The Phillies and their fans hated New York Giants manager John McGraw. This fact must be clearly understood if readers are to truly appreciate the story that follows.

Nicknamed “Muggsy” and “Little Napoleon,” John McGraw was an easy man to detest. Sportswriter Grantland Rice observed, “There were many who hated John McGraw and to many of these he gave reason… He was the leader with the rasping, cutting voice that so often poured sarcasm and invective upon umpires, the enemy and his own players.”1 Others agree. “His personality was indeed that of a ‘Little Napoleon:’ arrogant, abrasive and pugnacious. He outgeneraled his opponents while abusing them verbally and, sometimes, with his fists.”2

A man who ruled his New York Giants with an iron hand, McGraw was quoted as saying, “With my team I am an absolute czar. My men know it. I order plays and they obey. If they don’t I fine them.”3 His rationale for such a tyrannical approach to managing was simple, “Nine mediocre players pulling together under one competent head will do better work than nine individuals of greater ability without unified control.”4

Feuding with the Phillies

McGraw had tempestuous relations with all league opponents, but it was particularly fractious with the Philadelphia Phillies.5 In his book Mack, McGraw and the 1913 Baseball Season, Richard Adler acknowledges, “No love was ever lost between McGraw and the Phillies.”6 Multiple violent encounters punctuated Giants-Phillies games, most of them involving McGraw. During a 1906 game in Philadelphia, for example, McGraw and Phillies infielder Paul Sentell began fighting on the field.7 Both were ejected but resumed fisticuffs under the stands.8 So enraged were fans that they tried to attack Giants players leaving the ballpark to return to their hotel. Punches were thrown and some minor injuries sustained, with one player—Roger Bresnahan—having to barricade himself inside a grocery store until rescued by police.9

Mutual ill will continued to smolder over the years. In 1913, the Giants and Phillies were scheduled to play 22 times—11 games in each other’s city. Opportunities abounded for barely suppressed hostility to erupt into a riot, causing violence on the field, in the stands, and beyond the ballpark. Only a spark was needed.

The First Skirmish

The Giants came to Philadelphia for a four-game series starting June 30, 1913, with the Phillies holding a precarious half-game lead over New York in the standings. The first game was hotly contested as the Phillies jumped on top early, but the Giants came back to take the lead 10–6 after batting in the top of the seventh inning. The Phillies scored three runs in the bottom of that frame and then tied the score in the bottom of the eighth. The Giants, however, managed to squeeze out an 11–10 victory in the 10th.10 As exciting as the game was, what followed would be far more memorable.

“A feeling of bitterness was noticeable during the game today,” wrote one sportswriter who witnessed the affair. “The Philadelphia players and fans say that all the time the New York manager was on the coaching line he was chiding the players on the bench.”11 Another account similarly notes, “McGraw, in the coaches’ box at third, lost no opportunity to exchange ‘greetings’ with the Phillies’ players on the bench.”12

When the game ended, McGraw walked to the clubhouse, which was located in center field at National League Park, with Phillies captain Mike Doolan.13 Just ahead of them was Phillies pitcher Addison “Addie” Brennan, who “took an active part in the stream of repartee with the New York manager” during the game.14 Differing accounts appeared the next day in New York and Philadelphia newspapers as to what then occurred. From the Philadelphia perspective, McGraw pointed at Brennan and said in a loud voice, “That’s the fellow I am after and I am going to get him.”15 Quickening his pace, he approached Brennan and:

Addie, hearing the talk of McGraw, turned around, and seeing Muggsy’s warlike attitude wasted no time, but just waded in and cuffed the Giants’ battlelike leader a smash on the jaw that sent him down on the soft sod. It is likely that McGraw figured that Brennan would pitch today and picked on him with the purpose of getting him rattled ahead of time. But in picking Brennan for his pecking McGraw picked the wrong man and had to take the count.16

The fracas was over in an instant with McGraw on the ground and Phillies player Otto Knabe virtually dragging Brennan toward the clubhouse.17 Fans that saw what happened were eager to join in the fisticuffs and gathered on the street around the clubhouse exit waiting for McGraw and his players to emerge. But police shooed the incensed fans away, and the New Yorkers were able to leave the ballpark without incident.18

Once in the Majestic Hotel where the team was quartered, Giants Road Secretary John B. Foster told the press that McGraw had been knocked unconscious and had a severe cut on the back of his ear. The manager was in his room and under the care of a physician.19 Foster continued:

We intend to investigate this matter fully and demand that the man who attacked Manager McGraw be punished. It is one of the dirtiest things ever pulled … McGraw was walking with Doolan and discussing the game. It certainly looked like a frame-up, for without any warning Brennan rushed at him and hit him.20

McGraw himself declared he had said nothing to justify being attacked. While acknowledging there was a lot “loose talk” between the two teams during the series, McGraw asserted, “I cannot recall a thing that I said to Brennan, except to ask him how many times he was knocked out of the box this season.”21

New York newspapers portrayed McGraw as the innocent victim of an unprovoked attack, noting that the manager was talking with Doolan when he was attacked from behind by multiple assailants who punched and kicked him repeatedly.22 The New York Times initially reported that a mob of fans and Phillies players attacked McGraw, but quickly revised its rendition of the incident by naming Brennan as the only offender.23

The McGraw-Brennan dust-up was a front-page story the next day in Philadelphia and New York newspapers. Although umpires made no mention of the altercation in their report of the game—they probably left the field before it happened—National League President Thomas J. Lynch learned of the matter through newspaper accounts and announced an investigation would be initiated.24

Lynch visited Philadelphia on July 2 and interviewed McGraw, Foster, Doolan, Brennan, and Phillies manager Charlie Dooin.25 Later that same day he announced his decision: McGraw and Brennan would each be suspended five days and Brennan would pay a fine of $100. Lynch reasoned that both men “indulged in personalities during the game, and that the feeling aroused thereby was the direct cause of the happenings when the players were leaving the field.” The suspension would commence on July 4, and both men would be eligible to return on July 9.26

The Phillies and Giants howled over the punishment. Giants President Harry Hempstead telegraphed Lynch to protest McGraw’s suspension, stating that the club’s manager was “the object of an attack by a Philadelphia player, not even being given an opportunity to defend himself.”27 The Phillies’ ire was directed at the fact that Brennan was suspended and fined while McGraw was only suspended. Dooin stated that his pitcher had been provoked and that McGraw was as much to blame for the rumpus as Brennan. Punishment should be the same for both men.28 These objections notwithstanding, McGraw and Brennan served their suspensions and the fine was paid.29

Phillies fans were not prepared to let bygones be bygones, however, and the Giants would return to Philadelphia.

An Umpire’s Controversial Decision

The race between the Phillies and Giants for the 1913 NL pennant was close early in the season. But the Giants had established a considerable lead by the time they returned to Philadelphia in late August. New York’s record stood at 82–36 and the Phillies at 67–45 when the two clubs met for a three-game series beginning on August 28. The Phillies staked their claim as pennant contenders by winning the first two games, 7–2 and 3–2, in 10 innings. Only the third game was left to be played on August 30.30

The Giants jumped out to an early 6–0 lead, pummeling Grover Cleveland Alexander—a rare occurrence in his otherwise brilliant season.31 George Chalmers came on in relief in the fourth inning and held McGraw’s crew scoreless through the eighth. Meanwhile, the Phillies got to Giants starter Christy Mathewson, chipping away at the lead by scoring five runs in the sixth inning, two more in the seventh, and adding one more tally in the eighth to give the hometown crew an 8–6 lead.32

Then, the Giants came to bat in the top of the ninth inning and all hell broke loose.

With Chalmers still pitching for the Phillies, Moose McCormick came up to the plate as a pinch hitter for first baseman Fred Merkle. He grounded a ball to second baseman Otto Knabe who flipped it to first baseman Fred Luderus for the first out. As he was going back to the dugout, McCormick shouted at home plate umpire Bill Brennan (not to be confused with Phillies pitcher “Addie” Brennan) that spectators in the center-field seats had blinded him at the plate while he was batting.33

(As noted earlier, the clubhouse at National League Park was located in center field. Seats were placed in front and on top of the clubhouse, and they were opened to the public only when the rest of the ballpark was sold out. On this day, it was filled to capacity with 22,000 fans.)34

The following sequence of events then took place, as reported by the Philadelphia Inquirer. Umpire Brennan walked out to the center-field bleachers and ordered the fans sitting there to vacate the section.35 He was met with a thundering chorus of jeers and catcalls. Brennan walked back to the infield, approached Mickey Doolan, and ordered him to have the fans removed. The Phillies captain laughed and said there was nothing he could do.36

Growing exasperated, Brennan walked over to the Giants’ dugout and conferred with McGraw. The umpire yet again walked to center field and confronted a Philadelphia police officer who was stationed along the outfield wall. Brennan demanded that the officer remove the spectators sitting in center field. He refused and Brennan then asserted, “You are under my orders.” The officer replied, “I’m under no orders except from my sergeant or captain.”37

With the crowd growing increasingly unruly, Brennan’s officiating partner, Mal Eason, suggested to Brennan that the remainder of the game be played under protest. Brennan again journeyed to the Giants’ dugout to confer with McGraw. The New York manager rejected Eason’s suggestion. Brennan walked over to the grandstand area and announced in a loud voice, “The game is forfeited to New York, nine to zero.”38

Philadelphia sportswriters claimed the Giants protested that white shirted-spectators in the stands had prevented them from seeing the ball clearly. They belittled the charge and wondered out loud why New York hadn’t complained about the problem earlier in the game—choosing to do so only after the Phillies had taken the lead.39

McGraw, however, attributed the forfeit to the disruptive conduct of unruly patrons. He claimed, “I took advantage of the occasion to ask to have the crowd removed from the seats in center field because the crowd there was in direct line with the batters, waving their hats and coats and using glasses to reflect the sun’s rays in the eyes of my men.” He put blame for the incident squarely on the Phillies’ shoulders, stating that had the seats been cleared the game could have continued.40

Brennan also attributed the forfeit to the antics of center field fans—not their attire—and wrote in a report to NL President Lynch explaining his decision, “All started to wave papers and coats and it was impossible for me to see a ball that was pitched.41

A Riot Erupts in the Stands…

While differences exist over what prompted the forfeit, there is no dispute over what happened once it was announced. The lead story on the front page of the next day’s Inquirer offered a vivid description of what took place:

Bedlam cut loose at that instant. Screaming in rage the bleacherites by thousands poured over the low rail into the playing field. In the grand stand men rose in wild excitement and hoarsely shouted “Robber. Thief.”

A second later a cushion struck the arbitrator in the face as he was walking toward the exit under the grand stand leading to his dressing room. His walk turned into an undignified run. The bleacher crowd had first tried to stop the New York players who butted their way to safety. Then they turned toward Brennan. He was near the exit then, but they were coming rapidly. The line of police stationed round the bleachers threatened with drawn revolvers in vain.

Over the exit hundreds of grandstand spectators were crowded with any missile they could lay their hands upon. As Brennan got below they cut loose. A cushion seat struck his shoulder; a pop bottle grazed his head.

“Help, they’re killing me,” Brennan shouted, bending low and dodging under the stand.

“Outside to the player’s exit,” came the shout in the crowd. “We’ll head him off there.” A few minutes later the ball park was deserted while a mob raged along Fifteenth Street, Lehigh Avenue, and Broad Street.42

… and Spills Out into the Streets

McGraw, his players, and the umpires faced the daunting challenge of traversing the four blocks between National League Park and the North Philadelphia Station of the Pennsylvania Railroad to catch a train back to New York. The Giants manager and his men were the first to emerge from the ballpark, and as they started their journey, Phillies fans converged upon them hurling objects of various sorts. Philadelphia police officers managed to insert themselves between the ballplayers and the crowd and escorted the Giants to the railroad station. McGraw, however, somehow got ahead of his players during the ruckus, and the crowd got between them and started chasing the manager with vengeance on its mind. “A wild chase” to the railroad station ensued as McGraw sought to evade his pursuers.43

But the fans had not forgotten Brennan. The greatly despised umpire and his partner, Eason, emerged from the ballpark and were immediately set upon by angry fans. A cordon of police escorted them toward the station, but as they crossed the railroad bridge waiting fans unleashed a volley of missiles and spikes; fortunately, none found their mark. But just as Brennan, Eason, and their escort reached the railroad station, police saw McGraw and his players being chased by the angry mob. The officers abandoned the umpires to rescue the manager and his men, which gave fans the opportunity to attack Brennan. “They jumped upon him by the dozens. He was beaten to the ground, rose, was beaten down again, and finally rose again, breaking away and fleeing into the station.”44

Brennan managed to reach the station just as McGraw did. With police, guns drawn, covering their escape, luck was on the side of McGraw and Brennan. An extra-fare express train from Pittsburgh to New York was just leaving the station as the two men entered, and both jumped aboard with the angry mob closing in. The train departed, much to the disappointment of those fans seeking to settle a score with the manager and the umpire.45

What of the Giants players? McGraw, in his ignominious flight to safety, left them behind. They had to huddle in a corner on the platform at the station protected by police for 15 minutes until the regularly scheduled train to New York arrived. The crowd jeered and hurled insults but did not harm them in any way. The players boarded the train and left. Phillies fans milled around for a while, denouncing Brennan’s decision and demanding justice, but they eventually dispersed peacefully.46

Despite the multitude of objects and fists thrown, casualties were slight. Tillie Shafer was struck on the head with a brick but not seriously injured, while fellow infielder Buck Herzog sported a large scratch on his face. Someone snatched catcher Larry McLean’s straw hat off his head and absconded with it.47

The Blame Game

Yet again, Philadelphia and New York newspapers reflected sharply differing perspectives on fixing blame for the melee. Philadelphia sportswriter James Nasium held Brennan and McGraw responsible, accusing them of conspiring to steal a game the Phillies had justly won. He commented caustically, “It marked the most disgraceful feature of a season of disgraceful umpiring and the second time (the June confrontation with Phillies pitcher Brennan being the first) in as many visits to Philadelphia that John McGraw has been a party to initiating a riot on the Broad and Huntingdon streets grounds.”48

Repeating his earlier accusation that center-field fans only became a problem once the Giants fell behind, Nasium castigated Brennan as “a mongrel in the guise of an umpire,” and condemned McGraw for refusing to continue the game under protest (Eason’s suggestion). He concluded his diatribe against the men by asserting:

The mere throwing out of this game or playing it over will not suffice. The game belongs to the Phillies. And even if the game is ultimately decided in favor of the Phillies, nothing can now remove the smirch that Brennan and McGraw’s action has made upon the national sport save the removal of the former and the disciplining of the latter. If this game is to be kept clean, let it be kept clean by those who are at the head of it. You can’t expect a clean house from a filthy tenant.49

New York newspapers were contemptuous of Philadelphia’s outrage, noting glibly, “Naturally, Philadelphia is excited. They get stirred up every so often about baseball, anyway.”50 Phillies fans, furthermore, were accountable for starting the trouble.

The fans made a lot of noise and began to wave handkerchiefs and papers. Most of the men and boys were in their shirtsleeves and they stood up and also waved their arms trying to disconcert the attention of the New York batsmen.51

It was the Phillies’ unwillingness to clear fans from the center-field seats, moreover, that led to the forfeit, not any demands by McGraw or his Giants. “Umpire Brennan forfeited the game to New York after the Philadelphia Club had failed to move from a section in the centre field bleachers spectators who, the New York players claimed, interfered with the vision of the batsmen.”52

President Overrules Umpire

Phillies Manager Charlie Dooin announced following the game that he would protest Brennan’s forfeit decision and aid every effort to have the umpire driven out of organized baseball. Dooin was quoted as saying:

I do not know whether a protest will avail us anything, but we will certainly protest the forfeited game and protest it bitterly. It was sheer robbery and of the rankest sort. I cannot understand how the National League magnates will permit such arbitration of their game.53

Dooin traveled to New York on August 31 “still at white heat with indignation at Umpire Brennan for his asinine decision” to complain personally to the league president.54 Lynch listened and on September 2 reversed Brennan’s decision and awarded an 8–6 victory to the Phillies. In his ruling Lynch declared:

The official report of Umpire Brennan covering the game forfeited to New York in Philadelphia August 30 shows that neither club had complained about existing conditions regarding the spectators, and that the umpire plainly went beyond his authority in declaring a forfeiture, for which action he had neither the protection of the regular playing rules nor of any special ground rule. The umpire was clearly at fault in not having the game played to a finish.55

Board Overrules President

Lynch’s decision was applauded by most. Sporting Life, for example, called Brennan’s decision “outrageous” and “infamous,” and opined that “President Lynch had base ball law on his side and could not have done anything else.”56 But most did not include the New York Giants. The New Yorkers appealed Lynch’s decision to the NL Board of Directors, with club President Hempstead stating:

How Lynch can take that game from us I can’t understand … To throw the game out and order it replayed would have been injustice enough after the umpire awarded us the decision. But to declare us defeated without giving us any chance is, in my opinion, unconstitutional.57

In yet another precedent-setting move, the Board—comprised of Charles H. Ebbets, August Herrmann, and Charles W. Murphy—overruled Lynch on September 15 and ordered that the game be resumed “with the same men on the field and under the same status as existed on the day that Umpire Brennan awarded the game to New York.” Since the Giants would not return to Philadelphia during the season, the Board directed that the game be completed on October 2 when the Phillies were at the Polo Grounds.58

By early October, however, the game had become nothing more than a curiosity. The Giants had staked out a commanding lead for the NL pennant and would finish the season with a comfortable 12 ½-game lead over the Phillies.59 Nevertheless, as instructed by the Board of Directors, the clubs resumed the August 30 game at the exact point at which it had been stopped. With one out, outfielder Red Murray grounded out. Catcher Chief Meyers rapped a single. Eddie Grant came in to run for Meyers. Larry McLean, batting for outfielder Fred Snodgrass, hit a grounder that forced Grant at second. The game was finally officially over with the Phillies victorious by a score of 8–6.60

Revenge of the Philadelphians

Though New York had bested the Phillies by winning the NL title and were heading to the World Series, Philadelphia had the last laugh. The Giants’ opponent in the Fall Classic was none other than the Philadelphia Athletics. Connie Mack’s club was in the midst of its first successful run and had already beaten McGraw’s minions in the 1911 World Series, four games to two. The 1913 World Series would be even sweeter for the A’s as they downed the Giants by the more lopsided outcome of four games to one.61 New York City may have been home of the National League champions in 1913, but Philadelphia was home of the world champions.

ROBERT D. WARRINGTON was born in Philadelphia and works for the Central Intelligence Agency. He is a member of Society for American Baseball Research and the Philadelphia Athletics Historical Society.

Notes

Methodology for Determining Starting Line-Up Platoons

A position “platoon” is defined as two (or sometimes three) players being used in the starting line-up at the same position by their manager on a regular basis depending primarily on whether the opposing starting pitcher is left-handed or right-handed, but also right-handed batting catchers alternated by their manager on a game-to-game basis. I relied on data included under the “Defensive Lineups” tab in the website www.baseball-reference.com for each team in every year beginning in 1914 to determine starting line-up platoons. These data were made available through the painstaking efforts of Retrosheet researchers.

• For starting line-up platoons at any position (or across any of the three outfield positions), left-handed batters are identified by their names in italics. Switch-hitters are identified by an (x) after their name, and their names are italicized for their ability to bat left-handed if the player who shared their position was a right-handed batter.

• I required that a position platoon must have been in effect for at least one month to be acknowledged. This takes into account situations where a manager may have used a platoon combination to replace his intended day-to-day regular at any given position because of injury, illness, or some other reason.

• In some cases, managers platooned aging veterans with younger players. The platoon situation must be obvious, most typically dependent on whether the opposing starter was a right-handed or left-handed pitcher. Veteran players are identified with a (v) after their name.

• In a few cases, young or relatively-recent players in the major leagues were used by their managers in a starting line-up platoon even though both batted from the same side. I determined such platoons based on either one player almost never starting against, for example, left-handed pitchers, or by a clear pattern of use indicating the manager was alternating them virtually game-to-game.

• For any player who was a day-to-day regular in the starting line-up mostly at one position, but who platooned with another player at a different position, his primary position will be noted in parenthesis after his name. I do not include in this rotational mix everyday outfielders who play anywhere in the outfield depending upon which of the platooned players is in the line-up.

• Teams for each year are listed in the order of their final standing for the season. Pennant or division-winning teams are identified in bold face.

National League platoons, 1914-20

NL managers who platooned most often, 1914-1920

• George Stallings (6)—1914, 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920
• John McGraw (4)—1914, 1917, 1918, 1920
• Wilbert Robinson (3)—1916, 1919, 1920
• Pat Moran (3)—1918, 1919, 1920

Where NL teams platooned, 1914-1920

• Boston Braves (6 years)—10 OF
• Cincinnati Reds (5 years)—2 OF, 5 C
• New York Giants (4 years)—4 OF, 1 C
• St. Louis Cardinals (4 years)—5 OF, 1 C
• Brooklyn Dodgers (3 years)—3 OF
• Pittsburgh Pirates (3 years)—1 OF, 1 C, 1 1B
• Chicago Cubs (2 years)—3 OF
• Philadelphia Phillies (2 years)—1 C, 1 3B

Positions platooned: 28 OF, 9 C, 1 1B, 1 3B

National League platoons, 1921-30

NL managers who platooned most often, 1921-1930

• John McGraw (8)—1921, 1922, 1923, 1924, 1926, 1927, 1928, 1930
• Branch Rickey (6)—1920, 1921, 1922, 1923, 1924, 1925
• Wilbert Robinson (6)—1921, 1922, 1923, 1924, 1926, 1929
• Bill McKechnie (5)—1922, 1923, 1925, 1929, 1930

Where NL teams platooned, 1921-1930

• Boston Braves (8 years)—8 OF, 1 1B
• New York Giants (8 years)—9 OF, 1 C
• St. Louis Cardinals (7 years)—10 OF, 1 1B
• Philadelphia Phillies (7 years)—8 OF, 2 1B, 1 3B
• Brooklyn Dodgers (6 years)—6 OF, 1 3B
• Chicago Cubs (4 years)—5 OF
• Pittsburgh Pirates (3 years)—2 OF, 1 1B
• Cincinnati Reds (1 year)—1 C

Positions platooned: 48 OF, 5 1B, 2 3B, 2 C

National League platoons, 1931-40

NL managers who platooned most often, 1931-1940

• Bill Terry (4)—1932, 1933, 1934, 1940
• Pie Traynor (3)—1934, 1935, 1936

Where NL teams platooned, 1931-1940

• New York Giants (5 years)—5 OF
• Pittsburgh Pirates (5 years)—2 OF, 2 C, 1 3B
• Brooklyn Dodgers (4 years)—3 OF, 2 C
• St. Louis Cardinals (3 years)—3 OF, 1 C
• Cincinnati Reds (2 years)—2 OF, 1 2B
• Chicago Cubs (2 years)—2 OF
• Boston Braves and Philadelphia Phillies (did not platoon this decade)

Positions platooned: 17 OF, 5 C, 1 2B, 1 3B

American League platoons, 1914-20

AL managers who platooned most often, 1914-1920

• Hughie Jennings (4)—1914, 1915, 1919, 1920
• Bill Carrigan (3)—1914, 1915, 1916
• Pants Rowland (3)—1916, 1917, 1918

Where AL teams platooned, 1914-1920

• Boston Red Sox (5 years)—2 OF, 3 1B, 2 C
• Detroit Tigers (4 years)—3 OF, 1 C, 1 3B
• Chicago White Sox (4 years)—4 OF
• Cleveland Indians (3 years)—4 OF
• New York Yankees (2 years)—1 C, 1 OF
• St. Louis Browns (1 year)—1 OF
• Washington Senators (1 year)—1 OF
• Philadelphia Athletics—did not platoon

Positions platooned: 16 OF, 4 C, 3 1B, 1 3B

American League platoons, 1921-30

AL managers who platooned most often, 1921-1930

• Tris Speaker (7)—1919, 1920, 1921, 1922, 1923, 1924, 1925
• Miller Huggins (5)—1918, 1925, 1927, 1928, 1929
• Lee Fohl (5)—1916, 1919, 1923, 1924, 1925

Where AL teams platooned, 1921-30

• Cleveland Indians (7 years)—7 OF, 2 C, 2 1B, 1 SS
• Chicago White Sox (5 years)—5 OF, 1 1B
• New York Yankees (5 years)—5 C, 1 OF
• St. Louis Browns (5 years)—3 OF, 2 3B
• Boston Red Sox (4 years)—2 OF, 1 3B
• Detroit Tigers (4 years)—3 OF, 1 SS
• Washington Senators (3 years)—2 OF, 1 C
• Philadelphia Athletics (3 years)—2 OF, 1 C

Positions platooned: 25 OF, 9 C, 3 1B, 3 3B, 2 SS

American League platoons, 1931-40

AL managers who platooned most often, 1931-1940

• Walter Johnson (6)—1929, 1930, 1931, 1932, 1934, 1935
• Bucky Harris (4)—1935, 1936, 1938, 1939
• Joe McCarthy (4)—1935, 1936, 1937, 1938

Where AL teams platooned, 1931-1940

• Washington Senators (7 years)—7 OF, 1 2B, 1 SS
• Cleveland Indians (6 years)—5 OF, 1 C
• St. Louis Browns (5 years)—4 OF, 1 C, 1 3B
• New York Yankees (4 years)—5 OF
• Chicago White Sox (2 years)—2 OF
• Detroit Tigers (2 years)—1 OF, 1 C
• Philadelphia Athletics (1 year)—2B
• Boston Red Sox (did not platoon this decade)

Positions platooned: 24 OF, 3 C, 2 2B, 1 SS, 1 3B

The most interesting race was National League third base where Ken Reitz and Mike Schmidt finished in a dead heat. Each player captured 148 votes. The 1970s’ best fielding team also had three players from the 1960s’ best fielding team – pitchers Jim Kaat and Bob Gibson and the smooth fielding Brooks Robinson.

SABR members were invited to vote on defensive stars who had played at least six seasons of the 1970-79 period, including five in one league. Three outfielders were to be selected with no reference to a specific position.

Not surprisingly, the teams with the best records had the greatest number of all star fielders. Baltimore, with the American League’s best record for the seventies, placed four players – Grich, Robinson, Belanger, and Blair. The Reds, who won more games than any other National League team between 1970 and 1979, placed three players – Morgan, Geronimo, and Bench. The Phillies placed Schmidt, Bowa, and Maddox from their current team and Jim Kaat who spent three plus years in Philadelphia.

Here are the results of the SABR survey by league and by position.

American League

National League

This survey of the best fielders of the 1970s continues a survey made by the Society in late 1972 when the best fielders for each position were selected for each decade since 1900. That selection, made by a much smaller group, still holds up pretty well. Little additional research has been conducted in the interim regarding the defensive skills of players of the early decades of this century.

There are, of course, drawbacks in selecting standouts from a specific 10-year period. Players with moderately short careers may split their time in two different decades. This is what happened, for example, with Billy Cox, a premier infielder who broke in with the Dodgers in the 1940s as a shortstop. He later switched to third base but his NL career just barely stretched to 1954. With that one exception, the really outstanding defensive players are included in the following tabulation of the leading fielders by position for each decade since 1900.

HISTORICAL SURVEY OF BEST FIELDERS BY POSITION

The Rockford Files

Rockford, Illinois, is an industrial city on the Rock River, 80 miles northwest of Chicago. Nineteenth-century baseball fans know it as the home of the Rockford Forest Citys of the National Association, which had a one-year life in that organization. Albert Spalding was born in Byron, 13 miles southwest of Rockford along the Rock River, on September 2, 1850. His father died when Albert was only 8 years old. Albert had already been sent to Rockford to live with his aunt. After his father’s death, the rest of his family followed.1

Rockford established the most important connections for Spalding in business, baseball, and his personal life:

1. Albert Spalding learned to play baseball in Rockford. Spalding biographer Peter Levine notes that Spalding considered baseball “the only bright skies for me in those dark days of utter loneliness” as a child in Rockford.2 By age 15, he was playing for the local Pioneers team. His fame burst out in Chicago and nationally when his pitching for the Forest Citys led to the only defeat of the National club of Washington during their groundbreaking 1867 Western Tour.

2. Ross Barnes, one of the great overlooked legends of nineteenth-century baseball, was a boyhood neighbor and close friend of Albert’s. He was his baseball teammate in Rockford, Boston, and Chicago. While in Boston he joined with Louis Mahn to manufacture baseballs, which soon became part of the early Spalding sports empire.

3. His mother, Harriett Spalding, provided all the $800 capital to establish his brother Walter Spalding and Albert’s first sporting goods store at 118 Randolph Street in Chicago in 1876.

4. His brother-in-law William Thayer Brown of Rockford, son of a local banker, provided the capital to enabled the Spaldings to purchase their first bat factory in Hastings, Michigan. He was married to Albert’s sister Mary.3

5. Elizabeth “Lizzie” Churchill (Mayer) Spalding of Rockford, who was Albert’s first true love. They were engaged in Rockford, broke it off, both married another, had an affair that included a child, and, after the death of both of their spouses, were married in 1900. Lizzie is why Albert moved to San Diego. After breaking up with Spalding in Rockford, Elizabeth married George Mayer and settled in Fort Wayne, Indiana. She taught at the Fort Wayne Conservatory of Music. She had moved to San Diego to become director of the Isis Conservatory of Music at Lomaland in 1897.4

6. William D. Page was Elizabeth’s uncle. He became Spalding’s business representative. In 1909, he and his family moved to Point Loma from Fort Wayne, where William had been the founder of the Fort Wayne News, the postmaster in Fort Wayne, and a leader in the local Republican Party. He managed Spalding’s California Senate campaign. Along with his brother Charles, they were part of the group that formed the San Diego Securities Company in 1911, which developed the Loma Portal community.

7. Charles T. Page, William’s brother and another uncle of Lizzie’s from Rockford.

Page played on the Forest City team prior to its professionalization with Spalding and Barnes. Spalding, Barnes, and Page ate together, played together and sometimes slept in the same bed during those Rockford baseball days. Spalding often stayed at the Page home, and William and Charles referred to Spalding’s mother as “Mother Spalding.”5 Page became a successful businessman in Rockford, Chicago, and Atlanta. While in Chicago, Page purchased a block of the Cubs stock, supported by Spalding.6

Boston and Chicago

Spalding spent five years in Boston from 1871 through 1875. He and fellow Rockford native Barnes joined Harry and George Wright to make the Boston Red Stockings the dominant baseball team in America during the life of the National Association. Boston provided Spalding with the connections he needed to dominate early baseball equipment sales. He purchased the sporting goods operations of Wright & Ditson, Peck & Snyder in New York, and Al Reach in Philadelphia, as well as the patent for the Mahn baseball in Boston.

Two other important parts of Spalding’s life also had origins in Boston. Spalding married Sarah Josephine Keith, who was from a respected Boston-area family. And in the winter of 1874, Harry Wright sent Spalding to England to arrange a baseball tour there. Wright, a former star cricket player, wanted to show the Brits how to play American baseball. The Red Stockings and theAthletics of Philadelphia traveled to Liverpool, where they played the first game between American professional baseball teams outside of the United States.7 The impression of this first world tour and its purpose helped change Spalding’s worldview from provincial to international.

When the National League organized in 1876, William Hulbert lured Spalding back to Chicago with the promise of $2,000 and 25 percent of the Chicago White Stockings’ gate receipts. Spalding had also received, in 1876 with the help of Hulbert, the contract to exclusively produce the “official League book.” He also produced a supplemental publication, Spalding’s Official Baseball Guide.8 In 1887 the Sporting News claimed that his Michigan plants were producing a million baseball bats a year. Separate factories also produced equipment for other sports.9 In Chicago, Albert Spalding became a very wealthy man, baseball’s first millionaire. San Diego benefited from this great wealth.

Spalding left Chicago for Theosophical reasons. His marriage in 1899 to the widowed Elizabeth Churchill Mayer, his long-time love, at Point Loma, California, signaled that he was heading west. Lizzie Spalding was an important participant in the American Theosophical movement.

Theosophy

The word theosophy derives from theos and sophia, the Greek words for God and wisdom. Its speculative thoughts can derive from mystical insights or from an analysis of comparative religions. Many variations of such groups arose throughout the world that were frowned upon by the Catholic and Protestant churches.10

The Theosophical Society was created by Madame Blavatsky, a Russian who wanted “to make an experimental comparison between spiritualism and the magic of the ancients.” The original objectives, somewhat watered down later, were “to oppose the materialism of science and every form of dogmatic theology, especially the Christian.” The final goal was to promote “a Brotherhood of Humanity.”11

In 1884, Madame Blavatsky’s reputation was damaged by charges that she had instructed some employees in the use of trickery to simulate psychic phenomena. It led to splits and struggles for control of the movement, both in the U.S. and internationally.12 Capitalizing upon the dissent, and ultimately gaining control of the American part of the movement, was Katherine Tingley.13 Once her authority was established in 1896, she proclaimed her vision of a “white city” that “would serve as the headquarters of the Theosophical Society and a place where the theosophical way of life could be realized,” in the words of Emmett Greenwalt, author of California Utopia: Point Loma: 1897–1942.14

Needing a dramatic story to flip the Society from its New York City roots to a small city in southern California, she told of a meeting in New York with the famed explorer and politician John C. Fremont, who died in 1890. Tingley describes the revelation that came from Fremont:

I told him this story, this fairy story, that in the golden land, far away, by the blue Pacific, I thought as a child that I could fashion a city and bring the people of all countries together and have the youth taught how to live, and how to become true and strong and noble, and forceful royal warriors for humanity. “But,” I said, “all that has passed; it is a closed book, and I question if it will ever be realized.” He said: “There are some parts of your story that attract me very much. It is your description of this place where you are going to build your city. Have you ever been to California?” “No,” I answered. “Well,” he said, “the city you have described is a place that I know exists.” And he then told of Point Loma. He was the first to name the place to me.”15

Souvenir booklet distributed by Lomaland at the Panama-California Exposition. (COURTESY OF MARK SOUDER)

Spalding Arrives at Lomaland: 1900

Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo, a conquistador, was the first European explorer to land on the West Coast of the United States in 1542. The National Park Service believes that Cabrillo landed on the east shore of Point Loma, near the current Cabrillo National Monument. After the initial Spanish landing, it was 227 years before the Spanish created a settlement in California. They had been preoccupied with establishing control in areas to the south. The missionary responsibility was eventually tasked to the Franciscans, with Father Junipero Serra in charge. After landing with the ship San Antonio in San Diego Bay, Serra established the first of the nine missions that he personally founded.16 San Diego de Alcala was dedicated on July 16, 1769. San Diego’s Pacific Coast League and major-league baseball teams were named for the Franciscan fathers.

When Albert Spalding first arrived in San Diego in 1900 it was a historic but sleepy small city. Rockford had a larger population than San Diego until 1910. The military was just beginning to establish a foothold in San Diego as it began to look increasingly toward the Pacific. The two major tourist attractions in 1900, in addition to the temperate climate and the beaches, were the Hotel del Coronado, which had opened in 1888, and Lomaland, the developing Theosophist compound on Point Loma, which was dedicated in 1897.17

Albert and his first wife, Josie, had their primary residence in Chicago but she summered along Rumson Road at Sea Bright, New Jersey, from 1890 until she died there in July 1899.18 The summer mansions of many of America’s wealthiest families made Rumson Road and the Jersey Shore among the nation’s most prestigious addresses during that period.19

In June 1900, Albert married Lizzie Mayer, his former fiancée, at his wife’s residence at Lomaland.20 Spalding clearly did not marry Mayer and move to Lomaland to receive lots of positive press clippings. A feature story in the San Francisco Examiner is an example of mocking coverage that followed him after he joined the colony. A large drawing of Spalding sitting on a horse with a sketch of his new home at Lomaland covering its body is headlined “Leaves Baseball for Mysticism” and captioned “Forsakes Baseball for Theosophy.” One of the articles underneath is titled “Spalding Becomes Theosophist by Marriage: Famous Athlete, Converted by His Wife, Has Become a Member of the Tingley School of Mystery at Point Loma.” 21

The most famous controversy regarding Lomaland was the establishment of a Raja yoga school there. Another involved allegations of child abuse. Immediately after the Spanish-American War, Catherine Tingley began sending the first Cuban children to Point Loma. In his book Baseball in the Garden of Eden, John Thorn points out that since many adults joining Lomaland were childless or elderly, Cuba “could provide a stock of orphans, as well as children whose parents wished them to be educated in America. . . . It would not be long before the majority of students at Point Loma were Cuban.”22

In 1902, a group of Cuban children was detained at Ellis Island at the request of the New York Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. The immigration hearing tarred the Point Loma institution and a furious Spalding was questioned about charges such as children being given only limited food and mothers being prevented from seeing their children. The New York hearing went against Lomaland. Had the ruling stood, Cuban children would have been prevented from going to the compound to be educated, and Lomaland’s reputation would have been ruined. But the decision was overturned in Washington. The state of California investigated the school and gave it positive reviews.23

Spalding, when asked his views on Theosophy, generally described it in terms of his wife’s passion and that he “married into it.” He told the San Francisco Examiner, “I find here at Point Loma many educated, cultured, refined and most genial people, certainly the equal of, and perhaps superior to, any I ever met anywhere.” He continued, “I am not, however, so ardent a Theosophist as Mrs. Spalding.” But he gave a qualified endorsement of its worldly work: “If all these things and more which I might mention, make me a theosophist, I am perfectly willing to stand for it.”24

While living on Point Loma, Spalding’s last big baseball project was the creation of a prestigious commission to rebut the argument that baseball was not a truly American original game. In 1907, it ordained Major Abner Doubleday as the inventor of baseball in Cooperstown, New York. As all baseball historians know, that is false. There is no established record that Doubleday was even interested in baseball. He was, however, a Theosophist.

In 1873, Doubleday retired from his military career and settled in New Jersey. There he became active in the Theosophical Society, becoming president of the American operations in 1878. Doubleday’s active participation in the Society could have smoothed his way to becoming the rather mystical founder of baseball in the eyes of the Spalding Commission.

Albert Spalding: San Diego Boomer

Spalding played a key role in shaping San Diego. A postcard from 1914 shows the city from a perspective just east of the developing Balboa Park, looking toward the ocean. In the distance, the entrance to San Diego Bay has mostly barren Point Loma forming the north side and on the south side is the Silver Strand, a narrow sand isthmus, and Coronado Island. On the high ground, barely visible out on the peninsula, is Lomaland, standing mostly alone, eight miles from San Diego.

Lomaland was not a pejorative term given to the Theosophy campus but how it referred to itself. As noted, it was a significant tourism draw. Daily excursions to the site came from Hotel del Coronado and other hotels in the region. A souvenir booklet was created for visitors titled Lomaland Souvenir: Panoramic View of the International Theosophical Headquarters Grounds with a glimpse of Greek Theater. The booklet’s photos include the “Raja-Yoga College and Aryan Memorial Temple from the West,” as well as photos of the first Greek amphitheater built in the U.S. Nor did Lomaland hide its students, featuring photos of the children and an explanation of its educational mission. On page nine, the booklet mentions: “To the north is one of the residences, the first one erected in Lomaland, leased by Mr. A. G. Spalding.”25

Included on the 132 acres of Lomaland was Spalding’s first project, his new home. Marc Lamster, an architecture critic who wrote a book on Spalding’s world tour, described it as “an oriental fantasy, an octagonal structure with an external spiral staircase, extensive internal carvings, and a crystal on the roof.”26 The Spalding home survives as the administrative building of Point Loma Nazarene University.

In 1903, just north of his two-story, gleaming white showplace, Spalding developed a “fanciful, cliff-side Japanese garden.”27 He spent an estimated $2 million ($55 million in today’s dollars) constructing his park.28 Most of its structures slid into the Pacific Ocean from erosion or were undermined by dangerous ocean-carved caves. The remaining structures were removed because they had accelerated cliff erosion that was naturally occurring. Spalding’s efforts did result in the area being preserved as one of the few stretches of undeveloped coast in San Diego, Sunset Cliffs Natural Park.29

In 1912, Spalding built his Point Loma Club nine-hole golf course. It was one of the first golf courses in San Diego, preceded only by those at Hotel del Coronado and within Balboa Park.30 Its dramatic elevation changes provide golfers with panoramic views of the downtown skyline and the harbor.31 Spalding built his course where Point Loma began to rise, about three miles southeast of his home. The Point Loma Golf Club merged with the San Diego Country Club in 1914. The San Diego Country Club again separated in 1921, moving to Chula Vista.32

How the Panama Canal Transformed San Diego

The Spanish-American War led to Cuba becoming a protectorate of the United States. The Philippines were also purchased from Spain. Not only did this lead to Cuban children coming to Lomaland as students, but also to the United States taking over the development of the Panama Canal in order to protect its territorial interests, promote trade, and utilize its increased naval power.

“Apart from wars, it represented the largest, most costly single effort ever before mounted anywhere on earth,” wrote historian David McCullough. “It was both the crowning constructive effort of the Victorian Era and the first grandiose and assertive show of American power at the dawn of the new century. And yet the passage of the first ship through the canal in the summer of 1914 — the first voyage through the American landmass — marked the resolution of a dream as old as the voyages of Columbus.”33

During the late nineteenth century, world’s fairs began to gather American attention beyond New York, especially after the success of the World’s Columbian Exhibition of 1893 in Chicago. Business leaders of the San Diego Chamber of Commerce sought to seize the opportunity that geography presented: San Diego Bay was the first port that ships would encounter in the United States when steaming north after traversing the Panama Canal.

In 1909, the Panama-California Exposition Company was formed to seek official designation and funding. San Diego was the smallest city ever to attempt an exposition. U. S. Grant Jr. was named president. Spalding served as a vice president along with John D. Spreckels, L. S. McClure, and G. Aubrey Davidson, the president of the San Diego Chamber of Commerce who had developed the proposal to hold an exposition.34

The effort to attract, plan, and execute the Panama-Pacific Exposition led to immediate population growth in San Diego County, from 37,000 to over 100,000 by the time the exposition opened in 1915. The wealthy business patrons had already begun building roads and rail tracks but they lacked a focal point for their efforts. The exposition gave them one. First, however, they had to fight off San Francisco’s attempt to seize the exhibition. Lyman Gage had led the rescue effort in Chicago when New York attempted to subvert Chicago’s effort to land the 1893 World’s Fair. After serving as Secretary of the Treasury from 1897 to 1902, Gage, a convert to Theosophy, built a house in La Playa, approximately 2,000 feet from his friend Spalding. He then assisted San Diego in maintaining its host designation, shared with San Francisco.

Spalding, Spreckels, and E. W. Scripps were named San Diego County road commissioners by the Board of Supervisors in 1909. Spreckels was the wealthiest man in San Diego. Anchoring his wealth was a steamship company critical to developing trade with the South Pacific, specifically sugar from Hawaii. Among other things, he owned the Hotel del Coronado and the San Diego Union. Scripps, head of the Scripps-Howard newspaper chain, owned substantial land east of La Jolla.

The three men, referred to as the “Triple S” commission, led a coordinated city effort to transform itself beyond just roads. In 1907 Spalding, Spreckels, and Scripps had responded to a request from two other San Diego leaders who came to them for significant financial assistance to purchase the 14 lots comprising Presidio Hill, the historic grounds of Father Serra’s first mission. Perhaps the baseball team would not be called the Padres had this site been lost to development.35 The Exposition coalition battled between those who wanted it to be held on the waterfront and those who wanted to develop the central city park space. The park was selected and renamed Balboa Park. The predominant style of its major structures led to the creation of an adapted Spanish Colonial, Mediterranean style that has become identified with San Diego and much of California. An example outside Balboa Park is the Santa Fe Railroad Depot in downtown San Diego, which opened in 1915 to accommodate Expo visitors. This style was a major change from the neo-classical domination of previous Fairs, including the Palace of Fine Arts in the San Francisco Panama-Pacific Exposition.

A 2,300-foot pleasure street called the Isthmus was the primary attraction for visitors at Balboa Park. Sights along the way included a 6,000-foot roller-coaster and a 250-foot replica of the Panama Canal, with ships moving up and down through locks.36 The Isthmus Zoo was such a popular attraction that during the Expo, a Zoological Society was organized. They purchased the Isthmus animals and, in 1916, opened the world-famous San Diego Zoo in Balboa Park.37

Sunset Cliffs on Point Loma, developed by Spalding, was a major visitor attraction. (COURTESY OF MARK SOUDER)

Spalding for U.S. Senate

In 1910, the business leaders of San Diego pushed Spalding to run for the United States Senate. In many ways, Spalding was a progressive, but he was opposed by the Lincoln-Roosevelt Club, which controlled the Progressive movement. The progressives chose John D. Works as their candidate for Senate partly because of his popularity in the temperance movement and his leadership of the Good Government League of Los Angeles.38 The dominant force in California politics at the time was the Southern Pacific Railroad’s Political Bureau, which the progressives were determined to defeat.39

Spalding narrowly lost the non-binding primary 64,757 to 63,182.40 The Progressive forces won the majority of the Republican nominations, including the overwhelming majority of the 428 delegates for the Republican state convention.41 However, in 1910 it was still the state legislators who selected senators. They chose Works over Spalding 92–21. Spalding supporters were irate since he had carried the majority of the counties, which theoretically would have given him a decisive 75 pledged legislators. But the primary vote was advisory, not binding.42 The progressives had swept the field, as illustrated by the convention domination. They clearly opposed Spalding.

Spalding campaign manager William Page, his wife’s uncle, was outraged. The 1911 Spalding Guide includes a three-page tirade about the “rape of a people’s direct primary law.” Page accurately points out that Works underperformed Progressive ballot leader Hiram Johnson. He also notes the double-standard of the Progressive forces’ denunciations of bossism and then offering “deals” to override the presumed preferences of primary voters. Page further proves the hostility of the Progressive leaders to Spalding by listing the extreme tactics they used to block Spalding’s nomination. It might have been a “monstrous wickedness,” or at least inside hardball, but it was legal.43

Spalding dropped out of key area positions after his loss, including the Roads Commission and the Panama-Pacific Exposition board, but he remained active. He continued developing Sunset Cliffs Park. He started his golf course near the entrance to the Loma Portal community in 1912. They both were attractions during the Exposition. He became president of San Diego Securities in 1912, a position he held until his unexpected death in 1915. It developed the Loma Portal neighborhood, which opened in 1913 in time to capitalize on the Panama Expo. The board of directors included the Page uncles as well as George Burnham, who became a vice president of the Expo after Spalding withdrew. Colonel Charlie Collier financed the trolley that came to the entrance of the area, which enabled it to attract home buyers as well as visitors for Spalding’s other Point Loma ventures.44 Collier was selected by the original Panama-Pacific board, including Spalding, to be director-general of the Expo in 1909. He chose Balboa Park as the site and oversaw the project.

In other words, while Spalding lost the Senate race, he remained active until the end of his life in helping reshape the face of San Diego.45

MARK SOUDER served as the US Congressman for northeastern Indiana 1995–2010. He was a senior staff member in the US House and Senate for a decade prior to being elected to Congress. He was one of the primary leaders of the hearings on steroid abuse in baseball. He has previously contributed articles to “The National Pastime” in Chicago, New York, and Pittsburgh. He has also contributed to three previous SABR books and two upcoming SABR books on the San Diego Padres and the Boston Beaneaters. He is retired and lives in Fort Wayne with his wife and his books.

Notes

1 Bill McMahon, “Al Spalding,” SABR BioProject, https://sabr.org/bioproj/person/b99355e0.

2 Peter Levine, A.G. Spalding and the Rise of Baseball: The Promise of American Sport (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985), 5.

3 Levine, A.G. Spalding and the Rise of Baseball, 82–3.

4 John Thorn, Baseball in the Garden of Eden: The Secret History of the Early Sport (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2011), 207–26.

5 Ronald V. May, RPA; “Historical Nomination of the Minnie Scheibe/Bathrick Brothers Speculation House, Loma Portal,” Historic House Research for the California Department of Parks and Recreation, November 2016, 18–20.

6 “Buffrey Tells of Charles T. Page, Prominent Atlanta Man Is Dean of All Southern Baseball Exponents and Was One of the First to Bring National Game to South,” Atlanta Constitution, August 10, 1919.

7 Christopher Devine, Harry Wright, The Father of Professional Baseball (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2003), 104–5; see also Mark Souder, “When Boston Dominated Baseball” in Baseball’s First Nine, ed. Bob LeMoine and Bill Nowlin (Phoenix: SABR, 2016), 18–20.

8 Levine, A.G. Spalding and the Rise of Baseball, 75.

9 Levine, 79.

10 Emmett A. Greenwalt, California Utopia: Point Loma: 1897-1942 (San Diego: Point Loma Publications, 1978), 1.

11 Greenwalt, 3.

12 Greenwalt, 5–11.

13 Greenwalt, 12–22.

14 Greenwalt, 19.

15 Greenwalt, 19.

16 Kevin Starr, California: A History (New York: Modern Library, 2005), 31–39

17 La Playa Trail Association, Images of America: Point Loma (Charleston, S.C.: Arcadia Publishing, 2016), 48.

18 “Mrs. Spalding’s Death at Seabright,” New York Tribune, July 11, 1890.

19 Greg Kelly, “Monmouth Beach: Land of Rich & Famous,” Monmouth Beach Life, March 16, 2019. http://www.monmouthbeachlife.com/mb-history/monmouth-beach-once-land-of-rich-famous/

20 “Mayer-Spalding,” Los Angeles Times; June 24, 1900.

21 “Leaves Baseball for Mysticism,” San Francisco Examiner; March 29, 1903.

22 Thorn, Baseball in the Garden of Eden, 265.

23 Thorn, 270–71.

24

“Leaves Baseball for Mysticism.”

25 Katherine Tingley, Lomaland Souvenir: Panoramic View of the International Theosophical Headquarters Grounds with a glimpse of Greek Theater (San Diego: Theosophical Society), 1912.

26 Marc Lamster, “The Curious Architecture of Albert Spalding,” Design Observer, August 10, 2009. https://designobserver.com/feature/the-curious-architecture-of-albert-spalding/19878)

27 Cecilia Rasmussen, “San Diego Theosophists Had Own Ideas on a New Age,” Los Angeles Times; August 3, 2003.

28 This dollar figure likely includes his golf course because I could not locate a separate number.

29 “Sunset Cliffs History,” Sunset Cliffs Natural Park. http://www.famosaslough.org/schis.htm; “Sunset Cliffs Natural Park,” City of San Diego Park and Recreation Department. http://www.famosaslough.org/scgraphics/SCNPbrochure.pdf

30 “SCGA History,” Southern California Golf Association. http://www.scga.org/about/scga-history/part-1.

31 “Sail Ho Golf Club,” San Diego Golf Pages. http://www.golfsd.com/sail_ho.html.

32 http://www.thelomaclub.com/

33 David McCullough, The Path Between the Seas: The Creation of the Panama Canal, 1870–1914 (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1977), 11–12.

34 Richard W. Amero, Balboa Park and the 1915 Exposition (Charleston, S.C.: History Press, 2013), 14.

35 “Presidio Park: A Statement of George W. Marston in 1942,” Journal of San Diego History 32, no. 2 (Spring 1986). http://www.sandiegohistory.org/journal/1986/april/presidio/.

36 Amero, Balboa Park and the 1915 Exposition, 59–60.

37 Amero, 139.

38 Spencer C. Olin Jr., “Hiram Johnson, the Lincoln-Roosevelt League, and the Election of 1910,” California Historical Society Quarterly 45, no. 3 (September 1966): 225–40.

39 Martin Shefter, “Regional Receptivity to Reform: The Legacy of the Progressive Era,” Political Science Quarterly 98, no. 3 (Autumn 1983): 471.

40 Levine, A.G. Spalding and the Rise of Baseball, 141.

41 Olin, “Hiram Johnson,” 235.

42 “Primaries Favor Spalding, Captures Majority of Counties in California Senate Race,” New York Tribune, September 6, 1910.

43 William D. Page, “A Political Crime,” Spalding’s Official Base Ball Guide, March 1911.

44 May, “Historical Nomination of the Minnie Scheibe/Bathrick Brothers Speculation House,” 11–21.

45 Amero, Balboa Park and the 1915 Exposition, 14–15.

Prior to the assignment of two umpires to handle a game, it must have been very lonely and threatening for the man who had to face two hostile ball cubs and the fans of communities who took the successes and failures of their local heroes very seriously. The running game characteristic of baseball in its early years surely made it impossible for one official to make an accurate judgment on every play during the course of a game. So controversy was inevitable.

The New York State League was a typical lower minor league at the turn of the century. This league was successfully reorganized in 1899 through the singular efforts of John Farrell, who was to be involved in minor league baseball for many years. Farrell served as president of the “State” league until its demise in 1917. He also was president of the New York-Penn League from 1923 to 1929, as well as being a founder of the National Association and serving as its secretary-treasurer until 1931.

The New York State League was not a fly-by-night operation under inept leadership. Thus, it might serve to offer some generalizations regarding what problems had to be overcome before the professional status of the umpire could be firmly established. Perhaps what was true in the New York State League was true of the minor leagues in general.

The State League’s second year of operation is most useful in this regard. Game accounts and “baseball notes” columns are replete with incidents concerning the low regard in which umpires were held. In fact, the newspapers of three league cities, Albany, Troy, and Schenectady, agreed that “1900 will go down in baseball annals as the stormiest year in the history of the national game.” The Albany Journal held that “the umpire who escapes a slugging has exceptional luck.” In July, the Albany Times-Union went so far as to conclude that “rowdyism and the abuse of umpires has so increased that it is about time for this kind of business to be cut out or it will eventually put the national game on the `Rappahannock.'”

At the beginning of the 1900 season President Farrell made a good start in bringing order and discipline to his four man umpiring corps. He published a list of 17 rules for league officials. Several of these rules illustrate what must have been previous difficulties with the conduct of the arbiters themselves. The umpires were to provide themselves with a dark blue uniform and cap to match, to report on the field at game time under penalty of a $10 fine or dismissal, to report in “fit” condition subject to fine, to permit no rowdyism, profanity or any “act offensive to patrons.” Further, umpires were instructed not to “divulge your schedule to managers, captains, players or anyone.” Finally:

“Always remember that you are the personal representatives of the

league, engaged to enforce all rules and so conduct all contests as

to reflect credit upon yourself and the league organization. You

have absolute authority.”

So much for good intentions. President Farrell himself must bear some of the responsibility for the deteriorating conditions which followed. On May 24, he allowed heavyweight boxing champion Jim Jeffries to officiate a league game in Albany between that club and Schenectady. The game drew 4,000 spectators which was probably the major factor in Farrell’s decision. Jeffries umpired bases while Dan Ryan officiated behind the plate. More on Ryan later. The professional status of any task is difficult to achieve if the appearance is given that anyone can perform that task. Any profession requires that the performer possess some basic qualifications and experience.

Farrell was also remiss in a very important function of a league president: that of protecting his umpires. Several cases of physical assaults on umpires during the season resulted in no reported player or manager fines or suspensions. One assaulting player was one of Albany’s top pitchers, Talbot, who, insofar as it could be determined, did not miss his regular turn on the mound. In July, Schenectady club president Hathaway banned umpire Denny Houle from the grounds and the local newspaper reported that “the Schenectady public may rest assured that it has seen the last of Houle in an official capacity”. The following day two players handled the game and Farrell announced that a substitute for Houle would be procured. Houle did appear again in Schenectady, in August, in an “official capacity”.

The authority which Farrell vested in the umpires at the beginning of the season was obviously not real. A few days after this episode President Farrell instructed his umpires “to be more particular about rowdy ball playing and to put any player out of the game who violates the rules”. The president acknowledged at a league meeting that he “picked his umpires from bushes and the fruit shown indicate that the bushes are anything but trees of knowledge”.

In July he provoked a major crisis on his staff. Umpires had started the season under contracts paying them $7 a day. In mid-season he reduced this to $6. With that, all but one umpire resigned. Farrell recruited new arbiters, contending “$6 a day is enough for the umpires.” On at least one occasion, the president failed to assign an umpire to a game and players had to take over. In time, Farrell would prove to be among the most competent of all minor league officials. However, in 1900 he had much progress to make in helping establish the status of umpires on his staff.

The “men in blue” themselves must share some responsibility for their lowly state. One of Farrell’s rules for his staff, that of reporting on the field at game time, was broken many times. Sometimes they did not appear at all. This necessitated choosing a player from each club to officiate, which in turn led to charges and counter-charges of bias. In late August, no umpire appeared for the Cortland-Rome game. Cortland refused to play if the chosen Rome player handled the game so the “Roman” announced the game was forfeited to his club. There was no indication as to whether or not his decision was upheld by Farrell.

Umpire John Conroy, known as “Pompadour John,” banished Binghamton manager Calhoun “for making personal remarks about Conroy’s hair. `Conny’ is sensitive on this point apparently,” according to one account. Conroy, the one member of the staff who did not resign over the salary dispute in July, put in a particularly harrowing week at the season’s end. On August 28, in the Troy-Binghamton game, he collapsed from sunstroke. Two days later he was in a fight on the field with Utica player Dobbs. Conroy initiated the action and Dobbs was joined by teammate Childs. The police intervened with Dobbs and Childs being jailed awaiting a court appearance. On September 4, Cortland players refused to play the second game of a doubleheader in Schenectady if Conroy umpired.  Schenectady president Hathaway warned the Cortland club “no play, no money.” They played. The next day, the Schenectady paper was all over Conroy for “giving” the game to Cortland.

Another problem with the umpires themselves was that some did not give to their tasks a full professional commitment. Dan Ryan, who officiated the game in which Jeffries appeared, is a case in point. Ryan, by close to unanimous agreement, was inept. Dan’s real desire was to be an actor and the newspapers made much of this. According to the Albany Times-Union, “Mr. Ryan may be a `Rising Young American Character Actor’ who is not afraid to tackle anything from `Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ to `Hamlet’ but he is not capable of holding the indicator, as he makes a farce of things while officiating.” Or, when a rowdy Schenectady crowd threw rocks at the Albany players, Ryan “gave a sorry exhibition of lack of nerve. President Farrell should send him back to the dime show business again.” Ryan was released July 13. His next appearance was neither as an umpire nor an actor, but as a player for the independent Ilion club.

Ed Aschenbach was another who was ambivalent about his commitment. Early in the season, it was noted that he was managing a club in Virginia. In early August he was on the State League staff and being characterized as having “every other `botch’ who has officiated in this circuit beat a mile in the matter of poor and rocky judgement”. After two weeks of this he joined the Troy team as its left fielder. Asked why, he replied that he’d “live longer.” For once the Albany paper agreed with an umpire. “By the look of things in the State League he made a wise move, for if he stayed in the business he would be missing at his next birthday party.”

Newspapers of that day were less fearful of libel suits or charges of bias. No politician, foreign nation, ethnic, religious or racial group escaped their slurs. As a distinct minority group, umpires were no exception. A lone umpire, spending several days in a small town with a hostile press inciting the local club’s “fanatics” could not possibly avoid censure.

Umpire Russell, another late season addition, was called by the Schenectady writer “the rockiest and most incompetent specimen of poor judgment that President Farrell has yet landed”. Considering what had been said about Russell’s predecessors, this was saying a lot. Russell fared no better at the hands of the Albany Times-Union. When a group of fans threatened to throw him in the Hudson River, the local reporter said he deserved a “ducking.” Dan Ryan suffered at the hands of the press, but, as far as Schenectady was concerned, “compared with Houle, Ryan was a prince of umpires.” Reference was made to Houle’s “sublime stupidity,” “thick cranium,” and “stupendous ignorance.”

The report of one game involving Albany allowed that “Russell was so thoroughly frightened by the Troy players that he did pretty nearly everything they told him.” When the hapless Conroy suffered his sunstroke, the major concern of the Albany reporter was that the delay prevented the game from being completed in less than one hour. It is significant that there was never the slightest hint that any umpire was dishonest. This traditional view of umpires apparently had established itself in the State League by 1900, and perhaps throughout organized baseball.  The kindest remark made about an umpire came after the opening game of the season in Schenectady. Umpire John Carlin was said to have given “satisfaction yesterday as umpire.” After that, it was all down hill. Carlin had quit by mid-July, claiming illness.

Another plus, all things considered, was that no umpire was seriously injured. In August, Umpire Gifford came very close. Under the heading “Gifford’s Narrow Escape.” a Syracuse paper described the incident which took place in Cortland. After a disputed call, Gifford suspended the Cortland manager and a player for three days on the spot. Then he forfeited the game to Albany. Whereupon, he was “kicked, slapped and egged, and but for the timely intervention of a few men who shut him in the ticket office with Officer James Edwards and President Riley, there is little doubt that he would have been severely dealt with.” Gifford remained in his place of refuge until more police arrived and he was escorted to his hotel “followed by a jeering mob of nearly 300 men and boys.” The account went on to say that it was probable that Gifford would not appear at the ballpark the following afternoon. His further fate went unreported.

During the course of the season, by count, no less than 12 umpires were employed, Denny Houle appearing in two distinct periods of time. Even future Hall-of-Famer Tom Connolly served briefly in June and July, coming down from the National League. He did not escape charges of partiality; he failed to appear for a game, and finally resigned over the salary dispute. None of the four who began the season completed it. Amazingly, two of the arbiters, Conroy and Keefe, returned for more medicine in 1901. By all odds, the season of 1900 was the most tumultuous year for umpires in this one circuit. Quite possibly the only involved person who had nothing to say about the officiating that year was Luther “Dummy” Taylor, star righthander for Albany, who left in mid-season to begin a successful career with the New York Giants.

As John Odell has said, “Robinson wore number 42 throughout his major league career; for baseball fans and American historians, the number … is … associated with no other player, and likely never will be.”¹ On April 15, 1997, the 50th anniversary of Jackie’s debut, his number was permanently retired, with only Yankee pitcher Mariano Rivera allowed to continue to wear it. Odell concludes, “Robinson’s jersey certainly signifies his tremendous playing career. Ultimately, however, what no jersey can ever show are the marks of insults and slurs hurled at Robinson while playing, the injustices he endured on and off the field, and the character he showed throughout his life. It remains our responsibility to collect artifacts like this jersey to pass on larger stories to succeeding generations.”²

Odell is correct that although the jersey cannot convey literally the hostility Robinson overcame in his pioneering debut in 1947 and career, it can represent figuratively his story and subsequent mystique. The two films to be discussed use Robinson’s number and jersey to memorialize the baseball star and civil rights pioneer as a cultural artifact, a repository of meanings which can continue to represent and address social, personal, and racial problems.³

Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing (1989) concerns the riot that occurs in a Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood when police choke a young black man to death. Lee plays the central character Mookie, the pizza delivery boy, who wears a Robinson jersey for much of the movie until he discards it when the riot occurs. Lee also includes a number of other athletic jerseys, posters, and pictures to signal the power of iconic images to help form ethnic cultural identity.⁴ Clifton, the white yuppie who owns a brownstone in the neighborhood, wears a Larry Bird jersey; a black youth wears a Magic Johnson jersey; Mookie appears at the beginning of the movie wearing a Jordan jersey; a huge sign advertising Mike Tyson as Brooklyn’s favorite is prominently posted on the side of a building; and, finally, a photo of the Marciano­ Walcott fight is shown burning on the “wall of fame” in Sal’s pizzeria during the riot. Mitchell has observed that these signs “are commercial objects and vehicles for the propagation of public statements about personal identity.”⁵ It is the Robinson jersey that creates the most important public image for the film’s themes and motifs of personal identity and racial conflict.

Lee has indicated why he had Mookie wear Jackie’s Dodger jersey with the number 42 on the front and back: “The jersey was a good choice. I don’t think Jackie Robinson has gotten his due from Black people. There are young people today, even Black athletes, who don’t know what Jackie Robinson did. They might know he was the first Black major leaguer, but they don’t know what he had to bear to make it easier for those who came after him.”⁶ But Mookie, the mercurial messenger, is not heroic in any sense like Robinson. He is a man stuck uneasily in the middle, a bridge between Sal’s Famous Pizzeria and the black community. As Nelson observes, “The Jackie Robinson jersey that Mookie wears does not suggest that he’s a racial pioneer but that he’s a man watched closely by interested parties on both sides of the racial divide. Both sides think that he’s loyal to them- that’s how he survives.”⁷

Moreover, McKelly has argued cogently that the film is based on conflicting ideas instilled in Mookie by different characters and cultural forces: “Mookie … becomes… an entire ‘sociology of consciousness,’ a cacophony of autonomous, irreconcilable significations in conflict, each reflecting the persistence of ‘double consciousness’: Sal/Buggin Out, Pino/Vito, DaMayor/Mother Sister, Jade/Tina, ‘whiteness’/’blackness’, ‘King’/’X,’ cool/heat, ‘LOVE /’HATE,’ ‘right thing’/ wrong thing.”⁸ The most important of these binaries are the black/white and love/hate dichotomies, which are represented respectively by the Robinson jersey and the picture of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King, which Smiley sells and illustrates by the words love and hate inscribed on his knuckle rings.

The movie consists of a series of attempted integrations resulting in racial conflicts. Buggin’ Out, the neighborhood radical, is upset at Mookie being friendly with Sal’s son Vito, but Mookie tells him to shut up. “Vito is down.” Clifton spills juice on Buggin’ Out’s new Air Jordan shoes, and when some angry neighborhood people tell him to move to Massachusetts, he says, “I was born in Brooklyn.” Pino, Sal’s racist son, declares that his favorite great black athletes and entertainers transcend their color. When Mookie retorts that Pino harbors a secret desire to be black, he is incensed. Then in separate scenes, Pino and Mookie exchange choice ethnic insults in rapid fashion. Pino wants whites and blacks to be segregated in their own neighborhoods and tells his brother that blacks cannot be trusted. Mookie, in turn, tells Vito to disavow his brother’s racism.

The precipitating factor in the ensuing disturbance occurs when Buggin’ Out, the neighborhood radical, wants to integrate Sal’s wall of fame, which sounds like the Hall of Fame, by including pictures of black stars, not just Italian Americans. Sal menaces him with a baseball bat and declares that since it’s his pizzeria he can put on the wall the heroes he chooses. The wall of fame is important to Sal because he owns the store and wants a public declaration of the fame of certain Italian Americans as proof that Italians have entered American life. However, the wall is also important for Buggin’ Out because it. graphically represents the exclusion of blacks from American society.⁹ Integrating the wall would not solve the major problems of the neighborhood, but it would be a token of public acceptance by its major white business establishment: “Spike Lee’s film articulates the desperation of a minority . . . calling on the majority to open the doors to the public sphere promised by its official rhetoric.”¹⁰

Sal’s policy parallels the lack of integration in baseball, which claimed to be the national pastime but excluded black players until Robinson played for the Dodgers in 1947. He refuses to integrate the wall with African American heroes despite the fact that the Bedford-Stuyvesant community is the source of his business. For Sal, Mookie represents the unity and progress which he thinks his family pizzeria has fostered in the neighborhood. But he will not expand this recognition to the community at large by allowing black heroes on the wall of fame.¹¹

After Buggin’ Out organizes a boycott of the pizzeria, Mookie discards the Robinson jersey and wears a Sal’s Famous Pizzeria jersey in the Italian national colors of red, white, and green. When he wore this shirt earlier, it signified, like the Robinson jersey, that Mookie was the link between the pizzeria and his community. However, Sal’s livery now represents the servile position he will rebel against. The riot begins with Sal crushing Raheem’s boom box with a baseball bat and exchanging racial epithets with Buggin’ Out. When the police choke Radio, his knuckles show the words love and hate. After he dies, Mookie smashes the garbage can through the window, and the crowd sets fire to the pizzeria. As it burns, Smiley finally integrates the wall by posting a photo of Malcolm X and King on it.

The movie ends with two quotations, one on non-­violence from King and the other on the necessity for taking action against violence (self-defense) by Malcolm. In his final statement on the movie’s ending, Lee seems to declare his allegiance to Malcom X: “Both men died for the love of their people, but had different strategies for realizing freedom … [and] justice   The way of King, or the way of Malcolm. . . . I know who I am down with.”¹² Similarly, by his participation in the riot, Mookie seems to have disavowed King’s as well as Robinson’s policies of non-violence and integration, but within the complex and ambiguous context of Mookie’s behavior, Lee has both revered and dismissed Robinson’s nonviolent legacy as a viable policy for black advancement.

Bringing Down the House (2003) stars Steve Martin as a yuppie lawyer who learns to incorporate elements of stereotypical ghetto language and behavior to win a case for a black woman who has been framed by her boyfriend.¹³ The plot is in some sense a comic take on the motifs of black/white integration in Do the Right Thing. Like Mookie, Peter Sanderson wears Robinson’s number 42 as the representation of his ability to go between the two communities. But in the comedy, the wearing of Robinson’s number results in a successful integration.

The movie begins with the Internet blind dating communication between divorced tax lawyer Peter Sanderson and Charlene, who represents herself as “lawyer girl,” but actually is a black woman charged with an armed robbery she claims she didn’t commit. When they meet, he doesn’t understand her ghetto language and gets rid of her quickly. But when he is at work, she throws a party in his house for a black charity and infuriates him and his all-white neighborhood. She also infiltrates his country club in full ghetto power dress and beats up Ashley, his ex­ wife’s sister, who i1nsists on treating her as a waitress. Charlene reveals that she is ”bilingual” in white and black language and culture. She keeps showing up in Peter’s white sanctuaries and manages to defeat any attempts to eject her. She teaches Peter to be less uptight, to dance instinctively, and to be more aggressively romantic by using black “styling.”

Widow, Charlene’s tough ex-boyfriend who framed her, hangs out at the Down Low, a club where a white man can’t go. But to prove Charlene’s innocence, Peter buys a rapper outfit from two home boys, replete with stocking cap, chains, Air Jordans, and a sweatshirt with 42 stitched on the back. He explodes on the scene uttering rapper lingo and shaking his booty on the dance floor, with 42 visible throughout his maneuvers. Peter offers to launder Widow’s money and records proof that Charlene was framed. During the ensuing struggle, Charlene is shot by Widow, but is saved when the bullet hits Peter’s cell phone, which she had been carrying. At the end, he returns to his wife and quits the firm to go off on his own, declaring to his boss, “Kiss my natural black ass,” Charlene says, ”You ain’t black,” to which he responds, “Well, I’m off white.”

Peter has learned to function in two worlds as the result of his contact with Charlene. When he dons the ghetto outfit with 42 on the back, he becomes a latter­ day comic white parallel to Robinson’s integration of the formerly segregated major leagues. Similarly, Charlene has taken on white characteristics, as represented by his protective cell phone, which she had earlier denounced as a symbol of his uptight white lawyer’s world. Together, they have brought down the house, destroying Widow’s place and earning our applause. Unlike Do the Right Thing, Bringing Down the House has used Robinson’s mystique as the means of representing a successful reduction of racial conflicts.

FRANK ARDOLINO is a professor of English at the University of Hawaii at Manoa, where he teaches Shakespeare and modern drama. He is currently working on Reversing the Curse in Literature and Film.

Notes

1. John “On the Road with Baseball as America.” Memories and Dreams, 26, 2004:31.
2. Odell, 31
3. Jackie Robinson has been the subject of four movies: The Jackie Robinson Story (1950), A Homerun for Love (1978), Court-Martial of Jackie Robinson (1990), and Soul of the Game (1996). In addition, Rhubarb (1951), which ostensibly concerns a cat’s inheritance of a baseball team, is actually about Robinson’s integration of baseball. See my articles, “Breaking the Color Line: Five Film Representations of Jackie Robinson 1950-1992,” Aethlon 13.2, 1996, 49-60; “Tearing Up the Pea Patch at Ebbets Field: Rickey, Robinson, and Rhubarb,” Aethlon, 1992, 133-43.
4. Douglas Kellner. ”Aesthetics, Ethics, and Politics in the Films of Spike Lee,” Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing. Mark Reid, ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 80.
5. J.T. Mitchell, “The Violence of Public Art,” Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing, 124.
6. Spike Lee with Lisa Jones. Do the Right Thing: A Spike Lee Joint (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1989), 110
7. George Nelson, “Do the Right Thing.” Five for Five: The Films of Spike Lee,” Terry McMillan, ed. (New York: Stewart, Tabori & Chang, 1991), 80.
8. James McKelly. “The Double Truth: Do the Right Thing and the Culture of Ambiguity,” African American Review 32, 1998, 223-24.
9. Mitchell, 110-12.
10. Mitchell, 123.
11. McKelly, 221-22.
12. Lee, 282.
13. Bringing Down the House. Adam Shankman, director; 2003.

“War is the Province of Chance.”
— Count Carl von Clausewitz

THE FOG OF WAR

Even a bloodless, but nonetheless bitter “war,” such as the two-year (1914–15) battle between the outlaw Federal League and Organized Baseball proves Clausewitz’s point.[fn]For the purposes of this article, the term “outlaw” or “outlaw league” is intended to refer to a baseball enterprise operating outside of the National Agreement that encompassed the American League, the National League and minor league operations, commonly known as “Organized Baseball.”[/fn]

For years, the convention has been to view the Federal League, the last challenger to actually take the field against Organized Baseball, as having been doomed from the start, ultimately suffering an “inevitable collapse.”[fn]Jack Kavanaugh, Walter Johnson: A Life (South Bend: Diamond Communications, Inc., 1995), 106.[/fn] After all, there is no immediately recognizable vestige of the Federal League in modern baseball, no “Federal Division,” no long-simmering rivalry between the Chicago Whales and the Saint Louis Terriers.[fn]While Wrigley Field is certainly recognizable, its Federal League roots are not; indeed, if not for its upcoming centennial, the park’s original incarnation as “Weeghman Park” would, for non-Cubs fans, qualify as the answer to a moderately challenging trivia question.[/fn]

Upon closer examination, however, the events of the Federal League war demonstrate once again that certainty is most expertly determined in hindsight. For while the distance of a century cloaks the demise of the Federal League with an air of dreary predictability, its struggle against the baseball establishment was, like so many other “wars,” determined to a significant extent by chance and circumstance.

The Federal League’s impending centennial has already generated renewed interest in and re-evaluation of the outlaw league’s rise, its downfall and its subsequent disappearance. Both Robert Peyton Wiggins, winner of the 2010 Larry Ritter Book Award, and Daniel R. Levitt, the 2013 Ritter awardee, add substantially to the depth and quality of modern understanding of the Federal League.[fn]Daniel R. Levitt, The Battle That Forged Modern Baseball (Lanham, Maryland: Ivan R. Dee, 2012).[/fn], [fn]Robert Peyton Wiggins, The Federal League of Base Ball Clubs (Jefferson, North Carolina: McFarland & Company, 2009).[/fn] Each of these entertaining works builds upon the pioneering effort of Marc Okkonen.[fn]Marc Okkonen, The Federal League of 1914–1915 (Garrett Park, MD: SABR, 1989).[/fn] Contrary to the conventional wisdom, these recent analyses acknowledge that the magnates of the Federal League gave it a pretty good go, presenting a well-organized and well-financed challenge to Organized Baseball. Even such generally favorable assessments as these, however, may understate both how close the Federals came to leaving a much more visible imprint on the face of the national pastime and the extent to which sheer fate played a role in the demise of the Federal League.

Three critical events described below—two involving mortality, and one based in morality— were instrumental in barring the path to success for the Federals. Quite naturally, the war between the Federal League and Organized Baseball must properly be viewed as a drawn-out and complicated affair with many significant chapters. A number of these inputs may, in retrospect, be seen as potential “pivot points” in that struggle, each with its own set of intricacies. For example, many important skirmishes were fought in the courts an d were characterized by the well-established processes and finely honed reasoning that characterize high stakes litigation. Other events, in closed rooms and at the negotiating table, were marked by the strategic imperatives of complex business decision-making.

The three events described below are not like that. Each one was attributable solely to human frailty. The deaths of two men and the change of heart of another were simple but crucial events occurring in the midst of a sea of complexity.

These three events also eerily demarcate the phases of the Federal League war, occurring as they did, just after Opening Day of the outlaws’ inaugural major league season (the death of Charles C. Spink, publisher of The Sporting News); second, during the offseason between the league’s two years of operation as a major league (the vacillation of legendary pitcher Walter Johnson); and, third, only after the final thrilling Federal League pennant race had been concluded (the passing of Federal League vice president Robert B. Ward).

It is, of course, impossible to argue that, had these misfortunes not occurred, the Federal League would have triumphed, perhaps because it is so fundamentally difficult to determine what “winning” would have meant and what form of victory would have been acceptable to whom. Nonetheless, because the Federal League challenge to Organized Baseball was so substantial, it merits a closer examination of how these three wholly unexpected twists of fate derailed an alternative outcome.

A DIFFERENT KIND OF MUSHROOM

Part of the difficulty facing the Federal League lay in the failures of its immediate predecessors. Noted baseball chroniclers Professor Harold Seymour and his wife Dorothy documented the de-fanging, defeat or disappearance of no less than six minor league “outlaws” in the years between 1903 and 1912.[fn]Harold Seymour and Dorothy Seymour Mills, Baseball: The Golden Age (New York: Oxford University Press, 1971), 197–99.[/fn]

Subsequently, two higher profile but nonetheless failed ventures had the effect of pushing the dramatic success of Ban Johnson’s American League further back in time than a look at the calendar might suggest.[fn]Johnson’s gambit had been greatly aided by the National League’s own incompetence, particularly its dramatic contraction that left a number of rapidly growing cities hungering for a return to “major league” status.[/fn] In 1912 John Powers organized the Columbian League outside the purview of the National Agreement. The venture was suspended after early financial backers pulled out. Thereafter, the United States League, an outfit that placed a number of its eight teams in major league cities, managed to get off the ground, but faltered in less than two months. Efforts to revive that venture in 1913 swiftly ran to ground.[fn]Wiggins, The Federal League of Base Ball Clubs, 6; Levitt, The Battle That Forged Modern Baseball, 34–35.[/fn]

After the failure of his Columbian League venture, John Powers redoubled his efforts and launched the Federal League, initially operating in six cities in 1913. The Seymours observed that, in view of more than a decade strewn with failures, Organized Baseball had “no reason to assume that the Federal League would do anything except disappear, like so many of its ‘mushroom league’ predecessors;” consequently, the magnates of Organized Baseball initially “adopted a passive policy toward it.”[fn]Seymour and Mills, Baseball: The Golden Age, 199–200.[/fn] In August 1913, the Federal League declared its intention to compete as a “Major League” after less than a full year as an outlaw, albeit minor, league.[fn]“Federals For A Fight,” Sporting Life (August 9, 1913): 1.[/fn] By the time the 1914 season opened, the Federal League consisted of franchises in four major league cities—New York, Pittsburgh, St. Louis, and Chicago—and four cities with established minor league franchises operating in the International League and the American Association: Buffalo, Indianapolis, Kansas City, and Baltimore.

In the run-up to the 1914 season, the Federal League had already proven itself to be a more formidable challenger. Some in Organized Baseball still did not get the message. Perhaps the most colorful example of this occurred when Charles W. Murphy, the erratic owner of the Chicago Cubs, declared before spring training: “Why my corns are giving me more trouble than the Federal League. I fail to see where they will ever be able to open the season.”[fn]The New York Times, February 10, 1914: 7.[/fn] Had Murphy paid less attention to his corns, he may have observed that Charles “Lucky Charlie” Weeghman and his partner William Walker were planning a first class baseball plant on his city’s North Side that would later be described as “an Edifice of Beauty.”[fn]Wiggins, The Federal League of Base Ball Clubs, 84.[/fn] Not surprisingly, a sale of Murphy’s Cubs to Charles Taft (half brother of the former President) was successfully engineered before the month of February was out. While Murphy now had ample time and money to address his corns, American League President Ban Johnson and his allies were already implementing further countermeasures against the outlaws.

Public perception at the time of the Federal League challenge was shaped on a national basis by three sporting publications focusing on baseball. Two were weeklies, The Sporting News—self-identified as the “Organ of Organized Baseball” and operated by the Spink family out of St. Louis, and Francis Richter’s Philadelphia-based The Sporting Life—“Devoted to Baseball and Trap Shooting.” Baseball Magazine, headed by F.C. Lane, was published on a monthly basis. These national publications augmented the highly competitive general circulation newspaper industry that operated on a scale that was several orders of magnitude larger than what we know today.

The Sporting News had been instrumental in the rise and survival of the American League; indeed Ban Johnson “always acknowledged his debt to the Spink family, admitting he would have been unable to establish the American League if the paper had not been on his side.”[fn]J.G. Taylor Spink, Judge Landis and Twenty-Five Years of Baseball (New York: Thomas Y. Crowell Company, 1947), 258 (the Spink book republishes in its entirety a June 20, 1942 Saturday Evening Post article by New York Post sportswriter Stanley Frank entitled “Bible of Baseball” from which this quote and other material in this article is derived).[/fn] With respect to the Federals, the established view of these three publications is that The Sporting Life was “fair” if not actively pro-outlaw, Baseball Magazine, which cherished its independence from organized baseball prided itself on a more considered, generally neutral analysis, and The Sporting News was vehemently opposed to the Federal insurgents.[fn]Henry W. Thomas, Walter Johnson: Baseball’s Big Train (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1995), 138.[/fn], [fn]Seymour and Mills, Baseball: The Golden Age, 216; Okkonen viewed Sporting Life as “more objective and fair in its coverage.” Baseball Magazine was “neutral” and The Sporting News presented the Federals as “a bad joke.” Okkonen, The Federal League of 1914-1915, 7. Wiggins shares a generally similar assessment. Wiggins, The Federal League of Base Ball Clubs, 4–5.[/fn]

As one might expect, the truth was substantially more complicated than that. While Sporting Life took on a pro-Federal League slant over time, initially it was entirely skeptical of the new enterprise. Indeed, it editorialized in November 1913 that there was “no public or press demand for a third major league… [nor] enough players of major league caliber to equip such a league… [nor enough] first class cities available to form a balanced circuit….” The Sporting Life concluded that for these and other reasons it saw “in the Federal League movement not one element of success,” predicting that “should it reach the stage of actual expansion its ultimate failure will be only a matter of time, contingent upon the depth of the purses of the promoters of the venture.”[fn]Sporting Life (November 8, 1913): 4.[/fn]

The monthly Baseball Magazine was necessarily a more detached observer of larger trends, but it, too, seemed to move over time. In the early days after the Federals announced their plan to “go major,” an article in Baseball Magazine caustically dismissed the boasts of the Federals. William A. Phelon sarcastically denigrated grandiose Federal predictions of the collapse of the established leagues: “Too bad, too bad— we have always liked those older leagues, and we will weep bitterly as they are trodden underfoot and the remnants sold for old brass at the junk yard.”[fn]Wm. A. Phelon, “Changing Styles in Baseball,” Baseball Magazine (October 1913): 37.[/fn] By the following Spring, however, Baseball Magazine’s pages were already allowing that, “This season it is safe to say, the Federal League and its work will be watched with keen interest.”[fn]James A. Ross, “The Champion Club of the Federal League,” Baseball
Magazine (May 1914): 21–22.[/fn] While Baseball Magazine would continue to publish neutral fact-based pieces (such as “Who’s Who in the Federal League?”) by early 1915 it had gravitated toward publishing more openly pro-Federal pieces such as “Eventually There Will Be A Third Big League Why Not Now?”[fn]Baseball Magazine (June 1915): 63.[/fn], [fn]Baseball Magazine (April 1915): 25.[/fn]

The most interesting case by far, however, is the attitude of the acknowledged industry leader, The Sporting News (The Sporting Life was, after all, devoted to both “Baseball and Trap Shooting”). Much of that fascination stems from the timing of the first of our three unpredictable events. On April 16, 1914, Charles Spink attended the Federal League’s opening day festivities at Handlan’s Park in St. Louis. He fell ill shortly thereafter and never again returned to his office, dying some days later.[fn]Steve Gietshier, “Famous Firsts,” The Sporting News (April 24, 1995): 8.[/fn]

Charles Spink’s sudden passing warrants close attention because of the accepted notion that the father and his son, J.G. Taylor Spink, broke over the issue of the Federals.[fn]Wiggins, The Federal League of Base Ball Clubs, 4; Seymour and Mills, Baseball: The Golden Age, 216.[/fn] In 1942, the New York Post’s Stanley Frank endorsed that view in The Saturday Evening Post when he wrote that “[m]ounting differences between father and son came to an angry boil in 1914 with the formation of the Federal League. Old Charlie Spink believed baseball was ready to embrace a third major circuit. Taylor opposed the Federals….”[fn]Spink, 261. Levitt, on the other hand, postulates that Charles Spink saw the war as an opportunity to “augment his status with Organized Baseball.” Levitt, The Battle That Forged Modern Baseball, 111.[/fn] While this thesis supports the view of this article, it actually seriously overstates and oversimplifies the case.

The pages of The Sporting News in early 1914 hardly ring with an endorsement of a third major league. In February, The Sporting News editorialized that “[t]he Federal League may exist for a day, a month or a season but it is built on a foundation of sand and neither it nor what it stands for will have any permanency.”[fn]The Sporting News (February 5, 1914): 4.[/fn] Similarly in April, just before the season opened, it declared: “The Federals can proceed on [their way]—as moral and legal outlaws, and by no means should there ever be any other status accorded them. It is our opinion still that their way will be brief and that its end will be disaster.”[fn]The Sporting News (April 16, 1914): 4.[/fn]

These and other similar editorial views expressed in early 1914 do much to refute the notion that father and son were diametrically opposed in their views of the Federal League. Despite this record, however, there is nonetheless strong support for the proposition that the loss of Charles Spink and the passing of baseball’s pre-eminent weekly news organ to his son dealt a considerable blow to the fortunes of the Federal League.

While Charles Spink’s editorial criticisms of the Federals were indeed numerous, at 51 he was a fully formed man, one capable of seeing subtlety and secure enough to criticize his allies. For example, The Sporting News blasted the Philadelphia Phillies and the Boston Braves for suing the Federals, decrying their decision to fight the new league “in the law courts instead of at the turnstiles.”[fn]The Sporting News (April 22, 1914): 4.[/fn] Despite the anti-Federal League views The Sporting News expressed, Spink would still accept an invitation from his friends to attend the Federal League opener, being shrewd enough to jest that he was doing so because “they [were] paying for the box.”

Taylor Spink, still in his mid-twenties, was on the other hand “enthusiastic to a fault”[fn]Steve Gietshier, “The Sporting News,” The Baseball Biography Project,
http://sabr.org/bioproject.[/fn] and his relationship with American League President Ban Johnson “practically amounted to idolatry.”[fn]Spink, 259.[/fn] Charles Spink, the father, had on the occasion of his final professional game, “complimented the Federals on their neat park,” had spoken of “the crowd and the men he had noted in it,” and had like a true fan lamented the fact that the home team lost. Even his son had to remark in his father’s obituary, that his father “could enjoy the Federal’s game on the field because deeper than all thoughts of policy or politics or base ball, he was a lover of the game for the game’s sake.”[fn]The Sporting News (April 30, 1914): 1.[/fn] The son, while a lover of the game to be sure, was not as idealistically imbued.

Further evidence that Charles Spink’s death made a significant difference in the editorial path of The Sporting News is garnered from a more nuanced reading of some of his criticisms of the new venture. Many of them evidence a classic Missouri “show me” attitude. For example, early on in the Federal League war, the weekly declared: “In Saint Louis, the Federals are honest enough to admit that there is but one chance for the League—a park that will be as attractive as those of the major league clubs and a team that will include players known to the public as major leaguers— and there is no prospect of either.”[fn]The Sporting News (November 13, 1913): 4.[/fn]

A few months later came the editorial pronouncement: “[I]t is an undeniable fact that the fan is going to see the game where the best ball is exhibited, and as President Johnson aptly remarked, the battle with the Federals will simmer down to a fight of the turnstiles.”[fn]The Sporting News (January 15, 1914): 4.[/fn] As we have seen, one of Charles Spink’s last mortal impressions was a favorable one relating to Handlan’s Park, the home of the St. Louis Terriers. Unfortunately, he did not live to see the 1915 Federal League pennant race, nor did he have the chance to assess its impact upon the “fight of the turnstiles.”

While Terriers attendance sagged badly as the 1914 campaign turned bleak, the team’s fortunes improved the following year. Indeed, Baseball Magazine pointed out that the “habit of winning has been responsible for the firm establishment of Federal League baseball in St. Louis.”[fn]Howard B. Tyler, “The Federal League Race,” Baseball Magazine (September 1915): 28.[/fn] One July doubleheader between St. Louis and Baltimore featuring a matchup of Eddie Plank and Chief Bender drew some 9,000 fans while a mere 300 attended the competing game between the Browns and the Yankees.[fn]Ibid.[/fn] Baseball Magazine believed such support proved “St. Louis fans [would] rally to the support of the deserving, whether it be Federal or other League baseball.”[fn]Ibid., at 100.[/fn] The Browns were found to be particularly undeserving, as their attendance dropped from 244,714 in 1914 to 150,358 in 1915.[fn]http://www.baseball-reference.com/teams/SLB/1915.shtml (retrieved 9/7/13). Cardinals attendance dipped slightly by some 3,433 fans, dropping the team’s attendance ranking from third (of eight teams) to fifth. http://www.baseball-reference.com/teams/STL/attend.shtml (retrieved 9/7/13).[/fn]

The Federal League pennant race went down to a last thrilling weekend while the Cardinals and the Browns both sank well below .500.[fn]In the end, the Chicago Whales benefited from two rainouts that were not made up to win the pennant race by .00854 percentage points. Wiggins, Federal League of Base Ball Clubs, 274–5.[/fn] Given the civic pressure in a city starved for on-field success and the fact that the Terriers had successfully met at least some of the challenges that Charles Spink had issued to them, there is ample reason to conclude that, had he lived, The Sporting News would have, like The Sporting Life and Baseball Magazine before it, migrated towards a more favorable view of the Federal League. With Taylor Spink, Ban Johnson’s leading fan at the helm, no such possibility existed.

The negative (to the Federals) reverberations caused by the ascension of the younger Spink were further compounded by the biting prose of correspondent Joe Vila of the New York Daily Sun. While working for his father, Taylor Spink had originated the idea of recruiting correspondents in every vital location. Joe Vila was among his correspondent corps. After Charles Spink’s death, his son was inclined to lean heavily on the fruits of this innovation. Vila, for his part, had been given a bad tip by a Federal League source in the early days of the new league and when the information proved bogus, a natural skeptic was transformed into an obsessed critic. Vila embraced that role, telling an Organized Baseball magnate that he “intended to roast the Federal League from hell to breakfast hereafter.”[fn]Levitt, The Battle That Forged Modern Baseball, 111.[/fn] The breakfast reference was particularly appropriate, as Vila incessantly referred to the Feds as the “Flap Jack Circuit” or the “Lunchroom League.”[fn]Wiggins notes with some irony that Organized Baseball’s “voracious campaign” against the Federal League in the press (and the courts) “gave credibility to the newcomers.” Wiggins, The Federal League of Base Ball Clubs, 7. This author believes that, however much the level of curiosity among members of the general public may have increased initially because of such insults, the long-term effect of this press pounding was ultimately corrosive.[/fn] This insult was Vila’s “clever” way of reminding folks that Chicago Federals owner Charles Weeghman had made his money largely by operating a number of lunchtime restaurants in the Chicago area.[fn]Wiggins also states that this was intended as an insult to the Ward brothers, owners of the Brooklyn Federal franchise. The Wards had made their fortune as bakers. Wiggins, The Federal League of Base Ball Clubs, 92.[/fn]

Much of Vila’s writing can only be characterized as shrill, and even then only if one is kind-hearted. Take, for example, the November 19, 1914, issue of The Sporting News in which Vila (incorrectly) trumpeted the collapse of the Federal League. He advised Federal supporters that if there were a “big hole” near at hand “these misguided individuals [should] crawl in without further delay.” He of course had predicted, based on his 25 years of experience, that “the third league could not succeed.” Vila then declared: “[b]ecause I told the truth about this crazy baseball scheme, pin heads who didn’t know what they were talking about wrote me in bitter terms….”[fn]The Sporting News (November 19, 1914): 1.[/fn] Presumably, some if not all of these “pin heads” were readers of the Daily Sun and The Sporting News.

The incessant pounding provided by Taylor Spink, who bought ink by the barrel, and Vila, who possessed enough venom to stop a regiment in its tracks, constantly whittled away at the credibility of the Federals. Money was unquestionably the most decisive factor in recruiting players from Organized Baseball, but the source of that money also had to be—and be perceived as—stable, durable, and professional: a real “Major” League. The virulent antipathy of The Sporting News could not help but undermine the Federal League’s efforts to sway players as they assessed their options. Had Charles Spink survived, he would likely have been unable to restrain Vila from his chosen course; nonetheless, his maturity and his professionalism suggest that he would have declined to bash the upstarts in such a frankly reckless manner.

ACT TWO: “A HUMILIATING POSITION TO BE IN”

Battered by the unrelenting hostility of The Sporting News, the Federals continued to struggle in their effort to sign true marquee talents despite the skills of Joe Tinker, Fielder Jones, and others as salesmen, the deep pockets of Federal League ownership, and that ownership’s willingness to spend money. The Federals were also plagued by a recurring habit of sending mixed, if not blatantly contradictory, messages to the press. As Daniel Levitt noted, “several leading executives did not know when it was best to keep their mouths shut.”[fn]Levitt, The Battle That Forged Modern Baseball, 170–71.[/fn] Amongst the Federal League executives afflicted in this manner was league president James Gilmore. In November 1914, Gilmore proclaimed that the Federals “would no longer go after the higher-priced stars of Organized Baseball” and would instead adopt an approach of upgrading the overall level of talent playing for their teams.[fn]Wiggins, The Federal League of Base Ball Clubs, 168.[/fn] Notwithstanding this pronouncement, after peace talks with the magnates of Organized Baseball faltered, the Federals renewed their efforts to sign new talent.

The first few days of December 1914 may be seen as a high water mark in this regard. Connie Mack, stung by bitterness after being swept by the upstart Boston Braves in the 1914 World Series, and under the pressure of increasing salaries, decided to waive the leading lights of his pitching staff: Jack Coombs, Chief Bender, and Eddie Plank.[fn]Levitt, The Battle That Forged Modern Baseball, 171.[/fn] Coombs joined the Brooklyn Nationals, but the Federals were able to sign both Bender and Plank to contracts for the 1915 season. In New York, meanwhile, the well-financed Brooklyn “Tip Tops” obtained the signature of Rube Marquard of the New York Giants on both an affidavit certifying that he was indeed a free agent and a new Federal League contract. But the real triumph for the outlaws came when Walter Johnson, the pre-eminent American League pitcher of the day, put pen to paper at player-manager Joe Tinker’s urging and joined the Chicago Federals (soon to be known as the Whales).

Johnson’s decision to sign with the Federals rocked the baseball world, although The Sporting Life insisted that the signing of Johnson (and Plank) did not “create the sensation that the signing of Marquard did” because of the longstanding rumors that “these two would eventually line up with the new league.”[fn]Sporting Life (December 12, 1914): 9.[/fn] Johnson, however, was exactly the kind of superstar drawing card that the newcomers had sought for so long. In the view of the Boston Herald as re-presented in The Sporting Life: “[t]he securing of Johnson is about the biggest card that the Federals could have played at this time…. Getting Johnson means several things to all hands at interest. It means, primarily, that the Federals are not yet down and out as Organized Ball has so everlastingly proclaimed…. The fact that Johnson has been willing to make the jump will probably make it easier for the Federals to get other men whom they are after…. And in addition to everything else, Johnson will not only prove a drawing card, as he always has been, but should also win a lot of games for his new employers.”[fn]Sporting Life (December 19, 1914): 12.[/fn] The prospect of rising gate receipts thus also provided at least some hope for undercapitalized Federal teams in Buffalo, Baltimore, and Kansas City.

Unfortunately for the Federals, the high tide of early December soon receded. Marquard, after some wrangling, was returned to the Giants to complete the two years that did, in fact, remain on his contract. Marquard’s reputation as a bit of a risky proposition had been presaged by his wooing of fellow vaudeville star Blossom Seeley, much to the dismay of Blossom’s then-husband, Joseph Kane. According to press accounts, Mr. Kane, accompanied by two detectives, had on one occasion arrived too late (at 2:00AM) to his wife’s hotel room because “by that time the two occupants had gone out walking. They left at a brisk, athletic pace by way of the fire escape.”[fn]The New York Times, November 9, 1912: 11.[/fn] Walter Johnson, by contrast, was a paragon of American baseball virtue, whose decision to execute a “double flop,” renounce his Chicago contract, and return to Washington, had to have come as a complete shock to the Federals.

The long wooing of Walter Johnson, the momentary triumph of his signing, and Johnson’s rapid change of heart stands out as the premier human drama of the Federal League war, one so richly textured that it would be difficult to do it justice in a mere few paragraphs. What matters most for the purposes of this account is that Johnson succumbed to the pleas of Fred Clarke, the manager of the Pittsburgh Pirates, to return to the fold of Organized Baseball. Clarke was acting as an emissary for Clark Griffith, a man who had developed a strong bond with Johnson over the years. One Johnson biographer described their bond as “part father-son relationship, part mutual professional admiration, and the rest genuine friendship.”[fn]Thomas, Walter Johnson: Baseball’s Big Train, 108–9.[/fn] Griffith hurried from the nation’s capital to Kansas City to follow up on Clarke’s breakthrough and return Johnson to Washington’s roster.

The re-signing of Johnson capped a series of mounting frustrations for the Federals. Those frustrations, coupled with the passage of sterner federal antitrust legislation in late 1914, led to the Federals’ decision to sue Organized Baseball in the court of Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis in January 1915. Landis famously delayed taking any action for the duration of the calendar year. While Landis dithered, purposefully, the Federal League withered.

Many of Johnson’s contemporaries also changed their minds and executed a reverse jump, and still others had their private decisions upended in a court of law. It can safely be said, however, that none of these other vacillators possessed as talented a right arm. Neither were they as roundly respected, nor as capable of drawing customers to the park. The final crucial aspect of Johnson’s change of heart was its timing.

Had Walter Johnson not committed his famous “double flop,” the potential for a vastly different outcome of the war comes into view. The Federals may have restrained their litigious instincts, preferring instead to fight on at the contract negotiating table rather than the plaintiff’s table in court. Even allowing that such a suit was inevitable, as the Seymours would have us believe, Judge Landis would have been hard-pressed to simply take no action in light of the prospect of Walter Johnson regularly taking to the mound before large crowds for Weeghman’s Chicago Whales.[fn]Seymour and Mills, Baseball: The Golden Age, 203. The Seymours relate that as early as the 1913 signing of Joe Tinker, Federal League attorney Edward E. Gates was proclaiming that an antitrust action would be brought against Organized Baseball.[/fn]

For his part, Johnson seemed genuinely distraught by the entire affair. In a lengthy piece appearing in Baseball Magazine under his name entitled “Why I Signed With The Federal League,” Johnson said he struggled with the choice between “doing an injury to the Federal League” and having “to injure Washington instead.” He conceded: “[i]t is a humiliating position to be in, and has no doubt hurt me with the public.”[fn]Baseball Magazine (April 1915): 62.[/fn] Johnson had been blasted even before his initial signing by the Federals under such headlines as “Almighty Dollar Johnson’s Ideal.”[fn]Seymour and Mills, Baseball: The Golden Age, 207.[/fn] Then, upon his “double flop” The Sporting Life criticized him for his “very elastic conscience,” surmising that “his moral sense [was] not a mate to his wonderfully strong right arm.”[fn]William G. Weart, “One More Hurt to Base Ball,” Sporting Life (January 21, 1915): 9.[/fn] Johnson was concerned enough about his future to attend the opening session in Landis’s court, inconspicuously clad in a sweater and cap.[fn]The New York Times, January 20, 1915: 10.[/fn]

When no ruling from Judge Landis was forthcoming, he reported, late, to Washington’s spring training camp, prompting one reporter to note that the “Big Train” that carried Johnson was arriving behind schedule. This was the first reported usage of the Hall of Famer’s most enduring nickname.[fn]Ted Leavengood, Clark Griffith: The Old Fox of Washington Baseball (Jefferson, North Carolina: McFarland & Company, Inc., 2011), 110.[/fn]

How did Johnson’s reputation fare? The Big Train, it appears, need not have been so concerned. The public rapidly forgave him this transgression, a testament to both his overall character and his enormous talent. How forgiving was the public? Well, one recent book refers to Johnson as a “divine” hero, and one Johnson biography echoed a columnist’s conclusion (written at the time of Johnson’s death) that “the only man of the past to whom Walter Johnson could be compared was Abraham Lincoln.”[fn]Ira Berkow, Beyond the Dream: Occasional Heroes of Sports (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2008), 45.[/fn], [fn]Kavanaugh, Walter Johnson: A Life, 287.[/fn] Apparently, none of the former Federal League magnates were asked to comment.

ACT THREE: THE PIOUS MASTER BAKER PASSES

While many figures in Organized Baseball knew enough to respect the business acumen of Robert B. Ward, the owner of the Brooklyn “Tip Tops” Federal League franchise and the League’s vice-president, they did question one thing: “What the h— does he know about baseball?” This complaint, expressed in Baseball Magazine by an unnamed American League magnate, raised the fundamental objection that Ward had made his fortune elsewhere, and not in baseball.

Ward had risen from humble beginnings to head the “Greatest Bread Manufacturing Company in the World.”[fn]Baseball Magazine devoted a truly disproportionate amount of its profile of the Ward brothers to the unique antiseptic bread manufacturing process they had developed. F.C. Lane, “Famous Magnates of the Federal League,” Baseball Magazine (July 1915): 24.[/fn] He was a devout Methodist who steadfastly eschewed Sunday baseball, despite its promise of financial gain. While Ward would have deplored the language of the anonymous magnate he was completely unintimidated by the sentiments, stating in reply, “I never knew there was any black art about baseball. Judging from some of the men I have met in the profession and the success they have made, I would not say that intelligence of the first order was necessary to a rather complete mastery of the game.”[fn]The unnamed American League magnate insisted on anonymity; however, it should be noted that due to a typographical error, the second page of the Ward profile contains the header “The Real Comiskey.” Comiskey had been profiled under that title in the February 1914 issue.[/fn], [fn]Lane, “Famous Magnates of the Federal League,” 110.[/fn]

Ward brought both his incisive analytical abilities and his bankroll to the aid of the Federal League cause. Even some of the most prominent figures in Organized Baseball were not shy about expressing admiration for what he brought to the table.

“I don’t know how he did it, but when [Federal League President James] Gilmore interested R.B. Ward in his schemes, he made a ten strike. He is the kind of man any league would go a long way to get,” remarked Charles Somers, a substantial financial backer of the American League at the time of its birth, and one who would be counted among the many financial casualties of the Federal League war. Even Ban Johnson, who was reported to have refused to discuss a possible peace proposal when Gilmore was in the same room, was willing to hold a “friendly conference” with the powerful master baker.[fn]Ibid., at 26, 110.[/fn]

Once President Gilmore had Ward and his brother George within the Federal camp, he proceeded to maximize the financial draws made upon the Ward fortune in support of the fledgling league. Ward, and Ward’s money, seemed to be everywhere. Not only did he support his own team financially, he made substantial loans to the league for the purpose of keeping other franchises afloat “including untold thousands that were never properly documented.”[fn]Levitt, The Battle That Forged Modern Baseball, 221.[/fn] Ward also financed an entire minor league (the Colonial League) virtually singlehandedly for the benefit of the outlaws as a whole.[fn]Wiggins, The Federal League of Base Ball Clubs, 228–31.[/fn]

By that time, Ward had already proven to be a steadying influence on the enterprise, particularly (in conjunction with St. Louis Terrier owner Phil Ball) in restraining the always rambunctious Charlie Weeghman of Chicago. When peace negotiations began after the 1914 season, the disparate interests of the Federal League’s ownership became readily apparent. Buffalo managing partner William Robertson spoke of a peace agreement which would “necessitate recognition of a third major league.”[fn]Levitt, The Battle That Forged Modern Baseball, 157.[/fn] For their part, the backers of the Baltimore franchise were, from the beginning, determined to return that city to the ranks of the Major Leagues.[fn]Wiggins, The Federal League of Base Ball Clubs, 68.[/fn]

Lucky Charlie was more parochial. He was major league material in his own mind. He certainly was not opposed to gaining admittance to Organized Baseball for the Federal League’s “big three” (himself included), but beyond that, he was less concerned. The bigger two of this threesome (Ball and Ward) “were not yet willing to abandon their fellow owners.”[fn]Levitt, The Battle That Forged Modern Baseball, 159.[/fn] The 1914 peace talks collapsed, leaving Joe Vila, as we have seen, once again on the wrong side of accuracy in the media.

The peace negotiations resumed in earnest at the end of the Federal’s second season. With another season of financial losses behind them, the outlaws were more than willing to talk. All around them lay the carnage of the baseball war, exacerbated by the challenges of a fragile national economy. Most tellingly, the ranks of the minor leagues that had already been thinned from 40 at the start of 1914 down to 29 on opening day in 1915, seemed destined for another downsizing.[fn]Ibid., at 157.[/fn] Ban Johnson might have been resolute, but a number of National League owners were wavering, as were the minor league owners, some of whom were in danger of bleeding out. Still, the National Leaguers had not yet felt enough pain to accept the Federals’ proposal of October, which envisioned the major leagues expanding to ten teams each by adding the Federal franchises in Brooklyn, Pittsburgh, Baltimore, and Buffalo or Kansas City, while also allowing Weeghman and Newark owner Harry Sinclair (later of Teapot Dome scandal fame) to purchase two franchises in the established leagues.[fn]Wiggins, The Federal League of Base Ball Clubs, 277.[/fn]

With the proposal deadlocked, fate played its final card in favor of Organized Baseball. On October 18, 1915, Robert B. Ward, who had been diagnosed with pneumonia the week before, died at his Homewood estate in New Rochelle, New York from heart complications at age 63.[fn]Sporting Life (October 23, 1918): 8.[/fn] Rational contemporaries were generous in observing the import of his passing. With Ward’s death, Sporting Life noted, “the Federal League, is deprived of its most powerful and yet most loved individual factor….”[fn]Sporting Life (October 30, 1915): 4.[/fn] Baseball Magazine said that “men like Mr. Ward are very, very few in baseball and their loss can hardly be replaced.”[fn]Baseball Magazine (December 1915): 15.[/fn] The New York Times observed: “The death of Robert B. Ward removes from the Federal League one of its staunch supporters. He was ever an active force in promoting the welfare of the league….”[fn]The New York Times, October 20, 1915: 13.[/fn]

The best that Joe Vila at The Sporting News could manage, however, was more tweak than teary-eyed tribute. Under a headline reading in part: “Death of Outlaw’s Angel Stiffens BackBone of Certain O.B. Men Who Were Inclined to Wobble,” Vila could only manage to concede that: “the chief owner of the Brookfeds was a game sportsman, a big-hearted, good-natured citizen who went into baseball with a limited knowledge of the business end of the game.”[fn]The Sporting News (October 28, 1915): 1.[/fn]

Ban Johnson proved to be even more petty, acknowledging that “[Ward] was the backbone of the Federal League” but then going on to say that “the blow is likely to prove fatal to the organization…. I think it was the Federal League that put him under the sod, as he could not stand the strain of worries and losses.” Federal League President James Gilmore fumed in response: “Mr. Johnson has intruded his personality into every true sportsman’s hour of sorrow,” going on to charge that “by his selfish impulses” Johnson was “slowly but surely ruining the national sport.”[fn]Sporting Life (October 30, 1915): 11.[/fn]

Gilmore’s righteous indignation did not save the outlaws, however, and within two months time peace had been reached. The peace was “far from a total victory” for Organized Baseball, however the peace terms were substantially less generous than the Federals’ October proposal.[fn]Seymour and Mills, Baseball: The Golden Age, 233.[/fn] Weeghman was allowed to purchase the Cubs and Phil Ball purchased the Browns. A large financial settlement ($600,000) was offered to many of the remaining franchises, but unlike both the ending of the American League war, as well as the resolution of more modern challenges in football, hockey, and basketball, there was no wholesale acceptance of an operating league, nor the migration of even a handful of rebel franchises into the established ranks.

The modern chroniclers agree that Ward’s untimely demise was pivotal to this ultimate result. Levitt noted that “there can be no exaggerating the impact of Ward’s death.”[fn]Levitt, The Battle That Forged Modern Baseball, 222[/fn] Wiggins concluded that when Ward passed, “much of the heart and fight of the Federal League died with him.”[fn]Wiggins, The Federal League of Base Ball Clubs, 277.[/fn]

CONCLUSION

It would be foolhardy to argue that but for the three twists of fate described above, the Federal League would have survived and, much like the American League before it, been organically integrated into Organized Baseball and be instantly recognizable a century later. Yet, each of these wrenching events altered, in a substantial way, the events that followed. The waging of the “war” was thus impacted by chance to a non-trivial extent. Even the peace agreement was impacted.

In 1989, Marc Okkonen commented with admiration on the “fascinating gamble” that was the Federal League. That gamble is made all the more fascinating when one considers that it could have ended far differently had only the fates been a little kinder.

BOB RUZZO is a Boston lawyer with considerable affordable housing and transportation policy experience. He is hopelessly obsessed with both the Federal League and how Jewel Box ballparks wove themselves into the fabric of their host cities. He has previously authored an article on Braves Field for the BRJ and is working on an article on the South End Grounds for inclusion in an upcoming book on the 1914 Miracle Braves.

While addressing the crowd at Cooperstown’s Doubleday Field during Hall of Fame weekend later that summer, Thomas Tull, the film’s producer — whose credits range from The Dark Knight to The Hangover to Ninja Assassin — observed that 42 is “the most important film I’ll ever do.” And he added: “After making Batman, Superman, and other superhero movies, the greatest ‘superhero’ movie that could be made is about Jackie Robinson.”1

Yet this recent Jackie film is not the first.2 Way back in 1950 — 63 years earlier — the ballplayer’s struggles were depicted in The Jackie Robinson Story. That film may cover essentially the same territory as 42, but the earlier version is a mirror of its era and a valuable social history. Beyond the rare pleasure of seeing the real number 42 playing himself and reciting his lines, the scenario deals with issues that transcend singles, doubles, and dingers. The Jackie Robinson Story dates from the dawn of the civil rights movement; when it was released, 21-year-old Martin Luther King Jr. had recently received his B.A. from Morehouse College and was a second-year student at Crozer Theological Seminary. Brown v. Board of Education was four years in the future and the signing into law of the Voting Rights Act would be 15. No one could foretell the scope of the demand by black Americans to embrace equal rights with white Americans, but Hollywood, after years of marginalizing black characters, was belatedly acknowledging its biased depiction of African-Americans; previously, the industry consistently had trivialized them as stereotypical mammies and janitors, train porters and shoeshine boys whose eyes popped out of their heads while they fractured the English language.

The Jackie Robinson Story put forth the idea that for every exclusionary bigot in America, there is a man who is fair and humane, a man who would judge Jackie solely on his performance between the foul lines. In other words, for every racist, there is a Branch Rickey. The Jackie Robinson Story heralded a new, refreshing — and, by 1950s standards, radical — celluloid depiction of black Americans and racism American-style. Plus, its star was not the lone future Hall of Famer appearing onscreen. Dick Williams, then a 20-year-old Brooklyn minor leaguer, is in two sequences, playing two different roles. “First, I was a second baseman,” he recalled. “They shot that in one day. The next day, they needed a pitcher. So I did that, too.”3 In the film, there is extensive footage of Williams as the Jersey City hurler who pitches to Jackie in his first minor league game.

Of course, not all Brooklyn-centric baseball films highlight Jackie Robinson, or even the Dodgers. Rhubarb (1951) is a slapstick about a tough, spirited alley cat who is taken in by the eccentric millionaire owner of the big-league Brooklyn Loons. Upon his master’s demise, Rhubarb becomes the principal heir, inheriting $30-million — not to mention those lovable Loons. Baseball also plays a small but significant role in The Chosen (1982), an adaptation of the Chaim Potok novel. The setting is World War II and the story opens with boys playing ball in a Brooklyn schoolyard. One team is consists of Americanized Jews while the other is made up of Hasidic Jews; their competition illustrates their collective assimilation into the American mainstream at a time when those left behind in Europe were being slaughtered by Adolf Hitler.

But films like Rhubarb and The Chosen are the exceptions. Prior to the Dodgers abandoning Brooklyn for the California orange groves, the borough and its big league nine were inexorably linked by Hollywood. On occasion, they were united in entire films, while other storylines only featured Dodgers references or sequences. As a whole, however, these films capture the flavor of baseball Ebbets Field-style, with the wear-your-emotions-on-your-sleeve enthusiasm of the Dodgers diehards.

Perhaps the quintessential Brooklyn baseball film is one that is little-seen and barely remembered. Though the names of Hall of Famers Christy Mathewson, Walter Johnson, Dazzy Vance, Grover Cleveland Alexander, and Tony Lazzeri are casually dropped into the script, neither the Dodgers nor Ebbets Field are cited by name. Still, It Happened in Flatbush (1942) embodies the essence of the borough during a long-ago era. Though the on-screen image is that of the Brooklyn Bridge, the opening credits feature a soundtrack of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”

The scenario charts what happens when Frank Maguire (Lloyd Nolan), a washed-up ex-ballplayer who “used to be shortstop for Brooklyn,” is resurrected as the team’s skipper. Upon his hiring, the team’s owner tells Maguire: “See you in New York” — and he is quick to respond: “Not New York. Brooklyn.” The woman who eventually inherits the club is no baseball fan. We know this because she resides in Manhattan, whose residents are referred to as “foreigners.” And Brooklyn is labeled “the best baseball town in America,” with its residents loudly, endlessly arguing — and not just about sports. But bats and balls are at the core of the story. One fan even rushes onto the field to belt an umpire, while another proudly declares: “Baseball belongs to the people, and the Brooklyn team belongs to us.”

The Dodgers are cited by name in other period titles. Once Upon a Honeymoon (1942) stars Ginger Rogers as a Brooklynite who came of age near Ebbets Field and who quips: “Foul balls used to light in my backyard” before sighing “Dem lovely Bums.” The opening sequence in Arsenic and Old Lace (1944) features loudmouthed Dodgers fanatics and brawling players at Ebbets Field. The It Happened in Brooklyn (1947) scenario stresses that every genuine Brooklynite knows that the Ebbets address is “Bedford and Sullivan”; upon arriving home after four years in the military, Brooklynite Frank Sinatra immediately spots a poster advertising a ballgame (“Game Today Ebbets Field Dodgers vs. Cubs”). The musical The West Point Story (1950) includes a “Brooklyn” production number, one of whose lines is: “They know my shield from Ebbets Field to Cheyenne…” The Dodgers first — and lone — World Series title is acknowledged in The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit (1956), the tale of a stressed-out suburbanite (Gregory Peck) who travels into Manhattan by train every workday. On one occasion, the man sitting beside him dourly declares: “There’s no use trying. I just can’t get used to it.” “Used to what?” he asks. His fellow commuter responds: “The idea of the Brooklyn Dodgers as world champions.”

Big Leaguer (1953) was made two years after Bobby Thomson’s shot-heard-round-the-world resulted in the Dodgers’ embracing defeat yet again. Though the film is New York Giants-centric — with Edward G. Robinson playing “Hans” Lobert, an ex-big leaguer who runs a Giants’ Melbourne, Florida tryout camp — the finale features a game between the Giants prospects and Dodgers rookies. The Brooklynites are leading, 7–4, in the ninth inning when Carl Hubbell, on hand to evaluate Lobert’s players, offers insight into the heart of baseball by observing: “The game’s now getting interesting.”

Among all the actors who’ve played fans of all stripes, the one who embodies the essence of the baseball zealot is William Bendix. Certainly, Bendix’s role in baseball movies extends way beyond his characterization of The Bambino in The Babe Ruth Story (1948) — arguably one of the worst-ever baseball biopics. For indeed, during World War II, one of the character types found in a typical military unit in a typical Hollywood war movie is played most memorably by Bendix: the energetic Brooklynite, a lovable “woiking class” Joe who endlessly blabs on about Dem Bums while bullets from the guns of the heinous “Japs” and “Krauts” zip by overhead. For after all, weren’t our boys in uniform battling Hitler, Tojo, and Mussolini to preserve baseball as much as mom’s apple pie and the red, white, and blue?

In Guadalcanal Diary (1943), Bendix plays Taxi Potts, an affable jokester and Brooklyn cabbie-turned-US Marine. The film opens with Potts and his fellow GIs on board a transport somewhere in the South Pacific, heading for a Japanese beachhead. “If I was back home, I wouldn’t be on no boat…,” he quips. “Ebbets Field. That’s for me. Watchin’ them beautiful Bums… Just leadin’ the league… That’s all, just leadin’ the league… You got any dough which says the Yanks’ll take the Bums in the Series?” (The year is 1942 and, later on, the Marines listen to a World Series radio report in which the Bronx nine faces off against… the St. Louis Cardinals!) But Potts’s Dodgers devotion is endless. Just before landing at Guadalcanal, he admits: “…times like these kinda make me wish I was back in Brooklyn, drivin’ my cab with the fast meter and keepin’ an eye on them Bums.” While digging a foxhole, he notes: “Maybe if we dig deep enough, we’ll come up somewhere around Ebbets Field.”

Not all of Bendix’s Borough of Churches characters are in the military. In Lifeboat (1944), he plays Gus Smith, a stoker on a freighter destroyed by a German U-boat. “What a day for a ballgame,” he feverishly declares while struggling to maintain his sanity on the lifeboat. The Cardinals may be “the team to watch this year” because they “got hitters… Stan Musial’s been clubbin’ ’em,” but he adds: “If the Dodgers only had a guy like Ernie Bonham, or even Johnny Humphries.” He then conjures up a fictional game between Brooklyn and Pittsburgh. The pitching matchup will “probably be [Whitlow] Wyatt for the Dodgers, [Rip] Sewell for the Pirates. I think I’ll take Rosie (to) Ebbets Field. It’s gonna be a good game this afternoon.”

The actor also portrays a baseball-loving Brooklynite in a trio of Hal Roach “streamliners”: films with lengths between that of a short subject and feature. Their titles are Brooklyn Orchid (1942); The McGuerins from Brooklyn, also known as Two Mugs from Brooklyn (1943); and Taxi, Mister (1943), all of which chart the misadventures of Tim McGuerin (Bendix) and Eddie Corbett (Joe Sawyer), the rough-hewn but affable co-owners of a Brooklyn taxi company.

The McGuerins from Brooklyn may have been advertised as a comedy in which Bendix and Sawyer “…Bat Out Laughs Like the Dodgers Bat Out Runs,” but baseball is most prevalent in Taxi, Mister. The scenario has McGuerin pitching on a sandlot ball team; Corbett is the catcher; their nine is named for one of the most celebrated Brooklyn neighborhoods: Flatbush. A mobster plots to do in McGuerin during a game but, in a sequence which ends in a free-for-all, the pitcher’s ability to throw a wicked curveball allows him to knock out the bad guy.

On other occasions, real-life Dodgers show up onscreen. Whistling in Brooklyn (1943) stars Red Skelton as a popular radio sleuth who is involved in off-the-air murder and mayhem; he comes to Ebbets Field and mixes with Leo Durocher, Arky Vaughan, Ducky Medwick, and Billy Herman, among others. Plus, as Herman comes to bat, who should appear on-camera but the inimitable Hilda Chester, Dodgers fan extraordinaire. (Hilda, Leo, Pee Wee Reese, Pete Reiser, Eddie Stanky, and Red Barber appear in Brooklyn, I Love You, a Paramount short subject spotlighting the Dodgers’ 1946 campaign.) Billy Loes, Carl Erskine, Russ Meyer, and Roy Campanella play themselves in Roogie’s Bump (1954), a Rookie of the Year precursor involving a little boy who, via the maneuvering of Red O’Malley, a deceased Dodgers pitching star, becomes the “miracle kid with the super zoom ball” who fires horsehides with the “speed of light.” Walter O’Malley is not to be seen but his influence is obvious, as hurler O’Malley is nothing less than saintly, and even is patronizingly referred to as the “Great O’Malley.”

Three years later, the Dodgers abandoned Brooklyn and O’Malley no longer was “great” — at least in the souls of Brooklynites. Sweet Smell of Success came to theaters in June 1957, scant months before the team’s Brooklyn swan song. In the film, slimy press agent Sidney Falco (Tony Curtis) tells the secretary of ruthless newspaper columnist J.J. Hunsecker (Burt Lancaster): “Don’t try to sell me the Brooklyn Bridge. I happen to know it belongs to the Dodgers.” But Falco was of course dead-wrong. This repartee is contrasted to another Tony Curtis film: Some Like It Hot (1959), which is set in Chicago in 1929. The following dialogue may be lost on twenty-first-century viewers who are neither baseball, movie, nor American history savvy, but it resonated with then-contemporary moviegoers. At one point, saxophonist Joe (Curtis) queries his pal Jerry (Jack Lemmon), a double-bass player: “Jerry boy, why do you have to paint everything so black?… Suppose the stock market crashes. Suppose Mary Pickford divorces Douglas Fairbanks. Suppose the Dodgers leave Brooklyn…”4

For decades after their departure, Brooklyn Dodgers nostalgia permeated American movies. In Kramer vs. Kramer (1979), a father (Dustin Hoffman) who hails from the borough tells his son (Justin Henry) about his childhood: “We listened to the radio… We didn’t have diet soda. We had egg creams… We didn’t have the Mets, but we had the Brooklyn Dodgers. And we had the Polo Grounds. And we had Ebbets Field. Oh boy, those were the days.” Fact and fiction merge in Simple Men (1992), featuring a central character who was the Dodgers’ all-star shortstop during the 1950s — and who is decidedly not Pee Wee Reese. After his playing career ended, the ballplayer (known as “Dad,” played by John MacKay) became an anarchist who allegedly tossed a bomb at the Pentagon during the late 1960s, killing seven people. But in no way is his baseball career marginalized. “I saw your father play with the Dodgers back in ’56,” a cop tells one of his sons. “He was the greatest shortstop who ever lived, no matter what anyone says about him.”

Brooklyn (2015), based on Colm Tóibín’s novel and set in the early 1950s, is the story of Eilis Lacey (Saoirse Ronan), a shy Irish lass who leaves her smalltown home, sets off for America, and settles in the title borough. Once there, Eilis is pursued romantically by Tony (Emory Cohen), a blue-collar Brooklynite of Italian extraction who lives and breathes Dodger-blue. At one point, Eilis is told that she will “have to go to Ebbets Field if you want to see (Tony) in the summer.” She then asks Tony: “They’re that important to you?” And he responds: “Put it this way, if our kids end up supporting the Yankees or the Giants, it would break my heart.”

A far less misty-eyed take is found in Smoke and Blue in the Face (both 1995), based on works by Newark, New Jersey native and longtime Brooklyn resident Paul Auster, which offer portraits of the borough pre-gentrification. At one point, one of its characters, who is old enough to recall the Dodgers in Brooklyn, tellingly explains: “If there was probably a childhood trauma that I had, other than the Dodgers leaving Brooklyn which, if you think about it, is a reason why some of us are imbued with a cynicism that we never recovered from. Obviously, you’re not a Mets fan and you can’t possibly be a Yankee fan. So baseball is eliminated from your life, because of being born in Brooklyn.” And he concludes: “Maybe I don’t like baseball because the Dodgers aren’t here anymore…”

The title character in The Angriest Man in Brooklyn (2014) is no grouchy golden ager who also misses Dem Bums. He is Henry Altmann (Robin Williams), a perpetually enraged (not to mention terminally-ill) individual. Altmann is surrounded by hostile, endlessly kvetching Brooklynites; however, a once-upon-a-happier-time is represented in a black-and-white photo of two Dodgers jacket-clad boys posing with their father in Ebbets Field.5

Finally, during the 2016 presidential race, My X-Girlfriend’s Wedding Reception (1999), an otherwise obscure low-budget throwaway, became a hot online ticket. The reason: Playing a rabbi named Manny Shevitz — remember, this is a comedy — is none other than Bernie Sanders. He is billed as “Congressman Bernie Sanders” and his yarmulke-clad character addresses the wedding guests by observing: “Today we celebrate life: a very sacred part of life.” That’s fair enough, coming from a rabbi. But then Rabbi Manny, after declaring that he, like the man who plays him, was born and bred in Brooklyn, goes on a riff about the tragedy of the Dodgers leaving the Borough of Churches. Then, as if addressing a convention of sports fans rather than a wedding party, he segues into a criticism of baseball free agency.

ROB EDELMAN teaches film history at the University at Albany. He authored “Great Baseball Films” and “Baseball on the Web,” and, with his wife Audrey Kupferberg, “Meet the Mertzes,” a double biography of “I Love Lucy’s” Vivian Vance and famed baseball fan William Frawley. A frequent contributor to SABR journals and to “Base Ball: A Journal of the Early Game,” he has written articles on baseball and pop culture for many publications.

Notes

1. http://wamc.org/post/rob-edelman-now.

2. Robinson also is the central character in two made-for-TV movies. Andre Braugher plays him in The Court-Martial of Jackie Robinson (1990), involving his plight upon refusing to move to the back of a bus while in the US Army during World War II. Blair Underwood plays him in Soul of the Game (1996), centering on his interaction with Satchel Paige and Josh Gibson at the time of his signing by Branch Rickey. In Blue in the Face (1995), Keith David appears as the ghost of Jackie Robinson. And in Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing (1989), Mookie the pizza delivery guy (played by Lee) comes to work garbed in a number 42 jersey. But Jackie is missing from another TV movie: It’s Good to Be Alive (1974), a Roy Campanella biopic.

3. Rob Edelman. “The Jackie Robinson Story: A Reflection of Its Era,” NINE: A Journal of Baseball History & Culture, Fall 2011, 40–55.

4. A link between Brooklyn past and present is found in Captain America: The First Avenger (2011), which is written up in detail in “More Baseball in Non-Baseball Films,” published in the Spring 2015 issue of the Baseball Research Journal (76–82). To summarize: The time is World War II and Brooklyn-born 90-pound weakling Steve Rogers (Chris Evans) has been transformed into the muscular title character. At one point, he hears a Dodgers-Phillies game broadcast on the radio from Ebbets Field. Only there’s a problem. The scenario may be set during the war, but this particular contest was played pre-Pearl Harbor: in May 1941. He knows this because he was in the stands; the fictional Steve Rogers was one of the 12,941 fans on hand that day. Something is amiss … and this knowledge on Rogers’s part further propels the plot.

5. Pictured in the 1955 photo is five-year-old Phil Alden Robinson (the director of The Angriest Man in Brooklyn as well as Field of Dreams), his older brother, and their father.

But what had happened to MVPs DiMaggio and Gordon struck fear into Yankees executives Larry MacPhail and George Weiss, two of the most knowledgeable baseball people in the business. DiMaggio, the heart of the Yankees dynasty from 1936, at age 31, returned from military service an old man. For normal mortals, a year with a .290 batting average, 25 home runs, and 95 RBIs would register as a solid performance; for DiMaggio, it was a bitter disappointment, the first time he finished under .300 with fewer than 100 RBIs. Worse yet was Joe Gordon’s year. In 1942, Gordon hit .322 with 18 home runs and 103 runs batted in, an MVP year in the American League. He fell off offensively in 1943 yet remained an acrobatic second baseman, a perennial All-Star who always got the nod over his Boston Red Sox rival, Bobby Doerr; but, 1946 proved to be a disaster for Gordon. He hit an anemic .210, played in just 112 games, knocked in 47 runs with 11 homers. Worst of all, his fielding collapsed. Gordon gave every indication that the war had sapped his talents, and he was through. Weiss and MacPhail decided in the fall of 1946 that they would get whatever they could for him in a trade. Gordon, they were certain, was finished. MacPhail, franchise president acting as his own general manager, trusted his farm director’s advice; Weiss wanted another starting pitcher.

For the Cleveland Indians and their new owner Bill Veeck, 1946 had been just as frustrating. The only bright spot was the returning star Bob Feller. Feller, a war hero, gave up three prime years by enlisting in the US Navy immediately after Pearl Harbor. Now the 27-year-old flamethrower was back and turned in a 26–15 mark with a sixth-place team, leading the league in complete games (36), innings pitched (371), strikeouts (348), and shutouts (10). On Opening Day he beat the Chicago White Sox, 1–0, with a three-hitter, striking out 10. On the final day of the season, Feller threw a six-hitter beating the Detroit Tigers and Hal Newhouser, the league’s other 26-game winner, 4–1. Feller was back, with a vengeance. His 2.18 ERA was bested only by Newhouser and the Yankees’ Spud Chandler.

The rest of the Cleveland team flopped. They had the league’s worst team batting average at .245; and the worst of the worst was second base, where two war-time retreads, Ray Mack and Dutch Meyer, batted .205 and .232 respectively. Veeck looked around for available talent and set his eyes on the disappointing Yankees second baseman. Acting as his own general manager, he guessed that Gordon needed only a little more time to get straightened out and return to pre-war form; and Veeck had pitchers to spare. The only untouchable was Feller; every other pitcher was expendable. The Yankees, he told MacPhail and Weiss, could have anyone else. 

MacPhail and Weiss looked over the Indians roster. The liked a 28-year-old righthander named Red Embree, who Weiss believed was just coming into his own. In 1946 he had been moved into the starting rotation for the first time, threw 200 innings, and baseball people generally felt that his 8–12 record was only a stop on the way to a brilliant career. For a moment, they considered a converted third baseman whom the Indians had shifted to the mound. But no one believed that the 25-year-old Bob Lemon would have much of a career as a pitcher. Mel Harder was too old; Steve Gromek didn’t throw hard enough; and Allie Reynolds, Veeck’s biggest disappointment, showed that, after four years, he really could not be a consistent winner in the big leagues. Now he was 29 years old, couldn’t finish games he started, and could not control a fastball that many felt was the equal of Feller’s. What good was it if you couldn’t throw strikes and faded after the fifth inning?

Reynolds, who was 18–12 in the wartime year of 1945, was supposed to give Cleveland the most powerful one-two punch in the American League, the equal of Newhouser and Dizzy Trout with the Tigers. Instead, he finished 11–15, starting 28 games and completing nine. With 108 bases on balls, he gave one more walk than strikeouts. His 3.89 ERA was well above the team average. 

The Cleveland press never let up on Reynolds. He was one-quarter Creek Indian, whose ancestors had been driven to Oklahoma from Georgia and Alabama generations earlier and had settled on Indian land. When he consistently ran out of gas in the final innings, he was dubbed “The Vanishing American.” Comparisons were made to the first native American in major league baseball who also happened to play in Cleveland at the turn of the century, Lou Sockalexis, a Penobscot Indian from Maine who was immediately dubbed “Chief” and who, the newspapers reported, could not hold his “firewater.” Sockalexis eventually drank himself out of baseball. One Cleveland sportswriter wrote his eulogy: “Socks swears by the feathers of his ancestors that he hasn’t removed the scalp from one glass of foamy beer since last Spring, when he whooped up a dance on Superior Street…but the wiles and temptations of the big cities stimulated poor Lou’s thirst and set him forth in search of the red paint.” 

So much for native American baseball players. The beat writers firmly believed that Reynolds lacked some inner character that would prevent him from ever reaching his potential. (No one suspected that Allie had early-stage diabetes, and once he started drinking orange juice during games, his stamina improved dramatically.)

The Cleveland-New York discussions began immediately after the season’s end; all the Yankees had to do was to confirm that they wanted Embree. But, MacPhail, at the last moment, told Weiss that he wanted to hear from two more voices: DiMaggio and Henrich. He called them personally. Each gave the same answer: “Get Reynolds.” When the surprised MacPhail told Weiss, the farm director was hesitant. Reynolds had pitched his last start in 1946 against the Yankees and was dreadful. Weiss remembered; DiMaggio, even more strongly than Henrich, didn’t care: “If you can get Reynolds, get him,” said the Yankee Clipper; and the deal was made on October 11, 1946: straight up, Joe Gordon for Allie Reynolds. 

Joe Gordon was a much beloved Yankee, a genuinely selfless player who gave everything to the team, a gentleman of considerable character. When Larry Doby arrived to integrate the American League and the Cleveland Indians in the summer of 1947, he was met with a frosty hostility, until Gordon pushed his way past the turned backs, walked up to Doby with extended hand, and welcomed him to the clubhouse. Doby remembered that act of sincere humanity for the rest of his life. 

When the 1947 season got underway, everyone in baseball was delighted that Gordon almost instantly reverted to form and put together a regenerative year for the Indians and for his career. At age 32, he played 155 of the 157-game season, hit .272, smashed 29 home runs, and knocked in 93. No longer was “Flash” Gordon the acrobat around the keystone, but he played a respectable second base and with Lou Boudreau at shortstop gave Cleveland the offensive punch it needed in the infield. The Indians moved up two notches in the American League to fourth place, and were ready for the surge to come.

Everything came together in 1948, when the Cleveland Indians, to everyone’s amazement, won the American League pennant, beating the Boston Red Sox in a one-game playoff, then went on to defeat the Boston Braves to become baseball’s champions of the world. Player-manager shortstop Lou Boudreau hit .355 for the year and ran away with the league’s MVP award, but Veeck always insisted that the heart of that team was their second baseman, Joe Gordon, who had career highs in home runs(32) and RBIs (124). He was sixth in the MVP voting. Veeck knew that it was Gordon who helped Larry Doby integrate the Cleveland clubhouse and to fulfill his promise. Doby hit .301 and anchored the Cleveland outfield. (The converted infielder the Yankees didn’t want, Bob Lemon, had the first of his six twenty-victory seasons.) Cleveland home attendance of 2.6 million surpassed by nearly 400,000 the previous record, set by the Yankees in 1946. 

Joe Gordon was indeed in the twilight of his career. He gave Cleveland two more respectable years, then hung up his spikes after the 1950 season and began a career that would lead him to managing four different major league teams between 1958 and 1969, including three years at the helm of the Indians. But, for millions of Cleveland fans, Joe Gordon will always be connected to the fantasy year of 1948 and the role he played in bringing so totally without expectation a world’s championship to the city.

For Allie Reynolds, there was also a rebirth, and one that would totally reverse what most baseball people saw as the inevitable decline of fortune. The universal consensus after the 1946 season believed that the Yankees dynasty was over. The shock of seeing the diminished skills of Joe DiMaggio left the sportswriters stunned and certain that the age of the Red Sox was upon American League baseball, in spite of the unexpected loss to the St. Louis Cardinals in the 1946 World Series.1 The Red Sox were loaded with stars Ted Williams, Bobby Doerr, John Pesky, and Dom DiMaggio. In 1947 and 1949 they executed  trades with the St. Louis Browns that brought them Ellis Kinder, hard-hitting shortstop Vern Stephens, and all-star outfielder Al Zarilla. The Boston Red Sox were labeled the team of the decade. It never happened.

In 1947, the Yankees unexpectedly stormed back. This was no longer the Bronx Bombers. The fans didn’t see the dominant DiMaggio of the 1936-41 years, but he still carried the offense as much as he could. The 32-year-old outfielder hit 20 home runs to lead the team, knocked in 97, and hit .315: a little better than 1946. But, there was a new leader on the mound; and it was Allie Reynolds, back from the dead. He immediately took over as the Yankees ace at the top of the rotation, started a team-leading 30 games, 17 of which he completed, finished at 19–8 with a 3.20 ERA , under the team and league average. No Yankee hurler was close to his 242 innings pitched.

For Allie Reynolds, 1947 was the annus mirabilis; for Joe Gordon, the magic struck in 1948: one trade, two World Series. The Age of the Red Sox never arrived. They lost the American League pennant in two consecutive years—1948 and 1949—on the last day of the season, once to Cleveland and again to the Yankees. From 1949 to 1953, Boston’s nemesis was Allie Reynolds, who became a dominant pitcher in the American League—the first in history to throw two no-hitters in a season (1951, when he was given the Ray Hickok Award as Professional Athlete of the Year)— and a superstar in the post-season, leading the Yankees to five consecutive World Series triumphs, a record that arguably will never be broken. Reynolds, along with Vic Raschi and Eddie Lopat, gave the Yankees three ace starters, and when Whitey Ford joined them permanently in 1953, Branch Rickey stated that this was the best starting rotation in baseball history.

Joe Gordon passed away in 1978, at age 63. In 2009, the Veterans Committee of the Hall of Fame elected him to membership. Allie Reynolds, who as a Yankees stalwart went 131–60, threw two no-hitters, won seven World Series games and saved four others, died in 1994, age 77. He was on the Veterans Committee election ballot of 2011. These two veteran ballplayers are joined together in baseball immortality by a trade in which everyone was a winner, except perhaps the Boston Red Sox. 

SOL GITTLEMAN is the Alice and Nathan Gantcher University Professor at Tufts University, where he has taught for forty-eight years. For the past five years, he has taught a seminar in the History Department called “America and the National Pastime.” He joined SABR in 1986 and published his first article in 1992. That article led to a book in 2007, “Reynolds, Raschi and Lopat: New York’s “Big Three” and the Great Yankee Dynasty of 1949–1953.“

Sources

Bennett, Stephen. “The Longest Season,” in Cooperstown Review. Premiere Issue, 1993, 122.

Gittleman, Sol. Reynolds, Raschi, and Lopat. Jefferson, NC: McFarland Press, 2007.

Golenbock, Peter. Dynasty. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall Press, 1975.

Halberstam, David. Summer of ’49. New York: William Morrow and Company, 1989.

Henrich, Tommy with Bill Gilbert. Five O’Clock Lightening. Carol Publishing, 1992.

Kahn, Roger. The Era, 1947–1957. New York: Ticknor and Fields, 1993.

Rizzuto, Phil with Tom Horton. The October Twelve. New York: Forge, 1994.

Spatz, Lyle, Yankees Coming, Yankees Going. Jefferson, NC: McFarland Press, 2000.

Notes

1 Unexpected to everyone except those who knew that the Cardinals had three off-speed left-handers in Howie Pollet, Harry Brecheen, and Al Brazle, who would drive Ted Williams to distraction. Williams collected five singles, drove in one run, and hit .200 in his only WS appearance. Harry Brecheen won three games.

In the fall of 1933, the Detroit Tigers had just completed a 75-79 season, good for fifth place in the American League, 25 games behind the Washington Senators. The Tigers were still searching for that elusive first world championship; their most recent trip to the World Series having been in 1909. The club hadn’t been in serious contention since 1916, when Ty Cobb, Sam Crawford, and Bobby Veach roamed the outfield in Detroit. With two games left in the 1933 season, manager Bucky Harris had handed in his resignation on September 27. Tiger owner Frank Navin was suddenly in the market for a new skipper for his team.

He knew he needed a strong leader to light a spark under his perennially lethargic club. The Tiger locker room had taken on the atmosphere of a country club in recent years. But in addition to the club’s on-the-field problems, the Depression had caused attendance at Navin Field to drop to a third of what it had been ten years earlier. Navin had contemplated selling the franchise. Ty Cobb was reportedly involved in an effort to purchase the team, but it never came to fruition. So the Tigers boss had three crises to deal with: Finding a manager, improving the team, and boosting attendance.

Navin felt he had the answer to all three problems in the Yankees’ Babe Ruth. The Sultan of Swat, who would be 39 in 1934, was clearly nearing the end of the line as a player, but he still had some pop left in his bat. He had hit .301 with 34 home runs and 104 RBIs for New York in 1933. Good numbers, certainly, for just about anyone not named Ruth. For several years, Ruth had made no bones about his interest in becoming the New York manager. The Yankees owner, Colonel Jacob Ruppert, however, did not reciprocate that interest, and in fact was seeking to be rid of Ruth altogether. Yankees manager Joe McCarthy and star first baseman Lou Gehrig, were barely on speaking terms with the home-run king, so perhaps Ruppert reasoned that dumping Ruth would be addition by subtraction. That’s where Navin saw an opening.

Ruppert gave Navin permission to talk to Ruth about the Detroit managerial job. During the World Series that fall, Navin and Yankees general manager Ed Barrow discussed the framework of an arrangement that would have allowed Ruth to become the Tigers’ player-manager. Navin contacted Ruth by telephone, requesting that he come quickly to Detroit in order to work out the details. Ruth anticipated being offered the job, but nonetheless didn’t appear to be in any hurry to sit down with Navin. The Bambino put the meeting on hold in order to travel to Hawaii with his wife, Claire. Apparently, he had a commitment to play in a golf tournament, along with a few baseball exhibitions. Ruth abruptly ended the telephone call by saying that they could get together when he returned from the trip.

Upon hearing about this, Barrow warned Ruth, “You’re making a mistake. You’d better go see him now.” “There’s plenty of time,” Ruth replied. “The season doesn’t begin for six months. I’ve got these things all set in Hawaii. I’ll call him when I get back.”1 Perhaps Ruth felt that he was a lock for the job, and that he could afford to make Navin wait. If that was the case, Ruth had overplayed his hand. The Tigers owner wanted to get the deal settled, and didn’t appreciate such flippant treatment from a ballplayer.

While in Hawaii, Ruth did get around to corresponding with Navin, but it did not go well. Navin was put off by Ruth’s salary demands, as well as his desire for a percentage of the gate. The Tigers owner suddenly grew cool to the whole idea, and walked away from a deal.

It may have been the best move he never made.

This being the Depression, the Tigers were not the only team facing financial difficulties. In Philadelphia the Athletics were losing money as well. Attendance at Shibe Park had been steadily plummeting, from 839,176 in the World Series-winning pre-Depression year of 1929 to 297,138 in 1933. To stay afloat, Athletics owner/manager Connie Mack was desperately trying to cut expenses. He had already begun by trading slugger Al Simmons and two other players to the Chicago White Sox for $100,000 in 1932. As recently as August of 1933, Navin had asked Mack to “put a price on (Mickey) Cochrane,” the Athletics’ star catcher. “Forget it, Frank,” was Mack’s reply at the time. “I’d never sell him.”2 Navin assumed that was the end of it. After the season, however, Mack made it known to his fellow owners that he was willing to part with Cochrane, as well as ace hurler Lefty Grove, in a package deal for $200,000. He found no takers; such an asking price was too high for any team in that financial climate.

It was at this point that H.G. Salsinger, a Detroit News sportswriter, helped to change the course of baseball in Detroit. Salsinger was somewhat of a confidant of Navin. He told the owner that Cochrane would not only solve the team’s catching problems, but would also be the answer to the vacant managerial position, providing the leadership that was so lacking on the team. Salsinger had bounced the idea off Cochrane and Cochrane had told him, “I’d like nothing better.”3 Based on this information, Navin began pursuing discussions with Mack regarding Cochrane. According to Mack: “I saw this was Mickey’s chance. I owed him something extra for his loyalty, so I just couldn’t stand in his way when he could better himself. That’s the only reason I ever let Mickey leave me.”4 Mack still wanted $100,000 for Cochrane, though, and Navin did not have that type of money on hand. So he borrowed the money from his partner, Walter Briggs, which started the ball rolling.

On December 12, 1933, Mack had a busy day. He sold Grove, leadoff man extraordinaire Max Bishop, and 17-game-winner Rube Walberg, to the Boston Red Sox for $125,000 and two inconsequential players. He also finalized the deal with the Tigers, who acquired Cochrane in exchange for catcher Johnny Pasek and $100,000. Finally, he sent Pasek and former 20-game-winner and World Series hero George Earnshaw to the Chicago White Sox for $20,000 and Charlie Berry, who would remind no one of Cochrane as the Athletics’ new catcher. It was one of the darkest days in Philadelphia baseball history, but one of the brightest for the Detroit Tigers.

An excited Cochrane exclaimed “I’ll be happy to manage the Tigers for Mr. Navin, who impresses me as a great fellow and a man who will help me build. He said he’d give me a chance and his record proves it, as Hughie Jennings was there for many years, Ty Cobb for six years, and Bucky Harris for five. I see no reason why I can’t make the grade as a manager.”5

The addition of Cochrane was the catalyst through which the Tigers’ fortunes drastically improved. Cochrane had played with Philadelphia for nine seasons, including three trips to the World Series, winning in 1929 and 1930. He had been the league’s MVP in 1928. Although his years in Philadelphia had established him as a star player, the time Cochrane spent in Detroit would propel him to near-legendary status in the Motor City and beyond. He spent only four years in Detroit, but his competitive nature and leadership abilities resurrected the Tigers franchise to elite status while they played championship baseball.

In some ways Cochrane was not ready to be a playing manager for the Tigers. He did not like the limelight that the position brought to his life, and the light only got brighter as he began his tenure. From the very beginning, however, Cochrane displayed a winning attitude. After all, that is what he was accustomed to from his time in Philadelphia. He expected the Tigers to have the same attitude from the very beginning, and he wasted no time in trying to instill his way of thinking.

From the day he arrived in Detroit in January of 1934, Cochrane began spreading the word about the Tigers turning the page and becoming a contender again. He made the circuit of luncheons, banquets, social gatherings, and newspaper interviews. Cochrane was confident but not cocky. At a Kiwanis Club luncheon, he asserted, “I played with the Athletics for nine years and in that time we never finished out of the first division and I do not intend to do so now.” At another engagement he remarked, “I’m not foolish enough to expect a pennant the first season and maybe not the second, but I promise you an improved team.”6

Once spring training began, Cochrane didn’t waste any time instilling a new attitude in the Tigers. One of the local headlines read, “Cochrane Cracks Training Whip to Get Tigers into Fighting Trim.” He added 20 minutes of calisthenics to the routine of training camp. He conducted clinics on the fundamentals of sliding and defensive positioning. He imposed a midnight curfew and had a 9:00 A.M. wakeup call for the three-hour morning practices, which started not a minute after 10:30. He even ordered the hotel chef that “no man may order more than one steak a day.”7

One of the changes Cochrane made was a symbolic one. Before the 1930 season, the Tigers had done away with the classic Old English “D” on the front of their home jerseys. The logo had been worn since the club’s early days, including during their pennant-winning run of 1907-09. The new look apparently didn’t do much for Cochrane. He saw to it that the Old English “D” was put back on the uniforms and caps, in hopes that it would restore the Tigers’ champion pedigree. Indeed, there was a new boss in town, and baseball in Detroit was about to undergo a seismic change.

Cochrane’s new attitude quickly rubbed off on the rest of the Tigers. He made the players believe in themselves, and once the summer heated up, so did the team. More and more fans began coming back to Navin Field, as the ballpark became a place where they could watch some exciting baseball and forget about the worries of the Depression for a couple of hours. The Tigers led the American League in attendance in 1934 with 919,161, their highest mark since 1924, and nearly triple their total of 1933.

One of the biggest beneficiaries of Cochrane’s arrival was the young Detroit pitching staff. In particular, Cochrane is credited with turning the 24-year-old Schoolboy Rowe from a thrower into a pitcher. Rowe, in only his second big-league season in 1934, compiled a 24-8 record. Another second-year man, Elden Auker, won 15. Tommy Bridges improved from 14 wins to 22. The staff was one of the biggest keys to the Tigers’ success, as the team finished with a record of 101-53, seven games ahead of the Yankees, to capture the American League pennant.

As for Cochrane in 1934, he averaged .320 and was named the league’s Most Valuable Player for the second time in his career (having also won in 1928). Despite Lou Gehrig’s having won the Triple Crown that season, Cochrane’s success as a player and a manager helped sway the voters in his favor.

After the pennant-winning 1934 season, Packard Motor Car Company president Alvan Macauley chimed in: “The Tigers have been an inspiration not only to this community but to this whole country. It was their never-say-die, refuse to be licked spirit that brought them through and that is the spirit Detroit needs and America needs today.”8 Cochrane said, however, that “Too much of the credit has been given to me. It belongs equally on the shoulders of these stalwart lads. No one man but all of them, playing as a smooth working unit, made this possible, this happy night of celebration possible.”9

The Tigers lost the 1934 World Series to the St. Louis Cardinals in seven games, despite having led three games to two. The loss was a crusher. The Tigers, and the city of Detroit, felt that there was some unfinished business to attend to come spring of 1935. …

JOHN MILNER grew up in Michigan before moving to Texas in 1990. He has been a Tigers fan throughout his life due to the strong in uence of his grandfathers and dad, who instilled a love of the team in him from an early age. He work has appeared in “Sock It To ’Em Tigers: The Incredible Story of the 1968 Detroit Tigers” and “Detroit Tigers 1984: What a Start! What a Finish!” John would like to dedicate his contribution to this book to his grandfathers, John H. Milner and  omas Mullennix, who  lled his head with stories of Schoolboy Rowe, Mickey Cochrane, Hank Greenberg, Goose Goslin, and the rest of the Tigers from this era. While growing up, John listened to Ernie Harwell describing Tigers games on the radio on many humid summer evenings in Michigan. He is currently a high-school counselor in Kerrville, Texas. He and Yvette, his beautiful wife, have two wonderful children, J.T. and Olivia.

Sources

Bevis, Charles, Mickey Cochrane: The Life of a Baseball Hall of Fame Catcher. (Jefferson, North Carolina: McFarland Press, 1998).

Lowe, John, “Mickey Cochrane Tied Historically to Detroit Tigers & Oakland Athletics ALDS,” Detroit Free Press, October 4, 2013.

The Sporting News

Baseball-reference.com

Bevis, Charlie, “Mickey Cochrane,” The Baseball Biography Project. sabr.org/bioproj/person/a80307f0

Klumpp, Jeremy, “The Trade for Mickey Cochrane.” groundruledouble.wordpress.com

Baseball Hall of Fame Library, Player File for Mickey Cochrane.

Notes