It had been such a happy, exciting season to come to this. In Detroit that July I had hit what remains to this day the most thrilling hit of my life. I was in my second All-Star game. The year before I'd hit a couple of little groundballs in St. Louis, nothing to be proud of, and we'd lost to the National League, 4-0. This time I had a double that drove in a run in the fourth inning, but Arky Vaughan of the Pirates had hit two home runs for the National League and he looked like the hero of the day. We went into the ninth inning trailing 5 to 3. There were five men scheduled to bat in front of me, and when Frankie Hayes popped out I had to think I wasn't going to get another chance. Then Kenny Keltner of Cleveland beat out an infield hit, Joe Gordon singled and Cecil Travis walked to fill the bases. Joe DiMaggio was up. The excitement in Briggs Stadium was terrific. The game probably should have been over on the next play. Joe grounded hard to the infield, a double-play ball, but Travis distracted Billy Herman as he slid into second and Herman's throw to first was wide. Keltner scored and it was 5-4, with two outs and runners on first and third.

Claude Passeau was pitching for the National League. Passeau was always tough. He helped pitch the Cubs to the pennant in 1945. He had a fast tailing ball that he'd jam a left-hand hitter with, right into your fists, and if you weren't quick he'd get it past you. He threw it a little flat, not overhand, so it wasn't quite as good as some of the sliders you see today, but he was a competitor and I knew he wasn't going to walk me if he could help it, because in the eighth inning he had struck me out. I was late on that one, and as I came up in the ninth I said to myself, Damn it, you've got to be quicker, you've got to get more in front of this guy. You've got to be quicker.

He worked the count to 2 and 1, then he came in with that sliding fastball around my belt and I swung. No cutdown protection swing, an all-out home run swing, probably with my eyes shut. My first thought was that I was late again. Any time you hit a ball late chances are it'll pop into the air, because you're swinging slightly up (the ideal swing is not a level swing, it's a slight upswing, despite all the advice you hear) and if you're behind you hit under it. I had pulled it to right field, no doubt about that, but I was afraid I hadn't got enough of the bat on the ball. But gee, it just kept going, up, up, way up into the right-field stands in Detroit.

Well, it was the kind of thing a kid dreams about and imagines himself doing when he's playing those little playground games we used to play in San Diego. Halfway down to first, seeing that ball going out, I stopped running and started leaping and jumping and clapping my hands, and I was just so happy I laughed out loud. I've never been so happy, and I've never seen so many happy guys. They carried me off the field, DiMaggio and Bob Feller, who had pitched early in the game and was already in street clothes, and Eddie Collins leaped out of the box seats and was there to greet me. I've got a picture of Del Baker, the Detroit manager, kissing me on the forehead. Somebody said, "Did you kiss the Kid?" and Del Baker said, "You damn right I did." Everybody was shaking my hand, clapping my back and mussing my hair, and Eddie Collins was in there and Tom Yawkey and Herb Pennock and I don't know who all. Somebody said later that Artie Fletcher, the Yankee coach, shook my hand twelve times. It was a wonderful, wonderful day for me.

Now it was the last day of that 1941 season, and it turned up cold and miserable in Philadelphia. It had rained on Saturday and the game had been rescheduled as part of a Sunday doubleheader. They still had 10,000 people in Shibe Park, I suppose a lot of them just curious to see if The Kid really could hit .400. I have to say I felt good despite the cold. And I know just about everybody in the park was for me. As I came to bat for the first time that day, the Philadelphia catcher, Frankie Hayes, said, "Ted, Mr. Mack told us if we let up on you he'll run us out of baseball. I wish you all the luck in the world, but we're not giving you a damn thing."

Bill McGowan was the plate umpire, and I'll never forget it. Just as I stepped in, he called time and slowly walked around the plate, bent over and began dusting it off. Without looking up, he said, "To hit .400 a batter has got to be loose. He has got to be loose."

I guess I couldn't have been much looser. First time up I singled off Dick Fowler, a liner between first and second. Then I hit a home run, then I hit two more singles off Porter Vaughan, a left-hander who was new to me, and in the second game I hit one off the loudspeaker horn in right field for a double. For the day I wound up six for eight. I don't remember celebrating that night, but I probably went out and had a chocolate milk shake. During the winter Connie Mack had to replace the horn.

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