* The Tigers had assembled the league's best offense in 1940, scoring 888 runs, anchored by a monster year from Hank Greenberg, who batted .340 and led the league in both doubles and homers. Their pitching wasn't as strong - 4th in the league in runs allowed.
* The Indians had the opposite skills. Their anemic offense finished 6th in the 8-team league in runs scored, but they easily finished first in runs allowed, led by a 21-year-old phenom named Bob Feller, who won 27 games and seemed unhittable when he was on.
* The Yankees had an off year, but still finished 3rd in offense and 2nd in pitching. Their great catcher, Bill Dickey, had suffered a dramatic decline; outfielder Tommy Henrich was plagued by injuries; and they had a hole in the lineup where shortstop used to be, as Frankie Crosetti batted .194 in his last year as the starter until a war-depleted roster forced him back into action. He would be replaced the next season by future MVP Phil Rizzuto, who supplanted Crosetti's .194 with a sparkling .307 in his rookie year.
Here is how the race stood on the morning of September 27th.
The Tigers and Indians, as fate would have it, were scheduled to play one another in their final three games, meaning that the Yankees still held out a very slim hope for a tie that would force a playoff. If they could have won their last four games, they would have reached 90 wins, which would have resulted in a playoff with the right combination of Tiger and Indian victories. If the Indians won two of the three, it would leave the Tigers at 90 wins, the Indians at 89. If the Indians won all three, it would elevate the Tribe to 90, with the Tigers at 89. But the Yankees lost their game on September 27th, eliminating them mathematically, since they could win no more than 89, and one of the other teams had to reach 90 no matter how their three games shook out.
That meant the Cleveland-Detroit series would decide the pennant. Detroit needed to win only one of the three, but manager Del Baker decided it would not be the first one because the Tigers had to face the "unbeatable" Bob Feller on his home turf. Feller came into the game with 27 wins, including a daunting 15-3 record at home. Baker had two excellent pitchers at his disposal, Bobo Newsom (21-5) and Schoolboy Rowe (16-3), but decided that the best way to guarantee the single victory he needed was to start those two in games two and three, against the weaker pitchers on the Cleveland staff. He felt that they would be wasted against Rapid Robert Feller, the greatest pitcher of the era, who was likely to beat anyone he faced. Baker decided simply to throw a sacrificial lamb on the altar of the great Feller. The logic was sound, although it is not typical for a team to basically concede a crucial game.
Who would Baker choose to lose to Feller? Nobody knew until they saw a newcomer warming up. Nobody knew even then, because the newcomer was not familiar. Cleveland fans had to rush to their scorecards to figure out who he was. Even when they figured it out, they didn't believe it. He was a late-season call-up, a 30-year-old named Floyd Giebell, who had pitched only 24 major-league innings and had spent the 1940 season at Buffalo, where he had done no better than a mediocre 15-17 record. The Cleveland radio announcers didn't even know how to pronounce his name. (It was GEE-bull. It rhymed with "feeble.") Surely, this was some kind of feint by Del Baker, thought the sportswriters, and a look beneath the grandstands would reveal Rowe or Newsom warming up to be the real starter. Not so. Giebell, a mystery man who rarely spoke, a lanky fellow who wore a naive and eternally disoriented expression on his face, was the man.
How does a man even get to be a virtual rookie at age 30? Was he one of those guys who had been in the minors since he was a teenager? Not at all. His story was much better than that.
Like any player who makes it to the major leagues, Giebell was a standout in high school sports, but when he graduated, he went neither to college nor the minor leagues. He grew up on a West Virginia farm, and his dad had become partially disabled in an accident, so Floyd set aside whatever dreams he might have had to stay at home and keep the family farm afloat. Four years later, when his parents had relocated, he enrolled in a local college where he could study, play ball, and work summers for a local steel mill. He continued to work at that steel plant after graduation, and that turned out to be the key to his future. In 1937, Giebell led a team of Weirton Steel players to a national amateur championship, where some big-league scouts spotted and courted him. He became a professional ballplayer at age 28.
He had been brilliant in his first professional season, winning 18 games with a 1.98 ERA in the low minors, but his subsequent minor-league seasons were far less impressive. Even so, his ability to change speeds and keep hitters off balance had earned him enough respect from his managers that they recommended him for a shot at the Big Show. He had not embarrassed himself in his few major-league appearances, but neither had he earned a permanent roster spot.
What happened that day? I think you already know, because this page would not exist if Giebell had lost. Feller was every bit as good as advertised, going the distance and allowing only three hits. But the wind was blowing out that day, and it carried one of those three hits barely over the fence.
That was all Giebell needed. He pitched a complete-game shutout. He allowed no extra-base hits and only two walks. When Giebell retired Jeff Heath to record the last out of the game, Detroit had won the pennant. His Tiger teammates carried him off the field, while he wore his familiar bewildered expression, as if failing to comprehend that he had just beaten Bob Feller.
Here is how the Detroit newspapers covered the story the next day: The Free Press, The Detroit News. The Cleveland Plain Dealer thought the story was too big to be relegated to the sports pages. They made it the headline on the front page, above the war news from London and Washington.
According to the rules of the day, Giebell was not eligible to play in the World Series, although his manager told him he would have started Game 3 if the rules had permitted it. So Giebell would have to wait until 1941 for his next win.
He is still waiting.
His grand victory over Feller was his last major-league win.
Some years later, a veteran Detroit baseball writer named Charles Ward wrote an article about Giebell called "Hero for a Day - and then Oblivion." I headlined this story by calling Floyd a hero for two hours. I was wrong. Ward was wrong. Yes, Giebell was only allowed two hours to bask in athletic glory, but that's not heroism. That's just a figurative term we use. It's a form of success that's not really important in the grand scheme.
What is important? He set aside his athletic dreams to help his dad on the farm. He served his country in World War Two, although he had a wife, a young child, and elderly parents who depended on him. He personally answered every fan letter he ever received. He raised a fine family and endured the heartbreaking loss of a son, a decorated soldier killed in Vietnam. He and his wife eventually celebrated their 62nd anniversary, which occasioned a tribute in the Detroit Free Press.
So Floyd Giebell was not a hero for two hours.
He was a hero for life.
