A Baseball Story
The A. Bartlett Giamatti Research Library at the Baseball Hall of Fame is a cozy place, just behind the HOF bookstore. Yesterday, as I sat at a long table going through files of old newspaper clippings, visitors to the Hall of Fame would drop into the library every so often. They wanted to know the value of a set of baseball cards they've had since they were kids, or to learn more information about a relative who once played minor league ball.
In the middle of the afternoon, two elderly men came in with a request and a story. I heard it, I talked to them about it, and I thought I'd pass it along.
Their names were Maxin Appell and Albert Washburn; Maxin, known as Max, was 89, and Albert was 88 and 11 months.
They asked the research librarian about a player they once knew named George Gore. Could she tell them anything about him? A long time ago, they said, Gore had taught them how to play baseball. "Hit the ball," he would say. "Hit the ball."
The librarian, a very helpful woman named Claudette Burke, pulled a file for Albert and Max, and they sat down to read it.
George Gore, it turns out, died on September 16, 1933, at the Masonic Home in Utica, New York. He was 81 years old. According to
the Times obituary, Gore "showed baseball ability at an early age" and eventually signed with the "Chicago National League team." He was the first baseball player to hold out for more money; he was offered $1200 for a season, asked $2500, and settled for $1900. Pretty good money in those days, I'll bet. Playing centerfield at a time when centerfielders didn't use gloves, he also set baseball records with five assists in one game
and seven stolen bases in one game.
"Holy Christ," Albert kept saying as he and his friend leafed through the folder. "Holy smokes. I never knew..."
I asked the men how they knew him. They explained that the two of them had grown up together in the Masonic Home. They were orphans, and they lived in the same dormitory when they were nine years old.
George Gore, an old man at that point, had been their baseball instructor. They knew that he had once played pro ball, but they had no idea how good he had been.
"Holy Christ," Albert said again. "I had no idea." Looking at some old photos, he exclaimed, "Look how handsome he was! He must have done well with the ladies."
Albert told me that he lived in the home—now called
the Masonic Care Community—once again.
It took a moment to do the math. I was talking to two men, born in 1917, who had known each other from their time in an orphanage 80 years ago, in 1926. Which meant that I was talking to two men who had learned to play baseball from a man who played in the 1870s. Two men who had stayed friends over the better part of the 20th century, and now had come to the Hall of Fame to learn a little bit more about George Gore, whom they remembered from their days in the orphanage.
I asked if they wanted me to Xerox any of the material they were looking at, so that they could take their knowledge with them.
"Oh, that's all right," Albert said. "It's nice just to read it."
Max patted me on the back as the two walked out of the library. "Thank you for your help," he said, though I really hadn't done anything other than express interest in their memories.
I thanked him back and told him that it was good to talk to him. It took a few minutes before I was able to return to work, leafing through old newspaper clippings.
