lined up along the third-base foul line, and on the first-base side were Wilbert Robinson and his Brooklyn Dodgers, reigning National League champions.
The ballpark was packed to overflowing. Some fans took standing-room spots in the right-field bleachers; others were on the field itself, seated on the left-field terrace behind a rope barricade. Across the street, the Western Avenue Irregulars had gathered on the roof of the Jantz & Leist Electric Company for a free view of the activities.
There was more than a ball game to entertain them today. A brass band in the right-field bleachers was playing John Sousa marches, and a fireworks display was scheduled for after the game. And preceding it all, was a memorial service for Oliver Perriman.
His actual funeral had been yesterday, but the team was holding a special “tribute” to him today. It was now under way, with Lloyd Tinsley speaking into a large megaphone set up on the pitcher’s mound. Behind him were Garry Herrmann and a group of dignitaries—the sort of men who like to be seen at such events and get their names in the next day’s newspapers. Tinsley began by introducing the others. Among those present were Louis Kahn of Kahn’s Meats; Maynard Kimber, the sausage king; and the heads of the Moerlein, Hudepohl, and Wiedemann breweries. The guests had no connection to baseball that I knew of, and appeared to have been invited solely because of Herrmann’s fondness for their products. At least none of them were called upon to say anything; they simply puffed up and waved when their names were announced. Garry Herrmann himself was quietly beaming—things weren’t so terrible anymore.
“We are here today,” Tinsley said, his voice echoing like thunder, “to honor Oliver Perriman. Mr. Perriman wasn’t a player or an owner or even an umpire. He was more important than any of those: he was a fan. ” As I’m sure he expected, a solid round of applause greeted this declaration. After pausing to milk the ovation for all he could, Tinsley went on, “Oliver Perriman—‘Ollie’ to those of us fortunate enough to be his friend—worked hard to preserve our history, to document the achievements of our city’s ballplayers” —another pause for effect—“and to show the baseball world that Cincinnati is the city of champions.” The cheers were loud and long.
I thought a championship every fifty years hardly justified a claim to being “the city of champions.” I also thought that a baseball diamond was for playing ball, not for self-serving speeches. I started scratching the earth with my cleats, mixing the lime of the foul line into the clay.
As Tinsley continued to speak, I noticed that he never explicitly mentioned that Oliver Perriman was dead. Instead, the emphasis was on Perriman’s achievement in putting together “such a magnificent collection”—and on how Cincinnatians were sure to enjoy seeing the exhibit.
It had been pretty much the same way in the newspapers: Perriman’s death had garnered little attention. Initially, there were a few brief reports on the inside pages that he had been killed during an attempted robbery “by person or persons unknown.” But the front pages had been taken up by coverage of other events: President Harding’s appointment of a former president, Cincinnati’s own William Howard Taft, to be Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court; the controversy over a woman being seated on a jury in Cleveland; and the upcoming boxing match between heavyweight champion Jack Dempsey and challenger Georges Carpentier. A few days later, a couple of follow-up pieces described the “exhaustive” investigation by the Cincinnati Police Department and reported their conclusion that the would-be robber and murderer had left town.
“... and now, to make a very special presentation, I am happy to introduce Mr. Nathaniel Bonner, president of the Queen City Lumber Company.”
Bonner, a lean man who must have been six and a half
The ballpark was packed to overflowing. Some fans took standing-room spots in the right-field bleachers; others were on the field itself, seated on the left-field terrace behind a rope barricade. Across the street, the Western Avenue Irregulars had gathered on the roof of the Jantz & Leist Electric Company for a free view of the activities.
There was more than a ball game to entertain them today. A brass band in the right-field bleachers was playing John Sousa marches, and a fireworks display was scheduled for after the game. And preceding it all, was a memorial service for Oliver Perriman.
His actual funeral had been yesterday, but the team was holding a special “tribute” to him today. It was now under way, with Lloyd Tinsley speaking into a large megaphone set up on the pitcher’s mound. Behind him were Garry Herrmann and a group of dignitaries—the sort of men who like to be seen at such events and get their names in the next day’s newspapers. Tinsley began by introducing the others. Among those present were Louis Kahn of Kahn’s Meats; Maynard Kimber, the sausage king; and the heads of the Moerlein, Hudepohl, and Wiedemann breweries. The guests had no connection to baseball that I knew of, and appeared to have been invited solely because of Herrmann’s fondness for their products. At least none of them were called upon to say anything; they simply puffed up and waved when their names were announced. Garry Herrmann himself was quietly beaming—things weren’t so terrible anymore.
“We are here today,” Tinsley said, his voice echoing like thunder, “to honor Oliver Perriman. Mr. Perriman wasn’t a player or an owner or even an umpire. He was more important than any of those: he was a fan. ” As I’m sure he expected, a solid round of applause greeted this declaration. After pausing to milk the ovation for all he could, Tinsley went on, “Oliver Perriman—‘Ollie’ to those of us fortunate enough to be his friend—worked hard to preserve our history, to document the achievements of our city’s ballplayers” —another pause for effect—“and to show the baseball world that Cincinnati is the city of champions.” The cheers were loud and long.
I thought a championship every fifty years hardly justified a claim to being “the city of champions.” I also thought that a baseball diamond was for playing ball, not for self-serving speeches. I started scratching the earth with my cleats, mixing the lime of the foul line into the clay.
As Tinsley continued to speak, I noticed that he never explicitly mentioned that Oliver Perriman was dead. Instead, the emphasis was on Perriman’s achievement in putting together “such a magnificent collection”—and on how Cincinnatians were sure to enjoy seeing the exhibit.
It had been pretty much the same way in the newspapers: Perriman’s death had garnered little attention. Initially, there were a few brief reports on the inside pages that he had been killed during an attempted robbery “by person or persons unknown.” But the front pages had been taken up by coverage of other events: President Harding’s appointment of a former president, Cincinnati’s own William Howard Taft, to be Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court; the controversy over a woman being seated on a jury in Cleveland; and the upcoming boxing match between heavyweight champion Jack Dempsey and challenger Georges Carpentier. A few days later, a couple of follow-up pieces described the “exhaustive” investigation by the Cincinnati Police Department and reported their conclusion that the would-be robber and murderer had left town.
“... and now, to make a very special presentation, I am happy to introduce Mr. Nathaniel Bonner, president of the Queen City Lumber Company.”
Bonner, a lean man who must have been six and a half
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