The team that brought the pennant back to Chicago in the early '80s was
a rattling good organization of ball players, as the "fans" who remember
them can testify, and while they were the cracks of that time, and
perhaps as strong a team as the League had seen up to that date, yet
they were not as strong either as a team or as individual ball players
as the team that represented Chicago several years afterward. The secret
of the club's success in those days lay in its team work, and in the
fact that a goodly portion of the time was spent in studying and
developing the fine points of the game, which long practice made them
fairly perfect in. There were one or two weak spots in its make-up, but
so well did it perform as a whole that these weak spots were quite apt
to be lost sight of when the time for summing up the result of the
season's play had arrived.
In its pitching department the team was particularly strong at that time
as compared with some other of the League clubs.
Larry Corcoran, upon whose skill great reliance was placed, was at that
time in the zenith of his glory as a twirler. He came, if my memory
serves me rightly, from somewhere in the neighborhood of Buffalo. He was
a very little fellow, with an unusual amount of speed, and the endurance
of an Indian pony. As a batter he was only fair, but as a fielder in his
position he was remarkable, being as quick as a cat and as plucky as
they made them.
A sort of an all-around sport was Larry, and a boxer of no mean ability.
I remember a set-to that he had one night in the old club house with
Hugh Nichols, in which he all but knocked Hughy out, greatly to that
gentleman's surprise, as he had fancied up to that time that he was
Corcoran's master in the art of self-defense.
After his release by the Chicago Club he drifted back East, where he
pitched for a time in some of the minor leagues. Later on he was given
another trial by the Chicagos, but his work proved unsatisfactory, he
having outlived the days of his usefulness in the pitching line. After
that he again went East, where he died several years ago.
Fred Goldsmith, the other pitcher, was a great big, over-grown,
good-natured boy, who was always just a-going to do things that he
never did. He, too, came from the East, and was, I believe, pitching
for the Tecumseh, Canada, Club when he signed with us.
He was the possessor of a great slow ball and was always cool and
good-natured. As a batsman he was only fair, and as a fielder decidedly
careless. When it came to backing up a player "Goldy" was never to be
relied upon, and after the play was over and he was asked why he had not
done so, he would reply: "Oh, I'd a-bin thar ef I'd bin needed." But in
spite of this the fact remains that he was rarely on hand when he was
needed, and many an overthrown ball found its way into the field that
would have been stopped had he been backing up the basemen in the way
that he should have done.
I remember seeing him in a game at Troy, N. Y., once when pitching for
Chicago, when he was a sight to behold. He was playing and the rain was
coming down in torrents while the grounds were deep in mud and water.
Hatless, without shoes and stockings and with his breeches roiled clear
up to his thigh, as if he were preparing to ford the Hudson river,
"Goldy" was working like a Trojan, and I am not over sure but that he
was one at that time.
His arm was gone when he left us, and if he played ball any afterward,
it was only in desultory fashion. He tended bar in different places for
a time, but finally settled down to the business of market gardening
near Detroit, where, from all that I can learn, he is making a good
living.
Frank S. Flint, "Old Silver," originally hailed from St. Louis, where he
first came into notice as the back stop of an amateur team.
He came to us direct from the Indianapolis Club, where he had been
engaged in catching the delivery of "the only Nolan," who was at that
time one of the most celebrated of the League pitchers. He was a fine
ballplayer, a good, hard worker, but a weak batter, batting being his
weakest point. He was generally reliable, and that in spite of the fact
that he was a hard drinker, the love of liquor being his besetting
weakness. A pluckier man never stood behind a bat, there never coming a
ball his way that was too hard for him to handle, or at least to attempt
to. In "Old Silver's" day the catcher's glove had not come into use, and
all of his work was done with hands that were unprotected. Those hands
of his were a sight to behold, and if there is a worse pair to-day in
the United States, or a pair that are as bad, I should certainly like to
have a look at them. His fingers were bent and twisted out of all shape
and looked more like the knotted and gnarled branches of a scrub oak
than anything else that I can think of.
Long before the gloves now used by catchers were invented I had a
buckskin mitt made at Spalding's that I thought would fill a long-felt
want, and this I finally persuaded "Old Silver" to try.
He tried it for about half of an inning, then threw it down, declaring
it was no good, and went on in the old way. After his playing days in
Chicago were over he went into the saloon business and died a short time
afterwards of consumption. His wife died in California a little time
after him with the same disease, which she had contracted while nursing
him. Prior to her departure from Chicago and when she had been informed
by a physician that her days were numbered, she sent for me, and after
telling me that she had "roasted" me in the papers all her life, begged
my forgiveness, saying that she had found out her mistake. This, of
course, was granted.
Mrs. Keene and my wife saw that she had every comfort, and Mr. Keene,
Mr. Spalding and myself furnished the money that took her to the Golden
State, where she lived but a short time after her arrival.
Joe Quest, who played the second base, was another player who came to us
from the Indianapolis team, but prior to that time he had been playing
around New Castle, Pa. Joe was a good, reliable, steady fellow, but a
weak batsman. He was a conscientious player, however, and one that could
always be depended upon to play the best ball that he was capable of.
His strongest point was trapping an infield fly, and in this particular
line he was something of a wonder.
Joe played on several teams after leaving Chicago, and with varying
success. Of late years he has been employed in the City Hall at Chicago,
where he holds a good position.
Ed Wiliamson was another player who came to us from Indianapolis, where
he had already made for himself quite a reputation. He, too, hailed
originally from some-where around New Castle, and was playing in
Pittsburg the first time that I ever saw him. My wife knew him long
before I knew him, however. He was then a member of an amateur club in
Philadelphia, for which she acted as a sort of treasurer, taking care of
the money that they raised to buy balls with, etc.
Ed was, in my opinion, the greatest all-around ballplayer the country
ever saw. He was better than an average batsman and one of the few that
knew how to wait for a ball and get the one that he wanted before
striking. He was a good third baseman, a good catcher and a man who
could pitch more than fairly well, too, when the necessity for his doing
so arose. Taking him all in all, I question if we shall ever see his
like on a ball field again. He was injured some years later while the
Chicago Club was making a trip around the world, and was never the same
fellow afterward. After his retirement from the diamond he ran a saloon
in company with Jimmy Woods, another ball-player, on Dearborn street,
Chicago, which was a popular resort for the lovers of sports. He died of
dropsy at Hot Springs, Arkansas, leaving a wife, but no children.
Williamson was one of the most popular of the many players that the
Chicago Club has had. A big, good-natured and good-hearted fellow, he
numbered his friends by the hundreds, and his early death was regretted
by all who knew him.
Thomas E. Burns was playing with the Albany, N. Y., Club, who were then
the champions of the New York State League when I signed him to play
with Chicago. He was a fair average batter, but was hardly fast enough
to be considered a really good shortstop.
He was a fair base-runner, using excellent judgment in that respect, and
a first-class slider, going into the bases head first when compelled to
make a slide for them, instead of feet first, like the majority of the
players of that day and generation; in fact, he was more of a diver than
a slider, and he generally managed to get there.
After his release by Chicago he went to Pittsburg, where I had secured
him a five-year contract as manager at a handsome salary, and where he
had some trouble that resulted in the club's breaking the agreement and
in the bringing of a lawsuit, which he won.
He then took charge of the Springfield, Mass., Club, a member of the New
England League, Springfield being not far from his old home at New
Britain. Two years ago he took my place as manager of the Chicago Club,
and that he has not made a success of it is due to certain causes that
will be explained later on.
Abner Dalrymple was brought into the Chicago fold from Milwaukee, where
he had been playing. He was only an ordinary fielder, and a fair base
runner, but excelled as a batsman. I have said that he was a fair
fielder, and in that respect perhaps I am rating him too high, as his
poor fielding cost us several games that in my estimation we should have
won. Dalrymple was a queer proposition, and for years a very steady
player. He was never known to spend a cent in those days, and was so
close that he would wait for somebody else to buy a newspaper and then
borrow it in order to see what was going on. Later on he broke loose,
however, and when he did he became one of the sportiest of sports,
blowing his money as if he had found it and setting a hot pace for his
followers.
He finally settled down again, however, and now holds a good railroad
position in the Northwest, where he is living with his family. His was
about the quickest case of "loosening up from extreme tightness" that I
have ever run across.
George F. Gore, who played the center field, came here from New Bedford,
Mass., being brought out by Mr. Hulbert, who was in charge of the club
at the time he came to us. He was an all-around ball player of the first
class, a hard hitter and a fine thrower and fielder, and had it not been
for his bad habits he might have still been playing ball to-day. Women
and wine brought about his downfall, however, and the last time that I
saw him in New York he was broken down, both in heart and pocket, and
willing to work at anything that would yield him the bare necessities of
life.
Mike Kelly, who afterwards became famous in baseball annals as the
$10,000 beauty, came to Chicago from Cincinnati, and soon became a
general favorite. He was a whole-souled, genial fellow, with a host of
friends, and but one enemy, that one being himself.
Time and time again I have heard him say that he would never be broke,
and he died at just the right time to prevent such a contretemps from
occurring. Money slipped through Mike's fingers as water slips through
the meshes of a fisherman's net, and he was as fond of whisky as any
representative of the Emerald Isle, but just the same he was a great
ball player and one that became greater than he then was before ceasing
to wear a Chicago uniform. He was as good a batter as anybody, and a
great thrower, both from the catcher's position and from the field, more
men being thrown out by him than by any other man that could be named.
He was a good fielder when not bowled up, but when he was he sometimes
failed to judge a fly ball correctly, though he would generally manage
to get pretty close in under it. In such cases he would remark with a
comical leer: "By Gad, I made it hit me gloves, anyhow."
After his return to Boston he played good ball for a time, but his bad
habits soon caused his downfall, just as they had caused the downfall of
many good players before him, for it may be set down as an axiom that
baseball and booze will not mix any better than will oil and water. The
last time that I ever saw him was at an Eastern hotel barroom, and
during the brief space of time that we conversed together he threw in
enough whisky to put an ordinary man under the table. After leaving
Boston the "only Mike" had charge of Al Johnson's team at Altoona, Pa.,
but whisky had become at this time his master, and he made a failure of
the managerial business. Not being able to control himself it is hardly
to be wondered at that he failed when it came to the business of
controlling others. He died some years ago in New Jersey, a victim to
fast living, and a warning to all ball players. Had he been possessed of
good habits instead of bad there is no telling to what heights Kelly
might have climbed, for a better fellow in some respects never wore a
base-ball uniform.
Tommy Beale was a nice, gentlemanly little chap, who had played at one
time with the Boston Club. He was never a howling success as a ball
player and after being released by Chicago he umpired for a while and
then drifted down to Florida, where he had an orange grove and was doing
well until, one night, "there came a frost, a killing frost," that not
only destroyed his orange grove but that burst him up in business as
well. Since that unfortunate event happened, I have lost sight of him,
and where he is now, or what he is doing, I know not.
Hugh Nichols was a little fellow who came from Rockford, Illinois. He
was never a star player, but was a fair and showy player, lacking in
stamina. He was only a fair batsman, and after his release by Chicago he
played for a time in some of the other League teams, principally
Cincinnati. He then managed the Rockford team in the Illinois State
League, after which he settled down as a billiard-room keeper, in which
business he is still engaged.