**Game 1 of the 1927 World Series. (Forbes Field.)**

World Series Game 1. (“My Advice Is Start Drinking Heavily.”)

Wednesday, October 5, 1927: Pittsburgh

Myles Thomas

Published in

The Diary of Myles Thomas

12 min readNov 22, 2016

It’s a little before 12 noon, about two hours before Game 1 of the World Series, and the Pittsburgh Pirates are taking batting practice.

I’m standing in front of our dugout taking part in a faux conversation with Sailor Bob Shawkey, Joe Dugan and our first base coach, Charley O’Leary. It’s a faux conversation because we’re trying to disguise the fact that we’re spying, for lack of a better word, on the Pirates during their batting practice. We’re trying to see what they can do at the plate, but that’s not an easy task, since we have no idea what most of their players look like.

“Is that Grantham?” asks Dugan staring out at a right-handed batter.

“I thought Grantham batted lefty,” I reply.

“He does,” says Urban Shocker.

“That’s not Grantham, that’s Barnhart,” says Sailor Bob, not entirely convinced that he’s got it right, either.

“You sure it’s not that kid outfielder, whatshisname?” Dugan asks.

“Brickell?” I offer.

“Nope,” says Charley O’Leary. “Brickell’s a lefty, too.”

“Well, whoever it is, he’s knocking the shit out of the ball.”

“It’s Glenn Wright,” says Art Fletcher, our third base coach, who’s arrived late for our impromptu meeting. “He’s their shortstop.”

Fletcher has a fondness for shortstops, since he was a terrific one for John McGraw for a decade, so he knows the National League real well, even the newer players. Now he’s our infield and third base coach, and he’s terrific at that, too.

“Looks like Pie Traynor’s up next,” Fletch says. “I’ll call them out for you boys from here.”

“This would be a lot easier if we all wore numbers, like they do in the National Football League,” says Shawkey.

“Numbers, Sailor Bob?” I say indignantly. “Isn’t our modern day society dehumanizing enough? Isn’t the charm of our game, as opposed to the violence of football, that it’s the National Pastime, and not just another product of American Industry? Numbers on our uniforms would represent the turning of players into mere cogs in a giant factory designed to produce athletic entertainment for the masses. Bet you haven’t considered that.”

Everyone just stares at me.

“What are you, some kind of a fucking communist, or fucking socialist?” Dugan says, raising his political hackles. Hackles I had no idea he had.

“Give me a coin, Jumpin’ Joe, and I’ll flip it for you. Heads, I’m a fucking communist. Tails, I’m a fucking socialist. If the coins lands on its side, though, I’m just screwing with you.”

Fletcher quickly changes the subject from politics back to baseball.

“Here comes Pie.”

“Pie! Where?” I ask.

“Pie Traynor, you idiot,” says Dugan.

“Now that man’s a machine,” I say to the group. “A hitting machine.”

Sailor Bob leans over and whispers to me, “Have you been smoking with Bix, again?”

“No,” I immediately say. And then, “No!” when I realize what Sailor Bob’s actually asking me. “Bix wasn’t even on the train.”

**Pie Traynor at batting practice before a World Series game.**

Actually there were two trains that came down from New York Sunday, both of them overnights. The first was a special train for our fans. That one left New York at nine o’clock. The second, our team’s train, pulled out of New York at 10:30 p.m. Sunday night and arrived in Pittsburgh on Monday morning at 9:15.

Penn Station was a complete madhouse Sunday night. There must have been over 1,000 fans, all of them cheering us with “Hip-Hip, Hoorays!” every two minutes. None of us had ever seen anything like it.

Three quarters of the crowd were boys who looked between 10 and 15 years old. And from what I could see, every one of them managed to physically touch the Babe, who stood out in the middle of the concourse having a grand old time, shaking hands, tousling hair, and putting a permanent smile on just about every kid’s face, until Silent Bob and Dutch Ruether dragged Jidge onto the players’ car just before it started to roll.

Lazzeri and Koenig almost missed our departure because they couldn’t get through the crowd. Mark Roth, our travelling secretary, was in a panic, telling his special assistant for the World Series, George, that he’d be fired if he allowed the conductor to pull out of the station without Lazzeri on board.

“Notice he didn’t say anything about Koenig,” said Schoolboy, who’s taking the mound for us in Game 1.

As we rolled out of Penn Station, my pal, Gallico of the Daily News, pretended he was one of the players and waved goodbye out an open window to the throng. Then he settled back into his chair and took out a flask.

“That wasn’t a sendoff, it was a coronation,” he said, offering me a nip.

“Tell the truth, did you write in that rag of yours that we’d already won the Series, and confuse those poor tykes?” I ask.

“I don’t make stuff up like that, I’m not like those other ink stained clowns on this train. Didn’t you read my column this morning?” Gallico asked, sounding a bit hurt that I obviously hadn’t.

“I wrote that you’ll win it in two.”

The last car on the train is always reserved for the players, since that’s the quietest, being furthest away from the engine. But Sunday night that honor went to our owner. Like many captains of industry, Colonel Jacob Ruppert has his own personal train car to convey him around the country.

Last night Ruppert’s car carried a special guest of honor, Mayor Jimmy Walker. The colonel and the mayor dined and sat up talking till midnight. Then, after Ruppert retired for the evening, Gentleman Jimmy walked one car down, to a second private car being towed to Pittsburgh, this one belonging to another New York baseball Grand Poobah, the Wall Street swindler and owner of the Giants, Charles Stoneham.

Stoneham, unlike Colonel Ruppert, didn’t go to bed early, nor did he just have one guest of honor. He had a circus full of them, many of them showbiz celebs, including the Babe’s best friend, Paul Whiteman — the “King of Jazz” — and a gaggle of female companions. The Mayor was interested in all of them, though he also chatted with some of the men.

Whiteman was traveling with two of his top musicians, Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey, who are young pals of Bix. They have played with him in Goldkette’s band for the last few years, and only recently jumped to play for Whiteman because Goldkette’s band was breaking up, due to tight finances. Unlike Goldkette, the “King of Jazz” makes enough money to pay for any sized band.

The Dorseys grew up in Pennsylvania coal country without a major league team nearby, so they’re fans of both the Philadelphia Athletics and the Pittsburgh Pirates. Bix has told me crazy stories about them. He says they’re both certifiably insane.

“Tommy’s a great musician, as good on the trombone and the trumpet as any colored guy — except for Pops, of course — but he’s one mean drunk. When he’s tight, which can be night or day, he and Jimmy will go at it on a moment’s notice, for no apparent reason at all.

“My very first rehearsal with Goldkette’s band, we’re blasting away, really soaring, then — Bam! — all of a sudden there’s this crashing sound. It’s the Dorseys. They’ve both fallen off the bandstand and they’re rolling around on the floor, and whaling on each other with music stands. I mean, it’s a brawl. Then Tommy picks up Jimmy’s sax and throws it clear across the room.

“Instead of breaking up the fight, everyone in the band just scatters. I’m still sitting there in my chair when Joe Venuti, the violinist, grabs me and says, ‘Whatever you do, don’t go near them, or they’ll both turn on you, and beat the living crap out of you.’

“All I could think was, ‘I’m gonna love playing in this band.’ And, boy, did I.”

Venuti wasn’t exaggerating. Bix says he twice saw innocent bystanders try and break up Dorsey battles, only to become Dorsey victims, and that both times — snap! — in an instant, the Dorseys turned on the poor bastards like wolves taking down a deer.

“They are two very tough, very crazy kids.”

“Those are two tough, crazy kids,” Gallico says to me, pointing to the Waner brothers, as we watch the Pirates walk out onto the field to do their running.

Big Poison and Little Poison are what the Waners are called around the National League, and for good reason.

Paul, just 24, is the older one. Last year, his first in the majors, he hit .336. This year he batted .380 with 237 hits, 18 triples and 131 RBIs — leading the senior circuit in each one of those categories. He’s hands down the MVP of the National League.

Little Poison, whose mother 21 years ago named him Lloyd, was a rookie this season — which explains why he lagged behind his big brother and only batted .355, and could only manage 223 hits.

“The press down here says both of those Okies are lunatics,” says Gallico. “At breakfast this morning, Ford Frick told me he dined last night with Ralph Davis of the Pittsburgh Press and Kiki Cuyler, and that according to Cuyler, “About the only time Lloyd’s sober is when he’s playing ball.”

“What about the older brother?” I ask. “I hope Big Poison sets a better example for the youth of America?”

“Big Poison is even worse. According to Cuyler, the reason he looks so graceful patrolling the outfield is that he’s worried about falling down and cracking the bottle in his back pocket.

“Cuyler says Big Poison swears it helps his hitting, ’cause it relaxes him, and he hits better when he’s relaxed.”

“Wow.”

“Yup,” says Gallico. “I think if I were Donie Bush and managing that squad, I’d call the rest of the team together and tell them, ‘Boys, my advice to you is to start drinking heavily.’”

**Lloyd “Little Poison” and Paul “Big Poison” Waner.**

There’s actually a good chance that the rest of the Pirates will want to drink heavily after today’s game, since I’m sure they feel like they handed us a victory.

In the top of the first, with two outs, Ruth singles to right, and then Gehrig hits a sinking line drive that Paul Waner in right field dives for but misses. That’s when the Pirates get to see firsthand just how fast two of the biggest men in baseball can locomotive around the bases.

After the top of the first inning we lead 1–0.

Along with Christy Mathewson, Schoolboy is one of the two greatest World Series pitchers ever. In 1921 and ’22 against the Giants and their bastard manager, John McGraw, Schoolboy went 34 straight innings without letting up an earned run. But right from the start of today’s game, he’s struggling. He’s got a blister on his pitching hand.

He hits the first batter of the game, Lloyd Waner, who comes around to score an earned run.

“That’s the first time in 52 innings of World Series pitching that I’ve ever hit a guy,” he tells me when he gets back to the bench.

“You sure it’s not 53 or 51?”

“Shut up. Unless you want me to tell you my ERA.”

I quiet down and let him get his mind back into the game.

“It was 1.20, before I hit Little Poison.”

Then, in the bottom of the second, we put our defense and physical toughness on display:

The Pirates’ George Grantham is on first when Joe Harris hits a wicked shot that Lazzeri makes a tremendous play on. The W*p first tags Grantham, hard, like the prize fighter Lazzeri used to be, and then he rifles the ball to Lou at first, who scoops it out of the dirt for a stunning double play.

Right after the play, Grantham and the W*p start barking at each other like a couple of dogs. The Pirate is acting pretty tough until Koenig gets between them and says to Grantham, “You don’t want to fight the W*p. Trust me. No one in our entire league does.”

Grantham postures, like he isn’t backing down — but all of a sudden Koenig is able to push him away from Lazzeri without much effort at all.

Further frustrating the Pirates is the fact that, right afterwards, we score three unearned runs in the third, thanks to an error by the rattled Grantham, with our only hit in the inning being another single by Ruth.

Hoyt and his blister continue to struggle. He gives up four runs in 7 ⅓ innings and leaves the game with men on first and third, and two outs. But Wilcy Moore comes in and shuts the Pirates down, closing out our Game 1 win.

After the game, Schoolboy is pissed off at his performance. He’s itching for another start against the Pirates in New York. While Doc Woods is giving him his postgame rubdown, Schoolboy looks up and says to me, “We better not sweep these guys.”

**Doc Woods works on Waite Hoyt’s pitching arm.**

Game One is in our back pocket, but we can play a lot better.

Meanwhile, in the other locker room, I’m sure the Pirates feel they gave this game away — with Waner’s misplay in the first, the three-run third inning thanks to Grantham’s error, the fact that they held Murderers’ Row to just six hits, and because neither Ruth nor Gehrig hit the ball out of the park.

My advice to them is to start drinking heavily.