by John Holway
You talk about a tremendous ballplayer, one of the greatest pitchers I’ve ever seen, I think, was Satchel. Now, he didn’t know how to throw a curve ball for a long time. I was out of baseball, I was in the insurance business, when Satchel started throwing curve balls, so I knew him as a good fast ball pitcher. In the nighttime the ball looked like one of these “zuzu” biscuits—you know, you can go to the grocery store and buy you some of those little white biscuits. About the size of a fifty-cent piece. That’s the way it looked. The ball didn’t have any size on it or anything. Looked just as flat as a fifty-cent piece. Looked just like a streak or something.
My brother Rube was my first manager when I went up to Chicago to play. Rube was fifteen years older than me. He was my half-brother, but I never knew him until I was fifteen years old. He had already left home and gone to Chicago when I was born, in 1904, in Texas. Our mother brought me here to Mississippi when I was a baby. She died when I was only four, and I was raised by her folks. I went to Alcorn College—at that time it was a grade school and high school as well as a college. I knew I had a brother, and I had heard all about the great Rube Foster, but I never met thim until I went to Chicago to work in the stockyards. That was around 1918, something like that. He wouldn’t let me play baseball at all. He had a ball team then and wouldn’t let me play. Well, he didn’t want me to play ball, that was it, he wanted me to do something else: “That’s no life for you, don’t play baseball.” Well, I wanted to play.
I came back on down here and then when I got ready to go up again, I went to Memphis, and Bubber Lewis gave me a chance to pitch for the Memphis team. That was in 1925. Rube was manager and owner of the American Giants, and he also was president of our league. When he found out I was in Memphis, he just told Bubber Lewis to send me to Chicago, and I think that’s one of the things that came between Rube and me. After Bubber had given me a chance, I didn’t feel like I should have left Bubber. I just didn’t want to go, but Lewis said, “I don’t have any way out. He’s your brother, he’s president of the league and he’s got a ball team. I didn’t have any business, really, trying to sign you until you had talked to Rube.” So he says, “You gotta go.”
Naturally it was a sore spot between my brother and me for a long time. I told Rube, “Why didn’t you take me before I went up to Memphis?” I never did get over that. I decided from then on I was going to do everything like I wanted to do it. He would try to show me the right way, and I didn’t know the right way nor the wrong way. I didn’t know anything. But I was just going to be obstinate, you know.
When I came to Chicago, he started me in just about every series, and I didn’t stay in those ball games long enough for the water to get hot. In other words, I never did get to pitch to the eighth hitter before I was out. I wouldn’t pitch for my brother. And he said he wasn’t going to trade me: “I know you can pitch. I’m not going to trade you. You can just stay out there and make a fool of yourself. I’m going to send you out there, and you’re going to come back in, but I’m not going to trade you.” I just made up my mind, I said I’m not going to pitch. I didn’t stay in a ball game as long as he was on that bench.
But Rube was a shrewd man. The more I think of it, the older I get, I can see Rube’s point of view in a lot of things. And whatever he told me stuck. After he had a breakdown, after he got off the bench in ’26, I went right through the same procedure that he had been teaching me. I went out there and won! That’s the year they said I was one of the greatest pitchers of all time, that I had well nigh perfect control.
I could have pitched in ’25, if I wasn’t so stubborn, just because Rube wanted me to pitch!
Our big rivals were the Kansas City Monarchs, and we fought them for the pennant out here in the West in 1926. They came to Chicago for the play-off, and we had to win a doubleheader to beat them. They only had to beat us one, we had to beat them two. Bullet Rogan pitched against me in the first game. He was an excellent pitcher—good fast ball, good curve ball, and he could keep it down.
Well, I got out there and beat Rogan 1–0 to tie the series. When we went back into the clubhouse to rest between ball games, Cap [Dave Malarcher] says, “Who shall I pitch now in the deciding ball game? It’s your all ball game”—you know how managers are, they like to get along with the ballplayers. I told him I felt all right, so they voted unanimously to let me go back if I wanted to pitch.
I went back out there to warm up. Rogan saw me warming up, said, “You going to pitch?”
I said, “Yeah, I’m going to pitch.”
“Well, I’m coming back.” And he came back, and I think in the first inning we made four or five runs off him. That was all. He closed the door. But I think it was 5–0 we beat ’em.
That was on Friday. We hadn’t planned to leave Chicago—it wasn’t in the plan that we were going to play the World Series, because everybody was expecting Kansas City. So when we beat the doubleheader, we had to get ready and go out East. Well, I had pitched a doubleheader on Friday in Chicago and then I opened up on Sunday in Philadelphia in the World Series against the Bacharach Giants.
I opened up against Rats Henderson, and I think Rats beat me 3–2. I think that’s what the record will show. It seems like Chaney White drove in a run to beat me. I never did get a chance to pay Rats back, but I think I beat his team two games that series.8
Our park in Chicago was a wood structure. It was as big a playing field as any of the major-league ball parks—350 or 360 feet down the line, something like that. Four hundred, or four and a half, to left center and center. You had to hit the ball good when you hit it out of there. It seated about 18,000. Thirty-ninth and Wentworth, just across from the White Sox park—they’ve got a housing project out there now. I don’t doubt that Rube’s club would outdraw the White Sox and Cubs. When Kansas City came in there, and St. Louis, we packed them in. Yeah, quite a few white fans too. When the Cubs or Sox were playing and we were playing Kansas City, we didn’t miss what the Sox and the Cubs drew. We didn’t miss ’em. That place was full, packed all the time, standing room only.
I’d just like to see the Giants and the Sox and the Cubs have a three-way play-off in the city—I’d like to have seen that. I think that would have been great, ’cause the Giants had a good ball club out there—a good ball club.
I’ve pitched against the Waner boys out of Pittsburgh, Paul and Lloyd. They could hit—they could hit most anything: Big Poison and Little Poison. Then they had this Heinie Manush from St. Louis, and Luke Appling. They had this boy Charlie Gehringer from Detroit—he could hit that ball too. I think they had Jumping Joe Dugan at third base. Pitching they had Earl Whitehill, who used to be with Detroit, and Jake Miller, used to be with Cleveland.
The major-league all-stars just didn’t beat those teams, those Negro teams. See, we were organized as a unit, but they just came down there with one from here, one from there. They didn’t have a whole lot of signals or anything like that. In other words, an all-star, picked ball club is at a disadvantage in the technical part of baseball. They just never could beat us. We beat them six or seven out of eight every time.
I don’t ever remember that they beat me—no, I think they did too. They beat me a 3–2 ball game. Last year one of the big-league scouts came up to me and said, “Heh, Bill, you remember me?” I said, “No.” He said, “I’m the guy that hit the ball over the right field wall off of you in Kellogg’s corn flakes up at Battle Creek, Michigan.” And he sure did. Somebody did hit a line drive and beat me 3–2. He hit it in right center and I don’t know who it was. He told me, and I forgot his name again. He beat me, because I had ’em 2–1 and they had a man on base, and he hit that ball and beat me 3–2—in the late innings too, way late. I got the ball too high or something, I don’t know what happened.
The Depression was tough. Back in the Thirties, I know, one week I lived on thirty-six cents the whole week. And out of that thirty-six cents I had to take three cents for a stamp to send back home to my foster mother to s
end me some money so I could come home. Now you know how long it takes a letter from Chicago to Mississippi and back—six days. Chicago had those places around there where they give you all you can eat for three cents or two cents, and I’d go down there and get one meal every day. They’d give you a lot of mashed potatoes, spaghetti and old rank meat balls, but you were hungry, you had to eat it. And that’s what I lived on. The team couldn’t pay us, it was the Depression and nobody was working. That was back in the WPA and PWA and DDA and I don’t know what-all A’s. The people couldn’t go to the ball game, and our bosses promised us so much money, but they didn’t have it’cause they weren’t making it.
Bill Foster, Kansas City Monarchs, 1936, back row on left; Newt Allen, kneeling, fifth from left
I always tell the boys about that rat I saw one day. As I was going to the ball park one morning, I saw a rat in the alley there sitting on a garbage can chewing on an onion. He was eating and just crying. That was the best he could do. That was all he could find, that onion. He was just eating and crying and kept on gnawing right on. And that shows you—any time a rat’s got to eat an onion, it’s rough! But that’s what happened back in ’29 and ’30.
So many things happened back then, I can’t remember it all. The way we ate, the way we traveled from one town to another, play a doubleheader here, then go somewhere tomorrow—New York—ride the bus all night. Had two or three sweatshirts in there, they were all wet when you got to New York—honest to goodness.
I played with the Homestead Grays in ’31, and we had nine starters. I pitched on a Friday, pitched my ball game and finished it. Do you know that Sunday evening it was my turn again? Everybody had pitched and everybody had stayed in the ball game! Yes sir, we played nine ball games in two days! That’s a heck of a lot of baseball.
Really, I don’t think there’s any difference between ballplayers of that day or this day. No, I don’t think there’s any difference. I think that those who did it back there would have done it up here, or those who are doing it up here would have done it back there. I don’t see a bit of difference in Koufax’s pitching than anybody else back there, Lefty Grove and that bunch. They had the same ballplayers to pitch against. They say “the dead ball, the rabbit ball,” but you had to have your control. You had to get the ball over the plate. And they had men could hit the ball. You couldn’t say Babe Ruth couldn’t hit the ball, you couldn’t say Lou Gehrig couldn’t hit the ball. You can’t say Willie Mays can’t hit the ball. Mays would have hit it back then just like he hits it up here. Oscar Charleston would have hit it up here just like he hit it back there.
The toughest hitter I faced, black or white? Hmmmm! That’s a hard thing to say, because they had quite a number of good hitters then. In other words, you had four or five pretty good hitters on each ball club. Now no pitcher liked to see Josh Gibson come up with a man on third and that run could beat you or tie you. Nobody liked to see Charleston come up with a man on third and one out. So I don’t know who I would say was the best hitter I ever met. I might could name the top ten, but yet I don’t know if I could do that even.
Oscar Charleston—you’re talking about a good hitter. He’s a left-handed hitter and I’m a left-handed pitcher. I just didn’t feel like left-handers ought to hit me; I was awful surprised when left-handers hit me. But Charlie could do that. Charleston would wait for a curve ball, because he knew a left-hander was going to throw that curve ball. I wouldn’t throw him a curve ball. That’s how I’d get him out. Charleston, all he got from me mostly—to hit on—were fast balls. Because he waited for curve balls and he could hit that curve ball. He could hit it a mile. To tell you the truth, he was a tremendously good hitter.
Among right-handers there was Josh Gibson. When Gibson turned that cap bill up and got in that crouch at the plate, you had your problems! He could hit it for distance. Anywhere he caught it, he could hit it. How did I pitch him? The only perfect pitch for anybody is the low outside pitch, and every time you’re in doubt, that’s the thing to throw. Now if he hits it, he just hits it. But it’s the most effective pitch in baseball—if you can get it where you want it. Just knock all the black off the edge of that plate. I don’t mean over the middle of the plate, I don’t mean on the inside, I mean exactly what I say: Knock all the black off that outside corner of the plate. Right down that edge. If you can get it there, that’s your best pitch. He may hit one over the fence, but just keep it there and you’ll get him out.
Nobody can tell any pitcher how he feels out there on that mound when those big bats come up. And you know they’re good big bats too. When you see it waving, you know that’s a good bat. And you know that if you make one mistake—if you make one mistake—that’s it! Forget it, that’s all—it’s over. Nice and quick. One sweep of the bat and that’s all. You pitch to Josh wrong, one pitch wrong, just make one mistake—the ball game is over. Oscar Charleston, Buck Leonard, Torrienti, John Beckwith, Mule Suttles: I’m talking about those power hitters, one sweep of the bat and it’s over.
So you’ve got to be scared. I don’t say you stay scared, but you get scared. Now, it doesn’t last long. When they announced me to pitch, and until I could throw the first pitch, I was scared to death. But when I threw that first pitch, regardless of whether it was a strike, a ball or the man hit and got on base or hit it into the stands, it didn’t make any difference—I settled down just the same. But I was scared before that first pitch. What I was afraid of, I don’t know. Any pitcher will tell you that: At times you just get scared. Now, he doesn’t know what he’s scared of. Not frightened, not afraid—he’s scared. Plain down scared, that’s all.
I found out one thing that you had to have was control. You had to have control of every pitch that you had. If you didn’t have control of that pitch, forget it—put it over there on the side line until you can develop it. Don’t bring that pitch into your ball game if you don’t know how to control it. Leave it out, that’s something for you to work on.
I had a pretty good fast ball, and I had a good overhanded curve ball, which was known as the “drop” ball. And then I had what they call sliders now. I had what is called a sidearm curve ball—palm down. I had a slider, an “out-shoot” and a curve ball all on the same pitch.
I didn’t know anything about spitters, I didn’t know anything about knuckleballs, I didn’t know anything about emery balls. All I knew was the good hard fast ball, the good hard curve ball and a good sidearm curve ball. Now, if you can keep a man off balance, he can’t hit the ball hard—if you can keep him off balance.
Now, how do I keep him off balance? And with what pitches? It boils down to the fact that I had to have one motion to control every pitch. You take your fast ball—an exceptional fast ball, a fast ball as hard as I could throw it. Now I take that same fast ball and with the same motion I throw it half speed, with the same motion that you threw the hardest fast ball. And then come right back and throw that same fast ball and make it almost “walk” up there—with the same motion. And have control of that pitch. That was three pitches developed out of one basic pitch. Now, go right back to the curve ball—with the same motion come right back with the medium speed, and then come right back with the same motion with the slowest speed. And control it. Then come right back with an overhand drop ball as hard as you can throw it, with the same motion medium speed, and then the same curve ball with the same motion, make it “drift.” I developed nine different pitches off of three basic pitches. That kept a man off balance.
In other words, if I caught him slowing up a stride, I’d step it up. I could get him out of time by my motion. If he’d make his step and looked like he was going to time another fast ball, I’d go slow on him. The change-ups, in my estimation, were never planned before the man took a stride. I changed my pitches in the motion of pitching, after I had gotten him off balance. The catchers signaled for a curve ball, but now the catchers didn’t know if it was going to be a fast curve ball or a slow curve ball or a medium curve ball, because I hadn�
�t pitched yet. The batter hadn’t committed himself yet. I’d wait until I was in my motion, until he’d committed himself.
And the next thing that I found out about pitching—this job of pitching is a little more technical than I think most ballplayers give credit for. You see, you can’t forget when you’re pitching out there. I can’t forget what I got you out on the first time up. Because you’re thinking too. And if once you catch up with me with that big bat, I’m hurt. I’m hurt, yeah, I’m hurt.
I feel that the pitcher has the advantage of the hitter—providing he stays awake and doesn’t go to sleep. We have nine men to face us in a ball game. This might not be what the majors would term a method of good pitching—it might not be their method—but I had success with it: A pitcher must keep in mind what has happened, just like a computer. Everything ought to be in my head: say you’re the lead-off man—how I got you out on how many pitches. Put that in [the computer]. Number-two, how’d you get him out? Put that in there. Now, for nine men, you keep that in there for each one of their first times up. When the number-one hitter comes up for the second time, as soon as you see his name: “Jackson”—I should know what I threw to Jackson the first time.
To show you how complicated it gets, I had to keep up with—I did keep up with—every one of those hitters as they came to bat for nine innings. If he came to bat five times, I knew his record. Now, unless somebody got me in an argument out there, I would keep up with you right straight on through. But once you get in an argument, you lose everything. They say pitchers get tired in the seventh or eighth inning. It’s not that, they’re not tired physically. They forgot! They forgot how they pitched to that man. He’s not tired, he just forgot. He and the catcher both forgot. I’ve forgotten out there. I’ve got hurt, I’ve got bombed. So I stayed away from all arguments, to keep my calm or keep my cool. If I forget, I get my ears pinned back. That was my procedure. I kept up with all those fellows as they came to bat. I’d remember how I got him out, what he went for, and I knew how he was thinking then. He knew I got him out on a fast ball high inside. Now, he might be thinking that I’m not going to try that any more, and it might be a good idea for me to try the same thing again.