PERMISSION FROM THE CLOUDS

By C. Jedediah Butterworth
Airborne Base Ball Freescriber

August 9, 1924

SOMEWHERE OVER OHIO—Flying at 18,000 feet is not the choicest place to learn what cold rain feels like. In two words: icy daggers.

Dean had lifted us off from our foggy airfield outside Detroit without incident this morning, despite my wobbly nerves, and once we had broken above the cloud layer and caught the eastern sun in our faces, I was finally able to marvel at the wonders of flight.

The marveling has been going on for hours now. Smith's Airco D.H. 9A is a mere 45 feet from wing to wing, and as I sit in the nose seat of the biplane I enjoy an eagle's view of the sky. Buildings below are mere match sticks, and autos slow moving ants. The wind stings my cheeks, futilely tries to slip under clamped goggles, and I have drop my head on occasion to warm my vision back up.

"Cal! Take this!" It is Dean, holding out his silver flask behind me with a gloved hand. I shake my head as a fierce wind gust drops us fifty feet and right back up in less than five seconds. I suddenly understand his imbibing and grab the flask from his hand.

We have been following the south edge of Lake Erie for some time, and I can make out farms and small crafts through the cloud wisps. I assume Dean has telegraphed the Philadelphia air field ahead of time, but at our speed of 120 miles an hour I have no idea how long this route will take.

We cross over Buffalo and the beginnings of Lake Ontario, and Dean veers us southeast. Within minutes, the sun vanishes behind a bank of black clouds, and the ice-rain commences. Dean tries to lift the plane higher, thinking we can stay above the foul weather, but the engine strains horribly as he attempts this.

We have no choice but to endure the barrage and pray for the best. Nature's fury reaches its pinnacle, and the rising and falling and bumping seem to last forever. I lean over the edge at one point to empty my stomach. Dean ducks the flying contents at the last moment but seems obscenely calm. I long for a photograph of Bonnie and the children mounted on the panel before me, and am reduced to imagining one there. The wind in my ears howls angrily. I am cold and drenched beyond belief, and sick to my bones.

Then, without warning, as if a stage curtain has risen on a third act, the rain lessens, dissipates, and glorious patches of blue sky appear above. Dean lets out a whoop and lifts us heavenward. We are over the rolling green of New York State, heading south into Philadelphia. I may in fact live to see this white-colored classic!

Yet there is still the small matter of landing. Dean apparently never wired ahead to announce our arrival, so as the spires of Philadelphia gleam at us in the afternoon sunshine, Dean is forced to drop the plane severely and eyeball the landscape. The clouds are now stacked cotton balls, guardians of the sky, and I almost feel we need to ask their permission to land between them.

The little airstrip on Hog Island is just past the center of the city, and I shut my eyes when we seem to be on a collision course with William Penn's statue atop City Hall. Wind gusts pick up again, though, and we are forced to circle and circle the field at a hellishly low altitude.

"Tell me when we are on terra firma!" I yell to Dean, but all he does is laugh. When our wheels finally bounce on the grass and settle down for good, I say blessed thanks to every deity I can think of. A small gang of air field attendants are there to shepherd us in, as well as a handful of local reporters. For reasons I can't begin to fathom, Dean and I are suddenly minor celebrities for doing this flight. When asked why I've come to Philadelphia, I cannot lie, and mention a certain whites-coloreds game out in Darby tomorrow. The reporters stare at me for all of five seconds, then rush off en masse to find telephones. Hmm.


THE DAY'S AMERICAN LEAGUE CONTESTS
THAT SOMEHOW ESCAPE ME:

RED SOX 8-11-2, at TGERS 7-10-3
I am thrilled to be 18,000 feet above this one. Syl Johnson falls behind 6-0 and the Tigers roar back to score five times in the last two innings, including four in the 9th, but lose when Rigney skies out with two men aboard. It is Detroit's second one-run home loss to the second division Sox, a bad omen indeed.

YANKEES 7-19-1, at INDIANS 4-11-1
This is now three straight Yank wins at League Park, highlighted by Ruth's game-changing 2-run double in the 3rd. Like over two dozen other star big leaguers, he should be coming down with acute stomach pains in the next twelve hours.

SENATORS 5-10-0, at WHITE SOX 1-6-1
There is no word yet from Big Train Johnson concerning his presence in Darby tomorrow, but if he is going to show he tunes up sweetly today with his 17th win of the year at Comiskey Park to pull the Nats out of their torpid play.

at BROWNS 12-20-1, ATHLETICS 7-17-2
It is 11-2 St. Louis by the 4th inning as the Browns pound A's "pitching" for seven extra-base blows.

AMERICAN LEAGUE through Saturday, August 9
Washington Senators	71	41	.634	—
Detroit Tigers	60	53	.531	11.5
Chicago White Sox	58	52	.527	12
New York Yankees	56	54	.509	14
St. Louis Browns	54	58	.482	17
Boston Red Sox	49	61	.445	21
Philadelphia Athletics	49	63	.438	22
Cleveland Indians	49	64	.434	22.5

THE BITTERS AND THE SWEET

August 9, 1924

I had to tiptoe over two dozen pairs of hands and feet this morning on my way out the door. Rachel missed the late train last night, so I headed over to Broad Street Station as soon as the bugs were out of my eyes to pick her up.

She had asked her father Saul to come, him being such a huge ball fan, but she said he wasn't feeling well again and wasn't really interested in seeing any kind of "schvartza" game, whatever that was. So there went me asking him the Big Rachel Question again.

Rachel looked as cute as ever, even that early in the morning. She was also real hungry and asked if Mama had made anything for breakfast. "Aw, the house is kind of a mess" was all I said, and hustled her straight to Reading Terminal to get us fresh pastries instead...


By Benny Wzckoviczy
Whites vs. Coloreds Organizer

Good old Rube. Me and Roy still had usage of the fancy convertible he leased for us, meaning we had gotten up to New York lickety-split and a half. Our mission was to make sure Judge Landis didn't know our big exhibition was going on tomorrow, and lucky for us, Roy had an old Caribbean friend to help out.

Skitch Thomas had about twenty kinds of British, Dutch, Jamaican, Bermudian and whatever blood in him, and now lived in New York where he delivered bottles of health tonic made by some old German family living in Venezuela named Siegert. If you can keep THAT straight. The stuff was shipped up from the Siegert factory in Trinidad, where Skitch was from, and was made with something called Angostura bitters that were supposed to clean out your stomach problems if you put it in liquor.

Anyhows, it seems that Landis is a longtime fan of Siegert bitters, and Skitch sometimes delivers bottles of it to his hotel room when he's in from Chicago. And he was in New York again this weekend for some baseball writers banquet at the same hotel.

So we met Skitch out on a Staten Island ferry boat today. He had a little derby hat and blue-tinted glasses on and spoke the worst English I ever heard, and had a little pouch inside his coat packed with bottles he had re-filled and capped himself. You see, Skitch had gotten hold of some of Siegert's bottles and what he thought was their secret formula and had made his own special illegal tonics in his apartment basement as sort of a hobby. According to Roy, he had one that could put a nervous rhino to sleep. So for a decent price we had two bottles of "Sleep-aider XX," one each for me and Roy just in case, and the address of the hotel. Now it was all up to us...


Rachel and me went straight to Baker Bowl after our pastries, where the Big Bad Bucs were there for a Saturday double-header. Cy wasn't around because of his dizziness, so I had no idea what was going on back at my house, but I knew the plan was to get out to Darby later and make sure the field was all set for tomorrow.

As far as I was concerned, I was ready to ditch being batboy after three innings. Lee Meadows gave us a single and error on Harper's first at bat to get us going, but Sand, Holke and Wrightstone left him out there at second scratching his bum hole. Then, as usual, the Pirates scored out of nowhere. Johnny Gooch, the second-string catcher filling in for Earl Smith, tripled, singled and doubled his first three times up to start one 3-run rally and knock in their fourth run. Meadows cruised along from there, winning for the eighth time in his last nine starts. Hubbell was lucky because they more than doubled our hit total and still only scored five runs.

Rachel was bored beyond tears and asked if she could sit in the Phillies dugout with me for the second game. I told her she was cracked, that Art Fletcher was a nice guy and gentleman and would probably let colored Roy sit there before a woman. So Rachel sulked in her great behind-the-dugout the whole time while we tore up Jeff Pfeffer for 13 hits to their eight and still managed to lose. The Bucs went through a miniature slump in the last week but are back to winning ridiculous again, and for the 70th time no less.

I was thrilled when Cy showed up in street clothes near the end to tell me that the colored players needed help hauling the lighting equipment out of their trucks in Darby. Fletcher believed my fake coughing and in a flash I was dressed and back down the street with Rachel. I had no idea what Benny was up to at the moment, but I figured he was busy messing up whatever that crazy plan was he came up with...




Me and Roy snuck into the hotel through a back door and nabbed waiter uniforms from a storage closet. Skitch had given us the number of the room Judge Landis stayed in every time, so I elected myself to deliver a tonic bottle.

There were lots of fancy-dress people walking around, but I have to say I looked awful snappy myself in my long white waiter coat. I knocked on room 381 and waited. And waited. And waited. Then I heard someone coming and ducked around the corner.

It was a chambermaid, who unlocked the Judge's door and brought in some fresh towels. I snuck in when she wasn't looking and left the tonic bottle on a hotel napkin next to his bed.

But then Roy was missing. Or at least from the place in the back alley where we were supposed to meet. I looked and paced around for an hour almost, until he finally came out, all huffing and sweaty. He said he served the tonic bottle to Landis right at his table but it just took a while. "What?? You told me to bring one to his room!" He said he saw him cross the lobby and go into the banquet room so decided he could get him the stuff before I could.

Yikes and a half. We never got away from a place so fast in our lives...




It was nice to discover a trolley line that went all the way to Darby, a township just southwest of Philadelphia. The trolley wasn't even that crowded and the weather was nice, so me and Rachel had time to get off for an ice cream on the way.

Hilldale Park was a funny-looking place with a dinky grandstand that even had a big tree in deep right field. The lights were big and heavy and everyone hoped they'd work. We were only supposed to play three games at the most, but the way the two teams could probably hit, who knows when the games would finish. Rachel got a chance to meet all the colored players and they were all pretty polite to her, but as soon as she took off her hat and jacket and rolled up her shirt sleeves to help haul out the lighting stuff, there was hooting and chuckling for a good five minutes. I guess there'd never seen a white girl doing muscle work before, especially one as nice and smart as Rachel.

We all went to a colored chop house after, and I tried to start a conversation with Oscar Charleston, but he never took the serious look off his face. Rube said he wanted to beat the whites tomorrow something bad, and wouldn't smile about anything again until that happened.

Cy went back to his own place tonight for a change, so Rachel got our guest room to herself after Mama cleaned it up. Benny showed up at midnight to tell us that him and Roy had gotten Judge Landis two bottles of this home-made sleep tonic instead of one. Great. Hopefully they didn't kill him for their troubles.

What would happen tomorrow? I realized Judge Landis might be dead to the world for a day or two, but I was starting to worry that no one else in the country might realize these games were actually played.

I hate to say it, but I think we need a reporter person.
—Vinny

PGH 003 001 001 - 5 15 1
PHL 000 100 000 - 1 6 1

PGH 002 001 001 - 4 8 1
PHL 000 010 101 - 3 13 1


Other National League games today:

REDS 6-13-1, at GIANTS 2-10-0
Your daily New York stink party. Their best pitcher McQuillan can get practically no Reds out, including pitcher Rube Benton who gets three singles off him in four tries, and the elephant-speed Bubbles Hargrave, who somehow hits two triples.

at ROBINS 7-8-1, CARDINALS 4-8-1
You know the Cards are in bad quicksand when they can't even beat lousy Arty Decatur. Hornsby and Bottomley get six singles between them but no one else does much of anything.

CUBS 8-15-1, at BRAVES 4-6-0
CUBS 16-18-1, BRAVES 2-7-2
Geez, at this rate the Cubs might pass the Cards soon. They mop the floor, ceiling and rooftop with the pathetic Braves, as Gabby Hartnett, getting ready to face those coloreds tomorrow, goes 6-for-11 on the day with a homer, triple, double and six knocked in. He can gab all he wants now.

NATIONAL LEAGUE through Saturday, August 9
Pittsburgh Pirates	70	37	.654	—
Brooklyn Robins	65	46	.586	7
Cincinnati Reds	65	46	.586	7
New York Giants	60	48	.556	10.5
St. Louis Cardinals	54	55	.495	17
Chicago Cubs	52	57	.477	19
Philadelphia Phillies	42	69	.378	30
Boston Braves	30	80	.273	41.5

AN ANGEL IN GOGGLES

TIGERS CANNOT FINISH BUSINESS WITH BOSTON, WHILE I FEAST ON MINE

By C. Jedediah Butterworth
Base Ball Freescriber

August 8, 1924

There he is, circling the batting practice circle like some half-starved lynx. I have borne the brunt of Ty Cobb's surly, vindictive attitude and cowardly blows for the entire season, but his attempt to maroon what could very well be an historic contest in Pennsylvania this Sunday is beyond even his foul persona. After he takes his next series of cuts and lines a few bullets into the open field, I approach him swiftly.

"Admit it, Ty. You're the one who wired Judge Landis."

He snickers under his breath. "Get lost, Butterface. I got more hittin' to do."

"So you won't deny it?"

"Can't deny something I didn't do." He refuses to look me in the eye.

"I think you're lying, Ty. I think you were upset because none of the players invited you along so you decided to turn everyone in."

With this he spins, bat gripped in front of him like a war club. "You really think that, Butterface? Now why the hell would I ever wanna play against a bunch of crazy coons, and why the hell would you wanna write about 'em?"

My neck reddens, my hands tighten. I drop my notepad and pen and rip his bat away, knocking it upside his head in the process. He staggers a moment, then flies at me, punching and clawing. Tiger players and a patrolman are on us in seconds, and it's Heilman who shoves us apart.

"Go write your coon-lovin' novel, you piss-ape!" he yells, as I'm escorted off the field and out the exit.

Attempts to plead my case are met with expected resistance on the telephone from Detroit's management, so I am once again without a place to call a reporting home. I walk down the street to Bertram's Card-Playing Club for a round of gin to distract me and a few small glasses of back room whiskey to calm me. It is then that I hear my name called out, and there, perched on a nearby stool, is Dean C. Smith. The air mail pilot who I sat beside at Henry Ford's estate the other night is a s jovial as ever, and invites me to join him for a third whiskey which he gladly purchases.

I relate the entire Cobb saga, starting with our skirmishes early in the season, and then about my burning desire to get to the Hilldale Field on Sunday to see the white-colored exhibition. "My newspaper will never foot the bill for such a journey, not when they're probably writing about my 'assault' on Cobb this very moment." Smith sets his glass down and looks me in the eye like a true man should do.

"My De Havilland is a two-seater, you know."

"Your what?"

"My plane! I'm going to fly you there, pal!"

I suppose it is a good thing I have three doses of Canadian's best liquid inside me, because otherwise I may have fled. As it is, I am here now at a local air strip waiting to board Dean's bi-plane, which he is filling with fuel somewhere out there in the dark. My small packed bag is beside me, my tearful goodbyes to Bonnie and the children recently completed. At dawn's first crack of light I will be rising into the Michigan sky, pointed east, the promise of an unparalleled game to save me from panic.

TODAY'S TIGER GAME REPORT,
FROM "BRAINY EYES" BRADLEY ON TRUMBULL AVENUE

I couldn't catch everything through our knothole, but did see Harris and Veach homer for them early, and it was 3-0 Boston when Heilman bashed a ball that was either over the fence or bleachers in left but put us ahead 4-3. We were up 5-3 but stupid Earl Whitehill fell out of his tree for us in the 8th. A walk and two singles made it 5-4, and after I pushed some dumb kid out of the way I saw Veach crush another one over our wall for three runs and a 7-5 lead for the Sox. I heard we got one back in the 9th but I had to go home early and clean my underpants so I missed it.

BOS 100 200 040 - 7 7 0
DET 000 040 101 - 6 7 1


THE DAY'S OTHER AMERICAN LEAGUE CONTESTS:

at WHITE SOX 9-12-1, SENATORS 8-9-0 (10 innings)
Can you believe it? Another loss for Washington. Ahead 2-0, Martina and Marberry team up to hand Chicago seven runs in the 5th. The Nats come right back on Thurston with four, then knot the game 8-8 with four singles, a walk and scoring fly in the 8th. Russell and Cvengros are both tough in relief, but a Collins walk and steal and Bibb Falk double send in the winner.

at BROWNS 7-14-3, ATHLETICS 3-7-0
Danforth bests Rommel, and three Brownie gaffes do little damage as St. Louis regains their mettle.

YANKEES 6-12-0, INDIANS 4-8-0 (10 innings)
Ruth homers off Sherry Smith in the 1st, a supreme achievement, but it's Meusel's three-sack hit in extra innings that launches a rally to take the game and give New York a one-game standings hike for the second straight day.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: After tomorrow's obvious day off for turkey consumption, 1924 chapters will appear on Friday and Saturday this holiday weekend, with the first ever Hilldale-Darby White-Colored Classic to be reported in two installments beginning Monday. Have a bountiful and wonderful Thanksgiving, readers!—J.P.

AMERICAN LEAGUE through Friday, August 8
Washington Senators	70	41	.631	—
Detroit Tigers	60	52	.536	10.5
Chicago White Sox	58	51	.532	11
New York Yankees	55	54	.505	14
St. Louis Browns	53	58	.477	17
Philadelphia Athletics	49	62	.441	21
Boston Red Sox	48	61	.440	21
Cleveland Indians	49	63	.438	21.5

THE HOME INVASION

AUTHOR'S NOTE: After tomorrow's post, an obvious day off for turkey consumption looms, but 1924 chapters will appear on Friday and Saturday this holiday weekend, with the first ever Hilldale-Darby White-Colored Classic to be reported in two installments beginning Monday. Have a bountiful and wonderful Thanksgiving, readers!—J.P.


August 8, 1924

Oh boy. So Cy was holed up in our guest room all night with dizziness and headaches. Rube called this morning to say he was on his way over with some of his colored team, Rachel telegrammed to say she's probably going to be coming tomorrow for the weekend, and then I open the newspaper with my toast and read this headline:

BASEBALL'S LANDIS WARNS OF NEGRO THREAT TO BASEBALL

Well, we didn't need that. I'm telling you, if school was open today I'd escape to Mrs. Crackerbee's class and bury my head in a Greek history book. What was I supposed to do? Cy was still too deloozy to talk about anything, Mama was busy laying ice-cold strips of cooking foil on his head, and Benny and Roy were nowhere to be found.

So I did the only thing I could, which was distract myself from the whole mess by reporting to Baker Bowl for two hours to watch the Pirates blast us into pieces. With Cy out of our lineup we didn't stand a chance, right?

Well, that's what I thought. But Earl Smith, the most fearsome hitting catcher in the league after Hartnett, was out of their lineup for a while, and Johnny Couch was making a good habit out of putting Bucs on the bases and squirming out of trouble. Heinie started two double plays in the first four innings, and Harper gave us a 1-0 lead with a homer off their ace Kremer in the 1st.

But these rubes don't have 67 wins for no reason. After Kremer bunted Johnny Gooch over to second with two outs in the 5th, Max Carey got himself plunked, Grimm walked and so did Moore and we were tied. Meantime we loused up two great scoring chances in the third and fifth, so it was just a matter of time before the noose broke our necks.

The snap came in the 7th. Kremer, already with two good bunts, whacked a ball to deep right-center for a triple to begin the inning. Carey walked, Grimm singled and we were behind. All that was left was for Wrightstone to thrill the crowd for three minutes with a leadoff double in the last of the 9th, only to have Henline pop out, Wilson line out and Mokan screw himself into the ground whiffing on a bad pitch to end the game.

I didn't even sweep the locker room floor this time, just bolted back to the streetcar to see if our home was still standing.

And that was the problem. All you could do was stand. See, Foster didn't show up with some of his players, he showed up with ninety percent of the team, and there they were sitting around on every piece of furniture or on every untaken inch of floor, eating their hamburgers and chicken and beans and Italian sandwiches that they'd bought from vendors in the neighborhood. Mama was trying to help out by pouring drinks for any of them that didn't bring pop bottles, but I could tell she was rattled and would rather have been on cold cooking foil duty upstairs with Cy.

Rube was excited to see me, shook the heck out of my hand and introduced me to his players. I had only heard of a couple of them and didn't even know where they played on the field, but they were all pretty friendly and joked with each other non-stop. Sam Streeter and Webster McDonald and Nip Winters were pitchers, Dobie Moore and Rev Cannady were smaller so were probably infielders, while Tubby Scales looked like he ate baseballs for lunch instead of just hitting them. Willie Wells, Pop Lloyd and Mule Suttles were all hilarious, and Oscar Charleston had more of a dignity look about him, like he knew he was the best of the bunch and didn't have to act it.

I showed Rube the Commissioner Landis story in the paper, but he'd already heard about it and said it was nothing new. He was sure that if he forked a little more cash over to every white player there wouldn't be a problem getting them to play. Plus there seemed to be a scheme that "acquaintances" of ours were working on.

It was right about then that our door got knocked, and there was a Western Union man. I grabbed the envelope and tore it open, all excited because it might have been from Rachel again. But no, it was from Benny in New York City. What the damn was he doing up there?

WITH ROY IN BIG CITY. MEETING TONIC MAKER ON FERRY BOAT TONIGHT. LANDIS WILL SLEEP LIKE BABY. WE PROMISE.
—BENNY

Rube was all smiles, but I just stared at the telegram in shock because there was nothing I could say. Except good night, reader-people!
—Vinny

PGH 000 010 100 - 2 9 0
PHL 100 000 000 - 1 6 1

Other National League games today:

CUBS 16-14-1, at BRAVES 5-9-3
So much for the great Braves revival. Seldom-used Bob Barrett triples and homers and knocks in five off Larry Benton. Aldridge goes the distance as the three bottom spots in the Chicago lineup go 6-for-12 and drive home ten of their runs.

at ROBINS 4-8-2, CARDINALS 2-5-0
And the St. Louis swan dive continues. Bill Doak singles, homers and pitches a 5-hitter and Brooklyn stays hot and ties Cincy for second place.

at GIANTS 9-14-0, REDS 1-11-1
New York can't seem to beat anyone but the Reds. Youngs drives in five and Virgil Barnes easily escapes the ridiculous 11-single Reds attack.

NATIONAL LEAGUE through Friday, August 8
Pittsburgh Pirates	68	37	.648	—
Brooklyn Robins	64	46	.582	6.5
Cincinnati Reds	64	46	.582	6.5
New York Giants	60	47	.561	9
St. Louis Cardinals	54	54	.500	15.5
Chicago Cubs	50	57	.467	18.5
Philadelphia Phillies	42	67	.385	27.5
Boston Braves	30	78	.278	39

THE JUDGE AND THE RAT

By C. Jedediah Butterworth
Base Ball Freescriber

August 7, 1924

Safe from the watching eyes of my cohorts in the furthermost bleacher section of Navin Field before today's first skirmish with Boston, I take the time to jot down some rarified names on my note pad:

1B-Judge, Bottomley
2B-Hornsby, E. Collins
SS-Sewell, Wright
3B-Traynor, Dykes
LF-Cuyler, Goslin
CF-Speaker, C. Williams, Roush, Jacobson
RF-Ruth, Heilman, Youngs
C-Hartnett, Myatt
P-Alexander, Vance, Rixey, Mays, R. Collins
Pennock, Adams, Ehrhardt, Big Train?

Surely the most formidable squad in base ball history is planning to take the Hilldale Field this Sunday by hook or crook, and if Walter Johnson decides to pitch, the Negro stars may just as well stay in their rooming houses. How can anyone on earth beat us, let along an amalgamation of untried talent? Regardless, it should be a fascinating event, and as God as my witness I will be sitting in a seat with pen and scribing pad in hand to recount what happens.

My head is so filled with burning thoughts on this matter that I nearly miss the quick Red Sox rally in the 1st off Ripper Collins. Williams and Clark walk to start the game, Harris triples them in, Boone singles him in, and Detroit is behind 3-0. Collins has been nearly impossible to beat all year, and settles down rapidly.

Heilman clubs a long homer off Ferguson to spark a 4-run Tiger bombardment in the 2nd, and the bleacherites around me are ecstatic. The 4-3 lead holds for the next three innings, and the beautiful weather helps everyone's mood. The only blemish is Mr. Tyrus Cobb, his beady eyes and smirking face searching the crowd for me whenever he jogs out to center field. Since he saw me speaking to Ruth after yesterday's game he's seemed even more strange and suspicious than usual, and I have to pull the brim of my hat over my eyes to avoid his gaze.

A Harris double and Veach single in the 6th knots the action, and things stay tense until the last of the 8th. Manush works a leadoff walk, and with one out, Pratt dunks a single in front of Ike Boone over in right. Ike plays a silly game of jiggly-pop with the ball, Manush gazelles all the way around the sacks with the lead run, and Collins is energized all over again. The Ripper snuffs the Sox 1-2-3 in the 9th for his base ball-best 18th win, and Detroit has victory No. 60.

Imagine, then, the unexpected horror of what follows. I stop in the press porch to grab a new notepad after the game, and find a horde of writers standing around a telegraphed statement that has just been delivered. I squeeze through to give it a read:

FROM THE OFFICE OF THE BASE BALL COMMISSIONER:

A recent rumor has crossed my desk that an assortment of fine major leaguers may be participating in an exhibition game soon against a team of dark players for extra pay. This is expressly forbidden by our league bylaws. As the sport's commissioner, let it be said I will not tolerate such ribald, ill-conceived behavior. Any players caught being involved in a game like this during an actual championship season could face serious fines and suspension, and may be asked to apologize to the base ball public at large concerning the errors of their ways.

Sincerely,

Kenesaw Mountain Landis

So Cobb turned us in. I should have known...

BOS 300 001 000 - 4 8 2
DET 040 000 01x - 5 8 1


THE DAY'S OTHER AMERICAN LEAGUE CONTESTS:

at WHITE SOX 3-13-1, SENATORS 2-9-1 (10 innings)
Another in a recent series of brutal losses for the first-placers. Down 2-0 to Lyons, the Nats claw back and tie the game in the 8th off Blankenship, only to have Zachary and Russell run into a sawmill in the 9th. Falk singles with one out, Hooper singles him to second, Sheely singles but Falk is gunned at the plate. Archdeacon walks to re-load the sacks and Kamm singles for the winner. The Tigers and White Sox pick up a full game and threaten to make this a race again.

ATHLETICS 6-14-0, a BROWNS 3-7-1
St. Louis cooled off for a day by Baumgartner, and Bill Lamar continues his hot stroking with four hits in five tries.

YANKEES 11-19-1, at INDIANS 2-7-2
Apparently Happy Ruth clubs homer no. 31, a 3-run shot in a six-run Yankee 2nd, as Luther Roy is sent scurrying into his bunker. It may be the best swatting support Pennock has enjoyed all year.

AMERICAN LEAGUE through Thursday, August 7
Washington Senators	70	40	.636	—
Detroit Tigers	60	51	.541	10.5
Chicago White Sox	57	51	.528	12
New York Yankees	54	54	.500	15
St. Louis Browns	52	58	.473	18
Philadelphia Athletics	49	61	.445	21
Cleveland Indians	49	62	.441	21.5
Boston Red Sox	47	61	.435	22

RAGING STARS: EPPA KNOCKS OUT CY IN EIGHTH ROUND

August 7, 1924

So today we all went to a baseball game and a boxing match broke out. Everyone inside Baker Bowl and probably for the surrounding twenty miles figured on a big Reds picnic, with the 15-5 Eppa Rixey going against the 6-9 and usually bullet-riddled Joe Oescheger, but that's why these dang things are played, right?

Four Cincy singles in a row started it off, and their 2-0 lead held up until Cy Williams said enough of this malarkey and bammed a homer to deepest center leading off the Phillie 4th. Cy's been all pepped up lately like I've never see him, and I'm sure the thrill of him player-managing these white all-stars on Sunday has a lot to do with it.

Roush got his third single in the 5th to put the Reds up 3-1, but then got too full of himself and dropped Oeschie's easy fly with one out in our 5th to put Phils at second and third. Part-timer Joe Schultz then whipped a hit into left and the game was tied! Take that, Eppa! Seriously, this Rixey disease has had us sick all year, so it was nice to see us getting some good licks in.

Of course, so were they. Oeschie gave up two quick singles and a scoring fly to put Cincy up 4-3, but then Cy creamed another Rixey pill high over the right train tracks, and it was 4-4. We were in a great one here, and for a while I actually forgot about Rube Foster and this Sunday and all the headaches going with it.

But then Cy came up to start the Phillie 8th. Cincy had knocked Oeschie out with three hits and a run in the top half, but Steineder got out of the mess that was left. Rixey was 15-5 for a reason, though, and wasn't about to let Cy take him out of the park a third time.

So the first pitch knocked him in the head! It wasn't a fastball thank God, but it sure didn't feel good. The crowd moaned as he dropped in the dust. I think I even heard Mama scream thirty blocks away.

Cy got up all wobbly, dusted off his uniform and headed straight to the mound! Eppa ducked the first punch but Cy is a big fellow and had him in a headlock in no time. By the time every player on both teams had reached the fight Eppa and Cy were tearing at each other like mad dogs.

It took almost five minutes to get them apart, and park policemen had to help. Cy was booted out of the game, but was too dizzy to play anymore anyway. Unbelievably though, the umpires allowed Rixey to stay in! Fans hurled trash and a few bottles from the stands, and he had to duck a few other things to make his first pitch to Jimmie Wilson.

Well, he should have come out for his own good, because we weren't about to let him get away with throwing at anyone's head, let alone our best hitter's. Wilson singled. Mokan singled. Parkinson singled. Steineder popped a deep fly for a third run and we were suddenly ahead with justice 7-5! Skinny bastard.

The Reds aren't exactly in second place because someone gave it to them for Christmas, though. In the 9th with one out, they got more patient at the plate than they were all game, and waited for Steineder to crack. Walker, Bressler and Roush all walked. Pinelli made it 7-6 with a single. Bubbles Hargave ripped a 2-run single to put them up 8-7. Daubert singled and it was 9-7 and the crowd was moaning all over again.

Dibut relieved to keep Rixey from being shot, and after a Ford single, Holke dribbled into a double play, Harper who replaced Cy in the cleanup hole, grounded to third and the bout was over.

The doctor checked Cy's noggin after the game and said he had a little concussion and won't be able to play for a few days. Naturally, Mama had heard the news from someone on her block and showed up outside the clubhouse to escort him down the street to who knows where.

He might be okay by Sunday, but this makes two other problems now. Rixey thinks he's pitching with the white stars, so he and Cy better drink some moonshine together, and quick. The other thing is that our best slugger just went out with the first-place Bucs coming in tomorrow. And nobody following this National League race is surprised by that.

Good night, reader-people!
—Vinny

Only other National League game today:

at BRAVES 4-7-0, CARDINALS 3-11-2
Wow. The Cards drop three out of four at Braves Field? What's this season coming to? Cotton Tierney singles in Bancroft in the last of the 10th to finally give Boston its 30th win of the year. Slumping Hornsby gets one one single in five tries and now has to face much tougher pitching in Brooklyn. And probably at Hilldale Field, too, but don't tell anyone.

NATIONAL LEAGUE through Thursday, August 7
Pittsburgh Pirates	67	37	.644	—
Cincinnati Reds	64	45	.587	5.5
Brooklyn Robins	63	46	.578	6.5
New York Giants	59	47	.557	9
St. Louis Cardinals	54	53	.505	14.5
Chicago Cubs	49	57	.462	19
Philadelphia Phillies	42	66	.389	27
Boston Braves	30	77	.280	38.5

LURKING IN WEEDS, AN EXPLOSIVE MINE

HEILMAN'S WORDS PREFACE LATE AND SHOCKING TIGER RALLY OVER YANKS

By C. Jedediah Butterworth
Base Ball Freescriber

August 6, 1924

As I watch the Tigers take swatting practice before today's finale with New York, the formidable Harry Heilman walks over to me. His usually tan face appears a bit pale, and there is a furtive look in his eye.

"I'm telling nobody else but you about this, Cal. There's a full-blown exhibition game between whites and Negroes this Sunday in Philadelphia, and I am definitely going to play."

So it is true! I then relate what the Babe had told me last night at Ford's mansion, and we spend the next five minutes confirming other rumors. Aside from a treasure trove of great players from the National League, Eddie Collins of the White Sox is interested, as are Joe Sewell, Glenn Myatt and Speaker from Cleveland, Baby Doll Jacobson from the Browns, and Jimmie Dykes from the Athletics. I ask him if any of the first-place Senators have been contacted, but he isn't sure. "The thing is, with such a huge lead in the race, they can afford to skip out on a game." I then ask how in the world all these great players are going to disappear for a day without Commissioner Landis finding out. "There's a young Philadelphia fanatic of a fan involved in this thing named Benny something, and he supposedly has a clever plan."

I look up to see a swarm of other reporters studying us, along with a few of the Tiger players, and Heilman walks me further away from them, down the left field foul line. "Keeping this quiet is the biggest problem," he says, "You can tell Ruth if you want but make sure he keeps his big trap shut. And Cobb? Don't mention one word. He'd probably want to play, too, but no one can stand the son-of-a-bitch so we'd probably end up telling him to stick it." That's an amusing line, I tell him, vowing to remember it.

"If we really pull this off, Cal, we're going to need a first-rate reporter to do it justice. So me and Speaker are hoping you'll be there. We really liked that story you wrote abut the knothole kids the other day. Whoa—gotta hit!" He lumbers off to the home plate area and I repair back to my lofty press perch, a place I haven't seen for a few days.

And with good reason. The cloistered spot feels more removed from the action than ever, and it doesn't help today to have dozens of neighboring writers' eyes glancing at me. Things improve when the actual contest commences, but when the Yanks pepper Ken Holloway for five hits and three runs in the 3rd, a crabby silence permeates the row.

"What were you and Heilman blabbing about?" asks Grover Quincy, a cantankerous word-man from the Grand Traverse Herald. I tell him nothing in particular and go back to my typewriter, but it isn't long before Edward Needlemeyer of the Kalamazoo Gazzette is approaching me at the sandwich table. "Hey Butterworth what's this about Heilman wanting more money?" Again, I say little, reminding him that I have a very cordial relationship with Heilman and even had a fine interview with him on a train trip earlier in the season. But my greatest gossiping fears have surfaced, and when the stooge continues to probe I ignore him, pack up my scorebook and pens and hastily leave the press area.

By the time I settle comfortably into a vacant grandstand seat past first base, it is the bottom of the 6th and the Tigers have made an art form out of stranding runners against Sad Sam Jones. They abandon seven through the first five innings, and three more as I'm watching with Rigney popping to left. Holloway has soothed the Yankee lumber since the fateful 3rd, and Dauss takes over to throw a 1-2-3 7th.

Then Wingo singles sharply in front of Ruth to begin the Detroit 7th. Cobb forces him but Heilman rips a clean safety and Cobb scampers around to third. The recently disappointing Manush lines out, but Bassler walks, Pratt singles home two, the mob explodes around me and Sad Sam takes his tears to the dugout.

The New York relief corps is a sorry lot, possibly the most ineffective in base ball, and Milt Gaston proves this instantly. He walks the free-swinging O'Rourke to re-stock the sacks, and with Cobb unwilling to remove the tough Dauss from the game, he lets Hooks bat. Gaston throws him an impotent fastball, Dauss' bat flashes and the ball is cracked on a line between Meusel and Witt to deep left-center! Three runs are home on the startling Hooks Dauss triple, and the Yanks have coughed up another late lead.

To their credit, they do not succumb yet. Johnson doubles to lead the 8th, Ruth singles him home and Meusel doubles Ruth home, but Dauss squeaks out of the frame without further molestation. To make our fans even more unnecessarily nervous, the Tigers strand the bases filled once more in the 8th, and with two outs in the Yank 9th, reliever Cole walks Ward and Johnson to bring up the Bambino with the winning digits on the base paths.

The Navin throng is on its feet. The knothole pack out on Trumbull Avenue can be heard screaming and shouting past the right fence. Heilman inches back almost to the bordering dirt track. Cole winds...throws...

...and the Mighty Babe pops out to second to end the game.

Later, I manage to get Ruth to myself in one of the club house tunnels, and I've never seen him look so frustrated. "Tough day, Babe. But hey—that exhibition game you asked me about? It's real." A look of absolute heaven fills his big face, and he pounds my back. "Thanks for the tip, kid." I implore him to keep it quiet, and he says, "Aw, you know me. And Pennock and Goslin won't tell a soul." He walks away to catch their train to Cleveland. My thoughts are spinning, and I turn to begin thinking about how I will begin this account.

When I see Ty Cobb, fully dressed, standing with reporters outside the Tiger club house. Staring at me.

NYY 003 000 020 - 5 9 0
DET 000 000 60x - 6 11 0


THE DAY'S OTHER AMERICAN LEAGUE CONTESTS:

at BROWNS 5-11-1, SENATORS 4-10-2
Washington finds a way to drop three of the four games in St. Louis, falling to Dixie Davis with the help of two more untimely errors by Prothro and Tate. Mogridge loses his second in a row after a flurry of wins, and the Tigers pick up another rare game on the leaders. The Browns, meanwhile, stand a mere two games away from the Yankees.

at WHITE SOX 6-5-0, ATHLETICS 1-9-2
Your typical Chicago win, as they are outhit for the game yet make the most out of every opponent gaffe. A monstrous two-base flub by Lamar in the 1st leads to three Sox runs and all that Robertson needs.

RED SOX 4-11-0, at INDIANS 2-6-0
On their way to Navin Field, the Bostons give the Tribe another rough time. Ehmke shuts down the potent Cleveland bats and chips in with a game-deciding single in the 9th off the quietly horrific Stan Coveleski. The big Slav has now dropped his last ten decisions and amassed a 4-15 record on the campaign.

AMERICAN LEAGUE through Wednesday, August 6
Washington Senators	70	39	.642	—
Detroit Tigers	59	51	.536	11.5
Chicago White Sox	56	51	.523	13
New York Yankees	53	54	.495	16
St. Louis Browns	52	57	.477	18
Cleveland Indians	49	61	.445	21.5
Philadelphia Athletics	48	61	.440	22
Boston Red Sox	47	60	.439	22