Evening Star Newspaper, September 29, 1935, Page 111

Magazine Section as a pinch-hitter. Grover Cleve- land Alexander, one of the greatest « tPitchers in the pinch who ever toed Mz rubber slab, struck me out. Since n I've been asked 1 don’t know how many hundreds of times if 1 wasn’t nervous and if that wasn’t one reason why I whiffed. I don’t think so. After reaching the park and seeing the crowd and realiz- ing that this was a ball game like all the others we had played, that nerv- Jousness and sense of strain had left me. I don’t think I was*any more tensed up as I faced Old Alex at the plate than the other Red Sox — and most of them were veterans of the great series with the Giants in 1912, the one that hinged on Snodgrass’s muff. The next year, when the Red Sox played Brooklyn in the World’s Series, I was a seasoned veteran — at .Ieast in my own opinion. And your own opinion is what counts out there on the diamond. That 1916 series against Brooklyn saw the beginning of the pitching record that makes me just a little prouder, perhaps, than any other 1 hold in baseball — the record of twenty-nine consecutive scoreless innings on the mound in e World’s Series games. I started that record by winning a 14-inning game. Myers hit a home run for the Dodgers in the first inning but after that I blanked them and the Red Sox won in the 14th, 2 to 1. In 1918, when the Red Sox played the Cubs, I won a l shut-out game over the regulation nine innings and then went seven innings of another game before the Cubs scored. We won, 3 to 2. I'm pretty proud of that total of twenty-nine goose-eggs, especially when I'm talking with people who think that the only thing [ ever did was to hit home runs. And, incidentally, that pitching record gives you a good answer as to Yhe manner in which I was reacting to the World’s Series thrill after my first appearance as a rookie. Anyway, the big strain was off. These were ball games that we certainly wanted to win but they were not to be worried about. We all want the long end of that World's Series money, but in order to get it we've only got to win some ball games, so why worry? If during the coming series you were to live with one of these pennant- winning clubs locked in the battle, éhnnwmg them as the club officials md the baseball writers know them, I think you would find that this is the attitude of most ball players who are o 200d enough and seasoned enough to deserve to be in there. The good ones don’t tighten up to the point where it affects their play — unless perhaps there is some special gag on which they may be ridden by the opposition. For instance, I'm pretty sure that , «othe riding the Cardinals gave big Schoolboy Rowe last fall in the series with Detroit didn’t help Rowe’s work at all. The Schoolboy gave those bad- -, boy Cardinals the opening himself. Remember that *“How'm I doin’, Edna?” story? Perhaps you were listening in on the radio one evening a short time before the series when the } Schoolboy appeared on a commercial | program, answered some questions about baseball and then in closing | "Said something about “Hello to thé folks down home and how’m I doin’, tdna?”’ It developed, of course, that Edna as the girl down in the Arkansas ountry to whom the Schoolboy was ngaged to be married —and to whom he was married soon after the World’s Series. The Cardinals, those impetuous young men whom the sports writers have named the “Gas- house Gang,” read the newspapers once in a while. Perhaps some of them even slow up enough off the field to ” Bsten to the radio. At any rate, they ard about Edna. They read she s coming to Detroit for the opening mes of the series and Pepper Martin nd the others decided to let the Schoolboy hear that question, ‘“‘How’m I doin’, Edna?” until he was tired to death of it. Even a young ball player can't be ridden about a lot of things; /».i‘t bounces off him like pebbles off vour car's fenders. But kid him with the idea of making him *look bad” in front of his fiancee — especially when you have a boyish remark like ““How’'m I doin’, Edna?"’ to pave the way — and you'll do some pretty effective riding if the victim is at all sensitive. Remember bpack in ] - 1929 when e THIS WEEK Baseball’s Biggest Thrill Howard Ehmke, who had done duty for the Tigers and Red Sox in other vears, pitched the World’s Series opener for the Athletics against the Cubs and won, 3-1, striking out thir- teen men? That was one of the most unusual World's Series instances I can recall. Ehmke was supposed to be through. As a matter of fact, I don’t believe he had pitched for the A’s in the last month of the season. A week or so before the season ended wise old Connie Mack sent Howard out to take a look at the Cubs, to do a bit of what the college football people call scouting. Ehmke came back and told Connie what he thought would beat the Cubs. “Do you think you could beat them that way, Howard?"” Connie inquired. Ehmke thought he could and Con- nie said, “All right, the first day’s job is yours. But don’t tell anyone.” Mickey Cochrane, now Detroit’s manager, then the Athletics’ first- string catcher, was behind the bat. Not long ago, Mickey told me that the two most perfectly pitched games he ever caught were those of Ehmke in that surprise start against the Cubs and a game Schoolboy Rowe pitched Continued from page two against the Yankees in New York a yvear ago. Ehmke went into that '29 series against the Cubs in a perfect frame of mind. He was a surprise to the Cubs. They hadn’t expected to meet him and his unusual delivery. He had everything to win and nothing to lose, personally. Most people con- sidered him through at that time, any- way. So he stepped out there, kept on top of the batters all day and topped off a fine career in grand style. Mickey Cochrane — there’s another type. He has about as much nervous energy packed away in his system as well could be contained in one mind and body. But not a bit of that nervous energy can be traced to lack of confidence. Mike is full of nerves before a ball game just as Jack Dempsey used to be before a fight. Once the bell rings, that nervousness is translated into driving power. They tell me Cochrane used to be a great football player when he was in college, winning games single-handed for his team. I can believe it. He has done a great job of morale-building for this Detroit Club and I think you'll find this is true — that he frets just as much and drives just as hard for every ball game of the season as he does when he takes his club into the World’s Series. I saw and talked with Dizzy Dean before the series last year. That was his first World's Series. Do you know what he did as soon as the Cardinals reached town before the series began? He held a press conference — sent down word to the sports writers that he would see them at such and such a time. And it's only fair to Dizzy to say that when the time arrived, his rooms were crowded with writers. But that’s the frame of mind in which Diz went into the series — and, I might add, in which he also cpme out of it. Confidence — that’s Dizzy all over. Some people might call it cockiness, and yet I don’t know. I remember that when Dizzy got in touch with me, one of the first things he did was to ask for my autograph. That interested me. The great Dean, holding press. con- ferences, admitting he was the most famous individual in the series, yet asking for an autograph. Pepper Martin? I don’t remember seeing Pepper before the games last year but I know about -how he probably acted those last few days The Kerchief of Peace hands that would never be clean again, and looked at Meta's face. He re- membered how he had knelt in the church and prayed that he might make Meta a good husband; how he had promised the Holy Virgin that he would never give her cause to use the kerchief. Still, it was old woman’s tale — old country stuff. But Meta had thought a lot of the kerchief. He re- membered how she had sent back to the old country for hand made linen as soon as her daughters were born; how she had sat night after night, patiently working in the stitches, fol- lowing the age-old pattern. He chewed the end of his mustache. A tear plopped onto the kerchief: He tried to rub it away, but his finger made a dirty spot. Meta had been so proud of the kerchief’s virgin clean- ness. He spat on his finger, and rubbed the spot again. It was blacker than before. He stared at the spot, and remembered his mother's kerchief, When they spread it over her dead face, it was worn and faded from many tears, and many washings. The * women had clucked their tongues and said “Poor Mary.” He thought of all the generations and generations of Slovak women who had made kerchiefs for their daugh- ters; who had stitched in their hope, and whatever they had of faith, to make a charm for peace —to keep their men faithful. He'd loved Meta all his life; yet he had so seldom thought of himself as loving her. She had been just his woman — plump and pretty in her youth; strong and fertile; patient and comforting as they went down the last stretch of the road together. Peter wondered with the sudden panic of a lost child what he was going to do without her. He folded the kerchief as neatly as he could. He leaned over and peered hard into Meta’s face. “I’'m the damn fool!” he said. I take him all back.” He jumped at the sound of his voice. It seemed to run all around the room, to whisper back at him from the corners. He thought Meta's voice was whispering. “But 1 have used the kerchief."” He blinked, and thought of the priest, of the neighbors, of the sons and daughters who must be called in. And how dirty the kerchief was! He had heard Meta say, less than a week ago, that she had never used it. He had smirked and swaggered a little. Now the priest would ask questions. The neighbors would nudge each other and say “‘Poor Meta.” The children — what would they say when they saw it? What would they do? “Throw it out?”’ But that wouldn’t do. They’d find it. Burn it up? They would never stop searching. And it wouldn’t be decent to bury Meta without her kerchief. Continued from page ten Peter looked around the kitchen with tired, puzzled eyes. Then he brightened. He got up stifly and went over to the range. Plenty of hot water in the tea kettle. He took a box of soap flakes from the shelf and scanned the directions, spelling out every word. He poured hot water in the dish pan, added cold little by little. What was lukewarm? Meta would know. He opened his lips, then clamped them grimly. He swished the soap flakes around until a thick lather stood up like meringue on top of the pan. He squeezed the kerchief through the suds, rinsed it conscientiously three times in clear water. He wrung it out and hung it on the line in the corner by the door. Peter wiped his hands on' his pants, cocked his head, and surveyed the job with pride. He’d have to iron it, though. His shoulders sagged and his hands fumbled together in a woman- ish gesture of defeat. He glanced anxiously at Meta. He stumbled back to the stove and gawked at the array of irons — big irons, little irons. A kerchief, he told himself reasonably, was small; so he should use a small iron. He shook down the ashes, spread a thin smattering of coal on the fire, and set the iron to heat. He caught sight of the tumbled clothes beside the chest. That would have to be fixed. He started picking the things up, folding them as neatly as he could, and piling them in the chest. He shook out a wide skirt, and after it a gaily embroidered apron. He stared at the apron, glanced at the wide sleeved bodice, and the little flowered cap on the floor. Meta’s wedding dress. He stood for a long time, holding up the apron, seeing Meta on that sunny morning more than thirty years ago. She had been shy, and yet serene. He could see the modest way she used her hands, the " faith in her blue eyes. “She don’t change none,” he mumbled defiantly, and folded the wedding dress away, He held up a pair of long, light, braid-trimmed breeches with surprise and delight in his eyes. Had his legs ever been as long as that, and as slim? He glanced doubtingly down at his hulking body, gross under the rough clothes; then longingly back at the breeches. He could remember how he had danced for Meta on the feast days, shuffling, tripping, prancing, whirling, shouting to all the heavens that he had found him a mate. How he had danced at the wedding! “Pretty good fella, huh!” he said, and laid the breeches away. The chest seemed a little fuller than usual when it was packed, but Peter thought they wouldn’t notice. The iron was hot. He tried it on the ironing board cover, as he had seen Meta do. He took the kerchief from the line and spread it on the ironing board. He pulled it this way and that, stretched the corners, patted the centre flat. He scorched his thumbs and swore. But with slow and clumsy hands, pulling, pushing, sobbing, curs- ing, he pressed the kerchief. He folded it not too neatly, and laid it in the chest, on top of the rest of Meta’s treasures. He poured out the rest of the hot water, took off his shirt, washed his face, his neck and ears, and, after some consideration, his feet. He clumped upstairs, and put on a clean shirt, a collar, his Sunday suit. When Peter came down again, the yellow dawn was sliding into the kitchen, he walked over to the cot and stood looking down at his wife. The youth and the peace were still in her face. He nodded toward the chest with mournful pride in his little red-rimmed eyes. “I always take care of you, Meta,” he said. “I fix ‘em.” He sniffled and wiped a sleeve across his eyes as he turned away. He glanced back slyly as he opened the cupboard doot. He took down a bottle of prune brandy. He turned it slowly, all the way around, pulled the cork, and sniffed. He took a deep swig, and another, and another. He slipped the bottle back and closed the door. He put on his Sunday hat and set out to tell the priest, the children, and the neighbors that his wife was dead. ES before the series. Restless, impatient, waiting for the bell. Remember how Pepper ran wild in that series with the Athletics a few years ago? Bil: Terry? Exactly the opposite type. Cool, calculating, about as ex- citable as Grant's Tomb. They’re two extremes, yet each has performed bril- liant deeds in baseball's ciassic. So what’s the answer? I don’t know. Speaking of cool youngsters, as I was a little while back, I'd say that Tony Lazzeri, coming up to his firse® World’s Series with the Yankees back in 1926 was one of the coolest. Tony is an enthusiast at playing hearts, which used to be quite a train-riding pastime of the Yanks. Give Tony a good game of hearts and he’ll worry about nothing, even before a World’s Series game. He and I, with Lou Gehrig and Herb Pennock, played plenty of games of hearts as that '26 series with the Cardinals approached. And there wasn't a steadier player ir& the series than Lazzeri. I'll say this, though — after the games are over and you've won — then the reaction of practically every ball player I ever knew in World’s Series competition is the same. There's jubilation in the club house. You’ve won, the season’s over, you're some five or six thousand dollars richer, the hunting looks good, there’s nothing to werry about until you go South to Florida next February. I remember the celebration the first time the Yankees won a World’s Series for Colonel Ruppert. The Colonel, probably the happiest person in the whole club organization, was rash enough to charge into the club house at the height of the celebration. I for- get who were the culprits — it’s® possible that Bob Meusel and I had something to do with it. At any rate, a couple of big guys grabbed the Colonel, street clothes, overcoat and all, and pulled him under the showers with us. They’ll be acting the same way in the winner’s club house at the end of this coming series. It takes more reserve than I've ever seen in a World’s Series winner, whether rookie or veteran, totake that victory calmly. But first, the ball games have got to be won. And before that, these last few days before the series opens have got to be lived through. The young- sters will be nervous, whiling their time away these last evenings at bridge or billiards or the movies. But the veterans will be reminding them that all hands have beerd™ through 154 ball games this season, either in action or on the bench. Now there are four, five or perhaps seven more ball games to be played. To win them and the money that goes with them, you've got to be good but you can’t tighten up. You’ve got to throw to the right bases, hit in the pinch, play percentage and, above all, don’t tighten up. ““Just another ball game to be won today.” That's the attitude the veteran learns to take into the big series. Perhaps we ball players don’t know so much about psychology as we might but when we talk ourselves into that state of mind, I think we're probably pretty good psychologists, at that, RHEUMATIC RUB ON BAUME “BEN-GAY“ . . . GET PROMPT RELIEF Let Baume ‘“‘Ben-Gay' release you from the grip of rheumatic pains! Rubthisscientific pain-remover into the affected areas. You will feel a comforting tingle, a glowing sense of release in an amazingly short time. Why? Because ‘“Ben-Gay's” medication actually penetrates the RUB PAIN AWAY WITH skin, is absorbed by the bloode. stream, and gets to work in the affected area itself. A Get “Ben-Gay’' at any druggist’s. Just one warning—get the box with the red “Ben-Gay” on the cover. ‘‘Ben-Gay" is the only true Baume Analgésique. BAUME “BEN-GAY”