Arnold Rothstein: The Most Influential Gangster You Have Never Heard Of

 

 

It is just past 10:00 on the night of November 4th, 1928, and a man in an immaculate dark suit is walking down the carpeted corridor of the Park Central Hotel in Midtown Manhattan. His name is Arnold Rothstein. He is 46 years old. He is the most powerful man in the American underworld that almost no one outside of it has ever heard of.

 And in approximately 48 hours, he will be dead in a hospital bed across town, refusing to tell the police who shot him. The corridor is quiet. The carpet swallows his footsteps. Somewhere behind him in a suite upstairs lie the remnants of a poker game that has been running for the better part of two days.

 Scattered cards, cigar ash, half empty glasses of bootleg whiskey that nobody is supposed to be drinking. He has just lost, depending on which account you believe, somewhere around $320,000 in 1928 money. Adjusted for inflation, that is more than $5.5 million. He has refused to pay. In the next 30 seconds, somebody is going to step out of a doorway or a stairwell or an elevator al cove.

 Historians still argue which and put a single bullet into his abdomen. And here is what should stop you cold. The man about to be shot is not some street thug with a pistol in his belt. He is the man who 9 years earlier allegedly bought and paid for the fixing of the World Series. The man who turned prohibition from a moral crusade into the most profitable criminal industry in American history.

 The teacher of Lucky Luciano. The financier of My Lansky. The person F. Scott Fitzgerald would put into The Great Gatsby and call Maya Wolfshime. So, who pulled the trigger? Was it the gambler whose game he refused to pay? Was it a rival who saw a chance to swallow his empire? Or was it something else entirely, a debt older and deeper than one bad night of cards? By the end of this video, you will understand exactly who Arnold Rothstein was and why his death changed organized crime forever.

 If you’re fascinated by the untold stories behind the men who built America’s underworld, the ones the history books almost forgot, hit that like button and subscribe right now. We post deep dive documentaries every week. Now, let me take you back to a Manhattan parlor in the year 1882. The boy was born on January 17th, 1882 on the Lower East Side of Manhattan into a household that prayed every morning and counted its money every night.

 Not the cliche of immigrant poverty. The Rothstein were comfortable, even prosperous. His father, Abraham, was a textile merchant who had built a reputation so spotless that the Jewish community of New York gave him a nickname that followed him for the rest of his life. They called him Abe the Just, a man whose word was a contract, a man you trusted with money before you trusted him with anything else.

 His second son, Arnold, would grow up to become the most famous corruptor of contracts in American history. That is not a coincidence. That is the engine of this entire story. Arnold was the child who could not sit still in synagogue, who stared at the windows during Hebrew lessons, who by the age of 14 had figured out that the back rooms of pool halls held something his father’s account books never could, the thrill of risk married to the certainty of mathematics.

 He was not a delinquent in the ordinary sense. He did not steal. He did not brawl. He simply understood before almost anyone else of his generation that gambling was not a vice. It was a business that other people had not yet learned to run properly. By his early 20s, he was already known in lower Manhattan as a card player so disciplined he seemed almost inhuman.

 A young man who did not drink, rarely smiled, dressed in suits more expensive than his earnings should have allowed, and who treated a poker table the way a Wall Street broker treats a stock ticker. Now, the country he was operating in was about to hand him the opportunity of a lifetime. Across America, a generation of reformers was building toward what they believed would be the moral cleansing of the United States, prohibition, the outlawing of alcohol.

 They believed they were saving the soul of the nation. And in a card room somewhere off Broadway, a quiet young man in a tailored suit was already doing the arithmetic. He understood something the reformers did not. Outlawing a thing that 30 million Americans wanted did not eliminate the market. It handed the market to whoever was bold enough and organized enough to step in and supply it.

 He was going to be that man. By 1910, Arnold Rothstein was no longer just a card player. He was an institution. He had lone sharking running out of three different fronts. He had bookmakers reporting to him across Manhattan. He had real estate holdings, a part interest in a horse racing operation up at Saratoga Springs, and most importantly, relationships.

 Tam Hall politicians took his calls. Police captains accepted his envelopes. judges remembered his favors. He had in less than 10 years built the thing that no American criminal had ever quite built before. A vertically integrated business that crossed every boundary the old gangs had observed.

 The old gangs were ethnic. Irish ran with Irish. Italians ran with Italians. Jews ran with Jews. They fought each other in the streets like medieval citystates. And they died young. Rothstein looked at this arrangement and saw waste. Stupid, sentimental, expensive waste. He began doing something nobody else in New York was doing. He began funding all of them.

Italians, Jews, Irish, it did not matter. If the math worked, the money flowed. He was not a boss in the territorial sense. He was something newer and much more dangerous. He was a bank. And around 1912, into this bank’s orbit walked two young men who would change American history. The first was a Sicilian immigrant named Salvatore Lucania.

 The world would come to know him by another name, Charles Lucky Luciano. He was 15 years old when he first started running errands in Rothstein circles. He was a street tough. He had already been arrested, but he was watching everything. He was watching how this older man who never carried a gun, never raised his voice, never personally hurt anybody, controlled rooms full of men who did all three.

 Luciano would later say in interviews that would only emerge decades after his own death that before he met Rothstein, he and his friends were just street guys shaking down push carts. Rothstein, he said, showed them how to make real money. The second was even younger, a small, quiet, almost frail-l lookinging boy named Mayor Suchanski.

 He was born in Grodnau in what was then the Russian Empire on July 4th, 192. He had arrived in New York as a child, learned English on the street, and was running numbers by the age of 14. He went by Mayer Lansky. He was 17 years old in 1919 and he would become in time the financial mind of the entire American mob. He worshiped Rothstein.

 He studied him the way a chess prodigy studies a grandm’s games. These were the men Rothstein was building. Not soldiers, not enforcers, successors. Now hold that picture in your mind because we are about to arrive at the single most important decision of Arnold Rothstein’s life. The decision that turned him from a successful New York gambler into a figure of national infamy. The year is 1919.

The summer is ending and word reaches Rothstein through the network of gamblers and intermediaries he has spent 20 years cultivating that a group of players on the Chicago White Socks are unhappy with their owner Charles Kamiski who has been paying them starvation wages. They are unhappy enough that they are willing to lose the World Series on purpose for the right price.

 Rothstein by every account that survives is approached more than once. He sits in his hotel suite smoking, listening, weighing. The men around him, the intermediaries like Aatel, the smaller gamblers, they see a once-ina-lifetime score. Rothstein sees something else. He sees the most sacred sporting event in America being offered up for purchase.

He sees the consequences if it goes wrong. He sees a federal investigation, congressional hearings, his name in newspapers from Boston to San Francisco, and then he makes a choice. Whether he ever literally said yes, historians have argued for a century whether the money that backed the fix came directly from his hand or through three intermediaries or four, or whether he simply chose not to stop something he could have stopped.

The emotional truth is what matters. He chose proximity to the fire. He chose to be the man whose name would be whispered. He understood perhaps better than anyone of his era that in the underworld reputation was capital. And after October of 1919, his reputation would be the largest capital reserve any American criminal had ever possessed.

 He chose, in other words, to become a legend. The cost of that choice would not come due for another 9 years. The 1919 World Series began on October 1st in Cincinnati. The Chicago White Socks were heavy favorites. They were one of the greatest teams ever assembled. They had Eddie Scott, a pitcher who had won 29 games that season.

 They had Shoulless Joe Jackson hitting over 300. They had won the penant by three and a half games. In the very first inning of the very first game, Sikkott’s second pitch hit the Cincinnati leadoff batter square in the back. It was the signal, the signal, according to the gamblers, that the fix was on.

 But here is what should stop you cold. Sitting in a hotel suite in New York, 1,400 miles from Cincinnati, Arnold Rothstein was reportedly placing bets on Cincinnati through a dozen different bookmakers in a dozen different cities in amounts small enough that no single wager would draw attention, but large enough that the aggregate, when the series ended, would make him one of the wealthiest gamblers in America.

 He never went to a single game. He did not need to. The game was being played for him. Chicago lost. They lost in a manner so visibly bad that sports writers in the press box began whispering to each other by game two. By game five, the rumors were public. The money that bought the players did not arrive in a single envelope from Arnold Rothstein.

 That is not how he worked. The money moved through layers. It passed through a former featherweight boxing champion named Abe Atel who told the players he was working on Rothstein’s behalf. It passed through other gamblers, Sport Sullivan in Boston, Bill Burns in the West. Some of the promised cash never reached the players at all.

 This was Rothstein’s signature method, distance, layers, plausible denability. The men who actually handed the bills to Eddie Cott’s fingers had no contract with Arnold Rothstein. They had a relationship. They had an understanding. They had above all his money which they could not prove came from him. Imagine for a moment what this required.

 a criminal enterprise corrupting the most sacred event in American sport. Conducted entirely without a single piece of paper, without a single phone call that could be traced, without a single direct conversation between the financia and the players. This was not gangster work. This was espionage. And Arnold Rothstein, who had never been to spy school, had invented its techniques on his own in a hotel suite in Midtown Manhattan with a deck of cards and a cigar.

 By 1920, the rumors had become a federal grand jury. Players testified, confessions emerged. Eight Chicago White Socks players were indicted, and although they would all eventually be acquitted in a criminal court, every one of them would be banned from baseball for life. The phrase black socks would enter the American language.

 The careers of shoeless Joe Jackson, Eddie Scott, and the others over. Rothstein was called to testify. He arrived calm, composed, wearing one of his bespoke suits. He denied everything. He smiled at the questioners. He produced no records because there were no records to produce. Years later, recalling the whole affair to an associate, Rothstein would give one of the most famous lines in the history of American crime, he would shrug, exhale cigar smoke, and say, “I’ve merely had the reputation of having fixed the series, not the goods.”

That is a man telling you in 15 words exactly how the modern criminal organization is supposed to work. You build the reputation. You harvest the profits. You leave the goods, the evidence, the paperwork, the bodies for somebody else. He walked out of the grand jury a free man. He walked out, in fact, with something more valuable than freedom. He walked out with a brand.

From that month forward, every gambler, every politician, every cop in America knew the name Arnold Rothstein, and they knew what he was capable of. 3 months after the series ended on January 17th, 1920, which happened to be Arnold Rothstein’s 38th birthday, the Volstead Act took effect.

 Prohibition was the law of the land. Alcohol was illegal across the United States. The reformers celebrated. The newspapers ran editorials about the dawn of a sober America. And Rothstein, in his hotel suite, made phone calls. The men who wrote the Vololstead Act believed they were ending a moral plague. What they had actually done was hand Arnold Rothstein and men like him the single greatest business opportunity in the history of American crime.

 30 million Americans still wanted to drink. Somebody was going to sell it to them. The only question was who would be smart enough, well financed enough, and well-connected enough to organize the supply chain at scale. Rothstein had spent 20 years preparing for that exact question. Within months, his money was financing shipments coming down from Canada.

 His money was buying off customs inspectors in upstate New York. His money was paying the legal fees of bootleggers in Philadelphia, in Boston, in cities he had never visited. He did not run a single liquor truck himself. He did not own a single warehouse under his own name. But the rivers of bootleg whiskey that flowed into America’s speak easyes in the early 20s, they flowed in significant part on his credit.

 He was about to become richer than he had ever imagined. And although he could not see it yet, he was about to become a target. By 1922, the New York newspapers had a new nickname for him. They called him the brain. It was sarcastic and it was admiring at the same time, which is exactly how America has always talked about its most successful criminals.

 The brain, Arnold, the brain, the man who, the columnist said, could look at any illegal transaction in the city of New York and tell you exactly what its profit margin was. He did not live like a gangster. He lived like a banker. He took meetings in hotel suites, the Park Central, the Aster, the Fairfield, surrounded by ledgers and telephones.

 He kept regular hours. He did not drink. He ate dinner at Lindy’s Delicatessan on Broadway most nights at the same table where supplicants would come to him to ask for loans, for arbitration, for introductions. He charged interest at rates that would have made Wall Street blush. He gave advice freely to the young men who orbited him, and one piece of advice survived him longer than almost any other.

 He would lean back in his chair at Lindes, look at some eager young hustler across the table, and say slowly, “You can’t cheat an honest man.” It was, in his mind, a complete philosophy of business. The mark, the victim, the sucker, they were complicit in their own undoing. Their greed was the lever. He was merely the man who pulled it.

 There is in that single sentence the entire moral architecture of 20th century American organized crime. He arbitrated disputes between gangs when the Italians and the Irish were about to shoot each other over a hijacked load of whiskey. They came to Rothstein. He would listen. He would calculate. He would propose a split. They would accept it because the alternative was war.

 and war was bad for business. He had almost single-handedly introduced the concept of the negotiated settlement into a world that had previously known only the gun. Lucky Luciano was 25 years old in 1922, and he was watching everything. He watched how Rothstein dressed, the silk ties, the cashmere overcoats, the manicured nails.

 He watched how Rothstein spoke quietly with no profanity in complete sentences. He watched how Rothstein refused to carry a gun, refused to be photographed, refused to make a single public statement that could be used against him. And Luciano began slowly to remake himself in this image. Years later, when he sat down with collaborators to tell his life story, he would say plainly that everything he became, he became because he had watched Arnold Rothstein.

 Maya Lansky was 20. He was even closer. Lansky and Rothstein would walk together along Broadway in the evenings, talking about money, not about gambling, not about liquor, but about money as a thing in itself, about how to move it, how to hide it, how to wash it clean. Lansky would later be credited with inventing modern money laundering.

 He did not invent it. Arnold Rothstein invented it. Maya Lansky merely refined it over the next 50 years. In an interview given decades later, summarized in the files of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Lansky would describe what he had learned in those years from the older man with one sentence that captures the entire transition from old crime to new.

From him, he said, we learned that there was more money in picking up the pennies than in the guns. Pennies, the casual gambler’s nickel, the bootleggger’s case of whiskey, the bookmakaker’s $2 bet. Multiply by a city, multiply by a country, multiply by 10 years. That was the empire Rothstein was teaching them to build. There were others.

 Jack Legs Diamond, an Irish American gunman, ran as one of Rothstein’s bodyguards and bagmen for years before going off to start his own operation. There was Frank Costello, Bugsy Seagull, Dutch Schultz on the edges. The young men who would become household names in the 1930s were all in the early 1920s learning at the feet of one man.

 But then, and this is where the story turns, the empire began to wobble. Here is what almost nobody tells you about Arnold Rothstein. The brain, the man whose calm precision had built an empire, was by 1926 losing his nerve, not visibly, not publicly, but the numbers were turning against him. He had begun making bets on stocks that did not behave like horses.

He had begun extending credit to bootleggers whose shipments were being seized by federal agents at higher and higher rates. He was in a way that even he could not quite admit to himself losing the stock market in the mid 1920s was a casino. And Rothstein, the master of casinos, did not understand it. He thought he did.

 He poured money into speculative ventures. He lost. He poured in more. He lost more. He moved into narcotics, heroin morphine, financing import operations that ran from Europe through New York. The profits were extraordinary. But the federal heat was extraordinary, too. The Bureau of Narcotics was a younger, hungrier organization than the police he had bought off for 20 years.

 They did not take envelopes. They wanted convictions. And his proteges, Luciano, Lansky, the others, were no longer apprentices. They were operators. They had their own crews, their own capital, their own opinions. They still came to him for arbitration. They still showed difference, but the difference was beginning to feel like the difference younger men show to retirees.

 By the autumn of 1928, the man who had once been able to walk into any card room in New York and command the table was reportedly carrying personal debts in the high six figures. Six figures in 1928, the equivalent of $15 million today. The brain owed money to gamblers, to bootleggers, to men who had once worshiped him.

 The world was about to ask him to settle accounts. It started in a suite at the Park Central Hotel on Saturday, September 8th, 1928. Or it might have been the suite of a different hotel. Accounts vary on the location of the first session, though all agree the trouble migrated eventually to the Park Central on West 56th Street.

 The game was organized by George Hump McManus, a professional gambler with no particular underworld muscle behind him, a man who organized highstakes poker for a living and was respected for it. The players included men whose names mattered in the New York gambling world, Nate Raymond, Titanic Thompson, Joe Bernstein, and Arnold Rothstein.

 The brain, the man who by reputation never lost. He lost. He lost the first night. He lost the second, he lost on the third. The pot grew, the losses accumulated. By the time the game finally broke up after running with breaks for almost two full days, Rothstein owed the table approximately $320,000. $320,000 in 1928.

 To put that number in your hands, that is more than $5.5 million in today’s money lost across a single weekend by a single man sitting at a single table. It is more than most Americans earned in a lifetime. It was approximately what Babe Ruth made over four full seasons of baseball, and Arnold Rothstein had bled it out pot by pot, hand by hand, while smoking quietly and saying almost nothing.

 But here is the part of the story that historians still cannot fully explain. He did not pay Arnold Rothstein, whose entire reputation, whose entire brand, whose entire 40 years of carefully constructed mystique rested on the principle that he honored his debts, refused to pay. He muttered something when pressed about the game being rigged, about the cards being marked.

 He left the room owing the table more than $300,000 and he simply went home. In the underworld of 1928, that was a fatal mistake. For almost 2 months, the debt sat unpaid. McManus, the host of the game, was being pressed by the winners. The winners wanted their money. McManus wanted his reputation. He had called Rothstein.

 He had sent messengers. He had, by some accounts, begged. On the evening of November I 4th, 1928, a Sunday, the telephone rang at Lindy’s Delicatessan on Broadway. Arnold Rothstein was at his usual table. He answered the call. He nodded. He set down his glass of milk. He was not a drinker even now, picked up his coat, and walked out into the cold New York night. He walked north.

 He walked to the Park Central Hotel at the corner of 7th Avenue and 55th Street. He entered through the main lobby. He took the elevator to a guest room on one of the upper floors, room 349, according to most accounts. He went inside. What happened in the next 20 minutes is one of the most disputed sequences in the history of American organized crime. There was an argument.

There was almost certainly a demand for payment. There may have been a final fatal insult. And then there was a gunshot. A single shot from a single handgun fired at close range into Arnold Rothstein’s abdomen. He did not die in the room. He staggered out. He made it to the service stairwell. He made it down at least one flight, leaving a trail of blood on the carpet.

 He was found by a hotel employee at the foot of the stairs, conscious, his hand pressed against his stomach. His suit, his beautiful tailored, perfectly pressed suit, soaked through with blood. He was 46 years old. He had built an empire that stretched from Saratoga to Florida, from Manhattan to Chicago, from boardrooms to back alleys.

 He had financed prohibition. He had taught Luciano. He had mentored Lansky. He had allegedly bought the World Series. And now he was dying on the floor of a hotel he did not own. Shot by a man whose name he could probably guess and refusing even now to say it out loud. They moved him fast.

 The hotel doctor was the first to reach him. Within 20 minutes, an ambulance was carrying him across the city to the Poly Clinic Hospital on West 50th Street, a hospital that catered conveniently to wealthy patients who did not want their conditions in the morning papers. The bullet had entered low on his right side and torn through his intestines.

 In 1928, with the surgical techniques and antibiotics then available, a wound of this nature was almost always a death sentence. The doctors operated. They did what they could. They closed him up and they waited. He was conscious. That was the remarkable thing. He was conscious for most of the next 36 hours. He spoke to his wife Carolyn.

 When she arrived, he spoke to his lawyer. He gave instructions about his affairs. He was even now organizing. The detectives came. They sat by his bed. They asked him gently at first and then with increasing urgency the only question that mattered. Arnold, who shot you? Picture this. A hospital room in Midtown Manhattan. The smell of antiseptic.

 The sound of city traffic eight stories below. A man in his 40s. Pale sweating. his abdomen wrapped in bandages that are slowly turning the color of rust. Beside the bed sit two New York Police Department detectives leaning forward, notebooks open, pencils ready. They have been on his trail in one way or another for 20 years.

 They have never been able to touch him. And now he is dying in front of them and they only need three words, a name, a description, anything. He looks at them. He smiles and witnesses agreed afterward that he did smile and he gives them his answer. “If I told you,” he said quietly in the bed at the Poly Clinic Hospital on the morning of November 5th, 1928, “You’d be out of a job.

” That was his answer to the detectives of the New York Police Department. That was, by every account that survives, the last substantive thing Arnold Rothstein ever said about the man who had killed him. He died the following day, November 6th, at approximately 10:30 in the morning. He was 46 years old. Think about what that line means. Think about it carefully.

 He is not saying he doesn’t know. He is not saying he is afraid to speak. He is saying with what must have been almost his last clarity of mind that the entire architecture of organized crime depends on men like him refusing even in death to cooperate with men like the detectives at his bedside. He is saying that if criminals start naming their killers, the police will stop having a job to do.

 He is saying in 15 words that the underworld is a system and the system requires silence. It was the most perfect summation of his philosophy he ever delivered. And he delivered it dying. But here is the irony that hangs over the rest of this story. The man who refused to name his killer, the man who took the secret to his grave to protect the code of the underworld was killed almost certainly by a man who did not deserve that protection.

 George Mcmanis was not a syndicate boss. He was not a mafia dawn. He was a poker host, a middling professional gambler whose only crime possibly was losing his temper over a debt that the most famous gambler in America refused to pay. Arnold Rothstein died protecting a small man. The code did not care about size. The code cared only about silence.

 The New York Police Department arrested George Hump McManus within days. They had witnesses who placed him in the room. They had the disputed debt as motive. They had his fingerprints. They had, by the standards of 1928 New York, a strong case. They had no case at all. The witnesses, the other men at the poker game, the hotel staff, developed remarkable memory problems.

 The fingerprints had been smudged by the time the room was processed. The murder weapon was never recovered. It had been thrown by someone out of the hotel window onto 7th Avenue, where a passing taxi driver had picked it up and turned it into a police precinct that promptly lost track of the chain of evidence.

 The trial took place in November 1929, almost exactly one year after the shooting. McManus’s defense attorneys did not have to do very much. The prosecution’s witnesses contradicted each other. The judge at the end of the proceedings directed the jury to acquit, citing insufficient evidence. McManus walked out of the courtroom a free man.

He returned to organizing poker games. He died peacefully of a heart attack in 1940. And so the question that opened this story has its answer or more accurately its three answers. Who killed Arnold Rothstein? The official answer is nobody. No conviction was ever obtained. The probable answer is George Mcmanus, in a fit of rage over the unpaid debt, pulled the trigger himself, or had it pulled by one of the men with him in room 349.

The deeper answer, the one whispered in underworld circles for decades after, is that Rothstein was already a dead man walking by the autumn of 1928, owed to too many people, useful to too few, and that even if McManis had not killed him that night, somebody else would have within the year. The brain had outlived his usefulness.

 The empire he had built no longer needed its founder. Within a week of Arnold Rothstein’s death, his proteges moved. Lucky Luciano took over significant parts of his bootlegging financing operation. My Lansky absorbed elements of his gambling and money laundering apparatus. Within 5 years, by the early 1930s, these two men, along with figures like Frank Costello and Bugsy Seagull, would oversee the formation of what historians now call the National Crime Syndicate, a multithnic federated business-style organization of American

crime. They did not invent it, they inherited it. Every principle that defined the syndicate, the rejection of street warfare, the embrace of negotiated settlements between gangs, the use of legitimate businesses as fronts, the systematic bribery of political officials, the layered concealment of profits through legal investments.

 Every single one of those principles came from Arnold Rothstein. Luciano and Lansky did not create the modern American mob. They scaled it. In 1925, 3 years before Rothstein died, F. Scott Fitzgerald had already immortalized him. In The Great Gatsby, the character of Maya Wolfshime, the small, sinister Jewish gambler with cufflinks made of human mers.

 The man who, Gatsby explains, fixed the World Series back in 1919 is unmistakably Arnold Rothstein. Fitzgerald had met him once briefly in a New York speak easy. The portrait is a caricature. It is grotesque. It is the version of Rothstein that American culture has for the most part remembered. And here is what almost everyone gets wrong about Arnold Rothstein.

 He was not a gangster in the sense that we have been trained by a century of movies and television to imagine a gangster. He never personally ordered a killing that can be documented. He never ran a territory in the street corner since. He never even owned in his own name the businesses that made him rich. He was a financier, a banker, a consultant, the first person in American history to look at organized crime and understand that the future belonged not to the men with the guns, but to the men with the spreadsheets.

The reason you have never heard of him, while you have heard of Capone and Luciano and Goty, is not because he was less powerful. It is because he was smarter. He built the system. They became its faces. Go back for a moment to where this story began. A man in a tailored dark suit walking down a hotel corridor at 10:00 on a November night in 1928.

 We see him now differently than we saw him then. We see the son of Abbe the Just, the boy from the Lower East Side who decided at 14 that gambling was just business that other people had not learned to run. We see the teacher of Luciano, the mentor of Lansky, the man whose final sentence on this earth was a 15-word defense of the silence that made his empire possible.

 If he told you, you would be out of a job. He never told. And the system he built outlived him by a hundred years. If this is the kind of history you want more of, hit subscribe. We have many more stories like this one waiting.