 This is Jimmy Powers coming your way with another Grantland Rice Story. Hi there. This is Jimmy Powers transcribed with another chapter from the Grantland Rice Story, The Tumult and the Shouting. And so without further ado, and with a sharp salute to the every young spirit of Granny Rice, I take up his narrative in first person. For countless years, down 100 fairways across 1,000 grid irons and baseball diamonds, yes, and down an eternity of racing strips, the age-old question has been, what makes a competitor? That's not an easy question to answer because there are so many angles that may logically be measured in trying to mold and measure the true figure of the top row competitor. Surely Jack Dempsey was all competitor whenever he climbed through those ropes, slipped on those red leather mitts, and put his crown on the line. Inside the ring, Jack was a bearfang killer. Outside of it, he was and remains a gentle person, a pushover for a hard luck story, and the handout that goes with it. Bobby Jones and Ben Hogan were two of the toughest competitors in their respective fields, golf. Man of war, a flaming four-legged demon, carried that look of eagles, a burning something that proclaimed him competitor, even while big red munched oats in his stall. These, however, were all individuals plying their profession almost alone. And I use the word alone with qualification because they stood alone against the field. Yes, they and more like them carried the marked competitor as plainly as a cowpony carries his brand. But what about a team of competitors, a baseball team of gotta beat you guys? I recall it was in St. Petersburg during spring training in 1949. Someone had just remarked that what made the Cardinals dangerous was their competitive spirit, a spirit that went straight back to 1926, when Rogers Hornsby led the supposedly outclassed red birds to a world championship over a mighty Yankee team. Hornsby, a mighty competitor, had more to do with that infusion of last ditch cardinal fight than any other single man. And in his wake followed players like Pepper Martin, Dizzy Dean, Frank Frisch, Lon Warnickie, Ducky Medwick, Terry Moore, Country Slaughter, and so many more. That's true, said Eddie Dyer, the Cardinal manager that year. They give all they have to give as a rule and keep hustling to the finish. That started an argument as to what makes a competitor. The discussion soon led up to the name of the late P. Hal Sims. Hal Sims interjected Al Sussie, the golf professional. Hal Sims has long been my ideal of a great competitor. In the case of Hal, I'd say he had an 85 swing and a 75 game. And do you know why? Well, first of all, he had complete confidence in himself. He refused to play any game badly. This included golf, tennis, bridge, pool, and billiards, even pistol and rifle shooting. Sussie went on to paint a pretty fine and revealing picture of the Hal Sims I long valued as a friend, a ponderous man I respected over many a bridge table when the stakes were for more than just a little. Sims had two valuable properties running for him at all times, concentration and determination, two big words in any game. Without them, skill looks ordinary. I've seen a satchel full of golfers, including professionals, watch Hal swing and then give him eight or 10 strokes. They were looking at an 85 hacker. They wound up against a 75 shooter. They overlooked the fact that from 50 yards away, Sims expected to get down with a chip and a putt, which was usually the case. Some time ago in a match with Sims, we came to the last green all square. Sims had a putt of at least 30 feet. Yesterday, I said, I hold a putt of this length for $1,500. I'll just imagine this one is for $1,500 instead of $5. He hold the putt. In another match during a thunderstorm, a stroke of lightning split the ground with a terrific crash. The bolt struck just as Hal was at the top of his swing. Most of us jumped about two feet. Hal pitched within three feet of the pin from 120 yards out. Didn't you hear that crack of lightning or at least see it, I asked? What lightning, replied Sims? The answer is that Hal Sims trained his mental attitude not only for playing games, but winning games. I can understand that Sims' lightning story, Bill Dickey cut in. When I was at bat, 70,000 people might have been roaring, but I never heard a sound. I was only concentrating on getting a hit. But back to those St. Louis Cardinals of yesterday, Stan Musial, about as consistent a competitor as ever was, was chinning with us that evening under those Florida palms. I've heard plenty about that old-time Hornsby Hustle and that Gas House Fight and Fire too, said Musial. Well, a lot of it must have rubbed off because it was mainly competitive spirit that kept us in the 1948 race. You see, we are not a young club. Kierowski, Paulette, Marion, Brakeen, and others came aboard around 1940. I landed in 1941. That's quite a while back. As a result, several of our men were either sick or hurt, and these injuries came at tough times. For example, we had one bad spell with Kierowski out, Marion suffering from a bad back, and several others laid up as we stepped into a set of three consecutive double headers, four of these particular games against Brooklyn. The point of all this, continued Musial, is that we literally fought our way to second place last season where another club, with our bad luck, might have eased up and finished fifth. And I think we're going to be the team to beat this year, largely on those ingredients you mentioned when we started this discussion about great competitors. I think we've got our share still. We've had them for over 20 years. Outside the Giants of 33 in the Cincinnati team of 40 with Walters and Derringer, no other club except the Cardinals has won a World Series for the National League since 39, and we've won plenty, how? Competitive spirit, concentration, determination, and hustle. Musial should know that year he hit 376 as St. Louis finished second, one full game behind Brooklyn. Well, it was several springs later, 1951 in fact, that I sat in another spring training dugout talking to Leo de Rocher. What do you think it takes to make a winning ball club, I asked. I'll tell you, sputtered the volatile Leo. First, good ball players naturally, but that isn't enough. Good pitching, sure. Good infield and outfield, granted. Good hitting, but that isn't enough. To win a pennant, continued De Rocher, you certainly must have very good pitching and a strong combination around second base, but above everything else, you must have a club in top physical condition willing to hustle, and you must have a club that believes it can win. That's what makes them dog eat dog competitors. You must also have a club that believes its manager knows his business, and if a manager is wrong too often, his team will soon find it out. It took De Rocher's 51 Giants a stretch-burning run reminiscent of Worlaway to make the peerless leader a peerless profit. Most experts kissed off the giant chances after they dropped 11 straight in April. The following month, they added centerfielder Willie Mays, a darling in Minneapolis, who proceeded to go 24 for Ole. Then things began to happen in a manner that made the 1951 baseball year one of the greatest in my book. Brooklyn's blistering pace tailed off somewhat in August. Gil Hodges started to find holes in his bats or a hitch in his swing. Andy Pathko added in mid-year as pennant insurance was hurt. The Giants began rumbling and by late August had put together a 16-game winning streak, but were still seven fat games behind Brooklyn on September the 1st and six games behind in mid-September. But De Rocher's men got an added boost of adrenaline when with 10 days to go, the Brooks went into a tailspin that saw them lose two out of three to the fills and three out of four to the Braves. To give the Dodgers credit, they rallied to win the final weekend pair from the Phillies, including a 14-inning struggle in the finale which Jackie Robinson saved with an acrobatic catch in the ninth and won with his overtime homer. And so for the second time in six years, Brooklyn finished the regular season in a tie for first place. Ralph Branca lost the first playoff game to Jim Hearn, but rookie Clem Labine squared it next day with a 10-to-nothing trouncing. The third and rubber game was a one-to-one tie between Sal Magley, 23-game winner for the Giants, and Newcombe when the Dodgers finally exploded for three runs in the eighth. But lo and behold, Newcombe couldn't hold that lead. Alvin Dark as fine a competitor as any team has seen, including the old McGraw Giants, singled. Don Mueller singled. Irvin fouled out. Then Whitey Lachman doubled to left for one run. At this point, Branca left the bullpen to face Thompson. Bobby took a strike high, then blasted the next pitch into the lower left field stands for the three winning runs and the pennant. Yes, Leo DeRosier, who worships the McGraw legend, had pulled one prediction out of the fire that must have astounded even John Jay perched on a cloud and taking it all in with Maddie and the rest of that heavenly horde gathered round, applauding a team of hard-bitten competitors. The final standings in 1951, New York, Brooklyn, St. Louis, Boston, Philadelphia, Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, and Chicago, and not even my old friend racehorse handicapper, John B. Camel, applied the weights more judiciously than Leo, who picked them in 1951. Well, fans, that closes Grantland Rice's best-selling autobiography, The Tumult and the Shouting, for today. So until next time, this is Jimmy Powers transcribed saying, so long.