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If there was anything at all that Walter found unpleasant about baseball, it was his association with Branch Rickey, who became MacPhail's replacement as general manager. O'Malley and his pals in the front office were fun-loving types; the teetotaling, profanity-hating Rickey (who confined his cussing to an occasional "Judas Priest") ran a taut ship. The two never got along. "I'm no psalm-singing Methodist," explains Roman Catholic O'Malley, "but I don't know as I ever did anybody any real harm. I'm not knocking Branch for his beliefs; in fact, I've known plenty of daily communicants in my religion who spent the rest of the day thieving. But we never felt we had to apologize to Branch for anything that took place."
Few people were surprised when the showdown came. In 1950 O'Malley bought Rickey out and let him go as general manager; the man who had built the Dodgers into champions (and the St. Louis Cardinals before them) took his talents to Pittsburgh.
Bad Business. Walter O'Malley took over a robust, well-functioning baseball organization. The athletic problems of baseball are left to General Manager Bavasi, a tough-minded product of New York City who can think and talk in the poolroom language of most ballplayers. The farm clubs are handled by witty Fresco Thompson, an oldtime infielder who is a shrewd judge of talent on the hoof. But their combined skills have yet to uncover the raw material of another pennant winner.
The business side of baseball is more than enough to occupy O'Malley. And even now, in his moment of triumph, there are signs that the business side has its flaws. Not since Harry Truman has any man ever been so devoted as O'Malley to the proposition that the shop can be run by cronies—and the front-office cronies O'Malley brought West with him are begging for trouble.
Press passes that O'Malley's minions passed out turned out to be tickets to unreserved general-admission seats. And each time they are used, the passes will require a 50¢ service charge. Just as accustomed to freeloading as people in other big-league cities, Los Angeles newsmen and politicians are understandably indignant. And their help will be needed if the Dodgers are to win the referendum in June. If they don't, they may still be playing in the Coliseum 20 years hence.
There Was Walter. Through all the excitement, there was O'Malley, cigar in hand, eyes twinkling as he took in that first wonderful crowd. His whole confused entourage swarmed around him, his rusty voice rasped like a hacksaw slicing through pipe, but try as he would, he could not conceal his pride. Every third person, including California's Governor Goodwin Knight, was wearing a Dodger cap.
Batsmen may be thrown out at second on balls hit off the left-field fence; there may be more home runs hit up "O'Malley's Alley" in a single inning than entire teams hit in a season back at the turn of the century; box-seat holders may find themselves farther from the field than bleacherites were in Brooklyn; the Dodgers may never play in Chavez Ravine. But at long last, big-league baseball is in California—and Walter O'Malley is the man who brought it there.