Big League baseball picks up this week exactly where it left off in 1942. Old Ted Lyons is an extreme case, but he is also typical. Ted went off to war three years ago, and it looked like the end of big league ball for him. He had reached 42, which is true antiquity in baseball. Even so, he pitched so well his last year (on Sundays only) with his head and a knuckle ball that Chicagoans used to say: "If every day was Sunday, the White Sox might make it."
Now Ted Lyons, fresh out of the Marines, is back in the line-up at 45. The first Sunday of the season, old Ted Lyons expects to crank up his ancient arm and fire his pet pitch at the St. Louis Browns. For him, and for many another big leaguer, the last three years didn't happen.
The season's opening found every club in the American League out to beat the powerhouse New York Yankees, just like old times. National Leaguers once again had little hope of keeping the St. Louis Cardinals out of first place.
The Yanks Are Coming. The American League was full of old familiar faces—and the rookies hardly had a chance. The Yankees had veterans in every spot but one—pitching. The new Joe Di Maggio (TIME, April 8) had his old home-run habit; Charlie ("Muscle Man") Keller was still denting the fences; and underrated Tommy Henrich was still hitting well.
In the pitchers' pen, the Yankees had only one good prewar model, big Spud Chandler, who could be counted on for heavy duty. But just when three ambitious rivals thought they had uncovered the Yankees' soft spot, the Yanks suddenly uncovered two whizzbang rookies— string-bean (6 ft. 2½) Clarence Marshall and deadpan Randy Gumpert —in spring training.
In Detroit, the Tigers were long on pitching, led by Hal Newhouser; long on hitting (if cocky Slugger Dick Waken eld hit the way he talked, he would lead the league). But the Tigers had a sieve for an infield.
In Boston, eternally hopeful Red Sox fans pinned large hopes on a pair of reclaimed pets—slim-jim Slugger Ted Williams and chunky Bobby Doerr—and didn't see that their Sox were down at third base and right field, and only at half-mast in pitching.
The Cleveland Indians had the league's best four-man pitching staff—Bob Feller, Steve Gromek, Red Embree, Allie Reynolds—and the league's best shortstop, Player-Manager Lou Boudreau.
No one saw how the frisky Washington Senators, who have burnt up the spring-exhibition circuit with 21 wins and ten defeats, could be kept out of the American League first division. Almost sure shots for the second-division underworld were the White Sox, the Browns (whose brief period of glory—the pennant in 1944 —was definitely over) and Connie Mack's Athletics.
After the Cards. In the National League, it was leathery-faced Eddie Dyer's first season as a big league manager; if his Cardinals won, everyone would say they couldn't have missed with all that talent; if they lost, it would be all his fault. Said he gloomily, to anyone who would listen: "I need an A-1 catcher. My pitchers. . . ."