Excerpt from Collected Oral Histories of the Ozark Baseball League, Vol. I
Excerpt from Collected Oral Histories of the Ozark Baseball League, Vol. I
A.J. Ward
(Excerpt of a conversation with former Joplin Star sportswriter Howie Jubelt about the controversy surrounding former pitcher Casey Morganford and his alleged supernatural meddling before Game 3 of the 1959 Mammoth Spring Classic. Conversation recorded November 1987.[1])
“Oh boy, if that wasn’t a weird one. Yeah, you know, ballplayers always have their superstitions. Hoppin’ the foul line, a certain bat every game, pine tar on the cap, whatever. Those fellas who wouldn’t change their skivvies on a hitting streak, all that stuff. Well Casey [Morganford] did all that and about fifty more. Guy always had something going, pullin’ tarot cards in the dugout, drawin’ runes with his spikes on the back of the pitcher’s mound, pine tar in his drawers! At least that’s what folks said, I never saw that one [laughs]. But he’d drink funny colored tea in the clubhouse and on the buses, all that. Yeah, guys just kinda let him do his thing, he wasn’t ever trying to push it on anybody. He also wasn’t ever much good really though, had a couple real fine games after he left Joplin, but, if he was known for anything, it was for that game in ‘59. It was Game 3 I think, correct me if I’m wrong, Game 3 of the Mammoth Spring [Classic] and Casey’s pitchin’. Joplin’s lost both of the first two, so they really need a win. Conway leaves the day before with their chests puffed out, best team in the league all year. They know it’s about in the bag already.
Well, they go back to their hotel in Mammoth I guess and have a pretty quiet night, most of the fellas go to bed early. That’s what I always heard from Mick[2] at least. I don’t know for sure I was at the hotel we was staying in with Joplin. Talked to a couple bartenders in Mammoth later who swore none of the Conway fellas came out that night. Anyway, Conway has a quiet night, getting rested for the next day but damn if they didn’t show up to the ballpark for Game 3 lookin’ downright ragged. Like they ain’t slept a wink. Groggy, bags under their eyes, slow to the ball takin’ grounders before the game. Missin’ easy throws. Didn’t even take batting practice at all. Izzy[3] can’t figure out what the hell’s going on, he’s yellin’ at ‘em, askin’ if they even gave half a damn about winning, sayin’ he’d hire some of Bert Bishop’s boys[4] to replace ‘em. But somethin’ was off for sure.
So yeah, game goes on and Morganford is throwin’ the game of his life. Hasn’t given up a hit through five innings. Couple of the Conway fellas looked downright scared of him when they stepped into the [batter’s] box. I couldn’t make sense of it. Like I said, Casey was fine enough but he was a lanky guy, not imposing. Didn’t throw a fireball; none of his pitches were gonna spook anybody. But not only could Conway not get a hit, hell, they couldn’t look him in the eye. Best hitting team in the OBL can’t hold the gaze of Casey Morganford. And every time Joplin was in the dugout, Casey’s out there standin’ on the dugout steps, just starin’ out at Conway in the field. Hammitt booted a ball at second [when Conway was in the field], led to a couple runs. Looked dog-tired and lost out there. And then, yeah, you know the story. Casey throws a no-hitter. Totally dominates. Conway fans are stunned. Hell, Joplin fans were stunned, whole goddamn pressbox was stunned. After about the 7th inning of Casey not allowin’ a hit, people around are startin’ to joke: “guess Casey cast a new spell before the game,” “Casey’s palm reader musta gave him the scouting report today,” stuff like that.
So yeah, game ends, Joplin mobs Casey on the mound, first no-hitter in Mammoth Spring history, you know. We finish our notes up in the box, Mick leaves the pressbox for the Conway bus, I leave for Joplin’s. A wild story to write, excited to hear what the Joplin boys think of their folk magician pitcher or mystic or whatever throwing the game of his life in the Mammoth [Spring Classic]. The Joplin boys are rowdy as ever, and they got rowdy no doubt, celebratin’. I talk to Casey and get a nice interview and he’s smilin’ and at the end I ask him if he cast a sleep spell or somethin’ on Conway and he laughed it off. Really though, what I wanted to know was what those Conway boys were thinkin’. What made them so out of sorts.
So later that night I call up Mick’s room at the hotel and ask him to meet me for a drink and we go down to Kelton’s over on Chestnut, and I ask him what the heck happened with Conway today. He seems like he’s thinkin’ real hard, he looks kinda puzzled really and he says “Howie I’m not sure, they won’t really talk about it but they seem spooked.” Which was weird for that Conway team, you know? They didn’t hold much back on those early teams, lotta big personalities, lotta macho men. So that they were quiet just doubled the strangeness, and I could tell it did for Mick too. Anyway, next two days pass, Joplin gets mopped by Conway. Not close really. Conway’s crowned champions, everybody forgets about Casey’s legendary game and Conway’s weird behavior.
But maybe a week after the celebration’s ended, Conway parade is over, the mayor’s named a day for the baseball Toad Suckers or whatever, Mick gives me a call. And he says, “Howie, you ain’t gonna believe the story that’s about to break.” And boy was he right. Albert Greer, third baseman for Conway at the time, had gone to the OBL board with a formal complaint against Casey Morganford. The complaint stated that the night before the big no-hitter, Casey had “astral projected”[5] into Greer’s dreams and caused him “psychic damage”[6]. It’s in writing. Probably lost somewhere in one of the old board members’ file cabinets or somethin’, but it’s out there. Greer said that Casey transported, somehow, he didn’t know, into Greer’s dream and taunted him the night before the game, and that he did it to other players too, though nobody else came forward with him. And I guess in this dream, Greer said he’s onstage in the big opera house in Branson, and he’s dancing ballet! Some number from… what’s it, I don’t know, La Sulfite [sic]? It was a certain fancy ballet I guess. And he’s all dressed up in his sparkly tights and whatever else and looks out and Casey is sitting in the middle of all the rows of empty seats, just watchin’. And Greer tries to keep focused on his [chuckles], on his ballet, but every time he looks up, Casey is a few rows closer, until finally he’s right up in the first row and just starin’ at Greer while Greer pirouettes and whatnot. Greer got so flustered he tripped and collapsed and it woke him up. And that was it. Told the board it wasn’t right for a man to just root around in another man’s subconscious like that, and that he shouldn’t be permitted to play in the league anymore. The league board laughed him out of the room.
Again, Greer said he wasn’t the only one. Nobody else from Conway ever came forward on the record but I know Mick told me that at least one other player told him, one of the infielders did, that Casey astrally projected into his dream too. And that in his dream he was a little kid walkin’ through the woods where he grew up, and as he’s walkin’ he notices at some point that Casey’s just following him. And so this uh, this specific infielder keeps walkin’, sees a persimmon tree, and sees the biggest persimmon he’s ever laid eyes on. Big as a baseball. But he’s a kid, so he’s too short, and Casey walks over and grabs it for him. Casey hands it to him, and smiles real big, and the player-kid takes a huge bite – and it ain’t ripe. You ever had an unripe persimmon? No? Well pray you don’t man ‘cause there ain’t much worse. If sandpaper was a taste, but bitter too. And it’ll suck all the spit out of your whole damn body. So this particular dreamin’ infielder, he tries to spit it out, but he can’t, and Casey laughing all the while. Finally the Conway guy wakes up, mouth dry as Newton County, and spends the whole next day and game with that god-awful acrid taste in his mouth. Can’t focus a lick. I can’t confirm that account, but I trust Mick. Greer swore half the team had stories like this over breakfast the morning of the no-hitter. Spooked the bejesus straight out of ‘em. And I kid you not here: Mick did say he saw Casey eating persimmons on the dugout steps between innings, ain’t that somethin’?
Anyway, Greer made a hubbub about it for a few months, but nobody took him seriously. How could you? We’re talking about… spiritual conspiracies to win a baseball game. Casey Morganford flying through, what, the cosmos I guess? To rummage around in somebody’s sub-consciousness? So now [Morganford], who had been the butt of all the herbal remedy and superstition jokes wasn’t the punchline anymore, his victim was.
It was talked about a lot, lotta jokes had at Greer’s expense, I don’t know anyone personally who took it serious. Didn’t write about it too much, felt a little pointless. I mean, Conway won! Conway won the championship! People didn’t get what Greer was making a big deal about. Regardless, Greer never played in another game that Morganford pitched. He wouldn’t do it. Other guys kept hush about it, no one else I know ever asked to sit out against Casey, but to Greer’s credit I guess the Conway boys never did seem all that comfortable about the whole thing. Conspicuously quiet, you could say. Always mum on any questions anybody asked on or off the record. Not that many were asked, it felt a little foolish to even bring it up with the players. I don’t know. Casey Morganford never owned up to anything, just said Greer was mad he got no-hit. Which is about what the public thought too. Wanna know the funniest thing come outta all this? Comes out in all this that Greer had been takin’ ballet lessons. That’s why it got him so good I guess. He’d been takin’ lessons, had aspirations of being a ballet dancer in the big city. But he gave it up, moved out east later after his playing career I think, but he didn’t do any ballet. Quit it after that game. Bet he don’t eat much persimmon pudding in the fall either [laughter].”
[1] McKay Collection 1986-1990. Box 4, Tape 31. Local Collections, Fulton County Library.
[2] Mick Weller, former Conway Toad Suckers beat reporter.
[3] Earl Isbenn, Conway manager 1958-1961.
[4] Bert Bishop operated a livestock market near the Mammoth Spring Classic ballpark.
[5] Editor’s note: Mr. Jubelt used finger quotes when saying “astral projected.”
[6] Editor’s note: Mr. Jubelt used finger quotes when saying “psychic damage.”
A.J. Ward writes, bakes, and birds in St. Louis, MO. On Sundays, he plays pickup baseball with a bunch of skeletons. His work can also be found in The New Territory.
Michael C. Paul is an illustrator, writer, and historian. He grew up outside of Kansas City, has moved around a bit over the years working as a history professor, illustrator, and occasionally an editorial cartoonist, and now lives in Northern Virginia with his wife and daughter. For more, visit https://mikepaulart.com or @MikePaulArt.
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