Brubeck and Stan the Man

[Valin]

NRO:

Two great men defined what made mid-century America exceptional.

Edward R. Grant

 

Born two weeks and 2,000 miles apart in 1920, Stanislaw Franciszek Musial and David Warren Brubeck would, decades hence, define the golden eras of the two great inventions of American culture: baseball and jazz. That they did so with utterly unconventional styles, and without once calling New York City their professional homes, is remarkable enough. More important, their almost perfectly congruent lifespans — Stan the Man died six weeks after Brubeck’s passing in December 2012 — invite reflection on the humility, decency, and deep faith that lay at the heart of their greatness, and inspired the affection of millions who mourned their passing.

 

To say that Brubeck and Musial were the unlikeliest of men to reach their respective pinnacles would be a stretch. Brubeck’s mother, after all, was a concert pianist who traded that calling for life as the wife of a California cattle rancher. And Musial was such a dominant high-school player in Donora, Pa., that he was drafted by and played in the St. Louis Cardinals’ farm system before returning to Donora High School in 1939 to receive his diploma. But in late 1940, Musial, plagued by an arm injury that ended his budding career as a pitcher, had to be talked out of quitting baseball altogether by his minor-league manager. Across the continent, at the College of the Pacific in Stockton, Calif., Brubeck was told by a professor in his chosen major, veterinary science, to “stop wasting my time and yours” and enroll in the college conservatory. There, the more hidebound professors were scandalized that he could not read music, and approved his graduation in 1942 on the condition that he promise never to teach piano. Being drafted into the Army immediately upon graduation, Brubeck did not find the promise of immediate concern.

 

 

Musial’s circumstances in 1940 were perhaps the more precarious. He was demoted (albeit with a pay raise) to Class D Daytona Beach. Laboring there in obscurity was manager Dickie Kerr, a diminutive veteran of the “Black Sox”–scarred 1919 World Series, during which he won two games as one of the “clean” Sox. Kerr and his wife took an immediate liking to Musial and his high-school sweetheart, Lillian Labash, even standing as witnesses at their marriage on May 25 at St. Paul’s Roman Catholic Church. But ten weeks later, Musial suffered a devastating shoulder injury while attempting a somersault catch in left field. The injury ended his days as a pitcher (he had compiled an 18–5 record, with a 2.62 ERA that season, playing outfield only on his “rest” days), left him with a dead arm, and prompted thoughts of quitting baseball. The Kerrs took the Musials under their wing, housing them during the off-season to enable them to save expenses. Dickie Kerr drove Lil through multiple red lights to the hospital for the birth of the Musial’s first child, a son — promptly named Richard, in Kerr’s honor. And Kerr took the winter to persuade Musial of what he and Cardinals general manager Branch Rickey had seen all along — that despite his young talent as a pitcher, Musial was a born everyday player. By the end of the 1941 season, he was in the majors for good, hitting .426 with a single strikeout in a two-week stint that, had it begun sooner, might have propelled St. Louis past Brooklyn for the National League pennant. The next year, the Musial-led Cardinals won 106 games to Brooklyn’s 104 and then polished off the Yankees in five games to win the World Series.

 

(Snip)

 

[Valin]

To Hope! A Mass of Celebration