Eight Men Out: The Black Sox and the 1919 World Series (18 page)

Reuther was replaced by Jimmy Ring, and the score was tied at 4 all.

From the seventh inning on, it was a tight ball game. The Reds kept pecking away at Kerr, always threatening. But the fans saw the plucky little man pitch his way out, time after time. There was no change of scoring going into the tenth.

Then Buck Weaver opened up again, lashing another double to left. Jackson pushed him around to third with an infield single. Hap Felsch struck out, but Chick Gandil dropped a single to center and Weaver jogged across the plate, making it 5-4. Then Dickie Kerr retired the Reds in order, ending the ball game.

The good people of Cincinnati would have to wait.

On the following morning, October 8, there was a new mood in the White Sox locker room. They were file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html2/17/2004 11:47:46 AM

losing the Series 4 games to 2. In order to win, they had to take three games in a row. Hugh Fullerton stood among them and responded to their spirit; by God, anyone would think
this
is the winning ball club! He had been around ballplayers long enough to know when it was real and meaningful. These boys were genuinely charged with a fresh sense of their own power. The sight of it delighted him. This was more than just a comeback: it dispelled the ugly rumors of the sellout; it re-established his faith in their honesty. More than anything else, Fullerton rejoiced in that. He
had
to believe in that.

"Cicotte is going to win today!" Gleason was saying. "He came to me this morning and he told me that he wanted to pitch. He said he would beat those guys and I believe him." The Kid was eager to talk, to show how he felt. It was a big, honest feeling, with no propaganda working. He believed. Kid Gleason had to believe, and Hugh Fullerton loved him for it.

Fullerton could go back to his job with his old buoyancy. He greeted Christy Mathewson in the press box with a resounding slap on the back.

All week, Joe Jackson had been a disappointment to himself, playing bail with only a part of himself working. He tried to hit, he didn't try to hit. Half the time, he didn't know, whether he was trying or not.

He had taken only one real vicious cut at the ball with his famous black bat and conveniently failed to make contact.

The $5,000 Lefty Williams had handed him in that old envelope was part payment for his lethargy. But now, like the others in the jubilant locker room that afternoon, Jackson wanted to win. Winning was in the air. It was as if the White Sox had had enough of defeat. The mood had started in the fifth inning of the previous game when they finally pushed across a run. It had mushroomed in the sixth when they had smashed out four hits and finally tied the score. They had known they would win. Everybody in that earsplitting crowd had known it.

It was the same today.

Once again, the weather was beautiful. Garry Herrmann, owner of the Reds, could bask in it. He had been primarily responsible for lengthening the Series to the best 5 out of 9 games. The Series that would have been over in Chicago, two days ago, was already stretched two games. Yesterday, they had taken in over $100,000. He had reason to expect it again today. In the face of the probable tripling of receipts (the Series would surely break all attendance records), his club's victory under the old 7-game schedule seemed unimportant.

But today, the fans of Cincinnati deserted him. Despite the sunshine, despite the glorious possibility of clinching the world's championship, despite everything, they did not show. The previous day's incredibly mismanaged traffic problem was enough to keep thousands away. If they were told today that there were many choice seats available, they had been told the same on the day before. Who would battle that jam-up two days in a row, only to be turned back after storming the bastion for two impossible hours?

Besides, Cincy fans had a sinking, undeniable, uncontrollable premonition of another defeat. They file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html2/17/2004 11:47:46 AM

weren't going to suffer through that. There were even vicious rumors floating around town that Herrmann had seen to it that the Series would go this far, that he had bribed his own ballplayers to throw yesterday's game! Fans recalled that crucial play at the start of the fateful three-run sixth inning when Kopf and Duncan played Alphonse and Gaston with Buck Weaver's fly ball. A sure out dropped for a double, starting the White Sox rally. And what about reports that Dutch Reuther had been out on the town the night before?

If the more sensible fans repudiated this kind of talk, it was nevertheless persuasive. It was the kind of corrupt manipulation in which many people had come to believe. So only 13,923 fans paid to see the seventh game, considerably less than half of capacity. If Garry Herrmann suffered most, ticket scalpers, too, finally took a real beating. As late as 11 A.M. they were holding out for $30 a pair. Two hours later, they were unloading choice seats at face value, happy to get rid of them. The abused fans who remained at home could at least take some satisfaction from that.

To the Cincinnati ball club, Redland Park seemed like a morgue. They could smirk at the low attendance (it didn't affect their pocketbooks), but they didn't like the feeling it gave them. This was their home park. They had been playing their hearts out—and winning. They had a right to feel supported, not deserted. But what bothered them most was their own sense of foreboding. The smell of defeat was everywhere, and it choked them up. To resist this, the Reds moved to the top of the dugout early in the afternoon. They began riding the key White Sox ballplayers, even before game time. They jumped on Felsch unmercifully. "Hey, Hap …drop one of mine, will you? I want a triple, too!" Or on Jackson:

"Hey, professor, read any good books lately?" Or on Schalk: "Cracker, you gonna play the
whole
game today?" And when they got to Cicotte, they hooted him for being a loser, for throwing his game away, for every bad pitch he made. They teamed up on each of them, on and on, over and over, louder and funnier, never stopping.

Warming up, Eddie Cicotte ignored the cries. He was indifferent to everyone, to the bench, to the fans, to his own teammates. His throws were as powerful and perfect as any he had ever pitched. They would be that way in the game. Humiliated by the previous losses and by Kerr's victories, Cicotte was a man who could no longer tolerate defeat.

The ball game had Chicago's name on it. From the first inning, the outcome was apparent. They jumped on Sallee for a run in the first, then another in the third. The clean, tight, defensive work of the Reds started to crumble. Bad throw. Booted ground ball. Misjudged fly ball. Error. Error. In the fifth inning, in the face of tremendous abuse from the Cincinnati bench, Jackson crashed a vicious double to left, scoring two more. Sallee was finished. So were the Reds.

Cicotte, meanwhile, was brilliant. He dominated the hitters as if he owned them. Only in the sixth could they push across a run and threaten further trouble, but the rally was quickly snuffed out. It took less than 100 minutes for the Sox to win again, 4-1.

Hugh Fullerton was smiling. "I am beginning to believe the 'dope' again. The White Sox played their file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html2/17/2004 11:47:46 AM

American League brand of baseball today. They attacked with vigor and determination. They fielded perfectly. At last, they were fighting. Cicotte got his revenge."

On the night train back to Chicago, Kid Gleason was his old buoyant self as he made his daily statement to the press: "For the second day in a row, my gang played the kind of baseball it has been playing all season. Even though we are still one game behind, we will win for sure. All I wanted to see was my gang get back in form. All it has to do now is to keep that form and the Reds can't possibly win a game."

Pat Moran, Cincinnati manager, was worried. He had pitcher Hod Eller ready to pitch tomorrow's game.

Eller had been masterful in the fifth game, but Moran guessed that the Sox would jump all over him this time. It was not a pleasant prospect. He could sense his entire ball club in a sweat. After being so far in front, they were now afraid of losing. Playing in Comiskey Park, in a hostile atmosphere, wasn't going to help. The giant city would line up against them. Ask any old ballplayer and he'd tell you: when an angry club gets rolling, it's almost impossible to stop it.

In New York, Arnold Rothstein was also worried. He did not have to remind himself how little he had liked this whole scheme from the beginning. His qualms had persisted. Too many people involved. Too many fly-by-night amateurs sticking their grubby, inept fingers in the pie. Too many unstable characters.

He repeatedly referred to the ballplayers as "a bunch of dumb rubes." And to him the ultimate definition of a rube was "a talented guy who consented to work for peanuts." He hated to do business with rubes.

He had no intention of being taken by them.

Joseph "Sport" Sullivan was more than worried: he was running scared. When the report of the seventh game came through, everything suddenly changed. It was more than his money at stake now. More than his reputation. He had the terrible feeling that it was his neck. When he returned to his hotel that evening, the sight of a message in his mailbox was no surprise. He did not have to read it to know its content: Arnold Rothstein wished to see him.

The meeting took place in the foyer of Rothstein's Riverside Drive apartment. It was simple enough.

Rothstein was polite. There was no show of anger. Certainly none of fear. His coolness lent a businesslike tone to his message. He merely suggested that Sullivan see to it that the Series end tomorrow. He did not think it wise that it be allowed to go to the ninth game. He did not even think it wise that the outcome of the eighth game be held in suspense, for the purpose of public show, for the ballplayer's pride, or for any other reason. In short, he hoped to see the Series end quickly, in the first inning, if such a thing were possible.

Then he excused himself with a near-smile. He thanked Sullivan for dropping by. He was extremely busy. There were people waiting for him inside.

Sullivan walked back to the Ansonia. For a moment, he felt relief: A.R. seemed anything but menacing.

Then, however, the impact of the message cut through to him and he became fully aware of the nature of file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html2/17/2004 11:47:46 AM

this assignment. His fear came back to him. How in hell was he going to pull this off?

He saw now how badly he'd handled the whole thing. He had lost control of the ballplayers, having taken too much for granted. Gandil's collusion, for example. Or, at least, what he thought was Gandil's power. He knew Gandil's hunger for money as well as he knew his own. But Gandil was clearly out of control. There had to be a surer way.

Lefty Williams would pitch tomorrow. Sullivan, sitting here in New York, had to get to him before game time. He had to be sure that Williams was in the bag.

The only way was a frightening one. Desperate situations demanded desperate solutions. The big Boston gambler got on the phone and called a man in Chicago, who could handle such things. Known as Harry F., he was a man schooled in the finer arts of persuasion. Sullivan knew he need only present the problem to have the other apply his craft in a professional manner. So Harry F. was asked to make contact with Lefty Williams and persuade him to see to it that Cincinnati be assured of victory before the end of the first inning. As supplementary information, Sullivan told him that Williams had a wife, but no children. The other replied that children were desirable in these circumstances, but generally not necessary: a wife would be more than adequate.

It took less than five minutes to set this project in motion. In a bored rasping voice, Harry F. assured Sullivan of his skill and discretion—and his impeccable record. He also assumed that $500 would be wired to him immediately,
before
he made his contact. Sullivan, of course, eagerly complied. He hung up with a knowledge of his deep and lasting respect for the invention of the telephone.

Then, he started to sweat. He did not like to think of himself as a man of violence. The fact that nobody was going to get hurt (or so he had to believe) gave him but little peace. The very concept of a raw threat unnerved him. It was some relief that he would probably never know exactly what took place.

On October 9, there were no brass bands parading down Chicago's Michigan Avenue. There were no pennants, streamers, or banners adorning the Loop. No firecrackers went off. No pranks were played. It wasn't a party day for the citizens of Chicago.

But everyone was talking baseball. The tension was there. It was all over town. But unlike Cincinnati, the attitude toward the day was professional. They would take their victory—or defeat—in stride.

They jammed Comiskey Park again, a capacity 33,000. They came wearing their loyalty on their sleeves. If there was little fancy fanfare, there was tremendous enthusiasm. They came to see a great ball club play ball. They were not johnny-come-lately World Series fans, these White Sox rooters. They were 33,000 repeats from 89 home games a season. Their love for the White Sox during the decade since the completion of Comiskey Park had become as much a part of their lives as their feeling for their file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html2/17/2004 11:47:46 AM

churches and schools. They knew the fine points of the game; they could discuss its science; their judgments of players was based on their respect for high standards of play. They would not tolerate showboating or stupidity. They demanded talent and spirit for their 90 cents. There were no better baseball fans anywhere in the major leagues than these Southside Chicagoans.

Kid Gleason was wary. Since he had been badly burned, he could not free himself from his fear of fire.