The Original Curse Part 1

THE ORIGINAL CURSE.

DID THE CUBS THROW THE 1918 WORLD SERIES TO BABE RUTH'S RED SOX AND INCITE THE BLACK SOX SCANDAL?

by SEAN DEVENEY.

FOREWORD.

Ken Rosenthal.

I have known Sean Deveney for the better part of a decade, and I've always known him to be a thorough journalist and an entertaining storyteller. Of course, I've gotten accustomed to seeing that from Deveney in 2,000- or 3,000-word magazine features. Now he's written a book, and even in this much longer format my opinion hasn't changed. He's both thorough and entertaining.

In The Original Curse The Original Curse, Deveney artfully attacks one of baseball's most widely accepted notions-that the sport's gambling problem in the early part of the 20th century was restricted to the 1919 Black Sox, who conspired to fix the World Series.

Baseball, by banning eight members of the Black Sox, including Shoeless Joe Jackson, attempted to portray gambling as an isolated problem. History has generally accepted that view. Deveney does not, challenging that preconception with the drive and curiosity of a cla.s.sic whistle-blower. The job of a great writer is to provoke thought, and here Deveney has created a veritable riot for the imagination.

Gambling in baseball was rampant in the early part of the 20th century, and the pages that follow make a convincing argument that the 1918 World Series also was fixed-maybe not the entire Series, but at least part of it. Whether Deveney's conclusion is accurate we will never know, because the game did such a thorough job of covering up its gambling problem. This notion of a cover-up should ring true for those who follow baseball now, because baseball's gambling culture in that era was not unlike the steroid culture that infiltrated the sport eight decades later. Clandestine. Widespread. A charade worthy of deep and intense investigation.

The Red Sox met the Cubs in the 1918 Series, back when they were considered merely baseball teams, not the two most famously cursed voodoo dolls of sports. History shows that the Sox won the series, four games to two. But look closer. After Game 3, the players learned their share of the Series receipts-usually around $3,700 for the winners-would be about $1,200.

That fact alone would make a fix understandable, if not quite forgivable. But, by detailing the social and economic forces triggered by World War I, The Original Curse The Original Curse goes further and sympathetically examines the social forces that explain the players' motivations. Contrast that with today's scandalized players, the steroid users. They are not viewed sympathetically but were motivated by outside forces as well. Owners and players used their own rationales in reacting slowly to the excesses of the era. Baseball needed to recover from the players' strike of 199495. The players wanted to capitalize fully on that recovery and on their growing celebrity in an entertainment-driven society. goes further and sympathetically examines the social forces that explain the players' motivations. Contrast that with today's scandalized players, the steroid users. They are not viewed sympathetically but were motivated by outside forces as well. Owners and players used their own rationales in reacting slowly to the excesses of the era. Baseball needed to recover from the players' strike of 199495. The players wanted to capitalize fully on that recovery and on their growing celebrity in an entertainment-driven society.

By the end of this book-after the players' haunting stories are detailed and fresh insight is given into an age marked by rampant inflation, domestic terrorism, and, above all, fear of Germans-the corruption of the 1918 World Series seems not only plausible but also probable. Deveney does not pretend to offer certainty. He is, after all, writing about events that took place 91 years ago. While he vividly portrays players such as the Cubs' shortstop prodigy Charley Hollocher and their future Hall of Fame pitcher Grover Cleveland Alexander, Deveney obviously did not follow the Cubs and Red Sox in 1918 the way authors track professional sports franchises today.

But, like any good journalist, he challenges conventional wisdom, especially that stemming from the self-righteous judgment of Kenesaw Mountain Landis, baseball's first-ever commissioner. Landis banned the Black Sox's eight alleged fixers, tainting them forever, though they were acquitted by a grand jury. At the time, baseball wanted the public to believe that Landis's ruling was the final say on the matter, that the sport had addressed the threat of gambling once and for all. Sound familiar? In 2007, baseball issued a report by former senator George Mitch.e.l.l detailing the excesses of the Steroid Era. The report, combined with the toughest steroid testing in professional sports, was intended to be the final word on the issue of performance-enhancing drugs (PED) in baseball. But check the headlines. Neither the report nor the testing has achieved its desired effect.

As prevalent as steroids were in the baseball culture from the mid-1990s to the early 2000s, gambling might have been just as ubiquitous in 1918; gamblers shadowed players as diligently as drug pushers did decades later. Not every player back then gambled. Not every player today uses performance-enhancing drugs. But enough engaged in illicit activity to shape the perceptions of their respective eras.

The beauty of The Original Curse The Original Curse is the empathy displayed toward players who are effectively being accused of dishonesty. Few men are born cheaters, but many find temptation difficult to resist, particularly when desperate. If you were outfielder Max Flack, say, with a young wife and a newborn son, or Phil Douglas, with money problems that went hand in hand with a drinking problem, surely you would have been tempted to accept gambling money. And surely anyone facing the prospect of a tour in World War I's trenches also would have been tempted. is the empathy displayed toward players who are effectively being accused of dishonesty. Few men are born cheaters, but many find temptation difficult to resist, particularly when desperate. If you were outfielder Max Flack, say, with a young wife and a newborn son, or Phil Douglas, with money problems that went hand in hand with a drinking problem, surely you would have been tempted to accept gambling money. And surely anyone facing the prospect of a tour in World War I's trenches also would have been tempted.

The cheaters of today-the wealthier ones anyway-are less forgivable. Alex Rodriguez said he used steroids because he felt pressure to justify a new $252 million contract. Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens, if the allegations against them are true, seemingly wanted only to achieve a higher level of immortality. Such rationales elicit little sympathy from disgusted fans. Players with more to lose, though, warrant a different view. When two pitchers, one a PED user, one not, vie to be the 5th starter or 12th man on the staff, the nonuser no doubt experiences tremendous pressure to cheat, knowing his career otherwise might be in jeopardy. The same goes for two shortstops or two outfielders of similar ability-any players in compet.i.tion, really.

Context is critical, and Deveney provides just the right perspective. The Original Curse The Original Curse is not just about baseball. It is a sweeping portrait of America at war in 1918, one that examines baseball's place in that unsettled society. The revelation of this book is not simply what might have happened but why. In the end, the proper question is not "How could a player from that era fix the World Series?" It's "How could he not?" is not just about baseball. It is a sweeping portrait of America at war in 1918, one that examines baseball's place in that unsettled society. The revelation of this book is not simply what might have happened but why. In the end, the proper question is not "How could a player from that era fix the World Series?" It's "How could he not?"

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

So that readers can truly see things from the perspective of the players, officials, and citizens of 1918, many of the chapters that follow begin with words and thoughts attributed to the various characters involved. Though the bulk of the book is strictly historical, these opening interludes are, of course, not verifiable. They are based on the facts of the actual life histories of the characters, though, and in many cases their language and att.i.tudes are borrowed directly from newspaper, magazine, and other accounts. The reader simply seeking entertainment may take the interludes on their face. The reader interested in the historical background and the research on which these interludes are based, however, is encouraged to find that information in the end notes.

Special thanks to Peter Alter of the Chicago History Museum and the staff of the research library at the Baseball Hall of Fame.

ONE.

Fixes and Curses: Aboard a Train with the White Sox.

SUMMER 1919 1919.

Picture it. A bunch of ballplayers, lounging in a Pullman car in the summer of 1919, speeding past Midwestern greenery, jackets unb.u.t.toned, sleeves rolled, games of poker and whist in high pitch. These are members of the White Sox, and they're talking, increasingly hushed, squint-eyed, smiling slyly, as if not quite sure about the nature of the conversation, not sure if this is for real. Because if this is serious, it's the beginning of something very big. A conspiracy. A conspiracy to throw-take a dive, lose intentionally-the biggest event of the season, the game's crown jewel: the World Series.

Who would have to be involved? How much money could be made? And, most important, could an entire World Series really be fixed?

These players were not dumb. Game-fixing talk on team trains was nothing new. Sometimes it was idle chatter. Sometimes not. Gambling and baseball were already intricately linked, the sport being one of the nation's most popular outlets for both casual and serious bettors. Small-timers could get in on widely circulated pools for dimes and quarters, bets could be made easily in the stands of any ballpark-where gamblers would haggle and shout like traders in a Casablanca market-and for those who preferred higher stakes, there were backroom bookies who made their livings out of pool halls and cigar stores. For the public, that's where the a.s.sociation between gambling and baseball ended. Players played. Gamblers gambled. Ne'er the twain did meet.

This was what the game's overlords wanted the public to think. In truth, ballplayers were never far from gamblers, but the perception of the game as pure and honest was well crafted and managed. In 1914, American League president Ban Johnson wrote an article called "The Greatest Game in the World" that typified this see-no-evil posture. "There is no place in baseball for the gambler; no room in the ball park for his evil presence," Johnson wrote. "The game, notwithstanding loose occasional charges, stands solely and honestly on its merits. In the heat of an exciting race for the pennant, with clockwork organizations in rivalry, imagination sometimes runs riot and a.s.sertions are made, under stress of excitement, that games are not played on the level. As a matter of fact, to fix a ball game, that is, to arrange in advance a scheme by which one team would be sure to win, would be harder than drawing water out of an empty well."1 This was tripe. Gamblers were all over baseball. They knew players intimately, and fixing a game was not difficult. While the 1919 White Sox held hushed conversations about the World Series, it may have been that members of the New York Giants were simultaneously conspiring to throw the entire season season to the Cincinnati Reds. to the Cincinnati Reds.2 Approach a player of the era with a notion of fixing a game or two, and you'd likely get a range of reactions. Some reveled in it, because the extra money was handy and over a 154-game season no one would notice if a few games were not played on the level. Other players might pucker their lips in disapproval and say, "No, thanks." Some might even tell the team's manager about their crooked teammates. Still others might answer a fix proposal with a punch to the jaw. Whichever reaction came forth, though, there would be no long-term consequences-few players squealed on teammates, and when they did, their complaints were ignored. Gambling was simply tolerated, and gamblers were just part of the bawdy off-field scenery that accompanied baseball teams, like high-stakes card games, hotel bars, and women who did not answer to "Mrs." Approach a player of the era with a notion of fixing a game or two, and you'd likely get a range of reactions. Some reveled in it, because the extra money was handy and over a 154-game season no one would notice if a few games were not played on the level. Other players might pucker their lips in disapproval and say, "No, thanks." Some might even tell the team's manager about their crooked teammates. Still others might answer a fix proposal with a punch to the jaw. Whichever reaction came forth, though, there would be no long-term consequences-few players squealed on teammates, and when they did, their complaints were ignored. Gambling was simply tolerated, and gamblers were just part of the bawdy off-field scenery that accompanied baseball teams, like high-stakes card games, hotel bars, and women who did not answer to "Mrs."

In a 1956 Sports Ill.u.s.trated Sports Ill.u.s.trated article, Chick Gandil-one of those members of the '19 White Sox-remembered the att.i.tude toward gamblers at the time: "Where a baseball player would run a mile these days to avoid a gambler, we mixed freely. Players often bet. After the games, they would sit in lobbies and bars with gamblers, gabbing away. Most of the gamblers we knew were honorable Joes who would never think of fixing a game. They were happy just to be booking and betting." article, Chick Gandil-one of those members of the '19 White Sox-remembered the att.i.tude toward gamblers at the time: "Where a baseball player would run a mile these days to avoid a gambler, we mixed freely. Players often bet. After the games, they would sit in lobbies and bars with gamblers, gabbing away. Most of the gamblers we knew were honorable Joes who would never think of fixing a game. They were happy just to be booking and betting."3 Another player of that era, catcher Eddie Ainsmith, later told an interviewer, "Everybody bet in those days, because it was a way of making up for the little we were paid." Another player of that era, catcher Eddie Ainsmith, later told an interviewer, "Everybody bet in those days, because it was a way of making up for the little we were paid."4 So it wasn't unusual for the White Sox to be talking this way, about taking a fall for a cut of the gambling loot. Not just any loot-World Series loot. The 1919 White Sox were the best team in baseball, spending most of the season in first place. As likely American League champions, their spot in the World Series was almost a.s.sured. No matter who won the National League pennant, the White Sox would be favored to win the champions.h.i.+p. Even modest bets made on the NL underdog would yield big payoffs. Which was why the White Sox's discussion of throwing that Series was so intriguing. It had the potential to be very big indeed.

Now picture this: While considering the World Series fix, one of the White Sox says, "Hey, why not? The Cubs did it last year."

Whoa.

We know what happened to the '19 White Sox. They did throw that year's World Series, to the Reds. A year later, in 1920, they got caught and forever became known as the Black Sox. Eight members of the team were indicted in a Chicago court, acquitted by a sympathetic jury, but then famously banned from baseball for life by Commissioner Kenesaw Mountain Landis despite the acquittal. Their story was retold in a popular book and movie, Eight Men Out Eight Men Out, though the facts of the Black Sox case are still debated. The trial was poorly run, doc.u.ments disappeared, and interference from baseball officials and gamblers left the truth forever obscured. What cannot be debated is that the Black Sox attempted the loosest, clumsiest, and most audacious gambling fix in American sports history. What also cannot be debated is that they were hardly the first, or the last, crooked players of their era. They're just the ones that history remembers best.

The conversation on the train, though, indicates that members of the Black Sox had heard rumors about another fix before plotting their own. At least that's how pitcher Eddie Cicotte remembered it. Cicotte was one of the chief conspirators in the Black Sox plan and the first to confess. He mentioned rumors about the Cubs matter-of-factly in a deposition, saying: "The way it started, we were going east on the train. The ballplayers were talking about somebody trying to fix the National League ball players or something like that in the World's Series of 1918. Well anyway there was some talk about them offering $10,000 or something to throw the Cubs in the Boston Series. There was talk that somebody offered this player $10,000 or anyway the bunch of players were offered $10,000. This was on the train going over. Somebody made a crack about getting money, if we got into the Series."

This should have perked up the ears of investigators. But, though the investigation originally promised to tackle widespread aspects of baseball gambling, political struggles among the game's leaders (chiefly, White Sox owner Charles Comiskey and Ban Johnson) tightened the focus on the Black Sox. Cicotte's Cubs rumor-as well as significant other rumors about the Cubs-was discarded, and only the 1919 World Series fix was bared by the legal system. Still, if Cicotte is to be believed, there's reason to wonder whether, in putting together their series-fixing scheme, the 1919 Black Sox had immediate inspiration from their Cubs friends on the North Side, who had lost a chaotic 1918 World Series in six games to the American League's Red Sox.

There's virtually no chance that the Black Sox were the first team to play a crooked World Series. In the SI SI article, Gandil discusses the World Series proposal Boston gambler Sport Sullivan made to him in 1919. "I said to Sullivan it wouldn't work," Gandil said. "He answered, 'Don't be silly. It's been pulled before and it can be again.'" article, Gandil discusses the World Series proposal Boston gambler Sport Sullivan made to him in 1919. "I said to Sullivan it wouldn't work," Gandil said. "He answered, 'Don't be silly. It's been pulled before and it can be again.'"5 But other than 1919, there's little hard evidence of fixed champions.h.i.+p games. There is, however, a long list of World Series whose honesty remains dubious: But other than 1919, there's little hard evidence of fixed champions.h.i.+p games. There is, however, a long list of World Series whose honesty remains dubious: As far back as 1903, when the Boston Americans (later the Red Sox) played the Pirates in the first World Series, catcher Lou Criger claimed he was offered $12,000 by gamblers to call bad pitches. Criger turned them down and caught the entire series. Ahead by a count of 31 (with one tie) over the Giants in the 1912 World Series, Red Sox manager Jake Stahl was ordered by owner Jimmy McAleer to start pitcher Buck O'Brien instead of ace Joe Wood, who had gone 345 and already had two wins in the series. Stahl and Red Sox players knew McAleer's motives-he wanted a seventh game, because it would take place at Fenway Park, allowing McAleer to collect more gate-receipt money. Stahl begrudgingly started O'Brien, and the Red Sox lost. In the next game, Wood and his teammates probably laid down. Wood had an impossibly bad outing, allowing seven hits and six runs in the first inning, and Boston lost, 114. In Red Sox Century Red Sox Century, Glenn Stout and Richard A. Johnson write, "It is not inconceivable that the Red Sox, already upset with management, threw the game in order to recoup their losses by laying money on the Giants in game seven at favorable odds. In the days that followed, Boston newspapers intimated precisely that."6 The Red Sox did go on to win the series. The Red Sox did go on to win the series. When Sullivan told Gandil that the World Series had been fixed before, he may have been talking about the greatest upset in series history to date, the sweep of Connie Mack's mighty, 99-win Athletics by the 1914 "Miracle" Braves. Rumors held that Sullivan had been involved in the fixing of that series. Songwriter George M. Cohan supposedly cleaned up on the Braves-and Sullivan was Cohan's betting broker.7 Mack never accused his team of throwing the series, but after the series he dumped half his regulars and half his starting pitchers. The A's sank to 44108 the next season. Mack never accused his team of throwing the series, but after the series he dumped half his regulars and half his starting pitchers. The A's sank to 44108 the next season. In the 1917 World Series, in which the White Sox beat the Giants, New York manager John McGraw suspected something was off about his second baseman, Buck Herzog. McGraw later told writer Fred Lieb that Herzog had played out of position throughout the series and that Herzog had "sold him out."8 Herzog would later be accused of fixing games with the 1919 Giants-and the 1920 Cubs. Herzog would later be accused of fixing games with the 1919 Giants-and the 1920 Cubs. Before the 1920 World Series between Brooklyn and Cleveland-while the Black Sox investigation was barreling through baseball-Illinois State's Attorney Maclay Hoyne declared that he had evidence showing that the upcoming series was fixed too. "It appeared that the gamblers had met with such success that they were brazen in their plan to ruin the national sport," Hoyne said. "What will be the result? I will not say at this time, but I will venture the a.s.sertion that there is more and a bigger scandal coming in the baseball world."9 Hoyne's evidence, though, never materialized. The Indians won, 52. Hoyne's evidence, though, never materialized. The Indians won, 52. During the 1921 World Series, Lieb heard a story about Yankees pitcher Carl Mays pitching less than his best because he had been paid off by gamblers. Lieb reported the story to Landis, who took no action against Mays. Years later, Lieb sat with Yankees owner T. L. Huston, who had been drinking. Lieb recalled the conversation: "'I wanted to tell you that some of our pitchers threw the World Series games on us in both 1921 and 1922,' he mumbled. 'You mean that Mays matter of the 1921 World Series?' I asked. He said, 'Yes, but there were others-other times, other pitchers.' By now he was almost in a stupor and stumbled off to bed."10 The Yankees lost both the '21 and '22 World Series. Mays lost three of the four games he started in the two series. The Yankees lost both the '21 and '22 World Series. Mays lost three of the four games he started in the two series.

The Black Sox have Eight Men Out Eight Men Out to commemorate their role in baseball's gambling era, but the Cubs were nearly as deep in betting a.s.sociations of the day as the South Siders. Even most Chicagoans do not know that the Black Sox scandal might never have become public knowledge if not for a smaller-scale Cubs gambling scandal. Only after word spread that some Cubs had thrown a game on August 31, 1920, did the state of Illinois convene a grand jury to investigate baseball gambling. That grand jury, brought together because of the Cubs, eventually uncovered the 1919 plot. (Thus White Sox fans who are hara.s.sed by Cubs fans over the Black Sox should be quick to point out that it was crooked Cubs who started it all.) And just before the start of the 1920 season, the Cubs released a player-Lee Magee-who admitted to club officials that he had wagered on ball games. to commemorate their role in baseball's gambling era, but the Cubs were nearly as deep in betting a.s.sociations of the day as the South Siders. Even most Chicagoans do not know that the Black Sox scandal might never have become public knowledge if not for a smaller-scale Cubs gambling scandal. Only after word spread that some Cubs had thrown a game on August 31, 1920, did the state of Illinois convene a grand jury to investigate baseball gambling. That grand jury, brought together because of the Cubs, eventually uncovered the 1919 plot. (Thus White Sox fans who are hara.s.sed by Cubs fans over the Black Sox should be quick to point out that it was crooked Cubs who started it all.) And just before the start of the 1920 season, the Cubs released a player-Lee Magee-who admitted to club officials that he had wagered on ball games.

The Cubs had gambling ties at all levels. One of the odd features of the Black Sox trial was the calling of Cubs ex-president Charley Weeghman as a witness. Under oath, Weeghman testified to his close relations.h.i.+p with Chicago gambler Mont Tennes. According to Weeghman, Tennes told him as early as August 1919 that the upcoming World Series would be fixed. Weeghman claimed he didn't give the notion much credence and thus could not remember whether he had reported it to baseball officials. Of course, why Weeghman a.s.sociated with the likes of Tennes, the biggest (and baddest) Chicago gambling figure of his day, is a mystery.

This does not mean the Cubs of the time were completely tainted or that the World Series of 1903, '12, '17, '19, '20, and '21 were all all fixed. But there's an awful lot of smoke for there to have been just one fire. No series-fixing evidence remains, which should not be surprising. It was by design. One of the primary aims of Ban Johnson and his friends who ruled "the greatest game in the world" was to push the view that baseball stood honestly on its merits, and to do that they snuffed out rumors about crooked players and kept whatever they knew about gamblers in baseball safely out of public view. fixed. But there's an awful lot of smoke for there to have been just one fire. No series-fixing evidence remains, which should not be surprising. It was by design. One of the primary aims of Ban Johnson and his friends who ruled "the greatest game in the world" was to push the view that baseball stood honestly on its merits, and to do that they snuffed out rumors about crooked players and kept whatever they knew about gamblers in baseball safely out of public view.

But Cicotte's deposition-part of a series of Black Sox doc.u.ments purchased by the Chicago History Museum and shared for direct quotation for the first time in this book-provides a voice from the grave, raising a rumor and, at the same time, some questions. What if the '19 White Sox had a very recent and close-to-home inspiration for their bungled fix? What if the World Series of 1918, baseball's most tumultuous season, was thrown? What if the Cubs and Red Sox, in their only on-field meeting of the 20th century, played in a World Series tainted by gambling interests?

Considering what would become of the two franchises after the 1918 World Series, that would be fitting. Entering '18, few teams were more successful in the brief history of modern baseball than the Red Sox in the American League and the Cubs in the National League. In the first 14 World Series, each team made four appearances-the Red Sox won four times, and the Cubs won two. Boston was an unstable franchise, having undergone six owners.h.i.+p changes in 15 years, but fan support was strong and the team was a consistent contender. The Cubs excelled in the early 1900s behind their famed infield trio of Joe Tinker, John Evers, and Frank Chance and put on some of the best pennant races in history, against archrival McGraw and his powerful New York Giants. From 1904 to 1913, either the Cubs or the Giants won every NL pennant except one, and their '08 chase was a cla.s.sic.

But the Red Sox and Cubs never met in a World Series until '18, and a funny thing happened after they did. Both teams took epic downward turns, their brief histories as dominant franchises forever replaced with a different kind of history altogether. The Red Sox and Cubs spent the rest of the 20th century, and into the 21st century, as baseball's two most star-crossed franchises. For the next 85 years the Red Sox would not win a World Series and would make just 10 play-off appearances. The Cubs would not win a World Series at all and would also make just 10 play-off appearances. The way the teams lost-blowing huge leads, making confounding mental errors, falling apart at the worst possible moment-left their devoted fan bases pained and desperate for explanation. To this day the mere mention of certain players and phenomena can induce psychosis among fans in both the Hub and the Windy City.

The black cat. Tim Flannery. Steve Bartman.

Bucky Dent. Bill Buckner. Aaron Boone.

Under those circ.u.mstances, it's natural for fans to turn to the supernatural. Surely there must have been something beyond human understanding intervening at Wrigley Field and Fenway Park. Surely, somewhere, baseball G.o.ds were angry, and for decades it was the Red Sox and Cubs who would pay. Thus the teams share both a sad-sack history and the distinction of the two most famous curses in sports. For the Red Sox, the curse was traced to the regrettable decision of team owner Harry Frazee to sell the greatest player in history, Babe Ruth, to the Yankees in 1920. That move was christened "The Curse of the Bambino," which was finally broken in 2004. For the Cubs, the curse source is William Sianis, owner of the famous Billy Goat Tavern under Michigan Avenue. As the story goes, when ushers asked Sianis to remove his pet goat from Wrigley Field (Sianis had bought a ticket for it) during the 1945 World Series, the angered barman cursed the team. The Cubs lost that series and have not played in another since.

But maybe those curses are entirely misplaced. What if the G.o.ds were not angry about Ruth or Sianis? What if the karmic problems of the Red Sox and Cubs started with their partic.i.p.ation in a fixed World Series played at the end of a wartime season that probably never should have happened in the first place? Wouldn't that be cause for a curse if ever there was one? Two dominant teams, a fixed World Series, and decades of doom. Makes as much sense as a couple of curses imposed on behalf of a sold player and a malodorous goat, right?

Curses are, of course, silly. They're irrational ways to answer this perfectly rational question: "Why doesn't my team win?" In the cases of the Cubs and Red Sox, that question was asked so many times and over such a long period that a curse came to look like just as logical an answer as any other. Reasonable fans don't take the notion of curses seriously, and there are ways to explain the years of failure that defined both the Cubs and the Red Sox. For example, the teams play in relatively small parks that should favor power hitters, and for years neither paid proper attention to pitching and defense.

There are other explanations. Even after the sale of Ruth (which was accompanied by the sale of several other Red Sox stars to the Yankees), Boston didn't have the resources or the executive know-how to keep up with the dominant Yankees. Beyond that, the franchise's resistance to accepting African-American players put it at a compet.i.tive disadvantage. The Cubs, meanwhile, have a history of indifferent owners.h.i.+p, with lucrative national television and radio networks that have bolstered the franchise's bottom line. On-the-field performance was almost irrelevant to profits, and the team had little incentive to spend big money on top free agents. These are far more credible explanations for failure than voodoo and curses.

Still, most of us take curses for what they are: fun, offbeat ways to imagine that baseball is at the center of the universe and that, somewhere, higher powers dictate the success and failure we see on the field. And we like to think that higher power has a solid sense of right and wrong, as well as a long memory-100 years, even. If we can, with a wink and a smile, agree that baseball G.o.ds are meting out curses, the throwing of baseball's annual grand finale would have to get their attention.

As for 1918, there is nothing that can definitively prove a fix, and we should be mindful that evidence of a fix in that World Series is circ.u.mstantial. It's rumors and vague suspicions. It's dead men talking, like Cicotte, with no opportunity to press them for details. It's a skeptical reading of box scores and play-by-plays. It's questionable connections and questionable characters, within the teams themselves and lurking on the periphery.

Cicotte's deposition is not the only instance in which the possibility of a crooked 1918 World Series was raised. Henry "Kid" Becker, an a.s.sociate of some of the St. Louis gamblers who were involved in the fixing of the 1919 World Series, had planned to fix the '18 series but came up short on cash and was murdered seven months later.11 In his 1965 book, In his 1965 book, The Hustler's Handbook The Hustler's Handbook, baseball executive Bill Veeck transcribed parts of the lost writings of Harry Grabiner, longtime secretary to White Sox owner Charles Comiskey. Grabiner and Comiskey were wise to the Black Sox and hired a private investigator to look into the '19 series. Grabiner's diary chronicled the investigator's findings all over baseball. (It's important to note that Comiskey and Grabiner had no intention of going on a public crusade with the information their investigator gathered-their goal was to cover up whatever gambling they found, not expose it.) Among the notes Grabiner made was the name of Gene Packard, a pitcher for the Cubs in '16 and part of '17. Next to Packard's name, Grabiner wrote: "1918 Series fixer."

Veeck's reaction: "Oh boy."12 Whether or why the Cubs and Red Sox, as franchises, have been cursed can be debated, as can the possibility of a 1918 fix. But there's something strange about those teams that goes beyond franchise futility. There's a bizarre level of personal personal futility too. Scan the rosters of those who played and worked for the Cubs and Red Sox (especially the Cubs, the supposed fixers) and look at what happened to them after the 1918 World Series. You'll find an inordinate number of tragic endings, disturbing downturns, and sullied reputations-especially sullied by gambling scandals. You'll find that, not only did the 1918 World Series seem to leave what had been two very successful franchises dragging the ball-and-chain of stubborn curses, but a high number of individuals involved with those franchises suffered cursed fates too. futility too. Scan the rosters of those who played and worked for the Cubs and Red Sox (especially the Cubs, the supposed fixers) and look at what happened to them after the 1918 World Series. You'll find an inordinate number of tragic endings, disturbing downturns, and sullied reputations-especially sullied by gambling scandals. You'll find that, not only did the 1918 World Series seem to leave what had been two very successful franchises dragging the ball-and-chain of stubborn curses, but a high number of individuals involved with those franchises suffered cursed fates too.

Weeghman, the team president and one of the city's best-known businessmen, went broke 16 months after the World Series. Red Sox owner Harry Frazee would die young, at age 48, and his lasting legacy would be pariahdom in Boston decades later. The Cubs' ace pitcher left to fight in World War I and came back an alcoholic and epileptic, later tainted as "crooked" in Grabiner's diary. One star Red Sox pitcher would get caught up in a gambling scandal of his own making, and another would become the only pitcher to kill a man during a game. Two reserve Cubs who left for war in '18 died young, one during an appendicitis operation and the other after a fall from a building. One star Cubs pitcher was forced out of baseball for contract jumping, and another suffered an arm injury from which he never recovered. A fourth Cubs pitcher, an alcoholic, was banished in 1922 after writing a suspicious letter to an opposing player (who had been his teammate with the '18 Cubs). Chicago's star shortstop mysteriously quit baseball at the peak of his career and later committed suicide. One Red Sox player, three Cubs players, and a Cubs secretary wound up entangled in the Black Sox scandal.

How's that for cursed?

But the story of these two teams is about more than curses, more than baseball, more than gambling. It's about the lives of those involved in baseball that year. The 1918 season presented unique pressures, which altered att.i.tudes toward the game, toward gambling, toward salaries, and toward prospects for the future, not just as players but as men and citizens in a very turbulent United States. There was a constant threat of domestic terrorism. The drive toward prohibition was on, and there was a moral tug-of-war over vice-including gambling, which was as strong in Chicago and Boston as anywhere in the nation. Inflation was near its worst in history, making whatever money Americans had on hand increasingly worthless. And there was the Great War, the most brutal conflict in history, which was thras.h.i.+ng Europe with mechanized warfare, introducing the world to battles fought with submarines, airplanes, poisonous gas, long-range guns, tanks, and trench warfare. In 1918 the war was being joined by waves of just-drafted young American soldiers, ballplayers included.

This was a set of circ.u.mstances ripe for crookedness in baseball. Indeed, it was in 1918 that baseball's gambling problem finally pushed through to the surface, as actual allegations of game fixing, backed by evidence, were publicly brought before a league president with the press watching. It was due to happen, and with all of the '18 season played under the threat of early closure (and the probable shutting down of the game for 1919), it should be no surprise that this was the year when the baseball-gambling link began to unravel. It was in the 1918 season-not in the fixed 1919 World Series-we can say, for the first time with utter certainty, that there was game fixing in baseball.

That fixing might have spilled into the World Series. But, before judging the alleged fixers, we should get to know them, to know how the world looked at the time. It's not hard to muster empathy-those times were similar to our own. There was war abroad and fear at home, a stumbling economy and rampant corruption. There wasn't Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, but there was Doug Fairbanks and Mary Pickford. In baseball, writers of that time, as in our time, pined for the good old days, when players were not overpaid, when the game wasn't dependent on specialists and dominated by commercialism, when wealthier teams could not simply buy pennants. And in 1918, baseball was seeing problems crop up from the gambling issue it had ignored and covered up for the previous 15 years or so-the same pattern of denial that has defined baseball's approach to today's problems with performance-enhancing drugs.

We can't prove that the Cubs threw all or even part of the '18 series, but we can wonder-if they did, would reasonable, moral people have done the same in their situation? If partic.i.p.ation in that World Series left both the Red Sox and Cubs franchises with curses to carry into the following century, if the baseball G.o.ds can't find them worthy of forgiveness, at least, maybe, we mortals can.

TWO.

Luck: Charley Weeghman.

CHICAGO, SUNDAY, DECEMBER 9, 1917.

It was still dark. Lucky Charley cinched the b.u.t.tons of his waistcoat. He smoothed the bottom of the waistcoat with both hands, dropped his watch into his pocket, squeezing the fob into the opposite pocket. He slid into his overcoat, pressed his derby over his forehead, and grabbed his kit and bag. He took a deep breath and looked in the mirror. Natty, he thought, smiling. They'd called him a natty dresser as far back as his days at King's diner down in the Loop, where he was a $10-a-week waiter hustling eggs and doughnuts and mugs of Postum to the midnight crowds, mostly newsmen. But that was 20 years ago. Gray hairs had presented themselves in the interim. Charley patted his waistcoat again. Still thin. Now he was one of the best-known businessmen in the city, owner of a chain of lunchrooms, a movie theater, a billiard parlor. Lucky Charley was a millionaire, president of the Chicago Cubs.

Millionaire? Charley knew better. He was no millionaire, but the papers liked to speculate that he was, and he'd done little to discourage them. He hadn't really been a waiter at King's either-more like a night manager-but Charley had spent enough time around Chicago's newsmen to know that what they wanted was a good and splashy story, details be d.a.m.ned. So he'd let them believe he was a waiter-turned-millionaire.

Charley knew how to work newsmen, and he was planning to do it again this week. When he got to New York, he was going to give Chicago a story, a big story. A Cubs story. He'd give them the greatest pitcher and catcher in baseball today. Perhaps, too, the greatest young hitter. Yes, there was a corker of a story in New York.

Charley stopped in to kiss his daughter, Dorothy, on the forehead before he left. He did not kiss his wife, Bessie. He took the elevator to the lobby of the Edgewater,1 and when he got there he gave a wink and a thank-you to the deskmen who had, with alacrity, brought him the telegram hurrying him to New York today, Sunday, rather than tomorrow. and when he got there he gave a wink and a thank-you to the deskmen who had, with alacrity, brought him the telegram hurrying him to New York today, Sunday, rather than tomorrow.2 The boys gave Charley goofy smiles. Charley loved playing the part of baseball magnate. The lobby boys did not care a whit when the well-to-do lumberyard owners and doctors and auto parts suppliers who lived here at the Edgewater Beach Hotel received messages. But when Charley got a telegram, it was different. The boys fought to deliver it, because they just knew it had something to do with the North Side ball club, and each wanted some part, however small, in putting over the Cubs' latest transaction. They looked at Charley with admiration. Charley liked being admired. The boys gave Charley goofy smiles. Charley loved playing the part of baseball magnate. The lobby boys did not care a whit when the well-to-do lumberyard owners and doctors and auto parts suppliers who lived here at the Edgewater Beach Hotel received messages. But when Charley got a telegram, it was different. The boys fought to deliver it, because they just knew it had something to do with the North Side ball club, and each wanted some part, however small, in putting over the Cubs' latest transaction. They looked at Charley with admiration. Charley liked being admired.

This morning the telegram told him there was a change of schedule and he should get to New York early for the league meetings. Charley stepped out of the lobby, into a blast of morning cold, to the waiting car. As he slid into the backseat, Charley looked up at the Edgewater Beach Hotel, with its stucco facade and red terra-cotta roof. It looked ridiculous, a luxury resort plucked off the Riviera and placed on Sheridan Road, along the icy sh.o.r.e of Lake Michigan. But the Edgewater's mere existence, let alone the fact that he lived there, helped to a.s.sure Charley that he was as lucky as everyone thought him. These days he needed that a.s.surance.

Coincidences always seemed to fall in Charley's favor. For example, back in 1914, John T. Connery's syndicate had attempted to buy the Cubs from Charles Taft for $750,000, promising another $500,000 to upgrade the Cubs' West Side park. Taft turned down Connery. Charley wanted the Cubs too, but he couldn't afford them. Instead he bought into the Chicago Whales of the upstart Federal League, which was challenging the dominance of the American and National leagues. By 1915 the Federal League had failed but had done enough financial damage to the other leagues that Taft now wanted out. As part of baseball's peace deal with the Feds, Charley was allowed to put together a group to buy the Cubs. For $500,000 For $500,000. And Charley, naturally, moved the team to the Whales' new park at Addison and Sheffield.3 Connery, having missed out on his chance at the Cubs, tried his hand at the hotel game instead. He built the Edgewater. How about that? Charley wound up with the Cubs for one-third less than what Connery offered, and Connery wound up building Charley a place to live. Connery, having missed out on his chance at the Cubs, tried his hand at the hotel game instead. He built the Edgewater. How about that? Charley wound up with the Cubs for one-third less than what Connery offered, and Connery wound up building Charley a place to live.

Charley Weeghman, ever the sharp dresser, broke into Chicago's baseball scene as owner of the Federal League's Whales in 1914. (NATIONAL B BASEBALL H HALL OF F FAME L LIBRARY, COOPERSTOWN, N.Y.) See? Lucky him.

But lately Charley's reservoir of luck had been draining, thanks to the d.a.m.ned war in Europe. It was difficult enough to watch America mobilize against Germany, his parents' birthplace (the family name was actually Veichman but had been Americanized after the family settled in Richmond, Indiana).4 For Charley, though, the war was primarily a financial matter. Food rationing had sapped his quick-serve restaurants, which had once seen lines snake around corners in the downtown Loop district. Charley was Chicago's Lunchroom King, and, at its peak his flags.h.i.+p spot at Madison just west of Dearborn served 5,000 customers daily. For Charley, though, the war was primarily a financial matter. Food rationing had sapped his quick-serve restaurants, which had once seen lines snake around corners in the downtown Loop district. Charley was Chicago's Lunchroom King, and, at its peak his flags.h.i.+p spot at Madison just west of Dearborn served 5,000 customers daily.5 With the war on, though, the government was conserving resources, and Herbert Hoover (head of the Food Administration) was single-handedly crus.h.i.+ng the restaurant business. Hoover pushed the population to cut out certain food groups on certain days-wheatless Mondays and Wednesdays, meatless Tuesdays, porkless Thursdays and Sat.u.r.days. Flour was in short supply. Sugar and milk too. Hoover tried to get Americans to eat fish, which was fine in the East but no easy ch.o.r.e in the Midwest, especially for a hurry-up lunchroom like the Weeghman chain. Chicagoans were not eaters of fish, and most fish caught in Illinois rivers was sent to New York. Hoover also asked consumers to cut back on grains, making the bread for sandwiches-that staple of the lunchroom-harder to come by. In September 1917, to conserve the supply of grains, whiskey production was banned, which did not affect Charley's restaurants but surely affected his ability to cope with his losses. (Beer production, too, would be banned later-the path to prohibition in America was rooted as much in patriotism as in morality.) Charley's restaurants were his income. Truthfully, he was a financial lightweight in baseball. He valued his position and his stock holdings in the team, but the Cubs' real clout was in the investors he had a.s.sembled when he bought the club. These were Chicago's wealthiest businessmen, like meatpacker J. Ogden Armour, Sears-Roebuck head Julius Rosenwald, and chewing gum magnate William Wrigley Jr. The group was so flush with cash that, when the sale was first announced, one newspaper giddily estimated that the Cubs were a "$100,000,000 ball club."6 That was a stretch. Either way, Charley's bank account was not nearly on a par with those of the Cubs' other owners. He was much better at being around wealthy men than being a wealthy man himself. That was a stretch. Either way, Charley's bank account was not nearly on a par with those of the Cubs' other owners. He was much better at being around wealthy men than being a wealthy man himself.

He also wasn't very good, it seemed, at a.s.sembling baseball teams. In two years at the helm, success on the field was elusive for Charley, and 1917 had been a particular nightmare. The United States officially entered the war in April, and baseball attendance plummeted. Chicago was still baseball crazy, but for the second year in a row the Cubs struggled to a fifth-place finish with a young, no-name roster. Meanwhile, on the South Side, the White Sox rolled to the AL pennant and led the league in attendance by a wide margin-684,521 fans, well ahead of the Cubs' 360,218. This greatly displeased the Cubs' backers. At least they could afford the financial hit. Charley couldn't. With his restaurants strangled by rationing, if he wasn't making money on his Cubs holdings, he wasn't making money. To stay afloat financially, Charley took the painful step of selling shares of Cubs stock to his friend Wrigley. Publicly he was still the face of the Cubs, but privately he was ceding more and more power to Wrigley.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. When he had gained control of the team, Charley spent lavishly to publicize and aggrandize the Cubs. He employed endless parades and bra.s.s bands and dancing girls (there were always dancing girls at Weeghman events, which might help explain his impending divorce). On the spring training trip of '16, Charley chartered a special Cubs train to camp in Tampa, outfitted with electric pianos, record players, canaries, fine foods, and a singing group called the Florida Troubadors. There was even a billiard table. Baseball Magazine Baseball Magazine reported, "These gorgeous accommodations were really for ballplayers and not for millionaires." reported, "These gorgeous accommodations were really for ballplayers and not for millionaires."7 The pool table on the train, it turns out, was a good metaphor for Charley's finances-impressive looking from the outside but not reflecting the reality inside. The pool table was a beauty, a Brunswick, and as the train stopped along the way to Florida in March 1916, those who saw folks calmly shooting pool most likely whistled in amazement at the decadence. That's because it was easy to play pool on a train when the train was stopped. For most of the trip, the train was speeding and b.u.mping along. As Tribune Tribune writer James Crusinberry noted: "Playing billiards [on a moving train] was like trying to spear goldfish with a table fork. A few of the downstate boys were fooled, however, because whenever the train stopped someone grabbed a cue and started playing, while the fellows outside gazed in wonder." writer James Crusinberry noted: "Playing billiards [on a moving train] was like trying to spear goldfish with a table fork. A few of the downstate boys were fooled, however, because whenever the train stopped someone grabbed a cue and started playing, while the fellows outside gazed in wonder."8 From the outside, folks gazed in wonder at Lucky Charley Weeghman, the $10-a-week-waiter-turned-millionaire-magnate. From the inside, it was a different story.

In the winter before the 1918 season, Charley still had hope. He just needed a quick end to the war, and some felt that could happen by the spring. It wasn't hard to project how things would go from there: ma.s.s celebration at home, the end of rationing, lines of diners back at his restaurants, Americans flocking to their favorite diversions. Like baseball. Charley's task this winter was to land top players for the Cubs so that when fans came back they'd come to the North Side. Cubs owners, tired of losing while the White Sox were winning, had authorized Weeghman to spend $250,000 to acquire players. It was an absurd amount. The biggest purchase price one team had given another for a player to that point was $55,000, paid by Cleveland to the Red Sox for Tris Speaker in 1916. Theoretically, $250,000 would buy four Speakers, and there weren't four for sale. But Charley made a splash with fans and press wags by very publicly announcing his bankroll. The Sporting News The Sporting News labeled him "The Mad Spendthrift." labeled him "The Mad Spendthrift."9 Few shared Charley's optimism. Overall, baseball's 1917 attendance was 1,283,525, a staggering 19.7 percent drop from the '16 season. That, in a way, made that winter the perfect time for player shopping. Some of the game's magnates, concerned about the war and facing continued attendance problems, were eager to cut salaries by selling players, hoping to make up for the previous year's losses and gird the bottom line for the coming season.

It was this business-plucking players and building a sure pennant winner at the National League meetings-that called Charley to New York a day early on that frigid day in December. It was only four degrees outside, and Charley's early-morning hurrying was probably unnecessary. His train left at noon. At the LaSalle Street station, Charley met Walter Craighead, the Cubs' 31-year-old business manager. Craighead and Weeghman boarded the 20th Century Limited, a businessman's special that could zip to New York in less than 18 hours, and Charley had no worries about keeping himself natty over the trip. The 20th Century had a tailor, a manicurist, salt.w.a.ter baths, and a barber to ensure that businessmen aboard would not arrive in the East a stubbled mess.

Craighead was Charley's brother-in-law, married to his younger sister, Myral. Charley had been criticized that winter for dumping well-respected team secretary Charley Williams, who had been in Chicago baseball for 33 years, longer than Craighead had been alive. But, for Weeghman, family trumped all. His clan was from conservative German stock and did not necessarily approve of his showmans.h.i.+p and man-about-town bearing, but that did not seem to affect the family bond. He had given his two younger brothers jobs running his restaurants. He had moved his parents to Chicago from Indiana and taught his father baseball. Craighead had no real experience in business or baseball, but Charley still pushed out Williams for his brother-in-law.

In New York, Craighead and Charley were to meet Cubs manager Fred Mitch.e.l.l, who would be coming down from his farm in Ma.s.sachusetts, to settle on a strategy for adding players. Already the Cubs had one big deal all but complete. Back in November, Weeghman had agreed to a blockbuster deal with Phillies owner William F. Baker. The Cubs would send two low-level players and a large sum of money to Philadelphia for ace Grover Cleveland Alexander and catcher Bill Killefer. Baker had sworn Charley to secrecy. He wanted to wait before announcing the deal, because he knew the trade would not play well with fans or the press.

That's because Alexander was, by far, the best pitcher in baseball. Off the mound, he looked like a typical Nebraska farm boy, with a slow, loping gait and a cap that never quite fit his head. But on the mound, he was devastating, with a fastball that zipped in from his three-quarters delivery and pinpoint control with his breaking ball. He was still only 30 and had been incredibly durable, leading the league in innings pitched and complete games for the previous four years straight. Those four years-leading up to the trade to the Cubs-might be the greatest four-season span any pitcher has ever had. Alexander led the NL in wins (121 total) and strikeouts all four seasons and won the ERA t.i.tle three of the four years.

Killefer, Alexander's best friend and batterymate, wasn't bad either. Though not a great hitter, he was considered the best in the league at working with pitchers and calling a game. That Charley was willing to trade for him shows just how determined he was to build a winner. In 1914, Killefer had signed a contract to jump to Weeghman's Federal League Whales but jumped back to Philadelphia when Baker upped his contract offer. Charley sued Killefer (challenging baseball's treasured reserve clause) and lost, but still, the judge in the case scolded Killefer, calling him, "a person upon whose pledged word little or no reliance can be placed."10 The Cubs needed players, though, and this was no time for Charley to hold a grudge. The deal for Alexander and Killefer was set, and if all went well, Charley would add a third feather to the Cubs' cap. Mitch.e.l.l had been pus.h.i.+ng the team to buy the best young infielder in the game, Rogers Hornsby, from St. Louis. That would be trickier, because the Cardinals' new executive, Branch Rickey, already had been giving the Cubs pains on a Hornsby deal. Charley wasn't sure how to handle Rickey, who was different from most of the game's magnates because he could not be plied with good scotch or a bawdy story about some dancing girl. To Charley, Rickey must have seemed so strict a Methodist that he felt a tall gla.s.s of lemonade was a sin. But still, Charley had an endless supply of cash, and surely Rickey could not turn down cash.

Aboard the 20th Century, Charley and Craighead could daydream about the 1918 Cubs roster, complete with Alexander, Killefer, and, maybe, Hornsby on board. Mad Spendthrift, indeed.

By 5:00 P.M P.M. on Tuesday, the second day of the NL meetings, word of the Killefer-Alexander deal spread through the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, the site of the meetings. Weeghman stepped into the lobby to a pack of reporters and well-wishers. (Today's baseball scribes who chase general managers around hotel lobbies at league meetings can take comfort: it's an old tradition.) Weeghman ratcheted up the charm. He claimed he had paid Baker $80,000 for Killefer and Alexander, plus two players-Pickles Dillhoefer and Mike Prendergast. Weeghman said the total value going to the Phillies was $100,000. The Chicago Daily News Chicago Daily News took Weeghman at his word, and the headline in that evening's paper read, in large type: "CUBS PAY $100,000 FOR ALEXANDER AND KILLEFER." took Weeghman at his word, and the headline in that evening's paper read, in large type: "CUBS PAY $100,000 FOR ALEXANDER AND KILLEFER."11 That wasn't quite true. The Cubs paid closer to $55,000, and whatever creative math Weeghman used to value Dillhoefer and Prendergast remains a mystery. But bigger numbers made for a bigger splash. In an aw-shucks style befitting his rags-to-riches, former-waiter persona, Weeghman claimed that his heart nearly stopped beating when he signed the check. "This is the biggest transaction ever completed in the history of baseball," he declared. That wasn't quite true. The Cubs paid closer to $55,000, and whatever creative math Weeghman used to value Dillhoefer and Prendergast remains a mystery. But bigger numbers made for a bigger splash. In an aw-shucks style befitting his rags-to-riches, former-waiter persona, Weeghman claimed that his heart nearly stopped beating when he signed the check. "This is the biggest transaction ever completed in the history of baseball," he declared.12 Things were less joyful for Baker and the Phillies. In selling two stars, Baker had ensured 1918 would be a disaster, but he was betting that, with the war, it would be a less expensive disaster this way. Baker knew, too, that Alexander, as an unmarried man with no dependents, was a prime target to be drafted. Still, the deal was not well received. Baker hadn't even told manager Pat Moran. "It was pathetic to see Moran after the announcement," the Daily News Daily News reported. "He actually wept when asked to discuss the deal and what it meant to him. He looked as if he had lost his entire family." reported. "He actually wept when asked to discuss the deal and what it meant to him. He looked as if he had lost his entire family."13 Baker called local beat writers into his room for a quiet dinner at the Waldorf and explained his side of things. One Baker called local beat writers into his room for a quiet dinner at the Waldorf and explained his side of things. One Philadelphia Inquirer Philadelphia Inquirer reporter wrote: "President Baker ... has deliberately chased the Quaker city off the baseball map. In parting with Alexander and Killefer, he has not only obliterated any chance the Phillies had of coming back next season, but he has given to Chicago the players who will doubtless make the Cubs the only rival of the Giants." reporter wrote: "President Baker ... has deliberately chased the Quaker city off the baseball map. In parting with Alexander and Killefer, he has not only obliterated any chance the Phillies had of coming back next season, but he has given to Chicago the players who will doubtless make the Cubs the only rival of the Giants."14 There was more behind the deal, which Baker apparently kept to himself. According to excerpts from Harry Grabiner's diary, Baker thought Killefer and Alexander were involved with gamblers. Grabiner's private investigator later reported, "Baker said Killefer and Alexander [were] traded after they were crooked."15 On the day after the deal with the Cubs was announced, an article in the On the day after the deal with the Cubs was announced, an article in the Philadelphia Inquirer Philadelphia Inquirer reported, "In justifying the trade, Mr. Baker said today that if one-half the things about the Philadelphia club were known to the fans, he would not be blamed for practically breaking up his team." reported, "In justifying the trade, Mr. Baker said today that if one-half the things about the Philadelphia club were known to the fans, he would not be blamed for practically breaking up his team."16 It is not difficult to piece together what Baker meant. If fans knew Alexander and Killefer were "crooked," he would not be blamed for trading them. It's likely that Baker, a former New York police commissioner, would have had a pretty good sense of when someone was being less than honest with him. It's also important to note that, if Baker really did think Alexander and Killefer were crooked, he did not try to bring them to justice. Instead he simply traded them. That pattern-moving players suspected of gambling rather than exposing them-seems to have repeated itself endlessly in the 1910s. It is not difficult to piece together what Baker meant. If fans knew Alexander and Killefer were "crooked," he would not be blamed for trading them. It's likely that Baker, a former New York police commissioner, would have had a pretty good sense of when someone was being less than honest with him. It's also important to note that, if Baker really did think Alexander and Killefer were crooked, he did not try to bring them to justice. Instead he simply traded them. That pattern-moving players suspected of gambling rather than exposing them-seems to have repeated itself endlessly in the 1910s.

Even after the big buy from Philadelphia, Weeghman had plenty of kale (that's 1918-speak for money) remaining, and Hornsby was next. Alexander gave the Cubs the pitching staff of a contender. But the team was far too light on hitting, and though there were high hopes for young second baseman Pete Kilduff and even younger shortstop Charley Hollocher, the Cubs needed an infielder who could hit in the middle of the lineup. They wanted Hornsby, who had just finished his third season. He was a talented but very c.o.c.ky 21-year-old Texan whose att.i.tude didn't play well in St. Louis, especially not with Rickey. After 1917, Hornsby demanded a salary of $10,000, a ridiculous amount for a player of such little experience. (Alexander, by way of example, was being paid $12,000 per year and had been in the majors for seven years.) The cash-strapped Cardinals offered $5,400, and the irascible Hornsby threatened to retire rather than sign-a threat that, with no system of free agency, was commonly made by players but rarely acted on. Still, Hornsby's threat created a window for the Cubs. Hornsby would later become the greatest right-handed hitter in history, winner of seven batting champions.h.i.+ps and two triple crowns. But, as of that winter, no one knew Hornsby would be that that good. He was just a young player with big potential and a bigger ego. good. He was just a young player with big potential and a bigger ego.

Weeghman and Rickey had been dueling publicly over Hornsby. Without being quoted directly, Weeghman showed a letter to Daily News Daily News reporter Oscar Reichow in which he wrote, "What are you going to do about players? The offer for Rogers Hornsby still goes. There is $50,000 in the bank, you can take it or leave it." reporter Oscar Reichow in which he wrote, "What are you going to do about players? The offer for Rogers Hornsby still goes. There is $50,000 in the bank, you can take it or leave it."17 The letter was addressed to Rickey. Two days later, Rickey blasted Weeghman, denying that any offer had been made and a.s.serting that Hornsby could not be bought.