Fenway 1912 (31 page)

—Paul Shannon,
Boston Post

A
S THE DOG
days of August settled in over Boston, enveloping the city in sweat, Sox fans seeking a respite from the heat and humidity still gathered before and after the games in the dark, wood-paneled confines of Nuf Ced McGreevey's Columbus Avenue tavern, Third Base. Despite the fact that the ball club had moved operations to Fenway Park, the stuffed mannequin known as "the Baseball Man" still adorned the front door, the lightbulbs shaped like baseballs still hung from the ceiling, and photographs of ballplayers still covered the walls. McGreevey's remained the passionate center of the baseball world for the Royal Rooters and other Boston baseball fans. As the cranks gathered to talk and quaff mugs of beer and shots of rye, with the pennant races in both leagues all but over and the World's Series still too far into the future to be the subject of much meaningful debate, there was really only one question that dominated the conversation. Who, one man would ask of another, is the better pitcher: Boston's young ace, twenty-three-year-old Joe Wood, or Washington's veteran star, Walter Johnson?

That was all it took to spark an argument. Thus far in the 1912 season there had been barely a dime's worth of difference between the two, and Johnson, even in Boston, had his defenders among the Royal Rooters. Some old-timers in the group still argued that the real "King of Pitchers" was Amos Rusie, the Giants' star pitcher in the 1890s, or the Boston Nationals' Kid Nichols from the same era. Others scoffed and offered up the recently retired Cy Young, or the Giants' Christy Mathewson. But now most admitted that the crown was up for grabs between only Wood and Johnson.

As photographs of Wood and Johnson and other baseball luminaries silently gazed down upon the combatants from the tavern's walls, the diminutive McGreevey, rushing back and forth between the cash register and the bar, would listen closely. He would let such conversations continue, occasionally chiming in with his own ten cents' worth of wisdom and even egging each man on until the voices of the sparring parties, fueled by alcohol, began to grow loud, the conversations turned circular, and each party began to repeat the same arguments they had made only a few minutes before, only louder and with personal insults attached that would begin to be uttered with a sly smile but then begin to stick and sting. And then, when McGreevey saw the faces turn red and begin to flush with anger, he knew it was time to rein the participants back in toward civility. Slamming an empty beer mug or his palm on top of the bar, he would yell out loud enough for everyone to hear, "Nuf ced!" All recognized that as a sign that the argument was over and it was time for the debaters to lower their voices and back off.

However the Wood-versus-Johnson argument began, it tended to follow the same well-worn paths—a comparison of Wood's youth, toughness, athleticism, and relative exuberance with Johnson's experience, control, brains, and poise. But no matter how the conversation started, before long it generally boiled down to a single question—
Who threw harder?

And now with each passing day it seemed ever more likely that the question might soon be answered. Like two fastballs thrown from opposite ends of the diamond that were destined to meet and explode over the pitcher's mound, Wood and Johnson, two unstoppable forces, rocketed toward one another. Each man was in the midst of an undefeated pitching streak that would soon threaten the record books.

They had already met once before in 1912, Wood defeating his counterpart, but that only provided more fuel for the argument. Johnson in fact had already faced Boston four times in 1912 and lost each time, falling once to Cicotte in April, losing twice to O'Brien—once by shutout—and being beaten by Wood, 3–0, on June 26. But instead of ending the debate, those earlier games only gave the arbiters more oxygen. In Johnson's first three games against Boston, one could argue, Wood had been available to throw, but Jake Stahl, fearful of Johnson, had chosen to avoid pitching him opposite the Washington star, just as he had done when Wood had the opportunity to pitch opposite Ed Walsh. And even though their meeting on June 26 had gone Wood's way, Johnson had been victimized by some poor defensive play and struck out ten while giving up only four hits, while Wood had struck out nine and given up three hits. The game had really decided nothing beyond cementing Wood's status as Johnson's foremost challenger. The sporting men in the crowd—and they were all sporting men when the odds were right—relished the opportunity for a rematch.

Johnson was the established veteran, the star, and as F. C. Lane's article in
Baseball
magazine had concluded, "the King of the Pitchers," a title that, over the last two and a half seasons, Johnson had wrested from Mathewson. In that time period he had won seventy-five games, and in an era in which hitters still considered striking out something to be ashamed of, Johnson had sent more than six hundred humiliated victims back to the bench.

While Johnson's six years in the league gave him the aura of a veteran, he was, at age twenty-four, only a year older than Wood. Already the winner of more than one hundred games, it seemed as if he had been in the league much longer. A rangy 6'1", with long arms and fingers, the soft-spoken Kansan had been a star from the start, even as he initially struggled to win with Washington's anemic offensive support. Everyone recognized that if he had played for a better team—the Senators were routinely one of the worst teams in baseball—his record would have been even more impressive. In fact, with better support, Johnson, not Cy Young, might very well hold the all-time record for most major league victories and baseball's annual award given to the best pitcher might bear his name, not Young's. As it was, despite rarely receiving any help from his offensively challenged teammates—he would lose 26 games by the score of 1–0 over the course of his career—Johnson would eventually retire with 417 wins over twenty-one seasons. By any estimation, even given his recent struggles against Boston and the fact that Boston had all but wrapped up the pennant race, Johnson was "the Champion."

Wood, on the other hand, was seen as the scrappy, youthful "Challenger." Despite pitching for the Red Sox, a team much better than the Senators, his record entering the 1912 season was barely above .500. Only recently had Wood's performance brought him into the same conversation with Johnson.

And that was because of Wood's fastball. His overhand pitch, while different from Johnson's sidearm whip, was just as devastating to batters, hopping at the end while Johnson's tended to dart and run. Each pitch made an audible sound, a hiss as the seams of the baseball cut through the air when the ball passed by the plate. Wood's motion was violent and quick, while Johnson's was easy and deceptive. In 1912 hitters found it equally difficult to square up the pitch from either man. In just over 1,400 innings Wood would give up only twelve home runs in his career, while Johnson, who would end the 1912 season with more than 1,700 career innings, would give up only thirteen to that point in his career. Hitters who did make contact against Wood often were jammed or popped the ball up. Against Johnson they took defensive swings and often beat the ball into the ground. In contemporary terms, Johnson's motion can perhaps best be described as combining Mariano Rivera's quiet delivery with an arm angle more like that of Randy Johnson (albeit from the right side), while Wood's would be more akin to the all-out effort of a Jonathan Papelbon or Tim Lincecum.

Both men, perhaps because of their shared western upbringing, were utterly respectful of the other. Johnson once said famously that "nobody can throw harder than Joe Wood," while Wood, who rarely praised opposing pitchers, once told Roger Angell, "I don't think anybody was faster than Walter Johnson." In the mind of each man the question of who was faster—and better—was best left for others to decide based on their records. The consensus seemed to be that while Wood may have been able to throw the occasional pitch faster than Johnson, he could not sustain his speed, something even Johnson had sensed. Earlier in the year he cautioned that Wood "has tremendous speed. But he acquired that speed in such a way that he can't stand it long." Citing Wood's use of the "deadly 'snap ball,'" Johnson offered that "I am afraid he will soon cease to be as effective as he is now, if he doesn't have to retire altogether," and he hoped Wood would "change his pace and extend his career." While Johnson's words would prove prophetic, for the 1912 season Wood's Faustian bargain with his right arm would pay dividends.

As August unfolded and the Red Sox slowly and inexorably increased their lead over the Senators—stretching it to six, then seven, then eight games—the Senators, apart from Johnson, slowly ran out of steam, and any dreams Washington had in regard to the pennant slowly evaporated. Washington fans—indeed, fans of any American League team but Boston—had little to look forward to other than Johnson's march toward the record book.

His effort was immense—Johnson almost kept the Senators alive through his own force and will, starting and relieving without regard to his health. On August 15 he won his thirteenth game in a row with a win in relief against Chicago, then started and beat the White Sox the next day for his fourteenth consecutive victory, facing only twenty-nine batters and twirling a one-hitter. Four days later, on August 20, he entered a game in relief with only one out in the first inning against Cleveland and pitched a shutout the rest of the way, emerging with yet another victory, number fifteen in a row. And then, on August 23, he toppled Chesbro in the record books with his sixteenth straight win by beating the Tigers to run his record to 29-7.

In the meantime Joe Wood played the snake in the grass. While the attention of the baseball world was increasingly focused on Johnson, Wood just kept winning.

On August 10 in Detroit, with Ty Cobb under the weather and out of the lineup, Wood beat the Tigers 4–1 in the rain, scattering seven hits and striking out ten. But after the game Wood said his right arm felt "a little lame," and the
Globe
reported that "Joe Wood was complaining of a very sore arm yesterday." The paper noted that Wood would not pitch again until August 15 or 16. Once again, the wise move for Stahl might well have been to give Wood even more rest and possibly skip a start or two to make sure he was strong for the postseason, but that kind of progressive thinking was not yet in vogue.

Besides, there were other elements at play. The Red Sox, beginning to admit to themselves that an appearance in the World's Series was in the offing, cautioned fans to "hang on to their rain checks" so that they would have "indisputable evidence that they are general fans and regular attendants at the games, and thus gain special consideration in the award of tickets." Fans were beginning to look ahead as well, and a near-capacity crowd of eighteen thousand turned out for the doubleheader against St. Louis on August 14. Finally, with the weather no longer a concern and the Red Sox riding a wave, McAleer's club was beginning to fill Fenway Park on a regular basis. The owner was eager to maximize the gate, and Joe Wood put fans in the seats.

When the Sox arrived at Fenway Park to face the Browns, they were surprised to find brand-new home uniforms hanging in each locker, as well as new, garish, double-breasted crimson coats, each with six big white buttons, white trim on the collar and the pockets, and the name "BOSTON" and a "B" emblazoned over the left breast. Their old uniforms had been a creamy white with the name "RED SOX" across the chest in plain block letters, a plain white hat, and socks with a broad horizontal red stripe. The new uniforms were white with red pinstripes, but otherwise unadorned. They would also soon unveil new, pinstriped road uniforms that were similar to the new home uniforms in every way except for being gray and having the "RED SOX" name in block letters across the breast.

Whether it was because of pressure to appear before a big crowd, because his arm felt better, or because Wood was already thinking about his winning streak and didn't want to miss an opportunity to beat the worst team in the league, after Charley Hall won, 8–2, in a spot start in game 1, Wood took the mound in game 2. He was magnificent, shutting out the Browns, striking out nine, and adding two hits. But all might not have been well. Although one reporter observed that "Joe Wood's arm looked mighty good for a lame one," it was noted that "he lobbed 'em up a lot and altogether had an easy day's work."

Even then, he got little rest. Two days later Buck O'Brien and the Red Sox trailed the Browns 3–2 after seven innings. To start the eighth Stahl called upon Wood—who didn't give up a run and struck out the side in the ninth—but the Red Sox failed to score and still lost, 3–2. The next day, Saturday, Detroit came into Boston, and Red Sox fans turned out in droves. "Long before the game started," wrote Tim Murnane, "every seat was filled. The crowd kept on coming, filling the back walks of the grandstand and finally bursting out on to the field back of third base taking advantage of every spot where a view could be had of the players."

"Back of third base" referred to the empty space in foul ground between the end of the grandstand and the fence that marked the park's northern border. There was nothing so strange about that—overflow crowds had sometimes spilled over into that area before. But Murnane also noted that "many were forced to look through the wire screen at the foot of the grandstand, yet no one kicked."

Murnane was referring to a place where no fans had ever been before and have probably never been since: squeezed into the narrow space that once existed beneath the concrete slab that formed the floor of the box seats at the foot of the grandstand and the ground. Since the stand was not faced with solid concrete all the way to the ground but was supported by only the occasional column, the effect created a narrow "overhang" about two feet high and eleven feet deep that ran beneath the box seats. To prevent stray balls from rolling beneath the stands, the gap was covered with a wire grate. The club never envisioned that anyone would try to watch a game from that perspective and had not bothered to barricade access to the area underneath the stands. But on this day desperate spectators crawled into the ersatz cavern on their bellies, sharing the space with rats, and watched the game while lying prone on the ground, their faces pressed against the screen, only inches above the field. These were not standing-room seats, or seats of any kind at all. More accurately, they were "lying-down" seats. Boston fans were never more enterprising and insistent than when the stands at Fenway Park were full and they wanted to see the game in person.