# America's National Game/Chapter 30

CHAPTER XXX.
1860-1911
IF IN these chronicles it has not been made to appear that our national game owes something of both prestige and perpetuity to the men who have directed its business affairs, then have I failed in one important point of my undertaking; for, during my connection with Base Ball, as player, captain, manager, magnate and league official, I came to know much about men who have managed its destinies. I know something about their duties, their trials and their responsibilities, and I have sought in these pages to accord to them their due meed of praise for the success that has attended their patriotic and painstaking efforts to preserve Base Ball as a game worthy the great American Nation.
It is to correct this very serious error that this chapter is written. I shall not here refer to the unlucky financiers whose enthusiasm for the game has led them into the backing of forlorn hopes in hopeless territory; nor shall I dwell upon the misfortunes of those who have gone to the wall by reason of inability to meet competition on the business side of the game. I shall undertake, however, to show that the Base Ball magnate who achieves what the world denominates success is up against a serious enterprise; that he must go "the pace that kills," that ownership of a great ball club in a populous and prosperous city involves man-killing experiences; that the management of a major (and sometimes of a minor) league club often Works havoc to the health and happiness of the man who undertakes it, and that the long list of physical and mental wrecks strewn along the shores of Base Ball history tells a story of sacrifice to our national game that is not generally appreciated or known.
​A few years ago I happened to be paying a business visit to a city of some importance in the Middle West. The owner of the local club, whom I had known in former years, learning of my presence, sent a complimentary invitation to attend a series of ball games then scheduled for that city. I went, and from the grandstand sent my card to the magnate who was on the bench below, pencil and card in hand, industriously keeping score and directing his players in the game. He responded at once by coming to my side.
I was not prepared for the change I noted in my friend's appearance. He had been a ball player in other days, a fellow of fine physique, active and strong. Now he was attenuated; his hand trembled as he marked the score card; deep furrows crossed his forehead; his once dark hair had turned to gray; he was prematurely an old man. The game progressed, and favorably for his team. When it was ended he said: "Thank God, we've won. We needed that game very badly." Then he added: "Spalding, do you know that I'm a miserable, mental and physical wreck? I can't stand the strain much longer. My wife, too, is disgusted with the whole business. I've made some money, and we're going to buy a farm and get out of Base Ball." It was a simple story, but it portrayed the experiences of many another.
He must stand between the press and the interests of his club in many ways. At least twice a day must he receive representatives of evening and morning papers, and by "soft words" turn away the "wrath" of adverse criticism that is always seeking to discover something with which to find fault. He must be ready to answer diplomatically, satisfactorily and promptly any impudent question that may come from the lips of an irresponsible reporter. "Why don't you release Murphy?" "What do you play O'Brien on second for?" "Why don't you strengthen your pitching staff?" "Say, are you going to sell Corrigan?" These are a few samples of conundrums that come to the club owner, and which he must adroitly answer, skillfully parry, or invoke the ire of the interrogator, with its inevitable results.
He must hear and patiently consider the never-ending stream of complaints growing out of jealousies and ambitions among his players, and must, for the sake of the game, and in his own personal interests, maintain the esprit de corps of all members of the team. He must listen to fault finding on the part of the men with the manager he has placed over them, and, acting as judge, must be patient, impartial and just, insisting upon proper deference being paid to the official and at the same time requiring the manager to be fair and reasonable in his treatment of players.
He must be present at as many games as possible, watching the individual work of the team, that he may be personally advised of the capacity of each in order to weed out the weaklings. Meanwhile it is important that he should have his eye on the players of other teams in the league, in the hopes of picking up here and there an artist unappreciated by the manager under whom he is playing. He must be on the grounds to see that order and decorum are preserved, and on occasion he must stand between the umpire and the mob.
​And at night when, harrassed and worried by the embarrassments and perplexities of the day, the magnate seeks needed rest, thoughts of other trials, troubles and tribulations force themselves upon his mind, driving sleep from his tired eyelids. And, if perchance sweet sleep shall come to restore in part his wasted energies, that ever-ready instrument of torture, the telephone, is used by the ubiquitous reporter to call him and ask for the line-up of to-morrow's game.
The magnate must be a strong man among strong men, else other club owners in the league will combine in their own interests against him and his interests, and by collusion force him out of the game.
Nor is the league official exempt from his woes. As a magnate of magnates, he comes in for his tribulations, too. He, also, is called upon to act as "buffer." Indeed, that seems to be his special calling. He must not only stand between the players and managers and magnates of his league, but, if a member of the Commission, he must at times receive the jolts of players and managers and magnates of all the leagues, major and minor, and what he does not learn of trouble in the politics, management and playing of the game, and in the administration of discipline, he may find in the hospital for the insane to which his trials are likely to drive him.
That heroic figure in base ball history, William A. Hulbert, lived only a few years after taking upon his shoulders the burdens of the National League. The brothers, DeHass and Stanley Robison, so long identified with Cleveland and St. Louis Base Ball interests, both died in managerial harness before their allotted span of life. The names of Harry Wright, Ford Evans, Chas. H. Byrne, John I. Rogers and others occur to me as those of men who have given up the fight right in the midst of battle.
And in addition to these are those who fill the ranks of magnates still living, but who have either been forced to leave active Base Ball management in order to escape nervous collapse, or who are yet in the field, carrying on the work, but all the time conscious that they must soon retire—or join the silent majority.
I met James A. Hart, late President of the Chicago Base Ball Club, of the National League, one day after he had sold his interest to its present owner. He had retired, broken in health and completely discouraged. He had greatly improved when I met him, and I said: "Well, James, you're looking fine. Don't you regret having got out of the game?" "Not a regret," answered he. "I'm getting all right again, and life is going to be worth living once more; but it wouldn't be with a ball club on my hands."
There are Base Ball magnates—a few—who seem to ​be equal to the emergency; men of strong physical and mental fibre, and of temperament just suited to the work. August Herrmann, Chairman of the National Commission—the Supreme Court of Base Ball—is such a man. With a jovial, Teutonic temperament, nothing seems to disturb his equanimity. B. B. Johnson, President of the American League is another of quality suited to the place he holds. He is not likely to wear out. Thomas J. Lynch, the new President of the National League, is a man of strong parts who will probably endure. John T. Brush, President of the New York National Club, is one of those thin, wiry men of steel whom nothing seems to wear out, and Mr. A. H. Soden, of the Boston Nationals, is strong; but such men are exceptional. Very few magnates continue as these men have, year after year, under the relentless strain of Base Ball management.
And so, concluding this plea for the Base Ball magnate, I ask, simply in the interests of fair play, that when one feels inclined to bear down too hard on the man behind the club some consideration be given to facts herein set forth; for, like that of Mr. Gilbert's policeman, the lot of a Base Ball magnate is not always "a happy one."