THE FIRST GAME
The game with the grammar school team came off the following Tuesday
on extremely damp grounds and under weather conditions far from ideal.
Although it was the first of April, the wind was in the northeast and
it blew across the playing field with a most unfriendly ferocity. The
game didn’t begin until ten minutes past four, and by that time the few
spectators who had courageously turned out to witness the team’s début
were shivering with the cold and had deserted the stands to keep their
blood in circulation by moving about.
Joe, wrapped in a sweater, hands in pockets, sat with a dozen other
substitutes on the home bench and tried to keep his teeth from
chattering. It had been agreed that, because of the weather conditions
and the lateness of the starting time, the game was to go but six
innings. High School presented a batting-list composed, with two
exceptions, of seasoned material. Gordon Smith, shortstop, led off,
followed by Sidney Morris and Jack Strobe. Sidney played centre field
and was a good hitter. Smith could be relied on to get his base five
times out of ten under ordinary circumstances, and Jack was in third
place as cleanup hitter. Buster Healey, second baseman; Steve Hale,
third baseman; Frank Foley, first baseman, batted in that order,
following Jack. Healey was a good but erratic hitter, Foley at best
could be called fair, and Hale, a newcomer on the team this spring,
was still an unknown quantity. Captain Craig followed Frank Foley.
Then came Walter Cummings, another unproved hitter, and, finally, the
pitcher, who today happened to be Toby Williams.
Toby got himself into a bit of a mess in the very first inning when
he allowed the second grammar school batter to walk and followed that
by offering a straight ball to the opposing team’s captain, who had a
local reputation as a hitter. Captain Gandy sent that ball straight
down the alley between shortstop and third baseman and took two bases
on the hit, promoting the man ahead to third. Toby struck out the next
boy, and with two gone, the prospect of escaping being scored on became
brighter. But a glaring error by Healey let in two runs and put the
fourth batsman safely on first, from whence he departed for second a
moment later and was thrown out, Craig to Smith.
The handful of grammar school youths shouted and exulted and swaggered,
reminding each other that “I told you so!” But their delight didn’t
last long, for High School fell on their pitcher and swatted the ball
all over the lot, filling the bases with no one out. Buster Healey
tried to redeem himself by cleaning them off, but only fouled to third
baseman, and Hale struck out, more because of a lack of confidence
than because the pitcher’s offerings were in any way difficult. When
Foley went to bat there seemed but slight chance of scoring and so Tom
Pollock, who was coaching behind first, sent out orders for a triple
steal. Strangely enough, Foley not only connected with the ball as the
runners sprinted, but actually hit it out safely for two bases! That
took the heart out of Grammar School’s twirler and he passed Sam Craig,
in spite of the captain’s very evident desire to earn his way, and
repeated the compliment in the case of Cummings. That advanced Foley
to third, and when Toby came to bat he performed very nicely, just as
he was told to, trickling a bunt along first base line and beating the
throw to the bag. Foley scored unchallenged.
Grammar School began to despair of ever getting that third out! Gordon
Smith hit safely, scoring Craig and Cummings and putting Toby Williams
on second, Sidney Morris drew a pass, and, living up to his reputation,
Jack Strobe cleaned the bases with a long line-hit that didn’t touch
the ground until it was able to strike the right field fence on the
first bound! But Jack, although he barely managed to reach third on
what should have been only a two-bagger, died there a minute or two
later when Buster again failed to distinguish himself.
High School jeered and flung derisive remarks in the direction of
the small but devoted band of grammar school youths, who, in their
dejection, found successful repartee beyond them.
The second inning found a new pitcher in the points for the grammar
school, but he was only slightly more puzzling than the deposed
twirler, and, after turning the enemy down in one, two, three order,
High School proceeded to indulge in another batting-fest. But this time
she scored only three runs, bringing her total to twelve. By the end
of that inning only the more enthusiastic “fans” remained, the others
seeking warmer surroundings. With a lead of ten runs, Coach Talbot
decided to begin on his second-string players and made substitutions
right and left during the remainder of the game. Toby Williams gave
place to Carl Moran in the fourth, and Moran, heartened by the lead his
team possessed, pitched a very pretty article of ball. When Amesville
took the field in the fifth inning only four regulars remained in the
line-up――Sam Craig, Sidney Morris, Frank Foley and Carl Moran. Buster
Healey gave way to Joe, who was secretly hoping to be allowed on
first. When, however, Foley did drop out, in the final inning, it was
young Farquhar who took his place. Joe wasn’t worried by the rivalry
of Farquhar, who was as yet by no means varsity material, but how, he
wondered, was he ever to convince Coach Talbot or Captain Craig or
anyone else that he could play first base if he never was allowed to
get there?
On second Joe played a steady game, but had little to do, since Moran
held the visitors in check throughout the two innings. The contest
finally ended with the score 17 to 3, the grammar school’s third run
having been scored in the fourth by a combination of two scratch hits
and an error by shortstop. By the time the last man was out in the
sixth the players and the handful of spectators who remained were
chilled to the bone and heartily glad to get away. On the whole, that
first baseball game of the season had proved just about what Jack
dubbed it, a “frost.”
Perversely, the weather changed its tune the next day, and for a week
blue skies and soft breezes held sway, and practice was once more
enjoyable. They worked hard, all of them, from Captain Sam himself
down to the youngest and newest tyro, but it was work they liked. By
the time another week had passed into history improvement was plainly
visible. The team was finding itself. Batting was gradually ceasing to
be a lost art, wild heaves were becoming fewer, and on the base-paths
the fellows began to show what Coach Talbot called almost human
intelligence.
The noonday practice in the cage was producing results for Joe and
Jack. It would have been strange if it had not, for when you put in
from fifteen to twenty minutes six times a week doing nothing but
trying to bring a poised bat against a thrown ball you’ve simply got to
learn something! And Joe learned that the time to judge a pitched ball
was just before it reached the plate and not when it left the pitcher’s
glove, and that “the shorter the swing the surer the hit.” They took
turns standing in front of the wall at one end of the baseball cage
and trying to hit everything that came. At first they made no special
effort to direct the hits. The game was to let no ball get past. It was
fine training for the eye, there could be no doubt of that, and very
soon the one who pitched had to use all his cunning to get the ball
by the bat. Then the batter tried to put the ball always toward the
pitcher, and after he had gained proficiency at that he attempted to
hit it to the left or the right.
Naturally enough it was Jack who showed the most cleverness at this,
and when they had been holding these batting practices for some three
weeks his ability to hit every offering and tap it away to any corner
of the cage he liked was almost startling. The boys usually had an
audience of from one or two to a dozen, who, coming first to make fun,
finally watched with interest and admiration. Many were the requests
from the spectators to be allowed to try their skill, but Joe and Jack,
by then very earnest at their work, refused to be interfered with.
Two other fellows appeared one day with bat and ball and insisted on
sharing the cage. But their enthusiasm was short-lived. They came the
next day and the third day following that, but never again.
For a time Joe was deeply disappointed, even disgruntled, because that
practice in the cage failed to bring about any improvement on the
field. The fact puzzled Jack, too, and he had no very good explanation
to offer. The best he could do was to lay it to the difference of
conditions. Joe agreed that that was probably it and wanted to know
what use there was in keeping on with the cage stunt. But he did keep
on, nevertheless, and at last, just when he was reaching a stage of
abject hopelessness, the practice bore fruit.
It was one Wednesday afternoon, two weeks after the grammar school
game. Two other unimportant contests had been won and in three days
Amesville was to play the first of its two scheduled games with Lynton
High School. Joe, with a half-dozen others, was at the batting-net and
Williams, a bit bored and listless, was pitching. Buster Healey had
finally managed to line one to the equally bored substitutes who were
fielding the balls, and had stepped aside, giving place to Joe. Joe had
already been up once and had had a hard time getting his hit in spite
of the fact that Toby was putting very little on the ball. And now he
was just as hopeless as ever he had been as he hitched his trousers and
gripped his bat.
“Soak it, Faulkner,” said Cummings lazily. “I want another whack at it
before Toby’s arm gives out.”
Toby, picking up one of the half-dozen balls that surrounded him,
grinned: “If he hits before I get three over on him I’ll chase it
myself.”
“That’s a sporting proposition, Faulkner,” exclaimed Hale. “Go to it!
I’d love to see Williams trot over to the fence and back!”
Toby was a little more crafty now, took a full wind-up and shot a drop
over the base-bag which did duty as a plate. Buster, leaning on his bat
behind the net, announced a strike.
“It was a peach, Toby. Now don’t let him work you again, Joe. Watch for
a slow one.”
“This is going to be a beaner,” laughed Toby. “Look out!”
But it came waist-high, broke to the left, and failed to win Buster’s
approval.
“Ball, Toby,” he said. “Too wide. Come on, now, show your goods!”
Toby’s reply to the challenge was a fast ball with a slight curve and
Joe guessed it right. Bat and ball met and, although Joe made only
a half-swing, the sphere sped straight over Toby’s head――he ducked
involuntarily, to the delight of the batters――and travelled far back
down the field.
“Don’t touch it!” bawled Buster. “Let it alone, Loomis! Now, then,
Toby, shake a leg, old scout! You said you’d field it, you know.”
Toby smiled wanly and kept his promise, jogging far down the field to
the surprise of the fielders and the gleeful chortles of the batting
squad.
“That was a peach,” declared Steve Hale as Joe, as much surprised
as Toby Williams, measured the hit and relinquished his place to
Cummings. Joe looked indifferent, but secretly he was as pleased as
Punch. There’s something delightfully heartening in the feel and
sound of a good, clean hit, and as Joe moved back he still felt the
tingle in his palms and experienced an inward glow of satisfaction.
That, he reflected, was the first hit he could remember that he had
been entirely satisfied with! Of course, it had been made in practice
instead of in a game, but still Toby had really been trying to fool him
and some measure of credit was due him.
Toby came back, hot and perspiring, from his jaunt, with the recovered
ball in his hand, and proceeded to wreak vengeance on Hale. The fellows
at the net still guyed him, however, and Hale speedily found a hit.
When Buster’s turn came again he asked: “Will you field it, Toby, if I
get to you inside of three?”
But Toby had had enough and shook his head, which proved fortunate in
the light of succeeding events. Buster, after fouling two, sent a long
fly arching out.
When Joe stepped in front of the net Toby waved a hand in sarcastic
greeting. “Hit ’em as hard as you like, Faulkner,” he called. “All bets
are off!”
Nevertheless, it was soon evident to Joe and the others that Toby
didn’t intend his offerings to be hit hard, for he used all his skill,
“mixing them up” bewilderingly. One went as a ball, the next was a
foul-tip, the third was a doubtful strike, the fourth was another foul.
Joe was matching his skill against the pitcher’s, and for the first
time he was confident of the result. He let a second strike go past
because, although he was certain he could have taken it, it was too low
to hit any distance. Again he fouled, going after the ball just as he
had been doing down in the schoolhouse basement, and still again. Toby
showed impatience.
“Oh, hit one, Faulkner! I’m giving ’em to you soft!”
“Yes, you are!” jeered Buster, behind the improvised plate. “You’re
putting everything you’ve got on them! I dare you to put one in the
groove, Toby!”
Toby took the dare, launching a straight, fast ball to the net that
looked like a white streak. But Joe glued his eyes to it, swung short
but from the shoulders, and there was a fine, resounding _crack_! Toby
turned slowly and watched the ball streak far into the field. Then he
held up both hands and grinned at Joe.
“You win!” he said.
That was the beginning of Joe’s batting success. After that day
he faced the pitcher, whoever he might be, with a confident smile
reflecting the inward conviction that he could hit. There was nothing
remarkable about his batting that season and he was never spectacular.
Usually his contribution proved a single, infrequently a double. He
was in no danger of being dubbed “Home-Run” Faulkner. And frequently
enough, more frequently than he approved of, you may be sure, he struck
out just as ingloriously as anyone else on the team. But, somehow, he
showed a reliability that began to be talked about toward the end of
the season. It was a fair wager, when he went to the plate, that he
would deliver a hit. Often he didn’t; more often he did. And what made
his hits go safe was that practice in the baseball cage, for through
that he had attained an almost uncanny ability to place them. Few
pitchers could make him hit where he didn’t want to. Jack once declared
that Joe, who was a right-handed batter, could hit a fast ball to right
field and a slow one to left any time he wanted to! This was somewhat
of an exaggeration, but certain it is that Joe was a clever batter when
it came to “putting them where they ain’t,” and his title of Lucky
Faulkner was felt to have been wisely bestowed. But I am ahead of my
story, for Joe’s batting prowess, although it came into being that
April afternoon at the net, was of gradual growth. When all is said,
the way to learn to bat is to bat. And that is the way Joe learned.
Amesville played Lynton one warm, cloudy afternoon on the former’s
grounds and took her first beating. Lynton had a way of winning from
Amesville when all the signs pointed toward defeat. She never played
remarkable ball; never, in fact, won from any other club of Amesville’s
ability. But, somehow, almost every year Lynton managed to secure
the decision in one or another of the two games played. And every
year there came a loud and impatient demand for a third and deciding
contest. But the third contest seldom occurred, seldom when it was
demanded, because by that time both teams had filled their dates, and
never by arrangement at the beginning of the season because at such
times Amesville smiled confidently and said: “Well, this year we won’t
have any fooling. We’ll take ’em both!”
Lynton’s perversity had secured for her the compliment of being looked
on by Amesville as second only to Petersburg as a worthy foeman.
Sometimes Lynton won by virtue of her enemy’s errors, caused by
over-eagerness. Sometimes she won by sheer luck, as when, two years
before, with the score 7 to 6 in Amesville’s favour in the ninth
inning, the Amesville pitcher had let down long enough to allow two
tail-enders to get to third and second bases, and then, with two down
and two strikes on the batsman, had pitched a wild ball that had sent
the batter staggering away from the plate and had seen in amazement
the ball hit the shouldered bat, bound away to just behind first base,
and land fair a yard beyond anyone’s reach while the runners crossed
the home plate with enough tallies to take the game! That contest had
become famous in Amesville legends, and nowadays it was the usual thing
for someone to shout at a crucial moment in a game: “Don’t hit his
bat, Tom!” Amesville had remained sore over that game for a whole year
and had only regained her composure when, the following spring, she had
tied the first Lynton contest and then routed her enemy in the second
struggle by the generous score of 17 to 6!
This year Amesville appeared a trifle less confident of winning the
two battles, although she perhaps secretly expected to do so. At all
events, she took no chances in that first game. Tom Pollock started in
the box and remained until the seventh inning, at which time Amesville
had a satisfactory lead of four runs. Toby Williams relieved him, and
Toby had an off-day if ever pitcher had! For two innings he escaped
real punishment, although one of several passes resulted in the eighth
in a tally for Lynton. But in the first half of the ninth, with the
score then 8 to 5 in the home team’s favour, Toby simply laid down
in the traces. Afterwards some of the blame was laid at the door of
coach and captain, for it was said that Jack Speyer, who was put in
Sam Craig’s place behind the bat in the eighth, showed poor judgment.
In any case, after getting through the next to the last session at
the expense of but one run, Toby went to the bad completely. Twice,
when the batter had three balls and no strikes against him, Speyer and
Toby met in consultation between plate and mound and Lynton howled and
hooted. In that disastrous ninth Toby gave two passes, hit a batsman
and was punished for four hits with a total of six bases! Before Carl
Moran could even peel his sweater off preparatory to warming up the
mischief was done. When Carl did go in the score was tied and there
were runners on second and third, with two men out. The only wonder was
that Lynton had managed to score so few runs! Carl did his best, which
was not a very good best, but he was facing a desperate situation and
was plainly nervous. The next batter hit safely past Hale and two more
runs were scored. Then Carl gave a pass, just to show that Toby was not
the only generous pitcher on the team, and, after Speyer had overthrown
second in an effort to kill a steal and one more runner had scored,
he persuaded the Lynton catcher to send a long fly to Jack Strobe’s
waiting hands.
When that fatal half-inning was over the score told a far different
tale! Lynton was in the lead, eleven runs to Amesville’s eight. Coach
Talbot used all his science and shifted and substituted bewilderingly
in the last of the ninth, and it was then that Joe made his début.
Foley, while playing a clean game at the bag, had been hitting
miserably all the afternoon, and when Mr. Talbot looked about for
someone to bat in his stead Joe was about the only fellow left on the
bench eligible to play. By that time Morris had struck out, Jack was
on second and Healey on first. Joe faced the Lynton pitcher calmly
and smilingly, but he confessed afterwards to Jack that he was a bit
weak in the knees! However, that weakness didn’t prevent him from
out-guessing the pitcher on the first delivery and driving the ball
down the alley between first and second basemen, scoring Jack, putting
Buster on third, and reaching second himself on his stomach with no
time to spare! But that was the last sputter, for Loomis, rushed into
the breach to bat for Speyer, took the count without a swing, and once
more Lynton, the incorrigible, pesky varmint, had won!
The visitors went off with laughter and song, cheering and jeering,
leaving Amesville to comfort herself with the knowledge of a future
meeting and to once more raise the cry of “_Give us a third game!_”