Wednesday, July 27, 1927: New York City
Ben Paschal Can’t Sleep
Considering that we’re on the road for half the season — sharing a hotel room for some 60 nights a year — it’s understandable that life with a roommate will have its ups and downs. This past weekend in Chicago I discovered that Ben Paschal is having a tough time with his roomie, Little Julie Wera.
And it’s a touchy matter.
It’s Sunday at 7:45 a.m., and I’m having an early breakfast with Paschal — and he is not looking good.
“I haven’t slept for nights,” he says as he falls into his chair. It’s just the two of us.
I’ve gotten up early for a 7:30 breakfast because I want to head out to Comiskey Park to work on my forkball with Sailor Bob and Benny Bengough, but neither of them are down yet.
Paschal has gotten up early because, he says, he’s been having trouble sleeping and he had to get out of his room.
Ben is our fourth outfielder — behind Meusel, Combs and, of course, Ruth — and on any other team he wouldn’t just be a starter, he might even blossom into a star. He’s a lifetime .320 hitter. But these are the Yankees. Right now, almost a hundred games into the season, Paschal’s played in 34 and started a bunch of them, and he’s batting .321. He doesn’t seem to mind his backup role, though. I think he recognizes the greatness of Ruth, Meusel and Combs that’s in his way.
So, what’s keeping him up?
“Little Julie just never stops,” Ben says, drinking his coffee black and lighting up a Lucky Strike.
Little Julie, our 25-year-old rookie, is Paschal’s roommate. He’s a strange little man.
“Three times a night, every night,” says an exhausted Paschal. “It’s driving me so crazy, I can’t sleep.”
“What’s he doing?”
“For Chrissakes, Myles, get in the game.”
“Ben, what are you talking about?”
Ben leans across the table and whispers, “Every single night, Little Julie gets into bed, turns out the light and within two minutes he’s busy waxing his carrot. Every night.”
“Every night?”
“Every night,” an exhausted Ben says.
He slides back into his chair and takes a drag on his morning cigarette. Through the smoke he tells me, “And he makes more noises than a girl at the Good Shepherd.”
“Noises?”
“Mostly he hums to himself. This week he’s been humming, ‘Climbing Up the Ladder of Love.’”
Paschal puts down his coffee and stares out the hotel dining room window. “You know, I used to really like that song.”
“The Dusty Rhoades song? How do you know he’s not just humming?” I ask him.
“Because he tells me. When he’s done he tries to talk to me about it.”
“Cause he’s feeling guilty?”
“Guilty? Hell, no. He brags about it. He even rates ’em — swear to God — afterwards he scores it a single, double, triple or a home run.“
“What’s his batting average?” I joke.
“He’s gotta be giving Cobb a run for his money. This morning as I was walking out the door, he told me that last night, in three at bats, he had a triple, a single and — here’s a new one — a sacrifice fly.”
“What’s a sacrifice fly?” I ask.
“I had no desire to find out,” says Ben. “You should ask him. I’m sure he’ll show you.”
“The last thing I want to do is watch. Jesus.”
“No, not watch him — God, no,” says Paschal. “I’m saying he’ll show you his journal. He keeps a nocturnal batting journal, and he’ll show it to you if you ask him. He’s fucking insane.”
My eggs hit the table.
I’m not as hungry as a I was when I ordered them a couple of minutes ago.
“You know what’s really crazy?” says Ben.
“We haven’t gotten to the really crazy part yet?”
“Sometimes when he’s finishing, he yells out the name of a major leaguer — swear to God. Last night, at like 4:30 he wakes me up screaming, ‘Rogers Hornsby!’”
That could definitely cut into a guy’s sleep.
“Speaking of nighttime,” I say to Ben, trying to change the subject, “you know General Electric just tested their new lights for ballparks in Springfield last month, so night baseball can’t be that far off, maybe even next season. Dugan says they’re gonna put lights in Wrigley Field.”
But Paschal’s not listening.
He leans over the table and whispers to me. “You’ve heard about Little Julie’s new glove, right? Guess how he’s breaking it in.”
“Stop it.”
“He says it softens the pocket. He says he’s done it that way since he was eleven.”
“Hey, guys!”
It’s little Julie, with a goofy smile on his face. He puts his hand out to shake good morning. My right hand stays in my lap.
Little Julie always has that goofy smile on — even when things go bad. In June, against the A’s, Huggins called on him to pinch run for our catcher, Pat Collins, right after Collins had doubled to lead off the eighth. Little Julie promptly got picked off. Then he smiled that goofy smile of his the whole way back to the bench.
Little Julie sits down and orders a three egg omelette.
And then he starts to hum, “Climbing up the Ladder of Love.”
- NEW YORK WORLD, June 25, 1927: “Baseball By Electric Light Proves Success.”
- “Climbing Up the Ladder of Love”
- June 26, 1927: “Yanks Bow in First But Avenge Defeat”. New York Times article and Box Score.
