THE BEGINNING OF THE GAME
Rufe Hyland, the visitors’ right fielder and one of their crack
hitters, stood at the pan, calm and smiling, swinging his stick with a
short, gentle motion, which seemed to denote tense muscles and a brain
alert and ready to take advantage of any pitched ball that should nick
the platter.
In spite of his seeming coolness, Bert Elgin had really never been more
nervous in his life. He took his time, even after Fargo had given the
signal, and, as he dug away the soil near the pitcher’s rubber with his
copper toe, he heard his teammates coaching behind him.
He was heartened by the sound of their friendly voices; but,
nevertheless, the straight, low one he sent over seemed to lack his
usual cannon-ball speed. Hyland lashed it out in a manner which sent
the pitcher’s heart down into his boots. For an instant he thought it
a two-bagger, at least. Then, as he whirled round, he saw that Dutch
Siegrist, sprinting at full speed, had scooped it right off the blades
of grass.
The superb catch brought a yell of delight from the Hornets’ rooters,
and seemed to brace Elgin amazingly. He took a long breath, and his
nerves ceased to flutter as he surveyed the next batter. He felt a
new confidence in himself in the realization that the team was behind
him, ready to back him up with their wonderfully perfect organization.
He lost instantly that sense of isolation he had been conscious of at
first――the feeling that the entire weight and responsibility of the
game lay on his shoulders. The boys were there, ready to cover any
blunder or mistake he might make; and, though this did not bring about
laxness in his pitching, it was infinitely consoling.
Again he took the signal from the big backstop, but this time the ball
he put over had burning speed, and a little jump to it which completely
fooled Pink Dalton, the Blue Stockings’ second baseman.
It was followed by an incurve that cut the corner of the plate.
Dalton fouled back of the pan.
Then came a couple of teasers which the batter ignored; and finally,
with two and two, the Blue Stockings’ man hoisted a high fly into left
field, which was easily caught by the guardian of that pasture.
The roaring approval of the crowd caused the blood to tingle in Elgin’s
veins. Before the end of the game he meant to have them shouting his
name as loudly as they had yelled for Russell, or Pop Jennings, or any
other of the old favorites, on the opening day. It wasn’t such a hard
matter, after all, to pitch in a Big League contest.
By carefully following Fargo’s signals, he struck out Brock, the
visitors’ center fielder, and then walked toward the bench with a
little, unconscious swagger. One or two of his fellow players told him
how well he’d done. Brennan, even, added his approval.
Elgin fancied that he had made a very good start, indeed, and that
there wasn’t a doubt of his form improving as the game progressed. He
was quite satisfied with his cleverness in letting only three batters
oppose him. He gave no thought to how much the man behind the pan had
contributed to this result. Neither he nor any one else had the least
conception of the fight which had gone on in Buck Fargo’s mind between
loyalty to his team and the contempt and hatred he felt for the pitcher
his brains and experience were helping so greatly.
The caustic comment and jeering criticism which had greeted Elgin’s
appearance were as nothing to the disparaging chorus that arose when
Lefty walked out into the diamond. Baseball fans are extremely
partizan, and the supporters of the Hornets outnumbered those of their
opponents ten to one.
The southpaw could not help being a bit affected by the unflattering
remarks hurled at him from the bleachers and grandstand, even though he
knew how little such things counted and how fickle the average rooter
is. He felt, too, and rather painfully, the lack of encouragement from
his own team. He knew he was not one of them. They had shown him that
only too plainly. With the exception of one or two, they had made him
perfectly aware of the fact that they regarded him as a man who had yet
to win his spurs, and on whom the honor of opening the first game with
the Hornets had devolved more by accident, or through a whim of their
manager, than from any real worth or proven merit. Their silence as he
toed the slab was in vivid contrast to the behavior of their opponents
in the first half of the inning.
It made him set his teeth and resolve desperately to make good; to
show them that he had something in him; to vindicate Jack Kennedy’s
judgment; incidentally, to prove to the latter how grateful he was for
having been given this chance.
For a second he waited for his catcher’s signal, but none came. Dirk
Nelson seemed to be occupied in settling down behind the pan and
making sure that his mitt was in place. Lefty wondered whether the
backstop’s well-known chumminess with Pete Grist, the popular Blue
Stockings’ twirler, had anything to do with this unusual state of
absent-mindedness. Grist had shown unmistakable signs of ill humor on
discovering that he was not to start on the slab to-day.
There was but a momentary hesitation. Bill Hagin was at bat, and Lefty
had played too many practice games against the capable outfielder not
to know pretty well his strong and weak points. Unfortunately the
latter were few. The southpaw was satisfied, however, when he finally
got Nelson’s belated signal. A slow floater was what he handed up for a
starter.
Hagin, doting on speed, could not restrain himself, and struck too
soon. Lefty then tried a curve. The batter swung at it, making
connections and bumping a slow grounder towards short.
Eddie Lewis made the mistake of waiting for the ball, and was then
forced to throw hastily in order to get it across the diamond in
time. That hasty throw was wide, and Spider Grant had to leap off the
cushion. Hagin was safe because of bad judgment and an error.
The crowd cheered, and urged Dutch Siegrist to carry on the good work.
The first baseman of the Hornets took no chances. In spite of Lefty’s
efforts to prevent it, he managed to lay down a bunt which corkscrewed
along the base line, ever threatening to roll foul, but in the end
coming to rest a couple of inches on the right side. Locke snatched it
up and lined it to Grant, but the delay had made it possible for the
German to reach the sack in safety.
Jim Brennan smiled significantly. He had watched Locke closely and
expectantly, waiting for signs of the yellow streak to show. With two
men on bases and none out, it looked very much as if the southpaw’s
first inning would be his last.
“We’ve got him going,” the manager of the Hornets muttered jubilantly.
“Ken’ll have to yank him sudden. I reckon he’ll have more faith in my
judgment after this.”
When Nolan, his left fielder, presently sent a foul back of first and
was put out by Grant’s wonderful sprinting and equally amazing catch,
Brennan’s conviction was in no wise altered. This was pure luck, helped
on by the skill of the first baseman, and reflected no credit on Locke.
Buck Fargo was advancing to the plate, too, which boded well for the
Hornets.
“You know what to do, Buck,” the manager said, in a low tone, as
the backstop passed him. “We’ve got this green portsider on the run
already.”
It was a curious situation. The two men facing each other were friends.
Fargo’s sympathy for the young pitcher was such that he wanted him to
make good almost more than he desired a victory for his own team. The
big backstop could help very materially, if he wished, without any
risk to himself; and he realized that this was a crucial moment in the
inning when a hit might mean a run, while an out would go far toward
killing the Hornet’s chances for scoring.
To his honor, he walked to the pan with the fixed determination to
forget that Lefty was pitching, and to give his manager the very best
that was in him.
And now Locke realized that the thing which had hitherto been in his
favor was going to work the other way. If he knew intimately the likes
and dislikes, the batting strength and weakness of each member of the
opposing team, the man who faced him now was in a position to know
quite as much, or more, about himself.
Lefty’s face was a shade less brown as he toed the rubber, but his
nerves were quite steady, his courage unabated. He would do his best;
no man could do more.
The cheering and comments in the stands had ceased. Even the murmur of
voices died away as the spectators bent forward in breathless suspense.
The first one was not over, and Fargo refused to go after it.
“Ba-a-ll!” drawled the umpire.
“He’ll put it over now,” thought Fargo, swinging his stick gently.
He had ceased to think of Lefty as his friend; he was now simply the
pitcher of the rival team.
He was mistaken, however. Though it seemed to be Locke’s intention to
cut the pan, Fargo saw the ball break for a curve which would carry it
just outside, and again he refrained from swinging.
“Two-oo!” said the umpire.
In the silence of the breathless crowd some one was heard to say:
“He’s afraid of him. He don’t dare let him hit it.”
These words did not reach the southpaw’s ears. The latter, however, had
no intention of pitching himself into a hole if he could help it. He
bent over a sizzler.
Fargo swung and missed, although he almost fancied that he felt the
bat lightly touch the whistling ball. A murmur rose from the Blue
Stockings’ rooters.
A moment later, Lefty shot the ball back with a quick return, and,
though he was not taken off his guard, the batter missed again.
The murmur rose.
Then Locke tried that slow, lingering ball which he could so cleverly
deliver after going through movements which seemed to promise great
speed.
Unfortunately Fargo had seen him try that same trick more than once,
and he refused to be fooled. Watching the horsehide as it came up and
dropped toward the ground, he let it settle into the catcher’s hands
without having moved his stick.
The Hornets’ fans had a chance to yell, but their uproar was swiftly
cut short. Now was the moment of greatest suspense. The next ball
delivered would be decisive.
After what seemed an eternity, but which was, in reality, the briefest
sort of pause, the southpaw pitched.
Fargo met the sphere on the trademark and sent it humming out on a line
with the speed of a bullet.