Midseason

(See front cover} As intrinsic to the Fourth of July as the red crackers sputtering under tin cans in millions of back yards or the blazing sun which, always a little sultry as if stained with gunpowder, wheels over the continent, is the tradition which dictates that the baseball teams which lead the two major leagues on that day will finish in the same order when the season is over. Generally the tradition works out. Last year it was the Pirates in the National League, the Yankees in the American. This year it is the Cardinals and the Yankees. Critics who this week, on the Fourth of July, read the standings of the clubs, could not see much chance that the tradition would be upset. With the taste for theories and computations common to all baseball fans, they tabulated the qualifications of the other clubs in the National League. They considered the Giants, able and expensive, but needing a pitcher, or three pitchers, since they had one--Benton. They considered Brooklyn, strong in the box, ragged afield, indifferent at bat; Chicago, lacking an infield of major league quality; Cincinnati, slipped from its lead because of injuries to valuable pitchers; Pittsburgh with no one in the box except "Spitballer" Grimes; Boston in seventh place, apparently hopeless, but having one great player, perhaps the greatest in the National League, famed in the field, sensational at bat; and Philadelphia in the "cellar." Keeping this player in mind, critics considered the American League clubs, lined up smoothly behind the Yankees: at Philadelphia a galaxy of famed veterans; a young St. Louis team, fighting, surprising; Washington with many stars that might develop; Cleveland slumping after a burst in the early season; Boston trying hard, well-bossed by Carrigan, but raw; Chicago weak all round; Detroit expensive, theoretically strong, but actually little better than Chicago. They considered personalities: Ed Morris, Boston pitcher, called the best youngster in either league; Chalmers Cissel, swaggering Chicago shortstop who, drying himself in a locker room, said scornfully in early season: "Major league pitching is more of a cinch than Coast League," who the week before the Fourth batted .240. They considered National League personalities: those famed roommates and Cincinnati outfielders, Marty Callaghan and Everett ("Pid") Purdy-- Callaghan tobacco-chewing, closemouthed, bearing himself with a martyred manner before umpires; pert Purdy, the chatterer, the magpie. They considered Andy Cohen, smart at second for the Giants, surprising at bat, prize of the seven-years' search of Manager McGraw for a Jewish player to pull in the New York crowds. But baseball games are won at bat and it was batters the critics talked about most on the Fourth of July, singling from among them the two leading their respective leagues on that day. On that day Leon Allen "Goose" Goslin was batting close to .414 for Washington. Sharp-nosed, sharp-chinned, sharp-eyed, amiable, fast, lazy, and a tireless autographer of balls, fond of track athletics and very poor at them, Goslin has proved himself for a long time a fine batter. Last spring he bet "Memphis Bill" Terry, Giant first baseman, $5 he could beat him sprinting, lost his five. A little later, with no money up, he tried to throw the discus, strained his arm. Unable to win games without him, Manager Harris of Washington sent Goslin lame-armed into left field, told Shortstop Reeves to run out and help him re-turn his catches. Perhaps Goslin's bad arm had keyed up his batting, some followers suggested; most agreed that he was hitting beyond his real abilities--no one could be as good as .414. As a superior player critics pointed to Rogers ("Rajah") Hornsby, manager, second baseman of the Braves, leading the National League at bat with an average close to .400. Some sporting writers, fond of big words, spoke of him as a genius, others, with a leaning for biography, sketched his past, beginning with the summer of 1913. Rogers Hornsby was 17 that summer. He had been playing on the high school team in Winters, Tex. When he had been in Hugo, Tex., for a while, he played in a professional game for which he was paid $2.50. Then he played more for Hugo and was paid a little more and then he moved on to a town called Dennison. One afternoon a stranger in a tan felt hat watched him from the little stand beside the bleached, hot field. The stranger was Con- nery, scout for the St. Louis Cardinals; oilers had told Connery that there was a good player in Dennison. Connery paid $500 for Hornsby's release and handed him a ticket to St. Louis. Many ballplayers get their start much the same way; many of them show up again in their home towns after a few months with nothing to show for their trip except a new suit and a phrase, "When I was in the big leagues. . . ." But though Hornsby's beginning was a stencil his career from that time on was not. He played shortstop, then second base; he batted well. He made an enemy, Bill Hinchman, Pittsburgher, and came near fighting with him every time he saw him; he made many friends, some of them newspapermen who spread his name across their pages. In 1925 the Cardinals were doing badly; early in June Manager "Sunday School" Branch Rickey was ousted, Hornsby was made manager. Except that his face and hands were cleaner, he still looked much the same as he did when he played in Hugo--wiry and compact, jutting jaw, small eyes, his upper lip too short to cover his strong, uneven front teeth. The New York Giants bid a quarter of a million for him. They were told curtly: "Hornsby is not for sale." In his first full year as manager (1926), he brought the Cardinals their first pennant and the World's Championship. St. Louis plastered his picture all over the town. But Hornsby did not like his next contract with the Cardinals, and was traded to the Giants for "Fordham Frankie" Frisch and Fat James Ring. Last year Hornsby captained the Giants with McGraw ill, managed them on their last western trip, brought them home with a chance for the pennant. This winter, people could not understand why Manager McGraw traded him to Boston. In Boston this spring he succeeded Manager Slattery, did what he could with that slovenly club, but has not succeeded in getting it out of seventh place in the National League. "Too bad," say fans. "Hornsby is over the fence and out. He's a tail-ender, a flop. He had best retire; he'll never get anywhere now. . . . Too bad." Boston may be "over the fence," but Hornsby is still making $40,600 a year and batting close to .400. If he can revive the Boston Braves as he did the St. Louis Cardinals, he will again have his picture plastered far and wide. There is an adage: "It takes at least two years to make a good man flop." As a manager, Hornsby leaves his players alone or gets rid of them. "There's no use riding the boys. ... I want them to do things-for themselves. . . ." He has saved large chunks of his salary, owns a $60,000 farm near St. Louis on which he raises chickens, vegetables. Once he was reported to have made $200,000 on the stock market. "What my team wants is some pitchers," he now says. "What do I want personally? I want some Jersey cows for my farm."