near Scranton, is also, by the by, almost directly due south of Truxtonânot even two hoursâ time now down the present U.S. Interstate 81. The town was perhaps half-again Truxtonâs size, with six or seven hundred souls, when Christopher Mathewson came into this world at the family house on August 12, 1880. He was named for a childless uncle, who paidMattyâs father a thousand dollars for the honorâthe first instance, so far as we know, of naming rights being paid in baseball.
As for the name Factoryville, it is altogether misleading and was indeed detested by its rural residents. The place, you see, was hardly some smoky factory town. Instead, it was named for a cotton mill that failed early on. In point of fact, Factoryville was a bucolic place, green and altogether country, unsoiled by industry or by the mean anthracite fields that lay only a few miles south.
Mathewsonâs father, Gilbert, had, like McGrawâs father, served in the Federal Army but, unlike the Irish immigrant, he had signed on willingly for the cause of union. Some years later he married Minerva Capwellâshe from a family of meansâand so they had a swell house in a valley as Mr. Mathewson practiced gentleman farming. A babbling brook flowed through the property. There was an apple orchard and farm animals, and little Christy learned to throw by chucking stones at blackbirds, sparrows, and squirrels. He would even attribute his fabulous control to what he learned, flinging at wildlife. As for his general athletic ability, that may have come primarily from his motherâs side. Minerva was known as âNervyâ for having had the guts, as a kid, to break a giant of a mean, stubborn horse.
Christy was the first born. Another son, Cyril, came along two years later, but he died in infancy. This seems to be the only sadness that the happy Mathewson family had to endure while Christy was growing up, but it was quickly overcome by the arrival of other healthy children, all arriving precisely at two-year intervals: Christine in â84, Henry in â86, Jane in â88, and the baby Nicholas in â90. The Mathewsons were neat and organized. Christy picked up the trombone and played it in the town band. He was, of course, an excellent student and gave no trouble whatsoever at Keystone Academy, a local Baptist prep school founded by his own grandmother.
Christyâs mother dreamed that her eldest son would find the calling and become a Baptist preacher. Here, Minerva Mathewsonexplained, is how she raised him: âI was always particular about regular hours of sleep and plenty of plain, wholesome food, good milk, fresh air. And the Golden Rule.â
Early on, though, âHusk,â as he was called, was renowned in Factoryville for his pitching. As young as fourteen, strong but a bit knock-kneed, he was pulling in a dollar a game pitching, against much older opponents, for the Factoryville nine. The first time he was chosen to pitch for the town team was âthe proudest day of my life,â especially since he won his own game with a big hit. He batted cross-handed then, which came naturally, he decided, since he hoed the garden that way. Soon, although he was nowhere near as adept as McGraw at selling his talents, he was picking up another dollar pitching for Mill City, seven miles away. He was so good that on one occasion, when his mother said he couldnât pitch because he hadnât finished hoeing the family potato patch, his teammates came over, and, rather like Tom Sawyerâs buddies whitewashing the fence, they finished working the field for him so that Matty could start against Honesdale.
Everything just seemed to flow so naturally for Christy Mathewson. When he was seventeen, walking around Scranton, the big city, staring at the sights, he dropped by a YMCA game. One of the teams was short a pitcher, and someone spotted Matty in the stands, eating peanuts. He was called down,
As for the name Factoryville, it is altogether misleading and was indeed detested by its rural residents. The place, you see, was hardly some smoky factory town. Instead, it was named for a cotton mill that failed early on. In point of fact, Factoryville was a bucolic place, green and altogether country, unsoiled by industry or by the mean anthracite fields that lay only a few miles south.
Mathewsonâs father, Gilbert, had, like McGrawâs father, served in the Federal Army but, unlike the Irish immigrant, he had signed on willingly for the cause of union. Some years later he married Minerva Capwellâshe from a family of meansâand so they had a swell house in a valley as Mr. Mathewson practiced gentleman farming. A babbling brook flowed through the property. There was an apple orchard and farm animals, and little Christy learned to throw by chucking stones at blackbirds, sparrows, and squirrels. He would even attribute his fabulous control to what he learned, flinging at wildlife. As for his general athletic ability, that may have come primarily from his motherâs side. Minerva was known as âNervyâ for having had the guts, as a kid, to break a giant of a mean, stubborn horse.
Christy was the first born. Another son, Cyril, came along two years later, but he died in infancy. This seems to be the only sadness that the happy Mathewson family had to endure while Christy was growing up, but it was quickly overcome by the arrival of other healthy children, all arriving precisely at two-year intervals: Christine in â84, Henry in â86, Jane in â88, and the baby Nicholas in â90. The Mathewsons were neat and organized. Christy picked up the trombone and played it in the town band. He was, of course, an excellent student and gave no trouble whatsoever at Keystone Academy, a local Baptist prep school founded by his own grandmother.
Christyâs mother dreamed that her eldest son would find the calling and become a Baptist preacher. Here, Minerva Mathewsonexplained, is how she raised him: âI was always particular about regular hours of sleep and plenty of plain, wholesome food, good milk, fresh air. And the Golden Rule.â
Early on, though, âHusk,â as he was called, was renowned in Factoryville for his pitching. As young as fourteen, strong but a bit knock-kneed, he was pulling in a dollar a game pitching, against much older opponents, for the Factoryville nine. The first time he was chosen to pitch for the town team was âthe proudest day of my life,â especially since he won his own game with a big hit. He batted cross-handed then, which came naturally, he decided, since he hoed the garden that way. Soon, although he was nowhere near as adept as McGraw at selling his talents, he was picking up another dollar pitching for Mill City, seven miles away. He was so good that on one occasion, when his mother said he couldnât pitch because he hadnât finished hoeing the family potato patch, his teammates came over, and, rather like Tom Sawyerâs buddies whitewashing the fence, they finished working the field for him so that Matty could start against Honesdale.
Everything just seemed to flow so naturally for Christy Mathewson. When he was seventeen, walking around Scranton, the big city, staring at the sights, he dropped by a YMCA game. One of the teams was short a pitcher, and someone spotted Matty in the stands, eating peanuts. He was called down,
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