Emslie is the sort of umpire who rules by the bond of good fellowship rather than by the voice of authority. “Old Bob” has one “groove” and it is a personal matter about which he is very sensitive. He is under cover. It is no secret, or I would not give way on him. But that luxuriant growth of hair, apparent, comes off at night like his collar and necktie. It used to be quite the fad in the League to “josh” “Bob” about his wig, but that pastime has sort of died out now because he has proven himself to be such a good fellow.
I had to laugh to myself, and not boisterously, in the season of 1911 when Mr. Lynch appointed “Jack” Doyle, formerly a first baseman and a hot-headed player, an umpire and scheduled him to work with Emslie. I remembered the time several seasons ago when Doyle took offence at one of “Bob’s” decisions and wrestled him all over the infield trying to get his wig off and show him up before the crowd. And then Emslie and he worked together like Damon and Pythias. This business makes strange bed-fellows.
Emslie was umpiring in New York one day in the season of 1909, when the Giants were playing St. Louis. A wild pitch hit Emslie over the heart and he wilted down, unconscious. The players gathered around him, and Bresnahan, who was catching for St. Louis at the time, started to help “Bob.” Suddenly the old umpire came to and began to fight off his first-aid-to-the-injured corps. No one could understand his attitude as he struggled to his feet and strolled away by himself, staggering a little and apparently dizzy. At last he came back and gamely finished the business of the day. I never knew why he fought with the men who were trying to help him until several weeks later, when we were playing in Pittsburg. As I came out from under the stand on my way to the bench, Emslie happened to be making his entrance at the same time.
“Say, Matty,” he asked me, “that time in New York did my wig come off? Did Bresnahan take my wig off?”
“No, Bob,” I replied, “he was only trying to help you.”
“I thought maybe he took it off while I was down and out and showed me up before the crowd,” he apologized.
“Listen, Bob,” I said. “I don’t believe there is a player in either League who would do that, and, if any youngster tried it now, he would probably be licked.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Matty,” answered the old man, as he picked up his wind pad and prepared to go to work. And he called more bad ones on me that day than he ever had in his life before, but I never mentioned the wig to him.
Most umpires declare they have off days just like players, when they know that they are making mistakes and cannot help it. If a pitcher of Mordecai Brown’s kind, who depends largely on his control for his effectiveness, happens to run up against an umpire with a bad day, he might just as well go back to the bench. Brown is a great man to work the corners of the plate, and if the umpire is missing strikes, he is forced to lay the ball over and then the batters whang it out. Johnstone had an off day in Chicago in 1911, when Brown was working.
“What’s the use of my tryin’ to pitch, Jim,” said Brown, throwing down his glove and walking to the bench disgusted, “if you don’t know a strike when you see one?”