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)
#340 OCTOBER 2, 2004
FOUR SCORE AND FIVE YEARS AGO
I wonder if anyone alive today has a memory of the 1919 World Series. Not necessarily of attending it -- I mean any memory of it, anything at all. What would stick out, 85 years later? My first WS memories, draped in red, white & blue banter, are from 1957. I don't remember any details, only "former-Yankee" Lew Burdette winning three games as the Milwaukee Braves -- my team because I was a National League fan -- beat the Yankees in seven. (Burdette had pitched just two games wearing NY pinstripes in 1950, and the media played up the revenge-for-giving-up-on-me factor.)
Looking it up, I discovered that Burdette gave up just two runs in his three CG WS wins, none of them after the third inning of his first start -- 24 straight goose-eggs after that. I vaguely remembered Hank Aaron hitting HRs, and sure enough, he hit three that October. That was just two score and seven years ago. What will I remember, in another four decades? Lew who?
Of course my most memorable World Series will always be 1960, and I can probably fill a few pages with details from that event. However, my addiction the past two years to the 1919 WS and related events, has made my knowledge of that Fall Classic even greater than that of 1960. The '60 Pirates' roster is easy to name, but not the Yankees. But I think I can go thru the Reds and White Sox of 1919 pretty well, even deep into their bullpens. And I can probably nail the scores of each game in 1919 better than 1960, where I'd be close, but guessing some.
Anyway, there have been no new issues of Notes since September 13, and just two all last month. That is not exactly typical -- pennant races and the advent of the playoffs usually moves me to get busier this time of year.
But a couple of things have come up. I'm doing some follow up on a small reunion from my high school, held last June, and doing some spadework on another reunion (different crowd) next summer. E-mail is up. And I've been editing Never on Friday, adding footnotes to my book. Well, not so much adding, as moving stuff out of the mainstream into subtext. Several chapters just did not flow, they were full of tangents -- stories that might have read well as an anecdote in Notes, but which really weren't important to the main theme of the chapter. This is very time-consuming work, which I had secretly hoped I might delegate some day to an editor. I know some readers are anxious to see my book -- so am I -- but believe me, it will be a much better read, once I comb thru and remove the chaff.
Speaking of tangents, the main item in this issue might strike some readers as a colossal digression. It is fiction, and it started out as pure humor.
What I originally had in mind was imagining Eddie Cicotte on trial for his part in The Big Fix ... and his lawyer (me) springing what I called The Tooth Fairy Defense. That's right -- Eddie insists that the $10,000 under his pillow was left by the Tooth Fairy ... OK, it's a lot, but Eddie never got a dime as a kid growing up in Detroit, times were tough. The Fairy was in a generous mood. It happens.
In my story, the clever lawyer (me) pulls this off the same way the guy in Miracle on 34th Street did it. I set it up so that the kids of the judge and the prosecution are in court, and I put their dads on the spot -- is there a Tooth Fairy or not? Cut to the wide-eyed kids, each missing a front tooth, hanging on their fathers' replies. Of course there's a Tooth Fairy. Case closed, there was no conspiracy, no bribe money from gamblers and fixers. And they lived happily ever after.
My research on the Tooth Fairy (!) showed that the defense was available to the B-Sox players and their lawyers. The "legend" (there are true believers and doubters reading this) was fixed (pardon the word) in American culture long before, well, The Fix. Its roots are not easy to find -- the tradition of trading used teeth for cold cash goes back into Olde England, even to the Vikings (not the Minnesota gang -- the other Vikings.) There is no general agreement about what Tooth Fairies look like, although they are commonly small and nocturnal -- just like Abe Attell.
What follows is not my Tooth Fairy Defense. And it is fiction, I say that again because it spares me the footnotes. I have written about Eddie Cicotte here in Notes many times since issue #268, when I first stepped onto the trail of the B-Sox. There is nothing below about the Cicotte Bonus, nor about Comiskey's legendary penny-pinching ways. I think the latter is overblown, and the former a mistaken idea.
Does Eddie Cicotte need this defense? Sure he does. Let's face it, Eddie was clobbered by the press in 1920 and 1921. His affidavits for the 1924 trial never made the light of day (but they are still around -- I read them.) He died before he could tell Eliot Asinof anything. Maybe in retaliation (just kidding, Eliot), Asinof made Eddie the instigator of the Fix in Eight Men Out, motivated by the deprivation of that imaginary $10,000 bonus for winning thirty. Eddie confessed -- that sums it up for most people. I think it's more complicated. He needed me as his lawyer. I might take on more clients in the future.
DEFENDING KNUCKLES
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury: today, for the first time -- and it will be for the last time -- I rise to address you on behalf of the accused.
"You have heard testimony in this courtroom that my client, Edward Victor Cicotte, is a villain ranking somewhere just below Benedict Arnold. That he is a greedy man, willing to betray his team and teammates for ten thousand dollars. That he might even be the mastermind who came up with the idea of tossing the World Series of 1919 in the first place, and that he then recruited others to join in the scheme and slough off ball games to the opposition.
"You have heard this testimony not from reputable persons, but from gamblers and fixers, men who would say anything to deflect blame from themselves and onto those who are handy. Men like Bill Maharg, whose tale was probably paid for by a newspaper, and told to a reporter who was desperate to provide his old friend Ban Johnson with something he could pass off as evidence. I suggest that Maharg himself was greedy for the ten thousand dollar reward, and conspired with James Isaminger to concoct his story out of information that was readily available in his daily newspapers.
"Gambler and fixers -- like Bill Burns, who wagered and lost big on the Series, making him anxious to recoup his reputation, if not his losses -- he just could not face the fact that he bet on the wrong horses, so to speak. So of course he went along with Maharg and Johnson, what did he have to lose, he was promised immunity -- so was Maharg. (Never mind that it wasn't Johnson's to grant!) "Offer me a free trip from Mexico to Chicago, put me up in a fine hotel for months, and I'll go along with whatever you want me to say" -- those words could well have been Burns'.
"You have also heard testimony from so-called pillars of society, champions of what some now call our National Pastime. Men like Charles Comiskey: Commy, the Old Roman, a man who could be mayor of Chicago, maybe governor of Illinois, if he wanted that. Commy, who put together a championship team, a dynasty, for the enjoyment of millions of adoring fans. Never mind that he paid his players a fraction of their real worth. But why would Comiskey turn on his pitching staff's ace? After all, Mr Cicotte only won him two pennants in three seasons, and nearly a third. He only won close to thirty games -- twice. Why? Because Mr Cicotte had depreciated, that is one reason. His arm would fade, sooner or later, making it entirely too expensive for Mr Comiskey's tastes. Better to stop that arm before it became a minus on his chart of credits and debits. And if Mr Cicotte could be shown to have thrown the Series, even better: this would mean it wasn't Comiskey's team that lost, and it sure should not reflect on him -- no, it was a rebellious minority, an ungrateful, greedy gang, that gave the thing away.
"You have heard Mr Fullerton testify that he informed Mr Comiskey, among others, that the Series was being tampered with -- told them before the first pitch of the first game. Don't you think that if Comiskey and Johnson believed that Ed Cicotte would give less than his best in that Series, they would have never let him put on his uniform? They heard the rumors, but they also knew the man. They knew Ed Cicotte to be a loyal employee, who would never throw away his career in a scam. They sent Cicotte to the mound, despite all the rumors and despite Fullerton's warning.
"And what happened? Some have said that Ed Cicotte hit the first batter on purpose, as a signal to gamblers across the country that the fix was in. Cicotte himself has admitted that walking or hitting the first Cincinnati batsman was something he did on purpose -- but it was also something that he instantly regretted. If you carefully examine everything my client has said about his pitching performance that fateful October of 1919, you must conclude that hitting the leadoff batter was his only crime.
"But before you conclude even that, look closer. Remember that Ed Cicotte was a very superstitious person, and he admitted this freely in newspaper interviews throughout his career. He was particularly nervous about pitching "Openers" -- such as the first games of the seasons. He detailed that superstition in an interview in the spring of 1919. Yet Gleason sent him to the hill for the Opener of the 1919 World Series. There was plenty of strain on both pitchers for that game already. Cicotte himself later told how the pressure of the Series disrupted his sleep and his eating habits. But he took the mound anyway.
"And what happened? Strike one! That's right, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Strike one happened. If little Morrie Rath of the Reds had only swung and put that first pitch in play, there would have been no signal -- or no theory about a signal. Cicotte sent a message with that first pitch, all right. He told the gamblers and fixers of the world, it ain't on. Not for the ten thousand dollars he had found under his pillow the night before, not for a hundred thousand, not for a million dollars! Ed Cicotte laid that first pitch down the middle, telling every one of you here today that he could not, cannot be bought.
"That the next pitch hit Rath in the back -- also happened. My client said that he did it on purpose, and I believe he did. But the message he sent was not to gamblers and fixers, it was to his opponents on the diamond. He was simply laying claim to the inside of the plate, something not uncommon in baseball. Pitchers have been known to pitch inside early, to keep batters off balance. To show who's in charge. That's all. Nothing sinister about it, it's part of the game, part of baseball.
"And what happened after that first batter? Game One unfolded like a thousand other games. The Reds scored a run, the Sox tied it up in the next inning. The hit batsmen was erased in a matter of minutes. Then in the fourth inning, with one out and a runner on first, Cicotte made a dazzling stop of a smash up the middle, and threw to shortstop Risberg. The inning should have been over, but Risberg's throw to first was late. We know now that Risberg probably should have been home in bed, he was that sick. But this was the World Series. So the inning continued. And Ed Cicotte, who was supposed to be throwing the game, got the next batter to pop up. The inning should have been over again. But again, Risberg let the fly ball drop. Consider Ed Cicotte's state of mind at that moment. He had gotten the third out, twice. But he was not in the dugout, he was still on the mound, and with two enemy players on the bases. And with that superstition about Openers preying on his mind.
"Now Wingo, the number eight hitter, hit the first pitch into the outfield for a run-scoring single. Then the opposing pitcher, Reuther, of all people, struck a triple over short. Cicotte had every right to be hopping mad. Wingo and Reuther never should have batted that inning, and then when they did, the bottom of the Reds' lineup, the easiest outs, they both got hits. Cicotte must have been frustrated, if not blind with anger. He strained now, trying too hard -- throwing, not pitching -- and two more hits followed. Then he was finally removed, and the game went to Cincinnati. Ed Cicotte took the loss. But giving a good team like the Reds five outs per inning was what really lost this game, and that was not Ed Cicotte's doing.
"In his next start, his pitching was nearly flawless. But he lost the game anyway, 2-0, due to two errors -- errors that he made himself. But these were not intentional errors, according to my client's own testimony. And no one can prove otherwise. Was Ed Cicotte a great fielder, for whom two errors in an inning was unheard of? No. Despite his fine glovework in Game One, Eddie Cicotte was one of the game's worst fielders. On the first play in question, he made a surprisingly fine stop -- then threw wild to first. He probably should not have thrown at all, he was out of position and off balance. But in his zeal and determination to win, he took the chance and threw, and it cost him. A minute later, he made an awful play, trying to cut off a throw to home plate from the outfield. Again, with hindsight, he probably should have stayed away from the ball -- the runner on third had pulled up. But someone yelled "cut it off" and Cicotte reacted. Eddie Collins saw nothing suspicious about the error, he had seen that kind of misplay made many times before.
"No, it was only later, when some people looked back at Games One and Four through jaundiced eyes, looking for evil intentions behind every action of the players now called ' Black Sox,' that my clients' game efforts to win were twisted into acts of villainy and treason. What those people forget is that the White Sox management all knew what was going on outside the lines. Kid Gleason never would have handed Ed Cicotte the ball if he thought he would be giving less than his best. We have heard that Gleason and Cicotte argued long and loudly the night after Game One, but the Kid was obviously convinced that Ed Cicotte was on the square, because he sent him right out there for Game Four. And if he had the slightest of doubts about Game Four, Cicotte surely never would have started Game Seven. Of course, he did start Game Seven, and completed it, winning 4-1.
"Baseball, it has been said, is a game of inches. And of breaks. And of luck. But for an inch here and there, a break, a bit of luck, Eddie Cicotte could have come through the World Series of 1919 a hero, who did not allow a single earned run. Of course, that did not happen, he emerged instead with a pair of losses on his record, making him a prime suspect when charges of a Fix were made. And that is a shame.
"Did my client talk with gamblers about throwing the Series? Yes. He had admitted that, and he has surely regretted that. Was he the only one? No. We could have brought into this courtroom dozens -- no, hundreds of ballplayers, who have been propositioned by gamblers, offered sums as high as $15,000 to throw a single game -- if Red Sox catcher Lou Criger is to be believed; that's what he was offered on the eve of the very first World Series in 1903.
"Players have mingled with gamblers almost habitually, thinking it no more harmful than having a beer with a reporter. Both the gamblers and reporters were usually only after information, tips that might suggest how they should wager, or stories they might write before the next deadline. Players often wagered themselves. So did the reporters. So did everyone, including the politicians who write the laws and the policemen who enforce them. No politician ever wrote a law forbidding making a friendly bet on baseball, because they could read in the papers that the magnates running the game were betting men themselves. Gambling, taking a chance on winning a quarter or a quarter million dollars, had always been as American as apple pie.
"The eight players now called 'Black Sox' certainly did talk with gamblers before the Series. But was that a crime? No. Was it unusual? No. I dare say it would be hard to find any player on either team who did not speak to a single gambler that October, and although just one -- Edd Roush of the winning side -- has said so, we know others were approached. Cincinnati pitchers were treated with free beers by fans with money on the Sox to win, in the hopes that hungover pitchers would be less effective. We know that players who were barnstorming at the time were also betting on the Series. Would any of us be surprised if we learned today that the president of the United States had wagered with the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, over who would win in October? Of course not.
"The outlawing of ballplayers mixing with gamblers, I must remind all of you, was pronounced by Commissioner Landis in 1921. I cannot speak for my client on this, but I believe he thinks the rule a good one. Had baseball promulgated it and enforced it with strictness three years earlier ... or ten years, or from the beginning, things might have turned out differently for my client. But consider this. Knowing that consorting with gamblers was taboo, would a ballplayer still talk with a former ballplayer, which Maharg and Burns were? Would good old Sleepy Bill Burns, who travelled to the Series chatting on a train with Christy Mathewson, and who was wined and dined in Cincinnati by Comiskey's friends, the several hundred Woodland Bards -- betting men all, by the way -- would Bill Burns be seen as a nasty gambler? Or an old pal, a former teammate, a fellow still sought out by kids wanting his autograph?
"Did Ed Cicotte enter into a plot to throw the World Series of 1919? If he did, he sure had a strange was of showing it. We have examined what he did on the diamond that October -- he was clearly playing to win. He spoke with gamblers before the Series, yes, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. He said he found ten thousand dollars under his pillow before the Series -- but he also said that he was willing to give it back, with interest. It was his misfortune that he lost two games, and no one asked for the money to be returned. So he paid off his mortgage, to give his wife and kids a secure future.
"My client is not a saint. Are any of us? Has any one of us led a life free of mistakes? My client deeply regrets that he discussed the Series with men who turned out to be fixers. That he talked with a few teammates, in the privacy of the clubhouse, about how big money might be made by tipping games -- after all, the players all had heard the rumors that several previous World Series had been played under the influence of gamblers and fixers. Such talk was so common that no one took it seriously, and remember Mr Fullerton's testimony, that he found it impossible to convince anyone about what he believed to be true, that the fix was really in this time.
"So let me sum up. In an atmosphere thick with rumors of a Fix, in an October where players mingled freely with gamblers, my client received a bribe of ten thousand dollars. But he did nothing to earn it, even though he was charged with two losses in his first two World Series starts. If he had, his team -- which knew all about the plot, before the Series started -- should not have permitted him those starts. If his manager believed he was pitching to lose in Game One, he never should have started Game Four. If he threw away Game Four, there is no way he takes the mound again. But he does, and finally wins Game Seven.
"But because of those two losses, the gamblers who gave Ed Cicotte the ten thousand dollar bribe never thought of asking for it back. And so he spent it. What should he have done, given it to Comiskey? To charity? What would you do if you found a wallet with ten thousand dollars, on your way home today? You would try to return the money to its rightful owner. Ed Cicotte had no clear idea of who the owner or owners of that money was or were. Yes, he could surmise that it came from gamblers, but they were not asking for it back! They thought -- wrongly -- that he had earned that money. After all, he lost two games, and the Sox lost the Series. That's all they cared about, and to them, the ten thousand dollars was peanuts, they had pocketed hundreds of thousands. We heard testimony from Jimmy Ring, one of the pitchers for the winning side that Fall, telling how he was asked to throw a game by Hal Chase ... he refused, and reported it ... but Hal gave him some money after the game anyway. And he kept it. And his manager, representing baseball, knew all about it and never suggested that he do otherwise. That may have been the wrong thing to do, but that's the way baseball was, and it had not changed much by October 1919.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I want you to consider one more thing, before you decide the fate of Eddie Cicotte. And this is it: if my client had not stepped forward on September 28, 1920, there is a very good chance that no one today would ever know that the 1919 World Series was the object of tampering by gamblers.
In September of 1920, the White Sox were in a hot pennant race. They had won ten of eleven games, and had just three games left in the season to catch the Clevelanders. It would have been easy for my client to let the grand jury plod on another week -- remember, they had agreed not to interrupt the pennant chase by asking the White Sox players to testify. But Ed Cicotte saw his name mentioned in the newspapers. He read that someone -- probably Comiskey's arch-enemy Johnson -- told the grand jury that Comiskey held up the World Series checks of eight players, until he was sure that they had earned them. He read that Rube Benton suggested that he, Ed Cicotte, be called on to shed some light on the rumors of tampering by gamblers. My client was roused out of bed by reporters when Bill Maharg's fable made it into print, a story which again linked my client to a plot to throw the Series for $100,000. He denied it, of course. But the next morning, he voluntarily went to clear his name.
"We have heard White Sox officials claim that they sent for Cicotte, because he would be the player most likely to tell the truth. While that is flattering, the fact is that no one coerced Cicotte to come to the Sox offices and then go to the grand jury.
"And then something very peculiar happened. My client was advised by the team lawyer, Alfred Austrian. We do not know what Cicotte might have said or done, had he not met with Austrian first. We do know this for sure. Cicotte was advised to sign away his immunity, instead of to insist on it. We know he was told that the grand jury was not after players, they wanted gamblers and fixers, and if Eddie could help them with that, he might be a hero. I am only guessing here, but he may even have been advised to embellish a bit, to give the grand jury a little something extra that would help them snare the really bad guys. You know what I mean? For example, it would help them if he said that he sloughed off in the Series, served up some fat pitches and lost a few games on purpose. In other words, Eddie should tell the grand jury that he did do something to earn that ten thousand they gave him. It was all confidential, of course, no one else needed to know.
"Eddie testified, all right, he 'confessed' -- confessed that he had talked with gamblers. Received bribe money. Pitched to lose, although he later repudiated that, under oath. Eddie had been set up, his confession was in the headlines, not kept secret. Instead of being the hero who stepped forward to set the story straight about October 1919, he became the goat.
"The grand jury used the 'Black Sox scandal' to call for an end to the gambling influence on baseball. But without Cicotte, there might have been no scandal, no headlines. Just year-old rumors, which would have faded with all the rumors from the decades before.
"I will repeat: my client is no saint. He has admitted that he made a mistake by getting mixed up in a plot, a plot that fizzled before the first game of the 1919 World Series was played, because everyone knew about it. And he made a mistake by not taking the bribe money he received directly to his manager, instead of keeping it. Or did his manager tell him to keep it? Other players have testified that team officials did not want to see any bribe money or hear about it. Keeping the money probably seemed like a good idea at the time, for all of these players, but a year later, it would appear to be damning evidence.
"I will add that my client made a mistake when he followed the advice of Comiskey's lawyer, instead of seeking his own counsel. I would have advised Eddie to tell his story to the grand jury, in exchange for immunity. And to tell the whole story, including what his team knew, and when they knew it. If he did something terribly wrong, why did Comiskey give him a contract for 1920, let alone a nice raise? If he did something terribly wrong by associating with gamblers, then the major leagues ought to be closed down, and hundreds banned, not just eight or nine men scapegoated. If he was terribly wrong to step forward and break the logjam that had stalled the 1920 grand jury, then I say the line between villain and hero is too thin, and the path to the truth too treacherous for most of us.
"Eddie Cicotte made mistakes. He had admitted them, apologized for them, regretted them, and tried hard in his life ever since to make up for them. And he has done that well. His family has nothing to be ashamed of. He has to apologize for nothing he ever did in a baseball uniform. His reputation has suffered terribly because baseball was anxious to cover up the plot that fizzled. Cleaning baseball's house of the gambling menace became tangled in the politics of naming new leadership for the game, whose teams are now worth millions of dollars. Wrecking Comiskey's team was all the motive Ban Johnson needed to link as many players with the plot as he could, and then to pretend that the plot had succeeded wildly. Johnson fanned the flames that burst into the righteous fire of the 1920 grand jury, and he rekindled those blazes to make sure there was a trial the next year. Entering the scene from outside, Landis simply pronounced a verdict, ignoring all of the evidence that a real trial would have considered. His verdict was effective, but it was not fair. You have the chance today to be fair, to clear the name of Eddie Cicotte. Do the right thing, please.