JIMMIE FOXX·1932

They are writing Double X into the Philly card like a challenge tossed on the bar, and the whole American League spends the summer taking that challenge on the chin. Fifty-eight of 'em clear the fence and keep going. The average lounges at .364 like it has a long-term lease and no intention of moving. Connie Mack ain't the type for orating about fate and the stars—he just jabs a bony finger at the box score and lets September do the chin music. And September, it stays hot enough to melt a horseshoe. Every staff in the circuit knows the name in that box, knows the trouble it stands for, and the trouble keeps showing up early, same as the mail, same as the rent, same as a guy from Sudlersville who never learned how to take a day off.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Fifty-eight still hangs in the air — not a carnival number, a season’s work against a league that knew the problem in the box.

.364 SEPTEMBER

He hit .364 and stayed hot when September asked who was still swinging. Average without apology; power without surrender.

ATHLETICS POWER PEAK

Mack’s middle of the order at full volume — the right-handed hammer that made Philadelphia’s bunches stick.

Jimmie Foxx, Philadelphia Athletics, 1930. Associated Press / Wikimedia Commons. Public domain (US).