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http://fredericksburg.com/News/FLS/2006/072006/07302006/209890
TODAY, he wouldn't be "Dummy."
Today, if they showed baseball's first deaf player making a great catch in center field on the ESPN "SportsCenter" highlights, they'd probably call him Bill.
Today, as 1980s reliever Bruce Sutter is inducted into the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y., King George County resident Rex L. Bishop will be remembering William Ellsworth "Dummy" Hoy.
Bill Hoy is not memorable.
Dummy Hoy is unforgettable.
Bishop, a business law professor at the College of Southern Maryland who grew up in Hoy's hometown of Houcktown, Ohio, is one of the leaders of an effort to get baseball's first deaf player into the game's Hall of Fame.
The times were far from politically correct over a century ago when Hoy played for the Washington Senators. But the lack of sensitivity of his day may have added to his cachet today.
The first time Hoy hit against a deaf pitcher, the newspaper headline was "Dummy faces Dummy."
Worse, other players tried to take advantage of his disability by quick-pitching him when he looked away to see if a previous offering had been called a ball or a strike. Not being able to hear the umpire's call, he'd glance at his third-base coach, who would give him a hand sign telling him if it was a ball or a strike. And some pitchers would then try to sneak a strike past him as he looked away.
Bishop said that sort of thing never fazed baseball's first handicapped player.
As he and other Hoy supporters watch today's Hall of Fame induction ceremonies in Cooperstown, their resolve to continue pushing for a player who saw his heyday 100 years ago and died in 1961 remains unwavering.
David Risotto, an independent Los Angeles filmmaker who has just completed a documentary on Hoy, compares his refusal to bow to personal difficulties and long odds to story of the fictional boxer "Rocky."
In addition to being deaf, Hoy, at 5 feet 4 inches to 5 feet 5 inches tall and approximately 145 pounds, was one of baseball's smallest players ever.
"He was such an underdog," an admiring Risotto said. He's talking with Hall of Fame officials about showing the documentary in Cooperstown in November.
Risotto is also endeavoring to make a feature film on Hoy with the working title "The Silent Natural," and said he hopes to cast a deaf actor in the lead.
Bishop insists Hoy deserves to be in the Hall of Fame purely for his play, not for overcoming a disability.
"My feeling is that he should be in the Hall of Fame for his baseball prowess," Bishop said. "He was the best center fielder of his time and was a very good offensive player."
Still, he said, Hoy's courage and determination in the face of adversity serve to make him an even more appealing candidate for the Hall.
"It's time to honor a man who overcame tremendous difficulties and achieved greatness."
Supporters face an uphill battle, despite Hoy's legendary status in the deaf community. The baseball stadium at Gallaudet University's school for the deaf and blind in Washington is named Hoy Field. But he's not discussed in the media the way some players of past eras--such as Gil Hodges--are each time the Hall's Veterans Committee prepares to vote.
Even Hoy's own family doesn't seem to be focused on the oversight that Bishop and other supporters consider an injustice.
In a telephone interview from Los Angeles, grandson Bruce Hoy said he has "no idea" why his grandfather--who died of a stroke in 1961--hasn't made it into the Hall of Fame, and said he hasn't given it much thought.
Bishop, who can't stop thinking about it, said that to some family members, Dummy Hoy is a distant memory--a long-dead ancestor. But to deaf people, he remains a living, vibrant symbol of hope. And to a small cadre of hearing baseball fans like Bishop, he is a cause.
Jim Gates, library director at the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, said Hoy remains eligible for induction.
"He was on the last list I saw that was being put together by an outside committee for consideration by the Veterans Committee," Gates said this week. "I'm not sure if it's been whittled down."
Hoy's lifetime batting average of .288 seems a bit anemic by today's offensive-minded standards, but was played in what is called "the dead ball era," Gates said.
And his offensive numbers compare favorably to those of some other players of his era in the Hall of Fame, Bishop said. His 597 stolen bases are 17th all-time.
"The ball they used in those days didn't travel as far as today's," Gates explained. "You saw fewer homers" and lower batting averages.
The changes in the offense, Gates said, are "a reflection of the fact that baseball is a game that has evolved and continues to evolve."
Many believe Hoy's situation led directly to umpires raising their right hands for "strike" and "out" calls, although that's not verified.
Steven R. Sandy, a deaf Ohio man who's a longtime Hoy fan and researcher, is firmly convinced that Hoy not only is responsible for today's umpires' signals, but saw them put into use when he was active.
"That's always been in dispute," grandson Bruce Hoy said of the umpiring signs link.
When Dummy Hoy played, there was only one umpire, Bishop explained.
"I think he used the signs relayed to him from coaches during his career, and the umpires adopted those same signs when a second umpire was added in the early 1900s," Bishop said.
The use of his signs later by umpires is not disputed; the use of his signs by umpires during his career is the point in question.
"I have seen photos of coaches, players using sign language with Hoy but have not seen any definitive proof of umpires using them," Bishop said.
In any event, the dispute underlines how tough things must have been for Hoy.
Sandy tells a story of tough-mindedness.
He said Hoy was insulted when the Milwaukee Braves offered him only $55 a month, so he went to play for a team in Oshkosh instead at $65 a month.
When Milwaukee offered to match that, Hoy refused.
So the Braves offered $75.
Then $85.
Sandy said Hoy jotted a note on a piece of paper, wadded it up and slung it across a table at the Braves' manager.
"I wouldn't play for your team for a million dollars."
Hoy went from Oshkosh to the Washington Senators, then played with a series of other teams--his longest tenure was with the Cincinnati Reds from 1894 to 1898. He settled in Cincinnati, where he became a wealthy man.
His never-say-die outlook on the field and off and his flat-out refusal to see himself as a victim made him many friends in baseball.
Sandy said Hoy was so admired by his teammates that the Reds all learned sign language. He said there were times when players would be having dinner and would communicate exclusively by sign language to avoid being interrupted by autograph-seeking fans.
Bishop said Hoy was one of the great defensive players of his era--a speedster and the possessor of an astounding throwing arm, Bishop said.
Playing center field for Washington in 1889, he threw out three base runners at home plate in one game--and is one of only three players to accomplish that feat.
Hoy was voted the most inspirational player of the 1890s. His spirit was so indomitable that at age 90, he drove from rest home to rest home in Ohio, grabbing the hands of the other elderly people, one after another, and pulling them up to dance.
Despite that kind of heart, and his great skills on the field, it's going to take a special sort of effort to move the consciousness needle and get Hoy into the Hall of Fame.
Bishop hopes Risotto's documentary influences the Hall of Fame's Veterans Committee to finally induct Hoy. He said that act would have great meaning to many Americans.
"Among the deaf community, Hoy is still a hero," Bishop said. "I have yet to meet a deaf person who is not aware of Dummy Hoy--even if he or she is not a baseball fan."
TODAY, he wouldn't be "Dummy."
Today, if they showed baseball's first deaf player making a great catch in center field on the ESPN "SportsCenter" highlights, they'd probably call him Bill.
Today, as 1980s reliever Bruce Sutter is inducted into the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y., King George County resident Rex L. Bishop will be remembering William Ellsworth "Dummy" Hoy.
Bill Hoy is not memorable.
Dummy Hoy is unforgettable.
Bishop, a business law professor at the College of Southern Maryland who grew up in Hoy's hometown of Houcktown, Ohio, is one of the leaders of an effort to get baseball's first deaf player into the game's Hall of Fame.
The times were far from politically correct over a century ago when Hoy played for the Washington Senators. But the lack of sensitivity of his day may have added to his cachet today.
The first time Hoy hit against a deaf pitcher, the newspaper headline was "Dummy faces Dummy."
Worse, other players tried to take advantage of his disability by quick-pitching him when he looked away to see if a previous offering had been called a ball or a strike. Not being able to hear the umpire's call, he'd glance at his third-base coach, who would give him a hand sign telling him if it was a ball or a strike. And some pitchers would then try to sneak a strike past him as he looked away.
Bishop said that sort of thing never fazed baseball's first handicapped player.
As he and other Hoy supporters watch today's Hall of Fame induction ceremonies in Cooperstown, their resolve to continue pushing for a player who saw his heyday 100 years ago and died in 1961 remains unwavering.
David Risotto, an independent Los Angeles filmmaker who has just completed a documentary on Hoy, compares his refusal to bow to personal difficulties and long odds to story of the fictional boxer "Rocky."
In addition to being deaf, Hoy, at 5 feet 4 inches to 5 feet 5 inches tall and approximately 145 pounds, was one of baseball's smallest players ever.
"He was such an underdog," an admiring Risotto said. He's talking with Hall of Fame officials about showing the documentary in Cooperstown in November.
Risotto is also endeavoring to make a feature film on Hoy with the working title "The Silent Natural," and said he hopes to cast a deaf actor in the lead.
Bishop insists Hoy deserves to be in the Hall of Fame purely for his play, not for overcoming a disability.
"My feeling is that he should be in the Hall of Fame for his baseball prowess," Bishop said. "He was the best center fielder of his time and was a very good offensive player."
Still, he said, Hoy's courage and determination in the face of adversity serve to make him an even more appealing candidate for the Hall.
"It's time to honor a man who overcame tremendous difficulties and achieved greatness."
Supporters face an uphill battle, despite Hoy's legendary status in the deaf community. The baseball stadium at Gallaudet University's school for the deaf and blind in Washington is named Hoy Field. But he's not discussed in the media the way some players of past eras--such as Gil Hodges--are each time the Hall's Veterans Committee prepares to vote.
Even Hoy's own family doesn't seem to be focused on the oversight that Bishop and other supporters consider an injustice.
In a telephone interview from Los Angeles, grandson Bruce Hoy said he has "no idea" why his grandfather--who died of a stroke in 1961--hasn't made it into the Hall of Fame, and said he hasn't given it much thought.
Bishop, who can't stop thinking about it, said that to some family members, Dummy Hoy is a distant memory--a long-dead ancestor. But to deaf people, he remains a living, vibrant symbol of hope. And to a small cadre of hearing baseball fans like Bishop, he is a cause.
Jim Gates, library director at the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, said Hoy remains eligible for induction.
"He was on the last list I saw that was being put together by an outside committee for consideration by the Veterans Committee," Gates said this week. "I'm not sure if it's been whittled down."
Hoy's lifetime batting average of .288 seems a bit anemic by today's offensive-minded standards, but was played in what is called "the dead ball era," Gates said.
And his offensive numbers compare favorably to those of some other players of his era in the Hall of Fame, Bishop said. His 597 stolen bases are 17th all-time.
"The ball they used in those days didn't travel as far as today's," Gates explained. "You saw fewer homers" and lower batting averages.
The changes in the offense, Gates said, are "a reflection of the fact that baseball is a game that has evolved and continues to evolve."
Many believe Hoy's situation led directly to umpires raising their right hands for "strike" and "out" calls, although that's not verified.
Steven R. Sandy, a deaf Ohio man who's a longtime Hoy fan and researcher, is firmly convinced that Hoy not only is responsible for today's umpires' signals, but saw them put into use when he was active.
"That's always been in dispute," grandson Bruce Hoy said of the umpiring signs link.
When Dummy Hoy played, there was only one umpire, Bishop explained.
"I think he used the signs relayed to him from coaches during his career, and the umpires adopted those same signs when a second umpire was added in the early 1900s," Bishop said.
The use of his signs later by umpires is not disputed; the use of his signs by umpires during his career is the point in question.
"I have seen photos of coaches, players using sign language with Hoy but have not seen any definitive proof of umpires using them," Bishop said.
In any event, the dispute underlines how tough things must have been for Hoy.
Sandy tells a story of tough-mindedness.
He said Hoy was insulted when the Milwaukee Braves offered him only $55 a month, so he went to play for a team in Oshkosh instead at $65 a month.
When Milwaukee offered to match that, Hoy refused.
So the Braves offered $75.
Then $85.
Sandy said Hoy jotted a note on a piece of paper, wadded it up and slung it across a table at the Braves' manager.
"I wouldn't play for your team for a million dollars."
Hoy went from Oshkosh to the Washington Senators, then played with a series of other teams--his longest tenure was with the Cincinnati Reds from 1894 to 1898. He settled in Cincinnati, where he became a wealthy man.
His never-say-die outlook on the field and off and his flat-out refusal to see himself as a victim made him many friends in baseball.
Sandy said Hoy was so admired by his teammates that the Reds all learned sign language. He said there were times when players would be having dinner and would communicate exclusively by sign language to avoid being interrupted by autograph-seeking fans.
Bishop said Hoy was one of the great defensive players of his era--a speedster and the possessor of an astounding throwing arm, Bishop said.
Playing center field for Washington in 1889, he threw out three base runners at home plate in one game--and is one of only three players to accomplish that feat.
Hoy was voted the most inspirational player of the 1890s. His spirit was so indomitable that at age 90, he drove from rest home to rest home in Ohio, grabbing the hands of the other elderly people, one after another, and pulling them up to dance.
Despite that kind of heart, and his great skills on the field, it's going to take a special sort of effort to move the consciousness needle and get Hoy into the Hall of Fame.
Bishop hopes Risotto's documentary influences the Hall of Fame's Veterans Committee to finally induct Hoy. He said that act would have great meaning to many Americans.
"Among the deaf community, Hoy is still a hero," Bishop said. "I have yet to meet a deaf person who is not aware of Dummy Hoy--even if he or she is not a baseball fan."