The Selling of the Babe (9 page)

An interesting and somewhat inexplicable pattern was beginning to take shape, one particularly noticed in Boston: in terms of wins and losses, Ruth's home runs did not often seem to matter. Indeed from 1915 through 1919, while playing on three pennant winners, a second-place club that won 90 games, and a 1919 team that finished five games below .500, Boston's record in games during which Ruth hit a home run is only 26–21 and 20–18 in 1918 and 1919. In each case, the club's record was slightly worse than in those games in which he did not hit a home run. While the statistical difference is virtually insignificant, in terms of perception it was not. Just as Ted Williams earned a reputation he did not fully deserve as a selfish hitter who did not come through in the clutch, over time Ruth would battle a similar opinion in Boston. Even some of his own teammates believed he was a poor clutch hitter.

But there was another factor at work, too. Although Ruth added value as a hitter, at the same time, over the course of the 1918 and 1919 seasons, his value as a pitcher diminished. It was almost as if he were two players at once; a hitter coming into his own and making an ever-larger impact, and a once great pitcher slowly fading away. The overlap between the two was small. In terms of WAR, the contemporary statistic that measures a player's value in wins versus an average replacement player (wins above replacement), Ruth's value as a pitcher in 1916 and 1917 was 8.7 and 6.5 wins above average respectively, but only 2.3 and 0.8 in 1918 and 1919. As a hitter, the numbers are nearly reversed—in 1916 and 1917 he was worth 1.7 and 2.1 wins, but in 1918 and 1919 his value skyrocketed to 5.1 and 9.4 wins per year. Cumulatively, his most valuable year with the Red Sox was 1916 when he was primarily a pitcher with a combined WAR of 10.4—a mark he would better only six times in his 16 seasons as primarily a hitter.

Consider this: Had Ruth been able to retain his prowess as a pitcher, he may well have proven to be more valuable on the mound while making only the occasional appearance in the field as a hitter. Had he been able to do both at once—pitch and play more or less regularly as a hitter, even for just a few years—his value would have been astronomical, likely approaching a WAR of 20 or more each season, his impact on the game incalculable (the single season record for WAR is Ruth's 14.1 in 1923, the only time in baseball history a player has topped 13).

As it was, in terms of WAR alone, Ruth essentially became as valuable to the Yankees as a hitter in the 1920s as Walter Johnson was as a pitcher to the Senators in the teens. Yet as remarkable as that was, had he been able to both hit and pitch at a high level simultaneously, even for just a few years, the results would have been extraordinary. Instead, one kind of greatness was simply substituted for another. Already in 1918, he wasn't quite the dominant pitcher he'd been in the past, his record a scuffling 3–3, his strikeout total down significantly. Although Ruth had always said that he felt “at home” on the mound, his performance was starting to say something else. He was pitching in some hard luck, but he also had lost some games that he used to win, and due to rosters decimated by the war he wasn't exactly facing top-notch competition.

For now, after hitting three home runs in three games, observers were just trying to place the feat in perspective. Only one other major league player had ever done so before. Oddly enough, it was a pitcher, the Yankees' Ray Caldwell, who on June 10, 11, and 12 in 1915 hit home runs in three straight games—as a pinch hitter. In fact, Caldwell was considered such a good hitter that in 1918 he'd play 41 games in the New York outfield and hit .291.

For the time being, Barrow left Ruth in the lineup. He continued to hit, although with less power than during his streak, and played an adequate first base. The Red Sox, however, continued to stumble, dropping their sixth in a row on May 9 as Ruth took the mound for the first time since April 29, squaring off against Johnson.

It a sense, it was Ruth's most amazing game of the season. Hoblitzell returned to the lineup to play first, but Barrow installed Ruth in the fourth position in the batting order, a rarity for the pitcher. He came through, too, tripling in his first at bat and then following up with a single and two doubles.

But Walter Johnson was just as good, if not better, and the two teams went into extra innings tied. Ruth nearly won it with his fifth hit of the day, another double to right field, but the one-man team took that to heart and he was thrown out trying to steal third. Ruth then gave up the winning run as the Red Sox lost 5–4 and tumbled out of first place.

Now people were starting to talk. On the one hand, since joining the starting lineup, Ruth was hitting .563. For the last week, he had been the best hitter in the league and the talk of all baseball. On the other hand, there was that nasty little six-game losing streak, over which time the Red Sox pitching staff, save for Ruth, had virtually collapsed.

No one quite knew what to think. Some thought that putting Ruth into the lineup every day threw the club off kilter, making some players jealous and causing others to look over their shoulders, while increasing the burden on Boston's already faltering pitching staff. In the
Globe
, Mel Webb offered that “putting a pitcher in as an everyday man, no matter how much he likes it or how he may hit, is not the sign of strength for a club that aspires to be a real contender.” Well, the Yankees were doing it with Caldwell, too, and how could you take a guy out of the lineup who was now batting .500? Still, it was confounding—
The Sporting News
compared it to “college or school baseball” where the pitcher is often the best player in the team, yet admitted, “Ruth is the large rumble in the Red Sox family.”

The Red Sox returned to Boston, and now Barrow had another idea. Hoblitzell was back, and back at first base, but Barrow still wanted Ruth's bat in the lineup. As a lefty, there was only one place to put him. Harry Hooper was a fixture in right, hitting .361, and since arriving from Philadelphia, Amos Strunk had been a revelation in center and was batting .319. The only place that remained was left field.

So far, at least at the plate, George Whiteman had demonstrated why he'd spent a decade in the minor leagues. Although a fine fielder, even against the subpar pitching of 1918 he was struggling. With right-hander Dave Davenport scheduled to pitch for St. Louis, Barrow stuck Ruth in left field and hoped for the best. Backed by Duffy's Cliff and the left field wall, even if Ruth screwed up there was little damage he could cause in the field. Besides, one big hit could make the difference in a game.

Unfortunately, none did. Ruth went hitless, but Boston won 4–1, as Ruth had an uneventful day in left, fielding only three soft singles. Ruth seemed a bit lost afterward, complaining, “It's lonesome out there,” and “hard to keep awake. There's nothing to do.” But there was still some unease over Ruth's role. Writing in the
Boston American
, Nick Flatley still viewed him as a pitcher, “There is a world of speculation as to what regular playing will do to the $150,000 Babe Ruth arm,” he wrote, concerned that outfield throws could cause harm. And in the
Boston Record
, Harry Casey called Ruth “the most valuable player in either the American or National League” but offered the opinion, seconded by Stuffy McInnis, that all Ruth had to do to really make good was change his swing and start chopping at the ball like everyone else. “If Babe ever learns to chop them,” said McInnis, “he will set a new record for hitting.”

Ruth was back at first base the next day. The Red Sox lost again, but snuck back into first place with a record of 13–10 when the White Sox defeated the Indians. With the season nearly a month old, the pennant was up for grabs with all eight teams within three and a half games of one another.

That's what made what happened next so infuriating to so many club owners, all of whom, even poor old Connie Mack, were beginning to think that in this crazy season, his club just might have a chance. Although crowds were down, there was parity. When spring turned to summer, well, a hot ball club and a tight pennant race just might bring out the fans and make it possible to make a little money after all.

On May 16, word leaked out that Provost Marshal General Enoch Crowder, responsible for administering 1917's Selective Service Act, and acting under the orders of Secretary of War Newton Baker, would execute a “work or fight” order. That meant anyone with a high draft classification who had heretofore escaped the draft had either to enlist or find a job in the war industries. Certain “essential” occupations were exempt—but baseball was not among them.

The logic behind the ruling was obvious—the draft had been a disaster. Although every American man between the age of twenty-one and thirty was supposed to register—some 23 million—three and half million or so never bothered and another three million registered and then treated their draft notice like so much tissue paper and never reported. Draftees were an administrative nightmare to track and enforce enlistment—everything was on paper records and it was nearly impossible to communicate, making service astonishingly easy to avoid; the IRS, created in 1913, was having a similar problem enforcing tax laws. Cheating was massive and pervasive, as was draft dodging. When those who had registered and were exempt due to the fact they were married or had other dependents were included, the draft was coming up way short of American military needs. The “work or fight” order essentially ended the exemptions for healthy draftees—except for those with “essential” work status.

For the next week, baseball stomped its feet and whined, openly wondering what this meant and publicly pleading with the authorities to somehow find a way to make ballplayers “essential” war workers. But the chances of that happening were slim—Ban Johnson's earlier politicking to make major leaguers exempt from the draft had not been forgotten, either by the public or the government, and whining about the war tax levied on ticket sales hadn't helped matters.

Yet when the details of the ruling were made public a week later on May 23, baseball was given something of a temporary reprieve. The War Department anticipated resistance to the order and released a statement that read “No ruling as to whether baseball players … come under the regulations regarding idlers or nonessential pursuits will be made until a specific case has been appealed.” In other words, give it try, baseball. Test the ruling if you want, but if you fail, be prepared for the consequences.

Every owner in the game realized that if the players were considered nonessential that meant the end of the season. Of all the Boston players, only Heinie Wagner, due to his age, was clearly exempt. Frazee was politic, saying, “Certainly we want to win the war, even if we have to close the ballparks or destroy them … [but] I do not believe the Government proposes to unnecessarily disturb vested interests in legitimate business.” In other words—of course we want to beat back the Hun, but not at our expense. Frazee was doubly affected by the ruling, which also threatened to shut down the theater, which currently was exempt due to the role it played in the nation's morale. Although he had no plays in production, he owned a number of theaters and no plays meant no rent, just as no baseball meant no ticket sales and no way to pay off mortgages and notes.

Most other club owners made similar statements—but not Ban Johnson. He was prepared to protect what remained of his own personal investments in several clubs, put the whole game in mothballs, and go down without a fight. He suggested not only shutting down baseball, but “all forms of amusements, ball parks, theaters etc.” The men who owned baseball did not appreciate their fearful leader throwing up the white flag. Frazee, in particular, lost whatever slim affection he might have held for Johnson and now considered him both a fool and an adversary, a position soon adopted by several of his colleagues, most notably Charles Comiskey and Jacob Ruppert. Their wary relationship began to crumble. A slow erosion of Johnson's unmatched power would soon begin.

And what of Babe Ruth, the emerging crown prince of baseball and suddenly the name on every fan's lips? Well, he was lucky to be alive.

He stayed in the Boston lineup, where he returned to left field, collecting a few hits, hitting no home runs but giving Barrow a heart attack for his erratic outfield play. His strong arm was a force in left and he was okay tracking fly balls, but on several occasions he crashed into the unforgiving wood fence in front of the stands in foul territory, leading the
Herald
to comment, “It is a wonder he did not muss up the entire stand by the force of his impact.” But that is not what brought Ruth nearly to the verdict of St. Peter.

May 19 was a Sunday, and in Boston that meant no baseball on the first real warm day of the year. Ruth, who'd been bothered by a sore throat for a few days, took his wife to Revere Beach, just north of the city, where he cavorted with another 150,000 or so Bostonians along the boardwalk and in the surf, likely quaffing beer and clams the entire time. By the time he got home, his throat was throbbing and his temperature raging, reportedly 104. Scheduled to pitch the next day, he showed up at the ballpark looking like death.

He was clearly too sick to play. The club trainer reportedly took Ruth to a nearby drugstore, where he picked up some silver nitrate, a caustic compound commonly used in the days before antibiotics as an antiseptic. The trainer liberally swabbed Ruth's throat and intended to send him home, but Ruth had a bad reaction. His throat began to swell and as he choked and gagged he was rushed to the Massachusetts Eye and Ear infirmary.

Those who saw Ruth carried into the infirmary thought the worst, and rumors swirled around Boston that he had died. Fortunately, a specialist, Dr. George Tobey, was able to reduce the swelling. He ordered Ruth to stay in the hospital and rest until his fever was under control. The newspapers—after some first reported his demise—now wrote that Ruth was suffering from an acute case of tonsillitis.