A few years ago I happened to be paying a business visit to a city of some importance in the Middle West. The owner of the local club, whom I had known in former years, learning of my presence, sent a complimentary invitation to attend a series of ball games then scheduled for that city. I went, and from the grandstand sent my card to the magnate who was on the bench below, pencil and card in hand, industriously keeping score and directing his players in the game. He responded at once by coming to my side.
I was not prepared for the change I noted in my friend's appearance. He had been a ball player in other days, a fellow of fine physique, active and strong. Now he was attenuated; his hand trembled as he marked the score card; deep furrows crossed his forehead; his once dark hair had turned to gray; he was prematurely an old man. The game progressed, and favorably for his team. When it was ended he said: "Thank God, we've won. We needed that game very badly." Then he added: "Spalding, do you know that I'm a miserable, mental and physical wreck? I can't stand the strain much longer. My wife, too, is disgusted with the whole business. I've made some money, and we're going to buy a farm and get out of Base Ball." It was a simple story, but it portrayed the experiences of many another.
The responsibilities of a Base Ball club owner are great and his trials are many. While those who are ignorant of the troubles that beset his path regard him with envy, he is an ever-present "buffer," receiving the oft-repeated blows of opposing interests. He must stand
