John Flynn, who was the third pitcher in the string, came to Chicago from Boston and was another good man in the twirling line. He had a wonderful drop ball, good command of the sphere and great speed. He was also a good batter for a pitcher, and a fast fielder. His arm gave out while he was with us, however, and besides that he got into fast company and, attempting to keep up the clip with his so-called friends, found the pace much too rapid for him and fell by the wayside. John was a good fellow, and with good habits, and had his arm held out, he might have made his mark in the profession, but the good habits he lacked and the arm was not strong enough to bear the strain, so he dropped out of the business, and what has become of him I know not, though I think he is in Boston.
Moolie, who had been signed to relieve Kelly and Flint behind the bat and to handle the delivery of Flynn, was never much of a factor in the game, he not being strong enough to stand the strain. He was let out early for that reason and never developed into a player of any note. He is somewhere in New England at the present time, but just where and what engaged at I am unable to state.
James T. Ryan was at that time and is now a good ball player. His home was in Clinton, Mass., and he came to us from the Holy Cross College, in which team he had been playing. He was a mere boy when he first signed with Chicago but promised well, and though for a time he did not come up to the expectations that I had formed regarding him, I kept him on the team. His greatest fault was that he would not run out on a base hit, but on the contrary would walk to his base. This I would not stand, and so I fined him repeatedly, but these fines did little good, especially after the advent of James C. Hart, who refused to endorse them and supported Ryan in his insubordination, in regard to which I shall have more to say later. Ryan was a good hitter, not an overly fast base runner, and a good judge of a fly ball. He was also an accurate left-handed thrower. He could never cover as much ground as people thought, and though he ranked with Lange as a batsman, he was not in the same class with that player either as a base runner or a fielder, the Californian in the two latter respects being able to race all around him. Ryan at the present writing is still a member of the Chicago team, and, though by no means as good a player as he was some years ago, is quite likely to remain there as long as Mr. Hart continues at the head of affairs.
William A. Sunday, or "Billy," as we all called him in those days, was born in Ames, Iowa, and was as good a boy as ever lived, being conscientious in a marked degree, hardworking, good-natured and obliging. At the time that I first ran across him he was driving an undertaker's wagon in Marshalltown, though it was not because of his skill in handling the ribbons that he attracted my attention. There was a fireman's tournament going on at the time of my visit, in which Sunday was taking part, and it was the speed that he showed on that occasion that opened my eyes to his possibilities in the base-ball playing line. He was, in my opinion, the fastest man afterwards on his feet in the profession, and one who could run the bases like a scared deer. The first thirteen times that he went to the bat after he began playing with the Chicagos he was struck out, but I was confident that he would yet make a ball player and hung onto him, cheering him up as best I could whenever he became discouraged. As a baserunner his judgment was at times faulty and he was altogether too daring, taking extreme chances because of the tremendous turn of speed that he possessed. He was a good fielder and a strong and accurate thrower, his weak point lying in his batting. The ball that he threw was a hard one to catch, however, it landing in the hands like a chunk of lead. Since "Bill" retired from the diamond he has become noted as an evangelist, and I am told by those who should know that he is a brilliant speaker and a great success in that line. May luck be with him wherever lie may go!
I have said that Sunday threw a remarkably hard ball to catch, and this was true, but I have noted the same peculiarity in regard to other players that I have met. How to explain the reason for this is a difficult matter. He was not as swift a thrower as either Williamson, Burns or Pfeffer, all of whom sent the ball across the field with the speed of a bullet and with the accuracy of first-class marksmen. In spite of the extreme speed with which they came into the hand, however, they seemed to sort of lift themselves as they came and so landed lightly, while Sunday's balls, on the contrary, seemed to gain in weight as they sailed through the air and were heavy and soggy when they struck the hands. This is a strange but true fact, and one that, perhaps some scientists can explain. I confess that I cannot, nor have I ever been able to find anybody that could do so to my satisfaction.
Of the members of this old team the most famous in the history of Chicago as a base-ball city, three are dead, Flint, Williamson and Kelly, while the others are scattered far and wide, Ryan being the only one of them that is still playing. Over the graves of three of them the grass has now been growing for many a year, and yet I can see them as plainly now as in the golden days of the summers long ago, when, greeted by the cheers of an admiring multitude, we all played ball together. If it were possible for the dead to come back to us, how I should like once more to marshall the members of that championship team of 1884, '85 and '86 together and march with them once more across the field while the cheers of the crowd rang in our ears. But that I can never do. The past is dead, and there is no such thing as resurrecting it, however much we may wish to do so.
I cannot close this chapter without mentioning little Willie Hahn, our mascot in those days, and, a mascot of whom we were exceedingly proud. Not more than four or five years ago his parents lived in a three-story house not far front the old Congress street grounds. The first time that I ever saw him he came on the grounds arrayed in a miniature Chicago uniform, and so cunning was he that we at once adopted him as our "mascot," giving him the freedom of the grounds, and he was always on hand when the club was at home, being quite a feature, and one that pleased the lady patrons of the game immensely. I had lost sight of him for years, but one day a fine, manly-looking fellow walked into my billiard-room and introduced himself as the mascot of those other days. I was glad to see him and also glad to learn that he has a good position and is getting on in the world.
