The Ball Player's Son

                    THE LONGEST, BLOODIEST BRAWL OF ALL

1953

    

The Angels rose to third place and were playing a weeklong series against the Stars. Every night game that week was hotly disputed and the vendettas, instigated by Bragan, had grown dangerous. Dad drove to Gilmore Field with Hattan and took me and a friend, Ron Bart, a huge 12 year old, a brute, a Little League all star and one of the top kids at South Park. Awaiting us was a Sunday doubleheader.

     Since the games were sold out and no seats available, Ron and I ended up behind the rope at right field, among a bunch of Hollywood Star knothole kids who hated the Angels, so automatically hated Ron and me. By the second inning we were having words with them as we defended Angel players. Ropes winding from both foul lines in the outfield were set up for the jam-packed overflow.

     Early in the first game, in retaliation for some fireworks the day before, Hattan planted one of his infrequent fastballs in Frank Kelleher’s ribs. Kelleher, my Dad’s friend, whom Dad said was one of the good guys, had been on a hitting tear that was demolishing the Angel pitching staff, and he rushed to the mound and decked Hattan, who jumped up to do battle. Players from both benches and bullpens instantly swarmed onto the field and a skirmish started near the mound as umpires and peacemakers eventually managed to quiet things down. Kelleher was ejected.

     While order was being restored, several nearby kids realized my father was Murray Franklin and began razzing me, claiming my Dad would get his ass kicked by the Stars, and several grown-ups and an usher got between us.

     Then short, wiry Teddy Beard ran for Kelleher and stole second. When he tried to steal third the Angels had him by five feet, and as Dad, straddling the bag, caught the ball, Beard started his slide too close and flew into him thigh-high, spiking him on the forearms and chest. Dad’s cap flew off, his bald head glinted in the sun, and then his fists were working in a blur. Both dugouts and bullpens charged onto the diamond and skirmishes whirled like spinning tops. A mountain of bodies piled up near the mound, new bodies entering while others flew out or charged back in; smaller skirmishes, moving, squirming, flailing, broke out all over the infield like a runaway saloon brawl from the movies. Certain players squared off, while others flitted around swinging wildly. While Dad was pummeling Beard, Gordy Maltzburger, coaching third, trying to be peacemaker, pulled Dad off Beard from behind, leaving him open for Beard to punch. Dad ducked the punch and shrugged off Maltzburger, who was being pulled off by Stan Hack. That was when McLish, on a full-tilt sprint from the bullpen, leveled Beard with a vicious punch and then proceeded, as Dad described it, “to pinch the little bastard’s head off.” Then Dad and McLish, like roving commandos, went head-hunting, which meant trying to inflict as much pain and damage as possible on anybody in a home uniform, be they peacemakers, friends or not. The umpires were helpless to stop it.

     Bart and I lost track of Dad and suddenly we were engaged with the knothole kids, pummeling, kicking, rolling around on the grass outside the ropes, until an usher and some adults broke it up.

     The donnybrook went on and on, showed no signs of abating until, eventually, a stream of fifty-plus LAPD cops surged onto the field to restore order. Bart and I ducked under the rope, dodged an usher or two and sprinted across the grass toward the action, veering into the box section of the ball park. By this time the melee was slowing down as cops separated brawling players. Uniforms were torn and filthy, caps lost. Ball players cursed and pointed fingers at each other as they were led to their dugouts. The last thing we saw before ducking into a tunnel was Dad pointing a finger and barking at the Star players as two understanding cops led him away with half smiles.

     The cop at the clubhouse door knew me and allowed us to enter the room full of cursing, pacing, grumbling, torn-up players vowing retaliation. Most of them refused medical treatment. Dad was sitting on the table in the training room, the trainer rubbing antiseptic on deep spike wounds on his chest and forearm. He’d refused stitches until after the second game of the doubleheader, which he intended to play. When he spotted me his face turned into a wide grin. “There’s my boy!” I told him Ron and I fought with the knothole kids from Hollywood and he told his team mates, “Them’s fightin’ Compton boys!”

     First baseman Fuzz Richards, who’d taken the worst punishment from blindside fists and was gouged and spiked when trapped beneath the mountainous pile-up, was getting sewn up by a doctor—over twenty stitches in his backside. He was furious. Bud Hardin sported a shiner and stalked the clubhouse holding an icepack to his eye and vowing to get revenge on Dale Long. Dad began ranting about Bragan, whom he blamed for inciting the brawl by sending Beard after him. “I don’t even know Beard, but he came in spikes high going for my balls. Now he’s got a broken leg and two closed eyes, and that’s what you get when you’re a dirty ball player—he’s finished.”

     Dad’s face had no nicks, though his knuckles on both hands were bruised and cut and swelling. Stan Hack, who, during the brawl had spent most of his time looking for Bragan, who he claimed hid in the dugout, approached Dad at the training table. “Moe, Bragan’s slated to catch the second game. I’m starting you and leading you off, and I want you to call out that yellowbelly. If they run you I’ll pay the fine. I’ll have Hardin waiting to come in for you.”

     Dad grinned. “Skip, I’ll go after him, but Bragan won’t fight—he’s a man with a paper asshole.”

     McLish, bat perched on shoulder (he was a decent hitter who sometimes pinch-hit), standing behind Dad, nodded, then rubbed Dad’s head as if it was Holy, and winked at me.

     Second game, Ron and I were not about to return to the ropes in right field, instead stationing ourselves in the aisle a few rows up from the seats above home plate, ignoring and avoiding ushers who tried to move us along. Cops were posted like sentries at both clubhouse doors, in front of both dugouts, down both foul lines and bull pens and along the ropes.

     When Dad came to bat every Angel was on his feet in the dugout. Dad stood there looking down on Bragan, spewing profanity and insults, kicking dirt on the plate, on Bragan’s spikes, while the ump stared out toward the field. Dad’s head bobbed as he chewed on Bragan, who picked at clods of dirt, tossing them around. Finally Dad stepped into the box, pounded his bat hard on the plate and stared at the pitcher, Red Munger, who proceeded to walk Dad on four pitches.”

     Dad said afterwards, “I called Bragan every name in the book. I’ve never seen a man take more shit and hunker down like a gutless coward. He tried to blame the umpires. The ump, he was enjoying every minute—grinning like a shark. Told me he wouldn’t run me under any circumstances. I told Bragan we were ON if Munger came anywhere near me—for Hack. Munger’s an old hand, he knew what was going on. He threw me four straight pitches a foot outside. Bragan’s all mouth.”

     The second game was uneventful. Next day L.A. sports pages quoted Bragan blaming the umpires for the brawl. Sportswriters reported the bloodiest, most prolonged brawl perhaps in baseball history. The front pages were full of photos, as were the back pages; the most prominent in all the papers and later in Life Magazine was one of Beard flying at Dad with his spikes high, like swords, his face contorted like a kamikaze, while Dad waited, ball in glove. The articles were full of descriptions, quotes, commentary, and already scribes were trying to drum up a return bout in the next series between the two teams at Wrigley, where LAPD Chief William Parker vowed to preside over a legion of cops to keep the peace. Beard’s season was ended with a broken ankle. Dad got stitched up and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him happier.

     “I’m not one to condone it, but dammit sometimes fighting is a good thing. It clears out your tubes.”

     (Next installment: Big Moe Faces “Bear Tracks” Greer in the Texas League)