His Father was A Mudder : Baseball's Dirty Little Secret

By now, any baseball fan worth their peanuts knows that brand-new major league baseballs aren’t game-ready straight out of the box. They’re too white, too shiny, and too slick — not to mention dangerous for pitchers who need a firm grip and batters who don’t enjoy being beaned by 95 mph fastballs. So what’s the time-tested solution to this shiny problem?

Mud. But not just any mud. It’s Lena Blackburne Baseball Rubbing Mud, a mysterious muck scooped from “somewhere in the swamps of Jersey,” to borrow a line from Springsteen, that has quietly played a starring role in America’s pastime for nearly a century.

The story starts in 1938 with Lena Blackburne, a former infielder and coach with the Philadelphia Athletics. While Blackburne’s on-field résumé (550 big league games, mostly with the White Sox) was modest, his contribution to baseball history came not from a bat or glove, but from a bucket.

Back then, umpires used everything from tobacco juice to shoe polish to knock the gloss off new balls, but the results were far from perfect — or clean. The makeshift methods often damaged the leather and left unsightly marks. One day, an American League umpire groused to Blackburne about the sorry state of prepped baseballs. Blackburne took that challenge to heart, returning to his native Burlington County, New Jersey, in search of a better solution.

In a murky tributary of the Delaware River — reportedly around Pennsauken Creek — he found it: a silky, odorless, finely-grained mud that dulled the sheen without scratching or discoloring the ball. It was, as one umpire later described, “like chocolate pudding” — only stickier. Louis Litt from Suits would’ve called it heaven in a bucket — the kind of mud that demands a pinstripe suit, a therapist, and a follow-up spa day.

Blackburne secretly harvested, filtered, and added his own mystery ingredient to the riverbed sludge. The result? The perfect baseball-rubbing mud.

Blackburne’s homemade mud debuted quietly but effectively. The Athletics’ balls passed the umpire test, and soon every American League team was ordering cans of the stuff. He resisted selling it to the rival National League at first (because AL loyalty is a thing), but eventually, the entire big leagues — and many minor league and college teams — were hooked.

When he died in 1968, his New York Times obituary called out his late-career innovation: “originated the idea of rubbing mud on new baseballs to remove their slippery finish.”

But before Blackburne passed, he entrusted the secret of the mud — and the business itself — to his old friend John Haas, with strict instructions: keep it in the family and keep the source quiet. Haas honored that pact, passing it to his son-in-law, Burns Bintliff, who later gave it to his son Jim, the current “Mud Man of Major League Baseball.”

Every July, Jim Bintliff and a few trusted companions head out by boat to collect about 1,000 pounds of this sacred sludge. The exact location remains a fiercely guarded secret. “Where it comes from is covered at high tide and uncovered at low tide,” Bintliff has said cryptically. “Other than that, it’s none of your business.”

Once back home, the mud is cleaned, screened, stored in barrels, and left to mature over the winter — like a fine wine, only dirtier. It’s then packed and shipped in time for Opening Day to every MLB team, where clubhouse attendants rub it into six dozen or more baseballs before every game, as required by MLB Rule 4.01(c) under “Game Preliminaries – Umpire Duties” in the Official Major League Baseball Rules, reads, in part: “The umpire shall inspect the baseballs and ensure they are regulation baseballs and that they are properly rubbed so that the gloss is removed.”

At $45 for an 8-ounce jar — or $5.63 per ounce — Lena Blackburne’s Original Baseball Rubbing Mud is, ounce for ounce, one of the most surprisingly valuable substances in sports. To put that in perspective, USDA Prime ribeye steak runs about $2.50 to $3.50 per ounce at a high-end butcher. Artisan chocolate? Maybe $2 to $4 an ounce. A good tube of MAC lipstick goes for around $5 per ounce, and even luxury truffle salt tops out near that. Baseball’s favorite mud even closes in on the per-ounce cost of premium Manuka honey, which sells for $6 to $10 depending on how many health claims you’re willing to believe. The only common item that really outpaces it is wild-caught caviar — and no one’s rubbing that on baseballs. So yes, while it’s mud, it ain’t dirt cheap. This isn’t just any old muck — it’s game-day gold. Rubbed on every ball before it sees a pitch, it helps ensure the ball doesn’t slip from a pitcher’s hand… or from baseball history.

The mud’s composition has been analyzed by scientists and baseball purists alike. A 1982 study by The New York Times revealed that it’s more than 90% finely ground quartz — likely the result of ancient glaciers pulverizing New Jersey rock during the Pleistocene Epoch. This superfine abrasive texture is key: it removes the factory gloss from baseballs without damaging their leather surface or staining the cover.

A 2024 study confirmed what players have known for decades — the mud’s unique blend of clay, water, and suspended sand particles enhances grip and friction without compromising the ball’s integrity. It’s basically science-meets-tradition, with a dash of folklore.

For over 85 years, this seemingly humble mud has connected generations of players, coaches, umpires, and fans. It’s touched every pitch, every strikeout, every home run. Lena Blackburne may have started his career as a good-field, no-hit infielder, but he ended it as baseball’s most unlikely inventor.

As Blackburne once joked, “I’ve stuck in baseball, because I got stuck in the mud.”

Indeed, baseball’s dirtiest secret may also be its cleanest tradition.