Sport: The Boss

Everybody knew that Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis’ contract as Baseball Commissioner might not be renewed. He had done much for baseball, earned the deep respect of both players and owners; but he was hardheaded and crusty, had stepped on a lot of toes during his quarter-century of rule. He was also old and sick. Club owners and sportswriters alike speculated about his successor. Then suddenly, a fortnight ago, the Judge took a turn for the worse. A joint committee of the National and American Leagues rushed to Chicago, solemnly recommended him for another seven years in office. It was a kindly gesture. Last week, baseball’s 78-year-old czar died of a heart ailment.

Kingpin. Kenesaw Mountain Landis almost always wore a scowl, never pulled a punch. When he became the $42,500-a-year kingpin of organized baseball in 1920, the game reeked of the Black Sox scandal. He promptly decreed that the eight Chicago players involved, although acquitted by a civil court, be barred from the game for life. From that solid beginning, he ruled supreme.

As professional baseball’s one-man judge, jury and police force, Judge Landis had the power to cancel a World Series, banish an owner or manager, void any deal at any time. Truculent, profane, razor-sharp, he had only to look down his nose to make everybody hop. Most times they didn’t like it, but his kind of tyrannical power was good for the game, and baseballers knew it.

The last of the Commissioner’s major decrees splashed into print a year ago. Violently opposed to all forms of gambling, the silver-haired Judge banned W. D. Cox, owner of the Philadelphia Phillies, from baseball for life because Cox bet on his own team. Two years before, Judge Landis blackballed Bing Crosby’s bid for the Boston Braves because Bing owned a racing stable. In 1940, he waved his wand and made free agents of 92 players who had signed Detroit Tigers contracts (because Detroit used its farm clubs to “cover up” players). He always championed the little guy.

Time after time, club owners growled and groused, threatening rebellion. On the few occasions when they failed to turn meek in due course, the Commissioner calmly threatened to tear up his contract.

Although few knew it, Judge Landis had his own peculiar sense of humor. One favorite story: he and his wife, Winifred, were getting out of a cab to attend the Chicago opera; observing how slippery the sidewalk was, the Judge called to his wife, “Be careful, dear, or you’ll break your goddam neck.” But stubbornness was his best-known quality, and it never served him—or baseball—better than it did two years ago. When the service draft hit major-league rosters and some club owners wondered about giving up baseball for the duration, the Judge doggedly insisted that, unless some law prevented putting nine men on the field, the game would go on.

Three for One? Who would take his place? Jim Farley was a much-mentioned name. But the best bet was that no successor would be named for a year, that a three-man advisory council would take over temporarily: American League President William Harridge, National League President Ford Frick, Landis’ secretary, Leslie O’Connor. It might well take three men to fill the Judge’s shoes.