The Curveball of History

Inspired by true events.

The tape recorder clicked on, its faint whir blending with the distant hum of the city outside. Joe DiMaggio leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on his knees. At 73, the Yankee Clipper still carried himself with quiet dignity, though the weight of his years was etched into his face and his voice, a deep and gravelly echo of his prime. Across from him, 80-year-old Red Barber sat with a notepad balanced on his lap, his bow tie slightly askew and his glasses perched on the end of his nose. The two men had spent hours reminiscing, the stories flowing as naturally as the game itself.

“So, Joe,” Red began, his Southern drawl slower now, softened by time, “we’ve talked about all the big ones—your streak, the ’41 Series, Mantle and Maris. But of all the moments in baseball you’ve seen or heard about, what do you think stands out as the greatest? What’s stuck with you after all these years?”

Joe smiled faintly, rubbing his thumb against his knee. He looked down for a moment, as if weighing the question, before leaning back into the slatted sunlight filtering through the blinds. There were so many moments he could name—his own triumphs, his teammates’ feats—but instead, his mind wandered somewhere else. Somewhere unexpected.

“You know, Red,” Joe began, his voice soft, “I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. I get asked this question a lot. And I don’t usually have an answer, but this time I do. And it’s funny—It’s a moment I keep coming back to— didn’t even happen in the big leagues.”

Red tilted his head, intrigued. “Oh?”

Joe chuckled lightly, his lips curling into a wistful grin. “Chattanooga, Tennessee. Spring of 1931. Yankees were barnstorming through the South. Ruth and Gehrig, larger than life, stepping onto the field like gods. And there, standing on the mound, was a seventeen-year-old girl with a ponytail under her cap. Jackie Mitchell.”

Red’s pencil froze mid-note, and he looked up sharply. “Jackie Mitchell? That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”

Joe nodded. “Yeah. Jackie Mitchell. She was just a kid—skinny, freckled, the kind of girl you’d see tossing rocks in the creek. But she had a curveball, Red. A curveball that could make grown men look foolish. Dazzy Vance taught it to her, or so they say. And on that day, she stepped onto the mound in front of a packed stadium to face two of the greatest hitters the game’s ever seen. Ruth and Gehrig. One after the other.”

Joe’s voice slowed, his tone carrying the reverence of a man who understood the weight of what he was saying.

“She didn’t flinch. First pitch to the Babe—strike one. You can imagine the crowd, dead silent, not believing what they’d just seen. Ruth steps back, scowling, probably thinking he just didn’t see it right. The second pitch comes in, sharper than the first—strike two. Now he’s mad. You know the Babe—he hated losing, hated looking bad. He digs in, grips the bat like he’s trying to tear it in two, and when Jackie throws that third pitch, low and inside, he swings so hard he nearly falls over. Misses clean.”

Joe chuckled, shaking his head. “They say he threw his bat, cursed loud enough for the whole stadium to hear. His tantrums were legendary, but this one was other worldly. The Babe—the Sultan of Swat—struck out by a seventeen-year-old girl. It was unthinkable. And he hated it. Hated every second of it.” Lots of people tried to make out like it was a stunt, but You and I both knew the Babe. Did he strike you as a man who would take part in a stunt that ended with him striking out to a girl?”

Red shook his head slowly.

“Not for all the World Series Rings in Baseball,” continued Joe.

Red leaned forward now, his pencil moving furiously across the page. “What about Gehrig?”

Joe’s voice softened, his tone filled with respect. “Lou wasn’t like the Babe. He didn’t throw tantrums, didn’t play to the crowd. But Jackie didn’t give him a break. She threw three pitches, all of them biting at the corners. Lou swung at every one and missed. Three up, three down. Struck out just like the Babe.”

“Did you ever ask either one about it?” asked Red.

Joe leaned back and gave a slight chuckle. “Well I would never ask Babe about it,” he said, “but sure. Lou and I talked about it once.”

“And?”asked Red

“She was the real deal,” answered Joe. “I saw her at one of those exhibitions later. And let me tell you; I wouldn’t have wanted to try to get a hit on her.”

Red chuckled. “She was that good?”

“She was that good.”

Joe leaned back, staring at the ceiling for a moment, his voice quieter now. “She owned them, Red. Two of the greatest hitters in the game, and she made them look like amateurs. The crowd went wild. I wasn’t there, but I heard it on the radio later. You could feel it—the disbelief, the excitement. It wasn’t just baseball. It was magic. Hell, me and every other sixteen year old boy I knew was gonna’ marry that girl someday. Of course none of us ever did.”

Joe paused, the room falling silent save for the hum of the recorder. When he spoke again, his voice carried a tinge of regret.

“But that’s all they gave her. A moment. A few days later, Landis voided her contract. Said baseball was too strenuous for women. Can you believe that? A seventeen-year-old kid goes out there and strikes out Ruth and Gehrig, and instead of giving her a shot, they shut her down.”

Joe shook his head slowly, the lines on his face deepening. “She barnstormed for a while after that. Played in exhibitions, pitched against local teams. But she never got another chance at the big leagues. Ruth called her a joke, but I think he was just embarrassed. But Jackie wasn’t a joke. She was a ballplayer.”

Red set his notepad aside, his gaze fixed on Joe. “Do you think people still remember her?”

Joe smiled faintly, his eyes glinting with something that might have been pride. “Not as much as they should. But they’ll remember as long as we tell her story. She stood on that mound, faced two legends, and struck them both out. That’s greatness, Red. Real greatness.”

The tape recorder clicked off, the memory of Jackie Mitchell lingering in the air between them—a testament to the power of a single, unforgettable moment and the girl who proved that she belonged.

Disclaimer: This story is a fictionalized account inspired by real events, including the events and names of the people involved and may, for the sake of fictional expediency, also contain amalgamations of characters or wholly, made up characters used for creative purposes,. While the narrative incorporates historical figures and events to preserve the historical record, it includes fictionalized elements, characters, and dialogue. The story does not claim to represent the actual thoughts, actions, or experiences of any individual, living or deceased.