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.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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