Aaron Judge could become the first player to hit .400 in a season since Boston legend and American hero Ted Williams, a.k.a. “The Splendid Splinter,” accomplished it in 1941 with a .406 average at the tender age of 23.
Aaron Judge, perhaps the best player in Major League Baseball today, is flirting with a level of hitting that has not been achieved in over 80 years —hitting .400 for the season. Yes, some players like future Hall of Fame players, George Brett (1980. 390) and Tony Gwynn (1994 .394) approached it but failed in their attempts, leaving Judge as the latest player to try to achieve the lofty heights last accomplished 83 years ago.
Coming into the 1941 season, Williams, with two years of Major League experience under his belt, had already collected 378 hits for a robust .335 average. A spring training injury relegated him to pinch hit for the first few games, but once inserted into the lineup, Williams went on a rampage and, by June 6, 1941—three years before that same month and day became associated with D-Day—Williams would achieve an unbelievable .436 average. Then, he would slump over the final three-plus months, hitting “only” .392.
Ted Williams. Public domain.
Interestingly, Williams slammed the New York Yankees, which had the best team in the majors, and eventually became World Series champions, spanking them at a .471 clip. Indeed, he regularly drilled the Yankee hurlers, hitting .345 for his career against Boston’s chief rival. (Ken Matinale helpfull provides Williams’ statistical breakdown for his 1941 season.)
Ironically, Williams would have NOT batted .400 if not for New York’s staff, because the rest of the American League held the San Diego native to a .394 average.
To Williams’ credit, he was sitting at .3995, which rounded up to .400, going into the final two games of the 1941 season. It was suggested that he sit to protect his “.400.” Typically, Williams refused and, instead, took up the challenge and battle for it. He had six hits in eight at-bats to finish the season with that .406 average.
It was an easy call for Williams, a man who never blinked when faced with a decision that tested his resolve and courage. Twice, his baseball career was interrupted when he was tested on a more important battlefield: World War II and the Korean War. In the latter, this Marine had to crash-land his jet after being hit by an anti-aircraft missile, narrowly escaping death.
Williams was one of the most controversial figures in baseball history, some of which was his doing but most of which resulted from others being envious, jealous, and frustrated by his talent. Fans both loved and hated him because of some of his behaviors toward them on the field, and he was their target for their frustration at losing the pennant repeated.
The Boston media, especially, loathed him, criticizing almost everything about him. He derisively labeled the Boston press “The Knights of the Keyboard.” It seemed that they ignored everything he did that was great for the tea, while unjustly and unfairly magnifying his “failures.” Thus, they scorned, ridiculed, and despised Williams despite his being statistically “clutch.” “In high leverage situations, for instance, he batted .329/.467/.607 — not far off his career marks.”
The general media also found Williams deplorable and let him know it:
The Boston press, which featured nine newspapers at the time, was hostile to him for most of his career. One such instance came at the beginning of the 1954 season when Williams, 35 and just back from Korea, was contemplating retirement. Although he had returned from the war zone with a bang the previous summer, batting .407/.509/.901 with 13 homers and 34 RBIs in 37 games, the writers were hardly begging him to stay.
In retrospect, Williams was deemed racist because he hid his Mexican-American roots and, at the very least, tone deaf because he did not protest the segregation embedded into the game when he started playing in 1939. Of course, by 1947, the color line, albeit in small steps, would be broken. Williams’ own club, located in a town deemed to be one of the most liberal, Democrat, and left-leaning in America, would be the last American League team—indeed, the last Major League team—to have a black man, Elijah “Pumpsie” Green in the dugout.
That was 1959.
Williams would retire in 1960.
Yet, Williams’ Hall of Fame speech, given in the middle of the fight over black Civil Rights, was not about his glory and success. Instead, it was a statement about the rewards of hard work and dedication. It was also a tribute to the players of the Negro League, overlooked and underappreciated by America. He championed their inclusion in all things about America’s Pastime:
Advocating for recognition of Negro League players, barred from MLB during the era of segregation, he began to atone for his past and come to terms with the family who shaped him, Ben Bradlee, Jr. tells Axios.
Williams added, “I hope that someday Satchel Paige and Josh Gibson in some way can be added as a symbol of the great Negro players who are not here only because they were not given a chance…”
Regardless of where Williams started his career, by the end, there was no better way to be humble and put attention on those who fought for their chance to play.
Despite the media’s resolute efforts to deride and ignore Williams and his greatness, charisma, and larger-than-life presence, they couldn’t do it. They didn’t destroy him. The attempted media assassination failed because Williams knew who he was. “The Kid” was confident but not braggadocious.
Williams was a simple man with simple pleasures, someone secure in his skin who refused to be humbled or humiliated by a herd of sanctimonious, ignorant, and self-righteous journalists. He loved the game because it saved him from squalor and anonymity and elevated him to a man of dignity, integrity, self-respect, and self-worth.
As Tyler Maher said,
As a hitter, Williams was pretty much flawless. The press made up weaknesses so they’d have something to write about, and they got away with it because great sites like Baseball-Reference didn’t exist yet.
Williams could probably have found a cure to cancer, but the Boston media would have ripped him for not finding it sooner.
Sound familiar?
In 1955, there were 77,263,127 male American human beings. And every one of them in his heart of hearts would have given two arms, a leg and his collection of Davy Crockett iron-ons to be Teddy Ballgame.
How many kids would have done the same for the “Knights of the Keyboard” past and present?
Jesus Christ is King
