Eight Men Out: The Black Sox and the 1919 World Series (16 page)

attended the third game on this day than any previous ball game. In addition to the flashing colors of their hats and gowns, they were capable of greeting key players with plenty of vocal power. Shyness was passée. Women shouted at the ballplayers as freely as the men did. They also felt free to use horns, klaxons, and bells. It was, perhaps, significant that Charles Comiskey was the club owner who originated Ladies Day on which women were admitted free.

In the all-night bleacher line, there were some 2,000 men and boys, sustaining themselves with crap games and flasks and giant sandwiches. By 9 A.M., the line had swelled to 5,000. Shortly before the gates opened, two travelers, all the way from Denver, Colorado, approached the front of the line. They had come to see the Series, but there were no tickets available. Could they buy a place at the front of this line? Two youngsters obliged them, and walked away with $20 for their night's vigil.

Abe Attell didn't like the feel of things. Burn's report made everything seem too simple. "The third game will go like the first two!" Just because Gandil said so? That didn't sit right. To Attell, who had broken all his own promises, it figured that the players would never keep theirs to him. He had to go on his instinct. That was the way he operated.

It was almost noon. He didn't have much time. He got on the telephone and started working fast. To play this one safe, he would hedge his bets on Cincinnati. He would take whatever he could get on Chicago….

Damon Runyon wrote of the White Sox third-game pitcher: "Take Dickie Kerr, now, a wee hop o' my thumb. Not much taller than a walking stick…the tiniest of the baseball brood. Won't weigh 90 lbs soaking wet, an astute scout once reported after a look at Kerr. Too small for a pitcher, especially a left-handed pitcher. Too small for too much of anything, except, perhaps, a watch charm…."

Little Dickie Kerr had been born in St. Louis, twenty-six years before. He was late getting to the major leagues because of his size. Kid Gleason liked him and used him in 39 games. He amassed an impressive rookie year, winning 13 and losing 8. He had a sneaky fast ball and good control. He relied on both. What he did with his curve ball was icing on the cake.

On this Friday afternoon, in front of the somewhat amazed and thoroughly delighted eyes of 29,000

Chicago fans, little Dickie Kerr was sharper than ever. His fast ball had a real hop on it, causing the Reds to pop up. His curve ball dropped with startling suddenness, and they hit feeble grounders to the infielders. All his pitches had eyes. Perfectly placed, perfectly timed. He was so good, there was probably nothing Gandil and company could have done to alter his victory, even if they'd tried.

It took less than ninety minutes for him to go the route. The White Sox walked off the field, 3-0 victors, while the entire grandstand stood up and wildly cheered Kerr for the finest pitching performance they had ever seen.

The game was won in the second inning. Joe Jackson opened with a single to left. Felsch, as it happened so often in the Series, had bunted for the sacrifice. But Ray Fischer, the Reds' pitcher, had rushed his file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html2/17/2004 11:47:46 AM

throw to force Jackson at second, and heaved the ball into the outfield. It ended up with Jackson on third and Felsch on second. Gandil stepped up to the plate with the infield drawn in, hoping to cut the run off at the plate. This time, the big first baseman rapped one through the middle, into center field, scoring Jackson and Felsch, and ran to first base listening to the bedlam of the crowd. The entire White Sox bench stood up to cheer him, some throwing hats in the air. Suddenly, Gandil had become a hero.

Sleepy Bill Burns was a very unhappy man, for the surprising Chicago victory left him broke. He had worked on the project for weeks, only to blow the potential gains all in one day. In his preSeries discussions with Maharg, they had both recognized the dangers of game-by-game betting. The safest procedure was to bet on the Series itself. But this would have limited his take considerably. He was hungry for a real killing, and one bet seemed painfully inadequate. So at the end of two games, he had parlayed his $4,500 stake to over $12,000. At the end of three, however, he had nothing.

Up in Attell's room, he found excitement and joy, but he heard a tale of woe. Attell and Bennett claimed they had lost. In fact, the Little Champ was blaming
him
for it. Hadn't Burns told him that the Sox were going to throw this one too? Burns was ready to spit at him. Attell became compliant and philosophical.

Well, maybe they had to expect days like this. It happens. The thing to do was to forget it and recoup tomorrow. They would set up something new.

Like what? Burns asked. Attell said he was in position to make a solid offer. "I'll put up twenty thousand of my own money. And they'll get it, too.
If
they lose the next game!"

Burns was about to ask where such a heavy loser was going to get $20,000 so quickly. But then, there was Bennett; and in New York, there was Arnold Rothstein. Or maybe Attell was lying again, lying about losing, lying about paying off. Maybe anything. Burns shrugged and said he would pass this on to the players. He'd go over to the Warner Hotel right away, but he doubted they would go for any more promises. He faced the Little Champ and tried to smile: Why didn't Attell put up the twenty grand right now,
before
the game. That would go a long way toward insuring the defeat.

Attell shook his head, then spoke the words of a true deceiver: "I don't trust them ballplayers any more!"

Attell was so preposterous, Burns had to laugh. How could anyone talk to a man like that?

About 9:30, Burns walked into the Warner Hotel, fully aware of how the odds were stacked against him.

This would be like pitching against Cobb. But maybe he could make them feel guilty. He had lost a fortune today. All because of them.

But as soon as he entered Gandil's room, he knew he was in for trouble. There was no sympathy in their sparse greeting. Whatever they had done to him was not their affair. These guys were not his friends today…if they had ever been.

"Just left Attell…" he began, bringing out that promising, hopeful, prosperous ring in his Texas drawl.

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"The little guy ain't too sore at you guys—yet. He went down in the crash today. You hurt him bad, I guess."

There was an amused chortle from someplace in the room. Burns looked over toward the sound, wondering who it was. Williams? No. Weaver, probably.

"Anyway, he's got twenty grand for you…."

Pause.

Gandil asked to see it.

Burns shook his head. "Not so fast, Chick. He's got the dough…but he wants to see the score first before he gives it to you." Then he added, somewhat furtively, "After today, can't say you could blame him."

Again, the chortle.

"Same old crap," Williams said.

Burns tried to convince them that this was different. But they told him they were no longer interested.

Everything about them was hostile. Burns saw it: they were through. The whole deal was finished.

"All right," Burns conceded. "We'll drop the whole business. But I want my share of the ten thousand I got you."

Gandil thought for a moment, then grinned. "Sorry, Bill," he said softly. "It's all out on bets."

This time, there were several laughs. In fact, they all laughed; except Burns. He was in no mood for jokes. He was dead broke. He had done his best for them all. Now he wanted what he thought he deserved: a commission, not wisecracks. "I tell you, I want my share! You give me a grand," he roared.

"Or I'll tell everything!"

Gandil just turned away. Nobody said anything.

Burns left, returned to the Sherman Hotel, and told Attell that it was all off. Then he went out and got drunk. For Sleepy Bill Burns and his partner, Billy Maharg, the fixing of the World Series had ended.

On October 4, sometime around 1 A.M., Joseph "Sport" Sullivan entered the lobby of the Ansonia Hotel in New York, en route to his room. He had just left Arnold Rothstein at his office on West 46th Street, file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html2/17/2004 11:47:46 AM

after giving a cautious accounting of his mission to Chicago and Cincinnati. (He had, of course, omitted the fact that he'd paid the ballplayers only a part of the $40,000 that was given him.) The victory in the third game did not bother either of them. Their principal money was bet on the Series, as Rothstein had advised. Sullivan left the meeting feeling elated. He had carried it all off well and Rothstein had seemed pleased. Sullivan was not only going to make himself a bundle of money, he was also making himself solid with the great A.R.

His elation, however, did not survive his trip to the front desk where he would pick up his key. It was, at least, threatened. He was approached by a gambler named Pete Manlis, who startled him by indicating he had a good sum of money he'd like to get down—on the White Sox! He wanted to know what odds Sullivan was giving. It was an ominous, eerie moment, for Sullivan knew this man to be a friend of Rothstein's. Why should Manlis suddenly want to bet on Chicago?

Sullivan told him that he had all his money down, and therefore was not interested in any further wagering. Having thus cleared the decks, he tried to learn what Manlis had heard—if anything. Sullivan learned only enough to make him wary.

Upstairs in his room, he brooded about it. Had something happened with the ballplayers since he'd left Cincinnati? Had they gone sour on the deal? On him? He could readily see where they might. Had he acted foolishly by disappearing?

It worried him. If something new was up, what if Rothstein should hear of it? And what chance was there that he would not?

Perhaps the thing to do was to call Gandil…. No. It was late, too late to call. He must not let on that there was any room for doubt, any fear of trouble. He would call at a reasonable hour just to say hello, and in the process, he would find out which way the wind was blowing.

At a few mintues before nine the next morning, Sullivan learned the validity of his fears. Gandil was crystal clear about it. Nobody trusted anybody any more. Gandil could no longer get the ballplayers to do anything on faith. They'd decided to drop the whole business. Sullivan let his mind race over the possibilities if this decision were allowed to stand. It was two games to one against the White Sox, still a wide-open Series. He could see himself in all kinds of trouble if the Sox should go ahead and win it.

There was no doubt in his mind that he had to stop this, and since it was just a question of money…

He told Gandil how well he understood the matter. Just to prove his own good faith, he would wire $20,000 immediately. They were to continue with the original plan. He reminded Gandil of the money waiting for them in the Congress Hotel safe: another $40,000.

Gandil allowed that $20,000 would be a healthy argument. He believed that if it was received the players would go on with the fix. But that also meant another $20,000 before the fifth game, too. Sullivan quickly agreed. Of course, of course. He added reassuringly that he would meet them back in Cincinnati file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html2/17/2004 11:47:46 AM

on Monday for the sixth and seventh games.

Sullivan hung up, aware of the big problem he faced: the raising of $20,000. He could assume that one such payment would suffice, and though he had agreed to pay that amount again before the following game, he had no such intention. The assumption was one he would later regret.

He got back on the phone and began calling colleagues in Boston. Using all his bargaining power, pleading desperation and potential personal disaster, he managed to raise the twenty grand before the morning was over.

Dickie Kerr's victory on the day before had had great impact. In the locker room, the mood of the White Sox was triumphant. When the players stepped out on the field, the early crowd greeted them all like heroes again. Nobody really believed they could lose; these White Sox had to be winners. There was no other way to think of them.

Gleason asked Cicotte how he felt, and Cicotte smiled reassuringly: Gleason didn't believe all those wild rumors about how his arm was through, did he?

The weather was fine, again. Temperature around 70°. There were almost 34,000 in the stands as Cicotte walked to the mound, and they gave him an appreciative and glowing reception. It was going to be another tough day for him. He hated to lose in his home ball park.

He threw the first pitch past Maurice Rath for a called strike, and the huge crowd roared in approval.

He set the Reds down easily in the first two innings. In the bottom of the second, the Sox fell back into a familiar pattern: Jackson doubled and Felsch once again sacrificed him to third. Gleason was still playing for one run at a time. Gandil faced the pitcher, Jimmy Ring, and once again failed to drive in the run: he popped feebly to Groh, a few feet in front of the plate. Risberg walked. Schalk was intentionally walked after Risberg took second on a passed ball. The crowd roared as Cicotte himself stepped to the plate with the bases loaded. He was a fair hitter for a pitcher. He grounded sharply to Kopf at short, ending the inning.

Cicotte set the Reds down in order in the third and fourth. There was no score in the game as Big Edd Roush came to bat in the fifth. He tapped a slow roller in front of the plate, and Schalk pounced on it like a cat, threw him out at first. Duncan then lashed a bounder back to the mound. Immediately Cicotte reacted, knowing that he had to make his move. He knocked it down, then threw hurriedly and wildly to first. Gandil let the throw get away from him, and Duncan made second, despite a desperate throw by Schalk, who was backing up the play. Then with 2 and 2 on him Kopf lined a single to Jackson in left.