"News Item: Last year 20 runners attempted to steal against pitcher Mike Garcia and 16 succeeded. This year the first seven who tried to steal against the Cleveland ace also succeeded. Chief culprits have been the White Sox who, going into July this year, had not had a runner thrown out stealing against Garcia since July 7, 1952. During that period the Chicagoans stole 23 bases in 23 attempts against him."
-Baseball Digest, August 1954
An Open Letter by Gordon Cobbledick (Condensed from the Cleveland Plain Dealer)
Dear Mike:
One of these days, if our wives will let us get away, we ought to take a ride down to Woodsfield, Ohio, and have a little talk with Sad Sam Jones. Not the Sam Jones you know (he's still pitching for Indianapolis), but the original Sad Sam, who spent 22 years on the mound for the Indians, Red Sox, Yankees, Browns, Senators and White Sox. You might find an hour with him pretty profitable.
Sam did most of his pitching before the art of base stealing was lost. Yes, I know you're thinking, in the light of recent experience, that it's been found again, but the fact is that except for the present-day White Sox and an occasional club like the old St. Louis Gas House Gang and an occasional individual like Ben Chapman or George Case, nobody has bothered much about stealing bases since Babe Ruth invented the home run.
Still, when you practically demand that they steal on you, you can get hurt, even in this day and age. And, of course, after what the White Sox did the other day the word is going to get around the league and the first thing you know guys like Gus Zernial and Joe Tipton are going to run wild on you and then you'll be in trouble.
What I was going to say about Sam Jones, he pitched while Ty Cobb and Clyde Milan and Eddie Collins and Fritz Maisel and a lot of other larcenous characters were stealing everything but the water bucket, and on him they didn't steal. A base here and there, yes, but not what you'd call stealing as it was understood in those days.
What was more, in 22 years in the league he probably didn't make 22 pickoff throws to first base. Sam always figured he had just many throws in his arm, and every one he made to first was one less he'd be able to make to the batters.
What he did when there was a man on, he looked at him. He'd take his stretch and come to pitching position, and then he'd look at the runner out of the corner of his eye.
The guy would keep edging off further and further, and Sam would keep looking. He had the advantage of knowing when he, Samuel Pond Jones, was going to deliver the pitch. The runner didn't have that knowledge, and so, when he had increased his lead to the point where it was dangerous, what with the fella watching his every move, he had to retreat toward the bag. And that was when Sam pitched.
When a runner is moving toward first, or leaning toward first, he isn't going to steal second, and it doesn't matter whether his name is Jim Rivera, Orestes Minoso or Joe Schloe. He can't run when his heels are in front, and that's where Sam Jones' looking put 'em.
I thought you might want to know because you'd have had a fairly comfortable ball game the other day if the White Sox had had to depend on their bats to beat you. They're a bunch of one-base hitters, and it takes two of their hits to score a man from first. But when he steals second practically automatically, as he did that afternoon, it takes only one.
You're a good pitcher, Mike, but you're not good enough to spot a club like the White Sox that advantage. So you just name the date and we'll go down and talk to Sad Sam.
GC
-Baseball Digest, August 1954
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