A "dead arm" experienced in my last start in the majors in Chicago, made my pitching appearances rare and my value to the team questionable in June 1955. In a series at Wrigley Field, manager Fred Haney told me I was being sent down to Hollywood in the Pacific Coast League. After seven years in the minors, working my way up to the majors, it wasn't the kind of news my wife, Bernadette or I wanted to hear. It meant saying goodbye to friends we'd just made in Pittsburgh, packing up again, closing up the apartment and then searching for a new one in Hollywood.
I grabbed a taxi to the airport in Chicago for my flight back to Pittsburgh.
Upon arriving at my gate at Midway Airport, I was surprised to see Branch Rickey, on the flight back to Pittsburgh. My amazement was increased when Mr. Rickey inquired what I was doing at the airport. As GM of the Pirates, I thought he would be aware of such a decision. Looking back, either he was being kind, or it was the beginning of the end of his role as GM of the Pirates. It turned out to be the latter as the following year he was replaced as GM by Joe L. Brown.
I informed Mr. Rickey I was being sent down to Hollywood. With his usual wisdom and simplicity he offered this advice. "You must be disappointed. But you know son, if the manager is going to carry only ten pitchers and he thinks you're number eleven -- you ought to go!" How could I argue with that?
The trip to Hollywood was leisurely and memorable. It says in the players contract that the player must report to his assigned club immediately. I found that would be difficult for me to accomplish. I was informed I was being sent down on Friday in Chicago and didn’t arrive in Pittsburgh until early that evening. Aware I couldn't get the utilities shut off in our apartment until Monday, I figured we might as well visit Bernadette’s family in New Jersey and my Mom in Lebanon, PA. We returned to Pittsburgh late Monday to shut off the utilities and close the apartment. I was not in any hurry to go back to the minors. The journey to the major leagues took eight years so I rationalized, ‘why hurry the trip back down.
I had purchased my first car the previous October -- a beautiful, 1954 sky-blue, eight cylinder, four-door, Buick Super, with those classic "air holes" on the front fenders. What a car -- and what a ride! I paid only $2,500.00, but in 1955 that was half of my entire major league salary. We drove west on Route 40 the first day stopping at Terre Haute, Indiana. We caught up with Route 66 in St. Louis and started singing "You go through St. Louis, Joplin, Missouri and Oklahoma City looks mighty pretty.” which reminded me my brother Charles, who I had not seen in years, lived in Tulsa, so we stopped in the early afternoon to visit. We lingered longer than planned, leaving after lunch the following day heading out on Route 66. This leisurely drive to Hollywood was now creating my first feelings of guilt. I recalled the player's contract agreement that stated, ‘players will report immediately to their assigned club’, so we drove long into the night stopping around midnight at an isolated motel outside Albuquerque, NM. To best describe the motel’s location and our apprehension, it resembled the “Bates Motel” in Alfred Hitchcock’s thriller, “Psycho”. As we turned on the light to the room, Bernadette, remarked it was "uniquely color coordinated." It had light brown stucco walls, matching beige colored bedclothes and furniture. Even the bathroom featured a beige colored sink, toilet and bathtub. She was soon to discover the brown and beige color coordination was not created by an interior decorator.
Turning on the water in the bathroom sink, she noticed it was becoming white.
Those brown and beige colors were dust, blown in from the arid surroundings. We spent a restless night hearing every sound outside our room and imagining the horrors they might bring. Like the "Bates Motel", we knew few people stopped there.
The next day, with good intentions of putting on a lot of miles, we continued west on Route 66 until we were delayed near Flagstaff, AZ due to road construction mid-afternoon. I got out the map to see exactly where we were when I noticed on the map the Grand Canyon was just north of Flagstaff. I said to
Bernadette, "We’re never going to get out this way again or have the oportunity to see one of the “Eight Wonders of the World”, the Grand Canyon. Let’s drive there, spend the rest of the day and stay overnight and hit the road after breakfast.” She agreed.
The desire to see the Canyon pushed aside the guilt I was beginning to feel about the length of time it was taking me to report to the Hollywood Stars. I rationalized by telling Bernadette, "Hell, it took me 8-years to get from the minors to the big leagues, they shouldn’t complain if it takes me only a week to make the trip back.”
On the short trip north to the Canyon there was another minor construction delay. We noticed the car in front of us was from Texas and while getting out to stretch we struck up a conversation with the married couple. We found out how proud they were of Texas and they told us how BIG things were in Texas. Quickly, the delay ended and we headed to the Grand Canyon. We had seen the glories of the
Canyon only in inspiring color photos. Our anticipation grew with each mile and assumed there would be a gradual visual appearance of such a great natural wonder.
How surprised and almost frightened we were when suddenly we looked out of the window and there it was -- this huge hole -- the Grand Canyon. What an awesome sight!. After that first view of the Canyon I have always thought that the first person who came upon the Grand Canyon never lived to tell about it. He had to literally and figuratively stumbled upon it and fell all the way to the bottom!
We quickly searched for a spot for a more advantageous view of the awe inspiring scene, winding up nest to the couple from Texas. Both couples edged close to the railing and sighed simultaneously at the enormity and beauty of it all. Then I heard the wife of the couple from Texas say, "Charlie, did you ever see anything like it?" I turned to my wife and said, "Ever see anything like it? There is only one of these in the world. Hell, they don't even have anything this big in Texas." We enjoyed a fine dinner overlooking the canyon as the setting sun changed again the colors of the canyon walls. The beauty created us to consider the possibility of staying another day and taking the trip to the bottom of the Canyon on mules. Either the fear of the trip down those narrow trails on a mule, or the guilt of staying another day that made us decide to hit Route 66 to Hollywood early the next day.
We got up early to have breakfast and to view the beauty the rising sun created with the changing colors on the Canyon walls. It was magnificent. The setting was unusual for any breakfast and the early rising time was rare for baseball players who always slept late. One thing player can’t do without at breakfast is the morning newspaper and the sports page. I had to find out how the Pirates were doing without me. Not very well, as I noticed they played in Philadelphia the night before and had lost a doubleheader. This confused me as they play double headers on Sunday or Holidays and July 4th was two days later.
Further reading led me to the box score for more detailed pitching line on the games. I was surprised, to read that the losing pitcher in the first game was KING. Me! I thought it was a typo error. I then recalled my first major league start was April 24, in the second game of double-header against the Phillies. The game was not completed due to the "Blue Laws" then in effect in Pennsylvania. No Sunday sporting event could be played before 1:00 PM or after 7:00 PM. In that game back in April, I had taken a scoreless game into the eighth inning dueling with Jack Meyer of the Phillies. However the Phillies scored two unearned runs in the bottom of the eighth for a 2-0 lead. It was now past 7:00 PM and the umpires called the game due to the "Blue Law". It meant the Pirates would have to finish the game the next trip into Philadelphia, which was in early July.
Amused, I now recalled that was the game they played the night before and I was officially the LOSING PITCHER. I turned to my wife and said, " You're not going to believe this, but I lost a game in the Grand Canyon last night." After explaining to Bernadette how and why it happened, we enjoyed one of the rare laughs a pitcher and his wife had being the losing pitcher in a major league game. I still tell people I am the only pitcher in the history of the game to have lost a game in the Grand Canyon.
My trip to Hollywood was now way behind schedule. My guilt button, like the gas pedal of that "54 Buick Super" was pushed way down. We headed west on Route 66 and made Needles, California at high noon, with the temperature hitting
105 degrees. During lunch, my wife looking at an enticing swimming pool at the motel, with the wisdom and common sense that the male animal cannot comprehend asked, "We're not going to drive across the Mohave Desert at high noon at these temperatures on July 2nd, are we?" At age twenty-seven, with the usual male ego, I was convinced I was invincible. My wife, correctly, was certain I was crazy and into much denial about the hazards of driving across the Mohave Desert at high noon in early July. The denial of my guilt defeated my wife's wisdom and common sense and we headed out at high noon to cross the Mohave Desert.
To make my decision even more incomprehensible, I was reminded by her that our 1954 Buick Super had no air conditioning. I noticed a gas station at Needles were selling "car air conditioners" for only $15.00. This "air conditioner" was a metal container shaped like a small missile. I was informed all I had to do was fill it with dry ice, hook it on the outside of the driver's side window of the car and the desert air would enter through the jet engine like opening, go over the dry ice, and circulate cool refreshing air throughout the car. That's what was SUPPOSED to happen! From Needles to the western end of the Mohave Desert we suffered through
110-115 degree heat. That "air conditioner" on the window was useless.
The only coolness I felt came from my wife's long periods of silence. Only married men understand how cold that type of silence can be. It was broken only when her anger no longer could be retained. The hot Mohave temperatures were nothing compared to her heated descriptions of my lack of intelligence when she did speak to me. I never heard words like that from my bride of only 18 months of marriage. She NEVER used words like that before. After witnessing many overheated cars pulled off to the side of Route 66 my view or interest in the beauty of the desert was minimal. The only thing I was watching was the temperature gauge. Buick must make fine cars, because we made it non-stop across the Mohave. In my seventh decade of life I still believe, "Better Buy Buick!"
Thanks to my wife's sensible demand we made the journey east across the Mohave Desert late in the evening. The ride and the conversations were much more enjoyable. -- Nellie King
» Nellie King - former Pirate pitcher and broadcaster
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Posted July 12, 2004.
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