Continuing from yesterday’s introductory section (http://ourgame.mlblogs.com/2015/01/05/all-the-record-books-are-wrong/), Frank Williams here gets into the nuts and bolts. This spot-on trope will refresh your memory: “This wholesale ravaging of the official records was as if a team of archaeologists had come upon the monoliths of Stonehenge and, not fathoming the reason for the complex astronomical arrangement of the stones, had rearranged them into a pattern they could understand.” From masses of cryptic data, the author detects eleven distinct practices.
The first practice existed primarily from 1876 to 1904. Most pitchers went the full nine innings, but when they didn’t, the win went to the starter if he left the game with the lead and his team never relinquished it. The starter did not have to go five innings, but could get away with pitching two or three innings and still be awarded the win. A couple of examples of this are as follows (pitchers are listed only for the one team which illustrates the practice at hand):
September 27, 1902; at Baltimore–first game
Boston 4 1 3 0 0 0 1 0 0 – 9 Hughes, 4 inn., WON; Altrock, 5 inn.
Baltimore 0 0 3 2 0 2 0 0 1 – 8
April 30, 1904; at Washington
Boston 0 3 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 – 4 Winter, 2 inn., WON; Young, 7 inn.
Washington 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 – 1
The 1969 edition of Macmillan originally gave the latter win to Young, showing him at 27-16 for the 1904 season and George Winter at 7-4, but the 1982 edition has correctly given the win back to Winter, showing him at 8-4 and Young at 26-16. Macmillan failed, however, to change the relief record. Young’s record should now be 1-0 with one save, but Macmillan still shows him at 2-0. When you make any single change like that, it must be traced all the way through in order to reconcile individual and team totals.
The season of 1905 brought the first real influx of relief pitchers into baseball, and along with this came a drastic change in the awarding of won-lost decisions. It became the official scorer’s job to determine who deserved the win or defeat and then recommend this decision to his superiors, Ban Johnson or John Heydler of the National League. Neither man was shy about overruling official scorers if he disagreed with them.
The second practice, an early change in awarding won-lost decisions, covered the period 1905-15 and is best depicted in a National League game played in 1912.
June 12, 1912; at New York–Marquard’s 13th straight win
Chicago 0 2 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 – 2
New York 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 2 x – 3 Marquard, 8 inn., WON; Crandall, 1 inn.
The following explanation appeared in the New York Times of June 13, 1912:
Rube was taken out of the game in the last half of the eighth inning to allow Shafer to try his skill as a pinch-hitter. At that time, the Cubs were in the lead 2 to 1. Shafer walked and that started the rally which gave the Giants two runs and the victory. Crandall pitched the ninth inning. Well, if you must know, Marquard gets the credit for the victory. That is, the official scorer will send in such a recommendation to the Secretary of the National League. In most instances, when a pitcher is retired and the team is behind, the credit for the victory goes to the pitcher who succeeds him. The circumstances in games are so different that there is no rule to cover it and it is often a matter of judgment. The reason that Marquard received credit for yesterday’s game was because he did the bulk of the pitching, and he was not withdrawn from the game for poor pitching. In fact, Rube pitched pretty good ball. [Emphasis mine–F.W.]
Under today’s rules, Marquard would also get this win, but not for the same reason. The following examples are from American League games between 1905 and 1915 which conformed to this practice.
April 21, 1905; at Boston
Philadelphia 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 5 0 – 5 Coakley, 7 inn., Waddell, 2 inn., WON
Boston 0 0 0 0 0 1 3 0 0 – 4
Coakley was batted for in the eighth inning and left the game trailing. He was taken out for not pitching well. Waddell faced six batters in two innings and struck out five of them. In the judgment of the official scorer, he pitched better than Coakley did and thus deserved the win.
May 30, 1905; at Washington-first game
Boston 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 3 – 4 Winter, 8 inn.; Young, 1 inn., WON
Washington 1 0 0 0 2 0 0 0 0 – 3
Winter was batted for in the ninth. It wasn’t until the latest edition that Macmillan gave this win back to Young and changed his record from 17-19 to 18-19.
The third practice was the most common used in 1905-19. Under modern rules, this situation would be described as a save, but back then, it was a win. Usually, the relief pitcher finished the game and pitched more effectively in crucial situations than did any of his predecessors. The written coverage of this type of game often stated that the relief pitcher saved the game. Examples are as follows:
June 30, 1905; at New York
Philadelphia 1 0 0 0 1 1 0 2 2 – 7 Plank, 8 inn., Waddell, 1 inn., WON
New York 0 0 0 0 2 1 1 0 0 – 4
With none out in the ninth, Eddie Plank left the game leading 7-4, but Waddell pitched out of a tight situation and saved the game. According to the latest edition of Macmillan, Plank and Waddell both had 26 victories that year to lead the American League, but this is incorrect. Waddell was awarded the above game, which made him 27-10. He is also the A. L. won-lost percentage champion for 1905–as you know from the opening quiz–rather than Coakley, who was 18-8 per the practices of that time (the official sheets showed Coakley 17-8, but omitted a complete-game victory on July 10).
July 17, 1909; at Cleveland
Boston 0 0 0 0 0 5 1 0 0 – 6 Arellanes, 4 inn., Steele, 1 inn.,Wood, 4 inn., WON
Cleveland 1 0 0 1 1 1 0 0 0 – 4
Elmer Steele left this game in the bottom of the sixth inning leading 5-4, but Wood pitched one of the best strikeout games ever by a relief pitcher. In four frames, he faced 17 batters and fanned 10 of them without walking anyone. There was no doubt that he saved the game and, in line with this observed practice, was awarded the win.
June 6, 1912; at Chicago
Washington 1 0 1 0 0 0 3 0 4 – 9 Musser, 5 inn., Johnson, 4 inn., WON
Chicago 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 – 1
Johnson came into this game when the score was only 2-1 and stopped Chicago the rest of the way. There are countless more examples of this practice. Can you imagine what Macmillan did with all these games in its first edition? Every one of them must have been changed!
The fourth practice is an extension of Practice Number One, which was in effect from 1876 to 1904, but with some slight differences. Page 21 of the 1910 Spalding Guide says, “If a pitcher retires from the game after pitching four innings and his team has a big lead, which is maintained to the end, he surely should get the victory.” I would add to this that a pitcher who left a game because of an injury, illness, or banishment would also get the victory if he had the lead when he departed and his team never tied or trailed. I have combined all these situations into one practice because they go hand in hand. Moreover, I have found that the practice was not limited to a pitcher going four innings; the real point is that so long as he was not pulled for ineffectiveness, he could pick up the win. Examples follow.
May 22, 1909; at Cleveland
Washington 0 1 1 2 0 0 0 0 0 – 4 Johnson, 3 inn., WON; Hughes, 6 inn.
Cleveland 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 – 1
Johnson was batted for in the fourth because he was not feeling well and could not continue.
May 8, 1912; at Washington
Chicago 2 0 1 1 2 1 0 0 0 – 7 Benz, 1-1/3 inn., WON; Walsh, 5-2/3 inn., Lange, 2 inn.
Washington 0 0 0 0 2 0 1 2 1 – 6
Joe Benz left this game because of an injury and the relief pitchers did not pitch particularly well, so in the judgment of the official scorer, he was the winner.
May 18, 1912; at Philadelphia
Detroit 0 0 0 0 2 0 0 0 0 – 2
Philadelphia 3 0 3 0 8 4 4 2 x – 24 Coombs, 3 inn., WON; Brown, 3 inn., Pennock, 3 inn.
The fifth practice is very similar to Practice Number Four except for one main point. It works this way. Let’s say the starter for Team A is pitching strongly, but for any number of reasons except for poor pitching, he is forced to leave the game with his club ahead. The relief pitcher allows Team B to tie or go ahead, but then Team A rallies to win. If the starter has pitched at least four innings and was not driven from the box, he gets the win. This practice came down to a fine matter of judgment on the part of the official scorer, but it certainly shows up a lot in 1907-15. Examples follow.
April 20, 1912; at New York
Brooklyn 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 3 – 3
New York 0 1 0 1 0 0 0 0 2 – 4 Tesreau, 8 inn., WON; Marquard, 1 inn.
The scoring practice used in this game cost Marquard a 20-game winning streak. Rube relieved Jeff Tesreau in the top of the ninth inning with the Giants in front 2-1. Two baserunners scored on a Giant fielding error, and they trailed 3-2. Although the Giants rallied to win, the decision was given to Tesreau. The 1913 Spalding Record Book says on page 55, “As Marquard faced but three batters in the 9th inning the game was given to Tesreau on the ground that he had done the bulk of the work and that he was fully entitled to any honor which might arise therefrom.”
April 11, 1907; at Philadelphia–14 innings
Boston 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 3 0 0 0 0 4 – 8 Young, 8 inn., WON; Tannehill, 6 inn.
Philadelphia 0 0 1 0 0 0 2 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 – 4
Young was pinch-hit for in the ninth and left the game ahead 4-3. He had pitched strongly. The writeup of the game says Tannehill did not perform well in the ninth and allowed Philadelphia to tie.
September 20, 1912; at Detroit
Boston 0 0 0 1 3 0 0 0 0 – 4
Detroit 0 0 3 0 2 0 0 1 x – 6 Covington, 4 inn., WON; Lake, 5 inn.
Bill Covington had allowed only one hit through four innings when he was thrown out of the game by the umpire in the fifth. He left in front, 3-1. The official sheets, Reach Baseball Guide, and the New York Times all stated that Covington was awarded the victory. This game received a lot of attention because it was the end of Joe Wood’s 16-game winning streak.
I saved this game until last to show a slight variation in the practice. Here we have Earl Moseley allowing only one hit in six innings and being forced to leave because of an injury. He left with the game tied, but in the judgment of the scorer, he pitched longer and better than Charley Hall, and was primarily responsible for the victory.
The sixth practice was discovered by Paul MacFarlane of The Sporting News, who passed the information on to Cliff Kachline in January 1980. This practice started in 1913 and was reported in Sporting Life as follows: “Ban Johnson ruled that when a pitcher leaves the box at the end of an inning he shall not receive benefit of any runs made in the following inning. He says all runs should aid the reliever, not the previous pitcher.” The game on which Johnson ruled was played in St. Louis on July 16, 1913.
Washington 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 2 – 3 Boehling, 7 inn., Gallia, 0 inn., Hughes, 1 inn.; Johnson, 1 inn., WON
St. Louis 0 0 0 0 0 0 2 0 0 – 2
This was part of Walter Johnson’s 14-game winning streak in 1913.
The seventh practice involves the relief pitcher being held responsible for the runners left on base by the starting starting or previous pitcher. During this period, if the runners he inherited represented the winning runs and the reliever prevented them from scoring, he was often credited with the victory (this would tie into Practice Three).
August 26, 1912; at Washington-second game
St. Louis 0 0 0 0 2 0 2 0 0 – 4
Washington 0 1 1 0 0 0 1 0 0 – 3 Hughes, 6-1/3 inn.; Johnson, 2-1/3 inn., LOST
Johnson was sent in to relieve Long Tom Hughes in the seventh inning with the score tied 2-2, one out, and two men on the bases. Johnson allowed both men to score and, as was the custom of the time, he was charged for both runs.
It now came down to who was more responsible for the defeat, Hughes or Johnson. There were those who would have given the defeat to Hughes so that Walter Johnson could continue his 16-game winning streak. Ban Johnson after a couple of days ruled that Walter Johnson was the loser because with the score tied, no matter how many men were left on base by his predecessor, Johnson would have been credited with a victory had his team won out. (Full details are on page 207 of the 1913 Reach Baseball Guide).
Although this decision could have gone the other way, there are enough examples of this type of game to make it definitely an individual practice. Cliff Kachline discovered the earliest form of this manner of awarding defeats:
May 4, 1904; at Detroit
Cleveland 0 2 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 – 2 Hickey, 4-1 /3 inn.; Joss, 4-2/3 inn., LOST
Detroit 0 0 0 0 3 0 0 0 0 – 3
John Hickey started this game, but left in the fifth inning with one out and the bases filled. Addie Joss relieved and allowed a triple by Charlie Carr of Detroit. This allowed the three winning runs to score and the defeat was charged to Joss. This is proven by the fact that the official A. L. records in the 1905 Reach Baseball Guide show Hickey with an 0-1 record in 1904. Hickey pitched a complete-game loss on April 16 against Chicago. Joss is shown with a 14-10 record.
The latest edition of Macmillan shows Joss at 14-9 in 1904 and Hickey at 0-2; they did not award this defeat to Joss. A complete game-by-game breakdown of both pitchers also proves Joss should be 14-10 and Hickey 0-1. The Sporting News Hall of Fame Fact Book has the correct record for Joss.
The eighth practice is one of the most interesting ones, involving the awarding of won-lost decisions in forfeited games. Pete Palmer was the first one to come across it in research he was doing on pitching records in the dead-ball era. Thanks to an excellent article on all forfeited games in the 1978 Baseball Research Journal by Paul Doherty, I was able to find a set pattern in both the American and National Leagues for the period 1901-19.
In all forfeited games from 1901 through 1925, won-lost decisions were awarded to pitchers. There were 20 such games during this period, of which nine were less than the regulation four and a half innings (the last such contest occurring in 1914). There were no forfeited games between 1925 and 1937. All baseball record books show complete won -lost decisions without mention of forfeits because the baseball guides and official sheets of that period included them in the pitchers’ tables.
In fact, it was not until 1940 that the Spalding Baseball Guide stated, “A new clause has been added to Section Eleven in which it is provided that no victory shall be credited nor defeat charged to a pitcher in a regulation game which the umpire has forfeited.”
July 6, 1913; at Chicag0–second game, stopped in fourth inning
St. Louis 3 1 0 x – 4 Sallee (St. L.), WON
Chicago 0 0 0 x – 0 Overall (Chi.), LOST
The ninth practice was based on the theory of charging the starting pitcher with the defeat if he was the one who allowed the most runs or could be held mainly responsible for the loss. It did not matter if his team tied the game or went ahead after he left–just that they lost because of him. This really came down to a matter of judgment on the part of the official scorer, but enough examples of the type exist to warrant it as a practice of that period. Examples:
September 26,1905; at Philadelphia–10 innings
Detroit 0 0 2 0 1 1 0 0 0 2 – 6
Philadelphia 2 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 – 4 Coakley, 7 inn., LOST; Dygert, 3 inn.
June 18, 1908; at Chicago
Boston 0 0 1 0 1 0 3 0 0 – 5 Patten, 3 inn., LOST; Burchell, 5 inn.
Chicago 0 1 4 0 0 0 0 1 x – 6
July 25, 1915; at St. Louis–first game
Boston 0 1 2 1 1 0 0 3 0 – 8 Ruth, 2-1/3 inn., LOST; Mays, 3-2/3 inn., Gregg, 2 inn.
St. Louis 0 0 4 3 0 0 2 0 x – 9
Ruth was charged with all four runs in the third inning.
The tenth practice was not as common as the others, but I believe I will find more games of this nature as my research continues. Basically, it came down to one-run games in which the starter left the game behind, but the reliever got the loss because he pitched poorly and allowed the deciding runs to score. The following examples will serve to illustrate:
September 11, 1912; at St. Louis
New York 0 0 1 0 1 0 1 2 0 – 5
St. Louis 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 4 0 – 4 Powell, 7 inn.; Baumgardner, 2 inn., LOST
Jack Powell had pitched very well for St. Louis, and the report of the game in the New York Times stresses that it was George Baumgardner who pitched poorly and allowed the two runs that provided the margin of victory for New York. It was felt that Baumgardner was more responsible for the loss than Powell.
October 3, 1914; at Boston
New York 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 2 – 3
Boston 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 2 – 2 Shore, 7 inn.; Cooper, 2 inn. , LOST
Guy Cooper allowed the runs which were the margin of victory for New York. The Yankee run that scored in the first was due to fielding errors and was in no way the fault of Shore.
The eleventh and last practice awarded the decision to the middle-inning reliever when he pitched the best. Usually the reliever who finished the game strongly was given the win, but there were occasions when this did not happen.
July 22, 1915; at St. Louis
Boston 3 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 3 – 7 Foster, 1-2/3 inn., Mays, 6-1/3 inn., WON, Wood, 1 inn.
St. Louis 1 1 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 – 3
Mays went out for a pinch runner in the ninth, but his exit was not for poor pitching.
October 6, 1915; at New York–first game
Boston 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 – 2 Shore, 1 inn., Leonard, 2 inn., WON, Wood, 3 inn., Mays, 3 inn.
New York 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 – 0
Hub Leonard allowed no hits in two innings.
I have not completed the American League for the period 1901-19 and a couple of more practices may yet emerge, but it is unlikely. Although there are many more examples than those cited in this article, space limitations prevent my listing all of them. There is no doubt that both the American and National Leagues used all but the first practice starting around 1905, but no mention of them appears in print until the editor of the 1910 Spalding Guide thought to bring them up for discussion by the Baseball Writers’ Association.
This story continues, and concludes, tomorrow.
In the 1982 launch of The National Pastime, reissued by SABR (http://goo.gl/F8vukv), a previously unpublished writer named Frank J. Williams wrote a groundbreaking article. “A breakthrough,” I called it then: “the ‘Rosetta Stone’ for deciphering won-lost decisions of the dead-ball era.” In the years since, every record-keeping book, website, and organization has been guided by the principles Williams deduced from his awe-inspiring coverage of games from 1876 to 1919. Self-described as a bank accounting officer whose special interests were the Boston Braves, Red Sox, and Joe Wood, Williams carved out an enduring place in baseball literature with this one. For more about Frank, who remains an active researcher, see this, from 1999: (http://sabr.org/content/sabr-salute-frank-williams).
Pitchers were winning games long before 1876, but were not awarded victories because in an era of nearly universal complete games and restricted substitution, there was rarely a question about which pitcher to credit or debit. In 1885, as Frank Vaccaro wrote in “Origin of the Modern Pitching Win” (http://sabr.org/research/origin-modern-pitching-win), Henry Chadwick “published National League individual totals in the 1885 Spalding Guide. The practice did not catch on. The loss came later. On July 7, 1888, The Sporting News for the first time published win-loss records, and only then after the following disclaimer: ‘It seems to place the whole game upon the shoulders of the pitcher and I don’t believe it will ever become popular even with so learned a gentleman as Mr. Chadwick to father it. Certain it is that many an execrable pitcher game is won by heavy hitting at the right moment after the pitcher has done his best to lose it.'”
I heartily recommend Vaccaro’s article, published in the Baseball Research Journal in 2013. But Williams’ monumental work came thirty years earlier and should be read first. Here it is, online for the first time.
Ready, baseball experts? Here’s a quick quiz, consisting of only three questions, and–bending over backwards to be fair–I will permit you the use of any baseball encyclopedia or record book of your choosing. If you answer all three correctly, your prize is the next tour of duty as manager of the Yankees.
1. Who was the won-lost percentage leader in the American League in 1905 and what was his record?
2. How many games did Ralph Comstock win for the Boston Red Sox in 1915?
3. How many victories did Cy Young and Walter Johnson amass over their careers?
Question 1: The answer, according to both major encyclopedias–Macmillan and Grosset & Dunlap (commonly referred to as Neft-Cohen)–is Andy Coakley of the Philadelphia A’s, with a mark of 20-7. The Sporting News Record Book lists Boston’s Jess Tannehill as the leader at 22-9. The correct answer is Rube Waddell, also of the A’s, at 27-10; this may be found only in Seymour Siwoff’s Book of Baseball Records. All other sources credit Waddell with a record of 26-11; Coakley’s correct log of 18-8 is nowhere to be found.
Question 2: Both Macmillan and Neft-Cohen show the obscure Comstock at 2-0 for Boston in the three games in which he pitched. However, the results of those three games were one victory, one defeat, and one tie. Only Turkin-Thompson gives Comstock his due at 1-0.
Question 3: Over the years, Cy Young’s victory total has been given variously between 507 and 511; Johnson’s wins have been listed as 413, 414, and 416. Currently, Macmillan credits Young with 511 and Johnson 416, as does Neft-Cohen; Turkin-Thompson lists Johnson at 416 but Young at 507. The correct figures are 510 for Young and 417 for Johnson, as derived from my year-by-year, game-by-game study of the official scoring sheets housed in the Baseball Hall of Fame Library. This research, as yet not complete for all pitchers, has revealed errors in Young’s record for 1907 and Johnson’s for 1912 which are of the same nature as those in last year’s celebrated flap over the 1910 race for the American League batting title between Ty Cobb and Nap Lajoie. How these errors crept into the record and stayed there for 70-75 years I will detail later in this discussion.
In fact, the confusion surrounding these three “trick” questions is merely the tip of the iceberg represented by the period 1901-19, one in which scoring peculiarities (by modern standards) and transcription errors are legion, affecting Hall of Famers and nonentities alike. Moreover, the random, misguided, unreconciled tinkering of the last 15 years–well-intentioned though it may have been–has piled error upon error, creating a dizzying snarl of statistics which becomes harder to untangle with the appearance of each “revised” edition.
Although the mess spills over into batting and fielding records as well, for the time being I will confine myself largely to pitchers’ won-lost records of the 1901-19 era, how they went wrong, and how they can be righted once and for all. But first, a bit of history.
Until 1967, the official scoring sheets for both the American and National Leagues were unavailable to researchers. This meant that baseball reference books compiled prior to that time (such as Moreland, Richter, Lanigan, Turkin-Thompson, Reichler, et al.) were forced to base their versions of pitchers’ won-lost decisions in 1901-19 on the Spalding and Reach Baseball Guides of that period.
This method caused a number of problems. For example, from 1902 through 1906 the Spalding Guide showed two sets of pitchers’ won-lost records for the previous season for both the American and National Leagues. There were the records according to Henry Chadwick, who edited the Spalding Guide, and there were the official records put out by the two major leagues. In the 1906 guide, on page 77 Chadwick shows Christy Mathewson with a 32-8 record for 1905, and then on page 107 the National League official record has him at 31-9. The American League was treated the same way, with Chadwick listing Cy Young as 16-18 on page 121 and the American League official record showing him at 18-19 on page 145. This discrepancy was the product of Chadwick’s idiosyncratic practices in awarding wins and losses; it must be remembered that his records were unofficial.
The guides published by Spalding and Reach from 1907 through 1913 were based solely on the official records of both leagues. This continued with respect to the National League in the 1914 guides, but a strange development had occurred in the American League for the season of 1913. Ban Johnson, A. L. president, omitted won-lost decisions from the official records released to the public, believing that these did not reflect the true worth of a pitcher, and that earned run averages did. (Earned run average was an official statistic in the American League for the first time in 1913.)
In the 1914 Reach Guide, the editor, Francis Richter, put it this way:
It will be seen that in the above official record the pitchers are ranked according to percentage of earned runs, and the old way of ranking them according to games won and lost is omitted altogether. As that custom had been too well established to be discontinued at once, the Editor of the Reach Guide takes the liberty for the benefit of the readers of the Reach Guide to append the following unofficial, but substantially covered record of games won and lost and the pitchers’ rating thereunder.
In the 1915 Reach Guide, Richter did not give even an unofficial won-lost list, simply mentioning that the decisions were omitted from the official record. In the 1916 guide, Richter went back to showing an unofficial won-lost list; but instead of showing just the 1915 season, he also offered the 1914 season with the following explanation:
During the 1914 season the pitchers’ won and lost records were omitted, which had become so well established that they were regarded as indispensable alike by fans and critics. The omission created such a general protest that President Johnson announced that he would restore that pitching feature to future records. Never the less, we find the won and lost records again absent from the official figures. In obedience to public demands, we therefore append the unofficial records for both 1914 and 1915.
Ban Johnson’s policy continued right through the 1919 season, and each year the Reach Guide carried the unofficial won-lost records; Richter was always very careful to keep these separate from the regular official pitching records (E.R.A., strikeouts, etc.). After all, the Reach Guide was the American League publication and felt an obligation to keep its readers informed.
The Spalding Guide was a National League publication, however, and its editor felt no such obligation. The 1914 and 1915 Spalding Guides offered no explanation for the omissions from the official record and did not bother to show any won-lost decisions for the American League.
Unofficial won-lost records did appear in the 1916 Spalding Guide–but were thrown in with the official pitching records, accompanied by a footnote which read, “The won and lost columns are not included in averages compiled by the American League, but are inserted unofficially as a matter of record.”
This approach by the Spalding Guide, which continued through 1919 (no won-lost records were shown in the 1920 guide), was very confusing for two reasons. First, if the reader did not see the footnote, he thought he was looking at the official won-lost pitching records; and second, the footnote implied that the American League did not compile any official won-lost records during the seasons of 1915 through 1918. The American League did compile these records, but just didn’t release them to the public.
More confusion was added in the 1918 and 1919 Spalding Guides when the wording of the footnote was altered. It now read, “The won and lost and percent columns are
not included in the official averages compiled by the American League, but are obtained from official scores.”
During this period, both guides obtained their unofficial won-lost records from the weekly list of pitchers’ decisions published in The Sporting News, Sporting Life, and the Sunday edition of such newspapers as the New York Times and the Washington Post. These lists were based on what the official scorer recommended to the league secretary or president. (He could never do more than recommend: it was the secretary or president who officially compiled the pitchers’ won-lost records during the season.)
Often, when two or more pitchers were involved in a game, the official scorer’s recommendation was overruled by the league president. It was widely known that Ban Johnson, after reviewing the situation, often disagreed with his official scorers. Sometimes the dispute was made public; usually it was not. This compelled statisticians like George Moreland, who compiled many of the weekly lists that appeared in newspapers, to rely solely on the scorers’ unofficial recommendations rather than the final, official decision rendered by Johnson. Of course, the Reach and Spalding Guides were also forced to use these unofficial lists at the end of the season because Johnson did not release the official won-lost decisions.
Such, then, was the data base for the 1901-19 period which was to be used in record books and encyclopedias between 1920 and 1967. It was the best and only information available.
In the fall of 1967, the official sheets of both the American and National Leagues were made available to researchers from Information Concepts Incorporated, the organization responsible for the first edition of the Macmillan Baseball Encyclopedia. (The I.C.I. group, incidentally, disbanded shortly after the 1969 publication of “Big Mac,” but David Neft, Richard Cohen, and Jordan Deutsch of that crew went on to compile a rival encyclopedia for Grosset & Dunlap.) The researchers made a sincere and honest effort to clear up any discrepancies that existed in past major-league records. One of the major problems confronting them was the won-lost pitching records prior to 1920, particularly in the American League. The official sheets for the American League prior to 1905 had not survived and the same situation obtained in the National League prior to 1903. This meant the I.C.I. group had to reconstruct day-by-day pitching and hitting statistics for those periods.
In doing the pitching records for the American League, I.C.I. discovered that the won-lost columns on the 1914 A.L. official sheets were blank. In the National League, too, there were games in which no pitcher had been awarded a win or loss; or a pitcher was awarded a win when it should have been a loss, or vice versa; or two pitchers had been awarded the same win or loss. The I.C.I. researchers corrected most of these mistakes and were able to reconcile the individual pitchers’ won-lost records to those of the teams.
Although there were some errors of this nature, the majority of the won-lost decisions for the American League, 1905-1919, had been recorded correctly on the official sheets. Yet the researchers were perplexed by these records too: they found that in games in which two or more pitchers were used, the win or loss was awarded on a basis which did not conform to pitching rules in effect from 1920 to 1949, nor to those prevailing from 1950 to the present.
Evidently convinced that there was no consistency in these pitching practices, I..C.I. chose to apply modern standards, as is indicated on page 2328 of Macmillan I (1969):
Scoring rules governing won and lost decisions by a pitcher did not become official until 1950. It was decided that all pitching decisions during the period 1920-1949 shall stand as they are in the official records, but that for the period 1876-1919 the 1950 ruling shall be in effect. The reason for this was that since 1920 the official scorer did exist, and he had the explicit authority to award the victory based on common practice, which was very close to the rule adopted in 1950. In the pre-1920 period, however, there was no official scoring rule or common practice for wins by a pitcher and for many years no official scorer.
This wholesale ravaging of the official records was as if a team of archaeologists had come upon the monoliths of Stonehenge and, not fathoming the reason for the complex astronomical arrangement of the stones, had rearranged them into a pattern they could understand.
Of course, this switching around of wins and losses caused quite a few changes in pitchers’ won-lost records, including those of Young and Johnson. Young’s wins went from 511 down to 509 and his losses went up from 313 to 316. Johnson’s wins decreased from 416 down to 413, as did his defeats, from 279 to 277.
In 1978, I undertook a research project to verify the Boston Red Sox won-lost pitching records day by day from 1901-62, comparing my figures with the statistics compiled in the various editions of Macmillan (the current edition, published in 1982, is the fifth). I had no problem in agreeing with Macmillan’s records post-1920, but for the 1901-19 era, it was a different story. I realized that my totals for Red Sox pitchers, gleaned from a variety of sources, differed so much from Macmillan’s that I would have to go to the Hall of Fame Library and go through the official sheets for the American League.
Despite the lack of official sheets from 1901 through 1904, I did not find those four seasons that hard to check because most of the games featured only one pitcher per team and the official won-lost records were in the Reach and Spalding Guides. The 1905-19 period was not so easy, as I had to start matching written newspaper accounts against the official sheets in order to ascertain the official scorer’s thinking in awarding a decision. This prodedure worked out amazingly well: a consistent pattern emerged on all won-lost decisions for Red Sox pitchers. Many of these practices were completely foreign to anything in use today.
I began to wonder if these practices might apply to other American League teams, and if they were common in the National League, too. This started me on a course of doing other teams’ pitchers on a day-by-day basis for 1905-19 and, sure enough, I found the same common practices in effect. I also found that Irwin Howe, A. L. statistician, had released pitching won-lost records in 1914 to The Sporting News, Sporting Life, New York Times, Washington Post, etc. This solved the dilemma of the blank won-lost columns on the 1914 A. L. official pitching sheets.
All of this plus invaluable information, advice, and help from SABR members Cliff Kachline, Ed Walton, Bob Wood, Pete Palmer, John Thorn, Paul Doherty, Don Luce, Bill Gavin, and former Boston Red Sox pitcher Smoky Joe Wood, brought about a list of common scoring practices used in both the American and National Leagues between 1901 and 1919. Had these practices been known to the I.C .I. researchers 15 years ago, we would have a perfect set of won-lost records today.
This story continues tomorrow.
Gil Hodges fell short of election to the Baseball Hall of Fame yet again. As Bill Madden wrote after this latest snub, Hodges “holds the dubious distinction of the most total votes of anyone not elected to the Hall of Fame, [and] got as high as 63.4 percent in 1983, his last year of eligibility on the writers’ ballot.” Requiring 12 of the 16 ballots cast by the Hall’s triennial Golden Era Committee, Hodges elicited nine votes in 2011 but three or fewer this time around (the Hall did not release actual figures for those with totals less than three). Even folks who saw him play–and, like myself, thought him a fine man and a very good player–have conceded that it is at last appropriate to remove him from consideration. But perhaps for the last time, let’s sum up the positives.
As a Brooklyn Dodger, Gil Hodges was the quietest man on a quiet team. He drove in plenty of runs and hit his share of homers and was, like Joe Adcock and Ted Kluszewski, the prototypical 1950s big slugging first baseman. Not as huge as his peers, he was nonetheless usually considered the strongest, with hands so big some said he didn’t really need a mitt. Gil was a smoothie around first base, graceful and agile, by many accounts one of the best ever. He had come to Ebbets Field as a catcher, but Leo Durocher gave that job to Roy Campanella in 1948 and asked Hodges to try first base. That move sent Jackie Robinson to his more natural position, second base, and solidified the Dodger infield for the glory years of 1949-1956.
Gil spent his last two years as a part-timer on Casey Stengel’s expansion Mets of 1962 and 1963, splitting first-base duties with “Marvelous Marv” Throneberry. Perhaps his grim experience of going 0 for 21 in the 1952 World Series prepared him for life with losing teams, for after he retired as a player he went on to manage the expansion Washington Senators for five years. Then the Mets acquired him in a “trade” ($100,000 and pitcher Bill Denehy) and in 1968 made him their manager.
Previous Met helmsmen had mastered the art of comedy: Casey Stengel (who said to Tracy Stallard of his 1963 team, “After this season they’re gonna tear this place [the Polo Grounds] down; the way you’re going the right-field stands will be gone already”); and Wes Westrum (after a close game he said, “That was a real cliff dweller”). But Hodges, not exactly a jolly sort, was brought in to win. He instilled discipline and inspired performance. His 1968 team improved by a dozen games. The next year brought two equally implausible events: man walking on the moon and the Mets winning the World Series. The Shea Stadium version of Mission Control was named Gil Hodges.
This article was published in the Woodstock Times on October 20, 2004. It is a successor to an earlier piece that first ran there, “Finding Frank Pidgeon,” that may be read here: http://ourgame.mlblogs.com/2011/10/03/finding-frank-pidgeon/. There is not much here about the baseball days of the Brooklyn Eckfords’ star pitcher, who sailed to California in the Gold Rush of 1849, but there is plenty for the spelunker in American history.
In my last column, in which I weighed the benefits of attending a grade-school reunion (I did; it was great), I mused that it might be a good thing to sense that all of one’s life is connected, and not just one damn thing after another. Three months earlier, in my first column for this paper, “Finding Frank Pidgeon,” I asked readers to supply further information about the once-famous pitcher-inventor-painter who, as it turned out, was buried on Main Street in Saugerties. The sound you are about to hear is the other shoe dropping.
In the first week after the Pidgeon story hit print I received a call from Matthew Leaycraft, a descendant of Frank Pidgeon who differed with my interpretation of how the great man had died (it seemed like suicide to me) but all the same was pleased that his life had come into public view once again. He mentioned that Annie Eliza Pidgeon Searing, one of Frank’s four daughters, had attended Vassar, was an activist for women’s rights, and had written a book for children. Long out of print, When Granny Was a Little Girl detailed life in the Pidgeon household in Saugerties (in the hamlet of Malden, along the Hudson) in the 1860s and ’70s. Among many other interesting bits about his legacy, Mr. Leaycraft said that the figurehead of the ship Albany, which had borne Frank Pidgeon and other New Yorkers to California in the golden year of 1849, had once stood on the lawn of the family’s home in Malden and was now on display at the Museum of the City of New York (MCNY).
The story of the reaper-styled figurehead was intriguing; as a frequent visitor to the MCNY, I was certain that I had seen it there among the many marine treasures. But what seized my imagination was the very existence of the book–a family log not only of life in Saugerties, where I had lived with my own family for 17 years, but perhaps a uniquely personal look at one of the giants of early baseball. I went online to used-book retailer abebooks.com and located a copy immediately.
Receiving the book in the mail a week later, I read it through in one sitting. Published in 1926, when A.E.P. Searing was nearly 70, these personal reminiscences written over many years recreated an idyllic family life along the Hudson that had long since disappeared. When Granny Was a Little Girl was so charming a memoir that I scarcely regretted the absence of anything to do with baseball. It included a splendid chapter on a steamer visit to New York City and a meeting with P.T. Barnum and Tom Thumb; a glimpse of Abraham Lincoln’s funeral train, northbound in April 1865; and an entire chapter on the voyage of the Albany and the stunning arrival of its figurehead at the Pidgeon homestead.
Stricken dumb with awe, the little ones watched as a giant man carved out of wood, weather-beaten with age, and bound about with ropes, was lowered to the ground. The huge image was carrying a sheaf of wheat over one arm, and in his other hand he held a sickle. He was dressed in knee-breeches, and a shirt open at the neck, and on his head was a very queer, old-fashioned flat-topped hat.” The children were impatient to learn the story behind this odd statue that their mother called a figurehead.
“Well,” their father began, “your mother was right in her guess – it is the figurehead of the ship Albany in which I went to California in ’49. The old square-rigger must have gone to pieces years ago, and, as is the custom when they break up old ships, the parts were sold for junk. This figurehead–a very fine one–I found by chance in a junk shop on South Street in New York.”
“I don’t see,” Mollie broke in, “why the ship was named Albany when the figure on the bow was a man reaping?”
“Good,” said Father; “very intelligent of you to notice that, Daughter. The name of the vessel had been the Reaper, and under that name she had sailed all over the world. She had been a whaler when Yankee ships were the great whale-hunters of the seas, and then a cargo-carrier to Oriental ports. True to her name, she had reaped harvests of profits to her owners all over the world, and when she was getting old, the gold fever came, and they fitted her up to go round the Horn with a shipful of young gold-hunters from New York State, and out of compliment to them, they changed her name to Albany….”
A.E.P. Searing mentioned two other distinguished shipmates of her father’s on that vessel: Henry Meiggs of Catskill, who later perpetrated a famous fraud on the residents of San Francisco and skipped town, though he later won fame as a railroad builder in the Andes; and George Steers, with whom her father had worked in the New York and Brooklyn shipyards and who would go on to design the famous yacht America, for which the racing cup is still named.
Might other notables, baseball or otherwise, have been on board? I wrote to the Society of California Pioneers, whose librarian, Pat Keats, had been so helpful in my research of two baseball argonauts, Alexander Cartwright and William R. Wheaton. Had a passenger list of the Albany survived? Passenger lists of 1850-79 had been published in four volumes, Ms. Keats said, but according to the U.S. Harbor Master of San Francisco in June 1851, “original records of the arrivals from March 26 to July 1, 1849 were defaced in the fire by water and mud, and some portions were entirely destroyed and others rendered unintelligible and difficult to be copied.”
I cast about on the web, and at sfgenealogy.com I found that the Albany had sailed from New York in January 1849 [January 9, to be precise] and, presumably because of bad weather, had not arrived in San Francisco until mid-July [July 7, to be precise] … and what was more, the site had a complete passenger list. It included “F. Pidgeon” and “H. Meiggs,” but not “G. Steers.” Mrs. Searing was wrong; Steers was busy building ships rather than boarding them. Maybe this slip was just a bit of poetic license, or an isolated careless recollection, but it made me suspect her report of the figurehead.
Setting sail on the web once more, I navigated through old newspapers (New York Times, Brooklyn Eagle, San Francisco Alta), nautical and historical books (via the digital libraries of Proquest, Project Gutenberg, Questia, and the Making of America), and specialized sites such as maritimeheritgae.org and mysticseaport.org. The wind was up, and I rode the waves confidently. I discovered that the Albany had been built between 1843 and 1846, had served nobly in the Mexican War, and was lost at sea in 1854. A second Albany had been launched in 1864 but was placed out of commission only six years later, and sold for scrap in an auction advertised in the New York Times on December 3, 1872. Was this second Albany the source of Frank Pidgeon’s figurehead?
Not yet satisfied, I wrote to the MCNY, which I thought might have received some clue as to the provenance and origin of the figurehead upon its acquisition. The Curator of Paintings and Sculpture, Andrea Fahnestock, replied:
The donor of the object in 1937 was Augustus Van Horne Ellis of Pelham Manor. The object’s file indicates that the figurehead was carved c. 1831 for the packet ship Albany when it was built at the yard of Christian Bergh & Co. near Corlears Hook. It is said to have served as one of the principal packet ships of the Havre-Whitlock Line for 16 years. There is no notation of the source of this information. The base on which the figure rests, made later, bears a carved inscription that records the speed of a New York-San Francisco voyage made between January and July 1849. Minutes from the Marine Museum (previous owner of the object) from 1937 read as follows: “It is of interest to note that the father of the donor sailed in the Albany as a passenger, from New York to San Francisco, in 1849, the passage taking six months.”
I glanced again at the passenger list, and sure enough, one of the passengers was John Ellis. Now, Mr. Leaycraft had told me that the figurehead had found its way up to Maine sometime after Frank Pidgeon’s death in 1884. Mrs. Augustus Van Horne Ellis, whose husband was to donate the figurehead to the Maritime Museum (and thence MCNY) in 1937, told a member of the Pidgeon family that the figurehead had stood in the garden of John Ellis’s Mt. Desert Island home in 1888, when she married into the family. I thus had to presume, with two shipmates of the 1849 Albany proudly displaying the figurehead, it was unlikely to have come from another ship, even one of the same name.
Back to shore, and back to the web. Now I searched shipping records from 1831, when the packet ship Albany began to ply the Havre line, to beyond 1854, when the first Albany was lost at sea. I found a packet ship Albany making voyages between New York and Spain in the 1820s, and another sailing regularly to Le Havre from 1832 to 1848. And then, in the New York Times of November 12, 1855–a year after the Albany’s presumed disappearance–I found a merchant vessel named Albany cleared to depart New York for port unstated. Here the fact of my ignorance dawned upon me: I had confused a naval vessel Albany (1846-54) with a merchant vessel Albany (1831-??).
And yet the question remained: why would Frank Pidgeon call the Albany a refitted Reaper? Was his vessel the packet ship Albany, built by Christian Bergh, or was it something else? Now I set off on the web for mentions of a pre-1849 vessel named Reaper, and I found plenty.
I was most drawn to a Reaper built in Medford, Massachusetts in 1808, and another that was built in Middletown, Connecticut, in 1819. Both were brigs, and the latter was of a tonnage comparable to that of the 1849 Albany. The former plied the Orient and was involved in a celebrated neutrality dispute during the War of 1812, but it may have been “sold foreign” in 1813, according to Glenn Gordinier, Historian at Mystic Seaport. The 1819 Reaper, however, had a figurehead and its log book, which came on the market three years ago, was described by the auctioneer as: “Detailed and lengthy ship’s journal kept on a whaling cruise, notable for accounts of whale chases marked by pictures of whales drawn in the margins. With pencil scrawl on the front cover noting it as the ‘Log kept by William F(?) Brown Ship Reaper of Nantucket.’ … Information from the National Archives and Records Service describes ship as ‘having 2 decks, 3 masts, a square stern, a bust head, and no galleries, as being 101 feet 6 inches long, 338 30/95 tons. It was built at Middletown, Connecticut, in 1819.'”
This brig Reaper also sailed in 1832 from Acra, Africa to Edgartown, Massachusetts. In 1836-37 it took part in the slave trade, according to Captain Theophilus Conneau in A Slaver’s Log Book or 20 Years’ Residence in Africa.
In a very recent message, Ms. Fahnestock of the MCNY wrote: “I just found a reference in a caption for the figurehead in a 1978 book of ours titled The City of New York that repeats the other information I gave you from the file, but also says: ‘This figurehead was rescued when the ship was sold for the last time in 1863.'” I now believe that the story told in When Granny Was a Little Girl is largely correct. There was a brig Reaper that became the ship Albany. The packet ship built in 1831 was a different vessel.
All this I found on the web, never leaving my hometown. Twenty years ago, when a book I was researching required access to the Library of Congress and National Archives, I was compelled to take a train and book a hotel room for a week to accomplish what I now can do in an evening.
I can’t be sure just yet, though; even after many exhilarating evenings of web trawling, I still must return to the old ways if I want to do this right. Back to searching methodically but joyously for the needle in a field of haystacks–certain of finding other, greater things by not looking for them–but now I know which haystacks look especially promising.
What explains the impulse to engage in such a seemingly arduous and perhaps pointless pursuit? I don’t know. It feels like play to me.
The American Communist Party thought it was. Through the 1920s and until the mid-1930s, the party considered athletics a bourgeois distraction, and did not report on sports in the Daily Worker. The youth party paper, Young Worker, called baseball “a method used in distracting … the American workers from their miserable conditions.” In the ’30s, however, as the otherwise unidentifiable mischaDC wrote in 2006: “Part of the goal was to get the party out of its immigrant niche. One way of doing this was to expand the Daily Worker from a party newssheet to an American paper. A sports section was the key. Mike Gold, a Daily Worker writer, later said: ‘When you run the news of a strike alongside the news of a baseball game, you’re making American workers feel at home. It gives them the feeling that communism is nothing strange or foreign, but is as real as baseball.'” [http://goo.gl/XmfLb6]
In 1936 the American Communist Party hired Lester Rodney as a sportswriter, and he went on to have a profound influence on baseball’s eventual racial integration. But that is a story for another day. Today I’d like to focus on Michael or “Mike” Gold–either way, a pen name for Itzok (Isaac) Granich (1894-1967). He first wrote for the radical monthly The Masses under the name Irwin Granich, and adopted the nom de plume of Mike Gold in 1919, reportedly from a Jewish veteran of the Civil War whom he admired for having fought to “free the slaves.” In 1930 he published his first and only novel, Jews Without Money, which was widely read and translated into other languages; with this he became America’s most famous proletarian writer. Sinclair Lewis praised him–in the same sentence with Hemingway, Faulkner, Wolfe, and Dos Passos–upon receiving his Nobel Prize in Literature that year.
Three years later Gold became a columnist for the Daily Worker, a role he would retain until the end of his life. His unflagging dedication to the Soviet Union led him to some uncomfortable policy decisions (to uphold, for example, the invasion of Hungary in 1956) and to some grim, humorless prose.
He wrote one baseball column for the Daily Worker, evidently in October 1934, which holds archaeological interest for readers of Our Game: “Baseball Is a Racket,” offered below. For what it’s worth, I agree with him about Mother’s Day.
We are in the process of watching the birth and evolution of a new national hero. He appears to be a tall, gangling young man with a strong right arm who hails from the cotton belt, and pitches a terrifically fast ball for nine innings a few times a week. At present his name is known to probably more Americans than the name of, let’s say, Nicholas Murray Butler [president of Columbia University and Republican Party power broker–ED.] , who also amuses his countrymen. Down in Sportsman’s Park, in Saint Looie, a crowd of 50,000 citizens howl themselves hoarse when the name of Dizzy Dean roars from the umpire’s mouth. According to private reports, even the Mississippi “lifts itself from its long bed” when the Dizzy goes to the mound to put on his stuff for the honor of St. Louis and a couple of extra thousand dollars World Series money for Frankie Frisch’s boys.
Dizzy seems to be quite a boy. Not only did he single-handedly, it appears, win the pennant for St. Louis, but he has managed to accumulate around himself a whole mythology of legends that would do justice to any of the old Greek gods. Dizzy’s what the boys on the sport sheets call “color” stuff. Strong right arm for pitching, but kinda weak upstairs.
In the fourth game of the Series Dizzy got slammed with a fast ball trying to break up a double play. It smacked him square in the forehead. It would have been curtains for an ordinary mortal, but not for Dizzy; he just passed out cold for a couple of seconds and then came to fresh as a daisy.
Furthermore, it appears that Dizzy has a heart as big as a wagon. After Saturday’s ball game, a couple of smartly dressed gentlemen tried to pick Dean up in their fast roadster as he was leaving the ball park. They offered to drive him back to the hotel. Dizzy, whose heart seems to be unspoiled and whose mind is a bit weak, grandly accepted the offer. He almost gave poor Sam Breadon, the Cardinal’s president, heart-failure. “My god,” yelled Sam, “haven’t you ever heard of gamblers and kidnappers?” But Dizzy just beamed, the idol light shining from his face. Dizzy’s going around town now with a police guard.
With each successive game the fables about the Dizzy Dean grow. It helps business along, piles up the gate receipts, gives the newsboys from the big city papers something to write about, and continues building the tradition of glamor and prowess that surround the heroes of the diamond. Dizzy seems to be a simple-minded, Ring Lardner “You Know Me Al” ball player, raised down in the Southwest on grits and cornbread, gifted with a powerful pitching arm and a keen pair of eyes. But the stockholders of the St. Louis Cardinals and the racketeers and speculators who infest organized baseball as they do every other national sport in the country today, have a keener eye than Dizzy’s pitching ones and a stronger arm when it comes
to counting the season’s profits.
Like everything else in the country, baseball is not run primarily for the fans, but for the pocketbooks of the stockholders. Communists are often ridiculed for their insistence that everything in the present capitalist system is a “racket.” Hollywood recently caricatured the Communist who shouts on Mother’s Day, “It’s a racket!” Well, it is. It’s a racket for the flower merchants, for the candy manufacturers, for the pulpit. The sickening sentimentality that is deliberately fostered by the manufacturers, the false mother-love decorations that surround the price on the box of flowers, attest to the way the emotions of people are deliberately and viciously exploited by the manufacturer for his own profit. Baseball, too, the love of sport, is deliberately and viciously exploited by the promoters.
Dizzy probably loves baseball. So do millions of other Americans. I remember that we all wanted to learn how to throw a two-finger drop earlier than we wanted to learn why the earth turns around the sun, or the origin of surplus value. But there is a sharp division made in the life of people today: sport, active participation in sport, stops early in life. Life under capitalism is not an integrated life, it is not full in the sense that sport is looked upon as one of the activities of a fully developed man. And, strange as it may seem, to those who see the Communist as a professional kill joy, he has a firmer, richer belief in the development of the full man, than the health culturist like Bernarr Macfadden, whose advertising caters to the sick and the shamed, or the neo-Humanist, whose “full” life is an abstraction born of the library.
One has only to look at the Soviet Union to see how sport is deliberately organized as part of the whole life of the proletariat. But in America, baseball is a different thing. There were 50,000 fans out there in St. Louis and 50,000 more in Detroit shouting their heads off every time Pepper Martin took a head-first slide into second or Hank Greenberg leaned his bat against a fast ball.
They were playing in the World Series too. It was vicarious baseball for the masses, phantoms of their own longing were smacking out homers, striking out the third man with the bases full, or making a miraculous stop of a line hit.
Workers love baseball. But baseball, in its own way, is used as an “opium of the people.” The “bosses” are cashing in on the “heroes” and cashing in on the frustrated love of the people for sports.
My friend David Shoebotham sent me the following, in email today. David is a sabermetric pioneer, as the inventor of Relative Batting Average (Baseball Research Journal, 1976; reprinted here: http://ourgame.mlblogs.com/2012/03/17/relative-batting-average-landmarks-of-sabermetrics-part-iii/).
I very much enjoyed the Bob Carroll article you reprinted in your blog. I remember it very well from when it first came out. And, yes, like you, I enjoyed Bob’s writing style.
Re-reading the article made me think a little – something I need to do more these days. Since a certain percentage of any team’s runs are not “batted in,” maybe it makes more sense to compare any given player’s RBIs to his team’s RBIs rather than just its runs scored.
Also, as I computed a long time ago (in a galaxy far, far away?), the percentage runs that are batted in has gradually increased over time as fielder’s gloves and the interpretation of certain rules have evolved. The graph below shows that evolution for the National League from 1876 to the present. (The American League’s graph is very similar from 1901 to the present.) Amazing that in the beginning not even 2/3 of all runs were batted in. Ouch. Fielding without a glove was painful. And note the big jump around 1920. I think that’s about the time when gloves with webs between the thumb and forefinger became popular.
Anyway, I thought it would be fun to look at players’ RBIs as a percentage of their team’s RBIs rather than their team’s runs. The results are shown below. Nate Colbert still tops the list, and as you can see he had almost a quarter of San Diego’s RBIs in 1972. I’ve identified 23 players whose RBI totals exceeded 20% of their team’s totals, including several from the pre-1920 Dead-Ball Era. (Since I did this on-the-run, so to speak, I don’t claim these results are at all complete.)
It’s obvious that players who have teammates who are good RBI men (think Ruth and Gehrig) and players who walk a lot are at a disadvantage in this kind of calculation. Also American League players since 1972 are at a disadvantage because of the Designated Hitter Rule.
Anyway, thanks for the article. It was fun.
They set out from Chicago on October 20, 1888, and didn’t return to the United States until April 6, 1889. It was Albert Goodwill Spalding’s world tour, an attempt to spread the baseball gospel (and his sporting-goods empire) to the four corners of the known universe. Previously Spalding, Al Reach, and the Wright brothers had organized a midseason English tour in 1874 that pulled the Boston Red Stockings and Philadelphia Athletics out of league play for nearly two months. Cricket teams from Britain had toured the U.S. as early as 1859, and Harry Wright and Al Spalding wanted to return the favor. But when they got there, the Brits didn’t want to see baseball, they wanted cricket. The baseball players complied, and their unorthodox style of slugging won bemused praise.
The 1888 tour was comprised of the Chicago White Stockings, led by Cap Anson, who had also been part of the English tour fourteen years earlier, and an all-star group selected from other teams in both leagues (the All-Americas). After departing by rail from Chicago, the barnstormers played games in St. Paul and Minneapolis, then meandered through the West with stops to play games in Cedar Rapids, Des Moines, Omaha, Hastings, Denver, Colorado Springs, and Salt Lake City. They reached California in early November, buttressed by by such stragglers as John Ward and Cannonball Crane, who had been detained in St. Louis to complete the Giants’ victory over the Browns in the World Series.
The All-American Tourists, shown in this oversize, singularly splendid lithograph, played games in San Francisco and Los Angeles before setting sail (and steam) for the Sandwich Islands, known today as Hawaii. The main isle of Oahu had been the home for nearly forty years of none other than Alexander Cartwright, an original member of the Knickerbocker Base Ball Club of New York and known to Spalding and Ward as a pioneer of baseball. Hawaii was the first stop for Spalding’s Tourists, but they arrived in port late, on a Saturday, and playing ball on Sunday was out of the question. More important, they had to make up for days lost at sea, so, after the previous evening’s day’s festivities, the players didn’t even stay the night on Sunday. Spalding never did get to meet Cartwright.
The tour continued to New Zealand and Australia, and onward to Ceylon and Egypt. It proceeded to the mainland of Europe, with scenic stops to play ball at the Borghese Gardens in Rome (they tried for the Coliseum and were rebuffed) and next to the Eiffel Tower in Paris. They finished up in the British Isles, where the Queen’s subjects admired the way the Americans fielded but disapproved of the pitching (too difficult) and the batting (too weak, and, unlike cricket, too soon over).
The returning heroes were honored at a banquet at Delmonico’s restaurant in New York on April 8, 1889, where former National League president Abraham G. Mills declared that baseball was purely an American invention, and the audience responded by pounding the tables and shouting, “No rounders! No rounders!” Mark Twain, unwittingly assuming that the Tourists had played in Hawaii, reminisced about his own four months in the Sandwich Islands in 1866. He pointed up the incongruity of that sylvan setting and baseball, “the very symbol, the outward and visible expression of the drive and push and rush and struggle of the raging, tearing, booming nineteenth century.”
In the years to come, Spalding ballyhooed the importance of his two tours, but in truth both were artistic, financial, and ideological flops. The game took off in places visited not by ambassadors of baseball but by our military and our missionaries–Japan, Cuba, the Caribbean basin, Mexico. A 1913-1914 tour (populated by Nixey Callahan’s Chicago White Sox and John McGraw’s New York Giants) made a stop in Japan, and later had a grand return celebration in March 1914. That tour also zigzagged across the American West before heading across the ocean. Sixty-seven people were in the traveling party, including players’ wives and a recording scribe, Ring Lardner.
But the most important baseball tour took place in 1934, the second by major leaguers to Japan in the decade (another group had traveled there in 1931, including Hall of Famers Ty Cobb, Lou Gehrig, Lefty Grove, Al Simmons, and Frankie Frisch, as well as baseball’s unofficial ambassador to Japan, Lefty O’Doul). But the 1934 visit is the one given credit for finally turning the Japanese into huge baseball fans. Part of the reason was the cast: Babe Ruth, Jimmie Foxx, Charlie Gehringer, Lefty Gomez, and Rabbit Maranville, as well as Gehrig, Frisch, Simmons, O’Doul, and the spy Moe Berg. The Japanese lost every one of the eighteen games played, by wide margins, except one: Eiji Sawamura was the losing pitcher in a 1-0 thriller in which he struck out Gehringer, Ruth, Gehrig, and Foxx in succession. Two years later, Japan formed its own professional league. Today Japan’s equivalent of MLB’s Cy Young Award is the Sawamura Award (see: http://goo.gl/b3470i).
Pedagogical demonstrations did not make baseball flourish in Colombo or Cairo, but competitive play turned the trick in Osaka and Tokyo.
“East is East, and West is West,” wrote Kipling, “and never the twain shall meet.” Yet isn’t it fascinating that baseball is the national game of the United States and of Japan, and is regarded by each country as the embodiment of its unique culture? We seem very different, Americans and Japanese, so how can baseball/besuboru perfectly mirror both? Is the game so different in each locale, or are the two peoples perhaps not so different after all?
The game had been played in Japan since 1873, when instructor Horace Wilson taught it to his Japanese students. Visiting University of Washington students played Japanese teams in 1908 and lost four of ten games; the Reach All-Americas also came to Japan that year. Professional tours followed, with major-league baseball aggregations playing in Japan in 1913, 1920, 1922 (including Casey Stengel), 1928 (led by Ty Cobb), 1931, and 1934. In 1927 and 1932 the Philadelphia Royal Giants of the Negro Leagues toured, and they greatly impressed the Japanese with their competitive spirit (many of the white All-Stars took the exhibitions less seriously than the Japanese felt they should). By 1936 Japan had its first professional baseball league.
After a cessation of tours because of growing hostility between the nations, culminating in the Second World War, a U.S. team (Lefty O’Doul’s San Francisco Seals) returned to Japan in 1949. After that, November was typically marked by the appearance of a U.S. major league team, including the Dodgers, Yankees, or Giants.
The 1934 tour was memorable for the massive display of affection for Babe Ruth. In retrospect, however, when we think of that tour, we think of catcher-soldier-spy Moe Berg.
Japan today sends many of its stars to play in the U.S. Kipling could not have imagined this.
My dear friend and frequent collaborator Bob Carroll died some years ago. I remember him for a myriad of personal things, but in his professional life he was a Ripley-esque cartoonist and possessed a colorful writing style, unlike that of anyone else I knew (“He could hit home runs … but he also fanned more often than Scarlett O’Hara during a Georgia July.”) With SABR’s reissue of the first number of The National Pastime (1982), Bob springs back into action with this article, the opening one in that debut publication. (If you’d like to read the entire TNP, go here: http://sabr.org/latest/sabr-digital-library-tnp-premiere-issue.)
Nate Colbert set a single-season RBI record in 1972; hardly anyone noticed. Even today—ten years after the fact [ED: The record still stands, 43 years after the fact]—few fans and fewer record books are aware of the big right-handed slugger’s accomplishment. In fact, if it hadn’t been for his performance on August 1 of that year—the best single day ever enjoyed by a major-league hitter—he might not be remembered at all.
Some of Colbert’s obscurity may be blamed on the season. Nineteen seventy-two was not the happiest of baseball years. It began with Gil Hodges’ fatal heart attack at spring training and ended with Roberto Clemente’s tragic death in an airplane crash. In between, a player walkout shortened the season by 13 days.
Another strike against Colbert was his team. The ’72 San Diego Padres weren’t quite the worst club in the National League—the Phillies were .001 lower—but it was hard to get excited about anything that happened on a 58-95 team sporting a .227 team batting average. Unless you had a cousin on the roster, you probably wouldn’t even read the Padres’ box scores.
A third strike on Colbert was his habit of missing third strikes. He could hit home runs and keep his batting average higher than his weight, but he also fanned more often than Scarlett O’Hara during a Georgia July. On average, he struck out every fourth time he went to bat. Among ten-year men, only Dave Kingman has been easier prey.
All in all, Nate was the wrong player on the wrong ream in the wrong year to be making his mark on history.
His record doesn’t reveal itself by a cursory glance at his batting stats for 1972: a .250 average, with 38 home runs and 111 RBIs. Forget the 127 strikeouts and it’s a good year. But great? Record-setting?
Take a look at San Diego’s team batting. During the whole season, the Padres managed a mere 488 runs. Why, it seemed like the 1927 Yankees had that many by Memorial Day!
Now, put the figures together. Colbert batted in 22.75 percent of his team’s runs! Think of it this way: each batter makes up 11.1% of his team’s lineup; Colbert did the work of two and then some. No major-league batter has ever done more for his team.
“How Nate ever knocked in 111 runs that otherwise dismal season has puzzled the experts ever since,” says Padre statistician Mil Chipp. “He usually batted behind Derrel Thomas, Dave Roberts, and Jerry Morales. And none of them were that adept at getting on base. Thomas’s on-base percentage in 1972 was 29%, Roberts’ was 28% and Morales’ 31%.” Colbert himself led the team with his modest 34% OBP.
It was no contest in RBIs. Chipp points out: “The only Padre players ‘close’ to Nate … were Leron Lee (47) and Clarence Gaston (44). They were light years away.”
There is a certain element of controversy involved in any RBI record: is it the man or the opportunity? Ever since the ribbie was dreamed up, some fans have opposed it as a measure of individual achievement. At the end of the 1880 National League season, according to Preston D. Orem’s Baseball (1845-1881) from the Newspaper Accounts, “the Chicago Tribune proudly presented the ‘Runs Batted In’ record of the Chicago players for the season, showing Anson and Kelly in the lead. Readers were unimpressed. Objections were that the men who led off, Dalrymple and Gore, did not have the same opportunities to knock in runs. The paper actually wound up almost apologizing for the computation.”
Ernie Lanigan, patron saint of ribbies, in his 1922 Baseball Cyclopedia, observed, “As far back as 1879 a Buffalo paper used to include the runs batted in in the summary of the box score of the home game. Henry Chadwick urged the adoption of this feature in the middle ’80s and by 1891 carried his point so that the National League scorers were instructed to report this data. They reported it grudgingly and finally were told they wouldn’t have to report it.”
Lanigan took up the ribbie torch in 1907 for the New York Press, working up the figures annually. At last, on the request of the Baseball Writers’ Association, the major leagues added RBIs to their 1920 averages.
Yet, even more than a hundred years after RBIs were introduced, many fans view the stat skeptically. If a man singles, goes the argument, he has performed an individual act. But, to get a ribbie on that same single, he must have a teammate in scoring position. Colbert’s 111 is an excellent total, but how many more might he have driven home in 1972 had he played for heavy-hitting Pittsburgh? For the record, Pirate first baseman Willie Stargell drove in 112.
Looking at the percentage of a team’s runs driven in somewhat circumvents the anti-RBI argument. In theory, at least, a player on a light-hitting team with fewer opportunities to drive in runs can show his mettle by knocking in a high percentage. Conversely, a player with a group of bombers clustered around him in the batting order must drive in a much higher number to achieve the same percentage.
When Hack Wilson set the major-league record with 190 ribbies in 1930 [since revised upward, to 191–ED.], his team scored another 803. His percentage was 19.04. Lou Gehrig’s American League mark of 184 accounted for “only” 17.24 percent of the ’31 Yankees’ 1,067 runs. The accompanying chart shows all those players since 1900 who have knocked in 150 or more runs in a season, along with their teams’ runs and their percentages. It comes as no surprise that all the 150-plus boys played on teams that scored a ton. Colbert’s Padres scored an ounce, but his percentage was three points better than the highest of the big RBI guys.
[In the years since Bob wrote this, Manny Ramirez drove in 165 in 1999, 16.35 percent of Cleveland’s 1009 runs that year. Sammy Sosa’s 160 for the Cubs in 2001 registered 20.60 percent; his 158 in 1999 yielded 19.01 percent. Alex Rodriguez’s 156 for the Yankees in 2007 registered 16.12 percent. Albert Belle had 152 for the White Sox in 1998 (17.65 percent); Andres Galaragga 150 for the Rockies in 1996, 15.61 percent; Miguel Tejada 150 for the Orioles in 2004, 17.81 percent.–ED.]
As a matter of fact, only eight men in major league history [nine including Sosa in 2001–ED.]–from 1876 on–have topped the 20 percent mark. More men have hit .400.
The first hitter to achieve the improbable 20 was, not surprisingly, Babe Ruth. What is indeed surprising is that the Babe did it before he became a Yankee. In 1919, his last season in Boston, he drove in 114 runs–a 20.13 clip–for the fifth-place Red Sox [An upward revision to the team’s run total since Bob wrote this have raised the mark from 20.13 to 20.18.–ED.] Although he topped that RBI total eleven times in a Yankee uniform, he never again drove in so high a proportion. (Note: some sources credit Ruth with only 113 RBIs in 1919, a mark of precisely 20 percent.)
It took 16 years before another player reached 20 percent. Then, the Braves’ Wally Berger chased home teammates at a rate of 22.61 (130 out of 575). Despite Berger’s efforts, the Braves won only 38 games and came in dead last on a stretcher. But Wally’s mark stood as the record until Colbert’s big year.
Swish Nicholson drove the Cubs up to fifth place in 1943 with his 20.25 percent (128 out of 632). The Cubbies were back in fifth place in 1959 when Hall-of-Famer Ernie Banks made the “20 Club” with 21.25 (143 out of 673). That performance earned Banks his second consecutive MVP award. Interestingly, he’s the only 20-percenter to be so honored by the BBWAA.
Jim Gentile became the fifth member of the society in 1961. His 20.41 percent (141 out of 691) was a big factor in lifting the Orioles into third place, but it went virtually unnoticed in the excitement over Roger Maris’s asterisk-pursuit. Maris was also crowned the RBI “leader” on the basis of one more ribbie than Gentile, but his percentage was only 17.17 (142 out of 827). [Maris has since lost one RBI, erroneously credited to him for a runner scoring from third on a double-play grounder.–ED.]
Big Frank Howard belongs in the 20-percenter Hall of Fame–he topped the magic mark twice. In 1968 with Washington, he knocked in 106 runs (out of 524) for a 20.23 percent. Two years later, he reached 20.13 (on 126 out of 626). Unfortunately, Washington finished last both years, but without Frank’s bat they would have finished in Guam.
Another two years went by before Colbert set the record. Since then only one player has been able to break the 20 barrier, Bill Buckner with 20.27 percent for the Cubs in last year’s strike-shortened season [plus Sosa in 2001–ED.] Buckner’s accomplishment is interesting in that it came on only 75 RBIs.
Most of the 20-percenters played on second-division teams not only in their big years, but for the majority of their careers; most of them might also be characterized as underrated. The relationship is not coincidental.
The key to Nate Colbert’s record occurred on August 1, 1972 in Atlanta, where the Padres met the Braves in a twi-night doubleheader. Colbert was among the league leaders in home runs and RBIs, but a slump had plunged his batting average toward .200. He’d also been forced to miss a couple of games the previous week when he’d injured a knee in a collision at home plate.
On the plane from Houston, Padre manager Don Zimmer asked Nate if he’d prefer to sit out another day or two. The big slugger insisted it didn’t matter how he felt. He wanted to play in the Braves’ cozy park, and he was determined “someone was going to pay” for his recent slump.
Before all the Atlanta fans had even found their seats for the opener, Nate put San Diego in front in the first inning with a three-run homer off Ron Schueler. In the third frame he contributed to a four-run Padre outburst by singling home a teammate. Another single and a bases-empty homer off Mike McQueen in the seventh gave him four-for-five and five ribbies in the 9-0 Padre win.
The second game was even better. Tom Kelley opened for the Braves and he was as wild as a Penthouse party. He walked Colbert in the first inning and Nate came around to score. Pat Jarvis replaced Kelley in the second inning just in time to face Colbert with the bases loaded. Nate promptly cleared them with his third homer of the evening.
A two-run blast off Jim Hardin in the seventh made the score 9-1. But the shell-shocked Braves fought back to make it 9-7 going into the final inning. Colbert was due up fourth. Cecil Upshaw retired the first two Padres, but Larry Stahl got a ground single to right. And up came Colbert.
The sidearming Upshaw had always given him trouble, so Nate decided to just try to meet the ball for a hit. Upshaw threw a high fastball for the first pitch. Colbert met it. Home run.
“I was shocked when I hit it,” Colbert recalled. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw it go over the fence. It was unreal! When I rounded second base, Umpire Bruce Froemming said to me: ‘I don’t believe this.’ I told him: ‘I don’t either.’ ”
The next day, it took the New York Times three paragraphs just to explain the records Colbert had broken or tied:
The 13 runs batted in erased the major league record of 11 for a double-header, which had been shared by three American League batters, Earl Averill of the Cleveland Indians (1930), Jim Tabor of the Boston Red Sox (1939) and Boog Powell of the Baltimore Orioles (1966). The National League record of 10 was established in 1947 by Enos Slaughter of the St. Louis Cardinals. [In 1993 Mark Whiten of the Cardinals tied Colbert’s mark.–ED.]
The 6-foot-l 1/2 inch 200-pound Colbert also broke the National League record of 12 runs batted in in two consecutive games by Jim Bottomley of St. Louis in 1924. The major league mark is 15, established in 1925 by Tony Lazerri of the New York Yankees.
The five home runs in a double-header by Colbert equaled the major league mark set by Stan Musial of the Cardinals in 1954 and also broke Musial’s record of 22 total bases in a twin bill.
Yet when 1972 ended and Colbert had racked up a record even more impressive than any of these, not a newspaper in the land gave it so much as an agate line.
Call it Catch-22.75.
Satchel Paige must have been born old. Either that, or what he saw early in his life blessed him with the wisdom of age, and it shone in his eyes. He was forced by the color of his skin to watch organized baseball from the outside until he was at least forty-two years old (the oldest rookie ever). His homespun philosophy (“Avoid fried meats, which angry up the blood.” “Don’t look back, something may be gaining on you.”) has therefore become a larger aspect of his legend than his pitching feats, recorded sparsely in dozens of years of Negro League and barnstorming play.
Satchel claimed to have pitched between 130 and 160 games a year for all that time (his custom was to start a game, pitch a couple of innings, then give way to a collaborator like Hilton Smith). He had great stories of his prowess and his range of pitches. “I got bloopers, loopers and droopers. I got a jump ball, a be ball, a screw ball, a wobbly ball, a whipsy-dipsy-do, a hurry-up ball, a nothin’ ball and a bat dodger.” His best, though, was the “be ball,” named “ ’Cause it ‘be’ right where I want it.” One Paige story is that he walked the bases full in a World Series game just so he could end the contest by striking out Josh Gibson, a former teammate and the Negro Leagues’ greatest slugger. His pinpoint control was the secret to his long-lived success and huge income, which according to legend was greater than that of any white player except Ruth.
But happy as he was to be the king of black baseball, Paige was distressed when the Dodgers made Jackie Robinson the first of his race to reach the modern major leagues. “I’d been the guy who started all that big talk about letting us in the big time. I’d been the one the white boys wanted to barnstorm against.” His first complete game in the majors, in 1948, was in front of 51,000 fans at Comiskey Park. In August of that year he threw his second complete game, this time for 78,000 appreciative hometown fans in Cleveland. He even got to pitch two thirds of an inning in the World Series that year.
Integration pioneer Bill Veeck (the story is told that the owners kept him from buying the Phillies in the 1940s because he planned to sign a lot of Negro Leaguers) brought Paige with him from Cleveland to the St. Louis Browns in 1951, and he averaged more than forty appearances a season there for three years. (It’s delightful to contemplate that juvenile Palmer Cox brownie adorning the sleeve of this superannuated Brown.) He returned to a big-league mound in 1965, at age fifty-nine or so, to throw three scoreless innings for the Kansas City A’s against the Red Sox; only one man, Carl Yastrzemski, got a hit off him.
When the National League abandoned Troy and Worcester after the 1882 season, it reestablished franchises in New York and Philadelphia for the first time since its inaugural campaign of 1876. Grumbling can still be heard in Troy and Worcester today, but their loss was baseball’s gain, giving the shaky National League the two key eastern markets it had lacked.
As you can see from the studio shot of the original Giants of 1883, they wear the emblem of the city on their breasts, binding the team to the body politic and making baseball seem as much a part of old Gotham as Indians and beaver pelts, Knickerbockers and coopers. The uniform patch shown above is the original, worn by Buck Ewing at top left in the team photo.
Notice the other future Hall of Famers: pitcher Mickey Welch (bottom, left), who in 1885 posted an imposing record of 44-11, and John Montgomery Ward (upper right), the perfect-game pitcher turned shortstop whose hand rests on the shoulder of Roger Connor, whose career home run record was finally surpassed by a guy named Ruth.