How could one of my most miserable days in professional baseball turn out to be one of my most memorable days? Read on.
While playing at Omaha in the Western League in 1953,1 noticed on the schedule posted in our clubhouse that we were to play a scheduled day game in Lincoln the following Tuesday. It was unusual to play a day game except on a Sunday. I determined from the pitching rotation that the Lincoln game would be mine to start. Tuesday arrived. A typical midwestern summer day in the low 90s with lots of blistering sunshine.
The game started routinely. We scored a run in the first inning. It was nice to take the mound with a lead, even if it was only one run. I got the opposing batters out in order in the first inning.
We went out one, two, three in the second. Bottom of the second. Their number four man was up. He had a lot of power and I knew I had to be careful with him. He jumped on the very first pitch I threw like he knew what was coming. His bat cut through the strike zone with an explosive force. I got a glimpse of the ball as it left his bat. I immediately put myself in a defensive position, placing my glove where I anticipated the ball would come.
But the ball curved away from my waiting glove as though it was guided missile. It hit me in the lower right shin. I went down and couldn't get up for about five minutes. With assistance I made it to the clubhouse.
I lay on the rubbing table for awhile, showered and was dressing when an usher came to tell me the play-by-play announcer, Mr. Dean, wanted me to come to the press box. I explained that I would need permission from the trainer and asked the usher to summon him. The trainer inspected my leg from knee to ankle, rubbed some ointment where the ball hit, and pronounced me fit to climb the stairs. The usher opened the press box door, saying "Mr. Dean, this is Mr. Montgomery."
"Hello, Mr. Montgomery," the announcer replied. "I am Jerome Dean, better known as 'Dizzy.'"
"My pleasure to meet you, Diz," I replied.
"Then you know who I am," he countered.
"Doesn't everyone?" I asked.
Dizzy Dean, still working in baseball as an announcer, was broadcasting our game live. He asked if I would like to help him "do an inning."
"Sure," I replied. He pointed to an empty chair and told his assistant to put the phones on me and give me a microphone.
Dizzy Dean was one of the greatest pitchers and most beloved characters in the history of baseball. His career was cut short when he was pitching in an All Star game in Chicago. He was struck on the foot by a batted ball and never regained his previous ability. His vocabulary was not conducive to broadcasting but he overcame that as he did lots of other hardships. One of his more popular phrases was something like "Charlie rounded second base full force and 'slud' into third." One of his favorite rebuttals to a fan who had chided him about using the word "ain't" too much: "I'll tell you one thing. There are lots of people who ain't saying ain't who ain't eatin'." His brother Paul "Daffy" Dean was also a very good major league pitcher. I never saw Dizzy again after our meeting in Lincoln but he is ingrained in my memory.
Thanks to the generosity of Walter's brother Gary, here are some of the stories of Walter Montgomery when he was playing for the Omaha Cardinals.