The Jackie Mitchell Autographed Baseball Mystery

Written by Robbie Cutler

All Centerville was in mourning when John Plympton died. He was a banker who knew everyone and had helped many people over the years. For forty years he had authorized loans that more conservative lenders wouldn’t have granted. Then, after he retired, he was known locally as something of a soft touch, particularly after he lost his wife. Helping people became more than a hobby. It was almost a reason for him to keep living.

Why, some people even speculated that if he kept it up, he wouldn’t have much to leave to his only grandchild, Simon Plympton, who lived with his wife Susan at the old Plympton residence on Maple Street. I suppose that view was shared by Simon and Susan, whose style of living was quite frugal, tending to show that they had to stretch their meager resources. They were pleased to live with John Plympton, whom they genuinely admired, and grateful that the arrangement was rent-free. “Some day, after all, you’ll own this property, Simon,” John would say. And he was always a man of his word.

I had been sent to interview John Plympton for a local interest feature story. It was known that he wasn’t feeling very well, so my editor at the Chronicle wanted to record something of his life and times while that was still possible. This would be under my regular byline, Richard Harding Davis. It wasn’t for the sports pages, so the full moniker, not Crusher Davis, which was how they ran my stories on the sports pages, would be used. It certainly wasn’t appropriate for the Ask Martha column I write, largely advice for the lovelorn.

John Plympton was glad to see me, and he reminisced about my family, whom he had known for several generations. I suppose I share the prejudices of most young people, believing that older people’s talk can be tedious. But that wasn’t the case with John Plympton. He was fascinating as he talked about our town and how it had grown and expanded, the families that he had known and the celebrities that had visited here. Why, Lou Gehrig and Babe Ruth had once played an exhibition baseball game here, when they were barnstorming after spring training on their way to start the official season in New York!

“They signed that baseball for me,” the old man said with a sparkle in his eye. “I was there and saw the game. I was ten years old.”

He nodded towards a baseball trophy in a plastic case on his display shelf, near the wardrobe closet. I walked over and looked at it. Sure thing, both baseball legends had clearly signed the baseball, and one of them had dated it, April 2, 1931.

I thought for a minute. “That’s the year they tied for leading the American League in home runs, at 46 each!”

His face shone with pleasure. “Good for you. That baseball ought to go to someone who will appreciate it. I’ll make sure that it’s yours when I’m gone, if you’d like to have it, Crusher!”

“IF I wanted it!” It would be a treasure, even though there was a third signature on the ball, clearly visible - Jackie Mitchell. It was probably some kid who had seen the great Ruth and Gehrig play and just wanted to link his name to theirs by signing the same baseball.

“I appreciate it very much, Mr. Plympton. But you’ve got many years left.” At that point, his nurse, Melinda Baker, entered the room to say that Dr. Edgar Newton had just arrived. So I took my leave, as Dr. Newton entered the room. He was the dean of our local physicians, a solid man, but deaf as a post.

The interview wasn’t complete, so Mr. Plympton smilingly agreed to see me again in a few days. “Then you can tell me how you got that ‘Ask Martha’ byline,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “But, I think that the baseball will be of greater interest to Crusher Davis.”

Clearly, Centerville had few secrets from John Plympton. I returned the baseball to its place on the display shelf and left the room.

I returned as arranged for our second interview. John Plympton was weaker, but he had a merry glint in his eye. Susan Plympton was in the room reading to him, but she rose and left as I entered the room. Melinda Baker, the nurse, was plumping the old man’s pillows to make him more comfortable. Then she hovered at her nurse’s station near the wardrobe, anxious to see that her patient did not become overly tired.

He noticed my eager expression. “I see you have done some research about that baseball.”

I had indeed. First, I had started off by Googling Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig autographed baseballs, then the year 1931. I don’t know why, but I added the name Jackie Mitchell to the mix. Bingo! It turned out that Jackie Mitchell was a 17-year-old girl and a fabulous left-handed pitcher. Pitching for the Chattanooga Lookouts, a Class AA Southern League team with whom she had just signed a contract as the first female athlete in organized professional baseball, she had actually faced Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig in an exhibition game - and struck them both out!

With a wicked sweeping curve ball that broke over the plate low and was virtually unhittable - she had learned from their Memphis neighbor, the future Major League pitcher Dazzy Vance - she had her moment of fame. Then Commissioner of Baseball Landis barred women from playing professional baseball. But she was always known as a pitcher of great ability. I couldn’t begin to think what a baseball signed by Ruth, Gehrig and Mitchell on that day would be worth. It could be worth as much as $50,000 to a collector. It was surely the only one in existence!

“You’re the only one who knows the story of that baseball,” he said. “My family was never very interested. By the way, my lawyer is coming here this afternoon, and I’ll make a codicil to my will, leaving the baseball to you, formal and proper.”

But just a few hours later, after his luncheon, he took a nap, and it turned out to be his final one. When I next saw the room in which we had spoken, to retrieve a notebook that I had misplaced during the second interview, the baseball was gone. I asked Simon Plympton about it.

“Never really noticed - Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig both signed the baseball, you say? Oh, yes, now I remember. Granddad did mention it. We’d better have a careful search.”

His wife Susan was clearly the practical one in the family. “I’ll put together a list of visitors, that last day. You’ve probably heard that the Centerville Hospital gets most of the stocks and trust funds, while Simon inherited the house and furnishings. So the baseball is ours by rights. It’s bound to turn up somewhere.” But she didn’t seem very convinced that it would. As a matter of fact, she only became really interested when I shared with her the full story of the baseball and its three signatures. The visitors had been few that last day, and Simon, concentrating for a change, remembered seeing the baseball on the shelf after his Grandfather died.

The Plymptons had been at luncheon in their dining room when the nurse had gently informed them that Mr. John Plympton had passed on. She then left at Susan Plympton’s request to call Dr. Newton from the downstairs study. He arrived shortly and conducted a perfunctory examination. His patient had died of natural causes, just worn out. Then the room had been closed, following the examination and removal by the Carter Funeral Home, when Simon had taken a last look at the room and its furnishings. No. He just couldn’t remember at that point whether the baseball was still there or not.

There was no question of the autographed baseball going to me now, regardless of what John Plympton had wished. He hadn’t put it in writing, and when I raised the matter with Melinda Baker, she said that she just hadn’t paid attention to our conversation. She had medical matters to attend to. And there went my only witness to what he had wanted to do.

That left the present whereabouts of the autographed ball a mystery. But knowing the town as I did, it wasn’t hard to find the ball. There it was, in the center window of Al’s Pawn Parlor and Sporting Goods Store. Ordinarily a pawned item would not be displayed so prominently, but Al told me that the person who pawned the baseball had received a lot of money, $5,000, and he doubted that the money would be repaid and the pledge redeemed.

Since I knew the autographed baseball was worth at least ten times that sum, I knew the person who took it would be along shortly. It wasn’t hard for Crusher Davis to figure out who had pawned the baseball and was now anxiously trying to retrieve it.