebrated a few feet down the hall from the Dodgers’ morose clubhouse, Dyer, always gracious, reminded reporters that both teams in this historic playoff had been built by the same man, Branch Rickey.

Once the Cardinals’ farm director and a Rickey man, Dyer understood that systems won pennants in those days; he also knew his old boss was stockpiling Jackie Robinson and other talent for the next decade. But the fans were not fretting over the future at the moment, and neither were the players. They rushed to Penn Station to catch the overnight train to St. Louis, for their date with the Red Sox and Ted Williams.

B
IMBO CECCONI
was about to make his first start at tailback for the University of Pittsburgh.

A nice easy debut.

At Notre Dame.

He was a freshman, small and handsome, looking more like an artisan than a football player. He had thought of going to Notre Dame, but the Irish had the pick of the national litter with Johnny Lujack, so Cecconi enrolled at Pitt, not that far from Donora.

On the night of October 3, 1946, the Pitt team was settling into the sleeper car for the run out to Indiana when one of the players rustled the curtains of Cecconi’s lower bunk and said somebody was looking for him, but not just somebody. It was Stan Musial.

When he was younger, Cecconi had trailed after Musial in the streets of Donora, asking for an autograph, while Musial was delivering sacks of groceries for the Labash family store.

Later, when Cecconi was a star athlete up at the high school, Musial used to come around during the winter and use the gym, always asking permission even though the principal said,
For goodness’ sakes, Stan, use it anytime you want
. But Musial would always ask.

“I’d look into the gym and said, ‘God almighty, there he is, he’s playing with the St. Louis Cardinals, he’s in the prime of his life, and he’s supposed to be somebody special, but he’s a regular person,’ ” Cecconi said.

Now Musial was perched on the edge of a lower bunk, chatting with the Pitt players.

That afternoon, in Brooklyn, the Cardinals had won the playoff against the Dodgers, and now they were en route to their appointment with the Red Sox.

Years later, Cecconi would wish he could remember what they talked about that evening as the train rumbled across Ohio. Maybe they talked about Leon Hart, the western Pennsylvania behemoth who on Saturday afternoon would toss Cecconi around like a sack of rags during a 33–0 victory by the Irish.

The only thing Cecconi really remembered from that night was the humility of the man, talking to a homeboy about football, about the college life he might have had under other circumstances.

THEY WOULD
meet many times over the years, at sports banquets, at weddings, at reunions, and increasingly at funerals. After playing football and basketball at Pitt, Cecconi would have two terms as offensive coordinator—“got fired by my alma mater, twice,” as he put it. A cultivated man who cooked and read, Cecconi also would have a long run as a high school principal.

Whenever he and Musial would wind up under the same roof, the crowds would swarm around Musial, but Stanley would wave and say, “Geez, Bim, come over here and talk to me.” In old age, they were just a couple of guys from Donora, just as Musial had made it seem on that train ride so long ago.

T
HEY PLAYED
the World Series in the daylight back then, in early October—unlike the damp and gloomy late-night afterthought it has become. In those simpler times, the Series ranked with heavyweight boxing matches, the Kentucky Derby, and the Rose Bowl. Pro football? Pro basketball? Hockey? Soccer? Auto racing? Filler items.

And this was more than a World Series. It was a celebration of baseball’s being back. Just the caliber of the players, the familiarity of their names, made this a national reunion. Nothing against the participants in the 1945 World Series between the Tigers and Cubs, but more than half of those players didn’t even make it back to the major leagues in 1946.

Europe and Asia were still smoldering and the world was just beginning to comprehend the horrors of the war, but the United States had some semblance of normalcy—no ruined cities, no lines of refugees. Now baseball offered up the prospect of not just a revived World Series but an epic one.

Maybe because I had recently turned seven and was just discovering baseball and Musial and Williams, maybe because of where the world had been, maybe because of the events of the seventh game—but the World Series of 1946 still ranks in my mind as the best ever.

I’ve rooted for my Brooklyn Dodgers in their generally traumatic ventures against the Yankees; I’ve seen Mantle win a game with a line drive into the upper deck, seen Gibson and Bench and Reggie and Jeter and Big Papi, seen Mookie Wilson’s grounder slither through Bill Buckner’s legs at first base. But 1946 still resonates.

Part of the attraction came from the presence of the tempestuous Williams and the accommodating Musial, both products of their teams and their cities. Both had come back from the service and won a pennant. They were young, attractive, in their prime. Nobody needed much imagination to know this was great stuff.

“
The big individual duel was expected to be between Williams and me,” Musial said afterward.

Musial led his league with a .365 average and he also drove in 103 runs and 16 homers, all personal bests. After trying to hit for power to please the admirals, he displayed a little more power in 1946—three homers more than 1943—although his stance did not seem all that different.

Williams batted .342 with 123 RBIs and 38 homers. He wanted to be called the best hitter who ever lived, and he had a case.

In those rudimentary days, before free agency and interleague play, American Leaguers and National Leaguers did not know each other very well.
Williams had taken his first look at Musial on September 20 when he happened to be in Boston while the Cardinals played at Braves Field. Musial went five for five and drove in the winning run that day, and Williams was quoted as saying, “Musial has shown me more than anybody else with the stick.”

The contrast between the two sluggers was only part of the appeal of this first full-cast World Series since 1941.

Both teams were loaded. Boston had Rudy York, hard-living but savvy—“part Cherokee, part first baseman,” as somebody had labeled him; Dominic DiMaggio, the smooth center fielder; Bobby Doerr, the powerful second baseman; and Johnny Pesky, the peppery shortstop. The Cardinals had Slaughter, Moore, Kurowski, Marion, and Musial’s new roomie, Red. Both had deep pitching staffs and veteran benches—thirty players per team, to guarantee jobs after the war.

The Red Sox came into the Series at a disadvantage: Williams was hurt. To keep in shape while the Cardinals and Dodgers were holding their playoff, the Red Sox had played three exhibitions against American League All-Stars, but Mickey Haefner, a left-hander with Washington, inadvertently plunked Williams on his right elbow.

Williams did not discuss the elbow much, but there is no doubt it was stiff as he headed into the Series.
I’m fine
, the Kid roared at the people he
called the “Knights of the Keyboard.” Williams got off the train in St. Louis and had to answer questions about a rumor floated by Dave Egan that the Sox were looking to trade him for either Joe DiMaggio or Hal Newhouser, the star pitcher of the Tigers, before the next season—probably not totally unfounded, as it turned out.

This flap was a perfect example of the difference between the environments of Musial and Williams. When rumors surfaced in St. Louis, they were usually checked out through Musial’s pal Bob Broeg. Fans had a protective civic impulse and, generally, so did the press. Then again, with Musial, what was there to criticize? In Boston, Williams was friendly with clubhouse attendants and his fishing buddies but was distant toward the public. The accepting tone of St. Louis meant Musial could go into the World Series with a calm mind; the cranky questioning from Boston meant Williams would go into the Series with a few more darts planted in his sensitive hide.

Another difference between the two clubs: Red Sox owner Tom Yawkey broke out cushy new uniforms for his players, while Breadon merely paid to have the Cardinals’ threadbare uniforms dry-cleaned.

A note of defiance at the first game: Breadon, still smarting over being chastised for going to Mexico to address the Pasquels, entertained one of the brothers, Gerardo, in his personal box, much to the annoyance of Commissioner Chandler.

Another subplot involved the Cardinals’ defense against Williams. During the season, the Indians’ player-manager, Lou Boudreau, had shifted his infielders, leaving only one on the left side of the diamond, daring Williams to give up his power and stroke the ball to the opposite field. The hardheaded Kid refused, on the theory that he was not going to let some genius mess with his wonderful swing.

“
Me, I’d have hit a ton against that kind of defense, but Ted chose to challenge it,” Musial said later.

Dyer feinted in the press that he would not use the Boudreau shift, but he told his players that the dogged third baseman, Kurowski, would play the left side by himself. Marion and Kurowski suggested that the more mobile Mr. Shortstop patrol the left side, and Dyer agreed.

The Cardinals had another strategy for the Kid. Freddy Schmidt, a spare Cardinal pitcher out in the bullpen, said that when Williams batted
in the first game, some players in the Cardinal dugout began pointing imaginary rifles at the sky, going
bang-bang-bang
, as if shooting imaginary pigeons. This was a reference to Williams’s pastime of ridding Fenway Park of pigeons by blasting them with a shotgun in the morning hours—long before the fans arrived, a minor stipulation by the owner. (
Once Williams had shot out some lights on the scoreboard, because he was in a bad mood. That was Teddy. Mostly he just shot pigeons.)

“
Ted! Ted! They’re up there!” the Cardinals shouted.

“Ted didn’t like that,” Schmidt said. Williams cussed at them, told them what they could do.

Joe Garagiola did not notice the commotion. He was crouching behind the batter’s box, too much in awe of Williams to hear any racket from the bench.

“
Twenty years old,” Garagiola recalled. “I was afraid I was going to ask for his autograph.”

Williams watched the pitch right into Garagiola’s glove.

“That was inside,” Williams boomed.

“I said, ‘Yes, sir, yes, sir,’ ” Garagiola claimed.