# America's National Game/Chapter 36

CHAPTER XXXVI.
MOST everybody remembers the story of Horace Greeley's mountain ride with Hank Monk, the celebrated California stage driver of early days, and how that story was told and retold until it became the stock in trade of everybody on the Pacific Coast. Something akin to this is the widespread publicity given to a tale that I encounter frequently in all kinds of publications, relating to my introduction to the game of Base Ball.
This narrative declares that the first time I ever heard of Base Ball was when a veteran of the Civil War came to Rockford in 1863 and explained it to me. The story goes on to state that I immediately organized two teams; that three years later I was clerking in a Chicago grocery and went out to watch a game between two clubs of the Windy City; that the pitcher of one of the nines got his leg twisted, so that the game was likely to go by default, when I volunteered my services and pulled the unfortunate club out of its deplorable situation, etc.
Now, I dislike to shatter this beautiful fairy tale. Especially distasteful is it to me to wreck the bright halo placed upon my brow by some good natured, highly imaginative, but ill-advised historian; but the fact is that, with ​the exception of the opening statement that a returning soldier told me about playing the game in the army, there is hardly enough truth in the balance of the story on which to hang a feather. It was emphatically not true that I, at thirteen years of age, organized two Base Ball teams. On the contrary, I was at that time an overgrown, unbaked, country boy, as green as the verdant prairies of my native State, and so bashful that I was almost afraid to go out of doors, lest I should meet and be spoken to by someone not a member of my family.
I was boarding at the home of a relative at Rockford. It was my first prolonged absence from home, and memories of the homesickness of that period haunt me like a nightmare to this hour. The only solace I had, the only bright skies for me in those dark days of utter loneliness, were when I could go out to the commons to watch the other fellows play Base Ball. And then my diffidence was so great that I would go way down the outfield, take a seat on the turf and watch the boys have fun. I think no mother, parted from her young, ever had a stronger yearning to see her beloved offspring than had I to break in to those crude games of ball on the commons at Rockford. Oh, if I only could get in! But I'd rather have died than suggest such a thing, and the players were too busy to think of me. So I would sit, and watch, and yearn, and covet a place among the happy lads who were having such happy times.
One day the unexpected happened. The balls used in those days were composed of melted rubber, around which yarn was wound and a leather cover sewed on sometimes. These balls would bound as high as a house and ​if a fellow got a fair lick at one, it would certainly go some. On this particular day I was occupying my usual place, far out beyond center field, when one of the boys hit the ball square on the nose and it came soaring in my direction. Talk about special Providence! That ball came for me straight as an arrow. Impulsively I sprang to my feet, reached out for it with my right hand, held it a moment, and then threw it home on an air-line to the catcher.
When the game was over, one of the boys came to me and said:
"Say, that was a great catch you made. Wouldn't you like to play to-morrow?"
Blushing, I managed to stammer that I would; and I did, and from that day, when sides were chosen, I was usually among the first to have a place. And this was my real introduction to the game.
As to the Chicago incident, so graphically recorded in the story referred to, the facts are set forth elsewhere in this narrative. I was clerking at Chicago because I had already made good as a pitcher on the Forest City team and was wanted by the Chicago Excelsiors. But I went to Chicago after the close of one season and returned to Rockford before the opening of another. Hence, it is too bad for an imaginative writer to twist the poor pitcher's leg in a supposititious game played in midwinter, even though I appreciate his good-will in making me the hero of an impossible romance.
My early experiences in a business way were not ​encouraging. The first salaried position I ever held was in a grocery store at Rockford. About the time I left that establishment it "busted." The failure was not due to the size of my salary; I received only three dollars a week!
My second engagement was with a Chicago wholesale grocery, where I was to receive $40 a week as bill clerk, with the understanding that I was to pitch for the Excelsiors during the Base Ball season. I was told by the proprietor not to mention the amount of my salary to fellow clerks. I hadn't been at work but a few days when a son of Frank Parmalee—of Chicago Transfer fame—who had his desk near mine, asked the leading question, "How much do you get?" I answered, "I don't know; my first pay day hasn't arrived." He told me that he got $10 a week, and I suppose he ranked me as about a " fiver." I only received one salary check at Chicago, when the sheriff came along and closed up the wholesale grocery store. I was not so sure of my innocence of the cause of this failure as I had been in the Rockford case. Forty dollars a week for such service as I was at that time capable of rendering seemed to me enough to "bust" almost any concern.
I was now without employment in a big city in mid-winter. Happily, I had an uncle in the insurance business at that time, and he gave me work, soliciting insurance. Among other policies that I wrote up was one on a blacksmith shop on Lake Street. I had become acquainted with the proprietor as I passed back and forth between my boarding place and office, and, upon my ​eloquent presentation of the desirability of protection against loss by fire, he allowed me to write his risk in one of my uncle's companies. One night a big fire broke out on Lake Street, and the losses were so heavy that every company for which my uncle had an agency went broke. I heard that a large, two-fisted blacksmith, whose place of business before the conflagration had been on Lake Street, was looking for a tall, young insurance solicitor. During the brief remainder of my sojourn in Chicago I went daily a few blocks out of my way to avoid apologizing for a defunct insurance company, and incidentally to escape a "licking."
After the insurance failures at Chicago, I returned to Rockford and obtained employment as bookkeeeper in the Rockford Register office, also doing similar work for Mr. A. N. Nicholds, agent for the Charter Oak Life Insurance Co., with the understanding that I was to pitch for the Forest Citys. The newspaper soon got into financial troubles and the insurance company failed.
Having now been present as mourner at the obsequies of one retail and one wholesale grocery establishment, several insurance companies and a newspaper, I lost confidence in the ordinary channels of business enterprise and determined in the future to devote my energies professionally to the great American national game.
Therefore, when Harry Wright appeared at Rockford one day in the fall of 1870, with an offer of $2,500 per annum, one-fifth to be paid spot cash, I signed a contract to pitch for the original Boston professional club. The Base Ball history of the five following years is familiar to ​the public. It is not so well known, however, that, while playing with the Bostons, the great fire of 1872 occurred, paralyzing the business interests of that city and nearly wrecking the Boston Base Ball Club.
Following that fire, I found myself short $800 in salary, and was forced to accept the offer of an old friend to take a place on the New York Graphic, an illustrated weekly paper that had recently been established there. The Graphic soon failed, of course, and, my back salary having been made up and future payment of salary secured, I returned to Boston and devoted my time strictly to playing ball professionally, until I embarked in business for myself, since which time I have not been connected with any more commercial failures.
The first time I had to do with the selling of players was in 1887. I had withdrawn from active participation in the game as a player, but was President of the Chicago White Stockings, at that time the finest team of ball players in the world. Although the traffic in players, under the National Agreement, had been in vogue for some time, I had never looked with much favor upon it, rather from sentiment than any other reason, I suppose, for I knew that such changes usually benefited club and player alike. The newspapers had made much ado about the arbitrary authority given to managers along this line. It had been quite generally denounced by the press; and the public, influenced, no doubt, by the changes rung on such headlines as "Slave Traffic," "Another Ball Player Sold," etc., had come to regard the practice as awful.
​The facts leading to my personal introduction to the system are as follows: The White Stockings were repeating in Chicago the history of Boston's first professional club. The players were so capable that they were expected to win every game. It did seem almost impossible for them to lose. Twice in succession they had captured the championship pennant; the prowess of the team was known throughout the land, and praises of the individual performances of Anson, Kelly, Flint, Williamson, Dalrymple, Gore, Clarkson, Pfeffer, McCormick and Sunday were on everybody's lips.
Now, experience had shown that the keeping of the same players together for too long a time is prejudicial to the interests of the game. I had learned that lesson in my notice of the effect of the four years of successive championship victories gained by the Boston team, and felt that the time had come for a change in the personnel of the Chicago nine. I was well aware that patrons, while appreciating good players, do tire of seeing the same faces year after year, and do enjoy the introduction of new blood into the team. And so I decided to let some players go. But what ones? That was a question not easy to decide.
I deliberated upon the matter for some days, and finally persuaded myself that King Kelly was the man to sell. In arriving at this conclusion, I was not led to the determination entirely by the certainty that Kelly would bring the most money. I knew, of course, that he was as popular abroad as he was at home, and would sell for a lot of cash. I also was aware that there would ​be a sad, sad wail when it was made public that the "King" was to go. But there were imperative reasons prompting his disposal. It was an open secret—else I would not exploit it here—that Kelly's habits were not conducive to the best interests of the club or his team-mates. He was of a highly convivial nature, extremely fascinating and witty, and his example was demoralizing to discipline. Particularly was his influence objectionable upon the younger members of the nine. Everybody in Chicago liked Kelly; all the players desired to be where he was—and to follow him was "to go the limit."
So one day I broached the subject of the proposed change to Captain Anson, asking him if he could spare Kelly.
"Spare him? Sure. Spare anybody," was the reply.
I then cautioned Anson to say nothing, as I felt that this matter was one which would have to be handled with gloves. So I sent for Kelly and asked him:
"Kelly, how would you like to go to Boston to play?"
"I don't want any Boston in mine; Chicago's good enough for me."
"Well, you're good enough for Chicago, too," I said. "But if there should be something nice in it for you, would you object? Wouldn't you like more salary?"
"Wouldn't Kelly like more salary? Well, I guess."
"What salary would you go to Boston for?" I continued.
He thought a moment, then said, almost as if ashamed to ask it, "Four thousand dollars." He was receiving $3,000 at Chicago, which was the limit in those days.
​ "I think I can get you $5,000!" said I.
He beamed all over at the prospect.
"Now, Mike," I said, "you don't care ——— how much we get for your release."
"If you get me $5,000 I don't care a if you sell me for a hundred thousand."
"All right. Now keep mum, and let me conduct negotiations; and remember, if you get a letter from Boston, asking your terms, it's $5,000—not $4,000."
I took the matter up with the manager of the Boston club, telling him that King Kelly might possibly be secured. He bit. In a few days I received a letter, asking the price. I replied that $10,000 would purchase the King. He couldn't wait to write. He wired me, "Terms for Kelly accepted," and the sale was made.
Meanwhile Kelly had also been receiving telegrams, and got his contract for three years at $5,000. It was understood between us that he was at liberty to play the "poor Base Ball slave" act to the limit. He did his part with such splendid effect that I soon had the whole press of Chicago applying to me names that, to say the least, were far from complimentary. To these attacks I replied by having the check received from Boston published in fac-simile in the Chicago "papers. I had learned to know the value of good newspaper advertising, and it came good and plenty as long as Kelly remained to weep and wail over his sad fate in being sold away from the city he loved so well.
But other members of the team soon caught on, and I found myself besieged by players begging to be sold into ​a slavery that would help them to redoubled salaries. After awhile the reporters got the right of it, with the result that a system which helped player and club alike was shown to be not so one-sided as had been sometimes supposed. Subsequently Clarkson, the White Stockings' superb pitcher, was also sold to Boston, and later Gore went to New York, but we overdid the matter a trifle and lost the pennant that year.
In speaking of the events which led to my separation from the Boston Club, in 1875, it will be recalled that I accompanied Mr. Hulbert to Philadelphia, where it was stated that Anson and Sutton had already "been secured." It was not quite true that both these players had been secured. They had agreed to go with me to Chicago, but Sutton never went, and Anson found it very difficult to do so.
In what has here been written concerning the game and its producers I fear I may sometimes have done injustice to the players. If so, I wish right now to make amends. I certainly desire to be just to all, and I know a good deal about the temptations that assailed players during the evolution of Base Ball in those early days. I have known tricky players, dishonest players, drunken players, but I have also met and dealt with shiftless managers, double-faced managers and managers as corrupt as Satan himself.
As soon as it became known that Barnes, McVey, White and I had determined to go to Chicago, in 1876, every conceivable influence to induce us to break our ​contracts and cause a change in our program was brought to bear upon all alike. If there was any difference, perhaps I suffered less than any others from these attempts. I was generally looked upon as the ringleader of the secessionists, and it was not supposed that my plans could be altered. But the other boys got it "good and plenty." They were cajoled, coaxed, offered all kinds of money, and finally browbeaten and insulted, but all to no avail. The "big four" had given their words, and all bribes, entreaties and threats were ignored.
At Philadelphia, of course, conditions were similar, and the same scenes were enacted. Sutton and Anson were besieged and besought; corruptive influences were brought to bear upon them right and left. Most alluring offers were made to both of them—and Sutton surrendered! Although his sacred promise had been given and contract signed, he was not strong enough to resist the temptation of a higher salary and advancement. He capitulated, broke his contract, and remained with the Philadelphia Athletics.
With Anson it was different. There would have been some excuse for him. He had recently met and was betrothed to the good woman who was to become his wife. Her home was at Philadelphia, and she naturally wanted her husband at her home. A most tempting increase of salary, if he would remain, added its allurements to the situation. Anson decided that he must not go to Chicago and wrote to President Hulbert for his release. Mr. Hulbert showed me the letter. I told him to pay no attention to it—and not to release the player.
​"Oh, what's the use?" said Hulbert. "He'll break his contract. We've lost Sutton; we'll lose Anson."
"It is true," I replied, "that we have lost Sutton; but we haven't lost Anson."
Time passed with Anson still insisting that he wouldn't come to Chicago. Mr. Hulbert was quite inclined to let him go. I persisted in refusing to give my consent. Anson continued to "bluff;" said that he wouldn't come West; that he'd break his contract before he'd come.
In the following spring, in advance of the opening of the season, the big first baseman came out to Chicago, determined to secure his release. He offered to pay $1,000 to be relieved from his contract, but Hulbert was, now immovable. Anson then came to me. He went over the whole situation. The claims of his fiancee were urged. I told him she would be happier in Chicago. He referred to the offer of $2,.500 a year—far more than he had ever received—and said:
"I can't afford to lose the money."
"You can't afford to break your contract," I replied.
"That's about so, too," he acknowledged; but still he held out. Meanwhile, in his determination to remain at Philadelphia, Anson had subjected himself to daily interviews in the Chicago papers, in which he stubbornly declared his intention of remaining and playing in the East. Mr. Hulbert was convinced that Anson was lost. I told him not to fear.
"Sutton has broken his contract, hasn't he?" he repeated.
"Yes," I answered; "but I never told you that you ​could hold Sutton. I know Anson. You have his contract; he has promised me. He'll play with Chicago."
Next day the Chicago team went out to the grounds for its first field practice. Anson was there. He wore a high hat and was immaculately clothed with up-to-date trousers, vest and a Prince Albert coat. So far as personal appearance went he might have been President of the National League, or of the Nation itself. He was, however, apparently still obdurate in his determination not to play at Chicago. He stood around, watching the practice for a little while, and then he said to me:
"Toss me one, Al."
"What? With those togs on? Not any. Take off your hat and coat and get into the game."
He stood around for a few minutes longer, his face alight with the spirit of the sport, and then he peeled off his statesman's wardrobe and took his place. I fired him a few and said:
"Now, Anse, come to-morrow in uniform." And he did, and remained with the Chicago Club for twenty-one years thereafter as manager, captain and player. Such was Adrian C. Anson, one of the greatest ball players that ever lived—and a man whose word was always as good as his bond. How we won the pennant for Chicago that year, the first of the National League, is part of the recorded history of the game.
The disciplining of a Base Ball team presents problems not to be met elsewhere, I think. The manufacturer, the merchant, the farmer—every employer of ​labor—has some experience with men who will not always "be good." But the alternative in such cases is usually the same, and always at hand. The refractory employe in the ordinary avenues of business can be summarily dismissed and his place soon filled. Not so in the case of the recalcitrant ball player. He may be the most capable man on the team; his presence may be absolutely essential to the success of the nine; his absence may mean the loss of confidence on the part of every other player. To dismiss such a player summarily may be followed by the withdrawal of public favor and patronage. It may cause much hostile newspaper criticism. It may result in all kinds of demoralization, discouragement and loss.
What, then, is to be done with a team whose members persist in a course which the management knows to be prejudicial to the interests of the game and which is extremely vexatious and annoying? I cannot better answer this question, or illustrate the case at point, than by recounting here an incident in my experience as President of the Chicago White Stockings about thirty years ago. The team was composed of fine ball players—there can be no doubt of that. It was playing winning ball right along, which made the administration of discipline all the more difficult. I knew that some of the men were drinking to excess; I was aware that these were keeping late hours; it was a notorious fact that their habits were altogether improper; but what reply could I make to their questions, "What's the matter with our game?" "Do you want us to win everything?" "Where's the team that can down us?"
​One day I was remonstrating with Kelly, who was the liveliest of the bunch, when he turned on me with:
"What are you running here? A Sunday School or a Base Ball club?"
I told him that while we were not exactly in the Sunday School business we would still like to have the boys reasonably clean in their habits. The subject was dropped for a while and then I began to get letters from the public. Some were from prominent citizens and patrons of the game; others were from personal enemies of some of the players; still others were anonymous; but all told stories of drunkenness and debauchery, in which, members of the White Stockings were implicated. These recounted scenes of revelry and carousing that were altogether reprehensible and disgusting. Finally the newspapers took it up and began to berate the management for the actions of the players.
Forbearance ceasing to be a virtue, I determined that something must be done; but what? As to myself, I could not charge the men with offenses I had not seen them commit. And yet I was reasonably certain of the existence of fire where there was so much smoke. I again interviewed Kelly and some of the others, telling them of rumors I had heard; but all denied the charges in toto—there was nothing to it, they insisted.
Meeting Billy Pinkerton' one day, I mentioned my troubles and asked him to put a man on the job, with instructions to ascertain the facts and make a full report. In a few weeks the report was ready, and when I got it I did not know what to do with it. It was on foolscap ​sheets and bulked about an inch in thickness. It began with Anson, and dropped him after two or three days as all right. So with Sunday and several others. But the records of seven out of the fifteen players on the team were too awful for patient consideration. The detective had followed them up and down Clark Street, all over the tenderloin districts, through the whole roster of saloons and "speak-easy" resorts, and kept track of their movements, in minutest detail, for days at a time—and the evidence was now in my hands!
But what to do with it? That was a question not easy to answer. If the full disciplinary powers of the League were applied, that meant the disruption of the team at the height of the season—the practical elimination of the White Stockings from the League, I gave the subject long and careful consideration, and at length decided upon a course to pursue.
One day I told Anson to have all the boys on the grounds next morning, as I had something I wanted to say to them. He asked me, "What's up?" and I told him to be there and learn for himself.
Next morning I met the team by appointment. I told them what had been done; how I had heard the stories of their dissipation; how I had received scores of letters of complaint; how newspapers had finally taken up the subject; how I had then employed a detective to learn the facts, and that I had his report with me. I then asked:
"Now, boys, what shall I do with it?"
"Read it," said one, and
​"Read it," echoed the others.
I didn't propose to read that long grist again, and so one of the players was deputized to perform the task. He commenced with the report on Anson, and I heard one of the players ejaculate, "Here's where the old man gets off." A minute later someone whispered, "Here's where Billy (Sunday) slides out," and so on until the real business of the report began.
Unfeigned interest kept everyone silent until the reading had ended. Then Kelly broke the silence with one of his characteristic drolleries, saying: "I have to offer only one amendment. In that place where the detective reports me as taking a lemonade at 3 a. m. he's off. It was a straight whiskey; I never drank a lemonade at that hour in my life."
"Now, boys," I said, "what's to be done about it? I understand that you plead guilty to the indictment. What's to be the penalty?"
"That's up to you, sir."
"Anson, what's to be the punishment? Do you want, to fine these men?"
"No," said Anson, "we don't want their money."
"I'll tell you what we will do," said I. "I appoint you seven men a committee to report the punishment to be inflicted upon yourselves."
"How much did you pay the detective?" asked one of the guilty.
"One hundred and seventy-five dollars," I replied.
"Well," said he, "there's just seven of us. Suppose we stand $25 apiece?"
​"All right, I'm agreed," said one after the other, and thus ended the administration of discipline in that case.
As a sequel to this incident, another occurred a few days later. The White Stockings were about to leave for a series of games at Detroit. The train was ready to start. Standing on the platform was a great, green gawk of a fellow, staring with wide-mouthed interest at the departing players. Kelly caught sight of him and whispered something to McCormick. Then the "King" stepped up to the countryman and, after denouncing him in most violent terms as a Pinkerton detective, hauled off and smote him with all his might, while McCormick, coming up behind the bewildered "Rube," kicked the poor fellow's pants clear up on his shoulders. Then the bell rang and the belligerent ball players sprang to the platform of the rear car and went whirling Eastward.
As showing the importance of taking advantage of opportunities presented for the gratuitous advertising of the game, I recall an incident following the sale of Kelly to Boston. The newspapers of Chicago did not take kindly to this transaction. One paper—the Chicago News—then owned by Melville E. Stone and Victor F. Lawson, was particularly severe in its criticism. The News strenuously urged, among other things, a reduction in the price of admission to games, claiming that if Chicago was to have cheap players it ought to have cheap admission.
Frequent caricatures were printed, some of them occupying a half page, illustrating the slave pen of ​antebellum days, with the auction block, upon which, instead of the familiar forms of the unhappy slaves, abject ball players were displayed for sale to the highest bidder. Being at that time President of the Chicago Club, and having been instrumental in promoting the sale of Kelly, I came in for much notoriety. While these daily "roasts" were being served out to me I noticed that the attendance kept increasing. Many friends, outraged at what they deemed unfair criticism, wrote me, urging me to take some action that would stop the abuse, even if I had to kill the editor.
A prominent Base Ball writer of that day was "Harmony" White, who had obtained his sobriquet from an article published in one of the Chicago papers to the effect that the only way to gain a winning team was to collect a nine whose members were so mad with one another that they would not speak. I happened to meet White on the street one day, early in the summer, and asked him:
"What's the matter with the News? You haven't been giving me the usual amount of space of late."
He replied that he was absolutely out of ammunition. I offered to furnish him fresh ammunition if he would only keep up the onslaught. His incredulous look indicated that he was not impressed with my sincerity. I then explained to him that simply as a business proposition I could not afford to be neglected in his paper, for since he had let up in his attacks our attendance was dropping off.
"Well," said he, "if you feel that way about it, and ​will supply the ammunition, I will open up again, for I certainly have instructions from the managing editor to go to the limit in roasting the management of the Chicago Base Ball Club."
As a result of this casual conversation it was then and there agreed that he would send a trusted messenger to my office on two certain days of each week to secure the necessary ammunition. This plan was carried out to the end of that season, and, as a result, the Chicago Club made more money that year than it had ever made during its history up to that time.
From this experience I became convinced that—so far as Base Ball is concerned—good, liberal roasts in newspapers of wide circulation are much more effective than fulsome praise, for the latter carries with it the idea that it is paid advertising, and is therefore only read as such, whereas under the roast program the matter is relieved from that suspicion and read by everybody with more or less of sympathy for the poor fellow who has no newspaper in which to defend himself, and this even though the "poor fellow" is supplying ammunition to his traducer.