Terror in the City of Champions (12 page)

Every Tigers devotee knew of Edna. She had catapulted into the public eye just after Rowe’s pitching streak broke in Philadelphia. The rest of the team had headed to Cleveland, but Rowe went to New York. The next night at seven o’clock, he made his national radio debut on singer Rudy Vallee’s popular NBC hour. Vallee sang his usual opening lines:
“My time is your time. Your time is my time.”
In stylish spats Rowe sang with Dot, Kay, and Em, a Texas female trio barely out of high school. He chatted with the crooner Vallee and predicted the Tigers would win the World Series in four games. There was a skit about “Anglo-American hillbillies” and one about Napoleon and Josephine. As the segment ended, Rowe spoke the words that would follow him to his dying days, “Hello, Ma. Hello, Edna. How’m I doing?” It was scripted, not impromptu. Those weren’t his words. He never called his mother “Ma.” Rowe was merely reading. Soon the “Hello, Ma” portion of the line fell from the public consciousness. Wherever he went, admirers called out Edna’s name. Opponents mocked his words while he pitched. When he gave up a hit or a home run or walked a batter, some boisterous player in the other dugout would squeal sarcastically, “How’m I doing, Edna, honey?” It made him cringe.

But when Edna stepped off the train that morning, Rowe carried her into his arms. They kissed and she wept. It had been too long. Spectators called out their best wishes and congratulated them on their upcoming nuptials. A fan handed her a bouquet of dahlias. With reporters and station agents clearing a path, Rowe swept her toward his sedan and drove to the Leland, where she would share a room with his mother, who would arrive in a day or two. Hours later at Navin Field, Edna glowed like the sun, turning heads and drawing stares in her bright yellow dress and matching hat. People greeted her as she passed. She was tired from the journey but watched Schoolboy pitch a nine-inning shutout. He occasionally looked her way and grinned.

Reporters dropped by to chat. She was leery because a writer in Kansas had published a story that parodied her, making her sound like an uneducated hick and inaccurately stating that her father was dead. It didn’t help that papers were misidentifying her. She straightened that matter quickly. “My name is Edna Mary Skinner, and not Edna Mae,” she said. “I don’t like the name ‘Mae’ or ‘May,’ anyway. My mother’s name was Mary and there are about fifteen other Marys in the Skinner family.” Photographers who had already captured poses at the hotel took more pictures of her at Navin Field. The Tigers’ two broadcasters, WWJ’s Ty Tyson and WXYZ’s Harry Heilmann, both interviewed her.

Edna and Schoolboy’s love story was sweet, true, and endearing. He did indeed cherish his Edna. Dailies carried updates on her activities and much of the nation followed their romance. It was a pleasant antidote to a year of violent confrontations involving Teamsters in Minneapolis, longshoremen in California, and factory workers in Toledo and elsewhere. It was a joyful diversion from the still high, though improving, unemployment rates and from housing foreclosures, food lines, and the congregations of desperate men in big cities. The country remained in a funk economically and emotionally, but the tale of Edna and Schoolboy’s long courtship brightened the world a tad, imbuing the Tigers’ pennant chase with the glitter of a hundred Valentines.

In September Edna’s picture would appear on the front page of the Detroit papers more often than that of any player. One hired her to write a column. Dining establishments added “Schoolboy” sodas and “Edna, Honey” sundaes to their menus. Henry Ford invited them to tour the Rouge plant and Greenfield Village and to have lunch with him. Rowe talked openly about moving back to El Dorado in October after they married. “I know everybody in the town back there, and it’s nice to walk down the street and say howdy-do to the folks,” he said. “It’s more friendly like.” The city had fallen in love with Edna and Schoolboy. Even those men in the Black Legion could lustily applaud Schoolboy and his gal. That wasn’t the case for Hank Greenberg.

Happy Rosh Hashanah, Hank

As he entered the clubhouse on the morning of September 10, Hank Greenberg did not know whether he should play. It was Rosh Hashanah, a high holy day and the start of the Jewish New Year when observers typically do not work, instead spending time in prayer and reflection. Greenberg had grown up in a religious household, and though not overly spiritual himself, he felt torn. The Jewish community in Detroit had welcomed him. He had worshipped with his local friends at their synagogues and he did not want to disappoint them. He didn’t want to disappoint his parents either. He also didn’t want to let his teammates down. The Tigers stood four games in front of the Yankees thanks to Greenberg. His hot swing had powered the team’s fortunes. In games during which he hit a home run, the Tigers were 17–3. In each of the last six contests, Greenberg had brought in at least one run, sometimes two. He was driving the team’s offense, all of which meant that he faced a difficult decision. His teammates wanted him to play. So did Navin, Cochrane, Navin’s nephew Charles, and scout Wish Egan, all of whom gently encouraged him to suit up—all the while telling him the final decision was his.

The debate had become public. The day before Rosh Hashanah, perhaps hoping to influence the first baseman, the
Free Press
had run a headline proclaiming “Happy New Year, Hank” in Hebrew. Reporters solicited the views of rabbis. Joseph Thumim of the Orthodox Temple Beth Abraham gave his blessing. “You tell Henry Greenberg that he can play ball today and Saturday with a clear conscience,” he advised the
News
. “The Talmud gives him ample right.” On page one of the
Detroit Times
, Rabbi Leo Franklin, a onetime friend of Henry Ford and longtime head of Temple Beth El, left the decision to Greenberg, giving him support either way: “In a game such as this, Mr. Greenberg, who is a conscientious Jew, must decide whether he ought to play or not. From the standpoint of orthodox Judaism, the fact that ball playing is his means of livelihood would argue against his participation in the game today. On the other hand it might be argued quite consistently that his taking part in the game would mean something, not only to himself, but to his fellow players and in fact at this time to the community of Detroit.”

In the clubhouse surrounded by teammates, Greenberg put on his uniform. He played and made the difference, scoring all of Detroit’s runs by hitting two home runs, one to tie, the other to win (in the ninth inning no less). The latter ball left the park and landed on Cherry Street beyond the left-center wall. The Tigers beat Boston 2–1, increasing their grip on first. On the ride home in his sporty roadster, Greenberg confessed his doubts to third baseman Marv Owen. “I hope I did the right thing,” he said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have played. It’s a sacred day. . . . It’s on my conscience.”

“I wish I had a couple of home runs on my conscience,” Owen responded.

The decision to play brightened Greenberg’s already shining star. The papers praised him on the front page. The
News
showed an embarrassed Greenberg, wet, smiling, and bare-chested beneath a shower spigot in the locker room. The story said he had “celebrated Rosh Hashana . . . with two over-the-fence home runs.” His performance was evidence of his fulfilling “a civic duty.” Harry Salsinger anointed Greenberg “a truly great competitor” and “a very fine chap.” And
The Sporting News
acknowledged him with
“
O
I,
O
I,
O
H,
B
OY!”

The clamor over Greenberg felt double-edged. In one sense Greenberg served as a counter to common, offensive stereotypes of Jews as short and wispy. He had fans of all denominations. Many Protestants and Catholics, as well as Jews, were cheering his at-bats. His prominence couldn’t help but soften vulgar caricatures. And to youngsters of his own faith, Greenberg certainly served as a role model and an inspiration. But the new year’s greeting in Hebrew and the talk of Greenberg honoring his faith and his people—coming from gentiles in the press—bordered on condescending and manipulative. It felt forced, as if trying to cloak the region’s virulent antisemitism.

Since his first days on a professional ball field, Greenberg had endured anti-Jewish remarks from fans, opponents, and teammates. In the minor leagues while playing for Beaumont, Texas, he got the feeling that he was the first Jew many fans and most of his teammates had encountered. “They seemed surprised I didn’t have horns and a long beard,” he said. Kike, hook-nose, hymie, sheeny, mockie, pants-presser, Christ killer—he heard them all. Coming from opponents on other teams, he viewed the insults as much a matter of psychological warfare as prejudice (though probably both). To some degree no one was spared the heckling. Italians were Dagos and WOPs, Germans were Krauts, Catholics were “knee-benders” and “cross-backs,” and on and on. The slurs shadowed Greenberg into the major leagues. “My religion was seen as an appropriate topic for ridicule,” he said.

Beyond the ballpark one needn’t look far for signs of intolerance. It came in all shades. Several Tigers pitchers—Tommy Bridges, Elden Auker, Elon Hogsett, Vic Sorrell—thought nothing of living in the four-story Tanton Apartments on West Chicago Avenue, with neighbors named Palmer, Morrison, Kuenzel, Emery, Morris, Donnelly, Johnson, Jensen, Weaver, Hays, Peters, Longyear, Murray, Ewing, and Russell. “There was a sign there that read ‘Restricted,’ ” Auker noted later. “I didn’t know what it meant.” No Greenbergs or Goldsteins allowed.

In the suburb of Royal Oak Father Charles Coughlin fanned anti-Jewish bigotry through his radio broadcasts to tens of millions. Henry Ford had long ago established his reputation as antisemitic. Detroit’s more than 50,000 Jews saw Ford as an enemy not an ally. But Ford liked Hank Greenberg. He described him—with no substantiation other than his personal opinion—as “mixed.” In cases where he liked individual Jews, Ford rationalized his feelings by claiming “he’s not all Jewish.”

And then there was the Black Legion, plotting privately and festering with resentment. Major-General Bert Effinger had some ideas of what could be done about the Jews. He sometimes showed visitors a small box with a tube that he said contained hydrocyanic gas, supposedly prepared at the Edgewood, Maryland, military arsenal. He envisioned releasing the gas in the country’s largest synagogues during the Jewish holiday season. For these purposes he compiled a list of synagogues.

Regardless, Hank Greenberg’s reputation rose like a lotus lantern. On September 14 he lofted a game-saving home run. He had tied the score, broken a tie, or brought in the winning run in twenty-nine of Detroit’s ninety victories. In just his second season, he was already being mentioned as one of the Big Four with established long-ball hitters Ruth, Gehrig, and Foxx.

With Yom Kippur, the holiest Jewish holiday, approaching, Greenberg faced another decision. He wouldn’t let his conscience be troubled again. He announced days ahead that he would not be playing. “This time it’s different. . . I’ve made up my mind this time,” he said. “This is a serious business with me.” He added that he hoped the game would be canceled for rain. It wasn’t and the Tigers lost without him. Greenberg spent some of the day at temple. It would be the only game he missed all season.

When the Yankees returned to town, Babe Ruth conceded the pennant race from the ambassador’s suite of the Book-Cadillac. The Yankees weren’t mathematically eliminated but Ruth said it would take a miracle to prevail. Tiger mania gripped the region. Ticket sales were on pace to break all Navin Field records and demand for World Series tickets was unquenchable. Workers were hurriedly constructing temporary bleachers for 17,000 people in left and center fields, installing them over the grass in one direction and over Cherry Street in the other. The bleachers would reduce the outfield’s dimensions by twenty feet, to 319 feet along the left field line. “I wish I had 100,000 seats for every game,” said Frank Navin.

So much fan mail flooded into the offices that Navin assigned a secretary to assist Cochrane with answering his letters. Songs and poems were being composed and everybody associated with the club was receiving his time in the spotlight. Batboy Whitey Willis, the envy of all kids, showed photographers he could palm seven baseballs at once (just like Marv Owen), and younger clubhouse assistant Joe Roggin (he preferred not to be called by his actual name, Roginski, because of anti-Polish bias) revealed how during the game he took all of the Tigers’ suits to a dry cleaner to be pressed and returned before the men had showered. Fans learned how Joseph Patrick Donoghue changed the numbers on the outfield scoreboard and how trainer Denny Carroll resuscitated the careers of a half-dozen players.