You've never heard of Cannon Cooper.
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​Even though no player in the early twentieth century was more skilled; and even if your grandpa shared with you, chapter and verse, the oral history of the game; and even if you possess a well-thumbed copy of the Historical Baseball Abstract; and even if you own all nine innings of Ken Burns’s masterpiece, you’ve never heard of Cannon Cooper.
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​Neither rapidly diminished skills, nor an untimely death, nor a capital crime precipitated his anonymity. Rather, it was a result of outsized talent colliding with unmitigated power.
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​Cannon Cooper was equal parts pioneer, rebel, and urban legend who arrived in a flash of brilliance and disappeared without warning or ceremony. A superstar to be, who, according to the history books, never was.
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​But he was.
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Let’s begin with what we know; Cannon Cooper was born. With few biblical or mythological exceptions, we know that all men are born. Thus despite a catalog of never-in-a-lifetime feats, including a broomstick double, an infield triple, and a home run hit so flat and ferociously that it broke the front and rear windows of the same car, it would be out of the question to suggest that he was conjured, spawned, or otherwise materialized out of thin air.
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So yes, just like any man, we know that Cooper was born. There’s just no record of the event.
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In fact, until now, virtually nothing was known about his early life. All that folks generally agreed upon was that the name of his Midwestern hometown started with a K; an easy deduction supported by the embroidery on his hat in some grainy photos. Was it Kalamazoo? Or was it Kenosha? How about Kewanee?
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While the details of Cooper’s beginnings are fuzzy, the few remaining accounts of his play are crisp and clear; a resume filled with ‘first-evers’ and ‘never-agains.’ His impact on the game was like a giant meteor strike: deep and profound. And to follow the metaphor, after he made his mark, he simply disappeared.
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Baseball fans care a lot about historical and contemporary hierarchy. Thus during his career, fans made the obvious comparisons to peers like Hornsby and Wagner. However, because he played so briefly, they never evolved into legitimate “my guy is better than your guy” debates. Without enough history to make a pro-Cooper argument stick, he’ll remain forever unranked amongst the all-time greats.
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Interestingly, the most lasting and accurate appraisals of Cooper were not related to other players at all. One created the standard for how baseball players are evaluated, and the other referenced a famous inventor. And not coincidentally, Dutch McOwen was responsible for both.
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Owen “Dutch” McOwen was one of baseball’s foremost historians. A pioneering scout from Harrisburg, his nickname defied his deep Scottish roots and indicated nothing about his legendary eye for talent. To wit, ten of the first twenty Hall of Famers are known as Dutch’s Boys.
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Of course he wasn’t a historian in the traditional sense – you would’ve never found him within 1,000 yards of a library – rather, he was a historian in the practical sense. Through the first half of the twentieth century, he saw more baseball, remembered more baseball, and documented more baseball than anyone else.
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McOwen had traveled to every state, including a few before they became a State, in search of raw baseball talent and good character in equal measure. He knew that raw talent can be harnessed and refined into something great, but bad character could only be whitewashed like an old fence. Sooner or later, mold and rot would reappear and the result was never good and never worth it.
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One summer, on yet another cross-country train ride (final destination, Bakersfield) to separate baseball’s wheat from its chaff, he made a scheduled stop in Lincoln, Nebraska. Through a well-cultivated network, he learned about a kid built like a tractor but faster than a jackrabbit; routinely going from first to third on sacrifice bunts. In Lincoln, Dutch would see firsthand if reputation equaled reality.
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His typical scouting routine started with getting to the field early. Baseball is a game of failure, and after decades of scouting, he knew that a single game might not reflect a player’s true potential. In fact, the odds were impossibly low that a prospect would play the game of his life on the exact day the fabled scout showed up. And because of that, he liked to see his mark before, during, and after a game.
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At the field McOwen involuntarily filtered distractions, like Nebraska’s mid-August swelter, or the guy inhaling popcorn like it was his last meal on earth, or the young ladies pining for the uniformed boys’ attention, or the younger brothers running around and through and under the bleachers playing tag. Naturally, he was looking for visible traits, like power and speed. But after evaluating many of the all-time greats, as well as countless thousands who never made it past his one-day visits, he had devised a homing system for talent that went beyond the obvious.
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When he was away from the field – the scout was always scouting – McOwen focused on hands. Out of all the stick and ball sports, baseball is the most democratic in terms of ignoring, rather than rewarding, a player’s physical gifts. Its Hall of Fame is filled with the fast and the slow, the short and the tall, the narrow and the broad. Equal opportunity on the diamond though, ends at the wrist.
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The start or end of anything important on the field can be traced to hands. Elite-level catching, throwing, and hitting requires exceptional feel for wood and leather, with microscopic adjustments made in milliseconds. Bad hands? Find another sport.
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The old scout built his reputation on finds like Gabby Hartnett, whom he saw tossing twenty-pound cod in a Providence fish market. And Mel Ott, whom he watched dig one hundred perfect post holes on his father’s Louisiana farm. And in the span of sixty minutes he witnessed Tris Speaker butcher a hog and then deliver a calf; and do both with precision and tenderness. He signed each one without bearing witness to a meaningful catch or throw. To McOwen, hands were everything.
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At the field, he of course went beyond the hands, since he already knew the prospect had baseball talent. Instead he focused on how a player moved without a bat or glove. Or how he conducted himself during warm-ups. And he watched how a player interacted with coaches and teammates.
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The intangible was just as important as the tangible, since every member of McOwen’s prospect list was typically the best player on the field. For years and years, coaches, fans, teachers, girlfriends, scouts, opponents, buddies, teammates, priests, newspaper writers, and complete strangers have told the star player that he’s number one. How can a player hear those words over and over again yet not be affected? The short answer: he can’t. And this was especially true for a seventeen year-old. Dutch’s curiosity was seeing what a player did with that burden.
Getting to the field early, watching warm-ups, spying the dugout, and paying attention to what was happening when nothing was happening was how Dutch got his answers.
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Weeks before the first pitch, Cooper learned the scout was traveling eleven hundred miles to see him play. True to theory, Cooper had an uneven game. He hit a hard double off the wall, but also struck out twice, including getting fooled badly on a slow curve. In centerfield he made a few tough catches look routine because of his speed, and he threw out a runner tagging up from third; a play that was anything but ordinary.
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Ultimately, Cooper’s team lost 3-1.
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Dozens of years after that game in Lincoln, the Sporting News visited the old scout in the main lounge of the Pittsburgh Athletic Association. Amongst the creaking leather chairs, the worn carpeting, and the lingering aroma of the previous day’s cigars, the topic of Cooper was raised. Dutch’s eyes lit up as if Doris Day just entered the room. He couldn’t wait to tell a story.
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He took a sip of coffee and cleared his throat. “I made a trip to see Cooper at a regional All-Star game, just outside of Lincoln. It was hot as Hades that day. Must’ve been a hundred degrees. First pitch was scheduled for two p.m., so I got there around ten figuring I’d be first to the field and could begin my observations as the players arrived.
I surprised to see Cooper already there. Oddly, he was on the field in full uniform minus his socks and spikes. Starting at one foul line, he would slowly pace toward centerfield; it looked like he was grabbing the ground with his toes. When he found his spot in center, he’d sprint at full speed to the other foul line.”
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What McOwen couldn’t have known was that Cooper wasn’t warming up. He was retracing steps; remembering the most important day in his short life.
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“I’d never seen a ritual like that. By the way, his size was shocking. It looked like Hank Greenberg went back to high school on a prank.
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He performed this barefoot striding and sprinting regimen for about twenty minutes. He was fast. Not fast for his size. Just plain fast. Jesse Owens fast. The only thing more surprising than his speed was the fact that he didn’t appear winded during his routine.
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Anyway, his teammates began to arrive, and one by one they were drawn to him like a Hollywood star. And you have to remember; these young men were the best players in the state. It was obvious it was ‘his’ team, but it looked like he had no desire to stand out, only to fit in; a definite plus in my book.
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The game itself was nothing special except for Cooper throwing out a player who was tagging up. As you know, players get thrown out all the time; that's ordinary. How he did it was the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen on or off a baseball field.”
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McOwen sat up straight for the first time in years. Then he leaned in, getting close to the now eager reporter. “Here’s what happened…
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Tie game. Seventh inning. Man on third. Cooper was shaded toward right field and a liner gets smacked to left center. It's obvious that the left fielder, some kid named Mason, can make the catch, but to do so, he’ll have to dive for the ball. The same goes for Cooper. Even with his blazing speed, he’s too far away to field it cleanly. And for either player, diving means there’s no chance to throw out the guy who's tagging up. He'd walk right in.
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Like everyone at the game, I expected Cooper to catch the ball, but he didn’t. Instead, he ran to a spot a few feet behind and to the right of where the ball was ultimately caught. Meanwhile, Mason had gone straight for it and made a diving grab. I was confused by Cooper’s decision to back off, since he was the superior fielder.
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When he found his spot, Cooper positioned himself with his hands out like a second baseman ready to turn two, which furthered my confusion. I don’t know how good Mason was – I never saw him after that game – but in the split-second he saw Cooper in that peculiar position, it turned out he was not confused in the least.
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The runner broke for home the moment the ball struck Mason’s glove. And as the ground slowed his dive, Mason transferred the ball to his free hand and flipped it toward his teammate. In a single motion I can only describe as smoothly violent, Cooper snagged the ball with his bare hand as his body was already uncoiling toward home.”
McOwen sighed. He looked skyward for a few moments as he savored the impossible kinetics, and then chuckled, “He launched a missile. The runner was out by three steps.
That play was pure Cannon Cooper. He saw a play nobody else could see. And he made a throw nobody else could make. It was simply unbelievable.
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After the game, I met Cooper and asked him about the play. He quickly changed the topic and instead spoke about the tough loss, how he wished he wouldn’t have struck out twice, and how well both pitchers threw that day. He was as humble as a batboy.”
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Later that night, upon his return to the historic Cornhusker Hotel, McOwen laid out the details of the day in his journal. His entry included the following: Cooper has all the tools. He’s a team player who hits for power and average. Fastest player I've ever seen. Glove and arm are outstanding.
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His telegram to the front office was more succinct: CANNON COOPER. FIVE-TOOL PLAYER. SIGN HIM.
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McOwen’s wire in 1931 was the first recorded use of the term ‘five-tool player.’ Of course today it’s the standard by which the best players are judged.
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Before concluding their interview, the Sporting News asked the scout the eternal question about Cooper. How did he compare to the all-time greats?
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“Well, it’s impossible to look at his numbers and claim he was better than say, Willie Mays. His potential was unlimited, but his career was just too short.” McOwen continued, “Make no mistake though, he's one of the most important figures in baseball history. The person I think he’s most similar to is a guy who did his best work just outside of Manhattan.”
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“Mickey Mantle?” clarified the reporter.
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“No. Thomas Edison.”
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