Over the years, I had heard in passing, in histories
of baseball, about Baseball Hall of Famer Harold Joseph Traynor. But I had no
idea, until I listened to “The Life of Pie” episode of the “This Week In
Baseball History” podcast hosted by Mike Bates and Bill Parker, just how good
Traynor was at his peak, and his surprising afterlife once his career as a premier
player began to wound down.
Most of all, I hadn’t realized that many considered
him baseball’s best third baseman until the arrival of Eddie Mathews in the
1950s.
Since then, with Brooks Robinson, George Brett, Mike
Schmidt, and Chipper Jones now also in the mix, Traynor’s preeminence at “the
hot corner” has fallen several notches further. Baseball historian and stat
maven Bill James dropped him down to #15. The blog “The Hall of Miller and Eric”
even gave an entire post over to Traynor in a post provocatively titled, “How the Hall Failed – Pie Traynor.”
I’m having none of the new revisionism. I could remind
you that Traynor was the first third baseman elected to Cooperstown by writers
rather than the Veterans Committee when he was inducted in 1946.
I could tell you that after being tried at shortstop and
second base, he had adjusted so well to third that he was considered perhaps the
best defensively at the position for the rest of the 1920s. (One quote I love,
from longtime Yankees GM Ed Barrow: “He looked like a real ballplayer, even
though he seemed to be all arms and legs and [had] feet like violin cases. He also had big hands and scooped up every
ball hit at him.”)
But I would also tell you that Traynor (who, for the
curious, got his nickname as a boy, when he consistently requested a slice of
pie after a game) was a money player, one of the essential cogs on a Pirate
team that won the World Series in 1925 and the National League pennant in 1927.
Even after back, shoulder, and eye problems eroded his
defensive skills in the 1930s, Traynor retained his offensive consistency, finishing
his career with a .320 batting average. Remarkably, he only struck out 278
times in his entire career—an average of only 23 strikeouts for a 162-game average.
His offensive production bought Traynor time as the
Pirates pondered where to put him in the infield. The year 1923 was when he erupted
as a force at the plate.
A tip from righthanded batting wizard Rogers Hornsby—use
a heavier bat—led Traynor away from being a strict pull hitter into one who
could send line drives into right field and right center, too. That year, he
cracked 208 hits, leading the league with 19 triples, with a career-high 12
HRs, 101 RBIs and a .338 batting average.
In hitting for the cycle against the Phillies (the
only time that comparatively rare offensive feat was recorded in the majors in
1923), Traynor had 6 RBIs—the most for a game that golden season. It was one of
five 4-hit games he’d have that year, and came amid a blistering 24-game
hitting streak.
As great a player as he was, Traynor was unsuccessful
when he took over as the Pirates’ manager in 1934. Just as his wife predicted,
his tendency to worry as a player was magnified when he had to mind an entire
squad, and he was simply too nice a guy to discipline players when they needed
it.
For several years in the late Thirties and early
Forties, Traynor stayed within the Pirate organization as a scout. Then, for two
decades, he served as a radio sportscaster with his own show. Most surprising,
after that gig ended in 1966, he served several years as the voice of Studio
Wrestling.
As a co-owner for two years of a sporting-goods store
with Honus Wagner and a friend to younger stars Roberto Clemente, Willie
Stargell and Richie Hebner, Traynor served as living link across the
generations for the Pirates. The sadness at his passing in 1972 was massive and
genuine. A couple of weeks later, at their home opener, the club he had served
so faithfully posthumously retired his uniform number 20.
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