The Original Curse (13 page)

The Red Sox followed that sweep by taking four out of five from the Yankees, including a game on April 23 in which Boston had been held hitless by rookie Hank Thormahlen in a scoreless game until there was one out in the ninth. Strunk finally broke through with a single, when Barrow pulled a telling maneuver. He removed Hoblitzell for Ruth. This was an odd move. Thormahlen was a left-hander and, theoretically, a more difficult matchup for Ruth, also a left-hander. And Hoblitzell was a right-handed cleanup man, not generally a candidate to be replaced by a pinch-hitter. But Ruth pounded a single, sending Strunk to third. Strunk would score to win the game, 1–0, and sure enough, the notion of subbing in a pitcher for a cleanup hitter now seemed to make some sense—assuming the pitcher in question was Babe Ruth.

The Red Sox were 7–1. Their new players seemed to fit right in. Their pitching staff looked outstanding—with one out-of-shape and distracted flinger being the only exception. Their one loss of the season to that point was an 11–4 blowout in which “The Yanks mauled the offerings of Dutch Leonard … mercilessly.”
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It was a bad start to a strange year for Leonard.

Hubert let out a deep breath and rubbed a hand over his stomach. All right, he was carrying around a bit more lard than he should. He knew that. Barrow, Frazee, all the beat reporters, they’d been calling him chunky and portly and all that bunk. Of course, the fans jumped right in and mimicked them. There was no ape like a Fenway ape. Dutch had been hearing it since Hot Springs. Portly portsider. Stocky southpaw. He didn’t give a damn. He had bigger concerns. Like his own hide. He’d spent most of the off-season getting the vineyards in shape, because if anything was going to keep him out of this hell of a war, it was growing grapes, not tossing horsehides for Barrow and Frazee. Dutch’s hope was to pitch in the big leagues for a few more years, gain fame, and capitalize on that fame in business. And that business was good, sweet Fresno raisins.

But he needed to be alive to count raisin money, and being alive meant staying out of the war. This was of chief importance to Dutch Leonard. Last winter he’d looked into signing on with the naval yard in Charlestown, and in Mare Island too, figuring he could call himself a yeoman, get a contract to pitch for the team, drive a rivet every now and then, and keep his backside far, far away from the trenches at Arras or Amiens or wherever the fight was today. He would have done it, too, if Sybil—the new Mrs. Leonard—hadn’t gotten sick almost immediately after their wedding the previous fall.
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Dutch Leonard was a talented but enigmatic lefty and did not pitch for the Red Sox after 1918. (N
ATIONAL
B
ASEBALL
H
ALL OF
F
AME
L
IBRARY
, C
OOPERSTOWN
, N.Y.)

They’re not supposed to call farmers, he figured, which was why Dutch had written it right on his draft registration card. “Do you claim any exemption from draft (specify grounds)?” the card wanted to know. Very carefully, and in large letters, he wrote in script, “Farmer.”
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They’d had him in Class 4 of the draft. But he knew he could, and probably would, be shifted to 1A. Seemed everyone was losing exemptions, getting shifted to 1A—all the married fellows, like Joe Jackson, and some of the farmers, where it was shown that the farm owner was not actually doing the farming, as in Dutch’s case. All right, then, he still was not fool enough to march to the gates of Hades to fight Huns. No, no. This war is not for me, thought Dutch Leonard.

He glanced over to third base. Fred Thomas. He was 25, a year younger than Dutch. Class 1A. Behind him, shortstop Everett Scott. He’s deferred, married, kids, Class 4, but Scott has money socked away, Dutch thought, enough money so that his dependents aren’t really dependent on him. That made Scott a good candidate to move up from Class 4 to 1A. Over his left shoulder, at second base, Dave Shean was 34, too old for the draft. At first, Hobby. Doc Hoblitzell wanted to go to the war, but he was doing it with the Dental Corps. He had been distant all spring, like he was already gone. Good riddance as far as Dutch cared—Hobby was batting one-fifty-something. Dental Corps. Dutch had asked Hobby if they needed dentists at the front. Are cavities a big problem for soldiers? Dutch pictured a fellow in a trench in France, with his leg blown off, gushing blood, screaming for a doctor, and here comes Hobby, saying, “You know, son, we should really take that molar out.”

Dutch hadn’t expected to be with the Red Sox this year, not until Frazee talked him into it back in February. He was comfortably in Class 4 then. That’s why he wasn’t in shape. On the slab, Leonard had been getting knocked around by a lot of duck-soup teams, but umpires had been giving him a bum deal. He gave out 10 passes against Philadelphia and walked 7 Tigers last time out. Umps’ fault, not his. Besides, Dutch was worn out, and that was Barrow’s fault. Big Ed was riding the boxmen too hard. Dutch’s speedball had not been hopping, and there wasn’t a lot of break in his slants. He needed a rest. But the Big Baboon Babe Ruth was sick, in the Eye and Ear
Infirmary, and Barrow was still too scared to use the young pitchers. There would be no rest.

Ed Miller was in the leadoff hole for the Indians, and Dutch knew that the game was in bad shape when a busher like Miller could make it back into the American League. One of the bugs yelled, “Come on, Lard Pants, even you can get this one out!” Dutch scowled and scanned the crowd. The sky was dark with thunderclouds. Old Jupiter Pluvius had not shown up just yet, but it looked like he was rapping at the door. Place was near empty, not even 2,000 in the cushions, and Dutch knew on a day like this the only arses who showed up were the so-called sporting men of the gambling fraternity. He scanned the first-base bleachers where they sat. From the mound, everyone looked the same to Dutch, pasty-faced and hook-nosed, passing sheets of paper around, wearing $2 straw hats, popping peanuts, downing frankfurters and bottles of soda.

Today, Hubert decided, he was going to take a little extra help. He needed it. His arm was tired. Barrow was on him. The fans were on him. Dutch didn’t particularly like the taste of licorice and didn’t like the way it blackened his teeth, but it was better than slippery elm bark. He chewed the licorice and worked up a nice ball of sticky saliva in his cheek. He readjusted his hat and, as he did, let the blackened spit fly onto his left palm. Working quickly in the pocket of his glove, he kneaded the licorice spit and a bit of dirt into the ball. Dutch stepped to the mound, looked long at Miller, and then nodded to catcher Wally Schang. He wrapped his fingers around the loaded ball, placing the licorice-and-dirt stain comfortably into his palm. He was ready to pitch.

Spitballs, licorice balls, slippery elm balls, emery balls, shine balls, mud balls, paraffin balls. In 1918, there was no shortage of ways for pitchers to cheat. Only it wasn’t really cheating, not until baseball, after years of discussion and foot dragging on the topic, finally outlawed, “freak deliveries” after 1920. There was a fine for “discoloring the ball,” but it was minimal. Still, ball doctoring was unseemly, and no pitcher wanted to be blatant about it. It was not done openly. Reds infielder Heinie Groh later described teammate Hod Eller’s approach: “Old Hod had what we liked to call a shine ball. What it was, he had a file in his belt and every once in a while he’d rub the ball against that
file.”
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Altering the surface of the ball would give it strange movement on its way to the plate.

Use of “freak” pitches was so widespread in 1918 that fed-up Washington manager Clark Griffith, who had long wanted the pitches outlawed, went on a campaign of “shine-balling the American League to death,” as
The Sporting News
put it.
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He ordered his pitchers to use every available doctoring method—paraffin oil, tar, talcum, licorice—and withheld their pay until they mastered freak pitches. He figured nonstop freakery from Washington pitchers would force the league to do something. He was wrong. The league did nothing. On the bright side, the Senators’ team ERA dropped from 2.75 in ’17 to 2.14, first in the AL, in ’18. That did not much discourage the use of freak pitches.

Dutch Leonard wasn’t necessarily a licorice-ball pitcher in 1918 (he would later become one of the “grandfathered” pitchers who were allowed to throw a spitball after the pitch was banned). In fact, it wasn’t certain just what kind of pitcher Leonard was. He had burst into the big leagues at 22 with a stunning second season for the 1914 Red Sox, going 19–5 with a 0.96 ERA, lowest in modern baseball history. But after ’14, Leonard didn’t much apply himself, routinely reporting overweight, earning a reputation as a late-night carouser and chronic complainer. He went just 16–17 in 1917. His slow start in 1918 was no surprise, and it’s easy to understand why he, according to Cleveland batters, resorted to smearing balls with licorice on May 21.
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He had a record of 4–3 at the time, including a couple of lucky wins. He had allowed 57 hits, 32 runs, and way too many walks (31) in his seven starts. Throughout the start against Cleveland, batters protested to umpire Dick Nallin that the ball was marked with licorice. All Nallin could do was look at the balls, toss them aside, and issue limp warnings to the Boston dugout.

As a whole, the Red Sox had gotten off to an impressive start, having swept the A’s and going on to win 11 of their first 13 games. But they quickly tired and fell into a 6-game losing streak. By mid-May, pitching depth behind the big four of Babe Ruth, Carl Mays, Leonard, and Joe Bush was a problem. Nick Flatley wrote in the
Boston American
, “Lack of substitute material, more than the beatings, is greying the hairs of Manager Barrow just now…. [For Leonard] a rest would be the best thing in the world, but when there are no other pitchers handy there can be no rests.”
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Barrow used only two
other pitchers—Sam Jones made two relief appearances, and Weldon Wyckoff made one. Barrow had so little faith in his second-stringers that while letting up 14 hits and seven runs in Washington on May 7, Leonard was left in to absorb the pummeling.

The Red Sox had one pitching advantage: their ace was Babe Ruth, and no player dominated early 1918 quite like Ruth. Short rosters and Hooper’s badgering induced Barrow to use Ruth at first base and in the outfield throughout spring training, and Ruth responded by consistently clubbing home runs. Those displays were not forgotten. Barrow used Ruth as a pinch hitter in April, but Hooper pressed Barrow to have Ruth hit more. Barrow resisted, telling Hooper, “I would be the laughingstock of the league if I took the best lefthanded pitcher in the league and put him in the outfield.”
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While pitching and batting ninth on May 5, Ruth knocked his first home run. The next day, Hoblitzell sat out with what would become a swollen thumb of historic significance, because the injury forced Barrow to turn to Ruth. On May 6, for the first time in his career, Ruth started a game at a position other than pitcher. Batting sixth, Ruth hit another home run. The next day, with Hoblitzell still injured, Barrow moved Ruth to cleanup. He hit another home run. In one game on May 10, Ruth tallied five hits, including a triple and three doubles. He was hitting a league-best .407 by May 20, while still serving as the Red Sox ace pitcher.

Ruth was obviously a wonder at swinging the willow, but in the minds of many he was a pitcher and that should not change. The
Boston American
commented, “[Ruth] was forced to dally around first base while Hobby was on the shelf. He carved a dent in the season’s history while doing it, but star pitchers never will flourish under that sort of treatment.”
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Still, Ruth’s hitting excited fans. Barrow was the manager, but he was a front-office man at heart, and he knew the importance of putting people in the cushions. Hooper made that appeal to Barrow—fans wanted to see Babe hit, not pitch. “[Ruth] is applauded every time he steps to the plate,” reported Burt Whitman in
The Sporting News
, “and the simple snare of a spent fly out there in left also draws the plaudits of the enthusiasts. They are all wild about the big fellow; they all want him in every game and Barrow has felt the pulse of the fans and is giving them just what they desire.”
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Barrow began playing Ruth in the outfield, making Hooper responsible for teaching Ruth to play the field. Ruth’s scorching performance
in May was soon derailed by a bout with tonsillitis, commonly—and carefully—treated with silver nitrate at the time. Open a copy of the
American Journal of Clinical Medicine
from 1914, though, and find the following note on using silver nitrate with tonsil patients: “Caution: Great care must be exercised that no excess silver-nitrate solution oozing from the swab drops into the throat, lest serious results might follow; for, as we know, cases are on record in which edema of the glottis, severe spasms of the larynx and other spastic affections of the throat, even suffocation, resulted from such accidents.”
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With such dire consequences, the Red Sox trainer had no business administering silver nitrate to Ruth’s throat. That should have been left to a doctor. Still, the trainer tried, and, sure enough, some excess oozed off the swab. Ruth’s throat closed up, he collapsed, and he would spend the next week at the Massachusetts Eye and Ear Infirmary. Ruth struggled to speak but kept his sense of humor. When Barrow and Frazee visited his hospital room, where a stream of delivery men had piled up floral arrangements, Ruth pointed out, “The time to get flowers is when you are alive.”
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Barrow, though, did not keep his humor. He fired the trainer.
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