Baseball History Daily

Marcus C. “Brick” Pomeroy, publisher and editor of The La Crosse (WI) Democrat was no fan of President Abraham Lincoln—a Copperhead, who opposed the Civil War and desired an immediate peace settlement with the Confederacy—he called the president “fungus from the corrupt womb of bigotry and fanaticism.”

Brick Pomeroy

After the Civil War, he briefly turned his attention to baseball.  In 1867, he wrote in The Democrat about his experience with the game:

“The doctor said we need exercise.  Doctors know.  He told us to join base ball, we joined.  Bought a book of instructions, and for five days studied it wisely, if not too well.  Then we bought a sugar scoop cap, a red belt, a green shirt, yellow trousers, pumpkin colored shoes, a paper collar and a purple necktie, and with a lot of other delegates, moved gently to the ground.

“There were two nines.  These nines were antagonists.  The ball is a pretty little drop of softness, the size of a goose egg, and five degrees harder than a brick.  The two nines play against each other.  It is a quiet game, much like chess, only a little more chase than chess.

“There was an umpire.  His position is a hard one.  He sits on a box and yells ‘fowl.’ His duty is severe

“I took the bat.  It is a murderous plaything, descended from Pocahontas to the head of John Smith.  The man in front of me was a pitcher.  He was a nice pitcher, but he sent the balls hot.  The man behind me was a catcher.  He caught it too!

“The umpire said ‘play.’ It is the most radical play I know of, this base ball—Sawing cord wood in moonlight rambles beside base ball.  So the pitcher sent a ball towards me.  It looked pretty coming, so I let it come.  Then he sent another.  I hit it with the club and hove it gently upward.  Then I started to walk to the first base.  The ball lit in the pitcher, or his hands, and somebody said he caught a fly.  Alas, poor fly! I walked leisurely toward the base.  Another man took the bat.  I turned to see how he was making it, and a mule kicked me in the cheek.  The man said it was the ball.  It felt like a mule, and I reposed on the grass.  The ball went on!

“Pretty soon there were two more flies, and three of us flew out.  The other nine came in, and us nine went out.—This was better.  Just as I was standing on my dignity in the left field, a hot ball as they called it, came skyrocketing toward me.  My captain yelled ‘take it.’

“I hastened gently forward to where the ball was aiming to descend. I have a good eye to measure distances and saw at a glance where the little aerolite was to light.  I put up my hands.  How sweetly the ball descended. Everybody looked—I felt something warm in my eye!  ‘Muffin!’ yelled ninety fellers, ‘muffin be damned! It’s a canon ball!’  For three days I had two pounds of raw beef on that eye, and yet I paineth!

“Then I wanted to go home, but my gentle captain said ‘nay.’  So I stayed and stayed.  Pretty soon it was my strike.  ‘Brick to the bat!’ yelled the umpire.  I went, but not all serene as my wont.  The pitcher sent in one hip high.  I missed it.  He sent in another neck high. It struck me in the gullet.  ‘Fowl,’ yelled the umpire.  He sent in the ball again.  This time I took it square and sent it down the right field, through a parlor window—a kerosene lamp, and rip up against the head of an infant who was quietly taking it’s nap in his mother’s arms  Then I slung the bat and meandered forth to the first base.  I heard high words and looked.  When I slung the bat I had with it broken the jaw of the umpire and was fined 10 cents.”

An 1870 Woodcut by Rogers and McCartney of Boston, which would have been an appropriate illustration for Pomeroy’s article

Pomeroy said the game was as dangerous to spectators as players:

“The game went on.  I liked it.  It is so much fun to run from base to base  just in time to be put out, or to chase a ball three-fourths of a mile down hill, while all the spectators yell ‘muffin!’ or ‘go round a dozen times!’ Base ball is a sweet little game. When it came my turn to bat again, I noticed everybody moved back about ten rods!  The umpire retreated twelve rods.  He was timid.  The pitcher sent ‘em in hot. Hot balls in time of war are good; but I don’t like ‘em too hot for fun.  After a while I got a fair clip at it., and you bet it went, cutting the daisies down the right field.  A fat man with his dog sat in the shade of an oak enjoying the game. The ball broke one leg of the dog and landed like a runaway engine in the corporosity of the fat man.  He was taken home to die.”

Back on defense, Pomeroy said:

“Then I went on a double quick to the field and tried to stop a hot ball.  It came toward me from the bat at the rate of nine miles a minute. I put up my hands, the ball went sweetly singing on its way with all of the skin from my palms with it.

“More raw beef!”

Pomeroy summed up his experience playing ball:

“That was an eventful chap who first invented baseball.  It’s such fun.  I’ve played five games, and this is the glowing result:

Twenty-seven dollars paid out for things.

One bunged eye, badly bunged

One broken little finger

One bump on the head.

A sore jaw.

One thumb dislocated.

Two sprained ankles

One dislocated shoulder, from trying to throw a ball a thousand yards

Two hands raw from trying to stop hot balls

A lump the size of a hornet’s nest on my left hip, well back.

A nose sweetly jammed, and five uniforms spoiled from rolling in the dirt at the bases.

“I have played two weeks, and don’t think I like the game.  There is not a square inch on, in or under me but aches.  I sleep nights dreaming of hot balls, ‘flys, and ‘fouls,’ and descending skyrockets.’  I never worked so hard since Ruth stole wheat, and never was so lame since the burning of Luther.

“I am proud of my proficiency in the game. It’s fine exercise—a little easier than running through a thrashing machine, and not much either.  It’s a nice game for a poet or orator—‘twill make one sore beyond all accounts.

“I’ve looked over the scorer’s book, and find that in two weeks I’ve broken seven bats, made one tally, broken one umpire’s jaw, broken ten windows in adjoining houses, killed a baby, broke the leg of a dog, and mortally injured the bread basket of a spectator, knocked five other players out of time by slinging my bat, and knocked the waterfall from a school marm who was standing twenty rods from the field, a quiet looker on.

“I’ve used up fifteen bottles of arnica liniment, five bottles of lotions, half a raw beef, and am so full of pain that it seems as if my bones were but broken bats, and my legs the limbs of a dead horse chestnut, instead of the once elegant trotters.

“P.S.  All ladies in favor of ‘universal suffering’ are invited to join our club”

After his brief interest in baseball, Pomeroy moved from Wisconsin to New York, to Chicago, and back to New York where he published various newspapers.  In 1880 he was president of a company that proposed to dig a tunnel through the Rocky Mountains; the company sold $7 million worth of stock, but eventually went bankrupt before and work on the project was begun.

He died in 1896.

In 1958, two men, one who had just died in a Detroit rooming house, and another, who was living in Dayton, Ohio, claimed to be former major league pitcher Jack Rowan. Rowan played for the Cincinnati Reds, Chicago Cubs, Detroit Tigers and Philadelphia Phillies over parts of seven seasons from 1906-1914.

Each man had supporters who claimed he was the “real” Rowan.

The Dayton Rowan died in 1966—the question of who was the “real” Rowan died with him.

Jack Rowan

In the end, one man had his greatest achievement stolen from him, and the other was the vilest of thieves; stealing an achievement and a legacy from someone who had earned it.

When someone erroneously claims military service it is called stolen valor. Given the role of baseball in the American fabric, for one to claim to have been a professional ballplayer when they did not achieve that status makes that person a glory thief.

In “Shoeless Joe,” W.P. Kinsella introduced fiction’s best known glory thief. Eddie “Kid” Sissions claims to be “The oldest living Chicago Cub,” while he actually had only an obscure minor league career. The book’s hero, Ray Kinsella, gives Scissions a pass when his lie is discovered:

“I imagine Eddie Scissons has decided, ‘If I can’t have what I want most in life, then I’ll pretend I had it in the past, and talk about and live it and relive it until it is real and solid and I can hold it in my heart like a precious child. Once I’ve experienced it so completely, no one can ever take it away from me.’”

Kinsella and his protagonist were too forgiving.

Countless are the number of times I have had someone who never came closer than a seat in the stands at a professional game tell me they played pro ball.  More incredibly, the phenomenon persists during a time when claims of a pro career can be verified within seconds.

Over many years in Chicago I ran into dozens of claimants to a professional baseball career; mostly barstool jockeys operating during a period when everyone didn’t have easy access to the internet in their purse or pocket. There were also many imposters–for some reason utility infielders were particularly popular–I met a fake Sammy Esposito, Craig Grebeck, Paul Popovich, Alan Bannister, and Mick Kelleher among others.

The real Sammy Esposito

When I was living in Las Vegas, the old men who sat together drinking at one of the local’s casinos told me I had to meet their friend who, they said, had a cup of coffee with the Red Sox in the mid 1960s—even said he roomed with Rico Petrocelli on the road. Their hero never seemed to be able to come over when I was around—and of course, a quick search of Baseball Reference confirmed he never played professional baseball at any level. But he has regaled two generations of credulous Las Vegans with stories of his time with the Red Sox.

And there was the contractor who told me he had played in the Royals organization in the 1980s; two basic questions about the club’s affiliates during those seasons revealed him to be a glory thief—he hadn’t bothered to do the most basic research to make his claim credible. If his ball playing ability was commensurate with the quality of his work, it is likely he never played at a level higher than Little League.

It is also very possible the middle-aged guy with a gut and a story about his professional career at your softball game is a glory thief as well. If you are playing with a former professional, you know it.

I worked at a television station in Chicago during the late 90s and played 12” softball with the morning anchorman—Mike Pomeranz. Pomeranz pitched four seasons in the minors, was once traded for Lloyd McClendon, and is now a studio host and announcer for the Padres on Fox Sports San Diego.

My one vivid memory of softball with Pomeranz was playing first base—Mike, a southpaw was playing third—he fielded a ground ball and effortlessly and flat-footed put the ball in the pocket of my glove. I walked around with a handful of ice for the rest of the day. He didn’t need to tell anyone he played pro ball.

Mike Pomeranz

I asked John Thorn, Official Historian of Major League Baseball for his take on what kind of person pretends to have had a professional baseball career:

“Calling Dr. Freud. Self-aggrandizement always reflects an undersized ego and uncertain sense of self, as if life were to be lived from the outside.”

Dr. Freud was not available for a second opinion but Dr. Rachel Annunziato was. Annunziato, associate professor of Psychology at Fordham University said:

“I would say given how easily such claims could be debunked these days, there might be concerns about significant mental illness—delusions–and perhaps antisocial personality characteristics which can include lying and manipulating.”

Dr. Annunziato allows that for a thief like Kinsella’s “Kid” Scissions, a professional, but one who didn’t make it to the big leagues the misrepresentation is mainly tied to ego:

“I suspect too that many were ‘close’ and perhaps have modified their story over time to protect (and) bolster self-esteem.”

And, finally, because my experience with glory thieves has been limited to bar stools and social situations, I asked someone who has dealt with them professionally to tell me about his experiences with them.

Bill Deane was Senior Research Associate for the Baseball Hall of Fame from 1986-1994, and shared several great stories:

“I’d often be asked to verify that someone played minor league baseball—typically a family member or friend of the questioner. As often as not, I’d find there was no evidence of Grandpa having played professional baseball at any level, and have to come up with a tactful way of telling them so.”

Deane heard many stories about another would-be former Boston player while at the Hall of Fame:

“I frequently got calls about a Sal Rizzo, who claimed to have played for the Red Sox and set some sort of record for triple plays. The calls came from people who were considering a business venture with Rizzo. He must have been a smooth talker, because when I told them there was no such person who played major or even minor league ball, they were sure I was mistaken.”

Another of Deane’s encounters seems to fit Dr. Annunziato’s assessment that some glory thieves might be delusional:

“Another ‘former major leaguer,’ James Durler, wrote frequently, requesting copies of his big league records so he could apply for a pension. The man said he had played in the majors between 1967 and 1970, and listed his birth date (December 3, 1954), teams, positions, and other details of his career. After checking fruitlessly for any evidence that he played in the majors or even the minors, it dawned on me that the guy would have had to be 12 years old when he began his career. I wrote him back with my findings, but he continued to write every month or so, each time listing different teams with which he played and different details about his career, but always the same birth date and same range of playing years. My responses got more and more sarcastic over the years, before I finally let go of my need to answer every letter.”

More recently Keane met someone else claiming to be a former Red Sox; in this case, even the man’s wife wasn’t quite sure of the truth:

“I had a face-to-face experience with an impostor. A man moved into the Cooperstown area in 2003, and told the Town Clerk (who happened to be my wife, Pam) that he was Chuck Schilling, who played for the Red Sox from 1961-65. He said he had been Carl Yastrzemski’s roommate and told all kinds of stories about his career. Pam told me about the encounter, and I thought an interview with Schilling would make a great story for the local newspapers. I researched his career thoroughly so I would be prepared, and then I happened into him when I visited the Town building and he was there again. Pam introduced us.

“Chuck seemed older than he ought to have been, and didn’t look much like the guy I researched, but of course he’d aged 40 years since then. He went into a self-deprecating routine about his career, and how he was such good friends with Yaz. I got suspicious when I asked him a couple of questions he should have known the answer to, but didn’t, such as if he remembered his first home run. When your first big league homer is a grand slam off the best curveball pitcher–Camilo Pascual–of your generation, and part of a six-RBI day, I think you’d remember it. So, I figured either the guy is a fraud, or he has no memory, either way making for a bad interview.

“I phoned him to set one up anyway, and got his wife. He was outside, but she asked me ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right guy?’ She said that he sometimes claims he played for the Red Sox, other times is tight-lipped about it. But she also said her husband was born in 1927 (the ballplayer was born in ’37), and spells his name ‘Schelling.’ I guess he knew the jig was up by the time he got to the phone. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’m not the Chuck Schilling who played ball, I was just kidding.’”

Whichever one of the two Jack Rowan’s was the real deal, he probably would not have gotten the joke.

A  cartoon from The Chicago Inter Ocean on the eve of the 1913 American League meeting.

As the Hot Stove League commences, Baseball History Daily will be taking a brief hiatus while I relocate.  I hope to be back posting by Black Friday.  In the meantime, please follow me on Twitter @BBHistoryDaily, I will continue to Tweet while on the road over the next couple of weeks.

Thanks to everyone who reads, comments and contacts.  See you in a few weeks.