The First Fall Classic

by Mike Vaccaro

  He was no one’s idea of a baseball genius. That characterization was left to the John McGraws of baseball, to the Connie Macks, to the Hughie Jenningses and Clark Griffiths and Frank Chances. But baseball has always been a funny game that way: Unlike football, where blustery blowhards tend to rule the day, and unlike basketball, where a savantlike understanding of Xs and Os can occasionally push players to perform at higher planes than those to which their talents are accustomed, the men who run baseball teams rarely have a direct impact on whether their teams win or lose. It is why they are called “managers” while every other sport goes with “coaches.” Managers do what the word implies: They are handlers, they are comptrollers, they deal every day with egos and disappointments and injuries. At the end of a baseball day, a manager has little effect if the other guy’s pitcher is throwing ninety-nine miles an hour on the black, or if the other guy’s cleanup hitter belts three home runs, or if his own shortstop commits four errors.

  “Put it this way,” Stahl had said in mid-August, when his team was already nine games ahead of the rest of the American League and pulling away fast. “When the boys are hitting it well, or when Smoky Joe is slinging the sphere as he does, I look awfully good at my job. And when we run into Walter Johnson or Ed Walsh and they shut us down, I look like the biggest dope in town.”

  That, ironically, was one of the reasons Stahl’s Red Sox loved playing for him, because he refused to believe he invented the game, or that he was ever going to revolutionize it with innovation. They knew him as a hard-nosed, strong-willed player from his first tour with the Sox, knew that he wasn’t going to be a managerial lifer like Mack or McGraw because he had that cushy bank job waiting for him back in Chicago, knew that the moment Jimmy McAleer started giving him more shit than he chose to swallow he’d be back home in Illinois on the first overnight train. But in this series, Stahl had also pushed every proper button. He’d shown faith in Hugh Bedient. He’d eschewed small ball in favor of big innings, a gamble that had paid off. Refusing to be intimidated by McGraw, he’d told his team to play the way they were accustomed to playing, not be sucked in by anything the Giants tried.

  And for his troubles, the Sox were now one game shy of glory.

  “When you look at the jobs the two managers have done,” said Red Sox third baseman Larry Gardner, “I think it’s plain to see which has gotten the most out of his team over the first five games, and I salute Manager Stahl for his fine work.”

  Back in New York, stewing over his team’s fortunes, McGraw was hard-pressed to find anyone saying anything remotely as flattering about the way he’d done his job across the past week. No more stoic a source than Walter Johnson had even taken to criticizing McGraw’s performance in the syndicated column the star pitcher had written for the break between Games Five and Six.

  “It was McGraw’s failure to have his men sacrifice that lost Saturday’s game in Boston, and it was his utter disregard for the ‘suicide’ play that lost him Friday’s game in New York,” the Big Train wrote. “McGraw was expected to pull things in this series that would send the Red Sox team crazy trying to dope out what was coming next. But until now, he has not shown anything out of the ordinary.”

  Johnson’s withering critique did exemplify one of the problems McGraw had with being McGraw: Because of his reputation, because of the high regard his peers held him in (to say nothing of the high regard with which he held himself), he was expected to do what no manager can do: win games by himself, through wizardry, through trickery, through subtle, savvy gamesmanship, as if calling for a hit-and-run can magically make a game turn on its ear. In truth, McGraw wasn’t nearly the hands-on control freak many believed he was. He entrusted his players to steal, to bunt, to play the infield in or back with men on third base according to their well-trained judgment. Snodgrass insisted that one year, the only time he ever saw McGraw use any signal at all was when Dummy Taylor, a deaf pitcher, was on the team and McGraw wanted him to steal.

  “So McGraw spelled out S-T-E-A-L in sign language to him,” Snodgrass recalled. “Anyone could have picked it up, but McGraw didn’t care.”

  McGraw’s graver sin in this series had been his mouth. Never a shy man, especially in regard to his team, especially when there was an opportunity to badger the American League, McGraw had opened himself up to widespread ridicule with some of his observations, the most recent of which had been his claim that the Red Sox were a one-man band incorporating Smoky Joe Wood and a cast of extras.

  “It appears that those who pretended to believe that we only have one pitcher now have another guess coming,” Tris Speaker gleefully said after Game Five.

  “The ridiculous claim of one of the Giants that we are a one-pitcher club has been punctured so badly that we shall hear no more of it,” Wood himself said.

  McGraw spent some of the Sunday off day at the Polo Grounds, watching groundskeepers water the vast lawn on what would have been a picture-perfect day to play a baseball game. He could sense the city’s doom. He was normally a man who couldn’t walk two blocks anywhere in Manhattan without being mobbed, a face more familiar than the mayor’s. But that morning, he sensed people keeping their distance. And understood why.

  “It is now an uphill fight and the odds are all against us,” McGraw said as he patrolled the Grounds, looking into the empty grandstand. “But we aren’t beaten yet. We’ve had our backs up against the wall before, and I’m sure of one thing: If we can just catch the Red Sox, we will beat them in the deciding game.”

  He shook his head, laughed. How bad was it for his team? Even on this day, when there was no game scheduled, the Giants had managed to lose a bit of ground. The National League that morning upheld a protest by the Pirates that a week earlier, a game-winning hit that the Cubs’ Dick Cotter had collected had occurred after Cotter batted out of order; the NL awarded the Pirates the win, which reduced the official margin by which the Giants had won the pennant from ten and a half games to ten.

  “It really is about time,” McGraw said, “that we started getting some of the breaks, don’t you think?”

  He had no way of knowing, as he strolled in the silence of the Polo Grounds, just how big a break he was about to enjoy. He would find out soon enough.

  Jake Stahl was mocking McGraw’s methods, not emulating them, when he’d said after Saturday’s game, “I have a good sense that I’m going to go with Buck O’Brien on Monday afternoon in the Polo Grounds. If that doesn’t work, who better to serve as an insurance policy than the great Smoky Joe Wood?”

  Nobody believed that, of course, least of all Stahl himself, certainly not Joe Wood. The off day between Game Five and Game Six was almost a divine gift of Providence for the Red Sox, it seemed, because it would allow Wood the second day of rest he would need to pitch Monday, which was exactly as it should have been. No single player had done more to push the Red Sox within sight of their first championship in nine years than Wood had, so it was right that Wood would get the first shot at sealing the deal. Even the newsmen who wrote down Stahl’s quote could almost see the manager winking at them.

  Why would you start anyone else?

  Joe Wood himself knew the answer to that as well as anyone: nobody. And while Stahl hadn’t exactly told him he would get the ball Monday afternoon, he hadn’t told him otherwise, either. His teammates all believed it would be Wood on Monday, and such was the unblinking belief they had in that magical right arm that almost all of them took care to make important telephone calls all day Sunday, informing all of their loved ones—brothers, best friends, bookies—that Wood was surely to be the man.

  Wood definitely did. His brother, Paul, would be at the Polo Grounds, and so he would have access to the local businessmen plying their wares in the grandstand. Paul would put down a C-note for himself and something on behalf of his brother. Betting on Smoky Joe, Paul Wood conceded, almost felt like stealing. Almost.

  And the word soon filtered to New York: It would be Wood starting Monday, no two ways about it.
On the Sunday-afternoon Red Sox train, Wood had bumped into Mark Roth, a reporter for the New York Globe, in the dining car.

  “How’s the old wing?” Roth asked Wood.

  “Ah, I’m hearing rumors that there’s something the matter with my arm,” Wood said, smiling, rubbing his right shoulder. “They probably mean the left one. I will be in there showing them just the same tomorrow.”

  All around them, giddy Red Sox were already speaking of off-season plans, some of them armed with pencil and paper, the better to calculate their individual share of the $88,543.02 winner’s take, speaking of the down payments they planned to make, the investment portfolios they hoped to broaden, the farm equipment they hoped to purchase, the vacations they hoped to take.

  In their midst was Jimmy McAleer, whose own wheels were turning madly, interrupted only by a fan who recognized him on the westbound train, shook his hand, and engaged him in a brief conversation.

  “I suppose you’re hoping the series will go a couple more tie games and then three for a decision,” the fan said, joking about the very thing McAleer himself had mentioned a few days earlier, his own wish for an endless best-of-twenty-one.

  “I do not,” said McAleer, sounding almost indignant at the notion. “I want it to end tomorrow in New York.”

  The fan was insistent. “But look at all the money it would mean to you.”

  “Ah, that’s all right,” McAleer said. “You see, last spring I made a date to go deer hunting up in Wisconsin, starting from Chicago on October 18, and I don’t want to miss a day of that trip. Better to get it over with quickly.”

  The fan shook McAleer’s hand and went on his way, but he’d made a good point, one that McAleer had pondered already. After all, he’d been the one who’d stared with wonder at the swollen Fenway Park bleachers before Game Three. He’d been the one who’d marveled at the vast expanse of grandstand seats at the Polo Grounds before Game Four, remarking to one New York newspaper, “How grand would it be to play games in front of this many people all the time?”

  Yes, McAleer’s wheels were grinding.

  And they carried him straight to where Jake Stahl was sitting on the train. Stahl, who even on days when he was in a good mood could barely disguise his contempt for McAleer, quietly nodded as McAleer passed, then stopped, then slipped into the seat next to his. Stahl set aside his newspaper.

  “Let me ask you a question, Jake,” McAleer said.

  “You’re the boss,” Stahl said. “Ask whatever you like.”

  “I saw in the papers that you were thinking of pitching Buck O’Brien.”

  “Yup. That’s what I told the papers.”

  “Who are you really pitching tomorrow?”

  Stahl smiled conspiratorially. Hell, he’d already made a few calls himself, told some folks who could use such information what his plans were. Would it kill him to let the owner in on the secret, in case he had a few calls he wanted to make?

  “Why, who else would I go with,” Stahl whispered, “but Joe Wood?”

  McAleer nodded. Stahl figured he’d done his loyal duty as a diligent employee. He started to snap his newspaper back open. But McAleer hadn’t gotten up.

  “Well,” McAleer said, “let’s talk that over a bit, can we?”

  “Talk what over a bit?” Stahl asked. Suddenly, he was terribly uncomfortable.

  “Well, remember, Buck O’Brien pitched really well in the third game of the series, and had his heart broken by Marquard.”

  “I remember. I was there.”

  “He won twenty games for us this year.”

  “I was there for every one of them. And for every one of the thirty-six that Joe Wood has won for us so far, too.”

  “Well, I was just thinking. If O’Brien holds the Giants to two runs again, I think we can win.”

  “Or he could get cuffed around. I’ve seen him do that, too, Jim.”

  “And what if he does? If he should lose it, the worst that could happen is you’ll have Joe on an extra day’s rest, stronger than ever …”

  “And you’d get an extra home game.”

  McAleer stopped, didn’t acknowledge the comment. Stahl peered at the owner, disbelief in his heart. Is he really asking me to do what I think he’s asking me to do?

  “But all the boys are expecting Wood to pitch,” Stahl said. “Joe told me he’s ready. And he insisted that he wants to pitch.”

  “He just plays for this team. You manage it,” McAleer said, before adding the kicker. “And I run it.”

  There were several uncomfortable minutes of silence. Finally, McAleer rose, turned one last time to Stahl.

  “Look,” he said. “Think it over. I think O’Brien deserves another chance, is all. And don’t forget, we’d always have Wood to go again in Boston, and what’s more of a sure thing than that? We’ll talk again in New York.”

  And with that, McAleer was gone, leaving his manager alone to stew in silence and ponder his options. Stahl could defy his boss, but that didn’t seem to be a reasonable response. He could threaten to resign, but if McAleer accepted how could Stahl spend the rest of his life knowing he’d walked away from a ballclub sitting one win away from a championship? He could try to incite the players, alert them to what was happening, but they had already seen how fruitless it was to fight city hall when you were a baseball player standing at loggerheads with an owner; besides, the last thing any manager ever wanted was to reveal to his team just how little authority he truly had over them. He felt awful, he felt angry, he felt guilty: Just across the aisle sat Joe Wood, cocky and so filled with the confidence of youth. There was zero doubt he would mow the Giants down tomorrow if handed the ball. None.

  A few hours later, after they’d all checked into the Bretton Hall Hotel, Stahl walked up to the top floor, where McAleer and his new bride were staying. McAleer let him in his suite.

  “So,” McAleer said. “Are we on the same team here?”

  “No, Jim,” Stahl said. “We’re not. We are a team that’s ready to win now. Joe Wood thinks he’s getting the ball tomorrow. The team thinks he’s getting the ball tomorrow. They’re so close to the winner’s money they can taste it.”

  “You’re telling me your club can’t win one of the next three games?”

  “I’m saying it’s ready to win right now.”

  “Then win it. With Buck O’Brien.”

  Stahl knew there was nothing else to say. He nodded at McAleer, nodded at Mrs. McAleer, and started to leave the suite. McAleer called him back.

  “One last thing, Jake.”

  Perfect. What now?

  “Don’t tell the boys tonight. There’s no need for them to know anything that’ll affect their night’s sleep.”

  “What about O’Brien? He should know what his assignment’s going to be tomorrow. Because it’s a doozy now.”

  “No need to make him extra nervous, is there?”

  Stahl shook his head, walked out of the suite, and started trundling downstairs, beyond furious. When he arrived on the floor he shared with his players, he thought about knocking on O’Brien’s door, decided not to. Which was just as well.

  Because depending on what exactly the time was, O’Brien was on either his fifth or his sixth beer of the night. And wouldn’t have been much inclined to slow down.

  The Royal Rooters were also squeezing as much festivity as they could out of Sunday night, with Nuf Ced McGreevy and John Fitzgerald leading the merriment (for who better to be able to turn a dry town wet than a bartender and a mayor?). Some six hundred of them had boarded a 4 o’clock train and six hours later were descending on the Elks Club, where most of them were lodged and all of their beer was iced. So certain were the Rooters that Monday would be the day for which they’d so long sacrificed their vocal cords that their ranks had swelled by double just in the twenty-four hours since the Sox had won Game Five, and Honey Fitz had to personally call Garry Herrmann in order to ensure all six hundred could be accommodated.

  “You’ll have no worri
es here,” Herrmann reported. “Last we checked, there’s no lines at the Polo Grounds. I believe the Giants fans are already looking forward to 1913.”

  “Magnificent!” Fitzgerald exclaimed, and he officially took over the job of organizer from Johnny Keenan, charging fifteen bucks a head and guaranteeing train fare, a warm bed at the Elks Club, some cold beer once they got there, and a ticket to the coronation Monday at the Polo Grounds.

  Those Giants fans who hadn’t prepared concession speeches pointed hopefully to the Red Sox’ own history, for in 1903 those very same Boston Americans had fallen behind three games to one to the Pittsburgh Pirates, then had rallied in splendid fashion to win four straight to capture the very first World Series ever contested. There were two asterisks that should have been attached to that loyal logic, of course. First, that Series was a best-of-nine, so the Red Sox were never as close to elimination—and the added burdens those pressures brought to bear—as the Giants now stood. More important, there had long been widespread suspicion that at least two, if not more, of those Series games had been, shall we say, “prearranged” by players on both sides who’d only been given vague suggestions as to how they would be compensated for playing the Series. Boston players and Pittsburgh players had merely been promised a “percentage of the final receipts.” And it stood to reason that the more games contested in the Series, the higher that total would be.