Veeck snatched a little toy bat from his desk; then he crouched over as far as his gimpy leg would allow, and assumed the stance.
“The pitcher’s gotta throw that white ball in your strike zone, Eddie.”
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s the area between the batter’s armpits and the top of his knees... Let’s see your strike zone.”
Eddie scrambled off the chair and took the toy bat, assuming the position.
“How’s that, Mr. Veeck?”
“Crouch more. See, since you’re only gonna go to bat once in your career, whatever stance you assume at the plate, that’s your natural stance.”
Eddie, clutching the tiny bat, crouched. His strike zone was maybe one and a half inches.
Then he took an awkward, lunging swing.
“No!” Veeck said. “Hell, no!”
Eddie, still in his crouch, looked at Veeck curiously.
Veeck put his arm around the little guy. “Eddie, you just stay in that crouch. You just stand there and take four balls. Then you’ll trot down to first base and we’ll send somebody in to run for you.”
“I don’t get it.”
Veeck explained the concept of a walk to Eddie, whose face fell, his dreams of glory fading.
“Eddie,” Veeck said pleasantly, “if you so much as look like you’re gonna swing, I’m gonna shoot you dead.”
Eddie shrugged. “That sounds fair.”
On a hot Sunday in August, a crowd of twenty thousand — the largest attendance the chronically losing Browns had managed in over four years — came out to see Bill Veeck’s latest wild stunt. The crowd, which was in a great, fun-loving mood, had no idea what that stunt would be; but as this doubleheader with the Tigers marked the fiftieth anniversary of the American League, the fans knew it would be something more than just the free birthday cake and ice cream being handed out.
Or the opening game itself, which the Browns, naturally, lost.
The half-time show began to keep the implied Veeck promise of zaniness, with a parade of antique cars, two couples in Gay Nineties attire pedaling a bicycle-built-for-four around the bases, and a swing combo with Satchel Paige himself on drums inspiring jitterbugging in the aisles. A three-ring circus was assembled, with a balancing act at first base, trampoline artists at second, and a juggler at third.
Throughout all this, I’d been babysitting Eddie Gaedel in Veeck’s office. Gaedel was wearing a Browns uniform that had been made up for Bill DeWitt, Jr., the nine-year-old son of the team’s former owner/current advisor. The number sewn onto the uniform was actually a fraction: 1/8; and kid’s outfit or not, the thing was tent-like on Eddie.
We could hear the muffled roar of the huge crowd, and Eddie was nervous. “I don’t feel so good, Nate.”
The little guy was attempting to tie the small pair of cleats Veeck had somehow rustled up for him.
“You’ll do fine, Eddie.”
“I can’t tie these friggin’ things! Shit!”
So I knelt and tied the midget’s cleats. I was getting a hundred bucks for the day, too.
“These bastards hurt my feet! I don’t think I can go on.”
“There’s twenty thousand people in that park, but there’s one whose ass I know I can kick, Eddie, and that’s you. Get going.”
Soon we were under the stands, moving down the ramp, toward the seven-foot birthday cake out of which Veeck planned to have Eddie jump. Big Bill Durney, Veeck’s traveling secretary, helped me lift the midget under the arms, so we could ease him onto the board inside the hollowed section of the cake.
“What the hell am I?” Eddie howled, as he dangled between us. No one had told him about this aspect of his appearance. “A stripper?”
“When you feel the cake set down,” I said, “jump out, and run around swingin’ and clowning. Then run to the dugout and wait your turn at bat.”
“This is gonna cost that bastard Veeck extra! I’m an AGVA member, y’know!”
And we set him down in there, handed him his bat, and covered him over with tissue paper, through which his obscenities wafted.
But when the massive cake was rolled out onto the playing field by two of the fans’ favorite Browns, Satch Paige and Frank Saucier, and plopped down on the pitcher’s mound, Eddie Gaedel rose to the occasion. As the stadium announcer introduced “a brand-new Brownie,” Eddie burst through the tissue paper and did an acrobatic tumble across the wide cake, landing on his cleats nimbly, running to home, swinging the bat all the way, eating up the howls of laughter and the spirited applause from the stands.
Then Eddie headed for the dugout, and the various performers were whisked from the field for the start of the second game. The fans were having a fine time, though perhaps some were disappointed that the midget-from-the-cake might be the big Veeck stunt of the day; they had hoped for more.
They got it.
Frank Saucier was the leadoff batter for the Browns, but the announcer boomed, “For the Browns, number 1/8 — Eddie Gaedel, batting for Saucier!”
And there, big as life, so to speak, was Eddie Gaedel, swimming in the child’s uniform, heading from the dugout with that small bat still in hand, swinging it, limbering up, hamming it up.
Amazed laughter rippled through the crowd as the umpire crooked a finger at Veeck’s manager, Zack Taylor, who jogged out with the signed contract and a carbon of the telegram Veeck had sent major league headquarters adding Eddie to the roster.
By this time I had joined Veeck in the special box up on the roof, where visiting dignitaries could enjoy the perks of a bar and restaurant. Veeck was entertaining a crew from Falstaff Breweries, the Browns’ radio sponsors, who were ecstatic with the shenanigans down on the diamond. Newspaper photographers were swarming onto the field, capturing the manager of the Tigers, Red Rolfe, complaining to the umpire, while pitcher Bob Cain and catcher Bob Swift just stood at their respective positions, occasionally shrugging at each other, obviously waiting for this latest Bill Veeck gag to blow over.
But it didn’t blow over: after about fifteen minutes of discussion, argument, and just plain bitching, the umpire shooed away the photogs and — with clear reluctance — motioned the midget to home plate.
“Look at the expression on Cain’s puss!” Veeck exploded at my shoulder.
Even at this distance, the disbelief on the pitcher’s face was evident, as he finally grasped that this joke was no joke: he had to pitch to a midget.
“He can’t hurl underhand,” Veeck was chortling, “’cause submarine pitches aren’t legal. Look at that! Look at Swift!”
The catcher had dropped to his knees, to give his pitcher a better target.
“Shit!” Veeck said. His tone had turned on a dime. All around us, the Falstaff folks were having a gay old time; but Veeck’s expression had turned as distressed as Cain’s. “Will you look at that little bastard, Nate...”
Eddie Gaedel — who Veeck had spent hours instructing in achieving the perfect, unpitch-to-able crouch — was standing straight and, relatively speaking, tall, feet straddled DiMaggio-style, tiny bat held high.
“Have you got your gun, Nate? That little shit’s gonna swing...”
“Naw,” I said, a hand on Veeck’s shoulder, “he’s just playing up to the crowd.”
Who were playing up to him, cheering, egging him on.
Then pitcher Cain came to Veeck’s rescue by really pitching to the midget, sending two fastballs speeding past Eddie before he could even think to swing.
“I wouldn’t worry now,” I said to Veeck.
Cain had started to laugh; he was almost collapsing with laughter, which the crowd aped, and he could barely throw at all as he tossed two more looping balls, three and then four feet over Eddie’s head.