Coaching is Divided into Three Parts: Offensive, Defensive, and the Use of Crowds to Rattle Players—Why McGraw Developed Scientific Coaching—The Important Rôle a Coacher Plays in the Crisis of a Big League Ball Game when, on his Orders, Hangs Victory or Defeat.
Critical moments occur in every close ball game, when coaching may win or lose it. “That wasn’t the stage for you to try to score,” yelled John McGraw, the manager of the Giants, at “Josh” Devore, as the New York left-fielder attempted to count from second base on a short hit to left field, with no one out and the team one run behind in a game with the Pirates one day in 1911, when every contest might mean the winning or losing of the pennant.
“First time in my life I was ever thrown out trying to score from second on a base hit to the outfield,” answered Devore, “and besides the coacher sent me in.”
“I don’t care,” replied McGraw, “that was a two out play.”
As a matter of fact, one of the younger players on the team was coaching at third base at the time and made an error of judgment in sending Devore home, of which an older head would not have been guilty. And the Pirates beat us by just that one run the coacher sacrificed. The next batter came through with an outfield fly which would have scored Devore from third base easily.
Probably no more wily general ever crouched on the coaching line at third base than John McGraw. His judgment in holding runners or urging them on to score is almost uncanny. Governed by no set rules himself, he has formulated a list of regulations for his players which might be called the “McGraw Coaching Curriculum.” He has favorite expressions, such as “there are stages” and “that was a two out play,” which mean certain chances are to be taken by a coacher at one point in a contest, while to attempt such a play under other circumstances would be nothing short of foolhardy.
With the development of baseball, coaching has advanced until it is now an exact science. For many years the two men who stood at first and third bases were stationed there merely to bullyrag and abuse the pitchers, often using language that was a disgrace to a ball field. When they were not busy with this part of their art, they handed helpful hints to the runners as to where the ball was and whether the second baseman was concealing it under his shirt (a favorite trick of the old days), while the pitcher pretended to prepare to deliver it. But as rules were made which strictly forbade the use of indecent language to a pitcher, and as the old school of clowns passed, coaching developed into a science, and the sentries stationed at first and third bases found themselves occupying important jobs.
For some time McGraw frowned down upon scientific coaching, until its value was forcibly brought home to him one day by an incident that occurred at the Polo Grounds, and since then he has developed it until his knowledge of advising base runners is the pinnacle of scientific coaching.
A few years ago, the Giants were having a nip and tuck struggle one day, when Harry McCormick, then the left-fielder, came to the plate and knocked the ball to the old centre-field ropes. He sped around the bases, and when he reached third, it looked as if he could roll home ahead of the ball. “Cy” Seymour was coaching and surprised everybody by rushing out and tackling McCormick, throwing him down and trying to force him back to third base. But big McCormick got the best of the struggle, scrambled to his feet, and finally scored after overcoming the obstacle that Seymour made. That run won the game.
“What was the matter with you, Cy?” asked McGraw as Seymour came to the bench after he had almost lost the game by his poor coaching.