I have lived most of my life in New Orleans, Louisiana, where I was born on June 13, 1922. My dad, who had played semipro ball, was the one who got me started in baseball. When I was pretty young, I wanted to be a jockey and used to go horseback riding every weekend. As I grew, I got too big to be a jockey. Dad said, “You have to train your sights on something else.”

That something else was baseball, which I had always liked as well. I played baseball daily. There was terrible heat all the time, but we got used to it, built up an immunity. During the summer months, my mother would get after me constantly to come home for lunch. I would tell her, “Mama, I don’t have time to eat lunch. I’m playing ball.”

Our family was of average means. My father was the head machinist for the Illinois Central Railroad in charge of the million-dollar train — the Panama Limited that ran from New Orleans to Chicago. He was in charge of the train on the New Orleans side. I rode on that train that was his pride and joy many times.

The train brought me close to my dad and so did baseball. I used to go with him to Heineman Park, which later became named Pelican Park. It was the first ballpark I saw professional baseball in. Even though the park was only about three miles from my home, my dad and I would go there by streetcar because there wasn’t very much parking space.

The park seated about ten to twelve thousand, but usually when the Cardinals and Indians played exhibition games, there was an overflow crowd. They would then let the people stand out on the field in a roped-off section. I recall one day when my dad and I were part of the overflow crowd just outside of first base in foul territory. Big Hal Trotsky, a first baseman for Cleveland, hit a line drive. The ball came right at me. I had nowhere to go, because we were jam packed into the crowd, so I tried to defend myself by trying to catch the ball. It hit off the palm of my hand. Later, I was given the ball because I had stopped it. They said I had prevented damage to others.

My baseball hero as a kid was Mel Ott, who was a great hitter and also a great person. He came from a town named Gretna just across the river from New Orleans. I knew everything about him since he was such a famous baseball player. When I got to meet him, we became great friends. We did a lot of things together. Mel took a liking to me, and I liked and idolized him. Off-season was the time he came back to Louisiana after starring for the New York Giants. That was when we would get together.

He and I used to go into the “Bad Boy Home” and play baseball with the kids who were in trouble. Mel would play on one team, and I would play on the other. We would talk with the kids and try to let baseball convert them from their bad habits. This all took place way back when I was in my early teens.

Carl Hubbell was another fellow I idolized quite a bit. He was another New York Giant. The Cleveland Indians and the Giants played spring training games in New Orleans, and almost every Sunday there was a classic duel between Bob Feller and Carl Hubbell. I was just agog seeing Carl Hubbell making the game seem so much easier than most pitchers. Bob Feller was out there grunting and groaning on every pitch, throwing as hard as he could. Here’s Hubbell out there throwing a screwball, making it look so easy. His style was so impressive, and I like to think some of that rubbed off on me.

New Orleans was always an area for baseball talent. I grew up with some of those players and also played with some of them. There was Dr. Bobby Brown, who played for the Yankees; Connie Ryan, who played for the Braves; Putsy Caballero, who played for the Phillies; and Charlie Gilbert, who played for the Phillies and Dodgers.

There was Howie Pollett, who went on to pitch for the St. Louis Cardinals, and Larry LaSalle, who got a shot with Pittsburgh. Howie, Larry, and I were left-handed pitchers. Howie was a next-door neighbor. I played first base on our neighborhood team and Howie was always the pitcher.

Coming up, first base was my position. I didn’t pitch at all except some batting practice when I was in high school. However, whenever I did that, everybody used to claim that my pitch was very much alive.

One day we were a little short of pitching. My coach asked if I would like to pitch. I said, “I’ll do anything. I just want to play baseball.” There were scouts from the Red Sox, Detroit, and St. Louis in the stands. They had come to see our leftfielder — a fellow by the name of Red Lavigne, a great looking prospect.

I pitched. I struck out seventeen.

My performance got the interest of the scouts and the organizations they represented. Herb Pennock, who had been a great pitcher and was a scout for the Red Sox, would come out to my house to talk to my dad. A very personable fellow, Pennock sat and talked baseball and expanded on his career. Branch Rickey, the general manager of the Cardinals, came over. He brought along Ray Blades, who was the manager of the ballclub, and Wid Mathews, who was his right-hand man. All three talked to me.

I wound up pitching batting practice to the New Orleans ball club, a Cardinals farm team. Blades gave me and two others who were on the high school team the “loan” of his tan Oldsmobile, which always had a full tank of gas. We were told to use the automobile carefully and at our discretion. The only thing we had to do was remember to drop it off at the ballpark the next morning.

The other two fellows signed with the Cardinals. One was a right-handed pitcher by the name of Ray Yochim. The other was the outfielder Red Lavigne. The Cardinals and the car probably didn’t impress me as much as it did the other fellows.

St. Louis was very much interested in me, but the feeling was not mutual. I had been told that the Cardinals were loaded with ballplayers. They had two triple-A and two double-A teams in their farm system. It was said that you were more or less a number and not a name in that organization, because of all the players they had.

I was told that the Red Sox were another story. Herb Pennock brought along Ed Montague, who was the area scout. I signed for a $5,000 bonus and $125 a month in salary in the minors. I was seventeen years old. My father was very impressed and happy, too, hoping that I would now be able to fulfil my wish to become a professional baseball player.

I was sent in 1942 to Owensburg, Kentucky, to a team managed by Hugh Wyatt, who had been a catcher for the Braves. I was just a scrawny kid of 130 pounds when I reported. Wyatt looked at me and asked, “What are you supposed to do?”

I said, “Sir, I am supposed to pitch.”

“I have four left-handed pitchers, and I certainly don’t need a fifth,” he said.

I was sent to Centerville, Maryland, in the Eastern Shore League, class-D. That team was short of outfielders, so one day early on I was put in rightfield and got two hits and drove in two runs. That made me as happy as a lark, because I thought I’d be playing every day after that. But word came down from the office of the Boston Red Sox: “Get that little skinny kid on the mound. He is a pitcher.”

At first it was strange to be so young and away from home for the first time. But it got to be old hat. A ball club in the minor leagues then was very much like family, a bunch of young kids thrown together, there for one purpose — to play ball, to make a career for ourselves.

From Centerville, Maryland, I went to Canton, Ohio, and led the league in earned run average. Then I went into the Air Force and stayed there just short of four years.

When I came out of the service, I made contact with the Red Sox again. This was 1946. The Red Sox had so many ball players after the war that they did not know where to send us all. So they split us up. Half went to Scranton, Pennsylvania, in the Eastern League, and half went to Louisville, a triple-A team. I was assigned to Scranton in a real tough class-A.

Our Scranton team was outstanding. We had top players like Sam Mele, Don Johnson, Maury McDermott. It was said that we had enough talent to even beat Louisville, the triple-A ball cub. We finished in first place — nineteen games ahead of our closest competition. I led the league in earned run average.

The next year, 1947, I went to spring training at Sarasota, Florida, with the Red Sox. There were two spots open on the pitching staff, but there were six of us vying. I was aware all spring that I had to pitch as good as I could to have a chance to make the big league roster. Harry Dorish got one of the pitching spots. I got the other.

It was a thrill coming into Boston, which was similar to New Orleans in that it was a city that was small and had a lot of old history. I am Irish, as Irish as one can be. So I was a natural fit for the Red Sox and Boston. Yes, indeed, I fit in beautifully.

When I came into Fenway Park and saw that leftfield fence, I thought maybe I made a mistake and went to the wrong ballpark. But it helped me work on making a change in my pitching style. I came up as a fastball pitcher, but when I got into Fenway I realized I would have to use a lot more breaking stuff.

We had a very friendly ball club and got along very well together. I was treated fine, even though I was just a raw rookie. Baseball was quite different in those days than it is today. We traveled by train, and on a train there was nothing really to do other than eat your dinner, sit down, and talk baseball. We would talk about the opposition, about various situations that would occur.

I sure do recall my first major league game. It was April 20, 1947, against the old Washington Senators. Frankie Hayes, an old veteran player, was my catcher. I lost that game, 3–2, to Walter Masterson on a passed ball. I guess that’s why I remember Frankie.

My first win in the big leagues was in Detroit. Hal Newhouser was pitching against us that day, and he was a great pitcher. He had a nine game winning streak going for him. I guess the Red Sox figured that Newhouser would collect his tenth victory that day. I was a rookie and they figured they’d throw me out there and try and get an idea of what I could do. It wound up that we beat Hal Newhouser 4–1.

Those two games, my first game, my first win, really stay with me through all the years. You don’t forget them and many others.

The Red Sox owner, Mr. Yawkey, was like a father to all of us, we being young kids. He and Mrs. Yawkey were just fine people. It truly impressed me as a rookie kid to see Mr. Yawkey quite often come out on the field and take batting practice with us. He was a pretty heavy man at the time and was trying to shed some weight. The kids who worked around the ballpark would shag flies for him. When he was done, he would give each one a twenty-dollar bill.

To this day I never regretted anything that happened with me and the Red Sox. I enjoyed being able to play for Mr. Yawkey, who was a great owner. I enjoyed playing for Boston, a great baseball city. It was something special beginning a career with one team and staying with it through all those seasons.

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