Thursday, August 7th, 1919.
A theater-like façade — Greek pillars, ornate cornice, ballplayers engraved into the stonework.
Clayton Bayman couldn’t quite comprehend what he was looking at on the paper before him.
“What is this?”
Providence Angels owner Leopold Boase had not been seen much around the club over the past two seasons. He had dedicated himself to his factories, retooled for the war effort. The baseball club he had become custodian of in 1911 was hardly even an afterthought. The seventy-year-old looked tired — permanent bags under his eyes, his once-gray hair and moustache now completely white.
“My answer to your question,” Boase replied, a small smile mostly hidden by his facial hair.
For years, the general manager had begged for investment into Cartwright Stadium. The wooden ballpark had served the club well, but it was becoming unsuitable for use. The main grandstand leaked, the bleachers were rotting, and the very real threat of a stadium fire always hung over a ballpark like this — a tragedy that had already befallen other clubs. Facilities for the administration of the team were cramped, cold, and beginning to crumble. Every offseason, Boase would authorize only the minimum maintenance and a coat of paint to tidy the place up — and each year the stadium aged further, the work that needed doing grew.
“You have persistently asked for the stadium to be rebuilt,” Boase said. “This is my counter-offer. I’ve secured a parcel of land by the Woonasquatucket River. Angel Island is too small for what I have planned. I have solid guarantees from city councillors for support. I’ve preemptively started work. It will be ready for 1920.”
“You’ll have to excuse my surprise,” Bayman said carefully. “It’s more than I expected. I had no idea you’d been working on this. In all honesty, my expectations were for you to sell the club.”
“I have tried,” Boase admitted, he seemed wistful. “But I cannot sell. The vultures that circle only want to rip the club out of Providence. This club is the legacy of Jacob. I cannot betray my old friend. I cannot allow that to happen.”
Bayman nodded.
“I know I have neglected the club,” Boase continued. “Our fortunes have been dire since I took ownership, and I am not getting any younger. I look at this club — that I promised a dear friend I would be custodian to — and I ask myself, what have I contributed?” He tapped the plans on the desk. “I want this to be my contribution. A ballpark we can be proud of — the envy of the Eastern League. A ballpark of brick, stone, mortar, and plaster that secures our permanence in this city. A ballpark that honors our past with statues and engravings, but is a leap forward into the modern era, like no wooden park ever can be.”
Bayman rose from his seat and took the old man’s hand.
“It will be magnificent. It will bring this place into the new century at last.”
“Foundational work is complete. The bricks are delivered this week,” Boase said, a spark of excitement in his voice Bayman had never heard before. “Hartford Road — I can drive you over to see it…”
A sudden, sharp knock rattled the office door. In stepped Jimmy Harvey, Providence Chronicle sportswriter, short of breath and flushed in the face.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he gasped, eyes widening at the sight of Boase. “We’ve got a bit of a… predicament, shall we say.”
“Maybe next time,” Boase said, raising his eyebrows. “I’ll leave this in your capable hands. Those plans are yours to keep. I’ll see you at the Brooklyn series, if not before. I have a cornerstone ceremony planned — my secretary will be in touch.” He placed his hat back on his head and turned for the door.
Bayman stood frozen, startled by the interruption. Harvey gave a polite nod. “Cornerstone ceremony?” he asked, bewildered. Boase ignored the question, handed the flustered journalist his handkerchief for his damp brow, and squeezed by him out of the office.
“Continue, Jimmy,” Bayman said. “No need to wait for Mister Boase to leave — this is his club.”
Boase waved a hand and closed the door behind him.
“It’s Fairfax…” Harvey began.
For the entire season, Clayton Bayman had given Wyatt Fairfax exceptional treatment — sometimes to the detriment of his own relationships within the club. Fairfax was allowed extra days off, late starts, even skipped games when he wasn’t starting. It caused frustration among the team, but while he was hitting .310, most turned a blind eye.
Bayman had great sympathy for Fairfax. Since returning from the war, the man had hit the drink harder than ever. Though cold and closed off, it was clear to Bayman the war had damaged him — not physically, but in his mind and heart.
Both men climbed into Bayman’s Model T and drove toward Fairfax’s house in the Fox Point neighborhood of Providence. On the ride, Harvey explained that the team had been at the station, ready to travel to New York for their last road trip of the season. Fairfax hadn’t shown. Harvey, knowing where he lodged, had gone to the house — no sign of life. He knocked and knocked. Nothing. He checked a couple of bars. Nothing. He raced back to the station, then agreed to take a later train and find Bayman to continue the search.
Harvey had never seen the general manager anything other than calm, collected and thoughtful. But his patience now seemed worn to threads. He clenched the steering wheel so tight his knuckles went white, acknowledging Harvey’s words only with curt nods.
The brakes squealed as the Model T stopped sharply outside Wyatt Fairfax’s modest clapboard house. Bayman got out and strode to the door with purpose.
“I’m certain he isn’t here…” Harvey began.
“I’ve got the housekeeper’s key. She quit — had enough of his behavior.”
The door creaked open. The hall looked as though a tornado had torn through it. A small cabinet lay overturned, clothes and shoes scattered about, pictures knocked from the walls.
“Wyatt?” Bayman shouted, striding to the rear of the hall. No reply came.
In the kitchen they found Fairfax sitting at a table, wearing only his underwear. Broken glass littered the floor, whiskey spilled across the table among open letters. He stared vacantly into space, lost in a daze.
Bayman lunged forward, grabbing him by the vest and hauling him to his feet.
“ARE YOU TRYING TO MAKE ME LOOK A FOOL?!” he shouted, inches from Fairfax’s face — not the calm man everyone knew, temper finally snapping, he exploded.
Harvey stood frozen in the doorway, unsure whether or not to intervene.
“PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER, MAN! DAMN YOU, FOOL, PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER!”
Bayman released him, letting the man slump back into his chair.
“There are only two weeks left in the season. I just need you to hold it together for two weeks, and you can’t even do that. This is the opportunity of a lifetime!” Bayman paced the room, glass crunching under his shoes. “1903 — that’s the last time this team made the League Cup. 1903! This is your chance to play on the biggest stage. You could’ve been one of the best, Wyatt. But you’d rather drink yourself into oblivion.”
Fairfax said nothing. Just stared at the floor.
“This city adores you — and God only knows why.” Bayman stopped, his anger cooling into frustration. “The way I see it, we have two options. The drinking stops — you get on a train to New York with us and repay the faith these rooters have shown you — or we terminate your contract right now, and you drink yourself into an early grave. Because there’s damn near nothing else you’ll be able to do.”
“I cannot sleep without it…” Fairfax muttered at last. “I can still hear those boys… we were fools.”
Bayman pulled up a chair beside him, sat down, and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Drink won’t help that. You owe it to those that died — to live. Live for them.”
Guilt crept over Bayman. He had enabled this behavior, looked the other way instead of confronting it.
“I’ve let you down, Wyatt. Let me help. You don’t need to go to New York — there are clinics, I think…”
Harvey found a broom and began sweeping glass from the floor.
Fairfax rubbed his face and let out a long groan that turned into a deep, chesty cough. He got up and shuffled to the sink, steadying himself as he spat and cleared his throat.
“Let’s go to New York,” he said finally.
Bayman glanced at the letters on the table — a woman’s handwriting. At a glance, it seemed his wife was telling him not to return home in the offseason unless he gave up the drink.
“And no more drink?” Bayman asked quietly.
“Yes,” Fairfax coughed again, nodding. “It’s time to pull myself together.”