A GLORIOUS SUCCESS
Consternation sat on every face. The easy confidence of the night before
was gone. A thunderbolt had come out of the blue. The chief prop had
been knocked from under them. The easy way in which Hughson had tamed
the men from the wild and woolly West had made it seem a dead certainty
that he would win if he should be called on to repeat.
There was hot scurrying to and fro among the leaders. McRae and Robson,
with drawn faces, were deep in discussion as to the best thing to be
done. The program would have to be radically changed.
McRae came hurrying over to Joe when the latter entered the clubhouse.
“I was going to pitch you today,” he declared, “but I’ve changed my
mind. I’ll have to save my ace to take the last trick, if necessary. I’m
going to keep you for the final. Markwith goes in today and I’ll take a
chance on Barclay tomorrow. That spitter of his may fool them.”
But neither Markwith nor Barclay fulfilled the hope of their manager.
The Chicagos, who were like wild men, now that they seemed to have
another chance with the dreaded Hughson out of the way, batted like
fiends, and the two games went to their credit by scores of seven to two
and six to four. Jim had held them to a tie up to the eleventh inning,
but then he faltered and they batted in the winning runs.
Now the score was even. The result of the last game would decide the
championship and tell whether the flag would fly in the East or the West.
It was up to Joe. Upon his shoulders rested the fortunes of his team.
Would he be equal to the task? That question was being asked in every
city between the Atlantic and the Pacific. Reputation, the pennant, the
chance to get into the World’s Series--all of these depended upon the
skill and strength of that right arm of his.
The enormous crowd that packed the stands gave him a tremendous greeting
when he came on the field and began to warm up. But in all that sea of
human faces, the only one that Joe looked for was in an upper box where
a handkerchief waved at him. And in the pocket of his baseball shirt a
tiny glove lay close to his heart.
“How did he warm up, Robbie?” asked McRae anxiously, as the bell rang
for the game to begin and Robson came back to where he was sitting on
the players’ bench.
“All to the good,” declared Robson. “The ball came into my mitt almost
hard enough to knock me down. They won’t be able to see them.”
For a moment, as Joe took up his position, he had a touch of stage
fright. His head whirled and everything seemed to swim before his eyes.
Then his vision cleared, his heart ceased its thumping, and his nerves
became like steel.
“Zimmie,” the big third baseman of the Chicagos, who led off in the
batting order, swaggered up to the plate, swinging three bats. He threw
away two of them and gripped the remaining one tightly and glared at Joe.
“Trot them out, kid,” he called, “and I’ll murder them. You’re only a
false alarm, anyway.”
Joe shot the first one over for a beautiful strike and the crowd yelled
in delight.
“That’s the way, old man!” sang out Larry from second. “They can’t touch
you.”
The second was a ball and the next a foul. Then a high, fast one with a
hop to it, eluded Zimmie’s bat and sent him back to the bench looking
sheepish.
The next one up hit a slow one to short that got to first in plenty of
time, and the third man closed the inning with a two-balls-three-strikes
record.
A tempest of cheers compelled Joe to remove his cap as he came in to the
bench.
“You’re going like a runaway horse, Matson,” said McRae. “Keep it up and
the flag is ours.”
“We’ll hand you a couple of runs to start off with,” declared Larry, as
he strode to the plate.
But neither in that inning nor in the next three, did the promised runs
come in. Hamilton, the Chicago pitcher, was at his best, and his famous
drop ball was working to perfection. It seemed as though the game were
going to resolve itself into a duel between the pitchers, and the crowd
held its breath as man after man went down before the rival boxmen.
“Isn’t he a wizard?” exclaimed McRae, as Joe mowed the enemy down as
fast as they came to the plate. “They’re so much putty in his hands.
That rise ball of his has a jump on it that’s got those fellows
buffaloed. They miss it by six inches.”
“And his fadeaway,” put in Robson. “Do you see how he mixes it in with
the fast ones? He’s outguessing them all the way.”
Joe’s heart was beating high with elation. The sense of mastery thrilled
him. He was absolutely in control of all his curves. They broke just
where he wanted them. The Chicagos knew that their only chance was to
rattle him, and their coachers danced up and down on the side lines,
hurling out jibes and jeers that they hoped would “get under his skin.”
But they fell away from him like water from a duck’s back.
But in the fifth inning the Giants “cracked.”
Denton, at third, fumbled an easy roller and when at last he had stopped
juggling the ball, he threw over the first baseman’s head and the batter
got to third on the error. The fielders played close in to get him at
the plate, but a “Texas leaguer” that Larry could easily have gobbled
if he had been in his usual position, dropped behind him and the man on
third came home for the first run of the game.
The next man up rapped a fly to right, that Curry lost in the sun, and
made the round of the bases, driving his comrade in ahead of him. Three
runs to the good for the Chicagos and not one of them earned!
Joe put on steam and fanned the rest of the side, but the damage had
been done. In so close a game as that, three runs seemed like a winning
lead.
McRae was raging, and stormed among his players like a cyclone as they
came in to bat.
“Get after them!” he cried, furiously. “Give Matson something to go on.
Your bats have holes in them. You’re hitting like a lot of old women.
Knock the ball out of the lot. We’ve got to win.”
They made a gallant effort and got two men on bases. But although they
hit the ball hard a Chicago fielder always seemed to be in front of it.
The sixth inning was full of thrills and it looked for a time as though
the New Yorks would score, and score heavily.
Joe had got through the first half with nothing against him but a base
on balls--a decision which led to an acrimonious discussion between
McRae and the umpire in which the scrappy manager narrowly escaped being
ordered off the field.
In the Giant’s half, Iredell, the first man up, was given his base on
balls. McRae thought he detected signs of wobbling on Hamilton’s part
and began to “ride” him from the first base side lines. Larry, who was
coaching at third, ably seconded his chief, and the crowd joined in
trying to make the pitcher “crack.”
Hamilton was a veteran and used to such tactics, and ordinarily they
would not have affected him. But there was so much at stake on this game
and the strain up to now had been so tremendous that for a moment he
faltered and passed the second man.
The yells of the crowd increased at this, nor was his agitation lessened
when McRae entered a vehement protest against his delivery, claiming
that he lifted his foot from the ground when releasing the ball.
There was some ground for this and the umpire cautioned Hamilton, who by
this time was plainly rattled. He pulled himself together, though, and
made the next batter put up a high fly to short.
The next man went out on strikes and Chicago breathed more easily. But
Hamilton was not yet himself and a third pass filled the bases.
The crowd was crazed with excitement now, and Meyers, the next man up,
was entreated to “kill the ball” as he came to the plate.
There were “two and three” on him when at last he got the ball he
wanted. It left his bat with the crack of a bullet and soared high in
the air toward center. It had all the earmarks of a home run and the
crowd went wild, while the three men on bases tore around them toward
the plate like so many runaway horses.
On, on, the ball went as though it were going clear to the fence. But
Lange, than whom there was no swifter center fielder in either of the
major leagues, had started for it at the crack of the bat, running with
his back to the ball and looking back over his shoulder from time to
time to gauge its course. At the last second he leaped high in the air,
clutched the ball with one hand, and fell to the ground, rolling over
and over, but coming up still holding on to the ball.
A groan rose from the New York bench and the yells of the jubilant crowd
in the stands were suddenly stilled. It was hard to have their soaring
hopes so suddenly brought to earth. But it was a magnificent play, and
generous applause greeted the center fielder as he came in to be hugged
and pawed by his exulting comrades.
At the “lucky seventh” the crowd rose and stretched loyally but in vain.
Only two more innings remained and the crowds were like mourners at a
funeral.
Five minutes later they were shouting and screaming like maniacs.
It was the last half of the eighth, and the Giants’ turn had come. Larry
led off with a rattling two base hit to right. Denton sacrificed him to
third. Curry lined out a single to center, bringing Larry home. He stole
second by a close margin. Byrnes clipped a two bagger just inside the
third base line, and Willis cleaned up by lacing a three bagger between
left and center. The score was tied and the crowd promptly went mad. The
next two men went out in order, and the Chicagos, sore and raging, came
in for their last time at bat.
But Joe felt now that he had the strength of ten. The ball shot over the
plate like a bullet and not a man reached first.
“Now for the World’s Series, boys!” encouraged McRae. “Now for fifty
thousand dollars! Here’s where you win it!”
But it was the tail of the batting order that was coming up now. The
first two men were easy outs and then Joe came to the plate.
“It looks like an extra inning game,” was the remark that went around
the stands.
Like all pitchers, Joe was only a moderately good batter and his average
hovered around the two hundred mark.
Perhaps on this account Hamilton was too confident, for he took a chance
and put one over “in the groove.” Joe caught it square on the end of the
bat and the ball sailed far away into right over the fielder’s head.
Joe was off with the crack of the bat. He rounded first like a
frightened jackrabbit and straightened out for second. The ground fell
away from under his flying feet. He was running like the wind. He heard
the frantic roar of the crowds, the yells of the coachers. On he went
toward third, touched it and thundered down to the plate. He knew the
ball was coming, he saw the catcher set himself. Twenty feet from home
he launched himself into the air and slid into the rubber, just eluding
the catcher’s outstretched hand.
The game was over, the Giants had won the pennant, and had put
themselves in line for the great Series that would decide the
championship of the world!
How they came through that ordeal will be told in our next volume
entitled: “Baseball Joe in the World’s Series; Or, Pitching for the
Championship.”
Joe could never quite remember just what happened for the next few
minutes. The gleeful shouts of his team-mates, the rush and roar of the
great crowd that surged down upon him, the tugging and pulling that
seemed to be rending him apart--all this he sensed but dimly. He only
knew that he was blissfully, supremely happy. He had played his part
gallantly. He had made good on the Giants. He had won the flag!
But had he not won more than that? Was he not now free to speak? He
touched the little glove that lay in his pocket.
He dressed as rapidly as he could and emerged with Jim into the street.
He hailed a passing taxi.
“Where are you going, Joe?” asked Jim.
“Going?” repeated Joe. “I’m going straight to the Marlborough Hotel.”
THE END
UP-TO-DATE BASEBALL STORIES
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[Illustration]
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Transcriber’s Notes:
--Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_); text in
bold by “equal” signs (=bold=).
--Printer, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently
corrected, except as noted below.
--Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
--Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
--Author’s long dash style has been preserved.
--Page 200: “Joe did not wait an instant. He was not sure” (first
line of the last paragraph) is a duplicate of the first line
two paragraphs earlier (printer's error); _changed to_
“Joe wanted to tell her why that life was so” (corrected line was
obtained from another printing).
End of Project Gutenberg's Baseball Joe on the Giants, by Lester Chadwick