THE DECIDING GAME
That was Thursday. The deciding game was to be played in the city on
Saturday. The Holman’s team returned to the well-nigh empty campus and
settled down for the wait. Gus didn’t make the mistake of working them
hard on Friday. There was a little batting and a little throwing and a
long talk under the shade of the stand; and, of course, the pitchers
worked their sweaters off; but there was nothing strenuous that day.
One just sat around and waited――and hoped.
Late that Friday afternoon Ginger was an unobtrusive unit in a group
of five who lolled on the campus sward where a big elm cast an oasis
of shade in a sun-smitten Sahara. It was very hot and very still, and
the deserted dormitories seemed to have dropped asleep for the summer.
Conversation had been desultory, but all of the morrow’s game. Now
Captain Hal said smilingly, but with an undertone of earnestness:
“Babe, it’s too bad you didn’t save that homer for to-morrow.”
“There’s another where that came from,” replied Babe.
“Not a chance,” said Dave. “They’ll walk you every time you come up.”
“I don’t believe,” answered Babe. “You see, I haven’t been hitting
much, and they’ll think that was just an accident.”
“Brainy guys, then,” murmured Dave, pillowing his head more comfortably
on one of Babe’s ample legs.
“Is that so, fresh?” Babe pressed the heel of a big hand sternly on
Dave’s classic nose and elicited a groan of protest. “If they’ll put
the old pill where I can reach it, Dave, it’s going to travel.”
“Sure, all you want is a straight one across your chest. That’s not
much to ask, eh? Seems like they might do you a slight favor like that,
what? Then, if it happens you can swing that old bridge timber of yours
around in time, you’ll maybe get a hit!”
“‘Bridge timber!’” chuckled Hal. “That’s a new one!” Ginger, sitting
slightly apart, grinned. Babe grinned, too.
“The old bridge timber did the trick yesterday, just the same.” Then
he laughed reflectively. “Ginger was all broke up over that. He’s been
after me to use one of those toothpicks, like the rest of you, and when
he saw that homer he just dug his face in the dust.”
“Ginger’s dead right,” said Joe Kenton. “You’d hit three times as often
if you used a light bat.”
“Sure,” agreed Dave.
“Do you fellows think so, too?” demanded Ginger eagerly.
“Of course,” replied Joe. “You’ve got the right dope, Ginger.”
“I’ll say so,” said Dave. “If Babe didn’t have a solid concrete dome,
he’d know it, too.”
“Well, you can’t tell, I guess,” murmured Ginger. It was one thing
for him to criticize the ways of his hero, and quite another thing to
listen to some one else doing it!
“Keep your orbs on your Uncle Babe to-morrow, Ginger,” laughed the big
fellow. “I’m going to show you unbelievers just what the old bat can
do.”
“I――I hope you will,” muttered Ginger. “I’d like to see it.”
“You will,” answered Babe confidently. “You sure will, son, you sure
will. To-morrow about this time you’ll be apologizing to me and the old
bat for all the harsh words you’ve spoken, Ginger. Sack cloth and ashes
for you to-morrow, son!”
“I wished I was going to be there,” said Ginger longingly. “It’ll be
the first game I’ve missed since I took hold.”
“Mean to say you’re not going along?” demanded Hal, while the rest
stared in surprise.
“Can’t, Cap.” Ginger shook his red head regretfully.
“Why not?” asked Babe. “Who says so?”
“Mister Naylor. He says he can’t afford to pay my fare. Course, I’d pay
my own fare, only my――my dividends ain’t been comin’ in very regular
lately――”
“Well, I’ll be blowed!” ejaculated Dave. “The old miser! Going to do us
out of our mascot for a paltry five or six dollars! What’s it cost to
get down there and back, Hal?”
“Five――something. You can’t blame Bert much, though. We haven’t begun
to make expenses this spring, and Bert’s the guy that’s got to make the
alibis. Still, it wouldn’t hurt much to loosen up on a fiver.”
“I’ll say it wouldn’t,” declared Joe. “Look here, you know, you chaps,
we’ve got to have Ginger! Gee, we’d get licked as sure as shooting
without our mascot! Let’s dig!”
“Keep your hands out of your pockets, you guys,” directed Babe. “Ginger
and I are pals, and I look after his finances. You be at the train
promptly at nine-eighteen, son, and bring your rabbit’s foot along.
Something tells me we’re going to need it.”
“I ain’t got any rabbit’s foot,” muttered Ginger, flushed, joyous,
embarrassed, “but I――I got a lucky dime.”
“Bring it, kid, bring it!” begged Dave.
The league grounds in the city were neutral territory, without a
doubt; and they were also very nearly deserted territory when the game
started the next day. There was a small and devoted clump of Holman’s
supporters back of third base and a scarcely larger company of Munson
cohorts back of first. And there were some six hundred representatives
of the general public scattered hither and yon about the rambling
stands. It was not an inspiring scene. There was no band, there was but
little cheering, there were few pennants. The general public munched
peanuts and, still neutral, lolled in its seat and yawned throughout
four dismal innings. It seemed that the teams were as depressed
and indifferent as the bulk of the spectators. The afternoon was
scorchingly, breathlessly hot, and to move from bench to plate started
perspiration from every pore.
On the toss-up Holman’s had won the slight advantage of last innings,
and so Munson went to bat first. Dave, starting for the Light Green,
held the enemy hitless until the second and scoreless until the fourth.
He didn’t have much trouble doing it, either, for Munson was listless
and without ambition. For the Blue-and-Gold, Nelson, a left-hander
also, went to the mound. Cross, Munson’s best twirler, had worked in
both previous games, whereas Dave had not worked since Wednesday,
and some advantage was believed to accrue to Holman’s from those
circumstances. And yet, if Munson failed to hit Dave, so Holman’s as
lamentably failed to punish the Blue-and-Gold’s substitute twirler.
Nelson traveled scathless to the last of the fourth, but one pass and
a scratch hit being scored against him. It was that fourth inning that
captured the somnolent gaze of the spectators and interrupted the
steady crunching of peanuts.
Munson’s first man up fanned, but the next ambitiously reached for a
wide one of Dave’s, got it on the end of his bat and sent it arching
into right field, four inches inside the foul line and out of reach
of either Tom or Mac. Encouraged, the next batsman hit straight down
the second base alley, and suddenly there were men on first and third
and but one out! The neutrals in the stands began to take sides, and,
naturally, rooted for the team that had started going and was promising
to give them something for their money. The old ball park woke up from
its slumbers and comparative animation reigned. Also, there was much
noise from the Munson section and the Munson coachers and the Munson
bench. Dave cinched his belt a notch and woke up, too. But the next
batsman was a good waiter and nothing Dave pitched suited the umpire
behind the plate. Most unexpectedly, as things happen in baseball, the
three bases were occupied! Moreover, the earnest-faced chap now facing
Dave was Munson’s clean-up man!
To pass him, mused Babe, would force in a run and still leave but one
out. On the other hand, if he hit safely two tallies would come across;
maybe more. He must, therefore, be induced to knock out a fly, even
if it was a long one. In response to Babe’s signals Dave kept them
low. The first offering was a strike. The next two were balls. The
fourth delivery was fouled into the first base stand. The next was a
hair-breadth too low and made the tally 2 and 3. Dave had to pitch it
over now, but with luck he could still work the batsman for an out. And
he did, for the long fly arched down into Purves’ waiting hands. The
man on third raced home after the catch and beat the ball to the plate
by yards. But there were two gone now and Holman’s breathed easier.
To the next man Dave issued the first pass and again the bases were
filled. But that ended the drama, for the Munson second baseman went
out, Norwin to Wentworth.
Holman’s went after that one run lead in her half of the fourth and
evened the score. Ted Purves flied out to center, Wentworth reached
first on shortstop’s error, Joe Kenton sacrificed with a slow bunt
along first base line and, with Tom on second, Mac slammed out a
two-bagger into center. But that one tally was all that could be had,
for Bud Thomas’ liner went smack into shortstop’s glove.
Dave got through the fifth without much trouble, only four men facing
him. Nelson wobbled a bit more, but also escaped injury, Babe fanning
for the second time, Dave flying out to first and Hal Norwin knocking
a weak grounder to Nelson. In the sixth inning both pitchers became
unsteady and only sharp fielding saved them. In the seventh Dave
steadied down and fanned the first two aspirants. Then came a double
over second base and the Munson supporters yelled hopefully. But the
next man perished on a foul to Babe. The last half of the seventh
witnessed the retirement of Nelson, warmly applauded by both sides,
after he had been hit for a double and had passed two men. Cross, with
but one down, made Dave send up a pop fly to second baseman and then
crawled out of a tight hole when Captain Norwin’s grounder was handled
perfectly by third baseman and Mac was nailed at the plate.
Dave was threatened with disaster in the first of the eighth when,
having hit the first of the enemy and sent him, nursing his elbow, to
first, he passed the next opponent. A clever bunt filled the bags and
things looked black for the Light Green. The succeeding play, however,
resulted in an out at the plate, and then a speedy double, Norwin to
Kenton to Wentworth, pulled the fat out of the fire. In the last of
that inning Captain Hal, Ted Purves and Tom Wentworth went out in
order, Hal third baseman to first, and the others on strikes. And,
still 1 to 1, the deciding game went into the final inning.
Dave pitched real ball in that inning. Munson tried all she knew how
to break through. With one down, a victim to Dave’s puzzling delivery,
the Munson third baseman succeeded in dropping a Texas Leaguer behind
Tom Wentworth. A minute later Babe’s hurried peg to second went just
too wide to nip a steal. A pinch hitter took a hand then for the
Blue-and-Gold, swung at a deceptive drop, knocked a foul back of third,
slanted two more into the stand, let two balls pass him and at last
hit safely to short left. Then, with two on, Fortune favored the Light
Green. The Munson catcher landed against Dave’s first delivery――he had
tried to sneak over a straight, fast one――and sent it smashing across
the infield, rising as it went. The runners dashed away. Joe Kenton
hurled himself high into the air and to the right, shot up a hand and
speared the ball. Only the fact that when he came down he landed, or
so it appeared, directly on the back of his neck, deprived him of a
double play. By the time he had recovered himself and shot the ball to
third base the runner there was safe. But there were two gone, now,
and Holman’s set herself desperately to ward off defeat. The runner
on third, instigated by a coach with a voice like a load of furniture
falling downstairs, cut wierd didoes on the base path, kicking up the
dust, starting at top speed for the plate only to twirl and scuttle
back to the bag, dancing and gyrating. None of these antics appeared
to affect Dave, however. He observed the dervish-like enemy tolerantly
and calmly and pitched to the batter, working slowly and carefully,
digesting Babe’s signals for a long moment before each wind-up. He
tried a slow one that settled slowly toward the dust as it crossed the
plate and was adjudged a ball. He shot a high one across the outer
corner and netted a strike. He followed with a curve, waist-high, and
heard it called a ball. Babe rewarded the umpire with a look of amazed
pity.
“It looked good,” he confided to Dave cheeringly. “Let’s have it again.
Come on, Dave!” But Babe’s words were belied by the signal hidden under
the big mitten, and what followed was so palpably a straight ball in
the groove that the batter swung smartly――and missed badly.
“Two and two!” proclaimed the official.
“Nice work, Dave!” shouted Babe. “That’s pitching, boy! One more now!”
Babe’s voice was almost drowned by the strident cries of the coachers.
Even the Munson bench was howling advice and encouragement. The runner
on third was for an instant still, under the conditions a suspicious
circumstance and suggesting a dash for the plate on the next pitch.
Dave glanced unconcernedly toward the last station, studied Babe’s
signal, hesitated, shook his head. Babe signaled anew. Dave nodded. All
this was merely to give the batsman something to think about besides
his job of hitting the ball on the nose, for Dave seldom refused Babe’s
signals, and when he did he didn’t shake his head at them but walked
toward the plate and held a whispered conference with the catcher.
The incident worried the coach a mite, too, and he had half a mind to
cancel his signal for an attempted steal from third. But he didn’t, and
as Dave’s hand holding the ball went back the runner shot for the plate.
Dave didn’t hurry his delivery, although the form of the scuttling
runner was plain to his sight as his arm shot forward. The ball went
true to its goal, the batter started to swing and changed his mind, the
ball thudded into Babe’s mitten and the umpire swung an arm outward and
backward.
“He’s out!” The runner from third slid into the base in a cloud of
yellow dust, his performance a wasted effort.
In the stand the little group of Holman’s rooters stood and yelled
themselves red of face, and between the plate and the Holman’s bench
a youth pushed a cap to the back of his very red head and spun
ecstatically on one heel.
Ginger had kept his emotions sternly in check throughout eight and
a half innings, presenting a cheerful, untroubled countenance to
the world, performing his duties with all his accustomed masterly
efficiency. But now relief demanded expression, and he spun on a worn
heel and was inarticulately joyful. Then he was at Babe’s side, hand
outstretched for mask and mitt, saying casually:
“Atta-boy, Babe! ’At’s holding ’em!”
Babe grinned as he unbuckled the strap of his protector. “Get a good
grip on your lucky dime, Ginger, and root for the old bridge timber!”
said Babe.
Ginger looked startled. Gee, Babe was right, though! Joe Kenton was up,
and then came Mac, Bud, and Babe. Ginger hoped hard that the needed run
wouldn’t depend on Babe, for Babe had faced the enemy three times and
had failed on each occasion to hit. More than that, it was Cross who
was now pitching, and only yesterday morning Babe had acknowledged that
never yet, this year or any other, had Cross allowed him a bingle. For
Cross knew Babe’s weakness and didn’t have to have the catcher tell him
to keep them low and inside.
“Batter up!” called the umpire impatiently, and Joe, who had been
listening with bent head to Coach Cousins’ instructions, straightened
and walked to the plate very jauntily.
“You got one comin’ to you, Joe,” said Ginger, as he rescued the bat
relinquished by the left fielder. “Bust it on the nose!”