The Washington press conference was hushed Sixty newsmen nervously awaited the word of the President. The latter stilled the already insufferable stillness. "My arm is ready," was all he said. And it was enough; he might well have added that his throwing wing was "loose as gooseberries" or any other more dramatic announcement. But the newsmen could add all that. They had heard enough--the highest authority in the land had commented on the news the land was waiting for. His arm was ready to loss in the first ball of today's game in Griffith Stadium, opening the 1939 major league baseball season.

The condition of the President's arm, unfortunately enough, cannot be taken as assurance that all the other flingers of the nation's pastimes are as well off. For this season in the sport might well be termed the year of the sore-arms, or at least, the year of the question-mark arms. Whether due to the widely discussed influence of the "rabbit" quality in American horsehide, or to the more mundane belief that managers have overworked their pitchers, the fact remains that an inordinate percentage of the country's pitching greats have grievous afflictions in their flippers. Carl Hubbell, Dizzy Dean, Bob Feller, Lefty Grove, Schoolboy Rowe, Van Lingle Mungo, and Wes Ferrel, these are only a few of the burdened. X-rays have been taken, yes, and chipped bones and bent bones and extraneous bones have been removed. But many of these men have little faith in science. Some back astrology, some herbs, and others pronounce definite cures by wrapping rabbits around their arms by the light of the three-quarters moon.

They are ready today, but the worth of their cures will only be seen with the actions which follow. And America will follow the race, and undoubtedly--for we say this every year--the season will end with the subway series, a Boston dime as opposed to the New York nickel, between the Boston Bees and the Red Sox. For it could happen. The Yankees might be train wrecked, or drafted, or something.