This week's entry is from the chapter "Iron Horse". It is about his performance of June 3, 1932. It was a day that he hit four home runs in one game against the Philadelphia A's, but still lost out on the spotlight.
The excerpt is picked up as Gehrig comes to the plate late in the game with four homers already under his belt.
When Gehrig came to bat in the eighth inning, he had a chance to hit his fifth homer. The small crowd of Philadelphians got on its feet to encourage him. He swung hard but a bit too high, grounding into an easy out.
The Yankees got six runs in the ninth, bringing their total to twenty, and finally putting the game out of reach. Thanks to the rally, Gehrig got one more turn to hit. Eddie Rommel was on the mound now. Gehrig saw a pitch he liked. He stepped into it, swung, and hit the ball on the thick part of his bat. It felt solid -- better than any ball he'd hit all day. At the sound of the crack the fans stood to watch the ball fly. It rose and rose. Gehrig took off running. The ball rocketed toward straightaway center field, into the deepest part of the park.
Al Simmons, who'd been switched from left field to center earlier in the game, started sprinting. He could see that the ball wasn't going to clear the fence, but he wasn't sure if he would get to it in time. If it landed and hit the wall, it might bounce around awhile. Gehrig would have at least a triple, maybe an inside-the-park home run. Simmons leapt. As he raised his glove and stretched his left arm high above his head, the ball disappeared into the soft leather of his mitt. Gehrig, approaching second base, must have had a good view of the catch. He lowered his head and jogged back to the dugout.
"You know," he said after the game, "I think that last one was the hardest ball I hit all day. Gosh, it felt good...I wonder what Mom and Pop up at New Rochelle thought of it. Too bad Mom didn't see it."
Even without Mom on hand and without the fifth home run, it was one of the greatest days he'd ever had on a baseball diamond. Yet, once again, he found his accomplishment partially obscured. Back in New York, John Mcgraw, fifty-nine years old, tired, and disappointed with the performance of his team, decided the time had come to announce his resignation. After thirty-one years, ten National League pennants, and one missed opportunity to sign Lou Gehrig, he'd seen enough. In newspapers the next day, the bigger headlines by far were for McGraw.
Gehrig must have been used to it by then. Somehow, the spotlight always seemed to miss him. He had all the talent in the world but little of the luck. Yet he never grumbled and never cried for attention. He seemed happy with his middling level of celebrity and the handful of endorsements that came his way. Life was zipping along neatly, like a double-play ball from Tinker to Evers to Chance, and he had few complaints.
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