Edd Roush stood outside the Sinton Hotel at Fourth and Vine Streets, breathing in the night air of Tuesday, Sept. 30, 1919.
A man slipped up behind him and touched him on the arm.
''Hey, Eddie! Do you know what's gong on? The Series is fixed. The White Sox are going to throw it!''
Roush turned away without comment. He walked back into the hotel and through the lobby.
''Damned if you don't hear the silliest things at World Series time,'' he thought. ''The Series fixed! You hear that every year. I wonder how those rumors start?''
Oh sure, gamblers might try to fix the World Series. Roush knew that. Like everyone else, Roush suspected Hal Chase, the Reds first baseman in 1918, of fixing games. Roush was open in his disdain for Chase, and of anybody else he suspected of cheating.
''Get running, you crooked son of a bitch!'' he once yelled at a Reds teammate who was dawdling on the bases in front of him.
On the night of Tuesday, Sept. 30, the hotels in Cincinnati were jammed.
The Sinton had 25 cots in one room. The Grand had 50 people in one room. Prohibition was in effect, but spirits were easy to come by. Home brew was a staple and speakeasies were all over town. Beer on tap across the river; whiskey, too, if you could afford it.
Silent-movie theaters, playhouses, roller skating rinks, burlesque houses, all were booming. Barney Gerard's ''Girls de Looks'' entertained at the Olympic. Houdini was starring in a movie, ''The Grim Game,'' at the Walnut.
There was plenty to celebrate. The War to End All Wars was over. The ravages of the Cincinnati 1918 flu epidemic - 1,700 people died - were past.
James Maxwell was 7 years old and in the second grade. Even at that young age, he was baseball crazy. He could hardly keep his mind on his schoolwork in late May and early June.
He preferred thinking about Hod Eller's shineball, Edd Roush's batting average and Jack Daubert's flawless playing of first base. He lived a mile from the ballpark. He couldn't wait for the school year to end, and when it did, he began going to almost every home game. Children were admitted free to weekday games if they were accompanied by an adult. Maxwell and his friends hung around the box office and asked ticket buyers to accompany them into the ballpark.
When the team was on the road, the boys clustered in front of Ahler's Cafe, a neighborhood saloon that had a ticker. Mr. Ahler chalked all this information on a big scoreboard that hung where the boys could easily see it through the window.
The saloon was in an old building with thick walls, and it was cooler with the door closed. When the patrons of Ahler's gathered around the ticker, laughing or slapping each other on the back or making dour faces and gestures of disgust, Maxwell and his buddies could only imagine what had happened in the game.
Sometimes, they would rap on the window to hurry Mr. Ahler to the board.
So obsessed were the boys about the World Series, they decided to skip school and deal with the consequences later. They knew there was no way for them to connive their way into the ballpark; their plan was to station themselves in the street long before the 2 o'clock game and absorb all the sights and sounds they could.
Why it would be like Ahler's Cafe - only with sounds!
And they would be able to yell up to the men who stood with their backs against a grating high above and get the score.
Eddie Cicotte, who was scheduled to pitch Game 1 for the Chicago White Sox, reached under the pillow of his bed at the Sinton Hotel. There it was.
A stack of one-thousand dollar bills.
He counted them out: 1, 2, 3 . . . 10.
It was $10,000, just as he had demanded. He got out a needle and thread and begin sewing the money into the lining of his suit jacket. Eddie was a 29-game winner, with 14 years in the big league. He had won 27 games in 1917 for the World Champion White Sox, and yet here he was earning only $5,500 a year - compared with the Reds' Dutch Ruether, who would pitch the Series opener and was making $10,000 annually, despite being in the big leagues for only two seasons. Chicago White Sox owner Charles Comiskey was a skinflint when it came to paying money to his ballplayers.
Chick Gandil, the White Sox tough first baseman, was the first person to approach Cicotte about the possibility of a fix. That was mid-August. Cicotte kept refusing. He didn't want any part of it.
But he had just bought a farm in Michigan that had a stiff mortgage. He knew his future was only as good as his right arm, and at 35, it wouldn't be good for long.
One night, in September, on a Pullman train headed for Boston, Cicotte sat down next to Gandil.
''I'll do it for 10 thousand dollars - cash,'' Cicotte said. ''Before the World Series begins.''
Securing Cicotte was critical. Gandil was then able to go after young pitcher Lefty Williams, a 23-game winner. ''Cicotte, too?'' asked Williams, incredulously.
Chick nodded. He knew he had Lefty then. And he knew he had the World Series. But he went after the top of the batting order, just to make sure. He knew he couldn't get second baseman Eddie Collins or catcher Ray Schalk. They were straight arrows. Gandil especially despised Cocky Collins, a Columbia University boy, the only one Commie paid decently.
But Chick got Buck Weaver, Shoeless Joe Jackson and Happy Felsch. Chick already had the shortstop Swede Risberg.
Gamblers Sleepy Bill Burns and Billy Maharg entered the Sinton Hotel room of Abe Attell, who was the bag man for New York sportsman Arnold Rothstein. Burns and Maharg wanted the $100,000 cash for the White Sox players that Attell had promised them. Attell said he had the money, but it was all out on bets.
Later that night, Attell met with seven White Sox players in Cicotte's room. Only Joe Jackson was absent. You'll get your money, Attell told them. But it will come in $20,000 increments after every loss. (It was a nine-game World Series.) The players were upset, but there was nothing they could do. Gandil was nervous. He walked to a cigar store and asked for a pack of cigarettes.
The clerk had no idea who Gandil was.
''This is gonna be one lousy Series,'' the clerk said.
''Whaddaya mean by that?'' Gandil asked.
''I hear Chicago is gonna throw it!'' said the clerk.
Across the street at the Gibson Hotel, Chicago newspaperman Hugh Fullerton bought a drink for gambler Burns.
''How are you betting?'' Fullerton asked him.
Burns said he was putting all his money on the Reds. ''Get wise, Hughie, and do the same!'
Fullerton went back to his room at the Sinton, where his ''roomie,'' Christy Mathewson, the former New York Giants pitching star and former Reds manager, was lying on one of the beds and reading the late papers.
Mathewson explained the razor-thin line between an effective pitch and a fatal one, a graceful fielding play from a spectacular near miss. While they were discussing that, there came a knock on the door.
It was the young columnist for the Chicago Tribune, Ring Lardner. He had just seen the Reds' starting pitcher for Game 1, Dutch Ruether, drinking heavily.
Fullerton called Reds manager Pat Moran, who said some Chicago gamblers were trying to intoxicate his entire pitching staff. Moran had sent out his scouts to protect his pitchers, but Ruether had eluded them.
Meanwhile, Gandil's telephone in his room at the Sinton kept ringing. ''Make sure everything goes according to plan!'' said one voice. ''What's this I hear about the Series being fixed? Don't do it. Don't do it!'' said another. Cicotte's phone was no less active. By 2 a.m., unable to sleep, he got up, got dressed, and went outside for a walk.
A block from the hotel, he heard a familiar voice.
''Cicotte!''
It was Kid Gleason, the White Sox manager.
''What in the hell are you doing out at this hour?'' Gleason asked.
''I couldn't sleep, Kid.''
Gleason ordered Cicotte to follow him back to the hotel. Gleason escorted him to his room.
The next morning, when the White Sox players came downstairs for breakfast, the lobby was busy. Gamblers were waving $1,000 bills in the air, trying to stir up action. Many had gotten up early to redeem watches and jewelry at the local pawn shops. There wasn't a gambler in town who hadn't gotten wind of the fix.
Redland Field never looked better.
Red-white-and-blue bunting up all around, grass a lush green, the pale dirt of the infield raked so well that it was as fine as brown sugar. It was a well-dressed crowd, especially in the lower seats of the grandstand. But it was so warm - 83 degrees and sunny - that many of the men had stripped off their suitcoats, but most kept the knots in their ties tight to the collars of their starched white shirts.
There were temporary stands above York Street in left field, something it never had since it was built in 1912. Seats in these temporary stands sold for $3 each. Face value, that is. Ticket scalpers were getting $10 to $15 a seat here, and $50 a pair for $8 tickets elsewhere. White Sox center fielder Happy Felsch threw a stray ball into the bleachers as a souvenir. A fan threw it back. Hap laughed. He threw it back again. Back it came. The fans howled.
Left fielder Joe Jackson was nervous. For security, he fingered the hairpins in his back pocket. Years ago, he'd been given a hairpin by a girl for good luck and had a good day. Since then, he'd always pick up hairpins whenever he saw one laying on the ground. When batting practice was over, he made his way to the bench, where Kid Gleason spotted him.
Jackson told him he didn't feel good.
''I don't wanna play,'' Jackson said.
''What!'' Gleason snapped.
''I said I don't wanna play! You can tell the boss, too!''
Gleason stared at him for a long time, then moved closer.
''You'll play, Jackson! You'll play.''
Beyond the fences, people jammed rooftops. Two or three sets of binoculars peered out of every window. Beyond the left field wall, three boys clung to a telegraph pole, their legs straddling the upper cross piece.
Six crippled doughboys, home from war, sat in the crowd.
George M. Cohan was in the stands. People around him sang ''Over There'' to the song-and-dance king.
Unknown to fans, Cohan had bet $30,000 on the White Sox a few days ago. But he had been tipped off by sportsmen on Tuesday about the fix and told his partner to put $35,000 on the Reds.
Clarence Darrow, the famous criminal lawyer, sat with a group of Chisox fans. U.S. Sen. Warren G. Harding applauded with vigor, as did Kenesaw Mountain Landis, a federal judge from Chicago, who was born in Millville, 35 miles north of Cincinnati.
Also in attendance were former baseball greats Grover Cleveland Alexander, Joe Tinker and Johnny Evers. Special guests of Reds owner Garry Herrmann were George Wright, 72, from Boston, and Cal McVey, 69, from San Francisco, the lone surviving regulars of the 1869 Red Stockings, baseball's first professional team.
Atop the roof behind home plate, in a press box set up especially for writers, were the great newspapermen of the time - Ring Lardner, Damon Runyon and Bugs Baer. Next to Chicago Tribune writer Hugh Fullerton sat Christy Mathewson, the former Giants star pitcher, who was writing a column for the New York World.
Mathewson, who had managed the Reds from 1916-18, was supposed to manage them again in 1919, but he'd been gassed during a drill with a chemical warfare unit in 1918 and hadn't received owner Herrmann's cablegrams.
There were at least 200 priests in the crowd, including the Hickey brothers, all five of them - Bill, John, Ed, Charles and George. Reds fans all.
There were scores of gamblers in the crowd, too, including those who had conspired to fix the Series: Burns, Maharg, Hal Chase and Abe Attell, former featherweight champion of the world.
Roush watched as the mighty White Sox took batting practice. They were peppering the fence with deep drives.
There was Shoeless Joe Jackson, the game's most natural hitter, the man Babe Ruth patterned his swing after. Chick Gandil, the big first baseman, a great clutch hitter. Third baseman Buck Weaver, who was so quick even Ty Cobb stopped trying to bunt for a base hit off him. Eddie Collins, the greatest second baseman ever. Ray Schalk, the best defensive catcher in baseball . . .
On and on, position by position. It was written and said that of the Reds, only Roush could have started for the White Sox.
But this buildup and batting practice show didn't bother the Reds' 26-year-old star.
''Good baseballs, wound tight,'' he reasoned.
But it was impressive, nonetheless. Redland Field was one of the most spacious parks in baseball, 360 feet down the lines and 460 in center. Nobody had hit a ball out of Redland since it was built in 1912.
The Reds rarely tried to hit a ball out. Why bother? The ballpark was too big for it. And the Reds rarely needed to try for a lot of runs with one swing of the bat. Their pitching was so good, they didn't need to score a lot of runs. Most of the Reds hitters, even cleanup man Roush, were slap hitters, although Roush could drive the ball when he had to.
Roush had no reason to believe the Reds couldn't beat the White Sox. Sure, the writers ballyhooed the Sox as the best team in the history of the game, but Roush was never one who thought highly of writers.
They had overlooked the Reds this season, hadn't they? Picked them to be also-rans once again, hadn't they? What did the writers know?
Roush liked this Reds team. No hotshots, just hard-nosed players. Hal Chase, the fancy Dan, highfalutin first baseman who couldn't be trusted to stay away from the gamblers, was gone. Half the players from the 1918 team were gone. The Reds had a new second baseman (Morrie Rath), shortstop (Larry Kopf), outfielder (Pat Duncan) and four new pitchers.
Ah, the pitching: the Reds' strength. The team had led the league in shutouts, fewest hits surrendered and ERA. The White Sox were touted as the better team, but they didn't have four starters the equal of Cincinnati's - shineball artist Hod Eller (20-9), Harry ''Slim' Sallee (21-17), Rudy Fisher (14-5) and the opening game pitcher, Walter ''Dutch'' Ruether (19-6).
First baseman Jake Daubert, one of the best clutch hitters on the team, and Heinie Groh, who swung his bottle bat for a .310 average and was generally regarded as the best third baseman in the league, hit 2-3 and were sandwiched between pesky leadoff man Rath and the great Roush, who at .321 again led the league in hitting.
More than 30,000 fans were already in the ballpark. They spilled into the aisles, along the fence outside the foul lines and even along the fence in fair territory. The only open space was in center field, provided as a courtesy for the hitters. It was hard enough following Cicotte's knuckler without having it come out of a sea of white shirts.
As Cicotte walked to the warmup rubber, the catcalls began. ''There's the bum from Chicago!'' ''Sore arm, Cicotte!'' ''Old man, Cicotte!''
Renowned composer John Philip Sousa led one of the local bands in a spine-tingling version of ''Stars and Stripes Forever.'' Dutch Ruether was ready to go. He reared back and fired a high fastball to the plate, figuring leadoff man Shano Collins might bite. He didn't. ''Ball one!'' barked umpire John Rigler.
Two pitches later, Collins ripped a single to center. Up stepped Eddie Collins. He tried to bunt the first pitch and fouled it off. He bunted poorly, right back to Ruether, who wheeled and forced Shano Collins at second.
Buck Weaver stepped to the plate. He figured he could drive in Collins from first or at least get a hit and keep the inning going. From first base, Collins gave him the hit-and-run sign.
But Weaver took the pitch, instead of trying to hit it. Collins was easily thrown out at second base.
Weaver drove one deep to left center. It looked like it might fall safely, but Roush got a fine jump and made a nice, one-handed, running catch. Typical Roush; best center fielder in the game. The crowd roared its approval.
On the field, Eddie Collins approached Weaver.
''You took that sign and did nothing about it! Were you asleep?'' Weaver snarled back. ''Quit trying to alibi and play ball!''
Eddie Cicotte took the mound for the bottom half of the first ining. His left thumb was throbbing. Sewing the 10 grand into his suit jacket had taken its toll. The sewing needle had kept poking him in the thumb.
Otherwise, Cicotte felt fine physically. He had his good stuff; he just wasn't going to use it.
Off to the side, a brass band was blasting a version of ''I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles,'' and it echoed throughout the park.
The Reds leadoff hitter, Morrie Rath, stepped to the plate. Cicotte's first pitch was a letter-high fastball, right down the middle of the plate. He figured Rath would take it. He did.
Steee-rike One!
Catcher Ray Schalk didn't like the location. It was high, where Rath liked it. Schalk snapped a hard low throw at Cicotte's knees as a reminder of where he wanted the pitch. Cicotte had other ideas. He drilled Rath directly in the back, right between the shoulder blades. It's what Arnold Rothstein, the man who had bankrolled the fix, wanted. As soon as Cicotte did it, Rothstein laid another $100,000 on the Reds.
The game entered the fourth inning tied at 1-1. Up stepped Edd Roush, waving his 48-ounce bat. Schalk called for the knuckler, and Cicotte took just enough off of it to make it hittable.
Roush mashed it to deep center. Cicotte expected Felsch to short-leg it, to play it into a triple. Instead, he ran it down and, on the dead run, hauled it down, 10 feet from the wall.
Cicotte knew then that he was going to have to do it all himself. All right, he would go to work.
A fastball at Pat Duncan's head, then a hanging curveball, which Duncan slapped to right-center for a hit. Cicotte threw a fastball down the middle to Larry Kopf, who grounded it back to the mound. A sure double play. But Cicotte wheeled slowly and made a high throw to second base, forcing Duncan but allowing Kopf to get to first. In the press box, Fullerton looked at Mathewson, who nodded. Fullerton circled the play on his scorecard. Greasy Neale ripped a hard shot up the middle, but one that shortstop Risberg should have had. He cut sharply to his left, stopping the ball, but couldn't make the play. Runners on first and second, two out.
Ivy Wingo ripped a single to right, scoring Kopf, Neale to third. Cicotte laid a fat pitch over the plate to pitcher Ruether, who scorched it to deep left-center, between Felsch and Jackson, to score two more runs.
The score was 4-1, but Gleason decided to leave Cicotte in the game. Cicotte threw a bad curveball, down and away. His second pitch was even worse. Behind the plate, Schalk raged at Cicotte. Rath drilled a hard shot past Weaver at third, scoring a run. Jake Daubert smacked a 3-1 pitch through the infield to put the Reds up, 6-1.
Gleason was livid. He shot out of the dugout, but stopped when he got to the baseline, seemingly afraid of what he might do if he went all the way to the mound.
''That's all, goddamn it, that's all!''
He waved to the bullpen to bring in a new pitcher and spun on his heels and returned to the dugout.
The Reds had scored five runs.
Cicotte gave the Reds every one of them.
Gleason sought out Cicotte after the game, but his pitcher had showered and left the park early. When Gleason went out to dinner that night - and returned to find Cicotte and Risberg sprawled in big chairs in the lobby of the Sinton and laughing with a pair of strangers - the White Sox manager snapped.
''Cicotte! What are you laughing at?'' Gleason roared. ''You two think you can kid me? You busher, Risberg! You think I don't know what you're doing out there! Cicotte, you son of a bitch! Anybody who says he can't see what you're doing out there is either blind, stupid or a goddamn liar!''
Suddenly, Gleason realized what he had done. The ballplayers' faces were blanched white; about a hundred people in the Sinton's lobby were agog at such a public outburst of such serious accusations.
''Come on Kid,'' said Fullerton gently, drawing him away. ''Tomorrow's another day.''
Epilogue: ''Tomorrow'' was not another day. White Sox pitcher Lefty Williams threw Game Two. The Reds went on to win the World Series, five games to three. A year later, eight White Sox players - Cicotte, Williams, Jackson, Gandil, Felsch, Weaver, Swede Risberg and Fred McMullen - were banned from baseball for life.
Sources: The Cincinnati Enquirer, Sept. 29, 1919, to Oct. 3, 1919; Eight Men Out, by Eliot Asinof; Baseball in Cincinnati: From Wooden Fences to Astroturf, edited by Greg Rhodes; The WPA Guide to Cincinnati, edited by Harry Graff; The Glory of Their Times, by Lawrence Ritter; The Ginger Kid - The Buck Weaver Story, by Irving M. Stein; The Lively Ball, by James A. Cox; The Joe Williams Baseball Reader, edited by Peter Williams, and The Ultimate Baseball Book, edited by Daniel Okrent and Harris Lewine. Live interviews with Charles H. Klein and Irv Bollinger.
