A TEST OF NERVE
“How are you feeling, Joe?” asked Jim, as the men were dressing in the
clubhouse, preparatory to going on the field for the first game of the
championship race.
“Like a fighting cock,” answered Joe. “How are you?”
“A bit shaky,” confessed Jim. “My heart keeps coming up in my throat and
I have to keep swallowing it all the time.”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” chaffed Joe. “Neither you nor I
will have anything to do today but root for the rest of the boys. That’s
a moral certainty.”
“You can’t sometimes most always tell,” quoted Jim. “Nothing is certain
in baseball.”
“No,” admitted Joe, as he adjusted his belt. “But it’s a cinch that
Hughson will pitch today. He always does in the first game. An opening
day without Hughson in the box would be like the play of Hamlet with
Hamlet left out.”
“Gee!” interrupted Larry Barrett as he glanced through the door in the
direction of the stands. “Take a squint at that crowd! I’ll bet all New
York is here today.”
It was the great day of the season, the day to which the hungry baseball
enthusiasts in the metropolis had looked forward all through the winter
and early spring. For days the fans had been in an ever increasing
fever of excitement. The papers had been full of predictions as to
the chances of the New Yorks for the flag. There had been pictures of
the team individually and in groups together with their fielding and
batting averages. There had been rosy stories of the way they had been
“breaking fences” in the training camp, and there were hints that McRae
had uncovered one or two “phenoms” who would make the rooters sit up and
take notice. The whole population of the city that had a drop of red
blood in its veins was on tiptoe with expectation.
The day had dawned clear and bright, and for hours before the time for
the game to start the trains and trolleys had been disgorging their
crowds at the gates. The far famed Polo Grounds had never been in more
superb condition. The diamond was like so much soft green velvet. The
white markings of the base lines were dazzling by way of contrast with
the green. Boxes, grandstands and bleachers were filled to overflowing
with a hilarious, good-natured crowd, that was out for a good time and
determined to have it. Long before the time for starting the game, it
became evident that “ground rules” would have to be established, making
a hit into the crowd only good for two bases, no matter how far it went.
The Boston “Braves” were to cross bats with the Giants, and there was a
keen curiosity in the crowd to see how “Rawling’s cast-offs” would shape
up, although few gave them more than an outside chance to win.
“Line up now, boys, for the grand march,” sang out Robson, as he bustled
into the clubhouse.
The team came out and got into line, McRae and Hughson leading. The
Bostons joined them and the two teams came down to the plate amid an
uproar of boisterous applause. The leaders clasped hands at the plate,
the movie men, who were there in droves, set their machines going,
and then the members of the two teams broke ranks and scattered for
preliminary practice. This was snappy and lightning fast, and “stunts”
were pulled off by both teams that brought the crowds to their feet.
Then the bell rang for the game to begin. The mayor of the city threw
out the first ball. Hughson caught it and returned it to the mayor’s
wife to keep as a souvenir, after first writing his autograph on it at
her request. Then he took his place in the box, the first Boston batter
came to the plate, the umpire cried “Play ball!” and the championship
race was on in earnest.
Joe and Jim had warmed up together with the other pitchers and now sat
on the bench together with the rest of the New York team who were not
actually playing in the game.
“Watch that drop. Wasn’t it a beauty?” commented Joe enthusiastically,
as the first ball eluded the batter’s savage swing and fell with a thud
into the catcher’s glove.
“It was a lulu, all right,” agreed Jim. “If that’s a sample of what the
old boy has in stock today, they’ll break their backs going after them.”
The first man proved an easy victim by the “strike out route,” the
second dribbled a slow roller to the box that Hughson got to first in
plenty of time, and the third succumbed to a high foul that Mylert, the
catcher, gathered in close to the right of first base. It was a quick
inning and Hughson was greeted with cheers as he walked in.
“That’s the way, Hughie, old boy!”
“You’ve got them buffaloed!”
“They’re dead ones already!”
“They can’t touch you!”
But the Boston pitcher soon showed that he was also in fine fettle,
and though the New Yorks got a man to first on a fumble by the third
baseman, he got no further and the inning ended as a scoreless tie.
For three more innings the same state of things persisted, although the
Giants gathered three hits while only one had been made off Hughson.
“We’re getting on to him though,” said Barrett, as he came back to the
bench, referring to Leonard, the Boston pitcher. “He’s got a high, fast
one that he winds around your neck, but his curves aren’t such a much.
About the sixth inning we’ll start in to plug him.”
But the “Braves” had views of their own on “plugging,” and by one of the
“breaks” of the game they were the first to score.
It was in the first part of the fifth inning. Willis, their first man
up, had got to first through an infield hit that took a high bound just
as Barrett had set himself for it and went over his head. The next
player lay down a perfect sacrifice bunt which Denton, the Giant third
baseman, got in time to put his man out at first though he could not
prevent Willis reaching second. Hughson put on steam and struck out the
next batter on three pitched balls, and the crowd breathed more easily.
But the glorious uncertainty that makes the game what it is was shown
when the Boston right fielder sent a beauty to left just inside the
third base line that scored Willis although the batter by quick fielding
was held at first.
The Boston rooters went wild while the New Yorkers sat glum and silent.
Their opponents had scored “first blood” and in as close a game as that
one promised to be that lone run loomed up like a mountain.
“Never mind, old man,” said McRae to Hughson, as the latter walked in
after the third man had been caught stealing. “The game’s young yet.
We’ll see that run and go them one better.”
But the seventh inning came with the Bostons still in the lead.
“The lucky seventh,” was the cry that went through the stands. “All
stretch!” And the fans went through the time-honored exercise while they
whooped it up for their favorites.
“Now Larry!” they yelled as Barrett strode up to the plate, “hit it a
mile! Show them where you live!”
Larry, who had led the National League in hitting the previous year,
tapped both heels for luck, squared himself and glared fiercely at the
pitcher.
That individual glared back and sent the ball hurtling over the plate.
It chanced to be a low, fast one, the kind that Larry doted on. He
caught it square on the end of his bat. It went screaming out over the
center fielder’s head. On a clear field it would have been an easy home
run, but in accordance with the ground rules it only counted for a two
bagger. Larry perched on second with a broad grin on his face while the
stands went crazy.
“We’ve got him now!” cried McRae. “He’s going up in the air.”
The next batter put up a high fly to right, which was caught after a
hard run, Barrett making third on the out.
The next man up was Red Curry. He looked so formidable as he swung his
bat that the pitcher thought it advisable to pass him to first on four
wide ones.
“He’s getting rattled!” yelled McRae. “We’ve got his goat!”
But the soundness of the pitcher’s judgment was vindicated a moment
later when the next batter, Lewis, hit into a force play, so skilfully
managed that while a man was out at second Larry was held at third. The
crowd groaned as they saw the vision of a run go glimmering, but roared
with delight a moment later when Becker scorched a hot one between
second and third, bringing in Larry with the tying run. And their joy
became delirium when Byrnes cracked a beauty to right and Lewis got home
by a great slide to the plate.
The Giant players threw their caps in the air and Joe and Jim hugged
each other in their glee.
“We’re in the lead now,” chortled Joe, “and we can trust old Hughson to
hold them down.”
The Boston pitcher pulled himself together and made the next batter put
up a high foul that was caught by the first baseman, making the third
out. But nobody cared. The Giants were ahead and there were only two
innings to go.
In the Boston half of the eighth, the first man went out on a fly to
center and the second “fanned.” The third hit a teasing bounder to the
left of the box. Hughson made a great try, but in doing so he wrenched
his knee badly. He got his man at first but when he came in to the bench
he was limping and was evidently in great pain. McRae, Robson and the
trainer gathered round him and massaged the knee vigorously.
“Do you think you can stay it out, Hughson?” asked McRae with great
anxiety. “There’s only one more inning you know.”
“I’ll try to,” was the answer. “But in the meantime you’d better warm up
another pitcher.”
McRae and Robson had a hurried conference.
“I’d put in Markwith,” said McRae, “but these Bostons are death on
southpaws.”
“Try Matson,” suggested Robson. “I noticed he was going great guns in
practice.”
“It’s a big risk before this crowd for his first time out,” said McRae,
dubiously. “But we’ll have to chance it.”
He hurried over to Joe.
“Get out and warm up, Matson,” he said, briefly. “I may have to put you
in for the ninth.”
Joe’s head whirled. To follow the great Hughson! And before this
record-breaking crowd!
Then he took a grip on himself.
“All right,” he answered, and taking Weldon, one of the Giant reserve
catchers, he went off toward the further end of the stand and began
warming up.
But the inning was very short, as the Boston pitcher was on his mettle
and retired the side in one-two-three order. Long before Joe had really
warmed up, the New Yorks took the field.
Hughson went out gamely to the box, trying to hide his limp as much as
possible. But the Boston players recognized that this was their chance.
One run would tie and two would win. It was now or never, and their
heavy batters were coming up.
Hughson, with all his pluck, could not perform miracles. He tried to
put all his skill and cunning into his pitching, but his wounded knee
refused to back him up. There were men on first and second, with none
out, when he signaled to McRae.
“It’s no use, Mac,” he said, as the latter came over to him. “I can’t
bear my weight on my foot so as to get any power behind the ball. We’ve
still got a chance if you put in Matson.”
So Joe, at a signal from the manager, took up the pitcher’s burden with
two men on bases and none out, while the Boston coachers danced up and
down on the coaching lines, yelling like mad men and doing all they
could to rattle him.