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.400, Weeghman wouldn’t mind if he’d committed a murder.

Chapter Four
    G ame time was two o’clock. As usual, I was suited up and on the field before noon. What was unusual was that I didn’t have to wait for my teammates to join me. All the Cubs players, as well as the visiting Cincinnati Reds, were going through their warm-up routines. We had to get practice out of the way early because of the pre-game ceremonies that had been planned.
    It was Thursday, the Fourth of July, and Charles Weeghman was using the holiday to full advantage. He seemed determined to single-handedly demonstrate the patriotism of major league baseball, at least that of the Chicago Cubs. To this end, he’d scheduled enough speeches and music and marches for a political convention.
    The Reds were helping ensure that the spectacle took place before a full house. They’d moved Fred Toney up in their pitching rotation to face our Hippo Vaughn in a rematch of baseball’s greatest pitching duel. A year ago in this park the two men had pitched no-hit shutouts against each other for a full nine innings, until Jim Thorpe won the game for Toney and the Reds with a tenth-inning single.
    The two big pitchers were warming up now, showing off, hurling bullets that smacked loudly in their catchers’ mitts. Toney threw to Ivy Wingo in foul territory near the first base dugout and Vaughn to Bob O’Farrell along the third base line.
    Kids outside the park were warming up, too, for the Fourth of July celebration, shooting off rockets and firecrackers that popped more harshly than Vaughn’s and Toney’s pitches.
    The Reds were taking infield practice. The tall fellow hitting them easy grounders was Christy Mathewson, my old teammate with the Giants, now the manager of Cincinnati. He took care not to drive any up the middle to avoid hitting the carpenters working behind second base.
    The workmen were putting the finishing touches on a small platform that had been built for the visiting dignitaries. Their hammering added to the percussive din in the park, making it almost impossible to hear the chatter of the crowd.
    Already there were more people in the park than we’d had for the previous five games combined. They were here to see a ballgame, to enjoy a day of leisure, to forget about the war. For a couple of hours, the most important battle in the world would be fought between two teams of nine men each, with nothing more deadly than ball, bat, and glove as weapons.
    Charles Weeghman strolled around near the backstop, cheerfully giving interviews to a clutch of reporters who trailed behind him. As he spoke, the beaming Weeghman kept his eyes on the stands, occasionally waving to individuals in the crowd.
    There was a side to Charles Weeghman that I admired: he genuinely liked the fans. As much as he wanted their ticket money, he also wanted them to have a good time in his ballpark. Other men owned shares of the Cubs, but the park was really Weeghman’s. He’d built it in 1914 for his Chicago franchise in the outlaw Federal League. When the Feds folded after only two years, Weeghman was allowed to buy the National League Cubs and move them into his North Side showplace. From the beginning, Weeghman catered to the wishes of the fans. He was the first club owner to build concession stands so that patrons wouldn’t have their view blocked by vendors, and he was the only owner to let fans keep baseballs hit into the stands.
    Then there was the side of Weeghman I had seen Sunday. I never did agree to help him, but I didn’t refuse either. He’d never asked me for a direct answer, simply assuming that his threat would have the desired effect and I would do his bidding. It occurred to me after he’d left that it might have been Weeghman who’d had the water tank stolen from my cellar, just to show me how it felt to have my home sabotaged.
    When the Reds left the infield, Shufflin’ Phil Douglas shuffled out to the mound to throw batting practice for us.