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By WILLIAM BRAUCHER The old alignments are breaking down. Uncle Robbie is out as manager of the Robins. McGraw, who picked up the Giants in last place in 1903, leaves them in last place in 1932. A sick ball team. And McGraw a sick man. Now only Mack is left of the old line of baseball. When will he re linquish his Athletics to the guid ance of Eddie Collins? Pretty soon some say. Not now, though, with his team trying to get to the top. Tomorrow, maybe. My picture of McGraw always will be of him enthroned on that rickety bench in San Antonio The White Sox were training there, too and the teams played each other almost daily. McGraw had just arrived from Havana and was try ing to whip his club into shape. The word whip is a good word here. McGraw's tongue as a sting ing lash. TRAINING CAMP CRISIS— It was the sixth inning and the score was tied. There were none down and a Giant was on first base. McGraw sat on the edge of the bench as if it were a hot stove. Sternly, and with as much concentration as he might bring to bear upon the deciding game of a world series, McGraw glared at the men about him. It was at such a time that I approached him to “have a little talk” about the Giants. He was having some pitching trouble and I wondered what he was going to do about it. I came around the corner of the dugout and looked the old master mind right in the eye. McGraw minced no words. His greeting was unmistakable. “Get out!” he roared. I got out. A short time later I met dear old Bozeman Bulger, whose recent death shocked the baseball world. Boze was Mc Graw’'s ghost writer. I asked Boze f John was peeved about some thing, and told him of the rousing reception he had given this in quiring reporter, HE'S SERIOUS ABOUT IT — “I could have told you that,” Said Boze, “I wouldn't go up to him on the bench and I have known him more years than I am Willing to admit, hie sits on the bench to rou that ball club. You couldn't sell him Babe Ruth for a dime when he’s out there thinking up things for his club to do. But we'll go over to the hotel and see him tonight.” That night McGraw, smiling, told me he thought I was an in surance agent or a catcher from Toledo. He talked for hours about his team, and his old teams. McGraw realized in the last few weeks what a mistake he was mak ing in trying to direct the Giants by remote control. Every day he would send carefully detailed in structions to the park. So and so was to start, and if the need came for relief, so an so was to go into the box. BLIND DIRECTION— He ordered these movements without knowing the condition of his men. He had no knowledge of the circumstances that arose making some of the choices seem silly. The Giants did not function under this absentee master-mind ing. They slipped into the cellar, even though they were the best hitting club in the league. McGraw hated to give up, but it was the only thing to do. He would have loved to have gone on fighting, but it was physically im possible. He yielded as gracefully as he could, after running the team for 30 years. It was expected the manager's job would go to Bancroft. When McGraw announced Terry would have the job, there was some sur prise. But McGraw always loved to Surprise. He was a surprising sort.
Newspaper Details
Dixon Evening Telegraph
Dixon, Illinois, US
Thu, Jun 09, 1932
Page 7
Full Page
Clipped by
Alan G.
USA 10 Aug 2026
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