ANTHONY ON BASEBALL
“Well,” commenced Anthony, in his even, deliberate drawl, “you had your
chance to get out, and didn’t take it. I guess you’re in for it. I’ve
been requested to speak to you about baseball. I told Captain Perkins
that I didn’t know a baseball from a frozen turnip, but he said that
made it all the better; that if I didn’t know what I was talking about
you would realize that I was absolutely unprejudiced and my words would
carry more weight. I said, ‘How are you going to get the fellows to
listen to me?’ He said, ‘We’ll lock the doors.’ I guess they’re locked.”
Half his audience turned to look, and the rest laughed.
“Anyhow,” Anthony continued, “he kept his part of the agreement, and
so I’ll have to keep mine. I’ve said frankly that I know nothing about
baseball, and I hope that you will all pardon any mistakes I may
make in discussing the subject. I never saw but one game, and after
it was over I knew less about it than I did before. A fellow I knew
played--well, I don’t know just what he did play; most of the time he
danced around a bag of salt or something that some one had left out on
the grass. There were three of those bags, and his was the one on the
southeast corner. When the game was over he asked me how I liked it. I
said, ‘It looks to me like a good game for a lunatic asylum.’ He said
I showed ignorance; that it was the best game in the world, and just
full up and slopping over with science. I didn’t argue with him. But
I’ve always thought that if I had to play baseball I’d choose to be the
fellow that wears a black alpaca coat and does the talking. Seems to me
he’s the only one that remains sane. I asked my friend if he was the
keeper; he said no, he was the umpire.”
By this time the laughter was almost continuous, but Anthony’s
expression of calm gravity remained unbroken. At times he appeared
surprised and disturbed by the bursts of laughter; and a small freshman
in the front row toppled out of his seat and had to be thumped on the
back. Even the dean was chuckling.
“Well, science has always been a weak point with me, and I guess that’s
why I’m not able to understand the science of hitting a ball with a
wagon-spoke and running over salt-bags. But I’m not so narrow-minded
as to affirm that because I can’t see the science it isn’t there.
You’ve all heard about Abraham Lincoln and the book-agent, I guess.
The book-agent wanted him to write a testimonial for his book. Lincoln
wrote it. It ran something like this: ‘Any person who likes this kind
of a book will find this just the kind of a book he likes.’ Well,
that’s about my idea of baseball; anybody who likes that kind of a game
will find baseball just the kind of a game he likes.
“Now, they tell me that down at Robinson they’ve found an old
wagon-wheel, cut the fingers off a pair of kid gloves, bought a wire
bird-cage, and started a baseball club. All right. Let ’em. There are
other wheels and more gloves and another bird-cage, I guess. Captain
Perkins says he has a club, too. I’ve never seen it, but I don’t doubt
his word; any man with Titian hair tells the truth. He says he keeps it
out at the field. From what I’ve seen of baseball clubs I think that’s
a good, safe place. I hope, however, that he locks the gates when he
leaves ’em. But Captain Perkins tells me that he has the finest kind of
a baseball club that ever gibbered, and he offers to bet me a suspender
buckle against a pants button that his club can knock the spots off of
any other club, and especially the Robinson club. I’m not a betting
man, and so I let him boast.
“And after he’d boasted until he’d tired himself out he went on to say
that baseball clubs were like any other aggregation of mortals; that
they have to be clothed and fed, and, moreover, when they go away to
mingle with other clubs they have to have their railway fare paid.
Captain Perkins, as I’ve said once already, is a truthful man, and so
I don’t see but that we’ve got to believe him. He says that his club
hasn’t any money; that if it doesn’t get some money it will grow pale
and thin and emaciated, and won’t be able to run around the salt-bags
as violently as the Robinson club; in which case the keeper--I mean the
umpire--will give the game to Robinson. Well, now, what’s to be done?
Are we to stand idly by with our hands in our pockets and see Robinson
walk off with a game that is really our property? Or are we to take
our hands out of our pockets, with the fingers closed, and jingle some
coins into the collection-box?
“I’m not a baseball enthusiast, as I’ve acknowledged, but I am an
Erskine enthusiast, fellows. Perkins says we ought to beat Robinson at
baseball. I say let’s do it! I say let’s beat Robinson at everything.
If anybody will start a parchesi club I’ll go along and stand by and
yell while they down the Robinson parchesi club. That’s what Providence
made Robinson for--to be beaten. Providence looked over the situation
and said: ‘There’s Erskine, with nothing to beat.’ Then Providence made
Robinson. And we started in and beat her. And we’ve been beating her
ever since--when she hasn’t beaten us.
“I’ve done a whole lot of talking here this evening, and I guess you’re
all tired of it.” (There was loud and continued dissent at this point,
interspersed with cries of “Good old Tidball!”) “But I promised to
talk, and I like to give good measure. But the time for talking is
about up. Mr. Hanson has something to say to you, and as he knows what
he’s going to talk about, whereas I don’t know what I’m talking about,
I guess I’d better stop and give him a show. But before I stop I want
to point out a self-evident fact, fellows. You can’t win from Robinson
without a baseball team, and you can’t have a baseball team unless
you dig down in your pockets and pay up. Manager Patterson says the
Baseball Association needs the sum of six hundred dollars. Well, let’s
give it to ’em. Any fellow here to-night who thinks a victory over
Robinson isn’t worth six hundred dollars is invited to stand up and
walk out; we’ll unlock the door for him. Six hundred dollars means only
about one dollar for each fellow. I am requested to state that after
Mr. Hanson has spoken his piece a few of the best-looking men among us
will pass through the audience with small cards upon which every man
is asked to write his name and the amount he is willing to contribute
to secure a victory over Robinson that will make last year’s score
look like an infinitesimal fraction. If some one will go through the
motions, I’d like to propose three long Erskines, three times three and
three long Erskines for the nine.”
Anthony bowed and sat down. The senior class president sprang to his
feet, and the next moment the hall was thunderous with the mighty
cheers that followed his “One, two, three!” Then came calls of
“Tidball! Tidball!” and again the slogan was taken up. It was fully
five minutes ere the head coach arose. And when he in turn stood at the
platform’s edge the cheers began once more, for enthusiasm reigned at
last.
Hanson realized that further speechmaking was idle and confined his
remarks to an indorsement of what Anthony had said. The distribution
of blank slips of paper had already begun and his audience paid but
little attention to his words, although it applauded good-naturedly.
When he had ended, promising on behalf of the team, and in return for
the support of the college, the best efforts of players and coaches,
confusion reigned supreme. Pencils and fountain pens were passed hither
and thither, jokes were bandied, songs were sung, and the tumult
increased with the pushing aside of chairs and the scraping of feet as
the meeting began to break up. But, though some left as soon as they
had filled out their pledges, the greater number flocked into noisy
groups and awaited the announcement of the result.
At length, Professor Nast accepted the slip of paper handed him by
Patterson and advanced to the edge of the platform. There, he raised
a hand for attention, and at the same time glanced at the figures.
An expression of incredulity overspread his face, and he turned an
inquiring look upon the manager. The latter smiled and nodded, as
though to dispel the professor’s doubts. The hubbub died away, and the
professor faced the meeting again.
“I am asked,” he said, “to announce the result of the--ah--subscription.
Where every one has responded so promptly and so heartily to the appeal
in behalf of the association, it would be, perhaps, unfair to give the
names of any who have been exceptionally generous. But without doing
so it remains a pleasant--ah--privilege to state that among the
subscriptions there is one of fifty dollars----”
Loud applause greeted this announcement, and fellows of notoriously
empty pocket-books were accused by their friends of being the unnamed
benefactor, and invariably acknowledged the impeachment with profuse
expressions of modesty.
“Three of twenty-five dollars,” continued the professor, “six of ten
dollars, seventeen of five dollars, and many of two dollars and over.
The total subscription, strange as it may seem, reaches the sum of five
hundred and ninety-nine dollars, one dollar less than the amount asked
for!”
There was a moment of silent surprise. Then, from somewhere at the left
of the room, a voice cried: “Here you are, then!” and something went
spinning through the air. The head coach leaped forward, caught it
deftly, and held it aloft. It was a shining silver dollar.
“Thank you,” he said.
The incident tickled the throng, and cheers and laughter struggled for
supremacy. Jack pushed his way to the door, and remained there waiting
for Anthony, one hand groping lonesomely in a trouser pocket where a
minute or two before had snuggled his last coin.