Baseball Hall of Shame™

by Bruce Nash

  For some strange reason, they unmercifully harassed Dykes, who was a Philadelphia native. It wasn’t like Dykes was a bad fielder or hitter. He made only 11 errors in 152 games and batted .265 for the 1932 season.

  But from their seats, Bull and Eddie loudly debated Dykes’s ability on the field and questioned the circumstances of his birth for all to hear. Their nonstop slams made Dykes dread homestands.

  Whenever he couldn’t reach a grounder, the Kesslers hooted and hollered. “The little round man missed another one!” they announced to most of Philadelphia and part of New Jersey. Whenever Dykes fanned, Bull bellowed from his first base seat, “Who always strikes out with men on base?” And Eddie replied from his third base seat, “Stand up, Jimmy Dykes!”

  At times the torrent of abuse got to the normally unflappable infielder, and he booted an easy ball or failed to drive in runners in scoring position. With games at stake, Connie Mack tried everything to shut up the booming tongue-lashers. He pleaded. He cajoled. He threatened. He even bribed them with season passes.

  For a while that worked. But after a few games, the Kesslers couldn’t stand the sounds of silence any longer. They turned in their passes and turned on their mouths.

  In desperation, Mack hauled the Kesslers into court and sought an injunction to muzzle them. But the judge threw the request out quicker than a Walter Johnson fastball.

  Finally when Dykes no longer could take any more of the Bull and Eddie Show, Mack was left with two choices—cut off Dykes’s ears or get rid of him. At the end of the season, Mack sold Dykes to the Chicago White Sox.

  Without their favorite target of abuse, baseball was no longer fun for the Kesslers and they faded away . . . somewhat quietly.

  FOOD-FLINGERS

  Cleveland, AL · September 27, 1940

  The fans in the cheap seats at Municipal Stadium made sure they were fortified with fruits and vegetables when the Detroit Tigers came to town for a crucial three-game series with the second-place Cleveland Indians. The Tigers needed only one more victory to clinch the pennant.

  It was Ladies Day, but the 45,000-plus fans in the stands made it look more like a convention of produce peddlers. They brought with them eggplant, cauliflower, tomatoes, and overly ripe fruits and veggies . . . and none of them were for eating. The food was ammo because it was payback time after the Tigers had called the Indians such names as the Crybabies, Boohoo Indians, and Papeese (plural for papoose). The Detroit players had aimed their slurs at the Cleveland players for trying to get Indians manager Oscar Vitt fired.

  As soon as the Tigers took the field, they were pelted by produce hurled from the stands. In the first inning, Hank Greenberg circled under a fly ball in left field and was nearly buried in a deluge of fruits and vegetables.

  Umpire Bill Summers stopped the game twice and threatened to declare a forfeit, which would have handed the pennant to Detroit. He and Vitt got on the public address system and pleaded with fans to curb their enthusiasm, or at least the food-flinging. The shower slowed but didn’t stop. By the time Detroit’s Rudy York smacked one of Bob Feller’s pitches for a two-run homer—the only runs of the game—the diamond looked like a giant vegetable plate.

  Meanwhile, stadium police were roving through the crowd, grabbing the worst offenders and hustling them out. As the cops approached a particularly rowdy group in the upper deck, one of the troublemakers gathered all his ammunition—tomatoes, eggs, bottles, and other assorted trash—into one basket and dropped it over the side into the Tigers bullpen. The basket landed right on the head of Detroit catcher Birdie Tebbetts, knocking him out cold.

  When he was revived, Tebbetts was taken to the clubhouse for treatment. The cops, waiting there with his assailant, asked Tebbetts if he wanted to press assault charges against him. Tebbetts declined and said he would settle the matter personally in his own way.

  Exactly how the fan left the stadium with a busted nose is not quite clear.

  STEVE BARTMAN

  Chicago, NL · October 14, 2003

  Die-hard Cubs fan Steve Bartman will go down in baseball history as an unwitting Cubs traitor.

  By reaching for a potentially catchable foul ball, he singlehandedly changed the course of a game, ruined the Cubs’ chances to reach the World Series, and proved that they are indeed the most cursed team of all time.

  At least that’s what millions of his fellow fans believed.

  Whether or not Bartman should be blamed—and you can build a strong argument that he shouldn’t—he was responsible for triggering the most outrageous reaction ever by fans over a loss. Fueled by the smoldering remains of decades of dashed hopes and dreams, Cubs fans took out their frustration, anger, and heartbreak on him.

  It was Game 6 of the National League Championship Series at Wrigley Field between the visiting Florida Marlins and the Chicago Cubs, who were up three games to two in the best of seven series. With Mark Prior hurling a three-hit masterpiece, the Cubs were ahead 3–0 in the top of the eighth—only five outs away from going to their first World Series since 1945.

  Florida had a runner on second and one out when second baseman Luis Castillo sent a high foul ball down the left field line toward Bartman, a 26-year-old global human resources worker, who was sitting in Aisle 4, Row 8, Seat 113, an arm’s length away from the foul line. Cubs outfielder Moisés Alou leaped to make the play. But the bespectacled Bartman, wearing an old Walkman headset over his Cubs cap, reached up for the ball, and inadvertently deflected it away from Alou. The outfielder slammed his glove to the ground and yelled at Bartman.

  Given new life, Castillo walked . . . and then the Cubs collapsed. After a single, an error on a double-play ball, a double, a walk, a sacrifice fly, a walk, and a bases-clearing double, the Marlins had scored eight runs—six unearned—and won 8–3.

  Upset fans turned their wrath on Bartman, pelting him with drinks and other debris. It was so bad that he was rushed out of the park with his jacket over his head and given a police escort home.

  Then things got really bad. Bartman was outed on a Major League Baseball online message board that gave his address and phone number. Six police cars were on call outside his house. Rod Blagojevich, the since disgraced governor of Illinois, announced that Bartman should join the witness protection program. Florida governor Jeb Bush graciously offered Bartman political asylum, adding, “I promise we will expedite his safe passage.”

  Bartman was crushed and issued a heartfelt apology: “There are few words to describe how awful I feel and what I have experienced within these last 24 hours . . . I am so truly sorry from the bottom of this Cubs fan’s broken heart. I ask that Cubs fans everywhere redirect the negative energy that has been vented towards my family, my friends, and myself into the usual positive support for our beloved team on their way to being National League champs.”

  The Cubs had a chance to do their part the next day to save Bartman from eternal damnation in Cubdom. A win would make him a mere footnote in baseball history, a fan forgiven for doing what every other fan would have done in the same situation. The delirium of finally making it to the World Series and a chance for a championship that had eluded the team for nearly 100 years would have automatically pardoned him.

  As manager Dusty Baker said at the time, “We’ve got to win for that kid. For us, it’s just a ballgame. For him, it’s the rest of his life.”

  But this was Chicago. And they were the Cubs.

  In the seventh and deciding game, Chicago charged out to a 5–3 lead. Everything looked great . . . until it didn’t. The Cubs lost 9–6. And the Marlins went on to win the World Series.

  Bartman about to catch hellAssociated Press

  At the suggestion of police, Bartman disconnected his phone and went into hiding. He was vilified on the Internet in “Death to Steve Bartman” message boards. Blogs encouraged Cubs fans to “not let him d
o this to us” and to “seek revenge.” He was Photoshopped hiding in Saddam Hussein’s bunker, pushing a button that caused the collapse of the Twin Towers, and holding a match to the burning Hindenburg. An FBI “Ten Most Wanted” poster on the Internet showed Bartman’s photo over the caption, “Considered ignorant and extremely stupid. Wanted for interfering with crucial play . . . [and] breaking the heart of an entire city.”

  Furious Cubs fans wore their feelings on their T-shirts: Sit Down, Steve; The Curse Lives—Thanks, Steve; and Cub Fan Rule No. 1: Keep Both Hands on Your Old Style.

  And then there was this MasterCard parody:

  Tickets to Cubs game: $200

  Chicago Cubs hat: $20

  1987 Walkman: $10

  [Screwing] up your team’s chances of winning the World Series: Priceless

  Eventually, the dastardly ball that Bartman deflected from Alou was bought at auction for $113,824.16 on behalf of Harry Caray’s Restaurant Group. On February 26, 2004, it was blown up at a special ceremony. The remains were cooked, and the steam from the process was captured, distilled, and added to the restaurant’s pasta sauce in a good-bye bad ball dinner. But the memory of that fateful day at Wrigley Field was still awfully hard to swallow.

  FIRE-STARTERS

  Boston, NL · May 15, 1894

  When the rowdies in the right field bleachers at Boston’s South End Grounds tried to light a fire under the home team, they ended up burning down most of the neighborhood instead.

  The 3,500 fans were getting hot under the collar during a bitter game against the visiting Baltimore Orioles (no connection to the current O’s), who had boiled the Beaneaters (ancestors of the Atlanta Braves) badly the day before, 16–5.

  In the third inning, Orioles third baseman John McGraw sent the hostile crowd into a frenzy when he started a fistfight with local hero and first baseman Tommy “Foghorn” Tucker. While the two traded punches, a gang of hoodlums decided to inflame the passions of fans and their team by setting a small fire in the 25-cent seats in right field. Almost everyone laughed at the prank . . . until it was no longer funny.

  The flames began to spread in the bleachers, so the umpire halted the game. Rather than leave, the fans in the grandstands became infuriated that such a small fire should stop play. Impatiently, they shouted, “Play ball! Play ball!”

  The players ran out to right field to help fight the fire, but once they felt the heat of the blaze, which was now raging, they high-tailed it for the clubhouse, cleaned out their lockers, and got the hell out of the neighborhood.

  With the speed of a forest fire, the inferno engulfed the grandstand and jumped across the street, devouring block after block. Three hours after the right field idiots had torched the ballpark, the fire had wiped out 12 acres of the South End, including more than 170 homes, schools, churches, stores, stables, and warehouses. Fortunately, no one was killed. Unfortunately, the fire-starters got away.

  The Beaneaters played their home games at the Congress Street Grounds until the ballpark was rebuilt in an astonishingly fast 10 weeks.

  GUNSLINGERS

  Chicago, NL · July 4, 1900

  Thousands of gunslinging fans turned a Fourth of July doubleheader into a shootout at the OK Corral, spreading fear among unarmed players and spectators.

  Bullets sang, darted, and whizzed over the players’ heads as the rambunctious fans fired round after round whenever the Cubs (then known as the Orphans) scored against the gun-shy Philadelphia Phillies. The visiting team was so intimidated it lost both games of the twin-bill at Chicago’s West Side Grounds, 10–6 and 5–4.

  In the sixth inning of the opener, the Cubs triggered an explosive six-run rally as guns and firecrackers blasted away from all corners of the ballpark. When the inning finally ended, the shell-shocked Philly outfielders emerged from a haze of gunpowder smoke that hung over the field like a battleground pall.

  In the second game, Chicago tied the score in the bottom of the ninth as the fans cheered them on with gunfire. First, the left field bleachers let loose with a salvo. Then the right field bleachers responded. Hundreds of spectators in the grandstand were so happy they began shooting holes in the roof, causing flying splinters to fall on their heads.

  In the bottom of the 12th inning, ammo was running short for many fans, so they pounded their seats with the butts of their guns. But others, who were still well supplied with bullets, fired a fusillade to rattle Phils hurler Al Orth and his teammates.

  The barrage worked. Philadelphia misplayed two balls for an error and an infield hit, and the strain began to show on Orth. Chicago’s Barry McCormick laid down a sacrifice bunt that was fielded by Orth, but the nettled pitcher threw wildly past first, allowing the winning run to score.

  When Chicago won, one armed-to-the-teeth fan stood up and shouted to his cohorts, “Load! Load at will! Fire!” And they did. The last remaining ammo was spent in one booming volley.

  Said the Daily Inter Ocean, one of Chicago’s major newspapers: “The actions of the spectators and the noise of the revolver shots reminded one of a pleasant little afternoon—at a lynching bee.”

  FRANK GERMANO

  Brooklyn, NL · September 16, 1940

  The cry of “Kill the umpire!” is as old as baseball itself. Fans don’t really mean it, although some wouldn’t mind if an ump got roughed up a little. And that’s what fan Frank Germano was counting on.

  After the last out in a 4–3 Brooklyn Dodgers loss to the visiting Cincinnati Reds, Germano rushed down on the field and blindsided burly, 6-foot, 3-inch, 230-pound umpire George Magerkurth, knocking him to the ground. Magerkurth had made a disputed call in the top of the 10th inning that ultimately led to Cincy’s winning run.

  Everyone at Ebbets Field was shocked when the snarling fan, who was half the size of the mighty Mage, landed several good punches before he was pulled off by the other umpires. In the confusion, fellow ump Bill Stewart caught a kick in the head that opened up a gash. The only bruises Magerkurth suffered were to his ego.

  Germano getting in his licks© Bettmann/CORBIS

  Germano was arrested for assault and battery. At the arraignment later, Magerkurth learned the 21-year-old punk was on parole for a petty larceny conviction. The big-hearted ump asked authorities to drop the charges, explaining, “I’m the father of a boy myself.” But the charges weren’t dropped, so Germano was sent back to the clink. As for the umpire, he shouldn’t have been so forgiving.

  A few years later, Germano appeared before Brooklyn judge Samuel Leibowitz on a pickpocketing charge. Remembering him from the Magerkurth assault, the judge asked Germano, “How did you come to lose your head that day? Were you really all that stirred up because the Dodgers lost the game?”

  “I was pretty stirred up,” Germano admitted. “I was mad enough to slug Magerkurth, all right. The Dodgers shoulda won easy.” Then he lowered his voice and confessed, “But just between you and me, Judge, I had a partner in the stands that day. We wuz doin’ a little business.”

  What Germano was doing was creating a disturbance so his partner could pick a few pockets.

  PETE ADELIS

  Philadelphia, AL, NL · 1940–1955

  Pete Adelis—better known as “The Iron Lung of Shibe Park”—was one of baseball’s most outrageous hecklers.

  The 6-foot, 280-pound department store employee wore a size-52 coat and owned a booming voice that could shatter glass. He was such a tenacious tormentor that his favorite team, the hometown Philadelphia Athletics, once took him on the road to harangue their opponents. The New York Yankees, among his most abused targets, tried to get on his good side by giving him free tickets to Yankee Stadium. It worked. More than once they imported him to New York to intimidate their foes—but never the A’s.

  Also known as “Leather Lungs,” “Foghorn,” and “Loud Mouth,” Adelis would y
ell and howl and bang on pans and a helmet he wore. But he was most known for his incessant, biting tongue-lashings of players, managers, and umpires. Although he was partial to the A’s, he also taunted on behalf of the Phillies.

  He was such a famous heckler that the Sporting News published his seven “Rules of Scientific Heckling” in its September 8, 1948, issue. They were:

  No profanity.

  Nothing purely personal.

  Keep pouring it on.

  Know your players.

  Don’t be shouted down.

  Take it as well as give it.

  Give the old timer a chance—he was a rookie once.

  Adelis did not follow his own Rule No. 2, however. Like a gumshoe who enjoys digging up dirt, he diligently collected juicy tidbits on the private lives of the players and then bellowed the malicious gossip for all the players and fans to hear. “When Pete boomed out something personal, you could see the player just start shaking,” recalled his brother Walter.

  “Pete used little known facts like if a player was out the night before with some woman and got drunk. These were things a player just wouldn’t expect to hear on the field. The player would say to himself, ‘Who is this guy and how did he know about that?’ The things Pete yelled at them really surprised and shamed them. They just couldn’t escape his voice because it carried all over the park.”

  Once in 1948, umpire Larry Goetz stopped a game for 15 minutes in a futile effort to get someone with authority to throw Adelis out of the park because of his heckling.

  Dozens of players wished The Iron Lung of Shibe Park would have been barred from entering the stadium. “One of the players Pete got on the most was Pat Seerey, an outfielder for the Chicago White Sox in 1948,” recalled Walter. “It so happened that Pete and I were in New York to see the Yankees on the day Seerey hit four home runs against the A’s at Shibe Park [on June 18]. After the game, Seerey wanted to know where Pete was. Seerey figured the only reason he had such a good day was because Pete wasn’t there.”