A TRIPLE PLAY
The seventh inning began with Tracy Gilberth at bat. He watched Vose
with interest while that lanky youth settled himself to his task,
hopeful that at last Robinson’s star player was weary enough to allow
the opponents to hit him. But Tracy was doomed to disappointment.
Vose’s arm was tired, beyond a doubt, but he only took more time at
his work, his curves remaining as puzzling as ever. Tracy struck out
ingloriously, just as he had done pretty much all through the game.
Vose was still on his mettle.
Bissell’s fate was the same, while as for Knox, although he managed, by
good judgment, to get three balls to his credit, yet in the end he too
tossed aside his bat in deep disgust; and the nines again changed sides.
Robinson’s first man up was the redoubtable Hopkins; he had gained
the sobriquet of “Hard-hitting Hopkins” last season. So far to-day,
while he had managed to find Tracy rather frequently, his hits had
netted little. But Tracy judged discretion the better part of valor,
and deliberately gave Hopkins his base, while the purple-decked stands
hooted loudly. Having given the other his base, Tracy next tried to
take it away from him, but Hopkins was quick on his feet and time and
again Motter got the ball too late to tag him out. Tracy gave it up
finally, and turned his attention to the next batsman, Morgan.
Morgan popped a foul to the foot of the stand, and Joe, hurling aside
his mask, got it after a brilliant sprint of twenty yards. Devlin
struck out and Hopkins stole second. The Brown’s captain came to the
plate with determination to do great deeds written large on his face.
After getting two strikes on him, Tracy couldn’t put the ball over the
base, and Wood walked to first.
Then, with two on bases, Robinson saw visions of another tally. But
Tracy settled down again and struck out the third man, Richman, and
again the Erskine contingent sighed with relief and cheered gleefully.
Jack, who during the inning had had nothing to do, trotted in and
examined the score-book over Patterson’s shoulder. He found that he
would be the third man at bat, and wondered a bit nervously whether
he would have any better success with the mighty Vose’s curves than
had his predecessor, who was now sitting weary and dispirited on the
bench. King, who during the first half of the previous inning had been
limbering up his arm, was put in for Tracy, and Lowe took his place in
left-field. Tracy sprawled himself down on the grass beside Jack with a
sigh.
“I wish to thunder I’d been able to hit that dub Vose just one!” he
growled.
“What’s he like?” Jack asked.
“Like a Chinese puzzle,” Tracy replied grimly. “When you try him,
Weatherby, look out for his drops; they’re the worst; they come
straight to about four feet from the plate, then they go down so fast
that you can’t see ’em. His inshoots are simple compared with those
drops. Watch for fast balls, and when you see one coming, slug it! Make
him think you can’t bat, Weatherby; it’s your first time up, and maybe
you can fool him.”
“I’ll try,” Jack answered dubiously. “_Good work, King!_”
King was speeding to first, having made a clean hit to the outfield
just over shortstop’s head. The Erskine stand burst into wild and
confused cheering. Northup selected his bat and went to the plate,
and Joe Perkins, after whispering directions into his ear, ran to the
white line back of first base and began coaching King at the top of his
lungs. Vose settled the ball in his hands, tapped the earth with his
brass-toed shoe, and glanced sharply toward the runner.
“Play off, Greg!” shouted Joe. “He won’t throw! He’s too tired! Now,
now, now! This time! _Look out!_”
King scuttled around back of the bag and reached it before the baseman
swung at him with the ball.
“Hold it, he’s got the ball!” cautioned Joe. “All right, now; on your
toes. Down with his arm! He won’t throw again!”
Vose looked as though he intended to, then turned quickly and pitched.
The ball went wide, and had it not struck Northup on the hip would
have given King two bases, since the Robinson catcher would never have
stopped it. As it was, King, who was almost to second, trotted back and
tagged base. The umpire waved his hand to Northup, and the latter went
limping to first. King jogged to second, and the Erskine cheers drowned
every sound for several minutes. Two on bases and none out! It looked
like a tally.
Joe yielded his place to Motter, sent Bissell to coach King from third,
and caught Jack on his way to the plate. He had to put his mouth to
Jack’s ear in order to make himself heard above the shouting.
“We’ve got to advance King, Jack,” he said. “Wait for a good one, and
make a slow bunt toward third; you know the way, old man. Swipe at
the first ball as though you were going to knock it over the fence!
Then wait for what you want. Keep steady, Jack!” He clapped him on the
shoulder encouragingly and sped back to first.
Jack’s hope of rapping out a two-bagger was gone. Joe’s directions were
not to be disregarded, and it was a case of substituting team-play
for ambition. He settled his cap, wiped his perspiring hands on his
trousers, and gripped his bat. When he faced Vose he found that person
eying him intently, appraising his ability as a batsman. Jack smiled
easily--despite that he felt terribly nervous, and that the muscles at
the back of his legs were twitching--and waved his bat forward and back
a couple of times as though to say: “Right there, please, and I’ll show
you how it’s done!”
Vose looked about the bases very deliberately, and then offered Jack
an outshoot. Jack was glad that he had been told to hit at the first
delivery, for the mere act of swinging his stick fiercely through the
air eased his nerves. He struck at least a foot too late, and the
Robinsonians laughed and jeered. Vose thought he knew his man then,
and tried the same ball again, and the umpire shook his head and waved
his left hand. Jack waited; two balls; strike two; then he saw what he
wanted, turned a trifle to the left, brought his bat around quickly
and easily, and, as he ran to first, knew that he had succeeded.
The sphere, a new and very white one it was, went rolling toward third
base just inside the line. King was making for that base, too, and the
baseman indulged in just that instant of hesitation that is fatal. The
ball was his to field, yet he feared that if he left his bag none would
cover it. When he finally got the ball, reaching it a second before
Vose, King was safe on third, Northup was sliding for second, and Jack
had crossed first. He tossed the sphere to the pitcher, and the latter
went back to the box scowling wrathfully. The Erskine stand was a bank
of purple. The senior class president, bareheaded, wilted of collar and
crimson of face, was standing on a seat leading the singing:
“Robinson is wavering, her pride’s about to fall;
Robinson is wavering, she can not hit the ball;
Erskine is the winner, for her team’s the best of all;
_Oh, poor old Robinson!_”
Billings went to bat. Motter was whispering instructions to Jack on
first. Vose, calm of face, looked about the bases, while his support
called encouragingly to him. Then, before his arm was well back, Jack
had started like an express-train toward second. At the same instant
King made as though to dash home, and Northup played off half-way to
third. The delivery was a poor one, but Condit stopped it, threw off
his mask, and, bewildered, threw to second.
It was a costly mistake, for King was sliding across the plate before
second-baseman had received the ball, and the Erskine fellows were
hugging each other uproariously. Jack had flown back toward first, but
half-way there he paused. Northup was caught on his way to third, and
now was dancing back and forth with the ball crossing and recrossing
above his head, and shortstop and third-baseman closing in on him every
second. Then he stumbled and shortstop was on him like a flash, and he
crawled to his feet to dust the loam from his shirt and trot off the
field. Meanwhile Jack had made a good slide for second, and had beaten
the ball.
The score was tied, there was but one out, and a man on second! Is it
any wonder that Erskine’s supporters went mad with delight and danced
and shouted and threw flags and caps into the air?
When things had settled down once more Billings stepped back into the
box. From behind him came imperative demands for a home run. Billings
tried his best to accommodate his friends the next instant, for there
was a loud _crack_, and the ball went arching high and far toward
right-field. But when it descended the Robinson fielder was under it,
and Billings stopped his journey around the bases and came back. The
left-fielder sped the ball home quickly, but not soon enough to keep
Jack from reaching third.
The Robinson band had started bravely to work once more, but across the
diamond the Erskine leaders had brought order out of chaos, and four
hundred purple-flaunting enthusiasts were again cheering slowly and in
unison:
“_Erskine! Erskine! Erskine! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah,
rah! Erskine! Erskine! Erskine!_”
And the cheers took on new force when it was seen that the Purple’s
captain was the next batsman. Joe had given a message to King, and
now King was imparting it to Jack down at third base, and Jack was
nodding back to Joe. Robinson’s catcher, Condit, was badly rattled,
and Joe knew it and was planning accordingly. The stands settled down
into comparative quietude, and Vose, still calm and confident-looking,
pitching the game of his life, faced his new opponent. The outfield
came in a bit.
Vose’s first delivery was easily a ball, and his second was undeniably
a strike. Then followed an outshoot and a drop, neither of which did
Joe take to. Back went the ball to Vose, and, with King shouting
weirdly at third, he shot his arms overhead and sped it again toward
the plate. Then an odd thing happened.
The ball was a drop. Joe struck at it hard, dropped his bat, and flew
toward base. The catcher, who had stopped the ball on the ground,
stood up, glared bewilderedly, and then, concluding that it had been
the third strike, threw to first-baseman, Vose shouting warnings which
he did not hear. Jack, the moment Joe had struck, had started warily
toward home, and although first-baseman caught the ball and hurled it
back to the plate in the next instant, he was lying above the base in a
cloud of dust ere the catcher tagged him. Again pandemonium broke lose
on the Erskine stand. The Purple was one run ahead.
Joe trotted back to the plate and picked up his bat, and Jack went to
the bench, dusty, panting, and happy, to be hugged and slapped by the
delighted occupants. There followed a pause in the game’s progress
during which Robinson’s captain sought to find a rule that would
put Jack back on third. But Joe’s strategy was within the law, and
presently the Robinson catcher picked up his mask miserably and the
captain, disgruntled, went slowly back to his position in center-field.
The incident appeared to have discouraged both the battery and the
support. Vose took up his work listlessly, and in a moment Joe was
walking to first on four balls. A minute later he had stolen second.
Motter bunted toward first, and beat the ball to base. Joe took third.
Vose was now plainly rattled, and a wild pitch became a passed ball,
and Motter went to second, Joe, however, fearing to attempt to score.
Then Lowe took up the stick.
Lowe bided his time, and had two strikes called on him before he swung
his bat. When he did he found the ball fairly, and drove a terrific
grounder into outfield between first and second bases. Joe jogged home
from third, and Motter, his legs making a purple streak, sped like the
wind to third. Lowe sat down on first and tied his shoe. Bissell went
to bat, and was deceived by a drop that absolutely hit the plate. And
right there the half ended, for Lowe tried to steal second, and was put
out four feet from the bag.
There was joy in the Erskine camp. The score stood now 3 to 1. If her
players could hold Robinson from further scoring the day was won. And,
with King in the pitcher’s box, it seemed that it might be done. Regan
went to bat for Robinson, and stood there idly swinging his stick while
the umpire sang: “Strike one!... Strike two!... Striker’s out!” And
then, to fill Erskine’s cup overflowing with delight, King struck out
Vose and Cox in just the same way; and the cheering broke forth anew,
loudly, triumphantly. And the ninth and last inning began with little
Knox at the bat.
It would be pleasant to relate how Knox knocked a home run and how
Erskine continued the performance inaugurated in the preceding inning.
Unfortunately, that is impossible. Knox was struck out, King was thrown
out at first, Northup made a base hit, but was left there a minute
later when Jack flied out miserably to Vose. The stands were emptying
themselves of their throngs and supporters of the rival colleges
crowded along the base-lines cheering doggedly or ecstatically, as the
case might be. King picked up the ball, Joe donned his mask, Motter
thumped his mit, and Jack, at second, danced about from one foot to
the other out of sheer joy. Near at hand Knox was grinning like a
schoolboy, and calling shrilly to King to “Eat ’em up, Greg!”
“First man, fellows!” cried Joe cheerfully.
Condit stepped to the plate. He was pale, and looked an easy victim.
But luck turned its back upon the Purple, for at his second delivery
King struck the Robinson catcher on the elbow, and the latter took his
base. Robinson’s friends took courage, and their cheers thundered over
the field. Then came Hopkins, the “hard-hitter,” and swung his bat
knowingly. King realized that here was foeman worthy of steel, and was
accordingly careful.
But Hopkins was desperate. He found the second ball, and it went flying
toward center-field. Bissell failed to reach it in time to get his
hands on it before it struck the ground, and Hopkins gained second,
Condit going to third. Morgan followed with a slow grounder toward
King. King fielded it to first too late, after making sure that Condit
was not trying to score, and the bases were full. A home run would win
for Robinson! A two-base hit would tie the score!
The brown banners flaunted and gyrated in the air, throwing strange
dancing silhouettes upon the turf. The shadow of the western stand had
lengthened across the infield. Back of the stand the sky was aglow with
orange, while toward the village a golden haze filled the air.
The throng at large was silent, intense, expectant. Yet here and there
sections of the throng still shouted, and back of the dense wall of
spectators on the Robinson side of the field the band was playing.
A cheer, undismayed yet faint, ran along the ranks of the Erskine
supporters. It is hard to shout when your heart is throbbing away up in
your throat. Devlin went to bat, his determined chin thrust forth and
his sharp eyes sparkling from between half-closed lids as he watched
the pitcher. Joe Perkins half knelt behind him and held a big mitten
invitingly open on his left knee.
“Steady, fellows!” he called cheerfully. “Play for the plate!”
His voice rang true, with never a quiver in it. Yet now and then his
heart raced and thumped for an instant in a way that turned him half
faint. Despite the tiny beads of perspiration that trickled down his
face, he was livid, and the fingers in the hot leathern mit trembled
and twitched. If he could keep those brown-legged players from crossing
the plate the game was won for Erskine and his labors and hopes were
crowned with success. If! He groaned as he thought of all that might
happen ere the third man was put out. For the first time during the
contest he was nervous; for the first time almost in memory he was
frightened through and through. Then his gaze swept over the field and
he saw Motter at first carelessly flipping a pebble across the grass,
Weatherby alert and impatient at second, Northup shading his eyes with
his hand as he stood motionless in right-field, Knox calling blithely
to King as he slapped his hands together, and beyond, Bissell and Lowe,
their figures throwing long, slanting shadows across the turf. Then
King’s left hand wandered carelessly across his forehead, his arms shot
up, and Joe, reaching out, drew in the first delivery.
“Strike,” droned the umpire.
Joe’s fright passed with the settling of the sphere in his hands. The
blood crept back into his cheeks and courage into his heart. Returning
the ball, he eased his mask, thumped his hands together, and called
confidently to King.
“That’s the eye, Greg; once more!”
Erskine applauded grandly. Then followed two balls. The coaches were
shouting like maniacs and the runners were set, like sprinters on the
mark, ready to spring into flight on the instant. Joe signaled a drop.
It came, and Devlin tried and missed.
“Strike two,” droned the little umpire.
Again the supporters of the Purple shouted and waved their colors
against the evening sky. King swept a glance about the bases, unmindful
of the coachers’ taunts, settled himself once more, and pitched.
Devlin’s body moved quickly forward, ball and bat met squarely, Devlin
raced toward first, and the runners on the bases sprang away.
Out by second, Jack, on his toes, alert and ready for anything, heard
the _crack_ of bat against ball, and instinctively ran toward base.
Hopkins, head down, started like a flash toward third. Then Jack’s
eyes found the ball. It was speeding toward him, straight, swift and
well over his head. He stopped in his tracks a foot or two behind the
base-line, threw his hands high into the air, put his weight on to his
toes, and then sprang straight upward until there was a good two feet
between him and the turf. To the excited watchers it seemed that for
an instant he hung there suspended, a lithe, slim figure against the
golden sunset haze. Then the ball stung his hands, the throng broke
into confused shouting, and--
[Illustration: Weatherby sprang straight upward, two feet above the
turf.]
“Back! Back!” shrieked the coaches.
The runners turned in their tracks and scuttled for the bases they had
left like rabbits for their burrows. Jack, the ball securely clutched,
reached second in two strides, and then, with a lightning survey of
the situation, threw straight and sure to Billings at third. Condit,
arrested ten feet from the plate by the coaches’ warnings, had doubled
back, and now was racing desperately for third base and safety. Six
feet from the bag he launched himself forward, arms outstretched. A
trailing cloud of red dust arose into the still air, and the ball
thumped into the baseman’s hands. The little fat umpire swung his hand
circling toward the bases.
“Game!” he said.
The long ranks broke like waves, and the players were engulfed, then
caught and tossed to the surface. Jack, rocking perilously about on the
shoulders of comrades, looked dazedly yet happily down over a sea of
waving purple banners and upraised, excited faces, while against his
ears beat the thunderous refrain of “_Erskine! Erskine! Erskine!_”
----------------------------------+----------------------------------
ERSKINE. R. H. P. A. E. | ROBINSON. R. H. P. A. E.
|
Perkins, c. 1 1 8 2 0 | Cox, 1b. 0 3 9 0 0
Motter, 1b. 0 1 8 0 1 | Condit, c. 0 1 13 1 1
Gilberth, p. 0 0 1 2 1 | Hopkins, 3b. 0 2 0 3 0
Bissell, cf. 0 0 2 0 1 | Morgan, ss. 0 0 1 3 0
Knox, ss. 0 1 0 0 0 | Devlin, lf. 0 0 1 0 0
King, lf., p. 1 2 2 0 1 | Wood, cf. 0 0 0 1 0
Lowe, lf. 0 1 0 0 0 | Richman, 2b. 0 1 1 2 1
Northup, rf. 0 1 1 0 0 | Regan, rf. 1 0 1 0 0
Stiles, 2b. 0 0 2 1 2 | Vose, p. 0 1 1 2 1
Weatherby, 2b. 1 1 2 1 0 | -- -- -- -- --
Billings, 3b. 0 0 1 1 0 | Totals 1 8 27 12 3
-- -- -- -- -- |
Totals 3 8 27 7 6 |
----------------------------------+----------------------------------
Erskine 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 3 0 --3
Robinson 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 --1
Two-Base Hits--Wood, Hopkins. Triple Play--Weatherby to
Billings. Bases on Balls--Off Gilberth, 3; Off Vose, 2; Off
King, 1. Hit by Pitched Ball--Northup (2), Condit. Struck
Out--By Gilberth, 8; By King, 3; By Vose, 13. Sacrifice
Hits--Knox, Richman, Regan. Umpire--Cantrell. Time of
Game--2.40. Attendance--4,000.