When I began playing ball at Rockford I was just at that age when, in my estimation, I knew a heap more than did the old man, and that idea had not been entirely knocked out of my head when I arrived in Philadelphia. The outdoor life that I had led when a youngster, the constant exercise that I had indulged in, together with the self-evident truth that the Lord had blessed me with a constitution that a young bull might envy, had all conspired to make me a young giant in strength, and as a result I was as full of animal spirits as is an unbroken thoroughbred colt, and as impatient of restraint.
Good advice was, to a greater or less extent, thrown away upon me, and if I had any trouble it rolled off from my broad shoulders as water from a duck's back and left not a trace behind. In the language of the old song, I was, "Good for any game at night, my boys," or day, either, for that matter, and the pranks that I played and the scrapes that I got into were, some of them, not of a very creditable nature, though they were due more to exuberation than to any innate love of wrong-doing.
In any contest that required strength and skill I was always ready to take a hand, and in these contests I was able to hold my own as a rule, though now and then I got the worst of it, as was the case when I entered the throwing match at the Union Grounds in Brooklyn in October, 1872. The entries were Hatfield and Boyd, of the Mutuals; George Wright and Leonard, of the Bostons, and Fisler and myself, representing the Athletics. The ball was thrown from a rope stretched between two stakes driven into the ground one hundred and ten yards from the home-plate. Each competitor was allowed three throws, and the rules governing the contest required that the ball be dropped within two large bags placed on a line with the home-plate and about sixty feet apart. Hatfield led us all in each of his three trials, and on the last one he beat his own record of 132 yards made at Cincinnati in 1868 by clearing 133 yards 1 foot and 7 1/2 inches. Leonard came next with 119 yards 1 foot 10 inches, Wright third with 117 yards 1 foot 1 inch, Boyd fourth with 115 yards 1 foot 7 inches, Fisler fifth with 112 yards 6 inches, while your humble servant brought up the tail end of the procession with a throw of 110 yards and 6 inches, not a bad performance in itself, but lacking a long ways of being good enough to get the money with.
Among the famous characters of which the Quaker City boasted in those days was Prof. William McLean, or "Billy" McLean, as he was generally called, an ex-prize fighter and a boxing teacher whose reputation for skill with the padded mitts was second to no man's in the country. To take boxing lessons from a professional who really knew something touching the "noble art of self-defense," as the followers of ring sports would say, was something that I had never had an opportunity of doing before, and it is hardly to be wondered at that I availed myself of the chance before I had been there a very long time.
I towered over McLean like a mountain over a mole hill, and I remember well that the first time that I faced him I thought what an easy matter it would be for me to knock his reputation into a cocked hat, and that before a man could say "Jack Robinson." In a very few moments, however, I had changed my opinion. I had fancied that I was a pretty good sort of a man myself with or without the gloves, but long before the end of that first lesson I had come to the conclusion that my education in that line, as well as others, had been neglected, and that I still had considerable to learn. McLean went around me very much as a cooper goes around a barrel, hitting me wherever and whenever he pleased, and the worst of the matter was that I could not hit him at all. It was not until after he had convinced me just how little I knew that he began to teach me, beginning with the rudiments of the art. I proved to be an apt pupil and soon became quite proficient at the game, in fact so good was I that I sometimes fancied that I could lick a whole army of wildcats, this being especially the case when the beer was in and the wit was out, for be it beer or wine, the effect is generally the same, a fact that I had not yet learned, though it dawned on me long before I left Philadelphia, and I quit it for good and all, to which fact I attribute the success that I have since met with both in the sporting and the business world.
It was in 1875 and during my last season with the Athletics, if I remember rightly, that I became involved in a saloon row, that, to say the least of it, was not to my credit, and that I have been ashamed of ever since. We had been out to the grounds practicing until nearly nightfall and on the way home we stepped into a German saloon on the corner for the purpose of refreshing the inner man and washing the dust out of our throats. In some way the conversation turned on the doings of various fighters and I expressed myself pretty freely concerning their merits and demerits, for having taken boxing lessons, I was naturally anxious to set myself up as an authority on matters pugilistic.
Just as we were in the midst of the argument a fresh policeman happened along and "chipped into the game" with the remark that if there was any fighting to be done he would himself take a hand in it.
That was my chance. For what had I taken boxing lessons unless I could at least do a policeman? "Come on!" I yelled and then I smashed him. He was not the only policeman on the beat, however. There were others—in fact, several of them, and they clubbed me good and plenty, finally leading me away with the nippers on.
Arriving at the police station, and a pretty tough-looking object I was, as you may imagine, I immediately sent for the President of the club, who, as good luck would have it, was also a Police Commissioner. When he put in an appearance he looked at me in astonishment and then asked me what I had been doing.
I told him that I hadn't been doing anything, but that I had tried to do the whole police force, and with very poor success. I was released on honor that night and the next morning appeared before Alderman Buck, who listened to both sides of the story, and then let me go, thinking by my appearance, doubtless, that I had already been punished enough. After court had adjourned we all adjourned on my motion to the nearest saloon, where we had several rounds of drink and then—well, then I started in to celebrate a victory that was, after all, a good deal more like a defeat.