Richie Ashburn: Could This Hall of Fame Singles-Hitter Make The Team Today?

Richie Ashburn’s 15-year career (1948-1962) included 12 with the Phillies, two with the Cubs and a final year with the Mets.

Rookie of the Year in 1948, the speedy left-hand batter perfected the art of bunting, averaged 185 hits a year as the Phillies leadoff man, and was only the second major leaguer (after Rogers Hornsby) to lead the league in both hits and walks since 1900.

He led in hits three times, walks four times and triples twice. Early in his career the Phillies urged him to avoid swinging up on the ball and hit everything on the ground.

As a result, 82 percent of his 2,574 hits were singles. After his playing days, he was part of the Phillies’ broadcasting team for 37 years.

We met at the otherwise empty press box at Veterans Stadium on November 3, 1991. - Norman L. Macht

Richie Ashburn: My Early Life

I was born in 1927 in Tilden, Nebraska, population 1,000. My given name was Don Richard but my birth certificate got it wrong; it just says Rich. I’ve been Rich or Richie ever since. 

It was all farming and ranching around there. My grandfather was a blacksmith. I used to spend a lot of time with him, helping shoe horses, and grinding plow blades.

Then they went into the farm machinery business when tractors replaced horses. Later my dad went into the monuments business. 

My dad was on the semi-pro town team. Every Saturday and Sunday we watched him play. I became a left-hand batter because my dad put the bat on my left shoulder when he threw to me.

He said that would put me a step or two closer to first base. 

We were a captive audience for the Cubs; that was the only broadcast we could get. Stan Hack was my favorite player.

When I was 17 I went to Chicago for a tryout. I was taking batting practice at Wrigley Field and I remember Hack ran me out of the batting cage: “Hey bush, let the big leaguers in there.”

Later Hack was managing the Cubs and I said to him one day, “I guess you don’t remember kicking this young kid out of the batting cage.” He didn’t 

I was a fast runner. In high school, I ran sprints but we had no track coach.

When I got to Philadelphia, the Temple University track coach, Bill Ogden, said to me, “Boy, you can really fly, but you don’t know how to run. You run like you’re carrying a baby in your arms.”

He showed me the technique of using your arms like pistons and probably put a foot or two on my speed to first base.

I was a catcher as a kid and played American Legion ball.  At one time I was scouted by 12 of the then-16 major league clubs.

My Start in Professional Baseball

My first contract was with Cy Slapnicka of the Cleveland Indians. He offered me a minor league contract with a percentage of my sale to a major league club. But that was illegal.

I’m not even sure I was out of high school, which was also illegal. I’m 17 and I got a call from Commissioner Landis.

I took the train to Chicago and met with him and minor league president William Bramham.

Landis was an awesome looking character with that flowing white hair. He looked like God to me.

I told them everything I knew. I remember Landis asking me as I left his office, “Do you think you can become a major league player?”

I said, “I hope so.” He said, “Good luck,” and that was it. I was released from that contract.

Signing for the Phillies

I then signed with the Phillies for a $3,500 bonus. The reason we picked the Phillies was that they had a terrible team. We figured if I had what it took to get there I’d get there earlier with them.

I think I could have made the Phillies in six different positions, because they really didn’t have that much at all. It turned out that way, because I only spent two years in the minor leagues. 

In 1945 I went to Utica in the Eastern League as a catcher. The manager was Eddie Sawyer and that was a good break. He was the best manager I ever had. He let us play.

We made mistakes and he’d talk to us. Catchers back up plays at first base a lot. I used to beat the runners down to first, catcher’s gear and all. I could fly.

One day a guy hit a ball wide of the first baseman and he went to get it but the second baseman caught it. The pitcher didn’t cover first so I made the putout.

I’ve never seen another 4-2 play at first base. Sawyer said, “Son, if you can make that play, we’re going to move you to the outfield.” I started in left field because it’s an easier position, then moved to center.

Drafted into the Army

After the ’45 season, I was drafted into the army the day the Japanese surrendered and was in only 14 months.

I was stationed in Alaska during the summer and winter and played some baseball and basketball.

On July 4 we played a traditional midnight game without lights.

I went to North Fork College on a basketball scholarship and got an education degree.

In the off-season, I did some substitute teaching and coaching junior high basketball. If I hadn’t played ball, I probably would have gone into teaching, like my brother and twin sister did.

When I came back in ’47 Sawyer was still at Utica. We’d won the pennant in ’45 and we won again in ’47 with a lot of the future Whiz Kids.

In my rookie year with the Phillies in ’48, I slid headfirst into second base and jammed my finger and broke it. I always liked the headfirst slide because I could pick my spot better to slide.

You’re a lot tougher to tag ‘cause you’re using your arm to pick a spot and the fielder can’t just swipe.

Richie Ashburn looking unimpressed about something

He’s got to put a tag on you somewhere and you can use your arm to evade him and I always felt on close plays I got the benefit of the doubt from the umpire. But I never slid headfirst into first base.

That slows you down. Or home plate; there’s too much there to hit.

Until now I had never seen a left-handed pitcher with a good breaking ball. The guy who really helped me was Johnny Hopp, from Hastings, Nebraska.

He was a veteran with Pittsburgh and they had a sidearm lefty who was tough.

I said to Johnny, “This guy is really giving me a lot of problems.” Hopp said, “Two things you gotta do. Don’t bail out.

Don’t give him an inch of ground. Stay there, even if he hits you between the eyes. And concentrate on picking up the ball as quickly as you can out of his hand.”

It takes some courage to do what I’m talking about. I made up my mind to do that and when I saw how much easier it was, that’s all I needed to know. It was that simple. And it worked. 

One thing that surprised me was that there were players who didn’t want to play every game.

There are still some who want to play three or four a week instead of six or seven. We kids wanted to play every day.

One old-timer I remember was Schoolboy Rowe, the pitcher. I loved to sit and listen to stories he told of the old days.

One thing I remember about this big, strong, strapping guy: on the days he pitched he would throw up after every inning. Go into the walkway to the clubhouse gagging.

There was a nervousness he had. But he was a great competitor.

That first year we lived a few blocks from Shibe Park in a boarding house.

Then my parents came to Philadelphia and rented a house for a few months during the season and I and some of the others stayed there.

Eddie Sawyer took over as the Phillies’ manager in mid-1948. He was very patient, but he could be firm.

At first, Robin Roberts didn’t like him because Eddie never said much to the players.

I asked him one time, “Eddie, how come you never say anything to us?” He said, “I don’t have to. You guys like to play and I put you out there to play.” Later Robin admitted to me that he thought Sawyer was a great manager.

Shibe Park was a great park to play in. Good vision, good range in the outfield. Grounds were always perfect.

Getting on Base

I only hit 29 home runs, but I hit two in a game three different times. I was a singles hitter and when I hit one out of the park it kind of worried me that I was doing something wrong.

My whole game was getting on base. 

In terms of emotion, that last game in Brooklyn in 1950 was a highlight. We had a one-game lead and if we lost it would force a playoff. We were beat up.

We’d lost Curt Simmons to the army in August, lost Bob Miller and Bubba Church. Andy Seminick broke a bone in his ankle; they would shoot him up with Novacain and he played.

The Dodgers were in much better shape than we were.

We were tied in the last of the ninth. Brooklyn had Cal Abrams on second and Reese on first with nobody out. Duke Snider hit a hard-line drive one-hopper base hit right at me.

The third base coach waved Abrams around third. I had a decent arm and worked hard at getting rid of the ball quickly and throwing accurately. I made a perfect throw and Abrams didn’t have a chance.

The catcher, Stan Lopata, had so much time he caught my throw and went up the line to meet Abrams. I’ve made a lot better plays in the outfield, but this was at a crucial time.

When you get thrown out at home plate with nobody out and Jackie Robinson coming up, that’s a mistake.  Snider went to second on the play so it’s still second and third with one out.

They walked Robinson, then got Furillo and Hodges. [Dick Sisler hit a home run in the tenth to win it for the Phillies.]

One day Cal Abrams, a card show promoter, said to me, “I never did get a chance to thank you for what you did for me.”

I said, “What do you mean?” He said, “People have never forgotten that play, and they wonder how I could have gotten thrown out at home plate.”

The Sunday night before that game, four of us were on the Ed Sullivan TV show. Granny Hamner, Puddin Head Jones, Dick Sisler and me. We were a pretty good quartet. I was the tenor.

We’d sing together a lot in the shower, around the clubhouse. We had a song, The Fightin’ Phillies, that a fan had written for us.

We’re ready to go on and suddenly some guy jumps up out of the audience onto the stage and starts talking about some charity.

Before they could get him out of there, he took up our time and we never got to sing on TV. I saw a film clip of that show in 1976 and what surprised me was how young we all looked.

The 1950 World Series

Being in the 1950 World Series was a career highlight even though we lost in four games. It was a major disappointment that we didn’t hit, but the Yankees didn’t either.

I thought we would get there again because most of us were very young.

In the 1950s Brooklyn and New York dominated the National League.  They had added those great black players and the Phillies had none.

That was probably the one big reason we didn’t win more in that decade. We didn’t need much more to contend.

Roy Campanella told me that in ’46 or ’47 he came to a tryout at Shibe Park and they wouldn’t let him in. He wanted to play with the Phillies. Project that: Campy catching for us. But the Carpenters didn’t want it. 

The Fifties with the coming of the black players and only eight teams in the league was the strongest, best baseball decade I’ve ever seen, and I’ve now seen quite a few decades.

As a rule pitchers didn’t throw at me. They didn’t want to hit me and put me on base. I was hit some because I crowded the plate.

One day I was fouling off a lot of pitches from Russ Meyer and he was getting frustrated and finally he yelled, “Okay you little so-and-so, if you want to get on base, here” and he hit me in the back.

Jackie Robinson was the best base runner I ever saw. We didn’t steal as many bases as they do today.

Stealing Bases

I led the league one year with 32. But every base we stole was an important one. Were we wrong? I was on so often, I could have stolen 100 bases.

That’s one thing that has definitely changed.  In those days, if we had a 3-1 lead and I stole a base, somewhere down the line I was going to pay for it. The attitude was that you were showing them up.

A pitcher was going to stick one in my neck, or a shortstop or second baseman would put a tag between my eyes or they’d spike me. You paid for it then, and you knew you’d pay for it.

Home run hitters don’t stop trying to hit home runs when they get a three-run lead. And you might need five or six runs to win the game. But managers didn’t want you running and showing them up.

I don’t think that’s right, but that’s the way it was.

Maury Wills and Lou Brock told me when they started stealing bases they’d get drilled with a pitch or spiked for a while.

Then when the press made such a deal about their stolen base totals and breaking records, the thinking became, “Maybe this isn’t such a bad thing.”

“Hit your singles further”

The Carpenters paid well and we were like a family, but in 1958, when I led the league in hitting and we didn’t have much of a ball club, John Quinn was the general manager.

The first contract he sent to me called for a $2,500 cut.

I was not only disappointed and hurt, I was mad. I had a figure I was going to sign for, but now I decided I’m going to get more. I called him. “Why did you do that?”  He said, “You don’t hit your singles far enough.”

I’d never heard that one in my life. I said, “Well, if I hit them any further they’d be outs.”

Outfielders played me shallow and if I hit a single it was easier for them to throw out a runner ahead of me. Quinn was tough. He wouldn’t be able to operate in today’s baseball.

I finished up with the Mets in 1962. Casey Stengel was the manager. They said he was slipping, but his memory of long ago was still there.

I remember one day before a game a guy looked in the dugout and said, “Casey, do you remember me?” Casey looked at him and he remembered the guy’s name, the game way back in Kansas City they had been in maybe 45 years earlier.

The Mets were losing 120 games. To the older players, if you’re not on a contender, you’re flogging a dead horse.

If I had been with a contender it might have been different. At 35, I had a shot at 3,000 hits and sometimes regret not trying for it.

George Weiss offered me a $10,000 raise, but I wanted to quit baseball before it quit me.

Life after baseball

In November the Phillies offered me a broadcasting job. I said no. They said to think about it.

I was very active in Republican politics in Nebraska.  They asked me to be a candidate for congress. Our congressman was a good friend of mine and the party wanted to defeat him.

They asked me to run against him in the primary. But I didn’t want any part of that. He lost the election.

So my wife and I talked about the broadcasting job and I said why not give it a shot. Twenty-nine years later here I am, still giving it a shot.

How baseball has changed

I’ve seen two things disappear in baseball: the ability to slide and to bunt.

We used to work hard on perfecting slides in spring training. We had sliding pits and you had to practice different kinds of slides. Sliding pits are gone. Nobody teaches it.

Bunting is a lost art. Nobody works on it. The best bunter I ever saw was me. Thirty-five of my 225 hits one year were bunts, and most of them push bunts toward third.

Dragging a bunt takes it toward two players.  Pushing it toward third was at one guy.

Of all the outfielders I saw, Richie Allen could have had a Hall of Fame career. I don’t know where it fell apart for him.

When he came to the major leagues you could not have found a better kid. All he wanted to do was play ball. No BS about him. He was all baseball.

I think the incident that probably started him downhill here was when he and Frank Thomas had a fight right on the field in 1965.

As a result of that fight, the Phillies sold Thomas, or at least they used that as the reason. It was the time they were having race riots in North Philadelphia.

People were really uptight about this stuff. Now you get a black guy and a white guy in a fight and they get rid of the white guy.

Thomas was popular here, didn’t play here long, but fans liked him. Then they put a gag on Allen, wouldn’t let him talk to the press under duress – I think a $500 fine or something.

Thomas was free to be on every radio and TV show in the city and said he tried to apologize to Allen, but Allen wouldn’t accept it, which is true.

I think that was the start of it. Allen wasn’t blameless. He started isolating himself in the clubhouse.

The two outfielders I would want playing alongside me – defense only --would be Mays and Clemente. Clemente had a better, more accurate arm and quicker release, getting to the ball, getting rid of it, and throwing right on the money.

Mays and I played shallow. I always hated to see balls drop in front of me, and I could go back for one. Mays was the same way.

He really played in shallow. I hit one over his head one time in San Francisco, but he took a lot of hits from me.

I played in the shadow of great center fielders: Duke Snider, Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays. That might have affected my consideration for the Hall of Fame.

In fact, one voter told me that was the reason he didn’t vote for me. They hit home runs and I didn’t. My job as a leadoff man was getting on base and I did that as good as anybody I’ve ever seen. 

[Ashburn was elected by the Veterans Committee in 1995.]