His Baseball Diary, and Mine

 One of my favorite baseball books is My Baseball Diary by Chicago writer James T. Farrell, who is now remembered mostly for his Studs Lonigan trilogy.  The book was initially published in 1957, a year or so before I acquired the skill of reading and more than a few years before I would throw a baseball.  The various entries are more Ruth and Comiskey than Mantle and Veeck, not that I care.  What draws me to the book is Farrell’s ability to make a distant past accessible, or as he says in one passage, “Today, when I go to Comiskey Park or Wrigley Field, I do not merely see the game in progress.  I remember the games I saw decades ago.”  That would include his encounter with Browns’ third baseman Jimmy Austin, the pride of Swansea, Wales.

In August of 1911, the seven-year old Farrell attended a White Sox-Browns’ game where his uncle managed to sneak him into the visitors’ dugout.  Chicago being Chicago, the weather was off, and the young Farrell was chilled to the point of discomfort.  “Jimmy Austin, St. Louis third baseman, put his sweater on me.  I swam in it, and sat huddled on the bench, shy but impressed and wanting very much to be noticed.  Austin asked me several times if I was warm enough.  The other players scarcely noticed me.”

For whatever reason, that passage has always stayed with me, which may be why I bought a photo of Austin on eBay last week.  After an 18-year career as a player and coach with the Browns, Austin hooked up with the White Sox in 1933 and coached on the South Side for seven years.  The youngest he could have been in the photo was 53, but what a 53.  Austin exudes pure joy, left hand in glove on hip, right hand holding a bat as if it were a rich man’s cane.  And the smile—here was a man happy beyond belief to be wearing a baseball uniform (this one with S-O-X in capitals at a downward slant, a baseball inside the “O,” all three letters superimposed on a bat).  Austin poses with his back to those glorious outfield arches that I once sat in front of.

There’s a rather famous picture of Ty Cobb sliding into third base in a cloud of dirt if not spikes; the third baseman trying not to be run over is Jimmy Austin, then of the New York Highlanders (now Yankees).  I went to look at the picture today in Lawrence Ritter and Donald Honig’s The Image of Their Greatness, a nice picture history of the game.  Inside, I found five baseball cards from 1970 and a small poster for Braves’ pitcher Phil Niekro.  There was also a Christmas card, signed “Bob—Enjoy the ‘Mets.’”  One of the baseball cards shows Tommie Agee and teammates celebrating their “Incredible” 1969 season.  Bob, a diehard Cubs’ fan, has been dead now for almost fifteen years.

Thank you, Jimmy Austin, for the chance to reconnect with an old friend.