by John M.
It seemed strange leaving my team in mid-season, but I had received a summons- the kind of summons one could not refuse. A summons from Jack Vaughn, the owner of the Doves, to visit him and explain the direction the team was taking.
Mr. Vaughn was currently residing at the famous sanitarium at Battle Creek, Michigan. No one around the team seemed to have an understanding of the state of his health, but he had been in residence at the sanitarium for quite a while, and his age alone was certainly cause for concern. He had, however, expressed a desire to be briefed on the operation of his ball club, which he was certainly entitled to, so here I was, chugging along on a particularly sooty train car, headed for Michigan. I knew that our record thus far wasn’t good at all, and I was preparing myself for the idea that I would soon be relieved of my duties as general manager.
Arriving at Battle Creek, I was ushered into his room by a nurse, and was pleasantly surprised by what greeted me. Far from being at death’s door, Mr. Vaughn was sitting up in an easy chair, reading a Detroit newspaper and smoking a cigar. “Oh, for shame, Mr. Vaughn”, cried the nurse. “Put that foul weed out immediately.” Mr. Vaughn complied reluctantly, and the nurse left us in peace.
“You see what I’m up against here, Momberg… tyrannized by these harpies they call nurses, fed the most appalling mess of some kind of toasted bran instead of real food, and forbidden to enjoy one of life’s simple pleasures; the humble cigar. I tell you, Momberg, how I let my family talk me into staying here for a solid month… I must have been insane. If I hadn’t paid in advance, I’d be jumping over the wall the next chance I get.”
Changing from one unpleasant topic to another, I ventured that he must be upset over the Doves performance in the early months of the season. “I realize, sir, that I have removed from the team several players who were no doubt favorites of yours, and I hope you understand.”
“Oh”, he said, “don’t worry about that. You know, during the war I served on the staff of General “Pap” Thomas, and I remember how after the big fight at Chickamauga, things looked like quite a mess. But General Grant came in, reorganized things, and before you know it, we were driving the enemy from the field in battle after battle. Grant knew, you see, that sometimes you have to tear something down in order to rebuild it better. Go be General Grant, son…You won’t hear any complaint from me.”
I sighed in relief, and said that I hoped to see him back in Chicago soon. “Not as much as I hope, sir”, he replied. “But in the interim…you wouldn’t happen to have any cigars on you, would you? That damned old cow of a nurse took my last one with me when she left.”