Nash Girls: Baseball League

The Nash automobile factory had a problem.
With so many men leaving for military service, the company had begun employing women in positions that had traditionally been occupied by men.
The women were proving themselves capable workers.
They were assembling automobiles, handling machinery, inspecting parts, and keeping production moving.
But management was beginning to notice something troubling.
The women were becoming exhausted.
Many were working twelve-hour shifts, from seven in the morning until seven at night, or from seven at night until seven the following morning.
Some had husbands serving in the military. Others were supporting households on their own.
And many had children waiting at home.
The long hours were beginning to affect morale.
Supervisors noticed women becoming withdrawn. Some cried during their breaks. Others seemed distracted, constantly worrying about their children.
The company had hired these women because it needed workers, but it was discovering that mothers separated from their children for twelve hours at a time faced difficulties that couldn’t be solved simply by paying them a decent wage.
Management began discussing ways to improve morale.
Eventually, someone proposed an unusual idea.
A company-sponsored baseball league.
Not for the employees themselves, but for their children.
The league would consist of teams representing different departments of the Nash factory.
The assembly department would have a team. So would the machine shop, body department, and other sections of the plant.
The children would practice and compete on baseball fields near the factory.
And the company would provide something particularly valuable to the parents.
Extra time with their children.
On days when their children’s teams practiced, participating employees would receive extended breaks. Practices would be scheduled to coincide with those breaks whenever possible.
Instead of spending the entire twelve-hour shift wondering how their children were doing, parents could walk outside, watch them play baseball, and spend a little time together.
Management believed the program would improve morale tremendously.
It seemed like an ingenious solution.
Until the rules were announced.
The baseball league was exclusively for boys between nine and thirteen years old.
And only employees whose sons participated would qualify for the additional break time.
What management had intended as a benefit quickly became a source of resentment.
THE PROBLEM WITH GOOD INTENTIONS
The announcement was posted on bulletin boards throughout the Nash factory.
At first, many employees were enthusiastic.
“My Billy’s eleven,” one woman announced. “He’ll love this!”
“My son Patrick is twelve,” another said. “He’s been playing baseball since he could hold a bat.”
But not everyone was smiling.
Mary Donovan, who worked in the assembly department, studied the announcement carefully.
“My son’s fourteen.”
Another woman looked over.
“Then I suppose he’s too old.”
Mary frowned.
“Too old by one year? I’ve been working here just as long as anybody else.”
Nearby, Catherine Murphy shook her head.
“I’ve got three children. My oldest is eight.”
“Then none of yours qualify?”
“Apparently not.”
Another woman spoke up.
“I have two daughters. Eleven and thirteen. Both of them play baseball with the neighborhood children.”
Someone else added, “And what about the women who haven’t got children at all? They’re working the same hours we are.”
The conversation grew louder.
The problem wasn’t simply that the company had organized a boys’ baseball league.
It was the additional break time.
A woman with a ten-year-old son might receive extra time away from her station several days a week.
Meanwhile, a woman working beside her, performing exactly the same job, would receive no such benefit because her children were the wrong age or happened to be girls.
The women understood that Nash was trying to do something positive.
But the arrangement seemed terribly unfair.
And nobody was more irritated than Margaret O’Leary.
MARGARET O’LEARY HAS SOMETHING TO SAY
Margaret O’Leary was thirty-four years old.
Her husband was serving overseas, leaving her responsible for three children.
Her oldest was Frances, thirteen.
Her two younger children were boys, ages nine and six.
Margaret worked in the assembly department and had developed something of a reputation.
She was an excellent employee.
She was also a woman who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind.
If something didn’t make sense, Margaret generally made certain everyone knew it.
When she read the baseball announcement, she immediately recognized the problem.
During the afternoon break, she joined several women discussing the new league.
“Well,” Margaret said, “isn’t this a wonderful arrangement?”
Mary Donovan looked at her.
“You don’t sound very happy.”
“Why should I be?”
“Your youngest boy is nine. He can play.”
Margaret shook her head.
“He doesn’t care much for baseball. My thirteen-year-old daughter is the ballplayer in our family.”
“Well, she can’t play.”
“Exactly.”
Margaret unfolded the announcement.
“Let me understand this. We’re all working twelve hours a day. We’re all doing the same jobs. But because Mrs. Sullivan has a ten-year-old boy, she gets extra time away from her station. I’ve got a thirteen-year-old daughter, and I don’t. How exactly is that fair?”
One woman shrugged.
“Well, Margaret, it’s supposed to be about the children.”
Margaret looked directly at her.
“Then why aren’t all our children included?”
Nobody answered.
She continued.
“Mary has a fourteen-year-old son. He’s too old. Catherine has an eight-year-old son. He’s too young. I’ve got a thirteen-year-old daughter. She’s the wrong sex.”
Several women laughed.
Margaret wasn’t finished.
“And what about the women who don’t have children? They get to stay inside and keep building automobiles while the rest of us go outside and watch baseball?”
“That’s what bothers me,” Mary said. “They’re rewarding certain workers because they happen to have boys born in the right years.”
Margaret nodded.
“Six months ago, they were telling us that building automobiles was men’s work.”
She glanced around the room.
“Now we’re good enough to do men’s work for twelve hours a day, but our daughters aren’t good enough to play a man’s game?”
A woman near the window smiled.
“Margaret, you’re going to start trouble.”
Margaret folded the announcement.
“No. I’m going to see just how foolish this rule really is.”
A DAUGHTER NAMED FRANKIE
Frances O’Leary had never been particularly interested in the things her mother expected of a young lady.
She preferred baseball to dolls.
She enjoyed climbing trees, running races, and playing games with the neighborhood boys.
At thirteen, she was slender and athletic.
Her sandy brown hair fell just past her shoulders, although she usually tucked it beneath a baseball cap whenever she played.
She often wore an old pair of trousers that had belonged to a cousin.
Her mother tolerated the trousers for playing outside, although she insisted Frances wear dresses to church.
Frances was also an exceptionally good baseball player.
She could throw accurately, catch difficult fly balls, and hit surprisingly well.
Her younger brothers admired her abilities.
And the neighborhood boys had long since accepted that Frankie O’Leary was one of the best players among them.
When Margaret returned home that evening, she found Frances playing catch with her nine-year-old brother.
“Frankie!” Margaret called.
Frances turned.
“Yes, Ma?”
“Come inside. I’ve got something to tell you.”
At the kitchen table, Margaret explained the new Nash baseball league.
Frances became excited immediately.
“Can I play?”
“Well, that’s the problem.”
“What problem?”
“It’s only for boys between nine and thirteen.”
Frances frowned.
“That’s stupid.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Why can’t girls play?”
“Apparently, somebody at Nash doesn’t believe girls belong on a baseball field.”
Frances folded her arms.
“I can play better than most of the boys.”
“I know you can.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Frances looked at her mother.
“How would they know?”
Margaret raised an eyebrow.
“Know what?”
“That I’m a girl.”
Margaret stared at her daughter.
Frances continued.
“Most of the boys trying out won’t know me. And the men running the teams probably don’t know everybody’s children.”
Margaret considered the idea.
Her daughter was thirteen, but she was still slender and had not yet developed the mature figure of an older teenage girl.
With her boyish clothing and baseball cap, she could already be mistaken for a boy from a distance.
There was only one obvious problem.
Her hair.
Margaret studied the sandy brown strands hanging around her daughter’s shoulders.
Then she smiled.
“Frances, how would you feel about getting your hair cut?”
Frances shrugged.
“I’ve been wanting it shorter anyway.”
“How much shorter?”
Margaret thought for a moment.
“Have you ever seen those boys with their hair standing straight up, cut perfectly flat across the top?”
Frances nodded.
“Like a brush?”
“Exactly. A flattop.”
Frances grinned.
“Can I have one?”
Margaret laughed.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
A VISIT TO FRANK’S BARBERSHOP
Two days later, Margaret and Frances walked into Frank’s Barbershop.
The shop stood across from the Nash factory grounds and had become increasingly popular with the women employed there.
Frank was working at the first chair.
Vivian occupied the middle station.
Eddie, the youngest barber, was sweeping near the third chair.
Margaret was familiar with the establishment.
Vivian recognized her immediately.
“Margaret O’Leary. What brings you in?”
Margaret gestured toward her daughter.
“Frankie needs a haircut.”
Vivian looked at the girl’s shoulder-length hair.
“Certainly. What did you have in mind?”
“A flattop.”
Vivian stopped arranging her scissors.
“A flattop?”
“That’s right.”
Frank looked over from his chair.
“That’s a rather unusual request for a young lady.”
Margaret smiled.
“That’s the whole idea.”
Vivian looked at Frances.
“Does your daughter know what you’re asking for?”
Frances nodded enthusiastically.
“Yes, ma’am. I want it.”
Margaret stepped closer.
“And I don’t mean one of those short haircuts that still looks like a girl’s. I want the sides clipped close, the back taken up short, and the top standing straight up.”
She held her hand horizontally above her daughter’s head.
“Flat across. Just like a boy’s.”
Frank chuckled.
“Margaret, you’ve got something planned.”
“You know me too well, Frank.”
Vivian motioned toward her chair.
“All right, Frankie. Have a seat.”
Frances climbed into the middle barber chair.
Vivian fastened a white cape around her neck and began combing through the sandy brown hair.
“Before I cut all this off, somebody had better explain what’s going on.”
Margaret told them about the new Nash baseball league.
She explained the age restrictions, the exclusion of girls, and the extra breaks being given only to parents whose sons participated.
Frank listened carefully.
“So they’re giving some employees additional breaks just because they happen to have boys between nine and thirteen?”
“Exactly,” Margaret answered.
Vivian shook her head.
“Well, that doesn’t seem particularly fair.”
“And here’s the best part,” Margaret continued. “My Frankie can play baseball better than half the boys in our neighborhood.”
Frank smiled.
“So you’re going to send her to tryouts?”
“That’s right.”
“And nobody’s supposed to know she’s a girl?”
“Not until she’s made the team.”
Vivian looked at Frances in the mirror.
“Well, Frankie, I suppose we’d better make you look like a ballplayer.”
THE FLATTOP HAIRCUT
Vivian began by combing Frances’s hair straight down.
The sandy brown strands reached beyond her shoulders.
She gathered a thick section at the back and positioned her scissors.
“Last chance, Frankie. Once I start cutting, there’s no putting it back.”
Frances smiled.
“Go ahead.”
The scissors closed.
A long section of hair dropped onto the cape.
Vivian continued cutting.
Several inches disappeared from the back.
Then she moved to the sides.
More hair fell into Frances’s lap.
Within minutes, the shoulder-length hairstyle was gone.
Vivian worked around the girl’s ears, removing the remaining length.
Then she picked up her hand-operated clippers.
“These will take the sides much closer.”
Frances looked at the metal instrument.
“Will it hurt?”
“Not if you sit still.”
Vivian placed the clippers at the base of Frances’s neck and began squeezing the handles.
Click-click-click.
The blades moved upward, removing the hair close to the scalp.
Short pieces of sandy brown hair dropped onto the cape.
Vivian worked carefully around the ears and up the sides.
Frances watched the transformation in the mirror.
Her ears were completely exposed.
The back of her head was closely clipped.
And the remaining hair on top looked unusually long compared with the sides.
Margaret stepped closer.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Vivian picked up her scissors and comb.
“Next comes the top.”
She dampened the remaining hair and began lifting it with the comb.
Using scissors over the comb, she shortened it gradually.
Frances watched as more hair fell.
Vivian worked carefully, trying to create a short, squared-off shape.
It was not an ordinary haircut.
In 1917, the tall, sharply sculpted flattops that would become popular decades later were not yet a common style. But Frank and Vivian understood how to produce a short, upright brush cut with a level top using hand clippers, scissors, and a comb.
Vivian made several passes.
Finally, she stepped back.
“How’s that?”
Margaret examined her daughter’s haircut.
The sides were close.
The back was neatly tapered.
The top was short.
But Margaret wasn’t satisfied.
“Still too much hair.”
Vivian raised an eyebrow.
“Margaret, I’ve already taken quite a bit off.”
“I know. But I want it shorter.”
She pointed toward the top.
“I want it standing straight up. Flat across. Not combed over like an ordinary boy’s haircut.”
Frank walked over.
“Let me have a look.”
He examined the shape.
“She’s right about one thing. If you’re going to make a flattop out of it, you’ll need to take that top down a little more.”
Vivian nodded.
“All right, Frankie. Your mother wants it shorter.”
Frances grinned.
“So do I.”
Vivian returned to work.
She combed the hair upright, trimming it repeatedly until the top formed a short, level brush.
Frank offered a little advice about the crown, where the hair naturally wanted to lie down.
Vivian adjusted the cut, leaving just enough length for the stiffest sections to stand.
She finished by working carefully around the temples and neckline.
When she finally put down her scissors, Frances had a strikingly short, squared-off haircut.
The sides and back were clipped close.
The top stood in a short brush, trimmed into a flat, level shape.
It wasn’t the tall, sharply sculpted flattop that would become fashionable decades later, but it was unmistakably the haircut Margaret had requested.
Vivian brushed the loose hairs from Frances’s neck.
“There. That’s about as flat as I can make it.”
Margaret studied her daughter.
“Now that’s what I wanted.”
Vivian turned the chair toward the mirror.
Frances stared at her reflection.
She hardly recognized herself.
Her sandy brown hair was gone, replaced by a short, upright flattop.
She reached up and rubbed the back of her head.
Then she ran her hand across the top.
“It’s like a little brush!”
Frank laughed.
“That’s what happens when you get a proper flattop.”
Frances smiled broadly.
“I love it.”
Margaret reached into her purse.
“How much do I owe you?”
Vivian told her the price.
Margaret paid, then handed Frances her baseball cap.
Frances pulled it on.
With her boyish clothing and closely cropped hair, she looked remarkably like one of the neighborhood boys.
Frank shook his head.
“Margaret, I think you’re going to cause some trouble.”
Margaret smiled.
“Frank, I think Nash caused the trouble. We’re just going to see what happens.”
A BOY NAMED FRANKIE
Frances had always been called Frankie by her family.
It was a nickname that suited her.
And it was a name that could just as easily belong to a boy.
When Margaret brought her daughter to the Nash baseball tryouts, she introduced her simply as Frankie O’Leary.
The tryouts were held on a field near the factory.
Several teams were being organized, each representing a different department.
Margaret had arranged for Frankie to try out for the assembly department team.
A supervisor stood near home plate with a clipboard.
“Name?”
“Frankie O’Leary.”
“Age?”
“Thirteen.”
“Parent works in assembly?”
“Yes, sir.”
The supervisor looked toward Margaret.
“That’s your boy?”
Margaret smiled.
“That’s my Frankie.”
The supervisor made a mark on his clipboard.
“All right. Get out there.”
Margaret walked toward the area where the other parents were gathering.
She had to suppress a smile.
It had worked.
At least so far.
THE TRYOUTS
Frankie wasn’t nervous about playing baseball.
She had been playing with boys for years.
What worried her was being recognized.
A few boys from her neighborhood were participating, but most of the children came from other parts of Kenosha.
Fortunately, none of the boys who knew her seemed particularly interested in explaining anything.
One of them, Patrick Sullivan, walked over.
“Frankie, what are you doing here?”
“Trying out.”
Patrick looked at her closely.
Then he noticed her haircut.
“Good grief. What happened to your hair?”
“Got a flattop.”
“I can see that!”
He laughed.
“You look like one of the fellows now.”
“That’s the idea.”
Patrick looked toward the supervisors.
“Do they know?”
“No.”
He grinned.
“Well, don’t worry. I won’t say anything. I want you on our team.”
The tryouts began with throwing and catching.
Frankie performed well.
Then came fielding.
She stopped several difficult ground balls and made accurate throws to first base.
The supervisor began paying attention.
“Who’s that O’Leary boy?”
One of the assistants checked the list.
“Frankie O’Leary. Thirteen. Assembly department.”
“Good arm.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then came batting.
Frankie stepped up to the plate.
The first pitch came in high.
She let it pass.
The second was closer.
She swung.
The ball sailed into the outfield.
Several boys shouted as she ran toward first base.
She rounded the bag and continued toward second.
By the time the ball returned to the infield, Frankie was standing safely on second base.
Margaret, watching from the sidelines, could hardly contain herself.
“That’s my Frankie!”
One of the other mothers smiled.
“You’ve got quite a ballplayer there.”
Margaret nodded proudly.
“Always have.”
The woman glanced toward the field.
“How old is your boy?”
“Thirteen.”
“Mine’s twelve. I hope he makes the team.”
Margaret looked back toward Frankie.
“So do I.”
THE FACTORY BREAK
The most unusual part of the Nash baseball program was the opportunity it gave parents to spend time with their children.
On practice days, the factory arranged for participating parents to have an extended break.
For women who had spent months working long shifts and worrying about their children, those extra minutes meant a great deal.
During the tryouts, Margaret was allowed additional time away from her station.
She watched Frankie run, throw, and catch.
For the first time in weeks, she wasn’t thinking about production quotas or the long hours ahead.
She was thinking about her child.
And she wasn’t the only one.
Several mothers were laughing and cheering.
Some had brought sandwiches.
Others sat together discussing their children and the teams they hoped would be selected.
Margaret realized that Nash had actually come up with a wonderful idea.
The only problem was that management hadn’t thought it through.
Why should mothers with daughters be excluded from something that could bring so much happiness?
And why should parents with children outside the nine-to-thirteen age bracket be denied the same opportunity?
As she watched Frankie make another excellent play, Margaret became even more determined.
If her daughter made the team, she intended to make certain the factory understood exactly what had happened.
But not yet.
First, Frankie had to make the team.
THE ANNOUNCEMENT
Two days later, the names of the selected players were posted on a bulletin board near the factory entrance.
Margaret hurried over during her break.
Several employees were gathered around the announcement.
She scanned the names under the assembly department.
There it was.
Frankie O’Leary — Age 13 — Assembly Department.
Her daughter had made the team.
Margaret smiled broadly.
One of the other women noticed.
“Well?”
“Frankie made it.”
“That’s wonderful!”
Margaret nodded.
“Yes, it is.”
Another woman leaned closer.
“Margaret, are you really going to let this go on?”
Margaret looked at her.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because sooner or later somebody’s going to find out.”
Margaret folded her arms.
“Find out what?”
“That Frankie’s a girl.”
Margaret smiled.
“Then perhaps somebody will finally have to explain why that matters.”
Mary Donovan approached the bulletin board.
“Well, Margaret, congratulations. Your child made the team.”
“Thank you.”
Mary looked at the announcement.
“My fourteen-year-old still isn’t allowed to play.”
Margaret’s smile faded.
“I know, Mary.”
“And Catherine’s eight-year-old can’t play either.”
“I know.”
Mary shook her head.
“It’s a strange arrangement. Some of us get extra breaks, and some of us don’t.”
Margaret looked toward the factory offices.
“That’s exactly why somebody needs to challenge it.”
A DIFFERENT KIND OF VICTORY
That evening, Margaret came home carrying the news.
Frankie was sitting at the kitchen table with her younger brothers.
Margaret placed the paper in front of her.
“Well, Frankie, you’d better start practicing.”
Frankie looked down.
Her eyes widened.
“I made it?”
“You made it.”
Frankie jumped from her chair.
“I made the team!”
Her brothers cheered.
Margaret watched her daughter celebrate.
Then Frankie became serious.
“Ma, what happens when they find out?”
Margaret sat down beside her.
“Well, that’s something we’ll have to deal with.”
“Will they throw me off?”
“They might.”
Frankie looked disappointed.
Margaret placed a hand on her shoulder.
“But if they do, they’re going to have to explain why a girl who earned her place on the team isn’t allowed to play.”
Frankie considered that.
“Do you think they’ll change the rules?”
“I don’t know.”
Margaret smiled.
“But I know one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You earned that place, Frankie. Nobody handed it to you.”
Frankie reached up and rubbed the closely clipped hair at the back of her head.
“Do you think I should keep my flattop?”
Margaret laughed.
“Well, considering how much trouble we’ve gone through, I suppose you’d better.”
Frankie grinned.
“Good. I like it.”
She ran her palm across the short, upright hair on top.
“And I don’t think I’m ever growing it long again.”
BACK AT FRANK’S BARBERSHOP
The following morning, Margaret stopped at Frank’s Barbershop on her way to work.
Vivian was preparing her station.
Frank was reading the newspaper.
Eddie was sweeping near the third chair.
“Well?” Vivian asked.
Margaret smiled.
“She made the team.”
Vivian laughed.
“She did?”
“Sure did.”
Frank lowered his newspaper.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
Margaret leaned against the counter.
“That little girl outplayed half the boys who tried out.”
Frank chuckled.
“And nobody figured it out?”
“Not yet.”
Vivian shook her head.
“Margaret, what are you going to do when they do?”
Margaret looked toward the factory across the street.
“I’m going to ask them a question.”
“What question?”
Margaret smiled.
“If a woman can build a Nash automobile, why can’t her daughter play baseball for Nash?”
Frank folded his newspaper.
“That’s a pretty good question.”
Margaret nodded.
“And there’s another one.”
Vivian looked at her.
“What’s that?”
“Why should one mother get extra time with her children just because she happens to have a boy between nine and thirteen, while another mother working beside her doesn’t?”
Frank considered that.
“Well, I suppose that’s something management ought to think about.”
Margaret nodded.
“They had a good idea, Frank. A wonderful idea, actually. But they went about it the wrong way.”
Vivian smiled.
“Well, I suppose I had a little part in all this.”
Margaret laughed.
“Vivian, without that flattop, I don’t think we’d have gotten past the fellow with the clipboard.”
Frank shook his head.
“Just wait until management finds out a girl with a flattop made their boys’ baseball team.”
Margaret straightened her coat.
“Well, I’d better get to work. I’ve got automobiles to build.”
Vivian called after her.
“And you’ve got a baseball player to raise!”
Margaret laughed.
“That too!”
As the door closed, Frank looked at Vivian.
“You know something?”
“What?”
“That woman is going to give Nash management a headache.”
Vivian smiled.
“Maybe.”
She glanced toward the factory.
“But I think she’s going to give a whole lot of mothers something to cheer about.”
Frank returned to his newspaper.
Then he looked up again.
“And Vivian?”
“Yes?”
“When Frankie comes back for another haircut, make sure you keep that flattop looking sharp.”
Vivian laughed.
“Oh, don’t worry, Frank. I don’t think that girl will ever let me cut it any other way.”
Outside, the Nash factory whistle sounded.
Across the street, hundreds of women returned to their stations.
Some had sons who would be playing baseball.
Others had daughters, younger children, older children, or no children at all.
They were all working the same twelve-hour shifts.
But only a fortunate few would receive the extra time away from their jobs.
And somewhere in Kenosha, a thirteen-year-old girl with a brand-new flattop was preparing to prove that she belonged on the baseball field just as much as any boy.
For now, Nash management had no idea what was coming.

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