THE FINAL GAME
Belmont was looking her prettiest on the day before Commencement. It
seemed as if the town, the college grounds, the buildings, the trees,
and even nature itself had summoned the pleasantest expression to
greet the host of guests that thronged to the Commencement exercises.
Of these exercises the great baseball game formed one of the most
important and interesting in the eyes at least of graduates and
undergraduates; and the special interest that centered in this game had
brought to Belmont a largely increased number of friends.
We were expecting the Park men on the 11:30 train; so, shortly after
eleven o’clock, Tony Larcom, Ray Wendell, and I went down to the depot
with an omnibus to meet them. We were determined that no charge of
rudeness or neglect should be brought to our door, so we had made
provision for the Park men at our club a week in advance, and had
arranged for rooms where they could leave their baggage.
They seemed to take this as a matter of course, and manifested neither
by word nor act the least appreciation of the care we had taken to make
them comfortable.
Long before two o’clock――the hour of beginning the game――the box office
at the entrance to the grounds was besieged by a large and jostling
crowd of students and graduates who had been unable to get reserved
seats in the grand stand and were compelled to take their chances of a
seat on the benches that flanked two sides of the diamond.
“Just listen to that, Harry,” remarked Tony, as the clink of silver
greeted our ears. “A great treasury we’ll have to-night.”
During the next quarter hour, the grand stand and benches filled
rapidly; and by the time we stepped out on the field in our uniforms a
double row of spectators, who had been unable to get seats of any kind,
almost encircled the grounds.
We were greeted with three times three cheers, and settled down to
practice in good spirits. The Park men, in their turn, received a
generous greeting, and were given a chance to exhibit themselves. As we
came in from the field Ray nodded to me with a pleasant smile.
“Our fellows are in good feather, Harry,” he said. “If we can’t beat
them to-day, we never can.”
At this moment the umpire came out with the new ball in his hand. Ray
and Beard approached him; a few words were exchanged, the coin was
tossed, and then Ray turned on his heel and came back toward me.
“They won the toss,” he said. “Get your bat ready, Harry; you are first
on the list.”
I stepped forward to the homeplate, the Park men took their various
positions; the crowd became still; the umpire tossed the snowy white
ball along the ground to Arnold, then raised his hand and cried, “Play!”
Instantly the ball came in like a flash of light. I was unprepared for
it, but struck at it fiercely, and to my own surprise, drove a fine two
base hit out toward right field. It was an auspicious beginning, and
was greeted by an uproar from the benches.
This sobered Arnold, who began more cautiously with George Ives, who
followed me, and succeeded in striking him out. Then came Alfred
Burnett, who knocked to shortstop, and was thrown out at first base;
I in the mean time reaching third base. Dick Palmer was next at the
bat, and proved himself worthy of the trust we had always reposed in
his batting abilities by making a single base hit, and bringing me
home, thus scoring the first run. The half inning was closed by Percy
Randall’s knocking a high fly which was captured by the Park left
fielder. We then took the field.
I had pitched only a few balls when I discovered that the Park men had
improved considerably in batting since we last met them, and that I
would need all the strength and skill I could summon to manage them.
They hit hard nearly every time, and it was only good fielding on the
part of our men that prevented their scoring several runs in the first
inning. As it was they earned one run, and the score stood 1–1. In
this condition it remained for two more innings, but in the ending of
the fourth inning, their strong batting secured two more runs for them.
In the fifth inning Ray Wendell opened with a base hit, stole second
base by a good run, and was followed by myself, who made another base
hit which sent Ray to third. George Ives knocked a fly ball straight
up in the air, which was caught by Arnold. This was unfortunate, for
neither Ray nor I gained a base thereby. Then Alfred Burnett struck
out――a most exasperating piece of ill luck.
The fate of the inning now hung upon Dick Palmer, whose safe hit had
been so timely before. I scarcely dared hope that he would repeat his
exploit, but almost before I had time to think of the matter, bang!
went another base hit and Ray ran in, scoring our second run, while I
reached third base. Then came Percy Randall, who struck the second ball
pitched and sent it out between center and right fields.
Amidst a great outburst of cheers, he dashed around the bases, Dick
Palmer well ahead of him. I reached home in safety of course, and was
expecting Dick to follow me, when, to my surprise, I saw him standing
still on third base. His action was explained by the fact that the
right fielder had stopped the ball sooner than we had anticipated, and
had promptly passed it in to the first baseman, who stood ready to
throw it home if Dick attempted to run.
Percy Randall had not seen this, but supposed the ball was still in
the outfield; so, with his head down, and not noticing Dick, he kept
on running around the bases. We shouted to him in warning, but, to our
consternation, we saw that he misunderstood us, and it was not until he
reached third base and found Dick Palmer also there that he realized
the situation. He was badly cut up about the blunder, as were the rest
of us, for it robbed us of an opportunity to win the lead by securing
two more runs. It was too late to be helped. Dick Palmer was promptly
thrown out at home plate, and we were retired with the score 3–3. The
loss of this opportunity was still more keenly felt in the last half of
the inning, when, after one man had been put out, we found ourselves
with two men on bases and Arnold at the bat.
I knew only too well that it was fatal to give Arnold a good ball, so
I tried to deceive him by making a swift motion and delivering a slow
ball in front of the plate, hoping that he would strike over it. I
threw it too far, however, and it proved to be a good ball directly
over the plate. I saw Arnold set his lips, lean back, and then I knew
what was coming. He struck the ball with a terrific crack and drove it
far out over the center fielder’s head, where it rolled on toward the
gate. My heart sank as I turned and gazed after it, for I saw there was
no hope of recovering it before Arnold had encircled the bases. He made
a home run, bringing in two men besides himself, and making the score
6–3 in their favor. It was with long faces and depressed spirits that
we closed that inning.
“Well, boys,” said Ray, as we walked to our bench. “It was a bad turn,
but we have four innings more and we can make it up. All the same, we
don’t want to let it happen again.”
“No, indeed,” I answered; “another hit like that and we are gone coons.”
The spectators were growing alarmed as to the results of the game, and
were quiet and serious. The few Park men who had accompanied the nine
were, on the other hand, jubilant and noisy.
“See here, boys,” exclaimed Percy Randall, coming over from the side of
the field where the Park men were ranged, “we want to lay these fellows
out and no mistake. What do you think they have done? They’ve just sent
a boy to the telegraph office with a message to Berkeley, ‘Score 6–3.
Prepare dinner for the nine.’ I overheard them give the directions. How
is that for cheek?”
Ray Wendell began to laugh.
“Well, it is a pity to disappoint them, but we’ll have to all the
same,” he said. “Here, give me my bat and see me knock that dinner into
a cocked hat.”
Ray fulfilled his prophecy by striking a two base hit. This was a
cheerful start, and we succeeded in making two runs before the inning
closed. The spirits of the spectators rose in proportion, and when we
began the seventh inning with the score 6–5 in their favor the interest
grew rapidly. To the delight of our friends we closed the Park men out
without a run, and made one ourselves, thus tying the score.
The excitement was now intense, and remained so during the eighth
inning, in which neither side made a run. The ninth inning was opened
by Percy Randall, who made a single base hit. The two men that followed
him were put out, but in the mean time, Percy, by his magnificent base
running, had succeeded in reaching third base. There being two men out,
Percy was on the alert for the least chance to run in home. In throwing
the ball back to Arnold after the first pitch, the catcher of the Park
nine made a slip, and the ball rolled several yards behind Arnold.
Seizing this small opportunity, Percy suddenly dashed toward home.
It was an audacious move and altogether unexpected by Arnold. A cry
from the catcher, however, warned him, and in an instant he had picked
up the ball and hurled it to the home plate. There seemed to be no
chance for Percy, but when he was within twelve feet of the base he
threw himself headlong and slid into the home plate amidst a cloud of
dust. It seemed almost the same instant that the catcher caught the
ball and touched Percy.
It was a terrible moment of suspense for us. The crowd had been
cheering vociferously, but suddenly ceased and hung breathlessly upon
the umpire’s decision. For a second there was a dead silence. Then the
umpire’s voice rang out:
“Safe on home.”
For a few minutes it seemed as if we could scarcely hear our own
voices, such an uproar arose from the spectators. The grand stand
fairly rocked with the swaying, shouting mass of people that filled
it. Out around the grounds the other spectators were dancing and
throwing their hats in the air. For a short period the movement of
the game was interrupted, it being almost impossible to play in such
confusion. Then the calm, steady voice of the umpire was heard again:
“Play!”
We made no more runs, and the last half of the ninth inning opened with
the score 7–6 in our favor. The first batter struck a hard line hit
about two feet above the ground and straight at me. I caught it neatly,
but I took no particular credit to myself for so doing, for the truth
of the matter was that I couldn’t get out of the way of the ball. Then
came a long line hit which sent the batter to second base. The next man
struck out, but he was followed by a batter who secured his first base
and sent the runner to third base.
This worried me, especially as I saw that Arnold was again at the bat.
There were two men out, and two men on bases. If Arnold made another
long hit――which he was quite able to do――the game and the championship
would be lost to us. I stood fingering the ball and looking at Arnold.
I had profited by my former experience, and did not try to deceive him
again by an easy ball.
“I must pitch him a swift ball, and take the chances; so here goes!”
I said to myself, and hurled the ball in with all my might. Arnold’s
bat whizzed through the air and struck the ball with a disheartening
crack. I had given up hope, and turned about in the full expectation
of finding the ball landed safely out in center field. Then came the
great play of the season. Ray Wendell ran desperately backward, and,
with a frantic bound, leaped in the air, and _caught the ball with one
hand_.
The Crimson Banner was ours!
Such a day of triumph Belmont had never known before. Throughout the
rest of the afternoon, and during the evening, at the promenade concert
on the campus, we were the heroes of the hour, and the recipients of
plaudits and congratulations from every side.
In those proud and happy hours we reaped a golden reward for our
services to our _alma mater_. Our doubts and disappointments were
all forgotten in that glad season of triumph, when, surrounded by
countless friends, we felt the warm clasp of the many hands extended
to congratulate us, and heard our names on many lips, coupled with
words of warmest commendation. And now when I think of the long hours
of training we went through, the anxious days of expectation, and the
exciting moments of contest, I sometimes catch myself wondering whether
I would go through it all again; and then, as I think of those dear old
days and that supremely happy night of triumph, every vein in my body
tingles with the answer:
“Yes, a thousand times again, if Belmont needed me!”
* * * * *
The town hall was crowded almost to suffocation the next day; and by
the time the exercises began it seemed impossible to admit another
person. I had practical reasons for knowing this, for I was one of the
ushers, and was at my wits’ end to dispose of the masses of people that
packed the building.
The hall was gayly decorated with flags and flowers, and at the
upper end, behind the stage, hung a glorious banner of crimson, with
inscriptions upon it in letters of gold. The banner ordinarily would
not have come to us for some little time after the game; but Tony
Larcom determined that it should grace Ray Wendell’s valedictory
speech, and, partly by strategy, partly by bluff, succeeded in
obtaining it from Berkeley in time for the exercises. Even cold Dr.
Drayton could not resist a smile as he saw it hanging there; and, in
his words of introduction, he alluded in a dignified but graceful
manner to the victory of the previous day. From what he said I had a
sneaking notion that he even went to see the game himself――a remarkable
concession on the doctor’s part.
There all the dear boys sat in a row, robed in their black gowns, and
awaiting their turn to speak. Among the first were Clinton Edwards and
Elton, both of whom delivered fine orations. Then, near the last, came
Len Howard, whose oration had evidently been prepared with scrupulous
care, and whose delivery was marked for its manly and vigorous tone.
And as he spoke, I saw his eyes wander frequently to the third row of
seats, where sat an old man with snow white hair, who was leaning
forward intently, his hand to his ear, that not a syllable should be
lost, a tender smile upon his lips, and his kind eyes dimmed with tears.
And last of all came the valedictory; and as Ray Wendell, pale and
handsome, stepped quietly forward and stood before the audience, a
roar of applause that shook the building went up from the crowd, and
gently fluttered the Crimson Banner that hung behind the speaker and
gracefully framed him in.
And when the touching and pathetic words of farewell had been spoken
by Ray, one further tribute remained. A messenger had come to the door
during the delivery of the valedictory, and had put into my hands a
magnificent basket of flowers. I hurried up the aisle, and, as Ray
closed his oration and bowed, I held the flowers toward him. He blushed
deeply as he leaned over to take the basket from my hands, and then for
the first time I noticed a tiny card fastened to the bouquet by a strip
of blue ribbon, and bearing the name, “Miss Nettie Fuller.”
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
――Printer’s, punctuation, and spelling inaccuracies were silently
corrected.
――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.