A bump in the road to Cooperstown

(Note: The following story took place during my two year stint in the Army, '50-52, during the Korean War. It is presented here as a bit of a preview from one of the chapters of a new book, "Oreo Cookie Man," which will be published in the near future.)

The fall of 1950 was a difficult time for the Army. Our contingent from Nebraska had been assigned to the 6th Armored Artillery, but things were going badly in Korea, and the 6th Armored was essentially acting as an emergency training unit for troops going to Korea, to serve as replacements for the units in the field, which had taken extraordinary casualties (mostly Infantry units). The Army did not tell us that this was the case. We found that out later. For sure, things were chaotic in the extreme at Fort Sill.

For one thing, our guys from Nebraska, did not, at first, have permanent quarters on the base. The first week we shared quarters with small groups of men who were being moved into, out of, and through Fort Sill, bound for Europe, the Far East, and everywhere else. Ours was to be an accelerated program, but it was several days before we were even able to begin basic training.

The 6th Armored Artillery Corps had the distinction of firing the first shot for the American forces in World War I. For this act, all members of the 6th Armored, from World War I onward, including us, were entitled to wear a colorful, braided lanyard around the left shoulder, a symbol of the honor, which had been paid to the 6th Armored unit by the French government. Wow, my first week in the Army and I already was wearing a citation for exemplary service.

During the time that we were in the temporary quarters one of the fellows in my barracks was an extremely unhappy GI, named Whitey Ford. I had not heard of him, but he was quick to inform me, and all of us in that barracks, that he was a professional baseball player, with the prospects for a promising career with the New York Yankees. He had compiled a 9-1 record with the Yankees that year and had pitched in the World Series, which the Yankees won. He was indignant at his being drafted. He felt that there was a distinct possibility that his baseball career might be over before it got a good start. When one of the other GI's pointed out that all of us in that barracks probably would choose to be doing something else rather than serving in the Army, Whitey dismissed that observation as trivial, and implied that his career was of much greater importance than ours. His overbearing manner did not win him any brownie points for popularity.

Whitey Ford did not plan to adjust into the Army life. If he had to serve his two years he was going to do as little as possible. He lounged on his bunk most of the time and talked endlessly about his time with the Yankees, about what he was going to say to the Army brass, if and when they tried to make an artillery man out of him, and the like. At the very most, he said, he would join the Army's baseball team and play exhibition games for the troops overseas. Even this, he felt, would be a great inconvenience, and a serious interruption in his baseball career.

One day he almost came to blows with the fellow who had the cot next to his. The mail had come and his bunkmate's mail had been thrown on Whitey's bed. When the fellow came into the room, Ford was lying on his back, smelling a flowery envelope -- the letter, which had come from his bunk-mate's girl-friend. As he sniffed, he pretended to read the enclosed letter aloud. And then he would comment. He had just recounted a tender, personal line from the letter and was laughing over a particularly tender (made up) passage when the fellow walked up. He yanked his letter out of Whitey's hands, and then started to yank Whitey up as well, preparing to do great bodily damage. Cooler heads prevailed and got the two separated. It was just as well, because the wronged GI was a little fellow, and certainly no athlete. He would have been no match for Whitey Ford, a professional athlete in his prime.

Then the day arrived when all of Fort Sill was abuzz. Mickey Mantle was on the base to take his physical for the Army. Mantle had been signed by the Yankees, and the talk of the sports world was that he was to be the fellow who would replace baseball great, Joe DiMaggio in the Yankee lineup. Playing for a Yankee farm club that year, he had lived up to all the baseball expectations, but he, like Ford, had been drafted. Rumor had it that even though he had blazing speed in the field and on the base paths, he might not be able to pass his physical, due to a bone disease, osteomyelitis, which had developed from a high school football injury. Speculation among the GIs in our barracks was that Mickey was in far better shape than any of us, regardless of any lingering bone diseases, and if he failed the physical exam it was because of his celebrity---the Yankees must have pulled some strings to keep Mantle out of the Army, rather than his being rejected because of any physical ailment.

While Mantle was at Fort Sill there was a small army of newspaper men with cameras, and radio people with microphones following him wherever he went -- from the hospital, to the mess hall, to the PX, and to our barracks. He was a very public figure.

Someone found out that Mickey and Whitey Ford were both products of the Yankee organization, though they had not yet played together. Near dinnertime Mickey and the entire group of media people came into our barracks to take a few pictures, in an Army setting, of the two, future and former Yankees. They posed together, and took a few good natured gibes at each other while the flashbulbs popped. But the major, Mantle's guide while in Fort Sill, soon moved him along to his next engagement---an informal reception with the post commander, leaving Whitey Ford with no more than a "Carry on, soldier." Mantle was the celebrity of the two, for certain, and even the Army's big brass treated him with great deference.

When Mantle left, most of us in the barracks were thrilled to have come into such close contact with a sports hero, and the conversation was animated, people vying with one another recalling stories that they'd heard about the Mick's baseball heroics.

Whitey Ford was not thrilled by Mantle's visit. It was plain to see that he thought that since he was already the proven ball player, one who had played for the World Champion Yankees, he was the one who should be getting the attention, instead of an unknown, unproven hotshot, who had yet to play a single inning for the Yankees -- who might, or might not be DiMaggio's successor.

"Why that upstart, who does he think he is?" Ford complained. "I could strike him out with three pitches! Why, he'd never get on base against me." And on and on and on.

The next day, we got the news that Mickey had been declared 4-F, and would not be going into the Army, Whitey exploded. He couldn't believe that Mickey Mantle would be playing in Yankee Stadium, while "he" would be taking a two-year forced absence from the game.

It got to be a joke. Even people in the barracks who had never heard of Mickey Mantle began to discuss, in Whitey Ford's presence, how wonderful they thought Mantle was, and praised his hitting, his speed, his good looks, anything at all, just for the pleasure of seeing Whitey Ford fume and rant at the injustice of it all.

Two years later, of course, Whitey Ford did return to the Big Leagues, and the two Yankees. Whitey Ford and Mickey Mantle, became teammates and eventually, bosom buddies. They starred on eight World Championship teams, Mantle as a hitter and Ford as a pitcher. Both were inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, and both certainly deserved that honor.

Off the field they were almost as well known for their "free spirit" way of life as they were for their baseball prowess. Indeed, in the last years of his life, Mickey Mantle was known to have said, "If I had known I was going to live this long, I'd have taken better care of myself" -- A clear reference to the "good life" in which he and Whitey Ford had participated for so many years. The two even authored a book together recounting their time on the baseball field and at play.

Damon & Pythias. Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid. Mickey Mantle & Whitey Ford. Like those other famous duos, these two best friends will be forever linked together. In reference to those great Yankee teams of the '50s and '60s, these two are still fondly remembered, recognized for their play on the field, and their high times off the field -- but it sure didn't start out that way.