The Celebrant, page 19
The year before, when he’d beaten the Cubs three times, Coombs had been dubbed “the American League Matty”; he too was a collegian and a control artist. Mathewson built a Giant run in the third with a base hit, and protected it to the ninth; it was one to nothing when Philadelphia’s oddly-proportioned third baseman, Frank Baker, came to bat. Above the waist he was whippet-thin, with elongated arms that gave him huge range in the field; below, he was stocky and powerful, strong enough to have led his league in home runs with nine. He’d hit another the day before to beat Marquard. Now he got under Mathewson’s fastball and sent it high down the right field line. The Polo Grounds oval that created a generous center field had very near walls down either line, and the ball made the seats by a fraction. The game was tied. Mathewson seemed unfazed, but his teammates were undone. They couldn’t touch Coombs in the bottom of the ninth, and when they batted in the tenth both Merkle and Snodgrass were thrown out on the bases. In the Philadelphia eleventh Baker hit a grounder to the egregious Herzog, who stabbed it and promptly threw into right field. With runners on second and third Mathewson forced a bouncing ball to shortstop; it ran up Fletcher’s arms, and the tie was broken. On the next pitch the baserunner broke for second, and both Doyle and Fletcher moved to cover the base; a ground ball rolled over the vacant infield to bring Baker home. The Giants scraped a run together in the bottom of the eleventh, but the rally fell short and the game was over. It left me exhausted, but the moneychangers at Frost’s box were oblivious to it all. On the journey home Arthur outlined the dimensions of a new deal he’d struck with the lawyer, and when we parted he asked, as an afterthought, who’d won the game.
Then came the wintry weather. For six days a freezing rain prevented the fourth game. Too much rest was worse than too little; although Mathewson struck out the side in the first inning, he struggled thereafter and allowed three runs in the fourth inning; it led to his second defeat. The next day’s game began awfully; Marquard gave up a three-run homer and the Giants were in desperate shape. But they rallied in the ninth to tie the game, and won it in the tenth on Merkle’s scoring fly ball. That night at the Ansonia the pariah of ’08 was toasted as a hero of Spartican dimension, but Hal Chase was there to repeat that Connie Mack could count.
I followed the sixth game on the huge board in Times Square. For the temperature as well as the mob it might have been New Year’s Eve, but the party was a dub. Ames was chased in the fourth inning, and in the seventh the Giants collapsed in the field as the Athletics paraded around the bases. The Square was dawn-empty when the game and the Series ended.
In the spring a purported autobiography was published under Mathewson’s name, entitled Pitching in a Pinch. That a ghostwriter had fashioned it was an open secret; Frost had sold the rights to a journeyman sportswriter named Wheeler, who gave interviews modestly acknowledging his role and swearing that no writer since the authors of the Gospels had borne a greater responsibility. If Christ had been as gentle with the Pharisees he’d have died of old age; not a line in the book could possibly offend. There wasn’t a word of the broken contract with Mack or the hostilities of McGraw’s early years, and with all the lessons on “inside baseball” there was nothing about the kind of pitching that had flipped Padden on his back in St. Louis and kept batters wary for a decade after. Only in the section on pitching under pressure did I find a trace of Mathewson’s own voice, an echo of our supper at Mr. Sonnheim’s club:
It is in the pinch that the pitcher shows whether or not he is a Big Leaguer. It is the acid test. That is the reason so many men, who shine in the minor leagues, fail to make good in the majors. They cannot stand the fire.
The book had three printings, and a special Boy Scout edition sold out. Arthur was upset that there was no mention of Collegiate Jewelers, and Eli looked for his own name in vain.
I read the book in my workroom, and when I was done I stared at the drawings on the wall, envying their youthful energy and clean direction. In creating them I’d felt myself an instrument of Mathewson’s own genius, but like Eli I’d staked my fortune on the vagaries of the game, and through the years of accident and frustration I’d become like Wheeler, exploiting rather than glorifying the hero. I scanned my current work, and I was ashamed; I realized that I needed new inspiration and could not look to Mathewson to provide it.
I stayed away from the Polo Grounds in 1912. I apportioned much of my work among the growing team of apprentices and spent my days in the museums and galleries. I asked Edith to plan a European tour for the fall. I sought out the attractions of the city that I’d always ignored in favor of a ballgame, and discovered that Washington Square was a public green of bright and busy delight, and that Little Italy to the south was a gastronomic adventure that feasted a new saint every Saturday. I took Edith to Coney Island’s beer gardens and saw singing waiters in blackface imitate Jolsen and Wheeler, and then I found the genuine articles at Hammerstein’s and the Winter Garden. I heard the young Galli-Curci sing and saw Strauss conduct, and I clapped to the beat of Sousa’s baton at the Central Park bandshell. I watched Matthias play.
In August, entirely by happenstance, he saw me pitch. We spent the month with my in-laws on Lake George, and on a day trip to Warrensburg we laid a picnic on the lawn of the Congregational Church at the edge of the village green. Edith’s mood was delightful. She joked that she’d never before dined al fresco and ex cathedra at a single stroke. When the locals began to choose up sides for a lunch-hour game she volunteered my services and advertised my rusted pitching skills. In a trice I found myself on a ragged patch of dirt that was more a depression than a mound, facing a youth of no more than fourteen who swung a bottle bat with exuberant energy. I walked him and two others in the first inning, but in the second I found my control by throwing harder; I struck out the last man. In the third I tried a curve ball, and it was a lovely thing. The amazed hitter backed out of the box and asked for a consensus ruling to bar me from throwing another. The matter went to a vote, which I carried by pledging to try no more than three in any single inning. At bat I was helpless.
In the sixth inning my pitches began to stand still over the plate, and I worsened matters by bobbling a bunt and throwing wildly to first. With two on base, the youngster with the bottle bat dug in against me. I threw with all my might and hit him squarely in the back. Everyone gathered around the boy, who recovered his breath, forgave me with a joke, and regained his feet as the church bell chimed the hour. For all the messiness of the last inning I heard the ringing as a gloria. When Edith made a teasing report of the game to her parents that evening I joined in the laughter, but the pain in my arm the next morning made me groan aloud. This earned sympathy from Edith, but none at all from her father, who for the rest of the summer delighted to call me “Lefty.”
When I called at the shop in early September Arthur gave me assignments beyond the fixtures of the line. “We ought to do a commemorative for Marquard,” he said, “and of course you know that young Tesreau pitched a no-hit game last Friday. You should do something for him as well.”
“Are these Eli’s orders?” I asked.
Arthur looked amused. “No, Eli’s taking rather few orders these days. Now Marquard’s the coming man, Jack, and I want to approach him for an endorsement. Nineteen victories in a row! Not even Mathewson ever did that. I’d like to make a downpayment on Tesreau as well. We have to look to the future. The championship rings are done, aren’t they? If the Red Sox win I want them in the window at the opening of our Boston store.” “Ruby had them under way when I left. I imagine all that’s needed is the engraving of the winning club’s insignia.”
“Of course. Remember, Jack, we have to make a strong impression on Marquard and Tesreau. What’s wrong with your arm?”
“Is it that obvious? I pitched in a pick-up game in Lake George. I had a grand time, but I’ve been feeling it ever since.”
“Did you do well?”
“Nothing worthy of a ring. Arthur, I’d like to give these Marquard and Tesreau pieces to young Mark. He’s by far the most talented of the apprentices, and I want to see what he can do with the assignment.”
“No, do them yourself.” He turned his back and opened a book of accounts.
“That’s rather abrupt,” I said.
“As long as you ask, that’s my answer.”
“I’ve always had responsibility for assigning work.”
“Then why ask me?”
“Because you told me directly to do these myself.”
“Are we to have a jurisdictional dispute?” He turned to face me. “I want you to do them because they’re important to the future of the firm. I thought I’d made that clear. The old order is passing, Jack. If Marquard isn’t the league’s best pitcher he soon will be. Moreover, he’s touring the vaudeville circuit this winter and I want him wearing one of our rings. He’ll be asked about it, and the publicity will suit us well. If you think that Mark can do a better design than you——”
“That’s not the question. The point is that I haven’t the impulse to design for Marquard and Tesreau. The Mathewson rings, those early ones, were never assigned or commissioned. They were done on impulse.”
Arthur looked at me, snapped open his silver case and lit a cigarette. “You were made for one another, Mathewson and you,” he said, shaking his head. “You think he’s a kind of god, and I suspect that he shares your belief. Happily for him, he has the good lawyer Frost to deal with all the mundane and tawdry things in life, like endorsements and fees and checks such as we issued to him last year in the amount, may I say, of four thousand, seven hundred and sixty-four dollars and thirty-nine cents. You, poor man, have to lower yourself to design pieces which are not outpourings of pure worship. Well, I’m terribly sorry, but this is not an abbey and you are not a monk illuminating pages for the greater glory of God. This is a business concern which at present, for better or worse, depends on the endorsement of celebrities for a goodly proportion of its income, and if it is to expand and thrive—and I intend to see that it does—it cannot wait on impulse, and it cannot stake all on last year’s hero.”
I got up. “Then perhaps you ought not to depend on last year’s designer,” I said, and crossed to the door.
“Jack.” I stopped. “Jack, I’m sorry. There’s just so much pressure. So much depends on the Boston store. I understand your attitude, truly I do, and in other circumstances it would be laudable, but you must understand how unprofessional it is. You have responsibilities to the firm, and you ought to approach them as a professional.”
“I remember hearing Hal Chase lecture on the subject of professionalism,” I said.
“Chase? Eli’s playmate? You won’t believe what they asked your friend Mark to make for them.”
“Touching Chase I’d believe anything. Arthur, I’ll draw something for Marquard and Tesreau and I’ll check with Ruby on the status of the rings for the Boston store, if you give me the date.” “October sixteenth.”
“World’s Series week.”
“What a ball fan you are! It’s also your wedding anniversary.” “I know that, Arthur, but I imagine it’s the Series that concerns you.”
“True enough. It’s the day after the seventh game, if the Series goes that far. I couldn’t hope for better than to have Boston and New York in the World’s Series, and our store to open that very week. Have you seen the photographs?” He took an envelope from his desktop and handed it to me. I saw a riot of construction. “It’s very impressive. I’ll be sorry to miss the opening.”
“Miss it! What do you mean?”
“We’re sailing for Europe on the sixteenth. You see, I really do remember my anniversary.”
“Change your plans.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Change them! You’re receiving an award from the National Commission that day, it’s part of the ceremonies.”
“Arthur, we’ve planned this trip for months.”
“Embark from Boston. You can attend the ceremonies in the morning and sail that afternoon, our local people will see to the arrangements.”
“Arthur——”
“Jack, you have to be there. Mathewson’s presenting the award.” I gaped. “He’ll be there? Mathewson will be at the store?”
“Why not?” said Arthur, crushing his cigarette. “Christ walked among publicans and sinners.”
While the Giants ran away from the National League pack the other race went down to the final weekend. There were three contending clubs: Philadelphia, the defending champions; Washington, a surprising challenger with little more to boast than its locomotive of a righthander, Walter Johnson; and Boston, the club McGraw had not deigned to play in 1904. I knew little of the American League and asked Eli’s assessment. “Boston,” he said without hesitation. “If Connie Mack’s infield is worth a hundred grand, what would you give for Jake Stahl’s outfield? A quarter million?” Hooper, Speaker, and Lewis: Boston hadn’t seen such artillery since Bunker Hill. Harry Hooper and Duffy Lewis on the flanks were greyhounds at the chase, and Tris Speaker, no taller, carried twenty more pounds in muscle across his chest and arms. At bat he had no peer for percentage and power; nearly half his hits went for extra bases. In the field he played with his shadow over second base, contemptuous that anyone might hit the ball beyond his extraordinary range. There were others—Gardner and Stahl at the corners of the infield, .300 hitters both; Steve Yerkes and Harry Wagner (to ball fans, the “other” Wagner) at second and short, and strong-armed Bill Carrigan behind the plate—but the arm of arms belonged to Smokey Joe Wood. Mathewson at his finest never won so many games while losing so few as Wood did that year, and McGinnity in his prime was never so powerful. “Can I throw harder than Wood?” Walter Johnson asked. “Listen, my friend, there’s no man alive can throw harder than Smokey Joe Wood.”
They played before a fervent and uproarious pack that had organized itself into a grand fraternity, the Royal Rooters of Boston. These high-rolling Irishmen ached to play the Giants; they still felt the sting of McGraw’s ancient insult, and when the Red Sox clinched the flag some two thousand of them carried their pennant celebration to New York aboard a chartered train. They tumbled into Grand Central on the eve of the World’s Series bedecked with red sashes and top hats speckled with golden glitter, trooped up Broadway to the step of their own brass band and stormed the Bretton Hall Hotel at Eighty-Sixth Street to establish headquarters. Two hours later they paraded back to Times Square by torchlight, fortified against the evening chill by their passion and their flasks. They serenaded the amazed district and demanded a solo rendition of “Sweet Adeline” from their leader, the Mayor of Boston. His name was Fitzgerald—“Honey Fitz” to his devoted following—and his uncertain tenor was painful to hear, but his delightful face was a classical mask of comedy and his ebullience forgave his outrageous manner. The rally done, the Royal Rooters dispersed with currency of all denominations waving from their pockets and hatbands. They meant to cover every bet the city would offer. Bookmakers were charging seven dollars for the chance to make five on either club; New Yorkers demanded longer odds when McGraw announced that the rookie Tesreau would face Smokey Joe in the opening game. It was another of the little round man’s moves that defied expectation but yielded to easy logic. If two thousand Royal Rooters could create an unnerving commotion in New York, what would thirty thousand do in Boston’s ballpark? McGraw would hold Mathewson to face that mob and gave his younger pitchers the advantage of a home crowd. Marquard had been a midseason miracle, but Tesreau held the hotter hand down the stretch.
Fifty thousand jammed the Polo Grounds while hour by hour an apprentice brought me editions of the afternoon papers. For five innings the choice of Tesreau seemed inspired. He allowed not a hit, and the Giants gave him a two-run advantage in the third. Boston rallied to halve the lead in the sixth and overcome it in the seventh; the Giants trailed by two. In the ninth Merkle singled, then Herzog, then Meyers, but in the tumultuous moment Joe Wood showed enormous courage. He struck out Fletcher on three pitches, and on a full count he struck out Crandall. It choked the screaming mob, and it won the game for Boston.
Rail tickets to Boston were as precious as passes to the game. Less organized but no less cocksure than the Royal Rooters, the New York gang celebrated the certainty of Mathewson’s coming victory as they sped through the New England night. Arthur and I had a different concern. We alternated guard on two huge crates of merchandise for the Boston store, exchanging a small black revolver at each relief. We supervised the unloading at dawn, and with an escort of private detectives we wheeled a rented truck through the still sleeping streets. The store was situated directly opposite the great Jordan Marsh emporium on Washington Street. By nine o’clock a crowd had formed in front of the store, and they cheered when we unveiled the championship rings in the show window. I saw people on the upper floors of Jordan Marsh frowning and shaking their heads; one raised a fist, and one of our workmen responded with an obscene gesture. Arthur took the man aside, cautioned him mildly, and slipped him a dollar bill. At noon we affixed a large banner across the storefront: GRAND OPENING/ GALA CELEBRATION/ OCTOBER l6. Under this Was an italicized line: Collegiate Jewelers/ We Adorn The Champions.
When I heard the band approaching I automatically assumed that Arthur had arranged the show, but then I saw the sashes and top hats of the Royal Rooters and realized that it was a rump brigade on its way to Kenmore Square. Their extravagant buoyancy was seductive, and I enjoyed their hallelujah to the home roster:
Carrigan, Carrigan,
Speaker, Lewis, Wood, and Stahl,
Bradley, Engle, Pape, and Hall,
Wagner, Gardener, Hooper too—
Hit them! Hit them! Do, boys, do!
After lunch a young sales clerk took me to the Cunard offices in Boston harbor to arrange passage on the sixteenth. Service was impossible, for the commercial wire carried a pitch-by-pitch account of the game and took all the attention. The clerk had a shamrock encased in glass on his keychain, and he rubbed it at every close moment, muttering Gaelic spells. The thing worked terrors. Fletcher made an error in the first inning, two hits ricocheted off Mathewson’s glove, and three Boston runs crossed home. The Giants narrowed the gap, but in the fifth Fletcher dropped a throw and Boston scored again. Once more the Giants rallied, and in the eighth they took the lead. But the shamrock had a sign on Fletcher: a two-out grounder went through his legs, his third error, and the score was tied. My business was long done—I had passage on a steamer departing at midnight on the sixteenth, and the clerk, who knew my sympathies, said, “Midnight! That’s a sign!”—but there was no leaving the office with the game undecided and in extra innings. In the tenth McGraw used up his bench with pinch-hitters and pinch-runners and gained a run; Mathewson needed three more outs. The clerk put the shamrock on the floor and danced around it. With one out Speaker hit a long drive that might have been caught, but the new center fielder waved at it; Tris might have been nailed at third, but the new shortstop muffed the relay; he might have been out at home, but the new catcher fumbled the throw. It was a tie game, and I wanted to grind the shamrock under my heel. Another scoreless inning passed. The harbor hid in darkness, and a lighthouse beacon flashed on the horizon. The wire fell silent for a long moment before it clocked out the results: GAME CALLED DARKNESS FINAL SCORE SIX SIX.
