SNATCHED FROM THE FIRE
Not a bit dismayed by their unpromising beginning, the Red Sox took
the field, and speedily showed that they too could uncork a brand of
pitching that was not to be despised.
The best that Burkett could do was to raise a “Texas Leaguer” that Berry
gobbled in without any trouble. Larry chopped an easy one to Girdner,
who got him at first with plenty to spare. Denton dribbled a slow roller
that Fraser gathered in on the first base line, tagging the runner as he
passed.
And now it was the turn of the Boston enthusiasts, of whom thousands had
made the trip to see their favorites play, to yell frantically for the
Red Sox.
Joe realized at once that he had a foeman in Fraser who was worthy of
his steel, and knew that all his skill and cunning would be required to
win.
For the next two innings the sides were mowed down with unfailing
regularity, and not a man on either side reached first base. It looked
as though the game were going to resolve itself into a pitchers’ duel,
and the crowds were breathless with excitement as batter after batter
was sent to the bench.
The Giants broke the ice in the fourth. Burkett scorched a single to
right, and by daring base-running stretched it to a double, as Cooper
was slow in making the return. Barrett sacrificed him to third. Fraser
put on steam and fanned Denton on strikes. Then Willis came to the
rescue with a sizzling hit just inside the third base line, and Burkett
came galloping over the plate with the first run of the game.
The crowd rose and cheered wildly, and the Giants from their dugout
threw their caps in the air and gathered around Burkett in jubilation.
It was only one run, but the way the game was going that run looked as
big as a mountain.
Willis was caught napping off first by a snap throw from Thompson to
Hobbs, and the inning ended.
The fifth was devoid of scoring, but in the sixth the Bostons not only
tied the Giants but passed them.
Loomis, the crack left fielder of the visitors, started the trouble
with a sharp hit to Larry, who “booted” the ball, letting Loomis get
to first. Hobbs lay down a bunt on which Joe had no time to get Loomis
at second, though he tossed out Hobbs at first. Walters lined out the
first clean hit that the Red Sox had made so far in the game. If it had
been properly played and taken on the bound, it could have been held to
a single. But Becker made a mistake in thinking that he could make a
fly catch. The ball struck the ground in front of him, bounded over his
head and rolled to the further corner of the field. Before it could be
recovered, Walters had made the circuit of the bases, following Loomis
over the plate, and the Red Sox were in the lead by two runs to one.
The Boston rooters started their marching song of “Tessie,” while the
New Yorkers sat glum and silent.
Joe tightened up and struck out the two following batters in jig time,
but it looked as though the mischief had been done.
“Don’t let that worry you, Joe,” counseled McRae, as he came in to the
bench. “You’re pitching like a Gatling gun. That’s the first hit they’ve
got off you in six innings and it ought to have been a single only.
We’ll beat ’em yet.”
“Sure we will,” answered Joe, cheerfully. “We’ve only begun to fight.”
At the beginning of the “lucky seventh,” the crowd rose and stretched in
the fond hope that it would bring the necessary luck for their favorites.
The omen might have worked, had it not been for a dazzling bit of play
on the part of the Bostons.
Their own half had been fruitless. Joe was pitching now like a man
inspired, and his bewildering curves and slants had made the Boston
sluggers look like “bushers.”
In the Giants’ half, Joe was the first man up and he laced out a hot
liner between second and short that carried him easily to first. Mylert
hit to short and Joe was forced at second, though Berry relayed the
ball to Hobbs too late for a double play. A wild pitch, the only one of
the game, advanced Mylert a base. Burkett received a pass. Now there
was a man on first, another on second, and rousing cheers came from the
stands. There was only one man out, Fraser was evidently getting wild,
and it looked as though New York might score.
The Boston infield moved in for a double play. And it looked for a
moment as though they would make it. Larry hit to short, and a groan
went up. But the hit was so sharp that Stock could not handle it
cleanly, and, though he succeeded in getting Burkett at second Larry
reached first safely while Mylert raced to third.
It was a time for desperate measures, and McRae gave the signal for a
double steal. The moment Fraser wound up, Larry started for second,
not with a design of reaching it, but hoping to draw a throw from the
catcher, under cover of which Mylert might scamper home from third. If
he could touch the plate before Larry was put out, the run would count
and the score be tied.
Thompson threw like a shot to Berry at second. But instead of chasing
Larry, who had stopped midway between first and second, he kept
threatening to throw to third and catch Mylert, who was taking as big a
lead toward home as he dared. After playing hide and seek for a moment,
Berry thought he saw a chance to nip Mylert and threw to Girdner at
third. But the ball touched the tips of his fingers and got past him,
and Mylert started for home.
A howl of exultation went up from the throng. Then it died away as
suddenly as it had risen.
Girdner, chasing the ball, slipped as he went to pick it up. Lying on
the grass, he made a desperate throw in the direction of the plate.
It went high, but Thompson made a tremendous jump, pulled it down and
clapped it on Mylert just as he slid into the rubber.
“Out,” yelled the umpire.
It was as classy a play as any of the spectators had ever seen, and even
the New Yorkers, sore as they were at losing the run, joined generously
in the applause that greeted it.
“That fellow Girdner must have a rabbit’s foot about him somewhere,”
remarked Robson to McRae with a twisted smile. “He couldn’t do that
thing again in a thousand years.”
“A few more things like that and the crowd will die of heart disease
or nervous prostration,” answered McRae. “But they can’t have all the
breaks. Just watch. Our turn will be coming next.”
But nothing happened in the eighth to change the score, and the ninth
opened with the Red Sox still in the lead.
That the Red Sox would not score again was as nearly certain as anything
can be in baseball. Joe, as cool as an icicle, was going at top speed.
They simply could not touch his offerings.
But as the visitors went back in one, two, three order, they consoled
themselves with the thought that they did not have to do any more
scoring. They were already ahead, and if Fraser could hold their
opponents down for one more inning, the game was theirs.
But Fraser had about reached his limit. He could not stand the gaff
as sturdily as Joe. With the exception of that one wild spell, he had
pitched superbly, but the terrific strain was beginning to tell.
His first two pitches went as balls, and McRae, whose eagle eyes saw
signs of wavering, signaled Becker, who was at the bat, to “wait him
out.”
The advice proved good, and Becker trotted down to first where he
immediately began to dance about and yell, hoping to draw a throw which
in the pitcher’s nervous condition might go wild.
The Red Sox players shouted encouragement to their pitcher, and the
catcher walked down to the box on the pretense of advice but really to
give him time to recover himself.
No doubt this helped, for Fraser braced up and made Iredell put up a
towering foul, which Thompson caught after a long run.
Joe came next and cracked out a pretty single between short and second.
Becker tried to make third on it, but a magnificent throw by Walters
nipped him at the bag. But in the mix-up, Joe, by daring running, got to
second.
With two out, a long hit would tie the game, anyway, and carry it into
extra innings.
Fraser seemed to waver again and gave Mylert his base on balls. Then big
Burkett, the head of the batting order, strode to the plate.
Amid frantic adjurations from the crowd to “kill the ball,” he caught
the second one pitched and sent a screaming liner far out toward the
right field wall.
Cooper, the fleet Red Sox right fielder, had started for it at the crack
of the bat. On, on he went, running like a deer.
Thirty-five thousand people were on their feet, yelling like maniacs,
while Joe, Mylert and Burkett raced round the bases.
Ball and man reached the wall at the same instant. The gallant player
leaped high in the air. But the ball just touched the tips of his
fingers and rolled away, while Joe and Mylert dented the rubber, Burkett
halting when he reached second.
Then the crowd went crazy.
The game was over. It had been a battle royal, but the Giants had
vanquished the Red Sox, and had taken their first stride toward the
championship of the world.