The Story of the Stories

Over the past few years, I’ve shared some stories that were first published in the Chicago Daily News' "My Biggest Baseball Day" series during World War II. This post is about the story of the stories. How what started as a short-term fill-in series became baseball’s first large scale oral history project while making an important contribution to World War II morale. To do so we'll explore how the series came about, who made it happen, how they did it and its importance then and now. 

The first of 159 stories.  For some reason this one was entitled "My Greatest Day in Baseball" Chicago Daily News January 23, 1943

In January of 1943, Lloyd Lewis, the sports editor of the Chicago Daily News had a problem.  Over the past six years Lewis had built a popular sports section that encouraged reader participation.  Now, however, the outlook for finding interesting content wasn’t promising.  Winter was always a period of reduced sports activity, limited even further by war time restrictions.  Nor was previewing the upcoming baseball season as attractive as it once was.  While there would be major league baseball in 1943, the best players were increasingly likely to be wearing fatigues not baseball uniforms. 

Fortunately, Lewis, or a staff member, had an idea.  Why not have each sportswriter write about his “Biggest Baseball Day?”  The goal was to publish enough stories for a week or so. But the writers’ memories proved so popular the series was expanded to include players, managers and even umpires.  And even that wasn’t enough. “My Biggest Baseball Day” became a regular offseason feature for the last three years of the war. Unintentionally, the Chicago Daily News created baseball’s first large scale oral history project.

Lloyd Lewis

All told, the paper published 159 baseball memories highlighted by great players like Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb and Cy Young talking about their greatest games.  Popular then, these stories still resonate today.  Just one example is Cobb's account of a crucial game in the 1907 pennant race, a story that because the game ended in a tie, might otherwise have been forgotten.  Other players, although perhaps not well remembered today, contributed to a more complete picture of major league baseball before World War II. While there may not be any direct cause and effect, the series anticipated Lawrence Ritter’s classic The Glory of Their Times.  

Lewis began the “Biggest Baseball Day” series with his memories of the fourth game of the 1911 Giants – Athletics World Series.  He vividly described the atmosphere at Shibe Park and the drama’s two leading protagonists Christy Mathewson and Frank “Home Run” Baker.  Even today, well over a hundred years later, Lewis’ rich prose makes the reader feel like they were there on that long ago October afternoon. 

Lewis contributed six stories to the “Biggest Day” series, but his direct participation ended later in 1943 when he became the paper’s managing editor.  John Carmichal, the new sports editor, took over the series which became so identified with him, his name is on the original book version.  Carmichael was already writing a popular, syndicated column called the “Barber Shop.” By the time he retired, Carmichael estimated he had written over 11000 columns.  But even with that hard to believe number, longtime Chicago Tribune writer, Jerome Holtzman’s claimed he couldn’t remember a single time Carmichael “knocked somebody.”  

John Carmichael

Carmichael was so “universally liked and respected,” that Ted Williams, no fan of sportswriters, called him “the home-run champion of sports writers.” Since players trusted Carmichael, they were more likely to talk to him, enabling Carmichael to use his “ability to set the scene and allow the players to . . . tell their stories.” In addition to leading the project, Carmichael wrote 33 “Biggest Day” stories, fifteen of Hall of Famers including Babe Ruth, Walter Johnson and Connie Mack.

In addition to good leadership, the “Biggest Day” project had the newspaper equivalent of a deep pitching staff. Four writers Hal Totten, Francis Powers, Jack Ryan and Lyall Smith were especially important contributors.  Not only were they good writers, but they also knew and valued baseball history.  Totten was a pioneering radio play-by-play announcer who reportedly “interviewed about every outstanding player in both leagues.” That alone was excellent preparation for his contributions to the series.  

  

Francis Powers, the most experienced writer, had seen a lot of historic baseball moments and also wrote about the game’s history. He worked on 29 player memories, including Ty Cobb’s story mentioned earlier, one of the best in the series. Like Powers, Jack Ryan, also wrote about baseball history. His 25 stories included Mordecai Brown’s account of the Merkle replay game, which vividly captures the intensity of Dead Ball Era baseball.  Lyall Smith not only wrote some of the Daily News stories, he introduced a similar series to the Detroit Free Press in 1947. Totten, Powers, Ryan and Smith understood the game, valued its history and knew how to write interesting and readable articles.

The fans wishes come true. The series will go on - Chicago Daily News - February 3, 1943

With a solid team in place, the next step was finding sufficient material for about 50 articles each offseason.  In addition to the Daily News reporters, Lewis recruited writers from other newspapers across the country.  Thanks to his interactive approach with the paper’s readers, fans also had a chance to participate. When a reader suggested Rogers Hornsby, Lewis immediately arranged an interview with the future Hall of Famer. Simultaneously, John Carmichael put his time in Florida for spring training to good use, seeking players who “winter there.”  

Getting the interview, however, didn’t guarantee a high-quality article.  In remembering long-ago events, a player might, intentionally, or otherwise, embellish his performance.  Wisely, Lewis and his team took steps to facilitate accuracy.  Before the interview, the paper provided the player with the play-by-play, the box score and the Daily News contemporary game article.  There was also some screening of players worthiness particularly Buck Weaver of the infamous “Black” Sox.  Lewis told readers that the paper’s investigation concluded that Weaver didn’t participate in the fix.

In the interview, the writer used his time with the player to gather as much detailed information as possible about the game and the player’s part in it.  Working with that raw material the writer then crafted a story designed to attract, inform and entertain the reader.  An excellent example is how John Carmichael worked with Casey Stengel on his “Biggest Baseball Day” story. Stengel chose his major league debut in Brooklyn in a meaningless late 1912 game.  Meaningless for everyone but Stengel who got four hits in first major league game.

Casey Stengel about 1916, in front of the fabled Ebbets Field right field wall (before the scoreboard) - Bain Collection

The story begins not with Stengel’s record setting performance, but a raw rookie’s rude introduction to the major leagues.  Upon arrival in New York City, the timid Stengel stays close to his hotel for fear of getting lost in the big city. Going to the ballpark the next day does nothing to make him feel more comfortable.  His only welcome from his new teammates is an invitation to lose money in a dice game which doesn’t exactly endear the young player to Bill Dahlen, his new manager.  Stengel then makes the situation even worse by naively thinking that, like the minor leagues, obeying the manager’s signs is optional.

Stengel’s haphazard arrival in the majors makes it seem unlikely he would survive much less be successful. Against this unpromising backdrop, Stengel’s four hit performance is even more impressive.  The story weaves his accomplishments and a rookie’s introduction to the majors into a compelling story any baseball fan would enjoy reading then or now. 

Clarence "Ginger" Beaumont

“My Biggest Baseball Day,” was a regular off-season feature in the Chicago Daily News through1945 and was briefly revived in 1950.  While most of the stories were from the twentieth century, the paper was fortunate to interview three nineteenth century players – Bobby Lowe, Bill Lange and Ginger Beaumont.  Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, no attention was paid to the Negro Leagues. But early on the paper did interview Satchel Paige, perhaps due to Lewis’s support for the integration of Major League Baseball.

Drawing that accompanied Satchel Paige's story - Chicago Daily News - March 13, 1943

Players, managers and others shared memories from 26 different World Series including four classic seventh games.  Important regular season contests were also part of the series including perfect games and no-hitters. Fifty-one of the participants were Hall of Fame inductees.  Among these were Cobb, Ruth, Tris Speaker, Walter Johnson and Cy Young all of whom were dead by the time Lawrence Ritter began his Glory of Their Times interviews.

The expanded series more than met the hopes and expectations of both the paper and its readers. Speaking for many fans, Joseph Mitchell said that each story was “just like sitting in the park looking at the game itself.”  One fan, Louis Horace became so dependent on his daily dose of baseball history he warned the paper not to – “dare run out of em’ for a long time yet.”  It’s no wonder Lewis told one reader that “I can say to you with perfect frankness that I never worked on a newspaper series that gave me the kick that this has.”

It was only a question of time before a selection was published in book form.  The first version was published in April of 1944 in a special edition for those in the military.  Printed in a tabloid format, the book had 35 stories featuring Cobb, Wagner, Ruth as well as Chicago favorites Johnny Evers, Gabby Hartnett and Ed Walsh.  Entitled "My Biggest Baseball Day," the anthology was available at cost to servicemen.  

Chicago Daily News - June 27, 1944

To no one’s surprise, the book was just as popular as the series, but with even more readers.  Over the next two months 50,000 copies were “distributed.” So popular was the book that some businesses got involved. The Edwin Hines Lumber Company, for example, sent almost 600 copies to its employees serving in the military.  The head of the Daily News mailroom was so moved by the company's effort that he worked with two of its employees to get all the copies in the mail that same day. Also involved was St. Benedict’s Church in Blue Island, Illinois which sent 375 copies to parishioners in the military including one POW.  

If the Daily News needed any confirmation from the servicemen themselves, it came from Corporal Maurice Levy, wounded five times and the recipient of the Distinguished Service Cross.  Levy told the paper that “You have no idea how a thing like the Biggest Baseball Day will go the rounds” of servicemen.  In complete agreement was Mr. & Mrs. Sam Odelson who sent copies to their seven sons and a son-in-law in the military.  

 Access to the stories wasn’t limited to the immediate recipient.  Exaggerating for effect, Sgt. Nick Delmonico claimed there were “a million guys waiting for me to finish it, so they could enjoy it too.” In a message to Carmichael, Bill Merar said “we discussed each article in the mess room until the wee hours.” Tech Sergeant Stanley Wronski spoke for everyone when he said the stories made him “hope it won’t be long until we see the good old national pastime in the states again.”

The final story - Chicago Daily News - February 28, 1945

The “Biggest Baseball Day” series ended in 1945, but not because of a lack of interest.  That same year, the first book version, entitled My Greatest Day in Baseball, was published.  More editions followed, with new writers interviewing players from later eras.  The 1960s brought Lawrence Ritter’s classic The Glory of Their Times arguably the most popular baseball book of all time.  Multiple collections of baseball oral histories followed Ritter and will likely continue to do so. 

While there may not be a direct connection between the Chicago Daily News series and Ritter’s book, the “My Biggest Baseball Day” stories are, to my knowledge, the first large scale baseball oral history project. Lloyd Lewis was likely well aware of the irony of how a short-term, stopgap effort grew into a three-year project that made a major contribution to wartime morale.  

Lawrence Ritter's Masterpiece

The series was well received because baseball was not just the country’s most popular sport, but its National Pastime.  During one of the most difficult times in American history, the stories were more than a pleasant diversion, they were reminders of happier days. Stories of memorable days at the ballpark reminded those far away from home of a life they hoped to return to as soon as possible. The series offered moments of happiness when they were in short supply.

Like any successful baseball team, the “My Biggest Baseball Day” series had leadership, talent and teamwork.  Lloyd Lewis approved the initial idea, had the wisdom to see the series potential and a commitment to a high-quality product.  He was followed by John Carmichael who led the project for two plus years while working on many of the stories.  And the series had a deep roster of writers who appreciated baseball history, could work with players and write well.  

The series also couldn’t have happened without players willing to talk about their most memorable days in baseball.  The teamwork between players and writers was like a highly skilled pitcher-catcher battery.  The player provided the content which the writer wove into an interesting, readable story.  Francis Powers said the goal of the series was “to give lovers of baseball vivid word pictures of the great games of long ago and immediate past.”  The “team” did that and then some.

While the series’ greatest contribution was to its initial readers, it’s also an important baseball history resource.  Oral histories offer a participant’s perspective which even if recorded many years later still has value.  One of baseball’s greatest pitching achievements was the 1934 All Star game when Carl Hubbell struck out Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Jimmy Foxx, Al Simmons and Joe Cronin.  In his story, Hubbell explained his pitching strategy, valuable information for anyone interested in that great accomplishment.

The “Biggest Day” series made another less visible, but no less important contribution to baseball history.  Just as the game needs fans, baseball history needs those who research and write about that history.  Well written, concise stories like these make baseball history accessible.  They open a door to the game’s past, inspiring readers to want to know more and, in some cases, to write about the game’s long history.

I speak from personal experience. About 70 years ago, thanks to my father, Hank Zinn, I read the original My Greatest Day in Baseball book.  Learning that baseball had a rich history of intense pennant races, legendary World Series games and other historic moments inspired an interest in baseball history that continues to this day.  Without the Chicago Daily News series this might never have happened. My lifelong love for baseball history began with these stories. I hope others will have, and enjoy, the same experience. 

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.”