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Here is an eloquent and moving essay about the "lost boys of summer" by the SF Weekly's Matt Coker. He interviewed Doug Gladstone, author of the 2010 book, A Bitter Cup of Coffee: How the MLB and the Players Association Threw 874 Retirees a Curve, about the many MLB players who did not receive pension benefits. Nellie was one of them, and he was happy and honored to get to know Doug in the last year of his life.

Nellie on "Giving Back"

Nellie was always a firm believer in social justice and compassion. The Nellie King Fund, recently established by his daughters, will carry forth his efforts and writings on behalf of those who are struggling in our community.

Here's an indication of Nellie's views on social justice, taken from the introduction to his best-selling book, Happiness is Like a Cur Dog:

People who did not experience the Great Depression have no idea how difficult it was. There were no safety nets, no unemployment compensation, no medical or retirement benefits, and no social security. All you had was your job. My dad had always had steady work at the mine (when “steady” meant only two or three days a week). He was able to do something that so many others could not manage: put food on the table for his family.

I remember men coming to our back door, asking if they could sweep the porches, rake leaves, or anything. They weren't looking for money to pay off credit cards. Struggling to survive from meal to meal, they only wanted a sandwich!

Those who berate government assistance programs never experienced those terribly difficult years of want, fear, and humiliation. The benefits we now enjoy are taken for granted, as if they were always part of our lives. To use a baseball metaphor, too many people in this country have been born on third base, yet think they’ve hit triples! As a nation and people, we have become increasingly more arrogant and less tolerant of the less fortunate.

Image: Coal breaker-boys, anthracite coal region of Pennsylvania, 1930s.

From Battalion to Bull Pen: Nellie's Army Interlude

Nellie's baseball career was interrupted when he was drafted into the Army during the first month of the Korean War. He began basic training at Fort Dix, New Jersey in the autumn of 1950. Thanks to a skill he picked up at the Milton S. Hershey Industrial School for Orphaned Boys, he managed to stay far out of the line of fire.

Here is an excerpt from a chapter of his book entitled "Army Interlude":

I was twenty-two years old, pitching for the Charleston (SC) Rebels, in the Class “A” Sally League, and ripe for the military draft when the Korean War broke out on June 25, 1950. Within a month my draft board in Lebanon, PA informed me I had to report for my physical exam. Unable to travel home during the season, it was arranged for me to take my physical at Columbia, SC. The baseball season ended on Labor Day and on September 28, 1950, I was inducted into the Army at Fort Dix, NJ. It was to be another of those defining moments in my life.

After thirteen weeks of infantry basic training I learned to fire every small arms weapon used by a rifleman. I also did a lot of close order marching drills and learned why we did them one day during standing inspection as an orderly for the 60th Infantry Regimental Commander. The Lt. Colonel came up into my face and asked, “Soldier, why do we do close-order marching drills?” Drawing on my baseball team play experience, I replied, “Sir, we do it so we can learn to work together as a unit.” He loudly responded, “No soldier, you do it to learn to take orders. When we tell you to turn left, goddamnit, you turn left. When we tell you to turn right, goddamnit, you turn right. You don’t ask questions—you take orders in the Army!”

After basic training I entered a leadership training program to prepare me to be an infantry rifle squad leader, a position not known for longevity. As a cadre, I was pushing troops and also served on the Browning Automatic Rifle Committee, headed by Lt. Constantine Thomas, a veteran of WWII who was wounded in the early months of the Korean War.

One of my talents, of which the Army was not yet aware, was typing. After a day of training, Lt. Thomas remarked he needed a lesson plan typed and was concerned that nobody at Battalion Headquarters would be available to do the job. I innocently informed him I could type and he immediately took me to Battalion HQ and sat me down behind a Royal typewriter. I began to type the lesson plan, when I suddenly sensed someone was standing behind me. It was Major Jackson, the Battalion Commander. He said, “Soldier, you look like a pretty damn good typist.” I replied, “Yes, sir, I can type about 70 words per minute.” He uttered the words that changed my Army career, “We need a clerk typist at Battalion Headquarters.”

Thus ended my days as an infantryman. I spent the remainder of my two years behind a typewriter, not an M-1 rifle. No KP, no guard duty, no bivouac! I highly recommend learning typing. It’s the most under-rated job in the Army.

During those two years I was able to play baseball on the 60th Infantry Regiment baseball team. Also on the team were then unknown minor league players Frank Torre, Don McMahon, and Arnold Portacarrero. There were only two players, both young pitchers, who had played in the major leagues—Erv Palica, of the Brooklyn Dodgers pitched for the 60th Infantry, and Harvey Haddix of the St. Louis Cardinals was on the 39th Infantry team. The commanding officers of both regiments were baseball fans, which heightened the rivalry of the games.

I was to be discharged from the Army on September 28, 1952. A few weeks before that date, I received a letter from Branch Rickey, the General Manager for the Pirates. Always ahead of the curve in scouting talent, Mr. Rickey wanted to take a look at the young players from the Pirates farm system that were about to be discharged from the service. He asked if I could make it to Ebbets Field when the Pirates would be playing the Dodgers. Could I? Hell, I'd walk all the way to Brooklyn if I had to!

With two other players on the 60th Regiment team, we drove to Ebbets Field early enough to await the arrival of the Pirates’ team bus. When it arrived I introduced myself to Bob Rice, the Pirates’ traveling secretary, and showed him Mr. Rickey's letter. He was unaware of the workout and took me to the clubhouse to meet manager Billy Meyer. Surprisingly, Billy Meyer didn't know anything about the workout either, but told “Doc” Jorgensen, the team trainer, to get me a uniform. I put on a major league uniform and stepped onto a major league field for the first time that day in September 1952 at Ebbets Field.

On the Golf Links

Between his days on the Pirates pitcher's mound and his years in the KDKA broadcast booth alongside Bob Prince, Nellie enjoyed a transitional period as a golf announcer that allowed him to watch the meteoric rise of fellow Western Pennsylvanian, "Arnie" Palmer. The last job Nellie held was that of golf coach for Duquesne University, a position he finally had to give up as his health failed in the early 2000s.

During the hazy, crazy, lazy days of summers in the early 1960s, Nellie witnessed, and reported on, a golden era of golf. Here is an excerpt from Happiness is Like a Cur Dog:

Arnie Palmer, a hometown boy from Latrobe, was about to become the biggest name in the game of golf in 1960. He captured his first major golf championship in 1958, winning the Masters. In 1960 he won his second Masters and the U.S. Open, coming seven strokes from behind in the final round. His aggressive style of play made him the nationwide favorite of public links golfers, who formed what became “Arnie’s Army.” Palmer’s success in the 1960s made professional golf an attractive TV sporting event. The game was on the verge of reaching the immense popularity it now enjoys.
National telecasts of golf in 1960 covered only the final two days of major tournaments, and usually only the final four or five holes of play.
With two 1960 major wins at the Masters and U.S. Open, and the PGA Championship slated at the Firestone Country Club in Akron, Ohio, it struck me that this was a natural marketing event for the Latrobe radio station where I was working. So I put together a package of eight, 15-minute reports daily, from 12:45 to 7:45 PM, on Palmer’s play. I was successful in selling it to Joe Wentling, an avid golfer and successful local businessman, who owned the Wendon Oil Company. Joe was among the original members of the exclusive Laurel Valley Golf Club in Ligonier, PA.
The idea of providing listeners with hourly coverage of Palmer’s play for four days in three major golf tournaments was so successful that I continued it until I joined the Pirates’ broadcast team in 1967. I wasn’t aware at the time that I had applied the most important aspect of marketing by doing the golf reports on Palmer’s play until listening to Tom Snyder’s CBS-TV talk show years later. His guests were Colonel Sanders of Kentucky Fried Chicken and Ray Kroc, the founder of McDonald’s. Snyder inquired, “Here I am talking to two of the most successful businessmen in the nation, one of you sells chicken, the other sell hamburgers, neither are innovative or creative items.” He then asked, “What’s the secret?” Ray Kroc replied, “Find out what the people want, and give it to them.”
Joining a group of local professionals and businessmen, I covered my first Masters Golf Tournament in 1961. The group from Latrobe included Gabe Monzo, a good friend of Arnie’s who owned the Mission Inn; Moe Loughner, a salesman for Latrobe Brewing (Rolling Rock Beer); Americo Shifra, a local tavern owner; Don McMahon and Jerry Cooper, real estate developers; and attorneys Al Nichols and Pete Lampropolus.
We rented a home in Augusta for the entire week for $400, making the per-person cost for eight of us just $50! Today you can’t find a house or room in Augusta during Masters week. Gabe Monzo’s culinary skills were on display nightly with home cooked meals, and the dining room table was crowded with bottles of every drink imaginable. It made for a treasured week of golf, conversation, camaraderie, and memories that have lasted a lifetime.
Although these men were not covering the Masters for the media, their acquisition of press credentials gave them all the benefits: entrance to the tournament, press area, clubhouse, locker room, and dining facilities. We had a wonderful opportunity to play the Augusta National course the day after the tournament. We simply had to enter our names on the sheet in the Press Room for tee times starting at 7:00 AM. The only stipulation was to be off the course by noon, as former President Eisenhower, Masters week guest of Cliff Roberts, was to play the course. Don McMahon, Jerry Cooper, and Al Nichols, who had acquired press badges, joined me in a foursome to play this historic course.
Seeing Augusta National has been described as a religious experience, and I would agree. The ride up Magnolia Lane to the clubhouse is appealing, but doesn’t compare to the overall beauty and lush greenness of the course, which is breathtaking. The first time I played the course was in 1962, when Arnie Palmer captured his third Masters Championship....

Thanks to Gene Collier of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette!

Thursday, June 09, 2011

No royal treatment for King's family

By Gene Collier, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

In this, the first full summer without being able to talk about life and baseball with her father, Amy King still moves confidently in that somehow hollowed out world.

It's a hurting place, an empty place, sometimes, but he has been gone since August and now again she thrives, more because of him than in spite of him.

"He was such a survivor," Nellie King's youngest daughter said over coffee Wednesday. "He always said, 'Make the best of whatever life gives you,' and he was the master of that. I know it's my destiny now to be the caretaker to my mother, but I just think, 'What would he do?' -- and that would be to say, 'OK, let's go, here's what has to be done.'

"It's been transformative."

For a time, Nellie King survived pneumonia, colon cancer and Parkinson's disease, all of which I guess wasn't terribly surprising from a guy who had survived traveling with the late Bob Prince.

But the timing of Nellie's Aug. 11, 2010, death was little short of a pity. It came eight months and 10 days before baseball commissioner Bud Selig stepped to a microphone in New York and announced a decades-overdue player benefit that substantially would have lightened the financial burden of those sickened final years for King, his seriously ill widow, and the three grown daughters whose hearts ached as they watched.

"Sometimes in life, it's just the right thing to do," Selig said that day in April. "I believe baseball is a social institution, and with that comes social responsibilities."

I believe he believes that, but baseball took forever to act on that belief, at least when it comes to players of King's era, players who never drew a pension even as the game's profit margins and salaries grew to obscene levels.

"It's better than nothing, but, in my estimation, it's a partial victory," said Doug Gladstone, whose book, "A Bitter Cup of Coffee" doubtless helped bring about the April announcement. "They announced with great fanfare that all these men who still are not vested, we're going to cut you checks for up to $10,000 for two years contingent upon your service. It's better than nothing, but it's not a real pension. It doesn't provide health-insurance coverage, nor will any player's spouse or loved one receive a designated benefit after the player passes.

"You can call it a guilt payment or reparations or what have you. But the foot-dragging for 31 years -- you didn't do anything about this? It's like telling the Nellie King family, look, he died at an inconvenient time for us. He should have stayed alive for this."

Gladstone there refers to 1980, when Major League Baseball was trying to steer away from a looming strike that would close the game for two months the following summer anyway. Baseball offered to lower the vesting requirement to 43 days for pensions and one game for health benefits. Prior to that, players were vested only after four years of service. King played parts of four seasons for the Pirates, but did not qualify. Some 900 players were in the same abandoned boat. The union happily accepted the new pension requirement when the 1981 strike ended, but no one on either side, not before or since (until April), had the courage or the political skill to make the benefits retroactive.

"Here's Major League Baseball, with all these guys making all these big salaries -- you know they could have paid it," Amy said without anger. "That's a leadership issue. More practically, it's a health-care issue. Most of those guys had families."

Players in King's situation brought suit against baseball in 2004 and lost, and Selig was quick to point out in this go-around that baseball was under no legal obligation to pay these guys anything.

It's puzzling because baseball has for some time now made good faith attempts to be magnanimous with former players, even to the extent of providing benefits for veterans of the Negro Leagues, none of whom Major League Baseball even employed.

Modern players don't have to worry. They're vested just about as soon as they show up.

"My position is, in all my travels, I get the sense that the union didn't tell contemporary players about these guys. Either [former MLPA chief Donald] Fehr and [Marvin] Miller [Fehr's predecessor] didn't tell them, or they told them and they don't care. Players like Nellie King helped grow the game. They allowed these salaries to occur."

The mid-'50s Pirates teams for whom King pitched would seem almost like an historical abstraction for someone like Amy King, except that her father was always so much a part of the Pirates family.

"He was so proud of that," she said, "even knowing all this stuff. He was one of the most cherished members of the Pirates Alumni. I mean, they fired the man [along with Prince from the broadcast crew in 1975], but he always loved them. You can't beat the loyalty out of some people."

Uh-huh. And, when you talk with Amy King, you realize you can't beat the dignity out of some, either.

Jim Qualls, Chicago Cubs Outfielder and Tenant Farmer

A moving article by George Vescey in today's New York Times tells the story of former Chicago Cubs outfielder and pinch-hitting specialist Jim Qualls, who, like Nellie King, didn't qualify for a pension because he played in the big leagues for less than four years. Qualls is now a tenant farmer; his story was featured in Douglas Gladstone's powerful book, A Bitter Cup of Coffee. In today's New York Times article, Vescey interviewed Qualls:

“I didn’t qualify for a pension and I never expected one,” Qualls said the other day while waiting for the rain to subside so he could plant soybeans near the Mississippi River.

Qualls, who played in 63 games in bits of three seasons, is among approximately 850 former major leaguers whose lives have improved slightly in the past month because of a financial agreement for those who fell through baseball’s safety net. Some older players are emphatically not happy with the terms.

The issue is what contemporary athletes owe players who came before them. Some modern players acknowledge their predecessors’ low salaries and poor medical treatment. Others are busy building mansions and accumulating expensive cars and do not remember Jackie Robinson, much less Jim Qualls.

Douglas Gladstone: MLB-Union Agreement only a "Partial Victory"; Pirate Legend Nellie King's Family to be Stiffed

PRESS RELEASE

AUTHOR OF CONTROVERSIAL BOOK WHO WENT TO BAT FOR RETIRED BALLPLAYERS WITHOUT PENSIONS LABELS RECENT MLB-UNION AGREEMENT "ONLY A PARTIAL VICTORY." PIRATE BROADCASTING LEGEND NELLIE KING'S FAMILY TO BE STIFFED IN MLB-UNION AGREEMENT FOR PLAYERS WITHOUT PENSIONS

In the wake of the recent joint announcement by both Major League Baseball (MLB) and the Major League Baseball Players Association (MLBPA) that inactive, non-vested men who played between 1947 and 1979 will receive up to $10,000 per year, depending on their length of service credit, as compensation for their contributions to the national pastime, Douglas J. Gladstone, the author of the controversial A Bitter Cup of Coffee; How MLB & The Players Association Threw 874 Retirees A Curve, called the agreement "only a partial victory."

"We don't live in a perfect world, and this is far from a perfect solution to this problem. What was announced doesn't provide health insurance coverage, nor will any player's spouse or loved one receive a designated beneficiary payment after the man passes. So in my estimation, this is only a partial victory.

"I am, however, elated that these men are at long last finally going to receive some type of payment for their time in the game," continued Gladstone. "This was a wrong that should have been righted years ago."

Featuring a foreword written by the Emmy Award-winning broadcast journalist, Dave Marash, A Bitter Cup of Coffeetells the true story about a group of former big-league ballplayers denied pensions as a result of the failure of both the league and the union to retroactively amend the vesting requirement change that granted instant pension eligibility to ballplayers in 1980. As you may know, prior to that year, ballplayers had to have four years service credit to earn an annuity and medical benefits. Since 1980, however, all you have needed is one day of service credit for health insurance and 43 days of service credit for a pension.

Here's, in part, what the Midwest Book Review had to say about the book in its official review, which was published last May:

A wealth of interviews with former players, including heart-touching stories of the hard times some of them have endured, peppers this thoughtful and timely account, which gains especial relevance in light of the current debate about the state of health care in America.

"I've said on numerous occasions that this whole disgraceful chapter in labor relations was a terrible inequity and injustice that stains baseball's history," said Gladstone. "The announcement made on Thursday, April 21, 2011 is a step in the right direction, but I'd be interested in knowing what, if anything, MLB Commissioner Bud Selig and the head of the players union, Mr. Michael Weiner, plan to offer the families of Jay D. Schlueter, Bill Jennings, Nellie King and Jay Van Noy, each of whom died after my book was published. Regrettably, it appears they won't be receiving a plug nickel. And that is truly unfortunate."

Last August, the legendary Pittsburgh Pirate broadcaster Nellie King died at the age of 82. Most people weren't aware that Nellie was a pitcher before he started his second career in the radio and television booth. He had Parkinson's and was residing in Friendship Village, a retirement home in Upper St. Clair, Pennsylvania while his wife of 58 years, Bernadette, was confined to the Devonshire of Mount Lebanon Assisted Living Center, in Pittsburgh. His profile is featured in the concluding chapter of A Bitter Cup of Coffee.

The book was published on April 14, 2010. Once again, thank you, in advance, for your attention to this email. If you'd like to speak with Mr. Gladstone directly, feel free to contact him at 1-518-817-8253. The executrix of Mr. King's estate, his daughter, Amy, is available to be interviewed as well.

New Details Emerge about Branch Rickey's Historic Signing of Jackie Robinson to the Brooklyn Dodgers

Over at Bleacher Report, Tom Kinslow reveals a fascinating new spiritual dimension of Branch Rickey's decision to sign Jackie Robinson to the Brooklyn Dodgers, thus breaking the MLB color barrier.

Branch Rickey was a devoutly religious man given to sermonizing and speaking to the players in parables. One such parable, which he told Pirates players at the start of spring training in 1955, is the source of the title of Nellie's book:

"Mr. Rickey likened happiness to a 'cur-dog.' There was a worker who was busy painting a garage. Just as he was beginning to paint he noticed a cur dog [a "mutt"] nearby. Fascinated by the dog, he reached down and tried to pet the animal. As soon as he did, the dog ran away. So the painter returned to his job and soon the dog returned. The dog nudged his leg; unaware of the dog, the man kept painting and whistling. Suddenly he felt the dog reaching up and pawing at his thigh.

Mr. Rickey would go on to explain, 'That's what happiness is. You can't go out looking and searching for it, if you do, it will escape from you and run away like that cur-dog. But if you go about your work, enjoying it, happiness will be there right beside you'."

Today, Jamie Crawford of CNN.com relates that Rickey came to the decision to sign Robinson after going to a church to do a little soul searching:

This is the era that Nellie writes about so warmly in Happiness is like a Cur Dog. It's a great summer read for baseball fans and history buffs of all ages, and a wonderful introduction to the golden age of baseball for young fans. Consider purchasing it today!

R.I.P. Duke Snider, 1926-2011

The sad news arrived last night of the passing of Edwin Donald "Duke" Snider, "The Duke of Flatbush." Snider was the very first batter Nellie faced in the major leagues--and he struck him out! In Happiness is like a Cur Dog, Nellie recalls his debut on the Ebbets Field pitcher's mound, and the thrill and terror of pitching to Duke Snider.

Being in the bullpen for the Pirates in 1954 at Ebbets Field was similar to having a rifleman’s MOS in the infantry. You knew you were going to get into the battle, but you weren’t sure when. The fans at field level were so close they could reach out and touch you. The wonderful intimacy was great for the Dodgers and their fans, but hell for the visiting team players, since the bullpen was located in foul territory down the left field line.

The Dodgers’ roster that opening day in 1954 was loaded with established veteran players. Junior Gilliam, Pee Wee Reese, Duke Snider, Jackie Robinson, Roy Campanella, Gil Hodges, Carl Furillo, and Billy Cox. They didn’t waste any time unloading on Pirates’ veteran starter Max Surkont. They got to him for eight hits in four innings, including home runs by Gilliam, Robinson, and Campanella for a 7-1 lead.

The bullpen phone rang in the fifth inning and Cal Hogue, a rookie right-hander with an outstanding curve ball, got the call. Cal pitched well, allowing only one hit in three innings before leaving for a pinch hitter in the top of the eighth. When the Pirates played in Ebbets Field, the eighth inning was usually the Dodgers last inning at bat. This game was to be no exception.

In the top of the eighth inning, Sam Narron, the Pirates’ bullpen coach, answered the bullpen phone and in what sounded like an executioner’s voice, said, “King, it’s you.” With my major league debut moments away, I took off my jacket and began to experience intense anxiety. I said a silent prayer, “Please God, get me out of here without too much embarrassment.” Additional thoughts began going through my mind– “You can't hide a bad performance in New York, there are so many media covering the game; I have to face at least one hitter before they can take me out…”

I had been praying for this moment for a long time. As I looked at Duke Snider, I remembered the old adage, “Be careful what you pray for, you might just receive it.” Here I was, a right-handed, low-ball pitcher facing one of the best left-handed, low-ball, power hitters in the majors—and in a ballpark with a short porch in right field.

Atwell signaled for a sinker on my first pitch. Somehow I got it near home plate on the outside corner and Snider fouled it for a strike. I was now able to breathe, but I still couldn’t spit. I threw a curve inside for ball one, and then got a curve ball where I wanted it, low and inside off the plate, and Snider fouled it off for strike two.

Atwell signaled for another sinker. As I made the pitch it was like I was seeing it in slow motion—I threw the ball, followed through and for some reason Snider, with two strikes on him, tried to drag a bunt and fouled off the pitch. I suddenly thought, “Damn, he struck out!” If you saw the emotion Johnny Podres displayed in the final game of the 1955 World Series at Ebbets field, you have some idea of how I felt inside. Now I could spit! I got through the inning giving up only one hit and no runs.

Radio Tributes to Nellie King

Radio listeners call in to 93.7 FM The FAN - Pittsburgh Sports Radio to share their memories of Nellie King soon after his death was announced on August 11, 2010.

Pittsburgh Tribune-Review Features the Nellie King Fund

The first newspaper article about the Nellie King Fund appeared in today's Pittsburgh Tribune-Review. Nellie's family and friends thank Mr. Bill Zlatos, the author of the article. Here is an excerpt:

There may not be a bronze statue of late Pirates pitcher and broadcaster Nellie King outside PNC Park, but his family and friends are creating a memorial of their own....

Nellie King grew up in Shenandoah, Penna. during the Great Depression. His father, a coal miner, died when King was 6, and two years later he was shuttled off to the Milton Hershey Industrial School. After graduating from the orphanage's high school in 1945, he began a series of tryouts until he landed a job with the Pirates.

His daughters said the scholarship fund will serve King's twin interests of sports and journalism. There may also be a link to the Hershey School and Duquesne University.

Michael Murray, King's nephew and former president of the Boys and Girls Club of Western Pennsylvania, said King served on the chapter's board and helped raise money for it.

"He was always looking out for the underdog," said Murray.

Family and friends have raised $6,000 to date, but they need $19,000 more to start granting scholarships. Laurie King hopes the family will award the first scholarship in the fall of 2011.

"We think there's enough people who truly like and love this guy that they'll support his philosophy via a program such as this that will help children who are in need get an education," Murray said.

A Warm Tribute to Nellie from his "Brothers" at Milton S. Hershey School

Here is a recent feature about Nellie's passing and his daughters' efforts to establish a charitable fund in his memory from Thy Traditions Dear, the alumni publication of the Milton S. Hershey School.

And here is the Milton S. Hershey School Pledge, which Nellie lived by:

(Click on the images to enlarge them.)

A Wonderful Holiday Gift for Baseball Fans

Nellie loved the holiday season. Thanksgiving was probably his favorite; he always savored a good turkey dinner with all the trimmings! On Christmas mornings he would make pancakes with fresh sliced apples and cinnamon for his daughters, even long after they stopped believing in Santa Claus.

One of Nellie's most treasured memories of childhood was seeing a train set under the Christmas tree when he was four years old. He said that was the greatest thing Santa ever brought his family.

Sadly, Nellie will not be with us this holiday season. But his words, wisdom, memories, and laughter live on in his book. If you are still looking for that special gift for all the baseball fans on your shopping list, consider purchasing a copy of Happiness is Like a Cur Dog. Proceeds will go to support the newly established Nellie King Fund to create scholarships for underprivileged children, student-athletes, and sports journalism majors. Our mission is to create a lasting legacy in Nellie King's honor.

Here is an excerpt from the introductory chapter of Nellie's best-selling memoir:

This is the story of the wonderful journey that took me from the Milton S. Hershey Industrial School for Boys to the minor leagues, and then to a major league career as a relief pitcher for the Pirates. As such, it is a story about finding happiness, or rather, letting happiness find me.

Psychologist Abraham Maslow has a term for those moments in life when your senses are completely open to everything that is going on around you. He calls them “peak experiences.” Your mind is completely at ease and immersed in the “now,” while your senses are soaking up everything in vivid detail. How wonderful it is—and how rare—in a life in which our enthusiasm and energy is all too often sapped by our day-to-day obligations, worries about the future, and fears rooted in past experiences. When love and satisfaction with one’s work come together, peak experiences can happen.

I enjoyed my first peak experience in the summer of 1948. I was pitching for the New Iberia, Louisiana Pelicans in the Class “D” Evangeline League, and enjoying a truly successful season, winning 20 games and pitching 284 innings. I woke up early one morning after another winning game with a feeling of peace and serenity that was new to me. The mugginess of the bayou had not yet engulfed the day. A cooling breeze was lightly stirring the white lace curtains of the window near my bed, wafting in the sweet smells of the flowers opening outside. The pleasing songs of birds only accentuated the quiet.

I lay there for several minutes, completely enthralled with the sensation of profound contentment. “This is how life should be lived,” I thought. But the more I tried to hold on to the experience, the faster it ebbed away, until it finally evaporated. Yet, it was such a wonderful moment that I can relive it in my mind to this day. I've enjoyed other peak experiences in baseball, when moments are simply allowed to just happen and unfold. As a pitcher, I was deeply involved in “the now,” with no anxiety.

In my years of association with Pittsburgh Pirates’ baseball from 1948 to 1975, I’ve seen the organization go through the whole gamut of human emotions. Pittsburgh is no stranger to hardship, and the Pirates have known their years “in the cellar.” Like the city itself, the team emerged from the darkness and soot of the 1950s to enjoy two shining decades that Bob Prince called “the halcyon days” of Pirates baseball.

Surely, it was a peak experience for the entire western Pennsylvania region to be a part of Bill Mazeroski’s dramatic home run at Forbes Field, clinching the 1960 World Series. Pittsburghers also enjoyed the honor of witnessing the excellence of legendary players like Roberto Clemente and Willie Stargell. How lucky I was to have played and broadcast during these halcyon days of Pirates’ baseball!

In this book I attempt to capture an era in baseball that is rapidly fading. During my brief major league career I played against such Hall of Fame greats as Stan Musial, Ernie Banks, Hank Aaron, Eddie Matthews, Jackie Robinson, Frank Robinson, Ken Boyer, Roy Campanella, Duke Snider, Pee Wee Reese, Don Newcombe, Sandy Koufax, Don Drysdale, Warren Spahn, Robin Roberts, and many others. As a broadcaster I was privileged to view and describe the excellence of Roberto Clemente, Bill Mazeroski, Willie Stargell, Bob Gibson, Johnny Bench, Joe Morgan, Tony Perez, Lou Brock, and many more.

Committing these memories to paper has been personally satisfying. I hope you will enjoy reading them as much as I did living them.

Announcing The Nellie King Foundation

The family of Nellie King is very proud to announce our partnership with The Pittsburgh Foundation in creating The Nellie King Fund to support non-profit charities in our father's honor and continue his legacy of serving those less fortunate in our community.

Once the endowment reaches the $25,000 threshold, we will transition the Fund to our ultimate goal of creating a Scholarship Fund to aid and support underprivileged children, student-athletes, and sports journalism majors, amongst other charitable efforts.

Our mission is to create a lasting legacy in Nellie King's honor.

We appreciate your kindness, friendship and support, and invite you to help us honor Nellie's life and legacy by giving generously.

HOW TO DONATE:

Contributors can donate online at The Pittsburgh Foundation's website, earmarking their gift to "The Nellie King Fund."

Or donors may send checks* payable to "The Pittsburgh Foundation" to:

The Pittsburgh Foundation

5 PPG Place, Suite 250

Pittsburgh, PA 15222-5414

ATTN: The Nellie King Fund

*earmark your gift to "The Nellie King Fund" in the notes line of your check.

** ALL DONATIONS ARE TAX DEDUCTIBLE **

BUY Nellie King's book online and learn about his amazing life. All proceeds will be donated to The Nellie King Fund.

Remembering Roberto Clemente's 3,000th (and Final) Hit

Amy King writes:

When Nellie asked Roberto Clemente in a June 28, 1970 interview "How many years do you want to play baseball in the major leagues?", Roberto prophetically replied, "I’m a very funny person because I think that I would like to play as long as I can help the ball club. Sometime, like last year, I played with a very bad left shoulder and it was very tough for me. I don’t want to play like that because I hurt myself, I hurt the fans and I hurt the Pittsburgh organization.

"I would like to play until I get to 3,000 hits. I think that is something not too may fellows accomplished in the past and not too many are going to accomplish in the future either. So I would like to play until I get 3,000 hits."

38 years ago today on September 30th, 1972 Nellie King was set to announce the 4th inning when he graciously handed over the microphone to long time partner Bob Prince so he could go down in history calling Roberto's 3,000th hit... which ended up being his last.

Now that's class, sports fans...

Keith Olbermann's Tribute and Farewell to Nellie

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Nelson Joseph "Nellie" King ~ 15 March 1928 - 11 August 2010

Nellie was called to the Field of Dreams in Heaven at 1:55 a.m., Wednesday, 11 August 2010. His loving daughters were by his side as he slipped out of this world.

Here is a poem that the family shared with friends, colleagues, former teammates, and all who knew and loved Nellie, in person, or on the air. He will be sorely missed.

Game Called

by Grantland Rice

Game Called. Across the field of play

the dusk has come, the hour is late.

The fight is done and lost or won,

the player files out through the gate.

The tumult dies, the cheer is hushed,

the stands are bare, the park is still.

But through the night there shines the light,

home beyond the silent hill.

Game Called. Where in the golden light

the bugle rolled the reveille.

The shadows creep where night falls deep,

and taps has called the end of play.

The game is done, the score is in,

the final cheer and jeer have passed.

But in the night, beyond the fight,

the player finds his rest at last.

Game Called. Upon the field of life

the darkness gathers far and wide,

the dream is done, the score is spun

that stands forever in the guide.

Nor victory, nor yet defeat

is chalked against the players name.

But down the roll, the final scroll,

shows only how he played the game.

The Art of Deception and a Perfect Day in 1956

The 1956 season was the most enjoyable season of my major league career. I was part of the Pirates’ team that moved into first place in the National League on June 12, 1956 after a game against the Reds that was particularly memorable for me. With the Pirates leading 4-3 in the bottom of the ninth inning with one out and runners at first and second, Bobby Bragan brought me in to relieve Elroy Face. The first batter I faced was Johnny Temple, a player I knew from Columbia, SC when I was pitching for the Charleston Rebels in 1950. I jammed Temple on the first pitch with a sinking fastball which he hit on a two-hopper to third base for what looked like a certain double play, but Bill Mazeroski was not yet on the Pirates’ roster and we failed to turn the game ending double play.

With two out and runners at first and third, I had to face Frank Robinson, who, in his rookie season, was quickly building credibility for a Hall of Fame career. Catcher Hank Foiles came out to the mound to discuss the situation, telling me confidently, “We’ll start him off low and away.” To which I replied, “Hell, Hank, if I could start everyone off low and away, I wouldn’t be coming in now, I’d be starting!” We both laughed and agreed I would try to get ahead using my best pitch, a sinker that he fouled off. The next pitch was a curve ball that Robinson swung on and missed.

Now out in front 0-2, Foiles wanted another curve ball, which I threw just off the outside corner for show and it was taken for a ball. Foiles signaled for another curve ball, which I shook off. During an eight year career in the minors I had mastered the art of deception Branch Rickey had said was so necessary for a pitcher’s success. I learned how to move the ball in and out on batters and wanted to throw a fastball on the outside corner. My reasoning was that Robinson had seen three pitches, a fastball inside and two curve balls away.

I wanted to throw a pitch on the outside corner with a fastball and have the pitch move back over the plate for a strike. I placed it as perfectly as I had ever done. I knew I had fooled Robinson, who was looking for another curve ball. Pitchers can see the look on the face of hitters when they are fooled; their eyes suddenly open wide and know they have to make a quick decision. That happened to Robinson, who swung late and struck-out.

I felt the pride and joy artists feel when they complete a painting as planned. To make it more rewarding, the Pirates moved into first place for the first time in many years. It was a new and exciting feeling for a group of young players. This was the beginning of the success the Pirates would feel in coming years, culminating in the 1960 World Series. Even though the 1956 success didn’t last through the second half of the season (we finished seventh), it was the first sign that our team could compete and win at this level of baseball. I was not a member of the Pirates’ team that won the 1960 World Series, but I shared the joy and satisfaction of that unforgettable season.....

Bench Jockeys and Rabbit Ears

Some memories from Nellie's time in the farm teams in the 1950s.

Being tall and thin (6’6”, 180 lbs.) always made me a target for the usual comments — “Don’t drink any cherry soda, you’ll look like a thermometer by the fourth inning!” The most original remark I heard in my eleven seasons of baseball occurred in Macon, Georgia, in 1950. Half a century later, I still can still hear the comment and see the hitter who uttered the remark.

The hitter's name was Phelps, a left-handed hitting outfielder. I went the distance for the win, making up for my less-than-overpowering velocity with control and a good moving sinker. Phelps went 0-4 in the game, and following each out, his frustration and anger grew. In the first at-bat, he grounded out to second base on an outside sinker. From the dugout, I heard him holler, “Is that as hard as you can throw skinny?” The next time up, he popped up to first base. From the dugout, I heard: “How the hell did you ever get into this league throwing that crap?" This line of attack continued after he flied to right field in his third time at bat.

On his final at bat in the ninth, he grounded to first base, and as I covered the bag for the out, I expected to hear his comment up- close. But surprisingly, he quietly returned to the dugout. I thought, "well, okay; he’s done for the day," and was looking in to get the sign from my catcher when I heard Phelps bark out, “You tall skinny sonofabitch! What the hell do you do in the off season — clean the insides of rainspouts?” I laughed like hell, as it was the first and only original comment I’d heard from a “bench jockey.”

In baseball, most of the verbal abuse coming from dugouts or coaches, other than that directed at umpires, is directed at the pitchers. The reason is simple: Pitchers control the flow of the game. If you can break their concentration, you can affect their performance. The baseball term for these vocal pests is “bench jockeys.” To be effective, they need an audience, and pitchers who respond to their taunts become known as “rabbit ears,” since they hear everything.

During my 11-year professional career, I found ample support for my belief that bench jockeys’ vocabularies were equal to their batting averages. After all, why else would they be sitting on the bench, rather than playing? A pitcher’s ability to tune out bench jockeys is always related to the number of years he's spent in the game. When I was 17 and pitching in my first year of semi-pro ball, I listened to one third-base coach ride me constantly. I had rabbit ears, and he knew it. Late in the game, with a runner at third, he suddenly went quiet and then gently asked me, “Hey kid, let me see the ball.” I was about to throw it to him when a veteran teammate loudly informed me that that wouldn't be a wise thing to do....

(Photo: Nellie enjoying the Gulf of Mexico on his last trip to Florida in March 2005)

Douglas J. Gladstone tells the story of pensions denied to former MLB players

A new book by journalist Douglas J. Gladstone, A Bitter Cup of Coffee: How the MLB and Players Association Threw 874 Retirees A Curve, tells the story of hundreds of former big-league baseball players who were denied pensions as a result of the failure of both the league and the union to retroactively amend the vesting requirement change that granted instant pension eligibility to ballplayers in 1980.

Prior to that year, ballplayers had to have four years service credit to earn an annuity and medical benefits. Since 1980, however, all they have needed is one day of service credit for health insurance and 43 days of service credit for a pension.

Gladstone began working on this book after interviewing former players about the golden age of baseball. In the course of an interview with Jimmy Qualls, he stumbled upon the story of 847 players who were not included in the pension and benefits plan for former major leaguers. He recalls the moment that this book was conceived:

Admittedly, I never really paid much attention to the business side of baseball. These days, of course, it’s pretty hard to ignore that aspect of the sport. So, last June, when I was interviewing the former Chicago Cub, Jimmy Qualls, for a Baseball Digest story that was ultimately published in September 2009, and he casually mentioned that he wasn’t receiving a pension, being the inquisitive type, I asked him why. When he explained the reasons why he wasn’t, I knew I had the makings of a story that had to be told.

Nellie, who turns 82 today, is among the 847 players who don't receive pensions for their service on the baseball diamond. Gladstone interviewed him last year, and his story is featured in the final chapter of A Bitter Cup of Coffee.

Bob Prince, “The Gunner”

No history of Pirates baseball could be written without lauding Bob Prince, “the Voice of the Pirates,” or, as he was also known, “the Gunner.” No one dominated Pirates baseball more than this larger-than-life Pittsburgh media personality. The son of a career U.S. Army officer, Bob was widely traveled and worldly wise even in his teen years. He studied law, attending Harvard, Oklahoma, and Stanford with limited success, confessing he loved the social scene much more than books. Jack Henry, a Pittsburgh raconteur, described Prince’s college resume best: “Bob Prince’s diploma has more fingerprints on it than Elizabeth Taylor’s ass!”

Everyone will agree that his talents would have been wasted in a courtroom. He was made for radio and baseball. I was fortunate to spend nine years working beside him. Our relationship, like the roller coaster ride at Kennywood Park, was all ups and downs, but never dull.

Prince gave the word “personality” a distinctiveness rarely seen in those days. He wore wild, flashy sports coats and a demeanor to match. You always knew when Bob was in the room. During his broadcasts you had no problem figuring out whether the Pirates were winning or losing. You either loved him or hated him, but you listened. Prince was well aware of the mixed audience response. Once, as he was leaving the press room to begin a broadcast, he shouted out for all to hear, “Gotta go to the radio booth. Twenty thousand listeners are getting ready to turn me off.”

Bob started his Pirates broadcasting career in 1948 under the tutelage of Rosey Rosewell, who began doing Pirate broadcasts in 1936. In those early days, baseball radio broadcasts were not done live since the owners feared fan attendance (and revenues) would drop. How wrong they were; radio broadcasts actually created more fans.

Games were “recreated” in a studio by using the information sent from the site of the game over the Western Union wire ticker tape. By using sound effects--and the listeners’ imaginations--announcers created the illusion of broadcasting the game live from the ballpark.

One of the great advantages of not being at the park was that it gave the announcer the freedom to control the flow of the game by staying a half or a full inning behind the game descriptions coming off the ticker tape. It became obligatory for announcers to fill the slow or dead periods in every game. The good announcers did this by telling stories while still keeping the listener involved in the flow of the game. Rosewell was a wonderful storyteller, on and off the air, and also wrote and published poems.

Bob Prince did not write poetry, but was his equal or better as a storyteller and master of ceremonies....

An Ugly American: Nellie Recalls his Season of Winter Baseball in Mexico

As the snows of February swirl, anyone who has been involved in major league baseball begins to think not only of opening day--now just two months away--but also of the joys of spending six weeks in the tropics. Nellie and his family treasure glowing memories of splashing in the waves and walking on the beaches of Anna Maria Island on Florida's Gulf coast during spring training, but Nellie also remembers a less pleasant -- but highly educational -- trip to the Pacific coast of Mexico in 1955.

Eager to play winter ball in Mexico, I appreciated my wife’s willingness to join me in my first trip “south of the border.” Neither of us were prepared for the profound cultural differences that awaited us. Making adjustment matters worse was the damage done by a typhoon that hit Mazatlan a week before our arrival. Floods had washed out roads and cut off the electricity. My lack of understanding of the culture and anger about the daily inconveniences created by the storm grew each day. Looking back at this experience, I realized I was an “Ugly American.”

Our trip began with a flight from Newark, NJ to Tucson, AZ. We traveled by bus to Nogales, Mexico where we found accommodations overnight at a local motel. We left an early wake up call and arrived at the airport with time for clearing customs and having breakfast. Our flight included stops at Hermosillo, Los Mochis, and Culican before arriving at Mazatlan.

Before boarding the flight, we had time to view the 30-seat, two-propeller plane. It was not a comforting scene. Two laborers on ladders were working on the propeller engines with what looked like ordinary pliers. A youngster who was crying loudly was creating a disturbance that the stewardess corrected by whacking him on his rear and telling him to be quiet. His mother did not protest. Welcome to Aeronaves de Mexico!

The stewardess went through the ritual of showing us how to fasten our seat belts as the pilot drove the plane to the end of the runway for takeoff. As the plane began to move, I was certain we did not have enough speed to get off the ground. My observation was correct. The pilot quickly hit the brakes and informed us that we would be returning to the terminal. We got off the plane while the workers returned with their ladders and pliers to work on the engines.

(As an indication of our anxiety level on this flight, while typing this chapter I asked my wife to recall how she felt during that first flight on Aeronaves de Mexico. She answered, “How the hell should I know? I was too busy saying the Rosary!”)

After some delay, the pilot decided to give it another try, but this time without passengers on board. He took the plane to the end of the runway and gathered what he was sure was appropriate speed to take off and returned to the terminal. We were asked to re-board, and despite the anxiety, all passengers returned to the plane. My wife was now heavily into the rosary and I told her, “Don’t worry, if the pilot didn’t think he could take off, he wouldn’t try it.” I was right and we had a safe flight.

We finally reached our destination at Mazatlan in the early afternoon and enjoyed our first sight from the air. The view of the crescent shaped shoreline and beach that defined the western limits of the city was marvelous. The view of the Pacific Ocean from our apartment was fantastic. Daily we would take delight in watching groups of swordfish and porpoises leaping from the water. The beach was named Olas Altos for the high waves that funneled into the crescent shaped beach. It attracted many swimmers who enjoyed body-surfing all day on the big waves.

Pleased with our accommodations, we agreed they were ideal. However, later that evening we discovered because of the typhoon that hit the area a week before, Mazatlan was unable to keep electric generators going for 24 hours. We assumed the generators would be working for the evening hours, but the city turned off the electricity after 6:00 PM and we had to live by candlelight until the next morning when the electricity returned.

A large hotel adjacent to our apartment had lights turned on all evening, which made us question why we didn’t. It turned out the hotel had its own generator and did not have to depend on the city’s electricity. I still questioned the decision to turn off power during the evening. I thought “how dumb these Mexicans are!”, and expressed my opinions loudly from our apartment.

With no electricity, the refrigerator defrosted at night. The melting ice dripped into a glass bowl we used to store the eggs. When Bernadette opened the door to get eggs for breakfast, the water and the eggs were frozen solid. I made more comments about the stupidity and ignorance of the Mexicans. I was embarrassed by my words when I discovered the electricity was available only during daylight hours so industrial plants and business could continue working, as they provided needed income for the citizens of Mazatlan.

Just as I had during my first journey through the U.S. south in 1946, I became aware of the prevalence and injustice of poverty. Despite their impoverishment and the need to repair the damage done by the typhoon, the people displayed an inner strength and a real joy for life. The typhoon’s impact was evident during our first bus trip to open the season at Los Mochis. We arrived at a wide stream where the flood had washed out a bridge and I wondered how we would be able to continue. We did, thanks to the talent and “can-do” attitude of the Mexican workers. We were transported on a hand-made wooden flatbed barge, similar to the kind depicted in Tom Sawyer. We loaded all of or luggage from the bus onto the barge and two men rowed us across the stream with no problems, delivering us to another bus waiting to complete the trip.

We were warned not to drink any of the local tap water in Los Mochis and after entering my hotel room I knew why. The water from the bathroom tap was grayish and foul-smelling. I joined some of the players for dinner at a restaurant not far from the hotel. I can’t recall what I ate, but I do not recall drinking the water. I ordered bottled beverages as suggested. The next morning I awoke and had to wash up with the foul smelling tap water. I then made the mistake of brushing my teeth and in two days I had developed a bad case of the “Aztec two-step,” which soon developed into dysentery. I was in no shape to play baseball after this, but I persisted.

Games were scheduled on Friday and Saturday with a doubleheader on Sunday. Monday and Tuesday were off days, and Wednesday and Thursday were scheduled for practice. As the “American” pitcher, I had the number one spot in the rotation and was also expected to pitch in relief for the other games. Despite suffering from nausea and dysentery, I felt an obligation to pitch since I was making $700 a month in salary and the team had paid for our airfare and accommodations.

I was eager to see the end of the series at Los Mochis and return to cosmopolitan Mazatlan. As soon as I returned to our apartment, my wife could see I was very ill. She requested the manager to get a doctor to treat me. The doctor showed up the next morning and introduced himself as Dr. Corona-Corona. The double name was unique, but not so much as the fact he wore two pair of glasses. He diagnosed my illness as dysentery and dehydration, prescribed an antibiotic, and gave me intravenous fluids to reverse my dehydration. Bedridden for two days, I recovered enough to make practice on Wednesday and Thursday.

In the wee hours of Monday morning I got up feeling worse and asked Bernadette to call for a doctor. Bernadette, who served as a Red Cross nurse, was aware that this could not go on any longer. I recall her telling me, “If you say we are going home, I’ll call for a doctor. If you don’t, I’m not going to.” I told her we were going home and the doctor arrived and informed me that my condition was serious. I had lost 15 pounds in three weeks. We contacted the Pirates’ office to inform Branch Rickey, Jr. of my illness and the need to return home for health reasons. He agreed, and we joyously returned to the United States.

My Mexican experiences made me aware of the advantages I took for granted living in the United Stats. I felt then, and still do today, that if a leader offered and provided the benefits and social services people so desperately needed, Mexicans wouldn’t care if they were Socialists or Communists—anything had to be better than what they had in 1955. I understand why so many citizens of Mexico are eager to cross our borders. They are simply looking for a better life.

After playing ball at Mazatlan, I recalled manager Frank Oceak’s comment at York, PA: “Keep your eyes, ears and bowels open, and your mouth shut.” Mexico was the only place I was able to do that.

Nellie's Interview on Baseball Digest Live

Nellie did a very colorful interview today on Baseball Digest Live.

You can hear the broadcast in the program's archives.

Thanks to Jay Ferraro for making this happen!

Betting in the Bayou: Gambling in New Iberia, Louisiana

There's been a lot of news coverage lately about players behaving badly. Nellie is always sad to hear stories about the use of performance-enhancing drugs, which are nothing new in baseball. If you have not yet seen it, take a look at the late Dock Ellis' recollections of the use of amphetamines ("greenies")--and other substances!--in this animation about his unusual no-hitter in 1970:

While playing in Louisiana, one of his favorite places in the world, Nellie discovered the world of wagering on games. Here is an excerpt from his chapter on his Bayou baseball days:

During the summer of 1948 at New Iberia, I encountered another vice: Gambling. Wagering was and probably still is a part of life in the Bayou country. Young and naive about the dangers of gambling, I spent a lot of my daytime hours in the downtown pool hall. The owner, Tom Spiros, invited all the players to use the pool tables “on the house.” Along with the pool tables, constant poker games were being played for high stakes.

The index finger of Tom's right hand was amputated halfway to the knuckle. I never asked how or why, but it was no handicap to him. I took interest in watching him play poker, particularly his method d for counting silver dollars. Using the stub of the partially amputated right index finger, he would stack five silver dollars exactly, picking them up with his thumb and middle finger. He was never questioned by anyone at the table.

The pool hall’s main attraction for me was a Western Union ticker tape that kept an up-to-date score of every major league baseball game being played on a given day. With many games played in daytime then, I took delight in following the scores and, on occasion, posting them on a nearby blackboard as they came in over the wire. It was an entertaining place to spend the daytime hours. I never saw or knew of any players getting involved in gambling at the pool hall. The stakes were too high for players who were earning from $125 to $200 a month.

However, as the weeks went by, I began to understand why Tom Spiros was so willing to have us frequent his place. The conversations at the pool hall usually got around to the New Iberia game of the night before and the one to be played that evening. The habitues' interest was not strictly that of a fan. Gamblers are always looking for a slight advantage, and we were naively providing it by talking casually about our team, its strengths and weaknesses, and its strategies.

Gamblers who bet on horses can’t have the same relationship they do with baseball players. Horses don’t talk. Following the final game of the 1948 season in New Iberia, Pete McGarry and I retired to our usual bar. As I was about to leave, I expressed my thanks to the bartender for the many memorable evenings spent there. I was amazed when he said, “You know, you cost me a lot of money this year.” With my “social lubricant” working, I loudly inquired of him, “I won 20 and lost only 13, and you're blaming me for costing you money?” As a parting shot, I said, “You gotta be the dumbest-assed gambler in town.

The fans in the Bayou Country, and particularly at New Iberia, loved to wager. They bet not only on the outcome of the game, but on whether a pitch would be a ball or strike, which created animosity against the umpires, and frequently resulted in foolish fan retaliation. The most drastic reprisal I recall was when disgruntled fans poured sand into the gas tank of an umpire's car.

In Houma, one of the towns in the Evangeline League, two players on the team that 1948 season got into trouble for stealing money from a bookie joint that took wagers on horse racing. They managed to develop a friendly relationship with the bookie and then worked a scam for making winning bets. According to the story, one player would distract the bookie; the other would turn the bookie's clock back ten or fifteen minutes. With a direct line to the track where the races were being run, they would get the winner then place their bet with the bookie. Trusting and unaware of the scam, the bookie took the bet and paid off.

This went on for a while before someone got wise. The players were barred from baseball. They were lucky some guys with flat noses from Chicago didn't come to visit them. If this betting on horses warranted expulsion from baseball, there really is no defense for any player who bets on baseball games. Warnings against this violation were posted on every clubhouse door, from Class “D” to the major leagues. Pete Rose saw them every day, knew the rules, and still failed to abide by them. He paid the price. The Black Sox Scandal in the 1919 World Series nearly destroyed fans’ loyalty to the game and ushered in the first strong commissioner of baseball, Judge Kennesaw Mountain Landis....

"Nellie King Memoir a Warmhearted Winner"