“Discoverer” of Lewis, manager Jack Rowe

July 12, 1890

Saturday afternoon in Brooklyn, Jack Rowe is desperate. The beleaguered manager of the Buffalo Bisons is in dire need of a pitcher. The Bisons are the most miserable conglomeration in the newly formed Players League, a dismal 17 and 42, as they lined up to face Johnny Ward’s Brooklyn Wonders. One of the club’s many achilles heels is its pitching. By season’s end, they would send 16 different men into the pitcher’s box (for context, no other team in the league used more than 8). The team ERA would end up a ghastly 6.11.

Rowe is hoping for a miracle. His ears perk up when a young man named Lewis showed up at Brooklyn’s Eastern Park, claiming to be a pitcher.

“Mr. Rowe?”

“Yes?”

“I heard ya need a pitcher…well I don’t mean to brag, but I’m a pitcher here and have made a good record around town. Will you give me a chance?”

“Sure kid.”

In the current world of endless footage, international scouting, and farm systems, it is hard to imagine a completely unknown kid showing up to a big league park and getting a tryout. How could some kid show up to the ball park and appear in a major league game?

Yet this was a surprisingly common occurrence in the 19th century, as many teams often resorted to using local “talent” as injury replacements, or on a trial basis. Teams had small rosters and injuries were commonplace. Combine those factors with a lack of formalized scouting and you have countless cases of naive young ballplayers stumbling into an in-game trial. Semi-pro and amateur players were known to frequent ballparks on game day, in hopes of catching their big break. That was the case of our man Lewis when he met manager Rowe that day.

Player’s League Founder and Brooklyn Manager Johnny Ward

If you read the title of this article, you know that things did not go so well for Lewis. It was a windy day in Brooklyn, and a crowd of 1200 freezing Brooklynites (including more than a few hipsters watching the game ironically) gathered to witness Lewis’ pending slaughter.

The home team batted first, as it was customary in the 19th century for the home team to be given the choice of batting or pitching first. Player’s League founder/manager/shortstop/all-around-good-guy Johnny Ward led off for Brooklyn and drew a walk. Bill Joyce followed with another base on balls. Lewis rough start was exacerbated by his inexperienced catcher Jocko Halligan, who was behind the plate instead of the legendary Connie Mack, the team’s regular catcher. Halligan gave up a passed ball that allowed Ward to open the scoring.

Connie Mack, waiting eternally for this game to end

Whether it was Halligan or Mack behind the plate, Lewis just didn’t have “it” that day and likely didn’t know what “it” was.

After center fielder Ed Andrews made the first out of the inning, the portly first baseman Dave Orr stepped to bat. Orr was enjoying the greatest final season this side of David Ortiz (though unlike Ortiz, his career ended unexpectedly when he would he suffered a stroke in September of that year). The rotund slugger walloped a home run that scored Doyle. Second baseman Lou Bierbauer made the second out somehow, then George Van Haltren walked and would score on rightfielder Jack McGeachey’s single. The pain continued with catcher Con Daily making a hit that scored McGeachey. Pitcher John Sowders made the third out and Lewis’ debut inning was over. Only 6 runs given up.

Slugger Dave Orr, owner of .342 lifetime average and baller spotted tie

Buffalo showed surprising resilience and put up four runs in the bottom half of the first. Lewis took the mound in the second, with one inning now under his belt, nerves steadied, and was ready for business. Unfortunately that business was charity.

Brooklyn would connect for six more runs on hits by Ward, Joyce, Andrews, Orr, Daly, and Sowders. The Bisons, perhaps a bit demoralized would go down quietly in the second.

It was George W. Bush who once said “fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can’t get fooled again.” Manager Rowe clearly didn’t understand the wisdom of such parables and brought Lewis out for his third inning of work, down a mere 12 to 4. This inning would prove Lewis’ mettle once and for all. After giving up a pedestrian six runs in each of his first two innings, he was determined to top himself in the third. Boy did he ever. In the third inning, he would allow eight more Brooklyn runs.

Lou Bierbauer, second baseman and pirate

Bierbauer lead this assault by becoming just the second player in major league history to hit two home runs in one inning (after Charley Jones did so in 1880). Further damage came on hits by McGeachey, Daly, Sowders, Ward, and Andrews. Somehow, Lewis managed to get three outs in the midst of this annihilation.

The score was only 20 to 4, but manager Rowe had lost faith. Today would bring no miracles for the Bisons, and a dejected Lewis was replaced on the mound by left fielder Ed Beecher.

Ed Beecher, who mercifully brought Lewis’ pitching career to an end

But Lewis’ day wasn’t done. Since the Bisons were travelling light, and lacking a proper substitute, moved Lewis into left field to replace Beecher…the old switcharoo.

Nico once sang “don’t confront me with my failures, I’ve not forgotten them.”

One can only imagine how difficult it must have been for Lewis to stay in the game after such a disheartening appearance on the mound. Somehow, Lewis actually made a decent showing at the plate, mustering one hit in five at bats, and even scoring one run. But despite a feisty showing at the plate by the Bisons in the later innings, the damage inflicted on Lewis was too much to come back from. The Bisons would fall to Ward’s Wonders by a final score of 28 to 16.

Lewis career in the big leagues was over. In three innings of work, he gave up 13 hits, 20 runs, allowed three home runs, walked seven men and threw a wild pitch. Remarkably, he did manage to strike out one batter, but no record exists of whom that poor soul might have been.

You may have noticed that I have yet to refer to Lewis by his first name. That’s because he doesn’t have one. It was never mentioned in any of the papers at the time. Given the common family name, as well as the complete lack of biographical details about the attempted pitcher, it is unlikely that his true identity will be uncovered.

One possible lead appeared in the July 12, 1890 Sporting Life, which chronicled a July 4 doubleheader between the Staten Island Athletic Club and the Riverton club of Philadelphia. The author notes that a pitcher named Lewis appeared for Staten Island in the first game, as a replacement for the club’s regular pitcher. This pitcher was described as a “lamentable failure” for his “utter inability to control the delivery of the ball.” Perhaps this is our man after all!

On a cold day in Brooklyn, a man became quite possibly the worst pitcher of all time. His Name Was Lewis.