At the beginning of the 1914 season, The Chicago Examiner’s Hugh Fullerton attempted to determine the impact of drinking on performance on the diamond.
“Boys, here is another temperance lecture in baseball averages. It isn’t an argument or a statement of principles. Of course, we all know that a bottle of beer once in a while ‘ain’t never going to do no one no harm.’ I think during the last twenty years four or five hundred ballplayers have confided that information to me. So it ought to be true.”
Hugh Fullerton
Fullerton said he had compiled a list of players who were drinkers.
“I took an even twenty of these fellows. Then I took 14 players who to my certain knowledge do not drink at all. I jotted down the batting and fielding averages of these men using no pitchers or catchers, for six years (1907-1913), and made a composite average. Here are the figures:
“Then it occurred to me perhaps there may be some dope to show how drink acts upon pitchers. Here are the composite averages of then men, their percentage of victories for five years:
“Possibly I have picked some pitchers lucky enough to be with winning clubs; and some drinkers unlucky enough to be with losers. As a matter of fact, one fellow on the drink side has been with a winning team and he boosts the averages of his fellows.”
A photo of baseball’s premier teetotaler Eddie Collins appeared with Fullerton’s story.
His conclusion:
“Maybe these figures prove that a bottle of beer once in awhile ‘ain’t goin’ to hurt no one.” Anyhow, there are the figures. Either the wets or the drys may use them.”
Upon being named president of the National League in 1910, Thomas Lynch spoke to a reporter from The New York Telegraph about his experiences as an umpire from 1888 to 1902:
“The personal discussions and individual adventures I had with the old-time ball players were innumerable. In those days umpires were not nearly as well backed up as now, and they frequently had to depend on nerve and a good right swing to protect them. Brawling players—usually good fellows off the field, but wild to win by any means—were many and they made the umpire’s life a burden.”
Thomas Lynch
Lynch said, “The old Cleveland Cub,” the 1888 Spiders, who included Jesse Burkett, Cupid Childs, Jimmy McAleer, and Chief Zimmer stood out as, “pests when it came to nagging umpires.”
The team, he said, “had a queer trick—testing the umpire’ disposition to find out how far they could go and get away with.”
Burkett would approach Lynch:
“’How do, Mr. Lynch?’ He would say, ‘Nice weather we’re having. Guess we’ll have a pretty good game this afternoon.’
“If I happened to be feeling good-natured and sociable, I would naturally answer, ‘Sure. Glad to see you looking so well,’ or something along those lines.”
Burkett would then tell his teammates, “(He’s) feeling fine and happy. Work on his good nature, pals.”
Lynch said s from there, “They tried to slip something over on me every inning and tried to help my affable mood help them along.”
The would also argue louder and “start an awful howl” when disagreeing with a call, “Figuring that I was feeling too good natured to fine the or put them out of the game, they would fairly riot around me for five minutes after every decision that displeased them.”
If Lynch were in a bad mood when Burkett approached:
“Being bad-tempered or out of humor, I would either pay no attention to this greeting or answer with a grunt.”
Burkett
In that case, the team was told:
“Cheese it fellers…He’s got a horrible grouch on. Better let him alone this afternoon.”
Lynch said he was not aware of what was happening despite Cleveland doing the same to every umpire, until “Zimmer put me wise,” later in the season
Lynch said he always thought it “best not to hand then any personal abuse,” and was proud to have “never called a ballplayer any names.”
The new league president called his former colleague Tim Hurst—the two were members of the National League umpire staff together from 1891-1902— “a unique and amusing character of the diamond,” who “played the umpiring game the other way,’ and:
“(B)elieved in answering ballplayers in their own coin.”
When players argued with Hurst, “with any ornamental language,” the arbiter would, with his “ready Irish wit,” would reply in a manner “that left the offender dazed and a target for the ridicule of his own pals.”
Hurst also “wouldn’t hesitate to soak a ballplayer with his good right mitt or on a decision when he thought it was necessary to teach a disturber a lesson.”
He told of a run in Hurst had with the Orioles, “a fearful gang when it came to fighting umpires,” in Baltimore:
“One afternoon the Orioles were being trimmed and were fighting like wild cats. Presently they bubbled over and burned up the grass around the home plate with their phraseology. Tim answered them in kind, stormed all of them, chased one or two, and still they kept troubling.
“At last, Jake Stenzel slid for the plate. He looked safe to the stand and to everybody, in fact, but Tim. ‘You’re out,’ yelled Hurst. Jake sprung up and rushed at Hurst.
“’ What did you call me out for, you spiflicated rother of a lop-eared mule?’ howled Jake.
“’I called you out, you hungry-looking sheep-stealing Dutchman,’ said Tim, ‘because your face gave me a pain. Now get out of the game.’ And Jake departed.”
Tim Hurst
Lynch retold a version of a story repeated frequently, with some different details, over the years about a game in Cleveland against the Orioles. Patsy Tebeau of the Spiders indicated the “wild-eyed crowd” with only a rope separating them from the field, and said to the umpire:
“The first bum decision you give, Tim, we’ll cut those ropes and let the mob in on you.”
Hurst did not respond. Later:
“Joe Kelley came up. He hit a long foul, way off the line. ‘Fair ball,’ yelled Tim. ‘Run, Joe, run,’ Then turning to Tebeau, he shouted, ‘Now cut the ropes you four-flushing hyena.”
Hugh Fullerton told essentially the same story in 1911 in “The American Magazine.” In his version was a game against Chicago and Jimmy Ryan was the batter who hit the foul home run. In this version, as Ryan rounded the bases,
“Hurst turned and shook his fist at Tebeau, shouting: ‘Cut the ropes, ye spalpeen, cut the ropes.”
The quiet town of Hingham is in turmoil over a proposed addition to its population.
The Boston Globe said:
“Enveloped in a maze of spreading branches of beautiful elm and Rock Maple trees is a quiet corner of the quiet town of Hingham, stands the elegant residence to be presented to M. J. Kelly, the famous ballplayer.”
The New York World said:
“The great ballplayer and enthusiastic Brotherhood man was presented with a house and lot valued at $10,000 and containing furnishings and adjuncts worth at least $3500 more.”
King Kelly had been feted on August 12, 1890, “After being cheered to the echo,” that day at the Congress Street Grounds; Kelly’s Boston Reds lost to Ward’s Wonders but maintained a one and a half game lead in the Payers League pennant race.
Mike “King” Kelly
After the game:
“King took a train for Hingham. He was followed by about 50 of his personal friends in a special train.”
A dinner was held the Cushing House; a then more than 200-year-old home that is one of the town’s earliest and was added to the National Historic Register in 1973.
After the dinner, speeches were made by Kelly, “General” Arthur Dixwell—the Boston super fan, Hugh Fullerton called ‘the greatest” “crank” of all-time. John Montgomery Ward, Arthur Irwin, Julian B. Hart, the director of the Boston club, and John Graham—of the Boston Athletic Club, who, seven years later, helped originate what became the Boston Marathon—also spoke.
“King, in the course of his speech, remarked that he was overpowered, thanked his friends in San Francisco, New York, New Orleans, Chicago, and Boston who had contributed to the gift, and promised a ‘small bottle on the ice’ to any and all who might call during the winter months. After the speech making, the entire party were conveyed to the new home.”
The House
The Philadelphia Times‘ Boston correspondent said, “this present has been arranged by his friends as a tribute to him not only as a brainy ballplayer, but an all-around good fellow, ever ready with his last dollar to aid a friend.”
Kelly’s generous nature, even towards rivals, was the subject of a story that same month in The Cleveland News. Patsy Tebeau was badly injured by a batted ball during a July game with Kelly’s Reds:
“In the game in which Pat met with the accident in Boston, which laid him up for a couple weeks, Kelly was playing, and, as Kelly often does, he was chafing Tebeau all through the game.
“When Tebeau dropped senseless, after being struck by the ball, Kelly, thinking it one of Tebeau’s tricks, called out ‘Never touched him.’ When the third baseman failed to rise, however, he hurried to where he was lying on the ground and helped carry him to the carriage.”
Tebeau was confined to bed for five days.
“Naturally enough, he was blue and almost heartbroken at not being able to play. No one had been near him all morning, and in his own language he was ‘all broken up.’ He had hardly time to think over the situation when there was a knock on the door and in walked King Kelly. He carried in his hands a big basket of fruit of all sorts, and after leaving it within Tebeau’s reach he left with a few words of cheer.
“’I’ll tell you,’ says Pat, ‘the way that man treated me brought tears to my eyes.’”
Not to be outdone, friends of heavyweight champion John J. Sullivan decided to buy him a home in Hingham.
That was a bridge too far for the residents. The Boston Post said:
“The inhabitants of the puritanical old town, who swear by their lineage and recognize only blue blood, being as conservative as any people on the New England coast, are much disturbed over the prospect of having a pugilist in their midst, and they freely give vent to their indignation. They swallowed Kelly with a grimace, but Sullivan is too much for them, they say, and steps are being taken to purchase the property and any other that Sullivan’s friends have in view.”
John L. Sullivan
Sullivan never got his home in Hingham, Kelly, who he called, “the greatest ball player in world,” didn’t spend a lot of time in his.
In April of 1893, The Boston Globe said the home, which also included a stable and a two acre lot, was sold for back taxes of $123.
Kelly died of pneumonia the following year; he died like lived, broke; primarily because, as The Fall River (MA) Daily Herald said:
“His many kindly acts to his fellows in want or illness endeared him to the baseball world, and hosts of friends will mourn his loss.”
During his scouting trip to the West Coast looking for talent for the Boston Braves, Johnny Evers talked to Brian Bell, the Associated Press Bureau Chief in San Francisco:
“(He) has been sitting up late looking at games in the Pacific Coast League. The once great second baseman frankly is puzzled.
“Night baseball has turned the game topsy-turvy. A scout dislikes to recommend the purchase of an infielder or pitcher because with the lights the players have to adjust themselves to various conditions.
“’Recently, I looked at a promising shortstop.’ said Evers. ‘He was playing almost in left field. The next time I saw him in another park he was almost in back of the pitcher. When I spoke to him about it, he said that each park in the league has its dark spots and he has to play accordingly.’”
Johnny Evers
The shortstop Evers was scouting, according to The Los Angeles Express was Carl Dittmar. The club was said to be looking for a replacement for 39-year-old Rabbit Maranville, in order to move the veteran to 2nd base; the Braves instead purchased Billy Urbanski from the Montreal Royals.
Pitchers told Evers they would have to throw low pitches at the parks with lights mounted on top of the grandstand and high pitches at the parks with lower mounted lights:
“How can a scout tell whether these pitchers that are so good at night can pitch in the majors in the daytime?”
As for baseball as a whole?
“Evers calls the present ‘the cream puff era’ in baseball. ‘There’s no more fight in the game.”
He complained that one West Coast manager told him a player we wanted to scout had ‘a bad cold’ and would not be in the lineup:
“I cannot understand players staying out of a ball game because of a cold.”
There were at least two players of “the cream puff era” that Evers approved of:
“Babe Ruth and Lefty O’Doul are the greatest hitters today. They realized that conditions are changing in baseball. Ruth’s mighty swings eliminated the bunt and put the homerun at a premium some years ago. With the slowing up of the baseball, Ruth is accepting the changed conditions.
“The big fellow of the Yankees now just meets the ball most of the time. Because of his strength, the ball leaves the bat like a shot and is past the infielders before they are able to take a full step.
“O’Doul is meeting the ball in a sweeping motion, which results in many base hits. He started the season in a terrible slump, but he was smart enough to discover the trouble.”
O’Doul
The scout, and co-author with Hugh Fullerton of “Touching Second: The Science of Baseball” remained a fan of the dead ball:
“Evers thinks the slower the ball the better the players and the game. Brainy players and plays have been sacrificed by the lively ball for fellows who can do nothing but ‘cut and slash.’”
Myron Townsend, the sports editor of The Cincinnati Commercial Tribune said:
“More bunk is written about baseball than any professional sport.
“In dwelling on the details of ‘Inside’ ball the scribes allow their imaginations to run away with them.”
In 1910, after the publication of Johnny Evers’ and Hugh Fullerton’s book, “Touching Second; The Science of Baseball,” talk of “inside baseball” was all the rage: or “a favorite subject of the space killers,” as Townsend put it:
“Many fans believe that baseball players are mental gymnasts. They swallow whole all they read about the ‘science’ of the game.
“Touching Second,” Evers’ and Fullerton’s collaboration on “Inside Baseball.”
“For this reason, the speculative typewriter tickler never grows weary of pounding out epistles about the marvelous mental attainments of professional players.”
Townsend ridiculed the idea that, “According to the critics baseball is very complex. The moves and counter moves are fairly bewildering. A great chess master is a child when compared to a baseball manager.”
He said the baseball writer of the rival Cincinnati Times-Star had it right:
“No writer perforates the ‘signal’ theory more neatly or thoroughly than “Billy Phelon.”
Phelon had written on the subject:
“A kick of the coacher’s right foot means one movement for the batsman and baserunner; a kick of the left foot means another; pulling grass with the right hand means to do this and jerking it violently with the left hand means to do the other thing. If the manager on the bench shades his eyes with his palm it means a steal, if he hits the water barrel viciously with his left foot it means to sacrifice.
“In short—according to the magazine writers and the brilliant critics of the day—baseball is controlled, all the way through the stages of the active play, by these intricate, complex, recurring, and crisscrossing signs and codes.
“All of which would be extremely instructive were it not for the fact that it isn’t so; and that, in all these stories, the writers either built upon their imagination; or—more likely—were ‘stung’ and ‘joshed’ by the ballplayers to whom they went for information”
Phelon said it was “a plain, hard fact, no ball team ever played the game under a long and complex code of signals.” He called it “an utter impossibility and mental absurdity.”
Instead, Phelon said:
“The generalship of the ballfield is an ever-shifting series of quickly devised schemes, not a fifth part of them figured out or practices before each individual game begins. The signal code of the ball field is limited to eight or ten simple tricks and must ever be so for the reason that the brain of the ballplayer is not that of Euclid, Plato or Archimedes.”
Townsend said, “Mr. Phelon is right,” and told Cincinnati fans to “disabuse their minds of all such rot.”
Reds Manager Clark Griffith, said Townsend:
“Does not have to tell (Bob) Bescher when to steal bases. Instinct tells the speed boy what to do when he reaches first. A certain amount of teamwork between batter and baserunner may be necessary, but as a third party a manager is a ‘butter in.’”
Bescher
The Commercial Tribune Editor accused Evers of attempting to “bunk the fans about the elaborate set of signs and counter signs the Cubs use.”
Townsend said the “brainy second baseman” said he and Cubs shortstop Joe Tinker “never made a move” with signaling one another. He contrasted that with the second baseman and shortstop of the 1904 New York Giants, Billy Gilbert and Bill Dahlen, who:
“(N)ever used a signal of any kind. The duties of their positions were second nature to them.”
Contrary to the trend, It was a game of spontaneity, not science:
“No one should underestimate ‘generalship’ and strategy as a component part of the game, but the decisive plays come up on the spur of the moment. They cannot be rehearsed in the clubhouse…’Inside ball’ will always be a favorite theme, but the speed boys and hard hitters, aided and abetted by a start staff of pitchers and a master workman behind the bat, will continue to win games, knowing nothing about the ‘signs and signals’ which ignorant fans imagine they are wise to.”
In 1896, Hugh Fullerton said in The Chicago Record:
“It is not hard to tell ‘Old Silver’ (Flint) is a ballplayer.”
Silver Flint
Fullerton told a story about how a train carrying the catcher and the rest of the White Stockings had derailed during their “Southern tour” the previous season:
“The train jumped the track and several of the passengers were injured. Silver stood near the scene of the wreck watching the proceedings, when one of the surgeons who had tendered his services caught sight of Silver’s fists.
“’Too bad, my man, too bad,’ said the man with the scalpel, ‘but both those hands will have to come off.’”
King Kelly told Fullerton that Flint “had to shake hands with the doctor before the latter would believe that Silver’s hands were not knocked out in the wreck.”
Young’s Perfect Game
In 1910, The Boston Post said Napoleon Lajoie asked Cy Young about his 1904 perfect game while the Naps were playing a series in Boston.
Cy Young
“’Oh,’ remarked Cy in that native natural dialect that six years’ residence in Boston did not change, ‘there ain’t nothing to tell. Nothing much at any rate. They just ‘em right at somebody all the time that was all. Two or three drives would have been good, long hits if Buck (Freeman) and Chick (Stahl) hadn’t been laying for ‘em. I didn’t know nobody reached first until we were going to the clubhouse. Then Jim (Collins) told me.’”
Young beat the Philadelphia Athletics and Rube Waddell 3 to 0 on May 5, 1904; the third perfect game in MLB history; the previous two had both taken place 24 years earlier during the 1880 season–making it the first one thrown under modern rules.
The box score
Cobb’s Base Stealing
Before the 1912 season, Joe Birmingham, manager of the Cleveland Naps told The Cleveland News that Sam Crawford was the reason Ty Cobb was a successful base stealer.
“I haven’t made such a statement without considering the matter.”
Birmingham said:
“Put Sam Crawford up behind any one of a half dozen players in this league and their base stealing records would increase immensely…In the first place, every catcher is handicapped almost five feet in throwing to second when Sam is up. You know Sam lays way back of that home plate.
“A catcher would take his life in his hands if he dared get in the customary position behind the plate, for Sam takes such an awful wallop. Five feet doesn’t seem like a great distance, but when it is taken into consideration that a vast number of base stealers are checked by the merest margin of seconds, five feet looms up as considerable distance.”
Cobb
Then there was Crawford’s bat:
“(He) wields a young telegraph pole. There are few players in baseball who could handle such a club. And Sam spreads that club all over an immense amount of air. It’s usually in the way or thereabouts. At least it’s a factor with which the catcher must always reckon. Finally, Sam is a left-handed batter. Any time a pitcher hurls a pitchout to catch Cobb stealing the catcher is thrown into an awkward position. He can’t possibly be set for a throw. There’s another portion of a second lost.”
Cobb and Crawford were teammates from 1905 through 1917; Cobb led the league in steals six times during that period.
Sam Crawford
Birmingham’s overall point was to suggest that Joe Jackson, of the Naps, would be a better base stealer than Cobb:
“Joe has shown more natural ability during his first (full) year in the league than Cobb did.”
Birmingham said Jackson was as fast going from home to first as Cobb and “No one can convince me to the contrary.”
While he said Jackson did not get the same lead off the base as Cobb, he said:
“When that is acquired you’ll find little Joey leading the parade or just a trifle behind the leader.”
In 24 season Cobb stole 897 bases; Jackson stole 202 in 13 seasons.
“Ball orchards are the favorite breeding places of green-eyed monsters.”
So said Hugh Fullerton in The Chicago Herald in 1907.
Jealousy among players, he said often resulted in “ludicrous situations” on baseball teams.
“One of the funniest instances that ever came to my notice happened when (Cap) Anson was running the Chicago club.”
Hugh Fullerton
He said that spring Anson had brought in enough pitchers to fill “the whole West Side park.”
One of them was Walter Thornton, who Anson sent to the mound one day:
“The big fellow was one of the best natural hitters…besides pitching fair ball he rammed out four hits.”
The response:
“The other candidates sat on the benches and looked at each other anxiously as Thornton banged the ball around the lot, and every hit he made caused them deeper woe.
“That evening, just as the sun was setting, a delegation of Cub pitchers slipped out to the clubhouse, ravaged Thornton’s locker, took out his bats, secured (groundskeeper) Charlie Kuhn’s saw and proceeded to saw up every bat Thornton owned.”
Then, said Fullerton, there was the case of, “Little Tommy Hess.”
As a 16-year-old, Hess got into one game for the Baltimore Orioles in 1892:
“There were two other catchers on the team (Wilbert Robinson and Joe Gunson) both veterans, and they would have lost an arm before they would have let Tommy have a chance. He sat on the bench week after week, eager and ready to jump in and prove his worth.
“Finally, he thought his day had come. One of the catchers had been laying off with a split hand—and the other was working. A foul tip in the first inning of the game put the catcher out of business. Before (manager Ned) Hanlon could say a word, Hess had on a protector and was starting for the plate, when the man with the split hand grabbed the mask and protector from him and went in. That broke Hess’ heart.”
Hess played pro ball for another 19 years but never again reached the major leagues.
Fullerton said one of his favorite subjects—Bill Lange—was the object of jealousy during his time in Chicago:
“It is a hard thing to prove, but there are cases where a man on first signaled the batter to hit, as he was going to steal, and then the batter deliberately let the ball go and the runner be thrown out at second. This happened on the old Chicago club so many times that Anson was forced to put one player on the bench for ‘double crossing’ Lange to let him be caught stealing.”
Bill Lange
In Fullerton’s last example he failed to mention the player in question, but it was likely John O’Neill, an outfielder with the 1906 World Series Champions:
“There was a certain outfielder on the White Sox team not long ago who was jealous of (outfielder/manager Fielder) Jones. The man should have been a great ballplayer, but because of his disposition more than anything else, he fell short of being great.
“When this man was not hitting well, he quit…he would let Jones race across his field and get flies and never move. But when that fellow began to get base hits and move up in the batting average, his jealousy of his manager would break forth violently. His criticisms of Jones were bitter, and he refused to permit the manager to take one step into his territory to get a fly ball.
“The beauty of Jones’ character was never better shown than during those times.”
Fielder Jones
O’Neill appeared in 94 games for the 1906 Sox, hitting .248. Jones used him in only one game during the World Series and O’Neill never played in the major leagues again—spending the last four seasons of his career in the American Association.
After the Pirates barnstormed in several Midwest cities before the 1912 season, The Pittsburgh Press acknowledged that an out of towner’s assessment of the city’s biggest star revealed that local reporters, “have seen so much of him that they ceased to marvel at his astounding stunts, and take many of them as a matter of course.”
The sports editor of The Kansas City Star wrote several articles about Wagner, and, “The Kansas City man points out several things which have seldom been commented upon by local writers, who have come to regard ordinary doings by Wagner as of little importance, and only mention him particularly when he pulls off some herculean—something which no one else would attempt.”
Among the observations in The Star:
“Hugh Fullerton, who writes once in awhile on baseball topics, has said that Hans Wagner is the nearest approach to a baseball machine ever constructed. ‘Constructed’ is good. Wagner is put up solidly, after the fashion of government architecture.”
Wagner
And, he was built, “like a piano mover above the waist and below it resembles a pair of parentheses.”
Wagner, said the paper:
“(H)as as much fun playing ball as a kid on a corner lot. He romps about and kids the opposition, most of whom are ex Pirates in this town, and nags good naturedly at the umpire. For Hans is field captain this year and feels that he must do some beefing. But beefing is hard word for Hans. He is too good natured.”
He was a dichotomy; “a born comedian, though so bashful he will hide himself under a bat rack if he sees a reporter coming.”
The Star marveled at the 38-year-old’s fielding:
“He has a style that is all his own. No bush leaguer would dare try to play short like Hans Wagner. He plays wherever he pleases, frequently retreating to the edge of the outfield, whence only his mighty arm would carry to first in time to head off a fast runner. When he goes after a ground hit, he goes after it like a runaway gondola loaded with coal—but he gets it if it is getable. And when once one of those ponderous hands clamps down on the pellet there it remains quietly until the great shortstop wings it on its way.
“Wagner’s pegging is something to ponder. Several times in the Kansas City series he would field a sharply hit drive lazily, merely lobbing the ball over to first and beating the runner only by a step.
“’Shucks,’ remarked some of the bugs who were watching Honus for the first time, ‘that guy’s as slow as molasses: A fast man would have beat him.’
“Wait a bit, though. There goes a fast man—and his hit was a slow one. But he’s out by the same distance. And if you want to see Honus really peg, watch him finishing up a double play. The big frame moves like a streak. He gets the ball away in a twinkle—and it nearly knocks the first baseman off the bag.”
At the plate, “He is one of the few celebrities who can stand bowlegged and pigeon-toed at one and the same time, and he does it with ease and aplomb…He steps into the pitch with a long, swinging stride and meets the ball with a heave of his whole powerful frame.”
Off the field, The Star noted that Wagner, “can’t bear to see a dog hungry. If he can’t provide for them elsewhere he ships them home…And he is a great old boy, is Honus.”
Hugh Fullerton wrote about pregame “jockeying…that count(s) for much in a championship race” for The Chicago Herald Examiner in 1919.
Fullerton
Both stories Fullerton told in the column were likely apocryphal—at least in terms of the participants mentioned—but like many Fullerton tales, worth the retelling.
The first involved two Fullerton story favorites, John McGraw and Rube Waddell:
“I remember one day getting to the Polo Grounds early. The Giants were to play, and Rube Waddell was expected to pitch against them.”
The two could not be the participants if the story is based on an actual incident given that Waddell pitched in the American League from 1902 until his final game in 1910 while McGraw was managing the Giants.
“A batter was at the plate driving out flies and in right center John McGraw was prancing around catching flies and throwing the ball back to the catcher, it is not fun to watch a fat man who has retired from active survive shag flies in the outfield.”
Rube
Fullerton said McGraw’s long throws to the plate “were not fun” to watch, but “McGraw kept it up patiently and gamely.”
At this point in Fullerton’s story, Rube Waddell walked towards McGraw in the outfield.
“Rube looked interested, stopped and talked.
“’I’ll bet you five you can’t outthrow me,’ snarled McGraw in response to Rubes ‘kidding.’
“Rube grabbed the ball and threw it to the plate. For ten minutes they hurled the pill, then McGraw reluctantly admitted that the Rube could outthrow him and paid over the five dollars.
“Rube went to the slab and lasted the greater part of the first inning. McGraw had laid the trap, had kidded Waddell into making six or seven long distance throws and had won a ballgame thereby.”
The second story was about another Fullerton favorite, Bugs Raymond:
“There was a bunch of petty larceny gamblers who hung out around the West Side park in Chicago for years looking for the best of it, who got caught in one of their own traps once.
“The St. Louis club was playing in Chicago and poor Arthur Raymond, better known as ‘Bugs,’ was to pitch a game. The gamblers knew Bugs and knew his weakness.
“Just across the street from the park was a bar kept by a fine little Italian, as grand a little sportsman and a square a man as ever lived. In some way he overheard the plot of the cheap sports, which was to waylay Raymond and invite him to drink. If he started drinking, they were to lay their bets.”
Fullerton said the plan unfolded:
“Raymond was greeted by a bunch of admiring ‘friends,’ who led him to the bar more than an hour before game time. The ‘friends’ invited him to have a drink, and the proprietor winked at Raymond. Bugs was not as foolish as many believed. Without a minute of hesitation, he grabbed the cue as the bartender reached for a bottle a bottle labeled gin. The crowd drank. Bugs invited them to join in, but they insisted he was the guest of honor.
“In the next half hour, he swallowed more than half the contents of the bottle. The plotters exchanged winks and an agent was rushed out to place the bets, Meantime, the others remained to buy more for the Bug. He swallowed three or four more doses and finally said:
“’Say, fellows, I’ve got to break away. I’m pitching today.’
“With that, he lifted the gin bottle, poured all the contents into a tumbler, drained it off at one gulp and walked out on them.”
Bugs
Of course, said Fullerton
“Raymond beat the Cubs in a hard game. It was all over before the pikers realized that the little saloon man had given Raymond a bottle of plain water instead of gin and that Arthur had gone through with the play.”
Like the Waddell story, the facts don’t square with Fullerton’s story; Raymond never beat the cubs during the Cubs in Chicago during his two seasons with the Browns.
After the 1910 season, Hugh Fullerton, writing in “The American Magazine” said baseball had no universal language.
“Each team has its different system of coaching, its different language of signs, motions, cipher words, or phrases, and no one man can hope to learn them all.”
Fullerton said the “worst of trying to study” the signs of various clubs was trying to track when they changed:
“If Arlie Latham jumps into the air and screams ‘Hold your base!’ it may mean ‘Steal second,’ today and tomorrow it may mean ‘Hit and run.’ One never can tell what a sign means. Hughie Jennings hoists his right knee as high as his shoulder, pulls six blades of grass and Jim Delahanty bunts. You are certain that Jennings signaled him to sacrifice, so the next day when Ty Cobb is bat and Jennings goes through the same motions, you creep forward and Cobb hits the ball past you so fast you can’t see it.
“If Connie Mack tilts his hat over his eyes and Eddie Collins steals second as the next ball is pitched, naturally you watch the hat, and lo, Jack Barry plays hit and run. You hear Clark Griffith yelp ‘Watch his foot!’ and see two of his players start a double steal. The next time he yells ‘Watch his foot!’ you break your neck to cover the base, and both players stand still.”
Arlie Latham
Fullerton said most fans gave up trying to figure out signs but they “mustn’t do that. Someday right in the middle of a game, you’ll strike the key to the language and read through clear to the ninth inning.”
He compared that moment to getting “away one good drive,” in golf, “forever afterward you are a victim,” and can’t stop.
“Did you ever watch Hugh Jennings on the coaching line near first base during a hard-fought game? He doubles his fists, lifts one leg and shakes his foot, screams ‘E-yah’ in piercing tomes and stooping suddenly plucks at the grass, pecking at it like a hen. It looks foolish. I have heard spectators express wonder that a man of ability and nearing middle age could act so childishly. Yet hidden somewhere in the fantastic contortions and gestures of the Tigers’ leader there is a meaning, a code word, or signal that tells his warriors what he expects them to do.”
Jennings said of his signs:
“I change almost every day. I change every time I suspect there is a danger of the meanings being read. I am a believer in as few signals as possible and of giving them when they count, and I find that a lot of antics are effective in covering up the signals.”
Fullerton said Mack was “one of the most successful men” at “interpreting” opponents’ signs:
“Before the Chicago Cubs went into their disastrous series against the Athletics they were warned that if such a thing were possible Mack would have their signals. At the end of the game they called a meeting to revise signals, changing entirely, being certain the Athletics knew almost every kind of ball that was going to be pitched.”
Fullerton allowed that the Cubs instead might be tipping their pitches, because he was sitting with Ty Cobb during the series, and:
“(He) repeatedly called the turn on the ball that would be pitched before it was thrown, judging from the pitcher’s motion, and the Athletics may have been doing the same thing.”
Fullerton also said of the Cubs, that although they were “the cleverest baseball team in America, composed of smart men and a great manager, for years paid less attention to active coaching on the baselines,” than other teams.
“Possibly the reason was the confidence in their own judgment and their continued success, Frank Chance’s men made few blunders and the neglect was not noticeable, except to constant observers until 1908. Any player who happened to be idle went to the coaching lines and most of the time inexperienced substitutes did line duty. In 1908 during their fierce fight for the pennant, the realization of their carelessness was brought home to them and since then Chance has employed quick-thinking, clever men on the base lines, principally relying on (Ginger) Beaumont and (John) Kane.”
John Kane
Fullerton dated Chance’s new appreciation for competent coaching to July 17, 1908; that day the Cubs beat Christy Mathewson and the Giants 1 to 0 on an inside the park home run by Joe Tinker. Heinie Zimmerman was coaching third base for the Cubs.
The Chicago Inter Ocean described the play:
“Joe, the first man up in the fifth, hit one of Matty’s best as far as any ball could be hit in the grounds without going into the stands. Where the center field bleachers join the right field 25 cent seats is a V-shaped inclosure. Joe drove the ball away into this dent, and it took Cy Seymour some time to gather the elusive sphere. When Cy finally retrieved the ball, Tinker was rounding third.
“Zimmerman grasped this as the psychological moment to perpetrate one of the most blockheaded plays ever pulled off. He ran out onto the line and seized Joe, trying to hold him on third, when the ball was just starting to the diamond from deep center field. Joe struggled to get away, as his judgment told him he could get home, but Heinie held on with a grip of death. Finally, Tink wriggled away and started for the plate.”
Zimmerman
The paper said Tinker would have been thrown out had Al Bridwell’s throw to the plate been on target:
“Had Tinker been caught at the plate the 10,000 frenzied fans would have torn Zim limb from limb. Chance immediately sent Evers out to coach at third base and retired Zim to the dark confines of the Cubs’ bench.”
Thus, said Fullerton:
“Chance began to develop scientific coaching, and discovering its full value, took the lead in the matter, employing skilled coachers.”
Baseball History Daily 