(WORLD’S SERIES OPENING, 1922)
At the Polo Grounds yesterday $119,000 worth of baseball was played.
Of that, however, only a meagre $60,000 or so went to the players. We
wonder how much the accumulated sports writers got for writing about
it. They are the real plutocrats of professional athletics.
We have long intimated our inflexible determination to learn how to
be a sports writer--or, as he is usually called, a Scribe. This is
to announce progress. We are getting promoted steadily. In the 1920
World’s Series we were high up in the stand. At the Dempsey-Carpentier
liquidation we were not more than a parasang from the ring. We broke
into the press box at the 1921 World’s Series, but only in the rearward
allotments assigned to correspondents from Harrisburg and Des Moines.
But our stuff is beginning to be appreciated. We are gaining. Yesterday
we found ourself actually below the sacred barrier--in the Second Row,
right behind the Big Fellows. Down there we were positively almost on
social terms (if we had ventured to speak to them) with chaps like Bill
McGeehan and Grant Rice and Damon Runyon and Ring Lardner. Well, there
are a lot of climbers in the world of sporting literature.
One incident amused us. We heard a man say, “Which one is Damon
Runyon?” “Over there,” said another, pointing. The first, probably
hoping to wangle some sort of prestige, made for Mr. Runyon. “Hullo,
Damon!” he cried genially. “Remember me?”
It must have been Pythias.
So far we have only been allowed to shoot in a little preliminary
patter--what managing editors call “human interest stuff.” When the
actual game starts they take the wire away from us, quite rightly,
and turn it over to the experts. But, being inexorably ambitious, we
sit down now, after the game is over, to tell you exactly how we saw
it. Because we had a unique opportunity to study a great journalist
and see exactly how it’s done. It was just our good luck, sitting in
the second row. The second sees better than the first--it’s higher.
You have to use your knee for writing desk, and you have to pull up
your haunches every few minutes to let by the baseball editor of the
Topeka _Clarion_ on his way back to Harry Stevens’s Gratis Tiffin for
another platter of salad. But the second row gave us our much needed
opportunity to watch the leaders of our craft.
It was just before the game began. The plump lady in white tights (a
little too opulent to be Miss Kellermann, but evidently a diva of some
sort) was about to begin the walking race around the bases against the
athletic-looking man. She won, by the way--what a commutrix she would
make. Suddenly we recognized a very Famous Editor climbing into the
seat directly in front of us. He was followed by two earnest young men.
One of these respectfully placed a Noiseless typewriter in front of the
Editor, and spread out a thick pile of copy paper.
This young man had shell spectacles and truncated side-whiskers. Both
young men were plainly experts, and were there to tell the Editor the
fine points of what was happening. The Famous Editor’s job was to whale
it out on the Noiseless, with that personal touch that has made him (it
has been said) the most successful American newspaper man.
This, we said to ourself, is going to be better than any Course in
Journalism.
We admired the Editor for the competent businesslike way he went to
work. He wasted no time in talking. After one intent glance round
through very brightly polished spectacles, he began to tick--to “file,”
as we professionals say. Already, evidently, he felt the famous
“reactions” coming to him. He looked so charmingly scholarly, like some
well-loved college professor, we could not help feeling it was just a
little sad to see him taking all this so seriously. He never paused to
enjoy the scene (it really is a great sight, you know), but pattered
along on the keys like a well-trained engine.
The two young men fed him facts; with austere and faintly indignant
docility he turned these into the well-known pseudo-philosophic
comment. It was beautifully efficacious. The shining, well-tended
typewriter, the plentiful supply of smooth yellow paper, the ribbon
printing off a clear blue, these were right under our eyes; we couldn’t
help seeing the story rolling out though most of the time we averted
our eyes in a kind of shame. It seemed like studying the nakedness of a
fine mind.
“Jack Dempsey’s coming in,” said the young man. Or, “Babe Ruth at bat.”
The Editor was too busy to look up often. One flash of those observant
(and always faintly embittered, we thought) eyes could take in enough
to keep the mind revolving through many words. “I’ll take them, and
correct the typographical errors,” remarked young Shellspecs, gathering
up the Editor’s first page. Thereafter the Editor passed over his story
in “takes” and young Shellspecs copyread it with a blue pencil. Once
the Editor said, a little tartly: “Don’t change the punctuation.” From
Shellspecs the pages went smoothly to the silent telegraph operator who
sat between them.
Our mind--if we must be honest--was somewhat divided between admiration
and pity. Here, indeed, is slavery, we said to ourself, watching the
great man bent over his work. Babe Ruth came to the plate. Judge
Landis is named after a mountain, but Ruth looks like one. There
was pleasant dramatic quality in the scene: the burly, gray figure
swinging its bat, the agile and dangerous-looking Mr. Nehf winding up
for delivery, the twirl of revolving arms against a green background,
the flashing, airy swim of the ball, the turbine circling of the bat,
the STRIKE sign floating silently upon the distant scoreboard ...
but did the Editor have time to savour all this? Not he! One quick
wistful peer upward through those clear lenses, he was back again on
his keyboard--the Noiseless keyboard carrying words to the noisiest of
papers.
And yet, we had to insist, here was also genius of a sort. The
swiftness with which he translated it all into a rude, bright picture!
But he was going too consciously on high, we thought. Proletarianizing
it, fitting the scene into his own particular scheme of thinking,
instead of genuinely puzzling out its suggestions. He was honest enough
to admit that the game itself was mostly rather dull--and in so far he
was much above most of the Sporting Writers, those high-spirited lads
who come back from a quite peaceable game and lead you to believe that
there have been scenes of thunder and earthquake.
But, like most of us, he tended to exaggerate those things he
had decided upon beforehand. He made much of the roaring of the
crowd--which, after all, was not violent as crowds go; and he wrote
cheerily of the bitterness of hatred manifested towards the umpires,
the deadly glances of players questioning close decisions. He seemed
to view these matters through a pupil dilated with intellectual
belladonna (if that’s what belladonna does).
He wrote something about the perfect happiness of the small boy who
was the Giant mascot. Heaven, he said, would have to be mighty good to
be better than this for that urchin. But to us the boy seemed totally
calm, even sombre. What does baseball mean to him? More interesting,
and more exact, we thought, would have been to note the fluctuating
sounds of the spectators; a constant rhythm of sound and silence--the
hush as the pitcher winds up, the mixed surge of comment as the
ball flicks across, the sudden unanimous outcry at some dramatic
stroke. Or the ironical cadenced clapping and stamping that break out
spontaneously at certain recognized moments of suspense.
But the Editor was going strong, and we felt a kind of admiring
affection for him as we saw him so true to form. He picked reactions
out of the ether, hit them square on the nose, and whaled them to
Shellspecs. Shellspecs recorded faultless assists, zooming them in to
Western Union.
In the third inning the Editor hoisted a paragraph clean over the heads
of the bleachers by quoting the Bible. Mr. Bush, the red-sleeved Yankee
pitcher, was at bat and lifted a midfield fly. Bancroft made a superb
tergiversating catch going at full speed. It was beautifully done.
For the second time, we thought, history has been made in America by
a Bancroft. “The human body is a wonderful machine,” ticked the busy
Editor. We watched Mr. Bancroft more carefully after that. A small
agile fellow, there was much comeliness in the angle of his trunk and
hips as he leaned forward over the plate, preparing for the ball.
In the fourth inning the Editor was already at page 13 of his copy.
The young man with truncated side-whiskers then drew the rebuke for
inserting commas into the story. The other young man, sitting behind,
kept volleying bits of Inside Stuff. Scott came to bat. “This fellow,”
said Inside Stuff, “is known as the Little Iron Man; he’s played in one
thousand consecutive games.” This was faithfully relayed to the Editor
by Shellspecs, and went into the story. But the Editor changed it to
“almost a thousand.” This pleased us, for we also felt a bit skeptical
about that item.
By this time, having noted the quickness of the Editor at
“reactionizing,” we were very keen to get something of our own into his
story. An airplane came over. Inside Stuff announced that the plane was
taking pictures to be delivered in Cleveland in time for the morning
papers. How he knew this, we can’t guess--very likely he didn’t.
This also faithful Shellspecs passed on. The plane was a big silvery
beauty--we remarked, loudly, to our neighbour that she looked as though
made of aluminum. A moment later the Editor, having handed a page to
Shellspecs, said: “Add that the plane was aluminum.” Shellspecs wrote
down in blue pencil: “It’s an aluminum flying machine.” But we mustn’t
be unjust. Very likely the Editor got the reaction just as we did. It
was fairly obvious.
Sixth Inning--The Editor hit a hot twisting paragraph to the outposts
of his syndicate, but troubled Shellspecs by saying--Mr. Whitey Witt’s
name having been mentioned--“Is he a Yankee or a Giant?” “He’s an
albino, has pink eyes,” volunteered indefatigable Inside Stuff. The
flying keys caught it and in it went, somewhat philosophized: “Lack of
pigment in hair, skin, and retina seems not to diminish his power.”
Inside Stuff: “It’s the beginning of the Seventh and they’re all
stretching. It’s the usual thing.” But no stretching for the Editor. He
goes on and on. Twenty pages now. When his assistants put a fact just
where he likes it his quick mind knocks it for five million circulation.
“Stengel, considered a very old man in baseball,” says the cheery
mentor. “He’s thirty-one years old.” To none of these suggestions does
the Editor make any comment. He wastes no words--orally, at least. He
knows what he wants--sifts it instanter.
We left at the end of the Eighth. The Editor was still going strong. He
didn’t see the game, but we think he was happy in his own way.
We hope we haven’t seemed too impertinent. We want to be a Scribe--not
a Pharisee. But our interest in the profession is greater than our
regard for any merely individual sanctity. We’ve given you a faithful
picture of what has been called supreme success in journalism. Take
a good look at it, you students of newspapers, and see how you like
it. We’ll tell you a secret. It’s pretty easy, if that’s the sort of
thing you hanker for. In a way, it’s rather thrilling. But (between
ourselves) it’s also a Warning.
[Illustration]