BENCHED.
In moments like this the baseball fan of any age goes wild with frenzy;
especially is this true of the enthusiastic schoolboy fan who has
watched his team fight an uphill game and come neck-and-neck with a
worthy and much-feared rival in one of the late innings of the contest.
The youthful Wyndhamites shrieked until their faces were purple and
their eyes bulging, flourishing their banners and frantically pounding
one another over heads and shoulders. At the bench the players
laughingly danced around Foxhall and then cheered Cohen as the latter
came walking back from first, muttering to himself that the catch had
been “a case of horseshoes, nothing less.”
In the midst of this excitement Nelson ran up to Grant, whose face was
pale, but grim and set as ever.
“You couldn’t help it, Rod,” said the Oakdale captain soothingly. “They
won’t get any more. The bases are clean now.”
“But they’ve tied the score,” growled the Texan. “That’s the first time
Cohen has touched one of my drops to-day.”
“Hold them where they are, and we’ll win it yet,” declared Jack
optimistically. “We didn’t expect a walk-over with this bunch.”
Wolcott’s courage was high as he faced Rodney. Heedless of the uproar,
the Texan burned the air with his speed, and Wolcott fouled.
“Strike one,” called the umpire.
Another smoker followed with a slightly different twist, and this time
the batter missed cleanly.
“That’s two of them, old Maverick,” called Stone, breathing on his
smarting right hand. “Some speed, old man—some speed there.”
Seemingly with precisely the same movement and snap, Rodney made the
third pitch; but this time the ball lingered astonishingly on its way,
as if held back by some subtle force, and, as a result, the befooled
batter struck too soon, not even fouling it. This gave the little bunch
of loyal Oakdalers a chance to cheer.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to call me down for that one-handed catch,
are you?” said Shultz insolently, as he came jogging to the bench.
Nelson shot him a look and turned away without answering. Not satisfied,
the fielder turned to Cooper. “A man can usually tell whether he can
reach the ball best with one hand or two,” he declared loudly enough for
the captain to hear. “I didn’t make that muff intentionally.”
Ben Stone walked out to the plate and watched Lefty Leach waste two
benders, which led Springer stammeringly to prophesy that Leach, being
afraid, would give the stocky catcher a pass. The next one, however, was
over the outside corner and precisely where Ben wanted it, whereupon he
smashed a terrific drive over second and took two sacks on it amid
further enthusiasm by Oakdale.
Nelson could not refrain from calling Osgood’s attention to the fact
that this hit would have given the visitors a score had his instructions
regarding sacrificing been obeyed.
“Perhaps you’re right,” admitted Ned in his blandly polite and
tantalizing manner; “but it’s no dead sure thing that Stone would have
made just that kind of a hit in the other inning. Anyway, we ought to
get some runs now.”
Sile Crane ambled awkwardly forth to the plate and hit into the diamond
the first ball pitched, giving Stone, who had a good start, plenty of
time to reach third, for Foxhall juggled the grounder a moment.
Realizing he could not stop Ben, Foxhall snapped the sphere to first in
time to get the lanky batter.
“The squeeze, Cooper,” hissed Nelson in Chipper’s ear, as the little
shortstop rose from the bench. At the same time Jack assumed a pose that
told Stone what was to be tried.
Ready to play his part, Ben crept off third, intending to dash for the
plate and rely upon Cooper to hit the ball into the diamond somewhere.
Leach placed himself in position, nodded in response to his catcher’s
signal, hunched his left shoulder a bit, and, whirling like a flash,
threw to third. Stone had started forward with that shoulder movement by
the pitcher, and was caught off the sack. Instantly, even as he sought
to get back without being touched, he called for judgment on a balk.
The umpires had changed positions, and now the Wyndham man was behind
the pitcher. In response to that demand for a decision on Leach’s
movement he grimly shook his head.
“It was a balk—a plain, cold balk,” cried Nelson, on his feet.
“No balk,” denied the umpire, still shaking his head.
“In that case,” said the other umpire slowly, “Stone is out at third.”
Nelson ran into the diamond and confronted the Wyndham man. “It was as
rank a balk as I ever saw,” he asserted hotly. “What kind of a deal are
you trying to give us?”
“I saw no balk, and I was looking at the pitcher,” returned the umpire.
“Get back to your bench.”
Nelson argued in vain, while the crowd made the air ring with hoots and
cat-calls. Presently the umpire threatened to pull his watch and forfeit
the game, whereupon the disgusted and angry Oakdale captain walked
slowly back to the bench.
“You shouldn’t let him get away with it,” said Osgood. “It was a balk
all right.”
“Why didn’t our man call Stone safe?” rasped Grant.
“Ben was caught off the sack by five feet,” said Nelson. “Two wrongs
don’t make a right. But it’s hard medicine to swallow.”
Thus far Chipper Cooper had not made a hit; but now, as if he, too, was
fired with resentment by the injustice of the decision, he landed on the
second ball pitched to him and drove it out for a clean single.
“G-g-good bub-bub-boy, Chipper!” shouted Springer. “It’s a wonder he
didn’t call it a fuf-foul, though.”
Sleuth Piper, solemn and savage, took his place at the plate, grabbing
his bat and shaking it as if he meant to make a dent in the ball as
surely as Leach got it within reach. Not once did he swing, however, and
the left-handed twirler looked disgusted when he had presently handed up
the fourth ball in succession and thus given one of the weak batters of
the visiting nine a pass.
“Get the next man, Lefty,” urged Baxter. “He’s fruit for you.”
With the head of the list following Springer, the Oakdale boys hoped for
the best; but Phil put up a dead easy infield fly that was smothered,
and the visitors had lost another splendid opportunity.
Never in his life had Grant pitched better than he did in the last of
the eighth. Only three batters faced him, and two of these fanned, the
third putting up a foul which Stone took care of with ease.
“Steady, fellows,” cautioned Baxter, as his men started for the field.
“We’ve only got to hold them. Old Grant can’t keep that steam up. We’ll
get to him.”
Leach started the ninth as if he meant to duplicate the last turn of the
Texan, fanning Captain Nelson with apparent ease.
Once more Rod Grant came to bat, and once more, with his pet club in his
hands, he out-guessed the southpaw twirler, banging a clean single into
center.
At Osgood’s elbow Nelson quickly said:
“Sacrifice him to second. That will give him a possible chance to score
if Shultz hits safe.”
Osgood made no retort. He saw Grant looking toward the bench and placing
himself in position to get away swiftly on the bunt. At the plate, he
beheld the first ball pitched to him apparently coming over just where
he wanted it, and instantly he felt that he could hit it out safely.
Furthermore, he had not changed in his conviction that it was bad policy
to sacrifice with one man down, even though the next two hitters were
supposed to be the best stickers on the team, and one of them, Shultz,
was his especial chum. Therefore he swung on the ball and met it.
Instead of a drive, it proved to be a grounder that went clipping over
the skin diamond straight into the hands of Pelty. Like a flash Pelty
snapped it to Foxhall, who had leaped on to second, and, turning,
Foxhall lined the sphere to first, again completing a fast double play.
Nelson was on his pins, and he intercepted Osgood as the latter, without
looking toward him, attempted to pass on the way to his position at
third.
“Go to the bench,” said Jack, his voice hoarse and husky. “You’re out of
the game, Osgood.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Osgood. “What did you say, sir?”
“I said you’re out of the game. I won’t stand for such rank
disobedience.”
“Oh, very well,” said Osgood, coolly turning toward the bench. “You’re
the autocrat—at present.”
“What’s the matter?” demanded Shultz, running up. “What’s the trouble,
Ned?”
“Nothing,” was the reply, “only I’m benched because I didn’t make a safe
hit.”
“If he benches you I’ll quit myself,” threatened Shultz.
“You won’t quit,” said Nelson instantly. “You’re fired. The bench for
you, too. Get off the field.”
“Well, wouldn’t that choke you!” gulped Shultz, astonished to have his
bluff called so promptly. “How will he fill both our places?”
Nelson showed them in a moment by placing Roy Hooker, one of the spare
pitchers, at third, and sending Chub Tuttle to fill center field.
Osgood and Shultz retired to the bench, where they sat talking, the
latter showing by his manner that he was thoroughly enraged against his
captain, while his friend, more politic and suave, accepted the
situation with pretended indifference and disdain.
Although the team had been weakened by the removal of these two players,
for the substitutes surely could not fill their positions with an equal
amount of skill, Grant betrayed no sign of weakening himself. Pelty and
Leach were retired by the strike-out route, and even Crispin’s best
performance was a weak grounder on which he perished in a hopeless dash
to first.
The tenth inning opened with Tuttle at bat. Chub had never been a
hitter, but he did succeed in rolling a weak one to Leach, who threw him
out.
“Now, Stoney,” implored Cooper, as the catcher again came up, “you’ve
got to do it. He’s been a mark for you. One run is all that we need to
take this game. Lace it out.”
Leach was very glad that the bases were empty. Even under those
circumstances he began as if he meant to pass this dangerous slugger.
After pitching two balls, however, he got one across, and Ben fouled it.
Then came another ball, which was followed by a high, speedy shoot.
Stone smashed the horsehide again, bringing every spectator up standing.
It was a splendid drive, but Cohen took it on the run and held fast to
it.
“Ah-ha! Oh-ho!” whooped Baxter joyously. “Old Eat-’em-alive is finished.
Now you have things your own way, Lefty.”
Although Shultz was grinning as Stone came walking back, Osgood politely
declined to smile.
Sile Crane sighed as he picked up his bat.
“By Jinks!” he muttered. “I’d sartainly like to make one more hit off
that feller. I don’t seem able to touch him no more.” After which he
walked to the plate and swung at the first ball pitched with all the
strength of his long, sinewy arms.
There was a tremendous ringing crack, and the ball went sailing away,
away, far over the center-fielder’s head. The little Oakdale crowd
screamed like lunatics, but the Wyndhamites were distressingly silent as
the long-geared lad raced over first, second, third, and on to the
plate, which he reached ere the ball could be returned to the diamond.