I found this little gem of an appraisal of Walter Johnson's pitching in The Joe Williams Baseball Reader, a collection of articles by a great sportswriter of the early 20th century, edited by Joe's son Peter Williams, and published in 1989.

The second piece is from the same source and is incorrectly dated, since Walter junior and Eddie were born in 1915 and 1917, respectively. Perhaps the correct year should be 1936, as Walter Johnson's managing career ended during the 1935 season at Cleveland. According to Walter's biography, he purchased the Germantown farm in 1935 and Eddie graduated from University of Maryland in 1939.

Pitching on Strength

May 29, 1913. Every time the old bug bunch goes into executive session the conversation invariably turns to the spicy subject of slabbing. "The question before the committee," remarks the rabid chairman, "concerns the relative merits of Mathewson, Johnson, Plank and Waddell." Right away the bugs go at it. Each has his own pitcher. If it be a gathering of oldsters, it's a pretty safe bet that Old Hoss Radbourn, Tim O'Keefe and Amos Rusie will come in for quite a few of the fancy sentences. But there is one notable who has been through the old school and is today still an important figure in the game, who figures that Walter Johnson is the king of them all, barring none. He is Clark Griffith. What he says is worth repeating:

"Believe me," said the Washington leader, "I've seen them all come and go, but Johnson is the greatest of the lot. I don't say this merely because he happens to be a member of my club, I mean that from the bottom of my heart. Radbourn, Rusie, Matty, all of them were wonders, but none was as good as Johnson. Walter has everything. You hear a lot of talk about his speed, as if that were the only thing he possessed. This is a mistake. He has a splendid curveball, change-of-pace and I wouldn't be surprised a mite if someday he cultivated a spitter.

"And again, he uses his head constantly. There are none of them a bit wiser than Johnson, and none of them who takes better care of himself. He hasn't a single habit that would impair his ability or hurt his usefulness. He is big and strong and I'm certain that he will be pitching just as good 15 years from now.

"Is he better than Matty? I say yes. Matty's pitching is not and never has been pitching on strength. He constantly studies the batters to know their weakness and to learn their groove. Once he has a batter measured then the batter is up against it. But for pitching, as pitching is regarded in baseball, Walter Johnson is the superior."

He Was Unbelievably Gawky

December 16, 1926. I went down to Washington the other day for no good reason and decided to motor out to Germantown, Md., to see Walter Johnson. He's got a fine 500-acre farm there.

Walter was out in the meadows looking after his cattle. Word was sent to him that visitors had called. Through the heavy afternoon haze I could see him making his way toward the house. He must have been about half a mile away, but if you ever saw him walk to the box you could never forget that gangling, awkward stride.

For a man who threw the ball with such an easy, rhythmic motion, he was unbelievably gawky. He had a slovenly walk, he was slew-footed and his arms dangled at his side like two cuts of flabby fire hose. But when he swung into action he was a blur of physical poetry.

Walter hasn't changed much except for his costume. He wore heavy, mud-caked boots, blue denim overalls that had been patched more than once, a leather windbreaker and a battered felt hat. . . . "Never expected to see you on a farm," he greeted. "You can't get any stories around here, but if you are interested in a nice 200-pound sow--"

We got to chinning about baseball. Walter thought he was through with the game for all time. "I guess this is where I belong," he said, pointing toward the rolling fields. He saw only three games all last season. . . . "I didn't feel as if I could spare the time from the farm. There's a lot of work to be done around here all the time. You get up at five o'clock in the morning and when sundown comes you are pretty tired."

What became of his boy, Walter Jr.? Baseball's most celebrated farmer picked up a pebble and flung it at two turkeys that were fighting in front of the barn. . . . "Walter's a funny kid. I can't get him to live out here with us. Thinks I'm crazy, and says it's like living in a graveyard. But Walter never saw a farm until I bought this place, and farm life is funny. You've got to be bred to it; either that or you got to have a natural liking for the outdoors. Now Eddie, there--"

Johnson pointed to a tall, sandy-haired youngster who was fiddling around with some barbed wire that was soon to be fashioned into a fence for the chicken enclosure. . . . "Eddie there, he likes the farm. Comes down from college every chance he gets and stays right here. I think he's going to be a real good baseball player, too. He's an infielder, plays with the University of Maryland, hits well and can throw. I guess I'll let him take a fling at the game when he finishes school."