THE AGONY OF THE LAST BIG GAME
"Ya, ya, ya! Ye gotter do somethings!"
This from Mr. Schimmelpodt. That gentleman was waving one of
his short, fat arms wildly. It may as well be stated that from
the smaller extremity of that arm, namely, his hand---a small
crimson and gold banner attached to a stick cut circles in the
air.
"Go to it, Gridley!"
"Get busy! You can't take a black eye at this end of the season."
Gridley High School with a season's record of one tied game and
a long tally of victories, seemed now in dire straits.
Sides were changing for the last half of the ninth inning.
Gridley had taken seven runs. Wayland High School, with six runs
already to their credit, was now going to bat for the last inning
unless the score should be tied.
The perfect June day, just before commencement, had brought out
a host. Wayland had sent nearly four hundred people. The total
attendance was past four thousand paid admissions.
Herr Schimmelpodt, who, since his first enthusiasm, had not missed
a game, was now among the most concerned.
The band was there, but silent. The leader knew that, in this
state of affairs the spectators wanted to make the noise themselves.
"Oh, you Dick!"
"Strike 'em out as fast as they come up."
"Save Gridley!"
"Aw, let somebody have a game," roared a voice from the Wayland
seats, "and we need this one!"
"Prescott, remember the record!"
"No defeats this year!"
"Don't give us one, now!"
Dick & Co. were in full force on the nine today. True, Dave Darrin
sat only on the sub bench to-day, but he was ready to give relief
at any moment if Gridley's beloved pitcher, Prescott, went under.
Holmes was out in left field; Hazelton was the nimble shortstop;
Dalzell pranced at the first bag on the diamond; Tom Reade was
eternally vigilant on second base.
Gridley's High School girls, devoted feminine fans as any in the
world, were breathing soft and fast now. If only Dick, backed
at need by the outfield, could keep Wayland from scoring further,
then all was well. If Wayland should score even once in this
inning, it would make a tie and call for a tenth inning. If Wayland
scored twice---but that was too nerve-racking to contemplate.
Then a hush fell. The umpire had called for play.
Dick let drive with his most tantalizing spitball. The leather
fell down gracefully under the Wayland's batsman's guess, and
Purcell mitted the ball.
"Strike one!"
A hopeful cheer went up from Gridley seats, to be met with one
word from Wayland fans:
"Wait!"
Dick served the second ball. Swat! There it went, arching up
in the air, a fair hit. As fast as he could leg it went Holmes
after it, and with good judgment. But the ball got there before
Greg did. In a twinkling, the young left fielder had the ball
up and in motion. Tom Reade caught it deftly at second, and wheeled
toward first. But the runner saw his error in leaving first,
and slid back in season.
Turning back, with his lips close together, Dick tried a new batsman.
Two strikes, and then the visitor sent out a little pop-over
that touched ground and rolled ere Harry Hazelton could race in
and get it, driving it on to first base.
"Safe at first," called the umpire, and the other Waylander had
reached second.
"O-o-o-h!"
"Don't let 'em have it, Dick---_don't_!"
The wail that reached his ears was pathetic, but Prescott paid
no heed. He was always all but deaf to remarks from the spectators.
He knew what he was trying to do, and he was coming as close
as a hard-worked pitcher could get to that idea at the fag-end
of the game.
The fatigue germ was hard at work in the young pitcher's wrist,
but Dick nerved himself for better efforts. Despite him, however,
a third batsman got away from him, and from Greg, and now the
bases were full.
"_O-o-oh, Dick_!"
It was a wail, full of despair. Though he paid no direct heed
to it the sorely pressed young pitcher put up his left hand to
wipe the old sweat out of his eyes. His heart was pounding with
the strain of it. Dick Prescott, born soldier, would have died
for victory, _just_ then. At least, that was what he felt.
The Wayland man who now stood over the plate looked like a grinning
monkey as he took the pitcher's measure.
"Go to it, Dickson---kill the ball!" roared the visiting fans.
"Just a little two-bagger---that's all!"
Dick felt something fluttering inside. In himself he felt the
whole Gridley honor and fame revolving during that moment. Then
he resolutely choked down the feeling. The umpire was signaling
impatiently for him to deliver.
Dick essayed a jump ball. With a broadening grin Dickson of Wayland
reached for it vigorously. He struck it, but feebly. Another
of those short-winded, high-arched pops went up in air.
There was no hope or chance for Hazelton to get to the spot in
time---and Wayland's man away from third was steaming in while
Purcell made the home plate at a bound.
Dick raced---raced for all he was worth, though his heart felt
as if steam had shut down.
Across the grass raced Prescott, as though he believed he could
make history in fifths of seconds.
In his speed he went too far. The ball was due to come down behind
him.
There was no time to think. Running at full speed as he was,
Pitcher Dick rose in the air. It looked like an incredible leap---but
he made it. His hands pulled the slow-moving popball down out
of the air.
Barely did Dick's feet touch the ground when he simply reached
over and dropped the ball at Purcell.
The captain of the Gridley nine dropped to one knee, hands low,
but he took the leather in---took it just the bare part of a second
before the Waylander from third got there.
For an instant the dazed crowd held its breath just long enough
to hear the umpire announce.
"Striker out! Out at home plate. Two out!"
Then the tumult broke loose.
For an instant or two Dick stood dizzy just where he had landed
on his feet.
Umpire Davidson came bounding over.
"Do you want to call for a relief pitcher, Prescott?"
"No---Wayland pitched all through with one man!"
Back to the box marched Dick Prescott, but he took his time about
it. He had need of a clear head and steadier nerves and muscles,
for Wayland had a man again at third, and another dancing away
from second. There was plenty of chance yet to lose.
"Prescott ought to call you out," whispered Fred Ripley to Dave.
"And I'd get out there on the dead run, just as you would, Rip.
But you know how Dick feels. Wayland went through on one man,
and Dick's going to do it if he lives through the next few minutes!"
While that momentary dizziness lasted, something happened that
caused the young pitcher to flush with humiliation. Sandwiched
in between two strikes were called balls enough to send the new
batsman to first, and again the bases were full. One more "bad
break" of this kind and Wayland would receive the tie run as a
present. And then one more---it would be the High School pitcher
handing the only lost game of the season as a gift to the visitors!
Dick braced himself supremely for the next man at bat.
"Strike one!"
It wasn't the batter's fault. A very imp had sat on the spitball
that Prescott bowled in.
"Strike two!"
The batsman was sweating nervously, but he couldn't help it.
Dick Prescott had fairly forced himself into the form of the first
inning. But it couldn't last.
Gink! It was only a little crack at the ball, struck rather downward.
A grounding ball struck the grit and rolled out toward right
infield. There was no shortstop here. The instant that Prescott
took in the direction he was on the run. There was no time to
get there ahead of the rolling leather. It was Dick's left foot
that stopped it, but in the same fraction of a second he bent
and swooped it up---wheeled.
Wayland's man from third base looked three fourths of the way
in. Captain Purcell, half frantic, was doubled up at the home
plate.
Into that throw Dick put all the steam he had left in. The leather
gone from his hand, he waited. His heart seemed to stop.
To half the eyes that looked on, ball and runner seemed to reach
the home plate at the same instant. The umpire, crouching, squinting,
had the best view of all.
It was an age before Dick, with the mists before his eyes, heard
the faraway words for which thousands waited breathlessly:
"Out at home---three out!"
Three disheartened base runners turned and slouched dispiritedly
toward the dressing rooms.
"You could have hit that ball a better swipe," growled Wayland's
captain to the last man at bat. The victim of the rebuke didn't
answer. He knew that he had faced a pitcher wholly rejuvenated
by sheer grit and nerve force.
At its loudest the band was blaring forth "At the Old Ball Game,"
and thousands were following with the words. Wayland fans were
strolling away in dejection, but Gridley folks stood up to watch
and cheer.
The whole nine had done its duty in fine shape, but Dick Prescott
had made himself the idol of the Gridley diamond.
When the band stopped, the cheers welled forth. The lion's share
was for Prescott, but Darrin was not forgotten. Even Ripley,
who had pitched three of the minor games, came in for some notice.
Dick?
With the strain and suspense gone he felt limp and weak for a
few minutes. Under the cold shower he revived somewhat. Yet,
when he started homeward, he found that he ached all over. With
the last game of the season gone by, Dick half imagined that his
right wrist was a huge boil.
At the gateway Schimmelpodt, that true devotee of sport, waited.
As the young High School pitcher came forth Herr Schimmelpodt
rested a fat hand on the boy's shoulder, whispering in his ear:
"Ach! But I know vere is dere a _real_ jointed fishpole. It
was two dollar, but now it stands itself by, marked to one-nineteen.
In der morning, Bresgott, it shall be yours. Und listen!"
Dick looked up into the blinking eyes.
"Dot fishpole for der summer use is goot fine! Und venever you
see me going by bis my vagon, don't you be slow to holler und
ask me for a ride!"