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1876--McCormick's Triumph
From “The Base Ball Memories of Cappy” by Frank Richardson (1902)
It was opening day of 1876 I swore I would never play for the Chicagos. James McCormick, a man so many say saved the game of base ball from itself, had undertaken a mission to ruin my nine. Jealous he could not beat us on the field, he devised a way to beat us with paper. Our owner, William Temple, was forced to release anybody with any talent and surrounded me with kids who could barely shave, let alone play ball. We looked like a varsity squad; it was shameful a city like New York would be represented by such a motley band. Player for player it was the least talented squad I ever was associated with. Still, we had an advantage no one else could claim—my superior base ball intellect and my unmatched drive to win . . .
Even then, when it was all over, McCormick—a name I will curse until the day I die—found a way to destroy what Temple and I had fought so hard to build. To this day, the first line I check in my newspaper is Chicago’s, and nothing fills me with as much joy as to see them on the losing end of any battle they fight.
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It was a mistake to come back.
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