There was the usual applause from the grand stand and welcome cheers from the bleachers. The Rube was the last player to go out. Morrisey was a manager who always played to the stands, and no doubt he held the Rube back for effect. If so, he ought to have been gratified. That moment reminded me of my own team and audience upon the occasion of the Rube’s debut. It was the same only here it happened in the big league, before a championship team and twenty thousand fans.
The roar that went up from the bleachers might well have scared an unseasoned pitcher out of his wits. And the Quakers lined up before their bench and gazed at this newcomer who had the nerve to walk out there to the box. Cogswell stood on the coaching line, looked at the Rube and then held up both arms and turned toward the Chicago bench as if to ask Morrisey: “Where did you get that?”
Nan, quick as a flash to catch a point, leaned over the box-rail and looked at the champions with fire in her eye. “Oh, you just wait! wait!” she bit out between her teeth.
Certain it was that there was no one who knew the Rube as well as I; and I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that the hour before me would see brightening of a great star pitcher on the big league horizon. It was bound to be a full hour for me. I had much reason to be grateful to Whit Hurtle. He had pulled my team out of a rut and won me the pennant, and the five thousand dollars I got for his release bought the little cottage on the hill for Milly and me. Then there was my pride in having developed him. And all that I needed to calm me, settle me down into assurance and keen criticism of the game, was to see the Rube pitch a few balls with his old incomparable speed and control.
Berne, first batter for the Quakers, walked up to the plate. He was another Billy Hamilton, built like a wedge. I saw him laugh at the long pitcher.
Whit swayed back, coiled and uncoiled. Something thin, white, glancing, shot at Berne. He ducked, escaping the ball by a smaller margin than appeared good for his confidence. He spoke low to the Rube, and what he said was probably not flavored with the milk of friendly sweetness.
“Wild! What’d you look for?” called out Cogswell scornfully. “He’s from the woods!”
The Rube swung his enormously long arm, took an enormous stride toward third base, and pitched again. It was one of his queer deliveries. The ball cut the plate.
“Ho! Ho!” yelled the Quakers.
The Rube’s next one was his out curve. It broke toward the corner of the plate and would have been a strike had not Berne popped it up.
Callopy, the second hitter, faced the Rube, and he, too, after the manner of ball players, made some remark meant only for the Rube’s ears. Callopy was a famous waiter. He drove more pitchers mad with his implacable patience than any hitter in the league. The first one of the Rube’s he waited on crossed the in-corner; the second crossed the out-corner and the third was Rube’s wide, slow, tantalizing “stitch-ball,” as we call it, for the reason that it came so slow a batter could count the stitches. I believe Callopy waited on that curve, decided to hit it, changed his mind and waited some more, and finally the ball maddened him and he had to poke at it, the result being a weak grounder.
Then the graceful, powerful Lane, champion batter, champion base runner, stepped to the plate. How a baseball crowd, any crowd, anywhere, loves the champion batter! The ovation
Lane received made me wonder, with this impressive reception in a hostile camp, what could be the manner of it on his home field? Any boy ball- player from the lots seeing Lane knock the dirt out of his spikes and step into position would have known he was a 400 hitter.
I was curious to see what the Rube would pitch Lane. It must have been a new and significant moment for Hurtle. Some pitchers actually wilt when facing a hitter of Lane’s reputation. But he, on his baseball side, was peculiarly unemotional. Undoubtedly he could get furious, but that only increased his effectiveness. To my amazement the Rube pitched Lane a little easy ball, not in any sense like his floater or stitch-ball, but just a little toss that any youngster might have tossed. Of all possible balls, Lane was not expecting such as that, and he let it go. If the nerve of it amazed me, what did it not do to Lane? I saw his face go fiery red. The grand stand murmured; let out one short yelp of pleasure; the Quaker players chaffed Lane.
The pitch was a strike. I was gripping my chair now, and for the next pitch I prophesied the Rube’s wonderful jump ball, which he had not yet used. He swung long, and at the end of his swing seemed to jerk tensely. I scarcely saw the ball. It had marvelous speed. Lane did not offer to hit it, and it was a strike. He looked at the Rube, then at Cogswell. That veteran appeared amused. The bleachers, happy and surprised to be able to yell at Lane, yelled heartily.
Again I took it upon myself to interpret the Rube’s pitching mind. He had another ball that he had not used, a drop, an unhittable drop. I thought he would use that next. He did, and though Lane reached it with the bat, the hit was a feeble one. He had been fooled and the side was out.
Poole, the best of the Quaker’s pitching staff, walked out to the slab. He was a left-hander, and Chicago, having so many players who batted left-handed, always found a southpaw a hard nut to crack. Cogswell, field manager and captain of the Quakers, kicked up the dust around first base and yelled to his men: “Git in the game!”
Staats hit Poole’s speed ball into deep short and was out; Mitchell flew out to Berne; Rand grounded to second.
While the teams again changed sides the fans cheered, and then indulged in the first stretch of the game. I calculated that they would be stretching their necks presently, trying to keep track of the Rube’s work. Nan leaned on the railing absorbed in her own hope and faith. Milly chattered about this and that, people in the boxes, and the chances of the game.
My own interest, while it did not wholly preclude the fortunes of the Chicago players at the bat, was mostly concerned with the Rube’s fortunes in the field.
In the Rube’s half inning he retired Bannister and Blandy on feeble infield grounders, and worked Cogswell into hitting a wide curve high in the air.
Poole meant to win for the Quakers if his good arm and cunning did not fail him, and his pitching was masterly. McCloskey fanned, Hutchinson fouled out, Brewster got a short safe fly just out of reach, and Hoffner hit to second, forcing Brewster.
With Dugan up for the Quakers in the third inning, Cogswell and Bannister, from the coaching lines, began to talk to the Rube. My ears, keen from long practice, caught some of the remarks in spite of the noisy bleachers.
“Say, busher, you ‘ve lasted longer’n we expected, but you don’t know it!”
“Gol darn you city ball tossers! Now you jest let me alone!”
“We’re comin’ through the rye!”
“My top-heavy rustic friend, you’ll need an airship presently, when you go up!”
All the badinage was good-natured, which was sure proof that the Quakers had not arrived at anything like real appreciation of the Rube. They were accustomed to observe the trying out of many youngsters, of whom ninety-nine out of a hundred failed to make good.
Dugan chopped at three strikes and slammed his bat down. Hucker hit a slow fly to Hoffer. Three men out on five pitched balls! Cogswell, old war horse that he was, stood a full moment and watched the Rube as he walked in to the bench. An idea had penetrated Cogswell’s brain, and I would have given something to know what it was. Cogswell was a great baseball general, and though he had a preference for matured ball- players he could, when pressed, see the quality in a youngster. He picked up his mitt and took his position at first with a gruff word to his players.
Rand for Chicago opened with a hit, and the bleachers, ready to strike fire, began to cheer and stamp. When McCloskey, in an attempt to sacrifice, beat out his bunt the crowd roared. Rand,
eing slow on his feet, had not attempted to make third on the play. Hutchinson sacrificed, neatly advancing the runners. Then the bleachers played the long rolling drum of clattering feet with shrill whistling accompaniment. Brewster batted a wicked ground ball to Blandy. He dove into the dust, came up with the ball, and feinting to throw home he wheeled and shot the ball to Cogswell, who in turn shot it to the plate to head Rand. Runner and ball got there apparently together, but Umpire McClung’s decision went against Rand. It was fine, fast work, but how the bleachers stormed at McClung!
“Rob-b-ber!”
Again the head of the Quakers’ formidable list was up. I knew from the way that Cogswell paced the coaching box that the word had gone out to look the Rube over seriously. There were possibilities even in rubes.
Berne carefully stepped into the batter’s box, as if he wanted to be certain to the breadth of a hair how close he was to the plate. He was there this time to watch the Rube pitch, to work him out, to see what was what. He crouched low, and it would have been extremely hard to guess what he was up to. His great play, however, was his ability to dump the ball and beat out the throw to first. It developed presently, that this was now his intention and that the Rube knew it and pitched him the one ball which is almost impossible to bunt–a high incurve, over the inside corner. There was no mistaking the Rube’s magnificent control. True as a plumb line he shot up the ball–once, twice, and Berne fouled both–two strikes. Grudgingly he waited on the next, but it, too, was over the corner, and Berne went out on strikes. The great crowd did not, of course, grasp the finesse of the play, but Berne had struck out –that was enough for them.
Callopy, the famous spiker, who had put many a player out of the game for weeks at a time, strode into the batter’s place, and he, too, was not at the moment making any funny remarks. The Rube delivered a ball that all but hit Callopy fair on the head. It was the second narrow escape for him, and the roar he let out showed how he resented being threatened with a little of his own medicine. As might have been expected, and very likely as the Rube intended, Callopy hit the next ball, a sweeping curve, up over the infield.
I was trying to see all the intricate details of the motive and action on the field, and it was not easy to watch several players at once. But while Berne and Callopy were having their troubles with the Rube, I kept the tail of my eye on Cogswell. He was prowling up and down the third- base line.
He was missing no signs, no indications, no probabilities, no possibilities. But he was in doubt. Like a hawk he was watching the Rube, and, as well, the crafty batters. The inning might not tell the truth as to the Rube’s luck, though it would test his control. The Rube’s speed and curves, without any head work, would have made him a pitcher of no mean ability, but was this remarkable placing of balls just accident? That was the question.
When Berne walked to the bench I distinctly heard him say: “Come out of it, you dubs. I say you can’t work him or wait him. He’s peggin’ ’em out of a gun!”
Several of the Quakers were standing out from the bench, all intent on the Rube. He had stirred them up. First it was humor; then ridicule, curiosity, suspicion, doubt. And I knew it would grow to wonder and certainty, then fierce attack from both tongues and bats, and lastly–for ball players are generous–unstinted admiration.
Somehow, not only the first climaxes of a game but the decisions, the convictions, the reputations of pitchers and fielders evolve around the great hitter. Plain it was that the vast throng of spectators, eager to believe in a new find, wild to welcome a new star, yet loath to trust to their own impulsive judgments, held themselves in check until once more the great Lane had faced the Rube.
The field grew tolerably quiet just then. The Rube did not exert himself. The critical stage had no concern for him. He pitched Lane a high curve, over the plate, but in close, a ball meant to be hit and a ball hard to hit safely. Lane knew that as well as any hitter in the world, so he let two of the curves go by–two strikes. Again the Rube relentlessly gave him the same ball; and Lane, hitting viciously, spitefully, because he did not want to hit that kind of a ball, sent up a fly that Rand easily captured.
“Oh, I don’t know! Pretty fair, I guess!” yelled a tenor-voiced fan; and he struck the key- note. And the bleachers rose to their feet and gave the Rube the rousing cheer of the brotherhood of fans.
Hoffer walked to first on a base on balls. Sweeney advanced him. The Rube sent up a giant fly to Callopy. Then Staats hit safely, scoring the first run of the game. Hoffer crossed the plate amid vociferous applause. Mitchell ended the inning with a fly to Blandy.
What a change had come over the spirit of that Quaker aggregation! It was something to make a man thrill with admiration and, if he happened to favor Chicago, to fire all his fighting blood. The players poured upon the Rube a continuous stream of scathing abuse. They would have made a raging devil of a mild-mannered clergyman. Some of them were skilled in caustic wit, most of them were possessed of forked tongues; and Cogswell, he of a thousand baseball battles, had a genius for inflaming anyone he tormented. This was mostly beyond the ken of the audience, and behind the back of the umpire, but it was perfectly plain to me. The Quakers were trying to rattle the Rube, a trick of the game as fair for one side as for the other. I sat there tight in my seat, grimly glorying in the way the Rube refused to be disturbed. But the lion in him was rampant. Fortunately, it was his strange gift to pitch better the angrier he got; and the more the Quakers flayed him, the more he let himself out to their crushing humiliation.
The innings swiftly passed to the eighth with Chicago failing to score again, with Philadelphia failing to score at all. One scratch hit and a single, gifts to the weak end of the batting list, were all the lank pitcher allowed them. Long since the bleachers had crowned the Rube. He was theirs and they were his; and their voices had the peculiar strangled hoarseness due to over-exertion. The grand stand, slower to understand and approve, arrived later; but it got there about the seventh, and ladies’ gloves and men’s hats were sacrificed.
In the eighth the Quakers reluctantly yielded their meed of praise, showing it by a cessation of their savage wordy attacks on the Rube. It was a kind of sullen respect, wrung from the bosom of great foes.
Then the ninth inning was at hand. As the sides changed I remembered to look at the feminine group in our box. Milly was in a most beautiful glow of happiness and excitement. Nan sat rigid, leaning over the rail, her face white and drawn, and she kept saying in a low voice: “Will it never end? Will it never end?” Mrs. Nelson stared wearily.
It was the Quakers’ last stand. They faced it as a team that had won many a game in the ninth with two men out. Dugan could do nothing with the Rube’s unhittable drop, for a drop curve was his weakness, and he struck out. Hucker hit to Hoffer, who fumbled, making the first error of the game. Poole dumped the ball, as evidently the Rube desired, for he handed up a straight one, but the bunt rolled teasingly and the Rube, being big and tall, failed to field it in time.
Suddenly the whole field grew quiet. For the first time Cogswell’s coaching was clearly heard.
“One out! Take a lead! Take a lead! Go through this time. Go through!”
Could it be possible, I wondered, that after such a wonderful exhibition of pitching the Rube would lose out in the ninth?
There were two Quakers on base, one out, and two of the best hitters in the league on deck, with a chance of Lane getting up.
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” moaned Nan.
I put my hand on hers. “Don’t quit, Nan. You’ll never forgive yourself if you quit. Take it from me, Whit will pull out of this hole!”
What a hole that was for the Rube on the day of his break into fast company! I measured it by his remarkable deliberation. He took a long time to get ready to pitch to Berne, and when he let drive it was as if he had been trifling all before in that game. I could think of no way to figure it except that when the ball left him there was scarcely any appreciable interval of time before it cracked in Sweeney’s mitt. It was the Rube’s drop, which I believed unhittable. Berne let it go by, shaking his head as McClung called it a strike. Another followed, which Berne chopped at vainly. Then with the same upheaval of his giant frame, the same flinging of long arms and lunging forward, the Rube delivered a third drop. And Berne failed to hit it.
The voiceless bleachers stamped on the benches and the grand stand likewise thundered.
Callopy showed his craft by stepping back and lining Rube’s high pitch to left. Hoffer leaped across and plunged down, getting his gloved hand in front of the ball. The hit was safe, but Hoffer’s valiant effort saved a tie score.
Lane up! Three men on bases! Two out!
Not improbably there were many thousand spectators of that thrilling moment who pitied the Rube for the fate which placed Lane at the bat then. But I was not one of them. Nevertheless my throat was clogged, my mouth dry, and my ears full of bells. I could have done something terrible to Hurtle for his deliberation, yet I knew he was proving himself what I had always tried to train him to be.
Then he swung, stepped out, and threw his body with the ball. This was his rarely used pitch, his last resort, his fast rise ball that jumped up a little at the plate. Lane struck under it. How significant on the instant to see old Cogswell’s hands go up! Again the Rube pitched, and this time Lane watched the ball go by. Two strikes!
That whole audience leaped to its feet, whispering, yelling, screaming, roaring, bawling.
The Rube received the ball from Sweeney and quick as lightning he sped it plateward. The great Lane struck out! The game was over–Chicago, 1; Philadelphia, 0.
In that whirling moment when the crowd went mad and Milly was hugging me, and Nan pounding holes in my hat, I had a queer sort of blankness, a section of time when my sensations were deadlocked.
“Oh! Connie, look!” cried Nan. I saw Lane and Cogswell warmly shaking hands with the Rube. Then the hungry clamoring fans tumbled upon the field and swarmed about the players.
Wereupon Nan kissed me and Milly, and then kissed Mrs. Nelson. In that radiant moment Nan was all sweetness.
“It is the Rube’s break into fast company,” she said.
THE KNOCKER
“Yes, Carroll, I got my notice. Maybe it’s no surprise to you. And there’s one more thing I want to say. You’re `it’ on this team. You’re the topnotch catcher in the Western League and one of the best ball players in the game–but you’re a knocker!”
Madge Ellston heard young Sheldon speak. She saw the flash in his gray eyes and the heat of his bronzed face as he looked intently at the big catcher.
“Fade away, sonny. Back to the bush-league for yours!” replied Carroll, derisively. “You’re not fast enough for Kansas City. You look pretty good in a uniform and you’re swift on your feet, but you can’t hit. You’ve got a glass arm and you run bases like an ostrich trying to side. That notice was coming to you. Go learn the game!”
Then a crowd of players trooped noisily out of the hotel lobby and swept Sheldon and Carroll down the porch steps toward the waiting omnibus.
Madge’s uncle owned the Kansas City club. She had lived most of her nineteen years in a baseball atmosphere, but accustomed as she was to baseball talk and the peculiar banterings and bickerings of the players, there were times when it seemed all Greek. If a player got his “notice” it meant he would be released in ten days. A “knocker” was a ball player who spoke ill of his fellow players. This scrap of conversation, however, had an unusual interest because Carroll had paid court to her for a year, and Sheldon, coming to the team that spring, had fallen desperately in love with her. She liked Sheldon pretty well, but Carroll fascinated her. She began to wonder if there were bad feelings between the rivals–to compare them–to get away from herself and judge them impersonally.
When Pat Donahue, the veteran manager of the team came out, Madge greeted him with a smile. She had always gotten on famously with Pat, notwithstanding her imperious desire to handle the managerial reins herself upon occasions. Pat beamed all over his round ruddy face.
“Miss Madge, you weren’t to the park yesterday an’ we lost without our pretty mascot. We shure needed you. Denver’s playin’ at a fast clip.”
“I’m coming out today,” replied Miss Ellston, thoughtfully. “Pat, what’s a knocker?”
“Now, Miss Madge, are you askin’ me that after I’ve been coachin’ you in baseball for years?” questioned Pat, in distress.
“I know what a knocker is, as everybody else does. But I want to know the real meaning, the inside-ball of it, to use your favorite saying.”
Studying her grave face with shrewd eyes Donahue slowly lost his smile.
“The inside-ball of it, eh? Come, let’s sit over here a bit–the sun’s shure warm today. . . . Miss Madge, a knocker is the strangest man known in the game, the hardest to deal with an’ what every baseball manager hates most.”
Donahue told her that he believed the term “knocker” came originally from baseball; that in general it typified the player who strengthened his own standing by belittling the ability of his team-mates, and by enlarging upon his own superior qualities. But there were many phases of this peculiar type. Some players were natural born knockers; others acquired the name in their later years in the game when younger men threatened to win their places. Some of the best
players ever produced by baseball had the habit in its most violent form. There were players of ridiculously poor ability who held their jobs on the strength of this one trait. It was a mystery how they misled magnates and managers alike; how for months they held their places, weakening a team, often keeping a good team down in the race; all from sheer bold suggestion of their own worth and other players’ worthlessness. Strangest of all was the knockers’ power to disorganize; to engender a bad spirit between management and team and among the players. The team which was without one of the parasites of the game generally stood well up in the race for the pennant, though there had been championship teams noted for great knockers as well
as great players.
“It’s shure strange, Miss Madge,” said Pat in conclusion, shaking his gray head. “I’ve played hundreds of knockers, an’ released them, too. Knockers always get it in the end, but they go on foolin’ me and workin’ me just the same as if I was a youngster with my first team. They’re part an’ parcel of the game.”
“Do you like these men off the field–outside of baseball, I mean?”
“No, I shure don’t, an’ I never seen one yet that wasn’t the same off the field as he was on.”
“Thank you, Pat. I think I understand now. And–oh, yes, there’s another thing I want to ask you. What’s the matter with Billie Sheldon? Uncle George said he was falling off in his game. Then I’ve read the papers. Billie started out well in the spring.”
“Didn’t he? I was sure thinkin’ I had a find in Billie. Well, he’s lost his nerve. He’s in a bad slump. It’s worried me for days. I’m goin’ to release Billie. The team needs a shake-up. That’s where Billie gets the worst of it, for he’s really the makin’ of a star; but he’s slumped, an’ now knockin’ has made him let down. There, Miss Madge, that’s an example of what I’ve just been tellin’ you. An’ you can see that a manager has his troubles. These hulkin’ athletes are a lot of spoiled babies an’ I often get sick of my job.”
That afternoon Miss Ellston was in a brown study all the way out to the baseball park. She arrived rather earlier than usual to find the grand- stand empty. The Denver team had just come upon the field, and the Kansas City players were practising batting at the left of the diamond. Madge walked down the aisle of the grand stand and out along the reporters’ boxes. She asked one of the youngsters on the field to tell Mr. Sheldon that she would like to speak with him a moment.
Billie eagerly hurried from the players’ bench with a look of surprise and expectancy on his sun- tanned face. Madge experienced for the first time a sudden sense of shyness at his coming. His lithe form and his nimble step somehow gave her a pleasure that seemed old yet was new. When he neared her, and, lifting his cap, spoke her name, the shade of gloom in his eyes and lines of trouble on his face dispelled her confusion.
“Billie, Pat tells me he’s given you ten days’ notice,” she said.
“It’s true.”
“What’s wrong with you, Billie?”
“Oh, I’ve struck a bad streak–can’t hit or throw.”
“Are you a quitter?”
“No, I’m not,” he answered quickly, flushing a dark red.
“You started off this spring with a rush. You played brilliantly and for a while led the team in batting. Uncle George thought so well of you. Then came this spell of bad form. But, Billie, it’s only a slump; you can brace.”
“I don’t know,” he replied, despondently. “Awhile back I got my mind off the game. Then –people who don’t like me have taken advantage of my slump to—-”
“To knock,” interrupted Miss Ellston.
“I’m not saying that,” he said, looking away from her.
“But I’m saying it. See here, Billie Sheldon, my uncle owns this team and Pat Donahue is manager. I think they both like me a little. Now I don’t want to see you lose your place. Perhaps—-”
“Madge, that’s fine of you–but I think–I guess it’d be best for me to leave Kansas City.”
“Why? ”
“You know,” he said huskily. “I’ve lost my head–I’m in love–I can’t think of baseball– I’m crazy about you.”
Miss Ellston’s sweet face grew rosy, clear to the tips of her ears.
“Billie Sheldon,” she replied, spiritedly. “You’re talking nonsense. Even if you were were that way, it’d be no reason to play poor ball. Don’t throw the game, as Pat would say. Make a brace! Get up on your toes! Tear
things! Rip the boards off the fence! Don’t quit!”
She exhausted her vocabulary of baseball language if not her enthusiasm, and paused in blushing confusion.
“Madge!”
“Will you brace up?”
“Will I–will I!” he exclaimed, breathlessly.
Madge murmured a hurried good-bye and, turning away, went up the stairs. Her uncle’s private box was upon the top of the grand stand and she reached it in a somewhat bewildered state of mind. She had a confused sense of having appeared to encourage Billie, and did not know whether she felt happy or guilty. The flame in his eyes had warmed all her blood. Then, as she glanced over the railing to see the powerful Burns Carroll, there rose in her breast a panic at strange variance with her other feelings.
Many times had Madge Ellston viewed the field and stands and the outlying country from this high vantage point; but never with the same mingling emotions, nor had the sunshine ever been so golden, the woods and meadows so green, the diamond so smooth and velvety, the whole scene so gaily bright.
Denver had always been a good drawing card, and having won the first game of the present series, bade fair to draw a record attendance. The long lines of bleachers, already packed with the familiar mottled crowd, sent forth a merry, rattling hum. Soon a steady stream of well- dressed men and women poured in the gates and up the grand-stand stairs. The soft murmur of many voices in light conversation and laughter filled the air. The peanut venders and score-card sellers kept up their insistent shrill cries. The baseball park was alive now and restless; the atmosphere seemed charged with freedom and pleasure. The players romped like skittish colts, the fans shrieked their witticisms–all sound and movements suggested play.
Madge Ellston was somehow relieved to see her uncle sitting in one of the lower boxes. During this game she wanted to be alone, and she believed she would be, for the President of the League and directors of the Kansas City team were with her uncle. When the bell rang to call the Denver team in from practice the stands could hold no more, and the roped-off side lines were filling up with noisy men and boys. From her seat Madge could see right down upon the players’ bench, and when she caught both Sheldon and Carroll gazing upward she drew back
with sharply contrasted thrills.
Then the bell rang again, the bleachers rolled out their welcoming acclaim, and play was called with Kansas City at the bat.
Right off the reel Hunt hit a short fly safely over second. The ten thousand spectators burst into a roar. A good start liberated applause and marked the feeling for the day.
Madge was surprised and glad to see Billie Sheldon start next for the plate. All season, until lately, he had been the second batter. During his slump he had been relegated to the last place on the batting list. Perhaps he had asked Pat to try him once more at the top. The bleachers voiced their unstinted appreciation of this return, showing that Billie still had a strong hold on their hearts.
As for Madge, her breast heaved and she had difficulty in breathing. This was going to be a hard game for her. The intensity of her desire to see Billie brace up to his old form amazed her. And Carroll’s rude words beat thick in her ears. Never before had Billie appeared so instinct with life, so intent and strung as when he faced Keene, the Denver pitcher. That worthy tied himself up in a knot, and then, unlimbering a long arm, delivered the brand new ball.
Billie seemed to leap forward and throw his bat at it. There was a sharp ringing crack–and the ball was like a white string marvelously stretching out over the players, over the green field beyond, and then, sailing, soaring, over the right- field fence. For a moment the stands, even the bleachers, were stone quiet. No player had ever hit a ball over that fence. It had been deemed impossible, as was attested to by the many painted “ads” offering prizes for such a feat. Suddenly the far end of the bleachers exploded and the swelling roar rolled up to engulf the grand stand in thunder. Billie ran round the bases to applause never before vented on that field. But he gave no sign that it affected him; he did not even doff his cap. White-faced and stern, he hurried to the bench, where Pat fell all over him and many of the players grasped his hands.
Up in her box Madge was crushing her score- card and whispering: “Oh! Billie, I could hug you for that!”
Two runs on two pitched balls! That was an opening to stir an exacting audience to the highest pitch of enthusiasm. The Denver manager
peremptorily called Keene off the diamond and sent in Steele, a south-paw, who had always bothered Pat’s left-handed hitters. That move showed his astute judgment, for Steele struck out McReady and retired Curtis and Mahew on easy chances.
It was Dalgren’s turn to pitch and though he had shown promise in several games he had not yet been tried out on a team of Denver’s strength. The bleachers gave him a good cheering as he walked into the box, but for all that they whistled their wonder at Pat’s assurance in putting him against the Cowboys in an important game.
The lad was visibly nervous and the hard-hitting and loud-coaching Denver players went after him as if they meant to drive him out of the game. Crane stung one to left center for a base, Moody was out on a liner to short, almost doubling up Crane; the fleet-footed Bluett bunted and beat the throw to first; Langly drove to left for what seemed a three-bagger, but Curtis, after a hard run, caught the ball almost off the left-field bleachers. Crane and Bluett advanced a base on the throw-in. Then Kane batted up a high foul-fly. Burns Carroll, the Kansas City catcher, had the reputation of being a fiend for chasing foul flies, and he dashed at this one with a speed that threatened a hard fall over the players’ bench or a collision with the fence. Carroll caught the ball and crashed against the grand stand, but leaped back with an agility that showed that if there was any harm done it had not been to him.
Thus the sharp inning ended with a magnificent play. It electrified the spectators into a fierce energy of applause. With one accord, by baseball instinct, the stands and bleachers and roped- in-sidelines realized it was to be a game of games and they answered to the stimulus with a savage enthusiasm that inspired ballplayers to great plays.
In the first half of the second inning, Steele’s will to do and his arm to execute were very like his name. Kansas City could not score. In their half the Denver team made one run by clean hitting.
Then the closely fought advantage see-sawed from one team to the other. It was not a pitchers’ battle, though both men worked to the limit of skill and endurance. They were hit hard. Dazzling plays kept the score down and the innings short. Over the fields hung the portent of something to come, every player, every spectator felt the subtle baseball chance; each inning seemed to lead closer and more thrillingly up to the climax. But at the end of the seventh, with the score tied six and six, with daring steals, hard hits and splendid plays, enough to have made memorable several games, it seemed that the great portentous moment was still in abeyance.
The head of the batting list for Kansas City was up. Hunt caught the first pitched ball squarely on the end of his bat. It was a mighty drive and as the ball soared and soared over the center-field Hunt raced down the base line, and the winged- footed Crane sped outward, the bleachers split their throats. The hit looked good for a home run, but Crane leaped up and caught the ball in his gloved hand. The sudden silence and then the long groan which racked the bleachers was greater tribute to Crane’s play than any applause.
Billie Sheldon then faced Steele. The fans roared hoarsely, for Billie had hit safely three times out of four. Steele used his curve ball, but he could not get the batter to go after it. When he had wasted three balls, the never-despairing bleachers howled: “Now, Billie, in your groove! Sting the next one!” But Billie waited. One strike! Two strikes! Steele cut the plate. That was a test which proved Sheldon’s caliber.
With seven innings of exciting play passed, with both teams on edge, with the bleachers wild and the grand stands keyed up to the breaking point, with everything making deliberation almost impossible, Billie Sheldon had remorselessly waited for three balls and two strikes.
“Now! . . . Now! . . . Now!” shrieked the bleachers.
Steele had not tired nor lost his cunning. With hands before him he grimly studied Billie, then whirling hard to get more weight into his motion, he threw the ball.
Billie swung perfectly and cut a curving liner between the first baseman and the base. Like a shot it skipped over the grass out along the foul- line into right field. Amid tremendous uproar Billie stretched the hit into a triple, and when he got up out of the dust after his slide into third the noise seemed to be the crashing down of the bleachers. It died out with the choking gurgling yell of the most leather-lunged fan.
“O-o-o-o-you-Billie-e!”
McReady marched up and promptly hit a long fly to the redoubtable Crane. Billie crouched in a sprinter’s position with his eye on the graceful fielder, waiting confidently for the ball to drop. As if there had not already been sufficient heart- rending moments, the chance that governed baseball meted out this play; one of the keenest, most trying known to the game. Players waited, spectators waited, and the instant of that dropping ball was interminably long. Everybody knew Crane would catch it; everybody thought of the wonderful throwing arm that had made him famous. Was it possible for Billie Sheldon to beat the throw to the plate?
Crane made the catch and got the ball away at the same instant Sheldon leaped from the base and dashed for home. Then all eyes were on the ball. It seemed incredible that a ball thrown by human strength could speed plateward so low, so straight, so swift. But it lost its force and slanted down to bound into the catcher’s hands just as Billie slid over the plate.
By the time the bleachers had stopped stamping and bawling, Curtis ended the inning with a difficult grounder to the infield.
Once more the Kansas City players took the field and Burns Carroll sang out in his lusty voice: “Keep lively, boys! Play hard! Dig ’em up an’ get ’em!” Indeed the big catcher was the main- stay of the home team. The bulk of the work fell upon his shoulders. Dalgren was wild and kept his catcher continually blocking low pitches and wide curves and poorly controlled high fast balls. But they were all alike to Carroll. Despite his weight, he was as nimble on his feet as a goat, and if he once got his hands on the ball he never missed it. It was his encouragement that steadied Dalgren; his judgment of hitters that carried the young pitcher through dangerous places; his lightning swift grasp of points that directed the machine-like work of his team.
In this inning Carroll exhibited another of his demon chases after a foul fly; he threw the base- stealing Crane out at second, and by a remarkable leap and stop of McReady’s throw, he blocked a runner who would have tied the score.
The Cowboys blanked their opponents in the first half of the ninth, and trotted in for their turn needing one run to tie, two runs to win.
There had scarcely been a breathing spell for the onlookers in this rapid-fire game. Every inning had held them, one moment breathless, the next wildly clamorous, and another waiting in numb fear. What did these last few moments hold in store? The only answer to that was the dogged plugging optimism of the Denver players. To listen to them, to watch them, was to gather the impression that baseball fortune always favored them in the end.
“Only three more, Dal. Steady boys, it’s our game,” rolled out Carroll’s deep bass. How virile he was! What a tower of strength to the weakening pitcher!
But valiantly as Dalgren tried to respond, he failed. The grind–the strain had been too severe. When he finally did locate the plate Bluett hit safely. Langley bunted along the base line and beat the ball.
A blank, dead quiet settled down over the bleachers and stands. Something fearful threatened. What might not come to pass, even at the last moment of this nerve-racking game? There was a runner on first and a runner on second. That was bad. Exceedingly bad was it that these runners were on base with nobody out. Worst of all was the fact that Kane was up. Kane, the best bunter, the fastest man to first, the hardest hitter in the league! That he would fail to advance those two runners was scarcely worth consideration. Once advanced, a fly to the outfield, a scratch, anything almost, would tie the score. So this was the climax presaged so many times earlier in the game. Dalgren seemed to wilt under it.
Kane swung his ash viciously and called on Dalgren to put one over. Dalgren looked in toward the bench as if he wanted and expected to be taken out. But Pat Donahue made no sign. Pat had trained many a pitcher by forcing him to take his medicine. Then Carroll, mask under his arm, rolling his big hand in his mitt, sauntered down to the pitcher’s box. The sharp order of the umpire in no wise disconcerted him. He said something to Dalgren, vehemently nodding his head the while. Players and audience alike supposed he was trying to put a little heart into Dalgren, and liked him the better, notwithstanding the opposition to the umpire.
Carroll sauntered back to his position. He adjusted his breast protector, and put on his mask, deliberately taking his time. Then he stepped behind the plate, and after signing for the pitch, he slowly moved his right hand up to his mask.
Dalgren wound up, took his swing, and let drive. Even as he delivered the ball Carroll bounded away from his position, flinging off the mask as he jumped. For a single fleeting instant, the catcher’s position was vacated. But that instant was long enough to make the audience gasp. Kane bunted beautifully down the third base line, and there Carroll stood, fifteen feet from the plate, agile as a huge monkey. He whipped the ball to Mahew at third. Mahew wheeled quick as thought and lined the ball to second. Sheldon came tearing for the bag, caught the ball on the run, and with a violent stop and wrench threw it like a bullet to first base. Fast as Kane was, the ball beat him ten feet. A triple play!
The players of both teams cheered, but the audience, slower to grasp the complex and intricate points, needed a long moment to realize what had happened. They needed another to divine that Carroll had anticipated Kane’s intention to bunt, had left his position as the ball was pitched, had planned all, risked all, played all on Kane’s sure eye; and so he had retired the side and won the game by creating and executing the rarest play in baseball.
Then the audience rose in a body to greet the great catcher. What a hoarse thundering roar shook the stands and waved in a blast over the field! Carroll stood bowing his acknowledgment, and then swaggered a little with the sun shining on his handsome heated face. Like a conqueror conscious of full blown power he stalked away to the clubhouse.
Madge Ellston came out of her trance and viewed the ragged score-card, her torn parasol, her battered gloves and flying hair, her generally disheveled state with a little start of dismay, but when she got into the thick and press of the moving crowd she found all the women more or less disheveled. And they seemed all the prettier and friendlier for that. It was a happy crowd and voices were conspicuously hoarse.
When Madge entered the hotel parlor that evening she found her uncle with guests and among them was Burns Carroll. The presence of the handsome giant affected Madge more impellingly than ever before, yet in some inexplicably different way. She found herself trembling; she sensed a crisis in her feelings for this man and it frightened her. She became conscious suddenly that she had always been afraid of him. Watching Carroll receive the congratulations of many of those present, she saw that he dominated them as he had her. His magnetism was over- powering; his great stature seemed to fill the room; his easy careless assurance emanated from superior strength. When he spoke lightly of the game, of Crane’s marvelous catch, of Dalgren’s pitching and of his own triple play, it seemed these looming features retreated in perspective–somehow lost their vital significance because he slighted them.
In the light of Carroll’s illuminating talk, in the remembrance of Sheldon’s bitter denunciation, in the knowledge of Pat Donahue’s estimate of a peculiar type of ball-player, Madge Ellston found herself judging the man–bravely trying to resist his charm, to be fair to him and to herself.
Carroll soon made his way to her side and greeted her with his old familiar manner of possession. However irritating it might be to Madge when alone, now it held her bound.
Carroll possessed the elemental attributes of a conqueror. When with him Madge whimsically feared that he would snatch her up in his arms and carry her bodily off, as the warriors of old did with the women they wanted. But she began to believe that the fascination he exercised upon her was merely physical. That gave her pause. Not only was Burns Carroll on trial, but also a very foolish fluttering little moth–herself. It was time enough, however, to be stern with herself after she had tried him.
“Wasn’t that a splendid catch of Crane’s today?” she asked.
“A lucky stab! Crane has a habit of running round like an ostrich and sticking out a hand to catch a ball. It’s a grand-stand play. Why, a good outfielder would have been waiting under that fly.”
“Dalgren did fine work in the box, don’t you think?”
“Oh, the kid’s all right with an old head back of the plate. He’s wild, though, and will never make good in fast company. I won his game today. He wouldn’t have lasted an inning without me. It was dead wrong for Pat to pitch him. Dalgren simply can’t pitch and he hasn’t sand enough to learn.”
A hot retort trembled upon Madge Ellston’s lips, but she withheld it and quietly watched Carroll. How complacent he was, how utterly self- contained!
“And Billie Sheldon–wasn’t it good to see him brace? What hitting! . . . That home
run!”
“Sheldon flashed up today. That’s the worst of such players. This talk of his slump is all rot. When he joined the team he made some lucky hits and the papers lauded him as a comer, but he soon got down to his real form. Why, to break into a game now and then, to shut his eyes and hit a couple on the nose–that’s not baseball. Pat’s given him ten days’ notice, and his release will be a good move for the team. Sheldon’s not fast enough for this league.”
“I’m sorry. He seemed so promising,” replied Madge. “I liked Billy–pretty well.”
“Yes, that was evident,” said Carroll, firing up. “I never could understand what you saw in him. Why, Sheldon’s no good. He—-”
Madge turned a white face that silenced Carroll. She excused herself and returned to the parlor, where she had last seen her uncle. Not finding him there, she went into the long corridor and met Sheldon, Dalgren and two more of the players. Madge congratulated the young pitcher and the other players on their brilliant work; and they, not to be outdone, gallantly attributed the day’s victory to her presence at the game. Then, without knowing in the least how it came about, she presently found herself alone with Billy, and they were strolling into the music-room.
“Madge, did I brace up?”
The girl risked one quick look at him. How boyish he seemed, how eager! What an altogether different Billie! But was the difference all in him! Somehow, despite a conscious shyness in the moment she felt natural and free, without the uncertainty and restraint that had always troubled her while with him.
“Oh, Billie, that glorious home run!”
“Madge, wasn’t that hit a dandy? How I made it is a mystery, but the bat felt like a feather. I thought of you. Tell me– what did you think when I hit that ball over the fence?”
“Billie, I’ll never, never tell you.”
“Yes–please–I want to know. Didn’t you think something–nice of me?”
The pink spots in Madge’s cheeks widened to crimson flames.
“Billie, are you still–crazy about me? Now, don’t come so close. Can’t you behave yourself? And don’t break my fingers with you terrible baseball hands. . . . Well, when you made that hit I just collapsed and I said—-”
“Say it! Say it!” implored Billie.
She lowered her face and then bravely raised it.
“I said, `Billie, I could hug you for that!’ . . . Billie, let me go! Oh, you mustn’t!–please!”
Quite a little while afterward Madge remembered to tell Billie that she had been seeking her uncle. They met him and Pat Donahue, coming out of the parlor.
“Where have you been all evening?” demanded Mr. Ellston.
“Shure it looks as if she’s signed a new manager,” said Pat, his shrewd eyes twinkling.
The soft glow in Madge’s cheeks deepened into tell-tale scarlet; Billie resembled a schoolboy stricken in guilt.
“Aha! so that’s it?” queried her uncle.
“Ellston,” said Pat. “Billie’s home-run drive today recalled his notice an’ if I don’t miss guess it won him another game–the best game in life.”
“By George!” exclaimed Mr. Ellston. “I was afraid it was Carroll!”
He led Madge away and Pat followed with Billie.
“Shure, it was good to see you brace, Billie,” said the manager, with a kindly hand on the young man’s arm. “I’m tickled to death. That ten days’ notice doesn’t go. See? I’ve had to shake up the team but your job is good. I released McReady outright an’ traded Carroll to Denver for a catcher and a fielder. Some of the directors hollered murder, an’ I expect the fans will roar, but I’m running this team, I’ll have harmony among my players. Carroll is a great catcher, but he’s a knocker.”
THE WINNING BALL
One day in July our Rochester club, leader in the Eastern League, had returned to the hotel after winning a double-header from the Syracuse club. For some occult reason there was to be a lay-off next day and then on the following another double-header. These double-headers we hated next to exhibition games. Still a lay-off for twenty-four hours, at that stage of the race, was a Godsend, and we received the news with exclamations of pleasure.
After dinner we were all sitting and smoking comfortably in front of the hotel when our manager, Merritt, came hurriedly out of the lobby. It struck me that he appeared a little flustered.
“Say, you fellars,” he said brusquely. “Pack your suits and be ready for the bus at seven- thirty.”
For a moment there was a blank, ominous silence, while we assimilated the meaning of his terse speech.
“I’ve got a good thing on for tomorrow,” continued the manager. “Sixty per cent gate receipts if we win. That Guelph team is hot stuff, though.”
“Guelph!” exclaimed some of the players suspiciously. “Where’s Guelph?”
“It’s in Canada. We’ll take the night express an’ get there tomorrow in time for the game. An’ we’ll hev to hustle.”
Upon Merritt then rained a multiplicity of excuses. Gillinger was not well, and ought to have that day’s rest. Snead’s eyes would profit by a lay-off. Deerfoot Browning was leading the league in base running, and as his legs were all bruised and scraped by sliding, a manager who was not an idiot would have a care of such valuable runmakers for his team. Lake had “Charley- horse.” Hathaway’s arm was sore. Bane’s stomach threatened gastritis. Spike Doran’s finger needed a chance to heal. I was stale, and the other players, three pitchers, swore their arms should be in the hospital.
“Cut it out!” said Merritt, getting exasperated. “You’d all lay down on me–now, wouldn’t you? Well, listen to this: McDougal pitched today; he doesn’t go. Blake works Friday, he
doesn’t go. But the rest of you puffed-up, high- salaried stiffs pack your grips quick. See? It’ll cost any fresh fellar fifty for missin’ the train.”
So that was how eleven of the Rochester team found themselves moodily boarding a Pullman en route for Buffalo and Canada. We went to bed early and arose late.
Guelph lay somewhere in the interior of Canada, and we did not expect to get there until 1 o’clock.
As it turned out, the train was late; we had to dress hurriedly in the smoking room, pack our citizen clothes in our grips and leave the train to go direct to the ball grounds without time for lunch.
It was a tired, dusty-eyed, peevish crowd of ball players that climbed into a waiting bus at the little station.
We had never heard of Guelph; we did not care anything about Rube baseball teams. Baseball was not play to us; it was the hardest kind of work, and of all things an exhibition game was an abomination.
The Guelph players, strapping lads, met us with every mark of respect and courtesy and escorted us to the field with a brass band that was loud in welcome, if not harmonious in tune.
Some 500 men and boys trotted curiously along with us, for all the world as if the bus were a circus parade cage filled with striped tigers. What a rustic, motley crowd massed about in and on that ball ground. There must have been 10,000.
The audience was strange to us. The Indians, half-breeds, French-Canadians; the huge, hulking, bearded farmers or traders, or trappers, whatever they were, were new to our baseball experience.
The players themselves, however, earned the largest share of our attention. By the time they had practiced a few moments we looked at Merritt and Merritt looked at us.
These long, powerful, big-handed lads evidently did not know the difference between lacrosse and baseball; but they were quick as cats on their feet, and they scooped up the ball in a way wonderful to see. And throw!–it made a professional’s heart swell just to see them line the ball across the diamond.
“Lord! what whips these lads have!” exclaimed Merritt. “Hope we’re not up against it. If this team should beat us we wouldn’t draw a handful at Toronto. We can’t afford to be beaten. Jump around and cinch the game quick. If we get in a bad place, I’ll sneak in the `rabbit.’ ”
The “rabbit” was a baseball similar in appearance to the ordinary league ball; under its horse- hide cover, however, it was remarkably different.
An ingenious fan, a friend of Merritt, had removed the covers from a number of league balls and sewed them on rubber balls of his own making. They could not be distinguished from the regular article, not even by an experienced professional–until they were hit. Then! The fact that after every bounce one of these rubber balls bounded swifter and higher had given it the name of the “rabbit.”
Many a game had the “rabbit” won for us at critical stages. Of course it was against the rules of the league, and of course every player in the league knew about it; still, when it was judiciously and cleverly brought into a close game, the “rabbit” would be in play, and very probably over the fence, before the opposing captain could learn of it, let alone appeal to the umpire.
“Fellars, look at that guy who’s goin’ to pitch,” suddenly spoke up one of the team.
Many as were the country players whom we seasoned and traveled professionals had run across, this twirler outclassed them for remarkable appearance. Moreover, what put an entirely different tinge to our momentary humor was the discovery that he was as wild as a March hare and could throw a ball so fast that it resembled a pea shot from a boy’s air gun.
Deerfoot led our batting list, and after the first pitched ball, which he did not see, and the second, which ticked his shirt as it shot past, he turned to us with an expression that made us groan inwardly.
When Deerfoot looked that way it meant the pitcher was dangerous. Deerfoot made no effort to swing at the next ball, and was promptly called out on strikes.
I was second at bat, and went up with some reluctance. I happened to be leading the league in both long distance and safe hitting, and I doted on speed. But having stopped many mean in- shoots with various parts of my anatomy, I was rather squeamish about facing backwoods yaps who had no control.
When I had watched a couple of his pitches, which the umpire called strikes, I gave him credit for as much speed as Rusie. These balls were as straight as a string, singularly without curve, jump, or variation of any kind. I lined the next one so hard at the shortstop that it cracked like a pistol as it struck his hands and whirled him half off his feet. Still he hung to the ball and gave opportunity for the first crash of applause.
“Boys, he’s a trifle wild,” I said to my team- mates, “but he has the most beautiful ball to hit you ever saw. I don’t believe he uses a curve, and when we once time that speed we’ll kill it.”
Next inning, after old man Hathaway had baffled the Canadians with his wide, tantalizing curves, my predictions began to be verified. Snead rapped one high and far to deep right field. To our infinite surprise, however, the right fielder ran with fleetness that made our own Deerfoot seem slow, and he got under the ball and caught it.
Doran sent a sizzling grasscutter down toward left. The lanky third baseman darted over, dived down, and, coming up with the ball, exhibited the power of a throwing arm that made as all green with envy.
Then, when the catcher chased a foul fly somewhere back in the crowd and caught it, we began to take notice.
“Lucky stabs!” said Merritt cheerfully. “They can’t keep that up. We’ll drive him to the woods next time.”
But they did keep it up; moreover, they became more brilliant as the game progressed. What with Hathaway’s heady pitching we soon disposed of them when at the bat; our turns, however, owing to the wonderful fielding of these backwoodsmen, were also fruitless.
Merritt, with his mind ever on the slice of gate money coming if we won, began to fidget and fume and find fault.
“You’re a swell lot of champions, now, ain’t you?” he observed between innings.
All baseball players like to bat, and nothing pleases them so much as base hits; on the other hand, nothing is quite so painful as to send out hard liners only to see them caught. And it seemed as if every man on our team connected with that lanky twirler’s fast high ball and hit with the force that made the bat spring only to have one of these rubes get his big hands upon it.
Considering that we were in no angelic frame of mind before the game started, and in view of Merritt’s persistently increasing ill humor, this failure of ours to hit a ball safely gradually worked us into a kind of frenzy. From indifference we passed to determination, and from that to sheer passionate purpose.
Luck appeared to be turning in the sixth inning. With one out, Lake hit a beauty to right. Doran beat an infield grounder and reached first. Hathaway struck out.
With Browning up and me next, the situation looked rather precarious for the Canadians.
“Say, Deerfoot,” whispered Merritt, “dump one down the third-base line. He’s playin’ deep. It’s a pipe. Then the bases will be full an’ Reddy’ll clean up.”
In a stage like that Browning was a man absolutely to depend upon. He placed a slow bunt in the grass toward third and sprinted for first. The third baseman fielded the ball, but, being confused, did not know where to throw it.
“Stick it in your basket,” yelled Merritt, in a delight that showed how hard he was pulling for the gate money, and his beaming smile as he turned to me was inspiring. “Now, Reddy, it’s up to you! I’m not worrying about what’s happened so far. I know, with you at bat in a pinch, it’s all off!”
Merritt’s compliment was pleasing, but it did not augment my purpose, for that already had reached the highest mark. Love of hitting, if no other thing, gave me the thrilling fire to arise to the opportunity. Selecting my light bat, I went up and faced the rustic twirler and softly said things to him.
He delivered the ball, and I could have yelled aloud, so fast, so straight, so true it sped toward me. Then I hit it harder than I had ever hit a ball in my life. The bat sprung, as if it were whalebone. And the ball took a bullet course between center and left. So beautiful a hit was it that I watched as I ran.
Out of the tail of my eye I saw the center fielder running. When I rounded first base I got a good look at this fielder, and though I had seen the greatest outfielders the game ever produced, I never saw one that covered ground so swiftly as he.
On the ball soared, and began to drop; on the fielder sped, and began to disappear over a little hill back of his position. Then he reached up with a long arm and marvelously caught the ball in one hand. He went out of sight as I touched second base, and the heterogeneous crowd knew about a great play to make more noise than a herd of charging buffalo.
In the next half inning our opponents, by clean drives, scored two runs and we in our turn again went out ignominiously. When the first of the eighth came we were desperate and clamored for the “rabbit.”
“I’ve sneaked it in,” said Merritt, with a low voice. “Got it to the umpire on the last passed ball. See, the pitcher’s got it now. Boys, it’s all off but the fireworks! Now, break loose!”
A peculiarity about the “rabbit” was the fact that though it felt as light as the regulation league ball it could not be thrown with the same speed and to curve it was an impossibility.
Bane hit the first delivery from our hoosier stumbling block. The ball struck the ground and began to bound toward short. With every bound it went swifter, longer and higher, and it bounced clear over the shortstop’s head. Lake chopped one in front of the plate, and it rebounded from the ground straight up so high that both runners were safe before it came down.
Doran hit to the pitcher. The ball caromed his leg, scooted fiendishly at the second baseman, and tried to run up all over him like a tame squirrel. Bases full!
Hathaway got a safe fly over the infield and two runs tallied. The pitcher, in spite of the help of the umpire, could not locate the plate for Balknap, and gave him a base on balls. Bases full again!
Deerfoot slammed a hot liner straight at the second baseman, which, striking squarely in his hands, recoiled as sharply as if it had struck a wall. Doran scored, and still the bases were filled.
The laboring pitcher began to get rattled; he could not find his usual speed; he knew it, but evidently could not account for it.
When I came to bat, indications were not wanting that the Canadian team would soon be up in the air. The long pitcher delivered the “rabbit,” and got it low down by my knees, which
was an unfortunate thing for him. I swung on that one, and trotted round the bases behind the runners while the center and left fielders chased the ball.
Gillinger weighed nearly two hundred pounds, and he got all his weight under the “rabbit.” It went so high that we could scarcely see it. All the infielders rushed in, and after staggering around, with heads bent back, one of them, the shortstop, managed to get under it. The “rabbit” bounded forty feet out of his hands!
When Snead’s grounder nearly tore the third baseman’s leg off; when Bane’s hit proved as elusive as a flitting shadow; when Lake’s liner knocked the pitcher flat, and Doran’s fly leaped high out of the center fielder’s glove–then those earnest, simple, country ballplayers realized something was wrong. But they imagined it was in themselves, and after a short spell of rattles, they steadied up and tried harder than ever. The motions they went through trying to stop that jumping jackrabbit of a ball were ludicrous in the extreme.
Finally, through a foul, a short fly, and a scratch hit to first, they retired the side and we went into the field with the score 14 to 2 in our favor.
But Merritt had not found it possible to get the “rabbit” out of play!
We spent a fatefully anxious few moments squabbling with the umpire and captain over the “rabbit.” At the idea of letting those herculean railsplitters have a chance to hit the rubber ball we felt our blood run cold.
“But this ball has a rip in it,” blustered Gillinger. He lied atrociously. A microscope could not have discovered as much as a scratch in that smooth leather.
“Sure it has,” supplemented Merritt, in the suave tones of a stage villain. “We’re used to playing with good balls.”
“Why did you ring this one in on us?” asked the captain. “We never threw out this ball. We want a chance to hit it.”
That was just the one thing we did not want them to have. But fate played against us.
“Get up on your toes, now an’ dust,” said Merritt. “Take your medicine, you lazy sit-in-front- of-the-hotel stiffs! Think of pay day!”
Not improbably we all entertained the identical thought that old man Hathaway was the last pitcher under the sun calculated to be effective with the “rabbit.” He never relied on speed; in fact, Merritt often scornfully accused him of being unable to break a pane of glass; he used principally what we called floaters and a change of pace. Both styles were absolutely impractical with the “rabbit.”
“It’s comin’ to us, all right, all right!” yelled Deerfoot to me, across the intervening grass. I was of the opinion that it did not take any genius to make Deerfoot’s ominous prophecy.
Old man Hathaway gazed at Merritt on the bench as if he wished the manager could hear what he was calling him and then at his fellow- players as if both to warn and beseech them. Then he pitched the “rabbit.”
Crack!
The big lumbering Canadian rapped the ball at Crab Bane. I did not see it, because it went so fast, but I gathered from Crab’s actions that it must have been hit in his direction. At any rate, one of his legs flopped out sidewise as if it had been suddenly jerked, and he fell in a heap. The ball, a veritable “rabbit” in its wild jumps, headed on for Deerfoot, who contrived to stop it with his knees.
The next batter resembled the first one, and the hit likewise, only it leaped wickedly at Doran and went through his hands as if they had been paper. The third man batted up a very high fly to Gillinger. He clutched at it with his huge shovel hands, but he could not hold it. The way he pounced upon the ball, dug it out of the grass, and hurled it at Hathaway, showed his anger.
Obviously Hathaway had to stop the throw, for he could not get out of the road, and he spoke to his captain in what I knew were no complimentary terms.
Thus began retribution. Those husky lads continued to hammer the “rabbit” at the infielders and as it bounced harder at every bounce so they batted harder at every bat.
Another singular feature about the “rabbit” was the seeming impossibility for professionals to hold it. Their familiarity with it, their understanding of its vagaries and inconsistencies, their mortal dread made fielding it a much more difficult thing than for their opponents.
By way of variety, the lambasting Canadians commenced to lambast a few over the hills and far away, which chased Deerfoot and me until our tongues lolled out.
Every time a run crossed the plate the motley crowd howled, roared, danced and threw up their hats. The members of the batting team pranced up and down the side lines, giving a splendid imitation of cannibals celebrating the occasion of a feast.
Once Snead stooped down to trap the “rabbit,” and it slipped through his legs, for which his comrades jeered him unmercifully. Then a brawny batter sent up a tremendously high fly between short and third.
“You take it!” yelled Gillinger to Bane.
“You take it!” replied the Crab, and actually walked backward. That ball went a mile high. The sky was hazy, gray, the most perplexing in which to judge a fly ball. An ordinary fly gave trouble enough in the gauging.
Gillinger wandered around under the ball for what seemed an age. It dropped as swiftly as a rocket shoots upward. Gillinger went forward in a circle, then sidestepped, and threw up his broad hands. He misjudged the ball, and it hit him fairly on the head and bounced almost to where Doran stood at second.
Our big captain wilted. Time was called. But Gillinger, when he came to, refused to leave the game and went back to third with a lump on his head as large as a goose egg.
Every one of his teammates was sorry, yet every one howled in glee. To be hit on the head was the unpardonable sin for a professional.
Old man Hathaway gradually lost what little speed he had, and with it his nerve. Every time he pitched the “rabbit” he dodged. That was about the funniest and strangest thing ever seen on a ball field. Yet it had an element of tragedy.
Hathaway’s expert contortions saved his head and body on divers occasions, but presently a low bounder glanced off the grass and manifested an affinity for his leg.
We all knew from the crack and the way the pitcher went down that the “rabbit” had put him out of the game. The umpire called time, and Merritt came running on the diamond.
“Hard luck, old man,” said the manager. “That’ll make a green and yellow spot all right. Boys, we’re still two runs to the good. There’s one out, an’ we can win yet. Deerfoot, you’re as badly crippled as Hathaway. The bench for yours. Hooker will go to center, an’ I’ll pitch.”
Merritt’s idea did not strike us as a bad one. He could pitch, and he always kept his arm in prime condition. We welcomed him into the fray for two reasons–because he might win the game, and because he might be overtaken by the baseball Nemesis.
While Merritt was putting on Hathaway’s baseball shoes, some of us endeavored to get the “rabbit” away from the umpire, but he was too wise.
Merritt received the innocent-looking ball with a look of mingled disgust and fear, and he summarily ordered us to our positions.
Not far had we gone, however, when we were electrified by the umpire’s sharp words:
“Naw! Naw, you don’t. I saw you change the ball I gave you fer one in your pocket! Naw! You don’t come enny of your American dodges on us! Gimmee thet ball, an’ you use the other, or I’ll stop the game.”
Wherewith the shrewd umpire took the ball from Merritt’s hand and fished the “rabbit” from his pocket. Our thwarted manager stuttered his wrath. “Y-you be-be-wh-whiskered y-yap! I’ll g-g-give—-”
What dire threat he had in mind never materialized, for he became speechless. He glowered upon the cool little umpire, and then turned grandly toward the plate.
It may have been imagination, yet I made sure Merritt seemed to shrink and grow smaller before he pitched a ball. For one thing the plate was uphill from the pitcher’s box, and then the fellow standing there loomed up like a hill and swung a bat that would have served as a wagon tongue. No wonder Merritt evinced nervousness. Presently he whirled and delivered the ball.
Bing!
A dark streak and a white puff of dust over second base showed how safe that hit was. By dint of manful body work, Hooker contrived to stop the “rabbit” in mid-center. Another run scored. Human nature was proof against this temptation, and Merritt’s players tendered him manifold congratulations and dissertations.
“Grand, you old skinflint, grand!”
“There was a two-dollar bill stickin’ on thet hit. Why didn’t you stop it?”
“Say, Merritt, what little brains you’ve got will presently be ridin’ on the `rabbit.’ ”
“You will chase up these exhibition games!”
“Take your medicine now. Ha! Ha! Ha!”
After these merciless taunts, and particularly after the next slashing hit that tied the score, Merritt looked appreciably smaller and humbler.
He threw up another ball, and actually shied as it neared the plate.
The giant who was waiting to slug it evidently thought better of his eagerness as far as that pitch was concerned, for he let it go by.
Merritt got the next ball higher. With a mighty swing, the batsman hit a terrific liner right at the pitcher.
Quick as lightning, Merritt wheeled, and the ball struck him with the sound of two boards brought heavily together with a smack.
Merritt did not fall; he melted to the ground and writhed while the runners scored with more tallies than they needed to win.
What did we care! Justice had been done us, and we were unutterably happy. Crabe Bane stood on his head; Gillinger began a war dance; old man Hathaway hobbled out to the side lines and whooped like an Indian; Snead rolled over and over in the grass. All of us broke out into typical expressions of baseball frenzy, and individual ones illustrating our particular moods.
Merritt got up and made a dive for the ball. With face positively flaming he flung it far beyond the merry crowd, over into a swamp. Then he limped for the bench. Which throw ended the most memorable game ever recorded to the credit of the “rabbit.”
FALSE COLORS
“Fate has decreed more bad luck for Salisbury in Saturday’s game with Bellville. It has leaked out that our rivals will come over strengthened by a `ringer,’ no less than Yale’s star pitcher, Wayne. We saw him shut Princeton out in June, in the last game of the college year, and we are not optimistic in our predictions as to what Salisbury can do with him. This appears a rather unfair procedure for Bellville to resort to. Why couldn’t they come over with their regular team? They have won a game, and so have we; both games were close and brilliant; the deciding game has roused unusual interest. We are inclined to resent Bellville’s methods as unsportsmanlike. All our players can do is to go into this game on Saturday and try the harder to win.”
Wayne laid down the Salisbury Gazette, with a little laugh of amusement, yet feeling a vague, disquieting sense of something akin to regret.
“Pretty decent of that chap not to roast me,” he soliloquized.
Somewhere he had heard that Salisbury maintained an unsalaried team. It was notorious among college athletes that the Bellville Club paid for the services of distinguished players. And this in itself rather inclined Wayne to sympathize with Salisbury. He knew something of the struggles of a strictly amateur club to cope with its semi-professional rivals.
As he was sitting there, idly tipped back in a comfortable chair, dreaming over some of the baseball disasters he had survived before his college career, he saw a young man enter the lobby of the hotel, speak to the clerk, and then turn and come directly toward the window where Wayne was sitting.
“Are yon Mr. Wayne, the Yale pitcher?” he asked eagerly. He was a fair-haired,
clean-cut young fellow, and his voice rang pleasantly.
“Guilty,” replied Wayne.
“My name’s Huling. I’m captain of the Salisbury nine. Just learned you were in town and
are going to pitch against us tomorrow. Won’t you walk out into the grounds with me now? You might want to warm up a little.”
“Thank you, yes, I will. Guess I won’t need my suit. I’ll just limber up, and give my arm a good rub.”
It struck Wayne before they had walked far that Huling was an amiable and likable chap. As the captain of the Salisbury nine, he certainly had no reason to be agreeable to the Morristown “ringer,” even though Wayne did happen to be a famous Yale pitcher.
The field was an oval, green as an emerald, level as a billiard table and had no fences or stands