Eight Men Out: The Black Sox and the 1919 World Series (28 page)

"I can tell
you
, Jackson, I know you are not!"

Jackson heard the phone go dead. That worried him. He went downstairs for coffee and ran into Risberg and Felsch. The word was out that Cicotte had gone over and was spitting up his guts. So that was how the Judge knew so much. Jackson started to sweat. Risberg studied him. "Just keep your own mouth shut, that's all, Joe," the Swede barked. "I swear to you, I'll kill you if you squawk!"

Jackson spent the rest of the morning kicking himself around his room. Finally, too desperate to do otherwise, he called Judge MacDonald again. This time, the Judge did not hang up on him. He asked Jackson to come over and tell his story.

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Before he got there, Jackson fortified himself with another coating of alcoholic armor. The rube from Brandon Mill, South Carolina, knew he was walking into a den of lions. He wanted to make the feast as painless as possible. Like Cicotte, it never occurred to him to get his own lawyer.

And, as with Cicotte, Alfred Austrian was waiting for him. He took Jackson into a vacant office and talked to him like a Dutch uncle. He asked him if he was going to confess? Jackson mumbled his innocence. He had nothing to confess. He merely wanted to tell what he knew. He repeated that he'd wanted to talk right from the start. He had tried to get to Comiskey after the Series. He even had his wife write letters.

Austrian shook his head. He told Jackson it would go bad for him to lie about anything. Cicotte had already told them the whole story. To deny his involvement would prejudice the Grand Jury. Did Joe understand that?

Sure, he understood. But he had to stay out of trouble. That's what mattered to him. He just didn't want to get into trouble. Austrian assured him he would be safe if he told everything he knew. That was the only way to protect himself. It was the honest way, to make a clean breast of it. The State was only interested in clearing out the gamblers, not the ballplayers. This was the way to clean up baseball. Joe's confession would help the State. They would all appreciate his cooperation. This way, he would never be prosecuted. The only way he'd be used would be as a witness.

Jackson finally agreed. He would talk. Just as long as nothing would happen to him.

Austrian put a large sheet of paper in front of him, handed him a pen. He pointed to a line on the bottom, told him to sign his name. Jackson hesitated; he didn't want to sign anything. Austrian told him not to worry. His signature was not going to change anything. The Grand Jury wanted it from all witnesses.

Again, Jackson was too confused to argue. He was batting in another man's ball park. He signed.

Then Austrian, with the waiver of immunity in his brief case, took him downstairs to Judge MacDonald's chambers.

Hartley Replogle sat through the meeting in Judge MacDonald's chambers and said nothing. The events of the past few weeks were coming to a climax; the headlines would be big and shocking; the confessions would lead to new exposures. He had reason to feel excited over the leading part he had played. But this was saddening. These confessions rocked him. He looked at Jackson, pathetic and helpless. Replogle had seen him play ball a number of times, responded to the incredible power of the man at the plate. Now, with a shirt and a tie on, the ballplayer was nothing. Red-eyed, unshaven, smelling of alcohol, the great man on spikes was just another frightened pigeon in the Judge's chambers.

Jackson sat there dumb and helpless, and they did what they wanted with him.

To Replogle, the players were victims. The owners poured out a stream of pious, pompous verbiage about how pure they were. The gamblers said nothing, kept themselves hidden, protected themselves—

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and when they said anything, it was strictly for cash, with immunity, no less. But the ballplayers didn't even know enough to call a lawyer. They only knew how to play baseball.

The Judge was stern with Jackson. He warned him not to deceive the Jury about anything, for if he did, they could get him for perjury. Jackson promised. He would tell what he knew. They took him downstairs to the Jury Room, Replogle leading the way. The great ballplayer approached the crowded corridor and seemed to shudder. Replogle patted him on the shoulder, trying to reassure him. He saw the battery of newspaper photographers with their harassing flash bulbs. He called to them to back away, to leave Jackson alone. But they set up a wall in front of the doors and began the agonizing process of picture-taking. Jackson hung his head, covering his face from the brilliant flashes of light. Then he suddenly exploded. He began cursing them, cursing gamblers, cursing baseball, cursing the whole damn world. He charged through the crowd like a plunging fullback, ironically seeking sanctuary in the Grand Jury room.

After they swore him in, he began talking. They asked him questions, leading into the story of the fix.

He told them of the gradual feeling out by Gandil and Risberg. They'd been at him for days. They could make some big dough. They would give him $20,000 for helping out. It was easy; all he had to do was go along with it; let a ball drop a few feet in front of him; don't hit the big one with men on. He could look good and still play badly. Twenty thousand dollars.

Finally he'd agreed, but he got only $5,000—$5,000 in a dirty envelope, delivered to his room by Lefty Williams. He'd get the other $15,000 after the Series—after he had delivered the goods. He took Lefty's word for it.

Then, after the Series, he'd protested to Gandil and Risberg about that. He wanted the rest of his dough.

If not, he was going to squawk. They told him: "You poor simp, go ahead and squawk. Where do you get off if you do? We'll all say you're a liar. Every honest ballplayer in the world will say you're a liar.

You're out of luck. Some of the boys were promised more than you and got less!"

Jackson rambled on for almost two hours. He told the Jury how he hadn't played good baseball, despite his incredible .375 World Series average, and record 12 base hits. The Judge thanked him for his testimony. He came out smiling. The Jury had made him feel honest again. "I got a big load off my chest!" he told the two bailiffs beside him.

Again Replogle was protective. "Leave him alone," he demanded of the reporters. "He's come through beautifully and we don't want him bothered."

But Jackson still felt like talking. It was as if he had to pour it all out; his confusion, his anger, his bitterness, his fear. "They've hung it on me. But I don't care what happens now. I guess I'm through with baseball. I wasn't wise enough, like Chick, to beat them to it. But some of them will sweat before the show is over." Jackson was like a little boy, hitting wildly back at the big adult world. "They" were all the people who were causing his troubles: the legal machinery of Cook County, Illinois; the reporters; file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html2/17/2004 11:47:46 AM

the club magnates—all lumped together into one word. His admiration went to Gandil, the man who got away with it.

Then he added, "Now Risberg threatens to bump me off if I squawk. That's why I've got the bailiffs with me. I'm not under arrest yet, and I've got the idea that after what I told them, old Joe Jackson isn't going to jail. But I'm not going to get far from my protectors until this thing blows over. Swede is a hard guy."

Charles Comiskey did not hear either Cicotte's or Jackson's confessions. He remained in his office at Comiskey Park all day, inaccessible to all-but a few friends. Harry Grabiner was there to handle a sudden flood of sympathetic messages. A few matters, however, required the Old Roman's attention.

Notably, the suspension of the eight ballplayers. Comiskey dictated the telegram that went out to them-and, of course, to the public:

Chicago, Ill. To Charles Risberg, Fred McMullin etc.

You and each of you are hereby notified of your indefinite suspension as a member of the Chicago American League Baseball Club. Your suspension is brought about by information which has just come to me, directly involving you and each of you in the baseball scandal now being investigated by the Grand Jury of Cook County, resulting from the World Series of 1919.

If you are innocent of any wrongdoing, you and each of you will be reinstated; if you are guilty, you will be retired from organized baseball for the rest of your lives if I can accomplish it.

Until there is a finality to this investigation, it is due to the public that I take this action even though it costs Chicago the pennant.

Chicago American League BB ClubBy Charles A. Comiskey

In the short span of the preceding eight hours, the Old Roman appeared to have suffered a physical collapse. His huge frame, normally erect, slumped dejectedly. For a man who had carried his sixty years lightly, he suddenly seemed terribly old.

Later in the day, Harry Grabiner brought in a telegram he thought his boss would want to see: Philadelphia, Pa. I accept your offer to tell what I know of the crooked World Series of 1919 and will go to Chicago and testify provided you have a certified check for $10,000

with Harvey Woodruff, sports editor of the Chicago Tribune, to be turned over to me after I testify. Please answer.

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Billy Maharg

Grabiner stood there while Comiskey read it. Of one thing Grabiner felt certain: Comiskey had no intention of paying $10,000 to Maharg or, presumably, to anyone else. It had occurred to him earlier that the one man who might legitimately claim the reward was Cicotte! If Grabiner enjoyed this little irony, he kept it to himself.

Comiskey tossed the telegram on his desk and shook his head.

Kid Gleason looked at his boss and felt frightened for himself. There was something so monstrous about this business, he sensed his inability to cope with it. He had been in baseball all his life; nothing else mattered to him. He hadn't made a lot of money like Comiskey. He had only his talent as a baseball manager to sell. But this was his ball club, too. He had a right to say that he helped make a great pitcher out of Cicotte. He developed Lefty Williams. He had nursed Happy Felsch into a superb outfielder, some said even better than Tris Speaker. And above all, he'd created in Buck Weaver the best-hitting and

-fielding third baseman in the game. Out of his efforts, then, a great team had emerged—only to sell out.

It was something he would never be able to understand.

He left Comiskey's office to face the reporters. "I'm going to take my ball club to St. Louis for a three-game series with the Browns. That's all that's left—three games. We'll do what we can to win the flag…."

He wanted to leave, but the reporters kept pumping him with questions. What did he think of the confessions?

"This thing is good for baseball. I'm glad it came to a head. Now it will all be cleared up."

Gleason had to say that. It was what Comiskey had told him to say.

The official baseball world turned a shocked face for the world to see. It was as if they never dreamed that such a thing were possible. "It takes my breath away!" said Ban Johnson to the press. "I'll have to have more time to think it over…."

Colonel Jacob Ruppert, part owner of the New York Yankees, was quick to endorse the indictments. He added that no World Series should be played if the Sox should win the pennant. But a few hours later he saw an opportunity for a grandiose gesture and quickly reversed himself. He wired Comiskey and released his message to the press:

Your action in suspending the players not only challenges our admiration but excites our sympathy and demands our immediate assistance. You are making a terrible sacrifice to preserve the integrity of the game. Therefore, in order that you may play out your schedule, and, if necessary, the World Series, our entire club is at your disposal.

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It was, in fact, a useless offer. The rules of professional baseball clearly stated that a player had to be part of his team before August 31 in order to play in the World Series.

Harry Frazee of Boston followed Ruppert. He said it was the duty of every club in the American League to give one of its players. The Red Sox would make their offer immediately.

Comiskey released his own statement through Harry Grabiner: "We'll play out the schedule if we have to get Chinamen to replace the suspended players!"

Abe Attell had reason to be worried. All of a sudden, too many things were happening. His name was repeatedly plastered all over the papers. He hadn't had as much publicity since he'd been featherweight champion of the world. This was more than he'd bargained for. It made him look like some sort of crook.

Then, this morning, the early knock at the door. That was always bad news. Didn't they know how he hated to get up before ten? A message for him. Maclay Hoyne, the D.A. from Chicago, staying at the Waldorf Astoria, wanted to see him.

Attell hurried across 47th Street and Broadway en route to Lindy's. It was where the Times Square crowd hung out, and the Little Champ was accustomed to conducting a good part of his business there, as well as much of his social life. He saw a number of his friends smoking cigars in front of the shrine.

He was hoping he could find his lawyer, William J. Fallon.

There was nothing particularly unique about the greeting he received from the boys in the street. That is, until the big glass door of the restaurant opened and a man stepped out to join them. He was an old friend of Attell's, but he wasn't feeling friendly. He had lost $2,000 on the Series. He simply walked up to Attell, drew back his big right fist, and smashed the ex-featherweight champion of the world squarely in the mouth. Attell saw the punch coming, but too late to roll with it. It sent him reeling to the street. He was still a young man. It was eight years since his retirement, but he had not gained a pound. He always stayed in good shape. But this time, he didn't get a chance to show it. The others broke up the fight before it got going—perhaps out of sympathy for the assailant.