Rusty Tipple

So, when they were extolling Domingo German's magnificent effort the other day on YES, they mentioned that his 9 strikeouts in his first start were the most by any Yankee since Dan Tipple, in 1915.

Say what?

This seems to be a year of miracle and wonders, with young Yankees reaching all sorts of new milestones, such as El Conquistador surpassing Mickey Mantle to become the youngest Bomber ever with a walk-off home run.

I am lucky enough—that is to say, old and decrepit enough—to have seen The Mick play.

But Dan Tipple?

Thanks to the wonderful resource that is baseballreference, I was able to turn up what information there is on Mr. Tipple very quickly—and there is very little.

Daniel Slaughter Tipple was also known as "Big Dan"—thanks to his six feet of height and 176 pounds—and as "Rusty," which I guess implies he was a redhead.  He was a son of the prairie, born in Rockford, Illinois, in 1890, and died and was buried in Omaha, in 1960, age 70 years and a month-and-a-half more.

Dan made his major-league debut with the Yanks in that 1915 season, the first one under the leadership of the colonels, Ruppert and Huston. At that point, the franchise was still a mess—without a home of its own, playing in the Polo Grounds and paying rent to the Giants.

The roster was full of players who were on their way up, or on their way down, or just treading water.  There was pitcher Dazzy Vance, who went 0-3 and hurt his arm, but who would eventually make his way back to the big leagues and become a Hall of Fame pitcher (and character) with the Brooklyn Robins.

There was Birdie Cree, just 5-6 and 150 pounds—you can see how Tipple got that "Big Dan" moniker—and who had looked like a star just four years earlier, when he hit. 348 with 22 triples and 48 stolen bases, but who was playing out the string now, hitting .214 in his last major-league season.

There was Sailor Bob Shawkey, and Wally Pipp, and Roger Peckinpaugh,  who would stay on long to become key players in the First Dynasty.

And there were a whole bunch of guys who sounded like escapees from a book of boys baseball fiction:  Luke Boone, Doc Cook, Hugh High, Skeeter Shelton, Pi Schwert, Frank Gilhooley.  Pitchers such as Jack Warhop, Boardwalk Brown, King Cole, and Cy Pieh.

And there was Rusty Tipple. He made his debut on September 18, an inning of relief work in a game the Yanks lost.

Then came the big start. Big Dan Tipple threw the second game of the fifth doubleheader the Yanks had played in a week. He won, 6-1, giving up a home run to Braggo Roth, but otherwise scattering four hits and five walks, and striking out those 10 little Indians.

Among the other hitters he faced were Bill Wambsganss, who Ring Lardner would call the first man ever to pull off a triple play in the World Series without the assistance of a vowel.  And Ray Chapman, who would be hit by a pitch and killed on that same Polo Grounds field, five years later.

As for Rusty, the win earned him one more start, again at the back of a home doubleheader, this time on October 6, the next-to-last game of the season.

Big Dan pitched another complete game, and once again surrendered only one earned run. But this time he lost, 4-2, thanks to three errors, including one by Tim Hendryx, who must have been dreaming of playing Monterey out in centerfield.

The opponent was the Boston Red Sox, who had clinched the pennant long before, and were just enjoying a warm-up before their World Series date with the Phillies. Their winning pitcher was a brash young 20-year-old, a kid who loved to play in the Polo Grounds, and banged a double off Tipple, as well as winning his 18th game.

He was Babe Ruth.

And...that was that.

Dan Tipple's final major-league line was 1-1, with a 0.95 ERA, and two complete games.

There's no indication of why he never got a second shot in the majors. The next season, Tipple won 20 games for Jack Dunn's International League Baltimore Orioles—a team usually as good as several in the majors.

Didn't get him back up.  He missed a year—probably because of the war—in 1918, but afterwards he was back pitching well in the highest levels of the minors for several more seasons. But the call never came again.

I have no idea why—though his fate wasn't that uncommon back in the day of independent minor leagues, and tight major-league rosters.

I like to imagine him rocking in his chair on some big front porch in Omaha near the end of his life, telling his grandson and his friends, "Yep, I pitched against the great Babe Ruth. Mighta beat him, too, if the boys had picked it a little bit better behind me."

The kids would look up a little dubious at the old-timer: "So why didn't you stick then?"

Rusty Tipple pushes his spectacles back a little on his nose and looks out over his wide green Omaha lawn, stretching out before him like a fresh May infield.

"Well, I don't know. I don't rightly know."