THE FIRST LEAGUE GAME
"All aboard!"
"Good-bye, everybody!"
"See you next Spring!"
"Good-bye!"
These were some of the calls heard at the Montville station as the
Pittston ball team left their training grounds for the trip to their
home city, where the league season would start. Joe had been South about
three weeks, and had made a few friends there. These waved a farewell to
him, as others did to other players, as the train pulled out.
Joe was not sure, but he thought he saw, amid the throng, the face of a
certain girl. At any rate a white handkerchief was waved directly at
him.
"Ah, ha! Something doing!" joked Charlie Hall, with whom Joe had struck
up quite a friendship. "Who's the fair one, Joe?"
"I didn't see her face," was the evasive answer.
"Oh, come now! That's too thin! She's evidently taken a liking to you."
"I hope she has!" exclaimed the young pitcher, and then blushed at his
boldness. As the train pulled past the station he had a full view of the
girl waving at him. She was Mabel Varley. Charlie saw her also.
"My word!" he cried. "I congratulate you, old man!" and he clapped Joe
on the shoulder.
"Cut it out!" came the retort, as Joe turned his reddened face in the
direction of the girl. And he waved back, while some of the other
players laughed.
"Better be looking for someone to sign in Matson's place soon, Mack,"
remarked John Holme, the third baseman, with a chuckle. "He's going to
trot in double harness if I know any of the symptoms."
"All right," laughed the assistant manager. "I'll have to begin scouting
again, I suppose. Too bad, just as Joe is going to make good."
"Oh, don't worry," advised our hero coolly. "I'm going to play."
The trip up was much more enjoyable than Joe had found the one down,
when he came alone. He was beginning to know and like nearly all of
his team-mates--that is, all save Collin, and it was due only to the
latter's surly disposition that Joe could not be friendly with him.
"Think you'll stay in this business long?" asked Charlie of Joe as he
sank into the seat beside him.
"Well, I expect to make it my business--if I can make good."
"I think you will."
"But I don't intend to stay in this small league forever," went on Joe.
"I'd like to get in a major one."
"That isn't as easy as it seems," said the other college lad. "You know
you're sort of tied hand and foot once you sign with a professional
team."
"How's that?"
"Why, there is a sort of national agreement, you know. No team in any
league will take a player from another team unless the manager of
that team gives the player his release. That is, you can quit playing
ball, of course; but, for the life of you, you can't get in any other
professional team until you are allowed to by the man with whom you
signed first."
"Well, of course, I've read about players being given their release, and
being sold or traded from one team to another," spoke Joe, "but I didn't
think it was as close as that."
"It is close," said Hall, "a regular 'trust.' Modern professional
baseball is really a trust. There's a gentleman's agreement in regard to
players that's never broken. I'm sorry, in a way, that I didn't stay an
amateur. I, also, want to get into a big league, but the worst of it is
that if you show up well in a small league, and prove a drawing card,
the manager won't release you. And until he does no other manager would
hire you. Though, of course, the double A leagues can draft anyone they
like."
Joe whistled softly.
"Then it isn't going to be so easy to get into another league as I
thought," he said.
"Not unless something happens," replied his team-mate. "Of course, if
another manager wanted you badly enough he would pay the price, and
buy you from this club. High prices have been paid, too. There's
Marquard--the Giants gave ten thousand dollars to have him play for
them."
"Yes, I heard about that," spoke Joe, "but I supposed it was mostly
talk."
"There's a good deal more than talk," asserted Charlie. "Though it's a
great advertisement for a man. Think of being worth ten thousand dollars
more than your salary!"
"And he didn't get the ten," commented Joe.
"No. That's the worst of it. We're the slaves of baseball, in a way."
"Oh, well, I don't mind being that kind of a slave," said Joe,
laughingly.
He lay back in his seat as the train whirled on, and before him, as he
closed his eyes, he could see a girl's face--the face of Mabel Varley.
"I wonder if her brother told her?" mused the young pitcher. "If he did
she may think just as he did--that I had a hand in looting that valise.
Oh, pshaw! I'm not going to think about it. And yet I wish the mystery
was cleared up--I sure do!"
The training had done all the players good. They were right "on edge"
and eager to get into the fray. Not a little horse-play was indulged in
on the way North. The team had a car to itself, and so felt more freedom
than otherwise would have been the case.
Terry Blake, the little "mascot" of the nine, was a great favorite, and
he and Joe soon became fast friends.
Terry liked to play tricks on the men who made so much of him, and late
that first afternoon he stole up behind Jake Collin, who had fallen
asleep, and tickled his face with a bit of paper. At first the pitcher
seemed to think it was a troublesome fly, and his half-awake endeavors
to get rid of it amused Terry and some others who were watching.
Then, as the tickling was persisted in, Collin awoke with a start.
He had the name of waking up cross and ugly, and this time was no
exception. As he started up he caught sight of the little mascot, and
understood what had been going on.
"You brat!" he cried, leaping out into the aisle. Terry fled, with
frightened face, and Collin ran after him. "I'll punch you for that!"
cried the pitcher.
"Oh, can't you take a joke?" someone asked him, but Collin paid no heed.
He raced after poor little Terry, who had meant no harm, and the mascot
might have come to grief had not Joe stepped out into the aisle of the
car and confronted Collin.
"Let me past! Let me get at him!" stormed the man.
"No, not now," was Joe's quiet answer.
"Out of my way, you whipper-snapper, or I'll----"
He drew back his arm, his fist clenched, but Joe never quailed. He
looked Collin straight in the eyes, and the man's arm went down. Joe was
smaller than he, but the young pitcher was no weakling.
"That'll do, Collin," said Jimmie Mack, quietly. "The boy only meant it
for a joke."
Collin did not answer. But as he turned aside to go back to his seat he
gave Joe a black look. There was an under-current of unpleasant feeling
over the incident during the remainder of the trip.
Little Terry stole up to Joe, when the players came back from the
dining-car, and, slipped his small hand into that of the pitcher.
"I--I like you," he said, softly.
"Do you?" asked Joe with smile. "I'm glad of that, Terry."
"And I'll always see that you have the bat you want when you want it,"
went on the little mascot. Poor little chap, he was an orphan, and Gus
Harrison, the big centre fielder, had practically adopted him. Then he
was made the official mascot, and while perhaps the constant association
with the ball players was not altogether good for the small lad, still
he might have been worse off.
Pittston was reached in due season, no happenings worth chronicling
taking place on the way. Joe was eager to see what sort of a ball field
the team owned, and he was not disappointed when, early the morning
after his arrival, he and the others went out to it for practice.
It was far from being the New York Polo Grounds, nor was the field equal
to the one at Yale, but Joe had learned to take matters as they came,
and he never forgot that he was only with a minor league.
"Time enough to look for grounds laid out with a rule and compass when I
get into a major league," he told himself. "That is, if I can get my
release."
Joe found some letters from home awaiting him at the hotel where the
team had its official home. But, before he answered them he wrote to
Mabel. I wonder if we ought to blame him?
The more Joe saw of his team-mates the more he liked them--save Collin,
and that was no fault of the young pitcher. He found Pittston a pleasant
place, and the citizens ardent "fans." They thought their team was about
as good as any in that section, and, though it had not captured the
pennant, there were hopes that it would come to Pittston that season.
"They're good rooters!" exclaimed Jimmie Mack. "I will say that for this
Pittston bunch. They may not be such a muchness otherwise, but they're
good rooters, and it's a pleasure to play ball here. They warm you up,
and make you do your best."
Joe was glad to hear this.
The new grounds were a little strange to him, at first, but he soon
became used to them after one or two days' practice. Nearly all the
other players, of course, were more at home.
"And now, boys," said Manager Gregory, when practice had closed one day.
"I want you to do your prettiest to-morrow. I've got a good team--I know
it. Some of you are new to me, but I've heard about you, and I'm banking
on your making good. I want you to wallop Clevefield to-morrow. I want
every man to do his best, and don't want any hard feelings if I play one
man instead of another. I have reasons for it. Now that's my last word
to you. I want you to win."
There was a little nervous feeling among the players as the time for the
first league game drew near. A number of the men had been bought from
other clubs. There was one former Clevefield player on the Pittston
team, and also one from the pennant club of a previous year.
That night Joe spent some time studying the batting averages of the
opposing team, and also he read as much of their history as he could get
hold of. He wanted to know the characteristics of the various batters if
he should be fortunate enough to face them from the pitching mound.
There was the blare of a band, roars of cheers, and much excitement. The
official opening of the league season was always an event in Pittston,
as it is in most large cities. The team left their hotel in a body,
going to the grounds in a large 'bus, which was decorated with flags. A
mounted police escort had been provided, and a large throng, mostly
boys, marched to the grounds, accompanying the players.
There another demonstration took place as the home team paraded over the
diamond, and greeted their opponents, who were already on hand, an
ovation having also been accorded to them.
The band played again, there were more cheers and encouraging calls, and
then the Mayor of the city stepped forward to throw the first ball.
Clevefield was to bat first, the home team, in league games, always
coming up last.
The initial ball, of course, was only a matter of form, and the batter
only pretended to strike at it.
Then came the announcement all were waiting for; the naming of the
Pittston battery.
"For Clevefield," announced the umpire, "McGuinness and Sullivan. For
Pittston, Matson and Nelson."
Joe had been picked to open the battle, and Nelson, who was the regular
catcher, except when Gregory took a hand, would back him up. Joe's ears
rang as he walked to the mound.
"Play ball!" droned the umpire.