Hunting a Detroit Tiger (23 page)

“That was after the cops showed up and the trouble started. When there’s trouble I can show up pretty quick.”

I pressed, “Where’d you show up
from?
”

Hyman looked at me sternly. “Elsewhere.”

I wasn’t going to get anywhere with that question. I tried an even less likely tack. “Why don’t you just tell me who did it?”

“What?”

“You know it wasn’t me. You never even assumed it—everybody else called me ‘the guy who killed Emmett Siever.’ Even Zaluski thought I killed him. But you never did. The only way for you to know it
wasn’t
me is for you to know who it
was.
”

“You’re assuming a lot from something I
didn’t
say.”

“It’s not only that. You keep meeting me whenever I ask you to, and you even trusted me enough to go to your secret place by the Rouge Plant.”

Hyman shifted uncomfortably. Finally, he said, “Pass the peanuts.” That was the most I could get out of him.

M
onday afternoon, I was in Navin Field, next in line for batting practice. Watching the Tigers players around me, I wondered how well they would do in a game against the Stars. It seemed a terrible shame that there was no chance of finding out.

Our opponents today were Sad Sam Jones and the Boston Red Sox. I was finally slated to start again, relieving Babe Pinelli at third base. The hot corner wasn’t my favorite position, but I reminded myself that it’s really not bad, either—as long as nothing’s hit to you.

Bobby Veach had almost finished taking his swings when our bat boy came up to me. “There’s a man wants to talk to you,” he said.

I glanced at Frank Navin’s box. “Is it Navin?”

“No, some fan, I reckon.”

Still looking in the direction of the owner’s seats, I realized that Hub Donner hadn’t been there in some time. Maybe he and Navin weren’t getting along too well lately. “He give you a name?” I asked.

Veach walloped one last drive and said, “You’re up, Mick.”

“Mmm, yeah,” said the bat boy, “but I forget. It sounded like the name of a store.”

I had no doubt that this kid was going to work his way up to team president someday. “Tell him he can see me after the game,” I said. “I gotta hit now.” I stepped into the batter’s box and gave the fan no further thought.

He didn’t come to mind again until the middle of the eighth inning. I was trotting to the dugout after catching a pop fly for the third out, when one of the ushers hailed me and handed me a note.

I unfolded the expensive parchment. Penned in meticulous script was the message:

John M. Ward. A name like a store. John Montgomery Ward!

I canceled my dinner plans with Margie, and at seven o’lock I was seated across from John Montgomery Ward in the Statler Hotel dining room. The Statler was next to the Hotel Tuller, where I had lunched with Hub Donner almost six weeks ago.

Although Ward was about sixty years old, he could have stepped out of one of the tobacco cards I’d seen him on when I was a kid. His hair was graying at the temples and his impeccably trimmed mustache was flecked with silver, but he looked fit and handsome and ready to play ball again if he so chose. It took all the restraint I had not to ask him for his autograph.

“You played a fine game today,” he said, pausing from his steak.

“Thank you.” I had committed no errors in the field, but only got one hit in four at bats. “Fine” was a generous assessment. Ward’s manner was entirely gracious, polite, and genuine; he was a dignified man who maintained nineteenth-century courtesy.

He put down his knife and fork, and directed his dark, piercing eyes at me. “I won’t waste your time with idle chatter, Mr. Rawlings. There is a reason I wanted to speak with you. A matter of great importance, I believe.”

“Yes, sir?” I hadn’t said “sir” since the army; it came out naturally to John Ward.

“You may be aware of my involvement with the Brotherhood of Professional Base Ball Players a number of years back.”

“Yes, sir. Actually, I was reading the Players’ League Guide a few weeks ago. I also read the article you wrote for
Lippincott’s.
”

“I’m impressed,” he said, with a tilt of his head. “Not many ball players have an appreciation of their history. Tell me: what is your opinion of what you read?”

I answered honestly, “I think your arguments were very convincing.”

“So you are favorably inclined toward a players’ union?”

“Well ... I’m not against it.”

Ward smiled. “I take it my arguments were not quite
sufficiently
convincing. Perhaps I should explain my present intent.” He brushed his napkin along his mustache, first one side and then the other. “I believe this to be a crucial time, Mr. Rawlings. There is a very real danger, with the present antilabor sentiment in the country, of losing what little ground we’ve gained in the past thirty years. I believe, however, that if the players remain strong and united, there is also opportunity.”

“What do you mean?”

“I believe that the nation will soon tire of the sort of antilabor hysteria that Attorney General Palmer and others are fomenting. Then the pendulum of public opinion will swing in our favor. And we
must
be prepared to ride that pendulum to the ultimate destination: abolition of the reserve clause.”

“But why are you talking to me? I’m not active in the union.”

“I would like you to
become
active.” He studied me for a few moments. “There have been pieces in the newspapers suggesting that you are about to denounce the efforts to unionize. If you were to come out
for
the union, instead, it would demonstrate unity of purpose.”

I sought for an explanation to give him, a way to make him understand that I didn’t want to be involved
at all.
“Mr. Ward, I respect you tremendously, and I’m grateful for everything you and Dave Fultz and others have done to help baseball players. I’m
not
against the union, and I’ll never say anything to hurt it, no matter how hard I get pushed by the owners.” Ward gave an approving nod. “But I can’t say that I’m
for
it, either.”

“How can you not be in favor of protecting your own interests?”

I wasn’t sure I could answer that, not even to myself, but I tried to express my feelings as best I could. “I started out playing for factory teams, Mr. Ward. Shipyards, mills, canneries—any industry that would give me a job and let me play on their team. One time, I worked for a cotton mill where it was mostly children operating the machinery. The spindle boys were so small, they had to stand on boxes to reach the spools. And do you know what they did when they got a few seconds off for a break? They’d look out the window and watch the mill’s owners playing golf!” I paused to collect myself. “The way I see it, I’m
lucky
to be playing baseball for living. It’s what I love to do, and I get paid a good salary for doing it. Mine workers, those kids working in the mills, seamstresses in sweatshops,
those
are the people I sympathize with. I think
that’s
where the unionizing effort should go, not to me or to any other ballplayer.”

John Ward accepted my comments with no visible sign of disagreement. “That is not an unreasonable argument,” he said. “I’ve heard it many times before. However, may I raise a few points that you might not have considered?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“First, there’s the matter of principle. No human being should be bought, sold, or traded against his will. No amount of compensation can make such a practice tolerable.”

I shrugged. I agreed with him about the principle, but I was able to tolerate it pretty well.

“I realize,” said Ward, “that it would take exceptional courage to confront the owners on something as intangible as principle. The owners are much more unified than the players, and, therefore, they are quite effective in making sure that ‘agitators’ do not have very long careers.”

I thought guiltily that my reluctance to buck the owners might have something to do with the fact that I wanted to go on to coaching or managing after my playing days were over. “I
am
going against the owners,” I maintained. “Like I said, they want me to go public against the union, and I won’t.”

“Let me raise another point,” he said. “A players’ union is good for baseball.”

I was always leery of things that were supposed to be “good for baseball.” “How so?” I asked.

“It might avert a situation such as the one that transpired during last year’s World Series. I believe that the lack of representation for the players contributed to their conspiring to throw the games. Charles Comiskey paid his players half what any other team would have—and even charged them for laundering their uniforms. But the players were not free to sell their services elsewhere. Because of the reserve clause, they were
bound
to Comiskey.”

Ward spoke as if it was a fact that the White Sox had thrown the Series. Although the rumors and newspaper stories were growing more numerous and more specific, I wasn’t yet ready to accept them as proof. I didn’t accept Ward’s assumptions about either the Sox’ conduct or their motive. “The
reserve clause
is what made them sell out?”

He shook his head. “Not directly. And don’t misunderstand me: I do not condone the players’ actions for any reason. I am simply saying that the circumstances were ripe for such an occurrence. An example: in 1917, Comiskey promised Ed Cicotte a bonus of $10,000 if he won thirty games. But when Cicotte won his twenty-eighth, Comiskey benched him for the rest of the season. That is an outrageous misuse of power. The Chicago players did have legitimate grievances; they did not have recourse to address those grievances. Total control of their careers rests with Charles Comiskey and the other owners.”

“Comiskey was with your Players League, wasn’t he?”

Ward frowned slightly. “Yes. Sometimes those who switch sides in a war become the most extreme partisans of their new camps.” He shook off whatever thoughts Charles Comiskey had brought to mind. “Allow me to make one final point. I understand you suffered a wrist injury during spring training.”

“Yes, but it’s all better now.”

“What if it wasn’t? If your injury had been permanent, what would you do?”

I hesitated. “I don’t know. I’d probably try to get a coaching job or something. Or—” I thought a little more. “Or I might end up working in one of those same factories that I did when I was coming up.”

“You mentioned a cotton mill,” Ward said. “Did you know that Emmett Siever’s daughter worked in one of those? Starting at age ten.”

“Uh, no, I didn’t know that.”

“There is no provision in baseball to care for players—or their families—after retirement. It’s easy to ignore such things when you’re in your prime—young, healthy, living well—but then, like Siever, you discover too late that you have nothing to show for your career.”

“Is that why Emmett Siever got involved in the union so suddenly?”

“Let’s just say that he finally came around.”

I took a sip of water and a deep breath. “Mr. Ward, I respect you—as a player, as a man, as somebody who really believes in his cause. But I just don’t feel it’s
my
cause. Not enough to go out on a limb for it. If the players really started a union, I’d probably join, but I wouldn’t be a leader. I’m sorry to disappoint you. I give you my word, though: I’ll never do anything against the union, either.”

“I believe you, Mr. Rawlings. And, although I do not agree with your position, I do understand it.”

“Can I ask you a question, Mr. Ward?”

“Certainly.”

“Emmett Siever was trying to tie the players’ union to the IWW. Aren’t they pretty radical for baseball players to get mixed up with?”

He answered slowly, “You mentioned a concern about child labor. Do you know who said, ‘The worst thief is the one who steals the playtime of children?’ ”

“No, who?”

“Big Bill Haywood, one of the founders of the IWW. You’d be surprised where you might find your allies. The Wobblies have been in the forefront of some very admirable efforts—including child-labor reform. While I admit that I am not entirely comfortable with the more radical element of the IWW, I will not condemn the organization out of hand, either.”

I repeated Haywood’s quote to myself and tried to commit it to memory.

“One more question for you,” Ward said. “Is your concern for injustices in the mines and the mills merely an excuse to do nothing, or are you working to rectify them?”

“Uh, no, I’m not—I just ... No.”

His face showed disappointment in my response. “I do hope that someday you’ll find something to believe in and that you’ll fight for it, Mr. Rawlings. If not for yourself and your fellow ballplayers, then perhaps for those children in the mills. I’m sure they’d appreciate having you on their side.”