The Register Citizen (Torrington, CT)
Stealing signs in baseball is almost as old as the game itself
The revelation of the electronic sign stealing by the Houston Astros, including during the 2017 postseason, sent seismic shock waves throughout the baseball world this past week. The integrity of the game had been attacked. In the week leading up to the NFL final four, it was baseball that dominated the sports pages and the sports radio talk shows, but for all the wrong reasons. In the aftermath, the Astros, Red Sox and Mets are in the process of looking for a manager.
At this writing, Red Sox Nation is waiting for the hammer to fall in relation to alleged electronic sign stealing by the Red Sox during the 2018 season. If found guilty by MLB, the Sox will most likely be heavily fined and will lose first- and second-round draft choices the next couple of years as did the Astros.
We learned in the movie “A League of Their Own” that there’s “no crying in baseball.” But over the years we certainly have witnessed lying and cheating in baseball, whether it be doctored baseballs, corked bats, spitballs, steroids, etc. Historically, players and teams have done whatever it takes to get an edge in winning games or saving one’s career. Shame is only bestowed on those who get caught.
Is electronic sign stealing a new phenomenon? Is it a result of the high-tech era we live in?
The answer is no. This sleazy strategy has been around as long as peanuts, popcorn and Cracker Jack. Not much is new — only the names change.
In 1953, former scribes Fred Lieb and Stan Baumgartner, in their book titled “The Philadelphia Phillies,” wrote about an incident that occurred in an 1898 game between the Cincinnati Reds and Philadelphia Phillies in Philadelphia. It read: “Reds infielder Tommy Corcoran was coaching third base and kicking dust around, when the spikes of his shoes caught in something, which at first seemed to be a thick vine. Tommy looked down at his feet and on closer inspection found it was no vine, but a wire. He gave it a good yank and several yards of wire came out of the ground.
“Corcoran halted the game, kept tugging away at the wire and with players on both teams at his heels, traced the wire across the field right into the Phillies locker room.
“There they found Morgan Murphy, a reserve catcher who rarely did any catching, sitting with a telegraph instrument beside an open window. Murphy tried to hide the instrument, along with a pair of strong opera glasses that completed his equipment. But the cat was out of the bag. It eventually was learned that Murphy spied on opposing catchers and relayed their signals, via the wire, to the Philadelphia third base coach. A sort of a buzzer was under the dirt, and by keeping his foot on it, the coach knew one buzz meant a fastball, two a curve, three a change of pace. The coach signaled the information to the batsman, who usually knew what to expect.”
Sign stealing is acceptable when done by the naked eye, but not so when employed by electronic equipment or other artificial means.
Many people are probably aware of the 1951 New York Giants scheme when they used a telescope to pilfer signs. The operation was the brainchild of Hank Schenz, a WWII Navy veteran. The reserve Giants’ infielder brought home a high-powered Navy telescope that had a range of 25 miles at sea. His idea was to use the telescope to steal the opposing catcher’s signs.
Sal Yvars, a backup catcher with the Giants in ’51, was a key player in the operation that lasted about two and half months. Yvars was the stockbroker of Pete Klarides, a friend of mine. In the early 1980s, Yvars and I were invited to Pete’s home in Seymour, Conn., where Yvars told this story.
“Herman Franks, one of our coaches, stationed himself upstairs in the center field clubhouse with the telescope,” revealed Yvars. “His mission was to pick off the opposing catcher’s signs and relay the information. I was the tip-off guy in the bullpen. If Herman didn’t buzz me in the bullpen, it meant a fastball was on the way and I did nothing. A buzz signaled a curve ball and I would toss a ball in the air and play catch with myself.”
I was astonished at Yvars’ revelation and wondered how this was kept in secrecy 30 years later. It wasn’t until 2001 that the story gained national attention when it was exposed in a Wall Street Journal article.
On Aug. 12, 1951, the Giants were 13½ games behind the Dodgers before finishing the season in a dead heat (96-58) with their arch-rival. Did the Giants win the pennant as broadcaster Russ Hodges hysterically cried multiple times, or did they steal the pennant because of their cheating program?
Of course, the eternal question remains. Did Bobby Thomson, who hit the epic three-run homer off Ralph Branca in the deciding game of a best of three playoff vs. the Dodgers, get the sign moment before his immortal clout?
The summer of 2001 was the 50th anniversary of Thomson’s “Shot Heard ’Round the World,” and I had the privilege of doing a private combined interview with Thomson and Branca at the Oak Lane Country Club in Woodbridge, where the two appeared for a fundraiser. The interview was going smoothly when suddenly Branca, aware by now of the telescope scheme, looked Thomson in the eye and barked, “People dwell on the moment you hit the home run, but if the Giants stole one game they shouldn’t have won, there wouldn’t have been a playoff.”
Thomson, who called Yvars a “traitor,” denied getting the sign for his historic clout. “If I had the sign, I would have hit the first pitch over the middle of the plate,” stated Thomson. “I don’t feel like a cheat.” Only Thomson knows whether or not he got the sign from Yvars but the jury will forever remain deadlocked on this one.
In summary, electronic sign stealing has been with us since at least the Spanish-American War.
This is not a 21st century invention.