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The World Series

Heywood Broun

The New York World

October 12, 1926

 

The World Series just ended gave professional baseball the worst black eye which it has worn since the White Sox scandal. Crookedness alienated the rooters then, and the caution which became epidemic in the closing contest is not much more endearing. New York commentators have endeavored to take the defeat of the Yankees with grace and to say, “The best team won.” Maybe the better team did win, but not without nesting deeply among white feathers. 

 

In the final game Babe Ruth was passed four times, and in the entire series he received eleven bases on balls. One editorial writer compares St. Louis to Cinderella. This is a comparison most unfair to the little lady. She took a chance. If her conduct had been governed by strategy such as that of Rogers Hornsby she would never have lingered at the ball until the clock struck 12 and her coach became a pumpkin. No, indeed; under the St. Louis system Cinderella would have left a little before 11 rather than run the risk of having the white horses turn to mice.

 

And, speaking of mice, I don’t understand why sporting writers should pay tribute to the grit and fighting spirit of the Cardinals. When a team grows so panic stricken that it will not allow a famous hitter a chance to swing at any ball within his reach I don't precisely understand just how or why it is called courageous. There was much big talk before the series about how St. Louis pitchers would pitch to Ruth, just as to any other batter. But after he broke out into home runs, they didn't do it.

 

There is no more tiresome spectacle in baseball than watching a catcher step way out beyond the plate while the pitcher tosses him four wide ones. If this practice is to continue, let's at least have some rule to simplify the procedure. The pitcher could advance to the plate and tap the batter on the wrist, thus indicating his intention of passing him. Such a system would save time and be less hypocritical.

 

Very much has been said and written about baseball as the national game. It is an institution almost as sacred as the Constitution, and we have all been given to understand that no other game in any land can be compared to it. Maybe so, but in despised cricket I believe the bowler cannot wave the batter away and say, “I'd rather not have anything to do with you.” On the contrary, I understand that the famous hitters are up for hours and whack drives all over the premises till they tire. It isn't too much, I think, to demand that Babe Ruth ought to be allowed at least one wallop in every turn at bat.

 

And, also, what is this stuff I've heard about the excellent moral training baseball affords to the young? Are the little lisping tots supposed to watch and get the notion that the best form of behavior is to dodge each issue if it happens to be a tough one? I'm not wholly out of sympathy with that, but unfortunately it will not always work. There are Dragons of a sort capable of reaching out and swatting even those who seek to go round about. Launcelot did not take a short cut across the meadows when he spied an approaching knight capable of giving him trouble.

 

But let's not be romantic, period. The thing is practical. Are ballplayers and managers by any chance forgetting that the game is played for the amusement of the people who pay at the gate to enter? Not even a hometown fan likes to see a dangerous batter purposely passed in the pinch. Out in St. Louis, they hooted their own man when Ruth was denied a chance to hit. The thing is too silly to be continued, and yet it has gone on season after season without interference by the rule makers. No wonder many prefer to stay at home and listen to games over the radio. There at least you can take a drink or read part of a good book while some timorous twirler is throwing four wide ones in the general direction of Babe Ruth.

 

I swear in all sincerity that it is nothing to me which city holds the world's championship. It isn't local pride which is offended. St. Louis had not even won a pennant for thirty-eight years. Until this season. But that's no excuse for all their pitchers, except Alexander, falling into a panic at the mere sight of our Babe Ruth. Let them have the flag and lock it in some strongbox or do whatever else with it they please. But I'm not going to join in any chorus of compliments to the Cardinals. They were and are a gutless crew.

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From The Best in the World: A Selection of News and Feature Stories, Editorials, Humor, Poems, and Reviews, from 1921 to 1928, Viking Press, 1973.