MAKING GOOD
“Ladies and gentlemen!” roared the umpire, taking off his cap, “Matson
now pitching for the New Yorks!”
There was a yell of applause from the packed stands to greet the
newcomer. There had been a great deal of curiosity stirred up by the
newspaper accounts of Joe’s exploit with the madman, and the crowd was
in a friendly mood. Besides, they realized that they ought to encourage
him at this critical time when the game hung in the balance. So they
cheered him loyally, though not many thought he could win with such a
handicap.
Some of them remembered, however, how this same young pitcher had tamed
their own Giants the last game of the previous season and realized that
there was still a fighting chance.
Succeeding the first wild yell, a deathlike silence settled over the
stands as Joe wound up for the first ball.
Straight as an arrow it darted toward the plate, breaking into a wide
outcurve as the batter lunged at it.
[Illustration: IT DARTED TOWARD THE PLATE, BREAKING INTO A WIDE
OUTCURVE.]
“Strike one!” called the umpire, and a cheer went up.
The next two were balls at which the batter declined to “bite.”
“Strike two!” called the umpire as the next one cut the plate.
The next was a ball.
“He’s in the hole now!” yelled the Boston coachers. “He can’t get it
over. He’s going up.”
Joe did his best to get the next one over the rubber, but he had not
warmed up enough yet to get perfect control, and the umpire waved the
batter down to first. He ran down, laughing derisively, while his
comrades moved up to second and third.
“All over now but the shouting,” was the cry that went up from the
enemy’s coaching lines. “We don’t need to hit the ball. Just leave him
alone and he’ll win the game for us.”
Larry came in from second, ostensibly to consult with Joe, but really to
give him a moment’s breathing space.
“Keep your nerve, old man,” he counseled. “We’ll get them yet. We’re all
with you.”
“I know it, Larry,” said Joe, gratefully.
“Play ball!” yelled the Bostons.
“Write him a letter!”
“Hire a hall!”
But Larry was too old a bird to mind their jeers and he took his time in
getting back to his position.
Joe knew that the next batsman, depending upon his being wild, would
not attempt to strike at the first balls served but would try to “wait
him out.” So he put two perfect strikes across the plate. The batter
grew serious and set himself for the next which he figured would also
be a strike. But Joe outguessed him and fed him a slow one that he
frantically struck at before it reached the plate.
“You’re out!” called the umpire, and the stands broke into thunderous
applause.
Still, there were three on bases and a long fly to the outfield, even if
caught, would probably bring the man in from third with the tying run.
At all costs Joe must keep the ball on the ground within the limits of
the infield where a play could be made for the plate.
He measured the next Boston man carefully as he came to the plate.
He was the heaviest batter on the team, and his mates begged him
vociferously to “line it out.”
“It only takes one to do it.”
“Give it a ride!”
“Hit it on the seam!”
The batter shook his bat at Joe.
“Put it over if you know how,” he jibed, “and I’ll kill it.”
He was a trifle less confident, however, when a speedy one cut the plate
breast high, missing his bat by six inches.
“That’s no way to kill a ball,” taunted Joe.
The batter was trying to think up a retort, when Joe, without waiting to
wind up, slipped one over before he was expecting it.
“Strike two!” called the umpire.
“Clever work, Matson!” called out McRae delightedly, while a tempest of
cheering swept the stands.
The next one was a low outcurve that the batter reached for and
connected with. It shot like a bullet straight at Joe, but above his
head. If his team had had a big lead, Joe would have dodged and left it
to his fielders, for it was almost deadly to face it at that distance.
But he leaped high in the air and it stuck in his glove. All the men
on bases, thinking it was a sure hit, were legging it for home. Like
a flash Joe turned and shot it down to third, completing a beautiful
double play.
Three men were out, the game was over and the Giants had won by a score
of two to one!
The lightning like quickness of the play had dumbfounded spectators and
players alike. Only for an instant, however. Then a roar went up that
could have been heard for a mile, and the crowd swept down from the
stands. Joe saw them coming and made a break for the clubhouse. He got
away from the grandstands but the bleachers intercepted him, and for
the last twenty yards he had to force his way through a surging mob who
tried to grab his hand or clap him on the shoulder or in a hundred ways
tried to express their appreciation of his work. It was with a sigh of
relief that he found himself at last within the welcome shelter of the
club’s quarters.
His comrades were not far behind him and came tumbling in pell-mell,
filled with delight at having the game snatched from the fire at the
last moment.
“Gee!” said Larry. “That was a close call! I never saw a prettier
double!”
“You’re some pitcher, Joe!” cried Red Curry. “I thought we were goners
sure with those three men on the bags.”
McRae and Robson hurried in, their features one broad grin.
“You saved the day, Matson!” exclaimed the former. “I admit I was a
little scared when you went in with such odds against you. But you stood
the gaff all right.”
“We’ve got the jump on the other fellows by copping the first game,”
said Robson. “It’s a great thing to get away to a running start. It
puts heart and courage into the team, and that certainly would have been
a hard game to lose.”
“It was Hughson’s game after all,” protested Joe. “It was his
magnificent pitching that held them down to one run up to the ninth. All
I had to do was to hold them there.”
“Of course we know what Hughson is,” said McRae, “but we weren’t quite
so sure what you would be when brought face to face with a pinch. All I
ask you to do is to keep up the way you’ve started.”
Joe would not have been human if he had not felt jubilant at these
words of praise from the head of the team. But it did not make him lose
his head. He knew that the same tongue that gave him credit now would
be quite as ready to “skin him alive” if he failed to do his best. If
“eternal vigilance is the price of liberty,” Joe knew that it was also
the price of success in his chosen profession. No baseball player can
rely on the great things he did yesterday. He must be prepared to do
them today and tomorrow also. The same public that today had overwhelmed
him with applause might in a few days be demanding that he be taken out
of the box. And knowing this, Joe resolved that he would never give less
than the very best that was in him. He would have his bad days--every
pitcher has--but it would never be from lack of trying.
But whatever the future might have in store for him, today at least
was his. The honey of success was on his tongue and it was very sweet.
He had made good in his first game in the metropolis. In the words of
Robson, he had “got off to a running start.”
He whistled blithely as after his shower and rubdown, he got into his
clothes and, accompanied by Jim, passed out into the street.