My life in baseball: the forgotten manuscript of a big league legend who preceded Ty Cobb and Babe Ruth as the National Pastime's first 20th-century superstar gives a fascinating glimpse of what life was like around the grand old game during its early years

On Dec. 13, 1923, the man many still consider to be the best all-around player ever to grace the diamond set out to write his autobiography. Through January 1924, he told his story in the form of articles published in the Los Angeles Times and Pittsburgh Gazette Times. Though a book was planned at the time, it never was published--until now. What follows are Wagner k own words as to what baseball aim life were like in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

THE BIG TURNING POINT in baseball, the way I look at it, was the war with the American League back in 1900, which lasted for two or three years and then wound up in the present national agreement. Baseball would not have been what it is today if we hadn't had this war. We wouldn't have had any World's Series for one thing. Can you imagine what baseball would be today if we didn't have a World's Series as a sort of big climax to the end of the season?

In the old days, a team won the pennant and the players were paid off and given a banquet. Often, fans forgot who had won the pennant the year before. It didn't make any difference. That thing of having a big classic event to end the season, a climax, gave baseball its big jump. Every fall and winter the Series is talked about all over the world. Now fans in little towns know all about each player and what he did. In the old days, they wouldn't even know who won the pennant and wouldn't care. You know how it is.

Well, it was during that war that I came into prominence in money matters --baseball money, I mean. I was among those players who refused to jump. I may have lost a lot of money by it, but I feel much happier and satisfied for having stayed in Pittsburgh.

My friends, good ball players all over the country, were going to the American League for the big money. Naturally, a lot of agents, most of them friends, were after me. I was leading the National League as a hitter and, if I do say it myself, was supposed to be a good drawing card. I loved my team and associations. They meant much more to me than money.

One day the players had a meeting to talk about the offers they had and to decide what they should do. After a lot of talk, we agreed to meet again the next day at 3 o'clock and not to sign a contract until after that meeting.

[Pittsburgh Pirates owner] Mr. [Barney] Dreyfuss and Harry Pulliam, who was then with the Pittsburgh club but later president of the National League, got wind of this in some way. They knew, of course, that American League agents were in town. They tried to get hold of me, but I avoided them.

On the day before the meeting, my friend Jim Orris, a lifelong pal, came out to see me and finally got me to meet Dreyfuss and Pulliam in the office. Jim didn't say so, but I knew they had got him to try and get me in tow. The upshot of it was that I finally agreed to do what Jim asked. We met Dreyfuss and Pulliam at the time and place. They persuaded Orris to sit in at the conference. They had prepared two or three contracts and tried their best to get me to sign one. I couldn't do that because I was under promise, and I didn't want them to know this. I shifted around and evaded questions--did everything I could to keep from giving a direct answer. In short, I refused to sign any form of contract.

Barney Dreyfuss is a square fellow--always treated me right. He was puzzled at my attitude. Finally, he turned to his desk and pulled a blank contract out of the drawer. For some time he looked me squarely in the eye. "Here Honus," he said, "is a blank contract. Take that pen there and write in your own figures." To prove that he meant it, Barney signed the paper in blank and passed it over to me. Now that's what I call a square proposition. Still, I hesitated. "No," I finally told them all. "I'll not sign a contract tonight no matter how it's made out. I simply can't, that's all."

It was about midnight by this time. Dreyfuss and Pulliam went out and left me with Orris, leaving it to him to do what he could with me. "Honus," said Orris, "what did the American League offer you?"

"They offered me a two-year contract at $7,500, and put the money up in the bank in advance." I had also been offered $2,000 for each star player I could induce to go along with me. "All right." he said, encouraged. "We'll tell Barney about that in the morning and I know he'll do the same."

"No," I told him, "I'm not worth that much money now. I think, though, Barney ought to pay me $5,000. I'm getting $4,000 now."

"That's fine. He'll gladly do that. Come on and sign it tonight."

"No, Jim, to tell you the truth, the fellows had a meeting and all agreed not to sign anything until we meet again tomorrow."

Orris went in to see Dreyfuss again. He came back with contracts showing that several of the fellows already had signed. "Even so," I told them, "that's no reason why I should break my word. I won't sign tonight." That ended the meeting. The next day I signed the contract, and I signed it for less than $7,500. I honestly didn't think I was worth that much. Later on, I was the highest paid player in the league, getting $10,000. I'm not trying to make myself a moral hero or anything like that, but I'm telling you honestly that it was worth that $2,500 to have had the feeling of keeping my word.