Tuesday, June 28, 1927: New York City
Houdini On The Mound
Sunday night I dreamed that I was Harry Houdini standing on the pitcher’s mound in my Yankee uniform in front of a crowd of 75,000 at the Stadium, with Lindbergh circling overhead in the Spirit of St. Louis.
My magic show begins with Miller Huggins trotting out of the dugout and wrapping me in a giant white straitjacket adorned with metal clasps. Sailor Bob then appears out of nowhere and binds me in heavy chains. Then little Eddie Bennett comes hobbling up to the mound with a large sack filled with dozens of padlocks, which he uses to lock my straitjacket. Finally, as 75,000 Yankee fans go wild, Schoolboy Hoyt, using a giant crane, raises me up by my chains and then slowly lowers me into a giant steel and glass tank filled with gin.
At this point, I realize that I’m in the middle of Houdini’s famous Chinese Water Torture trick — only now it’s the Chinese Gin Torture Trick — but I’m no longer Houdini, and I have absolutely no idea how to get out of it. I know enough not to panic, though. I can see Ruth and Gehrig and Lazzeri through the gin. And I can see Schoolboy sitting in the dugout alongside Sailor Bob. With one hand Schoolboy’s giving me the thumbs up; his other hand is holding a large mettle ring the size of a basketball, with all the keys to my locks.
Slowly it dawns on me that I don’t actually have to escape from the tank, because I can breath under water — or, rather, I can breath under gin — and I can sip the stuff, too.
Next thing I know, the tank is gone and I’m standing on the mound, in uniform, soaked in gin.
And everybody’s gone.
The Stadium is empty.
And I’m looking back at the outfield, and I can see Manhattan in the distance, the sun setting behind it, as the City floats farther and farther away from me.
I don’t need to read Freud or consult Edgar Cayce to find out the meaning of my dream, I just need to look at the box score of Sunday’s game:
For eight innings against the second place Philadelphia Athletics, I struggled to keep my head above water.
38 batters.
Gulp.
11 hits.
Gulp.
Four walks.
Gulp.
Two errors (by Lazzeri, no less).
Gulp! Gulp! Gulp!
Yet, like Houdini submersed in his Chinese Water Torture Cell — much to the astonishment of the crowd, my teammates, and the 17 Athletics who reached base against me — I somehow managed to escape time and time again, surrendering just one earned run, and magically lowered my ERA for the season back down below 3.00.
I start off Sunday’s game by striking out the A’s leadoff hitter on a diabolical forkball in front of 61,000 fans, who explode with joy. The next batter, Walt French, their right fielder, slams a line drive right back through the box with considerably more speed than I had delivered it. The ball ricochets hard off my non-pitching arm and falls to the grass just far enough away that I can’t make a play on it.
After Meusel pockets a lazy fly ball off the bat of Big Bill Lamar for the second out, Al Simmons hits the first pitch he sees to Lazzeri at short, where the W*p is filling in for Koenig, who’s out with a bum leg.
Lazzeri is the best fielding second baseman in the league — unless he’s playing shortstop, in which case he’s the best fielding shortstop in the league. Seeing the ball roll towards him for the third out, I start walking to the dugout — but then Lazzeri does his best Mark Koenig imitation and airmails his throw over Gehrig’s head. Simmons is safe at first and French scampers all the way to third — and I’m walking back out to the mound.
What should have been a quick first inning has turned into an escape act with runners on the corners, and if I’m not careful it could quickly become a merry-go-round.
And I’m not careful.
The A’s take advantage of both Lazzeri’s lapse in the field and my lapse in concentration and slap consecutive singles. Before I can get out of the inning, It’s 2–0 Philadelphia.
It’s hard to say which is worse: the throbbing in my arm, or the throbbing in my head.
Back on the mound to start the second, I waste no time tying myself into a new knot, much to the dismay of the 61,000, who decide in unison that they did not pay to watch me walk the number eight hitter and then give up a single to the A’s forty-something-year old spitball pitcher, Jack Quinn — and they let me know it.
But I win the fans back when I escape the inning by retiring the next three hitters without giving up a run, and the crowd erupts in appreciation of my powers of prestidigitation.
The top of the third goes smoothly, despite Lazzeri’s second error from deep in the hole — which easily could have been ruled a hit, as there’s certainly no way Koenig would have even gotten close to that ball — after I erase the W*p’s base runner with an inning-ending double play. Even though we’re still down 2–0, the crowd seems to be perversely enjoying the unpredictability of the outcome of every pitch I throw.
Quinn’s spitballs are equally unpredictable, and when I come to bat in our half of the third, one of his water balls hits my arm in exactly in the same spot as French’s batted ball. It’s hardly my favorite way to get to first, but down 2–0, I’ll take whatever I can get.
Earle Combs follows me and hits a flaming arrow to right-center for a triple. The next thing I know I’m touching home and jogging down the dugout steps to the raucous approval of my teammates and our home town rooters.
My dash around the bases has particularly delighted the Babe who’s got the day off to rest a sore knee. He stands up to greet me, flapping his wingspan and roaring with laughter
“Way to fly, Duckeye! Way to Fly!”
But back on the mound my Chinese Water Torture continues for the next five innings. With almost every new frame I dunk myself back in the tank and come close to drowning. But inevitably I escape, giving up just one more run and keeping Murderers’ Row — which absent of Ruth on this day is less Al Capone and more Ruth Snyder — in position to win us the game.
My death-defying routine continues through the eighth, as I load the bases by giving up a two-out double, followed by consecutive walks to the eighth and ninth batters in the A’s lineup, before Combs tracks down a long fly ball to center.
I’m due to lead off the bottom of the inning but, as expected, Huggins takes me out for a pinch hitter. “You showed me something, pitching out of those jams,” growls Hugg.
“You showed me something, pitching into those jams,” growls Schoolboy, doing his best Huggins imitation, as I take a seat next to him.
We lose 4–2.
My record drops to 6–2, but my ERA also drops, down to 2.85.
Looking at the box score — adding up the hits, walks and errors — it’s remarkable that I didn’t drown in a half dozen runs, or more.
Still, despite my low ERA, I’m just treading water.
