sign that is given, for an occasional crumb of information picked up at
random is worse than none at all. First, it is dangerous. A batter, tipped
off that a curved ball is coming, steps up to the plate and is surprised
to meet a fast one, which often he has not time to dodge. Many a good
ball-player has been injured in this way, and an accident to a star has
cost more than one pennant.
"Joe" Kelley, formerly manager of the Reds, was coaching in Cincinnati one
day several years ago, and "Eagle Eye Jake" Beckley, the old first
baseman and a chronic three hundred hitter, was at the bat. I had been
feeding him low drops and Kelley, on the third base line, thought he was
getting the signals that Jack Warner, the Giant catcher in a former cast
of characters, was giving. I saw Kelley apparently pass some information
to Beckley, and the latter stepped almost across the plate ready for a
curve. He encountered a high, fast one, close in, and he encountered it
with that part of him between his neck and hat band. "Eagle Eye" was
unconscious for two days after that and in the hospital several weeks.
When he got back into the game he said to me one day:
"Why didn't you throw me that curve, Matty, that 'Joe' tipped me to?"
"Were you tipped off?" I asked. "Then it was 'Joe's' error, not mine."
"Say," he answered, "if I ever take another sign from a coacher I hope the
ball kills me."
"It probably will," I replied. "That one nearly did."
It is one of the risks of signal stealing. Beckley had received the wrong
information and I felt no qualms at hitting him, for it was not a wild
pitch but a misinterpreted signal which had put him out of the game. His
manager, not I, was to blame. For this reason many nervous players refuse
to accept any information from a coacher, even if the coacher thinks he
knows what is going to be pitched, because they do not dare take the risk
of getting hit by a fast one, against which they have little protection if
set for a curve. On this account few National League clubs attempt to
steal signs as a part of the regular team work, but many individuals make
a practice of it for their own benefit and for the benefit of the batter,
if he is not of the timid type.
As soon as a runner gets on second base he is in an excellent position to
see the hands of the catcher, and it is then that the man behind the bat
is doing all that he can cover up. Jack Warner, the old Giant, used
sometimes to give his signals with his mouth in this emergency, because
they were visible from the pitcher's box, but not from second base. The
thieves were looking at his hands for them. In the National League, Leach,
Clarke, Wagner, Bresnahan, Evers, Tinker and a few more of the sort are
dangerous to have on second. Wagner will get on the middle sack and watch
the catcher until he thinks that he has discovered the pitchout sign,
which means a ball is to be wasted in the hope that a base runner can be
caught. Wagner takes a big lead, and the catcher, tempted, gives the
"office" to waste one, thinking to nail "Hans" off second. The Dutchman
sees it, and instead of running back to second dashes for third. He starts
as the catcher lets go of the ball to throw to second and can usually make
the extra base.
Many coachers, who do not attempt to get the signs for fast and curved
balls, study the catcher to get his pitchout sign, because once this is
recognized it gives the team at the bat a great advantage. If a coacher
sees the catcher give the pitchout signal he can stop the runner from
trying to steal and the pitcher has wasted a ball and is "in the hole."
Then if his control is uncertain the result is likely to be disastrous.
Several players in the National League are always trying to get the
batter's signs. Bresnahan, the manager and catcher of the St. Louis club,
devotes half his time and energy to looking for the wireless code employed
by batter and base runner. If he can discover the hit and run sign, then
he is able to order a pitchout and catch the man who has started to run in
response to it several feet at second base. He is a genius at getting this
information.
Once late in 1911, when the New York club was in St. Louis on the last
trip West, I came up to the bat with Fletcher on first base. I rubbed the
end of my stick with my hand and Roger exclaimed:
"Why, that's your old hit and run, Matty! What are you trying to do, kid
me?"
"I forgot you knew it, Rog," I answered, "but it goes."
He thought I was attempting to cross him and did not order a pitchout. The
sign had been given intentionally. I hit the ball and had the laugh on
him. If a catcher can get a pitchout on a hit and run sign he upsets the
other team greatly. Take a fast man on first base and the batter signs him
that he is going to hit the next ball. The runner gets his start and the
ball comes up so wide that the batter could not half reach it with a
ten-foot bat. The runner is caught easily at second base and it makes him
look foolish. That is why so many catchers devote time to looking for
this signal. It is a great fruit bearer.
Many of the extra players on the bench are always on the alert for the hit
and run sign. This is a typical situation:
The Giants were playing the Pittsburg club one day in 1911. Byrne was on
first base. Fred Clarke was at bat and Byrne started for second while
Clarke hit the ball to right field, Byrne reaching third base on the play.
"What did he do?" asked Ames.
"Did you get it, Matty?" inquired Wiltse.
"No," I answered. "Did you?"
"I think he tapped his bat on the plate," replied Wiltse. The next time
Clarke came up we were all looking to see if he tapped his bat on the
plate. Byrne was again on first base. The Pirates' manager fixed his cap,
he stepped back out of the box and knocked the dirt out of his cleats, and
he did two or three other natural things before the pitch, but nothing
happened. Then he tapped his bat on the plate.
"Make him put them over, Chief," yelled Wiltse which, translated, meant,
"Order a pitch-out, Chief. He just gave Byrne the hit and run sign."
Meyers signed for a pitchout, and Byrne was caught ten feet from second.
Wiltse on the bench had really nailed the base runner. As soon as a sign
is discovered it is communicated to the other players, and they are always
watching for it, but try to conceal the fact that they recognize it,
because, as soon as a batter discovers that his messages are being read,
he changes his code.
From these few facts about signals and sign stealing some idea of the
battle of wits that is going on between two ball clubs in a game may be
obtained. That is why so few men without brains last in the Big Leagues
nowadays. A young fellow broke in with the Giants a few years ago and was
very anxious to make good. He was playing shortstop.
"Watch for the catcher's signs and then shift," McGraw told him one day.
It is well known in baseball that a right-handed hitter will naturally
push a curve over the outside corner of the plate toward right field and
over the inside he will pull it around toward third base. But this
youngster was overanxious and would shift before the pitcher started to
deliver the ball. Some smart player on another club noticed this and
tipped the batters off to watch the youngster for the signs. When he
shifted toward second base the batter set himself for a ball over the
outside corner. For a long time McGraw could not understand how the other
teams were getting the Giants' signs, especially as it was on our home
grounds. At last he saw the new infielder shift one day and the batter
prepare for an inside ball.
"Say," he said to the player, rushing on the field after he had stopped
the pitcher, "do you know you are telegraphing the signs to the batters by
moving around before the pitcher throws the ball?"
Bill Dahlen, formerly a shortstop on the Giants, used to shift, but he was
clever enough to wait until the pitcher had started his motion, when it
was too late for the batter to look at him.
Ball-players are always looking to steal some sign so that they may
"cross" the enemy. In the language of the Big Leagues it is "signs," never
"signals." And in conclusion I reiterate my former sentiments that all is
fair in love, war and baseball except stealing signs dishonestly.
VIII
Umpires and Close Decisions
_Ball-players and Umpires are Regarded by the Fans as Natural
Enemies, and the Fans Are about Right--Types of Arbiters and how the
Players Treat them--"Silk" O'Loughlin, "Hank" O'Day, "Tim" Hurst,
"Bob" Emslie, and Others, and Close Ones they have Called--Also Some
Narrow Escapes which have Followed._
When the Giants were swinging through the West in 1911 on the final trip,
the club played three games in Pittsburg, with the pennant at that time
only a possibility more or less remote. The Pirates still had a chance,
and they were fighting hard for every game, especially as they were
playing on their home grounds.
The first contest of the series was on Saturday afternoon before a crowd
that packed the gigantic stands which surrounded Forbes Field. The throng
wanted to see the Pirates win because they were the Pirates, and the
Giants beaten because they were the Giants, and were sticking their heads
up above the other clubs in the race. I always think of the horse show
when I play in Pittsburg, for they have the diamond horse-shoe of boxes
there, you know. No; I'm wrong--it's at the Metropolitan Opera House they
have the diamond horse-shoe. Any way, the diamond horse-shoe of boxes was
doing business at Forbes Field that Saturday afternoon.
This story is going to be about umpires, but the reader who has never seen
the Forbes Field folks must get the atmosphere before I let the yarn into
the block. Once, on a bright, sunny day there, I muffed fly after fly
because the glint of Sol's rays on the diamonds blinded me. Always now I
wear smoked glasses. "Josh" Devore is so afraid that he will lose social
caste when he goes to Pittsburg that he gets his finger-nails manicured
before he will appear on the field. And the lady who treated him one day
polished them to such an ultimate glossiness that the sun flashed on them,
and he dropped two flies in left field.
"Look here, Josh," warned McGraw after the game, "I hire you to play ball
and not to lead cotillions. Get some pumice stone and rub it on your
finger-nails and cut out those John Drew manicures after this."
This crowd is worse after umpires than the residents of the bleachers. The
game on that Saturday worked out into a pitchers' battle between Marty
O'Toole, the expensive exponent of the spit ball, and "Rube" Marquard, the
great left-hander. Half of "Who's Who in Pittsburg" had already split
white gloves applauding when, along about the fourth or fifth inning, Fred
Clarke got as far as third base with one out. The score was nothing for
either side as yet, and of such a delicate nature was the contest that one
run was likely to decide it.
"Hans" Wagner, the peerless, and the pride of Pittsburg, was at the bat.
He pushed a long fly to Murray in right field, and John caught it and
threw the ball home. Clarke and the ball arrived almost simultaneously.
There was a slide, a jumble of players, and a small cloud of dust blew
away from the home plate.
"Ye're out!" bawled Mr. Brennan, the umpire, jerking his thumb over his
shoulder with a conclusiveness that forbade argument. Clarke jumped up and
stretched his hands four feet apart, for he recognizes no conclusiveness
when "one is called against him."
"Safe! that much!" he shouted in Brennan's ear, showing him the four-foot
margin with his hands.
There was a roar from the diamond horse-shoe that, if it could have been
canned and put on a phonograph, would have made any one his fortune
because it could have been turned on to accompany moving pictures of lions
and other wild beasts to make them realistic.
"Say," said Clarke to Brennan, "I know a pickpocket who looks honest
compared to you, and I'd rather trust my watch to a second-story worker."
Brennan was dusting off the plate and paid no attention to him. But Clarke
continued to snap and bark at the umpire as he brushed himself off,
referring with feeling to Mr. Brennan's immediate family, and weaving into
his talk a sketch of the umpire's ancestors, for Clarke is a great master
of the English language as fed to umpires.
"Mr. Clarke," said Brennan, turning at last, "you were out. Now beat it to
the bench before you beat it to the clubhouse."
Clarke went grumbling and all the afternoon was after Brennan for the
decision, his wrath increasing because the Pirates lost the game finally,
although they would not have won it had they been given that decision. And
the crowd was roaring at Brennan, too, throughout the remainder of the
contest, asking him pointed questions about his habits and what his
regular business was.
It takes a man with nerve to make a decision like that--one that could be
called either way because it was so close--and to make it as he sees it,
which happened in this particular case to be against the home team.
Many times have I, in the excitement of the moment, protested against the
decision of an umpire, but fundamentally I know that the umpires are
honest and are doing their best, as all ball-players are. The umpires make
mistakes and the players make errors. Many arbiters have told me that when
they are working they seldom know what inning it is or how many are out,
and sometimes, in their efforts to concentrate their minds on their
decisions, they say they even forget what clubs are playing and which is
the home team.
The future of the game depends on the umpire, for his honesty must not be
questioned. If there is a breath of suspicion against a man, he is
immediately let go, because constant repetition of such a charge would
result in baseball going the way of horse racing and some other sports. No
scandal can creep in where the umpire is concerned, for the very
popularity of baseball depends on its honesty.
"The only good umpire is a dead umpire," McGraw has declared many times
when he has been disgruntled over some decision.
"I think they're all dead ones in this League," replied Devore one day,
"considering the decisions that they are handing me down there at second
base. Why, I had that bag by three feet and he called me out."
Many baseball fans look upon an umpire as a sort of necessary evil to the
luxury of baseball, like the odor that follows an automobile.
"Kill him! He hasn't got any friends!" is an expression shouted from the
stands time and again during a game.
But I know differently. I have seen umpires with friends. It is true that
most ball-players regard umpires as their natural enemies, as a boy does a
school teacher. But "Bill" Klem has friends because I have seen him with
them, and besides he has a constant companion, which is a calabash pipe.
And "Billy" Evans of the American League has lots of friends. And most all
of the umpires have some one who will speak to them when they are off the
field.
These men in blue travel by themselves, live at obscure hotels apart from
those at which the teams stop, and slip into the ball parks unobtrusively
just before game time. They never make friends with ball-players off the
field for fear that there might be a hint of scandal. Seldom do they take
the same train with a club unless it cannot be avoided. "Hank" O'Day, the
veteran of the National League staff, and Brennan took the same train out
of Chicago with the Giants in the fall of 1911 because we stopped in
Pittsburg for one game, and they had to be there to umpire. It was the
only available means of transportation. But they stayed by themselves in
another Pullman until some one told them "Charley" Faust, the official
jinx-killer of the Giants, was doing his stunt. Then they both came back
into the Giants' car and for the first time in my life I saw "Hank" O'Day
laugh. His face acted as if it wasn't accustomed to the exercise and broke
all in funny new wrinkles, like a glove when you put it on for the first
time.
There are several types of umpires, and ball-players are always studying
the species to find out the best way to treat each man to get the most out
of him. There are autocrats and stubborn ones and good fellows and
weak-kneed ones, almost as many kinds as there are human beings. The
autocrat of the umpire world is "Silk" O'Loughlin, now appearing with a
rival show.
"There are no close plays," says "Silk." "A man is always out or safe, or
it is a ball or a strike, and the umpire, if he is a good man and knows
his business, is always right. For instance, I am always right."
He refuses to let the players discuss a decision with him, maintaining
that there is never any room for argument. If a man makes any talk with
him, it is quick to the shower bath. "Silk" has a voice of which he is
proud and declares that he shares the honors with Caruso and that it is
only his profession as an umpire that keeps him off the grand-opera
circuit. I have heard a lot of American League ball-players say at various
times that they wished he was on the grand-opera circuit or some more
calorific circuit, but they were mostly prejudiced at those moments by
some sentiments which "Silk" had just voiced in an official capacity.
As is well known in baseball, "Silk" is the inventor of "Strike Tuh!" and
the creased trousers for umpires. I have heard American League players
declare that they are afraid to slide when "Silk" is close down over a
play for fear they will bump up against his trousers and cut themselves.
He is one of the kind of umpires who can go through a game on the hottest
summer day, running about the bases, and still keep his collar unwilted.
At the end he will look as if he were dressed for an afternoon tea.
Always he wears on his right hand, which is his salary or decision wing, a
large diamond that sparkles in the sunlight every time he calls a man
out. Many American League players assert that he would rather call a man
out than safe, so that he can shimmer his "cracked ice," but again they
are usually influenced by circumstances. Such is "Silk," well named.
Corresponding to him in the National League is "Billy" Klem. He always
wears a Norfolk jacket because he thinks it more stylish, and perhaps it
is, and he refuses to don a wind pad. Ever notice him working behind the
bat? But I am going to let you in on a secret. That chest is not all his
own. Beneath his jacket he carries his armor, a protector, and under his
trousers' legs are shin guards. He insists that all players call him "Mr."
He says that he thinks maybe soon his name will be in the social register.
"Larry" Doyle thought that he had received the raw end of a decision at
second base one day. He ran down to first, where Klem had retreated after
he passed his judgment.
"Say, 'Bill,'" exploded "Larry," "that man didn't touch the bag--didn't
come within six feet of it."
"Say, Doyle," replied Klem, "when you talk to me call me 'Mr. Klem.'"
"But, Mr. Klem--" amended "Larry."
Klem hurriedly drew a line with his foot as Doyle approached him
menacingly.
"But if you come over that line, you're out of the game, Mr. Doyle," he
threatened.
"All right," answered "Larry," letting his pugilistic attitude evaporate
before the abruptness of Klem as the mist does before the classic noonday
sun, "but, Mr. Klem, I only wanted to ask you if that clock in centre
field is right by your watch, because I know everything about you is
right."
"Larry" went back, grinning and considering that he had put one over on
Klem--Mr. Klem.
For a long time "Johnny" Evers of the Chicago club declared that Klem owed
him $5 on a bet he had lost to the second baseman and had neglected to
pay. Now John, when he was right, could make almost any umpirical goat
leap from crag to crag and do somersaults en route. He kept pestering Klem
about that measly $5 bet, not in an obtrusive way, you understand, but by
such delicate methods as holding up five fingers when Klem glanced down on
the coaching lines where he was stationed, or by writing a large "5" in
the dirt at the home plate with the butt of his bat as he came up when
Klem was umpiring on balls and strikes, or by counting slowly and casually
up to five and stopping with an abruptness that could not be misconstrued.
One day John let his temper get away from him and bawled Klem out in his
most approved fashion.
"Here's your five, Mr. Evers," said Klem, handing him a five dollar bill,
"and now you are fined $25."
"And it was worth it," answered Evers, "to bawl you out."
Next comes the O'Day type, and there is only one of them, "Hank." He is
the stubborn kind--or perhaps _was_ the stubborn kind, would be better, as
he is now a manager. He is bull-headed. If a manager gets after him for a
decision, he is likely to go up in the air and, not meaning to do it, call
close ones against the club that has made the kick, for it must be
remembered that umpires are only "poor weak mortals after all." O'Day has
to be handled with shock absorbers. McGraw tries to do it, but shock
absorbers do not fit him well, and the first thing that usually occurs is
a row.
"Let me do the kicking, boys," McGraw always warns his players before a
contest that O'Day is going to umpire. He does not want to see any of his
men put out of the game.
"Bill" Dahlen always got on O'Day's nerves by calling him "Henry." For
some reason, O'Day does not like the name, and "Bill" Dahlen discovered
long ago the most irritating inflection to give it so that it would rasp
on O'Day's ears. He does not mind "Hank" and is not a "Mister" umpire. But
every time Dahlen would call O'Day "Henry" it was the cold shower and the
civilian's clothes for his.
Dahlen was playing in St. Louis many years ago when the race track was
right opposite the ball park. "Bill" had a preference in one of the later
races one day and was anxious to get across the street and make a little
bet. He had obtained a leave of absence on two preceding days by calling
O'Day "Henry" and had lost money on the horses he had selected as fleet of
foot. But this last time he had a "sure thing" and was banking on some
positive information which had been slipped to him by a friend of the
friend of the man who owned the winner, and "Bill" wanted to be there.
Along about the fifth inning, "Bill" figured that it was time for him to
get a start, so he walked up to O'Day and said:
"Henry, do you know who won the first race?"
"No, and you won't either, Mr. Dahlen," answered "Hank." "You are fined
$25, and you stay here and play the game out."
Some one had tipped "Hank" off. And the saddest part of the story is that
"Bill's" horse walked home, and he could not get a bet down on him.
"First time it ever failed to work," groaned "Bill" in the hotel that
night, "and I said 'Henry' in my meanest way, too."
Most clubs try to keep an umpire from feeling hostile toward the team
because, even if he means to see a play right, he is likely to call a
close one against his enemies, not intending to be dishonest. It would
simply mean that you would not get any close ones from him, and the close
ones count. Some umpires can be reasoned with, and a good fair protest
will often make a man think perhaps he has called it wrong, and he will
give you the edge on the next decision. A player must understand an umpire
to know how to approach him to the best advantage. O'Day cannot be
reasoned with. It is as dangerous to argue with him as it is to try to
ascertain how much gasoline is in the tank of an automobile by sticking
down the lighted end of a cigar or a cigarette.
Emslie will listen to a reasonable argument. He is one of the finest
umpires that ever broke into the League, I think. He is a good fellow. Far
be it from me to be disloyal to my manager, for I think that he is the
greatest that ever won a pennant, but Emslie put one over on McGraw in
1911 when it was being said that Emslie was getting so old he could not
see a play.
"I'll bet," said McGraw to him one day after he had called one against the
Giants, "that I can put a baseball and an orange on second base, and you
can't tell the difference standing at the home plate, Bob."
Emslie made no reply right then, but when the eye test for umpires was
established by Mr. Lynch, the president of the League, "Bob" passed it at
the head of the list and then turned around and went up to Chatham in
Ontario, Canada, and made a high score with the rifle in a shooting match
up there. After he had done that, he was umpiring at the Polo Grounds one
day.
"Want to take me on for a shooting go, John?" he asked McGraw as he passed
him.
"No, Bob, you're all right. I give it to you," answered McGraw, who had
long forgotten his slur on Emslie's eyesight.