Was that really Carl Gray, esteemed mayor of Panama City, perched on the pitching mound at the city ballpark in suit and tie, rearing back and firing a strike into the glove of Colonel James Roberts, Commanding Officer at Tyndall Air Force Base?

It was indeed, and no, neither Gray nor Roberts were con- templating a career switch. This was strictly a ceremonial act, performed before several hundred fans on a cloudless, sunlit day in April, 1951.

The mayor's pitch signaled the return of professional baseball to Panama City after a 12-year absence.

For local sports fans, it was about time.      America's minor leagues were booming. The end of World War II brought 9,000 players home from the front, swelling the number of minor leagues sixfold from the 1943 low of ten.

In the spring of 1951, a berth opened in the Class-D Alabama State League, and Panama City's movers and shakers jumped at the chance to join. The old ballpark was barbered, trimmed, and painted, and 10,000 shares of stock in the team were sold at $10 a share.

For the first time a radio booth was constructed. Here legendary local newsman Frank would broadcast games, tapping his pencil against the microphone to simulate each crack of the bat.


Team officials announced the club would be renamed. Suggestions poured in: The Red Snappers, someone offered. The Tourists, said another.

Actually, the decision proved not at all difficult. The Class-B Pensacola Fliers had dropped out of professional ball in 1950. Panama City officials were able to purchase the Fliers' old bats, balls, and slightly frayed uniforms at a bargain price.

Thus the Panama City Fliers were born. 


The league--rechristened Alabama-Florida--boasted the smallest town in pro ball: Headland, Alabama, population 1,090. In retrospect it seems ironic that a pitcher for tiny Headland could bring the entire league to its knees with one pitch.

Yet that's exactly what happened.

Jack Clifton had a reputation as a dangerous pitcher with a combative disposition, pitching high-and-tight as a matter of course. Clifton had played in faster leagues than the Alabama-Florida and he seemed to throw with disdain for batters' safety. By the end of May, 1951, Clifton lead the loop in strikeouts--and hit-batsmen.

"Jack Clifton is a dangerous man as long as he is in uniform," wrote Dothan Eagle sportswriter Reuben Herring.

He was riding a 23-game hitting streak when he took the field on June 2 for a game against Headland. Clifton was on the mound when Johnson stepped into the batter's box for his first at-bat of the game.

Clifton wound up and let the ball fly. Johnson leaned in. The ball sailed high and inside and caught Johnson on the temple. Johnson crumpled to the ground, his skull fractured.

For a week he lay unconscious in a Dothan hospital.

"He was able to say a few words," his wife said, "and as best he could he told me that Jack couldn't help it."

On June 11, Ottis Johnson, 24, died.

The day after Johnson was buried, Headland was scheduled to play in Dothan. The Browns announced they would boycott the game if Clifton took the field. When Clifton insisted on pitching, the Dothan team walked off the field.     


Jack Clifton's next start was against the Fliers. Panama City's batters, standing as far from the plate as the rules allowed, couldn't race back to their dugout fast enough and Clifton pitched a no-hitter.

Within days Panama City, Dothan, Ozark, and Enterprise joined together and announced they would withdraw from the league unless Clifton and Headland manage Bubba Ball were banned for the season.

Headland team officials refused, and in mid-season the Alabama-Florida League came to a dead halt.

League directors held an emergency meeting at the Houston Hotel in Dothan. Reporters waiting outside the conference room could hear tense voices rising. Finally, at day's end a compromise was reached: Jack Clifton would finish the season as an outfielder.

It was a brief and bitter peace.

For one, Headland reneged and sent Clifton to the mound for key games. For another, league umpires declared a strike when Ozark player-manager Chase Riddle disputed an ump's questionable call with a haymaker that knocked the arbiter unconscious. The punch led to Riddle's brief suspension.

The 1951 season limped to an end. Headland ran away from the field, finishing 10 games in front of Ozark. Clifton finished as the league's dominant pitcher, leading the loop in wins (22) and strikeouts (245). The Fliers finished dead last, 42 games behind Headland.     


The 1952 season saw the Fliers improve slightly. Flier hurler Russ Harris recorded one of the best season's in league history, posting league-best totals in wins (27), ERA (2.83), and strikeouts (243). Still, the Fliers could only manage a fourth place finish.

Unquestionably, the Panama City team was in need of an overhaul. Fliers' owner Rowe Sudduth--son of H.L.--knew who exactly to turn to: Chase Riddle.

Riddle's 1951 suspension seemed to capture the essence of the man, who played the game with such intensity it seemed at time he would self-immolate.

To be sure, Riddle possessed enormous natural talent: two uncles--John and Elmer Riddle--had played in the big leagues, and Chase himself had signed with the Boston Red Sox while still a junior in higfh school. He advanced to Double-A before heading to Troy to attend the state university. There he was recruited into the Alabama-Florida League.

As manager, the 27-year-old Riddle developed a reputation as a taskmaster, tough to please. Riddle's players hustled or else.

When Ozark dropped out of the Alabama-Florida League prior to the 1953 season, Sudduth stepped in.

     "We purchased the entire team from Ozark for $3500," recalled Sudduth. "Then we sold off one pitcher from that bunch for $3500. That's when we really started to field a good team."

In 1953 Riddle, again as player-manager, turned in the greatest individual season in the history of the league--or any other league, for that matter. Panama City led the league in attendance that summer as Riddle led the Fliers to their first pennant.

Soon, however, the Alabama-Florida league would confront an enemy far more dangerous than a Jack Clifton fastball. Television was the enemy, and as it tightened its grip on the American household, minor league attendance began to drop.

It was the beginning of a war the tiny Class-D towns could never hope to win.