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Play Ball: Stories of the Ball Field (1888)

By Patrick Mondout
May 1, 2008

This month's BaseballChronology bonus Book of the Month is Play Ball: Stories of the Ball Field by Kelly, published in 1888. You are on web page 2 of 2. Click here to go back to the first page.

Table of Contents
Chapter 1	Chapter 9
Chapter 2	Chapter 10
Chapter 3	Chapter 11
Chapter 4	Chapter 12
Chapter 5	Chapter 13
Chapter 6	Chapter 14
Chapter 7	Chapter 15
Chapter 8	Chapter 16
Chapter 17

Play Ball: Stories from the Ball Field...

Chapter X

It was at near the close of the season of 1886, that I first shook hands with a President of the United States. We were playing off three of the last games with the Washingtons. Captain Anson wanted very much to meet the President. He said that "President Cleveland was a mascot," and he wanted to grasp his hand. He had the same strong desire to shake Cleveland's hand as "Old Sport," in "A Rag Baby," has to grasp the hand of the man that shook hands with John L. Sullivan. Well, Anson hunted up all over the town, and finally discovered the congressman from one of the Chicago districts. He said he would try and fix things so that we would meet the President the next day.

He came, according to agreement, and said the President would like to meet us. Captain Anson got us together, and, headed by the congressman, we marched to the White House. It was a good-looking crowd of men that marched behind Captain Anson that day. There was George Gore, who shook the Chicago dust from his base ball shoes, and who now plays with the New Yorks. McCormick, whom I regard with almost brotherly affection, and who twirls the sphere for Pittsburg now. Burns and Dalrymple were also present. There wasn't a man in the crowd who wasn't almost six feet in height, and they were all in lovely condition. Their hands were as hard as iron. Dan Lamont met us, and, escorted by him, we marched to the room where the President was.

President Cleveland wore a Prince Albert coat, tightly buttoned, and he looked much stouter than the photographs we had seen of him led us to believe. While Lamont was talking to him, Captain Anson was puzzling his brain for a few words to say, suitable for the occasion. But the President didn't give him or any of us a chance for formal words. He was as affable and as courteous as it was possible for a man to be.

"President Cleveland, this is Captain Anson, of the Chicago Base Ball Club," said Colonel Lamont.

"I'm happy to meet you, Captain Anson. You have the champion ball club, I believe."

Anson gripped his hand. Then I was the second man to be introduced. The President's hand was fat and soft. I squeezed it so hard that the President winced. Then George Gore did the same. Burns gave the President another warm grip, and Dalrymple did likewise. When it came to McCormick, the President's good right hand was almost doubled up. McCormick shook his hand warmly; so warmly, indeed, that President Cleveland looked glad and happy when it was all over. He would rather shake hands with one thousand people than two ball nines, after that day. He conversed with us for a good half hour. He spoke of early days in Buffalo, when he used to be a great admirer of base ball, and how, when young, he used to toss the ball himself, occasionally. He said laughingly, that he was so stout then that he didn't think that there was a fat man's nine in the country which would care to make him a member. The President didn't shake hands again when we parted. He remembered the grip of a few minutes before. He wished us all good luck and prosperity. He impressed me as being a charming, courteous gentleman, who has considerable backbone, and democratic enough to be a Democratic President of our glorious country.

Chapter XI

I shall never forget the opening game of the season in Boston, May 9, 1887. It was the most memorable night in my life. We played the opening game with Philadelphia, and were defeated. After the game, John Graham, a well-known member of the Boston Lodge of Elks, came to me and said:
"Kel, there is to be a benefit tendered Dan Hurley at the Boston Theatre tonight. He is a fine fellow, and we want to give him a good house. Won't you have the Philadelphia and Boston clubs attend? After the benefit, we want you to come over to the Elks Club for a while. There is to be a little reception there."

I promised to do both, yet I never had an idea as to what was in store for me. After the benefit, accompanied by several friends, I went to the club. What a charming gathering it was. I was introduced to many gentlemen, and even then I hadn't the least idea as to what was the entertainment for the night. Finally, we went up stairs, and what a splendid banquet was prepared. I began to think, about the time I sat on the right of Mayor O'Brien, that something or other was up. Then, when the mayor had finished his speech, I knew all about it. In behalf of the Boston Lodge of Elks and other friends, he presented me with a handsome gold watch, chain, charm, and pencil. For the first time in my life I was unable to make a speech. I had faced angry mobs on the base ball field, and had made funny speeches to them, but, like the Waterbury clock man in "She," my tongue was paralyzed, for the first time in my life. I said something or other, I don't know what. It was the first present I had ever received. I had been a member of the Chicago club for several years, and was glad to draw just my salary. But I came to Boston, and the first day of my arrival was given a testimonial fit for a king.

Well, there is only one city in the country where they do that sort of thing, and that's in Boston.

In Chicago, the opening game of '87 was to be a very pleasant occasion. It led me to believe that pomp and pageantry are not always reserved for statesmen or warriors. The Boston club arrived from Indianapolis at six o'clock in the morning. A few hours after, an immense crowd of people gathered at the Leland House, where the nine were stopping. A reception was given me a few hours before we started for the ball field. A quartette sang some complimentary verses to my skill as a player, then the crowd wanted me to make a speech. But this I was unable to do, owing to the fact Eugene Field said, that I had a lame leg. At noon, the Chicago club arrived at the hotel, and escorted us to the ball grounds, a band and a big crowd followed in the rear. That afternoon I received an immense floral tribute, composed of hundreds of roses and carnations, and bearing this inscription in red immortelles:

"KEL"

Several other floral pieces I received, and later, a jockey's cap made of red, white, and blue silk, came from friends. There was lots of cheering from twelve thousand people who were present, all of which convinced me that I had a good many warm, staunch friends in Chicago. The newspapers contained columns of matter in regard to the reception. But it was all of such a complimentary nature, that I cannot reproduce it here. One of the best things written at the time, was from versatile Eugene Field, of the Chicago News. He printed the following story:

Mr. Michael J. Kelly, the eminent base ball virtuoso of Boston, has been the recipient of many flattering attentions at the hands of Chicago literati since his arrival in this city last Friday. He accepts all courtesies with the same modesty of demeanor which characterized Col. James Russell Lowell's career in Chicago last February. In fact, all Boston men seem to be alike, when it comes to the particular of modesty.

"I like Mr. Kelly better than I do Lowell," says Col. Samuel J. Bosbyshell, the Prairie Avenue millionaire. "When Lowell was here, I had him out to the house to a $3,500 dinner, and, do what I could, I couldn't get him waked up. He didn't seem to want to talk about anything but literature. Now, when I'm out in society, I make it a point never to talk shop, and Lowell's peculiarity mortified me. If it hadn't been for Frank Lincoln, with his imitations and funny stories, the dinner would have been a stupid affair. But Kelly is another kind of man; he is more versatile than Lowell; I don't believe he mentioned books once during the four hours we sat at dinner last Saturday evening. Nor did he confine his conversation to base ball topics. He is deeply versed in turf lore, and he talked most entertainingly of the prominent race horses he was acquainted with, and of the leading jockeys he has met."

Mr. Kelly himself was in fine spirits yesterday. He spent most of the morning writing letters to eastern correspondents. One of these letters was to the venerable A. Bronson Alcott, the recondite and erudite philosopher.

"Just before our second game in Indianapolis last week," said Mr. Kelly, "I received a long letter from Alcott, urging me to attend the school of summer philosophy at Concord, next August, and to read a paper on that occasion. Of course my professional duties will not admit of my accepting the invitation, but as the only paper I ever read is the Daily News, almost anybody can take my place."

Mr. Kelly went on to say that he was charmed with life in Boston; he had been most cordially welcomed by the leading society circles, and had in five months become so thoroughly Bostonian that he could hardly realize that he had ever lived in the wild and wooly West.

"You have no idea," said he, "how different everything is there. Chicago people boast of their lake, of their Board of Trade Building, of their parks, and of their refinement; but in each of these particulars, Boston can knock the socks clean off'n Chicago. We have a natural lake located just off Boston, that is, well, say ten times bigger than Lake Michigan, and it doesn't have to be dredged every three days to give the schooners enough water to sail in. Then there is Bunker Hill Monument; why, it is three times higher than your Board of Trade steeple, and Boston Common was old enough to vote long before the buffaloes had got through making a stamping-ground of your Lincoln Park. As far as social advantages are concerned, Boston heads the league. It is the oldest city in America, having been founded in less than a fortnight after Christopher Columbus anchored the Maypole off Plymouth Rock. Everybody speaks all sorts of languages, and attends lectures, and reads poetry, and wears spectacles. I hadn't been in the town more than two days before I got a craving for literature, and I couldn't get any peace until I had subscribed for the 'Waverly Magazine.'"

"I lived so high," continued Mr. Kelly, "that I got the gout; at least I thought it was the gout. One of my toes swelled up as big as a nut-cake, and was as sore as a bone falon. I went to see Dock Holmes about it; maybe you've heard of Holmes; he had written books, and enjoyed a large practice at public dinners in Boston for a good many years. Well, he examined my feet, and they seemed to interest him."

"'Mr. Kelly,' said he, at last, 'you have two of the most poetic feet I ever scanned. They are of a kind rarely to be met with nowadays. The left one is a pyrrhic, and the right one (with the bay-window on it) is a spondee.'

"'Is it — are they serious?' I asked, for I hadn't been in Boston long enough to know what this sort of thing meant.

"'A pyrrhic foot,' says lane, 'is too short; your left foot is clearly pyrrhic. A spondee is too long, and that's what your right foot is.'

"Jiminy Chris'mas!' says I, 'what shall I do about it?'

"He gave me a bottle of pain-killer, and told me to rub it twice a day on the spondee. It has done me a power of good."

"Did you meet Mr. Lowell in Boston?"

"Yes, but he's in Europe now, you know," said Mr. Kelly. "I called on him when he got back from Chicago. He told me that one of the Chicago clubs knocked him clean out of the box. He was badly rattled, but I braced him up a good deal, and me and him got to be great friends."

Mr. Kelly said that it made his heart ache, to see so many bright men groveling around in dirty, commercial Chicago, when they would be appreciated, and could do so well, in Boston.

"I met Joe Medill the other day," said he, "and I told him that he ought to be ashamed of himself, to vegetate here on the prairies, when a big reputation and big money were waiting him down East. He asked me what I meant, and I told him that if he'd let me work it for him I'd get a Boston editor to pay $10,000 for his release, and guarantee him $5,000 a year. Now, I suppose he thought I couldn't do it; at any rate, he smiled sort of sick like, and said that inasmuch as he had got started in here, he guessed he'd better pass the evening of his life in Chicago."

Perhaps the most exciting games of ball played in late years were the games between the Detroits and Chicagos, in the season of '86. McCormickand I had won seventeen straight, successive victories, and the Detroit club had won eighteen straight on the home grounds. We went to Detroit, accompanied by hundreds of Chicago lovers of the game. They all carried new brooms; and even the little boy mascot of the Chicago club marched on the field with us with a big broom perched over his right shoulder. How the men from Chicago did cheer! What a tremendous noise the "Hoosiers" did make! They cheered every player of the home club every time that they came to the bat. But McCormick was in great trim, and so were the members of the Chicago club. As a result, we won the first game. The men from Chicago were wild with enthusiasm. They coated the town of Detroit with paint of vermilion color. It was well they did, because on the next two games they didn't have a chance. The Detroit giants made a great race, and won both games.

The following three games between the two nines were played in Chicago. The club from Detroit came to Chicago with a tremendous backing. They had at least five hundred enthusiasts with them on a special train. On this train some of the most enthusiastic had a big tally-ho coach, painted red, and covered with flags and bunting. That was George Muchmore's idea. George is a Detroit boy, and a brother-in-law of President Stearns, of the Detroit club. He is a splendid fellow, and is known and is popular throughout the country. The idea was to have some of the best known men in Detroit jump into this coach and parade around Chicago, burning red fire, in the evening, providing of course, that Detroit won. But man proposes and God disposes. The Detroit men, both on and off the field, worked hard for victory. But Chicago was in great condition, and won three straight games. It badly demoralized the Detroit players, and the lovers of the game went back to the Wolverine city, sadder, but wiser men.

That tally-ho coach never left the train till it was taken off again at Detroit.

"What do you think of it, George?" I said to Muchmore; "do you think Detroit will win the championship this year?" "Well, Kel, I don't think we will this year," said Muchmore, sadly; "but I'll wager you a new hat that the pennant will be ours in '87."

George had sand.

Chapter XII

If you are an admirer of base ball, you will carefully read this chapter, and if there is any little moral in it, please remember it next summer, when you are excited about the success or failure of your favorite team. I want to say just a word about the umpires. It's an old subject, perhaps, and it may be a difficult matter to throw any new light upon it. But I will try it, hoping that a few timely words may be of some benefit to that much-abused class.
To begin with, umpires are human. They have a heart, and the blood which flows through their body isn't any different from that which flows through the body of the ordinary man. Very many men who attend ball games, sometimes forget this. They look upon umpires as creatures of their pleasure. They seem to think that they can abuse them, coddle them, make them think they're the smallest thing on earth, just as humor possesses them.

Did you ever sit near a man in a grand stand, who didn't feel certain that he could give an umpire points on the game? I never did. Some spectators see about two ball games, and then they feel certain that they can give an umpire advise in regard to points of the game, and how decisions should be made.

Now, it is necessary that an umpire should be pretty well posted on the game, before he is appointed. Sometimes, of course, a mistake is made, and a man is appointed who knows positively nothing about the game. But these appointments are few, and far between. An umpire must be somewhat of an athlete. He must be light on his feet, and be able to get around to the bases as quick as the batter. He must know all the rules of base ball, and give a prompt decision without looking at the book. His eye must be good, and he must be able to see all over the field at once. He must have good nerve, and if he wants to be a success, he won't allow any back talk from players.

Above all things, he must know more about base ball than the ordinary man. If he didn't, he would not be appointed.

The moment an umpire calls time, his actions begin to be closely watched. He is on the rack, so to speak. If his voice is a bit hoarse from howling "balls" and "strikes" for a couple of hours the day before, he is greeted with "louder!" from all over the grounds. If he leaves his position for a moment, to drink a glass of ice-water, or to wipe the beads of perspiration from his warmed-by-the-sun face, he is greeted with derisive howls, from somebody he displeased a moment ago.

Reader, think it over. See if you cannot remember several occasions similar to that one which I refer to.

He carefully watches every point in the game. Nothing escapes him, unless it's the "roasting" he received from the spectators around first and third bases. He does try to forget that.

He may make a wrong decision now and then.

Well, suppose he does? Does it improve matters any for a crowd to howl and shrick itself hoarse, hurling strong adjectives at one man?

It doesn't make him any fairer. Not a bit of it. In fact, it hurts his judgment very much, indeed. He may go to work to create good impression, and give the other side a decision, to atone for the bad one of a moment before. Then the crowd begins to shrick again, and perhaps the umpire gets rattled. His judgment becomes very bad. Then the crowd is after him, and life is a burden to him until the game is over. It's bad enough for the umpire to get a "roasting" from the players, but when the audience begins to get its work in, then it's very, very rough, indeed.

There are good players in every club, who make it a point to abuse the umpire, just to get the sympathy of the crowd. Perhaps a player might have reason for it, once out of ten, but as a rule, he hasn't.

The umpire is placed in a false position by the player, and gets abuse. The player gets the sympathy of the crowd, and applause.

This should be prevented, if possible. To be sure, there should be good umpires. But when good ones are in the market, they should be offered inducements enough to remain in the business. They should be given a good, big salary, and a fair show. An umpire like Gaffney or Doescher, should be worth at least $2,500, and even as high as $3,000. It's a pretty high figure, but it should be paid, just the same.

They get abuse enough in the course of a season, to make $2,500 a very slight salary, indeed. An umpire isn't there to give clubs the worst of it all the time. He is there to be as fair to one side as the other. He may make a rank decision once in a while, but don't get excited, if he does.

Keep quiet, and the result will be, that you will see better ball playing and better umpiring.

"Baby" Anson is a great kicker, but I will wager that there isn't an umpire in the country who doesn't like and respect him. Anson never kicks
hard, or abuses an umpire. He wins him more by kindly argument.

An umpire's lot isn't a very happy one. So don't go to work next summer making a business of making one man's life miserable.

Give the umpire a square show for his life. Don't howl at him. Don't imagine that you know it all and he nothing. Don't think that he is robbing your club of a game. Don't get mad. Don't think that he was appointed simply to give decisions to suit you.

Don't do these things; and the result will be, that you will see better games of ball.

Chapter XIII

Who are the greatest pitchers in the league?

This question, I think, is determined entirely by locality.

For instance, New Yorkers will swear by Tim Keefe, and say that he is the greatest pitcher in the league. He is a great pitcher, and can fool the heaviest batters pretty often. Keefe has a way of covering the ball so that it is almost impossible for a batter to know just what sort of a ball is coming. Welch, of the same nine, is also a great pitcher. Mickey's friends say that he is the best, while Keefe's stick to him. I have seen Welch pitch some wonderful games, but on the whole, Keefe, I think, is the greater of the two.

In Boston we have some good pitchers. I don't know whether or not Radbourn will be a member of the nine next year. I hope that he will be. I have always said that he is one of the very greatest pitchers in the country. I see no reason to change this opinion. Radbourn pitched in pretty hard luck for a time last season. The rules were all against him. How could he expect to be great, under the circumstances? I know for a fact that he pitched several games in Boston when unfit to do so, by reason of illness. Radbourn is a curious fellow. People who do not know him, have an idea that he is surly, but he isn't. He is a cool, deliberate fellow, isn't lazy, and isn't surly. He is very peculiar, but once understood he is a good fellow, and a good friend. There is no doubt but that he is a great pitcher.

There are two great pitchers in the Pittsburg club, Galvin and McCormick. Both of these men have seen service, and lots of it. I was with McCormick, and caught his delivery for several years. He has few equals in this country. Ferguson, of the Philadelphias, is a very tricky pitcher, and a good pitcher, in the bargain. Buffinton, of the same club, is a young fellow who pitches a pretty stiff game of ball. He uses good curves, and his down shoots are particularly effective. The great trouble with Buffinton is that he sometimes gets mad, and loses his temper. Now Ferguson never does that. He might appear to, but he doesn't. Buffinton is a hard worker, a good, faithful player.

There are many who may not agree with me, but I have an opinion that Baldwin, who the newspaper boys have styled "Lady" Baldwin, is the star pitcher of the Detroit club. Put him in a winning game, and he does great work. Let the opposing nine bat him pretty freely for a few innings, and he goes to pieces. He loses heart. That is all he lacks to be a great pitcher. Getzein, of Detroit, is a strong, bull-headed pitcher. He doesn't lack heart, but he does sometimes lack head, but not very often. He pitched great ball last year, because he was in a great team. In an inferior team, perhaps he wouldn't be so great. However, he did good work, splendid work, and he should be given lots of credit for so doing.

Among the youngsters in the league, there are none so promising as young Madden, of the Boston club.

That lad was a mystery to me during the season of '87. I honestly expected to see him go to pieces half a dozen times in the course of some games, but he didn't. It used to send a cold shiver down my back when he faced Thompson, Brouthers, Connor, and many of the other big batters. But he was always game. He faced them like a little man. That boy has heart enough, and nerve enough, for a man twice his age. If William Stemmyer, of the Bostons of '87, had half of Madden's heart, he would be the greatest pitcher in the league.

John Clarkson is the star pitcher of the Chicago club, and by many people is looked upon as the star pitcher of the league. Clarkson is a quiet, modest gentleman, and does less talking about base ball, than any player in the country. He has all the essential qualifications necessary in the make-up of a great pitcher. He has a good long head, and knows how to use it. He has good judgment, and he displays it all at critical times. His command of the ball is simply wonderful. He has more curves and shoots than any pitcher in this country. There isn't a heavy batter in the league who likes to face Clarkson at a critical moment. He will keep them thinking, and the chances are ten to one that he will fool them on a deceptive ball. Van Haltren, of the Chicago club, is a good pitcher, and in time he is apt to be a great one. He is a bit wild at times, but will soon get over that.

Who is the best pitcher in the league?

Which is your favorite?

Well, he is the greatest!

In regard to the batsmen, it's a pretty difficult matter to say which is the best. You can give the names of those who have led the league during the various years. But it doesn't necessarily follow that they are the greatest in the league. There are some men who never led the league, or who never got anywhere near the top; yet they are great batters. They are great at critical moments. They can hit the ball when a run is needed. Those are the men that I regard as great.

Little Miller, of the Pittsburg club, can send the ball pretty far away when it's necessary. John Burdock, of Boston, is a good sacrifice hitter, therefore a good batter. Martin Sullivan, of the Chicagos, has improved as a batter, and he will go to the front before many seasons. Young Ryan, of the same team, has been doing good stick work. Dalrymple, George Gore, McCormick, Burns, and "Buck" Ewing are all bad men facing a pitcher.
Sam Wise, of the Boston club, is a player who is quite handy with the stick. Sam isn't a sure batter, but he does give the ball some terrible hard knocks. If Sam doesn't strike out, you may feel pretty certain that he's going to line out a three-bagger. Fred Pfeffer is a safe batter. Johnny Ward, of the New Yorks, is a very scientific batter. Ward can bunt the ball, or send it far into the outfield, whenever occasion requires. Billy Nash, of the Boston club, is coming to the front as a heavy batter. Nash meets the ball like a veteran, and when he hits it, one can make up his mind that it is going pretty well into the field.

Wood, of the "Phillies," is a good, strong batter, and so is Paul Hines. I like to see the latter come to the bat in an emergency. He always goes up to the plate as though he meant business. He generally does, too. Glasscock is a fine batter, especially if he is in a good nine. Jerry Denny hits the ball often, and hits it hard.

It will be interesting to many to know the records of the men who have led the leagues.

Roger Connor, the crack first baseman of the New York Base Ball Club, held the batting championship in 1885. Like all of the leading batters in the league, he is of immense stature, and is a favorite all over the country. He stands over six feet in height, and weighs over two hundred pounds. Roger hails from Waterbury, Conn., and first played with the Monitors, of that city, in 1876. He joined the New York club in 1883, and has been with that club ever since. His play at first base has always been up to the highest mark, and he has no superior as a heavy hitter. He is a good runner, and the appellation has been applied to him, that when he is running the ground trembles. He is a perfect gentleman, both on and off the ball field, and is a valuable member of the New York team. Connor stood second in the batting list of 1883, sixth in 1884, and first in 1885, his average being .361, .316, .371, in the order named.

James O'Rourke, the crack fielder and catcher of the New Yorks, who is going to be a great lawyer by-and-by, headed the list of league players in the batting records of 1884. He is a native of Bridgeport, Conn., and first played with the Osceolas, of that city, in 1871, as catcher. In the season of `72 he joined the Mansfields, of Middletown, Conn., and the following entered the ranks of professionals, by joining the Bostons, playing in right field, and as change catcher. During the six years he remained with the Bostons, he played every position in the out and in field, as well as doing valuable work behind the bat. In 1879 he joined the Providence team, and returned to Boston the following year, and finished the season there. He became manager of the Buffalo club in 1881, and remained there until 1885, when he joined the New York team as center fielder. In 1886 he did excellent work behind the bat, when two of the catchers were temporarily laid up. O'Rourke is above medium height, and is ranked as one of the best all-around players in the profession.

Everybody knows Dan Brouthers, the genial, good-natured, whole-souled baseman of the Detroit team. Dan held the champion batting records of 1882 and 1883, playing first base with the Buffalo club, and to look at him, few would wonder that he is such a great batter. He stands six feet one and three-fourths inches in height, weighs two hundred pounds, and is as active as a cat. Brouthers first saw the light of day at Sylvan Lake, N. Y., in 1858, and in 1876 joined the Actives, of Wappinger Falls, N. Y., as pitcher. In 1878, he filled the box for the local club at Spattsville, N. Y. He entered the fold of the national league the following year, as first baseman and change pitcher for the Troys. The season of 1880 found him with the Baltimore team, but this club disbanded in June, and Dan went to the Hop Bitters team, but a month later was back with the Troys. In 1881 he signed with Brooklyn, to play right field. He finished the season as left fielder. He joined the Buffalo club as first baseman, and remained there until his transfer to the Detroits, in 1885. In 1886, on the Boston grounds, Brouthers hit a ball over Sullivan's tower, which used to tower away above the fence erected by the Boston management, giving enthusiasts a chance to see the game for fifteen cents. That tower was pretty high up. The ball went over it, however, and away into Tremont Street in the bargain. I don't know anything about it, but I have an idea that that ball hasn't stopped rolling yet.

Few, if any, of the players in the base ball profession, are more widely known than Capt. A. C. Anson, of the Chicago team. His long connection with the White Stockings, his ability as a team captain, and his rarely erring judgment as to the qualities of a ball player, have made him an object of special prominence in base ball circles. He is a powerful fellow physically, standing six feet two inches tall, and weighs two hundred and eighteen pounds. Anson is without question, the best average batter of the league. According to the official records, he has stood first in the list of batters, three times; second, four times; fourth, twice; fifth, twice, and sixth, once; having never stood lower than sixth since his connection with the league. Anson is thirty-five years of age, and his first engagement was with the Forest City club, of Rockland, Ill., in 1871. The Athletics, of Philadelphia, secured his services in 1872, accompanying the club to Europe in 1874, where he made the highest individual score in the cricket match against the All Ireland Eleven. In 1876 he joined the Chicago club, and had remained with them since. He holds the batting championship for the season of 1887. Anson is admired by everybody for his management of a ball team.

Chapter XIV

There are so many different ways for a man to train, that it is almost utterly impossible for a man to tell which is best. Every athlete has his own idea. The base ball player has his, and he won't change. Neither will the oarsman, the pugilist, the pedestrian, or the other athletes. There are almost as many different ways to train, as there are athletes in this country. John L. Sullivan confines his training almost entirely to jogging along roadways, taking short runs, and punching the bag. In this way he generally manages to get himself in very good condition. On the other hand, Hanlan, the oarsman, does his best work in a boat. He rows morning and afternoon, and also takes other exercise. He was the most faithful training man in athletics a few years ago, but of late he has grown stout, and has been inclined to neglect certain things. This may account for his failure to retain championship honors. It is necessary that an athlete should take the very best of care of himself, even when he is not preparing for an athletic event.

There is a class of people who rarely exercise, and it's a fatal mistake. There isn't a man in the world strong enough to live a long life, and be healthy, without taking proper exercise. How many business men we know, who at fifty complain that they haven't any appetite. They complain in the morning, that they cannot eat; for lunch, a plate of soup, and several glasses of brandy is the best they can do; at night, for dinner, they have a little of this or that, but, as a rule, the soup and the liquors make up the best part of their meal. This should not be so. Every man should exercise in moderation. It is a necessity. Try it, and at the end of a year you will discover how much better you feel. I give a few hints on training, at the urgent solicitation of friends, and because of letters I have received from people I have never met. Do not try them all. Pick out the one you like best. Exercise, even if it's only a two-mile walk each day.

While no set rules can be laid down for training, some useful points can be given to beginners, which, if followed closely, will not fail to produce the desired result. Some years ago, a code of rules was laid down for training, and they were thought to be complete. Experience, however, has proved otherwise, and the several trainers were not long in finding it out. So the latter put their heads together, studied their men, and found out just how much they could stand. The solution of the problem was solved, and the men began to improve, and the standard of athletes to rise. So the reader will see that a man may be given all of the points on training, yet he will never obtain the desired result, until he makes a careful study of his own system, and finds just how much work will bring him to the pink of condition.

A great many people labor under the idea that training is a fearfully arduous and trying ordeal, and they wonder why men should undertake such a task for the honor to be derived from victory. Such, however, is not the case. To any athlete who likes his work, training is an easy task. The trouble is that too many athletes have, during the intervals between seasons, neglected to take proper care of themselves, and go round dissipating and carousing to such an extent that training to them means little more than hurrying their system in proper condition by ridding it of the alcohol with which they have become saturated. Good, honest training is not a hard task, by any means, but, on the contrary, is a pleasure, as a man never feels so well as when he is in perfect condition.

There is one fundamental rule which must be followed in all training, and that is, to thoroughly cleanse the stomach by a strong purgative. No matter how strong and healthy a man may be, this is the first part which must be accomplished, before anything further can be done. After this is done, the athlete is ready to begin good work.

I will take up the training of the pugilist first. He rises at an early hour, and takes a smart walk of a mile or so before breakfast. This gives him a hearty appetite, and he can eat his breakfast with a relish. A chop or a slice of beef cooked rare is generally given, but oatmeal mush is a nutritious and strengthening article. Breakfast over, a good long walk and jog follows. A suit of heavy clothing is put on, with heavy boots. If the man is fat, and has a lot of superfluous flesh, the heaviest kind of clothing should be put on, while a strip of flannel tied tightly across the stomach will serve to reduce that member. The walk should not be too long, as a wearying journey is likely to bring a reaction, in the shape of loss of vital energy, and staleness, which, above all things, must be avoided. A short distance at a good lively trot is by far the best plan, as fast work draws out the perspiration, and hardens the muscles of the legs. On returning, the damp clothes should be taken off as soon as possible, and the skin rubbed down first with rough towels, so as to thoroughly dry the surface, then with bare hands, and finally with rum, alcohol or some other ingredient.

When the rubbing down process has been completed, and it should be done thoroughly, since more superfluous flesh can be rubbed off than run off, the athlete is pretty tired. He is then wrapped in warm blankets, and allowed to sleep until dinner-time. For dinner, good, substantial food should be taken, and one should not stint himself. The old English idea of starving an athlete has long since exploded. If one requires a stimulant, a bottle of Bass' ale is the proper thing. After dinner, comes the gymnasium work. The athlete strips, and a good long time is spent in pounding the football, which is suspended from the ceiling. This not only serves in strengthening the muscles of the arms and stomach, but it loosens the muscles of the shoulders, thus giving free action, and enabling the fighter to strike a good, clean blow, free from muscle binding. This over, the rubbing down process is again gone through with, and the pugilist dons his clothes, and starts for a stroll before supper. After this meal, which should be a frugal one, work is over for the day, and the athlete soon seeks his couch. This work is continued daily until a short while before the fight takes place, and then gradually lessened. The minor details, such as hardening, etc., are of but small importance, and I will not relate them here.

The rules for training for a contest at wrestling cannot better be given than by describing the training process of William Muldoon, who is probably the king of Greco-Roman wrestlers of the present day. Muldoon says:

"I have my own ideas on the subject of training, and while they may differ from others, I have found them effective, when put to practical use. When training for a contest, I rise very early, and take a short walk before breakfast. After that meal is over, I put on heavy clothing and start out for a breather. I run about three miles, say a mile and a half out and back, and go at a good fast pace. I am not an advocate of long and tedious travels. I see by the cablegrams from Europe, that Sullivan is doing his twenty miles a day. I don't believe in that. If Sullivan is really doing that amount of work, he will wear away some of that wonderful strength of his, and go into the ring with Mitchell a stale man. When I return after my run, I am thoroughly rubbed down with rough towels. After this, I dress and lounge around until dinner-time. After the noonday meal I take a short stroll, and then returning, strip, and prepare for practice. I always make it a point to have some one near me who is a pretty clever wrestler, and for quite a time in the afternoon I wrestle with him. This serves a double purpose. It not only tends to harden my muscles, and also reduce flesh, but it also gives me the practice I need, and is practical training which I have always been in favor of. This completes my day's work, and, after a light supper, I retire early."

Now, to the rules for a sprinter. As there are a goodly number of sprinters who work every day, and have to train during their leisure hours, so as not to interfere with their regular work, a course is mapped out below by which they may get into shape. After the cleansing of the stomach, an athlete should rest for a few days, so as not to weaken himself. After that, the regular work begins. He should make it a point to rise early, and, putting on a rough suit, take a short walk before breakfast. On his return, he should thoroughly rub down and put on warm, dry clothing. If possible, he should take a run in the morning. In the beginning, he should wear very heavy clothing, and it is also advisable to wear very heavy shoes, as they have a tendency to harden the legs, and at the same time to protect the feet form soreness. The sprinter should not run a long distance in the beginning, as fast work at that time will result in strained muscles and consequent soreness.

Too many beginners make this mistake. The first day they feel strong, and can do wonders. The novice does a vast amount of work, and when he leaves the ground feels "chipper." The next morning, however, when he rises, he finds himself so sore that he can hardly stand. He becomes disgusted, and his athletic career is at an end. By slow work at first, all soreness is avoided. The muscles are hardened gradually, and are ready for hard work when the time comes. After his work is once completed, the runner should leave the track at once, and rid himself of his wet clothing. Too many make this fatal mistake of standing around after work, the result being colds, and consequent soreness. After being thoroughly rubbed down with alcohol, or some other ingredient, one should dress rapidly, and take a short walk, so as to keep the muscles from stiffening. In the afternoon the same process should be undergone. After a few weeks of this kind of work one is fit for fast work, and the heavy clothing and shoes may be discarded for a light athletic suit, and spiked shoes. If a runner is practicing for one hundred yards, he should first move a short distance easily, so as to loosen the muscles, and then run his distance at a good, strong gait.

In starting, a man should always first take an easy position, with the left foot well forward of the right, so as to find just what "reach" he has. Then the position of each foot should be marked, and holes scraped in the track in these places. The holes give one a purchase to spring from, and also permit of a firmer footing, while waiting for the pistol shot.

The usual form of starting now in vogue is as follows: The starter first tells the men to "get on their marks," when they stand at ease in their places; the second command is to "get set," when the athlete lowers his body, with most of the weight resting on the forward foot, although the back foot should be firm, so as to be capable of allowing a good spring. Then follows the pistol shot, and the race is on. In springing from the mark, the back foot should come forward, and take the first step. The eastern amateurs are now affecting what is called the "dab," that is, a short step with the forward foot when the pistol cracks. This, however, has not been adopted by the best men.

In practice, the runner should go through the regular form, obtaining some one's services to give the word. After a siege at starting, the runner covering about thirty yards at each attempt, a spin of one hundred and twenty-five or one hundred and thirty-five yards completes his work. The same work should be taken in the afternoon. If one finds himself getting stale, a few days' rest will restore his form.

The question of diet is one that bothers many. Training should make but little change in a man's diet. Pastry and greasy food should always be avoided. With regard to stimulants, it can be said that a man unaccustomed to drinking needs no stimulants. A little sherry and egg before breakfast, or a bottle of ale, will do no harm. A few days before the race, a let-up should be taken in training, so that strength can be gathered for the contest. These few points, if closely followed, will prove of wonderful assistance to young amateurs. There is nothing theoretical about them, but the practical application of them has proven, beyond a doubt, their effectiveness.

Chapter XV

I am a firm believer in the boys of America. If I could afford it, I would allow all the small boys, of high or low degree, to witness the ball games free of charge. The small boys are a tower of strength to the game of base ball. Perhaps the revenues of the club are not made rich by their presence at the league games. Perhaps they do go "junky" (that is, pick up old waste paper and junk) during the morning hours, for the purpose of getting pennies enough to go on a shed to see a ball game; perhaps they do make life a burden to grownup men, asking for pennies to take them in; perhaps they do pick out the favorite knot-holes in the fence, and fight for their possession against bigger and stronger boys.

They do all these things. Yet, on the other hand, look at the great good they do. They know the names of almost every player in the league. The chances are, that they know more about my season's record than I do myself. The same may be said of the other players. They read every scrap of matter printed in the newspapers about the players. They go home at night, and talk base ball to their fathers, mothers, sisters, cousins, and aunts. They make veritable gods of their favorite players at home. The result is, that the father has a strong curiosity to see these players. He may go alone, or he may take his wife or family, or even the small boy with him. If he is lucky, he will take the small boy with him.

Why?

Because the small boy will learn him how to score a game, and assist him in numerous other ways. He will tell him who the star players are. He will tell him who the best batter is, who can pitch best in the team, who can scoop in the high flies best, who can cover the bases in the quickest time, and one hundred and one other things which the parent never heard of, and which he would never hear of were it not for the bright, wide-awake, little fellow at his side. The parent begins to think more of his boy. He feels proud of the knowledge he possesses. He sighs to himself, observes, perhaps, that this is a progressive age, and thinks that at his age he never thought of base ball. He forgets that there wasn't a great base ball fever when he was a boy.

Then the small boy does another great service when he organizes a club. How many times have you stopped and watched him play his game on the village green, or the village common? How earnestly he enters into the spirit of his work. By-and-by you begin to grow enthusiastic. If there is a fence there you sit on the fence, and the chances are you will remain there until the game closes. Perhaps the boys are playing for a prize. May be it's for a cheap, twenty-five-cent bat. In a little while one side begins to go ahead of the other. Then, perhaps, you will see a follower of the club which is being defeated, attempt to make his escape from the field with the bat stuck down in the leg of his trousers. May be he is allowed to escape with his ill-gotten prize. Perhaps he is seen by one of the followers of the others side. If he is, you are going to see a good-sized scrimmage, and don't you forget it. You begin to grow very excited. First one club has the best of it, then the other. When the fight is all over, you leave your lofty perch, and go down to where the boys are, to separate them. But you make pretty sure that the fight is all over before you interfere. You might give them a short lecture, and in the midst of it some bright little fellow will say:

"What are yer given us? Say, we're playing for der championship, we are! What's that?"

You disappear, and feel that you're the smallest possible part of this great, big world. Well, the inevitable result is, that you begin to grow interested in base ball. The chances are, that you will go to the next professional game. You may go once, twice, thrice, and after that you are a regular attendant. You cannot help it.

Now a word to parents. If your boys become interested in outdoor sports, do not crush them. Do not tell them that they must stop. If they love boxing, do not burn up their boxing gloves. If they love foot-ball playing, do not put them to bed without supper, because they have a few bruises on their person. Try and remember that they are as proud of those bruises as you are of a new dress or a new suit of clothes. If they go boating, and fall into the water, do not spank them for wetting their old clothes. Try and think that it washed the clothes, and gave the boys a bath. Thank God that they were manly enough and strong enough to know how to swim. If they want to play base ball, encourage them in every possible manner. If you can afford it, buy them balls, and bats, and gloves, and masks, even uniforms, if you can. Put a base ball uniform on a boy, and you can starve him for a week afterwards. But while you are starving him, allow him to keep the clothes in the room with him. The moment he puts that uniform on, he's the proudest bit of humanity in all this world. Go and see him play ball, if you can, and tell him what a great player he's going to be. Encourage him in the sport. The profession of a ball player is just as honorable as law or the ministry, or anything else, if the player is honest.

Show me a boy that doesn't participate in base ball, or some other field sport, and I will show you a weak, sickly, hot-house plant, who will feel sorry, as he grows older, that he was ever born.

God bless the boys of America. I love them all. Why? Simply because I was a boy myself once. I'm a little older now, perhaps, and I might be looked upon as an old boy, but I'll remain a boy as long as I live. My boyhood days were a hard struggle for existence, but they were, nevertheless, the happiest and best days of my life.

Now, to my boy friends, and I hope I have many, I will give a few simple rules about the game: First, if you wish to become a good ball player, you must study hard, and go to school regularly. You must learn your lessons well, and obey your teachers. When school is over, go out and begin a ball game. Do not play with a soft ball. It is just as well to have a good hard one. It won't hurt you any more than the soft ball. When you see it coming to you hard, do not go out of the way, but rather go towards it. The harder it comes into you hands the least will be the damage. If you make an error, do not feel badly about it. Just make up your mind that you are going to do better the next time. Practice running, and especially how to make a good, quick start. Never close your eyes when you see a ball coming. Just keep them open, and say to yourself, "Well, here's a friend of mine coming; I'll stop him before he can do any harm." When you go to bat, make up your mind that you are going there to hit the ball. Wait until you get a good ball, one that suits you pretty well, and then hit it. Do not swing the bat around, as though you are going to break the ball. If you do that, you will never hit it. Just judge the ball as accurately as you can, and swing the bat gently. If the ball is coming quick, it won't require a great amount of strength to send it far out into the field. Then run for you life, and don't be afraid to slide, if a slide is necessary. The bones in your body are more limber than they will be half a dozen years hence. You can stand knocks as a boy, without the slightest harm to yourself, that would almost kill you as a man. Never run into another player, with the intention of hurting him. Never get angry, and never fight. Be manly, and only resort to fighting when you must do it to protect yourself. It isn't manly to fight. Boys, I'm a pretty old boy, and I only fought once in my life. That one was absolutely forced on me. Make up your mind that it's much better to run than fight. But if you run hard, and the other fellow is a better runner than you are, stop. Stop suddenly. Don't lose any wind. Just turn around and give him a good, sound thrashing. When it's all over, say that you are willing to shake hands with him. Then go home and tell your mother and father all about it.

Boys, just one more word. If you want to be successful in life, remember this:

Never do anything that you wouldn't have your mother know.

Chapter XVI

The idea of a second trip to San Francisco was suggested to me at near the close of the season of 1887. I was at Boston when New York parties wrote me, asking if I cared to go to California professionally, during the winter season. The work in Boston had tired me out pretty well, and I wasn't particularly anxious to go. I remembered the pleasure of a winter at Hyde Park, and felt that I would much rather be there. But I decided, just at the close of the season, that I couldn't very well refuse the offer, in view of the fact that it was very, very tempting. Contrary to the general understanding, I am not a millionaire. There are a great many people who think I am, but such is not the case. I shall never retire from the diamond for the purpose of living on the fortune which I have saved. If I did, I am afraid that I wouldn't have very long to live.

There are two classes of people whose wealth is always exaggerated by the great public. They are ball players and actors. I have been a ball player for several years; my debut as an actor, which was of recent occurrence, enables me to write knowingly on both subjects. There are a few rich ball players, and a few rich actors. But they are few and far between. They find so many different ways of spending money, that it is very hard for them to save very much. The difference between them is this: The actors are the popular favorites in the winter season, but in the summer time the popular fancy changes, and the actors take back seats. Both live in a constant whirl of excitement. Here today and somewhere else tomorrow. Striving to win the applause of the people. The cheers and huzzas from auditorium and grand stand are as bread and butter to a man dying of hunger. Actors, like ball players, may tell you that they do not care for applause. Accept this statement with the customary grain of salt. They want applause, and if they do not receive it they are failures.

Ball players are a big-hearted, good-natured set, and, as a rule, are friendly toward each other. If Tom is in rough luck, and needs money to bridge him over his troubles, Jack and Bill will come forward and give him half, perhaps more than half, of all the money they possess. It's a noble trait, and I am proud to be able to speak of it. They are public property, so to speak, and, like all public men, they have to spend almost as much money as they earn.

Perhaps you will shrug your shoulder, and say that they are spendthrifts. Not at all. Send a poor man to Congress, and let him have but his $5,000 a year salary. He is going there with the intention of living economically. Well, he thinks all the time that he is economizing. At the end of the year go to him and say, "How much money have you saved from your magnificent salary?" He will look over his accounts; he will tell you he didn't owe a dollar when he came to Washington. The chances are that he is from $500 to $1,000 in debt at the end of his first term. He wasn't extravagant, he feels sure of that. He has had but two suits of clothes during the year. Where did it go to?

A public man has one hundred and one different ways of getting rid of money. In the first place, there are the friends of his youth. They see him pretty often, and they are always needy. He cannot refuse. There is the private subscription paper. He doesn't like to be called mean, therefore he cannot refuse. He must purchase tickets for balls, give so much money to the agents for different charitable institutions, and last, but not least, he must look after his own family. These things, and a good many others of a similar nature, which I might refer to, keeps the ball player, as well as the politician and actor, from ever being rich.

So, when the last offer came for me to go to 'Frisco, it was so good that it was impossible for me to refuse. The club met at Jersey City. It consisted of Johnny Ward, Buck Ewing, Roger Conner, Danny Richardson, Tiernan, Brown, Jerry Denny, and myself. Mr. Ward was accompanied by his wife, well known to the American public as Helen Dauvray, and I by my wife. Mrs. Ward is a lady of lovely presence, and is a general favorite with many of the very best people in this country. She is talented and bright. Mr. and Mrs. Ward deserve every happiness. If they get all they deserve, they will, indeed, be the happiest couple in this wide world.

We left Jersey City on the night of Oct. 25. The following night we arrived in Cincinnati, where we attended the brotherhood meeting, which took place there the next day. Mr. Ward is an enthusiastic supporter of this organization. It was mainly through his advise and encouragement that the brotherhood became organized, and to him is due the credit of its being a strong factor in the national game. The base ball players were never so well treated as they are at the present time. The brotherhood has a great deal to do with this.

When the brotherhood meeting concluded, we journeyed on to New Orleans. Here we played several games of ball. We were very successful, and made considerable money. I always had a strong regard for New Orleans and its people. Some very pleasant hours were spent there, and some of the best friends I have live in that city.

We had a lovely (?) ride to New Orleans. Those of you who have traveled over the Queen & Crescent Railroad know what this means. Those of you who have not should be congratulated. We only passed through twenty-five tunnels, on a one hundred and ten mile journey. Just imagine us rolling in to the station six hours late. The train only met and killed fourteen cows on the journey. That journey I shall never forget. The cow-catcher did its duty nobly for a while, but finally the cows got the better of it. It was obliged to succumb. Finally the train did begin to put on speed, and before reaching New Orleans we were running at the rate of fifty miles per hour. It was enough to make a fellow's hair stand on end. How glad we all were when we landed in New Orleans. The first man that I met was Dan Owens. The ball players all know Dan. They all like him, too. He's such a splendid fellow that they couldn't dislike him, even if they wanted to. Another gentleman who was very kind to me, was George Prevazano. He is a base ball enthusiast, and all the ball players know him.

After being in New Orleans for several days, several of us accepted an invitation to go down to Mississippi to an old plantation, and shoot quail. Buck Ewing told me confidentially that he was a crack shot. I firmly believed him, because he never told me an untruth during all the time that we have been friends. I cannot rely quite so strongly on what Buck tells me hereafter. I confessed to him that I couldn't shoot very well, and I felt confident that all would be well, for he promised to show me how. We had guns, and plenty of ammunition.

We shot at quail and other birds, just seventy-four times. Out of that number, just three quail were brought to the ground.

Can you blame me, when I say that on that day I doubted Buck Ewing's veracity? Hereafter, he will tell others about his being a good shot, but never me. I remained on the plantation for four days. The other boys went on to Houston, Texas. They were there about three or four days before I arrived. During this time they had spent all their leisure moments in learning to ride bronco horses. They had succeeded pretty well by the time I arrived. They were all named after favorite jockeys. Imagine Roger Connor being named after little McLaughlin. Tiernan called himself Snapper Garrison, and Buck Ewing, who was English, you know, was Billy Hayward. Richardson said that he was patriotic to the backbone. He called himself after the jockey Murphy. Danny thought that Murphy was an Irishman. He didn't feel so good about the name a few days later, when the boys told him that Murphy was a colored boy. Dan didn't care so much about the color question, but it did bother him when the boys asked him if he was personally acquainted with "every jockey on this side of the water," a remark credited to Danny a few days before.

They had a fiery mustang all picked out for me when I arrived. I never rode on a mustang's back in my life, and didn't know what it meant. I had one experience, and that was about enough. I got a pair of stirrups somewhere. I put them on, because I was solemnly informed "it was the proper caper." Buck Ewing wanted to get me several guns to throw over my back. He said that if I did this, I would be the beau ideal of a cowboy. I reminded him of his remarkable shooting a few days before, and he desisted. I sat on that mustang's back quietly for a moment. Then, in gentle tones, I asked him to please go ahead. He wouldn't go, but, instead, preferred to kick his hind feet up into the air. I remonstrated with him, but it didn't do any good. The others all rode around me, and gave me advise. Roger Connor said the only way to win a horse was by kindness. I stood it just as long as I could; then I dug the stirrups into the mustang's side. He jumped, kicked, plunged, and reared, all at once. I had a pretty difficult time to hold my seat, but I finally succeeded. The stirrups became broken, and Ewing volunteered to arrange them for me. He tied them to my boots with shoestrings. I had just about all the mustang rides I cared for that day. When I was a boy, it was the dream of my life to ride a fiery mustang on the broad prairies. I have been astride the festive mustang. The dreams of youth were dispelled in a moment. I got all that I want, thank you.

Then we visited San Antonio, and saw the old, broken-down Alamo where poor Davy Crockett was killed. It's an old castle, and our guide informed us that it was occupied by monks in the olden time. The great cathedral was also the object of a long visit. It's called the "Three Missions," I believe. It's a magnificent marble structure, and the people down there are justly proud of it. Los Angeles came next, and we crossed the Rio Grande. Another youthful dream dispelled. I thought it a grand, beautiful river. In many places I could jump across it in two jumps. We saw a good many Indians. They were lazy, peaceable, and dirty. They didn't wear any scalps at their belts, therefore they were not objects of special interest.

We arrived in San Francisco on Thanksgiving day. The opening game of the season attracted an immense gathering. You can imagine the crowd, when the proceeds were $5,200, at twenty-five cents each. We won several games, and received great treatment in 'Frisco. Harry Dixey, "Adonis," was playing there at the time. He was very kind to me. So was Chris Buckley, who is one of the political leaders of 'Frisco. Mr. Buckley hasn't the use of his eyes, yet they told me that he was a great political manipulator, and controlled considerable office patronage. He is a courteous gentleman, and to know him is to love him. He has been East several times, and he has friends all through the country. We remained in 'Frisco just five weeks. I came back overland with my wife. The trip was all right until I reached Albany. What a long ride it was from Albany to Hyde Park. Yet it's only a two hours' trip. That's always the way. The last hour of the journey seems like a week, especially when you are approaching home, sweet home.

Chapter XVII

How did I make my first appearance as an actor?

I have told you of the days when as a boy, I played in a Paterson cellar with Jim McCormick, but of the latter, and more important appearances, I have yet to write.

My first real stage appearance was at a benefit given Fred Vine, at Detroit. Frank Lane, the then well-known base ball umpire, who has since become a full-fledged actor, was in the cast.

The farce in which we appeared was called, "He would be an Actor: or the Ball Player's Revenge." I appeared as "Edmund Collier Anson," Frank Lane "Just a Moment," and C. W. Young as "Dr. Daniel O'Leary Landis." I didn't have very much to say, and I assure you that I said that quick. Captain Anson and the members of the Chicago club sat in a private box. The moment I came on they began to have their fun. The farce closed with Lane banging me over the back and shoulders with a clapboard. Captain Anson got excited. He leaned over the box and said, "Give it to him Frank, give it to him hard." I got it. The curtain went down and the farce was over.

This, however, was only my first appearance. It wasn't the most important, by any means. My first star engagement was at the Park Theatre, Boston, the week beginning March 26, 1888. This engagement was made in a very peculiar manner. Charlie Reed, who played "Old Sport," in "A Rag Baby," is a personal friend of mine. He wanted me to go on the stage, and play "Dusty Bob" with him, just for fun. I told him that at some future time I would surely accept his offer. The recent big blizzard in New York, you all remember. Well, I left Hyde Park and arrived in New York on Sunday morning. I was going to start for Boston the next day, to arrange several things in connection with my book. But I didn't start. The blizzard struck New York Sunday night, and I remained at the Hoffman House for four days. Only once I left the hotel, and that occasion was to rescue my little dog "Nellie" from a snow-drift. In the Hoffman during the siege I met Charles W. Thomas, of Hoyt & Thomas, and little "Johnny" Ruddy, the "baby" manager. The latter is a charming fellow, and a dear personal friend of mine. Mr. Ruddy was very anxious for me to accept the part, and play it in Boston for one week. I felt like doing it, particularly as Mr. Reed was so anxious that I should. Finally I accepted, and promised to be on hand the next week for the rehearsals, providing, of course, the blizzard allowed me to get away from the Hoffman.

I had a very peculiar time attending the first rehearsal. Stage Manager Riddle called it for one o'clock in the afternoon, at the People's Theatre. I arrived there about fifteen minutes before one. I inquired at the box office for the stage manager, but was informed that he hadn't come to the theatre yet. So I went into the theatre, and took a seat in the orchestra. The curtain was down, and I was the only man in the theatre. I sat there for perhaps half an hour. It seemed like a year to me. I began to grow nervous, the awful silence of the place not being calculated to make a fellow feel pleasant.

Then I began to think of some of the players who had been on that stage. Why, what was that? Whisk! Up went the footlights, the little bell rang, and up went the curtain. Then the finest procession I ever saw came down from the center of the stage. Why, there was the elder Booth. I remembered him from old cuts and photographs I had seen. Can that be John McCullough? Yes, that is the noblest Roman of them all. In what graceful folds did the toga cling to his manly form. His right hand was raised; his attitude denoted that he had something to say. That big, fine-looking man does look out of place between the two. Why, bless me, if it isn't "Charlie" Thorne! Why, I thought he was dead and gone! How handsome and upright lie does look. This must be a joke; who is that, who just tripped on and caused the others to laugh heartily? He wears one eye-glass, and long, carefully combed whiskers. I've seen him somewhere; it's E. A. Sothern. Who wouldn't recognize our old friend "Dundreary."

"I'll match you," quoth a nervous, neatly-dressed little man, and I knew him at once. Poor John T Raymond. That's strange. I'm sure that I read that he had passed over that great river. That is "Monte Cristo." How neatly he handles his sword. With what grace he removes his gloves. Charles Fechter's every motion is almost a poem. He is indeed great. There is another well-dressed man. How neatly and gracefully he carries himself. Why, its Captain Molineaux. No, it isn't; it's Harry Montague. What a splendid appearance he has. Now they all gather about a kindly looking old lady. "Ned" Sothern pats her lovingly on the cheek, and calls her "mother." She arranges a little curl on her forehead, and I recognize her at once. Who wouldn't? Why, its dear Mrs. J. R. Vincent. I wonder why it is she isn't at the Museum? She doesn't play at this theatre. It's all very strange. There is a stately looking woman for you. She is dressed in black, and a pair of gold-bowed glasses are suspended from about her neck. I've seen her somewhere. Why, of course I have! It's Charlotte Cushman. Then everybody is quiet for a moment, and the lovely Juliet appears. You have all seen her. It's Adelaide Neilson. She stops near the center of the stage, and speaks in a low voice to the others. They reverently bow their heads, the thick drapery at the back of the stage parts, and a handsome gentleman in a costume of another century is revealed. William Shakespeare! Slowly he comes from his pedestal. Juliet falls to her knees, and in an impressive manner the great master places a laurel wreath upon her head.

There is a great clashing of music, the drum beats, the curtain begins to come down slowly; there is a mist; the actors disappear, and — I awake.
I'm shivering with the cold. I look at my watch. It's half past one. Guess the rehearsal is over. What a singular dream. How gloomy the theatre does look. With these thoughts chasing themselves through my brain, I leave the theatre in somewhat of a hurry. I feel gloomy for a moment, and would have thrown up all ideas of future rehearsing, were it not for the fact that I met Charlie Reed outside.

"Why, where were you, Kel?" he said. "We waited for you half an hour, and then dismissed the rehearsal."

"I guess not," I replied. "I've been in the theatre for half an hour. I've sat in the orchestra."

"That's a nice place to rehearse," said Reed, with elegant sarcasm. "The company was all waiting for you on the stage."

I went to the back door for all other rehearsals, and in future was as prompt as any member of the company.

Well, the opening night come around soon enough — too soon, for me. All my friends were in the house, and it was packed from pit to dome. I was all made up when the first act began. I stood in the wings and watched the company. Every time Charlie Reed made the big audience laugh, it sent a cold shiver down my back. Then a young newspaper friend of mine walked on, and made a presentation speech to Mr. Reed. He escaped all right, and it gave me more nerve. "My turn now," I said, and before I knew it I was pushed on the stage.

"Where is the 'Old Sport?"' I roared, and then the noise began. The audience heard my first line, and then gave me the greatest reception of my life. The applause and cheers lasted nearly a minute. It seemed a year to me. Every time I bowed in acknowledgment I closed my eyes. I was afraid to look out into the auditorium. Finally I got a chance to speak the lines, and I did the best I could. I wasn't on the stage but five minutes, yet in that time I had lost five pounds. Every second that the applause continued, my knees would almost knock together. Stage fright? It may have been. It's an awful feeling. I would rather face ten thousand angry base ball enthusiasts on the diamond field, than go before a friendly audience in a theatre.
My first real appearance they told my afterwards was a success. I'm glad. Glad that it was a success; glad that I lived through it.

By this time most of you will have read of the fact, that John Clarkson, the Chicago pitcher, is to be a member of the Boston club next season. The Boston management worked hard to secure his release. Clarkson himself wanted to play in Boston, for several reasons. His wife and family lived in that city, and he was slightly homesick in Chicago.

At the conclusion of the last season, Clarkson informed Mr. Spalding that he would not play in Chicago next season. Mr. Spalding said that he certainly would, unless a sufficient amount of money was paid for his release. When Clarkson came to Boston, he told several of his friends that he did not care to play in Chicago. These friends so informed the Boston management, and it at once went to work to get his release, in an honest, honorable manner.

Right here, I would like to say just a word about the Boston management. In various parts of the country, ball players who never met Messrs. W. H. Conant, J. B. Billings, and A. H. Soden, have an idea that they are grasping men, who are looking for nothing but the mighty dollar, day in and day out. Such is not the case. There is not a more liberal management in base ball affairs, than that which directs the Boston Base Ball Club. I know just what I'm writing when I say this. They are modest gentlemen, and are not very well known to lovers of the game outside of Boston. Mr. Soden is the president of the club. He is rather short, inclined to be fleshy, and generally is cleanly shaven. He always wears a courteous smile, and is polite and attentive at all times. Mr. Billings is the treasurer of the club. He is rather nervous at times, but is goodhearted, and performs many charitable acts in a quiet, unostentatious manner. Mr. Conant is the best known of the directors. He is stout, wears a sandy moustache and chin whiskers; is invariably seen with a cigar in his mouth, and a cheery smile on his face. He loves to hear a good story, and he loves to tell one.

These three gentlemen control the Boston club. Unless I am mistaken, there are only two or three shares which they do not control. They are buying these shares up, and while they do not own them all yet, their power is as supreme over the other stockholders at that of the Emperor of Russia is over his subjects. They work always for the interests of the Boston club. It was for the interest of the club that they began to work for Clarkson's release. They felt confident that he was a great pitcher, and they wanted him in the Boston club. The first offer they made was $5,000, but Spalding refused. The next offer was for $7,500; this was also refused. Mr. Spalding knew his business. He knew that if Boston wanted Clarkson very badly, the Boston management would pay a comfortable sum for his release. Finally the Boston management sent its ultimatum. It said that it would give just $10,000 for the release of the Chicago pitcher. On April 3, Mr. Spalding sent a dispatch to the management, that the terms were accepted.

On the eve of my book going to press, the release of Mr. Clarkson was announced. I kept back the edition a few hours, for the purpose of speaking of the second grand deal. I met Mr. Conant, and in the course of conversation, he said to me, "Well, Kel, what do you think of the new pitcher?"

I replied that I considered him one of the greatest in the league.

"These twenty thousand batteries come high, Kel," said Mr. Conant, "but we must have the best, in Boston."

I wish that I had the space in this book to speak of the base ball writer of America. But I haven't, so I will have to bunch them all together. They have been more than kind to me in the past; I trust that I shall retain their favor in the future. O. P. Caylor, I know, is anxiously awaiting its publication. He is already sharpening his pencil, prior to putting on paper what he thinks of these few reminiscences. Perhaps he will like them so well, that he will ask me to continue to write reminiscences from Australia, or anywhere else that I may be stationed. My friend Bill Nye may attack my literary style, but I have always spoken well of him. I hope that he will remember that. Now, gentlemen, I thank you, one and all, for your many kindly acts. You have assisted me to the position I have won as a base ball player. I appreciate it all.

My little story is finished. I have tried to please you all, and hope I have been successful. I do not give you any records to pour over, nor do I take occasion to injure any gentleman in my profession. If the little stories help you to kill an hour of leisure time, and make you forget any little troubles, I feel that my task has been a success. The American public have been kind to me; more than kind, in fact, and I take advantage of the opportunity to thank you all from the bottom of my heart. Your applause and patronage of my humble efforts on the diamond have made this little book possible. To the press of America, I am also grateful. Were it not for this immense power, ball playing would never be popular, would never be the national sport. We owe newspaper men a great deal. I thank them, one and all. If they deal with me as kindly in the future as they have in the past, I shall be more than satisfied. What shall I say to my best friend, my greatest admirer, the small boy of America? To him I will simply say, "God bless you, my boy. 'Play Ball.'"

[[BaseballChronology note: This is the end of Play Ball: Stories from the Ball Field by Mike Kelly. We hope you enjoyed this month's bonus book!.]]