Notes from the Shadows of Cooperstown
Observations From Outside the Lines |
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NOTES FROM THE SHADOWS OF COOPERSTOWN
Observations from Outside the Lines
By Two Finger Carney (carneya6@borg.com)
#305 SEPTEMBER 7, 2003
NOTES FROM A ROAD TRIP
There was a time when Septembers were months of agony, of staying up late for scores, of fretting about the pitching rotation, of overreacting to every little injury that came along, and of watching the Magic Number shrink, digit by digit, never, ever fast enough. Road trips, especially those north into the Adirondacks, where there was no cable and radio reception was iffy, where the papers next morning might not have last night's scores -- could be painful, but bearable because they were temporary. But they were also fun -- scores that were nursed and squeezed out of night static were golden; and because I worked for them, they were much more satisfying than those served up on TV when I got home again.
I hope to have a few more Septembers like that. But I'm a Pirate fan. Lately, Septembers are just regular old months, time to rest up for the post-season. Ho hum.
Anyway, the leadoff piece in this issue is my tale of a road trip far outside the shadows of Cooperstown, last Sunday, to spend some time with Eliot Asinof. Who needs no introduction.
Also in here is a little essay on the kids who covered events for the press back in 1919 ... a little ditty from the Notes Archive ... and yet another installment from Dear Patrick.
Speaking of books, David Pietrusza tells me his biography on Rothstein is available, the best prices being amazon.com and Wal*Mart. I'm really anxious to read this one, and if you are familiar with his bio of Landis, Judge and Jury, you know why.
My own book Never on Friday is coming along really well. I have published, so far, only one thin book of baseball poetry, Romancing the Horsehide (McFarland, 1993). My hope is that one thing leads to another. Besides Dear Patrick, I have Cooperstown Kaleidoscope pretty much ready to go -- everything in it is somehow tied to baseball's mecca -- and then there is my collection of fiction, The Shortstop from the Black Lagoon.
"The Right Dimensions" is an example of the "Horsehide Sci-Fi" in Shortstop, and in the Notes Archive. The smurfy blue aliens who debuted in "Dimensions" returned a few more times, then spun off into their own regular feature in Notes. If this sample draws any response, maybe they'll reappear here soon.
SIX HOURS
Eliot Asinof likes short titles with numbers -- well, Eight Men Out (1963) has been very, very good for him. But not nearly as good as it might have been, had he not sold the rights, long ago, for what seemed like a fortune at the time. The only income he receives from the movie, is from his cameo appearance as NL president John Heydler, in pajamas. However, the royalties from 8MO are steady, around $6,000 a year, and steadily increasing as time goes by, a tribute to the book's classic nature.
The six hours in my title refer to the time spent, on a sunny Sunday at the tail-end of this summer, with Eliot Asinof. David Fletcher (clearbuck.com) made the arrangements, and picked a perfect day. Asinof lives an hour or so south of Albany, NY -- not too far from the Shadows of Cooperstown, but the "or so" part was a little tricky. His home, built by himself with his son eighteen years ago, is not only off the beaten path, it's not even close.
I have written about Eliot Asinof over the past year more than a few times, especially in Notes #269 and 276 (we were corresponding by then). And I refer newcomers there, for my takes on 8MO and Bleeding Between the Lines. I also recommend his book 1919, and somewhere on the internet he has a nifty article that accompanies his contribution to ESPN Classic's documentary on the B-Sox (try http://espn.go.com/classic/s/black_sox_moments.html). I'm repeating none of that here.
I arrived armed with lists of questions, but most of them came up naturally as we talked over brunch at the general store, then in his spacious living room, then outside in his yard and on his deck. He was gracious with his time and seemed to enjoy our company as much as we did his. He lives alone but is no hermit, he seemed to know every other person entering the store, and while we talked his phone rand more than a few times. It was obvious from his office that he also keeps up lively correspondences. (Right now, he's working on a novel.)
Harry's Diary
Eventually "Harry's Diary" -- that tantalizing chapter in the book Bill Veeck wrote with Ed Linn, The Hustler's Handbook, came up. 8MO was published a few years earlier than THH, but when the latter came out, Asinof spoke with Veeck, who noted how much Asinof had right, without the benefit of the diary. Then Asinof mentioned that he had read the diary -- Ed Linn had typed up and sent him a copy! I know my eyes were wide as he told the story. So where is it now?
Well, it seems that when Asinof participated in the ESPN Classic documentary in 2001, Eliot loaned three or four items to the producers, including the copy of Harry Grabiner's 1919 Diary. The items were all returned, except for -- you guessed it. Eliot did not seem nearly as upset about the loss as I was. (My search for the Diary took me as far as Mike Veeck, who said it was back in the Grabiner family, and had been for many years.)
Anyway, it was exciting to learn that there are typed copies out there somewhere. Ed Linn passed away in San Diego at age 77 a few years back. He may have left a copy with his papers, which he may have donated to a library or college. ESPN may have Eliot's copy somewhere in their files. More targets is the way I see it.
Harry F.
In Bleeding Between the Lines, Asinof writes that he was advised by an editor to add a fictional character to Eight Men Out to protect it, or identify it as his own, since "you can't copywrite history." When we asked him about that, a twinkle came to his eye. He indeed had given a fictional name to a character, to the thug who threatened Lefty Williams and his wife. He decided to call him "Harry F." It was a kind of harmless joke.
Of course there was more to the story. Earlier, we asked him why he was not the main "talking head" in Ken Burns' 1994 epic Baseball -- I may not have noticed it then, but looking back, it strikes me and many others as a glaring omission. Without getting into the details, Asinof explained that he had had some problem or misunderstanding with John Thorn (some time before, I think), and when Thorn wound up as a main advisor for Ward and Burns, Asinof was out.
But here is the punchline. In the book that accompanies the Burns' video, on page 140, is this line: "Rothstein did not like to take risks of any kind. He is said to have arranged to have a Chicago thug known to history only as 'Harry F.' pay a call on Lefty Williams, who was to pitch the eighth game." Eliot was obviously pleased to tell this story with some glee, as he recalled the first time he learned about how Harry F. had become part of history.
Harry R.
Asinof threw out one teaser, which I mention here with some reservations. He said that he heard or read that Harry Redmon -- the St Louis gambler and theater owner who had lost big on the Series, then tried to collect Comiskey's reward money by telling what he knew of the Fix -- was in fact Harry Rothstein, Arnold's brother. He had moved away from New York and changed his name, and Asinof said we could look it up on his death certificate. I ran this past David Pietrusza, whose book on Rothstein is kneeling on deck (I can't wait), and he doubted it, noting that Harry Rothstein was dead by 1919. I don't think Asinof spoke with any certainty, my feeling was that he wanted us to try to find out if this rumor was true, or bunk.
If it proves to be true, that's an interesting twist, but I don't think it changes much. For one thing, you'd expect a Rothstein to win his bets -- this Harry lost. If he decided to tell all to get even with his wealthier brother, that would add a layer of motivation, but he already had one, to recoup his losses ($5,500, according to Harry Grabiner's diary). Redmon met with the White Sox people right after the Series, later with Ban Johnson, who was investigating, and finally he testified before the 1920 grand jury. (I have a snippet from a letter Johnson sent to Redmon in July 1921, but can't add it here. I have requested permission from MLB -- see last issue -- so, maybe next time.)
Short Stories
Eliot Asinof is a marvelous story-teller. I heard him speak a few years back in Cooperstown, and he was captivated, without notes. He is to be the keynote speaker for NINE's annual conference in Tucson, Arizona, next March.
He was quick to give due credit to James T. Ferrell, for giving him the material he had collected, and for urging him, when he started out on the trail, to interview as many of the living players and others as he could. Eliot had not known much about the scandal before meeting Ferrell, who told him to focus on the WHY of the story. Because Ferrell was so helpful, Asinof has tried to help others along, and that was evident to us.
Asinof has continued to follow baseball -- he recalled a number of stories from his own minor league career. He had many stories about his books, and about the making of the film Eight Men Out (1988). He makes no apologies for not footnoting 8MO, he wrote it the way he wanted to write it.
At one point, his storytelling reminded me of the old TV character Lieutenant Columbo, or rather of Peter Falk. Maybe the cigar he smoked, pausing often to re-light it, added to that feeling. There was a definite similarity between his tone and pace, and Falk's, and then, there was always one more thing.
The day was not one-sided, we were able to tell Eliot a few stories about the Fix that he'd not heard before, and to recommend a few books that had escaped his notice. I was surprised when he expressed interest in my book and offered to give it a read. I certainly was not expecting that.
So the conversation continues, beyond the six hours.
KIDS WITH PENS AND NOTEBOOKS
Recently I've met Bill Burgess on the internet, and Bill has shared with me (and others in SABR) his collection of sportswriters. In a huge Excel spreadsheet (I'm a big fan of Excel), he's listed as many as he can find from Father Chadwick on, along with their dates and places of birth and death, the papers for whom they wrote and when, and highlights of their careers. He calls it a memorial. I call it a gold mine.
Anyway, I got curious about the guys I've gotten to know in my research of the 1919 Series and aftermath. So I took Bill's chart and did some figuring.
Hugh Fullerton was the old man among them -- at age 46! (Yes, there were older reporters writing back then, but I am focused on those who contributed to the cover-up and uncovering of the Fix.) Ring Lardner, Hugh's protege, was just 34, Damon Runyon 35. Jimmy Crusinberry (author of the Loomis letter) was 40, his editor Harvey Woodruff a mere 44. James Isaminger, who cornered Maharg at the end of September 1920, was 39. The man who wrote for the Bible of Baseball, The Sporting News, J.G.Taylor Spink, was 31. Frank G. Menke, who wrote those troublesome articles about the 1924 Milwaukee trial, was just 33 in 1919.
For some perspective, Sox manager Kid Gleason was 54. Comiskey and Garry Herrmann were both 60, Ban Johnson 55. Judge Landis, who always looks 75, was a craggy 53.
Well, that last group might sound dinosaurish to some of you, but I'm 57, and I was struck by the fact that the events were covered by a kiddie corps of reporters. They had most of their working lives ahead of them. They had great jobs, they got paid to watch ball games, then talk and write about them. Who wanted to blow whistles on the corruption of baseball by gamblers? Not many, that's who.
The times were different. The writers were pals with the players, or tried to be. With the gamblers, too, why not? Might get some inside dope for the story. The sports pages entertained, and between the box scores and the columnists, you might find poetry or humor or photos with funny captions, or cartoons. No one wanted to read about corruption -- enough of that in the other sections! America wanted to read about the Cincinnati Reds, not the Red Scare, about the pennant races, not race riots, about balls and strikes, not strikes of coal miners, cops and actors.
America, if you look close enough, has sometimes (or maybe always) seemed to be flying apart at the seams. The media -- and back then, that meant newspapers and magazines, with radio on deck -- had the task of holding things together, smoothing things over. Sensational stuff -- murders, Teapot Dome, a fixed World Series -- were reported, and they sold papers. But then it was back to normal. Move along, folks, nothing to see here....
From the NOTES ARCHIVE -- #21, June 27, 1993
The seed that sprouted into this story is my occasional irritation at the suggestion that 90 feet between the bases is the perfect distance -- just like 60'6" between the rubber on the pitcher's mound and home plate. Keep in mind this was written in 1993.
THE RIGHT DIMENSIONS
... "Why not baseball?" my father would say. "Name me a more perfect game! Name me a game with more possibilities for magic, wizardry, voodoo, hoodoo, enchantment, obsession, possession. There's always time for daydreaming, time to create your own illusions at the ballpark. I bet there isn't a magician anywhere who doesn't love baseball. Take the layout. No mere mortal could have dreamed up the dimensions of a baseball field. No man could be that perfect. Abner Doubleday, if he did indeed invent the game, must have received divine guidance."
-- W. P. Kinsella, in The Iowa Baseball Confederacy
The aliens were short and blue, Smurflike, with heads larger than their smallish torsos seemed able to support. That was a relief, to the crowd watching them disembark from their saucer, which had parked quite unannounced in the Astrodome parking lot. When it was clear that they had no intention of blasting away at the first earthlings they met, they were approached by TV crews and policemen, no one knowing quite what to say or expect. Videotape recorded the aliens' first words unmistakably. They were: "Take us to your Commissioner."
The moments that followed revealed that the aliens were quite adept at English, although the words they spoke seemed to stand out against a background of crowd noise. Later, the reason for this became obvious. They had learned the language monitoring radio broadcasts, and developed a strong preference for baseball games. In fact, they were anxious to meet baseball's Commissioner.
Their mission was explained up front, in simple terms: to boldly seek new games. This particular ship and crew apparently did nothing but scan the galaxy for civilizations advanced enough to enjoy their leisure by playing or watching games in public places. It was not clear whether they learned new games for the purpose of teaching them to the folks back home, or for entertaining them (a Wide World of Sports indeed.) It was clear that they liked baseball very much, what they heard of it over radio waves, anyway, and were anxious to talk about it, with its chief representative.
The military and the scientists, and the military scientists especially, were most disappointed that the aliens' minds seemed so one-tracked. But, eager not to needlessly upset these first guests from Wherever, they arranged a meeting with the Commissioner within hours.
Buster White had been on a business trip in Florida, taking part in negotiations which might mean an expansion team in the Tampa Bay area. It would be the 100th major league franchise, if they could pull it off. Buster was shaken by the call to visit with aliens, although he had it much tougher lunching with owners. But he agreed to comply, and jetted off to Houston.
"We wish to first of all thank your Game, for sharing its broadcasts with the many life-forms in outer space, even those which cannot grasp round objects or chew tobacco," the spokesalien began, standing beside Buster White behind a bank of microphones and in the glare of as many TV cameras, from around the world, as could cram close. "We miss the television signals, but not much, not as much as we miss Red Barber and Bob Prince, to be honest. Too many commercials." At this, the six or seven aliens standing off to the side all nodded gravely, in strong and sober agreement.
"Our message is short and sweet. Your game is wonderful, one of the very best we have found in all our travels. We have cataloged millions of games, invented by thousands of life-forms. So we know what we are talking about. We want to share with you now a suggestion for making your Game even better. The best."
The room buzzed with excitement and anticipation. Everybody had a guess: salary caps (the average ML player was now making enough money to support a small city for a year)? A return to artificial turf (grass died, it turned out, if it wasn't given a lot of special attention that few clubs could afford anymore; the turf lobbyists hoped ticket prices would shrink, if the more durable surfaces could be installed)? Break up the Marlin Dynasty?
"You should know that there are actually quite a few places in the galaxy where games like your Baseball are played. The rules are quite strikingly similar, varying, of course, with the life-forms, and the conditions on their planets. Where atmospheres are quite thin, for example, the fields are much larger and the fences higher. Where the air is dense and heavy, the area is smaller, sort of like Ebbets Field, but cleaner, and more fans attend.
"But I digress. I promised short and sweet, so here it is." Buster White's eyes were wide, his mouth open, his hands trembling. "If you want to make baseball the ideal sport for your species, you must change the distance between bases to 89 of your feet. Ninety was very close. But try 89 -- you won't regret it, believe me."
Buster's eyes blinked wildly. "That's it? You came here from a zillion miles off, to tell us to, to try 89 feet?"
"Oh, yes, and the pitching distance -- the correct distance is 57, not 60.5. Again, you were so close! Try 57, see if your pitchers don't last longer."
Before Buster could reply, the aliens all rose and briskly hustled off to their saucer. In another minute, the saucer rose straight up, and without a sound, sped off, never to be seen or heard from again.
In the months and years that followed, the whole incident took on the aspect of a hoax, a fiction that was increasingly hard to swallow. The owners voted down the proposed changes, and Buster White threw his considerable weight their way, so that the ranks of professional ball never tested the aliens' bizarre advice.
But all over Europe and Asia and Africa, in South America and Australia, in New Guinea and Madagascar and lands where baseball had been ignored for over a century as a foreign madness, towns and villages experimented with the "Blue Laws" (as the aliens' rule changes came to be known.) And the sport grew to be more popular than soccer, Sumo wrestling, and rugby combined, becoming in less than a decade The International Pastime.
The Americans played on, refusing to participate in the U.N.-sponsored Earth Series, despite the pleas of fans, presidents and the players themselves. Tampa Bay was edged out for the 100th franchise by Utica, New York.
[In issue #294, I began running DEAR PATRICK: HOT STOVE DELIVERIES FROM A FATHER TO A SON, a book I started writing in 1989 and continued for a few years, till I set it aside. Some of DEAR PATRICK has found its way into NOTES before, but never the whole thing, beginning to end -- until now. Here is Chapter 12.]
CHAPTER 12
NEW PARKS AND ANOTHER SERIES
February 12, 1990
Dear Patrick:
After college, I spent six years teaching at a high school in Cleveland, Ohio (Indian country), a school much like the one that your uncle Mick and I had attended in Pittsburgh, down the 'Pike. Those six years seemed like sixty at times -- I was tossed into teaching with too little preparation, like a kid from Class A ball called on to win in the majors. To continue the analogy, I struggled a few seasons, but hung in there ("like a Baltimore Oriole") and survived, adjusting like a rookie batter to everything thrown at me. The advice of veterans really helped, too.
The vast majority of the hundreds of Cathedral Latin Lions that I taught, were Indians' fans. They couldn't help it. Actually, they rooted harder for the Browns, who had fine football teams in those years. Come spring, their pennant fever almost always wound up being, as one of their later managers put it, "a forty-eight hour virus." Their June swoon was almost as regular as the Cubs' over in the NL. The CL upperclassmen traditionally cut class to help the Indians shoot for new Opening Day records, each spring. It's a good thing the Browns didn't play on weekdays.
Although I remained interested in baseball during my seasons in the classroom, I didn't take in more than a single game at Municipal Stadium. True, I summered elsewhere but I must have had plenty of opportunities, springs and falls.
This was the site where DiMaggio's hit streak finally expired back in 1941, and where seventy-five or eighty thousand regularly worshipped the Browns on October Sundays.
I don't even remember what year it was when I attended one of the first games of the season, on a blustery cold April night, when the wind off Lake Erie went through everything. The Orioles were in town. They had taken over from the Yankees as the class of the American League and were worth watching.
That night there were about sixty thousand fewer fans present, than the night DiMaggio was halted. To our dismay, the teams played even, the balls thudding against the frozen bats, producing no spark of offense. Players and fans, we all just wanted to get it over with. Most of the clapping mustered was to warm our hands, and I bet more hot cocoa was sold than beer. I think it went twelve innings before the Orioles scored by drawing a bases-full walk. Let's get outta here!
I spent three summers in St. Louis in the early seventies, working toward a Masters degree. There, I saw my first modern ballpark, the new Busch Stadium. Watching the players dribble (in practice) and bat balls off the artificial turf produced a truly weird sensation. I felt off-balance in some way. The baseballs seemed rubbery now, with every contact. The game's face was the same, but the play was ever-so-slightly distorted, warped into something abnormal -- it was as if I ran into an old friend with a new haircut, one that really didn't flatter him.
The field reminded me more than anything of the Carney family's basement pool table, its smooth green felt stretched tight over slate slabs. In the daytime, temperatures often soared over one hundred degrees, baking those who had to play on the stuff.
Looking back now, I think what bothered me most about the plastic grass was not that horses didn't eat it (as Richie Allen said, in maybe the most famous quote about Astroturf) -- but that I had never played on it myself. And likely never would. It would always seem foreign to me, a very strange carpet under an otherwise very familiar game.
I visited Pittsburgh once or twice in each of those summers and took in games when I could at Three Rivers Stadium, which replaced Forbes Field in 1970. To be honest, the only thing I really liked about the new "bowl-parks" was that their scoreboards let you follow the other games a little better. On the other hand, it was always an occasion for a collective chuckle when a liner went into an open scoreboard window at Forbes!
As a "visitor" to Pittsburgh, I looked hard at Three Rivers for things that were peculiar to the city -- besides beers. I think I could have accepted the generic stadium more easily, if only I could have purchased an Isaly's chipped ham sandwich at the concession stand, or maybe a Klondike bar. I was one of those 'Burgers who took pounds of chipped ham with me when I left the city after a visit, and expected visitors to bring more pounds when they visited me in New York. Still am.
Forbes Field never served chipped ham, by the way. My point is that Forbes was Pittsburgh, and I thought Three Rivers could be made more -- more like home.
It wasn't until I visited Boston's Fenway Park years later that I realized how much I missed Forbes Field. It was a frigid spring night game, not unlike the evening of the one game I saw in Cleveland, and neither I nor my friend had heavy enough jackets, so we spent a lot of the evening walking around, checking out the different vantage points. I liked them all.
Fenway had the feel, the sounds and the smell of a ballpark. The Green Monster was really there, staring down pitchers. Listening to the Bosox fans assist Oil Can Boyd against Reggie Jackson was worth the price of admission. I especially enjoyed the lower right-field stands, "Williamsburg" (when Ted was knocking souvenirs) -- there you could catch not only home runs, but outfielders who were trying to prevent home runs!
If they ever put it to a vote, count me in with those who favor seamless grass infields and ivy-covered walls that wrap around irregularly-shaped outfields, causing crazy caroms and chances for inside-the-park homers. And for triples! Someday we must take in a game at Fenway.
In 1970, the Pirates finished first, but only in their Division. A half-pennant (I think I first ran into that word in a Roger Angell New Yorker article.)
Standing in the way of another trip to the World Series was the famous Cincinnati "Big Red Machine." You know some of the names I think -- Pete Rose, Johnny Bench, Tony Perez and Joe Morgan. But it was the Reds' pitching that did in the Bucs in the best-of-five playoffs, in three excruciatingly close games, all low-scoring affairs.
Where was the best-of-seven playoff format when we really needed it?!
But in 1971, things went better. The Bucs finished ahead of the Cardinals by seven games in the NL East, then took the San Francisco Giants, 3-1, in the playoffs. Firstbaseman Bob Robertson, a Stu who could field, smacked three homers to win one of the games and set the tone. Dave Giusti saved all three games. Series time!
My father came up with two tickets for Game Four. It was the first night game in Series history, and that enabled me to see my first and only Series game, so far. I was living in Cleveland, remember, and teaching, but I drove to Pittsburgh after school, making it with a little time to spare.
It turned out to be a pivotal game. The Orioles had taken the first two games, in Baltimore. Steve Blass, the Bucs' best starting pitcher, came through in Game Three, but the starter in Game Four was KO'd in the first inning. The gamed was saved by super relief pitching by Bruce Kison and by a dramatic, tie- breaking single by a rookie catcher, Milt May. I can replay that hit in my mind today, seeing it from where I sat that evening, beside my father.
After the game I visited at home for a few minutes, then hit the turnpike for Cleveland. The next day my students were skeptical of my boast of having been to the game until I showed them the rain check, which I still have, of course. It was great.
The Series was finally won by Pittsburgh when Blass outdueled Mike Cuellar, 2-1, in the seventh game. Roberto Clemente was one of the Series heroes, as the whole country finally got to see what Pirate fans had seen for seventeen seasons. I guess even greatness is sometimes late in being acknowledged, and sometimes it probably never is recognized.
The year after, the Pirates won their Division again, by eleven games. They seemed ready for another Series. But -- one more time -- there was that Big Red Machine to get past.
The Bucs won two of the first three playoff games but couldn't put it away in the fourth. So it went down to Game Five. The Pirates led, 3-2, going into the last of the ninth at Cincinnati's Riverfront.
A tricky left-handed Bucco reliever named Ramon Hernandez had been in control. Ramon had been undefeated in the regular season and had a 1.67 ERA; more importantly, I liked him! But with the right-handed Johnny Bench leading off the inning, Buc manager Bill Virdon pulled Ramon and brought in Dave Giusti from the bullpen. Now I'm not by nature a second-guesser, and I didn't wait until Giusti threw his first pitch to register my anxiety. My heart sank when this move was made -- I was sure Hernandez would get us to the promised land, the Series.
My gut feeling was correct. Bench homered to right. Two more singles and Giusti was done and the game was out of hand. The winning run for the Reds came in, on a wild pitch, a few minutes later.
The Pirates had wild-pitched away the final game of the 1927 Series against Murderer's Row and it took them over thirty years to recover. It felt that gloomy now.
It's the fan's right and privilege to "second-guess." Playing manager from the grandstand or from the armchair is a good deal of the fun of rooting. I can recall this one time that my hunch was "right" but the fact that I can't remember many others is significant -- I'm sure that in most instances, the managers know their options better, and choose correctly.
I know that I said before that baseball is a place where you can forget and forgive. But I doubt that I'll ever forget that removal of Hernandez, and to this day, deep down, I haven't forgiven Virdon for it. Close, but no Series rings.