The infield—The greatest play of the 1927 world series—Joe Dugan pulled
it—Lazzeri spikes Pirates’ 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.
In the 1927 world series there were a lot of plays that stood out. One
of the prettiest plays I ever saw was Joe Dugan’s fielding and throw of
a slow bunt down the third base line in that final game. But by that
time most of the fight had been taken out of the Pirates anyhow, and
Joe’s contribution was just one more to a long list of breath-takers.
One of the most important plays of the series so far as its after
effect was concerned, came in the first game, and Tony Lazzeri was the
boy who pulled it. The details, as I remember them, were about like
this.
George Grantham, a sweet ball player and a mighty fast man on the
bases, was first up to open the inning. He worked Hoyt for a base
on balls and the stage was set for a sharp Pirate attack. Joe Harris,
one of the best of the Pirate hitters, followed Grantham at the plate
and he signalled Grantham for the hit and run. Just as Hoyt drew back
to pitch Grantham leaped for second and Joe Harris smacked the ball
squarely on the nose. Lazzeri had leaned toward second with the pitch
and was starting as if to cover, but caught himself in time. With
perfect timing he scooped up the ball and tagged Grantham out as he
tore for second. Then with the same motion he shot the ball to Gehrig
and Harris was doubled at first base.
So far as actual play was concerned the play was good and snappy, but
not spectacular. But it was a death blow to the Pirates just the same.
For when that play was pulled it showed them that we had an infield
that could click under pressure, and a second baseman who knew what
to do in the face of a hit and run attack. Right off the bat it made
the Pirates doubtful about their best attacking method, and when a bit
later Tony pulled the same play they were thoroughly convinced.
The point is that second base is the pivot of all infield play. Give
any ball club a second baseman and a short-stop who can work
together in perfect harmony with each knowing the other’s style and
methods and you’ve solved four-fifths of the infield troubles right
there. By that I don’t mean that the second baseman and the shortstop
must be stars. There are mighty few real stars there, or elsewhere. But
there are some mighty sweet ball players—and the minute you get two who
can work together you’ve got a rare combination.
As a matter of fact the best pair I ever saw around second base weren’t
in the big leagues at all. They were Neil Ball and Clyde Derrick, and
they were playing with the Baltimore Orioles when I broke in. Ball
had been a star at one time, but when I knew him his career was about
closed. Old time fans will remember him. He’s one of the few big league
players who ever made a triple play unassisted. As for Derrick, I don’t
think he ever gained any great fame.
Just the same though, playing together, they were a great combination.
One seemed to know, always, just what the other would do—and I’ve seen
them field and throw balls without even looking, they were so confident
that the other would be there to make the play. Their best stunt was
going over back of second base to field balls that looked like sure
base hits, and no matter which one went after the ball, the other was
right on hand to keep it winging on its way.
Just how important that second base combination is, can be shown by
the fact that 99 percent of the teams that win pennants are strong in
that department. They may be weak elsewhere: they may have only fair
pitching or poor outfielding, or maybe a weakness at first or third or
behind the bat—but almost always you find them with a great combination
at second and short. From what the old-timers tell me, Joe Tinker and
Johnny Evers must have been about as great as any of them. I never saw
them working together, but they had to have something to be remembered
through all these years.
Of the big league combinations I have seen, there are three or four
that stick out in my mind. Barry and Collins of the old Athletics were
one pair. Eddie was the master mind of that outfit, and he continued to
shine as a second baseman long after Jack Barry was through. Eddie left
the Athletics to go with the White Sox, and there he paired up with
Risberg and Buck Weaver. There was another great combination.
Probably no other two men on the club had more to do with the
Washington victory in 1924 and 1925 than Bucky Harris and Roger
Peckinpaugh. Peck, incidentally, is the best shortstop I ever knew, I
think. In his prime he could do everything that anyone would ask—and in
addition he knew his baseball from front to back. He was smart, and one
of the best points he had was an uncanny ability to size up a play.
One of the pet tricks of some smart hitters—fellows like Cobb and
Collins and hitters of that type—is to fake a swing to draw the
shortstop out of position, and then hit one through him. In all the
time I have been in the league I’ve never seen Peck fooled on that
play, and I’ve seen fellows try it a lot. In fact I’ve tried it myself,
and nearly twisted my neck out of joint trying to snap the ball to left
field.
Naturally I don’t know so much about the National League. I see
those players only in world series games and occasionally during the
summer when we have an off day, but I did see enough of the Giants to
know that Bancroft and Frisch made a great pair around second. Like
Peckinpaugh with Harris, Bancroft was the boy who supplied the quick
thinking and Frankie came through with the smart mechanical stuff.
Some of the plays that pair pulled against us in the 1923 world series
were plain and simple murder. I’ve never asked John McGraw point blank,
but I’ve got a hunch that if you asked him to name the two men on his
club most responsible for the Giant pennants in 1922 and 1923, Banny
and Frank are the players he would name.
Aside from the mere ability to dig balls out of the dirt, the most
important requirement for a good second baseman or shortstop, as I see
it, is the ability to throw from any position, and to snap the ball
with both speed and control. That’s because of the double play. And
don’t mistake the importance of that two-ply killing. It’s the greatest
single item in a team’s defense.
Up in the big leagues we always sort of take it for granted that a
ground ball to the infield will be one out. But it’s the fellows who
are in there getting two at a time who really take rank as stars. And
double plays aren’t easy. The place where most infielders fall down on
a double play is in pivoting for the throw. That’s where Bucky Harris
of the Washington Senators is a past master. Bucky makes his pivot,
tags his man if necessary, and gets the ball away to first all with
the same motion. And on a play of that sort the split part of a second
means the difference between a runner being out or safe.
In throwing, the weight, at the time the ball is delivered, is on the
left foot. (That is for right hand throwers and all infielders except
first basemen are usually right handed.) Naturally in making a double
play, if you can touch second with your left foot and throw at the
moment your foot touches the bag you can make the play more quickly
than if you tag up with your right foot and then have to take a step
forward for the throw. Watch Bucky sometime and you’ll see that nine
times out of ten he tags up with his left foot and goes right on
through with his motion. Sometimes of course that is impossible, and
then he resorts to a quick, underhand snap throw. But the other is
best, and he uses it most of the time.
The shortstop should have an arm that is nearly perfect. His throws are
longer than those of the second baseman, and usually must be delivered
with more speed because he makes his plays deeper and the batter gets a
longer start on balls hit to short. Everett Scott, the old Yankee and
Red Sox “iron man” was one of the most accurate throwers I ever saw
in the shortfield. Scotty “trolley wired” his throws as the boys say.
In other words, he sent them on the same straight line every time, as
though the ball was traveling on some invisible wire.
One of the best throwing arms in the league today is possessed by young
Reeves, a rookie brought up by the Washington Senators last year.
That kid throws like a bullet and right to the mark. He isn’t much of
a hitter and I’m not sure he’s good enough in the field to make the
grade, but he certainly can toss that onion. Travis Jackson of the
Giants is another great thrower.
The boys tell a story of a play Travis made in Cincinnati the year he
broke in. Poor old Jake Daubert was playing with the Reds then and he
hit a hot ground ball through the box and just inside second base. Jake
took one look and started jogging to first base. That hit had base hit
labeled all over it.
But Jackson went across fast, grabbed the ball out of the dirt, with
one hand, then straightened up and sent the ball whizzing like a bullet
to Kelly. Daubert was out by half a stride and went back to the bench
cussing to himself.
“What a play,” some of the boys on the bench remarked. “There
isn’t another shortstop in the league could have made it!”
“Yeh and nobody but that young fool out there would even have tried
it,” was Jake’s reply.
One of the toughest plays that either a shortstop or second baseman is
called upon to make, is to go back into the short outfield for high pop
flies. Taking a ball in front of you is one thing, but running back to
take a fly ball over your shoulder is something else again. Some of the
boys never do get the knack of it.
Rogers Hornsby is one of the fellows who find this a tough job. Rog is
a great second baseman—one of the greatest of all time—but he can’t go
after pop flies as he should. He has tried and tried, and down South
they tell me he practices by the hour, but somehow he can’t seem to get
the hang of it.
Frankie Frisch and Tony Lazzeri, on the other hand, are wizards at this
particular stunt. I’ve seen Frisch go way over to the right field foul
line and come up with the ball. And one of the greatest plays I’ve ever
seen in my whole career was pulled by Frankie Frisch in the 1923 world
series when he went into center field back of second base, leaped in
the air and caught Ward’s pop fly over his shoulder with one hand,
and then whirled and threw to the plate in time to catch Dugan scoring
from third.
Of all the difficult plays I’ve ever seen, that one still stands out in
my mind as the greatest.
People have asked me why it is the second baseman and shortstop go into
right or left for pop flies instead of the first or third baseman. The
answer is easy. They’re in better position to see the ball and the
play. If a first baseman goes into right field for a pop fly he has
to turn his back. The same with a third baseman on a pop fly to left.
But the second baseman or shortstop can run at an angle and still keep
their eye on the ball throughout its flight. It’s the old, old story
that a man can make more speed running forward than he can backward,
and you’ve got a better chance of catching a ball that you can see in
flight than you have of taking one blind, over your shoulder. This
again is a play that can be perfected only by constant practice. Mark
Koenig is a fine example of that. Mark is one of those nervous, high
strung fellows who will undergo real agony while standing under a pop
fly waiting for it to come down. The first year Mark was with the
Yankees he kicked pop flies all around the place. He was so bad that
once he was hit in the face by a falling ball, and two or three
times he got hit on the chest and arms.
But he kept trying—and last season he had so improved himself that he
went through the entire season without dropping a single pop fly that
he was able to get his hands on.
The first requirement of good play at second and short is complete
understanding and cooperation. You’ve got to have a set of signals—we
always call them “signs” in baseball—that are quickly and easily
understood so there will be no mistaking as to who is to cover the bag
or take the throw. Sometimes of course signs are not necessary. With
a man on first base and a natural right field hitter up, the second
baseman naturally plays over and the shortstop covers up. On a left
field hitter the play is exactly opposite. Those are what we call
“naturals.”
But there are a lot of other situations that arise when it is
absolutely necessary for the shortstop and second baseman to have
signs. And it’s a lot better if the pitcher, catcher, and other
infielders know what is happening too. Then there’s very little chance
for a mix-up.
Another confusing play for the beginner at second base is the handling
of a drag bunt or slow roller between first and the pitcher’s
box. There’s no rule for such a play. It’s just a matter of practice
and understanding between the first and second baseman. If the ball is
within reach of the first baseman, then it’s up to the second baseman
to cover first and take the throw. Otherwise the first baseman holds
his bag and the second baseman fields the ball.
Speaking of drag bunts, that is one of the greatest weaknesses in
the Yankees’ infield play. Tony Lazzeri and Lou Gehrig have played
tiddle-winks on more drag bunts and slow rollers than any pair I ever
knew. Lou somehow just can’t get the knack of judging balls like that
and at times he drives Tony nutty. But he’s improving—and in another
season or two he’ll have the thing down pat.
But even the ability to do all the things I’ve outlined above—and do
them well—doesn’t mean that a man will be a great infielder. There’s
still that business of “tagging the runner” to look out for and that
isn’t easy at all. Tagging a man properly is an art. I’ve seen some
great looking kids come up to the big leagues, kids who seemed to have
everything. But they didn’t stick, because they couldn’t “put the ball
on the runner.”
Eddie Collins is a master in this specialty. Eddie always manages
to get squarely between the runner and the bag, and let the runner
slide into the ball. A lot of players are spike shy. That is, they’re
just a little bit afraid of the spikes as a runner comes sliding into
the bag. A spike shy player will never make an infielder. It can’t be
done.
I never knew John Evers in his prime, but I guess John must have been
a master at putting the ball on a runner. One of the best yarns I ever
heard Casey Stengel tell was about his experiences when he broke in.
His first time up he got a hit and a moment later went sliding into
second base past Evers.
Casey was a fresh rookie and always had something to say. He said it
this time.
“I thought you were such a whiz around that second bag,” Casey said to
Evers. “But I was a little too smooth for you, eh? Are you the best
they have in this league?”
“Listen, Rookie” Johnny replied, “the next time you come down here
you’d better wear a tin helmet. I’m going to slam that ball right down
your throat!”
“And,” says Casey, “he did it too!”
In the old days base runners used to go into the bag with their spikes
high intentionally. Basemen were considered fair game at all times,
and if the base runner could cut the legs or hands or arms of the
basemen he did it. By the same rule the baseman felt free to tag the
runner out with a swing to the jaw or any other tender portion of his
body. Basemen, too, in the old days had a little trick of jumping in
the air and coming down on the hands and legs of the runner as he slid.
Those days are pretty much past now. Deliberate spiking isn’t permitted
any more, and when such things occur in these days it’s a hundred to
one that it was an accident pure and simple. None the less there’s
always danger so long as men slide—and always will be. And the good
baseman is on his guard. The ability to tag fast and get away has saved
many a pair of shins. It’s part of the art of infield play.