THE TRYOUT
Winter in Maryland that year was unusually severe, and all through the
latter part of January and well in February cold weather prevailed,
with snow and ice enough to make winter sports possible. There was
skating on the inlet for several weeks and half a dozen impromptu
hockey teams combated for supremacy. Tom, who had learned skating on
the frozen Hudson, captained the “Terrors,” and, largely because of his
ability on the steel runners and his superior knowledge of the game,
the “Terrors” virtually captured the school championship, although
the “Wanderers,” formed of first class fellows from McCrea House,
disputed their claim. Tom had successfully completed arrangements for a
game with a team from Brackett School, in Baltimore, when a change of
weather came and the ice, hard and firm one day, was mush and slush the
next. That ended the skating season, for, although there was more cold
and another snowstorm a week later, the inlet never again that winter
presented a safe surface.
It was nearly the middle of February when Tom made good his promise
to give Jerry a tryout. The ball field was too soft underfoot for use
and so, one afternoon, the two descended to the batting cage in the
basement of the gymnasium building. The cage was not large enough to be
very practical, but it answered well enough for pitching and bunting.
Tom, pulling off his sweater, warned Jerry against “slugging.” “Just
meet the ball, Jerry,” he said, “If you lam it you’re likely to knock
my bean off!”
So Jerry agreed to be gentle and Tom lobbed over some slow ones and
Jerry swung very gingerly at them. The result was that he failed to
connect with any. “What’s the matter?” he demanded. “They ain’t――aren’t
curves, are they?”
“Of course not,” answered Tom. “The matter is that you bring your
bat around so slow that the ball’s past before you get there. Swing
quicker, but hold your bat loosely as if you were bunting. And swing
shorter, too. Don’t hold your bat away around like that. Here, I’ll
show you.” Tom illustrated, and Jerry, now somewhat vague of movement
and unsettled in his mind, strove to profit by the advice given him.
He hit one now and then, but seldom squarely, and at last he shook his
head.
“I reckon I ain’t much good at this parlor baseball,” he announced a
trifle disgustedly. “Reckon if we were outdoors where you could speed
’em over I’d manage to bust a few, Tom.”
“Busting them’s all right,” answered the other, “but it’s well to know
how to bunt them, too. The main thing, Jerry, is to be able to hit
them. I’m putting these right over the plate and you’d ought to be able
to get your bat in front of every one of them. You pitch me a few and
I’ll show you how it’s done.”
They changed places and Jerry threw a straight, slow ball. Tom, without
any swing, caught it on the face of his bat and sent it rolling back to
the pitcher. He did the same thing a dozen times. Not once was Jerry
able to get the ball against the wire net at the end of the cage.
“That,” said Tom, “is the best practice there is for a batter. You
learn to watch the ball and keep your eye on it until the last instant,
and whether you’re going to lay down a bunt in front of the plate or
roll one down the base line or bust out a home run you’ve got to know
where the ball is coming. Want to try it again?”
“Yes,” replied Jerry thoughtfully. “I reckon I see how it’s done now.
You don’t swing none, Tom. All you do is hold your bat out and let the
ball hit it!”
“That’s about it,” Tom laughed. “Here you are. Show me.”
Jerry wasn’t as successful as his companion, but he did fairly well,
on the whole, and better yet when he was at last able to resist his
desire to take a long swing. Then Tom instructed him how to hold his
bat loosely so that the ball would drop almost dead in front of him.
“But don’t try to bunt low ones, Jerry,” he warned. “If you do you’re
likely to pop one up in the air and the catcher or pitcher will get it.
High ones are the best to ‘lay down.’ I’ll show you what I mean. Here’s
a low one. Try to bunt it.”
Jerry did, and missed it entirely. And so with the second. But he found
the next offer, and it went almost straight in air, bounded from the
netting overhead and landed back on top of his head!
“See what I mean?” laughed Tom. And Jerry, rubbing the spot where the
ball had hit, ruefully “reckoned” he did. After a few more tries, they
tossed the bat aside and Tom showed Jerry a few “hooks” and “floaters”
and a “drop” that wasn’t half bad. Tom wasn’t much of a pitcher, but
he had some deliveries that were novel to his audience. Some ludicrous
efforts by Jerry to emulate the other ended the program. By that time
they had warmed themselves up in good shape, and Tom discovered that
the small amount of pitching he had done had “caught” the unaccustomed
muscles of his right arm. They wandered off then to the showers, a form
of ablution unknown to Jerry, and a moment later a fearful howl from
the next bath apprised Tom of the fact that all was not well there.
“What’s the matter?” he shouted above the hiss of the water.
“Matter!” replied Jerry aggrievedly from the corridor. “Why, I’m boiled
alive! What sort of a contraption you call that?”
Tom put his head out and viewed an indignant and unclothed Jerry
hopping about on alternate feet, while from the bath came a cloud
of steam. Jerry was certainly somewhat red about the shoulders but,
fortunately, he had not remained under the shower long enough to get
scalded. Tom tried not to laugh as he went to the rescue and turned the
water off, but the attempt wasn’t wholly successful, and Jerry, still
smarting about the shoulders, observed him disgruntledly.
“I ain’t going in there no more,” he declared firmly if ungrammatically.
“Golly, I mighty nigh burned the hide off me!”
“I told you not to turn the hot water faucet,” protested Tom. “Can’t
you read, you silly goop? Here, try that now. Come on, it won’t hurt
you. You ought to take it plumb cold, but if it’s your first shower
maybe you’d better not.”
Jerry finally allowed himself to be persuaded and Tom returned to his
bath and listened smilingly to the gasps and grunts that came over
the partition. While he was drying himself with one of Tom’s towels a
minute or two later, Jerry acknowledged that shower baths had their
merits. “They sure do make a feller feel good,” he said. “Reckon I’ll
get me some towels in my locker so’s I can do it again, Tom.”
The baseball candidates were called for the last Saturday in the month,
although just now there seemed little prospect of outdoor practice
then. On the Thursday before the first gathering, however, Tom brought
the cheering report that the field was almost dry, and, as the weather
had been mild and sunny for more than a fortnight and promised to
remain so, it began to look as if the period of indoor work would
be brief. That afternoon Tom and Jerry had another bout of batting
practice, but this time they went over to a corner of the baseball
field where a big batting net stood. Already in places the grass was
green close to the earth and the warmth of the sun gave promise of
spring.
“Don’t go and bust them, Jerry,” cautioned the other, “because if you
do you’ll have to chase them. Just hit them easy.”
So Jerry hit them easy and did fairly well until Tom began to sneak
some curves over. Jerry swung wildly at several before it dawned on
him that Tom was playing a joke on him. Then he smiled a little, with
his eyes mostly, gripped his bat further back and waited. As the next
ball sped toward him he glued his gaze to it until it was almost to him
and swung mightily. There was a resounding crack and the sphere went
arching off across the field!
Tom turned to watch it in silence. It would have been good for three
clean bases in a game unless a fielder had managed to get his hands on
it. Jerry seated himself on the ground and met Tom’s look very placidly
when the latter at last swung about to view him. Tom looked the least
bit silly and not a little surprised.
“I told you not to lam them,” he said. “You go and get that, son.”
But Jerry shook his head untroubledly. “Reckon that’s your fault,”
he explained. “If that had been a straight ball, like you was――were
supposed to give me, it wouldn’t have gone away off there, Tom. Reckon
it’s up to you, neighbor!”
Tom grinned, hesitated and at last set off on his errand. Luckily, a
small fourth class youth was crossing the field and saved Tom half the
journey, and the latter entered into negotiations with him when he
threw the ball back. “Say, kid, want to field some for us?” The boy did
and said so eagerly. He happened to be one of Tom’s devoted admirers,
although the fact was not known to Tom. “All right then. Stick around
about where you are and I’ll let Benson whack them as hard as he likes!
Much obliged.”
The boy, who would have chased balls tirelessly all the afternoon
without thanks, and considered it a privilege, was almost overcome with
mingled pleasure and embarrassment, and later on that day recounted the
Great Adventure many times to his cronies in Follen House.
“The kid’s going to field for us,” called Tom as he came back to the
mound. “So you can hit them where you like, you wild Indian. Only don’t
shoot ’em through the box! What’ll you have now? Straight ones or
curves? I’ve got everything there is, son. Name your shot!”
“Give me anything you like,” answered Jerry grimly. “I’ve got my
batting eye to-day!”
“Fine!” jeered Tom. “Hit this one, Babe Ruth!”
This one happened to be a slow ball that fooled Jerry badly, but he
only smiled as he tossed the ball back, and gripped his bat more
firmly. Again he swung, and a weak foul resulted. Then came two clean
misses and, at last, a scratch hit that Tom fielded himself. Curves and
floaters and such deceptions were too much for the batsman, and at last
he had to acknowledge it.
“I can’t hit those things yet, Tom,” he pleaded. “Give me some straight
ones, will you?”
“Sure,” laughed Tom, “but you’ve got to learn to hit the curves, too,
Jerry, before you run your batting average up to three hundred! Here
you are, son. Bust it!”
And Jerry certainly busted it! The ball went well over the head of the
volunteer fielder and would have cleared the bases nicely had there
been any bases to clear. Tom looked after the ball and then turned
to Jerry approvingly. “That was a whingdinger, Jerry,” he said. “You
certainly can lace out the straight ones!”
When the ball came back Tom offered another with nothing on it and
which, being breast-high, Jerry sent into deep left field with the
speed of a cannon ball. “That’s better,” said Tom. “It’s the liners
that count. But, look here, you always hit into left field. Can you put
one into right or through center?”
Jerry looked doubtful. “Reckon I’d have to face different, wouldn’t I?”
he asked.
“No, but you’ve got to meet the ball later. If you hit the ball before
it’s opposite you it’s going into left field; that is, if you’re a
right-hand hitter, which you are. If you hit it when it’s dead in front
of you it will go into center field. If it gets a little way past you
before you hit it, it will go to right field. At least, that’s the
theory. Sometimes, though, it doesn’t work out that way. You’ve got a
good, clean swing, son, and don’t ‘chop,’ but I don’t believe you gain
anything by holding your bat so far behind you. You have to bring it
around a pretty long way before you meet the ball, and I’d say that it
increased your chance of missing. Still, if you’re used to hitting like
that maybe you’d better not try to change; anyway, not yet. Now try to
drive this into right field.”
Perhaps because he was so intent on meeting the ball late, Jerry missed
it entirely. But a second attempt proved slightly better, for, although
the ball didn’t go into right field, it at least went to the right of
left field, and Jerry was encouraged to try again. The next effort
resulted in a pop fly that Tom ran under. Then a low delivery was hit
squarely on the end of the bat and described a high arc into right
field.
“A nice Texas Leaguer!” called Tom. “Want any more?”
“Yes, if you-all ain’t tired. I’d like to see can I make them go where
I want them to. I ain’t never aimed to put them anywhere in particular
before.”
“Well, I guess I’m good for a dozen more before the old whip gives
out,” laughed Tom. “I warn you, though, that I’m going to mix in a few
slow ones now and then, Jerry, so watch out for ’em.”
Jerry’s “form” at the plate might well have elicited criticism. He
stood away from the rubber with his feet spread far apart and the
bat well behind him. It wasn’t a graceful posture. When he swung, he
brought the bat around with a mighty sweep that completely carried him
off his feet and, when he missed, left him facing third base. If he
was so fortunate as to meet the ball he was already a stride or two
on his way to first by the time the sphere was in flight. One thing
he did not do, however, and Tom noted it with satisfaction. He did
not, having taken his stance, shift his feet about or swing his bat in
useless flourishes or once take his eyes from the front. But Tom smiled
a little to think what Keegan, the coach, would say to Jerry when he
observed his batting style!
The slow ones still fooled Jerry badly. He managed to get to every
one, but the result in each case was unprofitable. Usually the ball,
since Jerry struck too early, trickled away outside what would have
been the third base line had they been on a diamond. But Jerry caught
most of the groove balls and sent them far afield, and the small boy
in attendance was kept very busy indeed. To some extent Jerry found
that he could give direction to his hits, and the fact opened a new
and fascinating field of endeavor. As Tom pointed out on their way
to the gymnasium, a batter who invariably hit to the same place, no
matter how surely he hit or how far he made the ball travel, was at a
disadvantage, for the opponent would shift its outfield to meet him.
“If the side needs a run with men on bases,” said Tom, “that kind of
a hitter is mighty useful, because, although he flies out himself, he
brings in a run, so long as there aren’t two men out already. But he
doesn’t generally get a regular position on the team. He sticks around
the bench as a pinch hitter. And he has to be pretty good at his job to
be even a pinch hitter, Jerry.”
“Reckon there’s a heap more to baseball than I knowed――knew about,”
said Jerry thoughtfully. “Reckon, though, if I try hard I can learn to
bat the way you say, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do, Jerry. I think you’ve got the making of a good batter. I
guess I’d better warn you, though, that the coach is going to make you
change your style of batting when he gets here. They have a lot of
cut-and-dried notions――the coaches, I mean――about how a fellow ought
to stand at the plate and how he ought to swing the bat and a lot of
other things. And Keegan’s a great hand for having everything according
to Hoyle.”
“Who’s he?” asked Jerry.
“Who’s who? Keegan?”
“No, the other feller you said.”
“The other―― Oh, Hoyle? Well, Hoyle’s a fellow who once wrote a mess of
rules for playing cards, Jerry, and when you say ‘according to Hoyle’
you mean according to――to accepted rules, in the regular way. Get me?”
“Hm-hm. I thought maybe he was one of those professional baseball
players you read about in the papers, like that feller Ruth, or
Speaker. Reckon a feller who plays cards ain’t much account when it
comes to baseball, Tom. When’s this coach feller get here?”
“In about two weeks, Jerry. He doesn’t come until we start outdoors.
He’s a mighty decent sort, Keegan, and you’ll like him. But don’t ever
make the mistake of thinking you know better how a thing ought to
be done than he does, Jerry. Keegan’s all right, but he’s a regular
martinet. Don’t ever try to argue with him.”
“I ain’t aimin’ to, Tom,” answered Jerry soberly. “I’m a pretty small
pig in this pen, and I’m willin’ to grow.”