The American Communist Party thought it was. Through the 1920s and until the mid-1930s, the party considered athletics a bourgeois distraction, and did not report on sports in the Daily Worker. The youth party paper, Young Worker, called baseball “a method used in distracting … the American workers from their miserable conditions.” In the ’30s, however, as the otherwise unidentifiable mischaDC wrote in 2006: “Part of the goal was to get the party out of its immigrant niche. One way of doing this was to expand the Daily Worker from a party newssheet to an American paper. A sports section was the key. Mike Gold, a Daily Worker writer, later said: ‘When you run the news of a strike alongside the news of a baseball game, you’re making American workers feel at home. It gives them the feeling that communism is nothing strange or foreign, but is as real as baseball.'” [http://goo.gl/XmfLb6]
In 1936 the American Communist Party hired Lester Rodney as a sportswriter, and he went on to have a profound influence on baseball’s eventual racial integration. But that is a story for another day. Today I’d like to focus on Michael or “Mike” Gold–either way, a pen name for Itzok (Isaac) Granich (1894-1967). He first wrote for the radical monthly The Masses under the name Irwin Granich, and adopted the nom de plume of Mike Gold in 1919, reportedly from a Jewish veteran of the Civil War whom he admired for having fought to “free the slaves.” In 1930 he published his first and only novel, Jews Without Money, which was widely read and translated into other languages; with this he became America’s most famous proletarian writer. Sinclair Lewis praised him–in the same sentence with Hemingway, Faulkner, Wolfe, and Dos Passos–upon receiving his Nobel Prize in Literature that year.
Three years later Gold became a columnist for the Daily Worker, a role he would retain until the end of his life. His unflagging dedication to the Soviet Union led him to some uncomfortable policy decisions (to uphold, for example, the invasion of Hungary in 1956) and to some grim, humorless prose.
He wrote one baseball column for the Daily Worker, evidently in October 1934, which holds archaeological interest for readers of Our Game: “Baseball Is a Racket,” offered below. For what it’s worth, I agree with him about Mother’s Day.
We are in the process of watching the birth and evolution of a new national hero. He appears to be a tall, gangling young man with a strong right arm who hails from the cotton belt, and pitches a terrifically fast ball for nine innings a few times a week. At present his name is known to probably more Americans than the name of, let’s say, Nicholas Murray Butler [president of Columbia University and Republican Party power broker–ED.] , who also amuses his countrymen. Down in Sportsman’s Park, in Saint Looie, a crowd of 50,000 citizens howl themselves hoarse when the name of Dizzy Dean roars from the umpire’s mouth. According to private reports, even the Mississippi “lifts itself from its long bed” when the Dizzy goes to the mound to put on his stuff for the honor of St. Louis and a couple of extra thousand dollars World Series money for Frankie Frisch’s boys.
Dizzy seems to be quite a boy. Not only did he single-handedly, it appears, win the pennant for St. Louis, but he has managed to accumulate around himself a whole mythology of legends that would do justice to any of the old Greek gods. Dizzy’s what the boys on the sport sheets call “color” stuff. Strong right arm for pitching, but kinda weak upstairs.
In the fourth game of the Series Dizzy got slammed with a fast ball trying to break up a double play. It smacked him square in the forehead. It would have been curtains for an ordinary mortal, but not for Dizzy; he just passed out cold for a couple of seconds and then came to fresh as a daisy.
Furthermore, it appears that Dizzy has a heart as big as a wagon. After Saturday’s ball game, a couple of smartly dressed gentlemen tried to pick Dean up in their fast roadster as he was leaving the ball park. They offered to drive him back to the hotel. Dizzy, whose heart seems to be unspoiled and whose mind is a bit weak, grandly accepted the offer. He almost gave poor Sam Breadon, the Cardinal’s president, heart-failure. “My god,” yelled Sam, “haven’t you ever heard of gamblers and kidnappers?” But Dizzy just beamed, the idol light shining from his face. Dizzy’s going around town now with a police guard.
With each successive game the fables about the Dizzy Dean grow. It helps business along, piles up the gate receipts, gives the newsboys from the big city papers something to write about, and continues building the tradition of glamor and prowess that surround the heroes of the diamond. Dizzy seems to be a simple-minded, Ring Lardner “You Know Me Al” ball player, raised down in the Southwest on grits and cornbread, gifted with a powerful pitching arm and a keen pair of eyes. But the stockholders of the St. Louis Cardinals and the racketeers and speculators who infest organized baseball as they do every other national sport in the country today, have a keener eye than Dizzy’s pitching ones and a stronger arm when it comes
to counting the season’s profits.
Like everything else in the country, baseball is not run primarily for the fans, but for the pocketbooks of the stockholders. Communists are often ridiculed for their insistence that everything in the present capitalist system is a “racket.” Hollywood recently caricatured the Communist who shouts on Mother’s Day, “It’s a racket!” Well, it is. It’s a racket for the flower merchants, for the candy manufacturers, for the pulpit. The sickening sentimentality that is deliberately fostered by the manufacturers, the false mother-love decorations that surround the price on the box of flowers, attest to the way the emotions of people are deliberately and viciously exploited by the manufacturer for his own profit. Baseball, too, the love of sport, is deliberately and viciously exploited by the promoters.
Dizzy probably loves baseball. So do millions of other Americans. I remember that we all wanted to learn how to throw a two-finger drop earlier than we wanted to learn why the earth turns around the sun, or the origin of surplus value. But there is a sharp division made in the life of people today: sport, active participation in sport, stops early in life. Life under capitalism is not an integrated life, it is not full in the sense that sport is looked upon as one of the activities of a fully developed man. And, strange as it may seem, to those who see the Communist as a professional kill joy, he has a firmer, richer belief in the development of the full man, than the health culturist like Bernarr Macfadden, whose advertising caters to the sick and the shamed, or the neo-Humanist, whose “full” life is an abstraction born of the library.
One has only to look at the Soviet Union to see how sport is deliberately organized as part of the whole life of the proletariat. But in America, baseball is a different thing. There were 50,000 fans out there in St. Louis and 50,000 more in Detroit shouting their heads off every time Pepper Martin took a head-first slide into second or Hank Greenberg leaned his bat against a fast ball.
They were playing in the World Series too. It was vicarious baseball for the masses, phantoms of their own longing were smacking out homers, striking out the third man with the bases full, or making a miraculous stop of a line hit.
Workers love baseball. But baseball, in its own way, is used as an “opium of the people.” The “bosses” are cashing in on the “heroes” and cashing in on the frustrated love of the people for sports.
My friend David Shoebotham sent me the following, in email today. David is a sabermetric pioneer, as the inventor of Relative Batting Average (Baseball Research Journal, 1976; reprinted here: http://ourgame.mlblogs.com/2012/03/17/relative-batting-average-landmarks-of-sabermetrics-part-iii/).
I very much enjoyed the Bob Carroll article you reprinted in your blog. I remember it very well from when it first came out. And, yes, like you, I enjoyed Bob’s writing style.
Re-reading the article made me think a little – something I need to do more these days. Since a certain percentage of any team’s runs are not “batted in,” maybe it makes more sense to compare any given player’s RBIs to his team’s RBIs rather than just its runs scored.
Also, as I computed a long time ago (in a galaxy far, far away?), the percentage runs that are batted in has gradually increased over time as fielder’s gloves and the interpretation of certain rules have evolved. The graph below shows that evolution for the National League from 1876 to the present. (The American League’s graph is very similar from 1901 to the present.) Amazing that in the beginning not even 2/3 of all runs were batted in. Ouch. Fielding without a glove was painful. And note the big jump around 1920. I think that’s about the time when gloves with webs between the thumb and forefinger became popular.
Anyway, I thought it would be fun to look at players’ RBIs as a percentage of their team’s RBIs rather than their team’s runs. The results are shown below. Nate Colbert still tops the list, and as you can see he had almost a quarter of San Diego’s RBIs in 1972. I’ve identified 23 players whose RBI totals exceeded 20% of their team’s totals, including several from the pre-1920 Dead-Ball Era. (Since I did this on-the-run, so to speak, I don’t claim these results are at all complete.)
It’s obvious that players who have teammates who are good RBI men (think Ruth and Gehrig) and players who walk a lot are at a disadvantage in this kind of calculation. Also American League players since 1972 are at a disadvantage because of the Designated Hitter Rule.
Anyway, thanks for the article. It was fun.
They set out from Chicago on October 20, 1888, and didn’t return to the United States until April 6, 1889. It was Albert Goodwill Spalding’s world tour, an attempt to spread the baseball gospel (and his sporting-goods empire) to the four corners of the known universe. Previously Spalding, Al Reach, and the Wright brothers had organized a midseason English tour in 1874 that pulled the Boston Red Stockings and Philadelphia Athletics out of league play for nearly two months. Cricket teams from Britain had toured the U.S. as early as 1859, and Harry Wright and Al Spalding wanted to return the favor. But when they got there, the Brits didn’t want to see baseball, they wanted cricket. The baseball players complied, and their unorthodox style of slugging won bemused praise.
The 1888 tour was comprised of the Chicago White Stockings, led by Cap Anson, who had also been part of the English tour fourteen years earlier, and an all-star group selected from other teams in both leagues (the All-Americas). After departing by rail from Chicago, the barnstormers played games in St. Paul and Minneapolis, then meandered through the West with stops to play games in Cedar Rapids, Des Moines, Omaha, Hastings, Denver, Colorado Springs, and Salt Lake City. They reached California in early November, buttressed by by such stragglers as John Ward and Cannonball Crane, who had been detained in St. Louis to complete the Giants’ victory over the Browns in the World Series.
The All-American Tourists, shown in this oversize, singularly splendid lithograph, played games in San Francisco and Los Angeles before setting sail (and steam) for the Sandwich Islands, known today as Hawaii. The main isle of Oahu had been the home for nearly forty years of none other than Alexander Cartwright, an original member of the Knickerbocker Base Ball Club of New York and known to Spalding and Ward as a pioneer of baseball. Hawaii was the first stop for Spalding’s Tourists, but they arrived in port late, on a Saturday, and playing ball on Sunday was out of the question. More important, they had to make up for days lost at sea, so, after the previous evening’s day’s festivities, the players didn’t even stay the night on Sunday. Spalding never did get to meet Cartwright.
The tour continued to New Zealand and Australia, and onward to Ceylon and Egypt. It proceeded to the mainland of Europe, with scenic stops to play ball at the Borghese Gardens in Rome (they tried for the Coliseum and were rebuffed) and next to the Eiffel Tower in Paris. They finished up in the British Isles, where the Queen’s subjects admired the way the Americans fielded but disapproved of the pitching (too difficult) and the batting (too weak, and, unlike cricket, too soon over).
The returning heroes were honored at a banquet at Delmonico’s restaurant in New York on April 8, 1889, where former National League president Abraham G. Mills declared that baseball was purely an American invention, and the audience responded by pounding the tables and shouting, “No rounders! No rounders!” Mark Twain, unwittingly assuming that the Tourists had played in Hawaii, reminisced about his own four months in the Sandwich Islands in 1866. He pointed up the incongruity of that sylvan setting and baseball, “the very symbol, the outward and visible expression of the drive and push and rush and struggle of the raging, tearing, booming nineteenth century.”
In the years to come, Spalding ballyhooed the importance of his two tours, but in truth both were artistic, financial, and ideological flops. The game took off in places visited not by ambassadors of baseball but by our military and our missionaries–Japan, Cuba, the Caribbean basin, Mexico. A 1913-1914 tour (populated by Nixey Callahan’s Chicago White Sox and John McGraw’s New York Giants) made a stop in Japan, and later had a grand return celebration in March 1914. That tour also zigzagged across the American West before heading across the ocean. Sixty-seven people were in the traveling party, including players’ wives and a recording scribe, Ring Lardner.
But the most important baseball tour took place in 1934, the second by major leaguers to Japan in the decade (another group had traveled there in 1931, including Hall of Famers Ty Cobb, Lou Gehrig, Lefty Grove, Al Simmons, and Frankie Frisch, as well as baseball’s unofficial ambassador to Japan, Lefty O’Doul). But the 1934 visit is the one given credit for finally turning the Japanese into huge baseball fans. Part of the reason was the cast: Babe Ruth, Jimmie Foxx, Charlie Gehringer, Lefty Gomez, and Rabbit Maranville, as well as Gehrig, Frisch, Simmons, O’Doul, and the spy Moe Berg. The Japanese lost every one of the eighteen games played, by wide margins, except one: Eiji Sawamura was the losing pitcher in a 1-0 thriller in which he struck out Gehringer, Ruth, Gehrig, and Foxx in succession. Two years later, Japan formed its own professional league. Today Japan’s equivalent of MLB’s Cy Young Award is the Sawamura Award (see: http://goo.gl/b3470i).
Pedagogical demonstrations did not make baseball flourish in Colombo or Cairo, but competitive play turned the trick in Osaka and Tokyo.
“East is East, and West is West,” wrote Kipling, “and never the twain shall meet.” Yet isn’t it fascinating that baseball is the national game of the United States and of Japan, and is regarded by each country as the embodiment of its unique culture? We seem very different, Americans and Japanese, so how can baseball/besuboru perfectly mirror both? Is the game so different in each locale, or are the two peoples perhaps not so different after all?
The game had been played in Japan since 1873, when instructor Horace Wilson taught it to his Japanese students. Visiting University of Washington students played Japanese teams in 1908 and lost four of ten games; the Reach All-Americas also came to Japan that year. Professional tours followed, with major-league baseball aggregations playing in Japan in 1913, 1920, 1922 (including Casey Stengel), 1928 (led by Ty Cobb), 1931, and 1934. In 1927 and 1932 the Philadelphia Royal Giants of the Negro Leagues toured, and they greatly impressed the Japanese with their competitive spirit (many of the white All-Stars took the exhibitions less seriously than the Japanese felt they should). By 1936 Japan had its first professional baseball league.
After a cessation of tours because of growing hostility between the nations, culminating in the Second World War, a U.S. team (Lefty O’Doul’s San Francisco Seals) returned to Japan in 1949. After that, November was typically marked by the appearance of a U.S. major league team, including the Dodgers, Yankees, or Giants.
The 1934 tour was memorable for the massive display of affection for Babe Ruth. In retrospect, however, when we think of that tour, we think of catcher-soldier-spy Moe Berg.
Japan today sends many of its stars to play in the U.S. Kipling could not have imagined this.
My dear friend and frequent collaborator Bob Carroll died some years ago. I remember him for a myriad of personal things, but in his professional life he was a Ripley-esque cartoonist and possessed a colorful writing style, unlike that of anyone else I knew (“He could hit home runs … but he also fanned more often than Scarlett O’Hara during a Georgia July.”) With SABR’s reissue of the first number of The National Pastime (1982), Bob springs back into action with this article, the opening one in that debut publication. (If you’d like to read the entire TNP, go here: http://sabr.org/latest/sabr-digital-library-tnp-premiere-issue.)
Nate Colbert set a single-season RBI record in 1972; hardly anyone noticed. Even today—ten years after the fact [ED: The record still stands, 43 years after the fact]—few fans and fewer record books are aware of the big right-handed slugger’s accomplishment. In fact, if it hadn’t been for his performance on August 1 of that year—the best single day ever enjoyed by a major-league hitter—he might not be remembered at all.
Some of Colbert’s obscurity may be blamed on the season. Nineteen seventy-two was not the happiest of baseball years. It began with Gil Hodges’ fatal heart attack at spring training and ended with Roberto Clemente’s tragic death in an airplane crash. In between, a player walkout shortened the season by 13 days.
Another strike against Colbert was his team. The ’72 San Diego Padres weren’t quite the worst club in the National League—the Phillies were .001 lower—but it was hard to get excited about anything that happened on a 58-95 team sporting a .227 team batting average. Unless you had a cousin on the roster, you probably wouldn’t even read the Padres’ box scores.
A third strike on Colbert was his habit of missing third strikes. He could hit home runs and keep his batting average higher than his weight, but he also fanned more often than Scarlett O’Hara during a Georgia July. On average, he struck out every fourth time he went to bat. Among ten-year men, only Dave Kingman has been easier prey.
All in all, Nate was the wrong player on the wrong ream in the wrong year to be making his mark on history.
His record doesn’t reveal itself by a cursory glance at his batting stats for 1972: a .250 average, with 38 home runs and 111 RBIs. Forget the 127 strikeouts and it’s a good year. But great? Record-setting?
Take a look at San Diego’s team batting. During the whole season, the Padres managed a mere 488 runs. Why, it seemed like the 1927 Yankees had that many by Memorial Day!
Now, put the figures together. Colbert batted in 22.75 percent of his team’s runs! Think of it this way: each batter makes up 11.1% of his team’s lineup; Colbert did the work of two and then some. No major-league batter has ever done more for his team.
“How Nate ever knocked in 111 runs that otherwise dismal season has puzzled the experts ever since,” says Padre statistician Mil Chipp. “He usually batted behind Derrel Thomas, Dave Roberts, and Jerry Morales. And none of them were that adept at getting on base. Thomas’s on-base percentage in 1972 was 29%, Roberts’ was 28% and Morales’ 31%.” Colbert himself led the team with his modest 34% OBP.
It was no contest in RBIs. Chipp points out: “The only Padre players ‘close’ to Nate … were Leron Lee (47) and Clarence Gaston (44). They were light years away.”
There is a certain element of controversy involved in any RBI record: is it the man or the opportunity? Ever since the ribbie was dreamed up, some fans have opposed it as a measure of individual achievement. At the end of the 1880 National League season, according to Preston D. Orem’s Baseball (1845-1881) from the Newspaper Accounts, “the Chicago Tribune proudly presented the ‘Runs Batted In’ record of the Chicago players for the season, showing Anson and Kelly in the lead. Readers were unimpressed. Objections were that the men who led off, Dalrymple and Gore, did not have the same opportunities to knock in runs. The paper actually wound up almost apologizing for the computation.”
Ernie Lanigan, patron saint of ribbies, in his 1922 Baseball Cyclopedia, observed, “As far back as 1879 a Buffalo paper used to include the runs batted in in the summary of the box score of the home game. Henry Chadwick urged the adoption of this feature in the middle ’80s and by 1891 carried his point so that the National League scorers were instructed to report this data. They reported it grudgingly and finally were told they wouldn’t have to report it.”
Lanigan took up the ribbie torch in 1907 for the New York Press, working up the figures annually. At last, on the request of the Baseball Writers’ Association, the major leagues added RBIs to their 1920 averages.
Yet, even more than a hundred years after RBIs were introduced, many fans view the stat skeptically. If a man singles, goes the argument, he has performed an individual act. But, to get a ribbie on that same single, he must have a teammate in scoring position. Colbert’s 111 is an excellent total, but how many more might he have driven home in 1972 had he played for heavy-hitting Pittsburgh? For the record, Pirate first baseman Willie Stargell drove in 112.
Looking at the percentage of a team’s runs driven in somewhat circumvents the anti-RBI argument. In theory, at least, a player on a light-hitting team with fewer opportunities to drive in runs can show his mettle by knocking in a high percentage. Conversely, a player with a group of bombers clustered around him in the batting order must drive in a much higher number to achieve the same percentage.
When Hack Wilson set the major-league record with 190 ribbies in 1930 [since revised upward, to 191–ED.], his team scored another 803. His percentage was 19.04. Lou Gehrig’s American League mark of 184 accounted for “only” 17.24 percent of the ’31 Yankees’ 1,067 runs. The accompanying chart shows all those players since 1900 who have knocked in 150 or more runs in a season, along with their teams’ runs and their percentages. It comes as no surprise that all the 150-plus boys played on teams that scored a ton. Colbert’s Padres scored an ounce, but his percentage was three points better than the highest of the big RBI guys.
[In the years since Bob wrote this, Manny Ramirez drove in 165 in 1999, 16.35 percent of Cleveland’s 1009 runs that year. Sammy Sosa’s 160 for the Cubs in 2001 registered 20.60 percent; his 158 in 1999 yielded 19.01 percent. Alex Rodriguez’s 156 for the Yankees in 2007 registered 16.12 percent. Albert Belle had 152 for the White Sox in 1998 (17.65 percent); Andres Galaragga 150 for the Rockies in 1996, 15.61 percent; Miguel Tejada 150 for the Orioles in 2004, 17.81 percent.–ED.]
As a matter of fact, only eight men in major league history [nine including Sosa in 2001–ED.]–from 1876 on–have topped the 20 percent mark. More men have hit .400.
The first hitter to achieve the improbable 20 was, not surprisingly, Babe Ruth. What is indeed surprising is that the Babe did it before he became a Yankee. In 1919, his last season in Boston, he drove in 114 runs–a 20.13 clip–for the fifth-place Red Sox [An upward revision to the team’s run total since Bob wrote this have raised the mark from 20.13 to 20.18.–ED.] Although he topped that RBI total eleven times in a Yankee uniform, he never again drove in so high a proportion. (Note: some sources credit Ruth with only 113 RBIs in 1919, a mark of precisely 20 percent.)
It took 16 years before another player reached 20 percent. Then, the Braves’ Wally Berger chased home teammates at a rate of 22.61 (130 out of 575). Despite Berger’s efforts, the Braves won only 38 games and came in dead last on a stretcher. But Wally’s mark stood as the record until Colbert’s big year.
Swish Nicholson drove the Cubs up to fifth place in 1943 with his 20.25 percent (128 out of 632). The Cubbies were back in fifth place in 1959 when Hall-of-Famer Ernie Banks made the “20 Club” with 21.25 (143 out of 673). That performance earned Banks his second consecutive MVP award. Interestingly, he’s the only 20-percenter to be so honored by the BBWAA.
Jim Gentile became the fifth member of the society in 1961. His 20.41 percent (141 out of 691) was a big factor in lifting the Orioles into third place, but it went virtually unnoticed in the excitement over Roger Maris’s asterisk-pursuit. Maris was also crowned the RBI “leader” on the basis of one more ribbie than Gentile, but his percentage was only 17.17 (142 out of 827). [Maris has since lost one RBI, erroneously credited to him for a runner scoring from third on a double-play grounder.–ED.]
Big Frank Howard belongs in the 20-percenter Hall of Fame–he topped the magic mark twice. In 1968 with Washington, he knocked in 106 runs (out of 524) for a 20.23 percent. Two years later, he reached 20.13 (on 126 out of 626). Unfortunately, Washington finished last both years, but without Frank’s bat they would have finished in Guam.
Another two years went by before Colbert set the record. Since then only one player has been able to break the 20 barrier, Bill Buckner with 20.27 percent for the Cubs in last year’s strike-shortened season [plus Sosa in 2001–ED.] Buckner’s accomplishment is interesting in that it came on only 75 RBIs.
Most of the 20-percenters played on second-division teams not only in their big years, but for the majority of their careers; most of them might also be characterized as underrated. The relationship is not coincidental.
The key to Nate Colbert’s record occurred on August 1, 1972 in Atlanta, where the Padres met the Braves in a twi-night doubleheader. Colbert was among the league leaders in home runs and RBIs, but a slump had plunged his batting average toward .200. He’d also been forced to miss a couple of games the previous week when he’d injured a knee in a collision at home plate.
On the plane from Houston, Padre manager Don Zimmer asked Nate if he’d prefer to sit out another day or two. The big slugger insisted it didn’t matter how he felt. He wanted to play in the Braves’ cozy park, and he was determined “someone was going to pay” for his recent slump.
Before all the Atlanta fans had even found their seats for the opener, Nate put San Diego in front in the first inning with a three-run homer off Ron Schueler. In the third frame he contributed to a four-run Padre outburst by singling home a teammate. Another single and a bases-empty homer off Mike McQueen in the seventh gave him four-for-five and five ribbies in the 9-0 Padre win.
The second game was even better. Tom Kelley opened for the Braves and he was as wild as a Penthouse party. He walked Colbert in the first inning and Nate came around to score. Pat Jarvis replaced Kelley in the second inning just in time to face Colbert with the bases loaded. Nate promptly cleared them with his third homer of the evening.
A two-run blast off Jim Hardin in the seventh made the score 9-1. But the shell-shocked Braves fought back to make it 9-7 going into the final inning. Colbert was due up fourth. Cecil Upshaw retired the first two Padres, but Larry Stahl got a ground single to right. And up came Colbert.
The sidearming Upshaw had always given him trouble, so Nate decided to just try to meet the ball for a hit. Upshaw threw a high fastball for the first pitch. Colbert met it. Home run.
“I was shocked when I hit it,” Colbert recalled. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw it go over the fence. It was unreal! When I rounded second base, Umpire Bruce Froemming said to me: ‘I don’t believe this.’ I told him: ‘I don’t either.’ “
The next day, it took the New York Times three paragraphs just to explain the records Colbert had broken or tied:
The 13 runs batted in erased the major league record of 11 for a double-header, which had been shared by three American League batters, Earl Averill of the Cleveland Indians (1930), Jim Tabor of the Boston Red Sox (1939) and Boog Powell of the Baltimore Orioles (1966). The National League record of 10 was established in 1947 by Enos Slaughter of the St. Louis Cardinals. [In 1993 Mark Whiten of the Cardinals tied Colbert’s mark.–ED.]
The 6-foot-l 1/2 inch 200-pound Colbert also broke the National League record of 12 runs batted in in two consecutive games by Jim Bottomley of St. Louis in 1924. The major league mark is 15, established in 1925 by Tony Lazerri of the New York Yankees.
The five home runs in a double-header by Colbert equaled the major league mark set by Stan Musial of the Cardinals in 1954 and also broke Musial’s record of 22 total bases in a twin bill.
Yet when 1972 ended and Colbert had racked up a record even more impressive than any of these, not a newspaper in the land gave it so much as an agate line.
Call it Catch-22.75.
Satchel Paige must have been born old. Either that, or what he saw early in his life blessed him with the wisdom of age, and it shone in his eyes. He was forced by the color of his skin to watch organized baseball from the outside until he was at least forty-two years old (the oldest rookie ever). His homespun philosophy (“Avoid fried meats, which angry up the blood.” “Don’t look back, something may be gaining on you.”) has therefore become a larger aspect of his legend than his pitching feats, recorded sparsely in dozens of years of Negro League and barnstorming play.
Satchel claimed to have pitched between 130 and 160 games a year for all that time (his custom was to start a game, pitch a couple of innings, then give way to a collaborator like Hilton Smith). He had great stories of his prowess and his range of pitches. “I got bloopers, loopers and droopers. I got a jump ball, a be ball, a screw ball, a wobbly ball, a whipsy-dipsy-do, a hurry-up ball, a nothin’ ball and a bat dodger.” His best, though, was the “be ball,” named “ ’Cause it ‘be’ right where I want it.” One Paige story is that he walked the bases full in a World Series game just so he could end the contest by striking out Josh Gibson, a former teammate and the Negro Leagues’ greatest slugger. His pinpoint control was the secret to his long-lived success and huge income, which according to legend was greater than that of any white player except Ruth.
But happy as he was to be the king of black baseball, Paige was distressed when the Dodgers made Jackie Robinson the first of his race to reach the modern major leagues. “I’d been the guy who started all that big talk about letting us in the big time. I’d been the one the white boys wanted to barnstorm against.” His first complete game in the majors, in 1948, was in front of 51,000 fans at Comiskey Park. In August of that year he threw his second complete game, this time for 78,000 appreciative hometown fans in Cleveland. He even got to pitch two thirds of an inning in the World Series that year.
Integration pioneer Bill Veeck (the story is told that the owners kept him from buying the Phillies in the 1940s because he planned to sign a lot of Negro Leaguers) brought Paige with him from Cleveland to the St. Louis Browns in 1951, and he averaged more than forty appearances a season there for three years. (It’s delightful to contemplate that juvenile Palmer Cox brownie adorning the sleeve of this superannuated Brown.) He returned to a big-league mound in 1965, at age fifty-nine or so, to throw three scoreless innings for the Kansas City A’s against the Red Sox; only one man, Carl Yastrzemski, got a hit off him.
When the National League abandoned Troy and Worcester after the 1882 season, it reestablished franchises in New York and Philadelphia for the first time since its inaugural campaign of 1876. Grumbling can still be heard in Troy and Worcester today, but their loss was baseball’s gain, giving the shaky National League the two key eastern markets it had lacked.
As you can see from the studio shot of the original Giants of 1883, they wear the emblem of the city on their breasts, binding the team to the body politic and making baseball seem as much a part of old Gotham as Indians and beaver pelts, Knickerbockers and coopers. The uniform patch shown above is the original, worn by Buck Ewing at top left in the team photo.
Notice the other future Hall of Famers: pitcher Mickey Welch (bottom, left), who in 1885 posted an imposing record of 44-11, and John Montgomery Ward (upper right), the perfect-game pitcher turned shortstop whose hand rests on the shoulder of Roger Connor, whose career home run record was finally surpassed by a guy named Ruth.
This week, more than three decades after publication, the Society for American Baseball Research is reissuing the debut number of The National Pastime, a publication I created for it in 1982. Not only in retrospect but also at the time, this felt like a new path for SABR, and for me. Here is my 2014 preface to The National Pastime, republished in facsimile. To purchase a paperback or ebook, go to http://goo.gl/JYn88W; or better yet, join SABR and get it free. The ebook may also be purchased from the vendors listed at the end of this post.
That they also provided no funding—except for the cost of typeset, printing, paper, and mailing—meant that I would have to scramble a bit, but that was OK. I enlisted contributors—those mentioned above, my newfound friends, my onetime idols, and veteran authors, journalists, and researchers. Gordon Fleming, author of The Unforgettable Season, a pioneering new form of baseball book, sent me a brilliant treatment of the Merkle Boner. Dr. Seymour and David Voigt, who had long disapproved of each other, took the roles of lion and lamb for this new journal, coexisting peaceably and contributing bold, fresh articles. Baseball Research Journal regulars like Art Ahrens, Al Kermisch, and Ted DiTullio contributed fine pieces. And an unpublished researcher, a bank accounting officer named Frank J. Williams, submitted an exhaustive article, handwritten on yellow legal paper, which upon publication became a landmark in the history of baseball record keeping.
I designed the publication and on my kitchen table laid out the reproduction proof with paste pot and Exacto knife. I created the headlines with Letraset transfer type and a burnishing tool, as our printer Dean Coughenour of Manhattan, Kansas, could not obtain display-size versions of the type I had specified. If all this sounds like complaint, then I have failed to strike the proper tone. Trust me, it was heaven. I could not have believed more fervently than I did in the opening words of my “house column”:
The National Pastime has sprung into being to depict the panorama of baseball, from its murky beginnings on up to last night’s news, showing that the past of this great game is every bit as exciting as its present.
The debut issue was mailed in late October and immediately met with rave reviews. Its nominal cost was $5, but that was paid only by nonmembers—whose cost could be reduced to nothing if they added $10 to purchase a SABR membership. Our rolls rose from 1250 in July 1981 to 2800 at year end, 1982. In the June/July 1983 issue of American Heritage, which had been my model for TNP, the editor wrote:
Thorn, who assembled the portfolio of baseball pictures in this issue, is editor of The National Pastime, a handsomely produced publication sponsored by the Society for American Baseball Research (P.O. Box 323, Cooperstown, NY 13326). And like all of SABR’s three thousand members, he is interested in exploring and preserving the legacy of the sport.
Actually by the time that issue of AH hit the stands, SABR membership had climbed to nearly 4000. This debut issue, which even in reprint more than three decades later, still looks handsome to me, also won an honorable mention in the 1983 PRINT Magazine annual review of the nation’s top achievements in the graphic arts.
But enough button-popping about the look of the thing. It is the quality of the writing that will impress most today, as it did then.
More than thirty years before a pair of brothers named Wright made aviation history, another Wright duo was instrumental in changing baseball from a social-club pastime to a professional game. Baseball’s Wright brothers were George and Harry, cricket players who saw the future in the American game.
A cricket book opens our story. It is Felix on the Bat, a classic cricket instructional manual written and illustrated by the great Kent and All-England batsman of the 1840s, “N. Felix,” which was the pen name for Nicholas Wanostrocht. A copy was presented to Samuel Wright, father of Harry and George in 1858, on his Benefit Day at the St. George Cricket Club, Elysian Fields, Hoboken, where the English-born Sam was the cricket professional and Harry and George two of the key players (Harry by 1854, George beginning in 1861). George was eleven at the time his father received the book, and it is not clear when Sam passed it on to George, who wrote on the flyleaf: “This book I prize very highly as it was given to me by my Father in the year 1865. Often I have viewed its contents when a boy looking forward to some day to play the game of cricket well. G.W.”
Of course, by 1865 young George was not only adept at cricket, he was well on his way to becoming the best baseball player in the land. Harry had begun to divide his time between cricket and baseball in the late 1850s, when he joined the Knickerbocker Base Ball Club, whose grounds adjoined those of the St. George Cricket Club. Mirroring the divided loyalties of pre-Civil War America, both continued to play cricket for at least two more years, Harry with the Cincinnati Cricket Club, which had lured him west with the position of cricket professional and an invitation to organize a first-class baseball club. George left the champion Union of Morrisania team after the 1866 campaign to join the covertly professional Washington Nationals as they toured the west. George was supposedly earning his living as a government clerk, but the address of his “employer” as listed in the City Directory was just a public park. They traveled as far as Illinois, where the Nationals were upset by the Forest City of Rockford and their boy pitcher, Albert Spalding. George received a handsome rosewood trophy bat for “best general play.”
By 1869 both were members of baseball’s first openly all-professional team, the celebrated Cincinnati Red Stockings. George was the greatest player of his time, with wonderful batting and fielding skills and an acrobat’s flair. In 1869 he hit .629 with 49 home runs in 57 games. Harry, twelve years older, was a fading player, but he was the organizer, promoter, and father figure of the Red Stockings and professional baseball itself.
In the photo of the Reds above, George stands in the top row, second from the right, and captain Harry stands alongside him at the center. And, following a tradition far older than baseball, both left for a new opportunity when the money beckoned. When the Reds collapsed and the National Association of Professional Base Ball Players formed, Harry moved to Boston as manager and took brother George and other Red Stockings along with him to join former Rockford stars Al Spalding and Ross Barnes and Cleveland’s Deacon White.
The Wrights and Boston rolled over the competition in the National Association, winning four straight pennants by increasingly grotesque margins, thus hastening the demise of the league. In the new National League, Boston continued its winning ways, but after championships in 1877 and 1878, George went to Providence as a playing manager in 1879 and defeated Harry’s Bostons in a close race. In the mid-1930s, National League president Ford Frick gave George Wright, nearing the age of ninety, a lifetime pass to all National League grounds (note that it is #1, the first ever given).
Major-league baseball’s centennial shindig took place not in 1976, nor even in 1971, a century since the first pro league, the National Association of Professional Baseball Players, commenced play. The celebration came in 1969, and in 1994 there was a splashy yearlong birthday party for the 125th year of professional baseball.
So what exactly happened in 1869? Wasn’t Jim Creighton paid in 1859 and Al Reach in 1863? Between 1865 and 1869, weren’t there such professional teams as the Atlantics of Brooklyn, the Mutuals of New York, the Athletics of Philadelphia, and more? Sure. But there was something special about 1869: the manly admission of Harry Wright to the press that his Cincinnati Red Stockings were salaried and proud of it. The Reds were thus the first avowedly professional team in baseball history, a distinction that scholars insist on using to separate this mighty team from the under-the-table schemers and gate-receipt communards who had preceded them. Besides, the Reds were the best team ever assembled to that point, and they came from all over.
Harry Wright had come to the banks of the Ohio in 1865 at the behest of the Union Cricket Club. By 1867 he had organized a Red Stockings baseball club, too, though it wasn’t yet strong enough to compete against the best. The arrival of pitcher Asa Brainard, former Brooklyn Excelsior, in 1868, followed by the advent of Harry’s brother George for the 1869 season, made the team literally unbeatable.
The Red Stockings took on all comers, from Maine to California, in 1869, and never tasted defeat. They won 84 consecutive games in 1869-1870 before getting their comeuppance from the venerable Atlantics of Brooklyn, the champions of several earlier 1860s campaigns. The Forest City of Rockford was accounted as one of the strongest nines following their 1867 upset of the touring Washington Nationals, then led by George Wright; those Nationals in turn had defeated Harry’s developing Red Stockings, 53-10. Rockford’s stars included Albert Spalding, Bob Addy, and Ross Barnes (in 1871 they would welcome a young third baseman from Marshalltown, Iowa, named Adrian Anson). In 1870 Spalding’s heady pitching led to a 12-5 victory over Cincinnati, avenging their 34-13 drubbing at the hands of the Reds in ’69.
But that was not the Reds’ first loss. On June 14, 1870, at the Capitoline Grounds in Brooklyn, the Reds jumped off to a 2-0 lead in the first, but the Atlantics held a lead of 4-3 after six frames. The Reds regained the lead with two tallies in the seventh, but the Atlantics knotted the contest at 5-5 in the eighth, and there things stood at the conclusion of nine innings. Captain Bob Ferguson of the Atlantics agreed to a draw, as was the custom, but Harry Wright of the Reds insisted that the game be played to a conclusion, “if it took all summer.” Backed up by Reds president Aaron B. Champion, he ordered his men back on the field. Ferguson then did the same for his Atlantics.
After a scoreless tenth, the Reds appeared to settle the issue with two runs in the top of the eleventh. But Brainard’s nerve was wearing thin, according to the New York Clipper report. He allowed a leadoff single to Charlie Smith, then followed with a wild pitch that sent Smith all the way to third. “Old Reliable,” first baseman Joe Start, drove a long fly to right field, where Cal McVey had difficulty extricating the ball from the standing-room-only crowd. Smith scored, and now Start was on third. At this point Ferguson came to the plate and, seeing how his men had been foiled by George Wright’s brilliant plays time and again, the right-handed hitter turned around to bat from the left side, simply to keep the ball away from the Reds’ shortstop.
Ferguson drove the ball past the second baseman. Tie game! When George Zettlein drove a liner toward first base, Charlie Gould blocked it, but threw hurriedly and wildly to second base in an attempt to force Ferguson. The ball skittered into left field, and Ferguson scampered home with the winning run. Additional batters came to the plate, for the rules did not yet call for the game to end until three outs were registered in the final half inning, but no further scoring ensued. After the contest, Champion telegraphed the following message back to Cincinnati: “Atlantics 8, Cincinnatis 7. The finest game ever played. Our boys did nobly, but fortune was against us. Eleven innings played. Though beaten, not disgraced.”
By 1871 Cincincinnati Reds were no more. The club had disbanded, its possessions and trophies were sold at auction, and Harry and George found themselves playing under the old name of Red Stockings but in a new city–Boston, where they were joined by a couple of other Cincinnati teammates, the Rockford stars Spalding and Barnes, and Cleveland’s Deacon White.
Last month, Bryan Curtis of ESPN’s Grantland came up to Catskill to chat with me about baseball’s annual burial rites. His fine story, “The Dead Ball Century,” may be read here: http://goo.gl/a1RyNp. A couple of days ago I gathered with my neighbors at the Beattie-Powers Place to deliver my annual Hot Stove League talk and to gab afterwards with my baseball-loving friends. My talk reprised a good bit of my conversation with Bryan and to some degree expanded upon it. Warmed over, you might pronounce this blogpost but, I hope, sturdy like a casserole brought to a covered-dish supper.
There was much woe and lamentation in the seventies that the game was dying. Commentators bemoaned the sluggish play by roving mercenaries who had no loyalty to the teams or their fans; the players’ rampant abuse of controlled substances and the all-too common consort with criminals; the inept and fractious ownership. But baseball bounced back in the next decade to reclaim its place as the national pastime: new heroes, spirited competition, and booming prosperity gave birth to dreams of expansion, both within the major leagues and around the world.
And then came the nineties, when management, suddenly frightened that they had ceded control to the players, sought to restore baseball’s profitability by “running the game like a business”: they looked for ways to clamp down on salaries, reorganize the leagues to favor the big-market cities, and make real-estate fortunes from their ballparks.
And then came the boom years, capped by home-run heroics on a scale that once seemed unimaginable.
If I haven’t made myself clear, this worrisome chain of events describes the game of a hundred years ago and more. Yes, we’ve seen it all before. And yes, those who do not study history are condemned to repeat it. But no, the sky is not falling—baseball is such a great game that neither the owners nor the players can kill it.
A captain of a championship club once said: “Somehow or other, they don’t play ball nowadays as they used to some eight or ten years ago. I don’t mean to say they don’t play it as well. … But I mean that they don’t play with the same kind of feelings or for the same objects they used to.” The man was Pete O’Brien of the Brooklyn Atlantics; the year he said this, the first known baseball death notice, was 1868.
Simple charms, simple pleasures. In the late 1860s, advancing had skills led to heightened appetites for victory, which led to hot pursuit of the game’s gifted players, which inevitably led to sub rosa payments and, by 1870, rampant professionalism. (Doesn’t that chain reaction put one in mind of college football or basketball?) The gentlemanly players of baseball’s first generation retreated from the field, shaking their heads in dismay at how greed had perverted the “grand old game”—now barely 20 years old—and probably ruined it forever.
By the 1880s pundits were forecasting the imminent demise of the game because of its extreme violence, much as we see today with professional football. “The records of our hospitals,” wrote a New York Times editorialist, “confirm the theory that fewer games of baseball have been played during the past year than were played during any single year since 1868…. Probably the time is now ripe for the revival of cricket.”
So what have been the tell-tale indicators of baseball’s looming end? Let me count the signs, in no particular order.
1. Baseball is too expensive.
In a letter to the editor of a Philadelphia newspaper on July 6, 1874, an aggrieved patron wrote: “Sir: On the Fourth, I felt rich, and I concluded to take it on the shell, no matter what the price. Well, the game–Athletic-Philadelphia–cost me nearly $2, as follows:– Entrance 50 cents, seat $1, fares 25 cents, four beers 20 cents…. If they would reduce the price to a reasonable figure, I would go out occasionally–but, it is really too heavy.” A simple Purchasing Power Calculator would say the 2014 cost of this 140-year-old ballpark excursion for a single fan, which included no food, would be $41.10.
2. Ballplayers are not as skilled today.
Baseball’s statistics, unlike those of, say track and field—are flexible, products of a particular time and place. Does anyone truly believe that players were better in 1887, when ten men hit over .400?
3. High salaries are killing baseball.
Giancarlo Stanton recently signed a contract for $325 million over 13 years. A reporter asked him if he was embarrassed to be paid so much. But in 1922, when the Yankees were paying Babe Ruth $75,000, a Michigan paper argued that baseball had birthed a “salary-frankenstein.”
4. Free agency has created too much movement of players from city to city.
Players have always moved around. But in former times it was owners trading players — treating players like chattel. Only a quarter of a century removed from the Civil War, the Milwaukee Journal warned in 1890, in a story called “The Decline in Baseball Interest”: “You cannot put [a player] up like a slave on auction block.”
5. Other sports are more appealing.
Today baseball’s rivals for fan favor are football, basketball, and soccer. But in 1892, the Boston Journal noted — in an article yet again titled “The Decline of Base Ball” — that bicycling was the true sport of the age. In 1917, the Colorado Springs Gazette argued that baseball was losing ground to trap shooting. “The modern young man takes up a sport that he can actually do,” the Gazette reported. “No longer is he to be a bench warmer.”
6. Young people today have too many electronic distractions.
This also is an old argument, dating to a time before TV, internet, iPhone, and video gaming. Silent movies were regarded as a big challenge to baseball; a scout told the Colorado Springs Gazette in 1917 that people preferred nickelodeons to stadiums.
7. Baseball is too slow for the modern age.
In 1945, columnist Westbrook Pegler wrote, “I detect a sad and desperate admission that the game, itself, is outmoded.” In 1969 media theorist Marshall McLuhan wrote: “Baseball is … a dying sport … just too individual a sport for our new age.” Baseball will experiment with ways to quicken the pace, but the challenge will not be to alter the essence of the game–which is one of expectation, reflection, and surprise.
The past is prologue. Baseball’s revenues and fan interest are booming right now, despite the annual eulogies, but it may still endure some hard times. Franchises may fail, or relocate, or relocate and fail. Television contracts, real-estate valuations, and capital-gain speculation—the forces that blew the baseball bubble up, might make it burst, as it did in the 1890s. But the elements of further popularity and prosperity are already in place, and have been for a hundred years: the international movement, spearheaded by Albert Spalding with his world tour in 1888-89, and now carried forward by the World Baseball Classic, and the incredibly hardy minor leagues, where the business of baseball still has a human scale and a connection to the spirit of play.
Continuing from yesterday (http://goo.gl/HVQvfL), this marks the eighth and final installment of the series, offering biographies of the men ranked from 81 through 100. To revisit the complete list from 1 to 100, go back to the launch of this series: http://goo.gl/5171CX.
Baseball’s 100 Most Important People
Alan Schwarz and John Thorn
81. LIVAN HERNANDEZ
Livan Hernandez, a star member of the world-renowned Cuban National team, defected to the U.S. in 1995. He was not the first Cuban to do so—Rene Arocha and Rey Ordonez had preceded him in the 1990s and Barbaro Garbey had come over in 1980. And he was not the last—his brother Orlando, for example, fled in a ramshackle boat in 1997.
But Livan was the most important. He signed with Florida as a free agent, whereas Arocha and Ordonez had been signed through a lottery, much as Tom Seaver came to the Mets after Atlanta bungled his initial signing. Ariel Prieto was the last notable Cuban defector to expose himself to the amateur draft, back in 1995; ever since Hernandez, the sponsors or agents of defectors from the Cuban National squad have made certain that these top-rank players jumped to a country other than the U.S. before offering their services to U.S. major-league clubs. This made defecting more lucrative and spawned even more defections.
Hernandez cost the Florida Marlins a $2.5 million signing bonus in 1996, when the club was determined to expand its Latin American fan base, but he was worth every penny. After only 30 minor-league games, the durable right-hander established himself as a major leaguer with a nine-game winning streak in 1997. He became an overnight sensation by virtue of his performance in October 1997. He was chosen the Most Valuable Player of the Championship Series after beating Atlanta twice, including an NLCS-record 15 strikeouts in Game 5. Then, in the Marlins’ World Series victory over the Cleveland Indians, Hernandez won two more games and the WS MVP.
82. HAL RICHMAN
Strat-O-Matic baseball has amused 11-year-old boys for more than 40 years. Few of those know that the game was invented by an 11-year-old boy himself.
Hal Richman, who grew up in New York in the early 1950s, loved playing Ethan Allen’s All-Star Baseball—a simulation game in which players’ performances were determined by spinning discs—but grew frustrated by that game’s not having pitchers involved. Richman invented his own game, which first used a deck of playing cards to randomize the outcome of at-bats. He played the game with friends in summer camp, added strategies such as stolen bases and sacrifice bunts, and later made the probabilities more realistic by using two dice to determine outcomes. After earning an accounting degree at Bucknell University, Richman decided on a nifty name for his game—Strat-O-Matic—and borrowed $3,500 from friends in 1961 to launch the game commercially.
Within three years, the game was a hit. It wound up selling millions of editions and still is in production today with, of course, the inevitable computer edition. For generations of young fans, Strat-O-Matic was one of the favorite connections to the sport, and their main lens into strategy and team-building. The impact of Richman’s game and others like it (APBA, Pursue the Pennant and so on) goes far beyond kids’ basements: In a 2002 Baseball America survey of major-league teams’ front-office executives, 50 percent of them said they played Strat-O-Matic or a similar game as a kid.
83. PETER SEITZ
Peter Seitz never swung a bat or pitched an inning during a major-league game, yet his impact on Organized Baseball was enormous. As an arbitrator for MLB and the MLBPA, he laid the groundwork for baseball’s current system of free agency.
Andy Messersmith of the Los Angeles Dodgers and Dave McNally of the Montreal Expos requested free-agent status after pitching in the 1975 season without signing new contracts. Thus the two challenged the legality of the automatic-renewal clause in the standard contract.
Their appeal was heard by three officials: John Gaherin, who represented the owners; Marvin Miller, the economist who was executive director of the MLBPA; and Seitz, a professional arbitrator from New York who served as an impartial judge.
In a 70-page opinion, Seitz cast the deciding vote that ruled Messersmith and McNally free agents. “It was represented to me,” Seitz said, “that any decision sustaining Messersmith and McNally would have dire results, wreak great harm to the reserve system and do serious damage to the sport of baseball and would encourage many other players to elect and become free agents.
“The panel’s sole duty is to interpret and apply agreements and understandings of the parties. If any of the expressed apprehensions and fears are soundly based, I am confident that the dislocations and damage to the reserve system can be avoided or minimized through good-faith collective bargaining between the parties.” Following his decision, Seitz was immediately fired by baseball’s owners, who called his action detrimental to the game.
Seitz held other important positions as a labor-management arbitrator, including work with the National Basketball Association, New York City and the Defense Department.
84. KEN GRIFFEY, JR.
Those too young to have seen Willie Mays in his prime could see in Ken Griffey, Jr. the player nearest to Mays in ability. Just 30 years old, and finishing the 1999 season with 398 career home runs, Griffey had already placed himself in elite company. He had led the AL in homers four times, including back-to-back seasons in 1997-98 with 56 homers. He also won 10 consecutive Gold Gloves and made numerous leaping catches in center field to rob opponents of home runs. Elected by experts to the “All Century Team” announced in July 1999, he was then voted by fans as one of the top 25 players of the 20th Century.
Griffey, Jr. was also baseball’s most marketable star, despite playing in a medium-sized market in Seattle. He was the consensus pick to challenge Hank Aaron’s home-run record, and he more than anyone may have saved major-league baseball in the Northwest. And yet, when the opportunity came to exercise his free agency and go home to Cincinnati, where he had grown up watching his father star for the Reds, Junior pulled up stakes. (Griffey, Sr. had finished with the Mariners in 1991, playing 51 games over his last two seasons alongside his son.)
After a 40-home run, 118-RBI debut in the National League, Griffey ran into an incredible string of injuries that reduced him to part-time duty and left many wondering whether he would ever again display the form he had exhibited with Seattle.
85. BOB FELLER
He grew up on a farm just west of Des Moines, Iowa, in the small town of Van Meter. Farm chores made him strong, and his father made him a pitcher. According to Feller, his father “made a home plate in the yard, and I’d throw to him over it. He even built me a pitching rubber. When I was 12, we built a ballfield on our farm. We fenced the pasture, put up the chicken wire and the benches and even a little grandstand behind first base. We formed our own team and played other teams from around the community on weekends.” That was the way it was, not so long ago, and Bob Feller stands as a proud symbol of what made baseball America’s game.
In July 1936 the 17-year-old Feller made his debut for Cleveland in an exhibition game, striking out eight St. Louis Cardinals in three innings. From that moment on, he was major-league news. After several relief appearances, he made his first start in mid-August and struck out 15 St. Louis Browns in a 4-1 victory. In September he struck out 17 Philadelphia Athletics, tying the major-league mark and setting a new AL record. Then he went home to finish high school.
In 1941 Feller went 25-13 with 260 strikeouts but missed more than a month of the season. The day after Japan bombed Pearl Harbor he enlisted in the Navy. While some baseball stars spent the war playing exhibition baseball games to build the troops’ morale, Feller served as a chief specialist on the battleship Alabama, winning five campaign ribbons and eight battle stars.
Feller came back from the war better than ever. He won 26 games for the sixth-place Indians, 10 of them shutouts shutouts, while striking out 346.
Named to the Hall of Fame in 1962, his first year of eligibility, Feller was bothered by his Hall of Fame plaque, which lists his baseball career as spanning “1936 to 1941” and “1945 to 1956” with no explanation. He once suggested to Commissioner Peter Ueberroth that the plaque might be changed to reflect the facts. The commissioner answered that such a change would be “inconvenient.” “Well,” said Feller, “it was inconvenient to get shot at.”
86. DAVID S. NEFT
It’s hard to believe today, with books such as Total Baseball in every baseball fan’s library, but for most of baseball’s first 100 years there was no such thing as a comprehensive book of historical statistics. Then David Neft came along.
The closest thing baseball had was The Official Encyclopedia of Baseball, first published in 1951, but that listed only a few statistics per player. Neft, a New York formal statistician working for Information Concepts Incorporated in the 1960s, sold his bosses—and the Macmillan publishing company—on a book that listed more than a dozen statistics for every player, all the way back to 1876. It was a mammoth undertaking, and it changed the course of baseball fandom.
The business of building a credible baseball encyclopedia was amazingly complicated in the 1960s. Computers were only beginning to handle the type of data entry, storage and checking required. Second, baseball’s records, particularly before 1920, were in complete disarray. Players were missing or identified incorrectly. Sources such as old Spalding Guides were notoriously shoddy, and even the official statistics put out by the leagues back then had hundreds of errors. Neft’s team of researchers criss-crossed the country, from library microfilm rooms to long-lost graveyards, to look up old box scores and recreate statistics from 1876-20 virtually from scratch, and to resolve other conflicts.
Finally published in 1969, The Baseball Encyclopedia ran 2,338 pages and weighed six and a half pounds. One New York Times reviewer raved that it was “the book I’d take with me to prison.” It flew through its first printing of 50,000 books and ultimately sold more than 100,000 copies. The book began a new era of fanaticism for baseball statistics and history.
Neft went on to create encyclopedias in other sports, and his Sports Encyclopedia: Baseball has been issued annually for three decades.
87. JOHN SCHUERHOLZ
No modern general manager has been able to win more often, and in more places, than John Schuerholz. He has been a master at juggling batting lines with bottom lines, and has been able to keep his teams in contention every season for 20 years.
Schuerholz’s job is barely recognizable compared to the one that former GMs such as George Weiss held, before arbitration and free agency, before the media and ownership demands, before the draft and international market, before 29 other clubs and three rounds of playoffs. With that in consideration, some might consider Schuerholz the best general manager in baseball history.
His Braves have won one World Series, five pennants and 12 straight division championships (a professional sports record). In doing so, Schuerholz did have the advantage of a large payroll, but he never lost sight of the player-development aspects of running a club, deftly weaving in top prospects while acquiring established veterans through trades and free agency. As other large-revenue teams such as the Orioles and Dodgers floundered, the Braves kept winning season after season.
Before heading to Atlanta in 1990, Schuerholz ran the Royals, with whom he won the 1985 World Series. He helped build Kansas City into baseball’s model expansion club throughout the ’70s while serving in player development, presiding over a minor-league system that produced the likes of George Brett, Frank White, Dennis Leonard, Bret Saberhagen, Danny Jackson and Bo Jackson, feeding teams that finished first or second every year from 1975 to 1985.
88. MINNIE MINOSO
Saturnino Orestes Armas “Minnie” Minoso was the first dark-skinned Latin to play in the U.S. major leagues and an inspiration to generations of Caribbean youth. It is not too much to say that he was the Jackie Robinson for Latin America.
Minoso, who grew up in Cuba’s Matanzas Province, left school at age 14 to work in the sugar fields. In 1946 he signed with Alex Pompez’s New York Cubans for $150 a month plus a boat ticket to Key West and train fare to New York. Cleveland’s Bill Veeck purchased the 25-year old Minoso in 1948 and assigned him to Dayton in the Class A Central League. He made it to Cleveland the next year, but he lasted only nine games.
He returned to the majors as a 28-year-old rookie in 1951, but after eight games with the Indians he was traded to the White Sox. He hit .326 that season and led the league in stolen bases and triples.
In December 1957, after hitting .310 with 103 RBIs, Minoso was traded to Cleveland but in 1960 Veeck reacquired Minoso for the White Sox in a seven-player trade. Minoso responded in 1960 by leading the AL in hits, with 184, and by finishing second to Roger Maris in RBIs. He was 37.
Father Time was catching up with Minoso. He retired in 1964—sort of. On September 11, 1976, Veeck, who was again running the White Sox, reactivated the 53-year-old Minoso so he could become a four-decade major leaguer. For once in his baseball career Minoso was nervous.
“It’s been many years since I face pitching like this,” he said. “I hope [the fans] forgive me.” That day he went hitless against the Angels’ Frank Tanana. But the next afternoon he faced 25-year-old Sid Monge, who had been only 20 days old when Minoso first appeared in the American League. Minnie singled to left.
89. HARRY CARAY
When young Harry Carabina decided he wanted to be a baseball announcer, he conned his way into an audition with Merle Jones, owner of KMOX, St. Louis’ largest radio station. After the audition Jones commented, “Your voice has an exciting timbre.” He helped Carabina land his first broadcasting job, in Joliet, Illinois, and the voice of the renamed Harry Caray went on to excite fans for well over half a century.
Caray’s first major-league job was with his hometown Cardinals, and he stayed there for 25 years, from 1945 to 1969, working with four different owners—Sam Breadon, Fred Saigh, Bob Hannegan, and August Busch, who fired him.
He went on to work for Charlie Finley in Oakland, but after one season with the A’s he returned to the Midwest. The Chicago White Sox hired him in 1971 and he stayed on when the team was sold to Bill Veeck in 1976. On Opening Day that year, when the crowd began singing “Take Me out to the Ball Game” during the seventh-inning stretch, Veeck noticed that Caray was singing along in the broadcasters’ booth.
Without the announcer’s knowledge Veeck had a microphone set up in the booth, and Caray’s raspy singing voice was soon booming throughout the stadium. Confronted by Caray, Veeck explained, “Anybody in the ballpark hearing you sing that song knows he can sing as well as you can. Probably better than you can. So he or she sings along.” From that day on Caray’s enthusiastic rendering of the song was a Chicago tradition, especially on the North Side when he moved to the Cubs for the final years of his career.
90. DICK YOUNG
Dick Young began his career with the New York Daily News as a messenger boy in 1937. After 45 years there he moved to the Post, but he had already changed the style of covering a baseball game forever. In the age of day baseball, the writers for afternoon papers had the players all to themselves after a game. Young, working for a morning paper with multiple editions, hung around the clubhouse to pick up quotes, “like a chipmunk looking for nuts,” in the uncomplimentary phrase that stuck. With these he would not only flesh out his game stories but also pepper his popular and, to the targets of his gibes, enfuriating column, “Young Ideas.”
No beat reporter today would dream of filing a game story without a quote. No baseball writer has ever dipped his pen in vitriol to greater effect. And no baseball writer prior to him would risk utter alienation from the source of future stories, as he did on a habitual basis.
Love him, hate him, you couldn’t ignore him. Even as his readers came increasingly to resent his testiness and his tendency to expound on the decline of society in general, he remained influential to the last.
91. SCOTT BORAS
No player agents has been more hated by management and vilified by the media than Scott Boras, and no agent has been more effective for his clients.
Boras began his involvement in professional baseball as an infielder/outfielder in the St. Louis organization during the mid-1970s. He never advanced past Class AA, retiring in 1977. In the off-season he pursued a law degree, becoming convinced of the inequity of minor-league contracts. “The deals were unilaterally imposed and the team could get out of them at any time,” he said later. “There was never any negotiation.”
In his new career as an agent, Boras looked to challenge the system. After drawn-out, confrontational negotiations, he secured ever-larger amounts for top picks Andy Benes, Ben McDonald and Brien Taylor, the New York Yankees’ first selection in 1991 who signed for $1.55 million—and never reached the major leagues. Although Boras continually added to his major-league client roster (he won for Kevin Brown baseball’s first nine-figure contract) it was another amateur, Florida State outfielder J.D. Drew, who gained him his greatest notoriety.
In 1996 amateurs Travis Lee and Matt White had escaped the draft through a loophole and commanded deals for over $10 million each; Boras envisioned even bigger numbers for Drew. “When you remove the barrier of the draft, you see what teams are willing to pay for select amateur players,” Boras said.
He warned frugally minded teams not to select his client, but the Philadelphia Phillies called his bluff and tapped Drew with the second overall pick. Drew rejected Philadelphia, demanding $11 million. He spent the season in the independent Northern League, which Boras maintained freed him from the draft. An arbitrator rejected his position, but Drew refused to sign with Philadelphia and went back into the draft. This time, the Cardinals signed him for $8 million.
92. FRANK BANCROFT
He never played professional baseball, he managed his last game over a century ago, he won only one pennant, and he’s not in the Hall of Fame. So how does this gent make the list?
In a baseball career that spanned more than 40 years, he led the first professional U.S. team to visit the Caribbean. The one pennant he won was capped by victory in the very first World Series (1884, not 1903). He was talented enough as a manager to be hired by six big-league clubs—and contentious enough to wear out his welcome mat with seven, a record unequaled unless you count Billy Martin playing Judy to George Steinbrenner’s Punch.
Oh, and one last thing. He was the pioneer of platooning, with his 1884 Providence Grays of 1884, and perhaps earlier, with his Detroit Wolverines.
Bancroft first managed during the Civil War, arranging baseball games between Union Army regiments. Later he settled in New Bedford, Massachusetts, ran several successful businesses, and in 1878 became manager of New Bedford’s entry in the International Association, the first minor league. After the season he took his team barnstorming to Cuba. Two years later he was at the helm of Worcester when it entered the National League.
His other managerial stops were (in sequence) Detroit, Cleveland, Providence, Philadelphia, Indianapolis, and Cincinnati. In 1892 he became business manager of the Reds, a post he held until his death in 1921.
93. ARCH WARD
Notre Dame graduate Arch Ward’s first job was as the first sports publicity director his alma mater ever had. After one year there he moved to the Rockford Star to write sports. Five years later he was in the big leagues of sports journalism: sportswriter and, later, sports editor of the Chicago Tribune.
In 1933, Ward hit upon the idea of having a baseball game between stars from both leagues, as a sporting way to tie in to the “Century of Progress” Exposition in Chicago that year. He saw that July 6 was an open date for all major-league clubs, so he began to push the idea in his columns. In addition to promoting the city and the fair, Ward felt it could serve a charitable cause as well: raising funds for the “Professional Ball Players of America.” (He was surely connecting baseball officials to their memory of the 1911 All-Star benefit game on behalf of the family of Cleveland’s Addie Joss.) This was during the cold heart of the Depression, and Ward figured some former players who were financially strapped would benefit. Many owners disliked the idea, and when they finally agreed to it, they firmly stipulated it would be a one-time event.
As history has demonstrated, the concept was a smash from the very beginning. John McGraw came out of retirement to manage the National League. Babe Ruth, even though he was 38 years old, was the star, with both a two-run homer and a critical running catch. Seventeen future Hall of Famers played for the 47,595 fans that came to Comiskey Park. Of the $52,000 raised, $45,000 was donated to former players in need of financial assistance.
In 1934, Ward conjured up another all-star idea: the College All-Stars against the champions of the NFL, an event that ran annually through 1976.
94. MARTIN DIHIGO
Only Martin Dihigo has been elected to the Cuban, Mexican, and United States Baseball Halls of Fame. His speed, size, and strong throwing arm made him one of the most versatile players in baseball history. During his 30-year career Dihigo played every position on the field—sometimes more than one in the same game—and played each of them exceptionally well.
Dihigo was arguably the greatest Cuban ballplayer of all time. Among Cuban-born players, only Cristobal Torriente was considered his peer at the plate. Johnny Mize, who played for a team Dihigo managed in the Dominican Republic winter league in 1943, said Dihigo was the greatest player he’d ever seen. Buck Leonard shared Mize’s opinion: “He could run, hit, throw, think, pitch, and manage.”
Known as “El Maestro” in Mexico and “El Immortal” in Cuba, Dihigo began his U.S. career as an 18-year-old second baseman for the Cuban Stars. After five years he moved on to the Homestead Grays, and had short stints with the Philadelphia Hilldales, the Baltimore Black Sox, and the New York Cubans. Dihigo won three Negro League home run crowns and tied Josh Gibson for another. As a pitcher, he racked up more than 200 wins in American and Mexican ball.
He played sparingly as player-manager for the New York Cubans in 1945 and continued to play and manage in Cuba and Mexico until the early 1950s, when he returned to Cuba to stay. Dihigo served as Cuba’s minister of sports until his death in 1971. In 1977 he became the first Cuban to be elected to the National Baseball Hall of Fame.
95. ROGER KAHN
Brooklyn-born Roger Kahn began covering the Dodgers for the New York Herald Tribune as a kid out of college. Ebbets Field was his graduate school, where he learned about baseball and baseball players, and most enduringly, the boys of summer in their ruin.
In his prolific career as an author of notable sports books, none of his titles stands above The Boys of Summer. Indeed, when Sports Illustrated selected its 100 Greatest Sports Books in 2002, Kahn’s masterpiece ranked #2; only a boxing book stood above it.
Kahn showed a generation of writers that even if they start their careers in the toy department of a newspaper, to use Red Smith’s phrase for the sports department, they can aspire to literature. He showed a generation of fans that as their boyhood heroes grow frail, as they themselves soon will, the road to heroism remains open and wide.
Within half a decade, 1966 to 1972, baseball books grew up, with other monumental accomplishments such as Larry Ritter’s The Glory of Their Times (1966), Harold Seymour’s Baseball: The Golden Age (1971), Roger Angell’s The Summer Game (1972), and, in an altogether different vein, Jim Bouton and Leonard Shecter’s Ball Four (1970). Roger Kahn was in the thick of this golden age and, in a personal golden age that extended into the current century, went on to write such fine books as A Flame of Pure Fire and October Men.
96. LEFTY O’DOUL
They called Lefty O’Doul “The Man in the Green Suit” because he was given to wearing a bright green sport jacket day in and day out. They might have also called him the American father of Japanese baseball, the NL batting champion of 1929 (with a .398 average), and “Mr. Pacific Coast League,” because, in his lengthy and varied career, he was all of these things.
O’Doul started out as a pitcher. He was signed by the San Francisco Seals of the PCL in 1917, and pitched a handful of games with the Yankees in 1919 through 1922.Traded to the Red Sox, he ended his pitching career in a blaze of ineptitude, surrendering 13 runs in one inning of work in a 27-3 loss.
Returning to the majors as a 31-year-old outfielder, he hit .319 for the Giants in 1928 but John McGraw didn’t like his fielding and traded him. With the Phillies O’Doul banged out a league-leading .398 average, 32 home run and, in what remains an NL record, 254 hits. He won another batting title in 1932 with the Dodgers.
He is famous as the answer to the trivia question, “Who has the highest batting batting average of any man eligible for the Hall of Fame who isn’t in it?” (He hit .349 over 11 seasons; only Joe Jackson’s .356 is higher.) How good a hitter was he? With Vancouver, at age 59, O’Doul sent himself up as a pinch hitter and walloped a triple. How did he do it? There were two reasons, he said: “The first is clean living, and the second is to bat against a pitcher who’s laughing so hard he can hardly throw the ball.”
Starting with the Seals in 1935 O’Doul began a long career of managing in the Pacific Coast League. He remained with San Francisco until 1951 (serving as vice president of the club from 1948 to 1951), and also managed San Diego, Oakland, Vancouver, and Seattle.
Starting in the early 1930s O’Doul made the first of more than 20 trips to Japan. There he assisted Matsutoro Shoriki in founding the first professional team, which he dubbed the Giants in honor of his last major league club. After Japan’s defeat in World War II, O’Doul returned to the country to help restore baseball and the defeated nation’s morale.
On leaving baseball in 1958, O’Doul founded a popular San Francisco restaurant. It remains a landmark on Geary Street just off Union Square, and they make a heck of a corned-beef sandwich.
97. NED HANLON
Though never a strong hitter, Edward Hugh Hanlon was a fine outfielder and, more importantly, a leader. At age 24 he was named captain and found himself leading a team of luminaries when the Detroit Wolverines roared to the world championship in 1887. In 1892 he received an offer to manage the Baltimore Orioles, a team that had been absorbed into the NL when the American Association disbanded after the 1891 season.
The Orioles were awful. They finished 1892 dead last, 541/2 games out of first. Hanlon built a new team by gambling on young, unproven players. In 1893 he acquired third baseman John McGraw, outfielder Joe Kelley, and catcher Wilbert Robinson. The next year he added outfielder Willie Keeler, shortstop Hughie Jennings, and veteran first baseman Dan Brouthers. All six were eventually named to the Hall of Fame. By 1894 Hanlon’s club was fully established, and the Orioles won the pennant for three years running.
Attendance fell off as the Orioles finished second in 1897 and 1898. In 1899 the team merged with Brooklyn, and Hanlon received 10 percent of Brooklyn’s stock. He was now both president of the Orioles and manager of Brooklyn. He shifted most of Baltimore’s best players to Brooklyn, creating a powerhouse that was christened “Hanlon’s Superbas,” after a vaudeville act of the same name. (Hanlon himself had been nicknamed “Ned” after a famous contemporary oarsman named Ned Hanlan.) The Superbas won pennants in 1899 and 1900, giving Hanlon five flags and two second-place finishes in his seven years as a manager.
Hanlon’s greatest legacy is not his string of pennants but the success of the managers he influenced: Joe Kelley, Hughie Jennings, Wilbert Robinson, and John McGraw. Hanlon joined his disciples in the Hall of Fame in 1996.
98. WHITEY HERZOG
Dorrel Norman Elvert “Whitey” Herzog changed the face of managerial strategy in the 1970s and 1980s as he transformed lackluster franchises in Kansas City and St. Louis into AstroTurf-exploiting, speed-dominated division champions and pennant winners. Stolen bases, defense and relief pitching were at the heart of “WhiteyBall.”
His career as a ballplayer was undistinguished and marred by injuries. Having been traded to Baltimore at the start of the 1961 season, he missed Opening Day after being hit in the nose by a ball coming through the back of a batting cage. Herzog was dealt to Detroit in 1962, and in early 1963 he was beset by an ear infection that hastened his retirement.
In 1965 he became a Kansas City coach and lasted until getting into a shouting match with Charlie Finley regarding traveling expenses. The next year he was named a coach for the New York Mets, and later became director of player personnel for the team.
In 1973 Herzog replaced Ted Williams as the Texas Rangers’ manager but couldn’t turn their fortunes around. In July 1975, however, Jack McKeon was fired at Kansas City, and Herzog was offered the managerial post. It was with the Royals that WhiteyBall first took shape, and it paid off with three successive AL West titles, but each time the Royals lost to the Yankees in the Championship Series. After Herzog finished second in 1979, he was gone.
“I thought I did my greatest job of managing that year, and yet I got fired,” said Herzog. “It’s amazing how fast you can get dumb in this game.”
Yet as one door closed, another opened. In June 1980 Herzog was got a job across the state with the Cardinals. The results were a world championship in 1982 and pennants in 1985 and 1987.
99. CARL HUBBELL
Carl Hubbell was nicknamed “the Meal Ticket” because that’s what he was to the New York Giants and manager John McGraw during his career. Hubbell earned two Most Valuable Player Awards and over two seasons won 24 games in a row. He is best remembered for the 1934 All-Star Game during which he struck out future Hall of Fame sluggers Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Jimmie Foxx, Al Simmons, and Joe Cronin in succession. But what made him important (as opposed to merely a great player) was that with his trademark screwball he showed the baseball world that—even after the 1920 ban on spitballs, emery balls, and other trick pitches that had been dead-ball era staples—a pitcher without much of fastball or curve could still be a star.
Hubbell didn’t throw a screwball in high school, and the rest of his arsenal didn’t interest baseball scouts, but Hubbell refused to give up. Persistence paid off, and he caught on with the Class D Oklahoma State League’s Cushing Refiners. In June 1924 the circuit collapsed, and by season’s end Hubbell was with the Class A Western League’s Oklahoma City Indians. There Hubbell met an older pitcher named Lefty Thomas who worked with him on developing a sinker. As Hubbell tinkered with the new delivery he kept turning his wrist farther and farther over, and as he did he developed an entirely new pitch—the screwball. Christy Mathewson had thrown a “fadeaway,” a changeup with a reverse break, but Hubbell threw his pitch hard—so hard and so often that when his career was done, his left arm turned inward.
The Tigers purchased him at the close of the 1925 season but told him not to throw that crazy pitch. He never threw a pitch of any sort for Detroit despite three years in their system.
Hubbell was about ready to quit baseball when scout Dick Kinsella routed him to John McGraw’s Giants. There he registered five consecutive 20-game seasons, amid a myriad of other feats.
100. MEL ALLEN
The single most recognizable—and likable—voice in the history of baseball broadcasting may well have been that of Mel Allen. Although his broadcasting career included stints covering football and other sports, his many years of broadcasting the Yankees, the World Series, and the All-Star Game have forever linked his comfortable style with the Golden Age of Baseball on the air. His easy drawl and signature “How ‘bout that, sports fans?” were inextricably connected with the pleasure of baseball.
In 1937 Allen obtained his law degree from the University of Alabama, where he had broadcast Crimson Tide football games for the CBS affiliate in Birmingham and, with the recommendation of pioneer broadcaster Ted Husing, he was hired as a CBS staff announcer for $45 a week. When Larry MacPhail broke the New York baseball radio blackout, Allen was hired as the Yankees’ broadcaster for the 1940 season. He and Red Barber, voice of the Dodgers, did the first of their World Series broadcasts together the following year. Allen proved to be an immediate hit with New York fans. He nicknamed Joe DiMaggio “The Yankee Clipper” and christened Phil Rizzuto “Scooter.” In 1948 Allen introduced his famous home run call: “It’s going, going, gone!”
In a move that devastated Allen for years to come, he was fired after the 1964 season. For a decade he was essentially gone from the national scene. But when Major League Baseball introduced its first syndicated series, This Week In Baseball, in 1977, Allen was back for a victory lap. When the Yankees hired him to work their cablecasts in 1985, Sports Illustrated waxed eloquent. “The Voice is back where it belongs…. When you hear it, it’s summer again, a lazy July or August afternoon with sunlight creeping across the infield.”