You know, inspiration strikes in the strangest ways. One night in between streaming reruns of Archer episodes and cramming corn dogs in my my (“Phrasing!”), I came across a discussion of how quirky old timey names were. Specifically, the roster of the 1895 Cleveland Spiders baseball team. Rather specific, isn’t it.
For anyone that grew up with Key and Peele having fun with fictional names in sports, you can appreciate funky names. But, there is something deeply satisfying about old baseball names. I came across this TikTok post by writer Jason Pargin who found some social media poking fun at old baseball names.
Modern sports branding now has consultants, licensing teams, focus groups, and probably one guy named Bryce who keeps saying “engagement metrics.” You know he wears a Patagonia vest year round. But 1890s baseball had none of that. It had dirt, wool uniforms, suspicious facial hair, and men named Peek-A-Boo.
The Cleveland Spiders were real. The names were real. The dignity is negotiable. After all, this is Cleveland we’re talking about in the 1800’s. 74 years before their river caught on fire. Yeah, that happened for real. Water caught fire. Only in Cleveland.
In 1895, there was a rag-tag group of men who gave census takes a run for their money. There are baseball teams, and then there are baseball teams whose rosters sound like they were assembled during a fever dream in a Victorian barbershop.
Welcome to the 1895 Cleveland Spiders baseball team.
This project started with one simple idea: what if these old-time players got the kind of cardboard immortality they deserved? Not the stiff, sepia-toned kind where everyone looks like they just lost a land dispute. I mean loud, weird, slightly unhinged trading cards that lean into the madness.
Ice Box Chamberlain sounds like a pitcher who could freeze a fastball and your mortgage.
Harry Colliflower sounds like he should be sold by the pound at a farmer’s market.
Pretzels Getzien was German-born, a pitcher, and clearly named by a committee of hungry vaudeville writers.
Then there’s Peek-A-Boo Veach, a name so perfect it practically demands a tiny man hiding behind first base while muttering, “Now you see me, now you don’t.”
And Cy Young?! How did he end up with these misfits?
These cards are fake, but the players are not. That’s the best part. Baseball history did the hard work. I’m just putting a cartoon mustache on it and pretending it’s journalism.
Pull up a chair.
The hot dogs are questionable.
The names are perfect.