THE BIG GAME
A special train brought a wild crowd of Bedford supporters down to
Truesdell for the big game. Rooters for the local team jammed the
bleachers and watched the preliminary practice with critical eyes.
“I can’t see Fatty Beals as catcher,” grumbled Bony Jones. “He might do
all right for a backstop, but he can’t throw down to second to save his
life! I could do better myself.”
“Why didn’t you think to mention that the first of the season?” demanded
Charlie Rogers, whose hair was only a shade redder than his temper when
one of his friends was assailed. “It’s a crime to keep your talents
hidden that way, Bony!”
“Fatty’s all right,” declared Wat Sanford, “and anyhow, Ned Blake’s
going to pitch, and there won’t be a Bedford man get to first—take it
from me!”
The Truesdell players were soon called in and Bedford took the diamond
for ten minutes fast work, handling infield hits and throwing around the
bases.
“Look at Slugger Slade over on third!” exclaimed Jim Tapley. “This is
his first year with Bedford, but I hear he’s a semi-pro. He looks more
like a football fullback than a third sacker!”
“He’ll try football stuff, if he gets a chance,” asserted Rogers. “I’m
hoping the umpire keeps his eye peeled for crooked work. Here’s our
team,” he continued, hoisting himself up on his one sound foot with the
help of a cane. “Come on, boys. Let’s give ’em a cheer!”
The long yell rolled forth from half a thousand throats. “Oh well! Oh
_well_! Oh WELL! Truesdell! _Truesdell!_ TRUESDELL.” To which the
Bedford rooters responded with their snappy “B-E-D-F-O-R-D!”
The visiting team was first at bat and three men went out in quick
succession, not a man reaching first.
“What did I tell you!” chortled Wat Sanford. “You should worry about the
heavy hitters, Bony!”
Truesdell’s efforts at bat were, however, little better than Bedford’s.
The first man up drew a base on balls but perished on an attempt to
steal second; the next fouled out and Ned’s long fly was captured by
Bedford’s left-fielder.
Slugger Slade came to bat in the first half of the second inning and
smashed to right field a wicked line-drive, which Dave Wilbur gathered
in with his usual lazy grace.
“Atta boy, Weary!” screamed Jim Tapley. “_You_ tell ’em!”
“What do you think now about Slade’s hitting?” demanded Jones. “That
drive of his would have gone for a homer sure, if it had got past Dave!”
“_Horsefeathers!_” snorted Charlie Rogers.
What looked like a break for Truesdell came in their half of the fourth.
Dick Somers bunted safely and went down to second on the first pitch,
running like a scared rabbit and scoring the first stolen base of the
game. Tommy Beals hit a grounder to right field, which was returned to
first base before the plump, short-legged youth was half-way there. Dick
raced round to third on the play and Truesdell’s chances for a run were
excellent. Ned Blake ran out to the third-base coaching line.
“Great work, Dick,” he chattered. “Only one gone! Take a big lead. I’ll
watch ’em for you!”
Slugger Slade, the third baseman, threw him a sour look. “Keep back of
that coaching line, you!” he snarled.
Dave Wilbur was up, and as the bleachers yelled lustily for a hit, he
lifted a high sky-scraper to center field. Dick clung to the bag till he
saw the ball settle in the fielder’s glove; then dashed for home.
Ordinarily it would have been an easy steal for a runner of Dick’s
speed, but he had faltered noticeably in his start and the throw-in to
the plate beat him by a narrow margin for the third out.
“I want to enter a protest on that decision!” cried Dick to the umpire,
as the Bedford players trooped in from the field.
“What’s the matter?” demanded the official. “The catcher had the ball on
you half a yard from the plate!”
“I know that, but I’m claiming interference by the third baseman,”
yelped Dick, wrathfully. “He held me by the belt just long enough to
spoil my start!”
“That’s right, I saw him do it!” asserted Ned, who had run in to add his
protest to that of Dick.
“What’s all the crabbin’ about?” growled Slade, swaggering up to the
group. “You was out by a mile!”
“I’m not crabbing,” declared Dick. “I’m just calling the umpire’s
attention to some of your dirty playing!”
“Who says I play dirty ball?” demanded Slade, doubling up his big fists
menacingly.
“I do, for one!” Ned spoke quietly, but his gray eyes were blazing. “I
saw you hook your fingers under Dick’s belt when you stood behind him on
the bag!”
“You mean you think that’s what you saw,” sneered Slade. “The umpire
says he’s out and that settles it!”
There seemed no chance for further argument, and Dick walked out to
center field in a savage humor, which was somewhat appeased when Ned, a
moment later, struck the slugger out with three fast ones. The next
Bedford man was out at first, and a long fly to Dick ended the inning.
Ned Blake was up in Truesdell’s half and brought the crowd to its feet
with a screaming three-bagger.
“Wow! That’s cracking ’em out!” yelled Wat Sanford. “It’s a crime we
didn’t have a couple of men on bases when Ned got hold of that one!”
“There’s nobody gone, any kind of a hit will mean a run now!” cried
Charlie Rogers.
The next Truesdell batter swung at two bad balls, but lifted the third
for a high fly to right field. Slugger Slade’s heavy breathing sounded
in Ned Blake’s ear as he crouched on third base, all set for the dash
for home. With quick fingers he loosened his belt-buckle and as the
fielder’s hands closed upon the fly ball, Ned sprang from the bag;
stopped short in his tracks; and yelled lustily for the umpire. Every
eye turned in his direction and saw Slade standing stupidly on third
base with Ned Blake’s belt dangling from his hand. The Slugger had been
caught in his own trap.
A chorus of boos and jeers changed to cheers as the umpire motioned Ned
home; a penalty which Slade had earned for his team by interfering with
a base-runner.
“Oh, boy! What a stunt!” shrieked Jim Tapley. “Slade met his match that
time!”
The wild yells and jeers seemed to rattle the Bedford team for the
moment. Slade, purple with rage, let an easy grounder roll between his
legs, and before the inning was over, two more Truesdell runs came
across, making the score three to nothing.
In their half of the next inning, two Bedford batters were easy outs,
but the third drove a savage liner straight for the pitcher’s box. Ned
knocked it down and managed to get the ball to first for the third out.
The effort proved costly, however, for he came in with the blood
streaming from his pitching hand, two fingers of which were badly torn.
“You’ll have to finish the game, Dave,” announced Ned, and the lanky
southpaw at once began warming up.
Ned’s injured fingers were hastily taped and he took Wilbur’s place in
right field.
“Oh, I’d give a million dollars to be out there now!” groaned Charlie
Rogers, as he shifted his lame ankle to a more comfortable position.
Dave Wilbur had scant time to warm up before he faced the leaders of
Bedford’s batting order. He was found for four hits and two runs scored.
The score was now Truesdell three—Bedford two, and thus it stood when
the latter came to bat in the first half of the ninth.
“Holy _cat_!” wailed Jim Tapley, as the first man up whaled out a
two-bagger. “A couple more like that and we’re sunk!”
The second batter hit to shortstop and reached first on a fumble.
Bedford now had men on first and second, with none out.
“For the luv o’ Mike, hold ’em, Dave!” screamed Wat Sanford.
Tommy Beals threw off his mask and ran half-way to the pitcher’s box to
confer with Wilbur. Yells and jeers from the Bedford stand greeted this
evidence of worry on the part of Truesdell’s battery, but it took more
than mere noise to rattle Dave Wilbur. Strolling lazily back to the box,
he fanned the next two men, and the Bedford yells subsided for the
moment. The next batter, however, sent a pop-fly just out of the
shortstop’s reach, and Bedford had the bases loaded with two out.
Slugger Slade was up, and as he swaggered to the plate, the Bedford
yells again rent the air.
“Come on now, Slugger! Knock the cover off’n it! Put it out of the lot!”
“One strike!”
The umpire’s shrill voice cut through the babel of yells from the
Bedford stand. Slade glared round at the official and muttered something
in protest. Dave Wilbur took his time in the wind-up and delivered the
ball in his customary effortless style.
“Strrrike _two_!”
A yell of delight from the Truesdell rooters greeted this decision.
Slade rubbed his hands in the dirt and gripped his bat till his big
knuckles were white. Dave Wilbur had fooled him with two slow out-drops
and the crowd fell strangely silent as the lanky youth began his third
wind-up. Dave put everything he had into the pitch—a high,
lightning-fast ball over the inside corner of the plate.
The sharp crack of the Slugger’s bat brought the Bedford crowd to its
feet with a roar, while the silent Truesdell bleachers watched with
sinking hearts as the horse-hide sphere sailed high and far between
right and center fields.
Ned Blake and Dick Somers were playing deep, and at the crack of the bat
both started on the instant. The ball curved away from Ned and a bit
toward Dick who was running as he had never run before. For a moment it
seemed to the watchers that the two racing fielders would crash
together. Suddenly they saw Dick make a desperate leap into the air with
upstretched arm. The ball struck the tip of his glove, and bouncing high
to one side, fell into Ned’s extended hands for the final out.
Truesdell had won, and with the sort of finish that comes once in a
lifetime. With a roar, the Truesdell rooters swept across the diamond,
and hoisting Ned Blake and Dick Somers high above the surging crowd,
bore them in triumph from the field.
Slugger Slade stared after the retreating crowd and a savage scowl
darkened his face. Into his mind there flamed a great hatred of these
jubilant lads who had beaten him so unaccountably. Deep within him arose
the sullen wish that he might somehow even matters with them. It was a
wish that would later bear much fruit.