Not Too Late

Thorn at Davis Marker CeremonySubscribers to Our Game will not have received notice of a significant update to an older, somewhat forlorn story that in its first form dates to mid-2005. For the uplifting conclusion to the story of James Whyte Davis, see: http://ourgame.mlblogs.com/2011/12/31/too-late-to-reach-home-plate/

 

Baseball and the Armed Services, Part Three

Fort Bragg Game

Fort Bragg Game

Repeating the introduction from Part Two (see http://goo.gl/fT1zRa): On July 3, 2016, Major League Baseball and the Major League Baseball Players Association will support a regular-season game between the Miami Marlins and the Atlanta Braves at Fort Bragg in North Carolina. The game will air nationally on ESPN’s “Sunday Night Baseball” and ESPN Radio at 8:00 p.m. (ET).  A new 12,500-capacity ballpark constructed by MLB and the MLBPA will host the “Fort Bragg Game” during the military post’s annual Fourth of July festivities. Following the game, in which the Braves will be the home team, the ballpark will be converted to a permanent softball field and multi-purpose facility for those who serve at Fort Bragg, a gift courtesy of the Major League Clubs and Players. This event will mark the first regular-season game of a professional sport ever played on an active military base.

That baseball and the military go back a long way, even prior to the advent of professional league play, is widely known. But for the details, I offer the article below, first published in Total Baseball‘s premiere edition in 1989. The author, Harrington E. “Kit” Crissey, Jr., is a longtime expert on baseball and the military (and my friend for thirty-five years). He served with the United States Navy (1966-1969) and served in the Naval Reserve for thirty years, retiring with the rank of commander. His several books include Teenagers, Greybeards and 4-Fs: Vol. 1; The National League, 1981, and Vol. 2, The American League, 1982; and Athletes Away: A selective look at professional baseball players in the Navy during World War II, 1984.

Baseball and the Armed Services, Part Three

Harrington E. Crissey, Jr.

Perhaps the most important outgrowth of World War Two military baseball was black-white integration. A full year before Branch Rickey signed Jackie Robinson to a Brooklyn Dodger organization contract, Hal Hairston, a black pitcher formerly with the Homestead Grays of the Negro National League, was hurling for the Army against the Navy in the Service World Series in Hawaii. A year later, Calvin Medley, another black pro, was pitching for the Fleet Marine team on Oahu Island. Two thousand miles away from the U.S. mainland, on a group of islands populated with Hawaiian natives and American, Chinese, and Japanese immigrants, racially integrated baseball could become a reality. Blacks and whites could play together on service teams and black, white, and yellow people could perform as a unit in the Honolulu semipro league. Back in the continental United States, black and white service teams would remain segregated until after the war. Thus the white Great Lakes team won 48 and lost only 2 in 1944, while the black club went 32-10 and won the championship of the Midwest Service League. Larry Doby, star shortstop on the black team and later the first man of his race to play in the American League, could not play with whites in Illinois but was welcome to play softball on Ulithi Atoll a year later with white professionals like Mickey Vernon and Billy Goodman. Negro League stars Leon Day and Willard Brown couldn’t as yet crack the color barrier back home, but they could lead a team comprised almost exclusively of white semipro players to victory in Nuremberg’s famous stadium, site of the massive Nazi Party rallies of the 1930s. Against the hand-picked professionals of General George Patton’s Third Army club, righthanded fireballer Day led the Overseas Invasion Service Expedition (OISE) club to a 2-1 victory for the European Theater of Operations (ETO) championship before a huge crowd.

Overseas Invasion Service Expedition (OISE) All-Stars, Leon Day at right, bottom ; next to him, Willard Brown

Overseas Invasion Service Expedition (OISE) All-Stars, Leon Day at right, bottom; next to him, Willard Brown

No description of military baseball during the period would be complete without mention of what transpired in Japan. The Land of the Rising Sun had been on a war footing since the Marco Polo Bridge incident in Beijing, China, on July 7, 1937. Professional ballplayers had been drafted at least from 1938 on, as evidenced by the induction that year of Eiji Sawamura, the country’s most famous pitcher. In fact, Sawamura was to be taken into the Army three times: in 1938, 1941, and again in 1944. With the coming of global war following Pearl Harbor, intense Japanese nationalism and militarism manifested themselves in many ways regarding baseball. Team names on uniforms were changed to Japanese characters from Roman letters, and the traditional baseball cap took on a military look. The Tokyo Giants were renamed Kyojin Gun or “Giant Troop.” Baseball terms imported from the foreign enemy, the United States, were changed to Japanese equivalents. “Strike” became yoshi (“good”) and “ball” became dame (“bad”). “Safe” was transformed into ikita (“alive”) and “out” to shinda (“dead”). A shortstop became a yugeki (“free-lancer”).

Eiji Sawamura

Eiji Sawamura

After 1942, many outstanding players, both professionals and collegians, were drafted into the military. The two most famous collegiate baseball clubs, those of Keio and Waseda Universities, had an emotional farewell game before 30,000 students in October 1943. The presidents of both universities had negotiated successfully with the government for this contest to be held, and after it was over tears flowed freely as both players and spectators wondered if they would ever see another game. Their sadness was well founded. Among the three million Japanese, military and civilian, who died on the home islands or in the Pacific, China, and Southeast Asia were a great number of good players, including the best, Sawamura, who was killed on a troop transport in the Taiwan Strait on December 2, 1944. Today the Japanese equivalent of the Cy Young Award, given annually to the best pitcher in each of the American major leagues, is named in his memory. Ironically, Japan’s number two pitcher, Victor Starffin, was spared because as a child immigrant from the Soviet Union he was exempt from conscription.

By 1944 only six clubs were competing for the professional championship and the season was only thirty-five games long. In 1945, the last year of the war, play was suspended altogether as cities were ravaged by fire bombing, the economy collapsed, and the two atomic bomb detonations hastened Japan’s surrender late that summer.

Victor Starffin

Victor Starffin

When the last of the American wartime draftees was mustered out of the service and returned home during the 1946 season, it marked the beginning of a temporary halt in the influence of the military on baseball performance but not on fan interest in the United States. The strong desire of many who had been in the service to put rigorous or traumatic wartime experiences aside, to get on with one’s life, to get out, relax, and enjoy a ballgame sparked a large increase in attendance at professional games and a rise in the number of minor leagues that was to peak in 1949 before the advent of television took its toll.

In defeated Japan, the victorious Allies, particularly the United States, were calling the shots, and the American military had the fate of Japanese baseball in the palm of its hand. Fortunately the resurrection of the game was in line with the aim of the occupation forces, namely to reform Japanese political, economic, and social institutions so that they would more closely reflect those of the Western democracies.

General Headquarters encouraged the revival of spectator sports, and in November 1945, just three months after the unconditional surrender, the Japanese professional baseball league was reorganized as many players returned from duty in Manchuria, China, and Southeast Asia. There were problems at first because the occupation forces controlled the ballparks, used them for their own entertainment, and made the Japanese professional and college leagues negotiate for their use; but key people in the Allied administration aided the Japanese in their negotiations and smoothed the way for ever-increasing privileges. General Douglas MacArthur, head of the occupation government, personally issued the order to clean up Korakuen Stadium, home of the Tokyo Giants, which had been used as an ammunition dump during the war.

In 1946 Japanese professional play resumed with a total of four hundred and twenty games being contested. By 1948, there were eight teams in the league, and such great progress was made that in 1950 two leagues were formed. There were fifteen teams that year, but the number eventually dropped to twelve, six teams in each league, which is the present setup.

Such was the situation on both sides of the Pacific when on June 25, 1950, North Korean forces invaded the South and the Korean War began. For the second time in a decade, the specter of large-scale military conscription and its inevitable effect on players and pennant races loomed over the American professional baseball scene.

The effect of the war was felt before the 1950 season ended. The Philadelphia Phillies “Whiz Kids” were out in front of the National League pack and aiming for their first pennant in thirty-five years when on September 10, their number two pitcher, Curt Simmons, who had already won 17 games, was called away when his Pennsylvania National Guard unit was mobilized.

Simmons’s loss, as well as injuries to three other key players, took the steam out of the Phillies, but they managed to hang on and win the pennant on the last day of the season against the Brooklyn Dodgers. Simmons received a furlough to attend the World Series, but Phillie manager Eddie Sawyer decided not to put Curt back on the eligibility list because of his limited baseball activity while away. The Phillies lost the Series to the New York Yankees in four straight games.

Curt Simmons

Curt Simmons

The following spring, veteran sportswriters making their predictions about the 1951 pennant races focused in part on the possible effect of the draft. The consensus was that veteran teams like the Boston Red Sox in the American League and the St. Louis Cardinals and Boston Braves in the National League would stand better chances of winning because they would be the least likely to lose players. Comparatively young clubs like the Philadelphia Phillies would be the most vulnerable, while teams like the Brooklyn Dodgers, with a combination of veterans and rookies, might stand the best chance of all. They would do well in the first half of the race with their youngsters, then would come on strong in the second half with their veterans as Selective Service took its toll.

The entire line of reasoning proved almost meaningless because a large-scale call-up never took place. The war was limited. What happened instead was that a handful of individuals got drafted, usually one or two players per team, for a period of two years. This pattern continued throughout the decade of the 1950s, even after the Korean War ended in 1953. The only service that had a general recall of its World War Two veteran ballplayers was the Marine Corps, which took its Reserve aviators. This recall involved only two key players–Red Sox outfielder Ted Williams and Yankee second baseman Jerry Coleman.

Williams’s farewell was especially poignant. Shortly after the 1952 season began, on April 30 to be exact, a Wednesday afternoon crowd of 24,764 took part in pregame festivities. The Splendid Splinter was given a Cadillac and a memory book containing 430,000 signatures. The fans held hands and sang “Auld Lang Syne.” Williams didn’t disappoint them. He hit a two-run homer off Detroit Tiger pitcher Dizzy Trout in the seventh inning in his final at-bat of the game to lead the Red Sox to victory. Given The Thumper’s age (thirty-three), many felt they would never see him play again.

Ted Williams, Korea

Ted Williams, Korea

Ted’s experience as a fighter pilot almost proved their thinking correct. He completed thirty-eight combat missions in Korea, was hit by antiaircraft fire three times, and almost didn’t make it back on the second occasion. He was awarded an Air Medal with two Gold Stars in lieu of his second and third Air Medals before being transferred back to the United States for a nagging inner ear and nose ailment that ultimately left him partially deaf in one ear. He was discharged on July 28, 1953. After a little over a week of conditioning, Teddy Ballgame returned to major league play and hit a phenomenal .407 in 37 games, with 13 home runs and a whopping slugging percentage of .901. Seven more years of superb hitting were to follow.

While the Red Sox plunged to sixth place without Williams in 1952, other contending clubs who lost players to the service didn’t fare that badly. The Yankees were so deep in talent that they won five straight pennants between 1949 and 1953 despite the loss of ace lefthander Whitey Ford (1951-1952), third baseman Bobby Brown (1952-1953), and infielder Jerry Coleman (1952-1953). They lost to the Cleveland Indians in 1954 without the services of their crack second baseman, Billy Martin, but still managed to win 105 games. Only a tremendous 111-win season by the Indians outdid them; however, Martin returned late in the 1955 campaign, in time to spark the Yankees to the top of the heap again.

The Dodgers won pennants in 1952 and 1953 without their top righthander, Don Newcombe, but lost to the Giants in 1954 when he returned. Newcombe went on to be the bellwether of the Brooklyn staff in the Dodgers’ 1955 and 1956 National League championship seasons. The Giants won in a playoff with the Dodgers in 1951, Willie Mays’s rookie season, but lost without him in 1952 and When the Say Hey Kid returned in 1954, they won again.

Don Newcombe

Don Newcombe

The Army got practically all of the professional ballplayers who were drafted during the Korean War, and thus it had some outstanding teams, both stateside and overseas. The 1951 Fort Myer, Virginia, club featured pitchers Johnny Antonelli (Braves) and Bob Purkey (Giants), infielder Danny O’Connell (Pirates), and catcher Sam Calderone (Giants). That same year, the Brooke Army Medical Center team in San Antonio, Texas, boasted outfielder Dick Kokos (Browns), second baseman Owen Friend (Browns), pitcher Glenn Mickens (Dodgers), and catcher Gus Triandos (Yankees). In 1953 the All-Army champions at Fort Belvoir, Virginia, had Dick Groat (Pirates) at shortstop and Tom Poholsky (Cardinals) on the mound. Fort Jackson, South Carolina, could call on outfielder Faye Throneberry (Red Sox), catchers Frank House (Tigers) and Haywood Sullivan (Red Sox), and pitcher Joe Landrum (Dodgers).

Several players wound up in the Far East Command, where the real action was. With Japan being used as a staging area for Korea, a few servicemen found themselves playing with or against Japanese professionals. In 1953, Leo Kiely of the Red Sox and Phil Paine of the Braves pitched a few games for the Mainichi Orions and Nishitetsu Lions, respectively. Two years earlier, ex-Pacific Coast League southpaw Ken Lehman of the 40th Infantry Division had been the star performer of the Far East Command, with a 14-1 record on the mound and a .408 average at the plate. Among his accomplishments during the 1951 season was defeating a group of Japanese All-Stars, 1-0, before 32,000 fans at Miyagi Stadium in Sendai. When Lefty O’Doul brought a group of top-flight major leaguers to Japan for an exhibition tour after the American season ended, Lehman was invited to play with them and pitched excellent ball in two games, one a start against the Japanese Central League All-Stars. He later went on to pitch for the Dodgers, Orioles, and Phillies.

Only one ex-big leaguer lost his life in combat during the Korean War: Bob Neighbors, an Air Force major, who died in North Korea in August 1952. He had played in seven games for the St. Louis Browns in 1939 and also served his country in World War Two.

Bob Neighbors

Bob Neighbors

After the cessation of overt hostilities in Korea in 1953, Army baseball continued to feature a smattering of professional players who were two-year draftees; but in 1957 the All-Army championship tournament was discontinued, and the following year the level of competition was reduced to intramurals at the lowest unit level possible. Because the Navy wasn’t drafting people and had not been a force to be reckoned with in baseball since the end of the Second World War, the Army’s actions effectively spelled the end of top-flight military hardball. Over the last quarter century, softball has been the serviceman’s game.

The Vietnam War, like the Korean conflict, was limited in scope. This fact, coupled with the availability of Reserve programs which required only six months of active duty, made the impact of the military on professional baseball slight from 1964, the year the war escalated after the Gulf of Tonkin “incident,” to 1973, when the United States began to pull its forces out of Vietnam and terminate the draft.

Most players and executives who were eligible for the draft entered Reserve components of the armed forces, particularly that of the Army. They were obliged to do six months of basic training and spend six years attending one weekend meeting or four weekday meetings each month, and two weeks of active duty for training each fiscal year. The sixth year was basically inactive in the sense of the Reservist not having to attend meetings or do the two-week stint. The active duty obligations were normally performed during the off-season. Monthly attendance at drills became a problem on occasion, and a player might miss a weekend’s worth of games here and there, but many Reserve units used the players in public relations roles for recruiting or image-building purposes and, as such, meetings could be staggered to suit the individual.

Jim Lonborg 1967

Jim Lonborg 1967

While pitching the Red Sox to their “Impossible Dream” pennant in 1967, Private First Class Jim Lonborg had to fly down to Atlanta and do his two-week Army Reserve duty. His fortnight began on Sunday, July 30, in the heat of the pennant race, and ended on Saturday, August 12. Fortunately, he was able to work out with the Atlanta Braves and with the aid of passes, didn’t miss a start. After being shelled by the Minnesota Twins two days before his departure, he flew back to Boston and worked 5 1/3 innings against the Kansas City Athletics on Tuesday, August 1, giving up three runs and eight hits but gaining his fifteenth win of the season. On Sunday, August 6, he lost to the Twins in Minnesota, 2-0, in a rain-shortened, five-inning contest. His counterpart, Dean Chance, pitched a perfect game. On Wednesday, August 9, he beat the Athletics in Kansas City, 5-1, for win number sixteen, tops in the majors. With his two-week sojourn over, he lost to the California Angels, 3-2, on the West Coast on Sunday, August 13.

While military duty may have caused Lonborg a mild inconvenience, youngsters like Al Bumbry and Garry Maddox were serving in Vietnam. They would go on to make their mark as top-quality major league outfielders in the 1970s. With the demise of the draft, future ballplayers wouldn’t have to worry about such unpleasant career interruptions.

If there is another major war ahead of us, the influence of the military on baseball should remain minimal and not approach the high-water mark of World War Two, when both the length and the extent of the conflict had a pervasive effect on the game, both at home and abroad. As venerable and fascinating as the link between the military and baseball is, let us hope it remains low-profile in the future.

 

Baseball and the Armed Services, Part Two

Fort Bragg Game

Fort Bragg Game

Repeating the introduction from Part One (see http://goo.gl/NJXTdw): On July 3, 2016, Major League Baseball and the Major League Baseball Players Association will support a regular-season game between the Miami Marlins and the Atlanta Braves at Fort Bragg in North Carolina. The game will air nationally on ESPN’s “Sunday Night Baseball” and ESPN Radio at 8:00 p.m. (ET).  A new 12,500-capacity ballpark constructed by MLB and the MLBPA will host the “Fort Bragg Game” during the military post’s annual Fourth of July festivities. Following the game, in which the Braves will be the home team, the ballpark will be converted to a permanent softball field and multi-purpose facility for those who serve at Fort Bragg, a gift courtesy of the Major League Clubs and Players. This event will mark the first regular-season game of a professional sport ever played on an active military base.

That baseball and the military go back a long way, even prior to the advent of professional league play, is widely known. But for the details, I offer the article below, first published in Total Baseball‘s premiere edition in 1989. The author, Harrington E. “Kit” Crissey, Jr., is a longtime expert on baseball and the military (and my friend for thirty-five years). He served with the United States Navy (1966-1969) and served in the Naval Reserve for thirty years, retiring with the rank of commander. His several books include Teenagers, Greybeards and 4-Fs: Vol. 1; The National League, 1981, and Vol. 2, The American League, 1982; and Athletes Away: A selective look at professional baseball players in the Navy during World War II, 1984.

Baseball and the Armed Services, Part Two

Harrington E. Crissey, Jr.

During and immediately after the war, baseball was played in Great Britain, France, Belgium, Italy, and the German Rhineland. There was enthusiastic talk in the Reach and Spalding Baseball Guides of the period about baseball becoming a major sport in England and France, but such a development failed to take place. Colonel Tillinghast L’Hommedieu Huston, part owner of the New York Yankees, guessed the result correctly. Upon returning to the United States from France after sixteen months in the Army, he commented that if American soldiers had been in Europe for at least another year, baseball might have taken hold, but the soldiers were returning home too fast to make a lasting impression.

Ruppert, Landis, Huston (l-r)

Ruppert, Landis, Huston (l-r)

The influence of the military during the period between the world wars was negligible, save for the occasional ballplayer who served a hitch in the armed forces. “Barnacle Bill” Posedel joined the Navy in 1925 while still in his teens, put in four years of active duty, later became a pitcher with the Brooklyn Dodgers and Boston Bees on the eve of World War Two, served four more years in the Navy during that conflict, and eventually became a major league pitching coach. Nemo Gaines was a star pitcher for the U.S. Naval Academy, class of 1921. Upon graduation, he received permission to take special leave and pitch for the Washington Senators. After four appearances with the Nats, he went on active duty and served until 1946, when he retired with the rank of captain. Pitcher Sig Jakucki, who was to become an important cog in the St. Louis Browns’ drive to their only American League pennant in 1944, was in the Army from 1927 to 1931 and starred for the Schofield Barracks team in Hawaii as an outfielder and occasional hurler. As was customary, American servicemen brought baseball with them wherever they went. On July 29, 1937, sailors from a Navy squadron formed two teams and played a softball game in the sports stadium of the port they were visiting. The locale? Vladivostok in the Soviet Union!

Germany invaded Poland on September 1, 1939, and World War Two was on in Europe. As the war clouds drifted across the Atlantic and became more ominous over America, the United States government instituted a military draft in the autumn of 1940, the first in its history during peacetime. It required the registration of men ages twenty-one to thirty-five. The first major leaguer to get drafted was Philadelphia Phillies pitcher Hugh Mulcahy in March 1941, nine months before Pearl Harbor. The next to go was a star–Detroit Tigers slugger and 1940 American League Most Valuable Player Hank Greenberg. Hammerin’ Hank had led the Tigers to the pennant the year before. After hitting two homers in a 7-4 win over the Yankees on May 6, he entered the Army the next day, the same day the Tigers officially raised their 1940 championship flag. Thus began a parade of professional ballplayers into the armed forces, a parade which would continue unabated until the Japanese surrender in August 1945.

Hank Greenberg, 1942.

Hank Greenberg, 1942.

Perhaps no other statistic better expresses the extent to which the military put its stamp on professional baseball during World War Two than the one which appeared in the New York Times in the spring of 1945: as of January of that year, 5,400 of the 5,800 pro baseball players in the country at the time of Pearl Harbor were in the service. With an impact of that magnitude, it would take a decent-sized book to describe in detail military baseball alone during the war years, not to mention pro and military ball combined, a task which has already been accomplished twice in recent memory. How then should one approach the topic? By emphasizing that the military is ultimately made up of people.

Over fifty professional ballplayers made the supreme sacrifice while serving in the armed forces. The majority of them died in combat. Two were ex-major leaguers who appeared briefly in the American League in 1939. Harry O’Neill, who caught one game for the Philadelphia Athletics, died on Iwo Jima in March 1945. Army Air Corps Captain Elmer Gedeon, an outfielder in 5 games for the Washington Senators in 1939, was shot down over France on April 15, 1944, his twenty-seventh birthday. The first pro player to enlist, minor league outfielder Billy Southworth, Jr., joined the Army Air Corps in December. He was the son of the St. Louis Cardinals’ manager and compiled quite a war record as a bomber pilot in Europe before being killed in a crash after takeoff on a routine flight from Long Island to Florida on February 15, 1945. He had attempted an emergency landing at LaGuardia Field but plunged into Flushing Bay after overshooting the runway. His grieving father was not alone among major league pilots. Ex-Tiger skipper Mickey Cochrane and former Cub boss Jimmie Wilson also lost sons in the war.

Several men who played major league ball were wounded in action, among them Army Air Corps fighter pilot Bert Shepard, who was shot down by antiaircraft fire over Germany in May 1944 and had his right leg amputated below the knee. After spending the better part of a year in a German POW camp, he was repatriated in a prisoner-of-war exchange and, with the help of an artificial limb, pitched in one regular-season game and several exhibitions for the Washington Senators in 1945. Others in the category of the wounded included the St. Louis Cardinals’ John Grodzicki; the Philadelphia Athletics’ Jack Knott, Bob Savage, and Lou Brissie; the Cleveland Indians’ Gene Bearden; and the Brooklyn Dodgers’ Tommy Warren–all of them pitchers.

Bert Shepard

Bert Shepard

Yet another pitcher, Phil Marchildon of the Philadelphia Athletics, spent nine months in a German prison camp while serving in the Royal Canadian Air Force. Cecil Travis, the star Washington shortstop, had his feet frozen at the Battle of the Bulge and lasted only two seasons after the war due to his limited mobility. The major league careers of hurlers Hugh Mulcahy of the Phillies and Charlie Wagner of the Red Sox were effectively curtailed by weight loss brought on by dysentery contracted in the Philippines. Two other pitchers, Johnny Rigney of the White Sox and 1942 rookie sensation Johnny Beazley of the Cardinals, threw their arms out while pitching service exhibitions. Outfielder Elmer “Red” Durrett hooked on with the Dodgers in 1944 after being discharged from the Marine Corps. He had suffered shell shock on Guadalcanal. It took a while for infielder Billy Cox and outfielder Monte Irvin to recover from the emotional effects of their Army experiences before they hit their stride again. Cardinal second baseman Frank Crespi broke his left leg in a game at Fort Riley, Kansas, in 1943. While convalescing at a military hospital, he got into a wheelchair race, slammed into a wall, and broke the leg again, thus ending whatever chance he had of returning to the Redbirds after hostilities had ceased.

There were the great ones–men like Ted Williams, Joe DiMaggio, Bob Feller, and Hank Greenberg–who lost between three and five of their prime years to the service, thus giving rise to a multitude of “what if?” questions regarding their lifetime statistics had there been no war. Then there were the legions of players who didn’t stick with their former clubs because of the personnel crunch in the spring of 1946, when the mix of returning veterans and wartime holdovers was so great that many men never had a chance to get back into shape gradually and compete for jobs effectively. Although major league clubs carried thirty men rather than twenty-five on their 1946 rosters in an effort to mitigate the problem, the remedy was hardly adequate to accommodate the flood of returnees. A few players–Tony Lupien, Merrill May, Bob Harris, Bruce Campbell, Steve Sundra, and Al Niemiec–either threatened legal action or undertook it in an effort to protect their reemployment rights under the then-new GI Bill, but most of them settled out of court on the issue of pay, and none stayed with their former teams.

Bob Feller, Street & Smith, 1941

Bob Feller, Street & Smith, 1941

For every sad story, there was a courageous or heartening one. Jack Knott of the Athletics and southpaw Earl Johnson of the Red Sox won battlefield commissions after showing bravery under fire. Former first baseman Zeke Bonura won the Legion of Merit as an Army corporal for organizing and promoting sports programs for service men and women in North Africa. General Dwight D. Eisenhower personally pinned the award on him. The aforementioned Bert Shepard served as an inspiration to all disabled servicemen when he made occasional appearances on the mound for the Senators. The opportunity to gain valuable experience by playing service ball with and against seasoned professionals presented itself to people like outfielder Del Ennis, who jumped from one year in the low minors to the major leagues after discharge. For others, it served to showcase their talents as prior amateurs or semipros. Johnny Groth, an eighteen-year-old wonder fresh out of Chicago Latin High School, proceeded to win a starting berth in center field for the 1945 Great Lakes Naval Training Center team with which he hit .341. He was signed to a Detroit organization contract at war’s end and went on to have a long and productive major league career despite key injuries along the way. Maurice “Mo” Mozzali was a Louisville area semipro who impressed his teammates while performing for submarine-base teams at Pearl Harbor and New London, Connecticut. He signed a pro contract in 1946 and rose to the level of Triple-A as an All-Star first baseman with Columbus of the American Association.

Several prominent players had triumphant returns to the major leagues after completion of their service hitches. On August 24, 1945, after forty-four months in the Navy, Bob Feller made his first start against the Tigers in Cleveland. His appearance resulted in Cleveland’s biggest baseball crowd in three years (46,777 fans). Bullet Bob struck out twelve, gave up only four hits, and won easily, 4-2. In his second game versus Detroit late that summer, he one-hit the Tigers. When he pitched in Yankee Stadium on September 10, a total of 67,816 spectators were present. Hank Greenberg heralded his return to the Tigers on July 1, 1945, by hitting a home run against the Athletics before 48,000 hometown fans. On the final day of the season, his grand slam home run in the rain against the Browns clinched the American League pennant for Detroit. Tiger righthander Virgil Trucks was discharged from the Navy less than a week before the 1945 season ended. He started the Tigers’ pennant-winning 6-3 victory over St. Louis and followed that up with a 4-1 complete-game win over the Chicago Cubs in the second game of the World Series.

Navy duty during the war resulted in the beginning of new professions for Max Patkin and Dusty Cooke. Patkin began his long and famous career as a baseball clown while pitching first for Aiea Hospital and then for Aiea Barracks in Hawaii in 1944. Cooke was trained as a pharmacist’s mate. This training came in handy after the war. In search of a baseball job, he hooked on with former teammate Ben Chapman and the Philadelphia Phillies as club trainer and later went on to coach and even manage the team for a few days in 1948 between the departure of Chapman and the arrival of Eddie Sawyer.

Army Air Force Sergeant Joe DiMaggio and Navy Chief Specialist Harold Reese, July 7, 1944

Army Air Force Sergeant Joe DiMaggio and Navy Chief Specialist Harold Reese, July 7, 1944

At times there was an embarrassment of riches on military teams. In the first two years of the war, former heavyweight boxing champion Gene Tunney’s eight-week enlisted athletic specialist training course was located at the Norfolk, Virginia Naval Training Station. Thus the Norfolk NTS manager, Gary Bodie, had his pick of the numerous professional athletes who were taking the course. In 1943 he was faced with the difficult yet wonderful prospect of choosing between two of the premier shortstops in baseball, Phil Rizzuto and Pee Wee Reese, for his ballclub. He kept Rizzuto and sent Reese a mile down the road to Norfolk Naval Air Station, where he became part of NTS’s opposition.

The Army stockpiled its talent in the Hawaiian Islands at the Seventh Army Air Force, Hickam Field, in 1944. Manager Tom Winsett, a former major league outfielder, had three top-level second basemen–Joe Gordon, Gerry Priddy, and Dario Lodigiani–at his disposal that summer. Priddy and Lodigiani were the first to arrive, with Lodigiani staying at his normal position and Priddy playing shortstop. When Priddy was transferred, Gordon replaced him.

There were also some wacky trades. After the Tunney school was shifted from Norfolk to Bainbridge, Maryland, former St. Louis Browns outfielder Red McQuillen went through the program. Norfolk NTS needed an outfielder and Bainbridge needed a life raft, so the deal was made. The raft turned out to be defective upon receipt in Bainbridge, but the deal wasn’t voided and McQuillen went on to bat .367 and lead the Norfolk club in hits and triples in General William Flood, commanding officer of the aforementioned Seventh Army Air Force at Hickam Field, wanted Eddie Funk, a good pitcher with a little experience in the low minors, for his ballclub. Funk was at another facility on the island of Oahu, and his CO was anxious to keep him; however, the CO had two dogs which he loved, and they were sick. General Flood had the only veterinary service among the military stations in Hawaii, so he made a proposition to Funk’s boss: you give me Funk and your two dogs will get well. The deal was consummated, and Funk went on to pitch excellent ball for the Seventh Army Air Force.

It was common for the top service teams to have past or future major leaguers at every position. Both the Army and the Navy had outstanding teams at several of their installations around the country. For instance, Navy outfits at the training centers in Norfolk, Great Lakes, Bainbridge, and Sampson, New York, were superb. The Army aggregations at the Seventh Army Air Force, Fort Riley, Kansas; New Cumberland, Pennsylvania; and the Waco, Texas, Army Flying School distinguished themselves. The Marine Corps had fine clubs at Quantico, Virginia, and Parris Island, South Carolina, and the Coast Guard teams at Curtis Bay, Maryland, and New London, Connecticut, were excellent. There was also a multiplicity of top-notch clubs on the West Coast.

Most of these teams rang up outstanding won-lost records against all types of opposition–for example, the magnificent 48-2 log achieved by the 1944 Great Lakes club. Many exhibitions were played against major and minor league teams, with the majority being won by the service clubs. Some of the scores are legendary, like the 17-4 slaughtering the Great Lakes sailors gave the Cleveland Indians in their 1944 season finale, or the pastings administered to the Boston Red Sox (20-7) and the Cleveland Indians (15-2) by the 1944 Sampson Naval Training Center nine. Were the major leaguers trying? Evidence indicates that they were, although second-line pitchers were often thrown against the service clubs and sometimes the pros played a position other than their normal one. Because big league clubs often took fewer than the normal twenty-five players on road trips during the war, it was not uncommon for players to be platooned at an unfamiliar position–as, for example, a pitcher playing in the outfield.

All Star Service Game, July 7, 1942

All Star Service Game, July 7, 1942

Service players participated in some great war-benefit games. Perhaps the most famous was the American League All-Stars-Service All-Stars contest at Municipal Stadium in Cleveland on July 7, 1942, when 62,094 fans saw a one-of-a-kind ballgame in which the American Leaguers triumphed, 5-0. The gross receipts from the spectacle totaled $143,571; $100,000 of the net went to the Bat and Ball Fund and the rest to Army and Navy Relief. A month earlier, the Norfolk NTS team had played a group of Army ballplayers in the Polo Grounds in New York. The year 1943 saw the $2 million war-bond game between the Norfolk NTS squad and the Washington Senators, won by Norfolk, 4-3, at Griffith Stadium in Washington, on May 24; the Service All-Stars-Boston Braves contest at Fenway Park, Boston, on July 12, in which the All-Stars, managed by Babe Ruth and featuring Ted Williams, nipped the Braves, 9-8; the July 28 game in Yankee Stadium between North Carolina Pre-Flight (Navy) and a combined team of New York Yankees and Cleveland Indians, called the “Yank-lands” and managed by Babe Ruth, in which North Carolina Pre-Flight triumphed, 11-5, and $30,000 was poured into the Baseball War Relief and Service Fund, Inc.; and the $800 million war-bond game at the Polo Grounds on August 26, when a combined team of Yankees, Dodgers, and Giants beat a group of Army All-Stars, 5-2, before 38,000 people. It is interesting to note that the only picture supposedly taken of Ted Williams and Babe Ruth together in uniform was snapped at that Fenway Park contest in July.

Ted Williams and Babe Ruth, July 12, 1943

Ted Williams and Babe Ruth, July 12, 1943

A few takeoffs on the World Series occurred. At the end of the 1943 season, the Norfolk Naval Training Station and Norfolk Naval Air Station clubs engaged in an exciting best-of-seven series, which the Training Station won, four games to three. Following the 1944 baseball campaign in Hawaii, the cream of the crop of Army and Navy ballplayers participated in the famous Service World Series. What started out as a best-of-seven affair limited to Oahu Island wound up as an eleven-game extravaganza, with the final four contests being played on the islands of Maui, Hawaii, and Kauai. The Navy, shored up at the last minute with reinforcements from the continental United States and Australia, won the first six games and finished with an 8-2-1 record for the series, the tie being a fourteen-inning 6-6 humdinger in Hoolulu Park, Hilo, Hawaii. The following fall, the Navy had its own World Series in the Hawaiian Islands, featuring the American League against the National League. The AL squad was favored, but the National Leaguers won, four games to two. As in the previous year, an additional contest was played for the benefit of service men and women, with the Americans beating the Nationals; so the final tally was Nationals four, Americans three.

Baseball was played all over the world during the Second World War. In late February 1945, twenty-eight Navy ballplayers boarded two Marine Corps planes and proceeded to make two tours of the forward areas of the Pacific, with both of them ending on Guam; then the players were dispersed among Guam, Saipan, Tinian, Peleliu, and Ulithi. Shortly afterward, Army Air Corps players did the same thing. Right after the war in Europe ended, many pro players had German and Italian POWs build fields for them and top-flight competition ensued. An Army All-Star team was formed and toured Europe, visiting cities in Germany, France, Italy, and Austria.

Concluding Part Three tomorrow!

Baseball and the Armed Services

Fort Bragg Game

Fort Bragg Game

On July 3, 2016, Major League Baseball and the Major League Baseball Players Association will support a regular-season game between the Miami Marlins and the Atlanta Braves at Fort Bragg in North Carolina. The game will air nationally on ESPN’s “Sunday Night Baseball” and ESPN Radio at 8:00 p.m. (ET).  A new 12,500-capacity ballpark constructed by MLB and the MLBPA will host the “Fort Bragg Game” during the military post’s annual Fourth of July festivities. Following the game, in which the Braves will be the home team, the ballpark will be converted to a permanent softball field and multi-purpose facility for those who serve at Fort Bragg, a gift courtesy of the Major League Clubs and Players. This event will mark the first regular-season game of a professional sport ever played on an active military base.

That baseball and the military go back a long way, even prior to the advent of professional league play, is widely known. But for the details, I offer the article below, first published in Total Baseball‘s premiere edition in 1989. The author, Harrington E. “Kit” Crissey, Jr., is a longtime expert on baseball and the military (and my friend for thirty-five years). He served with the United States Navy (1966-1969) and served in the Naval Reserve for thirty years, retiring with the rank of commander. His several books include Teenagers, Greybeards and 4-Fs: Vol. 1; The National League, 1981, and Vol. 2, The American League, 1982; and Athletes Away: A selective look at professional baseball players in the Navy during World War II, 1984.

Baseball and the Armed Services

Harrington E. Crissey, Jr.

It is regrettable that the average fan has little or no knowledge of the historical relationship between the military and baseball, considering that the links between the two date back to the beginning of the game’s evolution in North America approximately 150 years ago. Perhaps it is because most people associate baseball with pleasure and military service with anything but that; or it may be that those who have never served in the armed forces have no appreciation of the value of baseball in relieving either the stress or boredom of military life, depending on one’s circumstances. Whatever the reasons, the connections between the armed services and this truly international pastime are long and storied, and deserve our careful and devoted attention because the military has had a profound impact on the propagation of baseball worldwide and on the development of the game as a social leveler and instrument of international relations.

A story about the origin of baseball was advanced by a committee of the game’s elder statesmen in 1907. The committee, led by former player and sporting goods magnate Albert G. Spalding, said that Abner Doubleday had designed the first baseball diamond at Cooperstown, New York, in 1839 while a cadet at the U.S. Military Academy. This version was quickly accepted as official by the baseball moguls and held sway for several decades, but it is now considered a myth by serious baseball historians.

Abner Doubleday in Saltillo, 1847

Abner Doubleday in Saltillo, 1847

Doubleday fought in the Battle of Monterey during the Mexican War; sighted the first gun in defense of Fort Sumter when it was fired on by Southerners on April 12, 1861, thus starting the Civil War; fought at Second Bull Run and Antietam; distinguished himself at Gettysburg by helping to repel Pickett’s Charge, the Confederates’ major attack of the battle; and eventually retired from the Army as a general in 1873. He was dead, however, by the time the committee put forth its opinion, so no one could get his views on the matter. There is nothing in his writings which suggests he invented the game, and other early commentators such as Henry Chadwick advanced different theories regarding the origin of the game. Nevertheless, the name of Abner Doubleday, a career soldier, remains inextricably linked to baseball in the popular mind.

To discover the first bona fide influence of the military on baseball, and a tremendous one at that, we must move ahead to the American Civil War (1861-1865). Baseball before the Civil War was almost exclusively a gentleman’s game, with the upper classes of society participating and the true amateur spirit and British rules of sportsmanship holding sway. Most of the prominent teams were in the East, with a few, such as those in Chicago and St. Louis, in the Midwest. During the war, baseball became a sport played by people of all social classes over a wide geographical area. It was played among Union troops during their leisure hours and an unheard-of crowd of 40,000 soldiers watched a game in Hilton Head, South Carolina, on Christmas Day, 1862, between the 165th New York Volunteer Infantry (Duryea’s Zouaves) and a team picked from other Union regiments. A.G. Mills, later to become president of the National League, played in that contest.

Baseball was known in the South prior to the Civil War. Soldiers were said to have played baseball during the Mexican War, the game was popular in New Orleans, and many people south of the Mason-Dixon Line subscribed to Northern periodicals which featured baseball news. Nevertheless, the growth of the sport in Dixie was greatly stimulated by Northern prisoners playing the game to relieve boredom or tension in Southern POW camps. Their guards first watched, then decided they wanted to try, and finally organized teams to play against their captives. Southern POWs returned home similarly enlightened about the game. With more than a million men under arms during the conflict, is it any wonder that the game proliferated when the veterans went home to practically every town in the nation?

Union Prisoners at Salisbury, NC

Union Prisoners at Salisbury, NC

The Civil War accelerated two trends that were first discernible in the late 1850s: increasingly fierce competition and with it increased commercialism. Diaries written by Union troops in the Army of the Potomac and the Army of Northern Virginia show that as the war went on and baseball became ever more popular and competitive, emphasis on skill was the great consideration. If a player was good, he got to play. Teams in Army units may have been promoted by officers or high-ranking noncoms, but the players on the field were the most skilled. In 1863 and 1864, some outfits had first and second teams based on skill levels. This idea of skill predominating over social or military rank certainly fit the competitive pattern of post-Civil War baseball, as more emphasis on winning led to keen rivalries between cities and the rise of professionalism.

In 1873, eight years after the cessation of hostilities in the United States and twenty years after American ships under Commodore Matthew Perry had succeeded in opening Japan to the West, two American missionaries named Wilson and Maget introduced baseball to the Land of the Rising Sun. The game took root in part because influential Japanese of that time, such as Kido and many former daimyo (feudal lords), supported its growth. They originally viewed baseball as an American version of a martial sport like Japanese judo or kendo. Practicing the sport was in their minds a way of getting at the essence of the American fighting spirit, and thus baseball was played every day, regardless of weather conditions.

Japan Baseball, 1870s Children's Book

Japan Baseball, 1870s Children’s Book

As time went on, the game evolved into a high school and college sport. From 1888 until 1902, the top team in Japan was that of First High School, now known as Tokyo University. It sometimes played games against American residents in Yokohama and teams from U.S. Navy battleships. Whenever the battlewagons made port calls in Yokohama, the First High School club would challenge them and usually would win the contests. Judging from a few of the scores, the Japanese students had ample reason to feel good about their progress in the sport: in 1902, they slaughtered the U.S.S. Kentucky, 35-1, and the next year clobbered the same ship again, 27-0!

The United States involved itself in war with Spain and its colonial possessions in the Caribbean Sea and Pacific Ocean in 1898. The Spanish-American War was short, lasting roughly the length of the baseball season. The war didn’t have a significant impact on the game at home but undoubtedly influenced its spread to Puerto Rico, and other lands which border on the Caribbean, and the Philippine Islands.

Dr. Arlie Pond was pitching for the Baltimore Orioles of the National League when the war started. He had won 16 games for the Orioles in their pennant-winning season of 1896 and followed it up with 18 victories in 1897, but at the start of hostilities he entered the Army, joined a medical unit, and went first to Cuba and then the Philippines. After the war and the Philippine Insurrection, he left active duty but stayed in the Philippines and devoted the rest of his life to combating disease there, except for World War One, when he returned to the States and became assistant surgeon general of the Army with the rank of colonel. Near the end of the war, he went with the U.S. forces to Siberia following the Russian Revolution. In 1919, he returned to the islands after again relinquishing his Army commission and died there in 1930 at the age of fifty-seven.

A year after the war, Dave Wills quit his medical studies at the University of Virginia to play first base for Louisville of the National League. After hitting only .223 in twenty-four games, he decided to join the Marines and wound up staying twenty years in the service. He served as a paymaster in the European Theater with the rank of major in World War One and was buried in Arlington National Cemetery upon his death in 1959. A little more than a decade after the Spanish-American War, Hall of Famer Oscar Charleston, a Negro League great, was first recognized for his baseball ability while serving with the Army (1911-1915) in the Philippines.

Popular Magazine, April 17, 1917

Popular Magazine, April 17, 1917

World War One began in Europe in August 1914, but the United States didn’t enter the conflict until April 1917. Before the Yanks went “over there,” Canadian units in the British Army took the lead in teaching many Englishmen and Australians how to play. In the fall of 1917, a series for the championship of the Canadian forces overseas was played in England. One hundred and one teams took part, with several minor league and semipro players dotting the rosters.

By the end of 1917 there were seventy-six American major league players in the service: forty-eight from the American League, including fifteen Boston Red Sox, and twenty-eight from the National League. Forty-two were in the Army, twenty-one in the Navy, and thirteen in other branches of the service.

In May 1918 there occurred the promulgation of a “work or fight” order by the provost marshal of the armed forces, General Enoch Crowder. It was designed to force all men of draft age out of nonessential work and into the Army or war-related employment in order to aid in the prosecution of the war. Baseball players were classified as nonessential while actors, opera singers, and movie stars were deemed essential. This was because the baseball magnates didn’t present their case in person, as did representatives of the other specially exempted occupations.

Relatively few players left baseball, however. The great majority remained with their teams. When the July time limit set by the Crowder order was reached, various draft boards issued conflicting orders to the players, some saying their work was essential and others saying it wasn’t.

Eventually the Crowder edict was enforced and Organized Baseball shut down its operation by the beginning of September 1918, although two additional weeks were allotted for the World Series between the Boston Red Sox and the Chicago Cubs. Despite the fact that the Crowder edict applied only to men of draft age, the owners decided not to finish the season with players younger than eighteen or older than thirty-five. The magnates made it clear to the players, however, that the reserve clause was still in effect, that the players weren’t free agents, and that they would be bound to their former teams upon resumption of play.

Babe Ruth Draft Card

Babe Ruth Draft Card

By the end of the war in November 1918, 144 American Leaguers and 103 National Leaguers were in the military. Very few players went into war-related work. Of the 144 American Leaguers serving Uncle Sam, a considerable percentage of them were known to be overseas. At least eighty-three were in the Army and forty-one in the Navy. The Detroit Tigers led the league with twenty-five servicemen, while the team with the fewest was the St. Louis Browns with thirteen, even though the Brownies had won American League prexy Ban Johnson’s $500 prize for performing best in military close-order drill (using bats as rifles) in 1917. Among the National Leaguers, the Brooklyn Dodgers and Pittsburgh Pirates tied for the lead in enlistees with eighteen apiece, while the Cincinnati Reds had only six. Boston Braves catcher Hank Gowdy was the first major leaguer to volunteer for military service. He was eventually sent to France, as were other prominent players and executives such as Cincinnati Reds manager Christy Mathewson, Detroit Tigers outfielder Ty Cobb, Philadelphia Phillies pitcher Grover Cleveland Alexander, Brooklyn Dodgers hurler Sherry Smith, Chicago White Sox catcher Joe Jenkins, Boston Braves executive Percy Haughton, and St. Louis Cardinals executive Branch Rickey. Haughton and Rickey received their commissions as majors and Mathewson was a captain in the Army’s gas-and-flame division. Mathewson suffered gas poisoning during his service. It led to tuberculosis and his ultimate demise in 1925. Former major leaguers killed in action were infielder Eddie Grant, who had played for four teams between 1905 and 1915, in the Argonne Forest in October 1918; Robert Troy, who had been born in Germany and pitched and lost one game for the Detroit Tigers in 1912, at the Meuse in October 1918; and Alex Barr, also with one game in the big time as a New York Yankee outfielder in 1914, on his twenty-fifth birthday, November 1, 1918, a mere ten days before the armistice.

Servicemen’s baseball was alive and well in Europe in both 1917 and 1918. In addition to the aforementioned Canadian championship series in England in the fall of 1917, an Anglo-American League was formed. It was composed of regular teams of American and Canadian soldiers, and was organized in London by W.E. Booker and former big leaguer Arlie Latham. The league played a regular weekend schedule in London, the English provinces, and Scotland. Every team had four or five professional players. A benefit game between American Army and Navy teams at Chelsea, London, on July 4, 1918, drew more than forty thousand spectators, including the King of England and Allied military notables. The regular season ended on September 7, 1918, but the clubs continued to play Sunday ball until September 29.

Whereas the Canadians had initially taught baseball to the British and Australians, the Americans introduced it to the French. The game was not exactly new in Paris because Americans had occasionally played it there before the war. Once the Yanks began arriving in large numbers, games were played every Sunday in the Bois du Boulogne and other public parks. The YMCA organized an Association League in France, with thirty teams playing a fifteen-game schedule each Sunday up to the middle of September. Shortly before the armistice, French soldiers were under orders to learn baseball! Their primary teacher was erstwhile National League great Johnny Evers, who had been sent to France by the Knights of Columbus for that purpose. Where did all the equipment come from? There were three sources: the aforementioned YMCA, the Knights of Columbus and the Ball and Bat Fund, headed by Clark Griffith, manager of the Washington Senators. The fund disbursed $63,865.29 worth of baseball gear, although the supply ship Kansan, with its load of equipment for the American Expeditionary Force, was torpedoed and sunk by a German submarine while en route to Europe.

King George, Lt. Mims, London, July 4, 1918

King George, Mike McNally of Red Sox, Chelsea, London, July 4, 1918

The top service teams of World War One (1918) included the 342nd Field Artillery, American Expeditionary Force club, which featured Grover C. Alexander and several other major leaguers and beat all comers; the Second Naval District, Newport, Rhode Island, aggregation, with a handful of big leaguers on its roster; the Great Lakes, Illinois, Naval Station club, piloted by White Sox outfielder Phil Chouinard and later Senator shortstop Doc Lavan, which posted a 30-8 won-lost record and had Hall of Fame pitcher Urban “Red” Faber and pro football great George Halas; the 85th Division, Battle Creek, Michigan, nine, which lost only one game, beat the Great Lakes club, and had the Browns’ Urban Shocker hurling for them; the Camp Dodge, Iowa, club, which logged 27 wins against 8 setbacks and counted six major leaguers among its players; the San Diego, California, Naval Training Camp team, with a 78-10 record to its credit; and the Kelly Field club in San Antonio, Texas, which won 42 games and lost only 8.

Second part tomorrow!

 

 

 

Strangest of All Baseball Attractions!

Paul Mooney, House of David, 1920

Paul Mooney, House of David, 1920

In 1883-1884 the craze for all things baseball spawned not only a new professional league (the Union Association) and the World Series (Providence Grays against the New York Mets) and night baseball (at Fort Wayne, Indiana), but also a proliferation of eccentric nines matched in what were called “novelty games.” There was an all-Chinese nine (the John Lang team), a “Colored Girl” team from Chester, Pennsylvania, called the Dolly Vardens; the fat man’s team, the Jumbos, who played against the lean men, the Shadows. The most distinctive games of the season matched the Snorkey Club of Philadelphia (named for the crippled hero of the famous melodrama Under the Gaslight), whose players each lacked an arm or a hand, against the Hoppers of Washington–all one-legged or on crutches. Not a pretty picture, for sure, but certainly poignant and a mirror of that brutal age: most of the crippled players on both teams had been railroad workers.

Snorkeys vs Hoppers, Police Gazette, October 29, 1887

Snorkeys vs Hoppers, Police Gazette, October 29, 1887

Fat vs. lean, married vs. single, old vs. young–any combination a promoter might dream up could be counted upon to draw a crowd, at least for a season. 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.

The great Svengali of women’s baseball exhibitions was Sylvester F. Wilson (one of many names he went by, though he was born Christian Wilson). The Brooklyn Eagle called him “the abductor of girls on base ball pretexts.” Although he proclaimed that none of his players came from the stage and that his exhibitions were of the highest class and virtue, he had been arrested in New York for kidnapping a sixteen-year-old girl from her home in Binghamton. The Kansas City Star, commenting on the five-year sentence meted out to Wilson in 1891, wrote, “He has been arrested more than 100 times and for various crimes, and Secretary Jenkins of the New York Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children says he has ruined more young girls than any man living.”

1879 Female Baseball Broadside

1879 Female Base Ball Broadside

On September 2, 1880, two baseball teams composed of employees of Boston department stores—Jordan Marsh and R. H . White—groped their way to a 16–16 tie under dim artificial lights at Nantasket Beach, Massachusetts. The experiment was repeated on June 2, 1883, with little more to recommend it, in a game between the Northwestern League squads of Quincy, Illinois, and Fort Wayne, Indiana, at the home of the latter.

Fort Wayne was also the home of George J. E. Mayer and his wife, Lizzie (later to become the mistress and, ultimately, second wife of Albert G. Spalding). In 1888, he was on the road with two teams of Chinese players. “In their practice-work,” reported the Chicago Inter-Ocean, “they showed that they were catching on with a wonderful celerity. When one of the men made a hit, the others all yelled at him in a most sidesplitting manner.” The Brooklyn Eagle added that “Speculation as to the relative merits of the two teams has been rife, and many a good dollar has been wagered by the Mongolians [Chinese] on their favorites. The betting last night was $4 to $3 on the Chicagos, and if the San Franciscos win there will be wailing and weeping in many Celestial laundries.”

Dolly Varden Sheet Music

Dolly Varden Sheet Music

Novelty games were particularly prominent in Philadelphia; ethnic teams, “colored” male and female ball teams, Native-American nines, crippled clubs, and so on. John Lang, a white barber from Philadelphia who had “temporarily deserted lather and razor” to organize pioneer black baseball clubs such as the Orion, found his true métier in New York with his Chinese teams. In Chester, Pennsylvania, Lang also created a fetching nine of “colored girl” professional players whom he named the Dolly Vardens after the fluffily and colorfully costumed lass in Dickens’ Barnaby Rudge. Lang’s Dolly Vardens, created in the 1880s, are sometimes confused with several Philadelphia-area all-male clubs bearing that name as early as 1867.

The bearded barnstormers of the House of David were devised as a money-making promotion for the House of David or Branch Davidian colony at Benton Harbor, Michigan, around 1910. They were disciples of Benjamin Purnell, an Ohio farmer who in 1903 had a vision in which he was proclaimed the Sixth Son of the House of David, with a mission to unite the Lost Tribes of Israel before Judgment Day. He and his fellow colonists swore off sex, smoking, drinking, and shaving.

Once on the baseball field, however, the only thing that was hidebound was the baseball itself. The House of David men were indeed “Fast and Clever Players,” as a broadside indicated, renowned especially for their Harlem Globetrotter-like pepper games [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7IGp0gC-Pw]. And they were not averse to welcoming an occasional ringer like Babe Ruth or Pepper Martin.

Louis Fenn Wadsworth: Baseball’s Man of Mystery and History

The Laws of Base Ball

The Laws of Base Ball

I gave this talk at the Litchfield Historical Society on April 24, 2016. While Louis Fenn Wadsworth came in for some discussion in my 2011 book, Baseball in the Garden of Eden, I felt I could try the patience of general readers with a great deal of biographical detail unrelated to his baseball exploits. However, now that the trio of documents relating to baseball’s 1857 convention (see: http://goo.gl/VndQXx) sold on Sunday for a prodigious sum, the timing could not be more right for some talk about Wadsworth, the man who reversed the convention’s original ruling that baseball should be a game of seven innings, and made it, instead, nine.

Only yesterday, some documents from 1857 that constitute the first draft of baseball’s rules as we know them today were auctioned off for 3.26 million dollars. With the rediscovery of these “Laws of Baseball,” crafted for presentation by the Knickerbocker Base Ball Club to the first convention of baseball clubs, we have tangible evidence of the genius of Daniel Lucius “Doc” Adams, a rediscovered hero who was the top vote-getter among old-timers on last year’s ballot for the Baseball Hall of Fame.

Daniel L. "Doc" Adams

Daniel L. “Doc” Adams

At the dawn of the twentieth century, baseball’s origins were already too old to be remembered, so stories were devised to rationalize what was otherwise baffling. Baseball history then was in the hands of folklorists, not historians. Members of the Mills Commission—also referred to as Albert Spalding’s Commission, for he formed it in 1905 to determine the true origin of the national pastime—lacked the mundane primary documents that typically aid historians of everyday life in the reconstruction of events. Accordingly, they looked to octogenarian reminiscences of events witnessed long ago if at all; thus we were handed a pretty story of Abner Doubleday as baseball’s inventor, supposedly in Cooperstown one bright day in 1839.

Almost immediately upon the Commission’s naming the Civil War hero as baseball’s dad, others came forward to declare the story a fable … insisting that instead it had begun in 1845 with another father figure: Alexander Cartwright, a teammate of Doc Adams on the Knickerbocker Base Ball Club (KBBC). Both men had gone to their graves not knowing they had invented baseball.

While Doubleday gave Cooperstown an excuse to establish a fine museum in an economically challenged upstate village, Cartwright (unlike Doubleday) was awarded a plaque in the Hall of Fame that credits him as having “set bases 90 feet apart” and “established 9 innings as a game and 9 players as [a] team.” This is demonstrably false, as none of these aspects of the game were settled until 1857, some eight years after Cartwright had left New York for Hawaii, never to return east. 

Cartwright Plaque

Cartwright Plaque

In 1868, Henry Chadwick, the only writer inducted into the Hall of Fame, wrote, “our present National game [is] a great step in advance of the game of base ball as played in 1840 and up to 1857.” Yes, 1857 was the year that baseball made its great leap forward, and these are the documents that reveal what it was like to be present at the creation of a national institution. Adams was the guiding force; William Henry Grenelle rendered his teammate’s draft into the presentation, in fine Spencerian script, that was placed before the convention. They were two of the three Knickerbocker Club delegates to the convention, which convened for its opening session on January 22, 1857.

The third Knick member was Louis Fenn Wadsworth, about whom so little was known for so long, but whose compelling story is the one that principally concerns us today. It was Wadsworth who stood up at the convention, which had just ratified the Knickerbocker club’s preference for a game of seven innings—an outcome that was reported in the press!—and turned the delegates around to his proposal of nine innings. That Wadsworth may have been responsible for a great deal more in baseball’s evolution—including the provision of a new diagram of the game, and becoming the game’s first professional player—will come in for discussion today, too. But it is his life story—with mysterious details that did not yield themselves to me until after more than twenty years of digging—that may be most interesting in the end. Only when I was able to place his missing pieces into the jigsaw puzzle of baseball’s origins story did I write the book that was published five years ago as Baseball in the Garden of Eden: The Secret History of the Early Game. 

L.F. Wadsworh, Plainfield, NJ 1875

L.F. Wadsworth, Plainfield, NJ 1875

***

In the late eighteenth century, Berkshire County in Massachusetts, eastern Dutchess County in New York, and northern Litchfield County in Connecticut basically formed one community, with travel up and down the Housatonic valley, so these areas could be considered cohesively one. The border between New York and Massachusetts had long been a matter of contention, and was settled only in 1787, while the New York–Connecticut border dispute wore on until … 1857.

Ball play was rampant in this “Housatonic Triangle.” Pittsfield, in 1791, enacted a bylaw that barred “any game of wicket, cricket, baseball, batball, football, cats, fives, or any other game played with ball,” within 80 yards of a newly constructed meeting house. Of these, baseball appears to have been the dominant game in Massachusetts, and wicket the preferred game in Connecticut, though certainly both games were played in each state.

Enter Louis Fenn Wadsworth, born in either Amenia, New York—where an elder brother had died in infancy in 1823—or Litchfield, or Hartford, by various accounts, on or about May 6, 1825. His father was Amos Cowles Wadsworth, born in 1787 and buried in Litchfield in 1850, where he had descended into boarding-house poverty. Louis’s mother, Amanda Mann Wadsworth, had gone west to Michigan with Amos around 1845 and remained there, in Allegan County’s township of Owosso, with her other surviving son—Charles Waldstein Wadsworth, a year older than Louis—until her death in 1885.

Washington College, Hartford; Episcopal Watchman, March 26, 1827

Washington College, Hartford; Episcopal Watchman, March 26, 1827

The family resided in Litchfield when Louis left it in the fall of 1841 to begin his freshman year at Washington College in Hartford, long since renamed as Trinity. Louis’ early years proved a bit simpler to reconstruct than his later ones, but I get ahead of myself.

***

While Philadelphia, New York, and New England played their distinctive regional variants of baseball, in Connecticut an odd game called wicket or wicket ball reigned. It resembled what Britons thought of as “country cricket,” a game that by the 1750s had been utterly supplanted in England by the standardized modern game. Wicket had gone wherever Connecticut emigrants settled: to the Western Reserve of Ohio and Michigan, or with the Congregational missionaries to Hawaii.

Wicket was played along a seventy-five-foot alley of hard ground, rolled, skinned of grass, with the wicket bowler having to skip the ball along the ground, touching down at least once in his own thirty-seven-and-a-half-foot portion; it bears mentioning that this figure represented baseball’s 1857 pitching distance of forty-five feet reduced by one-sixth, which was its probable original distance and the one long after recommended for inexperienced players.

The bowler would skim the ball toward a low wicket some five feet in length but only inches off the ground. The batsman held a long curved club with an enormous gnarled bulb at its curved end. The bare wicket alley, unlike the manicured grassy pitch of cricket, survives in baseball as the mysterious strip of dirt between the pitcher’s mound and home plate that is sometimes evident today … in unwitting reference to a game perhaps older than baseball.

Wicket in 1821, engraved by John Cheney

Wicket in 1821, engraved by John Cheney

Little recalled or understood today, wicket was the diversion of choice for young Nutmeggers until nearly 1860. One of wicket’s hot spots was Hartford, on the campus of Washington College, where it may well have been played by Louis Fenn Wadsworth, Class of 1844.

***

No one credited Wadsworth as an innovator, let alone a possible Father of Baseball, until the winter of 1907, when the Mills Commission neared the end of its three-year mandate. Abraham G. Mills had received the Commission’s findings so late that he could not finish his review; he dictated a letter to his stenographer in the afternoon of  December 30, 1907 in which he hurriedly stated his conclusions and anointed Doubleday as per his friend Spalding’s wishes. Still, he commented on an unsettled question:

A.G. Mills

A.G. Mills

“I am also much interested in the statement made by Mr. Curry, of the pioneer Knickerbocker club, and confirmed by Mr. Tassie, of the famous old Atlantic club of Brooklyn, that a diagram, showing the ball field laid out substantially as it is today, was brought to the field one day by a Mr. Wadsworth. Mr. Curry says ‘the plan caused a great deal of talk, but, finally, we agreed to try it.’” Duncan F. Curry had made the statement to reporter Will Rankin in 1877, and Rankin had written about it to Mills in 1905.

With that report the Commission’s work was done, and its conclusions were published in Spalding’s Official Guide for the 1908 season. No more was heard about Wadsworth until 1973, when Harold Peterson wrote a book about Alex Cartwright called The Man Who Invented Baseball. In it he observed: “Mr. Wadsworth, whose Christian name, occupation, residence, and pedigree remained secreted in Mills’s bosom, was never heard of before or until long after that fateful afternoon [meaning, in 1877, when Curry spoke with Rankin].”

Rankin wrote in The Sporting News in April 1908 that in 1886 he “had forgotten the name of the person mentioned by Mr. Curry, so I went to see Mr. Thomas Tassie, and when I related to him that which Mr. Curry had told me, he said, ‘That is true, and the name of the man was Mr. Wadsworth, a very brilliant after-dinner talker, the Chauncey M. Depew of that day. He held a very important position in the Custom House….’”

But Rankin told Mills that he had erred in recording Curry’s man as Wadsworth — upon reflection nearly thirty years later, he was sure that Curry had said Cartwright. Furthermore, he bullied the elderly Tassie into allowing that perhaps he too recalled Cartwright … though Cartwright had left New York in 1849, years before Tassie became involved in baseball.

In his final official function Mills concluded his commission’s report by writing:

“It is possible that a connection more or less direct can be traced between the diagram drawn by Doubleday in 1839 and that presented to the Knickerbocker club by Wadsworth in 1845, or thereabouts, and I wrote several days ago for certain data bearing on this point, but as it has not yet come to hand I have decided to delay no longer sending in the kind of paper your letter calls for, promising to furnish you the indicated data when I obtain it, whatever it may be. [He never was to learn anything further, of course, despite his documented attempts.]

Here are the last words of the Mills Commission report:

“My deductions from the testimony submitted are:

“First: That ‘Base Ball’ had its origin in the United States. 

“Second: That the first scheme for playing it, according to the best evidence obtainable to date, was devised by Abner Doubleday at Cooperstown, N. Y., in 1839. 

“Yours very truly,

“A. G. Mills [signed]” 

The commission report thus anointing a single inventor was published on March 20, 1908. A. G. Mills’ imagined double-play tandem of Doubleday to Wadsworth did not pan out, but it was not long before writers would speculate about a similar handoff from Doubleday to Cartwright, with Wadsworth disappearing from the discussion. Wadsworth had left so cold a trail for the Mills Commission that his time on earth could not be recalled accurately nor could his current whereabouts, above ground or under it, be confirmed. Sixty-five years later, not even Cartwright’s biographer could pick up a clue, and conveyed that “Mr. Wadsworth” was a fanciful concoction.

***

By the 1980s, before the advent of digitized newspapers, this mysterious fellow had eluded me, too, as well as the several genealogical experts I had enlisted to find him. Even Wadsworth family histories and historians offered no clue. I knew Lou Wadsworth had played first base with the Gothams and the Knickerbockers from the early 1850s to 1862, had parlayed his Whig Party sentiments into patronage posts, and was generally recorded in the press as L. F. Wadsworth, but where did he live after that, when he disappeared from the New York City directories?

Slowly the details came into view. What cracked the ice was stumbling upon an obituary in the New York Times not findable with a search for “Wadsworth”; instead OCR (optical character recognition) had “filed” it under “Wacsvorth,” thus assuring that no one could find it by direct means. From the Times of March 28, 1908—eight days after the issuance of the Mills Commission report—under the heading “Once Rich, Dies a Pauper,” here is the obituary that no one in baseball ever saw:

Wadsworth Obit, NYT, March 28, 1908

Wadsworth Obit, NYT, March 28, 1908

“Plainfield, N.J., March 27.—Louis F. Wadsworth, once worth $300,000 [$8 million in today’s dollars] and a graduate of Trinity College, Hartford, Conn., died a pauper at the Plainfield Industrial Home to-day, a victim of drink. His father was a wealthy New England merchant. Wadsworth became identified with Tammany Hall and obtained a lucrative position in the New York Custom House. In 1873 he moved to Plainfield. He took to drink, and though he maintained his political position for many years his fortune dwindled away. In 1898 he was admitted to the Industrial Home after swearing that he was unable to support himself.”

This was the crowbar that rapidly opened onto all the rest, although details continue to emerge that round out his life. Just days before handing in my manuscript of Baseball in the Garden of Eden, for example, did I learn that he had applied unsuccessfully to West Point in 1845. And only in preparing this talk did I hit upon a document showing that he also registered for the Civil War draft in 1863, though he was not called to duty.

The story of his later years has continued to fill in, with additional if not crucial detail that had been unavailable to me for Eden. Let’s proceed to do a racehorse run through the life of Louis Fenn Wadsworth, baseball’s man of mystery.

***

Envelope for Wadsworth's West Point Application Envelope

Envelope for Wadsworth’s West Point Application Envelope

After graduating with honors from Washington College in 1844 and applying to West Point, he lived in Michigan, where his father had obtained a land grant from President Martin Van Buren in 1838. By 1848 he had returned east to embark on a legal career on Wall Street (in those days—and perhaps ours!—a  law degree was not a necessary predicate; one had only to pass the bar examination). In 1853 he was nominated by the Eighth Ward Democratic Whigs, for whom he was the recording secretary, to the patronage position of School Inspector. His daytime job was as, Thomas Tassie had declared, a naval office attorney in the Custom House.

A tempestuous character, Wadsworth commenced his ball playing days with the Gothams, a venerable club that actually predated the Knickerbockers, with whom he quickly achieved prominence as the top first baseman of his time. Then, on April 1, 1854, he switched his allegiance to the Knickerbockers … perhaps for “emoluments,” as recompense was euphemistically known then; his skilled play would increase the Knickerbockers’ chances of victory. It is these circumstances that incline me to believe that Wadsworth may thus be termed baseball’s first professional player. Within a few years the practice of switching clubs in season, or “revolving,” became sufficiently pervasive for it be banned in Doc Adams’s new rules ratified at the 1857 convention.

One of the veteran Knicks, in recalling some of the old players for the New York Sun in 1887, said: “I had almost forgotten the most important man on the team and that is Lew Wadsworth. He was the life of the club. Part of his club suit consisted of a white shirt on the back of which was stamped a black devil. It makes me laugh still when I recall how he used to go after a ball. His hands were very large and when he went for a ball they looked like the tongs of an oyster rake. He got there all the same and but few balls passed him.”

In his time with the Knicks, Wadsworth found his notions thwarted on at least two occasions, resigning each time before reconsidering and permitting the restoration of his name to the membership rolls. But things came to a head in 1856.

***

Along with Doc Adams and other progressives, Wadsworth backed a motion in a Knickerbocker meeting to permit non-Knickerbockers to join in with Knicks in their intrasquad games at the Elysian Fields if fewer than 18 Knicks were present. Nine men to the side had been the standard for match play to this point, and Wadsworth and his allies thought it more important to preserve the quality of play than to exclude those who were not club members. Duncan Curry counter-moved that if 14 Knickerbockers were available, the game should admit no outsiders and be played shorthanded (at least by match standards).

Seven or nine? The KBBC fight.

Seven or nine? The KBBC fight.

The Curry forces, referenced in the Knickerbocker minutes as the “Old Fogies,” prevailed, 13-11. Just as Chadwick would later match the innings in his proposed ten-man model to the number of men on the field, the Knicks were now resolved to recommend a seven-inning game to replace the old custom of playing to 21 runs, which had recently produced a highly unsatisfactory 12-12 tie game, called on account of darkness.

This proved to be one of the most heated and divisive votes in club history, so at this point member William Ladd suggested that a committee be formed to cooperate with other clubs to decide upon the proper number of players for a match, with its concomitant effect on the number of innings if the 21-run rule were to be scrapped. This motion carried unanimously, and the committee appointed was Curry and Ladd; Ladd declined, and Adams took his place, thus placing one seven-inning advocate alongside a nine-inning advocate, as the Knicks pointed toward their next meeting, at Smith’s Hotel on 462 Broome Street, December 6, 1856, for the purpose of considering a convention of all the clubs.

The hotheaded Wadsworth had offered his resignation to the Knicks on July 31, 1856, then withdrew his resignation on August 26. Curry resigned on December 6, the very day of the meeting at Smith’s, testifying to how heated the discussions had become. The Knicks proceeded to establish a three-man commission to enlist the attendance of other clubs at a convention for the purpose of standardizing the rules. The three were Wadsworth, Adams, and Grenelle … which brings us back to the documents auctioned yesterday.

In the aftermath of the convention’s adoption of seven innings, on motion of Mr. Wadsworth, the aggregation reconsidered Section 26 and modified the Knicks’ proposal of seven innings to nine. Clearly, in enlisting the support of other teams, Wadsworth was following his own lead—and the expressed preference of the Adams contingent against the Curry forces—rather than that of the Knickerbocker majority.

Porter's Spirit of the Times, September 12, 1857; Gothams vs. Eagles

Porter’s Spirit of the Times, September 12, 1857; Gothams vs. Eagles

Wadsworth’s victory was Pyrrhic as far as his own future as in the club. Made to feel uncomfortable, the Knicks’ “ringer” failed to appear for a game on June 8, 1857 against the Eagles, though he had been named to play. Six days later he resigned for the final time, and by the following month he was again manning first base with his accustomed panache for his former club, the Gothams.

***

In 1859 Louis F. Wadsworth married Maria Isabel Meschutt Fisher, a wealthy widow nine years his elder with two children from her first marriage. As a Meschutt, she had been born into a family of restaurateurs and café proprietors in New York and New Jersey that dated back to 1777, with Meschutt’s Metropolitan Coffee House in operation at 433 Broadway. (James Meschutt invented the doughnut.) After a brief residence in Michigan and a return to New York, the Wadsworth family (stepson Charles kept his Fisher name; stepdaughter Marianne, who had been adopted, became a Wadsworth) settled in Rockaway, New Jersey in 1863. By 1872 or so, the family had resettled in Plainfield, New Jersey, where Louis became a justice of the peace and then a judge. After his wife’s death in 1883, drink and poor management of his assets left him a pauper—only recently have I learned that his wife’s will left most of her fortune to her sister, Susan Meschutt Sparks. After some years of selling Sunday newspapers on the streets of Plainfield as his sole source of income, in 1898 he committed himself to the poorhouse.

Wadsworth, Inmate at Plainfield Industrial Home, 1900 Census

There, according to his obituary in the Hartford Daily Times, belatedly published on April 4, 1908, though he had died on March 27:

“He became sadly dissipated, and it was not long before he was reduced to absolute want. In 1898, the [Plainfield Industrial Home] was the only haven, and for ten years he has spent most of his time reading. A veritable book worm, day after day, he would sit reading. The bent old man, on his trips between the home and public library, was a familiar sight. Always carrying books, and with few words for those he met, he went back and forth. In the summer he was particularly interested in following the scores of the ball games of the big leagues, and of late years the game was the one great object of interest to him.

“His associates came to forget him. Politicians who had sat in state conventions where he presided and where his exercise of parliamentary rules was able and astute lost him out of sight. Society, that had insisted on calling him Judge Wadsworth, passed by on the other side. For the last eight months he had slowly failed, through infirmities of old age. Until his mental capacity was obscured he rarely if ever mentioned his birthplace or Alma Mater, but in his decay he would speak of Hartford, and of old times “’Neath the Elms.” He had no family of his own, and it is hardly likely that any of his brothers and sisters can be located. He rarely mentioned them and as no letters ever came to him, the attendants at the home surmised that he preferred not to let them know where he was.”

But someone knew where he was, for only three days after his death his body was interred at Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn, in a family plot along with James Meschutt; Susan Meschutt; Phillip Meschutt; William Sparks and his wife Susan Meschutt Sparks; Maria Isabel Meschutt Jackson Wadsworth; and Sophia Lines.

Green-Wood Cemetery, Brooklyn

Green-Wood Cemetery, Brooklyn

While Abraham G. Mills was searching for the baffling “Mr. Wadsworth,” his possible trump card to Doubleday, no one connected Louis F. Wadsworth, long-term inmate of the Plainfield Industrial Home, with baseball’s invention. With the death of all the Knickerbocker Base Ball Club members from their first decade of play—unbeknownst to the baseball world, Wadsworth was the last to go—no one was left to gainsay the declaration by Bruce Cartwright in 1909 that his father had been the one to invent baseball. Journalists who should have known better rallied around this alternative theory in reaction to what they saw as the absurdity of the claim on behalf of Doubleday.

***

In three weeks I will be at Green-Wood Cemetery for the dedication of a grave marker for James Whyte Davis—a member of Curry’s “Old Fogy” contingent that backed the seven-man and seven-inning plan—who was buried there in pauperdom in 1899 (see: http://goo.gl/j4k6qp). I will also visit the gravesite of Louis Fenn Wadsworth. As I did twenty years ago when I made the pilgrimage to Green-Wood to visit the graves of Henry Chadwick and 1860s star pitcher James Creighton, I will leave a baseball for him, with a message.

 

 

 

 

 

Walt Whitman, Baseball Reporter

2009 Topps Heritage

2009 Topps Heritage

America’s poet expounded on America’s game in this little-known June 18, 1858 ed­itorial from the Brooklyn Daily Times. (For calling it to my attention, thanks to Jim Carothers.) But these were not Whitman’s only published words on the national pas­time: in the 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass appears the line “Upon the race-course, or enjoying picnics or a good game of base-ball”; and in the Brooklyn Eagle of July 23, 1846 (only one month after the Knickerbockers’ purported first match game), he wrote: “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.” By the way, in the box score you’ll note a heading “H.L.”—this signifies “Hands Lost,” or outs made at bat or on the base paths; you’ll also note Pierce at shortstop for the Atlantics—this is the celebrated Dickey Pearce. Here’s Walt, before he became our Good Gray Poet, in his only known reportage of a baseball game.

The game played yesterday afternoon between the Atlantic and Putnam Clubs, on the grounds of the latter club, was one of the finest and most exciting games we ever witnessed. The Atlantics beat their opponents by four runs, but the general opinion was that the defeat was as much the result of accident as of superior playing.

Atlantics, 1859-60

Atlantics, 1859-60

On the fourth innings the Putnams made several very loose plays and allowed their opponents to score nine runs, and those careless plays were sufficient to lose them the game. On every other innings, they played carefully and well, as the score will show. They were also particularly unfortunate in having three of their men injured in the course of the game. Mr. Masten, their catcher, being disabled from occupying his position on the fifth innings, was compelled to take the first base and his place taken by Mr. Burr, who in his turn was disabled on the seventh innings and his place supplied by Mr. McKinstry, the fielder, Mr. Burr taking the third base. Mr. Jackson was injured on the eighth innings so much as to be compelled to discontinue playing, and Mr. Ketcham was substituted in his stead, so that at one time no less than three men on the Putnam side were so seriously injured as to be unable to run their bases. Notwithstanding these accidents, however, the score is highly creditable to the Putnams (always excepting the fourth innings), and we doubt if any other club can show a better one in a contest with such opponents. The Atlantics, as usual, played splendidly and maintained their reputation as the Champion Club. Messrs. M. O’Brien, P. O’Brien, Boerum, Pierce, and Oliver of that club cannot easily be surpassed in their respective positions. Messrs. Masten, Gesner, and McKinstry, of the Putnam Club, also deserve special commendation.

The score is as follows [here I offer the more expansive box score from Porter’s Spirit of the Times, a weekly more readily accessible than the Brooklyn Daily Times–jt].

Atlantic 17, Putnam 13

Atlantic 17, Putnam 13

A Peek into the Pocket-book

Block, Baseball before We Knew ItI have just returned from SABR’s annual Nineteenth Century Baseball Conference in Cooperstown. There a handful of old hands swap stories, in some measure for the benefit of relative newcomers who will extend our studies further. Besides an unparalleled parade of erudition, the meetings are characterized by presentations and panels and convivial times at various groaning boards and pubs. David Block is an old friend whom I am always eager to see again. His interests and exploits in the prehistory of the game are unmatched, most notably in the 2004 book Baseball before We Knew It (Nebraksa, 2005); see: http://goo.gl/ECciIw. Recent inquiries to my social media feeds about what might be the earliest mentions of baseball in print recalled to mind this outstanding essay he wrote for the journal Base Ball in 2008. It is reprinted with the gracious permission of the publisher, McFarland & Company.

A game called baseball arose from the primeval playing fields of southern England during the earliest decades of the ¡8th century. This we can deduce from a smattering of clues that have trickled down from the 1740s and 1750s. While these tidbits generally reveal little about the pastime’s makeup during that era, one specimen rises vividly above the rest: the “base-ball” page from John Newbery’s A Little Pretty Pocket-book. 

Little Pretty Pocket-book, 1787

Little Pretty Pocket-book, 1787

Many readers of this journal will be familiar with A Little Pretty Pocket-book’s contribution to our slender understanding of early baseball. The iconic children’s book, first published in 1744, has long been recognized as providing an important benchmark for tracking the game’s evolution. Its employment of the term “base-ball” is the earliest known, and its primitive woodcut and accompanying snippet of verse offer our first fragmentary insights into how the game was played.

The Ball once struck off,

Away flies the Boy

To the next destin’d Post,

And then Home with Joy. 

These few simple lines capture baseball’s essence. Their mentions of a boy striking a ball, flying to the “next destin’d post,” and then returning to “home” suggest that by the 1740s the incipient game was already recognizable. Augmented by the woodcut—in which a striker, a pitcher, and three posts or bases are pictured—it is no wonder that Newbery’s baseball page is treasured by those of us with an abiding interest in the pastime’s early history. Yet despite our long familiarity with it (the historian Robert W. Henderson first alerted us to the book’s importance in his 1937 essay, “How Baseball Began”), in many ways it remains an enigma. The goal of this article is to take a closer look at A Little Pretty Pocket-book and, the author hopes, persuade it to give up a few more of its secrets.

* * *

To the kiddies of mid–18th-century England, A Little Pretty Pocket-book must have seemed like a sneak preview of paradise. Never before had any of them encountered a book that illuminated such a cornucopia of pastimes and amusements for their enjoyment. Everything was there: from kite-flying to hopscotch, from leapfrog to “blindman’s buff,” as the book has it. John Newbery’s startling invitation to play games and have fun was an almost total turnabout from the snarling admonitions against frivolous behavior that had snapped at the heels of young folk for centuries. And while A Little Pretty Pocket-book did not forsake all responsibility for tutoring children to be upright and virtuous (after all, it included letters from Jack the Giant-Killer to Little Master Tommy and Pretty Miss Polly promising them a whipping if they misbehaved), the book clearly relegated traditional moral instruction to a secondary role.

Little Pretty Pocket-book, 1760.

Little Pretty Pocket-book, 1760.

Among the pastimes offered for the delight of A Little Pretty Pocket-book’s young readers were five constituents of the extended baseball family. In addition to baseball itself, these included the games of cricket, stool-ball, trap-ball, and tip-cat. The latter four were widely played amusements of the era, and it is no surprise that Newbery would elect to feature them in his book. Far less obvious is why he included the relatively new game of baseball, given the likelihood that many of his potential readers in the mid–18th century would not have been familiar with it. His selection of it suggests that he may well have gained an intimate acquaintance with the pastime during his own childhood, raising the tantalizing premise that baseball’s first steps could have been taken on terrain very close to Newbery’s own upbringing.

That would be in Berkshire County, England, where in 1713 Newbery was born on a farm near the small village of Waltham St Lawrence. Having had no formal education, but motivated by curiosity and ambition, he left home at the age of 16 to become apprenticed to a printer in the nearby city of Reading, about fifty miles west of London. When his master died a few years later, Newbery took over the business and married the widow—not an unusual arrangement for the times. By the early 1740s he was publishing a newspaper in Reading and beginning to produce occasional book titles for an adult readership. It was also during those years that he began experimenting with other commercial ventures, including the one that was to become his most profitable lifelong source of wealth, the sale of patent medicines. In 1746 he signed a contract to be the exclusive marketer of Dr. James’ Fever Powder, a concoction that was to become widely popular in Britain. Meanwhile, Newbery came to realize that his expanding enterprises were outgrowing the limited market opportunities available in Reading, and in the late summer of 1743 he began to shift his base of operations to London.

It was also in the 1740s that the constrained and stuffy world of children’s-book publishing was beginning to undergo a major change. The influences of the Age of Reason and, in particular, the progressive educational ideas of the philosopher John Locke began seeping into juvenile literature, and a trickle of new titles appeared with the revolutionary premise that books might entertain as well as educate. Moral instruction itself, though still an essential component of the genre, no longer threatened children with the throes of hellfire as the penalty for their naughtiness.

Tommy Thumb’s Song-Book

Tommy Thumb’s Pretty Song-Book

Newbery was always on the lookout for another good business opportunity, and he quickly recognized the potential of this new type of juvenile literature. A Little Pretty Pocket-book was his first entrant in the field, and its great success led him to produce many more children’s titles before his death in 1767. The Pocket-book has been hailed as “the first true children’s book” or, more commonly, “the first book intended primarily for children’s enjoyment.” Evidently it was neither. Preceding it in the early 1740s were Thomas Boreman’s series of “Gigantick Histories,” and Mary Cooper’s two titles, The Child’s New Plaything and Tommy Thumb’s Pretty Song-Book. The essayist Mary Thwaite, in her introduction to the 1966 facsimile edition of A Little Pretty Pocket-book, conceded that the Tommy Thumb book “rivalled the Pocket-book in importance in the chronicle of children’s literature.”[1]

But if Newbery wasn’t the very first to see the wisdom in producing books for children’s entertainment, he was certainly the first to go for the fences with the idea. One key to his success was his marketing skill, and particularly his adroitness at “puffing” his works. He carried over to his juvenile publishing venture the same creative persuasion he employed in hawking his assortment of patent medicines. His earliest display of this talent is expressed in the following advertisement that, according to all Newbery sources, first appeared in the June 18, 1744, issue of the Penny London Morning Advertiser:

This Day is publish’d,

According to Act of Parliament

(Neatly bound and gilt.)

A Little pretty POCKET BOOK

intended for the Instruction and Amusement of little Master Tommy and pretty Miss Polly; with an agreeable Letter to each from Jack the Giant-Killer; as also a Ball and Pincushion, the Use of which will infallibly make Tommy a good Boy, and Polly a good Girl. To the whole is prefix’d, A Lecture on Education, humbly address’d to all Parents, Guardians, Governesses, &cc., wherein Rules are laid down for making their Children strong, hardy, healthy, virtuous, wise and happy.

Children, like tender OZIERS, take the Bow,

And as they first are fashioned, always grow.

Just as the Twig is bent the Tree’s inclin’d.

’Tis Education forms the vulgar Mind. 

Printed for J. Newbery, at the Bible and Crown, near Devereux-Court, without Temple-Bar.

Price of the Book alone 6 d. with a Ball or Pincushion 8 d.

There are many things to be observed about this ad, not the least being its deftness at appealing to both of its target audiences: the parents who might consider purchasing A Little Pretty Pocket-book for their children, and the little kiddies themselves. Notable among Newbery’s inducements to the latter is his optional offer to bundle a ball or pincushion with the book. This revolutionary notion of attaching a toy anticipates by 250 years the Klutz Book series of today.

May 19, 1744 ad in Daily Gazetteer

May 19, 1744 ad in Daily Gazetteer

Scholars who have written about Newbery’s works have assumed that the ball and pincushion were two separate items, the former intended for boys and the latter for girls. A careful reading of the book, however, reveals the objects were one and the same: a soft, red-and-black-colored ball that allowed for the insertion of pins. The “letters” from Jack the Giant-Killer published in A Little Pretty Pocket-book, and addressed to Tommy and Polly respectively, prescribed a common purpose for the ball/pincushion whether its recipient was a boy or a girl. The child was directed to hang the toy up by a string that came attached to it. Then, using 10 pins that were also supplied, the child was instructed to stick a pin in the red half of the ball/pincushion whenever he/she did something good, and a pin in the black half for every bad act. If the child managed to accumulate all 10 pins in the red side, Jack the Giant-Killer pledged (ostensibly) to send the child a penny. Conversely, 10 pins in the black side would result in Jack sending a rod with which the child was to be “whipt.” The publishers of the modern Klutz Books evidently had the good sense not to adopt this darker aspect of Newbery’s innovation.

No one knows how many individual ball/pincushion premiums were sold in tandem with copies of A Little Pretty Pocket-book over the course of the book’s long publishing history in the 18th century. One thing that is certain, though, is that few or none of the toys have survived. The only institution to claim ownership of an original specimen is the Morgan Library in New York. Its example of the ball/pincushion, however, is white on one side with an embroidered design on the other, not at all like the red and black object described in all known editions of the Pocket-book. Moreover, the library’s records cannot document the provenance of its copy, having no information earlier than 1991 when the toy was received as a gift.

To book and baseball historians alike, the most significant contribution of Newbery’s June 1744 advertisement for A Little Pretty Pocket-book may well be its opening phrase: “This day is publish’d….” Here, it would seem, is proof of the exact moment in history when this landmark children’s book first rolled o› the presses. Such evidence is vital in establishing the book’s origins, for no actual copies of A Little Pretty Pocket-book from 1744 have survived. In fact, no actual copies of any of the book’s first nine editions are known to exist, which makes, by default, the British Library’s single incomplete copy of the 1760 10th edition the earliest surviving example. And of all the thousands of copies of the book printed in England in the 18th century, fewer than 10 remain.[2] Why this near extinction? In all likelihood, it is the unfortunate byproduct of two parallel phenomena. On the one hand, the little darlings who were lucky enough to get their hands on the book probably loved their copies to death. And if an original owner didn’t leave the book in tatters, his or her next youngest sibling or cousin would have finished the job. Parents, all the while, would have had little interest in the book, at best valuing it as a diversion for their kids, but not as something they would bother preserving for posterity (not unlike those ill-fated shoeboxes of baseball cards of more recent memory).

Little Pretty Pocket-book, 1760.

Little Pretty Pocket-book, 1760.

But while the books themselves are gone, we still have Newbery’s helpful advertisement from 1744 to mark the starting point of baseball’s recorded history. Right? Well, not so fast. It seems that even this seemingly safe assumption turns out not to be airtight. Writing in 1973, Newbery’s foremost bibliographer, Sydney Roscoe, offered a cautionary word about relying upon newspaper ads to fix a book’s publication date:

… the unsupported evidence of a newspaper advertisement cannot, as a rule, be relied on for dating purposes…. It may well be that A Little Pretty Pocket-book did bear the date 1744 and did appear in (or near to) June of that year; but the evidence of the advertisements is not sufficient to prove it; it might have been published a year or two before, or even in 1745 or later.[3] 

Reading these lines prompted me to see if there was anything further to be discovered about Pocket-book’s publication date. On a recent trip to England I consulted with the longtime archivist of the Worshipful Company of Stationers and Newspaper Makers, a 600-year-old organization that has been registering the publication of individual books for most of its existence. Disappointingly, no entry for A Little Pretty Pocket-book appears in the company’s records, most likely because children’s books in the 1740s were deemed too unimportant for such formality. Thwarted here, my next step was to examine newspapers from the era, especially issues of The Reading Mercury; or Weekly Post, the paper that Newbery owned and operated during those years. I found several ads for Pocket-book in the Mercury, with the earliest appearing on May 28, 1774. This ad, like the one that would appear three weeks later in the Penny London Morning Advertiser, began with the phrase “this Day is publish’d,” confirming that the use of those four words was not a literal announcement of the book’s publishing date.

Moving my search to the many London daily newspapers of the era, I came across a quantity of additional advertisements for A Little Pretty Pocket-book, most with the same “this day is publish’d” lead-in. These were scattered over a period of months and years, with the earliest ones clustered in mid–May 1744. The first three of these appeared on May 18 of that year, and four more showed up the following day. I found none earlier than May 18, despite spending a couple of days with microfilm archives and electronic newspaper databases. Clearly, this concentration of advertisements in mid–May 1744 does not in itself reliably pinpoint when A Little Pretty Pocket-book first rolled off the presses, nor even when it first was sold. It does imply strongly, however, that those two days in May marked the beginning of Newbery’s marketing push for the book, and suggests that his production of it very possibly occurred in the immediate weeks beforehand.

My combing of the newspapers also produced several interesting testimonials to the wonderments of A Little Pretty Pocket-book. One of them was dated June 14, 1744, and addressed “to the unknown author of the Little Pretty Pocket-book.” It rambled on and on with flowery praises such as: “here the paths of virtue are painted so as to please and engage, the child is captivated and led into a habit of doing well and made imperceptibly, as it were, both wise and virtuous.” Two more such letters were published on July 16 in Newbery’s own paper, the Mercury. One accurately describes how the book presents “brief descriptions in verse … of the several plays or games with which children usually divert themselves, each game being represented by a small copper plate print, with a suitable moral or rule of life subjoined.” This same writer observed that although “the author has modestly concealed himself … his performance … will undoubtedly meet with the approbation of all who would rather make learning a pleasure to those under their care, than weary themselves and their children with fruitless severities and correction.” While those who wrote testimonials were on the mark with their recognition of Newbery’s educational innovations, none of them, unfortunately, was prescient enough to praise the Pocket-book for its foresighted presentation of baseball.

Cricket, Little Pretty 1760

Cricket, Little Pretty 1760

At least one modern scholar has raised the cynical hypothesis that Newbery himself may have written the newspaper testimonials praising his book, doing so as part of his campaign to puff it to the public. But a more fundamental question is whether Newbery actually wrote A Little Pretty Pocket-book itself. As noted by the two testimonial writers quoted above, the book was issued anonymously. While no hard evidence of the author’s identity has ever been produced, a clear consensus among those who have written about Newbery maintain that he is, by far, the most likely candidate. The style of the book parallels the whimsical approach he displayed in most of the works he is known to have written, especially in the many humorous title pages that introduce all of his many children’s books.

If the advertisements identified above give us more confidence that A Little Pretty Pocket-book was indeed first published in 1744, then the matter of when baseball first appeared in print should now be resolved. Yes, perhaps. But it seems that one small element of doubt still remains. While we know for certain that the 1760 10th edition of Pocket-book included the famous “base-ball” page, as did all subsequent surviving editions of the book, how can we know that it appeared in each of those earlier nine editions that are now extinct? We can’t rule out the small possibility that Newbery tinkered with the book between 1744 and 1760, and that the baseball content was not part of its original makeup. The caveat here is that when we celebrate the iconic year of 1744 for giving us the earliest reference to baseball, we must do so with a small asterisk.

A couple of other little baseball mysteries attach to A Little Pretty Pocket-book, one being that of the missing bat, and the other of the missing ball. The book’s illustration of baseball depicts three boys standing next to three posts or bases. One of the players is seen raising his hands out to his sides, while a second player appears ready to toss a ball. None of them, quite plainly, is holding a bat. What does this mean? Did the artist simply overlook the necessity of drawing a bat, or was a bat not actually part of the game in 1744? To pursue these questions, I examined every known early reference to the game of baseball from both England and the United States. What I found was somewhat surprising. Of the nine instances in the 18th century where the term “baseball” appeared in either a handwritten manuscript or in a printed book, only once was there mention of a bat being part of the game. That came in a description of “English base-ball” from a German book published in 1796, in which an odd-shaped, two-foot-long bat was depicted.[4]

Base-Ball, 1760 (and 1744 too?)

Base-Ball, 1787 (and 1744 too?)

Turning next to early 19th-century baseball references from both countries, I continued to find little evidence of bat usage. In fact, after 1796 it was not until 1834, when the American author Robin Carver mentioned the use of a bat in describing “base, or goal ball” in The Book of Sports, that the terms “baseball” and “bat” were again definitively linked with each other.[5] This is not to suggest that American baseball was batless prior to 1834. Obviously, that was not the case. Ballplayers from that era, reminiscing about their experiences many years afterwards, recalled using a bat during those early decades. Moreover, young players standing with bat in hand feature prominently in woodcut illustrations of baseball-like games found in children’s books of the early 1800s.

But the question of when a bat was first introduced to the pastime remains a mystery. It is certainly possible, if not probable, that, at its outset, the game of baseball did not employ a bat, and that a bare hand was used to strike the pitched ball. The innovation of utilizing a bat may not have come about until the latter part of the 18th century. Notwithstanding the evidence of the 1796 German book, the variety of baseball that evolved in England may never have fully embraced the bat, since none of the 19th-century references to the game there mention anything about using such an implement. On the other hand, despite the absence of concrete evidence, it is quite likely that use of a bat became an integral part of the game in the United States well before the end of the 18th century. This divergence in how the pastime developed may be explained by its different social underpinnings in the two countries; in England, baseball became a pastime primarily for girls and young women, while in America it became the near-exclusive province of boys and men. The faster, larger-scaled, and, perhaps, rougher version of the sport that accompanied the adoption of the bat may well have edged beyond what was considered acceptable behavior for young English ladies of that era.

Pitcher in 1760 and 1787

Pitcher in 1760 and 1787

Then there is the matter of the missing ball, which is a puzzling result of A Little Pretty Pocket-book’s adventures in North America. With the great popularity of Newbery’s books in Britain, it was only a matter of time before they would begin to show up in the American colonies. As early as 1750, advertisements for his juvenile works were appearing in newspapers on the eastern seaboard.[6] Surprisingly, these first ads did not include A Little Pretty Pocket-book, despite it being among Newbery’s most successful titles. The first known reference to Pocket-book in the future United States did not materialize until 1762, when it appeared in an advertisement by New York bookseller Hugh Gaine.[7] But rather than importing and reselling copies produced by Newbery in England, Gaine apparently decided to cut costs by producing his own pirated edition of the children’s classic. No copies of Gaine’s edition have survived, leaving us unable to determine whether it exactly replicated Newbery’s content. From his advertisement, however, we know that Gaine abbreviated the book’s title to A Little Pretty Book, but otherwise retained all the verbosity about Master Tommy, Miss Polly, and Jack the Giant-Killer in the subtitle. The printer William Spotswood of Philadelphia appears to have introduced another such unauthorized edition of A Little Pretty Pocket-book in 1786, although, like Gaine’s, no copies are known to have survived.

Hugh Gaine's Little Pretty, New-York Mercury, Aug 30, 1762

Hugh Gaine’s Little Pretty Book, New-York Mercury, August 30, 1762

Producing pirated copies of English books seems to have been a common practice of publishers in the American colonies and the young United States. Isaiah Thomas’s familiar edition of A Little Pretty Pocket-book also falls into this category. Thomas was a prolific book publisher in Worcester, Massachusetts, and in 1787 produced a version of Newbery’s juvenile gem that remains by far the most “common” of all 18th-century editions of this work, with as many as fifty copies still in existence. Thomas, who later founded the American Antiquarian Society, retained the original ninety or so pages of Newbery’s A Little Pretty Pocket-book, but added to it another 35 pages consisting of “rules for behaviour.” Likely these were a concession to the strict Puritan ethic that carried considerable weight in 18th-century New England, though it is somewhat doubtful that Little Master Tommy and Pretty Miss Polly would have welcomed their inclusion.

Thomas made several slight changes to A Little Pretty Pocket-book’s baseball page, one of which is significant. In Newbery’s original editions, one of the players in the woodcut illustration is shown getting ready to pitch a ball. In Thomas’s Worcester edition that same player’s hand is empty. The ball had disappeared! This is peculiar because, in most other ways, the woodcuts in the two versions of the book are nearly identical. Thomas took care in copying many details of the Newbery image, such as the clothes of the boys and the features of the houses in the background. But he removed the ball. What does it mean? Was it a subliminal attempt to emasculate Newbery? Was it a protest against Newbery’s omission of a bat? Was Thomas too distracted by the sexual-harassment charges pending against him to notice? We may never know the explanation for this oddity, but, then again, does anyone other than I really care?

John Kidgell's The Card, 1755

John Kidgell’s The Card, 1755

From what we know, the pirated versions of Thomas, Gaine, and Spotswood comprised most of the copies of A Little Pretty Pocket-book that were sold in 18th-century America. Few booksellers seem to have imported Newbery’s originals for resale, and there is no evidence of any of them having done so earlier than 1772. Still, it is logical to assume that individual copies of the earlier editions printed in England crossed the ocean in the company of families emigrating to the colonies. Would these have marked the earliest landings on American shores of the term baseball? Not necessarily. In the Fall 2007 issue of this journal, I described a second book published by John Newbery, The Card, in which the term baseball also is referenced. Newbery’s publishing company issued The Card in 1755, and its survival rate greatly exceeds that of A Little Pretty Pocketbook, undoubtedly because as a book for adults it was not subject to the ravages of children. Thirty copies of the first edition of The Card still exist in American libraries, some of which reside in the collections of institutions that predate the American Revolution. It is quite possible that The Card preceded A Little Pretty Pocket-book as the earliest bearer of the word baseball to these shores. Then again, this honor may not have gone to any book at all. The author John Rowe Townsend, in describing the early importation of children’s stories and books to America, commented that “old tales and rhymes, needing no cargo space but people’s heads, crossed the ocean like stowaways with the early settlers in American colonies.”[8] These words could well be applied to the innocent games and pastimes enjoyed by those same travelers.

Earlier I mentioned that it was likely during his youthful days in Waltham St Lawrence and Reading that John Newbery acquired his knowledge of baseball. As an exercise, I thought it might be interesting to link those Berkshire locales with other early geographic indicators of the game to plot the periphery of the English landscape in which the pastime, hypothetically, may have first been played. This territory comprises a crescent that curves a few miles beyond the western and southwestern reaches of the London metropolitan area, and encompasses parts of the counties of Berkshire and Surrey, along with tiny slivers of Buckinghamshire and Oxfordshire counties as well.

Northanger Abbey 1818

Northanger Abbey 1818

The northern tip of this crescent begins near Cookham, on the River Thames, where stood Cliveden, the 18th-century country estate of Frederick, Prince of Wales. In a 1748 letter, Lady Hervey famously described Frederick’s family engaged at baseball; although she witnessed this activity at Frederick’s London residence, it was at Cliveden where the family members spent the bulk of their time and where they possibly became familiar with the game.[9] Nine miles southwest of Cookham is the tiny village of Harpsden near the town of Henley-on-Thames, located at the southeastern tip of Oxfordshire. This was the site of the childhood home of Jane Austen’s mother, Cassandra Leigh, through whom Jane likely learned about baseball (she employed the word in her novel Northanger Abbey).[10] It was here that Cassandra Leigh’s younger Oxford cousin, also named Cassandra Leigh, would visit her often. Years later that same cousin, by then writing under her married name of Cassandra Cooke, produced the novel Battleridge in which she too mentioned baseball.[11]

Ten miles south from Henley-on-Thames lies the city of Reading, where, as we have noted, John Newbery worked as a young man, and where too Jane Austen went to school for one and a half years. It was also where the author Mary Russell Mitford lived most of her years. Mitford, whose mother was a childhood friend of Austen, found multiple opportunities to use the term “baseball” in her early 19th-century writings.

Completing our tour of early baseball country, we venture 25 miles southeast of Reading to the county of Surrey, and to the village of Shere. This was the home of William Bray, the lifelong diarist whose reference to baseball in 1755 was the subject of my article in the previous issue of this journal. Joining him in having Surrey connections was John Kidgell, the author of the aforementioned, baseball-bearing 1755 book The Card.

The tight geographic concentration of these early baseball references is intriguing. While far from o›ffering decisive proof that the pastime originated within the boundaries of this fertile crescent, it does suggest a target area for further exploration. I only hope the eager burghers of the region don’t set off prematurely to challenge their counterparts in Cooperstown and Pittsfield.

By all accounts, John Newbery was a super guy. He was loving to his children and generous to his friends, who included such literary luminaries as Samuel Johnson and Oliver Goldsmith. It is also obvious that he looked fondly upon the little masters and misses who were the target audience for his children’s books—an attitude that seems to have been genuine and not simply a device for ensnaring customers. He maintained a running dialogue with his youthful readers through his writings, conveying to them that he was always looking out for their well-being, and revealing a personality that was fatherly and warmly humorous. In Britain, Newbery’s legacy is not widely celebrated, certainly not as much as those of many other literary figures. On my recent visit I asked many Brits what they knew of Newbery, and none but a few librarians were familiar with his name. No archives or libraries there have compiled a special collection of his works, nor have scholars taken a particular interest in him. The lone full biography on Newbery’s life was written in 1885, and only a few short books and a bibliography have been dedicated to him in the years since.

Newbery Medal

Newbery Medal

By contrast, his name is better known in the United States, principally because it is attached to the Newbery Medal, the award recognizing the most distinguished children’s book of the year. (Ironically, Newbery knew nothing of the United States, having died eight years before its founding.) But whether his contributions to literature are underappreciated in Britain or overblown in the States are matters of little importance to baseball historians. To us he was that farsighted young man who plucked the nascent pastime of baseball from his childhood memories and slid it into his pioneering opus of games and amusements. Without him we would not be able to gaze back in time at those first tentative steps of that toddler that was to become our National Pastime.

Notes 

Author’s note: The details of John Newbery’s biography provided in this article are generally known, and have been drawn from a variety of sources, including the Thwaite, Roscoe, and Townsend books cited below.

  1. Thwaite, M., ed. 1966. A Little Pretty Pocket-book. London (pp. 14–16).
  2. Documents filed in a 1752 legal dispute give an indication of the size of Newbery’s press runs for A Little Pretty Pocket-book. An itemization of his stock on hand stated that he currently held one thousand copies of the book in his warehouse. Welsh, C. 1885. A Bookseller of the Last Century. New York (pp. 33, 293).
  3. Roscoe, S. 1973. John Newbery and His Successors 1740–1814, a Bibliography. Wormley, Hertfordshire (p. 392).
  4. Gutsmuths, J. ¡796. Spiele zur Uebung und Erholung des Körpers und Geistes für die Jugend, ihre Erzieher und alle Freunde Unschuldiger Jugendfreuden. Schnepfenthal (p. 78).
  5. Carver, R. 1834. The Book of Sports. Boston (pp. 37–38).
  6. See, e.g., Pennsylvania Gazette: Dec. 11, 1750.
  7. New York Mercury: Aug. 30, 1762.
  8. Townsend, J. 1994. John Newbery and His Books. Metuchen, N.J./London (p. 150).
  9. Lepel, M. 1821. Letters of Mary Lepel, Lady Hervey. London (pp. 139–140).
  10. Austen, J. 1818. Northanger Abbey: and Persuasion. London.
  11. Cooke, C. 1799. Battleridge. London.

Introducing “1927: The Diary of Myles Thomas”

1922-23 Kolbs Mothers' Bread Pinback

1922-23 Kolb’s Mothers’ Bread Pinback

This is an essay I wrote for ESPN’s new project, “1927:The Diary of Myles Thomas,” which launches today. While it appears on the project’s site (espn.com/1927DMT), by posting it here as well I am hoping to reach those who read me regularly. 

I’d like to tell you about a new project coming from ESPN to which I have been invited to pull up a chair. Debuting today, it has utterly gripped me.

After a long career, it’s no fun to step again in old footprints, so I’m always on the lookout for something new. I am certain there has never been anything quite like this — the story of a team and a season expressed through what is essentially a historical novel formed by a diary, letters, and tweets; an exploration of not only a ball team but a peak year of the Jazz Age — all of it released cross-platform in real time over the course of this summer, with an outcome that is unknown not only to its protagonists but also its creators.

It is a tale told by a bit player on the ’27 Yankees — pitcher Myles Thomas. In true life, Thomas was an insignificant member of the team, and for the purposes of this work the creators are using only his baseball statistics. They are creating his diary and letters, through which Thomas will introduce us not only to his teammates but also to luminaries of the day who cavorted with the ballplayers, from Louis Armstrong and Bix Beiderbecke to Barbara Stanwyck and Al Jolson. Lesser lights may play major roles: Myles’s Penn State teammate Hinkey Haines, still the only man to play for a championship team in the NFL and in MLB; Fred Merkle of “bonehead” fame, a coach with the ’27 Yanks; Gertrude Ederle, who swam the English Channel that year; Paul Robeson, who was once Lou Gehrig’s baseball coach; Ty Cobb, John McGraw and Rube Foster. Truly, the cast would do justice to a Sol Hurok gladiator epic.

But first and last, in 1927 and perhaps in all of American legend, is Babe Ruth, the Sultan of Swat, the Beatified Bambino, the Paul Bunyan of Baseball. Had he not lived, we would have had to make him up. The embodiment of the Jazz Age, “he was a parade all by himself,” wrote Jimmy Cannon, “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….” In the summer of ’27 Charles Lindbergh would briefly eclipse Babe Ruth as the one-man parade and darling of the newsreels, but by season’s end Ruth had retaken his pedestal.

He saw it all.

He saw it all.

“1927: The Diary of Myles Thomas” never strays far from the Babe. It is a tale of jazz and speakeasies, bucket-shop brokers and movie stars, Lucky Lindy and the Great White Way. It’s about elevator boys offering stock tips, gamblers and mobsters mingling with athletes and entertainers, and socialites at Harlem nightclubs in search of thrills.

The Jazz Age was a normless bundle of contradiction — the sale of alcohol was prohibited by the Volstead Act, yet in the cities, it was readily available and saw greater demand than before it was banned. As the federal income tax had begun to make America a nation of accountants, the Prohibition era made it a nation of lawbreakers. With America’s immigration spigot shut tight by the 1920s, the melting pot had begun to boil, as the nation’s popular culture — film, music, and radio programming — bubbled up from former denizens of the bottom.

The Great War had made young people newly conscious of their mortality and impelled them to seize the moment, to live life improvisationally, to kick over their parents’ plans for them. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Tales of the Jazz Age and Colleen Moore’s film Flaming Youth provided the map to fly-boys and flappers, giving them new paths to personal freedom, led by the music of a legion of jazz pied-pipers.

“This was different, shifted the lay of the land… guys, playing and singing, writing their own material… opened up a whole world of possibilities.”

Bruce Springsteen said that about The Beatles’ impact on his life and career, but it could have been said about Louis Armstrong and his Hot Seven. Where in the 1960s, it had been hip to be cool, back in the ’20s everyone was looking for hot. It was no accident that the first big talking motion picture was named “The Jazz Singer.”

Lou Gehrig closeup by Conlon

Lou Gehrig closeup by Conlon

Myles Thomas’s diary will not be telling merely the story you think you know — about Babe Ruth and his 60 home runs, Lou Gehrig and his 173 RBIs, Murderers’ Row and their famous five o’clock lightning — instead, it will provide a peephole into the past, a view of what it was really like to be young and a Yankee in the greatest city in the world, at maybe the greatest time to be alive. In “1927: The Diary of Myles Thomas,” there will be booze, sex, drugs, and, while no rock ’n’ roll, plenty of jazz.

In the sports year 1927, the New York Giants would win the NFL title. The New York Rangers would begin their rush to capture their first Stanley Cup in their second season of existence. The New York Celtics would be champions of the American Basketball League. In New York, this was certainly the Golden Year of Sports. And it might have been fairly called that even if the Yankees had been the city’s only champion; that’s how extraordinary a team they were.

The greatest baseball team of all time? There was only one answer: the 1927 Yankees, the team that scored nearly two and a half runs per game more than their opposition — a figure surpassed only by the Yankees of 1939, and never again — and the team that coasted to the pennant, 19 games ahead of runner-up Philadelphia; who swept the Pirates in the World Series. Maybe the 1998 Yankees could have given them a run for their honors, or maybe sabermetric analysis may send you back for another look at the 1902 Pirates, but among 99 percent of baseball fans today, the legendary status of the 1927 Yankees is secure: They won 110 games and lost only 44. Their batters finished first in home runs, batting average, and RBIs — a team triple crown — yet had the fewest strikeouts in the league. Their pitchers were first in ERA and shutouts while allowing the fewest hits and walks.

1927 Yankees

1927 Yankees

What is my role in this exciting project? My goal is to play spiritedly in the principal writers’ sandbox, to scribble alongside them every now and then and, as Major League Baseball’s official historian, to assure readers that our crew’s flights of fancy will not veer far from known fact, and will never contradict it.

The goal of the project, says its creator, Douglas Alden, is “to create a work of real-time historical fiction that explores the nexus of baseball, jazz and prohibition, a deeply personal exploration by one fictional ballplayer from the 1920s of race, sex, and the meaning of heroes and greatness.” My role as historian, in short, is providing a bevy of story nuggets to the principal writers, as well as a personal “Seal of Plausibility” for all of the incidents and adventures.

And part of what makes this project so much fun is that we’re constantly discovering new facts about the 1927 real-life cast of characters that astonish us, and we’re sure will astonish you — to the point where the project will include online citations and links to our discoveries, as some of them are so hard to believe.

When imagination is thrown into the mix, well, that’s where the fun lies.

Poster Girl

Model with Lily, 1897

Model with Lily, 1897

Last week I received an unusual email from a baseball fan who will go unnamed here. It provides me with an excuse to share with you one of my (regrettably) all-too-many non-sports interests: nineteenth-century graphic art, from antebellum engravings and lithographs to Art Nouveau posters. From the email: ” My wife and I are avid fans of vintage posters, and Ethel Reed is one of our favorite artists. Some years ago, when Reed’s personal history was still more unknown than it is now, I was looking online for whatever I could find — and was stunned when I found material by a ‘John Thorn.’ I didn’t imagine it could possibly be ‘the same you’ who writes the baseball books, but I readily saw that indeed they’re both you.”

Yep. My long-dead loves include not only Ethel Reed but also Annette Kellermann, Evelyn Nesbit, and Mary Astor. But back to Miss Reed, about whom I wrote the following for the Woodstock Times ten years ago this month:

Some years ago when I wrote regularly for this paper on art, I devoted two successive columns to Edmonia Lewis, a sculptress, as they called her back in the day, of mixed Negro and American Indian breed … again as they used to say. She was a fantastic character with a propensity for self-invention, so not all the strange stories about her could be corroborated as fact, but what did it matter, if her art were fine? Born near Albany, New York on the Fourth of July 1844, according to her passport application, she lived on a reservation as a child, was educated at Oberlin, and came to fame in Boston during the Civil War. Her sculpture was at first of indifferent quality, the critics wrote, but there was to be said for it the splendid novelty of brown hands on white marble. (For those interested to learn more about her, see the two-parter “Inventing Edmonia Lewis” at: http://goo.gl/2wCsRc and http://goo.gl/U5ngWQ.)

Her supporters sent her to Rome in 1865 to advance her art, which she did: her crowning achievement, Cleopatra,was exhibited to acclaim at the Centennial Exhibition of 1876. By the turn of the century the vogue for neoclassical sculpture had waned, and Lewis ended her days in Europe. No one knows precisely where or when. I came across a census listing for her from 1901, locating her at 154 Store Street in London, near Bloomsbury, where she worked at home as an “artist/modeller.” Scholar Marilyn Richardson placed her back in Rome by decade’s end, but there the trail appeared to vanish [until recently, when Ms. Richardson’s research confirmed Edmonia Lewis’s burial at St. Mary’s Roman Catholic Cemetery, in London, in 1907]. All along for Edmonia Lewis, the life and the art had competed for public attention; at the end both receded from view.

Edmonia Lewis

Edmonia Lewis

The same could be said, almost eerily, of another Boston girl who made good, poster artist Ethel Reed, in whom I have taken a frankly obsessive interest lately since winning one of her posters in an internet auction. Like Lewis, she was a natural, a phenomenon — essentially self-taught, with only a smattering of formal instruction. Her meteoric burst of fame in the mid-1890s was followed by a failed romance, flight to Europe in mid-1896, disappearance from the published record after 1898, when she was only 24, and an end to her visible career.

Prowling on Project Wombat, an online discussion list for difficult reference questions, I came across scholar Donna Halper’s discovery of a 1901 census listing in London for an Ethel Reed residing at 106 Grosvenor Road in Pimlico with four-month-old son Anthony and servant Mary Gay, but no husband. Her occupation was recorded as “Artist (Painter)” with “Sculpt.” overwritten.

Could these two Boston émigrée artists have known about each other’s presence? Could they have chatted over tea, or absinthe? We will never know, but Google Maps made clear that, at least in mid-1901, Lewis and Reed lived only 3.1 miles apart. This is the stuff of which novels are made, I am thinking.

Ethel Reed was born in Newburyport, Massachusetts, on March 13, 1874 to photographer Edgar Eugene Reed and wife Elizabeth Mary. They moved to Amherst sometime before 1880. Ethel’s precocious artistic talents were recognized at age 12 when she entered a crayon work at the Essex County Agricultural Society Fair and was awarded a 50-cent “gratuity.” In this year she had begun some schooling with Laura Coombs Hills (1859-1952), whose attraction to Ethel dated back to a sketch of her executed six years before. Coombs went on to paint a miniature on ivory of Ethel as one of “Seven Pretty Girls of Newburyport,” shown at the Boston Water Color Club in December 1893.

Ethel Reed in 1880, Laura Coombs

Ethel Reed, 1880, Laura Coombs Hills

At this time Reed, age 19, was engaged in an unsuccessful pursuit of employ in New York City. But she soon returned to Boston, to which her family had repaired in 1890, and took on a studio of her own at 367 Boylston. She had been taking classes at the Cowles School of Art and exhibiting landscapes at the Boston Arts Students’ Association. Like many artistic souls of her generation, she was consumed with the romanticism of Keats, the exoticism of Omar Khayyam, and the formalism of Japanese art, as introduced to Boston by Harvard Professor Ernest Fenollosa.

It was during this period that her flamboyant personality was evidenced in costume balls, dance parties, pageants, and nonconformist life styles. Three months earlier, the Boston Journal (March 25, 1893) reported: “As the time for the artists’ festival approaches, society gets more and more excited over it. Young people who are born with the love of dressing up do not by any means have it all to themselves. Mr. Goodhue, the architect, is to head the King René group, as the regal ruler himself, with Miss Alexander of Cambridge as King René’s daughter; Ethel Reed, who danced so well at the pageant, as the Queen, and Mr. Herbert Copeland, Mr. Fred Day, and Mr. Abbott will be in the long train of courtiers…. Ralph Adams Cram is to be Pope Nicholas V., and will be surrounded by eighteen Cardinals.”

Several of the above-named revelers would be at the core of Bohemian Boston in the years to come. Reed would be involved in a ménage à trois with the architects Goodhue and Cram; would pose nude for the photographer Fred (Holland) Day; and would execute book designs and posters for Messrs. Copeland and Day, as well as publishers Lamson, Wolffe & Co., the Boston Herald, and others. She would become engaged to one of the Hub’s most eligible bachelors, artist Philip Hale—son of Edward Everett Hale, author of The Man without a Country—and then disengaged, fleeing to Europe in heartbreak and shame.

Girl in sheer drapery on leopard skin, in nature, reclining (Ethel Reed); photo by F. Holland Day

Girl in sheer drapery on leopard skin, in nature, reclining (Ethel Reed); photo by F. Holland Day

She had ridden the new wave: a fad of Orientalism, experiments in free love and hashish, and, crucially for the history of art in America, a craze for posters. The boom had begun in France two decades earlier, when Jules Chéret and others pioneered a new form of advertising, favoring images over text, and color over monochrome. The lines between art and commerce were blatantly blurred, and the streets of Paris became an art gallery for the common man: in the words of A. Hyatt Mayor, they were “pictures meant to be seen by people who did not mean to see them.” By the 1890s the posters became more prized than the products they advertised, and connoisseurs lined up to buy the lithographs not earmarked for the walls and kiosks of the city.

In America the first posters went primarily to advertise magazines and books. Edward Penfield heralded the new simplified, straightforward style in his posters for Harper’s in 1893. In May 1894 Will H. Bradley contributed a more sinuous style — influenced, no doubt, by England’s master of decadence, Aubrey Beardsley — to the cover of the Chap-Book.

Butterfly Thoughts

Butterfly Thoughts

Reed, meanwhile, was sending sentimental hackwork to magazines without much success. A syrupy vignette titled “Butterfly Thoughts” became her first published work when St. Nicholas magazine ran it in the June 1894 issue. In the winter of 1894-95 an unnamed friend came to Reed’s studio, saw a portrait she had painted, and suggested that she copy it to become a poster promoting the Boston Sunday Herald, with which he was associated. “You can see,” she told an interviewer in 1895 as she pointed to her painting, “that the reproduction flattened and quite spoiled the effect of the original.”

She missed the point, seemingly. It was precisely the flatness, the simplicity, the atonality, the graphic quality that made “Ladies Want It,” issued on February 24, 1895, a milestone. In that portrait and nearly all those of women that followed, a critic noted “a certain uniformity of type began to assert itself as I glanced from one to another, and it dawned upon me at last that the original of these studies was the artist herself. Later, when she confirmed my observation, I had the pleasure of congratulating her on her choice of a model.”

Ladies Want It

Ladies Want It

Ethel Reed was a striking woman, not exactly beautiful by the standards of today, and with a wide-eyed gaze that hints at madness. But in her day she was universally regarded as a dish. A writer in the Chap-Book offered: “Lamson and Wolffe’s first book was published on Washington’s birthday, ‘so timed to call attention to what we intended to make the keynote of the firm, healthy Americanism, as opposed to the general tendencies of the younger publishers toward imported realism.’ It naturally followed that the new firm should ‘discover’ Miss Ethel Reed: no healthy American would lose any time in discovering Miss Reed, if she were anywhere in sight.”

The Boston Daily Advertiser described her well in 1896:

Large, dark eyes, looking out under a wide, white brow; a rather broad, firm face, the skin clear, with what the French call a “fine pallor,” set in a mass of dull black hair above a strong neck; expressive features, the mouth begins sad; a supple figure, though sturdy withal, and of just medium height, neither tall nor short—that is Ethel Reed, the Boston girl of 21 [actually 22], whom critics have hailed as the greatest woman designer of that latest creation of modern art, the poster.

“I am governed by moods in my work,” she says, “and I cannot work when the mood is not on. It does not come at my bidding, and sometimes for a fortnight I can accomplish nothing. Then in a few hours I can dash off all that I wished to do in that fortnight.”

Fleeing Boston in the wake of being jilted by Philip Hale, she landed a position in London as the replacement for Aubrey Beardsley, who had been dismissed as editor of The Yellow Book. She commenced an affair in late 1897 with the writer Richard Le Gallienne while he was engaged to Julie Noiregard, the woman who would become his second wife.

And then she was done. A drawing of a girl with a cat appeared in the Studio Magazine of March 1898, a sad pierrot in The Sketch. Le Gallienne wrote a poem for her in 1910.

The Quest of the Golden Girl

The Quest of the Golden Girl

TO ONE WHO IS BLIND

I said I had forgotten her,

That I had put away

Our memories of Paradise

Until the Judgment Day;

That never more the laughing earth

Should see us hand in hand,

That I long since had shut the door

Of the old fairyland.

Then on a sudden came strange news

Upon the gossip wind

My love of those sweet years ago

Great God — my love was blind!

I said — the news must be a lie,

Cruel as are the years,

They could not be so merciless

To such great eyes as hers.

Little child of long ago,

God grant the news untrue!

Except for one strong selfish thought —

That I may come to you

And sit beside you in the dark,

And, as in Paradise

I gave you all my breaking heart,

Now bring to you — my eyes.

Yellow Book, January 1897

Yellow Book, January 1897

The special poignancy of Reed’s story deserved a better poem and less egotistical a poet. A. E. Housman will do:

And round that early-laurelled head

Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,

And find unwithered on its curls

The garland briefer than a girl’s.

Just a year after her work with The Yellow Book and a few other final projects, Reed disappeared entirely. Until recently, with United Kingdom’s unlocking in 2011 of its divorce records from the period 1902-1912, the story of the remaining years of her life, and even the date of her death were shrouded in mystery. William S. Peterson, professor emeritus at the University of Maryland, published a fine biography of Reed in 2013, The Beautiful Poster Lady: A Life of Ethel Reed,  which revealed that the artist died in 1912 at the age of 38. In an interview, Peterson added that in her last decade Ethel Reed “had a succession of lovers, bore two children by them, and in 1903 married an English army officer, but the marriage fell apart immediately — on the honeymoon, no less. In her final years she sank into poverty and obscurity and died of an overdose of sleeping tablets in 1912. There is no simple answer as to why she was unable to relaunch her artistic career in London, but it is worth noting that she became an alcoholic, was addicted to several drugs (including opium), had an extraordinarily turbulent love life, and frequently complained of depression and poor health.”

 

 

 

 

 

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