Fenway 1912

by Glenn Stout

  Just as it was for the players, the regular season was but a warm-up for the writers to the World's Series, where the stakes and their duties increased exponentially. In the days before the Series their workload increased dramatically. The amount of space allocated for baseball in many newspapers doubled and tripled. Nearly every writer had to write lengthy and detailed analyses of the players and management of both teams, drumming up interest in a Series for which interest was already high, feeding the public's insatiable appetite for the smallest shred of inside information that might give them an edge when putting down a bet. Once the Series began, each writer was responsible not only for a game story or column each day but for background features and analysis, detailed play-by-play accounts, notes columns, and dispatches for magazines like Sporting Life and The Sporting News, for which many served as local correspondents. On a word count basis, no contemporary newspaper lavishes as much verbiage on a World Series today as many of these papers did then.

  And it did not stop there. The public's appetite for baseball news was unquenchable. Other sports, like boxing and horse racing, were of intermittent interest, but baseball was part of the national conversation. What happened yesterday on the field and what would happen tomorrow was a discussion that could take place between two people regardless of class, race, sex, or religion. During the World's Series baseball bumped news of murders and wars and strikes off the front page as every publication scrambled to set itself apart from the competition. To that end virtually every Boston and New York paper had contracted with one or more players from each team, or with other well-known players, to provide inside accounts of each Series contest. The Boston Post, for example, published such accounts under the bylines of Cy Young, Ty Cobb, John McGraw, and Heinie Wagner. The Herald countered with Walter Johnson and Larry Gardner. Wood, Speaker, Larry Doyle, Mathewson, Jeff Tesreau, and Rube Marquard were also all under contract to provide daily accounts of the Series, and if a lesser-known player had a big day, the papers threw money at him after the game in exchange for an exclusive first-person account to appear in the paper the next day.

  These stories have confounded naive historians and readers for years. They were, in fact, almost never written by the players themselves. In most instances they were not even based on anything beyond a brief and cursory interview but were primarily fictitious reports written on the fly. While fascinating and often entertaining—their stilted use of the English language made even the most uneducated player sound as if he had just graduated from elocutionary school—their historical value as accurate representations of the thoughts of the bylined players is, like most ghostwritten accounts, almost negligible. Their rampant use by historians either unaware of their specious origins or unconcerned about their questionable veracity has infected more than one well-intentioned history of the game. In fact, after the 1912 World's Series the National Commission, distraught over the way the accounts tended to point fingers and scapegoat, causing "open ruptures" between teammates, threatened to ban the practice altogether. Top name players like Tris Speaker, Joe Wood, Ty Cobb, and Christy Mathewson and managers like Stahl and McGraw earned as much as $3,000, as one reporter described it, "for mere use of their name above articles they were supposed to have written but which were written by expert newspapermen." For the right price, few cared what words were put in their mouths. But this World's Series would need no embellishment. What actually happened was far better than the hyperbole of any imagination.

  By today's standards, Fenway Park's new press box was spartan, with few of the amenities the press receives today, and the writers' coverage of the games, while lengthy, was often incomplete. With the press box open to the elements except for a roof, writers in the first row got wet if the wind was blowing in, and in an era with no instant replay, each depended on his own eyes to write an accurate account of the game. That is why their accounts nearly always differ. It could be extraordinarily difficult at times to determine, not what happened, but precisely how. Eyes could look only one place at a time, and if a writer glanced away and missed a play, he often made up for it by writing what he thought happened, turning line drives into ground balls and vice versa, or what he thought made a better story.

  There were nearly as many telegraph operators in the press box as reporters, for it was through their efforts that the stories of the writers made their way back to the home office and were then flashed instantly all around the country. In cities large and small, many newspapers operated scoreboards during the Series, ranging from large and complex boards that included lineups, used lights to indicate hits and errors, and featured ersatz runners in silhouette that moved around the bases, to more modest affairs, including configurations that were little more than a man and a chalkboard writing out the play-by-play. Even more complicated tableaus were created in theaters. Some even hired actors in uniform to move from one ersatz base to another to "re-enact" the Series before stage sets of bleacher-filled stands. In the Polo Grounds one hundred extra telegraph wires had been strung to accommodate the press, with a like number in Boston. Tim Murnane estimated that nationwide "over 10,000 telegraph operators will be engaged on the afternoon of the games in helping to relay the bulletins ... nothing outside a presidential election is followed with such widespread interest."

  At the Mechanics Building in Boston, where the Boston Electric trade show was taking place, preparations were under way for yet another way to present the Series. The Globe and New England Telephone and Telegraph combined efforts and installed ninety "loud speaking telephones" around the hall to broadcast the games from both Fenway Park and the Polo Grounds. Although it would not be until August 5, 1921, that a baseball game was first broadcast over the radio, such "telephone broadcasts," which began in the 1890s, provided a similar service. It is not known who provided the voice-over for the broadcast or whether it was made on-site or re-created from telegraph reports, but the management of the trade show did promise that the broadcast would appear in "clear distinguishable tones." It may well have been the first time the World's Series was broadcast in this fashion. The Globe also hired more than a dozen young female telephone operators to staff a phone bank. Homebound fans could call at any time during the game and get the score and an update.

  As the writers covering the Series prepared to descend on New York and Boston, the Giants readied themselves for New York. In Philadelphia they had taken two of three from the A's to end the regular season with a stellar 105-47 mark, one and one half games better than the Giants' mark of 103-48. Athletics manager Connie Mack, an American League partisan to the core, then accommodated the league champions by giving them the run of Shibe Park to conduct practice. Only once before had two teams with more than 100 victories apiece met in the World's Series; the combined total of 208 victories between the two clubs was one short of the record set by the 1906 Cubs and White Sox, which had combined for 209 wins.

  When the Sox returned to Boston the evening of October 5, Jerome Kelley stripped the canvas off the diamond, and the Sox held two secret workouts, one on Sunday afternoon and another the following morning. Wood's death threats aside, they were relaxed, confident, and excited. Wood himself exhibited no fear and did not take any special precautions. His family was visiting, and his six-year-old sister Zoe was his constant companion, even appearing in a team photo.

  The Sox had every reason to look forward to the Series, for no matter how it ended, each player was certain to become rich—many of them would have their pay doubled. With crowds of approximately thirty-eight thousand expected in the Polo Grounds, and only slightly less in Boston, Series receipts were likely to set a record. Each player was guaranteed to make a minimum of nearly $3,000, and the winners would make even more. The Giants were so concerned about the number of fans who might descend on the Polo Grounds that a few days before the Series they dispatched a crew of carpenters to reinforce the stands.

  CLANS ARE GATHERING FOR WORLD'S SERIES

  The Red Sox left for New York at 1:00 p
.m. on October 7, followed shortly by the Royal Rooters and other Boston fans, who had secured a train of their own. The "Boston Royal Rooters Special" was identified by a banner hung from the outside of one of the three private parlor cars. As the Giants played and lost an exhibition against the Yankees to benefit the sailors of the fleet, the train sped to New York. Nuf Ced McGreevey himself moved through the train handing out cards with song lyrics, satiric turns on popular ditties of the day designed to drive the Giants to distraction. It was a rolling party the whole way down. Some Rooters wore pennants "fashioned into appropriate headgears" and carried "dignified little Red Sox billikens," precious dolls dressed as Red Sox.

  The Red Sox arrived just before the dinner hour and made their way quietly to the Hotel Bretton Hall on Broadway, the biggest uptown hotel in the city, between Eighty-Fifth and Eighty-Sixth Streets on the Upper West Side. It was barely three miles from the Polo Grounds, but as Hugh Fullerton noted, it was "so far from the Great White Way that not a glare touched their eyes." The Rooters, disappointed that officials of the city of New York had not given them a permit to hold a full-fledged parade on their arrival, still gathered on the street with their band. As "Tessie" echoed through the canyons of midtown Manhattan, they marched in lockstep to hired cars waiting to carry them to their hotels, most choosing to stay at the Marlboro on Broadway and Thirty-Sixth Street, a bit closer to the action. They were among the first to arrive of what Tim Murnane called "the dyed in the wool enthusiasts, men who would rather watch a game than eat, who would go through fire and water or rush a pile of ticket speculators, if occasion called for it, to see a World's Series like this." As soon as they unpacked they fanned out and began roaming hotel lobbies all over midtown, looking for New York money.

  It was not particularly easy to find, for the return of Gardner to the lineup in the season finale had begun to skew the odds back Boston's way, variously reported as between 7–5 and 10–8, numbers that made many New York backers nervous. Still, some could not resist putting money down anyway, the odds be damned. On Wall Street, then the center of gambling in New York, one unnamed Boston speculator reportedly made a single bet of $30,000.

  Although the start of the World's Series was still nearly twenty-four hours away, as soon as the Giants' exhibition against the Yankees ended in the late afternoon of October 7 fans began queuing up on the streets around the Polo Grounds. As the Giants' groundskeeper and his crew searched the park for stowaways who had tried to hide inside the park after the exhibition, others stood in line for tickets. Darkness fell, and by 9:45 p.m. there were already thousands of fans standing on line, sitting on boxes and leaning against the wall, waiting for tickets. As a precaution, police were called in to maintain order. People kept arriving all night, and the police tossed out anyone trying to cut in line, looked under boxes for truants, and rousted any boys under the age of sixteen. By dawn the impatient were paying the opportunistic as much as $10 for their place in line. Just before the ticket office opened at 9:00 a.m., the line stretched some twenty blocks—nearly two miles—down Eighth Avenue to 155th Street, then down Broadway to 145th, then on Edgecombe to 138th Street. Many were speculators. Despite all their precautions, as soon as the tickets went on sale the Giants discovered that they were absolutely powerless to prevent those who had acquired tickets early from working the back of the line, selling what they had at a nice profit, or to keep scalpers from scooping up tickets from the early arrivals who had stood in line for just such an opportunity. Those desperate for tickets were paying as much as $15 for a $1 seat and $125 for the precious few box seats that were available on the street.

  BASEBALL FRENZY GRIPS AND BINDS NEW YORK

  The speculators weren't the only ones making money. Nearly three hundred baseball writers were ensconced at the Hotel Imperial. Over the past twenty-four hours they had discovered that in order to get an interview, as the New York Tribune reported, "some of the long green has to be flashed." The going rate was $2 a word. Even Christy Mathewson refused to part his lips unless paid to do so. It was cheaper for the writers to make the quotes up, and many did.

  On the morning of the game there was still a great deal of speculation over precisely who would pitch for the Giants. Wood, everyone assumed, would pitch for Boston. This led some writers to assume that "McGraw might as well waste a pitcher" opposite the Red Sox star, much as Jake Stahl had avoided pitching his best opposite Ed Walsh earlier in the year. If that was the case, Marquard seemed likely to get the nod, but others argued that "McGraw will not concede a Boston victory in such a manner." Tesreau, the hot hand, was widely believed to give the Giants their best chance at victory, but McGraw was being cagey. Mathewson had not pitched in twelve days, the longest layoff of his career, and some concluded that he was either injured or had been ordered to rest so he would be fresh for the first game and available to pitch in as many as four of the seven games. Despite some signs of encroaching age, Mathewson, at age thirty-one, was still a terrific pitcher, one McGraw well remembered for his magnificent performance in the 1905 World's Series. Mathewson had led the Giants to victory in five games over the A's, winning three games—all by shutout—in what was still the greatest pitching performance in World's Series history.

  When the gates opened shortly after noon the crowd spilled into the Polo Grounds in a flood. News that war had broken out in the Balkans drew only disinterested shrugs—fans were far more concerned about the impending war between the Red Sox and Giants than a conflict halfway around the world. It was a perfect day for baseball, at least in October—sunny but cool and breezy—and the stands filled quickly. All the big shots were there, from Massachusetts governor Eugene Foss and Boston mayor Honey Fitz Fitzgerald and his New York counterpart, William Gaynor, to, as noted in the Times, "all the photographers west of the Mississippi, baseball luminaries like Ty Cobb, Walter Johnson and Detroit manager Hughie Jennings, to Ban Johnson, the rest of the National Commission," and "well-known actors, actresses, Wall Street speculators, sporting men, pretty girls, their good looking mothers and clergymen."

  The Royal Rooters, true to form, arrived together in a parade of twenty automobiles. When they marched into the Polo Grounds led by McGreevey, Sporting Life reported, "they made as much noise as the 39,000 Giant rooters"—just the kind of notice the Rooters lived for and loved to clip and add to their scrapbooks.

  Honey Fitz, resplendent in his silk hat and Prince Albert jacket, leapt from his box seat beside Mayor Gaynor, raced across the diamond, and preened before his constituents. Then he grabbed a megaphone and led his supporters in a series of cheers before closing with "Sweet Adeline," his signature tune.

  Meanwhile the Red Sox and Giants also took the field. The Giants wore long maroon sweaters that one reporter noted made them look "like a party of arctic explorers." The Red Sox were also bundled against the chill and wore similar sweaters, in bright red, although the sun soon warmed everyone enough that the outerwear was quickly removed. Unlike in some recent years, neither team wore a special uniform for the Series: the Sox wore their usual road grays and the Giants their standard home uniforms. Boston took batting practice off Larry Pape, and he did his job well, for the Sox rocketed pitch after pitch down the line and into the nearby stands, fair and foul. At the same time Christy Mathewson warmed up before the stands.

  As 2:00 p.m. approached a large gate opened in center field. A limousine appeared and lumbered across right field, finally parking behind a short fence recently erected down the line, in foul territory. Inside was New York Giants owner John Brush, wrapped in a blanket to ward off the chill. An invalid due to locomotor ataxia, a disease of the nervous system, he would watch the Series from the comfort of his car through the glass windows.

  A few moments later the four umpires, Silk O'Loughlin, Bill Klem, Charlie Rigler, and Billy Evans, took the field, and they were joined around home plate by Stahl and McGraw. As the Times reported, "The combatants held a 'love feast' and all shook hands as if they were all the Board of Directors of
a bank." The Polo Grounds was full to the brim, and there was also a large crowd atop Coogan's Bluff, peering into the park from on high.

  The batteries were announced on the scoreboard, and the crowd realized for the first time that the Giants were starting, not Mathewson, but Jeff Tesreau, who began warming up. McGraw hoped his sleight of hand might throw the Red Sox off, but it mattered little to Boston. Their lineup stayed the same no matter who pitched for the opposition. With Wood on the mound for the Red Sox, Hick Cady, not Bill Carrigan, was Jake Stahl's selection to catch for Boston. That was what had worked for most of the 1912 season, and that was what Stahl and the Red Sox hoped would work in October as well. For despite the millions of words printed by the gallon over the previous week extolling the virtues of this player or that one, comparing the performances of everyone from the team trainer to the bat boys, Boston's best hope for vanquishing the Giants and winning the World's Series came down to only one man, Joe Wood. If Wood could pitch in October the way he had pitched from April through September, it did not matter at all who the Giants pitched opposite him, or even who Wood faced. Wood, at his best, was the best. It was that simple.

  Tesreau and his teammates took the field, and the rookie pitcher, dubbed "the Bear Hunter" by sportswriter Damon Runyon owing to his build (he had never hunted a bear in his life), loomed over the mound as he took his warm-ups. As he did a herd of photographers rushed the field, much to the consternation of home plate umpire Bill Klem, and set up in foul ground along the baselines.

  Klem, who ruled the game with an iron hand, wasn't having any of it. He tried to shoo the photographers off the field, but they did their best to ignore him. It took seven or eight minutes before he got them to move far enough back to start the game.