Strong men are rare. Once in ten years, or twenty perhaps, one rises up, tempered and knowing, warden of an imperious secret. He lasts a little longer or goes a little harder than another before his strength, too, crumbles, and Death takes him. Last week it took Christy Mathewson.
In Manchester, N. H., lives an elderly policeman named John Smith. He was manager of the Norfolk Club in a Virginia minor league when Mathewson, a big boy, knock-kneed and ungainly, was starting with a team from Taunton. John Smith saw him pitch a game in...
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