According to Horace Traubel in With Walt Whitman in Camden (March 28-July 14, 1888), published in 1906, Whitman said to him, “I like your interest in sports–ball, chiefest of all–baseball particularly: baseball is our game: the American game: I connect it with our national character. Sports take people out of doors, get them filled with oxygen–generate some of the brutal customs (so-called brutal customs) which, after all, tend to habituate people to a necessary physical stoicism. We are some ways a dyspeptic, nervous set: anything which will repair such losses may be regarded as a blessing to the race.”
This remark is generally paraphrased by those wishing to quote the juicy phrases. Maybe we can blame Douglass Wallop for first “helping” Whitman. Annie Savoy and Ken Burns are among the legions who have followed down this path. The famous “‘snap, go, fling” quote also came from the Traubel: “Well – it’s our game; that’s the chief fact in connection with it; America’s game; it has the snap, go, fling of the American atmosphere; it belongs as much to our institutions; fits into them as significantly as our Constitution’s laws; is just as important in the sum total of our historic life.”
Here’s another Whitman anthem for Opening Day. Truncated, it is today famous as the opening lines of Ken Burns’s Baseball (1994). Here is the young Whitman’s full commentary, from the Brooklyn Eagle, Thursday, July 23, 1846.
“Brooklyn Young Men.—Athletic exercises.—In our sun-down perambulations, of late, through the outer parts of Brooklyn, we have observed several parties of youngsters playing “base,” a certain game of ball. We wish such sights were more common among us. In the practice of athletic and manly sports, the young men of nearly all our American cities are very deficient—perhaps more so than those of any other country that could be mentioned. Clerks are shut up from early morning till nine or ten o’clock at night—apprentices, after their days’ works, either go to bed, or lounge about in places where they benefit neither body or mind—and all classes seem to act as though there were no commendable objects of pursuit in the world except making money and tenaciously sticking to one’s trade or occupation. Now, as the fault is so generally of this kind, we can do little harm in hinting to people that, after all, there may be no necessity for such a drudge system among men. Let us enjoy life a little. Has God made this beautiful earth—the sun to shine—all the sweet influences of nature to operate—and planted in man a wish for their delights—and all for nothing? Let us go forth awhile, and get better air in our lungs. Let us leave of our close rooms, and the dust and corruption of stagnant places, and taste some of the good things Providence has scattered around so liberally.
“We would that all the young fellows about Brooklyn were daily in the habit of spending an hour or two in some out-door game or recreation. The body and mind would both be benefitted by it. There would be fewer attenuated forms and shrunken limbs and pallid faces in our streets. The game of ball is glorious—that of quoits is invigorating—so are leaping, running, wrestling, etc. etc. To any person having the least knowledge of physiology, it were superfluous to enter into any argument to prove the use and benefit of exercise. We have far too little of it in this country, among the “genteel” classes. Both women and men, particularly the younger ones, should be careful to pass no day of their lives without a portion of out-door exercise.”
Why stop here, when the game of ball is glorious? Below, other literary sentiments about our game, in no particular order.
PHILIP ROTH: For someone whose roots in America were strong but only inches deep, and who had no experience, such as a Catholic child might, of an awesome hierarchy that was real and felt, baseball was a kind of secular church that reached into every class and region of the nation and bound millions upon millions of us together in common concerns, loyalties, rituals, enthusiasms, and antagonisms. Baseball made me understand what patriotism was about, at its best.
ROBERT COOVER: There were things about the games I liked. The crowds, for example. I felt like I was part of something there, you know, like in church, except it was more real than any church, and I joined in the scorekeeping, hollering, the eating of hot dogs and drinking of Cokes and beer, and for a while I even had the idea that ball stadiums, and not European churches were the real American holy places.
DAVID HALBERSTAM: By and large it is the sport that a foreigner is least likely to take to. You have to grow up playing it, you have to accept the lore of the bubble-gum card, and believe that if the answer to the Mays-Snider-Mantle question is found, then the universe will be a simpler and more ordered place.
DONALD HALL: Baseball is continuous, like nothing else among American things, an endless game of repeated summers, joining the long generations of all the fathers and all the sons.
JIMMY CANNON: He was a parade all by himself, a burst of dazzle and jingle. Santa Claus drinking his whiskey straight and groaning with a bellyache caused by gluttony….Babe Ruth made the music that his joyous years danced to in a continuous party….What Babe Ruth is comes down, one generation handing it to the next, as a national heirloom.
PHILIP K. WRIGLEY: Baseball is too much of a sport to be called a business, and too much of a business to be called a sport.
JACQUES BARZUN: Whoever wants to know the heart and mind of America had better learn baseball.
GEORGE BERNARD SHAW: What is both surprising and delightful is that the spectators are allowed, and even expected, to join in the vocal part of the game. I do not see why this feature should not be introduced into cricket. There is no reason why the field should not try to put the batsman off his stroke at the critical moment by neatly timed disparagements of his wife’s fidelity and his mother’s respectability.
FRANKLIN P. ADAMS:
These are the saddest of possible words: “Tinker to Evers to Chance.”
Trio of bear cubs and fleeters than birds, “Tinker to Evers to Chance.”
Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble,
Making a Giant hit into a double–
Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble: “Tinker to Evers to Chance.”
THOMAS WOLFE : 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.
JIM BOUTON: You spend a good piece of your life gripping a baseball and in the end it turns out that it was the other way around all the time.
ERNIE HARWELL: Baseball is cigar smoke, hot-roasted peanuts, The Sporting News, Ladies’ Day, Down in Front, Take Me Out to the Ball Game, the seventh-Inning Stretch and the Star-Spangled Banner. Baseball is a highly paid Brooklyn catcher telling the nation’s business leaders: “You have to be a man to be a big leaguer, but you have to have a lot of little boy in you too.” This is a game for America–this baseball. A game for boys and for men.
BRUCE CATTON: Baseball is conservative. What was good enough in Cap Anson’s day is good enough now, and a populace that could stand unmoved while the Federal Constitution was amended would protest with vehemence at any tampering with the formalities of baseball.
A. BARTLETT GIAMATTI: Baseball breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the Chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone.
ARTHUR “BUGS” BAER, describing Ping Bodie’s attempt to steal second base in 1917, when he was thrown out by several yards: “His head was full of larceny, but his feet were honest.”
BERNARD MALAMUD: The whole history of baseball has the quality of mythology.
DONALD HALL: Baseball connects generations. When you are small you may not discuss politics or union dues or profit margins with your father’s cigar-smoking friends when your father has gone out for a six-pack; but you may discuss baseball. It is all you have in common, because your father’s friend does not wish to discuss the Assistant Principal or Alice Bisbee Morgan. About the season’s moment you know as much as he does; both of you may shake your heads over Lefty’s wildness or the rookie who was called out last Saturday when he tried to steal home with two outs in the ninth inning down by one.
ERNEST L. THAYER:
Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville–mighty Casey has struck out.
PHILIP ROTH: You can’t imagine how truly glorious it is out there, so alone in all that space….Do you know baseball at all? Because center field is like some observation post, a kind of control tower, where you are able to see everything and everyone, to understand what’s happening the instant it happens, not only by the sound of the struck bat but by the spark of movement that goes through the infielders in the first second that the ball comes flying at them; and once it gets beyond them, “It’s mine,” you call, “it’s mine,” and then after it you go. For in center field, if you can get to it, it is yours. Oh, how unlike my home it is to be in center field, where no one will appropriate unto himself anything that I say is mine!
ERIC ROLFE GREENBERG: To be a pitcher! I thought. A pitcher, standing at the axis of event, or a catcher with the God-view of the play all before him; to be a shortstop, lord of the infield, or a center fielder with unchallenged claim to all the territory one’s speed and skill could command; to perform the spontaneous acrobatics of the third baseman or the practiced ballet of the man at second, or to run and throw with the absolute commitment of the outfielder! And to live in a world without grays, where all decisions were final: ball or strike, safe or out, the game won or lost beyond question or appeal.
EDNA FERBER: Any man who can look handsome in a dirty baseball suit is an Adonis. There is something about the baggy pants, and the Micawber-shaped collar, and the skull-fitting cap, and the foot or so of tan, or blue, or pink undershirt sleeve sticking out at the arms, that just naturally kills a man’s best points. Then too, a baseball suit requires so much in the matter of leg. Therefore, when I say that Rudie Schlachweiler was a dream even in his baseball uniform, with a dirty brown streak right up the side of his pants where he had slid for base, you may know that the girls camped on the grounds during the season.
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.
THOMAS WOLFE: In the memory of almost every one of us, 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 mitt, the sound of the bat as it hits the horsehide: for me, at any rate, and I am being literal and not rhetorical–almost everything I know about spring is in it–the first leaf, the jonquil, the maple tree, the smell of grass upon your hands and knees, the coming into flower of April.
ALAN LELCHUK: After a great victory in war, there was a feeling that merit would be recognized. It was like coming into a bright light. The feeling that not only had we made it through, we, children of immigrants, were on the way up.
RED SMITH (after Bobby Thomson’s home run): The art of fiction is dead. Reality has strangled invention. Only the utterly impossible, the inexpressibly fantastic, can ever be plausible again.
THOMAS WOLFE: Baseball has been not merely “the great national game” but really a part of the whole weather of our lives, of the thing that is our own, of the whole fabric, the million memories of America.
Baseball began in England before the 1740s as a game for young people, and it was played by girls as commonly as it was by boys; often the two played together. Writing in 1798 the novelist Jane Austen—in Northanger Abbey, published posthumously two decades later—has her heroine, Catherine Morland, say that she prefers cricket and baseball to reading—“at least books of information.”
In the United States, beginning in the 1860s, women formed baseball clubs of their own at the Seven Sister colleges of the Northeast. Two nines competed in 1869, at Peterboro, New York, an upstate village some seventy-five miles from Seneca Falls where the women’s suffrage movement was born. The contest was reported in a New York newspaper called Day’s Doings, a sensationalist sex-story journal self-avowedly devoted to “current events of romance, police reports, important trials, and sporting news.” Unsurprisingly, the Police Gazette and the Sporting Times depicted the young baseballists as strumpets.
The following years provided a rich alternative on-field history through novelty nines, barnstorming clubs, and active amateur play. Women were prized as spectators at early matches because it was thought they lent tone and decorum to a game that otherwise might produce, in heated moments, unseemly verbal and physical displays. By the mid-1870s exhibitions of women’s baseball had generally taken the form of Blondes versus Brunettes, with varying geographic modifiers applied to each. These pulchritudinous nines typically used a smaller than regulation ball made only of yarn, played the game on a fifty-foot diamond, and barnstormed their way through a legion of appreciative “bald-headed men,” a code name in theatrical circles for voyeurists of a certain age who liked to sit in the first row.
It was into this tawdry realm of women’s baseball that a Broadway actress, Helen Dauvray, stepped in 1887, leaving a historic mark. She is not only the creator of baseball’s first world championship trophy, but also a woman of several identities and a remarkable life story that I have told in three parts at Our Game. See:
Ladies’ Day had been a popular innovation of the 1880s, though its origins stretched back to the amateur era. In the ’90s women were seen at the ballpark more frequently than they had been in the early 1870s, but the crudeness and violence of the “evolved” game was now deterring their patronage.
If women were becoming disinclined to watch professional baseball, they were still interested in playing it. Bloomer Girls clubs, named for the ridiculed but liberating harem pants invented by Amelia Jenks Bloomer in the 1850s, started up in Boston, New York, and Kansas City and barnstormed successfully for many years. A milestone event occurred on July 5, 1898, when Lizzie (Stroud) Arlington, with the blessings of Atlantic League president Ed Barrow, later famous as the general manager of the Boston Red Sox and New York Yankees, pitched an inning for Reading against Allentown. She gave up two hits but no runs in this first appearance of a woman in Organized Baseball.
Another female baseball pioneer, little noted until now, is Ida Schnall, a formidable athlete of unprecedentedly diverse prowess. The baseball club she formed in 1913, and for which she pitched, was the New York Female Giants. For her outstanding dare-deviltry and sports achievements Ida became the pet of newspapers coast to coast and hobnobbed with the great figures of her day, including Babe Ruth and Al Jolson, in whose Passing Show of 1912 she starred on Broadway.
Much has been written about Jackie Mitchell, the purported flamethrower who fanned Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig in 1931, and the All American Girls Professional Baseball League of 1943-54. Less has been said about Amanda Clement, Alta Weiss, Ruth Engel, Ila Borders, and Justine Siegal, pioneers of the women’s game who share Jane Austen’s vision of baseball as a game that could be played by all.
This portfolio–like the ones on Ruth and Robinson that preceded it–does not pretend to be comprehensive. I simply offer images that may be unfamiliar and pleasing.
This guest column is by Bruce Allardice, one of the most active and proficient researchers into early baseball. He is professor of history at South Suburban College near Chicago. He has authored numerous books on the Civil War, and is head of SABR’s Civil War baseball subcommittee. He has also been a contributor to Base Ball: A Journal of the Early Game.
Some stories have it all—betrayal, courage, cowardice, a comic-opera kingdom, a drunken monarch, and a government saved by the long right arm of a baseball player. It even has a connection to Alexander Cartwright, one of the founders of baseball.
Up until 1898, the current state of Hawaii remained a separate country, for most of that time ruled by a dynasty of native Hawaiian monarchs. American shipping interests and missionary work brought thousands of American citizens to the islands. And these Americans brought with them the “new” game of baseball. As early as 1866 Hawaii became the second country outside the United States to establish baseball teams. By the 1870s a regular league of amateur baseball teams played in Honolulu, sporting such nicknames as the Whangdoodles, the Stars, the Pacifics, and the Honolulus.
While researching early Hawaiian baseball, I ran across this story in Sporting Life, August 21, 1889:
A Catcher Hero. Revolution Quelled Through the Efforts of a Base Ball Catcher.
One of the incidents of the recent attempted [Wilcox] revolution in Hawaii has a peculiar interest for base ball lovers. A special from San Francisco, under date of Aug. 12, says:
“Some passengers by the Honolulu steamer who were seen late last night gave interesting accounts of scenes at the recent battle in Honolulu. The day was won, they say, by a base ball catcher, who threw dynamite bombs into the bungalow that formed the headquarters of the insurgents and brought them to terms quicker than rifle or cannon shot. The blue-jackets kept up a disastrous firing all day, and it was finally decided to throw dynamite on the bungalow. Bombs were made, but it was found that there were no guns to fire them.
“It was a long throw, and in their dilemma the King’s guards secured the services of Hay Wodehouse, catcher of the Honolulu Base Ball Club. Wodehouse took up his position in the Coney Island building, just across a narrow lane, and overlooking the bungalow. No attack was expected from that quarter, and there was nothing to disturb the bomb thrower. Wodehouse stood for a few moments with a bomb in his hand as though he were in the box waiting for a batman. He had to throw over a house to reach the bungalow, which he could not see.
“The first bomb went sailing over the wall, made a down curve, and struck the side of the bungalow about a foot from the roof, and the yell that followed reminded one of a day at the Haight street grounds when good pitchers were in the box. The bomb had reached them and hurt a number of the insurgents. Wodehouse coolly picked out another bomb. Then he took a step back, made a half turn, and sent it whizzing. It lauded on the roof of the bungalow, smashed a hole four men could have dropped through, and scattered old iron among the rebels until they thought they were in a boiler explosion. The base ball pitcher was too much for the rebels.
He threw one more bomb, and Wilcox came out and surrendered.”
Further details can be found in the Maui Times, Oct. 18, 1913:
“I was somewhat surprised last week when I read a short mention of the death of James Hay Wodehouse at the Queen’s Hospital, for Hay was one of the makers of history here twenty-five years ago, and one of the pioneer ball players, for he played during the years when Thurston, Faxon Bishop, Willie Kinney, W. Lucas, the Baldwins and men of lesser note were active on the diamond. Hay was a great catcher in his younger days, and during a season a good many years ago, was a helper in winning the championship for his team, “The Honolulu,” I think it was. But what brought him to the public eye was the stopping of the revolution of 1889 which was led by the late Bob Wilcox. Wodehouse, be it known, was the son of a British Minister resident who, I think, was the dean of the diplomatic corps…. Well, when Wilcox, who had been a ward of the government to the extent of being sent to Italy for his education, made up his mind it was time to break out. He laid plots over the town and shook out seeds of revolution. With his supports, or some of them, he located in the Iolani grounds while the King was down at the boat house. It looked as though Bob would get the whip hand if something was not promptly done to dislodge him. His headquarters, and those of his lieutenants was in the bungalow. Just across Hotel street was the Haalelea or Coney residence behind the stone wall which is now used to keep unruly members of the University Club within and the public without.
“Someone suggested that a stick of dynamite or a bomb should be thrown into the house where Bob was, but there was no one about who could do it, until Hay was thought of and sent for. He could send a ball from the plate to second without an effort, and he believed so strongly that he could land on the bungalow, that he let her go. There was hades a poppin’ in two minutes and Bob was seen to make a rush for the big gasoline tank. A second bomb drove him from that and he was promptly gathered in. The revolution was pau [done] and it had been stopped by a ball tosser in the beginning.
“Being the son of a distinguished diplomat, there was trouble for him and the father was called on to explain what he knew of the affair, but he was innocent enough and the incident closed as far as any official investigation was concerned, but Hay had to answer to his father.”
The earliest contemporary account of the incident is in the Honolulu Daily Bulletin, July 31, 1889:
“…Yesterday afternoon the Government decided that it was necessary to dislodge Wilcox from the bungalow into which he had withdrawn his remaining force. Half-past four was fixed as the time for the grand attack, but it was an hour later before preparations were completed. Having no ordnance to bring to bear upon the building the use of giant powder cartridges was resorted to. These were hurled by strong arms from Palace Walk and some from Richards street, and as they exploded the report made people at a distance think the rebels had got the cannon into play again. A terrific fusillade was at the same time begun and kept up with scarcely an intermission for about an hour from all the commanding points of vantage. A galling fire was poured into the lower flat of the bungalow by half a dozen citizen marksmen posted in the Hawaiian Hotel Stables. Then suddenly was heard the commanding shout, “Hold on,” after which only a desultory shot or two was heard from the church, and the explosion of one bomb at the bungalow. The cessation of the fray was caused by the beleaguered rebels displaying a white sheet and calling out their ‘Surrender.’ The gates were thrown open and a force of volunteers entering received the submission of Wilcox and about thirty of his followers. The remainder of them made good their escape over the Palace wall. The thirty who had surrendered to Lieut. Parker in the afternoon were previously sent to the Station under guard. Wilcox and his gang were escorted also to the Station. The rebel chief bore himself sullenly and proudly through the crowded streets, casting looks of disdain to right and left as cries of vengeance were heard, such as ‘String him up,’ etc.
“The interior of the bungalow in the Palace yard, where the rebels were located the greater part of the day, presented a scene of devastation this morning. The roof is damaged very considerably by the giant powder cartridges which exploded on it. The rooms upstairs at the Richards street end presented a sorry appearance. Furniture was all smashed to pieces, the floors were strewed with broken glass and bullet holes were seen in the walls in every direction. It was terrible to see what damage had been done. On the matting in several of the rooms were large patches of blood, and many cloths were lying around saturated with blood. On the back verandah down stairs was a long trail of blood looking as if a wounded man had been dragged along. The damage to the lower part of the bungalow was small compared to that on the first floor.”
His majesty here, who is a fine, intelligent fellow, but O, Charles! What a crop for the drink! He carries it, too, like a mountain with a sparrow on its shoulders.–Robert Louis Stevenson to Charles Baxter, Feb. 8, 1889
Stevenson was writing of his good friend and drinking companion, King David Kalakaua of Hawaii, whose troubled reign gave rise to the 1889 uprising.
Elected monarch in 1874 by the Hawaiian legislature, after the death of the last of the dynasty of King Kamehameha the Great, David Kalakaua faced opposition from both “native” Hawaiians (many of whom preferred his cousin, the former Queen Emma, to be their monarch) and the Caucasian-descended “Haole” merchants who paid most of the kingdom’s taxes. The new king was admitted by all to be personally charming and dignified. He was a huge sports fan, and was the first monarch ever to attend a baseball game. His palace staff even sponsored a baseball club. But Kalakaua’s notorious drinking bouts, his spendthrift habits, his expensive (and largely unsuccessful) poker playing, and his impractical schemes for a “Pacific empire” bankrupted his own finances and the finances of his tiny kingdom. The improvident monarch gave over government of the kingdom to shady adventurers such as Cesar Moreno and Walter Gibson who promised, in return for power, to get the elected legislature to pay off the king’s mounting debts.
For the Haole taxpayers (and most others), the final straw came when Kalakaua took a $71,000 bribe from a Chinese businessman to license the import of opium into the kingdom. Greedy for more money, the king didn’t issue the license, then promptly took a second bribe from another Chinese merchant and gave him the license instead! In 1887 the mostly Caucasian Honolulu merchants organized a volunteer militia, marched on the royal Iolani Palace (another expensive extravagance, in their minds) and coerced the king into signing the so-called “Bayonet Constitution” which stripped the monarch of most of his powers, giving those powers to an elected cabinet.
Kalakaua resented his new restrictions. So did many natives, appalled that the man they viewed as their tribal chief now had to act as an English-style Constitutional monarch, co-signing the laws passed by the Haole-dominated Reform Party government. A former favorite of Kalakaua’s, young Robert Wilcox, vowed to do something about it. Of mostly native descent, the hot-headed Wilcox planned to raise a revolt, but word of his plotting (though not the exact details) leaked out all over Honolulu. The king heard of Wilcox’s plans (Wilcox held his planning meetings at the home of the Queen’s sister) and acquiesced, promising to allow himself to be captured by the rebels when they seized the palace, dismiss the government, and promulgate the new constitution Wilcox had written.
On the night of July 30, 1889, Wilcox gathered together a ragtag bunch of about 150 rebels, all but a few of whom were natives, and set off to seize the government. However, Kalakaua heard a rumor that night that Wilcox (known to be untrustworthy) also intended to depose the king and put his sister Liliuokalani (thought to be firmer against Haole domination) on the throne.
Frightened, the king double-crossed Wilcox. He left Iolani Palace to hide out at the royal boathouse, ordering the commander of the dozen palace guards, Captain Robert Waipu Parker (himself first baseman of a local baseball club), to defend the palace by force. So when the rebels arrived at the palace grounds, they found no king, and no entrance to the palace. Wilcox had no plan B—or even a step 2 in his original plan. He made little or no effort to seize the members of the government. His men milled around in confusion on the palace grounds, discouraged and demoralized by the king’s betrayal.
The government reacted quickly. By early morning the palace grounds were surrounded by members of Honolulu’s volunteer militia and Haole volunteers. From the Opera House across the street from the palace grounds, and from the historic stone church a block away, they poured fire on the rebels. The rebels had seized the only four cannon in the kingdom, but the rifle fire prevented them from firing the cannon accurately at the government forces. The rebels retreated to the royal bungalow in the northwest corner of the palace grounds. There they made their stand. The grounds were surrounded by an eight-foot coral wall, and the rebels had a clear field of fire on the grounds and onto the surrounding streets.
[Below is a modern map of the Iolani Palace grounds. The Opera House was where the modern Post office is located. The bungalow is just to the left, and above, of the palace. Wodehouse threw his bombs from the Coney residence, just above the bungalow. At the left is a map from the Rocky Mountain News, August 20, 1889, which shows the same area. The bungalow is marked “B.” The Coney residence is marked “G” and is located just above the bungalow.]
By late afternoon many of the discouraged rebels had surrendered. But the fire from the bungalow continued. The government forces feared that Wilcox might hold out long enough, or create enough of a stir, that the king would change his mind again and back the rebels. Wilcox hoped this too. Wilcox also hoped that he could escape in the coming darkness and raise the natives (who had thus far remained mostly neutral) in a mass revolt. Artillery was needed to batter down the bungalow walls, but no cannon were available.
Contemporary author Stephen Dando-Collins says Wodehouse thought up the idea for throwing the bombs, constructed them, and enlisted Arthur C. Turton (a ship’s purser and baseball player himself) as a helper. The pair crept along the palace walls, up Richards Street which border the western side of the palace grounds. When they reached a close point—some sources claim on the street behind the wall, others say they climbed the Coney residence on Hotel Street—Turton lighted the fuse and handed the dynamite bombs to Wodehouse. The bombs were wrapped around nails or spikes so that when thrown onto the bungalow roof, they wouldn’t roll down. The dynamite, lobbed onto the bungalow roof, did the trick. The rebellion ended—the only rebellion in history ever put down by a baseball player.
The Rest of the Story.
Hawaiian-born James Hay Wodehouse Jr. (1861-1913) was the son of the longtime British Consul to Hawaii, James Hay Wodehouse Sr. The Wodehouses counted the Earl of Errol and the novelist P. G. Wodehouse among their relatives. Wodehouse Sr. had served as president of the local cricket club, and his two sons James and Ernest became enthusiastic players on the local baseball clubs. Ernest pitched for the Stars and James (labeled “the fleet-footed Mercury of the League”) caught for the Honolulus. At the time of the rebellion James was a salesman for one of the local British-based merchant companies.
James later married King Kalakaua’s step-niece. He died in Hawaii in 1913.
Hawaiian born Arthur Campbell “Jack” Turton (1867-1890) was scion of one of the wealthiest planter families in the kingdom. He’d played baseball while attending Punahou School. Shortly after the rebellion, Turton caught a fever while on a visit to the U.S., and died in San Francisco. He was buried in that city’s Masonic Cemetery.
King David Kalakaua (1836-1891), the “Merry Monarch,” died two years after the rebellions. His sister, Liliuokalani (“Queen Lil”, 1838-1917), was deposed two years later when she unilaterally tried to revoke the 1887 Constitution. The new government proclaimed Hawaii an independent Republic. In 1898 Hawaii was annexed to the United States.
Robert William Kalanihiupo Wilcox (1855-1903) was tried for treason. But a clause in the Hawaiian Constitution provided that natives be tried by an all-native jury, and despite his obvious guilt, the jury acquitted him and all the native rebels. The only rebel punished was a stray Belgian who joined the fight. In 1895 the “unconquerable” Wilcox again tried (and failed) to overthrow the government and restore the monarchy. Wilcox remained popular among the natives, who later elected the former rebel the new Territory’s delegate to the U.S. Congress!
And in perhaps the ultimate irony to this affair, Wilcox, whose revolution has been thwarted by two baseball players, married Theresa La’anui, whose first husband was the son of Alexander Joy Cartwright, considered by many the founder of Baseball!
The king feared that he would be deposed by the winners, whichever side won.
Sources for this narrative of the Wilcox Revolt include the first and freshest account: “Unsuccessful Attempt at Revolution!”, Honolulu Daily Bulletin, July 31, 1889. The Bulletin from Aug. 1st through 6th has more articles on the revolt. See also “A Rebellion,” San Francisco Bulletin, Aug. 10, 1889; “Fatal Hawaiian Revolt,” Daily Alta California, Aug. 10, 1889; “The Hawaiian Revolt,” Daily Alta California, Aug. 11, 1889; “The Honolulu Insurgents,” Fresno Republican, Aug. 13, 1889; “Kalakaua’s Kingdom,” Los Angeles Daily Herald, Aug. 10, 1889; “Insurrection!”, Hawaiian Gazette, Aug. 6, 1889. Perhaps the fullest eyewitness account is “An Incipient Revolt,” in the Denver Rocky Mountain News, Aug. 20, 1889, written by William D. Westervelt, later president of the Hawaiian Historical Society. Another good account is “The Wilcox Insurrection,” The Friend, Aug. 1889, pp 66-67. Seven rebels lost their lives in the revolt. On the government side, only one man (Captain Parker of the Palace Guard) was wounded.
The books cited in the bibliography all discuss the Wilcox revolt, trying to make sense of the varying accounts.
Ralph S. Kuykendall, the dean of historians of Hawaii, observes:
“As for Wilcox’s objectives, however, there can be no doubt that two of them were: (1) to replace the Constitution of 1887 with one similar to that of 1864; and (2) to get rid of the Reform cabinet. The uncertainties have to do with the relationship of King Kalakaua and his sister Liliuokalani to the movement.” See Kuykendall, p. 424.
 “Baseball. The Stars win the 1889 Season Championship,” Hawaiian Gazette, Sept. 17, 1889.
 “James H. Wodehouse will be laid to rest this afternoon,” Honolulu Bulletin, Oct. 9, 1913.
 “Death of A. C. Turton”, Honolulu Bulletin, Nov. 24, 1890. See also San Francisco Call, Nov. 9, 1890.
 Cartwright was a staunch supporter of the bayonet constitution government. Perhaps fortunately, he didn’t live to see his daughter-in-law marry the premier Hawaiian rebel.
Queen Lil later wrote that Wilcox’s “enthusiasm was great, but was not supported by good judgment or proper discretion.” Queen Liliuokalani, Hawaii’s Story, p. 201.
Aka Robert Parker Waipu.
 Haole is a native Hawaiian term an ancient origin. Under Hawaiian law, anyone born in the islands became a Hawaiian subject, even if their parents were “foreign.” Thus, under Hawaiian law, haoles such as James Hay Wodehouse were just as much “Hawaiian” as the “natives”.
 Cf. “Kalakaua a Crank,” New York Herald, Dec. 12, 1889 (using the slang word “crank” to signify a baseball fan). See also Honolulu Bulletin, Sept. 23, 1889, for the king attending a party honoring the Honolulu champion baseball team. Only months after this rebellion was quelled, the king hosted the Spalding baseball world tour and hosted a luau for the players.
 The disappointed Chinese merchant sued the king, and the whole messy affair became public knowledge.
 Wilcox testified at his trial that the king knew of his plans and promised to sign Wilcox’s new Constitution.
 “Unsuccessful Attempt at Revolution!”, Honolulu Daily Bulletin, July 31, 1889.
 Stevenson, Robert Louis (A. Grove Day, ed.), Travels in Hawaii (U. of Hawaii Press, 1991), p. 94.
 “James Hay Wodehouse Made History Once,” Maui News, Oct. 18, 1913.
 “Death of A. C. Turton”, Honolulu Bulletin, Nov. 24, 1890. See also San Francisco Call, Nov. 9, 1890.
 Cartwright was a staunch supporter of the bayonet constitution government. Perhaps fortunately, he didn’t live to see his daughter-in-law marry the premier Hawaiian rebel.
If Babe Ruth was the first in this projected series of picture portfolios, Jackie Robinson must be the second. Ruth was the game’s greatest player; Robinson was its most important. Both were American heroes whose exploits and character transcended the game. Here’s what Alan Schwarz and I wrote ten years ago, in Total Baseball, about Ruth and Robinson. We wrote a longish entry titled “Baseball’s 100 Most Important People.”
Now, a word about No. 1. It came down to two people—Babe Ruth and Jackie Robinson—who ascended above everyone else for reasons about which you soon will read. But choosing between them for the top spot was an excruciating decision, extending beyond baseball to the United States at large. In fact, it was only after recognizing the breadth of the argument that we finally chose Ruth. Babe Ruth, by virtue of his talent and charisma, carried baseball from the depths of the Black Sox scandal into modern eminence; who changed the mindset of the sport from speed to slugging; and who was, lest we forget, baseball’s best all-around talent ever. Jackie Robinson too holds a monumental place in the game’s history, a spectacular player who, by virtue of breaking baseball’s longstanding color barrier and carrying himself with unwavering mettle afterward, receives credit for helping spark the modern civil-rights movement.
We also wrote a capsule biography of Robinson, about whom it might be said that, like Lincoln, we think we have read it all before. But then somebody comes up with some new and surprising facts, some fresh, unique perspective. I suspect we will keep talking about Lincoln and Robinson all our lives, for while heroes are forever, our view of them continually evolves.
Let’s try something different here at Our Game. A favorite feature of many readers these past three years has been the copious illustration accompanying articles about the Grand Old Ball Game Game. Moreover, I have found that when I post a link to a new story on Twitter or Facebook the response is polite but generally muted–a seated ovation, if you will. Only a few posts have generated thousands of visitors on the very first day. On the other hand, when I post an image or a film clip directly to a social-media site, folks are really enthusiastic. Where did you get that? they ask. That’s amazing, they exclaim. Encore! they demand.
You get the picture. Or rather, now you will, untrammeled by that pesky erudition and bloviation. Or at least occasionally you will: a post of slimly captioned, themed images without an accompanying article. Until I hit upon the congenial format, let’s look at fifteen pictures per post. For this first foray, why don’t we start with the biggest name in all of baseball history, Babe Ruth.
Let’s resume our racehorse run through America’s baseball Presidents. When last we left our heroes, William McKinley had just promised to throw out the first pitch at the Washington home opener in April 1897 (http://goo.gl/ogDGrb). Although more than a hundred Senators and Congressmen showed up, and the club constructed a Presidential box complete with bunting, the honoree did not appear. Six months into his second term, an assassin’s bullet and ensuing medical malpractice brought us a new man in the White House: Theodore Roosevelt, who advocated a strenuous life and vigorous sport but detested baseball. His sons Kermit and Quentin played baseball but their exploits elicited little interest from Dad. Daughter Alice Roosevelt Longworth said, “Father and all of us regarded baseball as a mollycoddle game. Tennis, football, lacrosse, boxing, polo, yes: they are violent, which appealed to us. But baseball? Father wouldn’t even watch it, not even at Harvard!”
All the same, Teddy was the first President to receive a gold lifetime pass to all professional baseball games (every President since has received one). In his final full year in office, 1908, he reluctantly welcomed three American League clubs to the White House–the hometown Senators, the New York Highlanders, and the Cleveland Naps. He then handed off to William Howard Taft, who had served him as Secretary of War and was his hand-picked successor. Taft was something of a fan and had played ball as a youth. It was his brother Charles P. Taft, however, who was truly bitten by the baseball bug–owning pieces of the Cubs and Phillies simultaneously, in contravention of baseball law, while his brother sat in the White House. President Taft’s enduring contribution took place on April 14, 1910, when he fulfilled the expectations placed on McKinley by throwing out the first pitch prior to Washington’s 3-0 victory over Philadelphia, behind the mighty arm of young Walter Johnson.
Woodrow Wilson‘s boyhood attachment to baseball was intense indeed, as discussed earlier this week (http://goo.gl/W2LJU4). As President, in 1917 he became the first to throw out the first pitch at a World Series opener. Prior to that he had attended many ballgames, eschewing the use of his golden pass and paying his own way.
Warren G. Harding was the first President to have owned a stake in a professional baseball club, the Marion Diggers of the Class D Ohio State League. He had played ball as a boy and may have fancied himself a prospective big leaguer. In September 1920, while campaigning for the Presidency, he took part in an exhibition game with the Chicago Cubs, throwing three pitches on behalf of the semipro Kerrigan Tailors.
Calvin Coolidge was not in the least bit sporty but his wife was. Grace Coolidge availed herself of the Presidential lifetime pass more than any First Lady before or since. When the Senators and old Walter Johnson finally went to the World Series in 1924, and then improbably won it when a ground ball hit a pebble and bounded over the head of Giants’ third baseman Freddie Lindstrom, all Washington went wild. It is said that even Silent Cal’s eyebrow twitched. He had attended three of the Senators’ four home games, establishing a new Presidential record.
Herbert Hoover was a huge baseball fan and took in as many regular-season games as any President. Perhaps the most memorable line attaching to Hoover and baseball spoke to the tenor of the times, as the failure of Prohibition made the Great Depression harder to bear.
I was not able to work up much enthusiasm over the ball game, and in the midst of it I was handed a note informing me of the sudden death of Senator Dwight Morrow. He had proved a great pillar of strength in the senate and his death was a great loss to the country and to me. I left the ballpark with the chant of the crowd ringing in my ears, “We Want Beer!”
Franklin Delano Roosevelt had been secretary of the baseball team at Groton. He loved the game but never played it well, even before his body betrayed his spirit. According to Gerald Bazer and Steven Culbertson in Prologue Magazine (Spring 2002), “as a young attorney in New York City, he almost lost his job because he would sneak off to Giants games at the Polo Grounds. As assistant secretary of the navy during the Wilson administration, he substituted for the President in throwing out the first ball for the 1917 season. As President, he made a record eight opening day appearances,” even though his physical infirmity made visits to the ballpark difficult. His great contribution to the game as President may have been his “green-light” letter that kept baseball going after America’s entrance into World War II. Writing to Commissioner Landis, who was prepared to shut down the game, FDR replied in part:
I honestly feel it would be best for the country to keep baseball going. There will be fewer people unemployed and everyone will be working longer hours and harder than ever before. Baseball provides a recreation which does not last over two hours or two hours and a half, and which can be got for very little cost.
Harry S. Truman was a lefty, and he threw like a ballplayer. And he was funny: “I couldn’t see well enough to play when I was a boy, so they gave me a special job–they made me an umpire.”
Dwight D. Eisenhower revealed, while he was President, that he played ball professionally, under the assumed name of “Wilson,” with Abilene in the Kansas State League. Researchers have long tried to identify him, without luck. This of course was a violation of amateur-eligibility rules, as Jim Thorpe learned to his chagrin after starring at the 1912 Olympics in Stockholm. (Because he had played summer ball with Rocky Point and Fayetteville in the East Carolina League in 1909-10–under his own name–he had to forfeit his medals.) Had Ike’s baseball fling become public knowledge while he was at West Point, he would have been unable to play for the Army football team. Like Truman, Ike has a great baseball quote to his everlasting credit. In later years he wrote:
A friend of mine and I went fishing and as we sat there in the warmth of a summer afternoon on a river bank we talked about what we wanted to do when we grew up. I told him I wanted to be a real major league baseball player, a genuine professional like Honus Wagner. My friend said that he’d like to be President of the United States. Neither of us got our wish.
John F. Kennedy liked football more than baseball, but in his sadly limited opportunities he threw out a mean first pitch. “Last year,” he once said, “more Americans went to symphonies than went to baseball games. This may be viewed as an alarming statistic, but I think that both baseball and the country will endure.”
Richard M. Nixon was–with the possible exception of Woodrow Wilson, as only recently revealed at Our Game–the most avid and astute baseball fan of all our Presidents. “I don’t know a lot about politics,” he once said, “but I know a lot about baseball.” In 1972 Nixon picked all-time All-Star teams from 1925 forward, by era. Twenty years later he revised his list to go up to 1991. Dick Young wrote, “This isn’t a guy that shows up at season openers to take bows and get his picture in the paper and has to have his secretary of state tell him where first base is. This man knows baseball.” Despite the cataclysmic circumstances of his departure from the White House, he was said afterward to have been offered the post of Commissioner of Major League Baseball.
Gerald Ford was an All American football player at Michigan and a solid baseball fan. About going to watch the Grand Rapids Chicks of the All American Girls Professional Baseball League he said, “I was single, practicing law. People said it was fun. Well, I went, and it sure was. The gals played hard and skillfully and put on a good show. Those ladies took it very seriously. They drew real well. Fans were very intense and partisan. They really had a flair. It was good competition.”
Jimmy Carter was an avid softball player but much of a baseball fan during his Presidency. Today he and wife Rosalynn are more or less fixtures at Atlanta Braves games.
Ronald Reagan was, before he threw out first pitches or welcomed Hall of Famers to the Rose Garden, a big-time baseball “player.” As an announcer broadcasting Cubs games for radio station WHO out of Des Moines, Iowa, he had the presence of mind to prolong an at bat via epically endless foul balls until his Western Union feed resumed.
There were several other stations broadcasting that game and I knew I’d lose my audience if I told them we’d lost our telegraph connections so I took a chance. I had [Billy] Jurges hit another foul. Then I had him foul one that only missed being a home run by a foot. I had him foul one back in the stands and took up some time describing the two lads that got in a fight over the ball. I kept on having him foul balls until I was setting a record for a ballplayer hitting successive foul balls and I was getting more than a little scared. Just then my operator started typing. When he passed me the paper I started to giggle–it said: “Jurges popped out on the first ball pitched.”
In 1952 Reagan portrayed Grover Cleveland Alexander in the the film The Winning Team, alongside Doris Day.
George H.W. Bush was a slick fielding first baseman with Andover and Yale, and he played in the 1947 College World Series. The photograph taken of him with Babe Ruth is a classic. Has there been a better player among all our Presidents? Only Eisenhower enters into the debate. Of the 1981 Cracker Jack Old Timers Game, then Vice President Bush recalled:
Milt Pappas grooved one and I hit it–I hadn’t swung a bat in God, how many years! I hit it crisp right through the middle for a single. People actually cheered and stuff when I got the single. It was more than fun.
Bill Clinton grew up a Cards fan, became a Cubs fan, appeared at baseball games with his typical gusto, and like Truman threw lefthanded with authority.
George W. Bush, growing up, never thought of being President. “I wanted to be Willie Mays,” he said. As managing general partner of the ownership group behind the Texas Rangers (1989-94), Bush attained the highest level in baseball’s professional ranks of any of our Presidents. He continues to make jokes at his own expense about trading Sammy Sosa before his talent emerged.
Barack Obama: Basketball was his game before attaining the White House and, along with golf, remains the game he likes to play. As a fan he has become more ecumenical in his appreciation of other sports, including baseball. Growing up in Hawaii, he attached to the Oakland A’s, but since moving to Illinois his favorite team has been the Chicago White Sox.
The other day I posted an article about Woodrow Wilson that attracted rather a lot of attention. While preparing that story I inevitably came upon a number of odd bits about our other Presidents and their ballplaying days and ways. The subject has been well covered by others, particularly in terms of first pitches and World Series victors’ visits to the White House. My friends Bill Mead and Paul Dickson wrote a fine book on the subject twenty years ago, Baseball: The Presidents’ Game. Because there’s no point to my doing indifferently what they have done well, I’ll provide here a racehorse run through Presidential baseball bits that may yet be unfamiliar; not every POTUS will get a nod. Some of these notes reflect recent research.
George Washington: First in war, first in peace, and first prez to play ball. General Washington was documented as playing wicket, a rival game to baseball, at Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, on May 4, 1778. [For more about wicket, see: http://ourgame.mlblogs.com/2012/07/17/the-old-time-game-of-wicket/ .] Revolutionary War soldier George Ewing wrote in a letter: “This day His Excellency [i.e., Washington] dined with G[eneral] Nox [Knox] and after dinner did us the honor to play at Wicket with us.” One year later, as scholar Thomas Altherr notes:
Commenting on George Washington’s character while observing him at camp at Fishkill in September, 1779, the newly-arrived secretary to the French legation, François, Comte de Barbé-Marbois, wrote, “To-day he sometimes throws and catches a ball for whole hours with his aides-de-camp.”
Washington the ball club came to be described by sportswriter Charlie Dryden in 1909 as “First in war, first in peace, and last in the American League.” But we can’t blame that on Old George.
John Adams: At about the age of 10, as Adams wrote later in his diary, he was enamored “of making and sailing boats . . swimming, skating, flying kites and shooting marbles, bat and ball, football, . . . wrestling and sometimes boxing.” Was “bat and ball” the mysterious game known as batball, prohibited—along with wicket, cricket, baseball, football, cats, fives, and other games unnamed—in the famous 1791 ordinance of Pittsfield, Massachusetts? Or was it the distinct other game of “bat and ball,” as described by Brian Turner? [http://ourgame.mlblogs.com/2012/11/27/the-bat-and-ball/] We cannot know.
Thomas Jefferson: We have no record of his having played ball, but he may have played enough to know he didn’t like it. From a letter to his nephew, Peter Carr, on 19 August 1785:
Give about two [hours] every day to exercise; for health must not be sacrificed to learning. A strong body makes the mind strong. As to the species of exercise, I advise the gun. While this gives a moderate exercise to the body, it gives boldness, enterprize, and independance [sic] to the mind. Games played with the ball and others of that nature, are too violent for the body and stamp no character on the mind. Let your gun therefore be the constant companion of your walks.
James Buchanan: In 1857, the first year of Buchanan’s term as President, the “Indian Peace Medal” received a new design that has become a monument of baseball history. These medals changed design many times. Early ones depicted George Washington shaking hands with a Native American against the backdrop of a tranquil farmstead on the obverse, and the heraldic eagle from the Great Seal of the United States on the reverse. After Jefferson, each administration’s medal had for its obverse a bust of the new president (except for William Henry Harrison, who died after barely three weeks in office) and a common reverse, a pair of hands shaking each other with crossed tomahawk and peace pipe above and the legend peace and prosperity in surround.
For President Buchanan in 1857, a new reverse to the medal was commissioned from engraver Joseph Willson, who created an emblematic design featuring an Indian chief in full headdress manning a plow, a farm and a church in the distance, a simple home with a woman standing in the doorway—and a baseball game being played in the foreground. This domesticated vignette was ringed by a bow, arrows in a quiver, a squaw, a peace pipe, and a grisly depiction of one brave scalping another. The message of the medal’s border was one of primitive violence without the calming hand of civilization; that of the vignette, the possible taming of the wild through American ways in religion, tilling the soil . . . and adoption of its favorite game. All that was lacking was a steaming apple pie. Although Willson died in the year that this medal was issued, his design for the reverse was reused for the Indian Peace Medal issued in the Lincoln years. No matter what some gentlemen were saying in New York at the “national” conventions of area clubs, the frontier game of baseball, in all its variety, was already perceived as the national game.
Abraham Lincoln: There are many stories about Lincoln and baseball, and some of them may even be true. (Not true is the deathbed scene invented by radio’s Bill Stern, in which Lincoln, with his last gasp, says to Abner Doubleday (who was in fact not there): “Keep baseball going. The country needs it.”) Lincoln is said to have played town ball in Springfield, Illinois in the 1830s. His friend James Gourley, who had known him since 1834, in later years recalled:
We played the old-fashioned game of town ball – jumped – ran – fought and danced. Lincoln played town ball – he hopped well – in 3 hops he would go 40.2 [feet?] on a dead level…. He was a good player – could catch a ball….
In America’s National Game, Albert Spalding included a tale of Lincoln being caught unawares in midgame when he learned of his nomination for President:
It is recorded that in the year 1860, when the Committee of the Chicago Convention which nominated Abraham Lincoln for the Presidency, visited his home at Springfield, Illinois, to notify him formally of the event, the messenger sent to apprise him of the coming of the visitors found the great leader out on the commons, engaged in a game of Base Ball. Information of the arrival of the party was imparted to Mr. Lincoln on the ball field.
“Tell the gentlemen,” he said, “that I am glad to know of their coming; but they’ll have to wait a few minutes ’till I make another base hit.”
This tale seems to be too good to be true, but it is time to wink, nod, and move along.
Andrew Johnson: Growing up in Raleigh, North Carolina, Young Johnson “spent many hours at games with boys of the neighborhood, his favorite being ‘Cat and Bass Ball and Bandy,’ the last the ‘choyst’ game of all.” On September 17, 1866, President Johnson is said to have watched, briefly from a carriage parked behind right field, a game between the Brooklyn Excelsiors and the Washington Nationals. In the following year, on August 26, Johnson arrived two hours late to a game between the Nationals and the visiting New York Mutuals, but he and his entourage stayed to the end as the Mutes won, 40-16.
Ulysses S. Grant: On May 1, 1883, the New York Gothams, later known as the Giants, played their first game in the National League. Among the 15,000 fans who came that day was former President Grant. At the Polo Grounds (at that time located just north of Central Park, at 110th Street; today the site is within the park), New York defeated the Boston Reds, 7-5, behind pitcher Mickey Welch.
Rutherford B. Hayes: Hayes had played ball while a student at Kenyon College in Ohio. On May 13, 1839 he had written to his brother, “Playing ball is all the fashion here now and it is presumed that I can beat you at that if not at chess.” The future President and his son kept a scrapbook of their favorite team as it toured the country in 1869—the famous unbeaten Cincinnati Red Stockings. In 1870 Hayes wrote his son:
MY DEAR BOY:–I see by the Journal you are playing base-ball and that you play well. I am pleased with this. I like to have my boys enjoy and practice all athletic sports and games, especially riding, rowing, hunting, and ball playing. But I am a little afraid, from [what] Uncle says, that overexertion and excitement in playing baseball will injure your hearing. Now, you are old enough to judge of this and to regulate your conduct accordingly. If you find there is any injury you ought to resolve to play only for a limited time—say an hour or an hour and a half on the same day. Uncle and Sarah [Jane Grant, visiting Columbus] with our whole family are well. We had General Sherman at our house Wednesday evening with a pleasant party.
James A. Garfield: As a professor at Ohio’s Hiram College in 1856-59, Garfield played wicket, a game which the Connecticut pioneers had brought to the Western Reserve at the turn of the 19th century. “In the street,” wrote F.M. Green in 1901, “in front of [Hiram College] President Hinsdale’s (which was then Mr. Garfield’s house), is the ground where we played wicket ball; Mr. Garfield was one of our best players.”
Chester Arthur: On April 4, 1883, Arthur became the first President to invite big-league ballplayers into the White House. Greeting the Cleveland Blues and their manager Frank Bancroft in the Cabinet Room, he remarked with his typical fatuity that “they looked good base ball players and that good ball players were good citizens.”
Grover Cleveland: The only President elected to two non-consecutive terms was not much of a fan, although he declared that when he had been sheriff and mayor of Buffalo, the Bisons’ star pitcher Pud Galvin had been his friend. In 1888 he had said to Cap Anson, visiting the White House, “What do you imagine the American people would think of me if I wasted my time going to the ball game?” King Kelly wrote of Cleveland: “The president’s hand was fat and soft. I squeezed it so hard he winced. Then George Gore did the same and [Oyster] Burns and [Abner] Dalrymple did likewise. The president’s right hand was almost double in size and he was glad when it was all over. He would rather shake hands with 1,000 people than a ball nine after that day. He impressed me as being a charming, courteous gentleman who has considerable backbone, and democratic enough to be a Democratic president of our glorious country.”
Benjamin Harrison: Harrison was the first seated President (unlike Grant above) to attend a major-league game. On June 6, 1892 he watched the Washington Senators lose to Cincinnati 7-4 in 11 innings. Harrison, however, had offered up his baseball bona fides not long after taking office. On April 5, 1889, the national news divulged that President Harrison was exhibiting conspicuously, on a mantelpiece in the White House, a large baseball scorecard. To a visitor this demonstrated conclusively that “the Administration was all right, for it endorsed the game of baseball.”
William McKinley: On April 16, 1897, shortly after taking office as the last of the 19th century’s Presidents, McKinley greeted the members of the Washington National League club at the White House. Manger Gus Schmelz recalled that five years earlier to the day, while governor of Ohio, McKinley had thrown the first ball into the diamond of the Columbus club, of which he [Schmelz] had been manager, and that the club had won the championship that season of the Western League (1892). McKinley was reported to have smiled and replied that he remembered the incident very well, indeed, and that if he saw his way clear he would repeat the performance at National Park on Thursday the 22nd for its NL opener against Brooklyn. He did not, however, so the Presidential honor of throwing out the first ball of the season would have to await the onset of William Howard Taft.
Part II to follow, beginning with Teddy Roosevelt.
Yes, it’s a provocative title but a startling new find has me believing it’s true. Like the protagonist in Robert Coover’s 1968 novel The Universal Baseball Association, J. Henry Waugh, Prop., the 14-year-old Thomas Woodrow Wilson—known as Tommy—created a whole universe of players, statistics, and a pennant race, with or without the aid of dice. But unlike Waugh—who invented a table game using three dice, a “Stress Chart,” and an “Extraordinary Occurrences Chart”—the young Wilson did not create players or teams. He used only the cast of characters in the real-life National Association of 1871, which he surely read about in the sporting weeklies. And now, from deep in the archives of the Library of Congress, we have come upon Tommy Wilson’s complete handwritten record of that fantasy season. George Wright, Al Spalding, and Cap Anson cavort on an imaginary field, along with all the other worthies of that first year of professional league play.
How do we think of Woodrow Wilson today? Professorial, idealistic, sickly—the President of Princeton University, he became the nation’s 28th President in 1913. He promised us peace but took us into war “to make the world safe for democracy.” We recall his Fourteen Points and his belief in the League of Nations; some will reflect on his Espionage Act of 1917 and Sedition Act of 1918. We think of his stroke in October 1919 that largely incapacitated him for the last year of his Presidency, when his second wife, Edith, whom he had married in 1915, sort of ran the White House; this scenario gave rise to the 25th Amendment, regarding the disability of a President.
But Tommy Wilson was not a sickly or especially bookish lad. Born December 28, 1856 in Staunton, Virginia, he and his family moved to Augusta, Georgia one year later. In 1870, Wilson organized the Light Foot Club for “various secret, mysterious and adventurous purposes,” including a baseball team for which he played second base. (In 1873 he went on to Davidson College, where he played on the varsity baseball team.)
Wilson recorded the starting lineup of the Light Foot Base Ball Club in his copy of Elements of Physical Geography. These ninth-grade textbook doodlings have been preserved, along with a list of racehorses “arranged by age and speed.” One year later, before moving from Augusta to Columbia, South Carolina, he went from listmaker to perhaps the inventor of fantasy baseball. Here’s the previously untold story.
On October 29, 2013 Amber Paranick wrote to the Baseball Hall of Fame:
I’m a reference librarian at the Library of Congress and have, along with a colleague, discovered a rare item in the Woodrow Wilson Collection. It appears to be a hand-written newspaper, entitled “Professional Record” for 1871. As far as I can tell, a serial publication with this title was not in existence in 1871. Can I ask for your advice? Do you know of a publication with this title that related to baseball?…
Ms. Paranick supplied a scan of the first page of the “newspaper.” Jim Gates was unable to locate anything that matched it but suggested that she contact early-baseball experts Tom Shieber, Peter Mancuso, and myself. With their concurrence, I followed up.
Some quick internet sleuthing turned up evidence of the sale of a manuscript, much like the one described at Parke-Bernet Galleries (today’s Sotheby’s), on May 14, 1946. In its description of Lot 58, the auction house attributed the manuscript to Henry Chadwick, but while he did provide year-end summaries to the New York Clipper and other outlets, he is clearly not the author of this work. Not only is the name of the purported publisher, sporting goods merchant E.I. Horsman, misspelled–Horsman went on to win greater fame as a manufacturer of dolls and toys, and coined the term “Teddy Bear”–but so is the first word of the title (“Proffessional”). Tommy Wilson copied the Chadwick format and puffed up his own commercial prospects, including a 200,000 print run. From the catalog:
58. BASEBALL. HENRY CHADWICK. AUTOGRAPH MANUSCRIPT of “Professional Baseball Record for 1871. Price 25cts. Published by E. I. Horseman.” Closely written on 17 small 4to pages.
A MOST INTERESTING AND UNIQUE ITEM BY “THE FATHER OF BASEBALL,” written while Chadwick was Chairman of the National Association of Base Ball Players. The manuscript is a record of a tour made by the teams in the season of 1871, and gives the names of the teams, where played, names of the players, and the results of the games, in all about 139 games, with the box score of each game, and with the batting and fielding records of the players. The teams included the Bostons of Boston; the Eckfords of Brooklyn; the Athletics of Philadelphia; Forest City of Cleveland, Olympics of Washington, etc.
The introduction to the manuscript reads: “All are familiar with New Championship Rules, and perusing these few Games all of which were for the Professional Championship of the Country it will be seen readily who are or ought to be Champions of the United States…” [Emphasis mine—JT.] The manuscript is written in a microscopic hand, and shows a number of corrections by the author.
Who purchased this manuscript back in 1946? I have no clue, but somehow it made its way to the Woodrow Wilson Collection at the Library of Congress.
Claire Dekle from the Library’s Preservation Department was able to procure images of the entire “Proffessional Record” for me, and then the real fun began. Wilson’s recording of detail was thorough in the extreme—not only in the presentation of box scores but also in the clubs’ year-end summaries, which split out earned runs scored and allowed and detail individual batting and fielding totals and averages in the manner of the day. (I offer low-resolution images here to permit reasonable download times.) This was the record of a magical mystery tour, played between the young Wilson’s ears.
What first alerted me to the utter fantasy of the statistics was chancing upon a game Wilson created for June 30, 1871 between the Forest City of Rockford, Illinois and the Olympics of Washington, DC. Not only does Anson hit a home run for Rockford (in the real 1871 season he hit none) but pitcher Cherokee Fisher tosses a no-hitter, in which the only opponents to reach first base do so through errors. This would be professional baseball’s first no-hitter, and nearly a perfect game … except that it never happened.
I believe Wilson commenced his work here in March-April of 1871. The National Association (NA) was formed on March 17 in a meeting at Collier’s Saloon in New York at Broadway and 13th Street. Of the ten clubs represented at that meeting, eight plunked down their $10 entrance fee. The Eckfords and Atlantics, however, who were thought certain to be original members, demurred, preferring to play independent of the new circuit. In the days that followed a surprising ninth club entered the NA: the Kekionga of Fort Wayne. In his proprietary league, Wilson includes all eleven clubs, and even some players who, as holdovers from their 1870 clubs, were thought to have renewed for 1871, but were released or quit.
Some nerdy highlights (abandon hope, all ye casual fans who enter here):
The actual 1871 NA champion Athletics of Philadelphia (21-7) finished in Wilsonia with a ho-hum record of 11-16, scoring 178 runs while allowing 176. Their top batter was Al Reach, with an AVG of 1 .00 runs per game while registering 3.6153 outs per game.
The Chicago White Stockings, who lost the NA flag in a final-game contest with the Athletics, fared well in Wilsonia, at 16-11. Their leading batsman was the otherwise obscure Ed Pinkham, at 1.1166 runs per game (the extra decimal places are Wilson’s not mine).
The Boston Red Stockings, third-place finishers in the real NA with a mark of 20-10, disappointed in Wilson’s World, at 10-15 while being outscored 209-176. George Wright, limited by injury to playing in only 16 real-life games, was healthy enough to play in all but three of Wilson’s imagined Boston games.
The Brooklyn Atlantics, who did not compete in the NA of 1871, won 16 and lost 6, outscoring their opponents 183-111. Among Wilson’s players were the perhaps mysterious Coffey, Munn, Bunting, and Carney. None of these men played on the Atlantic Club in the NA of 1872, although Horatio Munn (whose first name had gone undiscovered for more than a century) did appear in a single game in 1875. The other three did in fact open the 1871 season with the Atlantic nine of 1871, reconstituted as an independent. Left fielder Jack McDonald was their leading batsman, with a Runs Per Game Average of 1.1428. (Computing the Batting Average as we do today, using hits as th enumerator and at bats as the denominator rather than runs/games, did not come into practice until a few years later.)
The non-NA Eckfords went 12-15, being outscored 263-253. When they actually entered the circuit the following year, they registered a won-lost mark of 3-26. Among the obscure players Wilson included were Josh (Jim) Snyder, later of the 1872 Eckford, and Eddie Shelly, a former Union of Morrisania player who in fact joined the Eckfords in 1871 but never played for an NA club and thus is not in the encyclopedic record.
Wilson’s Forest City of Rockford went 15-12, scoring more runs than they allowed. In fact the club finished last in the NA at 4-21 and folded before season’s end. Anson, in his freshman year as a professional, went on to play four years with the Athletics before landing for good in Chicago.
Wilson’s Cleveland Forest City went 11-13, better than its actual mark of 10-19. Non-NA players who sent me scurrying to establish identities were substitutes Smith, Clark, and Hanna. Peter Morris wrote of the man who I suspect to be the last named: “The umpire of this noteworthy game was a man who was making his only appearance on a major league diamond. Identified in game accounts only as ‘Doc’ Hanna,’ his name still appears in some listings of major league umpires as ‘Dr. Hanna.’ In fact, the now-forgotten Leonard C. ‘Doc’ Hanna….” [http://sabr.org/bioproj/person/bc8cc834] Smith is presumably A.J. “Pikey” Smith, former captain of the amateur Cleveland Forest City of the 1860s. Clark is presumably the president of the 1867 club.
As to the Kekionga Club of Fort Wayne, which I covered in depth in Baseball in the Garden of Eden, they were terrors in Tommy Wilson’s Eden, going 16-9 while shortstop Wally Goldsmith terrorized pitchers to the tune of 1.2608 runs per game. The unknown name (to me at least) on the fantasy roster was Chenowith, but he turned out to be Bill Chenoweth, who had played with the Pastimes of Baltimore in 1870, which provided later NA players George Popplein and Frank Williams (who played as Sellman with the Kekiongas in their only NA season).
Wilson’s Olympics of Washington (in the true NA, 15-15) went 11-16, being outscored 239-179. Their leading batsman was right fielder John Glenn, at 0.9565 R/G. He would become notorious in the game’s annals for allegedly attacking a twelve-year-old girl and then being shot by a policeman trying to protect him from a lynch mob.
The Unions of Lansingburgh (a.k.a. Troy Haymakers) went 11-14 for Woodrow Wilson, outscoring opponents 197-196. Esteban Bellan, baseball’s first player of Hispanic birth, had the top batting mark with 1.0400. In Wilson’s “newspaper” a Penfield plays for Troy, though he was not on the 1871 roster. He had played with the Haymakers in previous years. George Ewell appears as a sub though he too did not play with Troy in 1871, instead playing one game with Cleveland in 1871.
Wilson’s New York Mutuals went 11-13 and were outscored 167-152. Their leading hitter was third baseman Charley Smith, who had been a star with the great Atlantics clubs of the 1860s but left the Mutuals midway in 1871 after suffering a mental breakdown. Wilson’s “unknown” Mutual substitute is “McMahone.” Surely this is Billy McMahon, who played for the Mutes from 1859-70 and then opened a notorious Tenderloin saloon called at first “The Argyle Rooms” and later “The Haymarket” at Sixth Avenue and 30th Street.
I sort of fell into this subject on Facebook earlier today in response to a woodcut I posted of Amos Rusie’s drop ball. With his legendary fastball, I suggested, why would he ever need to throw a drop? Walter Johnson pitched almost his entire career throwing one pitch. When Walter Johnson came along in 1907, writers seeking to compliment the young fireballer called him “another Rusie.” As Mike Gershman wrote in Total Baseball, “Baseball paid Rusie the ultimate compliment in 1893 when it changed the rules because of him. The mound was moved back from 50 feet to 60 feet, 6 inches, and several authorities claim the change was intended to make Rusie’s heat less intimidating. (Rusie’s first catcher, Dick Buckley, padded his glove with a thin sheet of lead to help absorb the impact of Rusie’s hummer.) The Indianan led the league in strikeouts five years out of six and won 30 games or more four years in a row.”
In 1892 the pitching distance was truly only five feet shorter than that of today, because before the introduction of the slab, from which the 60’6″ distance is taken, the pitcher threw from a box, the front of which was 50 feet from the plate but the back line was five and a half feet further, creating an effective distance of 55’6″. In that last year of the old distance, which had been in force since 1880, the Hoosier Thunderbolt may have been, from the batter’s perspective, the fastest pitcher ever.
Let’s try a math exercise: Rusie’s 95 mph–my approximation; his pitches were never clocked, but Connie Mack said he was as fast as Johnson or Bob Feller–speedball of 1892, thrown from 55’6″ (the back-foot distance) would have arrived at the plate in 0.400 seconds. A modern pitcher throwing 95 mph from 60’6″ would reach the plate at 0.434 seconds. A modern pitcher throwing at 100 mph would reach home plate at 0.413 seconds. If Rusie threw routinely at 95 mph (as opposed to a peak mark like Aroldis Chapman’s 105) he was, from a batter’s viewpoint, the fastest ever, Q.E.D. (Yes, Chapman’s fastest-ever pitch arrived at the plate in 0.393 seconds, but that is a reliever’s apple to a starter’s orange.)
To such musing my friend Rod Nelson replied, “how long for the fastest fast-pitch softball to reach the plate?” This interested me because in men’s fast-pitch leagues the pitching distance is 46 feet, only one foot longer than baseball’s original pitching distance, first specified in 1857. Let’s say, I replied, that a pitcher could maintain a 95-mph pace, as above. (Eddie Feigner’s peak of 104 is an anomaly, like Chapman’s 105 above.) That 95 mph windmill pitch would arrive at the plate in 0.330 seconds (though the ball is bigger and theoretically easier to hit). Imagine Jim Creighton Of the Brooklyn Excelsiors of 1860 pitching, with a straight arm and no windup–let’s say for argument–an 80 mph fastball at the 45 foot distance (which was really a 50 foot distance from the back foot, and is thus calculated). His ball would have arrived at the plate in 0.426 seconds–faster to the plate than the modern pitcher at 95 mph.
This morning SABR announced the 2014 recipients of the Henry Chadwick Award, established “to honor the game’s great researchers—historians, statisticians, annalists, and archivists—for their invaluable contributions to making baseball the game that links America’s present with its past.” The five new Chaddie winners are Mark Armour, Marc Okkonen, Cory Schwartz, Ernie Lanigan, and John C. Tattersall, whose brief bio I wrote for the forthcoming Baseball Research Journal. As perhaps the least well known of the five (at least to those under the age of sixty), Tattersall deserves, in my opinion, something of a sneak preview. For snapshot profiles of all five honorees, see: http://sabr.org/latest/sabr-announces-2014-chadwick-award-recipients
John Tattersall (1910–1981) was a great authority on home runs and early baseball records. His scrapbooks of multiple box scores for nearly every game from 1876 to 1890 proved vital for three generations of baseball encyclopedia: Turkin-Thompson in 1951, ICI/Macmillan in 1969 (for which he was listed as “Consulting Editor”), and Total Baseball in 1989. Tattersall’s day-by-day records have been lost, but what has survived is a batting and fielding summary and a pitching summary for each club in each year.
Tattersall first gained national attention for his baseball research in 1953 when The Sporting News ran his story on the correction of Nap Lajoie’s 1901 batting average from .405 to .422. (In that same year he self-published The Home Run Parade, “a complete exposition of the home run production of all active major league baseball players.”) Lajoie had originally been credited with a .422 average, with 220 hits in 543 at bats. After a number of years, someone noticed that if you take these at bats and hits, the average comes out only to .405, so his average was changed. Turkin-Thompson gave Nap a mark of .409 in its first edition, in 1951. Later in the 1950s, Tattersall had his doubts and decided to go through his newspaper collection of box scores. He found 229 hits for Lajoie, not 220—the error had been in the figure for hits, not in the figure for batting average. Thus his average was restored to .422, which happened to be the highest in American League history. ICI/Macmillan research in this area came up with a .426 mark (232 for 544, based on newspaper accounts), which was his average as published in the 1969 Baseball Encyclopedia.
Tattersall also found disputed hits in Anson’s record for 1879; compiled pinch-hit, Hit by Pitcher, and Batters Facing Pitcher records where none had existed before, and established the home run log, which SABR purchased and maintains. The home run log was digitized and has been licensed for use by baseball-reference.com.
Tattersall was born in Holyoke, MA in 1910. He attended Georgetown University’s School of Foreign Service in Washington, D.C., receiving a BS in 1933 and a Masters the next year.
His interest in baseball had been stimulated by visits to Ponce de Leon Park in Atlanta to see the Crackers play in 1922–23. He saw his first major league game in Boston on June 19, 1926, and remembered Pirate pitcher Vic Aldridge stealing the only base of his career. His interest in home runs developed from watching the Yankees and Babe Ruth, his particular favorite. He became fascinated by statistical research and stole time from his studies at Georgetown to do baseball research at the Library of Congress.
He went to work in the shipbuilding industry in 1935 in New York, later moving to Boston and then Philadelphia (with time out for work with the War Shipbuilding Administration in WWII). In Boston in 1941 he purchased from the Boston Transcript, which was going out of business, a large number of baseball scrapbooks and sports pages dating back to 1876 when the National League was founded with Boston as a charter member. He soon found himself in possession of a very large amount of material which, after years of cataloging and filing, gave him almost every box score in major league history.
After joining SABR in 1971, shortly after it was formed, Tattersall began organizing his home run material for publication. He supplied several interesting articles for the Baseball Research Journal and in 1975 published on his own Home Run Handbook, now scarce. The following year he published The First Season, a centennial reproduction by photocopy of all the box scores of the NL in its initial season of 1876. In 1977 he reconstructed the Early World Series, 1884-1890.
It was in 1977 that he retired as vice president of his shipbuilding company in Philadelphia and moved to Del Ray Beach, Florida. He passed away in Boca Raton on May 29, 1981.