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SHOWMAN
a crucial game for the pennant with Minneapolis, and the last thing the Milwaukee club wanted was an amateur first baseman horning into the picture. They tried to cancel— we fought— fought so hard that they finally gave in and Jim took over for the afternoon. He'd been playing day in and day out without the sign of an error, so we really weren't doing them as much damage as they thought. As the game went on and he held his end up brilliantly, picking them out of the air and out of the dirt and off to the side, Milwaukee began to understand what a bargain they'd got. And then I'm blessed if he didn't step up to the plate at an extremely crucial moment— no fixing the pitcher this time— and slash a double into left field as cool and neat as Ty Cobb in his best days.
That was the wind-up of our mutual career, however. As Fitz got farther and farther out of reach, Corbett and I did begin to drift apart. I was losing interest in pugilism and he was bent on setting himself up a fancy big saloon on Broadway near 34th Street. I didn't think much of that idea, although for a while I was to have a quarter-interest in the place. Defeated champions always set up in the saloon-business and Corbett, who was entirely different from other titleholders, had no business doing the usual thing in any direction. Besides, he wasn't the type to stand round all day and all night and shake the hands of barflies who'd come down there just to meet him and brag about it afterwards. John L. could do that, but it wasn't Cor
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