By Rob Goldman - AngelsWin.com Historical Writer
As the Washington Senators rolled into Boston during the
summer of 1958 for a series against the Red Sox, Senators outfielder Albie
Pearson was mired in a bad slump. His batting average stuck around .220, and
Pearson-a 24 year old wide eyed rookie-couldn’t figure out why. Pearson had
just completed his last round of batting practice and was headed to left field
to shag balls when a shrill whistle coming from around the direction of the
third base dugout stopped him in his tracks. Then came a disembodied voice:
“Hey, Little Man!”
Pearson looked around, saw no one, and figuring it was a
fan, resumed his march to the outfield. Then came the whistle again and the
voice, only louder this time: “Little Man! Over here!” Suddenly a tall familiar
figure in Red Sox flannels emerged from a doorway just beyond the dugout. Get
in here, Little Man.” Commanded a smiling Ted Williams, waving his hand at
Pearson, “Come on in.”
The stunned Pearson did as ordered, following Williams
through the doorway that led to a private grounds crew storage area beneath the
stands. At nearly 6’4”tall, Williams towered over the 5.5” Pearson. Having
trouble?” Williams asked. Pearson told
him about his batting slump, and how he had exhausted all the means he could
think of to break out of it. Williams looked at Pearson square in the eyes and
grinned.
“You originally signed with the Red Sox because of me,
didn’t you?” asked Williams.
“Yes sir,” replied Pearson. “When I was growing up I never
got to see you play, but we listened to your games on the radio.”
William’s grin grew wider. “Little Man, there is only one
Ted Williams, and you’re not him.”
“Yes sir.”
“But you know what? Asked Williams. I’ve watched you since
you joined the Senators in spring training. You get the bat on the ball as good
as anybody. You can hit.”
The problem, Williams went on to explain, was that Pearson
was “trying to kill the ball” with every swing. You’re shoulder’s flying open
and you’re hands are slow because you’re looking fastball everytime, and
they’re throwing you everything else but, right?”
When Pearson agreed, Williams gave him an assignment.
“Today when you’re batting I want you to spit on every
fastball you see. You hear me? Spit on it! Keep your front shoulder in and look
for the curveball, change and slider. Don’t even swing at a fastball!”
Fastballs were Pearson’s bread and butter, but he wasn’t
about to disagree with the greatest hitter of all time. As he nodded and began
to stammer his thanks, Williams muttered, “Forget it kid,” and disappeared down
a hallway.
In the game that followed, Pearson let the fastballs go by
and swung at every-thing else. The slump ended that day, as he collected three
base hits and scored four runs for the Senators. As Pearson jogged out to
center field in the ninth inning, he passed Williams heading back to the Sox
dugout.
“Thataway, Little Man! Said Williams softly. “Good job!’
Giving batting lessons to players on opposing teams didn’t
exactly endear Williams to his teammates, but like everyone else he was drawn
to the very likeable Pearson. He respected his tenacity and drive, and marveled
at how Pearson could hit and throw like someone a foot taller and fifty pounds
heavier. People everywhere naturally gravitated toward Pearson. His innate
kindness, hustle and ability put everyone – mothers, children, future Hall of
Famers - in his corner.
***
For many fans diminutive Albie Pearson will always be the
most endearingly popular Angel. The first legitimate star on the inaugural
Angel team, at 5’5”, his disarming smile and consummate hustle helped build the
fan base that laid the foundation for the future of the franchise. Ironically, “Little Man,” as Pearson was
known around the league, almost never became an Angel. In fact, it looked as though his career would
end not long after it started.
Named 1958’s Rookie of the Year with the Washington
Senators, Pearson was traded to Baltimore the following year. But then disaster struck when a congenital
back condition flared up and put him on the sidelines. Actually it was a miracle he had made it that
far because as a youth, Pearson had spina bifida. Through sheer force of will he had made his
way through the ranks with an incomplete spine.
But in 1960, it almost ended his career.
“I ruptured my spine and Baltimore sent me down to the minor
leagues,” Pearson said in a 2004 interview.
“I didn’t play for three months—it was a real killer because I could
hardly walk. They finally let me go
because my bat was bad.”
Baseball may have given up on him, but Pearson didn’t give
up on himself. In the winter of 1960, he
sent a letter off to new Angel General Manage Fred Haney, hoping to appeal to his
reputation as fair and savvy baseball executive. It was short and to the point:
Mr. Haney:
I’m Albie Pearson. I
was “Rookie of the Year” in the American League. I’ve been sent down to
Rochester, but I want you to know my back is well and I can play. I want to
come home and play in Los Angeles where I was born and raised. Please consider this letter as you make your
draft.
Sincerely,
Albie Pearson
Of the 28 players drafted or signed by the Angels that year,
Pearson was the last chosen. He attended
spring training, rehabilitated his back and was on the field for opening
day. From that point on, he wore his
trademark No. 28 jersey.
The original ’61 Angels were
considered by many to be a second-rate team that had no business playing major
league baseball. Baseball writers tried
hard to outdo one another coming up with clever phrases, puns and witticisms to
mock them. “One of the worst teams ever
assembled” wrote Jimmy Cannon of the New
York Post in the spring of ’61. “They are in uniforms because they proved
their inefficiency.” Dodger fans largely
regarded them with indifference and curiosity.
But the general negativity did not infect the team and Pearson recalls
that it was only a matter of time before the players began to gel and start
believing in themselves.
“We beat the Dodgers in a spring training game 6-5, after
being behind 5-2,” Pearson recalled. “I
know it was just an exhibition game, but it put it into the hearts of those
guys right there that they (the Dodgers) were not going to be the only team in
town.”
The acquisition of Leon Wagner in April along with Ryne
Duren and Lee Thomas in May made the Angels a legitimate contender. One of the hardest throwers in the game,
Duren was also known as a two-fisted drinker.
Thomas aptly nicknamed “Mad Dog” because of his fiery temper, played
first and contributed 28 homers. Wagner,
a former Giant, had come in from the St. Louis Cardinals’ organization. “Cheeky” or “Daddy Wags” as he was known to
his teammates, slammed 28 dingers in ’61.
With Pearson in right, Wagner in left and the talented Ken
Hunt playing center, the Angels had a formidable outfield. Fans gravitated most to the likeable Pearson,
whose wide smile, aggressive play and fielding skill made him the first Angel
player with a real following.
“I was popular mainly because my lack of size,” Pearson
admitted. “I never had a boo in my
life. I was the hero for the guy who
never made it. They always saw me as the
underdog because I was competing at the highest level, against guys a foot
taller. I got many, many, many letters
saying, ‘I got a kid and he’s little or he’s small, or, I go to work and I got
this boss that bugs me, but when I go and we watch the game we see you and we
want you to know we love you and we’re for you.’ I would go to Detroit and the fans would come
in early bring their six-packs, and they’d be yelling and booing everybody that
would come in the ballpark. I would take
my batting practice and go out in center field and they’d say ‘Hey Little Man!
We’re against everybody but you! We hope
that Detroit hammers your team but we’re for you!’”
Possessing a tremendous release, Pearson could throw with
anybody in the American League. His
outstanding hand-eye coordination and quick bat gave him surprising power for a
little man, but his lack of size meant he had to do things differently.
“I had to think way ahead.
I had to be very sensitive how to play hitters,” Pearson said. “I would watch them and study their strengths
and weakness. With Mickey Mantle, I
could tell in batting practice by the way he held his hands if he was hurting
physically or if he had too much to drink the previous night. If he were tired he would lower his hands and
have trouble handling the ball. So
during the game I might move on him.
Play a couple of steps the opposite way.”
Pearson played right field in ’61, then moved to center in
‘62 and remained there until his retirement four years later. Manager Bill Rigney felt that with his speed
Pearson could cover a lot of ground. He
also proved invaluable as a leadoff batter, constantly hitting around
.300.
In 1963, Pearson was fourth in the American League in
hitting with a career high .304. He was
the first Angel player to hit .300, a feat that wouldn’t be repeated until
1970, when Alex Johnson hit .329 to win the batting league title.
By the mid-60’s, Pearson’s back problems flared up anew and
by the spring of ’66, the discs in his spine had deteriorated so badly that he
couldn’t walk. Pearson sensed the end
was near but fighter that he was he battled against the inevitable. “I hurt myself sliding in spring
training. My leg atrophied
two-and-a-half inches, and was in a wheel chair in and in traction on and off
for 36 days. I saw Opening Day that year
from a hospital bed. My discs were so
ruptured I literally could not move,” Pearson said.
Pearson’s last at bat he barely made it down to first, the
pain was so bad he literally collapsed at the base. A voice inside told him it
was done and it was time to move on
Pearson left an inevitable legacy on the diamond, but as it
turned out, he had even higher calling. He has since became an ordained
minister and has opened churches all over the world. He has also established
the Fathers Heart Ranch for neglected and abused kids in Desert Hot Springs.
© 2006 Rob Goldman -
Once They Were Angels
