The Selling of the Babe (13 page)

Together, he and Ruth—well, mostly Whiteman—made Barrow seem like a savant. Ruth struggled on the mound, bending, but Whiteman, playing left field with abandon, kept him from breaking. He made a running catch with the bases loaded in the first, stopped another rally with another fine running catch with two on in the sixth, and smacked a key hit to move a runner along in the fourth, when Boston scored the only run of the game on a hit-and-run play. Shannon noted in the
Post
that “Three times this afternoon Boston's chances would have gone a glimmering” had it not been for Whiteman's play. He completely took the Cubs, and their fans, out of the game. The
Globe
reported that the crowd remained almost silent throughout and “the effect of the war was everywhere.”

No kidding. Ruth was helpless against the lefty Vaughn, going hitless and striking out twice, but hung on to defeat the punchless Cubs 1–0. Game 1 set the tone for what would turn out to be perhaps the most desultory World Series in history, certainly the worst attended, and unquestionably the lowest scoring. Both teams played as if they were pinned down in the trenches and afraid to show their heads. Only Whiteman stood out.

That likely settled it for Barrow. He went with the hunch and the hot hand. The next day, when Tyler, a lefty, beat Joe Bush 3–1, Whiteman hit cleanup again and knocked in Boston's only run while Ruth, hardly able to remain still, stayed on the bench, even being passed over twice as a pinch hitter. And he stayed there for Game 3 when Mays beat Vaughn 2–1, as Whiteman again hit fourth, scoring one of Boston's two runs and robbing the Cubs' Dode Paskert of a home run. In the entire history of the World Series there has rarely been a stranger lineup decision, and never one that proved to be so effective.

The Cubs were feeling good, and even Chicago fans had started to warm to the Series, as more than 27,000 turned out for the home finale, leading players from both teams to think that they might make some money after all. Traditionally, the players' cut depended on ticket receipts. If the Boston crowd turned out—and the Series went to at least six games—there was a chance to make some dough.

Both teams boarded the same train at 8:00 p.m. for the long, twenty-seven-hour journey to Boston. Although clubs normally frowned upon fraternization, the long trip in such crowded quarters, with players of both teams mingling in the dining and smoking cars, made the admonition seem foolish. Besides, between the fallout from the collapse of the Federal League, causing ownership to cut salaries across the board, growing political awareness due to the war, and the histrionics of the regular season, some of the men realized they had much in common with one another. Perhaps it wasn't so much the Cubs versus the Red Sox, or the AL versus the NL, as it was the players versus the owners.

Yet there was no players union and, as yet, no organized push to form one. In the 1890s, the cooperative Players League had a brief trial run, but it was underfinanced and then undercut by the more established National League. Although there were periodic attempts by the players to create their own association and work for their mutual benefit, as of yet the players were spread too far apart geographically, and communication too cumbersome for such a group to gain traction.

Most player careers lasted only a few short seasons and they took the attitude to make as much as they could as fast as they could and make as few waves as possible. The reserve clause bound them to the team that last signed them. The two major leagues had a virtual monopoly and there was little players could do about it. The average playing wage of just under $3,000 a year was more than double what most men earned at a time when 50 cents an hour seemed like a godsend, and a ballplayer's fame usually provided some additional opportunities to make money during the off-season. It just didn't make sense to cause labor trouble and put that at risk. There was a lot to be said for traveling in style and having your pick of girls in every town while the regular guys were either factory wage slaves or getting trench foot in Europe.

Before the Series, the players had all received a packet of documents from the National Commission. They had paid them little attention, but now as the train chugged through the night and they exchanged shots of rye and smoked cigars, a few players finally had the time to wade through the legalese. What they found lit a simmering fuse, and the flame got hotter on every subsequent page.

Prior to 1918, the players' share of Series money had been derived from 60 percent of the gate for the first four games, usually earning each player upward of $3,000 each—not bad for five or ten days' work. The National Commission and club owners took the rest. But before the 1918 season, the owners came up with a new angle. Winning teams had long tried to keep salaries down by arguing that players stood to reap a windfall if they won the Series, and now management tried to implement the onerous notion league-wide. Not only did they cut the players' share to only 55.5 percent of the receipts, but they further decided that only 60 percent of that money would go to the two clubs playing in the Series—the other first division clubs would divvy up the rest. That would allow every club owner in the league to argue that since most players would (or could) receive a postseason bonus, salaries need not rise. Why, in fact, they might even drop.

It was brilliant, particularly because the players had no idea the change had taken place and had no real way to do anything about it—or so the owners thought.

But there was even more. Before the Series started, Ban Johnson decided that each participating player in the Series would also donate 10 percent of his take to war charities.

The players got out their pencils and napkins and started ciphering. It worked like this: In the past, say, a winning share was $3,000. Given the cut in receipts, that now became only $2,763. But since the players now only received 60 percent of that amount, the remainder going to the other first division clubs, the share now became only $1,658. Take away the 10 percent “donation,” and now the winning share dropped from $3,000 to only $1,493. In reality, it was even worse than that. Before 1913, the United States had no income tax. Due to the war, tax rates increased dramatically. For incomes above $4,000, a threshold most players in the Series would now breach, the tax rate jumped to 12 percent in 1918.

Altogether, that left a player who expected to earn $3,000 only a little more than $1,300. Factor in the small crowds, deduct their final months' salary, and by the time everybody passed around the napkins, they came to realize they would be lucky if they cleared even half of that. They could do the math, and the total players' share through the first four games came to just over $50,000, a sum that, due to the expansive rosters in place for much of the season, meant that between the two teams the money would be split among perhaps as many as fifty players instead of the usual thirty-five or so. They were playing the World Series virtually for free. Meanwhile, the National Commission and the owners were almost unaffected. They still got their dough.

The players weren't idiots. Contrary to most assumptions, many were well educated and aware—Harry Hooper, for instance, had an engineering degree. As the train chugged through the night and the liquor flowed, the mood went from one of dismay to insurrection. Over the course of the following day, even after the alcohol wore off, the players' dissatisfaction ossified. Harry Hooper and Dave Shean of the Red Sox met with the Cubs' Leslie Mann and Bill Killefer to discuss strategy. They were unhappy and planned to do something about it.

Well, most of them did. The one player who appeared both oblivious and unconcerned was Ruth. Nowhere over the next few days does his name appear anywhere near the word “disgruntled,” and neither does he make any kind of comment whatsoever on the situation.

He probably didn't care and might not even have been aware. After all, compared to the others, he was well paid and Frazee had even given him a bonus after he jumped the team, and another one he qualified for by taking Boston to the pennant. It wasn't that Ruth was selfish, really—he tipped big and gave away money as if it was water—but he was so self-absorbed that he was almost unaware of any desires beyond his own. To his teammates, he was by turns exasperating and frustrating, but they generally did not hold it against him personally; they did, however, blame guys like Barrow and Frazee—mostly Barrow, for letting him get away with it. As for Ruth, it was hard to be upset with someone who was often unable even to recognize that he had done something wrong.

In fact, while many of his teammates and the Cubs were worried about each other, Ruth treated the long trip home like one big party. Even if he was starting to get something of a cold shoulder from other ballplayers, the rest of the passengers on the train thought Ruth was a riot. In addition to his usual carousing, Ruth and teammate Walt Kinney apparently found great sport in taking possession of the other passengers' straw boaters, the latest fashion in hat wear, punching a fist through the top, then placing the hat back on the owner's head. Ruth thought it was hysterical and so did the other passengers—well, most of them.

Concerning Ruth and the errors of his ways, one can never be quite sure if what made the papers was what actually happened, a heavily coded description that actually referred to something else, or an utter invention designed to enhance his reputation, draw crowds, and sell papers. So it was on the train trip back to Boston.

According to some reports, Ruth was simply too exuberant in punching through a straw hat and smacked his left hand into the side wall of the smoking car. Another claimed the train lurched and sent Ruth crashing against a window, breaking it. Another stuck with the lurch story and said that as Ruth grabbed for something to keep his balance, he bent back the third finger of his left hand. Another had him taking a “playful swing” at a fellow teammate—Carl Mays? Walt Kinney?—and missing, hitting some immovable object or perhaps even the side of someone's head or jaw. Or perhaps Ruth and a teammate got into an argument over the controversy about the World Series dough; potentially, no player was more influential than Ruth—he'd already proven he could make baseball management kowtow to his wishes. Had he wanted to, he may have been able to stop the Series on a dime.

No matter how he hurt his finger or precisely how it hurt—the words “bent,” “broken,” “cut,” and “swollen” were all used—the end result was the same: Boston's best player, the man scheduled to pitch Game 4, had hurt a finger on his pitching hand by doing something he could have and should have avoided doing.

Barrow was livid. Had it been anyone else, or had the Red Sox trailed in the Series, there is no telling what he might have done. As it was, he could afford to gamble, and despite the fact that the middle knuckle was swollen and he had lost a chunk of skin, Ruth swore he could still pitch—Boston's trainer swathed the wound with iodine to prevent an infection. Besides, everyone else was so pissed off, Barrow may not have trusted another pitcher. The players were angry enough to consider striking—or if not that, maybe “arranging” a few games to make some money on the side. There had been rumors for years of exactly that taking place in the Series nearly every season.

At any rate, the players had already decided that if the commission didn't back down, they had no intention of playing Game 4. By the time their train arrived in Boston just before 11:00 p.m. the next night, the players had decided to approach Johnson and the other commissioners at their hotel, the posh Copley Plaza, the best in the city. So much for cutting back because of the war. The players designated Harry Hooper as their spokesman.

On Monday morning, he requested an audience with the commissioners. The three men agreed, and although they feigned surprise, they had likely heard about the grumbling from their friends in the press corps and had already decided on a strategy. Why fellas, they argued, the National Commission was just a lowly little group that worked for the owners, just like the players. The commission was powerless to change the rules now; that required all sixteen owners to meet, and they were spread out all over the country. They dismissed Hooper with a vague promise to meet again after Game 4.

The sleight of hand took Hooper aback. Before the game, he spread the news and told the players what the commissioners had said. There was still plenty of grumbling but by that time they were all already at the ballpark and fans were starting to show up. There simply wasn't time to take unified action.

No one was very happy about it, and as the players feared it was not the full house they hoped for at Fenway Park. Only 22,000 fans turned out and there were swaths of empty seats scattered around the ballpark. Even Boston's vaunted Royal Rooters, the group of fans and gamblers and politicians led by barkeep Nuf Ced McGreevey who had appeared at every championship since the 1890s, often singing their signature tune “Tessie,” were nowhere to be found, an absence that was in no way accidental. They were fed up, too.

For his part, Barrow hedged his bet. During batting practice Ruth's finger seemed to cause him little trouble and he seemed to be swinging the bat well, but pitching was another matter. So in the event he did have to replace Ruth on the mound, he didn't want to burn a pinch hitter in the nine spot in the batting order, where he might be wasted. This time he hit Ruth sixth, although Whiteman remained in left and batting cleanup.

Ruth took the mound looking as if the world was on his shoulders, the yellowish stain of iodine making it impossible to ignore the swollen finger. The Cubs teed off, getting a base hit and hard line drive in the first before Boston catcher Sam Agnew bailed Ruth out by picking a runner off base. In the second, Ruth gave up another two hits, and in the third, with a runner on second, Ruth picked him off. He was keeping the Cubs from scoring, but he was working hard, pitching from behind, not as sharp as he had been for most of the last month, clearly bothered by his injury.