By 1943, with the country deep in the throes of World War II, American men were overseas, and Major League Baseball was in jeopardy. Philip K. Wrigley, the chewing gum magnate and owner of the Chicago Cubs, feared the national pastime might vanish from public life just when morale needed it most. His answer? Women.
Thus, the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League was born. The Rockford Peaches were one of the original four teams. And though the league would grow and shift over its twelve-year run, the Peaches became its crown jewel. They wore peach-colored dresses with red caps, played their home games at Beyer Stadium in Rockford, Illinois, and went on to win more championships than any other team in the league. They were the Yankees of women's baseball—only tougher, because they had to be.
This was baseball with lipstick and grit. The league enforced charm school, issued rules on makeup, posture, and etiquette. Players were expected to slide hard into second, then powder their noses between innings. One of the Peaches’ stars, Dorothy “Dottie” Kamenshek, once said she didn’t mind the uniforms but hated the rules about wearing lipstick during games. “We were ballplayers,” she said. “Not pin-ups.”
But play they did. Kamenshek, a first baseman, would go on to become one of the best hitters in the league, praised by no less than Wally Pipp—the man who famously lost his Yankees spot to Lou Gehrig. He said she was one of the most skilled first basemen he’d ever seen, man or woman. That’s how good the Peaches were.
Still, they played against the grain of public expectation. Even as they broke barriers and drew crowds, they were seen as a novelty. A sideshow. When the war ended and men returned, the novelty faded. Attendance dwindled. The league folded in 1954, and the Peaches—along with the rest—vanished into memory.
Until A League of Their Own.
Penny Marshall’s 1992 film revived the Peaches for a new generation. Geena Davis played a fictionalized Dottie. Tom Hanks grumbled “There’s no crying in baseball.” And suddenly, people cared again. The real Peaches, many still living quietly in retirement, found themselves back in the spotlight. They signed autographs. They were honored at stadiums. Statues were raised. And their legacy—once nearly forgotten—was cemented.
I think about them often. About what it means to love something so much you’ll do it even when the world tells you it’s not yours. The Peaches didn’t just play baseball—they proved they belonged. In the process, they made space for every woman who came after them, whether on a field, a court, or anywhere else power said no.
Beyer Stadium still stands in Rockford. Restored. Honored. You can walk the infield, stand at home plate, and imagine what it sounded like when the crowd rose to its feet as Kamenshek slapped a line drive to right field. There’s no Jumbotron. No million-dollar contracts. Just history in the grass and the lingering scent of peach and dust.
The Rockford Peaches didn’t need to be perfect. They just needed to play. And in doing so, they became legends.