October 3: Donald Davidson: A Tale of Three Cities The first thing to be said about Donald Davidson is that he is four-foot-one and everybody looks up to him. The second thing is that Davidson, the teams' traveling secretary, is the biggest Milwaukee Brave of them all because he is the only member of the organization that has been with the Braves in Boston, Milwaukeee and Atlanta. And the third things is: don't mess with Donald Davidson. Davidson is a tough little guy who does his job. There is probably no better traveling secretary in baseball. Davidson says, "I never let my size bother me. If I have to, I'll tell people off. We've probably moved out of more hotels than any other team in baseball. I want the best for my players and I'll fight for them. I think they know that." They know it and they show it by heaping all kinds of good-natured invective upon Davidson. He is the target of as many practical jokes as anybody in the business, the subject of Rabelasian humor. Everybody knows, though, that Davidson, the waspish wit, will give back more than he receives. He is, inside the corridors of baseball, a legend in his time. Of all the voices that sounded in the Braves' division-clinching celebration this week, one of the loudest was Davidson's crying, "Bring on the blinking Mets." There are within the trade Donald Davidson stories. Like the time Davidson went up a hotel elevator in the wee hours with Warren Spahn and Lew Burdette. The pitchers went out at the 12th floor. As they left, Davidson asked them to press the button for his floor, the 26th, because he couldn't reach that high. Spahn and Burdette couldn't resist the opportunity. "Do it yourself, you little drip," they said and walked out. Davidson couldn't reach No. 26. He had to go back down to get somebody to take him upstairs. He had his room changed for a lower floor the next day; he was always fighting off then manager Birdie Tebbetts' attempts to get him installed on top floors. Davidson is 43. During the draft some friends fixed it up so that he had to answer a draft notice. While taking the phony physical, he kept saying, "This country is in pretty tough shape if it has to take a guy like me." At the 1959 World Series Bill Veeck of the White Sox angered the Braves' management by assigning them seats out in the boondocks. The World Series party was enlivened by the sight of Davidson pointing his finger up at Veeck, telling him off about his shabby treatment of the Braves. Veeck stood there and took it, laughing down at Davidson; nobody appreciated Davidson's spunk more than Veeck. For many people the Davidson vs. Veeck contretemps was notable because it paired two people who, by normal standards, would be called handicapped. But both, Veeck with only one leg, and little Donad D., were regarded by their peers as anything but handicapped. For stories about Davidson, one need go no further than Donald. Like the time his wife Patti, a former showgirl of normal height, was in a beauty parlor where they were talking about the Braves and the fact that the traveling secretary was a midget. "Gee," said one of the women, "imagine being married to a midget all your life." Mrs. Davidson piped up and said, "I am." On the phone from Atlanta yesterday Davidson recalled an owner of the Phillies who had three daschsunds. "When I visited, one of those dachsunds would bite me in the rear. No matter where I walked, that little SOB would go after me. He had one of those fancy Bryn Mawr names that begin with an 'M'. It's on the tip of my tongue, but I can't remember it. If I remember, I'll call you back." In a few moments the phone rang. It was Davidson. "I remembered the name of that dachsund. It was Sagamore," he said. You said it began with an "M?" "Yes, I have this system. I go through all the letters and it helps me remember. It's Sagamore and he used to bite the hell out of me." Davidson grew up in Boston and was one of the ball park rats hanging around Braves Field and Fenway Park. He became batboy for the Braves when Casey Stengel was the manager. "Stengel called me 'duck-ass.' I got to be mascot and clubhouse man. I made good money doing errands for the ball players. Ray Mueller, the old catcher, and Broadwday Wagner were nice to me. I was the only guy Lefty Grove allowed in the clubhouse after he got knocked out of a game, which wasn't often." Davidson went to Boston U. journalism school for a year and worked as a copy boy and cub reporter on the now-defunct Boston Post. His greatest talent was as a skater--on ice and on roller skates. He almost went with the ice show, then skated with a roller troupe for three years before going with the Braves. "I feel it's been a tremendous privilege to have been associated with baseball all these years and hope that I have contributed to the people I have worked for," he says. Davidson's distinction as a three-city Brave is marked by a cap presented him by Lou Perini the former Braves owner. The cap has the letters " B M A" on it; Davidson wears it with pride. He wears everything with pride as a matter of fact; there was no bigger dude than Davidson when he came back from a trip to England with the team owners (they acquired a socccer franchise) wearing a bowler and Saville Row threads. Davidson's growth was stunted by childhood bouts with sleeping fever. Today he appears as an honored guest at the Little People of America gatherings where undersized people are urged to conquer the problems of their lack of stature. Davidson says, "I usually stand upon a chair and open my remarks by saying, "I just quit smoking. If I would have known what it does, I would have quit years ago."
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5. People Are Funny 
