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NOTES FROM THE SHADOWS OF COOPERSTOWN
Observations from Outside the Lines
By Two Finger Carney (carneya6@borg.com)
#298 JUNE 30, 2003
THE OTHER SIDE OF MILWAUKEE
In #296, I mentioned that I was going on a road trip, to Milwaukee, to read and research the transcripts of the 1924 trial where Joe Jackson sued his old team for back pay. I have made that trip, spending about fourteen hours with the transcripts and much more. What I discovered will force me to revise much of my book.
I will write about what the transcripts reveal in future issues of Notes. I don't want to try to put it all together here. I will say this up front, however. To date, Donald Gropman is the only person who has used the transcripts in a significant way, in the revised editions of his book Say It Ain't So, Joe! Baseball's official historian, Jerome Holtzman, has a copy of the transcripts, and refers to them in the first chapter of Baseball, Chicago Style. (See "You Can't Look It Up -- Yet" in Notes 293.)
Gropman has perhaps the most sympathetic view of Joe Jackson of any biographer I've read. Holtzman strikes me as one of Jackson's greatest antagonists. To Gropman, the transcripts exonerate Jackson; to Holtzman, they incriminate him. Having read the transcripts myself, I must wonder if Holtzman has read them at all. But Gropman may also have done the truth some disservice, by being too selective in his use, and not providing the context of some items he quotes. For example, while it is true that Comiskey stated under oath that he believed Jackson played every game to win (standing to lose over $16,000 if he lost the suit), he quickly added that the Sox did not release him for what he did on the ballfield.
Gropman includes as one of his appendices, a document prepared by Louis Hegeman, a lawyer who took Jackson's case to MLB at the request of Ted Williams. Hegeman cites the transcripts, too, and in one footnote (page 338, in the 2001 paperback Revised Second Edition) he says Hugh Fullerton also could think of nothing Jackson did wrong in the Series. But I was not able to find that, and I was looking hard, and read Fullerton's 1924 testimony several times. It is nice to think Hugh would recant his "Say it ain't so" -- but that ain't so, Fullerton was there testifying for the White Sox and his longtime friend, Comiskey.
WHAT'S IN THIS ISSUE? First, a little piece on Frank G. Menke, who wrote about the trial after it was over. You will see why my appetite for the transcripts was so whetted, when you read about Menke. Then a warm-up pitch for later essays on the transcripts -- I'll keep referring readers back to this issue to put "the Milwaukee Trial" in context. Finally, the next chapter from my first book, still unpublished.
NEXT TIME, I'll have a review of a book I read on the planes to Milwaukee -- Now I'll Tell, by Carolyn (Mrs Arnold) Rothstein. I learned this book existed from the Saratoga Public Library, not from any other book I've read on the Fix. Mrs R. wrote it in 1934, after Arnold was long gone, and yes, she does discuss the Series of 1919 and hubby's role. (I've been unable so far to track down In the Reign of Rothstein by Donald Henderson Clark; anyone have any ideas?)
More next time, too, on the transcripts. They are a dazzling new light to shine on the events of 1919-20. My sincerest thanks go to Tom Cannon for letting me visit with them, and also to David Fletcher for his assistance and company the first day. I am confident that one day, all those interested will have access to the treasure they are for baseball and American history.
TOO MUCH MENKE BUSINESS
Among the most interesting notes that I unearthed in The Seymour Collection (see last issue), were references to two columns by Frank G. Menke that appeared in The Sporting News in April 1924. When I looked up the columns myself, I found that they were the first two parts of a four-part series Menke had written for King Feature Syndicates, Inc. -- part three was promised at the end of part two, but apparently never made it. Menke was writing about the Milwaukee trial, Joe Jackson versus Comiskey, that ended two months earlier.
In his leadoff piece, April 10, Menke's credentials were listed. His photo caption read "Student of the Game," and underneath, it was noted that Menke had covered baseball for more than fifteen years. "In this series, Menke is seeking to write the truth. He has no ax to grind, no personal animus to get out of his system, but simply believes the public should know the facts and has set them down under his name." Menke believed the 1924 trial shed new light on the 1919 Fix.
Here's how the first installment begins:
WHAT MENKE CHARGES
Exactly one day after the World Series of 1919 had been played, Joe Jackson walked into the White Sox office, displayed $5,000 in cash, and informed Harry Grabiner, the club secretary, that he had been given that sum by his fellow players who had "thrown" the Series to the Reds.
Two days after the Series had been played, Charles A, Comiskey, president of the White Sox, knew the identity of the seven White Sox players who had been tools of the crooked gamblers.
Despite the knowledge which Grabiner had, and the knowledge which Comiskey had, neither man made a determined effort to ferret out the real secret of the World Series crookedness of 1919 and both of the officials permitted all of the crooked men to resume play in the White Sox lineup of 1920.
Menke writes that the "startling facts" above were established on the witness stand in the Milwaukee trial. "For some strange reason, the real findings which that trial produced, and the amazing admissions made by Comiskey and by Grabiner, were either buried in the general news stories -- or, in some way, deleted. They never found their full way into the public print."
Menke thought the trial added "an entirely new chapter" to the tale of "the crooked Series -- and its bewildering aftermath."
He goes on in the first installment to make these points:
* Comiskey completed his "bluff" by announcing the offer of a $10,000 reward for information -- after he knew the Series was crooked, who was in on the fix, and "practically all of the details."
* Comiskey admitted at the trial that he knew the identity of the crooked players two days after the Series, but made no attempt to get signed statements from them; he permitted them to play in 1920; and that he started an "'investigation' merely as a subterfuge to fall back on in case Ban Johnson's made a successful investigation."
* Ray J. Cannon proved the above "and many other wierd [sic] and strongest [strangest?] things."
The first article ends with the promise that the next chapter will detail the facts produced at the trial, and will include Jackson's own story.
The April 17 column has the headline, Menke Writes Another Chapter in White Sox Scandal Investigation. It makes these points:
* Comiskey knew the truth but "kept it covered" because it would wreck his team.
* Ban Johnson's investigators "uncovered the real truth" -- they knew who the guilty players were, and when they told Johnson, he "immediately took it to the office of the D.A. and asked for indictments." [This may not be entirely true; Johnson may have been waiting for a favorable judge (MacDonald) and D.A.; and he could not have predicted that the August 31 Cubs-Phils game would occur -- that game caused the grand jury to be convened, although perhaps the 1919 Series was the target Johnson had in mind when he (and not NL president Heydler) advised MacDonald to go ahead.]
* Comiskey admitted that he signed Jackson after he knew that he "participated in the 1919 WS spoils. Jackson ... was always the mystery player of that Series. He outbatted every man on either team ... fielded flawlessly, and played brilliant, remarkable baseball throughout." [A bit of hyperbole, methinx.] "It was, therefore, difficult for the public to believe that Jackson, in view of his remarkable record, could have played crooked baseball. Jackson's story, told on the witness stand, and which was not disproved, explains it all. It went this way."
* Jackson did not know the Series was crooked until after it was over. Lefty Williams gave the money to him, and he took it to Comiskey the next morning. Grabiner told him to take it home. In Savannah, Grabiner again directed Jackson to keep it, because "Cicotte, Williams & the others wrongfully used his name." Grabiner told Jackson he knew who the guilty players were and how much each got.
The second installment ends with this note: The third chapter detailing the facts produced at the [Milwaukee] trial, together with Jackson's defense, will appear in next week's issue of The Sporting News. But it doesn't. Why not?
Probably not for fear of a libel suit -- the trial was public record. Perhaps Judge Landis, who wanted the whole sordid episode to just go away, leaned on the Spinks to axe the series. Or perhaps the TSN editors axed it themselves. In an editorial on February 14, 1924, as the trial was ending, they wrote:
Taking up one phase of that odorous law suit of Jackson versus Comiskey, we have no patience with those people who are trying to make it appear that Jackson wasn't a blackguard after all; that possibly, while he did take part of the gambler's money, he only double-crossed them and was not a party to the actual selling out of the series.
That Jackson played wonderful ball is "all bunk." He himself has admitted that he [let up] in the pinches. Cannon has "not sought to stress Jackson's own crookedness."
It long since was resolved to make no further comment in these columns on the attitude or action or lack of action" by Commy & his associates. "That is a closed incident, and the baseball world knows the suppressed part the office end of the White Sox has played in the game since the disclosures.
TSN then argues Commy should have "tactfully" settled this case out of court. There has been no new evidence that Jackson is any less guilty than he confessed to be, and as "the inside record of his play has indicated" [to have been crooked].
Heydler is quoted as being astonished by the "tolerant and even heedless" attitude of people in attendance at the trial. TSN: public sometimes makes heroes of crooks. Magnates are lucky public is tolerant; they might have otherwise risen up against the sport in 1920, "demanding an accounting of its trustees."
TSN said the trial suggests Jackson took the money to Commy after Series and was turned away & told to shut up. TSN was surprised that Grabiner would travel to Savannah to sign Jackson, on terms "calculated to keep his mouth shut." [In fact, Jackson wanted $10,000 per year and was holding out for that; he signed for $8,000, a $2,000 raise.] Mention is made of how the Hal Chase case was handled. "Public may have gotten their tolerant attitude from the magnates themselves." Magnates "should be very glad of the [public's] lapse of memory."
So what happened to the third and fourth installments of Menke's series? What other "facts" did he try to report? To be continued ... after I read the Milwaukee trial transcripts!
THE TRIAL OF SHOELESS JOE JACKSON THAT NOBODY NOTICED
John A. Riemer, an employee of Weyenberg Shoe Company, said he sees a ball game once in a while, none last year. He read about the players being accused of tossing the 1919 World Series, but felt he could decide the Jackson case solely on the evidence.
All that John E. Sanderson knew was from the headlines he read in the papers. Mrs Rose Behling had never seen a game and never heard of the scandal. William Pohlmann never heard of Happy Felsch, a former big league outfielder who lives in Milwaukee, or the scandal.
All of the Milwaukee residents who were summoned to jury duty in the cold January of 1924 had their own stories. Nearly eighty years ago, these very ordinary ten men and two women took on the very extraordinary task of unraveling a mystery that has puzzled millions before and since the trial for which they served.
For eighteen days they listened to arguments and questions from lawyers, who were lined up either with Charles A. Comiskey, the president of the White Sox (incorporated in Wisconsin), or with a former employee of "the Old Roman," Shoeless Joe Jackson.
Jackson claimed that the Sox defrauded him when they signed him to a three-year contract before the 1920 season. He said that he never knew, until he was on trial in 1921, accused of conspiring to "throw" the 1919 World Series to the Cincinnati Reds, that the contract he signed included the usual "ten days clause," which gave the Sox the option to terminate him without showing cause, giving only ten days' notice. The clause was fairly standard, but it could be waived, as it was when Buck Weaver signed a three-year contract before the 1919 season. Jackson claimed that he was told his contract had no such clause -- told, because he could not read it himself, and his wife was not present.
If Jackson could prove in court that he had been misled about the contract, then the White Sox would need to prove that they had cause for dismissing him, as they had when he was indicted, along with seven teammates, in September 1920. The players were all tried and found not guilty in 1921, so in the eyes of the law, Jackson would be entitled to two years' back pay, unless the Sox could prove to a jury that he had done something wrong. And not necessarily on the ballfield -- if he had conspired to throw a game, that would be cause for dismissal.
The 1921 trial was a sham. Material from the grand jury which indicted the players, turned up missing. There were no laws against playing a sport at less than one's best, and conspiracy to defraud was difficult to prove. The evidence against the players amounted to testimony from underworld figures; the gamblers who showed, were all granted immunity.
Baseball's brand new Commissioner, Judge Landis, had been on record about the chances of the accused players ever putting on a uniform again. Immediately after the 1921 trial, he rendered another verdict on behalf of baseball: the eight men were out.
The Milwaukee jury had no easy task. Just a few days into the trial, Judge John J. Gregory admitted into evidence the testimony which Jackson gave to the grand jury in 1920 -- the same testimony which had vanished before the 1921 trial! And that created a problem for Jackson. Why? Because although his testimony was reported in the press as a "confession," in fact it was an ambiguous and confusing story. He admitted receiving $5,000 from his friend, pitcher Lefty Williams, but he denied doing anything to earn it. He seemed to admit some degree of complicity, but at the same time, he insisted that he played every game to win.
And no one tried to clarify things back in 1920. The lawyer who advised him before making his grand jury statement, Alfred Austrian, was Comiskey's lawyer and looking out for the team owner's interest. He made sure the illiterate Jackson signed a waiver of immunity, so what he said could, and would be used against him. He advised two other players to do the same thing, before delivering them to the grand jury. At the 1921 trial, the three players all took the stand to describe how they had been duped, and they all repudiated their 1920 statements. And then, advised by their own lawyers, they said nothing at all in 1921. (It should be noted that at least one player, Buck Weaver, wanted very much to testify his innocence at the 1921 trial, but the eight men had become joined together -- as it turned out, for all time.)
When the grand jury material surfaced from the briefcase of George Hudnall, Comiskey's defense lawyer in 1924, and when it was admitted into the trial, there was no story Jackson could tell which could not be contradicted by the earlier testimony. He was perfectly set up for a perjury charge, and that is exactly what happened at the end of the Milwaukee trial. Judge Gregory let the trial run its course, then instructed the jury, and let them retire to consider the special verdict. Then he called Jackson to the stand, said that he perjured himself -- either in 1920 or in 1924, it really didn't matter (although Judge Gregory did not believe Jackson's 1924 story) -- and sent him to jail. He was out on bond a few hours later.
In the Milwaukee trial, Jackson told the story that he told the rest of his life: that he played the Series to win, never plotted with others to throw the Series, and did not know his name was mixed up in the fix until Williams handed him the money, after the Series. Further, he had tried repeatedly to inform the White Sox about what he knew (from Williams), starting the day after the Series ended; each time he was rebuffed.
Comiskey had his own story to tell in Milwaukee. Yes, he heard about the fix the morning before the second game. He at once informed the baseball authorities about his suspicions. He knew which players' names were connected to it, a few days after the Series ended. He started up an investigation to substantiate the rumors and hearsay, but it was unsuccessful. He signed up seven of the suspected players on advice from his lawyer (all received significant raises), because he could prove nothing. When the cat was finally out of the bag, he immediately suspended the players. And wasn't it his lawyer who delivered three of them to the grand jury?
Comiskey denied sending his secretary Harry Grabiner to Savannah, to sign Jackson for 1920, with instructions to tell Jackson to keep the $5,000 he'd received. Grabiner, for his part, denied duping Jackson into signing a contract containing the ten day clause. He denied telling Jackson to keep the money.
The twelve Milwaukee jurors had to listen to descriptions of one of the most complicated schemes ever hatched. They heard from Joe Jackson and from Happy Felsch, and they heard depositions from pitchers Eddie Cicotte and Lefty Williams and other ballplayers. Cicotte and Williams had their grand jury testimony read at them, too, and they had to deal with that.
The jury heard directly from two of the key gamblers, "Sleepy Bill" Burns and Bill Maharg, who helped break open the scandal a few years earlier. They heard from reporters who had seen the games and written about them.
And they heard from Charles Comiskey, his lawyer Austrian, and from Harry Grabiner. They listened, they watched as each man spoke, trying to sort out who was credible and who was not. They did not need to sort out the whole puzzle, they were focused on just one piece: Joe Jackson.
Throughout the courtroom battle, Jackson was represented by Ray Cannon, a former ballplayer who knew the bigger picture. Baseball's "reserve clause" meant ballplayers had no leverage at all in negotiating contracts. They could accept the terms offered by their team, or find another profession, they could not go elsewhere and play. It would be decades later before Curt Flood named this system slavery, changing forever labor relations within the game.
At this trial, for the first time, there would be new light shed on what Comiskey knew and when he knew it, and exactly what he did or did not do about it. The detectives he hired would tell what they found. Hugh Fullerton, a reporter who had crusaded in vain for a full investigation after the Series, would take the stand. His vivid version of the "Say it ain't so, Joe," story, although almost certainly apocryphal, had condemned Jackson; now he would face him in court.
For the first time, Jackson's play in the World Series would be scrutinized. Jurors who may have known nothing about the fine points of hitting and fielding would be educated. And if he did play to win, did he do anything crooked off the diamond? Did he willingly lend his name to the conspiracy? Or was his name used without his permission -- ironically, a claim also made by the biggest bankroll of the underworld, Arnold Rothstein?
Finally, the jury had to weigh the testimony of handwriting experts. Did Jackson sign the 1920 contract in his car, alone with Grabiner? Or was he sitting in his house, with his wife Kate handy to read it to him and to spot that ten day clause? Just as later trials made their followers experts overnight on chains of evidence, DNA testing, or hanging chads, the Milwaukee twelve were educated about depths of furrows, nibs, line quality, steel versus fountain pens, blotting, heavier upstrokes, and did you know logwood ink is blacker?
Then the jury retired to make its call.
Ten votes out of twelve were needed for Jackson to win his case.
He got eleven. Only one juror believed Comiskey and all his men. They believed that Grabiner had fooled Jackson. They believed Jackson played every game to win. And that he did not receive the $5,000 from Williams until the Series was over. He was not in on the conspiracy. He deserved his back pay. Jury foreman Sanderson later said he personally believed that Jackson knew where the money he accepted came from. The testimony from the detective convinced him that Comiskey and the team knew Jackson had the money. "To me, this was simply a lawsuit involving breach of contract."
But someone else in the courtroom sided with the lone juror who found for Comiskey. Judge Gregory set aside the verdict of the jury. Then he scolded them. With the righteousness of the Judge who banished the eight players without hearing their side back in 1921, Gregory ruled that his opinion outweighed that of the jury.
There was a settlement later. The case would not be heard again in court. But it has been heard ever since in baseball conversation. And this will continue, even if one day Jackson and Buck Weaver are reinstated to the game. The fire ignited by the fix and the cover-up and the treatment of the eight exiled men, seems destined to burn forever.
[In issue #294, I began running DEAR PATRICK: HOT STOVE DELIVERIES FROM A FATHER TO A SON, a book I started writing in 1989 and continued for a few years, till I set it aside. Some of DEAR PATRICK has found its way into NOTES before, but never the whole thing, beginning to end. Here is Chapter 5.]
CHAPTER 5
COMING CLOSE
December 8, 1989
Dear Patrick,
No better time to talk of baseball and spring, than when the snows pile up high, and the winter winds whistle! Let me tell you about one of my most memorable springs ever.
It was 1958. I was moving on from sixth grade, and it looked like the Pirates were moving on from the cellar.
At school, my teacher, a nun (she was also the principal -- the faculty's playing manager), started to organize softball games at the lunch-hour break. What's more, she played in the games. I had normally gone home for lunch, and stayed there until I had to return; but I had to see Sister K. swing a bat!
So Mom packed me a lunch and I joined the group march from the cafeteria to the local playground. I got in the game. I don't remember where I played in the field, or if Sister K. got any long hits that day. But with time running out, and my team down by three runs, I found myself at the plate, with the bases loaded. I swung as hard as I could at the first pitch, made contact, and took off for first. Looking up, I saw the outfielders chasing it in right-center (I never saw the ball land) so I kept on running. When I rounded second, there was a shrieking committee of teammates at third, waving me, urging me on. When I got to third, the committee split their vote, some yelling "Go! Go!" and the rest "S T O P !" -- so it was up to me. I held up with a triple, score tied! The screaming must have been heard for blocks!
I was still catching my breath and dusting off my trousers, when the next batter singled cleanly up the middle, just as the bell tolled, ending the game -- perfect timing. More screaming, this time with me chiming in. The kid who drove in the winning run, my run, had come to our class not from another school, but from the "special ed" class. He also wore braces, and had taken more than his fair share of teasing.
But not that day. He and I were "heroes" -- for the day. There is no feeling quite like it. Pats on the back go a long way for a person's self-image. And not just in sixth grade.
We had tasted a dash of acceptance -- not for what we knew or didn't know or how we looked -- but for what we did, period. Nothing mainstreams like a long triple or a game-winning RBI. It was much better than winning a spelling bee. I guess sports throughout history have helped immigrants or anyone who feels like an outsider, to fit in. It's one of the best things about sports, in my opinion.
Proving yourself on the ball field was important, part of growing up. My co-hero for that day and I both went on to play again, probably to make errors and strike out in later games. But I don't remember those games, and I'll bet that he doesn't either.
But there was more going on that spring. After more years than I had lived, the Pirates finally had a winning team. The Rickey-dinks had learned how to play the game after all. The city became excited, and the crowds at Forbes Field swelled. My family did its share of clicking the turnstiles -- I went to twenty games that year (the fans' equivalent of winning twenty) and saw all seven of the other NL teams play (a fan's hitting for the cycle.)
We often saw two, three or even four games of a series -- traveling to Oakland on Friday night, then back on Saturday or Sunday (twin-bill day) for more battle against the same team. I recall seeing the contenders (Braves, Giants and Cards) more often, but free tickets to the less-exciting Phils were easy to come by, so their team became recognizable, too.
I suppose that we were able to afford all those games by packing snacks and thermos bottles, and picnic lunches for the Sunday doubleheaders -- is there a better way to pass the time between games? The concession stands then were not nearly as expensive as today's, I'm sure, but they still "cost money." Actually we hardly ever ate out, at the ballpark or at restaurants, and we all brown-bagged it for lunches at school or work (when it was too far to come home.) I first sampled cafeteria fare in college.
We bought books of general admission tickets ($1.50 each; a book of ten cost $15; what a marketing idea!), but I recall seeing a fair number of games from the closer $2.50 Reserved Section, and from box seats -- the choicest viewpoint.
I learned the advantages and disadvantages of the various vantage points. Out in the right field stands, you could keep a close eye on Roberto Clemente, the super-star right-fielder, who made basket catches (no one else did, except Willie Mays) and mastered the caroms of liners off the wall. Sometimes he'd disappear from the sight of those in the upper deck, if he backed up close to the wall for a deep fly. Then the rest of the crowd would let you know if he got it or not.
Not far away in center ranged Bill Virdon, who was a real, live "Kid Who Wore Glasses." Wire-rims, like my father and my fifth-grade teacher. Virdon was "the Quail" to Pirate fans, thanks to the KDKA announcers, who nicknamed just about everyone, including themselves.
I think the nicknames helped the fans feel closer to the players. On the far side of the Quail, in left, roamed Bob Skinner, "the Dog." The Pirates at one time had so many players nicknamed after animals that the team itself was called "the Menagerie!" Everyone feels better going by a name instead of a number, that's for sure. The nicknames went one step farther -- if you earned one, you were part of the family.
Kids flowed to those right field seats before games, to watch Clemente rehearse basket-catches and practice laser-throws to the plate. (That's what I call them today -- back then, outfielders were "rifle-armed.") He'd drift back to the warning track -- that grassless arc running pole-to-pole in the outfield which lets fielders know that they are nearing the edge of their safe world and nearing a collision -- then snag the ball and let it fly. Those rockets no doubt were also closely observed by opposing players, and kept many runners from even thinking about taking an extra base, or trying to score on a hit to Roberto. And if a batter took his time getting out of the batter's box on a hit to right, Clemente would try to nail him at first. "Arriba" was both his nickname and a personalized cheer for the stylish play of this wonderful, proud Puerto Rican.
Like kids everywhere in any era, the kids in right pleaded for baseballs, and Clemente often obliged, lobbing them over the screen or into the upper deck. They weren't autographed -- in writing -- but they sure had Roberto's mark on them. I never got close to one, but every kid felt special when number Twenty-One smiled, then went back to his work.
I associate those stands in right with "the Knot Hole Gang" -- groups of kids who seemed to appear at Saturday afternoon games -- from where, I have no idea. I think they got in for free or for cheap -- you know how the day care center you used to attend would give out free Blue Sox tickets? I never joined the Gang, but I knew something about their name: Henry, the silent, bald kid who still stars in the Sunday comic strip of the same name, often watched ball games through knotholes in the wooden outfield fences (for free). But the Forbes Knot Hole kids had seats, and lungs!
The Knotholers had a chant, for when the Pirates needed a clutch blow: "WE WANNA HIT!" If you were listening to the game on radio, their high-pitched public prayer could be heard over everything else. If you were sitting at Forbes in right, it was hard not to join in the chant. It was like they were cheering for the benefit of not just the Pirates on the field, but so every bleacherite across the way in left could hear, too.
From seats down closer to the field, you could watch the pitchers' expressions in reaction to their catchers's signals, and to the hitters' slugging -- wincing after a long hit, glowing after a strikeout or an acrobatic fielding play.
I got to see Brooklyn hurler Sal Maglie's famous sandpaper mask up close. Maglie was nicknamed "the Barber" for his close-shave pitches, not for his patronage of the trade.
The $3.00 boxes made you privy to the plate umpire's "STEEE-rike!" and the chatter of the infielders and the base coaches. Or, you could eavesdrop on the umpire-baiting from the bench jockeys in the dugouts. Sometimes you heard words that you never heard at home! And we thought they yelled only "Kill the umpire!"
Being closer to the action never helped me understand any better the sign language, activated in the dugouts by the managers or their advisors, then amplified and flashed around the diamond by the base coaches. I never cracked a sign in my life -- gave up trying to, long ago. It was an omen. Languages turned out to be my academic Achilles' heel throughout my schooling.
Watching from behind the Pirate dugout, near first base, I remember seeing Frank Robinson, then a Cincinnati outfielder, and now a successful Baltimore manager -- in between, he was elected to the Hall of Fame -- smashing a ball toward the Pirate shortstop, Dick Groat. The infielder sprang up like a basketball center trying for a tipoff (Groat had been an All-American in that sport at Duke), but in vain. To this day, I am sure that it scraped his glove, then continued to rise like a golf ball, on out to and over the left-field wall, over 400 feet away.
I saw other future 'Famers at Forbes: at the end of their careers, but still doing damage to my Bucs, Duke Snider and from nearby Donora, the man who was called simply "The Man," Stan Musial (who could forget Stan's question-mark stance?); in their prime, Milwaukee's Aaron, Mathews, Spahn and Schoendienst (I was proud that I could spell Red's last name correctly on the scorecard, without peeking at the roster list; it was an achievement right up there with spelling Wambsganss, a secondbaseman Bill like Maz, famed for his unassisted World Series triple play.)
There were 'Frisco's own "M-Boys" (the Yankees had Maris & Mantle): Mays, Marichal and McCovey; the Cubbies' Ernie Banks and Billy Williams; and I must have seen Bob Gibson and Sandy Koufax at least once, but I better remember Don Drysdale (six-foot, six-inch tall side-armers get noticed) and a fellow who won on a losing team, Robin Roberts of the Phils.
You know most of these names, or will soon, but to be honest, I was more familiar with players who will never make it to the Hall: Danny Kravitz and Roman Mejias and Ron Kline and Bennie Daniels. They were unsung Pirates that I saw more of than the visiting All-Stars. And they needed my rooting a lot more!
It was a rare treat to actually beat any of the pitchers I mentioned before. Any run scored off them was earned. Usually, if the Pirates didn't score early, the game was gone, because those guys got better in the late innings. They gave their bullpens a rest. I recall Roberts pitching tough in the last days of a season, with nothing at stake in the standings, while my mother and I rooted in vain against him from the dollar-admission bleachers in left field. Those seats were wooden planks, girded into concrete -- no backs -- with a close-up view of the opposing bullpen, and a good chance for a few foul balls during the game.
Sometimes my friends and I hung out before games by the concession stands behind home plate, by the narrow private ramp that led up to the broadcasting booths. Buc announcers were easy to recognize, as they came from or went to their pre-game on-field interviews, especially Bob Prince, who wore flamboyant sports jackets to match his personality -- they were a trademark of his. It was fun just listening to the comments his coats drew from the fans!
Jim "the Possum" Woods, his partner in banter, had white hair, trimmed close all around, in what you might call a "buzz cut" -- something like your own summer style -- and that made him recognizable, too. Paul Long had little hair at all. But there was no doubt about who was behind the mike, when the game was in progress. Their voices were distinctive, and are still vivid to me today.
It was easy to feel at home in Forbes Field. The wooden seats and the aisles were narrow, sure, but so was I then!
We put dollar bills into the hands of total strangers, who we knew would pass them along to the vendors who worked the stands, in exchange for hot dogs ("Get your RED hots, here!" -- wieners and frankfurters were eaten at home -- "WIENERS, here!" is never heard at a ball park!) or peanuts or sodas. Back along came the food, and the exact change, and no one complained -- courtesy was indeed common, the rule. Some vendors tossed the warm peanut bags directly to the purchasers -- drawing applause for their good aim, or boos for misfires.
Other vendors sold scorecards, to those who forgot to buy one on their way in (I learned to bring my own pencils, because the ones they sold had no erasers.) "Get your SCOREcard, here! Can't tell the players without a SCOREcard, here!"
I also learned to shout "Sign him up!" when a fellow fan made a nice bare-handed grab of a foul ball.
Forbes Field was easy to get to -- not one of those Pittsburgh places where "you can't get there from here." My father usually drove us, parking a good hike away. On that hike, strolling toward Sennott Street, we could first estimate the paid attendance that day -- how far would we have to walk, before the sidewalks got crowded?
Is there any place as democratic as a ball park? Presidents and celebrities may toss out the first ball or sing the anthem, but after that they are one of the crowd. Whatever "label" one may have been stuck with outside the park, has no place inside. A fan is a fan, period.
Sometimes after a game, we'd leave by the Exit Gates that opened up amidst the ivy on the outfield wall. Being on the field, looking up at the grandstand -- a thrill all by itself, even if we lost that day.
At least once, we hunted down Honus Wagner's statue, beyond those gates in Schenley Park. It was planted out there in 1955, and stood high as a two-story house, Honus swinging his bat. "Hans" had been a coal-miner himself, born right near Pittsburgh in Carnegie, and that's where he died, soon after the monument was erected. I didn't know much about Honus Wagner then. But from everything I've learned about him since, I think he stands as tall and solid as that statue, an inspiration for any youngster, then and now.
In baseball, everyone is hopeful in the Spring. Teams that finished twenty or thirty games out of first last season, are back in contention again -- everyone starts even. The Milwaukee Braves had won their first pennant in 1957, and had an awesome team -- several of them so far are Hall-of-Famers today. They were defending World Champions, too. I had rooted for them (against the Yankees) in the World Series, the previous October -- my father had bought our first color TV for that occasion (honest!) They won that Series behind the three-win pitching of Lew Burdette, who had once been a Yankee himself. Getting even can sometimes bring out the best efforts.
But as 1958 wore on, the Braves became The Enemy -- the main obstacle between the Pirates and a dream that no Pittsburgher had seriously dreamed for decades -- first place, and a pennant. Game after game, the Pirates played hard, battling from behind for a victory more often than imaginable. On into August, the dream hung on, defying all sensibility.
I retain a few images from that special revival summer. One is of a mid-August night game, with the Pirates in second-place and charging hard. I was there, with my family. The Braves were in town for a showdown series. The hometowners were sending up against the World Champs, a red-haired rookie named George "Red" Witt. Along with another rookie, Curt Raydon, Witt had appeared from nowhere and both were pitching incredibly well. They were genuine "phenoms" and they seemed as "unstoppable" as the Buccos.
That night, Witt was never more brilliant. Early in the game, the Braves' Frank Torre popped a fly ball behind shortstop. "A can of corn" -- or was it? The Pirate left-fielder, Bob Skinner, and Dick Groat converged. Skinner was a .300 hitter, but a clumsy fielder, and it was best to hold your breath when he was tracking down a hit out his way. The ball dropped, untouched; from where I sat, it looked catchable. The paper next day said Skins lost it in the lights -- that happens. After all these years, I'll not blame anyone or say more.
But that Texas-leaguer was the only hit Witt gave up all night, until with two outs in the ninth, and a 10-0 victory well in hand (an eight-run eighth nailed it down for the Bucs), Hank Aaron wristed one off the screen in right field, a meaningless double. Except that had Torre's pop been caught, Aaron may never have batted. There never was a no-hitter pitched at Forbes Field, in its sixty seasons, but the youngster Witt came close that night. After the final out, he was mobbed as if he had clinched the pennant, and the city celebrated in anticipation.
But another image of '58 also hangs with me -- it might have been from the next day, or a later series with Milwaukee. It doesn't really matter. The image is of high-kicking Warren Spahn, the Braves' ace left-handed starting pitcher -- mowing down Pirates, stopping the unstoppables, dousing the hopes of young and old alike, in professional, businesslike fashion.
The Pirates finished second, eight games behind the Braves. Witt finished something like 9-2 with an ERA well under 2.00, but injuries would prevent him from ever again pitching as masterfully as he did in 1958.
Curt Raydon won eight games in '58, but that would be his only season in the majors.
Warren Spahn would go on to record over 300 wins on his way to the Baseball Hall of Fame, in Cooperstown -- it seemed like half of them were over the Pirates!
I learned a few things that season. To give rookies their due, but not to be overly impressed with the at-bat, the game, or even the single, superb season. To respect the craft of the veterans, those who have been there before, and have proven themselves, passing the tests of time.
And to admire even an enemy's talent. I rooted for the Braves against (who else?) the Yankees, that October, but this time the Yankees won. My father's company, Allis-Chalmers, had their headquarters in Milwaukee, and somehow, someone got for us, a life-size cardboard Indian, sitting crossed-legged on a giant baseball, one of that city's downtown Series decorations. It was an unusual souvenir, that remained in our game room for years and years.
We were a Pirate family, but we didn't hold grudges. I like to think that baseball fans have hearts that can expand, almost indefinitely, even taking in The Enemy.
The final regular-season game of '58 illustrates this in a different way. I was in the stands, as the Phils completed a three-game sweep. A near-capacity crowd had turned out, to say to the Bucs, Thanks for the Memories.
Richie Ashburn got three hits that day and was cheered -- because those hits earned him a batting title. We cheered his responding under enormous pressure -- his duel with Willie Mays had dominated the sport pages, once the Braves' pennant was clinched. We had nothing against Willie.
Another Phil, Dave Philley, was also cheered -- his late-inning pinch hit was his eighth straight off the bench, setting a new record (I don't know if it still stands or not.) It was Fan Appreciation Day or Prize Day, and though the home team lost (a shame), we rooted anyway -- in appreciation.