by Glenn Stout
Now he had to face Larry Gardner with a man on, and he had to throw from the stretch. He knew better than anyone else that after more than 120 pitches his fastball was beginning to fade. Marquard threw, and Gardner, swinging from the left side like he was playing the wing in a hockey game on a pond in his native Vermont, took a wrist shot at an inside fastball.
It rocketed down the right-field line in a flash, past Merkle, then hit the ground with overspin and almost seemed to speed up as it skipped and bounded to the corner. The ball hit the fence at the edge of the pavilion and bounded into deep right field, where Josh Devore tore after it. Lewis was off with the pitch, and Gardner was chasing after him.
Charlie Wagner was coaching third, but he hit seventh, only two spots after Gardner. Just as Gardner hit the ball Tris Speaker had gone out to take Wagner's place so he could warm up in case he got a chance to hit.
As Lewis approached third he saw two men in Red Sox uniforms—Wagner, waving him around, and another, Speaker, not doing anything. Confused, Lewis started to slow.
Behind him, Larry Gardner was running with his head down, thinking he probably had a triple, but as he approached second and looked toward third, he saw Lewis slowing down. Afraid he was being held up, Gardner put on the brakes.
Now Wagner got Lewis's attention, and the outfielder, not the fastest man in the world, took off for home. He still had plenty of time, for the throw was just on its way to the infield. Lewis scored easily, but by then Gardner had stopped at second. He could have walked to third, as Devore foolishly threw toward home, not third, and when Fred Merkle tried to cut the throw off the ball skipped away. But Gardner hesitated and then stayed where he was.
The crowd roared and booed, happy that Boston scored but disappointed that Gardner only made second. Had Lewis not slowed down, Gardner might have scored himself when the relay got away from Merkle.
It was too late, although Gardner was still in scoring position. A single could tie the game.
Jake Stahl was up next, and he hit the ball hard, a comebacker straight at Marquard, but the pitcher made a nice play, knocking the ball down.
Now Gardner became the real goat. Upset at himself and frustrated, he decided to try for third. Marquard, a left-hander, scooped up the ball and threw a fastball to Herzog at third base. He dropped to his knee, blocking Gardner from the base, and tagged him out. Once again, as the cheers quieted, a smattering of boos was heard in the crowd.
STUPID WORK ON BASES
On first base Jake Stahl called time and waved to the bench, calling for Olaf Henriksen to pinch-run. The manager was almost out of players and didn't have a clue who would play first base if the Sox managed to take the lead—maybe Joe Wood?—but that was not his concern now. Henriksen could run, he could not, and Boston needed to score.
It seemed not to matter when Charlie Wagner, up next with the game on the line, bounced the ball to Art Fletcher. The Giants shortstop fielded the ball cleanly for once, flipped to first, and the Giants began to walk off the field, the game over.
But it was becoming hard to see as the moisture on the field after the rain began to turn to mist. Fred Merkle, trying to track the darkened ball against the crowd, backlit by the still bright sky, lost the ball, then found it and stabbed at it. But the ball bounced out of his mitt—barely the size of a garden glove and with hardly any pocket—and Wagner was safe.
Olaf Henriksen, on the roster only because of his speed, didn't know that. With two outs, he was running with the pitch and running hard, as he should have been, and had already rounded second base when he realized the ball was free. Now, like a kid on the sandlots, he just kept going. Merkle picked up the ball and made a strong throw to Herzog, and for a moment plate umpire Bill Evans, responsible for the play at third, hesitated. Then he put out his arms, palms down. Henriksen was safe, and Boston was somehow still alive, and the crowd, which had cheered and groaned and cheered and groaned, now got a chance to cheer again as Hick Cady stepped to the plate.
If Lewis's hit had unnerved Marquard, Gardner's smash and now Merkle's errors left the pitcher staring into the face of pure oblivion. The entire inning—indeed, the entire game—was playing out like a condensed version of his whole schizophrenic season. He and his roommate, right fielder Josh Devore, had spent much of the second half of the year consoling each other. Devore, as Runyon noted later, "had been taunted and joshed by the big town fans this season until his boyish heart was almost broken." The diminutive outfielder, who ran well but had no power, had, like Red Murray, been judged a failure during the 1911 World's Series, and a certain element among the fans at the Polo Grounds had done their best to remind him of that. In fact, few Giants followers thought he deserved a permanent place in the lineup.
Hick Cady stepped in. Cady let Marquard's first pitch pass wide, and Wagner lit out for second, hoping to draw a throw that would allow Henriksen to score, but the Giants let him go, willing to let the winning run reach scoring position rather than risk letting the tying run cross the plate.
Now the decision was McGraw's. With first base open, Marquard did not have to pitch to the catcher. Although the use of the intentional walk was extremely rare at the time, it was still an option. Hugh Bedient, a poor hitter, was due up, and Stahl's only option was to use another pitcher as a pinch hitter, something he had not done all year long.
The Giants manager did not move, and Marquard wound up and threw.
Cady swung from his heels and drove the ball deep to right-center field. In the stands, hats were in the air and hugs were in the offing as Fred Snodgrass in center and Devore in right both angled back for the ball, and as the space between the two men closed Henriksen danced across the plate and Wagner whirled around third. In the regular season, with the outfielders playing somewhat deeper, it would have been an easier catch, but now the wind was pushing the deep drive, and in pushing it the wind also held the ball up. The two outfielders converged, and with his last stride Devore cut in front of Snodgrass, raised his hands over his head, and reached out for the ball.
"Anyhow," wrote Ring Lardner a few moments later, almost out of words to describe it, "he caught up with the flying thing, grabbed it and held on." Devore gathered the ball in like a split end catching a pass over his shoulder, smothering the ball with both hands and then pulling it to his chest. In the center-field bleachers and in right, where they could see the ball and see right-field umpire Charlie Rigler signaling an out, the cheers stuck in the throats of Sox fans as Devore took a few stumbling strides, then got control and turned to run back to the dugout without breaking stride. But those watching from the grandstand, where the dark ball in the dimming light was almost impossible to see, saw Snodgrass and Devore slowing down and Wagner following Henriksen home, then heard cheers and felt the crush of a happy crowd turning toward the exits. Few thought to look at the scoreboard to confirm what their eyes told them had just happened.
Half the fans did not know it, and some would not know it until reading the newspapers the next morning, but Devore had indeed caught the "flying thing." The Red Sox had not won 3–2. The game had gone to the Giants, 2–1, and the Series was now tied in every way possible, one game for Boston, one game for New York, and one game tied.
GIANTS WIN, 2–1 DEVORE SNATCHES VICTORY IN NINTH
It was back to New York.
13. Giant Killers
I doubt if the game has ever produced two gamer teams than the Giants and Red Sox ... When it's over both teams will realize that it was a baseball war to the bitter end. As I have said all along, the teams are evenly matched. Not the most skillful teams that ever played for the big money, but rather fighters with the punch.
—Tim Murnane, The Sporting News
THE STRUGGLE FOR "the championship of the universe," wrote Ring Lardner after game 3, was on "even terms."
No kidding. As the players hurriedly dressed and rushed to South Station to catch the Gilt Edge Express to New York, the two clubs, both exhausted but one also exhilarated and
the other exasperated, were spent. They had just played three games in which every pitch in every inning had mattered and in which the fortunes of both teams had swung back and forth so many times that fans had nearly gotten whiplash just from watching.
The past seventy-two hours had decided nothing but this: the 1912 league champions were the two most closely matched teams in baseball—certainly in that season, probably in the short history of the World's Series, and perhaps for all time. And now, after three games, the World's Series would be a best-of-five, not best-of-seven, affair. As R. E. McMillen of the Boston Herald wrote, whichever team won game 4 would have an enormous advantage because "to the loser falls the big task of gathering in three out of four of the remaining games," a daunting prospect for any team so closely matched with its opponent.
The Giants were confident, for as Sam Crane noted, they "have met the enemy, so to speak, bowed to them in defeat, fought them to a standstill and then overcame them." In other words, the Giants felt that they had momentum, that they had weathered all that the Red Sox could throw at them and survived, and they were looking forward to taking command back on their home turf.
The Red Sox, on the other hand, were not so ebullient. The main reason for that was Tris Speaker's ankle. His catch of Fletcher's drive had proven costly. When he boarded the train he was hopping on one foot, his ankle swollen and sore, a sight that sent gamblers racing to take advantage of such inside information. Even before the train pulled out of the station, Red Sox trainer Joe Quirk began working on the most valuable player's most valuable asset. He and everyone else knew that if Speaker could not run he could not play, and if Speaker could not play the odds of the Red Sox winning the Series were slim. As the train rumbled toward New York Quirk worked on the ankle nonstop, alternately soaking the appendage in hot water and Epsom salts, then trying to massage away the swelling. The Red Sox and their followers hoped that the weather forecast, which called for rain, was correct. If game 4, scheduled to be played on a Friday, was postponed and the rain fell on Saturday as well, the Series would not resume until Monday, as Sunday baseball was banned in New York as well as Boston. By then, they hoped Speaker would be healed.
But all hope was not lost. Regardless of the condition of Speaker's ankle, Boston still had Joe Wood. And for all their bluster on the train, the Giants had not yet proven they could beat him. If they could not do that, they were not going to beat the Red Sox.
While Speaker was having his ankle treated, players from both teams ate in the dining car and then retired, some to their seats and others to the neutral ground of the smoking car, where a passable truce between the two teams was in effect. Christy Mathewson and Buck Herzog approached knots of Red Sox players and let them know their concerns over the division of Series receipts, seeking their support. They did so quietly, for they did not want to alert the managers of either club to their activities. It was widely known that Jake Stahl owned a piece of the Red Sox, and most players assumed that McGraw owned a piece of the Giants. Each manager was representative of ownership and unlikely to look upon any sign of dissension with understanding. Bill Carrigan agreed to represent the Red Sox, and before the train pulled into New York Mathewson asked the National Commission, whose members were all riding on the train as well, for a meeting. They agreed, albeit without enthusiasm.
But Bill Carrigan, perhaps fearing some retribution from his manager, backed out. Mathewson went into the meeting alone.
The result of the meeting, which was short and abrupt, was no surprise. On all issues involving player rights the owners were the hammer and the players, even Mathewson, mere nails. In no uncertain terms August Herrmann told Mathewson that the rule restricting the player's share to the proceeds of the first four games, regardless of any ties, was the rule, and that was that, end of discussion. Mathewson then asked, as a compromise, if the commission would allow the players to play an exhibition against one another after the Series at a neutral location so they could make back the money for the tie game that way. This idea too was smacked down and dismissed out of hand. In fact, if the commission had its way, they wanted to make 1912 the last season in which the two World's Series contestants would split what Herrmann called "the good things of the World's Series," the players' share. He wanted every player in the league to see some Series swag.
He was not being beneficent. If every player in the league stood to make $500 or so each year from the World's Series, ownership could use the postseason bonus as an excuse to lower salaries across the board. "I am getting tired of the exorbitant and greedy demands of a few ballplayers who do not know when they are lucky," sniffed Herrmann.
When Mathewson met with a delegation of players from both teams and spread the word of the result of the meeting, as Sporting Life later reported, "the player delegation retired in an angry mood ... with threats of a strike." But the players had virtually no public support. Fans weren't paying attention to the scant few paragraphs most newspapers gave to the issue, and the mainstream baseball press generally took the side of management. Sporting Life called the players' position "an unfair demand." With no time to organize, the players knew they were on their own. Unlike the Lawrence millworkers, they were not going to receive any support from the International Workers of the World. If a player went on strike, he could be banned from the major leagues for life and could do nothing about it.
That was the reality of the situation, and as the players discussed the matter among themselves they began to realize that if the National Commission would not agree to their demands, they might have to take action themselves. By the time the train pulled into New York players on both clubs were united against management, determined to try to revisit the issue, and, as would become clear, determined to earn back some of the money they felt had been stolen from them—and there were ways to do that without going on strike. For the time being, however, they were still determined to do their damnedest to defeat each other.
It was raining when the two clubs arrived in New York, and it rained most of the night and was still drizzling at dawn. Players from both teams looked out the windows of their hotels and apartments and hoped for a postponement. They worried that the weather would hurt the gate. Since this was the fourth game of the Series, unless the commission caved to their demands, it would be their last chance to reap a financial harvest from the proceedings. Or at least their last chance according to the rules.
In midmorning the four umpires made their way to the Polo Grounds to inspect the field. Although the clouds were low and dark and heavy, the rain had stopped. Only a smattering of fans stood in line waiting for tickets. As the players had feared, most fans thought the game would be called and either stayed home or went to work.
The diamond itself was covered by a tarpaulin, but there were puddles in the outfield, and any place not covered by grass was pure mud. Still, after some discussion the arbiters decided that the game would be played. Word spread quickly, and by 11:00 a.m. several thousand fans were in line for tickets and more were streaming to the park from every direction. Any fears that the weather would hold down the crowd proved to be unfounded. In fact, it probably had the opposite effect, as fans who had despaired at the notion of waiting in long lines all morning suddenly decided to take a chance at getting a ticket. By game time more than thirty-six thousand fans had crowded into the park.
After the histrionics of the first three games, game 4, aided perhaps by the absence of the Rooters and their incessant singing and banging of objects together, unfolded rather quietly. Boston's loudest and best-known fans, by and large, had stayed behind in Boston. Many had thought the game would surely be canceled because of the weather, while others stayed behind because the next day was Columbus Day, a holiday almost on a par with St. Patrick's Day for the overwhelmingly Catholic group. Boston, for the first time ever, was having a parade to celebrate the day. Although some individual members of the group made the trip, this time they did so without the accompaniment of their band, something Giants fa
ns, Giants players, and aficionados of music appreciated.
Jeff Tesreau took the mound for New York under leaden skies. What enthusiasm the partisan crown could muster under the cold and damp conditions quickly went by the wayside as Hooper opened for Boston with a single. Yerkes followed with a bad bunt, and Chief Meyers scooped up the nubber, which barely made it into fair territory. He threw the ball away, however, and the Red Sox seemed likely to score. But Speaker, playing with his ankle heavily taped and moving cautiously, hit a ground ball to short and was doubled up at first for a double play. Another ground ball ended the inning for Boston, and Joe Wood took the mound.
It took about thirty seconds for Wood to announce his presence, punching out game 3 hero Josh Devore, who led off for the Giants. Even though Larry Doyle followed with a single, Snodgrass grounded out into a force play, then got too cute on first base. Acting like he was Ty Cobb, he danced off the bag and dared Wood to do anything about it. The pitcher, as if annoyed, picked him off, flicking the Giant away like a spot of lint on his shoulder.
The Bear Hunter knew he was in trouble and was suddenly as skittish as a mouse. Larry Gardner, knowing what was coming from Tesreau, opened the second with a triple to right. On a dry field the drive would probably have been a home run, for not only did the heavy ground slow the ball down but Gardner had to take care running the bases—the tarpaulin that had covered the infield had not been completely effective. A few moments later he danced home with the first run of the game when Tesreau, rattled, uncorked a wild pitch. Boston led, 1–0.
For the next five innings, wrote Hugh Fullerton, "New York had about as much chance to score as a sober man has to sleep on the midnight to Boston." Wood was rarely in trouble, and whenever it seemed he might be, Charlie Wagner, playing his best game of the Series, made one spectacular play after another. Wood, perhaps still tired because of all the time he spent warming up during game 2, used his fastball only when necessary and spent much of the game mixing in his drop ball and changing speeds. On the dark day virtually every commentator noted how difficult it was to see the ball after the first inning or so, when the mix of mud and saliva turned home plate umpire Charlie Rigler's choice of baseballs into a decision between dark, darker, and darkest. But that worked against the Red Sox at the plate, and despite knowing what was coming, they found it hard to score. Boston finally added a second run in the fourth when Jake Stahl, after botching a sacrifice bunt and reaching base on the fielder's choice, surprised everyone by stealing second, moved to third on Wagner's grounder, and then scored on Hick Cady's base hit. Wood led 2–0, a margin that, for him, was nearly insurmountable.
