AT THE BATTING NET
The baseball candidates started indoor practice on the following
Monday. It was dry work at first. Anson Lord, called “Pop” by his
intimates, had theories of his own on the subject of preliminary
preparations, and, as captain of the nine, he was in position to
carry them out. Lord was, of course, a first class fellow, eighteen
years of age and a crack first baseman. In appearance he was big and
broad-shouldered, with a rather serious countenance lightened by kindly
gray eyes and a contagious smile. That he was immensely popular goes
without saying since he was First Class President, an honor that almost
invariably went to a crew man at North Bank. Indeed, Lord and Loring
Browne, who captained and rowed Number Two in the boat, had fought a
close fight for the presidency in the fall. Pop’s preliminary training
methods included tiresome exercises with dumb-bells and Indian clubs
and even chest weights, and there was much grumbling among the new
candidates. The older ones knew Pop too well to demur. Besides, it was
always, somehow, a pleasure to please Anson Lord!
Jerry performed uncomplainingly and unfalteringly at stunts quite novel
to him, although, until Tom explained, he couldn’t see the connection
between swinging a pair of Indian clubs and playing baseball! Perhaps
Tom’s explanation was a trifle vague, but Jerry was satisfied with it.
“The idea is to limber up your muscles, Jerry,” said Tom. “Develop ’em,
too. Lots of those fellows who are trying for the nine couldn’t whip a
ball from first to third to-day without getting a crick in their arms,
let alone throwing from deep center to second! All that dumb-bell stuff
is to develop the wrist and forearm muscles, because, Jerry, you’ve
just got to be supple there if you’re going to play the game right. It
is tiresome, but it’s good for you, son.”
“Oh, I ain’t complaining none,” said Jerry cheerfully. “I was just
pondering.”
“Well,” Tom laughed, “ponder all you like, Jerry, but keep up the good
work. I want to see you make the second nine, anyway, son. You can do
it, too.”
“Reckon I’d a heap rather make the regular team,” answered Jerry, “and
I’m agoing to if nothing don’t bust!”
The first day of March found the candidates outdoors at last. The
frost was out of the ground and a series of warm, sunshiny days with
aiding breezes had dried the field and made it firm underfoot. Mr.
Keegan arrived on the fifth of the month, a small, slight man, well
under thirty, with movements like a steel trap and a sharp, decisive
voice. But he was good-tempered and could laugh as well as frown, and
the school liked him well enough to go to the little station in a body
to give him welcome. Although Cicero was on hand with his stylish
black mules and the “hack,” Joe Keegan elected to walk, and so with
Rodney Keller――familiarly known as “Tub,” football center and baseball
catcher――carrying his suit case, and Captain Lord and most of the
other diamond warriors close about him, Coach Keegan made a fairly
impressive return to the scene of his duties. There was some cheering
and singing by the rank and file as the procession tramped along the
sunlit road, and afterwards, from the steps of Ellicot, in which house
the coach roomed while at the school, Mr. Keegan made a short speech
which aroused his audience to such a pitch of enthusiasm that the few
stay-at-homes came to their windows and, although unable to hear the
address, cheered plaintively on every excuse. After that the baseball
players hustled into their togs and were hard at work when the coach,
transformed by a faded green sweater and a pair of old gray trousers,
arrived at the field for his first glimpse of the season’s material.
Whether he liked what he saw wasn’t apparent, but certain it is that he
wasted no time getting into action. The experienced players were weeded
forth and sent to the batting net and the green candidates lined up
before him in a half circle. Coach Keegan looked them over deliberately
and carefully during several moments of most respectful silence. Then
he spoke crisply. “There’s one thing I’m going to have this spring,
fellows,” he began, “and that’s instant obedience. When I say ‘Jump!’
you jump! I’ll forgive any of you for stupidity or rotten playing, but
the fellow who doesn’t do as he’s told, _and do it quick_, is going to
get into a mess of trouble! I guess I’ve made myself plain, haven’t I?
All right. Now, the next thing. We’re going in for speed this year.
We’re going to have the fastest team that’s playing ball below Mason
and Dixon’s Line, fellows. Maybe we aren’t going to play as fine an
article as some other teams, maybe we’re going to be punk, but, good
or punk, we’re going to be _fast_! And the next two or three weeks
are going to be devoted very largely to learning speed. If any of you
fellows object to moving in a hurry, this is a good time to say so
gracefully and get out. All right. Let’s get busy!”
When the scant hour of practice was over that afternoon every one knew
that the coach had come!
A fortnight of vigorous preliminary work followed, the candidates
practicing every week-day afternoon save Saturday from three-thirty
to five. About forty fellows reported that first afternoon and of the
number thirty-two were still in training a fortnight later, and of
the thirty-two was Jerry Benson. Jerry was learning rather slowly.
Teaching speed to him was, it seemed at first, a hopeless task. Jerry
was deliberative of thought and speech and action. Having once started,
he could travel fast, but he couldn’t shoot away from a mark, as some
of the fellows could, like a sprinter at the sound of the pistol. Many
times Coach Keegan got after him hard in words of one syllable, and
at such times Jerry, blinking his blue eyes, took the reprimand in
good-natured silence and looked so evidently anxious to please that
the coach’s scolding usually ended in a tolerant “Oh, well, see if you
can’t get some snap in it, boy!”
Mr. Keegan’s remarks on the occasion of his first sight of Jerry at
batting practice were not at all what Tom had expected and predicted.
Jerry had taken his turn at the net a number of times before it
happened that the coach was present. Batting practice for the new
candidates was under the direction of Rodney Keller, and the coach’s
supervision was more or less superficial. But one afternoon Mr. Keegan
came to the net at the moment that Jerry stepped out of his place in
the line of waiting batters, picked up a bat and faced Thacher, one of
the second-string pitchers. Although Tub Keller had conscientiously
tried to mold Jerry to the established form of batting, he had not, in
view of the results Jerry was getting, insisted overmuch, and Jerry’s
style had been modified but little; in fact, when he got thoroughly
interested and quite forgot his instructions, he stood back, spread his
legs widely and caressed his shoulder blades with his bat just as he
had always done.
To-day, in spite of Tub’s matter-of-course “Feet together, Jerry!”
Jerry spread himself as usual and faced Thacher intently, while the
waiting line smiled or chuckled as they observed the coach’s frown of
disapproval. Perhaps had Jerry known that Mr. Keegan was looking on he
would have conformed more closely to the style approved of the coach,
but he didn’t. Thacher was pitching straight balls, with an occasional
change of pace for the more adept batters, and his first delivery
to Jerry was a fast one that cut the outer corner of the plate.
Jerry started to offer at it, changed his mind and watched it go by
speculatively. He had suspected a break and had been fooled.
“Strike!” droned Tub, as the ball settled into his mitt. Mr. Keegan
opened his mouth and took a step forward, and then, like Jerry, changed
his mind and waited. Thacher grinned and winked, for he and Jerry were
getting to be friendly antagonists at the net. Jerry answered the smile
untroubledly and Thacher wound up again. This time it was a slow one
that floated across knee-high, or would have had Jerry not swung and
caught it fairly near the end of his bat. The ball sailed off in a
long, low fly to deep center.
“A peach, Jerry!” said Tub. “Good for three bags, easy.”
Thacher grinned as he picked up another ball and Jerry dropped the bat
and started to take his place at the tail end of the line. But Mr.
Keegan stopped him.
“Hold on, Benson! Try another one,” he said.
Jerry picked up the bat again and, in deference to the coach’s
presence, placed his feet fairly close together, trying to remember
all the instructions that had been given him by Tub. Thacher, seeking
revenge, let loose with a high ball that looked very much like a strike
to the batsman. Perhaps Jerry’s judgment was slightly disturbed by the
knowledge that the coach was watching. At all events, the ball played a
sorry trick and Tub had to step well to the right to get it. And Jerry
swung hard and, having his feet close together, spun around like a top
and landed at Tub’s feet, to the amusement of the audience, including,
you may be certain, Thacher. Jerry smiled a trifle sheepishly as he
unscrambled himself from Tub, the ball and the bat.
“Wait a minute,” said Mr. Keegan again. “Why did you change your
position that time, Benson?”
Jerry couldn’t find an answer for a long moment. Then he said: “Tub
says to put your feet together.”
“Does, eh? Well, does he tell you to hold your bat behind your back and
swing like a hammer-thrower? How do you expect to hit anything that
way? Don’t you know that you can’t swing your arms and your body half
around the compass and keep your feet together? Now you hit the next
one the way you’ve been hitting. Stand your own way, boy. Give him
another, Thacher.”
Jerry felt somewhat embarrassed by so much attention, but permission to
face the pitcher in his own style brought a return of confidence, and
when Thacher hurled the next delivery, a fast ball right in the groove,
he put every ounce into the swing and sent that sphere on the journey
of its young life! Far into left field it sped, well behind the nearest
fielder! The audience said “Wow!” and “Some swipe!” and Thacher threw
up his arms in token of surrender. As Jerry walked off, after an
inquiring look at Mr. Keegan and a nod of dismissal, the coach turned
to Tub.
“How often does he do that?” he asked the catcher.
“About twice out of three times, sir. There doesn’t seem to be much
use trying to get him to stand right. When he does he misses ’em about
every time.”
“I guess you’d better let him hit them the way he wants to,” replied
the coach. “What was Thacher feeding him? Straight ones?”
“Yes, sir, mostly. Jerry gets fooled on the hooks.”
“Well, see that he gets hooks until they don’t fool him. No use wasting
time feeding him straight balls. The boy’s a batter, and he ought to
be taught to take everything that comes. Give him the third degree,
Keller, every time he comes up. Make him hit the hard ones. That’s the
only way to bring him along.”
So it was that the next time Jerry faced Thacher the latter got his
instructions to fool the batsman to the top of his bent, and those of
the squad who secretly envied Jerry his ability to “lace ’em” laughed
gleefully to see him swing helplessly around while a fast drop or a
wide hook smacked into Tub’s glove. But that was just at first and
there came a time when Thacher again metaphorically if not visually
threw up his hands in token of submission. But that was much later, and
before it came other things of moment happened.