As the 1952 season approached, it had been more than a half-century since the soon-to-be 78-year-old Honus Wagner first began his big league career with the Louisville Colonels as a young, multipositional star. (He also pitched, striking out six over eight shutout innings.) By the time of his 1917 retirement, Wagner—described by John McGraw as "the greatest player in baseball history"—held a slew of modern (post-1892) National League records: 3,420 hits, 643 doubles, 252 triples, 1,732 RBI, 1,739 runs scored, 723 stolen bases, and eight batting titles among them. Often referred to as "Mr. Shortstop" in the press, the burly, bow-legged—yet amazingly agile—"freak of nature" still ranks fourth at the position in career putouts and eleventh in range factor-per-game. As one unidentified scribe put it: "[Wagner] walks like a crab, plays like an octopus and hits like the devil."
Deeply in debt and eager to return to the game he loved, Wagner was hired on as a Pirates coach in 1933. The affable "Dutchman" soon became a beloved fixture during spring training, doling out baseball wisdom and grandfatherly advice to rookies and veterans alike. By the late-1940s, Wagner's health had begun to fail; he was no longer able to attend spring workouts—though he stubbornly remained on as a coach during the regular season. "I won't quit baseball until it quits me," declared Honus following a health scare in 1950. Hospitalized again in December 1951, he remained optimistic about returning, but by mid-February, Wagner—at the insistence of his doctor—announced his retirement. Pirates' GM Branch Rickey, who procured a pension for Wagner, declared his uniform (No.33) retired forever.
On February 15, 1952, a group of newspapermen and photographers descended upon Wagner's modest home in Carnegie, Pennsylvania. "Shucks, how about that," chuckled Honus, grinning ear-to-ear as he answered the door. "Guess old Father Time has caught up with me. Never knew anybody to retire so young." Wagner then collapsed into an easy-chair, a large wad of chewing tobacco visible in his jaw, as he prepared to be interviewed. Following a few questions about his health, the talk turned to his playing days.
Though he stole the show during Pittsburgh's victory over the Tigers in the 1909 World Series, Hans said that "the biggest thrill of my life" came in 1900, when he hit a double in his final at-bat to beat out Elmer Flick "by a mere percentage point" to win his first National League batting crown. (The records show that Wagner was mistaken: he hit .381, a full 14 points better than Flick's .367 mark, though it had remained a close race going into the final days of the season.)
As the reporters on hand looked over Wagner's impressive collection of trophies and mementos that nearly enveloped the small but well-kept parlor, Honus pointed out his favorite of the bunch—a large silver loving cup awarded to him in 1908 for pacing the majors with a .354 batting average. The trophy was presented by Vaudville star Honeyboy Evans. "See that cup," exclaimed Wagner. "Honeyboy bought the cup with the idea of giving it to his friend, Ty Cobb, but I beat Cobb out that year and got it!"
"Who was the toughest pitcher you ever faced?" asked an Associated Press reporter. Honus thought for a bit, before listing a who's who of legendary hurlers: Christy Mathewson, Cy Young, Pete Alexander, Rube Waddell. "Those pitchers were great," explained Wagner, "but I could always hit them. The guy who had me going was a bullpen pitcher for the Chicago Cubs—Jack Taylor. . . . [H]e was always the toughest for me to hit. It looked like I ought to knock his pitches seven miles, but for five years, I couldn't do anything with him. Finally, I got so disgusted I turned around and batted left-handed against him. It worked: I got a three-bagger, and my luck against Taylor changed."
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| Honus Wagner signs autographs, circa 1948. |
The same AP scribe then asked Wagner about Branch Rickey, who had awarded him a lifetime pass to games at Forbes Field in appreciation for his 37 years of service to the club. "Do you know what Mr. Rickey told me?" asked Honus. "He said I could sit anywhere in the ballpark. Upstairs, downstairs, center-field, right-field, any place. How about that?" Around this time, Wagner's devoted wife, Bessie, chimed in: "Guess he'll never be the same now. Baseball is all he ever knew." Sensing a bit of sadness in his wife's statement, Honus explained: "It still is great to be alive. . . . I still love baseball. It looks like the game gets bigger and better every year."
As the interview drew to a close, Wagner—eager to put his newly acquired season tickets to use—flashed a buoyant smile and exclaimed: "See you on opening day!"
– BK2
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