Surviving More than a Bronx Bombing in Yankee Stadium
September 22, 1939
NEW YORK — Schizophrenia was just another word to me. Until this week.
Once each of the first 2 days at Yankee Stadium and twice during the final afternoon. The anticipation of it seized my heart into spasms. Going through it caused my head to pound till I could hardly stand it.
These feelings and hallucinations happened the first time the Yankees batted Tuesday afternoon, Sept. 19. ChiSox starter Eddie Smith was winless in September, however, he did post a save on the 16th against Philadelphia. He issued bases on balls to Frank Crosetti and Red Rolfe. “King Kong” Charlie Keller laid down a bunt sacrifice and it looked like the Bombers were going to play this conservatively.
The sac bunt advanced Crosetti and Rolfe and brought up DiMaggio. The Yankee Clipper drove a single between short and third scoring both runners. The headaches and shortness of breath began.
Joe Gordon lined a single up the middle with DiMaggio stopping at 2nd. I’m now doubling over in fear and pain. Jake Powell tripled down the RF line scoring 2 more. “Is this ever going to end,” I screamed startling everyone in the press box.
Catcher Buddy Rosar singled in Powell. I vomited into a nearby trash can. Babe Dahlgren walked. A paper bag was given to me to calm my hyper-ventilating. Hildebrand sac bunted to the pitcher for the second out, but I still couldn’t relax with those 2 runners out there in scoring position.
Crosetti grounded out and the inning was over. The damage was 5 runs for the Bombers. This was just the first inning.
A 2-out DiMaggio single in the 2nd slightly raised my anxiety, but it disappeared as soon as Gordon flew out to left. My chest tightened in the B3 after a leadoff walk and single. Dahlgren’s deep fly to RF sent a spike of pain into my frontal lobes which quickly felt better when Rip Radcliff snared the flyball and then threw a strike to doubled up Powell at 3B. Hildebrand drew a walk, and I was instantly ill again. Johnny Marcum relieved Smith and retired Crosetti and I regained a little equilibrium.
The NY 4th brought more trauma and another run when Rolfe doubled to open the inning and scored immediately on Keller’s single. DiMaggio’s deep fly to CF did not help as it soared upward and outward before settling into Rosenthal’s glove. Gordon followed with a single and Keller stopped at 2nd. “Don’t these guys ever let up on the pressure,” I moaned. Two outs later and it was over . . . at least for another half an inning.
The 5th and 6th were 3-up and 3-down for the Yanks and I felt better. It also helped when the ChiSox scored 3 in the top of the 6th and another in the T7 to make it 6–4.
New York tallied another run in the 7th when Gordon led off with a single. I made note that if the leadoff batter reaches, I immediately begin the symptoms. Powell bunted Gordon to 2nd. It’s a misnomer that all the Bronx Bombers can do is hit the long ball. Rosar singled in Gordon right then, as if to prove my point. It was 7–4 and the Yankees were without a HR today. The game ended with that score and the Yankees not threatening again.
I finished the day, but I was truly shaken by what I had experienced. The night was not any good for me either. I relived the day with interspersed visions of vivid war scenes.
Wednesday dawned (finally) with sunny skies in the Bronx. Things were looking up. That is until the Bombers came to the plate in the B1. Rolfe drew a 1-out walk and Keller singled him to third. The panic symptoms started to build again. DiMaggio singled to RF and the Yankees had a 1–0 lead. Two fly outs followed to end the inning; however, George Selkirk’s was deep enough to cause my heart to flutter.
My body started to return to normal as Chicago scored to make it 1–1 in the 2nd, while the New Yorkers went down 1–2–3.
The Yankees 3rd inning explosion nearly had me taken away in an ambulance. It began with a leadoff single by Crosetti and a walk to Rolfe. “Oh No, please not again,” I whispered as quietly as I could, but all eyes in the box were on me anyway.
Sox ace Ted Lyons fanned Keller and DiMaggio to ground to 2B, but Bejma bobbled it, and all were safe. Bases were now loaded. “Awwww, good gravy,” I squeezed out between short breaths. The rest of the inning was pure torture. I could barely look. Each crack of a Yankee bat sounded like I was standing next to a cannon.
Dickey singled in a run. Selkirk singled in another. Gordon reached on another error allowing the third run of the inning to go home. Each time it seemed as if the boys in pinstripes were multiplying runners on base. Dahlgren singled in two more. I vomited in a nearby waste can for the second consecutive day.
While my head was still buried, Yankees starting pitcher Steve Sundra grounded into an inning ending double play. The Bombers owned a 6–1 lead.
NYY would go on to win 6–4. I survived and revived a little. Lyons allowed only a 4th inning infield single to Keller the rest of the way.
My journalist friends in the press box were frightened. They couldn’t understand what was happening to me. I couldn’t understand it either. These friends literally held my hand through the worst of it. Afterwards, they helped with the interviews and the recapping of the game story.
The night was another torture chamber of nightmares and night sweats. Thursday dawned cloudy and gloomy for this final day of the series with the Bronx Bombers. I anticipated more of the same physical and mental torment, and unfortunately for the ChiSox, another loss.
I knew it would happen. I waited for it to happen. It did. Twice. The Yankees scored 1 run in the B2 causing a minor episode. Gordon swatted a 2-out solo homer. It was so quick, as if a bullet had gone clean through my body. Worse to a certain extent were the singles from Dahlgren and SP Marius Russo that followed. Crosetti flied out and that threat ended.
The even-numbered innings of the 4th, 6th, and 8th nearly ended me. The Bombers scored 4, 3, and 4 more runs, respectively in those innings. I will spare you the written details but suffice it to say that each multiple-run inning felt to me as if artillary of different calibers were hitting and exploding all around me in a never-ending assault. Singles, doubles, triples, and home runs were used. Sometimes more gut-wrenching were walks and self-inflicted errors. The Bombers pounded the Pale Hose 12–4.
I dreaded another night in NYC. I did not want to face the nightmares again. I was truly afraid of what was happening to me and whether or not I would even live through the night.
However, just before turning off the lamp, I glanced at my train ticket. Next to the word: Destination were the words: Union Station, Chicago, Illinois. A sudden warmth filled my heart.
