Knowing the score doesn't always make one a great manager, especially when both the season and your job are on the line.
Sometimes it pays to listen. Now, any Gypsy will tell you the same thing for a quarter, but Hap Davis was the first player-manager in the newly-formed Eco-League and he didn't always have a quarter to spare.
Times were rough, there wasn't much money to throw around. It was so bad, the President of the United States told the owners that if Chicago wanted to play Los Angeles, the players would have to walk. Oil was scarce and travel should be restricted to regional areas. The owners left the decision up to the players and the players took a vote. Thus the Eco-League was formed. The Midwest Division included Hap's White Sox, the Cubs, Twins, Brewers, Royals and Cards.
As would be expected, the players got to know each other very well during the course of the season. Hap particularly enjoyed playing the Brewers in Milwaukee. Especially the four game series that kept the Sox in Beer Town over the week-end. On the other hand, Hap hated playing their cross-town rival, those weeds-on-the-wall, Wriggily Field Cubs. And it wasn't that he disliked his wife, he liked spending time with the men, though some of the religious ones like Cransky got on his nerves. No, he preferred life on the road, especially when they went to Milwaukee.
Okay. Okay. SHE was in Milwaukee. But it's not what you think.
Hap first noticed her on opening day against the Brewers. The players were taking batting practice, and she was leaning over the dugout. All four foot two of her. Her green eyes sparkled when he tipped his hat. She motioned for him to come closer.
"What can I do for you, little girl?"
"Things look good, plenty of wood. Five to four, who could ask anything for more?"
Hap looked at her quizzically but she disappeared in the crowd that was beginning to file into the stadium. The White Sox won that day, five to four. They scored three runs in the ninth and then held on for the victory. Hap didn't tell anyone about the little girl. Who would have believed him?
Before the next day's game, Hap sat in the dugout finishing the lineup card. A little head popped over the concrete rim. Once again he tipped his hat and her eyes sparkled, not unlike an exploding scoreboard.
"Little gal, you were sure on the mark yesterday. What's the good word today?"
"Sometime's better, sometime's worse. Eight to two, the score's adverse." Again, the little head disappeared and Hap was left scratching his head.
He was still scratching his head going into the ninth inning, losing eight to nothing. Then the Sox started a rally. Smith doubled. Martin singled Smith home. Anderson doubled home Martin. Jenkins and Schubert walked to load the bases. Eight to two, bases loaded, nobody out.
Pierson struck out. Sanders popped to short. Somehow Hap had the feeling Cransky wasn't going to do too much, even after he said his silent prayer before stepping into the batters box. Then Cransky hit a screaming liner that the Milwaukee left fielder caught over his shoulder for the final out.
As he showered, Hap wondered if the little girl had ever been to the race track. Their Saturday game was rained out. She must have known something as she was nowhere in sight.
Sunday doubleheaders usually meant extra work for a player-manager, but he couldn't keep his mind on the starter's pulled muscle. The pitching coach gave him a funny look, but Hap waved him away with an irritated gesture. A moment later she arrived.
"Howdy, sweetheart. How's tricks in grade school?"
"Six to one; that one's fun. Nine to six; something to be said for splits."
Jenner went the route in the first game, and Hap had been planning to use his ace, Herbert in the second. The thought of nine runs against his ace so early in the season might be traumatic for his overpaid star. So he started Barlow as a last minute insertion.
Barlow got creamed and was sent down to Des Moines on Monday. Herbert, on the other hand, never knew what didn't hit him.
When the team traveled down to St. Louis, Hap glanced around for the little girl. She didn't show. Nor at Wriggily Field; nor at Minnesota; nor at Kansas City; never at Comiskey Park.
The White Sox were twenty and twelve for the season when they returned to County Stadium in Milwaukee. In all the excitement of such a good start one might think Hap had forgotten all about the little girl. Not a chance. She was better than baseball, and almost better than beer. Almost.
"Hi, Chickie. What's the scoop?" said Hap, tipping his cap.
Sparkle, sparkle, sparkle. "All for naught, a bit of sorrow; four to three; there's always tomorrow."
Hap settled back to enjoy the game. Ivers, the rookie sensation from Appleton needed a showcase and came through in fine fashion, going three for four in a losing cause. After the game, Hap congratulated the kid for a good game. The rookie was disconsolate.
"But Coach, we lost."
"What's in a game, kid?" Hap smiled. "You showed me what I wanted to see. You played well, that's important enough."
The rookie shook his head. This player-manager was one hell of a sportsman.
She was right on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, and Hap thought he might be falling in love. He even began enjoying other aspects of the game. A great leaping catch by the shortstop, Martin; the long drives hit off the offerings of Herbert; the intricacies of working his team toward the correct score.
Baseball in Milwaukee made losing more interesting than ever before. Previous to the little girl's appearance, he only found the other team's losses interesting. Now there was a whole new dimension to the concept. The other coaches and the players noticed a marked difference in their manager's mood when they played in Milwaukee, though few commented on it.
One night in Minnesota, Ivers made three errors in the field and struck out twice; each time on bad pitches. The White Sox lost badly. Standing in the shower, Ivers tried to wash away the taste of his miserable showing. He had just lathered his hair when he saw the player-manager enter the stall, fully clothed. Thinking back to the game in Milwaukee, Ivers couldn't help smiling. Coach knew how to cheer a fellow up. That was for sure.
"What are you smiling at, Ivers? You dumb son of a bitch, your errors cost us a ball game tonight! For Christ sake, how do you get off swinging at pitches over your head, down at your feet? You're part of a team, and if that one part screws up like you did, the rest of us may as well throw in the towel."
Horrified, Ivers lost his grin.
"You'd better wipe that grin off your face, young man. Because if anything like tonight happens again, I will personally make sure that neither you nor any of your children ever play in this league again. Is that clear?"
Ivers nodded weakly. The soap began to run into his eyes and tears of pain formed. He pushed his head under the water spray as the blurry form of the player-manager dissolved.
That weekend at Wriggily Field, Ivers hit four home runs in three games and made two spectacular catches. During a post-game interview, Ivers attributed his performance to the chewing-out he'd received from the manager after his dismal performance in Minnesota.
"It's important," he said, "that a manager know when to encourage and when to come down hard on a young ball player." Ivers respected the manager as both a man and as a player.
By the time the White Sox returned to Milwaukee, they were sixty-two and forty-three; nineteen games over five hundred. Baseball Commissioner, Mr. Leonard Durocher announced that the President of the United States had agreed to let the World Series take place at the end of the season. It was an election year, after all.
The two league leading teams with the best record would meet to decide the championship. It was important then, not only to win the division, but also have the best won-lost record. Los Angeles led the West, Boston led the Far East, Atlanta led the South, and the White Sox led the Midwest. The White Sox trailed only Los Angeles in the won-lost column, though Boston was only points behind.
Hap wanted his first stint as manager to be a great success. Winning the pennant would be nice, but the chance to take his team to the World Series would insure his job for years to come.
As luck would have it, the White Sox played their last four games of the season in Milwaukee. Boston was still hot on the heels of the ChiSox, though they were both far behind Los Angeles. Boston was playing in New York that last Thursday, and the Red Sox, having an hour's head start, were already leading three to one in the fourth when the White Sox finished their infield practice. A little head popped over the edge of the concrete.
"Honey, what's Boston going to do today?"
"Who's Boston?"
"I was afraid of that."
"What's to fear, victory's near. One to zip; this game'll be a pip."
Herbert was never more masterful as on this beautiful, sunny day. It was so sunny, Hap decided to take a nap from the sixth inning until the ninth. Even in the ninth, when the Brewers loaded the bases with one out, Hap displayed such faith in his star pitcher that the bullpen never stirred.
Needless to say, the television commentators were left speechless. They left off three commercials, and one mike jockey developed a bad stutter. After the game, Herbert admitted that the display of confidence on the part of the manager gave him the necessary concentration to strike out the last two batters. For his part, Hap pooh-poohed the notion that he would be hands down winner of the Manager of the Year award. Besides, Boston won, six to five.
Friday, New York was three runs up on the Red Sox when two green eyes glittered in the Wisconsin sunlight.
"Hi, sweetheart. What's the good news?"
"Good news, sad: not so bad- four to one; you've been had.:
Hap nodded, scratching Pierson's name from the line-up. The third baseman was tired and needed a rest. Fate allowed him a certain amount of charity. It begins on the road, after all. The Red Sox victory, coupled with the White Sox loss, put them exactly even in the chase for the last Series berth.
That night Hap received a call from the White Sox owner. The message was sweet and simple. "Coach, you get us into the series, and I'm going to buy myself a new wooden leg. Any money I have left over from my share of the take will go into your new contract next year."
"What if we don't get in?"
"Let's just say that I'm getting tired of stumping around on this old toothpick."
A new contract would surely look good, especially to Hap's broker, who was still apologizing for suggesting Hap put most of his savings into Middle East Peace Bonds.
Hap was so anxious, he almost grabbed the little girl by her ears when she leaned over the top of the dugout. "Come on, no messing around. What's the score going to be?"
The little girl frowned. "Little girls are sent from Heaven; eight to seven: the winning pitcher's name is Kevin."
The message was not as clear cut as the others had been, and Hap noticed with horror that the opposing pitcher was named Kevin Kiley. Glancing down at his bullpen he thought to insert Kevin Duffin, a reliever who'd seen little work the entire season. Landman, the scheduled starter for the Sox, was already finished with his warm-ups. Hap decided to leave well enough alone.
The Brewers scored seven runs in their half of the first inning. That was before anybody was out. The pitching coach looked at Hap as if he were crazy, but followed his instructions, telling Duffin to warm up. Meanwhile, Landman walked the one batter, then the next two. Hap knew he couldn't let them score another run. He called time, walked to the mound and took the ball from the hang-dog Landman. Duffin ran in from the bullpen and Hap patted him on the rump.
"You let them score one more run, and I'm gonna cut off your nuts."
The TV announcer read Hap's lips and reported to the viewing audience that the player-manager was giving his relief pitcher the standard pep-talk. A deaf viewer sent a telegram saying the announcer was full of shit. Western Union sent the following message:
"Mr. Announcer, you're full of it."
Duffin threw three straight balls. Taking a pair of scissors out of the trainer's bag, Hap called 'time' and walked to the mound. Duffin eyed the manager warily as the skipper held the scissors up where the pitcher could see them clearly. Hap then walked off the mound without having said a word.
The deaf viewer sent another telegram: "I told you you were full of it."
In a display of control and accuracy rarely seen in modern baseball history, Duffin went on to strike out the next three men. Between every inning, Duffin sat at the opposite side of the bench from the manager. Hap was silent throughout the entire game. Even when the Sox pulled even with the Brewers in the seventh, not a twinge of emotion crossed his face.
Duffin had already struck out sixteen. His face was ashen on the mound and became even grayer upon returning to the dugout. He was sure his arm was going to fall off, but he didn't dare ask the Hap to remove him from the game. Once he looked in the manager's direction, the scissors opened and closed. The young pitcher sought out Cransky and the two knelt in silent prayer.
Duffin set a record eighteen strikeouts for relief pitchers to end the eighth inning. The news was flashed to New York where the Red Sox had just finished beating the Yankees in eleven innings. In the top of the ninth, Smith singled and Martin doubled him home. The fans were amazed to see the ChiSox manager leap out of the dugout and hug Smith after he crossed the plate. The first base coach had to restrain Hap from rushing on to the field to hug Martin as well. They could afford to be confused. They hadn't invested in Middle East Peace Bonds.
Hap caught sight of Duffin upon his return to the dugout and gave the young pitcher such a bear hug the exhausted reliever said he wouldn't be able to finish the last inning.
"Doesn't matter, son." said the glowing manager. "You've got yourself the most important win of your career. You deserve a rest. Go take a shower."
Duffin looked down at his masculinity while showering and heard the winning score over the radio. That manager, thought Duffin, he may be a little crazy, but he sure does know how to get the most out of his players.
Hap was expecting the owner's phone call that night, but a courier knocked on his door instead. Inside the large envelope was a catalogue advertising assorted artificial limbs.
The next day Hap was sitting on top of the dugout as batting practice was completed. His eyes scanned the crowd, and he cursed her silently. An errant ball nearly hit him in the head and he turned quickly to identify the culprit. When he turned back, the little girl was sitting next to him, casually swinging her legs.
"Where the hell have you been?"
She shrugged noncommittally.
"Oh, for God's sake, this is no time to get sensitive on me. What's the score gonna be. And no tricks this time!"
The little girl, green eyes flashing dangerously, glared at him, then a malevolent smile of satisfaction crossed her face. "Don't be leery, you make me weary. Eleven to ten, you take it all to seriously. Down so long, you'll think me wrong; give it time, you'll win with rhyme."
Grabbing her by the ears, Hap planted a big kiss on her forehead and leaped off the dugout roof. The cameras recorded his gymnastics, but the announcers didn't analyze his leap. They didn't want another telegram from that deaf crackpot.
Herbert was shelled early, but the Sox were confident. Their manager never seemed so assured. When the score reached ten to nothing in favor of the Brewers, Hap jumped up and rallied his players around him. After several minutes, the home plate umpire came to tell him to hurry it along. Hap waved the umpire away and finished his speech.
"So you see, I've known every time what the score was going to be when we played here in Milwaukee. That may sound crazy, but she's never been wrong. We're going to win this goddamned game eleven to ten. So let's just pretend we're playing a sandlot game. Loosen up and have some fun."
They knew he was crazy, but every time he acted funny like this, some miracle happened. In fact, they batted around once in the seventh inning, scoring four runs. In the eighth, they batted around again; scoring five more. With the score ten to nine, the Brewers brought in their ace reliever, Castor, to pitch the ninth. Schubert struck out and Pierson flied to left. Sanders worked the count to three and two, fouling off eight straight pitches before he walked.
As Cransky stepped to the plate, Hap watched him go through his prayerful ritual. He walked toward the water cooler and suddenly remembered the last part of the little girl's prediction: 'You'll win with rhyme.' Just as the pitcher readied to throw, Hap leaped from the dugout and ran on to the field waving his arms. The pitch sped toward the plate and Cransky took a mighty swing.
As Hap heard the crack of the bat, he pulled his hands over his eyes. The crowd roared as the ball sailed over the left field fence for a home run. The Sox players rushed out of the dugout to greet Cransky. The umpire waved his arms back and forth.
"No pitch. The manager called time out."
The players looked in disbelief as their manager crawled back to the dugout on his hands and knees. Before he reached the dugout, Hap looked into the VIP box to see the owner waving his leg wildly, menacingly.
The umpire ordered the players back into the dugout and Cransky walked slowly back to the plate, shaking his head and muttering. Somehow Hap had the feeling Cransky wasn't going to do too much. Not only that, but he realized too late that he had no one on the bench whose name rhymed with Castor.
Cransky hit a screaming liner that the Milwaukee left fielder caught over his shoulder for the last out. The scoreboard displayed the Bosox-Yankee final: Boston seven, New York three. The players filed past Hap silently and he could already hear the owner screaming in the locker room. He stood up stiffly and wrapped a towel around his neck.
Just then the little girl's head popped over the edge of the dugout. The sight of her flashing green eyes enraged the player-manager. He grabbed a bat and rushed toward her. She held up her tiny hand. He raised the bat over his head wearing a mad grin as she spoke.
"If you'd held your tongue, you would have won. Remember, Cransky is a pastor. But hit me now and you'll serve plenty; odds are ten to twenty."
Hap's grin froze on his face and he raised the bat a little higher.
The Apple Tree Blossoms in The Fall, is the life journey of Carineh - a child, a teenager, a wife, a mother, but most of all a woman of purpose. From stories of her parents held-up by bandits; the white donkey gifted by Khomeini; her father's death f
Dreamin’ Dreams is more than a collection of stories; it is a celebration of Irish life, adventure, and the unforgettable characters who make growing up in Ireland a journey worth remembering.
Sometimes it pays to listen. Now, any Gypsy will tell you the same thing for a quarter, but Hap Davis was the first player-manager in the newly-formed Eco-League and he didn't always have a quarter to spare.
