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One of the few happy circumstances in
the history of the Memphis Blues is its name. Long before anyone knew the
crucial role that negro music would play in the life of the city, the Blues
were named for the color of their uniforms, in the manner of the Cincinnati
Redlegs or the Chicago White Sox.
Interestingly, one of the first to
recognize the appeal of the music was the team owner, Sal Withers, who began to
bring negro musicians to his Bijou Hotel in the early ‘20s. Since he was
already flouting the law by selling illegal hooch, Withers saw little added
risk in introducing “race music.” When he discovered that the new music shared
a name with his ballclub, he liked the idea even more.
The biggest draw among the blues
players was Big John Spillums, a guitarist and singer from New Orleans. In
1924, three months after the Blues won their second straight World Series,
Spillums played a full month at the Bijou and packed them in, every night. At
the end of the month, when he went to collect his final week’s pay, he was told
he wouldn’t be getting it.
“Excuse me?”
“Lodgin’ fees,” said the manager.
“Meals, drinks, toiletries. Did you think these things came free of charge?”
“I was told specifically that they were,” said Big John. “I made you people
a fortune.”
“Nonsense. Those people are here for
the gin. We could have a string quartet, for all they care.”
“Now you know that ain’t true. I got people comin’ all the way from St.
Louis to see me!”
The bartender, a big Irishman with a
face like an old cheese, appeared at the manager’s shoulder, smacking a billy
club against his palm.
“This nigger givin’ you trouble,
boss?”
Big John, well-acquainted with white
justice, decided he’d best be content with his three weeks’ pay. He was
standing outside in the rain, planning his next move, when Sal Withers’
Pierce-Arrow pulled up.
“Mr. Withers!” said Big John.
“There’s been a mistake, sir. They took out my last week’s pay.”
But Big John, whose size always made
him look more threatening than he was, was standing too close for the liking of
Withers’ driver, Jimmy Collins. Collins shoved Big John into the mud. What was
worse, Big John landed on his guitar, smashing it to pieces. Sal Withers turned
at the top of the stairs to admire Jimmy’s work.
Big John struggled to his feet.
Seeing the remains of his beloved instrument, he turned to Withers and called
out in a voice bolstered by years of singing in juke joints. It was said that
half of Memphis could hear him.
“You done it now, Withers! That ball team o’ yours ain’t never gonna win
again! You done messed with the wrong man!”
Withers laughed, and walked inside.
Big John left his guitar where it lay and headed for the train station.
His words would have disappeared into the gumbo of
history, were it not for Duffy’s Drop. That very season, Duffy Webster, the
best oufielder in the league, dropped an easy fly ball that would have iced the
pennant. The Blues lost their last two games, and the Boston Braves went to the
Series. Such a horrific turn of events had to have a cause. When Memphis
sportswriter Pops Caulkins dug up the tale of Big John Spillums, the bluesman
with the voodoo powers, the fans ate it up like Crackerjacks.
The Drop was followed by Bob’s Big Boot in 1947 and
the sixth-game collapse in the ’58 Series. In 1964, Teddy James took Skip
Henry’s Doofus Pitch – a high, arcing slowball that had not once in ten years
been hit over a fence – and homered to win a three-game tiebreaker. In 1983, a
team-wide outbreak of the flu caused the Blues to waste a seven-game division
lead in the last ten days.
In 1998, Memphis had what many
considered its best team ever: Ted Fitzsimmons in center, Pasco Fernandez at short,
Richie Campbell firing 97-mile-per-hour heaters from the mound. Memphis fans
loosened up the scar tissue around their hearts and began to take a few
perilous steps toward hope.
In the opening series, the Blues made
short work of the Marlins, sweeping them in three games. In the championship
series against the Cardinals, they quickly built a lead of three games to one,
but lost the fifth game behind their weakest pitcher, Peter Kowalevski.
Still, things were looking good,
because Blues manager Fred Silvestri had made an unusual gamble. In Game 4, the
Blues opened a 9-0 lead after three innings, and Silvestri took the
extraordinary move of pulling Campbell, letting his highly regarded bullpen put
the icing on an 11-3 cake. Now, Silvestri was ready to cash in: a rested
Campbell, all set to put the final touches on a Series championship.
Richie, however, was strangely off
his game, struggling to find the tiny strike zone of home plate umpire Tony
Canigula. The Cards answered with knuckleballer Augie Stephens, whose pitches
were dipping and dunking like drunken mosquitoes.
The Blues managed to stay within
striking distance, behind 4-2, and found their opening in the eighth inning.
Stephens suddenly lost his touch, walking the first two batters, and they put
in reliever Pedro Piñon. Piñon got the first out on an infield pop, then Brent
McCarthy singled to score the runner from second. Cal Davis struck out, leaving
the Blues behind 4-3, with two outs and men on first and third.
On the first pitch, Pasco Fernandez reached out and
slashed the ball down the right-field line. It landed a foot fair, spun to the
right, then struck the bullpen mound and took a high hop toward the stands.
Withers Field is a quirky old place,
and there along the foul line the stands jut out at an odd angle. Through the
years, a handful of right fielders found themselves in situations where they
couldn’t throw home – because they couldn’t see
home.
Seated at the high left-hand corner
of this impediment was a Memphis jazz singer named Billy Saddle. Saddle was the
only one of 45,000 fans who had a chance at this unusual ramp-shot. Sadly for
Blues fans, he also had some skills, having played ball in college.
In a standard situation, once a ball
has crossed the invisible plane between field and stands, all bets are off –
and the spectators are free to pursue every fan’s dream of the ultimate
souvenir. But Billy Saddle had not thought out the unique nature of his
position. A careful perusal of the replay (one of the most-watched replays in
baseball history) reveals the outcome. Saddle extends upward for a beautiful
barehanded grab. He immediately clutches his prize and turns around – perhaps
anticipating the pummeling often given to catchers of valued baseballs. From
this vantage he can see past the back railing, down onto the field – which is
precisely where the ball would have landed had he not interfered with it.
Saddle’s face takes on an expression of shock and anguish that is difficult to
watch.
McCarthy, the runner on first, was a
speedster. With two outs, he was off at the crack of the bat, and would easily
have scored the go-ahead run. The reaction from the hometown crowd was
immediate and angry. As a squadron of security guards escorted Saddle from the
stadium, fans pelted him with hot dogs, beer, chocolate malts and whatever else
they could get their hands on.
The ground rule double left McCarthy
at third. Fitzsimmons flied out to end the inning. The Cards scored in the top
of the 13th to take the game, then beat the Blues 8-2 the next day
to take the pennant.
Billy Saddle was the most hated man
in Tennessee, perpetrator of a crime some radio host deemed the Grand Fool
Double. Someone published his address and phone number on the Internet, and he
received a steady stream of death threats. A regiment of six patrol cars was
assigned to his house, and the FBI offered to place him in their witness
protection program. The mayor of St. Louis offered sanctuary, as well.
There were some who came to his
defense. His Little League team marched outside Withers Field with banners of
support for their coach. Several Blues players called it a freak incident, and
blamed themselves for not winning the game long before. Reporters noted that
Saddle was a devoted fan who had gone to Florida the year before to watch the
team in spring training.
Saddle did what he could to quell the
uproar. He submitted an apology, declaring the incident “the most dismal,
agonizing moment of my life.” He turned down interviews, book deals and
requests for autographs – anything that might look like an attempt to cash in
on his infamy.
It didn’t matter. The threats
continued, Saddle was unable to leave his house, and he seemed to have no
chance at regaining a normal life – at least, not in Memphis. By the time
pitchers and catchers reported for spring training in 1999, Billy Saddle had
vanished.
Today, Blues fans visit that
right-field abutment – now called the Saddlehorn – as if it’s a tourist
attraction. Saddle’s seat is covered with Blues stickers, perhaps one more
attempt to drive away the curse of Big John Spillums.
Photo by MJV
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