Part 8

"'That ought to help their hitting a little,' he remarked as he kept on pulling. Up came a wire, and when he started to pull on it he found that it was buried about an inch under the soil and ran across the outfield. He kept right on coiling it up and following it, like a hound on a scent, the Philadelphia players being very busy all this time and nervous like a busher at his debut into Big League society. One of the substitutes started to run for the clubhouse, but I stopped him.

"Tommy was galloping by this time across the outfield and all the time pulling up this wire. It led straight to the clubhouse, and there sitting where he could get a good view of the catcher's signs with a pair of field-glasses was Morgan Murphy. The wire led right to him.

"'What cher doin'?' asked Tommy.

"'Watchin' the game,' replied Murphy.

"'Couldn't you see it easier from the bench than lookin' through those peepers from here? And why are you connected up with this machine?' inquired Tommy, showin' him the chunk of wood with the buzzer attached.

"'I guess you've got the goods,' Murphy answered with a laugh, and all the newspapers laughed at it then, too. But the batting averages of the Philadelphia players took an awful slump after that.

"'Why didn't they tip me?' asked Murphy as he put aside his field-glasses and went to the bench and watched the rest of the game from there. And we later won that contest, our first victory of the series, which was no discredit to us, since it was like gamblin' against loaded dice," concluded "Arlie."

The newspapers may have laughed at the incident in those days, but since that time the National Commission has intimated that if there was ever a recurrence of such tactics, the club caught using them would be subjected to a heavy fine and possibly expulsion from the League. So much have baseball standards improved.

The incident is a great illustration of the unfair method of obtaining signs. Since then, there have come from time to time reports of teams taking signals by mechanical devices. The Athletics once declared that the American League team in New York had a man stationed behind the fence in centre field with a pair of glasses and that he shifted a line in the score board slightly, so as to tip off the batters, but this charge was never confirmed. It was said a short time ago that the Athletics themselves had a spy located in a house outside their grounds and that he tipped the batters by raising and lowering an awning a trifle. When the Giants went to Philadelphia in 1911 for the first game of the world's series in the enemy's camp, I kept watching the windows of the houses just outside of the park for suspicious movements, but could discover none. Once in Pittsburg I thought that the Pirates were getting the Giants' signals and I kept my eyes glued to the score board in centre field, throughout one whole series, to see if any of the figures moved or changed positions, as that seemed to be the only place from which a batter could be tipped. But I never discovered anything wrong.

There are many fair ways to steal the signs of the enemy, so many that the smart ball-player is always kept on the alert by them. Baseball geniuses, some almost magicians, are constantly looking for new schemes to find out what the catcher is telling the pitcher, what the batter is tipping the base runner to, or what the coacher's instructions are. The Athletics have a great reputation as being a club able to get the other team's signs if they are obtainable. This is their record all around the American League circuit.

Personally I do not believe that Connie Mack's players steal as much information as they get the credit for, but the reputation itself, if they never get a sign, is valuable. If a prizefighter is supposed to have a haymaking punch in his left hand, the other fellow is going to be constantly looking out for that left. If the players on a club have great reputations as signal stealers, their opponents are going to be on their guard all the time, which gives the team with the reputation just that much advantage. If a pitcher has a reputation, he has the percentage on the batter. Therefore, this gossip about the signal-stealing ability of the Athletics has added to their natural strength.

"Bill," I said to Dahlen, the Brooklyn manager, one day toward the end of the season of 1911, when the Giants were playing their schedule out after the pennant was sure, "see if you can get the Chief's signs."

Dahlen coached on first base and then went to third, always looking for Meyers's signals. Pretty soon he came to me.

"I can see them a little bit, Matty," he reported.

"Chief," I said to Meyers that night as I buttonholed him in the clubhouse, "you've got to be careful to cover up your signs in the Big Series. The Athletics have a reputation of being pretty slick at getting them. And to make sure we will arrange a set of signs that I can give if we think they are 'hep' to yours."

So right there Meyers and I fixed up a code of signals that I could give to him, the Chief always to use some himself which would be "phoney" of course, and might have the desirable effect of "crossing them."

In the first championship game at the Polo Grounds, Topsy Hartsell was out on the coaching lines looking for signals, and the Chief started giving the real ones until Davis stepped into a curve ball and cracked it to left field for a single, scoring the only run made by the Athletics. Right here Meyers stopped, and I began transmitting the private information, although the Chief continued to pass out signals that meant nothing. The Athletics were getting the Indian's and could not understand why the answers seemed invariably to be wrong, for a couple of them struck out swinging at bad balls, and one batter narrowly avoided being hit by a fast one when apparently he had been tipped off to a curve and was set ready to swing at it. They did not discover that I was behind the signals, although to make this method successful the catcher must be a clever man. If he makes it too obvious that his signals are "phoney" and are meant to be seen, then the other club will look around for the source of the real ones. Meyers carefully concealed his misleading wig-wags beneath his chest protector, under his glove and behind his knee, as any good catcher does his real signs, so they would not look at my head.

Many persons argue: if a man sees the signs, what good does it do him if he does not know what they mean? It is easy for a smart ball-player to deduce the answers, because there are only three real signs passed between a pitcher and catcher, the sign for the fast one, for the curve ball and for the pitchout. If a coacher sees a catcher open his hand behind his glove and then watches the pitcher throw a fast one, he is likely to guess that the open palm says "Fast one."

After a coacher has stolen the desired information, he must be clever to pass it along to the batter without the other club being aware that he is doing it. He may straighten up to tell the batter a curve ball is coming, and bend over to forecast a fast one, and turn his back as a neutral signal, meaning that he does not know what is coming. If a coacher is smart enough to pass the meanings to the batter without the other team getting on, he may go through the entire season as a transmitter of information. To steal signs fairly requires quickness of mind, eye and action. Few players can do it successfully. Perhaps that is why it is considered fair.

If a team is going to make a success of signal stealing it must get every sign that is given, for an occasional crumb of information picked up at random is worse than none at all. First, it is dangerous. A batter, tipped off that a curved ball is coming, steps up to the plate and is surprised to meet a fast one, which often he has not time to dodge. Many a good ball-player has been injured in this way, and an accident to a star has cost more than one pennant.

"Joe" Kelley, formerly manager of the Reds, was coaching in Cincinnati one day several years ago, and "Eagle Eye Jake" Beckley, the old first baseman and a chronic three hundred hitter, was at the bat. I had been feeding him low drops and Kelley, on the third base line, thought he was getting the signals that Jack Warner, the Giant catcher in a former cast of characters, was giving. I saw Kelley apparently pass some information to Beckley, and the latter stepped almost across the plate ready for a curve. He encountered a high, fast one, close in, and he encountered it with that part of him between his neck and hat band. "Eagle Eye" was unconscious for two days after that and in the hospital several weeks. When he got back into the game he said to me one day:

"Why didn't you throw me that curve, Matty, that 'Joe' tipped me to?"

"Were you tipped off?" I asked. "Then it was 'Joe's' error, not mine."

"Say," he answered, "if I ever take another sign from a coacher I hope the ball kills me."

"It probably will," I replied. "That one nearly did."

It is one of the risks of signal stealing. Beckley had received the wrong information and I felt no qualms at hitting him, for it was not a wild pitch but a misinterpreted signal which had put him out of the game. His manager, not I, was to blame. For this reason many nervous players refuse to accept any information from a coacher, even if the coacher thinks he knows what is going to be pitched, because they do not dare take the risk of getting hit by a fast one, against which they have little protection if set for a curve. On this account few National League clubs attempt to steal signs as a part of the regular team work, but many individuals make a practice of it for their own benefit and for the benefit of the batter, if he is not of the timid type.

As soon as a runner gets on second base he is in an excellent position to see the hands of the catcher, and it is then that the man behind the bat is doing all that he can cover up. Jack Warner, the old Giant, used sometimes to give his signals with his mouth in this emergency, because they were visible from the pitcher's box, but not from second base. The thieves were looking at his hands for them. In the National League, Leach, Clarke, Wagner, Bresnahan, Evers, Tinker and a few more of the sort are dangerous to have on second. Wagner will get on the middle sack and watch the catcher until he thinks that he has discovered the pitchout sign, which means a ball is to be wasted in the hope that a base runner can be caught. Wagner takes a big lead, and the catcher, tempted, gives the "office" to waste one, thinking to nail "Hans" off second. The Dutchman sees it, and instead of running back to second dashes for third. He starts as the catcher lets go of the ball to throw to second and can usually make the extra base.

Many coachers, who do not attempt to get the signs for fast and curved balls, study the catcher to get his pitchout sign, because once this is recognized it gives the team at the bat a great advantage. If a coacher sees the catcher give the pitchout signal he can stop the runner from trying to steal and the pitcher has wasted a ball and is "in the hole." Then if his control is uncertain the result is likely to be disastrous.

Several players in the National League are always trying to get the batter's signs. Bresnahan, the manager and catcher of the St. Louis club, devotes half his time and energy to looking for the wireless code employed by batter and base runner. If he can discover the hit and run sign, then he is able to order a pitchout and catch the man who has started to run in response to it several feet at second base. He is a genius at getting this information.

Once late in 1911, when the New York club was in St. Louis on the last trip West, I came up to the bat with Fletcher on first base. I rubbed the end of my stick with my hand and Roger exclaimed:

"Why, that's your old hit and run, Matty! What are you trying to do, kid me?"

"I forgot you knew it, Rog," I answered, "but it goes."

He thought I was attempting to cross him and did not order a pitchout. The sign had been given intentionally. I hit the ball and had the laugh on him. If a catcher can get a pitchout on a hit and run sign he upsets the other team greatly. Take a fast man on first base and the batter signs him that he is going to hit the next ball. The runner gets his start and the ball comes up so wide that the batter could not half reach it with a ten-foot bat. The runner is caught easily at second base and it makes him look foolish. That is why so many catchers devote time to looking for this signal. It is a great fruit bearer.

Many of the extra players on the bench are always on the alert for the hit and run sign. This is a typical situation:

The Giants were playing the Pittsburg club one day in 1911. Byrne was on first base. Fred Clarke was at bat and Byrne started for second while Clarke hit the ball to right field, Byrne reaching third base on the play.

"What did he do?" asked Ames.

"Did you get it, Matty?" inquired Wiltse.

"No," I answered. "Did you?"

"I think he tapped his bat on the plate," replied Wiltse. The next time Clarke came up we were all looking to see if he tapped his bat on the plate. Byrne was again on first base. The Pirates' manager fixed his cap, he stepped back out of the box and knocked the dirt out of his cleats, and he did two or three other natural things before the pitch, but nothing happened. Then he tapped his bat on the plate.

"Make him put them over, Chief," yelled Wiltse which, translated, meant, "Order a pitch-out, Chief. He just gave Byrne the hit and run sign."

Meyers signed for a pitchout, and Byrne was caught ten feet from second. Wiltse on the bench had really nailed the base runner. As soon as a sign is discovered it is communicated to the other players, and they are always watching for it, but try to conceal the fact that they recognize it, because, as soon as a batter discovers that his messages are being read, he changes his code.

From these few facts about signals and sign stealing some idea of the battle of wits that is going on between two ball clubs in a game may be obtained. That is why so few men without brains last in the Big Leagues nowadays. A young fellow broke in with the Giants a few years ago and was very anxious to make good. He was playing shortstop.

"Watch for the catcher's signs and then shift," McGraw told him one day. It is well known in baseball that a right-handed hitter will naturally push a curve over the outside corner of the plate toward right field and over the inside he will pull it around toward third base. But this youngster was overanxious and would shift before the pitcher started to deliver the ball. Some smart player on another club noticed this and tipped the batters off to watch the youngster for the signs. When he shifted toward second base the batter set himself for a ball over the outside corner. For a long time McGraw could not understand how the other teams were getting the Giants' signs, especially as it was on our home grounds. At last he saw the new infielder shift one day and the batter prepare for an inside ball.

"Say," he said to the player, rushing on the field after he had stopped the pitcher, "do you know you are telegraphing the signs to the batters by moving around before the pitcher throws the ball?"

Bill Dahlen, formerly a shortstop on the Giants, used to shift, but he was clever enough to wait until the pitcher had started his motion, when it was too late for the batter to look at him.

Ball-players are always looking to steal some sign so that they may "cross" the enemy. In the language of the Big Leagues it is "signs," never "signals." And in conclusion I reiterate my former sentiments that all is fair in love, war and baseball except stealing signs dishonestly.

VIII

Umpires and Close Decisions

_Ball-players and Umpires are Regarded by the Fans as Natural Enemies, and the Fans Are about Right--Types of Arbiters and how the Players Treat them--"Silk" O'Loughlin, "Hank" O'Day, "Tim" Hurst, "Bob" Emslie, and Others, and Close Ones they have Called--Also Some Narrow Escapes which have Followed._

When the Giants were swinging through the West in 1911 on the final trip, the club played three games in Pittsburg, with the pennant at that time only a possibility more or less remote. The Pirates still had a chance, and they were fighting hard for every game, especially as they were playing on their home grounds.

The first contest of the series was on Saturday afternoon before a crowd that packed the gigantic stands which surrounded Forbes Field. The throng wanted to see the Pirates win because they were the Pirates, and the Giants beaten because they were the Giants, and were sticking their heads up above the other clubs in the race. I always think of the horse show when I play in Pittsburg, for they have the diamond horse-shoe of boxes there, you know. No; I'm wrong--it's at the Metropolitan Opera House they have the diamond horse-shoe. Any way, the diamond horse-shoe of boxes was doing business at Forbes Field that Saturday afternoon.

This story is going to be about umpires, but the reader who has never seen the Forbes Field folks must get the atmosphere before I let the yarn into the block. Once, on a bright, sunny day there, I muffed fly after fly because the glint of Sol's rays on the diamonds blinded me. Always now I wear smoked glasses. "Josh" Devore is so afraid that he will lose social caste when he goes to Pittsburg that he gets his finger-nails manicured before he will appear on the field. And the lady who treated him one day polished them to such an ultimate glossiness that the sun flashed on them, and he dropped two flies in left field.

"Look here, Josh," warned McGraw after the game, "I hire you to play ball and not to lead cotillions. Get some pumice stone and rub it on your finger-nails and cut out those John Drew manicures after this."

This crowd is worse after umpires than the residents of the bleachers. The game on that Saturday worked out into a pitchers' battle between Marty O'Toole, the expensive exponent of the spit ball, and "Rube" Marquard, the great left-hander. Half of "Who's Who in Pittsburg" had already split white gloves applauding when, along about the fourth or fifth inning, Fred Clarke got as far as third base with one out. The score was nothing for either side as yet, and of such a delicate nature was the contest that one run was likely to decide it.

"Hans" Wagner, the peerless, and the pride of Pittsburg, was at the bat. He pushed a long fly to Murray in right field, and John caught it and threw the ball home. Clarke and the ball arrived almost simultaneously. There was a slide, a jumble of players, and a small cloud of dust blew away from the home plate.

"Ye're out!" bawled Mr. Brennan, the umpire, jerking his thumb over his shoulder with a conclusiveness that forbade argument. Clarke jumped up and stretched his hands four feet apart, for he recognizes no conclusiveness when "one is called against him."

"Safe! that much!" he shouted in Brennan's ear, showing him the four-foot margin with his hands.

There was a roar from the diamond horse-shoe that, if it could have been canned and put on a phonograph, would have made any one his fortune because it could have been turned on to accompany moving pictures of lions and other wild beasts to make them realistic.

"Say," said Clarke to Brennan, "I know a pickpocket who looks honest compared to you, and I'd rather trust my watch to a second-story worker."

Brennan was dusting off the plate and paid no attention to him. But Clarke continued to snap and bark at the umpire as he brushed himself off, referring with feeling to Mr. Brennan's immediate family, and weaving into his talk a sketch of the umpire's ancestors, for Clarke is a great master of the English language as fed to umpires.

"Mr. Clarke," said Brennan, turning at last, "you were out. Now beat it to the bench before you beat it to the clubhouse."

Clarke went grumbling and all the afternoon was after Brennan for the decision, his wrath increasing because the Pirates lost the game finally, although they would not have won it had they been given that decision. And the crowd was roaring at Brennan, too, throughout the remainder of the contest, asking him pointed questions about his habits and what his regular business was.

It takes a man with nerve to make a decision like that--one that could be called either way because it was so close--and to make it as he sees it, which happened in this particular case to be against the home team.

Many times have I, in the excitement of the moment, protested against the decision of an umpire, but fundamentally I know that the umpires are honest and are doing their best, as all ball-players are. The umpires make mistakes and the players make errors. Many arbiters have told me that when they are working they seldom know what inning it is or how many are out, and sometimes, in their efforts to concentrate their minds on their decisions, they say they even forget what clubs are playing and which is the home team.

The future of the game depends on the umpire, for his honesty must not be questioned. If there is a breath of suspicion against a man, he is immediately let go, because constant repetition of such a charge would result in baseball going the way of horse racing and some other sports. No scandal can creep in where the umpire is concerned, for the very popularity of baseball depends on its honesty.

"The only good umpire is a dead umpire," McGraw has declared many times when he has been disgruntled over some decision.

"I think they're all dead ones in this League," replied Devore one day, "considering the decisions that they are handing me down there at second base. Why, I had that bag by three feet and he called me out."

Many baseball fans look upon an umpire as a sort of necessary evil to the luxury of baseball, like the odor that follows an automobile.

"Kill him! He hasn't got any friends!" is an expression shouted from the stands time and again during a game.

But I know differently. I have seen umpires with friends. It is true that most ball-players regard umpires as their natural enemies, as a boy does a school teacher. But "Bill" Klem has friends because I have seen him with them, and besides he has a constant companion, which is a calabash pipe. And "Billy" Evans of the American League has lots of friends. And most all of the umpires have some one who will speak to them when they are off the field.

These men in blue travel by themselves, live at obscure hotels apart from those at which the teams stop, and slip into the ball parks unobtrusively just before game time. They never make friends with ball-players off the field for fear that there might be a hint of scandal. Seldom do they take the same train with a club unless it cannot be avoided. "Hank" O'Day, the veteran of the National League staff, and Brennan took the same train out of Chicago with the Giants in the fall of 1911 because we stopped in Pittsburg for one game, and they had to be there to umpire. It was the only available means of transportation. But they stayed by themselves in another Pullman until some one told them "Charley" Faust, the official jinx-killer of the Giants, was doing his stunt. Then they both came back into the Giants' car and for the first time in my life I saw "Hank" O'Day laugh. His face acted as if it wasn't accustomed to the exercise and broke all in funny new wrinkles, like a glove when you put it on for the first time.