TRYING OUT THE PITCHERS
"Oh, you Rip!"
"Good boy, Rip!"
"You're the winning piece of leather, Rip!"
"Get after him, Dick!"
"Wait till you see Prescott!"
"And don't you forget Dave Darrin, either!" Late in March, it
was the biggest day of Spring out at the High School Athletic
Field.
This field, the fruit of the labors of the Alumni Association
for many years, was a model one even in the best of High School
towns.
The field, some six acres in extent, lay well outside the city
proper. It was a walled field, laid out for football, baseball,
cricket and field and track sports. In order that even the High
School girls might have a strong sense of ownership in it, the
field also contained two croquet grounds, well laid out.
Just now, the whole crowd was gathered at the sides of the diamond.
Hundreds were perched up on one of the stands for spectators.
Down on the diamond stood the members of the baseball squad.
As far as the onlookers could see, every one of the forty-odd
young men was in the pink of physical condition. The indoor training
had been hard from the outset. Weeks of cage work had been gone
through with in the gym. But from this day on, whenever it didn't
rain too hard, the baseball training work was to take place on
the field.
Coach Luce now stepped out of the little building in which were
the team dressing rooms. As he went across the diamond he was
followed by lusty cheers from High School boys up on the spectators'
seats. The girls clapped their hands, or waved handkerchiefs.
A few already carried the gold and crimson banners of Gridley.
Besides the High School young people, there were a few hundred
older people, who had come out to see what the youngsters were
doing.
For this was the day on which the pitchers were to be tried out.
Ripley was known to be the favorite in all the guessing. In
fact, there wasn't any guessing. Some, however, believed that
Dick, and possibly Dave, might be chosen as the relief pitchers.
Dick himself looked mighty solemn, as he stood by, apparently
seeing but little of what was going on. Beside him stood Dave.
The other four chums were not far off.
Another wild howl went up from the High School contingent when
two more men were seen to leave the dressing room building and
walk out toward Coach Luce. These were two members of the Athletic
Committee, former students at Gridley High School. These two
were to aid the coach in choosing the men for the school team.
They would also name the members of the school's second team.
"Now, we'll try you out on pitching, if you're ready," announced
Mr. Luce, turning to a member of the junior class. The young
fellow grinned half-sheepishly, but was game. He ran over to
the box, after nodding to the catcher he had chosen. Luce took
the bat and stood by the home plate. To-day the coach did not
intend to strike at any of the balls, but he and the two members
of the Athletic Committee would judge, and award marks to the
candidates.
"Oh, we don't want the dub! Trot out Rip!" came a roaring chorus.
Coach Luce, however, from this time on, paid no heed to the shouts
or demands of spectators.
The candidate for box honors now displayed all he knew about pitching,
though some nervousness doubtless marred his performance.
"Now, run out Rip!" came the insistent chorus again, after this
candidate had shown his curves and had gone back.
But it was another member of the junior class who came to the
box for the next trial.
"Dead ball! Throw wild and cut it short!" came the advice from
the seats.
Then a sophomore was tried out. But the crowd was becoming highly
impatient.
"We want Rip! We demand Rip. Give us Rip or give us chloroform!"
came the insistent clamor. "We'll come another day to see the
dead ones, if you insist."
Coach Luce looked over at Fred, and nodded. The tumultuous cheering
lasted two full minutes, for Gridley was always as strong on
fans as it wanted to be on players.
Fred Ripley was flushed but proud. He tried to hold himself jauntily,
with an air of indifference, as he stood with the ball clasped
in both hands, awaiting the signal.
Ripley felt that he could afford to be satisfied with himself.
The advance consciousness of victory thrilled him. He had worked
rather hard with Everett; and, though the great pitcher had not
succeeded in bringing out all that he had hoped to do with the
boy, yet Everett had praised him only yesterday. One reason why
Fred had not absolutely suited his trainer was that the boy had
broken his training pledge by taking up with coffee. For that
reason his nerves were not in the best possible shape. Yet they
didn't need to be in order to beat such awkward, rural pitchers
as Prescott or Darrin.
For a while Coach Luce waited for the cheering for Ripley to die
down. Then he raised his bat as a signal. Fred sent in his favorite
spit-ball. To all who understood the game, it was clear that
the ball had not been well delivered. The crowd on the seats
stopped cheering to look on in some concern.
"Brace, Ripley! You can beat that," warned the coach, in a low
tone.
Fred did better the second time. The third ball was nearly up
to his form; the fourth, wholly so. Now, Fred sent in two more
spitballs, then changed to other styles. He was pitching famously,
now.
"That's all, unless you wish more, sir," announced Fred, finally,
when the ball came back to him.
"It's enough. Magnificently done," called Coach Luce, after a
glance at the two members of the Athletic Committee.
"Oh, you Rip!"
"Good old Rip!"
The cheering commenced again, swelling in volume.
Coach Luce signaled to Dick Prescott, who, coolly, yet with a
somewhat pallid face, came forward to the box. He removed the
wrapping from a new ball and took his post.
The cheering stopped now. Dick was extremely well liked in Gridley.
Most of the spectators felt sorry for this poor young soph, who
must make a showing after that phenomenon, Ripley.
"The first two or three don't need to count, Prescott," called
Luce. "Get yourself warmed up."
Fred stood at the side, looking on with a sense of amusement which,
for policy's sake, he strove to conceal.
"Great Scott! The nerve of the fellow!" gasped Ripley, inwardly,
as he saw Prescott moisten his fingers. "He's going to try the
spit-ball after what I've shown!"
The silence grew deeper, for most of the onlookers understood
the significance of Dick's moistened fingers.
Dick drove in, Tom Reade catching. That first spit-ball was not
quite as good as some that Ripley had shown. But Fred's face
went white.
"Where did Prescott get that thing? He's been _stealing_ from the
little he has seen me do."
A shout of jubilation went up from a hundred throats now, for
Dick had just spun his second spit-ball across the plate. It
was equal to any that Ripley had shown.
"Confound the upstart! He's getting close to me on that style!"
gasped the astonished Ripley.
Now, Dick held the ball for a few moments, rolling it over in his
hands. An instant later, he unbent. Then he let drive. The ball
went slowly toward the plate, with flat trajectory.
"Wow!" came the sudden explosion. It was a _jump-ball_, going almost
to the plate, then rising instead of falling.
Three more of these Dick served, and now the cheering was the
biggest of the afternoon. Fred Ripley's mouth was wide open,
his breath coming jerkily.
Three fine inshoots followed. The hundreds on the seats were
standing up now. Then, to rest his arm, Dick, who was wholly
collected, and as cool as a veteran under fire, served the spectators
with a glimpse of an out-curve that was not quite like any that
they had ever seen before. This out-curve had a suspicion of
the jump-ball about it.
Dick was pitching easily, now. He had gotten his warming and
his nerve, and appeared to work without conscious strain.
"Do you want more, sir?" called Dick, at last.
"No," decided Coach Luce. "You've done enough, Prescott.
Mr. Darrin!"
Dave ran briskly to the box, opening the wrappings on a new ball
as he stepped into the box. After the first two balls Dave's
exhibition was swift, certain, fine. He had almost reached Dick
with his performance.
Ripley's bewildered astonishment was apparent in his face.
"Thunder, I'd no idea they could do anything like that!" gasped
Fred to himself. "They're very nearly as good as I am. How in
blazes did they ever get hold of the wrinkles? They can't afford
a man like Everett."
"Any more candidates?" called Coach Luce. There weren't. No
other fellow was going forward to show himself after the last
three who had worked from the box.
There was almost a dead silence, then, while Coach Luce and the
two members of the Athletics Committee conferred in whispers.
At last the coach stepped forward.
"We have chosen the pitchers!" he shouted. Then, after a pause,
Mr. Luce went on:
"The pitchers for the regular school nine will be Prescott, Darrin,
Ripley, in the order named."
"Oh, you Dick!"
"Bang-up Prescott!"
"Reliable old Darrin!"
"Ripley---ugh!"
And now the fierce cheering drowned out all other cries. But
Fred Ripley, his face purple with rage, darted forward before
the judges.
"I protest!" he cried.
"Protests are useless," replied Mr. Luce. "The judges give you
four points less than Darrin, and seven less than Prescott. You've
had a fair show, Mr. Ripley."
"I haven't. I'm better than either of them!" bawled Fred, hoarsely,
for the cheering was still on and he had to make himself heard.
"No use, Ripley," spoke up a member of the Athletics Committee.
"You're third, and that's good enough, for we never before had
such a pitching triumvirate."
"Where did these fellows ever learn to pitch to beat me?" jeered
Fred, angrily. "They had no such trainer. Until he went south
with his own team, I was trained by-----"
Fred paused suddenly. Perhaps he had better not tell too much,
after all.
The din from the seats had now died down.
"Well, Ripley, who trained you?" asked a member of the Athletics
Committee.
Fred bit his lip, but Dick broke in quietly:
"I can tell. Perhaps a little confession will be good for us
all around. Ripley was trained by Everett over at Duxbridge.
I found out that much, weeks ago."
"You spy!" hissed Fred angrily, but Dick, not heeding his enemy,
continued:
"The way Ripley started out, the first showing he made, Darrin
and I saw that we were left in the stable. Candidly, we were
in despair of doing anything real in the box, after Ripley got
through. But I suppose all you gentlemen have heard of Pop Gint?"
"Gint! Old Pop?" demanded Coach Luce, a light glowing in his
eyes. "Well, I should say so. Why, Pop Gint was the famous old
trainer who taught Everett and a half dozen other of our best
national pitchers all they first learned about style. Pop Gint
is the best trainer of pitchers that ever was."
"Pop Gint is an uncle of Mr. Pollock, editor of 'The Blade,'" Dick
went on, smilingly. "Pop Gint has retired, and won't teach for
money, any more. But Mr. Pollock coaxed his uncle to train Darrin
and myself. Right faithfully the old gentleman did it, too.
Why, Pop Gint, today, is as much of a boy-----"
"Oh, shut up!" grated Fred, harshly, turning upon his rival.
"Mr. Luce, I throw down the team as far as I'm concerned. I won't
pitch as an inferior to these two boobies. Scratch my name off."
"I'll give you a day or two, Mr. Ripley, to think that over,"
replied Mr. Luce, quietly. "Remember, Ripley, you must be a good
sportsman, and you should also be loyal to your High School.
In matters of loyalty one can't always act on spite or impulse."
"Humph!" muttered Fred, stalking away.
His keen disappointment was welling up inside. With the vent
of speech the suffering of the arrogant boy had become greater.
Now, Fred's whole desire was to get away by himself, where he
could nurse his rage in secret. There were no more yells of "Oh,
you Rip!" He had done some splendid pitching, and had made the
team, for that matter, but he was not to be one of the season's
stars. This latter fact, added to his deserved unpopularity,
filled his spirit with gall as he hastened toward the dressing
rooms. There he quickly got into his street clothes and as hastily
quitted the athletic field.
Therein Fred Ripley made a mistake, as he generally did in other
things. In sport all can't win. It is more of an art to be a
cheerful, game loser than to bow to the plaudits of the throng.
"Mr. Prescott," demanded Coach Luce, "how long have you been
working under Pop Gint's training?"
"Between four and five weeks, sir."
"And Darrin the same length of time?"
"Yes, sir," nodded Dave.
"Then, unless you two find something a whole lot better to do
in life, you could do worse than to keep in mind the idea of
trying for positions on the national teams when you're older."
"I think we have something better in view, Mr. Luce," Dick answered
smilingly. "Eh, Dave?"
"Yes," nodded Darrin and speaking emphatically. "Athletics and
sports are good for what they bring to a fellow in the way of
health and training. But a fellow ought to use the benefits as
a physical foundation in some other kind of life where he can
be more useful."
"I suppose you two, then, have it all mapped out as to what you're
going to do in life?"
"Not quite," Dick replied. "But I think I know what we'd like
to do when we're through with our studies."
There were other try-outs that afternoon, but the great interest
was over. Gridley fans were satisfied that the High School had
a pitching trio that it would be difficult to beat anywhere except
on the professional diamond.
"If anything _should_ happen to Prescott and Darrin just before
any of _the big games_," muttered Ripley, darkly, to himself, "then
I'd have my chance, after all! Can't I get my head to working
and find a way to _make_ something happen?"