Pop history gave a bad shake to 1919 ‘Black Sox’ owner Charles A. Comiskey
The eminent Princeton historian James McPherson argues that revisionism “is the lifeblood of historical scholarship. History is a continuing dialogue between the present and the past.”
In the case of the 1919 “Black Sox,” who conspired 100 years ago this month to throw the World Series to the underdog Cincinnati Redlegs, revisionism came at a terrible personal cost to the reputation of Charles Albert Comiskey, a founding father of the American League and the White Sox.
The Black Sox Scandal altered the course of professional baseball and the fortunes of Chicago’s South Side team for decades to come. It was one of several defining moments in the immediate post-World War I period that separated the old order from the new and the 19th Century from the 20th.
In Chicago that summer, the city experienced a violent and horrific race riot. A streetcar strike underscored rising tensions between capital and labor. Political corruption, gangsterism and post-war lawlessness were endemic.
Also fueling a sense of bitterness and cynicism over the next year was the shocking revelation that eight Sox players — the Black Sox — had sold their services to a clique of oily gamblers and underworld characters.
How this scandal has been interpreted ever since is an interesting case study in how a historical event can be bent, shaped and otherwise altered to reinforce a particular point-of-view or, more specifically, a political agenda.
Since 1963 and the publication of the late Eliot Asinof’s quasi-novel “Eight Men Out’”, the reading public and Hollywood has accepted at face value Asinof’s premise that a greedy and avaricious Comiskey abused his star athletes and cheated them at every turn. Manhattan-born Asinof peppered his narrative with numerous errors of fact, dubious assertions and invented dialogue.
By doing so, Asinof permanently tarred the reputation of a man who until 1963 had been remembered as one of the game’s great pioneers, respected and honored in Cooperstown. He was beloved by generations of White Sox fans who remembered his vision and leadership. Known as “Commy” to his Bridgeport friends, neighbors and associates, he was revered by the Chicago press corps. At one point in 1908, he was urged to run for alderman.
After the scandal broke, the dispirited Comiskey failed to rebuild his championship team despite investing lavishly in high-priced rookies. Top prospects did not develop into stars nor did they restore the team to respectability. Increasingly, Comiskey withdrew to his hunting lodge in Eagle River, Wisconsin, known as “Home Plate,” to live out his remaining years as a recluse.
In death, the Chicago sporting world and baseball fans eulogized Comiskey as a benevolent and beloved sports magnate. He was seen as the real victim of the Black Sox scandal — not “Shoeless” Joe Jackson or the seven other Sox players banished from the professional game.
But in 1963 Eliot Asinof’s book created quite a sensation, and overnight Comiskey went from victim-hero to villain.
As an author and White Sox historian, I was given the opportunity to consult on the 1988 John Sayles’ movie version of “Eight Men Out.” Like most readers, I accepted at face value Asinof’s interpretations. I met him on the set in Indianapolis and told him how much I appreciated his work. However, over the next few years, as I probed deeper into the book, I discovered that he was wrong on many critical points.
But was he deliberately wrong in order to reinforce his pro-labor, anti-capital views?
I have to wonder.
Asinof claimed that star pitcher Ed Cicotte was “withheld” from winning his 30th game of the 1919 season so that Comiskey would not have to pay a promised $10,000 bonus. In fact, Cicotte won three of four games in September 1919, and he had the opportunity to win the pennant-clinching game on Sept. 24 in St. Louis.
Cicotte pitched ineffectively and had to be removed. The game went into extra innings and the Sox won.
Earlier in the month, Cicotte received permission to leave the team so that he could close on the purchase of a farm outside of Detroit. It is easy to speculate that Cicotte’s down payment was made with gambler money. There is no compelling evidence to suggest that Comiskey conspired to withhold the great star’s bonus. Quite likely, this was a lie told by Cicotte to Asinof during the author’s book research.
Moreover, the White Sox carried the highest team payroll in baseball in 1919. Of the eight Black Sox, only Charles “Swede” Risberg and Charles “Chick” Gandil had legitimate salary grievances with Comiskey.
Asinof alleges that the wife of pitcher “Lefty” Williams was threatened with violence if he broke his agreement with the gamblers. This was a plot device to heighten suspense. There is no record of a verbal threat ever being made to Ms. Williams.
Many years ago, I was on the radio with Asinof. I asked him about the Cicotte allegation. He had no reply. Moreover, he conveniently looked past compelling evidence that the eight players were likely throwing games at the end of the 1920 season, again doing the gamblers’ bidding.
In the final analysis, Charles Comiskey was a man of his times. He shared the same 19th Century value system of thrift and hard work as the other owners who required their players to launder their own uniforms. Asinof made an issue of this, but it was common practice at the time. Washington Nationals owner Clark Griffith ordered his ushers to seize foul balls hit into the stands, sometimes prying them loose from the hands of boys and girls.
Comiskey was both generous and tight with a dollar. If the prevailing system of baseball in 1919 was deserving of indictment, then the Sox owner should not be singled out for the lingering ills of the game of that era. Organized baseball failed badly in separating gamblers from baseball stadiums and the restaurants and bars in which players socialized. From the 1870s through 1920, there were many allegations of compromised players throwing games in return for generous coin.
Asinof’s book is an entertaining read, but it is not scholarship. It fails on so many levels to offer a balanced, unbiased account of Charles Comiskey, who has been unfairly maligned and the whipping boy of Hollywood and baseball documentary film producers ever since.
I understand completely the anger of the late Chuck Comiskey, grandson of the founder, who told me that he walked out of a movie theater showing “Eight Men Out” a half-hour into the film.
Had I known of the inaccuracies and bias expressed in this book and film, I would have walked off the set in Indianapolis in 1987.
Richard Lindberg is the author of 20 books of Chicago history, including “Total White Sox,” a franchise history published in 2011.
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