The Glory of Their Times

by Lawrence S. Ritter

  Although I’ll say this: the greatest player I ever saw in any one season was Frankie Frisch in 1927. That was his first year with the Cardinals, when I was managing him. He’d been traded to St. Louis for the man of the hour, Rogers Hornsby, and he was on the spot. Frank did everything that year. Really an amazing ballplayer.

  You know, I always thought it was pretty wonderful to be a ballplayer. I was a Chicago White Sox fan until one day in 1915. When I was a kid, about eight years old—that must have been about 1905—my Dad took me to see the White Sox play. They were his team. Billy Sullivan was their catcher, and I thought he was really something. I wanted to be another Billy Sullivan and catch for the White Sox. And naturally, like all good White Sox fans, the team I hated most was the Chicago Cubs.

  In 1915, when I was finishing high school, I was just as rabid a White Sox fan as ever. I was catching for the local Waukegan semipro team then, and one day in the middle of the summer we played an exhibition game with the hated Chicago Cubs. Well, lo and behold, after the game the Cubs offered me a contract! I grabbed it up, and suddenly, after all those years of being a White Sox fan, there I was, of all things, a Cub fan!

  The exact same magical transformation took place in Dad. Fact is, my Dad saw just about every Cub home game all the years I was with them. Which was until 1925, when, like I said, I was traded to the St. Louis Cardinals. And then, of course, we both became Cardinal fans.

  Today I’m still a Cardinal fan, even though I never caught as many games for them as I did for the Cubs. Or later for the Giants, for that matter. I was in the Big Leagues an awfully long time, you know, I think longer than any other catcher. Twenty-one years, from 1915 through 1935.

  Roger Bresnahan was the manager of the Cubs when I joined them in 1915. The old Giant catcher from way back—the guy who caught Mathewson and Marquard and all the rest of them, the man who invented shin guards back in 1908 or so. How about that? Hard to believe they ever caught without shin guards, isn’t it? But he was the first to ever wear them. Mr. Bresnahan helped me a great deal. He more or less showed me the ropes and taught me how to catch. He was still catching then, though not too much. There actually were three catchers on that team: Bresnahan, Jimmy Archer, and Bubbles Hargrave. Four, I guess, if you include me.

  Except for Bresnahan, nobody paid any attention to me. I didn’t get in many games. I was straight out of high school, and mostly I just sat around and watched. Of course, aside from Bresnahan, nobody helped me any. They didn’t want a rookie to come in and take one of their buddies’ jobs. But they weren’t too bad. They just more or less ignored me.

  Roger Bresnahan:…the man who invented shin guards back in 1908

  The next year I only got in one game before they shipped me out to Peoria, in the Three-I League. And the year after that I played with Peoria until the Cubs recalled me, near the end of the season. After that I stayed up. Those were the days when catching was really rough. There were so many off beat pitches then, you know. Like the spitball, the emory ball, the shine ball. You name it, somebody threw it.

  The emory ball—the pitcher would hide an emory cloth inside his sleeve, or inside his glove, and rub the ball on it. That would make a slight rough spot, and boy, would that ball ever break. Some pitchers would raise an eyelet on their glove, you know, where the lacing goes through. Well, they’d raise one of those eyelets up and scratch the ball on it. Then it would act the same as an emory ball. Really take off. Those things weren’t legal. You had to do them on the sly.

  Eddie Cicotte had a great shine ball. He’d have some transparent paraffin on his trousers or somewhere, or some talcum powder, and every chance he’d get he’d rub the ball there. That would make the ball slide off his fingers and put a real break on it when it came up to the plate. Acted something like a spitter. A catcher’s life wasn’t easy.

  I certainly enjoyed those years, though. I did get a little discouraged at times, but I guess you do in any job. Of course, when you play every day it gets to be sort of like work. But, somehow, way down deep, it’s still play. Just like the umpire says: “Play Ball!” It is. It’s play.

  20 Specs Toporcer

  AS FAR BACK as I can remember, baseball has been the passion of my life. I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that in the last 75 years hardly a day has gone by when my thoughts haven’t turned to baseball at some time or other. Of course, when I was a youngster I never thought I’d actually get to play in the Big Leagues myself. That was beyond my wildest dreams. I was just a skinny kid with eyeglasses, most of the time the last to be picked when we used to choose up sides. That I eventually played seven and a half years in the majors is still a source of great wonderment to me.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. To begin at the beginning, I was born in New York City in 1899. We lived on 77th Street between 1st and 2nd Avenues, above the shop where Dad made shoes and boots. Incidentally, Jimmy Cagney lived a few blocks away, on 79th Street. Jimmy and I went to grade school together and have been good friends ever since; we still stay in touch and get together from time to time.

  I guess it was the 1905 World Series that first hooked me on baseball. I was only six then, so I couldn’t really appreciate Christy Mathewson’s three shutouts over the Philadelphia Athletics in less than a week. But for months afterwards my two older brothers, Rudy and Gus, talked about little else. Both of them were red-hot Giant fans. Soon I was also, and within a year or two I was living and dying with each Giant victory and defeat. I still remember when the Cubs won the 1908 pennant by beating the Giants in a play-off game that was needed after Fred Merkle forgot to touch second base; I cried myself to sleep that night.

  George Burns: “I loved them all, but my special favorite was George Burns, the unassuming left fielder.”

  When I was ten years old I started making frequent afternoon excursions up to the Polo Grounds, at 157th Street and 8th Avenue, to see the Giants play. This meant a five-mile walk each way from our home on 77th Street. It wasn’t so bad. Only took me an hour and a half each way. Dad was able to give me a weekly allowance of only one cent—yes, one cent—so I didn’t have enough money for street cars or subways, and of course I couldn’t pay my way into the ball park either.

  Fortunately, I was able to see my heroes from a perch on Coogan’s Bluff, a hill situated behind the home-plate area of the grandstand. An open space below the roof of the stadium made it possible for me, and for others crowded together on the rocky hill, to peek at part of what was happening on the field.

  The Giants were managed by the greatest manager of his time, John McGraw, and as I grew up I learned a lot by observing how he handled his teams. Even then, I was interested in strategy, tactics, in what used to be called “inside baseball.” I admired McGraw, but of course it was the Giant players who thrilled me. I loved them all, but my special favorite was George Burns, the unassuming left fielder. I kept scrapbooks where I pasted everything written about my idol, and I probably fretted more than he did when he went hitless or failed to come through in the clutch.

  Occasionally, I also went up to see the Yankees, then called the Highlanders, who at that time played at their Hilltop Park at 165th Street and Broadway. Although I had no real interest in the Highlanders, I enjoyed watching any ball game. Also, I wanted to see some of the American League stars in action—like Ty Cobb, Sam Crawford, Hal Chase, Tris Speaker, Eddie Collins, Joe Wood, and Walter Johnson.

  Some years later, of course, the Yankees moved and Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center was built on the site where Hilltop Park had been. Ironically, 40 years later I spent many months in that hospital undergoing five unsuccessful operations to save my eyesight. While lying there, going blind, I often had vivid recollections of the games and players I had seen perform on that very site.

  But again I’m getting ahead of myself. Back in 1912, when I was 13 years old, I got a job posting scores in an old-fashioned corner saloon at 85th Street and 1st Avenue. The scores would come in on a Western Union ticker
tape, and I’d proudly write them on a large blackboard in the back room of the saloon. For this, I got 50 cents a week and the right to eat whatever free lunch was on the counter. Games started at four o’clock in the afternoon in those days, so even when school was in session it was easy for me to get there on time.

  Naturally, this job made me the envy of all the kids in the neighborhood. Dozens of them crowded outside the saloon when I was posting the scores. The most agile would perch on a ledge outside a side window through which the blackboard could be seen. As I wrote the scores, those on the ledge would shout them down to the kids below. One of them always chalked the scores on the sidewalk for the benefit of people passing by.

  During the regular season, the ticker tape provided only the inning-by-inning scores and the pitchers and catchers. At World Series time, though, a complete play-by-play came over the ticker, and instead of just writing the scores on the blackboard, the management had me stand on a platform and read the tape in a loud voice. This was 1912, remember, the Giants versus the Red Sox, and the saloon was jammed to overflowing with hundreds inside and out eagerly following each game’s progress.

  Unfortunately, that was the year Fred Snodgrass, one of my favorites, dropped a fly ball in the tenth inning of the last game, after which the Red Sox scored two unearned runs to come from behind and win the Series. I broke down and found it almost impossible to announce the tragic events to the hushed crowd. After it was all over, I sat on the platform silently reading and re-reading the doleful news on the tape, as though repeated reading would erase the awful words.

  When I was in the seventh grade, our history teacher decided to organize a school baseball team. I was overjoyed and eagerly showed up for tryouts—only to be turned down because I was too frail and wore eyeglasses. I had worn glasses practically ever since I’d started school because I was so near-sighted I couldn’t see the blackboard without them. In those days, however, nobody played ball with eyeglasses on.

  I was heartbroken at being rejected, but I persisted in following the school team around from game to game anyway. One day I got a lucky break: only eight of our players showed up for a game and I was the only rooter from our school who was on hand to cheer the team on. So our history teacher-manager put me in center field, probably because it was the least desirable position. The playing field was under the Queensboro Bridge and had a basketball court near the center-field area. With two wooden standards and kids shooting baskets, center field posed hazards the other members of the team wanted no part of.

  As things turned out, though, I had no accidents, was lucky enough to make a sparkling one-handed catch, and also contributed two hits. From then on, I was a regular!

  As I mentioned before, Dad was a shoe and boot maker and a good one. However, he had a tough time keeping his head above water financially. When I was in school he invented an arch support of the type now in general use. But without capital to exploit the invention, he continued to struggle financially until, when things appeared to be coming his way at last, he died.

  That was in 1913, just after I’d graduated from grade school. My brother Rudy, who was 19, took over the arch-support business. There was no chance for me to go on to high school, because I was needed at the shop, too. In later years, I often regretted not having gone further in school. I was an avid reader and quite studious, especially when it came to subjects that interested me.

  But maybe it was all for the best, because Rudy was sympathetic with my love for baseball. He devised a system where I worked at the shop for four hours each morning, then would make deliveries of our arch supports to shoe stores and chiropodists in the afternoon. Once my deliveries were completed, the rest of the day was mine. Naturally, I’d hurry over to a local playground to play ball or else wend my way up to the Polo Grounds and watch my beloved Giants.

  My financial status improved at this time because Mom paid me a dollar a week for working with Rudy. In addition, I got another 50 cents a week for helping a tenant in our building with her English and a quarter every Friday night for being what is called a Shabbes goy—turning the lights on and off in a nearby Jewish synagogue. Now I was really in the chips, and for the first time in my life I didn’t have to sit up on Coogan’s Bluff to watch the Giants play. I could actually afford to pay my way into the ball park.

  In those days, by the way, bleacher seats at the Polo Grounds cost only 50 cents. Better yet, for a time a section of the bleachers was roped off and could be occupied for only a quarter. Later on, the rope was removed, but the first 200 people through the turnstiles were still admitted for a quarter. Needless to say, I generally managed to be one of those 200!

  As I grew up, I was determined to try my best to be a ballplayer myself. I practiced every aspect of the game hour after hour, day after day. I taught myself how to hit left-handed, although I’m a natural righty, and became a good enough fielder to play second or third base or shortstop on some of the best semipro teams in the New York area.

  In 1920 I was playing second base with a top semipro team in Orange, New Jersey. Our manager was Billy Swanson, a veteran who had been up with the Boston Red Sox for a while. He helped to polish off a lot of my rough edges, because up until then I’d been mostly self-taught. That was my last year as a sandlotter; shortly after the season ended, I signed a contract with the Syracuse Stars in the International League and looked forward to playing the next year as a full-time professional.

  Specs Toporcer warming up on Opening Day in 1921, before taking the field as second baseman for the St. Louis Cardinals. It was his first professional game.

  What actually happened, though, was beyond my wildest dreams. In December, just a couple of months after I’d signed my contract, Syracuse became a farm team of the St. Louis Cardinals. As a result, some of us were invited to go to spring training early with the Cardinals instead of waiting for the Syracuse training camp to open up a few weeks later. I had a sensational spring and in April, Branch Rickey, the Cardinals’ manager, transferred my contract from Syracuse to the St. Louis Cardinals. So when the 1921 season opened, who do you think was the starting second baseman for the St. Louis Cardinals? Lo and behold, none other than the first bespectacled infielder in Big League history, yours truly!

  This was quite a dramatic change, because the previous year the Cardinals’ second baseman had been Rogers Hornsby, the league’s leading hitter. Mr. Rickey put me at second base to open the season and switched Hornsby to left field. It didn’t work out, though, because Hornsby was no outfielder. He had always been weak on fly balls, which is annoying when you’re a second baseman but catastrophic when you’re an outfielder. So Rickey soon moved Hornsby back to second base, and I became an all-around infield utility man, a role I played with the Cardinals for most of the 1920’s. I don’t know of anyone else, by the way, who jumped directly from sandlot ball to the Big Leagues without ever playing high school, college, or minor-league baseball.

  Incidentally, can you possibly imagine how I felt every time we played McGraw’s Giants at the Polo Grounds? I never walked through the players’ entrance at the Polo Grounds without getting goose pimples. I’d think back to the countless hours I’d spent peeking at the field from Coogan’s Bluff and wonder whether or not I was dreaming.

  Most often I was at shortstop during my years with the Cardinals. I hit .324 in 1922 and .313 in 1926. I also led the National League in pinch-hitting in 1926. The most important hit of my life was a key pinch-hit double in the game that clinched the pennant for the Cardinals in 1926. But I wasn’t a top-notch defensive shortstop. Unfortunately, second base was my natural and best position defensively. I say unfortunately because I had the bad luck to be on the same team as two of the greatest second basemen in the history of baseball—Rogers Hornsby and Frankie Frisch.

  All Hornsby did was lead the league in hitting year after year. He hit over .400—yes, over .400—in 1922, ’24, and ’25. I’m competing for the second-base job with the man who is generally considered the g
reatest right-handed hitter of all time!

  Hornsby replaced Branch Rickey as field manager in 1925 (Rickey stayed as general manager) and took us all the way to the pennant and the World Championship in 1926. That was the famous World Series where Grover Cleveland Alexander came in to strike out the Yankees’ Tony Lazzeri in the seventh game.

  A couple of months later, we were astonished to learn that our manager and second baseman, Rogers Hornsby, the hero of St. Louis, had been traded to the New York Giants for Frankie Frisch. So who am I competing with now—just Frankie Frisch, the Fordham Flash, maybe the best all-around second baseman who ever lived!

  Rogers Hornsby in 1926, the year he led the Cardinals to the World Championship

  Nowadays, so many ballplayers wear glasses that no one pays any attention. But it wasn’t like that in the old days. Lee Meadows, who came up in 1915, was the first Big-League pitcher to wear eyeglasses. I was the first infielder. Ballplayers with glasses were so unusual then that both of us were automatically nicknamed “Specs.”

  In fact, eyeglasses—or spectacles, as they were often called then—were rare among ballplayers until after World War II, when shatterproof and plastic lenses started to appear. Since there wasn’t any such thing as shatterproof glass in my day, I wore regular glasses and never thought twice about it. Just ordinary gold-rimmed eyeglasses, hooked securely over my ears so they stayed put. I was never hit in the glasses, either at bat or in the field. Well, that’s not completely true: once, in infield practice, the ball took a bad bounce and hit me between the eyes, on the bridge of the nose. Cut my nose and bent the bridge of my glasses a little, but the glass didn’t break.

  In 1928, after seven and a half years with the Cardinals, Branch Rickey sent me down to Rochester in the International League, the Cardinals’ top farm club. I didn’t mind, because I’d never liked being a utility man. I wanted to play every day, something I’d never been able to do with the Cardinals.