A STUDY IN SCARLET: THE 1910 LEGACY CUP
PART II
TO: Anthony R. Perry (Perry.A@UVA.com)
FROM: Dr. Robert J. Matthews (Robert.j.Matthews@ABS.gov)
Tony,
What a joy to hear from an old cobble-stumbler from UVA. Annie sends her best, of course, and is particularly curious about what the illustrious old professor has been up to at our beloved alma mater.
What a treasure your friend Mrs. Fellows discovered in her grandfather’s attic. I am thrilled to share this discovery with you and eager to learn more.
You have William Seymour exactly—backup to the well-known “Machine” Robley, a dominant catcher in that era, though at the end of his career by then. Called “Bulldog” for his tenacity in the Academy League, Seymour was a smart Catcher, and a decent fielder. He was a decent hitter in the minors and the first-ever Catcher for the Appalachia Academy Reds.
1910 was Bulldog’s first year in the majors, replacing veteran backup and notorious loudmouth Wheeler Dawson. He did a fine job as a backup, nearly hitting for average and throwing out runner nearly as well as our hero Robley. Scouting reports from the era, which we have here at the museum in New York, show that Bulldog was considered a decent hitter with a low ceiling in 1910.
Turning to the glove, it looks to my mind like the “7A” (Black Calfskin) 1909 fabrication of the A-J Reach Catcher’s mitt, which sold for $8.00 that year (About $280 today, or 2% of Seymour’s annual salary). Models that old are rare and sell anywhere from $50-1,500, depending on the history and condition. You have access to Seymour’s remaining seasons in the LBL, so I will let you be the judge there.
The true value of that glove it it’s associated with the 1910 Rifles, a team on top of the Eastern League for 3 of their last 4 seasons. I’m sure you remember how that particular Legacy Cup turned out for them. Attached is a clipping from the 1910 Marion Daily Mirror reporting on the first three games of that series.
Your notorious ballpark pal,
Robert J. Matthews
Executive, Legacy Baseball League Historical Society
Madigan Hall, Manhattan
“Thanks.”
Willy nodded, his cheeks burning. The young woman held the glove out with a less-than-approving expression. A wool cap was pulled down low over her ears, a red Cleveland logo sewn loosely onto the cap’s face. Willy suspected she was one of those suffragette-vaudeville types, relatively common when the rifles traveled up to New York but virtually unheard of in the south. Willy thought she looked like a little boy. What she was doing on the field during Richmond’s private practice before the Legacy Cup, he couldn’t say. His eyes wandered around for a security guard.
As he turned to trot for home plate with his team, the young woman spoke again.
“That lefty of yours can’t hit the broad side of a barn.”
Halting, he turned on a heel to face the woman. She stood with her hands on her hips, smirking.
“Huh?”
“Dixon. Couldn’t find water on a sinking ship. Our boys are going to write that kid’s eulogy.”
Disoriented by the impolite audacity of this woman, wondering how in the world she was allowed onto the field, Seymour stammered, then crooked his head. She laughed.
“What’s the matter? Women don’t watch baseball down in Dixie Land?”
“Lady, I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. Why don’t you shove that ugly hat of yours right up your ass.”
Not waiting for a response, ears burning, Richmond’s backup catcher shook his head and marched off toward the dugout.
Manager Pop Barrows frowned at Seymour’s late arrival to the grouping of Rifles players, turning his attention back toward Center Field and the “Life Buoy” soap sign.
“Play the lines neutral,” Pop instructed the outfielders. Tennessee Mears, recently moved from Center to right Field, was chewing tobacco with a carefree smile, while rookie Caleb Williamson looked like he had seen a ghost.
“God damn cold in Cleveland,” reliever Felton Cartridge muttered to Seymour.
Seymour shrugged. “It’s cold everywhere up north.” His eyes drifted back toward the bullpen, but the obnoxious woman in the wool hat was gone.