A STUDY IN SCARLET: THE 1910 LEGACY CUP
PROLOGUE
TO: Dr. Robert J. Matthews (Robert.j.Matthews@ABS.gov)
FROM: Anthony R. Perry (Perry.a@UVA.com)
My dear friend Robert,
I hope Manhattan in the fall is keeping you well—downtown Richmond is nearly unrecognizable from our college days. I’ve thought often of the Poe Museum and our exploits in Carytown. What a joy to be a child of the 90s.
I’m reaching out because a friend of mine recently sought my help appraising a collection of baseball memorabilia discovered in her late grandfather’s attic. It appears to be nearly entirely comprised of early 1900s Rifles memorabilia.
Duty-bound to first inform the young woman, Mrs. Fellows (née Seymour) of the potential value of such a collection, I asked if I could view some of the items to perhaps align her with a collector. She agreed, and we ventured to her late grandfather’s home on East Grace Street, just a few blocks northeast of the former site of Libby Hill ballpark.
What followed was a veritable gold mine for Richmond Rifles historical enthusiasts. The young woman’s grandfather was Mr. George Seymour, a prominent Richmond lawyer in the 30s-50s and son of William “Bulldog” Seymour, the backup Catcher for the Rifles in 1910. A native of Stearns, Kentucky, William Seymour attended the Appalachia Baseball Academy from 1902-1905, went undrafted, and signed a minor league deal with Richmond for the enormous sum of $10,000 (about $330,000 in today’s money). As his great-granddaughter explained to us, Seymour purchased the Grace Street townhome in 1905 with a portion of this bonus so he could walk to Libby Hill for practice and games.
As for the items we discovered in this collection—we are sincerely hoping you can shed some insight as to their historical significance and value. I’ve included some samples below with what oral history Mrs. Fellows could recall. Hopefully both the items and the stories are of interest and use to you and your studies.
Your old friend,
Professor Anthony R. Perry
PhD, English Literature and Applied Rhetoric
Department of English, University of Virginia
Perry.a@UVA.com
PART I: THE GLOVE
“Relax, Dix.”
His curveball was off, again. Willy pounded the dust from his old mitt and pointed it encouragingly at Garrett Dixon, rising on one leg to toss the ball back.
It was a frigid, wet morning on the shores of Lake Eerie, in the long shadows of Bozeman Municipal Park. While the Athletics practiced in their new, heated facility, the Rifles were grated access to the soaking wet field. The ballpark was mostly abandoned, save for a couple of reporters and front office officials who were mostly preoccupied with their ace, Jellybean Jacks. He and starting Catcher “Machine” Robley stood next to the General Manager of the Rifles, posing for photographs. Willy sighed, turning his attention back to Dixon.
It had been a long four weeks during Dixon’s “undisclosed injury.” Officially, the report was that the young lefty had some strain of influenza—but there wasn’t much a pitcher could hide from the bullpen catcher in a clubhouse. William, a particularly observant backup, knew that Dixon was struggling with the pressure.
It probably wasn’t easy to waltz into the shoes of league titans like Matt Holiday and Ivy Maw. Even when those two baseball heroes were long beyond their prime, they somehow continued to manufacture wins out of sheer willpower for years. Holiday’s #81 was fluttering in the morning breeze near the grandstands. It made Willy smile. With the pair retired, it seemed in 1910 like part of Richmond’s soul went with them. Dixon felt it, too.
Seymour sighed. The psychological curation of the young staff was often left to him. “Machine” Robley hadn’t been the same since old Ivy hanged them up. One of the most prolific batteries in baseball, Robley caught Maw for around 2,100 innings in Richmond. When Maw took the coaching deal in Philadelphia, the entirety of Richmond felt as if their most beloved hero had betrayed them for their worst enemy. These days, the once-outspoken catcher from Massachusetts usually sat in silence between the innings.
It was a new Richmond Rifles team. The once indominable Ralph Bennett hadn’t started a game since the springtime, benched for rookie savant Emory “Go-Go” Golafre. Tennessee Mears moved to right field to make room for young star Caleb Williamson. The acrimonious performance from the defending Legacy Cup champions in midsummer put a sullen mood over the clubhouse that lasted into the playoffs.
Fans and teammates alike had yet to decide if young guns Dixon and “Lizard” Little were worthy inheritors of the throne left by Maw and Holiday. With Little floundering around fifteen wins and Dixon mysteriously vanishing for a month that saw the Rifles plummet in the standings, it was a veritable miracle that the Rifles found themselves in the Legacy Cup at all.
Yet here they were.
Willy never found it fair that Richmond was the most loathed team in baseball. Sure, their owner was likely the slimiest, money-grubbing prick in America. And granted, Richmond had a reputation for sliding cleats-up and throwing inside. We’ll kill Leo Mac for good one of these days, Willy mused. What people didn’t understand was that the Rifles were once the pride of the Cotton Belt league, and in the Cotton Belt, that’s how the game was played. It was a dirty, tough game. Hell, When Robley showed up to Richmond with a mask and chest protector in 1903, he was nearly booed of the field. It was a tough, angry crowd—and when young Garret Dixon floundered in June, the crowd was merciless. His month-long absence was understandable.
Dixon had more reason to be worried. Manager “Pop” Barrows, who had been submitting lineup cards before either Seymour or Dixon were born, had briefed the team on the train that Cleveland’s only discernible weakness in this series was their performance against lefties in the Western League Cup. A near collective groan was felt on the boxcar—lefties were not a strong suit on the Richmond arsenal. 38-year-old Albert Willis had all but collapsed in his attempt to fill Dixon’s shoes this summer, and Dixon’s “undisclosed injury” had set a pallor of distrust from his teammates.
Dixon missed with his curveball again.
Standing up, Willy tossed his glove aside and trotted over to the young pitcher, who looked annoyed. He glanced back toward Jellybean Jacks, who was laughing with a Cleveland Tribune reporter across the field.
“Hey,” Willy said, putting a hand on the fuming pitcher’s shoulder. “You gotta relax, pal. It’s just a game.”
Staring daggers, Dixon inhaled sharply and prepared a powerful retort when a whistle blew somewhere near Homeplate. They both looked toward their manager, who was waving the players in with his ridiculous panama hat, oversized suit billowing in the lakeside breeze. With an encouraging smile, Willy dropped the ball in Dixon’s glove. “It’s just a game.”
Without a response, Dixon stomped off toward Homeplate, and Willy turned to follow with a hopeless look to the cold, cloudy sky. “I hate this goddamn city,” he fumed out loud.
A sharp, female voice shook his reverie.
“Hey!”
He turned, startled.
“You dropped this.”