The Hardball Times -- Bruce Markusen

The Hardball Times -- Bruce Markusen http://www.hardballtimes.com/main Baseball. Insight. Daily. en studes@hardballtimes.com Copyright 2012 2012-02-10T11:32:15+00:00 A baseball card mystery: Ontiveros and Schmidt http://www.hardballtimes.com/main/blog_article/a-baseball-card-mystery-steve-ontiveros-and-mike-schmidt/ http://www.hardballtimes.com/main/blog_article/a-baseball-card-mystery-steve-ontiveros-and-mike-schmidt/#When:08:15:15
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In this memorable 1972 card, Bob Veale is not wearing the dark greenish windbreaker that became popular with most of the Pirates (for a good example, see Dock Ellis’ 1972 card), but is instead wearing the Bucs’ older style black-and-white warm-up jacket, with its distinctively large yellow “P.” It’s a decidedly gaudy jacket, with the brightly white sleeves contrasting against the dark black of the torso. But it’s also a hip look that is emblematic of the 1970s; it’s the kind of jacket that grade school boys of that era would have loved to have, perhaps giving up their left arm in return.

Intimidating in his look and pose, Veale is putting his left arm to good use in this photograph, as he finishes off the kind of simulated throwing motion that became a trademark of Topps cards. We know that Veale wasn’t throwing an actual ball on that overcast day in Bradenton, Fla. With steely eyes squinting behind those outsized tinted glasses and his mouth clenched shut, Veale is doing his serious best to imitate the act of pitching, but his tensed fist is a dead giveaway that his pitching motion is staged and not genuine.

The card also has a bit of a surreal quality, thanks to the large steel cage in the background. Is that a batting cage or a storm shelter? If it is indeed a batting cage, it is a behemoth, one that looks like it might be better suited for a fight between two combatants from a Road Warrior sequel.

At the time this memorable card was created, Veale had won 114 games in a career that began in 1962. He had pitched only for the Pirates and almost exclusively as a starting pitcher. In his early years, his blazing fastball had drawn comparisons to that of Dodgers ace Sandy Koufax, who was generally acknowledged as the hardest thrower of the 1960s. Any comparison that puts a pitcher in the same neighborhood as Koufax indicates just how terrifying Veale must have been at his peak.

The statistics support the image of the 6-foot-6 Veale as a monster on the mound. In 1964, he struck out 250 batters, leading the league, including the great Koufax. The following year, he pumped up his total to 276. In 1969, he would post his final 200-strikeout season. Though radar gun readings were not commonly used in the 1960s, it’s a safe bet that Veale, at his peak, threw his regulation fastball upwards of 95 miles per hour.

Veale’s level of intimidation was enhanced by his wildness. Four times in his career, he led the National League in walks. Three of those times, he topped the 100-mark. He was “Wild Thing” long before the movie came out.

When reporters ask hitters from the 1960s to name the left-handed pitchers they most feared facing, Veale's name usually comes up, along with Koufax and Sudden Sam McDowell. Some hitters, like Lou Brock and Willie McCovey, have claimed that Veale sometimes took off his glasses while pitching, as a way of furthering the notion that he didn’t know where the ball was going.

By 1971, a bad back and the onset of age had taken several miles per hour away from Veale’s repertoire and now mandated a move to the bullpen. The transition brought with it a series of questions. Would Veale’s lapses in control discourage manager Danny Murtaugh from using him in critical late-inning situations? Would Veale’s arm be able to hold up to pitching three to four times a week, instead of the one to two starts a rotation pitcher would make? And what effect would Veale’s lack of conditioning have on his effectiveness. Veale had reported to spring training at 242 pounds, the heaviest weight of his career. The increase prompted the bluntest of headlines in the Pittsburgh Press: “Pirate Fat Man Battles Weight.”

An even larger question shadowed Veale in the spring of 1971. Would he start the season in a Pirates uniform? The large left hander’s name repeatedly popped up in spring training trade rumors. One round of speculation had the Tigers inquiring about Veale, perhaps in a deal involving slick-fielding shortstop Eddie Brinkman (the subject of an earlier “Card Corner” in this space). With veteran shortstop Gene Alley hurt and young Jackie Hernandez considered a borderline major leaguer at best, the slick-fielding Brinkman seemed like a perfect fit for the Pirates. Nonetheless, Pirates general manager Joe Brown denied that any discussions with Detroit took place.

As it turned out, Veale remained in Pittsburgh for the entire season, pitching primarily in long and mop-up relief. He recovered from a bad first impression by losing a dozen pounds during the spring, dropping to a more svelte 230 pounds. Perhaps wearing the warm-up jacket aided the cause. Looking leaner as February faded into March, Veale pitched well in frequent relief appearances during the exhibition season. By the end of spring training, Veale survived his own weight problems, the spring training trade rumors, and a simmering contract dispute with Joe Brown to make the Pirates’ Opening Day roster.

By maintaining a spot on the Pirates’ roster throughout the season, Veale earned the first and only world championship ring of his career. After winning the National League East, Veale’s Pirates upended the hard-hitting Giants in the Championship Series before stunning the favored Orioles in a classic seven-game World Series.

The 1971 season also provided Veale with an opportunity to take part in an unusual episode of baseball history. On Sept. 1, the Pirates became the first team in major league history to field an all-black lineup. Veale pitched out of the bullpen that day, one of three Pirates relievers to take his turn in place of an ineffective Dock Ellis.

Veale did not pitch particularly well for the ‘71 Pirates. In fact, it was the worst season of his career. He struggled through some brutal relief outings, which ballooned his ERA to nearly the 7.00 mark. After the season, several Pittsburgh writers predicted that Veale would draw his unconditional release.

To the surprise of many, the Pirates retained Veale and his 6.99 ERA on their 40-man roster. His spot secured, Topps printed a 1972 card for Veale. The card, numbered at 729, did not come out until later in the season. In fact, by the time the card hit candy and dime stores, Veale was no longer a Pirate. In his first five appearances in 1972, Veale had pitched brutally, giving up seven walks and 10 hits in nine innings. The Pirates responded by placing him on waivers. When no other major league team claimed him, Veale agreed to report to the Bucs’ Triple-A affiliate at Charleston.

Veale remained an International League pitcher until Sept. 2. Opting not to bring Veale up for the stretch run as they made their way to another division title, the Pirates instead sold him to the Red Sox, who were contending for a title of their own in the American League East.

Veale found AL batters to his liking. He pitched extremely well in six games for Boston, hurling eight scoreless innings of relief, while picking up two wins and two saves. Unfortunately, Veale’s pitching wasn’t enough to help the Red Sox overtake the Tigers in the pennant race, but his impressive showing convinced the front office to bring him back for the 1973 season.

Appearing in a Boston uniform (and with a windbreaker underneath the jersey) on his 1973 Topps card, Veale pitched so well for the Red Sox that he became their second-best reliever, behind only Bobby Bolin, who was having a career year. But suddenly, Veale’s performance fell off in 1974, Dogged by injuries, he pitched only 13 innings in 18 appearances, saw his ERA balloon above five and a half, and watched his 13-year major league career wind down to its finish.

Veale was not done with baseball, however. He wanted to coach, even though very few black men held managing or coaching positions at the time. Yes, Frank Robinson had just become the Indians’ skipper, making him the first African-American manager in big league history, but outside of Cleveland, very few blacks held any coaching jobs. Veale had to sit out the 1975 season, but the following year, he signed on with the Braves, who made him one of their minor league pitching instructors.

In 1983, he landed in Utica, N.Y., the hometown of his former Pirates teammate Dave Cash. The Utica Blue Sox, an independent minor league team owned by writer Roger Kahn, hired Veale as pitching coach. Kahn’s ownership of the team was something of a sham, a publicity stunt designed to generate a plot for his next book. But the Sox became a success under Kahn. Stocked with minor league veterans, the Blue Sox ended up winning the New York-Penn League championship that summer.

I started working in Utica in 1987, missing Veale by four years. Veale is long since retired from coaching, but baseball diehards in Utica still remember him. Quotable and outgoing, Veale seemed to be well-liked by everybody, not an easy feat in a Blue Sox organization that had its share of disharmony and dysfunction. On a team where the entire front office and coaching staff seemed to be at odds with one another, Veale remained calm and above the fray. In other words, he acted very differently from the image portrayed on his baseball card. He looked a bit frightening in his pose for Topps, but Bob Veale is not so monstrous after all.

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It’s unfortunate that it has to happen this way, but when you hear about the death of a player from an era before your time, it subconsciously forces you to learn more about him. Obituaries, when they are well done, can provide so much in terms of details and stories. A really good obituary leaves you feeling regretful, upset that you didn’t know more about the player while he was still alive.

With a name like Al Smith, it’s easy to become overlooked. He did have a colorful nickname in “Fuzzy,“ pinned on him by a minor league teammate who noticed how quickly his facial hair grew. But his actual name was exceedingly bland. Coco Crisp, minor leaguer Wonderful Monds, and Orval Overall have names that make you curious to learn more about their accomplishments and personalities. With an Al Smith, the motivation to learn more must come from somewhere else. In Smith’s case, he was not only a good player but a man who overcame obstacles, including the color line, position switches, unpopular trades and displeased fans.

Although Smith played through the mid-1960s, his professional career actually began in the Negro Leagues, at a time when segregation was only beginning to break down in baseball. He broke in with the now forgotten Cleveland Buckeyes in 1947, the same year that Jackie Robinson was making history for the Brooklyn Dodgers. Smith and the Buckeyes claimed the 1947 Negro American League championship. One year later, Smith signed a contract with the Indians organization, but it was a minor league assignment with no promise of major league glory. Smith spent nearly six full seasons working his way through Cleveland’s system, improving his OPS almost every season, before finally receiving the big league call in 1953.

A right-handed hitter and thrower, Smith didn’t hit much as a rookie, but immediately impressed the Indians with his defense in left field. By the following year, his offensive game showed enough improvement to earn placement in the starting lineup. Initially, he played infield for the 1954 Indians, before being switched to left field, where he beat out veteran Dale Mitchell.

Impressed with his patient approach to hitting, the Indians installed him as their leadoff man. He responded by reaching base at a clip of .398, scoring 101 runs, and skillfully setting the table for middle-of-the-lineup mashers like Al Rosen, Larry Doby and Vic Wertz. (Yeah, those ‘54 Indians could play a little bit.) Though overshadowed by the bigger names in a deep and talented lineup, Smith played a huge role in the Indians winning 111 games, at the time an American League record.

Smith and the Indians ended up losing the World Series in stunning fashion, dropping four straight games to the upstart New York Giants. It wasn’t really Smith’s fault; he reached base 35 per cent of the time and hit a leadoff home run on the first pitch of Game Two.

As well as Smith played in 1954, he elevated his game the following summer. With a .407 on-base percentage, 22 home runs, and a league-leading 123 runs scored, Smith emerged as the Indians’ best everyday player. His career season earned him a third-place finish in the MVP race, ahead of such immortals as Ted Williams and Mickey Mantle. Only Yogi Berra and Al Kaline, two other Hall of Famers, bettered him in the MVP balloting.

Unfortunately, Smith’s 1955 season would represent his pinnacle. His play fell off appreciably the following two seasons. In 1957, the Indians switched him between the outfield and third base, a move that displeased him, and somewhat understandably so, considering his defensive acumen in the outfield. The Indians told Smith they wanted to make him their fulltime third baseman in 1958. So Smith asked for a trade.

The White Sox accommodated Smith during the offseason. The Indians sent him and Hall of Fame right-hander Early Wynn to the White Sox for Minnie Minoso and Fred Hatfield.

The trade became a public relations disaster for the White Sox. Smith became well-liked by his new teammates, but Minoso was such a popular player with the ChiSox that Chicago fans blamed Smith for being his replacement. Unfairly, Smith became a frequent target of boobirds at Comiskey Park. Given such a negative atmosphere, it’s not surprising that Smith batted only .252 and .237 in his first two seasons in the Windy City.

Bill Veeck, the legendary owner of the Indians, sensed that Smith was being made a scapegoat and tried to soothe the situation. On Aug. 26, 1959, he held “Al Smith Night” at Comiskey Park. Anyone with the last name of Smith (or any name that resembled Smith) would be admitted to the ballpark free and given a button that said, “I’m A Smith and I’m For Al.” It was the pure promotional genius of Veeck at its best, but it initially seemed to backfire. That night, Smith dropped a fly ball that led directly to a 7-6 loss for the White Sox.

After that moment of embarrassment, Smith responded with a late-season charge. He hit six home runs over the final five weeks of the season, including a key blast on Sept. 22. His home run, coming against his former mates in Cleveland, helped the White Sox to a win that clinched the American League pennant. The “Go Go Sox,” so named for their emphasis on singles hitting and speed, advanced to the 1959 World Series to play the Dodgers.

That World Series would provide the singular moment of fame in Smith’s career. In Game Two, he ran back toward the wall on Charlie Neal’s long drive. As Smith stood at the brick wall, forlornly watching Neal’s drive land a few rows deep into the Comiskey Park stands, he was greeted by a face full of beer, dumped on him from the stands.

“It hit the bill of my cap and came down the side of my face,” Smith said later. “It was in my nose and everywhere.” The Chicago Tribune ran a picture spread of the famous dousing. Taken by photographer Ray Gora using a new high tech camera designed to cover NASA rocket launches, the photos presented an eight-part sequence of the incident. The photos were picked up nationwide, making Smith a celebrity of sorts, but for all the wrong reasons.

At first, Smith thought a fan had tossed the beer at him intentionally. But the left field umpire told him that the fan had accidentally knocked the beer over while trying to catch the home run ball. The fan, a motor oil company executive named Melvin Piehl, later explained that he was trying to make the catch so that the ball wouldn’t hit his boss’ wife, who was sitting next to him. At least Smith could take some consolation in knowing that one of the hometown fans meant him no harm.

The White Sox ended up losing that game, and the Series, just as the Indians had in 1954. Perhaps that’s one reason Smith is not better remembered.

By 1960, Smith’s popularity in Chicago seemed to turn a corner, as he became accepted by the Chicago fans who were now placated by the return of Minoso via trade. To make room for him, the Sox asked Smith to move to right field. He not only made the move unflinchingly, but he also batted .315, good enough for second in the league batting race, and earned a spot on his second All-Star team. The following year, he put together his best season in terms of raw power, reaching career highs with 28 home runs and 93 RBI.

Smith followed with a slightly less productive season in 1962, but he would run into a more significant roadblock because of a change in Sox ownership. Veeck, whom Smith loved to the point of calling him “the greatest man… in baseball,” had sold the team. His departure left the Sox’ day-to-day operations in the hands of new general manager Ed Short.

Smith bristled when Short asked him to move back to third base. White Sox management also asked Smith to become an off-season ticket seller. When Smith balked at the proposed wintertime job, the White Sox traded him and Luis Aparicio to the Orioles for Hoyt Wilhelm, Ron Hansen, Pete Ward and Dave Nicholson.

By now 35, Smith started to slip badly. He played a year in Baltimore before making a short return to Cleveland for a half-season and then finishing up his career with the Red Sox. At 36, the talented and versatile Mr. Smith was done.

After his playing career, Smith remained in baseball, just not in the major leagues. He went to work managing the park district baseball program for the city of Chicago, remaining in that position from 1966 to 1981. He also did some part-time work for the White Sox in the field of community relations.

Ten years ago, Smith, by then retired, underwent arterial surgery. Afterward, he suffered cardiac arrest and died at the age of 73.

The headlines of some of his obituaries highlighted the incident with the cup of beer. Yet, there was so much more to this man, who was a Negro Leagues standout, a productive player for two World Series teams, a highly regarded teammate, and a popular citizen in the city of Chicago. Al Smith might have had a plain name, but he had a rather remarkable life.

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The card is interesting also because it features neither an action shot nor a posed one. The camera has caught Hendrick in a candid moment, with his bat on his shoulder; he looks relaxed and at ease, surprisingly so for an unproven rookie trying to win a job on the Opening Day roster. We see Hendrick from the side, as he is looking toward the right of the camera, looking at someone we cannot see. (We can also see that another player is in the immediate background, but his identity remains unknown, as he is obscured by Hendrick’s hand and bat.)

Rather than a stiff, forced pose, we have an opportunity to see a player in a more sincere moment, the kind of moment that is elusive on baseball cards.

The 1972 season turned out to be a pivotal one in the career of George Hendrick. He had played briefly for the A’s in 1971, but he failed to make the roster out of spring training, instead starting the ’72 season at Triple-A Iowa. Hendrick bided his time in the American Association while fellow prospects Bobby Brooks and Angel Mangual tried to fill the center field gap created by the wintertime trade of Rick Monday to the Cubs. When Brooks and Mangual failed to put a stranglehold on the position, the A’s summoned the lean and lanky Hendrick from the minor leagues. He responded by hitting game-winning home runs in two consecutive games against the White Sox.

Hendrick played well for a brief stretch before showing that he was not ready to handle major league pitching. Hendrick’s wrist-snap batting style reminded scouts of Ernie Banks, who had unusually powerful wrists, but it did not yield the same kind of positive results. So Hendrick became part of Oakland’s revolving door in center field. In addition to Brooks, Mangual and Hendrick, the A’s tried midseason pickups Bill Voss and Downtown Ollie Brown, before finally settling on Reggie Jackson, converted from right field. Hendrick receded into a reserve role, sometimes filling in for Jackson, or starting left fielder Joe Rudi, or whomever the A’s might have in right field on a given day.

Remaining in the shadows for most of the 1972 season, Hendrick found himself in the center of the storm during the postseason. Playing a decisive Game Five of the Championship Series against the Tigers, Jackson injured his hamstring while scoring from third base on the front end of a double steal. Oakland manager Dick Williams called on Hendrick to take Jackson’s place in center field. In the fourth inning, Hendrick reached base on an error by Dick McAuliffe. With Hendrick on second base and two men out, Gene Tenace delivered a sharp single to left field. Hendrick rounded third, swiftly approaching home plate. The fleet-footed Hendrick slid feet first, away from the sweeping glove of catcher Bill Freehan. As Freehan tried to apply a tag, he bobbled the ball, allowing Hendrick to score the go-ahead run.

That run, which would be documented on a 1973 Topps card, would prove decisive. It was the difference in a 2-1 win for the A’s, who advanced to their first World Series since the franchise’s days in Philadelphia.

With Jackson unavailable due to a torn hamstring, Williams decided to move Hendrick into center field for Game One. About an hour before the first pitch, Jackson spent several minutes talking with the rookie outfielder, instructing him on the subtleties of playing center field at Cincinnati’s Riverfront Stadium.

Hendrick played five of the seven Series games against the Reds, but he batted only .133. That winter, the A’s considered the possibility of trading him, in part because of his reputation as a loner who was not very cooperative with the media. According to one wintertime rumor, the A’s considered a trade that would have sent Hendrick to the Rangers for veteran right-hander Dick Bosman, but the deal never took place.

Remaining with the A’s, Hendrick reported to spring training but quickly became unhappy with his situation in Oakland. He met with owner and GM Charlie Finley, who told him that he would not be considered for the starting center field job. The A’s planned to have Hendrick start the season at Triple-A, playing for Oakland’s new affiliate in Tucson. Hendrick, who had experienced the thrill of starting games in the World Series, wanted no part of extended duty in the minor leagues. He asked Finley to be traded.

On March 24, Finley announced a major four-player trade, sending Hendrick and catcher Dave Duncan to the Indians for former All-Star catcher Ray Fosse and utility infielder Jack Heidemann. The trade was especially interesting because of Finley’s decision to make a trade with Cleveland. When Hendrick had asked to be traded, he had expressed an interest in being dealt to the Indians. (I’m not sure why that was the case; Hendrick wasn’t from Cleveland, but from east Los Angeles. Perhaps he just realized that the Indians needed help in the outfield.)

Though Hendrick had been upset by Finley’s initial plan to have him start the season in Triple-A, the young outfielder took something favorable from his time in Oakland. He credited Joe Rudi with helping to make him a more complete player, especially on defense.

The Indians would benefit from Rudi’s tutelage. The Indians could also offer Hendrick a situation that the A’s could not: plenty of playing time. While Oakland’s talented outfield included Jackson and Rudi, and an emerging young center fielder in Billy North, the Indians had more questionable talents in their outfield. On Opening Day, Hendrick started in center field, flanked by journeymen Charlie Spikes in left and Rusty Torres in right. By the end of the 1973 season, Hendrick hit 21 home runs and slugged .452, while establishing himself as the best all-round outfielder on the Indians’ roster.

All should have been well in Cleveland. A few of Hendrick’s supporters lauded his style of play as smooth and effortless, but his detractors considered him lazy. Even opposing coaches criticized Hendrick. “He’s a real dog,” Yankee coach Elston Howard said in a brutally candid interview with sportswriter Dick Young. “You could see that the way he played against us. Half-trying. What a shame.”

Critics aside, Hendrick made the All-Star team in 1974 and ’75. He put up decent OPS numbers, usually in the .760 range, but his defense in center field was found wanting, resulting in a move to right field, and then to left. Though Hendrick didn’t walk much and never hit more than 25 home runs in a season, he emerged as a good, solid everyday player who would hit .280 to .300, steal a base on occasion, cover the ground in an outfield corner, and discourage opposing baserunners with a strong throwing arm.

Yet, a lack of effort continued to cloud Hendrick’s reputation. He would not always run out routine ground balls or pop-ups. In particular, he irritated Indians manager Frank Robinson, an old school baseball man who had played the game with fire and verve. After the 1976 season, the Indians made what would turn out to be a foolish trade, sending Hendrick to the Padres for platoon outfielder Johnny Grubb, backup catcher Fred Kendall and utility infielder Hector Torres. It was exactly the kind of unwise transaction that would epitomize Indian fortunes during the frantic 1970s.

Hendrick responded by putting together his finest season in 1977. So how did the Padres react? They traded him the following year, sending him to the Cardinals in midseason for right-hander Eric Rasmussen. Much like the Indians, the Padres would come to regret the trade.

The move to St. Louis would turn out to be the best break of Hendrick’s career. More a line drive hitter than a pure slugger, Hendrick found St. Louis’ Busch Stadium to his liking, with its big gaps in the alleys and fast artificial turf. Sharing the middle of the order with Keith Hernandez and Ted Simmons, Hendrick boosted his OPS to the .840 range. He hit .300 or better three times for the Cardinals, while reaching the 100-RBI mark twice. In 1982, he became an important part of the Cardinals’ world championship effort, as St. Louis defeated Milwaukee in the World Series. For his efforts, Hendrick earned his second world championship ring.

Hendrick also showed the ability to adjust. After Cardinals manager Whitey Herzog reprimanded him once for not running hard, Hendrick took heed. He started to run out grounders and fly balls. And when the Cardinals made the controversial trade that sent Hernandez to the Mets, Herzog asked Hendrick to move to first base fulltime. Hendrick made the move willingly; in fact, he had been the one to approach Herzog earlier about taking ground balls at first because he was concerned that one day he would no longer be able to play the outfield. Moving to first base without a whimper, Hendrick cemented his standing as a popular player with both his teammates and Cardinals fans.

Although Hendrick played the best ball of his career for the Cardinals, he remained somewhat of an overlooked player. That was partly his own doing, specifically his continuing reluctance to talk to the media. By now, Hendrick was well known as “Silent George,” a player who was unwilling to cooperate with any form of media. (Hendrick reportedly became upset with reports about his off-the-field activities, thus he instituted his ban against the media.) Other detractors called him “Jogging George” or “Captain Easy,” in reference to his past reputation as a player who did not always hustle.

Hendrick also became known for doing things his way. He would let the bottoms of his pant legs all the way down to his ankles, so that they would cover his stockings. He became the first player to do so—everyone else in baseball showed their stockings and stirrups at the time—making him a pioneer in baseball fashion.

After the 1984 season, the Cardinals traded Hendrick, not because of any dissatisfaction with him, but because they needed pitching. Dealt to the Pirates for John Tudor, Hendrick wrapped up a long career with a forgettable tenure in Pittsburgh, followed by a large trade that sent him, John Candelaria and Al Holland to the Angels for three younger players. By now Hendrick was in his late 30s and very much on the decline. After the 1988 season, he became a free agent, but ended up retiring.

To the surprise of many, Hendrick turned to coaching after his playing days. He didn’t seem like the coaching type, given his quiet, laid-back nature, but appearances can be deceiving. He joined the Cardinals, the organization where he had succeeded the most, and later coached for the Angels and Dodgers. He eventually became the first base and outfield coach for the Rays; it’s a position that he has held for the last six seasons.

While he was coaching with the Cardinals one spring training, I had a chance to meet Hendrick. Working as part of a Hall of Fame multimedia crew, I was conducting video interviews for the Hall’s archive. I knew about Hendrick’s reputation for being non-talkative, but I decided to approach him anyway, partly because we had found coaches to be among our best interview subjects. I asked George if he would be willing to answer some questions. He declined politely, explaining that he preferred the spotlight to be on the players, and not the coaches. Even though he had turned me down, he couldn’t have been nicer about it.

My favorable impression of Hendrick was confirmed by one of my cohorts at the Hall of Fame. This person had met Hendrick while he was playing minor league ball for the Burlington Bees in the late 1960s. They talked for two full hours, engaging in a pleasant and wide-ranging conversation. Later on, Hendrick sent my Hall of Fame colleague an autographed baseball.

It turned out that Silent George is a pretty good guy after all.

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Click here to learn about THT's download subscriptions.]]> Bruce Markusen 2012-01-18T08:45:15+00:00 Cooperstown Confidential: Why Bob Howsam isn’t in the Hall of Fame http://www.hardballtimes.com/main/article/cooperstown-confidential-why-bob-howsam-isnt-in-the-hall-of-fame/ http://www.hardballtimes.com/main/article/cooperstown-confidential-why-bob-howsam-isnt-in-the-hall-of-fame/#When:09:33:15 Bill White’s book, Uppity: My Untold Story About the Games People Play, which was published last spring and tells the story of the man who was a fine first baseman, a respected broadcaster, and the first African-American league president in major league history. I’m enjoying the book thoroughly; it is clearly written, thoughtful, and pulls no punches.

Both riveting and blunt, the book sheds particularly vivid light on the kinds of racism that black ballplayers such as White faced, first as a minor leaguer in the 1950s and then as a major leaguer in the 1960s. White doesn’t deal in vague generalities; he talks about specific incidents in which he was treated like a second-class citizen.

On one occasion during his minor league career, while the rest of his white teammates ate in a roadside dinner, White sat on the bus alone. As he looked into the restaurant, he buried his head in his hands and wept—the first and only time he had ever done so.

Then there was a game in Winston-Salem during which White was heckled by a number of fans, who shouted at him, calling him “nigger.” After hitting a home run, one of the fans said, “I guess I’ll have to start calling you ‘Mr. ######.’” Almost immediately, other fans began chanting, “Mr. ######, Mr. ######.”

White also discusses how he and the Cardinals played a role in ending spring training segregation in early-1960s Florida. The Cardinals trained in St. Petersburg, where the local Chamber of Commerce held a “Salute Baseball” dinner, but only invited the white players on the Cardinals. In 1961, seven years after Brown vs. The Board of Education and many years after Jackie Robinson’s arrival, St. Petersburg hotels continued to exclude black customers, forcing the Cardinals to split their squad in half.

Led by White’s protests, and with the front office eventually lending its support, the Cardinals’ organization insisted on one team hotel for all of the players staying in St. Petersburg. By 1962, the Cardinals united all of their players under one spring training roof.

In a completely different but still intriguing issue, White offers no-holds-barred commentary about Bob Howsam, who became the Cardinals’ general manager in the middle of the 1964 world championship season. Howsam replaced Bing Devine, who was blamed for St. Louis’ awful start in 1964.

In August, with the Cardinals in fifth place and nine games out, owner Gussie Busch fired Devine and hired Howsam. According to White, within hours of the end of Game Seven of the World Series, Howsam tried to take credit for the Cardinals‘ championship.

“But hardly any of us liked the guy [Howsam],” White writes. “As far as most of us on the Cardinals were concerned, it was Bing Devine, not Bob Howsam, who had made our World Series victory possible, not least of all by bringing in Lou Brock [via trade].

“So when Howsam stood up that night…and told the crowd, ‘I just want to point out that this turnaround didn’t happen until I took over the team,’ I went into a slow burn.” After Ken Boyer spoke, White took his turn at the podium, and redirected the credit to Devine.

White’s dislike for Howsam grew when it came time to negotiate his contract for the 1965 season.

Most of us had no respect for Bob Howsam. He just didn’t seem to know how to act in the big leagues. For example, in 1964 the Cardinals had paid me $47,000, second only to Ken Boyer…So in January, 1965, I asked for what I felt was a fair raise. I deserved it, but Howsam hemmed and hawed and then claimed he couldn’t give me a raise because he had to spend $30,000 to smooth out center field in Busch Stadium and there was no money left for player raises. It was nonsense.

After the 1965 season, an awful year for the Cardinals, Howsam traded White and shortstop Dick Groat to the Phillies for outfielder Alex Johnson, catcher Pat Corrales and pitcher Art Mahaffey. It was a trade that would provide nothing of benefit for the Cardinals. When asked about his reasoning behind the trade, Howsam told the St. Louis Globe-Democrat, “Bill White is older than he says he is.” Howsam claimed White was 37, and not his stated age of 31, a difference of six years.

Justifiably, Howsam’s charge infuriated White. “I had a birth certificate, high school and college records, military records, any of which could have established my age if anyone wanted to check. Howsam hadn’t bothered. He just flat-out lied, presumably to get back at me for supporting Bing Devine.”

Prior to reading White’s book, I had long wondered why Howsam never won election to the Hall of Fame; in fact, he has never really come close. His candidacy, at least on the surface, seems so strong. While it’s true that Howsam was relatively negligible in his nearly three-year stint as the general manager of the Cardinals, he completely reversed the course of his career in Cincinnati.

Howsam joined the front office of the Reds in 1967 at a time when the franchise was mired in the mediocrity of non-contention. In fact, Cincinnati had not won anything of consequence since 1961, when the Vada Pinson/Frank Robinson Reds captured the National League pennant. Furthermore, the Reds had not won a world championship since 1940.

Howsam resuscitated the Reds’ franchise by using a two-tiered approach. He simultaneously rebuilt Cincinnati’s farm system through shrewd drafting while also executing a series of terrific trades, some of the blockbuster variety and some that failed to create a ripple at the time.

The restocking of the farm system laid the foundation for Reds success in the 1970s; the trades, most of which were clear wins by Howsam over his counterparts, provided finishing touches to what would become a near-dynasty.

Under Howsam’s leadership, the Reds drafted and developed young, hard-throwing pitchers like Don Gullett and Wayne Simpson, who became major contributors to the 1970 National League championship team. (Both ended up breaking down physically, but that’s more a matter of overwork and bad luck than anything Howsam did.)

Howsam then oversaw the signing of Dave Concepcion and the draft selection of Ken Griffey, Sr., who became important supplements to the “Big Red Machine” of the mid-seventies. Concepcion emerged as the Reds’ first quality shortstop since Leo Cardenas, while Griffey stabilized right field, which had become a revolving door.

With Concepcion, Griffey and Gullett all playing vital, high-profile roles, the Reds advanced to the World Series in 1972, 1975 and 1976, winning championships the latter two seasons.

Yet, it was at the trading table where Howsam truly excelled, showing his aptitude for major league player evaluation. In 1971, he pulled off two historic deals that sealed Cincinnati’s fortunes as a future world champion.

The first trade came in May; it produced few headlines with its announcement but would become a headlining transaction. Knowing that the athletic Concepcion could fill the shortstop role for years to come, Howsam peddled another shortstop prospect, Frank Duffy, and a minor league pitcher named Vern Geishert to the Giants for spare outfielder George Foster.

Facing a logjam of outfielders in San Francisco (where the Giants already had Willie Mays, Bobby Bonds, Jim Ray Hart, Ken Henderson and Garry Maddox), Foster had no where to go in Candlestick Park. He would eventually become the Reds’ everyday left fielder, one of the league’s top right-handed power sources, and the 1977 National League MVP when he clouted a league-leading 52 home runs.

Next came Howsam’s master stroke. It happened during the 1971 winter meetings, profiled in this space several weeks ago. With his lineup leaning too heavily to the right and the Reds’ defense shaky in spots, Howsam dealt first baseman Lee May, second baseman Tommy Helms, and an infielder/outfielder named Jimmy Stewart (no relation to the actor) to the Houston Astros for infielders Joe Morgan and Denis Menke, outfielders Cesar Geronimo and Ed Armbrister, and right-handed pitcher Jack Billingham.

In one massive changeover swoop, Howsam improved the Reds defensively at three infield positions. The new configuration moved Tony Perez from third base to first base, where he was far more comfortable, improving the defense at third with the sure-handed Menke.

Most critically, Howsam obtained one of the greatest players of the seventies in Morgan, who would win two MVP awards in a Reds uniform while adding on-base percentage, a potent left-handed bat, foot speed and range to the Cincinnati lineup. That trade, engineered by Howsam, remains one of the most significant in major league history.

Howsam also knew something about managers. He fired Dave Bristol, who was relatively popular. In his place, he hired Sparky Anderson, at the time a relatively unknown coach with the Padres. That move worked out flawlessly.

By the time Howsam stepped down as the Reds’ chief executive and team president in 1978, the team had won six division titles, four pennants and two world championships within the span of a dozen seasons. As the primary architect of the “Big Red Machine,” Howsam made the Reds relevant for the better part of the 1970s.

So how do we reconcile the brilliant wisdom of Howsam’s tenure in Cincinnati with the egotistical and miserly buffoon whom Cardinals players despised in St. Louis? I suppose it’s possible that Howsam learned from his mistakes in St. Louis and became a better and smarter GM with the Reds. Or perhaps Howsam would have done similarly fine work with the Cardinals if he had stayed there longer.

Maybe there is another possibility. I think it’s quite likely that Howsam, while being a smart baseball man, remained an egotistical ogre who continued to be disliked by his players in Cincinnati, even when they were winning pennants and championships.

The Reds’ organization of the sixties became notorious for being cheap with its players, restricting their freedoms when it came to facial hair and personal grooming and demanding they wear their pants and socks in a very specific fashion. Those who didn’t conform to the rules, some of which might have been called draconian, would be punished by being traded away.

Howsam, who was a hardliner against the Players’ Association, was the centerpiece to maintaining such an atmosphere of regimentation and discipline, to the point where his players resented him for it.

Some of Howsam’s former players with the Cardinals and Reds, including Bill White himself, have become members of the Veterans’ Committee, responsible for electing executives to the Hall of Fame. Some of those players have also become Hall of Famers, also entrusted with Veterans’ Committee voting privileges over the last 10 to 20 years. Maybe those players, remembering the way Howsam treated them, have decided to exact some justice by voting against him time and time again.

Does Howsam deserve election to the Hall of Fame? Based on his body of work in Cincinnati, yes, he does. But in reading about White’s memories, Howsam falls well short of the Hall of Fame’s standard of “integrity, sportsmanship and character.”

Howsam died in 2008 at the age of 89. Very few people outside of Cincinnati paid much attention to his passing. Perhaps that says more than anything else that’s been written.

Click here to learn about THT's download subscriptions.]]> Bruce Markusen 2012-01-13T09:33:15+00:00 A baseball card mystery: Alan Trammell and George Vukovich http://www.hardballtimes.com/main/blog_article/a-baseball-card-mystery-alan-trammell-and-george-vukovich/ http://www.hardballtimes.com/main/blog_article/a-baseball-card-mystery-alan-trammell-and-george-vukovich/#When:21:42:15
Click here to learn about THT's download subscriptions.]]> Bruce Markusen 2012-01-09T21:42:15+00:00