New York Times, September 12, 1918:
“When Max Flack made a ludicrous muff of Whiteman’s line drive in the third inning at Fenway Park this afternoon two runs wafted over the plate, which gave the Red Sox the baseball championship of the world. The score was 2 to 1 and the 1918 triumph marks the the fifth world’s series that the Red Sox have brought to the high brow domicile of the baked bean. Boston is the luckiest baseball spot on earth, for it has never lost a world’s series….

Baseball’s valedictory this afternoon should have been played to the strains of Chopin’s Funeral MArch. The smallest gathering that ever saw the national game’s most imposing event sat silently about, and watch Boston win and Chicago lose. There was no wild demonstration of joy when the last man went out, and Stuffy McInnis, with the ball in his hand, led the scramle of the players to the clubhouse. No hero was proclaimed, no player got a ride on anyone’s shoulders, no star was patted on the back or madly cheered to a niche in baseball’s temple of fame. The finish was as uneventful as the last moment of a double-header in Brooklyn.

The gleaming sun did not shine this afternoon on the professional ball player who thrives and glories in the effervescent acclaim of popular approval. He was hidden behind murky clouds of indifference. Silent was the trumpet voice of the ribald fan, and still were the thundering echoes, which the ball tosser has always held as his own. After the game, the crowd filed out of the gates with about as much enthusiasm as a party of home folks trooping out of a poor moving picture show.”