Dick Bartell: “My Worst Year in Baseball”

Dick Bartell didn’t hold back, on or off the diamond.

Dick “Rowdy Richard” Bartell was the premier National League shortstop of the 1930s.

A holler guy, he was the sparkplug for three pennant winners: the 1936-1937 New York Giants and the 1940 Detroit Tigers. He was the starting shortstop in the first All-Star Game in 1933.

His .284 lifetime B.A. ranks with other shortstops in the Hall of Fame.

We interviewed Dick many times at his home in Alameda, California, while collaborating on his biography, “Rowdy Richard,” published in 1987. In one session he talked about his least favorite year. – Norman L. Macht

Why 1939 was Dick Bartell’s worst year in baseball

In 1939 I was traded to the Cubs. It didn’t take me long to get into trouble with my mouth.

In those days a common way to ride an overweight player was to yell at him, “What time does the balloon go up?” We trained at Catalina Island off the coast of California.

The clubhouse was down by the shore, and from there we walked up a path to the ballpark. There was a wire fence with a little gate to go through.

One day I was walking up the path with Dizzy Dean and Woody English. A large, heavyset man was ahead of us.

He had to turn sideways to get through the little gate. I didn’t know who he was. I yelled out, “Hey, what time does the balloon go up?”

Diz said, “You know who that is?”

I said, “No.”

“That’s Ed Burns, the baseball writer for the Chicago Tribune.”

Burns turned and pointed a finger at me. “You’ll hear from me all summer.” And I did.

Dick Bartell (left) with Barney McCosky and Birdie Tebbetts. Picture credits: Baseball in Wartime

The season started and I was getting charged with errors where none had occurred, by the official scorer – Ed Burns. And infield hits I beat out were being charged as errors to the other team.

Headlines in the Trib might read: “Cubs Win – Bartell Makes Error”. When a ball was hit to me, the whole press box would sing out, “Error, Bartell.”

I heard this: “If you want a souvenir at Wrigley Field, sit behind first base and Bartell will throw you one.”

That kind of stuff.

That winter the Chicago Baseball Writers had their annual dinner and show. Early in the proceedings a man walked out on stage holding a tiny baby bootie and announced, “A boot for Bartell.”

Later he came out with a bigger one: “Another boot for Bartell.” This went on all night, the little shoe getting bigger each time.

Despite it all, I didn’t lead the league in errors. But I didn’t lead in anything else, either. It was my worst year in baseball.