The Newspaper "Fan"

I AM a newspaper “fan.” No one knows it except my fellow passengers on the evening suburban train. I do not tell my family, because the paper I buy and read for its moving-picture descriptions of the daily baseball game is blackguarded beyond words, when, in our house, the talk runs on newspapers. Indeed, it is my proudest hypocrisy to join in the manifestations against it — after I have played through the latest royal contest between rival twirlers whose existence is, unfortunately, not a part of my respectable and authentic life. And then, with accuracy due to long custom, the flimsy sheet is slipped under the car seat, and I walk from the departing train outwardly stainless.

The world is so made that those of us who live eight hours in offices spend their Saturday afternoons and holidays in more direct physical sport than watching even real baseball. Thus it is that none of my heroes of the bat are more to me than excited names; picturesque, it is true, and gatherers of further glories through the gaudy sobriquets given them by the baptizers of the Press. Kerrison the Small, Dygert, Lajoie, Stovall, and Flick are my friends. Boulton is among them no longer, for did he not join the Blank City Nationals like a true traitor?

Baseball is the best cement democracy knows. An Italian in a blue shirt with a flowered silk front, who rides on a pass on my train, reads the same paper that I do. One day, at the sixth inning, he stopped, thick forefinger against the page. It marked a place where, for the second time Tox had struck out to a notably slow “box-man.” We exchanged speaking glances, shook our heads, and read on. Thereafter we fought sympathetic battles.

There is nothing in the world like it. “ Donahue dumped a Texas leaguer in the right. Dineen pushed a safe grounder in the same direction, and Schreck tried for third, but Ferris relayed Congalton’s throw to Hemphill, and Donahue was out. Dougherty rapped a hot one which Hemphill was lucky to stop. Roke flied to Sullivan. Bill Sullivan drove through Bach’s legs, and Dineen scored, Pat going to third. Sully stole second, Eberfield fanned. ONE RUN.”

Imagine the hot sunny field. A drift of fat cigar smoke and with it the thick smell of peanuts. No wind; perfect baseball weather. Nine men against one with a stick and a fast-chewing jaw. “ Unglaub drove a long fly to the left bleachers for two bags.” Ten men on the field now — no, eleven — a new one with the stick. Look! The tenth man is run — no! by Jove he — Go it! He can, and did. “ Sullivan laid down a fine sacrifice, Smith to Donahue, Unglaub sliding to third.” The bleachers are standing now. A new man up — he bats left-handed. He can swing! Read: “ Isbell played in close and Congalton bounced a single over his head, scoring Unglaub! ” As the headline put it, it was a “ timely one-sacker.” The game goes to the Americans.

Friend, you who read the market page with its jargon of fractions and sudden whims, you who furrow the literary twaddle of book journals, or you, gentle lady, to whose nimble tongue wool batiste, challis, and pongee bishops and berthas are emotions and volitions, think of me and my likes playing the game an hour late and twenty miles away, watching as if before us the twists and turns and sudden emprises, the raps and wallops, miscues, pickups, and swift fans of Nine against Nine on the levels of Parnassus! For, “ Issy banged one on the ground which Mullins picked up and snapped to Wagner who covered the middle cushion ” and —

“ A greata game,” says the Italian as his station is called and he gets up, carrying his paper with him, unabashed.