GOING DOWN
Jim gripped Joe by the shoulders and half lifted him from the chair.
“Wake up, old man,” he shouted. “What’s the matter with you?”
Joe sleepily opened his eyes and looked around him with a dazed
expression.
“Wh-what are you shaking me for?” he asked, as he tried to get his wits
together.
“Trying to get you out of your trance,” explained Jim, vastly relieved
though still greatly puzzled and anxious. “You were sleeping the sleep
of the dead.”
Joe rubbed his eyes rather vaguely.
“That’s queer,” he remarked. “I didn’t feel at all tired when I sat
down here. And I was mightily interested in the book.”
“One might almost think you had been doped,” declared Jim. “I never saw
you so dead to the world. Could it be anything you’ve eaten or drunk
that’s affected you?”
“Haven’t touched anything since we ate lunch together,” replied Joe.
“You had substantially the same things I did, and you’re none the worse
for it.”
“It’s mighty odd,” commented Jim.
“It sure is,” agreed Joe. “And the more so because I fell asleep in
just the same way the other day, although that time I waked up of my
own accord. Guess I must be getting old,” he added as a facetious touch
to relieve Jim’s anxiety and reassure himself as well.
“I wonder if it’s anything in the apartment itself,” said Jim. “Perhaps
there’s sewer gas or illuminating gas or something of the kind escaping
from a pipe and sifting into the room. Perhaps we ought to speak to the
management and have an inspection made.”
“That might not be a bad idea,” agreed Joe. “If anything is shown to be
wrong, we’ll have to shift our quarters.”
He started to rise from his seat but the hand that he placed on the arm
of the chair bent under him and he almost lost his balance.
“That old wing of mine seems to have gone on the blink,” he remarked.
“Crumples up like a chocolate éclair.”
“Let me rub it for you,” said Jim, and forthwith set to work until the
strength came back into the arm.
“Perhaps you ought to see a specialist,” Jim suggested. “A little
electric treatment might be the thing you need. What I really think is
that, as McRae says, you’ve been overworking your arm.”
“Oh, I guess it will come around of itself,” said Joe. “I’m not going
to baby it. Perhaps when we go on our western trip I may take a day or
two off and run down and see old bone-setter Neese. He’s a wonder at
manipulating arms. Perhaps a sinew or muscle has got a little twisted
and a touch of his will set it all right again.”
A few days later Joe took another turn in the box. But this time he
pitched more with his head than his arm, in accordance with his own
judgment and also with McRae’s advice.
“Don’t try for strike-outs, Joe, except perhaps in certain cases,” the
veteran manager advised him. “Remember there are nine men on the team.
Let some of the rest of the boys earn their pay. I’d rather lose a
whole raft of games, even the pennant itself, than to have you tax your
arm too much.”
Joe followed the advice, though the old winning habit was so strong
with him that it was hard not to let himself out for all he was worth.
But he cut out his fast ball to a large extent and depended more upon
his drifters and his curves. He spared himself as much as possible
as long as men were not on the bases, and only when the bags were
occupied did he tighten up.
He won that game, which was against the Brooklyns, but it was a free
hitting contest throughout. And it was a day when the boys from over
the big bridge were full of errors that they had to get out of their
systems. So that when the game was finally chalked up to the credit of
the Giants Joe admitted to himself that he had won not because he was
so good, but because the other fellows were so bad.
Still it was a game to the good, and just at that time the Giants
needed all the games that they could get. They had had to relinquish
the lead to the Chicagos and it looked, too, as though the
fast-traveling Pittsburghs would soon shove them down into third
position.
The hilarity that had filled the atmosphere of the Giant clubhouse in
the early part of the season was now conspicuous by its absence. Never
before had it been so completely demonstrated that the Giants without
Joe were like the play of “Hamlet” with Hamlet left out. They were like
a charging regiment who had been sweeping their enemies before them and
then were suddenly dismayed by the fall of their leader.
It was no wonder that they looked forward with apprehension to their
forthcoming western trip. If they had been barely able to hold their
own with the confessedly weaker eastern teams, what could they expect
when they met the Cubs, the Pirates, the Reds, and the Cardinals on
their own stamping grounds?
This peace of mind was not increased by the fact that the betting was
heavily against them. Increasingly bigger odds were being offered that
they would not win the pennant. Of course the reason for this was not
far to seek. It was evident to all that Joe, the mainstay of the team,
was not “right.”
But the trip had to be faced, and they started on their swing around
the circle. Their first stop was at Pittsburgh, where they found the
Smoky City boys primed to take them into camp.
Forbes Field was crowded to capacity on the day of the first game.
The Giants always drew full houses in Pittsburgh, but this time the
attendance was even greater than usual, for the fans expected to see
the Giants slaughtered. The Pirates themselves were chock full of
confidence.
“We may let you have one game, Mac,” chaffed Elwood, the Pirates’
manager, before the bell rang. “But no, on second thought, I guess we’d
better make a clean job of it and take the whole series.”
“See me after the game and you’ll sing another tune,” retorted McRae
with a confidence that he was very far from feeling.
Joe, with the other pitchers, had been warming up in the bull-pen, and
one of his hunches prompted him to seek out McRae.
“Mac,” he said, “I’d like to pitch this game.”
McRae looked at him in some surprise.
“But it’s only two days since you last pitched,” he said. “You ought to
have at least a four-day let-up.”
“I know,” said Joe. “But to-day my arm feels like a million dollars.”
“Glory be!” exclaimed Robbie. “The best news I’ve heard in many a long
day.”
“You bet!” echoed McRae fervently. “Well, Joe, I’d rather trust your
judgment than my own. Go in and win.”