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.
The 1927 world series proved that baseball men don’t come any smarter
than Miller Huggins, manager of the Yankees. Hug pulled three things in
that series that stood out like the warts on a pickle.
The first one happened the day before the series opened. We were to
work out in the Pirate Park, and the Pirates had their workout just
before we took the field. We came out from the club house. Most of
the Pirates had dressed and were sitting in the stands to watch us go
through our practice.
Hug spotted them at once. He called Pennock and Shawkey over.
“Listen,” he said. “Those fellows are out here to watch us so
we’ll show them something. You two fellows will pitch hitting practice.
When you go in there lay that ball right down the middle. Don’t put
anything on it. Let’s show those fellows some real hitting!”
Combs was the first man up. He plunked the first pitch into the center
field stands. Koenig swung twice, bouncing one ball off the right field
wall, and the other off the left field barrier.
Then I came up. Bob laid them right down the middle, with just enough
speed to make them perfect. The first ball I hit over the roof of the
right field grandstand. I put another one into the lower tier. Then I
got hold of one and laid it in the center field bleachers.
I was about to quit but Huggins walked over past me.
“Hit a couple more Babe,” he whispered. “We’ve got them talking to
themselves.”
I hit two more long ones and gave way to Gehrig. Lou broke the fence
with three swings.
The Pirates were flabbergasted. A friend of mine—one of the newspaper
men who was in the stands—heard them talking.
“Boy, did you ever see such hitting?” Pie Traynor said. “They’re
even better than they’re advertised!”
The upshot was that the Pirates left the park that afternoon half
licked before the series ever opened. They came out there to see if we
hit as hard as everybody claimed, and smart little Hug spiked them in
the first ten minutes.
Hug’s second smart move came after Hoyt had won the first game.
Everyone expected him to start Shocker or Pennock. He crossed them up.
“We’ll start Pipgras” he announced in the clubhouse. “The fact that we
think so little of Pittsburgh as to start a green kid, will get their
goats. We’ve got ’em guessing now about our hitting. Putting in a kid
pitcher against them will just about settle things. George goes in that
second game—and if he gets away with it, we’ve got ’em. The series will
be over in four games!”
You know the history of that series. Pipgras not only started but he
had the Pirates under his thumb from start to finish. He won easily.
The next day Pennock took them over the jumps—and that was a crowning
insult too. For most of the wise guys had said that Pennock wouldn’t
even start since the Pirates were death on left-handers. Hug’s
wisest move, however, came in the final game.
It was the ninth inning, the score was tied, and we were going to bat
for the last time. Combs singled and Koenig was safe when Traynor
failed to come in for his bunt in time. I got a base on balls. Bases
full. Nobody down. It looked as though the old series was in the bag.
Lou Gehrig came up. Lou was overanxious to hit—and John Miljus as wise
and cool as pitchers come, worked carefully. Gehrig fanned. Meusel was
up.
The boys on the bench were nutty.
“Put on the squeeze play,” they urged Hug. “We’ve got to get Combs
home. Let’s try the squeeze!”
Hug grinned.
“Nothing doing,” he said. “Listen to me. That fellow out there (Miljus)
is trying too hard. He’s putting too much on that ball. If someone
doesn’t hit he’ll wild pitch sure. We can’t miss. A hit or a wild
pitch!” Meusel fanned and then—well it’s an old story now.
With Lazzeri up Miljus cut one loose that was out of Gooch’s reach.
The ball swept past him and rolled to the backstop. Earl Combs,
perched and ready to go at third, came galloping home with the run that
won the game and the world series.
Miller Huggins had called the turn!
“Got to hand it to you Hug,” Pat Collins piped up, “That’s calling ’em
better than I ever saw. You’re a wizard!” Huggins grinned.
“Wizard, nothing,” he said, “That’s just baseball. It was bound to
happen and I’ve been around long enough that I’ve learned to look for
that sort of thing.”
It just goes to show how a real manager takes advantage of every little
thing to aid his team. Fellows like McGraw and Huggins, eat and sleep
and drink baseball. It’s their very life—and the years give them a
knowledge that can’t be beat.
I don’t know whether people realize it or not, but most ball players
are superstitious. McGraw once capitalized superstition to win a tough
series from the Cubs. To understand the story you must understand that
one of the general superstitions of baseball is that empty barrels mean
basehits. A load of empty barrels is one of the best signs a baseball
players ever sees, and even a cross eyed umpire or a black cat can’t
jinx him after that.
At the time the Giants had been in a terrible hitting slump. They
were worried about it. They switched caps, they mixed the bats, they
carried rabbits’ feet. Nothing seemed to help. But one afternoon two or
three of the boys came in the clubhouse grinning.
“Just saw a load of empty barrels,” they said, “today the old slump
ends.”
That afternoon these fellows, inspired with new confidence, started
hitting again. The next afternoon two or three more of the boys saw
the barrels and the next day still others. For a week truck loads of
barrels kept going past the clubhouse, and the boys all started hitting.
Which should be the end of the story. But it isn’t.
A few days after the incident a big burly fellow in overalls came to
the clubhouse and asked for McGraw. He was told that McGraw was out.
“Well I want my money,” he grumbled. “I’ve been driving past this place
with a load of barrels every day for a week, and I haven’t had a cent
of pay yet. I want my money!”
The boys naturally were wised up. Old Mac had hired a teamster to drive
past with those barrels just to give the boys confidence and bring
them out of their slump. He had fought superstition with superstition
and won. That’s smart managing.
One of the most famous superstitions in baseball is Eddie Collins and
his chewing gum. For years, ever since he broke into the league I
guess, Eddie has carried a wad of chewing gum on the button of his cap.
And when he’s at bat, the minute the pitcher gets two strikes on him,
you’ll see him step out of the box, take the chewing gum from his cap
and start chewing it. He’s done it so long now that it has become a
habit. It’s the only time he ever chews gum. And when he has finished
his turn at bat, whether it’s a hit or a putout, back on his cap goes
the chewing gum. And it stays there until some other occasion arises
when he has two strikes on him.
Urban Shocker believes that throwing a hat on a bed is bad luck. He
used to room with Tommy Thomas, the kid pitcher, and one night Tommy
came into the room, and threw his hat on the bed. Shocker was scheduled
to pitch next day. And he was furious. The things he said to Tommy
wouldn’t look good, even if printed in Yiddish. It’s a wonder Tommy
came out alive. And it’s a certain cinch he has never thrown his
hat on the bed since then. The following afternoon Shocker pitched a
beautiful game but lost by one run.
Joe Dugan has a queer superstition too. Joe will never throw the ball
back to the pitcher. If you watch him in infield practice you’ll see
him throw to the plate, or second or first, time after time. But never
to the pitcher. Once or twice the boys have tried to make him do it.
Every time Joe would shoot the ball to a baseman, they’d throw it right
back at him. Finally, seeing what was up, he delivered the ball into
the pitcher’s hands. But did he throw it? He did not. He simply walked
across the diamond and handed it to him, then walked back to his post.
However the boys aren’t as superstitious now as they used to be. A lot
of the old-timers say it’s because there are so many more college men
in baseball now than there were a few years ago. Personally I don’t
believe that. The college players we get are just as superstitious in
their own way, as the rough-necks who never attended college.
But college men have had an influence on baseball. And a good one.
They’ve raised the game and the players. They’ve been responsible for
cutting out a lot of the old-time rough stuff. And they’ve made
baseball a real business in which men get good salaries and save it. In
the old days when a baseball player finished his career he usually was
down and out.
The money he earned he spent as fast as it came. Once he was through he
was dependent on his friends and acquaintances for a job and a living.
The college fellows have changed all that. They came into the league
with a pretty good idea of what it was all about. They saved their
money. And the other fellows followed their example.
There have been some great college men in baseball. Fellows like
Mathewson and Eddie Collins and Jack Combs were the pioneers. Today
there isn’t a team in either league that hasn’t several college men
on its roster, and clubs are watching the colleges more and more for
likely looking players.
The Yankees have Combs, Thomas, Gehrig, Gazella, Hanson and Dugan—all
college men. Cy Williams is a college man. So is Ted Lyons. Gordon
Cochrane, Muddy Ruel, Eddie Farrell, Max Carey, Jigger Statz, Hank
DeBerry, Ernie Wingard, Ownie Carroll, Joe Sewell, Luke Sewell, Eppa
Rixey, Art Nehf, Travis Jackson, Gink Hendrick, Doc Gautreau, Vic
Aldridge, Riggs Stephenson, Cliff Heathcote, Ray Blades—all of these
are college men. And they’re only a few of the scores who have gone
into big league baseball and have made good.
Some people argue that college men are better ball players than the
others. I don’t believe that. But I do believe that the boy who has
gone through college is quicker to learn inside baseball. He’s more
willing to learn too. The sandlotter, a lot of times, is a stubborn
cuss who doesn’t like instruction. The average college fellow realizes
that he doesn’t know it all and is willing to take advice from the
players who have been around longer than he has.
But regardless of that, the other thing still goes. College men have
been a mighty good influence in big league baseball and always will
be. They bring wider training into the game. Muddy Ruel, for instance,
is a lawyer who practices his profession in the off season. Bluege of
the Senators is a certified public account. Art Nehf is an engineer,
Eddie Farrell is a dentist. And by their example they prove to other
ballplayers that there’s something in life after the baseball career is
over.
Of the present crop of big leaguers, there will be very few who
won’t be fairly independent when they have finished their career.
Of course we can’t all be Ty Cobbs. Ty quit the game with a million
dollars—and that’s more money than most professional athletes will ever
see. But let me make this prediction.
In the years to come you won’t see many former ballplayers walking the
streets. They’ll have enough to live on—and comfortably. During their
playing days they meet not only other ballplayers, but they come in
contact with the business world as well. Many a poor country kid has
found through baseball, a contact and a knowledge of the world that he
never even knew existed.
Take the average country kid rookie who goes south in the Spring. He’s
green. He’s unaccustomed to city life. He is embarrassed in the hotel
dining room. But baseball is a great teacher. And after two or three
seasons of play he’s a polished product, capable of holding his own in
most any company. And that isn’t bunk. It actually happens.
A lot of fellows who started in as professional ballplayers have made
good in other lines when their careers as ballplayers ended.
Zane Grey, the novelist who writes so many western stories, was once
a professional ballplayer. He wasn’t a big leaguer—but he played the
outfield for a Western League club for several seasons. He played on a
club which Ed Barrow, now business manager of the Yankees, managed.
Billy Sunday, the great evangelist, also was a ballplayer. Billy played
with the old White Sox back in the barroom days, and he’s still quite a
fan. I’ve talked to him several times and on several occasions he has
been around to see us in training camp. And he likes baseball as much
as ever. Lots of times I’ve seen him peel off his coat and vest, and
get out there and hit fungoes to the boys for an hour at a time. And
have a great time doing it.
Ex-Governor Tener of Pennsylvania, is an ex-pitcher. And a real fan.
In baseball we have plenty of trouble with the umpires from time to
time, but when all is said and done, they’re a pretty fine outfit.
Square shooters, all of them, honest and fearless and ready to fight
for their decisions if necessary.
A lot of those umpires know more baseball than the players. Take a
fellow like Tommy Connolly for instance. Tommy has been umpiring
big league ball games for more than 35 years. He was in the National
League for a long time, and he has been an American League umpire ever
since the league was organized. Tommy was the last umpire to put me out
of a ballgame. And that was way back in June 1922 when I threw dirt at
him after he had called me out at second. I’ve learned my lesson now.
I’ve found out that umpires are on the square, and that they want to
give players all of the best of it if possible. It took a long time
for me to learn—but rule number one in my book reads “Don’t fight with
umpires. It’s bad business!”