Playing with the Enemy: A Baseball Prodigy, a World at War, and a Field of Broken Dreams
331
Playing with the Enemy: A Baseball Prodigy, a World at War, and a Field of Broken Dreams
331eBook
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Overview
Gene Moore was a small-town Illinois farm boy whose passion for “America’s Pastime” made him a local legend. It wasn’t long before word spread, and the Brooklyn Dodgers came calling on the teenage phenom who could hit a ball a country mile. Headed for stardom, and his dream within reach, Gene’s future in the majors was cut short by World War II. In 1944, after joining the US Navy, Gene found himself on a top-secret mission: guarding German sailors captured from U-505, a submarine carrying one of the infamous Enigma decoders. Stuck with guard duty, he decided to bide the time by doing what he loved. Gene taught the POWs how to play baseball. It was a decision that would change Gene’s life forever.
The story of a remarkable man told by his inspired son, “Gene’s journey from promise to despair and back again, set against a long war and an even longer post-war recovery . . . [is] a 20th-century epic that demonstrates how, sometimes, letting go of a dream is the only way to discover one’s great fortune” (Publishers Weekly, starred review).
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781611210200 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Savas Beatie |
| Publication date: | 02/20/2019 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 331 |
| Sales rank: | 238,406 |
| File size: | 4 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The Letter
How would I do it?
How could I ever make the leap from the chair I was in onto the speaker's platform? The thought coursed through my mind as I sat in the sales meeting, listening to the president and owner of the company. He was dynamic, charismatic, and everyone loved him.
Me? I was young then — a bit reserved, very insecure, and in total awe of the man I intently watched and listened to as he addressed us from the platform at the front of the room. He had the leadership qualities I could only dream I might one day possess. I hung on his every word, every syllable, even though I had heard it in one form or another from this man my entire life.
Gene Moore spoke with an animated, passionate style. He talked about the highest levels of achievement and made the group of thirty sales people assembled at the Chicago Heights branch of Moore Industries, Inc., want to sell and excel with passion. He brought out the best in each of us. We wanted to perform for him. We wanted to be like him. We all yearned for a pat on the back or a wink from his smiling face telling us, "good job" or "way to go." He made us believe that what we did was important, admirable, and honorable, even though what we did was sell vacuum cleaners door-to-door. Gene Moore made us believe what we did would change the world. It certainly changed our worlds. Many of those in his audience went on to achieve levels of success with Filter Queen or in other chosen professions. Most would attribute some or all of their success to the time they spent working with this man. "There is just something special about him" was a phrase heard over and over again.
As Gene was beginning to wind down his motivational talk he raised his arms in excitement — and then suddenly stopped. His eyes sought me out. "Gary take it from here," he said calmly, a small smile on his face. And then he walked out of the room. Although unusual, Gene was prone to theatrics, so I jumped up from my chair and tried to pick up where he left off, which was an insurmountable task.
Once the meeting ended a young salesman named Ed walked up to me and said something I would never forget. "What happened to Gene?" he asked.
"Nothing," I replied.
"Didn't look like nothing to me," continued Ed, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. A dark look of concern had crossed his face.
"What?" I asked. "What are you talking about?"
"When he walked out of the meeting, he stepped into the next room, doubled over, and was holding his left arm." The words sent a chill through me I still feel to this day.
I ran to the door, threw it open, and looked outside, but his gray Cadillac was gone. A glance at my watch told me the meeting had continued almost forty-five minutes after Gene had left. I stepped toward the phone to call our headquarters in Bradley, Illinois, which I assumed was Gene's destination. Before I could dial the phone number, a secretary tapped my shoulder, "Gary, your mom's on the line. She sounds real upset."
I stepped into the closest room and picked up the phone. Judy Moore was crying on the other end. "Why did you let your father drive home when he was having a heart attack?"
"A heart attack! Mom, is he okay? Where is he?"
I listened just long enough to hear her answer before dropping the phone and running to my car to speed to Riverside Hospital in Kankakee. It was normally a thirty-minute drive, but I made it in record time.
When I arrived in the emergency room the first thing I heard was laughter. Puzzled, I edged my way past bustling nurses and small knots of strangers before coming to a stop next to a curtained-off area. I slowly pulled the curtain back to find Gene sitting up on the edge of the bed. Around him were several nurses and an emergency room doctor laughing at something he had just said. As usual, Gene controlled the room and everyone in it.
My sister Debbie was there too, her eyes swollen from crying. My mother was standing next to her husband's side, rubbing his shoulder and holding back the tears. A few moments later my youngest sister Kim and her new husband Keith rushed into the emergency room.
"Calm down," Gene commanded with a sturdy laugh. "It's a false alarm. You're not getting rid of me this easy," a comment that brought more laughter from the hospital staff, but only concerned looks from his family members.
Until that moment it had never occurred to me that my mentor, my employer, and my father, all one and the same, would ever die. He was only 57, and he had always seemed indestructible.
While Gene was sharing a story with the nurses, Doctor Burnett, our family physician, arrived with what he claimed was good news. "I don't think Gene had a heart attack. He only suffered from a little overexertion. We're going to keep him overnight for observation and send him home tomorrow." The doctor also told us he would set up a round of tests with a heart specialist in Chicago. "You folks go home now and don't worry any longer about this. Gene is going to be fine."
The next day Gene took a stress test, passed, and was released. As was his nature, he walked out of the hospital and went straight to work. It was April 29, 1983.
The test with the heart specialist was eventually scheduled for Thursday, May 12, at St Luke's Presbyterian Hospital in Chicago. Our appointment was at 4:00 p.m., and my mother insisted I go along. She was afraid Gene might not tell her if the news wasn't good. I agreed, and my dad and I drove to the hospital together. The specialist agreed with Dr. Burnett: he was certain Gene did not have a heart attack. In fact, he told us Gene was in great shape and we had nothing to worry about.
As we pulled out of the parking garage, a giant weight lifted from our shoulders. I suggested we go to the George Diamond Steak House and celebrate. As we made the drive from the hospital, I thought about the feelings and anxiety I had experienced over the past few weeks worrying about my father's health. Since it would just be the two of us at dinner, I started assembling in my mind the questions I wanted my dad to answer. There were a lot of things I wanted to ask him and never had. Now was the time.
We sat down at a small corner table, he on one side and me on the other. I knew there would not be a better time, so I began:
"Dad, I have a question for you."
He just looked at me and smiled.
"You've been a wonderful father. You've always supported all of us in any and every way. We were never left wanting anything, and you never missed anything we did — drum & bugle corps, band, you were always there."
A warm smile spread across my dad's face. "I wouldn't have missed any of it for anything."
I took a deep breath, held it a second, and slowly exhaled. "But ... you never came to any of my baseball games and you would never play catch with me." I paused and watched his smile dissipate. "Why?"
"Baseball is not important. It's just a game." His voice was low, measured, steady. He turned to find our waitress and place our order. It was obvious he didn't want to discuss it.
"I know baseball is not important in the grand scheme of things. But neither is drum & bugle corps, or band, or much of anything else I did. But you always came to see anything and everything — everything, that is, except my baseball games."
Dad held my eye but did not respond.
"Tell me about that letter, dad."
"What letter?"
"You know what letter. The letter from the Pittsburgh Pirates. The letter that said you were to report to Greenville, Mississippi, in 1949." I paused again to give him time to respond, but he just looked away into the distance as if studying something on the horizon no one else could see.
I knew I was pushing things, but I had to know. "You must have been pretty good. They don't send letters like that to everyone. Did you go?" I asked.
Dad shrugged before lifting his water glass to his lips. "Your mom is going to be relieved when we tell her what the doctor said."
"Dad! Why won't you talk to me about this?"
"Because it doesn't matter. It means nothing. And besides ... it's just not an interesting story. I've put that part of my life behind me." He paused and thought for a moment. "It just doesn't exist anymore."
"But I want to know, dad," I insisted. "I need to know."
"I know you want to know more about it, but it's just not something I feel good talking about. There are some things that are better left in the past. This is one of them. Let's change the subject."
Neither of us spoke about it again until after dinner. Uncomfortable small talk filled the minutes until the waitress served us our dessert. As we ate in silence I decided to broach the subject one final time.
"Did you go to Greenville?"
Dad lifted his eyes and looked directly into mine. "Yes."
"And?"
"And what?"
I pushed aside my partially finished slice of cheesecake and leaned forward on my forearms. "If you would have died a few weeks ago, I would not have known much about your life before I was born. I am your son, and I want to know. I want to know what there is about baseball that makes you clam up."
"Why is this so important to you?"
The question made me stop and think about it. Why was it so important to me? I had never really thought about it that way. "Because," I began after collecting my thoughts, "you're my father. I love you. A few weeks ago, while I was driving to the hospital, I realized that someday you'll be gone. I want to know everything about your life, and I really don't know anything about it."
My dad placed his elbow on the tabletop and rested his head in his hand, rubbing his furrowed forehead and nodding in slow resignation.
And then he began to speak.
CHAPTER 2July 21, 1941
Summers in Southern Illinois are hot, and July 1941 was hotter and more humid than most. Sesser is a small country town in "downstate" Illinois, ninety miles southeast of St. Louis. Although the entire country had suffered from the ravages of the Great Depression, this small coal mining town was particularly hard hit. Ten years into the economic misery and not a sign of recovery was anywhere to be seen. Once a thriving little mining town, Sesser and its coal mine, Old Ben #9, were now all but spent. Only a skeleton crew remained to work the mine.
Dirt poor and seemingly dying, Sesser had its interesting quirks. The town's single strand of Christmas lights spanned Main Street between the old decaying Sesser Opera House and the now-closed Miners Building and Loan. The lights stayed up year-round, but were only switched on between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day.
Although most of Sesser's once-bustling downtown area was now empty, Bruno's Mine Shaft Inn, the local tap, was always busy. The town's men gathered there every evening to drown their sorrows in St. Louis' finest: Busch Beer. Bruno's atmosphere was dark and dingy. The elegant cherry woodwork had once reflected the craftsmanship of years past. Now the wood was chipped and dusty. Although clean, the hardwood floor creaked with every step and was in desperate need of refinishing.
Hanging on the wall, opposite the bar that stretched from the front window to the back of the long narrow room, was a reprint of the painting "Last Stand at The Alamo." The art had been commissioned by the now defunct Radeke Brewing Company of Kankakee and distributed to local beer joints in 1919. The old and dusty print featured Davy Crockett in his coonskin cap, swinging his trusted musket 'Ole Betsy' as a club to knock attacking Mexicans off the wall. The beautifully framed print was the focal point at Bruno's, and never failed to elicit animated discussion. The Alamo was one of America's defining moments, and it was not hard for the patrons to see similarities between the storm that engulfed the small mission and the tidal wave of despair and bad luck that had swept across Sesser. The town was now as dead as Crockett himself.
The talk in Bruno's usually focused on the misery of its patrons. Farms were little more than dust bowls. Little coal was coming from the mine. Few had enough to eat, and many had nothing at all except what others were willing to share. There were many things to argue and disagree about, but one thing nearly everyone in Sesser agreed upon: President Hoover had sold their lives down the river. "You vote Republican, you'll pick shit with the chickens," Bruno Pilate often proclaimed from behind the bar. The pronouncement was always answered by raised glasses and salutes to President Franklin D. Roosevelt.
There was also a popular topic of conversation of a more positive variety: "the kid." Sesser's townsfolk didn't have much, but they loved their baseball. "The kid" who was causing all the talk was a young local named Gene Moore, a teenager from a dirt-poor family living on the east side of the tracks. Gene had been tearing up the Sesser ball diamond, or what the locals called "The Lumberyard," in a loose reference to the faded sign hanging on the centerfield fence advertising "Huie Lumber."
The Cardinals were the favorite Major League team in these parts, but a trip to St. Louis and a ticket to the game were just a dream. So Sesser folk loved their Egyptians. The Southern Illinois team was a semi-pro organization made up of has-been players and young up-and-comers. On paper, the average age of the Egyptians was 27. Gene pulled the average down and skewed the true make-up of the team, however, because he was just 15. The Egyptians were the pride and joy of not just Sesser, but all of Southern Illinois. For reasons long since forgotten, this region of the state was known as "Little Egypt." Gene was the team's starting catcher, and was quickly becoming well known across the state — and beyond.
In baseball, a good catcher controls the game. He calms or fires up the pitcher, and calls for various pitches to be thrown. With a full view of the field, the catcher can move the defense around to better match his view of where the ball might be hit. At barely 15, Gene controlled the game — not just from behind the plate but also with his bat. He led the team in home runs, walks, and, of course, strikeouts. Gene Moore was a boy playing like a man, in a game played by men who act like boys.
The Egyptians' catcher was a big farm kid, six feet tall with his wide shoulders and a large frame set upon a pair of spindly legs. His hair was shiny, thick, and as black as the coal Sesser workers used to pull from Big Ben #9. When he slipped on his catcher's mask and squatted behind the plate, Gene looked like an all-star catcher in his mid-to-late twenties. It was not until he peeled off the mask that fans in the stands realized he was but a boy, too young to shave.
On July 21, 1941, Gene was warming up Davy Thompson in the bullpen a few minutes before the game. Davy was a tall, red-headed 23-year-old flamethrower. He was playing with the Egyptians during his recovery from a spring training injury he suffered with the Class C minor league team of the Detroit Tigers in Evansville. Almost fully healed, Davy was looking forward to returning to Evansville the following week.
"Come on Davy ... your slider's not sliding! Get your release up over your shoulder or they're gonna knock you off the mound today," spat Gene through his mask. The 15-year-old was coaching the pro pitcher with the confidence of a veteran. The odd thing was that Davy, eight years older than Gene, listened and responded with enthusiasm.
After a few more pitches, Davy was ready. He walked out of the bullpen, slipped his jacket over his arm, nodded and smiled to Gene, and headed for the bench.
The umpire was old Joe "Vino" Caveglia. Joe lived for baseball, and he had played the game passionately until his body no longer permitted it. Unable to stay away from ball park, he began calling games. Old Joe was the preferred umpire for any game played in and around Sesser.
"Vino" watched as the young catcher ambled onto the field and stood behind the plate. With his mask in hand, Gene looked over the Lumberyard. It was barely suitable for a game of baseball at any level. There were more weeds in the field than grass, and the weathered green bleachers were in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. Despite its ramshackle condition, The Lumberyard was home and all Gene could think of when he slipped his mask over his head was how much he loved to play the game. His thoughts were interrupted by a stranger's voice coming from behind the chicken-wire backstop.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Playing with the Enemy"
by .
Copyright © 2006 Gary W. Moore.
Excerpted by permission of Savas Beatie LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Preface and Acknowledgments,
Foreword by Jim Morris,
Introduction by John C. Skipper,
Chapter 1: The Letter,
Chapter 2: July 21, 1941,
Chapter 3: The Corner of Matthew and Mulberry,
Chapter 4: Sunday, July 22, 1940,
Chapter 5: Monday, August 6, 1940,
Chapter 6: The Long Road to Carlisle,
Chapter 7: In the Navy,
Chapter 8: Team Navy!,
Chapter 9: North Africa,
Chapter 10: Casablanca,
Chapter 11: War Games,
Chapter 12: Rumors,
Chapter 13: Reunion,
Chapter 14: U-505,
Chapter 15: Norfolk,
Chapter 16: Camp Ruston, Louisiana,
Chapter 17: Playing with the Enemy,
Chapter 18: The Berlin Bombers,
Chapter 19: We Have Guns!,
Chapter 20: Kraut Ball!,
Chapter 21: Fighting with the Enemy,
Chapter 22: The Final Innings,
Chapter 23: The Friendship Game,
Chapter 24: The Broken Purple Heart,
Chapter 25: Branch Rickey,
Chapter 26: Home, Again,
Chapter 27: Reality,
Chapter 28: Return of a War Hero,
Chapter 29: The Letter Arrives,
Chapter 30: Dark Night of the Soul,
Chapter 31: Resurrection,
Chapter 32: Reporting to Greenville,
Chapter 33: The Second Shot,
Chapter 34: Getting Back the Game,
Chapter 35: I Heard You Was a Hitter,
Chapter 36: The Perfect Day,
Chapter 37: The Day After Perfection,
Chapter 38: Frank Boudreau,
Chapter 39: Sacrifice Play,
Chapter 40: Is That the Story You Expected to Hear?,
Chapter 41: Old Friends,
Chapter 42: The Death of the Boy Who Loved to Catch,
Postscript,
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