The Glory of Their Times

by Lawrence S. Ritter

  They talked not only about what it was like to be a baseball player in the early days, but also about what it was like just to be alive then; about how they got started, and about how they felt when, at the age of thirty-five or so, they found that they were too old to continue playing; about what their contemporaries were like as ballplayers, and what they were like as human beings—all with a sense of drama and urgency that could not have been surpassed had it been about this morning’s headlines.

  These autobiographies are reproduced here as they were told to me between 1962 and 1966. I had feared that the presence of a tape recorder would be inhibiting, but it was not. It was always placed in an inconspicuous spot where neither of us could see it, and invariably it was soon forgotten. I was quite surprised that not one person objected to its being there.

  In preparing these interviews for publication I have done very little editing of the tapes. I have eliminated my questions and comments and have selected and rearranged the material to make it more comprehensible than the verbatim transcript of a six-hour conversation could possibly be. Also, because of space limitations and inevitable repetitions, I have deleted a good deal of material in order to reduce hundreds of hours of tape to manageable proportions and to improve the readability of the book as a whole. By and large, however, the editing has been minor, and I do not believe it in any way diminishes the authenticity of what remains. This is their story, told in their own way, and in their own words.

  The reader may wonder at the detail contained in these narrations, the near total recall of events that took place a half century or more ago. If so, he can join me in that wonderment. The memory of man is a remarkable storehouse indeed. Many of the people I talked to had to think longer to get the names of all their great-grandchildren straight than they did to run down the batting order of the 1906 Chicago Cubs. Psychologists assure me, however, that it is not at all unusual as one gets older for the more distant past to be remembered more clearly than what happened three weeks ago, especially if the distant past was particularly memorable.

  Initially skeptical, I spent weeks checking a great deal of what was told me. I pored through record books and searched out old newspapers and other primary sources to verify a fact or an incident. But almost without exception I found that the event took place almost precisely as it had been described. And in those instances where something had been added, the embellishments invariably were those of the artist: they served to dramatize a point, to emphasize a contrast, or to reveal a truth.

  This, then, is the way it was.

  Listen!

  LAWRENCE S. RITTER

  1966

  1 Rube Marquard

  MY NICKNAME being what it is, you probably automatically assume I must have been a country boy. That’s what most people figure. But it’s not so. Fact is, my father was the Chief Engineer of the city of Cleveland, and that’s where I was born and reared.

  Then how come I’m called “Rube”? Well, I’ll get to that. But let me tell you about my father first. Like I say, he was the Chief Engineer of the city of Cleveland. As far as he was concerned, the only important thing was for me to get a good education. But as far back as I can remember all I could think of, morning, noon, and night, was baseball.

  “Now listen,” Dad would say, “I want you to cut this out and pay attention to your studies. I want you to go to college when you’re through high school, and I don’t want any foolishness about it. Without an education you won’t be able to get a good job, and then you’ll never amount to anything.”

  “I already have a job,” I’d say.

  “You’ve got a job? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m going to be a ballplayer.”

  “A ballplayer?” he’d say, and throw his hands up in the air. “What do you mean? How can you make a living being a ballplayer? I don’t understand why a grown man would wear those funny-looking suits in the first place.”

  “Well,” I’d answer, “you see policemen with uniforms on, and other people like that. They change after they’re through working. It’s the same way with ballplayers.”

  “Ha! Do ballplayers get paid?”

  “Yes, they get paid.”

  “I don’t believe it!”

  And round and round we’d go. We’d have exactly the same argument at least once a week. Sometimes my grandfather—my father’s father—would get involved in it. He liked baseball and he’d take my side.

  “Listen,” he’d say to my father, “when you were a youngster I wanted you to be something, too. I wanted you to be a stonecutter, same as I was when I came over from the old country. But no, you wouldn’t listen. You wanted to be an engineer. So you became an engineer. Now Richard wants to be a baseball player. He’s so determined that nothing is going to stop him. Let’s give him a chance and see what he can do.”

  But Dad would never listen. “Ballplayers are no good,” he’d say, “and they never will be any good.”

  And with that he’d slam the door and go outside and sit on the porch, and not talk to either my grandfather or me for the rest of the evening.

  The thing is, I was always very tall for my age. I had three brothers and a sister, and my sister was the shortest of the five of us. She grew to be six feet two. So I was always hanging around the older kids and playing ball with them instead of with kids my own age. When I was about thirteen I used to carry bats for Napoleon Lajoie and Elmer Flick and Terry Turner and a lot of the other Cleveland Indians. They weren’t called the Indians then. They were called the Cleveland Bronchos and then the Naps, after Napoleon Lajoie. After the regular season was over, a lot of them would barnstorm around the Cleveland area, and sometimes I’d be their bat boy.

  Then later I even pitched a few games for Bill Bradley’s Boo Gang. Bill Bradley was the Cleveland third baseman—one of the greatest who ever lived—and he also barnstormed with his Boo Gang after the season was over. So by the time I was only fifteen or sixteen I knew a lot of ballplayers, and I had my heart set on becoming a Big Leaguer myself.

  One of my friends was a catcher named Howard Wakefield. He was about five years older than I was. In 1906 he was playing for the Waterloo club in the Iowa State League, and that summer—when I was only sixteen—I got a letter from him.

  “We can use a good left-handed pitcher,” the letter said, “and if you want to come to Waterloo I’ll recommend you to the manager.” I think Howard thought that I was at least eighteen or nineteen, because I was so big for my age.

  I wrote Howard that my Dad didn’t want me to play ball, so I didn’t think he’d give me the money to go. If I asked him, he’d probably hit me over the head with something. Except for that, I was ready to go. Now if they could possibly arrange to send me some money for transportation….

  Well, pretty soon I got a telegram from the Waterloo manager. He said: “You’ve been recommended very highly by Howard Wakefield. I’d like you to come out here and try out with us. If you make good, then we’ll reimburse you for your transportation and give you a contract.”

  Of course, that wasn’t much of an improvement over Howard’s letter. So I went upstairs to my room and closed the door and wrote back a long letter to the manager, explaining that I didn’t have any money for transportation. But if he sent me an advance right now for transportation, then I’d take the next train to Waterloo and he could take it off my salary later on, after I made good. I didn’t have the slightest doubt that I would make good. And, of course, I didn’t mention that I was only sixteen years old.

  I mailed the letter to Iowa, and then I waited on pins and needles for an answer. Every day I had to be the first one to get at the mail, because if anyone else saw a letter to me from the Waterloo ball club that would have been enough to alert Dad to what was going on and I’d have been sunk. So every day I waited for the first sight of the mailman and tried to get to him before he reached the house.

  As it turned out, I could have saved myself a lot of worrying. Because no letter eve
r came. Three weeks passed and still no answer. I couldn’t understand what had gone wrong. Maybe it was against the rules to send transportation money to somebody not yet under contract? Maybe they didn’t know how good I really was? Maybe this and maybe that.

  Finally, I just couldn’t stand it anymore. I gave some excuse to my folks about where I was going—like on an overnight camping trip with the Boy Scouts—and I took off for Waterloo, Iowa, on my own.

  From Cleveland, Ohio, I bummed my way to Waterloo, Iowa. I was sixteen years old and I’d never been away from home before. It took me five days and five nights, riding freight trains, sleeping in open fields, hitching rides any way I could. My money ran out on the third day, and after that I ate when and how I could.

  Finally, though, I arrived at my destination. It was early in the evening of the fifth day. The freight slowly drew into the Illinois Central station at Waterloo, Iowa, and just before it stopped I jumped off and went head over heels right in front of the passenger house. I hardly had time to pick myself up off the ground before the stationmaster grabbed me.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he growled. “Come on, get out of here before I run you in.”

  “No,” I said, “I’m reporting to the Waterloo ball club.”

  “You’re what?” he says. “My God, did you ever wash your face?”

  “Yes I did,” I said, “but I’ve been traveling five days and five nights and I’m anxious to get to the ball park. Where do the ballplayers hang around?”

  The railroad station at Waterloo, Iowa, in 1906: “I jumped off the train and went head over heels right in front of the passenger house.”

  “At the Smoke Shop,” he said, “down the street about half a mile. If you walk down there probably whoever you’re looking for will be there.”

  So I thanked him and told him I’d see that he got a free pass to the ball game as soon as I got settled, and started off for the Smoke Shop. It turned out that two brothers owned the Smoke Shop, and they also owned the ball club. One of them was behind the counter when I walked in. He took one look at me and let out a roar.

  “What are you doing in here?” he yelled. “This is a respectable place. Get out of here.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “I’ve got a telegram from the manager of the ball club to report here, and if I make good I’ll get a contract.”

  “Are you kidding?” he said. “Who in the world ever recommended you?”

  “Howard Wakefield did.”

  “Well,” he said, “Wakefield is in back shooting billiards. We’ll soon settle this!”

  “I’d like to go back and see him,” I said.

  “Don’t you go back there,” he shouted. “You’ll drive everybody out. Did you ever take a bath?”

  “Of course I did,” I said, “but I’ve bummed my way here and I haven’t had a chance to clean up yet.”

  So he called to the back and in a minute out came Howard. “Holy Cripes!” he said. “What happened to you?”

  I was explaining it to him when in came Mr. Frisbee, the manager, and I was introduced to him. “I received your telegram,” I said. “I didn’t have enough money to come first class or anything like that, but here I am.”

  “Keokuk is here tomorrow,” he said, “and we’ll pitch you.”

  “Tomorrow? You don’t want me to pitch tomorrow, after what I’ve been through?”

  “Tomorrow or never, young fellow!”

  “All right,” I said. “But could I have $5 in advance so I can get a clean shirt or something?”

  “After the game tomorrow,” he said, and walked away.

  So Howard took me to his rooming house, and I cleaned up there and had something to eat, and they let me sleep on an extra cot they had.

  The next day we went out to the ball park and I was introduced to the players and given a uniform that was too small for me. The Keokuk team was shagging balls while I warmed up, and they kept making comments about green rookies and bushers and how they’d knock me out of the box in the first inning. Oh, I felt terrible. I had an awful headache and I was exhausted. But I was determined to show them that I could make good, and I went out there and won that game, 6–1.

  With that I felt sure I’d be offered a contract. So after the game I went to Mr. Frisbee and said, “Well, I showed you I could deliver the goods. Can we talk about a contract now?”

  “Oh,” he said, “Keokuk is in last place. Wait until Oskaloosa comes in this weekend. They’re in second place. They’re a tough team, and if you can beat them then we’ll talk.”

  “Can’t I get any money, any advance money, on my contract?” I asked him.

  “You haven’t got a contract,” he said.

  “All right,” I said, and I didn’t say another word.

  That evening I didn’t say anything to anybody. But when it got dark I went down to the railroad station, and the same stationmaster was there.

  “Hey,” he said, “you pitched a fine game today. I was there and you did a great job. What are you doing back here? Did you come to give me that free ticket you promised me?”

  “No, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m going back home to Cleveland, and I want to know what time a freight comes by.” And I explained to him everything that had happened.

  He was very nice to me, and after we talked awhile he said, “Look, this train comes in at one o’clock in the morning and the engine unhooks and goes down to the water tower. When it does, you sneak into the baggage compartment, and meanwhile I’ll talk to the baggage man before the engine gets hooked up again. Then when the train pulls out and is about five miles out of town he’ll open the baggage door and let you out.”

  So that all happened, and when we were five miles out of town the door opened and the baggage man appeared. I talked with him all the way to Chicago, and as we got close to the yards he said to me, “OK, you better get ready to jump now. There are a lot of detectives around here and if you’re not careful they’ll grab you and throw you in jail. So once you get on the ground, don’t hesitate. Beat it away from here as fast as you can.”

  The baggage man must have told the engineer about me, because we slowed down to a crawl just before we approached the Chicago yards, and off I jumped. I got out of there quick and took off down the street. I don’t know what street it was, and I’m not sure where I was headed, but I do remember that I was awfully tired. It was the middle of the morning and I had hardly slept a wink the night before.

  I’d walked about three or four blocks when I passed by a fire engine house. Evidently all the firemen were out at a fire, because the place was empty. I was tired, so I went in and sat down. Well, they had a big-bellied iron stove in there, and it was warm, and I guess I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew a couple of firemen were shaking me and doing everything they could to wake me up. They called me a bum and a lot of other names, and told me to get out of there or they’d have me thrown in jail.

  “I’m no bum,” I said, “I’m a ballplayer.”

  “What, you a ballplayer! Where did you ever play?”

  So I told them: Cleveland, around the sandlots, and in Waterloo, Iowa, too. And I told them all about it.

  They still didn’t really believe me. They asked me did I know Three-Fingered Brown, Tinker, Evers, Chance, and all those fellows.

  “No,” I said, “I don’t know them. But some day I’ll be playing with them, or against them, because I’m going to get in the Big Leagues.”

  “Where are you going now?” they asked me.

  “Back home to Cleveland.”

  “Have you got any money?”

  “No.”

  So they got up a little pool of about $5 and said, “Well, on your way. And use this to get something to eat.”

  I thanked them, and as I left I told them that some day I’d be back. “When I get to the Big Leagues,” I said, “I’m coming out to visit you when we get to Chicago.”

  And home I went. I played around home all the rest of t
hat summer, and then the next summer, 1907, I got a job with an ice-cream company in Cleveland. I made $25 a week: $15 for checking the cans on the truck that would take the ice cream away, and $10 a Sunday, when I pitched for the company team. It was a good team. We played the best semipro clubs in the Cleveland area, and I beat them all. I was only seventeen, but I hardly lost a game.

  Then one day I got a postal card from the Cleveland ball club, asking me to come in and talk to them. Mr. Kilfoyl and Mr. Somers, the owners of the club, wanted to see me.

  My Dad saw the card. “I see you still want to be a ballplayer,” he said.

  “Yes, I do. And I’m going to be a great one, too. You wait and see. Some day you’re going to be proud of me.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “proud of nothing.”

  But I went to the Cleveland club’s office anyway, and Mr. Kilfoyl and Mr. Somers were both there.

  “I received your card,” I said. “You know, you got me in a little jam. My dad doesn’t want me to be a ballplayer.”

  “Don’t you worry,” Mr. Kilfoyl said, “after you sign with us and get into the Big Leagues he’ll think differently about it.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’m not signing with you or anybody else until I hear what you’re offering. I’ve been taken advantage of before, and it’s not going to happen again. I know a lot of ballplayers and they always tell me not to sign with anybody unless I get a good salary. They all tell me you better get it when you’re young, ’cause you sure won’t get it when you’re old.”

  “That’s a lot of nonsense,” Mr. Kilfoyl said. “Don’t you worry. We’ll treat you right. We’ll give you $100 a month. That’s a wonderful offer.”

  “I think he’ll be overpaid,” Mr. Somers says.