Let such an Englishman stand at the batter’s slab on an American ball field, facing the son of an American President in the pitcher’s box, and while he was ruminating upon the propriety of hitting, in his “best form,” a ball delivered by the hands of so august a personage, the President’s boy would probably shoot three hot ones over the plate, and the Umpire’s “Three strikes; you’re out,” would arouse our British cousin to a realization that we have a game too lively for any but Americans to play.
On the other hand, if one of our cosmopolitan ball artists should visit England, and attempt a game of Cricket, whether it were Cobb, Lajoie, Wagner, or any American batsman of Scandinavian, Irish, French or German antecedents; simply because he was an American, and even though the Cricket ball were to be bowled at his feet by King George himself, he would probably hit the sphere in regular Base Ball style, and smash all conventionalities at the same time, in his eager effort to clear the bases with a three-bagger.
The game of Base Ball is American as to another peculiar feature. It is the only form of field sport known where spectators have an important part and actually participate in the game. Time was, and not long ago, when comparatively few understood the playing rules; but the day has come when nearly every man and boy in the land is versed in all the intricacies of the pastime; thousands of young women have learned it well enough to keep score, and the number of matrons who know the difference between the short-stop and the back-stop is daily increasing.
But neither our wives, our sisters, our daughters, nor our sweethearts, may play Base Ball on the field. They may play Cricket, but seldom do; they may play Lawn Tennis, and win championships; they may play Basket Ball, and achieve laurels; they may play Golf, and receive trophies; but Base Ball is too strenuous for womankind, except as she may take part in grandstand, with applause for the brilliant play, with waving kerchief to the hero of the three-bagger, and, since she is ever a loyal partisan of the home team, with smiles of derision for the Umpire when he gives us the worst of it, and, for the same reason, with occasional perfectly decorous demonstrations when it becomes necessary to rattle the opposing pitcher.
But spectators of the sterner sex may play the game on field, in grandstand or on bleachers, and the influence they exert upon the contest is hardly less than that of the competitors themselves.
In every town, village and city is the local wag. He is a Base Ball fan from infancy. He knows every player in the League by sight and by name. He is a veritable encyclopedia of information on the origin, evolution and history of the game. He can tell you when the Knicker-bockers were organized, and knows who led the batting list in every team of the National and American Leagues last year. He never misses a game. His witticisms, ever seasoned with spice, hurled at the visitors and now and then at the Umpire, are as thoroughly enjoyed by all who hear them as is any other feature of the sport. His words of encouragement to the home team, his shouts of derision to the opposing players, find sympathetic responses in the hearts of all present.
But it is neither the applause of the women nor the jokes of the wag which make for victory or defeat in comparison with the work of the “Rooter.” He is ever present in large numbers. He is there to see the “boys” win. Nothing else will satisfy him. He is bound by no rules of the game, and too often, perhaps, by no laws of decorum. His sole object in life for two mortal hours is to gain victory for the home team, and that he is not overscrupulous as to the amount of racket emanating from his immediate vicinity need not be emphasized here.
And so it comes to pass that at every important game there is an exhibition in progress, in grandstand and on bleachers, that is quite as interesting in its features of excitement and entertainment as is the contest on the field of sport, and which, in its bearing upon the final result, is sometimes a factor nearly as potent as are the efforts of the contesting players.
It must be admitted that as the game of Base Ball has become more generally known; that is, as patrons of the sport are coming to be more familiar with its rules and its requirements, their enjoyment has immeasurably increased; because, just in so far as those in attendance understand the features presented in every play, so far are they able to become participators in the game itself. And beyond doubt it is to this growing knowledge on the part of the general public with the pastime that its remarkable popularity is due. For, despite the old adage, familiarity does not breed contempt, but fondness, and all America has come to regard Base Ball as its very own, to be known throughout the civilized world as the great American National Game.
Finally, in one other particular Base Ball has won its right to be dominated the American National Game. Ever since its establishment in the hearts of the people as the foremost of field sports, Base Ball has “followed the flag.” It followed the flag to the front in the sixties, and received then an impetus which has carried it to half a century of wondrous growth and prosperity. It has followed the flag to Alaska, where, under the midnight sun, it is played on Arctic ice. It has followed the flag to the Hawaiian Islands, and at once supplanted every other form of athletics in popularity. It has followed the flag to the Philippines, to Puerto Rico and to Cuba, and wherever a ship floating the Stars and Stripes finds anchorage to-day, somewhere on nearby shore the American National Game is in progress.
The Model Base Ball Player
Henry Chadwick
This is an individual not often seen on a ball ground, but he nevertheless exists, and as a description of his characteristics will prove advantageous, we give a pen photogram of him, in the hope that his example will be followed on all occasions, for if it were, an end would at once be put to many actions which now give rise to unpleasantness on our ball grounds.
His Moral Attributes
The principal rule of action of our model base ball player is to comport himself like a gentleman on all occasions, but especially on match days, and in doing so, he abstains from profanity and its twin and evil broth obscenity, leaving these vices to be alone cultivated by graduates of our penitentiaries.
He never takes an ungenerous advantage of his opponents, but acts towards them as he would wish them to act towards himself. Regarding the game as a healthful exercise, and a manly and exciting recreation, he plays it solely for the pleasure it affords him, and if victory crowns his efforts in a contest, well and good, but should defeat ensue he is equally ready to applaud the success obtained by his opponents; and by such action he robs defeat of half its sting, and greatly adds to the pleasure the game has afforded both himself and his adversaries.
He never permits himself to be pecuniarily involved in a match, for knowing the injurious tendency of such a course of action to the best interests of the game, he values its welfare too much to make money an object in view in playing ball.
His Playing Qualifications
The physical qualifications of our model player are as follows:
To be able to throw a ball with accuracy of aim a dozen or a hundred yards.
To be fearless in facing and stopping a swiftly batted or thrown ball.
To be able to catch a ball either on the “fly” or bound, either within an inch or two of the ground, or eight or ten feet from it, with either the right or left hand, or both.
To be able to hit a swiftly pitched ball or a bothering slow one, with equal skill, and also to command his bat so as to hit the ball either within six inches of the ground or as high as his shoulder, and either towards the right, centre or left fields, as occasion may require.
To be able to occupy any position on the field creditably, but to excel in one position only. To be familiar, practically and theoretically, with every rule of the game and “point” of play.
To conclude our description of a model base ball player, we have to say, that his conduct is as much marked by courtesy of demeanor and liberality of action as it is by excellence in a practical exemplification of the beauties of the game; and his highest
aim is to characterize every contest in which he may be engaged, with conduct that will mark it as much as a trial as to which party excels in the moral attributes of the game, as it is one that decides any questions of physical superiority.
Casey at the Bat
Ernest Lawrence Thayer
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that—
We’d put up even money now with Casey at the bat.
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Johnnie safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third
Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattles in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, might Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile on Casey’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.
And now, the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
“That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one,” the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar.
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
“Kill him; Kill the umpire!” shouted some one on the stand;
And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”
“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grown stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.
Oh somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has s truck out.
Casey’s Revenge
Grantland Rice
There were saddened hearts in Mudville for a week or even more;
There were muttered oaths and curses—every fan in town was sore.
“Just think,” said one, “How soft it looked with Casey at the bat,
And to think he’d go and spring a bush league trick like that.”
All his past fame was forgotten—he was now a hopeless “shine”—
They called him “Strike-out Casey” from the mayor down the line;
And as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh,
While a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty Casey’s eye.
He pondered in the days gone by that he had been their king;
That when he strolled up to the plate they made the welkin ring;
But now his nerve had vanished—for when he heard them hoot,
He “fanned” or “popped out” daily, like some minor league recruit.
He soon began to sulk and loaf—his batting eye went lame;
No home runs on the score card now were chalked against his name;
The fans without exception gave the manager no peace,
For one and all kept clamoring for Casey’s quick release.
The Mudville squad began to slump—the team was in the air;
Their playing went from bad to worse—nobody seemed to care;
“Back to the woods with Casey!” was the cry from Rooters’ Row—
“Get some one who can hit the ball and let that big dub go!”
The lane is long, some one has said, that never turns again.
And fare, though fickle, often gives another chance to men;
And Casey smiled—his rugged face no longer wore a frown—
The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town.
All Mudville had assembled—ten thousand fans had come
To see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum;
And when he stepped into the box the multitude went wild;
He doffed his cap in proud disdain—but Casey only smiled.
“Play ball!” the umpire’s voice range out—and then the game began;
But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fan
Who thought that Mudville had a chance, and with the setting sun
Their hopes sank low—the rival team was leading, “four to one.”
The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score,
But when the first man up hit safe the crowd began to roar;
The din increased—the echo of ten thousand shouts was heard
When the pitcher hit the second and gave “four balls” to the third.
Three men on base—nobody out—three runs to tie the game:
A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville’s hall of fame;
But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as night,
When the fourth one “fouled to catcher” and the fifth “flew out to right!”
A dismal groan in chorus came—a scowl was on each face—
When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place;
His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed—his teeth were clinched in hate,
He gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate.
But fame is fleeting as the winds and glory fades away;
There were no wild and wooly cheers—no glad acclaim this day;
They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored, “Strike him out!”
But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard this shout.
The pitcher smiled and cut one loose—across the plate it sped—
Another hiss—another groan—�
�Strike one!” the umpire said.
Zip! Like a shot the second curve broke just below his knee—
“Strike two!” the umpire roared aloud—but Casey made no plea.
No roasting for the umpire now—his was an easy lot;
But here the pitcher whirls again—was that a rifle shot?
A whack—a crack—and out through space the leather pellet flew—
A blow against the distant sky—a specie against the blue.
Above the fence in center field in rapid, whirling flight
The sphere sailed on—the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight,
Ten thousand hats were thrown in air—ten thousand threw a fit—
But no one ever found the ball that might Casey hit.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun,
And somewhere bands no longer play and children have no fun,
And somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall;
But Mudville hearts are happy now—for Casey hit the ball.
The Color Line
Sol White
In no other profession has the color line been drawn more rigidly than in base ball. As far back as 1872 the first colored ball player of note playing on a white team was Bud Fowler, the celebrated promoter of colored ball clubs, and the sage of base ball. Bud played on a New Castle, Pennsylvania, team that year. Later the Walker Brothers, Fleet and Weldy, played on prominent college teams of the West. Fleet Walker has the distinction of being the only known colored player that ever played in one of the big leagues. In 1884 Walker caught for Toledo in the old American Association. At this time the Walker brothers and Bud Fowler were the only negroes in the profession.
At the Old Ballgame Page 2