Fenway 1912

by Glenn Stout

  Johnson thought differently—the Red Sox, after all, had already started the process of ticket distribution by asking fans to produce rain checks to prove they were true followers of the club. At length, the commission decided that it would handle ticket sales for all games at the Polo Grounds, but would buckle to Johnson's will and allow the Red Sox to distribute and price their tickets as they saw fit. Commission president August Herrmann announced that since Robert McRoy "has had experience in several World's Series, the Commission could not have a better man in charge." But as everyone would soon learn, McRoy's World's Series experience overseeing ticket arrangements as Ban Johnson's secretary while sitting at his side was quite a bit different from supervising the sale of nearly one hundred thousand tickets from the offices of Fenway Park. That brash statement of support would soon be proven wrong.

  For the time being, however, fans in both cities were delighted to learn that they could finally start getting tickets in their hands. In New York only box seats and some eight thousand reserved grandstand seats would be sold in advance, with an allowance of two seats per purchaser for each game. The remaining tickets, nearly thirty thousand per game, would be sold only on the day of the game, and the purchaser would be required to enter the park immediately.

  In Boston, however, Robert McRoy came up with a much more complicated scheme. First, the Red Sox, like the Giants, changed the pricing scheme throughout their home park. Box seats were priced at $5 per game; grandstand reserved seats at $3; the new third-base stand at $2; the pavilion, right-field bleachers, and the Duffy's Cliff and outfield seats at $1; and the center-field bleachers at fifty cents. Although the tickets were pricier than during the regular season, at a time when the average wage was $20 a week, gas cost seven cents a gallon, and steak sold for twenty-three cents a pound, tickets were not out of reach for most fans. McRoy planned to sell all reserved seats in advance. That now included not only the box seats and the entire grandstand but the new third-base stand and the three rows of $1 seats that skirted the edge of the field. The remaining seats would be sold on the day of the game, but McRoy also announced, somewhat cryptically, that he would "consider" mail applications, whatever that meant. The end result was that for the World's Series the Red Sox would be selling more tickets than ever before at new prices in an entirely new way. Although the new system would increase the potential receipts from a single game to about $70,000, more than three times the amount for a sellout during the regular season, in retrospect it almost ensured that things would get screwed up. But the potential for profit caused them to overlook the possibility of problems.

  For now, Boston fans were just glad to have everything worked out so they could finally make some plans for the Series. The Red Sox, with a victory over the Yankees, earned win number one hundred for the season behind Joe Wood's two-hitter, a game that seemed to answer any concerns over the condition of his arm. The Sox were clearly ready to play out the string, as were the Giants, who finally crawled over the line themselves on September 26 and clinched the pennant everyone had ceded to them in June. The Red Sox left for their final road trip to Washington and Philadelphia on September 27 and would not return to Boston until after the season ended in Philadelphia on October 5. Unlike other World's Series participants, who often played an exhibition or two against a select squad of all-stars before "the Fall Classic," the Sox planned to work out privately before heading to New York.

  The World's Series was more than a week off, but the Giants, a ball club that was as much about reputation as talent, already loomed over the proceedings. Given their schizophrenic performance during the 1912 season—playing the first half as if they were the greatest team ever to don a uniform and the second half as if sleepwalking—no one was quite certain how they would perform.

  In many ways—on paper and based on recent performance, for example—the Red Sox appeared to be the stronger club, though not by much: Boston was the narrow favorite among the gamblers and sporting men who put money behind their opinion. For example, entertainer George M. Cohan, a Giants fan, was nevertheless already on record as having put down $10,000 on the Sox. New York's performance in recent weeks had done little to move the odds, for as the Globe noted in late September, the Giants were "not hitting, and every fan realizes it is a bad thing for a team to go into a post season series while the men are suffering from a batting slump. In the second place, the slab work of Mathewson and Marquard did not look good to observant fans." There were rumors, in fact, that Marquard's second-half slump was due to personal problems. Earlier in the season he had been carrying on with a beautiful young actress, Shirley Kellogg. He had slumped, as sportswriter Otto Flotto noted, because "he was thrown down by Shirley Kellogg, an actress who had promised to marry him. The rube took this so to heart that his mind was always a thousand miles removed from his work."

  Many observers viewed Joe Wood as the difference maker. Walter Johnson, who more than any other man knew what it was like to pitch against Wood, favored Boston, calling the Boston pitcher "the gamest twirler I ever tackled in a game that was for blood." Grantland Rice, the dean of American sportswriters, wrote on the eve of the Series that Wood gave Boston the edge because "Wood on form might master and overpower any man McGraw sent against him ... look for Wood to win the deciding game at the end." These words would prove prescient.

  Most other "impartial" sportswriters—that is, those who did not work for New York or Boston papers, such as Jacob Morse of Baseball magazine, Flotto of the Denver Post, H. G. Salinger of the Detroit News, and W. A. Phelon of the Cincinnati Times, and others—agreed with Rice. Hugh Fullerton, whose syndicated column appeared nationwide, was perhaps the most notable of these men. He created a firestorm in New York, where his work appeared in the Times, when he wrote before the Series that "Boston has a better team, playing better ball and with a better system than New York ... Boston excels New York individually in seven of nine positions." Fullerton gave the Giants the edge only with Larry Doyle at second and with catcher Chief Meyers. "Mark this," concluded Fullerton. "[The] New York team is not a 'game' club. From here it looks all Boston." New York fans howled, and the staid Times reprinted more than a dozen letters from outraged Giants fans, one of whom asked, "If Mr. Fullerton is being hired by the Red Sox in order to increase the odds against the Giants and make them lose courage, why doesn't he come out and say so?"

  Their complaints were not without merit. Since the birth of the franchise as the New York Gothams, the history of the New York team had been drawn in brash, bold strokes. Their nickname allegedly dated back to their first championship in 1888 when owner-manager Jim Mutrie was so overcome with joy and excitement that he blurted out, "My Big Fellows! My Giants! We are the People!" In fact, the name had been in use since 1885, but the Giants, as their name inferred, were the kind of team that was easy to mythologize. That was one reason the Giants were perhaps the most representative club of the era, epitomizing baseball at the turn of the century, and for the first decade or so after, in their personality, their style of play, their role in the game, and the personalities they put on the field.

  Even after factoring in their second-half struggles, it was hard to dismiss a team that at one point had been 56-13 on the season and that had a starting pitcher, in Rube Marquard, who had won nineteen games in a row, and a spitballer, Jeff Tesreau, who as a rookie in 1912 had emerged over the last half of the season and blossomed into New York's most dependable starting pitcher. He had won seventeen games and was the hottest pitcher on either team, winning eight games in September, including seven in a row and a no-hitter against Philadelphia on September 6.

  The Red Sox, knowing full well what they were up against, had their own spitball ace, Buck O'Brien, throw batting practice over the final weeks of the season so they could become accustomed to the offerings of Tesreau. Ironically, McAleer, as manager of the St. Louis Browns in 1909, had had the first crack at Tesreau when the Missouri native was still a teenager, but turned him down. Although the burly
young pitcher had plenty of stuff, it wasn't until he added a spitball to his arsenal at the suggestion of Giants coach Wil Robinson that he reached the big leagues, leading the New York Times to comment that "Tesreau has curves which bend like barrel hoops and speed like lightning." Entering the Series, Giants fans looked at Tesreau the same way Red Sox fans looked at Wood.

  And then there was Christy Mathewson. While not quite the pitcher who had won thirty-seven games in 1908, he still went 25-12 in 1912 and was still among the best six or eight pitchers in the game. Beyond that, Mathewson was also baseball's most respected and admired player. A graduate of Bucknell College, where he sang in the Glee Club, belonged to the literary society, and played football, Mathewson was held up as everything most other ballplayers were not after he reached the major leagues in 1900. He was educated, refined, polite, and fair-minded, a model of clean living and good sportsmanship, just the figure the game needed to slough off its reputation as a haven for the hard-living, the hard-drinking, and the foul-mouthed. Mathewson helped make the game of baseball more acceptable to the middle class—in short, he was the polar opposite of his manager, John McGraw. But beneath his squeaky clean veneer, Mathewson was no pushover. He was also a tough-as-nails competitor who used a fastball, impeccable control, and a pitch he called the "fadeaway"—a screwball—to dominate hitters. Connie Mack called him "the greatest pitcher who ever lived. He had knowledge, judgment, perfect control and form. It was wonderful to watch him pitch when he wasn't pitching against you."

  Offensively, Giants captain and second baseman Larry Doyle, while no Speaker, would, like Speaker, win the Chalmers Award as the most valuable player in his league for 1912. Catcher Chief Meyers hit nearly .360 and was the only regular over the age of thirty. The rest of the Giants, like first baseman Fred Merkle, third baseman Buck Herzog, and outfielders Red Murray, Beals Becker, Fred Snodgrass, and Josh Devore, were almost mirror images of each other. They could all run, they all knew how to handle the bat and work pitchers for a walk, they were all adept at the hit-and-run, and they all knew how to put pressure on the opposition.

  But the man who gave Giant backers the most confidence was their manager, John McGraw, the one they called "little Napoleon," who at 5'7" was still the biggest and baddest Giant of them all. "McGraw," said Giants coach Artie Latham of his boss, "eats gunpowder every morning for breakfast and washes it down with warm blood." While in truth he was not so raw and uncouth, he did not mind if others thought so as long as that perception helped to win ball games. And as long as McGraw was in the New York dugout, no one felt completely comfortable picking the Red Sox to win. Connie Mack, who managed in the major leagues for longer than anyone else, perhaps described him best when he once said, "There has been only one manager—and his name is McGraw."

  "Pugnacious" is a word that seemed invented to describe the square-jawed manager. He viewed each game of baseball as a life-and-death struggle that demanded—even required—the use of every possible tactic, legal or not, to win.

  He first made his mark as a third baseman with Baltimore of the American Association in 1882, and he remained with the team when they joined the National League a year later. If the Giants were the team of the turn of the century, the Orioles had certainly been the team of the 1890s. McGraw learned the game from its master, Orioles manager Ned Hanlon, and that meant not only learning how to do all the little things the game valued at the time—stealing, bunting, sacrificing—but all the things that players could get away with when there was only one umpire on the field. Hanlon's charges learned to cut the corners when running the bases, trip the opposition, and berate, intimidate, and sometimes even fight the arbiters. Hanlon taught McGraw how to get the most from his team, even if that meant occasionally using his fists on his own players, like some early-day Billy Martin. The comparison is appropriate, for McGraw's managerial genealogy, which begins with Hanlon, continues to the present. McGraw himself had many protégés, including Casey Stengel, who in turn mentored Billy Martin. In fact, McGraw's managerial line can be traced forward through the recently retired Cubs manager, the combative Lou Piniella.

  McGraw was also fiercely loyal, but even more importantly, his teams won, which earned his players money, not an insignificant factor at a time when no contract was guaranteed, careers could end in an instant, and life spans were short. As a result, his players usually responded with the same hard-nosed attitude that McGraw exhibited himself. A McGraw team played hard, tough, aggressive baseball, intimidating the opposition before the game with their swagger and then wearing them down with their relentless pressure. Every base runner was a threat to steal, every slide was hard, and every challenge was answered in kind. Apart from his pitching staff, McGraw didn't need, or even particularly want, big stars on his team. It was not necessarily their raw talent but the way McGraw's team played that was the reason for their success.

  The managers may have been the biggest difference between the two teams. Although Jake Stahl was respected, McGraw was revered, and while Stahl shared both some of the responsibility of the position and the credit, in some quarters that was seen as a sign of weakness. As one writer commented in Sporting Life, "In the important matter of experience New York has an advantage as Manager McGraw has been through the World's Series mill twice and his present team once, whereas it is an entirely new experience for manager Stahl and his team." To win the Series the Red Sox would not just have to defeat the Giants, which seemed plausible, but beat McGraw. That was a far more daunting challenge.

  One other factor made the Giants a particularly formidable opponent for the Red Sox—the rebuilt Polo Grounds, New York's home park. Baseball magazine called it "the mightiest temple ever erected to the goddess of sport and the crowning achievement among notable structures devoted to baseball." It was easily the most intimidating place to play in the major leagues. Although the Red Sox had gained some experience playing there in their series with the Yankees a few weeks before, they had yet to play in the park when it was full of Giants partisans, who responded to McGraw's tactics like a lynch mob cheering on the hangman. Boston's Royal Rooters, with their bands and songs and whistles and drums, were cute, and when singing "Tessie" they could be particularly annoying (they had rightly received credit for unnerving the Pirates during the 1903 World's Series), but they were not menacing. The fans in the Polo Grounds treated the opposition like the Christians whenever the lion entered the arena.

  The dimensions of the Polo Grounds also made it unlike any other field in baseball. It was essentially a horseshoe, only 277 feet down the line in left and 256 feet in right, but from where the line met the fence the stands angled away perpendicular to home plate, making the power alleys more than 400 feet from home. Over the course of the 1912 season the Red Sox had adapted and become adept at playing in the smaller confines of Fenway Park, now made even smaller by the addition of McLaughlin's extra seats. The Polo Grounds was a radically different place. Outfielders had to play somewhat deeper to cover the gaps, leaving plenty of room for hits to fall in, and the Giants used this to their advantage, scurrying around the bases with abandon. In a short series the Red Sox had precious little time to adjust—one misplayed ball or out-of-position outfielder could cost them the Series—and the possibility of playing as many as four games in the Polo Grounds, versus three at Fenway Park, did not make the task any easier.

  And if all that were not intimidating enough, on September 28 a story out of Chicago was. Former Giants manager and sportswriter Horace Fogel was the frontman for a syndicate of investors and served as the president of the Philadelphia Phillies. He made a public accusation that the National League, through its umpires, had fixed the 1912 pennant race to ensure that the Giants would reach the World's Series.

  "Go among the players of the other teams," he challenged, "and see how quick they will tell you that New York gets the best of the umpiring ... the reason for it is that the umpires are afraid of McGraw and the influence the New York club has with the President of the
league. Then go ask each club owner how many games his team lost to New York this year that would have gone the other way if the umpires had not given the Giants all the best of it in any close decision." He then went on to say that the umpires were easily swayed by the promise of extra pay during the World's Series.

  Fogel did not stop there. He also charged that other teams in the National League intentionally took it easy on the Giants, most specifically the St. Louis Cardinals, whose manager, Roger Bresnahan, had played for McGraw. Indeed, the Giants had won an inordinate number of close games during the season, going 32-14 in such contests, and the Cardinals had been only 7-15 against the Giants. But then again, all good teams generally have good records in one-run games. Fogel's own Phillies had finished only 5-17 versus New York, although Fogel blamed the umpires for at least six of those defeats.

  NL president Thomas Lynch was quick to refute the charges, but Fogel did have a point. Just as Ban Johnson owned portions of some American League teams, there were some interlocking financial interests between teams in the National League as well, with some owners owning stock in clubs other than their own. Termed "syndicate baseball" by the press, such arrangements had undermined the integrity of the game in the late 1890s and now threatened to do so again.

  The National League bristled over the charges, and even though they receded into the background as the Series approached, pending an investigation after the season, they still cast a shadow over the Series. As soon as it ended the NL would act, slapping down Fogel swiftly and banning him from baseball entirely without thoroughly refuting the charges. Still, on the precipice of the World's Series, the whispers that the Giants had an "in" with umpires could not have set well with the Red Sox. Beating the Giants and McGraw would be hard enough even on a level playing field. If it were tilted toward New York ...