Chapter 16

The team that brought the pennant back to Chicago in the years 1885 and 1886 was, in my estimation, not only the strongest team that I ever had under my management but, taken all in all, one of the strongest teams that has ever been gotten together in the history of the League, the position of left field, which was still being played by Dalrymple being its only weak spot. The fact, however, that "Dal" was a terrific batter made up for a great many of his shortcomings in tile field, which would scarcely have been overlooked so easily had it not been for his ability as a wielder of the ash. In its pitching department it was second in strength to none of its competitors and behind the bat were Flint and Kelly, both of whom were widely and favorably known. The outfield was, to say the least, equal to that of any of the other League clubs, and the infield admittedly the strongest in the country. This was the infield that became famous as "Chicago's stone wall," that name being given to it for the reasons that the only way that a ball could be gotten through it was to bat it so high that it was out of reach. The members of that famous infield were Williamson, Pfeffer, Burns and myself, and so long had we played together and so steadily had we practiced that there was scarcely a play made that we were not in readiness to meet. We had a system of signals that was almost perfect, and the moment that a ball was hit and we had noted its direction we knew just what to look for. We were up to all the tricks of the game, and better than all else we had the greatest confidence in each other.

I had shifted the positions of Williamson and Burns and the former was now playing shortstop and the latter third base. At third base Burns was as good as the best of them, he excelling at the blocking game, which he carried on in a style that was particularly his own and which was calculated to make a base-runner considerable trouble. At short Williamson was right in his element and in spite of his size he could cover as much ground in that position as any man that I have ever seen. While his throwing was of the rifle-shot order, it was yet easy to catch, as it seemed to come light to your hands, and this was also true of the balls thrown by Pfeffer and Burns, both of whom were very accurate in that line. Of the merits of Williamson and Burns as ball players I have already spoken in another chapter.

Fred Pfeffer, who came from Louisville, Ky., was a ball-player from the ground up, and as good a second baseman as there was in the profession, the only thing that I ever found to criticize in his play being a tendency to pose for the benefit of the occupants of the grand stand. He was a brilliant player, however, and as good a man in this position according to my estimate as any that ever held down the second bag. He was a high-salaried player and one that earned every cent that he received, being a hard worker and always to be relied upon. He was a neat dresser, and while not a teetotaler, never drank any more than he knew how to take care of. As a thrower, fielder and base runner he was in the first class, while as a batsman he was only fair. Later on he became tangled up in the Brotherhood business, in which he lost considerable of the money that he had laid by for a rainy day. It was some time after the Brotherhood revolt, in which Fred had been one of the prime movers, and a brief history of which is recorded elsewhere, that he was taken back into the fold. He was anxious to play again in Chicago, and I gave him the chance. His health was, however, bad at that time and he was unable to do himself justice and to play the ball that when a well man he was capable of. I hung on to him as long as I could, but when the papers began to howl long and loud about his shortcomings I was finally forced to release him. It was his, health that put him out of the business and nothing else, and had it not been for that drawback he might still be playing ball. At the present writing he is engaged in the poolroom and bookmaking line at Chicago and making a living, to say the least of it.

John Clarkson was a really great pitcher, in fact, the best that Chicago ever had, and that is saying a great deal, as Chicago has had some of the very best in the profession since the game first became popular within its suburbs. He was the possessor of a remarkable drop curve and fast overhand lifting speed, while his change of pace was most deceiving. He was peculiar in some things, however, and in order to get his best work you had to keep spurring him along, otherwise he was apt to let up, this being especially the case when the club was ahead and he saw what he thought was a chance to save himself. As a fielder he was very fair, and as, a batsman above the average, so far as strength went, though not always to be depended upon as certain to land upon the ball. His home was down at Ocean Spray, near Boston, but he came to us from Grand Rapids, Michigan. He was released to the Bostons in the spring of 1888 for the sum of $10,000, and played with that team for several years. He is now in the cigar business in Michigan and is, I ant glad to learn, successful. Pitchers of Clarkson's sort are few and far between, as club managers of these latter days can testify.

Jim McCormick, who was Clarkson's alternate in the box, was also one of the best men in his line that ever sent a ball whizzing across the plate. He was a great big fellow with a florid complexion and blue eyes, and was utterly devoid of fear, nothing that came in his direction being too hot for him to handle. He was a remarkable fielder and a good batsman for a pitcher, men who play that position being poor wielders of the ash, as a rule, for the reason, as I have always thought, that they paid more attention to the art of deceiving the batsman that are opposed to them than they do to developing their own batting powers. The most of McCormick's hits landed in the right field, owing to the fact that he swung late at the ball. He came to Chicago from Cleveland, Ohio, but prior to that had pitched in Columbus, Ohio. He was going back when he joined us, but for all that he pitched a lot of good ball and won many a good game, thanks both to himself and also to the good support that he received. After he left us he drifted down to Paterson, N. J., which seems to be a sort of Mecca for broken-down ball players, and became identified with the racing business, owning and training for a time quite a string of his own and horses that won for him quite a considerable sum, of money. He is now running a saloon in that New Jersey town, and is fairly well-to-do.

John Flynn, who was the third pitcher in the string, came to Chicago from Boston and was another good man in the twirling line. He had a wonderful drop ball, good command of the sphere and great speed. He was also a good batter for a pitcher, and a fast fielder. His arm gave out while he was with us, however, and besides that he got into fast company and, attempting to keep up the clip with his so-called friends, found the pace much too rapid for him and fell by the wayside. John was a good fellow, and with good habits, and had his arm held out, he might have made his mark in the profession, but the good habits he lacked and the arm was not strong enough to bear the strain, so he dropped out of the business, and what has become of him I know not, though I think he is in Boston.

Moolie, who had been signed to relieve Kelly and Flint behind the bat and to handle the delivery of Flynn, was never much of a factor in the game, he not being strong enough to stand the strain. He was let out early for that reason and never developed into a player of any note. He is somewhere in New England at the present time, but just where and what engaged at I am unable to state.

James T. Ryan was at that time and is now a good ball player. His home was in Clinton, Mass., and he came to us from the Holy Cross College, in which team he had been playing. He was a mere boy when he first signed with Chicago but promised well, and though for a time he did not come up to the expectations that I had formed regarding him, I kept him on the team. His greatest fault was that he would not run out on a base hit, but on the contrary would walk to his base. This I would not stand, and so I fined him repeatedly, but these fines did little good, especially after the advent of James C. Hart, who refused to endorse them and supported Ryan in his insubordination, in regard to which I shall have more to say later. Ryan was a good hitter, not an overly fast base runner, and a good judge of a fly ball. He was also an accurate left-handed thrower. He could never cover as much ground as people thought, and though he ranked with Lange as a batsman, he was not in the same class with that player either as a base runner or a fielder, the Californian in the two latter respects being able to race all around him. Ryan at the present writing is still a member of the Chicago team, and, though by no means as good a player as he was some years ago, is quite likely to remain there as long as Mr. Hart continues at the head of affairs.

William A. Sunday, or "Billy," as we all called him in those days, was born in Ames, Iowa, and was as good a boy as ever lived, being conscientious in a marked degree, hardworking, good-natured and obliging. At the time that I first ran across him he was driving an undertaker's wagon in Marshalltown, though it was not because of his skill in handling the ribbons that he attracted my attention. There was a fireman's tournament going on at the time of my visit, in which Sunday was taking part, and it was the speed that he showed on that occasion that opened my eyes to his possibilities in the base-ball playing line. He was, in my opinion, the fastest man afterwards on his feet in the profession, and one who could run the bases like a scared deer. The first thirteen times that he went to the bat after he began playing with the Chicagos he was struck out, but I was confident that he would yet make a ball player and hung onto him, cheering him up as best I could whenever he became discouraged. As a baserunner his judgment was at times faulty and he was altogether too daring, taking extreme chances because of the tremendous turn of speed that he possessed. He was a good fielder and a strong and accurate thrower, his weak point lying in his batting. The ball that he threw was a hard one to catch, however, it landing in the hands like a chunk of lead. Since "Bill" retired from the diamond he has become noted as an evangelist, and I am told by those who should know that he is a brilliant speaker and a great success in that line. May luck be with him wherever lie may go!

I have said that Sunday threw a remarkably hard ball to catch, and this was true, but I have noted the same peculiarity in regard to other players that I have met. How to explain the reason for this is a difficult matter. He was not as swift a thrower as either Williamson, Burns or Pfeffer, all of whom sent the ball across the field with the speed of a bullet and with the accuracy of first-class marksmen. In spite of the extreme speed with which they came into the hand, however, they seemed to sort of lift themselves as they came and so landed lightly, while Sunday's balls, on the contrary, seemed to gain in weight as they sailed through the air and were heavy and soggy when they struck the hands. This is a strange but true fact, and one that, perhaps some scientists can explain. I confess that I cannot, nor have I ever been able to find anybody that could do so to my satisfaction.

Of the members of this old team the most famous in the history of Chicago as a base-ball city, three are dead, Flint, Williamson and Kelly, while the others are scattered far and wide, Ryan being the only one of them that is still playing. Over the graves of three of them the grass has now been growing for many a year, and yet I can see them as plainly now as in the golden days of the summers long ago, when, greeted by the cheers of an admiring multitude, we all played ball together. If it were possible for the dead to come back to us, how I should like once more to marshall the members of that championship team of 1884, '85 and '86 together and march with them once more across the field while the cheers of the crowd rang in our ears. But that I can never do. The past is dead, and there is no such thing as resurrecting it, however much we may wish to do so.

I cannot close this chapter without mentioning little Willie Hahn, our mascot in those days, and, a mascot of whom we were exceedingly proud. Not more than four or five years ago his parents lived in a three-story house not far front the old Congress street grounds. The first time that I ever saw him he came on the grounds arrayed in a miniature Chicago uniform, and so cunning was he that we at once adopted him as our "mascot," giving him the freedom of the grounds, and he was always on hand when the club was at home, being quite a feature, and one that pleased the lady patrons of the game immensely. I had lost sight of him for years, but one day a fine, manly-looking fellow walked into my billiard-room and introduced himself as the mascot of those other days. I was glad to see him and also glad to learn that he has a good position and is getting on in the world.