“Twenty-seven years ago I walked down a street in Chicago in company with
some ball players who were famous in this world—some of them are dead
now—and we went into a saloon. It was Sunday afternoon and we got tanked
up and then went and sat down on a corner. I never go by that street
without thanking God for saving me. It was a vacant lot at that time. We
sat down on a curbing. Across the street a company of men and women were
playing on instruments—horns, flutes and slide trombones—and the others
were singing the gospel hymns that I used to hear my mother sing back in
the log cabin in Iowa and back in the old church where I used to go to
Sunday school.
“And God painted on the canvas of my recollection and memory a vivid
picture of the scenes of other days and other faces.”
“WON’T YOU COME?”
“Many have long since turned to dust. I sobbed and sobbed and a young man
stepped out and said: ‘We are going down to the Pacific Garden mission.
Won’t you come down to the mission? I am sure you will enjoy it. You can
hear drunkards tell how they have been saved and girls tell how they have
been saved from the red light district. I arose and said to the boys: “I’m
through. We’ve come to the parting of the ways,” and I turned my back on
them. Some of them laughed and some of them mocked me; one of them gave me
encouragement; others never said a word. Twenty-seven years ago I turned
and left that little group on the corner of State and Madison streets,
walked to the little mission, fell on my knees and staggered out of sin
and into the arms of the Saviour.
I went over to the west side of Chicago where I was keeping company
with a girl now my wife, Nell. I married Nell. She was a Presbyterian,
so I am a Presbyterian. Had she been a Catholic, I would have been a
Catholic—because I was hot on the trail of Nell.
The next day I had to go out to the ball park and practice. Every morning
at 10 o’clock we had to be out there and practice. I never slept that
night. I was afraid of the horse-laugh that the gang would give me because
I had taken my stand for Jesus Christ.
I walked down to the old ball grounds. I will never forget it. I slipped
my key into the wicket gate and the first man to meet me after I got
inside was Mike Kelley.
Up came Mike Kelley. He said: “Bill I’m proud of you—religion is not my
long suit, but I’ll help you all I can.” Up came Anson, Pfeffer, Clarkson,
Flint, McCormick, Burns, Williamson and Dalrymple. There wasn’t a fellow
in that gang who knocked, every fellow had a word of encouragement for me.
That afternoon we played the old Detroit club. We were neck and neck for
the championship. That club had Thompson, Richardson, Rowe, Dunlap, Hanlon
and Bennett, and they could play ball. I was playing right field and John
G. Clarkson was pitching. He was as fine pitcher as ever crawled into a
uniform. There are some pitchers today, O’Toole, Bender, Wood, Mathewson,
Johnson, Marquard, but I do not believe any one of them stood in the class
with Clarkson.
We had two men out and they had a man on second and one on third, and
Bennett, their old catcher was at the bat. Charley had three balls and two
strikes on him. Charley couldn’t hit a high ball. I don’t mean a Scotch
high-ball, but he could kill them when they went about his knee.