"In the first game the next day, I was on second base, with Harvey Kuenn hitting against Early Wynn. Napp is umpiring at home and calls two bad strikes against Kuenn, so I started squawking. Napp didn't mind but that new umpire, Cal Drummond, comes up behind me and tells me to shut up. I guess he wanted to make a good impression. I wheeled around and let him have it, and he tossed me out of the game. Umpires should learn to take a little abuse. People don't come to see them play, you know. Anyway, after he tossed me out, I forget exactly what happened except that Umont led me from the field very nicely. He handled it very well. Then I threw the helmets, the bats and the gloves on the field. All I could think of was that my 15-game hitting streak was over because I was out of the game. Just as I was leaving for the dressing room I caught one more look at Drummond. I got mad again. I saw a sand bucket, so I dumped out all the sand and threw the bucket on the field. I went into the clubhouse and fell asleep on the floor.
"I played the second game and went 0-5. I could hardly see the ball, I was so tired. The last out of the game was a fly which I caught. Just as I caught it, an orange hit me on the head. I picked it up and threw it against that big, new scoreboard. Then I threw the ball. I was aiming for the glass, but I missed."
(Many American Leaguers have expressed secret admiration for Pier-sail's assault against the rocket-shooting, horn-blowing scoreboard. They resent the board because of the money it cost. "Veeck spent $300,000 on the board," said one player, "but he doesn't spend a dime on the visiting players' dressing room, the worst in the league.")
"Veeck phoned me after the game and gave me hell. I blasted him and he blasted back. But we get along O.K. I got fined $250 and I deserved it."
That night Piersall called his wife to tell her he was all right. She said: "Honey, I'm on your team."
A week later Jimmy had more trouble with Detroit. It started when Detroit Manager Jimmy Dykes had the umpires make Piersall put on his batting helmet while in the on-deck circle.
"I began to trade shouts with Dykes," said Piersall. "I pointed to the left-field seats with my bat. Burn-side was pitching and he's got a screwball I couldn't hit with a broom. But I got lucky and really hit one. I just stood there and laughed at Dykes. Then I ran around the bases, but when I got to third, I thought to myself, 'I'm going to rub it in good,' so I tipped my hat to him and yelled, 'Get on that, old man.'
"Before I got up the next time one of the Tigers told me they were going to stick the ball in my ear. So when I got up, I wore this big football-type helmet. Burnside's first pitch was close, but not very. Red Wilson started yelling at Burnside like he was crazy, telling him to knock me down and calling him gutless if he didn't. The next pitch sailed over my head. John Flaherty, the umpire, didn't do a thing. Wilson was getting madder. The third time Burnside threw at me, Flaherty gave him a warning. Wilson still wasn't satisfied. I told him I'd seen a lot of crazy people in the sanitarium, but nothing as bad as that. Then we both laughed."
By this time Jimmy Piersall had finished breakfast, had taken a cab ride through Central Park and up to Yankee Stadium. The night before in the Stadium he had hit a triple. This day he was to get a hit, score a run and make a catch in center field that one New York sportswriter described as "impossible" and the best catch made in the Stadium "since Joe DiMaggio robbed Hank Greenberg many years ago."