WHIZZING THEM OVER
Joe grinned at his comrade’s question.
“All I can think of just now. If anything else occurs to me I’ll let
you know.”
“Gee, but it’s a big program!” ejaculated Jim. “It’s never been done
before by any one man in the history of the game. But I wouldn’t put
it past you, at that. I’m sure you’ll do it as regards the pitching
and the batting. Nobody in the league has any license to beat you at
either of those things. And there’s no reason why you can’t hang up
the base-running scalp in your wigwam either, for you’re as quick as
a flash in going round the bags. In other words, I believe you’ll
make good in anything that depends on yourself alone. As to hanging
up more victories for the Giants than they’ve ever made before in one
season, that will depend in part upon the Giants themselves. But, good
gracious, man, if you only do half that you’re planning to do it will
be next door to a miracle.”
“Well, there’s no harm in trying to hitch your wagon to a star. If a
man aims high, he may not reach the mark but he’ll come nearer to it
than he would if his standard were lower. And don’t think for a moment,
Jim, that I’m trying to brag or anything like that. I wouldn’t tell my
ambition to any other living soul and I only speak of it to you because
you’re my other self, so to speak. This is just between you and me.”
“I’ll keep mum,” promised Jim. “Go to it, old man, and more power to
you. I’ll be tickled to death if you carry out your program, not only
for your own sake, but because with that kind of work it means a sure
championship for the Giants.”
They reached New York the next day to find the city agog for the
opening of the season. The newspapers were devoting columns of their
space to a discussion of the chance of the Giants as compared with
those of other teams in the league. The question of the hour was
whether the Giants would repeat.
That question was asked everywhere――on the streets, in the subways, in
brokers’ offices, in business establishments, at social and sporting
gatherings. The whirlwind finish of the Giants the year before was
recalled and discussed from every angle. The roseate reports that had
come from the southern training camp were duly weighed and considered.
The one point regarding which considerable doubt was expressed
concerned the pitching staff. The injury that Joe had sustained in
his rescue at the fire had provoked considerable shaking of heads. Of
course, the verdict of the doctors had been telegraphed broadcast and
that had brought some measure of reassurance. But doctors were not
always right, and if they proved wrong in this case it was generally
agreed that the Giants’ chances for the pennant had gone glimmering and
that, in fact, they might have all they could do to finish in the first
division.
Joe smiled to himself as he read the various prophecies of the sporting
writers. While they had been at Riverside he and Jim had practiced for
an hour or two every day and he knew that his arm was as good as ever.
The inflammation had disappeared, all the soreness was gone, and all
his curves, slants, hooks and hops went over without a twinge of pain.
So he awaited the public test with serene and smiling confidence.
Before the team had gone to the training camp Joe and Jim had engaged
a pleasant suite in the Westmere Arms, a quiet uptown apartment hotel,
comfortably and handsomely furnished and within easy distance of the
Polo Grounds.
While they were waiting for the return of the rest of the team, the
boys practiced at the ball park every morning and afternoon, taking
care not to overdo, but working just enough to keep them in superb
fettle.
At last the opening day of the season arrived, a perfect day for
baseball, bright and glorious, with just enough breeze stirring to
temper the heat of the sun.
The city was baseball mad, and it was evident that a crowd would
be present that would tax the capacity of the park. Even the night
before people had begun to gather at the entrances and stood in line
all night, waiting for the precious pasteboards that would give them
admission to the grounds. By daybreak the lines extended for a block
or two, and the assistance of a squad of police was necessary to keep
order and prevent any one getting in out of his turn.
Shortly after ten o’clock it seemed as though the whole city had turned
out _en masse_ for the festive occasion. Hundreds of automobiles were
parked in the adjacent streets. Tallyhos with flags and pennants
brought up their hilarious loads. Subway and elevated trains, packed
to the doors, groaned slowly along and deposited their burdens at the
stations nearest the gates. When at last the entrances were thrown open
the stands and bleachers were filled in a twinkling. An hour before the
game was scheduled to begin there was not even standing room left.
Almost as many were turned away as were packed in the park.
The Polo Grounds themselves had never looked more beautiful. The grass
was like green velvet. The base paths had been rolled and scraped until
they were almost as smooth as the top of a billiard table. Gleaming
streaks of white marked out the foul lines, extending far down into
left and right fields. The stands were black with humanity, relieved by
the gay colors of the women, who were present in appreciable numbers
and as ready to cheer and applaud as their masculine escorts. A band
played lively music to keep the crowds patient while waiting for the
appearance of the players. Everywhere was light, color, eagerness and
hilarity. The crowd was out for a good time and had no doubt about
getting it.
In the Giants’ clubhouse there was an air of confidence and elation as
the men changed into their uniforms. They had come back from the South
in the pink of condition and full of pep and ginger.
When they were ready to go out on the field Baseball Joe gathered his
men together for a little talk.
“Now, boys,” the young captain said as the players clustered about him,
“we’re out for another championship.”
There was a general clapping of hands at this, and Joe smiled with
gratification.
“That’s the spirit!” he said approvingly. “But it’s a long, long road
to Tipperary, and it’s a long, long road to the pennant. Now, I want
every man to play in every game just as though the winning of that
game depended upon himself alone. You know a chain is no stronger than
its weakest link. A team is no stronger than its weakest player. Now
I don’t think we have any weak players. Every one of you knows how to
play his position to the queen’s taste. I believe this and I want you
to prove it to the world.
“I want you to go after everything. Try for it, even if it seems
impossible. Lots of impossible things, or things that look so, become
possible when you make a stab for them. Don’t mind if they result in
errors. I’ll forgive any error a man makes as long as he keeps trying.
“We’ve got a tough assignment to-day in the Brooklyns. You fellows know
what those birds are. They’re dangerous every minute. You never know
when they’ll stage a rally. Rance will probably pitch for them, and
you’ll have your work cut out for you. I want you especially to win
this game, because there’s a good deal in getting the jump on the other
fellows right from the start.
“That’s about all, boys, except just this: I’ll have my eyes on you all
through the game. So will McRae. So will Robbie. You’ll get full credit
for every bit of good work you do. But if you let down anywhere you’ll
get a call-down. Now let’s go out and show these fellows from across
the bridge just where they get off.”
A thunderous cheer went up from the crowd as the team emerged from the
clubhouse with Joe and Jim in the van and marched across the field.
Again and again the waves of sound drowned out the music of the band.
As by one impulse, the crowd sprang from their seats, waving their hats
and yelling in delirium.
It was a welcome from the metropolis to its athletic heroes that warmed
the hearts of the latter because of its spontaneousness and sincerity.
The players’ bronzed faces were flushed as they removed their caps
again and again in response to the plaudits. Then they scattered for
batting practice while the pitchers went out to the bull pen to warm up.
“How are you feeling to-day, Joe?” asked McRae as the pitcher
approached the bench on which the manager and Robbie were sitting just
under the grandstand.
“Fine and dandy,” returned Joe, as he smilingly greeted them. “Ready to
pitch for a man’s life.”
“Good!” replied McRae, while Robbie’s rubicund face glowed with
satisfaction. “You’ll probably need all your stuff to-day, for the
Dodgers seem to be in fine shape. Just see the way those fellows are
shooting the ball around the diamond.”
Their eyes turned to the Brooklyn infield, who, as the visitors, were
having their first turn at practice on the bases.
“They’re certainly doing good work,” pronounced Joe, after a moment’s
scrutiny. “I guess the crowd is going to get its money’s worth.”
“Of course you’re going to pitch this game,” said McRae, “and I suppose
you’ll stack up against Rance. He’s the Brooklyn’s best bet. I hear
he’s been going great guns in practice at the training camp.”
“He’s always a tough bird to handle,” replied Joe. “The game won’t be
any walkover.”
The Giants took their turn at practice on the diamond and their snappy
and brilliant plays brought round after round of applause from the
spectators.
Then the bell rang, the members of the home team scattered to their
positions, and the umpires took their places, one at the plate and the
other out in the field just beyond the base line from first to second.
The plate umpire took off his cap, lifted the megaphone and announced:
“Ladies and gentlemen: The battery for Brooklyn will be Rance and
Tighe――――”
There was a burst of applause from the Brooklyn supporters who had come
in thousands from across the bridge.
The umpire went on:
“The battery for New York will be Matson and Mylert.”
Then uprose a terrific yell compared with which the previous outburst
had been almost insignificant. The shouts swelled into a roar of
redoubled volume when Joe walked out to the box drawing on his glove,
and the applause continued until he was compelled to doff his cap again
and again.
There was no mistake as to the position that Baseball Joe held in the
affections of the people of New York.
The umpire stooped down and dusted off the plate.
“Play ball!” he commanded.