Baseball and Slackerism
From the outset of America’s entry into the Great War, beginning in April 1917, baseball struggled to find its place in a mobilized nation. All around the country, there was a sense of shared sacrifice, but for baseball, being part of that sacrifice was difficult. Players were well-paid, essentially, to play a child’s game. So baseball set out to make showy displays of patriotism. A.L president Ban Johnson had players spend their pregames conducting military drills, using bats instead of Springfield rifles. Magnates bought Liberty Bonds, making sure the papers knew about it. Teams hosted endless military parades and Red Cross benefits. From the war’s outset, America frowned upon slackers, and baseball did its best to avoid the label.
But those displays were not enough to settle the question of baseball’s status during the war. In May 1917, Congress passed the Selective Service Act, making all single men between the ages of 21 and 31 first in line to be drafted. That made players prime targets and left baseball in a tenuous situation. There were some points of pride. Braves catcher Hank Gowdy was made a hero when he became the first ballplayer to enlist in the army in June 1917. Some players followed Gowdy’s lead, but most who signed up went to naval bases where the war was distant and ball games were part of the daily routine. It was clear that if players were going to be part of the war effort, it would be through the draft.
Nobody wanted to see the game shut down, but the prospect of running a league when its best players could be called to war at any moment was not enticing. But baseball pushed 
Hank Gowdy, in his army uniform, was one of the few ballplayers to be hailed as a war hero. (Photo courtesy of the Library of Congress.) forward. Johnson tried to get answers from the government on behalf of the National Commission, the game’s governing body, but had no luck. In July 1917, Johnson offered to shut down baseball to support the war effort, but the public protested and one week later, President Woodrow Wilson put out assurances that he wanted baseball to continue.
Johnson, though, knew that running baseball during the war was a losing proposition. He pressed authorities to define baseball’s status, and when he was ignored, came up with a plan on his own. It was, unfortunately, a plan that came off as crass and self-important. In late November, Johnson made public a suggestion that each team be allowed to exempt 18 players from the draft, 288 players total, making everyone else fair game for the military—the logic being that, if the government wanted baseball to keep going, then leaving 288 men out of the war was a small sacrifice in the context of an army that would eventually top 3.6 million fighting soldiers.
Johnson’s suggestion was a disaster and made players look even more like slackers. Gen. Enoch Crowder, who was in charge of running the selective-service draft, was outraged. “That must be a pipe dream,” he said. “There is nothing in the regulations to warrant making exceptional rulings for men liable to service who make baseball their means of livelihood. It is absurd.” John Tener, president of the National League, agreed. “I would not go an inch toward Washington to ask President Wilson or the Secretary of War for special favors for baseball,” Tener said. “I think it most unpatriotic to suggest that baseball should even appear to shirk a duty at this time, when so many parents are giving their sons and when other business interests are giving their best men to the service.”
Exasperated, Johnson issued a 10-paragraph statement. He had offered to shut down the game, but Wilson and the public disapproved. He floated the 18-player exemption, but was slammed for it. Most magnates seemed resigned to simply pressing forward with a stiff upper lip, even with their best players subject to the draft. That was a sure failure.
“Such conditions will arise in 1918 and must result in endless confusion in the great baseball family,” Johnson wrote in his statement. “The matter of maintaining a contest of keen interest that would appeal to the public seems impossible of accomplishment. We ask for nothing but an interest that represents millions of dollars seeks wholesome advice on the subject.”
The public perception of baseball was made worse thanks to a letter sent from France by Capt. T.L. Huston, part owner of the Yankees. He was a decorated soldier and, once war was declared, enlisted as a member of the army’s engineering corps. In the letter, Huston said: “Baseball must watch closer the signs of the times. The Alexander-Killefer deal, as well as that of Bush, Strunk and Schang, indicated that it is strangely out of step with national events. The loud publicity given the purchase of players for the large sums of $60,000 to $80,000 will be a harsh, discordant note in the existing worldwide atmosphere of economy, retrenchment and sacrifice, and tend to shock the fan public and make it pause and ask, ‘Is baseball still stark crazy?’”
Huston ripped the small portion of 1917 World Series money that was given to war charities and criticized the magnates on baseball’s business end—he was the only one who enlisted. “Ye gods, what a mortifying and shameful spectacle,” Huston wrote of his cohorts. He went on: “Men of baseball, reveille sounded for you long ago. If you are deaf to that call, the nation will sound taps for you, and you will hear it.”
