In response to your request for an outline of our chances this season, I can only say that they are punk, rotten, nil and otherwise no good. I haven't succeeded yet in finding a man who knows a bat from a hoe handle, and, with [team owner] Charley Chapin sitting on the bag like a miser on a nickel that's nailed to the sidewalk, I can't see how I'm going to get any. If we win another pennant, it will be a pure miracle, and I will be surprised if we don't get thrown out of the league.
Take it from me. Rochester is going to be so far behind that they'll stop counting her in the averages. This lot of bone-headed, mummified fossils I've collected so far couldn't win a ball game from a team of deaf and dumb kids. There you have my opinion.
Trouble seemed to follow Heinie Zimmerman around, with this May 22, 1915 Sporting Life tidbit about delinquent alimony payments comprising only one among many unpleasant incidents in an often ugly career. (One highlight: Zimmerman had a stretch in the summer of 1913 where he was ejected three times in five games). Mrs. Zimmerman was Helene Chasar, who married him in 1912, when she was just seventeen. She gave birth to their daughter a year later. By 1915, when she brought this lawsuit, she was reporting that Heinie had abandoned them, claiming that, though the Cubs paid him over $7,000 a year, his only financial contribution had been a five-dollar coin that he sent his daughter for Christmas. Their divorce was finalized in March of 1916.
"The Great Zim"
That following August, after nine-plus years as a Cub in Chicago (while there he'd distinguished himself with delightful antics like nearly blinding his teammate, Jimmy Sheckard, by throwing ammonia at his face) his team traded the strong-hitting Zimmerman (a New York native) to John McGraw's New York Giants. The next year the Giants went all the way to the World Series, where "The Great Zim" arguably botched a crucial rundown and drew the ire of Giants fans.
And then, on September 11th, 1919, Zimmerman approached Fred Toney, who was pitching for the Giants that evening, after the first inning, and suggested that delivering a less-than-stellar pitching performance would be "worth his while." And he didn't stop there, soon bullying (with the help of cohort and incessant gambler Hal Chase) a number of Giants players with similar suggestions to throw games. McGraw suspended him, and a few months later the legendary manager and pitcher Toney would testify to Zim's various misdeeds in court. Zimmerman never played Major League Baseball again.
Rowdy Elliott had a brief heyday in the majors, with stints with the Braves, the Cubs and the Brooklyn Robins, punctuated by minor league play. The above suspension was hardly his nadir. That came a dozen years later, on February 12, 1934, when he plummted out the window of a San Francisco apartment building and fell to his death. The cause of the fall and the circumstances surrounding it remain a mystery.
Ed Delahanty quickly moved from his first team, the Cleveland Shamrocks, up to a state league and then tri-state league, and soon he signed with the Philadelphia Phillies. After a weaker year or two, his batting average climbed above .400, where it stayed for three years running. He hit like crazy and hustled and played strong defense, and soon was one of the sport's most in-demand players, dominating throughout the 1890s, both offensively and defensively. Ed soon parlayed his prominence into a big payday when he signed with the Washington Senators, a team in the new American league.
And then matters began to complicated for poor Delahanty. He signed a lucrative contract with a large signing bonus with the National League New York Giants, though it conflicted with the contract he signed with the Senators. In a rare accord, the National and the American leagues agreed to honor each other's contracts, and Ed was stuck in Washington with a bum ankle and a bad back, begging team management to reimburse the Giants for the bonus he'd blown on drinking, gambling and carousing. His behavior grew increasingly unpredictable; he was rumored to have flirted with suicide.
And then, on July 2, 1903, Ed Delahanty abandoned his team and his belongings in Detroit and, for reasons that aren't entirely clear, boarded a train for New York. A scourge on board, Delahanty harassed other passengers, doused himself in drink, broke glass and barreled around the train's narrow passageways, drunk and at times disoriented. Finally the conductor kicked him off the train. The story gets murky after that, but by all accounts he had some sort of scuffle with a night watchman on the International Railway bridge that connects Canada to New York, which ended with Ed plummeting or jumping into the Niagara River, far below. The river swept his body into the Falls. He didn't survive. At the time of his death, he was probably the most famous player in baseball.
But before all that, Delahanty hit 101 home runs, a feat almost unheard of in the deadball era, and it was not usual for him to produce a hit in every plate appearance during a game. On May 11, 1903, less than two months before Delahanty's untimely death, The Baltimore Sun ran an article under the headline "Queer Baseball Yarns," in which a reporter reminisced about a hot streak he had one fine afternoon in 1897, when he was still playing for the Phillies.
The Phillies were playing Chicago at West Side grounds. In his first at bat, Ed Delahanty knocked a home run over the left field bleachers, and then, the next time he was up, knocked another over the right field stands.
In his next at bat he produced a third home run, this one right to center. He "cantered clear around to home without trouble," according to the Sun. The crowd hollered and cheered.
Sure enough, he hit the ball, hard, and it soared into left, ricocheted off the clubhouse roof, and disappeared for an astounding fourth home run.
More than five years after the fact, TheSun declared this five-for-five streak as "the most remarkable thing that ever happened on a ball field, by common consent."
Superstition still reigns in baseball, though these days the line between magical forces and obsessive/compulsive disorder can be unclear. But in the late 1800 and early 1900s, a large percentage of the ball playing population believed beyond question in hexes and hoodoos, and took drastic measures to keep them at bay. This typically involved the deployment of a mascot, including but not limited to:
A raccoon (Baltimore)
A bear cub (Denver)
A wildcat imported from Texas (New York)
A white angora goat (New York)
A life-sized Billiken (a kind of charm doll. Apparently this one brought rain) (New York)
A "homely bull calf" (St. Louis)
A baby (Baltimore - the 1908 headline read: "BALL CLUB ADOPTS BABY")
Black men; the blind and the cross-eyed being especially popular (note, though, that cross-eyed women spelled trouble). Indeed some pursued Major League Baseball mascot as a vocation, the only way in, perhaps, since they weren't yet allowed to play :
The New York Times, April 1, 1887
Dogs were a favorite, though they sometimes caused dramatic scenes:
On July 22, 1888 Brooklyn left fielder William “Darby” O’Brien was arrested for allegedly stealing the pet terrier of Miss Louie Jones of Stapleton, Staten Island in order to use him as a mascot.
"Larry," the yellow mangy mut cherised by the Cleveland Americans, was locked up on May 13, 1914, when a hotel porter claimed the team had absconded with his pet. The team lost to Chicago 3-13 the day Larry sat in jail. Outfielder Jack Graney insisted at the trial that the pooch was his, offering as proof the fact that Larry tried to run to him every time he snapped his fingers.
Young boys also frequently took on a mascot role, with mixed results.
Buster Wilson, yet another New York charm, was popular:
As was Charlie Gallagher, whose fame was aided by the rumor that he'd been "born with teeth":
The New York Times, June 20, 1886
But there were problems, too.
9-year-old Manhattan College mascot Lee Thornton climbed a tree and jumped for a fence in celebration of a victory, only to fall and fatally fracture his skull. Far Rockaway suffered at the hands of a cunning culprit when they enlisted 16-year-old Joseph Leach, the son of a prominent townsman, as their mascot. Before the game the players "“gave all of their valuables, including watches, jewelry, and money, aggregating $300 in value, into mascot Leach’s custody for safe keeping.” In the fifth inning, they realized he was gone.
The New York Times, July 30, 1893
Speculation was that he'd hightailed it to Chicago.
More traditional amulets were also common, including four-leaf clovers and horse shoes. But no trinket could match the power of the lucky rabbit's foot, though it had to be procured under the right circumstances. According to a 1893 article in the Daily True American, a genuine a rabbit's foot was one "taken from the left hind log of a graveyard rabbit caught in said graveyard at the very witching time of night when churchyards yawn."
Even those measures, which may strike us as extreme, were not enough, according to some. "This is one definition of a potent rabbit’s foot," the article explains, "but other mascot authorities declare that the foot to be truly efficacious must be taken must be taken from the left hind leg of a graveyard rabbit caught in the dark of the moon at midnight by a cross-eyed colored man who first crawled into the graveyard backward." The proof, they claimed, was in the pudding- Louisville managed to break a miserable losing streak only after they procured fourteen rabbit's feet, at least one of them confirmed as caught in an Indian graveyard by a cross eyed black man in the dark of the moon. (No word on whether he did indeed crawl in backward).
And doubters be damned--continued bad luck proves nothing about a charm's efficacy, the writer proceeds to explain, but rather suggests incompetence on the part of he who strives to clear the curse. "Failure to carry out the entire programme is doubtless due the occasional failure of a rabbit’s foot to ward off hoodoos."
Perhaps no one bowed to the fear of hexes more than two of the longest-standing and best managers in deadball era baseball: the New York Giants' John McGraw and the Philadelphia Athletics' Connie Mack. In 1911, they faced each other in the World Series, and each armed himself with someone he figured as the ultimate talisman.