The Inside Game
By: John Thorn
Tags: Statistics, Hugh Fullerton, Sabermetrics, Baseball

The Inside Game

The American Magazine, May 1910

In the May 1910 number of The American Magazine, Hugh S. Fullerton published an article called “The Inside Game: The Science of Baseball.” If today’s analytics departments begin anywhere, it is here. For a prequel (“The Fine Points of the Game,” published one year earlier in the same publication, see: https://bit.ly/3iOWPYv).

“Every man but Tinker in action … the bunt was perfect … ”

Once the City Editor sent me to a meeting of an engineering society to report a lecture. In the course of his remarks the lecturer said: “At a distance of 185 miles this force, roughly speaking, is one two hundred and forty millionth part of a watt.” Fearing he might begin to speak gently I decamped, but ever since then I have regretted that I did not stay and sign that rough-spoken gentleman to work out the mathematics of baseball.

I know that it is ninety feet from first base to second base, ninety feet from second base to third base, and that a baseball batted between those points is fair. I know that approximately 20 out of every 100 balls batted fair during the season are “safe hits.” I know that of 1,284 ground balls batted during the season of 1909 in the American and National leagues (1,284 chosen at random) 138 got past the infielders. I know that infielders of the National League (pitchers not included) fielded 9,382 ground balls errorlessly during the season of 1909. But how many millionths of a watt constitutes the chances of a hit being safe I cannot figure out. The average speed of fifty ground balls hit in three games during which three of us held twentieth-of-a-second watches we calculated to be 100 feet in one and three twentieth seconds. We know that the third baseman plays ordinarily about 96 feet from the home plate, that the short stop playing “middling deep” is about 130 feet from the batter, that the second baseman is about two feet closer, and the first baseman 90 feet when a runner is on first base and 102 when no one is on bases. Given the speed and direction of the ball and the speed of the player, it is possible to figure to a millionth of a watt where his hands will meet the ball; but just as you start to write Q. E. D. the ball will take a bad bound. Given the average speed of the infielders, it would be possible to calculate beforehand approximately the number of base hits each team will make in a season — if the players were automatons.

The study of geometrical baseball is interesting in itself. Every ball player knows there are five “infield grooves” and four “outfield grooves,” spaces between fielders where any ball hit with moderate force will be “safe” unless a marvelous stop intervenes. It is certain that the first base groove is a foot and a half wide at first base, and widens gradually through the outfield. There is a space 7–1/2 feet wide between the territories covered by the first and second basemen through which the ball ought to be able to escape, as neither man can move fast enough to reach it. There is a gap in the defense directly over second base 7–1/2 feet wide which is safe territory unless the pitcher, at the risk of his life, blocks the ball as it tries to pass him. The gap between the short stop and third baseman is 8–1/2 feet wide, a foot wider than between the first and second baseman, because the ball goes faster in that direction and the space between the third baseman’s extreme limit of finger reach and the foul line is a foot and a half. Therefore, to get back to millionths of watts, as there is 26–1/2 feet of ground unguarded out of 180 feet of defensible territory, Mr. Watts would argue that one ball in every 6–4/25 hit on the ground at an average speed of 1–3/20 seconds for 100 feet will be safe. The fact is that, in the major leagues, only about one in 16 get past. Why?

Groovy

Last season I arranged with scorers to record hits of various kinds, and secured the scores thus kept on 40 Central League games, 26 American Association games, and 14 college games to compare with major league scores kept in the same manner. In the college games one grounder in every 8–1/3 passed the infielders. In the Central League one in 10–7/12, in the American Association one in 12–2/43, and in the American and National Leagues (45 games of my own scoring) one in every 15–3/10. The figures were amazing, as they followed so closely the classification of the leagues. They proved that there is reason for the “class,” but the proof is not found in mathematics, but in two words (unless you hyphenate them), “team work.”

The truth is that the figures were truthful when baseball was in its swaddling clothes, but they lie egregiously now. The falsity of baseball mathematics is that the gaps in the infield exist just as wide as ever, but are closed by team work. The college player who reaches 8 in 9 grounders may be faster than the major league player who gets his hands on 16 out of 17, but he does not understand the science of filling the grooves.

The best testimonial to the ability of Johnny Evers, of the Chicago club, to fill these grooves was given on the bench of an opposing team last summer. “Hit ’em where they ain’t,” growled one player to another who had just been thrown out by Evers.

“I do; but he’s always there,” retorted the other.

Groovier

This science of defensive work which enables four men to cover 180 feet of ground is the most fascinating part of modern baseball. It has become so intricate and involved that the spectator at a game of baseball between two highly developed teams really does not see the game at all. He sees the plays, the stops, the throws, the catches. He sees men shift and swing, change position, move forward, move back, move to the right or left, and then move back again, but all the beauty of the inside game is lost to him, nor does he imagine that behind each move is the master mind of a field general. The spectator yells himself purple in the face because Johnson fumbles a grounder and wonders why the manager “doesn’t release that big stiff” for fumbling. Then he sits indignantly striving to imagine why the manager is plastering language upon Smith for failing to stop a ball he “couldn’t have got anyhow.”

“Inside baseball” is merely the art of getting the hits that “he couldn’t have got anyhow.” Now watch this play closely. See whether or not you can discover what is going on. “Pat” Moran stoops behind the batter and hides his right hand back of his mitt. Ed Reulbach, pitcher, shakes his head affirmatively. Johnny Evers stoops, pats his hand in the dust, touches it to his knee and rests it upon his hip. Jimmy Sheckard trots twenty feet across left field angling in toward the diamond. Steinfeldt creeps slowly to his left: Tinker moves toward second base and Evers takes four or five steps back and edges toward Chance, who has backed up five feet. Reulbach pitches a fast ball high and on the out corner of the plate. Mike Mitchell hits it. The crowd yells in sudden apprehension. The ball seems a sure hit — going fast toward right field. Evers runs easily over, stops the ball, tosses it to Chance and Mitchell is out.

You saw all that. The ball was hit in “the groove” directly at the 7–1/2-foot gap the geometrician will say is vacant, yet Evers fielded it. Now this is what happened: When Moran knelt down he put the index finger of his right hand straight down, then held it horizontally on the top of his mitt. Evers saw that Moran had signaled Reulbach to pitch a fast ball high and outside the plate. He rubbed his hand in the dirt, signaling Tinker, who patted his right hand upon his glove, replying he understood. Then Evers rested his hand upon his hip, signaling Sheckard, the outfield captain, what ball was to be pitched. Sheckard crept toward the spot where Mitchell would hit that kind of a ball 95 out of 100 times. While Reulbach was “winding up,” swinging his arm to throw the ball, Evers called sharply to Chance (whose good ear is toward him), and Tinker called to Steinfeldt. While Reulbach’s arm was swinging every man in the team was moving automatically toward right field, in full motion before Mitchell hit the ball. The gaps at first base, between first base and second, over second base and between third and short, were closed hermetically, while the gap between Steinfeldt and the third base line was opened up 22 feet. The ball, if hit on the ground, had no place to go except into some infielder’s hands, unless Reulbach blundered and Mitchell “pulled” the ball down the third base gap. Every man on the team knew if Reulbach pitched high, fast and outside, Mitchell would hit toward right field. The only chance Mitchell had to hit safe was to drive the ball over the head of the outfielders, or hit it on a line over 7 feet and less than 15 feet above the ground. If Reulbach had been ordered to pitch low and over the plate, or low and inside, or a slow ball, the team would have shifted exactly in the opposite way.

Every club worthy the name uses the same system, but it is in the major leagues (the American and National) that it reaches its highest perfection. That is the explanation of the fact that college players stop eight out of nine grounders and big leaguers stop 15 out of 16 or thereabout. There is not much difference in the mechanical ability of players in the minor and major leagues, and the managers are men of almost equal experience, but the major league teams remain together year after year, while the minor league managers are forced to make an almost new team each season and teach the system to many recruits. The Milwaukee American Association team probably played as intricate and involved inside baseball last season as any team ever did and it came near winning the pennant. “Stoney” McGlynn, the veteran pitcher, was chiefly responsible. McGlynn “hasn’t much” (which means he does not pitch great curves and possesses little speed), but he can “put ’em where he wants to,” and with a team behind him trained well enough to know every ball he pitches and to move in the direction the ball will be hit he is a great pitcher. With a broken up infield he is bad.

The system of signaling used by major league teams is so involved that it requires constant thought and a good memory to follow the signals, even after knowing them. No team dares use the same signals for any length of time. Some players become so skillful in detecting the signals of opponents that they compel the other club to change sometimes two or three times during a game. Fred Clarke of the Pirates, John Kane of Chicago, Al Bridwell of the Giants, “Red” Dooin of Philadelphia, seem to possess almost uncanny powers of observation.

Grooviest

To show how complicated the system is, the Chicago “Cubs” catchers each have five signals which are plainly visible to the second baseman and short stop. If the pitcher gives the signal, the catcher repeats it by a different code. The catcher uses his hands, feet, knees or eyes in signaling. The commonest code is one finger in various positions for a straight ball, two fingers for a curve, a snapping of the thumb for a spit ball, a closed fist for a slow ball and the palm out if he wants a “pitch out,” the ball being thrown wide to prevent the batter from hitting it when the defensive side suspects or knows a hit and run play is to be attempted. Sometimes the signal is given by the position of the feet. Schmidt of Detroit, using hands to signal when the bases are clear, signals with his eyes when runners are on bases, also using his hands to deceive them. In the World’s Series between Detroit and Pittsburgh last year Tommy Leach of Pittsburgh tipped off Schmidt’s signals repeatedly by guessing that when Smith signaled one thing with his hands he was flashing the opposite signal with his eyes.

The second baseman and short stop see the catcher’s signal and verify it by signaling to each other, deciding which is to cover second base. Also the intention of the pitcher is signaled to every member of the team.

One would think that the batter would notice the shifting of position and know what was to be pitched. He is, however, too intent on watching the pitcher to see anything else and, besides, the full motion of the defensive team is not noticeable until the pitcher starts to pitch, and then it is too late for the batter to realize anything except that the ball is coming. The coachers see the movement and half the time call out to the batter “Fast” or “Curve,” but he does not hear until the ball is past him.

If you doubt this, try some day to see what becomes of the bat when a batter hits the ball and you will realize how hard it is to watch anything except the ball.

In addition the second baseman and short stop have a code of their own, consisting of two signals, given with hands, feet, arms or eyes, — sometimes by spoken words that are meaningless to anyone else, — by which they understand which one is to take throws at second base. The manager also has his private set of signals by which he directs the movements of the team. Each man on the defensive infield has at least nine signals he must remember, most of which are changed, in meaning at least, every day. Each batter has six, three with the three preceding batters and three with the three men following him, making fourteen signals a day, besides the ones used by the manager. The second baseman and short stop have from 20 to 24 signals to keep in mind, most of which are changed every day and sometimes three times during a game. Last season, when the hint had gone through the American League that the New York team was stealing signals, the Chicago White Sox changed signals nine times in one game, no signal meaning the same thing in any two innings.

There is no betrayal of secrets to explain how these signals are used or what they are, since they are changed so often that they may mean anything. Chance usually signals for a runner to try to steal by changing places with someone on the bench. He orders hit and run plays by looking over the bats. He orders double steals by lifting his cap and sometimes varies this by using the names of players. If he calls “Sheckard” he means “steal,” if “Schulte,” “hit and run,” if “Hofman,” “go on the first ball.”

Trained watchers at baseball games, men who have scored and reported hundreds of games, seldom observe the signals or understand what is happening. Last summer one of the Chicago players, in defiance of Chance’s orders, insisted upon remaining at first base after receiving an order to steal. Possibly the runner thought the opposing pitcher had caught the signal and was watching him too closely. Whatever the reason, he did not run. The batter allowed two strikes to go over without moving to hit the ball. The crowd was howling at the batter, who was obeying orders, and the batter happened to be Steinfeldt, whose name that day was being used as the signal to steal. Chance was yelling: “Steinfeldt,” “Steiny,” “Steinfeldt,” at the top of his voice and a veteran baseball man remarked:

“What is Chance yelling at Steiny for? He’s playing the game. He ought to yell at that lobster on first.”

But the signals used in attack have nothing to do with infield defensive work beyond showing how complicated the system is and how much the players must remember.

This infield defense involves much beyond knowing the signals. Its primary object is to enable the players to start before the ball is hit, as half the time required to reach a ball fifteen feet to one side is occupied in starting. It is an odd fact that some men can run faster to the right than to the left, and that others are speedier moving to the left. The short stop and second basemen should be men who can go both ways, but the short stop must go faster to the right and the second baseman faster to the left. Combine two men of that kind, who also can move straight forward rapidly, and the foundation of a good infield is set. The faster the second baseman can go to the left, and the short stop to the right, the closer they can play to second base, reducing the gap there without widening the others. The strength of arm in the short stop is another important factor of closing the gaps, for the deeper he can play the narrower the gap. With every foot he moves backward he gains a foot of territory. Also it must be remembered that every runner who reaches a base “ties up” one of the defense’s players. On reaching first base, he forces the baseman to remain on the bag, and widens the right field gap by six feet at least. Runners on first and second tie up two men, and when this is the case and there is but one out, and a bunt expected or feared, the entire infield is “tied up” and the chances of the ball being batted safe are more than doubled.

The primary object in signaling is to enable the defensive players to start in the direction the ball is expected to be hit, and this is more important when runners are on bases than at other times. A player in motion can travel twelve feet while one who is “flat-footed” when the ball is hit is getting under way. If the pitcher blunders, disaster results, as the players in motion seldom can recover and field the ball if it is hit in the opposite direction. It is in that respect that “control” is the greatest element in a pitcher’s success. But it is ability to hit all around the field that makes great batters. Men like Lajoie, Wagner, Leach, Evers and the late “Cozy” Dolan, who can “pull, push, and poke” — that is, twist their bats and hit in unexpected directions — break up the inside game and win many contests.

I always shall believe that Detroit lost the World’s Championship last year either through bad infield signaling or through too much signaling from the bench. Detroit’s system is rather intricate and confusing because Jennings continually signals from the bench and the coaching lines. His signals to batters are given with hands during his famous grass pulling, and with his legs while doing his famous “E-yah” act. From the bench, however, he uses sometimes spoken words, sometimes signals with his hands. I may be mistaken and some of his men wrong in charging the Tiger leader with the fatal blunders of the series. He may have given orders and the pitchers may have failed to get the ball where he wanted it to go, or the Pittsburgh players may have performed the seemingly impossible and hit balls in the wrong direction. However that may be, Leach upset the entire defensive infield work of the Tigers. On three occasions, Moriarty was running in fast when Leach, who was at bat, drove the ball past him, and once Bush was moving to cover second when the ball went down “the groove.” Four of Wagner’s long hits in the series were to left field and two of them at least were made off balls that were ordered to be pitched outside whether they were or not.

It is rather unfair to criticize infield work by exhibitions given in a series in which every man is strained to the limit and with immense crowds cheering and restricting the playing space, but the inside work of both Pittsburgh and Detroit in the series was ragged and seemed to be wrong on many occasions. On two occasions, Bush and Delahanty were going in opposite directions when the ball was hit.

There is no play on the diamond in which the importance of infield signaling is so openly demonstrated to spectators as when a runner on first and another on third base are planning to attempt a double steal, either straight or delayed. When that situation arises short stop and second basemen exchange signals deciding which shall “cut in,” which means, meet the throw before it gets to the base in order to return it to the catcher immediately should the runner at third start for home. Almost every team makes the play solely with regard to the strength of arm of the short stop or second baseman and the throwing force of the catcher. If the short stop has a “whip” strong enough to throw back the full distance, he covers second and the second baseman guards his territory. If both have weak arms, one runs in to meet the throw. Every player watches sharply for the exchange of signals from bench, from the coachers, batter and the basemen themselves and, if the signal is caught, the catcher instantly orders the ball “pitched out” high and fast in the best position for making a fast hard throw.

To show how closely the two teams watch each other in that situation: Last season Cincinnati was playing Chicago with Frank Roth catching for his former team. Runners were on first and third. Roth signaled to the pitcher for a curve; Chance saw the signal and flashed a delayed double steal order. Huggins caught that signal, the Reds switched positions rapidly, and Roth signed for a pitch out. The pitch out signal was detected by Kane, who was coaching, and Chance signaled for a change. The result was that the runners held their bases, and the pitcher wasted a ball. Roth signaled again, the infield changed, and Chance ordered the delayed steal. Roth was warned and ordered another pitch out, but no sooner had he flashed that signal and Chance had ordered another wait. Then Roth ordered a fast straight ball pitched, thinking to outguess Chance. But as Roth changed his signal Chance, guessing he would do exactly that thing, signaled a hit and run, with the result that a base hit tore through the infield and broke up the game.

The great danger to the defense on the double steal is that unless a pitch out is certain both the short stop and second baseman are running to a line between home and second base and gaps 35 feet wide are left on both sides of the pitcher if the batter elects to hit. Consequently, if the attacking team decides to play hit and run instead of the double steal, and the defenders have been led to expect an attempt at the latter play, the chances of the batter hitting safe are tripled.

Late in the season, after the men know each other and the opponents perfectly, the infielders frequently discard the signals, having become so familiar with the plays and the style of making them that they know exactly what to do without signaling. Evers and Tinker of Chicago play entire games without looking at each other except when an unknown batter comes up to hit.

But to get back to that millionth of a watt and the geometry of the game. The average “fan” thinks that about four out of every five batters hit fly balls. Managers growl all the time for the batters to “hit ’em on the ground,” the theory being that more hits go safe on the ground than in the air. It is true more runners reach first base on ground hits than on fly balls, but the percentage of safe hits largely favors aerial batting. This is because so many grounders are fumbled and so few flies muffed. This involves another study of angles, and an entirely new departure in infield defensive work. To discover what proportion of balls are hit on the ground, I took a mass of score books and classified 10,000 batted balls, every team in the National and American Leagues being represented in the figures. Really I scored 10,074 plays, because the number ran over unexpectedly and I did not know which 74 to deduct. Of them, 3,602 were fly balls, 5,171 were grounders, 344 were bunts, and 957 line drives, as distinguished from flies. Of the 10,074 balls batted, 2,067 were scored as base hits. Of the 3,602 fly balls, 747 fell safe and only 18 were muffed, which shows that the fielders catch almost everything they get their hands upon. Of the 5,171 ground balls, 424 were scored hits. Of the 344 bunts, 155 went safe, and of those 155 the fielders got their hands on 114. Of the 957 line drives, 741 resulted in safe hits.

But to show the ground-covering ability of the infielders further calculation is necessary. In scoring, I place a small “T” above hits I believe too hard to handle, and a small “D” over hits which are doubtful either through bad bounding of the ball or other cause. Of the 424 hits through the infield, 162 were marked “T” and 49 were marked “D.” So the players reached the ball 211 times and failed to field it; and of the 213 times the ball went through untouched 46 were plain hit and run plays in which fielders were going the wrong way, in other words, blundering or being outgeneraled by the batsman.

Out of the 5,171 grounders the players actually reached all except 213, or about .041 per cent, whereas on the natural chances of covering the ground they should have reached only about 800 per cent, instead of 959 per cent, of batted balls. The figures seem to show that by team work they were enabled to get in touch with 159 per cent more batted balls than the geometry of the diamond would indicate.

The geometry of the game becomes more complex the deeper it is studied. Not only must the players on the infield know when to start in a given direction, but they must know exactly what angle to take to meet each ball. Further, they must change the angle to meet the running speed of each batter. If, for instance, “Larry” McLean, of Cincinnati, hits the ball, a second baseman will run backward, his path and the path of the ball meeting in an acute angle. If Miller Huggins is the batter he will run forward, making the lines meet in an obtuse angle. Moreover, they know to a nicety just where they must meet a ball of any given speed, and they start there almost instinctively. Oddly enough, the men can go much faster toward certain points than toward others, even when they are of equal speed, and they can, if they judge the speed of the ball and the runner, close up the gaps still further by reaching the spot in the ball’s path toward which they can travel fastest. But all that is mechanical. It is supplementing instinct by brain work that makes great baseball players. It is the inside game which calls the mind into play to extend the reach of the arms.

Therefore, as Mr. Euclid, who invented diamonds, would say: If X covers 24 feet with his arms and legs and 18 with his brain, Y, the base-runner, is out, provided Z, the umpire, does not call him safe. Q. E. D.

Mr. Fullerton will continue to write baseball articles for this magazine. “The Wonders of Pitching” and “Batting” will appear in early issues. [Some of Fullerton’s material from this American Magazine series found its way into a book he ghosted for Johnny Evers of the Cubs, Touching Second (Reilly & Britton, 1910). — jt]