When I was young, a lot of folks in town knew the story of Marty Ledeboer whose death on August 3, 1947 reads like a tragic movie script. Now that memory fades.
Martin Ledeboer came to Sleepy Eye as a fresh faced, 18-year-old in the summer of 1945. He was recruited to play for the Sleepy Eye Indians. The nation was entering the post war period. Baseball was immensely popular, nowhere more so than around here. The New Ulm Brewers, Springfield Tigers, along with the Indians played in front of crowds in the thousands.
The Western Minny League was a semi-pro league that hosted a high level of baseball. Each town mixed the most talented local players with hired talent from further away. Ledeboer came to Sleepy Eye out of high school to play for the Indians. He also played college ball at Moorhead State Teachers College and was talented enough to draw attention from pro scouts.
It was common for hired players to be given a job to supplement their baseball earnings. Marty worked at Hollmer Drug Store on Main Street. Ray Hollmer was on the baseball association board and a big supporter of the Indians. By all accounts, Ledeboer was personable and liked by all he met. He was known for putting on an apron to work the soda fountain at the drug store and joking with the customers. Kids were especially drawn to Marty. When I talked to folks who remembered him, it was invariably with a smile.
In Ledeboer’s first season in town, the Indians made the State Tournament. In that time before pro sports teams in Minnesota, the State Baseball Tournament was a big event, receiving front page coverage. Unfortunately, Sleepy Eye’s ace pitcher in 1945, Chief Wonson, was declared ineligible for the tournament because he had played a few games early in the year for the Minneapolis Millers, and the Indians lost out. Regardless, a love affair had been cemented between the community and their team. Ledeboer was the fleet footed centerfielder and a fan favorite.
On August 3rd, 1947, the Indians had an afternoon game at Redwood Falls. It was an important late-season match for playoff position, and hundreds of Sleepy Eye fans would make the trip to Redwood as they did for every road game. They liked their team’s chances with Dick Lanahan on the mound. The 35-year-old Lanahan had pitched for the Washington Senators and Pittsburgh Pirates. The year before he had played with the St. Paul Saints before signing with Sleepy Eye.
The team had a makeshift locker room in the basement of the Lincoln Tavern in downtown Sleepy Eye. As they were preparing to leave for Redwood Falls, Marty assured friends there that he would get a hit that day and break a mini-slump he was in. They wished him luck as he flashed his infectious grin.
The game was something of a slugfest when Ledeboer led off the seventh inning. Sleepy Eye was ahead 9 to 4. Marty was still looking for his first hit. He laced a single to right, his Lincoln Tavern promise fulfilled. It was a hot, muggy afternoon and Marty was sweating as he pulled into first base. The Indians coach was Bugga Stellges, and he flashed the steal sign from the third base coach’s box. Catcher Casey Dowling was coaching first and Ledeboer asked him to lift the sign. Something wasn’t right. He felt fatigued. Worse, his heart was racing.
Years later I talked to Marty’s sister when I was doing work for the Brown County Historical Society. She told me that a doctor had identified a weakness in his heart. Marty also had high blood pressure, and the doctor recommended Ledeboer stay away from strenuous activity. His family talked about him quitting baseball, but Marty said he loved playing too much. He knew there was risk. He even told his parents once that if he was going to die he would just as soon it be in his uniform.
Carlie Sperl was the next man up for the Indians. There would be no chance for Marty to catch his breath. Sperl pounded a ball that got all the way to the fence for a triple. Ledeboer took off as best he could. Fans noticed that he began to weave as he rounded third, and appeared to stumble across home plate. He turned toward the Indian dugout, but only made it part way before collapsing onto the grass.
Marty’s father Garret had travelled from Moorhead for the game. He was sitting with family friend and Marty’s pastor Hillis Slaymaker. As the crowd grew silent, they raced on to the field and knelt over Marty who was conscious yet. When he saw his father he said, “Dad, I got a hit, didn’t I Dad?” Then, “Dad, I’m leaving. Say goodbye to Mom and the kids and Millie for me.” Millie was Marty’s girlfriend back home. Marty looked up at Pastor Slaymaker and said a small prayer and then lost consciousness.
Marty was taken to the hospital in Redwood Falls where the town’s two doctors did what they could for him. He briefly came to and told Ray Hollmer that he would have to take care of the store now. Marty passed away soon after.
Word spread quickly in Ledeboer’s adopted town. Al Anderson of the baseball board said, “Ledeboer had the best disposition of any player we have ever had here. He will be a tremendous morale loss to the team and the town.” Marty had many friends among players in the Western Minny. Hank Nichlasson of the New Ulm Brewers said, “What a swell chap Marty was. If every player conducted himself like he did, what a pleasure it would be to play baseball.”
A funeral service was held Wednesday to a packed church in Prinsburg, the town where Marty was born 21 years before. Besides Marty’s parents, three brothers, and seven sisters, all his teammates and many fans from Sleepy Eye attended.
A lot of us talk about doing something we love in our final moments, dying in the saddle, so to speak. Few of us get that chance. In Marty Ledeboer’s case that is exactly what happened. The death of such a personable and talented young man is of course sad. But there is a nobility in the story.
Later in August, 1947, the Sleepy Eye Herald Dispatch printed a tribute to Ledeboer. It was a poem written by a handicapped man from Lake Lillian who Marty had befriended. Here are a few verses:
The final game is over, the ninth inning has been played, And our centerfielder has laid his bat away.
He went out, as God would have it – among a sporting throng, With his fans and pals around him – after a run so very long.
It was not the opposing pitcher who did finally him retire, It was Death who made the putout, and God was the Umpire.
Now the Angels are his teammates, and they’ll see him safely thru To a richer, better ballfield, where all men are tried and true.