PHIL MAKES HIS DÉBUT
“ONE strike!” called the umpire. Phil gripped the bat and waited. It was
the first practice game, the scrub against the school. Phil had been put
at left-field on the scrub; and he was now at bat nervously conscious
that it was his first real trial, perhaps his only one, and that Sands
was waiting for the pretext to fire him with the first batch of
disappointed candidates. Tompkins was also on trial, and while he rubbed
the damp ball into a state to grip decently for the next pitch, he
considered whether he could afford to give the youngster an easy one to
help him out, without interfering with his own reputation. Then he
caught Sands’s signal as the crouching catcher wagged his hand between
his knees, and answered it with an in-curve. No, there was no place in
the Seaton game for favoritism. The boy must take his chance.
Phil’s bat came almost to the plate, but he stopped it short at the
first veer of the ball. He had learned from Wallace to watch the ball,
but it was Rowley who had taught him to detect the first sign of the
veer.
“One ball!” shouted the umpire.
The next one was an out meant to swing over the plate. It swung too far,
and Phil had to dodge to save himself, but he did it easily, stepping
back just far enough to avoid the ball. There was no sign of fear in the
movement.
“Hang a left-hander!” muttered Tompkins; and sent a straight ball over
the corner of the plate a little below the shoulder.
With the instinct of a real ball-player Phil knew his ball and met it
squarely, dropped the bat and scampered for first. He perceived as he
ran that the second baseman jumped for it and missed it, and a moment
later as he touched first he saw the centre-fielder stoop and then turn
and run. He did not need the coacher’s advice to go down. By the time
the centre-fielder got his hands on the ball, the runner was already
beyond second; he slid to third with a fine dive, the prettiness of
which was not spoiled by the fact that the slide was wholly unnecessary.
At third he waited while the three men who followed him at bat went out
in quick succession, two as victims of strikes, tempted to hit at balls
they didn’t want, and one on a pop fly.
Sands threw down his mask and protector and joined the coach.
“That hit of Poole’s was the second made off Tompkins in five innings,”
said the coach. “A pretty hit and a good slide. Too bad he’s so young,
for he seems about the only man on your scrub team who stands up to the
plate and keeps his head. He’s been up twice: the first time he got his
base on balls; the second he made a hit.”
“He’s doing better than I expected,” said Sands. “Probably it’s his
lucky day; but he’s too light and too green for us. He’ll make good
material for about two years from now. We must have steady men for the
Hillbury game or they’ll go to pieces. The strain’s terrific.”
“He’s had two fielding chances with one error,” said the coach,
consulting his record. “Oh, yes, I remember; the error was on a long hit
close by the foul line, but he got it back well to the in-field.”
In the sixth inning Robinson, second baseman on the first team, led off
with a single over third. Maine, who was being tried at short, followed
with a hot grounder to right-field, which the scrub-fielder let bounce
past him, allowing the batsman to reach second and advancing Robinson to
third; and Sands followed with a liner over the short-stop’s head that
set the runners moving again. By some unaccountable instinct—he
certainly had not seen enough of Sands’s playing to know the general
direction of his hits—Phil had moved up toward the in-field. Suddenly he
heard the crack of the bat, and saw the ball shooting straight toward
him, apparently likely to strike a dozen yards ahead. Impulse drove him
forward to meet it; intelligence, with tardier admonition, held him
back. So he took a step forward, then several back, and just reached the
ball as it skimmed above his head, and pulled it down.
It was a creditable catch, but more creditable still was the
unhesitating, accurate throw to Rhines at third to cut off Robinson, who
had started for home; for it was proof that the boy could think quickly
and take advantage of the chances of the game.
Whatever the merit of quick thought, Rhines evidently lacked it; for he
stupidly held the ball on third, without perceiving that the other
base-runner was thirty feet from second, and might have been caught
equally well. Smith, who was pitching, finally made it clear to him with
expletives and yells, but the opportunity for the triple play had
passed. Vincent went out on a pop fly to the pitcher, and the scrub came
in triumphant.
The coach made another mental note in Phil’s favor. A catch may be by
chance, a double play never. It was no great feat, but the boy could use
his brains; that was worth remembering.
Phil’s side went out readily enough, one hitting to pitcher, one on a
little fly to second, one on strikes. The first followed in similar
fashion, and the scrub in their turn advanced no farther than second. It
was still early in the season, and schoolboys are likely to be poor
batters. The pitchers were the only men who had had any regular practice
for their positions. Then with the return of the first to bat, came a
set of in-field fumbles and wild throws, and general heedless passing of
the ball around the diamond, that set the first to running recklessly,
and drove the scrub to wilder errors. Such practice is as vicious for
base-runners and coachers as for fielders.
“Stop, stop!” cried Lyford, running out into the diamond. The scrub
short-stop had fumbled a grounder, and then after juggling the ball a
second had thrown to first when it was quite impossible to catch the
man; the first baseman had put it frantically across the diamond to
Rhines six feet off the base, in a wild attempt to catch a runner at
third; and Rhines had made haste to contribute his part to the general
demoralization by throwing several feet over the second baseman’s head,
in an equally hopeless effort to intercept the man speeding down to
second.
“Give that ball to the pitcher,” shouted the coach, as the ball finally
came back from the distant out-field, “and don’t do any more of this
reckless tossing round the diamond. Until you can throw the ball
straight, don’t throw it; and never throw unless you know what you’re
trying to do.”
The scrub steadied down and put three men out,—two, including Taylor the
left-fielder, being struck out by Smith, and the other sending an easy
fly to the centre-field. Rhines then made a hit for the scrub, stole
second, and was pushed on to third by an out. Newcomb sent an easy fly
to Taylor, and Phil came up to bat with two men out and Rhines on third.
This time Tompkins had no question as to the youngster. Phil struck
once, had two balls and a strike called on him, and then, just holding
the bat to meet the ball, and drawing it a little back rather than
striking, dropped a pretty bunt near the side-lines, between third and
home, and easily beat the ball to first. With Rhines on third, the boy
stole second without fear; and then as Smith sent a bounder to
right-field, he was off with the sharp start, rounded third at full
speed, and came racing over the plate just before the ball reached the
catcher’s hands. An easy strike out sent the scrub for the last time
into the field.
Phil ran out to his place with a heart throbbing with joyful
exhilaration. He had reached first every time he had come to bat,—once
on balls, once on a genuine hit, once on a successful bunt. His fielding
chances had been at least decently good. He had caught two flies, made
one assist, and there was but one error against him. There was certainly
nothing here to be ashamed of.
The first of the school batters went out on an easy in-field fly; the
second reached first safely through an error by the fumbling short; the
third got his base on balls; and the fourth hit to centre-field, filling
the bases. Phil pulled his cap down tight over his head, blew on his
fingers to keep them warm, and pondered what he should do with the ball
if a fly came into his hands.
Tompkins came up to the plate. “Line it out, Tommy!” cried Sands. “A hit
means two runs, a two bagger, three!”
One ball! One strike! Tompkins set his teeth and smashed at what he
thought to be his chance. He hit hard, but he hit a trifle under, and
the ball went up, up, up, going, it seemed to Phil, as if it never would
stop. The short-stop staggered back with his eyes on the ball, but it
was out of reach behind him.
“I’ll take it!” shouted Phil. He ran hard forward; then looked up and
waited. How it wabbled! How it swung! How it changed its size in the
air! He cleared his eyes with a wink; the next instant the ball was in
his hands.
A moment only he staggered for better footing; then as he saw the runner
cut loose from third and dash for the home, he set himself for a throw.
The catcher stood on the plate and waited dutifully but hopelessly,
ready to leap to either side for the wild throw from the field. To his
surprise he did not need to stir from his tracks. The ball came directly
toward him,—a long straight line throw,—made an easy bound, and landed
in his hands just as the runner came within reach.
“Out!” cried the umpire. “By a mile,” added Tompkins under his breath.
“Bully for the kid! That’s a throw a professional wouldn’t be ashamed
of.”
During the last half of the ninth, Phil sat on the bench enjoying the
compliments of his associates, and cared not a whit whether the scrub
batters reached first or not. As a matter of fact, they went out as
quickly and easily as three timid batters could go; and Phil, his ears
tingling with a commendation from Sands, and a warning from the coach as
to taking care of himself after the game, that was more delightfully
significant than the captain’s good word, trotted gayly down to the
gymnasium for his bath and rub-down and a change of clothes.
Half an hour later he rushed in on Melvin, who had just come in from a
trip up the river in Varrell’s canoe.
“What luck, Phil?”
“Luck indeed! Nothing but luck! I helped in two double plays, caught two
flies, made two hits and only one error. Lyford was cordial, and even
Sands gave me a compliment.”
“That _is_ a record. You remember what I said about my getting a start
by luck; you’ve beaten me in luck, anyway.”
The boy’s face fell. “But you got on the team and I shan’t, that’s the
difference. Sands thinks I’m too young, and it will make no difference
whether I play well or not, he won’t take me on.”
“Has he told you so?”
“No, but I suspect it, and I’m pretty sure I’m right.”
“Nonsense,” said Melvin. “He’ll take you if you’re the best man, or I
don’t know Sands. Only bear in mind that you’ve had a lucky day, and the
first practice game isn’t enough to prove anything. You’ve won the first
heat, but don’t get a swelled head over it, or you’ll win no more.”
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At the same time Sands and Coach Lyford were lingering on the gymnasium
steps, in the midst of a conversation on the very same subject.
“The little chap did well,” Sands was saying; “I don’t dispute that.
He’s a clever little player. What we want is a _big_ player, a hard,
experienced, steady man who can swat the ball for two or three bases
when he hits it, and can stand the strain of the season without going up
in the air.”
“I’d rather have a man that can hit often than one who sometimes hits
hard,” replied the coach; “and as for throwing, give me brains and skill
rather than muscle behind a ball any time. There is good baseball in the
boy, and you ought not to discourage him. I don’t ask you to put him on
the team; keep him as substitute if you wish, but watch him and help him
and see what you can make of him.”
So it happened that Phil was retained as substitute when the great
majority of the candidates were dropped. Some said he ought to be on the
team, some that it was gross favoritism not to fire him with the rest;
but Phil himself was content to sit and watch, and do what he was told,
and play when he had a chance with all the earnestness and strength and
skill he had. And twice a week he turned out early for the six o’clock
practice with Rowley.
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