Book review: ‘Bill Veeck: Baseball’s Greatest Maverick,’ by Paul Dickson

Bill Veeck
Baseball's Greatest Maverick
By Paul Dickson
Walker & Company. 448 pp. $28

Why did it take so long for the most colorful and perhaps most influential figure in baseball history to get a definitive biography? Probably because it took more than 20 years after Bill Veeck's death (in 1986) to put all the facets of his amazing life together. With Bill Veeck: Baseball's Greatest Maverick, Paul Dickson, author of several superb baseball books, has done more than write the best baseball biography so far this decade. He's written an important piece of baseball history.

Veeck did so much to change baseball and even the country that it's amazing Dickson has captured so many of his accomplishments in one volume. Born in 1914 in Chicago, Veeck learned baseball from his father, William Sr., who became president of the Chicago Cubs and was so popular that when he was dying of leukemia, he received two cases of French champagne "compliments of Al Capone."

Bill Jr. sold popcorn at Wrigley Field and, in one of those apocryphal stories about him that appear to be true, suggested planting ivy on the brick outfield walls. As an executive with the minor league Milwaukee Brewers, he developed some of the promotional ideas — free lunches, vaudeville acts, swing bands — that he would perfect in the major leagues. (His most egregious act with Milwaukee was constructing a chicken-wire fence that he moved in for his team's batters and back for opponents; the league, he said, "Declared it illegal, immoral, and I stopped."

During World War II, recalled his sergeant, "Veeck was a great marine, gung ho all the way." He lost his right leg to an artillery shell. Veeck simply accepted a wooden leg, cutting holes in it to serve as an ashtray, and went on to own the Cleveland Indians, St. Louis Browns, and Chicago White Sox.

Veeck pricked the stuffed shirts of baseball's establishment with stunts that the fans loved. He hired Max Patkin, "the Clown Prince of Baseball," as a coach. He brought in Dizzy Dean, whose homespun English mangled the king's, as an announcer for the Browns. And, of course, in 1951 he sent Eddie Gaedel, a dwarf, to bat in a major league game. His most popular gimmick may have been to turn over managing the team for one game to more than 1,000 fans who had entered an essay contest on being manager for a day. The fans were issued placards so they could vote on game decisions. The Browns won, 3-2.

"Veeck," writes Dickson, "loved the game of baseball, both on the field and outside the lines. He would do anything to accomplish what he believed would make it better, no matter how outrageous. Increasing the fans' happiness and having fun were his sacraments."

He did far more than simply make Larry Doby the first black player in the American League. He gave the near-mythical Negro League star Satchel Paige, who was at least 41, his chance to pitch in the major leagues. Veeck cared as much about his players as about the fans; in 1976, he reactivated Minnie Minoso, one of the heroes of the 1950s "Go Go" White Sox, so he could qualify for a better pension. (Minoso, age 50, got one hit in eight at-bats.)

And he talked Harry Caray into singing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" during the seventh-inning stretch, thus creating an instant baseball tradition.

Perhaps Veeck's most courageous action was standing with Curt Flood in 1970 when the outfielder sued baseball for the right to free agency. No other active player dared cross the owners to testify for Flood. Veeck, who was out of baseball at the time, "suspected — and was reminded by others — that his testimony in support of Flood might be another nail in the coffin regarding his chances of getting back into baseball," Dickson writes. But Veeck fought his way back anyway for one more stint as owner of the White Sox. His long run in baseball ended when he sold the team early in 1981. He died on Jan. 2, 1986, still dreaming of owning another baseball team.

Bill Veeck is a book to match the man — hearty, irreverent, and outrageously entertaining.

Allen Barra writes about sports for the Wall Street Journal and the Daily Beast.