IN THE BASEBALL CAGE
THE poker incident caused repeated discussions between the classmates.
Melvin was sure Tommy’s method was wrong, though he could not suggest a
satisfactory substitute except to thrash Bosworth until he made amends;
while Varrell, though disapproving of poker in general, maintained that
in this exceptional case the means were excusable. Neither succeeded in
bringing the other over to his view.
It happened that Tompkins, who was not bothered by scruples as to his
course, was the chief sufferer by it; for additional victims kept
turning up with sad tales to have their losses made good by the generous
restorer, until Tommy had parted not only with his questionable
winnings, but with the surplus of his honestly acquired quarterly
allowance as well. This latter fact he did not confide to his friends.
It seemed to detract somewhat from the excellence of the joke.
Meantime the baseball practice in the cage was taking the usual course.
Besides Flanahan, two or three other fellows were pitching, among them
Tompkins. The latter had been pulled out of obscurity by some enthusiast
who discovered that he had had experience in the box, and so reluctant
Tommy was now forced to take his regular turn in the cage with the rest.
Phil did his work with all the energy he possessed, not because he had
any real hope, but because his heart and ambition were in the contest,
and even the prospect that the battle would go against him did not take
away his joy in the fighting.
Flanahan had good sharp curves and high speed. His best balls were a
jump at the shoulder and a fine abrupt drop. Tompkins had fewer curves
at his command, but he could vary his speed in a most deceptive way, and
he showed an ability to put the ball where he wanted it and where the
batsman did not like to have it come. Another advantage Tompkins
possessed lay in his coolness; gibes from batters or spectators never
hurried or confused him, while Flanahan’s quick temper went to pieces
under slight provocation. Smith, the best class-team pitcher of the last
season, was a third candidate, but ranked unquestionably after Tompkins.
Flanahan’s curves were the delight and admiration of the spectators, who
would cluster around the catcher’s end of the cage when Flanahan was
pitching, and express their appreciation by manifold ejaculations. Such
wonderful rises and drops and shoots, the Hillburyites would certainly
find impossible to hit. And so did the Seatonians, for that matter,
though the result was really due as much to the wildness of the
pitching, and the consequent fear of getting hit on the part of the
batsmen, as to the skill of the pitcher. For the most part Flanahan
preferred to let some one else pitch for the batting, while he practiced
by himself.
The first time Phil came up to bat Flanahan, he had the misfortune to
get hit. Phil was a right-hander who batted left, and Flanahan’s wide
out off the plate caught the boy in the back as he turned to dodge, and
inflicted a painful bruise. The result was to give him a scare that
prevented his facing the pitcher for a fortnight, and confirmed Sands in
the impression that he was too young and green to be of any use on the
school nine. As the cage practice is necessarily limited to pitching,
batting, sliding, and handling grounders, and Phil as a candidate for
the out-field was not given much chance at grounders, he seemed to have
excellent prospect of being dropped from the squad among the first. It
was Wallace who saved him from this ignominy.
Wallace was the head coach for baseball at the great university near
by,—a graduate a year or two out of college, with an enthusiasm as
unprofessional as his knowledge of the game was complete and technical.
He could pitch and field and hit; he was a master of the ritual of that
mysterious coaching book in which are written all possible details of
play under all possible circumstances, and on which the Varsity
candidates are examined for their positions as a candidate for a degree
is quizzed by the specialists who sit in commission over him. Indeed,
Wallace was more of a master than the original authors, for the
supplement was of his own making. Though not a Seatonian himself, his
baseball sympathies were wide, and his college mates from Seaton had
found no difficulty in enlisting his help for the school nine.
He began with grounders which he made the boys take with heels together
and elbows between the knees, bending slightly forward as they settled.
Some did this instinctively as the most natural way, others went down on
one knee or tried to make the hands alone a substitute for a solid wall
of arms and legs. With others, again, Wallace found fault for sinking
for the ball and rising before they got it. “Settle, get the ball, then
rise and throw” was, according to the college expert, the right order of
movements for “gathering in” grounders.
After grounders came starting and sliding. At first he put them through
a series of standing sprint starts, like the old-fashioned erect start
for short races, with first steps short to develop immediate speed; then
the double balancing start that the base-runner uses as he poises off
first base ready to return instantly, or go down hard to second, as the
need may be. In sliding he urged the slide head first as the college
ideal, at the same time adding that professionals generally slide feet
foremost for the sake of greater safety. “Good sliding is fearless
sliding,” he said, “and the man who slides fearlessly is much less
likely to be hurt than the coward.”
When they came to the batting practice, the first thing which the expert
did was to moderate the speed of the pitcher, who was sending in hot
balls to show his ability. “Only slow pitched balls in the cage,” was
his warning; “the light is too poor for swift pitching. Moreover, in a
confined place like this, a batsman is likely to become frightened at a
swift ball as he wouldn’t be out-of-doors.”
Then he made the batters stand firmly, watch the ball closely, step
straight out toward the pitcher, and strike quickly at what they were
sure were good chances. “Don’t worry,” he kept saying. “Don’t watch the
pitcher too much. The ball is the thing you are trying to hit. Don’t
commit yourself too soon; wait till you know what is coming.”
Phil came up for his trial as nervous as a young boy can be under the
eyes of an admired master whom he would give a month’s allowance to
please. “Steady, my boy, steady,” said the kindly voice of the coach,
who probably felt with Sands that he was wasting his time on an
impossible candidate, but who, unlike Sands, was still generous and glad
to help.—“Don’t be frightened. ‘Step straight, hit late, watch the ball
and not the pitcher’ is the thumb rule for good batting.—Less body and
more arms.”
Phil gathered himself together and cracked out a good wrist hit.
“That’s the way. I always like to see that!” exclaimed Wallace,
approvingly. “The wrist hitters are the safest hitters.” With face aglow
with satisfaction Phil stole back among the group of waiting players.
“Step straight, hit late, and watch the ball,” he repeated to himself.
“Why didn’t some one tell me that before? I’ve been going contrary to
every part of that rule.”
It is to be feared that Phil’s lessons on those two days of Wallace’s
stay were somewhat neglected. He certainly haunted the cage at all
vacant hours when Wallace was engaged in instruction, and when the
practice was over he ran back to his room and put down in a note-book
snatches of baseball wisdom caught from the collegian’s lips. Many of
the notes were doubtless futile, merely serving to give the boy the
satisfaction of doing something to help himself on in his great
ambition. Yet many were of great value, not only for immediate drill,
but also for use later on in answering questions that unexpectedly
arose, when the details of Wallace’s instruction were as thoroughly
forgotten by the boys as the teachers’ comments on their first
translations.
Wallace’s view of the pitchers mystified Phil a good deal. With Flanahan
the coach made short work, giving him only a few words of general
advice. Tompkins, on the other hand, absorbed much attention.
“That man has the making of a great pitcher in him,” the collegian
remarked to Sands in Phil’s hearing. “A couple of years of good training
would do wonders for him. He is cool, knows what he is doing, and has
the full arm shoulder swing which not one amateur in twenty ever gets.”
“What about Flanahan?” asked Sands.
“He hasn’t it,” returned Wallace, emphatically. “His is a fairly swift
arm throw with good curves and poor command. He’s used to playing, and
probably knows a good deal about the game, without possessing any great
intelligence. I should put him, at a guess, on the edge of the
semi-professional class. He has reached his limit and is beyond
instruction. Tompkins, on the other hand, is good, improvable material.”
“I guess Flanahan will do for us,” said Sands, with a smug smile of
confidence.
“It seems to me that I’ve met him before,” mused Wallace, with his eyes
fixed on Flanahan, who was still pitching; “but I can’t now recall where
or under what circumstances. He certainly isn’t the kind of man I like
to see on a school nine.”
“Oh, he’s all straight,” insisted Sands. “We often have old fellows here
who are anxious for an education but have begun late.”
“I don’t doubt that,” replied Wallace, “but none the less,
semi-professional ball players don’t belong on school teams.”
Perhaps it was this difference of opinion regarding Flanahan that made
Sands so lukewarm in his praises of the coach. The boys generally spoke
of him with veneration, but boy-like gave more attention to his
appearance and his prowess than to his directions. No one profited more
by these than the owner of the note-book, who learned to stand firmly
and step out fearlessly; and as he really had a quick, accurate eye, he
was soon hitting with the best. Sands was oblivious to all improvement,
but the others noticed it, and Smith went so far as to warn him.
“You’re finding the ball right, Poole, but don’t get a swelled head over
it. Outside, you may not be able to do a thing. There were Baker and
Lydecker last year, who couldn’t hit a balloon in the cage, and yet used
to swipe out two and three baggers ’most every game.”
Then Phil went home and consulted the note-book, rereading the quotation
from Wallace which Dick had said was the best thing his room-mate had
written down: “The good player,—and the rare player,—is the one who can
analyze his own errors, and instead of giving up discouraged when he
fails, can discover and remedy the fundamental fault.”
“I’m willing to be shown my faults,” said Phil to himself, earnestly;
“and if I stick to it long enough and use my brains, I ought to get
ahead.”
And Phil was right. Those who use brains do get ahead, in ball playing
or anything else. But brains unfortunately cannot be furnished on
demand, or ordered in advance, like a supply of coal for the winter.
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