A BITTER STRUGGLE
Leete, the slugging left fielder of the Brooklyns, a veteran who for
a dozen years back had averaged .300 and for two years had led the
league, came swaggering to the plate, carrying three bats.
He threw two of them away and faced the pitcher.
“Why don’t you throw that other one away, too?” chaffed Joe. “It won’t
do you any good.”
“It won’t, eh?” returned Leete. “Just put one over and see me murder
it.”
“Oh, very well, since you insist on going through the motions,”
retorted Joe, “murder this one.”
He sent the ball over like a bullet. Leete swung at it and missed.
“You’ll never get hung for murder,” grinned Joe. “I knew you weren’t as
bad as you painted yourself.”
“Close your trap and play ball!” snapped Leete.
The next, judging from the wind-up, was to be another fast one, but it
drifted slowly up to the plate and Leete nearly broke his back trying
for it.
“Strike two!” called the umpire.
“Perhaps you’d better try another bat,” suggested Joe, with simulated
concern. “That one seems to have holes in it.”
Leete growled something inarticulate and got a firmer toehold.
Joe wound the next one around his neck, but Leete refused to bite and
it went as a ball.
The next whizzed across the plate, rising with a sharp hop just as it
reached the rubber, and Leete swung six inches beneath it.
“You’re out!” cried the umpire, and Leete went back disconsolately to
the bench while a cheer arose at the first strike-out of the season.
Mornier, the Brooklyn first baseman, came next and dribbled a little
one to the box that Joe got to first in plenty of time. Tonsten was
third man up, and Joe set him down on three called strikes, the batsman
not even offering at them.
“What did you stand there like a dummy for and not even take a chance?”
asked Thompson, the Brooklyn manager, as Tonsten came back.
“Guess he had me hypnotized,” mumbled Tonsten. “They came so fast I
couldn’t see ’em. But he can’t keep that up and I’ll get him next time
good and proper.”
“Fine work, Joe,” approved McRae, as the pitcher came in to the bench.
“Just keep that up and it will be all over but the shouting.”
“All the boys need to do is to give him a run or two and we’ll have the
game sewed up,” exulted Robbie.
But it was evident from the way Rance, the Brooklyn pitcher, started
that that run or two was going to be difficult to get. He was in
splendid shape, all his slants and curves were working well, and his
control left nothing to be desired.
Tonsten at third made a fast play on Curry’s bunt and threw him out at
first. Renton took two strikes and three balls and then struck out on
an incurve. Burkett failed utterly to find Rance and fanned.
It was a snappy, quickly played inning and demonstrated that the
Brooklyns were trying to enact their old rôle as Giant-killers, and
Rance got a generous meed of applause even from the home fans for his
good work.
“Looks as if it were going to be a pitcher’s duel,” muttered McRae, as
the Giants went out into the field.
“If it comes to that I know who’ll win,” declared Robbie with
confidence.
The next three innings went far toward justifying McRae’s prediction.
Each pitcher was “making monkeys” of the members of the opposition.
Rance kept up his good work and Joe was pitching like a man possessed.
That long sinewy arm of his was working with the regularity of a piston
rod. In those three innings only nine men faced him. He struck out five
men and forced the others to send up fouls that were caught by Mylert
or feeble grassers to the infield that were easily relayed to first.
He made the ball do stunts that stood his opponents on their heads.
It dipped, rose, and did everything that the batsman did not want or
expect it to do. It was a wonderful exhibition of pitching skill.
Rance was the first to weaken under the strain. Joe had found him for
a single in the fourth and Burkett had been robbed of a hit only by a
phenomenal leap and catch by Naylor at second. But Rance put on steam,
and none of Joe’s comrades were able to bring him in.
The Brooklyns came in to bat in the fifth inning, but they were hardly
in long enough to know just why. Joe contented himself with just three
pitches. Maley grounded out to Burkett at first who only had to set his
foot on the base, Reis hoisted a high foul that Mylert gathered in and
Trench sent up a pop fly that came gently into the shortstop’s hands.
It was just a case of coming up, taking a swing, and going away to
hide.
Thompson, the Brooklyn manager, was furious.
“If you can’t hit him why don’t you wait him out?” he snarled to his
discomfited henchmen. “If we can only get a man on base, he may work
himself around.”
“Wait him out!” returned Trench. “That would be suicide, the way that
bird is working the corners of the plate. He isn’t giving any bases
on balls. If we don’t strike at ’em the umpire will call ’em strikes
anyway. We might as well die one way as another.”
“You’re a lot of old women,” growled Thompson. “I’m going to fire this
team and get another from the Old Ladies’ Home.”
In the fifth the Giants broke the ice.
Ralston was first at bat. He swung at the first one and missed. Then
came two wide ones that Ralston, with good judgment, passed up, and
they went as balls. The next he sent out toward right. It was a corking
blow and had all the signs of a homer, but the wild cheer that rose
from the stands died down when it fell foul by a matter of inches.
Ralston, who had already rounded first, came back grumbling and picked
up his bat. The count was now three and two, and Rance was “in the
hole.” Perhaps that colossal hit had shaken him somewhat, for the next
one came up to the plate as big as a balloon and Ralston laced it out
sharply between first and second. Naylor made a dive for it but could
not reach, and the ball rolled out to center, where Maley retrieved
it smartly and got it back to second in time to prevent Ralston from
stretching the hit into a two-bagger.
Jackwell was next up and Joe ordered him to sacrifice. He made one or
two ineffectual attempts, but finally laid down a baby bunt that Rance
got in time to put Jackwell out at first. But it had accomplished its
purpose, for Ralston was roosting on second.
Bowen made a mighty effort and poled out a long fly to center that
Maley pulled down after a long run. As soon as the catch was made
Ralston legged it for third and made it, though it was a close race
between him and the ball that came on a beautiful line throw to Tonsten.
With two out and a man on third, it was up to Mylert to bring him in.
Twice he swung at the ball and missed. The next three were wide of the
plate. Mylert bent down, rubbed his hands in the dirt, pulled his cap
down closer and set himself for the next.
The mighty arm of Rance uncoiled and the ball sped toward the batsman.
Mylert was crowding the plate for a long reach. At first it looked as
though the ball was going wide of the rubber. But it curved in just as
it neared the plate, and Mylert caught it on the end of his bat. There
was a sharp crash and the ball darted like a bullet between second and
short. It was the cleanest of clean hits and Mylert galloped to first
while Ralston came down the third base chalkline and dented the rubber
for the first run of the game.
A tremendous shout went up from the stands.
“We’ve got him going!”
“He’s cracking!”
“Get after him!”
But Rance was too much of a veteran to let the crowd get him rattled.
He pulled himself together and struck out Curry on three pitched balls,
leaving Mylert cooling his heels on first.
But a run was a run, and it was with fresh heart and courage that the
Giants took the field.
Two more innings passed without any change in the score. The Giants
were finding Rance now as they had been unable to do earlier in the
game. They were meeting the ball on the trademark, and the bats rang
as they crashed against it. But again and again he was saved by superb
support. Leete committed highway robbery by picking a ball off the
fence that, if he had missed, would have been a three-bagger at least
and probably a homer. Naylor at second took a Texas Leaguer toward
left, running with his back to the ball and barely picking it off his
shoe tops.
“They’re certainly getting all the breaks,” grumbled McRae.
“They sure are,” agreed Robbie. “But we’ve got to admit, John, that
those boys are playing ball.”
Joe in the meantime was breezing along under wraps. He had not winded
himself in the least. He was conscious of enormous reserve force if
he should be called upon to put it in play. His fast ball was working
perfectly. He worked the corners of the plate to perfection. His curves
were breaking sharply. On occasion he called on his hop and fadeaway.
He had never felt more completely master of the situation.
But a game is never won until it is over, and in the Brooklyn’s ninth,
their last chance, the unexpected happened.
Tonsten came up first and Joe set him down on strikes. Maley followed
and popped up an easy fly to Renton at short. It was the simplest kind
of catch, and perhaps for that very reason Renton let it slip through
his fingers.
There was a startled roar from the crowd and those of the spectators
who had begun to move toward the gates, thinking the game was as good
as over, promptly sat down again.
Rattled by his misplay, Renton hurriedly picked up the ball, which had
rolled a little distance away, and hurled it toward first. The ball
was high, and although Burkett made a desperate leap it went over his
head and rolled toward the right field stands.
By the time Burkett had retrieved it Maley had rounded second and was
making for third. Burkett threw to Jackwell. It struck the dirt in
front of him, bounded over his head, and before it could be secured
Maley had crossed the plate for the run that tied the score!