[Rad_Hazard]

Originally Posted by insidethewrapper

I've read a lot of 19th Century papers. He was considered the best catcher of the 19th Century. Not sure how many catchers from the 19th Century are in the Hall of Fame, not many. Buck Ewing is in and he only caught 636 games out of his 1345 games ( 47%), not really a full time catcher. Bennett caught 954 games out of the 1084 he played in ( 88% ). He was a catcher. In Detroit , he was a hero, with a stadium named after him and he also threw out the first pitch each opening day until he died.

I completely agree. If you look at newspapers from Bennett's playing days and long after, he dominates the headlines and sports articles. You can find hundreds if not thousands of mentions of his name, whether he was receiving a gold or silver medal for his services or some other praise or token of appreciation. He was well-known, a baseball celebrity in his day, and considered one of the best players in all of baseball, and certainly the best catcher.

Something that is very important that you have to consider with Bennett is that in 19th century baseball, defense was by far the most important aspect of the game. Players who excelled on defense were the most celebrated and admired (Bennett, Glasscock, etc) due to the gloveless and error-thick play of the era.

Here is one of the many, many examples of praise for Bennett...

Detroit Free Press
Wednesday, October 19, 1887

Since the Detroit Base Ball Club was organized and entered for the pennant race of 1881, up to and including this very day, it has numbered among its members a player without a peer upon the diamonds of the world -"Stonewall" Bennett; plucky, enduring, never-say-die Bennett; modest, unassuming, gentlemanly Charlie Bennett. Whether the Detroit Club was up to the fore, battling with the league leaders for supremacy, or bringing up a forlorn and tattered rear, Charlie Bennett has never failed to do earnest, efficient work for the team, nor lost one iota of his burning desire to see the championship pennant flying from a Michigan flagstaff at Recreation Park. He has stood up behind the plate day after day, week after week, and month after month, and stopped the hot shot of dozens of pitchers, good, bad, and worthless, with hands as thick as a boxing-gloves, with bleeding crevasses and canyons crossing his palms, and two or three fingers the color and size of red bananas.