by Glenn Stout
Fenway Park, New Home Of Red Sox, Transferred To Three Trustees For Improvement
While the baseball world turned its attention to the pending World's Series between the Giants and the Athletics, on the last day of the season, October 7, the Red Sox played in the Huntington Avenue Grounds for the last time.
Had it been just another game, it never would have been played, for it rained hard the night before and the field was a quagmire. But John I. Taylor had declared it "Kids' Day," promising free admission for children, and several hundred young ruffians took advantage of the offer. They were nearly alone. Most fans held little sentiment toward the old park and chose, in the cold damp weather, to stay away. Only 850 brave souls saw the old park off, and most of those were more interested in clambering beneath the grandstand than watching the game.
Jerome Kelley and his crew did what they could to make the field playable, brooming away puddles and spreading sawdust everywhere. Scattered throughout the stands were a few notable figures who had seen the first game played at the old ballyard, including General Arthur "Hi Hi" Dixwell, who had turned over the first spade of earth when the park was built and whose signature cheer had earned him his nickname. These men mostly chatted among themselves about times gone by, as if oblivious to the ball game on the field.
The game went quickly, taking only eighty-two minutes to complete as Charley Hall kept the Senators at bay and little-used outfielder Olaf Henriksen became the hero of the day with a third-inning, bases-loaded triple that broke the game open. Tris Speaker was carried off the field after an errant pitch hit his leg just below the kneecap, and he was taken back to Put's by ambulance. Joe Riggert knocked out the final Boston hit in the old park, an inside-the-park home run over the center fielder's head in the bottom of the eighth to make the score 8–1. Washington threatened in the ninth, but after Germany Schaefer singled—the last hit at Huntington Avenue—Kid Elberfeld hit a ground ball to Larry Gardner at third. He flipped the ball to second baseman Jack Lewis, and the game was done.
On his typewriter Tim Murnane tapped out an epitaph:
The park was considered one of the best to see a ballgame, as the light was good and the grounds roomy. The old stand and bleachers will soon be torn down and nothing left to show where once fierce battles were fought to the music of loyal fans.
In saying farewell to the Huntington-av Park, it will only mean a welcome to the magnificent new home the Boston Americans will occupy next season in the Back Bay Fens, just as handy as the old park, too ... Goodby season of 1911. Goodby to the Huntington-av Grounds.
Hello, Fenway Park.
2. Hot Stove
The stand is a single deck structure with a roof of mill construction on a steel frame. The deck is reinforced concrete throughout, the roof being carried by steel columns bolted to the tops of reinforced concrete columns carrying the deck. The only wood used is in the movable folding opera chairs, roof joists, sheathing, office interiors and screed to which chair legs are attached.
—Engineering Record
IT WAS JUST another job.
As architect James McLaughlin bent over his drafting table in late September and early October of 1911 in his office on Atlantic Avenue and made a few last minor changes to the plans he had worked on, off and on, for more than two years, he probably did not hazard to think that anything about this most recent venture would prove to be of lasting significance. It was just another project, albeit a unique one: he had never designed such a structure before and would never do so again. It was neither the largest nor the most lucrative project of his career, nor the most demanding. During his lifetime it would bring him little acclaim and serve as nothing more than a footnote to his career.
It was perhaps most notable because of the name of his client, General Charles Taylor, and his son, John I., of the Boston Globe Taylors. McLaughlin knew that if he pleased them it would certainly help open some doors for other notable clients. Yet that was just as true when McLaughlin dealt with a school committee over the building of a schoolhouse, or a church board over the building of a church or parsonage.
This is not to say that as McLaughlin bent over his table and worked on the design he did not give the project his full attention—he did. His career was just beginning to flourish, and he treated every project with the same care and attention regardless of its size. But this job, a home for the Red Sox, was different from anything McLaughlin had ever done before or would ever do again.
McLaughlin was thirty-seven years old in 1911 and in the last few years had established a reputation as one of Boston's leading young architects. Born James Earnest McLaughlin in October 1873 in Halifax, Nova Scotia, he was the fourth of seven children of Mary and James McLaughlin, both of whom had been born in Ireland. McLaughlin's father was one of the first portrait photographers in Halifax, but after he passed away the family immigrated to Boston, in 1885, settling with thousands of other first- and second-generation Irish in Lower Roxbury when they rented a place on Homestead Street, only two miles south of the Huntington Avenue Grounds. A good student, McLaughlin thrived in his new country. By 1898 he was already trained as a draftsman, but it is unclear precisely how he became an architect. Until the turn of the century few schools provided training in architecture—the Massachusetts Institute of Technology offered the first degree in architecture in 1865. Many architects learned the profession through a combination of apprenticeships, self-study, and even mail-order courses. At any rate, by 1900 the U.S. census listed his occupation as an architect. About the same time he opened his office on Atlantic Avenue under the name James E. McLaughlin, presumably to differentiate his work from that of the notable architect James McLaughlin of Cincinnati.
His Irish heritage served him well, for after the election of Hugh O'Brien as Boston's first Irish mayor in 1884 the Irish took full political control of the city of Boston. Government contracts, which had previously been nearly impossible for anyone with an Irish surname to obtain, suddenly became available. Fear of fire and the cost of insurance for wood-frame buildings, combined with a growing population, inspired a spate of new construction throughout the city, and McLaughlin was able to take advantage of the situation. In a short time he began to win contracts to design schools and other small municipal buildings, using more modern construction methods based on steel, concrete, and brick instead of wood. McLaughlin generally earned a commission of between $3,000 and $8,000 for each building he designed. But just because McLaughlin designed public buildings did not mean he was a hack—he was a student of architecture, and there was a healthy competition for such projects. McLaughlin followed design trends closely, and his buildings, while classically based, often acknowledged contemporary design trends that set them apart.
Most of his early work demonstrated what was known as the Georgian Revival style and featured predominantly brick exteriors. One job begat another, and in only a few years McLaughlin was well established in his field. In 1908 he married Mary Ratigan, and the couple, who would never have a child, soon took up residence on Reservoir Road in Chestnut Hill. The young architect was not only a good businessman but a good citizen, and he did his civic duty by serving on several charitable boards, most notably those of St. Elizabeth's Hospital and other institutions connected with the Catholic Church. McLaughlin was also active in the Boston Society of Architects.
If McLaughlin had an architectural philosophy, it was this: his buildings were neither pretentious nor florid, but conservative and practical. While McLaughlin's designs were essentially utilitarian, at the same time they were precise, balanced, aesthetically pleasing, and built to last. His structures were, in a sense, organic to themselves—no portion of them appeared superfluous, out of place, or out of proportion. His building materials were purely New England—besides red brick, limestone and local granite dominated the facades of the public buildings he was most known for, yet through the use of subtle raised brick panels, recessed centers, and other strategies, he managed to give the otherwise plain
faces textural interest. As he once wrote in an album he created to introduce his firm's work to prospective clients, McLaughlin's goal was to "construct and complete the buildings within the amounts appropriated," to deliver "results that are satisfactory at minimum cost, without sacrificing design, utility or other requirements," and to create a "design in harmony, with ... carefully designed interiors, and inviting, non-stereotyped exteriors."
Most of his buildings fit well into their surroundings. Little about their design overtly called attention to them; they seemed to have always been there, either as a part of the original building or a part of the neighborhood. That explains why McLaughlin's work, while still on display in virtually every Boston neighborhood and in many other cities and towns in eastern Massachusetts, has been overlooked by architectural scholars. Over time the ubiquitous nature of his work has made it almost invisible, and all but forgotten.
The Taylors became aware of McLaughlin through his work for the city. When McLaughlin was approached by John I. Taylor and first commissioned to design a new ballpark, he was given certain conditions. Although McLaughlin's initial drawings referred to the park by the generic name of "Boston American Base Ball Park," by the fall of 1911 it was common knowledge that the name of the new ballpark would be Fenway Park, for as Taylor explained, "It's in the Fenway section of Boston, isn't it?" All Boston ballparks to date had been commonly known by their geographical location, such as the Dartmouth Street Park (aka Union Park), which served as the home field for the Union Association club in 1884; the Congress Street Grounds, which was occupied by several teams from 1890 to 1896; the South End Grounds; and the Huntington Avenue Grounds. There was no reason to treat the new ballpark any differently. Besides, the name was already familiar. Owing to its location adjacent to the Fens, the Huntington Avenue Grounds itself had occasionally been referred to as "the Fenway Park," even within the pages of the Globe. Officially calling the new place "Fenway Park" was like putting on a comfortable old shoe.
Other conditions were more germane to McLaughlin's task. The park had to fit within the confines of the eight-plus-acre plot of land acquired by the Taylors. For continuity purposes, the playing field had to retain a similar orientation to the sun as the Huntington Avenue Grounds. Had that not been the case, it would have been possible to place home plate either in what is now the right-field corner or, less likely, the left-field corner. In either case right field, not left field, would have been Fenway's short porch (see illustration 1).
For insurance, safety, and economic reasons, the main grandstand had to be fireproof, made out of concrete and steel. Even though concrete construction, loosely defined, had been in use since the Roman Empire, steel-reinforced concrete construction, which allowed concrete to be used on structures much larger than before, had only been in use since the 1850s. Only in the last decade had the technology been developed that was eventually used in Fenway Park, which used reinforced concrete to create columns and girders that supported concrete floor slabs, resulting in a fireproof superstructure that was strong but also much lighter and cheaper than all-steel construction.
None of these issues gave McLaughlin any cause for concern. His work for the city of Boston had utilized modern concrete-and-steel, fireproof building techniques, including the use of reinforcing steel and concrete forms. And there was more than enough room on Taylor's parcel to site a ball field, including seating areas and office space for the club. The outfield dimensions were of absolutely no concern whatsoever. Had there been any thought that the field was too confining—particularly in left field—the field's orientation could have been slightly reconfigured to satisfy those fears, or a larger lot could have been obtained. But it was plenty deep for the era—the accepted world record for hitting a baseball had been set a few years before in Cincinnati by Reds outfielder Mike Mitchell, who, using a fungo bat, managed to drive a ball 413 feet, 8½ inches in the air. But in reality, under game conditions in the Dead Ball Era, any drive much more than 300 feet in the air was considered extraordinary, and few outfielders played more than 250 feet from home plate. In Cincinnati's new park, Redland Field, the fence nearest to home plate was still 360 feet away, a distance so great, according to one paper that "it is doubtful a ball will ever be hit over the fence."
Under these conditions the size of the lot selected by the Taylors was more than sufficient to hold a ballpark. The shape of the plot of land and the resulting ballpark was not, as John Updike once famously, but incorrectly, described it, "a compromise between Man's Euclidian determinations and Nature's beguiling irregularities," for at the time Fenway was built, apart from a few buildings on Lansdowne Street, no other buildings bordered the parcel. Fenway Park's footprint was created by a surveyor's transit, not by livestock wandering the streets. The Fenway Park site was surrounded on three sides by raw land and empty, undeveloped lots. In the end the new park was built from the borders of the property inward simply to use all available space, not because concerns about the dimensions of the field required that it be so spacious. Had there been any desire to make Fenway Park symmetrical, it could have easily been done. The notion that Fenway is misshapen owing to the restriction of surrounding streets is a perception that developed long after the park was built, when the "lively ball" came into play, the game expanded, and the city grew to surround the park, making Fenway appear today as if it is crammed into too small a space.
Yet over the course of McLaughlin's discussions with Taylor about the new park, the club owner, who in turn was discussing the project with Ban Johnson and others, kept vacillating over one significant issue. Both during the original construction and during the Fenway Park reconstruction of 1933–34, the press reported that the original foundations for the park were built to support a second deck, yet as originally designed and built the park featured a grandstand with only a single tier. Taylor probably went back and forth on the issue, weighing the cost of a second deck against its economic benefit, before reaching a compromise with his architect. Although McLaughlin's final design would include only a single tier of stands, the foundations put in place would be sufficient to support a second deck in the event that the club ever decided to add one in the future. That single decision, more than any other, has allowed Fenway Park to remain viable to this day, for it has allowed the park to evolve in ways that would have otherwise been impossible.
In Boston's Back Bay and the Fenway, building foundations were not insignificant, and indeed, their design and construction remain challenging even today. The amount of filled land and the height of the water table make building there complicated. Inadequate or ill-designed foundations can sink and settle in the water-laden earth, causing entire structures to become unstable. To counteract the effect, many buildings built before the turn of the century, like the McKim Building of the Boston Public Library, were supported, not on stone or concrete, but on wooden pilings set below the water table to prevent dry rot. Other buildings essentially float on a sealed foundation bathtub or were built on caissons, a sealed watertight structure that allows excavation to take place until a stable surface is reached. Fortunately, Fenway Park was not built on filled land. Still, an abnormally high water table due to the proximity of the Charles River made the park's foundations an early concern. Like those of most other structures in the area, Fenway's foundations were probably overengineered to compensate for the ground conditions.
Taylor also pared his ballpark back in other areas. In a sense McLaughlin was directed to design only half a park. Taylor's main concern was with the park's best, most lucrative seats, those that could be built around the infield. He did not think it was worthwhile to build a similarly grand structure for the cheaper seats that looked out over the outfield. And given that he was in the process of selling the team, it would not have been particularly cost-effective either. He was in no rush to spend any money that would not pay off for him. As a result his investment in the park was designed to produce the greatest number of high-paying seats with the least expendit
ure possible. For that reason, as originally designed by McLaughlin, the grandstand abruptly stopped only halfway to the outfield fence in left field, at the end of what is today section 27. There was room, if needed, for additional stands to be built farther down the baseline at some later date, a possibility that the grandstand design already accounted for. Down the right-field line the grandstand also came to an abrupt stop at the end of what is now section 14. But since the dimensions of the property were more spacious on that side, a second set of covered stands featuring a concrete-and-steel roofed pavilion above wooden bleacher-type seats was built down the baseline, angled ever so slightly toward the infield and meeting the outfield fence just inside fair territory in right field. This "pavilion," as it was known, featured seats that were cheaper than those in the grandstand and set at a steeper pitch. It was also separated from the main grandstand by an alleyway—not unlike a moat—both to prevent lower-paying fans in the pavilion from reaching the higher-paying seats in the grandstand that were closer to the action and, in the event of a fire, to isolate that structure from the main grandstand.
Under these restrictions, McLaughlin did what he could to create a handsome structure. He clearly studied other ballparks and stadiums built during the era, for Fenway Park echoes ballpark construction elements and design features then in use elsewhere. The structural design of the grandstand was inspired by the reinforced-concrete grandstands of new football stadiums at Syracuse University and Harvard University, while for visual inspiration he turned to the ballparks in the two major league baseball cities closest to Boston—New York and Philadelphia—and Cincinnati's Redland Field, which was being built at the same time as Fenway. The New York Giants' Polo Grounds featured the largest concrete grandstand in baseball, while the Yankees' Hilltop Park (officially known as "American League Ballpark"), although built of wood, featured separate, uncovered pavilions, in concept very similar to what McLaughlin eventually built. Also influential was Shibe Park, the home of the Philadelphia Athletics, built in 1909 and touted as "the largest and best appointed baseball park in the world." The exterior of that park looked, not like a ballpark, but like some grand building: it featured a French Renaissance facade consisting of brick and arches and a Beaux Arts–inspired tower at the park's main entrance, which sat on a street corner directly in line with the pitcher's mound and home plate. Extensive wings that stretched down both streets, parallel to the baseline, contained the grandstand, and the building and the grandstand shared the same roof.
