November 16, 2022

Author’s Note

Former big-leaguer pitcher Mike Kilkenny played parts of five seasons in the majors from 1969 to 1973. He was named the Detroit Tigers’ rookie of the year in 1969 and was one of only a handful of players to suit up and play for four major-league teams in one season (1972).

During his time in the majors, Kilkenny was able to accrue a lifetime of experiences off the field, including an unlikely friendship with former FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover.

I first met Mike in 2012, when I was working as a colour commentator for the London Majors of the Intercounty League. I had played for the Majors the year before as a mediocre left-handed reliever. Mike also played for the Majors, however he was the team’s biggest star, going 9-0, with 129 strikeouts in 1975 to lead the Majors to an IBL championship.

After his pro days Kilkenny helped the London Majors to a title.

He joined the broadcast booth that day in 2012 and regaled me with stories from his career. He wanted to get a book published about his life. He reached out to me again in 2017.

The following is a first-person account of his friendship with Hoover that I wrote after interviewing Mike over the phone over a number of weeks in 2017. The goal of the feature was to garner interest in a potential book about his life that unfortunately never materialized. Mike passed away in 2018.

I had forgotten about this piece until I came across it recently while I was re-organizing my computer. I want to thank the Canadian Baseball Network for publishing a portion of Mike’s incredible story.

I hope you enjoy it.

- Mike Arsenault (@MikeGArsenault)

* * *

“Mr. Hoover would like to see you”

By Mike Kilkenny as told to Mike Arsenault

Canadian Baseball Network

“Mr. Kilkenny, it’s the front desk. There’s a man in the lobby who wants to speak with you.”

“Thanks, I’ll be down in a minute.”

I hung up and went downstairs. I didn’t think anything of it. There were always people in every American League city who wanted to talk to us.

We were at the Shoreham Hotel in Washington, D.C., in town to play the Senators. This was two years before they moved to Arlington, Tex. and became the Texas Rangers. It was June 1970. We had just split a four-game series in Cleveland against the Indians.

Freddie Scherman, a fellow pitcher on the Tiger staff, was my roommate on the road. We were both in our second year with Detroit. Freddie came down to the lobby with me. He wanted to get a bite to eat in the hotel and I was going to join him after I talked to the guy.

I walked into the lobby and there were a few people milling around.

Then I noticed this hard-looking guy in a dark suit standing off to the side. He immediately came over to us.

“Mr. Hoover would like to see you.”

“What?” I must have misheard him.

“Mr. Hoover would like to see you,” he repeated.

The guy wasn’t joking. I turn to Freddie. “If I don’t show up back here in a couple of hours, send someone looking for me.”

I was joking. Kind of.

“Okay, Killer, no problem,” Freddie said.

Everyone called me Killer. Even my wife. The first guy to ever call me that was my catcher in rookie ball (at Cocoa, Fla.). The guy’s name was Benny Roop. My nickname was a combination of my last name and the reputation of my curveball. Whenever Benny wanted a strikeout, he’d trot out to the mound and say, “Let’s throw the killer, eh, Killer.” And Benny was from Berea, Ky,, so each syllable sounded like it was drenched in bourbon.

I walked out of the hotel with the guy and got into the backseat of his car for the 40-minute drive into downtown DC. I didn’t really ask him any questions, although I probably should have. But I was dumb as hell back then.

We pulled onto Pennsylvania Avenue and he drove around to the back of the FBI building. He parked underground and walked me over to an elevator. He pressed a button and sent me up. A woman was sitting at a desk just outside of the elevator door.

“How can I help you?”

“Uh, I’m Mike Kilkenny.”

She smiled. “Mr. Hoover is expecting you.”

She got up and led me down the hallway. She stopped in front of a door.

“This way please,” she said, opening it for me.

I walked through the door.

And there was J. Edgar Hoover standing in the middle of his office wearing a bright blue sport coat. He looked like hell in that jacket. He was still wearing his black suit pants and the jacket was way too long.

But I guess that’s my fault. Since I bought it for him.

* * *

This all started the previous September. We were in Washington again to play the Senators. In the midst of a seven-game road trip, we were stumbling toward a second-place finish in the AL East, 19 games behind the Baltimore Orioles.

And six of us were invited to the FBI building to meet with Hoover. It was me, Tom Timmermann, Dick Tracewski, Jim Price, Daryl Patterson, and our third-base coach, Grover Resinger.

To this day, I still have no idea why I was invited. You would have thought it would have been Al Kaline or Denny McLain or something. But I was invited, so I went. Those were perks of being in the big leagues. We were always getting invited to different events. Some guys on the team didn’t want to do that stuff. But anytime I was asked, I went. I wanted to experience everything that I could.

So, on Sept. 12, the group of us went to the FBI building. And it was a similar experience to when I visited again in June by myself. We came in through the back of the building and took a private elevator to Hoover’s floor.

I have no idea what the main floors of the FBI building even look like. There wasn’t a tour. It was straight up in the private elevator.

However, this time there was security before we got to Hoover’s office.

They wanted to make sure we didn’t have anything in our overcoats. But I wasn’t nervous. Maybe I should have been. But ball players at that level, we didn’t really worry much about anything. We were excited to meet him, actually. He was a very private man and there were a lot of rumours about him, so it was neat to see him in the flesh. I was a kid from a small town in Canada getting a chance to meet with the Director of the FBI.

I will admit, though, that when we were first introduced to him, there were definitely some nerves. He was a powerful guy. We all called him Mr. Hoover. His reputation was powerful, but he certainly didn’t look it. Hoover wasn’t a big guy. He was pretty short and was wearing what looked like an undertaker’s suit, black with a pinstripe.

He was straight-laced, very conservative. Actually, everyone else in our group was wearing a suit that day, too, except for yours truly. I was wearing a double-breasted seersucker blazer, with white boots and black pants.

When I got to the big leagues, I dressed differently from most guys. I’d wear a fire-engine red jacket with a bright yellow shirt and a blue tie. Some of the veterans would give me a hard time about my clothes, but it was the late ‘60s. Most of the guys started dressing more like I did. I don’t know if it was stylish, but we thought we looked good.

The six of us were standing in this hallway outside of Hoover’s office. He went around to each of us and made small talk for a few minutes. He came over to me, I can’t remember if I was the third or fourth guy he talked to, and he looked me up and down.

“That’s quite the jacket,” he said.

I glanced around at the brown walls. “Well, you could probably brighten this place up a bit. You should have a jacket like this for yourself. You’d probably look pretty sporty in it.”

I don’t know why I said that, but Hoover chuckled.

“Do you want to try it on?”

Everyone laughed. We were built like polar opposites. I was 6-foot-3 and weighed about 140 pounds and he was a lot shorter than me. We were like the odd couple: Hoover standing there in his undertaker suit and I was dressed like a pimp.

A quick aside: I remember we were at a bar in Baltimore one time after a night game. There were four of us sitting around a table eating crab and having a few beers. And a woman came over and asked us for our autographs.

“You guys are ballplayers, aren’t you?”

“Well, how do you know that?”

“There are only two types of people that dress like you guys are dressed. Pimps and ballplayers. And I don’t think you guys are pimps.”

It was fair to say my outfit clashed with the buttoned-down atmosphere of the FBI. A photographer came in after the initial chit-chat and each of us got our picture taken with Hoover. I still have mine. They were actually developed and waiting for us at the end of our visit.

After pictures, Hoover invited us into his office for lunch. There were two doors leading into the office. The one door was where I entered and exited. To this day, I have no idea what was behind door number two.

Hoover’s office was big and imposing. There was an FBI seal on one wall. He had a big wood desk along the back wall that was polished to a bright shine. And there was a boardroom table in the middle of the office with a glass top. That’s where the seven of us had lunch.

We spent around 90 minutes with him. The conversation during lunch was pretty light.

We didn’t get into politics or anything in that first meeting. Everything was mostly about sports and baseball. Hoover seemed like a pretty big sports fan. Beside his desk, about seven-feet-high, there was a glass case filled with sports memorabilia. There were signed footballs and baseballs. I never got a good look at the case to see exactly what was in there. We had brought him an autographed ball that was signed by the entire team.

I remember that we did talk about what a dump RFK stadium was to play in. It was literally built on top of a dump. Hands down the worst field in the league. Occasionally, you’d have something come up through the ground. I was shagging flies once during batting practice. And I ended up kicking around pieces of a glass bottle that had come up from God knows where.

It was a very enjoyable visit. I didn’t talk to him anymore than anyone else, but we seemed to hit it off over my jacket. After lunch, we said our goodbyes, and the FBI drove us to the team hotel.

It was a surreal experience. It was my first full year in the big leagues. I was still happy to be there and there I was having lunch with J. Edgar Hoover.

* * *

“Freddie, let’s go redeem this stuff.”

“You want to do it now, Killer?”

“Yeah, we have some time to kill before we have to head to the park,” I said. “There has to be a distribution centre nearby.”

We were in California to play the Angels. I was in the starting rotation for parts of 1970, but I wasn’t throwing a ton. My turn kept getting skipped over. It was early June and, before the start of the series in Anaheim, the Angels had me record an interview for their radio pregame show.

I didn’t do a ton of media stuff back then, but the interview went well. And as a thank you, they gave me a bunch of S and H Green Stamps. They were rewards coupons for Sperry and Hutchinson distribution stores.

It wasn’t like today’s players where they get a new Porsche or something for their time. Back then, they’d give us these stamps. And you’d take them to a distribution store to redeem them for stuff in the catalogue.

Freddie had an aunt who worked at a restaurant a short drive from where we were staying. So, I went with him to see her and have some lunch. I could feel those green stamps burning a hole in my pocket. I convinced Freddie to come with me to the distribution centre.

We got there and I started thumbing through the catalogue. And I stopped on this jacket. I took a closer look at the page. It wasn’t the same jacket I had on when I met Hoover, but it was close. It was a bright blue one, and it looked pretty similar. I had an idea.

“I’m going to get this jacket.”

Freddie smirked. “What the hell do you want that for?”

“I’m going to send it to Hoover.”

“Hoover? Hoover who?”

“J. Edgar,” I said. “I had a jacket on like this when I met him and he liked it.”

Freddie thought I was nuts. “You’ll never get it to him, Killer.”

“I don’t care. It’s worth a shot.”

It was nine months after we had first met. And I didn’t even know if he’d remember me, but I figured, why not? I wanted to put those stamps to good use.

I ordered the jacket in what I thought was his size: 38 fat or 44 wide or whatever the hell it was. And I ended up getting the jacket in the mail a few weeks later. I wrapped it up and wrote ‘J. Edgar Hoover, Personal, FBI building’ on the front.

Then I sent it on its way. And I never thought another thing about it. I figured it was good for a laugh. And I chalked it up to another one of my dumb ideas (I’ve had quite a few in my time).

I never expected him to actually receive it. Or that he’d want to thank me in person for it.

* * *

Of course I didn’t tell Hoover that he looked bad in the jacket. But I think he knew. We had a good laugh. He thanked me for sending it to him and asked me if I wanted to stay for lunch.

Absolutely, I told him.

We sat down at the boardroom table. He took off the jacket then. I think he was more comfortable in his undertaker suit. But he was a good sport for actually putting it on. I had another picture taken with him while he was wearing the jacket. Unfortunately, that photo never made it back to me.

A waiter came through the second door in his office and asked what we wanted for lunch. We both ordered steak. As we’re waiting for our food, he kind of fixes me with this look.

“You know you’re sitting with the most powerful man in the world?”

Well, that’s one way to start a conversation.

“Yeah, I can believe that,” I said.

“I’m serious,” Hoover said. “I am the most powerful man in the world.”

It was just the two of us sitting in his office.

“I’ve heard that you have a file on everyone,” I responded.

He nodded.

“But I bet you don’t have a file on me.”

I don’t know why I said half of the things I said back then.

“Yes, I do,” he replied.

“You have a file on me?”

What would he have on me? I’m not even a citizen. I’m just a ballplayer from Canada.

Hoover leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “Do you think you’d be sitting in my office alone if I didn’t have a file on you?”

I chuckled. “I guess not.”

“I have a file on everyone,” he continued. “People are terrified of me. Even the President is scared of what I know.”

I know this probably sounds like Hoover was bragging. That he was trying to intimidate a young guy who was way out of his element, but it wasn’t bragging. It’s kind of hard to explain. He was just telling it like it is. I didn’t get the sense that he was asserting his authority with me.

It was all very matter-of-fact.

“You could make me disappear and my mother wouldn’t even know I was gone,” I joked.

“Probably,” he said.

I think he was joking.

The waiter brought our steaks out and, once again, I’m eating lunch with J. Edgar Hoover in his office.

While we were eating, we talked about the season. He said something nice about the team. I can’t remember exactly what it was.

“Thanks, Mr. Hoover.”

“Call me Jay,” he said. “Everyone calls me Mr. Hoover. Just call me Jay.”

“Really?”

He nodded.

From then on I always called him Jay. I have to admit that was pretty neat. First-name basis with the Director of the FBI. And, in case you’re wondering, Hoover always called me Killer, too.

I got more comfortable with Hoover as the meal went on and I started to ask him some more questions.

“I’ve heard a lot of stuff about you and the Kennedys,” I said.

“What’s the story with them?”

I will never forget what he did next.

Hoover put his utensils down and pressed his thumb into the table next to his plate.

This is kind of weird.

Then he peeled his thumb back and looked underneath it.

He glanced at me. “The Kennedys? They’re okay.”

And he put his thumb back down on the table.

Oh my God.

He basically told me that he has the Kennedy family under his thumb.

That he could squeeze them anytime he wanted. I didn’t press the issue. In fact, whenever the conversation turned toward politics or what he thought about politicians, I pretty much kept my mouth shut and let him talk. And I sure as hell didn’t disagree.

I wasn’t scared of him, but he was intimidating. Let me put it this way. If Hoover had told me to shit, it would have just been a question of how much and where. Most of our conversation wasn’t about politics at all, though. We talked a lot about sports. I could tell he was a fan.

I was a major-leaguer. And it was obvious that Hoover was interested in the life of an athlete. When you reach a certain level in sports, I think it becomes an aspiration-type thing for a lot of people. Everyone wants to be an athlete. It’s true. It’s a dream life.

I don’t care if you’re the President of the United States, you still think, deep down, you could have played second base for the New York Yankees or you can quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys. And let’s be honest: Not too many quarterbacks want to be a politician.

I think Hoover liked hearing stories about the field and the stuff that went on in the clubhouse. It was almost like an escape for him, to get away from all of the FBI stuff for an hour or so.

After we finished lunch, Hoover walked me to the elevator. We shook hands.

“Thanks for lunch, Jay.”

“Would you like to do this again next time you’re in town?”

“Sure. Absolutely.”

* * *

We had lunch together in his office a few times that year. And a few times in 1971, whenever we’d be on the road to play the Senators. I never saw him outside of his office. And there was never any contact between us outside of our lunches.

I would get a call in my hotel room in Washington that an agent was there to pick me up. Hoover would always send a car for me. The agent drove me to his office and then took me back to the hotel after lunch.

And the agent was different every time. I remember shooting the breeze with one guy on the way back to my hotel. He looked over his shoulder at me.

“What’s he like?”

“What’s who like?” I asked.

“Mr. Hoover. What’s he like?”

I laughed. “You probably know him better than me,” I said. “You work for him.”

The agent shook his head. “No, I’ve never talked to him. I’ve hardly ever seen him. He doesn’t bother with us.”

I don’t know exactly why he took an interest in me. He was 50 years older than me, a life-time government guy. I know there were rumours about his sexuality. And I was a young guy, dressing pretty colourfully, so I don’t know if there was something there. I never discussed it with him and he never said anything to me in all the time that he and I got together.

Hoover might have been gay, but I really have no idea. I wasn’t. I mean, I had a wife and a newborn at home. So, it wasn’t an issue for me. And despite all of our differences, we just seemed to hit it off. I liked him. I enjoyed spending time with him.

My grandfather had passed away a few years earlier and I kind of looked at Hoover as a grandfather-type figure. To me, he was a wise, calm presence. He never raised his voice with me.

And he and I just got along. We were friends. It’s kind of funny to say that, but we were. It felt like he looked out for me. I remember telling Freddie one time, “Well, if I ever get into trouble, I know who to call!”

The last time I saw Hoover was in 1971, although I didn’t know it at the time.

* * *

In 1972, I was going through a lot with the Tigers to start the season and I was in the midst of being traded to Oakland. I pitched my last game for Detroit on April 30. Hoover died on May 2.

When I heard that he passed, my first thought was that I’d miss him. I felt the same sadness that I did when Warren Spahn died. Spahny was a close friend of mine. There was a bit of an empty feeling when I realized that our lunches weren’t going to happen again. I didn’t sit around moping or crying or anything, but there was a sense of, I guess, selfishness.

Because I was thinking, “Well, I don’t get to do that again.”

It was too bad that it was over. But I’ll never forget it.