Stan the Man

By: C.G. Morelli

Throughout his career, Stan Musial was a man's man. It's no surprise the nickname stuck. In addition to compiling a cartoon-like career stats line (475 dingers, 3,630 hits, a lifetime .331 average, and three MVP awards), serving in the Navy during WWII, and being elected to the Hall of Fame with over 93 percent of the votes in 1969, Stan the Man touched the lives of so many of his fellow players, coaches, and fans that you'd need at least twenty Busch Stadiums to contain them all.

On Tuesday, President Obama honored Musial with the highest honor a civilian in the United States could possibly receive: the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

Congratulations, Stan, the honor was long overdue. Here's a recap of the all time Cardinals great accepting the honor:

The Tall Tactician

By: C.G. Morelli

Connie Mack said a lot of things during his career. Of course, it’s easy to say a lot when your career as manager spans half a century. He once said, “Humanity is the keystone that holds nations and men together. When that collapses, the whole structure crumbles.  This is as true of baseball teams as any other pursuit in life.” This perhaps recalls the image of the Tall Tactician, a man whose impeccable values and fatherly overtones produced much veneration for him from his arrival in Philadelphia in 1900 until his departure in 1950.

When all was said and done, Mack had compiled 3,731 wins with the Athletics, the most for a manager in baseball history, besting John McGraw by over 1,000 wins. His teams won the World Series five times in that span, and the AL title nine times. Ironically, Mack also racked up 3,948 losses during his tenure as the A’s manager. This total is also, far and away, the worst in baseball history. Mack actually finished in last place 17 times while at the helm of the Athletics. So, I guess it’s fitting that the most successful losing manager of all time would also coin the phrase, “You can’t win ‘em all.”

In fact, even with his staggering total of victories and irreplaceable impact on the game, Mack would humbly tell you that he wasn’t the quintessential baseball skipper. For that title, he’d have to tab one of his contemporaries during the early part of the century.  “There has only ever been one manager,” he said, “And his name is John McGraw.”

But, in Philly, he was more than quintessential. He was the Philadelphia Athletics.

Even after a dismal farewell season in ‘50, where his team finished an embarrassing 52-102 to claim last place for the 10^th time in 16 seasons, he was still considered the man.

After all, we’re talking about the first manager in history to win three World Series titles, and the only manager ever to win the series back to back on two separate occasions (1910-11, 1929-30). Last time I checked, people in Philly don’t forget stuff like that too quickly, which is probably why Mack could walk down the narrowest, most remote alleyway in the city and still be recognized as the father of Philadelphia baseball even by the stray cats.

But it was because of this prominence, this ultimate feeling of comfort which Mack exuded upon the fans, that his departure spelled the beginning of the end for the A’s in Philly.

The loveable fan favorite, Jimmy Dykes, took Mack’s role and improved the team to a 6^th place finish the following season. Even so, attendance plummeted drastically and continued to do so for the next few years. Things just weren’t the same without the Grand Old Man of Baseball staking his post on the dugout steps.

“Any minute, any day, some player may break a long standing record,” he said, “That’s one of the fascinations about the game, the unexpected surprises.”

Perhaps Mack’s departure was one of those unexpected surprises the Philadelphia Athletics were never prepared to face. Or maybe it was the fascination for the game that suddenly left the hearts of the fans and the organization once the venerable leader had fled the battlefield.

Whatever the factor, the A’s would never find a way to recover within the confines of their own backyard. They were sent packing to Kansas City in 1954. Mack died two years later, having spent 66 years in baseball as a player and manager.

After a lifetime of service to the game it’s no wonder Mack once said, “No matter what I talk about, I always get back to baseball.” Somewhere, I’d like to think, Mr. Cornelius Alexander McGillicuddy is having a little chat about baseball right now.

When Was The Best At His Best?

When a pitcher piles up 511 wins, 749 complete games, 76 shutouts, 2,803 strike outs, and a 2.63 ERA in a 22 year career, it’s mighty hard to determine which season was his best. This is an especially daunting task when that pitcher is none other than the crown jewel of hurlers, the namesake of possibly the most prestigious award in all of baseball, the indomitable Cy Young.

You can take his 1892 performance with Cleveland, where he won 36 games and pitched a mind-boggling 453 innings. His ERA was a microscopic 1.93 and he fanned 168 batters. But he was a fiery and muscular 25-year-old with scarcely an idea of what he had just accomplished. Therefore, how can I bow to mere statistics? It’s simply too easy to shield myself with the numbers alone.

The same can be said of Cy’s output in 1895, also with Cleveland. Young, now 28, notched 35 wins against only 10 losses. But he wasn’t the utterly dominant pitcher he was just three years prior. In fact, he allowed his ERA to balloon (well, for Cy) to 3.26 by the end of that season…and he had a good squad to back him up.

Let’s fast forward a few years to 1901, Cy’s debut season with the Boston Americans of the AL. Now, 34 years of age, the crafty Young threw 371 innings, won 33 games and shrunk his ERA back down to a nearly invisible 1.62. OK, so now we’re getting somewhere. We’re starting to see what this man was truly made of.
Although Cy was very good in 1901, in my eyes this season wasn’t good enough to be considered his “best.” There was just something missing.
 
Let’s jump ahead again to the season…the year of 1908. It was a very forgettable one for Boston (now the Red Sox), who finished four games under .500 and in 5^th place. But Cy Young logged a performance which rivals that of any pitcher in baseball history. 

Of Boston’s 75 wins, 21 of them were owned by Young despite the shaky team he had behind him that year. He only lost 11 games while pitching 299 innings. He struck out 150 batters against only 37 walks, and he allowed (get this!) only a single home run the entire season. Young reduced his ERA to a career low of 1.26 and even tossed his third career no-hitter in a game against New York on June 30.

But none of these statistics are what really move me to decree 1908 as Cy Young’s landmark season on the mound. The most impressive statistic was not one bred by baseball at all. It was one bred by nature. Everything he accomplished in ’08 took place inside the pudgy body of a 41-year-old man. And yes, I think it’s pretty safe to say performance enhancers weren’t at work here, people. I gotta be honest, I’m not 100 percent sure they even had ice back then.

What this man was able to accomplish at such a ripe age simply defies nature. It puts things in perspective by reminding us, as we begin to formulate some early preferences for this year’s award winners, why Mr. Young’s name adorns such a valuable piece of hardware over a hundred years later. And it’ll still be the same a hundred years after that.

Now that you’ve had a chance to crunch some of the numbers, which of Cy Young’s illustrious seasons do you love most?

Three Finger Brown

By: C.G. Morelli

Mordecai Brown was visiting his uncle’s farm in Indiana when he was given the greatest gift he would ever receive. At the time, however, it didn’t seem like much of a gift at all. 

It was the summer of 1884 and Mordecai, only seven years old, was busy playing outside, when something happened that would completely change the course of his life. He stepped too close to a feed machine and accidentally caught his hand on the blade.  Before anything could be done, Mordecai lost most of his index finger and parts of his thumb and middle finger. It seemed like a painful burden he’d have to carry with him forever. It would later transform him into one of the greatest major league pitchers of all time.

From Weakness Comes Strength

By the time he was 20 years old, Brown was busy working in the Indiana coal mines and playing for the company baseball team on weekends. He was known as a hard worker, but only as an average third baseman whose hand gave him trouble both in the field and at the plate. Because of his childhood accident, people saw Brown as handicapped and never gave him much attention for playing the game. That is, until the regular pitcher on his company team suffered a minor injury of his own. Suddenly, Brown found himself staring opportunity right in the face. Before he knew it, he was on the mound gripping the ball tightly between his three fingers. It took him just one pitch to realize the gift he’d been given, and to know that he’d never play third base again.

“That old paw served me pretty well in its time,” Brown once said of his injured hand.  “It gave me a firmer grip on the ball, so I could spin it over the hump. It gave me a greater dip.”

Although Brown lacked a powerful fastball, his three-fingered grip allowed him to throw a variety of curves and breaking pitches that left batters speechless. Many experts credit him with throwing the very first split-finger fastball.

Three Finger Brown

After winning 50 games for his company team over the next two seasons, Brown signed a professional contract with the St. Louis Cardinals. Some of his major league teammates started calling him “Miner” Brown, because of his experiences in the coal mines, but most others referred to him simply as “Three Finger” Brown.

After only one season with St. Louis, Three Finger was traded to the Cubs. It was in Chicago where he shined. Brown became one of the few players in baseball history to pitch simultaneously both as a starter and a reliever, notching 239 wins and 48 saves in his career. He did this while posting a 2.06 ERA, and while winning 20 games six years in a row (1904-1910). Three Finger Brown eventually propelled the Cubs to a World Series Championship with a game six shutout of the Detroit Tigers in 1908.  It was the last time the Cubs won the World Series.

A Hall of Fame Battle

Three Finger Brown is perhaps best known for his legendary battles with another Hall of Fame pitcher of the time. Christy Mathewson, perhaps the most dominating pitcher in history with 373 wins and over 2,500 strikeouts, spent almost his entire career playing for the New York Giants. He was tall and lanky, and seemed to have the ability to shoot bolts of lightning from his gifted right arm. 

From 1905 to 1909, “Matty” and Three Finger faced each other a total of ten times.  Mathewson won the first meeting, out dueling Brown to a 1-0 shutout, but Three Finger went on to win the next nine meetings between the two all-time greats. In 1916, Mordecai Brown faced Christy Mathewson one last time. It was fitting that both men were pitching the final games of their legendary careers. Matty took this one, 10-8.

The Gift of Inspiration

Much of Brown’s impact as a player stems from the amazing feats he was able to accomplish on the mound, but his greatest achievement took place when he was still a young child. It was when he overcame his frightening injury and found a way to use it to benefit not only him, but the great game of baseball as well.

“I haven't space enough to tell of all the grand deeds of Brownie on and off the field,” Hall of Fame teammate Johnny Evers once said.  “(He had) Plenty of nerve, ability and willingness to work at all times and under any conditions…There was never a finer character -- charitable and friendly to his foes and ever willing to help a youngster breaking in."

A Mighty Good Feller

By: C.G. Morelli

It’s mighty hard to set major league records when you’re crouched down in a U-boat with bombs bursting around it. But somehow, inexplicably, Mr. Bob Feller of the Cleveland Indians managed to do pretty well in that department even though he spent the prime of his career some 3,000 miles from the nearest American League ball park.

Feller was a 16-year-old farm boy from Van Meter, Iowa when he signed with the Indians in 1935. He may have been a little wet behind the ears, but his fastball was that of a hardened veteran.

In a 1936 exhibition game against St. Louis, a then 17-year-old Feller struck out eight batters in just three innings of work. Performances like these became more and more common for the young phenom, netting him the goofy (and somewhat pornographic) nickname “Rapid Robert.” It also earned him comparisons to some of the premiere strikeout pitchers in baseball history, such as one known to most as Big Train.

“He (Feller) was the fastest pitcher I’d ever seen,” former AL umpire Bill Ormsby once said, “Walter Johnson included.”

In 1938, Feller notched a lasting statistic into the record books when he struck out 18 hitters in a season finale at Detroit. The total tied the original record set by Henry Porter back in 1884.

A quick side note, and one of the only knocks on the nearly invincible Feller, was that the Tigers actually beat him in the game in which he fanned 18, mostly because of erratic control. Feller set the dubious record for walks in a season with 208 that same year.

And then he promptly went out the following season and became the first pitcher ever to win 20 games before the age of 21.

In 1940, Feller registered another first. This time spinning the American League’s first ever Opening Day no-hitter.

And then he went off to war for four consecutive seasons of baseball.

He was 22 years old, in the prime of his career, and he already had 107 wins and 1,233 Ks under his belt. But he decided to enlist in the Navy out of principle, and before it became fashionable for ball players to do so. In fact, he was the very first big leaguer to enlist for active duty after the attack on Pearl Harbor. He served as a gunner aboard the USS Alabama and picked up eight battle stars along the way.

His triumphant return to the diamond in 1946 yielded 26 wins and 348 strikeouts.  It was the “Van Meter Heater’s” greatest campaign on the books. Feller’s status in the league from then until his retirement in 1956 was consistently among the elite pitchers in baseball.

He threw two more no-hitters to go along with 12 one-hitters, and he added another 133 wins to bring his career total to 266. He fanned 1,000 more batters to finish with 2,581.

These were all numbers quite worthy of induction into the Hall. And without too much suspense, Feller made it on the first try in 1962.

But still, there are questions that will always linger above Feller’s plaque in Cooperstown:

What could Rapid Robert have accomplished in the four seasons he spent defending his country? Could he have left the 300 wins plateau in the dust? Could he have eclipsed 3,500 strikeouts? Would he now be considered the greatest pitcher in major league history?

We’ll never know. What we do know is that Bob Feller was one of the best damn pitchers to ever toe the rubber.

And he was a hero to boot.

'Lord, Baseball is a Worryin' Thing'

By: C.G. Morelli

As a 14 year old boy breaking his back in the Pennsylvania coal mines for just 60 cents a day, Stan Coveleski sure came a long way. The Polish Prince was such a hard worker and worked such long hours that he once said, “I got to thinking the sun only came out on Sundays.”

But the eventual Hall of Famer wouldn’t be spending much more of his life in the dark. By the time he was 17, Stan had taken a page out of the scripts of his five brothers, four of whom were involved in professional baseball at some level.

Coveleski started playing for a local team in Shamokin, PA and he quickly found his calling as a pitcher with pin point control. That the fresh faced kid they called “Covey” was so accurate on the mound was a surprise to no one. After all, he’d spent every morning of his childhood setting up tin cans on a fence post and systematically knocking them down with the fluid toss of a few stray stones.

“The plate’s a lot bigger than a tin can to throw at,” he said, “When it came to throwing a baseball, why, it was easy to pitch.”

The Polish Prince pitched only five games for the little team from Shamokin. That’s all it took for minor league scouts from the Lancaster club of the Tri State League to notice the kid’s talent. And without so much as a moment’s hesitation, Covey signed a contract that would save him from the inside of a pitch black coal mine forever.

After just two and half seasons with the club from Lancaster, Coveleski was scooped up by Connie Mack, who watched the young rookie make his first major league start in a Philadelphia Athletics uniform in 1912. The result? A three-hit shutout and the youngster’s first-ever victory. But success wouldn’t last long for young Stan.

He endured a few up and down seasons in Philadelphia and became more well known as the brother of “Giant Killer” Harry Coveleski (who had beaten the NY Giants three times in one week during the 1908 season to stifle their attempt at a pennant) than for his own performance on the mound. Stanley found himself bouncing from club to club, even back down to the minors in the Pacific Coast League. But he eventually found a home in Cleveland in 1915, and his time in the PCL would prove to be his greatest asset.

It was during his time in the PCL that Covey first witnessed a pitch that would change his career. It was the spit ball. He began developing his ability to control the pitch, and once he had it mastered, there wasn’t a thing he couldn’t make a baseball do once it left his famous right hand.

From 1915-1928, Coveleski and his devastating spitter were utterly dominant on the mound. He won 216 games, struck out 972 batters, and recorded a lifetime 2.89 ERA.

In 1920, Covey registered one of the greatest World Series performances of all time. He led the Indians to a World Championship by pitching in and winning three games. He allowed the Brooklyn Dodgers only two runs in 27 innings of work and posted a 0.67 World Series ERA, a record that still stands today.

Coveleski endured even after Major League Baseball banned the use of the spitball after the 1920 season. He and 16 other established spitball pitchers were grandfathered in as having permission to continue throwing the pitch. This designation was pivotal in Covey’s career, allowing him to continue his dominance for another eight seasons, five of which he recorded 20 wins or more.

Stan Coveleski was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1969 by the veteran’s committee. Even after an illustrious career, he never lost sight of the dark mornings he spent tossing stones at tin cans and enjoying the relative simplicity of a coal miner’s life that contrasted starkly with the every day pressures of playing professional baseball.

“It’s tomorrow that counts (in baseball),” he said after retirement, “So you worry all the time. It never ends. Lord, baseball is a worrying thing.”

The Foxx Who Found His Way

By: C.G. Morelli

Jimmie-

Would you be interested in becoming a professional ball player? If you are, contact me.

Signed,

Frank Baker

It was fitting the Hall of Fame career of slugging first baseman Jimmie Foxx began with this hastily scribbled message on the back of a penny postcard from one home run legend to another in the making.

He was only 16 years old at the time, but the young track star and baseball phenom had at least one notable fan keeping a particularly critical eye on him from the stands at Foxx’s Maryland high school games.

The eye belonged to one Home Run Baker, a former Philly A’s slugger turned Eastern League manager. He knew the young Foxx had the athleticism, the build, and just the right amount of stupidity to make a splash in the bigs. And, boy, could that kid hit the ball a country mile.

Baker quickly received a reply to his postcard and Foxx began, in 1924, a short-lived minor league career under his tutelage. I say short-lived because it lasted just 76 games. That’s all it took for the Foxx to hit .296, mash 10 homers, and draw a lot of interest from teams in the bigs.

Both the Yanks and the A’s became heavy suitors for Foxx after that ’24 campaign. Naturally, Baker steered his young project in the direction of his own mentor, Connie Mack, in Philadelphia.

Foxx spent the tail end of the ’24 season sitting inches from Mack on the bench and learning what the Tall Tactician referred to as the “finer points” of the game. After that, Foxx bounced around the A’s system for the next few years and by1929, at the much more prominent age of 21, “Double X” was finally unveiled as Mack’s everyday first baseman.

The wait would prove to be more than worth it.

The next few years were a blur of statistical achievements for Foxx. From ’29-’31, he and slugger Al Simmons combined for 192 home runs in leading Philly to three straight World Series. He won two MVP awards in consecutive years by smashing 58 homers and driving in 169 runs in ’32, and by earning the Triple Crown in ’33 with 48 taters, 163 RBI, and a .358 batting average. He would hit more than 35 homers and drive in more than 125 runs in each of the next seven seasons with the A’s and Red Sox, and would pick up an unprecedented third MVP award in 1938.

When all was said and done and the sun began to set on a 20 Major League year career, Jimmie Foxx had sent 534 baseballs into the cheap seats (that was 2^nd to only the great Babe Ruth at the time) and maintained a .325 batting average. He was a unanimous selection into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1951, just six years after his official retirement.

But all the numbers and accolades and serious home run power aside, Jimmie was just a regular Joe. He was a guy you might see down at the end of the bar after a game sipping a beer, munching on stale peanuts, and mulling over a second match of darts. He was a farmer’s boy from rural Maryland who could probably 3-in-1 a tractor faster than he could round the bases. He was a fresh-faced 16-year-old with a penny postcard from his idol in hand and a slack-jawed, half-amazed look on his face.

And then he was a Hall of Famer.

Much Love for Richie Ashburn

By: C.G. Morelli

Twenty-nine home runs in a 14-year career?  Is that it?  Well, no.  Not by a long shot.  If there was one thing Richie Ashburn didn’t do too much (hit a lot of homers), there were a million things he did quite often (steal bases relentlessly, hit for average, drive in runs, range-rove the outfield, snap a witty one-liner).

The late Phillies announcer, Harry Kalas, once said of Ashburn, “Anybody who ever saw him play loves him because he was a bust-tail player who hated to lose.”  Possibly the only description that suited him better was the nickname Whitey, which paid tribute to his trademark, nearly-white hair.

Ashburn busted his tail as a rookie in 1948 to the tune of a .333 batting average with 154 hits, 17 doubles, and a whopping 32 stolen bases.  He was the only rookie elected to the NL All-Star team that season. Whitey had broken onto the scene in a big way.

After a two year absence from the Midsummer Classic despite pretty steady numbers, the young veteran went back into “bust-tail” mode, putting together a season that solidified his hero status in a very tough sports town. 

Whitey was the only spark in on an otherwise lifeless ’51 Phillies squad.  He smacked a career-high 221 hits, while batting .344 (second in all of baseball, only to Stan Musial’s .351), and he had 31 doubles, many of them created by sheer hustle.  Added to that were his 29 stolen bases and 63 RBI as a leadoff man.  He only hit four home runs, but the Phils were more than willing to look past that.  It was clear, after his offensive outburst in ‘51, that Whitey would be keeping his Philadelphia address for quite some time to come.

He spent 12 seasons manning centerfield for the Phils and blazing a trail for himself to Cooperstown. During that time he made five All Star appearances, led the league in hitting twice, and bested NL outfielders in put-outs nine times. He smacked 2,574 hits, and registered a lifetime .308 average. Ashburn’s #1 was retired by the Phillies in 1979 and he was inducted into the Hall in 1995.

People rarely remember that Whitey finished his career in New York when the Mets selected him in the first-ever expansion draft. But Whitey would reclaim his Philly address shortly after hanging up the spikes. He spent 27 seasons calling the Phillies alongside legendary announcer, Harry Kalas. The two arguably made up one of the greatest broadcasting tandems in baseball history. The always-insightful banter between Harry and Whitey combined with the slow, drawling crescendo of Kalas’s famous home run calls were even enough to keep fans interested in a club that’s spent most of the last two decades in the league’s basement.

Whitey died from a heart attack in 1997 at the age of 70. He left us with the memories of a sparkling Hall of Fame career, both on the field and in the booth, and his never-say-die, bust-tail spirit that won him the hearts of all Philadelphians. Perhaps Harry Kalas best reflected the sentiments of an entire city in remembering Ashburn:

"Whitey was as good a friend as I ever had," Kalas said, “I think of him every day with warmth in his heart and a smile on his face.''