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[edtiques]

Throughout baseball history, the interaction between fans and ballplayers has proved an interesting experience when such an encounter occurred. Known as “bugs” during the Deadball Era and the Roaring Twenties, those devoted patrons who exhibited no inhibition insisted upon introducing themselves to major league performers, when an opportunity arose. Such was the case for Detroit Tigers portly outfielder Robert “Fats” Fothergill. Also referred to as Bob, Fothergill supplied a wicked bat for the Tigers in the 1920s. Bob topped the .300 mark each season from 1922 through 1929 with Detroit. Fothergill’s best campaign occurred in 1926 when he batted .367. One year later, the outfielder established a career high for RBIs with 114.
In the summer of 1927, a fan accosted Bob and posed various questions before boldly inquiring about how long it took a man like him, who weighed over two hundred pounds, to learn how to hit .300. Always known for his quick wit, Mr. Fothergill countered with a lengthy response that covered many different topics, other than the one put forward by this bug.
“There are 12 months in the year,” responded Fats Fothergill, “and 366 days in some years, and 52 weeks in any year, and seven days in each week, and 24 hours in each day, and 60 minutes in each hour, and 60 seconds in each minute, and some can kick a football 40 yards, and some kick it farther, and some kick it less, and you can throw a baseball, or you can muff it, or you can kick it, and sometimes you drive a golf ball 200 yards if the ground is hard and you are driving downhill and a gale is blowing behind you, and no one knows how deep the Pacific Ocean is 17 miles, 41 yards, nine feet, and four inches from the Golden Gate, and the price of potatoes on September 17 depends on many things, while the moon is full ever so often and Christmas trees may be cheaper next year and they may not, and the goose hangs high. Now let me ask you just one question: How long is a piece of string?”
This fan offered no response to Bob Fothergill, before he joined an approaching friend and walked away. The patron did make a comment about this interaction to his companion.
“The guy is sure bugs,” asked the man who hammered Fothergill with numerous questions.
In other instances, spectators, while viewing a game in person at the ballpark, preferred to make their voices heard from the stands, rather than act like baseball groupies. In 1925, infielder Edward “Eddie” Farrell debuted for John McGraw’s New York Giants on June 15. Farrell received no time in the minor leagues and joined the Giants days before his graduation from the University of Pennsylvania with a degree in dentistry. John McGraw had signed Eddie in 1923 with an eye toward the infielder joining the club once he completed his college studies. Also nicknamed Doc because of his vocation besides baseball, Farrell performed a utility role for New York in 1925 and 1926.
Receiving an opportunity to gain more playing time for the Giants in 1927, Doc blossomed as a hitter, batting .387 for the club in 42 games through June. Unfortunately, Farrell performed atrociously in the field at shortstop, committing 17 errors while playing that position in 36 contests. On June 12, the Giants packaged Eddie in a deal that sent him to the Boston Braves. Before Farrell exited the Big Apple, he had experienced a particularly horrendous game defensively at the Polo Grounds. Doc fumbled ground balls, threw wildly to bases, and did everything contrary to what a manager expected from a ballplayer. A generous portion of the Polo Grounds crowd started razzing Farrell as the game progressed. One patron offered an allowance, loudly expressing an alibi for Eddie’s inferior performance.
“That’s all right, Doc,” yelled the fan, “you’re a dentist and you got a right to gum ‘em up if you want.”
Oh those ballpark bugs. Offering tart and funny opinions from the stands, or asking ponderous questions when encountering a baseball player. Baseball history aside, as Bob Fothergill pondered: How long is a piece of string?
-Author Ronald T. Waldo