batting first, then fielding, and finally started them in a game,
with each candidate playing the position he hoped to make on the
varsity.
It was a weird game. The majority of the twenty candidates displayed
little knowledge of baseball. School-boys on the commons could have
beaten them. They were hooted and hissed by the students, and before
half the innings were played the bleachers and stands were empty. That
was what old Wayne's students thought of Arthurs' candidates.
In sharp contrast to most of them, Weir, Raymond, and Graves showed
they had played the game somewhere. Weir at short-stop covered ground
well, but he could not locate first base. Raymond darted here and there
quick as a flash, and pounced upon the ball like a huge frog. Nothing
got past him, but he juggled the ball. Graves was a finished and
beautiful fielder; he was easy, sure, yet fast, and his throw from
third to first went true as a line.
Graves's fine work accounted for Ken Ward's poor showing. Both were
trying for third base, and when Ken once saw his rival play out on the
field he not only lost heart and became confused, but he instinctively
acknowledged that Graves was far his superior. After all his hopes and
the kind interest of the coach it was a most bitter blow. Ken had never
played so poor a game. The ball blurred in his tear-wet eyes and looked
double. He did not field a grounder. He muffed foul flies and missed
thrown balls. It did not occur to him that almost all of the players
around him were in the same boat. He could think of nothing but the
dashing away of his hopes. What was the use of trying? But he kept
trying, and the harder he tried the worse he played. At the bat he
struck out, fouled out, never hit the ball square at all. Graves got
two well-placed hits to right field. Then when Ken was in the field
Graves would come down the coaching line and talk to him in a voice no
one else could hear.
"You've got a swell chance to make this team, you have, _not!_ Third
base is my job, Freshie. Why, you tow-head, you couldn't play marbles.
You butter-finger, can't you stop anything? You can't even play sub on
this team. Remember, Ward, I said I'd get you for hitting me that day.
You hit me with a potato once, too. I'll chase you off this team."
For once Ken's spirit was so crushed and humbled that he could not say
a word to his rival. He even felt he deserved it all. When the practice
ended, and he was walking off the field with hanging head, trying to
bear up under the blow, he met Arthurs.
"Hello! Peg," said the coach, "I'm going your way."
Ken walked along feeling Arthurs' glance upon him, but he was ashamed
to raise his head.
"Peg, you were up in the air to-day--way off--you lost your nut."
He spoke kindly and put his hand on Ken's arm. Ken looked up to see
that the coach's face was pale and tired, with the characteristic
worried look more marked than usual.
"Yes, I was," replied Ken, impulsively. "I can play better than I did
to-day--but--Mr. Arthurs, I'm not in Graves's class as a third-baseman.
I know it."
Ken said it bravely, though there was a catch in his voice. The coach
looked closely at him.
"So you're sayin' a good word for Graves, pluggin' his game."
"I'd love to make the team, but old Wayne must have the best players
you can get."
"Peg, I said once you and me were goin' to get along. I said also that
college baseball is played with the heart. You lost your heart. So did
most of the kids. Well, it ain't no wonder. This's a tryin' time. I'm
playin' them against each other, and no fellow knows where he's at.
Now, I've seen all along that you weren't a natural infielder. I played
you at third to-day to get that idea out of your head. To-morrow I'll
try you in the outfield. You ain't no quitter, Peg."
Ken hurried to his room under the stress of a complete revulsion of
feeling. His liking for the coach began to grow into something more.
It was strange to Ken what power a few words from Arthurs had to renew
his will and hope and daring. How different Arthurs was when not on the
field. There he was stern and sharp. Ken could not study that night,
and he slept poorly. His revival of hope did not dispel his nervous
excitement.
He went out into Grant Field next day fighting himself. When in
the practice Arthurs assigned him to a right-field position, he
had scarcely taken his place when he became conscious of a queer
inclination to swallow often, of a numbing tight band round his
chest. He could not stand still; his hands trembled; there was a
mist before his eyes. His mind was fixed upon himself and upon the
other five outfielders trying to make the team. He saw the players
in the infield pace their positions restlessly, run without aim when
the ball was hit or thrown, collide with each other, let the ball go
between their hands and legs, throw wildly, and sometimes stand as if
transfixed when they ought to have been in action. But all this was
not significant to Ken. He saw everything that happened, but he thought
only that he must make a good showing; he must not miss any flies, or
let a ball go beyond him. He absolutely must do the right thing. The
air of Grant Field was charged with intensity of feeling, and Ken
thought it was all his own. His baseball fortune was at stake, and
he worked himself in such a frenzy that if a ball had been batted
in his direction he might not have seen it at all. Fortunately none
came his way.
The first time at bat he struck out ignominiously, poking weakly
at the pitcher's out-curves. The second time he popped up a little
fly. On the next trial the umpire called him out on strikes. At his
last chance Ken was desperate. He knew the coach placed batting before
any other department of the game. Almost sick with the torture of the
conflicting feelings, Ken went up to the plate and swung blindly. To
his amaze he cracked a hard fly to left-centre, far between the fielders.
Like a startled deer Ken broke into a run. He turned first base and saw
that he might stretch the hit into a three-bagger. He knew he could run,
and never had he so exerted himself. Second base sailed under him, and
he turned in line for the third. Watching Graves, he saw him run for the
base and stand ready to catch the throw-in.
Without slacking his speed in the least Ken leaped into the air headlong
for the base. He heard the crack of the ball as it hit Graves's glove.
Then with swift scrape on hands and breast he was sliding in the dust.
He stopped suddenly as if blocked by a stone wall. Something hard struck
him on the head. A blinding light within his brain seemed to explode
into glittering slivers. A piercing pain shot through him. Then from
darkness and a great distance sounded a voice:
"Ward, I said I'd get you!"
VII
ANNIHILATION
That incident put Ken out of the practice for three days. He had a
bruise over his ear as large as a small apple. Ken did not mind the
pain nor the players' remarks that he had a swelled head anyway, but
he remembered with slow-gathering wrath Graves's words: "I said I'd
get you!"
He remembered also Graves's reply to a question put by the coach.
"I was only tagging him. I didn't mean to hurt him." That rankled
inside Ken. He kept his counsel, however, even evading a sharp
query put by Arthurs, and as much as it was possible he avoided
the third-baseman.
Hard practice was the order of every day, and most of it was batting.
The coach kept at the candidates everlastingly, and always his cry was:
"Toe the plate, left foot a little forward, step into the ball and
swing!" At the bat Ken made favorable progress because the coach was
always there behind him with encouraging words; in the field, however,
he made a mess of it, and grew steadily worse.
The directors of the Athletic Association had called upon the old
varsity to go out and coach the new aspirants for college fame.
The varsity had refused. Even the players of preceding years, what
few were in or near the city, had declined to help develop Wayne's
stripling team. But some of the older graduates, among them several
of the athletic directors, appeared on the field. When Arthurs saw
them he threw up his hands in rage and despair. That afternoon Ken
had three well-meaning but old-fashioned ball-players coach him in
the outfield. He had them one at a time, which was all that saved
him from utter distraction. One told him to judge a fly by the sound
when the ball was hit. Another told him to play in close, and when the
ball was batted to turn and run with it. The third said he must play
deep and sprint in for the fly. Then each had different ideas as to
how batters should be judged, about throwing to bases, about backing
up the other fielders. Ken's bewilderment grew greater and greater.
He had never heard of things they advocated, and he began to think he
did not know anything about the game. And what made his condition of
mind border on imbecility was a hurried whisper from Arthurs between
innings: "Peg, don't pay the slightest attention to 'em fat-head
grad. coaches."
Practice days succeeding that were worse nightmares to Ken Ward than
the days he had spent in constant fear of the sophomores. It was a
terribly feverish time of batting balls, chasing balls, and of having
dinned into his ears thousands of orders, rules of play, talks on
college spirit in athletics--all of which conflicted so that it was
meaningless to him. During this dark time one ray of light was the
fact that Arthurs never spoke a sharp word to him. Ken felt vaguely
that he was whirling in some kind of a college athletic chaos, out of
which he would presently emerge.
Toward the close of March the weather grew warm, the practice field
dried up, and baseball should have been a joy to Ken. But it was not.
At times he had a shameful wish to quit the field for good, but he had
not the courage to tell the coach. The twenty-fifth, the day scheduled
for the game with the disgraced varsity team, loomed closer and closer.
Its approach was a fearful thing for Ken. Every day he cast furtive
glances down the field to where the varsity held practice. Ken had
nothing to say; he was as glum as most of the other candidates, but
he had heard gossip in the lecture-rooms, in the halls, on the street,
everywhere, and it concerned this game. What would the old varsity do
to Arthurs' new team? Curiosity ran as high as the feeling toward the
athletic directors. Resentment flowed from every source. Ken somehow got
the impression that he was blamable for being a member of the coach's
green squad. So Ken Ward fluctuated between two fears, one as bad as
the other--that he would not be selected to play, and the other that he
would be selected. It made no difference. He would be miserable if not
chosen, and if he was--how on earth would he be able to keep his knees
from wobbling? Then the awful day dawned.
Coach Arthurs met all his candidates at the cage. He came late, he
explained, because he wanted to keep them off the field until time for
practice. To-day he appeared more grave than worried, and where the boys
expected a severe lecture, he simply said: "I'll play as many of you as
I can. Do your best, that's all. Don't mind what these old players say.
They were kids once, though they seem to have forgotten it. Try to learn
from them."
It was the first time the candidates had been taken upon the regular
diamond of Grant Field. Ken had peeped in there once to be impressed by
the beautiful level playground, and especially the magnificent turreted
grand-stand and the great sweeping stretches of bleachers. Then they had
been empty; now, with four thousand noisy students and thousands of other
spectators besides, they stunned him. He had never imagined a crowd coming
to see the game.
Perhaps Arthurs had not expected it either, for Ken heard him mutter grimly
to himself. He ordered practice at once, and called off the names of those
he had chosen to start the game. As one in a trance Ken Ward found himself
trotting out to right field.
A long-rolling murmur that was half laugh, half taunt, rose from the
stands. Then it quickly subsided. From his position Ken looked for
the players of the old varsity, but they had not yet come upon the
field. Of the few balls batted to Ken in practice he muffed only one,
and he was just beginning to feel that he might acquit himself creditably
when the coach called the team in. Arthurs had hardly given his new
players time enough to warm up, but likewise they had not had time
to make any fumbles.
All at once a hoarse roar rose from the stands, then a thundering
clatter of thousands of feet as the students greeted the appearance
of the old varsity. It was applause that had in it all the feeling of
the undergraduates for the championship team, many of whom they considered
had been unjustly barred by the directors. Love, loyalty, sympathy,
resentment--all pealed up to the skies in that acclaim. It rolled out
over the heads of Arthurs' shrinking boys as they huddled together on
the bench.
Ken Ward, for one, was flushing and thrilling. In that moment he lost
his gloom. He watched the varsity come trotting across the field, a
doughty band of baseball warriors. Each wore a sweater with the huge
white "W" shining like a star. Many of those players had worn that
honored varsity letter for three years. It did seem a shame to bar
them from this season's team. Ken found himself thinking of the matter
from their point of view, and his sympathy was theirs.
More than that, he gloried in the look of them, in the trained, springy
strides, in the lithe, erect forms, in the assurance in every move. Every
detail of that practice photographed itself upon Ken Ward's memory, and
he knew he would never forget.
There was Dale, veteran player, captain and pitcher of the nine, hero of
victories over Place and Herne. There was Hogan, catcher for three seasons,
a muscular fellow, famed for his snap-throw to the bases and his fiendish
chasing of foul flies. There was Hickle, the great first-baseman, whom the
professional leagues were trying to get. What a reach he had; how easily
he scooped in the ball; low, high, wide, it made no difference to him.
There was Canton at second, Hollis at short, Burns at third, who had been
picked for the last year's All-American College Team. Then there was Dreer,
brightest star of all, the fleet, hard-hitting centre-fielder. This player
particularly fascinated Ken. It was a beautiful sight to see him run. The
ground seemed to fly behind him. When the ball was hit high he wheeled
with his back to the diamond and raced out, suddenly to turn with unerring
judgment--and the ball dropped into his hands. On low line hits he showed
his fleetness, for he was like a gleam of light in his forward dash; and,
however the ball presented, shoulder high, low by his knees, or on a short
bound, he caught it. Ken Ward saw with despairing admiration what it meant
to be a great outfielder.
Then Arthurs called "Play ball!" giving the old varsity the field.
With a violent start Ken Ward came out of his rhapsody. He saw a white
ball tossed on the diamond. Dale received it from one of the fielders
and took his position in the pitcher's box. The uniform set off his
powerful form; there was something surly and grimly determined in
his face. He glanced about to his players, as if from long habit, and
called out gruffly: "Get in the game, fellows! No runs for this scrub
outfit!" Then, with long-practised swing, he delivered the ball. It
travelled plateward swift as the flight of a white swallow. The umpire
called it a strike on Weir; the same on the next pitch; the third was
wide. Weir missed the fourth and was out. Raymond followed on the batting
list. To-day, as he slowly stepped toward the plate, seemingly smaller
and glummer than ever, it was plain he was afraid. The bleachers howled
at the little green cap sticking over his ear. Raymond did not swing at
the ball; he sort of reached out his bat at the first three pitches,
stepping back from the plate each time. The yell that greeted his weak
attempt seemed to shrivel him up. Also it had its effect on the youngsters
huddling around Arthurs. Graves went up and hit a feeble grounder to Dale
and was thrown out at first.
Ken knew the half-inning was over; he saw the varsity players throw aside
their gloves and trot in. But either he could not rise or he was glued to
the bench. Then Arthurs pulled him up, saying, "Watch sharp, Peg, these
fellows are right-field hitters!" At the words all Ken's blood turned
to ice. He ran out into the field fighting the coldest, most sickening
sensation he ever had in his life. The ice in his veins all went to the
pit of his stomach and there formed into a heavy lump. Other times when
he had been frightened flitted through his mind. It had been bad when he
fought with Greaser, and worse when he ran with the outlaws in pursuit,
and the forest fire was appalling. But Ken felt he would gladly have
changed places at that moment. He dreaded the mocking bleachers.
Of the candidates chosen to play against the varsity Ken knew McCord at
first, Raymond at second, Weir at short, Graves at third. He did not know
even the names of the others. All of them, except Graves, appeared too
young to play in that game.
Dreer was first up for the varsity, and Ken shivered all over when the
lithe centre-fielder stepped to the left side of the plate. Ken went
out deeper, for he knew most hard-hitting left-handers hit to right
field. But Dreer bunted the first ball teasingly down the third-base
line. Fleet as a deer, he was across the bag before the infielder
reached the ball. Hollis was next up. On the first pitch, as Dreer
got a fast start for second, Hollis bunted down the first-base line.
Pitcher and baseman ran for the bunt; Hollis was safe, and the sprinting
Dreer went to third without even drawing a throw. A long pealing yell
rolled over the bleachers. Dale sent coaches to the coaching lines.
Hickle, big and formidable, hurried to the plate, swinging a long bat.
He swung it as if he intended to knock the ball out of the field.
When the pitcher lifted his arm Dreer dashed for home-base, and seemed
beating the ball. But Hickle deftly dumped it down the line and broke
for first while Dreer scored. This bunt was not fielded at all. How
the bleachers roared! Then followed bunts in rapid succession, dashes
for first, and slides into the bag. The pitcher interfered with the
third-baseman, and the first-baseman ran up the line, and the pitcher
failed to cover the bag, and the catcher fell all over the ball.
Every varsity man bunted, but in just the place where it was not
expected. They raced around the bases. They made long runs from
first to third. They were like flashes of light, slippery as eels.
The bewildered infielders knew they were being played with. The
taunting "boo-hoos" and screams of delight from the bleachers were
as demoralizing as the illusively daring runners. Closer and closer
the infielders edged in until they were right on top of the batters.
Then Dale and his men began to bunt little infield flies over the heads
of their opponents. The merry audience cheered wildly. But Graves and
Raymond ran back and caught three of these little pop flies, thus retiring
the side. The old varsity had made six runs on nothing but deliberate
bunts and daring dashes around the bases.
Ken hurried in to the bench and heard some one call out, "Ward up!"
He had forgotten he would have to bat. Stepping to the plate was like
facing a cannon. One of the players yelled: "Here he is, Dale! Here's
the potato-pegger! Knock his block off!"
The cry was taken up by other players. "Peg him, Dale! Peg him, Dale!"
And then the bleachers got it. Ken's dry tongue seemed pasted to the
roof of his mouth. This Dale in baseball clothes with the lowering frown
was not like the Dale Ken had known. Suddenly he swung his arm. Ken's
quick eye caught the dark, shooting gleam of the ball. Involuntarily he
ducked. "Strike," called the umpire. Then Dale had not tried to hit him.
Ken stepped up again. The pitcher whirled slowly this time, turning with
long, easy motion, and threw underhand. The ball sailed, floated, soared.
Long before it reached Ken it had fooled him completely. He chopped at
it vainly. The next ball pitched came up swifter, but just before it
crossed the plate it seemed to stop, as if pulled back by a string, and
then dropped down. Ken fell to his knees trying to hit it.
The next batter's attempts were not as awkward as Ken's, still they were
as futile. As Ken sat wearily down upon the bench he happened to get next
to coach Arthurs. He expected some sharp words from the coach, he thought
he deserved anything, but they were not forthcoming. The coach put his
hand on Ken's knee. When the third batter fouled to Hickle, and Ken
got up to go out to the field, he summoned courage to look at Arthurs.
Something in his face told Ken what an ordeal this was. He divined that
it was vastly more than business with Worry Arthurs.
"Peg, watch out this time," whispered the coach. "They'll line 'em at
you this inning--like bullets. Now try hard, won't you? _Just try!_"
Ken knew from Arthurs' look more than his words that _trying_ was all
that was left for the youngsters. The varsity had come out early in
the spring, and they had practised to get into condition to annihilate
this new team practically chosen by the athletic directors. And they
had set out to make the game a farce. But Arthurs meant that all the
victory was not in winning the game. It was left for his boys to try
in the face of certain defeat, to try with all their hearts, to try with
unquenchable spirit. It was the spirit that counted, not the result.
The old varsity had received a bitter blow; they were aggressive and
relentless. The students and supporters of old Wayne, idolizing the
great team, always bearing in mind the hot rivalry with Place and Herne,
were unforgiving and intolerant of an undeveloped varsity. Perhaps neither
could be much blamed. But it was for the new players to show what it meant
to them. The greater the prospect of defeat, the greater the indifference
or hostility shown them, the more splendid their opportunity. For it was
theirs to try for old Wayne, to try, to fight, and never to give up.
Ken caught fire with the flame of that spirit.
"Boys, come on!" he cried, in his piercing tenor. "_They can't beat us
trying!_"
As he ran out into the field members of the varsity spoke to him.
"You green-backed freshman! Shut up! You scrub!"
"I'm not a varsity has-been!" retorted Ken, hurrying out to his position.
The first man up, a left-hander, rapped a hard twisting liner to right
field. Ken ran toward deep centre with all his might. The ball kept
twisting and curving. It struck squarely in Ken's hands and bounced
out and rolled far. When he recovered it the runner was on third base.
Before Ken got back to his position the second batter hit hard through
the infield toward right. The ball came skipping like a fiendish rabbit.
Ken gritted his teeth and went down on his knees, to get the bounding
ball full in his breast. But he stopped it, scrambled for it, and made
the throw in. Dale likewise hit in his direction, a slow low fly,
difficult to judge. Ken over-ran it, and the hit gave Dale two bases.
Ken realized that the varsity was now executing Worry Arthurs' famous
right-field hitting. The sudden knowledge seemed to give Ken the
blind-staggers. The field was in a haze; the players blurred in his
sight. He heard the crack of the ball and saw Raymond dash over and
plunge down. Then the ball seemed to streak out of the grass toward
him, and, as he bent over, it missed his hands and cracked on his shin.
Again he fumbled wildly for it and made the throw in. The pain roused
his rage. He bit his lips and called to himself: "I'll stop them if it
kills me!"
Dreer lined the ball over his head for a home-run. Hollis made a bid
for a three-bagger, but Ken, by another hard sprint, knocked the ball
down. Hickle then batted up a tremendously high fly. It went far beyond
Ken and he ran and ran. It looked like a small pin-point of black up
in the sky. Then he tried to judge it, to get under it. The white sky
suddenly glazed over and the ball wavered this way and that. Ken lost
it in the sun, found it again, and kept on running. Would it never come
down? He had not reached it, he had run beyond it. In an agony he lunged
out, and the ball fell into his hands and jumped out.