Notes #455 — Western Swing

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

#455                                                                                                                  AUGUST 15, 2008
                                                             WESTERN SWING
 

            If you read a lot of Deadball Era baseball, you read about the “western swings” that ball clubs made, train rides to the outer edge of the baseball universe that was clustered along the eastern seaboard. “West” meant visiting Chicago , and then St Louis . And so it went, for over fifty years, last century.
 

            Then suddenly, in 1958, west was re-defined, as the Giants and Dodgers took up residence in California, and major league baseball would never be the same. I remember it well, because my rooting patterns were affected: day games from the coast now started late in the afternoons, night games around my bedtime. The morning boxes that could be trusted in the past to hold scores, which I digested slowly with breakfast, might now be empty. There was no morning TV in my house on weekdays, you just had to wait for the evening paper, or maybe run into someone who had insomnia and heard the final score. (In 1958, my Pirates were actually in a pennant race, finishing second in an eight-team league, after a tie for last the season before. Pittsburgh was on fire. Those were the days.)
 

            Since the last issue of Notes , I have made a Western Swing of sorts — to the edge of New York, a couple fungo flies away from Pennsylvania. This three-day road trip was inserted into my summer schedule sometime in the spring, but it had deep roots.
 

 

CHAUTAUQUA  [www.ciweb.org]  
 

            When I took up residence at age 28 in upstate New York in 1974 — I’ve now lived here longer than everywhere else combined! — I decided to do some scouting, and found in the public library a delightful guide, Listen for a Lonesome Drum , written around 1936 or so by (I think) Carl Carmer. He introduced me to the Loomis Gang, a kind of rural crime family that was as organized as any mafia, and that specialized, as best I can recall, in simple theft and outwitting the authorities — not exactly Robin Hood, but not quite sinister, either. Then there was the Oneida Community, a utopian experiment in Bible communism, which took up residence barely half an hour west of Utica, in 1848, and succeeded more than most religious communes, finally morphing in 1881 into a joint stock corporation, and I bet everyone has used Oneida silverware sometime in their life. “O.C.” was fascinating — and still is — and I mentioned the community here in Notes a few times [see Notes #20 in the Archive], because they played baseball , although croquet was their big sport. I’d like to someday write a play or novel with a baseball theme (of course), set in the Oneida Community.
 

            And then there was Chautauqua — in upstate, but ‘way out on the western border, and not so close to the NY Thruway that you’d jog off for a look-see. If you use baseball to get your bearings, the closest ballpark would be the Jamestown Jammers, in the NY-Penn League. My road trip took me to a Jammers game, too.
 

            The Chautauqua Institution’s rookie season was 1874. It was like spring training for Christian Sunday school teachers. Unlike the Oneida Community, where over two hundred men and women occupied a single Mansion House, the Chautauquans spread out along a lake, forming, in the words of David McCullough, “at once a summer encampment and a small town, a college campus, an arts colony, a music festival, a religious retreat.” 
 

            If you were blindfolded and transported into the center of Chautauqua, and the blindfold was removed at, say, the village square, you might think you were dreaming and in 1900. The place has the feel of a theme park — with the theme being learning — without the goofy characters and the rides. It is now ecumenical, but still known for its lectures — they are everywhere, including the amphitheater, but also in classrooms (a school on the northernmost side has been absorbed), on lawns, in churches and in halls. Susan B. Anthony lobbied for suffrage there, Franklin Roosevelt’s 1936 “I Hate War” speech was given there, and the list of well-known names can fill a page or two: Margaret Mead, Amelia Earhart, Thurgood Marshall, Kurt Vonnegut. Next summer, Ken Burns, and I think Bill Cosby.
 

            It is clear to me that (a) several days is too short a time to form opinions, so I’ll likely return; (b) apparently those who have become “Chautauquans” are happily hooked, and must return each summer, for one week or nine, or any combo. The weeks have themes, and the “special studies” (over two thousand different offerings) are spread out so that at any given time, there is more going on than you can imagine. And at any given time, you can be just as content doing nothing — strolling the green center, maybe with an ice cream cone … shopping at a pricey boutique or at a flea market (or one of the craft fairs) … swimming, boating, running, tennis (you get the idea) … the library is handy … and it ain’t a bad place to do research.
 

            But research is not why I was there. I was invited to be a guest in a course, Baseball in Literature and History: Biography and Drama , team-taught by Mark Altschuler and Erin McCarthy. I had met Mark thru a mutual friend, also a Chautauquan, who had given me a tour three weeks before my visit, when I stopped by for lunch on my way back to the shadows of Cooperstown from Pittsburgh.
 

            It turned out that the class was the last thing I did, before leaving Chautauqua on Tuesday. Before that, I sampled as much as I could: a couple lectures having nothing to do with baseball; a Monday morning radio interview with Jim Rosselle, the voice of Chautauqua, which was great fun — he had enjoyed Burying the Black Sox , and we could have talked all day; some shopping, some aimless wandering, a ride on a tram and a bus; some peeks at the amphitheater, where there was always something in rehearsal, an orchestra, a children’s troupe, a choir. Time flew.
 

TIME OUT  
 

            Almost like a play-within-a-play, on Monday afternoon I left this swirl of activity and leisure, to pay a visit to The Jackson Center — in nearby Jamestown, right on the way to the ballpark. No, it wasn’t dedicated to that Jackson — not the Shoeless One  — but to Robert H. Jackson, a country lawyer from Chautauqua County who became a Jeopardy! answer: who is the only person to serve as Solicitor General, Attorney General, and Chief Justice of the Supreme Court? Not too shabby a resume, but he did more, he was the Chief American Prosecutor at the Nuremberg Trials. See www.roberthjackson.orgfor more. The RHJ Center is an old mansion, built in 1858 (after O.C. but before the Chautauqua Institution); Jackson never lived there, but it now holds much of the stuff he left behind and recalls his legacy of justice. Unfortunately, Nuremberg was not the last time that the world needed international law and a remedy for war crimes. Nuf ced.
 

            After the tour, on to the Jammers’ game — no, make that games , the Sunday contest with the Oneonta Tigers was rained out, and in the NY-Penn League, that means a next-day twin bill, two seven-inning affairs. This was a brisk doubleheader, both teams splitting with 1-0 wins. The Jamestown park was cozy, perfect for NY-P baseball, but it took the Chautauqua gang to push the attendance over a thousand — even though the weather was OK, and the Jammers were leading their league. As parks go, I thought this one could improve its concessions with more variety, and its between-inning promotions, but maybe that’s just me. Watching kids race and the other usual tricks, even done well, doesn’t interest me much. On the plus side, we were not bombarded with loud music, and the conversation throughout the evening was easy and fun, and it will be what I remember best.
 

            Like some other parks, the Jammers offer a cookout option, under a huge canopy out beyond right field, and that’s where we had dinner, and that’s where I gave a talk on my book. We were close enough that I chose to face the field, lest my presentation be punctuated by a foul ball line drive. I have never competed with a live ball game before, I should add, and I was a bit uneasy doing this, it seemed somehow unAmerican. (I was originally to be a pre-game warmup, but that was before the rainout.) But once I got started, and began fielding questions, those feelings faded. And I ended in plenty of time for everyone to go cheer the home team thru the final innings of Game One. It was a great venue, and now I can say — like Susan B. Anthony — I have lectured under a Chautauqua tent.
 

SUMMING UP  
 

 

            McCullough again: “There is no place like it. No resort. No spa. Not anywhere else in the country, or anywhere in the world.”  I agree, although if a Foundation would be willing to send me around the world looking for a place like Chautauqua, I’m game.
 

            Chautauqua is an Institution , and as it has grown over its thirteen-and-counting decades, becoming a fixture in the lives of many people (I never saw the paid attendance figures in a box score, but thousands populate the place all summer, in overlapping shifts), it has had to deal with issues that could not have been big deals back in the 1870s: price, security, maybe parking, and I was just there a few days, so what do I know?  I was surprised that the “special studies” were not included in the price of admission to this gated community of learning. No, they are extra, costing $75 or $88 or $105 for a week, and usually $22 for a single sit-in. (One of my favorite summers was spent at Webster near St Louis, grad school, where anyone could sit in on anything — encouraging folks to experiment and sample, and to offer their own mini-courses if they wanted; that was 1972.)
 

            These days, I also lobby for price breaks for retirees, senior citizens or not. Students and kids, too.
 

            One thing I like about the big theme parks is the one-price covers all thing. Let us in, then don’t charge for the rides. If food could be in the package, even better.
 

            I think that’s something else I’d like to see at Chautauqua. Not better food, although a bunch of great upstate ethnic restaurants would spice up the campus. But better places to dine, where Chautauquans would be encouraged by the long tables, or the round tables of six or eight, or the picnic benches, or whatever , to mingle and meet each other. (SABR convention planners could think about this, too.)  Chautauquans are from all over the world, but especially coast-to-coast USA, and why not make it easier for more folks to meet strangers and turn them into friends?  Sure, it is less expensive to commute, or to live inside CHQ and prepare your meals at home, but what fun is that ? I’d build places where folks could bring their brown bags or AM coffee, then sit and mix with the crowd. Of course it’s optional. This is not, as they say, rocket science, it is simply making it easier for folks to introduce themselves, dining together.
 

            I was surprised after my first SABR convention, that every session was not taped and then made available, at least to SABR members, but perhaps to the general public, too. After all, it was impossible to take in everything that was offered — and this was the case with Chautauqua, too. I think some Chautauqua lectures are recorded, but not all are (mine wasn’t). I’m still surprised that SABR — dedicated to research and making history come alive — does not preserve as much of every convention (on tape) as possible. This just reminds me of the days when Baseball was afraid to let its games be broadcast, and later telecast, for fear that fans would stay home. In fact, the more that listen, the more that get hooked. For Chautauqua, making its sessions more available is also expanding its public education, reaching out beyond its walls, instead of hiding its light under a tent.
 

            In fact, you might wonder why SABR doesn’t arrange to have one of those ESPN channels invade its conventions, and produce a week of specials. Or why Chautauqua doesn’t team up with The Learning Channel or another educational cable network, and let its many voices be heard across the planet. I think that rather than hurting attendance, opening doors wider would increase interest and boost the numbers who want to be there in person — at Chautauqua, and at the SABR national gatherings. It’s happened elsewhere — for example, the Baseball Hall of Fame inductions once drew fairly small crowds, but now that they are televised, Cooperstown is regularly swamped. (Because these events remind me more than anything of graduations, I tend to stay away, but for my eyewitness account of one ceremony. see Notes #243 .)
 

 

BACK IN THE SHADOWS  
 

            I’m home again, but another road trip is on deck, another jaunt north to the Adirondacks, with a couple excursions from there a good possibility. So this is another “tweener” issue, squeezed in while I have access to my computer and the internet.
 

            I did just a bit more research lately, though, visiting the National Baseball Library — the place where myths go to die, located in Cooperstown, where myths often flourish.
 

            I had just a short list this time. I visited Lee Allen’s 100 Years of Baseball (Bartholomew House, 1950), which has a good summary of the B-Sox events. Allen does not mention Collyer’s Eye in this account, as he did in The American League Story (pg 94), written in 1962.
 

            I also took a gander at August “Garry” Herrmann: A Baseball Biography by William A. Cook (McFarland, 2008). Cook referred to the 1935 Fullerton Sporting News memoir and to Collyer’s Eye , but I didn’t see any reference to Burying the Black Sox ; he also had material on Cal Crim and his detectivework, but no reference to Susan Dellinger’s Red Legs and Black Sox , unless I missed it. Cook did not seem to deal with Herrmann’s little problem with the tickets, for Game Seven of the 1919 WS, which surprised me.
 

            Cook does cite Rube Benton, citing that betting commissioner Hahn, that the Sox players had visited Pittsburgh before the 1919 World Series and made some deals there, and I made a mental note to see if I could look this up in the Pittsburgh papers. The ‘Burgh is my hometown, and I’ve always taken some pride in the way the Pittsburgh gamblers covered up their trail in this mess. But I’d like to see the local coverage, especially during the 1920 grand jury, when Pittsburgh was in the news.
 

            Cook also states categorically that “Commy knew all the details” of the fix right after the series. Did he get that from a careful perusal of the huge collection of Garry Herrmann papers?  No — because they are not yet accessible, and we wonder why Cook wouldn’t wait a bit, so he could dive into that treasure trove and serve up a lot of great new nuggets. (I am anxious to dive into the new B-Sox material in Chicago right now, and as much as I want to do a sequel to Burying , it just makes sense to wait.)
 

            I was also curious about Middle Innings , edited by Dean A. Sullivan (U of Nebraska Press, 1998), to see which newspaper accounts were selected for this anthology of clippings. Good choices, I think: Fullerton’s October 10, 1919, column from the Chicago Herald & Examiner (“seven shall not return”); and the “exchange” between Baseball Magazine (FC Lane) and Fullerton, in which Hughie is clobbered for his mean-spirited muckraking, and after he is proven to be on target (when the scandal breaks), he is clobbered again . Easier to condemn than to forgive? Anyway, if you haven’t seen that slice of Fullertonia, get Middle Innings .
 

 

ALL FOR NOW, BUT NEXT TIME …  
 

            I keep putting this off, but maybe next issue I’ll include a kind of tribute to the late Eliot Asinof, sharing his correspondence with me, as well as some of my memories from our phone conversations.