Take me out to the ballgame — in England

During the summer of 1943, England shook from the churning impact of tank treads, roar of bomber engines and cadence of marching boots.

American soldiers, chosen by fate and country to pit their strength and courage against one of the most formidable war machines in world history, were being toughened up for the task ahead. Grueling 25-mile hikes and countless calisthenics used burning pain to forge muscles as strong as the nation’s resolve and commitment to freedom.

Men in their prime of vigor were reduced to staggering, jelly-legged specimens of exhaustion by the end of a training day. But before their sweat-soaked fatigue shirts had dried enough to reveal white streaks of body salt, an amazing resurgence of energy would often occur.

Sandlot sentiments

With the evening meal settling in lean bellies, many GIs formed up sides for a game of baseball. It didn’t matter if they had grown up in Brooklyn or on a farm in Virginia, this was a sport they all knew.

Like letters from a loved one, the game connected them with the places they came from. The link was found in the scent of a worn leather mitt and the feel of a fist smacking the pocket.

It was there in the heft of the bat and the sinuous stretch of muscles as the bat slowly fanned through the air. Young men, many of whom had only months to live, sensed these things as they played a game that always started and ended at a place called home.

A wartime glove story

That summer a group of GIs stationed in Plymouth, England, returned to the childhood pastime they loved. Carl “Chubby” Proffitt, Charlottesville’s most decorated living hero, was one of them.

“I had played some in the Valley League,” Proffitt said one recent afternoon after settling into his favorite easy chair in the living room of his Charlottesville home. “It was what they called ‘sandlot ball.’

“I thought about trying out for the pros, and I really wanted to do that. But the Army life took me away for five years right in the prime of my life.

“I didn’t get home until I was 25 or 26, and that’s a little late in life to get into professional ball. But I always wanted to be a professional ball player, sure enough.”

As it had for countless others, the world’s most horrific manmade catastrophe had turned Proffitt’s life on end. By the time he reached England, he was a platoon sergeant with Company K, 116th Infantry Regiment, 29th Infantry Division of the National Guard.

The American juggernaut to invade Hitler’s

Europe was growing into a mighty force of more than a quarter-million men. They were stationed all over England, and it wasn’t long before organized baseball teams representing individual units were springing up.

Some of the teams, like the Central Base Section Clowns and the Fighter Command Thunderbolts, had spiffy uniforms as nice as any worn by professional players. Proffitt’s team, the Plymouth Yankees, wasn’t one of them.

“I don’t remember us having any real uniforms at all,” Proffitt said. “The field we played on was an old converted dog track.

“My eyes lit up when I saw the right field fence was only about 270 feet away. I was a left-hand swinger.

“Matter of fact, I think I was the only left-handed swinger on the whole team. I always had a pretty good stick, bat, you know.”

When the 116th Infantry Regiment was organizing the team that would represent them, a corporal from Massachusetts, Douglas Gillette, did the picking. He was a natural athlete as well as leader.

Gillette went around the base posting notices of the time and place for tryouts. He was limited to a roster of 20 players, and he was going to make sure each man counted.

“I normally played third base,” Proffitt said. “But we had a kid named Louis Alberigo who had played semipro ball and was a real good third baseman.

“At batting practice Gillette told me he was going to find another position for me. He asked me if I had ever played outfield, and I told him I hadn’t.

“He asked me if I’d give centerfield a try and I said, ‘Sure.’ I played centerfield through the whole regular season.”

Gillette took on the duties of coach, manager and pitcher. He excelled at each position, and so did each of his players.

“We had some pretty good speed on the team,” Proffitt said. “Joe Gubernot, a little kid from Shamokin, Pennsylvania, could run like a rabbit.

“He was the runner for our commander, Colonel D.W. Canham. We had some real good ballplayers on the team and we were well coached. We also had good pitching. And the spirit of the team was always upbeat. You would never hear a cross word between any of us. The esprit de corps was real good with the guys.”

During that summer of live-fire exercises, body-beating forced marches and dry runs for the upcoming invasion, the Plymouth Yankees got into the habit of winning. At first, few people took much notice of the team that wore T-shirt jerseys with numbers that had been painted on by a supply clerk.

Stars and Stripes newspaper was concentrating most of its ink on the teams with fancy uniforms and big-league players. One team had pitcher Monte Pearson, who had hurled a no-hitter in 1938 for the New York Yankees.

It was only when the Plymouth Yankees had racked up 10 wins and no losses that anyone started paying attention to them. By late September 1943, the ragtag bunch from the ancient coastal city of Plymouth still was undefeated.

Now it was time for the European Theater of Operations World Series. History was about to be made.

Next: War games.