curious. The date on the ball says July 2, 1869, but I looked it up and there was no game that day. Does that date mean anything to you?”
Fissures creased his face as he smiled. “How old are you, son?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“You remember anything about July 2, 1911?”
“Uh, no.”
“That’s only ten years ago. You expect me to recall what happened more than fifty years ago?”
Okay, it was a dumb question. But the ball was all I had, and Ambrose Whitaker was the only known connection to it. I briefly debated whether to reveal the existence of the note, but decided against it—I didn’t want anyone to know the note was now in my possession, safely stuck in a volume of Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi. I still wanted to see if I could get anything useful out of Whitaker, though. “I’m sorry. I’ve just gotten interested in that old club lately. Were you with the team long?”
“As long as the club supported a team, I was.”
I’d always thought of a ball club and a team as the same thing. “What do you mean?”
“Do you mind if we walk outside?” he asked. “I’d like to be getting over to the band shell.”
“Fine with me.”
The baby elephant trumpeted shrilly when we left, and the sound reverberated throughout the building. As we walked at a leisurely pace toward the exit of the Elephant House, I noticed Whitaker didn’t use the cane for support.
“See, the Cincinnati Base Ball Club was just that: a club,” he explained. “A gentlemen’s club. There were more than two hundred members and perhaps fifty of them ever played baseball. The club was primarily a social organization, not a business. Everyone who worked for it did so as a volunteer. As I did. I was only twenty when I was appointed assistant treasurer, and it was quite an honor. Mr. Champion—he was the president—served without pay also.”
“But it was the first professional team, so they must have been paid,” I said.
“The nine players were the only ones who received a salary,” Whitaker answered. “Using professionals was quite a scandal at the time. I’m sorry, there were ten players. I forgot about the substitute.”
“Dick Hurley.”
“Yes. William Hurley, actually. I don’t know how he got the ‘Dick’ tag.”
I remembered Patrick Kelly’s question. “Do you know whatever happened to him?”
“Afraid I don’t. He left the club in the middle of the season. Finances were always tight, perhaps he was released to save money.”
“But the team went undefeated. Why didn’t it make money?”
“It was expensive to pay a full team. More than $10,000 in salary, not to mention travel and lodging and equipment. We took in some money from gate receipts, and raised additional funds from the club members. Even so, the total profit in 1869 was $1.39. That’s a figure I’ll never forget. Won sixty-five games without a loss, and ended up with a dollar and thirty-nine cents in the till.”
We emerged from the Herbivora Building into the bright sunshine. Whitaker removed his hat and ran a hand over his hair. There was an orange tinge to the gray, indicating his hair had once had the same color as his daughter’s.
It sounded like we were in a jungle as we began to make our way around the lake; frenetic chattering came from the monkey house, there were eerie howls from the wolf dens, and innumerable birdcalls seemed to come from every direction. Over the noise, Whitaker went on, “The next year, 1870, things were looking better. The team was still undefeated, and crowds were getting larger, even on the road. Thought we might make a go of it. Red Stockings won the first twenty-seven games of the season—but then they went to Brooklyn to play the Atlantics. June 14, 1870.” He winked. “That’s a date I do remember. The first loss.”
“The game was tied 5–5 after nine innings,” I broke in. “The Atlantics wanted to leave the game a tie, but Harry Wright insisted on continuing. Neither team
Fissures creased his face as he smiled. “How old are you, son?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“You remember anything about July 2, 1911?”
“Uh, no.”
“That’s only ten years ago. You expect me to recall what happened more than fifty years ago?”
Okay, it was a dumb question. But the ball was all I had, and Ambrose Whitaker was the only known connection to it. I briefly debated whether to reveal the existence of the note, but decided against it—I didn’t want anyone to know the note was now in my possession, safely stuck in a volume of Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi. I still wanted to see if I could get anything useful out of Whitaker, though. “I’m sorry. I’ve just gotten interested in that old club lately. Were you with the team long?”
“As long as the club supported a team, I was.”
I’d always thought of a ball club and a team as the same thing. “What do you mean?”
“Do you mind if we walk outside?” he asked. “I’d like to be getting over to the band shell.”
“Fine with me.”
The baby elephant trumpeted shrilly when we left, and the sound reverberated throughout the building. As we walked at a leisurely pace toward the exit of the Elephant House, I noticed Whitaker didn’t use the cane for support.
“See, the Cincinnati Base Ball Club was just that: a club,” he explained. “A gentlemen’s club. There were more than two hundred members and perhaps fifty of them ever played baseball. The club was primarily a social organization, not a business. Everyone who worked for it did so as a volunteer. As I did. I was only twenty when I was appointed assistant treasurer, and it was quite an honor. Mr. Champion—he was the president—served without pay also.”
“But it was the first professional team, so they must have been paid,” I said.
“The nine players were the only ones who received a salary,” Whitaker answered. “Using professionals was quite a scandal at the time. I’m sorry, there were ten players. I forgot about the substitute.”
“Dick Hurley.”
“Yes. William Hurley, actually. I don’t know how he got the ‘Dick’ tag.”
I remembered Patrick Kelly’s question. “Do you know whatever happened to him?”
“Afraid I don’t. He left the club in the middle of the season. Finances were always tight, perhaps he was released to save money.”
“But the team went undefeated. Why didn’t it make money?”
“It was expensive to pay a full team. More than $10,000 in salary, not to mention travel and lodging and equipment. We took in some money from gate receipts, and raised additional funds from the club members. Even so, the total profit in 1869 was $1.39. That’s a figure I’ll never forget. Won sixty-five games without a loss, and ended up with a dollar and thirty-nine cents in the till.”
We emerged from the Herbivora Building into the bright sunshine. Whitaker removed his hat and ran a hand over his hair. There was an orange tinge to the gray, indicating his hair had once had the same color as his daughter’s.
It sounded like we were in a jungle as we began to make our way around the lake; frenetic chattering came from the monkey house, there were eerie howls from the wolf dens, and innumerable birdcalls seemed to come from every direction. Over the noise, Whitaker went on, “The next year, 1870, things were looking better. The team was still undefeated, and crowds were getting larger, even on the road. Thought we might make a go of it. Red Stockings won the first twenty-seven games of the season—but then they went to Brooklyn to play the Atlantics. June 14, 1870.” He winked. “That’s a date I do remember. The first loss.”
“The game was tied 5–5 after nine innings,” I broke in. “The Atlantics wanted to leave the game a tie, but Harry Wright insisted on continuing. Neither team
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