Authors: Glenn Stout
That night, however, more than just the outcome of the game was on the minds of the players. Precisely the situation Mathewson had described to Sam Crane earlier that day had taken place, a tie game, and after the game Mathewson again discussed the issue with his teammates. He explained to them that if the Series went to its full complement of games, the owners were in line to receive a windfall of somewhere between $70,000 and $80,000. While the players were still likely to receive a record payout, none of them were happy at the prospect of playing an extra game without compensation—no one liked to work for free. Mathewson, knowing that he needed as much support as possible before approaching the commission with a complaint, decided he would bring up the issue with the Red Sox before deciding how to proceed. Meanwhile, they would all keep playing.
After using Collins, Hall, and Bedient in game 2, Stahl had little choice but to pitch Buck O'Brien, the pride of Brockton and 20-13 during the regular season, in game 3. McGraw, on the other hand, was always looking for an edge and remained circumspect. Even though he would later have both Tesreau and Marquard warm up before the game, the Red Sox expected his choice to be Marquard and planned accordingly. They knew that it would take more than Tesreau and Mathewson to beat them. Marquard would have to pitch at some point, and for the Giants to win he would somehow have to recapture the magic that had led him to nineteen straight wins to start the season. McGraw had tried everything to get him to return to form and had used him sparingly in September, hoping the rest would help, but in limited duty he had shown few signs of regaining his form. The Royal Rooters, in particular, salivated at the opportunity to see Marquard on the mound, for after the tie game New York fans were surprisingly confident and Boston backers had found plenty of New Yorkers eager to bet on game 3 at even money.
On the morning of October 10 Jerome Kelley awoke, heard rain dripping from the eaves outside his bedroom window, and rushed to Fenway Park. All morning, as the rain slowly turned to drizzle, he supervised his crew in the now-familiar task of trying to make the field at Fenway Park playable. Just before noon, with the game still in doubt but the sun just starting to peek through the clouds, Kelley had his men peel back the canvas they had put in place over the infield the previous evening so the umpires could inspect the field. They nodded their approval, and as the clouds skidded off thousands of Bostonians who had heard that tickets had gone wanting for the tie game left for lunch and did not return to work. Those who had purchased tickets in advance were notified in the morning papers that even though the first game at Fenway had ended in a tie, they should use their tickets marked "game 2" for the next contest. In the event the tie caused a fourth contest to be played at Fenway, fans with reserved seats were told that they would need to present their game 3 ticket stubs to acquire tickets. An already confusing situation was getting even more convoluted.
The crush at Fenway Park was tremendous as more than twenty thousand fans converged and tried to buy a ticket in the final two hours. This time the precious pasteboards disappeared before the line in the street had reached its end, and those who could not manage to find a ticket were forced to improvise. Signs and streetlights that offered any kind of view of the park were commandeered and sagged under the weight of boys and young men willing to risk their lives for a view of the ball game, and a number of enterprising fans even scaled the outside of the left-field wall and watched the game perched precariously on its top edge, the first to sit there since the first game of the season. Others sat atop the fence in extreme center field near the flagpole. An enterprising garage owner on Lansdowne Street erected bleachers on the roof, similar to the seats that have been erected on rooftops adjacent to Chicago's Wrigley Field. Even the bull-shaped sign on the left-field wall was commandeered again. In the
Globe
an unnamed female reporter wrote that "the great palpitating sea of faces was like one huge round blackboard of life."
The Rooters indulged in the usual shenanigans before the game, but there was little other pomp and circumstance beyond the presentation of a Chalmers automobile to Tris Speaker, his reward for being named the league's most valuable player. His New York counterpart, Larry Doyle, had received his car before the first game of the Series, and Speaker waved Doyle over to join him in the car. The NL MVP complied, and the New Yorker received a polite ovation, but then Speaker surprised everyone by starting the engine, putting the car in gear, and taking off, turf flying off the rear wheels as they spun in the mud and Jerome Kelley cringed. According to the
Times,
"Speaker shattered all the Boston speed laws by whirling around the baseball field at such a clip that the crowd's heart was in its mouth for fear that both joy riders would be pitched out." Before the day was over the record crowd of 34,624 would experience many more "heart in the mouth" moments.
The first two games had come down to the last pitch, and so would the third. Buck O'Brien, the thirty-year-old rookie, was better than Joe Wood had been in game 1 and gave up only two runs, one in the second after Red Murray—again—led off with a double and scored on Herzog's sacrifice fly, and a second run in the fifth when Herzog planted one in the stands in left and then scored on Art Fletcher's single. Apart from that, O'Brien's spitball and the occasional fastball and curve kept the Giants off balance as he scattered only six hits and three walks in one of the better pitching performances of the Series.
Unfortunately for Boston, Rube Marquard, who had cost the Giants some $11,000 to sign several years before and had been considered a complete bust until his record-breaking streak at the start of the 1912 season, only to turn bust again, improbably turned back the clock. He was once again pitching like the man who could not be beat, using a fastball nearly as dominant as that of Joe Wood. Through eight innings he scattered five hits and struck out six, shutting out Boston while not allowing a man past second base. Only once did the Red Sox threaten, when Jake Stahl walloped one to deep left-center, nearly knocking the men off the bull, a ball that would have been a home run in most ballparks and might have even been one in Fenway Park, albeit of the inside-the-park variety, were it not for the ground rules that held Stahl at second base. In the eighth Stahl, watching the game slip away, became desperate. In the words of Ring Lardner, he "began to rush the militia," using two pinch hitters, a rarity at the time, batting for both Bill Carrigan and O'Brien. Yet neither replacement could crack Marquard. Hick Cady then took over behind the plate, and Hugh Bedient came on to pitch the ninth.
In his relief appearance in game 2, Bedient had started out by hitting the first batter, and he did so again, plunking Buck Herzog. Cady saved him by cutting down Herzog on a steal attempt, but then Chief Meyers singled, bringing up the much-maligned Art Fletcher. Fletcher hit a flare toward center field, and the lumbering Meyers, eager to give Marquard an insurance run, took off from first without giving a thought to the possibility that the ball might be caught.
Tris Speaker was in center field, and no man in baseball played the position better. In a play that in another context would probably still be talked about today, he chased down Fletcher's drive, then pulled up, checking on the runner. Meyers, oblivious, was charging toward third. Speaker could have beaten the husky catcher to first base had he chosen to, but there was no need. Besides, when he stopped short his ankle, hurt while trying to avoid Herzog the day before and now wrapped in adhesive tape, started to give way. He threw to first for the double play, and Boston was out of the inning.
Despite the fact that Boston was only three outs away from defeat, not a fan in the stands or perched atop anything made any move to leave. All year long the Red Sox had shown a propensity for making late-inning comebacks, and even as the sun began to dip below the horizon and long autumnal shadows made it hard for fans to track the ball—now darkened by grass stains and tobacco juice—no one left the ballpark. If a season at Fenway had taught them anything, it was that no game was ever, ever over.
Speaker led off. He could barely walk, but the Giants did not know that, and it stayed a secret when he popped up to Fletcher for the first out. Duffy Lewis then stepped in.
He had collected Boston's first hit in the second inning, when he looped a line drive to right, but he was hardly feeling confident. The pull hitter had been late on Marquard all day. This time he was not only late but weak.
The ball bounced harmlessly to the hole between first and second. Fred Merkle, still playing Lewis to pull, was well off first base and went after the ball, which might well have been more easily caught by Doyle. Lewis broke from the box quickly, but Marquard, probably thinking Doyle would field the ball, hesitated before breaking toward first. Merkle threw to the pitcher racing to the bag, but Lewis beat him to the base and was safe.
For the first time all day Marquard seemed to crack, visibly upset both at himself and at Merkle for not covering first and with Merkle for fielding the ball. He knew it was the kind of mistake that could cost a pitcher a ball game, the kind of bad break that had turned the second half of his year into a nightmare.
Now he had to face Larry Gardner with a man on, and he had to throw from the stretch. He knew better than anyone else that after more than 120 pitches his fastball was beginning to fade. Marquard threw, and Gardner, swinging from the left side like he was playing the wing in a hockey game on a pond in his native Vermont, took a wrist shot at an inside fastball.
It rocketed down the right-field line in a flash, past Merkle, then hit the ground with overspin and almost seemed to speed up as it skipped and bounded to the corner. The ball hit the fence at the edge of the pavilion and bounded into deep right field, where Josh Devore tore after it. Lewis was off with the pitch, and Gardner was chasing after him.
Charlie Wagner was coaching third, but he hit seventh, only two spots after Gardner. Just as Gardner hit the ball Tris Speaker had gone out to take Wagner's place so he could warm up in case he got a chance to hit.
As Lewis approached third he saw two men in Red Sox uniforms—Wagner, waving him around, and another, Speaker, not doing anything. Confused, Lewis started to slow.
Behind him, Larry Gardner was running with his head down, thinking he probably had a triple, but as he approached second and looked toward third, he saw Lewis slowing down. Afraid he was being held up, Gardner put on the brakes.
Now Wagner got Lewis's attention, and the outfielder, not the fastest man in the world, took off for home. He still had plenty of time, for the throw was just on its way to the infield. Lewis scored easily, but by then Gardner had stopped at second. He could have walked to third, as Devore foolishly threw toward home, not third, and when Fred Merkle tried to cut the throw off the ball skipped away. But Gardner hesitated and then stayed where he was.
The crowd roared and booed, happy that Boston scored but disappointed that Gardner only made second. Had Lewis not slowed down, Gardner might have scored himself when the relay got away from Merkle.
It was too late, although Gardner was still in scoring position. A single could tie the game.
Jake Stahl was up next, and he hit the ball hard, a comebacker straight at Marquard, but the pitcher made a nice play, knocking the ball down.
Now Gardner became the real goat. Upset at himself and frustrated, he decided to try for third. Marquard, a left-hander, scooped up the ball and threw a fastball to Herzog at third base. He dropped to his knee, blocking Gardner from the base, and tagged him out. Once again, as the cheers quieted, a smattering of boos was heard in the crowd.
On first base Jake Stahl called time and waved to the bench, calling for Olaf Henriksen to pinch-run. The manager was almost out of players and didn't have a clue who would play first base if the Sox managed to take the lead—maybe Joe Wood?—but that was not his concern now. Henriksen could run, he could not, and Boston needed to score.
It seemed not to matter when Charlie Wagner, up next with the game on the line, bounced the ball to Art Fletcher. The Giants shortstop fielded the ball cleanly for once, flipped to first, and the Giants began to walk off the field, the game over.
But it was becoming hard to see as the moisture on the field after the rain began to turn to mist. Fred Merkle, trying to track the darkened ball against the crowd, backlit by the still bright sky, lost the ball, then found it and stabbed at it. But the ball bounced out of his mitt—barely the size of a garden glove and with hardly any pocket—and Wagner was safe.
Olaf Henriksen, on the roster only because of his speed, didn't know that. With two outs, he was running with the pitch and running hard, as he should have been, and had already rounded second base when he realized the ball was free. Now, like a kid on the sandlots, he just kept going. Merkle picked up the ball and made a strong throw to Herzog, and for a moment plate umpire Bill Evans, responsible for the play at third, hesitated. Then he put out his arms, palms down. Henriksen was safe, and Boston was somehow still alive, and the crowd, which had cheered and groaned and cheered and groaned, now got a chance to cheer again as Hick Cady stepped to the plate.
If Lewis's hit had unnerved Marquard, Gardner's smash and now Merkle's errors left the pitcher staring into the face of pure oblivion. The entire inning—indeed, the entire game—was playing out like a condensed version of his whole schizophrenic season. He and his roommate, right fielder Josh Devore, had spent much of the second half of the year consoling each other. Devore, as Runyon noted later, "had been taunted and joshed by the big town fans this season until his boyish heart was almost broken." The diminutive outfielder, who ran well but had no power, had, like Red Murray, been judged a failure during the 1911 World's Series, and a certain element among the fans at the Polo Grounds had done their best to remind him of that. In fact, few Giants followers thought he deserved a permanent place in the lineup.