Borderline Feller
Feller’s death late last year has more of an impact on the Cleveland Indians than you, I, or even the entire organization may initially realize. Why? Because along with fellow teammate, the late, great Larry Doby, Feller was the consummate ambassador for the game, the team, and his adopted home of Cleveland. Without him and the prospect of a World Series-season, the Indians must scrape up as many former heroes as possible to attempt to fill the shoes of the Heater from Van Meter. For nearly 60 years after throwing his last pitch, Bob Feller was a constant figure in a sad-sack sports town that seems to lose all of its other heroes to better deals in other cities.
People came to see Feller, on the ball diamond, at sports card shows, in the shopping mall, or an old-timers’ game. He was revered, to his death, as Cleveland’s hero. One of the game’s greatest players, Feller was opinionated about everything, made thousands of appearances, treated every fan as if they were the only fan, told great stories, and was a true ambassador in good times and bad for the team, as well as the art of pitching. He was a hero, a legend, and Tribe fans knew that and loved him, and were proud he was one of theirs. Part of a winning World Series team, Feller played with and intimidated the greats, including Ted Williams, who made no bones about his dislike of trying to hit the surreal smoke Feller threw at him.
While Northeast Ohio sulks and licks its wounds after LeBron left, I think we should be reminded that Feller was the first true Chosen One in pro sports. His fame was on a magnitude that we cannot fathom today, and should make LeBron extremely embarrassed at his own foolish bravado. The Iowa farm boy was groomed by his father to play baseball. The Indians were Bill Feller’s favorite team, and though it was controversial at the time, his son Bob became the first player to go to the majors without ever playing a single minor league game. “Rapid Robert” was at one time, second only to Shirley Temple in popularity in the U.S. His baby face and All-American Iowa farm life made him a superstar at 17. Feller’s high school graduation was carried live on NBC Radio. Even LeBron missed out on that. His entire career was with the Tribe. There is a statue of his famous wind-up at the entrance of Progressive Field, a reminder of his greatness before fans enter the stadium gates to see players poorly imitate him.
Even more poignant in the Bob Feller story is that on Dec. 7, 1941, hearing of the Pearl Harbor attack while driving to extend his contract with the Indians, he enlisted Dec. 8, 1941, with the Navy, serving four years. Feller is the only Chief Petty Officer in the Baseball Hall of Fame. He was a decorated naval gunner, and was so physically fit just days after discharge, he was back with the Indians, ready to pitch. Try, just try, and imagine any current MLB player who would make the sacrifice Feller (and other MLB stars like his buddy Williams) did, at the pinnacle of their stellar careers, then immediately return, bury the horror of war and combat, and continue on, as if nothing happened to interrupt America’s Pastime.
Feller also toured in the off season with barnstorming teams, playing Negro League teams, teaming up with Babe Ruth, among others, to play for big bucks in the exhibition games. In an era when pay for the pros was shaky, at best, Feller was raking in the dinero, including lucrative product endorsements. Feller was also at one point, listed in the Guinness Book of World Records, for most autographs signed. I often think he signed so many autographs because the Indians didn’t have many other players to haul out for signings, who were willing to spend so much time with the fans.
I have two Feller autographs. One is of a game in the 1940s, and he put the date on it, and signed it with unmitigated clarity, talking about the picture as he signed. The other is on a ball, also a work of penmanship art. Feller and I met at least twice during Indians press tours, and both times, he chattered away, in his gruff voice, about all the things fans wanted to know: playing with Babe Ruth on barnstorming teams, pitching to Ted Williams, the ’48 and ’54 series, what the team needs now to win, and pitchers he liked. He returned to spring training every year, pitching in the team’s fantasy camp, signing more autographs, sharing more memories.
While Feller was a superstar on the field, his first marriage ended in divorce, and he had somewhat acrimonious relationships with his children, to say the least. His second wife, Anne, who survives him, may be called by some (or many) a saint for tolerating his legendary crustiness. Oldest son, Steve, an architect, designed the Bob Feller Museum in Iowa, which opened about 15 years ago. Feller invested well and had a successful insurance business, but was known as a gruff, sometimes harsh, aloof man who didn’t mince words. When biographers write about him, little is said of his first wife and children, by Feller or the writer. Feller took a lot of heat for believing Jackie Robinson was too muscular to play baseball in the major leagues. This was construed as a racist remark. Feller was genuinely hurt, believing he’d done much to showcase the Negro League players with the barnstorming games, giving them exposure, which helped land MLB contracts.
I watched a recent interview with Feller, recorded in the months leading up to his death. When asked what he’d like to be remembered for, his surprising response was as a patriot who loved his country. Feller said the Allies won the Second World War due to their “unmitigated resolve.” How many players today have ever heard, let alone used, those words alone or together? He also wanted to be remembered as a man who loved his mom and dad, had great coaches and people around him who helped his career. He was choking up as he remembered his parents and time in WWII. The saddest thing was no mention of his family.
So when the Tribe tries to put a sheen on the 2011 season to sell tickets, here’s hoping they sufficiently pay tribute to the one man who, for a brief shining time, was all the team should have been. An imperfect person, Feller hid his weaknesses and excelled with his strengths. His love of the game, its history and his part in it drew crowds to see and hear him speak, and put money in the Tribe’s pockets. The Indians, trying to hide the weakness of poor teams (front office moves, players, management, etc.) scraped by on his legend and talents, drawing fans on the past glory. They will continue to haul out old heroes to stir nostalgia, but none will get the reverential treatment that Bob Feller received and deserved.