Brooklyn, Autumn 1916
The late-afternoon sun melted gold over the rooftops of Brooklyn, casting long shadows down Atlantic Avenue as the band, led by Bugsy Finn, exuberantly belted out a ragtag rendition of Cheatin’ Whales to the crowd’s great delight. It was Legacy Cup Parade day, and for the ninth time in their history, the Brooklyn Whales were champions.
At the head of the procession, standing tall despite the cane in his right hand and the deep fatigue behind his smile, was Clovis Juby. His uniform was pressed, his cap pulled low, and his eyes glittered—not with pain, but with pride.
Children ran alongside the parade, waving pennants and shouting his name. “Juby! Juby!” they called.
He saluted them with his glove hand, the same that had dazzled on the diamond across 14 seasons in Brooklyn. He waved to old-timers who tipped their hats and to young men who had imitated his swing on stickball fields as kids.
As the parade reached Prospect Park Plaza, the sun dipped just beneath the horizon, and the sky caught fire in reds and golds. Clovis looked skyward a moment, basking in the sound of celebration, the smell of roasted peanuts, the laughter, the brass, the joy.
He knew he would not see another Opening Day.
But in that hour, leading his city, his team, his people—Juby felt full. Not of sorrow or regret, but of something deeper.
He had given the game all he had. And Brooklyn had given him its heart.
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The Final Game
Summer 1916. Game 7, Legacy Cup, Brooklyn leading Twin City 4 Games to 2, at Twin City.
In the top of the third inning, with two outs and the score knotted at 0-0, oft-injured Whales’ second baseman Leander Witheycombe barreled a fastball from Empire starting pitcher, Jimmie Ablewhite, tweaked his hamstring rounding first base and limped into second base for a double.
Whales manager, Marques Williams, looked to the end of the bench where Clovis Juby, looking frail, was sitting.
“Juby, get your ass to second base.”
“Skip, I think you should put Tink [Taylor] in,” coughed Juby.
“Did I miss a fucking announcement from Bromwich that you’re in charge of this God damn team now, Juby? No? Then get your ass out to second base. And if you talk back again, then I’ll make you fucking pitch, too.”
And so, lethargically, Clovis Juby peeled himself from the bench and started his long journey from the dugout to second base. Williams gave him a knowing pat on the back as Juby ascended from the dugout.
As Juby absorbed the sounds of the crowd, his posture straightened up and his gait grew more confident. As he reached second base, he allowed himself a moment to smile.
“Play ball,” the home plate umpire bellowed, and Juby took a tentative lead off of second base. Two consecutive balls from Ablewhite followed, and Juby found himself beginning to feel the flow of the game that he had played his whole life. Ablewhite battled back and evened the count at 2-2, and Juby was now taking a confident lead off of second. Another ball. Full count, two outs. “Here we go.”
With the first movement of Ablewhite, Juby was off and running, willing himself to move like he used to. First baseman James Jarvis connected and poked the ball through the infield into right field. Juby didn’t even look for the base coach, he knew he was going.
With determination, Juby’s foot hit the inside corner of the bag with the grace and practice of a 16 year veteran, and he flew towards the plate. The throw from the right fielder came in like a bullet, but it was just a tad inaccurate and pulled the catcher up the line.
Juby, reading the catcher’s movement, hit the deck, hard, sliding under the catcher’s sweep tag and feeling his right hand hit the plate shortly before the glove hit his leg. A long pause.
“Safe!” came the call from the home plate umpire. The Whales were on the board and took the lead, 1-0.
Out of breath when he got to the dugout, he wheezed, “Thanks for the opportunity, Skip.”
“Cut the shit, Juby, and grab a glove. You’re in at second.”
In the bottom of the third, with two outs, the Empire’s lead off man, Curtis Rose, clobbered a triple. Left handed outfielder James Roofe looked to tie the game when he pounced on Brooklyn starting pitcher Lefty Fain’s breaking ball and laced a hard hit ground ball back up the middle. Ranging to his right and diving with full extension, Juby felt the ball barely find its way into his glove. Automatically—driven almost entirely by muscle memory—Juby popped up to a knee and delivered rifle shot to Jarvis at first and ended the Empire threat.
In the top of the fifth, it was Juby’s turn to bat. The score was tied, 1-1. Juby stepped into the box with one out and runners on second and third. Juby watched the first two pitches whiz by—one ball and one strike. He made hard contact on the next one but yanked it just foul. Two more balls. Full count. The next pitch came in—a breaking ball low and away—and Juby, savvily recognizing he could not do anything with it, stabbed it foul. Next one, same story. Next one, same pitch, but Juby recognized that it was a little further outside, and the bases were loaded.
James Jarvis laid into a meaty first pitch, and knocked in two with a sharp single. Juby was on second. Juby saw from Ablewhite’s body language that he was furious about the pitch he had thrown. Juby knew he was not going to look back at him. And so, he took off as Ablewhite toed at the rubber and went into his windup. By the time the pitch crossed the plate, the Empire catcher had no chance, and Juby had a stolen base.
Two batters later, Whales’ outfielder Mac Cronshey knocked a fly ball into deep right field, and Juby tagged and jogged home for his second run of the game.
In the bottom of the fifth, Twin City battled back. 4-3. Two outs. Runner on first. Dillard Howard ripped a line drive destined for the gap and tie the game. However, Juby was already in motion with the pitch and breaking towards second. He leapt high, stretching as far as he could and, guided by angels, just barely came down with it. Inning—and Empire threat—over.
“Fucking hell of a play, Juby,” Williams yelled as the veteran returned to the bench. “I think you’ve earned a rest.”
In the bottom of the next inning, Tinker Taylor entered the game. Juby, exhausted and elated, watched the Whales hold onto their 4-3 lead.
With the final out, and the game finally done, Juby stepped into the field, surrounded by teammates, for the final time. As a champion.
———
Clovis Juby, Veteran of the Diamond, Passes at 38
Brooklyn, N.Y., March 2, 1917 – Clovis Juby, stalwart of the Brooklyn Whales and one of the finest defenders ever to grace the infield, has passed away at the age of 38 after a valiant battle with illness. He is survived by his wife, Maggie, and his three sons, Ignatius, Leander, and Charlie.
For fourteen seasons, Juby manned shortstop and third base with a grace and athleticism that made him a fixture of the Whales’ lineup. Born in Live Oak, TX in 1878, he debuted in the Legacy Baseball League in 1901 before being traded to Brooklyn in 1903. In Brooklyn, he quickly established himself as one of the game’s premier glovemen. His keen eye and sure hands anchored Brooklyn’s defense, while his bat, though never overpowering, delivered routinely in crucial moments.
A six-time champion and beloved teammate, Juby was renowned not just for his skill but for his spirit. Though his final year was marked by hardship, he played on with courage until he could no longer take the field.
He leaves behind a legacy of excellence and devotion to the game. Brooklyn mourns his passing, but the memory of Clovis Juby—his daring dives, his sure arm, his quiet leadership—will endure.
The Brooklyn Whales will honor his contributions to the franchise by wearing a black armband throughout the 1917 season.