OUTDOOR PRACTICE
_BASEBALL_
“Candidates report at the field dressed to play at 3:30.
“CRAIG.”
This notice met the gaze of Joe on Monday morning as he paused in front
of the bulletin board in the school corridor. Sidney Morris and a
companion came up and read the announcement over his shoulder.
“That’s good news, Faulkner,” said Sidney. “Last year we were out a
week earlier. By the way, do you know Toby Williams?”
The boys shook hands and the trio walked together along the corridor.
Williams was a nice-looking chap of about Joe’s age, rather solidly
built, with a natural talent for pitching a baseball that had won for
him the position of Tom Pollock’s understudy, Tom, it was said, showing
Toby everything the former knew in the science so that next year Toby
might come as near as possible to filling Tom’s shoes. There was
still, however, a fairly long road for the younger boy to travel before
he attained Tom Pollock’s standing.
“You’re trying for the infield, aren’t you, Faulkner?” Toby asked.
“Yes, but I don’t believe――――” He paused, recalling Jack’s oft-repeated
advice. “I don’t believe I’ll get what I want,” he resumed with assumed
assurance. “The bases look to be pretty well occupied, and I want to
play first or second.”
Toby seemed impressed, but Sidney laughed as he said, not ill-naturedly:
“There’s nothing like knowing what you want, Faulkner.”
“And going after it?” asked Joe smilingly.
Sidney nodded. “That’s right. How’s the business getting on?”
“Very well, thanks.”
“We were talking about you the other day, Tom Pollock and Sam Craig and
I,” said Sidney, “and Tom said he thought you were the luckiest chap he
knew, and I guess I agree with him. You’ve been here in Amesville only
a couple of months and you’ve got a good business and are making money
at it. Sam said he guessed luck had less to do with it than pluck,
though.”
“I think Tom Pollock was nearer right,” replied Joe modestly. “It’s
been mostly luck, I guess.”
“Jack Strobe’s in that with you, isn’t he?” inquired Toby.
“Yes, it was Jack put in most of the money to start. About all I had
was the idea!”
“And the luck,” laughed Sidney. “‘Lucky’ Faulkner is your real name, I
guess. Well, I hope your luck keeps on. If it does, maybe you’ll get
what you want on the team!”
The gong put an end to the talk and they hurried off to their rooms.
Whether that was the beginning of it Joe never knew, but a month
later he suddenly awoke to the fact that he was very generally known
throughout school as “Lucky” Faulkner! He was inclined to dislike the
nickname at first, since to him it seemed to preclude more desirable
attributes, but Jack insisted that to be called lucky was a great
compliment because, after all, what was called luck was in reality the
reward for skill or forethought or some other quality of merit. Jack
didn’t put it in quite those words, but that was the idea he managed to
convey, and Joe, considering it, became reconciled. It was perhaps just
as well he did, for by that time the nickname had come to stay, and
his approval or disapproval would have had small effect.
That Monday afternoon it was a gay-hearted lot of fellows who gathered
at the field, which lay some ten blocks north of the high school. To
be out of doors again filled everyone with delight and neither coach
nor captain had any cause for complaint that day on the score of
laziness. The way the ball was sped around was a fair indication of the
candidates’ eagerness. Practice was rudimentary. There was some batting
at the net, with Toby Williams and Carl Moran doing the tossing, a
half-hour of fielding, Coach Talbot hitting to the infield, and Manager
Mifflin knocking fungoes to the outfield, and, finally, a short period
of work on the paths. The weather gave them of its best. The March sun
shone warmly and, although there was still a tinge of winter in the
air, spring was genuinely in possession. The sod was not yet dry and
the base-paths were pretty soft, but no one minded a bit; not even
“Buster” Healey when, in a desperate attempt to get from second to
third on the throw to the plate, he lost his footing and reached the
bag flat on his back. Practice was delayed while most of the infield
scraped the mud from him.
Joe had a session with Tom Pollock in front of the backstop. Sam Craig
was catching at the plate, Speyer taking the throws for Mifflin, and so
Bat told Joe to get a glove and let Tom pitch to him. Joe was doubtful
of his ability to hold the redoubtable Mr. Pollock, but he got along
very well. Tom used little speed and, although some of the breaks and
hooks were at first confusing, Joe soon discovered that the ball might
be depended on to straighten out before it reached him. After that he
was put on second and handled Sam’s throw-downs fairly well and found
that his own throwing arm was quite equal to the task of snapping the
ball across to first or third or back to the plate. Frank Foley held
down first base today and Joe secretly admired and envied the easy,
finished way in which that tall youth with the long reach handled the
throws. The work was pretty crude, which was natural enough, and Coach
Talbot had plenty to say, but when practice ended at a little before
five everyone was in the best of spirits and the fellows, as they made
their way back home, discussed eagerly the first game of the year,
which was due in less than two weeks. This contest was to be, as usual,
with the Amesville Grammar School nine, and while it was not looked
on as more than an opportunity for practice, still it was anticipated
with pleasure. Grammar School was already predicting what it would do
to High School, and was awaiting the fray with equal eagerness.
High School had arranged a schedule calling for seventeen games this
Spring, eight of which were to be played away from Amesville. Aside
from Petersburg High School, Amesville High’s real rival in athletics,
whom she played the final game with the last of June, the only notable
foes were Lynton High School and Crowell Academy. There were two games
scheduled with Lynton and one with Crowell. Besides the scheduled
contests there were others which might or might not eventuate; as,
for instance, a game with the nine from the carpet mill and a second,
possibly a third meeting with the grammar school. Until the middle of
May only Saturdays were scheduled, but after that midweek games were
down for the balance of the season.
Outdoor practice continued uninterruptedly for the rest of the first
week. Then, on Sunday, began a four-day stretch of wretched weather
and the fellows went disgustedly back to the cage. On Sunday it blew
a gale and swept a hard rain from the southwest. On Monday the rain
turned to snow for a while, later changing to sleet and, finally, back
to rain again. Tuesday it drizzled. Wednesday was a day of mist and
fog. Thursday noon the sun came out. But by that time the field was a
quagmire again and all hope of playing the game with Grammar School on
Saturday had to be abandoned. Consequently the contest was put over
until Tuesday at four, and Manager Thad Mifflin, who was popularly
believed to be accountable for weather conditions and the state of the
diamond, found life a burden.
Meanwhile Joe had performed, if not brilliantly, at least satisfactorily
as a substitute baseman. He had been tried at first, second and third
bases, and, on one occasion, had pulled down flies in centre field. At
the bat he had so far signally failed to distinguish himself. Perhaps he
did as well as most of the substitutes, but he found that trickling
bunts across the floor of the cage was not the same as standing in front
of Tom Pollock, or even Carl Moran, and trying to connect with their
various offerings. The best Joe could expect, or, so he told himself,
was a place on the Second Team――The Scrubs, they called them――when that
was formed. Jack was plainly disappointed in the proficiency of his
chum, although he tried not to show the fact, and never ceased to offer
encouragement.
“You’ll find your batting eye presently,” Jack would assert stoutly.
“A fellow can’t play decent ball, anyway, until the weather settles
down and gets warm. I never could. Along about the middle of May――――”
Joe interrupted with a laugh. “Along about the middle of May,” he
replied, “will be a bit late, Jack. If I’m going to do anything this
year I’ll have to do it pretty quick, I’m thinking.”
“Ye-e-es――I’ll tell you, Joey, the trouble is you don’t go at it right;
batting, I mean.”
“I suppose I don’t,” owned Joe. “Anyway, I don’t accomplish much.”
“Try swinging slower. I watched you yesterday. You start your bat away
around behind you and then swing like lightning. Maybe if you’ll take a
short swing and a slow one, just meet the ball, as they say, you might
do better.”
“Just meeting the ball doesn’t get you hits, though,” demurred the
other.
“That’s where you’re wrong, old man. Even if you only hold your bat out
still, a hard-pitched ball will bound off it away across the infield.
I think it’s a mistake to try to slug at first; before――well, before
you’ve got where you’re certain, if you see what I mean!”
“You mean that I ought to get so I can hit the ball before I――before I
hit it!” laughed Joe.
“Before you try to knock the cover off it, yes. Between you and me,
that’s the reason a lot of chaps don’t hit better than they do,”
continued Jack. “They want to make home-runs or three-baggers, and they
don’t stop to think that a short hit that gets you to first is a lot
better than a home-run that doesn’t happen!”
“You talk like one of those little blue books,” jeered Joe. “‘How to
Become a Ball-Player’ or ‘The Art of Batting’!”
“I’m telling you what I’ve learned,” replied Jack unruffledly. “I’m
not much of a player myself, but I’ve kept my eyes open. Look here,
Joey, I’ll tell you what we might do, you and I, and it wouldn’t hurt
either of us a mite. Let’s go down to the cage at recess every noon and
practise. We’ll keep a bat and ball at school and I’ll pitch to you
and you bat, and you can pitch to me and I’ll bat. I don’t mean really
pitch, of course, because I can’t do it; nor you, either; but just
serve ’em up, you know, and let the other fellow see how many he can
hit. Bet you anything you like if we do that long enough we can get so
we can connect with anything! It’s the eye that does the trick, Joey.
It’s getting the eye trained so that, no matter where the ball comes,
you can put the bat in front of it. Want to try it?”
“I’ll try anything,” responded Joe. “Still, it seems to me all that
batting practice I had in the cage before we went outdoors didn’t do me
much good.”
“This’ll be different. You know the way you do when you take a tennis
racket and try to keep the ball bouncing against a wall or a floor?
Well, that’s the same idea. It teaches you quickness and sureness,
doesn’t it?”
“I guess so. All right, we’ll have a go at it tomorrow. Have you a bat
at home?”
“Yes, and some old balls. I’ll bring them down tomorrow and we’ll try
the scheme. We’ve got to do something to beat Handsome Frank, that’s
certain!”
“You do hate him, don’t you?” laughed Joe.
“No, I don’t hate him one mite,” replied Jack seriously. “I even have a
sort of sneaking liking for the chump. But I do love to take him down a
notch or two whenever I can. Besides, I want that bat-case!”