CHAPTER XVI

Team work counts—The hit and run, and when to use it— The squeeze play—Urban Shocker puts it over great—A bit of advice on base running—Great base runners the game has seen—Schang pulls a good line on Cobb—The slide an important feature of base running—Spiking no longer done—The story of how spiking began.

I’ve seen a lot of ball games in all these years, and I’ve had a lot of “kicks” from the game. There’s the kick that comes from making a good catch or a good throw. And the kick that comes, too, from hitting a ball and watch it going sailing up and out, until it disappears over the fence and you hear the cheers and the applause as you go trotting around the bases.

But those thrills are all personal.

There’s another sort of thrill that ball players know—the thrill of seeing a perfect play, perfectly executed. And now, after a lot of years of big league competition, I’ve about decided that the two most beautiful plays the game holds are the perfect steal and the perfectly executed “squeeze” play that brings the runner sliding home in a cloud of dust with the winning run. Somehow there’s something about these two that aren’t duplicated anywhere else in baseball. Maybe it’s because they require so much coordination: because they must be perfect to be worked at all, and there’s always a thrill in doing a thing exactly right.

I’m sorry neither the squeeze play nor the steal are used as much now as they were a few years ago. Slugging, driving baseball has made them unnecessary. One run means very little in modern baseball. Most managers play for three or four, and the squeeze seldom is called into use unless it be in the final inning or two of an occasional tight game. The steal too has been more or less passed up for the same reason. You seldom see a runner steal third base any more, and a steal of home is practically unheard of except in the so-called “double steal.”

The theory of the squeeze play is simple. It is used only when there is a runner on third base and one run needed to tie or win. Suppose, for example, that it is the ninth inning, the score is tied and the team at bat has a runner on third base and one out. The stage is all set for the “squeeze.”

The signal is flashed. With the motion of the pitcher’s arm the runner on third breaks loose for the plate as fast as he can go. He doesn’t pay any attention to the pitcher or the hitter—just runs as hard as he can and throws himself at the plate.

Meantime the batter bunts the ball down the third base line, a slow twisting bunt that’s a little too far out for the catcher, and too far toward the third base line for the pitcher. With the proper sort of a bunt the play can’t fail to score a run. Since the runner gets such a long start there’s no player in the world can handle the ball quickly enough to retire him.

But the bunt must be perfect and there’s the catch of it.

Bunting today is pretty much a lost art. The hitter might miss the ball; he might pop it into the air; he might drop it dead in front of the plate. And any of these things are fatal. For the runner once he has started can’t turn back. He just keeps coming.

It’s a great play, and a beautiful play. And with experienced men working it, it’s about as sure a way of scoring as you can find in the book. But there’s danger in it too—as in all types of baseball strategy and besides it scores only one run. And as I said before one run in modern base ball doesn’t mean much. A few years ago the pitcher who was lucky enough to get a two or three run margin considered the game just as good as won. Today a margin of three or four runs means very little. One bad inning can overcome all that and then some. So the squeeze has about gone out.

The best “squeeze play man” I know of today in baseball is Urban Shocker, the Yankee pitcher. Shock never rated as a great hitter or anything like that, but he certainly can lay that ball down. It’s a matter of record that he drove in 11 runs for the Yankees last season. And six of them were scored on squeeze plays, three of which won ball games.

Ray Schalk, the peppery little catcher and manager of the White Sox, is another chap who is a wizard at it. Naturally, when the squeeze play looks probable the infield plays in. The third baseman comes well in on the line and the first baseman moves in on the grass half way to the plate. All of which makes it that much more difficult—but just the same, properly executed, the “squeeze” will work eight times out of ten.

Its success or failure, naturally, depends on the hitter. If he lays the ball down properly the runner from third can score standing up—particularly if he’s a quick starter and gets a good lead, plus a start with the pitcher’s arm. But the hitter has to hit—and he has to hit on the ground. Otherwise—well, it’s just too bad.

The “steal” like the “squeeze play” is used much less than it was a few years ago. A lot of good baseball men say that stealing is a lost art. I don’t believe that. There are just as many clever base runners, and just as many fast men in the league now as there ever have been. But the fact is that the steal isn’t as necessary. There’s no need in a man taking a chance on being thrown out on a steal when any batter that steps up there is apt to plunk the ball over the fence for a home run so he can score standing up.

But just the same we have some mighty fine base runners today, as always. And we have some clubs too that don’t have the hitting power and go in for the steal as a real part of their scoring attack. George Moriarity, the old third baseman who took over the management of the Detroit Tigers after years of umpiring, went in pretty strong for the steal in his season as manager, and got away with it. The Tigers as a club, stole more bases than any other team in either league—yet they’re not particularly fast as a team. Johnny Neun probably was the best man they had. I’ll never forget a game Johnny played against the Yankees when he stole five bases in nine innings. The first time up he stole second. His next time at bat he walked, then proceeded to steal second and third. And on his third ♦appearance at bat he added insult to injury by getting a single and then stealing second, third, and home, one after the other and on three pitched balls. That’s stealing bases—and no old timer in the business ever did better than that. Johnny was the best base runner the Tigers had. But they have other good ones in Tavener and Gehringer, and Moriarity even went as far with the “steal” game that he had Bob Fothergill and Harry Heilmann stepping them off. And those fellows never would break any speed records anywhere.

♦ “appearence” replaced with “appearance”

Base stealing isn’t so much a matter of speed as it is a question of catching the opponents off guard, getting a good lead, and then being able to start fast. Players like Eddie Collins and Johnny Neun are fast but not sprinters. Yet they’re good base runners simply because they know how to take a long lead, and how to start. I could name a dozen men in baseball who could run rings around Collins over a hundred yard course. But not a one of the lot can get away faster or pick up full speed in so short a distance.

Of course there are exceptions. Johnny Mostil of the White Sox, and one of the greatest outfielders the game ever has known, managed to steal a lot of bases in the course of a year, and on speed alone. But he’s the exception.

The greatest base runner who ever lived, I think, was Tyrus Raymond Cobb. Cobb had speed to burn. But he had other things too. He had wonderful judgment plus a hook slide that is the best I ever saw. More than that he was a quick thinker. He seemed able to sense what the other fellow was expecting, and then he’d do the exact opposite. Some of Cobb’s base running stunts will never be forgotten. I’ve seen him score all the way from second base on a dinky sacrifice fly. I’ve seen him go all the way home from first on a single, and I’ve seen him steal home more times than I can remember.

I don’t know how many two baggers Ty has made in his career, but I’d make a bet right now that at least half of them were singles that he stretched into two base hits by base running cunning and half of his three-baggers, I know, would have been only doubles and skimpy ones at that, for the ordinary base runner.

For twenty years Ty Cobb ran wild through the league, and during the ten years when he was in his prime as a ball player he had every other club in the league nutty. He’d try anything—and get away with it.

One of the funniest lines I ever heard, and at the same time one of the greatest compliments ever paid Cobb came from Wally Schang. It all happened in the secrecy of the Athletic’s club house, but it was so good that the other players told it and in a few days it had traveled all around the league.

The Athletics were about to engage the Tigers in a crucial series and Connie Mack was holding a meeting to discuss the games. The boys went over all the Detroit hitters, one by one, and decided how they would pitch to each man. They discussed their own plays, and everything in the baseball category. Finally they came to the matter of stopping Cobb. Connie asked for suggestions but no one came through.

Finally he turned to Schang, who had been with the club only a couple of seasons.

“Now Wallie,” Connie said, “suppose the Tigers were one run behind, Cobb was on second base, and you knew he was going to steal. What would you do?”

Schangie’s answer was quick and to the point.

“I’d fake a throw to third then hold the ball and tag him as he slid into the plate.”

And he wasn’t far wrong at that, either.

As Bob Shawkey used to say “The only things Ty Cobb never stole were first base and the umpire’s whisk broom, and he would have had those in another two years.”

I’ve heard a lot of explanation of Cobb’s success as a base runner. The best I ever heard was from Cobb himself. And it was short and sweet.

“I’ve made a success as a base runner because I keep my head up,” he said. What he meant of course, was that he was always watching for opportunities. The slightest fumble, the slightest hesitation on the part of an opposing player in handling the ball—these were invitations to Cobb, and he never refused them. Even after some of the speed had gone out of his legs and the years had taken their toll of energy he was still dangerous, simply because he kept his head up and his eyes open. And those two things are the first requirements for a good base runner.

Cobb, as I said before, is the best base runner I ever saw and, I think, the greatest who ever wore a spiked shoe. There have been others who have been really great too. There’s Max Carey who came into the big leagues way back in 1910 and is still on the job after 18 years of big league service. Carey was a speed boy when he came into the league—but he was intelligent too. And now that his speed has deserted him, he has experience and knowledge to fall back on, and is still able to show the way to most of the fellows in the league when it comes to scientific base running. The secret of Max’s success as a base runner is his ability to get a start. Carey watches, the opposing defense with the eye of a hawk. He’s, always set and ready to go—always on perfect balance so he can dash in either direction. And like Cobb, he has a perfect hook slide.

Another great base runner is Frankie Frisch of the Cardinals. Frankie is peculiar in that he uses a head-on slide and is one of the few men in the big league who uses such a slide. Frankie has a good, argument too. He says that by sliding head first instead of feet first he saves the split part of a second in getting underway.

Of course these men are not the only great base runners. But they are typical of them all. Sam Rice of the Washington Senators, Bob Meusel of the Yankees; Al Simmons and Walter French of the Athletics, the Waner boys of the Pirates: Eddie Roush of the Giants: Rogers Hornsby, Hack Wilson, Bucky Harris: Bib Falk—these men are all great on the bases.

The greatest slider I ever have seen was Ty Cobb. Ty was the first man in baseball to develop the “hook slide.” That, as most everyone knows, consists in throwing the body sideways and catching the bag with the toe. The advantage of the hook slide over the straight slide is that it gives the baseman only a minimum space to tag out. But the hook slide is a dangerous thing for an amateur, for it offers all sorts of opportunity for injury. A fraction of an inch error in judgment may mean missing the bag entirely and an easy putout for the opponents. More serious than that, however, is the danger of catching the bag with your spikes instead of the toe, in which case the ankle bones will be snapped off like twigs. Each season sees three or four men out of the game with broken legs or twisted ankles—and ninety-nine percent of such injuries can be traced to bad sliding.

If you start your slide too soon you are an easy out. If you start too late there’s always the danger of personal injury. Timing is just as important in sliding as in hitting, and lack of timing means a bad slide. To become a good slider there’s only one method. That’s constant practice. I can remember when the sliding pit was an important feature in every training camp—and rookies were sent out to practice for long stretches at a time, and under the eyes of experts. They don’t do that much any more—not that practice is any less important, but because the slide and the steal no longer occupy as important a place as once they did in baseball.

To be a good slider a man must learn to hook the bag with either foot. That sounds easy, but it isn’t. Just as a man is naturally right handed or left handed, so does he slide from the right side or the left side. And learning to “fall away” to either side equally well is a tough job that requires a lot of work.

A few years ago there was a lot of talk of “spiking.” That has all gone out. No longer do men come driving into the bag with nasty spikes raised high ready to cut down the baseman or drive him out of the line of play. Old timers may make a bluff at “spiking” to try and frighten some rookie baseman, but I don’t believe there has been a deliberate case of spiking in the big leagues in the last five years. Naturally men will get cut once in awhile ♦accidentally. One of the commonest plays on which “spiking” occurs, is on a high throw to the base where the baseman jumps in the air for the ball at the same instant the runner slides into the bag. As the baseman comes down he is apt to land on the runner with his spikes. But if the runner hooks the bag instead of going straight in, there is less danger in the play.

♦ “accidently” replaced with “accidentally”

I was talking to one of the veteran newspaper men a few months ago and he told me an interesting story of how the spiking practice first originated. He gave credit (?) for the play to Patsy Tebeau, manager of the famous Cleveland Spiders of thirty years ago. Tebeau in his eagerness to win ball games conceived the idea of spiking.

“Go into their basemen tomorrow spikes first, and rip their legs off if you have to,” Tebeau ordered one day, after four of his men had been nipped stealing.

The next afternoon one of Tebeau’s runners followed orders, and ripped a four-inch gash in the second baseman’s leg. Another leaped into the shortstop and tore a mass of skin off his shinbone.

“That will put fear in their hearts,” Tebeau gloated.

He was right. Basemen, fearing the spikes, became mighty careful and the Spiders ran wild on the bases through game after game. But accounts were soon squared. In Pittsburgh following a game in which Tebeau’s players had gashed and cut three of the Pittsburgh men.

In those days the players dressed at their hotels, and it so happened that the Spiders had to go past the Pirate hotel to reach the ball park. Just before the Spiders were due to pass William Temple, owner of the Pittsburgh team, assembled his players on the porch.

“Here’s a nice new file for each of you,” he told them. “The very minute that Spider outfit comes along I want all you boys to be busy filing your spikes —and keep filing them until you get a razor edge.”

A few minutes later the Spiders arrived. Tebeau ordered the bus stopped. He climbed out, walked over to the spike-sharpening crew, and watched them for a minute. Then without a word, he returned to the bus.

“Never mind any spiking stuff,” he announced to his club later. “We’ll get the worst of it. They’ve got the sharper spikes.”

The Pirates waited for the Spiders to open their famous spiking attack. The Spiders didn’t. So the Pirates decided to start the action. They began to hurl themselves into the bases regardless of results. The Spiders, knowing what the rival team was wearing on its feet stepped away from the bags and let the Pirates run bases free and easy. The Pirates scored fifteen runs that afternoon.

Naturally other clubs, seeing the success of the move, decided to do likewise. And so began the “spiking era” in baseball. The Baltimore Orioles were particularly good at it. And the extent to which “spiking” developed before finally it was barred by league rule can be illustrated by a story of Kid Gleason’s, the peppery little second baseman of the old Orioles and later manager of the White Sox and now assistant to Connie Mack.

“Once” the Kid relates, “there was a third baseman who violated one of our spiking rules. He stuck ’em into the second baseman’s chest. That was most unethical, inasmuch as one of our unwritten laws barred spiking ABOVE the waist line.

“The second baseman vowed to get revenge. Two innings later this particular second baseman having reached second, started for third on a drive through the infield. He probably could have scored on the play—but that wasn’t his purpose. As he rounded third base he knocked the baseman down, faked a fall himself, recovered and slid back to third. In doing so he was very careful to slide his spikes right into the face of the third baseman.”

“Those,” the Kid always adds when he tells the story, “were the good old days.”

May be so. But present day ball players have more good sense. They realize that such tactics, with the injuries that follow shorten careers. And the professional baseball career is short enough anyhow. Play hard, play fast, but play fair is today’s motto. Intentional spiking has gone out, along with the emery ball and the ball park saloon.