Willie’s identification paper from my jacket pocket, stepped up to the desk, and handed Harrington the evidence of Willie’s employment with the Dearborn Fuel Company.
He gave the paper a cursory glance. “So he did.” His thin lips showed a hint of a smile.
I sat back down. “Why was it a secret?”
Harrington paused to take a sip from his water glass. “Well, I suppose there’s no reason not to tell you,” he drawled softly. “Young Kaiser preferred it that way.” The winking left eye made it seem he was sharing a confidence. He leaned back in his chair. “See, I’ve given jobs to quite a few ballplayers. That way they can contribute to the war effort and still play baseball. I let them work whatever hours will fit in with the baseball schedule.” He smiled fully. “Truth is, I love baseball—”
Please, I hoped, don’t say “this great game of ours.”
“—and I don’t want to see the War Department shut it down. If we can show that baseball players can do both, play ball and help win the war, maybe we can keep everybody happy.”
Meanwhile, I thought ungraciously, you make money from both. “If that’s the purpose,” I said, “don’t people have to know about it? Nobody knew about Willie working in the plant.”
Harrington nodded. “That was his choice entirely. I respect him for that. Respect- ed , I suppose. Most of the players are eager to publicize the fact that they’re working in the plants. Not young Kaiser. He didn’t want any credit for it. Just wanted to do his bit to help.”
And keep his mother from finding out.
Harrington added, “Some of the players are taking a beating in the press for not fighting or doing war work.”
“Joe Jackson’s taking a beating and he is working. Comiskey says he won’t let him back on the Sox if he doesn’t enlist.”
Harrington chuckled. “That’s just The Old Roman’s way of negotiating. He’ll take Jackson back but at half the money he was paying him before. You’ll see.” Harrington suddenly caught himself. The art of negotiating isn’t something for an owner to reveal to a ballplayer. He changed the subject completely. “The Giants are coming in tomorrow, aren’t they?”
I nodded.
“John McGraw...” A relaxed smile developed on Harrington’s face. “You played for him before you came to the Cubs didn’t you?”
“Yup. Three years.”
“That must have been great.”
“Sure was,” I agreed, though it often hadn’t seemed so great at the time. McGraw was not an easy manager to play for. I’d heard, and didn’t doubt, that he breakfasted on warm blood and gunpowder, then cleaned his teeth with barbed wire.
“I used to love the old Baltimore Orioles,” Harrington said wistfully. “McGraw at third base, Hughie Jennings at short, Wilbert Robinson behind the plate...”
“Joe Kelley and Wee Willie Keeler in the outfield,” I joined in.
Harrington lit up. “Did you see them play?”
“Not at their best.” I wished I had. Ned Hanlon’s Baltimore Orioles of the mid-1890s may have been the best baseball team ever.
“John McGraw, he was the best of the bunch,” Harrington said with admiration. “Smartest ballplayer there ever was.”
Smart was one word for John McGraw. Opponents and newspapers had other words for him—“hooligan” and “ruffian” were among the few the papers could print.
“The tricks he came up with,” Harrington went on. “He had one where he used to hold back a runner trying to tag from third on a fly ball. While the umpire’s looking at the outfielder to see if the ball is caught, McGraw would hook his finger under the runner’s belt. By the time the ump turns around and McGraw lets go of the belt, he’s cost the runner a couple of steps.”
Harrington was off in a baseball reverie now. “I was at the game the time he got caught pulling that trick. Big Ed Delahanty, playing for the Phillies, hit a triple with nobody out. Next batter—might have been Sam
He gave the paper a cursory glance. “So he did.” His thin lips showed a hint of a smile.
I sat back down. “Why was it a secret?”
Harrington paused to take a sip from his water glass. “Well, I suppose there’s no reason not to tell you,” he drawled softly. “Young Kaiser preferred it that way.” The winking left eye made it seem he was sharing a confidence. He leaned back in his chair. “See, I’ve given jobs to quite a few ballplayers. That way they can contribute to the war effort and still play baseball. I let them work whatever hours will fit in with the baseball schedule.” He smiled fully. “Truth is, I love baseball—”
Please, I hoped, don’t say “this great game of ours.”
“—and I don’t want to see the War Department shut it down. If we can show that baseball players can do both, play ball and help win the war, maybe we can keep everybody happy.”
Meanwhile, I thought ungraciously, you make money from both. “If that’s the purpose,” I said, “don’t people have to know about it? Nobody knew about Willie working in the plant.”
Harrington nodded. “That was his choice entirely. I respect him for that. Respect- ed , I suppose. Most of the players are eager to publicize the fact that they’re working in the plants. Not young Kaiser. He didn’t want any credit for it. Just wanted to do his bit to help.”
And keep his mother from finding out.
Harrington added, “Some of the players are taking a beating in the press for not fighting or doing war work.”
“Joe Jackson’s taking a beating and he is working. Comiskey says he won’t let him back on the Sox if he doesn’t enlist.”
Harrington chuckled. “That’s just The Old Roman’s way of negotiating. He’ll take Jackson back but at half the money he was paying him before. You’ll see.” Harrington suddenly caught himself. The art of negotiating isn’t something for an owner to reveal to a ballplayer. He changed the subject completely. “The Giants are coming in tomorrow, aren’t they?”
I nodded.
“John McGraw...” A relaxed smile developed on Harrington’s face. “You played for him before you came to the Cubs didn’t you?”
“Yup. Three years.”
“That must have been great.”
“Sure was,” I agreed, though it often hadn’t seemed so great at the time. McGraw was not an easy manager to play for. I’d heard, and didn’t doubt, that he breakfasted on warm blood and gunpowder, then cleaned his teeth with barbed wire.
“I used to love the old Baltimore Orioles,” Harrington said wistfully. “McGraw at third base, Hughie Jennings at short, Wilbert Robinson behind the plate...”
“Joe Kelley and Wee Willie Keeler in the outfield,” I joined in.
Harrington lit up. “Did you see them play?”
“Not at their best.” I wished I had. Ned Hanlon’s Baltimore Orioles of the mid-1890s may have been the best baseball team ever.
“John McGraw, he was the best of the bunch,” Harrington said with admiration. “Smartest ballplayer there ever was.”
Smart was one word for John McGraw. Opponents and newspapers had other words for him—“hooligan” and “ruffian” were among the few the papers could print.
“The tricks he came up with,” Harrington went on. “He had one where he used to hold back a runner trying to tag from third on a fly ball. While the umpire’s looking at the outfielder to see if the ball is caught, McGraw would hook his finger under the runner’s belt. By the time the ump turns around and McGraw lets go of the belt, he’s cost the runner a couple of steps.”
Harrington was off in a baseball reverie now. “I was at the game the time he got caught pulling that trick. Big Ed Delahanty, playing for the Phillies, hit a triple with nobody out. Next batter—might have been Sam
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