Who would have ever thought the summer of 2020 would leave Philadelphia fans without baseball? Every season since the late 19th century, including those during two world wars, we turned from the troubles of the world to the exhilaration of the pennant race.
Two of those years stand out in my memory, one 90 years ago and one 70. During those years our city featured two major league teams to capture our passions, the Fightin’ Phils and Connie Mack’s A’s. It was rare, however, to find a fan who cheered for both; if you rooted for one you roasted the other. That’s how our city was split then.
I was born an avid A’s fan. Living across the street from the old Shibe Park with rooftop bleachers to accommodate customers, we reveled over -- and profited from -- the performance of the amazing A’s. My earliest memories, now 90 years ago, are of the A’s teams that dethroned the supposedly indominable Yankees dynasty featuring Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig. The entire city of 1.5 million was alive with uncontained pride. Residents of the Big Apple could no longer treat us as some backwater town. We had shown them!
When I asked my father if Jimmy Foxx and Al Simmons were better than Ruth and Gehrig, he said it was a close call. But Lefty Grove and the rest of our pitching made the difference.
Philadelphia loved Connie Mack
My grandfather, a diehard Phillies follower, contended that Chuck Klein and Lefty O’Doul were certainly superior to any of the four American League sluggers. A plumber, who set his own work schedule, he always managed to be sitting in our stands with one of his cronies before the first pitch, provoking A’s fans and swearing that the cellar-dwelling Phillies were a more exciting team than the league-leading A’s of Connie Mack.
Mack was lauded by the entire city. He was the recipient of the 1929 Bok Award honoring "the most outstanding Philadelphia citizen.” Albert Barnes, head of the Barnes Foundation and Art Gallery, called him the greatest artist of all time, in recognition of the masterpiece he had created.
Adding to the atmosphere of good feeling was his conduct on and off the field. Not only did he win, but he won in an admirable way. Unlike many managers who browbeat their players and went jaw-to-jaw with umpires, Mack comported himself as a gentleman and dressed the part.
My friends and I often watched him ride by on a game day from his home on Lincoln Drive. Sitting upright in his open town car, wearing one of his stylish hats (a derby, a boater or a homburg), or if the day was chilly, draped in a Burberry, he acknowledged our vigorous waving and shouts of "Hi Connie!" with a glance in our direction and a dignified nod.
Mack was a snazzy dresser ... and a gentleman
In the dugout, he dressed and conducted himself in the same way. I often watched him from our rooftop stands, as he calmly positioned players with a simple wave of his scorecard. He treated them gently and respectfully, always insisting that he could get better results by kindness.
But Mack, a many sided man, provided his critics with plenty of ammunition too. His friend, sportswriter Red Smith, characterized him as "tough and warm and wonderful, kind and stubborn and courtly and unreasonable and generous and calculating and naive and gentle and proud and humorous and demanding and unpredictable..”
He was well aware that baseball was a business, and in managing that business, he acquired a well-deserved reputation as a tightwad. He had risen from player to manager to part owner, and his lack of an independent income forced him to be more concerned with the team's financial position than their position in the standings. He once claimed it was best to get off to a fast start and end up in fourth place, drawing enough fans to show a profit, yet not having to give anyone a raise. Even when they won the pennant, in 1931,he told Lefty Grove (who had won 31 games) he could not give him a raise, adding that he was lucky to have a job. Grove later said he loved the game so much he would have pitched for nothing, but was afraid to say that for fear that’s exactly what he would get.
Following that pennant-winning season, and with the Great Depression affecting income, Mack began selling off his star players. Their standing in the league plummeted, and so did attendance. Some enterprising fans had always provided entertainment by scaling the 12-foot right-field fence and skittering across the field to seats in the stands. Now, as the numbers attempting to avoid paying admission increased, they had to dodge a stream from a fire hose. It was the only water they would get, as Mack had turned off water fountains in the stands to boost soft drink sales.
A's build the 'Spite Fence'
Homeowners on our street had been charging 50 cents for admission (the same price as bleacher seats in the ballpark). One family, who rented their home, dropped the charge to a quarter, and soon we all followed. Mack and the rest of the A’s management, irate that we were drawing fans away from the ballpark, had been feuding with us for years. Finally. they had enough. The infamous spite fence (as it was dubbed) was raised in right field blocking the view of the game from our rooftops.
For the next 20 years neither of our teams came close to winning a pennant. Some good years, more not so good. But as the 1950 season approached, hopes were high once again.
Twice before, Mack had sold off stars of pennant-winning teams, languished for a while in the second division, and gradually reassembled a winner. Could the “Grand Old Man of Baseball” pull it off again?” The season started on a note of optimism. After three straight winning seasons, the hope that springs eternal in Philadelphia fans had the A’s contending for the top spot. It was the golden jubilee of Mack's reign as manager, and the club rallied to the slogan: "One more pennant for Connie!"
Alas. It was not to be. Mack's team got off to a poor start and sank deeper into the cellar as the season progressed. They finished with a 52-102 record, 46 games behind the Yankees. Interest faded just as fast, and attendance declined to a mere 309,805 for the year.
Philadelphia began embracing the Phillies
Fan interest had shifted to the Phillies. Manger Eddie Sawyer had put together a young, exciting team including star pitchers Robin Roberts and Curt Simmons, indomitable reliever Jim Konstanty, speedster Richie Ashburn and power hitters Andy Seminick, Dell Ennis and Willie Jones. They were now drawing over a million fans each year.
They split the preseason City Series with the A’s, got off to a fast start, and led the league for most of the season. Then came the slump. The defending champion Brooklyn Dodgers, with Jackie Robinson’s dynamic play leading the way, began gaining ground. On Sept. 6, I was sitting in the right-field stands hoping against hope we could take both games of the doubleheader against them.
Instead, Dodgers’ fireballer Don Newcombe, who had joined the Dodgers the previous season after staring in the Negro League (two years after Jackie Robinson had broken the color barrier) silenced their bats and extended their slump, pitching a two-hit shutout.
Still, I felt confident we would take the second game and hang on to our shaky lead. Then, glancing over at the bullpen, I wondered, “Why is Newcombe warming up? I knew before I asked. He was going to pitch the second game! He battled for seven innings but, the Phils hung on and pulled off a win.
The final game of the season was in Brooklyn, and featured a familiar battle between each team’s star right-handers Robin Roberts and Don Newcombe, both 19-game winners. I should say we hoped it would be the final game. A Dodgers’ win would mean a tie in the pennant race and the need for a playoff. The whole city was agog about the game in Brooklyn that day as we sat glued to our radios and the teams battled into extra innings. When Dick Sisler’s three-run homer in the 10th clinched the pennant for the Phillies, one massive roar spread over the city. The Whiz Kids had done it!
That same day, in Shibe Park a mere 1,387 fans were on hand to see Mack manage his last game. It was a sad occasion despite the A's 5-3 win against Washington. At the age of 87, Mack had faded along with the team; he suffered lapses of memory, dozed off during games, and made eccentric managerial decisions.
It was a far cry from his glory years when he won nine pennants, and five World Series. His record 3,731 wins and a more troubling 3,948 losses should last as long as the game is played. He continued to receive tributes, and the team, under his sons, Roy and Earle, continued to lose games and money. A sportswriter commented that it was the first time in history that the sons had become senile before the father. The ballpark, built in 1909, had deteriorated as well. For sportswriter and historian Rich Wescott it conjured memories of its pressbox, where amid “..the smell of creosote…under the bubbling tar paper of the old firetrap” they sat grilling their hot dogs.
In 1953, Shibe Park was renamed Connie Mack Stadium. In 1957, he was honored with a statue placed in the square across Lehigh Avenue from the ballpark (where those of us from the neighborhood regularly played our own games). You can still see the statue today in its spot along Citizens Bank Way.
In 1954, the family reluctantly agreed to sell, and the team was relocated to Kansas City. At age 93, the Grand Old Man of baseball passed on and was laid to rest in Holy Sepulcher Cemetery.