BREAKFAST WITH RICKEY
"Fresco Thompson, an old second baseman who is now dignified by the title of vice-president and farm director of the Brooklyn Dodgers, is finding life much less complicated since Branch Rickey, long his boss at Brooklyn, moved his genius to Pittsburgh. At any rate, Fresco, a handsome burr-headed man of forty-eight, is getting more sleep.
'You'd go on a trip with Mr. Rickey,' says Fresco, 'and you'd see two, sometimes three ball games in one day.
'Then he'd want you to sit around and talk over prospects and things with him in his hotel room till maybe 2 A.M.
'Finally he'd say, 'Well, good night, gentlemen'- he usually had two or three of us along with him- and, before you could get out of the room, he'd be in bed sound asleep.
'Yes, sir, he had it fixed so he could unbutton one button- just one button- and he'd be ready for bed,' added Fresco, who doesn't mind exaggeration to emphasize a detail.
'He's an efficiency expert on everything. One button and his clothes would drop off, his bow tie would spin loose and his shoe laces would come untied.
'It's 2 A.M., but there are still some reports to fill out before I can go to bed.
'At 5:30 the phone rings. It's Mr. Rickey. 'Say, Fresco,' he says, 'did I promise George (Sisler, another Dodger underling) I'd phone him early this morning?'
'I tell him I don't know. 'Well, listen, Fresco,' says Mr. Rickey, 'will you call him and ask him, please? It would be kind of embarrassing for me, you know. See you at breakfast in half an hour.'
'So we'd meet him and he looked rested and refreshed and full of energy. And he'd say, 'Ah, good morning, gentlemen, I trust you had a good sleep.' "
-Bill Bryson in the Des Moines Tribune (Baseball Digest, January 1952)
A LEAF FROM RICKEY'S BOOK- WHEN A TREE TRUNK CROSSED UP BRANCH
" 'What is the difference,' Branch Rickey asked, 'between clubs which nestle perennially in the second division and the clubs invariably marked for the World Series?'
The difference, the Pittsburgh general manager explained, is not so much in ability as in individual desire. He was moving along like a limited with a clear track and green lights ahead as he told his story of a squatty, broad-shouldered outfielder named Hi Myers, who was a hustler from the dawn to the sunset of his career.
Myers then (1923) a veteran thirty-four years old with a dozen major league seasons in back of him, was playing center field in a spring training exhibition against Milwaukee. Rickey was the manager.
'We had the makings of a fine club (it won the pennant and World Series in 1926) with Rogers Hornsby on second,' said Rickey. 'We had Lester Bell and Jim Bottomley and in the outfield, Ray Blades in left and a rookie in right- Taylor Douthit- who was so nervous he shook like a leaf driven in the wind.
'No runs had been scored and it was the seventh inning, two out. Jimmy Cooney was the hitter and he struck the ball with great force. It flew over second- a low liner towards Myers in center.
' 'A single,' I said to myself. Myers came in fast as though determined to make the catch, thought better of it, pulled up and tried to block the ball. It got away from him. Myers turned and pursued it with all the speed he had left.
'A futile effort and I got off the bench shouting, 'You old fool; you haven't a chance.' '
The game was played in Bradenton, Fla., and Rickey had described the field- an orange grove in deep center and one lone palmetto tree not too distant.
'I can still Cooney turning second and the coach waving him in toward the plate, and I can see Myers and the ball.'
The ball took a turn on an early bounce, seemingly going out of its way to strike the Palmetto tree. It bounced back directly into Myers' hands. In his mind's eye, Hi knew where Hornsby would be. He turned instantly and threw a strike to Rogers, who whirled and whipped the ball to home plate. The catcher gathered it and, with plenty of courage, jumped toward Cooney's gleaming spikes. The runner was out.
It took Rickey ten minutes to describe the throws and the putout. His listeners were so quiet they could hear a cat walk.
'The next morning at a meeting with our players,' Rickey continued, 'I said to them: 'There was a play in yesterday's game that is well worth remembering. Can you tell me what it was?' Someone volunteered it was the tag on Cooney.
'Eddie Dyer (later Cards manager) was a young, intelligent rookie then. I asked him if he knew.
' 'I heard you yell, 'You old fool,' said Dyer. 'I thought Myers made the play of the game; in fact, the greatest play I ever saw.'
'Myers was in the back of the room, half-hidden by a locker. He poked out his head and said: 'I knew before it happened that it was going to happen. I knew it would hit the tree.'
'All we can do in a game,' Rickey concluded, 'is to be helpful, think constantly and crown effort and thought with great desire.' "
-Ed Pollack, condensed from the Philadelphia Bulletin (Baseball Digest, July 1952)
PITCHED SELF OUT OF BAT SLUMP
"This is a story told by Branch Rickey about a boy he took out of college and put into an American League uniform, without benefit of minor league experience.
'This boy had everything in college,' Rickey relates, 'everything. I knew I was taking a chance shooting him into the majors, but I also knew he had the temperament, ability and determination to make good.
'He started out fine. Then he ran into his first slump. He began swinging at any pitch. He was nervous and indecisive. The payoff came the day Eddie Cicotte threw three pitches almost over this boy's head and he swung at all three.
'I took him out of the lineup and a few days later told him to go back to his pitching. He started the next few games as a pitcher and he was a good one, too.
'But one day as a pitcher, this boy hit a triple and two singles. I now knew he had his batting eye back and also his confidence and determination.
'The next day he was at first base, permanently. His name? George Sisler.' "
-Les Biederman in the Pittsburgh Press (Baseball Digest, July 1952)
RICKEY'S PRIVATE WEATHER
"The rain was teeming down on Times Square. It was running down the windows of the waiting taxi in rivulets. A prospective fare ducked in out of the wet, wiped the moisture from his face and instructed the driver to take him to Ebbets Field.
The man at the wheel had a conscience and protested.
'No game today, sir,' he said and made no move to put down his flag. 'They would have to be ducks to play in this kind of storm.'
'Ebbets Field,' repeated the passenger wearily. 'It isn't raining in that section of Brooklyn, my man. Branch Rickey wouldn't allow it.'
The cabbie shrugged and decided he was driving a baseball lunatic. But by the time they had crossed the Brooklyn Bridge the deluge had subsided and in Flatbush the streets were dry and not a drop of rain had fallen on the sacred sod of Ebbets Field.
From that day forth the Mahatma had won himself a new disciple and it was 24 hours before the taxi clock returned to ticking normally again."
-Harold C. Burr in the Brooklyn Eagle (Baseball Digest, October1952)
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