Germantown, Philadelphia – Christmas Eve 1902.
Kirby Hocking and Martin Pitsch walked around the Christmas Market organized by the Germantown Cricket Club. It was noon, falling snow covered the streets, and the first stands closed down. After four days, most sold their goods and wanted to go home. Unlike the typical American, most German-Americans stick to the German tradition and celebrate Christmas Eve.
The Boeselager brothers and a handful of players represented the Brewers and sold beer for a good cause. Some new Braumeister invented a seasonal beer with some spices added – much to the brothers’ dislike. Although they grew up in Prussia, their father perfected his brewing skills by training in Bavaria, where a law prohibited other ingredients than hops, barley, and water. But there were a few barrels of this absurdity, and why not sell it?
After a quick conversation with Karl and Walt Boeselager, they finished their beers and moved on.
“Kirby, try this.” Pitsch pointed to the next stand. A giant pot with a white cone above it. Hocking stopped immediately as a colossal flame rose from the cone. “This is Feuerzangenbowle. Rum is poured over a sugar cone and then lit on fire. It drips into mulled wine.”
Hocking’s German companion ordered two cups and briefly conversed with the woman preparing the drinks. Then, Pitsch handed Hocking one of the steaming hot beverages. The scout had a few sips, nodded, and then accelerated his efforts to empty it. It was tasty and felt terrific at freezing temperatures.
The empty copper mug made a dull sound when Hocking put it back on the counter. He felt the buzz. “I think I drank that too fast,” he mumbled just before he had to lean on one of the tables in front of the stand.
After a bite to eat, both wanted to see what other specialties were available. Their noses traced the scent of garlic, but before they could see what it was, Hocking stopped at a different stand.
Sour Balls
“Martin,” he pulled the general manager’s arm. “Have you ever tried sour balls?”
“Uhm, yes, I did. Why?”
“This is Miss Annie. I’m sure you haven’t tried her sour balls.”
“By the way you talk of her balls, I’m not sure I want to try her balls,” Pitsch chuckled.
“When I was scouting for the Philadelphia Athletics 18 years ago, the players couldn’t bring Annie’s sour balls into the clubhouse. At that time, the rule was 15 years old, but the players smuggled them in. It’s no candy they would bring home to their children. Annie filled them with alcohol.”
Pitsch raised an eyebrow. “And why not in the clubhouse?”
“It happened a few times that players consumed the sour balls on the field. Well,” Hocking paused for a brief moment. “Bruises, broken bones, chipped or lost teeth.”
“I’ll have some!” Both walked towards the stand.
“What can I do for you?” the old lady asked them like only a grandmother would ask their grandchildren if they wanted a cookie.
“Could I get a bag with different flavors?” Hocking countered her question.
“I call it the bag of mixed feelings. Just one bag?” Annie reached for one of the prepared bags and looked closely at Hocking. “Young man, I know you. Where did we meet?”
“The Philadelphia briefly employed me back in,” but Hocking couldn’t complete the phrase.
“Back in 1884. You’re the writer. Mr. Hocking!” Her eyes widened. “Are you still writing bestsellers?”
“No, Miss Annie. I’m working for him, Mr. Pitsch, the general manager of the Philadelphia Brewers.” Hocking pointed towards Pitsch. “I’m a scout for the Brewers.”
“How interesting! Good luck, Mr. Hocking. Maybe I can set up my business at your stadium, Mr. Pitsch.” She handed one bag to Hocking and one to Pitsch.
“Maybe, Miss Annie. I’m sure I can talk about it with the Boeselager brothers.”
Before the conversation could go on, there was turmoil at the other end of the Christmas market. The message spread before the bringer of the bad news could deliver it personally. “The PTS! The PTS!”
Suddenly, one of the younger brewery employees rushed through on a horse and halted at the Boeselager stand. “Sirs! The PTS is coming here!”
“Boy, calm down. Once a month, the society comes up with some nonsense to annoy us,” Karl Boeselager told the young man.
“No, sir, this time it’s different! The movement grew, or they mobilized. I don’t know, but we had to lock the gates and barricade to ensure they won’t enter the property. They are armed, too!”
The last statement caught everyone’s attention. Although the Philadelphia Temperance Society was aggressive regarding protests, nobody thought they would arm themselves. Walt got up from his stool and walked to the messenger. “What do you mean? Armed?”
“Sir, mostly shovels, rakes, pitchforks, but I have also seen rifles.”
“Do another loop around the market! Tell people to leave immediately!” – “We won’t leave!” A rough and dark voice stopped Walt from giving more orders. Hank Hillsborough, the owner of one of Germantown’s prestigious pubs, stepped up. “We’ll teach them a lesson.”
Hillsborough reached over his stand’s counter and grabbed a shotgun, and Miss Annie’s hand pulled a revolver from her coat pocket.
“Miss Annie! What are you doing?” Hocking asked in disbelief. “Stop this nonsense.”
“Listen, honey. I’m 68 years old. These clowns won’t pest me any longer!”
Most people left the market, but some stayed. Especially the vendors and workers prepared themselves. The owners of the small stands removed longer wooden bars for weapons and shoved the remnants on the paths as barricades.
While nearly a hundred people scrambled to turn the Christmas market into a fortress, Pitsch approached the brothers. “Karl, Walt, we should leave. If the city finds out that your family name is involved in this bloodshed, they might sanction you worse than in April 1901.” Pitsch referred to an incident in which the Boeselagers organized an escort for the brewery wagons. Although the Temperance movement blocked entrances, the city council announced a ban on beer sales at Boeselager stadium.
Karl and Walt agreed. Hocking hesitated and wasn’t sure if he should drag Miss Annie out of here, but he lost sight of her. So he turned around and fled with the others. The Boeselagers, Pitsch, Hocking, and some employees left the Germantown Cricket Club property north and westwards on Roberts Avenue. They walked to Laurel Hill and then headed back straight to the brewery. The long detour ensured that they wouldn’t encounter the mob.
When they reached the brewery, the mob was gone. The Boeselagers inspected the building and perimeter for possible damages and talked to their workers. The general manager kept the Philadelphia telephone exchange busy. Only Hocking felt useless sitting next to the fireplace in the Boeselagers office. He got up, packed his coat and hat, and marched back to the cricket club.
He didn’t see the Christmas market yet, but he could smell smoke. Then, a few minutes later, he could see small fires through the mist, although some hours had passed since they fled the grounds. Now some people tried to clean up the mess. The mob spared no stand. Wasn’t the Temperance movement all about alcohol abstinence? So why did they trample on charities and simple vendors selling food, toys, or ornaments?
He saw broken beer barrels on the way to where Miss Annie and the Boeselagers sold their goods. They were charred. It seems that the defenders set the barrels on fire and rolled them in the direction of the mob.
Then he came to what had been the Boeselagers’ beer stand. Here, they’ve set up the barricades. Hocking looked around, but it wasn’t easy to orient himself. Then he spotted the bonnet Miss Annie wore. Immediately, Hocking took a few long steps to avoid stumbling over the rubble but still managed to slip on something. Mud covered her coat, and he didn’t see it right away. After wiping off the soil, the scouting director noticed that it had tears and holes. Then he felt the revolver in one of the pockets. Miss Annie had fired all rounds. A grim feeling overcame Hocking.
Hocking walked back and spotted someone stapling wood on a carrier. “Do you know more about what happened here?”
“Not exactly. There was a big fight. One hundred tried to stop a mob of 300—a bloody mess. The mounted police got here half an hour after it started. I think the cops said that 30 people died.”
“A mob of three hundred? How is that possible?”
“I overheard one of the cops interrogating someone who suffered a broken leg by the barrels they rolled at them. It was organized. Only a few dozen came from Philadelphia.”
“What about Miss Annie?”
“The sour ball lady? As far as I know, she died. She threw her candy into the crowd. Caused some head injuries, but they got to her and some others.”
Goodbye to Annie
December 28th, 1902. Kirby Hocking admitted that he knew nothing about Miss Annie. He didn’t even know her full name. It turned out that Annie Schrodinger had lived alone as a widow for the past ten years. She didn’t own much. Some of her profits went to the Orphan Society of Philadelphia. She slept and prepared the sour balls in her apartment before spending all day selling them. Miss Annie had a lot of customers, but most notably the Girard College Battalion, who now stood guard at her funeral at Fair Hill cemetery, adjacent to the Boeselager stadium.
After Hocking returned from his scouting of the battlefield at the Germantown Cricket Club, he explained what happened and that the mob had killed Miss Annie. The Boeselager brothers offered to arrange the funeral, which had been a bureaucratic hell over Christmas. But, being German, they were experts in bureaucratic nightmares.
Later, investigations showed that two-thirds of the 30 dead were part of the mob. The police explained that only five of them were Philadelphia residents. The remaining fifteen were residents of Richmond, Baltimore, and New York. Based on the wounds, Annie took down five of them. The Philadelphia Temperance Society condemned the events but also stated that it was the vendors’ own fault for allowing alcohol orgies on Christmas Eve.
Plonk! Plonk! – The sound ended Hocking’s attempt to recount what had happened. It sounded like stones falling on the casket.
Besides the student battalion, all Philadelphia Brewers players and their families participated in the funeral. Some of them tossed a sour ball into the grave, making Hocking smile. Players weren’t allowed to have her sour balls in the Athletic days, yet, everyone knew they smuggled them inside the clubhouse anyway. So, her legacy lived on until now. The players could have consumed them openly but chose not to. After the funeral, Hocking asked Rusty Hall why they kept it secret.
“Kirby, it was a tradition among Philadelphia ballplayers to not talk about Annie’s sour balls. The Athletics didn’t talk about it, the amateur and college clubs didn’t talk about it. And,” he pulled two of the hard candies out of his pocket and handed one to Hocking. “we didn’t want to end it.”