On Thursday, September 21st, 1939, Washington, D.C.'s WJSV decided to record an entire day of broadcasting. They captured a major address by President Roosevelt, as well as Aunt Jenny's Real Life Stories, the Ask-It Basket, and 30 minutes of a performance by New Orleans Jazz great Louis Prima. And they preserved the last five innings of a baseball game at Washington's Griffith Stadium, whose former site is now occupied by Howard University Hospital, played between the first iteration of the Washington Senators (a dismal 63-83 at the time), who are now the Minnesota Twins, and the Cleveland Indians.
Heard today, the voices in this broadcast originate on the other side of an unbridgeable distance of time and culture. But they speak a language that present-day baseball fans can nevertheless recognize. I've encountered no other cultural artifact that makes the game's history seem more jarringly immediate or real. And I've found few others that so clearly rebut the nostalgia and idealization that dominates American society's engagement with the game's past.
Heard today, the voices in this broadcast originate on the other side of an unbridgeable distance of time and culture. But they speak a language that present-day baseball fans can nevertheless recognize.
This partly rests on the fact that this is a normal contest, similar to thousands of games that will be played over this forthcoming season—routine, insignificant, monotonous, and of only the most abstract historical import. I have been to dozens of games like this: lopsided late-season afternoons spent between teams with nothing to play for in ballparks barely a quarter full, where hopes of a no-hitter or a 10-RBI performance have long since evaporated. At a game like this, the otherwise unengaged mind starts to hunt for quantum-level dramas that could give some meaning to the whole: things like the resigned sense of duty that spurs a slumping and zoned-out manager to argue a late-inning call, or the September parade of anonymous minor league strivers, or just the slow encroachment of the early-autumn shadows.
To listen to this game is to be seized by the timelessness of that late-season ennui, an experience far more common to baseball fans than the high of a pennant or a World Series victory. There have been only a handful of truly classic games, but their status rests on tens of thousands of unremarkable ones. So it was on that September afternoon: the crowd is small and passive, the players are mostly—although not entirely—mediocrities or outright obscurities. The pitches hit the catcher's mitt with a melancholy thump that seems to mark the passage of empty time. Above all, play-by-play men Harry McTigue and Walter Johnson—as in pitching colossus Walter Johnson, clearly limping towards the end of his first and only season as the Sens lead radio broadcaster—just don't seem to care that much about what they're watching.*
But that doesn't mean this game is uninteresting. Within it exists the entirety of a short but remarkable major-league career—a drama that is forgettable within the awesome scope of baseball history, but more revealing of the game, its history, and even its meaning than a thousand, better-remembered moments.
The live broadcast begins in the middle of the fourth inning; for whatever reason, WJSV couldn't be bothered to air the entire game. Those who sat through Scattergood Baines in anticipation of the coming Sens matchup suddenly found themselves in the midst of a nail-biter. "This has developed into a pitchers' battle out there so far," says the grandfatherly sounding yet only 32-year-old McTigue, explaining that it's a scoreless game with only a single hit on either team's ledger.* "This is ladies day out here. Quite a few of the fairer sex out," adds Johnson, who, along with Cleveland's Lou Boudreau and Bob Feller, and Washington manager Bucky Harris, was one of four eventual Hall of Famers at the ballpark.
Johnson is not a great broadcaster. He has a strained, drawling delivery, and when something exciting happens his speech accelerates rather than amplifies, resembling the rushed and unintelligible patter of a cattle auctioneer. But he is the greatest player in Senators history, and Bill James's pick for greatest pitcher of all time, as of the 2000 edition of his Historical Baseball Abstract. Seven decades later, every word he utters still seems imbued with God-like authority.
Between the fourth and fifth inning, the Big Train began ruminating on the Sens starting pitcher, a 33-year-old rookie named Dick Bass, who, as of 2002, was the oldest starting pitcher since 1900 only to have appeared in a single major league game—this one. He was not a striver, but a toiler. According to a biographical essay by Bob Boynton, a baseball writer and researcher who unearthed the broadcast recording in 1989, "Bass pitched for eight different teams in fourteen minor league seasons and compiled a record distinguished primarily for durability."
"Young Bass has showed us a little of everything out there," says Johnson, clearly unaware of the righty's age.
According to Boynton, Bass once pitched an entire 21-inning game in college. He bounced from farm system to independent league team to Spring Training invite, to a series of odd jobs as a bowling alley manager and aluminum alloy purchasing agent. It is impossible to know how the tribulations of this game affected the rest of his eventually 82-year-long life—whether his eight innings on the mound at Griffith Stadium haunted or encouraged him, and whether, later in life, he felt that this one game had vindicated his lengthy and itinerant career. In any case, the pinnacle of his life in baseball—the momentary fulfillment of a dream that he had struggled towards for well over a decade—is preserved in what Boynton notes is one of only four baseball radio broadcasts from the 1930s for which a recording exists.