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Category Archive: Sports

Feb 16

Like an obvious truth, Kansas City tends to be “discovered” on a regular basis, and I just discovered it again. In a dusty box in the basement, I found this recently: A 1982 magazine article titled ‘KANSAS CITY: The Boom Town That Blossomed’, by the late Tom Ladwig, Mizzou ad/journalism professor.

An introduction to his story:

As writer and ad-man extraordinaire, Tom Ladwig once penned, “Like an obvious truth, Kansas City tends to be ‘discovered’ on a regular basis.”

Kansas City was discovered again by many this past baseball season when the Kansas City Royals took the world by storm and made it to the World Series in October of 2014. For some, they discovered this surprising city for the RoyalsKKfirst time.

When I found the late Tom Ladwig’s story in a box of old magazines, I was delighted. Not only does he create a picture of how this town grew and blossomed, but it’s a timely tale in its own way. When he wrote this in 1982, he spoke of how Hallmark’s Donald Hall made a mind-boggling investment creating the new Crown Center in what was a badly blighted area. Ladwig wrote about the then relatively new Harry S Truman Presidential Library and the “plush” Harry S Truman Sports Complex as well as the Kemper Arena, “a snow-white, pillar less, space age building”.

It was interesting to me that he wrote about these as new, shiny, state-of-the art landmarks in Kansas City that we now consider antiquated. Now, they have either been remodeled a couple of times or are in need of a face-lift. We certainly don’t think of them as new.

Read on and enjoy this 1982 description of Kansas City-The Boom Town That Blossomed. It’s all seems new again.

KANSAS CITY:

The Boom Town That Blossomed

By Tom Ladwig

Published in March 1982 Edition of Ford Times, The American Road, Dearborn, MI

Tom Ladwig

Tom Ladwig and his beloved typewriter

(To read a related column by Kay Hoflander

 about Tom and his typewriterclick here.)

 

Like an obvious truth, Kansas City tends to be “discovered” on a regular basis. Many years ago, Andre Maurois, the French author and no-nonsense intellectual wrote, “Who in Europe, or in America for that matter, knows that Kansas City is one of the loveliest cities on earth? And yet it is true.”

What most Kansas Citians know (and visitors discover) is that their city has more tree-lined “promenades” than Paris, gushes with almost as many fountains as Rome and certainly has more hills. It’s greener than Ireland and is indeed a lovely city.

Kansas-City

French fur trader Francois Chouteau was the first white settler in the area. That was in 1821. When the Missouri River flooded his trading post he left for furrier pastures.

Independence, Missouri, a few miles to the east, had all the profitable Santa Fe Trail business. John C. McCoy, a Baptist minister’s son with a sharp eye for profit, opened an outfitter’s store at Westport, four miles south of Chouteau’s post, and grabbed that good Santa Fe business from Independence. McCoy’s store still stands, now restored as Kelly’s, a popular bar.

While all this was going on, “One-Eyed” Ellis was minding his own business down by the river, selling booze to the Osage and Kansas Indians and picking up a stray horse or cow now and then. He also acted as a sort of justice of the peace when the occasion arose.

A nearby farmer, Gabriel Prudhomme, got himself killed in a barroom brawl and his 257-acre farm (now downtown Kansas City) was put up for sale. McCoy didn’t miss a lick. He and 13 friends bought it for $4,220. They wanted to build a city, or at least, a town.

Because “One-Eyed” had a cabin close by with a hickory fire and booze, and because of his quasi-legal status, the group went there to choose a name for their town.  Besides, “One-Eyed” had a handy reference tool—a blue-backed Webster spelling book. He was named chairman of the group. One fellow who wore a slit-tailed coat wanted to name the town “Port Fonda” after himself. That was voted down. Another suggested “Possum Trot” and another “Rabbitville”. An argument flared. “One-Eyed’s” spelling book was no help.

But in the end, he saved the day, or the city, as it turned out. He suggested, perhaps as a compromise, the name “Kansas” after his good customers. And so the town was named. Later, in 1853, it was officially designated Kansas City.

It became the hottest boomtown on the frontier. It was “wide open” and by 1857 public sentiment grew against open saloons and public drunkedness. There were 1,500 souls there spending $135,000 a year on liquor, a staggering figure in more ways than one. Robert Van Horn, a newspaper publisher, suggested editorially it might be a good idea to start some local distilleries. No use letting that good money go out of town.

With Van Horn promoting, the Missouri River was bridged and a rail link established between Chicago and the West. That did it. Business boomed and Kansas City shed its fur-trapper, Buffalo-hunter, Indian-fighter image and entered a period of opulence and the finer things of life. Gun-fighters Jesse James, Wild Bill Hickock, Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday mingled with white-tie wealthy in the opera house, theaters, fine restaurants and gambling palaces. A library, a medical school and an Academy of Science were established, and permanent commercial and public buildings were built. Police and firemen were decked out in uniforms. Civilization had arrived.

At the turn of the century, the city boldly butted heads with Chicago, Cincinnati and Cleveland for the 1900 Democratic National Convention—and got it. No sooner had the award been announced than Kansas City’s new convention hall burned to the ground. The city’s spirit was such that 90 days later the hall had been rebuilt in time for William Jennings Bryan to receive the Democrats’ presidential nomination on July 4.

Newspaperman Henry Haskell, who established the Kansas City Star’s editorial policy (and picked up two Pulitzers along the way), said there were two things that made Kansas City great. The first was the great bend of the Missouri River and the second was William Rockhill Nelson, the Star’s publisher. Another noted publisher, William Allen White, said “Nelson was a traitor to his class, a rich man willing to attack the rich, especially if they were slumlords thwarting his dreams for a beautiful Kansas City.”

Nelson nagged, berated and abused the city into making something of itself. He made possible the William Rockhill Nelson Art Gallery, which along with the Mary Atkins Museum of Fine Art, forms the cultural core of a four-state area. In fact, the Nelson is the largest art museum west of Chicago and is ranked among the nation’s top half-dozen. It houses perhaps the largest collection of Oriental art outside Asia.

In 1907, J.C. Nichols, another fellow with a penchant for quality, bought a 10-acre hog farm and turned it into the beautiful Country Club district. He wasn’t just compulsive about quality; he was downright fanatical about it.

In 1922, Nichols took a 55-acre tract and developed the Country Club Plaza, a Spanish-style marketplace and now the oldest shopping center in the United States. It has become a way of life for thousands, with its waterfalls, tree-lined walks, wrought-iron fenced courtyards, gardens, fountains and statues. But best of all, eight gigantic enclosed parking areas make it a pedestrian delight The Plaza is still the standard by which other such centers are measured.

Joyce Hall, up in Nebraska, heard about that 1900 convention hall rebuilding feat and decided Kansas City was for him. He came down and founded the Hallmark greeting card empire. Donald Hall, a son, heads the firm today and has opened up spectacular new frontiers of his own.

He’s made a mind-boggling investment in the city—building an 85-acre “city-within-a-city” on a once-blighted area, which touches Prudhomme’s old farmstead. Taking its name “Crown Center” from the Hallmark logo, it has two major hotels (one with a 60-foot natural waterfall in the lobby), an elaborate shopping center, restaurants, an office complex and condominium towers.

The late President Harry S Truman learned his way around politics in Kansas City during the 1920s and ‘30s. (The Harry S Truman Library and Museum is located in Independence, just down I-70).

Kansas City never could do things halfway. While all the spectacular growth was under way in the 1920s and ‘30s, a corrupt and well-oiled political machine under Pendergast took over city hall. The Kansas City Star stopped all that in the late 1930s by exposing the Pendergast skeletons in city hall closets.

When Harry Truman decided to run for his first office, Pendergast gave him this advice, “When you are after votes, don’t wear a coat and pants that match.” Must have worked.

The Pendergast period had its brighter side—“Kansas City Jazz.” It developed in the Prohibition-era speakeasies and spawned such stars as Count Basie, Charlie “Bird” Parker, Benny Moten, Mary Lou Williams, Hot Lips Page, Julia Lee, and Baby Lovett.

Walter Cronkite honed his reportorial skills on a Kansas City radio station and in the old United Press bureau here. Ernest Hemingway credited Pete Wellington, the Star’s city editor, and his stylebook for developing the Hemingway style. He worked for the paper before World War II.

Joan Crawford, Burt Bacharach, Ed Asner, Ginger Rogers, Thomas Hart Benton, Jean Harlow, Walt Disney and Goodman Ace were all Kansas Citians who have fiddled with the national psyche at one time or another.

And Lord knows that Kansas City roast beef is the best in the land. And besides the Lord, Calvin Trillin (who writes about food for The New Yorker and Nation) says: “The best restaurants of the world are, of course, in Kansas City. Not all of them; only the top four or five.” Trillin says the best single restaurant in the world is Arthur Bryant’s Barbeque. Bryant’s, a battered cafeteria in the shadow of old Municipal Stadium, has served thousands of ballplayers and newspapermen, along with several presidents, Jimmy Carter, the latest.

Each autumn, the American Royal Livestock and Horse Show take over the city. More than a million people see purebred animals from all over the world pose and prance.

Most of the city’s 1.3 million-plus souls are involved in some way in some sport. Their enthusiasm has produced the Harry S Truman Sports Complex, a plush stadium that is home for the football Kansas City Chiefs and the baseball Royals. The Kings were the roadblock the Houston Rockets had to get by last season to reach the National Basketball Association finals. Their home is Kemper Arena, a snow-white, pillar less, space age building that was the site of the 1976 Republican National Convention.

Some consider Kansas Citian Tom Watson the best pro golfer around. In the winter, while his fellow pros go to warmer climes, he sets up shop on a carpet in the greenskeeper’s shed at the country club, whapping balls through its garage doors onto the snowy hills.

But if sports are big in Kansas City, the performing arts are bigger. A couple of years ago, the nonprofit performing arts groups (theater, opera, dance, symphonic music, jazz, the Starlight Theatre and Theatre League) amassed three times more paid admissions than the football Chiefs and the basketball Kings.

The new International Airport is a marvel, with as little as 85 feet distance from plane to car, and you never walk much farther.

Kansas City has a young look and has the vibrant beat of youth. Young people come with the idea they can do anything they’re big enough to do. And they can—except for one thing.

They cannot tell a Kansas City native that the Gateway Arch of St. Louis is the “Gateway to the West.” That distinction belongs to Kansas City.

 

 

 

 th-1 th-2 th

 

Editor’s Note: Tom Ladwig-authored books available here.

 

 

Oct 19

A look back at my columns about the Kansas City Royals: Part 1 — Baseball fever happens every spring. First published April 14, 2007, in The Examiner, an Eastern Jackson County, Mo., daily newspaper.

 

Baseball fever happens every spring

More than flowers or sunshine or April showers, it is baseball that is our true April love. It has been that way as long as most of us can remember.

 

After all, baseball is America’s game. Granted it may have gone global, but we invented it, and we love it.  In fact, we love it so much, that when opening day of baseball season finally arrives, folks take off work often braving bitter temperatures and cold rain just to watch. You know the drill. Some of us just have to be there. Period.

 

Others of us prefer the coziness of our homes or offices on opening day, but make no mistake we are paying attention just the same.

 

Each spring, baseball makes us believe all over again that all things are possible, for a few weeks at least.

 

Any team can win the Pennant on opening day, maybe even the World Series. The worst team in the league can be at 500 in mere days. The coaches have winning records, and the pitchers have great stats. Every batter can be Babe Ruth, every fielder Jackie Robinson, on opening day.

 

If they can be all things, then so can we. At least that is our hope each and every spring.

 

To be on the safe side, we throw up a silent prayer along with our hopes, “Please do not break our hearts this season!” How well we remember last year when our home team had an indescribably miserable and embarrassing record.

 

Let’s face it. Some years, it is nearly impossible to be a fan. We pray it will not be such a year.  We pray hard.

 

“No more 3 to 2 losses in the ninth, please,” we beg.

 

“No more pitchers losing their groove.”

 

“No more batting slumps by our star hitter.”

 

Ernest Lawrence Thayer understood our baseball psyche, our worries, and desperate baseball prayers such as these as long ago as 1888. That is when he wrote “Casey at the Bat”, the single most famous baseball poem ever written. “Casey at the Bat” was first published June 3, 1888, in the San Francisco Examiner.

 

Another writer Albert Spalding once wrote of it, “Love has its sonnets galore. War has its epics in heroic verse. Tragedy its somber story in measured lines. Baseball has Casey at the Bat.”

 

In his legendary poem, Thayer describes a baseball hero, the mighty Casey who is advancing to the bat just in time to save the day for Mudville’s home team.

 

It is fun to remember some of the poem’s perfectly written verses. Here are some excerpts:

 

“The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day.

The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play…

A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair.

The rest clung to the hope that springs eternal in the human breast;

They thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that,

We’d put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat…

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped,

‘That ain’t my style,’ said Casey. ‘Strike one,’ the umpire said…

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;

But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, ‘Strike two’…”

 

So the legendary story goes, but let us pretend we do not know how the game ended.

After all it is April. Baseball season has just begun. It happens every spring.

Oct 19

A look back at my columns about the Kansas City Royals: Part 2 — Ode to Opening Day when any team can win the Pennant (Go Royal Sox!) First published April 9, 2009, in The Examiner, an Eastern Jackson County, Mo., daily newspaper.

Ode to Opening Day when any team can win the Pennant (Go Royal Sox!) 

“You always get a special kick on Opening day, no matter how many you go through. You look forward to it like a birthday party when you’re a kid. You think something wonderful is going to happen.” – Joe DiMaggio.

Brimming with optimism as I drove along the interstate, I tuned the dial to sports radio hoping to find a pleasurable experience listening to the Kansas City Royals on Opening Day 2009.

And truthfully, I found one, even though the “boys in blue” lost their season opener away at the Chicago White Sox.

Yes, each spring, baseball makes us believe all over again that all things are possible, for a few weeks at least.

Any team can win the Pennant on opening day, maybe even the World Series.

The worst team in the league can be at 500 in mere days. The coaches have winning records, and the pitchers have great stats. Every batter can be Babe Ruth, every fielder Jackie Robinson, on opening day.

“There is no sports event like Opening Day of baseball, the sense of beating back the forces of darkness,” author George Vecsey writes in A Year in the Sun (1989).

Thus, beating back my own disappointing memories, I decided to believe, really believe, in the home team despite its heart-breaking precedent and its past mediocrity.

The ghosts of failure would not haunt me this season, I vowed.

After all, it was Opening Day. They might win!

They did not.

However, these guys are pretty good, or so they say in Chicago.

The son who moved to the Chicago area called to say the local media there were highly respectful of the Royals and that they have some real talent on board this year. “The Sox won,” he reported.

The son who moved to Boston sent an iPhone photo from Opening Day at Fenway where the Boston Red Sox were playing Tampa Bay. “The Sox won,” the lucky duck texted.

So, should we rename our team Sox, I pondered? How about the Kansas City Royal Sox? Has a nice ring to it.

Not discouraged yet, I called the son who lives in Kansas City to tell him how great the Royals were in defeat. He quickly reminded me that I say this every Opening Day.

Baseball-almanac.com agrees, “Regardless of the outcome, Opening Day still remains as the number one date in the hearts, minds (and on the calendars) of baseball fans everywhere. The official countdown begins after the last pitch of the World Series when we can’t wait to hear those two magic words again, Play Ball!”

And if you will, those magic words, “We won!”

The late Jack Buck, St. Louis Cardinals sportscaster, summed up best our Opening Day dreams with his original on-air radio poem, titled “365”:

“When someone asks you your favorite sport
And you answer Baseball in a blink
There are certain qualities you must possess
And you’re more attached than you think.

In the frozen grip of winter
I’m sure you’ll agree with me
Not a day goes by without someone
Talking baseball to some degree. ?
The calendar flips on New Year’s Day
The Super Bowl comes and it goes
Get the other sports out of the way
The green grass and the fever grows. ?
It’s time to pack a bag and take a trip
To Arizona or the Sunshine State
Perhaps you can’t go, but there’s the radio
So you listen-you root-you wait.

They start the campaign, pomp and pageantry reign
You claim the Pennant on Opening Day.”

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