Terrier Town: Summer of ’49

Twinkletoes

Gus Murray 31 Twinkletoes Gus was always running around, going a mile a minute, like a fart in a windstorm. U NLIKELY AS IT SOUNDS, A GUY NAMED TWINKLETOES HELPED turn baseball around in Galt. Former New York Yankee outfielder George “Twinkletoes” Selkirk came to town in the fall of ‘48 and changed the face of Galt baseball forever. And the man who brought in Twinkletoes was none other than Gus Murray. People in Galt could never quite get a handle on Murray. In later years Perkins would come to the conclusion that the term which best described Murray was helter-skelter, because the harried Galt boss was always in a state of disorderly haste. In a characteristic frenzy he had brought together an all-star team, just like he said he would, and yet there were plenty of critics around town; people who wanted to see him fall flat on his face. There was something about him, some quality in his character, which antagonized certain people. Maybe it was the way he bragged about his virtues of staying away from drink and profanity. Or maybe it was the way he dropped names. Or the way he exaggerated, as all good promoters do with impunity. Milt Dunnell, a St. Mary’s native then writing for the Toronto Star, once wrote a column about the beleaguered Galt president that showed just how little respect some of the Terriers had for their boss. I remember the story because Dunnell wrote it almost exactly as it had happened, and that had somehow surprised me because I didn’t think they wrote the truth in newspapers. Gus was sitting at his lunch counter reading a newspaper one day when Connie Creedon strode stealthily in and lit the paper on fire. For a big man, Creedon moved quietly. Gus sat there, his legs crossed, the paper to his face. When the flames shot up he jumped off the stool and started waving the paper wildly, thereby unwittingly fanning the flames. Finally he threw it to the ground and stomped on it. I saw the whole thing from the back room with Wes Lillie. Creedon, of course, was long gone. The incident was indicative of what Murray had to contend with that summer. Many of his players held him in contempt. But it was also true that many of his own players underestimated him. He was not an imposing man; indeed, he was far from it. He was below average in height, trim, with a classical nervousness that people never forgot. He was the kind of guy who would jump when someone sneezed. But it was his ever-present crewcut, shaved almost stubble- flat on top, the way the short grass is on a putting green, his hair standing straight up about a half-inch from his scalp, that distinguished him from most others. Years later people could still picture the crewcut Gus jumping around the stands to retrieve foul balls, or hurrying through the stands to reach the field. You would never guess he was the team president. He redefined a club president’s role and did it in a way that few club presidents ever did before, or since. Murray always liked to say he didn’t lie, but truth be known, he was never averse to exaggeration. “Don’t let Gus tell you he did all the work for that ’49 Terrier team,” someone once told a reporter. “It wasn’t all Gus, though he might take all the credit.” But many people sang his praises, even while recognizing his faults. One time Gus was approached by some people trying to start a league of some sort, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out thirty-five dollars and handed it over without saying anything. He could be generous at times. Murray was born optimistic. He always kept a list of motivational sayings handy and was constantly adding to them, refining them, using them in his daily intercourse. “Never give up. I don’t have to be Number One. If I place second or third I can IMPROVE. A goal and aspiration will come. HAVE A GOAL AND GO FOR IT.” His list went on to include “Only cowards lose their temper,” “When the going gets rough, the tough come through,” and “When plan A is not working, switch to plan B promptly.” There were others: “Luck is not the answer. Hard work and long hours make a champion...