Speaker 1: The Ghost of Silent Smith, An Uncanny Tail by C.
Franklin Miller. Silent Smith was dead to begin with, of
that there could be no doubt. The story of his
tragic end was featured in the first column of every
sporting sheet in the country, and was officially verified in
due course by the physician, the coroner, and the clergyman. Furthermore,
the tragedy itself was visioned by some twenty thousand eyes.
They all saw the blinding speed of the ball as
it left the pitcher's hand. They saw the melancholy indifference
of Silence as he stood at the plate. They saw
the ball crush into his right temple, and they saw
him fall. Some said that he wanted to die, but
that is beside the question of one thing. We are
sure Silent Smith was dead. I myself saw his corpse
two days later. It was laid out in somber black.
His coffin was black, his suit was black, and black
was his bat winging tie. Black was his favorite color.
It harmonized perfectly with the gloom of his disposition, and
to it he clung consistent in death as an active life.
The time of his death is likewise certain. It occurred
at precisely twenty two minutes after three Eastern Standard time.
That fact I have verified it is important. Had it
occurred five hours later, there would be nothing unusual to
tell about Silent Smith would have been duly buried, mourned,
and finally forgotten, except for the brilliant record, which will
always stand as a monument to his pitching skill. As
it was, he died at the time stated, and his
corpse was in the hands of the coroner. Exactly one
hour later. That same hour found him staging the most
remarkable comeback in the history of the national game, and
this at a point three thousand miles away. I make
that statement with a full knowledge of the actual facts.
As a member of Johnny Morgan's Bears that year, I
saw the weird occurrence with my own eyes. It happened
out on the coast in the presence of some eight
thousand fans. Those in the assembled throng who knew Silent
and his mannerisms could only stare and wonder. At the time.
They had no knowledge of his death. I had, so
had the rest of the players on the Bear's bench.
A telegram from the east had borne the tragic news.
That message shed a ghostly light on the astounding phenomenon,
and lent to the affair a vague tinge of plausibility. However,
amazing understand I do not deny the evidence of written
records that would be useless. I know that talkative Andy
Gregg was on the mound for the Bears that day.
I realized that he was credited with the victory which
brought to the club the first pennant we ever flaunted
along the coast, and I agree that he deserved the credit.
For all practical purposes, the voluable lad had labored nine
full innings, giving one of the most sensational exhibitions of
hurling ever witnessed. Nevertheless, I insist that Silent Smith pitched
the Bears into that pennant as surely as his death
occurred two hours before the game was called. Let us see,
Silent Smith had been our twirling ace the greater part
of the season. Any One who ever saw him in
action will tell you he was a pitching marvel. He
could work in turn every fourth day, to relief duty
in between when called upon, and still win the vast
majority of his games. Notwithstanding his proclivity for hard work,
he was strangely lacking in enthusiasm, and possessed no more
sociability than an ancient tombstone. Mind, I do not profess
to have any firsthand knowledge as to the sociability of
a tombstone. My head never rested within the shadow of one.
It may be that their communion is confined solely to
the realm of departed spirits, but as far as the
human eye can see, they are extremely unsociable objects. And
so was Silent. I well remember the veil of gloom
which accompanied his advent into our spring training camp. He
came wandering out upon the field like a lost sheep,
trailing a big black bat. The most dismal looking rookie
I ever laid eyes upon. His face was a masterpiece
of dark despair, sketched in deep, weary lines, ill fitted
to carry a smile. Shrouded in sackcloth, he could have
done justice to the role of chief mourner at anybody's funeral.
The Chief had been busy all morning looking over a
number of promising young pitchers whose efforts would have ruined
the disposition of any trainer. We'd been hanging their offerings
all over the park. Not one of them had enough
stuff to last in a triple A league. The Chief's
iire had been mounting accordingly, and the sight of Silent
gazing dismally on had no soothing effect on his temper.
Say Smith, he growled, You're supposed to be a pitcher,
not a monument. Snap out of it. Let's see your stuff.
Silence produced a ball from his hip pocket and nursed it. Sadly.
For a moment or two, I thought he was going
to cry instead, he answered the Chief in a very
meek and tired voice. Yet, yes, sir, mister Morkin, some
of us may have grinned in secret, but no one
laughed outright. We knew the Chief too well. He was
fairly boiling inwardly, and the lid was due to pop
at any moment. Silence, however, paid absolutely no attention to him.
After uttering those surprising words, he ignored the Chief completely. Slowly,
he made his way out onto the vacant mound and
started a slow wind up. The Chief swore that this
latest addition must have served a term on the box
of a funeral cap. Slow motioned or not, the lad
was uncommonly graceful for Southpaul that we could use. But
what he did to the ball. No one ever knew.
The thing he threw with that left arm of his
was the biggest puzzle I ever stood up against. As
if encased in gobs of gloom, the ball came floating
up to the plate and dropped dejectedly into the catcher's mitt.
It was more like a sigh than any soundless thing
I can think of. It eluded our bats like a
soaring phantom, and had us doubled in knots and our
efforts to deal it a solid blow. Within fifteen minutes,
the chief knew that he had a marvel in tow.
I could see him melt as he watched the lad's
solemn performance, and his face began to beam. All right, buddy,
he sang out genially. But what do you call it?
This time? Silent made no answer. At least, he did
not speak. He merely raised his shoulders and sighed, a long,
deep sigh. That settled it. The syeball, someone suggested, And
the syeball it was. Henceforth the boy could likewise hit.
Not that he ever set the league on fire as
a slugger, but he revealed a deadly punch with his
big black bat, which made him a prince among pinch hitters.
This uncanny ability of his and a pinch was first
demonstrated in our opening game of the season. Up until
the eighth inning, his batting performance had naturally classed him
as another weak hitting pitcher. He had struck out on
two occasions and had raised a puny fly in a
third attempt. The fourth time he stepped into the box, however,
the winning run was resting on third, and he brought
it in with a pretty single. How he did it
was as much of a mystery as his cyeball. His
woeful stance at the plate certainly would never have labeled
him a batter of any quality. The pitcher he presented
as he clung to his big black bat was one
of utter hopelessness and might have been captioned the end.
Yet in a pinch he could deliver. We simply had
to accept. Silent as he was, there was no change him.
His actions were entirely too unexpected and unnatural to be fathomed.
He could strike a batter out and look painfully unhappy
over the deed. He could win a game with a
timely drive and go into mourning. His normal atmosphere was gloom,
deep and mysterious, and it never varied with our first
swing around the circuit. The fame of Silent Smith began
to spread. That left arm of his slow balled its
way into the hearts of thousands of fans along the coast.
The wild enthusiasm with which his appearance in the box
was greeted amounted to a mania, and his sigeball became
the topic of household discussions. There could be no doubt
as to his popularity. He was the biggest drawing card
in baseball anywhere at the time. It may have been
the sad appeal of his miserable existence which intrigued. It
may have been the veil of mystery shrouding his character
which fascinated. But when or lose, he was idolized. Behind
his spectacular hurling, we climbed to heights we had never
known before. The completion of three fourths of our schedule
found us treading closely on the heels of the flying Leafs,
who had been perched proudly at the top all season.
Small wonder that the town went baseball mad for the
first time in our history. We had pennant visions. Then
came the setback, and our visions went to glimmering. Silent
Smith was drafted. With the spreading of the news, a
howl of disapproval went up from along the coast. From
three states came the same cry, crooked baseball, and the
very popularity of the sport itself was threatened. Outside efforts
were made to have Silent recalled, but the trade had
been consummated. Our ace was lost. With the passing of Silent,
the Bears fell upon evil days. We developed a losing
streak which threatened to force us out of the running.
Even the despised Bisons made a clean sweet of a
four game series, and a pall of glooms spread o'er
the camp. Both the press and the paying public added
to our misery. Only a flash, the Bears have hit
their stride. That was the consensus. Wherever fans collected the
thing began to peeve the Chief, and in an effort
to redeem the club, he went out into the sticks
and brought back Andy Gregg. No doubt you've heard of
Andy Gregg. He was known as the gamest man in baseball.
But when the Chief pulled him out of nowhere, he
was just a big, green, awkward hitless wonder he couldn't bat,
and his fielding was worse. He had just two outstanding accomplishments.
He could pitch and he could talk. It was hard
to tell in which he excelled. Regardless of his ability,
he labored under difficulties from the very first. A man
of lesser courage would have wilted under the strain. Whenever
he hove in sight as the pitcher for the day,
an unreasonable chorus of booze greeted him, followed by the
sing song for silent Smith. Not that he was unpopular,
His spirit was really admired. It was the public's method
of voicing its outraged feelings over the loss of an idol.
They resented the release of silent and called for him
as only a rabid baseball mob can call. The management
was their target. Andy was only the goat. The lad
simply laughed and went on pitching. But behind his fine
indifference there lurked the ambition to stifle that cry for
silent Smith. Secretly, he accepted it as a reflection on
his own ability, and fought courageously to change the tune.
He fairly talked the team out of its woeful slump
and hurled it back to its place in the sun.
When the Leafs again invaded our territory for a final
series of three, we stood within half game of being
deadlocked for first place. It was the end of our
playing schedule, and things did not look as rosy as
might be supposed. Our pitching staff had cracked Talkative and
he was the only dependable hurler we had left after
a grueling month of struggle to maintain our position as
runner up. But Andy was in splendid form. He could
still chatter away like an eight day clock, and that
was the sign to him. Was given the mound in
the first of that deciding series, and he won. Four
pictures were hammered unmercifully in the second, and we lost again.
We were trailing by a narrow margin. But who was
there to hold the enemy in check? Husky Harris was
down with tonsillitis. Lefty Lefferts had a broken thumb. Curly
Weinert's arm was sore from too much use. As for
the rest, but what's the use? In that hour of need?
We were all wishing for an iron arm, the arm
of silent smith. Even the Chief had his former ace
in mind. He as much as said so afterward. At
the time, however, there was only one thing he could do,
and he did it. Talkative Andy was given the assignment.
The lad was ready and advertise the fact with his
ceaseless jabber. We got him going, Johnny, he kept repeating
to the chief winners, come in, the leaves are falling.
Just keep your eye on the tree. We were all
gathered in the dugout awaiting the call of the gong.
That peculiar hush which seizes a crowd immediately before playing
time had already descended. Out on this unswept field, a
number of white wings were putting the finishing touches on
the sparkling diamond. Behind the plate stood one armed Jimmy Flynn,
wielding a megaphone. His booming voice could be heard above
the buzzing silence crying the batteries. Jimmy got no further
in his announcement than the name of Greg when a
spontaneous roar rolled out of the stand and completely submerged
the rest. It was the howl of the pack for
its idol. Unsportsmanlike yes, but Andy only chuckled, Can you
beat it, Johnny? He chirped, They'd rather have the morgout
there than a live one. We'll bury that bird right now.
Come on, you cub, watch my smoke, and he trotted
out onto the field amid a shower of booze. Andy
had plenty of smoke and displayed it in his own
awkward style. All through the inning. That call for silent
Smith went on with varying crescendos, but the nerve racking
din had as much effect on the spirit of Andy
as water does on the back of a duck. He
worked along methodically and effectively, setting the enemy down on
exactly six pitched balls. Small wonder that the lad was
beaming when he climbed down into the pit after the
last out had been called. He knew he was right,
and he stayed right for seven innings. He went on
talking and pitching, waxing more loquacious as the game progressed.
There was no reason for acting otherwise. His smoke ball
was working nicely. It went whizzing past their bats with
monotonous regularity. They couldn't even see it. Two hits were
all he allowed along that entire stretch. Apparently the feat
meant nothing to the mob. They were entirely engrossed in
their favorite pastime. They seemed to take a fiendish delight
in heckling the club individually and collectively for the release
of a star. If we won, we were simply playing
in luck. If we lost, well, we deserved to. They
told us so in as many words, and they howled
for silent Smith. Andy still held his temper. His control
was marvelous. He showed no signs of wavering under the strain.
As he came trailing into the dugout for our turn
at bat in the eighth he was chattering away like
a magpie. I told you we'd bury that melancholy bird.
He told the Chief. He's got one foot in the
grave right now, and when I'm done, that bunch of
fat heads up there will be thrown in the dirt.
Twas ever, thus, Johnny the Chief's face was uncommonly somber
as he listened to Andy's chatter. In his hand there
fluttered the familiar blue of a telegram. Without a word,
he handed it over. Andy read the news, and his
countenance fell. Silent Smith was dead. That was the break
which went against him. From that moment on, Andy's starr
began to fade. I'm sorry, I said what I did
He murmured, I was only kidding. I didn't know about this.
Johnny course not answered the chief, perking up. Don't let
it trouble you. Now, all you've got to think about
is the winning of this ball game. Come on, now,
let's go boys. But Andy was troubled. Nevertheless, his helpful
chatter ceased, and that was the sign. When we again
took the field after a fruitless inning, it was quite
evident that he was not himself. Even the returned call
for Silent Smith seemed to irritate. He dug into the
dirt with his spiked shoes. He pulled up blades of
grass and started chewing. He moistened his fingers against the sod.
He did a number of things which were not his
wont but which strangely enough, had characterized the pitching of
Silent Smith from behind the plate. The umpire was calling
for action, so was the crowd, and Andy finally got going.
That final inning was a nightmare. Andy walked the first
man up, and a low rumble of dismay swept the field.
The next ball he grooved, and Sammy Dalles dropped it
over second for a pretty single. The rumble spread to
a roar. Andy spat savagely into his glove and glared
up at the stand. That persistent cry for silent Smith
had finally penetrated. The lad was riled. The crowd saw
his action and uncorked a veritable flood of jeers, as
if the pennant wouldn't have been clinched ere this had
silent been retained. Now, look what's happening? Maybe they were right?
Who knows? In a rage, Andy sped another over the plate,
only to see it turned into a tantalizing bunt. In
his clumsy effort to feeld the ball, he stumbled and fell.
The ball rolled clear. I pounced upon it for my
position at third, and kept the Leafs from scoring. But
the bases were full and no one out, and Andy
our only hope. By this time, some eight thousand lusty
throats were raising the very Yes, indeed, they were going
to that extremity in their frenzied howl to take him out,
and their reasonless demand for silent Smith bedlam had broken loose.
I handed the ball to Andy and begged him to
take his time. It isn't fair, ken, he exploded, wrathfully.
What had I to do with the loss of Silent
I ask you. I assured him that every member of
that howling mob belonged in a padded cell, and added
a word or two about our pennant chances. The latter
had a sobering effect. Andy took a time saving hitch
in his belt and seemed to settle down. But the
Leafs were not to be denied. They pounded out two
successive singles and scored as many runs. The stand was
fairly rocking, with the din of stamping feet and shouting voices.
Above it all could be heard the name of Silent Smith.
But Andy no longer heeded. His rage had apparently subsided.
He stood quietly in the center of the diamond and
watched Big Jess Winners carry his three ninety bat to
the plate. Here was the biggest batting menace in the league,
and it required a world of courage to face it.
For a moment, Andy never moved, and then he did
a characteristic thing. He started talking. He told Big Jess
to go get a plank. To me, it sounded as
if the bantering tone were forced, but my heart warmed
at the sight of the lad fighting to regain his stride.
At a boy shouted Tommy leech from second, make him
hit it, Andy, We're all out here. Andy made no response,
and we knew that his confidence was not at par.
He took one glance at the runner on third and
suddenly let go with blinding speed. Jess swung with all
his power, and the ball snapped back at Andy like
a rocket. Instinctively, Andy raised his arms, but the ball
sped through his guard and landed with a sickening thud.
The lad crumpled up like a rag. The clamor of
the crowd was instantly choked as they came to their
feet in a startled wave and stood staring at the
motionless form in the center of the diamond. I thought
the boy was dead. His face was pasty and his
lips bloodless. Apparently his heart had ceased to beat. His
eyes were open and staring with that fixed expression commonly
associated with sudden death. For ten minutes we worked over
his lifeless form. The only perceptible sign of animation was
a faint fluttering of the pulse in his wrist, which
occurred at intervals of about a minute. The condition was
strange enough to make even the club physician look puzzled. Then,
with surprising force. Andy's heart began to pound along like
a trip hammer. A patch of color spread in his
pallid cheeks. Another minute and his eyelids fluttered weakly. His
broad chest heaved, and he sighed with glassy eyes. He
stared at the anxious group which circled him. His brow
was furrowed, as if he were unable to comprehend the
meaning of it all. He attempted to climb to his feet,
but got no further than his knees. Two of the
boys caught him by the arms and started to lead
him to the clubhouse. He would not have it. He
shipped them off and swayed uncertainly into the pitcher's box.
A gasp of astonishment went up from the crowd. No
one had ever dreamed that he could resume play. It
was unbelievable. They stared at him in silent awe, a
mute tribute to the sheer grit of the man, and
then a roar of admiration, proclaimed a new idol. Silent
Smith was dead, Sure, your fit buddy, inquired the anxious chief.
For a moment, there was no answer. Andy turned a
haggard face and gazed at the chief with strangely sad eyes.
He looked as if all the troubles of the world
were resting on his shoulders. Then Andy's all right. The
words sounded queerly, detached. The voice was toneless. The chief
shook his head and slowly left the field. He was
going to take a chance, he had to. He sent
two of the boys out to the bullpen to warm up, however,
in case Andy couldn't make the grade. The crowd settled
down in the stand and started buzzing like so many bees.
Nothing like it had ever been seen. A blow like
that would have crippled the spirit of most men. But
there was Andy willing to go on. Was he able?
All eyes were glued on the lad as he started
digging a hole with his spikes in front of the rubber.
He ignored everything else completely. That the team was on
the small end of a threed to nothing score, and
that a runner was waiting on every sack, just itching
to swell the lead was of no importance. He scraped,
and he kicked at the dirt with a slow, measured effort,
as if the digging of holes was an art, all
this with hanging head and downcast eyes. At last, the
hole was perfect and he picked up his glove. To me,
it looked as if he were still in a daze.
He appeared to be uncertain of every movement, as if
he were unable to decide just what to do next.
All right, Andy, I inquired, doubtfully, handing him the ball.
He made no response. He ignored my query as completely
as he had everything else. Turning his neck, he started
a slow, graceful wind up, every motion of which was
perfectly familiar. Deliberately methodically, he threw five balls over the plate,
and then waited for the batter to take his stand,
and he did not utter a sound. I shall not
attempt to explain it. The facts are all I can
deal with. And the fact in this instance was that
Andy threw those five balls with his left arm, not
in a ridiculously awkward manner, but with perfect ease. Furthermore,
his his style was identical with that of Silent Smith,
and Silent Smith was dead. But this was no time
for theorizing. The batter was set, the umpire was waiting.
We fell into position, and play was resumed. Andy's amazing
change of pace certainly worked havoc with the enemy bats.
Lanky Andrews stood up to the plate like a statue
and watched three perfectly good strikes float across his bat
never left his shoulder. Chubby Wilson did a little better.
He at least swung. In fact, he swung three times,
and then followed his lanky teammate back to the pit
for the second out. Pinch hitter Collins nipped the ball
for a puny fly, which Jordan our catcher smothered in
his big mit, stranding all three of the runners who
jammed the bags. And the ball that did it was
the sideball. The wonder of the thing held the crowd spellbound.
They watched Dandy's weird performance with gaping astonishment. Had the
lad changed his style, could he have perfected that famous
delivery in secret practice? Had he been holding out for
the past few weeks thinking to spring a surprise At
the psychological moment, Questions were flying fast, answers were scarce.
Had they known of the fate of Silent Smith, their
thoughts might have taken a more gruesome channel. Had they
read that telegram from the east, they might have agreed
that Silent was answering their call at last. As it was,
they could only stare and wonder when we again trailed
into the dugout, we found the chief in earnest consultation
with Doctor Barrett, the club physician. The word was spread
that Andy be left alone, and he was. He came
shuffling off the field with hanging head and settled down
into a listless attitude at one end of the bench.
Doctor Barrett studied his drooping figure for a moment or
two and finally shook his head. So did we all
if the dead can come back to any form. Silent
Smith was sitting there in his accustomed place, radiating as
much gloom as he ever had. But the most unnatural
twist of the whole affair was still in the making.
Pudgy Ares lined a pretty single into right to start
our half of the ninth, and the crowd started pulling
for us. At last, Tommy Leech pushed Pudgy around with
a well placed bunt and beat out the throat a first.
Both of them advanced a bag when Marty McGowan walked
and the bases were full. All we needed now was
someone with a punch, someone who could uncork a drive
that would sweep the bags and tie the count at
three all Andy was the next man up and everybody
was looking for a pinch hitter. With victory at stake,
it would not do to take a chance on the
hitless wonder, but the chief must have been playing a hunch.
He never said a word when Andy climbed out of
the pit and surveyed the bat rack with melancholy eyes.
Mine was the only black stick in the lot, and
Andy picked it up amid a silence as dead as
a graveyard. He dragged the bat up to the plate.
Every movement he made was followed by the crowd with
straining eyes and bated breath. The moment was fraught with
something beyond their knowledge, and the mystery of the thing
held them fascinated. A newspaper photographer took up his stand
along the foul line and focused his camera on Andy
as he entered the box. If Andy saw him, he
made no sign. His eyes were glued to the ground. Dolefully,
he sidled around to the left of the plate, grasped
his bat with a weary effort, and stood waiting Blondie Vance,
The opposing pitcher was visibly shaken. Andy had always been
a right handed batter, and to see him fall into
that woeful left handed stance with a big black bat
was like looking at a ghost. For a moment, Blondie
stared and Andy gazed sadly back. The umpire brought Blondie
back to earth, and he finally started his wind up.
That was his last pitching effort of the season. The
ball went sailing toward the plate with absolutely nothing on it.
Andy connected with a resounding crash, and three runs came
trailing in. The score was tied while Andy, with the
winning run, was rounding third. He staggered the distance between
third and home. His feet were dragging as if loaded
with lead. He managed to make the plate with the
deciding tally and then collapsed like an empty sack. It
was fully half an hour before Andy recovered and started
jabbering away like the lad we knew. The doctor took
him in hand, and Andy was puzzled over the discovery
that he himself had finished the game. His last recollection
was that of being hit by a batted ball. I
might add that a picture of Andy starting the ball
on that home run journey appeared in the Daily Mail
issued on September eleventh, nineteen twelve, and created much discussion
throughout the country. While somewhat blurry Andy's face is sufficiently
clear to be identified. Covering his face like a veil
is a misty something which closely resembles the melancholy features
of Silent Smith. And Silent Smith was dead end of
the Ghost of Silent Smith