Friday, July 1, 1927: New York City
The Worst Inning of My Life
Miller Huggins handed me the ball Thursday afternoon for a start against the worst team in the league, the Boston Red Sox. Going into the game, the Sox were 15–50 and falling fast, having lost 11 games in a row, and 19 of their past 22.
The night before the game, Benny and I met up with Buddy Myer, Boston’s shortstop, at a speakeasy on West 51st Street.
As soon as we get to the bar, Myer orders two drinks, quickly downs them both, and then immediately orders two more.
Buddy started the season on a pretty good Senators team — Washington went to the World Series in 1924 and ’25, and won in ’24 — but he was traded to the Sox in early May. The season’s not even halfway over but losing every day is clearly taking its toll on Buddy. While he waits for his second set of double drinks, he lays it out in pretty stark terms. “Honest to God, every game we play it feels like I’m taking a shit in front of a couple of thousand bums.”
Buddy is dead serious, but Benny and I can’t help laughing. Myer’s now holding his head in his hands.
“Except when we’re playing you guys — in which case, real live fans show up at the park to see Ruth and Gehrig — the only people in the stands for our games are drunks and bums who haven’t had a job in years.” Buddy just stares at his second set of drinks. “I can’t tell you how much I goddamn hate Boston and everything about this goddamn team.” And with that his two shots disappear.
“On those rare days when we do win, we’re genuinely surprised,” Buddy tells us. “We think we’re going to lose every game — unless we’re playing the Browns. And even against them, we’re still fairly confident in our ability to lose.
“This is the worst goddamn team I’ve ever been around, including sandlot teams. Every day I want to punch out each and every one of my goddamn gutless teammates.”
I feel bad for Buddy. And to think, I was almost traded along with Mark Koenig for him last month. I can’t imagine the hell of playing for an uninspired, losing team.
Just a few few hours earlier we’d beaten his gutless teammates and him 8–2, in a game that wasn’t that close — we hit three triples, two doubles, one home run (Gehrig), and nine singles. Meanwhile, they’d managed only three base hits off George Pipgras, who also struck out six.
Since I’m starting tomorrow’s game, I say an early goodnight to Buddy and head out the door. Walking out of the joint, I run into Schoolboy, who’s just starting his evening. We share a quick smoke and I tell him about watching Buddy try and drown his sorrows.
“Poor bastard,” says Schoolboy. “Almost as bad as playing for that team would be losing to them.”
On days when I’m starting, I like to get to the park early, around 8:30 a.m. Most guys like to stick to their normal routine and show up at the same time as their off days — 10 a.m. is when Huggins requires us to report — but I can never sleep past seven on days when I’m starting, and hanging around the townhouse just makes me nervous. I also like the quiet of an almost empty locker room before the other players come filing in. At 8:30 the only people moving around are the clubhouse boys and ball boys under the direction of our clubhouse man, Fred Logan. The best of the clubhouse boys is this terrific fifteen-year-old kid, Pete Sheehy, who Fred found hanging outside the stadium one day last September and who’s been helping him out ever since.
Huggins is always in his office by eight o’clock, smoking his pipe and reading the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times from cover to cover. Also, like clockwork, every morning Gehrig arrives at 8:45, and the first thing he does, even before changing, is knock on Huggins’s door and chat with him for fifteen minutes, or so. Sometimes they talk baseball — what happened the game before, or what to expect from that day’s opposing pitcher — but most of the time it’s a simple “How are you, Lou?” conversation. Because Gehrig’s mother dominates his life and his father is such a quiet man, Huggins has become a father figure to Lou.
Even though Gehrig doesn’t like to talk about himself, he enjoys starting his day talking with Hugg.
At home and on the road, after Lou’s done with his morning chat with Huggins, he changes into his warm-ups and heads out to the field with one of our coaches, Art Fletcher, a former shortstop who’s working with Lou on his defensive play.
Every morning Fletch hits Gehrig more than a hundred ground balls. It’s a delicate task, because challenging Lou to get better while also keeping his confidence up is a precarious balancing act. If Lou boots a couple of practice grounders, he’ll get upset at himself and become momentarily depressed. He doesn’t just get angry or mope; it’s much darker than that.
Fletcher almost never lets that happen, though. If Gehrig mangles a grounder, Fletch will magically hit the next one a hair closer and just a hair slower, and then after Lou gloves it, Fletch will shout encouragement in a voice that sounds like Lou’s just discovered gold.
On my pitching days, after I’ve changed into my warm-ups, I always grab a cup of coffee and sit by my locker reading the paper until Lou leaves Huggins’s office. Then I knock on Hugg’s door and we sit and talk about the opponent that day, and how I’m feeling.
Not being a regular starter, I always tell Hugg I’m feeling strong, and I try to convey an aura of mature confidence whenever he asks me how I’m going to pitch to certain batters — something that’s much easier to do with a record of 6–2, and a 2.82 ERA.
During our pitching talks, Hugg always hands me a sheet of paper with the roster of our opponent, and we go over it. Later in the afternoon, once the starting lineups are handed in, I’ll go over each Red Sox batter in more detail with Sailor Bob, a fifteen-year veteran who for the last two years has been a spot starter and our de facto pitching coach.
Today, I really am feeling great. And I really am feeling confident.
I pitched well enough in my last start on Sunday afternoon against the Athletics, even though I took a 4–2 loss. Then on Tuesday, Hugg brought me back in against the A’s in the bottom of the ninth, with one out and a man on first, while we were struggling to hold onto a 9–8 lead, and I got the last two outs on three pitches against two of the best hitters in baseball — Al Simmons and Mickey Cochrane — to save Shocker’s game.
I think I have a chance to stay as the fifth starter behind Hoyt, Pennock, Shocker and Ruether. (Wilcy Moore is having an incredible year, but he’s doing so well in relief that there’s no way Huggins wants to use him as much more than a spot starter.)
As I leave Hugg’s office, he points his pipe towards the Red Sox roster sheet in my hand. “No matter how bad their record is, Myles, don’t underestimate this team. Keep them off balance, and rely on the men behind you.”
The men behind me today make up our best defensive team, albeit an unbalanced one. Our weakest glove, our shortstop, Mark Koenig, is still out with a bad leg after being hit by a pitch three weeks ago, which means Lazzeri is playing short instead of second. The W*p is the best defensive player in the league at either of those two positions, and since Joe Dugan’s still one of the league’s best defensive third baseman, that means the left side of our infield is the best in baseball.
But losing Lazzeri from the right side of the infield hurts. The W*p’s replacement at second, Ray Morehart, is an able second baseman, and he’s definitely got a better glove than Koenig, but he doesn’t cover nearly the same ground as Lazzeri.
And, of course, over at first base, Gehrig is still a toddler who also doesn’t cover much ground — and who relies on Lazzeri for much of his placement and confidence.
Given the lack of balance between the two sides of the infield, a big part of my job today will be enticing the Sox to hit their ground balls to to the left side, to Lazzeri and Dugan.
Except when we’re starting, most pitchers like to do their running and workout around eleven, before the day gets too warm, then come back out for batting practice, two hours before the game. Some pitchers on their game days don’t run or take batting practice for fear of getting tired or injured, but I like to do some light running to loosen up, and I love to swing the bat.
The position players all have their own routines based on a combination of habit and superstition: Ruth and Meusel like to jog together, with Ruth yapping about whatever he did the night before and Meusel listening, or pretending to. (No one really knows what Silent Bob actually hears because he rarely talks, sometimes going a week saying nothing more than just “Hey.” Inside Meusel’s head, I think the word, “Hey,” qualifies as a paragraph.)
Ruth and Silent Bob also regularly engage in throwing competitions with the other players. They’ll have one of the ball boys lay four towels down on the infield grass in front of the pitcher’s mound, and then the players will all stand deep in the outfield and try to hit the towels. Ruth frequently wins these contests, probably three out of every five times, with throws that sometimes make the towels fly up off the ground from more than two hundred feet away. It’s breathtaking.
Ruth’s final warm-up drill is to play a taunting form of catch with Eddie Bennett, our hunchbacked dwarf mascot. Eddie and the Babe will start their catch from a distance of about thirty feet, and eventually they’ll get as far as a hundred feet apart. No matter the distance, every second or third throw from the Babe is just a hair beyond Eddie’s reach — we’re talking a couple of inches at most; Ruth is great at this — forcing Eddie to scamper after the ball. They play this game behind home plate, near the “No Pepper” area, so Eddie only has to run about twenty feet to retrieve the rolling balls. It looks mean-spirited — and Eddie acts like it’s frustrating the crap out of him — but it’s absolutely hilarious, and Eddie actually loves it. In fact, their game always begins with Eddie waddling over to Ruth and asking, “Hey, Babe, wanna play catch?”
As soon as the starting lineups are posted, an hour before the game, Sailor Bob and I, along with today’s catcher, Pat Collins, get together to discuss how we want to pitch each batter. Boston Manager Bill Carrigan has kept the Sox lineup full of lefties — five of their first six batters. It’s partially because I’m a righty, and partially because he knows that Morehart and Gehrig are the weaker side of the infield.
The first thing Sailor Bob says to me is, “You’ve got to keep these guys off balance and rely on the men behind you.” It’s good to know that he and Hugg have been talking.
“Be sure to disguise your pitches, Tommy, especially if you’ve got men on base behind you. Don’t let them see your grip — make sure you aren’t tipping your breaking pitches. And I want you to make sure you constantly change their eye-level — fastball up, forkball low. Don’t let them get comfortable.”
I tell Sailor, “I’m planning on working the lefties low and away, and only coming inside with hard stuff to keep them honest.”
Sailor Bob smiles. He understands I’m worried about the right side of our infield, but he warns me: “Don’t make your whole plan about trying to keep ground balls away from Gehrig and Morehart. If you do that you’ll lose focus. Concentrate on their hitters, not our fielders.”
“Pat,” he asks, “anything to add?”
“Nope,” says Collins, a proud graduate of the Bob Meusel School of Public Speaking.
Even though the home run exploits of Ruth and Gehrig are drawing fans to ballparks around the league like never before in history — Ruth now has 25, Gehrig 24 — hardly anyone has come out for this game. It’s a testament to just how God-awful the Red Sox are. There are no more than two, maybe three thousand fans in the stands. The Stadium is a sea of 60,000 empty seats, which should provide Buddy Myer with his accustomed level of privacy.
My first two innings sail by. Although I let the leadoff man get on base in each — a walk in the first, a single in the second — both lapses are quickly erased by three outs in a row, on pop ups and weak fly balls.
Meanwhile, Murderers’ Row kills.
Combs starts the game off with a bang — a triple to right-center. Morehart follows that with a shot that my drinking pal, Buddy Myer, at short, makes a spectacular play on, throwing home just in time to nab Combs at the plate. Ruth is up next, but on the first pitch to him, Morehart idiotically steals second, taking the bat out of Ruth’s hands by leaving first base open. Naturally, the Babe is intentionally walked. Gehrig walks up to the plate.
Lou swings at the first ball he sees and instantly it’s bouncing off the empty seats in the right field stands. It’s Lou’s third home run in three days, giving us (and me) a 3–0 lead.
Next, Meusel doubles to deep left. Then Lazzeri crushes the hardest hit ball of the inning — but it goes right into Myer’s glove. Meusel, expecting Lazzeri’s shot to be a hit, makes a rare base running error, and Myer doubles him up to end the inning. The score should be 5–0, but I’m happy with a 3–0 lead. I’m certain it’s all I’ll need today.
Soon enough our lead becomes 5–0. In the second inning Pat Collins and I both single and then are quickly pushed across the plate, one after the other. Life in the almost empty Stadium is good.
Until it’s not.
The single worst inning of my life starts off on a positive note, with Slim Harris, the Red Sox’s 6’6”, 170-pound pitcher gently tapping the ball back to me. I toss the ball to Gehrig, easily throwing the big stork out.
The next Sox batter, Johnny Tobin, then slams the ball deep into right center. Combs sprints after it, fetches it off the fence and weak-arms it back to the infield. To get a sense of how hard the ball was hit — and how weak Combs’s arm is — here’s all you need to know: Tobin is 35, and it’s a stand-up triple.
Still feeling good, I get the next batter to hammer the ball on the ground towards Morehart, who lets Tobin score and throws to Gehrig for the second out. No big deal, the damage is manageable. The bases are now empty and I’m just one out away from jogging back to the dugout with a 5–1 lead.
But I can’t get off the mound.
Cleo Carlyle, another one of the Sox lefties, slaps a base hit between Morehart and Gehrig. It’s a ball Lazzeri, with his great range, easily would have reached. (Of course.)
Up comes Billy Regan. He’s hitting less than .250. He’s just what the doctor ordered to cure my situation.
But I clutch.
I aim my pitches rather than throw them.
I aim. And aim. And aim. And aim. And miss. And miss. And miss. And miss.
I walk Regan — a player who practically needs directions to get to first base — on four pitches.
(Just trust the guys behind you.)
I really do trust the guys behind me. It’s the guy on the mound I’m quickly losing faith in.
The next batter is Phil Todt, Boston’s even worse-hitting — .230 — first baseman. As Todt walks to the plate I’m thinking, “No way he gets a free pass from me.” And I keep my word. Todt’s not walking to first, because I throw him a pitch that’s so bad it doesn’t even have a name — it’s not a fastball, it’s not a curve, it’s not a forkball, nor a knuckler, nor is it a fade. Hoyt later calls it a batting practice pitch.
Todt slashes the nameless ball into right field for what looks like a certain single — but then Ruth, charging fast with visions of cutting down Carlyle at the plate, commits a rare error and overruns the ball. Todt ends up at second, a base he rarely sees, and Regan ends up on third. The score is suddenly 5–2. Wilcy Moore is now warming up in our bullpen.
Sailor Bob pops out of the dugout and trots up to the mound, accompanied by Pat Collins. Sailor asks me, “How do you feel?”
“Great,” I tell him. Exactly like I told Huggins five hours ago, when it wasn’t a lie.
“Really?” asks Sailor Bob. “‘Cause if I were you, I wouldn’t be feeling great. I’d feel like shit. Honest. I’d be mad as hell. I’d probably make another stupid pitch. But since you’re not me, you’ll probably just take a deep breath. And then you’ll realize that you still only need one out to get through this inning. And you’ll get it.”
“That one out’s been elusive,” says Collins.
“Elusive?” I can’t believe it. “Seriously, Pat? Of all the moments in your life, you pick now to become articulate?”
Sailor Bob interrupts. “Okay, Myer’s up next. Take your time with him. He’s going to make you throw strikes. Don’t start aiming the ball.” (It’s a little late for that piece of advice.) “If you walk him, it’s not the end of the world, it just means you can get the last out at any base. Relax. Okay?”
“Okay.”
But I’m not OK.
Buddy Myer, my drinking pal, lines an 0–2 pitch to left center, singling home the two runners ahead of him. The score is now 5–4.
(Jesus Christ! Hold it together. You had a five run lead, pitching at home against the worst team in baseball, against a 6’6”, 170 pound freak with an ERA of well over five, and now you’ve blown it. You’ve fucking blown the game. And you’ve probably blown any chance you had of staying in the five-man starting rotation.)
Cy Moore is still warming up. Nobody’s coming out to the mound. Huggins has decided to let me pitch to one more batter.
(I’m like a horse with a broken leg that can’t get anyone to shoot me.)
Skinny Shaner walks up to the plate with a smile on his face. He’s a big kid, and a good hitting center fielder. I turn him into a great hitting center fielder.
Shaner absolutely crushes the ball — hits it even harder than Tobin’s shot. It flies between Meusel and Combs, and then rolls, and rolls, and rolls. Finally it comes to rest about 500 feet from home plate. By the time Combs gets to it the sun is going down, and I’m feeling closer to the end of my career than ever before.
Shaner crosses home with an inside the park home run before the ball even gets back to the infield. Boston 6. Yankees 5. I’m heading to the showers after blowing a 5–0 lead — to the worst goddamn team in baseball! — after only two and two-thirds innings pitched.
I wait on the mound until Huggins comes out to take the ball out of my hand. I have to force myself to look him in the eye. “There’ll be another day,” Hugg says. I nod, to let him know I appreciate the words.
I pass Hoyt on my way to the showers. Schoolboy quietly says, “Personally, I thought Hugg was a little quick with the hook. You had another four or five runs in you.”
- BENNY Bengough
- EDDIE Bennett
- LOU Gehrig
- WAITE Hoyt
- MILLER Huggins
- SILENT BOB Meusel
- Buddy Myer
- BABE Ruth
- SAILOR BOB Shawkey
- Pete Sheehy
- 1927 Yankees
- June 29, 1927: “Gehrig Hits Homer, Ties Ruth With 24”. New York Times article and Box Score.
- June 30, 1927: “Gehrig Gets №25, Then Ruth Ties Him”. New York Times article and Box Score.
