Anson on Broadway: The Failure of ‘A Runaway Colt’

Adrian C. Anson, who rose to national prominence as captain of the Chicago White Stockings, was the first of what is now a long list of baseball players who succumbed to the lure of the footlights. Anson made his theatrical debut in 1895 in a production called A Runaway Colt. Arguably the most famous baseball player of his day, the play was written expressly for him by the leading playwright of his day. It was performed on Broadway, as well as theatres in Brooklyn, Buffalo, Syracuse, Troy, Chicago, Minneapolis, and Duluth. Despite its sterling pedigree, the play and its star were universally judged to be an utter catastrophe. The failure was so colossal that it echoes across decades to this day, and Pop Anson was haunted by its specter for the rest of his life.

The popularity of baseball had enjoyed a continual expansion since its inception in the 1840s, transitioning from an innocent amateur pastime to a serious professional business. Concurrently, live entertainments in theaters also rapidly gained in popularity. Sooner or later, it would occur to some enterprising theatrical producer to bring the two together and star a famous baseball player in a stage performance. With this goal in mind Charlie Hoyt met with Anson in June 1895 in Chicago. Born in Concord, New Hampshire, in 1859, Charles H. Hoyt was perhaps the leading playwright of the late 19th century.

After graduating from the Latin school in Boston, he worked as reporter on the Boston Post. Later Hoyt was assigned to do dramatic reviews for that paper. At the suggestion of Willie Edouin he wrote his first play, A Bunch of Keys, and it became a smash hit. Hoyt specialized in comical farces and satires and enjoyed a huge success as a humorist. By the late 1880s his career was in full flower. One drama critic remarked, “Charles H. Hoyt writes a great deal of rot, to be sure, but it is immensely popular rot, and he is growing rich.”¹

At this first meeting, Hoyt outlined a play about baseball and suggested that Anson star in it.² Anson pointed out that he was not an actor. Hoyt assured him that baseball would be central to the production, and one act would actually present a game in progress on the stage. On that basis, and the generous financial arrangement offered by Hoyt, Anson accepted. Hoyt immediately started working in earnest on his new play.

As the summer of 1895 drew to a close, Hoyt announced his new play, A Runaway Colt.³ The title was derived from the popular name of the Chicago team that Anson captained. This once formidable team of the 1880s had now fallen on hard times. By 1890 star players Michael “King” Kelly and pitcher John Clarkson had been sold.

Other key veterans of Anson’s pennant winners had also departed. Anson was forced to desperately try to build a competitive team from a collection of untested youngsters. Reflecting their tender years and lack of experience, his new players were called “colts.” Consequently, the sportswriters hung the label ”Anson’s Colts” on the team.

A Runaway Colt is a farce in four acts. The exemplary character of Captain Anson and the glories of the American game are the theme of the whole piece.⁴ The first act is set in the home of the Reverend Manners. His son, Manley, the “colt” of the title, is a pitching phenomenon Anson desires to recruit for his Chicago club. Manley has been offered a salary of $800 a year for a position with a bank. Anson offers him $2,000. Initially, Manley’s parents are against his playing baseball. Throughout the play Hoyt uses double meanings in baseball to good advantage. Manley’s sister, Dolly, for example, denounces the wickedness of baseball as it encourages stealing bases. Fortune smiles on Manley when the local bishop recognizes Anson and greets him warmly. This endorsement converts Manley’s parents. They consent to their son joining Anson.

The second act is set at the Colts’ spring training camp, the Ponce de Leon Hotel in St. Augustine, Florida. The main action involves Anson being pursued by an old maid who is unaware that he is married. Anson exhorts Manley, “Don’t leave me alone with her, or I’ll sell you to Louisville,” clearly a fate worse than death for an aspiring player. Anson, as the colt’s mentor, writes a letter to Rev. Manley vowing that he will not allow the boy to associate with disreputable members of the fraternity-and here Anson (or rather, Hoyt) names the most notorious diamond growlers justly famous for their chin music­ Dad Clarke, Pat Tebeau, Scrappy Joyce, and Muggsy McGraw. This prohibition was extended to any other player who used vile language such as “damn.”

The third act presents the Colts, overweight and out of shape, working out in the club’s gymnasium. The cast was selected to deliberately impersonate certain members of the real Colts. The scene set in the gymnasium gives the actors a chance to demonstrate athletic feats of jumping and the like. The India club swinging by Messrs. Alburtus and Bartram was judged to be remarkably good.

The plot revolves around an implausible scheme. Manley Manners is enamored of the adopted daughter of Rev. Manley, Merey Given. His rival for the fair lass, Rankin Haight, is characterized as “a doer of dirt.” Anson learns that Rankin and his brother are conspiring to ruin Manley’s brother, Dolton. The Haight brothers induce Dolton to wager $2,000, which he embezzles from his employer, on Anson’s team, believing that they can bribe Anson to throw the game. Loss of the bet will force Merey Given to marry Rankin Haight. But Anson is incorruptible and the attempt at bribery fails.

The fourth act is the dramatic climax. It takes place on a ball field as the Colts face the Baltimores. The stage set is a grandstand viewed from behind the seats. The ball players are unseen by the audience. Every ball, strike, and decision by the umpire is heard plainly. An offstage voice announces every hit, error, or stolen base. McMahon is pitching for Baltimore and the score stands 1 to 0 in the bottom of the ninth. Dahlen gets on base and Captain Anson comes to the bat. Three balls and two strikes are called. The realistic crack of the bat represented a great triumph in stage devices, and the sound of a ball and bat meeting squarely is heard. This is Anson’s great moment, as he hits a game-winning home run. Curtain.⁵

Julian Mitchell, a theatrical manager and producer, told a story about Anson’s conduct during rehearsal. Anson and the others in the 40-member cast apparently had their lines down pat, and the piece seemed to be getting smoother. On this day, during the scene where the umpire is almost mobbed in the center of the stage, Anson stunned the cast by snarling to the umpire, “You blank robber, I’ll cave your face in!” It’s worth noting that Anson in his prime stood 6’1” and was a muscular 200-pounder frequently called “The Blond Giant,” among other nicknames. He routinely used his size to intimidate umpires. After the cast recovered from their shock, Anson explained that he had forgotten his lines and reverted to type with this realistic ad lib.⁶

Anson was full of optimism, but when the play opened on November 11 at the Wieting Opera House in Syracuse, NY he had an all too obvious case of stage fright. He muffed several lines and appeared jittery. The audience forgave him and at the play’s end both Captain Anson and Mr. Hoyt were called before the curtain. The critics were enthusiastic, based on the witty dialogue and clever situations. They predicted success for the play and proclaimed the last act to be one of the best things ever done by Hoyt.

Of Anson’s debut performance, a New York Times reporter wrote on November 13 that he”… acquitted himself very well. He is scarcely an actor, but he was thoroughly in earnest.”

At this time Hoyt’s play A Milk White Flag was playing in New York City. Its manager, John Hogarty, met with John M. Ward and discussed Captain Anson’s acting debut. Ward, a baseball star in his own right, had intimate knowledge of the theater, as his former wife, Helen Dauvray, was a famous actress. Ward was less than sanguine about Anson’s ability to make the transition from ball field to theater:

“The boys who patronize the bleachers during the baseball season will be in the galleries to watch Anson act and to ‘guy’ him. When they were in the bleachers they were too far away from Anson for the old man to hear the bon mots they cracked at his expense, but up in the gloaming next to the roof they are within earshot of him, and he can hear every word.”

On November 17 the Brooklyn Daily Eagle predicted a great success for the play: “The wonder is that the baseball craze has not been put upon the stage before, but now that it has waited for the humor and satire of Charles H. Hoyt, it is almost certain to be well done. A Runaway Colt, which comes to the Montauk next week, has more claim on the interest of the sporting fraternity than even its baseball atmosphere because Anson, the famous Chicago baby, will play himself in it.”

From Syracuse A Runaway Colt went to Buffalo, then to Troy, where it had a profitable stand at the Star Theatre. Anson arrived in Brooklyn on November 24, accompanied by his wife, Virginia. “Pop,” as Virginia loved to call him, spent the day quietly at his hotel, declining to be interviewed about either the play or baseball matters.

Anson opened his play at Colonel Sinn’s Montauk Theatre in Brooklyn on November 25. The advertisements boasted that Hoyt’s newest production was his “most laughable hit” and would provide the audience with “three hours of incessant laughter.” The ads further stated that the play was presented with elaborate scenic effects, a monster cast of prominent comedy celebrities, and proudly proclaimed, INTRODUCING CAPT. ADRIAN C. ANSON OF THE CHICAGO BASE BALL CLUB.

Anson was the only cast member whose name was featured in the advertisements. General admission tickets were priced at 25 and 50¢. Reserved seating for evening performances were scaled at 35¢, 50¢, 75¢, $1.00, and $1.50. Matinees were given on Wednesday and Saturday, with a special matinee on Thanksgiving Day. The prices for reserved seats at matinee performances were 35, 50, 75¢, and $1.00.⁷

The Montauk Theatre provided accommodations for Anson that were appropriate to his star status. His dressing room was brilliantly illuminated with electric lights, while three mirrors flanked the dressing table. His costumes for the play were hung on a row of pegs: a dress suit, a white duck suit, an ordinary business suit, and two baseball uniforms.

Virginia had needed only one lesson to learn the art of theatrical makeup. In preparation for going on stage, Pop sat quietly with a towel draped across his chest while she applied his makeup, turning his face the color of a healthy schoolboy’s. Virginia shaded his eyes with a black substance that was first heated over a gas jet to soften it. Next, she darkened Pop’s flaxen eyebrows. Finally, she applied a few dabs of makeup to his lips to make them redder, and the transformation was complete.

Pop Anson confessed to being a little nervous in Syracuse. Not only was there very little opportunity for preparation before the show, but his part required him to appear in every act and make six costume changes. Though accused of forgetting his lines, Anson said the applause was so great when he made his initial appearance on stage that he had to wait for it to die down so he could be heard. Other times it appeared that his lines were late only because he had to wait for his cue from the other actors. Pop readily admitted he had no pretensions as an actor but felt he could not pass up Mr. Hoyt’s lucrative offer.⁸

Despite miserable weather the Montauk Theatre was packed on opening night. When Captain Anson came on stage early in the first act the applause lasted for more than a minute-and he hadn’t even spoken a word. It was obvious from their generous applause that the audience had come to see their old friend. Many cranks were present and they cheered Anson.

Charles Hoyt gave Anson some clever lines that demonstrate inside knowledge of the game. In the scene where Anson is attempting to recruit the colt for his club, Mrs. Manley listens to their conversation and inquires what type of work her son will be required to do. Aware that Mrs. Manley is opposed to baseball, Anson says:

“To travel more or less, to handle leather goods, and in certain cities to deal with strikers.”

“I suppose that would be out west,” she replies, thinking the strikers referred to dissatisfied workers and protestors.

“In the west, and in the south.”

“There are no strikers in New York, are there?” Mrs. Manley’s straight line sets up one of the cleverest comebacks in the show.

“There haven’t been any this year in my business,” a sarcastic reference to the New York Giants’ weak hitting. The audience howled.

Anson had a curtain call after the play ended. President Byrnes and Dr. McLean of the Brooklyn club and their guests, Robert Russell and John T. French, had occupied the lower left-hand box. Directly opposite them were Albert G. Spalding, William T. Redding, and Henry Chadwick. President Byrnes and his party entertained the veteran ballplayer after the performance was concluded.

The play’s popularity derived solely from Anson’s presence. Critics initially were kind to the old man, but faulted Hoyt for not providing a more lively and witty vehicle. Once the novelty of seeing Anson on stage diminished, the drama critic of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle rendered this cutting verdict of the evening’s entertainment:

“The comedy is not up to the Hoyt level. It goes by bits and starts, ending with a bump at the end of every act; that is after the first, which is flat from the start to finish. Pop Anson is lumbering and good natured throughout, but his ability to make a hit is now, and must for some time to come, be confined to the ball field. The company which is called on to support the big ball playing should be taken in hand by Mr. Hoyt. It is with them either a case of natural inability or insufficient training, for Pop at times rose to the level of several of his alleged support. Those who were not painfully unaccustomed to being on the stage were Aubrey Bouchnit, Alice Evans and Jennie Weathersby. Hoyt got considerable fun out of the great game of baseball, but when he exhausted the supply of baseball humor, he had recourse to some old and familiar material. So long as the public wants to see Anson in the winter, however, this piece will no doubt do just as well as any other, and the old man will be applauded to the echo.”

It is clear from this critic’s comments that the major weakness of the play lay not at Anson’s feet, but rather with the distinguished playwright, Charlie Hoyt. It is equally clear that Anson was painfully unaccustomed to being on stage.

The New York Times provided this appraisal of Anson’s acting: “The ‘Pop’ of the ‘White Stockings carries himself well in the scenes, where he has to talk to other persons, and from his mild and often meek demeanor one would suspect that in summer months its supporter is one of the greatest men who talks under, over, across, and about things that happen on baseball diamonds.’”⁹

Was this “mild and often meek” man in the play the same Pop Anson renowned as the greatest kicker in the game, a man who had no peer when it came to buffaloing umpires, and a man who relished an argument on the diamond? Surely Anson displayed considerable acting ability if he could convince the drama critic that he was “mild and meek.” Remarkably, this pugnacious and autocratic ruler of the diamond was able to mold himself to the part created by Hoyt.

The play ran at the Montauk Theatre over the Thanksgiving weekend. It then moved across the East River to New York City, where it opened at the American Theatre on December 2. Based on the experience at the Montauk Theatre, several changes were made. The author improved some of the lines, and specialties were added to the second and third acts. The most important change completely revised the final act. Formerly, Anson’s time at bat was played offstage and the action described to the audience. This sensational scene was now moved out front where it belonged, so the umpire, the battery, and most important, Anson at the bat were seen by the audience.

In the revised final act, Anson hits the ball out of sight, literally, and runs offstage himself as he tears around the bases. The ball reappears at the same moment Anson runs thunderously for home plate and slides across it the catcher makes the tag, and after a dramatic pause, the umpire calls Anson safe, the game is won and Anson is the hero.

On December 3 the New York Times reported, ”Adrian Constantine Anson, colt, Chicago baseball player, and kicker for the amusement of a public that likes vocal prize fights, made a home run in the American Theatre last night … convinced the public of New York last night that he was many measures better than the pugilists who have been breaking theatrical boards lately.”

The production quickly grew in popular favor, and A Runaway Colt played at the American Theatre for two full weeks.¹⁰ During the play’s run-on Broadway Anson enlisted several big-league umpires to appear in the play. Big Tim Keefe got almost as much advance publicity as Anson himself. Keefe strode on stage dressed in his old blue uniform, lugging his mask and little whisk broom. He was ably assisted by the vociferous cheers of the “rooters” in the grandstand. The enthusiasm of the actors rapidly spread to the members of the audience, who spontaneously broke out in uproarious applause. The entire theatre rocked, and Keefe was a huge success.

The next genuine umpire to appear on stage with Anson was Tim Hurst. At the climactic moment, Anson slid across the plate as the catcher put the tag on him. Hurst, a consummate professional, called the play just as he saw it. His voiced boomed throughout the theatre, “Yer out!” Anson flew into a rage and the theater was ripped by pandemonium. The theatre manager T. H. French was forced to appear before the footlights to restore order.

These successes prompted French to orchestrate a ”baseball night.” The National League meeting was in session in New York, and he invited many stars to appear as players in the great home run scene. The cast included John McGraw, Hugh Jennings, Joe Kelley, Willie Keeler, Wilbur Robinson, a11d featured Arlie Latham in the role of umpire. The show was widely advertised, and a great throng turned out to see these men on stage. But the blackguard Latham altered the script, unbeknownst to Pop. He fixed it up with Keeler, who would play third base that night. After Anson walloped the ball, he tore around the bases. As he rounded third, Keeler stuck out his foot and tripped him.

Poor old Pop sprawled on the floor. Before he could regain his feet, the ball was thrown to catcher Robinson, who tagged Anson and Latham called him out. The audience went wild. Anson went wild. He roared so deafeningly the house shook.

”I’m not out!” Pop yelled. “Yer out!” Latham yelled back, “Get off the field or I’ll send yer to the clubhouse!” In desperation Mr. French rang down the curtain and then announced to the audience that trickery had been involved. He told them that the ball used by Robinson to tag out Anson had been hidden in Kelley’s shirt and the ball Anson actually hit was yet to be found. Several seasons on the diamond passed before Anson would speak to any of the culprits.

Following this success in New York, A Runaway Colt went to Chicago. Grand Opera House manager Hamlin announced the play as a distinct novelty for his Christmas holiday attraction. Naturally, its appeal was increased considerably because it starred Chicago’s own Adrian C. Anson. The play was scheduled to start its run-on December 22. All of Chicago awaited the opening of A Runaway Colt with great anticipation, as the play had earned the approval of those who had already seen it.

Following its opening, the Chicago Daily Tribune pronounced the play a hit, if the auditors in attendance were fair umpires. Anson’s initial appearance on stage brought forth a full minute’s worth of applause. At the close of the first act Anson had to come before the curtain “clothed in a white chrysanthemum and a large smile.” By the third act, bouquets were plenty and nothing would do but a speech-and a speech Anson gave them. Of Anson’s work, the critic said, “Mr. Hoyt has done judicious work in constructing the play so as to use Mr. Anson’s fine form to good advantage without giving him too much heavy batting. He is a good deal on the stage and doesn’t say too much. The ornamental yet important part he plays is done with spirit if not with polish.”¹¹

Yet only a week after this encouraging if not glowing review the drama critic of the Chicago Daily Tribune effectively killed A Runaway Colt.

“Every day we hear that the people do not want clean and intelligible wit, honest humor, or plays that demand serious and sustained attention, but will have and force the managers to provide them with coarse and dirty farces, idiotic farce-comedies, and burlesques that haven’t a leg to stand on but the chorus girls’. The experience of the Grand Opera House during the last fortnight is sufficient refutation of this depressing theory. Week before last Charles H. Hoyt presented to the patrons of that theatre a drama (may heaven forgive us for calling it thus) designed solely to exploit a dull and uneducated professional athlete. Its language was slangy, its fun was the fun of the tavern, its plot was preposterous, its actors were mostly variety performers. Mr. Hoyt has put together some entertainments that were really clever, but A Runaway Colt was driveling stupidity.”¹²

William A. Phelon Jr., in The Sporting Life of January 4, 1896, provided this review of Anson’s performance and Hoyt’s endeavor: “Well, we have seen him [Anson]. We looked upon the new star of the legitimate theatre and bowed our knee in worship at his shrine. And he is a corker . . . Hoyt has written better plays than the one in which he has selected Adrian C. Anson as a star. There are few, painfully few, of the delightful Hoytean situations and absurdities . . . the bubbling Hoytic humor is absent almost all through the play. Almost any writer of even average merit could have taken Anson for the central figure and woven around him a better play than the one perpetrated for him by Charlie Hoyt. In fact, Anson carries the play, and is even the leading point of interest—the polar star round which the fun revolves.”

The critic’s reviews are a mixed bag, alternately condemning Hoyt’s work and praising Anson. The play disbanded on January 11, 1896, while in Minneapolis. Charles Hoyt acknowledged it as a failure, the first one of his career, and pinned the blame squarely on Anson. According to Hoyt: “The business was poor from the time the play was produced and playgoers seemed to take no interest in the appearance of Adrian C. Anson, the baseball player, about whom the sensation was supposed to attach.”

In the light of the initial favorable critical reviews­-there were no unfavorable ones when the play first opened-it is difficult to comprehend its sudden demise. It is truly said that success has a thousand fathers while failure is an orphan. Surely, a failure of this magnitude was a bitter experience for both Hoyt and Anson. As neither man had previously been personally acquainted with failure, each one very publicly blamed the other, and even threatened lawsuits to recover their financial losses. Anson demanded $10,000 for damages. Anson had a one-eighth interest in the play, and so McKee and Hoyt threatened to file a cross petition against Anson for $1,500, which they claimed was one­ eighth of their losses.¹³

That notorious spinner of baseball fables, Ted Sullivan, reported this conversation with Charlie Hoyt in New York: “Ted, tell you how ’tis, b’ gosh. Anson wanted me to write a play for him and I did, I’m sorry to say. It was killed by Anson, and I gave it a burial without flowers. I called it A Runaway Colt. It was a case, b’ gosh, of a runaway audience after the first night. Anson used to boast to me what a magnetic chap he was; how he could draw thousands to see him play ball, and he was sure he could draw them into the theatre. Magnetic! What do you think of him? Why, to tell the truth, Ted, b’ gosh, every time Anson walked on the stage it began to snow. I was thinking of having a snow scene painted, to be used when Anse was acting, but he objected. He said it would destroy his magnetism.”

Frank McKee joined his partner Hoyt in denigrating Anson: ”Anson was such a frappe that every time he entered the theater the steam pipes perspired ice water. He’s such a chill that he could put on a linen duster and golf hat and discover the North Pole.”

The finger pointing continued unabated. Ex-actor Anson told a reporter that the play was cancelled because it was booked to run until the end of March, and he resigned from it so it wouldn’t interfere with his spring training preparations. Anson came to New York to January 18, 1896, to make a settlement with Hoyt. He said of the play, “It is a winner. And by a little pruning here and there and some additions to the second and third acts . . . would make this play as successful as any of Hoyt’s   We made money in every city we have played except Duluth and one other small place.”

Years later Anson mused on the genesis of the play and its fate: ”While at a game in Chicago he [Charlie Hoyt] saw me bluff an umpire into changing his decision. After the game he told me that I had more nerve than any man he knew, and proposed to write a play on me. With his ability and my nerve, he said we were sure to succeed. But we didn’t. I guess he didn’t have enough ability.”¹⁴

Anson also believed it was poor planning by Hoyt that led to failure. He said, “A Runaway Colt would have been a success if Hoyt had booked it in the twelve cities of the major leagues. Hoyt made his mistake in taking the show into one-night stands, where they had no interest in Anson . . . The blame is all thrown on me, and the fact is, I should shoulder none of it.”

On the surface. Anson’s criticism makes perfect sense. Not booking the big-league cities was a major strategic error on Hoyt’s part. However, it ignores the fact that the play faltered in Chicago, Anson’s hometown. If Anson’s fame and magnetism couldn’t draw fans to see him there, where could he expect it to happen? Nonetheless, Pop harbored hopes of securing the rights to the play and booking it in all the league cities for the next season.

During the 1896 baseball campaign Anson was frequently and unrelentingly reminded of his failure onstage. Bench jockeys had a field day at Pop’s expense. One of the sharpest of these jockeys, Bill “Scrappy” Joyce, tormented Anson unmercifully. During one game he harassed Anson with this patter:

“Hello there, Charley Hoyt. How are all the Harolds and Percys? What news upon the Rialto, mine uncle? I hear you’re going to do a song and clog dance. Pretty tough, Pop, when a leading heavy has to do a clog for a living.”

Joyce bore down on Anson. On one occasion they were riding on a train as· their respective teams traveled together from Chicago to Washington. The two captains were innocently discussing the use of signals. Then Joyce said to Anson, “I notice that when you were playing last winter you didn’t use any signals at all.” This confused Anson, and he asked Joyce what he meant. Joyce replied, “Why, when you played in A Runaway Colt, no one was on the coaching line to signal you when to act.”

In the final analysis, there is enough blame to be shared by all parties. A Runaway Colt was clearly substandard for Charles Hoyt. He wrote better plays before it, and he wrote better plays after it. Depending upon who was telling the tale, either Hoyt approached Anson with the idea of developing a play about baseball, or it was entirely Anson’s idea. We’ll probably never know. The essential fact is that the quality of the play was very poor. Anson’s popularity as a famous player failed to compensate for his lack of polish as an actor. He was unmistakably out of his element. Making a star baseball player the star of a stage play was a good idea at the time, but Anson simply couldn’t carry it off. Very likely the play itself was so bad that no one could have saved it.

BOB SCHAEFER has authored a number of essays that deal with 19th-century baseball. Three of his works have been honored with the annual McFarland-SABR award.

 

Notes

1. Brooklyn Daily Eagle, May 15, 1887.
2. New York Times, June 27, 1895.
3. Los Angeles Times, August 25, 1895.
4. Chicago Daily Times, December 24, 1895.
5. Brooklyn Daily Eagle, November 24, 1895, and the Chicago Daily Times, December 24, 1895.
6. Washington Post, August 11, 1907.
7. Brooklyn Daily Eagle, November 20, 1895.
8. Brooklyn Daily Eagle, November 22, 1895.
9. New York Times, December 3, 1895.
10. New York Times, December 3, 1895.
11. Chicago Daily Times, December 24, 1895.
12. Chicago Daily Times, January 5, 1896.
13. The Sporting Life, February 15, 1896.
14. The Daily Northwestern, Oshkosh, WI, January 26, 1911.