Fenway 1912 (36 page)

An extra 9,500 seats, however, still wasn't enough. McAleer and Taylor directed McLaughlin to maximize seating throughout the facility, and McLaughlin came up with a plan almost overnight. In addition to seats along the third-base line and in right, he designed accommodations for another 1,200 fans in seven rows of bleacher seats on Duffy's Cliff. And since the base of both the center-field bleachers and the new right-field bleachers stopped about five or six feet above the field, there was room to create three new rows of seats for another 1,200 fans that skirted the edge of the field from the center-field end of the left-field wall in front of the center-field bleachers to nearly all the way around to the grandstand. Roughly speaking, these seats stretched from in front of section 34 of the bleachers today to the foot of the grandstand in front of section 8. McLaughlin also created two additional rows of box seats in foul territory wrapping from the near end of the new third-base stands, around behind home plate to the pavilion in right field, from section 8 to section 30 of the grandstand today, a total of 122 boxes that could accommodate another 900 fans. The end result was seating for a total of 11,600 fans, bringing the seating capacity of Fenway Park to 36,100—38,600 when one included standing-room space at the back of the grandstand.

All these new seats would, of course, impinge upon the field. In left field the seats required the construction of a low plank fence in front of Duffy's Cliff, which removed both the Cliff and the left-field wall from play and dramatically reduced the distance needed to hit a ball over the fence in left field. In this new configuration a home run would now presumably only have to cross the new, much lower, and much closer barricade in front of the wall, and not the full height of the wall and cliff itself, which was approximately thirty-five feet.

The new seats in center field had a similar impact: the addition of benches and a fence in front of the bleachers cut the distance to the stands by some twenty or twenty-five feet. In right field the change was even more dramatic. The front edge of the new grandstand more or less followed the path of the preexisting fence, but three new rows of seats that sat directly behind a low fence cut from the center-field bleachers to the right-field pavilion, roughly from section 42 to section 8 today (cutting off the right-field "belly"). This left an open space some thirty feet wide between the right-field seats and the fence and drastically cut the distance from home plate to right field from nearly 400 feet at its farthest point to only about 360 feet, and the distance was much closer as the fence angled toward the line. There the impact was even more striking. According to McLaughlin's original design, the seats along the right-field line were supposed to run in front of the pavilion, intruding onto the field and making the distance down the line far shorter than left field—certainly less than 300 feet, and probably only about 270 or 280 feet from home plate. But in the end a portion of this final stretch of seats would not be built, and the distance down the right-field line at the foul line would not be affected.

One section of the new fence included a feature that today's fan would recognize as unique to Fenway Park. The stockade fence in dead center field, presumably because it was part of the hitter's background, was painted green, the first time that color scheme was used in Fenway. The rest of the fence that ran from center to right was not only unpainted but also not impenetrable. The bottom eighteen inches or so of the fence was made of horizontal plank stockade fencing, but the rest of the fence was wide open, topped only by a rail. Balls that rolled to the fence would be stopped by the planks, but those that bounced higher than eighteen inches, unless they ricocheted off the top rail, could go through or over the fence.

Foul territory behind home plate and the infield at the foot of the existing stands was similarly decreased to accommodate the installation of the two new rows of box seats, a total of 122 boxes averaging eight seats per box. These seats were roughly equivalent to the dugout box seats that were added in 2003. The distance from fair territory to the stands had originally been some sixty feet, but the addition of the new seats cut that distance to less than fifty feet. All told, the new arrangement of seats for the World's Series cut the amount of fair territory in Fenway Park by more than 10 percent, and foul territory even more than that. These new accommodations created the most dramatic set of changes in the history of Fenway Park, alterations that helped hitters at the expense of pitchers. Fenway Park would be transformed from a facility that had been nominally a pitcher's park to one significantly more accommodating of offense. This change did not necessarily work to the advantage of the 1912 Red Sox, but that was not a concern.
Everything
was secondary to profit.

There was not enough time to build any of these new seating areas in concrete and steel. The decision was made to turn back the clock and build the new stands, like the existing right-field pavilion, out of wood—plain white pine, the cheapest and most abundant material available. And just as the center-field bleachers rested on wood piers, so would the new stands along the third-base line and in right field, to ensure that the work was completed by the time the Red Sox returned from their road trip. Even though building with pine would create a significant fire hazard and render the stands less than permanent, this would be no ad hoc construction project. Design loads and other engineering specifications for such structures were published and readily available, and McLaughlin had already done similar work in designing the right-field pavilion. He had little more to do than adapt his earlier plans to scale. As soon as the Red Sox went on the road the work began almost immediately.

That was where Charles Logue and his crews of carpenters and laborers came in. While Boston's train chugged its way toward Chicago, surveyors got to work immediately laying out foundations and driving stakes all over the field to position the new stands. Logue brought stationary, fuel-powered ripsaws, crosscut saws, and power boring machines on-site. As soon as the first of hundreds of truckloads of lumber were delivered to the park, dozens and dozens of carpenters and laborers got to work. For the next two and a half weeks the sounds of saws and hammers echoed through the Fenway almost nonstop and the smell of sawdust was omnipresent.

As work went on in every corner of the ballpark Kelley and the grounds crew were charged with readying the field for the postseason. Most of their work was devoted to the infield, where they dug up the pitcher's box and replaced the soil. With cooler weather on the horizon, they would finally have an opportunity to spend some time repairing Kelley's precious turf. As one report stated, "New dirt [was] added and rolled out hard so that the infield will resemble a billiard table in regard to smoothness."

The result would change Fenway forever. Although the new stands, made of wood, were not technically "permanent structures"—the life span of untreated pine is generally no more than a decade—the new third-base stands along the left-field line and the right-field bleachers would remain in place for many years after the 1912 World's Series. The third-base stands would eventually burn in 1926, but the right-field bleachers, though getting more rickety by the year, even as portions were repaired, would remain in place until the 1933–34 reconstruction. These adaptations for the World's Series of 1912 locked into place Fenway Park's now-familiar angular profile of quirky nooks and crannies that have since proven so popular and given the park so much of its character. Subsequent creation and renovation of field-level seating, bleachers, and grandstands, both during the 1933–34 reconstruction and after, has done little more than duplicate or enhance the adaptations first made to accommodate the 1912 World's Series. The Red Sox probably would have added stands in right and along the left-field line at some point anyway, but had the work not been rushed to be completed in time for the World's Series, it is likely that the stands would have been built in concrete and steel and according to a more unified design. It is doubtful that many of the irregularities that fans have since grown to appreciate and consider an essential part of Fenway's character would have been created.

While the Red Sox played in the West, they were doing more than just playing out the string. There was still Joe Wood's winning streak to play for, the chance to officially clinch the pennant and win one hundred games, plus the opportunity to gain a psychological edge over the Giants. Even so, Stahl, for the first time all year, began to lift his foot from the accelerator. Young pitcher Ben Van Dyke was added to the squad and would soon receive a tryout. Players who normally would have played through minor injuries or maladies now received the occasional day off as Stahl recognized the importance of keeping everyone healthy.

But there would be no rest for Joe Wood, at least not until he either set the record or blew his arm out trying. He wanted the mark and took the mound next with only three days' rest against Chicago. Although he faded badly at the end and had to turn the game over to Charley Hall in the ninth after giving up two hits and not recording an out, he nonetheless escaped with a 5–4 win, his fifteenth in a row.

The Red Sox were on a roll, and their subsequent sweep of the White Sox gave them thirteen wins in their last fourteen games. Only once since early June had they lost as many as two games in a row. All of a sudden their lead over the rest of the league was approaching fifteen games.

That lead increased in St. Louis, although the Sox finally dropped a game when they lost the front end of a doubleheader to the Browns on September 15, but Wood continued his mastery over the Browns with a 2–1 win in game 2, tying Johnson's AL mark with his sixteenth win in a row, eliminating Washington from the pennant chase, and virtually clinching a tie for the pennant for Boston.

The record was in sight, but Wood was exhausted. He looked gaunt, and one report noted that he had "a slight case of tonsillitis and is far from feeling right." Another noted that he had to work "uncommonly hard" to beat the Browns and that by the end of the game "his uniform was as wet as if he had been dipped in a river."

With the Red Sox one victory—or one loss by the Athletics—away from clinching the pennant, Stahl began making tangible plans for the Giants. The Sox traveled to Cleveland on September 16, and after they dropped a doubleheader to start the series Stahl sent both Charlie Wagner and Bill Carrigan, the vaunted "Board of Strategy," back to Boston. He told reporters that neither man would play until the Sox returned home, presumably to allow each to rest up for the postseason.

But there may have been more to it than that. Wagner had been fighting some undisclosed illness for the previous week, and Stahl had begun to use Cady more and more often. With Wagner and Carrigan suddenly riding the pine together, and given what would transpire both later in the 1912 season and in 1913, Stahl might have felt that the two were beginning to undermine his authority. Sending both men back to Boston was a convenient excuse to get them out of the way. Besides, the Giants were playing in New York. He had Carrigan and Wagner make a side trip to New York to scout the opposition.

After a day of rain the Sox dropped a second doubleheader to Cleveland on September 19, the first time all year they had lost as many as four in a row. It hardly mattered. As the Sox were watching the rain fall the White Sox beat Philadelphia to deliver the pennant to Boston.

The Sox were in their hotel when they got the news. While the players toasted one another long into the night, Stahl and McAleer met with the press and delivered the expected platitudes, Stahl saying, "The boys worked together as one family"—albeit a somewhat dysfunctional one, given the ongoing rift between the Knights and the Masons. He then stated the obvious when he added, "We have never slumped and we have never had any sensational winning streak, but have just gone ahead and won a majority of our games." He emphasized the fact that over the next week or ten days he planned to get everyone some rest. After the Sox returned to Boston some players, like Larry Gardner, would even be allowed to leave the club and visit family in Vermont. McAleer was even more obvious, saying, "We had the ballplayers and without the men we couldn't have pulled through." Apart from these statements, the team kept the party private, knowing that when the Sox returned to Boston there would be a more public celebration.

The only player unable to relax and enjoy the moment was Joe Wood. He had a bad cold, and Murnane noted that while "the other players looked bright and happy after they had won the championship ... Joe was still under a strain, which began at Boston when he gave Walter Johnson his great whitewash." His pursuit of the record was beginning to weigh on him, and Stahl did not pitch him in Cleveland, giving his right arm an extra day of rest, both to help him reach the record and to give him a break before the postseason. With as many as three more games left to pitch before the end of the regular season, Wood had his eyes on Rube Marquard's major league record of nineteen consecutive victories. He also had a shot at winning thirty-five games, which would have been third-best in AL history at the time, behind Jack Chesbro's forty-one wins in 1904 and Ed Walsh's forty in 1908.

The Sox took a steamship across Lake Erie from Cleveland to Detroit on the morning of September 20 for the series with the Tigers. It was a rough crossing, and when they staggered down the gangplank just a few hours before the game few felt much like playing.

It showed. Although Wood seemed fine at the start and retired the first eight men he faced, with two out and none on in the third inning, as Charles Young wrote in the
Post,
Wood suddenly "went wrong." He began both to pitch and behave like a rank amateur.

He first walked the pitcher, Bill "Tex" Covington. Losing the pitcher to a walk, particularly a pitcher like Covington, enraged Wood, and he followed by walking leadoff hitter Donie Bush.

He didn't blame himself—he blamed home plate umpire Silk O'Loughlin. Feeling that he was being squeezed on his drop ball, Wood began yelling at O'Loughlin from the mound, loudly berating the umpire, telling him the calls were the "rawest deal" he had ever received. The reporters in the press box heard every word, for there were only about three thousand spectators at the game. Red Corriden stepped in next, and Wood almost lobbed a pitch toward the plate, trying to throw the ball down the middle. Corriden's bat stayed on his shoulder, O'Loughlin's hand stayed down at his side, and now the bases were loaded.