No parades, no burning, but lots of ducats –
Othman: This is sad World Series for ticket scalpers
By Frederick C. Othman, United Press staff writer
St. Louis, Missouri –
The saddest gents in all St. Louis today are those dirty bums, those lowdown crooks, those thieving racketeers in the checkered coats, the ticket speculators. They got what was coming to ‘em.
As of now, a few hours before the second game between the Cardinals and the Browns, the shifty-eyed ones with the pockets full of ducats are going bankrupt. One of ‘em grabbed me and wouldn’t let go and finally said he’d sell me a ticket for today’s game for less than it cost at the box office. Last week he was peddling the same seat for $35. Yesterday he was asking $10. Today he was begging for anything and it serves him right, according to police, who have been chasing him and his pals from Grand Avenue to 12th Street and back again.
Face the facts
We might as well face the facts. This World Series is no sellout. Maybe there isn’t enough bunting downtown; there isn’t any. Maybe there haven’t been enough parades; I haven’t seen one. Or maybe the series has been oversold and the fans are afraid to buck the ticket office.
Truth is that 33,242 patrons, including Mrs. Mary Ott and Harry S. Thobe, saw the first game in a ballpark designed to pack in 40,000 customers. Mrs. Ott, the only lady baseball fan who can neigh like a horse, paid her way in and got her money’s worth. You should have heard her; she sounded like the animal tent of a circus just before its collapse in a cyclone.
Thobe, the liveliest bricklayer that Oxford, Ohio, ever produced, sneaked in behind a truck of bottled beer, but he gave value received. He wore one red shoe and one white one, carried a red parasol and sported a wing collar and a crimson necktie. He danced on the infield for free to the tunes of a sour-sounding band and announced that the Yankees were the only baseballers who did not make him welcome.
Yankees too dignified
“They are very dignified,” Thobe said. “They always chase me out because I make too much noise.”
So all right. That leaves us with Game No. 2, and at this writing there are seats for sale and not much of a line at the bleachers window, or the pavilion wicket, either.
One of the difficulties, of course, is that everybody loves everybody at this ball game and you miss most of the fun unless you’ve got a team to hate. How can a loyal St. Louis fan deliver raspberries to the Cards? Or scream down curses on the Browns?
‘Ain’t no fun’
All he can do is sit there quietly, chewing deluxe 15-cent hot dogs and cheering both sides equally. No matter what happens. St. Louis wins and that, according to Mrs. Ott, a hefty lady in a speckled dress, ain’t no fun.
The situation’s got her down. If only Detroit had come to town, she said dreamily, she could have put some steam behind those neighs. She could have made uncomplimentary noises such as nobody ever heard before. For weeks she’s been practicing, sotto voce, in her bath.
Now look. It just ain’t right and you can take that from Mrs. Ott.