was the reputation of the Giants as base stealers. When we went to
Philadelphia for the first game, I was surprised at the heavy condition of
the base lines.
"Did it rain here last night?" I inquired from a native.
"No," he answered.
Then I knew that the lines had been wet down to slow up our fast runners
and make it harder for them to steal. As things developed, this precaution
was unnecessary, but it was an effort to break up what was known to be our
strongest "inside" play.
Baseball men maintain that the acme of doctoring grounds was the work of
the old Baltimore Orioles. The team was composed of fast men who were
brilliant bunters and hard base runners. The soil of the infield was mixed
with a form of clay which, when wet and then rolled, was almost as hard as
concrete. The ground outside the first and third base lines was built up
slightly to keep well placed bunts from rolling foul, while toward first
base there was a distinct down grade to aid the runner in reaching that
station with all possible expedition. Toward second there was a gentle
slope, and it was down hill to third. But coming home from third was
up-hill work. A player had to be a mountain climber to make it. This all
benefited fast men like Keeler, McGraw, Kelley and Jennings whose most
dangerous form of attack was the bunt.
The Orioles did not stop at doctoring the infield. The grass in the
outfield was permitted to grow long and was unkempt. Centre and left
fields were kept level, but in right field there was a sharp down grade to
aid the fast Keeler. He had made an exhaustive study of all the possible
angles at which the ball might bound and had certain paths that he
followed, but which were not marked out by sign posts for visiting
right-fielders. He was sure death on hits to his territory, while usually
wallops got past visiting right-fielders. And so great was the grade that
"Wee Willie" was barely visible from the batter's box. A hitting team
coming to Baltimore would be forced to fall into the bunting game or be
entirely outclassed. And the Orioles did not furnish their guests with
topographical maps of the grounds either.
The habit of doctoring grounds is not so much in vogue now as it once was.
For a long time it was considered fair to arrange the home field to the
best advantage of the team which owned it, for otherwise what was the use
in being home? It was on the same principle that a general builds his
breastworks to best suit the fighting style of his army, for they are his
breastworks.
But lately among the profession, sentiment and baseball legislation have
prevailed against the doctoring of grounds, and it is done very little.
Occasionally a pitching box is raised or lowered to meet the requirements
of a certain man, but they are not altered every day to fit the pitcher,
as they once were. Such tactics often hopelessly upset the plan of battle
of the visiting club unless this exactly coincided with the habits of the
home team. Many strategic plans have been wasted on carefully arranged
grounds, and many "inside" plays have gone by the boards when the field
was fixed so that a bunt was bound to roll foul if the ball followed the
laws of gravitation, as it usually does, because the visiting team was
known to have the bunting habit.
A good story of doctored grounds gone wrong is told of the Philadelphia
Athletics. The eccentric "Rube" Waddell had bundles of speed in his early
days, and from a slightly elevated pitcher's box the batter could scarcely
identify "Rube's" delivery from that of a cannon. He was scheduled to
pitch one day and showed around at morning practice looking unusually fit
for George.
"How are you feeling to-day, George?" asked "Connie" Mack, his boss.
"Never better," replied the light-hearted "Rube."
"Well, you work this afternoon."
"All right," answered Waddell.
Then the ground-keeper got busy and built the pitcher's box up about two
feet, so that Waddell would have a splendid opportunity to cut loose all
his speed. At that time he happened to be the only tall man on the
pitching staff of the Philadelphia club, and, as a rule, the box was kept
very low. The scheme would probably have worked out as planned, if it had
not been that Waddell, in the course of his noon-day wanderings, met
several friends in whose society he became so deeply absorbed that he
neglected to report at the ball park at all. He also forgot to send word,
and here was the pitcher's box standing up out of the infield like one of
the peaks of the Alps.
As the players gathered, and Waddell failed to show up, the manager
nervously looked at his watch. At last he sent out scouts to the "Rube's"
known haunts, but no trace of the temperamental artist could be found. The
visitors were already on the field, and it was too late to lower the box.
A short pitcher had to work in the game from this peak of progress, while
the opposing team installed a skyscraper on the mound. The Philadelphia
club was badly beaten and Waddell heavily fined for his carelessness in
disrupting the "inside" play of his team.
An old and favorite trick used to be to soap the soil around the pitcher's
box, so that when a man was searching for some place to dry his
perspiring hands and grabbed up this soaped earth, it made his palm
slippery and he was unable to control the ball.
Of course, the home talent knew where the good ground lay and used it or
else carried some unadulterated earth in their trousers' pockets, as a
sort of private stock. But our old friend "Bugs" Raymond hit on a scheme
to spoil this idea and make the trick useless. Arthur always perspired
profusely when he pitched, and several managers, perceiving this, had made
it a habit to soap the dirt liberally whenever it was his turn to work.
While he was pitching for St. Louis, he went into the box against the
Pirates one day in Pittsburg. His hands were naturally slippery, and
several times he had complained that he could not dry them in the dirt,
especially in Pittsburg soil.
As Raymond worked in the game in question, he was noticed, particularly by
the Pittsburg batters and spectators, to get better as he went along.
Frequently, his hand slipped into his back pocket, and then his control
was wonderful. Sometimes, he would reach down and apparently pick up a
handful of earth, but it did no damage. After the game, he walked over to
Fred Clarke, and reached into his back pocket. His face broke into a grin.
"Ever see any of that stuff, Fred?" he asked innocently, showing the
Pittsburg manager a handful of a dark brown substance. "That's rosin. It's
great--lots better than soaped ground. Wish you'd keep a supply out there
in the box for me when I'm going to work instead of that slippery stuff
you've got out there now. Will you, as a favor to me?"
Thereafter, all the pitchers got to carrying rosin or pumice stone in
their pockets, for the story quickly went round the circuit, and it is
useless to soap the soil in the box any more. There are many tricks by
which the grounds or ball are "fixed," but for nearly all an antidote has
been discovered, and these questionable forms of the "inside" game have
failed so often that they have largely been abandoned.
One Big League manager used always to give his men licorice or some other
dark and adhesive and juicy substance to chew on a dingy day. The purpose
was to dirty the ball so that it was harder for the batters to see when
the pitcher used his fast one. As soon as a new ball was thrown into the
game, it was quickly passed around among the fielders, and instead of
being the lily-white thing that left the umpire's hands, when it finally
got to the pitcher's box it was a very pronounced brunette. But some
eagle-eyed arbiter detected this, and kept pouring new balls into the game
when the non-licorice chewers were at the bat, while he saved the
discolored ones for the consumption of the masticators. It was another
trick that failed.
Frequently, backgrounds are tampered with if the home club is notably weak
at the bat. The best background for a batter is a dull, solid green. Many
clubs have painted backgrounds in several contrasting, broken colors so
that the sunlight, shining on them, blinds the batter. The Chicago White
Sox are said to have done this, and for many years the figures showed that
the batting of both the Chicago players and the visitors at their park was
very light. The White Sox's hitting was weak anywhere, so that the poor
background was an advantage to them.
Injuries have often upset the "inside" play of a club. Usually a team's
style revolves around one or two men, and the taking of them out of the
game destroys the whole machine. The substitute does not think as quickly;
neither does he see and grasp the opportunities as readily. This was true
of the Cubs last season. Chance and Evers used to be the "inside" game of
the team. Evers was out of the game most of the summer and Chance was
struck in the head with a pitched ball and had to quit. The playing of the
Chicago team fell down greatly as a result.
Chance is the sort of athlete who is likely to get injured. When he was a
catcher he was always banged up because he never got out of the way of
anything. He is that kind of player. If he has to choose between accepting
a pair of spikes in a vital part of his anatomy and getting a put-out, or
dodging the spikes and losing the put-out, he always takes the put-out and
usually the spikes. He never dodges away from a ball when at bat that may
possibly break over the plate and cost him a strike. That is why he was
hit in the head. He lingered too long to ascertain whether the ball was
going to curve and found out that it was not, which put him out of the
game, the Cubs practically out of the pennant race, and broke up their
"inside" play.
Roger Bresnahan is the same kind of a man. He thinks quickly, and is a
brilliant player, but he never dodges anything. He is often hurt as a
result. Once, when he was with the Giants, he was hit in the face with a
pitched ball, and McGraw worried while he was laid up, for fear that it
would make him bat shy. After he came back, he was just as friendly with
the plate as ever. The injury of men like Chance and Bresnahan, whose
services are of such vital importance to the "inside" play of a team,
destroys the effectiveness of the club.
Once, in 1908, when we were fighting the Cubs for the pennant at every
step, McGraw planned a bunting game against Overall, who is big and not
very fast in covering the little rollers. Bresnahan and O'Day had been
having a serial argument through two games, and Roger, whose nerves were
worn to a frazzle, like those of the rest of us at that time, thought
"Hank" had been shading his judgment slightly toward the Cubs. In another
story I have pointed out that O'Day, the umpire, was stubborn and that
nothing could be gained by continually picking on him. When the batteries
were announced for that game, McGraw said as the team went to the field:
"We can beat this guy Overall by bunting."
Bresnahan went out to put on his chest protector and shin guards. O'Day
happened to be adjusting his makeup near him. Roger could not resist the
temptation.
"Why don't you put on a Chicago uniform, 'Hank', instead of those duds?"
he asked. "Is it true, if the Cubs win the pennant, they've promised to
elect you alderman in Chicago?"
"Get out of the game and off the field," said O'Day.
Bresnahan had to obey the injunction and Needham, the only other available
catcher, went behind the mat. "Tom" Needham never beat out a bunt in his
life, and he destroyed all McGraw's plans because, with him in the game
instead of Bresnahan, the style had to be switched. We lost. Bresnahan, a
fast man and a good bunter batted third and would have been valuable in
the attack best adapted to beat Overall. But his sudden demise and the
enforced substitution of the plodding Needham ruined the whole plan of
campaign. Therefore, frequently umpires upset a team's "inside" game.
One of McGraw's schemes back-fired on him when Luderus, the hard-hitting
Philadelphia first baseman, broke into the League. Some one had tipped
"Mac" off, and tipped him wrong, that this youngster could be disconcerted
in a pinch by the catcher discussing signs and what-not with him, thus
distracting his attention.
"Chief," said McGraw before the game, "if this Luderus gets up in a tight
place, slip him a little talk."
The situation came, and Meyers obeyed instructions. The game was in
Philadelphia, and three men were on the bases with two out. Ames was
pitching.
"What are you bringing the bat up with you for?" asked the "Chief" as
Luderus arranged himself at the plate.
No answer.
Then Meyers gave Ames his sign. Next he fixed his fingers in a fake signal
and addressed the young batter.
"The best hitters steal signs," said the "Chief." "Just look down in my
glove and see the signals."
But Luderus was not caught and kept his eyes glued on Ames. He hit the
next ball over the right field wall and won the game. As he crossed the
plate, he said to the "Chief":
"It's too easy. I don't need your signs. They pulled that one on me in the
bushes long ago."
"After this, when that fellow bats," said McGraw to Meyers later, "do as
exact an imitation of the sphinx as you know how. The tip was no good."
The trick of talking to the hitter is an old one. The idea is for the
catcher to give a wrong sign, for his benefit, after having flashed the
right one, induce the batter, usually a youngster, to look down at it, and
then have the pitcher shoot one over the plate while he is staring in the
glove.
"Steve" Evans, the St. Louis right-fielder, tells a story of a fan who sat
in the same box at the Cardinals' park every day and devoted most of his
time to roasting him (S. Evans). His favorite expressions in connection
with Evans were "bone dead," "wooden head," and so on. He loudly claimed
that "Steve" had no knowledge of the game and spoiled every play that
Bresnahan tried to put through. One day, when the Giants were playing in
St. Louis, some one knocked up a high foul which landed in this orator's
box. He saw it coming, tried to dodge, used poor judgment, and, realizing
that the ball was going to strike him, snatched his hat off, and took it
full on an immodestly bald head. "Steve" Evans was waiting to go to the
bat. He shifted his chew to his other cheek and exclaimed in a voice that
could not have been heard more than two miles away:
"That's the 'gink' who has been calling me a 'bone head.'"
"Steve" got a great laugh from the crowd, but right there the St. Louis
club lost a patron, for the bald-headed one has never been seen at the
grounds since, according to Evans, and his obituary has not been printed
yet, either.
"Al" Bridwell, formerly the Giants' shortstop, was one of the cleverest
men at the "inside" game that ever broke into the Big Leagues, and it was
this that made him valuable. Then suddenly his legs went bad, and he
slowed up. It was his speed and his ability to bunt and his tireless
waiting at the plate to make all toilers in the box pitch that had made
him a great player. He seldom swung at a bad ball. As soon as he slowed
up, McGraw knew he would have to go if the Giants were to win the pennant.
He deeply regretted letting the gritty, little shortstop, whose legs had
grown stiff in his service, leave the club, but sentiment never won any
pennants.
"Al," he said to Bridwell, "I'm going to let you go to Boston. Your legs
will be all right eventually, but I've got to have a fast man now while
you are getting back your old speed."
"That's all right, 'Mac,'" replied Bridwell. "It's all part of the game."
He did not rave and swear that he had been double-crossed, as many players
do under the same circumstances. I never heard Bridwell swear, and I never
found any one else who did. He had been playing for weeks, when every time
he moved it pained him, because he thought he might have a share of the
money that winning a pennant would mean. It was a staggering blow to him,
this sending him from a pennant possibility to a hopeless tail-ender, but
he took it gamely.
"I guess I was 'gumming' the inside stuff," he said.
And he did get some of the prize money. The boys voted him a share.
It will be seen that the "inside" game sometimes fails. Many a time I have
passed a catcher or good batter to take a chance on a pitcher, and then
have had him make a hit just when hits were not at all welcome. I walked a
catcher once and had the pitcher shove the ball over first base for a
single, when he closed his eyes and dodged back in an effort to get his
head out of the line he thought it was pursuing before it curved. In
ducking, he got his bat in front of the ball, a result he had never
obtained with his eyes open.
Once I started to pass "Hans" Wagner in a pinch to take a chance on the
next batter, and was a little careless in throwing the ball too close to
the plate. He reached out and slapped it for a single. Again the "inside"
game had failed.
Speaking pretty generally, most managers prefer to use this "inside" game,
though, and there are few vacancies in the Big Leagues right now for the
man who is liable to steal second with the bases full.
Transcriber's Notes:
Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_.
Punctuation has been corrected without note.
The following misprints have been corrected:
"Crounds" corrected to "Grounds" (page 65)
"temperameut" corrected to "temperament" (page 69)
"penant" corrected to "pennant" (page 205)
"te ephone" corrected to "telephone" (page 263)
"innnings" corrected to "innings" (page 282)
Other than the corrections listed above, inconsistencies in hyphenation
have been retained from the original.
End of Project Gutenberg's Pitching in a Pinch, by Christy Mathewson