TAKING HIS MEDICINE
The team had been tested almost to its limit this season, and the strain
was beginning to show. Each player was worked up to the highest possible
nervous tension, and no man can last long under such conditions. Even
with professional players this condition becomes very apparent in a
hard-fought series, and so was even more plainly seen among these
comparatively inexperienced contestants for the honor of their alma
mater.
Another thing that tended strongly to demoralize them was the fact of
Bert's being unable to play. His burned hands, while rapidly mending,
were still unable to grip the ball. Of course, they knew that this was
merely a temporary calamity, but even to have the pitcher on whom they
had based their strongest hopes out of commission for almost two weeks
meant much to them. Winters and Benson, while undoubtedly good pitchers,
fell considerably short of the standard set by Bert, and all the players
realized this.
Of course, it may be argued that they should not allow themselves to be
affected by anything of this kind, but no one who has not actually been
a ball player can fully realize what it means to a team, when they are
nearing the end of a neck and neck struggle, to be deprived of their
star pitcher. It must also be remembered that Bert, while not by any
means as good a batter as he was a pitcher, was nevertheless a strong
batsman, and had the happy faculty of "swatting them out" at the time
when they would do the most good. On this account, his loss was felt
more keenly than would have ordinarily been the case.
Another thing, but one that was never openly alluded to, was the
knowledge that each boy had, that Winters was not the pitcher he had
been once upon a time. His breaks from training were becoming more and
more frequent, and all that the coach could say in the way of threat or
entreaty seemed to have no effect. Winters had gotten in with a fast
set, and no argument or persuasion could induce him to see the error of
his way.
Reddy did not dare to remove him from the team, however, as that would
have left him only one pitcher of any value, namely, Benson, and nobody
knew better than the wily trainer that Benson could seldom be depended
on to pitch good ball during an entire game.
Again and again Reddy had cursed the fate that deprived him of his star
pitcher at such a crucial time, but of course, as is usually the case,
that did little good. It was too late now to try to develop another
pitcher, even had he known of anyone capable of training for that
important post, which he did not.
So he just set his jaw, and resolved to make the best of what he had. Up
to to-day, which was destined to see one of the season's most important
battles, he had managed, by dint of skillful coaching and substituting
at critical moments, to maintain the lead that the team had gained
largely through Bert's remarkable work in the box.
He felt that if the team won to-day's game, they would have a comfortable
lead until Bert was able to resume his pitching. If, on the other hand,
they lost, he realized that they would have small chance of winning the
championship. No one would have suspected from his outward appearance
what thoughts were going on in his mind, but if they had, they would have
been astonished. To the players, and to everybody else, he presented such
a calm and composed exterior that the boys felt more confident the minute
they saw him. As the time for the game drew near, he gathered the boys
together in the clubhouse, and proceeded to make a little speech and give
them some valuable advice.
They listened attentively, and went out on the diamond with a do-or-die
expression written on their faces. Needless to say, Bert was there, and
nobody felt worse than he over his misfortune.
"Gee!" he exclaimed to Tom, ruefully, "this is certainly what you might
call tough luck. Here I am, with my arm feeling better than it ever did
before, and just on account of a few pesky burns I can't pitch."
"It's tough, all right, and no mistake," sympathized Dick, "but never
mind. If Winters can only do half way decent pitching, we'll come
through all right."
Bert said nothing, not wishing to discourage his friend, but to himself
he admitted that things had a rather bad aspect. The team they were to
play to-day was noted for its heavy batters, and he knew that it would
take a pitcher in the most perfect condition to stand the strain of nine
long innings against such sluggers. His thoughts were not of the
pleasantest, therefore, as he sat on the bench, nibbling a blade of
grass, and watched the practice of the two teams with critical eyes.
Murray, reputed to be the heaviest hitter on the Maroon team, was
knocking out flies to his teammates, and Bert was forced to admire the
confident way in which he lined the ball out, without ever missing a
swing.
His own team was playing with snap and ginger, though, and this fact
comforted Bert somewhat.
"Well," he thought to himself, "the teams seem to be about equally
matched, and if nothing out of the ordinary happens, we ought to have a
good show to win. I only hope that all the rumors I've been hearing
about Winters lately are not true."
As Bert had seen, both teams showed up well in the preliminary practice,
and each made several plays that evoked applause from the grandstands
and bleachers.
Soon the umpire walked out on the field, adjusting his mask and
protecting pads, and the crowds settled down for a couple of hours of
what they realized would be intense excitement.
"Battery for the Maroons, Moore and Hupfel!" shouted the umpire. "For
the Blues, Winters and Hinsdale!"
As they were the visitors to-day, the Blues of course went to the bat
first. They were quickly retired by snappy work and took the field.
Winters seemed in fine form, and struck out the opposing batters in good
shape, only one getting a hit, and he was caught stealing.
This ended the first inning, with no runs scored for either side, and
Reddy began to feel more confident. However, little could be prophesied
regarding the outcome at this early stage of the game, and Reddy walked
over to the bench and sat down beside Bert.
"Well, my boy," he said, "if they don't get any more hits off us than
they did in that inning, we won't be so bad off, after all. Winters
seems to be in fine shape, don't you think?"
"He certainly does," replied Bert, "he's holding them down in fine
style. You couldn't ask for better pitching than he's putting up."
"Ye couldn't, fer a fact," said the trainer, and both settled back to
see what the Blues would accomplish in their turn at bat.
Dick was next on the batting list, and he strode to the plate with his
usual jaunty step. He waited two balls before he got one to suit him,
but then landed out a hot grounder, and just managed to beat it to first
base.
"That's good! that's good!" yelled Reddy, dancing about on one leg. "The
boys are beginning to get their batting caps on now, and it won't be
long before we have a string of runs longer than a Dachshund. Go to it,
Blues, go to it!"
Poor Reddy! His high hopes were doomed to fall quickly. Hodge struck
out, and with lightning-like rapidity the catcher snapped the ball down
to second. For once, Dick was the fraction of a second too slow, and
the ball beat him to the base by a hair's breadth.
"Two out!" yelled the umpire, and Reddy dropped into his seat with a
dismal groan. White, the strong hitting shortstop, was the next batsman,
but after knocking two high flies, he was struck out by a fast inshoot.
However, Winters appeared to be pitching airtight ball, and while a few
feeble flies were garnered from his delivery, the fielders had no
difficulty in catching them.
When the home team came to bat, their first man up, who happened to be
the catcher, cracked out a swift, low fly between Winters and Tom, and
tore around to second base before the ball came in from the field.
To Reddy's keen eyes, studying carefully every phase and mood of game
and man, it was apparent that Winters' confidence was shaken a little by
this occurrence. His pitching to the next batter was wild, and he
finally gave the man a base on balls. Bert leaned forward intently, and
his eyes were fairly glued on the players. Oh, if he could only go
out there and pitch for the rest of the game! But he knew this was
impossible with his hands in the condition they were, and he uttered an
impatient exclamation.
With two men on bases and none out, matters began to look doubtful for
the devoted Blues. The very first ball Winters pitched to the next
batter was hit for a long two-bagger, and the runner on second cantered
leisurely home.
Now even the fans in the bleachers realized that something was amiss
with the pitcher of the Blues, and those opposed to them set up an
uproarious clapping and hooting in the hope of rattling him still
further. This was not wholly without effect, and Bert noted with
ever-growing anxiety that Winters appeared to be unable to stand quietly
in the box during the pauses in the game, but fidgeted around nervously,
at one time biting his nails, and at another, shifting constantly from
one foot to the other. A meaner nature than our hero might have been
glad to note the discomfiture of one whom he had every reason to
dislike, but Bert was not built after such a pattern. His one thought
was that the college would suffer heavily if this game were lost, and he
hardly gave a thought to his private grievances. The college was the
thing that counted.
Winters, by a great effort, tightened up a little after this, and with
the help of snappy support retired the Maroons, but not before the
latter had garnered another precious run.
The visiting team did nothing, however, for although they got a runner
to third at one time, he was put out by a quick throw from pitcher to
first.
Thus ended the second inning, and to the casual observer it seemed as
though the teams were pretty evenly matched. To Reddy's practised eye,
however, it was apparent that the Blues had a little the edge on their
opponents, except in the matter of pitching. Here, indeed, it was hard
to tell who was the better pitcher, the Maroon boxman or Winters. Both
were pitching good ball, and Reddy realized that it would probably
narrow down to a question of which one had the greater staying power.
"If only we had young Wilson pitching," he thought to himself, "I would
breathe a whole lot easier. However, there's no use crossing a bridge
till you come to it, and I may be having all my worriment for nothin'.
Somethin' tells me, though, that we're goin' to have trouble before
this game is over. May all the Saints grant that I'm wrong."
For the next three innings, however, it appeared as though the trainer's
forebodings were without foundation. Both teams played with snap and
dash, and as yet only two runs had been scored.
At the beginning of the sixth inning, Tom was slated as the first man
up, and he walked to the plate filled with a new idea Bert had given
him. "Wait until about the fourth ball that that fellow pitches," Bert
had told him, "and then bounce on it good and plenty. The first two or
three balls he pitches are full of steam, but then, if nobody has even
struck at them, he gets careless, and puts one over that you ought to be
able to land on without any trouble. You just try that and see what
happens."
This Tom proceeded to do, and found that it was indeed as Bert had said.
The first ball pitched seemed good, but Tom let it go by, and had a
strike called on him. The next one was a ball, but the third one was a
hot curve that looked good, and ordinarily Tom would have taken a chance
and swung at it. Now, however, he was resolved to follow Bert's advice to
the letter, and so allowed the ball to pass him. "Gee, that guy's scared
stiff," someone yelled from the bleachers, and the crowd laughed. It
certainly did seem as though Tom had lost his nerve, and his teammates,
who were not in on the secret yet, looked puzzled. Tom paid no attention
to the shouts from the grandstand, and his well-known ability as a
"waiter" stood him in good stead. True to Bert's prediction, the pitcher
eased up a little when winding up for the next ball, and Tom saw that he
shared the general impression that he had lost his nerve. The ball proved
to be a straight, fast one, and Tom slugged it squarely with all the
strength in his body. Amid a hoarse roar from the watching thousands, he
tore around the bases and slid into third before he was stopped by White,
who was waiting for him.
"Gee, Tom!" ejaculated the excited and delighted shortstop. "How in time
did you ever think of such a clever trick. You sure fooled that pitcher
at his own game."
"It wasn't my idea, it was Bert's," said Tom, truthfully.
"Whoever's it was, it was a crackerjack one, at any rate," said White,
jubilantly. "If Flynn can only get a hit now we'll have a run, and it
looks as though we would need all that we can get."
Flynn, in accordance with instructions from Reddy, laid an easy bunt
down toward first base, and, although he was put out, Tom scurried over
the plate about two jumps in front of the ball, and the first run for
the Blues had been scored.
The small band of loyal rooters for the Blues struck up one of the
familiar college songs, and things looked bright for their team. The
opposing pitcher was not to be fooled again, however, and while Drake
was waiting for a ball to suit him he was struck out, much to the
delight of the hostile fans.
Thus at the end of the seventh inning the score stood two to one in
favor of the Maroons, and their pitcher was "as good as new," as he
himself put it.
Now Dick went to bat, and waited, with no sign of the nervousness that
was beginning to be manifested by his teammates, for a ball that was to
his liking. He let the first one go past, but swung hard at the second,
and cracked out a hot liner right at the pitcher. Most pitchers would
have let a smoking fly like that pass them, for fear of injuring their
hands, but evidently this boxman was not lacking in nerve. The ball
cracked into his outstretched mitt with a report like a pistol shot, and
he held on to it.
"Out!" shouted the umpire, and Dick, who had started to sprint to first,
walked to the bench with a disgusted air.
"Hang it all, anyway," he exclaimed disgustedly, "who'd have thought he
would stop that one? I could just see myself resting peacefully at
second base, and then he has to go and do a thing like that. A mean
trick, I call it."
Dick made a pretence of taking the matter in this light manner in order
to keep up the spirits of his teammates, but not by any means because he
felt happy about it. Quite the contrary.
Hodge, the right fielder, came up next, but only succeeded in popping up
a feeble fly that the third baseman caught easily after a short run in.
White waited patiently for one to suit him, but while he was waiting,
three strikes were called on him, and he retired in a crestfallen
manner.
In the meantime, Reddy had been talking to Winters. "How do you feel,
Winters?" he had inquired anxiously, "do you feel strong enough to hold
them down for the rest of this game?"
"Aw, don't worry yourself about me," Winters had replied in a surly
voice. "I'm all right. I never felt better in my life," but something in
his voice belied his words.
"All right," returned the trainer, "but remember this, my lad: if we put
Benson in now, we might be able to hold them down. I'm going to take
your say so, though, and let you pitch the next inning. If they get to
you, however, you'll have to take your medicine. It will be too late
then to put Benson in, and of course Wilson is in no shape to pitch.
Now, it's up to you."
"That's all right," growled Winters. Then he suddenly flared up: "I
suppose if that blamed Freshie were in condition you'd have put him in
to pitch long ago, wouldn't you?"
"That I would, my lad," returned Reddy, in an ominously quiet voice.
"Now, go in there and pitch, and don't give me any more back talk that
you'll be sorry for afterward."
Winters seemed about to make some hot reply to this, but after a
moment's hesitation, thought better of it, and turned sullenly away,
putting on his glove as he walked slowly to his position.
He vented his anger on the first few balls he pitched, and they went
over the plate with speed and to spare. This did not last long, however,
and after he had struck out one man his speed began to slacken. The
second man up landed a high fly into right field that Hodge, although he
made a brave try for it, was unable to get to in time. The runner raced
around to third before he was stopped by the warning cries of his
teammates.
"We've got 'em going! We've got 'em going!" chanted the home rooters in
one mighty chorus, and Winters scowled at them viciously.
The next five balls he pitched were "wild as they make 'em," and only
one strike was registered. In consequence the batter walked leisurely to
first, and as he neared Winters said, "Much obliged, old chap." If looks
could have killed, Winters would surely have been a murderer, but
fortunately it takes more than that to kill a ball player, and so the
game went on without interruption.
The following batter made a clever sacrifice bunt, and the man on third
brought home a run, while the one on first reached second.
"Gee, it's all over now, I'm afraid," groaned Bert to himself. "Winters
is up in the air sky high, and after their argument Reddy probably will
not put Benson in, because he's cold and it would do no good. We'll be
baked brown on both sides before this game is finished."
And Bert was not far wrong. The Maroons landed on Winters "like a ton of
brick," as Tom afterward said, and proceeded to wipe up the field with
him. The game became a massacre, and when the home team was finally
retired the score stood six to one in their favor.
When Winters came in from the field he was white and shaking, and Reddy
felt sorry for him. "Just the same," he reflected, "this will teach him
a lesson, maybe, and it may lead to his sticking more closely to
regulations and the training table. Midnight booze-fighting and good
ball playing don't mix very well." Reddy might have gone further, and
said that "booze fighting" did not mix very well with anything worth
while, and not have been far wrong.
Actuated by these reflections, the trainer resolved to make Winters
pitch out the rest of the game, as it was hopelessly lost anyway, in the
hope of making him reform.
The Blues were thoroughly demoralized by this time, and their
half-hearted attempts to score met with little success. Hinsdale, after
both the batsmen preceding him had been struck out, landed on the ball
for a long high fly into center, and got to second on it. He went no
further, however, as Tom lifted a high foul to the opposing catcher. Of
course this ended the game, as it would have been useless to finish the
ninth inning.
The Maroon rooters rose in a body and rent the air with their songs and
college yells. The loyal Blues present did their best, but could not
make themselves heard amidst the general uproar.
"The Blues haven't got a chance for the pennant now," exulted one rooter
to his friend. "They're on the downward road now, and will stay there
till the end of the season. You watch and see if they don't."
But there was a Freshman pitcher on the bench that knew better.