The Joe Gordon

THE JOE GORDON by Wayne Woodruff
A few days ago I was watching a great TV show called “Baseball’s Golden Age”, and in the course of the program they had a short segment on Joe Gordon, the outstanding second-baseman of the N.Y.Yankees during the 30’s and 40’s. Just that name, Joe Gordon, brought back many memories of a very close friend from my distant past.
In 1949, when I was about twelve years of age, some of the men of Cedar Vale in association with the Lion’s Club, decided that the town should have a youth baseball program. There was no Little League, nor Mickey Mantle League, so this was to be just an independent endeavor on the part of the community.
When the word went out for boys who were interested, my parents, who were not really sports fans, asked me if I wouldn’t like to participate. “Maybe you would like baseball”, they said. I said that I would not like to do that, that I would prefer to swim in the creek and swing on the long grape vines that extended out over the little stream. There was not much more said on the subject, however about a week later my dad said that I had a package in the mail that day, so I excitedly ripped open the paper on the box and found that it had come from Montgomery Wards in Kansas City. Opening the box, wrapped in white tissue paper was a beautiful brown leather baseball glove with the name Joe Gordon written on the palm. It had the glorious smell of new leather, and I put it on my hand, pounded my other fist into the pocket, and immediately fell in love with that little piece of leather. Dad said that the boys were going to practice that evening at the baseball diamond, so at five o’clock I walked across the Hewins Park and was met by a motley group of boys who were destined to be the baseball stars of Cedar Vale.
Practices were to be each evening and were conducted by Roy Smith and Oliver Hall, and usually some other men would show up to help with the teaching of the raw recruits. When he could get off early enough, Frank Gilmore would arrive to help teach the art of catching to Bill and Dick Williams, as Frank had been a minor league catcher in the St.Louis Cardinal organization. Many times Grant Utt would come to amaze the boys with his massive ability to hit the baseball over the fence, and pass along pointers to the boys. Gradually we became a team, and The Joe Gordon glove, went with me to each practice, every game, and became an important part of my right arm. I slept with The Joe Gordon and whenever I had time, I was pounding a baseball into the pocket, until it was a natural place to catch a ball. I could never find enough boys that wanted to “play ball” quite as much as I did, so I exercised my good left arm for hours a day by throwing a baseball- sized rubber ball against the brick chimney on the side of the house. There was one brick that was discolored, about three feet above the ground, and this was the spot I aimed at for hours at a time. Looking back, I am surprised that that one particular brick was not distorted by the ball striking it time and time again. I soon figured out that I could throw the ball against the bricks and as it bounced back to me, I could practice hitting it with the old bat that Herb Toothacre had given me from the high school storeroom. That form of practice was not nearly as good as actual batting practice at the ball field, but the constant attempts did improve my bat-eye coordination. The other thing that it accomplished was the destruction of many of the asbestos shingles on the side of the house, and several window panes. Surprisingly, there was very little punishment for these “accidents”.
Early in these years, the town had voted to install lights at the ball fields, and soon the towering light poles were being put into great holes by the crews of the Caney Valley Electric, under the guidance of Buck Melton. It was quite a sight to sit on the bleachers and watch the huge poles rising to the skies, and soon we were playing games under the best lights in southeast Kansas, better even than those in Arkansas City and Winfield. The Joe Gordon went with me to all the practices, the games and even games that I was playing for other teams in Ark City and Winfield, but the ones that meant the most to me were the ones played on the ball field under the lights in Cedar Vale. Those games were a complete community experience. At one time or another, I think that every inhabitant of the booming little town were in attendance. In those times, very few folks had TV sets, so in the summer evenings the people sitting in their back yards or on their porch swings would see the lights of the ball park, and having nothing better to do, would head for the ball park, and it became a place one could watch the game, commune with his neighbors, and listen to Charley Cable announce the “play-by-play”. He was never a Mel Allen nor Harey Carey, but he enjoyed being there, and he kept the crowd informed who had just struck out or dropped a fly ball. At times,.Vic Hollister would help out with the announcing and he added a little more color.
The Lions Club had built a little refreshment stand , and it was enthusiastically manned by Lions members. The ones I remember seeing most often were Don Hankins, Glenn Cross and Carl Steward. Usually in about the fourth inning, several of the Lions would head out into the crowd to try to entice some to contribute to the cost of the electricity. It was funny to watch the same folks at each game that would start up their cars and leave before the Lion could reach them, all to save the cost of a quarter or fifty cent piece. I firmly believe that the collections never were enough to pay the cost, but the Caney Valley Electric under the leadership of Carl Steward under-wrote the difference. There were some folks that came to all the games. I remember Pauline Woods always being there. And Aaron Alexander never missed a game. Aaron was crippled, paralyzed, but always put in his quarter. Ralph Snyder was often there, sitting on the front of his pick-up, sometimes talking with Fred Archer while they watched Lloyd pitching. Floyd Goode usually showed up, and it was always nice for the boys when he brought his pretty daughters. Ethel Ledbetter came from Hewins sometimes, also to watch Lloyd, whom she later married. It was also nice when she brought her special Hewins friend. Hubert and Nita Cox would come when the summer evenings were nice. Of course, Nellie Walkinshaw and the Kale Williams families would come, sit on the bleachers and watch their sons play. Don Hankins wife, Mary Bess and her daughter Nancy were at the games most of the time, especially if Gary Metcalf was playing. The guys I worked with on the Caney Valley Electric were there, usually giving me a hard time; Floyd Patteson, Doyle Littrell and wife, Gerald Magnus and wife, Buck Melton’s family; it was nice to have the support. Ray Oltgen and Elsie would come, sometimes sitting in the car and sometimes on the bleachers. Some folks would always sit in the cars and others would always be on the bleachers. It seemed the bleacherites were always the most sociable. The cars were all lined up, usually along the left-field foul lines, facing the diamond, and whenever we players would do something spectacular ( like actually catching a fly or making a good throw) the horns would honk and the headlights flashed. Some excitement. But it was. It was a place where the town of Cedar Vale could come together to enjoy the game and each other. Times like that are gone??
It was a great place for the kids of the community to meet in the evening and get to know each other better, sometimes too well. And the little tykes could get a nickel by chasing down the foul balls that were necessary for the game to continue. If too many balls were lost in the weeds and darkness behind the backstop, then the game would have to stop until a ball was found. Some games were started with only one or two balls, well used at that.
The Joe Gordon traveled with me to play in games in just about every baseball venue in southeast Kansas, and some farther away. One of the highlights for The Joe Gordon had to be playing against the great black pitcher, Satchel Paige, in the NBC baseball tournament in Wichita in 1958. Satch had had his days of glory in the major leagues, but at the time he met The Joe Gordon he was on his way down, but it was still a real privilege be on the same ball field with him.
The Joe Gordon by that time had had a long glorious career, but the end was growing near. For ten years the leather had been lovingly treated with neatsfoot oil or Glovolium or saddle soap, but in spite of that it was cracking from the sweaty palm that had been a part of it for ten years. Then in the spring of 1959, the head coach for the University of Kansas team said to me, “You need to get a real glove! That little, old glove is a joke”. Well, that was a crushing blow to us both. I could not part with my old friend and The Joe Gordon never played in another game.
There were a few times when The Joe Gordon would come out of the closet. When my sons showed a slight interest in baseball, I would take out the old glove and we would play catch. But they never had the passion and enjoyment of baseball that I had. At one point, The Joe Gordon suffered the ultimate disgrace of being used for a softball glove when my daughter thought she was a star. The Joe Gordon went back onto the back shelf of the hall cupboard, to be forgotten until one grandson showed a fleeting interest a few years later. But as with all of us, it’s time had come to be totally retired and virtually forgotten. Relegated to the shelf, neglected. No more tender treatments with the saddle soap. The pocket was neglected, and The JoeGordon was dead, and no one cared.
When my wife died, two years ago, it was time to move. In clearing out the house, I came upon the long-forgotten Joe Gordon glove in the back of the cupboard. It was indeed a pitiful old piece of leather, shabby and dull, with the inner lining cracked and torn. No good to anyone any longer. With no more than a thought, I carelessly threw The Joe Gordon into the dumpster and the trash man carried it away, to be perhaps cremated at the city dump, or better yet, re-incarnated by some little Mexican boy who valued it again. I know as little about it’s fate as I know about my own. I suppose we will all be able to identify with The Joe Gordon??