THE FIRST GAME
About half past ten the next morning Ray and I stood at our accustomed
place beside the dock awaiting the approach of Tony Larcom’s rowboat,
which was to take us over to the baseball grounds, as it had done daily
during the past two weeks.
“This is your last trip,” said Tony, as he shot his boat along close to
the dock, and drew in his oars, “and for my part I am quite agreeable
to a change. I think five weeks of this would have made me tired of my
boat. My conscience has troubled me greatly about this aiding of two
disreputable scamps to defeat the purposes of a college faculty. It is
too much like convict trade. I am glad it is over and my conscience can
rest.”
“Yes, Tony,” said Ray, “your conscience needs rest sadly, for, if it is
any good at all, it must have been severely taxed during late years on
your own account, to say nothing of the ‘disreputable scamps’ you speak
of.”
“Well, we’ll let it rest, then,” laughed Tony. Two strokes of the oars
sent us well out, and we were on our way to the ball ground.
Our first duty that morning had been to see Professor Fuller, who
congratulated us on getting back, and added to our pleasure by telling
us that we might move back our things to our rooms that very evening,
so as to be able to begin our duties on Monday morning without further
interruption. This, of course, was particularly welcome news to Ray,
who longed to be back in his old apartments. Professor Fuller would
listen to no thanks, but assured us that our own good conduct had
brought about a reconsideration of the matter. We left him seated on
his piazza, with Sport’s silky brown head resting on his knee, and
bestowing upon the old dog a share of the affectionate spirit that ever
flowed in a natural stream from the great warm heart of the man.
When we reached our landing place, clambered up the bank, and crossed
the road to the ball field, we found the rest awaiting us. As Dean
College was only four miles away, we rode over in an omnibus, and,
to facilitate matters, we dressed ourselves in our uniforms before
starting. On this occasion we used our new suits for the first time,
and found ourselves remarkably well pleased with them, both in the fit
and colors. The dark blue stockings and braid trimmings, together with
the light gray material of which our knickerbockers and blouses were
made, presented a very neat and pretty effect.
We received a round of cheers, as we emerged from the clubhouse, and
started off, accompanied by two more omnibuses filled with fellow
students who were going over to see the game. The day had been very
bright and clear when we started, but towards twelve o’clock clouds
began to gather, and the sky assumed a rather threatening aspect. We
watched these symptoms at first with anxiety, but, as no rain fell, we
were led to hope that the afternoon would pass without any interruption
of our game by the weather.
We reached Dean about half past twelve, and were received pleasantly
by several members of the nine, who were awaiting us at the entrance
of the college grounds. As there was no hotel in the village, we were
conducted to one of the eating clubs, where provision had been made for
us.
Immediately after lunch, we walked over to the ball grounds, which were
situated close to the college. We were very early, for the game was
not to be called until two o’clock, so we spent the next half hour in
preliminary practice while the crowd of spectators slowly assembled.
Each man stood in his position while I batted balls about in various
directions. Everything went smoothly. The fellows played in excellent
form, with the exception of Fred Harrison, the first baseman, who
seemed a little flurried.
“It is quite natural,” I said to Tony Larcom, who stood beside me, and
had remarked on the matter. “This is Fred Harrison’s first game, and he
may be a trifle nervous. It will soon wear off.”
At about quarter before two o’clock, the gong on the grand stand
sounded, and we left the field to make way for the Dean men. We watched
their practice with interest, and noted that they were playing no
better than usual. We felt no cause to fear for the result of the
game, and accordingly, when time was called, we began with confident
assurance of victory.
Dean won the toss, and, therefore, took the field, while Dick Palmer
picked out his bat and stepped to the home plate. The second ball
pitched he struck far out and past left field, and reached second base
in safety. Ray came next to the bat, and made a single base hit, thus
bringing Dick home, and scoring the first run.
A chorus of cheers sounded from the two omnibuses at the side of the
field, where our friends were gathered, and Dick took his seat with a
smile. I was next at the bat, and secured a base hit, which sent Ray to
second base. Then Harold Pratt knocked a high fly, which was captured.
He was succeeded by George Ives, who had the exceedingly bad taste to
strike out. Frank Holland, however, made a safe hit, and gave Ray his
third base, while I reached second base.
The bases were now full――a glorious opportunity for the next batter,
Alfred Burnett, who had the chance of bringing in three more runs with
a safe hit. And yet, in the face of this opportunity, Burnett struck
up in the air, and the ball was caught, thus closing out our side with
three of us on bases.
I mention this as an instance of the miserable luck that pursued us
throughout this game. Certainly the fickle goddess of fortune that
presides over baseball fields had determined to place every possible
difficulty in our path. She manifested her evil influence in three
ways. In the first place, in situations such as described above,
and which occurred again and again during the game until we were
fairly exasperated. Secondly, in the weather. The clouds, which had
been threatening from the start, began to drop rain at occasional
brief periods; and these small showers invariably occurred when most
disadvantageous to us. Thirdly, the umpire――that old time bone of
contention――without intending in the least to be partial, decided in
several successive and important instances against us.
To add to all this, the nervousness which I had noticed in Fred
Harrison grew steadily worse as the game advanced. He seemed to lose
his head almost entirely at the bat and struck out three out of the
four times he came up, while he showed himself sadly demoralized while
playing in the field. It was surprising, for Harrison had played well
during our days of practice, and of course this change had a bad
influence on the rest of the nine.
Notwithstanding these disadvantages, we maintained a lead throughout
the game until the eighth inning. The score then stood 6 to 4 in our
favor, and it looked as if we would finish at those figures. All things
considered, we would have been glad to get away with such a record. In
the last half of the eighth inning the Dean men succeeded in getting
two single base hits. Then came a long hit to right field, which Lewis
Page captured in fine style, but which enabled the two runners to gain
a base, so that they now stood on third and second respectively. I
succeeded in striking the next man out, so we had but to dispose of one
more batter to close the inning.
We all bent ourselves eagerly to the work. I used all possible care and
judgment in pitching, and confidently hoped to win the point, for the
man at the bat was a weak striker. At the third ball pitched he struck
wildly, and tipped the ball high in the air for a pop fly, straight
over Fred Harrison’s head. Of course the two men on the bases risked
the chance of the ball landing safe, and ran around toward home. It all
depended on Fred Harrison, who moved backward, and stood waiting for
the descent of the ball.
From the manner in which he moved about and shifted his hands, I
could see that he was more nervous than ever, and I trembled for the
results. I will be fair enough to say that it was no easy fly to catch,
especially for a baseman inclined to be nervous. Fred Harrison was all
this. He was thinking no doubt of all that depended on his play, while
the ball hung there in the air, so that, by the time it reached him,
he had lost his head completely, and made a frantic grab at it which
proved utterly futile. The ball went through his hands, and dropped to
the ground, while the two runners scored, and the game stood 6 to 6.
The next man was put out without trouble, and the inning closed. The
crowd in the grand stand had suppressed their joy as well as possible
out of respect to our feelings, but we could not have found fault with
any demonstration, for their gain had come so unexpectedly that an
outburst of cheers would have been natural. We were out of spirits, and
played poorly at the bat during the first half of the ninth inning, the
result being that we were retired without a run. It was only when the
last of the three men was out that we realized our predicament, and
prepared for a desperate tug.
“Fellows,” said Ray quietly, but setting his lips firmly, “our
reputation is at stake now. You know your duty, so don’t fail. We
simply _must_ put those men out in one, two, three order. Then we can
make up our lost ground.”
The first man, however, got his base, and, on a passed ball of Dick
Palmer’s, he reached second. The next two men we disposed of readily;
one of them, however, made a sacrifice hit that sent the runner to
third base. There were now two out. I pitched a slow outcurve to the
next man, who caught it on the end of his bat, and sent it flying along
the grounds to my right, but not close enough for me to reach it.
George Ives dashed to one side, picked it up neatly, and tossed it to
Fred Harrison.
George was a strong thrower, and may perhaps have thrown a little to
one side, but the ball was within easy reach of Harrison’s hands. The
latter, however, in his nervousness, again misjudged the ball; it
struck on the tips of his fingers and bounded away, while the runner
on third base reached the home plate, and the game was lost to us by a
score of 7 to 6.
The delight of the Dean men may be imagined. They ran about shouting
and hugging one another, while we stood for several seconds in our
various positions almost unable to realize the truth. Laughing and
cheering, the crowd moved off toward the gate, while we despondently
gathered up our things and walked silently toward our omnibus.
There we found our friends, but none of them inclined to say anything.
There was simply nothing to say. Having gone into the game with
feelings of the utmost confidence, our chagrin and humiliation passed
all expression. I looked at no one. I simply wanted to be alone――to
bury myself in some place where I could not see the reproachful and
disappointed eyes that I knew would look upon our return.
But even reproach and disappointment were not the worst I feared. I
expected ridicule, for the idea of being beaten by Dean College seemed
absurd. Such a thing had never been known at Belmont.
“Don’t tell me there is no such thing as luck in baseball,” said Tony
Larcom’s voice behind me.
“Nonsense,” I exclaimed impatiently. “What has luck to do with us? With
all our hard luck we would have won, but for―――― Well, never mind. He
feels it no doubt worse than the rest of us, so let us spare him any
criticism.”
“Just think what a jubilee the Park men will hold to-night when they
hear the news! Oh, what can have gotten into the boys anyhow, to let
these fellows get away with us?” said Dick Palmer bitterly.
“It is all clear enough to me,” I answered, “but it will do no good to
talk about it.”
“Small chance we stand for the Crimson Banner now,” said somebody.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, let us get away and say no more,” I exclaimed,
turning abruptly on my heel. “I can’t bear to think of it.”
We hurried into our omnibus, and, in silence, the three vehicles left
the grounds that had been the scene of our disastrous encounter. Though
probably much conversation took place in the other omnibuses that would
have been unpleasant for us to hear, in our own very little was said.
This was chiefly out of respect to poor Fred Harrison, who sat on the
front seat, with his chin on his hand.
I was sitting next to Ray Wendell, so I took advantage of the
opportunity to ask him in a low tone, unheard by the rest:
“Well, Ray, what do you think of it?”
“I can’t understand it,” he answered slowly. “Fred was so good in
practice. He has disappointed me severely. I do not despair, for I
think we can beat Park College yet, and there will be some satisfaction
in that, but,” he added in a still lower tone, “we will have to make
one change in the nine. That is settled.”
I nodded my head, for I understood him perfectly.
“I am very sorry for Fred, and I pity him sincerely now, for I know
that he is fully aware of the blame that rests on him, and that he is
correspondingly unhappy, but he must go. We can’t keep him on the nine
a day longer. He has about ruined our chances now――――”
Ray was here interrupted by a general exclamation of alarm.
“Stop the horses, quick,” cried some one.
Turning hastily we looked forward to see what had occurred. The front
seat of the omnibus beside the driver was _empty_. Fred Harrison, who
had been leaning well forward, had suddenly disappeared.