The Old Ball Game: How John McGraw, Christy Mathewson, and the New York Giants Created Modern Baseball
256
The Old Ball Game: How John McGraw, Christy Mathewson, and the New York Giants Created Modern Baseball
256Paperback
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Overview
At the turn of the twentieth century, Christy Mathewson was one of baseball's first superstars. Over six feet tall, clean cut, and college educated, he didn't pitch on the Sabbath and rarely spoke an ill word about anyone. He also had one of the most devastating arms in all of baseball. New York Giants manager John McGraw, by contrast, was ferocious. The pugnacious tough guy was already a star infielder who, with the Baltimore Orioles, helped develop a new, scrappy style of baseball, with plays like the hit-and-run, the Baltimore chop, and the squeeze play. When McGraw joined the Giants in 1902, the Giants were coming off their worst season ever. Yet within three years, Mathewson clinched New York City's first World Series for McGraw's team by throwing three straight shutouts in only six days, an incredible feat that is invariably called the greatest World Series performance ever. Because of their wonderful odd-couple association, baseball had its first superstar, the Giants ascended into legend, and baseball as a national pastime bloomed.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780802142474 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Grove/Atlantic, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 03/02/2006 |
| Pages: | 256 |
| Sales rank: | 1,092,017 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x (d) |
Read an Excerpt
One
Although neither one of them ever seems to have mentioned it for posterity, John J. McGraw and Christopher Mathewson must surely have first encountered each other on the warm afternoon of Thursday, July 19, in the year 1900, at the Polo Grounds in the upper reaches of Manhattan on an occasion when, as was his wont, McGraw made an ass of himself.
Inasmuch as people at that time were more correct and less impatient than they would be a hundred years later, that summer of 1900 was taken as the last year of an old century rather than the first of a new one. For purposes of symbolism this was good, for it wouldn't be until two years later, in the genuinely new twentieth century, that McGraw and Mathewson would start to work together in New York, there to have such a profound effect upon their sport that they would raise it to a new eminence in the first city of the land, and then beyond, into Americana.
How odd it was, too, how much Mathewson and McGraw achieved together, for never were two men in sport so close to one another and yet so far apart in ilk and personality. Well, maybe that was why they were good for baseball, because they offered us both sides of the coin. Mathewson was golden, tall, and handsome, kind and educated, our beau ideal, the first allAmerican boy to emerge from the field of play, while McGraw was hardscrabble shanty Irish, a pugnacious little boss who would become the model for the classic American coacha male version of the whore with a heart of goldthe tough, flinty soandso who was fieldsmart, a man's man his players came to love despite themselves. Every American could want to be Christy Mathewson; every American could admire John J. McGraw.
Nevertheless, that midsummer's day at the Polo Grounds, when the two young men first saw each other, it was not a formal meeting. McGraw might not have even noticed Mathewson, who was what was then called a "debutante"a raw rookie, just arrived in the National League only a week or so beforehand. Still only nineteen years old, the pitcher had enjoyed an absolutely spectacular tenure at Norfolk in the Virginia League. There, in barely half a season, he had won twenty games while losing only two. The Giants had paid the princely sum of fifteen hundred dollars to purchase young Mathewson, but his initial appearance two days previous, on Tuesday, July 17, had been an abject disaster. At Washington Park in Brooklyn, against the defending champion Superbas, he was sent in to relieve Ed Doheny who, according to one unforgiving newspaper account, "hardly had the strength to get the ball to the plate." Well, to give the devil his due, it was estimated to be 110 degrees down on the diamond. Notwithstanding, the last straw for Doheny was when he allowed a Brooklyn runner to steal third "while he was collecting his thoughts and looking for a breeze."
Out went the call to bring in the "phenom" from the bull pen. Several reporters noted that Mathewson showed some speed, but alas, nothing else. In his first full inning, he gave up five runs. Altogether, in a bit more than three innings pitched, he hit three batters, threw a wild pitch, and allowed four hits while watching his woebegone teammates "go up in the air," butchering various routine chances.
The latter was, however, standard procedure for the Giants. Of special note was the third baseman, "Piano Legs" Charley Hickman, who set a season's record for errors at the hot cornerninetyonea mark in ignominy that survives to this day. But then, the NewYorks were an allaround terrible team, a "baseball menagerie," in last place with a 2343 record. Newspapers seemed to all but keep in type such headlines as: NEWYORKS BEATEN AS USUAL and SECOND CLASS BASEBALL IN HARLEM. Indeed, Mathewson had been given a choice by the Norfolk ownerwho also had offers from Philadelphia and Cincinnati for his young starand Matty had chosen New York precisely because the Giants were so weak. Indeed, so dreadful was the team that few observers could bring themselves to call such diamond pygmies Giants. More often they were referred to as the "Harlemites," in recognition of their locale, or the "Tammany Hall team" in honor of their owner, Andrew Freedman, who was an important operative in that corrupt machine. Thus, while Mathewson had correctly concluded that his chances to play would be better in New York, the Harlemites were far worse and more starcrossed than he could possibly have bargained for.
Mathewson joined them in New York after the Giants' return from a particularly disastrous western road trip. In St. Louis, one stalwart, first baseman "Dirty Jack" Doyle, had even been arrested for assaulting the umpire while the "fairminded spectators yelled 'Shame!'" The Giants were so riven with dissent that as soon as the team staggered back to New York, the manager, Buck Ewing, tendered his resignation. Freedman, the owner, thereupon chose as Ewing's successor George Davis, the very player who led the clique that had refused to give their best for Ewing. Now, as the freshfaced Mathewson arrived, much of the other half of the team quit on Davis.
Freedman himself was the most hated man in the sport, a distinction he had labored hard to achieve. Bill James, the baseball historian, refers to Freedman as "George Steinbrenner on quaaludes, with a touch of Al Capone." Nobody could work for him. Davis was his fifteenth manager in six years. Hardly any "cranks" (as fans were called till about this time) would travel up to Harlem to see Freedman's team play. Attendance at the Polo Grounds was usually referred to as a "handful." After being on the road for two weeks, only eight hundred showed up to see the team play its first game back, with Mathewson on the roster. The Tribune found even those sorts of numbers startling, calling Giant supporters "hoodwinked." So the paper's baseball reporter offered some explanation: "Many strangers find themselves in NewYork every day and some of them continue to wander up to this mismanaged institution at the Polo Grounds [where Boss] Croker unearthed 'Andy' Freedman and permitted him to get the fingers of the strangler upon the throat of professional baseball" in New York.
Welcome to the big time, Mr. Mathewson.
On July 16, the day before his debut on the mound (or the "pitcher's box," as it was more commonly referred to), when the Giants played Brooklyn, Mathewson even got to enjoy his first baseball riot. Although the World was not impressed by the imbroglio, calling it "a touch of farcecomedy," it had seemed sufficiently threatening for twentythree of New York's finest to have been called to the ballyard to protect the umpire. After all, "Dirty Jack" Doyle had been released from the St. Louis hoosegow, and you couldn't be too sure. Then, the very next day, Mathewson got shelled in his debut, where upon who should come to town but the St. Louis Cardinals. For reasons lost to antiquity, the New York sports writers enjoyed referring to the Redbird aviary as "the Terrors." Well, perhaps it was all because of their bellicose third baseman, the luminous Mr. McGraw.
Ah, there one can imagine young Christy Mathewson before the game, sneaking a peek at McGraw as he came out onto the field to warm up. He may not have been easy to spot right away. Whereas Mathewson himself was a towering sixfeettwo, McGraw was only fivefeet, sixandahalf inches tall; not for nothing would he be known as "The Little Napoleon." He was pastyfaced, too, with light blue eyes"slitty little cold, gray eyes" someone who disliked him thoughtbut as a young man he offered up almost a sweet countenance in repose. He wore his coiffure fashionably swirled on the sides in what was known then as the "fishhook effect." Not to put too fine an Irish point on it, but McGraw looked like a leprechaun without a conscience.
Probably, as Matty eyed him, "Muggsy" was horsing around with Wilbert Robinson, "Uncle Robbie," his pal and business partner from their days together in Baltimore. Still, if McGraw was hollering and razzing, as he usually was, Mathewson might not have heard him across the diamond. Muggsy didn't possess a foghorn. Rather, as his wife remembered: "John's voice was light and pitched rather high." But, she added: "It was hairpin sharp."
Mathewson, like so many young baseball players, held McGraw in awe. He had not only been one of the stars of the most glamorous team of the century, the Baltimore Orioles, but McGraw was both the soul and brains of that brazen outfit. A couple years before, as captain of his town team back in Pennsylvania, Mathewson had proudly used a stratagem that he had read that McGraw had dreamed up for the Orioles. "I worshiped him in those days," Mathewson would write years later, "little thinking that I should ever know him; and it was beyond my fondest dreams that I should ever play ball for him."
And here he wasthe fabled "Muggsy" McGrawcoming out to take batting practice on the same diamond where Mathewson cowered to the side, eyeing him. McGraw was, by then, probably the most famous athlete in America, his renown the measure of James J. Jeffries, the heavyweight champ. His fame had grown all during the Gay Nineties as he led the Orioles to three championships. He was still only twentyseven, but had already lived life full. Not only had he spent a decade playing in the majors, he had become a successful manager as well. He was, too, already widowed, and had barely escaped death himself from typhoid fever. He had played ball in Cuba"El Mono Amarillo," they called him with delight: "the Yellow Monkey"and had traveled to England and the Continent in style. On the town, where he often sallied forth, McGraw favored shirts and shoes from Cuba to go with one of his blue serge suits that every gentleman then wore all year round. He and his buddy Robinson were prominent Baltimore citizens, owners of the famous Diamond Café, where the sporting gentry of the Monumental City drank, ate, played billiards, and bowled midst handsome oak furnishings. Indeed, so successful was McGraw that when the Orioles franchise had been folded the year before, after the '99 season, he had pretty much called his own tune.
He deigned to go to St. Louis, with the portly Robinson"his avoirdupois partner"for only a oneyear contract of ten thousand dollars, the highest in the game, and an unprecedented underthetable arrangement that he and Uncle Robbie would not be bound by the game's reserve clause. That is, once the season was over, the two gentlemen proprietors of the Diamond Café would be free to sign with whomever they pleased. Some McGrawologists figured Muggsy must surely have been angling to take the St. Louis manager's job away from Oliver Wendell "Patsy" Tebeau, but McGraw laughed at that. In his own cockeyed scuffler's style, he explained: "Why, I had more scraps with Patsy than any other man. As a result, we were close friends." No, after the 1900 sojourn in St. Louis, Muggsy wanted to return to some team on the East Coastideally to a newly constituted Baltimore nine.
McGraw was still a whale of a player. In '99, even as he had also managed Baltimore, McGraw had hit .391. With St. Louis, although he was just going through the motions, he batted .344 for the 1900 season, leading off and playing third. And so here is young Christy Mathewson, in his first week in the major leagues, eyeballing the famous McGraw's every move, and in the second inningjust the second inning!Matty watches aghast as Muggsy throws a conniption fit.
Contemporary accounts don't explain what upset McGraw so. We only know that it was a decision at first base. He alone appears to have taken umbrage. Nobody could figure out why. "It was apparent that the decision was imminently correct," the Times assured its readers. Umpire Terry finally had enough, though, and ejected McGraw, a dismissal, observed the Tribune, "that seemed to dishearten the other members of the St. Louis team." Indeed, with McGraw expelled, the Giants garnered a rare victory, beating the Terrors 83. Only then, in defeat, did the losers appear to come to life again "when they applied uncalled for verbal abuse to the umpire."
Anyway, two weeks after the Polo Grounds ejection, the Giants played in St. Louis. Matty had been rocked again in Pittsburgh the week before, giving up six runs in the first inning he worked in relief. Then, in St. Louis on Saturday, August 4, Mathewson actually pitched to McGraw. Although it's unclear from the box scores exactly when he relieved "Doughnut Bill" Carrick, he came on fairly early, and since McGraw got two hits in the game, at least one and maybe both came off the debutante. St. Louis won 98. If Mathewson had any consolation, he did get his first major league hit in this game, a triple. He was always a pretty fairhitting pitcher.
But unfortunately in 1900 he wasn't much of a pitching pitcher. Manager Davis used him only three more times before the parsimonious Freedman sent Mathewson back to Norfolk so that the owner might get a refund on the deal. On the year with the Giants, Mathewson had no wins but three losses, giving up thirtyfour hits, twenty walks, and thirtytwo runs in thirtyfour innings pitched. He grew terribly homesick living alone at the Colonial Hotel, and on the road nobody in either of the team's two disputatious cliques seemed to have much time for the kid. By the end of the season Mathewson had decided that he was not good enough to make it in baseball. He considered a career in forestry or in the Presbyterian ministry, which is what his mother had in mind for him.
McGraw, too, could hardly wait for the '00 season to end. The Terrors finished tied for fifth, and as soon as the last game was played, McGraw and his advoirdupois partner were on the first train outta town, back to Baltimore, there again to greet their friends at the Diamond Café. As their railroad car crossed over the Mississippi River, Muggsy pulled down the window and he and Uncle Robbie chucked their St. Louis uniforms into the water. Already, McGraw had a pretty good idea of what other fish he would fry. By now he knew that there was going to be a second major league, titled the American, in 1901, and Baltimore was sure to get a franchise.
Meanwhile, Connie Mack, owner and manager of the new Philadelphia team in the upstart league, had heard good things about the debutante Mathewson and offered him a contract of fifteen hundred dollars. Mathewson, growing bold, asked for fifty dollars more, which Mack sent him as a cash advance. For now, forestry and preaching were put on the back burner. However, it would take a year and a half and considerable machinations more before Matty and Muggsy would be back on the field at the Polo Grounds, this time together, there soon to set the world on its ear.
Copyright © 2005 by Frank Deford. Reprinted with permission from Grove Atlantic, Inc. All rights reserved.
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Frank Deford knows more baseball and writes with more graceful good humor than any man I know.
—(Richard Ben Cramer, author of Joe DiMaggio: The Hero's Life)
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