It was midwinter, and Martin Whitford Marion, manager of the Chicago White Sox, was already lost in a bright dream of spring. His team, he announced with admirable brevity, was going to win the American League pennant. Sportswriters snickered. It would be a close race all right. Maybe the Sox would finish third—after the Yanks and the Indians.
For the moment, everyone had forgotten that "Slats" Marion had a habit of calling his shots quietly and accurately.
He was one of that new breed of managers: the nice guys. Like Brooklyn's Walter Alston and Boston's Pinky Higgins, he never felt the need...
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