IN THE NINTH INNING
But if the seventh inning was no help to North Bank, neither did it
add to Bayside’s tallies, for Grinnel settled down nicely and the
Cherry-and-Black players went out in one, two, three order. Jerry,
anxious and absorbed, gave a sigh of relief as the third man flung his
bat disgustedly into the pile. But Bayside’s one run lead loomed very
big as North Bank began the eighth, and it loomed still bigger some ten
minutes later when Sortwell’s desperate effort to reach base ahead of
shortstop’s peg failed dismally and the teams again changed places.
“Let’s hold ’em now,” called Pop as he pulled his glove on and went
down to first. “We’ll get ’em next inning, fellows!”
Grinnel had a bad spell in that first of the eighth, for, after
disposing of the first batsman with four deliveries, he pitched
three balls in succession and set Bayside howling derisively. Then,
steadying, he pitched a strike that cut the outer corner of the plate
and followed it with a slow ball that also registered for him.
“Right here, Jack!” called Tub Keller, holding his hands invitingly.
“Put it over! He’ll never see it! Let’s have it, boy!”
And Jack put it over, or, at least he started it over, but, although it
was a fast one, it had nothing on it, and the batter swung and found
it and came to a stop, somewhat breathlessly on second base. The home
team rooters cheered lustily then and the coaches, hurrying to their
stations behind first and third bases, began a cross-fire that, whether
or not helpful to the runner, was not designed to steady Jack Grinnel
any. But Jack was too old a hand to let that sort of thing worry him
much, and, after two attempts to catch the man on second napping, he
gave his attention to the Bayside third baseman. He worked a strike
on him and offered him a hook that was refused. Then came a second
strike that, rather high, brought groans of derision from the local
sympathizers.
“A nice one!” shouted Tub. “Let’s have another, Jack!” But when he
knelt and gave his signal it wasn’t a high one he asked for, but a
drop. And Jack, casting an incurious glance toward second base, hitched
his cap, dug his toe and shot his arm out. The ball started for the
inner corner of the plate, breast-high, but it changed its mind on the
way, seemed to lose every speck of ambition and just settled down and
down until, after the batsman had ingloriously swung at it and missed
it by four inches, Tub picked it out of the dust. It was North Bank’s
turn to jeer, and she did it, and the Bayside third baseman, who had
something of a reputation as a hitter, trailed his bat disconsolately
to the opposite bench, and, casting a brief but venomous glance at the
pitcher, began a muttered alibi.
“Last man!” called Pop Lord. “Let’s get him, Jack! Take your time! No
one walks!”
And Jack did get him in the end, although he caused some anxious
moments for Jerry and the others on the North Bank bench. Four fouls,
long ones and impossible to reach, spoiled as many attempts on Jack’s
part to register a third strike, and had all the appearance of hits
until they landed. In the end it was a long fly to Beech in center that
brought the eighth inning to an end and a heartfelt sigh of relief from
Jerry.
“Here’s your last chance, fellows,” said Mr. Keegan as the players came
in. “Let’s tie it up in this inning. That pitcher of theirs is getting
wobbly and you can get at him if you really try. Don’t go after the
long ones. There’s a good opening between first and second. Try to lam
’em through there. That second baseman’s as slow as molasses on hits
that go to his left. You’re up, Beech. Make him give you good ones.
That umpire’s with you and you don’t have to take the bad ones. Pick
out one you like and push it past second. Go to it, son!”
Ted Beech was a rattling good center fielder and, against certain
styles of pitching, was a dependable batter, but to-day Embauer had
held him hitless. Perhaps it was a realization of his failure to find
the opposing twirler that put Ted on his mettle. He faced Embauer with
a cockiness that was a challenge, and Embauer took a second and harder
look at him and shook his head over the catcher’s signal. When he did
nod and wind himself up and speed the ball away the offering was a wide
hook that Ted judged correctly and let pass.
“Tell him to put them where I can reach them,” he said to the catcher.
“Give him two fingers, partner.”
“Think you know our signals, do you?” grunted the boy in the mask.
“All right, here’s two fingers for you.” He knelt, but whether it was
two fingers or four he held out of Ted’s view, the latter never knew.
What he did know, a moment later, was that the ball coming toward him
looked like a straight one that would cut the outer corner waist-high.
And he acted accordingly. He swung and did his level best to “pull”
the hit to the right of the pitcher’s box, and the next instant he had
dropped the bat and was legging it to first while a shrill shout of joy
followed him from the North Bank bench. It was a close shave, but he
made it. The ball had started off straight for the alley between first
and second, rising in its flight. First and second baseman went after
it and it was second baseman who reached it. But his attempt to spear
it left-handed only knocked it down and, while Ted and Embauer sped for
the bag, the first baseman scooped it up. Had he tossed swiftly to the
base the pitcher might have caught it, for he reached the bag ahead
of Ted, but the baseman made the mistake of trying for the putout and
the result was that of the three players who reached the sack almost
together the baseman was last! When Ted had made the turn and returned,
Embauer and the first baseman were having a very pretty exchange of
compliments and the North Bank players were cheering and laughing
uproariously.
Pop himself sped around to coach and Tub Keller walked to the plate.
The Bayside pitcher was disgruntled as he stepped back to the mound,
and he looked it. It is quite all right for a pitcher to look
disgruntled, but a poor plan for him to feel so, as events proved.
Tub scorned one low one that the umpire called a strike and then,
shortening his bat, made as pretty a bunt down the first base line as
is often seen. Just inside the chalk mark it rolled and Tub was very
careful not to interfere with it as he dug out for first. Had Embauer
been a trifle quicker he might have tagged the runner on the way to
base, but hurt feelings made him slow, and when, finally, he reached
the trickling ball his chance of arching it over Tub’s head in time to
get him was a forlorn one. Besides, about that instant the ball showed
a disposition to roll over the line and change itself from a fair ball
to a foul, and Embauer decided to let it. And, having reached that
decision about the time Tub reached the base, he stood idly over the
erratic sphere while it changed its mind and decided to remain fair!
Nothing is much more ridiculous from the opponent’s point of view than
the sight of two able-bodied players crouching above the base line
watching a ball that just won’t roll outside! And North Bank enjoyed
the crestfallen looks of the Bayside pitcher and catcher immensely and
hooted with glee. It was the wild appeals of the other infielders that
finally induced the catcher to snatch the disappointing ball from the
ground and shoot it across to third. But Ted Beech had reconsidered his
plan to go on and scuttled back to second.
With two on and none out, Embauer felt the strain. The united coaching
efforts of Pop Lord and Tom Hartley at opposite corners of the diamond
did nothing to restore his tranquillity. Nor did the fact that he now
had to face an unknown quantity in the shape of Stevens, substitute
fielder, who had taken Grinnel’s place in the batting list. Some
pitchers may tell you that they dote on pinch hitters and “eat ’em
alive,” and perhaps they do if they know the hitters. But when they
have never seen them before, and when the catcher can’t offer any
information, they are likely to be rather more uneasy than pleased.
In the present case neither the Bayside catcher nor the Bayside
pitcher knew anything as to Stevens’ likes or dislikes, and since
the philosophy of successful pitching is to give the batsman what he
doesn’t want and make him like it Embauer heartily wished that the
opponent’s coach had let well enough alone.
There were even those on the North Bank bench who thought Mr. Keegan
had done better to let Grinnel bat. Grinnel, like many pitchers, was an
uncertain batsman who, when he did hit, hit for extra bases. Besides,
with none out, it was felt that North Bank was in position to take a
chance on Grinnel delivering a hit. But Coach Keegan wanted more than
aught else to tie that score, and he was a great believer in going
after what he wanted and not trusting to having some one come along
and hand it to him. With the score tied he would take as many chances
as any one, but until it was he meant to waste no moves. So Grinnel
went out of the game and Stevens went in, and Embauer shot over a first
strike, something he was very fond of doing.
Stevens was undismayed, however, and swung his bat as confidently as
ever. Embauer teased him with a drop that went as a ball and then
followed with a high and fast one that looked good from the benches
but didn’t satisfy the umpire. With the score one and two, the Bayside
pitcher attempted to sneak one over knee-high. That happened to
be the particular style of ball that Stevens adored, and he lifted it
far and high into left field. Unfortunately for him, the left fielder
was nimble and dependable and the ball settled into his hands. But his
throw to third was too late to catch Ted Beech, and he and Tub moved
up a notch each. That out appeared to comfort Embauer and he looked
much easier in his mind as Jackson stepped to the plate. But Jackson
headed the visitors’ batting list and, with men on third and second,
Coach Keegan looked no less easy of mind than Embauer. There is no need
to recount the rest of that ninth inning in detail, for there was a
certain monotony about it that Bayside, at least, found uninteresting.
Jackson hit safely and so did Captain Lord. Conway walked. McGee hit
to shortstop who fumbled and tossed wildly to second. McGee and Conway
were both safe. So it went until, with a lead of five runs, Coach
Keegan substituted Partridge and Royce for Sortwell and Beech. But even
the substitutes managed to make good, Partridge reaching his first
station after Embauer had cracked him in the ribs with the ball and
Royce on an error by third baseman.
The Cherry-and-Black pitcher was plainly played out, but, although
Bayside had been warming up a new twirler for ten minutes, he was not
used. Doubtless the Bayside coach concluded that the game was lost
beyond recovery and that Embauer might as well take his medicine.
And pretty bitter medicine it was. Jerry felt sorry for the lad, he
had pitched fine ball for eight innings. But Jerry didn’t let his
sympathy for Embauer sadden him unduly. He was much too pleased with
North Bank’s victory. With Partridge on second and Royce on first,
Coach Keegan mentally ran over the available substitutes. More tallies
were scarcely necessary, and he wanted to give as many second-string
players a finger in the pie as he could. So he called Ted Beech back,
much to that youth’s disappointment, and sent in Crocker. Crocker, a
substitute catcher, was no wizard with the bat, and Bayside, glum
and disconsolate, essayed a feeble cheer when Embauer, with a brief
return to form, put two strikes over on him in succession. But Crocker
judged the next two correctly and picked out the fifth delivery for his
attention. Straight at Embauer traveled the ball, and Embauer made a
futile stab with his right hand. Deflected, the ball shot toward the
first base line. First baseman and pitcher chased it. Crocker, although
thickset, was fast on his feet, and reached the bag before second
baseman was there to cover it. Once again the bases were full.
“Benson!”
Jerry looked down the line of chuckling players with a start. Mr.
Keegan was beckoning. “Take a whack,” said the coach, nodding toward
the plate. “Might as well clean up while you’re at it, Benson.” He
spoke carelessly and, having spoken, returned to an interrupted
conversation with Captain Lord. Jerry didn’t quite know what was meant
by cleaning up, but the coach’s intention was clear. So he picked out a
striped bat that held tender memories for him and went unhurriedly to
the plate. Encouraging advice followed him.
“Bounce one off the pitcher, Jerry!”
“Make it a homer, kid! Flatten it out!”
Bayside was not too dejected to laugh when Jerry took his stand at the
rubber. Even the catcher managed a smile as Jerry spread his long legs
and poised the bat along the back of his shoulders. If Jerry knew the
cause of the ripple of merriment he gave no sign. After a brief glance
at the pitcher he set his eyes firmly on the ball and never lost sight
of it from the moment Embauer spread his fingers around it until it had
passed from vision like a gray smudge to thump into the catcher’s mitt.
“Stri-i-ike!” announced the umpire.
Jerry considered with bent head. Then he nodded agreement. Some of his
team mates laughed, and Tom called: “That’s only one, Jerry! He hasn’t
any more!”
Nor had he, it seemed. The next delivery was wide of the plate and the
following one was so wild that only a supreme effort by the catcher
kept the ball from going past to the backstop. Friend and foe alike
applauded the play and Partridge danced disappointedly back to third
base. Embauer tried very hard to cut a corner with an outshoot and
failed by an inch or two.
“One and three!” advised the umpire, holding his fingers aloft.
“Let him walk you, Jerry!” came the call from the bench. “Wait him out,
old son!”
But Jerry knew nothing about being walked. He never yet had gained his
base in that fashion and didn’t mean to now. But Embauer didn’t know
that, nor did the catcher, and so the former’s next effort was a fast
and straight ball that tried to glide across the rubber about opposite
the top button of Jerry’s gray shirt. Probably that ball got the
surprise of its brief career just then, for Jerry’s eager arms brought
the bat around swiftly and Jerry’s muscles concentrated on pushing the
ball into the next county. Of course, he didn’t succeed, although for
one short moment it did look as if he might, for the ball started off
with all the enthusiasm in the world. And so did Jerry, his long legs
twinkling as he raced for the base. North Bank roared encouragement and
delight. Partridge waited, midway between third and home, ready to go
on or back, and Royce and Crocker were on their toes. Far and high sped
the ball. Left fielder and center fielder were running back, converging
as they went. Then the flying sphere descended and Partridge returned
to third and waited. After all, he would have plenty of time! Down came
the ball. Then, on a sudden, the North Bank players on the bench arose
as one man and howled gleefully. Too many cooks had spoiled the broth!
The ball thumped to the sod midway between the two fielders, each of
whom, as it appeared, had left the job of catching it to the other! In
trotted Partridge, in sped Royce, in raced Crocker. But now the ball
was speeding to second baseman, and now it was traveling home, and at
third Tub Keller reached forth and violently yanked Jerry back to the
bag. Some there were who afterwards maintained that Jerry’s hit might
have been stretched from a three-bagger to a home run, but Jerry was no
Meredith, and, while a faster runner might possibly have reached the
plate ahead of second baseman’s desperate peg, it is doubtful if he
could have. In any event, Tub didn’t let him try, and Jerry, forcibly
returned to the bag, sat down, blinking, and untroubledly strove to
recover some of the breath he had left between the plate and his
present station.
Then, perhaps only because the afternoon was waning and the visitors
had a train to catch, the Bayside coach removed Mr. Embauer, who
was accorded deserved applause from both sides of the diamond, and
substituted a tall and lanky youth who, after passing Jackson, caused
Pop Lord to fly out to right and Conway to fan helplessly, thus
bringing to an end the most remarkable half inning in the records of
either school. North Bank had sent fifteen men to bat and had scored
eleven runs, for Jerry had raced home on Lord’s sacrifice fly. Manager
Birkenside’s score book, so far as one page of it was concerned,
looked strangely crowded and confused!
The visitors went out for the last of the ninth with a much altered
line-up. The new battery was Train and Crocker and an entirely new
outfield was presented. The outfielders, however, might just as well
have remained on the bench, for Bayside, in spite of a determination to
reduce the enemy’s lead, failed to hit out of the infield and got only
one man on base when McGee booted an easy one. The runner, with one
out, worked a daring steal, but he never got beyond second, for Train
had a nice command of the ball and it takes more than determination to
earn runs. The last man went out, Hartley to Lord, and the long contest
was over, the score 15 to 5.
Most of the way home on the train, while the rest of the crowd, tired
and hungry but well contented, sang and roistered, Birkenside wrestled
with his score, calling frequently for help. When, at last, he had
added the final total and set it down in its proper compartment he
poised his pen above a line that held the words “Length of game” and
after a moment of mental reckoning set down the characters “2 Hrs., 43
Mins.”!
Jerry received no special commendation for that three-base hit of
his. After all, it had only been saved from a nice sacrifice fly by
the stupidity of the fielders. For that matter, however, Jerry wasn’t
expecting commendation, and so wasn’t disappointed. Tom tried to
pretend that Jerry had distinguished himself nobly, but Jerry wouldn’t
be fooled. “Reckon,” he said, “those fellers got the sun in their eyes
or something. It wasn’t no safe hit, Tom.” One thing his performance
that afternoon did do, though, was to convince Coach Keegan that Jerry
might become a valuable asset to the nine as a pinch hitter, for, as he
remarked to Pop Lord later, “The chap’s got an almighty wallop, Cap,
and he isn’t afraid of anything you can pitch him!”