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)
#346 JANUARY 9, 2005
TRIPLEHEADER
2005 seems likely to be highlighted by the publication of Never on Friday, not the first book that was born here in Notes, but probably the best yet. The publisher with whom I'm working likes the title, and so do I. Can a signed contract be far off?
But there are three other events on my 2005 calendar, some coming right up, all of which will take me away from Notes for a while. At least from writing here -- the subjects of the three events will in fact steer me back to Notes, where I tend to store my research in odd sizes and shapes.
The first event will be at the end of this month, a Regional SABR meeting in Cooperstown, on Saturday, January 29. I think it's a 10 AM start. At the suggestion of Dick Hunt, I will give a little presentation there on the discoveries I've made in my B-Sox research, with an accent on the how. How did I wind up spending a day with Eliot Asinof, or talking with the grandson of Hugh Fullerton, or with the actor who played Joe Jackson on TV in 1961? Most of the connections I've made were due to SABR members, and I don't think I can give them too much credit or say thanks, too often.
Then in March, I will travel to Tucson, Arizona, for the conference sponsored by NINE magazine. It seems like I've known about NINE forever, but a check of my old records shows that I didn't discover Bill Kirwin's publication out of Canada until 1998. I've reviewed a number of books for NINE, but I think I will always remember it best for publishing one of the most offbeat baseball essays I've ever written, "At the Hall With Rainman" -- the story of my trip to Cooperstown with mega-savant Kim Peek, a fellow Dustin Hoffman met while doing the film Rainman. That piece defied categorization, and it was great that it wound up in NINE. Last year, NINE published a long thing I wrote on Hugh Fullerton, forcing me to add "endnotes" -- something I should have done anyway.
At NINE, I will take up the challenge of summing up "How the Cover-Up of the Fix of the 1919 World Series Almost Succeeded" -- my book's current sub-title, and also the subject of Chapter Five, which takes up 93 pages (with footnotes). Early on in my B-Sox research, when I was still fascinated by the process it took to blow the cover-up (and still naive about why it was blown), I gave a short talk at a SABR Regional on this topic. Even then it was hard to be brief. There is no way to tell the whole story in a single short session -- I will simply hit the highlights, skim the rest, leave room for Q & A, and refer folks to the book.
There are some events for me scattered between March and August (a reunion, a California wedding, who knows what else?), but the next baseball event is the SABR National Convention, in Toronto, the first week in August. That's later than normal for SABR conventions, but I welcome the delay.
Ever since the panel I pulled together for SABR 34 last July in Cincinnati, I have been thinking of doing a session on "the Canadian Connection" to the B-Sox story -- Bert E. Collyer. In Cincy, I chose to focus on three men: one everybody knows, but who is usually not connected with the B-Sox Scandal; one who is usually given credit for uncovering the Fix -- but he didn't; and a fellow hardly anyone has heard of.
Ban Johnson, the founder of the AL (with a little help from his monied friends, who included Charlie Comiskey in 1900) is the guy everybody knows -- well, everybody who knows a little baseball history. Hugh Fullerton, of course, is the reporter who is often credited with revealing the Fixed Series -- except that he didn't do it, try as he might.
Neither did Bert Collyer, but his Chicago publication, Collyer's Eye, was the only publication that truly investigated the rumors of the Fix, starting right after the Series. Baseball would have us believe that Collyer's Eye never existed, because what they printed before the Fix came undone, showed how the cover-up was succeeding. And how ironic is it, that a gambling publication was more interested in cleaning up the sport -- and not just its image -- than the baseball powers were? Baseball must be made safe from the gambling menace -- so people can bet on it again, knowing the fix isn't in!
* * * * *
In this issue, just two items. First, a long look at one of the fringe characters -- or was he? Sleepy Bill Burns is surely a puzzlement in the story -- what did he know? He didn't know that the fix was off for Game Three. But what about the rest of the games?
Then a follow-up, on the City Series (in Chicago) of 1912. This first caught my eye last October, when the Red Sox swept past the Yankees, winning four straight after losing three. The Sox did that in 1912, too, embarrassing the Cubs.
How serious was the inter-city rivalry? Well, when the jury was selected for the B-Sox trial in 1921, Cub fans were politely excused from duty. That's pretty serious. Would Mets' fans be disqualified if someone from the Yankee organization went to trial today?
THOSE CRAZY OIL MEN
"Sleepy Bill" Burns is surely one of the most colorful characters in the B-Sox story (or perhaps saga is the better word for it). In 1919, Burns was 39, and had been out of the majors for seven years, having pitched for Washington in 1908-09, the White Sox (09-10), Cincinnati (10-11), the Phillies (11-12) and finally the Tigers (1912). His first and last seasons were the only ones spent with the same team. He was a travelin' man.
A lanky (6'2") switch-hitting southpaw, Burns never won more than eight games in his five summers, ending up 30-52, with a 2.69 ERA that sounds respectable, because his first two seasons it was under 2.00. He finished just over half of the 85 games which he started; he relieved in another 31. He tossed ten shutouts. He batted .197, going 48-for-244.
He shows up on the B-Sox radar screen as the plot is being hatched ... and he seemed to know everybody. Naturally, the World Series in 1919 caught his interest, he had pitched for both teams. And his oil business took him east.
His "partner" in the Fix, Bill Maharg, a former boxer-turned-automan in Philadelphia, played his first major league game for the Tigers in 1912. That was the game when Ty Cobb's teammates went on strike for the Peach, and Maharg got to play some third base (he went 0-for-1 and had two assists); the replacement players lost, 24-2, to the Athletics. Bill Burns did not pitch, but he was with the team that day in May. According to the Chicago Tribune, Burns was the last player to leave the field before the game, exiting with "the real Tigers" to the grandstand after the official lineup card was posted, with Cobb absent.
Maharg (and I thank Jacob Pomrenke for this tidbit) played in one other game, the last one of the 1916 season, making Maharg the only "scab" to make a second appearance in the majors. Maharg convinced Phils' manager Pat Moran to let him have an at bat and play a little outfield. He went 0-for-1 again. Then he returned to his real duties as chauffer for the Phils' catcher Bill Killefer (remember that name). I found one reference that has Maharg rooming in Philly with Grover Cleveland Alexander.
Deposed for the Milwaukee trial in December 1922, Maharg said that he knew Bill Burns for about fifteen years. Burns had introduced him to Cicotte and Gandil, toward the end of the 1919 season, but before the White Sox had clinched the pennant. He was accused of working with Hal Chase (and Benny Kauff) in the Fix -- but Bill Burns repeatedly testified that Chase dropped out of the picture after failing in the initial attempt to involve Rothstein. For his part, Chases said he heard about the Fix from Bill Burns, but never inhaled. Some sources have Chase simply introducing Burns to David Zelcer, a Des Moines connection.
Testifying in Milwaukee in 1924, Fullerton said that he heard of the Fix before Game One directly from Sleepy Bill Burns. Christy Mathewson may have heard of the Fix from Burns before the Series, too. They apparently were on the same train from New York to Cincinnati, and as Dewey and Acocella note, Burns had a "lack of discretion with everybody ... about fix possibilities."
Here's what Ban Johnson recalled: "It appeared that Fullerton, traveling between Chicago and Cincinnati during the series, had overheard conversations between one Billy Maharg, an auto salesman, Bill Burns, an old White Sox player, and others. Fullerton, it developed, had heard remarks made by Burns to Mayor John Galvin of Cincinnati about the games being thrown and he had written his story around that." (Bill Burns testified at the 1921 trial that he had spoken with the mayor of Cincinnati in the smoking compartment of the train he took back from Chicago after Game Five.)
In Cincinnati for the first games of the Series, Bill Burns was spotted partying with Comiskey's Woodland Bards, which included other oil men. Oh, if only he had worn a wire.
Years after the Fix, Fullerton said that even if Landis had just met with Bill Burns after the Series, "all of the facts" would have come out, months before the 1920 season started, instead of in its final days.
It was Bill Burns' telegram from Cincinnati that got Jean DuBuc and his Giants' teammates in trouble. Rube Benton caught sight of or heard about the telegram, bet on the Reds, and won some money. Benton's testimony to the 1920 grand jury opened up the can of worms that started a cascade of events, culminating with Eddie Cicotte's confirmation that the Fix was indeed in.
It would seem that Sleepy Bill Burns was in the thick of things, all right. He knew a lot. But he did not know that the Sox had decided to play Game Three to win. He and Maharg were double-crossed, and the go-betweens (between the players, and the next level of gamblers, Attell & Zelcer) lost everything when Dickie Kerr won.
Things quieted down after the Series for Bill Burns. Almost a year passed. Then in September 1920, that Chicago grand jury turned its attention to the previous October.
Bill Burns was implicated, when Benton testified that he had seen a telegram from Burns to Giants' pitcher Jean DuBuc. (Several years later, Benton noted that the Giants were in Canada when the telegram arrived, the morning of Game One, Burns advising DuBuc to bet all he could on the Reds to win. Benton said he put down $20 on Game One -- the only bet he ever made. He added that all of the players in the room saw the telegram.)
Bill Maharg had "spilled the beans" to Philly reporter James Isaminger (it's a little more complicated than that), and was asking Comiskey to forward him a $10,000 check as a reward. Bill Maharg did not know Charles Comiskey very well. Bill Burns was indicted, but was not part of the grand jury proceeding.
In fact, we may know little today about Bill Burns' role in the story -- which is still cloudy -- if the grand jury material had not been stolen, in December 1920. Without that material, and being pressed full-court by the B-Sox' dream team of lawyers, the indictments were all dropped. There would be no trial, and the rookie Commish, K.M. Landis, did not think one was needed. He had absolute authority over baseball -- why wash dirty linen in public? The players indicted were not going to play again. Some had confessed, had they not? That was good enough for Landis.
But it was not good enough for Ban Johnson. Ban was determined to have a trial. Whether it was his sense of justice (he had gone to law school), or his eagerness to publicly embarrass Charles Comiskey and drive him out of baseball -- we will never know what motivated Johnson more. Johnson had been dethroned as baseball's Czar -- he hated the pompous Landis, and he hated Comiskey for putting Landis on the throne. There would be a trial.
But Johnson needed evidence, witnesses. Billy Maharg was not enough -- the story he told Isaminger was fine, but much of it had appeared in the newspapers. He needed corroboration. He needed Sleepy Bill Burns.
Burns knew hideouts. Born in San Saba, Texas, he knew the Mexican border. He hunted and fished and camped out there all the time. Sometimes with his old pal Maharg. Johnson went to his friend Isaminger, who put him in touch with Maharg, and Johnson made him an offer he found hard to refuse: an all-expenses paid vacation to south Texas. All he had to do was find Bill Burns and talk him into testifying. Johnson was not able to grant immunity to this dynamic duo who lost their shirts on the 1919 Series -- but he could pull strings and pretty much guarantee it for them.
Apparently Maharg's trip to Texas, perhaps baseball's only version of the Stanley-Livingstone story ("Mr Burns, I presume?"), was worthy of a film starring Spencer Tracy, or at least a novel. But all we have are a few teasing details. The outcome was that Burns agreed to come north and testify. (Fred Lieb has Burns bringing "a trunkful of evidence" back to Chicago, but that is surely an exaggeration, or maybe a figure of speech. There is a story that has Ban Johnson giving Mrs Sleepy a trunk, to send to her husband-in-hiding, then tracing its route to find Bill -- but Maharg knew exactly where to go, and how many fish to catch before talking business.)
Burns fairly vanishes after the 1921 trial.
But I recently found an anecdote about Burns that took place in that special time between the Fix and its revelation. And that's why I started this little essay.
March, 1920 -- Pasadena, California. The Chicago Cubs are in spring training, the new field at Catalina Island is not quite ready. The Chicago Tribune is in a playful mood, reporting on players with rashes and baby boils and hives. Grover Alexander and "Reindeer Bill" Killifer speculate that cooties may be behind the rash. State-of-the-art technology has other players trying out the machine of a local violet ray expert. (This fellow's great grandson would later found BALCO. Well, maybe.)
The Trib also reports that the Cubs almost lost several of their stars, as well as their manager. When these four men encountered Sleepy Bill Burns the previous summer -- 1919 -- the veteran pitcher had induced them to "take a flier" in an oil lease at San Saba, Texas. They all kicked in $300, as did Burns himself.
During morning practice, a telegram from Bill Burns arrived. It said oil had been struck a few miles from their tract, and an offer of $65,000 had been made by Burns for their joint lease. Meaning their $300 investment was paying off $17,500 each. (I know, the math is off, but the Trib didn't care.)
One of the players, Fred Merkle, immediately threw off his glove and declared himself out of baseball. (Yes, this is the same Fred who was unjustly named Bonehead back in '08; he was pretty much at the end of a pretty decent career anyway.)
Catcher Bill Killefer -- also toward the end of his playing years -- agreed. $17,500 was retirement money.
Their manager Mitchell, who had also invested, talked them into sticking through the 1920 season. They all agreed, but would chip in and send a rep to Texas to look after their interests.
Ready for the Trib's punchline? "There is likely to be an explosion and some difficulty in capping the flow of nonbiblical language when the other partners in the lease discover that Killefer wrote the telegram to himself and paid the messenger boy $1 to take it out to the ball park."
The moral of the story? When players received telegrams from Bill Burns, they listened. Sometimes it got them in hot water. Sometimes they only got publicly embarrassed in the newspaper.
* * * * *
Jacob Pomrenke adds another twist to the Burns connection. Bill Burns came within one out of pitching a no-hitter -- twice. (Dave Steib suffered this fate twice in one week in September 1988, but Burns and Steib are the only pitchers to do this.) Germany Schaefer broke up his first no-no in May 1908, and the next summer, in July 1909, Otis Clymer did it to him. Jean DuBuc, the recipient of Burms' poisoned telegram in 1919, also had a no-hitter broken up -- in 1912, by Buck Weaver, at Comiskey Park.
THE COMEBACK KIDS: THE REST OF THE STORY
Back in issue #341, I rooted around in baseball history for a precedent, after the Red Sox, down 3-0 in games to the Yankees last October, came back to win four straight, and a ticket to the World Series, which they subsequently cashed in.
Here's what I wrote then:
The series that drew me to 1912 was not in St Loo or Philly, but in good old Chicago. Because in October 1912, the underdog White Sox (a near-.500 team in the regular season) fell behind in their best-of-seven to the Cubs (91-59), three games to none -- after the first two games were 0-0 and 3-3 ties -- then roared back to win four straight. A la (we can say now) the 2004 BoSox.
... One win away from glory, Chicago-style, the Cubs fell behind 3-0 (at Wrigley), tied it, fell behind again 4-3, and again tied it with a run in the 8th to send the game into extras, knotted at 4. In the 11th, the Sox plated an unanswered run, and won. The Cubs led the next game 4-3 into the eighth, but the Sox rallied for four runs and a 7-5 victory. The Cubs led the next game, 5-4, going into the ninth, at Wrigley, but the Sox scored four again and tied the series with an 8-5 win. Ed Walsh came in to toss the ninth inning for the save.
So it all came down to Game Nine, October 18. It was at Comiskey, and Ed Walsh took the hill again. The Sox scored a run in the first ... two more in the second ... eight more in the third ... then two and three, and led 16-0 after five. That was the final.
I did a little more homework on that series, but then drifted away from the subject. So here is "the rest of the story" of the original Comeback Kids, the White Sox of 1912.
The newspapers took the series seriously. It was no mere exhibition, and the names of the eligible players (24 Sox and 26 Cubs) appeared on the sports pages well in advance of the games. Pitchers were rested, just as if it was The Series. Judge W.M. Kavanaugh of Little Rock was agreed upon by both teams to represent the National Commission; someone neutral in charge.
Interest in the series ran high in the Windy City. How high? Well, the Chicago Tribune received over 5,000 phone calls a day, all between 2 and 5 PM, asking for scores. Their three girls operating the phones each handled ten calls per minute. That's six seconds per call -- pretty fast talking. Impressive, in these days of "Thank you for calling ... for the score of the Sox-Cubs game, press 1 ...."
Cub manager Frank Chance wrote a column for the series. He predicted the Cubs would triumph, despite the "hard problem" that Big Ed Walsh, the Sox' ace, presented. Three Finger Brown was injured during the regular season (knee), and didn't pitch much at the end, or during the city series, but was voted a full share of the take. He showed up, seemed to be a threat to pitch, but in the end was limited to batting practice.
In the Cubs' second victory, a record crowd, estimated at over 33,000, filled Wrigley. It was "remarkably orderly" in the park, but the fans who had ringed the outfield spilled out into the fielders' territory, and had to be repulsed by police. This was complicated because of the large number of women fans. The police, aided by players, knew how to control men, just swing clubs and bats at their legs ... but women in skirts?
When the gals noticed that they had an edge, they bolted for the infield, first one, then hundreds. Some clung to the positions they won in the grandstand by first and third base. The Tribune noted that at least the stampede cleared the outfield, so the game could proceed.
The series, which began with two ties, raked in over $110,000 in the nine games. The Sox divided up $21,000 and change, the Cubs $14,000. The National Commission's cut was $11,000. This series was compared to the very first World Series, a nine-gamer, in which Boston came back from 3-1 to beat Pittsburgh. Eddie Collins, with 15 hits in 37 AB (.405) was the batting star for the Pale Hose.
I've noted before that post-season baseball, on any level, is just fun. The season is over, but the game goes on, giving fans one more dose of action to turn into memories and arguments that will, over the hot stove, help them make it through the long, cold winter. The Cubs and Sox did not stop playing after the city series ended. The next day, they squared off in a tenth game, played for charity (the Women's Trade Union league) ... at least that's the excuse they gave. I think they just didn't want to stop.