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CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. TOUCHING SECOND 1
II. "MAKING THE TEAM" 16
III. THE "INSIDE" GAME 33
IV. THE TRIPLE PLAY 53
V. WINNING HIS SPURS 65
VI. THE FIRE 93
VII. TAKING HIS MEDICINE 107
VIII. SHOOTING THEM OVER 123
IX. A GALLANT RESCUE 144
X. A WILD RIDE 160
XI. THE NINTH INNING 182
BERT WILSON'S
Fadeaway Ball
BY
J. W. DUFFIELD
AUTHOR OF "BERT WILSON AT THE WHEEL,"
"BERT WILSON, MARATHON WINNER,"
"BERT WILSON, WIRELESS OPERATOR."
Copyright, 1913, By
SULLY AND KLEINTEICH
_All rights reserved._
Published and Printed, 1924, by
Western Printing & Lithographing Company
Racine, Wisconsin
Printed in U. S. A.
Bert Wilson's Fadeaway Ball
CHAPTER I
TOUCHING SECOND
Crack!--and the ball soared into center field, while the batter, swift
as a flash, sped down to first. A tremendous roar went up from the
thirty thousand loyal "fans" who packed the grandstands and filled the
bleachers to overflowing. Staid citizens danced up and down like howling
dervishes, hats were tossed into the air or jovially crushed on their
owners' heads, and happy riot reigned everywhere. Pandemonium broke
loose.
The fight for the pennant had been a bitter one all season. First one
team and then another had taken the lead, while the whole country had
been as excited as though the fate of an empire hung in the balance.
The third chief contender, fighting grimly to the last, had fallen
hopelessly behind, and the contest had narrowed down to a life-and-death
struggle between the Giants and the Cubs. The team from the Western city
had hung on doggedly and every battle had been fought "for blood."
Contesting every inch, they had at last drawn up on even terms with the
leaders, and to-day's game was to decide which club should be hailed as
champions of the National League and, later on, do battle with the
leaders of the American League for the proud title of Champions of the
World.
The excitement was intense, and, to a foreigner, would have been
inconceivable. Men stood in line all the night before to make sure of
tickets when the gates should open in the morning. The newspapers
devoted columns of space to the gladiators of the opposing teams.
Delegations poured in on special trains from neighboring cities. The
surface cars and elevated trains, packed to the limit, rolled up to the
grounds and deposited their sweltering throngs. The lines of ticket
buyers extended for blocks, and the speculators did a rushing business.
Long before the hour set for the game to begin, the grounds were crowded
to suffocation, and thousands, unable to get in, were turned away from
the gates.
The scene within was inspiring. A band played popular airs, while those
within hearing joined lustily in the chorus. The great field, gleaming
like green velvet beneath the afternoon sun, had been especially groomed
and rolled for this day of days. The base lines, freshly marked, stood
out in white and dazzling relief. All four sides of the huge enclosure
held their thousands of enthusiasts, and the host of special policemen
had their hands full to keep them from encroaching on the diamond. As
each white-uniformed athlete of the home team came from the club house
for preliminary practice, he was boisterously and affectionately
greeted.
Nor did the gray-clad visitors come short of a cordial reception. The
great crowd hoped that the home team would win, but they were fair, and,
mingled with the good-natured chaffing, was a wholesome respect and
fear of their prowess. Above all they wanted a rattling game and a
hair-raising finish, with the Giants winning "by an eyelash."
The bell rang. The Giants took their places in the field and the umpire
cried "Play ball!" The head of the Cubs' batting order came to the plate
and the game was on. From the start it was a battle "for keeps." Both
teams were "on their toes." It meant not only honor but lucre. The
winners would contest in the World's Series, and this meant thousands of
dollars for every player. Every point was bitterly fought, and plays were
made that under other circumstances would not even have been attempted.
For eight innings, Fortune divided her favors equally, and it looked as
though the game were destined to go into extra innings.
The Cubs were easily disposed of in their half of the ninth, and the
Giants came to the bat. The crowd, which had been alternately on the
heights of hope or in the depths of despair, rose to their feet and
cheered them wildly. The batters were frantically besought to "hit it
on the seam," "give the ball a ride," "show them where you live." The
players responded nobly. By the time that two were out, a Giant was
perched on third and another on first. The shortstop, a sure hitter in a
pinch, strode to the plate. Now, indeed, excitement was at fever heat. A
safe hit into the outfield would bring the man on third to the plate
with the winning run.
The visitors were plainly worried. The "Peerless Leader" came in from
first, ostensibly to advise the pitcher, but really to give him a
moment's rest before the final test. Hoots of derision showed the
spectators' appreciation of the trick. The pitcher glanced at the man
dancing about third, wound up deliberately and let the ball go with all
the force of his brawny arm. The batter caught it squarely "on the
trademark" and shot it like a rifle bullet into center field, while the
man on third tore down the line and came like a racehorse to the plate.
He crossed the rubber with the winning run, and thirty thousand men went
stark, raving mad.
The man on first ran part way toward second, and then, seeing that his
comrade would certainly score, turned and scurried to the club house in
right field. The jubilant crowd began to invade the diamond. Suddenly
the second baseman of the visitors secured the ball, rushed to his base,
and then, surrounded by his teammates, ran toward the umpire, waving his
hands wildly.
The crowd, at first bewildered, then angered, soon became panic-stricken.
Few of them understood the nature of the claim. They only felt that the
hard-won victory was being called in question, and a tidal wave of wrath
and resentment swept over the field.
The point made by the quick-witted second baseman was simple, but
sufficiently important to engage the grave attention of the umpires. His
contention was that the man on first had not touched second base, and,
as he was legally compelled to leave first in order to make room for the
batter and had not touched second before the ball got there, he was
_forced out_, and therefore the run didn't count. The rules on this
point were clear and explicit. If the claim was granted, three men were
out, no run had come in and the score was still a tie at one to one.
The final decision was held in suspense, and the throng passed out, more
like a funeral than a triumphal procession. Disputes were rife among
heated partisans, and in all the vast city that night and, in a lesser
degree, in every city from New York to San Francisco, the game was
fought over and over again. The unfortunate first baseman almost lost
his mind over the blunder. There was more pity than bitterness felt
toward him, however, as it was known that he had merely followed a
general custom that had been taken as a matter of course.
Among the crowd that filed out of the gates were Bert Wilson and his
inseparable friends, Dick Trent and Tom Henderson. With them also was a
Mr. Hollis, a gentleman much older than they in years, but quite as
young in spirit. He had been in charge of the summer camp from which the
boys had recently returned, and the respect and confidence that his
sterling character evoked had become steadily stronger. They were all
very fond of the great national game, and had shared the enthusiasm over
the supposed victory of the home team. Now, from the reaction, their
ardor was correspondingly dampened.
"There's no use talking," broke out Tom hotly, "it was a low down trick.
They couldn't beat us with the bat, so they try to do it on a quibble."
"I don't know," said Dick, "it's about a stand off. We may have been a
little bit better off in brawn, but they had it on us in the matter of
brain. Whatever we may think of their sportsmanship, their wits were not
wool gathering."
"And after all," chimed in Bert, "it is brain that counts to-day in
baseball as well as in everything else. More and more, the big leaguers
are putting a premium on quick thinking. The mere 'sand lot slugger' is
going to the rear, and the college man is coming to the front. It isn't
that the collegian is necessarily any brainier, but he has been taught
how to use his brains. This is simply a case where the husky hit of the
Giants' short-stop was wasted because of the nimble wit of the Cubs'
second baseman. It was hit against wit, and wit won out."
"All the same," maintained Tom, "it was taking advantage of a
technicality. The same thing has been done a hundred times, and there
has never been a kick about it. Whenever a player has been sure that the
winning run has come in, he has considered it all over, and made a break
for the clubhouse. I don't think the question has ever been raised
before."
"Yes it has," said Mr. Hollis. "That same quick thinker made a point of
it the other day in Pittsburgh, and that is all the more reason why the
home team ought to have been wide awake. But there is nothing to be
gained by post mortems, and anyway the thing isn't settled yet. It looks
rather bad for us now, but there will be a full discussion of the matter
and the umpires may find something in the rules that will cover the case
and give us the run. Even if they don't, it leaves it a tie, and the
game will have to be played over. We may win then and get the pennant
after all."
"I hope so," said Tom, "but just at present I know how they felt in
Mudville:
"'O somewhere birds are singing and somewhere children shout,
But there's no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey has struck out.'"
A few days later when the point had been decided in favor of the Cubs
and the game played over, only to result in a conclusive victory for the
men from the shore of Lake Michigan, the chums met in Bert's rooms.
"Well," said Dick, "I see that they put it over, all right. They've
copped the pennant and we are only an 'also ran.'"
"Yes," replied Tom, "that hit by Tinker over Seymour's head did the
business. But there's no use crying over spilt milk. We'll stand them on
their heads next year and get even."
"By the way, Bert," asked Dick, changing the subject, "have you heard
from your examinations yet? How did you make out?"
"Fine," answered Bert. "I heard from the Dean this morning and he says
that I passed with something to spare. The chemical and electrical
marks were especially good. He says that the questions along those lines
were unusually severe, but they didn't strike me that way. I suppose
it's because I'm so interested in them that they come easy."
"Good for you, old scout," cried Dick, delightedly. "I'm tickled to
death that the thing is settled. You'll find that we have one of the
finest scientific schools in the country. I've been there a year now,
and it's come to seem like home. I'll show you the ropes and we'll room
together. I only wish Tom here were coming along with us next week."
"So do I," said Tom ruefully, "but Father seems to think I'd better
stick to my engineering course right here in New York. It isn't that he
thinks the course is any better than at your college, if as good. I
suppose the real reason is that he wants me to be where I can live at
home. I'm going to get Mr. Hollis to have a talk with him. Perhaps he
can show him that it would be a good thing for me to get away from home
and be thrown on my own responsibility. Dad's pretty stubborn when he
gets an idea in his head, but he thinks a lot of Mr. Hollis, and what he
says will go a long way with him."
It was a wholesome group of young fellows that thus discussed their
future plans. They were the best type of manly, red-blooded American
youth, full of energy and ambition and alive to their finger tips. Tom
was of medium height, while Bert and Dick were fully six feet tall. All
were strongly built and looked as though they could give a good account
of themselves in any contest, whether of mind or body. A similarity of
tastes and habits had drawn them closely together, and among their
friends they were jokingly referred to as the "Three Guardsmen." They
were rarely apart, and now their plans for the coming school year were
destined to cement their friendship still more firmly. In reality with
them it was "one for all and all for one."
All of them had chosen their life work along practical and scientific
lines. The literary professions did not tempt them strongly. Dick, who
was the elder, was preparing to become a mining engineer, and had
already spent a year at college with that end in view. Tom aimed at
civil engineering while Bert was strongly drawn toward electrical
science and research. This marvelous field had a fascination for him
that he could not resist. His insight was so clear, he leaped so
intuitively from cause to conclusion, that it was felt that it would be
almost a crime if he were not permitted to have every advantage that the
best scientific schools could give him. For a long time past he had been
studying nights, preparing for his entrance examinations, and now that
he had passed them triumphantly, nothing intervened between him and his
cherished ambition.
Absorbed as he was in his studies, however, he spent enough time in
athletic sports to keep himself in superb physical condition. His was
the old Greek ideal of a "sound mind in a sound body." His favorite
sport was baseball, and, like most healthy young Americans, he was
intensely fond of the great game. In public school and high school he
had always "made the team." Although at times he had played every
position in the infield and outfield and behind the bat, he soon
gravitated towards the pitcher's box, and for the last three years had
played that position steadily. He was easily the best "flinger" in the
Inter-Scholastic League, and had received more than one invitation to
join some of the semi-professional teams that abound in the great city.
He elected, however, to remain purely and simply an amateur. Even when a
"big league" scout, who had watched him play, gave him a quiet tip that
his club would take him on the Spring training trip to Texas and pay all
his expenses, with a view to finding out whether he was really "major
league timber," the offer did not tempt him. He had no idea of making a
business of his chosen sport, but simply a pleasant though strenuous
recreation. With him, it was "sport for sport's sake"; the healthy zest
of struggle, the sheer physical delight in winning.
And now, as they talked over the coming year, the athletic feature also
came to the fore.
"I wonder if I'll have the slightest show to make the baseball team,"
said Bert. "I suppose, as a newcomer I'll be a rank outsider."
"Don't you believe that for a minute," replied Dick warmly. "Of course
there'll be lots of competition and a raft of material to pick from. I
suppose when the coach sends out the call for candidates in the Spring,
there'll be dozens of would-be players and a bunch too of have-beens
that will trot out on the diamond to be put through their paces. One
thing is certain, though, and that is that you'll get your chance. There
may be a whole lot of snobbery in college life--though there isn't
half as much as people think--but, out on the ball field, it's a pure
democracy. The only question there is whether you can deliver the goods.
If you can, they don't care whether you're a new man or an old-timer.
All they want is a winner."
"Well," chimed in Tom, "they'll find that they have one in Bert. Just
show them a little of the 'big medicine' you had in that last game with
Newark High when you put out the side on three pitched balls. Gee,
I never saw a more disgusted bunch of ball tossers. Just when they
thought they had the game all sewed up and put away in their bat bag,
too."
"That's all right," said Bert, "but you must remember that those high
school fellows were a different proposition from a bunch of seasoned old
college sluggers. When I come up against them, if I ever do, they'll
probably smash the back fences with the balls I feed to them."
"Some of them certainly can slaughter a pitcher's curves," laughed Dick.
"Old Pendleton, for instance, would have the nerve to start a batting
rally against three-fingered Brown, and Harry Lord wouldn't be hypnotized
even if Matty glared at him."
"I understand you did some fence breaking yourself last Spring on the
scrubs," said Tom. "Steve Thomas told me you were the heaviest batter in
college."
"O, I don't know," returned Dick modestly, "I led them in three-base
hits and my batting average was .319, but Pendleton was ahead of me in
the matter of home runs. I hope to do better next Spring, though, as
Ainslee, the coach, gave me some valuable tips on hitting them out. At
first I swung too much and tried to knock the cover off the ball. The
result was that when I did hit the ball it certainly traveled some. But
many a time I missed them because I took too long a swing. Ainslee
showed me how to chop at the ball with a sharp, quick stroke that
caught it just before the curve began to break. Then all the power of my
arms and shoulders leaned up against the ball at just the right second.
Ainslee says that Home-Run Baker uses that method altogether, and you
know what kind of a hitter he is. I got it down pretty fine before the
season ended, and if I make the team next Spring----"
"If you make it," said Bert incredulously. "As though it wasn't a dead
certainty."
"Not a bit of it," protested Dick, seriously. "You never can tell from
year to year. You can't live on your reputation at college. There may be
a regular Hal Chase among the new recruits, and he may win the first
base position over me without half trying. It's a good thing it is so,
too, because we have to keep hustling all the time or see somebody else
step into our shoes. The result is that when the team is finally licked
into shape by the coaches, it represents the very best the college can
turn out. It's a fighting machine that never knows when it is whipped
and never quits trying until the last man is out in the ninth inning."
"Yes," broke in Tom, "and that's what makes college baseball so much
more pleasing than the regular professional game. The fellows go at it
in such deadly earnest. It is the spirit of Napoleon's Marshal: 'The
Old Guard dies, but never surrenders.' The nine may be beaten, but not
disgraced, and, when the game is over, the winning team always knows
that it has been in a fight."
"Well," said Bert, as the fellows rose to go, "if we do make the team,
it won't be through lack of trying if we fail to land the pennant."
"No," laughed Dick. "Our epitaph at least will be that of the Texas
cowboy,
"'He done his blamedest--angels can no more.'"
A week later, the three friends--for Tom and Mr. Hollis had won his
father over--stood on the deck of a Sound steamer, saying goodby to
those who had come to see them off. Mr. Hollis wrung Bert's hand, just
as the last bell rang and he prepared to go down the gangway.
"Good luck, Bert, and whatever else you do, don't forget to touch
second."
He smiled at Bert's puzzled expression, and added: "I mean, my boy, be
thorough in all you do. End what you begin. Don't be satisfied with any
half-way work. Many a man has made a brilliant start, but a most dismal
finish. In work, in play, in the whole great game of life--touch
second."