I played shortstop four years with the Giants, then back to the Boston Braves for a couple of years, and over to the Cubs in 1913. I replaced Joe Tinker at shortstop there. He went to Cincinnati, where he became the manager. It wasn’t easy following Tinker, as you can imagine. Joe had been the Cubs’ shortstop since 1902. By the way, Jimmy Archer was still catching for the Cubs in 1913, when I was there. Best arm of any catcher I ever saw. He’d zip it down there to second like a flash. Perfect accuracy, and under a six-foot bar all the way down.
Then I wound up my Big League career with two years in the Federal League. I jumped from the Cubs to the St. Louis club in the Federal League in 1914, when Three-Fingered Brown—who was their manager—offered me $6,500 to sign with him. I’d been making $4,000 with the Cubs, and a 50 per cent raise looked too good to turn down.
Three-Fingered Brown, gee, he was one of the wonders of baseball. What a tremendous pitcher he was. Just as good as Matty, in my book. Better, maybe. The two of them used to hook up all the time, and I think over the years Brown beat Matty way over half the time. I saw Cy Young, too. I guess he must have been the best of all, to win 511 Big League games. But I only saw him near the end of his career, because he had been in the American League. I was playing shortstop behind him, though, when he won his 511th game. We were both with the Boston Braves then—I guess it must have been late in the 1911 season. Both of us went to the Braves near the end of that season, him from Cleveland and me from the Giants. Cy was at least forty-five by then. After that he retired.
You know, as I look back at it all, I’ve got regrets about certain things since I left baseball. If I’d have done this, or that, I’d be better off. But in baseball—I don’t know—I don’t really think I’d change a thing. Not a thing. It was fun all the way through. A privilege, that’s what it was, a privilege, to have been there.
But let me get back to the Merkle “boner.” I guess there’s no doubt it’s still the most famous play in the history of baseball. For Fred’s sake, I wish it had never happened, it caused him so much grief. Let me amend what I said a minute ago: there’s one thing that happened in baseball I would change if I could do it all over again. I wish I’d never gotten that hit that set off the whole Merkle incident. I wish I’d struck out instead. If I’d have done that, then it would have spared Fred a lot of unfair humiliation. Yes, I wish I’d struck out. It would have been better all around.
It all happened on Wednesday, September 23, 1908. Tough pennant race between the Cubs and the Giants, last of the ninth inning, score tied 1–1. It was getting dark and it looked as though the game would be called on account of darkness as soon as we—the Giants, that is—finished our turn at bat in the last half of the ninth.
Then, with two outs and Moose McCormick on first base, Fred Merkle slammed a long single just fair down the right field foul line. Actually, Fred shouldn’t even have been playing. He was a substitute first baseman and was only in there because Fred Tenney was hurt. So all of a sudden it’s my turn at bat, with the score tied, two outs, and Merkle on first and McCormick on third. It was all up to me.
I stepped in the batter’s box—I was a left-handed hitter—and as I was getting set I saw Merkle edging pretty far off first base, almost as though he was going to try to steal. That didn’t make any sense, so I stepped out of the box and looked at him and he went back and stood on the bag. I often think that maybe if I hadn’t done that everything would have turned out all right.
Anyway, he went back to first and I stepped back into the box. Jack Pfiester was pitching for the Cubs, a left-hander. We didn’t platoon in those days. The fact that Pfiester was a lefty and I was too didn’t bother anybody. I was supposed to be able to hit left-handed pitching just as well as right-handed. Well, the first pitch came in to me—a fast ball, waist high, right over the center of the plate—and I promptly drilled a line drive past Johnny Evers and out into right center field. Bob Emslie was umpiring on the bases and he fell on his can to avoid being hit by the ball. I really socked that one on the nose. A clean single.
Three-Fingered Brown: “Gee, he was one of the wonders of baseball”
The Polo Grounds after the game: “By this time thousands of people were milling around the field”
Naturally, I ran to first base and McCormick raced home. McCormick could have walked in, the ball went so far into center field. But Merkle didn’t go all the way to second base. Instead, he went halfway down and then cut off and started running for the clubhouse, which was out in right center. Well, all the people were jumping over the railings and running onto the field and yelling, everybody thinking the game was over; so it was a natural reaction, him heading for the clubhouse to get away from the crowd.
Meanwhile, Johnny Evers was standing on second base yelling for Artie Hofman, the Chicago center fielder, to throw him the ball so that he could tag second base. Just like on an ordinary double play, if Evers touched second while in possession of the ball before Merkle got there, Merkle would be out, a force out. And if Merkle was out at second, that would make the third out of the inning, and McCormick’s run wouldn’t count.
I slowed down after I passed first and was just trotting out to the clubhouse, when all of a sudden somebody gives me a boot in the rear end. It’s Moose McCormick. After crossing home plate he noticed all the excitement and figured it was because I had failed to touch first base.
“What’s the matter?” he says. “Don’t you know where first base is?”
Well, I sort of got confused myself. I thought I’d touched first, but maybe I hadn’t. So we forced our way back through the crowd—by this time thousands of people were milling around the field—and I touched first base again. Then we started working our way in toward home plate, and soon we saw Frank Chance arguing with Hank O’Day, who was umpiring behind the plate and was the umpire in charge. But we didn’t really find out what it was all about until we got into the clubhouse and somebody told us. Johnny Evers claimed he had gotten the ball and touched second base, so that Merkle was out. Actually, I never did see any ball get to Evers at second base.
Anyway, you know what happened. Merkle was called out for failing to touch second, the game was ruled to have ended in a 1–1 tie, and eventually we lost the pennant in a play-off game with the Cubs. Three-Fingered Brown beat Matty in the play-off, 4–2.
I think that under the circumstances any ballplayer on any ball club would have done the same thing Merkle did. They did it all the time in those days. In fact, just a few weeks before, in Pittsburgh, the exact same thing had happened against the Cubs, with Hank O’Day umpiring, and that time O’Day had refused to allow Johnny Evers’ claim that the man should be called out. In any case, I often think if I hadn’t held Merkle close to first he’d probably have been all the way down to second before the crowd started onto the field. As it was, being held close to the bag, the crowd rushing on him before he’d made it to second, seeing the winning run already cross the plate, why I think anyone would have done the same thing that Fred Merkle did.
Anyway, he’s gone now. The newspapers crucified him. The fans ragged him unmercifully all the rest of his life. But now his worries are over. Only thing I lost out of it was a base hit. Didn’t get credit for that base hit. They decided it was a force out at second, instead of a single. Well, what can you do? Those things happen.
Harry Hooper in 1909
10 Harry Hooper
For years Harry Hooper has been considered one of the greatest outfielders that ever lived. He is also one of the most dangerous hitters in a pinch that the game has ever known. If I were an American League manager I don’t know where I could find a better outfield than Tris Speaker, Ty Cobb, and Harry Hooper.
—JONN J. MCGRAW, My Thirty Years in Baseball
SURE, I still follow baseball. Of course I do. What a question to ask! Those darn Giants…sometimes I can’t sleep for worrying over them. It didn’t used to be so bad. But now that they’re only about 75 miles away and I can hear all the g
ames the situation has gotten impossible.
That Willie Mays, he’s one of the greatest center fielders who ever lived. You can go back as far as you want and name all the great ones—Tris Speaker, Eddie Roush, Max Carey, Earle Combs, Joe DiMaggio. I don’t care who you name, Mays is just as good, maybe better. He’s a throwback to the old days. A guy who can do everything, and plays like he loves it. And that Koufax. You name a better left-hander in the history of baseball and I’ll eat my hat.
I played my first professional baseball right here, in the California State League, in 1907. Actually, I never had any intention of taking up baseball as a career. I expected to be an engineer. Went to St. Mary’s College and got my degree in Civil Engineering in 1907. After graduation, I played with the Sacramento club, mainly because they promised to get me a surveying job.
And they did. When I wasn’t playing ball I worked as a surveyor for the Western Pacific Railroad. I got $85 a month for playing ball, and $75 a month as a surveyor. I guess you might say that was my bonus, a surveying job.
Actually, my “bonus” was $12.50. Before I graduated I played a few games in that same league, the California State League, with Alameda. That was right near school. This fellow who owned the Alameda club—Mr. McMinnamen—asked me if I’d play on the team the last few months of my senior year, and I agreed, with the understanding that he’d give me my release as soon as I got out of college.
Well, just about the time college was letting out we played a game at Sacramento, and I did pretty well. Charlie Graham was managing Sacramento at the time and he went to Mr. McMinnamen and wanted to buy me, not knowing, of course, that I was due to get my release any day.
So Mr. McMinnamen came to me and said, “Look, I’ve got a chance to sell you to Sacramento. If you don’t say anything about this agreement we have to release you, I’ll give you half of whatever we can get.”
“OK,” I said, “but you better warn them that I’m going to stop playing as soon as I get the right kind of an engineering job. I’ll probably quit at the end of the summer.”
“All right,” he said, “I’ll do that. But don’t you mention anything about your release.”
Later, Charlie Graham told me how the conversation went. First of all, the Alameda owner did tell him about my being an engineer.
“OK,” Charlie said, “I understand that. I think we can get him an engineering job he can work at and play ball both. How much do you want for him?”
“Oh, about $200.”
“How about $10,” Charlie countered.
“Make it $50.”
“I’ll make it $20.”
And they settled on $25. I was sold for $25 lousy dollars. Talk about deflating a guy’s ego! So my “bonus” was half of the sale price, namely $12.50.
Later, Charlie told me he smelled a rat the minute the guy asked for $200 when he should have asked for $500. “So I went as low as I could,” he said, “just to test the situation out a little more, and it worked.”
I had two pretty good years with Sacramento, surveying all the while, when one day near the end of the 1908 season Charlie Graham came to me in the hotel lobby.
“Well,” he says, “how would you like to take a look at the Big Indian?”
“Huh?” I didn’t know what he was talking about.
“The Big Indian! Boston! How would you like to play with the Boston Red Sox?” he says. “John I. Taylor, the owner of the Red Sox, is coming to town next week and I think he’s interested in you.”
“Well, I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not a ballplayer. I’m an engineer. I’m doing real well at the Western Pacific Railroad and I like my job.”
You see, he figured I was a ballplayer who did “this other stuff” on the side. But I figured I was an engineer who played ball on the side.
“Why not give it a whirl?” he said. “What have you got to lose? You’re only twenty-one, and even if you played ball another two years you could still take up ‘this other stuff’ at the age of twenty-three.”
“Well, it would be a nice trip, Boston and all. Get to see some of the country,” I thought. “OK, I’ll do it. I’ll talk to the guy. How much salary do you think I ought to ask for?”
“How much do you think you should get?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “Would $2,500 be about right?”
“I think it would,” Charlie said. “But that means you should ask for $3,000. Then maybe he’ll give you the $2,500.”
The California State League, see, was an outlaw league, not in organized baseball. So the Red Sox couldn’t just buy my contract. They had to negotiate with me as though I was a free agent. (That didn’t hold for the deal where I was sold by Alameda to Sacramento, because they respected each other’s contracts within the league. As an outlaw league, they didn’t steal players from each other, just from everybody else!)
So one warm August day in 1908 I met Mr. John I. Taylor, owner of the Boston Red Sox, at the corner of 8th and J Streets in Sacramento. We went into a bar and had a glass of beer.
“I hear you’re an engineer,” he says.
“Yes, I am,” I said.
“Well, that’s very interesting,” he says. “It so happens that we are thinking of building a new ball park in the not too distant future, and we may be looking for someone just like you. Your experience with the Western Pacific will no doubt prove invaluable. By the way, I also hear you are a baseball player.”
“Yes, I am,” I said.
“I was just wondering,” he said, “given your qualifications in both lines of endeavor, how would you like to migrate to Boston.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” I said.
“Well, we’d like to have you,” he said. “At the moment, however, we are not in immediate need of engineering assistance. Considering that for the time being at least we would only require your services as a ballplayer, I was also wondering how much money you might want.”
“How about $3,000?”
“I’ll tell you,” he said, “fact is, I was thinking of something in the neighborhood of $2,500. What do you say we compromise at $2,800.”
“That seems very equitable to me,” I said.
So I finished out the season with Sacramento, said good-bye to Charlie Graham—and told him that from then on he was my unofficial business advisor—resigned my job with the Western Pacific, and started on what I figured would be just a couple of years of playing baseball. And that was the last job I ever had that was connected with engineering.
Fenway Park was built in Boston, and Shibe Park in Philadelphia, and Yankee Stadium in New York, and all the while I was nowhere near a drafting board. I was out there in right field the whole time, drawing a line on a baseball instead of a chart. And, in case you’re wondering, I have no regrets.
I joined the Red Sox for spring training in 1909, at Hot Springs, Arkansas. After a week or so I started to get a pretty good idea of my competition. Tris Speaker was there—he’d come up at the end of the previous season—and it looked like he had a stranglehold on the center-field job. There were three other outfielders there also, besides myself, and it looked to me like I belonged on that team: I thought I was as good or better than any of them. But everybody didn’t seem to see things my way, because after about three weeks they decided who would be the regulars, and I wasn’t among them.
We’d get the Boston papers and I read that “…this Hooper appears to be a good prospect, but he needs several years seasoning in the minors before he’ll be ready.” That made my blood boil. I knew I was good enough to make that team.
However, once they’d picked the regulars, us youngsters didn’t get much chance to show what we could do. We never really got a proper opportunity during all of spring training. The old-timers kind of had the thing by the horns, you know. Wouldn’t even let us have batting practice. A few of us wound up taking our bats into the outfield and having our own batting practice. Spring training. Training for what?
Well, we opened up in Philadelphi
a on April 12, 1909. Played three games there, in brand-new Shibe Park, and I sat on the bench the whole series. I didn’t even have a road uniform, and I heard rumors that they were getting ready to ship me to the minors, to St. Paul in the American Association. I was getting hot under the collar, because I knew if they gave me a chance I could do the job.
From Philadelphia we went to Washington. I climbed up to the top of the Washington Monument the first morning there (had to get some exercise), and then went out to the ball park, expecting to sit on the bench through another game. But I’d hardly gotten into the clubhouse before the manager—Fred Lake—comes over to me. “Here’s a uniform,” he says. “You’re going to play today.”
Tris Speaker takes batting practice: “It looked like he had a stranglehold on the center-field job”
A lucky combination of circumstances. One of the outfielders was hurt, and another had to go in and play first base because the first baseman was sick. They had to play me because they didn’t have anybody else. Well, if I’d been ballyhooed as a wonder or something, I’d probably have been a little shaky. But the way it was, nobody expected anything of me, and I went out there determined to show them.
The first time it was my turn at bat we had a chance to score a run. Man on second and two out. On the bench I could hear everyone saying, “Who’s up? Who’s up?”
And then, “Oh, it’s Hooper—well, too bad.”
But I went up there and drove in that run. I got another hit that day, and would have had a third if the pitcher hadn’t stabbed a liner headed right for his forehead. One of those instinctive grabs, you know. And in the field I handled myself OK. In other words, everything went just fine. Before the day was over, John I. Taylor was going around shaking everyone’s hand, saying, “That’s the boy I signed up in California.”
The Glory of Their Times Page 15
