Bill Veeck: The Happy Hustler

The ringmaster rose early, put on a yellow turtleneck shirt and made his one-legged way to Comiskey Park, which weathers gracefully on the South Side of Chicago, like the ringmaster himself. It was clear and warm and sunlit, a morning for the gods, but Bill Veeck's team, the White Sox, had not descended from Olympus. From Alan Bannister at shortstop to Richie Zisk in right field, the 1977 Sox are human, at best.

Attendance remains uncertain. Seventeen seasons without a pennant have eroded the old South Side enthusiasm. Compared to what baseball men hold in Los Angeles and New York, Veeck's bank accounts are light. Destructive—possibly planted—rumors are abroad that he may not have the cash to finish this season. Bill Veeck, who is 63, tugged at an ear, limped in behind his desk and, smiling a civil defiance, went to work.

Live Lobsters. He had been running ball clubs since the 1930s, building, inventing, promoting, hustling in unpretentious, wholly individualistic ways. He devised a moveable fence in Milwaukee, which helped home-team hitters, and he put fireworks in the Cleveland Scoreboard to salute home-team home runs. He sent a midget to bat in St. Louis, and offered live lobsters as gate prizes to his fans. Critics said he turned baseball into a circus. Replied Veeck: Was there anything wrong with the circus?

At length bad health forced him out of the game and then, when he recovered, it took a decade for him to buy his way back. Establishing a foothold in Chicago last year, he worked 15-hour stints day after day. Still, the Sox finished last. They also drew indifferently, and baseball's anticircus bloc began sounding elegies for Veeck. "I'd never suggested," Bill Veeck said, "that promotion by itself attracts fans. Winning draws fans. Winning plus promotion sets attendance records. Promoting with a last-place team, which is what we had to do last year, is only slightly more difficult than running a benefit for Mr. Nixon among people whose names appeared on the enemies list."

Veeck climbed out from behind his desk to consider the park. Corridors were bright with posters schoolchildren had painted. The Scoreboard in center, which now includes not only rockets but tapes of triumphal music, was primed.

The infield glowed a natural green (Veeck ripped out artificial grass last spring). The infield brusher, a hopelessly complex machine that parodies overmechanization, glowed in luminescent pastels. "The place looks good," Veeck announced. "It's easier to turn fans off than on. A clean park doesn't bring in fans, but a dirty park keeps them away."

Back in his office, he talked trade with two executives and checked out the new scorecard. On page 5, Veeck informs White Sox fans, "If your beer is flat, call Millie Johnson, if the washrooms aren't up to par, call David Schaffer. If you'd like a tryout, give C.V. Davis a call. We don't have a complaint department, but we do have people..."

Television journalists crowded into his office, mostly to ask about Phil Wrigley, who had died that morning. Veeck granted seven interviews on Wrigley, varying each a bit so that every reporter would have something of his own.