100 years since baseball’s first commissioner

One hundred years ago today, baseball was in the midst of its worst season ever, but, at the time, nobody knew it.

Two tragedies that would ultimately define the season lay ahead. The game’s rulers had an inkling that one of them might be coming. The other would be totally spontaneous. Their reaction to both would have a profound impact on the sport and lead to reforms that would change the face of the game forever.

Exactly a century ago — July 16, 1920 — both major leagues featured good pennant races. The World Champion Cincinnati Reds were being challenged in the National League by the suddenly formidable Brooklyn Robins and their ace pitcher, spitballer Burleigh Grimes. In the American League the New York Yankees, who had acquired pitcher Babe Ruth in the offseason and converted him into an everyday player, were battling the defending champions, the Chicago

White Sox. Both clubs, however, were trailing the Cleveland Indians and their brilliant defense that featured center fielder Tris Speaker, shortstop Ray Chapman and second baseman Bill Wambsganss.

Nevertheless, all was not well. Dwindling attendance figures made it clear that

a portion of the public had lost confidence in the game’s honesty. There was mounting suspicion that some games were fixed by gamblers. There were even doubters who thought the previous year’s World Series “upset” had actually been a tank job.

Aware of this problem, more than half the game’s 16 owners felt the sport’s hierarchy needed to be strengthened, but a determined minority had managed to preserve the status quo.

The status-quo was a three-man commission, consisting of the presidents of the two major leagues and one of the owners, chosen by his peers. Actually, on June 16, 1920, it was only a two-man commission. The owners couldn’t agree on which of their number should join the triumvirate, so the third post was temporarily vacant.

The Chicago Cubs had proposed that the commission be scrapped altogether and replaced by a single man — an outsider with no financial interest in the game who would hold the title of commissioner. The other NL owners concurred but American League president Ban Johnson vehemently opposed the idea. Since five of the eight AL owners sided with Johnson, the argument was a stalemate.

At least the action on the field was entertaining as pennant races approached the top of the stretch. On August 16, the Indians and White Sox were virtually tied for first place in the American League with the third-place Yankees only half a game behind. Excitement mounted as Cleveland was scheduled to open a series in New York late that afternoon. Even though Monday was traditionally a slow day at the box office some 21,000 fans clicked the turnstiles of the Polo Grounds expecting to see a pitching duel between spitballer Stan Coveleski of the Indians and hard-throwing Carl Mays of the Yankees, who used a very unconventional submarine delivery to fire his fastball.

He threw such a pitch to Chapman, who was Cleveland’s leadoff hitter in the top of the fifth inning. It would be the last pitch Chapman would ever see. In fact, it’s entirely possible he didn’t see this one.

The game was being played in the late afternoon when shadows typically cover the infield. By this point in the proceedings the ball had probably turned to a brownish color, stained with infield dirt and tobacco juice, much of which would have come from Coveleski’s spitball. Under those conditions the pitch was probably difficult for the batter to pick up and it’s possible that Chapman didn’t pick it up at all. He made no effort to move out of the way.

Remember, in 1920 batting helmets didn’t exist. The ball bounced off Chapman’s unprotected skull with such force that it rolled into fair territory. Mays, believing it had struck the bat, fielded it and threw to first baseman Wally Pipp.

Chapman started towards first base but never got there. He fell to his knees en route and was subsequently helped off the field. He soon sank into a coma from which he never recovered. Despite emergency surgery to treat a skull fracture he died 14 hours after the beaning. He was the first and still the only major leaguer ever to die from a baseball injury.

The terrible incident led to two major reforms.

The owners agreed to end the practice of using one ball for an entire game and instructed the umpires to keep a fresh, clean baseball in play at all times. This step was taken purely for safety, but it had a much more profound impact on the game. It ended the “dead ball” era even though the ball, itself, did not change. Having a pristine ball in play at all times enabled power hitters such as Ruth to put up home run numbers that would have previously been impossible.

The second major change came after the season, when the owners decided to outlaw the spitball. After much discussion they agreed that their new rule would be unfair to veteran hurlers who had always relied on the pitch. Seventeen pitchers, including Grimes and Coveleski, were told they could use the pitch legally for the remainder of their careers, but for everyone else it was forbidden.

By season’s end the owners would be facing other pressing matters caused by an event that occurred on Sept. 30.

That day was a Thursday, an off day for all 16 clubs prior to the final weekend of the regular season. But baseball was prominently in the news when a Chicago grand jury revealed its conclusion that the 1919 World Series had been dumped by the White Sox. Eight players were identified as conspirators.

It was a bombshell. The game’s problem with gamblers was no longer a series of simmering rumors. Now it was blatantly obvious that a fix had occurred. The normally haughty owners were shaken to their bootstraps. If the public couldn’t trust that games were being honestly contested, they’d all be out of business. Something had to be done to restore confidence.

The Cubs again put forth their proposal and this time everyone listened. This time everyone agreed that a commissioner had to be hired. They even agreed on who they wanted to become that commissioner.

Kenesaw Mountain Landis — a man who was named for a Civil War battle in which his father had been wounded — was a flamboyant federal judge who had made headlines 13 years earlier when he fined John D. Rockefeller $29 million for violation of the antitrust laws. That, along with many of his other major rulings, had been overturned on appeal.

But it was a non-decision five years earlier that endeared Landis to the baseball owners. That’s when he presided over an anti-trust suit brought by the Federal League against the American and National Leagues. Landis made it clear that, as a baseball fan, he didn’t want to issue a ruling that would hurt the game. He purposely stalled, hoping the parties would reach an out-of-court settlement, which they did.

Now there would be no stalling. Baseball desperately needed a commissioner the public could trust and Landis knew he held all the bargaining chips. He said he would accept the position only if he was granted a lifetime contract and unchallenged authority on all matters. The owners had no choice but to accept.

Thus was born the office of commissioner.

None of Landis’s nine successors enjoyed the absolute authority that he was granted, but many of them made significant decisions that shaped the game in their respective eras. Other major sports eventually copied baseball’s model. The position of commissioner became a standard part of professional team sports.

It all started in a moment of panic 100 years ago.