Fenway 1912 (11 page)

As the stands rose from the field the slope of the grandstand deck gradually became steeper. The Fenway Park grandstand utilized what is known as a "rising floor," not one built at a uniform pitch from the field to the back of the stands, but one that was slightly concave. At the base of the grandstand the pitch was only 15 percent, but as the stands went higher—roughly every eighteen to twenty feet, or each time a pier was crossed—the pitch was increased by one degree. The top section sat at a twenty-degree pitch in relation to the field. The result was better sightlines and more seats, and the back of the grandstand stood six and a half feet higher than if the grandstand had had a uniform pitch.

Increasing the pitch in this manner also allowed the grandstand roof to match the height of the pavilion and, by keeping the same roofline, made it appear more like it was part of the same overall structure (albeit separated by an open alleyway between the two stands). Despite its appearance, the pavilion was a completely separate structure, and while Fenway Park was credited as being a concrete-and-steel ballpark, that was true only in regard to the grandstand. The pavilion rested on concrete piers, and the roof was supported by structural steel columns that started at grade, but the pavilion stands were not supported by or built of reinforced concrete.

The rest of the pavilion, including the seats, was built of wood, some recycled from the Huntington Avenue Grounds. The old wooden pavilion structure at the Huntington Avenue Grounds had been carefully taken apart, and much of the lumber was reused in the construction of the stands for the Fenway pavilion. Apart from the steel roof supports, the pavilion was really nothing more than a glorified section of bleachers, with bare wooden plank seats resting atop a maze of robust wooden scaffolding, as prone to fire as the old Huntington Avenue Grounds. That was the reason the pavilion was separated from the grandstand by the alleyway (the vestigial remains of which are still partially visible in Fenway Park today by the gap known as "canvas alley"), which served as a firebreak between the two structures. Although the roof of both the grandstand and the pavilion, made of wood planks and sealed with tar, was highly flammable, it was continuous and had no firebreak so that fans would stay dry during rain showers. That meant that a blaze in the pavilion could easily spread to the grandstand by way of the roof. Claims that Fenway were fireproof were, in reality, relative.

Unlike the main grandstand, the pavilion stands were built at a uniform pitch. Photographs that appeared in newspapers clearly show that the back portion of the stands, but not the roof, towered some six or eight feet higher than the main grandstand. This made for a much denser seating area in which each row was only about two feet in width—six inches narrower than the least spacious seats in the main grandstand. As a result, in roughly the same surface area as the grandstand, the pavilion held more than forty rows of seats as opposed to thirty-two rows, exclusive of the box seats. Patrons in the pavilion were cramped and uncomfortable from the start.

By the end of February the weather had warmed enough that even though much of the ground was still bound with frost, the first few sprigs of grass were springing up in the outfield and the infield was beginning to turn green. Charles Logue and James McLaughlin still had their work cut out for them, but barring disaster, the park appeared certain to be ready by opening day, of which there would be several. Although the Sox would open the regular season in New York playing the Highlanders on April 11, they were scheduled to christen Fenway on April 9 in an exhibition against Harvard University. Fenway Park was then scheduled to open officially on April 18, when New York came to Boston, and the club had planned yet another opening celebration—a dedication—on May 16 to take full advantage of another opportunity to pack the stands.

While work continued at Fenway Park, Jake Stahl became the next man to arrive in Hot Springs. He was anxious to get started, not only to evaluate his team but to get in shape himself. He knew that his success as manager would depend in part on his performance on the field. Before his retirement he had been considered one of the best first basemen in the game, just a notch or two behind the Yankees' Hal Chase. He still thought he could be one of the better players in the league, and the addition of his bat to the Red Sox lineup represented an enormous upgrade—if he returned to form.

Along with Lewis, Hooper, and Speaker, Stahl was one of a number of Red Sox players who either had earned a college degree or had spent time at a university. Yet more so than the others, he was a true scholar-athlete whose belief in the ethic of "a healthy mind in a healthy body" was even reflected in his name. The son of a Civil War veteran, Stahl grew up in Elkhart, Illinois, and worked in his father's store before enrolling in the University of Illinois, eventually earning a law degree. In class Stahl was known by his given name, Garland, a moniker that seemed to reflect his studious approach and unimpeachable reputation, and that was the name he used when signing autographs and legal documents. Yet in the schoolyard, on the gridiron, or on the baseball diamond, he was known as Jake, a good sport, and an athlete who, while always playing fair, was also tough and hard. He earned All-Conference honors in football in 1900, his junior year, and hit over .400 for the baseball team while playing all over the diamond.

Whatever name he chose to go by, he looked and acted the part to perfection. In his business suit as "Garland," wearing reading glasses and poring over bank figures in a ledger while taking notes in a handsome, florid script, Stahl, apart from his athletic build, was indistinguishable from other men of his class. But when he wore a football jersey or placed a ball cap on his head, his strong jaw, clear gray eyes, and robust frame reflected a steely resolve that earned the respect of his somewhat more earthly peers. He preferred to lead by example, but when challenged, did not back down. Stahl stood a full 6'2" and weighed over two hundred pounds, making him one of the biggest players in baseball for the era.

If he had a weakness as a player, it was that he chose not to call attention to himself and his accomplishments. Baseball writer Francis Richter noted: "If Stahl could get a case of swelled head and begin to think he is really as good as he is, he would be the greatest of them all ... [only] modesty has held him back." He joined the Red Sox directly out of college as a catcher, recommended to Boston by University of Illinois athletic director George Huff.

Stahl's personal modesty served him well in the early days of the American League. While his intelligence could have set him apart, his reticence in calling attention to himself endeared him to his teammates—Stahl was no "egghead," but a regular guy. Traded to Washington, where Ban Johnson was running the franchise, Stahl impressed the league president with his unique combination of brawn and brains, and despite his relative youth Johnson named him manager in 1905. The club seemed to turn a corner, but then collapsed in 1906. Stahl, who hit only .222, took it personally, saying, "If I'd been able to hit .300 this year, as many of my friends predicted, we'd have been up in the first division, but I was a frost." Washington promised Stahl he would be traded back to Boston, where he knew he'd get playing time, but reneged and traded him instead to the White Sox. Stahl felt that he had been lied to and as a matter of principle refused to report to the White Sox. Although he had just married his college sweetheart and begun an apprenticeship at his father-in-law's bank, he was clearly torn over his choice of career. He could not stay away from baseball and soon purchased the semipro South Side Baseball Club in Chicago, a team for which he played first base.

Try as he might, Stahl could not walk away from the game, particularly given the sense of failure he had felt with Washington. Traded to New York in 1908, he ended his holdout and reported to camp, making the team and earning a starting spot in the outfield. In midseason he was finally traded to Boston, where for the next two and a half seasons he thrived, reviving his career as a hard-hitting first baseman and his reputation as a first-rate baseball man. Apparently satisfied that he had proven to himself that he could succeed in professional baseball, he chose retirement after the 1910 season.

For any other player a second voluntary walkout would probably have spelled the end of his career, but Stahl was still a friend of Ban Johnson. That relationship and the fact that he convinced his father-in-law to invest in the ball club paved the way for Stahl's return. While that gave Stahl a sense of security unique among all baseball managers this side of Connie Mack, who owned the Athletics, Stahl was sensitive to the perception that he was riding his father-in-law's coattails. He knew that he had to earn the respect of both his players and the fans by his play on the field.

To that end he had spent the winter working out at his old alma mater, the University of Illinois, trying to drop the twenty pounds or so he had added sitting behind a desk. Just before leaving for Hot Springs, he went on a late-winter hunting trip in northern Illinois that left him slogging through waist-deep snow for two days, with only a couple of rabbits to show for his effort. Stahl was accompanied to Hot Springs by his wife and child, one of only a few members of the team to bring his family south.

With his arrival spring training officially began, and from then on Stahl, not McAleer, would be making most of the personnel decisions. There were not many to make. The outfield was set, and if Wagner's arm held up so was the infield. Carrigan, Hick Cady, Les Nunamaker, and Pinch Thomas gave the club four fine catchers. For position players Stahl needed only to select a few utility men from among such contenders as the multi-talented Clyde Engle, infielder Marty Krug, slugging first baseman Hugh Bradley, and outfielder Olaf Henriksen. The pitching staff was nearly set, since Wood, Ray Collins, Charley Hall, Buck O'Brien, and Eddie Cicotte were virtually assured of jobs. The Red Sox expected to carry only twenty to twenty-two players, which left room for only seven or eight pitchers. Fred Anderson, Hugh Bedient, Larry Pape, Jack Bushelman, Casey Hageman, and a few others would vie for the final spot or two.

Although the weather was cold and wet when he arrived in Hot Springs, Stahl was otherwise delighted. Majestic Park, while soggy, was otherwise in fine condition, and the team made the decision to train there the entire spring rather than move to Fogel Field after the Phillies left. John I. Taylor had built the park in 1909, and it held up under the weather much better than Fogel Field or Whittingham Park, the spring home of Brooklyn. Fred Anderson had already taken a turn on the mound with the "All-Americans"—an ad hoc team of early arrivals from AL clubs who were scrimmaging against the "All-Nationals," their NL counterparts—and had pitched well. But Stahl and Carrigan chose to wait a bit before taking the field themselves. Instead they joined former Red Sox pitcher Cy Young, who was in Hot Springs by force of habit before heading off to join the Braves in Augusta, Georgia, on a three-hour jaunt in the mountains.

Young had ten years and a good twenty or thirty pounds on his younger companions, but he showed why he had won a record 511 games in the major leagues, including 190 for the Red Sox. His arm may have been worn thin—he would soon retire and not appear in another big league game—but his legs were in midseason form. Wearing a rubber shirt during one three-hour morning romp to force a sweat despite the snow flurries, he left Carrigan and Stahl in the dust. After lunch, when Young wanted to do it again, both Stahl and Carrigan begged off. But a few days later, when Stahl saw his first pitch of the spring, he was in good enough condition that he still knocked it off the center-field fence, serving notice that Boston's offense would be a bit more potent in 1912.

Such performances brought cheer to a dedicated group of Boston fans who accompanied the club south, Boston's vaunted Royal Rooters, who arrived in Hot Springs in force only a few days after Stahl. Even by Hot Springs standards the loud and lively Rooters stood out. They were unlike any other group of baseball fans anywhere else, before or since.

They were led by the self-described "thirty-third degree" baseball fan Michael "Nuf Ced" McGreevey, the garrulous owner and proprietor of Third Base, the baseball-themed saloon on Columbus Avenue that served as the informal clubhouse of Boston baseball fans. McGreevey, who earned his nickname from his colorful manner of ending arguments—banging his hand on the bar and hollering, "Nuf ced!"—originally helped create the Royal Rooters in the 1890s as supporters of the National League club. For the next decade they followed the team with a passion that bordered on obsession, elevating their heroes into something like gods. In McGreevey's saloon, where photos of the players hung on the walls and watched over the proceedings, the season never ended: there the Hot Stove League kept burning during the off-season and baseball—along with local politics—was a four-season pursuit. When half the players jumped to Ban Johnson's new American League team, the Rooters rapidly followed suit. They didn't root for the laundry but for the men who wore it, and players like Jimmy Collins, Cy Young, and Chick Stahl had their full devotion.

Made up of a who's who of movers and shakers in Boston's Irish community, including John "Honey Fitz" Fitzgerald, the mayor of Boston, the ad hoc group of businessmen, politicians, and sportsmen was united not just by their Irish heritage and their love of baseball but also by their love of gambling. They took advantage of every possible opportunity to unite the two pursuits. Led by McGreevey, the Rooters traveled together by train; announced their presence at every contest by arriving en masse in a parade, fronted by a hired band; then sat together in the stands, singing their signature fan song, "Tessie," at every opportunity, chanting and cheering throughout the contest. As the group grew the Rooters not only followed Boston teams on road trips but began to make annual excursions to the World's Series, looking for both fun and favorable odds. They soon became the best-known group of fans in baseball, as much a part of the Boston baseball scene as any player. Nuf Ced became better known than most big league ballplayers. And like the players, once spring was in the air McGreevey and his band could not wait for spring training and often showed up en masse. At times McGreevey himself was even signed to a spurious contract, given a uniform, and allowed to work out with the club.