Willie Mays as a New York Giant

You’ve all seen the film. Willie Mays turns, runs back, his cap goes off, he reaches out, the ball falls in his mitt and he turns to fire the ball back to the infield. It’s the famous catch off Vic Wertz’s bat and is one of the handful of most famous plays in World Series history. It occurred in 1954, the last stand of the New York Giants in postseason.

The 1954 Giants were a team coming off a down season in 1953. After winning the National League pennant in 1951, they’d dropped to second in 1952, then fallen to fifth in 1953. It was much the same team, but with a couple of significant changes. Wes Westrum was still the catcher. He hit under the Mendoza Line for the season, but was a decent catcher. He’d led the league in caught stealing a couple of times, but also in passed balls (more on that later). The infield was Whitey Lockman, Davey Williams, Alvin Dark, and Hank Thompson. They had all been around in 1953. Dark and Thompson both hit 20 plus home runs with Dark leading the infield with a .293 average. Hall of Famer Monte Irvin and Don Mueller patrolled the outfield corners. Irvin had 19 home runs and Mueller hit .342. But the big change was the return of Willie Mays from the military. Mays hit .345, slugged .667, had an OPS+ of 175 and hit 41 home runs with 110 RBIs. He was also, of course, a superb center fielder.

The pitching staff consisted of Johnny Antonelli having a career year, Ruben Gomez continuing his run as a starter, and 37-year-old Sal Maglie contributing 14 wins. The closer was Hall of Fame reliever Hoyt Wilhelm, whose knuckleball accounted for most of Westrum’s passed balls. Manager Leo Durocher’s bench was fairly thin, but ace pinch hitter and sometime outfielder Dusty Rhodes hit .341, had an OPS+ of 181 (higher than Mays).

The Giants weren’t favored in 1954, the Dodgers were. But the Giants went 25-19 against Brooklyn and Milwaukee (the other NL teams that played .500 ball) while the Dodgers were only19-25. The six games made a difference as New York took the pennant by five games, posting a 97-57 record.

They drew record-setting Cleveland in the World Series. The Indians had rolled to an American League record 111 wins (since bettered) but the number was deceiving. They’d feasted on the second division teams and played only so-so against the first division. There were no second division teams in the Series. Behind Mays’ famous catch, Rhodes two home runs, Dark’s .412 average, and pitching that held Cleveland to a .190 average New York swept the Indians in four games.

For the Giants it was the end. In 1955 they finished third. In both 1956 and 1957 they were sixth (of eight teams). By 1958 they were no longer the New York Giants. They moved to San Francisco at the end of the 1957 season. They had been a great franchise in the 1880s and had gone on to glory in the first 25 years of the 20th Century. After that they were sporadically good, but had become the third team in New York (behind both the Yankees and Dodgers). The 1954 season was their last hurrah. They would not win again until the 21st Century.

It wasn’t quite this bad

I’ve been thrown out of ball games exactly four times ever: twice as a player, twice as a coach. I told you about the youth baseball experience in a post dated  6 September 2012 and titled “Be Careful What You Ask For”. My other time as a player occurred while playing for an army team. I’m not particularly proud of either moment, but there is one time as a coach that I was kind of proud of being tossed. (All conversation cleaned up for the family nature of this site and approximated after 25 year’s time.)

I was coaching a little league (not capitalized because I’m using it in the generic sense, not in reference to the organization in Williamsport, PA) a number of years ago. We had a decent team, finished about third or fourth. We were involved in a close game against one of the better teams in the league when there was a bang-bang play at second. The opposing team’s player bolted from first, our catcher threw a great strike to second. Our shortstop slapped down the tag, the guy was out. Except for the small fact that the shortstop dropped the ball. It rolled under the guy and apparently no one but the umpire and I noticed. So the ump, being a man of integrity called the guy ”safe.”

My team’s parents erupted. Now we had 12 players and most of them were there that night. That meant that there were roughly 12 sets of parents, grandparents, in-laws, friends, girlfriends, cousins, nephews, nieces, and assorted hangers-on sitting behind our bench and down the third base line (we were on the third base bench). The players were screaming. My assistant coaches were screaming. Everyone of them was absolutely sure that the ump was blind as a lawyer to his client’s guilt and cold as a cop at a traffic stop. You know, just your standard spawn of Satan type. I had three fathers threatening to go out and cut the ump’s throat (or a part of his anatomy somewhat lower). It was obvious that the crowd was going to get out of hand if someone didn’t do something. So being a combat vet (and deathly afraid of little league parents) I decided it had to be me. 

I turned to my assistant coach, “Dave, be prepared to take over, I’m going to have to get run.”

“Say what?”

“I’m going to have to go argue with the ump about the call and I’m going to have to argue enough he’s going to run me outta here.”

Dave nodded and I headed over to second. I stopped first to talk with my shortstop. “Did you get him out?”

“Yeah, coach, I got him,” he lied. Now I was in even worse trouble. Terrific. Now I had to back my player who I knew was lying.

So on out to the ump I went. We stepped a few feet away from the players so no one could hear us.

“Don’t start, Coach,” the ump told me. “Your man dropped the ball.”

With my face screwed into the tightest grimace of anger I could manage I replied, “Yeah, I know.”

“Then what the heck are you doing out here?” He looked at me like I was a total idiot.

“You see those parents back there?” I asked through my best scowl.

He looked over my shoulder toward the team parents. Four of them (not all males) were trying to climb the chain link fence to get onto the field. Two of them had those little plastic forks they gave you when you got chili-cheese fries at the concession stand. The ump blanched.

“I gotta keep them calm, so I gotta argue with you. I gotta argue enough that you toss me.”

He thought for a second, then nodded. “OK, but we gotta take a while, don’t we?”

“Yeah, how long you figure?” I asked pointing my finger at him and waving it threateningly.

He took a quick look down at his watch and looked up with his worst grimace of anger, “I guess about a minute.”

“OK.” Now at a total loss as to what to do next, I asked, “So what do we talk about?” I threw up an arm in utter disgust at whatever he said.

“How about the blonde with the big melons?” he suggested while punching his finger into my face about an inch short of my nose.

One of the other team’s mothers was this nice looking blonde with big melons who was seated just in eyesight of both of us. She had on one of those blue summer dresses that have no sleeves, a couple of thin straps and a short, but wide skirt.

“Nice legs too,” I told him with both arms flailing in his direction.

“Yep. You oughta try getting her kid next year,” the ump told me with a jerk of his head and a glare.

I screwed up my face again, threw both arms up and gestured wildly, “I’ll have to find out which one he is.”

“I think it’s the kid they have in center tonight,” he said through clinched teeth.

“You sure?” I responded through equally clinched teeth.

“No, but I’ve seen her yell for him when he’s at bat,” he told me as he glanced at his watch. “The minute’s almost up so toss your cap down and I’ll run you, OK?”

So I threw down my cap. He threw up his arm with thumb extended in the classic “Yer outta here” signal. I grabbed my cap, trudged back to the dugout, winked at Dave and went out through the player’s gate over by third base. My parents were giving me a standing ovation.

Back then when you were tossed out in the local league, you had to leave the ball yard entirely. Of course there was a parking area just to the first base side of the field, so I wandered over there, leaned back on a car, and waited for the game to end. We managed to win the game (and the guy safe at second didn’t score). So I headed back to the field to talk with the team. Half the fathers patted me on the back, the other half shook my hand. One of the mother’s kissed my cheek (It wasn’t the blonde. I have no idea what she did).

So I was a hero, but for every action there is an equal an opposite reaction (thank you, Isaac Newton). The next game I showed up, the same ump showed up, the league president showed up. He motioned for both of us to come over.

“What the hell happened out here Tuesday?”

“It’s OK, Dutch,” the ump told him. “Coach here had to argue with me to keep the fans in line and I had to toss him to make it look good. No harm, Dutch.”

I nodded.

“Damn it, guys, we can’t we doing it that way. League rules say I gotta suspend you for being tossed, Coach.” I could see he was in something of a  dilemma and wasn’t sure how to get out of it. No one seemed angry and someone was supposed to be furious.

“But, Dutch, he didn’t really say anything and I’m not upset,” my new hero told him. “Couldn’t we just forget it?”

“Can’t do it. ” There was a long pause as he searched for a solution to his problem.  He looked over at me, “But tell you what I’ll do.  I’ll  suspend you for one inning of this game and that’ll be it. OK?”

“Deal.”

So I leaned against another car while we scored a run or two. Then in a little league rarity in our town we set the other team down in order. So I was back to coaching, was a hero to my players and parents, made a friend in the ump, and we won the game. Not a bad outcome, right?

Oh, and the blonde? I never did get her kid. Damn.

Hal Schumacher

the 1930s Giants pitching staff is known for one hurler: Carl Hubbell. He was “The Meal Ticket.” He was “King Carl.” He also shared the mound with Hal Schumacher, known to the fans as “Prince Hal.”

Hal Schumacher was born in 1910 in upstate New York (near Utica). As with many of the players of the era his parents were immigrants (from Germany). He was a good athlete, graduated high school, got a number of calls from baseball teams. Wanting to attend college he enrolled at St. Lawrence University in 1928. He stayed through 1930, then, running out of money for college, he signed his first professional contract. Among other stipulations, it required the Giants to allow him time to finish college.

He split 1931 between New York and minor league teams in Bridgeport and Rochester (Baseball Reference shows only his Bridgeport numbers. I have no idea why.). He went 1-1 in eight games (two starts) with an ERA over 10. In 1932 he split time between starting and relieving and began to establish himself as a key member of the staff. In 1933 he went 19-12 with a 2.16 ERA and for the first time had more strikeouts than walks. The Giants won the National League pennant and Schumacher won game two of the World Series. He took a no decision in the climactic game five.

Schumacher had outstanding seasons in 1934 and 1935 (going a combined 42-10 with an ERA just under three. He developed arm trouble in 1936 and slid back posting only an 11-13 record for the NL champs. He went 1-1 in the Series, getting lit up during game two and throwing a ten inning complete game in game five. The Giants lost the Series in six games.

They were back in the World Series in 1937, Schumacher going 13-12 during the regular season. He took the loss in game three. It was his last postseason play. He remained with the Giants through 1942 pitching about .500 ball and watching his walk numbers go up while his strikeouts went down.  He joined the Navy after the ’42 season and served on an aircraft carrier. he returned to the Giants in 1946. He was 35 and unable to return to anything like his prewar form. At the end of the season he retired.

Upon retirement he went to work for the Adirondack Bat Company. He’d gotten his college degree in business (meaning the Giants lived up their part of the contract) and became Vice President in charge of sales. With his background in baseball he served as a valuable asset for the company, convincing a number of Major Leaguers to use his company’s bats (Willie Mays was one of them). He rose to Executive Vice President of the company and served a term as president of the Athletic Goods Manufacturers Association. He retired in 1967 and went to work for Little League. His job was to organize instructional programs for youth baseball. He died in Cooperstown (as is appropriate) in 1993.

For his career, Schumacher went 158-121 with an ERA of 3.36 (ERA+ of 111). He walked 902 men and struck out 906 in 2482 innings and gave up 2424 hits. That gave him a 1.340 WHIP. In postseason play he was 2-2 with a 4.13 ERA.

Schumacher was never a big star for the Giants (although he made three All-Star games). He was lost behind the bats of Mel Ott and Bill Terry and he existed in the great shadow of Carl Hubbell on the mound. For all that, he was a successful number two pitcher and a major component for three pennant winning teams.

Carl Hubbell, New York’s “Meal Ticket”

In 1933 the New York Giants did something they hadn’t done since the 1880s. They won a pennant without John McGraw at the helm. The changing of the guard from McGraw to Bill Terry in 1932 rejuvenated the Giants and led them to their first World Series in 10 years.

When I first decided to do this post, I tried to list all eight starters, the three pitchers, the main bullpen guy, and a couple of subs. I got about six names total. Unless you’re a true diehard Giants fan, it’s a fairly obscure team. The infield consisted of (first to third) hall of famer and manager Bill Terry, Hughie Critz, Blondy Ryan, and Johnny Vergez. Terry hit .300, Vergez had double figure home runs, and the other two were primarily glove men. Gus Mancuso was the catcher. He did almost all the catching and had a 49% caught stealing percentage (which was good in the era). The outfield consisted of another hall of famer, Mel Ott, in right, JoJo Moore, George “Kiddo” Davis, Lefty O’Doul, and Homer Peel holding down the other two spots. By the Series, Davis had settled in left and Moore was more or less the normal center fielder. Travis Jackson (another hall of famer), Sam Leslie, and Bernie James were the main backup infielders, while Paul Richards (of manager fame) was the backup catcher. The one significant trade during the season saw O’Doul come to the Giants while Leslie went to the Dodgers. The team led the NL in home runs, but no other major category.

As with most teams McGraw led (and he’d only been gone a year, not time enough for a team make over), the key to the Giants was pitching. Carl Hubbell had a great year going 23-12 with an ERA of 1.66. He had 10 shutouts and walked only 47 to go with 156 strikeouts. Twenty-two year old “Prince” Hal Schumacher was 19-12 with a 2.16 ERA while “Fat” Freddie Fitzsimmons (who could never get that nickname in this politically correct era) was 16-11 with a 2.90 ERA. Geezers Dolf Luque and Hi Bell did most of the bullpen work. The pitchers led the National League in ERA and shutouts, finished second in strikeouts, and were dead last in hits allowed.

They drew Washington in the World Series. It had been eight years since the Senators won a pennant, so both teams were in unusual territory. The Giants won the first two games at home, then dropped game three in DC. They came back to claim game four, then game five became an all-time classic.

In the top of the second, the Giants picked up two runs on a single, a walk, a sacrifice bunt, and a two run scoring single by pitcher Schumacher. They picked up a third run in the sixth when Davis doubled, went to third on a bunt, and scored on Mancuso’s double. In the bottom of the sixth, the Senators struck back. After consecutive singles, Senators center fielder Fred Schulte connected for a three-run homer.After two more singles, Luque replaced Schumacher and slammed the door on Washington. The two teams matched zeroes into the tenth inning. With two outs, Ott launched a home run that put New York ahead. With two out in the bottom of the tenth, a single and a walk put the tying run in scoring position and the winning run at first. Luque responded by striking out Joe Kuhel to end the game and the Series. Luque was terrific in relief, going 4.1 scoreless innings and striking out five. Ott struck out twice, but had the deciding blow.

For the Series the Giants hit .267 to Washington’s .214. They had three home runs (including Ott’s Series winner) while the Senators had two. New York scored 16 runs to their opponent’s 11. Hubbell was 2-0 with 15 strikeouts, Schumacher won game two, and of course Luque was the pitching star of the finale. Fitzsimmons took the only loss (game three by a 4-0 score).

The victory was in isolation. In 1934 and 1935 they Giants fell back. A very different team won pennants in both 1936 and 1937 (losing both World Series’ to the Yankees). The 1940s were a lost time for New York. They reemerged in 1951 to win a thrilling playoff and drop another World Series to the Yankees. They would win one final pennant in New York in 1954.

John McGraw, budding Thespian

As something of a followup to the last post, I decided to look more heavily into Hollywood’s love affair with baseball. I’ve done some of this kind of thing before, but this time I decided to see if I could put together a full team of players who have appeared on either TV or in the movies playing someone other than themselves (or a baseball player). It got a little silly for a while, but this is a pretty good set of players (I wonder if Olivier could hit).  I had to violate the playing someone else or not being a ball player a few times, but you’ll see why when you read them. I’m sure I missed a couple of greats, so feel free to add to the list.

1st base–Lou Gehrig. Back on 26 February 2010 I did a review of Gehrig’s foray into Westerns. He did an oater called “Rawhide” a year before he retired.

2nd base–Jackie Robinson. I also did a review of Robinson’s movie “The Jackie Robinson Story.” Gehrig did a better acting job. OK, this violates the play someone other than themselves (or a ball player) caveat, but it’s Robinson.

shortstop–Maury Wills. Wills shows up with four credits, three as a coach. The other is on “Get Smart”, the old spy spoof.

3rd base–Ron Cey. In 1987 he shows up as an uncredited member of the band in “Murder, She Wrote.”

outfield–Babe Ruth. Again I violated my “no ball player” rule, but it’s the Babe. He played a ball player named Babe Dugan in a film called “Babe Comes Home” in 1927. The IMDB indicates that the movie is lost.

outfield–Ty Cobb. Ok this time I violated the “appeared” part of my criteria. During the 1950s, Cobb wrote five stories and screenplays that showed up on television. Two were for a show called “The Adventures of Champion” (ole Champ was a horse).

outfield–Duke Snider. The Duke shows up with five credits. In one he plays himself, in a second he’s a center fielder. In the other three he has a role. One of those is opposite another former ball player, Chuck Connors, in “The Rifleman.”

catcher–Joe Garagiola. Best catcher I could find who played something other than himself. He appeared in one episode of “Police Story” in 1975. He played a cop. 

DH–Mike Donlin. Of all these guys, Donlin had the best movie career. I did a post on him on 5 January 2011. He ended up with 63 credits, most of them silents.

pitcher–Sandy Koufax. Way back when he was still an unknown, Koufax got into four TV shows: two Westerns, two cop shows. One of the cop shows was in 1959, the other three credits were in 1960.

manager–John McGraw. In 1914, McGraw appeared as Detective Swift in a short called “Detective Swift.” To top it off, Hans Lobert’s wife (cleverly called “Mrs. Hans Lobert) has a role in the short.

Not a bad list, right? There are an inordinate number of Los Angeles Dodgers in the list. That’s not because I’m a fan (although I am), but it makes great sense that the team in LA is going to have a large number of players available locally to show up for bit parts in both the moves and TV.

This list also excludes those players who showed up on Broadway (like Donlin) or in Vaudeville. McGraw and Christy Mathewson had a vaudeville act where they showed the audience how to throw a pitch. The earliest one of these I could find was an 1880s reference that indicated that King Kelly would appear on stage and dance while the band played “Slide, Kelly, Slide.” We’ve come a long way, I think.

Johnny Bernardino

Most ball players are just that, ball players. Few have identities beyond the diamond (unless they go into broadcasting). Some, however, go on to fame in other fields. Such is the story of Johnny Bernardino.

Berardino was born in 1917 in California. He went to the University of Southern California, played infield for the Trojans, then spent a couple of years in the minors (his last season was in the Texas League at San Antonio). He was good enough to get a shot with the St. Louis Browns in 1939. He started at second and in 1940 moved to shortstop. He stayed as the Browns shortstop into early 1942 when he went off to World War II.

He returned to St. Louis in 1946, becoming the Browns normal second baseman (they had Vern Stevens at short). He was a marginal hitter, a decent fielder, and baseball was filled with those. In 1948 he was shipped to Cleveland where he staying into the 1950 season. With Bernardino as the primary backup middle infielder (to Joe Gordon and Lou Boudreau), Cleveland won the American League pennant in 1948 (their last pennant prior to the 1990s). They beat the Boston Braves in six games (their last World’s Championship) with Bernardino solidly entrenched on the bench.

In 1950 he split time between the minors, Cleveland, and Pittsburgh, playing about like he normally did. For 1951 he was back with the Browns. He was 34, on the downside. Bernardino went back to Cleveland to open 1952. He foundered, got a last cup of coffee with Pittsburgh, and ended his big league career.

For his career his triple slash numbers are .249/.316/.355/.672 with an OPS+ of 77. He had 755 hits, 167 for doubles, 23 for triples, and 36 for home runs. The only things he ever led the AL in were range factor and errors by a shortstop, both in 1940.

So his baseball career was over. What do you do with the rest of your life? Well, if you’re an LA kid and you’ve grown up around the movies, you go to Hollywood. He had free time in the off-season and as early as 1948 he was appearing in small roles in “B” movies. There is a story that he appeared as a kid in the “Our Gang” series of shorts, but the Internet Movie Data Base shows his first credit as 1948. He was strictly a bit player now known as John Beradino. He did a lot of TV, including four episodes of “The Lone Ranger” and a number of small roles in movies. He was perhaps best known as the cop who picks up a drunken Cary Grant in “North by Northwest.”

His big break came in 1963. There was a new soap opera to be called “General Hospital” being cast. Beradino tried out and won the lead role of Dr. Steve Hardy. He held the role from 1963 into 1996 when, ill with cancer he died. He did a handful of other shows between 1963 and 1996, but always returned to his bread and butter role. Initially, he was the dashing leading man, but as he aged, became the benevolent father figure for the younger stars on General Hospital.

Now I’m not a soap opera fan so I never watched him while he was on the show. In preparation for this post, I saw a few episodes and snippets on the internet. He wasn’t Humphrey Bogart, but he seemed to be a capable actor. It was a nice finish to a career that started on a baseball diamond.

John Beradino as Dr. Hardy

Aaron B. Champion

There are a bunch of debates over who is the father of baseball. Most of you know the Abner Doubleday myth. Some of you know about Henry Chadwick and his efforts; others know of Alexander Cartwright, Duncan Curry and the rest of the Knickerbockers. You might decide you pick one over the other and I wouldn’t argue with you about which you picked (except maybe Doubleday). But the creation of a solely, openly acknowledged professional team goes back to a specific man, Aaron B. Champion of Cincinnati, Ohio.

Aaron B. Champion was born in Columbus, Ohio in 1842. His family was wealthy enough for him to attend Antioch College from 1856 to 1860. He studied law (law schools were a thing of the future in 1860s Ohio) being admitted to the bar in 1864. He moved to Cincinnati and opened a law office. He was immediately successful. he also was interested in baseball. He joined the ownership of the Cincinnati Red Stockings, becoming second president of the club. the Red Stockings were good, but shared city prominence with the Buckeyes. Champion, looking to build a winner, hit upon an idea that would revolutionize the game. He hired 10 men and paid them to play baseball.

Let’s stop a second and go over a couple of things. Champion did not invent professional baseball, so to call him “the father of professional baseball”, as one article I read did(it’s where I got the title for this little commentary), is technically incorrect. Ballplayers were being paid at least as far back as Jim Creighton in 1860 and probably prior to that. There were generally two ways of doing this. One was to pay the guy under the table and hope no one found out (Lip Pike was paid this way in the late 1860s). The other was for some company to hire a guy, pay him a salary for a particular job, then make sure he spent most of his time working for the local ball team (Harry Wright made money this way). What Champion did was to jettison the under the table aspect of salaries, dump the fiction that the town’s star player was really just a clerk at the bank, and openly pay the entire team. It made for a fully, and acknowledged, professional team. His reasoning seems to have been that if you openly paid players, you could get the very best to come play for you because you could offer top dollar.

It worked. With Champion as owner and Harry Wright taking care of the baseball duties (managing, making hotel arrangements, etc), the team flourished. With George Wright the highest paid player ($1400) and utility sub Dick Hurley the lowest paid ($600), the team proceeded to run off the only undefeated season in professional baseball history. They began playing local and regional teams, went East later in the season, and dominated the best teams in New York, Philadelphia, and the other Eastern cities. Finally they moved West to take on the best teams in California. They were 57-0 when their season ended. Their undefeated streak finally came to an end at 81 games.

Things went south in 1871. Two cliques developed on the Red Stockings, causing the team to split. The Wrights, Cal McVey, and first baseman Charlie Gould left for Boston. The others joined the Washington Olympics in the fledgling National Association of Base Ball Players.

Champion, seeing the team falling apart, and noting declining revenues, resigned as chairman and went back to his law firm. He dabbled in politics, serving as a delegate to the 1876 Democratic Convention. It nominated Samuel Tilden, who lost one of the more famous  American Presidential elections (try finding info on “The Compromise of 1876″ or sometimes it’s dated 1877). Champion became a leading Cincinnati “booster” and died in 1895 while on a visit to Great Britain. He was buried in London.

The local youth baseball league where I live and where my son grew to manhood let girls play. Some of them were pretty good, others not so much. But that’s all they did. They simply didn’t have female coaches. Turns out I had a friend who played softball when she was younger. She was a catcher and knew quite a bit about the game. She was also a big baseball fan and she and I would talk about the game on occasion. most importantly for my purposes, she had a son about the same age as mine.

The way it worked around here was that you would tell the powers that be in the local league that you wanted to coach. They were always desperate for coaches so you were never turned down. Then you got to pick your own assistant coaches (you got 2). My buddy Pete was already an assistant so I needed a second. My solution? Ask “Jane” (Not her real name. She’d kill me if I used it). She said yes.

Now this created quite some shock. A handful of coaches thought it was a terrible idea, others thought it was fine. There were no Cap Anson’s (I ain’t gonna let my guys play against some team with a woman on it), but there were a few snide comments.

The team took it fairly well. No complaints from the players. She was actually pretty good at working with the kids, especially the guys I wanted at catcher. She managed to soothe a couple of ruffled feathers a time or two. In other words, she worked. 

I stuck “Jane” as the first base coach while I took third and Pete handled the bench. This brought her directly onto the field during games. She had a tendency to wear shorts (short ones) and her uniform top was fairly tight. That got the attention of the adult males in the crowd. Now “Jane” was still young (several years younger than either Pete or me) and still had her figure. It bent in and out at all the right places and in just the right amounts. With her in the first base coaches box you couldn’t help but notice. That led another female friend of mine to ask, “You trying to distract the umps?” Wished I’d thought of it.

We had a decent season, coming in third in an eight team league. We got trophies at the big awards ceremony at the end of the season. The kids were happy. Several of them asked if I was going to coach again next season. I thought to myself, “Isn’t it great to be appreciated?” A number of the father’s on the other hand asked if I was going to use the same assistant the next year. If so they wanted their kid on my team. I thought that a great compliment to Pete.

Andy Leonard

One of the best overlooked players of the mid-19th Century in Andy Leonard. He starred prior to 1869, he starred for the Cincinnati Red Stockings of 1869 and 1870. He was a major player in the National Association. By the time the National League arrived, he was on the wane. Here’s a look at this interesting player.

Andrew Jackson Leonard was born in Ireland in 1846, his parents immigrating to Newark, New Jersey  shortly afterward. This begs the question is he named for the United States President Andrew Jackson? If so, is this an indication that his parents were contemplating leaving Ireland and named their son after Old Hickory?  It makes a good story, but I don’t know if it’s true.

Leonard was a prodigy on the diamond. By 1864 he was playing for Newburgh in New York. He played several infield positions, but his arm made him a natural in the outfield. Although an amateur, he was gaining national attention. In 1868 he was one of two players coaxed west to play for the Cincinnati Buckeyes, a local team. It’s unknown if he was paid to move or if he was offered a job that would pay him while he played ball. That was fairly common in the era and helped maintain the illusion of amateurism in the sport. Today, we call those guys “ringers”.

By 1869, the other Cincinnati team, the Red Stockings, were creating the first avowedly professional team. Manager Harry Wright approached Leonard offering him the left field job for $800. He took the offer and became one of the better players on the team. One source indicates that he was the third best player on the team (behind George Wright and Cal McVey). The Red Stockings were dominant in 1869 and 1870 and Leonard was part of the reason.

With the forming of the National Association of Base Ball Players in 1871, Leonard moved to the Washington Olympics. The Olympics were the premier team in Washington so Leonard was joining an established team. They finished 15-15 with Leonard being their best player. In 1872 Leonard jumped to the new team in Boston, also called the Red Stockings (no idea is he brought his old Cincinnati socks with him or not). There he rejoined Harry and George Wright along with Cal McVey of the old Cincinnati team. They rolled to a pennant with Leonard hitting .349. One great statistical oddity shows up in Leonard’s 1872 campaign. He didn’t walk one time in 46 games, making his OBP also .349 (don’t see that often).

Leonard remained with Boston through the remaining life of the National Association (1873-5), putting up quality numbers and helping them to four consecutive pennants. For his Association career his triple slash numbers are .320/.324/,397/,721 (OPS+ 122). Over 286 games he had 456 hits for 60 doubles, 20 triples, and three home runs, amassing 565 total bases. He scored 326 runs, had 256 RBIs, and 74 stolen bases (28 caught stealing). He struck out 11 times and walked nine (about two strike outs per season and less than two walks a year).

With the death of the Association, Leonard and Boston joined the newly formed National League in 1876. He was already 30 and was slipping. He never hit .300 in the NL, but helped Boston to consecutive pennants in 1877 and 1878.  He retired at the end of the 1878 season claiming his eyesight was weakening and he was having trouble seeing the ball, especially in the field. He played one season at minor league Rochester, then tried to get back to the Majors in 1880. He played 33 games in Cincinnati, wasn’t very good, and was released. He worked for Wright and Ditson, a sporting goods company formed by his old teammate George Wright and died in Boston in 1903.

 Leonard is given credit as the first Irish born professional. He did play in the first National Association game and repeated the feat in 1876 when he played in the first ever National League game.

The 1869 Red Stockings, George Wright at top center

I’m an oldest child so that means I have my own particular problems. But I know several people who are youngest children. Each of them has in common the desire to keep up with their elder siblings, sometimes to absurdity. If you look at George Wright’s career, you wonder sometimes if it wasn’t all an attempt to show up his older brother, Harry.

George Wright, unlike older brother Harry, was born in the United States. He was born in New York in 1847, 12 years after Harry. Dad was a cricketer (as was Harry), but George took to the more American game of Base Ball. He was good. By age 15 he was playing with the Gothams, one of the earliest New York teams. At 18 he was their regular catcher. He moved to shortstop the next season and began a migratory period in his career. He played in Washington, D.C. where the local team, in lieu of paying him outright, managed to find him a job in the Treasury Department. He played for the Gothams again. Back in New York he played for the Unions.

By 1869 he was established as one of the finest shortstops in baseball. Older brother Harry had moved to Cincinnati and was in the process of putting together the first acknowledged all-professional team. He called on George to come west and anchor the infield. George Wright did so, becoming the star of the team. For a salary of $1400 the Red Stockings got a .633 batting average and 49 home runs over 57 total games (all victories). I looked all over but could find no other stats for George Wright for the 1869 season.

The Red Stockings folded after the 1870 season, but professional baseball was moving toward forming an all professional league. In 1871, the National Association of Professional Base Ball Players opened its first campaign. Wright (along with bother Harry) moved to the Boston team, also called the Red Stockings. In 16 games, Wright hit .413, stole nine bases, scored 33 runs, and struck out once. Boston finished a disputed second.

From 1872 through the remainder of the life of the Association (1875) Boston dominated the league. Wright was one of the mainstays of the team. He led the league in triples once and, as the lead off hitter, led the league in at bats twice. Other players proved more dominant with the bat, but Wright was considered the premier shortstop in the National Association. If you look at his numbers they don’t look all that great today, but are very good for the era. He is supposed to have invented playing deep in the hole at short and charging the ball. A number of other players are also supposed to have done this, so I have no idea who really did it first.

With the end of the Association, Wright set up shop with the Boston team in the new National League. He was 29, and never did as well in the NL as in the Association. He helped his team to pennants in 1877 and 1878, then was offered the job as player-manager of the Providence Grays in 1879. He led the team to its first pennant. It was also his last big year. 

By this point, Wright was moving into the sporting goods business fulltime. He played sparingly (and did not manage at all) in 1880 and 1881, preferring to work at his business, Wright and Ditson. Ditson was Henry Ditson and the company is still around. In 1882, Harry Wright became manager at Providence and asked George to play fulltime one last season. He did so, getting into 46 games and hitting a buck-62. He retired after the season and was through with playing baseball.

But unlike a number of former ball players who have no idea what to do with themselves when their career is over, George Wright flourished in retirement. Wright and Ditson was successful, he played cricket locally and he got into golf and tennis. He designed Boston’s first public golf course in 1890. He donated the land for the second (which became the George Wright course, in his honor). His sons won both doubles championships and one US Championship (now the US Open) in tennis, with Beals winning an Olympic gold medal. In 1906 he was part of the Mills Commission that determined baseball began in Cooperstown with Abner Doubleday. Apparently Wright’s role on the committee was minimal and I’ve been unable to determine if he agreed with the commission findings. In 1937 he was elected to the Hall of Fame and died, a wealthy man, later the same year. He was 90 and outlived Harry by 42 years.

George Wright’s grave in Brookline, Mass

For his career (National Association and National League) Wright hit .301, had an OBP of .318, slugged .398, and ended with an OPS of .715 (OPS+ of 125). He led the Association in triples once, but has the Association record with 40 triples. He played 591 games, had 866 hits, 124 doubles, 60 triples, and 11 home runs for 1143 total bases. He scored 665 runs and knocked in 326. He stole 47 bases in the Association (his National League totals are unavailable). As a fielder he leads his league in assists, double plays, putouts, and fielding percentage several times, giving proof to his reputation as a great middle infielder.

One of the things you always ask yourself about 19th Century players is “how good were they?”. With George Wright you face the same problems you always face: few games, wretched fields, poor equipment. Unlike the other brother combination (the Waners), I think it’s fair to put both Wright’s in the Hall of Fame. George deserves it as a pioneer (which is technically why he got in). He’s also a pretty good player, one of the better fielding middle infielders in early baseball.