The Summer of Beer and Whiskey

by Edward Achorn

  Then Jumping Jack went to pieces. In the seventh inning, he walked Juice Latham and Tom McLaughlin—no easy task when seven balls were required, under 1883 rules, to put a man on first. Leech Maskrey and Chicken Wolf next jumped on his pitches for hits. By the time the nightmarish inning was over, Louisville had sent four men across the plate and taken a 6–5 lead. Now the crowd was roaring. The Athletics were failing again! In Philadelphia, fans in the streets were “worked up to a fever heat,” their nerves tortured by the “dread uncertainty” of the outcome. In St. Louis, supporters of the Browns, their team idle until Sunday, took hope.

  Still, the Athletics kept fighting. In the top of the eighth, with two strikes on the batter, a foul tip ricocheted off the A’s gritty catcher, Jack O’Brien, knocking him down as the ball shot up in the air. “While lying flat on his back he just managed to reach the ball with his left hand and held it. For this remarkable play he was greeted with loud and prolonged cheers, and it was fully five minutes before the game could go on,” the New York Clipper reported. Fortune smiled again on Philadelphia in the bottom half of the inning, as an error by third baseman Jack Gleason let the Athletics tie the game, 6–6. Jumping Jack Jones was bearing down now, and the ninth came and went with neither team scoring. It was a new ball game. Extra innings would decide the Athletics’ fate.

  In Philadelphia, the mob on the streets expanded all afternoon, until some 1,500 to 2,000 people crammed into the intersection of Seventh and Chestnut streets. “It was impossible for [horse]cars or other vehicles to get through, to say nothing of foot passengers,” said the Philadelphia Press. The crowd waited for the outcome in anxious silence. At Eclipse Park, Simmons looked on queasily. In the top of the tenth, Jumping Jack did his job, retiring the Eclipse without a run. Now Harry Stovey pulled a bat from the box at the end of the bench and limped to the plate. Though his sprained ankle had turned him into a sad parody of himself on the base paths, Stovey remained a serious threat as a slugger. Hecker, either wary of Stovey or incapable of controlling his pitches at this point, kept the ball away from the plate, finally walking the batter. When the exhausted Hecker followed with a wild pitch, Stovey hobbled down to second base—not quite scoring position, this time, given the runner’s lame ankle.

  Captain Lon Knight stepped to the plate. Throughout the pennant stretch he had repeatedly made clutch plays that kept the Athletics alive. Now, he ripped a single to left field.

  Stovey barely made it to third.

  It was up to Mike Moynahan. He had enjoyed a fine day, going 2-for-4 at the plate and making nine assists at shortstop, with only one error. Hecker held the ball, stared at the plate, took a run, and fired. Moynahan swung and connected. At the crack of the bat, left fielder Pete Browning and center fielder Leech Maskrey dashed for the ball as it shot between them. Harry Stovey, who led the American Association with 109 runs scored, stumbled home, wincing, with number 110. Cub Stricker’s midsummer night’s dream had come true, in a sense, after all: Harry was the one man who had caught the train, and made it home.

  At 6:30 P.M. in Philadelphia, a newspaper employee posted a new and final score in the window: Athletics 7, Eclipse 6.

  Instantly, a shout arose in the city that “rent the heavens,” with “round following round of cheers.” In Louisville, Simmons emerged from hiding “with joy in my heart, and I told the boys to go and celebrate any way they liked at my expense, and they did.” Somebody produced some bottles. Before the Athletics left the ballpark, Simmons laughed, “most of them were unable to walk straight, and they celebrated all that night.” Simmons sprinted to the telegraph office and sent a dispatch back home. At Seventh and Chestnut, someone grabbed it from the telegraph operator and shouted Simmons’s message to the throng, featuring a mocking pun: “Well, the boys got there! Send greetings to St. Lose! The pennant’s coming home.” The crowd erupted. “Men threw their hats into the air and shouted themselves hoarse,” the Inquirer reported, while “the ladies waved their handkerchiefs, and in some cases even joined in the shouting.” The news of the victory spread rapidly, “and in a short time the streets for squares were filled with enthusiastic men and boys, shouting the result of the contest to newcomers, who at once joined in and spread the excitement.”

  Athletics headquarters was overrun by a delighted mob. There was hardly room for the club’s backers to squeeze in and put the final touches on plans for the grand reception. On the building across the street, a beautiful silken banner was unfurled, bearing letters in shining gold: “CHAMPION ATHLETIC.” Throughout the gas-lit evening, said the Philadelphia Press, “men could be seen stopping each other on the street and exclaiming, ‘Have you seen the score?’ ‘Seven to six.’ ‘Jones has won again!’ and so on.” The press joined in the excitement. “Well! Now it is settled. The Athletic is the champion!” the Philadelphia Record beamed. “Bradley and Mathews were no good in Louisville; but Jones’ jump did it.”

  After their years of neglecting a sport they thought was crooked, Philadelphians suddenly cared more passionately about baseball than anything. And Chris Von der Ahe, who had let his manager go in a moment of anger, had to settle for second place.

  15

  A GREAT BOOM FOR BASE BALL

  THE PHILADELPHIA EVENING BULLETIN ARGUED THAT THE 1883 season had surely proved that baseball was the national pastime: “It is a quick, nervous, dashing, brilliant kind of sport, in keeping with our American characteristics.” Moreover, the huge crowds and the honest, hard work of the players had made clear that baseball’s long decline was over, and the stain of corruption scrubbed clean. A decade earlier, the Philadelphia Item recalled, “the name of Athletic became a by-word for all that was dishonest and corrupt. Players were known to stand in with the gamblers, and pools were sold within a few feet of the ground, and in the very room in which the players dressed.” The gamblers had “killed and buried the game in this city.” Now baseball had risen from that grave. For all the celebrating, the Athletics’ final victory was not exactly impressive. After Simmons had begged Louisville to lose, without success, the pennant had in essence come down to one game, in extra innings, and one limping runner crossing the plate. But no matter. The Athletics clutched the prize they had come west to find. In Philadelphia, a dazzled reporter walked along Chestnut Street with an old-time baseball addict who, like thousands of others, had just rediscovered his love for the game.

  “Have you the fever, too?” the older man asked the journalist. “I must admit that I have a touch of it myself. Not since 1874, when the gamblers broke up the games in the East, have I felt any interest in it, but now every one talks base ball.” The man began reminiscing about baseball in Philadelphia from 1868 on, a reverie the journalist dutifully scribbled down; it filled up more than a full column of small type the next day.

  Then the two went their separate ways, the reporter to file his story, the other to a business engagement. “Bye-bye,” the fanatic waved as he turned away. “I will see you in the parade.”

  Pennant in hand, the Athletics cared nothing about the final game of the regular season, on Sunday morning, September 30. Harry Stovey sat out, resting his throbbing ankle. But his teammates on the field were almost as bad off—tired, sore, homesick, and, surely, hung over. The new champions played “with a certain degree of carelessness that was disagreeable to the spectators, and they made several very bad errors,” the Louisville Courier-Journal complained. Eclipse batters cracked it open in the eighth inning, scoring nine runs off George Washington Bradley to bring down the Athletics, 10–5. When it was over, the Athletics admitted they had “played to finish the game quickly and get away.” Later that afternoon, the Browns completed their sweep of the Alleghenys, ending the season just one game behind Philadelphia. Had Von der Ahe left Ted Sullivan alone to do his job, would St. Louis have breached that narrow gap?

  After a quick lunch in Louisville, the bruised and exhausted champions headed for home. When they pulled into the station at Cincinnati that evening, the Athletics rec
eived the first of many warm receptions. The New York Metropolitans and their manager, Jim Mutrie, were waiting on the platform to offer their congratulations and to board the victory train. In gratitude for the damage New York had dealt the Athletics’ most dangerous rivals—especially the Cincinnati Reds, whom they defeated ten times in fourteen games—the Athletics had invited the Mets to join them as their guests in Philadelphia. Two Reds players with strong Philadelphia connections also made it to the platform—Chick Fulmer, a police constable in the city, and Long John Reilly, both former members of the then-independent Phillies—and they “made up in warmth what the Cincinnati delegation lacked in numbers, and satisfied the Athletics that old Philadelphia players were rejoicing at their good luck,” wrote a reporter for the Philadelphia Press who was now traveling with the champions.

  “See, the Conquering Heroes Come,” depicting the injured and exhausted Athletics at the end of the 1883 season

  (Transcendental Graphics/theruckerarchive.com; reprinted with permission)

  After an overnight journey, the train stopped in Pittsburgh, where the two ball clubs paused for breakfast with umpires John Kelly and Charlie Daniels, who would accompany the Athletics to their victory celebration. A number of the men woke up that morning in sorry shape. Jumping Jack Jones was suffering a painfully sore neck, and Harry Stovey tried to ignore the pounding of his sprained ankle. Athletics outfielder Bob Blakiston, meanwhile, was “still somewhat discomposed” after having jumped up into his berth the night before “in the approved slide-for-second style,” only to bring the whole bed crashing down on Lew Simmons in the lower bunk. Both men, however, came through the accident in good enough shape to engage in some baseball talk, which lasted from the moment they left smoke-shrouded Pittsburgh until the train approached the suburbs of Philadelphia.

  As the train steamed toward Philadelphia, squealing to station stops in between, the players discovered ever-larger and wilder crowds waiting to greet them. In Altoona, where the men stopped at the splendid Logan House, famous for its 104-foot-long dining hall, fanatics hailed one man as the hero of the hour: the Yale leaper, Jumping Jack Jones. “He was good natured enough to smile on the crowd as he passed back and forth from the Logan House dining-room,” the Philadelphia Press reported. In Huntingdon, Harrisburg, and Lancaster, bigger and more enthusiastic crowds greeted the team. “‘Jumping Jack’ seemed to be the man whom everyone wanted to see.”

  When the train pulled into Harrisburg late Monday afternoon, several Philadelphia men who had spent the last two weeks feverishly planning the Athletics’ celebration were waiting on a mobbed platform. The welcoming committee held back the crowd long enough for the Athletics, famished by the ride, to wedge their way through to dinner. As the ballplayers sat down to eat, fanatics rushed into the dining room, threatening to overturn the tables. The crowd was forced from the room and the doors closed. Outside, the Press noted, people took up “positions round the windows and commented on the appearance and appetites of the players,” as if they were zoo animals at feeding time.

  Back in Philadelphia, fanatics who were determined to welcome the team home threatened to overrun Broad Street Station, many of them eluding the railroad’s efforts at crowd control. A main stairway to the station platform had been boarded up, and the railroad had dispatched an army of brakemen and conductors to peruse every person passing through a checkpoint. Their white caps and full uniforms showed that they were entitled to be there, and not just trying to get close to the Athletics. When people discovered they only needed to produce a railroad ticket to get onto the platform, “a rush was made for the windows, and the clerks found themselves with more work in hand than they could conveniently manage,” the Press reported. “People bought pasteboards privileging them for a railroad journey which they knew they would never take.” One man, barred entry, shook his fist at the conductor and stormed off to buy a ticket. “With a proud smile,” he “threw down a quarter at the adjoining ticket window,” and, “with a triumphant air,” presented it to the same conductor. “Your train won’t be ready for an hour,” the official said with a malicious grin. “Take a seat in the vestibule.”

  By the time the Athletics arrived, at 7:30 P.M., about one hundred fanatics were crowding the platform. Many times more stood behind an iron gate, and by “climbing on each other’s shoulders and screwing themselves into all sorts of awkward attitudes,” managed to catch a glimpse of councilman and mayoral candidate William B. Smith leaping from the train, “his face and silk hat alike shining.” The badges on the dignitaries told the waiting fans that this was the right train—the Athletics had, indeed, arrived! “It was time to cheer, and cheer they did. A lusty yell was sent up and re-echoed back from the depot’s roof. Hats, handkerchiefs and umbrellas rose in wild confusion to do homage to the returned players.”

  The Athletics players quickly formed behind a waiting band. As it marched out, it struck up “The Star Spangled Banner,” while policemen fought to clear a path for the procession. Cheers and shouts erupted as the dazzled players, in danger of being crushed at any moment, strode down the magnificent main staircase. It was a madhouse. “Half a dozen young ladies who had come to present the Athletics some choice bouquets of flowers were rudely pushed aside by the surging mob,” said the Philadelphia Press, “and before they could recover themselves or regain their positions, those whom thousands of Philadelphians had come to welcome were swept down into the carriages,” which would form the focal point of a massive parade.

  Athletics’ victory parade,

  Harper’s Weekly, October 13, 1883 (Library of Congress)

  Standing before them was the Evening Call Band, sponsored by a local newspaper, its fifty members dressed in scarlet helmets with gold mountings, dark blue coats trimmed with dark braiding across the breast, and light blue trousers with scarlet stripes. As the Athletics players climbed up into their carriages, the band struck up “Hail to the Chief.” Two of George Bradley’s sons, who had been waiting at the depot, sat proudly alongside their famous dad, just as the children of Roman generals did in the triumphs of old. The barouches rolled away from the station and around Penn Square at a brisk trot, while a crowd that had waited for more than an hour for a glimpse of their heroes “set up a deafening chorus of cheers and yells.” A mighty parade—more than a mile in length, 7,708 men strong—was forming. At Broad Street, “the advance fife and drum corps began tooting and beating away at a lively rate, the marshals shouted to the dense crowd to fall back, and the triumphal march was begun amid the firing of rockets and Roman candles and the waving of thousands upon thousands of hats and handkerchiefs.”

  Tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of people lined the streets to watch the nighttime spectacle, the biggest crowd, some thought, since a tremendous parade eighteen years earlier had been held to honor the returning heroes of the Civil War. “If the crowds were great that gathered in 1865 to see the veterans of many a hard fought field marshaled for the last time by Meade, Hancock, Humphreys, Geary, Hartranft, Averill and dozens of others whose names had been cut with their swords upon their country’s records, the crowds upon the streets last night appeared no smaller,” an editorial in the Philadelphia Press contended. “The bands played; hundreds of flags fluttered in the breeze; the cheers could not have been heartier; the enthusiasm could not have been more real.”

  Jim Mutrie, riding with his Metropolitans, found the scene “simply amazing.” “No such demonstration has ever been seen in this country. It was a great boom for base ball,” Mutrie said. Fanatics along the route took up positions on housetops and fences: “They swarmed on door steps and clung desperately to the very signs suspended from the awning girders. They climbed the telegraph poles by the dozen and filled every door and window along the line of march.” Police, waving batons, fought to force a path for the parade through the mobs occupying the street. The crowd, thankfully, was in no mood to fight back. “While the dense mass of human beings swayed back and forth the utmost good feeling pre
vailed. Every person seemed happy,” reported the Philadelphia Record.

  When the barouches passed the Hotel Lafayette, Roman candles shot off, “and almost simultaneously Broad Street was lighted up for squares down its imposing length by a succession of different colored fires”—gold, blue, green, and violet lights—“dazzling in their intensity” and “gorgeous in the extreme.” Businesses, too, contributed to the beauty of the scene. The front of the Chestnut Street department store of the innovative John Wanamaker was “a glittering combination of lanterns, colored lights and waving flags.” Suspended over the street was the banner “Welcome champions,” with a display of flaming gas dots spelling out: “Well done.” The Philadelphia Press had hung the flags of many nations from the upper windows of its building, “while above the doorway was an elaborate display of bunting drooped and festooned around the motto: ‘Welcome home, the Champion Athletics.’” The Athletics’ club headquarters, “handsomely illuminated with torches, colored fires and Chinese lanterns,” offered the most fetching visions of all: “A group of the lady friends of the club were gathered in the lower front apartment, and as the barouches passed the door they threw flowers and kisses at champions, who responded gallantly to the delicate and delightful compliments.” Along the route, countless admirers of Dan Jones waved jumping jack toys. At Eighth and Buttonwood, the Iona club “created considerable amusement” by hanging a big jumping jack from the roof and keeping it in continual motion.