THE "INSIDE" GAME
"Well, Tom, I see that you lead off in the batting order," said Bert, as
they sat in his rooms at the close of the day's work.
"Yes," said Tom, "Ainslee seems to think that I am a good waiter, as
well as a pretty fair sprinter, and I suppose that is the reason he
selected me."
"'They also serve who only stand and wait,'" recited Dick, who was
always ready with an apt quotation.
"Well," laughed Bert, "I don't suppose the poet ever dreamed of that
application, but, all the same, it is one of the most important things
in the game to lead off with a man who has nerve and sense enough to
wait. In the first place, the pitcher is apt to be a little wild at the
start and finds it hard to locate the plate. I know it's an awful
temptation to swing at a good one, if it is sandwiched in between a
couple of wild ones, and, of course, you always stand the chance of
being called out on strikes. But at that stage of the game he is more
likely to put over four balls than three strikes, and if you do trot
down to first, you've got three chances of reaching home. A sacrifice
will take you down to second, and then with only one man out and two
good batters coming up, a single to the outfield brings you home."
"Then, too, you went around the bases in fifteen seconds flat, the other
day," said Dick, "and that's some running. I noticed Ainslee timing you
with his split-second watch, and when he put it back in his pocket he
was smiling to himself."
"Flynn comes second, I see," said Bert, consulting his list, "and that's
a good thing too. He is one of the best 'place' hitters on the team. He
has the faculty that made Billy Keeler famous, of 'hitting them where
they ain't.' He's a dandy too at laying down a bunt, just along the
third-base line. If any man can advance you to second, Flynn can."
"Yes," said Tom, "with Drake up next, swinging that old wagon tongue of
his, and then Dick coming on as a clean-up hitter, it will have to be
pretty nifty pitching that will keep us from denting the home plate."
"Last year the team had a general batting average of .267," chimed in
Dick. "If we can match that this year, I guess there'll be no complaint.
As a matter of fact, however, I'm a little dubious of doing that,
especially with old Pendleton off the team. But if we come short a
little there, I am counting on Bert holding down the batters on the
other nines enough to make up for it."
"If I get a chance, I'll do my very best," said Bert, "but perhaps I
won't pitch in a regular game all season. You know how it is with a
Freshman. He may have to sit on the bench all the time, while the upper
class pitchers take their turn in the box. They've won their spurs and I
haven't. They've 'stood the gaff' under the strain of exciting games,
and pulled victories out of the fire. I might do it too, but nobody
knows that, and I probably would not be called on to go in the box,
except as a last resort. They may believe that I have the curve, but
they are not at all sure that I have the nerve. Winters and Benson are
going along now like a house afire, and if they are at top speed when
the season begins I'll see the pennant won or lost from my seat on the
bench."
"Neither one of them has anything on you," maintained Tom stoutly. "Of
course they are, in a certain sense, veterans, and then, too, they have
the advantage of having faced before many of the players on the other
teams. That counts for a lot, but you must remember that Hinsdale has
caught for the last two years, and he knows these things as well as the
pitchers. He knows their weak and their strong points, the ones that
simply kill a low outcurve, but are as helpless as babies before a high
fast one. He could quickly put you on to the batters' weakness. But
outside of that you've got them faded. You have more speed than Winters
and more endurance than Benson. Neither one of them has a license to
beat you at any stage of the pitching game."
"Perhaps it's your friendship rather than your judgment that's talking
now, Tom," smiled Bert.
"No," said Dick, "it isn't. Tom's right. You've got everything that they
have, and then some. Winters' rise ball is certainly a peach, but it
hasn't the quick jump yours has just before it gets to the plate. My eye
isn't so bad, but in practice I bat under it every time. Even when I
don't miss it altogether, I hit it on the underside and raise a fly to
the fielders. It's almost impossible to line it out. And your fast high
one is so speedy that a fellow backs away from the plate when he sees it
coming. I don't know that your outcurve is any better than Benson's, but
you certainly have it under better control."
"On the dead quiet," he went on, "I'm rather worried about Winters this
year, anyway. I think he's gone back. He's in with a fast bunch, and I
fear has been going the pace. His fine work in the box last year made
him a star and turned his head. It brought him a lot of popularity, and
I'm afraid he isn't the kind that can stand prosperity. He doesn't go at
his work in the right spirit this year. You all saw how he shirked the
other day when we were training for wind."
They readily recalled the incident to which Dick alluded. The practice
had been strenuous that day, but the coach had been insistent. As a wind
up, he had called for a run around the track to perfect their wind and
endurance, as well as to get off some of the superfluous flesh that
still interfered with their development. The players were tired, but, as
the trainer didn't ask them to do what he was unwilling to do himself,
they lined up without protest and trotted behind him around the track.
At one place, there was a break in the fence which had not yet been
repaired. Twice they made the circuit of the track, and some of them
were blowing hard, when the relentless leader started on the third
round. As they came abreast of the break, Winters, with a wink, slipped
out of the line and got behind the fence. Here he stayed, resting, while
the others jogged along. They made two circuits more, and when they came
to where he was, Winters, fresh as a daisy, and grinning broadly,
slipped into line again, and trotted along as though nothing had
happened. The joke seemed certainly on the coach, who hadn't once
turned his head, but pounded steadily along, in apparent unconsciousness
that one of his sheep had not been following his leader. At the bench,
after the sixth round, he slowed up.
"Good work, boys," he said pleasantly, "that makes six full laps for all
of us except Winters. We'll wait here, while he takes his other two."
The grin faded from Winters' face, to be replaced by a hot flush, as his
eyes fell before the steady look of the coach. There was no help for it,
however. He had been caught "red-handed," and with a sheepish glance at
his laughing comrades, he started on his lonely run around the course
while they stood and watched him. Twice he made the circuit and then
rejoined his companions. The coach said nothing more, as he felt that
the culprit had been punished enough, but the story was too good to
keep, and Winters was "joshed" unmercifully by his mates. The incident
deepened the general respect felt for the coach, and confirmed the
conviction that it was useless to try to fool him, as he had "eyes in
the back of his head."
He certainly needed all his keenness, in order to accomplish the task he
had set himself. The time was wearing away rapidly, and before long he
would have to rejoin his own team for the championship season. There had
been a good deal of rain, and practice in the field had been impossible
for days at a time.
To be sure he had the "cage" for use in rainy weather. This was a large
rectangular enclosure, perhaps twice as long as the distance from the
pitcher's box to home plate. The sides were made of rope that stopped
the batted balls. There was ample room for battery work, and here, in
bad weather, the pitchers and catchers toiled unceasingly, while the
other players cultivated their batting eye, and kept their arms limber
by tossing the ball about. But, at best, it was a makeshift, and did not
compare for a moment with work in the open air on the actual diamond.
And the days that now remained for that were distressingly few.
So he drove them on without mercy. No galley slaves worked harder than
these college boys for their temporary master. He was bound that not an
ounce of superfluous flesh should remain on their bones at the beginning
of the season. Gradually his work began to tell. The soreness and
lameness of the first days disappeared. Arnica and witch hazel were no
longer at a premium. The waistbands went in and the chests stood out.
Their eyes grew bright, their features bronzed, their muscles toughened,
and before long they were like a string of greyhounds tugging at the
leash.
He noted the change with satisfaction. Superb physical condition was the
first essential of a winning team. His problem, however, was far from
solved. It was only changed. He had made them athletes. Now he must make
them ball players.
Individually they were that already, in the purely mechanical features
of the game. They were quick fielders, speedy runners and heavy batters.
But they might be all these, and yet not be a winning team. They needed
team work, the deft fitting in of each part with every other, the quick
thinking that, in a fraction of a second, might change defeat to
victory.
His quick eye noticed, in the practice games, how far they came short of
his ideal. Flynn, the other day, when he caught that fly far out in
center, had hurled it into the plate when he had no earthly chance of
getting the runner. If he had tried for Ames, who was legging it to
third, it would have been an easy out. A moment later Ames counted on a
single.
Then there was that bonehead play, when, with Hinsdale on third and
Hodge on first, he had given the signal for Hodge to make a break for
second, so as to draw a throw from the catcher and thus let Hinsdale get
in from third. Hodge had done his part all right, but Hinsdale had been
so slow in starting that the catcher was waiting for him with the ball,
when he was still twenty feet from the plate.
He hated to think of that awful moment, when, with the bases full, White
had deliberately tried to steal second, where Dick was already roosting.
The crestfallen way in which White had come back to the bench, amid
ironical cheers and boisterous laughter, was sufficient guarantee that
that particular piece of foolishness would never be repeated. Luckily,
it had only been in a practice game. Had it happened in a regular
contest, a universal roar would have gone up from one end of the college
world to the other, and poor White would never have heard the last of
it.
The coach was still sore from this special exhibition of "solid ivory,"
when, after their bath and rubdown, he called the boys together.
"Now, fellows," he said, "I am going to talk to you as though you were
human beings, and I want you to bring your feeble intelligence to bear,
while I try to get inside your brain pans. They say that Providence
watches over drunkards, fools and the Congress of the United States. I
hope it also includes this bunch of alleged ball players. If ever any
aggregation needed special oversight, this crowd of ping-pong players
needs it. Now, you candidates for the old ladies' home, listen to me."
And listen they did, while he raked them fore and aft and rasped and
scorched them, until, when he finally let them go, their faces were
flaming. No one else in college could have talked to them that way and
"gotten away with it." But his word was law, his rule absolute, and,
behind his bitter tongue, they realized his passion for excellence, his
fierce desire of winning. It was sharp medicine, but it acted like a
tonic, and every man left the "dissecting room," as Tom called it,
determined from that time on he would play with his brains as well as
his muscles.
As the three chums went toward their rooms, they were overtaken by
"Reddy," the trainer of the team. With the easy democracy of the ball
field, he fell into step and joined in the conversation.
"Pretty hot stuff the old man gave you, just now," he said, with his
eyes twinkling.
"Right you are," replied Bert, "but I guess we deserved it. I don't
wonder that he was on edge. It certainly was some pretty raw baseball he
saw played to-day."
"Sure," assented Reddy, frankly. "It almost went the limit. And yet," he
went on consolingly, "it might have been worse. He only tried to steal
one base with a man already on it. Suppose he'd tried to steal three."
The boys laughed. Reddy was a privileged character about the college.
The shock of fiery hair, from which he had gained his nickname, covered
a shrewd, if uneducated, mind. He had formerly been a big league star,
but had fractured an ankle in sliding to second. The accident had only
left a slight limp, but it had effectually destroyed his usefulness on
the diamond. As a trainer and rubber, however, he was a wonder, and for
many years he had been connected with the college in that capacity. It
was up to him to keep the men in first-class condition, and he prided
himself on his skill. No "charlie horse" could long withstand his
ministrations, and for strains and sprains of every kind he was famous
in the athletic world. His interest in and loyalty to the college was
almost as great as that of the students themselves. He was in the full
confidence of the coach, and was regarded by the latter as his right
hand. If one was the captain of the college craft, the other was the
first mate, and between them they made a strong combination. He was an
encyclopedia of information on the national game. He knew the batting
and fielding averages of all the stars for many years past, and his
shrewd comments on men and things made him a most interesting companion.
His knowledge of books might be limited, but his knowledge of the
world was immense. He had taken quite a fancy to Bert and shared the
conviction of the coach that he was going to be a tower of strength to
the team. He never missed an opportunity of giving him pointers, and
Bert had profited greatly by his advice and suggestion. Now, as they
walked, he freed his mind along the same lines followed by the coach a
little earlier.
"That was the right dope that Ainslee gave you, even if it was mixed
with a little tabasco," he said. "It's the 'inside stuff' that counts.
I'd rather have a team of quick thinkers than the heaviest sluggers in
the league.
"Why," he went on, warming to his subject, "look at the Phillies when Ed
Delehanty, the greatest natural hitter that ever lived, was in his
prime. Say, I saw that fellow once make four home runs in one game
against Terry of the Brooklyns. I don't suppose that a heavier batting
bunch ever existed than the one they had in the league for three
seasons, handrunning. Besides Ed himself, there was Flick and Lajoie,
and a lot of others of the same kind, every one of them fence-breakers.
You couldn't blame any pitcher for having palpitation of the heart when
he faced that gang. They were no slouches in the field, either. Now,
you'd naturally think that nobody would have a chance against them.
Every year the papers touted them to win the pennant, but every year,
just the same, they came in third or fourth at the end of the season.
Now, why was it they didn't cop the flag? I'll tell you why. It was
because every man was playing for himself. He was looking out for his
record. Every time a man came to the bat, he'd try to lose the ball
over the back fence. They wouldn't bunt, they wouldn't sacrifice, they
wouldn't do anything that might hurt that precious record of theirs. It
was every man for himself and no man for the team, and they didn't have
a manager at the head of them that was wise enough or strong enough to
make them do as they were told.
"Now, on the other hand, look at the White Sox. Dandy fielders, but for
batting--why, if they fell in the river they wouldn't strike the water.
All around the league circuit, they were dubbed the 'Hitless Wonders.'
But they were quick as cats on their feet, and just as quick in knowing
what to do at any stage of the game. What hits they did get counted
double. They didn't get men on the bases as often as the Phillies, but
they got them home oftener, and that's what counts when the score is
added up. That sly old fox, Comiskey, didn't miss a point. It was a bunt
or a sacrifice or a long fly to the outfield or waiting for a base on
balls or anything else he wanted. The men forgot about themselves and
only thought of the team, and those same 'Hitless Wonders' won the
pennant in a walk.
"Now, that's just the difference between dumb and brainy playing and
that's what makes Ainslee so hot when he sees a bonehead stunt like that
one this afternoon."
"I suppose that you saw no end of that inside stuff pulled off while you
were in the big league," said Tom. "What do you think is the brightest
bit of thinking you ever saw on the ball field?"
"Well," said Reddy musingly, "that's hard to tell. I've certainly seen
some stunts on the diamond that would make your hair curl. Some of them
went through, and others were good enough to go through, even if they
didn't. It often depends on the way the umpire looks at it. And very
often it gets by, because the umpire doesn't look at it at all. Many's
the time I've seen Mike Kelly of the old Chicagos--the receiving end of
the ten-thousand-dollar battery--cut the corners at third when the
umpire wasn't looking, and once I saw him come straight across the
diamond from second to the plate without even making a bluff of going to
third. Oh, he was a bird, was Mike.
"I shall never forget one day when the Chicagos were behind until they
came to the plate for their ninth inning. They were a husky bunch of
swatters and never more dangerous than when they were behind. Well,
they made two runs in that inning, tieing the score and then putting
themselves one to the good. The Bostons came in for their last turn at
the bat and by the time two men were out they had the bases full.
One safe hit to the outfield was all they needed, and they sent a
pinch-hitter to the bat to bring in the fellows that were dancing about
on the bases.
"It was a dreary, misty afternoon, and, from the grandstand you could
hardly see the fielders. Mike was playing right that day, and the man at
the bat sent a screaming liner out in his direction. He saw at a glance
that he couldn't possibly get his hands on it, but he turned around and
ran with the ball, and, at the last moment, jumped into the air and
apparently collared it. He waved his hands as a signal that he had it
and made off to the clubhouse. The umpire called the batter out and the
game was over. His own teammates hadn't tumbled to the trick, until Mike
told them that he hadn't come anywhere near the ball, and that at that
very moment it was somewhere out on the playing field. It came out
later, and there was some talk of protesting the game, but nothing ever
came of it. When it came to quick work, Mike was certainly 'all wool and
a yard wide.'"
The boys did not express an opinion as to the moral quality of the
trick, and Reddy went on:
"Perhaps the slickest thing I ever saw was one that Connie Mack put over
on old Cap Anson of the Chicagos, and, believe me, anybody who could
fool him was going some. His playing days are over now, and all you kids
know of him is by reputation, but, take him by and large, a better
player never pulled on a glove. Well, as I was saying, Anson was playing
one day in Pittsburgh and Mack was catching against him. It had been a
game of hammer and tongs right up to the last inning. The Chicagos, as
the visiting team, came to the bat first in the ninth inning. The
Pittsburghs were one ahead and all they needed to win was to hold the
Chicagos scoreless. Two were out and two on bases when old 'Pop' Anson
came to the bat. There wasn't a man in the league at that time that a
pitcher wouldn't rather have seen facing him than the 'Big Swede.'
However, there was no help for it, and the twirler put on extra steam
and managed to get two strikes on him. The old man set himself for the
third, with fierce determination to 'kill' the ball or die in the
attempt. Mack walked up to the pitcher and told him to send in a ball
next time, and then, the instant the ball was returned to him, to put
over a strike. The pitcher did as directed, and sent over a wide one.
Of course, Anson didn't offer to hit it, but Mack caught it.
"'Third strike,' he said, throwing off his mask and shin-guards, as
though the game were over.
"'Third strike nothing,' growled Anson. 'What's the matter with you,
anyway?' and the umpire also motioned Connie back to the plate.
"'Why, wasn't that a strike?' said Mack, coming back to the plate. At the
same instant the pitcher sent a beauty right over the center of the
rubber. Mack caught it, and before Anson knew the ball had been pitched,
the umpire said, 'You're out.'
"Holler? Say, you could have heard him from Pittsburgh to Chicago. It
went, though. You see, Anson, looking at Connie without his mask or
shin-guards, was figuring that he would have to get into all that
harness again, before the game went on. He took too much for granted,
and it doesn't pay to do that in baseball. I don't suppose he ever
forgave Connie for making him look like thirty cents before that holiday
crowd. And I don't suppose that Mack would have taken a thousand dollars
for the satisfaction it gave him to tally one on the old man.
"You fellows wouldn't believe me, I suppose, if I told you I seen a dog
pull some of that inside stuff once? Sure, I ain't fooling, although of
course the pup didn't know he was doing it. It was in Detroit when a
big game was on and the home team was at the bat. They needed three runs
to win and there were two men on bases. The batter lined out a peach
between left and center. There were no automobiles in those days, but a
whole raft of carriages were down back of center field. A big coach dog
saw the ball coming and chased it, got it in his mouth and scooted down
under the bleachers, the left and center fielders yelling to him to drop
it and racing after him like mad. He was a good old rooter for the home
team, all right, though, and, by the time they got it away from him, the
whole bunch had crossed the plate and the game was won. The home team
boys found out whom he belonged to, and clubbed together and got him a
handsome collar.
"Another funny thing I seen one time that makes me laugh whenever I
think of it," continued Reddy, "was when a high fly was hit to left
field with three men on bases. It ought to have been an easy out and
nine times out of ten would have been. But, as luck would have it, the
ball slipped through the fielder's fingers and went into the outside
upper pocket of his baseball shirt. He tried desperately to get it out,
but it was wedged in so tight he couldn't. All this time the men were
legging it around the bases. At last, Mitchell--that was the fellow's
name--ran in toward third and caught the batter, just as he was
rounding the base on his way to home. He grabbed him and hugged him
tight and they fell to the ground together. Say, you'd have died
laughing if you'd seen them two fellows wrestling, Mitchell trying to
force the other man's hand into his pocket so that the ball could touch
him, and the other fighting to keep his hand out. It was a hard thing
for the umpire to settle, but he finally let the run count on the ground
that Mitchell had no right to interfere with him. Poor old Mitchell was
certainly up against it that day, good and plenty."
By this time they had reached the college dormitory, and the boys
reluctantly bade Reddy good-by. They had been immensely amused and
interested by his anecdotes, although they did not altogether agree with
his easy philosophy of life. To Reddy all was fair in love or war or
baseball, provided you could "put it over."
"But it isn't," said Bert, as they went upstairs. "Strategy is one thing
and cheating is another. It's all right to take your opponent unawares
and take advantage of his carelessness or oversight. If he's slow and
you're quick, if he's asleep and you're awake, you've got a perfect
right to profit by it. Now take for instance that case of Mack and
Anson. Whether that was a strike or a ball was a thing to be decided
by the umpire alone, and Anson ought not to have paid any attention
to Mack's bluff. Then, too, because Mack usually put on his mask and
shin-guards before the ball was pitched, Anson had no right to assume
that he would _always_ do so. Mack acted perfectly within his rights,
and Anson was simply caught napping and had no kick coming.
"But when you come to 'cutting the corners' and pretending that the ball
was caught when it wasn't, that isn't straight goods. It's 'slick,' all
right, but it is the slickness of the crooked gambler and the three-card
monte man. It's playing with marked cards and loaded dice, and I don't
care for any of it in mine."
"Right you are, old fellow," said Tom, heartily, clapping him on the
back, "my sentiments to a dot. I want to win and hate to lose, but I'd
rather lose a game any day than lie or cheat about it."
Which he was to prove sooner than he expected.