CHOOSING THE NINE
Early on the Monday morning following, I went over to Burke Hall
to see if the bulletin had been posted on the great board fastened
against the wall of the main hallway. I found not only our bulletin,
but a large crowd of students assembled in front of it, and from their
comments I soon became convinced that both our notice and our selection
of men for the competition were satisfactory. The college was always
generous and sympathetic in its support of the nine, and followed its
progress with interest and encouragement. At noon a large number of
the students accompanied the competitors down to the baseball field,
which was situated about a quarter of a mile from the college, eager to
witness the first day’s practice, and to speculate on the merits of the
respective men.
The club house had been opened a week or so before, and had been
thoroughly renovated and cleaned, preparatory to the beginning of the
season. The two assistants who kept things in order about the place,
looked after the bats and other articles, and rubbed us down after
exercise, had also been re-engaged.
This latter expense had cost Tony a good deal of uneasiness.
“Just think of my nerve,” he confided to me. “Here I was re-engaging
those two fellows, with only about forty dollars in the treasury. I
hardly dared look them in the face. If the college doesn’t back us up
handsomely, the nine will have to go into pawn before the first month
has passed.”
“Nonsense; don’t fret about that,” I answered. “We had to have the men,
and the college knows it. The money will come fast enough. Have you
started that subscription list yet?”
“Indeed I have,” was Tony’s prompt response. “I could hardly wait till
this morning to begin canvassing. I was up about half past seven,
posting those bulletins, and then I set out at once for victims. There
weren’t many fellows up at that hour, but I saw one lone creature
making his way across the campus, and I swooped down on him like a
wolf, subscription list in one hand and pencil in the other. Well, who
do you think it was? Nobody but Reddy Weezner. You know what an old
skinflint he is. How was that for a tough nut to begin with. You ought
to have seen his face when he heard my errand. He turned fairly green.
You see he hadn’t had his breakfast, and I suppose he felt kind o’
weak to run up against a subscription fiend. I determined to hang to
him, however, and get some money out of the encounter. And what do you
think? I made him shell out!”
“Do you mean to say that Reddy Weezner contributed something?” I
exclaimed in amused astonishment.
“Yes, sir,” answered Tony in high glee. “The first time on record.
Reddy Weezner contributed, and what is more astonishing, he gave _three
dollars_. Think of that! I suppose if he had eaten his breakfast he
might have had the courage to refuse, but he didn’t stand any show with
me at that hour of the morning. Oh, Reddy Weezner is all right. He may
be a hard nut to crack, but when he does crack he cracks wide open. But
it was fun to see him totter off when I got through with him. I suppose
he will kick himself for a month for his generosity.”
“How does your list stand?” I asked.
“Very well, considering the short time I’ve been at work on it. I’ve
collected thirty dollars, and I’m not more than a quarter through the
list. You go on into the club house and get ready for practice, and
I’ll strike the crowd while the fellows are in the humor.”
It was with a feeling of genuine affection that I unwrapped my old
baseball suit which I had brought down with me from my trunk, where
it had lain through the winter, and arranged my things in my locker
preparatory to a new season. Of the old nine that had assembled in the
club house in the previous year, only two besides myself now remained,
but these were my best friends――Dick Palmer and Ray Wendell. Other than
those, I saw about me only faces of new men, some of whom I felt sure
would be improvements on our last year’s team.
I had little time for such reflections, however, for the others were
already on the field, so I hurriedly dressed myself and went out on the
diamond, where the new grass lay as smooth and evenly trimmed as velvet.
During the preliminary competition the manner in which we practised was
as follows:
The competitors were divided into two companies――those who were
competing for positions in the infield, and those who were competing
for positions in the outfield.
The former stood in a group and received each in turn a ground ball
batted by some one who stood about a hundred feet distant from them.
Beside this batter stood a competitor for first base position, with
his gloves on, who caught the ball as it was sharply returned to him
by the others. The practice would thus progress with the regularity of
clockwork. Each man in his turn would step forward, receive the ground
ball struck by the batter, return it quickly to the competitor for
first base who stood beside the batter, and then give place to the next
man.
The practice of the outfielders was conducted at another part of the
field. The man stood out at a considerable distance from a batter who
struck balls high into the air in various directions. Here, as in the
infield, the competitors took turn, and returned the ball at once with
all their force to a catcher who stood beside the batter.
Meanwhile, on the diamond, Dick Palmer and I held our positions as
catcher and pitcher respectively, while all the men came up in groups
of four and took turns in batting. This served as practice for Dick and
myself, and also enabled us to judge of the batting abilities of the
various men. Ray Wendell moved about from one part of the field to the
other, watching the men carefully, in order that he might arrive at a
fair judgment of their respective merits. This sort of work constituted
our daily practice until the nine was chosen, which choice usually took
place just before the Easter vacation.
The competition this year was, from the first, sharp and close, for
there were many positions to be filled, and the men were for the most
part quite evenly matched. As the days passed, however, the competition
narrowed down somewhat. A few dropped out, and some developed more
rapidly than others, so that by Saturday it would not have been so
difficult a task to pick out the likely new members of the nine.
On Saturday night the Glee Club concert took place. The large
examination room on the top floor of Burke Hall had been decorated
especially for the purpose and the floor filled with chairs. The
concert was a brilliant musical as well as financial success. The
club had been carefully trained, and sang with great spirit and dash.
The audience was large and enthusiastic, consisting chiefly of the
students and the professors’ families, with a generous sprinkling of
town people. Every number was encored, and the singers were compelled
to introduce many additional features, which they did with a good will
that made the entertainment delightful throughout. It seemed to me that
the old college songs never had sounded so sweet as when sung that
night at our baseball benefit. The other members of the nine must have
shared my feelings; and as for Tony, his beaming face fairly lighted up
the lower end of the hall.
Before the entertainment was over I made my way toward him with a view
to securing definite information concerning our finances. Tony seemed
wrapped in an ecstatic revery as I approached. No doubt he was dreaming
of the riches that lay in the strong tin box on which he was sitting,
and which were soon to be deposited in the treasury of the baseball
association.
“Well, Tony,” I whispered, nudging him, “how are the funds now? Have
you got rid of your uneasiness about hiring those men?”
“Harry,” answered Tony, “I got rid of that some days ago when I
finished my subscription list at $120. I am thinking now of hiring a
corps of servants and a brass band to accompany us on our tour. How
much do you think there is in this box?”
I shook my head. Tony leaned forward and whispered impressively,
“Over $300. And that, with the $120 I have collected and the $40
already on hand, makes it $460.”
“Well, I suppose you are happy now,” I said, laughing. “But what are
you going to do with that $300 to-night?”
“Oh, as soon as Maynard, the treasurer of the Glee Club, comes back we
are going to take it down stairs. Mr. Dikes said that we might put it
in his safe over Sunday.”
The proceeds from the concert far exceeded my expectations, and placed
our association upon a secure financial basis. The amount now in the
treasury would alone cover all expenses and carry us through the
season, to say nothing of our share in the proceeds from the various
games.
Easter vacation began on the following Saturday, accordingly, on
Thursday night, Dick Palmer, Tony, and I met at Ray’s rooms by
appointment to choose the nine. There was but little difference of
opinion among us, and a little more than half an hour sufficed to
select the names.
Of course this choice was at first experimental, and subject to change
if any man disappointed us. In order that we might have a number of
substitutes to fall back upon, the other competitors were organized
into a second nine with which the University team was to play practice
games every day. In this way every man was put on his mettle to hold
the position he had gained.
As in the case of the first bulletin, the announcement of the nine was
posted up the following morning in Burke Hall. The names and positions
of the men were as follows:
Catcher, Dick Palmer.
Pitcher, Harry Elder.
1st Baseman, Fred Harrison.
2d Baseman, Ray Wendell.
3d Baseman, Harold Pratt.
Short Stop, George Ives.
Left Fielder, Alfred Burnett.
Center Fielder, Lewis Page.
Right Fielder, Frank Holland.
A short meeting of the new nine was held at five o’clock on Friday
afternoon, when Ray gave them general instruction concerning practice
and training, and directed them to be on hand at the grounds at noon on
the Monday following vacation.
“You must remember,” he said, “that the real work has only begun,
so you must all buckle to and do everything in your power to help
things along. One thing I want you all to observe in particular: leave
individual interests alone, and play solely for the nine. Profit by
last year’s experience. We had good individual players, but some
of them were uncongenial, and some of them were working solely for
individual record, so we did not have a good nine. What we want this
year is perfect harmony, and I want each one of you to help me to
secure it. If you do that I have no fear for the result.”
If any one was calculated to secure this harmony it was Ray Wendell,
for, without being in the least dictatorial, he had perfect command
over the members of the nine, and we were all in thorough accord with
him.
During the week I had received word from home that I might accept
Ray’s invitation, and as Dick Palmer had also accepted, we had an
extremely pleasant outlook for the vacation. Although Tony Larcom was
not necessary to our plans, Ray Wendell could not resist asking him to
join us, and accordingly it was a very jolly party of four that set out
on the following day for Albany. On reaching that city we changed cars
and rode some distance down the Hudson River, alighting at a small way
station, where a carriage met us and transported us to Cedar Hill, the
handsome summer home of Mr. Wendell.
Ray’s parents received us hospitably, and did everything to make our
week a pleasant one. The days passed rapidly in various delightful
country pursuits. We did not forget the main object of our coming
together, however, but practised hard at baseball for several hours
each day. The result was that at the end of the vacation, which had
flown by only too rapidly, we were playing in splendid form, and were
in the best possible condition physically. The week was a perfect
paradise to Tony, who enjoyed every minute of it, and during our hours
of practice, he stood by, an interested spectator, and chased all the
wild balls like a good fellow.
Early on the Monday morning following the Easter holidays we left Cedar
Hill and returned to college. We reached Belmont shortly after ten
o’clock, and were hurrying to our rooms to unpack our valises, when we
were attracted by the sound of voices on the front campus. Rounding
the corner of Colver Hall, we saw a great mass of students assembled
near the front gateway, many of them talking loudly and gesticulating
in an excited manner.
“Hallo, what’s all this?” I asked.
“Something unusual, that’s certain,” said Dick Palmer. “Come, let’s
hurry and see what is the matter.”
Hastily tossing our valises into a corner of the entry to Colver Hall,
we ran down toward the crowd, and pushed our way through to the open
space in the center.
“What is the trouble?” I asked the nearest man.
“Trouble! Trouble enough. It’s a burning shame!” he exclaimed angrily.
“What is a burning shame?”
“Why look! Look there,” and he pointed to the ground.
We looked in the direction indicated.
_The old cannons――the pets of which Belmont had been so proud for forty
years past――were gone._