STEALING BASES
A roar of derision went up from the crowds at this indication that
Axander was bent on keeping the ball out of Joe’s reach, and this
grew in volume when the next thrown ball was quite as wide as its
predecessor.
“Play the game!”
“You’re a fine sport――I don’t think!”
“Where’s your nerve?”
“Crawl into a hole and draw it after you.”
But these and similar cries that came from stands and bleachers had
no effect on the Cub pitcher. He had planned his course of action and
adhered to it. And, of course, in this he was wholly within his rights.
With two men out, it was good strategy to pass the man who was famous
for his home runs and take a chance on Barrett who, though a good
sticker, seldom went beyond a double or a triple.
Joe was desperate, for the one thing he wanted more than anything else
at that moment was one good swing at the ball. But the next two that
came up were wholly beyond his reach and he dropped his bat disgustedly
and trotted down to first while the crowds howled their disappointment
at being cheated out of the chance of seeing him hit.
Axander grinned triumphantly as Joe from first good-naturedly shook his
fist at him. Then he took up his position in the box as Larry Barrett
came to the plate.
Joe, from first, caught Larry’s eye and gave him a secret signal which
meant that he was to take his time and either wait Axander out or foul
off as many as possible.
Larry, who had come to the bat full of pep, was somewhat disconcerted
by this order, but it spoke well for the discipline that Joe as captain
had infused into the team that he did not think of disobeying.
He stooped down to fasten his shoelace while Axander, all ready to
pitch, fumed and fretted at the delay. His nerves were strained to the
highest tension and anything a little out of the usual order tended to
throw him out of his stride.
In the meantime, Joe danced about first, taking a lead just long enough
to tempt Axander to throw but not too long to prevent a quick dart back
to the base. The more throws he could draw, the greater the chance that
one of them might go high or wide.
Axander was noted for his ability to hold runners close to the bags.
His quick snap had caught many a player napping. It was generally
considered good policy to hug the bags closely when Axander was on the
mound.
But Joe had found by careful study that almost every pitcher had a
certain individual move, a telltale mannerism, when he meant to throw
to first. Axander was no exception, though few players had found it out.
Joe’s hawklike eye had observed that Axander, who always held the
ball with both hands near his chin when he was pitching with men on
the bases drew his hands up against his breast for an instant before
he started to wind up. He had watched him all through the game and
saw that he never threw the ball to the base after pressing the ball
against his chest. As long as the hands were free from his body there
was danger of his snapping the ball down to first at any moment. But as
soon as they were gathered toward the chest, the ball went only in the
direction of the plate.
Here was Joe’s “ace in the hole,” and he instantly determined to make
the most of it. In the meantime, the more that Larry delayed the more
irritated Axander was likely to become.
The shoelace once carefully adjusted, Larry found that the bat he had
chosen did not balance just as well as he thought it ought to, and
took some time in picking out one more to his liking.
Then he came to the box, hit the bat against one heel after the other
for luck, and when the umpire began to glare at him for stalling, set
himself for the pitch.
Joe, with his eye on Axander’s slightest motion, took as long a lead as
he dared.
Up went Axander’s hands against his chest. He was going to pitch. Joe
set himself and by the time the ball had shot from the pitcher’s hand
was already halfway to second. He came into the bag standing up, for
by the time the ball had reached the catcher he had gained such a
commanding lead that that individual saw that it was useless to make
the throw.
So far, so good. A great deal had been gained. Now, even a single would
bring him in.
Larry, too, was elated, for now he thought he would be permitted to
take his chance with the ball.
But what was his perplexity and consternation when Joe from second
again gave him the signal to wait.
Baseball Joe had figured out the situation carefully, weighing all the
chances. Larry might of course make a hit. If he did, that would win
the game.
But the chances were at least three or four to one that Larry would
not hit safely. In that case, Joe would be left on the base and the
game would go into extra innings with all the chances of a possible
final defeat for the Giants.
Of course, Larry’s attempt to wait Axander out was itself fraught with
danger. He might be called out on strikes. Even if he resorted to
fouling off, one of the fouls might be caught and the jig would be up.
It was all a gamble. And since it was a gamble, Joe decided to bet on
himself.
He danced around second, trying to draw a throw on the chance that it
might be wild and the ball go out to center. Twice Axander took the
chance, wheeling and throwing like a flash. But Joe’s foot was always
on the bag and he grinned tantalizingly at the worried pitcher.
Drawing away from the bag foot by foot, Joe watched his adversary.
Again the pitcher’s hands touched his chest, and again, almost before
the ball left his hand, Joe, with nearly half the distance already
covered, was legging it to third.
This time he slid in, for the throw from catcher to third was much
shorter than to second. But his hands were on the bag as Henderson bent
down and stabbed at him frantically.
Axander by this time was clearly nervous. The big lead that Joe had
got on him each time perplexed him. What was it that had told him so
unerringly just the right time to steal? It must have been something in
his pitching motions. But just what was it?
He motioned to his catcher, who went forward to meet him, and they held
a brief conference while the crowd howled in derision.
“You’ve got his goat, Joe!”
“He’s up in the air!”
“Oh, you base stealer!”
The conference ended and the pitcher and catcher resumed positions.
But Larry’s position was now growing precarious and whatever was done
must be done quickly. A strike had been called on him and two balls. He
looked pleadingly toward Joe, but the latter again gave him the signal
to wait.
Joe in the meantime, while the colloquy between Axander and Lange, his
catcher, had been going on, had been chaffing Henderson, the third
baseman. The latter was a good mechanical player, but a slow thinker
and easily razzed.
“You were pretty slow in trying to put that ball on me,” said Joe. “I
slid into the bag without any trouble.”
“Oh, I guess I’m fast enough,” growled Henderson.
“You couldn’t catch me once in a thousand years,” gibed Joe.
“Wait till I get a chance at you next time,” retorted the third baseman.
“You couldn’t catch me if I were running on my hands,” declared Joe.
“You’ve got another guess coming,” replied Henderson, his face flushing.
Joe eyed longingly the stretch between third base and home. But Axander
was partly facing him now and watching his every movement. The catcher
too was on the alert. The chances of a clean steal home were too heavy
to take. It would be little less than suicide.
But Joe was not yet at the end of his tether.
He stepped off the bag and edged along just far enough to draw a throw
from Axander. The ball came like a shot into the hands of Henderson.
Joe saw the look of triumph in the latter’s eyes. He made an apparent
effort to go back that brought him within five feet of the third
baseman. Then, as though finding he was trapped, he turned toward home
with Henderson after him with outstretched arm.
Down the stretch they went, less than three feet separating them. Joe
knew that he was the faster man, but he deliberately let Henderson keep
close to him, so close that at every moment the latter thought he was
going to touch him. He was already wrought up by Joe’s gibes at his
slowness and he wanted the satisfaction of putting him out himself.
The field stands were a pandemonium. The Giants were shouting and
jumping up and down like mad. The whole Chicago infield were rushing
toward the plate, while Axander and Lange were frantically shouting to
Henderson to throw the ball.
But the latter, in frenzied pursuit of that flying figure that he
seemed at every instant just about to touch, kept on. Then, when near
the plate, Joe let out a burst of speed that showed Henderson his chase
was fruitless. He threw then, but the ball was too late.
It went high to Lange, who grabbed it and fairly threw himself down on
Joe, who in one tremendous fling had launched himself toward the plate.
There was a cloud of dust, a medley of flying arms and legs, a wild
chorus of yells.
“Safe!” cried the umpire.
And then twenty thousand people promptly went mad.