The Cincinnati Red Stalkings (3 page)

“Looks old,” said the boy. The elder Wright brother’s side whiskers and solemn expression did give him a mature appearance.

I pointed to the clean-shaven George Wright. “This was his brother. Best shortstop of his day. He was the star of the team.”

I went around the circle of portraits, relating to Patrick the things I’d heard or read about the first professional baseball team. There was pitcher Asa Brainard, with muttonchops even bushier than Harry Wright’s; catcher Doug Allison; slugging right fielder Cal McVey ... I d gone through the team nine, and realized for the first time that there were actually ten pictures. The tenth was a drawing of a dark-haired man with a thin mustache; he was identified as
Hurley (substitute).

“Who’s he?” Patrick asked.

I struggled to remember if I’d heard anything about him. “His first name was Dick, I think. Yeah, Dick Hurley.”

“What position he play?”

“Substitute. Guess he played any position they needed.” Like me.

“What happened to him?”

“I don’t know . . .” Did he ever play in the major leagues? Manage? Umpire? I finally remembered what I’d been told about Hurley—or had I read it? “He disappeared,” I said. “In the middle of the season.”

“Where’d he disappear
to?”

I’d never thought of that. “Disappeared” had always struck me as pretty much final. Where did things go when they disappeared? I stifled a laugh as I imagined a dark cavern deep in the earth that served as a repository for stray socks, lost marbles, and washed-up utility baseball players.

Patrick repeated the question.

Dick Hurley had been the first professional utility player. I’d often wondered what would become of
me
when my playing days were over, but never thought to find out what became of those benchwarmers who’d come before.

“What happened to him?” the boy asked once more.

I wanted the answer to that question, too. “I’ll try to find out,” I said.

I
stepped out of the third-base dugout onto the soft green turf of Redland Field with a greater appreciation of its history than I’d ever had before.

I already knew that Redland had opened in 1912, just a week before two of the other parks I’d called home, Fenway in Boston and Detroit’s Navin Field. After a late-night reading through some of the books Ollie Perriman had given me, I now also knew that this corner of Western and Findlay, once a brickyard, was the oldest continuous site of major-league baseball.

It dated back to 1884, when the Reds were an American Association club and their roster included bespectacled pitcher Will White, who three times won more than forty games a season; Bid McPhee, the finest second baseman of the last century, who played his entire eighteen-year career with Cincinnati and refused to wear a glove for more than a decade after it had come into common use; and first baseman Long John Reilly, a local boy from the city’s East End, who was one of the league’s most fearsome sluggers.

In 1902, with the Reds a National League team featuring such players as speedy center fielder Dummy Hoy, first baseman “Eagle Eye” Jake Beckley, and ace southpaw Noodles Hahn, the “Palace of the Fans” was unveiled. The new park included a concrete-and-iron grandstand that looked like a cross between a Greek temple and a bank building, with Corinthian columns and a host of other classical embellishments. The concrete crumbled in less than ten years, though, and the “palace” was replaced by Redland Field.

“Now or never, Rawlings!”

The yell came from Rube Marquard, once a teammate of mine on the Giants, who was pitching batting practice. Last fall, Marquard had been pitching for the Brooklyn Dodgers in the World Series against the Indians. But the Dodgers dumped him after he was arrested for trying to scalp tickets to a Cleveland police officer. So here he was, having gone from the league champions to a seventh-place ball club struggling to stay out of the cellar.

I grabbed a bat and strode up to the plate. Marquard served me a fat one right down the middle, and I hit it half a mile to left field. Even though I got all of it, the ball didn’t come close to reaching the fence. Redland boasted the biggest playing field in baseball. Other parks might be deeper in one direction—like center field in the Polo Grounds—but overall nowhere were the fences farther away than in Redland: 360 feet down the left-field line, 420 to center, and 400 feet to right. The park was now in its tenth year, and it was only a week ago that our left fielder, Pat Duncan, hit the first home run to clear the wall.

Marquard kept throwing soft pitches to me, and I hit them hard, first batting right-handed, then lefty. It felt good to be hitting a baseball again. I hadn’t had a chance to do so in a game for more than a week.

I was the last one in the batting cage. After I took my licks and tossed the bat aside, groundskeeper Matty Schwab moved in to lime the batters’ boxes. I watched for a few minutes as he did his magic, creating razor-sharp lines that looked like they came right off an architect’s blueprint.

Schwab’s handiwork was a major part of Redland’s appeal. The man was an artist, using the diamond for his canvas. The edge of the outfield grass didn’t make a continuous arc from first base to third; instead, Schwab had landscaped it into a scallop pattern. Sometimes he did the same with the pitcher’s mound, once shaping its border like the ace of spades. He gave the outfield a distinctive touch, too, creating what he called a “terrace,” an embankment that started fifteen feet in front of the fences and rose to a height of four feet at the walls. His skills went beyond what he could do with a rake and shovel; the scoreboard in left-center was of his own design and was the first in baseball to give the players’ names and positions, the ball-strike count, and the scores of other games.

The beautiful grounds made a striking contrast with the neighboring factories and warehouses. Past the outfield walls, smokestacks, water tanks, and stark signs dominated the horizon. Across York Street, beyond left field, was a sign reading
The Standard Electric Tool Co.
On Western Avenue was
Jantz & Leist Electric,
and next to it, behind the right-field bleachers, was the largest building, Hulbert Hall, with a sign above it that read:

I considered myself fortunate that I got to play on Matty Schwab’s ball field instead of working in one of those buildings.

I looked over toward the dugout. Starting pitcher Eppa Rixey, a towering lefty who’d starred in college basketball, was warming up with catcher Bubbles Hargrave. Near them, the infielders were starting a game of pepper. I grabbed my mitt and ran to join in.

Veteran first baseman Jake Daubert batted, rapping sharp grounders that we scooped up and pitched back to him for the next swing. The three players with me were a talented bunch, but not terribly solid—which gave me a fair amount of playing time. Heinie Groh had given me the chance to play regularly during the early part of the season, when he tried to set a record for the longest holdout by a National League third baseman. Shortstop Larry Kopf was barely batting .200 and had slowed down considerably in the field. Cocky young rookie Curt Stram had the talent to be one of the best second basemen in the league, but his fondness for the nightlife often left him unable to play the next day.

After the pepper, I was about to head into the dugout when I spotted Dave Claxton hitting fungoes to the outfielders. The wiry old coach was an institution in Cincinnati baseball, having played or coached here since the 1880s.

I walked up to him as he hit a fly to Rube Bressler. “Say, Clax,” I said, “You go back a ways, right?”

“Am I old?” he snapped. “Is that what you’re asking, if I’m old? Take a look at me, boy—the answer’s yes. So what of it?”

I’d caught him in one of his better moods. “I was wondering if you knew another fellow played for Cincinnati some years back. Dick Hurtey—was with the ’69 Red Stockings.”

Claxton grunted as he hit one to Greasy Neale. “Ain’t that damn old. Wasn’t but a boy in ’69.”

“I was just curious if you ever heard what happened to him.”

He handed me the bat. “Here. You hit ’em a few.” With a dour smile, he added, “At my age, I got to save my strength, you know.” I took the fungo bat and hit a pop-up to Bressler. The coach went on, “Don’t think I ever heard what become of Hurley. I remember when he disappeared there was some talk, but I don’t know where he ended up.”

“What kind of talk?”

“Well, I was about eleven at the time, and like most boys that summer I followed the Red Stockings pretty close. None of us could ever understand why Hurley left the club in mid-season. He was with the most famous team in baseball—why would he give that up?” Claxton took the throw from Bressler and flipped me the ball. “Anyway, the story going around was that it had to do with a girl.”

I hit another that Edd Roush and Neale let drop between them. “What girl?”

“Hell, I dunno if there even
was
a girl. Maybe it was just some way to make sense of him leaving like he did. There a reason you want to know?”

“Not really. Saw a picture of him yesterday and got to wondering is all.”

Roush complained loudly about making him run too far on the next hit, and Claxton took over again. I didn’t get another chance to hit for the rest of the day.

The door to Oliver Perriman’s office was half-open. I was one step inside when I saw that Perriman already had a visitor—and it wasn’t a friendly one.

“How long you going to drag this out, Ollie?” Lloyd Tinsley demanded. “Figure out how you want to display this crap, and do it!” He slammed his palm on the center table, causing a bat to roll off onto the floor. Perriman quickly bent and scooped up the bat, cradling it like a baby that had fallen from its crib.

I started to retreat from the doorway when the Reds’ business manager spotted me. “Rawlings,” Tinsley said. “Come in. We’re just having a little discussion about scheduling.”

Tinsley was about fifty years old, with short salt-and-pepper hair that was mostly salt. His face matched descriptions that I’d read of Piltdown man—an otherwise normal head, but with an apelike jaw and large prominent teeth. His quiet pin-striped business suit covered a physique as powerful as his jaw.

While Tinsley appeared impervious to the sweltering atmosphere in the room, Perriman wasn’t faring so well. Sweat beaded his forehead and ran down his cheeks. His jacket was off, and his shirt stuck to his broad body in several places. He smiled at me, looking relieved that his “discussion” with Tinsley had been interrupted.

I’d stopped in to see if I could get a few more cards for Patrick Kelly, but didn’t want to ask in front of Tinsley. “I, uh, I just came by to see if there was any word on when the opening was going to be.”

“That’s what we were discussing,” Tinsley said, turning to Perriman. “It’s going to be
soon,
right Oliver?”

Perriman pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his trouser pocket and ran it over his face. “Yes, Lloyd. Just give me a few more days, and we’ll set a date.”

“Give me a firm date by tomorrow afternoon. Or I’ll set it myself.”

Perriman nodded weakly. “I’ll work through the night.”

Tinsley smiled—which was a frightening sight with those teeth. “Good. We understand each other then.” He checked his gold pocket watch and snapped it shut. “Well, I have to go—giving a speech to an Elks lodge.” He then straightened the perfectly straight knot of his burgundy silk tie and stepped past me toward the door. “Fine game today, Rawlings.”

“Thank you.” I’d had nothing to do with our 3–1 win, but perhaps Tinsley didn’t know that; I had the feeling he spent more time with accounting books than box scores.

Perriman’s face visibly relaxed when Tinsley’s footsteps faded down the hall.

“Sorry,” I said. “Guess I came at a bad time.”

“No, not at all. It was like Mr. Tinsley said, just a business discussion.”

“He sounded pretty peeved.”

Perriman gave me a broad wink. “You should have been here at the start of the discussion. That’s when I was peeved.” He reached for a copy of the
Enquirer
that was on the table. “Look at what he put in the paper.” The newspaper was folded back to an item in the Amusements section:
Baseball Museum to Open Soon.

“Isn’t that good?” I asked. “Don’t you want publicity?”

He sighed. “Not when I’m not ready for it. There’s too much material that still has to be sorted and authenticated. And I have to figure out
how
it should be displayed. Can’t just pile it all on a table—the exhibit has to be arranged properly, and I have to write up cards explaining each piece.”

I had the impression that Perriman might have grown a little too fond of his collection and simply didn’t want to relinquish it to public view.

“Oh! Come look!” He started toward the desk, beckoning me to follow. “Got a couple new items I think you’ll appreciate.”

On the wall next to the desk hung a neatly pressed white flannel jersey with a crimson old English “C” on the front. “Is this—?”

“Yes,” Perriman said, beaming. He took the hanger that held the shirt down from its peg. “And I know it’s authentic. Cal McVey sent it to me himself.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Living in San Francisco, a night watchman in a lumberyard. He was the youngest on the club, only eighteen. Came over from the Indianapolis Actives to play right field.” He ran a finger over the “C” on the shirt. “My, but I’m glad to have this. You know, if I wasn’t worried about tearing it, I’d have tried it on!”

“It’s wonderful,” I said. The old uniform looked too stiff to move around in, but I thought that might have been because of age; from the scores the Red Stockings ran up, they must have been able to run around just fine.

He hung the jersey back up, then reached to the wall under the Charlie Gould bat, and took down a small walnut frame that held two large medals pinned to a piece of green velvet. “These are both solid gold. Came today on loan from George Wright—he’s the only other one of the Red Stockings still alive.”

Perriman pointed to the one on the left, a fairly plain disk attached to a red ribbon. “This was given to Harry Wright by the Union Cricket Club in ’66, before the club took up baseball. He was champion bowler and instructor.” The other medal, with a striped ribbon, had a starburst pattern that reminded me of a French Croix de Guerre that I’d seen during the war, but with crossed bats instead of swords. “This is the Clipper Prize awarded to George Wright in 1868—he was playing in New York that year, with the Morrisanias.” He put the display back on the wall. “Well, I better get to work. Especially since Tinsley doubled the amount I have to do.”

“Doubled?”