The Glory of Their Times
Page 7
Anyway, those days are all back in the past. We’re going to spend the rest of our lives in the future, not in the past: “Let the dead past bury its dead.” On the other hand, Santayana said: “Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it.” So maybe there are two sides to this matter. But I don’t think we’ll ever repeat the old days in baseball. They’ll never come back. Everything has changed too much.
You know, there were a lot of characters in baseball back then. Real individualists. Not conformists, like most ballplayers—and most people—are today. Rube Waddell, for instance. Boy, there was one of a kind. They never made another like him. I played on the same team with Rube back in 1899, the Grand Rapids club in the old Western League. We were both just starting out, but it wasn’t hard to see even then that Rube was going to really be something. He won about 30 games for us that season and hardly lost any.
He used to pour ice water on his pitching arm. Yeah, ice water. We’d kid him, you know, tell him he didn’t seem to have much on the ball that day, and ask him why he couldn’t get it over the plate.
“Listen,” he’d say, “I’ll show you guys whether I’ve got anything or not. Fact is, I’ve got so much speed today I’ll burn up the catcher’s glove if I don’t let up a bit.”
And he’d go over to the water barrel—we had a barrel filled with ice water in the dugout—and dip the dipper in and pour ice water all over his left arm and shoulder.
“That’s to slow me down a little,” he’d say. And then he’d go out there and more likely than not he’d strike out the side.
Rube was just a big kid, you know. He’d pitch one day and we wouldn’t see him for three or four days after. He’d just disappear, go fishing or something, or be off playing ball with a bunch of twelve-year-olds in an empty lot somewhere. You couldn’t control him ’cause he was just a big kid himself. Baseball was just a game to Rube.
We’d have a big game scheduled for a Sunday, with posters all over Grand Rapids that the great Rube Waddell was going to pitch that day. Even then he was a big drawing card. Sunday would come and the little park would be packed way before game time, everybody wanting to see Rube pitch. But half the time there’d be no Rube. Nowhere to be found. The manager would be having a fit. And then just a few minutes before game time there’d be a commotion in the grandstand and you’d hear people laughing and yelling: “Here comes Rube, here comes Rube.”
And there he’d come, right through the stands. He’d jump down on to the field, cut across the infield to the clubhouse, taking off his shirt as he went. In about three minutes—he never wore any underwear—he’d run back out in uniform and yell, “All right, let’s get ’em!”
By the end of that season—1899—we were both in the Big Leagues, Rube with Louisville and me with Cincinnati. I should say Big League, because there was only one major league then, the National League. The American League didn’t start until a couple of years later, and it was a few years after that before the National League recognized it. It was sort of like the way it is now in professional football.
By 1903, though, we were both in the American League. I jumped to the Detroit Tigers and Rube went with Connie Mack’s Philadelphia Athletics. We had some great battles after that, the Tigers and the A’s, some great fights for the pennant. From 1905 through 1914, you know, either the Tigers or the A’s won the pennant every year but two. The White Sox won it in 1906 and the Red Sox in 1912. But except for those two years, we won it in 1907, ’08, and ’09, and Connie won it the others.
Rube was at his peak those years he was with Connie. He was amazing. Way over 20 wins every season, and always leading the league in strikeouts. How good he’d have been if he’d taken baseball seriously is hard to imagine. Like I say, it was always just a game with Rube. He played ’cause he had fun playing, but as far as he was concerned it was all the same whether he was playing in the Big Leagues or with a bunch of kids on a sandlot.
Rube Waddell: “They never made another like him”
The main thing you had to watch out for was not to get him mad. If things were going smoothly and everyone was happy, Rube would be happy too, and he’d just go along, sort of half pitching. Just fooling around, lackadaisical, you know. But if you got him mad he’d really bear down, and then you wouldn’t have a chance. Not a chance.
Hughie Jennings, our manager at Detroit, used to go to the dime store and buy little toys, like rubber snakes or a jack-in-the-box. He’d get in the first-base coach’s box and set them down on the grass and yell, “Hey, Rube, look.” Rube would look over at the jack-in-the-box popping up and down and kind of grin, real slow-like, you know. Yeah, we’d do everything to get him in a good mood, and to distract him from his pitching.
When you think about people like Rube Waddell, and there were lots of other off-beat characters around then, also, you start to get some idea of how different it all used to be. Baseball players weren’t too much accepted in those days, either, you know. We were considered pretty crude. Couldn’t get into the best hotels and all that. And when we did get into a good hotel, they wouldn’t boast about having us. Like, if we went into the hotel dining room—in a good hotel, that is—they’d quick shove us way back in the corner at the very end of the dining room so we wouldn’t be too conspicuous. “Here come the ballplayers!” you know, and back in the corner we’d go.
I remember once—I think it was in 1903—I was with the Detroit club, and we all went into the dining room in this hotel, I believe in St. Louis. Well, this dining room had a tile floor, made out of little square tiles. We sat there—way down at the end, as usual—for about 20 minutes and couldn’t get any waiters. They wouldn’t pay any attention to us at all. Remember Kid Elberfeld? He was playing shortstop for us then, a tough little guy. Later he played for many years with the Yankees, up on the hilltop. Anyway, Kid Elberfeld says, “I’ll get you some waiters, fellows.”
Darned if he didn’t take one of the plates and sail it way up in the air, and when it came down on that tile floor it smashed into a million pieces. In that quiet, refined dining room it sounded like The Charge of the Light Brigade. Sure enough, we had four or five waiters around there in no time.
Yeah, Kid Elberfeld, what a character he was. Kid Gleason was on the Detroit club about then, too. Another rugged little guy. Do you know that those guys actually tried to get hit with the ball when they were up at bat? They didn’t care. They had it down to a fine art, you know. They’d look like they were trying to get out of the way, but they’d manage to let the ball just nick them. Anything to get on base. That was all part of the game then.
Kid Gleason used to be on that old Baltimore Oriole team in the 1890’s. You know, with Willie Keeler and McGraw and Dan Brouthers and Hughie Jennings, who later became our manager at Detroit. That whole crew moved over to Brooklyn later. I played against those guys when I came up with Cincinnati, in 1899, and let me tell you, after you’d made a trip around the bases against them you knew you’d been somewhere. They’d trip you, give you the hip, and who knows what else. Boy, it was rough. There was only one umpire in those days, see, and he couldn’t be everywhere at once.
Ned Hanlon used to manage that Baltimore club, but those old veterans didn’t pay any attention to him. Heck, they all knew baseball inside out. You know, ballplayers were tough in those days, but they were real smart, too. Plenty smart. There’s no doubt at all in my mind that the old-time ballplayer was smarter than the modern player. No doubt at all. That’s what baseball was all about then, a game of strategy and tactics, and if you played in the Big Leagues you had to know how to think, and think quick, or you’d be back in the minors before you knew what in the world hit you.
Now the game is all different. All power and lively balls and short fences and home runs. But not in the old days. I led the National League in home runs in 1901, and do you know how many I hit? Sixteen. That was a helluva lot for those days. Tommy Leach led the league the next year—with six! In 1908 I led the American League with onl
y seven. Do you know the most home runs Home Run Baker ever hit in one year? It was twelve. That was his best year. In 1914 Baker and I tied for the lead with the grand total of eight each. Now, little Albie Pearson will hit that many accidentally. So you see, the game is altogether different from what it was. Then it was strategy and quick thinking, and if you didn’t play with your old noodle you didn’t play at all.
Like I said, those old Baltimore Orioles didn’t pay any more attention to Ned Hanlon, their manager, than they did to the batboy. When I came into the league, that whole bunch had moved over to Brooklyn, and Hanlon was managing them there, too. He was a bench manager in civilian clothes. When things would get a little tough in a game, Hanlon would sit there on the bench and wring his hands and start telling some of those old-timers what to do. They’d look at him and say, “For Christ’s sake, just keep quiet and leave us alone. We’ll win this ball game if you only shut up.”
They would win it, too. If there was any way to win, they’d find it. Like Wee Willie Keeler. He was really something. That little guy couldn’t have been over five feet four, and he only weighed about 140 pounds. But he played in the Big Leagues for 20 years and had a lifetime batting average of close to .350. Think of that! Just a little tiny guy.
“Hit ’em where they ain’t,” he used to say. And could he ever! He choked up on the bat so far he only used about half of it, and then he’d just peck at the ball. Just a little snap swing, and he’d punch the ball over the infield. You couldn’t strike him out. He’d always hit the ball somewhere. And could he fly down to first! Willie was really fast. A real nice little guy too, very friendly, always laughing and kidding.
You know, there were a lot of little guys in baseball then. McGraw was a fine ballplayer and he couldn’t have been over five feet six or seven. And Tommy Leach, with Pittsburgh—he was only five feet six and he couldn’t have weighed over 140. He was a beautiful ballplayer to watch. And Bobby Lowe, who was the first player to ever hit four home runs in one game. He did that in 1894. That was something, with that old dead ball. Bobby and I played together for three or four years in Detroit, around 1905 or so.
Dummy Hoy was even smaller, about five-five. You remember him, don’t you? He died in Cincinnati only a few years ago, at the age of ninety-nine. Quite a ballplayer. In my opinion Dummy Hoy and Tommy Leach should both be in the Hall of Fame.
Do you know how many bases Dummy Hoy stole in his major-league career? Over 600! That alone should be enough to put him in the Hall of Fame. We played alongside each other in the outfield with the Cincinnati club in 1902. He had started in the Big Leagues way back in the 1880’s, you know, so he was on his way out then, and I had been up just a few years, but even that late in his career he was a fine outfielder. A great one.
I’d be in right field and he’d be in center, and I’d have to listen real careful to know whether or not he’d take a fly ball. He couldn’t hear, you know, so there wasn’t any sense in me yelling for it. He couldn’t talk either, of course, but he’d make a kind of throaty noise, kind of a little squawk, and when a fly ball came out and I heard this little noise I knew he was going to take it. We never had any trouble about who was to take the ball.
Wee Willie Keeler hitting ’em where they ain’t
Did you know that he was the one responsible for the umpire giving hand signals for a ball or a strike? Raising his right hand for a strike, you know, and stuff like that. He’d be up at bat and he couldn’t hear and he couldn’t talk, so he’d look around at the umpire to see what the pitch was, a ball or a strike. That’s where the hand signs for the umpires calling balls and strikes began. That’s a fact. Very few people know that.
Another interesting thing about Dummy Hoy was the unique doorbell arrangement he had in his house. He had a wife who was a deaf mute too, and they lived in Cincinnati. Instead of a bell on the door, they had a little knob. When you pulled this knob it released a lead ball which rolled down a wooden chute and then fell off onto the floor with a thud. When it hit the floor they felt the vibrations, through their feet, and they knew somebody was at the door. I thought that was quite odd and interesting, don’t you?
It’s funny how little things like that come back to you, after all these years. That was over 60 years ago when we played together. He was a little fellow, like I said, only five feet five. But he had real large, strong hands. He used to wear a diamond ring—we all did in those days—but his knuckles were so big that he had a ring with a hinge on it. A real hinge. He couldn’t get a ring that would go over his big knuckles and still fit right, so he had one made with a hinge so that he could put it on and then close it and it would lock in place. Did you know that he once threw three men out at home plate in one game? From the outfield, I mean. That was in 1889. And still they don’t give him a tumble for the Hall of Fame. It’s not right.
In those days, believe it or not, it was tougher to throw a guy out at home than it is today. That might sound sort of silly, but it’s true. One reason is that the ball was often lopsided. No kidding. We’d play a whole game with one ball, if it stayed in the park. Another reason is that when I broke in the Big Leagues we only had one umpire in a game, not four like they have today. And you know that one umpire just can’t see everything at once. He’d stand behind the catcher until a man got on base, and then he’d move out and call balls and strikes from behind the pitcher. He’d be out there behind the pitcher with, say, a man on second base, and the batter would get a hit out to right field. Well, the umpire would be watching the ball and the batter rounding first and trying for second. Meanwhile, the guy who was on second would cut third base wide by fifteen feet on his way home. Never came anywhere close to third base, you know. We’d run with one eye on the ball and the other on the umpire!
Did you ever hear of Tim Hurst? He was a very famous umpire back then. A real tough character. He was wise to this deal, of course, where the runner doesn’t come anywhere close to touching third base. Well, Jake Beckley was playing first base for us—with the Cincinnati club in 1899 or 1900 or so—and he came sliding into home one day. A real big slide, plenty of dust and all, even though no one was even trying to tag him out. Tim had been watching a play at second all the while.
“You’re out!” yells Tim.
Jake screamed to high heaven. “What do you mean, I’m out?” he roared. “They didn’t even make a play on me.”
“You big S.O.B.,” Tim said, “you got here too quick!”
Yeah, old Tim knew what was going on. I was an umpire too, for awhile, you know—in the Pacific Coast League from 1935 to 1938—long after I finished playing. Umpiring is a lonesome life. Thankless job. Thankless. You haven’t got a friend in the place. Only your partner, that’s all. He’s the only man in the whole place who is for you. Everybody else is just waiting for you to make a mistake. There’s a bench over here, and a bench over there, and thousands of people in the stands, and every eye in the whole damn place is watching like a hawk trying to get something on you.
I had a good partner, too. I booked in with a fellow named Jack Powell, a wonderful umpire and a wonderful person as well. He’d tell me not to fraternize with the players. I felt that I could kid around with them a little, you know. What the heck, I’d been a ballplayer myself. But he said, “Don’t do it, don’t fool with the players, don’t have anything to do with them. If you do, sooner or later they’ll put you on the spot.”
And that’s the way it turned out. He was right. It’s a thankless and a lonely way to live, so I quit it.
But even then, in the thirties, the game was a lot different from the way it had been when I played. The lively ball and the home run were well entrenched by the thirties. Heck, like I said, we’d play a whole game with one ball, if it stayed in the park. Lopsided, and black, and full of tobacco juice and licorice stains. The pitchers used to have it all their way back then. Spitballs and emery balls and whatnot. But there were some great pitchers in those days: Jack Chesbro and Cy Young and Ed Walsh.
Of course, the greatest of them all was Walter Johnson. Boy, what a pitcher Walter was! He was the best I ever faced, without a doubt. Did you know that I was playing with Detroit the day Walter Johnson pitched his first major-league game? His very first. In fact, I beat him. I’m not being egotistical, you know, but it’s a fact. I hit a home run off him and we beat him—I believe the score was 3–2.
I think that was late in 1907. We were after the pennant that year, our first pennant, and we needed that game badly. Big Joe Cantillon was managing Washington at the time. You know Joe? You know of him. He was a nice guy, Joe was, always kidding. Anyway, before the game Joe came over to the Detroit bench and said, “Well boys, I’ve got a great big apple-knocker I’m going to pitch against you guys today. Better watch out, he’s plenty fast. He’s got a swift.”
He told us that, you know. And here comes Walter, just a string of a kid, only about eighteen or nineteen years old. Tall, lanky, from Idaho or somewhere. Didn’t even have a curve. Just that fast ball. That’s all he pitched, just fast balls. He didn’t need any curve. We had a terrible time beating him. Late in the game I hit one—I can remember it as though it were yesterday—it went zooming out over the shortstop’s head, and before they could get the ball back in I’d legged it all the way around. In those days the grounds were very big, you know, and if you hit one between the outfielders you could often make it all the way around the bases. Nowadays you very seldom see an inside-the-park home run, they’ve pulled those fences in so. But in those days most home runs were like that.