Transcriber’s Notes
Misspelled words have been corrected. These are identified by
♦ symbols in the text and are shown immediately below the
paragraph in which they appear.
Details and other notes may be found at the end of this text.
[Illustration:
© _Acme_
GEORGE HERMAN RUTH
]
BABE RUTH’S
Own Book of Baseball
By GEORGE HERMAN RUTH
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with G. P. Putnam’s Sons
Printed in U. S. A.
BABE RUTH’S
OWN BOOK OF BASEBALL
Copyright, 1928
by
George Herman Ruth
By arrangement with
Christy Walsh
[Illustration: Knickerbocker Press logo]
Made in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
The Baltimore River front—Street corner baseball—Days
at St. Mary’s—The first contract—A word of
advice from Brother Gilbert—The big leagues at last—The
climb upward—Aid from team-mates—A
$70,000 contract—Looking back 3
CHAPTER II
Baseball like a battle—Two big divisions, offense and
defense—What they are—Old-fashioned defensive
play—The shift to modern offensive baseball—Great
defensive teams of history—Some pitching marvels—Pitching
the keystone of defensive play—Offensive
stars of today 19
CHAPTER III
Pitching the keynote of defense—The pitcher’s job—Why
young pitchers fail—Control as a pitching factor—How
to obtain control—Alexander the old master—Shocker
gets by on “nothing”—Shawkey gives a few
words of advice to “rookies”—Practice counts most 32
CHAPTER IV
Studying the batter—Shocker a marvel—His system—Pennock’s
style of pitching—His pitching rule—Hoyt
weighs in with advice—Pitching to weakness
and strength—Playing the comers—Mixing them
up—Quinn a bluffer—How Hoyt uses his fast one 44
CHAPTER V
The pitching motion—How Zahniser betrayed his curve
ball—Ruth’s tongue gets him into trouble—Sherry
Smith catches runners off first base—♦Hinkey Haines’
experience—Slow ball pitching—Why it is valuable—The
type of hitters who are fooled by slow stuff—Experience
counts—Fielding aids pitcher 57
♦ “Hinkey Haines,” replaced with “Hinkey Haines’”
CHAPTER VI
What makes the curve balls curve—The fast ball—The
“hook”—Freak deliveries—The spit ball—The screw
ball—Its purpose—The knuckle ball—Rommel and
Pipgras use it best—Curve ball pitchers who have
made baseball history—Fast balls that are tricky—A
few yarns of pitching greatness 71
CHAPTER VII
The infield—The greatest play of the 1927 world series—Joe
Dugan pulled it—Lazzeri spikes Pirate guns—Great
second base combinations—The double play—The
snap throw to base—Great arms in baseball—Travis
Jackson gets Jake Daubert’s goat—Casey
Stengel tells one—What to look for in infield play 92
CHAPTER VIII
Playing the outfield—The kid idea—Stars who have
scintillated in the outfield—Great outfielders of all
time—Their methods of play—What the outfielder
needs—What he must look out for—Playing the hitter—Making
the throw—Some great outfield plays—Sam
Rice’s great catch—Harry Hooper, the old
master 106
CHAPTER IX
The catcher—His importance in the game—Directing the
play—Famous batteries of other days—How the
catcher can make or break a pitcher—Handling high
fouls the catcher’s toughest job—John Grabowski’s
great play that resulted in a change of rules—Holding
men on bases—The snap throw to first—Signs and
what they are—Ray Schalk the master 121
CHAPTER X
Team play—What it is—What it means—Signs and how
they operate—The pitch-out—Backing up the throw—The
cut-off play—How it was invented—The coaches,
and their duties—Miller Huggins puts one over—The
McGraw coaching system—A world series episode—The
old practice of signal stealing—How it operated—Out-of-date
now—Dangers of signal stealing 135
CHAPTER XI
Cobb is game’s greatest natural hitter—Is master of style—A
few Cobb yarns—Swing hitters and choke hitters—Importance
and weakness of each style—Gehrig’s
hitting style—What makes him great—Willie Keeler’s
motto—The value of waiting—Correcting batting
faults 149
CHAPTER XII
Hitting style—Naturalness at the plate—Simmons’ freak
batting stance—Joey Sewell has ideal stance—The
Ruthian swing—How it develops power—Selecting
the proper bat—Timing an important factor in hitting—How
to improve timing and swing 166
CHAPTER XIII
Hits are valuable only in so far as they score runs—Levsen
pitches two hit game and loses—Real test of hitting is
ability to smack ball when hits mean runs—The
danger of “tightening up”—Hitting slumps and how
to overcome them—Bunting, its value and use—Great
bunters and how they operated—The bunt
attack and how it is put over 180
CHAPTER XIV
Waiting ’em out!—Frank Chance puts one over—Jamieson
smacks the first one—Not always easy to wait—Trying
to outguess the pitcher—The intentional pass—Putting
on the hit and run play—Eddie Collins a
master at it—Huggins expresses an opinion 195
CHAPTER XV
The batting order—The kid idea—Getting the most out of
hitting strength—The lead-off man—Combs and
Waner are good—No reason why pitchers shouldn’t
be good hitters—A few examples—Heaviest hitters
bat third and fourth—That’s the scoring position 209
CHAPTER XVI
Team work counts—The hit and run, and when to use it—The
squeeze play—Urban Shocker puts it over great—A
bit of advice on base running—Great base runners
the game has seen—Schang pulls a good line on
Cobb—The slide an important feature of base running—Spiking
no longer done—The story of how
spiking began 224
CHAPTER XVII
Huggins a psychologist—How he put it over on the Pirates
in the world series—Baseball superstitions—McGraw
turns one to advantage and wins an important
series—College men in baseball—What they have
contributed to the game—Ball players who make
good outside of baseball—Zane Grey once a
professional—Billy Sunday and Governor Tener 240
CHAPTER XVIII
The men who play—What they are like off the field—Mere
human beings like other people—The road trips—Days
in the hotels—Fads and fancies—Koenig an
expert pianist—Hoyt a great reader—Huggins a financial
student—Shawkey a great hunter—Baseball,
with them, not a game but a business—The men who
play are business men 253
CHAPTER XIX
How the average fan looks on professional baseball—It is
a business but a short lived one—Why publicity
hurts sometimes—Keeping a physical edge—The
value of training—What it takes for success in baseball—A
few rules for the young player 270
CHAPTER XX
Some baseball laughs—The “battles” with the umpire—Tommy
Connolly puts over a fast one on Bob Veach—Joe
Dugan’s comeback at Jack Scott in the world
series—Bozeman Bulger’s colored umpire story—Charley
O’Leary weighs in with one—Sam Jones tops
it—A laugh on Rube Lutzke 284
Glossary of baseball terms 299
BABE RUTH’S OWN BOOK OF BASEBALL
CHAPTER I
The Baltimore River front—Street corner baseball—Days at St. Mary’s—The
first contract—A word of advice from Brother Gilbert—The big leagues at
last—The climb upward—Aid from team-mates—A $70,000 contract—Looking
back.
My earliest recollections center about the dirty, traffic-crowded
streets of Baltimore’s river front.
Crowded streets they were too, noisy with the roar of heavy trucks
whose drivers cursed and swore and aimed blows with their driving
whips, at the legs of kids who made the streets their playground.
And the youngsters, running wild, struck back and echoed the curses.
Truck-drivers were our enemies: so were the coppers patrolling their
beats, and so too were the shopkeepers who took bruising payment from
our skins for the apples and the fruit we “snitched” from their stands
and counters.
A rough, tough neighborhood, but I liked it.
There in those crooked winding streets I staged my first fight, and
lost it, I think. There too I played my first baseball. There I learned
to fear and to hate the coppers. Perhaps it was there, too, that I
learned to control my pitches. For tossing over-ripe apples, or aged
eggs at a truck driver’s head is mighty good practice—although I don’t
recommend it to the boys of today.
Many people thought I was an orphan. I wasn’t. My folks lived in
Baltimore and my father worked in the district where I was raised. We
were poor. Very poor. And there were times when we never knew where the
next meal was coming from. But I never minded. I was no worse off than
the other kids with whom I played and fought.
I don’t know how I happened to be sent to St. Mary’s school. As a
matter of fact it wasn’t so much a school as it was a home where kids
like me could be cared for and trained and taught as they should be.
All I remember is that I was a loose jointed, gangling dirty-faced
kid in knee pants playing in the street, where one day a round-faced
pleasant little man in clerical garb came over to talk to me.
I thought he was a priest and I called him Father, and tipped my cap
when I spoke to him.
“Not Father,” he said, smiling, “Just Brother—Brother Gilbert.”
Then he told me that I was to go with him, that I would be given a fine
home and taught things that would make me into a useful citizen. I
didn’t want to go. I liked the freedom of the street; liked the gang of
youngsters I played with and prowled with.
But I went.
For a while I wasn’t happy. I missed the crowds, and the dirt, and
the noise of the street. I missed the other kids. I even missed the
policemen and the beatings that came from the shopkeepers when we were
unfortunate enough to fall into their clutches. As I look back at it
now I realize that I must have been a real problem to the Brothers.
But Brother Gilbert stuck with me. I owe him a lot. More than I’ll ever
be able to repay.
It was Brother Gilbert who finally struck upon the thing to hold my
interest and keep me happy. It was baseball. Once I had been introduced
to school athletics I was satisfied and happy. Even as a kid I was big
for my years, and because of my size I used to get most any job I liked
on the team. Sometimes I pitched. Sometimes I caught, and frequently I
played the outfield and infield. It was all the same to me. All I
wanted was to play. I didn’t care much where.
As I grew older, Brother Gilbert encouraged me more and more. At
sixteen I had developed into a pretty good catcher and was beginning
to hit pretty well. I was tall and skinny in those days, and from some
of the pictures that still hang on the walls over at school I guess I
must have been about as funny looking a kid as ever got a trouncing for
cutting classes to go fishing.
There were a lot of fine men connected with the school in those days.
In addition to Brother Gilbert, there was Brother Mathias. What a
friend he was, as I found out during 1924 and 1925 when things were
breaking bad and I needed friends as I never had needed them before.
Then there were Brother Albin and Brother Paul—men whom I still see
frequently and who never fail to send me letters of congratulation
every time I do something worth while. These men are among the very few
people who call me George. To the rest of the world, and particularly
to the baseball fans I’m “Babe” and have been ever since I broke into
baseball. To the members of the Yankee ball Club I’m “Jedge.” That’s a
name that Benny Bengough tacked on me some two or three seasons ago,
and it has stuck. But to the Brothers down at St. Mary’s I’m George,
and always will be.
It’s a funny thing, incidentally, how many times a year I get letters
asking me how I got my nickname. Some of the newspaper boys made a
pretty good yarn out of it one time. They said that when I was a
little kid I always wanted to play ball with bigger boys, and when
they wouldn’t let me play I’d cry and howl until I had the whole
neighborhood disturbed. The big boys, according to his story, nicknamed
me “Baby” because I cried so much, then shortened it to Babe, as kids
will.
It’s a shame to spoil a good yarn like that, but as a matter of fact
the story is all wrong. A man named Steinam, who was coach of the
Baltimore Orioles when I joined the club in 1914, gave me the nickname.
The first day I reported at the clubhouse he said, “Well, here’s Jack’s
newest Babe now.”
And the name has stuck. I’ve been “Babe” ever since and I suppose I
will still be “Babe” when I’m an old, old man with wobbly legs and long
whiskers. They tell another story about the way I happened to get into
league baseball, too. According to some of the newspaper men, the
brothers at school tried me out at everything in the world. They had me
doing work in the garden, and they tried me out at carpentry. They had
me try bookkeeping for a while, and about everything else they could
think of. But I couldn’t seem to get the hang of any of them. Finally
(and don’t forget this is a newspaper yarn and not a confession)
Brother Gilbert sent for Jack Dunn, owner and manager of the Baltimore
club. Dunn came over and according to the story Brother Gilbert got him
off to one side and said:
“Jack, I’ve got a young fellow here that I want you to look over. I
don’t know that he’s a ball player, but I’m sure he must be. They
say every boy can do something well and I’ve tried this youngster at
everything else. It must be he’s a ball player.”
True or not, you’ve got to admit it’s a good story.
As a matter of fact Brother Gilbert was responsible for me getting a
chance. He used to coach our baseball team, and he liked the way I did
things. Lots of times he would point me out as an example to the other
boys, as a baseball player you understand, and finally, when I was
eighteen he wrote a letter to Jack Dunn telling him about me and asking
Jack to come around and see for himself.
Now baseball managers don’t usually look for prospective players on
schoolboy teams. And I imagine if St. Mary’s hadn’t been convenient and
handy Jack wouldn’t have paid any attention to the letter. But it was
only a few steps from his office to the school and he had nothing else
to do so he came over.
I’ll never forget the day Brother Gilbert called me over and introduced
me to Jack. I was flabbergasted. I hadn’t known about the letter and
the idea of shaking hands with a real professional baseball man was
almost too much. Jack was mighty good to me and talked for quite a
while about baseball. Finally he got me into a uniform and out in the
yard. He had me pitch to him for a half hour I guess, talking to me all
the time, and telling me not to strain and not to try too hard. I was a
pretty fair pitcher in those days if I do say so myself, and at the end
of a half hour Dunn called a halt and went into the office with Brother
Gilbert.
In about a half hour they called me in and Brother Gilbert explained
that Mr. Dunn thought I would make a ball player and wanted me to
sign a contract with the Baltimore Orioles. Since I wasn’t yet of
age, Brother Gilbert explained, Mr. Dunn would take out papers as
my guardian and would be responsible for me when I was away from the
school.
“How about it young man,” Dunn asked me, “do you want to play baseball?”
I guess I must have come near falling over in my excitement. Did I want
to play baseball? Does a fish like to swim or a squirrel climb trees?
I didn’t even pause to ask questions.
“Sure,” I said, “I’ll play. When do I start?”
But Brother Gilbert stopped me.
“Wait a minute, George,” he said, “this is a serious business. Boys
play baseball for fun, but you’re a man now and you’re taking a man’s
job. You know playing professional baseball isn’t like playing on the
sandlots. You’ll find the men on the Baltimore team know a lot more
baseball than you do. And it won’t be easy. Besides,” he added, “I want
you to understand all the arrangements. Mr. Dunn has agreed to pay you
$600 for the six-months season. That’s approximately $25 a week. Will
you be satisfied with that?”
Looking back now of course, six hundred dollars doesn’t look like
much money. But that day, there in the school office, it sounded like
a fortune. And twenty-five dollars a week! Why I’d be as rich as
Rockefeller, I thought. And for playing baseball! I never even
hesitated. If Brother Gilbert expected me to do any serious thinking he
certainly got a disappointment that day.
“Sure, I’d like it,” I said, and said it fast too, for fear Dunn might
change his mind. And so it was arranged. A contract was drawn up, and I
signed it. Then I beat it out of doors to tell the rest of the boys.
In the years that have gone by I’ve had a lot of thrills. I got one
when I pitched my first world series game. I get one every time I hit a
ball over the fence and I got a big one that day last fall when I hit
my sixtieth home run and broke my old record. But none of these could
compare to the thrill that came the day I paraded out to the playground
and told the rest of the boys that I was signed to a contract—a real,
honest-to-goodness professional baseball player!
Less than two years ago I sat in Colonel Ruppert’s private office in
New York and signed my name again—this time to a three year contract
calling for $70,000 a year. The newspaper boys were on hand, and the
photographers, and the whole baseball world made a great ado about
this signing. But honestly, that new contract for the largest salary
ever paid a ball player didn’t give me half the kick I got that
afternoon back in 1914 when I signed with Jack Dunn to play ball with
the Baltimore Orioles at $25 a week.
Speaking of that last contract signing, reminds me of a good laugh I
had at the expense of the newspaper boys. There were a couple of dozen
of them sticking around when I signed, some of them fellows who had
been traveling with the Yankees for several seasons; fellows whom I
know intimately and well. Yet in their stories, every one of them wrote
about me signing that contract with my left hand and some of the papers
even ran pictures showing me signing left-handed!
How they managed it I don’t know—for as a matter of fact I write with
my right hand now, and I always have. I’m left-handed in everything
else I do, but when it comes to writing I’m just as right-handed as any
right-hander you ever saw. It just goes to show that people take a lot
of things for granted. They don’t observe things closely, particularly
things about which they feel confident.
Most of the rest of my story everyone knows.
I went with the Orioles and was fortunate enough to make good. In fact
I never for a moment thought that I wouldn’t. I don’t believe I was
cocky and I don’t believe I was any fresher than the average rookie who
gets a chance to sign a contract—but I was confident.
I played for Jack Dunn for a month and at the end of that time he
raised my contract six hundred dollars more, just doubling the original
amount. At the end of the second month he added another six hundred.
And right here let me say one thing. I’ve heard a lot of talk and read
a lot of stuff in the newspapers about club owners being tightwads and
all that sort of thing. If they are I have never discovered it. In my
baseball experience I’ve found them fair at all times, always willing
to pay a man what they considered he was worth. Never in my life have
I ever been a serious hold-out, and never have I had any very bitter
salary arguments with my owners.
Of course Colonel Ruppert may be an exception. Many people tell me he
is. And he is the only man I’ve had to do business with since I’ve
been in the big-money class. But he certainly has been fair and square
always, in all his dealings with me. The tip-off on that is the fact
that it took us less than twenty minutes to agree to terms in 1927,
when I signed my last contract.
In 1914 Jack Dunn sold me to the Boston Red Sox. I was in the big
leagues sure enough.
I’ve never been back to the minors since. In 1914, after I reported
to the Red Sox I got into four ball games. Not many, but a start, at
least. The next year I was in forty-two. Since then I’ve never been in
less.
Going to the Red Sox was a great break. In those days the Red Sox were
as much kings of the baseball walk as the Yankees are today. Then I
was on the same club with Bill Carrigan, one of the finest chaps I
ever knew, and one of the best coaches of young pitchers there is in
the game. With the Red Sox I really began to learn a little baseball.
We had a great pitching staff in those days. Joe Wood, Dutch Leonard,
Ernie Shore, Hugh Bedient, George Foster—what an array that was! And
chaps, all of them, who not only know how to pitch themselves, but
fellows who could teach others as well. Joe Wood was so good as an
instructor, in fact, that he’s still at it—coaching baseball up at Yale
where I see him quite often.
A young fellow couldn’t have been with a better outfit to learn the
game. While I didn’t realize it at the time, I was learning some real
baseball from two other fellows on the club, too; learning lessons
that were to help me a whole lot later on. These two were Harry Hooper
and Tris Speaker. I’ve always maintained, and I still believe, that
Harry Hooper was one of the greatest outfielders who ever lived. As a
defensive player I believe he rated even higher than Tris Speaker, and
that’s going-some. It was from these two that I learned a lot about
playing the outfield, and it was their coaching and their example which
made it easy for me to switch to the outfield later on when I joined
the New York club.
In the Red Sox days I didn’t think much of becoming a slugger. I liked
to hit. All fellows do. There isn’t a man in baseball today who isn’t
happiest when he’s up there at the plate with a stick in his hand.
But it was pitching which took my time in Boston. And one of the
proudest records I hold to this day is that of having pitched the most
consecutive scoreless innings in world series play.
And another accomplishment of those Boston pitching days which still
makes me grin every time I think of it, occurred in a game I pitched in
Detroit. In that game, in the ninth inning with nobody out and the Red
Sox holding a one-run lead, I struck out Bob Veach, Ty Cobb and Sam
Crawford in a row. No home run in the world ever brought a greater kick
than that.
As to my home run hitting—well, I suppose I get a hundred letters a
season asking me about my first home run. To tell the honest truth
I don’t remember exactly when I made it, or who was pitching at the
time. I suppose it’s all written down in the records somewhere, but I’m
honest when I say I don’t remember. I know it was sometime in 1915.
During my playing days in Boston I made a lot of friends and liked
the place a lot. When I was sold to New York I left with a great deal
of real regret. Even now when I go back to Boston for a series it’s
just like going home. I don’t believe I have any more real friends any
where, or any more boosters, than I have up there at Fenway Park where
I started my big league career.
I went to New York in 1920 and I’ve been there ever since. I hope I can
remain there and finish my big league career with the Yankees. New York
has been mighty good to me. Like all young fellows, I’ve made mistakes.
Several times I’ve got away on the wrong foot. Once or twice I’ve been
in bad with the baseball authorities. I’ve figured in rows with the
umpires and fights with fans. But those days are over. I know better
now.
Tommy Connolly, the umpire, and I hold one joint record. The last time
Tommy was forced to kick a player out of the ball game was back in
1922. I was the player. Tommy has had a clean record since that day. So
have I. That’s the last time I have had a serious run-in with an umpire.
During the years that I’ve been in the big leagues, stories have been
printed about me that were complimentary—and a lot of things have been
said which weren’t exactly compliments. I’ve had my ups and my downs,
and there have been times when it looked as though my baseball career
was over and finished. In 1925 when I collapsed in Asheville, during
the spring training trip, a lot of people figured I’d never put on a
uniform again. That sickness taught me a lesson. It was my own fault.
I took life easy all winter, put on a lot of fat and overweight, then
tried to boil and fast myself into shape in a couple of weeks. It can’t
be done.
All through the years though, from first to last, I’ve had one lot of
friends who have stuck by me. That’s the kids.
I’m proud of my record in baseball, and I’d be ungrateful to say
otherwise. Every time I drive in a run, every time I hit a ball over
the fence or hear the cheers of the bleacher fans ringing in my ears I
get a great kick. I suppose I always will.
The first year I broke into baseball I got one fan letter—and that one
was from Brother Gilbert.
Last year there were 20,000 letters in my mail, from every part of
the globe and every state in the Union. I had a letter from a Brahman
priest in India, and I had a letter from a condemned man in a Cuban
jail. I had a letter from an eight year old boy in Germany and another
from a college professor in Japan.
To answer them all would be impossible. But I like to get them. Seems
to me as though they’re part of my pay. But I’m not kidding myself. The
“razz-berries” are just as easy to collect as the cheers. The people
who cheer me from the stands or write me letters aren’t interested so
much in Babe Ruth as they are in something else. They’re interested in
baseball.
All ball players realize that sooner or later.
What a game it is!
No wonder a fellow gets a kick out of being in it and part of it. No
wonder we’re proud, all of us, to be ball players!