The lobby of the Westin Hotel in Seattle was a Who’s Who for baseball old-timers on the eve of the 2001 Major League All-Star game. It was happy hour and the bar was buzzing with stories told by old men who once played in the Midsummer Classic themselves. Baseballs all-time winningest left-handed pitcher, Warren Spahn, sat in a lounge chair with a drink in hand as former players approached him to say hello.
Walking through the lobby down a long deserted hallway, away from the scene, I noticed a well dressed elderly man approaching me. As we got closer, I recognized him. It was Dom DiMaggio with his wife, Emily. The opportunity was ripe to introduce myself and tell him that I was Babe Dahlgren’s grandson. He would surely remember him from their days in San Francisco and on big league diamonds. But I froze like a hitter looking for an off-speed pitch only to be thrown a fastball down the middle. I couldn’t move and just like that he passed me by like a soft breeze. I thought about following him and approaching from behind. But I thought against it – I didn’t want to startle him. And just like that, the opportunity was lost.
Damn it.
Three years later on June 20, 2004, I wrote a letter to Dom DiMaggio. I was doing research at the time for my book, Rumor In Town, and was hoping he might be able to answer some questions I had about my grandfather. It was a busy time in my life. I was getting married in a couple of weeks. Once I dropped the letter in the mailbox it became out of sight out of mind. Returning from my honeymoon in mid July, I began going through a stack of mail: junk mail, bills, more junk mail and a white self addressed stamped envelope that I’d sent with my letter to Dom DiMaggio. I held it in my hand and stared at it. I may have even laughed. I opened the envelope. Inside was the original letter that I had sent with a handwritten note at the bottom.
Dom DiMaggio tried to call ME? It didn’t even occur to me to include my phone number in the letter – I never thought he’d get the letter – even if he did, I never thought he’d call me. I was wrong.
A few weeks went by when one evening the message light was flashing on our landline phone machine. I pressed play. It was Dom DiMaggio. It escapes me now how he even got my phone number, but he did and he left me his. I looked at my wife Jenny and said, “I’m going to step outside and call Dom DiMaggio,” a sentence I never thought I’d say.
I was nervous – like that day at the Westin Hotel three years prior. I punched the numbers on my phone from the balcony of our second floor apartment in Irvine, California. My heart raced. I was calling a DiMaggio! And then he answered. We spoke for close to a half an hour. We spoke about baseball, and about my grandfather and how they shared a very similar path to the major leagues by way of San Francisco and the Pacific Coast League. He reiterated what he had written on the bottom of my letter: that Babe was as graceful a first baseman as he’d ever seen.
The call ended. He was such a nice man and so easy to talk with. I realized that I should’ve introduced myself when I had the chance – even Dom wished I had. My grandfather always said, “life is like fielding, you’ve got to make your own hops.”
To that I say, when you see a chance, take it.
*Matt Dahlgren is the author of Rumor In Town and The Flannel Past. He can be followed on X here: @mattdahlgren12
Our ballpark was at the far end of the playground at Bonita Canyon Elementary school where we attended. It was nestled at the base of a hill where cement steps cut through chaparral that climbed to a high plateau where the wind always blew and hawks would glide in circular patterns above.
Plans would be made at recess or during class – actually talking – not texting. Sometimes phone calls were made after school to confirm. On the other end of the line you’d hear, “Hey mom, can I go play baseball?”
We arrived with our gloves threaded through our handlebars; bats over our shoulders.
It was as if the old chain link backstop was waiting for us; like it knew we’d return. BMX bikes were scattered behind the cage and our banter filled the air; all of us talking over one another.
There was Casey, Yamo, Louie, Gilbert and Charlie. And Tommy and Garin and brothers Jason and Aaron. Games were usually five-on-five; sometimes we’d pick up a few more like Blair, Phil or Jeff.
Ghost runners were a commodity and outs on the bases were called by majority rule. It was simple.
We didn’t have a catcher, didn’t need one. We had the backstop – the arbiter for the all mighty “out.” If a fielder threw a ball into the fence before a runner who was attempting to score stepped on the plate (which was invisible, we just eyeballed it) he was out – no questions asked – though there was inevitably some hearing deficiencies at times.
Games would usually last a couple of hours with a water break at the halfway point from a drinking fountain on the other side of the playground. Remember drinking fountains? And there was always somebody who sucked on the free water longer than needed which resulted in someone yelling “Save some for the fish” from the back of the line amidst prepubescent laughter.
We used balls that were beat up; rarely did we have a good one. When we did it was special because they’d go further – especially when Casey got a hold of one – which was often. We used gloves for bases or, in some cases a brown paper sack that had blown across the playground out to our stadium from the lunch area earlier that day.
We had grass stained shorts and striped tube socks pulled up to our dirty knees. We wore sweatbands and batting gloves and a colorful array of shiny plastic souvenir helmets in an attempt to emulate our early ’80’s idols.
We became good ballplayers – really good ballplayers. It’s where we learned to hit a cutoff man or execute a pickle. It’s where we learned to hit behind the runner or back up a throw or even play a new position. No coaches, just playing and figuring it out. Many of us went on to play high school baseball, some played college and higher.
A view of our ballpark. The old backstop is still there.
Eventually we would tire out and the games just kind of ended. We all collectively knew it was time to go home. So, we straddled our Schwinn’s and Huffy’s and peddled off in different directions, tired and happy, while looking forward to doing it again…and again.
We hadn’t a worry in the world.
I long for those days of when the warmth of a California afternoon collided with the coolness of evening. It was perfect.
It was the most fun I ever had playing baseball in my life.
I spent a lot of years talking with my grandpa, and many more after he passed away researching his life and career for my book, Rumor In Town. Yet somehow this one story slipped past me like the easiest of ground balls. It appeared in the Minneapolis Morning Tribune on October 13, 1939. The headline read:
Babe Dahlgren to Make Good Father’s Pledge 31 Years Ago in Minneapolis
As I read the aged words from the old newspaper, a chill ran down my spine while simultaneously looking up and thinking, oh my.
I’ve always known that my grandpa wanted to become a first baseman because of his childhood idol, Lou Gehrig. This of course made that indelible day in Detroit even more surreal when he was the one called on to replace Gehrig on May 2, 1939. But the story in the Minneapolis Morning Tribune revealed something far more profound; that perhaps his first base roots came from a celestial force far beyond the San Francisco playgrounds of his youth.
At the conclusion of the 1939 World Series where the Yankees beat the Reds in four straight games, with Babe playing a pivotal role in the first two, he drove across the country back to his home in San Francisco. This year however he decided to stop in Minneapolis, Minnesota to meet his two aunts on his father’s side for the very first time. Ida Kastner and Mayme Burmeister were thrilled to meet their world champion nephew. They’d followed Babe along the way by scrapbooking his young career and were eager to hear the stories about his experiences as a major leaguer and his bitter sweet year with the New York Yankees.
Babe Dahlgren with his Aunts Ida and Mayme, Minneapolis, Minnesota, October 1939.
By now Babe had established himself in the eyes of many of his peers and scribes as the top defensive first baseman in the game. The adulation started while in the Pacific Coast League where even Charley Graham, president of the San Francisco Seals and fierce rivals of the Missions, once said he always arrived early when the Missions were home so he could, “see Dahlgren practice.” Red Sox player-manager Joe Cronin was so impressed in the spring of 1935 that when talking about his rookie first baseman he said, “He’s the greatest first baseman I ever saw.” Writer John Lardner would later say, “If an old timer were to swear to me on a stack of testaments that there was a greater defensive first baseman than Ellsworth “Babe” Dahlgren of the Yankees I wouldn’t believe him.”
So, when sportswriter, Frank Diamond, picked up on Babe’s plans to visit the Land of 10,000 Lakes, he interviewed his two aunts in an effort to preempt his arrival with a human interest story about the Yankees first baseman’s late father and his love for baseball.
Born in Minneapolis in 1890, Peter Dahlgren was the youngest of five siblings. He was raised by his older sisters, Ida and Mayme. By the time he was twelve years old he had developed a love for baseball that was transparent. Throughout his teenage years Peter played on nearly every team on the east side of town working hard at honing his skills. The kids that played ball with him and went to Pierce school would often say that, “Pete was the best major league prospect in town.” That’s why it didn’t come as a surprise when he left home at the age of 18 to chase his dream by heading west to Sacramento, California to play baseball for the Highland Park Baseball Club, one of the strongest semi-pro teams on the coast and managed by his older brother, Charlie.
The Sacramento Bee, August 8, 1908.
According to Peter’s sister, Ida, he made a pledge to the family before leaving that, “he wouldn’t return until he became the best darn first baseman in the world.” But that would never happen.
Soon after arriving in Sacramento, Peter met and fell in love with Adeline (Addie) Davey. They married and in 1910 they had their first child, Harold. Within a year they moved to San Francisco where Peter began working as a steam-fitter at the Western Sugar Refinery at 23rd and 3rd streets. On June 15, 1912, Ellsworth was born and three years later a third boy named Raymond came along. But tragedy would strike that same summer when just one month after Ellsworth turned three, Peter, was scalded to death when a pipe burst at the refinery. He was just 24 years old. This left Addie to fend for herself with three small children. Almost a year to the day of Peter’s passing, baby Raymond succumbed from a horrific boiling water accident, himself.
Within a couple of years, Addie remarried and young Ellsworth, now Babe, had begun his own love affair with the game of baseball. And like the father he hardly remembered, he’d spend years roaming the sandlots and playgrounds chasing a dream until signing his first professional contract in 1931.
Babe Dahlgren, San Francisco, circa 1924.
Thirty-one years had passed since Peter Dahlgren left home after making his bold pledge to his sisters. And in the crisp Minnesota fall of 1939 it wasn’t he who was returning home with the recognition of being the “best darn first baseman in the world,” but rather, his son for his defensive prowess.
The fact that my grandpa never told me this about his father makes me question whether or not he even knew. I have to feel that he would’ve told me the remarkable story about his dad wanting to be a first baseman had he known. Did his aunts, Ida and Mayme mention it to him? Did he even read the article in the Minneapolis Morning Tribune? I’ll never know. What I do know is that he cherished a photo of his father with the Highland Parks Baseball Club. It’s one of the only photos he had of him.
Peter Dahlgren standing second from right. His brother Charlie is standing in the center. Highland Park Baseball Club, Sacramento, 1908.
It always put a smile on his face when he looked at the aged photo because it bared witness that his father liked baseball – and that was important to him. But come to find out, Peter Dahlgren more than liked it, he chased it. But his dream fell short – instead he started a family at a young age, only to have one of his boys unknowingly carry the torch for him.
My great-grandfather, Peter Dahlgren, has always been a mystery to me because he died so young. But thanks to a forgotten story written in 1939, a light has been cast on him that cements and unmistakable love of baseball that now transcends across five generations of Dahlgrens.
I recently searched Google maps for a baseball stadium in Amarillo, Texas that I played at in what seems like a lifetime ago. When I found the stadium, I drug the little yellow Google maps man and dropped him onto SE 3rd Avenue to get a street view of the old park. I was shocked at how rundown the stadium was – desolate even. The abandoned parking lot behind the grandstands now looks like a breeding ground for tumbleweeds. But somewhere in those tumbleweeds that blow across our open lands there are stories left behind that are worth telling.
This is a story about a major league player who’s been a footnote to a publicity stunt since 1951. But dig a little a deeper and perhaps you’ll see that it’s a story about a great that never was.
He was standing next to our dugout on the first base side. The sun had almost dropped and the sky was the color of a ripe plum. He stood out for someone his age; tall and handsome, wearing a navy sport coat and grey slacks. The outfit complimented his silver hair with receding lines. Moments before the game as I was putting my shin guards on we made eye-contact. “Hi, Uncle Frank,” I said. “Thanks for coming.”
“Hello, Matt. It’s good to see you.”
I’d only met him once or twice when he had traveled to California to visit his brother, my maternal grandfather.
In the summer of 1991, I played baseball in the Jayhawk League – a premier collegiate summer league that covered several states throughout the Midwest. I played in a small town in Southwest Iowa for the Red Oak Red Sox. When the schedule showed that we were going to play in Amarillo, Texas, my mom back home in California reached out to her Uncle Frank (and godfather), who lives in Amarillo, to let him know.
And on that hot summer night at Potter County Memorial Stadium he was there; forty-one years removed from a headline that once read: TEXAS LEAGUES TOP HITTER, 23, QUITTING BASEBALL THIS FALL.
In 1943, Frank Saucier (so-Shay) graduated from Washington High School in Washington, Missouri at the age of 16. He was an honors student and multi-sport athlete playing basketball and baseball. A couple of months later at the age of 17 he entered the Navy’s V-12 training program, an officer development course, and was assigned to Westminster College in Fulton, Missouri where he began his studies. In November of that year, Saucier entered the United States Naval Reserve Midshipman’s School at the University of Notre Dame. In March of 1945, his commanding officer waived the age requirement of 19 to be an officer allowing Frank to graduate with his class making him one of the youngest deck officers ever commissioned at the age of 18.
Frank and my mother, March 1945.
Before heading out to sea, he was sent to Coronado, California to complete amphibious training. On his way there, he stopped in Arcadia, California to visit his brother and infant niece (my mother) on the day of her baptism. He went on to serve in the Philippines and Japan during World War II. At the conclusion of the war his second assignment was in China aboard the USS Mount Olympus as a deck watch officer. In 1946, he was released to inactive duty and returned to Westminster College to finish his degree.
During his last two years at Westminster, Frank played basketball and baseball batting .519 and .500. He caught the eye of Jack Fournier, a former big leaguer and scout for the St. Louis Browns, and upon graduating in 1948 with a degree in civil engineering, Frank signed as a left-handed hitting catcher with the Belleville Stags, a Class D affiliate of the Browns in the Illinois State League. His first season in professional ball was cut short after 39 games due to a broken thumb. But he finished with a .357 batting average which was tops in the league.
Frank’s prowess and potential earned him an invite to spring training with the AAA Baltimore Orioles of the International League in 1949.
Ted Williams and Frank Saucier during spring training in 1949.
But after only two at bats at the start of the season, he was shipped off to the Wichita Falls Spudders, a Class D team in the Big State League. He continued to spray base hits all over ball parks throughout the state of Texas. He was showing a little more power too with 33 doubles and 8 home runs. When the season ended, not only did he win the batting title for the Big State League, but his .446 batting average was the highest in all of professional baseball earning him a Silver Bat from Hillerich and Bradsby.
Frank Saucier with the Wichita Falls Spudders in 1949; the year he led all of professional baseball with his .446 batting average.
During the off season, one of Frank’s college roommates prodded him into working for his father-in-law’s company, George F. Martin Oil in Olkmugee, Oklahoma. Soon, Frank took a liking to the business and even purchased part interest in an oil well.
In the spring of 1950, Frank was invited once again to attend spring training with the AAA Orioles. But the consensus was he probably wouldn’t make the team as they already had two catchers. Orioles manager, Nick Cullop, admitted that Frank wasn’t ready defensively. When one reporter asked Cullop if Saucier could hit lefthanders, Cullop replied, “Brother, he can hit anything. He’s as good a kid hitter as I’ve ever seen.” The season began and after going 1-5 in pinch-hitting roles, Frank was sent to play for the AA San Antonio Missions in the Texas League where he shed his catchers gear and moved to left field.
He picked up where he left off and by June found himself in a familiar spot leading the Texas League in hitting with a .376 average. He also got engaged to Virginia Pullen of Wichita Falls and the two planned on making their home in Tulsa at the conclusion of the season once they got married.
It was around this time that Frank left people scratching their heads over comments he made in an Associated Press story out of Oklahoma City. He claimed baseball was just a hobby for him and that he was quitting at the end of the season to go back into the oil business. “I don’t get much fun out of it anymore. I’ve told the Browns but they think I’m kidding.” Browns president, Bill DeWitt, didn’t appear too concerned with the news. “We think that Saucier will be with us next season. However, if he doesn’t – well, baseball has been in business for a long time before Saucier ever came around, and I know one thing, the Browns plan to open next season.” Frank had a change of heart a couple of weeks later and clarified his remarks saying, “If I had a chance to go to the major in 1951, I’d be crazy not to take it.”
He continued his torrid hitting throughout August with an eleven game hitting streak. But there was a second baseman with the Beaumont Roughnecks named Gil McDougald who was turning up the heat right behind him. But in the end, Frank staved off McDougald and won the batting title with a .343 average. The future Rookie of the Year for the New York Yankees, McDougald, came in second at .336.
At the conclusion of the season the St. Louis Browns purchased Frank from the Baltimore Orioles who had optioned him to San Antonio at the start of the season.
Milton Richman, a sports writer for the United Press, penned a column on December 2, 1950 where he said, “Mark down the name of Frank Saucier as one of the greatest hitters and strangest characters ever to find his way into the big leagues. Here is a 23-year-old outfielder coming up to the St. Louis Browns with one of the most outstanding batting records ever compiled in the minors. Yet he doesn’t think he has a future in baseball!”
In a fitting conclusion to another great season which saw Frank Saucier win his third consecutive batting title, The Sporting News named him their Minor League Player of the Year. The sky seemed to be the limit for young Frank.
As spring training approached in 1951, it was becoming more apparent that the threats Frank had made the previous year about quitting the game were real. In early March after receiving an offer in the mail from the Browns, Frank advised team president, Bill DeWitt that he was forgoing baseball for the oil business. “It wouldn’t take much more money than they have offered to get me in line. I realize that a rookie coming up to the major leagues is generally expected to accept $5,000 minimum salary. But frankly, I’m earning more than that right here in the oil fields.” By rejecting the Browns’ offer, the three time minor league batting champion faced suspension unless he could come to terms with the club. On April 17, the Browns formally suspended Frank for failing to sign a contract, and in June the Browns placed him on the ineligible list.
As all of this was happening, a group led by former Cleveland Indians owner Bill Veeck was making a push to buy the Browns. And on July 4, Veeck clinched the deal. In a news conference after the deal was made, Veeck said he was out to build a winning team. “We’ve got a couple of dollars to spend and we’re going to spend them,” Veeck told reporters. “Right now the club couldn’t bat its way out of a paper sack and we’re looking for anybody who can carry a ball bat and handle one.” One of Veeck’s first moves was to get the Browns’ top prospect, Frank Saucier, into the fold. And on July 7, Frank came to terms with the Browns for an undisclosed amount. He was to report to St. Louis immediately; though he’d need time to condition and wasn’t expected to play until after the All-Star break.
Over the next two weeks, Frank was at Sportsman’s Park bright and early working out with the club before games. He’d hit, throw and run all in a hurried attempt to make up for lost time. On July 21, he made his major league debut against the New York Yankees when he pinch-hit for Duane Pillette in the bottom of the 9th inning. He hit a sharp ground ball to Phil Rizzuto who made a good stop and throw to retire the new Brownie. The following day in a pitching matchup between Allie Reynolds and Satchel Paige, Frank made his first major league start when he led off and played left field for St. Louis. But things didn’t go well for Frank, who was 0-3 and committed two errors in the outfield.
The top of the seventh inning was one Frank would like to forget. Gil McDougald led off with a base hit. Cliff Mapes then drove a ball to left over Frank’s head for a triple, scoring McDougald. Rizzuto then walked and Joe Collins singled to left field but Frank bobbled the ball allowing Rizzuto to scamper to third on a tardy throw. Bobby Brown then hit a fly ball to Frank and Rizzuto tagged up and scored on the play. It was as if the balls all had eyes with their sites fixed on young Frank Saucier.The next batter was Yogi Berra who got a base hit down the left field line. Frank ran to his right to cut the ball off but it skipped by him rolling all the way to the fence allowing Berra to go to third. When the top half of the inning was over, the Yankees had scored 5 runs.
In Frank’s rush to get into shape his arm paid a heavy price. During that inning against the Yankees where he made several high intensity throws, he injured his arm. For the next several weeks, he was relegated to pinch-hitting and running duties. On August 7, in the top of the ninth inning, he pinch-hit for Jim McDonald and rapped a double to center field off of Indians pitcher, Mike Garcia. It would be Frank’s first and only major league hit.
Frank’s arm was not the same. The pain was harsh; often times going completely dead after attempting to throw hard. In an era long before high tech MRI machines, he had to rely on an X-ray which revealed no damage and was diagnosed with bursitis. Team doctors were confident that in time Frank’s arm would bounce back, but for now it was keeping him out of the lineup.
On August 19, 1951 the Browns had a doubleheader against the Detroit Tigers at Sportsman’s Park. After dropping the first game, Frank was surprised to see his name penciled in the lineup for the second game. He was even more confused to see himself leading off and playing right field. “It was a little unusual since I couldn’t hit or throw. I also thought it was strange because I only played left field.” But Frank, being injured, was the perfect choice for Browns manager, Zack Taylor, to put in the lineup knowing he was going to pull him right away. After playing the field in the top of the first inning, Frank grabbed his bat and headed for the on deck circle. That’s when Taylor called him back. Out came a 3’7” fellow named, Eddie Gaedel dressed head to toe in Browns regalia with the number 1/8 on his back. Gaedel had been in the dugout between games but the players assumed he was some kind of batboy – they weren’t in on the plan.
This caught the 18,000 in attendance by utter surprise. Bill Veeck hadn’t publically announced the stunt because he wanted the fans to come see what can happen at a Browns game. While the crowd was amused, Tigers manager, Red Rolfe, didn’t find the humor – either did home plate umpire, Eddie Hurly. “You can’t do this,” Hurly barked. “Yes I can,” Taylor replied. “I have a contract right here in my pocket.”
Tigers pitcher, Bob Cain, was stumped on the mound and catcher Bob Swift couldn’t stop laughing. After taking four pitches, all of them high, Gaedel hustled down to first base and Jim Delsing ran out to pinch-run for him. Gaedel doffed his cap to the crowd and returned to the dugout where he sat next to Saucier, who, years later recounted, “I thought this was one of the greatest acts of show business I’d ever seen, and still do.”
Frank would only start in one more game in the outfield that year. In the month of September, he appeared in only six games; all as a pinch-runner. When the season ended, he had one hit in 14 at bats. It certainly wasn’t the highly anticipated season the Browns or Frank were hoping for.
Not wanting a repeat of the previous season, Frank came to terms with the Browns in late January in 1952. Eager to prove himself, he left for El Centro, California to begin spring training early arriving the first week of February. Rogers Hornsby had replaced Zack Taylor as manager of the Browns for the upcoming season. This was good for Frank. Hornsby was the manager of the Beaumont Roughnecks of the Texas League in 1950 when Frank led the league in hitting. He was well aware of Frank’s ability to hit and believed he’d be a big piece to the future of the club.
Frank Saucier (L) and Rogers Hornsby (C) in El Centro, CA, 1952.
After 18 days of working out in El Centro, the Browns packed their bags and headed to Burbank, California to resume workouts. “Things have progressed here very well,” Hornsby said. “The arms of Roy Sievers and Frank Saucier haven’t come around as fast as I had hoped, but they have improved some and of course we’ve only been working 18 days.” But Frank wasn’t as optimistic. When the club reported to Burbank he said his arm had failed to respond to treatment and that it “looks like a lost cause.” The Browns ordered Frank to do no throwing or hitting for an indefinite period of time.
All arm troubles would prove to be moot when Frank received a notice from the United States Navy in the middle of March that he was being recalled for active duty. He had 20 days to report to the Naval Air Station in Pensacola, Florida where he’d serve as a battalion commander.
Back in the Navy, Frank continued his baseball ways playing for the Naval Air Station (NAS) Goslings as part of a six team Navy baseball league. As to be expected, he led that league in hitting with a .542 average. While in Pensacola, Frank reunited with Eddie Gaedel. He’d heard that Gaedel was in town working as a clown with the Ringling Bros. circus. So, one night Frank and his wife Virginia went to find his former teammate. He saw Gaedel tumbling from a barrel in one of his acts and later sought him out. “I asked him how he was getting along.” Gaedel replied, “It ain’t baseball.”
In April of 1954, Frank was released from active duty. A month later he voluntarily retired from professional baseball two weeks before he turned 28. He returned to the oil business and finance until he retired at the age of 85.
In 1980, Westminster College, home to the Blue Jays, named their baseball field “Saucier Field” after Francis Field Saucier.
Other than the fact that Frank was there, I don’t remember a single thing about the game that night in Amarillo in 1991. But I do remember cleaning up afterwards and going back to his house to pick up Virginia. Frank showed me his Silver Bat. It’s the first and only time I’ve ever held one. He took me out for a steak dinner and we talked about family and baseball. Before the night ended, we stopped at a large store that sold cowboy boots and the like. He insisted on buying me a pair of boots to remember Texas by – to remember him. It was a very nice gesture. But it was a night I could never forget.
My great-uncle Frank Saucier still resides in Amarillo at the age of 94.
Frank Saucier at home with his Silver Bat in 2017. (Michael Schumacher/Amarillo Globe-News)
Eighty one years ago today, the New York Yankees put on a display of power unlike anything ever seen before or since in a major league baseball game. During a doubleheader in Philadelphia, the Yankees routed the A’s in perhaps the most lopsided twin bill ever. The total score after two games was 33-2. More impressive, however, were the home run records established as the Yankees set major league marks for home runs in a single game as well as a doubleheader.
At the end of the massacre, the numbers were staggering. Reporters were running wild, digging through aged books trying to discern just how many records were shattered before their eyes.
The Yankees collected 43 hits and 33 runs with a total of 13 home runs; a record for a doubleheader. The eight home runs after the first game was also a record and so, too, was the American League mark for total bases in a game at 53, set when Babe Dahlgren smashed his second round tripper of the game in the top of the seventh inning.
Below is a list of the 13 home runs hit that day in Shibe Park.
Game 1 – Yankees win, 23-2.
T2 Bill Dickey – off Lynn Nelson
T3 Joe DiMaggio – off Lynn Nelson
T3 George Selkirk – off Lynn Nelson (Dickey scores)
T3 Babe Dahlgren – off Lynn Nelson (Gordon scores)
T4 Joe DiMaggio – off Bill Beckmann (Henrich scores)
T4 Joe Gordon – off Bill Beckmann (Dickey scores)
T6 Tommy Henrich – off Bob Joyce
T7 Babe Dahlgren – off Bob Joyce (Selkirk, Gordon score)
The sluggers who set the new single game home run record pose before the second game of the doubleheader: Dahlgren, DiMaggio, Henrich, Dickey, Selkirk and Gordon
Game 2 – Yankees win, 10-0.
T1 Frank Crosetti – off George Caster
T1 Joe Gordon – off George Caster (DiMaggio, Selkirk score)
T5 Joe DiMaggio – off George Caster
T5 Joe Gordon – off George Caster
T9 Babe Dahlgren – off Chubby Dean (Gordon scores)
While several teams have subsequently matched the Yankees’ record of eight home runs in a single game, the record stood until 1987 when the Toronto Blue Jays hit 10 against the Baltimore Orioles.
The 1939 Yankees still have the record for most of home runs in a doubleheader. And given the scarcity of doubleheaders today, that record appears to be on solid footing.
* Incidentally, the baseball that was caught for the final out that day recently sold through Heritage Auctions for $1,260.
On August 20, 1939, the Sunday edition of the New York Daily News ran two full page color photos of Lou Gehrig and his successor, Babe Dahlgren. The photos themselves however, were taken in June when Gehrig returned from the Mayo Clinic.
Upon his return, when Lou Gehrig entered the clubhouse to greet his teammates, he found his locker full of mail; most of it from fans that associated his illness with theirs, some even suggesting remedies. Gehrig put on his uniform and headed out to the Yankees dugout. Babe Dahlgren saw Lou and walked over to say hello. It was hours before the game, and the fans were not yet in the ballpark. A photographer spotted the two talking when he approached them with a request. “What kind of picture?” Gehrig asked.
“I want Dahlgren posed at first base reaching for a ball and you standing close behind, cheering,” said the photographer.
The two obliged but things changed once they reached the bag. The photographer positioned Babe how he wanted him. Because of the lighting and the angle of the shot, he had Babe stretching with his right leg out; not the customary left leg for a right handed first baseman. When Babe took his position at first base, he heard resistance from Gehrig behind him. “I’m not cheering at first base,” Gehrig snapped.
What began as an innocuous photo session quickly turned awkward. Babe couldn’t believe what he was hearing. After all, he’d been cheering for Lou all of his life it seemed. He stood there long enough to get the shot but did so without Lou, who’d retreated back to the Yankees’ dugout where he agreed to have his picture taken.
After the photo session, Babe reflected on what had happened. He realized that Gehrig’s inability to quit on himself is what made him so great. Sure, Gehrig cheered for Babe and his teammates during games inside the dugout. But when asked to show encouragement for a staged photograph on the field he couldn’t bring himself to do it – in his mind that was still his bag. Even after being told by the best doctors in the country that he’d never play again, he didn’t believe it himself. At least not yet.
*The accounts of this story were taken directly from my grandfathers notes from his unpublished memoir.
Their major league careers never intersected, but over the years I’ve often wondered if my grandfather (Babe) ever crossed paths with Jackie Robinson. A recent discovery of a scorecard while searching the Baseball Hall of Fame’s website had me thinking that I’d struck gold. It was from a 1945 California Winter League game between Chet Brewer’s Kansas City Royals (a team composed solely of Negro League players) and Kent Parker’s All-Stars of San Diego. The game was played on October 24 at Lane Field in San Diego. A quick glance at the scorecard and I noticed J. Robinson – SS was printed on the card in the cleanup spot for the Royals with the name Hoskins penciled above it and Dahlgren was penciled in the fifth spot of the batting order for the San Diego club.
How had I never heard of this game?
I dug a little deeper into the scorecard and the days leading up to the game in question. And soon, it began to tell a story. There was a reason Hoskins was penciled in for Jackie Robinson. To my surprise, I learned that Babe missed playing against Jackie by a day. And it was a historic day at that.
The California Winter League was the first integrated baseball league in America where major and minor leaguers played against Negro League teams dating back to the early 1900’s.
Throughout October and November of 1945, the Kansas City Royals barnstormed throughout California playing a total of 24 games. The Royals were managed by longtime Negro League pitcher, Chet Brewer. They played their home games at Wrigley Field in Los Angeles, and the team was headlined by Satchel Paige and the California native and UCLA alumni, Jackie Robinson, who’d just finished his first season in the Negro Leagues with the Kansas City Monarchs.
Also making his way throughout the California League playing for multiple teams was Cleveland Indians hurler, Bob Feller. He’d returned to Major League Baseball in late August after missing three years to the war and only pitched in 9 games in 1945. This was a chance for Feller to get some needed work and also make a few bucks. Other notable big leaguers playing in the California League that year were: Vince DiMaggio, Vern Stephens, Red Barrett, Jerry Priddy and Bob Elliot.
At the conclusion of the 1945 major league season, Babe returned to his home in San Gabriel, California. His Pirates teammate and longtime friend, Pete Coscarart returned to Escondido, California. Babe had known Coscarart and his two brothers, Joe and Steve, going back to their days in the Pacific Coast League. At the conclusions of the 1932 and 1933 PCL seasons, Babe traveled from San Francisco to Escondido where he stayed with the Coscarart’s during the winters. They were simpler times; Babe pumped gas at a Union Station and would occasionally haul oranges and lemons for a man named Rupert Baldridge who owned a trucking company.
January 1934
Baldridge assembled a team to play semi-pro baseball in Escondido against other San Diego area clubs. Babe and the Coscarart brothers jokingly referred to their infield as Cosky to Cosky to Cosky to Dahlgren, a play on the famed Tinker to Evers to Chance.
When I saw Pete Coscarart’s name printed on the 1945 scorecard for the San Diego team, I had little doubt that it was he, who invited Babe down to play as a possible late addition; this would explain why Babe’s name isn’t printed on the scorecard, but rather penciled in.
Pete Coscarart and Babe Dahlgren during the 1945 season.
But why was J. Robinson replaced that day?
Brooklyn Dodgers president and general manager, Branch Rickey, had been working behind the scenes for a couple of years on a plan to integrate blacks into professional baseball. He even formed a new Negro League in 1945 called the United States League (USL) as a means of scouting black players and reserved a franchise for Brooklyn to be called the Brown Dodgers; the league fizzled in 1946 before it even took off. Among Rickey’s scouts was the Hall of Famer, George Sisler, who’d sent a favorable report on the Kansas City Monarchs shortstop, named Jackie Robinson. Rickey ordered another one of his scouts, Clyde Sukeforth to take another look. After another promising report, Rickey requested to have Sukeforth bring Jackie to Brooklyn for a meeting.
On August 28, 1945, Branch Rickey met with Jackie Robinson and Clyde Sukeforth at the Dodgers’ office on Montague Street in Brooklyn. Jackie was under the assumption that Rickey wanted to meet about a possible contract for the new Brooklyn Brown Dodgers. He was shocked to learn of Rickey’s real intentions; to have him play for the Brooklyn Dodgers by way of the Montreal Royals. Over the course of several hours and much deliberation, an agreement was struck where Robinson received a bonus for $3,500 and a future salary of $600 a month with the Montreal club. Rickey assured Robinson that a formal contract from Montreal would be offered by November 1.
And there was one more requirement: This had to be kept a secret.
About a month later, Robinson joined Satchel Paige on Chet Brewer’s Kansas City Royals team and began playing games throughout California. On October 2, 1945, the Royals played Bob Feller and the PCL All-Stars at Wrigley Field in Los Angeles. In an attempt to promote the exhibition, the line-ups were printed in the Los Angeles Times the morning of the game – Jackie Robinson was playing shortstop and hitting fifth.
Los Angeles Times, October 2, 1945.
A large crowd of 23,000 people were in attendance to watch Satchel Paige outpitch Bob Feller but lose, 4-2. Paige went six innings, struck out 10, walked none and gave up two hits with one earned run. Feller also went six innings, struck out six, walked five and gave up three hits and two runs. Jackie Robinson had a strong showing with two doubles off of Feller.
On October 7, while the Tigers and Cubs were playing Game 5 of the World Series in Chicago, there was a secret workout taking place across the country in San Diego at Lane Field. Branch Rickey had instructed a group of scouts to watch Jackie Robinson and two of his Royals teammates: catcher, Buster Haywood and third baseman, Herb Souell. In 2012, baseball historian, John Thorn, wrote a comprehensive three-part-piece titled, Jackie Robinson’s signing: The Real Story. In it, he writes about the secret workout at Lane Field and unearths never before seen photos from that day.
Jackie Robinson photographed during the secret workout on October 7, 1945.
As John Thorn’s piece points out, on the same day as the workout, Rickey, who was at the World Series in Chicago, wrote a letter to his friend and newsman, Arthur Mann who’d been writing a piece for a future publication with Rickey’s blessing about the Robinson signing. In Rickey’s letter to Mann he states: “There is a November 1 deadline on Robinson, – you know that. I am undertaking to extend that date until January 1st so as to give me time to sign plenty of players and make one break on the complete story. Also, quite obviously it might not be good to sign Robinson with other and possibly better players unsigned.”
Thorn also writes that “Rickey intended to announce the signing of not just Jackie Robinson, but several other Negro League stars. Political pressure, however, forced Rickey’s hand, thrusting Robinson alone into the spotlight.”
The November 1 deadline for Montreal to offer Jackie Robinson a formal contract was quickly approaching.
When Babe opened the Los Angeles Times on Wednesday morning of October 24, the day of the game in San Diego, he was greeted by the headline of: DODGERS SIGN JACKIE ROBINSON. The signing happened in Montreal and the news of the first black man to sign a contract for organized baseball was splashed across America’s papers. Jackie Robinson would not be hitting clean up that night in San Diego. He would not be there at all.
I wonder what Babe’s thoughts were when he read the news. The man I knew would’ve been smiling.
When he arrived at Lane Field to take part in the exhibition game that night, I wonder what the conversations were like between the ball players, or, the small talk between fans in attendance whose scorecards now needed to be revised.
I wonder if Babe even realized Jackie was supposed to be playing in that game.
How I wonder.
But now I know why the name J. Robinson was replaced by Hoskins on that scorecard – because history interfered with an otherwise forgotten exhibition game between Chet Brewer’s Kansas City Royals and Kent Parker’s All-Stars of San Diego.
As for the game itself, 5,500 people gathered on a chilly night at the end of West Broadway next to the waterfront to see the Royals win, 3-2. Satchel Paige pitched six innings, struck out eight and allowed one run on five hits. Bob Feller struck out 14 in six innings and gave up only one hit and no runs.
Box score from October 24, 1945
It’s funny how an old scorecard from an exhibition game 75 years ago can tell a story.
It also taught me several things along the way.
I never knew that my grandpa played on the same team as Bob Feller (albeit an exhibition game).
I never knew he faced Satchel Paige.
And I never knew he missed playing against Jackie Robinson by a day.
A Final Note:
In the 1980’s, the Coscarart’s sister, Helen, and her husband, Joe Files, celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary in Pomona, California. It not only brought together friends of the couple, and their children and grandchildren, it brought together that infamous infield of Cosky, Cosky, Cosky and Dahlgren for the first time in over 50 years.
Joe, Steve, Pete and Babe.
I found this photo and the following words between the pages of my grandfather’s old manuscript that I now possess. “The Escondido we knew as young men is gone forever, and our mutual friends and teammates have gone their ways, but just being together again for a few hours was something to be thankful for.”
In April of 2018, I received an email from Mark Healey of gothambaseball.com. I’d become acquainted with Mark after my book, Rumor In Town was published in 2007. I appeared on his podcast a couple of times in an effort to promote the book. It’d been a while since we’d last corresponded and his email was to the point: Just read Skip Lockwood’s bio “Insight Pitch” and he takes quite a few shots at your grandpa; thought you should know…
I read his words again, confused. Who’s Skip Lockwood? A quick Google image search awakened memories from my trove of childhood baseball cards. But why was this guy taking shots at my grandpa? Still in Google, I searched his book and entered Babe Dahlgren in the search window. That’s when my blood began to boil. Aside from the various cheap shots Lockwood takes at my grandfather, it was an alleged fist fight between the two inside the clubhouse that ultimately motivated me to write this after sitting on it for over a year.
Before discrediting Chapter 7 of Skip Lockwood’s Insight Pitch, here’s some background. In 1964, my grandfather was a hitting/film coach for the Kansas City Athletics. Babe pitched the idea to club owner, Charlie Finley during the Winter Meetings in 1963 by showing him a 90 minute movie he’d produced on hitting. After watching the movie in a suite at the Statler Hotel in Los Angeles, and listening to Babe’s passion about film and how it could benefit hitters, Finley hired Babe on the spot for the ’64 season. His primary task was to film the A’s hitters during games, and then review the film with them so they could see their tendencies: good and bad. This method had never been used before – my grandfather was truly ahead of his time.
During that summer in June, Skip Lockwood, a 17-year-old high school senior from Catholic Memorial High School in Boston signed a $100 thousand bonus with the A’s. Before Lockwood was assigned to the Burlington Bees of the Midwest League, Charlie Finley had him workout with the major league club. Lockwood joined the A’s in Cleveland on June 12.
He writes about that experience in Chapter 7 which is titled: An Unwelcoming Welcome to the Show. Leading up to the alleged fight between he and Babe, Lockwood makes several attempts at chopping my grandfather down. The following excerpts jumped out at me.
Excerpt from page 92: Insight Pitch – A coach named “Babe” was the opposite of the aforementioned gentleman. Babe was not held in very high esteem by the baseball community in general, against whom he continued to hold a grudge. He was the first major leaguer to fail a drug test and believed that he had been victimized by baseball brass. He had grown into a surly man, twenty years older looking than his age, and he was just barely hanging on to his present job by doing two things that no one else wanted to do: throw batting practice and record the game on tape. He hated both jobs, but it meant a paycheck and a uniform…
Lockwood’s claim that Babe was the first major leaguer to “fail” a drug test is false. It is also slanderous and I’d like to see what proof he has to back his claim. The truth is, in 1943 Babe approached baseball’s commissioner, Kenesaw Mountain Landis, and asked to be tested for marijuana because of rumors spreading throughout the league. Babe volunteered to be tested, the league paid for the tests and the results came back negative but nothing was done to clear his name. It’s why I wrote, Rumor in Town. Here’s a clip of Babe talking with Keith Olbermann about the rumor in 1989.
With regards to hating his job with the A’s, Babe spent several years and thousands of dollars on equipment to make a film on hitting for the sole purpose of helping hitters – it’s what inspired Charlie Finley to hire him. Babe loved nothing more than using film to help ball players actually see what they were doing right, and what they were doing wrong. So, when Lockwood says that Babe hated his job, he couldn’t be more mistaken.
Excerpt from pages 92-93: Insight Pitch – Babe heard through the grapevine that the front office had signed a kid out of Boston, a bonus baby. Bunch of fools, he probably thought. Rookies are not worth the tobacco to spit on them, he probably said to himself. Babe also didn’t like Northerners, especially Bostonians.
For starters, Babe didn’t chew tobacco. He also treated rookies the same as veterans; wanting to help them all. Having only been around Babe for all of an hour, Lockwood takes great liberties with his “probably thought/probably said” quotes. His assertion that Babe “didn’t like Northerners, especially Bostonians” is baseless and cheap. Babe was a city kid who grew up in San Francisco. If he didn’t like someone it was because of their character, not because of race or origin.
In 1935 Babe roomed with Mel Almada – the first Mexican born major leaguer.
In 1941 Babe and teammate, Charlie Gilbert, were held-up at knife point in Chicago by a couple of “thugs” as he always referenced them to me. It wasn’t until researching old newspapers for my book that I learned the two suspects were black – it never mattered to Babe to add that to his story.
Babe had the good fortune of playing in Boston twice throughout his career (1935 & 1941). Here are some examples of fan letters to a young kid in 1935 where Babe tries to help him with advice on how to play baseball – odd behavior for someone with such hostility towards Bostonians.
Lockwood then describes meeting A’s manager, Ed Lopat, for the first time in the dugout at Municipal Stadium in Cleveland. He paints Lopat as a cantankerous, tobacco spitting, gas passing buffoon. Lockwood’s dialogue with Lopat reads like a scene from The Natural between Roy Hobbs and Pop Fisher. You can almost hear Lopat’s lines being said in Wilford Brimley’s voice.
Excerpt from pages 94-95: Insight Pitch – My eyes wandered as I listened to the sharp crack of the ball hitting the bat as it echoed in the empty stadium. I walked over toward the dugout steps to meet Eddie Lopat, the A’s manager. “Hello,” Eddie said in a monotone, bored tone. He seemed to be concentrating partially on the batting practice and more intently on an attractive blonde near the first row. “You Lockhart?” “Lockwood,” I corrected and stuck out my hand. “Eddie Lopat,” he said without shaking hands or looking up. He lifted one cheek of his rear and cut wind in my direction. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Lopat,” I said, withdrawing my hand, embarrassed by his lack of civility. Running the corner of his eye over me with a wave of annoyance, a sneer formed on Eddie’s lips, and he spit tobacco on the steps between us. It splashed into a well-established puddle with some outliers landing on my new white cleats. “We’re all on a first name basis here. Save your formal greeting for them teachers you had in high school back East. Here, I’m Eddie to you…same as everyone else. Now get out of my face. Grab your ass in that pretty new uniform over to the bat rack, pick one out of the pitchers rack, the bat boys will show you where, and shag up there to the cage for a couple of swings before practice is over.”
Aside from the fact that the A’s didn’t wear white spikes (not cleats) until 1967, the problem with Lockwood’s story is that by his own admission on page 91 of Insight Pitch, he joined the team in Cleveland which would’ve been on Friday, June 12. Ed Lopat was fired as A’s manager the day before that, which was an off day. In other words, Ed Lopat wasn’t the manager when Skip Lockwood arrived, Mel McGaha was. How could Lockwood have such vivid memories and quotes from someone who wasn’t even there?
But the most egregious story in Chapter 7 is about an alleged fight that took place inside the clubhouse between Lockwood and my grandfather; a fight stemming from an incident that happened during batting practice.
In Lockwood’s version of the story which begins on page 97 of his book, he entered the batting cage to take a few swings and right away my grandfather deliberately started throwing at him. He claims Babe’s first pitch was well inside and that his second pitch hit him on the middle of his back causing him to fall to the ground (pause and let that sink in for a moment). Lockwood then says Babe’s third pitch carried a message and hit him hard on his shoulder – once again bringing Lockwood to the dirt. (In all my life I’ve never seen a BP fastball bring someone to their knees once, let alone twice, but I digress). Lockwood claims that as he left the batting cage, he looked out at Babe and shouted, “Throw the fucking ball over the plate, meat,” at which point Babe allegedly grabbed his crotch and yelled, “I’ve got your meat right here. Get your candy-ass back in there. You get two more pitches and I ain’t done with you.”
Lockwood describes Babe as a “Neanderthal” who was snorting like an escaped bull, sighting that one of the coaches had to run out and calm him down. According to Lockwood, the next hitter in the cage was Larry Stahl who’d just come back from a stint on the disabled list from a shoulder injury. Lockwood said Stahl yelled at Babe, “You hit me asshole and I’ll hide all the beer in the clubhouse.”
A little research shows that Larry Stahl didn’t make his major league debut until September 11, 1964 – 3 months after Lockwood worked out with the club. The following box score for the Birmingham Barons, the double-A affiliate for the A’s, appeared in the Asheville Citizen Times on June 4, 1964.
Notice Larry Stahl was batting third. If Stahl had a shoulder injury, it would’ve happened on June 4th or after. This makes it peculiar, if not unrealistic, that as a minor leaguer, Stahl would be returning from the disabled list with the major league club in Cleveland on the 12th. And if by some chance Stahl was there, would a minor league player who hadn’t made his major league debut yet call a big league coach “asshole?” Maybe in Hollywood – but not in real life.
After reading Lockwood’s account in utter disbelief, I poured through over 300 pages of my grandfather’s original manuscript for the book he was writing before he died. Perhaps he mentioned an incident that had been lost on me over the years. Low and behold, I found the following excerpt. Notice the identity of the player involved was intentionally left out.
Now compare what my grandfather wrote to Lockwood’s preposterous description of a fight that ensued inside the visitors’ clubhouse.
Excerpt from pages 102-104: Insight Pitch – As luck would have it, my locker was near Babe’s. He was still fuming about his personal problem with rookies, his misfortune compared to their good fortune. On his way for a beer, he passed my stool and bent over and said, “Wish I had stuck it in your rookie ear. Do you have any idea where your candy-ass is?” If the question was geographic in nature, in truth, I might have had a problem with the answer. Given the ire and sarcasm that was spitting out of the corners of his mouth, I guessed that Babe was aiming at a more philosophical response. “Where am I?” I replied mockingly, reflexively. When I left home less than twenty-four hours ago, I knew I would have to make it on my own. I’d have to fight my own battles. I would not be accepted into this game until I earned respect. But I was confident in my talent, and I would not be belittled for my age or where I came from. I did not understand Babe’s emotional instability, but I knew this was some kind of test being administered in public view. Dignity and honor were at stake, I was not going to back down, not today or ever. Babe was expecting me to timidly back down, but instead I stood up. “This here place belongs to professionals not the likes of you,” Babe growled, still in his underwear and showing a mid-section girth much in need of a few more sit ups and few less beers. He stepped closer. The players in near proximity spun around smelling an argument, hoping for more. Tension had been mounting in the locker room because of the team’s poor on-field performance. They all needed something to break the jinx. Players craned their necks around the sharp corners of the lockers. I assumed that civil camaraderie would come with wearing the same uniform, but apparently, sixty minutes in the green-and-gold were not enough to cement that bond. Babe was tightening his fists as he pushed one of the stools aside for better access. His nostrils flared. His gray hair lay flat on the side of his head. To me, he looked burnt out, but nevertheless, I decided I better take him seriously. Babe swore and moved to a more combative stance. He slapped his own stool to the floor. His complexion dimmed from white-gray to ashen. I widened my stance too, thinking, “Is this guy really going to take a swing at me. For what? Why?” “Yea, Rookie. Why don’t you just get up from here and go back where you came from!” Babe said working himself into a rage again. I let my eyes follow the overturned stool. I was very much an unproven rookie in this surrounding. Looking at me with contempt, he saw a pathetic, incompetent rookie, not worth the bonus or even deserving of a uniform. He emitted a single, guttural noise like an animal snort, triggering an adrenaline surge from his nervous system. He drew back to make a swing. “Don’t do that, old man,” I said reflexively. Again my words were not well chosen and, like before, only enraged him more. Babe had kept his resentment inside for way too long. Now he was in attack mode. His fists en route, he lost his balance, undisciplined in this type of physical behavior, and stumbled. The blow landed mostly on my shoulder. I saw it coming and ducked towards the towel bin. This was my first fight ever but I would soon find out, not my last. I was in survival mode. All eyes in the room were harvesting the show. I punched back with a right. I felt a swoop of elation as we surged backward. Babe was on one knee near his locker. He knew he’d been hit, and he knew he missed with his best chance. Enraged, he stopped to collect his thoughts from the impact and design a counter. This fight was far from over. Babe gathered himself, still kneeling, and noticed the assortment of extra bats stored handle-up next to the wall. He grabbed one, scraping his elbow, losing his balance for a second time. His mouth was distorted, and he tried to gain some leverage. The irony of the situation was palpable. I was a rookie and on display. Really. Here’s an old batting practice coach trying to make a serious mark on my head and career. I pounced on him, getting a knee into his chest, smothering the fight. “What the hell is going on?” yelled Luke Appling, one of the coaches. Both Babe and I were on the ground panting for air, absurdly dressed in our underwear. A pool of blood was dripping under the overturned stool. “Break it up. Break it up. What the fuck is going on? Why are you guys all sitting around watching them fight?” The fight was over. I was back up on my stool and out of breath, shocked that I had been in my first street fight. I stood up and caught a glimpse of a mirror on the wall about ten feet away. I didn’t recognize my own reflection. This was certainly not the welcome I imagined as I embarked on my career as a big leaguer. Mulling over the events of the day, I was mortified that I had been so disrespected by people I had assumed I should offer respect, but mollified that I had withstood the ordeal and maintained my self-respect. Having been king of the hill for so long, I was shocked at my new status of persona non grata. Still, I didn’t want to make more of this incident than it deserved. This childish “Babe” evidently had a problem that needed professional intervention. He mistakenly thought that I would be an easy target for his wrath. On the upside, I believed I had found an on field mentor in Ed Charles and an off-field protector in Luke Appling. Having been challenged as a rookie, I responded like a veteran. It was evident that from here on out I was going to have to fight for what was mine. Nothing was going to be handed to me.
My dad, grandfather and uncle – Municipal Stadium, 1964
Throughout the entire summer of 1964, my dad, who was 19-years-old, and uncle worked out with the Kansas City A’s before home games. They spent a lot of time on the field and inside the clubhouse. One would think if an incident like this ever happened (even if it was on the road), they would’ve heard about it. But they didn’t. My dad was so angered by Lockwood’s story that he reached out and spoke with Jim Gentile, Ted Bowsfield, Nelson Mathews and Wayne Causey. When they heard what Lockwood had written in his book they were in disbelief – mad even. They all liked and respected Babe. None of them saw the alleged fight between Lockwood and Babe, or heard about one.
I recently spoke with Ken Harrelson over the phone. We had a great conversation and he spoke highly of my grandfather; saying Babe was one of his favorite coaches. In 1964, Harrelson was in his second year in the big leagues with A’s and would’ve been there when Skip Lockwood arrived. I asked him about a fight between Lockwood and Babe inside the clubhouse. Harrelson responded candidly by saying, “I never saw it, and never heard about it.” He also told me that if something like that had happened, “everyone on the club would’ve known about it.”
In 1964, Rocky Colavito was in his first and only season with A’s. My dad wrote to Colavito and included Lockwood’s description of the alleged fight. He recently received the following statement.
How could a fight like this happen in the tight quarters of a clubhouse, a fight which resulted in a “pool of blood” and yet none of these six players saw it, or heard about it? Remember, Lockwood said on page 104 that, “All eyes in the room were harvesting the show.” Apparently Rocky Colavito, Jim Gentile, Ken Harrelson, Nelson Mathews, Ted Bowsfield and Wayne Causey didn’t buy a ticket to get in.
What about the press? On page 94 Lockwood says, “I was greeted by the media and took a few questions, but batting practice was not going to last too much longer, and I wanted to show my stuff.” Wouldn’t that same media have had an interest in writing a story about the $100,000 bonus baby fighting Lou Gehrig’s successor inside the clubhouse on his first day joining the club? Surely they would’ve heard about it. Writers would salivate over a story like that. Yet there isn’t one story written about it. How come? If a major league coach engaged in a fist fight with the teams’ newly signed bonus baby (who was still a minor) would that coach have kept his job? Of course not!
Common sense says none of this adds up. Frankly, it’s pathetic.
The truth is my grandfather embarrassed Skip Lockwood when he dressed him down that day in 1964 during batting practice. And after the two shook hands my grandfather moved on, but Skip Lockwood never did. It’s obvious he harbored resentment for years and never forgot it. And his book was his chance to get back at Babe Dahlgren with lies knowing he was dead and couldn’t defend himself. It doesn’t get lower than that.
When my grandfather died in 1996 at the age of 84, hanging in the back right corner of his garage was a red Everlast punching bag. He loved boxing. I named my dog Dempsey as a young boy because I’d heard so many stories from my grandpa about the great Jack Dempsey. If Babe had never made it as a baseball player, he would’ve tried boxing. As a 16-year-old in the California National Guard, he boxed and won a medal against an opponent several years older than him. He memorialized his medals in the back of his pocket sized phone book that he carried with him during high school and after. That small book is now in my possession.
Babe’s childhood phone book
A former welterweight champion in the Navy once asked Babe’s stepfather if he could manage the young fighter, but his stepfather said “no” because he wanted him to play baseball. Several years later, as a rookie with the Red Sox in 1935, Babe and teammate Bill Werber exchanged punches inside the dugout at Fenway Park. On page 46 of Bill Werber’s book titled, Memories of a Ballplayer, he recalls the incident that stemmed from an error my grandfather made.
“It was a dumb play on Dahlgren’s part and I made the mistake of telling him so when we reached the Sox dugout at the end of the inning. He was as annoyed as I was and gave me his thoughts in what I considered strong language. In the dugout was a large tin bucket of Florida water and ice along with a sponge for wiping the sweat from your face. At that moment the sponge was in my hand and I shoved it into Babe’s face. The next thing I felt was his fist against my jaw and my head rocked against the concrete wall of the dugout. My left caught him on the bridge of the nose and blood gushed out on his uniform and dugout floor. At that juncture teammates separated us, to my great benefit. I had not known that Dahlgren had been an amateur boxer of some accomplishment in his native California.”
Babe hitting the speed bag in the basement of his San Francisco home during the winter in 1941.
I had to smile when Lockwood said that Babe “drew back to take a swing” and that Babe (referring to fighting) was “undisciplined in this type of behavior.” Unlike a cowboy in an old western movie who telegraphed his punches, when Babe threw a punch there was no warning; this was obvious to me as a youngster when I’d playfully spar with him. The only thing undisciplined in this story is Lockwood’s ability to tell the truth.
“I don’t know for sure how old I am,” says Shine, “but I remember when I was a boy I followed the Union Army during the Civil War. The Confederates didn’t have much food and the Federals did. And I always did like to eat.”
Shine Scott, the Los Angeles Times, July 18, 1933
Nobody ever knew his real name, though one can surmise that the infectious warmth he possessed made him shine in the eyes of those around him; thus the name was born.
Shine Scott was abandoned as a baby during the Civil War and adopted by a family with the name of Garrison. He lived with them until he was sixteen before he hit the road working odd jobs and doing anything to make a buck. Soon after he set out on his own, he found a job as a piano player and did some occasional bouncing in a brothel where he could use his baritone voice to its fullest.
By the turn of the century Shine had made his home in Vernon, California where he bought a horse and wagon and made his living as a junkman. In 1909 Vernon became the home to the Tigers of the Pacific Coast League. On his way home each day, Shine made a habit out of pulling up behind the outfield fence where he’d stand on his wagon and talk to players. They loved him from the start – his heavyweight laugh and outlook on life was contagious. It didn’t take long before Shine was invited into the clubhouse where he’d charm the players by telling tales about his travels. The club couldn’t resist Shine’s presence, and Tigers manager, Hap Hogan found room on the payroll and appointed Shine as the team trainer.
In 1925, the Vernon Tigers were sold and moved to San Francisco where they became the Mission Reds, and Shine immediately became part of the new franchise. Shine was just the kind of guy to take the edge off a young rookie who was entering a professional clubhouse for the first time. My grandfather, Babe Dahlgren, was one of those rookies in 1932 when he joined the Mission Reds.
Shine referred to all the youngsters on the club as his lambs. Whenever he sensed a lamb was down, he’d walk over to their locker and sit beside them asking what the problem was while gazing at them with his watery bloodshot eyes. Sometimes during games he would walk out and stand in the grandstands and watch, but most of the time, if he didn’t have a candidate for the rub table, he’d doze off under the heater in the clubhouse to avoid the crisp Bay air.
When giving a player a massage, Shine would often put on a show by winking to the surrounding teammates and dousing the player on the rub table with whatever was close at hand like soda or just plain water instead of the usual rubbing liniment. This of course kept everybody loose. If a game was rained out when the club was on the road, the payers would take off their uniforms and sit in front of their lockers waiting for Shine to tell stories – it was Showtime! He also liked to argue, and once he got started, he would chase his opponent across the clubhouse until a wall demanded an about-face. Then Shine would stuff large wads of cotton in both ears and walk away unable to hear his agitator which caused the players to roar with laughter.
Shine had a hard time sleeping due to asthma. When the club traveled north to play Portland and Seattle, he’d consistently complain about the high altitudes. “Lamby, I’m afraid this is old Shine’s last trip up these mountains.” But the players all knew Shine wasn’t going anywhere – he was just looking for a little sympathy and the players were happy to give it to him.
One day in 1932, club President, Joe Bearwald, walked into the clubhouse unshaven. The club had been struggling and it was apparent he wasn’t going to shave until the club broke out of its losing streak. In an attempt to relax the club, Bearwald held a team meeting giving the floor to anybody who wanted to offer words of encouragement. That’s when Shine stood up in the back of the clubhouse. “Mr. Bearwald, I know what’s wrong with this club and why we aren’t winning.”
“Why isn’t the club winning Shine?” Bearwald asked.
“Mr. Bearwald, you can’t make chicken salad out of chicken shit!” Shine explained.
The club broke out in laughter, as did Bearwald, who shaved the next day.
At the end of each season Shine would collect all his belongings while looking over his thin glasses that rested on the edge of his nose. When he gathered his Gillette razors, he’d become sentimental. “Well this is my last year. I won’t be shaving anybody’s legs anymore before I tape ‘em up. So I’m going to give you something to remember old Shine by.” He’d start to give away one of his razors but pull it back claiming that it was bad luck to give anything away that cuts. “Tell you what, just to chase the demons away, how ‘bout giving me a dime?” The players would smile knowing that was all he paid for the razor when it was brand new.
Shine Scott died on October 7, 1940, of a heart attack. The Pacific Coast League was his home for more than thirty years. Though no one knew for certain, it was believed he was over eighty years old.
