Lost In History

Indeed, from 1929 to '31 the A's were a juggernaut quite as formidable as the Yankees had been between '26 and '28. Both teams won three consecutive pennants and two of three World Series; both teams lost a seven-game Series to the St. Louis Cardinals (the Yanks in '26 and the A's in '31). Statistically the New York and Philadelphia mini-dynasties were remarkably even: The A's had a record of 313-143 (.686) between 1929 and '31; the Yanks, 302-160 (.654) between 1926 and '28. And while Philadelphia scored six fewer runs than the Yankees—2,710 to 2,716—the A's had five fewer runs scored against them: 1,992 to 1,997. That represents a difference between the two teams, in net scoring, of only one run.

The Yankees had the best single year at the plate, hitting .307 and scoring 975 runs in 1927. The Athletics' strongest offensive showings came in '29, when they batted .296, and '30, when they scored 951 runs. On defense the A's were clearly superior; over their three-year reign they committed only 432 errors, 167 fewer than the Yankees made during their period of hegemony.

Old-timers assert that if there was any position where those forgotten '29 A's had the edge over the '27 Yankees, it was behind the plate. The Yankees platooned two mediocre catchers, Pat Collins and Johnny Grabowski. In contrast, the A's started Cochrane, a lifetime .320 hitter who competed with the kind of fiery abandon that would one day characterize Pete Rose. On top of all that, Cochrane played his pitchers like violins.

The finest of them was the sullen, hard-assed Grove—"the greatest lefthanded pitcher I ever saw," says Chief Hogsett, 92, who won 63 games for three American League teams between 1929 and '38. Grove was the premier stopper of his era. "He could shut you out any day," Hudlin says. "The Yankees didn't have any pitcher that overpowering."

The Athletics had no compromising weakness. "They had it all," says Ray Hay-worth, 92, who caught for the Detroit Tigers from 1926 to '38. "Great pitching and great hitting and exceptional defense. And they first proved themselves to be a great baseball team in the '29 Series."

In the bottom of the ninth that Oct. 14 at Shibe, Malone quickly fanned Walter French, the pinch hitter who led off for the A's, and English again sensed that Game 5 belonged to the Cubs. He was not alone. Hundreds of people in the crowd of nearly 30,000 began watching the game over their shoulders as they made for the exits. Then, just as surely as Malone had the game in hand, it all began to unravel. The pitcher had two strikes on Max Bishop, the A's second baseman, when Bishop slashed a single past Chicago third baseman Norm McMillan and down the line in left. At once the departing crowds stopped in the aisles and at the exits and turned around. Even President Hoover decided not to forsake his seat.

Next up at the plate was Philadelphia centerfielder George Haas. His sad eyes and long, tapered face had inspired his nickname, Mule, but there was nothing plodding about his baseball. Haas was a fluid, quick-jump fielder and, when the screws were tightening, a ferociously intense all-fields hitter. He had batted .313 during the regular season. In fact, he was one of six A's—along with Simmons (.365), Foxx (.354), Miller (.335), Cochrane (.331) and Jimmy Dykes (.327)—who had hit over .310 with more than 400 at bats that year. Haas was heard muttering an oath as he went into the box. The curse, according to Chicago Tribune columnist Westbrook Pegler, was "a noise which the baseball players bandy back and forth from bench to bench during the season and the intent is strictly contumelious."

Malone studied the signs from catcher Zack Taylor and fired his first pitch right into Haas's wheelhouse, and the Mule struck the ball flush, lifting it in a high arc past rightfielder Kiki Cuyler and toward the row houses on North 20th Street, where hundreds of people sitting on makeshift rooftop bleachers and leaning out windows saw the ball bounce on the pavement. For eight innings, according to one writer, Shibe had been as solemn as "a convention of morticians." Suddenly it erupted. "The place went up in a roar," English recalls.

Bishop skipped over second base and then slowed down, waiting for Haas to catch up to him, and shook Mule's hand before trotting on toward home. From the presidential box the mayor of Philadelphia, Harry Mackey, sitting two seats to the left of Hoover, vaulted over the railing and embraced Haas as he swam into the arms of teammates gathered at the dugout.

Up in the press box the rhapsodies began. Cy Peterman, writing for The Evening Bulletin of Philadelphia, penned this ode to the homer by Haas: "They sing of joy when long lost sons come home. They prate of happiness when wars are done. But did you ever see a homer in the ninth that tied the score? There, ladies and gentlemen, is joy."