Eight Men Out: The Black Sox and the 1919 World Series (26 page)

A few telephone calls supplied the answer. Maharg was working at a Ford assembly plant in North Philly in a routine semiskilled job. Then if the man had been involved in the fix—and Isaminger was prepared to believe he had been—he hadn't come out of it rich.

If not rich, then perhaps bitter….

Isaminger decided to play a hunch. He would go out to the Ford plant and see if he could locate the ex-boxer-ballplayer.

On Sunday, at Comiskey Park, the White Sox battled to climb back into first place in the closest three-way pennant finish in years. Chicago novelist James T. Farrell was a nineteen-year-old boy at the time.

Years later, he recalled his experience on that day:

I had a box seat for the game of Sunday, September 26th. It was a muggy, sunless day. I went to the park early and watched the players take their hitting and fielding practice. It looked the same as always. They took their turns at the plate. They took their turns on the field. They seemed calm, no different than they had been on other days before the scandal talk had broken. The crowd was friendly to them and some cheered. But a subtle gloom hung over the fans. The atmosphere of the park was like the muggy weather. The game began. Cicotte pitched. The suspected players got a hand when they came to bat. The White Sox won easily. Cicotte was master of the Detroit Tigers that day. One could only wish that he had pitched as well in the 1919 Series.

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After the game, I went under the stands and stood near the steps leading down from the White Sox clubhouse. A small group always collected there to watch the players leave.

But on this particular Sunday, there were about 200 to 250 boys waiting. Some of the players left. Lefty Williams, wearing a blue suit and a gray cap, was one, and some of the fans called to him. A few others came down the steps. And then Joe Jackson and Happy Felsch appeared. They were both big men. Jackson was the taller of the two and Felsch the broader. They were sportively dressed in gray silk shirts, white duck trousers, and white shoes. They came down the clubhouse steps slowly, their faces masked by impassivity.

A few fans called to them, but they gave no acknowledgment to these greetings. They turned and started to walk away. Spontaneously, the crowd followed in a slow, disorderly manner. I went with the crowd and trailed about five feet behind Jackson and Felsch. They walked somewhat slowly. A fan called out:

"It ain't true, Joe."

The two suspected players did not turn back. They walked on slowly. The crowd took up the cry and more than once men and boys called out and repeated:

"It ain't true, Joe."

This call followed Jackson and Felsch as they walked all the way under the stands to the Thirty-Fifth Street side of the ball park. They left the park and went for their parked cars in a soccer field behind the right field bleachers. I waited by the exit of the soccer field.

Many others also waited. Soon Felsch and Jackson drove out in their sportive roadsters, through the double file of silent fans.

I went back to the clubhouse. But most of the players had gone. It was getting dark. A ball park seems very lonely after the crowd has cleared away. Never was a ball park lonelier or more deserted for me than on that September Sunday afternoon. It was almost dark. I went home. I sensed it was true. But I hoped that the players would get out of this and be allowed to go on playing.

George Buck Weaver was twenty-nine years old, but he had the lean, trim type of build that never changes. He was considered to be the most beautiful third baseman in the game. They said of him that he was good for at least another ten years. To opposing ball clubs, it was a frightening thought, for Buck was becoming a better ballplayer with each passing year.

Weaver was born in a small mining town in Western Pennsylvania. His father was employed in the ironworks. It seemed almost inevitable that the son would follow. In 1910, he was playing semipro ball when a team of barnstorming big-leaguers came through. A scout named Mike Kennedy of the Phillies file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html2/17/2004 11:47:46 AM

spotted him, signed him to a contract for $125 a month. For Weaver it was a fortune. It meant the end to a probable mining career.

In 1912, he was sold to the White Sox, and joined them at spring training in Waco, Texas. He had Kid Gleason, then a coach, hit grounders to him at shortstop. When he missed one, he would call to Gleason to hit harder. Gleason would smash grounder after grounder at him, and every time that Weaver missed, he hollered for more power. It was the way he liked it, the tougher the better. He played shortstop that year, hit a feeble, .224, made a million errors. "Error-a-day Weaver" the fans called him. Yet there was something brilliant about him that kept him in the line-up. He loved to play ball. He never stopped playing ball from the moment he put on spikes. He was like a big kid on the field, laughing it up all the time. He said of himself: "When I broke in, I was like a lot of other ballplayers: didn't take the work seriously enough. I liked to play, but didn't make a study of the game like I should've done. Too careless…made a lot of wild heaves."

He had a bad year. "I couldn't hit 'em high. I couldn't hit 'em low. I couldn't hit!" he said.

At the time, he was a right-handed hitter. Then, one winter he was visiting Oscar Vitt, the great Detroit Tiger third baseman. Buck went out to help chop wood. He noticed that when he chopped from his left side, he always hit the grove in the wood, but when he swung right-handed, he missed. When he went home, he started swinging a bat lefty, in front of a mirror. He became a switch hitter.

Immediately, his hitting improved. And with it, his confidence. He was shifted from shortstop to third base, a spot that suited his style and temperament. He stopped throwing wildly and seldom made an error. He played very shallow at third, defying any hitter to drive one by him: his hands were so quick, it seemed impossible. The great Ty Cobb gave up trying to bunt against him. Said Cobb, "I'd see that filthy uniform standing there, the funny face grinning at me, and I wanted to lay one down that line more'n anything in the world. The s.o.b.'d throw me out every time!"

Gleason coached him through these developing years, worked hard with him. He loved Weaver, loved the relentless, joyous drive to win. Gleason made him into a fine .300 hitter, a long way from that .224 in 1912. He called Weaver a "fighting wolfhound who inspires the others. Off the field, he's just a quiet, mild, peaceful boy. Weaver loves to play ball. Why, he's got a smile on his face all the time, no matter what is happening. Even if he's fighting with an ump, he's grinning all the time!"

Buck Weaver hadn't smiled much since the investigation began. Today, he had looked at the gray, sodden sky and wondered if it was going to rain. He had gone to the ball park without eating. Feeling hungry at gametime, he had gobbled down a candy bar. This turned out to be a mistake, for it unsettled his stomach. But he had played hard against Detroit, trying to climb out of the doldrums. The fact that Cicotte was pitching hadn't helped. He never knew when Cicotte was going to win a ball game any more. He wished he could hit against him. He liked to hit against the little roly-poly pitchers.

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the Sox. There were other times when he wondered how the White Sox ever managed to get through nine innings together. The answer, of course, was that they got paid to do it. Without the dough, they'd probably be out there killing each other. Risberg and Eddie Collins, Williams and Schalk, and big, tough Gandil. Weaver would never forget last July when Gandil had tangled with Tris Speaker at first base.

Speaker had torn into Gandil while the entire White Sox infield gathered around. Nobody stopped them; they all wanted Gandil to get his lumps.

For better or for worse, this was Weaver's ball club. It had been the only club he'd known for nine big-league seasons. No matter how much he wanted out, he tried not to let it bother him. Each year, he'd played his heart out. Every game was the game. Every swing was real. The old, worn piece of dirty leather on his left hand was a tool of his greatness, and he slapped it, fondled it, oiled it with genuine concern. Relentlessly he would concentrate on every pitch. Life was this momentary thing, over and over again. He would set himself, loose, yet alert, sharp as a tack. Nothing else mattered but the round white ball and that split second when it moved at him, sometimes with the speed of a bullet. He loved it.

He loved the quickness of his body, his instinct to lean one way or the other in anticipation of a hit at him. He was twenty-nine years old and this year had been his best. He had ignored all the tensions, all the squabbles, all the rumors. He had tuned himself only toward making himself the greatest. He could tell himself that he'd succeeded. As a hitter, he'd jumped 30 points higher than he'd ever hit. Up to .333.

And there was no third baseman anyplace in the world like George Buck Weaver.

But he was tired after the Detroit game. The muggy weather had been wearing. The dreariness of the locker room got him down. It was as if they were all a bunch of second division losers. He hurried with his shower. He wanted to get over to Ma Cuddy's Tavern for a beer.

When he got there, he saw a reporter waiting for him. Reporters annoyed him. They no longer wanted to talk baseball. They all wanted to talk about the scandal. Weaver was out there playing baseball, and these guys acted like the ball game was in the Grand Jury room. Weaver didn't realize how wrong he was: the ball game was in the Grand Jury room.

"Hey, Buck, lemme buy you a beer!"

"No, thanks."

"You know the story about you they got in the Grand Jury?"

Weaver knew. There was a rumor floating around about how McMullin had delivered a package to him before the World Series.

"I don't care none."

"They're saying McMullin brought you money—"

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"Look, I didn't get no money. Not from nobody!"

"They're saying there was witnesses. This package—"

"A package. So what! I got lots of packages. All the time. Especially in the Series. People send me presents. All ballplayers get presents, more or less. See this shirt? A present. Neckties. I get silk neckties, maybe ten or twelve each year. You know that? Fans send me neckties. Does that make me a crook?"

"Then you didn't get any package from McMullin?"

"No! I suppose before this investigation is over they will have every ballplayer in both, leagues branded as a crook."

"Well, you gotta admit they've got some evidence of business being done—"

"Look, I'm gonna go before that Grand Jury on my own and cut loose with a lot of stuff from the shoulder—"

"They say you haven't spoken to Eddie Cicotte since the Series last year. It's common talk. Do you mind saying for publication why you're sore at him?"

"I won't answer that question in the papers. If the Grand Jury asks me that question, I might or might not answer. I'm a long way from being a squealer."

The reporter was writing in his notebook. Weaver turned away, aware that he shouldn't have said anything to these birds.

"Lemme alone," he grunted.

On the following day, Monday, September 27, 1920, the Philadelphia
North American
ran a story that startled millions of readers: "The Most Gigantic Sporting Swindle in the History of America!" Jimmy Isaminger reported his interview with Billy Maharg.

"We were all double-crossed by Abe Attell," Maharg asserted, "and I want everybody to know the truth.

I guess I'd better get to the start: I am a friend of Bill Burns, the veteran southpaw. After quitting baseball, Burns, who is a Texan, bought oil leases and cleared over $100,000. In the middle of September last year, I received a wire from Burns in New York. I hopped a train and met Bill at the Ansonia…."

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Maharg related the story of his involvement in the fix, exactly as he had experienced it. Isaminger's article concentrated on five major points of Maharg's experience: 1. The first, second, and final games of the Series were "thrown" by eight members of the White Sox.

2. The offer to "fix" the series was volunteered to Bill Burns and himself by Eddie Cicotte.

3. The ballplayers were promised $100,000 to lose the Series, but actually received only $10,000.

4. Abe Attell manipulated the fix, but betrayed them all.

5. He and Burns lost every cent they had betting on the third game, which they thought was fixed like the first two.

"Then I took my medicine and came back to Philadelphia and went to work," Maharg concluded. "This is the first time I ever opened my mouth on the subject."

On that afternoon, the White Sox played their last home game of the year. Dickie Kerr shut out Detroit, 2-0. Weaver, Jackson, and Eddie Collins combined base hits to win the game. Significantly, Cleveland also won, holding onto their 1/2-game lead.

Before the game had finished, the Maharg story was repeated in Chicago afternoon papers. Several copies were waiting for the players as they filed into the locker room. They gathered around to read them. Nobody said a word. Joe Jackson, the illiterate, glanced at the faces of his cohorts, dressed hurriedly, and went out to get drunk. Happy Felsch rushed out after him. He, too, wanted to get drunk.

Another story, prominently displayed on an inside page, seemed inconsequential: a "mystery woman"

had been uncovered by the State's Attorney's office. She was believed to have vital information to give the Grand Jury.