From Castoff to Hero: Another Note on the Blues

In 1936, Alfred Lovell Dean, better known by his nickname Chubby, decided to take his baseball career into his own hands. He was all of 20 years old, a native of Mount Airy, North Carolina, and a valued pitcher on the Duke baseball team — until he quit, that is.

Maybe he left due to the lack of run support offered by his collegiate teammates — a 16-strikeout game in the 1935 season ended in a loss on his record. That same year, “renowned” baseball statistician J. Gaskill McDaniel rated Dean the most valuable player of the Coastal Plains League, which might have increased Dean’s perception that his talents were being wasted where he was. At any rate, in cold early days of the year, Dean packed up his things and headed north to find his fortune. His sights were aimed no lower than the New York Yankees.

But the New York Yankees didn’t see what J. Gaskill McDaniel saw. They saw a 20-year-old with a wild arm and limited hitting ability. These were the Yankees of Ruth and Gehrig, whose every season began with an expectation of a World Series title. So they turned Chubby Dean down. There was no place for him there.

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There was a place for him, though, a little to the southwest. Connie Mack was looking to bolster a last-place Philadelphia Athletics team that had been on a steady decline since their seven-game World Series loss to the Cardinals in 1931. He was willing to take a chance on almost anyone who showed talent. On February 10, Duke baseball coach John W. Coombs confirmed from his hospital bed in Palestine, North Carolina, that his erstwhile pitcher had signed with the A’s.

And though Dean didn’t distinguish himself in the field enough in Spring Training to earn a starting position on the team, it didn’t take him long to gain considerable notoriety as a pinch-hitter. On June 8, Dean got a hit in his fourth straight pinch-hitting appearance — a two-run, two-out double that tied the game in the bottom of the ninth. The A’s went on to win in the 10th.

Dean’s star was rapidly rising. Pitchers publicly tipped their hats to him: “He socks the first or second pitch and that’s the last we see of him until tomorrow,” marveled Ted Lyons of the White Sox. Connie Mack, meanwhile, had this to say of the player he had plucked from obscurity: “I don’t doubt for a minute that Dean is going to become one of the best hitters in baseball.”

In mid-July, on the heels of a 12-game losing streak, Mack made Dean the team’s full-time first baseman. But the magic was lost. Creating moments of glory as an occasional late-game pinch hitter was one thing; sustaining glory over hundreds of plate appearances, day in and day out, was another. Dean’s numbers gradually became pedestrian. The A’s finished 1936 in last place once again. (The Yankees won the World Series.)

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Still, Dean continued on. The A’s were still very bad, and he was still very young, a fair enough first baseman and hitter for a last-place team. He played in 104 games in 1937, most of them at first base, some as a pinch hitter. Mack, in the spirit of innovation that comes when a team is struggling to break out of the cellar, even put Dean back on the mound. He pitched a total of nine innings over one start and one relief appearance, allowing four runs, walking six, and striking out four. The Yankees’ assessment of his talent didn’t seem any less true. The A’s won one more game than they had the previous season — a total of 54.

And still, Dean continued on. He appeared in just 16 games as a hitter in 1938, though he managed six hits in his 21 plate appearances. He also pitched in six games, one of them a start; he walked 15 and struck out three in his 23 innings. He missed much of the rest of the season due to problems with his left middle finger. The A’s went back to 53 wins.

And still, Dean continued on. In 1939, he pitched in 54 games, mostly in relief and to little positive effect. He had his best season yet at the plate. The A’s finished with 55 wins. Dean was still only just 24.

***

It was Opening Day, 1940. The A’s — the lowly A’s, the cellar-bound A’s — were starting their season at home against the mighty Yankees, winners of four straight World Series titles. On the mound for the Yankees was Red Ruffing: then already a 15-year big-league veteran, and eventually a six-time All-Star, six-time World Champion, and Hall of Famer. On the mound for the A’s was Chubby Dean.

What the 20,000 people at Shibe Park saw that day must have been nothing short of electrifying. Dean and Ruffing went toe-to-toe. Inning after inning, they dueled: Ruffing doing what he did as one of the best pitchers in the game, and Dean somehow — somehow! — weaving his way through the lineup that had, just the year before, won 106 games and scored 967 runs. Each pitcher allowed six hits; each walked three; each allowed a single run. The ninth came and went. This game, somehow, was going into extras.

Dean allowed a single to lead off the top of the 10th. It was quickly erased on a double play off Ruffing’s bat — a sigh of relief. Another single put the go-ahead run on once again, this time with the heart of the Yankees order coming to the plate. When Dean walked Red Rolfe, putting the go-ahead run in scoring position, the hearts of the Philadelphia fans had to have dropped.

An infield popup from George Selkirk, and the inning was over. Deep breaths.

The A’s answered with a fly ball out to start the bottom of the inning. But Ruffing walked Frankie Hayes, opening the door. Al Rubeling doubled him to third. Pinch-hitter Dee Miles drew another walk. And coming up to the plate, with the bases loaded and the game on the line, was Chubby Dean.

Can you hear it? The excited roar — the sound off the bat — fly ball, left field, deep but playable — the catch made, Hayes tagging — will he make it? Will he — he’s home, sliding home safe, and they did it, somehow, they did it. No memories of years spent toiling, of the hundreds of losses piling up, injuries and slights, the wounded pride, the fans leaving the stadium with quiet resignation. For two hours, Chubby Dean and the Philadelphia Athletics were something extraordinary.

In Dean’s next start, at Yankee Stadium, he pitched a shutout.

***

This is where the story seems to be going, the way the newspapers wrote it: Dean, the overnight sensation, rejected by the Yankees, shows them what they’re missing. He was always born to be a pitcher, the headlines said; he was coming into his own, a future superstar, the next Lefty Grove.

That’s not how it went for Chubby Dean. In May, he won three of his five starts, with three complete games. In June, he won one of five, with the losses ugly: 8-0, 15-1, 12-9, his final start of the month lasting just two innings. In July, Mack moved him partially to the bullpen; he didn’t fare much better. And in August, it was even worse. April seemed like years ago.

So when Dean was reported missing on August 25th, no one really wondered why. Mack said it, and his teammates said it. He hadn’t been pitching up to his own expectations, what he believed he should be capable of. He was disappointed in himself. His disappointment led to a deep depression that had plagued him for weeks — until he disappeared.

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The day he was announced missing, Dean’s brother contacted Mack. Dean had called him from a Philly hotel room; he was safe; he would join the team soon. There was nothing wrong: “Chub said he was a little blue.”

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Within a week, he was back on the mound. He pitched out the remainder of the season — struggling, struggling, but still there.

***

Chubby Dean’s baseball career ended in 1943. He was only 27. But war was raging, and he joined the military. He was coming off his two best seasons as a pitcher with Cleveland. When he came back, he was released in spring training. He signed with a Class D team, but that didn’t last long. Dean had been in the big leagues for seven seasons; it was hard to go back after that.

Dean never ended up being the star that was prophesied at the plate or on the mound. He might have been, if not for the war; maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference. But he continued through the pain of failure, of extremely public high hopes dashed.

After Dean career ended, he joined local All-Star teams. He became the athletic director at Fort Dix. He trained to be an umpire and joined hot stove leagues, telling stories of his years in the big leagues. And when he died of a heart attack in 1970, there was no talk of how he struggled. He was Chubby Dean, the big-leaguer, the World War veteran, the pinch-hit magician, the young, wild pitcher who beat the unbeatable Yankees twice in a row. Who was rejected, and made good. Who was given a chance, and made more of it than anyone could have imagined.