Lou Gehrig: The Lost Memoir
Would there be so many books about Gehrig had he not died such a tragic death? Does the contraction of the disease that now bears his name make him any more or less a worthy subject than many of his contemporaries? At the risk of courting controversy, I don’t think so.
Gehrig did not have Babe Ruth’s oversize personality, nor did he have the same watershed impact on baseball as did his teammate. Jackie Robinson had a major impact on the game when he broke the color line. Ted Williams was a war hero. Satchel Paige was a slice of Americana. While there is absolutely no question of Gehrig’s athletic prowess, the same could be said about many of the superstars and Hall of Famers who followed, such as Stan Musial, Ernie Banks, or dozens of others with multiple books written about them. It was the iron Horse’s sad demise that cemented his place in history.
Yet this latest look at Gehrig does stand apart, not only putting his own words to page but serving as an example of the difference in the way sports figures wrote and were written about “back in the day.”
The “memoir” is basically a collection of articles published serially rather than as a book. Gehrig — most likely with the assistance of an uncredited cowriter — discusses his early life and struggles, including his surprising lack of confidence when it came to his abilities on the field and how he might not deserve a shot at the majors. There are few complaints or nasty comments about anyone other than himself. Over time, as his success grew, he became more comfortable with the accolades he deservedly received.
Gehrig’s final chapter begins, “And now I come to the end of my story of my baseball experience.” But the reader does not know when this was written. It is not, as one might think, at the conclusion of his playing days since he says, “I am still just a kid at the game, and I realize it. I still have much to learn, and I hope I still have many years in which to learn it.” Of course, we know what’s to come, but apparently Gehrig has no inking.
The last half of the book contains a brief biography by Gaff, which I found quite interesting, offering tidbits of Gehrig’s life which I do not recall from previous works, including Jonathan Eig’s wonderful Luckiest Man: The Life and Death of Lou Gehrig
I wonder what this exercise would look like if Gehrig were writing in more contemporary times? Would he reveal the stress of living in poverty with an alcoholic father and overprotective mother? Would he admit how he really felt about Ruth, perhaps share some details about the Bambino’s dirty laundry? One gets the impression that Gehrig never said a discouraging word about anyone in his life, whether teammates or opposing players. Compare that with more recent works from players who, as the saying goes, couldn’t carry his jock. Nowadays there is no detail too lurid to share, whether it involves sexual encounters, substance abuse, or anything else that would be considered out of bounds in Gehrig’s era. But that follows the norm over the past near-century as silent movies turn to talkies, black and white to color, actual stories into shoot-’em-ups with ever-increasing body counts and explosions to slake the thirst of an ever-demanding population. That’s one reason I believe Gaff’s contribution to the Gehrig ouevre will do well, at least with a certain audience who appreciates those kinder, gentler times.
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