Friday, June 10, 1927: New York City
Henry Ford Blames the Jews. (And I Get A Win.)
The White Sox came into the Stadium on Tuesday, breathing down our necks.
No one expected much of Chicago this year, but heading into our series, they’d won 12 of their last 14 under their player-manager, Ray Schalk, and were only one game behind us in the standings.
Chicago’s been a train wreck since 1921 when Commissioner Landis banned eight of the Black Sox for life for throwing the 1919 World Series. Landis waited until they stood trial in ’21, and then threw them out just one day after a Chicago jury acquitted them, after less than three hours of deliberation — in no small part because the transcripts of the confessions of Shoeless Joe Jackson and Eddie Cicotte had mysteriously vanished before the trial and couldn’t be used as evidence.
Regardless of the verdict, I don’t know anyone who wasn’t sitting in that jury box who would ever use the words “Not guilty” when describing the 1919 Black Sox.
Ray Schalk, now the White Sox manager, was the catcher on that 1919 team, but his innocence was never in doubt. Schalk and Chicago’s great second baseman, Eddie Collins, are straight up guys, so the gamblers didn’t even bother tickling them. I’ve been told that during the 1919 World Series games Ray Schalk could be seen standing at home plate, throwing off his catcher’s mask and yelling at his dirty teammates, “I know what you’re doing! I know what you’re doing!” But there was no stopping them from throwing those games away.
All of the Yankees deeply respect Schalk for what he went through, as a player and as a man. It’s not easy for anyone to be clean in Chicago. And back in 1919, it was easy for a ballplayer to be dirty.
Our very own Dutch Ruether pitched in the 1919 World Series against those Black Sox. Back then he was a 19-game winner for the National League champion Cincinnati Reds. In the opening game of the World Series, Dutch won a 9–1, six-hitter against the best team in baseball. It’s a game that no one — with the exception of Dutch, and possibly his mother — believes was played on the level. But good old Dutch firmly believes he won that game legit. It’s insane.
It’s also insane that Dutch still gets steamed after he wins a game for us and the Babe busts his nuts by yelling, “Legitimate win, Dutchie! Legitimate win!”
Sometimes Dutch will reply, “Thanks, Babe. Will you sign my game ball? And my other two hanging between my legs?,” before heading off to the showers, shaking his head, as if to say, “When will this end?”
Until Landis became commissioner, baseball was full of rumors of fixed games — Cobb did it, which is why he’s in Philadelphia now — and there were other World Series games that were rigged, but no one wrote about them because they weren’t one hundred percent sure. But in 1919 there was so much money bet out in the open — the hotel lobbies were awash in cash — that the betting line was flopping back and forth so crazily that the press couldn’t ignore it.
Most folks blame the scandal on Arnold Rothstein. Others, like Henry Ford, blame it not just on Rothstein but on all Jews.
Ford regularly has his employees write about the Hebrews and their various conniving plots in the Dearborn Independent, the newspaper he owns, oversees, and sells not only on newsstands across America but also in all of his car dealerships. Henry Ford believes Jews are ruining America. He not only blames the Jews for almost destroying baseball, Ford also blames the Hebrews for the explosion of jazz and what he calls the ruination of American music.
Living in New York, I’ve come to know some Jews, and I no longer feel about them the way Ford does. But even if I did, I’d still want to shake the hand of each and every Hym*e — and every colored too — to personally thank them for jazz.
As for dealing with the 1927 edition of the Chicago White Sox — the hot team just one game back from us — Schoolboy Hoyt took the first shot at trying to cool them off on Tuesday.
In the fourth inning, Schoolboy got help from Ruth, who hit a rainbow deep into the right field stands. Then the next batter up, Gehrig, blasted a ball into the stands, about 10 feet from the right field pole that never rose higher than 15 feet off the ground. In the seventh, our catcher Pat Collins hit a third ball over the wall.
Final score: Good Guys 4. Bad Guys 1. And another win for Schoolboy who’s now 8–2.
Our lead over Chicago is back to two games.
Wednesday, the second game in our series was far from a pitchers’ duel. Dutch gave up five runs in four innings and was replaced by Wilcy Moore. Cy gave up four more runs over his next four innings. Then Joe Giard came in for the top of the ninth and gave up two more. The White Sox pitchers did only a little better.
Going into the bottom of the ninth, the score was White Sox 11. Yankees 6.
What was amazing was that none of us on the team ever doubted we would come back. Not for a second.
As Earle Combs began to head up the dugout steps for his at-bat, Tony Lazzeri stopped him, looked him in the eyes and calmly said, “Five o’clock lightning.”
Then lightning struck.
Combs singled to left. Ruth singled to right. Gehrig lashed a double that almost knocked down the right field wall, scoring Earle while the Babe strode into third standing up. Cedric Durst then singled home Ruth and Gehrig to cut the ChiSox lead to 11–9.
Lazzeri was due up next, and while he was waiting for Chicago’s Ray Schalk to change pitchers, the W*p walked back to the dugout, smiled and repeated to the assembled:
“Five o’clock lightning.”
Then Tony slashed the second pitch he saw into the opposite field stands, barely a foot inside the right field foul pole, and only one row up in the seats. It was his third home run of the game — he’d hit another opposite field shot in the second, and in the eighth he had a thrilling inside the park romp behind a rifle shot that rolled all the way to the wall in deep left center, 490 feet from the plate.
Yesterday’s Daily Mirror summed up the Stadium’s reaction pretty well:
“Come you Fascists and anti-Fascists, unite for just a few moments and, with all the enthusiasm you can muster, let us acclaim Tony Lazzeri with three rousing cheers.”
I don’t know how many Fascists or anti-Fascists were at the game, but everybody was united in their praise of The W*p. Straw hats were flying all over the place, and “Hip! Hip! Hooray!!!” was shouted repeatedly until Tony came out from the dugout to doff his cap to the faithful.
Five O’clock Lightning had tied the game at 11 runs apiece, and sent us into extra innings.
Huggins hands me the ball at the top of the 10th.
It’s a great feeling.
As we jog onto the field, the Stadium is on its feet. What’s amazing to all of us, and I’m sure the White Sox, is that even though we were down by five runs in the bottom of the ninth, absolutely no one has left the building. Yankee fans truly believe in our ability to come from behind, no matter the score. Their faith in our team — and their ovation — gives me goosebumps.
During moments like this, Yankee Stadium — the crowd, the players, and the moment — becomes one giant leviathan:
Everyone’s eyes move in the same direction to follow the action. Everyone holds their breath together in anticipation of what is to come next. Then everyone exhales together, releasing a cheer or moan at the same time. Our pulses race, slow down, then race again in time with one another.
Standing on the mound in the middle of it all, it can feel like time and space are swallowing you up.
That’s part of what makes the great ones different. Ruth and Gehrig and Lazzeri and Hoyt draw energy from these big moments, but they aren’t swallowed up by them. Lesser players get carried away, as if caught in a raging river’s current, but Ruth and Gehrig and Lazzeri and Hoyt don’t fight the current, they know how to steer within it, to use its flow to get where they want to go.
Ruth and Gehrig and Lazzeri and Hoyt come by it naturally, but I have to remind myself to use the energy of the crowd without being overwhelmed by it. It’s a struggle for me not to let the moment carry me away, not to let the leviathan swallow me whole. The great players feel invincible. Right now, I feel confident, but mortal.
On the mound warming up, I’m in control of all my pitches: curveball, fastball and forkball — which I give the White Sox just a glimpse of. I’m not looking to strike anybody out. I’m looking to fool them, to keep them off balance.
And I do:
First up for Chicago is Bill Barrett, their right fielder who homered in his last at-bat in the eighth. I jam him with a fastball inside, and he weakly taps the ball back to me. I toss it underhand to Gehrig. One out.
Next up, left fielder Bibb Falk, who homered in the second. He taps a roller to second for out number two.
Willie Kamm, Chicago’s third baseman has hit the ball hard all day. He reaches for an outside curve and hits a bouncing grounder to Gehrig — exactly the type of ball that one of our coaches, Art Fletcher, has been hitting to Lou a hundred times a day before each game, as Lou struggles to become an adequate fielding first baseman. This time Gehrig handles it smoothly for an unassisted out at first.
Three up. Three down. I’m floating with the current, and in complete control.
On the mound for Chicago, Sarge Connally gets Combs and Dugan to ground out. Ruth comes up to bat, and doesn’t see a single pitch even close to the plate, and walks. Connally pitches to Gehrig, though. Lou just misses his pitch and flies out to deep left-center. As Gehrig’s ball is caught on the warning track to end the inning, the Stadium exhales a moan of disappointment. Then the leviathan quickly catches its breath and gathers its energy once more.
I start the 11th exactly as I started the 10th, with a harmless tapper back to the mound from Chicago’s leadoff hitter. The crowd is cheering wildly. I feel the support of tens of thousands of our fans — and try not to feel the pressure of letting them down.
Chicago’s next batter, catcher Buck Crouse, is waiting for my forkball. My fastball’s not fast enough to just blow it by him, so he’s happy just to foul off pitch after pitch — six foul balls in all — until he finally earns himself a walk. Fuck him.
I’m now looking to throw a double-play grounder, but the next two batters seem overwhelmed by the moment and over-anxious at the plate. They both swing at set-up pitches and weakly pop up, one to Gehrig and one to Lazzeri. Another easy top of the inning.
The Stadium again erupts with a wave of energy, and we float back to the dugout.
With the crowd behind us we’re feeling no fatigue, physically or mentally.
We know it’s just a matter of time until we win.
Durst leads off our half of the 11th. He has three singles in the game so far. Now he gets three bags with one swing, and slides into third with a triple.
The noose is now around Chicago’s neck.
Lazzeri is the next man up. Schalk wants no part of The W*p and has Connally intentionally walk him. First and third, no out. The winning run still just 90 feet away.
Ray Morehart, who’s barely hitting .100 and has more strikeouts than hits, heads to the plate. Ray just needs to avoid striking out or popping up. Even a grounder to the right side of the field might be enough to drop the gallows.
The Chicago infield is drawn in, as Connally tries to simply overpower the weak-hitting Morehart — and Ray is clearly overmatched. He takes one fastball for a strike, and then barely manages to foul off a second. Connally’s third pitch is low and inside, but Ray, looking to just foul it off and stay alive, somehow fights it off. The ball floats over the right side of the infield, six inches over the glove of the shallow-playing second baseman, Aaron Ward.
Durst comes trotting home with the winning run.
The leviathan roars once more.
In the dugout fists are pumping, backs are being slapped, we look at one another and smile. Each of us is thinking the same thing: “This is what it’s like to be a Yankee.”
I’ve never been on a team like this before. Hell, I don’t think anyone has. With Ruth, Gehrig, Meusel, Combs and Lazzeri, we don’t just go into every game believing we will win — we go into every inning not caring what the scoreboard says.
As for Lazzeri, before today he was the leader of the infield. Now he’s taken another giant step in his young career. The W*p has joined Ruth and Gehrig, and become one of the leaders of the team.
Chicago is now three games back. And crushed. The only question is how far in the standings they will fall from here.
Today I pitched two innings of no-hit ball against the Sox in a pressure situation. I’ve won four games in a row, in just over a week, and I’m now 4–1 with a 1.60 era.
I’m beginning to feel invincible.
In the locker room after the game, Sailor Bob drops by my locker and tells me that Huggins wants to see me in his office. When I walk in, Hugg is sitting behind his desk, smoking his pipe and going over his pitching calendar. He asks me how my arm feels, and as always I tell him, “Strong.” To which Hugg replies, “Great. I’m handing you the ball for Saturday’s game against the Tribe. Don’t let Hoyt keep you up too late between now and then.”
I quickly thank Hugg and head out the door before he can change his mind.
- 1919 World Series (Baseball Reference)
- Baseball Hall of Fame: “A Ticket Fix”
- Cobb & Speaker & Landis: Closing the Books
- THE DEARBORN INDEPENDENT, September 3, 1921: “Jewish Gamblers Corrupt American Baseball”
- THE DEARBORN INDEPENDENT, August 6, 1921: “Jewish Jazz Becomes Our National Music”
- June 7, 1927: “Yankee Home Runs Top White Sox, 4–1”. New York Times article and Box Score.
- June 8, 1927: “Lazzeri’s 3 Homers Save Day For Yanks”. New York Times article and Box Score.
“The Best Seat in the House”
As the temperature rises, so do the spirits of Americans across the country as Charles Lindbergh and other pilots do what was thought impossible. Myles is in a groove of his own, and is feeling good as he takes the mound on a beautiful summer day.
As I walk onto the mound to begin the game I’m heartened by the sight of the American Flag atop the Stadium. I truly love the flag when it’s fluttering toward home plate, like it is today. Right now, it looks like the stars and stripes will be doing their part to keep my pitches inside the yard.
