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As soon as she could, Pamela hurried to the stable to tell Burnable all about the Garden and its excitements, what it was like to enter the ring for the first time before a comparative handful of spectators on Saturday morning and then to ride Mr. Brookville out before the filled stands on Sunday afternoon. She spoke as glowingly about Mr. Brookville as one can in discussing one gelding with another, carefully pointing out that it was no real fault of Mr. Brookville that he refused jumps in two events.
If Burnable had any thoughts on the subject, he was discreet enough to react as he always does when his young mistress has a confidential talk with him. As Pamela puts it:
"He just listens."
When death comes to one of base ball's great men, they place a green wreath beneath his plaque in the Cooperstown Hall of Fame. Two weeks ago they laid one under the bronze tablet bearing the name Clark Griffith. Last week it was Cy Young's turn.
There are a lot of things you can say about old Cy: how he came out of the Ohio hills to win more ball games (511) than any pitcher in baseball history, pitched three major league no-hitters, threw the first World Series pitch, won 20 or more games for 14 consecutive years and five times won at least 30. Or you could say that he was sent up to the majors in trade for $250 and a suit of clothes and never was paid more than $5,000 for a season.
But most of what made Denton True Young one of the real great ones—his arm and his heart—can be told in two little stories.
One concerns how he received his nickname. Trying out for Canton, Ohio of the old Tri-State League in 1890, Young was pitching to the team's big slugger, who was backed up against the grandstand because no catcher was around. At the end of the workout ("He didn't even hit a foul off me," Young said), the Canton owner asked his manager how the rookie had done. The manager just pointed over to the grandstand where Young's fast ball had splintered the boards on the wall—and made the place "look like a cyclone had just passed by."
"After that," Young said, "they always called me Cy."
The other story is about a chair. It was a big, soft, easy rocking chair in a hilltop house just outside Newcomers-town, Ohio, and it was the spot old Cy retired to in 1934 after his wife Bobby died. "For almost a quarter of a century we walked hand in hand through baseball," he used to say. "From up here I can look down on the little churchyard where Bobby is buried. I can just stay here, waiting for the day when I can join her."