From: "Katz, Marc" <mkatz@coxohio.com>
To: <jewishmajorleaguers@rcn.com>
Sent: Friday, November 04, 2005 1:55 PM
Subject: Limmer
The interviews were held Jan. 10-11, 2005. They were among the most enjoyable interviews I have ever conducted.
By Marc Katz
His wife Pearl made lunch on one of those delightfully warm Florida days when one forgets about winter back home in the east with its attendant snow, and concentrates on the good life of retirement as an octogenarian.
With a clear mind, Lou Limmer proved to be a delightful interview, not only because he could recall most of the moments, but because he seemed so unaffected by his celebrity and was happy to share any information he could.
Limmer played two seasons with the old Philadelphia Athletics in the American League in the 1950s, and is credited not only with connecting for
the last home run of that organization while in Philly, but also the last hit, both in 1954. The A's moved to Kansas City the next year as baseball
exploded into its first relocation period.
Only two years before - just prior to the 1953 season - the National League Boston Braves became the first franchise to move in 50 seasons when
the team moved to Milwaukee. With the dam leaking, the American League St. Louis Browns moved to Baltimore for 1954, and then it was time for
Philadelphia to move < and, finally, by the end of the decade, the Dodgers and Giants with the Senators close behind.
This was Limmer's time.
Except for a portable oxygen tank he uses much < but not all < of the day, it would be difficult to determine Lou Limmer was sick. He has
emphysema, which he insists is not getting better, and occasionally he will stop talking to catch his breath or just relax.
A moderate smoker at one time, he said his condition is a result of his post-baseball business, which was a refrigeration company. His work
involved much spray painting, and safeguards in the 1960s and 1970s were not a stringent as they are now.
While obviously not in shape to play baseball, he is still a towering figure at 6-foot-2, comfortably above his listed playing weight of 190,
yet appearing in good shape. What hair he has left is graying, and although his 80th birthday was March 10, 2005, his mind is sharp and every incident mentioned in his life rekindles a story.
He and his wife Pearl < who lived across the street from him in the Bronx when they were growing up < have been married since 1949. They have
two grown boys and four grandchildren. One of his sons and his family lives in New York. The other is in New Mexico. Daniel, his youngest son, was once drafted by Minnesota, but did not reach the majors.
Lou wears a prominent Mogan Dovid on a chain around his neck.
On the first day, he wore a dark blue collarless shirt with white stripes and we ate lunch in his Boca Raton condo, which was wonderful. We
talked for more than three hours, and he seemed to get stronger the longer we visited, although he did tire a little at the end.
I told him I wanted to return the next day to get his story in a more chronological order. He said fine.
The next day, he wore a dark blue polo with an A's logo from his Philadelphia days and told me he had a restless night and was a little
under the weather.
As we began talking, I told him I would only take about an hour of his time, and he was wearing his oxygen tubes.
Despite what he said about his health, he appeared to be even stronger than the day before, and the interview stretched to about two hours. A
little more than halfway through, he took off his oxygen tubes and told stories better than ever. He remembered names and places, failing only a
few times to recall a teammate or opponent's name, and only occasionally getting chronology out of order.
Recalling events from more than a half century before, he can be forgiven for that.
Lou Limmer:
I pinch hit for Joe Tipton on my first trip to Yankee Stadium as a player and I hit a ninth-inning home run off Vic Raschi.
I never touched the ground. I started rounding the bases and Kermit Wahl was on in front of me, looking at the homer that went out, and I almost
passed him on the bases. He turned around and caught me, 'cause I would have passed him.
He put his hand on my chest and he said, "Wait a minute, you bush SOB. Relax." And I said, "Hurry up, hurry up, get off the bases."
I wanted to get off. So we rounded the bases and I got into the dugout and (manager) Jimmy Dykes said, "You don't look so good." I was white as a
sheet. "You better go in the clubhouse. I think you're going to puke."
And I did.
I was so excited. That was the greatest thing in the world. Not only that, my family was there. When we were walking home up the hill after the
game, kids asked me for my autograph. When I finished, my mom said to me, "You know, from you, I got nachas."
That was the greatest thing that happened to me in baseball. Other than that home run, when she said that, that's what you're here for. Your
parents are just so proud of you.
I was a kid and I liked the name Tigers, not just because Hank Greenberg played for them. Of course I was a New York fan, too. I liked the Yankees, Giants and Dodgers.
I played two years in the majors, in 1951 and 1954. A few years ago, my wife and I went to see the picture Bull Durham. All of the sudden, they
sent Kevin Costner back to the minors. I left. I went home. I didn't stay for the finish.
That struck home. That hurt me, 'cause I know I was able to play, and I couldn't finish. I never got the chance. Did I enjoy playing ball? I
would do it all over again, even with all the heartaches I had.
I grew up in a big family - 12 kids, eight brothers and four sisters. I was the youngest. Three of them were born in the old country, in Austria.
My parents moved here well before World War I, but they went back a couple of times.
In the old country, my father, Charles, was a Roman Greco wrestler. My mother's name was Elizabeth. My father was a waiter.
My two brothers, the oldest and next to the oldest, they were wrestlers.
They had to make a few extra dollars, so they did wrestling on the side. And my brother Ralph was a contender for the middleweight crown, in boxing.
My mother used to watch the wrestling and boxing, and one day she went to see my brother box. She didn't like it.
Going down the isle to go home, my mother sees him and says, 'Itzik' < his name was Isadore Ralph, Itzik < he said, "Yeah, mom, I won," and he
didn't even have it all out and she gave him a smack across the mouth, and he never fought again. She didn't like that. Somebody else can fight, but
not my boy. That was the end of him. She wasn't going to let him fight.
One sister, Sally, was a model for the Powers Agency, and another, Helene, was a New York state swimming champion. My brother Alex was a New York state fencing champion and brother Oscar a track star. At one point, he held the world record in the 1,000-yard relay, which they don't run anymore. Oscar also played for the New York (football) Giants before he went into the service. Two other sisters became housewives.
Only Ralph (age 86) and Sally (age 88) are still living besides me. We had an Orthodox home. I mean strictly. Everyone was bar mitzvahed, except my brother Ralph. He was the run-around. You couldn't find him if you wanted to find him. He wasn't bar mitzvahed until he was 73, in my shul.
I was president of my shul for five years. And my brother Ben at the time was 83. And my brother Ralph, who you couldn't find to go to Hebrew
school, he became bar mitzvahed at 73. It was in the Bronx. So he was bar mitzvahed next to my older brother, Ben.
We had a strictly kosher home. In fact, when I got married we were strictly kosher because her mother who lived with us 35 years < may she
rest in peace < lived with us. But after awhile, I wasn't strictly kosher. But when it came to the meats in the house, everything was kosher.
As far as the dishes were concerned, that was a different story. That was my fault. But it was strictly kosher as far as foods were concerned.
We lived in a great big house in Far Rockaway, in Queens. We had a car. The next thing I know, I was living in a tenement house on Washington
Ave., in the Bronx. The Depression came.
With 10 kids in the house < two of them were married already < we were sleeping three kids in a bed. In the winter time, it was pretty warm.
That's when I found out we were living in a small house. My dad lost all that money in the Depression. My brother, too.
When you're that young, what did you know? They put clothes on your back and they fed you three meals a day. It's like a baby. Feed me, love me,
change me and take care of me. That's all.
My father was listening to the baseball games on the radio and every time he would hear a name < Sam Chapman's name was mentioned < and with the "man," he'd say, "Is he Jewish?" I said "No." He knew Greenberg was Jewish. He said, "Is he Jewish?" I said, "Yeah." And he said, "Then I like the Tigers."
When I was a kid, Greenberg played ball at nearby Crotona Park. I'd run in there and grab a bat and take it away from home plate < we called it
jerking the bats. At that time, they had maybe only two bats to a team. But, hey, man, I was there. I just wanted to be with the baseball players.
Years later, Greenberg remembered me for doing that, but we had a problem.
When the A's sent me down, he (Greenberg, now Cleveland's general manager) said Cleveland would pick me up. They wanted to buy me. I called
him up and said, "Hank, the A's are sending me down. Here's your chance. They're looking to option me out." He says, "Well, Lou, I let one of their
guys go by, they let one of my guys go by." Since that time, I didn't see eye to eye with Hank Greenberg. Although he was a nice guy.
I was a left-handed pitcher and a better pitcher than hitter, in semi-pro games. Well, listen, I was big for my age. In those times in
semi-pro, guys would bet $5 a man or $20 a man, or their teams would bet against one another and put up a jackpot of money.
Anyway, I was a pitcher. I was big for my age. I was 14. Well, one day, it was a late afternoon game on Saturday, and I said my prayers with my
father, and I pitched that day. And I not only won and got $25, but I bet on myself, and I came home with $50. My dad called me a bum and said,
"Where'd you steal that money from? Did you steal it?" I said, "No, I got it from playing baseball."
And he said, "You play baseball?" I said, "Dad, that's what I got." So Sunday, I had to say my prayers also. It made no difference what day of
the week it was (to say prayers). And they called me from downstairs and said, "Hey, Bummy, come on, you gonna play ball?" And my father says, "You gonna play ball today?" And I said "Yeah." And he said, "You go." Before that, he wouldn't let me go play ball. When he found out I was
getting paid to play baseball, he said, "Go ahead, you go."
I went to Manhattan Aviation High School and in those days, the newspapers picked the better ball players in the city and put them in the
papers. And my name was in the paper, so the Dodgers sent me a tryout letter. Mickey McConnell wrote me from the Dodgers to come for a tryout at
Ebbets Field. They didn't ask my age. They thought I was a senior, because when you're in the paper, they figure it's your graduation year. But I was
a sophomore then. I just started.
I hate to brag, but I hit five over the clock in Ebbets Field, which is only 290 feet, but I hit it over there. I out-ran everybody and I
out-threw everybody and when it was over and they picked up kids, and they asked how old are you, and they wanted to sign me. I said I was only 14. They said, well, you better go home and come back when you're 16. And they sent me home. When I was a senior, Whitey Ford was just coming in. He was just like me, a left-handed pitcher and first baseman.
I went to Nebraska for six months after high school. I had a scholarship to go to any college in the country academically. I didn't
have any languages, but everything else was there. I was going to go to medical school, but when they showed me the cadavers, that was it. I couldn't do that. I went home. I was too stupid to follow it (an education) up. I went before I went into the Army.
First, though, I went to up-state New York < Rome < and pitched with Lynn Lovenguth, who was a pro and later pitched in the majors.
It was an industrial league. There was a cable company and a tire factory and an army air base. And they had baseball teams to have activity
for the soldiers and the civilians who were working. And, of course, the International League (Class AAA) was up there at that time.
I was a pitcher then. When I wasn't pitching, I was playing first base. I hit a home run off Lovenguth in one of those games. And, listen, when I
was a pitcher, I averaged 15 strikeouts a game. I pitched in four games. I lost one. I was a better pitcher than hitter. I could throw hard. I didn't
walk anybody.
When it came time to join the service, I wanted to be in the Navy, but I couldn't pass the color blind test. They mixed numbers in with different
colors. So I stood by and memorized the numbers and got back in line. I don't know if the guy recognized me or not, but I made a mistake.
I got so excited, I'd read numbers before they even turned the page. And then the guy took out another book. And I read the numbers and I thought, I'm in, but it was the color blind book. And that was the end of that.
I had tried to get into the Navy with my brother Oscar, but they wouldn't let me. So we both went back to the Air Corps and I became a
flight engineer. We got split up after that.
One day in Biloxi, Miss., I was working in the cowling of a B29 when a fire broke out inside as we were fueling.
I jumped out of the hold and tore a muscle in my shoulder. That was the end of my pitching career. It's lucky I didn't get hit by the propeller. After that, my shoulder would pop out.
When I got up to the big leagues, they didn't know I had a bad arm. I couldn't throw too good. I threw underhand and I threw over hand to keep
my shoulder from popping out. Wally Moses taught me how to throw overhand when I got to the big leagues. They told me if I wanted to shut people up, shut them up with your bat. And that's how I got to the big leagues.
I thought the shoulder would get better, but it never did. Today, with an operation, it would have been a snap. I had x-rays taken on it 15-20
years ago and the doctor said, "Did you ever have polio?" I said no. Because now it's all worn out in there.
I got out of the service in 1946 and went to work with my brother Ralph in the commercial refrigeration business in the Bronx. I was also playing
sandlot baseball and a scout for the A's - George Halpren - saw me and invited me to Philadelphia for a tryout.
I worked out with them for a week and one day I was in the batting cage and the regulars came out. This is why I love Sam Chapman so much. I was just out of the service and the regulars wanted to hit. One of their guys said, "Come on, you bush SOB, get out of there. We got to hit."
And Sam Chapman comes up and says, "Let the kid alone. I might learn something," because he was in a slump at the time and thought he might
find something. And he let me hit for another 10 minutes. They were as mad as hell but he was my hero.
Connie Mack - who was 83 at the time and still owned the team and was the manager < watched it all from the stands at Shibe Park, and he called me up into the stands.
He said, "Listen, young man" < I'm giving this to you slow, the way he talked < "Young man. . .we like. . .the way. . .you play. And we'd like. .
.to have. . .you join. . .our organization."
I said, "Oh, Mr. Mack, that would be fantastic." And he said, "Well, we have a Double A team and an A team and do you know what that is?" And I didn't know what that was. I was just out of the Army. I didn't know nothing. I wanted to go to the big leagues. He said, "Well, you're not good enough for that." He said, "We have a Double A," and I said, "Okay, I'll go to double A." And he said, "Well, you have to learn a little more." Then he said to me, "Do you want to be a star in D ball or do you want to be a so-so in Double A?" I said, "I'll be a star in D."
The Phillies had given a couple of big bonuses a few weeks before, and I said to Mr. Mack < everybody called him Mr. Mack < I said, well, these
other players got bonuses, and I think I deserve some more money, too.
Then he did his heart routine. He grabbed his heart and went, "Ugh, ugh. . .we don't...usually do that. . .young man." When I saw him do that, I
got scared. I thought he was going to die.
I said, "Okay, okay Mr. Mack. I'll sign, I'll sign." Right away, he got better. "Go see Ira Thomas up in the office. He'll take care of you.” But in the beginning, I thought he was going to die. And when I finished with him, all the ball players later told me that was an act with this guy. He gave me a bonus of $200. That was the whole bonus. And he sent me to D ball for $300 a month. That was a lot of money down there then. It was usually $75 a month. But he gave me a bonus of $200 and I had to pay my own way on the bus home.
And I cried all the way home. When I left the park, the scout downstairs from the Braves, he said, "Hey Louie, I been watching you work out, how'd
you make out?" I said, "Oh great, I signed." He said, "You mean to say the A's signed you?" I said, "Yeah." He said, "What'd they give you?"
And I told him what it was, and he pulled out a contract. And it had my name written on it. And I saw what it was and it had $10,000 on the contract. He wasn't supposed to be in the ballpark. You can't touch anybody in there if you were with another team. So when I finished, that's when he got me. And I cried all the way home. And I told my mother the same thing and she said, "You stupid..." What do I know?
And that's how it started. It was a nice life. Except it's a lot different nowadays. My salary is their meal money. My highest salary was
$7,500, and when I was sent down, they let me keep the same salary.
When I played ball, wherever I went, I went to see if I could find a synagogue. That's the first thing I'd do. I'd open up the phone book and
find out where the synagogues are.
And that's where I found the apartments and homes for my wife and I to stay. Jewish families outside of New York are different than they are in
New York. There's too many synagogues in New York. But outside of New York, it's clannish. They want to stay together. So whoever's Jewish, they try to help. In Lincoln, Neb., the Lincoln dairy belonged to Jewish people. And the hotel. And when I went to Omaha, the car dealer was Jewish. He knew I didn't have any wheels, so he gave me a car to drive around. I'm a married man with children, so what do you think he gave me? He gave me a Corvette.
I said, that's not for me. I'm not a single guy. So he gave me a station wagon to drive around. Oh, yeah, my Jewishkite helped me immensely in
baseball. If it wasn't for that, I don't know where I would be sleeping. Because the ballplayers, the gentiles, they had a hard time finding a
place to stay with their families.
I stayed once in West Palm Beach for $40 a month, and that was to pay the maid. In West Palm Beach, we had a house. And they (other players) were paying $400 a week. Of course they (the team) were giving me meal money, which was great. It paid for everything. We had no problem finding a home. We had the best of everything.
In Ottawa, we had a house up there. Holy cow, a mansion. For like $35-40. They tried to give it to you for nothing. Just baby sit the house.
Then, up in Toronto, I told this guy I had to go to Yizkor. I had to say kaddish. He said, "Okay, which one do you want to go to?" I told him I'm
Orthodox, and he's Reform. And in Toronto, they have three synagogues next to each other, one block apart. And you can see when you're driving,
they're all driving into the Reform and Conservative and in the Orthodox, they're all walking.
I told my friend, the Reform was not for me. They were playing the music, and I wanted to wear a yalmulka. so he said, okay, you can go to
the Orthodox. I was there and putting my yalmulka and tallis on, and I was happy. This was in Toronto when I was up there. The Jewish families were fantastic.
In fact, when the season was over, this one guy wanted to give me a dealership, a Buick dealership. And I said, no, I wasn't ready to move to
Toronto. And when I went back to the United States, he said, okay, I'll open up an Isetta. The three-wheeled car. I'll give you the dealership down
there. I got nervous. That was a good thing, the Isetta. But I said, naw, I didn't want that. Oh, those were nice times in Toronto. But only because
of my Yiddishkite. I got along great in Toronto.
In Lexington, N.C., forget about it. There were no synagogues or Catholic churches. But in Lincoln, Neb., there was a Jewish family there
that knew I was Jewish. That's where I went to the synagogue there. They introduced me to places I could stay. That's when my wife joined me
because we had a place to stay.
In 1949 in Lincoln, that's where I had my neck broken and they took care of my mother.
It was my first year at Lincoln, and I had a pretty good year. I slid into the third baseman and the throw got away from him and the third
baseman kicked me in the head and I broke my neck. I went blind for a couple of days. And my arms and legs didn't feel so hot.
They wanted to drill holes in my head to hold weights, but I said, oh, no, so they put a collar under my chin and they put a weight in the back
of my head. And it stretched out my neck. It made my jaw bones deteriorate a little bit, and every now and then they'll pop out of joint.
I took batting practice three weeks later, in my regular clothes. I didn't hit any out, but I could swing the bat. For a couple years, I
couldn't hear myself breath at times I had the headaches. Then they went away.
While I was in the hospital, they set my mother up and at the hotel. They let her stay for free. Not only that, when my mother came in, it was
a Catholic hospital. And my mother was religious, and in broken English, she said to the nurse, "That's Yasel (on the wall, a Jesus statue). Could you do me a favor and put a cover over it." So they put the cover over it.
In those years, Wednesday and Friday, they had fish. And I hated it. I'm laying in the hospital and on Wednesday and Friday, they had fish. So I
called the bishop < may he rest in peace, a wonderful man < and he came and said, "How you feeling, Louis?" And I said, "I'm feeling okay, but I can't go for the fish on Wednesday and Friday. I have to have chicken or meat or something." So he told the nurse and she had to walk up the stairway and come up the back room. And that's when I had chicken on Wednesdays and Fridays.
All the fans used to send me candy, and all the nurses used to come to my room because it was a smoking room, and they ate all those goodies. But they treated me like a king. I couldn't sleep with my collar on and my mom would say, "Wus es thes?" I said, "Mom, talk in English. It's a sleeping tablet." And she said, "Take it away. When it's time to sleep, you'll sleep. Take it away." I didn't sleep for three days. And finally, I feel asleep and I didn't take any more sleeping pills. She wouldn't let me take a sleeping pill for nothing.
I was in Lexington two years. Then I went to Lincoln. That's where I met Gene Budig, who was just a boy. He later became president of the American League. I didn't know him. He was just a kid asking for an autograph. That's where I signed a baseball for him. He looked for me for over 20 years and tried to find me. He called me from New York and he told me what happened.
I still haven't met him. We had an old-timers game at Kansas City, and he was supposed to be there and something came up and he couldn't make it. And then he became president of the American League and I was supposed to meet him and he got called away. It just was beshert. We didn't get to see one another.
Then I went to St. Paul of the Class AAA American Association. The A's didn't have a Triple-A team. In 1950, or '49, they wanted to send me to a
Triple-A team, so they sent me to Buffalo. They had a working agreement with Buffalo. But Buffalo had a few first basemen, so they sent me back. That was the only time they sent me to Triple-A. In 1950, the A's thought I was ready, but they wanted to make sure, so they had an agreement with the Dodgers to send me to St. Paul, which was in the Dodgers organization. And in 1950, of course, Jackie Robinson was there and Gil Hodges was coming in and, again, I can't remember his name < the Rifleman < Chuck Connors was there. Afterward, they sold him to Chicago, but the A's didn't want to make any deals with the Dodgers, they want to keep me.
Danny Ozark was at St. Paul and the first day I went 5-for-5 and the next day he was gone. He was the first baseman the year before.
In spring training, I also stayed with Jackie Robinson a little bit. That was an experience because in those days, you know, they still had the
restrictions. In some hotels the Jews couldn't stay or in some other places the blacks couldn't drink water or they couldn't eat in restaurants. They
had to go to other colored people's houses to eat. I went with him. I wasn't going to let him go alone. I might as well go. And I'll tell you what. The food was a lot better there than at the hotel.
He was a pretty nice guy, Jackie Robinson. He was very intense. Very intense. I don't remember much else about him, except it was a nice
experience. We were in the same boat (as far as people being prejudiced against them).
My first experience with it (black prejudice) was when I was in the service in Biloxi, Miss. I played basketball with a colored fellow in high
school and I was in basic training and I saw him and we broke ranks and hugged one another. We were just young kids, 18 years old, and this was
somebody from home. Some guy said, "Blacks and whites don't mix. They stay separated."
And that's the first I came across that prejudice.
The next time was when I got to Lexington, N.C., where on the signs they had, "Jews, Niggers and Dogs stay out." They were along the railroad
tracks and some of the roads. "Jews, Niggers and Dogs stay out." And when we traveled in Florida, some of the roads on some of the buses and they would have signs, "Jews and Niggers aren't allowed."
You're darn right it was worse for the blacks. But we had some of that experience, too. In Lincoln, my wife was sitting with a couple of
ballplayers' wives who were looking at her. She said, "What are you looking at?" The wives said, "You're Jewish." My wife said, "Would you like to see
my head? There are no horns." And she had to show them her head. These wives had been to college, too.
That's what it was like in those days.
We almost got a group together to play exhibition games in Israel. We didn't have enough Jewish players, so we also had some blacks and filled in with Jewish-sounding names, such as Les Musselman.
Cy Block got a couple of them and the blacks got their guys together, but something happened, and we couldn't do it. We ended up going to the
Caribbean. I've been to Puerto Rico, Panama, Cuba and Venezuela, and there was fighting going on in each place.
My first year in Puerto Rico in '49, was the year Pedro Albizu Campos wanted to take over Puerto Rico. He didn't want it to become a state, part
of the United States. He wanted to keep it separated. And they were having a civil war. One day this soldier from the government in this gray uniform with a machine gun stands in front of the cab we were taking and the cab driver steps on the brakes and stops. And this soldier has got a machine gun in his hand and he's ready to shoot anybody that goes by, and he sticks his machine gun inside the back of the car.
He says, "Que pasa?" And I didn't know Spanish at the time < maybe a little bit < and the driver says, "Peloteros, peloteros, baseball players. Leave them alone." And Cy Block < he's the guy who got everybody together < right away, he says, "We're amigos, amigos. My name is Don Jose Rodriguez ... Block." In his best Spanish, and everybody says, "Please be quiet, you're going to get us killed."
Because the barrel of that gun looked like a cannon. And the officer says to the cab driver, "I want you to do me a favor." The cab driver
said, "What's that?" He said, "If I die, I want you to come to my funeral." He thought he was going to kill him. He was such a nice guy. When he said you can go, the cab driver didn't go slowly. He stepped on the gas and he flattened us against the wall. He took off quick.
We got to San Juan and we had a ball game that day. And Nestor Chylock was the umpire. And with all the trouble going on, he said, "Now, you guys be careful." The first inning was over and the second inning was over and somebody throws a fire cracker from the stands onto the field and Nestor Chylock jumps out in front of the plate and yells, "Game called." And everybody ran off the field. All the ballplayers ran away.
I was playing with Toronto at the time, 1955, and Castro was starting to come into power (in Cuba). I think in '56 or '57 he took over. We'd have
batting practice in Havana, because Havana was one of the teams in the International league, and Castro would come down and work out in the
infield. He'd catch and he'd play shortstop and he'd pitch.
He wasn't too bad. Listen, you play 12 months of the year in all these Latin American countries, you've got to know how to play baseball. Everybody plays. He wasn't bad. He was a ballplayer. Everyone was his friend. We went to his hacienda, we ate, we got to be friends.
After the season, that was it. I never saw Castro again. Then it got to be a little tough. I think it was Batista he knocked down. And after that,
that was the end. We never mentioned his name. Until later on, I met some people who had to leave Cuba at my brother's house and these people where there visiting and when I had mentioned that I knew Castro and we were friends, they took a dislike to me and I thought they were going to kill me.
Then, of course, there was Panama, and they were trying to kick the United States out of Panama and the canal and wanted to take over the
treaty they had. And in Venezuela, it was the same thing with the soldiers.
One year, in 1956 < just before my wife joined me in 1957 < New Year's, they were having their uprisings. The ballplayers were having their New
Year's party at the hotel and the soldiers came up and beat the hell out of their wives. They wouldn't touch the ballplayers because they were
peloteros, they were ballplayers. That was their pleasure.
I was the Rookie of the Year in St. Paul and I hit only one home run in my own ball park. The right field fence was 378 feet away. And it had a
big high fence. The only home run I hit was over the clock and was about 450 feet. In centerfield, they had an advertisement. And on the advertisement was white. There were black letters, but it was white. From a right-handed pitcher, it came right out of the white. I couldn't pick up the ball. In the night time I'd go out there and paint the fence. And the next day it would be black and I'd be okay, and they'd put that sign up again.
And every time they'd put it up, I'd paint it. And finally, they caught me and said, "You'd better not do it anymore." I painted that fence. I hit
28 home runs on the road and one at home.
I knew I was going to be with the Athletics in 1951, but I got there at the wrong time. Ferris Fain led the league in '51 and in '52. In '52, they
sent me back to the minors because I was the worst pinch hitter in the world. I hit .159. But I knew I was a better hitter than that. And they
knew it. In '52 and '53 I was in the minors and in '54 I got back.
At that time, a ballplayer to get to the major leagues was a thousand to none. To none. They had the reserve clause and if you didn't like it, you
could get a lunch bucket. Go ahead and complain. DiMaggio held out for half a year.
Yep, 400 (major league) ballplayers, that's all there were. And it was a thousand to none to get there. And I got there. My biggest salary was $7,500 in the big leagues. When they sent me down from the big leagues to the minors, I got the same salary. They didn't give me any less.
I got along with most of the umpires. There was this one, Joe Paparella, he was a nice guy. We had a game in Detroit and Saul Rogovin was pitching and Joe Ginsberg was catching. I came up to pinch hit.
So Paparella comes from behind home plate and he dusts it off and he says, "Boy, now I've got the three Hebs. I wonder who's going to win the
battle?" And Rogovin throws the first pitch and I hit it into the stands and I round the bases and Paparella says, "I guess you're the winner, Lou."
It so happens, I wasn't (the winner) because Joe Ginsberg stayed with Detroit and Saul Rogovin went to the White Sox that year and he led the
league in ERA and poor Lou Limmer, he got shipped to the minors. This was in Detroit. What a beautiful ballpark they had. Joe Paparella was a good guy. He always told that story about two Jewish guys at home plate.
He was good to me. He never struck me out. He never called me out. He used to call me an SOB. "Damn it, swing at the ball. Swing the bat." And
in the field, when there'd be a close play at first base, I'd say, "Hey, Joe, make me look good." And he'd say, "Go ahead (and argue)." He'd say,
"That's enough." He was a real nice guy, that Joe Paparella. May he rest in peace.
Other umpires, not that they were good or bad, but they put me in my place right away. We were in Yankee Stadium and, geeze, Cal Hubbard, what a monster. He played football. He was an All-American football player. He's in the pro football and pro baseball halls of fame, by the way.
Anyway, Vic Rashi is pitching that day. And the first pitch is up here and he says, "Strike one." And I said, "Gee, that looked a little high, Mr. Hubbard." And he says, "Well, okay, now get in there and hit, bush." The next pitch is right down the middle. You couldn't put it any better. And
he says, "Ball one."
And Yogi Berra jumps up and says that pitch was right down there and blah, blah, blah, blah. And Yogi Berra walks out to console the pitcher
and the umpire comes out in front of the plate. And he says, "You see that young man? I just wanted to let you know who's the boss. Now, you're on your own." The next pitch, I hit a home run.
The next day, I come up to the plate and Yogi Berra says, "Hey, bush, you feeling pretty good?" And I'm standing at the plate, and he throws
dirt on my shoe. And I say, "Hey, Yogi, cut it out, will ya." And I step in the box, and he throws dirt on me again. And I said to the umpire, "Hey, he's
throwing dirt on my shoe." He said, "Shut up and get up there and hit, bush." I was a rookie. And I hit into a double play.
Another game, we were playing in Cleveland and Early Wynn was pitching. The inning before, I got a hit. I come up again and Jimmy Dykes puts on the bunt sign. I square around to bunt and Wynn throws the ball right square in the middle of my chest. I thought he was going to kill me. The hat flew one way and the bat another. Okay, he knocked me down. I got a base hit the last time. Alright.
I square to bunt a second time and Wynn did the same thing. Right smack dab in the center of my chest. And everything went flying. And when he did it the third time, the same thing. I got up and said to the umpire, "He's going to kill me." And the umpire said, "Yeah."
I used to crowd the plate. And I went as far back in the box as you could get and I put the bat on my shoulder and I didn't even move it. And
Wynn struck me out, one, two, three. And I walked back to the dugout, and Dykes said, "How come you didn't bunt?" And I said, "That SOB would have killed me." He says, "Yep." And he would have. Cause I got a base hit and knocked in two runs and I was a rookie.
Today, everybody gets thrown out of the ballpark if you throw at a batter.
I might have played more, but they put Ferris Fain in the outfield with Elmer Valo in Detroit and they almost ran together. So manager Jimmy Dykes put me back on the bench because, "I can't afford to lose two ballplayers. I'd rather lose one as opposed to two."
The worst (anti-Semite) was (pitcher) Joe Coleman and (outfielder) Dave Philley. They were both pretty good anti-Semites. Some of the people I knew from the A's used to tell me all the things that were going on behind my back. Ferris Fain wasn't too good a one, either, although I was taking his job.
When it comes to Jewish ballplayers, I don't care what team you're on, somewhere along the line there's anti-Semitism. If you're a good
ballplayer, they leave you alone. When the '54 season came along, I was one of the best. Allie Clark was the one that took care of me when Dave Philley gave me a hard time. I wanted to challenge him (Philley) and Clark says, wait, "You're still a bush. You're still a rookie. I'll help you."
He told Dave Philley to leave the kid alone, he's just a rookie. They got to talking back and forth and saying things to one an other and they
got to pushing and Allie Clark decked him. He knocked him on his fanny. Since then, Philley never bothered me. That was it.
No one ever really bothered me. I got along pretty good. All the fellows used to do their cross word puzzles and they'd run into a problem and
they'd say, "Go see the Heb. Go see the Heb. He'll tell you." I was their father superior. I was their advisor. I didn't know from nothing, but they sent
them to me. Jews were supposed to know everything. Good, let them think that.
In '54 they (the A's) had Don Bollweg at first. He came from the Yankees. I'd pinch hit in a game here and there. I wasn't getting to play
at all. And only because he came from the Yankees. He was hitting a resounding one hundred and twenty. So they put me in and I hit .300 from June on. And I don't know if I led the team or tied for home runs (he hit 14 in 316 at-bats, tying Gus Zernial, who also had 14 and one behind team leader Bill Wilson).
That's the year Gus Zernial broke his collar bone and the fans applauded. Tough fans, but they know what they're talking about. At the
end of the season, he (Eddie Joost) said, "I'm sorry for not playing you." I said, "Thanks a lot." And that was the end.
I got the last (Philadelphia A's) home run, that was in Yankee Stadium. And then I got the last base hit (on Sept. 26, pinch-hitting in the ninth
for Vic Power). I had no idea. I didn't find out until years later when I heard it on the radio. I thought I'd be back in the big leagues the next year, and I was done after that. When contracts were sent out, (new manager) Lou Boudreau sent me a telegram that said bring an outfielder's glove. When he said bring an outfielder's glove, I said, that's it, goodbye Charlie, I was done. I was a first baseman.
I was sent to Class AAA Columbus, where the A's had a working agreement. Rumor was I was going to be traded to Boston, so Columbus sent me to Louisville, a Red Sox farm club. But the deal fell through, so after two weeks, Louisville tried to send me back to Columbus, which was a Pittsburgh farm club, and they didn't want me, so for two weeks, I did nothing.
Finally, Jack Kent Cook of Toronto bought me. And when we went back to Columbus to play, I think Nick Cullop (the manager) didn't like me so good because I kept asking him how come you're not bringing me back (to Columbus)? I don't think he liked me. Anyway, it so happened a confrontation broke out. The pitcher and the batter who was up, and, of course, ballplayers come out and Nick Cullop went around the outside and he blind-sided me. He knocked me right on my fanny.
I mean he hit me good. And then the fight broke out. The next day when I played, I hit one off the wall. I didn't go to second base. I stopped at
first. And I told Spook Jacobs (the Columbus second baseman and a Limmer friend from their days with the A's) I was going to steal. Spook Jacobs is one of my best friends now, but I stole second and that poor kid, I knocked him into left field.
And right after that the fight started, and he was bloody and Dutch Romberger < he's the one who hit me on the top of the head and broke his
thumb < and only one ballplayer from Toronto came out to help me, and he just stood around and looked. I don't know what it was, but they worried
about themselves.
The following day there was another confrontation at home with Lou Berberet. And everybody ran out and the (Toronto) ballplayers sat on the
bench. And I didn't play that night. Luke Sewell was the manager. He said, "You SOBs, go out and help." And nobody did.
I went to Birmingham of the Southern Association in 1958. In Birmingham, I helped pay for my kid's bar mitzvah. If you hit a home run in the
playoffs, especially, they'd give you a $50 bond. And I hit 12 home runs. And they gave you a radio, too. In fact, Ray Mummy was on the team we beat for the championship in the Dixie World Series and I gave almost everybody on the team a radio. I kept two for myself. When they gave something out for a home run, I was lucky enough to hit it.
In '59 they wanted me to go to the west coast and manage and play on the west coast for the Detroit organization. I said, no, that's it. Besides,
my kids were 6 and 5 years old at the time and my wife said it's time and my brother promised me I'd be a partner in his refrigeration business. And
when I got home, he got married and got into a partnership with his father-in-law and his brother-in-law. I worked for my brother and I was going broke. So I went into competition with him after that.
I played with a guy in the minors < the kid was a catcher < who never got to the big leagues. I didn't know he was Jewish until later, and he
knew I was Jewish, but never said anything to me. That bothered me.
As for the holidays, I wouldn't play on Yom Kippur, but at that time, baseball season (often) ended before Yom Kippur started. In my time, there
was a 154-game schedule. Doubleheaders on Sunday and you didn't play Monday. So you finished Sept. 24, 25, that was the end. Now, it goes right to the first week in November.
As for Pesach, no, that was usually before the season began. Sometimes it would come during spring training.
The best players I saw? Joe DiMaggio. What an outfielder. What a hitter. Ted Williams. He was the greatest. And he was a good outfielder. They used to knock him, but he was a good outfielder. And Stan Musial. He was fantastic. I played against Mickey Mantle a little bit. He was a good one.
And Chico Carrasquel at shortstop. He should be in the Hall of Fame before Phil Rizzuto. And Luis Aparicio was the greatest.
Hank Aaron, I remember him when he was in the Sally League, a second baseman. I thought he was Jewish. With a name like Hank Aaron? Oh, sure. He was a hell of a player.
I watch games on television. Today, I don't think any of them know anything about basics. The only guy I thought that really put out with
today's salaries was Dave Winfield. He put out. And the one who was a big disappointment to me was Ken Holtzman. He won 20 games and was looking for a big contract. He got the big contract, and he went right down the drain. To me, he didn't put out.
But Dave Winfield, he put out. After baseball, I was president of my synagogue for five years - Castle Hill Community Jewish Center on Castle Hill Ave. in the Bronx. Later, we sold the property to a school for wayward Jewish kids < Adelphia Talmudical Academy. We moved to New Jersey. Adelphia has a big plaque up there for us, and they still keep us informed of yahrzites. Most of the old members have moved to Florida.
We meet every two months, people who were members of the synagogue. We call it the 486 club. That was the address of the synagogue. So we meet once every two months here in Florida. It's like a cousin's club. It's starting to dwindle. We've only got about 40 people left.
I spent six months in Florida and six months in New Jersey.
I spoke Yiddish. Oh, yeah. Because of my grandma. If I wanted to eat, I talked Yiddish. And my mother and father, when they didn't want us to
know, they talked Polish. Yeah, Yiddish I understand very well. Street Yiddish.
I knew the other Jewish players. In New York, there was Cy Block and there was Mickey Rutner and Cal Abrams and Sid Gordon and Sol Rogovin.
There were six of us. We knew one another. We talked, we got together. Mickey's in Arizona. Cal Abrams' wife lives in Florida.
Bobby Schantz (a non-Jewish room mate from the A's), I hear from him. All the old A's, I see them on old-timer's day in October. The A's
Society, it's like a cousin's club. You play in a lot of ballparks and they forget you. With the A's, everybody knows you. Everybody seems to like you. And you're a hero. You're actually a hero. They may forget your name, and they say, oh, yeah, I remember you. They never forget you. But the other 400 players, they forget you in those other cities.
When it comes to the A's, it's a big deal. And the ones that passed away, they're always mentioned. Somewhere along the line, their name comes
up. They're not forgotten.
The A's are the only society that is as large as it is.
I was going to the last reunion, but my arm swelled up, double. Oh, that hurt. I got more phone calls and e-mails. "What happened?"
Every other day I'll get a baseball card to autograph.
After I retired from the game, the only time I went to baseball (games) is when Mel Allen (voice of the Yankees) used to get me tickets to the World Series. I hardly ever went. I didn't want to go. I didn't care for it. In fact, there was supposed to be a shittach between Mel Allen and my sister, Helene. They dated, but that was that.
Shawn Green played for Toronto and this friend of mine tried to take him under his wing. And Green wasn't interested. And he wasn't playing, either.
And he didn't know why. And my friend said he could help him. And he sent a letter to the team and said we have a big Jewish population and what do you know, Shawn Green got into the lineup.
They should get Pete Rose in the Hall of Fame. He did his business on the field. Get him in. He's got to be in there. But the old heads - Bob Feller - they don't want him in.
Bobby Bonds, let him take all the steroids he wants. How many guys are going to hit 500 home runs? There's got to be coordination.
Why are there so many Jewish ballplayers today? Besides money, in our religion, you have to have an education. Now, you go to college, you're
playing football, you're playing baseball, you're playing basketball. You get a scholarship. If you're good enough, that's another feather in your
cap. Instead of being a doctor, I can make a million dollars. You're going to see more Jewish ball players.
Because they have their education. They have something to fall back on.
My mother and father used to say, "Think of the good times, don't think
of the bad times." Like I said, I enjoyed it all.