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National League president Warren Giles called both men "on the carpet," according to newspaper accounts of the day, eventually fining Tebbetts for his remarks. What they soon discovered was that the remarks had been reported—accurately—by AP photographer Gene Smith, who had followed Tebbetts out to second base to photograph the argument. Asked about it after the game, Smith told a reporter what had been said, thereby explaining how it reached print.
Photographers like Smith became almost as knowledgeable about baseball and the skills, habits and idiosyncrasies of its performers as did players and coaches. In Chicago, there were often six to eight photographers on the field.
"When the first batter came up, we'd go beyond first base," recalls Tony Berardi, 78, a photographer and photo editor for Chicago newspapers for 50 years before he retired in 1971. "If a man got a single, we'd move to third base. If the man was sacrificed to second, we'd go to home plate.
"The plays at home were terrific. You were right at their level. You saw a guy leap at home. You got facial expressions and all the details. We were no more than 15 feet away from the plate, first base or third."
Photographers often got to know players and coaches better than their writing counterparts, who did not venture into the locker rooms nearly as much as they do today. Oldtime photographers in Philadelphia remember that Hans Lobert, a third base coach, would warn them of an impending play at third. "Get ready, fellows, here he comes," Lobert would say.
And, in those days, photographers got a good taste of playing field hazards, humor, controversy and anger because sometimes they were the brunt of it.
"He was in the dugout, and I guess he was trying to give signals to the right-fielder or centerfielder," Berardi says. "He yelled, 'Hey, you s.o.b., get out of my way.' I immediately went to the dugout. I said, 'Did I hear you call me an s.o.b.?' He said, 'Well, you were in the way.' I said, 'I don't give a damn. You either apologize for calling me an s.o.b., or I'll meet you after the game is over and I'll punch hell out of you.' Well, the plate umpire came over, and he told Terry he'd heard him call me an s.o.b. and he'd better apologize. He said I was part of the rules and was allowed to stay. Terry said I'm sorry. Later, we became friends."
Ron Kuntz, for many years a United Press (later United Press International) photographer in Cleveland, remembers a famous doubleheader in that city in 1954 in which the Indians swept the challenging Yankees and practically assured themselves the pennant.
" Casey Stengel was the Yankee manager," says Kuntz. "As his team was leaving to go back into the dressing room after the first game, Casey had his hands in his back pockets and was grimacing. I shot one picture of him. When I went to change the holder, he was raising his fists, yelling at me. Outfielder Irv Noren threw some gravel at me. The Yankees were very upset.