HITTING A HOMER
As Maley crossed the plate a tremendous chorus of cheers rose from
the Brooklyn rooters while his comrades rushed from their dugout and
surrounded him, dancing and shouting in jubilation.
Maley himself looked a little sheepish at the congratulations showered
upon him, for after all it was by the sheerest luck that his feeble
little pop-up had slipped through the hands of Renton, to be followed
by two wild throws that had brought him around the bases.
But after all it was a run, and more than that, the tying run, and it
counted just as much in the score as though it had been the fruit of a
homer. It put the Brooklyns again in the running just at the time that
the Giants seemed to have the game stowed away in their bat bags.
Probably the most disgusted men on the grounds were Renton and Burkett,
whose faces were flushed to a fiery red and who carefully avoided
looking toward the bench where McRae sat, his eyes flashing with anger.
Joe, however, was as cool as an icicle. Many a pitcher would have lost
either his temper or his nerve or both at such a slip-up on the part of
his support. But Joe, though naturally chagrined, let not a trace of
irritation betray itself in his bearing. He was his old confident self
as he sauntered easily to the box.
The Brooklyn coaches hurried down to the side lines and began a line of
unceasing chatter designed to rattle the pitcher.
“He’s just about ready for the showers,” gibed one.
“Up in the air for fair,” called out another.
“We’ve just been stalling so far,” declared the first. “Now watch our
smoke!”
In the natural order, Reis would have been the next to bat, but
Thompson took him out and sent in Hines, his pinch hitter, in his
place. But the jockeying for advantage did no good, for the first two
balls that Joe sent over were so mystifying and bewildering that Hines,
though he offered at them, missed them by inches and in despair of
lining it out tried a baby bunt on the next ball pitched.
Joe had guessed his intention by the way he shortened his hold on the
bat, and by an imperceptible signal had called in his infield. So when
Hines laid down his bunt Renton ran in on it, gathered it in and sent
it down to Burkett like a flash for an out.
Trench, the shortstop of the Dodgers, refused to bite at the first
two that Joe sent up, and as they were outside the plate they went as
balls. Encouraged by this, Trench decided to wait, in the hope that
Joe would pass him. Guessing his intention, Joe split the plate with a
beauty that Trench let pass for a strike. The next one followed, just
cutting the corner of the plate for strike two.
The waiting for balls did not seem so good to Trench then, and he
stooped to rub his hands in the dirt so that he might take a firmer
hold of the stick. Before he could get fairly straightened out Joe
whizzed across his hop ball. Trench, flurried, made a desperate stab at
it, but Mylert’s hands closed on the ball even as he swung.
It was classy pitching, head and arm working in perfect unison, and the
Giant rooters split the welkin with their cheers as Joe pulled off his
glove and walked in to the bench.
“That’s what you call choking a rally before it has fairly got
started,” chuckled Robbie.
“Trust Joe to clap the kibosh on them when they get too frisky,” said
McRae, with a sigh of relief. “That doesn’t alter the fact though that
those gazabos have tied the score, thanks to those sandlot throws of
Renton and Burkett. Now, when we ought to be running to the clubhouse
with the game chalked up to our credit, we’re just where we were when
we started.”
Burkett was the first man up and he went to the plate in a hurry,
glad to get away from the tongue lashing that poor Renton was already
getting for his share in the mishap.
Determined to atone for his misplay, he crouched at the plate, watching
Rance like a hawk. The latter cut the corner of the plate with an
outcurve that Burkett thought was too wide. But it went for a strike
just the same.
The next was a fast straight one, a little high, but Burkett caught it
full and lined out a beautiful single to center. It looked at first as
though it might be stretched, but Maley made such a quick pick-up and
throw to second that Burkett was held at first.
Larry was next, and was exhorted by the crowd, now in a high state of
excitement, to line it out. A shout of delight went up as he hit the
first ball pitched and the pellet started on its journey toward left.
It seemed a sure hit, as it was well over the shortstop’s head. But
Trench made a stupendous leap and collared the ball with his gloved
hand.
Burkett had started toward second, thinking the ball was safe, and
before he could get back to the bag Trench had sent the ball whistling
down to first, completing the snappiest double play of the day.
It was one of the miraculous stops that make baseball the most
fascinating game in the world, and though it killed their hopes, the
Giant supporters were as generous in their applause as the partisans of
the team from across the bridge.
Joe was the next at bat, and the air became a medley of sounds as he
took up his position at the plate.
“Win your own game, Joe!”
“Knock the cover off the ball!”
“Give it a ride!”
“Show them where you live!”
Rance looked Joe over with exceeding care. At that juncture he would
rather have had any other man in the league facing him.
“Sizing me up, Dizzy?” asked Baseball Joe, with a grin. “Don’t you know
it’s impolite to stare at a man that way? It makes me feel as though I
were a suspicious character.”
“You won’t feel so gay when I strike you out,” retorted Rance as he
took up his position in the box. But Rance’s grin was a little forced.
“I would have a queer feeling,” admitted Joe, “for you’ve never done it
yet and I don’t know just how it would seem.”
Rance shot one over that would surely have caught Joe full in the head
if he had not dropped like a flash to the ground.
“Trying to bean me?” he inquired, as he picked up his bat and resumed
his position.
“Sorry,” said Rance, with evident sincerity.
“That’s all right, old man,” said Joe, who knew that Rance never
resorted to dirty tricks. “But now give me a good one and I’ll lose it
for you.”
The next was a sharp drop that Joe swung at and missed. Two balls
followed in succession.
Then Joe suddenly swung himself around so that he was in the position
of a left-handed batter.
A shout of astonishment rose not only from the crowd but from the
Giants’ bench, for Joe had never batted left-handed in his life.
Rance was so astonished that he stood with his mouth gaping wide open.
“What’s the matter?” grinned Joe. “Paralyzed? Oh, well, if you’re going
to feel that way about it I’ll bat the other way,” and instantly he
swung around again to his normal position.
The whole thing had taken place with kaleidoscopic suddenness and Rance
was clearly rattled. He felt foolish, and his annoyance deprived him of
his usual control.
So when the next ball came over it was minus the usual “stuff” and Joe
timed it perfectly, “leaned” against it with his mighty shoulders, and
the ball started out like a bullet between right and center, rising as
it went.
Maley and Hines cast one startled look at it and then turned and ran in
the direction of the ball.
Joe had started at the crack of the bat and was down to first like
a flash. As he rounded the bag he saw that the ball would clear the
heads of the fielders. But he also saw that in all probability it would
strike the low fence that separated the field from the bleachers and
bound back, thus lessening the distance the fielders would have to run
for it.
Out of the corner of his eye, as he turned second, he saw Maley setting
himself to get the ball as it rebounded. He knew the power of Maley’s
arm, who was famous for his long throws to the plate. Could he beat the
ball on the throw in?
Now he was running as he had never run before. The wind whistled in his
ears. He could hear the thunderous voices of the crowds, who had risen
to their feet and were cheering like maniacs.
Jim had run out to the third base coaching line and was yelling
encouragement at him.
“Come on, you Joe!” he shouted. “Come on, old man, come on!”
Joe rounded third and streaked it for the plate.
Down the stretch he tore. He seemed to be flying.
But the ball was flying, too, coming fast. He knew it by the shouts of
the Brooklyn players, by the look in the eyes of Tighe, the catcher, as
he set himself to receive it.
When within twenty feet of the plate, Joe launched himself in the air
and slid. He heard the ball thud in Tighe’s mitt. He swung himself in a
sweeping slide away from the catcher, his outstretched fingers touching
the plate a fraction of a second before the ball was brought down upon
him.
“Safe!” cried the umpire.