Tag: History

Player Spotlight: John “Honest Eddie” Murphy

In an era where old fashioned, blue collared, hardnosed ballplayers were virtually everywhere, one gentleman stands in distinction. He is John “Honest Eddie” Murphy (1891-1969), a veteran of 11 Major League seasons with the Philadelphia Athletics, Chicago White Sox, and Pittsburgh Pirates.

Getting his major league start in late 1912, Murphy would be a part of two of the best clubs in the Deadball Era: Connie Mack’s powerhouse Athletics, and the White Sox, where the nickname “Honest Eddie” was crowned him in the aftermath of the infamous Black Sox scandal of 1919.

Murphy made three World Series appearances in his career. In 1913 as the leadoff man on Mack’s A’s, and again in 1914, which would incidentally be his last season as an every day player. During those two years, Murphy would hit solidly (.295 and .274 respectively,) and score over 100 runs each, putting him among the league leaders. Following the disastrous 1914 World Series in which the A’s were swept by the notorious “Miracle Braves” from Boston, Connie Mack, in disgust, dismantled his pennant-winning club, which landed Murphy in Chicago with the White Sox. Although reunited there with his former A’s teammate and future Hall of Famer Eddie Collins, Murphy would see his playing time diminish rapidly over the next several years, as he struggled to see much action behind outfield thumpers Shoeless Joe Jackson, Happy Felsch, and the right field platoon of Nemo Liebold and John “Shano” Collins. During the infamous 1919 season, Murphy only appeared in 30 games, but hit .486 and was recognized and praised thereafter as one of the “Clean Sox.” Many years later, Murphy said of the scandal, “We might have started the dynasty that was the Yankees’ good fortune, but our best players…sold their honour and souls to the gamblers and a pennant purgutory came upon the White Sox.” (Pomrenke, 156.)

To his credit, Murphy embraced his role as a pinch hitter with the Sox from 1915-1921, hitting over .300 in four of those six years despite an inconsistent number of plate appearances and battling a couple injuries. Retiring from pro ball after 1921 before coming back for a handful of appearances with the Pirates in 1926, Murphy would tally up a strong .287 lifetime batting average and an OBP of .374. By all accounts, Murphy was a scrappy, tough ballplayer who never got the playing time he likely deserved. He was a team guy who flourished in the roles he was given throughout his career, although it’s hard not to wonder what could have been for this man if he was given the chance to play every day after 1914…

Farewell Honest Eddie. Baseball hasn’t forgotten you.

Source(s): Scandal On the South Side: The 1919 Chicago White Sox, Jacob Pomrenke (editor) 2015, a SABR publication

Random Baseball Fact

Here’s a baseball factoid for you that’s in a word, crazy:

If a pitcher threw every inning of all 162 games in a season, for four straight seasons, he’d still have 101 fewer career complete games than Cy Young.

They don’t make ’em like they used to, folks.

 

 

 

A Window To the Pasta

“It’s always a hot time in Brooklyn when the Giants come over.”

– Red Barber

By now you’ve likely noticed that I’ve theorized more than once how baseball is a spooky game and has a very haunted history. One of the aspects of this theory that literally manifests itself, is in the sounds of the game. It has been said that the soundtrack to America, is baseball on the radio. Taking a cue from this, I did some poking around and, thanks to YouTube, many old radio broadcasts are available to listen to, including old baseball games. Such records are a window into the treasured past.

One of my favorite examples of this wonderful audible history, is a classic National League rivalry matchup between the Giants and Dodgers, when they were both still in New York, on April 22, 1950. The very first thing you hear is Ebbets Field PA announcer Tex Rickards’ booming voice announcing the batting orders before legendary radio broadcaster Red Barber takes over. The ensuing broadcast is a great snapshot of our pastime, and a wonderful, if not haunting example of the deep, rich history of the game in an important, meaningful moment.

Take a trip back to 1950, and a time when baseball was life in America.

Brookyn Dodgers vs. New York Giants, April 22, 1950. 

Is This Heaven?

“There are only two seasons: Winter and baseball.”

-Bill Veeck

Embark with me on a quick journey to paradise…

Imagine winter’s steely cold veil being rolled back to reveal clear skies of the prettiest electric blue on a warm spring afternoon, with perfectly manicured grass toting gorgeus shades of emerald and shamrock, while the strong and indisputable scents of popcorn, hot dogs, fresh roasted peanuts and ice cold beer tantalize your senses. Classic, peppy organ music and a sometimes overly excited announcer boom from seemingly out of nowhere to direct and dictate the action you’re witnessing. You sit back and become enveloped in a tranquil, yet excited relaxation as you cheer on your heroes in the most graceful chess match ever played, and it becomes infinitely clear why it’s called our national pastime.

That paradise is real.

And in just a few short days, we will see it.

The 2016 baseball season is about to begin.

Old Hoss Tells Us We Are #1

Rad was more than a tremendous pitcher. He was a pioneer. Here is a quick tip of the cap to, and acceptance of, the bird flipped our way by the legendary gent who’s namesake was the inspiration for this blog. Here is the man in all his glory, Old Hoss Radbourn in a Boston team photo on Opening Day, 1886, giving the finger to the cameraman. This is the first known photo to showcase the gesture. Way to go ‘Ol Hoss!

Old Hoss Radbourn, back row, far left, flipping the bird. The first known photo to show the gesture.

Chapman’s Unwitting Prophecy

Baseball isn’t just the weirdest of all games. It’s also the spookiest. When you examine past eras of the sport, the ghosts of those bygone days tell an often eerie tale. Ray Chapman, the sparkling Indians shortstop who was struck by a pitch in the head and killed on August 16th, 1920, has a special place in the haunted history of our pastime.

At the end of October, 1919, members of the Cleveland Indians gathered at the Hotel Winton for Chapman’s bachelor dinner. Throughout the evening, amid the laughter, speeches and well wishes, Chapman could be heard whistling a song over and over, much to the confusion of his teammates and close friends.

The next time the entire club was together for a non-baseball related function was for Chapman’s funeral, less than a year later. The diddy he was whistling that night, it was recalled, was named “Good Bye Boys, I’m Through.”

Coincidence? Surely. But a bizarre instance nonetheless.

Those Little Moments

“…call it fate, call it luck, call it karma…” says Bill Murray’s Peter Venkman in the 1984 classic, Ghostbusters.

On July 25th, 2015, myself and two fellow diehard Cubs fan friends made the drive from our suburban town of Joliet to Wrigley Field for the Cubs/Phillies game. We didn’t anticipate anything special that day, just a few friends attending a ballgame like we’d all done so many times before. Little did we know that we would witness history.

It was a steamy summer Saturday and we arrived, customarily, well ahead of the 3pm first pitch to visit a few local establishments and take in the electric gameday atmosphere of Wrigleyville. On the way into the ballpark, I casually said to my friend Bill “you know what? I’m gonna do something today I haven’t done since I was about 10 years old.”

“Keep score?” Bill asked, reading my mind.

“Keep score.” I replied.

“Me too, that’s a great idea actually” he says, and we both proceeded to buy scorecards before entering the friendly confines.

We then witnessed Phillies pitcher Cole Hamels hurl a no-hitter against our beloved Cubs, cruising to a 5-0 win. It was about the only time I remember being satisfied with a loss, what with seeing a rare piece of baseball history in person. Now of course, deciding to keep score at the last second had nothing to do with the gem Hamels would toss, but it sure makes for an interesting coincidence. Why we both decided to keep a scorecard on that particular day, not for countless games prior, and not since, is worthy of a head scratch or two.

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Just another slice of the magic of baseball.

Ode to the ‘Ol Ballpark

My usual jogging route through my neighborhood takes me right up to St. Joe’s Park, the place where I, and my older brothers before me, played little league from ages 7 to 14. Today however, I decided to jog a bit further and actually go into the park itself, the first time I’ve looked at it up close in over 20 years.

Whoosh! The feeling of nostalgia and influx of memories was stronger than I anticipated. Being completely alone on a gray morning in a place where I spent so much of my youth was equally enjoyable and forlorn. Leaning up against the fence and staring out over the field where I logged countless innings that felt like ages ago, and yet not so much. If I imagined hard enough, I could actually see myself out there as a kid, hear the echoes of the old P.A. system, see the lights at old Coaches Corner, and hear the annoying, endless buzzing of the air conditioner at the concession stand. Though the park and league are still in operation (going into it’s 76th year), it’s a ghost of it’s own past – my past. This of course, was the park where:

  • At age 4, I tripped over a curb and went headlong into a fencepost, requiring stitches.
  • My 12 year old All Star team won the Zone tournament title (the hottest doubleheader in the history of earth) to advance to the Bronco World Series in Citrus Heights, California.
  • I once hit my Mom in the stands with a foul ball and still feel guilty about it to this day.
  • I threw a complete game shutout with 14 strikeouts for my team’s only regular-season victory when I was 14.
  • My teammate, Dan Markun and I each hit two homeruns in the same game and were staged to mimic the Canseco/McGwire “Bash Brothers” pose for the local newspaper photo. Beyond cheesy.
  • My second homer from the above story came on a knuckleball at the end of an extremely long at-bat, and right after the catcher promised me I was about to strike out. As I cockily walked down the first base line, I said “nice pitch man!” to the pitcher. The one and only time I ever talked trash on the field.
  • My grade school team, St. Raymond, completely dominated the entire season en route to a State Championship when I was in 8th grade. Many say the greatest team in IESA history.
  • You were a local legend if you put a home run on the roof of Bailey’s, the store in right center field, or hit one over the Greeen Monster in center. I did this twice.
  • I learned to absolutely loathe John Fogerty’s Centerfield, when it was played over the P.A. no less than 6,938 times during my 12-year old All Star season.

I often wish I would’ve viewed the game then the same way I do now…I may have played well after High School. I could go on forever blabbing this anecdotal material and perhaps I will expound upon some in a later post(s), but the essence of what I felt this morning was about the connection to the past and the fond retrospection of youth that baseball, specifically the ballpark itself, can provide. Like no other sport’s field, rink, or court of play, an old ballpark has a hauntingly charming atmosphere that should be revered. I was reminded of this today in full force.

It doesn’t have to have an altar and stained glass windows to be considered a church.