Derek Jeter’s retirement last year after his 20-year New York Yankees career rekindled a popular off-season argument: Who is baseball’s all-time best shortstop?
After the analysts crunched the numbers, Pittsburgh Pirates great Honus Wagner remained solidly at the top of the list. And, to the surprise of some fans, even in Pittsburgh, Mr. Wagner’s Pirates protege, Arky Vaughn, ranked second.
In 1932, Mr. Vaughn was a raw but promising rookie before Mr. Wagner rejoined the Pirates in 1933 as coach. The two became roommates and, under Honus’ steady tutelage, Mr. Vaughn blossomed into the 1935 National League batting champion. He eventually joined Mr. Wagner in the Hall of Fame.
Mr. Wagner’s lifetime statistics are so imposing that even the most ardent Jeter supporters acknowledge that the Flying Dutchman was the superior player. Among Mr. Wagner’s achievements are his 15 consecutive seasons batting .300 or better, which included eight batting titles, nine seasons of 100 or more RBIs and five stolen-bases crowns. Mr. Wagner was baseball’s first seven-tool player. To the big five — hitting, hitting with power, fielding, throwing and speed — Mr. Wagner added determination and durability.
Mr. Wagner may have been the best older player ever. Between the ages of 34 and 39, he hit .300 or higher each season and averaged .329. Even though Mr. Wagner was inducted into the first-ever Hall of Fame class along with immortals Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb, Christy Mathewson and Walter Johnson, his statistics are so imposing that he may be underrated. His peers called Mr. Wagner the greatest ever, remarkable praise for a humble man whose ambition was once to become a barber.
Despite his sterling record on the field, though, the years between his retirement as a player in 1917 and his return to the Pirates as a coach, Mr. Wagner’s life was marked by successes and failures. Time has obscured Mr. Wagner’s most complete failure — his curious 1928 decision to run for Allegheny County sheriff. Even though he was the county’s most visible, beloved figure, he lost the election in a landslide.
Unbeknownst to most of his family and friends, one August day Mr. Wagner slipped into the county elections division on the last filing date to register on the Republican and Labor tickets. Unfortunately, in the lottery to decide where candidates would be placed on the ballot, Mr. Wagner drew the last slot on each ticket.
A teammate described Mr. Wagner’s fate as “almost as bad as striking out.” But Honus’ pal remained optimistic, noting that he “hadn’t lost the race yet” and that the “game is still young.”
The election game got old fast for Mr. Wagner. He was swamped by incumbent Robert H. Braun — 110,250 to 28,452. Not even Herbert Hoover’s coattails could save him.
Years earlier, Mr. Wagner had toyed with running for public office. At the height of his prowess on the diamond, 1906, future congressman William H. Coleman urged Mr. Wagner to run for sheriff, a proposal he briefly considered. He joked that he knew more about hanging up hits than hanging up murderers.
Four years later, political powerbrokers again hoped to cash in on Mr. Wagner’s popularity and floated his name as a possible compromise candidate for Congress. Mr. Wagner showed little interest.
But by 1928, he had succumbed to politics’ lure and ran against Mr. Braun as the quintessential everyman candidate and Pittsburgh’s most recognizable personality. Off the field, Mr. Wagner lived simply and enjoyed the same pastimes as many other Pittsburghers — hunting, fishing, automobiling, as Mr. Wagner called it, and frequenting local beer gardens.
Mr. Wagner was shy but comfortable with people, often mixing it up with fans and signing autographs. His talents as a raconteur no doubt served him well on the campaign trail. A favorite Wagner yarn had him riding his imaginary horse, Chief, over the Monongahela River to arrive at a flooded Exposition Park just in time for a first pitch.
Several publications endorsed Mr. Wagner. The Commercial Journal pronounced him “well qualified in every respect to fill the position.” The Signal Item, Mr. Wagner’s hometown Carnegie newspaper, urged his “friends and well-wishers” to support him and noted his willingness to donate time and money to worthy causes, especially youth organizations.
In the end, Mr. Wagner’s campaign was disorganized and half-hearted. The insurmountable obstacle was that he had no law enforcement experience, while Mr. Braun ran on his achievements in the sheriff’s office since he’d been first appointed chief deputy 14 years earlier. Mr. Braun had accumulated an impressive arrest record and had earned accolades for cost cutting.
Mr. Wagner’s campaign never really got off the ground. Dennis and Jeanne Burke DeValeria, authors of “Honus Wager, a Biography,” speculate that Honus may not have had the energy to put into what was likely a doomed effort, given how badly 1928 already had gone for him.
His sporting goods store was struggling and eventually went bankrupt. Mr. Wagner had asked National League President John Heydler about the possibility of buying into a franchise, a request that went nowhere. His older brother Butts, Mr. Wagner’s first baseball mentor, was in failing health and died that November.
Mr. Wagner’s personal turmoil lasted a few more years. Another store went bankrupt and his bid to manage the Cincinnati Reds fell short. But life gradually brightened for Mr. Wagner.
For about two weeks, Honus Wagner served as the Pennsylvania Legislature’s sergeant-at-arms, a position he disdained as one for the lazy. He was appointed fishing commissioner and coached Carnegie Tech’s baseball and basketball teams. In 1942, he was given the honorary position of Allegheny County deputy sheriff. Before retiring from coaching, he shared his hitting insights with 23-year-old rookie Ralph Kiner, who promptly led the league in home runs for seven consecutive seasons on his way to the Hall of Fame.
Many dead-ball era stars and their contributions are long forgotten. But Honus Wagner’s memory lives on. In 1955, a 10-foot-high statue of Mr. Wagner was erected in Schenley Park outside the old Forbes Field. It later was moved to Three Rivers Stadium and today stands next to PNC Park, a reminder to fans of the man’s enduring greatness, both on and off the field.
And then there’s the 1909-1911 T206 Honus Wagner baseball card, the most prized of all. One sold for $2.1 million two years ago.
Joe Guzzardi is a member of the Society for American Baseball Research and the Internet Baseball WritersAssociation (guzzjoe@yahoo.com).
First Published: April 5, 2015, 4:00 a.m.
