Notes #439 — Remember the Past — Or Else

                             NOTES FROM THE SHADOWS OF COOPERSTOWN
                                           Observations from Outside the Lines
                                     By Two Finger Carney (carneya6@adelphia.net)
 

#439                                                                                                                    MARCH 20, 2008
                              REMEMBER THE PAST — OR ELSE
 

            “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it,” the maxim goes. Sometimes it goes a little differently: “He who is ignorant of history” or “those who do not learn from history” … “are doomed to repeat it.”  You get the idea. Any way you put it, history is like a homework assignment, and heaven help the poor devil who blows it off or takes it lightly. Doomed.
 

            The quotation is generally attributed to George Herman (Babe) Santayana. OK, I’m kidding about the “Herman (Babe)” part, but this Spanish-born Harvard grad was a Hall of Fame philosopher, essayist, poet and novelist; he also wrote a few plays, for good measure. A writer who touched all the bases, on the surface he was my kind of guy.
 

            However, he was clearly no baseball fan — if he was, he could not have left a good job in Boston in 1912, when the Sox were on top. And his famous maxim might have ended differently, too: The fan who is ignorant of history, robs himself of distinct pleasures. Fans who just watch baseball games can enjoy them, no doubt about that — but they miss a crucial dimension, if they do not situate each game inside history. Baseball’s, or their own.
 

            So, they ooh and aah when Reggie Jackson hits three home runs in the last game of the 1977 World Series, but those long balls glow in a new way when they bring back recollections of another Yankee pulling that off — Babe Ruth, in 1926 and in 1928. We cheer on batting champions every summer, but they should humbly remember the days when .400 would not finish on top. In other words, fans ignorant of history are nourished by a thin soup — enough to sustain, but not nearly as flavorful or hearty as the stew served up by history.
 

            Before serving up my third course of Baseball History — this time, we visit 1921-1930 — a couple of announcements.
 

            First, I mentioned recently that some of my stuff is now appearing on a site called seamheads.com, and if you visit there now, look up an interview with me conducted by Matt Sisson — it covers a lot of the, well, history , of my writing habits. I happen to recall the first time I saw the word “seamhead” in print, and I commented on it in Notes ; in honor of seamheads.com , I reprint that little essay at the end of this issue.
 

            Next, I believe the 20th Anniversary Edition, DVD, of Eight Men Out has been released. Or maybe the door of the cage has been unlocked, but it hasn’t escaped yet. Anyway, look for it soon in a video store (or Netflix etc) near you. Feedback on the interview I gave which appears as a special feature, are welcome. It has new comments by Eliot Asinof and director John Sayles, too.
           
            End of commercial break, with (as Alfred Hitchcock might say), my apologies. Please continue reading, without fear of more.
 

BASEBALL HISTORY — AS SEEN FROM THE SHADOWS OF COOPERSTOWN  
 

PART THREE: 1921-1930
 

Introduction  
 

            The Roaring 1920s: the lively ball, jazz, speakeasies, Babe Ruth and the Golden Age of sports. The twenties are more memorable than the first two decades of last century for another reason, too — we have many more moving pictures, not just stills, and even some recorded voices from that decade. The first motion-picture theater opened in 1902 (in L.A.), then came the nickelodeons, then Birth of a Nation in 1915, and indeed a new nation was born. The first all-color film was made in 1922 ( Toll of the Sea ) and with 1927’s The Jazz Singer , we had sound.
 

            Vaudeville had given ballplayers an off-season outlet, and now the big screen was an option. Athletes could be marquee names in many more cities than those with MLB teams. We were a long way off from slo-mo, instant replay, and the special effects we are used to today, but the grainy B & W images of Ruth and Gehrig and the Gashouse Gang survive.
 

            Radio came along, too, and this was truly a marriage made in heaven. Baseball seemed to be suited for radio, and vice-versa. Even today, many fans prefer radio ball to TV. A good announcer could activate your imagination, take you into the ballpark, into the action on the field. Fans felt closer to Dizzy and the Babe and Casey (you could look it up). It was no longer just newspaper accounts and box scores, the game itself learned how to talk, and America learned how to talk baseball, better than ever.
 

            As I move thru baseball’s history, I am consulting two main guidebooks, my trusty old Total Baseball (3rd Ed.) , and Big Mac, the Macmillan Baseball Encyclopedia (8th Ed.) , neither current nor infallible, but fine for my purposes. But I would be remiss, as they say, if I failed to recommend a series of books that was published by Redefinition, in the late 1980s and early 1990s, World of Baseball . I have eleven volumes — I think that’s all they published, before going out of business. Some of the volumes are on themes — sluggers, pitchers, glovemen, the World Series ( October’s Game , edited by Paul Adomites) — and others cover decades in the sport’s history. Which is what I’m doing. For a nicely detailed and different treatment of the 1920s, see The Lively Ball , edited by James A. Cox, in 1989.
 

 

1921  
 

            Kenesaw Mountain Landis, hired by baseball’s magnates at the end of 1920, was at the helm when this decade began. In the wake of the B-Sox scandal, there was a lot of repair work to be done, and mostly by appearing stern, this no-nonsense federal judge did the job. He was always an employee of the owners, who could be fired if he went too far, but that would be risky — because the owners had hired him not just to clean up baseball’s image, but to save the game from themselves. They had slept while baseball was sullied by the gambling menace; now the game was in Landis’ hands, or so it seemed to most fans, and he showed soon enough that he was now The Law.
 

            Of course, baseball’s star kept rising because it was hitched to another star: Babe Ruth. After smashing an unimaginable 54 homers in 1920, Ruth turned in one of the great all-time seasons in 1921: 59 HRs, 119 extra-base hits, .378, 171 RBI. He propelled the Yankees into their first World Series, with help from Long Bob Meusel (24 HR) and Carl Mays (27 wins), whose submarine pitches must have shaken AL batters, after one of them had killed Cleveland SS Ray Chapman the previous August.
 

            Ruth not only was the planet’s premiere slugger, but he drew crowds wherever he played (with or without the Yankees). As a box-office attraction, he commanded unprecedented salaries, which seemed scandalous to some fans. In an old poem on the Hall of Fame, I once wrote, “If Yankee Stadium is the House that Ruth Built, then in Cooperstown is the one he furnished.”  Ruth and the Yankees showed how the rich got richer, the NY fans topping a million nine times between 1920 and 1930; Detroit (in 1924) was the only other AL team to do that. The pinstripers became America’s Team in the twenties, at least for fans who liked a winner. The Yankees were almost synonymous with winning for the next four decades. It was mostly, happily, before my time.
 

            John McGraw was the other force in New York, and his Giants took the 1921 pennant, then the World Series, 5 to 3, in the last October best-of-nine. Waite Hoyt tossed one of the best Series in history — three complete games, no earned runs, but an unearned one in the finale cost the Yanks, 1-0. Ruth was held to one HR.
 

1922  
 

            For the second year in a row, the Giants and Yankees faced off in October, and again all games were played at the Polo Grounds. This time, Ruth was held to one extra-base hit (a double) and one RBI, as the Giants swept, 4-0. There was also a tie, and all of the games were close. Bob Meusel batted .300 and had bragging rights over his brother Irish of the Giants, but McGraw was on top again, and Miller Huggins again #2.
 

            Ruth was suspended for barnstorming at the start of the 1922 season and played just 110 games (35 HR). George Sisler batted a remarkable .420, his St Louis Browns hit .313, but they fell short of their first pennant by a single game. The Browns had a new kind of slugger, too: OF Kenny Williams smacked 39 HRs while stealing 37 bases. Sisler was, like Ruth, a former pitcher, and had hit over .400 before (.407 in 1920), and seemed to be ready to take over as perennial AL batting champ for the aging Ty Cobb. But his optic nerves were infected in 1923, and he was never quite the same, although for those who saw him play — he could run and field with the best — Sisler was an all-timer at 1B.
 

1923  
 

            For a third straight year, the Giants of McGraw and the Yankees of Huggins met in October, but this time, Yankee Stadium was available for half the games. Ruth crashed three HRs, all in the Polo Grounds. The first WS homer at the Stadium was an inside-the-parker by — the Giants’ Casey Stengel, and it came with two out in the ninth inning of Game One, to win it, 5-4.
 

            I highlight the pennant winners as I skim along here, but of course every team had talent. Walter Johnson toiled for Washington, Harry Heilmann hit .403 for Detroit manager Cobb, Tris Speaker was still kicking, at .380, and Kenny Williams hit 29 HRs (Ruth had 41). Cuban Dolf Luque won 27 for Cincinnati, Jughandle Johnny Morrison won 25 for Pittsburgh (I had to look that up, he’s obscure even for Pirate fans!), and young Rogers Hornsby was in the middle of a five-year streak for the St Louis Cardinals, of .397-.401-.384-.424-.403, which comes to 1,078 hits and a five-year average of over .402. And unlike Cobb, Hornsby was an infielder , and hit the long ball, too. (Cobb had power, but eschewed the home run, favoring strategy over brawn.)
 

            In fact, if you look at the rosters of these early-20s teams, you must conclude that it is unfair to give all the credit for baseball’s rise to Ruth and Landis. Even the last-place Phils had Cy Williams, who poked 41 HRs in 1923, to lead the NL.
 

1924  
 

            If there were Yankee-haters in 1924, they must have been pleased, as the Washington Senators (or Nationals) finally won a pennant, putting one of the great all-time hurlers, Walter Johnson, on display in October. Walter was in his 18th season and had gone 23-7, 2.72 in 1924. McGraw’s Giants made it four straight WS appearances, and handled Johnson OK, beating him twice, but Washington finished on top, winning in seven games. Much of baseball history has come down to us through the filters of New York writers and publishers, and the credit (or blame) for this Series went, somehow, to a pebble. The stone resided in the Washington infield, and came into play in the 12th inning of the deciding game, boosting a ground ball over the head of Giant 3B Fred Lindstrom, allowing the winning run to score. It may even have been the same pebble that pulled the same trick earlier, to tie the game.
 

COMMENT:
I once wrote a short story, No Rock Is an Island , from the point of view of that pebble. I dug it up (no pun intended) and include it here. I’m hoping it will be in a collection of my short stories, now in Spring Training with a publisher and hoping to make a roster. To give credit where it is really due, the 1924 Series hero was not the pebble — it was Bucky Harris, Goose Goslin, and pitcher Tom Zachary, winner of two starts, and better remembered for giving up Ruth’s 60th.
 

1925  
 

            Growing up in Pittsburgh and starting my rooting career in 1957, the year 1925 was very familiar to me — it was the last time the Pirates won a World Series. If my parents and grandparents remembered it at all, they never said much about it.
 

            The Pirates had been in October’s Game before, losing in 1903 and winning in 1909 (Honus!). In 1925, they faced Washington, who won 96 for Bucky Harris while the Yankees fell to seventh place , after starting the decade with three pennants and a close second in 1923. The 1925 Series was notable because the Pirates were down 3-1 in games, then came back to win, a first. It was a Series played in rain and mud, with 3B Pie Traynor and Max Carey the Bucco stars. One of the last things I did when SABR members had access to ProQuest , was to print out Ring Lardner’s coverage of this Series (it’s in some back issue).
 

1926  
 

            The Yankees were back in the Series in ’26, a Series that again went seven games, but this time the St Louis Cardinals were on top at the end. I’m not sure when exactly Branch Rickey started the St Louis farm system, but it is generally credited with turning the Cards from losers into the NL’s powerhouse.
 

            The 1926 Series provided baseball with some images that have stood up over time. It was a kind of last hurrah for Old Pete Alexander, although he had a few more winning seasons in him. He would win 373 games in his career, same as Mathewson, while battling epilepsy and alcohol. Pete started and won Games Two and Six, but is best remembered for coming on in relief in Game Seven to face Tony Lazzeri with the sacks full in the Yankee 7th. He took no warm-ups, gave up a long ball blown just foul, then fanned Lazzeri, and pitched two more innings to nail down the 3-2 win. This is the Series that ended with Babe Ruth being gunned down in the bottom of the ninth, trying to steal second, to get into scoring position.
 

            Ruth had hit three homers in Game Four, and they were remembered, too. A terrific Series, a strange ending.
 

1927  
 

            If Pittsburghers remembered 1925, every fan could tell you about 1927. The summer followed a Hollywood script. Babe Ruth now had a slugging teammate, Larrupin’ Lou Gehrig, AKA Columbia Lou and later as the Iron Horse for his unprecedented durability. The steady 1B took root in 1925, but ’27 was his breakout year, .373, 47 HRs, 175 RBI. Gehrig’s colorful teammate clouted sixty homers (to go with .356, 164 RBIs), and the number, 60, punctuated not just 1927, but the whole decade.
 

COMMENT:
In the last two issues, I mentioned how the APBA “Great Teams of the Past” enhanced my appreciation for the teams of the Deadball Era. Well, the first team I bought was the 1927 Yankees — Murderer’s Row. This gang was sheer pleasure to manage, even when they went up against the 1927 Pirates. Naming the members of Murderer’s Row has always been a “gimme” trivia question for me. And of thousands and thousands of APBA cards, Lou Gehrig 1927 stands out — in other words, if you were picking teams and had first choice, that’s your pick. (I haven’t seen Barry Bonds’ mega-cards.) 
 

            The 1927 Series was not the rout that it might seem, with the Yankees sweeping, 4-0, behind HRs by Ruth and Gehrig. Two of the games were decided by a run. Pirate fans took some consolation in that the Waner brothers, Big Poison (Paul) and Little (Lloyd), collected more hits than Ruth and Gehrig. 
 

1928  
 

            The Cardinals returned to October, but the Yankee juggernaut was still in gear, and this time the Cards were swept. Ruth hit three more HRs (all in Game Four), Gehrig went deep four times. The Yanks took revenge on Alexander, knocking him out in the 3rd inning of Game Two. Tom Zachary, who had yielded #60 in 1927, was a late-season pickup for New York, and tossed a CG win in Game Three.
 

1929  
 

            Break up the Yankees?   No, there was another solution to the “problem” of pinstripe dominance. Create another dynasty , and that is what Connie Mack did in Philadelphia. Born during the Civil War, Mack managed his first ML team in 1894, and would go on to manage until 1950. The second Mack dynasty won 104 games in 1929 and 313 over the 1929-31 seasons, while finishing ahead of the Yankees by 18, 16, and 13.5 games respectively.
 

COMMENT:
The 1931 A’s were another one of my favorite APBA teams to manage, and they were really the only team that could consistently challenge the 1927 Yankees in my leagues or tournaments. 
 

            The Yanks had Ruth and Gehrig, the A’s answered with Al Simmons and Jimmie Foxx. Like Murderer’s Row, the A’s dynasty lineup was a dream — guys who could get on base, play good defense, score runs. In the 1929 Series, they took on the Chicago Cubs, and defeated them 4-1. The Cubs were on the verge of tying the Series at two games each, when, in Game Four, they blew an 8-run lead. The A’s scored ten runs, all in the 7th inning, as Hack Wilson lost two balls in the sun. The A’s took Game Five, 3-2, by scoring all three runs in the bottom of the ninth.
 

1930  
 

            The decade ended with the country in a depression, but baseball’s offense at new heights. The A’s would win the Series again, this time over the Cardinals, 4-2. But it was as if the leagues were juiced. The NL batted .303 (up from .294) and hit 892 HRs (up from 754) — 56 of them by Hack Wilson, the Series goat in ’29, a NL record that stood a long time; his 191 RBI still stands. Bill Terry hit .401. The AL numbers were not as dramatic; Babe hit a Ruthian 49 HRs.
 

COMMENT:
I will inevitably forget to mention some highlights, and when I remember, I’ll try to add them. On May 1, 1920, the Braves and Dodgers played a 26-inning game, a 1-1 tie. Leon Cadore and Joe Oeschger dueled for three hours and 50 minutes. 2B Charlie Pick, in his final season, had an 0-for-11 day — ouch!
           
 

From the NOTES Archive
            While digging for NO ROCK IS AN ISLAND, I ran into this, which goes back to Notes #12, May 1993. I like to think the Bambino would not have minded. Another line in my poem on Ruth: “called shots and cured tots.”  The kid in the hospital grows up to be Bill James, of course. For a more flattering commentary on the Babe, see my review of THE BIG BAM in Notes 425-426.
 

 

THE BABE VISITS A HOSPITAL  
 

 

            “Hi ya, kids!” bellowed the Bambino as he entered the children’s ward. “The Babe is here to cheer you up!”
 

            “Then put out that cigar so we can breathe , Babe,” yelled the blond tot, waving away the clouds of smoke that followed the Yankee legend like Lou Gehrig in the lineup. “We thought you were checking in with another belly ache.”
 

            “Uh, not this time, kid. Say, you guys want to see me hit a homer for you today?”
 

            “Don’t play games with our health, Babe,” answered the lad by the window. “Your HR percentage is great, but it’s still less than 1 out of 10 this summer. How about promising us a strikeout — the odds are twice as good.”
 

            “Or just an out , Babe. You can almost guarantee an out today,” the boy in the wheelchair chimed in. “We’re 2-to-1 on that bet.”
 

            The giant in pinstripes pondered the requests. “O.K., boys, you win. I’m going to dedicate the first out I make today to you. I want to all to listen to the game, you hear?”
 

            “Sure will, Babe. We’ll be cheering that out, you can be sure of that!  And, hey — can we have your autograph?”
 

            The famous Ruthian smile now broadened between his ears. “Why, I’d be honored, kids. Here, let me at that cast.”
 

            “No, not the cast, Babe. Here, here’s a box of balls. My dad can sell them at work to help pay the hospital bills.”
 

            “Gee, fellas, I don’t know … I thought you’d want some souvenirs for yourselves…. How about I just shake everybody’s hand?”
 

            “Sorry, Babe, this room’s quarantined and we’re all pretty contagious. You took a real risk just coming in here without a mask. Didn’t you read the sign on the door?”
 

            “Read?  Uh, well, to tell the truth my eyes are a little blurry. I was just heading to the stadium for some coffee, see?”  The Sultan of Swat backed swiftly toward the door, covering his face with his famous left arm. “Men, it’s been great visiting with you … gotta go now, get ready for today’s game … remember, you all listen, and when I smack that homer –”
 
            “An OUT, Babe, we wanna OUT!” they yelled back in chorus.
 

            “Right — when you hear that out, well, you’ll know the Babe has you in mind, and you’ll all feel better, right?”
 

            “You bet, Babe,” the youngster on crutches called out, winking an eye, as the slugger ran down the hallway, his spikes clacking on the marble.
 

An Archive Doubleheader
            This first appeared in NOTES #157, April 1998, an issue with a theme, THIRD BASE, which I think is in the online Archive.
 

 

NO ROCK IS AN ISLAND  
 

            I am a rock, and I’m telling you right here and now that Simon & Garfunkel had it wrong. We rocks do feel pain. Let me tell you a story about my Grampa Pebble, for example.
 

            It was 1924, and Gramps had worked his way to the surface, after quite a struggle, if you believe his account. Turned out he burrowed up in the U.S. capitol, Washington, D.C. — in a field known then as Griffith Stadium. He said he’d heard lots of noise on his way up, especially the last weeks, and sure enough, when he broke through, there was thousands of people cheering him on. He felt quite important, as they had built stands all around, and these were draped with red, white & blue bunting. Since it was October, Gramps thought maybe the crowd was gathered to harvest something. That was before he heard of the World Series.
 

            Gramps was thousands of years old at the time, but just a rookie on the surface, so he asked around some to get filled in on what was happening.
 

            “Shush, you blockhead. Look, we’ll have to fill you in later. This is Game Seven, and there’s no tomorrow.”
 

            “There’s not?  But … I just got here! That’s not fair!”
 

            “No, no — there’s no game tomorrow. We’ll have all winter to get you up to speed. They won’t be back here till April. Now quiet down and watch….
 

            “That’s Bucky Harris coming to bat. It’s 3-1, favor of the Giants of John McGraw. It’s the bottom of the eighth. Two outs, bases loaded. LOOK OUT, IT’S COMING THIS WAY!”
 

            Grampa said he never moved. Harris’ ball skipped a few times, then plunked him right square on his noggin, and took a wicked hop up over the third baseman’s head. Two runs scored, and the game was tied. Gramps was knocked cold. When he came to, the place was even noisier than before.
 

            “What happened?”
 

            “You’re lucky you didn’t get tossed out for interference, that’s what happened, you cementbrain!  Look, you’re not even supposed to be here, you know that?  All summer they rake rocks out of this grass, and then the players pick and poke and preen the infield, precisely to avoid accidents like the one you caused.”
 

            Gramps protested that he was an innocent bystander. “Look, if you want to stay, you’ve got to learn how to duck , OK?  Now pipe down, it’s extra innings, and old Walter is coming to bat.”
 

            Walter Johnson had played eighteen years, and was enjoying his first World Series, at age thirty-six. Well, not really, because Walter had lost games one and five. If he wasn’t careful, he’d finish 0-3. It was apparent that the crowd worshipped Walter.
 

            “Thirty-six?!” Gramps exclaimed. “You call that old ?!”
 

            “Yeah, for ballplayers. Take that guy behind you, Lindstrom? Freddie won’t turn nineteen till next month. Ballplayers ain’t like us, they come and go quick. Anyway, pay attention. Walter’s a decent hitter, and he can be a hero if he comes through now.”
 

            Again, they filled Gramps in, but it meant nothing to him at the time. It was the last of the twelfth inning, and starting to get dark. Muddy Ruel was on second, having doubled after the Giants’ catcher tripped on his mask chasing his pop foul. Walter grounded to short, but the shortstop booted it, and now it was two on with one out. Earl McNeely stepped up to the plate.
 

            All Gramps could think about was his sore head, and old Walter. The kid pacing behind him, Lindstrom — only a kid. His whole career in front of him. This could be the old man’s last shot, and geez, look how the people love him ! McNeely smacked a grounder toward Lindstrom, and Gramps made his move. BANG!  The ball was a kangaroo hopping high over Lindstrom’s head, just like before. Muddy Ruel — love that nickname — wheeled around third. The outfielder picked up the ball, saw that he couldn’t throw Ruel out, put the ball in his pocket, and ran for the showers.
 

            So don’t tell me that rocks got no feelings.
 

            Hey, if you have the time, let me tell you about my cousin Rocky, and the stunt he pulled — also a Game Seven, at a joint called Forbes Field, around 1960. See there was this Yankee shortstop named Tony Kubek that was giving Rocky a hard time all afternoon, see, so come about the eighth inning — oh, you gotta leave now?  OK, maybe next time.
 

                                                                        * * * * *
 

            Fred Lindstrom found himself playing third base in the 1924 World Series with exactly eleven games of ML experience at that position. The regular 3B, Heinie Groh, was injured and relegated to pinch-hitting duty. Lindstrom, at age 18, led the Giants with ten hits and four RBI, and fielded his position flawlessly.
 

            Interviewed in the 1970s by Donald Honig, Lindstrom said, “It’s possible that if it hadn’t been for that ball bouncing over my head in the 1924 World Series, a lot of people would have forgotten I ever existed…. That ball hit a pebble — maybe the same darn pebble that Harris’ ball had hit…. You know the old saying, ‘That’s the way the ball bounces.'”
 

 

HORSE RACING AND BASEBALL  
 

America’s entrance into the World War in 1917 brought about notable changes. When the Government shut down the race tracks for the duration (baseball was permitted to continue), gamblers and bookies who lived by the horses were left in limbo. They needed a place to hang out, some sport to talk about, an outlet for their need to bet. They simply converted their vast machinery of operation from horses to baseball. They applied themselves to doping ball games with the same diligence they’d used in handicapping horses.
                                                                                          — Eliot Asinof in Eight Men Out (1963)
 

            Early in my B-Sox research, I was told that Asinof had this wrong, that the tracks never shut down for the First World War. I had access to ProQuest at the time, and sure enough, I found lots of newspaper articles, reporting on activity at America’s tracks, all during the war years. Having just read Man o’War , a book that covers racing very thoroughly in that era, I learned a little more about this.
 

            Gamblers and bookies — the crooked breed, that is — had indeed infested horse racing, but well before 1917. And that did cause some tracks to close down, starting around 1910, New York included. But they re-opened before the war. Canada closed their tracks during WW I, but Kentucky, Maryland and New York remained active.
 

            I’m not sure what Asinof wanted to suggest — that if the crooked folk had stayed with the horses, baseball would have remained free from the taint of gambling?  This is just not true. Racing and baseball were not that separate in those days — with Exhibit A being the Big Bankroll, Arnold Rothstein, and for B & C, how about Stoneham and McGraw of the NY Giants?  Many ballplayers visited the tracks, and so did their fans. And bribes were offered to ballplayers long before 1917.
 

            As for “doping” baseball games, that was nothing new, either. Ironically, Hugh Fullerton — perhaps the reporter most sensitive to the “strangling” menace of professional gambling — was one of the top “dopesters” of baseball. His columns, before big betting events like the World Series, were in demand. Many newspapers reported the odds, and not just on game outcomes, but other things, too. Would the first pitch be a strike? Would one team outhit the other, or steal more bases? Baseball provided an almost infinite number of things on which to bet, and there are stories that at the ballparks, someone might shout out, while a long ball was in the air, something like “Two to one that it will go for a triple!”  Or, when Casey came to the bat for Mudville, “Who wants to wager that the Mighty One will strike out?”
 

                                                                        * * * * *
 

            In Notes #429 , “From the Horse’s Mouth,” I noted that the Saratoga race track in upstate NY may have been the scene of several crimes. Saratoga was the center of the horse racing world each August; Arnold Rothstein opened a casino, The Brook , in 1918, but A.R. preferred New York City. But many reports have the Big Fix of October 1919 being proposed to Rothstein in August, some saying Saratoga, others at the Jamaica track, downstate.
 

            Saratoga was definitely the site of the only race lost by Man o’War, however. Whether the race was “fixed” or not, we don’t know. After reading Dorothy Ours’ Man o’War , I am inclined to believe not , even though in #429 , I wrote about the jockey:
 

 

But [Johnny] Loftus, the first Triple Crown jockey, was refused his license by the Jockey Club in 1920, “for the good of the sport.” Loftus had lost in 1919 with other heavy favorites besides Man o’War — Sun Briar, Beaming Beauty, and yes, even Sir Barton. The leading jockey was barred, the reasons were murky. But there would be no “Black Hoof Scandal,” this cover-up succeeded. Rothstein was also barred in 1920 from clubhouses operating under Jockey Club rules.
 

            There were a couple other factors at work in the race. The usual starter, Mars Cassidy, had celebrated his birthday the evening before, and on into the wee hours, and called in sick. Loftus had Cassidy’s timing down pat, but his substitute, Judge Pettingill, had a different style. And there was a report that Loftus had celebrated with Cassidy, not getting to bed until after 5:30 AM, the day of the race. But even a sober Loftus might not have done much better that day, as Man o’War simply got trapped in traffic and a lot of little things went the wrong way. Loftus was barred from riding in 1920, but there was nothing said about why.
 

            The Jockey Club was in charge of racing in New York, and it was an old boys club, magnates only. It made its decisions in secret, and they were final. And they didn’t need to explain themselves to anyone, not to the jockeys or trainers or others (like Rothstein) that they barred, not to the press. They acted “for the best interests of racing” — a phrase that, to baseball ears, sounds a lot like the powers given to the Commissioner in 1920, to act “in the best interests of baseball.”
 

            The Jockey Club had a task identical to Judge Landis, too. Restore credibility and confidence in horse racing. Look into any rumors about fixes — this included not just tampering with horses’ feed and drink (and noses) to prevent them from running their best, but to prevent “juicing” them. Jockeys also needed to be closely watched, lest they pull back a perfectly clean horse, letting another one win. Stables were guarded, jockeys were watched, trainers had to be licensed and kept clean, too. Image was everything — if races were fixed, who would bother to watch and to bet? And there went the income.
 

            Many years ago, long before I got hooked on the B-Sox, I noted here that a large part of baseball’s appeal was that it seemed impossible to fix. Too many players, too many variables, too much chance. It seemed the perfect mate for gambling. It was beautifully unpredictable.
 

            Eventually, the decisions of Jockey Clubs were challenged and taken to court, and racing came under government control. That could have happened to baseball — that is one thing that the owners wanted to prevent, and succeeded in preventing, by hiring a federal judge, Landis. He looked like government (and for a while, was , until he was forced to resign his judgeship). Baseball remains a law unto itself, a peculiar institution, enjoying a status as “a legal monopoly.”
 

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And they’re off! ( Paddy now pretends to be at a race track, with the newspaper rolled up like a spyglass, which he looks through while “calling” the imaginary race )  It’s Cleveland out of the gate, with Joss in the saddle!  New York two lengths back, then the Athletic filly, followed by the Dee-troit Tigers and the terrible Ty Cobb!  As they hit June, it’s the White Sox takin’ the lead, with Big Ed Walsh crackin’ his whip, which is drippin’ with spit!
 

Washin’ton and Saint Loo droppin’ back already, Boston streakin’ into the thick o’ things, jockeyed by Smoky Joe Wood!  At the turn, it’s Dee-troit, the Filly, and the Bostons!  Down the straightaway and wiltin’ in the heat of July and August, is New York, the Sox and the Naps! Into the homestretch, it’s Cobb spikin’ his nag, Connie Mack danglin’ carrots in front o’ his Filly, and Boston fades away!  It’s the Tigers … Ath-a-let-ics … Tigers … A’s … see-sawin’ all through September!  And it’s the A’s by a nose at October’s wire!  Ladies and gents, what a race!
 

            That was the main character in my play (now a musical) Mornings After , making his April prediction of the pennant race that looms ahead in 1910. He was wrong, by the way, the A’s won handily over New York, with Detroit finishing third.
 

            Horse races are over in minutes. Pennant races take six months these days. I have now followed fifty pennant races — not always closely — but I’ve only been to the track a few times. At a dinner event at my local harness racing venue, Vernon Downs, my wife and I had an enjoyable evening, wagering $20 and breaking even. Last year, at Thistledown in Cleveland, I didn’t fare as well but had a great lunch with friends. This summer, I hope to visit Saratoga for the first time. It will be hard not to look for the ghosts of Rothstein, Attell, Hal Chase and Sleepy Bill Burns. Or Johnny Loftus, on top of Man o’War.
 

            Let’s make it an Archive Tripleheader. This appeared in NOTES #38, back in October 1993, when NOTES was a rookie.
 

 

WHO YOU CALLIN’ A SEAMHEAD ?  
 

            I’ve noticed that those of us who are known in our offices or neighborhoods, or in our families, as baseball fans , attract not just presents of baseball books and shirts and whatever. No, we also attract stuff that our friends think might get a rise out of us, articles clipped from here & there, for our benefit. We are, for better or worse, magnets for baseball gems and garbage.
 

            One such item Xeroxed my way, from the October 1st USA Today sports section, is a column by Bryan Burwell. Mr Burwell’s fondest memories of October are of football. Fine. But wait, there’s no story in that. So he goes on:
 

It’s critical to note this now, with baseball’s playoffs and World Series almost upon us, and its insufferable romantics (I prefer the far more derisive term “seamheads”) preparing to leave our sports pages all ooey and gooey with so much elitist, fluffy, poetic bunk about how baseball’s championship chase ought to be the sole priority of autumn.
 

            That’s pretty much Mr Burwell’s point, I think. The rest of his column describes how he liked baseball as a kid, up until 1969, when he discovered football. “I was 14, and all I knew was I relished walking this fine line between savagery and artistry every time I picked up a football.” (Sounds sort of fluffy & poetic.)
 

            Maybe the term “seamhead” has been around a while, and is just now making it to Utica. That happens. Anyway, if you must call names, seamhead is harmless enough. But do you have to call names?
 

            If Mr Burwell had been brought up a Baptist, but discovered, let’s say, Buddhism , later in life, would he feel compelled to knock his Baptist roots? Well, maybe he would — the zeal of the convert can be intolerant and downright dangerous. I like to bring religion (and politics — the two things you’re not supposed to argue about in public) into sports, because we are allowed to argue sports ad infinitum , and occasionally ad nauseam .
 

            What is Mr Burwell doing writing about baseball anyway. Hey, you jumped ship at 14, fine . Stick to football. Build it up — don’t tear down other sports. We just don’t need intolerance!
 

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            I’m back in 2008 now for these last words. Once upon a time  — but just once — I turned apologist for baseball, and took on NASCAR. But that was satire, and perhaps Mr Burwell’s 1993 piece was, too. It doesn’t matter. “Live and let live.”  Please.