scored in the tenth. Red Stockings got two in the top of the eleventh and it looked like they had it won. But then Brooklyn scored three in the bottom half to win 8–7.” I was embarrassed to realize that I’d interrupted Whitaker. “Uh, were you at that game?” I asked him.
“No, we couldn’t afford travel for many of the club members.” He smiled good-naturedly. “But it sounds like you were there.”
“My grandfather told me about the game.” He’d seen it in person. From his point of view, as a Brooklyn fan, it had been a glorious triumph made extra sweet by the fact that his favorite player, Bob “Death to Flying Things” Ferguson, had scored the winning run.
“That was the beginning of the end,” Whitaker said. “The team lost a few more games, and people stopped turning out—in Cincinnati, anyway. Fans still came to see them play in other cities, but not at home.” He knocked a pop bottle aside with his cane. “The streak was a double-edged sword. The novelty of it brought people out, but it also gave the impression of invincibility. Once that notion was shattered, it was all over for the Red Stockings.”
“The club disbanded?”
“Again, club and team are two different things. At the end of the season, the club members voted to revert to amateur status and no longer finance a professional team. But other cities had started putting together professional nines, so there wasn’t much interest in an amateur team anymore.”
“You said there was an auction?”
“Yes. Terribly sad day. It was April of 1872, only three years after the streak began. The ballpark was partly dismantled—the wood had already been sold. Then everything else was auctioned off—the trophy balls, pennants ... everything.”
“And that’s where you got the ball you gave Perriman.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“So the whole club fell apart?”
“Oh, some of the social activities continued. But it was never the same. I left the club myself after the ’70 season.”
“You never played?”
“Never more than a muffin.” He explained that a muffin was a poor player who muffed plays. “No, my association with the club was helpful in getting me some business connections, and I pursued those.”
“The Mount Auburn Automated Trolley . . .” I couldn’t remember the exact name of his company.
“Mount Auburn Electric Inclined Railway. That was later. The seventies were a boom for trolleys, and folks started expanding to the hills. I worked with Bill Price on Buttermilk Mountain—”
“Where?”
“Price Hill. It was the only incline without a saloon at the top, so it was nicknamed ‘Buttermilk Mountain.’ We developed a cable system to draw trolley cars to the top of the hill. Worked well enough, but had to rely on mule power. Then in the eighties, I got the idea to form my own company and electrify the inclines. First one I did was Mount Auburn, and the first route we ran was here to the zoo.”
We’d reached the band shell where an orchestra was warming up.
“You still own it?” I asked.
“Own a number of companies, but never wanted to change the name. Should always remember where you came from. My daughter’s pushing for a more general name, though, something that sounds bigger.”
“She runs the company now?”
“Yes. She and my son. You didn’t see him at the office, did you?”
“No.”
“Not surprised.” He sat down on one of the benches, and I did the same. “I retired two years ago. Figured it’s time to give my children their chance with the business.” I noticed that he didn’t mention anything about bad health; maybe he wanted to make it sound like he’d retired entirely of his own volition. “So now I have fun,” he went on. “Look at the animals, watch the children, listen to music. You like opera?”
“No, sir.” I knew that the summer season of opera at the zoo had recently started. It was cruel enough to keep animals in cages, I thought, without making
“No, we couldn’t afford travel for many of the club members.” He smiled good-naturedly. “But it sounds like you were there.”
“My grandfather told me about the game.” He’d seen it in person. From his point of view, as a Brooklyn fan, it had been a glorious triumph made extra sweet by the fact that his favorite player, Bob “Death to Flying Things” Ferguson, had scored the winning run.
“That was the beginning of the end,” Whitaker said. “The team lost a few more games, and people stopped turning out—in Cincinnati, anyway. Fans still came to see them play in other cities, but not at home.” He knocked a pop bottle aside with his cane. “The streak was a double-edged sword. The novelty of it brought people out, but it also gave the impression of invincibility. Once that notion was shattered, it was all over for the Red Stockings.”
“The club disbanded?”
“Again, club and team are two different things. At the end of the season, the club members voted to revert to amateur status and no longer finance a professional team. But other cities had started putting together professional nines, so there wasn’t much interest in an amateur team anymore.”
“You said there was an auction?”
“Yes. Terribly sad day. It was April of 1872, only three years after the streak began. The ballpark was partly dismantled—the wood had already been sold. Then everything else was auctioned off—the trophy balls, pennants ... everything.”
“And that’s where you got the ball you gave Perriman.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“So the whole club fell apart?”
“Oh, some of the social activities continued. But it was never the same. I left the club myself after the ’70 season.”
“You never played?”
“Never more than a muffin.” He explained that a muffin was a poor player who muffed plays. “No, my association with the club was helpful in getting me some business connections, and I pursued those.”
“The Mount Auburn Automated Trolley . . .” I couldn’t remember the exact name of his company.
“Mount Auburn Electric Inclined Railway. That was later. The seventies were a boom for trolleys, and folks started expanding to the hills. I worked with Bill Price on Buttermilk Mountain—”
“Where?”
“Price Hill. It was the only incline without a saloon at the top, so it was nicknamed ‘Buttermilk Mountain.’ We developed a cable system to draw trolley cars to the top of the hill. Worked well enough, but had to rely on mule power. Then in the eighties, I got the idea to form my own company and electrify the inclines. First one I did was Mount Auburn, and the first route we ran was here to the zoo.”
We’d reached the band shell where an orchestra was warming up.
“You still own it?” I asked.
“Own a number of companies, but never wanted to change the name. Should always remember where you came from. My daughter’s pushing for a more general name, though, something that sounds bigger.”
“She runs the company now?”
“Yes. She and my son. You didn’t see him at the office, did you?”
“No.”
“Not surprised.” He sat down on one of the benches, and I did the same. “I retired two years ago. Figured it’s time to give my children their chance with the business.” I noticed that he didn’t mention anything about bad health; maybe he wanted to make it sound like he’d retired entirely of his own volition. “So now I have fun,” he went on. “Look at the animals, watch the children, listen to music. You like opera?”
“No, sir.” I knew that the summer season of opera at the zoo had recently started. It was cruel enough to keep animals in cages, I thought, without making
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