Chapter 25
One story, the Martindale saga, was over, but another continued — the 1938 National League pennant race which, thanks in part to Dizzy Dean, was to become a chapter in Chicago sports lore.
As the season ground toward its finish, the Cubs passed the Giants and the Reds in the standings and kept picking up ground on the Pirates. Dizzy’s arm went bad again, so he wasn’t much of a factor in the team’s success in August or most of September, but Bill Lee and Clay Bryant were nearly unbeatable, and the hitters came to life, too.
The Cubs were six games back of Pittsburgh, then four, then three. And when the Pirates rolled into Chicago for three games the last week in September, the local boys were riding a seven-game winning streak and now trailed by only a game and a half.
Through good fortune and my own lack of planning, my vacation fell on the last week of September and the first week of October. My plan early in the year had been to get some time off in the middle of summer so Peter and I could do things together around the city. I was slow putting in my request, though, and other reporters, some of them with less seniority than I, grabbed off the choice June and July weeks. So I was left with what was to become an ideal time away from the job for a Cub fan — which I had been since they lost the 1918 World Series in six games to the Boston Red Sox and their young pitcher, Babe Ruth.
The first game of the Pirate series was on Tuesday, and Gabby Hartnett surprised the whole town by announcing that he would start Dean, who hadn’t pitched in nine days and hadn’t won a game in five weeks. Monday night in Kilkenny’s, Dean was in grand, chest-thumping, pre-game form, though, affirming that the manager, Gabby Hartnett, was getting smarter by the day.
“Who else would he pick to beat those jerks but Old Diz?” he proclaimed to the whoops and applause of the habitués as he polished off a T-bone at his usual place at the bar, washing it down with a Budweiser.
After Dean left — “to get a good night’s sleep so I can whup them Pirates in style” — the Killer leaned across the bar and whispered to me that Diz had left four tickets for each of the first two games of the Pittsburgh series. “He said he loves coming in here, both for the food and the friendliness. He also said he was sorry he probably wouldn’t be able to get any tickets for us when — that’s what he said, when — the Cubs get into the World Series, but he did leave these, and he wanted me to hand them out to whoever I wanted. So I’m offering you the first crack, scrivener friend. You can have one for either day — take your pick.”
“That’s really swell of him and of you, too, Killer, thanks. Damn, I wish I could see Diz pitch tomorrow, but I’ve got this dentist appointment I’ve had for weeks, so how ’bout Wednesday?”
“You now have ownership,” the Killer said, slipping a ticket from an envelope and sliding it to me. “That’s when I’m going as well, compadre. I couldn’t get Grady to spell me here tomorrow, but he’s coming in the day after to serve the thirsty public.” The barkeep then moved down the bar, discreetly huddling one-on-one with other regulars and slyly doling out the balance of the tickets that Diz had given him.
I wanted to kick myself Tuesday afternoon for missing what surely had been the game of the year. Dean made Hartnett look like a genius by beating the Pirates, 2 to 1, although Bill Lee had to come in to get the last Pittsburgh batter in the ninth when Diz’s arm gave out. That night in Kilkenny’s the hero of the day stopped by, but only for a few minutes.
“Arm’s so sore ah can barely lift it,” Diz groaned, gripping the elbow with his other hand. “But ah wasn’t gonna let that stop me from winnin’ the greatest game of mah life. The Lord was right there with me.” Now the bar was really rocking with cheers, the only sobering element being the news that Augie Galan wrenched his knee during the game and had to be carried off the field. He was probably through for the season.
The next day, the Killer, Morty Easterly, Ed Dugan, and I found ourselves in third-row box seats down the left field line near the bullpen. “Damned if this ain’t the best seat I’ve had in twenty years coming to this ball yard,” Morty marveled, shaking his head. “That Diz, he’s a prince. Killer, next time he comes in, I want to pick up the check for his steak, got that?”
“You’ll have to fight me for it,” Dugan put in, but the Killer insisted that Dean’s next few meals at the bar would be on the house. “By patronizing my humble oasis, he and his noble teammates have brought in so much other new business that I ought to cut Mr. J.H. Dean in on a piece of the action.”
During the pre-game warm-ups, Dean was jogging with several other players on the left-field grass when he spotted us and came over to the brick wall. “Howdy Killer, Mr. Snap, Morty, Ed,” he grinned, tipping his dark blue cap to us. “Seats okay for you?”
“More than okay!” Morty fired back.
“Well, we’re gonna get y’all another win today and push them Pirates down into second place, where they belong!” That drew applause and a few whoops of “Yea, Diz!” from fans in our section as Dean trotted back to the dugout.
Because of the way the game ended, I’ve forgotten almost every detail about it, although I think I have the scorecard tucked away in a drawer somewhere. I do remember that there was a lot of hitting — the pitchers on both teams got pounded pretty good and, going into the ninth inning, the score was 5 to 5. It was past 5 o’clock and getting dark, and the umpires held a conference at home plate, probably trying to figure out how much longer to play.
“This will be the last inning,” the Killer pronounced with assurance.
“What happens if the thing’s tied and they have to call it?” Dugan posed. “The pennant’s on the line.”
“They’ll probably pick up tomorrow where they left off,” I speculated. “Start in the 10th inning, finish that game, then play another one.”
“God, so on the one day we can come out here, we see a lousy tie,” Easterly fumed.
“Ah, but ’tis not over yet, Morty, me lad,” the Killer said with the assurance that only a bartender can summon.
The Pirates went out in the top of the ninth without scoring. The first two Cubs went down in their half of the inning, and the squat Gabby Hartnett lumbered to the plate in the near darkness. He had been an unqualified success since taking over as manager two months before, but at age thirty-eight, his days as both catcher and hitter were about over. Mace Brown, the Pirate pitcher, got two quick strikes over, and on the next pitch, Hartnett swung hard.
I heard the crack of the bat, but in the twilight, I lost the ball somewhere in the air. Everybody stood, though, and I stood with them. “Yes, yes indeed!” the Killer bellowed, his outstretched arm and pointed index finger moving in an arc from right to left across the darkening sky, following the trajectory. I finally picked up the round speck, just before it cleared the high brick left-field wall and disappeared into the bleachers as 40,000 spectators roared in unison.
The barrel-shaped player-manager slowly trundled around the bases, but by the time he reached third, there was such a mob surging onto the field — players, fans, ushers — that it seemed liked he’d never get to complete the full circuit. The crowd pressed in on him as flashbulbs popped, until we lost sight of Gabby somewhere between third and home. He must have made it, though, because the 5 for the Cubs on the big scoreboard had changed to a 6, and they were in first place, where they would stay.