We were gone three or four weeks. Lived on bread and beefsteak the whole time. We’d take up a collection at the games—pass the hat, you know—and that paid our expenses. Or some of them, anyway. One of the boys was the cook, but all he could cook was round steak. We’d get 12 pounds for a dollar and have a feast. We’d drive along the country roads, and if we came to a stream, we’d go swimming; if we came to an apple orchard, we’d fill up on apples. We’d sleep anywhere. Sometimes in a tent, lots of times on the ground, out in the open. If we were near some fairgrounds, we’d slip in there. If we were near a barn, well…
That tour led to my getting started in professional baseball. We beat the West Point team, and after the tour was over I got a letter from the manager at West Point, Nebraska, asking if I wanted to play with them. He said they’d pay me, or at least get me a job. I was apprenticing to be a barber at the time. So I went up there, and there I met a fellow from Omaha who had been with Chatham in the Canadian League. His name was Johnny McElvaine. He was going back the next season and wanted me to go along with him. So Johnny wrote the manager of the Chatham team and told him about me, and they sent back transportation money for both of us. That was in 1899. I was only nineteen at the time.
Yeah, I was going to be a barber. But then baseball came along, and I never went back to barbering. I was learning the trade the hard way, there in Wahoo. And I do mean the hard way. Cleaning cuspidors, and washing windows, and mopping the floor. Then sometimes they’d let me lather somebody and get them ready for the real barber. And sometimes a tramp would come through and want a haircut, and I could practice on him. That’s the way we learned in those days.
That was a tough way to make a living. Stand on your feet from seven in the morning to ten or eleven o’clock on a Saturday night. Saturday was the big haircutting day. All the farmers would come in then, hay in their hair and all. We used to give a haircut and a shave and a shampoo for thirty-five cents. Ten cents for a shave, twenty-five for a haircut, and they’d throw in the shampoo. Now a haircut alone costs two dollars. Looks like the same old quarter haircut to me.
So when I got this chance to play professional ball, I didn’t think twice about it. At Chatham I got $65 a month, plus board. That was pretty good. A dollar was a dollar in those days, you know. That Canadian League was just a little six-club league. Folded up about July. From there I was sold to Grand Rapids in the Western League, where I played with Rube Waddell, and in September they sold me to Cincinnati in the National League. All three leagues in one year, and I hit over .300 in all of them. So there I was, in 1898 touring Nebraska with the Wahoo team in a wagon, and in 1899 playing in the Big Leagues with the Cincinnati Reds.
Sam Crawford in 1899
All that was pretty exciting for a nineteen-year-old kid. I’d never been anywhere before that. At Cincinnati I made about $150 a month, which was a lot of money in those days, especially for me. There were a lot of old-timers on that Cincinnati club in 1899: Buck Ewing, who was managing, Biddy McPhee, Tommy Corcoran, Harry Steinfeldt, Al Selbach, Jake Beckley, Noodles Hahn—lots of them. Biddy McPhee played second base for 18 years in Cincinnati, one position. From 1882 to 1899. And Noodles Hahn, you never hear his name anymore. He was a first-rate left-hander. Talk about starting and finishing games, that guy pitched 41 complete games in 1901. Between 1899 and 1904 he started something like 225 games and completed about 210 of them.
Well, then the American League started up, about 1900 or so, and the players started jumping back and forth, from one league to the other. Larry Lajoie and Elmer Flick jumped from the Phillies to Cleveland, Ed Delahanty from the Phillies to Washington, Jack Chesbro from the Pirates to the Yankees—they were the Highlanders then—and Willie Keeler from Brooklyn to the Yankees. I left Cincinnati and went over to Detroit in 1903, and stayed there for 15 years.
Boy, here I am still talking. Hard to believe. I hope I haven’t said anything I shouldn’t. There are a lot of the old-timers still left, you know, and they’re liable to say, “That fathead, who the hell does he think he is, anyway, popping off like that!”
I wouldn’t want them to say that. Because I’d rather they remember me as a pretty straight sort of a guy, you know. So that when I kick off they’ll say, “Well, good old Sam, he wasn’t such a bad guy, after all. Everything considered, he was pretty fair and square. We’ll miss him.”
That’s the way I’d like it to be.
5 George Gibson
The number of times a catcher is injured in a season is surprising. At one time in 1909, for example, George Gibson of the Pittsburgh Pirates had black and blue marks imprinted by nineteen foul tips upon his body, a damaged hand, a bruise on his hip six inches square where a thrown bat had struck, and three spike cuts. Yet he had not missed a game and was congratulating himself on his “luck.”
—JOHNNY EVERS and HUGH FULLERTON, Touching Second, 1910
LOTS OF PEOPLE think that baseball is strictly an American game, but it was popular here in Canada, too, as far back as the 1890’s. I know, because that’s when I started playing ball around here. Dad had his own construction business, but he was also a great baseball fan and always encouraged me to play. We had four pretty good teams in a municipal weekend league—London North, South, East, and West. I began as a catcher for London West in 1898, when I was eighteen years old, and took to it like a duck takes to water. Lots of times I didn’t even wear a catcher’s mask in those days; I couldn’t see clearly enough through it, so I’d take it off. And of course many’s the day I’d come home with a black eye or a bloody nose.
In a few years I was behind the plate for Montreal, which was then in the Eastern League. I didn’t get paid much, but it sure beat hauling bricks! See, it was a choice between working all day long on one of Dad’s construction jobs or having every day a holiday—playing ball. So my brothers helped Dad with the business and I played ball.
In the middle of the 1905 season, Montreal sold me to the Pittsburgh Pirates. There was an ex-Big Leaguer on the Montreal club by the name of Candy LaChance who’d been around and knew the ropes. He said to me, “Listen, Gibby, they sold you. It wasn’t a trade, it was a sale. Pittsburgh probably paid anywhere from $4,000 to $5,000 for your contract and you should be able to get at least a thousand of that.”
So when I got to Exposition Park in Pittsburgh, I asked Mr. Barney Dreyfuss, the Pittsburgh owner, for $1,000. Mr. Dreyfuss looked at me in a strange sort of way and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, son. I paid $4,000 for you, I didn’t get $4,000. If you want some of that money—which, by the way, you are not entitled to—you’d better take it up with Mr. Hagen, the Montreal owner, not me.”
Well, it was too late for that, so all I did was make a mental note to think ahead from then on and get what was coming to me when the time was right. Besides, this was my chance in the Big Leagues and I sure didn’t want to go back to the minors even if it was with a Canadian team.
Pittsburgh had a pretty fair country catcher when I got there in 1905 named Heinie Peitz. He’d been in the Big Leagues a long time, so long that his arm was almost gone. He used to throw the ball like a rainbow down to second base.
The first time I got in a game, a few weeks after I arrived, was in Red-land Field in Cincinnati. Later it was called Crosley Field. They had a spitball pitcher going against us and I didn’t get any hits that day. But the first time one of the Cincinnati players got on first base, he tried to steal second. I rocked back on my heels and threw a bullet, knee high, right over the base. Both the shortstop and second baseman—Honus Wagner and Claude Ritchey—ran to cover second base, but the ball went flying into center field before either of them got near it.
George Gibson around 1910
I was burning up, and when the inning ended I almost ran to the bench determined to give them a piece of my mind. See, I figured they were trying to make me look bad, letting the throw go by, because I was a rookie. Trying to protect Heinie Peitz’s job is what I figured.
&nb
sp; But Wagner came in, threw his arms around me, and said, “Just keep throwing that way, kid. It was our fault, not yours.” What had happened was that they had gotten so used to Heinie Peitz’s rainbows that any throw on a straight line caught them by surprise.
I don’t know why, but I was never a very good hitter. Lots of years I had trouble hitting my weight and my lifetime batting average is only .236. Never could figure it out. It wasn’t for lack of trying, because I always got out to the park early to practice. But it didn’t seem to do much good.
Here I was a teammate of Honus Wagner, one of the best hitters in baseball, and I had trouble getting a loud foul. Once I said to him, “Honus, I can’t seem to get the hang of it. I try hard enough, but it doesn’t seem to do any good. What am I doing wrong?”
He said, “Look, the secret is to follow the ball from the time it leaves the pitcher’s hand until it gets to the plate.”
I liked Honus so I didn’t say anything to him, but that didn’t sound like much of a secret to me. Heck, I could do that. After all, I was a catcher: that’s all I did all day long—watch the ball from the time it left the pitcher’s hand until it got to the plate. Big deal! It’s clear to me that it must have been something else that Honus did and he didn’t even know what it was himself.
Since I was such a lousy hitter, I had to be a pretty good catcher to stay in the Big Leagues from 1905 to 1918. Most of the time I’d throw to the bases right off my heels. I’d never get up. Just sit there on my heels and fire the ball.
Actually, though, I always figured that thinking was my real specialty. A lot of a catcher’s job is mental, you know. The pitcher shouldn’t have to think about what kind of pitch he should throw. That’s the catcher’s responsibility. The catcher should learn the strengths and weaknesses of the opposing batters and the abilities of his own pitchers and then decide what pitch is best in each situation. The pitcher’s job is to do what his catcher tells him to do!
Catching’s a pretty rough deal and you better love it or do something else for a living. Every finger on my right hand has been broken at least twice. I have two sons, George and Bill, both of whom are medical doctors in Pittsburgh, and one of them once X-rayed that hand. He couldn’t believe the number of times each finger had been broken.
I used to put on some adhesive tape and keep on playing. Just tape two fingers together and make the good one work the bad one.
Roger Bresnahan of the New York Giants was the first catcher to wear shin guards, must have been around 1908 or so. His were long and high with a big knee flap. Practically came up to your thigh. When we first saw Bresnahan and his new shin guards, I laughed but Fred Clarke, our manager, says to me, “Gibby, that’s something I want you to get.”
Clarke told our trainer to find out where Bresnahan got them and order a pair for me. When they came, boy! They were as big as chest protectors. The first time I put them on in a game, I got tangled up in them running after a foul ball and fell down. I just sat there, unbuckled them, threw them away, and never wore them again.
That was a real fine Pittsburgh ball club I joined in 1905. Fred Clarke, one of the nicest men I ever met, was our manager and left fielder, Honus was at shortstop, Tommy Leach on third, and Sam Leever and Deacon Phillippe were two of the best pitchers in the league. Both of them won 20 games that year. We finished among the top three in the National League every single year from then through 1912, including winning the pennant and the World Series in 1909.
We faced the Detroit Tigers in that World Series and of course they had Ty Cobb. So I knew I had my work cut out for me. We beat them in seven games, I caught every single inning, and Cobb stole only two bases. The whole Detroit team stole only six bases while we stole eighteen. Heck, Honus alone stole six for us.
Right after the Series was over, the next day, Barney Dreyfuss called me into his office. He was sitting behind his big desk with a blank contract in front of him, and he said, “Gibby, what do you want to sign for next year?”
“I don’t want to sign now,” I told him. “You know that I never sign before February.”
“Well,” he said, “you had a fine year and a great Series and I’d just as soon get this settled for next year.”
“I don’t want to do that, Mr. Dreyfuss,” I said. “If I sign now and you trade me over the winter, then I’ve got to go for whatever’s in that contract. But if I don’t sign and you trade me, it gives me an opening to go to the new club and negotiate terms with them. That’s why I’d rather wait.”
Manager Fred Clarke, Tommy Leach, and Honus Wagner
“Listen,” he said, “nobody’s going to trade you and you know it. You caught 150 games this year and seven more in the World Series, so how could we get along without you?”
And with that he picked up the blank contract, turned it around to face me, and said, “Here, make it out yourself. Put your own figure in there.”
“All right,” I said, “I’ll sign for $12,000. But I want one thing in that contract. You’ve got to promise me that when you think I’m through, and can’t do the job anymore, you’ll give me my unconditional release. I don’t know whether it’ll be one year or ten years from now, but when that time comes I don’t want you to sell my worn-out carcass for a lousy $1,800 after you’ve gotten all the good out of it.” See, $1,800 was the waiver price then. They’d put a guy on the waiver list, and if any other club claimed him they could have him for the $1,800 waiver price. I didn’t mind if I was traded or sold for a decent amount, but to be sold for the waiver price was demeaning!
“Gibby, I’ll write it right in the contract,” he said.
“No,” I said, “you’ve always been a man of your word with me. When the time comes when I’m through, whenever that is, just tell me and release me. That’s all.”
“It’s a promise,” Mr. Dreyfuss said.
Well, that was 1909. One day in early August, 1916, I pick up the newspaper and read that Barney Dreyfuss asked waivers on me, and John McGraw claimed me for the New York Giants for $1,800.
I was furious. I went straight to the front office. “Mr. Dreyfuss,” I said, “you broke your promise. You want to make $1,800 on my broken-down carcass after you’ve gotten all the good out of it. Well, you’re not going to do it. You may drive me out of baseball, but you’re not going to make a dime on my carcass.”
He tried to offer some lame excuse, but I was out of the door before he could finish. Then I phoned John McGraw. “Mac,” I said, “get your money back, because I’m not reporting to the Giants. I’m going home.”
Which is just what I did. I came right back here to this very house in London, Ontario, Canada. I built this place in 1912. Wanted a place to go to in the off-season that was out of earshot of a train whistle. Heard enough of them from April to September.
That winter, 1916, the telephone rang. The very phone you see right here. I wouldn’t have a new one put in for anything. See, you take the receiver off the hook and then you push this little button on the side. That rings the operator on the party line. There’s about 25 of us on the party line. I’ve been here since 1912 and that’s how old that phone is.
Anyway, it was John McGraw calling. He wanted me to join the Giants next year as a part-time player and coach. “Mac,” I said, “I don’t want Barney Dreyfuss to make a dime on me. I gave him a hundred cents on the dollar for twelve years. Now he wants to get a lousy $1,800 on my burnt-out carcass and I won’t let him do it.”
“I understand,” McGraw said. “I think you’re absolutely right. But, on the other hand, I need you here next year. I need a good pitching coach and you’re the man I want. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you $1,800, too, the same as I pay Dreyfuss, and I’ll even give you your salary for last August and September. How about it?”
Well, what could I do? So the next March I reported to Marlin Springs, Texas, for spring training with the Giants. McGraw wanted me to help get the pitchers in shape. One of the trainers had heard about these new calisthen
ics, so McGraw asked me, “Gibby, what do you think about calisthenics for the pitchers, like some of the other clubs are using?”
“No,” I said, “absolutely not. That’s not for ballplayers, Mac. For yourself, fine. If you want to reduce, fine. But not in spring training. Baseball is different, Mac. We’re not a bunch of ballet dancers. We don’t need calisthenics.”
“Won’t it help get my pitchers in shape?” he asked me.
“I’ll get your pitchers in shape, Mac,” I said, “and I’ll do it without any of those new-fangled calisthenics.”
What I did was what we’d always done. I hit fly balls and had the pitchers chase them. I took the pitchers down to a corner of the field and hit one fly ball after another, just out of their reach. If they caught the ball, they’d get a quarter. They’d run and run, trying to catch it, but I was pretty good at hitting it just beyond their range. After so long, they’d lunge for the ball, miss it, and just lie there, too pooped to get up.
“Okay,” I’d yell. “Next!” Beats calisthenics any day.
I stayed with McGraw for two years, managed Toronto in the International League for a year, and then in the fall of 1919, that same phone rang again. Of all the people in the world, it was Barney Dreyfuss. “What are you going to do next year, Gibby?” he asked me.
“I’m not sure,” I answered. “Probably manage Toronto again, although we haven’t signed a contract yet.”
“Well, how would you like to manage the Pittsburgh Pirates instead?”
Just like that. It took me a few minutes to recover from the shock. “I don’t know, Barney,” I said. “Seems to me we have a couple of things to settle between us before I could even consider it.”
“Like what?” he asked.
Barney Dreyfuss, owner of the Pittsburgh Pirates from 1900 until his death in 1932
The Glory of Their Times Page 9
