The Glory of Their Times

by Lawrence S. Ritter

  Anyway, I played six weeks in the summer of 1901 with Rockford in the Three-I League, hit .384, fielded like a blue streak, and before the season was over I was sold to the Chicago Cubs. However, the Milwaukee Brewers in the brand-new American League made me a good offer, so instead of reporting to Chicago I jumped to Milwaukee. See, the American League was an outlaw league in 1901, and Milwaukee was one of the eight teams in the league that very first year.

  The next year, 1902, the Milwaukee franchise was transferred to St. Louis and we became the original St. Louis Browns. So not only did I play in the American League the very first year of its existence, but I’m also a charter member of two of the teams in that league. Neither one of which exists any longer, a fact for which I assure you I can in no way be held responsible.

  I’d been with the St. Louis club about two or three weeks in the 1902 season when we went to Chicago to play the White Sox. It was a rainy Saturday, and as we sat on the bench waiting for the game to begin somebody pointed out Mr. Comiskey, the owner of the White Sox. He was out there in the infield, with his pants rolled up, soaking up water with a couple of sponges and wringing them into a pail, trying to get the diamond in shape to play. That was my first sight of Charles A. Comiskey.

  After the game that day I got a phone call from James A. Hart, the owner of the Chicago Cubs. He’d been pretty sore ever since I’d jumped from the Cubs to the American League the previous August. Mr. Hart said he’d like me to come over and talk with him at his office the next morning. Well, why not?

  “I see you’re going pretty good,” he said to me, after I got there.

  “Yes, that’s right,” I said. “We’ve got a good club.”

  “You know,” he said, “I’ve lost a lot of good ballplayers to the American League, men like Clark Griffith and Jimmy Callahan, not to mention yourself. I’d like to try to get some of you fellows to move the other way. What would you think about jumping back to the Chicago Cubs?”

  “Well,” I said, “what have you got to offer?”

  So he thought a minute, got up, walked into the next room, and sent the clerk for some cash. I guess he thought I’d find green cash more tempting than a check. (He was right.)

  Finally he came back. “How about a two-year contract for $3,600 a year, the highest salary on the club, plus a $500 bonus that you can have right now. Here’s the $500!”

  Well, what could I do? I was playing for $2,400, and here was a 50 per cent raise plus $500 in cold cash stacked up right in front of me. And, after all, I wasn’t even twenty-two years old yet. Besides, everybody was jumping all over the lot in those days: Sam Crawford, Larry Lajoie, Clark Griffith, Willie Keeler, Cy Young, Jack Chesbro, Ed Delahanty. You name him, he was jumping from one league to the other.

  So I signed.

  Mr. Hart immediately called up the ball park and got the manager of the Cubs, Frank Selee, on the phone. “I’ve just signed a new outfielder,” he said. “I won’t tell you who he is, but take it from me he’s OK. Put him in center field this afternoon.”

  So Selee went out on the field and one of the players told me later he looked sort of bewildered.

  “Mr. Hart just called me,” he said. “He says we’ve got a new outfielder and I should play him today, but he won’t tell me who he is. Things are getting funnier and funnier around this place.”

  For my part, I left Mr. Hart and went for a long walk. I didn’t want to go back to my hotel while the Browns were still there, because I wasn’t especially anxious to see any of my teammates. My former teammates, that is. After I was pretty sure they’d all gone out to the White Sox park, I went up to the room, packed my grip and bat bag—in those days, you know, we carried our own bats in a little bag—and took off for the Cubs’ West Side Grounds at Lincoln and Polk Streets.

  And that’s the last time I jumped a ball club. Well, almost. The last time until 1914, anyway, when I jumped from the White Sox to the Pittsburgh club in the Federal League. But I was about all through by then, so it hardly counts.

  I played three years in the Chicago Cubs’ outfield, but in 1904 I got hurt and it looked as though I was finished. The next year I found myself back in the minors, with Minneapolis in the American Association. I came back strong, though, hit .346 that year, and at the end of the season I went back up to the Big Leagues with Detroit.

  Which was a real break for me, of course, because, as you well know, we won the pennant in 1907, ’08, and ’09, and for seven years I got to play in the same outfield with two of the greatest ballplayers who ever lived, Ty Cobb and Sam Crawford. Of course, playing by the side of two fellows like that was a good deal like being a member of the chorus in a grand opera where there are two prima donnas.

  I always got along with Sam just wonderfully. In a lot of ways we were very much alike. He’s still one of my very best friends. Cobb, though—he was a very complex person—never did have many friends. Trouble was he had such a rotten disposition that it was damn hard to be his friend. I was probably the best friend he had on the club. I used to stick up for him, sit and talk with him on the long train trips, try to understand the man. He antagonized so many people that hardly anyone would speak to him, even among his own teammates.

  Ty didn’t have a sense of humor, see. Especially, he could never laugh at himself. Consequently, he took a lot of things the wrong way. What would usually be an innocent-enough wisecrack would become cause for a fist fight if Ty was involved. It was too bad. He was one of the greatest players who ever lived, and yet he had so few friends. I always felt sorry for him.

  Davy Jones in 1901

  In many ways he was resented by a lot of people because he was so doggone good, and that plus being ignored because he had such a nasty disposition meant that the man was very lonely. Of course, he brought a lot of it on himself, no doubt about that. A lot of times it seemed as though he was just asking for trouble.

  Like one time in Detroit, when Cobb was in a batting slump. When Cobb got in a slump you just couldn’t talk to him. He’d get meaner than the devil himself. Well, we were playing Boston this day, and Ray Collins was pitching against us. Cobb never did hit Collins too well, so the idea of being in a slump and batting against Collins too didn’t go down very well with Ty. He’d just as soon sit this one out.

  In about the third or fourth inning of this game I got on base and Ty came up to bat. I watched him for the hit-and-run sign, like I always did, but he didn’t flash any. Then suddenly, after the first pitch, he stepped out of the box and hollered down at me, “Don’t you know what a hit-and-run sign is?” Yelled it right out at me.

  Jake Stahl was the Boston first baseman and he said to me, “Boy, any guy would holler down here like that is nothing but a rotten skunk.”

  But I knew Cobb, so I just ignored him. Those were his ways, that’s all. Well, the second pitch came in and curved over for strike two. And was Cobb ever mad then! He went over and sat down on the bench and yelled, “Anybody can’t see a hit-and-run sign, by God, I’m not going to play with him.” Meaning me.

  He just sat there and wouldn’t play. They had to put in another batter. All he wanted, of course, was to get out of the game because he couldn’t hit that pitcher. That’s all it was, and I was the fall guy. He put the blame on me.

  Well, the next day he was still sulking. Wouldn’t play, he said. Finally Mr. Navin, the president of the club, called him up to the front office and asked him what was going on.

  “I won’t play with Jones,” Cobb said. “That bonehead can’t even see the hit-and-run sign.”

  “Oh,” Mr. Navin said, “suppose he did miss the sign, which the other players tell me he didn’t. So what? That’s no reason for you not to play. You’re just making an excuse because you’re not hitting.”

  “Who told you that?” says Cobb. “Just tell me, who told you that?”

  “Never mind,” Navin said, “that’s none of your business. Now you’re going to play today, and that’s all there is to it. Otherwise you’ll be su
spended without pay. And it’s out of the question to take Jones out of the game, so forget it.”

  Mr. Navin told me all that afterwards. Well, that shows what kind of a person Cobb could be. Picking on me, of all people! Practically his only friend on the club. But with all that, he was really some ballplayer. Corking!

  I played in the outfield with Cobb and Crawford for seven years, 1906 through 1912, the greatest years in Detroit’s baseball history. Three pennants. What a team! I was generally the lead-off man in the batting order, because of my speed. Usually it was Jones leading off, then Germany Schaefer or Donie Bush, Sam Crawford batting third, Cobb fourth, Claude Rossman next, the first baseman, and then George Moriarty, the third baseman. Jimmy Delahanty was in there somewhere, and Charlie Schmidt, the big catcher.

  Being the lead-off man, by the way, resulted in my holding the unique distinction of being the first man to ever face Walter Johnson in a major-league game. He broke in late in 1907, in a game against us, and since I led off, naturally I was the first man to face him. And that was the beginning of Walter’s long and amazing career. The very beginning. Boy, could that guy ever fire that ball! He had those long arms, absolutely the longest arms I ever saw. They were like whips, that’s what they were. He’d just whip that ball in there.

  It was during those years, I think about 1908, that I saw Germany Schaefer steal first base. Yes, first base. They say it can’t be done, but I saw him do it. In fact, I was standing right on third base, with my eyes popping out, when he did it.

  We were playing Cleveland and the score was tied in a late inning. I was on third base, Schaefer on first, and Crawford was at bat. Before the pitcher wound up, Schaefer flashed me the sign for the double steal—meaning he’d take off for second on the next pitch, and when the catcher threw the ball to second I’d take off for home. Well, the pitcher wound up and pitched, and sure enough Schaefer stole second. But I had to stay right where I was, on third, because Nig Clarke, the Cleveland catcher, just held on to the ball. He refused to throw to second, knowing I’d probably make it home if he did.

  So now we had men on second and third. Well, on the next pitch Schaefer yelled, “Let’s try it again!” And with a blood-curdling shout he took off like a wild Indian back to first base, and dove in headfirst in a cloud of dust. He figured the catcher might throw to first—since he evidently wouldn’t throw to second—and then I could come home same as before.

  Walter Johnson: “He had those long arms, absolutely the longest arms I ever saw”

  But nothing happened. Nothing at all. Everybody just stood there and watched Schaefer, with their mouths open, not knowing what the devil was going on. Me, too. Even if the catcher had thrown to first, I was too stunned to move, I’ll tell you that. But the catcher didn’t throw. He just stared! In fact, George Stovall, the Cleveland first baseman, was playing way back and didn’t even come in to cover the bag. He just watched this madman running the wrong way on the base path and didn’t know what to do.

  The umpires were just as confused as everybody else. However, it turned out that at that time there wasn’t any rule against a guy going from second back to first, if that’s the way he wanted to play baseball, so they had to let it stand.

  So there we were, back where we started, with Schaefer on first and me on third. And on the next pitch darned if he didn’t let out another war whoop and take off again for second base. By this time the Cleveland catcher evidently had enough, because he finally threw to second to get Schaefer, and when he did I took off for home and both of us were safe.

  These are fond memories, you know. I haven’t thought about these things in years. Yes, those were wonderful days. Of course, one sad thing, a lot of the boys didn’t realize how short their baseball life would be, and they didn’t prepare themselves for when their playing days would be over. I was very lucky, compared to most, having gone to college and all.

  However, I never did return to the law. What happened was that I had a brother who worked in a drugstore back home in Cambria, Wisconsin, and on my baseball money I helped put him through a course in pharmacy at the University of Michigan. After he was through and had his license, we went into partnership and opened up Davy Jones’ Drug Store in downtown Detroit. That was in 1910, while I was playing for Detroit, see.

  Well, the thing was a huge success. After a home game I’d join him at the drugstore and jerk sodas and talk about the game. The fans loved it. Business was so terrific that after awhile we had five stores. I got so I was spending all my free time in the stores, and when we went on the road I took pharmacy textbooks along to study.

  After I was through with baseball—that was in 1915, when I was thirty-five—I sublet my home in Detroit and went out to California for a vacation. I bummed around for a month or two, but soon I started to get restless. So I wound up taking a two-year course in pharmacy at the University of Southern California. I got my degree, came back and took my state board exam from the Michigan Board of Pharmacy, and stayed in the drug business until I retired, thirty-five years later.

  But getting back to baseball, that story of Germany Schaefer running from second to first reminds me of another incident that happened when I was with the Chicago Cubs in 1902. We had a young pitcher on that club named Jimmy St. Vrain. He was a left-handed pitcher and a right-handed batter. But an absolutely terrible hitter—never even got a loud foul off anybody.

  Well, one day we were playing the Pittsburgh Pirates and Jimmy was pitching for us. The first two times he went up to bat that day he looked simply awful. So when he came back after striking out the second time Frank Selee, our manager, said, “Jimmy, you’re a left-handed pitcher, why don’t you turn around and bat from the left side, too? Why not try it?”

  Actually, Frank was half kidding, but Jimmy took him seriously. So the next time he went up he batted left-handed. Turned around and stood on the opposite side of the plate from where he was used to, you know. And darned if he didn’t actually hit the ball. He tapped a slow roller down to Honus Wagner at shortstop and took off as fast as he could go…but instead of running to first base, he headed for third!

  Oh, my God! What bedlam! Everybody yelling and screaming at poor Jimmy as he raced to third base, head down, spikes flying, determined to get there ahead of the throw. Later on, Honus told us that as a matter of fact he almost did throw the ball to third.

  “I’m standing there with the ball in my hand,” Honus said, “looking at this guy running from home to third, and for an instant there I swear I didn’t know where to throw the damn ball. And when I finally did throw to first, I wasn’t at all sure it was the right thing to do!”

  4 Sam Crawford

  Samuel Earl Crawford, who prefers to be called Wahoo Sam, played major-league baseball for 19 years, from 1899 through 1917. He was fast: he typically stole 25 to 30 bases a season. He could hit: the record books credit him with 2,964 major-league hits, a figure exceeded by very few men in the history of baseball.*And he could hit with power: he led the National League in home runs in 1901, and the American League in 1908 and 1914.

  In combination, these elements resulted in 312 major-league triples, still the most three-baggers ever hit by one man. It is almost inconceivable that this record will ever be broken. Willie Mays, the closest approximation to a modern-day Sam Crawford, accumulated but 140 triples during his 22 seasons in the majors.

  Most baseball writers of that period agree that Sam Crawford was the outstanding power hitter of the dead-ball era. H. G. Salsinger, eminent Detroit sports writer who covered the Detroit Tigers throughout the era of Cobb and Crawford, recalls that “I have seen right fielders, playing against the fence, catch five fly balls off Crawford’s bat in one game, five fly balls that would have cleared the fence any time after the season of 1920, when the jackrabbit ball was introduced.”

  I DON’T KNOW how you found me, but since you’re here you might as well come in and sit down. I don’t have much time, though. Got a lot of things to do. But it’s a hot da
y, so come in and rest awhile.

  Yeah, I’m sort of hard to find. Still bounce around a lot, you know. Always on the move. Probably a hangover from all those years in baseball—Boston today, Detroit tomorrow, never long in one place. I do have a house down in Hollywood, but I can’t take that town. Too much smog. Too many cars, all fouling up the air. Can hardly breathe down there. Too many people, too. Have to stand in line everywhere you go. Can’t even get a loaf of bread without standing in line. Pretty soon they’ll be standing in line to get into the john! That’s not for me.

  No, I don’t have a telephone. If I had a lot of money I wouldn’t have one. I never was for telephones. Just don’t like them, that’s all. Anybody wants to talk to you, they can come to see you. I do have a television over there—it was a gift—but I never turn it on. I’d rather read a book. Don’t even watch the ball games. Oh, maybe the World Series, but that’s about it. I like to do what I like to do, that’s all. I don’t see why I should watch television just because everybody else does. I’d rather read a book, or fix up the garden, or just take a walk with my wife, Mary, and see what’s going on, you know.

  Heck, I don’t even buy a newspaper. Nothing but trouble in it. Just spoils your day. You get up in the morning, feel pretty good, get hold of a paper, and what do you see? Nothing but trouble. Big headlines about bombs and war and misery. It ruins the day. That’s the way I look at it, anyway. Maybe I’m wrong, I don’t know.

  So you’re doing a book about baseball in the old days. Why does a young fellow like you want to spend his time on something like that? Do you remember what Robert Ingersoll used to say? “Let the dead past bury its dead.” That’s what he used to say. Robert Ingersoll, remember him? A great man. I always admired him. He was a very famous lecturer in the late 1800’s. Very famous and very controversial. He was supposed to be an atheist, but he wasn’t really. More a skeptic, more an agnostic, than an atheist. You should read his Lectures some time. Very interesting. Now he’s forgotten. Hardly anybody even remembers his name any more. That probably proves something, but I’m not sure what.