Sport: Wooden War

Every American summer ends in a wooden war that is betokened by a storm of straw. The storm occurs in ballparks when, on Sept. 15th, a homerun or a double play excites some fan to throw away his hat. The stiff disk spins out over the diamond; 15,000 other gentlemen, if there is a good gate that day, see it and are reminded of something: this is the last day they can wear their straw hats. Off they come, out they go into the air, thousands of whirling discuses, boomerangs of straw, filling the air like a blizzard, piling up on the ground. And by this the wise perceive that in a week or two a war will begin—a war waged with good ash bats between nine men from the National League and nine men from the American League. Last week the first bugles blew.

American League. The Yankees (New York), with a safe lead for the pennant, played their last Manhattan game and left for an exhibition in Toronto. They end their season among hostile western clubs. A swaggering, rakehell organization with such heavy-hitting outfielders as Paschal, Meusel, Ruth, Combs, they led their league on July 4th, and the team that leads on that day, say the wiseacres, will win the pennant. Babe Ruth, earlier called by his intimates “slob . . . sot . . good-for-nixey,” hit his 42nd home run; Pitchers Bob Shawkey and Harold Wiltse did better than anyone had thought they could. Cleveland, second club in the league, fell short mainly for a lack of hitters. True, Second-Baseman George Burns broke the world’s two-base-hit record, but Tris Speaker, famed player-manager, once champion of the .300 hitters, tobogganed into 35th place.

National League. “Nobody,” said a pert fellow, “is going to beat us out now.” He, Rogers Hornsby, battering second baseman of the St. Louis Cardinals, had reference to his team’s chances of winning their pennant; to the rest of the world his assurance did not seem quite warranted. All year the League has seen a bitter, three-cornered skirmish between Pittsburgh, St. Louis, Cincinnati; last week each of them fought to the top in turn. Cincinnati and St. Louis have the best pitchers but the world’s series, as any newsboy knows, is a wooden war, and neither club is valiant with the ash. Rogers Hornsby himself, who last year was batting around .390, has dropped 70 points; he places his trust in a reprobate named after a President, Grover Cleveland Alexander. This man, a pitcher, is not in his first youth; indeed, the press generally refers to him as a “veteran boxman,” but he has retained the bright ardor of his springtime. Early in the season he was dismissed from the Chicago Cubs for refusing to obey orders. Since, he has whipped the Cubs repeatedly.

New Players. One Babe Herman, large, shambling Brooklyn batsman, showed an early disrespect for National League pitchers. . . . Swarthy young Lazzeri has done well at second base for the Yankees. . . . Spurgeon of Cleveland, Gehringer of Detroit, Mellilo of St. Louis made effective debuts. . . . “Tell John McGraw,” said one Slattery, scout for the Braves, “that he) has the best catcher in the National League in Al Devormer. . . .”

Meanwhile, in St. Louis, a committee barred pop bottles from the stands. … In Manhattan the Giants expressed a hope of taking fourth place in the National League. … In Pittsburgh sports writers pointed out that the last time Grover Cleveland Alexander pitched in a World’s Series (Red Sox v. Athletics in 1915) he was knocked out of the box. . . . And everywhere summer smouldered out in a haze of lovely days. . . . And everywhere umpires cried: “Play ball. . . .”