Kids at Ebbets Field

John Rollo

My father was a die-hard Brooklyn Dodger fan and a couple of times each year he would take me and my twin brother to a game at Ebbets Field. The game I remember was probably in the early 50s when we were 11 or 12. It was a Saturday night game (I know it was Saturday night because the rule then was no inning could start after midnight). It was a long tie game, and I believe it was the 13th inning when Duke Snider (my hero) got up and hit a long home run over the right field fence into the parking lot to end it. The fans who were left went nuts and we were all jumping up and down. It was a wonderful ride home and I don't remember anyone who knew us that didn't get an earful the next day.

Joe (left) and John Rollo about the time of their memorable visit to Ebbets Field

Ebbets Field was a wonderful ballpark - we never bought tickets beforehand - there were good crowds but there always seemed to be tickets available for us. My Father said that he had a cousin who has a big shot and who could get us great seats - turned out he was the usher behind home plate so there were times at least in the late innings when we felt like big spenders.

Bob Rose

I was an avid Brooklyn Dodger fan. I watched as many home games as I could on TV and especially enjoyed watching Happy Felton’s Knot Hole Gang which was televised live, just inside the right field line, before each home game. The winning little leaguer who won the hit-and-catch competition got to sit in the Dodger’s dugout before the game, meet some of the players and get their autographs. 

Happy Felton's Knothole Gang

In the late spring of 1954, I was a member of the Boy Scouts and one of the scout’s dads drove five of us to Ebbets Field to see a game.  I remember driving through Brooklyn and entering the stadium. What a sight! Unlike the back and white of TV, it was my first time to see a ballpark and players in living color. The Dodgers in their white home uniforms trimmed in blue and the Cincinnati Red Legs in their grey uniforms with vest-style jerseys trimmed in red, all taking pregame practice on the field. The bright colors of the advertising signs in the outfield just in front of Bedford Avenue. Watching my heroes: Robinson, Campanella, Reese, Hodges, and Snider. And the game: We saw Jackie steal second, and with the bases loaded, Gil Hodges got a base hit to score a couple of runs leading to a Dodger win. An unforgettable experience for a kid, some 71 years ago.

Kids in the Stadium (Club)

Lynne R. Di Pietro

It was a balmy afternoon for our annual family night at Yankee Stadium.  Every year we were treated by my Dad's company to see the Yankees "Play Ball"!

My brother Bob, freshly oiled his glove in hopes of catching a foul ball or two.

Fortunately, this annual outing included parking in the Stadium parking lot which eliminated having to park outside the Stadium lot and walk to the Stadium,

passing by the Bronx House of Detention from which cat calling emanated all night long.  It also included dinner in the Stadium Club and Box Seats along the 1st baseline.  We were all appropriately dressed in our "Sunday Best" which was the protocol for all games we attended - Box Seats or General Seating.  That was the expected attire for all fans attending major league games back in the day.

Once seated for dinner, my Mother looked around and excitedly discovered one of our fellow diners was "The Scooter", Phil Rizzuto.  She could barely talk, kept nodding her head in the direction of his table.  Once we realized she was not having  neck spasms, we caught on and she whispered "That's Phil Rizzuto!"  My brother and I asked if we could go and get his autograph.  We went over to his table so I could show-off my Yankee pinstripe dress and my brother, his freshly oiled glove, and asked for his autograph.  

He signed the program we gave him and complimented me on my blue pinstripes-on-white background dress and asked my brother what position he played.  Mr. Rizutto was wowed when Bob told him he was a pitcher and center fielder.   We politely thanked him, and he wished my brother and his team good luck in their Little League season.  

We returned to our table looking like two kids who just raided a candy store.  After dinner, we went to our Box Seats hoping to secure more autographs (Yogi's, Moose Skowron's, Whitey Ford's, Elston Howard's, Enos Slaughter's).  Not to be.  Nor did my brother catch any foul balls, but it didn't matter because he saw his hero Whitey Ford pitch a shutout.  As for me, I couldn't wait to show all the boys on my street  "Scooter's" autograph.  

On July 20, 1958, we two kids in the Stadium felt we had hit a homerun (maybe Grand Slam) by snagging "The Scooter's" autograph.

Oh, and the Yankees beat the Kansas City Athletics  8-0!

A Kid at the Ballpark

Charles Dickens once wrote that "It is good sometimes to be children."  He had Christmas in mind, but for many of us, it's also true of the memories of unforgettable childhood visits to major league baseball games.  Reading Chicago Daily News sportswriter Angelo Biondo's story of his first game made me think it might be worthwhile to publish some such memories starting with my own. After that, beginning next week, a series of contributors will share their stories of a childhood baseball adventure.  My friend, Lynne Di Pietro will lead off the series which will continue as long as there are stories to tell.  I've enjoyed the ones I've seen so far and hope you will too.

My Wayne P.A.L. uniform was my ticket to the Polo Grounds

Biondo’s story of his first game reminded me of my visit to the Polo Grounds on August 22, 1957, a mere 68 years ago.  My first game was very different from his.  Biondo's day at Wrigley Field was literally the first time he ever saw, indeed could have seen, major league players in action.  By the time I saw the New York Giants play the St. Louis Cardinals on that warm Thursday afternoon, I had already watched two years of major league baseball on television albeit in black and white.  It's no small difference, but what struck me about Biondo's story was how his first game gave him a perspective that stayed with him for the rest of his life.  Similarly,  I learned something from another meaningless August game that I've never forgotten. 

1957 Giants Scorecard - I'm pretty sure I was not yet keeping score at games

My first game was also different, not just from Biondo’s, but likely from most kids. Typically, boys and girls see their favorite team.  Unlike them, I didn't get to see the team I loved. I was a Brooklyn Dodgers fan, but I was never fortunate enough to see a game at Ebbets Field. Instead, I was at the Polo Grounds because I was a player in the Wayne P. A. L. baseball league. At that point, the Giants' ownership must have figured they had nothing to lose by giving us kids free admission.  Just a day or so earlier, the Giants' board of directors voted to move the team to San Francisco something I was completely oblivious to at the time.

 

Picture of the last out of the Giants' final game at the Polo Grounds, a month after I was there.  Our seats were in left field more or less above the visiting bullpen in left-center field - yes it was in fair territory.

That, and the Giants' position in sixth place, may explain why there were only 5300 paying fans in the stands when Stu Miller threw the first pitch.  Miller had a successful career as a reliever, but on this day, long before there were bullpen games, he was the Giants starter.  Miller's relief appearances were brief, but few could have been shorter than that day.  After retiring the first batter, he gave up back-to-back home runs to Wally Moon and the great Stan Musial.  Shortly thereafter, Miller left the game having retired only one batter. Eighteen-year-old Mike McCormick took over and allowed one more first-inning run. The Giants got one back in the bottom of the inning on a Willie Mays home run. In the first inning of my first major league game, I saw two of baseball’s greatest hitters hit home runs.  Not a bad start for this 10-year-old.

This is a picture of Bobby Thompson's home run that won the 1951 National League pennant for the Giants. It was a horrible moment for Brooklyn Dodger fans, but on my 1957 visit, I wanted to see where the ball had gone out.  Only 10 at the time, I was already interested in baseball history, no matter how unpleasant. 

The Cards still led 3-1 going to the bottom of the third when the Giants loaded the bases with two outs.  At that point, Lindy McDaniel, the Cardinals pitcher blew up even worse than Miller had in the first.  Six Giant runners crossed the plate and gave New York a lead it would not relinquish in route to a 13-6 win.  McCormick who came in with only one out in the first went the rest of the way for the victory.  And while, as a Dodgers fan, I didn’t like the Giants, I was glad they won since it helped Brooklyn gain a game on second place St. Louis.

 

Wally Moon on the cover of Sports Illustrated - April 22, 1957

It was a good day. The first-inning home runs alone were worth the price of admission, had I paid admission. But I've never forgotten two second-inning Giants at-bats reported as “Sauer popped out to short” and “Spencer lined out to left.”  The description couldn't have been any more matter-of-fact, but that’s not how they appeared to this aspiring major leaguer.  Sauer hit a pop fly that went straight up, but I'd never seen or believed a ball could be hit that high.  It literally went above the roof of the top deck of the Polo Grounds and I remember thinking it had been hit out of the park, at least vertically!  Spencer, the next batter hit a line drive to left and Wally Moon made a fine running catch.  It was an impressive play, but what surprised me was not the play, but the reaction of young Giant fans around me who yelled at Moon that he had been lucky.

 

Box Score from the Daily News of August 22, 1957 of what was thought to be the Cardinals' final visit to the Polo Grounds.  However, they would play there again in 1962 and 1963 after the Mets joined the National League

Part of my surprise, if not shock was due to my naivete about major league baseball players.  To me, like Biondo, they were god-like men. That a fine play was lucky was unthinkable while yelling disrespectfully at major leaguers was simply unfathomable.  It took some time for me to accept that baseball players are human.  But those two plays, on that long ago day at the Polo Grounds, taught me something I've never forgotten - how difficult it is to play major league baseball. I learned that day to respect both the game and those who play it at the highest level.  I've had that respect ever since and I hope I always will. 

"The Worst Major League Game Ever Played"

The Chicago Daily News began its“My Biggest Baseball Day” series with the memories of nine of the paper’s sportswriters.  After Leonard Lewis, the sports editor led off with a fan's experience, the next seven writers described memorable games and players they covered as reporters. It wasn’t until Angelo Biondo contributed the ninth and final writer’s account that the focus returned to the fan’s perspective.  But while Lewis chose a classic World Series matchup featuring the legendary Christy Mathewson, Biondo wrote about a meaningless August 25, 1922 game between the fifth-place Chicago Cubs and the seventh-place Phillies.  Few, if any, of the players mentioned in Biondo’s account will mean much to today’s readers.  Indeed, they probably weren't baseball household names in their own time.

Chicago Daily News - February 2, 1943

While the game was insignificant to the larger baseball world then and now, its importance to Biondo can’t be overstated because it was the 11-year-old boy's first major league game.  Such experiences are still meaningful today, but not in the same way they were over a century ago.  In a world before television, the only way to see major league baseball was in person.  Even though the August 1922 game was between two second-division teams, playing out the season, it didn’t lack for record-setting performances.  In his first major league game, Biondo witnessed two records that have never been broken – total runs by two teams (49) and most hits by two clubs (51). Also included was the rare occurrence of a player, Marty Callahan, batting three times in one inning.

Many of us would have been thrilled to see the offensive fireworks. But Biondo’s reaction was one of great disappointment because the sloppy play destroyed the “most beautiful illusion a boy ever had.”  Why then did Biondo, who saw many memorable games as a writer, choose what he considered “probably the worst major league game ever played?"  It’s speculation, but possibly he looked back on that game with gratitude because he learned early on that major league baseball players, no matter how talented, are human beings who make mistakes.  That knowledge would have been useful to a sportswriter whether reporting great achievements or understanding the plight of those who fail, especially in big moments.

Angelo Biondo - Chicago Tribune - February 2, 2004

The August day was pleasantly warm and a cloudless sky dispelled the sickening fear I had endured for 24 hours that rain would spoil my first look at major league baseball.  All through the night I had tossed and spun in my bed, waiting in sleepless anxiety for a dawn it seemed would never come.  I was 11 at the time, an age when baseball can be just about the most important thing in a boy’s life, and that day I was to see the Cubs, yes, the big league Cubs play for the first time.  Through the courtesy of the management, the neighborhood playground was taking to Wrigley Field, a group of boys and I was one of ‘em.  (You see I formed the habit of attending ball games on a pass at an early age).

That the Phillies then as now [1943] the humblest of National League teams, were to provide the opposition was of little importance.  The big thing was that, at last, I was to see a major league baseball game.

For several years I had listened with reverential interest of the heroics of the big leaguers as narrated, not without exaggeration, by the older boys.  Most of the tales just then revolved around the champion White Sox of ’17 and ’19.  How the fabulous Eddie Cicotte threw a snake ball that evaded the mighty swings of the opposing batters by literally curving around the flying bat.  How "Shoeless" Joe Jackson time and again robbed enemy sluggers of home runs by climbing the bleacher wall at Comiskey Park and stretching over to snare powerful drives with one hand.  And others much the same.

Wrigley Field (then called Weeghman's Park) in 1915, probably close to what the ballpark looked like on Biondo's visit 

Defense was the keynote of most of these tales, the Ruthian eran was still around the corner, so it was natural that I, having absorbed them thoroughly and without question, should have attained the conclusion that big league ball was a continuous series of 1-0, 2-1 and similarly tight battles.  Nothing could have prepared me less for what was to come.

Somehow I fidgeted through the endless morning and afternoon found an excited but happy boy headed northward on the “L.”  My heart all but stopped when I spied the massive green of Wrigley Field so stately and beautiful did it appear.  Once inside, I gaped with appropriate awe at the smooth infield, the velvety green outfield and the mammoth scoreboard that then stretched all the way down to the ground behind center field.

Soon a husky voice barked through the largest megaphone I had ever viewed:  “Batteries for today’s game – For Philadelphia, [Jimmy] Ring and [Butch] Henline; for the Cubs, [Tony] Kaufman and [Bob] O'Farrell,” and my supreme moment had arrived.

"Swarthy" Hack Miller

A Cub run in the first inning brought forth lusty soprano cheers from my young throat, but this elation quickly subsided when Philadelphia came back with three runs in the second.  But I was back straining my vocal cords in the Cubs’ half as the Bruins, after two out, staged a parade of batters around the bases that did not conclude until 10 runs had crossed the plate.  Hits, walks and errors spun men around the base paths in too dizzy a sequence for recollection.  Only one detail remains clear – that swarthy Hack Miller, the Cub left-fielder who was built short and stubby like the great Hack Wilson , who was to come, and sometimes pulverized the ball with the same gusto, hit a home run in front of the scoreboard in center.

Two runs in the third and one in the fourth for the Phillies created little furor, and then, in the Cubs’ fourth came the outburst that was to shatter for me forever the simple, beautiful, boyish, illusion that every major leaguer was an unerring god, every major league park a Mount Olympus.

Marty Callaghan 

Before unbelieving, moist eyes, the Cubs scored 14 times.  Yes, 14 runs crossed the plate as the Phillies put on the most horrible exhibition of baseball I have ever seen.  Bases on balls, too numerous to recollect; errors, both of commission and omission; hits that should have been out, and some solid blows, the most lusty of which was a second homer by Miller, this one to right field, combined to manufacture the astounding run total. In this inning Marty Callaghan, right-fielder, went to bat three times, hitting safely twice and striking out once.

“I’ll bet the Eagles or Ravens (neighborhood teams) could beat those Phils,” I whispered to the boy next to me.

By this time the score was 25 to 6 and three runs for the Phillies in the fifth did nothing more than reveal that the new Cub hurler, [George] Stueland, possessed even less pitching stuff than Tony Kaufman, who had given way to a pinch-hitter in the fourth.  Another run in the sixth ended the Cub scoring for the day, and in the seventh neither team scored, the only frame this happened in the entire game.

Few of the 7,000 spectators remained in the stands when the Phillies staged their eight-run uprising in the eighth.  A third Cub hurler graced the mound, [Uel] Eubanks by name, Stueland having stepped out for a pinch hitter in the seventh, and the Phils wasted no time in going to work on him.  In this endeavor they received generous support from the Cubs, who strived with success to emulate the Phillies’ defensive antics.  In fact, only because of the light color of their uniforms could you distinguish them from the Phillies of a few innings before.  When the round ended a fellow named [Ed[ Morris was doing the Cub hurling.

Chicago Tribune - August 26, 1922

That wasn’t all, either.  Nine runs behind, Philadelphia commenced a blast in the ninth that nearly tied the score.  Six runs crossed the plate before [Tiny] Osborn who rescued Morris, quelled the revolt.  As the last Phil, in the gathering shadows of evening, went down swinging with the bases loaded, a few scattered, sarcastic cheers arose from those valiant bleacherites who had endured till the end.

I sat gazing at the darkening field long after the players left; stunned, bewildered, unbelieving.  Like the child who had just been told there was no Santa Claus, I felt a whole world topple around me.  Air castles built through several years had burst in their first contact with reality.  When I looked around I was quite alone.  Slowly I made my way out of the deserted park, leaving behind the most beautiful illusion a boy ever had about major league baseball.

The score of that game – Cubs 26: Philadelphia 23 – remains to this day a record for runs scored in a major league game.  One other record fell and three were tied in that hectic contest that one baseball writer appropriately titled  “a comedy of hits, runs and errors.”  Fifty-one hits – 26 for Philadelphia and 25 for the Cubs – established a mark, and 14 runs and 11 hits in the fourth inning both tied records as did Callaghan’s going to bat three times in one frame.  Through the entire game, the Phils employed only two pitchers – Ring and [Lefty]Weinert.

Philadelphia Inquirer - August 26, 1922

Since then I’ve seen many memorable games, including Bob Feller's 1-0 no-hit victory over the White Sox that chilly April afternoon of 1940 in Comiskey Park, Edgar Smith's 1-0 triumph over the same Feller in an 11-inning battle the previous year, and that Sunday game in the 1935 World Series in which Lon Warneke threw out his arm at Wrigley Field beating Detroit for the second time.  Diamond classics, all of ‘em, but as my biggest baseball day I’ll take that August afternoon of 1922 that produced probably the worst major league game ever played.

The Great Schedule War

National League club owners faced many challenges throughout the Deadball Era (1901-1919).  Twice they went to war with upstart rival leagues, once winning and once making peace.  And there was no shortage of controversies, especially the 1908 Merkle game and its aftermath.  The owners, or magnates, as they liked to be called, could easily have picked any of these as the most important issue they had faced.  But Brooklyn’s Charles Ebbets, an active participant in every owner’s meeting of the period, would have disagreed.  The Dodgers owner claimed that “the building of a schedule,” something we may take for granted today, was the “the most important proposition that we [the owners] have to deal with.”  

Brooklyn Daily Eagle - February 14, 1911

How could something seemingly so routine have so much significance?   While the assignment of playing dates may not seem crucial, the schedule’s importance lay in its impact on ticket sales, every team’s primary, if not only, source of revenue.  In a world without television or radio and little, if any, merchandise sales, the quarters fans put down to enter the ballpark were all owners had to meet their expenses.  And the potential supply of paying customers was limited.  No matter how many fans wanted to see a game, most worked six days a week, well before night baseball.  Further limiting ticket sales was the inability of the five clubs in the sabbath observing east to play on the one day most people were off from work.  All of this made for intense competition for the best dates known as “plums.” So fierce were the “heated discussions” on the 1888 National League schedule that the debate lasted twelve hours, finally ending at 3:00 a.m. 

Clearly the schedule-making system, to the extent there was one, wasn’t working.  Fortunately, when the Brooklyn club joined the National League in 1890, club owner Charles Bryne brought with him, his right-hand man, the aforementioned Mr. Ebbets.  During Brooklyn’s time in the American Association, Ebbets “did most of the work” on that league’s schedule.  When Brooklyn joined the National League, Byrne, and therefore, Ebbets joined the schedule committee.  His work was of such high quality that both leagues passed resolutions thanking him for bringing order out of chaos.  Perhaps Ebbets’ greatest achievement was the 1892 schedule when he converted a 140-game, eight-team league, full-season schedule to 150 games with 12 teams and a split season.  Ebbets did such a good job, that his proposed schedule was adopted without a single change.  Although it hardly seems radical, the solution to the fight over the “plums” was the seemingly obvious approach of rotating the most lucrative dates.  Recognizing the value of his work, Ebbets, who was nobody’s fool, obtained copyrights on his schedule forms as early as 1885.

Charles Ebbets in his prime

By the early twentieth century, the National League was no longer solely dependent on Ebbets’ schedule-making expertise.  About 1904, Barney Dreyfuss, owner of the Pittsburgh Pirates joined the committee, a position he held until 1927.  Although little specific information survives about Dreyfuss’ schedule-making skills when  he retired from the committee, the Pittsburgh owner was “lauded for his expertise, his evenhandedness and the integrity he exhibited as committee chairman.”  Ebbets, himself, praised Dreyfuss’ ability, calling the Pittsburgh owner his “superior as a schedule maker.”  There was, however, a cost to the added expertise, two men with large egos and a penchant for being difficult.  Dreyfuss, more than a little immodestly, considered himself “ a pretty smart fellow.” Less broadly, but no less egotistically, Ebbets dubbed himself “an expert on schedules.”  Contemporary sportswriter, Fred Lieb claimed Dreyfuss “wasn’t too easy to get along with” and said fellow owners “often accused him of being arbitrary, unreasonable and obstinate.”  Ebbets may have been Dreyfuss's equal in the latter category, acknowledging his own “stubborn disposition.

Having two experts on the committee was an advantage so long as the two men agreed.  But if they disagreed, especially on a major issue, there was the potential for bitter conflict.  And such was the case with the great schedule war of 1910. It began innocently enough at the December 1909 NL owners’ meeting.  After much debate, the eight owners finally agreed on a compromise candidate for league president, retired umpire Thomas Lynch.  With the owners exhausted and ready to go home, Ebbets proposed increasing the 1910 schedule from 154 to 168 games.  Unfortunately, for Ebbets, his fellow expert, Mr. Dreyfuss immediately claimed it wasn’t feasible.  Ebbets wisely avoided a debate no one had the energy for, by seeking and receiving approval to prepare a 168-game schedule for future consideration. In voting for the resolution which passed 6-2, Cincinnati owner Garry Herrmann reminded everyone, and especially Ebbets, that the vote was not a commitment to adopt such a schedule.  Ominously for Ebbets, Barney Dreyfuss cast one of the two negative votes.

Barney Dreyfuss

While Dreyfuss might have had legitimate concerns about the practicality of adding 14 games to the season, Ebbets had good reasons for arguing that the league should experiment with an expanded schedule. Most importantly, the extra games would generate additional revenue with little added cost since player salary expenses wouldn’t increase.  Furthermore, scheduling the games as add-ons to regular series meant travel expenses would remain the same.  The only additional expenses would be increased hotel costs and higher ballpark operating expenses, which Ebbets estimated would be about $1,000.  All told the Brooklyn owner projected that each team would generate $7-10,000 (about $238,000 to $340,000 today) of additional revenue, almost all of which would go directly to the bottom line.

Ebbets, recognizing that Dreyfuss could wreak havoc with his proposal, gave all of the owners the chance to express their opinions. He found that only Dreyfuss was totally opposed although some support for the longer schedule was qualified.  Since the American League had a voice, the Brooklyn owner also polled that league’s eight owners all of whom seemed to be on board.  Unfortunately, for Ebbets, however, given Ban Johnson’s autocratic nature, that didn’t mean that the American League would support the idea.  Touching all the bases, Ebbets went to Milwaukee to learn about the American Association’s experience with a 168-game schedule.  While the rest of the National League owners enjoyed Christmas, Ebbets worked all that day and the following day, a Sunday, to prepare a draft schedule which he sent out for comment.  As a preemptive move, Ebbets tried to meet with Dreyfuss, but that didn’t happen.  That was a bad omen, suggesting that war clouds were gathering.

Like a general going on the offensive, Dreyfuss could choose when and where to attack.  The Pittsburgh owner decided to fire his first shot through the media. Rather than use local Pittsburgh papers that might be accused of favoritism, Dreyfuss chose Jack Ryder, a prominent sportswriter for the Cincinnati Enquirer.  The attack began on January 7 under a headline proclaiming, “Barney Hopes for Fewer Games” and “Will Oppose It [the 168 game schedule] at League Meeting.”  Dreyfuss’ objections included conflicts with football, problematic fall weather and potential damage to the still relatively new World Series.  The Pittsburgh owner left little room for debate, telling Ryder “It is hard to me to see a single reasonable argument in favor of extending our present schedule.”  

Emphasizing Dreyfuss’ power on schedule issues, Ryder claimed it was “quite likely that the long schedule will be abandoned.”  Piling on a day later, Ryder, reported that Dreyfuss was recruiting Reds owner Herrmann to his side, news guaranteed to upset, if not infuriate Ebbets.  Rubbing salt in Ebbets wounds, Ryder said Dreyfuss “took some delight in finding these flaws [in the schedule].”  Ryder even claimed that “the agreement to play 168 games was rushed through . . . with no consideration at all.” 

Understandably, Ebbets was livid over Dreyfuss’ public attack on him and his brainchild.  Responding in kind, the Brooklyn owner used the Brooklyn Daily Eagle to tell the world that “Dreyfuss has been discourteous.”   Reminding Dreyfuss, and everyone else, that his draft schedule was for discussion purposes only, the Brooklyn owner rightfully argued it was not “proper for anybody to throw rocks at the tentative work of anybody especially in the papers.”   Making the public criticism even more inappropriate was Dreyfuss's failure to have the courtesy to even acknowledge receipt of Ebbets' draft.  Going on the attack, the Brooklyn owner claimed Dreyfuss was so confident his club would repeat as pennant winners he was afraid the extra regular season games would hurt World Series attendance and, therefore, the Pirates' bottom line.  If this was too subtle, Ebbets added that Dreyfuss “is only looking at his own selfish end of it.”  With magnificent understatement, the Eagle noted that the two men “have locked horns.”

Having gone on the offensive Ebbets kept up his counterattack, using the Eagle to demand Dreyfuss resign from the committee for publicly criticizing a working document.  Ebbets argued that if the Pittsburgh owner didn’t step down, there would be two experts on the committee with opposite viewpoints.  The divided National League delegation would then be at a major disadvantage in schedule negotiations with the American League especially since new National League president Lynch admitted he knew nothing about the subject.  

Brooklyn Daily Eagle - January 15, 1910

Dreyfuss would have none of it, shrewdly saying he would resign, but only if Ebbets also did so.  It was a shrewd move because Dreyfuss knew Ebbets would dismiss the idea since there would then be no one left on the committee with the necessary expertise.  The Brooklyn owner promptly did so calling Dreyfuss’ counterproposal a “a joke.”  That being the case, Dreyfuss retorted “There is no chance of my withdrawing and allowing Ebbets to sit in there with his long schedule ideas, not a chance.” Clearly, no minds had been changed and the media campaign was a stalemate.  But Dreyfuss had already opened a new front, less public, but directed at the only audience that really mattered.

A day after Brooklyn owner launched his newspaper counteroffensive, Dreyfuss finally wrote to Ebbets about his 168-game draft schedule which Dreyfuss claimed had “many flaws.” Deflecting the Cincinnati Enquirer articles by claiming they weren’t “authentic interviews” and promising he would go along as “a good soldier should” if he lost, the Pittsburgh owner got down to specifics.  According to Dreyfuss, playing 168 games meant the World Series couldn’t start until October 17 or 18, turning the Fall Classic into “a farce in more ways than one.”  Beyond that, the weather would be too cold and there would be competition from college football.  Scheduling doubleheaders, as opposed to using them for makeups, was also a problem as was a shortage of open dates in some cities.  Anticipating correctly, that Ban Johnson wouldn’t approve of the 168-game schedule, Dreyfuss stressed the importance of working cooperatively with the American League.

If Dreyfuss thought his letter was going to stop Ebbets, he was very much mistaken. In keeping with his verbose nature, the Brooklyn owner wrote a seven-page response, again ripping into Dreyfuss’ “discourteously ridiculing [the draft schedule] through the public press.”  With more than a little sarcasm, Ebbets wondered if he had been “dreaming” about the Cincinnati Enquirer articles since they contained “precisely” the same arguments Dreyfuss made in his letter.  And Ebbets asked, if the draft had so many flaws, why Dreyfuss didn’t help like “a sincere committeeman would” to correct them.  Nor did Ebbets have much time for Dreyfuss's specific criticisms.  Ebbets believed “the World Series will draw anytime in October” and asked if baseball was “to be a sideshow for football.” Perhaps most powerful was Ebbets' argument that there was little risk in trying the 168-game schedule in 1910 since if it was “not satisfactory we can easily go back to 154 in 1911.” Escalating the conflict even further, Ebbets shared his letter with the other league presidents, angering Dreyfuss in the process.  

Left to right - American League president, Ban Johnson, Cincinnati Reds owner, Garry Herrmann and National League president Thomas Lynch

Ebbets’ proposal for a one-year experiment with the 168-game schedule was a reasonable approach, but by this point, there was little interest in rational discussion. Nor would there be any more indirect debates between the two sides. The time had come for face-to-face confrontation beginning with a January 24 joint schedule committee meeting in Pittsburgh. It's hard to imagine a house more divided than the National League committee. Dreyfuss and Ebbets were adamantly opposed to each other while Lynch, who had been in office all of 30 days, brought no experience and little credibility to the debate. No such division existed in the American League. In spite of Ebbets' claim that the American League magnates favored the 168-game alternative, it was Ban Johnson who prepared the schedule.  Sadly for Ebbets, Johnson was opposed to playing 168 games, agreeing with Dreyfuss that there would be too many doubleheaders and that it would hurt the World Series.  

Given the degree of disagreement, it would have been no surprise if the meeting was a total waste of time.  Surprisingly, Lynch, who seemed unlikely to make any meaningful contribution, helped turn the meeting from a disaster into a highly productive session.  At the National League president’s urging Johnson agreed to have the two sides work together to build the best schedules possible for both the 154 and 168 game versions. To that end, the assembled magnates and league presidents devoted two days to the 168-game schedule and a third to the 154-game version.  It was, Dreyfuss told Herrmann, “the hardest work I have ever been called upon to perform on a schedule.  While no minds were changed, there was agreement that the 154 game schedule was the best ever.  It was in Ebbets' words a “great improvement.”  

While the joint schedule meeting was productive, it was only a preliminary skirmish to the decisive battle of the great schedule war. The final engagement took place on an unlikely battlefield, the palatial Waldorf-Astoria in New York City, the site of the February 1910 National League owners meeting.  It was a decisive battle because when all was said and done, the decision rested with the eight men who gathered in New York City.  True to his promise at the joint schedule meeting, Ebbets presented the advantages and disadvantages of both schedules acknowledging the quality of the 154 game version.  However, the Brooklyn owner then shifted gears, warning his fellow owners that to  “chloroform” the longer schedule would cost the Brooklyn club $10,000 in revenue.  Ebbets then moved approval of the 168-game schedule and to no one’s surprise, Dreyfuss repeated his arguments against it.

Waldorf Astoria

As the other owners spoke it became clear support for the expanded schedule was eroding.  Somewhat amusing was Giants owner John T. Brush’s claim that after all of Ebbets work, it grieved Brush that he couldn’t support the Brooklyn owner’s proposal. Grief was not an emotion ordinarily associated with the dour Brush.  In the end, Ebbets mustered only four votes, and his proposal failed.  The failure also meant the end of any effort at polite debate.  Ebbets angrily complained that the league had placed the schedule committee in a difficult situation and claimed the owners were making him “a God damn Patsy Bolivar.” (Patsy Bolivar was a scapegoat in a vaudeville act)  And on that happy note, the meeting adjourned for the day.

By the time the magnates reconvened the next afternoon, the atmosphere hadn’t improved.  Dreyfuss moved the 154 games schedule with the proviso that clubs could play through Columbus Day, another pet Ebbets project.  The concession did little for the Brooklyn owner’s state of mind.  Complaining bitterly about Dreyfuss's treatment of him, Ebbets warned the Pittsburgh owner not to “cram words in my mouth” and that he would “be God damned” if he would be “misrepresented.”  The verbal fisticuffs weren’t helpful and Dreyfuss’ proposed schedule didn’t do any better with another 4-4 vote.  Just how divided the owners were became crystal clear when a motion to adjourn was lost by a 3-5 vote.  Another 24-hour respite, part of which was spent at the hotel bar also didn’t help.  Just discussing the schedule at this point required a change in order of business but that too failed by a 3-4-1 vote.  

By then it must have seemed like the owners would never agree on a schedule.  Finally, however, Ebbets faced the reality that he couldn’t achieve his 168-game dream and that a 1910 schedule had to be approved.  Desiring “in a measure to sacrifice myself,” the Brooklyn owner said that if some minor changes were made to the 154-game version, he and his supporters would vote for it.  After the changes were accepted, Ebbets moved approval of the schedule and asked Dreyfuss to second it.  Dreyfuss agreed to do so, the resolution passed unanimously, and the great schedule war was over.

Giants owner - John T. Brush

Although the 1910 schedule was finished, the debate about the schedule-making process was far from over.  At the February meeting, Bush had proposed that the league president prepare future schedules.  When owners gathered in December of 1910, Gary Herrmann moved a constitutional amendment to that effect.  Dreyfuss supported the idea, noting that in the American League, President Ban Johnson prepared the schedule and couldn’t, therefore, be accused of favoring his own team, a charge frequently lodged against Dreyfuss and Ebbets.  It was here in vehemently disagreeing that Ebbets argued that the schedule was “the most important proposition” to come before the magnates.  From his own experience, Ebbets firmly believed schedule making “needs an expert.”  Ebbets also praised Dreyfuss’ schedule-making ability and apologized for his role in the acrimony.  Moved by Ebbets eloquence and perhaps by his graciousness, the amendment was defeated leaving the schedule committee in place.

In the best of all possible worlds, the debate over schedule-making would have ended in this spirit of reconciliation.  But it was not the best of at least that world.  Ebbets had tangled with Thomas Lynch over other issues and the National League president now had his revenge.  In reappointing the schedule committee, Lynch retained Dreyfuss but left Ebbets out.  The Brooklyn owner knew full well that making only one change to the membership of the schedule committee told the world he was the “discordant element.”  Understandably, and rightfully upset, Ebbets denied he was the cause of any such discord and insisted he had always acted in the best interest of the entire league.  It was Ebbets told his peers “A deliberate slap at me and I thank you for it.”  

Brooklyn Daily Eagle - January 3, 1911

Although Ebbets’ “thank you,” was more than a little sarcastic, it didn’t take him long to see the benefits of being relieved of his schedule-making responsibilities.  Early in the new year, the Eagle reported that Ebbets was so “delighted” at the new “state of affairs” that he was going to celebrate with a month-long vacation to “forget baseball.”  Ebbets was not, however, leaving without a parting shot.  Since “harmony” supposedly now prevailed on the schedule committee, the Brooklyn owner expected “a perfect schedule” and would “be satisfied with nothing short of that.” 

Needless to say, the 1911 schedule, like all schedules, past, present and future, wasn’t perfect. There was no perfect schedule, the challenge was to build the best one possible.  In 1910, Barney Dreyfuss and Ban Johnson may have been correct that trying to cram 14 more games into an already crowded schedule wasn’t a good idea.   Ebbets, however, was proven right over the long term.  Fifty years later, the American League moved to 162 games, proving major league baseball could play more than 154 regular season games.  And the addition of playoff games seven years later was the first step in pushing the World Series well beyond the mid-October dates so feared by Dreyfuss.  In December of 1909, Ebbets was subject to more than a little ridicule for proclaiming that baseball was “in its infancy.” Although perhaps poorly expressed, the Brooklyn owners’ point was that baseball had evolved and would continue to do so.  And the schedule was, and always will be, part of that evolution.

A New Season

When does the baseball season begin? Most people would say Major League Baseball's opening day.  Thanks to the Dodgers and Cubs' early season visit to Japan, the 2025 season begins in less than two months.  Others might choose the opening of spring training camps, now only days away.  But baseball operates at other levels, which while not as important in the big picture, are very much so to the participants.  Take, for example, nineteenth-century baseball, more popularly known as vintage baseball.  In that world, there is no universal opening day, but for me, it's the day the Flemington Neshanock announces its schedule, the beginning of a journey from early April to late September.

Every baseball season is important, but this year has special significance for the Neshanock because it's our 25th year of recreating 1860s baseball.  The teams of the Civil War era were notoriously short-lived and many vintage teams have suffered a similar fate so this is a significant achievement.  While many people have contributed, first and foremost is Brad "Brooklyn" Shaw the team's founder.  It's arguable as to which is more difficult, starting something or sustaining it, but it doesn't matter in this case because Brad not only founded the Neshanock, he kept the team going and continues to contribute today even after stepping back from an active role.

Brad "Brooklyn" Shaw, right, pictured with Bruce Leith of the Elkton Eclipse, another team Brad helped get started - photo by Mark Granieri

While there may not have been a formal goal-setting process at the beginning, for the past quarter-century, the Neshanock have had three major priorities  - to have fun playing nineteenth-century baseball, to play it historically accurately and to teach baseball history.  Meeting these goals has challenges, but teaching baseball history is especially difficult because it requires an audience.  This is an area where Brad was very creative, deciding that rather than have a home field, the Neshanock would play events sponsored by partner organizations that have a base of potential spectators.  In 2025, these games, once again, make up the heart of the Neshanock schedule.  

Zane Grey, far right, played both minor league and semi-pro baseball in New Jersey

Seven long-time partners. - Ringwood Manor State Park, Fosterfields Living History Farm, Historic New Bridge Landing, Howell Living History Farm, the Historical Society of Princeton, the Dey Farm and Newtown, Pennsylvania are again on the schedule.  More recent host organizations are the Lambertville Historical Society and Washington Borough.  We're also happy to add two new partners - Bergen County and the Zane Grey Historical Site in Lackawaxen, Pennsylvania.  Although far better known for his Western novels, Zane Grey also wrote baseball fiction some of which was based on his experiences playing baseball in New Jersey.  There's also a special educational program on the 2025 schedule.  Last year, at the invitation of Bart Bronk, Head of the Hun School in Princeton, Sam Bernstein and I gave a classroom presentation, followed by an informal game between the students and the Neshanock.  We look forward to returning on Friday, May 30.

The Elizabeth Resolutes and the Neshanock, New Jersey's two senior vintage clubs will meet three times this season - photo by Mary Nunn

While having fun may seem like an unusual goal, it's unlikely the Neshanock would have made 25 years, if the players didn't enjoy themselves.  Having fun in vintage baseball means playing games that we try to win, against opponents who we like and respect.  As in the past, there are two categories of opponents.  With two exceptions, Flemington will face teams with whom we have a history of friendly competition.  Once again we will play all of the New Jersey vintage teams - the Elizabeth Resolutes, the Hoboken Nine, Monmouth Furnace and the Logan Club.  We are also fortunate to have two matches with the Atlantic Club of Brooklyn, one of the top nineteenth-century teams in the country  Although they only play on special occasions, we also look forward to once again playing the Newtown Strakes and the Enterprise Club of River Edge, two "town" teams.  

The Neshanock look forward to playing before enthusiastic crowds again in 2025, like this one at the Howell Living History Farm - picture by Mark Granieri

Playing and developing long-term relationships with local teams is crucial to our success, but we also like to play new teams or clubs we don't play regularly.  This year there will be two such opportunities, one a longtime tradition and the other an inaugural event.  New on the schedule is an end-of-season tournament sponsored by the National Association of Historically Accurate Base Ball Clubs.  Featuring 16 teams, the tournament will be played near Great Wolf Lodge in Perryville, Maryland. No Neshanock schedule would be complete without our annual trip to Gettysburg for the National Nineteenth Century Base Ball Festival sponsored by our friends the Elkton Eclipse.  The Neshanock are proud to be a charter member of this event which dates back to 2010.

We look forward to another visit to the Hun School in Princeton where once again as teachers "by our students, we'll be taught."

Of the three goals, historically accuracy is the Neshanock's highest priority.  To play baseball the way it was played in the 1860s.  It's not always easy.  Sometimes there isn't clear historical evidence about how the game was played over 150 years ago. And there also have to be adjustments for safety and participation.  It's a learning process and we never stop learning.  Last year at the Hun School, a ground ball was hit to the pitcher where there was no play so I called out "Eat it," that is, don't throw it.  The student beside me asked, "Did they say that in the 1860s?" With some embarrassment, I admitted they didn't and it was a reminder that we need to focus on historically accurate baseball language  This season will doubtless offer similar lessons. I speak for the entire Neshanock community in saying we can't wait to get started on this historic season. 

  

 

Leading Off

Back in the 1950’s when I read My Greatest Day in Baseball for the firs time, some stories stood out as accounts of historic games, others as the memories of great players and a few because they illustrated how baseball was played in different eras.  One story, however, didn’t seem to fit.  Although supposedly the account of Christy Mathewson's greatest day, the story wasn’t told by Mathewson, but by someone named Lloyd Lewis who wasn’t even a player. More importantly, the fourth game of the 1911 World Series hardly seemed like the legendary Hall of Fame pitcher’s most memorable day in baseball.   As a result, many years later when I began going through the original oral histories published in the Chicago Daily News, I was surprised to learn that Lewis’ essay led off the series.

Michael "Nuf Ced" McGreevy Collection - Boston Public Library

Lewis’s memory was likely published first because he was the paper's sports editor.  Indeed, it’s possible the project was his idea.  The series began in February 1943, the second winter of World War II, when sports news was sparse.  Hard-pressed for content, it was decided to publish the paper’s sportswriters’ best baseball memories.  Even if it wasn’t Lewis’s idea, as editor, it was appropriate to ask him to go first.  The essays were so popular that the paper expanded the series to include players, beginning a regular off-season feature that ran for several years.

Lloyd Lewis graduated from Swarthmore College in 1913 and began working for the North American, a Philadelphia newspaper. After serving in the Navy in World War I, he worked in public relations with a Chicago-based movie theater chain before becoming the Chicago Daily News drama critic in 1930.  Six years later, he shifted from the stage and screen to the field and court as the sports editor, newspaper departments perhaps not as dissimilar as they may first appear.

Lloyd Lewis

Lewis “brought new elements of human interest” to sports coverage which produced “an unorthodox but sprightly sports page.”Among the causes he took up was the integration of major league baseball. Not long after the “Greatest Day” series began, Lewis was promoted to managing editor.  However, his tenure was short-lived. Just two years later in 1945 he “retired” from journalism to focus on writing Civil War history.  The author of an acclaimed biography of William Tecumseh Sherman, Lewis completed the first book of a three-volume biography of Ulysses S. Grant in 1949, but then suddenly died from a heart attack.  The work was finished by the distinguished Civil War historian Bruce Catton. Lewis was reportedly “rich in friendships with the great literary, artistic, political and sports figures of his time” including Carl Sandburg, Sinclair Lewis and Adlai Stevenson, then Governor of Illinois. 

According to an obituary in the Chicago Daily Sun-Times, Lewis “had a deep understanding of and a lively sympathy for people - - for man in his moments of greatness and of foolish weakness.” This understanding served him well in writing about Christy Mathewson and Rube Marquard's struggles with "Home Run" Baker in the 1911 World Series.  Lewis provides colorful descriptions of that October afternoon's protagonists, calling Baker a “long lean yokel,” while Matthewson was “all bone and muscle and princely poise.”  Special attention is naturally devoted to his beloved Giants as the “cocky, ornery, defiant men of Muggsy McGraw.”  Using rich language and vivid prose, Lewis brings to life the intensity of an epic World Series clash well over a century ago. Woven into that narrative is the almost universal but still sad experience of realizing one’s hero, while heroic, is also human. Lewis set an example for the memories that came after.  His story not only belonged in the series, it deserved to be first. 

Lewis and other fans waiting more or less patiently on the ticket line

“When the bleacher gates at Shibe Park in Philadelphia were thrown open on the morning of October 24, 1911, I was in the mob that went whooping toward the front seats.  I got one, partly because the right-field crowd was smaller than the one in left.  Most Philadelphians wanted to sit close to their worshipped Athletics, for the World Series at that moment stood two games to one for Connie Mack against John McGraw, and Philadelphia was loud and passionate in the confidence that now they would get revenge for the bitter dose – 4 games to 1 – three shutouts, the Giants had given them six years before.

Me, I wanted to get as close to the Giants as possible, and found a place at the rail close to the empty chairs which would that afternoon become the Giants’ bullpen.  My whole adolescence had been devoted, so far as baseball went – and it went a long way to an Indiana farm boy – to the Giants and to their kingly pitcher, the great, the incomparable Christy Mathewson.  I hadn’t had the courage to cut classes in the nearby college and go to the first game of the series at Shibe Park.  But today I had.  Things were desperate.  Up in New York’s Polo Grounds to start this, the World Series, Mathewson had won – 2 to 1 – giving but five hits and demonstrating that with 12 years of herculean toil behind him he was practically as invincible as when in 1905 he had shut out these same Athletics three times.

"And give Baker a nickname for life" - Philadelphia Inquirer - October 17, 1911

It had looked like 1905 over again; then in the second game, the A’s long, lean yokel third baseman J. Franklin Baker had suddenly and incredibly knocked a home run off Rube Marquard, the Giants amazing young pitcher.  Baker, who had hit only 9 homers all season, had tagged the 22-year-old Giant and two runs had come in – and the final had stood 3-1.

The papers which I read, as the morning wore on, were still full of that home run and its aftermath.

From the start of the series the newspapers had been publishing syndicated articles signed by Giant and Athletic stars – the real start of the “ghost writers” whose spurious trade flourished so long but which the better papers in time eliminated. And in the article signed by Mathewson the day after Marquard’s disaster it had been said that Rube had lost the game by failing to obey orders.  The article rebuked the boy for throwing Baker the high outside pitch he liked, instead of the low fast one he didn’t like and which McGraw had ordered.

Headline from Mathewson's ghosted column after Baker's First home run - New York Times - October 17, 1911

The rebuke had been a sensation which grew in the third game when Baker had hit another homer off of Mathewson himself, and been the main wrecker of the great man’s long sway over the A’s.  Up to the ninth inning of that third game Matty had kept command.  Always when the Athletics had got men on bases he had turned on his magic.  As he went to the bench at the end of the eighth, New York had risen and given him a tremendous ovation, for in 44 innings of World Series play, 1905 and 1911, he had allowed the Mackmen exactly one run – and the A’s were hitters, indeed.  Their season average for 1911 had been .297.

Then in the ninth, Eddie Collins had gone out, and only two men had stood between Matty and his fifth series victory over his victims.  Up had come Baker with the American League fans begging him to do to Matty what he had done to Marquard – and, incredible as it seemed, he did.

As home runs go, it hadn’t been much more than a long fly ball that sailed into the convenient right-field stand at the Polo Grounds, but it went far enough to tie the score and give Baker a nickname for life – “Home Run” Baker.

Snodgrass, the Giants center fielder, one of the smartest and greatest of base runners, had ripped Baker’s trousers almost off him, sliding into third in the first of the 10th inning.  With McGraw snarling, railing, jeering from the coaching line, the Giants made no secret of their hatred of Baker.  To them he was merely a lucky lout, a greenhorn who had by sheer accident homered off the two top pitchers of the season.

A view of the field during the second game from the right field corner - note the fans "sitting" on a pole, far left - Philadelphia Inquirer - October 17, 1911

But Baker had hit again, a scratch single in the eleventh which had been part of making of the run which had won, and Marquard in his “ghosted” article had quipped at Mathewson’s advice.

All that was in everybody’s mind – and mine, as on October 24 the fourth game came up.  The papers had had time to chew the sensation over and over, for it had rained for a week after the third game and now, with seven day’s rest, Mathewson was to try again – this time in Shibe Park.

The long delay hadn’t cooled excitement.  The press box was still as crowded as at the opening game.  This was the first World Series to be handled in the modern publicity fashion – the first to have as many as 50 telegraphers on the job – the first to wire the game play-by-play to points as distant as Havana, Cuba – the first to which newspapers in the Far West and South sent their own writers.  And though the A’s now had a lead of two games to one, the threat of the Giants was still great enough to keep fever high.

Michael "Nuf Ced" McGreevy Collection - Boston Public Library

It was a little after 1 o’clock when my long vigil ended.  Onto the field came the Giants with their immemorial swagger, chips still on their shoulders – the cocky, ornery, defiant men of Muggsy McGraw – the rip-roaring demons who had that season of 1911 set a record of 347 stolen bases – a record which would stand for another 31 years without any club ever coming nearer to it than the Senators’ 288 in 1913.

And here at long last they were.  I knew them from their pictures as, clad in dangerous black, they came strutting across toward their dugout.  McGraw had dressed his men in black, back in 1905 when he had humbled the Athletics, and he was playing hunches now.

Muggsy was first – stocky, hard-eyed.  Behind him came slim, handsome Snodgrass, the great base-stealer who was a genius at getting hit by pitched balls and in scaring infielders with his flashing spikes.  Then came swart, ominous Larry Doyle; lantern-jawed Art Fletcher; Buck Herzog, whose nose curved like a scimitar; lithe little Josh Devore; burly Otis Crandall; flat-faced mahogany-colored Chief Meyers, the full-blooded Indian; Fred Merkle, all muscles even in his jaws, a lion-heart living down the most awful bonehead blunder ever made in baseball.

Rube Marquard

There came Marquard, 6 feet 3, his sharp face wreathed in a smile – his head tilting to the left at the top of a long wry neck – Marquard the meteoric.  At 19 years of age he had been bought at a record price from Indianapolis and had immediately flopped two straight years for McGraw, becoming the nationally goatish “$11,000 lemon.”  Then in 1911, he had flamed out, won 24 games and become the “$11,000 beauty.”

As the Giants began to toss the ball around, I couldn’t see my hero, the Mathewson who I had come to see, the great one who from the time I was 9 I had pretended I was, playing ball in the Indiana cow pasture, throwing his famous “fadeaway” which, for me, never came off.  Then, suddenly, there he was, warming up and growling “Who am I working for, the Giants or the photographers,” as the cameramen, not 20 feet from my popeyed head, begged him for poses.

I was let down for a minute.  He didn’t speak like a demi-god, but as I stared, he looked it, all the same.  He held his head high, and his eye with slow, lordly contempt swept the Athletics as they warmed up across the field.  He was 31, all bone and muscle and princely poise.  Surely he would get those Athletics today and put the Giants back in the running.  Surely his unique “fadeaway,” the curve that broke backward, his speed, his snapping curve, his fabulous brain couldn’t be stopped.  It had been luck that had beaten him in the last game.  Now he’d get them.

My eye never left him till the bell rang, and he strode, hard but easy, with the swing of the aristocrat, into the dugout and little Josh Devore went up to hit.

Josh singled, Doyle tripled, Snodgrass scored Larry with a long fly.  Black figures were flying everywhere.  The big copper-colored Chief Bender on Mack’s mound was wobbling, and when the side was finally out he practically ran for the dugout.  Later, we learned, he had run in to cut out bandages from his ribs, from an old injury.  After that he was to be unworkable.

Up came the Athletics. Matty, as though in princely disdain, fanned the first two men.  The third man, Eddie Collins, singled.  Here came Baker, his sun-tanned face tense, his bat flailing – the air thick with one word from 25,000 throats, “Homer! Homer!”

Matty studied him as a scientist contemplates a beetle, then struck him out!  What I yelled, I don’t know.  All I remember is standing there bellowing and paying no heed to the wadded newspapers the Athletic fans around me threw.  It was wonderful.

John Meyers and Charles Bender

In the fourth, Baker came up to start it and doubled.  Dannie Murphydoubled, Harry Davis doubled.  Ira Thomas hit a sacrifice fly – three runs.  It couldn’t be.  Up came Baker again in the fifth with Collins on first and another double boomed across the diamond.  I saw Snodgrass eventually stop it, but he didn’t really have it in his glove at all.  It had stuck in my gullet.

Right in front of me an unthinkable thing happened.  Hooks Wiltse, the southpaw, began warming up for the Giants.  Was Matty knocked out?  Another figure rose from the bull pen.  Rube Marquard.  He didn’t warm up, he only strolled up and down, a great sardonic grin on his face.  The fans around me were screaming at him, “You’re even with Matty now, Rube! He won’t tell you what to pitch anymore!” etc., etc.  Rube smirked at them.

Matty got by without more scores, but in the seventh with a man on third Christy walked Baker and Shibe’s walls waved in a cyclone of “boos.” I wished I was dead.

The eighth.  A pinch hitter went up for Mathewson.  I was sorry I hadn’t died in the seventh.  Finally it was all over.

Like Lewis, the Philadelphia Inquirer believed the world stopped for the 1911 Fall Classic

I walked out through 25,000 of the most loathsome individuals ever created – all jeering at Mathewson, all howling Baker’s virtues.  I dragged my feet this way and that trying to escape the currents of fans.  At the end of a dolorous mile I stopped at a saloon.  I had never had a drink.  Now was the time.

“Beer,” I said in the voice of Poe’s raven.

“You ain’t 21,” the bartender rasped.  Then he took a second look, and saw that I was 100 years old, and splashed a great stein in front of me.

I took one swallow.  It was bitter, just as bitter as everything else in the world.  I laid down a nickel and walked out.  Every step of the way downtown I kept telling myself that in my coffin, some day, there’d be only room for one thing besides myself – my hatred of the Athletics.

But what I started out to tell was about my greatest day in baseball.  That came three years later, October 9, 1914, when the lowly despised Boston Braves walloped, humbled, trampled, laughed at the lofty Athletics to the tune of 7 to 1.  I came out of Shibe Park, spent hours hunting that same saloon, but I couldn’t find it. It had to be that one.  What I wanted to do was to walk in all alone – find nobody else in there – order two beers, and when the bartender looked inquiringly at the extra one, say to him in a condescending voice, “Oh, that? That’s for Mathewson.”