It had to be the wackiest footrace in history. It pitted a ballplayer against a sportswriter, and it was instigated by the legendary pitcher Satchel Paige.
To set the stage, the race was run over the impossibly rough terrain of the little railroad station in Colton, California, the night the St. Louis Browns were breaking training camp in 1952. It was run in almost total darkness by two nearsighted bespectacled contestants, each in street clothes and regular shoes. The team was waiting for a special train that was to take them to Tucson, Arizona.
Clint Courtney was a 25-year-old Louisiana farm boy from very humble beginnings. He would tell his teammates, “I was so poor as a boy and my shoes so bad that I could step on a dime and tell you if it was heads or tails.”
He was tough, squat little man who was brimming with confidence, claiming he was the fastest catcher in the big leagues (he was), and a better hitter than Yogi Berra (which he most assuredly was not). Courtney and the ancient pitcher Paige had developed a mutual admiration for each other, which took the form of a continuous needling and heckling.
The Browns’ manager, Rogers Hornsby, was a quarter-mile up the tracks anxiously waiting for the train, when Satch began entertaining the players and sportswriters with hilarious tales about his speed of foot. “Why, I am so fast,” he said, “ that I don’t believe in wasting ammunition on rabbits. I just run alongside of them until they drop from exhaustion.”
There soon developed a serious debate over who was the fastest player in camp — a title to which Courtney laid claim. Among those listening were two sportswriters who were also brothers, Artie and Milton Richman. After a few moments, Artie said softly, “I believe that my brother Milt could beat any of you over 100 yards.”
“A sportswriter is going to beat me?” said Courtney, reaching for his wallet. “For how much?”
“For a hundred dollars,” said Artie Richman, pulling out his billfold.
Paige plucked the money out of their hands saying that since he had agitated the race, he would be the stakeholder. He then warned Courtney: “I once had what I thought was a lemon tree in my backyard. I wanted some lemonade, and I went out and shook that tree, and darned if I didn’t get me a bushel basket of tomatoes.” Satchel knew what Courtney did not. Milt Richman was a 30-year-old writer, but at one time he had been a Browns farmhand and had been considered the fastest man in the St. Louis chain, maybe in all of the minor leagues.
The only running space was along the bumpy gravel-and-cinder strip beside the railroad tracks. The only illumination was the faint light that barely shone down from the depot window. The players lined up with the writers and the railroad crew along the edge of the gravel. Pitcher Gene Bearden ran down to judge the finish. Courtney and Richman took off their jackets and toed the starting line. Paige dropped a white handkerchief and the runners were off.
Courtney, quickest off the mark, was the early leader, but Richman caught him after about 40 yards. They raced head-to-head, but just as the writer seemed to inch ahead, Courtney hit a dip in the gravel. His shoes flew off and he pitched forward like he was diving into a pool. Propelled by his momentum, he bounced and scraped along the gravel for 25 yards, coming to a full stop with his outstretched fingers resting on the finish line.
Bearden, crouching low, spread the palms of his hands over the catcher’s sprawling body and shouted “Safe!” Courtney lay there, furious, but unable to move. His pants had been ripped to shreds. Most of the skin had been scraped off his knees and thighs, and hundreds of pieces of gravel and cinder had imbedded in his flesh like shrapnel.
A blanket was thrown over Courtney as Paige called the race no contest and returned the money. The train arrived and the players tried to secretly carry Courtney to the team trainer’s compartment before manager Hornsby found out what had happened.
It didn’t work. Hornsby, known for his temper and lack of patience, leveled a finger at his weak and bleeding catcher and told him he had a choice. He either had to catch the next day or pay a $150 fine. “I’ll catch,” said Courtney.
The trainer Bob Bauman stayed up all night plucking foreign matter out of Courtney with a pair of tweezers. When he took the field against the Cleveland Indians the next day, Courtney was a solid mass of scabs and bandages. As the game progressed his pants became soaked with blood.
Somehow, the plucky catcher lifted three singles over the infield, but finally he fell while running in the eighth inning as his legs gave out. As he was being helped off the field, his teammates stood up and applauded. He had earned the nickname “Scrap Iron” for his toughness. He had turned his defeat and humiliation into a kind of glory.
Upon his return to New York, Milt Richman found a letter from the Browns’ owner, Bill Veeck. It read: “Henceforth, let’s you and I race, instead of you and my ballplayers. We’ll hold it in Yankee Stadium and charge admission. If we can guarantee the same kind of show, we ought to sell the joint out.”
Watch out for us sportswriters, we run up all those stadium steps to get to the press box. Some of us are pretty fast.
Local News
Comments / 0