ringers if we thought we could win on our own.” He began another assault on the stubborn magneto.
“Tater?” I waited until he looked directly at me. “You know anything about Crawford getting lynched?”
He straightened up and answered emphatically, “I don’t know nothin’, and I ain’t heard nothin’.”
I doubted that his answer was entirely true, but it sure sounded final, so I left Enoch’s car lot and caught a trolley back to St. Louis.
For the most part, I believed Greene, although he probably had some knowledge or suspicions that he chose not to share with me. And I could see the argument against any of the players being involved. I’d had a vague notion that maybe one who’d been especially embarrassed during the game would have wanted revenge. But even so, it would have required several people; no one could have beaten and hanged Slip Crawford by himself.
By the time the trolley crossed Eads Bridge, I was inclined to believe that Crawford’s killers were most likely the men who’d been at the game in hoods and robes, not baseball uniforms. Besides, if the motive for killing Crawford was that he’d humiliated an opposing player, that would make me a prime suspect.
The Browns gave me no chance to embarrass myself in Saturday’s game against the White Sox. I was again limited to watching from the dugout bench—which turned out to be an ideal spot from which to see our left fielder Ken Williams make history.
Williams was one of baseball’s best-kept secrets, despite the fact that last season he’d slugged twenty-four home runs, the second highest total in American League history. Unfortunately for Williams, the person with the most was Babe Ruth, and the Babe so dominated the National Pastime that few fans noticed the players in his shadow.
Unlike the flamboyant Ruth, Ken Williams did little to attract attention to himself. The simple, thirty-two-year-old country boy lived a modest life. His only known activity outside of playing baseball was talking about the game, and he did so at interminable length. Sportswriters actually avoided Williams because he tended to give discourses instead of catchy quotes.
Today, however, his bat spoke so loudly he couldn’t be ignored. In the first inning, Williams belted a home run all the way onto Grand Boulevard. He later added two more mammoth round-trippers to become the first American League ballplayer to hit three home runs in a game. Not even Ruth, who had set a new season record of fifty-nine last year, had ever achieved such a feat.
Ken Williams’s power display was almost enough to convert me to a fan of the long ball. I’d always been a proponent of the “inside” game exemplified by John McGraw and Ty Cobb, where you relied on your wits instead of sheer strength and used the bunt and the stolen base to play for one run at a time. Watching the drives of Ken Williams, though, I had to admit that there’s something awfully pretty about a baseball arcing its way over the fence.
After the game, while reporters were still huddled around Williams in the locker room, scribbling furiously to record his long-winded comments, I left to meet Karl Landfors at the gate.
As the two of us walked to catch a trolley for home, Karl couldn’t stop raving about Williams’s home-run exhibition. Since I’d been trying for years to turn Karl into a baseball fan, it was gratifying to hear his enthusiasm.
Not until we’d transferred at Delmar Boulevard, was I finally able to give him a full report on my meeting with Tater Greene. I concluded it by saying, “I don’t think Greene knows anything. And if the team was behind Crawford’s lynching, he would have heard about it.”
“What about talking to some of the other players?” he asked. “If any of them are Klansmen, maybe they know who was involved even if they weren’t themselves.”
“If they do, they sure aren’t going to say so. Besides, why are you so sure it’s the Klan?” I still
“Tater?” I waited until he looked directly at me. “You know anything about Crawford getting lynched?”
He straightened up and answered emphatically, “I don’t know nothin’, and I ain’t heard nothin’.”
I doubted that his answer was entirely true, but it sure sounded final, so I left Enoch’s car lot and caught a trolley back to St. Louis.
For the most part, I believed Greene, although he probably had some knowledge or suspicions that he chose not to share with me. And I could see the argument against any of the players being involved. I’d had a vague notion that maybe one who’d been especially embarrassed during the game would have wanted revenge. But even so, it would have required several people; no one could have beaten and hanged Slip Crawford by himself.
By the time the trolley crossed Eads Bridge, I was inclined to believe that Crawford’s killers were most likely the men who’d been at the game in hoods and robes, not baseball uniforms. Besides, if the motive for killing Crawford was that he’d humiliated an opposing player, that would make me a prime suspect.
The Browns gave me no chance to embarrass myself in Saturday’s game against the White Sox. I was again limited to watching from the dugout bench—which turned out to be an ideal spot from which to see our left fielder Ken Williams make history.
Williams was one of baseball’s best-kept secrets, despite the fact that last season he’d slugged twenty-four home runs, the second highest total in American League history. Unfortunately for Williams, the person with the most was Babe Ruth, and the Babe so dominated the National Pastime that few fans noticed the players in his shadow.
Unlike the flamboyant Ruth, Ken Williams did little to attract attention to himself. The simple, thirty-two-year-old country boy lived a modest life. His only known activity outside of playing baseball was talking about the game, and he did so at interminable length. Sportswriters actually avoided Williams because he tended to give discourses instead of catchy quotes.
Today, however, his bat spoke so loudly he couldn’t be ignored. In the first inning, Williams belted a home run all the way onto Grand Boulevard. He later added two more mammoth round-trippers to become the first American League ballplayer to hit three home runs in a game. Not even Ruth, who had set a new season record of fifty-nine last year, had ever achieved such a feat.
Ken Williams’s power display was almost enough to convert me to a fan of the long ball. I’d always been a proponent of the “inside” game exemplified by John McGraw and Ty Cobb, where you relied on your wits instead of sheer strength and used the bunt and the stolen base to play for one run at a time. Watching the drives of Ken Williams, though, I had to admit that there’s something awfully pretty about a baseball arcing its way over the fence.
After the game, while reporters were still huddled around Williams in the locker room, scribbling furiously to record his long-winded comments, I left to meet Karl Landfors at the gate.
As the two of us walked to catch a trolley for home, Karl couldn’t stop raving about Williams’s home-run exhibition. Since I’d been trying for years to turn Karl into a baseball fan, it was gratifying to hear his enthusiasm.
Not until we’d transferred at Delmar Boulevard, was I finally able to give him a full report on my meeting with Tater Greene. I concluded it by saying, “I don’t think Greene knows anything. And if the team was behind Crawford’s lynching, he would have heard about it.”
“What about talking to some of the other players?” he asked. “If any of them are Klansmen, maybe they know who was involved even if they weren’t themselves.”
“If they do, they sure aren’t going to say so. Besides, why are you so sure it’s the Klan?” I still
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