Notes from the Shadows of Cooperstown
Observations From Outside the Lines |
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NOTES FROM THE SHADOWS OF COOPERSTOWN
Observations from Outside the Lines
By Two Finger Carney (carneya6@borg.com)
#318 DECEMBER 13, 2003
A CHRISTMAS STORY?
For a second straight issue, Notes has a question for its title. The short answer this time around is, "Not really." But let's explore the idea anyway.
In this issue I conclude (for now, anyway) the tale of fiction I began with #314, The Day That Shook Baseball. I've composed an introduction, and that's below, followed by the final four segments. The Day is, of course, September 28, 1920.
On the surface, the story of ballplayers conspiring with gamblers, a massive cover-up, and a sensational undoing of the "crime" nearly a year later, seems unrelated to the holiday at hand. But I cannot help thinking of the notorious Scrooge, when I examine the root causes of the Fix, and the main characters in the cover-up, and the slimy folks doing the spin as things came undone. Others may prefer to liken Charles Comiskey to the Grinch.
When we visit the end of the deadball days, we see the ghosts of Baseball Past. They seem happy enough, to be away from the sweaty factories, the dangerous mines, the hard life carried on by most Americans, in the wake of a devastating World War and a flu pandemic that took even more lives; away from strikes and race riots, rising crime and sinking morals (good grief, people were dancing now, and smoking -- even women! -- and just look at what they wear at the beach!) The Roaring Twenties was swinging its bats in the nation's on deck circle in 1919, and they arrived with the swagger of the Bambino himself.
But a closer look at things showed baseball as a business that was growing rich, making millionaires of a comparatively small number of owners (the "magnates"), while the workers who drew in the fans took what they could get. These men were a dime a dozen, expendable, they could be crushed in a second, and none of them could challenge the rules. Not even Babe Ruth, who found out that all his fortune and fame could be snuffed out by a few words of a white-haired Commissioner who ruled with an iron fist.
The story of the Fix and cover-up should no more have been summed up as "Eight Men Out" as Watergate could go down in history as "Five Burglars Caught." What happened on September 28, 1920, is that Baseball lost its image of the clean, pure, all-American and un-fixable sport (that was absolutely safe to bet on). But at the same time, Baseball instantly spun a new myth, that this little problem of October 1919 was awful, all right, but hey, look -- we found out, tossed the culprits out of the game, and all is right with the world again!
There would be no real investigation, one that would uncover as many ties between the gambling world and baseball's owners, as between the fixers and players. Sirens would blare, drums would bang and the righteous would parade as the Chicago Eight went to trial, on their way out the door. But all others suspected of corruption would be silently let go, leaving by the back door at night. If they were superstars, like Cobb or Speaker, allowances would be made. Eight men are out, that's all you need to know, America. Happy days are here again.
Trying to bring to light what might be called "the awful truth" about the events of 1919-21, without piling on Commy or putting Jackson on a bronze pedestal, has given me hope that someday, the rest of the story will be told. I sure don't know the whole story with all the details. But I hope that what I have learned, will move and help others to find out more, looking places I haven't, and discovering documents along the way -- more pieces of the giant puzzle that has been coming together for over eight decades.
In each of those decades, there have been a few people who kept digging for new pieces. There was a time when I thought Eight Men Out was the first thing written about the Fix, but dozens or hundreds of articles preceded it. And more followed, along with books, and films, and videos, and web sites. There is no end in sight. The only way the full story will never come to light, is if everybody quits digging. I don't see that happening.
So yes -- maybe this is a Christmas story, if it inspires that kind of hope about things. 1919 was not much different than today, there were wars, drugs, corporate greed and corruption, individual greed and corruption, politics, music, a media that put spin on stories (newspapers dominated then as TV does today), and Americans loved to read about sex and scandals, with good guys winning and bad guys losing. It just was as easy to be cynical then as it is now, and just as hard to be optimistic while working to make things better.
One of the best sermons that I ever read (it was Paul Tillich's, I believe), said the mystery of Christmas is the mystery of a child. As a parent who has seen two children grow from helpless infants to adulthood, that image means more to me now than when I first read it. The story of the Fix is in no way religious, of course, but it is truly a mystery. One of the great riddles in all of history, if you ask me. The more we learn, the more humble we become, because we have also learned that there is so much yet to be learned. To say we know what happened, is to appear foolish, like someone predicting the way an infant will turn out, two or three decades later. Better to say we know more today, than yesterday. And with some luck, more tomorrow.
INTRODUCTION
THE DAY THAT SHOOK BASEBALL
In any telling of baseball's long and storied history is a dark chapter that has been called "the Black Sox Scandal." Prior to the 1919 World Series, ballplayers and gamblers plotted to assure that the Cincinnati Reds would defeat the heavily-favored Chicago White Sox. When the odds plummeted before Game One, rumors of a "fix" began, and they swelled when the Reds took the Series, five games to three. That there was a plot, and that money was given to some of the players, is certain. Little else is. Baseball conducted no real investigation into the rumors. Almost a year passed before, during a Chicago grand jury hearing that was convened to investigate allegations of a smaller fix in a different league, the public learned of the plot and the payoffs.
History suggests that on September 28, 1920, Eddie Cicotte, the Sox' ace pitcher, confessed to the fix, and that star outfielder Joe Jackson followed on his heels with his own confession. The papers the next day reported how the players let up in the clutch, just poked at the ball, were careless in the field. However, the grand jury testimony that has survived does not contain those statements, leading many to conclude that they were constructed by reporters to accompany their stories that eight ballplayers had been indicted. That Joe Jackson was asked to "Say it ain't so, Joe!" is extremely doubtful, and few who have researched the events believe it ever happened. But the story and words live on today, and are familiar to many who never heard of "the Black Sox."
What follows is a fictional account of the events of September 28, 1920. An attempt was made to base this account as much as possible on what is known today about those events.
PART I -- see NOTES #314
PARTS II & III -- see NOTES #315
PARTS IV, V, & VI -- see NOTES #316
PART VII -- see NOTES #317
PARTS VIII thru XI -- see BELOW
VIII
Harry Brigham, the grand jury foreman, listened carefully to Joe Jackson's slurred, confusing and contradictory testimony. Eddie Cicotte had been a disappointing witness earlier, and now it looked like the grand jury was getting bogged down again. Cicotte only grudgingly confirmed Maharg's version of things, and added no new names to the list of gamblers the hearings was hoping to build. He refused to implicate Arnold Rothstein, and Jackson could not even recall any Jewish names among the gamblers. In fact, regarding the fixers, Jackson was useless, saying only that he bumped into Bill Burns before the first game, but said nothing in regard to any games being tossed.
Cicotte had thrown himself on the mercy of the court, repeating over and over how he needed the money, how he was underpaid and insecure in his job, a sore muscle away from a trip to the minors, or to the junk heap of used-up ballplayers. He wept openly when he spoke of his family. And curiously, while he regretted plotting to fix the Series, he also suggested that he pitched to win, that his conscience was pricked after he hit the leadoff batter in game one. Was there a fix or not? Yes, he was mixed up in something, all right, but if he pitched to win -- ?
Cicotte confirmed the eight players' names, the ones that were linked together in the newspaper leaks a few days ago. But he didn't say that all eight had agreed to the fix, that all eight attended the planning meetings, that all eight received at least some money from the gamblers, or that he was certain about the eight names! He said he thought Jackson was in on it because Gandil told the gamblers he had both Jackson and Weaver, but Eddie never heard that from that pair, and recalled how both players hit and fielded well last October. He added only that Lefty Williams seemed to be speaking for Jackson in the mess, but Lefty was vague, never convincing -- Cicotte couldn't tell if Lefty was covering up for his pal, or uncertain himself.
Now Jackson was rambling on, making less sense than Cicotte. First he says that he was in on things, but he seems to know next to nothing about whether any games were actually thrown. Sometimes he seems to be speaking as if trying to convince an audience of gamblers that he really did earn the $5,000 he took, then he goes to to say he played every game to win, at bat and in the field. He gave his best, but his team lost, so he felt guilty that he couldn't have done better, turned around a game or two.
Jackson stepped down from the stand. Brigham shook his head. Judge McDonald called him over and seemed to reprimand him for coming to the courthouse so obviously under the influence. Brigham heard Jackson apologize, then McDonald invited him to come back tomorrow, to talk to him again when he was sober.
Harry Brigham came to the conclusion that Jackson really did give his best effort in the Series. Jackson never admitted that he threw the Series, or any single game, not under the harshest questioning. No, taken all together, Jackson had testified that he was making his best effort last October. He even told the grand jury that he wanted to come to Chicago last fall, when Comiskey was offering a reward for information. Jackson wanted to show him the $5,000, the same $5,000 he said he'd shown Grabiner before he left Chicago after the Series ... wanted to tell the team that he got it from Lefty Williams, that something was not right, but he just didn't know who had sold out, didn't know the gamblers, didn't know if he would endanger his life and that of his wife if he gave the money back, didn't know that he could, didn't know if he should, and the team wasn't telling him to do that, they said keep it.
As the bailiffs helped Jackson out the door, Harry Brigham felt sorry for Jackson. He was such a simple man, a beautiful ballplayer. He couldn't play crooked if he wanted, didn't know how. But here he was, up to his eyebrows in this crap, and that $5,000 he took would probably end his career.
IX
Outside the Cook County courthouse, reporters swarmed as Joe Jackson was hustled through their ranks. The bailiffs and several policemen carved a path to the waiting taxi, then Jackson was gone. The only thing anyone could make out, as he got into the cab, was, "Boys, I just got a big load off my chest."
What did that mean? He must have confessed, like Cicotte! The reporters huddled in groups of three and four, men from the wire services with the New Yorkers, six or seven different Chicago papers represented by the beat writers, as well as sports editors, columnists, and even the investigators who usually dug up crimes for those headlines that sold the papers.
When the members of the grand jury followed, they were pummelled with questions. What did he say? Was he in on the fix? Harry Brigham chased them off. "Boys, you know we can't say a word to you, that chamber is sealed. But I will tell you this, what we heard today gives us enough evidence to hand up indictments."
Indictments! The pencils were churning now as the babble moved toward the bank of telephones, or the telegraph station down the block, or to the line of waiting taxis. A group descended on Comiskey Park, where they were handed a prepared statement. Comiskey had suspended eight ballplayers. Jackson must have confessed -- he's one of them. Of course, Comiskey had known about these eight players for nearly a year, he'd withheld their checks after the Series, these same eight. Never mind that he had since concluded that a couple of them were not in on the Fix, except in the minds of the gamblers who thought they were. Eight were indicted, eight must be suspended. Austrian had advised Commy to do it that way. "If you fail to suspend even one of the eight, it will look like we knew there was a fix all along, and could have suspended the players last October. This way, it looks like we just learned about it, and responded swiftly and fairly."
The new guy on the local Herald and Examiner was no Hugh Fullerton, and all year had struggled to fill that legendary writer's shoes. Fullerton had tried to blow the whistle last October, but failed, and left Chicago for New York soon after. There, he continued to prod the baseball owners into conducting a real investigation of the strangling ties gambling had on baseball.
Now the rookie writer had his chance. He would write about the events of the day in such a way that everyone could see what happened and how baseball had been changed forever. He would put a few words in Joe Jackson's mouth to get this message across. As he waited outside the grand jury room, he listened to some kids talking about their hero, Shoeless Joe.
"I heard that Cicotte spilled the beans about them World Series games last year being crooked."
"Yeah, but Jackson will set things straight. You watch, he'll tell them that Eddie got it all wrong."
But the grand jury handed up indictments! So Jackson must have confirmed the fix. The reporter sketched on his pad a scene which would be in tomorrow's paper, and be amplified the day after by no less than New York's Hugh Fullerton, who would embellish as if he was in pursuit of a Pulitzer, with a gush of "I told you so" dripping from every paragraph.
The reporter imagined one little urchin reaching out of the crowd as Joe Jackson emerged from the grand jury. Tugging at his hero's coat sleeve, he looked up and asked, "It ain't true, is it Joe?" "Yes, kid, I'm afraid it is," Jackson replied. "Well, I'd never have thought it," exclaimed the boy -- speaking for a nation that had just shed its innocence. It was perfect. Let the other reporters make up quotes about how Jackson was involved. This was what his editor wanted. Another conspiracy uncovered, American youth disillusioned -- but they will survive, and never be fooled again.
X
Charles Comiskey, his son, Harry Grabiner, and Kid Gleason began working the phones as soon as Austrian gave them the word that Jackson had disappeared behind the grand jury door.
Each of them knew editors and reporters on each of Chicago's seven daily papers, as well as some of the wire service writers and the New Yorkers who showed up when Yankees of Babe Ruth or the Giants of John McGraw were in town. The decision was made, no matter what Jackson said in that closed session, his team was putting out the word that he was confessing. The White Sox were in spin control mode now, long before the phrase was coined, and they were experienced, and good at it. Very good.
"Sure we had our suspicions, we all heard the rumors before the Series started," Comiskey blustered to the managing editor of the Tribune. "But we had no evidence, nothing hard, nothing that we could take to court. As you know, I offered a reward and got nothing, no takers at all. My detectives found nothing. I tell you now, I wish they had, we'd never have hired them back."
"Yes, most of them got nice raises," explained Harry Grabiner to the AP reporter. "Well, if the rumors were true, we didn't want our boys to be vulnerable to preying gamblers ... and the team did well, attendance was up ... and we had to offer them contracts by February 1 or other teams could hire them away from us. We were stuck ... we had some doubts, but without proof ...."
"Sure I talked to them about it," Kid Gleason whispered to his friend on the Philadelphia newspaper. "Listen, I really don't want to go on record, so don't say you got this from me. But I think Cicotte and Jackson are going to bust this can 'o worms open today ... yeah, they talked with the team first ... sure they got legal advice, the best ... no, don't know nuthin' 'bout no immunity ... yeah, I think you can run with this ... they're confessing as we speak ... yeah, that's what I understand, there was eight of 'em in on it ... of course I'd have benched them all if i was sure about it back then -- only I wasn't see ... dammit, I just wasn't sure enough ... it was a World Series, for Chrissake!"
XI
Joe Jackson and Lefty Williams ordered their dinner from the room service menu, to avoid the press. Jackson's head had cleared some. Lefty was scared.
"What was it like, Joe? Did they ask a lot of questions?"
"Sure 'nuf did. Tried to trick me up some, too, but I stuck to my guns ... most of the times, anyways. I thought all the questions were going to be about the gamblers ... that's what I was led to believe, goin' in ... 'They want the fixers, Joe, not the ballplayers ... you'll be heroes.' Shit, they ain't no heroes in this mess. I seen a few lynch mobs in my day, and those boys with their pads and pens flyin' outside the courthouse was just a mob ... Eddie an' me will be strung up to hang in their newspapers, you wait 'an see."
"Hell, I ain't a-gonna talk to them slickers tomorrow, Joe. I ain't no good talkin' in front o' crowds, you know that."
The phone rang. Lefty answered it. "It's Mr Austrian, the team lawyer," Lefty said to Joe, his hand covering the mouthpiece. "Yep, we're both here, sir. What's up?"
Joe could hear the lawyer's voice slither out of the phone so he could just barely make out the words.
"Lefty, I think you ought to talk to the grand jury tomorrow. I'm saying the same thing to all the others involved. Trust me, if you can give them something, they give you a break. If you don't cooperate, they'll come down hard on you."
"Joe said they peppered him with a hunnert questions in there. I can't take that. I'm no good with words."
"Maybe you won't need to be, Lefty. I believe if you can just tell your story to me ... look, I know all the judges and lawyers at the courthouse. Why not see me tomorrow morning, I'll listen to your story, and tell you what might help you. But you don't want to answer questions, I think they'll respect that. I can rehearse some with you, then we'll have my secretary come in, and I'll ask the questions, easy like, and you can take all the time you want to answer. We'll type up all your answers and then take them to the grand jury."
"I still have to go there?"
"Yes, but I'm sure I can arrange it so you won't need to say anything more than your name and address. Then you'll swear that the questions and answers we present are yours, and that will be it."
"Well ... that sounds better. Long's I don't have to be grilled. Say, what's the idea of them talkin' so much to Joe about what he did crooked in the Series? You must know that he wasn't layin' down. You told him they wanted the fixers."
"And they do, Lefty. Believe me, no one was more surprised than me when they turned on Joe like that. I think it was that judge, he seemed to take Cicotte's word on things. But I won't let that happen to you, Lefty. You'll just answer my questions, and then we drop them off for Judge McDonald. OK?"
"I guess so," Lefty mumbled, hanging up.
"Joe, did you hear all that?"
"Yup. Wisht Mr Austrian did that fur me today."
"You gonna see that judge tomorrow, Joe?"
"Don't know yet." Jackson poured himself a tall glass of bourbon. He sipped from it, then from his glass of water. The day was fading fast for Jackson now. Lefty would be in bed and asleep before Joe took his last sip. He had lost track of the time. The noise in the street below subsided to a dull murmur. Jackson looked at the phone. All evening, he had hoped it would ring, and his wife Kate would be there, to help him sort this out. All evening, he wanted to call Kate, so she would know he wasn't in jail. But she would ask if he was OK, and he was far from OK. Kate could tell if he drank too much, too. So while he longed to hear her soothing voice, he also feared its edge, which would cut through his excuses. And while he was often on the verge of dialing her up, he dreaded the conversation he knew they would have.
Jackson turned out the light. He undressed in the dark, got into bed, took a final swig, and took the phone off the hook. He would sleep in late tomorrow. Too late to meet with the judge. Too late to set straight the stories in the newspapers, stories he couldn't read, stories which would seal his fate. It had been a long day. He dreamed he was on a ballfield, in a game, not a clock in sight, and the game would go on forever.
NOT A CHRISTMAS STORY EITHER, BUT ...
I'm including it here anyway, in the holiday spirit of giving you a chuckle or two (I hope) ... this story is reprinted exactly as it appeared in NOTES #13, May 9, 1993. When I met W.P. Kinsella, the author of Shoeless Joe (the basis for Field of Dreams), I gave him a copy, in case he needed an idea for a sequel. Inexplicably, I never heard from him. Anyway, here is an early appearance of Shoeless Joe Jackson in my fiction, one which might be more accurate than the one above!
FIELD OF CRACKERJACK
When I bought his farm, Mr Kinsella said the light poles out near the cornfield was in case the weather made you work after dark, gettin' in the crops. He had no explanation for the clearing, which was mostly grass and skinned dirt. I guess I shouldda been suspicious at the enormity of the electric bills, and at his big grin, after I signed the contract.
First day there by myself, I noticed some white sacks scattered about the clearing, and lots of pock-marks in the dirt. Didn't think much of it, just hauled away the sacks and started diggin' rows to plant some beans and carrots.
Well that second day, when I went out, those sacks were back, and someone had dragged out some wooden bleachers from the barn and set it out in the clearing! My vegetable rows was all kicked to hell and smoothed over, and there was more pock-marks all over. I was thinkin' UFO at this point, sharp-toed, shoeless aliens who came out after dark.
Third night was the kicker. I was sound asleep when I heerd a crash downstairs. When I got up to check, I saw the lights on those big poles was on, and the clearing was full of men running around dressed up like old-time ballplayers! One of 'em had smacked a horsehide through my living room window, y'see, and was on his way up to apologize or pay for it, I 'spozed.
"Sorry 'bout the glass, friend," he said. "Mr Kinsella hung a screen over that windee after we busted it fer the third time. Now's four."
"Who are you fellers, what are you doin' on my farm, and how come you're not wearin' shoes like t'others?" I asked, politely, 'cause this gent was carryin' a large black bat.
"Didn't Mr Kinsella tell ya? We live just beyond that corn, and we play ball here all the time. Not many day games when it's as hot as it's been lately. You're more'n welcome to join us."
"Look, I don't know what kind of understandin' you boys had with Mr Kinsella, but the papers I signed said nothin' about permittin' games in my garden. And what about liability?"
"All's we do is play ball, friend, no one gets hurt. Mr Kinsella had this deal, see. We agreed to come, if he built this field."
"You mean ... if I plow, you will go?"
"Reckon we'd have to." He spat with resignation.
"Well then, friend, you-all play a doubleheader tonight, because tomorrow this field is Tractor City."
As I watched them play out their final innings, I couldn't help but wonder who they really were, and why they played here, when there was a brand-new stadium in town.
Later that summer, long after my field was reclaimed, I noticed something odd. I swore I planted carrots and beans, but when the sprouts came up, all I had growing there was peanuts, and some kind of popcorn that was sticky and brown.