The Streak Read online

  The Pride of the Yankees received 11 Academy Award nominations, including Cooper’s for Best Actor and Wright’s for Best Actress. The story was adapted twice for national radio broadcasts, with Cooper reprising his role. In the 1950s, it became a late-night television staple, introducing Gehrig’s story to generations who never saw him play. Decades later, the American Film Institute ranked it the third-greatest sports film ever and rated its final line (“Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth”) at No. 38 on a list of greatest movie quotes.

  Eventually, the line blurred between Gehrig’s real life and Goldwyn’s version sprinkled with Hollywood fairy dust. Goldwyn’s mythologized tale became familiar and was widely accepted as accurate. Eleanor admitted she could barely distinguish Cooper from her late husband.

  “Gary and Lou have the same expressions. They are the same type of man,” she told a journalist. “Gary had every one of his mannerisms down to a science and he is so like my husband in the picture that there were times when I felt I couldn’t bear it.”

  In death, Gehrig earned a prime place in America’s broader culture. Between The Pride of the Yankees and his association with ALS, he became known for his sad fate as much as for his baseball talents, and his consecutive-game record inevitably became his most famous achievement. Some of his fans could not bear that a player so magnificent was now best remembered just for his perfect attendance, but as DiMaggio would point out in his speech at Camden Yards in 1995, Gehrig’s testimonial plaque at Yankee Stadium includes the observation that his “amazing” consecutive-game record “should stand for all time.” Although it did not, Gehrig’s indelible legend was that of a baseball Hercules whose demise had shocked millions because he had seemed so strong, and his record of playing in so many games in a row was the ultimate measure of that strength.

  As Ripken closed in on Gehrig’s record in 1995, reporters asked what he knew about the Iron Horse. It was a sensitive subject for Ripken. A career .270 hitter, he was almost embarrassed by comparisons to Gehrig.

  “Lou was like Babe Ruth. How was it possible for me to compare myself to him?” Ripken said years later. “I realized what we did share was playing in consecutive games. It was still uncomfortable for me.”

  He spent little time contemplating Gehrig during the 1995 season. “I didn’t want to talk about Lou. I didn’t want to hear about his streak,” Ripken recalled. He believed if he focused on Gehrig, it would appear his motivation for playing every day was setting the record, and that was not the impression he wanted to give.

  But Ripken knew on September 6, 1995, that he needed to salute the man who had elevated the consecutive-game record from a statistical footnote to the highest level of acclaim. Though Gehrig had been dead for nearly two decades when Ripken was born, they were inextricably linked. More than 17,000 men had played major league baseball since 1876. Only two had played in more than 2,000 straight games.

  After the final out of the Orioles’ 4–2 victory, a dais was quickly erected in the infield at Camden Yards. Orioles broadcasters Chuck Thompson and Jon Miller introduced the team’s starting lineup from the first game of the streak. Ripken came onto the field with his arms around his parents. Orioles pitcher Mike Mussina presented him with gifts from the team: a pool table and decorative landscape rock with “2,131” chiseled into it. Outfielder Brady Anderson, Ripken’s best friend, offered laudatory remarks, as did Mark Belanger, Ripken’s predecessor as Baltimore’s shortstop.

  When DiMaggio spoke, Ripken stood near the podium with his hands clasped respectfully behind his back, then shook hands with the white-haired former Yankee, whose speech elicited a roar. Angelos followed with a speech so long some fans booed. It was after midnight. They wanted Ripken.

  Finally, Ripken stepped to the microphone. Ever the planner, he had started working on his speech a month earlier, bouncing ideas off his agent, Ron Shapiro, in what Shapiro later called “wordsmithing sessions.” He was still tinkering on the afternoon of his record-setting game. He started by thanking four people for making his success possible: his parents, former Orioles teammate Eddie Murray, and his wife. His voice almost cracked when he turned to Kelly and said, “You, Rachel, and Ryan, you are my life.”

  But with DiMaggio standing by him, he concluded his remarks, appropriately, with a nod to Gehrig:

  Tonight I stand here, overwhelmed, as my name is linked with the great and courageous Lou Gehrig. I’m truly humbled to have our names spoken in the same breath. Some may think our strongest connection is because we both played many consecutive games. Yet I believe in my heart that our true link is a common motivation—a love of the game of baseball, a passion for our team, and a desire to compete on the very highest level.

  I know that if Lou Gehrig is looking down on tonight’s activities, he isn’t concerned about someone playing one more consecutive game than he did. Instead, he’s viewing tonight as just another example of what is good and right about the great American game. Whether your name is Gehrig or Ripken; DiMaggio or Robinson; or that of some youngster who picks up his bat or puts on his glove: You are challenged by the game of baseball to do your very best day in and day out. And that’s all I’ve ever tried to do.

  3

  Ironmen

  FIRST OF THEIR KIND

  He lived centuries ago on another continent, but Pheidippides, a lithe, dark-haired warrior in ancient Greece, inspired America’s fascination with sports endurance.

  In 490 BC, during the long war between Persia and Greece, a large Persian army mustered at Marathon, prompting a Greek general to order Pheidippides to run to Sparta and return with reinforcements. Pheidippides, who was known for being able to traverse long distances, covered 150 miles in two days, brought back soldiers, donned armor, and helped the Greek battalion prevail despite its being badly outnumbered. The general then ordered Pheidippides to run to Athens, 25 miles away, and herald the surprising victory. Pheidippides raced to Athens and shouted, “Rejoice! We conquer!” Then he dropped dead.

  Some historians doubt the tale, attributing it to mythmakers. But it has endured. In 1879, Robert Browning, the English poet, put it to verse, writing that Pheidippides “ran like fire” and succumbed to “joy in his blood bursting his heart.” Browning’s poem inspired France’s Baron Pierre de Coubertin and other founders of the modern Olympics, who conceived a running event roughly retracing Pheidippides’s path from Marathon to Athens—a distance of some 25 miles. They called the race the marathon.

  At the inaugural modern games in Greece in 1896, the marathon was widely anticipated. Spectators packed a stadium in Athens, where the finish line was located. When Greece’s Spyridon Louis entered the stadium in the lead after running for nearly three hours, two Greek princes were so excited that they jumped from their seats and accompanied Louis on his final lap around the track. Louis, a lowly water carrier by trade, became a national hero.

  A U.S. Olympic team manager, John Graham, witnessed the dramatic scene, and upon returning home he convinced his fellow members of the Boston Athletic Association to stage a similar race. A route of 24.5 miles, starting at Metcalf’s Mill in Ashland, Massachusetts, and ending at the Oval on Irvington Street in Boston, was selected, and on April 19, 1897, a New Yorker named John McDermott captured the inaugural Boston Marathon.

  The race was a hit with the public. Spectators lined the course to witness what was deemed a grueling test of man’s physical limits. One-third of the field stopped short of the finish, and McDermott, exhausted, had to walk several times in the final miles to reach the end upright. The second Boston Marathon took place on April 19, 1898, with a Boston-area college student finishing first, and the race soon became an annual staple of America’s developing spectator sports scene. Thus was introduced the idea of endurance as a fundamental athletic quality along with strength, agility, and hand-eye coordination—traits that mattered in baseball, boxing, tennis, golf, and Olympic sports such as weightlifting, wrestling, and shooting. (The marathon d
istance was changed in 1908 to 26 miles and 385 yards, reflecting a new Olympic standard.)

  America’s fascination with endurance tales was not new. Although early settlers and Native Americans did not contest in well-known races, some were famous for their durability. In 1835, The Spirit of the Times newspaper wrote of a Native American who ran 100 miles in a day while carrying a 60-pound bar of lead. The paper’s editors rightfully assumed the public wanted to read about individuals possessing the strength, determination, and will to accomplish what few could.

  On August 25, 1875, a British steamship captain, Matthew Webb, made headlines on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean by becoming the first person to swim across the English Channel from England to France—a distance of 21 miles. Webb had previously gained fame for diving into ocean waters to rescue a passenger, and when he read of another man’s failed attempt to swim across the Channel, he decided to try. After failing once, he made it in 21 hours and 45 minutes, battling a jellyfish sting and strong currents to reach shore at Calais, in northern France.

  Taking advantage of his celebrity, Webb became his century’s version of a professional extreme athlete, performing swimming challenges and other outlandish stunts for pay. His act was popular in the United States, where he once floated in a tank of water for 128 hours. After he died trying to swim through rapids in the Niagara River, below Niagara Falls, a memorial erected in his English hometown included this inscription: NOTHING GREAT IS EASY.

  Webb’s successful Channel crossing spawned numerous imitators, but 36 years passed before a British-born French water polo player, Thomas Burgess, finally became the second person to make it across. Henry Sullivan, a stocky businessman’s son from Lowell, Massachusetts, sought to become the first American to achieve the feat in 1913. Rough waters forced him to abandon his attempt well short of Calais, but he kept trying over the years while also undertaking other swimming challenges, such as a race from Provincetown to Nantucket in his home state, which he won in 20 hours and 28 minutes after a shark attack forced a rival to stop. Sullivan finally successfully crossed the English Channel on his eighth try, in 1923.

  In its first decades, baseball seemed incapable of producing staggering endurance tales. Boxing could: on April 6, 1893, two fighters in New Orleans battled for 110 rounds over 7 hours and 19 minutes before the match was deemed a draw because neither could lift his arms, much less knock the other out. But baseball did not test man’s physical limits. In the 1800s and early 1900s, most games were over in less than two hours, and many players were at a local bar within minutes of the final out. And even though the season lasted months, the players sat on benches when not batting or playing the field. How tough was that?

  The notion of durability finally entered the baseball conversation in the early 1900s. Joe McGinnity, a chubby right-hander for the New York Giants, pitched an astounding 434 innings while winning 31 games in 1903. Such hardiness was common in those years, before it became clear that heavy workloads could ruin arms, but McGinnity, a feisty former bartender from Peoria, Illinois, who once spat tobacco juice in an umpire’s face, was the ultimate example. Sportswriters called him “Ironman.”

  According to Lee Allen’s book The National League Story, McGinnity’s nickname initially came from an interview early in his career. When a journalist asked what he did in the off-season, he replied, “I’m an iron man. I work in a foundry.” Indeed, his wife’s family operated a foundry, or iron factory, in McAlester, Oklahoma. But the nickname proved just as appropriate on the diamond when McGinnity made a habit of pitching both ends of a doubleheader, as if his arm were made of iron.

  The Ironman nickname was not attached to position players on consecutive-game streaks until after World War I. Statisticians were just getting around to clarifying the game’s early history, poring over old box scores like archaeologists searching for dinosaur bones at a dig. The challenge of playing every day was not new, but it was beginning to draw attention. On August 3, 1919, when Fred Luderus, a first baseman for the Philadelphia Phillies, ran his streak to 479 consecutive games, surpassing Eddie Collins, a White Sox second baseman whose streak had ended not long before, the Philadelphia Inquirer labeled Luderus “the new ‘Iron Man’ of the majors.”

  Patterned after English and Gaelic “field games” such as cricket and rounders, baseball had first gained footing in and around New York City in the 1850s, and then emerged from the bloody ruin of the Civil War as one thing most Americans agreed on. The first professional club, Cincinnati’s Red Stockings, toured the country in 1869, drawing crowds on both coasts. Eight clubs formed the National League in 1876, and a rival “major” league, the American Association, opened for business in 1882.

  At first, pitchers stood 50 feet from home plate, on flat ground, lobbing underhand tosses at batters who could declare whether they wanted the pitch thrown high or low. As many as seven balls and four strikes comprised an at-bat at different times as organizers experimented with the rules. Finally, the distance between the mound and home plate was established at 60 feet and 6 inches, and four balls and three strikes per at-bat became the norm.

  In 1876, the National League’s inaugural season, teams carried only a few players more than the nine-man minimum, in part because their owners could not fathom paying reserves to sit and watch. Managers had no choice but to use mostly “set” lineups, featuring the same players at the same positions day after day. The schedule was short and unorganized, with teams playing anywhere from 56 to 70 league games. Six Chicago White Stockings, four St. Louis Brown Stockings, and four Boston Red Caps played in every game for their teams.

  The set-lineup tradition continued in the coming years. It was not always easy to play every day for months, especially as the players’ bruises and aches mounted during the season. (Many played defense without a glove until the late 1880s.) But rosters remained small, and no substitutions were permitted during a game unless a player suffered an injury so severe he could not continue. Pinch hitters, defensive replacements, and designated hitters belonged to the sport’s distant future.

  In 1882, four of the National League pennant–winning Chicago White Stockings played in every game, as did four Buffalo Bisons, four Cleveland Blues, and three Providence Grays. In all, 28 players among the league’s eight teams—38.8 percent of the starters—contested the entire season without taking a day off.

  For Joe Hornung, a speedy, peculiar left fielder for the Boston Beaneaters, the 1882 season marked his third straight without a day off. One of the league’s finest fielders, he shouted a nonsensical phrase, “Ubbo, ubbo,” whenever he made a nice grab or collected a base hit. Proudly rugged, Hornung continued to play barehanded even as gloves came into vogue, and eventually played in 464 straight games until he sat one out on September 13, 1884.

  By then, baseball was “the established favorite game of ball of the American people,” according to Spalding’s Base Ball Guide, a volume published annually by A. G. Spalding and Bros., a sporting goods company owned by an entrepreneurial former pitcher, Albert Spalding. Horse races and boxing matches also drew crowds of spectators, but in the years before football and basketball became popular, baseball was easily the top attraction. Newspapers across the country covered their local teams, publishing long articles about games and features on players. Magazines such as the Sporting News, published in St. Louis, and the Sporting Life, published in Philadelphia, circulated nationally with detailed reporting on players, rules, and games.

  Club owners recognized that, given the public’s growing appetite for games, they could lengthen their season, sell more tickets, and make more money. When the Detroit Wolverines won the National League pennant in 1887, they played 127 games—43 more than they had played six years earlier. The longer season intensified the challenge of playing every day. Many players still did not wear gloves or protective gear and accumulated cuts, bruises, scrapes, and more. Travel was not easy, composed of long hours on lurching, crowded trains and nights in stifling-hot hotels. And
instead of resting when the schedule provided a rare day off, teams played exhibitions, arranged by their owners, to generate more revenue. Most players took an occasional day off. In 1886, just two National League players, representing 2.7 percent of the league, contested every game for their teams, constituting a precipitous decline from just a few years earlier.

  That year, five players in the eight-team American Association also played in every game, including George Pinkney, a third baseman for Brooklyn. Encountering him out of uniform, few strangers would have guessed Pinkney was a ballplayer, especially one noted for his durability. Standing five feet seven and weighing 160 pounds, he was shaped like an egg, with the bulk of his weight seemingly bunched at his wide hips. His narrow, patrician nose pointed straight out in what seemed a permanent sniff. A manicured layer of thin blond hair fell daintily across the top of his head.

  Without a uniform on, Pinkney resembled a deskbound white-collar professional, and in fact he was from a prominent Illinois legal family, his father a judge on the state supreme court, his brother the district attorney in Peoria, their hometown. Had their profession also interested him, he surely would have spent his working years in courtrooms. But he preferred baseball’s dirt diamonds instead.

  Playing third base without a glove, Pinkney was agile and sure-handed. “Some of his stops of hot-hit balls are simply marvelous,” reported the New York Clipper, a newspaper that focused on sports and the theater. At the plate, he walked or made contact almost every time he batted, exhibiting a sharp eye and consistent left-handed swing. Though not a slugger, Pinkney consistently drove balls between fielders and then ran the bases with a horse jockey’s daring, his thick thighs blurring. “One of the greatest third basemen in the profession,” the Clipper called him.