THE OPENING GUN
The practice games of the next few days were by no means tame affairs,
even though there was nothing especially at stake.
The All-National team was, as has been seen, chosen from among the stars
of the profession, and though they lacked, of course, the team work of
the Giants, they gave the latter all they could do to hold their own.
They had been ordered to “tear things wide open” and play the game for
all it was worth.
This they proceeded to do with such effect that when the time for the
great Series arrived the Giants had been put on their mettle and were at
the very top of their form.
It had been an especially busy week for Joe. He had spent one day in
Boston, to which city he had run over on the midnight train at the
direction of McRae, in order that he might observe the practice of the
Red Sox and get a line on their batters. He had been impressed but not
dismayed by their show of strength, and had come back knowing that his
work was cut out for him.
He had taken advantage, too, of his presence in Boston to arrange for
rooms for his family, as well as for Reggie and Mabel, as they expected
to go back and forth during the fateful week the Series lasted on the
same trains taken by the two teams.
Thursday was made memorable to the New Yorks by the appearance of
Hughson. There was an affectionate roar and rush for the veteran as he
came into the clubhouse among his adoring mates.
To the torrent of questions poured out on him as to his condition, he
responded that he was feeling fine physically, but was not yet sure of
his arm. His shoulder was still somewhat lame and tender, but he hoped
to get into some of the games later on. He tossed the ball about for a
little while, but made no attempt to cut loose with any curves or fast
ones. But the very sight of their crack pitcher once more in uniform was
a tonic and inspiration to his mates, and they put an amount of “ginger”
into their practice game that afternoon that was full of promise to
McRae and Robson, as they watched their men from the side lines.
“I think we’re going to cop the Series, Robbie,” declared the former
when the practice was over. “The men are as full of pep as so many
colts.”
“They certainly look good to-day, John,” was the response. “But I’d give
a thousand dollars out of my pocket at this minute if Hughson was in
shape.”
That evening Joe’s parents and sister reached New York. Joe had received
a wire telling him on what train they were coming and was at the station
to meet them, full of affection and impatience.
He scanned eagerly the long train as it rolled into the station. Then he
detected the familiar figures descending the steps of a Pullman coach,
and in a moment more there was a joyful family reunion.
“Momsey--Dad!” he cried, grasping his father’s hand and kissing his
mother, who had all she could do to keep from throwing her arms around
his neck then and there. “And Sis, you darling! Sweet and pretty as a
picture!” he exclaimed, holding her out at arms’ length so that he could
look at her sparkling face. “Poor, poor Jim!” he teased. “I see his
finish!”
Clara’s color deepened, but before she could retort, Joe was hurrying
the little party through the crowd to the street, where he hailed a
taxicab and had them whirled away to their rooms at the Marlborough.
He had arranged to have a nice supper served in their suite that night,
as he knew that they would be tired and excited after their long
journey. So they dined cosily and happily, and the hour or two of dear
familiar talk that followed marked one of the happiest experiences the
united little family had ever known.
But Joe could not stay nearly as long as he wanted to, for to-morrow
was the day of the first game and he had to retire early so as to be in
perfect condition.
McRae had told Joe that afternoon that he was slated to pitch the
opening game.
“I’m banking on you, Joe,” the manager told him. “You’ve never failed me
yet, and I don’t think you’ll do it now. If you fall down, we’re dead
ones.”
“I’ll do my very best,” declared Joe earnestly.
“Your best is good enough for any one,” replied McRae. “Just show them
the same stuff you did the Chicagos in that last game and I won’t ask
for anything more.”
The next morning dawned bright and clear, and the city was agog with
expectation. New York, usually so indifferent to most things, had gone
wild over the Series. The morning papers bore the flaring headlines:
“_Matson Pitches the First Game._” Crowds gathered early about the
bulletin boards. Long before the time set for the game, cars and trains
disgorged their living loads at the gates of the Polo Grounds, and
before the teams came out for practice the grandstands and bleachers
were black with swarming, jostling humanity. The metropolis was simply
baseball mad.
Within the gates, hundreds of special officers lined the field to keep
order and prevent the overflow back of centerfield from encroaching on
the playing space. The Seventh Regiment Band played popular airs. Movie
men were here, there and everywhere, getting snapshots of the scene.
The diamond lay like so much green velvet under the bright sun, and the
freshly marked white base lines stood out in dazzling contrast. It was a
scene to stir to the depths any lover of the great national game.
There was a thunderous roar as the teams marched down from the
clubhouse, and there were bursts of applause for the sparkling plays
that marked the preliminary practice. Then the field was cleared, the
gong rang and the umpire, taking off his hat and facing the stands,
bellowed in stentorian tones:
“Ladies and gentlemen: The batteries for to-day’s game are Fraser and
Thompson for Boston, Matson and Mylert for New York.”
Loud applause followed, and this grew into a cyclone when Joe took the
ball tossed to him and walked toward the pitcher’s box.
“Matson! Matson! Matson!” yelled the crowd.
Joe cast a swift look at the box where his family were seated with Mabel
and Reggie. Then he touched a little glove that rested in a pocket of
his uniform.
The head of the Red Sox batting order had taken up his position at the
plate.
“Play ball!” called the umpire.
Joe straightened up to his full height, wound up deliberately, and the
ball shot over the corner of the plate like a bullet. The batter lunged
at it savagely, but only hit the air.
The crowd yelled its delight at the auspicious beginning.
“That’s the way, Joe!”
“He can’t touch you!”
“Missed it by a mile!”
A ball followed, then a foul, then another ball, and a final strike that
sent the batter discomfited to the bench.
The next man up raised a towering skyscraper, which Larry gathered in
without moving from his tracks, and the third man died, as had the
first, on strikes.
The half inning had been short and sharp, and Joe met a tempest of
encouraging cheers as he walked in to the bench.
“You’ve got their number, old man!”
“They’ll break their backs trying to hit you!”
“Some bad pitching, I don’t think!”
But Joe had had too much experience to be betrayed into any undue
elation. There were eight innings more to come and in that time many
things might happen.