I am thinking about Hartford now, and Mr. Clemens, because on Wednesday, September 17, I will be part of a panel at the Mark Twain House, “Base Ball in Mark Twain’s Time.” [http://goo.gl/YQGWQz] Yes, he made the famous speech at Delmonico’s in 1889 honoring the returning World Tourists (in which he called baseball “the very symbol, the outward and visible expression of all the drive and push and struggle of the raging, tearing, booming nineteenth century”). And baseball certainly figures in A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court: an armor-plated runner sliding into a base, the novelist wrote, “was like an iron-clad coming into port.” But Mark Twain’s only extended passage on the national pastime from the 1870s, when he attended games of the Hartford Base Ball Club in the National League, is this one. It originated as part of a larger work that was to be called A Later Extract from Methuselah’s Diary, set aside and unpublished until 1962.
By way of explanation, the men in blue hose below were the author’s beloved Hartford Blue Stockings, while the men in carmine leggings were the Red Stockings of Boston. Note that the players of today are not like those of 300 years past, and that pitching dominates to excess. [Addition of paragraph breaks below is mine—jt]
Tenth Day–It taketh but short space to craze men of indifferent understanding with a new thing. Behold us now but two years gone that a certain ancient game, played with a ball, hath come up again, yet already are all mouths filled with the phrases that describe its parts and movement; insomuch, indeed, that the ears of the sober and such as would busy themselves with weightier matters are racked with the clack of the same till they do ache with anguish. If a man deceive his neighbor with a shrewd trick that doth advantage himself of his neighbor’s hurt, the vulgar say of the sufferer that he was Caught out on a Foul. If one accomplisheth a great and sudden triumph of any sort soever, ’tis said of him that he hath Made a Three-base Hit. If one fail utterly in an enterprise of pith and moment, you shall hear this said concerning him: [*]Hashbat-kakolath. Thus hath this vile deformity of speech entered with familiar insolence into the very warp and woof of the language, and made ugly that which before was shapely and beautiful.
[*] This not translatable into English; but it is about the equivalent to “Lo, he is whitewashed.”
To-day, by command of my father, was this game contested in the great court of his palace after the manner of the playing of it three centuries gone by. Nine men that had their calves clothed in red did strive against other nine that had blue hose upon their calves. Certain of those in blue stood at distances, one from another, stooping, each with his palms upon his knees, watching; these they called Basemen and Fielders—wherefore, God knoweth. It concerneth me not to know, neither to care. One with red legs stood wagging a club about his head, which from time to time he struck upon the ground, then wagged he it again.
Behind him bent one with blue legs that did spit much upon his hands, and was called a Catcher. Beside him bent one called Umpire, clothed in the common fashion of the time, who marked upon the ground with a stick, yet accomplished nothing by it that I could make out. Saith this one, Low Ball. Whereat one with blue legs did deliver a ball with vicious force straight at him that bore the club, but failed to bring him down, through some blemish of his aim.
At once did all that are called Basemen and Fielders spit upon their hands and stoop and watch again. He that bore the club did suffer the ball to be flung at him divers times, but did always bend in his body or bend it out and so save himself, whilst the others spat upon their hands, he at the same instant endeavoring to destroy the Umpire with his bludgeon, yet not succeeding, through grievous awkwardness. But in the fulness of time was he more fortunate, and did lay the Umpire dead, which mightily pleased me, yet fell himself, he failing to avoid the ball, which this time cracked his skull, to my deep gratitude and satisfaction.
Conceiving this to be the end, I did crave my father’s leave to go, and got it, though all beside me did remain, to see the rest disabled. Yet I had seen a sufficiency, and shall visit this sport no more, forasmuch as the successful hits come too laggingly, wherefore the game doth lack excitement. Moreover was Jebel there, windy with scorn of these modern players, and boastful of certain mighty Nines he knew three hundred years gone by—dead, now, and rotten, praise God, who doeth all things well.
[SOURCE: Bernard DeVoto, Mark Twain: Letters from the Earth. New York, Evanston and London: Harper & Row, 1962. pp. 70-71.]
Bob Mayer has written, “When I hear Sinatra’s ‘There Used To Be A Ballpark,’ which was his personal ode to Ebbets Field, I think of the Dodgers and Giants leaving town. At the time I was dumbfounded and pretty much in denial; when people asked me how I felt about it, I was close to speechless. Even today, [all these] years later, I’m at a loss for words to explain how I feel. The truth is … even this far removed from then, I have never been as passionate nor as caring about The Game as I once was.”
Thomas Wolfe wrote: “Is there anything that can evoke spring–the first fine days of April–better than the sound of the ball smacking into the pocket of the big mill, the sound of the bat as it hits the horsehide…? And is there anything that can tell more about an American summer than, say, the smell of the wooden bleachers in a small-town baseball park, that resinous, sultry, and exciting smell of old dry wood.”
W.P. Kinsella: “As I look around the empty park, almost Greek in its starkness, I feel an awesome inarticulate love for this very stadium and the game it represents. I am reminded of the story about the baseball fans of Milwaukee, and what they did on a warm fall afternoon, the day after it was announced that Milwaukee was to have a major-league team the next season. According to the story, 10,000 people went to County Stadium that afternoon and sat in the seats and smiled out at the empty playing field-sat in silence, in awe, in wonder, in anticipation, in joy–just knowing that soon the field would come alive with the chatter of infielders, bright as bird chirps.”
Humphrey Bogart: “A hot dog at the ballpark is better than a steak at the Ritz.”
Count me in with all these gents.
This is the sixth and final installment of Jimmy Wood’s memoirs, unpublished since their serialization by a newspaper syndicate in August 1916. The opening segment, of six, may be read at http://goo.gl/SHvXtL.
Related by James Wood, Captain and Manager of the Famous Chicago White Stockings of 1870-71, to Frank G. Menke.
The formation of the National League in 1876 was the direct outgrowth of crookedness which had existed in baseball some years previously, and which I was fortunate enough to uncover during the sensational Louisville-Chicago series in the summer of 1875.
Some historians have it that Hall, Craver and Devlin, the Louisville players, were expelled from baseball in 1877, but that is an error. They were barred from baseball two years earlier, due to the fact that I intercepted their telegrams, addressed to some of my Chicago players, in which they outlined how my team was to throw the ensuing series to the admittedly inferior Louisville club for the benefit of the gamblers.
[There is a swirl of confusion here, perhaps born of the Wood-Menke collaboration, with the latter trying to square up, unsuccessfully, the former’s recollection. (1) Hall and Craver did not join Louisville until 1877. (2) There had been a betting scandal at Louisville in 1876 in which George Bechtel was expelled and Jim Devlin exonerated. (3) Louisville did not have a professional club in the National Association of 1875, the last year that Wood managed the White Stockings. (4) Devlin indeed played mostly first base in 1875–but for Chicago, Jimmy Wood’s club! Attempting to untangle the web, I think it likely that there was indeed a gambling incident in 1875 which Wood foiled, but it involved Philadelphia (two franchises possibly, the Athletics and Centennials), not Louisville. Hall and Craver both played with the Athletics in 1875, and the man Wood recalls as Devlin might well have been Bechtel, who like Craver played for both the Athletics and the Centennials in that year. My conclusion: swap Bechtel for Devlin and Philadelphia for Louisville, and Wood’s story makes sense.–jt]
In the early days of baseball, especially during that period from 1869 to 1875, baseball was the real gambling sport in America. Hundreds of thousands of dollars often were bet on the outcome of big series. Gamblers circulated—without restraint—through the stands, offering bets. They would lay odds on any angle of the game; bet on the straight outcome, on the number of hits, the number of runs in each inning and the number of errors, etc.
Not only was there heavy plunging on the games in the parks, but thousands of dollars were wagered in the poolrooms in every city on the result of the different games.
And because of the tendency of the public to back their diamond favorites to the limit, the gamblers planned a huge clean-up in that Louisville-Chicago series, expecting the aid of the three Louisville players.
Craver, the Louisville catcher, and captain, was selected as the real go-between. He previously played on my Chicago team, but I suspicioned [sic] him of shady tactics and released him. Louisville later signed him. Craver told the gamblers that he needed the assistance of one or two of the other Louisville players to swing the big coup, and, with their sanction, enlisted the services of Hall, the center fielder, and Devlin, the first baseman of the Louisville club.
Shortly before Louisville came to Chicago to play that series, telegrams arrived for some of my players. They were not at the clubhouse at the time, and I thought probably the messages might contain some important news. So I opened them and in the reading of those messages there was unfolded before my eyes the monstrous plot to throw the ensuing Louisville-Chicago games to Louisville for the benefit of the gamblers.
There was nothing in those messages which led me to believe that my own boys were in the plot up to that time. The messages were more in the form of a proposal than anything else. But the way the proposition was worded meant that no reply from my players to whom the messages were addressed meant that they would enter the plot and would throw the game to the Louisville club.
Those messages promised my boys—that is those who were to be ringleaders in bringing about our defeat—a fabulous sum of money. And why shouldn’t they have been given a big amount had they entered into the compact? The gamblers behind the scheme had planned to bet every dollar they could get on the Louisville team. The odds were big—something like 5 to 1 that Chicago would win the series. It meant close to $1,000,000 for that outfit if it could swing the game to Louisville.
Well, I tucked those messages in my pocket and never said a word to any of the players. When the Louisville team arrived, I kept my players under cover. I didn’t want the Hall-Devlin-Craver crowd to meet my boys and to discover that the message never had been delivered.
It was my aim to give the gamblers what they had coming to them; to trap them with the very same trap they had laid for others. And that is just what happened.
Assuming that the game was fixed, the gamblers went ahead and bet every dollar they could muster on Louisville to win—and Louisville was beaten!
Not being absolutely sure that my players hadn’t been tampered with in person I called them together before the game began. I told them that there was a scheme afoot to have Chicago throw the game and the series to Louisville. And then I told my boys that the first imperfect play on the part of any one of them would mean not only his removal from the game but his expulsion from baseball.
And, to this day, I regard the playing of my Chicago team that afternoon, as the most perfect I have ever seen any club perform. Those boys played beyond themselves; not one of them dared to make an error of hand or head, fearing he would be tainted immediately with the suspicion of being a crook.
We won easily—and the terrific financial loss which the gamblers suffered that day cured many of them forever of the plunging fever.
Immediately after our series was over, I went to William. H. Hulbert, president of our club, and laid all the facts before him.
“This is the climax,” said Hulbert. “Baseball is a sport and should be kept a clean sport. Gambling should not enter into it. Unless we take some drastic steps now the game will be wrecked on the rocks of crookedness.”
And Hulbert, one of the finest sportsmen the game ever has produced, then went to the other club owners, made a formal complaint against Craver, Devlin and Hall and brought about their expulsion. The story of the frame-up was given wide publicity at the time and it served as a lesson to all other ball players.
Until that time, baseball had been controlled by an organization known as the National Association of Professional Baseball Players.
“It is not powerful enough and its scope is too limited,” said Hulbert. “A new ruling body is needed —one with absolute authority; one which can stamp out dishonesty and gambling in baseball.
And so Hulbert, working unceasingly during the winter of 1875 and the spring of 1876, brought about the formation of the National League—the same National League which has lived and prospered during 42 years of commingled peace and warfare.
Hulbert, in organizing the new circuit, made it a condition that “no club be a member of the National League unless it has a population of 75,000 or more. The National league circuit follows:
Chicago, St. Louis, Cincinnati and Louisville, in the west; Boston, Hartford, New York (Mutual team) and the Philadelphia Athletics in the east.
Hulbert was the unanimous selection for the presidency of the league. All he needed to do was to indicate his willingness to hold the office. But Hulbert didn’t want it to appear that he sought the honor as a reward for what he had done.
“I would suggest that in electing our first president, we dismiss the straight voting plan,” he said. “Let us write on separate slips of paper the names of each club president. Then drop them in a hat. The first name withdrawn shall be our president.”
The suggestion was accepted; the name of Morgan G. Bulkeley, of Hartford, Conn., was extracted and to him was accorded the honor of being the first chief executive of the National League.
My own baseball career ended with the close of the season of 1875. Daring 1874 I had lost a limb due to blood poisoning following a knife jab, ending my playing days. In 1875 I consented to manage the White Stockings, the team which 1 had organized in 1869-70, but I found during that 1875 season that the managerial end of the game was a bit too strenuous for a man in my condition, and I hung up my uniform when the last game was played —never to don it again.
Below, the fifth chapter of Jimmy Wood’s memoirs, unpublished since their serialization by a newspaper syndicate in August 1916. The opening segment, of six, may be read at http://goo.gl/SHvXtL.
Related by James Wood, Captain and Manager of the Famous Chicago White Stockings of 1870-71, to Frank G. Menke.
The first game of the memorable Chicago White Stockings-Cincinnati Red Stockings series was played in the latter part of September, 1870, in Cincinnati amid scenes unparalleled on any ball field.
The Red Stockings never had been beaten on their own grounds. The feat was considered impossible by other teams that had played there during 1869 and the early part of 1870. Those players had told us that if the visiting team had a chance for victory the umpires—Cincinnati products—would get busy in behalf of the Red Stockings; if the umpires couldn’t swing the trick alone, the crowds would menace the opposing players to a point where they would quit trying to win rather than risk the danger of being hit by missiles or mobbed by the crowds after the game.
I had considered all these things before I took any boys to Cincinnati. I told each one what he might expect from the crowd if we should happen to win. (But they were a brave, fearless lot, my boys, and they vowed — and kept that vow—that no show of hostility by the fans would effect their playing one iota.
I was determined that the umpire was not to be a Cincinnatian, making that condition emphatic from the outset. The Red Stockings demurred at first, but when they found that I meant exactly what I had said—and wouldn’t play the game unless we had an impartial umpire—they reluctantly agreed.
Just before the game began we made an announcement to the stands that we wanted some spectator to umpire the game for us—and that Cincinnati and Chicago residents were barred. From out of the stands, after a long delay, stepped a salesman named Milligan, from Philadelphia. He convinced us quickly that he was thoroughly conversant with the game, and he was named as umpire.
The game began, with the Cincinnati ball park crowded to its 10,000 capacity. At the outset, the Cincinnati gamblers were circulating through the stands waving huge rolls of bills. They offered odds of 20 to 1 against us at first, but these gradually sluffed down to 15 to 1, when the Red Stockings supporters saw how quickly their money was snapped up by the small band of rooters who went to Cincinnati with us.
We jumped into the lead in the early innings and held it throughout. Several times the Red Stockings tried to rally—but failed. They never caught up with us and we won, 6 to 3. During the first part of the game the crowd was orderly. It felt certain that the Red Stockings would overhaul us. But when the game had gone along seven innings, with the White Stockings still in the lead, the crowd got busy.
It hurled threats at our players and menaced our catcher and tried to frighten Umpire Milligan. The Red Stockings also tried to bulldoze Milligan. But he was of the sort who wouldn’t stand for it. He knew full well that if the Red Stockings were beaten on their own grounds, that he was in great danger of foul treatment by the thousands who had bet so heavily on their Cincinnati team.
But Milligan was of a heroic mold. He umpired that game fairly and squarely as he saw it. He played no favorites. And we accomplished, on that hot September afternoon, what had been considered impossible—the defeat of the Red Stockings on their home grounds.
Immediately after the game was over the crowd swarmed upon the field, intent upon wreaking vengeance upon us. I had anticipated this move and instructed my players for a quick get-away. When the last out was made we dashed for the exits and jumped into our carriages. As we ran across the field many of us were struck with stones and bottles. The frenzied Ohioans pursued us even after we had entered our hacks, pelting us with rocks until our horses had distanced them.
Our victory over the Red Stockings on Cincinnati soil was the greatest sensation to that time. And Chicago went wild with joy. When we got back home we were given a greeting unlike any ever accorded ball players before. We were the heroes j of the hour—and of the year.
Three weeks later we played the second—and the last game of the series. It was played in Chicago on a diamond in the Dexter Park Race Course. No other place in Chicago was considered big enough to accommodate the crowd that wanted to go to that game.
The day the game was played the crowds started for the park early in the morning. All forenoon and during the early part of the afternoon, carriages wended their way to the park and there was always outside the gate a mob howling for admission. Before the game began, 27,000 admissions, at $1 each, had been sold, with another 25,000 in a wild scramble for tickets.
And then the fence, unable to withstand the pressure of that surging mob, went down with a crash—and the mob swarmed in. Several attempts were made by the club officials to have that broken section of the fence fixed, but it was useless. The crowd, rushing in, swept everything before it, and the game began with the fence broken and the “free admissions” still coming.
The paid admissions for that game totaled 27,000; the “free admissions” went well beyond 25,000, making a 52,000 crowd within the park when the call “play ball” sounded — the greatest crowd that ever witnessed a professional baseball game.
Eleven hundred carriages—the popular form of locomotion in that period, also were inside the park.
Bob Ferguson of Brooklyn umpired that game. He was paid $100 and his expenses and was guaranteed every protection. He was chosen in a rather unusual way. About two weeks before the game was played, Harry Wright, manager of the Red Stockings, and myself, agreed that we would select the umpire in this way: Each would write three names on a slip of paper and mail it to the other. In case one candidate was named by both, he would be the umpire.
It was found that Ferguson had been named by both, whereupon he was appointed. The owners of the White Stockings wanted to pay Ferguson $300 and expenses, but the Red Stockings owners balked and all Ferguson got was $100 and expenses.
When the game began the betting was even. A vast sum of money was wagered on the outcome of that diamond battle. It seemed that every Chicago fan wanted to plunge his bankroll on our chances. The city, as a whole, had unbounded confidence in our ability. A big delegation of Cincinnati rooters and gamblers went to Chicago for that game and from the way they flourished $500 and $1,000 bills in the stands, it made it look as if they were commissioned to bet the entire wealth of the Ohio city on the chances of their ball club.
It was in that game, by the way, that the Reds introduced to Chicagoans fast fielding practise as a preliminary. Before that time no club ever had practised fast fielding in a game in Chicago. The efforts of our players were devoted only to increasing their hitting skill.
A mighty roar went up from the stands when Ferguson sounded his “play ball” and then the crowd settled back to watch the game.
Things broke badly for us in the early innings. An error or two on the part of my boys, mixed with several long hits by the Red Stockings, gave them a lead of five runs. Later on they increased it and when the seventh inning was ended the score stood 11 to 2 in favor of the Cincinnati club.
And then I rallied my boys.
“All together now,” I told them. “Here comes our ‘bloodied innings.’ Get out and get after that pitcher. We’ll win—we can’t lose.”
And the boys began playing with a new spirit. It always had been a peculiarity of my White Stockings to play their greatest ball, during the last two innings of the game, and all around the circuit the eight and ninth innings became known as the “bloodied innings” of the White Stockings.
It so happened in that game that the Red Stockings got last bats. The choice was decided by the flip of the coin—and I had lost. So we went to bat first in the eighth inning and hammered out five runs, holding the Red Stockings scoreless in their part of the inning.
With the score 11 to 2 against us at the end of the seventh, the Cincinnati rooters were rushing around the stands offering odds of from 25 to 100 to 1 against us. Strange as it may seem, they found many takers. Our backers still had confidence in us.
When we went to bat in our part of the ninth—the first half—with the score 11 to 7 against us, the Cincinnatians still were laying huge odds against us. And then, amid an ever-increasing roar of applause from the crowd, we “got” to that Cincinnati pitcher; rallied in a way that ranks among the greatest ninth inning finishes of all time. We smashed the bail to all parts of the lot, and when our side finally was retired, it was found that the tide of battle had shifted; that we, by scoring nine tallies in that final inning, had forged into the lead, 16 to 11.
The Red Stockings took their final bats and attempted gamely to overcome our lead—but their efforts were futile. They pushed across two and then went out, making the final score 16 to 13 in favor of the White Stockings.
And so ended the series—with Cincinnati and the major portion of the baseball world of that era aghast at our “impossible” performance — and with Chicago in a delirium of baseball fever from which it never has recovred—and never will.
(Note—The sixth and final chapter of “Baseball of the Bygone Days” will appear tomorrow.)
Chapter 6 tomorrow.
Now for the fourth chapter of Jimmy Wood’s memoirs, unpublished since their serialization by a newspaper syndicate in August 1916. The opening segment may be read at http://goo.gl/SHvXtL.
Related by James Wood, Captain and Manager of the Famous Chicago White Stockings of 1870-71, to Frank G. Menke.
Somewhere along about Christmas in 1869, I noticed an advertisement in a New York paper which read something as follows:
“Ball players wanted to form, a team and represent Chicago and to defeat the Cincinnati Red Stockings.”
During the period of the late ’60s and early ’70s there was keen rivalry between Chicago and Cincinnati in a commercial way. Chicago wasn’t such a wonderfully large city then and it was doing everything possible to boom the town. And it was ealous of Cincinnati because of the great publicity Cincinnati had gained through the medium of its 1869 ball team, which had won 56 out of 57 games, the other resulting in a 17 to 17 tie with the Union team of Lansingburg.
And so Chicago decided that it must have a team to beat the Reds. Baseball wasn’t played to any great extent in the Illinois metropolis prior to that time. All the crack players were in the east. That is why the advertisement appeared in New York.
I answered the ad and in due time got a reply. It happened that I was among the first to write. The Chicago people told me they, under advice from Harry Wright, desired me to organize a club to beat the Red Stockings in 1870 and d__ the expense!
So I started to recruit my team. I figured the task would be easy, yet I found it the most difficult one of my life. Only a few of the many baseball stars that I approached cared to join a team that had as its ultimate purpose the beating of the Reds in a three-game series.
“It can’t be done,” most of the players answered me. “These Reds are unbeatable and we aren’t going to waste all of next spring and summer practising for it!”
Finally after much persuasion, I signed up a number of men who were real ball players but only after I had advanced them money out of my own pocket. The Chicago people hadn’t sent me any funds. Just as soon as some of those players had squandered their first advance money in drinking and gambling, they came for more, threatening to jump their contracts if we didn’t “”come through.” Finally, when my advances totaled beyond $1,200 and the players kept demanding more, I asked my father to go to Chicago and ascertain the financial responsibility of the Chicagoans.
Father wired back:
“Go the limit; Chicagoans will make good all your advances.”
When I got the message I hurried to Troy, N. Y., with Tom Foley, the representative of the Chicagoans, to get [Cherokee] Fisher and [Bill] Craver who had played in 1869 with the Troy Haymakers. Both were terrific hitters and I needed them, but I knew they would come high, as salaries went in those days. However, we signed up both men, contracting Fisher for $800 and Craver for $1,000. Then my team—eleven men—was complete.
Early in the spring of 1870 we arranged the details of our training trip to New Orleans. It was the second southern trip ever undertaken by a ball club. Foley, who was a champion billiardist and one of the Chicago backers and is still living in Chicago, accompanied us south.
During our first week in the Louisiana town we practiced among ourselves. Then we commenced to take on the teams in New Orleans. I began by scheduling the weakest first, working up gradually to the hardest. We defeated the weaker teams in New Orleans–and then we beat the strongest. In each succeeding game my club appeared stronger both in batting and in fielding. Toward the end of our season in New Orleans we played an all-star New Orleans nine and won with ease.
Then I made the proposition that our regular nine should play a double team of New Orleans men, giving them 18 players in the field. The game itself was rather amusing because the New Orleans captain had so many players under his command that he didn’t know where to play them all. However, he put one man behind the plate to assist the catcher, four extras in the outfield, giving him seven altogether, and the rest were sprinkled around the infield. making a total of eight infielders.
Pitted against such a collection we won almost as easily as we had in playing nine men. In our final game in New Orleans I allowed the rival team six outs per inning to our three —and once again we won.
We worked our way north gradually, as the teams do today, playing all the crack southern teams enroute and winning all of our games by overwhelming scores. We beat the Memphis team, champions of Tennessee, 157 to 1—and Foley was very angry because we had permitted the southerners to score their lone tally!
At last we reached Chicago— and we got a wild ovation. The town had gone crazy over baseball. Our wonderful showing in New Orleans and our clean sweep through the south had caused the Chicagoans to feel that our chief aim—to defeat the Red Stockings—was a certainty.
Our first real game in the north was against the crack Rockford (Ill.) team—the club on which Adrian Anson and A. G. Spalding got their start. The Rockford people backed their team heavily in the betting that preceded that game — but we swamped them. We scored 14 runs in the first inning and after the fifth inning were so far ahead that I gave my boys orders to take it easy, and by that additional victory set Chicago further aflame with baseball enthusiasm.
Then we started east to play out the schedule which was so arranged that the Cincinnati series did not come until the end of the season. Our success continued. My boys were wonderful batters and every additional contest they engaged in seemed to increase their hitting power.
In those days ability to hit was the main asset of a player. In his batting power lay his baseball value. Not much attention was paid to perfecting a team in fielding. It was figured that fielding would come naturally but that batting must be developed.
During the latter part of May two of my players took sick while we were on tour and I had to send them home. Shortly afterward two others joined the “hospital squad.” I filled in with amateurs, sent to me from Chicago, but I found quickly that they wouldn’t do.
So, along about June 4th when I found that my ailing quartet was not convalescing very rapidly, I cancelled all our remaining June and July games and stayed in Chicago.
Late in July when all the players were back in shape we resumed team playing practise. All during the time the four boys were sick I kept the others at batting practise for two hours a day and the expertness in the hitting line continued to increase. About August 4th we resumed our schedule and played out the season, winning all of our games from the resumption in August until the end.
And then came the grand climax of the year—the task for which we had been preparing ourselves; the battle with the Cincinnati Red Stockings.
As challengers we were compelled to play the first game of the series—a best two out of three affair—on the home diamond of the Reds; on the same field where they never had tasted defeat. Only once during the two years—1869 and 1870—had the Reds been beaten and that was suffered in foreign territory, the Atlantic of Brooklyn turning the trick, in 10 innings, 8 to 7.
It being necessary for the first game to be played in Cincinnati and the second in Chicago, the place for the third—if a third was necessary— was to be determined by the flip of a coin.
When we went to Cincinnati for that first game even our most loyal rooters were pessimistic. It was not that they lacked confidence in our ability, but because they feared we would be “jobbed” by some Cincinnati umpire, or menaced so by the rowdy crowds that we wouldn’t play our real game because of fear of violence if we should win.
But we did win and the story of that game, together with the second in Chicago, which was witnessed by a crowd beyond 50,000, shall form the next chapter in this recital.
(Note—Chapter Five, which begins tomorrow, tells of the two most bitterly contested ball games in baseball history. It tells of a game that drew 50,000 spectators—the biggest crowd that ever saw a professional baseball game in America.—Editor)
Chapter 5 tomorrow.
Now for the third installment of Jimmy Wood’s memoirs, unpublished since their serialization by a newspaper syndicate in August 1916. The opening segment may be read at http://goo.gl/SHvXtL.
And now my story shifts to a baseball club—the Eckfords—which swept through two seasons achieving 144 victories without suffering a single defeat [this claim is without merit—jt]; to a man— Joe Sprague—who pitched and won every one of those games for the Eckfords.
The records of both are without parallel in baseball history; accomplishments so remarkable that they never can be surpassed nor closely approached.
The Eckfords, as I stated in a previous article, represented Williamsburg, then a separate town, but now a part of Brooklyn. It was the first team I played on and I held down second base in every one of those games that we won while establishing our record mark.
Our winning streak began with the opening of the 1862 season and continued right through to the end of 1863. During that time we played —with one exception—every team of strength and importance in New York, Brooklyn, Philadelphia, Troy, Syracuse, Albany, Washington and the smaller cities. And we beat them all, not once, but as often as they cared to try conclusions with us.
The single exception was the Excelsior team of Brooklyn. We wanted to play them, issuing repeated challenges. But their Captain, Joe Leggett, refused for the sole reason that he had become angered during the summer of 1862 when our Captain, who was captain of a picked nine on which Leggett played, was presented with a souvenir ball. Leggett thought he was entitled to it and vowed afterward that so long as he was leader of the Excelsiors he never would permit them to play the Eckfords. He kept his word.
Joe Sprague, in my opinion, was the greatest pitcher of all time. When one calls to mind the fact that he pitched—and won—144 games in two seasons, pitching three times a week, it doesn’t leave much room for argument, does it?
Sprague, throwing an underhand ball, had terrific speed and wonderful control. But, most important of all, Sprague threw a curve ball—that was back in 1862—which means that Sprague, not Arthur Cummings of the Brooklyn Stars of 1863-64, or Bobby Mathews, of the Baltimores of 1866-67, was the original curve-ball pitcher.
In those days when Sprague pitched for our Eckford team a curve ball, as such, was unknown. But we always noticed that some of Sprague’s deliveries took a sharp twist, sometimes turning in and sometimes turning away from the batter. All of us used to remark about the peculiar gyrations of the ball that he threw. I was not until some years later, however, when curved balls became an established fact, that we recognized the delivery then called a curve, as the very same kind of ball that Sprague had thrown in 1862 and 1863 while pitching himself—and the Eckfords —to fame.
And yet the amazing accomplishments of both the Eckfords and Sprague never have found their way in the record books. No mention is made of them anywhere. There is one way that I can account for this failure to chronicle properly the greatest feat in the entire history of the game. And that is that the record was made in the days before any records were kept—in the era before tabulation began. It was not until along in 1864 and 1865 that Henry Chadwick put into operation his tabulating system and began preserving records.
The Cincinnati Red Stockings of 1869 have gained undying fame for having won 56 games, tying one and losing none in that season, but their record is insignificant in comparison with the 144 straight victories of the Eckfords of 1862-63. The Red Stockings’ record for two years, 1869-70, totals 79 victories, one tie and three defeats, and not one defeat, as some records show.
The Red Stockings were defeated two straight games in the Fall of 1870 by the Chicago White Stockings. a team which I organized, captained and managed. That team was recruited for the sole purpose of beating the arrogant Red Stockings —and it accomplished its object in the most sensational baseball series ever played. In a later article I shall deal with those two games, one which was witnessed by the greatest crowd—50,000—that ever saw a professional ball game in America.
Historians differ as to when and where the first game was played at which admission was charged. The real fact is that the first game of that kind was played on June 7, 1864, between two picked nines, one from Williamsburg and the other from New York. It was staged in the enclosed Union Ball Park in Brooklyn. The admission price was 10 cents.
It was W. H. Cammeyer, the owner of the Union Ball Grounds, who conceived the idea of charging admission. What a howl of protest went up from the populace. They termed it an outrage to charge to see the “national sport.” But Cammeyer was deaf to the clamor—and no one got into the grounds unless he first produced the dime.
In our free games the crowds ranged between 5,000 and 20,000. In that first game when admission was charged, the attendance was only a trifle above 1,000.
The fans gradually became used to the idea of paying admission before that season ended and when the season of 1865 began, the park owners determined upon a bolder stroke. They decided to charge 25 cents, whereupon a cry of “robbers” went up! But the price remained at 25 cents—until it was boosted in later years.
In the early summer of that year—1863—the club owners experienced a decided shock. A delegation of players went to them and issued the ultimatum:
“Give us part of the gate receipts , or we won’t play!”
“Why, that will throw you boys on the professional class.”
“Well, we’re willing,” was the answer.
The demands of the players who were exhibiting in parks where admission was charged, were reluctantly granted. Up to that time none of the players had received money. It had been considered an honor to participate in the big games and all the boys belonging to the various clubs had paid dues to purchase equipment and to provide traveling and incidental expenses.
The players then appointed one of their number—the extra man—to count tickets, the original agreement being that the players were to get 25 per cent of the gross income. This agreement continued for a short time only. Then the players demanded 35 per cent, again threatening a strike. When this demand was granted they later asked for—and got-—50 per cent. Before the demands during the following two years ended, the players, by use of threats of quitting the diamond, had forced the club owners to pay them 75 per cent of the gross receipts of each game, that sum being divided equally among the players.
Each winter the heads or the various clubs held their annual get-together meeting in New York with John Wil[d]ey, president of the Mutuals, a great fan of that era, acting as president. When the meeting of 1865 got under way the room was filled with parents of the youths from all over the United States who had been shaking down the club owners for a split of the receipts. They were furious.
Wiley [Wildey], the storm center of it all because of his position as partner with “Boss Bill Tweed,” was flayed unmercifully by those parents. They declared the practice of paying the ball players was a crime; that it would break the morals of the boys, that it killed the sport in the game arnd, all-in-all, it was very, very disgraceful.
“Enact laws at once barring players from accepting money or we shall refuse to permit our sons to play next year,” was the demand of the parents.
“We are perfectly willing to adopt such, a rule,” answered Wil[d]ey with a quaint smile, “but I fear, ladies and gentlemen, if we did, the players wouldn’t observe it. It seems to me that the days are over when baseball is purely a game for amateurs.”
And Wil[d]ey was right.
(End Chapter Three).
(Note—The next installment of “Baseball of the Bygone Days” appearing tomorrow will deal with the organization in the winter of 1869 and the spring of 1870 of the famous Chicago White Stockings, the team hired by Chicago business men at a cost of $50,000, the salaries alone being $18,000, for the purpose—which it accomplished— of beating the Cincinnati Red Stockings. Editor).
Chapter 4 tomorrow.
Now for the second installment of Jimmy Wood’s memoirs, unpublished since their serialization by a newspaper syndicate in August 1916. The opening segment may be read at http://goo.gl/SHvXtL.
The fundamental rules of baseball have not changed much since they first were drawn by the Knickerbocker club—the first baseball organization—in 1845. But there have been many radical departures from the customs of other days.
One is the treatment of umpires. In the early part of my baseball career—from 1859 to 1869—an umpire was highly honored. After each game the players would give three cheers for each other and then, as a grand finale, they would bellow forth with three more—and sometimes nine—for the umpire.
Arbitrators in the early days wore chosen from among the crowd. In most cases, at least up to 1865, the umpire often was one of the distinguished men in the city. The clubs vied with each other in trying to secure the most prominent personages.
The old time umpires always were accorded the utmost courtesy by the players. They were given easy chairs placed near the home plate, provided with fans on hot days and their absolute comfort was uppermost in the minds of the players. After each of our games in the early ’60s, sandwiches, beer, cakes, and other refreshments were served, by the home team. The umpires always received the choicest bits of food and the largest glass of beer— in case he cared for such beverage. If he didn’t, he needed but to express his desire in the thirst-quenching line before the game started— and he got it.
The playing of baseball games on skates on the ice during the winter of 1864 really brought about the rule which permits players to over-run first base. Prior to that time the runners had to stop at first base the same as they must stop now at the other sacks. If they over-ran the bag they could be touched out.
Baseball had taken such a firm hold upon the people between 1860 and 1864 that they were not content to play it only during the summer. They played it all during the winter in the enclosed field in Williamsburg, known as the Union grounds. The players wore skates, but played the game under the same rules as governed it in the summer.
Players, however, found it impossible to stop at bases after skating out a hit. Many of them were injured by sliding into the base, their skates tripping them and sending them to the icy surface. To prevent further accidents the captains decided to permit players to over-skate the bags without penalty of being touched out if they turned to the right on their way back to base.
When summer baseball was resumed it was decided that the rule made for skater-players should be extended to the regular diamond, so far as first base only, and it was incorporated in the statute books, at the next annual meeting, and has been there since.
Base hits were not counted until 1868. Then Henry Chadwick, figuring that it would stimulate base-running, decided that hits should be counted the same as runs. The first game in which hits were tabulated was in the game on August 4, 1868, between the Eckfords and the Mutuals, of New York. Chadwick offered a bat to the player making the most safe hits—and that bat, suitably engraved, is my most treasured possession today. I won it by making four clean drives.
From 1876 until the days of Patsy Tebeau and his Cleveland Spiders, in the ’90s, it always was the custom for the visiting team to have the last turn at bat. That was courtesy. But Tebeau changed all that. He discovered that there was no league rule compelling the visitors to take last bats and at the same time he decided that it was a distinct advantage for his club to have the last crack at the ball on its home grounds. Whereupon, Tebeau curtly refused visiting teams the “final outs” and later the other clubs had to follow in the wake of Tebeau.
In the early ’60s, when speed was the main dependence of a pitcher, the moundsmen would spend hours every day trying to perfect their delivery. But it remained for Joe Leggett, owner and manager of the Excelsiors of Brooklyn, to originate the strangest plan ever known to help a pitcher develop his speed.
It was in the winter of 1859 that Leggett signed James P. Creighton to pitch for his team. Creighton, at that time, ranked as one of the greatest hurlers in the game. In 1858, pitching for the Niagaras, he had performed splendidly and followed this up with some sterling performances among the 1859 Stars.
When Leggett signed up Creighton, he said:
“Jimmy, speed is the thing. You’ve got a lot of it, but I want you to have more when the next season opens. Therefore, I want you to get an iron ball, the same size as a baseball, and pitch it for at least a half hour each day during the winter. That will develop your muscles and your speed as well.”
And all through that winter Jimmy Creighton followed his manager’s orders. When spring came and he began throwing a baseball, about one-twentieth as heavy as the iron ball, his speed was blinding, and he flashed the greatest pitching ever seen up to that time.
Ever since the game began the pitcher has been the target for reforms. Always the tendency has been to make things harder for him and easier for the batter. The foul strike rule alone seems to have been introduced as a means of helping the pitcher.
But the pitchers of the other days, by a bit of subterfuge, caused the elimination of the rule that forced them to pitch underhand exclusively. The more proficient a pitcher became in the underhand era, the greater the handicaps that were placed upon them by lengthening the pitching distance, making smaller the size of the box or barring him from taking a step in making the delivery.
Protests by the pitchers during the ’60s and early ’70s, however, brought about a change in the rules, which permitted pitchers to throw balls from a waist-high angle as well as underhand. The pitchers, who were quite keen about throwing with a side-arm delivery, quickly took advantage of this rule, and worked a little trick. They elevated their trousers to a point where the “waist line” was on a level with their chest and side-arm pitching was possible. Finally, in 1884 the ruling powers in baseball removed all restrictions as to pitching delivery and the moundsman since then have been delivering the ball in a way that suits them best.
Part 3 tomorrow.
When The Baseball Encyclopedia first came out in 1969, and even twenty years later when Total Baseball followed, Jimmy Wood was a mystery man. We weren’t sure where he was born; Canada and England were both reasonable guesses; today we think Wood was born to English immigrants on December 1, 1842, most likely in Canada. Moreover, we suspected that the death date both encyclopedias listed was wrong, but even as late as Total Baseball‘s seventh edition in 2001, SABR’s Biographical Research Committee offered us a death date of November 30, 1886, which we continued to list. Personally I had long known this was wrong because I had uncovered correspondence between Wood and A.G. Mills from 1926, inviting Wood to take part in the celebrations surrounding the fiftieth anniversary of the National League. In 2004 baseball’s great detective, Peter Morris, wrote to me and some others: “I’ve found an intriguing candidate. A James Wood, 84, died in New Orleans on November 30, 1927. I have no proof that this is the player and there was no obit or death notice in the Times-Picayune, but it’s intriguing for several reasons:  Our player’s son had died in New Orleans four years earlier;  there was no James Wood of appropriate age in New Orleans on the 1920 census;  our ballplayer’s granddaughter told Lee Allen that he died in 1926 or 1927 (although she thought it was in NYC).”
Two years later, the Biographical Research Committee reported in its newsletter:
Jimmy Wood Found.
James Leon “Jimmy” Wood has long been one of our most interesting missing players. He was very prominent in the National Association as both a player and manager. In 1874, he decided to do a little home surgery when he lanced an abscess on his leg with a pocket knife. An infection led doctors to amputate his right leg. Wood was written up as a mystery in Lee Allen’s column in the Sporting News on April 20, 1963. Wood moved to Florida and did well investing in citrus groves. His daughter Carrie married William Chase Temple. Temple moved to Pittsburgh and became extremely wealthy and it was he who established the Temple Cup. Wood’s granddaughter, Dorothy Temple, married major league pitcher Del Mason. It sounds like it would be an easy task to find Jimmy Wood, but that was not the case. Allen’s column suggested that he died in Brooklyn in 1926 or 1927. We could never find any proof of that in Brooklyn. It turns out that the date was about right; the location was just 3000 miles off. In our long and fruitless search for Wood we had tracked him to Quebec, New York, Ohio, Illinois, Tennessee, Louisiana, Florida, and Pennsylvania without finding a death certificate. Peter Morris was able to find a death certificate in California showing that he died November 3, 1927 in San Francisco. The birth matches what he have and his body was sent to New Orleans for burial next to his son. This is a great find. Wood was on our Top 20 Most Wanted list so Peter wins the Find of the Month award.
So who was Jimmy Wood, and why was he worth a search that lasted nearly fifty years? He began play with the Brooklyn Eckfords in 1859, was wooed by other clubs and left in 1865 (but returned in 1868). In 1869, his last season with the Eckfords, a reporter for the New York Tribune wrote that Wood
has no superior. His play is a rare combination of shrewdness, courage and activity. He covers the great part of the in-field and has been known to put out men on all three bases, although the second was his position. His stopping and throwing are superb. He faces every ball that comes near him, never flinching, no matter how hot it may come. He is also very efficient at the bat, generally getting his bases on clean hits.
Jimmy Wood reached the pinnacle of his career as the star second baseman and manager of Chicago’s first White Stockings club back in 1870. Even after losing a leg in 1874, when Chicago reentered the National Association after a two-year hiatus prompted by the Great Fire of October 8, 1871, he continued to manage the club through the 1875 season. Not only did Wood not die in 1886, he was lively enough to pen a six-part memoir which ran in many newspapers in mid-August 1916. Never before published in total, its serialization commences today at Our Game. Five more parts will follow, daily. [Editorial note: Wood’s reminiscences are more trustworthy for the years of his maturity, from the late 1850s on, than for earlier periods in which Frank Menke, his ghost, may have “helped” his recollection.]
Henry Chadwick has been called “The Father of Baseball,” but that, in a certain sense, is a misnomer. Chadwick did not originate the great national game. Baseball, in a crude way, was played some years before Chadwick became involved in it.
But to that grand, lovable sportsman must go the full credit for revolutionizing baseball; for bringing it from a state of chaos and crudity to the rank of the dominating sport of America. It was Chadwick, the genius, who saw in the game of 60 or 70 years ago its wonderful scientific possibilities and who worked unceasingly through the years to standardize the sport; to lift it to its present crest.
There always has been considerable dispute as to where baseball really had its origin. One story has it that many years ago, a boy had a bundle of twine and amused himself by throwing it against a barn, catching it on the rebound. Eventually, another boy joined him. Later a few more youths wanted to play in the game. A new “ball” made of twine and sewed to prevent unraveling was put into play. One of the boys suggested that it would be greater sport to hit the ball, with a club. An axe handle was used.
And so, in this way, according to many historians, baseball became a game.
Back in 1839 Abner Doubleday, of Cooperstown, N. Y., who later became a Major General in the United States Army, designed the baseball diamond then called a “square.” The original lines laid out by Doubleday are the same as the baseball diamond of today. Along in 1845 Alexander J. Cartwright, of New York, also brought out a baseball “square” exactly the same as Doubleday’s. The Cartwright supporters claim that his “square” was the first made, but the Doubleday people have submitted what they declare is indisputable proof that Doubleday outlined the diamond six years earlier.
The Knickerbockers, of New York, was the first baseball club in history. It was organized in 1845. The first real baseball game played was in Hoboken, N. J., on June 19, 1846 between the Knickerbockers and another club, known as the “New York Nine.” The latter was victorious, the score being 21 to 1 in its favor, the game lasting only four innings. The rules for that first game, made in 1845, and for all games up to 1857, provided that victory should go to the team first scoring 21 runs, irrespective of innings played.
Among the rules laid down bv the Knickerbockers of 1845 which have endured through all the succeeding 71 years are these:
(1) A baseball knocked outside of the boundary lines of first and third base shall be considered a foul.
(2) If three balls are struck at and missed, the last being caught, it is a hand out (strikeout); if not caught, it is considered fair and the striker is privileged to run to the base.
(3) A running player who prevents an adversary, from catching or getting the ball before making the base is a hand out (out).
(4) Three hands out, side is out.
(5) If two men are out the scoring of a player on a hit on which the batter is put out before reaching first does not count.
(6) Players must bat in regular turn.
The next recognized contest was not played until five years later when the Knickerbockers accepted the challenge of a team composed of New York men who called their club the “Washingtons,” and the Knickerbockers introduced uniforms in that game which was played in Hoboken, June 3, 1851. The reason given for the use of the uniforms was that the Knickerbockers had found in their game five years before that trousers impeded their movements and that the wearing of linen shirts was a handicap.
The Knickerbockers won that second “big league” game 21 to 11 in eight innings. Two weeks later the same teams—Knickerbockers and Washingtons—played a 10-inning contest in Hoboken, the Knickerbockers winning out 22 to 20.
The Washingtons, immediately after this second defeat, changed their name to the Gothams and the following year issued another challenge to the Knickerbockers. It was accepted and the game was played in New York on June 27, 1852. It went 16 innings before the Gothams scored their 21 to 16 victory.
A year later—on July 5, 1853 to be exact—the Knickerbockers competed again, the Knickerbockers achieving victory of 21 to 12. The first tabular box score in baseball was compiled during the game. It was published July 16, 1853 in the New York Clipper. It follows, just as it appeared, without notation as to positions, and without errors, hits, assists, etc., which were not counted until a later period. [Note that the brothers “Faucet” are in fact Van Cott; “Miebuhr” is Niebuhr; and “Parison” is Parisen.]
It was just about that time that the people in New York began to take a real interest in the new game. Its devotees began to increase. A club, called the Eagles, was organized early in 1853, to be followed later in the summer by the formation of the Empire. The following year the Excelsiors, of Brooklyn, came into existence, to be followed in 1855 by Putnams of Williamsburg and the
Eckfords, also of Williamsburg and the Atlantics, of Jamaica, N. Y., in 1856.
It was in 1857, however, that baseball began to gain its real impetus. Until then there was no governing organization. The games were played in a haphazard way, some under the rules laid down in 1845, others partly under those laws but mainly under regulations made by the captains of both sides before a game began.
But in January, 1857, those who had been instrumental in forming the first Knickerbockers team, called together a “Baseball Convention.” Representatives from 25 clubs attended, and it was at that meeting that baseball was voted “America’s National Game.” And it was at that conference and later ones that Henry Chadwick was among the dominating spirits.
With one major and two minor exceptions, the rules of 1845 were approved at that Conference. The one important change was to do away with the rule awarding a victory to the club first scoring 21 runs. Objections had been made to that rule due to the fact that many of the games had taken all afternoon and part of the evening before one or the other clubs scored 21 tallies.
The new rule accorded victory to the club scoring the most runs in nine innings but permitted the rival captains to play 5 inning games if they desired. In cases where 5 inning games were played and the score was tied at the end of the fifth inning, the game then went to nine innings, even though one club took the lead in the sixth, seventh or eighth. If the score was tied again in the ninth, the game continued as it does today—until one side or the other took the lead after a full inning of play.
After baseball became a, standardized sport in 1858 it gained devotees by the hundreds. Teams sprang up everywhere. Its popularity spread beyond the confines of New York and reached all the big cities along the Atlantic seacoast, as well as many of the inland towns in New York state. The baseball colony increased by leaps and bounds.
It was in 1859, when I was 16 years old, that I really began my baseball career with the Eckfords. I began playing as a second baseman and continued there [i.e., at second base] barring one year until I finished my active diamond career in 1875.
(Note—The second chapter of “Baseball of Bygone Days” will appear in these columns tomorrow. It will tell how royally umpires of the past era were treated; how the rule came about permitting players to | overrun the first bag; of a pitcher who hurled an iron ball all winter to develop speed, of many other interesting incidents of the past. Editor).
Part Two follows.
In the months after Jerry Malloy’s “Out at Home” was published, in the 1983 issue of SABR’s annual The National Pastime, Vern Luse–a contributor to TNP’s debut issue–wrote to me about a discrepancy between Malloy’s depiction of the 1883 confrontation between Cap Anson and Fleet Walker and a Toledo Blade account of the game. I relayed his concerns to the author and, in the next “regular issue” (the succeeding one had been a special pictorial number), published their exchange. It is, I believe, a perfect illustration of the spirit of SABR.
EDITOR’S NOTE: The following comments by Vern Luse and Jerry Malloy have been abstracted from a number of letters received in this office over several months. The last issue of TNP featured Malloy’s article “Out at Home,” which detailed how baseball drew the color line in 1887. He wrote: “In 1884, when Walker was playing for Toledo, Anson brought his White Stockings into town for an exhibition. Anson threatened to pull his team off the field unless Walker was removed. But Toledo’s manager, Charley Morton, refused to comply with Anson’s demand, and Walker was allowed to play. Years later Sporting Life would write: ‘The joke of the affair was that up to the time Anson made his “bluff” the Toledo people had no intention of catching Walker, who was laid up with a sore hand, but when Anson said he would not play with Walker, the Toledo people made up their minds that Walker would catch or there wouldn’t be any game.”’
This has long been the accepted account of the first Walker-Anson confrontation, and has appeared in print on numerous occasions in this century. Here Vern Luse, SABR’s premier authority on minor-league baseball before 1900, sets the story straight:
THE ARTICLE “Out at Home” by ]erry Malloy contains a critical error that may have been caused by resort to secondary or tertiary sources. This can be adequately documented by reference to the primary source of the period, the local daily newspaper, in this case the Toledo Daily Blade of August 11, 1883; it contains a full column article, plus box score, covering the exhibition game between Toledo, of the Northwestern League, and the Chicagos, of the National League.
Some background on the incident. The National League, American Association, and Northwestern League signed an agreement (usually known as the Tri-Partite Agreement) in the spring of 1883. In a sense, this was the origination of the concept of “Organized Baseball.” It was a contract between three equals, not between two “majors” and one “minor.” The baseball season of 1883 extended from April through September, even into October, much as today. However, only 84 championship games were scheduled in the Northwestern, stretching from May 1 through September 30, and 98 in both ,the National League and American Association, over approximately the same span. The multitudes of open dates, even taking into account the relative slowness of railroad transportation, allowed–indeed, required–the teams to set up a schedule of exhibition games. In general, National League and American Association teams did not play exhibitions against each other, either intra- or interleague, but only with outside teams.
Toledo’s geographical position, its relatively good baseball team (ultimate winners of the Northwestern’s 1883 championship), and the relative prosperity of the city dictated that Toledo become a frequent exhibition opponent of major league teams. Toledo played such contests against the New York Metropolitans, the New York Nationals, Columbus, and St. Louis prior to the scheduled date, August 11, 1883, of a game with Chicago of the National League.
Chicago was a particularly attractive exhibition opponent. They were the three-time champions of the NL, and were heavily engaged in battle with Boston for the 1883 pennant. With Toledo closing in on a pennant as well, a very large gate was anticipated. Exhibition contracts usually called for both a guarantee and a “rain guarantee,” and for the visitor to receive a portion of the receipts over a specified amount. On August 11, Chicago was to receive its guarantee when the game was “called” by the umpire–that is, when the game began.
Moses Walker had been catching almost every Northwestern League game, and his hands were badly banged up, so he was not scheduled to play in the exhibition fray. Cap Anson specifically refused to have his Chicagos take the field against Walker. Charles Morton, Toledo manager/captain, informed Anson that if Chicago did not play, no guarantee would be forthcoming. This argument was sufficiently strong that the exhibition was played-with Anson at first base for Chicago and Walker in right field for Toledo. The score of the game was Chicago 7, Toledo 6, in 10 innings, illustrating the relative strength of one of the top minor league teams of 1883 and the premier major league team of the time (Chicago was to finish-second to Boston in 1883).
I believe the evidence, based on the article in the Toledo Daily Blade of August 11, 1883, excerpted below, is clear: Anson, early on, exhibited his prejudices, but he just picked on the wrong management to push around. When I had the microfilm of the 1883 Blade, I was unable to secure a photocopy of the relevant article and box score because our little library doesn’t have a microfilm printer. Steve Lauer, one of our SABR members with whom I’ve corresponded in the past, provided this material. [ED.: The printed microfilm was too faint to permit facsimile reproduction.]
BALL AND BAT.
The National Champions Narrowly Escape Defeat in a 10-Inning Game
Baby Anson and the Color Line–No More Chicago’s in Ours–The Score of Yesterday’s Game–Notes.
The Color Line
Walker, the colored catcher of the Toledo Base ball Club, who, by the way, is a gentleman and a scholar, in the literal sense, and was a source of contention between the home club and that swelled organization (literal, again) the Chicago Club.
The national champions came to Toledo yesterday morning, and their arrival created quite a sensation at the Union depot, where it was first thought they were Haverly’s Mastadons [sic] or Callendar’s Consolidated, their sun burned faces leaving it a matter of doubt as to their being tainted with black blood. They wore white tiles [sic] and blue uniforms, and under the command of the swelled baby (literal again) of Marshalltown, Capt. Anson, created a very considerable impression. Shortly after their arrival in the city the managing director of the Toledo Club was waited upon and informed that there was objection in the Chicago Club to Toledo’s playing Walker, the colored catcher. It was not stated that Walker, being a “nigger,” might contaminate the select organization of visitors, but that was the only inference to be drawn from the announcement. The New Yorks, Metropolitans, Columbus and St. Louis clubs, organizations outside of the N.W. League, had played with Walker against them and had experienced no unpleasant results save as his excellent play had militated against them, but the Chicago club was of more delicate fiber, more susceptible to deliterious [sic] influences and hence could not play, with a colored catcher against them.
Walker has a very sore hand, and it had not been intended to play him in yesterday’s game, and this was stated to the bearer of the announcement for the Chicagos. Not content with this, the visitors during their perambulations of the forenoon declared with the swagger for which they are noted, that they would play ball “with no d__d nigger,” and when the Club arrived at the grounds Capt. Anson repeated the declaration to the Toledo management. What would have been gratifying to Toledoans would have been for the management to have ordered Capt. Anson and his crew off the grounds, without more ado, but this was not done. The management had put McQuaid in to play, and as announced in the morning, had not intended to play Walker, but when Capt. Anson made his “break,” the order was given, then and there, to play Walker and the beefy bluffer was informed that he could play his team or go, just as he blank pleased. Anson hauled in his horns somewhat and “consented” to play, remarking, “we’ll play this here game, but won’t play never no more with the nigger in.” Walker was put in right field, and played a faultless game, despite his sore hand …
EDITOR’S NOTE: Here, Malloy’s response to Luse’s findings:
I greatly appreciate learning the details of the first Anson-Walker encounter in, as you decisively establish, 1883. [ED.: On July 14, 1887, Anson successfully intimidated the management of the Newark team in the International league, forcing the removal of Newark’s black battery–Walker and George Stovey–before Chicago would consent to play.] Although I relied extensively on primary sources for events that occurred in the International League season of 1887 (the focus of my attention), I did, as you surmise, base my brief account of the Chicago-Toledo game on secondary sources. I do, however, acknowledge full responsibility for any and all inaccuracies in the text.
I find it especially interesting that your (correct) version of the game in question bolsters my central points: by 1887, Anson was able to disqualify black opponents, something he had been unable to accomplish only a few years earlier. I certainly wish I had known of this before I wrote my article.
Even more important than its service to my thesis, however, is the fact that your account is accurate. It is the duty of SABR to push back the boundaries of knowledge wherever possible, and to rectify this error on my part does just that.
Part 2 of Jerry Malloy’s masterful essay appeared yesterday and may be viewed here: http://goo.gl/D21cuI.
July 14, 1887, would be a day Tommy Daly would never forget. Three thousand fans went to Newark’s Wright Street grounds to watch an exhibition game between the Little Giants and the most glamorous team in baseball: Adrian D. (Cap) Anson’s Chicago White Stockings. Daly, who was from Newark, was in his first season with the White Stockings, forerunners of today’s Cubs. Before the game he was presented with gifts from his admirers in Newark. George Stovey would remember the day, too. And for Moses Fleetwood Walker, there may have been a sense of déjà vu—for Walker had crossed paths with Anson before.
Anson, who was the first white child born among the Pottawattomie Indians in Marshalltown, Iowa, played for Rockford and the Philadelphia Athletics in all five years of the National Association and twenty-two seasons for Chicago in the National League, hitting over .300 in all but two. He also managed the Sox for nineteen years. From 1880 through 1888, Anson’s White Stockings finished first five times, and second once. Outspoken, gruff, truculent, and haughty, Anson gained the respect, if not the esteem, of his players, as well as opponents and fans throughout the nation. Cigars and candy were named after him, and little boys would treasure their Anson-model baseball bats as their most prized possessions. He was a brilliant tactician with a flair for the dramatic. In 1888, for example, he commemorated the opening of the Republican national convention in Chicago by suiting up his players in black, swallow-tailed coats.
In addition to becoming the first player to get 3,000 hits, Anson was the first to write his autobiography. A Ball Player’s Career, published in 1900, does not explicitly delineate Anson’s views on race relations. It does, however, devote several pages to his stormy relationship with the White Stockings’ mascot, Clarence Duval, who despite Anson’s vehement objections was allowed to take part in the round-the-world tour following the 1888 season. Anson referred to Duval as “a little darkey,” a “coon,” and a “no account nigger.”
In 1884, when Walker was playing for Toledo, Anson brought his White Stockings into town for an exhibition. Anson threatened to pull his team off the field unless Walker was removed. But Toledo’s manager, Charley Morton, refused to comply with Anson’s demand, and Walker was allowed to play. Years later Sporting Life would write:
The joke of the affair was that up to the time Anson made his “bluff” the Toledo people had no intention of catching Walker, who was laid up with a sore hand, but when Anson said he wouldn’t play with Walker, the Toledo people made up their minds that Walker would catch or there wouldn’t be any game.
But by 1887 times had changed, and there was no backing Anson down. The Newark press had publicized that Anson’s White Stockings would face Newark’s black Stovey. But on the day of the game it was Hughes and Cantz who formed the Little Giants’ battery. “Three thousand souls were made glad,” glowed the Daily Journal after Newark’s surprise 9-4 victory, “while nine were made sad.” The Evening News attributed Stovey’s absence to illness, but the Toronto World got it right in reporting that “Hackett intended putting Stovey in the box against the Chicagos, but Anson objected to his playing on account of his color.”
On the same day that Anson succeeded in removing the “colored battery,” the directors of the International League met in Buffalo to transfer the ailing Utica franchise to Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. It must have pleased Anson to read in the next day’s Newark Daily Journal:
THE COLOR LINE DRAWN IN BASEBALL. The International League directors held a secret meeting at the Genesee House yesterday, and the question of colored players was freely discussed. Several representatives declared that many of the best players in the league are anxious to leave on account of the colored element, and the board finally directed Secretary White to approve of no more contracts with colored men.
Whether or not there was a direct connection between Anson’s opposition to playing against Stovey and Walker and, on the same day, the International League’s decision to draw the color line is lost in history. For example, was the league responding to threats by Anson not to play lucrative exhibitions with teams of any league that permitted Negro players? Interestingly, of the six teams which voted to install a color barrier—Binghamton, Hamilton, Jersey City, Rochester, Toronto, and Utica—none had a black player; the four teams voting against it—Buffalo, Oswego, Newark, and Syracuse—each had at least one.
In 1907, Sol White excoriated Anson for possessing “all the venom of a hate which would be worthy of a Tillman or a Vardaman of the present day…” [Sen. Benjamin R. (“Pitchfork Ben”) Tillman, of South Carolina, and Gov. James K. Vardaman, of Mississippi, were two of the most prominent white supremacists of their time.]
Just why Adrian C. Anson . . . was so strongly opposed to colored players on white teams cannot be explained. His repugnant feeling, shown at every opportunity, toward colored ball players, was a source of comment throughout every league in the country, and his opposition, with his great popularity and power in baseball circles, hastened the exclusion of the black man from the white leagues.
Subsequent historians have followed Sol White’s lead and portrayed Anson as the meistersinger of a chorus of racism who, virtually unaided, disqualified an entire race from baseball. Scapegoats are convenient, but Robert Peterson undoubtedly is correct:
Whatever its origin, Anson’s animus toward Negroes was strong and obvious. But that he had the power and popularity to force Negroes out of organized baseball almost single-handedly, as White suggests, is to credit him with more influence than he had, or for that matter, than he needed.
The International League’s written color line was not the first one drawn. In 1867 the National Association of Base Ball Players, the loosely organized body which regulated amateur baseball, prohibited its members from accepting blacks. The officers candidly explained their reason:
If colored clubs were admitted there would be in all probability some division of feeling, whereas, by excluding them no injury could result to anybody and the possibility of any rupture being created on political grounds would be avoided.
This 1867 ban shows that even if blacks were not playing baseball then, there were ample indications that they would be soon. But the NABBP would soon disappear, as baseball’s rapidly growing popularity fostered professionalism. Also, its measure was preventative rather than corrective: it was not intended to disqualify players who previously had been sanctioned. And, since it applied only to amateurs, it was not intended to deprive anyone of his livelihood.
Press response to the International League’s color line generally was sympathetic to the Negroes—especially in cities with teams who had employed black players. The Newark Call wrote:
If anywhere in this world the social barriers are broken down it is on the ball field. There many men of low birth and poor breeding are the idols of the rich and cultured; the best man is he who plays best. Even men of churlish dispositions and coarse hues are tolerated on the field. In view of these facts the objection to colored men is ridiculous. If social distinctions are to be made, half the players in the country will be shut out. Better make character and personal habits the test. Weed out the toughs and intemperate men first, and then it may be in order to draw the color line.
The Rochester Post-Express printed a shrewd and sympathetic analysis by an unidentified “old ball player, who happens to be an Irishman and a Democrat”:
We will have to stop proceedings of that kind. The fellows who want to proscribe the Negro only want a little encouragement in order to establish class distinctions between people of the white race. The blacks have so much prejudice to overcome that I sympathize with them and believe in frowning down every attempt by a public body to increase the burdens the colored people now carry. It is not possible to combat by law the prejudice against colored men, but it is possible to cultivate a healthy public opinion that will effectively prevent any such manifestation of provincialism as that of the ball association. If a negro can play better ball than a white man, I say let him have credit for his ability. Genuine Democrats must stamp on the color line in order to be consistent.
“We think,” wrote the Binghamton Daily Leader, “the International League made a monkey of itself when it undertook to draw the color line”; and later the editor wondered “if the International League proposes to exclude colored people from attendance at the games.” Welday Walker used a similar line of reasoning in March 1888. Having read an incorrect report that the Tri-State League, formerly the Ohio State League, of which Welday Walker was a member, had prohibited the signing of Negroes, he wrote a letter to league president W. H. McDermitt. Denouncing any color line as “a disgrace to the present age,” he argued that if Negroes were to be barred as players, then they should also be denied access to the stands.
The sporting press stated its admiration for the talents of the black players who would be excluded. “Grant, Stovey, Walker, and Higgins,” wrote Sporting Life, “all are good players and behave like gentlemen, and it is a pity that the line should have been drawn against them.” That paper’s Syracuse correspondent wrote “Dod gast the measly rules that deprives a club of as good a man as Bob Higgins. . . .” Said the Newark Daily Journal, “It is safe to say that Moses F. Walker is mentally and morally the equal of any director who voted for the resolution.”
Color line or no color line, the season wore on. Buffalo and Newark remained in contention until late in the season. Newark fell victim to injuries, including one to Fleet Walker. Grant’s play deteriorated, although he finished the year leading the league in hitting. Toronto, which overcame internal strife of its own, came from the back of the pack, winning twenty-two of its last twenty-six games; they may have been aided by manager Charley Cushman’s innovative device of having his inflelders wear gloves on their left hands. On September 17, Toronto swept a doubleheader from Newark at home before 8,000 fans to take first place. One week later they clinched their first International League title. To commemorate the triumphant season, the Canadian Pacific Railway shipped a 160-foot tall pine, “the second tallest in America,” across the continent. Atop this pole would fly the 1887 International League pennant.
Before the season ended there was one further flareup of racial prejudice that received national, attention. On Sunday, September 11, Chris Von der Ahe, owner of the St. Louis Browns, canceled an exhibition game that was scheduled for that day in West Farms, New York, against the Cuban Giants. Led by its colorful and eccentric owner, and its multitalented manager-first baseman, Charles Comiskey, the Browns were the Chicago White Stockings of the American Association. At ten o’clock in the morning Von der Ahe notified a crowd of 7,000 disappointed fans that his team was too crippled by injuries to compete. The real reason, though, was a letter Von der Ahe had received the night before, signed by all but two of his players (Comiskey was one of the two):
Dear Sir: We, the undersigned members of the St. Louis Base Ball Club, do not agree to play against negroes tomorrow. We will cheerfully play against white people at any time, and think by refusing to play, we are only doing what is right, taking everything into consideration and the shape the team is in at present.
The Cuban Giants played, instead, a team from Danbury, New York, as Cuban Giant manager Jim Bright angrily threatened to sue the Browns. Von der Ahe tried to mollify Bright with a promise to reschedule the exhibition, a promise that would be unfulfilled. The Browns’ owner singled out his star third baseman, Arlie Latham, for a $100 fine. Von der Ahe did not object to his players’ racial prejudice. In fact, he was critical of them not for their clearly stated motive for refusing to play, but for their perceived lack of sincerity in pursuing their objective:
The failure to play the game with the Cuban Giants cost me $1000. If it was a question of principle with any of my players, I would not say a word, but it isn’t. Two or three of them had made arrangements to spend Sunday in Philadelphia, and this scheme was devised so that they would not be disappointed.
There was considerable speculation throughout the offseason that the International League would rescind its color line, or at least modify it to allow each club one Negro. At a meeting at the Rossin House in Toronto on November 16,1887, the league dissolved itself and reorganized under the title International Association (IA). Buffalo and Syracuse, anxious to retain Grant and Higgins, led the fight to eliminate the color line. Syracuse was particularly forceful in its leadership. The Stars’ representatives at the Toronto meeting “received a letter of thanks from the colored citizens of [Syracuse] for their efforts in behalf of the colored players,” reported Sporting Life. A week earlier, under the headline “Rough on the Colored Players,” it had declared:
At the meeting of the new International Association, the matter of rescinding the rule forbidding the employment of colored players was forgotten. This is unfortunate, as the Syracuse delegation had Buffalo, London, and Hamilton, making four in favor and two [i.e., Rochester and Toronto] against it.
While the subject of the color line was not included in the minutes of the proceedings, the issue apparently was not quite “forgotten.” An informal agreement among the owners provided a cautious retreat. By the end of the month, Grant was signed by Buffalo, and Higgins was retained by Syracuse for 1888. Fleet Walker, who was working in a Newark factory crating sewing machines for the export trade, remained uncommitted on an offer by Worcester, as he waited “until he finds whether colored players are wanted in the International League [sic]. He is very much a gentleman and is unwilling to force himself in where he is not wanted.” His doubts assuaged, he signed, by the end of November, with Syracuse, where, in 1888 he would once again join a black pitcher. The Syracuse directors had fired manager Joe Simmons, and replaced him with Charley Hackett. Thus, Walker would be playing for his third team with Hackett as manager. He looked forward to the next season, exercising his throwing arm by tossing a claw hammer in the air and catching it. After a meeting in Buffalo in January 1888, Sporting Life summarized the IA’s ambivalent position on the question of black players:
At the recent International Association meeting there was some informal talk regarding the right of clubs to sign colored players, and the general understanding seemed to be that no city should be allowed more than one colored man. Syracuse has signed two whom she will undoubtedly be allowed to keep. Buffalo has signed Grant, but outside of these men there will probably be no colored men in the league.
Frank Grant would have a typical season in Buffalo in 1888, where he was moved to the outfield to avoid spike wounds. For the third straight year his batting average (.346) was the highest on the team. Bob Higgins, the agent and victim of too much history, would, according to Sporting Life, “give up his $200 a month, and return to his barbershop in Memphis, Tennessee,” despite compiling a 20-7 record.
Fleet Walker, catching 76 games and stealing 30 bases, became a member of a second championship team, the first since Toledo in 1883. But his season was blighted by a third distasteful encounter with Anson. In an exhibition game at Syracuse on September 27, 1888, Walker was not permitted to play against the White Stockings. Anson’s policy of refusing to allow blacks on the same field with him had become so well-known and accepted that the incident was not even reported in the white press. The Indianapolis World noted the incident, which by now apparently was of interest only to black readers.
Fowler, Grant, and Stovey played many more seasons, some with integrated teams, some on all-Negro teams in white leagues in organized baseball, some on independent Negro teams. Fowler and Grant stayed one step ahead of the color line as it proceeded westward.
Fleet Walker continued to play for Syracuse in 1889, where he would be the last black in the International League until Jackie Robinson. Walker’s career as a professional ballplayer ended in the relative obscurity of Terre Haute, Indiana (1890) and Oconto, Wisconsin (1891).
In the spring of 1891 Walker was accused of murdering a convicted burglar by the name of Patrick Murphy outside a bar in Syracuse. When he was found not guilty “immediately a shout of approval, accompanied by clapping of hands and stamping of feet, rose from the spectators,” according to Sporting Life. His baseball career over, he returned to Ohio and embarked on various careers. He owned or operated the Cadiz, Ohio, opera house, and several motion picture houses, during which time he claimed several inventions in the motion picture industry. He was also the editor of a newspaper, The Equator, with the assistance of his brother Welday.
In 1908 he published a 47-page booklet entitled Our Home Colony; A Treatise on the Past, Present and Future of the Negro Race in America. According to the former catcher, “The only practical and permanent solution of the present and future race troubles in the United States is entire separation by emigration of the Negro from America.” Following the example of Liberia, “the Negro race can find superior advantages, and better opportunities . . . among people of their own race, for developing the innate powers of mind and body. . . .” The achievement of racial equality “is contrary to everything in the nature of man, and [it is] almost criminal to attempt to harmonize these two diverse peoples while living under the same government.” The past forty years, he wrote, have shown “that instead of improving we are experiencing the development of a real caste spirit in the United States.”
Fleet Walker died of pneumonia in Cleveland at age 66 on May 11, 1924, and was buried in Union Cemetery in Steubenville, Ohio. His brother Welday died in Steubenville thirteen years later at the age of 77.
In The Strange Career of Jim Crow, historian C. Vann Woodward identifies the late 1880s as a “twilight zone that lies between living memory and written history,” when “for a time old and new rubbed shoulders—and so did black and white—in a manner that differed significantly from Jim Crow of the future or slavery of the past.” He continued:
… a great deal of variety and inconsistency prevailed in race relations from state to state and within a state. It was a time of experiment, testing, and uncertainty—quite different from the time of repression and rigid uniformity that was to come toward the end of the century. Alternatives were still open and real choices had to be made.
Sol White and his contemporaries lived through such a transition period, and he identified the turning point at 1887. Twenty years later he noted the deterioration of the black ballplayer’s situation. Although White could hope that one day the black would be able to “walk hand-in-hand with the opposite race in the greatest of all American games—base ball,” he was not optimistic:
As it is, the field for the colored professional is limited to a very narrow scope in the base ball world. When he looks into the future he sees no place for him. . . . Consequently he loses interest. He knows that, so far shall I go, and no farther, and, as it is with the profession, so it is with his ability.
The “strange careers” of Moses Walker, George Stovey, Frank Grant, Bud Fowler, Robert Higgins, Sol White, et al., provide a microcosmic view of the development of race relations in the society at large, as outlined by Woodward. The events of 1887 offer further evidence of the old saw that sport does not develop character—it reveals it.
Tomorrow, a postscript, as SABR’s minor-league expert Vern Luse disputes a fine point with Jerry Malloy, one year after first publication of “Out at Home.”