Mid-century nicknames were either ironic or literal, and in most cases you could discern their intent with no further clues. Any Tiny was huge; any Stretch was short. On the other hand, nicknames like Cannon and Flash reflected obvious power and speed. In the middle though, there were names like Wedgie. More specifically, Wedgie Horowitz.
On Horowitz, the top of any bottom found its way from his equator to his Tropic of Cancer, proving the nickname was far from ironic. The unfortunate and seemingly uncomfortable location of his pants had no apparent effect on his play. He was a right-handed first baseman with a stellar glove. At the plate he batted lefty and was respected in equal measure for his slugging, keen eye, and ability to fight off pitches until he found one to drive. Had official stats been kept for ten-pitch at-bats, Horowitz surely would have led the league more than once.
Beyond his anomalous pants style, his most distinctive attribute was his status as Cooper’s road roommate. He was the perfect candidate, since Horowitz was always talking and Cooper disliked speaking about himself to sportswriters, or really to anyone. Typically, a writer frustrated from the lack of dialogue with Cooper would quickly turn to the person closest to him; and most often, that person was Wedgie.
Their unspoken agreement was that Horowitz would never reveal anything personal about Cooper. This turned out to be a minor limitation; as a talker and a showman he reveled at the opportunity to employ misdirection, double-talk, pantomime, and the occasional limerick to keep reporters at bay. Wedgie was a high-pants wearing brick wall.
For more than thirty years after Cooper’s disappearance, he was also a steel vault. If he knew anything of Cooper’s whereabouts – there’s no evidence he did – he never let on, plying verbal subterfuge until his death in 1968.
As close as they were in the clubhouse, they rarely connected on a defensive play. Generally, centerfielders hit first basemen on relays or when chasing runners back to the bag after a catch, but that’s about it. At the end of the 1933 season though, the teammates made one exciting exception.
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Horowitz was forced into early retirement in 1939 after shattering his right hand in a gruesome home plate collision. Ultimately, he went to college and turned that tragedy, as well as his time defending Cooper against inquiring sportswriters, into a successful career as a trial lawyer. Over the ensuing decades, his minor celebrity status yielded speaking invitations to Rotary Clubs, high school graduations, and various Chambers of Commerce across the Midwest. He always obliged, since each one gave him an opportunity to tell stories about attitude and effort, and how those two ethereal traits changed the course of a season for two teams in just one play.
While addressing the Kansas City Public Schools Science Fair awards ceremony in 1955, one of the finalists, Frances Hollander, captured Horowitz’s speech on a hand-built tape recorder. Some sixty years later, along with a new-in-the-box Slinky Dog and a Magic 8-Ball, the recording was found in a carton in a long forgotten corner of the Hollander basement in nearby Lenexa.
This is what the recording revealed:
After being introduced by the emcee, Horowitz made a few perfunctory statements about his topic and then launched into his oft-told story, “It was the last game of the season. 1933. We were tied with Philadelphia for first place, and playing them on their home field. The winner would advance to the World Series. The loser would go home.
Philly, by the way, was the least liked and most overconfident team in either league. They taunted opposing players, regularly spiked infielders, and headhunted batters. And remember, this was a time when players didn’t wear helmets. In April, they were favored to run away with the pennant, but by late September they were tied with my team, which they thought was simply unworthy, regardless of our identical records.
We took an early lead, but they fought back until it was 4-4 going into the ninth. We couldn’t score in our half, and the top of their order was due up in the bottom of the frame.
So here we are, it’s the bottom of the ninth with the entire season on the line. Philly’s leadoff hitter, Flip Wampler, slapped the first pitch to right field for a single. And the next batter executed a perfect sacrifice bunt, easily moving Wampler to second.
Now it’s one out, man on second. The Philadelphia fans, fifty thousand strong, were going wild. A single scores a run; game over. And on deck was their captain, Riley Braun, a ferocious power hitter with a long mean streak and a short temper. He was swinging four bats, and staring daggers at Joe Brown, our pitcher. Braun was ready to finish the game if Quincy Jacobs, the number three batter, couldn’t get the job done.
Jacobs, a lefty, worked the count to 3-2, and then ripped a ball down the first base line. I was playing even with the bag, and instinctively dove. Miraculously, the ball bounced into my glove. A half inch in either direction and I’m telling you a different story.
Wampler broke to third on contact, so I had no chance to get him, however I easily tagged first for the second out.
Now there are two outs, with Wampler only ninety feet from home. Braun strode slowly and purposefully toward home plate. It must’ve taken him five full minutes to get from the on-deck circle to the batter’s box.
His rooster walk incited the crowd. Fifty thousand were on their feet, screaming and cheering, as well as jeering toward our side. After all these years, I don’t know how Joe Brown didn’t crack under the pressure. He was as cool as a cucumber.
As we waited for Braun, I spied Cannon Cooper – in my opinion, the greatest player in baseball history – pacing like a caged tiger in the outfield.
In all my time playing with him, I never heard Cooper say a negative word about another player, nor do anything even remotely unsportsmanlike. However, on that day in Philadelphia I could see that he held Braun in the lowest regard because he silently provoked him the entire game.
As one of the game’s most dangerous power hitters, you’d expect the outfield to play deep against him, but Cooper played Braun very shallow in his first at-bat. And in each of his subsequent at-bats, Cooper moved in ever closer. He was daring Braun to hit one over his head, a gambit that had thus far paid off.
With two outs on the board, the infield could play at a regular depth while the outfield played a bit shallow to guard against a line drive single. Cooper continued his taunt though; his toes were less than twenty feet from the infield clay.
Behind 3-1 in the count, Brown grooved a slider over the heart of the plate and Braun lashed it up the middle to the shortstop side of second base. The ball shot like a bullet toward the outfield.
Immediately, Braun dropped his bat, threw his hands in the air, and started jogging toward first base. In his mind’s eye, he saw a game-winning single. Wampler saw the same thing and headed for home in no particular hurry.
Cooper saw something different. He broke to his right and took six short strides before the ball skipped on the outfield grass. He executed a feet-first slide with his left leg out and right leg tucked, smoothly backhanding the ball. As the baseball struck the pocket, he pushed his right foot down, and with his left foot acting as a brake and a spindle, he popped up, spun 180 degrees on his heel, dug his right foot into the turf, and fired to first.
Witnessing Cooper’s catch, I hustled to the bag to brace for the hardest thrown ball you’ve ever seen. Or never seen. I heard the ball whistle as it crossed second base, some ninety feet away.
Braun, that surly son-of-a-gun, was less observant. When he made contact, the entire crowd yelled some version of “Yes!” But as the play unraveled, they screamed all sorts of things – most of them I cannot repeat here – but none so clear that Braun ever bothered to look up from his early celebration.
Wampler crossed the plate, but it was meaningless since Braun was thrown out at first.
With the tie preserved, the game ended predictably with a two-run homer by Max Chesterfield in the top of the 10th, followed by Joe Brown retiring the side in order. Game over.
That game-saving play still gives me goose bumps!
Boys and girls, I hope this tale of two players and two teams is both instructive and inspirational. In competition and in life, attitude and effort are a choice. Choose wisely.”
Wedgie always ended the story abruptly. It was too painful for him. Each time he told it, he failed to share that Braun’s choice to celebrate prematurely not only cost his team a trip to the World Series, but also his career in Philadelphia. That was his last game in a Philly uniform.
And for an entirely different set of reasons he always stopped short of saying that it was Cooper’s last game in any uniform, ever.