Shamu’s 1st-place finish was his second championship in a full 23 years of competition, and his first in a season which was not tainted by a season-ending work stoppage.  All hail the chief!

As if getting to watch his two boys play in the state championship football game this year wasn’t enough, Magpie also experienced a return to the glory days of the Hot Stove League, when his Reds were in hot competition for one of the money finish spots.  After giving Shamu plenty to worry about during most of the season, the Highlanders/Reds faded during the final trimester of the campaign, but still performed courageously enough to finish in 2nd place, Magpie’s fifth 2nd-place finish, tying Jim Ed for the most times as a bridesmaid.  Remarkably, the Highlanders/Reds have finished in the money (top 3) 12 times in 20 years of competition, and even more astounding, they have finished in the Upper Division 19 times in 20 seasons.  Wow.  Now we know where those Pirnie boys get their competitive drive. 

SloPay’s finish in the 3-hole was the second time that the Irates (Bears) have finished in 3rd, the first time being in their second year of competition in 1988.  It is also their second consecutive year of finishing in the money.  Has parity hit the Hot Stove League?  Let’s ask Bob. 

The Chiefs, with B.T. drafting out of the 13-hole, did themselves proud with their third consecutive 4th-place finish, and their fifth finish in the 4-spot in 23 years of competition, a statistical outlier.  (For instance, the Senators have never finished in 4th-place ‒‒ usually preferring to end up higher than that.)  It will be interesting to see what B.T. can do when drafting in the 4 spot. 

The Wahoos finished in 5th-place (bor-ing), their third time they have occupied this position at the end of the season. 

In his first year of sole ownership in the Hot Stove League, Screech piloted his Monarchs to 6th place, barely keeping a toehold on the Upper Division, and falling two slots from last year’s 4th-place finish.  No wonder Steinbrenner helped Screech finance his new franchise and went back to solo ownership of the Chiefs. 

Jim Ed guided his Redbirds to their second consecutive 7th-place finish, their fifth Lower Division placement in the last seven years.  From the looks of things, Tirebiter may be in his exclusive little club with Underbelly, Mouse and Screech for many seasons to come.  Pity. 

Itchie finished in 8th place for the second consecutive season.  Is the bloom off the rose?  Is that Itchie magic gone forever?  We can only hope. 

Big Guy’s Tigers finished in 9th place, their second 9th-place finish overall, and a serious blow to this franchise after finishing in the Upper Division two out of the last three years.  Oh, for the return of the dead ball era. 

Underbelly finished up on the 10th rung of the ladder this season, the sixth consecutive year that this moribund franchise has finished in either 10th or 12th place.  This six-year stretch of stench roughly equates to Underbelly’s tenure as shipping manager at Art FX, which makes it clear that it is The Man that is keeping him down.  Way down. 

McBlunder’s Blues finished in 11th place for the second time in a row, the fifth consecutive year that this once-proud organization has finished in 10th, 11th, or 12th.  Like the big league club of the same city, it appears that an infusion of new talent is needed to bring this team out of the doldrums. 

Mouse’s Bombers managed to stay out of the league bowels once again this season, but just barely, meaning by only one spot.  Like his elongated fellow owner one notch above him, Mouse has to be concerned that the word “contraction” might once again enter the league vernacular.  On the other hand, maybe if Mutt and Jeff pooled their cerebral resources, they might could figure out a way to actually draft a contending team.  Ooh.  That sounded harsh, I know, but somebody had to say it.  

Finally, the pressure is off. With the Senators’ first-ever last-place finish in 23 years of competition, there is no more pressure to avoid a cellar finish, and no place for this franchise to go but up.  Next season, I won’t be hamstrung by the duties of a little league baseball presidency, and B.T. has already proved that one can go from ignorance and darkness and a 13th spot draft position to the thick of a competitive pennant race in the span of one season.  It’s time to put 2007 behind me, and as to the 2008 season, I say, BRING IT ON. 

A full complement of reporters attended the Yankee victory party in 1947, held in the Grand Ballroom of the Biltmore Hotel on the night of October 6.  Neither McPhail nor the old gentlemanly press code really survived the evening. 

As the Yankees moved toward their final victory, McPhail began serious drinking.  He left his box during the seventh inning and began to mix Scotch and beer, with speed and gusto. . . .  Writers came running down the corridors far below the three-tiered stands at Yankee stadium.  McPhail pushed his way through them, tears rushing down his face, and threw an arm around dour, chipmunk-cheeked George Weiss, his farm director. 

“Here, you guys,” McPhail shouted at the reporters.  “I want you to say this in your stories.  I’m the guy that built up the losers, the Brooklyn club.  Here’s the man who really built the Yankees.”  He raised George Weiss’ right arm.

"Now I gotta talk to my players . . . .”

He started crying again.  Then he went looking for Branch Rickey and found him amid another swarm of reporters.  “You’ve got a fine team,” McPhail said.  “I want to congratulate you.”

Rickey leaned in very close.  His whisper was ice.  “I’ll shake your hand because I have to with these people watching.  But I don’t like you, sir.  Don’t care for you at all.”  McPhail wheeled away.  He needed another drink.

Toward eight p.m. he came staggering into the press room at the Biltmore Hotel.  “I got some things to tell you writers,” he said.  “Stay away from me or get punched. . . .”

Sid Keener, the sports editor of the St. Louis Stars-Times, had known McPhail for thirty years.  “Larry,” he said mildly, “everybody gets criticized in your business even when they win.  Branch Rickey won in St. Louis and . . . .”

“Rickey?” McPhail shouted.  “Bible-quoting, hypocritical, tight-wad son of a bitch.  He’s worse than Chandler (the commissioner), worse than that goddamned hayseed we have as a commissioner.” 

McPhail was shouting all of this at reporters from every major newspaper in the country. . . .

He (McPhail) spotted Dan Topping, big, Anaconda copper-rich Dan Topping, who owned one-third of the Yankees. 

“Hey, Topping,” McPhail said.  “You know what you are?  A guy born with a silver spoon in his mouth who never made a dollar in his life.” 

Topping seized McPhail’s left arm.  “Listen, you,” Topping said.  “We’ve taken everything from you we’re going to take.”  Topping wrestled McPhail into the hotel kitchen.  He was bigger than McPhail, younger by twenty years, physically stronger, and considerably more sober.  He shook McPhail roughly in the kitchen, punched him with a few body blows, and ordered McPhail to behave.  “If you act up again, Larry,” Topping said, “I’m going to knock your head off.  Now go into the washroom and clean yourself up and for Christ sakes, comb your hair.” 

About a half hour later--ten p.m.--a subdued McPhail returned, properly groomed.  But the whiskey and the mindless rage still burned within him.

He walked up to Joe Page, who was sitting with his wife.  “What were you, Joe, before I picked you up?  A bum.  You and this broad here, you were nothing.  I bought a home for you.  You’re wearing nice clothes now.  You’re drinking champagne.  But without me, the two of you would be starving.”

Topping was approaching with a murderous look.  Mrs. Page burst into tears. 

McPhail’s next attempt to discard his somber centerfielder showed the man at his roarin’ redheaded best.  He invited Tom Yawkey, the multimillionaire bon vivant who owned the Red Sox, to join him for a night of talk and drink at Toots Shor’s.  Yawkey kept his distance from the press, in the manner of many moneyed men, but Shor’s was a safe saloon for public drinking.  By unwritten rule, what went on at Shor’s was off the record, unless a specific exception was made. 

. . . .

McPhail threw out no booze at Shor’s.  He knocked back drinks, and Yawkey joined him.  McPhail got to his idea.  “I have this big dago in center field.  He hits the hell out of the ball, but to left center.  We got a spot out there that’s 475 feet from home.  He hits these tremendous drives, home runs anywhere else, and in my ballpark they’re just damn long outs.” 

“That’s the way this game is,” Yawkey said.  “I got this skinny kid, pulls everything left-handed, hits these long balls to right and right center.  In my ballpark, right center reaches 420 feet from home.”

The men drank some more.  Yawkey wanted to know what McPhail thought about Rickey’s plan to bring “nigras” into baseball.  Shor later recalled the conversation for me. 

“Gonna kill our business,” McPhail said. 

Yawkey nodded.  (Yawkey’s Red Sox did not employ a black ballplayer until 1959, fully twelve years after Robinson’s major league debut.)  They were both drinking hard and they were getting along very well.  After a while, at 2 in the morning, McPhail proposed his trade. 

The big dago for the skinny kid.

No cash, no other ballplayers. 

Even up, Joe DiMaggio for Ted Williams. 

“Helluvan idea,” Yawkey said.

“Put the dago up there with your close-in left field wall,” McPhail said, “and he’ll hit 60 homers.” 

“Right,” Yawkey said.  “Put the kid in the stadium, with the right field stands so close, and he’ll hit 70!” 

“We got a deal?”

“We got a deal!”

“Shake.”

“Skoal.”

“Let’s have another.”

According to Kahn, the following morning Yawkey called McPhail and said, “I can’t do it, Larry.”  After McPhail responded that he thought they had a deal, Yawkey reportedly said, “We did.  I’m not denying that.  But I can’t do it.  They let Babe Ruth out of Boston.  If I let Williams go, the fans will crucify me.”