The Baseball Chronicle
May 1883
Edition 12.2
The Inevitability Of Time
Chicago Must Accept Its Current Decline
The ugly reality of time spares no hero. Here in this summer of 1883, Chicago sits dead last in the National League, with a dismal record of 21 wins and 35 losses — the poorest start in club history. For loyal Chicagoans, it is a sight they had never dreamed they would see.
Cap Anson, that great bulwark of the side, now 31 years of age, seems mortal at last — batting a mere .235 with just 10 runs batted in and 39 scored in more than 200 turns at the bat. Whispers abound that Pops’ tank may finally be running dry. Al Pratt, the old warhorse on the mound, shows his 35 years to the opposition — and they do not blink — knocking him about for a 3.88 earned run average and eleven losses. Some argue he might serve better from the pen.
Bright spots do linger: Paul Hines holds steady at .302, and Ed Pinkham’s nine home runs provide the only sparks of the once-thunderous offense. Yet the famed swagger has drifted from the lakefront like a morning fog.
Ownership and the front office stand silent, with no public word of a rebuild. The club is second from the bottom in runs scored, and defensive lapses multiply by the day. Promising young Canadian arm Bob Emslie, just 24, waits in the wings — yet Manager Nick Young hesitates to entrust him with a starter’s burden.
Shall we remember these White Stockings for their 600 wins and a .569 percentage over the past decade — a run crowned by two glorious championships — or mourn what might have been? Rivals from Troy and Philadelphia have found triumph where Chicago sometimes faltered. Still, those banners do wave, and the White Stockings’ place in advancing the game remains unchallenged.
Are we writing their epitaph too soon? Perhaps. And should Chicago rise from this gloom to reclaim its form, all base ball shall rejoice. Until then, the mighty club stares down the barrel of its hardest season yet.
All Coming Together For Black Jack
Detroit Rides Burdock’s Streak Toward Pennant Dreams
Like the perfect hand dealt under the flicker of a kerosene lamp, Jack Burdock’s season has been nothing short of a winning gamble for the Detroit nine. Affectionately known as Black Jack, the 31-year-old second baseman is turning Recreation Park into the house of his dreams.
Once regarded more for his sure glove than any heroics at the plate, Burdock’s .215 average last year gave no clue to the storm he would bring. But now he stands atop the league, boasting a glittering .377 average and a 3.5 WAR that has fans leaping to their feet every time he strides to the dish.
“I’ve just taken the pressure off myself,” says Burdock, humble in his renaissance. “It’s not like I’m fighting a war — this is a game, and I finally learned to play it as one.”
Detroit sits four games back with St. Louis and Columbus in their sights. The road remains steep, but so too does the promise. For who among us has not felt that thrill — that sense that fortune favors the bold — when you have the winning hand in blackjack?
This summer, at Recreation Park, Black Jack Burdock might just cash in the biggest pot of them all.