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.
I can remember as a kid that an outfielder’s job was looked upon as a
sort of necessary evil. Nobody wanted to be a fielder, and the poorest,
slowest, littlest fellows in the game were the ones who were chased out
to the “gardens.”
Ring Lardner or one of the baseball humorists once wrote a wise crack
about that same thing. “They call it left field,” he wrote, “because
they fill all the other places first and then if there’s any one left
they send him out there.”
Kids have funny ideas. Back in my kid days the fellow who was lucky
enough to own a ball or a bat naturally became captain of the team. And
the captain always appointed himself pitcher. If we had some stocky,
fat kid in the gang we made him a shortstop on the hunch that
balls hit to short were always fast and hard and it took a stocky kid
to field them. Little fellows were always made into second basemen.
Maybe that was because John Evers of the Cubs and Miller Huggins of the
Cincinnati Reds were in their prime then, and they were small men.
And of course playing the outfield was the crowning insult. Nobody
wanted to go out there—and many a kid fight developed over who had to
“chase flies” in the outer gardens.
As a matter of fact the outfield is a mighty important post in
baseball, and some of the greatest stars the game has known have been
outfielders. Men like Harry Hooper, Tris Speaker, Ty Cobb, Eddie Roush,
Paul Waner, Goose Goslin, Frank Schulte and fellows of that type have
played a big part in the development of baseball.
And outfielders today, have got to have a lot of ability, if they
expect to hold their jobs.
They’ve got to have speed and be able to get underway quickly. More
than any other players on the club, they must have the ability to judge
the flight of a hard-hit ball and do it instantly. They must be able to
throw far and accurately, and above all else they must be able to
stand up there at the plate and hit the ball.
Managers of the big league ball clubs today, frequently will carry a
second baseman or a short stop on his fielding ability. They’re willing
to sacrifice a little hitting ability for the sake of smooth infield
defense. But an outfielder is expected to be a hitter—and if he can’t
hit he won’t last long.
So far as actual work is concerned the outfielder has one of the
easiest jobs on the ball club. Even on a busy day he isn’t called upon
to handle more than six or eight chances, and there are scores of
games during the course of the season when he never handles a single
ball. Nor is he called upon to make the quick starts and stops, the
snap throws or the hurried plays that are required of an infielder.
The strain isn’t so great on his arms and his legs. The result is that
the playing life of an outfielder is usually longer than that of an
infielder.
Baseball history proves the statement. Eddie Collins is the only
infielder in either league right now, who has been in the game for
fifteen years. There have been several outfielders whose careers
covered that long or longer. Ty Cobb, Tris Speaker, Zach Wheat, Max
Carey—all of them went well past the fifteen year mark. So did
Willie Keeler, Jimmy Sheckard, King Kelly and a lot of the old-timers.
Outfield play has changed a lot in the last few years. Fifteen years
ago, before the rabbit ball came into existence, and in the era when
hitters choked their hits and tried for direction more than distance,
the outfielders ranged close in. They took more chances on a ball going
over their heads, than they do now. And they were called upon to do a
lot more throwing. A strong throwing arm was absolutely necessary to an
outfielder ten years ago—and many a run was cut down at the plate by a
good throw.
Now, however, since the rabbit ball has come into being and hitters are
aiming at the fences, the outfielders play far out and the throwing
end of the game is not as important as it once was. The distances are
so great that a throw home from most outfield positions is almost
impossible. And center fielders in particular have little or no chance
to nail their man on a long fly. And by the way, that explains why
managers arrange their outfielders to put the weak thrower in center
field, if possible.
Don’t get me wrong. A great throwing arm is still a mighty helpful
thing to an outfielder. But not so necessary as it used to be. A fellow
with a weak arm can hold a job these days. Fifteen years ago he would
have been turned loose.
There are some mighty sweet throwing arms among the big league
outfielders today. Bob Meusel of the Yankees, has one of the greatest
arms in the business. I’ve seen Bob make a running catch in left field
and then throw to first base for a double play. That’s real throwing.
And with Bob playing left field, there are mighty few runners will
score from third base on a short fly to left. He’s caught so many of
them that they’re all scared now. They don’t even try to take a base on
him.
Harry Rice, the little outfielder who used to be with the Browns and is
now with the Tigers, is another boy who can whip that ball around. So
can the Waner brothers of the ♦Pittsburgh Pirates.
♦ “Pittsburg” replaced with “Pittsburgh”
This subject brings up a rather interesting point. A lot of folks
figure that my pitching experience has helped me in making throws
from the outfield. Personally I don’t think so. The pitching throw is
entirely different from the outfield throw. The pitcher uses a snap
motion to give the ball a “hop.” The outfield throw is long and smooth
and easy. It has more of the full arm and less of the wrist than a
pitching throw.
One of the fellows who has managed to get by in big league baseball
despite a weak arm is Eddie Brown of the Boston Braves. I’m told Eddie
can’t throw a lick—and opposing teams all know it. But playing in
center field he finds little occasion for real throwing, and he always
has the aid of his infield in making a relay. And what he lacks in
throwing power he more than makes up in his ability to “go get ’em” and
to slam that ball on the nose.
John McGraw tried an interesting experiment a few years ago when he
had George Kelly at first base and some indifferent throwers in the
outfield. On fly balls that required a play at the plate John would
send Kelly scampering into the outfield to relay the throw. I’ve seen
him go chasing all the way from first base to deep short to help Irish
Meusel get the ball back, and it wasn’t at all unusual to see him
stepping out to short center to grab a throw from Jimmy O’Connell.
Kelly had and still has one of the greatest throwing arms in the
business. The Yankees know it and how! One of the greatest plays
ever pulled in a world series was pulled by this same Kelly in 1923.
Joe Dugan was on third base and I was at bat. I got hold of a fast
ball and sent it down the first base line a mile a minute. It looked
like a two bagger sure. But somehow Kelly managed to get over to the
ball and knocked it down with his gloved hand. That ball rolled about
three feet away but he was after it like a flash, and then without
even straightening up he shot the ball to Frank Snyder at the plate in
time to get Dugan trying to score from third base. Nobody but Kelly
could have made that play. That was one instance where a great throwing
arm meant a ball game—for that single play beat us out. The boys were
whipped the minute it was pulled.
I’ve seen a lot of great outfielders come and go since I’ve been in the
big leagues. I saw Ty Cobb when he was in his prime—though Ty never was
as great a defensive player as he was a hitter. He’s one star who was
hampered by a rather weak arm, and he had a weakness on ground balls
too.
Tris Speaker was right at the top of his game when I broke in too—and
Tris at his best came mighty near being the daddy of all fly-chasers.
But I think there’s one man in my experience who was even better
than Cobb and Speaker. He comes about as near being the perfect
outfielder as any man I ever saw. And that was Harry Hooper, the great
Red Sox outfielder who finally ended his career with the Chicago White
Sox. Harry Hooper had everything. He could hit, he could field and he
could throw. I never saw a man who could go back on a ball as well
as Harry. Most outfielders, when a ball is hit over their head, run
sideways in an effort to keep their eye on the ball all the time.
But not Harry. He would take one squint, then turn his back and run
to the place where the ball was headed. And in all his career I don’t
believe he misjudged a half dozen balls. Few outfielders can do that.
Following a fly ball in flight and catching it is one thing. But
turning your back at the crack of the bat and running at top speed,
then turning in time to grab the ball out of the air is something else
again.
Harry could come in on a ball too, with the best of them. Coming in to
take a ball at the shoe strings, of course, was Tris Speaker’s best
stunt. There was no one quite in his class, but Harry came pretty
close. And if Speaker was a little heavier hitter—he certainly was no
better than Hooper in a pinch.
Hooper and Speaker were playing together in Boston when I broke
in, and with them was Duffy Lewis. What an outfield! Perhaps not the
best of all time, but one of the best. Duffy rated right along with
the other two. A funny fellow was Duffy Lewis. One of the pleasantest,
squarest, friendliest fellows in baseball, he had more friends than
any player I ever knew. He had a fad for dress too—and he certainly
was the clothes horse of the league. His neckties used to be the envy
of everyone on the circuit, and I never saw him when he didn’t look as
though he had just stepped out of a tailor shop.
There are a lot of well-dressed men in baseball. Waite Hoyt is a
regular tailor’s model and Clarence Rowland and Billy Evans, the
umpires, were the “glass of fashion” and the “mould of form,” as
the style experts call it. Bill Veeck of the Cubs is another neat
dresser, and Bob Meusel always looks like the advertisements of what
the well-dressed man will wear. But none of them had anything on Duffy
Lewis. He was old Kid Fashion himself.
Speaker, Lewis and Hooper taught me about everything I know about
playing the outfield. They were students of the game always, and mighty
few tricks of the outfielding trade ever got by them. I’ve heard
them, sitting around the clubhouse in Boston, go right down the list
of American league hitters and tell where each one hit, and why. They
weren’t content to know that Joe Judge, for instance, was usually a
right field hitter. They wanted to know where Joe hit a fast one and a
slow one, what he did with a high ball outside or a low one inside, and
they always insisted on knowing just what the pitcher was going to do
with each ball he pitched.
That’s the most important part of an outfielder’s business. Too many
amateurs figure that all an outfielder has to do is go out there and
chase flies. But the real outfielder studies the hitters as closely as
does the pitcher. They shift with every man who comes to the plate,
moving in and back and to and fro like a lot of policemen looking for a
riot.
One of the best men in the business today at judging a hitter is Max
Carey, the old Pirate captain, now with the Brooklyn Robins. Max has
lost a lot of his speed, and the old throwing arm isn’t what it used
to be, but he can still judge a ball before it is hit with the best of
them. And it keeps him out there playing regularly while a lot of other
fellows, faster and better mechanically, are picking up splinters on
the bench.
Of course there are a few general rules. A left hand hitter for
instance is apt to be a right field hitter, while a right hand hitter
is more apt to hit to left or center field. With a fast ball pitcher
working, outfielders as a rule, play a little further back than when
a slow ball pitcher is working. But these rules are not iron-bound,
and the good outfielder never sticks too close to such rules. He views
the hitter as an individual and studies his individual style, knowing
that two men who hit in much the same fashion may still hit to opposite
fields.
One of the best all around outfielders in the business today is Al
Simmons of the Athletics. He has a peculiar fielding style. Simmons
takes a long loping stride when running, and from the stands it doesn’t
appear as though he covered much ground. But when you’ve hit a few
out his direction and seen him gallop across after them, you realize
your dope is all wrong. Al is squatter and heavier than the average
outfielder too.
If you pay particular attention you’ll find that most outfielders
are of the greyhound type—slim, with long legs, and inclined to
“skinnyness.” Bob Meusel and Earl Combs of the Yankees are of this
type. Ty Cobb used to be, though in recent years he is filling out
and putting on weight. Sam Rice of the Washington Senators—a whale of
an outfielder in his prime, Kenny Williams of the Boston Red Sox, Eddie
Roush of the Giants, Max Carey of the Brooklyn club all are of that
general type.
Though of course there are exceptions. For instance I’ve been playing
the outfield for some years, and no one can say I have a boyish form.
And then there’s Al Simmons, mentioned before, and Hack Wilson of the
Cubs and Bob Fothergill of the Tigers. Round, tubby fellows all of
them. But they get their speed in spite of their weight, not because of
it.
One of the greatest outfielders the game has known in recent years
is Johnny Mostil of the White Sox. Johnny is one of the fastest men
after a fly ball I ever saw. He made a catch off me in White Sox park
a couple of seasons ago that was a heart-breaker. The ball was hit far
over his head to the center field wall. He turned his back with the
crack of the bat and sped at full tilt to the wall, then turned and
took the ball with a leap. Naturally he crashed into the concrete and
how he held it is more than I can figure. But he did—for one of the
greatest outfield plays I ever saw, and one that robbed me of a
home run.
Two other great outfield plays stand out in my mind, of all I have
seen. One was made by Bib Falk of the White Sox. He was playing left
field at the Stadium and with Joe Bush up as a pinch hitter. Bib played
well back and over toward center. Joe hit a line drive over third base
and down the foul line. Bib came in fast, made a last dive for the ball
and caught it as he was sliding along on his stomach. He took the ball
with the gloved hand, not more than two inches off the ground, and then
turned a complete flip-flop across the cinder path. His face and both
arms were cut with the cinders and when he came to the bench he was
covered with blood. But he held the ball.
The other outstanding catch I remember was Sam Rice’s play on Earl
Smith’s long liner in the 1925 world series—a play which won the game
for the Senators and came near starting a baseball war.
You probably remember how it all happened. The Pirates were a run
behind with two out and two on when Earl hit this one. It had home run
labeled all over it and was headed squarely for the temporary bleachers
in center field. But Sam came tearing across, made a dive and took
the ball just as he tumbled over the low railing and into the crowd.
There’s still a lot of argument as to whether or not he held the ball.
But the umpires said he did and I’m willing to take their word for it.
Anyhow it was a great performance.
Hitters, of course, are always trying to cross up outfielders. Now
and then they get away with it. One of the best laughs I ever had in
my life was at the expense of Charley Jamieson, the Cleveland left
fielder, and a good one too. Over in Cleveland the outfield plays me
entirely to right. The right fielder moves back to the wall, close to
the foul line. The center fielder goes over to the right field wall in
right center and the left fielder swings around to deep center. That
leaves left field wide open.
This particular day I saw Jamieson way over in center and decided to
try and push the ball to left. Uhle was pitching and whether he was
attempting to cross me up or simply made a mistake I don’t know. Anyhow
he pitched inside and I got a perfect drive down the third base line.
It looked like a three bagger sure, but the sight of Jamieson tearing
across that field on his little short legs as if somebody was chasing
him got to me. I was laughing as I left the plate and I was
laughing as I turned first base. So were the fans and the rest of the
Cleveland club. It was a lot funnier to see than it was to tell about,
and I got laughing so hard that instead of reaching third base I only
got to second.
I’ve seen outfielders crossed up a lot in my day, but I never saw one
as completely fooled as Jamie was that time—and how he ran, trying to
get back into left field and grab that ball!
Which is just about the story of outfielding except this. Catching fly
balls, judging them for height, distance and direction is simply a
matter of practice. Even the best outfielders after a winter’s lay off,
look foolish on fly balls when they start to work in the spring. You’ve
got to chase them, and chase them, and then chase them some more.
Practice and practice alone will do it!
And if a man isn’t willing to practice hard and long he better stick
out of the outfield. Otherwise he’s apt to get one in the head some day
and be carted to the hospital.