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Open day in the major leagues is a very special day. It always has been and always will be.
Fans get their first look at their ball club and care little whether reporters who cover spring training
had pegged it as a potential first division club or one that would have to struggle to stay out of the summer.
That's the way it was on April 16th, 1940 in Chicago's Comiskey Park.
The White Sox had finished fourth the year before. Their opening day opponents were the Cleveland Indians who had finished third.
While the fans, the coaches, every player had his reason for fitting something special that day, I too had a reason.
A particular one. For Cleveland had tagged me to be the pitcher.
The year before I had won 24 games against eight losses. My fastball was humming during spring training and my hopes for another good season were high.
The Sox went down 1-2-3 in the first inning and the fans gave me a courtesy cheer as I left the mound.
The crowd roared when the first Chicago batter was announced in the second inning. Remember, we were playing in Comiskey Park.
I walked the first batter on four pitches, but the cheers turned to moans as the next two batters grounded out.
Two outs now, my control was holding. But wait, the next batter walked, then another.
The bases were loaded. One minute I was all but finished with the inning and the next minute I was in trouble.
My blades of fastball passed Bob Kennedy and the trouble vanished, temporarily.
We Indians got a low run in the fourth inning. Beyond that, the zeros kept popping up on the scoreboard.
I sighed with nervous relief as one after another of the Sox batters prated back to their dugouts.
By the eighth inning, I had retired the last 15 batters in order. By now, everyone knew I was working on a no-hitter.
And they started picking up support from the Chicago fans who were naturally torn betwixt applauding a great performance
and going home without an opening day victory for their own club to whom they were always so loyal.
Fans yelled for me to mow them down, but still other fans and of course were yelling, Sox get a hit.
Then came the tell-tale inning, the ninth, and I'll tell you about that one in 60 seconds.
Shadows closed in as the first batter came to the plate in the ninth. I got him, two more to go.
I retired the second batter, and I could feel a chilly breeze whistling through the park as I retired him.
One more to go, and I couldn't have faced a tougher hitter, one of the most dangerous hitters in the American League, no less than Luke Apling.
I worked carefully, I had to. The count went to three and two, and Apling fouled off a half dozen pitches before walking.
That brought up the toughest hitter in the American League for me to pitch to in the Persian of Taft Wright.
The tying run on the first, the winning run at the plate. Our first pitch was a fastball, he fouled it off to the screen.
Then a low ball outside, one and one. Next pitch, a fastball at the knees, which he pulled between first and second.
Ray Mack, a great defensive second baseman, dashed to his left, back on the grass.
He dove, speared the ball, did a complete somersault through the first base, and nipped right by less than half a step.
The game was over. Indians won, Sox 0, and I had pitched the first no hitter on opening day.