A FLY TO LEFT-FIELDER
Jack sat on the players’ bench, chin in hands, elbows on knees, and
watched Centerport High School go down in defeat. It was the first
game of the season for the varsity, and, judged by high standards,
it wasn’t anything to be proud of. At the end of the sixth inning
the score was 9--0 in Erskine’s favor, and not one of the nine runs
had been earned. The error column on the score-sheet was so filled
with little round dots that, from where Jack sat, it looked as though
some one had sprinkled it with pepper. If, so far, there had been any
encouraging features they were undoubtedly Joe Perkins’s catching of
Gilberth’s erratic curves and Knox’s work at shortstop. The outfield
had conscientiously muffed every fly that had come its way, and only
the quick recovery of the ball had, on several occasions, prevented
High School from scoring.
Joe Perkins looked disgusted whenever he walked to the bench, and the
expression on the countenance of Hanson, the head coach, was one of
bewilderment. “It’s simply wonderful!” Jack heard him confide to Joe.
“I don’t see how they do it. I can understand how they can muff every
other ball, say; but the whole-souled manner in which they let every
one slide through their fingers is marvelous!” And Joe had smiled
weakly and turned away.
When the men trotted out for the beginning of the seventh, Jack slid
along the bench to where Patterson, the team’s manager, was scowling
over the score-book. Jack had never spoken to Patterson, and a week ago
he would have hesitated a long while before risking a snub by doing
so. But since his return from his “visit” with Professor White the
treatment he had received from the other members of the team had been
so decent that he was ceasing to look upon himself as a Pariah and
was regaining some degree of assurance. He studied the book over the
manager’s shoulder a moment. Then he asked:
“Pretty poor, isn’t it? Do you think Perkins will put any more subs in?”
Patterson glanced around with a flicker of surprise in his eyes. But
his answer was friendly enough:
“I don’t know what he’ll do. But if the subs can play any better than
the men he’s got in there he’d better give ’em a chance. Where do you
play?”
“Almost anywhere, I guess. They’ve had me at left-field, right-field,
and second base. I guess I’ll be in the outfield if I get in at all.”
“You’d better go out there and help Northup,” said the manager, as he
credited Motter, at first base, with his third error. “I don’t suppose
it matters much whether High School scores or not; only I would like to
see Erskine have a clean record this year. And to get scored on in the
first game looks pretty rotten. Who made that assist?”
“Stiles. Can’t Gilberth pitch better than he’s doing to-day?”
“Of course he can. He’s all right when he tries; he evidently thinks
this game isn’t worth while. But I’ll wager that Hanson will have
something to say to him afterward. Side’s out. Stiles at bat!”
Erskine managed to find High School’s pitcher to good effect in the
last of the seventh and piled up four more runs, two of them fairly
earned. When Erskine trotted into the field again Hanson and Perkins
had materially altered her batting list. King, who had been playing
in left-field, went into the pitcher’s box, and Jack was sent out to
left-field. Griffin succeeded Joe as catcher, Mears took Motter’s place
at first, and Smith went in at shortstop.
Jack watched events from his position over near the rail fence and was
never once disturbed; for King retired the opposing batsmen in one,
two, three order, and the sides again changed places. Jack didn’t have
a chance to show what he could do with the stick, for High School,
following Erskine’s lead, put a new man into the box, and the new man
puzzled the batsmen so that only one reached first, and was left there
when Billings, third-baseman, popped a short fly into the hands of High
School’s shortstop. Jack trotted back to the rail fence very disgusted.
It was the last inning. The sun was getting low and the chill of early
evening caused Jack to swing his arms and prance around to keep the
blood circulating. Over by the bench he could see them packing the bats
away, and a little stream of spectators was filling around behind the
back fence toward the gate. High School had reached the tail-end of
her batting list again, and, to all appearances, the game was as good
as finished. But last innings can’t always be depended upon to behave
as expected. The present one proved this. High School’s first man at
bat heroically tried to smash a long fly into outfield and, all by
good luck, bunted the ball into the dust at his feet. After a moment
of bewilderment, he put out for first and reached it at the same time
as the ball. High School’s noisy supporters took new courage and awoke
the echoes with their fantastic war-whoop. King looked bothered for an
instant, and in that instant struck the next batsman on the elbow. The
latter, rubbing the bruise and grinning joyfully, trotted to first and
the man ahead took second.
“Huh,” muttered Jack, rubbing his chilled hands together, “something
doing, after all.”
But King settled down then, and, after three attempts to catch the High
School runner napping at second base, struck out the next man very
nicely. The succeeding one, finding a straight ball, bunted it toward
first, and, while he was tagged out by King, advanced the runners. High
School’s supporters, gathered into a little bunch on the stand, waved
their flags and ribbons, and shouted frantically. For surely, with men
on third and second and their best batter selecting his stick, a run
was not unlikely. Hanson shouted a command and King, repeating it,
motioned the fielders in. Jack obeyed, doubtingly, for he had watched
the present player and believed him capable of hitting hard. And so,
although he made pretense of shortening field, he remained pretty much
where he had been. And a moment later he was heartily glad of it.
For the High School batsman, a tall, lanky, but very determined-looking
youth, found King’s first delivery and raced for first. Along the
base-lines the coaches were shouting unintelligible things and
flourishing their caps. The runners on third and second were running
home. In the outfield Bissell, center-fielder, was speeding back,
cutting over into Jack’s territory as he went. Jack, too, was going up
the field, yet cautiously, for the shadows were gathering and it was
hard to tell where the little black speck up there against the purple
sky was going to fall. Yet when, with a final glance over his shoulder,
he took up his position, and heard Bissell, panting from his run, cry:
“All yours, Weatherby!” he never doubted that he would catch it. To
Jack a fly was merely a baseball that required catching; and he was
there to catch it. So he took a step or two forward, put up his hands,
and pulled it down. Then he threw it to second-baseman and trotted in.
When he reached the plate the applause had died away and the remainder
of the audience was hurrying off the field. The players were finding
sweaters and, having thrown them over their shoulders, were hurrying
across to the locker-house. Jack, searching for his own, heard Hanson’s
voice behind him:
“Well, Joe, we’ve got one man who can catch a ball, eh?”
Jack knew that he wasn’t supposed to hear that remark, and so he took
his time at pulling his white sweater out of the pile. When he turned,
the head coach and captain were walking away. Jack followed, feeling
very thankful that he had not missed his one chance of the game. As he
entered the door he almost ran against the coach. Hanson smiled into
his face as he stepped aside.
“That was a very fair catch, Weatherby,” he said.
And a moment later, when, wrapped only in a big bath-towel, he was
hurrying to the shower-room, “Baldy” Simson clapped him on the back
with a big hand.
“That’s the lad now,” he cried heartily, adding then his invariable
caution: “Easy with the hot water, and don’t go to sleep!”
At dinner-table Jack thought the other fellows looked at him with
something like respect. And all, he reflected, because he had caught a
ball he couldn’t help catching!