In “Pitching in a Pinch,” Mathewson writes that, at first, people warned him to never ever throw high fastballs to one of the greatest hitters of the 19th century, Ed Delahanty. Matty tried to follow the advice, and he fed Delahanty breaking balls and off-speed pitches, which Big Ed smacked all over the ballpark.
Finally, Mathewson grew so sick of getting knocked around that he ignored the advice and tried throwing high fastballs. And you know what? Delahanty couldn’t hit them. From that point on, Matty threw nothing but fastballs up, and he never had much trouble with Big Ed after that.
And because Mathewson was such an inquisitive pitcher, he wondered just how Big Ed got that reputation as a man who crushed high fastballs.
And it led to this story that transcends time.
In 1899, you see, the Philadelphia Phillies led the league in batting average, on-base percentage, runs, hits, doubles and total bases. Their pitching wasn’t good enough to make them a pennant winner, but that lineup — which starred future Hall of Famers Nap Lajoie, Elmer Flick and Delahanty — terrorized pitchers across the National League.
You couldn’t throw a high fastball by any of ’em.
Why not? Well, as it turns out there was a less famous player, a longtime backup catcher named Morgan Murphy, who was at the heart of the matter. Murphy himself couldn’t hit any longer; he never played. But what he apparently did do was sit in the manager’s suite, a high room that overlooked the field from behind center field,* and with a pair of $75 binoculars, would zoom in on the catcher’s signal. And Murphy would steal the signs.
*Though he was known for doing this at home, it’s likely Murphy did it on the road as well when he could. In Brooklyn, he once rented a room across the street from the ballpark.
Stealing catcher signs was a common practice in those days. A player and manager named Mike McGeary — who had the pleasure of managing the Philadelphia Whites, Providence Grays and Cleveland Blues in his colorful career — apparently used an umbrella to let hitters know which pitch was coming. If the umbrella was up, that meant the pitch would be up.
And Murphy himself had been well-known around the game for his sign-stealing. He, too, had evocative ways of alerting the hitters about the upcoming pitch — these were much more elegant than, say, banging a garbage can. According to this excellent story by Matt Albertson, Murphy would sometimes use an awning in centerfield to get the word out. He sometimes waved a newspaper. My favorite: He would take a simple strip of fabric and hold it vertically for a fastball, horizontally for a curve.
But in 1899, he tried something different, something more nefarious. He would steal a sign and then press a button with different patterns. The button would set off a buzzer that was strapped to the leg of Phillies player and third-base coach Pearce “Petey” Chiles. After being buzzed, Chiles would — “verbally” according to newspaper reports — let the hitter know what pitch was coming.*
*While the newspaper account made it sound like Chiles would scream out, “HEY, FASTBALL UPSTAIRS!” I’m certain they used more coded language.
And as long as the Philadelphia hitters knew what was coming, you bet they feasted on high fastballs. Delahanty hit .410. Lajoie hit .378. Flick hit .342. That’s how the reputation began. After a while, pitchers realized there was no point in trying to get high fastballs by them.
Sign stealing. Buzzers. This story has it all.
But then the Phillies got caught. Cincinnati’s third baseman Tommy Corcoran somehow noticed that Chiles’ leg would twitch before pitches. He walked over to where Chiles was standing, pawed at the dirt with his cleat, and found a transmitter in the ground. This created a stir. Baseball was a rough and tumble game in 1899 and the fans undoubtedly expected some cheating.
But this was something different. As the Philadelphia Inquirer put it: “The introduction of electricity as an adjunct to the presentation of the noble national sport opened up possibilities.”
As you might imagine, the Phillies owner promptly admitted the whole thing, apologized to the rest of the league and dedicated himself to promoting fair play in baseball.
Joking!
The team owner, Colonel John Rogers, denied everything in the most absurd and transparent way imaginable. He said that the thing Corcoran found in the ground was not a transmitter at all; no, haha, sure, it’s understandable to think that, but the box was actually a lighting switchboard that an amusement company had installed for when they needed lights for their stage show.
And the buzzer thing? Haha, no, see that was just a practical joke the team had pulled on Chiles, they had told him they were going to shock him, see, it was just a big misunderstanding — and the Phillies would certainly never do anything like that, and even if they did do something, well, it didn’t really help.
It goes without saying that nobody bought the Colonel’s explanation. The transmitter was removed, Petey Chiles moved to coach first base, and the Phillies’ batting averages dropped 35 points over the next two years (though part of that was the exit of Lajoie in 1901).
“After the buzzer had been discovered and the delivery of pitchers could not be accurately forecast,” Mathewson wrote, “this ability to hit high fast ones vanished.”
You imagine that Mathewson, who read the Bible every day, might have added Ecclesiastes 1:9 to the updated version of “Pitching in a Pinch.”
What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done; there is nothing new under the sun.