A PITCHER NEEDED.
For some time, indeed, there had been a feeling of uneasiness and
apprehension on the varsity nine. This feeling culminated following the
game with Williams in which the youngsters from the hilly country came
near administering a most disgraceful trouncing to Yale. Pitcher after
pitcher was tried in the box by the Elis, but the Williams lads seemed
to find every blue twirler an easy mark. Only for the terrific batting
of Henderson, and Cunningham’s freak home run that sent in three men
ahead of him, Williams would have scooped the game.
That there was something the matter with Yale’s pitching staff the
critics acknowledged. Efforts had been made to keep this fact out of the
newspapers, and in some way influence had succeeded in gagging Walter
Billings, the college reporter, whose opinions in regard to Yale
athletics were highly respected and universally conceded to be
remarkably astute. But Billings could be choked off no longer. He grimly
declared that it was for the good of the nine and forthwith proceeded to
express his opinion in print. From him it became universally known that
Yale was far from satisfied with her pitching staff.
“Pumper” Welch, the chief pitcher of the team, was so sore over this
that he refused to recognize Billings for several days. Welch claimed
that a slight lameness in his arm had prevented him from doing his best
in the Williams game. No one could remember of hearing him mention this
lameness before he was batted out of the box. More than that, he seemed
to have unusual speed that day, but the Williams lads had a taste for
speed and simply ate up his fast ones.
In order to do its best a team must have confidence in its pitcher.
Without such confidence the players are liable to make the most
outrageous errors and in many cases the entire team will get rattled and
go to pieces at a critical moment.
Yale dreaded the games that lay before her. The harder ones were to
come. If Williams could be defeated only by a fluke home run, what would
happen when the blue went up against the crimson? Harvard had the
pitchers, and everything seemed to indicate that her team was stronger
than it had been the season before when she snatched the championship
from Yale in two straight.
Manager, captain, and coaches were worried. Consultations were frequent
There was any amount of guarded talk and argument and a great deal of
dubious head-shaking. Something must be done, but what?—that was the
question.
One balmy morning Dick Merriwell met Billings on the campus. Walter
squinted at Dick through his spectacles and then stopped short and
called to him.
“Hello, Merriwell,” he said, shaking the freshman’s hand. “How’s trix?
Everything going all right?”
“First-rate,” was the cheerful answer.
“But you’re pitching your arm off, boy. Now don’t tell me you’re not.
You’re doing too much. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I’m pretty careful of that arm,” laughed Dick. “I watch it and care for
it as if it were a baby. I don’t think I’ll injure it, Billings.”
“But you’re doing more than half the pitching for your team. You’re
winning the games, too, and I know you’ve got a third-rate bunch behind
you.”
Some fellows would have swelled up and looked flattered over a
compliment like this, but not so with Dick. Instead of that he gravely
protested that he thought the Umpty-ten team very good indeed. Billings
grinned but failed to provoke the freshman into the slightest display of
amused sarcasm.
“You talk as if you meant it,” said the reporter.
“I do.”
“Impossible!”
“I do,” repeated Dick. “No pitcher can win right along unless he has
good backing.”
“Oh, but there are a lot of soreheads who are not playing on your team.”
“I know that, and we’re better off without such fellows. Their
jealousies and ambitions make them detrimental to the good of any team
they get on.”
“Well, I guess that’s right,” nodded Billings.
“I’d rather have nine men who are not quite so brilliant, but who have
the right spirit and the determination to play the game for the glory of
their team or college than to have a team made up of stars, every one of
whom is looking for his own glory.”
“You’ve got a level head, young fellow,” said Billings. “You’re all
right. I’ve been watching you some time. You’re a comer, and I bet my
life you’ll get there.”
“Thank you,” murmured Dick, blushing.
“I’m sorry you’re a freshman this year. Wish you weren’t barred from
varsity baseball. The varsity needs you.”
“Oh, I don’t think——”
“I know,” interrupted Billings quickly. “You’d be a great help to the
varsity nine. It’s no secret now that we are weak on the slab.”
“There are candidates enough.”
“Candidates enough, such as they are. Never in my life saw such a swarm
of fellows trying to pitch. They’ve been culled out and sifted down to
five or six at the present time, but out of what remains there’s not a
single steady, cool-headed, reliable man with real talent for pitching.
Of course, I don’t want to be quoted, Merriwell. I wouldn’t say this to
every one, but it’s a fact.”
“There’s no danger that I’ll repeat it, Billings. It’s a shame.”
“It is a shame!” growled Walter. “Already we’ve been beaten by some of
the smaller teams. What will happen to us when we go up against some of
the better ones? It makes me sick to think what Harvard is sure to do to
us.”
“What’s the matter with Welch for a pitcher?”
“The trouble is right here,” answered Billings, tapping his forehead.
“Welch has speed and kinks and all that, but he doesn’t use his head.”
“Well, there’s Swett. Every one seemed to think him a wizard.”
“He’s a spit-ball pitcher, and that’s all you can say about him. He
hasn’t another thing but the spit ball, and some days he’s liable to
throw that straight up into the air.”
“How about Dud Towne?”
“All he knows anything about is a drop. Give him a hard game, put him up
against good batters, and he insists on pitching that drop all the time.
Result, a lame arm constantly. He’s been told that he’ll ruin his wing.”
“Well, there’s Wilbur Keene.”
“In my opinion he’s the most promising man we have. He’s the youngest
and the least experienced, but he’s in earnest and he has a splendid
inshoot which is frightfully hard to hit; but he lacks confidence, and
there’s always a chance that he’ll blow up in a tight place.”
“With proper coaching some of these fellows ought to make good men.”
“With proper coaching—there’s the rub. Welch resents coaching. Towne is
too opinionated, and set to improve by it. Swett is so sensitive that he
can’t accept criticism. Besides that, it takes a peculiar talent to
coach a pitcher properly. I say, Merriwell, why don’t you come out to
the field this afternoon? I suppose you’re busy with your own team, but
you might get off for an hour. Come along with me, will you? I’d like to
have your ideas concerning the practice and the men. You might give me
some hints that I can use.”
“I wouldn’t like to do that,” said Dick. “Not for the world would I let
any one get the impression that I had criticized the varsity.”
“All right, then, don’t give me any hints, but come out to the field. It
won’t do you any hurt to stay away from your own team’s practice
to-day—it’ll do you good. Will you come if I’ll fix it? I’ll speak to
Jones about it.”
“Well, if you’re so eager for my society and you can arrange it,”
laughed Dick, “I’ll come.”