 This is Jimmy Powers coming your way with another Grantland Rice story. Well there, Jimmy Powers speaking and coming your way once again transcribed. Today's story is another chapter from the Grantland Rice bestseller, The Tumult and the Shouting. So with a sharp salute to the every young spirit of Grantland Rice, I take up his narrative in first person and begin today's installment. Earlier in this series, I told you about my all-time pictures, in fact, four of them. In no special order, they were Si Young, Walter Johnson, Grover Alexander, and Christy Matheson, all right handers. Perhaps it's because I knew him better than any of the others, but in my book, Matheson of the New York Giants was the greatest picture I ever saw. If your dad or perhaps your granddad was around and following baseball in the early 1900s, ask him about Maddie. I knew Maddie not only as a superb picture, but as a close personal friend. I first met him in 1905 when we were both 25. But I came to know him far better after I arrived in New York in 1911 as a member of the sports staff of the evening mail. Matheson was a big man, about six feet tall and 190 pounds. Matter of fact, he was billed along the lines of today's other great modern right hander named Robin Roberts of the Phillies. A graduate of Bucknell University, Maddie was just a little bit better at all games than anybody else. He played chess and checkers and poker better, for example, and usually drew in most of the pots. He was smart looking and well-dressed. Matheson had an unusual but sound idea concerning the alibi. An alibi is sound and needed in all competition, he said. I mean in the high up brackets. One of the foundations of success in sport is confidence in yourself. You can't afford to admit that any opponent is better than you are. So if you lose to him, there must be a reason, a bad break. You must have an alibi to show why you lost. If you haven't won, you must fake one. Your self-confidence must be maintained. I think there is something in this, but never for the amateur or weekend star. To me, that would be a one-way road towards becoming a complete and insufferable fool. However, to vote your life and your living to a sport, be it baseball or golf, and this approach might stand up. Had Sam Snead more of it after blowing that horrible eight on the 18th hole in the 1939 Open at Philadelphia, he might have won the open title years ago. Hogan, on the other hand, has a good deal of this attitude, although I'm not sure he realizes it when discussing his own game. Maddie's philosophy concerning the alibi went farther, which to me was the saving grace of his primary thesis. Always have that alibi, he continued, but keep it to yourself. That's where it belongs. Don't spread it around. Lose gracefully in the open. To yourself, lose bitterly, but learn. You can learn little from victory. You can learn everything from defeat. He was the smartest all the way around. In the 1905 World Series against the athletics, during the six days he pitched and won three games all via shutouts. Mathiason was the greatest pitcher I ever saw. The games were played in October. I believe he could have continued pitching shutouts until Christmas. The A's got 13 singles off him in three games. In those games, Maddie said later, I had everything you need, almost as much speed as Johnson, a curve that broke as I wanted it to, and perfect control. The next two years, in 1906 and 1907, he had a bad arm. He worked on his fadeaway. In 1908, he won 37 games for the Giants and saved at least 12 others, being responsible for at least 50 Giants victories. He was either pitching or in the bullpen all year. When I pitched that extra playoff game against the Cubs, he told me much later, my arm was so sore and stiff I needed an hour's warm-up. I could barely lift it. In that game, Psy Seymour's failure to play deep for Joe Tinker, as Maddie wanted him to do, cost the Giants the flag, for Tinker's triple was the decisive blow. I recall another thing about Christie Matheson. Since he pitched most of the time, he learned to coast. He would get four or five runs ahead and then loaf. Let the infielders and outfielders do part of the work, he'd say. He could loaf and then tighten at a moment's notice. He had no interest in the earned run department. The game alone counts, he remarked. I'd rather win nine to seven than lose one to nothing. So when I get ahead, I try to rest my arm. This would have meant nothing under the modern situation where a lead of three or four runs can be wiped out in an inning. It was different in the day of the dead or unrubbered ball. In 1908, when Maddie won 37 games, with any breaks, he could have easily won 43 or 44. Matheson, Grover Alexander, Psy Young, and Walter Johnson were entirely different types. I know that baseball has changed considerably since I started following it intently back in 1901. I know Ruth changed the game from one of science and one-run victories to the home run in the beginning. Ty Cobb complained back in the 1920s that Ruth had changed baseball from the game Ty grew up with and loved. And it was Connie Mack who said, "'Grantland, you can't judge or measure the ball players "'of one era by those of another.'" From 1900 to 1920, baseball was an entirely different game from the game we now know. Until 1920, it was Ty Cobb's type of game, belonging more to speed, skill, and agility than to power. They played with a dead ball so it was a day of base running. Came the golden 20s and we had Ruth, the livelier ball, and we watched speed give way to power. You simply can't match two entirely different games calling for dissimilar skills. An outfield composed of Cobb, Speaker, and Ruth, even with Ruth, would lack combined power of DiMaggio, Musial, and Williams. Yes, those are Connie Mack's words and they're good ones. If, however, I had my choice of any nine men to throw against the entire field of baseball's greats, I think I'd go with the following batting order. My lead-off man would be Ty Cobb of Detroit in center field. Cobb's mark of 4,191 base hits will never be approached, nor will another mortal bat over 300 for 23 consecutive years. Ty had too much of the eternal will to win plus all physical attributes. Batting second would be Honest Wagner of Pittsburgh, my shortstop. Wagner, big, broad, bow-legged, covered his territory like a high-speak octopus, gobbling up everything with those enormous hands. He hit 300 or much higher for 14 of 18 years. My number three man in this all-time batting order, who else but Babe Ruth? The Yankee right fielder is set and if my pitcher should come up with a lame arm, I could use Babe, a truly great Southpaw of any generation, but I must go with Ruth for his power, his 714 homers in 17 years. Fast for his size, defensively, Babe threw strikes from the outfield. Cleanup hitter on this team is Lou Gehrig, Joe McCarthy's all-time hustler and cleanup slugger during those famous murderers' row years. Indestructible, reliable, Gehrig may not have been the fanciest gloveman at first base, but he was awfully good. Hitting fifth is Cleveland's all-time second baseman, Napoleon Lajoey, great clutch hitter and certainly the most graceful and effective infielder of the early 1900s. Only modern to compare with Lajoey's grace on the double play was the Yankee's Joe Gordon, another beautiful mover. Batting sixth, I find a pair of modern grand slammers in left field that I can't split out. I mean Joe DiMaggio and Stan Musial, for sheer power, elegance, team spirit, clutch hitting ability, defensive brilliance, both belong. Defensively, neither Joe nor Stan the Man can quite approach Triss Speaker, although both are superior to Cobb and Ruth in this department. Batting seventh at third base is Pittsburgh's Pye Trainer, a 300-hitter for 12 years. The perfect gentleman of the pirate's inner ring was also a magnificent fielder. The only other man I compare with Pye is Buck Weaver of the ill-famed Black Sox. Both were terrific. Early Boston Red Sox fans have every reason to remain loyal to Jimmy Collins, a fielding terror, and the only third baseman Cobb couldn't bunt against. It was Collins who first perfected the simultaneous bare-handed scoop and throw of bunts. The catcher for this aggregation, Bill Dickey of the Yankees, batting eighth. Bill used the tools of ignorance with amazing cunning as he handled Yankee pitchers for 10 years with a consummate mastery. When Joe McCarthy's great Yankees of the early 1930s began showing their age, Bill supplied the punch with doubles and triples, smashes that kept the Yankees rolling. My pitcher, Chris D. Matheson. What about a manager for this crew? Well, I have my opinion of managers too. I've watched a lot of them work under all sorts of situations and handicaps. However, my scrapbook of managers can wait for another chapter. But for this one game with this one team, my manager would be John J. McGraw. I don't care if the ball is dead, rabbit, golf, or tennis. This bunch would murder you at bat and choke you in the field. And John J. McGraw, riding the king's throne in the dugout, can handle all beefs with a dispatch of the little Napoleon that he was. Well, the clock tells me we're fresh out of time. So until next we meet, this is Jimmy Powers saying transcribed, I'll be seeing you.