A NO-HIT GAME
Robbie had shouted too soon.
McGee at center and Burton at right had started running at the crack of
the bat.
It seemed as though it was impossible that either should reach the ball
in time. The sphere was going with the force of a bullet almost on a
line.
But just as it was passing him Greaves, by an almost superhuman effort,
launched himself into the air straight ahead of him and nabbed it with
his gloved hand.
The force of the impact knocked him down and rolled him over and over.
But when he got up the ball was in his hand.
It was an almost miraculous catch, such as occurs on the ball field
only two or three times in a season.
There was a moment of stupefaction and then the crowd burst into a roar
of applause. It had spoiled a perfectly good home run for Joe and
prevented two scores for the Giants. But it was baseball of the finest
kind, and the Giants themselves, despite their disappointment, were
sportsmanlike enough to admire it.
“Highway robbery, Joe,” condoled McRae, as Joe came in. “That was a
whale of a hit.”
“It was a whale of a catch too, and don’t you forget it,” replied Joe,
with a smile. “I don’t think I’ve seen a finer one since I’ve been in
the National League.”
“Well, anyway,” Robbie consoled himself, “it shows that the boys are
getting to Axander.”
The second inning was a blank for both sides. Joe was invincible and
Axander, too, had tightened up.
But even at this early stage a difference could be noted between the
two masters. Not one of the Chicagos met the ball full and square. They
either struck out, knocked up fouls, or dribbled little ones into the
dirt that were easily gathered up by the infield.
Axander, on the contrary, while he permitted no scoring, had allowed
one base on balls and two of the outs had been on long flies to the
outfield, which, though they had been gathered in by the men of the
outer garden, had left the bats with a decided ring that was music to
the ears of Robbie and McRae.
“They’re finding him,” gloated the rubicund coach. “It’s only a matter
of time before he’ll wilt.”
But the fulfillment of Robbie’s prophecy was long postponed. Again and
again Axander was saved by splendid support. Wherever the Giants sent
the ball a Chicago fielder seemed to be in the way. Up to the sixth
inning Axander had allowed six hits, but most of them came when two men
were out and the batter, though he gained his base, could not complete
the circuit.
Joe, on the other hand, was pitching like a man inspired. He was at the
top of his form. He played with his opponents as a cat plays with a
mouse. His control was perfect and his change of pace had his opponents
up in the air. Never had his consummate artistry been more in evidence.
When at the end of the sixth inning the crowd woke to the realization
that he had not yielded a hit, not given a pass, and that not a single
one of the Chicagos had reached first base, excitement reached fever
heat. The spectators realized that they were looking on at an epic of
the ball field.
It was no longer a question of seeing one side or the other win the
game. That was lost in the other question that passed from lip to lip.
Could he keep it up? Could he hold that bunch of sluggers down? Were
they really looking on at what would prove to be that rarest of all
things on the diamond, a no-hit game?
In the seventh inning Joe turned the Chicagos back to the bench as fast
as they came up to the plate, and the tumult as the last man went out
on strikes was deafening.
“Frozen hoptoads!” ejaculated Robbie, so keyed up that he seemed
threatened with apoplexy. “He’s put a spell on the ball.”
“He’s got them eating out of his hand all right,” declared McRae. “I
never saw such demon pitching, and all so easy that it looks as if he
wasn’t half trying. But now get busy, you fellows,” he stormed at his
men. “Are you going to let Joe do it all alone? He can hold the other
fellows down, but it’s up to you to give him some runs. Get up there
now and knock the cover off the ball.”
It seemed at first that his adjurations would have their effect.
Jackwell and Bowen cracked out two singles in succession. It looked as
though the long expected rally had arrived.
Robbie ran down to first on the coaching lines, his face as red as the
setting sun.
“Here’s where we score, boys!” he shouted. “We’ve got him going! He’s
due for the showers! On your toes, now, on your toes!”
As he bent over with his hands on his knees he looked like a round
gigantic ball.
A bellowing voice came from the stand:
“Hey, McRae, what time does the balloon go up?”
A roar of laughter arose from the spectators and Robbie straightened up
indignantly and glared in the direction from which the voice had come.
But he was equal to the occasion.
“It’s already gone!” he shouted back. “Don’t you see that Axander’s up
in the air?”
The laugh was with him now, and the crowds yelled gleefully.
With two on bases and none out, the Giants’ chances looked bright. But
here again the uncertainty that lends fascination to the game took a
hand. Mylert hit sharply to Henderson at third, who made a wonderful
stop, stepped on the bag, putting out Jackwell and relaying the ball to
second in time to nip Bowen on a snappy double play.
Then Axander put on steam and set down Curry on strikes and the inning
that had promised so much went glimmering.
The eighth also passed without scoring. The Chicagos, desperate now at
their inability to line the ball out, resorted to bunting, but with no
better success than before. Joe had called in his infield when he saw
the change in tactics and they were on the bunts like a flash.
Still not a hit, not a base on balls, and that wonderful arm of Joe’s
tirelessly mowing down his opponents as the sickle cuts through the
wheat.
As the ninth inning began the strain upon the spectators became almost
unbearable. Could Baseball Joe keep up the pace?
Perhaps the coolest man in all those thousands was Joe himself. He had
never felt so completely the master of himself or the occasion. His
nerves were like steel and his heart never missed a beat.
In that memorable ninth inning he pitched just nine balls to the
three men who faced him. Every one went over the plate, but with
such blinding speed, such hops, such drops, that they were simply
unhittable. One, two, three, the Cubs came up to the plate. One, two,
three, the Cubs went back to the bench.
When the last one went out on strikes an uproar came from the stands
that was simply thunderous, that rose and sank and rose again as though
it would never stop.
At last the umpires, with frantic wavings of their hands, restored a
semblance of order and the Giants went in for their half. It was the
irony of fate that, although nine hits had been registered off Axander
while Joe had not permitted a single one, the score was still a tie at
0 to 0.
Renton was first at bat and shot one down the first base line that the
baseman picked up neatly and stepped on the bag while the spectators
groaned. Burkett raised a towering fly that Axander caught without
moving from his tracks, and the groans redoubled. But they gave way to
frantic cheers when Joe came to the bat.
There was no one on the Giant team that Axander would not rather have
seen at the plate at that critical juncture. For all through the game
his curves had held no terrors for Joe. He had already ripped out two
doubles and a triple, but unluckily they had come at times when there
was no one on base and his mates had failed to bring him around.
Now with the appeals of the crowd to Joe to line out a homer, Axander
took stock of the situation and promptly decided that discretion was
the better part of valor.
“Be a sport, old man,” begged Joe, who read his opponent’s decision in
his eyes.
“I’d rather be a winner,” grinned Axander, as he deliberately threw the
first ball six feet wide of the plate.