Philadelphia was baseball crazy. Recent papers lovingly described the Stockings’ 27-18 win over the powerful Athletics, hailing the visitors, especially Allison, for fielding “like Chinese magicians.” A mammoth crowd of twenty thousand had turned out in hundred-degree heat to see it. George Wright’s four hits had included two triples and a homer.
The papers also reprinted several bitter New York columns in which we were denounced as “eclectic.” Only because of Cincinnati’s “imported” eastern ballists, the argument went, was the West coming to “monopolize” the sporting scene. I was happy to read Chadwick’s answer that we were no more eclectic than other clubs—we were just beating the daylights out of them.
I was also glad to see that the Haymakers had been upset by the Eckfords, 22-14. The New York Tribune pointed out: “The large party of blacklegs who accompany the Haymakers for the sole purpose of betting laid their money on the favorites and lost.” Couldn’t happen to a nicer bunch. I wondered if McDermott had been among them.
In an adjacent column was an editorial reprinted from the New York Times entitled “Baseball in Danger.” It deplored the “enormous sums” changing hands during games between “a western nine and the champion clubs of New York.” If baseball were subject to the “plunging” of professional gamblers, the “great charm” of the game would be lost and it would sink to the status of “prizefighting, faro saloons, rat killing, cockfighting, and the like,” no longer attracting its “youthful and ardent admirers” to commence “a sporting career.”
It was clear that we were shaking things up. I still had trouble accepting the idea that baseball’s fate was undetermined. But that seemed to be the reality. More than before I appreciated Champion’s concerns regarding his fledgling pros. And Andy’s regarding his own career.
The morning heat was so sticky that occasional tepid showers offered the only relief. My high collar chafed my sweaty neck; my shirt was plastered to my chest. I bought a wooden fan from a street peddler and tried to stir the miasmal air. Such fans were mass-produced like book matches in later times—as much for advertising as practical use.
I toted the gladstone to a bank on Market Street and began what proved to be a lengthy procedure. “My goodness,” said an official, waving his hands over the wads of greenbacks. “We haven’t seen some of these since the war.”
“Finally broke into my cookie jar,” I said, eliciting a glassy stare. Never joke with nineteenth-century bankers. They’re not in it for fun.
At length I received two drafts for $11,620 each. I sent Twain’s to Elmira—I liked the idea of his getting it as he put the finishing touches on Innocents—and mine to a Cincinnati bank. Outside, the gladstone felt wonderfully light. So did I.
Another shower began. I bought an umbrella. Since I hadn’t figured out how to approach Harry and Champion, I didn’t. Instead I strolled down to see the Liberty Bell and visit Independence Hall. I fed the pigeons in Franklin Square. The morning passed pleasurably.
But by midafternoon I couldn’t contain myself. I took a hack to the ballpark at Seventeenth and Columbia, where the Stockings faced the Keystones. The driver pulled in among the carriages and announced that he too would stay for the game. We ate peanuts and looked on from center field. I felt strange watching the action from behind Harry.
My teammates looked weary. That plus the Keystones’ slugging and the damp conditions made for a sloppy game. We took an early lead, then hung on, flailing the Keystones and being flailed like ungainly punchers. The crowd, expecting a close, graceful exhibition, booed both clubs.
Allison didn’t play at all. Hurley started in left and Andy at catcher, but in the first inning a foul tip caught him over the eye; he traded places with George and played a decent shortstop the rest of the game, but I felt guilty for not being available. The game went seven innings before darkness forced a close with us leading, 45-30. Another victory, albeit ugly.
My reunion with the club went surprisingly smoothly. Harry was glad to have his other sub. Champion swallowed my story of a maiden aunt dying and leaving me everything. At least he seemed to. He questioned points of the litigation involved—which I fuzzed with truly inspired vagueness—and he desisted, no doubt deciding it was as well not to know too much. As for the cash box, I claimed I’d been so excited on receiving the telegram that I’d forgotten everything—including telling anybody good-bye or even remembering that I held the team’s receipts—until I’d jumped on a train for Syracuse. When I could finally get back, of course, they’d departed.
Well, it was pathetically thin—but better than confessing that Le Caron had tried to murder me again, and then I’d gone grave-robbing. I said I was sorry for inconveniencing everybody and offered to pay cash on the spot to cover my travel and hotel expenses during the tour. Champion lit up at that. “That’s the true idea,” he said warmly. “Make one’s own way!” As I handed him the money, he extended a telegram.
CHAMPION AND WRIGHT, C.B.B.C.: IMAGINE TWO THOUSAND PEOPLE AT THE GIBSON HOUSE WAITING FOR THE SCORE. EVERY MINUTE ROARS AND YELLS GO UP. OH, HOW IS THIS FOR HIGH?
“That came from home during the Athletic match,” said Champion. “We’re making history. Thousands are sharing our glory, Fowler. You should consider yourself most fortunate to be with us.”
“Oh, I do,” I said. “You have no idea.”
As for the Stockings, I told them how good I felt to be back with the “Eclectics.” George retorted that nobody on the club was half as eclectic as me, and Brainard dubbed me
