On a hot summer day in baseball-mad Rawlins, Wyoming in 1911, a tightly-packed crowd watched pitcher Thomas Cameron rear back and hurl a fastball toward home plate. The ball went wild, clipping the opposing player on the left shoulder before bouncing into the stands, allowing him to take first base.

Cameron was dying on the mound. In more ways than one.

A convicted rapist, Cameron was pitching for the Wyoming State Penitentiary All Stars, a team featuring only the hardest of hardened criminals.

Many in town, from local bar patrons to team captain George Saban — himself a convicted murderer — to the prison warden himself had substantial sums wagered on the All Stars to win.

The stakes for the convicts were higher than simply the thrill of victory or the agony of defeat.

Wins, they were told, meant time off on their sentences. Losses, however, came with consequences, write Howard Kazanjian and Chris Enss in the unbelievable new book, “The Death Row All Stars: A Story of Baseball, Corruption, and Murder” (Twodot).

“Individual errors that cost the team the win,” they write, “would result in death.”

Skin in the game



The Penitentiary All Stars were a fleeting sensation, a collection of random convicts that just happened to be great at America’s favorite sport.

Led by their star player, convicted murderer of his lover’s husband Joseph Seng, the All Stars were a pawn in an ongoing political power struggle by state officials. They played just four games, winning all, but every one was infused with more drama than a modern World Series.

That the small town of Rawlins would allow such miscreants to enjoy the game’s pleasures is surprising, as the frontier town had long shown a strict, old-world approach to conquering crime.

“Desperadoes caught in the act of robbery, rape or murder in the town were not only hanged but sometimes actually skinned,” write the authors. “Various items were made from the hides of these unfortunate lawbreakers, sold as souvenirs, and used as a warning to other would-be felons.”

One such unlucky felon, George Parrott, killed two deputy sheriffs during an attempted train robbery. “He was lynched for the murders by Rawlins citizens in 1881,” they write, “and shoes were made from his skin.”

The Wyoming State Penitentiary opened in 1901, and, in keeping with the mood of the town, subjected its prisoners to harsh conditions, especially under the command of Otto Gramm.

Gramm was a millionaire who established a broom factory in the prison. The state paid him to look after the prisoners, he paid for their “well-being,” and after they spent their days assembling his brooms, he sold them for healthy profits, earning almost $250,000 from 1903-1911.

According to prisoners, the conditions under Gramm were “merciless” and “of the Dark Ages,” saying that, “meals were calculated down to the last bean so that just enough food was served to prevent starvation.”

In April 1911, this system was banned by the state. A very unhappy Gramm was out, as were his big broom profits, and Big Horn County Sheriff Felix Alston was named the new warden.

By most accounts, Alston took a far more compassionate view of prisons, instituting reforms including exercise for the prisoners, a road-building program that got them outside during the day, and an inmate baseball team.

Conning the ‘cons’

The Wyoming State Penitentiary All Stars played their first game on July 18, 1911, with a 12-man roster that included three rapists, a forger, five thieves and three killers.

Playing the Wyoming Supply Company Juniors — one of the best teams in the area, and the All Stars’ opponent for all four of their games — the All Stars trounced them 11-1, largely thanks to right fielder Seng, who hit two home runs, including a grand slam. Interest in the game was so intense that it was covered by newspapers across the country, including The Washington Post, which titled their article, “Slayer Scores Home Runs.”

The professional manner in which the players conducted themselves drew as much attention as their ability at the game. The Carbon County Journal, which referred to the team as “the Cons,” printed this about their obvious star:

“Joseph Seng, who was convicted of murder in the first degree and sentenced to death, played a classy game all the way through. He will petition the governor to commute his sentence to life imprisonment sometime this month.”

Local interest in the All Stars’ solid play might have spoken to something deep and primal in baseball that touched spectators’ hearts, but it also fed another local interest — gambling.

Saban was in prison for ambushing three sleeping sheep herders and shooting them in the face at close range, killing them instantly. But the dispute was part of a much larger, ongoing battle over territory between sheep herders and cattle ranchers, and many in the cattle business — including local prison guards and politicians — felt Saban’s actions were justified.

As it happened, then-sheriff Alston was the arresting officer that day. He was also, Alston’s grandson told the authors, Saban’s best friend.

So while Saban was sentenced to more than 20 years for his crimes, he was given special treatment, not just appointed team captain but also, amazingly, allowed to come and go from the prison as he pleased in his finest civilian clothes.

When he did go — often accompanied by D.O. Johnson, a guard at the prison with family in the cattle business — he’d hit the local watering holes and take bets on the games, taking a 20% commission from winning bets. He provided gamblers with inside information on the All Stars, including updates on team star Seng and the status of his appeal. It was greatly to his benefit to convince gamblers that the All Stars were headed toward victory.

Aim for the captain

One non-cattleman displeased with all of this was Gramm. Hoping to reinstate his broom business, he heard from guard Johnson — secretly his informer in the prison — that Saban was placing illegal bets on the games with Alston’s money.

Gramm shared this information with his friend, Wyoming Sen. Francis Warren, who was planning to run for governor against the incumbent, Joseph Carey — the man who appointed Alston. Warren believed, or chose to believe, that Carey was involved in the gambling as well, and saw this as information he might be able to use. The ball field wasn’t the only place where people were dividing up into teams.

Seng’s execution was set for Aug. 22, 1911, but he almost didn’t live long enough to see it. Early that month, a particularly vicious inmate decided that Seng had to die.

The prisoner, carrying the 10-pound steel ball attached to his leg by a chain, walked up a staircase where at the top, there rested a small box half-filled with sand that was used for garbage.

At the top of the stairs, the prisoner lifted the box, and dropped it over the railing. The heavy box fell 25 feet, directly to the spot where Seng had just been standing — until, to his luck, he had bent in another direction just seconds earlier to speak to a guard.

Sometime after that, the players were assembled for a practice. While the infield generally whipped the ball around with the quickness and efficiency of Major League champions, shortstop Joseph Guzzardo — in for manslaughter — fumbled a hard grounder from Saban, then missed another on the very next hit. Guzzardo was so angry with himself that he stormed off the field, which did not sit well with his murderous team captain.

Saban reamed him out, and the rest of the team heard from Saban as well. We learn what he said from one of Seng’s letters.

“Mistakes on the field would not be tolerated,” Seng wrote. “He [Saban] told us that prisoners who make errors that cost the team a game would have more time added to their sentence. Winning would lead to reduced time and stays of execution.”

Saban told the players that this had come directly from Alston, and he also shared this information with the town’s gamblers, ensuring them that the All Stars had every incentive to win, and even greater reason to not lose.

Final appeal



These conditions were surely on the minds of the players on Aug. 4, when they won their second game against the Juniors, also 11-1. If the assassination attempt and the game’s new stakes bothered Seng, he didn’t show it, going 4-for-4 with a flawless day in the field as he awaited word on his appeal. He then went just 2-for-5 nine days later for the team’s third game, but the Cons continued their bizarre streak of scoring 11 runs at a shot, this time winning 11-4.

Alston, meanwhile, tightened security at the prison, partly to insure Seng’s safety, but also because there had been a rash of escapes. Prisoners would hide in tight spaces along the grounds, and Alston had to send “diminutive prisoners known as human ferrets” — further described in the book as “a short, small prisoner who was used to search under buildings and through heating tunnels” — to find them.

By summer’s end, the inmates came to believe that Seng had lost his appeals and was being kept alive solely due to his talent for the sport. Scheduled to be hanged on Aug. 22, he was still alive on the 23rd, perhaps because the team’s next game was scheduled for the 29th.

Their fourth victory, by a score of 15-10, was also their last. In the days that followed, Alston began to speak of replacing baseball with education for the prisoners. In September, Gov. Carey instituted a statewide crackdown on gambling — perhaps to deflect growing rumors, spurred on by Gramm, that state officials had played some role in the gambling on the games — and wrote to Alston about his concerns for the team.

Immediately afterward, Alston announced that the team’s time had come and gone. Saban assured local gamblers this would merely be a temporary hold, meant to deflect attention until the gambling whispers died down.

But by November, the prison was being praised for its new education initiative, and the Death Row All Stars faded into memory. The inmates must have agreed with the praise, as that Christmas they presented Alston with a gold watch as thanks for his changes.

As for Seng, the stay, it turned out, had been arranged by his attorneys. But it was short-lived, and he was executed on May 24, 1912.

The Carbon County Journal, which less than a year prior had noted his classy style of play, paid him a different compliment this time, writing that as he approached the hangman’s noose, “His steps were steady, and he went to his death in a manner which stamped him as a brave man.”