Double Legacy Of The Iron Horse

The nature of this trouble makes it such that Mr. Gehrig will be unable to continue his active participation as a baseball player, inasmuch as it is advisable that he conserve his muscular energy. He could, however, continue in some executive capacity.
Signed
Harold C. Habein, M.D.

The news that Gehrig was suffering from some strange disease revived and amplifed the shock that accompanied the end of his playing streak. At the same time it explained the mystery of his collapse as a ballplayer, and as so often happens when a diagnosis is made, it brought to light previously overlooked symptoms. Eleanor Gehrig recalled that she had noticed Lou stepping off the curb in a strange way that spring, his foot sort of plopping down, as though he were blind and not sure about the height of the curb. She also remembered some uncharacteristic falls he took while ice skating the previous winter. His teammates also remembered stumbles and even a fall Gehrig took while leaning over to tie his shoes one day in the clubhouse. And the sportswriters finally put their fingers on the elusive nature of Gehrig's problems on the field earlier in the year—he'd lost the "spring" in his muscles.

Though he was seriously ill, Gehrig nevertheless was relieved to know that it was something beyond his control that had taken away his game, that he wasn't just another aging ballplayer who had lost the edge. The deathwatch that spring, with the reporters following him around and asking him how he felt all the time, waiting for the inevitable end of the streak, had been hard on Gehrig. The reporters had been waiting for Gehrig to drop back into the ranks of the mortal, of the average, of the typical 35-year-old athlete who just doesn't have it anymore. But Gehrig had been too good for too long, and he was too proud to accept that. He had to have known that there was something extraordinary about his sudden fade, and when the disease was diagnosed his idea of himself as someone special was intact. There had never been anything typical or average about Gehrig's game, and the end of that game was no exception.

When he left the Mayo Clinic, Gehrig rejoined the Yankees and remained with the team for the rest of the season, performing the ceremonial task of taking the lineup card out to home plate before the start of each game. It was a poignant time. Everywhere he went, Gehrig was greeted with standing ovations and featured in the local papers. The articles focused on a whole new angle, Gehrig on the bench, and the man was amiable and enthusiastic on the subject.

"So help me, for 15 years I never saw a ball game as it should be watched," Gehrig said in June, soon after his diagnosis. "I never appreciated some of the fellows I've been playing with for years. What I always thought were routine plays when I was in the lineup are really thrilling when you see 'em from off the field."

Gehrig's approach to the disease was equally optimistic. From the start he told everyone that the doctors had given him "a 50-50 chance to fight this off in two years," though it seems unlikely that the Mayo Clinic doctors would have told an ALS patient any such thing. In her memoirs Eleanor Gehrig wrote that, on her instructions, the doctors did not tell Lou the whole story. She was told that the disease was fatal and that her husband had about 2� years to live, but she said Gehrig was told only a very basic version of the information contained in the press release and was apparently allowed to develop the idea that the progress of the disease could possibly be arrested.

However, according to one former Mayo staff member, Gehrig did know the fatal prognosis. But he carried on. He maintained a regular correspondence with the physician who diagnosed him and was interested in the state of research into the causes of ALS. He also made contact with others suffering from the disease and even underwent a series of experimental treatments—injections of Vitamin E directly into the muscles. But as the 1939 season wore on, Gehrig developed a limp, and the weakness in his hands became more pronounced.

One interesting aspect of the situation was the way such a major medical story was reported, primarily in the sports pages. Diseases of the central nervous system were something new on the beat and, not surprisingly, mistakes were made.

Fear of ALS and ignorance of its nature persisted in baseball for years. "Doc Cramer keeps telling me that if I go on catching every game, I could get the sickness that killed Lou Gehrig," Yankee catcher Yogi Berra said in the summer of 1953. Berra was discussing the endurance of players of different generations with teammates and a reporter. When the reporter said to Berra that Gehrig died "not by overwork but by a paralyzing bug," Yankee shortstop Phil Rizzuto responded with a theory that others had propounded at various times. "How do you know that Gehrig's incredible record didn't have something to do with his death?" said Rizzuto. "I believe that by playing every day through nearly 15 seasons, whether he was well or ill, he invited trouble. He must have weakened his resistance and left himself wide open for the disease which strangled him."

After the 1939 season Gehrig accepted a job as a member of the New York City parole board. He officially assumed his duties in January 1940. Gehrig took the job seriously, reporting for work each morning at his office in the municipal building and making regular trips to the city prisons to interview inmates. A frequently-published photo from that time shows Gehrig seated at a paper-strewn desk in a suit and tie, looking like a sharp and healthy young executive. But the photo was a lie; to a trained eye, the telltale atrophy of the muscles in his hands and face is apparent. Within months of starting the job, Gehrig's arms were so weak he couldn't lift his hands off the desk. As his condition worsened he gave up the job and went into seclusion at home, where he saw just a few select friends.