The pastime Lives On

 by Doug Fowler


   It was a mild spring afternoon and the 1949 baseball season was recently underway in 
America. Philip Callahan looked around himself. He was in a small mining town in Oklahoma 
named Commerce.  A town about as far removed from the war's harsh realities as anyplace could 
be.  And yet with all the rationing, the occasional civil defense drills, and other subtle but real 
signs – the war hit home even in middle America.
   His employer was pretty far away, too. Kansas City was still a lot better than Philadelphia. 
Much further from potential German bombers and missiles, bombers and missiles that could 
devastate the eastern seaboard if you believed the wilder roomers about Nazi "wonder weapons". 
Oh, the Phillies stayed but there were always concerns in these early days of the war against 
Germany. Economic hardship had driven the Athletics to Kansas City in 48', but now they were 
extra glad they were away. The Braves had left Boston early this year for the same reasons, 
fleeing to Milwaukee. 
   The Red Sox - well, they were staying put, too. So did the Cardinals, White Sox, and 
Cubs. Their cities wouldn't die. Morale would remain in those places, as with New York.  Though  
the White Sox at least hinted at the possibility of leaving. Baltimore looked inviting, although the 
risk of one of those Nazi submarines sneaking in there and spreading germs or saboteurs kept 
others from considering a move there. The Browns had moved to Los Angeles in 1942 but they 
were on the West coast and Japan was as good as finished.  
   Phil, as he was called, considered the story of how Babe Ruth had saved baseball after 
the Black Sox scandal. Morale in America was as low as it had been for a long time; now that 
they were fighting on two fronts. Baseball's mood was just as bad, partly because they had had 
teams moving around due to bad attendance(though the war made a convenient excuse of 
course) and partly due to the lack of players. His own Athletics, 1944 league champs before 
losing to the Cardinals in the Series, had lost all of their best players.
   The "Splendid Splinter", Ted Williams, had left for the service in early 47' after a few at 
bats. Then, after 2 .400 seasons, a Triple Crown, and a .359 lifetime average, he was shot down 
on a bombing run over Formosa and was made a paraplegic. When they waived the 10-year 
career rule and inducted him into the Hall of Fame no one had dared to seriously object.
Baseball needed a savior. Oh, the colored ballplayers were good. Jackie Robinson, Roy 
Campanella, Willie Mays. But people needed time to adjust to integration and the young colored 
players needed time to develop. And Uncle Sam was starting to draft colored men along with 
everyone else. Mays had been brought up a year or two early, at only 17. But, you had to do that 
in this era. The rosters were starting to resemble Soviet conscript battalions, full of men too young 
or too old. Jimmy Foxx had even played a bit for the Series champion Red Sox last year. Foxx 
was what, 40 then?!  Unheard of in this day and age, except for the war.  
   And, if you had a superstar in the minors, you had to bring him up and get him some 
playing time just in case he got shipped off to fight - maybe you could get a little use out of him. 
Yes, baseball needed a savior. America needed an icon. Lots of people liked Jackie Robinson 
and the Dodgers, but the big stars were disappearing quickly. Bob Feller's, with his back-to-back 
30 win seasons in 44' and 45' and World Series title in 1945 for Cleveland, was at war. Hank 
Greenberg's home runs were gone, he was too old and was now in officer's school. Joe DiMaggio 
and numerous others were away fighting. Stan Musial was too quiet and not the great slugger like 
Ruth.     
   Then, as he sat pondering the war and baseball's prospects, a baseball soared past him. 
It had come from the field - 500 feet away!  He went and watched the game for awhile. The next 
time up, the man turned around to bat left handed - and hit it almost as far. This...this superman 
with a local company team, and crushing that baseball! 
   Phil's mouth watered. His employer would not only have a prospect on their hands, they 
could even bring him up right away. He hated to be that drastic, that over-excited, as bonus 
babies had petered out before.  But, America needed an icon.  And, just one state below, in a 
little mining town, Phil thought he'd found it.  If only he could keep the man from being drafted 
everything would be perfect. 
   "Pardon me, I couldn't help but notice your long home runs," he said after he introduced 
himself.  "What's your name?" 
   "Mickey Mantle."  
   And then the scout learned that the man would be 4-F due to osteomyilitis - and no other team 
had found him. Scouting was scarce enough these days. The Mick would graduate from school a 
few weeks later, and sign with the Kansas City A's.  Dreams could come true, Phil told himself.