(See Cover)
This is the way old Casey Stengel ran running his home run home to a Giant victory by a score of 5 to 4 in the first game of the World's Series of 1923.
This is the way old Casey Stengel ran, running his home run home when two were out in the ninth inning and the score was tied and the ball was bounding inside the Yankee yard.
This is the way—His mouth wide open.
His warped old legs bending beneath him at every stride.
His arms flying back and forth like those of a man swimming with a crawl stroke.
His flanks heaving, his breath whistling, his head far back . . .
The warped old legs, twisted and bent by many a year of baseball campaigning, just barely held out under Casey Stengel until he reached the plate running his home run home.
—Damon Runyon in the New York American, Oct. 11, 1923 This is the way old Casey Stengel ran his team home for his sixth pennant in seven years. This is the way Casey came down the stretch, running his team, the flag still hobbling like a loose ball among the leaders of the American League.
This is the way—His seamed old eagle's face slanting out in rage as he stormed from the dugout.
His old hands clapping in exasperation.
His tired arms flapping like those of a man going down for the third time as he waved for help from the bullpen.
His chest heaving as his lungs kept time with his runaway larynx.
His wise old baseball brain whirring with wonderful precision, clicking out strategy that outraged strategists, but guessing right so often it could hardly be called guessing.
Always a Surprise. Running the Yanks this hectic season, Casey was caught in a pennant race as wild and uncertain as his 1923 inside-the-park homer. He got started slowly; not until May 21 did the Yanks pick up the lead. July 1 saw them 6½ games in front. Then they stumbled. By the end of August, Cleveland and Chicago were fighting for first. But in September the Yanks made Casey look like a prophet. He said that the team that won eight straight in the stretch would wind up in the World Series against the Dodgers. In the stretch, the Yankees won exactly eight games in a row.
It was the roughest melee the American League had seen in years. And Casey came home with a team full of trouble. Few teams win a pennant without a first-class shortstop to tighten up their infield, and veteran Phil Rizzuto was five years past his prime, a step too slow in the field, a little too tired to play regularly. Jerry Coleman, who could have filled in, broke his collarbone April 22 and was out for three months. No sooner was he back when he was beaned and bench-ridden again. Often, Casey's pitching was pitiful.
Eddie Lopat, the Junkman who helped win so many pennants, faded and was sold.
For weeks on end, Bullet Bob Turley could hardly find the plate. Big Moose Skowron might have added power to the batting order; he played a month and pulled a leg muscle. Just when the Yankees straightened out for the run to the wire, Mickey Mantle hobbled himself beating out a bunt. Then Rizzuto was skulled. Time was when Casey clobbered the opposition with two platoons. Now he was hard put to field a team.