by David Nemec
Harry Taylor.
The major leagues have, on occasion, authorized bats that were not all of a piece. During the 1954 season, for instance, laminated bats were allowed on an experimental basis. Bats made of metal, in whole or in part, have never been permitted in the professional game. . . and pitchers can only pray they never will be.
During his relatively brief career, Harry Taylor used a bat that was one of a kind and employed it in ways the likes of which have not been seen since. Later a renowned jurist, Taylor was active in the majors only four years (1890–93), but at the turn of the twentieth century he served as chief counsel for the players in their first attempt to form a union. Amazingly versatile, he made his ML debut with the Louisville Colonels in 1890 (at second base) after leading the New York State League in batting the previous year while playing shortstop for Elmira. When he left the majors after spending the 1893 season with the original Baltimore Orioles under Ned Hanlon, he was regarded as the best fielding first baseman in the game (and also had found time to catch, play the outfield, and serve in six games at third base). Offensively, Taylor had little power—as witness a career slugging average just 37 points higher than his .283 career batting average—but was an excellent baserunner and superb bunter with a technique that many tried to emulate but none ever mastered. Taylor used a bat made of soft wood, legal at the time, and would spin it at the last second as a pitch came plateward so that the ball would carom off the handle rather than the barrel and die just a few feet from the plate, forcing the surprised catcher to make the play rather than the charging pitcher or third baseman. But he also had another trick up his sleeve which exasperated pitchers nearly as much. Taylor was “double-jointed” and deluded umpires into calling pitches he swung at foul balls because his joints would “crackle on the swing,” making a sound like a foul tip, which as yet was not a strike. Most importantly, he was a respected field leader.
3.02 (c)
The bat handle, for not more than 18 inches from its end, may be covered or treated with any material or substance to improve the grip. Any such material or substance, which extends past the 18 inch limitation, shall cause the bat to be removed from the game. Note: If the umpire discovers the bat does not conform to (c) above until a time during or after which the bat has been used in play it shall be grounds for declaring the batter out, or ejected from the game.
Beyond any doubt, the most famous violation in major-league history of Rule 3.02 (c) was the “Pine Tar Incident” in 1983, which began on July 24 at Yankee Stadium in a game between the New York Yankees and the Kansas City Royals, but echoed deep into the offseason and did not culminate until late that December when Commissioner Bowie Kuhn fined the Yankees $250,000 for “certain public statements” made by owner George Steinbrenner about the way American League president Lee MacPhail handled the situation.
The controversy was ignited by Kansas City third baseman George Brett’s two-run homer off Yankees reliever Goose Gossage with two out in the ninth inning, putting the Royals ahead, 5–4. As Brett started for the dugout after circling the bases, Yankees manager Billy Martin asked the umpires to check Brett’s bat for excessive pine tar. Like many players, Brett used pine tar on his bat handle to improve his grip and prevent blisters. But Martin, after being tipped off by third baseman Graig Nettles, contended the application extended beyond the allowed 18 inches from the end of the handle. Plate umpire Tim McClelland looked at the bat, then consulted with his three associates, and the onus fell on crew chief Joe Brinkman.
When Brinkman measured the pine tar on Brett’s bat handle against the 17-inch width of home plate, he discovered the substance exceeded the 18-inch limit by an inch or so. Whereupon the umpires ruled Brett out for using an illegal bat, to nullifying his home run and ending the game with the score reverting to 4–3, New York. Livid with rage, Brett raced back onto the field and had to be physically restrained from taking on the entire umpiring crew. While the argument raged around home plate, Royals pitcher Gaylord Perry furtively snatched Brett’s bat. Before he could make off with it, however, he was intercepted by a uniformed guard, who saw to it that the bat was taken to the umpires’ dressing room.
The Royals lodged an official protest with commissioner MacPhail. Four days later, MacPhail announced he was upholding the protest, marking the first time in his ten years as American League president that he had overturned an umpire’s decision. The commissioner contended the fault lay not with his umpires, however, but with the rule, which needed to be rewritten to make it clear that a bat coated with excessive pine tar was not the same as a doctored bat—one that had been altered to improve the distance factor or to cause an unusual reaction on a batted ball (a corked bat, for instance).
With the protest espoused, the score once again became 5–4, Royals, with two out in the top of the ninth. When MacPhail ruled the game had to be finished at Yankee Stadium on August 18, an open date for both teams, Steinbrenner at first said he’d rather forfeit. The completion of the game eventually took place as ordered by MacPhail in a near-empty ballpark, but not before there was attempt by Yankees fans to get a court injunction barring the game and a last-ditch effort by Billy Martin to have Brett declared out.
As soon as the two clubs took the field on August 18, Martin had his infielders try appeals at first and second base. When the umpires—not the same crew who had worked the original game—gave the safe sign, Martin filed a protest with crew chief Dave Phillips, contending that the four umpires could not know that Brett had touched all the bases on his home-run tour since none of them were in Yankee Stadium on July 24. But Martin’s argument had been anticipated. Phillips whipped out a notarized letter signed by Brinkman’s crew stating that Brett and U. L. Washington, the runner who had scored ahead of him, had both touched all the bases.
The game took only twelve minutes to complete, as the Yankees meekly went down in order in the bottom of the ninth to seal the 5–4 Royals victory. However, the various court actions that the Yankees launched to have the result quashed were only just beginning. In the end, none of them came to much, but over the winter the Official Playing Rules Committee clarified the so-called “pine tar rule” to stipulate, as per the note in Rule 1.10 (c), that, “a violation of the 18-inch limit shall call for the bat’s ejection but not for nullification of any play that results from its use.”
Ironically, the Yankees were themselves once victimized by Rule 3.02 (c) [formerly Rule 1.10 (c)] before it was rewritten in such a way as to avert incidents similar to the Brett debacle. In a 1975 game, on July 19 against the Minnesota Twins at Metropolitan Stadium, Yankees catcher Thurman Munson singled in the first inning to drive home a run, but was called out by plate umpire Art Frantz when an inspection of his bat, instigated by Twins manager Frank Quilici, disclosed that the pine tar on it overstepped the 18-inch limit. Billy Martin no doubt was aware of Frantz’s ruling eight years earlier when he requested that Brett’s bat be checked.
3.03: Player Uniforms
(a) All players on a team shall wear uniforms identical in color, trim and style and all players’ uniforms shall include minimal six-inch numbers on their backs.
A question frequently asked by fans unfamiliar with the history of uniforms is: Why have the New York Yankees retired the numbers of all their immortals, such as Ruth, Gehrig, Mantle, and DiMaggio, whereas the Detroit Tigers have never retired Ty Cobb’s number? The answer has nothing to do with Cobb’s lack of popularity. Rather, it is that Cobb never wore a number during his playing days. Nor for that matter did Walter Johnson, Tris Speaker, Eddie Collins, Honus Wagner, or numerous other stars of Cobb’s era.
Although major-league teams as far back as the 1880s wore numbered uniforms on occasion, the experiment always failed, in part because few players fancied bearing a number on their backs like convicts. Not until 1929, when the Cleveland Indians and New York Yankees both adopted wearing numbers on the backs of their uniform blouses, did a team put numbers on its uniforms and keep them there. On May 13,
1929, at Cleveland’s League Park, fans were treated for the first time to the spectacle of every player wearing a numbered uniform, and received a further treat when the Indians won, 4–3, behind Willis Hudlin. Two years later, the American League made numbered uniforms mandatory, but the National League did not follow suit until a year later. Meanwhile, Ty Cobb retired in 1928 before the rule was put into place.
How, then, did fans go about telling players apart without them wearing numbered uniforms? In truth, they often didn’t—not even with a scorecard that listed that particular day’s lineups. Changes were oftentimes made at the last minute, and in the early days went unannounced to the general audience. New York Giants bleacher fans in the late 1890s had especial trouble telling Cy Seymour (left) and Mike Tiernan apart, and would often go through an entire game uncertain which one was playing left field, as both were left-handed, clean shaven, and roughly the same height and build.
3.03 (c)
No player whose uniform does not conform to that of his teammates shall be permitted to participate in a game.
It has always been customary for all the players on a professional team to wear identical uniforms, but not until 1899 was there a rule that every player on a team’s bench had to wear a uniform that exactly matched those of his teammates in both color and style. Prior to then, it had been an unwritten rule that many clubs violated—particularly when on the road and forced to pick up a last-minute substitute. To curtail expenses, teams sometimes took to the road with as few as ten players—the minimum a club could dress at the time—and then hired local amateurs from the city they were visiting when disabling injuries occurred. Often these major-league “temps” were outfitted with makeshift uniforms. In some instances a temp was even allowed to wear the uniform of his amateur club, supplemented by the cap of his major-league team for the day, and on at least one occasion a substitute played in street clothes. In an American Association game at St. Louis on May 10, 1885, John Coleman, a pitcher-outfielder who had not suited up that day, left the bench to replace Bobby Mathews in right field for the Philadelphia Athletics. Mathews had begun the game in the box but switched to right when he hurt his hand. Coleman replaced him in the sixth inning after Browns manager Charlie Comiskey acceded to the A’s request for an injury substitution.
In 1882, its first season as a rival major league, the American Association violated the uniform dress code custom for a very different reason, and the National League quickly followed suit. AA teams strove to be as gaudy in their attire as possible. At the opening of the inaugural season, clubs wore silk uniform blouses in as many different colors as there were positions on the diamond. The champion Cincinnati Red Stockings infield dressed as follows: First baseman Dan Stearns wore a candy-striped blouse, Hick Carpenter at third chose all white, and the two keystoners—second sacker Bid McPhee and shortstop Chick Fulmer—showcased purple and yellow-striped and maroon blouses, respectively. The National League, fearing that this innovation, bizarre as it seemed, might be received positively by the public, also voted to adopt color-coded uniforms at its annual meeting on December 9. 1881. The uniform experiment ended swiftly in both leagues after a string of comical on-field incidents made it apparent that fans and players alike were too often confused as to who was friend and who was foe.
The rule that all players must be wearing uniforms of exactly the same color harmed the Cleveland Indians in a 1949 game against the Boston Red Sox on September 20 at Fenway Park. Tribe ace Bob Lemon had a no-hitter going midway through the contest. It was a hot day, and before each pitch Lemon fell into the pattern of tweaking the red bill of his cap to rub the perspiration off his fingers. Observing that Lemon’s gestures were causing the bill’s color to fade as the game progressed, Red Sox manager Joe McCarthy claimed that it was no longer the same color as the cap bills worn by the rest of the Indians and therefore was not regulation. To avoid a rhubarb that would only further break his rhythm, as was McCarthy’s intention, Lemon obligingly changed caps, but the damage was already done. The Red Sox proceeded to knock him out of the box with five runs in the sixth inning. The following day Lemon, ever able to find humor in the game, appeared on the field in pregame practice wearing a fedora.
In the 2005 ALCS, fans had occasion to note that the strictures implied in stipulation (c) of Rule 3.03, as in stipulation (d) of 3.03 (see below), have been relaxed in recent years. Though the TV broadcasting crew made much of the fact that, in Game Two, Los Angeles Angels lefty Jarrod Washburn wore an undershirt with a red left sleeve and the right sleeve cut off at the armpit, an apparent violation of Rule 3.03 (c), White Sox manager Ozzie Guillen never lodged a protest. Since then the rules on uniform uniformity have grown even more permissive. In Game Three of the ALDS at Cleveland between the Astros and Indians on October 9, 2018, Indians third baseman Josh Donaldson wore the sleeve of a polka dot undergarment on his left arm the entire game without provoking comment from anyone. Earlier that season, in a July 4 game at Chavez Ravine, several members of the Pirates (but not all) wore polka dot undergarments, but no Dodgers took issue with it. In fact, polka dot undergarments have become commonplace with some teams. Similarly, players have begun stepping up their demands to wear shoes and cleats in the colors and designs of their choice.
3.03 (d)
A league may provide that each team shall wear a distinctive uniform at all times, or that each team shall have two sets of uniforms, white for home games and a different color for road games.
Another long-standing custom that for many years was not formalized into a rule implored a team to possess two different uniforms; one to wear at home and the other while on the road. This practice first became an actual rule in 1904. Prior to then, it had been customary since the early 1880s for the home team to dress in white and the visitors in gray (or some other darker hue). Not until 1911 did it become mandatory, however, for the home team to wear white uniforms and the visitors dark uniforms as a way for fans, players, and umpires alike to distinguish more easily the players on one club from the other. In recent years, “may” has become the operative word in Rule 3.03 (d). Many major-league teams in the mid-1990s began wearing dark uniform tops at home, and some of the teams using dark tops at home also wore them on the road. The result is that, on occasion, the easiest way for a fan quickly to distinguish between the home and road team today, when both are wearing nearly identical dark tops (usually black), is to observe the uniform pants, which remain white for home teams and gray for road teams. The socks can also be a distinguishing feature—but not in all cases, since many players now, rather than the traditional knickers style, wear long uniform pants that cover their socks.
Special dispensation has to be granted from the commissioner’s office for a player to wear any name other than his surname on his jersey. The most recent player to be granted this privilege was Ichiro Suzuki, seen above.
Putting a player’s name on the back of his uniform jersey has been part of baseball for over half a century. It originated in 1960 by Bill Veeck while he owned the White Sox as a way of creating extra revenue by selling replica jerseys. Many of the smaller market teams still do it—especially when playing at home—but some of the wealthier clubs do not, although they encourage their souvenir shops to peddle jerseys with the names of their players on them. The Yankees are currently the only club that refuses to put names on both their home and road jerseys (though if you go to a store you can easily purchase a shirt or jersey with a player’s name, both past and present).
3.03 (e)
Sleeve lengths may vary for individual players, but the sleeves of each individual player shall be approximately the same length, and no player shall wear ragged, frayed or slit sleeves.
Rule 3.03 (e) is comparatively new to the manual and was formerly Rule 1.11 (c). When the entire rule book was rewritten prior to the 1950 season, it was spelled out for the first time that a pitcher could not wear a garment with ragged, frayed, or slit sleeves, but long before then umpires had begun making pitcher
s shed offending garments, albeit on an arbitrary basis. One who escaped punishment for many years was Dazzy Vance, whose blazing fastball was rendered all the more effective by the tattered right undershirt sleeve he flourished over the vehement protests of rival batsmen.
Cleveland Indians hurler Johnny Allen was not so fortunate. Long known for his monumental temper tantrums, Allen faced the Boston Red Sox in Fenway Park on June 7, 1938, with umpire Bill McGowan behind the plate. Allen and McGowan had crossed swords before, so the stage was set for sparks to fly as soon as Allen began to complain about McGowan’s decisions on pitches.
In the second inning, McGowan stopped play, strolled out to the mound, and told Allen he would have to cut off the part of his sweatshirt sleeve where he had cut diamond-shaped holes for ventilation, which made the sleeve wave whenever he delivered a pitch, a distraction to the batter. Allen refused to either remove the shirt or shorten the offending sleeve, and when he was confronted again in the top of the third inning, he stalked off the mound and vanished into the Cleveland clubhouse. Indians manager Ozzie Vitt promptly took him out of the game and fined him $250.
The offending shirt became a cause célèbre. When Cleveland owner Alva Bradley learned of the incident, he bought the shirt from Allen for $250—in effect paying the fine for his pitcher—and had it mounted in a glass showcase of the Higbee Company, a Cleveland department store. Bradley contended that the Higbee Company, and not he, had purchased the shirt, which may technically have been true. Bradley’s brother, Chuck, was the president of the Higbee Company at the time. By then the entire country knew the tale of Allen’s frayed temper and tattered sleeve. His shirt was eventually placed in the Hall of Fame as a reminder of one of the game’s wooliest episodes.