Fenway 1912 by Glenn Stout Read Free Book Online

Brockton, Massachusetts, had recently had some success with minor league Denver.
    With Wood laid up again with a sore arm, the ball club did not respond with honor. In a story headlined "Fading Is the Last Chance of the Crippled Sox,"
Boston Post
beat writer Paul Shannon accurately noted that "their ability to fight seems gone ... the former prides of the Hub are nestled lovingly in the vicinity of sixth place ... with the 'also rans.'" Manager Patsy Donovan threw in the towel and began experimenting with kids. By September 13, when the Sox fell to McAleer's club, 3–1, in Washington, Shannon's observation proved to be prophetic. Boston had fallen all the way to sixth place, four games below .500 and more than twenty games behind first-place Philadelphia. The only bright spot had been O'Brien. On September 9, only one day after crossing the country from Denver, he shut out Philadelphia, 2–0, and a few days later won another game in relief.
    The victories represented quite an accomplishment for the pitcher, who at age twenty-nine was ancient for a rookie. In fact, he had only been playing professionally for two seasons. Prior to that he had been toiling in a Brockton shoe factory pitching semipro ball until he learned to throw a spitball—a pitch that drops dramatically just as it reaches the plate. The new pitch suddenly made him stand out and in 1909 finally earned him a professional contract. He had received a tryout with the Sox the previous spring, but a sore finger had led the team abruptly to release him in Denver on the way back east. Shortly after joining the Sox in 1911, O'Brien heard some of his teammates discussing their collegiate backgrounds and offered that he, too, had earned a degree, "a BS from Brockton—boots and shoes." The KCs welcomed the fun-loving, self-deprecating former factory worker like a long-lost brother, but the Masons mourned Karger's departure and thought O'Brien was a flash in the pan.
    Meanwhile, Taylor, McAleer, and Johnson were trying to get a deal done, and even though they had a basic agreement, the final details had to be roughed out in person. Both the Sox and the Senators had a few off-days, so after McAleer's club deposited Boston in sixth place, McAleer hightailed it to Boston.
    He was met there by Johnson and McRoy, and they checked into one of Boston's finest hotels, the Parker House, where the following morning they received a visit from the Taylors. The party then retired to the opulent Algonquin Club on Commonwealth Avenue in the Back Bay, a private club that members still tout as "a peaceful haven for Boston's leading citizens to conduct business [and] socialize with family and friends."
    At 2:00 p.m., they took a break from the fine china, and everyone went together to the South End Grounds, where they watched the first-place Giants beat up on Boston's pathetic National League franchise—everyone, that is, except Ban Johnson, who still found the notion of stepping into a National League park during the regular season completely odious. The Red Sox got into Boston by train at 3:00 p.m., and many of them went straight to the ballpark as well. The Giants, led by feisty manager John McGraw and Christy Mathewson, one of the greatest pitchers in the game and probably baseball's most admired player, were on the verge of winning the first of what would become three consecutive pennants. Most observers considered them the best team in baseball, and they were impressive, battering the Boston club for the fourth straight time, winning 13–9.
    After the game the group met Johnson back at the Algonquin Club and resumed the negotiations. Most of their time was not spent crunching numbers but squinting over blueprints. The Taylors invited their architect, James McLaughlin, to give a presentation about the new ballpark, sweetening the pot and, they hoped, whetting the appetite of Johnson, McAleer, and McRoy to get a deal done.
    As McLaughlin gave his presentation the men were indeed