EARLY PRACTICE
"What are you going to try for?"
"Have you played much before you came here?"
"Oh, rats! I don't believe I'll have any show with all this bunch!"
"Hey, quit shoving; will you?"
"Oh, Rinky-Dink! Over here!"
"Hi, Weston, we're looking for you."
"There goes Shorty Kendall. He'll sure catch this year."
"Hello, Mac! Think you'll beat Weston to it this year?"
"I might," was the cool reply.
The above were only a few of the many challenges, shouts, calls and
greetings that were bandied from side to side as the students, who had
been waiting long for this opportunity, crowded into the gymnasium.
It was the preliminary sifting and weeding out of the mass of material
offered on the altar of baseball. At best but a small proportion of the
candidates could hope to make the 'varsity, or even a class team, but
this did not lessen the throng that crowded about the captain, manager
and coaches, eagerly waiting for favorable comment.
"Well, we're here!" exulted Jimmie Lee, who had, the night before,
brought to Joe the good news that the ball season had at least started
to open.
"Yes, we're here," agreed Joe.
"And what will happen to us?" asked Spike Poole. "It doesn't look to me
as if much would."
"Oh, don't fool yourself," declared Jimmie, who, being very lively, had
learned many of the ropes, and who, by reason of ferreting about, had
secured much information. "The coaches aren't going to let anything good
get by 'em. Did you see Benson looking at me! Ahem! And I think I have
Whitfield's eye! Nothing like having nerve, is there? Joe, hold up your
hand and wriggle it--they're trying to see where you're located," and,
with a laugh at his conceit, Jimmie shoved into the crowd trying to get
nearer the centre of interest--to wit, where the old players who served
as coaches were conferring with the captain.
The latter was Tom Hatfield, a Junior whose remarkable playing at short
had won him much fame. Mr. William Benson and Mr. James Whitfield were
two of the coaches. George Farley was the manager, and a short stocky
man, with a genial Irish face, who answered to the name of Dick McLeary,
was the well-liked trainer.
"Well, if I can make the outfield I suppose I ought to be satisfied,"
spoke Jimmie Lee. "But I did want to get on a bag, or somewhere inside
the diamond."
"I'll take to the daisies and be thankful," remarked Spike; "though I
would like to be behind the bat."
"Carrying bats would do me for a starter," spoke a tall lad near Joe.
"But I suppose I'll be lucky if they let me play on the Freshman team.
Anyhow as long as I don't get left out of it altogether I don't mind.
What are you going to try for?" he asked of our hero.
"I would like to pitch. I twirled at Excelsior Hall, and I think I can
play on the mound better than anywhere else, though that's not saying
I'm such a muchness as a pitcher," added Joe, modestly. "I did hope to
get on the 'varsity, but----"
"Pitch!" exclaimed the other frankly. "Say, you've got as much chance to
pitch on the 'varsity as I have of taking the Dean's place to-morrow.
Pitch on the 'varsity! Say, I'm not saying anything against you, Matson,
for maybe you can pitch, but Weston has the place cinched, and if he
falls down there's Harry McAnish, a southpaw. He stands about second
choice."
"Oh, I've been disillusioned," said Joe frankly. "I know I can't get on
the 'varsity this year. But don't they have more than one pitcher in
reserve?"
"Oh, yes, sure. But Bert Avondale comes next, and I have heard that he's
even better than Weston, but Weston is steadier--in most games. I don't
want to discourage you, but you'd better try for some other place than
pitcher."
"No, I'm going to try for there," said Joe in a low voice. "I may not
make it, but if I get a chance to show what I can do, and then fall
down, I won't kick. I mean next year, of course," he added.
"Oh, you may get a chance all right. Every fellow does at Yale. But
you're up against some of the best college baseball material that ever
came over the pike. Sometimes I think I've got nerve even to dream of a
class team. But listen--they're going to start the fun now."
The manager was speaking, announcing more or less formally, that which
everyone knew already--that they had reported to allow a sort of
preliminary looking over of the candidates. There were several of the
former ball team who would play, it was said, but there was always need
and a chance, for new material. All save Freshmen would be given an
opportunity, the manager said, and then he emphasized the need of hard
work and training for those who were given the responsibility of
carrying the blue of Yale to victory on the diamond.
"And, no less does this responsibility rest on the scrub, or second
team," went on Farley. "For on the efficiency of the scrub depends the
efficiency of the 'varsity, since good opposition is needed in bringing
out the best points of the first team."
Farley, who was one of the old players, acting as a coach, went on to
add:
"I have used the word 'scrub' and 'second team,' though, as you well
know, there is nothing like that here at Yale, that is as compared to
football. When I say 'scrub' I mean one of the class teams, the
Freshman, Sophomore or Junior, for, in a measure, while separate and
distinct teams themselves, they will serve us the same purpose as a
scrub or substitute team would in football. They will give us something
to practice with--some opposition--for you've got to have two nines to
make a ball game," and he smiled at the anxious ones looking at him.
"So," he went on, "when I use the word 'scrub' after this, or when any
of the other coaches do, I want you to understand that it will mean
one of the class teams which, for the purpose of strengthening the
'varsity, and enabling it to practice, acts as opposition.
"Sometimes the 'varsity will play one team, and sometimes another, for
the class teams will have their own contests to look after, to win,
we hope; to lose, we hope not. I wish I could give you Freshmen
encouragement that you could make the 'varsity, but, under the rules,
none of you can. Now we'll get down to business."
He gave encouragement to many, and consoled those who might fail, or, at
best, make only a class team. Then he introduced the captain--Tom
Hatfield--who was received with a rousing cheer.
"Well, fellows," said Hatfield, "I haven't much to say. This is my first
experience at the head of a big college nine, though you know I've
played with you in many games."
"That's right--and played well, too!" yelled someone. "Three cheers for
Hatfield!"
They were given with a will, and the captain resumed.
"Of course we're going to win this year, even if we didn't last." This
was received in silence, for the losing of the championship to Princeton
the previous season had been a sore blow to Yale. "We're going to win,"
went on Hatfield in a quiet voice; "but, just because we are, don't let
that fool you into getting careless. We've all got to work hard--to
train hard--and we've got to practice. I expect every man to report
regularly whether he thinks he has a chance to make the 'varsity or not.
It's part of the game, and we've all got to play it--scrub and 'varsity
alike.
"I guess that's all I've got to say, though I may have more later, after
we get started. The coaches will take charge now and you'll have to do
as they say. We won't do much to-day, just some catching and a bit of
running to see how each fellow's wind is." He nodded to the coaches and
trainer, and as he stepped back once more came the cry:
"Three cheers for Hatfield. Good old Yale cheers!"
The gymnasium rang with them, and then came the Boola song, after which
the crowd formed in close line and did the serpentine dance.
"Now then, get busy!" commanded Mr. Benson. "Old players over that side,
and the new ones here. Give in your names, and say where you've played.
Lively now!"
He and Mr. Whitfield began circulating among the candidates, and, as
they approached him, Joe felt his heart beginning to beat faster. Would
he have a chance? And, if he got it, could he make good?
These were the questions he asked him.
"Name?"
"Matson--Joe."
"Hum. Yes. Ever played before?"
"Yes, on a school nine."
"Where?"
"Excelsior Hall."
"Hum! Yes. Never heard of it. Where did you play?"
"I pitched."
"Pitched. Hum! Yes. I never saw so many pitchers as we have this season.
Well, I'll put you down for your Freshman class team, though I can't
give you much encouragement," and Mr. Benson turned to the next lad. "Go
over there and do some throwing, I'll watch you later," he concluded,
and Joe's heart began to sink as he saw Spike motioning to him to come
to one side and indulge in some practice balls.
"How'd you make out?" asked his room-mate.
"Oh, I'm engaged right off the bat," laughed Joe, but he could not
conceal the anxiety in the voice that he strove to make indifferent.
"So? Then you had better luck than I. Whitfield told me he didn't think
I had the right build for a catcher."
"Well, maybe we can both make our scrub class team," spoke Joe.
"Say, it hasn't half begun yet," declared Jimmie Lee, who had a hankering
to play first base. "Wait until the main coach gets here, and we'll have
a shake-up that'll set some people on their ears."
"What do you mean?" asked Joe wonderingly.
"I mean that the main gazaboo isn't here yet: Mr. Forsythe Hasbrook--old
Horsehide they call him. He's the main coach. These are only his
assistants."
"Is that so?" inquired Spike.
"It sure is. He's the real thing in baseball--Horsehide is. An old Yale
man, but up-to-date. Played ever since he was a baby, and knows the game
from A to Z. He never gets here until the preliminary practice has begun
on the field, and then it doesn't take him long to size a fellow up. Of
course I only know what I've been told," he added, "but that goes all
right."
"Well, if we didn't get picked for the team now, I don't believe we'll
have any chance after the main coach gets here," said Joe.
"Guess not," assented Spike. "Here we go." And they started to practice.