CHAPTER IX

The catcher—His importance in the game—Directing the play—Famous batteries of other days—How the catcher can make or break a pitcher—Handling high fouls the catcher’s toughest job—John Grabowski’s great play that resulted in a change of rules—Holding men on bases—The snap throw to first—Signs and what they are—Ray Schalk the master.

The most important player in the ball game, so far as keeping the team working together and directing defensive play is concerned, is the fellow with the mask and the protector back of the plate.

You don’t hear a lot about the catcher. Mostly the cheers are for the other fellows. By the very nature of his job he can’t be sensational. Just a hard-working, plugging ball player. But without a good catcher it is mighty tough going, believe me.

Two things in particular make the catcher a man to look out for. In the first place he’s the one who directs the pitching, giving signals to the pitcher as what to pitch and when, and where. Of course with an old, experienced pitcher this isn’t so important. For the old-timer, having had a chance to study the hitters, knows as much about them as the catcher himself. And frequently the pitcher will “shake off” the catcher’s signal. That is, he will change the catcher’s signal for one of his own.

But with kid pitchers the catcher is the works. He can make them or break them. Catchers like Johnny Kling of the old Cubs, Roger Bresnahan of the Giants, Muddy Ruel of the Senators and Ray Schalk of the White Sox deserve as much credit as the pitcher himself for a well pitched game. Fellows like that do more than simply catch the balls that are thrown by the pitcher. They pitch right along with him, steadying him when he needs steadying, boosting him up when encouragement is needed, and making his way easy as possible always. That’s real catching when a man does that.

Of course there are some ball clubs where the work of the catcher is entirely mechanical. The Giants are an example of that. John McGraw has long held that he would do the thinking for his ball club. He gives the signs and calls for the pitch. His catchers do what they’re told, and call for the pitch as McGraw himself signals. Sometimes it works out well and sometimes not so well. But Mac is perfectly frank about it.

“You do as I tell you, and I’ll take the blame for whatever happens,” he says. And he does it, too!

In the world series between the Yankees and the Giants Snyder, Gowdy and Smith, who did the Giant catching, used to turn toward the bench for their signal on every pitch. We used to kid them about it a lot—but Mac never let up. Though it did seem to me he gave Gowdy a little more leeway than he did the other two. Now and then Hank would be permitted to do his own thinking. But then Gowdy was an old, experienced man who knew the McGraw system from top to bottom.

Ordinarily though, the catcher is given free rein and is responsible for the signs and the pitches. On our club for instance, Hug now and then in a tight place will give the catcher instructions—but for the most part he lets them play their own game.

The second important job of the catcher outside his mechanical work is to boss the defensive play. A lot of people have never realized it, but if you take a good look at the diamond you’ll realize a peculiar thing. That is this. The catcher is the only man on the club so placed that every single play occurs before his eyes. The pitcher has five men working behind his back. The second baseman can’t see the outfield. The first baseman can’t see right and center field and he has only a partial view of left field and third base. But the catcher, by reason of his position facing the play, sees them all—and is in a position to direct the play of the others.

♦ “mechancal” replaced with “mechanical”

On an infield fly it is the catcher who calls the man to take the ball; on an attempted steal it is the catcher who is in position to warn the others. He has to have his eyes open all the time, and a team that has poor catching is handicapped from the start.

So far as a pitcher is concerned, good catching means everything to him and poor catching means his ruination. That’s true even of veteran pitchers. No matter how much natural stuff a pitcher may have he can’t pitch well unless he has absolute confidence in his catcher. And certain pitchers and catchers work together so long that the pitcher is lost pitching to any other man. Mathewson and Myers were such a team. Matty always pitched to Myers and despite the fact that Bresnahan was a great catcher, he and Matty never were able to team up successfully. Roger on the other hand could handle Bugs Raymond like a whiz, while Myers was lost with Bugs’ pitching.

Baseball history is full of famous batteries. Brown and Kling of the old Cubs were a great pair. So were Walsh and Sullivan of the famous old Hitless Wonder White Sox. Lou Criger and Cy Young worked together perfectly for a good many years, and Johnson and Street rode to fame together with Walter’s fast one. After Gabby left the big leagues Eddie Ainsmith took up the burden and for a long time it was Johnson and Ainsmith who figured in the announcement of the batteries.

I almost called it the umpire’s announcement. It’s a funny thing how people accept a false statement as fact, simply because of long repetition. Even the newspaper boys tell in their yarns about the umpire announcing the battery. As a matter of fact the umpire doesn’t announce the batteries at all. A long time ago the umpires were the announcers, but in the last fifteen years the various clubs have employed professional announcers to do this work. Anyway, the fans still talk about the umpires announcing the batteries and I suppose they always will.

Once they get an idea they cling to it. For instance when Walter Johnson broke into the big leagues he was a fast ball pitcher and even to this day Walter’s fast one is the subject of many a baseball powwow. As matter of fact, Walter’s fast one has been slowed up for a long time and in its place he has developed a curve ball that’s a peach. But they still talk about that fast one and the curve is seldom mentioned, except by the players themselves. Believe me, we know the difference.

Frank Snyder, the old Giant and Cardinal catcher, now manager of the Houston club, was the victim of just such publicity. When Frank broke into the league he was called a “sucker” on pop fouls. Couldn’t seem to catch them to save his soul. Naturally the word went out that he was weak on fouls. Snyder overcame that weakness long, long ago. Right now there isn’t a better man on foul flies in either league than Snyder. But the idea got out, and in the minds of the fans he’s still as much a sucker as the day he broke in.

Speaking of foul flies—there’s one of the toughest things a catcher is called upon to handle. Catching a high fly directly over your head is never easy, and when you’re hampered by a mask and protector in addition, it’s twice as tough. In catching a foul fly the catcher must first locate the ball, then he has to discard his mask and start moving. And always, you must remember, he’s handicapped by the closeness of the backstop and stands, and the fact that he’s within verbal range of the fans and the rival bench as well.

Like catching flies in the outfield, catching fouls back of the plate is entirely a matter of practice. But there’s this difference. The outfielder, facing the play, can see the ball from the minute it leaves the bat. The catcher doesn’t see it at all. He hears it nick the bat and senses that it’s somewhere in the air over his head. The pitcher usually yells to him as to its direction and whether or not he can get it. So do the fellows on his own bench. But their voices very likely are drowned out by the fake advice that comes from the rival bench. It’s up to him to locate that ball quickly, and if you think that’s an easy job, just try it.

I mentioned Frank Snyder and his foul fly weakness before. Frank overcame it wonderfully—and did it by practice. He used to go out to the park after the other fellows had gone and get someone to hit high flies for a half hour at a time. Gradually he developed his sense of direction and then he started to improve. Today he’s almost perfect in that department.

The greatest bit of foul fly catching I ever saw happened in Philadelphia last season. Johnny Grabowski made the catch, and wonderful as it was, it came near costing us a ball game. We were engaged in one of those nip and tuck thrillers with the A’s. Eddie Collins was on third base and Ty Cobb on first when Al Simmons raised a foul that was headed for the A’s dugout. John ran over, throwing his mask aside as he ran. He bumped into the rail alongside the dugout, but stuck out his glove for the ball. The impact of the ball carried him right on over the rail and he tumbled head over heels down the incline to the concrete runway some four feet below.

Everyone thought he was killed—and all the A’s rushed down to help him, the doctor among others. When John started to get up the Doc held him down saying:

“Take it easy, old man, take it easy. You’re all right!”

Meantime while John was fighting to get to his feet Collins trotted home after the catch and Cobb tore all the way to the plate from first base. Those two runs would have whipped us, and of course we all squawked. It was a play that wasn’t covered by the rules, and after a conference with the other umpires, Tommy Connolly ruled that Collins’ score should be allowed, but that the other runner would have to go back to third base. Grabowski, he ruled, had made the catch outside the playing field and had been the victim of unintentional interference into the bargain.

But what a catch it was! Cy Perkins, the Athletic catcher, made one almost as good a season or two previously when he tumbled into a field box at the Yankee stadium. He skidded around on his ear considerably, and lost a lot of skin, but he held the ball for a third out that retired the side and eventually won the ball game.

One of the prettiest defensive plays a catcher can make is the snap throw to first base to catch a runner. I think a base runner never feels so foolish as when he is picked off first base by the catcher. And some of the boys are experts at it. The best man I ever saw at this particular play was Sam Agnew, the old catcher of the St. Louis Browns. I don’t know whether Sam invented the play or not, perhaps he did. But he certainly was an expert. He could snap that ball down there like nobody’s business, and it was a pretty clever and daring runner who got more than two yards away when Sam was behind the plate.

The advantage of such a play, of course, is that it saves the pitcher and enables him to concentrate more on his pitching and less on the base runner. Luke Sewell of the Cleveland Indians is one of the best present day catchers at snapping a throw to first base. In the course of the season Luke picks off twenty-five or thirty runners in that way, and more important than that, he holds the others so close to the bag that stealing is cut to a minimum.

In holding men on bases you know, or in running bases, the jump from first base to second is the important one. As the ball players figure it, a man on first base isn’t so dangerous. It generally takes two singles to score him from there. But once he gets on second base he’s in scoring position. That’s why pitchers and catchers make so much more effort to stop a man from stealing second than they do from stealing third. And that, too, is why a catcher who is an expert on the snap throw is a mighty valuable man. Benny Bengough of the Yankees is another catcher who has the snap throw down pretty well, though I don’t think Benny is as clever at it as Luke Sewell.

The one thing a good catcher must have is nerve! He, more than any other man on the team, must block the runner—and blocking a runner when he’s coming in full tilt with spikes threatening takes a lot of real nerve. The old idea used to be that a catcher had to be a big, strong oversized fellow in order to stand the gaff of holding up a pitcher and blocking runners. That’s bunk.

Some of the greatest catchers in the business are fairly small men. Muddy Ruel of the Washington Senators is a little fellow. Yet there are few better catchers in the league than Muddy. I think he’s the most accurate thrower I’ve seen since I’ve been in baseball, and he has the trick of blocking a runner, too. When you come sliding into Muddy at the plate you’re lucky if you can get even a corner to touch—and if the throw is accurate Muddy will nail you nine times out of ten.

Benny Bengough and Ray Schalk are little fellows, too. So is Gordon Cochrane of the Athletics. Cy Perkins isn’t very big either, and Mike Gonzales, while he’s tall and rangy, is built a good deal like a bean pole. He hasn’t much weight. Yet they’re all mighty good performers, and disprove the idea that catchers have to be big, bruising fellows to hold their jobs.

One of the things a young catcher has to look out for is getting out of position. The catcher if he’s on his toes will back up plays at first base, so long as there’s nobody in scoring position. But a lot of the boys carry the thing a little too far, and go straying down the third base line to back up plays there. When they do that they’re in trouble.

Heine Zimmerman, the old Giant and Cub third baseman, will go down into history as having pulled one of the greatest boners of all time in the 1917 world series when the Giants played the White Sox. Heine, you may remember, in the final game chased Eddie Collins across the plate with the run that won the game and the series for the White Sox. Of course it was a funny thing to see. The big, lumbering Zimmerman trying to catch Collins, who was as fast a runner as you’ll find in baseball. And Eddie made it better by laughing over his shoulder as Zim made a wild dive to put the ball on him. And Heine Zimmerman through all the years has been the goat on a play that wasn’t his fault at all.

The real goat on that play was the Giant catcher, who, instead of covering the plate, came rambling down the third base line, leaving the path to the plate alone and unprotected. Once Eddie was away, Zim had no one to throw to. The catcher was out of position and he could do nothing but take up the chase that was hopeless.

The moral of course is plain enough. When there’s a possible scoring play on, it’s up to the catcher to stick to that plate like glue. It’s his job to protect it—and the minute he starts rambling around the lot he’s making a mug of himself and his whole ball club.

I’ve seen a lot of good catchers in my day. Bill Carrigan of the old Red Sox, who was catching when I broke into the league and the man who caught the first big league game I ever pitched, was a great one. So was Eddie Ainsmith. So was Steve O’Neill, who used to be at Cleveland, and is now with the St. Louis Browns. Steve had real baseball instinct. He was what the boys call a “smart catcher,” and in his prime he was fast, too. In recent years he has put on weight and the old legs have begun to buckle a bit. He has lost a lot of his stuff. But he still can think with the best of them, and he’s a mighty good man to have back there when a young pitcher is in the box.

I think the best catcher I ever saw, though, was little Ray Schalk of the White Sox. Ray had everything. They tell a story to the effect that when Ray first joined the White Sox, Commy wouldn’t give him a chance.

“Why you’re too little,” Comiskey said. “Those big fellows out there will break you into small pieces.”

“That, Mr. Comiskey,” Ray replied, “is my worry!”

And once in the game he proved that a little fellow is as good as anybody if he knows his stuff. Schalk had everything it takes to make a great catcher. He had speed, and judgment and nerve. He has a great throwing arm, and he never gets nervous or rattled. And he can hit pretty well too—which is always a good thing.

Before the old White Sox got mixed up in that scandal they were one of the greatest ball clubs I ever saw on the field, and Ray was as good as any of them.