WINNING HIS SPURS
"Play ball!" shouted the umpire, and the buzz of conversation in the
grandstand ceased. All eyes were fastened on the two teams about to
enter on the first important game of the season, and people sat up
straight and forgot everything else, so great was their interest in the
forthcoming event.
All the games that the Blues had played up to this time had been with
teams over which they felt reasonably sure of winning a victory, but the
nine they had to face to-day was a very different proposition. Most of
the young fellows composing it were older and had had more experience
than the Blues, and the latter knew that they would have to do their
very utmost to win, if win they did. The thing they most relied on,
however, was the fact that their pitcher was very good, and they
believed that he would probably win the day for them.
Of course, they had a lot of confidence in themselves, too, but the
importance of a steady, efficient pitcher to any team can hardly be
exaggerated. It gives them a solid foundation on which to build up a
fast, winning team, and nobody realized this better than Mr. Ainslee,
their veteran coach.
"Only give me one good pitcher," he was wont to say, "and I'll guarantee
to turn out a team that will win the college championship."
The star on the college team this year, Winters, was, without doubt, an
exceptionally good pitcher. He had considerable speed and control, and
his curves could generally be counted on to elude the opposing batsmen.
He was the only son in a wealthy family, however, and, as a consequence,
had a very exaggerated idea of his own importance. He was inclined to
look down on the fellows who did not travel in what he called "his set,"
and often went out of his way to make himself disagreeable to them.
As Dick put it, "He liked to be the 'main squeeze,'" and he had been
much irritated over the way in which Bert had attracted the coach's
attention, and the consequent talk on the campus regarding the "new
pitcher." He and his friends made it a point to sneer at and discredit
these stories, however, and to disparage Bert on every possible
occasion.
The veteran trainer had not forgotten, however, and moreover he was
worried in secret about Winters. It was, of course, his duty to see
that all the players attended strictly to business, and let no outside
interests interfere with their training. Of late, however, he had heard
from several sources that Winters had been seen in the town resorts at
various times when he was supposed to be in bed, and Reddy knew, none
better, what that meant.
However, he hoped that the pitcher would not force him to an open
rebuke, and so had said nothing as yet. Nevertheless, as has been said,
he kept Bert in mind as a possible alternative, although he hoped that
he would not be forced to use him.
"He's had too little experience yet," he mused. "If I should put him in
a game, he'd go up like a rocket, most likely. Them green pitchers can't
be relied upon, even if he did fool Ainslee," and the veteran, in spite
of his worry, was forced to smile over the memory of how Bert had struck
the great coach out in practice.
Previous to the actual start of the game both teams had been warming up
on the field, and each had won murmurs of applause from the grandstands.
To the wise ones, however, it was apparent that the Blues were a trifle
shaky in fielding work, and many were seen to shake their heads
dubiously.
"The youngsters will have to do some tall hustling if they expect to
win from the visitors," one gray-haired man was heard to say, "but they
say they have a crackerjack pitcher, that's one thing in their favor."
"Yes, of course," agreed his friend, "but it's not only that; the other
fellows have had a whole lot more experience than our boys. And that
counts an awful lot when it comes to a pinch."
"You're right, it does," acquiesced the other; "however, there's no
use crossing the bridge till we come to it. We'll hope for the best,
anyway."
After a little more practice both teams retired to the clubhouse to make
their last preparations. Not many minutes later everything was in
readiness, and the teams trotted into their positions. Of course, the
visitors went to bat first, and then could be heard the umpire's raucous
cry of "Play ball!" that ushered in the game.
A wave of handclapping and a storm of encouraging shouts and yells swept
over the grandstand, and then ensued a breathless silence. The first two
balls Winters pitched were wild, but then he steadied down, and struck
the first batter out. The second man up swung wildly, but after having
two strikes called, popped an easy fly toward first base that Dick
smothered "easier than rolling off a log," as he afterwards said. The
third man met with no better fate, and Winters struck him out with
apparent ease.
As the fielders trotted in, the elderly gentleman who had entertained
such doubts before chuckled, "Well, now if our boys can only get in a
little stick work, and keep on holding them down like this, it looks as
though they might win, after all."
Tom was the first man up at the bat for the Blues. But the pitcher
opposed to him had lots of "stuff" on his delivery, and the best Tom
could do was to lift an easy foul that dropped into the catcher's glove.
The next man up was struck out, as was also the third, and the inning
ended without a run for either team.
From his seat on the substitutes' bench, Bert had watched the game up to
this point with eager eyes, and had felt that he would almost have given
ten years of his life to take part in it. He knew there was practically
no chance of this, however, and so with a sigh of regret settled back to
watch the further progress of the game.
The next two innings also passed without a run scored on either side,
and it became more and more evident as the game went on that this was to
be a pitchers' battle.
The first man up at bat for the visitors at the beginning of the fourth
inning was considered their heaviest hitter, and as he walked up to
the plate he was swinging two bats, one of which he threw aside as he
stepped to the plate. From the way he crouched in readiness for the ball
it could be seen that he meant business, and the coach called Winters
over to him.
"You want to be mighty careful what you feed this man," he whispered,
"and whatever you do, keep them low. He likes high balls, and if you
give him one up as high as his shoulder, he'll swat it, sure."
"Oh, you can bet he won't get a hit off me," replied Winters, carelessly.
"I've got that team eating out of my hand."
"Don't be too sure of that, my lad," warned the coach, but Winters only
smiled in a superior fashion and strolled back to the box.
The first ball he pitched was an incurve, but it looked good to the
batter, and he swung at it viciously. He missed it clean, and the umpire
shouted, "One strike!"
This made Winters a little careless, and the next ball he pitched was
just the one that the coach had warned him against. The batter took a
step forward, swung fiercely at the ball, and there was a sharp crack as
the ball and bat connected. The ball shot back with the speed of a
bullet, and the outfielders started in hopeless chase. Baird, the
batter, tore around the bases, and amid a veritable riot of cheering
from the visiting rooters and a glum silence from the home supporters,
charged across the sack for a home run!
Too late now Winters thought of Reddy's warning, and wished he had given
it more heed. He knew that in so close a contest as this promised to be,
one run would probably be enough to win the game, and this knowledge
made him nervous. The breaks from training that he had been guilty of
lately began to tell, also, and he commenced to lose confidence, a fatal
thing in a pitcher. However, he managed to get through the inning
somehow, and walked to the bench with a crestfallen air.
The coach forbore to reproach him just then, as he knew that it would
probably do more harm than good. However, he kept a sharp eye on him,
and inwardly was very much worried. He knew that Benson was not speedy
enough to stand much chance against as strong a team as they were now
playing, and though a great admirer of Bert, he did not know whether he
had the stamina to go a full game. He resolved to give Winters every
chance to recover himself, and prayed that he would be able to do so.
The first man of the home team to go to bat struck out on the hot curves
served up to him, but Dick connected with the ball for a clean two-base
hit. A great cheer went up at this feat, but it was destined to have
little effect. The second man fouled out and the third raised an easy
fly to the pitcher's box, and so Dick's pretty drive did them no good.
In the fifth inning Winters' pitching became more and more erratic, and
to Reddy's experienced eye it became evident that he would soon "blow
up." So he strolled over to the substitutes' bench and sat down beside
Bert.
"How does your arm feel to-day, Wilson?" he inquired. "Do you feel as
though you could pitch if I happened to need you?"
Bert's heart gave a great leap, but he managed to subdue his joy as he
realized the trainer's meaning, and answered, "Why, yes, I think I could
make out all right. Do you think you will need me?"
"Well, there's just a chance that I may," replied Reddy, "and I want you
to be ready to jump out and warm up the minute I give you the signal."
"I'll be ready, sir, I can promise you that," replied Bert, earnestly,
and the trainer appeared a little more hopeful as he turned away.
"I can at least count on that young chap doing the best that is in him,
at any rate," he thought; "he certainly doesn't look like a quitter to
me."
In their half of the fifth inning the home team was unable to make any
headway against the opposing pitcher's curves, which seemed to get
better and better as the game progressed. Dick felt, in some mysterious
way, that his team was losing heart, and his one hope was that the coach
would give Bert a chance to pitch. The boys, one after another, struck
out or lifted easy flies, and not one man reached first base.
The visitors now came to bat again, and the first ball Winters pitched
was slammed out into left field for a two-base hit. The next batter up
stepped to the plate with a grin on his face, and one of his teammates
called, "Go to it, Bill. Eat 'em alive. We've got their goat now."
The man thus adjured leaned back, and as Winters delivered a slow, easy
ball he swung viciously and sent a smoking grounder straight for the
pitcher's box. The ball passed Winters before he had time to stoop for
it, but White, the shortstop, made a pretty pick-up, and slammed the
ball to Dick at first. The ball arrived a second too late to put the
runner out, however, and in the meantime the first man had reached
third. Now was a crucial moment, and everything depended on the pitcher.
All eyes were fastened on him, but from something in his attitude Reddy
knew that he was on the verge of a breakdown. Nor was he mistaken in
this, for out of the next five balls Winters pitched, only one strike
was called. The rest were balls, and the umpire motioned to the batter
to take first base. Of course this advanced the man on first to second
base, thus leaving all the bases full and none out.
As Winters was winding up preparatory to delivering one of his erstwhile
famous drops, Reddy motioned to Bert, and in a second the latter was up
and had shed his sweater. He trotted over to where Reddy was standing,
and said, "You wanted me, didn't you?"
"Yes," replied Reddy, in a tense voice; "get Armstrong there"--motioning
toward the substitute catcher--"and warm up as quickly as you can. Take
it easy, though!" he commanded; "don't start in too hard! You might
throw your arm out on the first few balls. Just limber up gradually."
"All right, sir," replied Bert, and called to Armstrong.
In the meantime Winters had pitched two wild balls, and the visiting
rooters were yelling like maniacs. The third ball was an easy inshoot,
and the batter, making a nice calculation, landed it fair and square. It
flew over into left field, between the pitcher's box and third base, and
before it could be returned to the waiting catcher two runners had
crossed the plate. This made the score three to none in favor of the
visitors, with two men on base and none out. Matters looked hopeless
indeed for the home team, and one of the spectators groaned, "It's all
over now but the shouting, fellows. Winters is up higher than a kite,
and we've got nobody to put in his place. This game will just be a
slaughter from now on."
"How about young Wilson?" asked his friend. "I heard the other day that
he had showed up pretty well in practice. It looks now as though Reddy
meant to put him in the box. See, he's warming up over there right now."
"Ye gods and little fishes!" lamented the other. "Now we are cooked, for
fair. It was bad enough with Winters pitching, but now when they put
that greenhorn Freshie in, we'll just be a laughing stock, that's all.
Why doesn't the band play the funeral march?"
"Aw, wait and see," said the other. "I don't suppose we've got the ghost
of a show, but Dick Trent was telling me of some pretty good stunts this
boy Wilson has pulled off before this. He was telling me about a race in
which Wilson drove a car across the tape a winner after a dickens of a
grilling race. Any fellow that's got nerve enough to drive a racing auto
ought to be able to hold his own at baseball or anything else. You just
sit tight and don't groan so much, and he may show us something yet."
"Forget it, Bill, forget it," returned the other. "They've got our team
running, and they'll keep it running, take my word for it."
"That's right," agreed another, "we might as well go home now as to
wait for the slaughter. This game is over, right now."
"Hey, look at that!" yelled the first speaker, excitedly. "There goes
Wilson into the box. Three cheers for Wilson, fellows. Now! One! two!
three!"
The cheers were given by the faithful fans, but they had given up hope.
It was indeed, as the rooter had said, however, and Bert was actually
being given an opportunity to pitch in a big game, when he had only been
with the team a few months! Many a pitcher has been a substitute until
his junior year, and never had a chance like this one. And, to tell
the truth, Reddy himself would have been the last one to put what he
considered an inexperienced pitcher into the box, if he had had any
alternative. Now, however, it was a case of having no choice, because he
knew that the game was irretrievably lost if Winters continued to pitch,
so he put Bert in as a forlorn hope, but without any real expectation
that he would win.
As he noticed the confident way in which Bert walked to the box, however,
he plucked up courage a little, but immediately afterward shook his head.
"Pshaw," he thought, "they've got too big a lead on us. If Wilson can
only hold them down so that they don't make monkeys of us, it will be
more than I have a right to hope."
For all Bert's nonchalant air, however, it must not be thought that he
was not excited or nervous. He had had comparatively little baseball
experience in such fast company as this. He had learned, however,
to keep a cool and level head in times of stress, and he knew that
everything depended on this. So he just gritted his teeth, and when he
motioned to the catcher to come up and arrange signals, the latter
hardly suspected what a turmoil was going on under Bert's cool exterior.
"Just take it easy, kid," he advised. "Don't try to put too much stuff
on the ball at first, and pitch as though we were only practising back
of the clubhouse. Don't let those blamed rooters get you nervous,
either. Take your time before each ball, and we'll pull through all
right. Now, just get out there, and show them what you've got."
Bert took his position in the box, and the umpire tossed him a brand new
ball. Remembering the catcher's advice, he wound up very deliberately,
and pitched a swift, straight one square over the middle of the plate.
The batsman had expected the "greenhorn" to try a fancy curve, and so
was not prepared for a ball of this kind. "One str-r-rike!" yelled the
umpire, and the catcher muttered approvingly to himself. The batter,
however, took a fresh grip on his bat, and resolved to "knock the cover
off" the next one. Bert delivered a wide out curve, and the batter swung
hard, but only touched the ball, for a foul, and had another strike
called on him. "Aw, that kid's running in luck," he thought. "But watch
me get to him this time."
The next ball Bert pitched looked like an easy one, and the batter,
measuring its flight carefully with his eye, drew his bat back and swung
with all the weight of his body. Instead of sending the ball over the
fence, however, as he had confidently expected, the momentum of his
swing was spent against empty air, and so great was its force that the
bat flew out of his hand. "Three strikes," called the umpire, and amid a
riot of cheering from the home rooters the batter gazed stupidly about
him.
"By the great horn spoon," he muttered, under his breath, "somebody must
have come along and stolen that ball just as I was going to hit it. I'll
swear that if it was in the air when I swung at it that I would have
landed it."
As he walked to the bench the captain said, "What's the matter with you,
Al? Has the freshie got you buffaloed?"
"Aw, nix on that, cap," replied the disgruntled batter. "Wait until you
get up there. Either that kid's having a streak of luck or else he's got
that ball hypnotized. That last one he pitched just saw my bat coming
and dodged under it. I think he's got 'em trained."
"Why, you poor simp," laughed the captain; "just wait till I get up
there. Why, we all saw that last ball you bit on so nicely. It was a
cinch, wasn't it, boys?"
It sure was, they all agreed, but the unfortunate object of these
pleasantries shook his head in a puzzled way, and stared at Bert.
As it happened, the next batter was the same who had scored the home run
in the first part of the game, and he swaggered confidently to the
plate.
Bert had overheard what the coach had told Winters in regard to this
batter, so he delivered a low ball, which the batter let pass. "One
ball," called the umpire, and the captain of the visitors' team
remarked, "I thought he couldn't last. That was just a streak of
'beginner's luck,' that's all."
The next ball looked good to the batsman, and he lunged hard at the
white sphere. It was a tantalizing upshoot, however, and he raised an
easy fly to Dick at first. The man on second had become so absorbed in
watching Bert, that when Dick wheeled like lightning and snapped the
ball to second, he was almost caught napping, and barely got back in
time.
The home rooters, who up to now had been rather listless in their
cheering, now started in with a rush, and a veritable storm of cheering
and singing shook the grandstand. The coach drew a deep breath, and
began to allow himself the luxury of a little hope.
The third man up was the captain, who had boasted so of what he was
going to do to the "green" pitcher. As he rose to go to the plate he
remarked, "Watch me, now, Al, and I'll show you what it is like to swat
a ball over the fence."
He selected a very heavy bat, and stepped jauntily to the plate. Bert
had been warned to do his best against this man, as he was popularly
known as the "pitcher's hoodoo." He resolved to use his "fadeaway" ball
for all it was worth, and shook his head at all the catcher's signals
until the latter signaled for the fadeaway. He then nodded his head, and
wound up very deliberately. Then he pitched what looked like a straight,
fast ball to the expectant batsman. The latter gripped his bat and put
all his strength into what he fondly hoped would be a "homer." His bat
whistled as it cut the air, but in some mysterious way failed to even
touch the ball, which landed with a loud "plunk!" in the catcher's mitt.
A roar of derisive laughter went up from the rooters, and the captain
looked rather foolish. "That's mighty queer," he thought, "there must
be something the matter with the balance of this bat. I guess I'll try
another." Accordingly, he took a fresh bat, and waited with renewed
confidence for the next ball. This time he swung more carefully, but
with no better result. "Two strikes!" barked the umpire, and the
frenzied rooters stood up on their seats and yelled themselves hoarse.
"Wilson! Wilson! Wilson!" they roared in unison, and Bert felt a great
surge of joy go through him. His arm felt in perfect condition, and he
knew that if called upon he could have pitched the whole game and not
have been overtired. He handled the ball carefully, and fitted it in
just the right position in his hand. He resolved to try the same ball
once more, as he thought the batter would probably think that he would
try something else. This he did, and although the batter felt sure that
he had this ball measured to the fraction of an inch, his vicious swing
encountered nothing more substantial than air.
"Three strikes!" called the umpire, and amid a storm of cheering and
ridicule from the grandstand the discomfited batter slammed his bat down
and walked over to his teammates.
It was now Al's turn to crow, and he did so unmercifully. "What's the
matter, cap?" he inquired, grinning wickedly. "That kid hasn't got your
goat, has he? Where's that homer over the fence that you were alluding
to a few minutes ago?"
"Aw, shut up!" returned the captain, angrily. "That Freshie's got a
delivery that would fool Ty Cobb. There's no luck about that. It's just
dandy pitching."
"I could have told you that," said the other, "but I thought I'd let you
find it out for yourself. That boy's a wonder."
The home team trotted in from the field eagerly, and there was a look in
their eyes that Reddy was glad to see. "They've got some spirit and
confidence in them now," he thought. "I certainly think I've got a
kingpin pitcher at last. But I'd better not count my chickens before
they're hatched. He may go all to pieces in the next inning."
As they came in, Dick and Tom slapped Bert on the back. "We knew you
could do it, old scout!" they exulted. "What will old Winters' pals have
to say after this?"
Reddy said little, but scanned Bert's face carefully, and seemed
satisfied. "I guess you'll do, Wilson," he said. "We'll let you pitch
this game out, and see what you can do."
Sterling was the first man up, and he walked to the plate with a resolve
to do or die written on his face. He planted his feet wide apart, and
connected with the first pitched ball for a hot grounder that got him
safely to first base. The rooters cheered frantically, and the cheering
grew when it was seen that Bert was the next batter. This was more in
recognition, however, of his good work in the box. Heavy hitting is not
expected of a pitcher, and nobody looked to see Bert do much in this
line. While he had been watching the game from the bench, he had studied
the opposing pitcher's delivery carefully, and had learned one or two
facts regarding it. He felt sure that if the pitcher delivered a certain
ball, he would be able to connect with it, but was disappointed at
first. Bert bit at a wide out curve, and fouled the next ball, which was
a fast, straight one. But as the pitcher wound up for the third one
Bert's heart leaped, for he saw that this was going to be the ball that
he had been hoping for. He grasped his bat near the end, for Bert was
what is known as a "free swinger," and crouched expectantly. The ball
came to him like a shot, but he swung his bat savagely and clipped the
ball with terrific force toward third base. Almost before the spectators
realized that the ball had been hit, Bert was racing toward first base,
and the man already on base was tearing up the sod toward second.
The ball scorched right through the hands of the third baseman, and
crashed against the left field fence. The fielders scurried wildly after
it, but before they could return it to the infield, the man on first
base had scored, and Bert was on third.
"We'll win yet! We'll win yet! We'll win yet!" croaked a rooter, too
hoarse to yell any longer. "What's the matter with Wilson?" and in one
vast roar came the answer, "HE'S ALL RIGHT!"
The home team players were all dancing around excitedly, and they
pounded Hinsdale unmercifully on the back, for he was up next. "Bust a
hole through the fence, Hinsdale," they roared; "they're on the run now.
Go in and break a bat over the next ball!"
"Hin" fairly ran to the plate in his eagerness, and, as he afterward
said, he felt as though he "couldn't miss if he tried." The first ball
over the plate he slammed viciously at the pitcher, who stopped the
ball, but fumbled it a few seconds, thus giving him a chance to get to
first. The pitcher then hurled the ball to the home plate, in the hope
of cutting off Bert from scoring, but was a fraction of a second too
late, and Bert raced in with one more run.
The pitcher now tightened up, however, and put his whole soul into
stopping this winning streak, and it looked as though he had succeeded.
The next two batters struck out on six pitched balls, and the visiting
rooters had a chance to exercise their voices, which had had a rest for
some time. Drake was up next, and he knocked out a long fly that looked
good, but was pulled down by a fielder after a pretty run. This ended
the sixth inning, and the visitors were still one run ahead.
As Bert was about to go onto the field, Reddy said, "Don't take it too
hard, Wilson. Don't mind if they do hit a ball sometimes. If you try to
strike each man out without fail, it makes too great a tax on your arm.
Let the fielders work once in a while."
With these instructions in mind, Bert eased up a little in the next
inning, but the visitors had no chance to do any effective slugging.
Twice they got a man on first base, but each time Bert struck out the
following batter or only allowed him to hit the ball for an easy fly
that was smothered without any trouble.
Consequently the visitors failed to score that inning, but they were
still one run ahead, and knew that if they could hold Bert's team down
they would win the game.
The home team failed to "get to" the ball for anything that looked like
a run, and the seventh inning ended with no change in the score.
"Well, Wilson, it's up to you to hold them down," said Reddy, as the
players started for their positions in the beginning of the eighth
inning. "Do you feel as though you could do it?"
"Why, I'll do my best," replied Bert, modestly. "My arm feels stronger
than it did when I started, so I guess I'm good for some time yet, at
any rate."
"All right, go in and win," replied Reddy, with a smile, and Bert needed
no urging.
The first man to bat for the visitors was the one called Al, who had
first had a taste of Bert's "fadeaway." He swung viciously on the first
ball that Bert offered him, which happened to be a fast in-curve. By a
combination of luck and skill he managed to land the sphere for a safe
trip to first. The cover of the ball was found to be torn when it was
thrown back. Consequently, Bert had to pitch with a new ball, and failed
to get his customary control. Much to his disgust he pitched four balls
and two strikes, and the batter walked to first, forcing the man already
on first to second base.
"Yah, yah!" yelled a visiting rooter. "It's all over. He's blowing up!
Pitcher's got a glass arm! Yah! Yah!"
Others joined him in this cry, and Reddy looked worried. "That's enough
to rattle any green pitcher," he thought. "I only hope they don't know
what they're talking about, and I don't think they do. Wilson's a game
boy, or I'm very much mistaken."
"Don't let 'em scare you, Bert," called Dick, from first base. "Let 'em
yell their heads off if they want to. Don't mind 'em."
"No danger of that," returned Bert, confidently. "Just watch my smoke
for a few minutes, that's all."
Bert struck out the next batter in three pitched balls, and the clamor
from the hostile rooters died down. The next batter was the captain, and
he was burning for revenge, but popped a high foul to Hinsdale, the
catcher, and retired, saying things not to be approved. The third man
was struck out after Bert had had two balls called on him, and this
ended the visitors' half of the eighth inning.
The home team could make no better headway against the visitors'
pitching and team work, however, and the inning ended without a tally.
The score stood three to two in the visitors' favor, and things looked
rather dark for the home boys.
At the beginning of the ninth the visitors sent a pinch hitter, named
Burroughs, to the plate to bat in place of Al, who by now had an almost
superstitious fear of Bert's delivery, and declared that "he couldn't
hit anything smaller than a football if that Freshie pitched it."
Burroughs was hampered by no such feelings, however, and, after two
strikes had been called on him, he managed to connect with a fast,
straight ball and sent it soaring into the outfield. It looked like an
easy out, but at the last moment the fielder shifted his position a
little too much, and the ball dropped through his fingers. Before he
could get it in, the runner had reached third base, where he danced
excitedly and emitted whoops of joy.
Bert felt a sinking sensation at his heart, as he realized how much
depended on him. The next man up made a clever bunt, and although he was
put out, Burroughs reached home ahead of the ball, bringing in another
run.
He was rewarded with a storm of applause from the visiting rooters, and
it seemed as though all hope had departed for the home team.
With the next batter Bert made unsparing use of his fadeaway, and struck
him out with little trouble. The third man shared the same fate, but it
seemed as though the game were irretrievably lost. A two-run lead in the
ninth inning seemed insurmountable, and Reddy muttered things under his
breath. When the boys came trooping over to the bench, he said, "What's
the matter with you fellows, anyway? What good does it do for Wilson to
hold the other team down, if you don't do any stick work to back him up?
Get in there now, and see if you can't knock out a few runs. A game is
never finished until the last half of the ninth inning, and you've got
a good chance yet. Go to it."
Every chap on the team resolved to make a run or die in the attempt, and
Reddy could see that his speech had had some effect.
Dick was the first batter up, and he selected a heavy "wagon tongue" and
stepped to the plate. The pitcher may have been a little careless, but
at any rate Dick got a ball just where he wanted it, and swung with
all his strength. The ball fairly whistled as it left the bat and
dashed along the ground just inside the right foul line. Dick sprinted
frantically around the bases, and got to third before he was stopped by
Tom, who had been waiting for him. "No further, old sock," said Tom,
excitedly. "That was a crackerjack hit, but you could never have got
home on it. Gee! if Hodge will only follow this up we've got a chance."
Hodge was a good batter, and he waited stolidly until he got a ball that
suited him. Two strikes were called on him, and still he waited. Then
the pitcher sent him a long out curve, and Hodge connected with the ball
for a safe one-bag hit, while Dick raced home. It looked bright for the
home team now, but the next batter struck out, and although Hodge made a
daring slide to second, a splendid throw cut him off.
Sterling was up next, and on the third pitched ball he managed to plant
a short drive in left field that got him safely to first base. Then it
was Bert's turn at the bat, and a great roar greeted him as he stepped
to the plate.
"Win your own game, Wilson," someone shouted, and Bert resolved to do
so, if possible.
He tried to figure out what the pitcher would be likely to offer him,
and decided that he would probably serve up a swift, straight one at
first. He set himself for this, but the pitcher had different ideas,
and sent over a slow drop that Bert swung at, a fraction of a second
too late. "Strike," called the umpire, and the hostile fans yelled
delightedly. The next one Bert drove out for what looked like a good
hit, but it turned out to be a foul. "Two strikes," barked the umpire,
and some of the people in the grandstand rose as if to leave, evidently
thinking that the game was practically over.
Bert watched every motion of the pitcher as he wound up, and so was
pretty sure what kind of a ball was coming. The pitcher was noted for
his speed, and, almost at the moment the ball left his hand, Bert swung
his bat straight from the shoulder, with every ounce of strength he
possessed in back of it. There was a sharp crack as the bat met the
ball, and the sphere mounted upward and flew like a bullet for the
center field fence.
As if by one impulse, every soul in the grandstand and bleachers rose to
his or her feet, and a perfect pandemonium of yells broke forth. The
fielders sprinted madly after the soaring ball, but they might have
saved themselves the trouble. It cleared the fence by a good ten feet,
and Bert cantered leisurely around the bases, and came across the home
plate with the winning run.
Then a yelling, cheering mob swept down on the field, and enveloped the
players. In a moment Bert and some of the others were hoisted up on
broad shoulders, and carried around the field by a crowd of temporary
maniacs. It was some time before Bert could get away from his
enthusiastic admirers, and join the rest of his teammates.
As he entered the dressing rooms, Reddy grasped his hand, and said,
"Wilson, you have done some great work to-day, and I want to congratulate
you. From now on you are one of the regular team pitchers."
"Thank you, sir," replied Bert, "but I don't deserve any special credit.
We all did the best we could, and that was all anybody could do."
So ended the first important game of the season, and Bert's position in
the college was established beyond all question. Winters' friends made
a few half-hearted efforts to detract from his popularity, but were met
with such a cold reception that they soon gave up the attempt, and Bert
was the undisputed star pitcher of the university team.