The Old Ball Game (16 page)

Indeed, the night before the opener in Philadelphia, most of the Giants gathered on Broadway, attending a gala in their honor, which was graced by the presence of many show business celebrities, who were “dyed in the wool supporters themselves.” Naturally, DeWolf Hopper was the star, and when he appeared— surprise, surprise—“the entire audience . . . demanded ‘Casey at the Bat.'” First, though, acting as something of a surrogate for his pal Muggsy, Hopper addressed the fawning crowd. “Owing to the arduous week which is before the Giants,” he orated, “Manager
McGraw has deemed it wise to send some of the players home to get a good night's rest. Early to bed and plenty of removal from the excitement are two things which are necessary before a world's series championship.”

As the “‘bleacherites' in the gallery yelled themselves hoarse,” Matty and many of the regulars thereupon departed to join the sandman. Hopper then brought McGraw up on stage, and although reports did not indicate exactly what he said, we are assured by the
Herald's
reporter that he was “much more friendly than he addresses the umpires.” Only then did Hopper bring down the house with the “Ballad of the Republic.”

On to the City of Brotherly Love!

The Athletics had lost the services of their ace, left-hander Rube Waddell, who, with a 27-10 record, had been the closest thing to Matty in the American League. Reportedly, Waddell had injured his pitching shoulder monkeying around with some of his teammates, but many observers took a much darker view of his injury. Almost from its first, baseball had been a popular gambling game. The fixed World Series of 1919 was a climax rather than an oddity. So on this occasion there was a natural suspicion— indeed, almost an assumption—that gamblers must have gotten to Waddell and paid him to come down with a convenient injury that would take him out of the Series and reward those who then had bet the Giants before the news got out.

Notwithstanding, a great deal of anti-Giant money poured into Philadelphia, especially from Boston and Pittsburgh. At the Continental Hotel, Giants headquarters, the
World
reported that “fistfuls of money were waved about the hotel corridors with as much abandon as if they had been cabbage leaves.” The
Sun
predicted that “even money will probably prevail if the Quaker is as fine with his coin as the Knickerbocker.”

The Quaker was not, however, and the line favoring the Giants moved up to 10-9, then to 5-4. Even then, with Waddell out, that seemed like an overlay. Still, McGraw himself bet four hundred
dollars on his team at even money, and many of his players followed his lead. (There are no reports whether Matty got down.) On the other hand, many of the Giants paired up with A's players and agreed to an even split in the prize money no matter which team won. The pot was set by the two leagues, with 75 percent of the players' share earmarked to the winners, but players on both teams matched up so they'd be guaranteed a 50 percent share regardless of the outcome. This was not considered ethically untoward, but McGraw was furious, fuming that you could be damn sure his Old Orioles never played it safe. “I was disgusted at their unwillingness to take a chance,” he declared.

Off to the lidlifter!

Days of the week in the United States were then designated for the appointed household chores. This October 9 was a Monday—Washing Day. The Athletics' park was in a section of Philadelphia known as Brewerytown, and indeed, the pungent beermaking odors wafted o'er an SRO crowd of 17,955 that came out on a cool, early autumn day. Everybody wore hats in America then. Photographs of crowds, such as at a ballpark, show literally hundreds of men, not so much as a single one of them bareheaded. The only difference would be that derbies were worn in the winter, straw boaters in summer. This Washing Day was one strictly for derbies.

And the men of Philadelphia were primed to pour out their venom upon Mathewson. Remember, he'd busted up the little lemonade vendor right here, back in April. The bleachers were enclosed with chicken wire to keep the more boisterous fans trapped within. But, oh, did they get an eyeful when the Giants took the field. McGraw had outfitted his men in brand-spanking-new uniforms—basic black with only a white NY insignia, plus white belts, socks, and cap beaks. “The effect of being togged out in snappy uniforms was immediately noticeable among the players,” one New York reporter gloated. “The Athletics appeared dull alongside our players.”

About five hundred New Yorkers made the trip down, and although, midst the Philadelphia throng, they were “like a peanut in a bushel basket,” they cheered wildly for their ebony-garbed heroes, and when Gotham's fifty-six-piece Catholic prefectory band struck up “Give My Regards to Broadway,” George M. Cohan himself led the rousing song. Pompadour Jim Corbett was such a Giant fixture that he worked out with the team before the game, and then he and Roger Bresnahan, the tempestuous catcher, waved a large Irish flag.

The A's had a little surprise, too. McGraw, remember, had some years before sought to disparage them as “white elephants.” This had, however, become something of a badge of honor for the team, and the A's had taken to wearing little elephant logos on their warm-up sweaters. Now, just before the game started, Connie Mack, the tall, gaunt Philadelphia manager, who eschewed a baseball uniform for a business suit (complete with high collar and stickpin), called McGraw to home plate and presented him with a small, carved white elephant. Muggsy thereupon delighted the crowd by doffing his white-beaked cap, making a sweeping bow, and then dancing an Irish jig.

Play ball!

The A's sent that star collegian of their own, Eddie Plank, to the mound. A southpaw, Plank had won twenty-four games during this season and been almost as dominating as the absent Waddell. True to form, Plank got the Giants out in the first inning, beginning what would probably be the most sustained domination of pitching ever seen in baseball, let alone in a World Series. For the five games, only six pitchers were used. All five games were shutouts, with both teams combining to score a total of only eight earned runs in eighty-eight innings at bat.

Even in this brilliant company, though, Mathewson was the nonpareil. He retired the side in the first inning on five pitches, a fair sample of all that followed when he was on the mound. In the fifth inning, Mathewson was clobbered by a line drive hit by
outfielder Socks Seybold, stung so hard in the thigh that after Matty retrieved the carom and tossed the batter out, he had to repair to the bench. But after the leg was inspected and he deemed himself fit enough, he returned to the mound and shut out the A's the rest of the way on four hits. The Giants won 3–0. “Matty is certainly a phenomenon,” McGraw said.

The Giants returned home for the first World Series game ever contested in New York, and the stadium was overflowing this Tuesday—Ironing Day. The mob poured onto the field before the game. Attendance was announced at 25,000, but the players and other cynical observers suspected that it might have been as much as 30,000, that the Giants' management was lowballing the figure to keep down the players' share of the gate. In any event, the
Herald
found the crowd to be “full of American health, vigor and optimistic enthusiasm.” References to baseball then were invariably larded with favorable qualities that, often as not, were employed to also reflect on the best of all America.

But, alas, for the joyful throng, Chief Bender—“the much favored brave,” as the
Times
described him—matched Matty's four-hitter from the day before. The A's won by the identical 3–0 score, besting McGinnity. One game apiece.

Returning to Philadelphia, the third game, on Wednesday, October 11, Sewing Day, was rained out, so even though Thursday, Market Day, came up raw and cold, McGraw decided to bring back Mathewson to officiate on but two days' rest. Only 10,991 ventured over to Brewerytown to see Andy Coakley, another of Mr. Mack's collegians—from Holy Cross—toe the rubber for the A's. It was not pretty for the home side. Coakley gave up nine hits but, behind him, his team made four errors, and the Giants coasted to a second victory, 9–0. Once again, Mathewson allowed only four hits.

New Yorkers were able to follow the game on large billboards that some newspapers set up outside their offices. As the reports came in by telegraph, the news would be relayed by a man with
a megaphone, while on a large, simulated diamond, player figures would be moved about the bases. Next, though, the real players returned to Manhattan and, out at the Polo Grounds, on Friday the thirteenth, Cleaning Day, it was Iron Man's turn to shut out the A's. He beat the luckless Eddie Plank, 1–0. “Goose eggs are becoming as staple an item of Father Penn's diet as scrapple,” the
Sun
crowed.

Because of the rain-out, the fifth game was also scheduled for New York. It was easily the grandest sports day in the history of any American city. Not only was there the World Series, but out on Long Island, one of the first major automobile races, the Vanderbilt Cup, was being contested. It drew crowds in excess of one hundred thousand, including many anxious members of Mrs. Astor's famous Four Hundred,
SOCIETY LOSES SLEEP, BUT SEES THE THRILLING RACE
, headlined the
Herald
, Even the most blasé New Yorkers had to be astounded by the speed, as the winner was timed at 61.5 miles per hour—“hurtling over the oil soaked course at a rate of speed which can only be likened to that of the wind,”
Tribune
readers were advised.

Notwithstanding this gasoline-powered marvel of modern times, Matty was just as impressive at his game with his soupbone. In the
Herald
, a poem signed by Diedrich Knickerbocker put things in perspective for true New Yorkers:

Let others sing of motor cars,
Extol the record run;
But let me sing, oh Stripes and Stars,
Of Christy Mathewson.

The crowd overflowed the Polo Grounds, reaching perhaps 27,000, as fans stood ten-deep behind the outfield ropes. It was a pretty day, and a spirited throng came to celebrate the championship. “Clinch it today,” they called out to McGraw.

“That's what you'll get,” Muggsy hollered back. Then, when that “Argus-eyed” manager saw Chief Bender, “that stolid, phlegmatic, copper-colored man” who was Matty's pitching opponent this afternoon, McGraw had some sprightly new Indian-tuned badinage for him. “It'll be off the warpath for you today, Chief,” he hee-hawed.

Not to be outdone, Turkey Mike Donlin sallied: “I'm sorry, old Pitch-Em-Heap, but here's where you go back to the reservation.”

With Matty on the mound, the Giants were obviously confident and in high spirits.

And yes, now here comes a-tootin' that Giant big-game staple, the Catholic prefectory band. Today's choice offerings were “Johnny Comes Marching Home,” “Carry the News to Mary,” and the Tammany Hall fight song. That brought down the house:
Tamm
. . .
annn
. . .
eeeee!

Then Matty took off his duster and, once again, began to toy with the A's. They did manage all of five hits and actually got one man to second base, but Mathewson shut them out again. Bender himself permitted only five hits, but the Giants got one run in the fifth without making a hit, and Matty himself scored in the eighth when he walked, went to third when Bresnahan knocked a ground-rule double into the crowd, and then scored on an infield smash.

The whole affair took barely an hour and a half, and when Matty got the last out with a ground out, New York's finest were overwhelmed, unable to halt the joyous mob from pouring onto the field. Somehow, Matty and Muggsy and the other Giants found their way to the safety of their center-field clubhouse.

As the crowd surged after the Giants, naturally the name most cheered was Mathewson. Never since has any pitcher—any player—dominated a World Series as Matty did. He had pitched three shutouts in six days, allowing only fourteen hits and a single walk. He struck out eighteen batters and, never mind score, he
allowed but one Athletic to reach third base. The
Times
was especially beside itself, calling his a “superhuman accomplishment,” adding: “The Giant slabman . . . may legitimately be designated as the premier pitching wonder. . . . [Mathewson] bestrode the field like a mighty Colossus, and the Athletics peeped about the diamond like pigmies.”

Over time, even Matty acknowledged that it was the best he ever officiated.

Out in center field, one by one the Giants ventured onto the pavilion to greet their worshipers below. Some of them even tossed their gloves and caps into the happy mob. A pretty debutante was heard to sigh: “I'd like one of those old gloves to put among my cotillion favors.” But no matter how many of the victors showed themselves, it was Mathewson the crowd wanted.

Finally, he not only appeared, but he and Bresnahan unfurled a large banner, hurriedly made up, that read:

THE GIANTS
WORLD'S CHAMPIONS
1905

That produced “a reverberating roar that lifted Manhattan's soil from the base.” In all of New York's history, there had never been a moment like this. Why, this was New York's first secular communion. If not already the first city of the world, it would pass London and Paris soon enough. Anyway, it was already a depot of dreams, and what could have certified that more than this triumph at the American national sport?

“Big Six” waited for the tumult to die down, and then he was his proper, modest Mathewsonian self. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I want to thank you for your kindness, but you must remember there were eight other members of the team who worked for our success just as much as I did.” That only occasioned more cheers to roll up to him, and then on to the heavens above. Saith the
Times
, which now put baseball on the front page: “Baseball New York gave Mathewson a marvelous vocal panegyric and placed
upon his modest brow a billowed wreath that evoked only a half-suppressed smile and bow.”