Is there a doctor in the dugout? The baseball prowess of Doc Cramer.

Drive Route 72 through Manahawkin, and you're likely to ask the same question Ivan and I did: who's Doc Cramer? His name appears on directional signs, and if you wander off the highway a touch, you'll find Doc Cramer Fields, a municipal sports complex.

The first time we noticed the sign, it was dusk and we were on our way to the Road to Nowhere to find owls. Our imaginations went to the days when Ocean County was sparsely populated and, perhaps, home to a kindly general practitioner who might have been popular enough to warrant having a street named for him. You know: ol' Doc Cramer, who delivered most of the kids in town and tended to Mrs. Smith's lumbago. My mind transformed him into Burt Lancaster playing Dr. Archibald "Moonlight" Graham in Field of Dreams: a man who gave up dreams of baseball stardom to go to medical school and care for an entire small town.

Sometimes those odd mental linkages have merit. When we got back to Hidden New Jersey headquarters, I discovered that Doc Cramer was, in fact, a baseball player, and quite a good one, too. Born in Beach Haven in July 1905, Roger Cramer was never a doctor or a medical student, despite earning excellent grades in high school. Rather, he kind of did the Moonlight Graham routine in reverse. As a boy, he often accompanied local doctor Joshua Hilliard on house calls around Manahawkin, picking up his lifelong nickname along the way.

Though he'd been playing ball since the age of eight and starred on his high school team, Cramer's entry into professional ball was late by most standards. He was 24 and playing on a local semi-pro team when Philadelphia Athletics backup catcher Cy Perkins saw him. At Perkins' suggestion, Cramer tried out for the A's the next day and was sent to their D-league minors team.

After some seasoning, Cramer joined the A's as a utility outfielder in 1930, getting even more playing time in the following years and playing in the 1931 World Series. He became known for his prowess at the plate, going six for six in a nine-inning game and setting a franchise record that still stands today for season hits by a left-hander. Despite his solid hitting, his contract was sold to the Boston Red Sox as A's team owner Connie Mack faced Depression-era financial woes.

Cramer's success continued during his six year stint in Boston, as he hit over .300 every season from 1937 to 1940, tying the league lead in hits in that final year. He played one season on the Washington Senators and spent another seven years in Detroit before concluding his 19 year career. In total, he played on three All-Star teams, appeared in two World Series and retired with a .296 batting average, among his other achievements.

While Cramer's statistics could arguably put him into the Hall of Fame, he's yet to be enshrined in Cooperstown. Some say that his case is weakened by the fact he played during World War II, when Major League rosters were depleted of their talent. Ironically, as a coach for the Chicago White Sox, he was instrumental in developing future Hall of Famer Nellie Fox, whose career numbers are remarkably like Cramer's own.

Cramer played long before athletes were paid large salaries -- most if not all had to keep off-season jobs to make a decent living. Workman's tools replaced the bat and glove in the fall and winter months as he built houses as a union carpenter. According to the Society for American Baseball Research, he made more money swinging a hammer than he ever did on the ballfield.

Staying true to the Jersey Shore, Cramer lived in Manahawkin for much of his life and returned to the house he built there when he retired from baseball for good in 1953. According to family and friends, he still responded to fan mail from admirers and often hosted his old baseball teammates, even getting to Philadelphia from time to time for a Phillies game.

Cramer died in 1990 after a brief battle with cancer. He's buried at Greenwood Cemetery in Cedar Run, and honored, of course, by the street and ballpark that carry his name.

Covering the bases with Abner Doubleday in Mendham

Today I'm putting my feet up and passing my usual writing duties to the often-written-about Ivan, to tell us a bit about a well-known Morris County personage who's not normally associated with New Jersey. Take it away, Ivan! 

Well, it had to happen eventually. After a year and a half of traveling around with Sue, I’m finally contributing a post to Hidden New Jersey. Alert readers may recall that I am an avid student of the Civil War. In addition, Major League Baseball’s 2012 All Star Game will be played tonight. You may be asking “How can he possibly relate New Jersey, baseball and the Civil War?” The answer is quite simple: Abner Doubleday, the man probably best remembered for the fallacious story of his inventing baseball.

In his upstate New York youth, Doubleday did play baseball and some historians contend that he had a hand in codifying some of the rules in those early days of the game. However, he was actually a military man and is buried in Arlington National Cemetery. While walking around the cemetery some years ago, I heard a tour guide point out his grave, mentioning the baseball legend but omitting the reason that Doubleday lies at rest in the nation’s most prestigious military cemetery.

Phoenix House, Abner Doubleday's first home
in Mendham

Doubleday graduated West Point in 1842 and fought in both the Mexican and Seminole wars, rising to the rank of captain. In 1861 he was serving at the garrison at Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbor when Confederates fired on the fort, thus starting what was to become the bloodiest war in American history. He is often credited with firing the first Union shot of the war in response to the Confederate bombardment. On July 1, 1863, Major General Doubleday figured prominently in the Union defense on the first day of the Battle of Gettysburg. Although modern historians generally look upon his performance favorably, Union commander George Meade replaced him with John Newton on the second day of the battle, thereby creating ill feelings between the two men for the rest of their lives.

Retiring from military service in the 1870’s, Doubleday settled in Mendham and became involved in the Theosophical Society in America, even serving as president of the organization for a time. In those bygone days, the TSA was usually looked upon less than favorably by the religious mainstream despite some prominent members, including Thomas Edison. According the society’s website, Theosophy is intended “to draw together people of goodwill whatsoever their religious opinions, and by their desire to study religious truths and to share the results of their studies with others. Their bond of union is not the profession of a common belief but a common search and aspiration for Truth.”

Doubleday died in Mendham on January 26, 1893 with no word on whether he found his religious Truth. Although some internet sources say he suffered from heart failure, I was fortunate to find an original obituary which indicates his death as being the result of Bright’s disease, a kidney ailment.

No matter what the cause of death, Doubleday certainly lived out his final years in the Garden State, thereby adding to New Jersey’s intimate association with baseball history. From history’s first recorded baseball game (in Hoboken) to the source of the special secret baseball rubbing mud and the home of the world’s only Phil Rizzuto museum, we’ve got strong ties to the national pastime. As for Mendham, bits and pieces of Doubleday still remain. Phoenix House, where he stayed while his own home was being built, still stands on Main Street, but his Hilltop Road house no longer stands. Residents have honored him with a namesake athletic field several blocks away, on Mountain Avenue, and the marker notes his military service along with his reported contribution to baseball.

Striker to the line! Base ball with the Elizabeth Resolutes

Visit any good-sized county park on a summer Saturday, and you're bound to see a game or two of baseball on the sandlot diamonds. If you're really lucky, you'll run into one that makes you wonder if you've just stepped onto the Field of Dreams.

Well... maybe your thoughts will land a little earlier in history than that, to about 150 years ago.

A couple of weeks ago I stopped by Rahway River Park in Rahway to watch a game between the home team Elizabeth Resolutes and the visiting Brooklyn Atlantics. Unlike the other teams playing nearby, these gentlemen were dressed in baggy uniforms and high-legged stirrups. They play a game called 'base ball' (that space between the syllables makes all the difference), following rules that differ from those most of us grew up with.

The first thing that struck me a little odd was the lineup. I got there in time to hear the Resolutes' manager reel off the batting order to his team.  "Batting fourth... batting fifth..." Okay, nothing unusual there. "Batting eighth... batting ninth... batting tenth... batting eleventh..." Huh? No designated hitter here, but apparently more players approach the plate than actually play defense at any given time.

Second, equipment is very basic: a bat, a ball, home plate and three bases. Players don't use gloves for batting or fielding, and the catcher wears no protective mask or chest padding. The top hat and vest-wearing umpire had a cane, but I never figured out why.

Third, the game is fast paced, especially when judged against today's professional matches. Pitchers throw to the plate virtually as soon as they receive the ball from the catcher, and there's no delay in returning the ball to the pitcher after a strike is called. If the umpire detects any excess time being taken, he'll hurry the game along with a call of "play ball!" This definitely is not the kind of sport where you can look away and expect not to miss anything.

Oh, and the batter? He's a striker, and he's called to bat with the exhortation, "Striker to the line!"

So what's the deal with these guys, and why the unusual club name?

The 21st century Elizabeth Resolutes are members of the Vintage Base Ball Association and honor a team of the same name that played in New Jersey between 1866 and 1878. Starting as amateurs, the 19th century team won the state championship in 1870 and decided to turn pro in 1872, becoming New Jersey's only participant in the national Association of Professional Base Ball Players. Apparently, though, the team's amateur days were their most successful, and they disbanded after just a few years of professional play.

Today's Resolutes are just one of many base ball teams competing on the East Coast, joining the Flemington Neshanock as New Jersey's two vintage clubs. Besides playing matches in local parks, they add sporting flavor to events that commemorate America's past, like Civil War reenactments and history festivals around the region. Check the Resolutes schedule for upcoming games -- they're definitely worth checking out.

Good old-fashioned New Jersey mudslinging hits the major leagues

I don't care how balmy it gets over the winter. I believe that spring begins when pitchers and catchers report to major league training camps in February. That's happening this week, and it seems it won't be long till we can watch intrasquad play and preseason competition.

I don't know if this ball ever got the mud treatment,
but it's still pretty cool.

No matter where those games are played, they'll all have a little New Jersey in them. Or, more accurately, on the balls the players use. Before each and every major league game, umpires rub a special concoction of Garden State mud into the hides of several dozen baseballs to take the shine off the covering. Reportedly, this makes the ball easier to grip, so it's less likely that a pitcher will lose control and inadvertently hit a batter in the head. Following the beaning death of Cleveland Indians shortstop Ray Chapman in 1920, the urgency for finding a solution to this problem became more acute.

What is it about New Jersey mud that makes the difference? Why can't the umpires just use dirt from the infield of the park where the game is being played? In the early days of baseball, the umps did, in fact, often turn to ballpark dirt, shoe polish and even tobacco juice to effectively dull the ball's surface leather. Only problem was, these methods would either discolor or scratch the balls, making them unsuitable for game play.

After listening to an umpire's complaints on the topic, Philadelphia Athletics third base coach Lena Blackburn decided to find a solution. In the late 1930's, he came upon the perfect mud somewhere near Palmyra, allegedly on a tributary of the Delaware River. Using a proprietary method, he screened the mud and then cured it over the winter before distributing it for use. The pudding-like substance roughs up the balls sufficiently for gripping, without causing any real damage. By the 1950s, every major league team was using Blackburn's mud.

I'm just as curious about the origins of that mud as you probably are, but it's a closely-held secret. It's so secret, in fact, that only four men have known its location: Blackburn, his friend John Haas whom he willed the business to, Haas' son-in-law Burns Bintliff, and the current mud collector, Jim Bintliff. (You have to admit -- those are all really baseball-sounding names.) According to a CNN story, the next person to be admitted to the fraternity of baseball mud collectors may be a woman: Jim's daughter Rebecca, and no doubt she won't tell, either.

In a given year, the business doesn't make much money, but I'm sure it gives a heck of a lot of satisfaction. Imagine watching any major league game and knowing you helped make every pitch happen. That's a feeling you can't buy.