"MAKING THE TEAM"
The Fall and Winter passed quickly. Bert and Dick roomed together in
one of the dormitories close to the main buildings, while Tom had his
quarters on the floor below. The feeling of strangeness, inevitable at
the start, soon wore off, and they quickly became a part of the swarming
life that made the college a little world of its own.
Here, too, as in the greater world outside, Bert found all sorts and
conditions. There were the rich and the poor, the polished and the
uncouth, the lazy and the energetic, good fellows and bad. But the good
predominated. The great majority were fine, manly fellows, sound to the
core. Dick's wide acquaintanceship with them and his familiarity with
college customs were immensely helpful to Bert from the beginning, and
he was soon a general favorite.
The football season had been a triumphant one, and another gridiron
championship had been added to the many that had preceded it. There had
been a surplus of good material left over from the year before, and the
time was so short that Bert had not tried for the team. At the outset,
too, his studies taxed him so heavily that he did not feel justified
in giving the necessary attention to the great game, that, in his
estimation, almost divided honors with baseball. He had done a little
playing with the scrubs, however, and on his class team, and the
qualities he displayed in "bucking the line" had marked him out to the
coaches, as a factor to be reckoned with in the following seasons.
The Christmas holidays had come and gone almost before he knew it, and
when he returned for his second term, he buckled down to work with all
his might. His chosen field of electricity held constant surprises for
him, as it became more familiar. If he had any specialty, it was
wireless telegraphy. There was an irresistible attraction in the
mysterious force that bound the ends of the earth together by an
electric spark, that leaped over oceans with no conductor but the air,
that summoned help for sinking vessels when all other hope was gone. He
felt that the science was as yet only in its infancy, and that it
held untold possibilities for the future. The splendidly equipped
laboratories gave him every opportunity and encouragement for original
work, and his professors foresaw a brilliant future for the enthusiastic
young student.
Spring came early that year. A soft wind blew up from the south, the sun
shone warmly on the tender grass, the sap stirred blindly in the trees.
It stirred also in the veins of the lusty college youth and called them
to the outdoor life.
Going down the hall, one morning, to his recitation room, Bert came
across an eager group surrounding the bulletin board. He crowded nearer
and saw that it was the call of the coach to baseball candidates to
report on the following day. His heart leaped in response and the morrow
seemed long in coming.
Dressed in the old baseball togs that had done yeoman service on many a
hard-fought field, he with Dick and Tom, who were quite as eager as
himself, reported for the tryout. Perhaps a hundred ambitious youngsters
were on hand, all aflame with desire to make the team and fight for the
glory of Alma Mater. It was apparent at a glance, however, that many had
ambition but nothing else. The qualities that had made them heroes on
some village nine were plainly inadequate, when it came to shaping up
for a college team. The hopes of many faded away when they saw the plays
made by the seasoned veterans, who nonchalantly "ate up" balls and did
stunts in practice that would have called out shouts of applause in a
regular game. But whether marked for acceptance or rejection, all were
as frolicsome as colts turned out to pasture. It was good to be young
and to be alive.
The coach threaded his way through the groups with an eye that apparently
saw nothing, but, in reality, saw everything. He was a famous pitcher,
known from one end of the country to the other. Himself an old-time
graduate, he had the confidence of the faculty and the unbounded respect
and admiration of the students. He had been given full charge and was an
absolute autocrat. Whatever he said "went," and from his decision there
was no appeal. He played no favorites, was not identified with any
clique, and his sole desire was to duplicate the success of the preceding
season and turn out a winner.
To do this, he realized, would be no easy task. While his two chief
rivals had maintained their strong teams almost intact, his own was
"shot to pieces." Three had graduated, and they were among his heaviest
hitters. Good old Pendleton, who had been a tower of strength at first
base, who could take them with equal ease to right or left and "dig them
out of the dirt," and whose hard slugging had many a time turned defeat
into victory, would be hard to replace. His pitching staff was none
too good. Winters lacked control, and Benson's arm was apt to give
out about the seventh inning. Hinsdale was a good backstop, but his
throwing to second was erratic. They had done too much stealing on him
last year. Barry would be sadly missed at third, and it would be mighty
hard to find a capable guardian for the "difficult corner." It was clear
that he faced a tough problem, and the only solution was to be found, if
at all, in the new material.
As he glanced musingly around his eyes fell on Bert. They rested there.
He knew a thoroughbred when he saw one, and this was undeniably a
thoroughbred. The lithe form, supple as a leopard's, the fine play of
shoulder muscles that the uniform could not conceal, the graceful but
powerful swing, the snap with which the ball shot from his fingers as
though released by a spring--all these he noticed in one practised
glance. He sauntered over to where Bert was pitching.
"Done much in the pitching line?" he asked carelessly.
"A little," answered Bert modestly, "only on high school nines though."
"What have you got in stock?" asked the coach.
"Not much besides the old 'roundhouse' curve," replied Bert. "I don't
think so much of my incurve, though I'm trying to make it break a little
more sharply. I can do a little 'moist' flinging, too, though I haven't
practised that much."
"Don't," said the coach. "Cut out the spitball. It's bound to hurt your
arm in the long run. Trot out your curve and let's have a look at it.
Easy now," he said as Bert wound up, "don't put too much speed in it.
You'll have plenty of chances to do that later on."
The ball left Bert's hand with a jerk, and, just before it reached the
center of the plate, swept in a sharp, tremendous curve to the outside,
so that the catcher just touched it with the end of his fingers.
"Not so bad," commented the coach carelessly, though his eyes lighted
up. "Here, Drake," he called to a burly veteran who was looking on with
interest, "take your wagon tongue and straighten out this youngster's
curves."
The good-natured giant, thus addressed, picked up his bat and came to
the plate.
"Get it over the plate now, kid, and I'll kill it," he grinned.
A little flustered by this confidence, Bert sent one in waist high, just
cutting the corner. Drake swung at it and missed it by six inches.
"One strike," laughed the coach, and Drake, looking a little sheepish,
set himself for the next.
"Give him a fast one now, shoulder high," ordered the coach. Again the
ball sped toward the plate and Drake struck at it after it had passed
him and thudded into the catcher's glove.
"Gee, I can't hit them if I can't see them," he protested, and the coach
chuckled.
"No," he said, as Bert poised himself for a third pitch, "no more just
now. I don't want you to throw your arm out at practice. There are other
days coming, and you won't complain of lack of work. Come out again
to-morrow," and he walked away indifferently, while his heart was filled
with exultation. If he had not unearthed a natural-born pitcher, he knew
nothing about ball players.
Drake was more demonstrative. While Bert was putting on his sweater, he
came up and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Say, Freshie," he broke out, "that was a dandy ball you whiffed me
with. You certainly had me guessing. If that swift one you curled around
my neck had hit me, I would have been seeing stars and hearing the
birdies sing. And I nearly broke my back reaching for that curve. You've
surely got something on the ball."
"Oh, you'd have got me all right, if I'd kept on," answered Bert. "That
was probably just a fluke, and I was lucky enough to get away with it."
"Well, you can call it a fluke if you like," rejoined Drake, "but to me
it looked suspiciously like big league pitching. Go to it, my boy, and
I'll root for you to make the team."
Bert flushed with pleasure at this generous meed of praise, doubly
grateful as coming from an upper class man and hero of the college
diamond. Dick coming up just then, they said good-by to Drake and
started toward their dormitory.
"What's this I hear about you, Bert?" asked Dick; "you've certainly made
yourself solid with Ainslee. I accidentally heard him telling one of the
assistant coaches that, while of course he couldn't be sure until he'd
tried you out a little more, he thought he'd made a find."
"One swallow doesn't make a summer," answered Bert. "I had Drake
buffaloed all right, but I only pitched two balls. He might knock me
all over the lot to-morrow."
"Sufficient unto the day are the hits thereof," rejoined Dick; "the fact
is that he _didn't_ hit you, and he has the surest eye in college. If he
had fouled them, even, it would have been different, but Ainslee said he
missed them by a mile. And even at that you weren't at full speed, as he
told you not to cut loose to-day."
"Well," said Bert, "if the lightning strikes my way, all right. But now
I've got to get busy on my 'Sci' work, or I'll surely flunk to-morrow."
The next day Bert was conscious of sundry curious glances when he went
out for practice. News travels fast in a college community and Drake had
passed the word that Ainslee had uncovered a "phenom." But the coach had
other views and was in no mood to satisfy their curiosity. He had turned
the matter over in his mind the night before and resolved to bring Bert
along slowly. To begin with, while delighted at the boy's showing on
the first time out, he realized that this one test was by no means
conclusive. He was naturally cautious. He was "from Missouri" and had to
be "shown." A dozen questions had to be answered, and, until they were,
he couldn't reach any definite decision. Did the boy have stamina enough
to last a full game? Was that wonderful curve of his under full control?
Was his heart in the right place, or, under the tremendous strain of a
critical game, would he go to pieces? Above all, was he teachable,
willing to acknowledge that he did not "know it all," and eager to
profit by the instruction that would be handed out in the course of
the training season? If all these questions could be answered to his
satisfaction, he knew that the most important of all his problems--that
of the pitcher's box--was already solved, and that he could devote his
attention to the remaining positions on the team.
Pursuing this plan of "hastening slowly," he cut out all "circus"
stunts in this second day's practice. Bert was instructed to take it
easy, and confine himself only to moderately fast straight balls, in
order to get the kinks out of his throwing arm. Curves were forbidden
until the newness wore off and his arm was better able to stand the
strain. The coach had seen too many promising young players ruined in
trying to rush the season, and he did not propose to take any such
chances with his new find.
His keen eyes sparkled, as from his position behind the pitcher, he
noted the mastery that Bert had over the ball. He seemed to be able to
put it just where he wished. Whether the coach called for a high or a
low ball, straight over the center of the plate or just cutting the
corners, the ball obeyed almost as though it were a living thing.
Occasionally it swerved a little from the exact "groove" that it was
meant to follow, but in the main, as Ainslee afterward confided to his
assistant, "the ball was so tame that it ate out of his hand."
He was far too cautious to say as much to Bert. Of all the dangers that
came to budding pitchers, the "swelled head" was the one he most hated
and detested.
"Well," he said as he pretended to suppress a yawn, "your control is
fairly good for a beginner. Of course I don't know how it will be on
the curves, but we'll try them out too before long."
"That," he went on warming to his subject, "is the one thing beyond all
others you want to work for. No matter how much speed you've got or how
wide your curve or how sharp your break, it doesn't amount to much,
unless you can put the ball where you want it to go. Of course, you
don't want to put every ball over the plate. You want to make them
'bite' at the wide ones. But when you are 'in the hole,' when there are
two strikes and three balls, the winning pitcher is the one that nine
times out of ten can cut the plate, and do it so surely that the umpire
will have no chance to call it a ball. One of the greatest pitchers I
ever knew was called the 'Curveless Wonder.' He didn't have either an
incurve or an outcurve that was worth mentioning. But he had terrific
speed, and such absolute ability to put the ball just where he wanted
it, that for years he stood right among the headliners in the major
leagues. Take my word for it, Wilson, a pitcher without control is like
the play of Hamlet with Hamlet left out. Don't forget that."
The respect with which Bert listened was deepened by his knowledge that
Ainslee was himself famous, the country over, in this same matter of
control. A few more comments on minor points, and the coach walked away
to watch the practice of his infield candidates.
Now that Pendleton had graduated, the logical successor of the great
first baseman seemed to be Dick Trent, who had held the same position on
the scrubs the year before, and who had pressed Pendleton hard for the
place. The first base tradition demands that it be occupied by a heavy
batter, and there was no doubt that in this particular Dick filled the
bill. His average had been well above the magic .300 figures that all
players covet, and now that he had conquered his propensity to excessive
swinging, he might fairly be expected to better these figures this year.
As a fielder, he was a sure catch on thrown balls either to right or
left, and his height and reach were a safe guarantee that not many wild
ones would get by him. He was lightning quick on double plays, and
always kept his head, even in the most exciting moments of the game. If
he had any weakness, it was, perhaps, that he did not cover quite as
deep a field as Pendleton used to, but that was something that careful
coaching could correct. None of the other candidates seemed at all above
the average, and, while yet keeping an open mind, the coach mentally
slated Dick for the initial bag.
Second and short, as he said to himself with a sigh of relief, were
practically provided for. Sterling at the keystone bag and White at
shortfield were among the brightest stars of the college diamond, and
together with Barry and Pendleton had formed the famous "stonewall"
infield that last year had turned so many sizzling hits to outs.
Barry--ah, there was a player! A perfect terror on hard hit balls, a
fielder of bunts that he had never seen excelled, even among professional
players. He remembered the screeching liner that he had leaped into the
air and pulled down with one hand, shooting it down to first for a double
play in the last game of the season. It had broken up a batting rally and
saved the game when it seemed lost beyond redemption.
Well, there were as good fish in the sea as ever were caught, and no man
was so good but what another just as good could be found to take his
place. But where to find him? There was the rub. That cub trying out now
at third--what was his name?--he consulted the list in his hand--oh,
yes, Henderson--he rather fancied his style. He certainly handled
himself like a ball player. But there--you never could tell. He might
simply be another "false alarm."
At this moment the batter sent a scorching grounder toward third, but a
little to the left of the base. Tom flung himself toward it, knocked
it down with his left hand, picked it up with the right and scarcely
waiting to get "set" shot it like a flash to first. The coach gasped at
the scintillating play, and White called out:
"Classy stuff, kid, classy stuff. That one certainly had whiskers on
it."
"Hey, there, Henderson," yelled the coach, "go easy there. Float them
down. Do you want to kill your arm with that kind of throwing?"
But to himself he said: "By George, what a 'whip' that fellow's got.
That ball didn't rise three inches on the way to first. And it went into
Drake knee high. That youngster will certainly bear watching."
And watch him he did with the eye of a hawk, not only that afternoon,
but for several weeks thereafter until the hope became a certainty that
he had found a worthy successor to the redoubtable Barry, and his
infield would be as much of a "stonewall" that season as the year
before. With Hodge in right, Flynn in center and Drake in left, his
outfield left nothing to be desired, either from a fielding or batting
point of view, and he could now devote himself entirely to the
development of his batteries.
Under his masterly coaching, Bert advanced with great rapidity. He had
never imagined that there was so much in the game. He learned from this
past-master in the art how to keep the batter "hugging first"; the
surest way of handling bunts; the quick return of the ball for the
third strike before the unsuspecting batter can get "set," and a dozen
other features of "inside stuff" that in a close game might easily turn
the scale. Ainslee himself often toed the plate and told Bert to send
in the best he had. His arm had attained its full strength, under
systematic training, and he was allowed to use his curves, his drop, his
rise ball and the swift, straight one that, as Flynn once said, "looked
as big as a balloon when it left his hand, but the size of a pea when it
crossed the plate."
One afternoon, when Ainslee had taken a hand in the batting practice,
Bert fed him an outcurve, and the coach smashed it to the back fence.
A straight high one that followed it met with no better fate. It was
evident that Ainslee had his "batting eye" with him that afternoon, and
could not be easily fooled.
"Send in the next," he taunted, good-naturedly, "I don't think you can
outguess me to-day."
A little nettled at his discomfiture, Bert wound up slowly. For some
time past he had been quietly trying out a new delivery that he had
stumbled upon almost by accident. He called it his "freak" ball. He had
thrown it one day to Dick, when, after the regular practice, they were
lazily tossing the ball to and fro. It had come in way below where
Dick's hands were waiting for it, and the latter was startled. It was a
"lulu," he said emphatically. It could not be classed with any of the
regulation curves. Bert had kept it under cover until he could get
perfect control of it. Now he had got it to the point where he could put
it just where he wanted it, and as he looked at the smiling face of the
coach he resolved to "uncork" it.
He took a long swing and let it go. It came to the plate like a bullet,
hesitated, slowed, then dropped down and in, a foot below the wild lunge
that the coach made for it. His eyes bulged, and he almost dropped the
bat.
"What was that?" he asked. "How did you do it? Put over another one."
A second one proved just as puzzling, and the coach, throwing his bat
aside, came down to the pitcher's box. He was clearly excited.
"Now, what was it?" he asked; "it wasn't an incurve, a drop, or a
straight, but a sort of combination of them all. It was a new one on me.
How do you hold your hand when you throw it?"
"Why," replied Bert, "when I throw it, the palm is held toward the
ground instead of toward the sky, as it is when I pitch an outcurve.
The wrist is turned over and the hand held down with the thumb toward
the body, so that when the ball slips off the thumb with a twisting
motion it curves in toward the batter. I grip it in the same way as an
outcurve. Just as it twists off the thumb I give it a sharp snap of the
wrist. It spins up to the plate, goes dead, then curves sharply down and
in."
"Well," said the coach, "it's certainly a dandy. We must develop it
thoroughly, but we'll do it on the quiet. I rather think we'll have a
surprise for 'our friends the enemy,' when the race begins. It's just as
well to have an ace up our sleeve. That ball is in a class by itself. It
just seems to melt while you are trying to locate it. If I were to give
it a name at all, I'd call it a 'fadeaway.'"
And so Bert's new delivery was christened. As they walked back to the
college both were exultant. They would have been still more so, if at
that moment they had begun to realize the havoc and dismay that would be
spread among their opponents before the season ended by Bert's fadeaway
ball.