Eight Men Out: The Black Sox and the 1919 World Series by Eliot Asinof, Stephen Jay Gould

1917, he had won 28 games, but Comiskey had only offered him $4,500. "There's a war on!" Comiskey had snapped. "Baseball, like everything file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html2/17/2004 11:47:46 AM
    else, will have to pull in its belt!" Comiskey had them marching close-order drill before gametime with a baseball bat at right shoulder arms, a daily reminder of the national emergency that justified his penuriousness. Then in 1919, when the war was over, Cicotte had asked for more money. Comiskey, worried about Cicotte's sore arm and the bad year behind him, would give him no more than $5,500. His cagey right arm had snapped out 29 wins and helped capture the American League pennant. His best year in baseball. Only $5,500 for the finest pitching record of the year. Cicotte was fully aware that Cincinnati pitcher, Dutch Reuther, at twenty-six, after two years in the majors, was getting almost double that figure!
    As a kid, twenty years earlier, Cicotte had been pitching semipro ball in Northern Michigan mining towns. He weighed no more than 135 pounds, but he had to throw nine innings, sometimes three times a week, snapping off curve balls, bearing down savagely on every pitch. His arm would tire and hurt, but he would never quit. A kid who wanted to go up couldn't hurt, couldn't quit. A kid had to stay for nine and maybe throw something extra in the last couple of innings to hold on to a lead.
    Now he was at the top. Major-leaguer, pennant winner, World Series choice number-one pitcher. He still had a fast ball that could move. He had his good stuff today, but he wasn't going to use it. It was a painful thing to cope with.
    Later, he would ask himself, over and over: Why had he gotten into this mess? The answer was a jumbled-up set of facts and emotions. The $10,000 in $1,000 bills first placed under his pillow, then sewed into the lining of his coat. He had a sore left thumb to prove it; the needle had jabbed him unmercifully.
    Someplace off to the side, an unseen band was blaring a sticky version of "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles." It echoed throughout the park.
    In a box behind the Cincinnati dugout, Governor Cox of Ohio and his party were early arrivals. He sat graciously for photographers and quoted Pat Moran to a reporter: " 'Governor,' Moran said to me, "we are absolutely certain to win the series. There's not a possible, chance that we won't. If Cicotte pitches the first game, our boys will knock him out of the box!' " He smiled for another picture, then added,
    "That's what I came to see!"
    In New York City, Arnold Rothstein walked through the lobby of the Ansonia Hotel. In the Green Room, set up for a telegraphed system to relay the World Series, play by play, several hundred chairs were already occupied; it was smoke-filled, noisy. Rothstein entered, glancing at his watch. One minute to three. He walked to the rear, a few feet from the door, and stood against the wall, waiting. The reports would be read aloud, pitch by pitch, in a manner attempting to recapture the spirit of the game. A diamond-shaped chart on the wall would move the players from base to base a few seconds later. Those who had seen this fascinating new procedure at work would testify to its excitement. It was almost like being there, they said.
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    Rothstein didn't intend to stay for more than the first inning. He wanted to hear how Cicotte pitched to Maurice Rath, lead-off man for the Reds. Rothstein had given instructions that Cicotte was to hit him with the pitch. A token of his compliance with the deal.
    Outside the Cincinnati ball park, a number of apartment buildings overlooked the outfield stands. Two or three sets of binoculars peered out from every window. The nearby roofs were dangerously crowded.
    Overhanging the barrier in left field, three boys were clinging to