Browns tried to give the title to Nap Lajoie. Remember?”
“Ohhh, okay. I thought his name sounded familiar. That’s where I heard of him.”
“Yeah, it’s a damn shame. Now the kid’s just going to be remembered for being a sap.”
“I read about what happened, but it seemed awful mixed up. I still don’t think I know what all went on. It was over a car, wasn’t it?”
“Not just a car, it was a Chalmers 30 . I don’t make enough in two years to buy an automobile like that. I don’t know if it was really about the car though, or because Ty Cobb’s such a mean son of a bitch that everybody hates him.”
“I remember Cobb and Lajoie went just about all of 1910 neck and neck for the batting title—and whoever won the title would get the car as a prize. Right?”
“Yup. Then it came down to the last day of the season. Cobb was ahead by a few points, so he didn’t play—didn’t want to risk going hitless and blowing his lead. Son of a bitch is as gutless as he is mean. Anyway, the Tigers let him sit out.
“Lajoie and Cleveland were ending the year with a doubleheader against the Browns in St. Louis. I just finished another year in the minors—with Des Moines in the Three-I league. Jack O’Connor was managing the Browns and I heard he wanted to buy my contract. It was my first nibble from the majors, so I followed everything that went on with the Browns pretty close.
“When Lajoie came into St. Louis, he needed to get a hit just about every at bat to beat Cobb. And he did it. Got eight or nine hits, and he should’ve had the batting title and the car.”
“But the hits were gimmes, weren’t they?”
“Yup. The Browns third baseman was playing him back on the outfield grass. So Lajoie just kept dropping free bunts down third.”
“And the third baseman was Red—”
“Red Corriden, yeah. Wasn’t really his fault though. Turned out he was told to play back for Lajoie. He was a rookie, so he did what O’Connor told him.”
“The Browns fired O’Connor, didn’t they?”
“Yeah. Him and Harry Howell. Howell was coaching or scouting or something for St. Louis. Don’t remember how he was mixed up with it. But Ban Johnson kicked O’Connor and Howell both out of baseball. Huh! Ban banned ’em. Get it? Ban banned ’em.”
“Yeah. That’s a good one.”
“First I thought, there goes my shot at the majors with O’Connor being out. Then the Sox bought my contract, so it worked out even better.” Bucky belched vigorously and stood up saying, “I gotta get me something for my stomach. My aunt’s a great cook, but this goddam cabbage keeps repeating on me.”
He left me alone in the room to think over the pathetic aftermath of the batting race scandal. Ty Cobb was finally awarded the hitting title by the American League—but he was exposed as someone so despised by his fellow players that they would go to incredible lengths to cost him personal gain and glory. Jack O’Connor and Harry Howell were banned from baseball. And Red Corriden, who was publicly painted as a sap, would now never have a chance to live down that reputation.
Chapter Eight
I n one way, it was a relief to remember where I’d heard of Red Corriden before. The nagging feeling that I knew his name from somewhere, but couldn’t place it, was finally gone. On the other hand, it left me overly free to concentrate on the more upsetting mystery of the body I had found at Fenway Park.
At least with Red Corriden’s case, his identity was known and there had been some mentions of his death in the newspapers. But I still had heard nothing at all of the murdered man in the Red Sox’s new ballpark. Sometimes I’d start to wonder if I imagined the event in some intensely gruesome nightmare. Then that savagely shattered face would come flashing into mind, and I would again taste the acrid nausea and know that the awful experience at Fenway had really happened.
The total shroud of silence that enveloped the incident was
“Ohhh, okay. I thought his name sounded familiar. That’s where I heard of him.”
“Yeah, it’s a damn shame. Now the kid’s just going to be remembered for being a sap.”
“I read about what happened, but it seemed awful mixed up. I still don’t think I know what all went on. It was over a car, wasn’t it?”
“Not just a car, it was a Chalmers 30 . I don’t make enough in two years to buy an automobile like that. I don’t know if it was really about the car though, or because Ty Cobb’s such a mean son of a bitch that everybody hates him.”
“I remember Cobb and Lajoie went just about all of 1910 neck and neck for the batting title—and whoever won the title would get the car as a prize. Right?”
“Yup. Then it came down to the last day of the season. Cobb was ahead by a few points, so he didn’t play—didn’t want to risk going hitless and blowing his lead. Son of a bitch is as gutless as he is mean. Anyway, the Tigers let him sit out.
“Lajoie and Cleveland were ending the year with a doubleheader against the Browns in St. Louis. I just finished another year in the minors—with Des Moines in the Three-I league. Jack O’Connor was managing the Browns and I heard he wanted to buy my contract. It was my first nibble from the majors, so I followed everything that went on with the Browns pretty close.
“When Lajoie came into St. Louis, he needed to get a hit just about every at bat to beat Cobb. And he did it. Got eight or nine hits, and he should’ve had the batting title and the car.”
“But the hits were gimmes, weren’t they?”
“Yup. The Browns third baseman was playing him back on the outfield grass. So Lajoie just kept dropping free bunts down third.”
“And the third baseman was Red—”
“Red Corriden, yeah. Wasn’t really his fault though. Turned out he was told to play back for Lajoie. He was a rookie, so he did what O’Connor told him.”
“The Browns fired O’Connor, didn’t they?”
“Yeah. Him and Harry Howell. Howell was coaching or scouting or something for St. Louis. Don’t remember how he was mixed up with it. But Ban Johnson kicked O’Connor and Howell both out of baseball. Huh! Ban banned ’em. Get it? Ban banned ’em.”
“Yeah. That’s a good one.”
“First I thought, there goes my shot at the majors with O’Connor being out. Then the Sox bought my contract, so it worked out even better.” Bucky belched vigorously and stood up saying, “I gotta get me something for my stomach. My aunt’s a great cook, but this goddam cabbage keeps repeating on me.”
He left me alone in the room to think over the pathetic aftermath of the batting race scandal. Ty Cobb was finally awarded the hitting title by the American League—but he was exposed as someone so despised by his fellow players that they would go to incredible lengths to cost him personal gain and glory. Jack O’Connor and Harry Howell were banned from baseball. And Red Corriden, who was publicly painted as a sap, would now never have a chance to live down that reputation.
Chapter Eight
I n one way, it was a relief to remember where I’d heard of Red Corriden before. The nagging feeling that I knew his name from somewhere, but couldn’t place it, was finally gone. On the other hand, it left me overly free to concentrate on the more upsetting mystery of the body I had found at Fenway Park.
At least with Red Corriden’s case, his identity was known and there had been some mentions of his death in the newspapers. But I still had heard nothing at all of the murdered man in the Red Sox’s new ballpark. Sometimes I’d start to wonder if I imagined the event in some intensely gruesome nightmare. Then that savagely shattered face would come flashing into mind, and I would again taste the acrid nausea and know that the awful experience at Fenway had really happened.
The total shroud of silence that enveloped the incident was
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