Rest in Peace, Big Ed Delahanty

Yesterday was the 105th anniversary of the death of Big Ed Delahanty, the hall-of-famer who died in his prime after having a run in with the majestic Niagara Falls. Was it the fall that killed him, or did he drown? Did he do it on purpose, or was it a tragic accident? Who knows. Ultimately, I think we can all agree that alcohol had something to do with it (buy this book, read his entry on wikipedia or just google search the terms "big ed delahanty booze").

So pour one out for our fallen friend this Independence Day weekend and celebrate the life of one of baseball's best, Big Ed Delahanty.

THE DEATH OF BIG ED DELAHANTY

from Vol. 1: Frozen Ropes and Dying Quails

(My brother wrote a poem –I bastardized it and blended it and put a beat to it, and now Big Ed’s mysterious death can be discussed, fantasized, danced to. I’m sure he deserves all the above. One thing seems quite certain: the days of the boozing and brawling ballplayers are mostly behind us, no slight to the occasional throwbacks like David Wells, a man mentioned twice elsewhere on this album.)

Sometimes, hungover, he might lose a pop fly in the glare of the Washington sun. And yes, he swung at bad pitches, and let the Irish in him sharpen up and boozy-bloat his tongue. Nights on the road he led a bachelor’s life, with the bright short blaze of a shooting star. But he soaked some homers—yeah, four in one game--when the ball was dead and the fences far. Big Ed don’t let them weigh you down. Big Ed don’t let us weigh you down.

In July 1903 he was hitting .333; for him that was a little bit under par. On the 2nd he jumped the team and jumped a train from Detroit to New York, went straight for the dining car. He was boozing it up good, they say, making trouble, cursing, shouting, Delahanting in the bar. At Fort Erie, Ontario, he was bumped from the train, wandered out on the bridge but he didn’t get too far.

The night watchman said he’d seen a man, ended up wearing his bowler hat; he heard a splash but he didn’t see him fall. For a week no one found a clue of him. What good’s it do to question death when it makes a bad call? But I don’t think he killed himself. I think some strange notion drew him to Niagara Falls, across the curve of day and night, like the perfect arch of a high fly ball.