DIAMOND HEROES
Joe was all excitement and animation. He had never dreamed that he would
ever be sitting face to face with one of the famous team that swept
through our country like a prairie fire and made a record that has never
been equaled in the history of baseball.
“This is sure my lucky day!” he cried. “I’d willingly have traveled
hundreds of miles to have a look at you and hear you talk. And here you
drop right down at my table! I’ll have something to tell the rest of the
boys that will make them green with envy. I give you fair warning that
I’m going to keep you talking till bedtime or until I pump you dry.”
The old-time player laughed at Joe’s delight, but he would have been
more or less than human if he had not been pleased by it.
“I’m afraid you make too much of it,” he said, with a deprecating wave
of the hand. “You young fellows have the center of the stage just now.
We old boys are the has-beens. There are only four of our old team
left. All the others have crossed the Great Divide.”
“Their memory won’t die, though, as long as there is a baseball fan left
in these United States,” declared Joe. “Why, there’s scarcely a ‘fanning
bee’ that I’ve ever been in, but what the name of the famous old Red
Stockings comes up in some way or other. They’ve left a mark upon the
game that will never grow dim.”
“It’s good to hear you say so, anyway,” said Wilson. “We thought
ourselves that we were ‘some pumpkins’ when we started out, especially
after we’d handed a few lacings to some of the other teams, but we never
thought we were going to win fifty-seven games right off the reel. We
used to look at each other, as one team after the other fell by the
wayside, and wonder when our turn would come. It certainly seemed a
miracle that we should escape with a whole skin every time. I suppose
we would have gone under toward the end of the season if our reputation
hadn’t scared the other teams so that they were licked before they came
on the field. As it was, the scores as a rule weren’t even close. Our
tightest squeeze was when we whipped the Mutuals of New York by four to
two. But the way we treated the Buckeye team was a sin and a shame,” he
chuckled. “We walloped them by one hundred and three to eight.”
The veteran was getting warmed up now and his eyes flashed as he
recalled the glorious exploits of his young manhood.
Just then the waiter came along and placed two checks on the table.
Wilson reached for his, but Joe was too quick for him.
“No, you don’t,” he laughed, as his hand closed over both checks. “This
is on me. It isn’t often that one has a chance of having a Red Stocking
for a guest, and I’m going to make the most of it.”
“‘Youth will be served,’” quoted Wilson, with a smile, as he acquiesced
good-naturedly.
“I hope you’re not traveling with anybody,” said Joe, as they rose to
leave the table, “because if you’re not I hope to have your company for
the rest of the evening.”
“I’m all by my lonesome,” returned his new friend, “and I’ll be only too
glad to accept your invitation. To tell the truth, I was looking forward
to a dull evening all by myself, as my eyes are not strong enough to do
much reading at night.”
They made their way back to Joe’s reservation and settled themselves
cozily for a long talk. They formed a dramatic contrast, if they had
thought of it. On the one hand was a veteran, who, like Goldsmith’s
soldier:
“Shouldered his crutch to show how fields were won,”
while Joe presented a picture of eager, ambitious youth, dreaming of
coming fame and standing with shining eyes on the very threshold of
achievement. But though so widely separated in years, they were one in
the mystic free masonry that unites all lovers of the great national
game of our country.
“We didn’t use to travel in any such style as this in the old days,”
remarked Wilson, as he looked around at the rich appointments of the
Pullman. “As a matter of fact, we had to scratch sometimes to get money
enough to carry the team from one place to another in an ordinary day
coach. Those were the days when baseball was a sport, pure and simple,
and nobody thought of it as a business to make money from. Usually there
were no regular salaries for the players, and they simply divided up the
receipts from the different games and made them go as far as they would.
Many of the games were played in open fields, where everybody could
come and contribute what they liked when the hat was passed for the
collection. Even when there were enclosed grounds, the admission fee was
twenty-five cents or less, and except on special occasions the crowds
were nowhere near as large as they are to-day. But we’d rather play than
eat, and we played the game for the fun we could get out of it. And fun
it was, I assure you.”
“You spoke of making over a hundred runs in a single game,” remarked
Joe. “There must have been some walloping of the horsehide, and I feel
sorry for the fielders that had to chase the ball.”
“They certainly got plenty of exercise,” chuckled Wilson. “Of course,
the batters in those days had a big advantage over the pitchers. Nobody
knew anything about curving the ball until the time of Cummings and
Mathews, and instead of the ball looking like a pea as it came over the
plate it was more like a balloon. The ball had no friends, and everybody
took a poke at it. The batter, too, could step out of the box to reach
for a ball, and they took advantage of it. If they do it today, you call
them out. There was no ‘waiting out’ the pitcher in order to get a base
on balls. It was a point of honor to swipe the ball for all you were
worth, and the public expected you to do it.
“It was mighty hard on the fielders in the old days,” he went on,
“because none of them wore gloves, and as the ball was harder and
livelier than it is today, broken fingers were much more common. I’ve
seen some of the old boys who had had every finger on both hands broken
at some time or another. I was an outfielder and got off more easily;
but I’ve had two broken fingers,” and he held up his right hand for Joe
to see.
“I don’t see how the catchers got along without gloves, even if the
other players did,” suggested Joe.
“Well, the pitching wasn’t as swift then as it is now,” explained the
veteran. “Besides, base stealing hadn’t been reduced to the science it
is today, and the catchers didn’t need to get hold of the ball in such a
hurry. Moreover, a third strike was out if the catcher caught it on the
first bound, so that as a rule they relied on this and stood a good way
behind the plate.”
“Do you think that the game has advanced very much since the old days?”
asked Joe.
“Oh, immensely!” was the generous and unexpected concession. “We didn’t
know anything in the old days of the ‘inside stuff’ you set such store
by today. The ‘squeeze play,’ the ‘delayed steal,’ the ‘sacrifice hit’
are all modern inventions. But when it comes to fielding, there isn’t a
man to-day that could show George Wright anything at shortstop or Ross
Barnes at second base. And we had batters that could give points to
Wagner and Cobb.”
“I suppose you wanted to ‘kill the umpire’ once in a while, just as we
do now,” suggested Joe, with a grin.
“Once in a while, but not so often,” smiled the other. “Umpiring was a
mighty sight easier job then than now. The umpire used to sit in an easy
chair at the side of the plate and a good distance off so that there
was no danger of being hit by a thrown ball or a foul tip. But he didn’t
get the big salary that the men with the indicator get today. Two or
three dollars at the end of a game was considered plenty, and there were
lots of times when he didn’t get even that.”
“I’ll bet you’ve seen some sparkling plays in your time,” said Joe.
“You’re just right,” agreed Wilson. “I’ve seen lots of things that took
the spectators clear off their feet. One of the queerest I remember was
a triple play made by an outfielder. Have you ever seen one?”
“I’ve only seen one in my life,” answered Joe. “They are pretty scarce
birds and often the league goes through a whole season without one being
made. And when they do happen, it’s an infielder who makes it. I don’t
exactly see how an outfielder could pull it off.”
“I don’t think it has ever been done but once,” returned Wilson, “and I
had the luck to be playing in that game. Paul Hines, the center fielder
of the Providence Club, was the player who turned the trick.
“There were men on second and third and nobody out. The man at bat
lifted a short fly into center, just back of short. It seemed a dead
certainty that the ball would fall safe, and the men on bases set sail
for the home plate. Hines came in like a quarter horse and just managed
to catch the ball on a level with his shoe tops. In the meantime, the
man on third had reached home and the man from second had rounded third
and was scooting for the plate. Hines had had to run so far in that he
was close to third, so he simply kept on running and stepped on the bag.
That of course put out both men, who couldn’t get back to third in time,
which, with the fly catch, made three out in all. It was a remarkable
play, and it was a long time before the papers got through talking about
it.”
“I don’t wonder,” Joe declared. “It was a case of dandy fielding and
quick thinking.”
“But now tell me about yourself,” urged Wilson. “Here I’ve been running
on, as old fellows will, and you’ve hardly said a word about yourself.”
“The case is different,” protested Joe. “You’re the fellow who has
actually done things, and I’m the one who’s only hoping to do them.”
“You can’t tell me that,” came back Wilson. “Any man who has already had
a season with the St. Louis Club in the National League and was so good
that McRae made a grab for him, has already done things worth doing.
I’ve seen your record, young man, and it’s a crackerjack. I’m looking
for you to burn things up, when the season opens.”
“I only hope you’re right,” said Joe. “But it’s going to be a tough
proposition. All the clubs have been strengthened since last season, and
there isn’t one of them that can be figured as an easy mark. Chicago and
Pittsburgh especially will be strong contenders, and the club that beats
them out will win the pennant. I think the Giants have the best chance,
but if we do win we’ll know we’ve been in a fight.”
The talk continued with such a disregard for the passage of time that
before they knew it most of the berths had been made up and all the
passengers except themselves were getting ready to retire. Then Wilson
rose.
“My berth is in the next sleeper,” he said, as he extended his hand,
“and as I reach my station at five o’clock in the morning I won’t have a
chance to see you again right away. But I’ll see you play more than once
this season. I hope you’ll have the best of luck and come out ahead in
the race for the pennant. And I’m more glad than I can tell that I’ve
run across you. With young men like you in it, the future of the game is
safe.”
Joe shook hands warmly.
“The game would have gone to smash long ago if it hadn’t been for the
strong foundation laid for it by famous old teams like yours,” he
asserted. “As for me, I’ll never forget as long as I live that I’ve
shaken hands with one of the old Red Stockings of sixty-nine.”
Joe was in high spirits after his visitor left. The chance meeting had
braced him like a tonic. If he had been the least bit superstitious, he
might have been inclined to look upon it as more than a coincidence.
Here he is, on his way to join the most famous team of the present. At
the very start of his journey he meets a member of the most famous team
of the past.
Is it an omen of coming triumph? At any rate, it is an inspiration.
That night in his sleep Joe pitched the Giants to victory!