A century ago, sportswriters had little to fear from libel suits or fact checkers.
Good stories, unsullied by truth, from Hugh Fullerton in the Chicago Tribune. What did Jake Weimer ever do incur the wrath of Fullerton or the Cubs, anyhow? In his three seasons in Chicago he won 58 games, and would go on to win 20 more for the Reds in 1906. As to third baseman Steinfeldt — he who “can’t play a lot of ball” — all that he would do was to round out the great infield of Tinker to Evers to Chance and help the 1906 Cubs to a season record of 116–36.
Oct. 29, 1905 — Harry Steinfeldt is to play with the Chicago National Leaguers next year, as he and Sebring have been swapped by Garry Herrmann for Jake Weimer. I wonder how on earth Garry ever got to be a political leader. If he buys gold bricks in politics like he does in baseball, Cincinnati will be a wonderfully governed town. Weimer will add to the streak of yellow in the Cincinnati club — and anyhow, Chicago will have Steinfeldt.
That reminds me of what Tim Donohue said to Con Doyle when Con got his release. “Con,” said Tim sadly, “I’m sorry you’re going. You couldn’t play much ball, but you were awful good company.”
So the Chicago scribes ought to be glad to receive Steinfeldt. He can’t play a whole lot of ball, but he is one of the best fellows and best story tellers in the business, and if Charlie Kuhn will put in a billiard cushion on the right-field bleachers so the ball will bound back when Steinfeldt makes one of those throws of his, it will be all right.
Just to start Chicago off right I’ll tell Steinfeldt’s star story.
“The gamest man that ever broke into the game,” said Steiny during a fanning bee in a hotel one night, “was the second baseman we had down in Dallas in the Texas League. We were playing against Galveston. In the first inning the center fielder of that Galveston team got to first and started to steal. Our catcher threw him out a block and, instead of sliding, he just took a flying leap at the second baseman and came down on his feet with his spikes.
“The game fellow limped around for a minute, then went on playing. That afternoon he made four putouts, eight assists, and four hits, including a double and a home run. After the game he and I were walking over to the clubhouse together when he said, I believe there’s something in my shoe.’ He stooped down, took off his shoe, and shook out two toes.”
Tim Hurst is back in the game, bringing with him a new stock of stories of happenings on the ball field. One of the best of Tim’s performances of the season was at St. Louis on the afternoon that St. Louis and Philadelphia played a desperate sixteen-inning tie.
Tim had been summoned hurriedly to officiate in the series at St. Louis and arrived without mask or chest protector. He got along all right until the ninth inning. The score was tied. St. Louis was forging to the front and Mack hastily summoned Rube Waddell to the box — to save the day for the Athletics. The afternoon was dark and Rube was fast. He was shooting the ball across so fast that it looked like a blur, and Schreck, Rube’s eccentric catcher, was nabbing the ball with one hand, catching it behind his back at one side and then the other.
Hurst was behind Schreck watching the spectacular performance of Mack’s battery eccentrique, and every time that Schreck grabbed the ball with one hand, Tim winced. Finally he touched the catcher on the shoulder.
“Mr. Schreck,” he asked softly, “are you absolutely certain to catch all of those?”
“Why, yes,” replied Schreck, rather dazed. “I’ll get ’em all.”
“All right,” said Tim. “I feel better now. You see I am back here without any mask or breast protector.”
The next day the ancient catcher, Joe Sugden, loaned Hurst his mask and chest protector.
Tim didn’t umpire exactly to suit Joe that day, and every time he passed Hurst as he came in from the coaching lines, Sugden would remark: “Tim, don’t forget that’s my mask and chest protector you’re wearing.”
The remark got rather monotonous to Hurst, and after the seventh inning he turned on Joe and said: “Certain persons won’t be needing chest protectors and masks much longer.”
And Joe said never a word the rest of the game.
That reminds me of Tim back in ’95, soon after Fielder Jones, now manager of the White Stockings, joined the Brooklyn team. Treadway was playing center field for Brooklyn then and young Jones was sitting on the bench. Chicago was playing Brooklyn down on the old Eastern Park grounds and the late and much lamented Tim Donohue was catching.
Early in the game Treadway made a vicious kick on one of Hurst’s decisions, and Hurst merely bided his time and bowed his legs a bit more. When Tim bows his legs it is the danger signal. The game was close and in the eighth inning Treadway came to bat.
Hurst at once began talking to Donohue — for Treadway’s benefit.
“Tim,” he said, “they tell me that young fellow Jones is a wonder.”
“Yes,” remarked Tim.
“They tell me he fields well and that the management is thinking of making a change.”
Treadway’s ears were pricked up.
“I hear that — ‘Wan strike.’ “ The ball had passed while Treadway was listening.
“I hear that a certain outfielder is likely to lose a job — ‘Two strikes.’” Again Treadway had let the ball go.
“They tell me that a certain outfielder that kicks at umpires is likely to go — and that Jones will get his — ‘Three strikes, you’re out’ — job,” concluded Tim as Treadway walked sadly toward the bench.
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