Washington DC Baseball

[GeoPoto]

The field was engulfed by a sea of bodies. Walter Johnson took it all in from second base for a few seconds, and his eyes welled up with tears as he made his way through the crazed mob back to the dugout. Earl McNeely was the one who had the most difficulty making it back there. The crowd, in an enthusiastic show of its love for a hero, tore off his shirt before police could reach him and escort him to the clubhouse. The President and Mrs. Coolidge, less the focus of attention now than ever, were escorted out by the Secret Service. They passed several players on the way, including Walter Johnson. The First Couple shook hands with them and offered their congratulations.

After showering, Bucky Harris, high-strung and seemingly in a daze, was so excited that he forgot to put his clothes on. Walter Johnson came in and shook his hand, thanking him for having let him pitch. When Bucky was asked if Walter had insisted on pitching, Harris said that Johnson had been his best bet, and for anyone to have thought otherwise, would have been foolishness. Frank Frisch and Ross Youngs came over from the other side to congratulate Walter, whom Frisch called one of the greatest pitchers and one of the finest gentlemen ever associated with the game of baseball. In summing up the World Series for the Walsh Syndicate, John McGraw wrote that the game of baseball had been elevated by the great Walter Johnson and his ultimate triumph. The only thing better, the Little General declared, would have been for Johnson to have won the game himself -- to have hit that home run which had fallen just a little short in the tenth inning.

Those that were present in the hours that followed the thriller said that Clark Griffith could do nothing to stop the tears that flowed from his eyes. He embraced all his players, thanking them and telling them how proud they had made him. Walter Johnson was so happy that, he would say years later, winning the World Series in his 18th year had hardly seemed real. He had, following great tribulation, justified his place as America's darling, redeeming himself at the 13th hour (and 12th inning), and winning his first World Series game a month before his 37th birthday. As perhaps best expressed by the eloquent Grantland Rice in Collier's in January 1925: "Walter Johnson had come from a lone, dejected and broken figure in the shadows of a clubhouse to a personal triumph that no other athlete had ever drawn in all the history of sport."

Cannons, pistols, firecrackers, and the sounds of thousands of automobiles intermingled for a joyous celebration in downtown Washington. It seemed that no one wanted to miss this celebration -- the fire department of nearby Cherrydale, Virginia, showed up with all its vehicles and a banner which read "Let Cherrydale Burn!" It was to be a wonderful time. For a year, the Washington Senators would stand as champions of the world. Muddy Ruel, who'd hit .095 in the World Series, insisted he didn't mind when team owner Griffith had said Ruel had taken longer than anyone he had ever seen to come around the bases with the winning run. Ruel preferred to dwell on the positives -- a world championship, the role the Big Train had played, and how sweet it was to be victorious. Then there was the matter of the winner's share of the spoils for the World Series -- a check for $5,959.64 per man.

From the point of view of posterity, this would stand as one of the great World Series ever (at the time it was widely acknowledged as the most exciting since 1912), primarily because of its strange denouement . . . And the unlikely triumph of a man whose career may very well place him as the greatest pitcher in all of baseball history. At the end of the day, losing pitcher Jack Bentley said it best for all of America: "The good Lord just couldn't bear to see a fine fellow like Walter Johnson lose again."

For their sheer beauty, here are the words formulated by Bill Corum, as they appeared in the New York Times the following morning: To the victor belong the spoils. When future generations are told about this game they will not hear about Barnes, or Frisch, or Kelly, or even about Harris or McNeely. But the boy with his first glove and ball crowding up to his father's knee will beg: "Tell me about Walter Johnson." (The Washington Senators by Tom Deveaux.)

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