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Overview
In 1965 George Gmelch signed a contract to play professional baseball with the Detroit Tigers organization. Growing up sheltered in an all-white, affluent San Francisco suburb, he knew little of the world outside. Over the next four seasons, he came of age in baseball’s Minor Leagues through experiences ranging from learning the craft of the professional game to becoming conscious of race and class for the first time.
Playing with Tigers is not a typical baseball memoir. Now a well-known anthropologist, Gmelch recounts a baseball education unlike any other as he got to know small-town life across the United States against the backdrop of the Vietnam War, civil rights protests, and the emergence of the counterculture. The social and political turmoil of the times spilled into baseball, and Gmelch experienced the consequences firsthand as he played out his career in the Jim Crow South. Playing with Tigers captures the gritty, insular, and humorous life and culture of Minor League baseball during a period when both the author and the country were undergoing profound changes.
Drawing from journals he kept as a player, letters, and recent interviews with thirty former teammates, coaches, club officials, and even former girlfriends, Gmelch immerses the reader in the life of the Minor Leagues, capturing—in a manner his unique position makes possible—the universal struggle of young athletes trying to make their way.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780803284852 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Nebraska |
| Publication date: | 02/01/2016 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 264 |
| File size: | 4 MB |
About the Author
George Gmelch is a professor of anthropology at the University of San Francisco and at Union College in Schenectady, New York. He is the author of fourteen books, including In the Field: Life and Work in Cultural Anthropology; In the Ballpark: The Working Lives of Baseball People, with J. J. Weiner (Bison Books, 2006); Inside Pitch: Life in Professional Baseball (Bison Books, 2006); and Baseball Beyond Our Borders: An International Pastime, with Dan Nathan (Nebraska, 2017).
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Read an Excerpt
Playing with Tigers
A Minor League Chronicle of the Sixties
By George Gmelch
UNIVERSITY OF NEBRASKA PRESS
Copyright © 2016 George GmelchAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8032-8485-2
CHAPTER 1
Ambition for the Game
While I don't remember exactly when baseball first gripped me, I did find some clues in letters my mother wrote to my father while he was on a business trip in Asia. "George is still very interested in baseball and plays every afternoon," she wrote in May 1954, when I was nine. Another day she noted, "It's drizzling, and the boys are still outside playing baseball and haven't come home. I hope they're not too wet." Her letters merely indicate that I, like so many American boys in the 1950s, with far fewer alternative games and pastimes than today, had a passion for baseball. At that time I only knew the sandlot variety.
Our field, one block away, was an uneven and rocky stretch of undeveloped land beneath a steep hillside in suburban San Mateo, California. It was slated to be bulldozed for new housing. Contrary to the adult-supervised Little League, we never had more than four or five players on a side. We were of mixed ages, and we made up the rules — hits only to one side of the field, two fouls and you're out! — we umpired our own games, and we resolved our own disputes. Finally, we set the sides as even as we could to keep the games close. The action was swift and continuous; we each got a dozen or more at bats and many chances in the field in a single afternoon. And we didn't pay much mind to winning or losing. I doubt that Little League could have given me the same passion for baseball. Sandlot ball was so much fun that I could hardly wait to get home from school to play. But wanting to pursue baseball as a career was a different matter. For that three vivid memories stand out.
Zion National Park, 1955
The first is from a family camping trip to Zion when I was eleven. I am pitching to my father, who is smoking a cigar, wearing a catcher's mitt, and squatting behind a square of cardboard serving as home plate. I'm throwing pretty hard, and the ball makes a loud pop as it strikes the leather, the sound amplified by the nearby canyon wall. Several Cub Scouts stop to watch. I overhear one of them comment on how hard I throw. I like the attention; it makes me feel special.
Yankee Stadium, 1956 World Series
The second memory is of attending my first Major League game when I was twelve. This isn't any ordinary regular-season game; it is Game Four of the 1956 World Series. The mythic New York Yankees, my team, are playing their cross-town archrivals, the Brooklyn Dodgers. My father, an executive in a San Francisco shipping company, was planning an East Coast business trip and had asked if I'd like to come along and see a World Series game. "Wow, can I?!" I asked. I remember my first glimpse, from a few blocks away, of Yankee Stadium, draped in World Series bunting, and then our emerging from the tunnel into the bright bowl of the "House That Ruth Built," with its vast expanse of green grass lined in white chalk and the huge wall of noisy fans. My dad holds my hand as we make our way through the crowd. There are sixty-nine thousand people in the stadium, and the atmosphere is electric. I am in awe. That awe is reinforced the next day as I watch alone — my dad is at a business meeting — Game Five on TV in our hotel room and see Don Larsen throw a perfect game, the only one in World Series history.
Fitzgerald Field, 1958
My third childhood memory is from two years later. I am in the eighth grade and have gone to Fitzgerald Field in my hometown of San Mateo, California, to watch the Baltimore Orioles play. They are not the real Baltimore Orioles. Like the other teams in the Peninsula Winter League, they carry the name and wear the uniforms of the Major League clubs that sponsor them. A few of the players, however, are Minor Leaguers. The grass is lush, and there is a stand of redwoods in right field, forcing the outfielders to chase down extra-base hits in the trees. The players are resplendent in the black-and-orange piping of their Orioles uniforms. I sit in the front row, right behind home plate. A tall player is standing in the batter's box, firmly dug in, his gaze fixed on the pitcher; a fastball whizzes inches from his chest, but he does not flinch. I wonder how he can be so sure the ball won't hit him. He seems brave, I think. On the bus ride home, an idea forms: I want to be a professional baseball player. Such an ambition must have seemed foolish at the time. I was a fair athlete but not a great baseball player. What talent I had was in pitching, yet I was now aspiring to be a great hitter. At thirteen, though, all things seem possible, at least to middle-class white kids. The affluent, hillside suburb of my youth was a world without limitations, one in which I could easily imagine myself playing first base for the New York Yankees.
Like most sons, I valued the same things as my dad, George Sr., a handsome man with blue eyes, a cleft chin, perfect teeth, and dark wavy hair who liked to fish, hunt, and talk baseball. So did I. I even liked his favorite foods: liverwurst, pickles, blue cheese, sourdough bread, and cracked crab. My father's baseball hero was Lou Gehrig, and even though the "Iron Horse" was long dead, I also revered him. My father, who had moved our family to the West Coast when I was two, told me that Lou Gehrig and Babe Ruth had once gone out on my grandfather's fishing boat off Long Island and that there was a picture of them on the boat hanging in the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. I was doubtful until years later, when visiting Cooperstown, I unexpectedly came upon the picture in the Babe Ruth exhibit on the second floor of the museum. But then a decade later when I tried to show it to my son, it was gone ... moved to basement storage.
My father was a self-made man, a plumber's son. Through hard work and intelligence — and without having set foot in a college classroom — he became the executive vice president of a large West Coast shipping line. His personal success made him a Republican and a big believer in the American Dream, whose material aspects could be seen in our comfortable house with a view of the bay, a two-car garage, a thirty-five-foot cruiser berthed at the St. Francis Yacht Club, and his memberships in golf, hunting, and men's clubs. The Bay Area's affluent suburbs were to him a Garden of Eden.
Although he listened to the Giants broadcast on radio, usually with an unlit cigar in the side of his mouth, he was also a passionate Yankees fan from his upbringing in Queens. He had once been a ballplayer, local semipro, so it was not surprising that he would encourage my new ambition, saying that I could be whatever I wanted if I was willing to work hard at it.
And that's what I did. With single-minded determination I practiced and practiced to develop my skills. A childhood friend, Chris Nelson, shared my dream. Together we went to the ballpark every chance we had — throwing BP to one another, hitting grounders and fungos, and playing games like workup, over the line, and home run derby. If the weather was inclement or the grass wet from the sprinklers, we'd play stickball. When there was no one to play with, I would throw a rubber-coated baseball, or semi, against our garage or swing a weighted bat. To strengthen my forearms, I carried a rubber ball to school and squeezed it secretly during class. At home I skipped rope and did chin-ups and sit-ups to strengthen other muscles. To increase my foot speed, I joined my Hillsdale High School cross-country team, declining invitations to play football from our young coach Dick Vermeil (who later led two NFL teams — the Eagles and Rams — to the Super Bowl). In summer I joined as many baseball leagues as I could, playing in as many as three at a time. I kept detailed records, entering my stats on a sheet after each game. I could always tell you my batting average in each league. I read books about baseball, both player biographies and the how-to-improve-your-game genre by big leaguers such as Harvey Kuenn and Ted Williams. I subscribed to Baseball Digest, the monthly magazine of baseball history and current doings. By age thirteen baseball had become the organizing principle of my life.
Although tens of thousands of youngsters across the country held the same dream of becoming a big leaguer, I doubt that many were as single-minded. Once, for example, I rode by bus with my brother, Walt, to a Giants game at Candlestick Park and then left in the sixth inning when I got the urge to go home and practice (a chilly fog rolling in probably contributed to my decision). That the horizons of my existence did not extend far beyond the baseball diamond became a concern of my high school English teacher Mr. Beltrame, who called my mother in for a conference to discuss how the school might broaden my interests. At the ceremony during which I was to be confirmed in the Lutheran Church, my pastor told the assembled parents and guests, after I badly fumbled the Twenty-Third Psalm, "George puts baseball before God." Surprisingly, when we got home after the ceremony, my parents didn't seem upset by my public humiliation. I got the feeling my dad was amused. My mother was just glad that I had a passion for something, anything, unlike most of my school friends.
About the only time my thoughts for the future turned from baseball occurred in mid-October 1962, when my family stockpiled food and water in our cellar and anxiously waited to find out if the "Cuban missile crisis" would end in mutual nuclear annihilation.
As a high school sophomore I asked my parents if I could go away to a summer baseball camp. My father, always frugal and practical, traits we attributed to his Depression-era upbringing, suggested that I put the money toward a pitching machine instead, which over the long haul might prove more beneficial than a few weeks of instruction. I opted for technology. We set aside a patch of our backyard for a batting cage. The area was on a steep incline and required building a retaining wall and then adding many yards of dirt fill to create a level surface. My father said I could have the space if I did the work. I excavated an area under our house for the earth fill, creating room for a basement workshop, while hauling hundreds of wheelbarrow loads down the hill. Not until the fill nearly reached the top of the wall did my dad order the $325 Dudley pitching machine. We covered the cage in chicken wire and put up lights so that I could hit at night. I found time every day to hit and would have put in even more hours had not the noise — the crack of bat striking ball — caused our neighbors to suggest a curfew: no hitting after nine o'clock.
The discipline paid off. By junior year in high school I led the team in hitting and had become a steady fielder (first base and outfield). "GMELCH BOYS BENEFIT FROM MACHINE AGE" ran a headline in the San Mateo Times sports section. My father built dugouts for the team, appearing before the school board to request permission and then getting local firms to donate the materials. The school board members approved, but only on condition that the dugouts were "secure," that is, had lockable doors at both ends to keep amorous couples out. Sadly, the tryst-proof design limited the interior space and legroom, making our new dugouts even less comfortable than what we had before when we sat outside on a wind-exposed bench. It left such a sour taste that my father never again got involved in local philanthropy.
Senior year I won all the honors — team captain, all-league, and most valuable player (MVP). I loved seeing my name in the Times sports section headlines: "GMELCH LEADS KNIGHTS TO VICTORY," "GMELCH HOMER FOR WIN," "GMELCH TIPS MILLS NINE," and, best of all, "GMELCH AGAIN." With each success on the field, baseball assumed a still larger role in my life, boosting my confidence and giving me an identity. Baseball was the first thing in life that I could do well. Sure, I'd become an Eagle Scout in record time, but in my mind that didn't hold a candle to baseball. Nor was it something that impressed teenage girls.
But as I graduated from high school in 1963 there were no offers to sign a professional contract. There had been scouts at my ball games. Deeply tanned, they were unmistakable in their slacks and alpaca sweaters, notebook and stopwatch in hand. But I hadn't caught their eye. They were there to watch other young stars, such as Wally Bunker, who just a few months out of Capuchino High would be pitching for the Baltimore Orioles, and Jan Dukes, Danny Frisella, Ron Law, and Norm Angelini, all of whom would someday also pitch in the big leagues. That summer as I led a strong American Legion League in hitting at a whopping .473, there was still no evidence of scouts following me. Near desperation, I phoned the local Baltimore Orioles bird dog, Paul Thibodeau, and, lowering my voice to pretend I was someone else, I asked him what he thought of "that Hillsdale kid, George Gmelch." His review was mixed, concluding that I was a "watch and follow." Thankfully, he never caught on that it was me on the other end.
In the fall I enrolled in nearby College of San Mateo, mostly for its excellent baseball program headed by a smart and dedicated coach, John Noce. I hoped to put up good numbers at CSM, attract the attention of scouts, and "sign." My ambition was also fueled, I now know, to attract the attention of pretty girls. My father also viewed college primarily as a place for me to play ball. Only my mother, a photographer and lifelong learner who was always enrolled in classes at the community college, appreciated college for the education it provided. My freshman year was a huge disappointment on the diamond, as I hit just .242. Discouraged and burned out, I took a break from baseball that summer to join friends on a two-month road trip. We towed a small boat and camped and fished our way through the Northwest and western Canada.
At the start of the new baseball season, after taking the summer off, I felt refreshed. Voted team captain, I got off to a good start in preseason games. I was back on track. But when league play began, I went into a dismal prolonged slump, collecting just one hit in twenty-seven at bats. Coach Noce called me aside and said he'd have to bench me if I didn't start producing, despite my being captain. I changed my uniform number from 7 to 8, hoping to find some luck, and that day I busted out, hitting a clutch home run in each end of a doubleheader. After that my bat never cooled off, as I hit .458 the rest of the season. I soon noticed that Detroit Tigers scout Bernie DeViveiros was following me. After a game in San José, he finally introduced himself, complimented my play, and asked some questions about my interest in playing pro ball versus staying in college. I was elated and eager to get home to tell my mother and father.
On April 29, 1965, our team was playing a doubleheader against Contra Costa College. Bernie DeViveiros was there at Fitzgerald Field, sitting high in the stands above third base. In the first inning I hit an opposite-field triple to deep left-center but then got picked off at third base. As I walked back to the dugout, I saw Bernie get up and leave the ballpark. I was certain he was leaving because I had been carelessly picked off. What followed was the best day in baseball I ever had, as I drove in eleven runs with seven hits, including two triples and three home runs. The last home run cleared the redwood trees in right-center and four lanes of El Camino Real before hitting a building on the far side. It was a monster shot. The image of the baseball clearing the redwood trees is still fixed in my mind's eye. A local sportswriter wrote about my "booming bat" and nicknamed me "Long Gone." This was the wood-bat era, when home runs were not common in amateur baseball. My three home runs that day were more than most of my teammates hit the entire season.
But Bernie hadn't been there to see it. I couldn't believe my bad luck. When I got home I was both elated and depressed. The next day I called the New York Yankee area scout, Dolph Camilli, who had once been my coach and was Bernie's friend. I told Dolph what had happened. The implied message of my telephone call was that I was eager to sign with the Tigers. Bernie was at my next game and afterward asked if he could come around to my home to meet my parents and talk about my signing with the Tigers. This was just two weeks before the first-ever free-agent draft.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Playing with Tigers by George Gmelch. Copyright © 2016 George Gmelch. Excerpted by permission of UNIVERSITY OF NEBRASKA PRESS.
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Table of Contents
Contents
List of Illustrations,Acknowledgments,
Introduction,
1. Ambition for the Game,
2. Breaking In: Duluth-Superior Dukes,
3. Wearing Kaline's Pants: Jamestown Tigers,
4. A Little Wildness: Jamestown Tigers,
5. Spring Training: Tiger Town,
6. Putting Up Numbers: Daytona Beach Islanders,
7. Moving Up: Daytona to Rocky Mount,
8. Double Passage: The Carolinas,
9. Southern Exposure: The Rocky Mount Leafs,
10. When the Cheering Stops: The Rocky Mount Leafs,
11. Exiled: The Québec Provincial League,
12. Lights Out: Drummondville Les Royaux,
Epilogue,
Appendix: What They Did after Baseball,
Notes,