It was 1907, and the Philadelphia Brewers were reeling from yet another loss to their archrivals, the Richmond Rifles. The game had been close, but the Brewers fell short in the end, losing 4-3. The last bit of hope vaporated into the Philadelphia sky. It was the week to catch up to Richmond, but the Brewers lost four instead of winning four or five games. It was a devastating blow, and the players were despondent as they made their way to the locker room. The echo of metal spikes on concrete sounded through the catacombs of Boeselager Stadium.
But there was one player who seemed unfazed by the loss – George Singleton, the team’s highest-paid player and starting shortstop. He strutted into the locker room with a smug grin on his face, despite the fact that he had committed two errors in the game that had cost the Brewers dearly. The other players glared at him as he made his way to his locker, but he ignored them, preening in front of the mirror and admiring his own reflection.
Winfield Clark, a young player who had just lost the game due to Singleton’s errors, couldn’t take it anymore. He marched up to Singleton and confronted him.
“Hey, Singleton, what’s the deal? You cost us the game again with your sloppy play!”
Singleton just laughed. “Relax, kid, it’s just a game. And besides, I’m the best player on this team, so you should be thanking me for carrying you losers.”
Clark was about to retort when the door to the locker room burst open and in stormed Martin Pitsch, the general manager of the Brewers. He was seething with anger, and everyone in the room could feel it.
“Singleton, you sorry excuse for a ballplayer,” he spat. “You’ve cost us four games in the last six with your god-awful play. You’re lazy, selfish, and you’ve got a terrible attitude. You’re fired.”
Singleton just sneered at Pitsch. “You can’t fire me, I’m the highest-paid player on this team! I’ll sue you for breach of contract!”
Pitsch wasn’t having it. He grabbed a baseball glove from Clark’s locker and smacked Singleton across the face with it.
“Take this you arrogant little twerp,” Pitsch pulled four $50 bills from his pocket, crumbled them into a ball and tossed it at Singleton. “You’ll get $200 from the remaining $1200 of your contract, and the other $1000 will be paid in kind – with spoiled beer.”
Singleton was livid. “You can’t do that! That’s not in my contract!”
Pitsch just chuckled. “Actually, it is. Every contract allows the club to pay in kind up to 33% but not more than $1000 of the year’s total salary. So consider yourself lucky, Singleton.”
The other players in the locker room erupted in laughter as Singleton stormed out, hurling curses and insults at Pitsch and the rest of the team.
Before he swung the door shut, he yelled directed his last words at Pitsch.
“I’ll find a new and even better team. And then I will show you!”
“Try the Rifles, Singleton. You’ll fit right into that bunch of dirtbags.”
Once Singleton was gone, Pitsch clarified that the team disappointed him.
“Don’t think you’re off the hooks. Usually, I don’t blame everything on one player. The past four losses were Singleton’s fault, but it’s a team sport. If one fails, the rest of the team must do everything to make it up,” Pitsch waited a few seconds for everyone to process these words. “We didn’t deserve to be in the postseason, not with this performance or team. Things will change, and I can’t promise that all of you will keep your starting roles. There will be unpopular decisions. Now shower and get changed. No drinks tonight. We’ll face the Kings tomorrow.”
Then he left.
The players remained seated. Frank Stilgoe, the team’s captain, broke the silence. “The GM is correct. We needed to be better. Let’s do our best in the remaining games and not think about what could happen in the offseason.”
As the team got dressed and headed out of the locker room, Clark couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. Finally, they could move on from Singleton’s toxic presence and start playing like a real team again.