Halfway & Hot

Casey Stengel was floating on a fleecy cloud. In his managerial cubbyhole at Yankee Stadium, Casey reclined dreamily upon a sofa, his short, crooked legs crossed, his gnarled hands clasped behind his head. "Best ball club I ever had," he kept repeating softly, as though he liked the sound of the words. Last week, at the season's halfway mark, his New York Yankees were leading the American League by six games.

Connie Mack's hustling Philadelphia A's kept pecking away at the win bag, but never seemed quite able to beat the Yankees when it counted most. In Cleveland, the World Champion Indians were still trying to figure out how they happened to be trailing by six games (after a bootstrap pull-up from seventh to second place). But nothing matched the Boston Red Sox's consternation; the Yankees were calling them "cousin" after walloping them in five games out of six.

Hypnotic Suggestion. Nobody could believe that Boston, man-for-man the classiest club in baseball (except for pitching), was as bad as it seemed. The Red Sox sluggers, Ted Williams and Vern Stephens, were leading the league in home runs and runs-batted-in. The whole club was hustling, playing heads-up ball, and yet they were 9 1/2 games behind.

Confessed Manager Joe McCarthy, breaking his clamp-jawed silence: "My nerves are just about shot. I'll have to do something about it or go nuts." He nearly did one day last week when his Red Sox, trailing the Yankees 3-2 in the ninth, got a hit with the bases loaded and failed to score a run. Base-runner John Pesky began a dash for the plate, decided to go back and tag-up at third in case the ball was caught, fell down, got thrown out at the plate. Next day, by way of saving McCarthy's sanity, the Sox launched a seven-game winning streak.

It was a zany season; even the weather was out of order. By mid-June, a month ahead of schedule, diamonds were baked concrete-hard, taking a lot of the pep out of older players. In St. Louis, where the heat really pours down, a hypnotist offered to help lift the Browns out of the American League cellar free of charge.

Around the circuits, television was having an effect on attendance (down slightly from 1948) and on the behavior of ballplayers (mugging for the cameras). White Sox Manager Jack Onslow talked of fining one of his pitchers for rolling the catcher's return-throw up one arm, across his shoulders and down the other--for the amusement, Onslow thought, of taproom video friends.

Hypothetical Cinch. On the other hand, Casey Stengel, 57, for years baseball's No. 1 buffoon, had stopped clowning. He had not been thrown out of a game all season. When his star, Joe DiMaggio, was counted out with a sore heel before the season opened, Casey camouflaged his fears. A knowing wink was all anybody got out of him though Casey knew least of anybody what he was winking about.

When a flood of other injuries hit the squad, Casey had a benchful of young talent ready. Second-Baseman Snuffy Stirnweiss got hurt, and hustling Rookie Jerry Coleman not only filled in but took Stirnweiss' job away from him. Casey's handling of his young ballplayers was superb. He held wide-open competition for jobs, operated a two-platoon system at first and third base, developed a hopped-up club that played more like the old St. Louis Cardinals' Gashouse Gang than the dignified Yankees.

Casey's youngsters and a couple of old pros, Outfielder Tommy Henrich and Shortstop Phil Rizzuto, took turns snatching ball games out of the fire until the Big Guy (J. DiMaggio) returned. Then the Big Guy took over in a blaze of glory (four home runs in the first three games), making everybody forget that Henrich was out of the lineup last week with a bad knee.

Casey himself was awed at the course of events, suspecting that some tongue-in-cheek genie was at his elbow making the hard way look easy. If his pitching staff, headed by big (185-lb.) Vic Raschi with 13 wins and three losses, didn't waver down the stretch, Charles Dillon Stengel was a gold-plated cinch for manager-of-the-year.

Putty v. Power. In the National League, mid-season found the fast & furious Brooklyn Dodgers in command, with the panting St. Louis Cardinals breathing down their necks.

The Dodgers started out in April with what looked like a million-dollar pitching staff (Ralph Branca, Rex Barney, et al.) and two-bits' worth of power at the plate. But right under the bushy eyebrows of Branch ("The Brain") Rickey, the Dodger pitching arms turned to putty. What kept Brooklyn "berling" was a surprising splurge of batting power. Negro Second-Baseman Jackie Robinson was knocking the cover off the ball and leading the league with an average of .358. Teammate Gil Hodges, who came up as a third baseman, was switched to catcher and then to first base, was the runs-batted-in leader with 65. As usual, the Dodgers could outrun all opposition.

Whether they could outrun the Cardinals for the National League pennant depended principally on Stan ("The Man") Musial. If All-Star Outfielder Musial, now hitting considerably under par at .293, began making noises with his bat, it might be a race right to the wire. Whether the Boston Braves, last year's pennant winners, could make it a three-club race depended a good deal on whether Manager Southworth's star righthander, Johnny Sain, could recover the form that won 24 games last year. His mid-season record: won 6, lost 9.

None of the other five clubs seemed to have a chance to catch the leaders.

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