Texas League Spitballin’

James Patrick “Snipe” Conley

Chances are you knew about spitballs long before you learned about baseball history.  Somewhere in elementary school – or maybe in preschool if you were a prodigy – you learned how to chew up wads of paper into soggy little balls which you could throw at someone else or the blackboard.  Eventually, you learned that a spitball in baseball was something altogether different…or was it?  In both cases, a spitball was something you threw, and if some snitch or authority figure saw you throw it, you were in trouble.

Given our enlightened existence in the year 2023 C.E., it is hard to believe that more than a century ago a pitcher could lavishly slather saliva on a baseball before serving it up to a hitter.  During the Deadball era, it was as socially acceptable as wetting your hand to tame a cowlick.  Ironically, it was a time when “No Spitting” signs were ubiquitous to deter the spread of tuberculosis.

Tuberculosis didn’t stop the spitball, but the Spanish Flu that swept the nation and the world after World War might have convinced the solons of organized baseball that applying saliva to a ball that was handled not just by a pitcher but by a catcher, the fielders, an umpire – and maybe a fan in the stands if the pitch was fouled off – was, as Daffy Duck once said, “unthanitary.”  And in the case of a pitcher who chewed tobacco…well, you can imagine.

And so the spitball was banned, starting with the 1920 season.  It more or less ended with the Deadball era, and there is some evidence that the main reason it was banned was to get more offense into the games.  Sure enough, batting averages and home run totals surged during the decade.

Actually, it would be more accurate to say that the pitch was phased out rather than banned.  Any pitcher who had already utilized the wet one could continue to throw it.  17 pitchers were given the grandfather clause treatment.  Some were highly successful ( e.g , HOF inductees Burleigh Grimes , Stan Coveleski , Red Faber ), others not so much.

Clearly, the grandfather clause is not something that one should apply without careful consideration.  Consider Prohibition, which went into effect more or less the same time as the spitter was prohibited.  No one suggested that brewers or distillers who had been practicing their craft for decades would be allowed to continue doing so after Prohibition.  Like the major league spitballers, they could legitimately claim that their livelihood was being taken away from them.

Famously, the last man to legally throw a spitball in a major league game was Grimes, a name Charles Dickens (who toured America and was appalled by the American custom of spitting) might have given to a blacksmith.  A four-year MLB veteran at the beginning of the 1920 season, Grimes pitched till age 40.  How long he would have lasted without his spitball is debatable.  When he retired, he had a record of 269-210 and had logged 4,180 innings.  He threw his last spitter as a member of the Pirates (he pitched for six other teams) on September 20, 1934.

Somewhat lost in the shuffle, however, were the minor league pitchers who relied on spitters.  What to do with them?  Well, as in the majors, it was OK for minor league hurlers who had relied on the spitter to continue to throw it – but only in the minor leagues.  If such a pitcher were promoted to the major leagues, he would have to park his spitball.

As in the majors, the identity of the spitball pitchers in the minors was no secret.  Perhaps the best known was right-hander James Patrick “Snipe” Conley, who spent almost all of his minor league career with the Dallas franchise of the Texas League.

Born in Cressona, Pennsylvania – coal mining country – on April 25, 1892, Conley played for an assortment of small-market minor league teams (Shenandoah, York, Pottsville) in the Keystone State.  He was good enough to get a tryout with Connie Mack’s Philadelphia A’s in 1913.

The A’s didn’t sign him (they managed to win the 1913 World Series without him) but in 1914 the opportunities for players with major league aspirations were greatly enhanced, thanks to the startup of the upstart Federal League.  With eight more teams, the number of jobs for major league players increased by 50% overnight.

The FL teams attempted to establish credibility by signing away players from National and American League teams.  Since the Federals did not honor the reserve clause that kept major league players bound to their teams they were free to sign as many players as they chose.  Of course, this meant NL and AL teams had to pay their players more to keep them from straying.  As with any other cartel, MLB did not welcome competition, particularly in Pittsburgh, Brooklyn, Chicago, and St. Louis, where major league clubs were already established.

22-year-old Snipe Conley, however, could not be accused of jumping ship.  He had not played in either of the established major leagues, so his 1914 season in the Federal League was his rookie year.  That was the year he acquired his nickname, thanks to falling victim to the old snipe-hunting prank (in short, stranding a naïve young player in a remote area) that veteran players often inflicted on rookies.

Conley’s rookie year for the Baltimore Terrapins was encouraging.  Though his record was just 4-6, he had a good ERA of 2.52 in 35 games.  A lot of the credit was due to his teammate Jack Quinn, also a native of Pennsylvania coal country.  A savvy 30-year-old veteran, Quinn won 26 games for the Terrapins in 1914.  His out pitch was the spitball – as legal in the FL as it was in the NL and AL – and he taught Conley how to throw it.  Quinn, by the way, was one of the grandfathered 17.  He played till age 49 in 1933, spitballing his way to 247 MLB victories (and 88 in the minors, where he last pitched at age 51).

Unfortunately, Conley’s sophomore season was a disappointment.  He literally got off on the wrong foot, slipping on ice and landing on his right shoulder.  He tried to compensate with a sidearm delivery but never really got over the injury.  The Terrapins released him before the season ended.  Since the Federal League folded after the season, he would have had to seek new employment anyway.

No National or American League team attempted to sign Conley.  It could have been residual resentment of the Federal League, or it could have been his injury – or both.  The Dallas franchise of the Texas League, however, took a chance on him.

Still hampered by his shoulder injury, Conley finished the 1916 season at 15-20 but was quite the workhorse with 332 innings pitched.  That season he began a long association with Dallas, where the team was known as the Giants (1916-1919), the Marines (1919), the Submarines (1920-1921), and the Steers (1922-1926) during his tenure.  That final nickname had more staying power, as the Steers were not rebranded (cringe) as the Rebels till 1938.

By 1917 Conley’s shoulder problems were over.  Conley had another workhorse season (323 innings), but the results were much better, as he led the league in wins (27) and strikeouts (171).  He tied a league record by winning 19 games in a row and also threw a no-hitter.  As a bonus, he led the team in hitting with a .309 batting average.

Typically, such a season attracts major league scouts, and that was true of Conley in 1917.  The Philadelphia Phillies made a bid for him but Dallas turned the offer down, choosing to retain him for the Texas League pennant drive.  Their faith in him was rewarded when the Dallas Giants won the Texas League championship.

Before the 1918 season, however, Dallas sold Conley’s contract to the Cincinnati Reds.  The Reds were managed by Christy Mathewson, which surely impressed Conley.  Under any circumstances, a chance to pitch for a major league team was welcome, but to do so under the guidance of the legendary Mathewson made it doubly attractive.

The results, however, were not good: a 5.27 ERA in just 13.2 innings pitched.  So Conley returned to Dallas for 100 innings and helped them win another Texas League championship.

In 1919 he resumed his workhorse ways with Dallas (308 innings pitched followed by 333 in 1920).  Though he never got a tumble from a big-league team again, Conley and his spitball had become something of a legend in the Texas League.  He was surely the face of the Dallas franchise, though that term was not around 100 years ago.  One wonders…were his fans called Snipers?

One possible factor in big-league teams’ lack of interest was Conley’s reliance on the spitball.  If a spitball pitcher like Conley failed his “audition” with the Reds, how effective could he be without the spitter?  Since Conley had played briefly for Cincinnati in 1918, it is not clear if the grandfather clause would have applied to him, since he had spent the intervening years in the minors.  The point was moot since Conley never signed another big-league contract.

In at least one instance, Conley’s reliance on the spitball worked against him.  On August 12, 1922, Conley was scheduled to face the Wichita Falls Spudders in Dallas.  The Spudders had won 24 in a row and were aiming for the league record of 27.  To enhance the Spudders’ chances, someone had accessed the game balls (nowhere near as many as today) and doctored them with a creosote compound.

When Conley gripped a ball, he got the substance on his right hand, then when he went to his mouth for saliva, the substance got on his lips and tongue, which became swollen and painful.  Call it poetic justice, irony, karma, or whatever, a man who had made his living by applying a foreign substance to the ball was victimized by someone else applying a foreign substance to the ball.

The Spudders prevailed by a 4-3 score but Dallas manager Jim Galloway filed a protest with Texas League President J. Doak Roberts.  Though there were potential suspects, the culprit was never identified.  Nevertheless, the protest was upheld and the game was ruled a forfeit, thus ending the Spudders’ win streak.  That nickname, by the way, has nothing to do with potatoes.  It is oil field terminology for someone (or a drilling rig) that has just begun to drill.

Conley won 19 games in 1923 but his career started winding down in 1924.  In mid-season 1925 he replaced Dallas manager Larry Gardner.  In 1926 he led the team to a championship with a record of 89-66.  In 1927, however, the team got off to a bad start and he was fired, but he remained with the team as a pitcher.  After winning 148 games for Dallas, it appeared his spitballing days were over.  Or were they?

In 1929 Conley remained in baseball but not in organized baseball.  Hired by the Big Lake Oil Company in the company town of Texon, he worked in the oilfields during the day and at night managed the company’s semi-pro baseball team, as well as supervised other athletic contests.

As was often the case in the oil patch, towns arose overnight around oil fields.  Texon had sprung up in the wake of the 1923 Santa Rita gusher that kick-started the Permian Basin oil industry, which is still functioning, albeit with booms and busts.  While most of the towns tended towards the wild and wooly, Texon was the exception.  Its growth was actually planned.

Conley’s Texon Oilers won the Permian Basin League nine times in ten years.  Though long past his prime, Conley occasionally took the mound and showed off his spitball for West Texas baseball fans.  One wonders how the dry West Texas atmosphere affected his ability to produce saliva.

By the end of the 1930s oil production was waning in Texon and the town was in decline.  The Oilers team disbanded but Conley was still not finished with the spitball.

Conley’s duties in Texon had kept him in shape, so he was still at his playing weight of 179 pounds.  Appearing at minor league Old-Timers games, he was head and shoulders above his peers.  George Schepps, who had purchased the Dallas Texas League franchise in 1938, took note of Conley’s proficiency and signed him to a contract in 1941.

At age 49, Conley pitched a complete game victory against the San Antonio Missions.  A second start, against the Shreveport Sports, was less successful.  Interestingly, he was pitted against another middle-aged spitballer, 47-year-old Oscar Tuero, who had been toiling in the minor leagues and the Cuban Winter League after his brief major league career ended in 1920.

Tuero didn’t make it out of the first inning but Conley lasted till the fifth.  The experience taught him that he just didn’t have the stamina to pitch competitively. Remember, in 1941 a starter was expected to go the distance so long as he was effective.  A quality start was a complete game victory.  So Conley retired again, this time for good.

Conley’s two appearances in 1941 were more than just a footnote to his career.  Since he had a long track record as a minor league spitballer, the grandfather clause still applied to him.  He was certainly not the last man to throw a spitball in organized baseball – but he was the last man to throw one legally.

You may not have heard of Snipe Conley before now, but his legend lived on in Texas long after he died (1978).  He was inducted into the Texas Sports Hall of Fame in 1973 and the Texas League Hall of Fame in 2010.

Conley built a long career on what one might call spit-and-polish strategy.  First, spit on the ball, then polish off the hitter.  Today that strategy is as outmoded as a cavalry charge, but in its day it got the job done.  Unsanitary, to be sure; but just like every other dirty job, some people not only made a living from it, they excelled at it.