THROWN AWAY
On went the ball almost on a dead line to center, but rising as it
went as though it were endowed with wings. On and still on, as though
it would never stop. The centerfielder had cast one look at it, and
then he turned and ran toward the distant bleachers in the back of the
field. He took another look over his shoulder and then threw up his
hands in a gesture of despair.
The ball cleared the bleacher rail, still going strong, and finally
came to rest in the top row, where it was hastily gobbled up and
concealed by an enthusiastic bleacherite, anxious to retain a memento
of one of the longest hits ever made on the Chicago grounds.
Joe rounded first, going like a railroad train, but as he saw where the
ball was going he moderated his speed in order to conserve his wind and
just jogged around the bases until he reached the plate, where Barrett
had preceded him.
Again and again he was forced to doff his cap in response to the
shouts of the crowd, who had forgotten all partisanship for the moment
in the excitement of that mighty homer. And his teammates mauled and
pounded him until he laughingly made them desist, and made his way to
the bench, where McRae and Robbie were beaming.
“I’ve been thirty years in baseball, Joe,” said McRae, “and I’ve seen
lots of home runs. But if any one of them was finer than that whale of
a hit, I’ve forgotten it.”
“If it hadn’t been for the bleachers in the way, the ball would be
going yet,” grinned Robbie. “That swat will break Axander’s heart.”
But the heart of the Cub pitcher was made of stouter material than
Robbie gave it credit for, and Axander settled down and prevented
further scoring for that inning. But the Giants had two runs to the
good, and the way Joe was pitching made those two runs look as big as a
house.
For the next two and a half innings the game developed into a pitchers’
duel. Neither side was able to tally, although a scratch hit put a
Giant on first and a passed ball advanced him to second. It seemed
quite possible that the game would end with the score still two to none.
Joe came up again in the sixth, amid cries by the Giant rooters to
repeat. But Axander was going to take no more chances. The memory of
that screaming homer still lingered. The catcher stood wide of the
plate, and Axander deliberately pitched four bad balls, regardless of
the jeers of the crowd.
It was the finest kind of a compliment to Joe’s prowess, but he was not
looking for compliments. What he wanted was another crack at the ball.
There was no help for it, however, and he dropped his bat and trotted
down to first.
He watched Axander like a hawk, took a long lead off the bag, and on
the second ball pitched started to steal second. He would have made it
without difficulty, but the Cub catcher threw the ball to the right of
the bag, and the second baseman, in order to grab it, had to get in the
way of Joe. There was a mix-up as they came together, and both went
down. The baseman dropped the ball, and Joe managed to get his hand on
the base before the ball could be recovered.
But when Joe attempted to get up on his feet, his left leg gave way
under him, and he had to steady himself by catching hold of Holstein,
the second baseman. The latter looked at him in surprise.
“Trying to kid me?” he asked.
“Not at all,” replied Joe. “My leg’s gone back on me. Must have
wrenched or twisted it, I guess, when we came together.”
The umpire saw that something had happened and called time, while
McRae, Robbie, and the other men on the Giant team gathered around
their injured comrade in alarm and consternation.
“Nothing broken, is there, Joe?” cried McRae, as he came running out to
second.
“Nothing so bad as that,” answered Joe, summoning up a smile. “Guess
it’s only a sprain. But I’m afraid it puts me out of the running for
to-day. I can scarcely bear my weight on it.”
The club trainer, Dougherty, ran his hands over Joe with the dexterity
of an expert.
“No breaks,” he pronounced. “But a wrench to the leg and the ankle
sprained. No more work for you, Joe, for a week, at least. Here, some
of you fellows help me get him over to the clubhouse.”
“Maybe after a little rest and rubbing I can go on with the pitching,”
suggested Joe.
“Nothing doing,” replied Dougherty, laconically. “Get that right out of
your noddle. Your work’s done for the day.”
A rookie was put on second to run for Joe, and the latter was assisted
to the clubhouse, where Dougherty and his assistants set to work on the
leg and ankle at once.
Gloom so thick that it could have been cut with a knife came down on
the Giants’ bench. Here was another proof that the “jinx” was still
camping on their trail.
But there was no time for grizzling then, for the game had to go on.
Jim and Markwith were sent out to warm up, while the Giants finished
their half of the inning.
Joe’s hit had not gone for nothing, for Ledwith, the rookie, got to
third on a fielder’s choice, and came home on a long sacrifice fly to
center. Iredell swung viciously at the ball and sent up a towering
skyscraper that Axander was waiting for when it came down. The inning
was over, and, despite the injury to their star pitcher, another run
had been stowed away in the Giants’ bat bag.
McRae selected Jim to finish the game in his chum’s place.
“Go to it, Barclay, and show them what stuff you’re made of,”
admonished the manager. “The boys have given you a lead of three runs,
and all you’ve got to do is to hold those birds down.”
“I’ll pitch my head off to do it,” promised Jim.
He only permitted three men to face him in the Chicago’s sixth inning.
All the attempts of the Cub coaches and players to rattle him at the
send-off resulted in failure.
Mollocher, the first Cub at bat, let a speeder go past because it was a
trifle wide. The next was a slow curve that the umpire called a strike.
Mollocher looked surprised, but apart from glaring at the umpire made
no protest. He laced out at the next one and fouled it to the top of
the grandstand for a second strike. The next ball he hit on the upper
side, and it went for a harmless hopper to Barrett, who fielded him out
at first.
Greaves, who came next, refused to offer at the first, which was high
and went as a ball. The next cut the plate for a strike. He fouled the
next two in succession, and finally sent a looping fly to Renton at
third.
Lasker stood like a wooden man as Jim sent over a beauty for the first
strike. The second came over below his knees, and was a ball. He struck
at the next and missed, and then Jim fanned him with a slow outcurve
that he almost broke his back in reaching for.
It was good pitching, and showed that the Giants had more than one
string to their bow. The score was now 3 to 0 on even innings, and,
with only three more innings to go, it looked as though the Giants were
due to break their long run of hard luck.
“You’re doing fine, Jim,” encouraged Robbie. “Just keep that up and
we’ll not only beat ’em but rub it in by giving ’em a row of goose
eggs.”
“Knock wood,” cautioned McRae, giving three sharp raps with his
knuckles on the bench. “For the love of Pete, Robbie, cut out that kind
of talk. The game isn’t over yet by a long shot.”
Axander, as cool as an iceberg, put on extra speed and set down the
Giants in their half in one, two, three order. Not a man reached first,
and the last two were disposed of by the strike-out route.
“Stretch” was the word that ran through the stands as the Chicagos came
in for their half of the “lucky seventh,” and the crowd rose as one man
and stretched while cries of encouragement went up for their favorites.
The charm failed this time, however, for though they gathered one
hit off Jim, it counted for nothing, as the next three went out in
succession. Jim was certainly pitching airtight ball.
But in the latter half of the eighth, after the Giants had failed
to add to their score, there came one of the sudden changes that
illustrated once more the uncertainty of the national game.
The head of the Cubs’ batting order was up, and their supporters were
frantically urging them to do something.
Burton did his best, and sent up a high fly to Curry at right. It
looked as though it were made to order for the latter, who did not have
to budge from his tracks. The ball came down directly in his hands--and
he dropped it!
A mighty roar went up from the crowd, who had looked upon it as an easy
out, which it should have been, and Burton, who had slowed up a little,
put on speed, rounded first and started for second.
Curry, rattled by his error, fumbled at the ball, and when he did
recover it lined it in the direction of second. But it went wide of
Barrett, and though Jim, who was backing him up, caught and returned
it, Burton was already on the bag.
Gallagher, the next man up, popped a Texas leaguer that Burkett and
Barrett ran out for.
“I’ve got it,” cried Barrett.
“It’s mine,” shouted the burly first baseman.
Each unfortunately believed the other and held back, waiting for his
comrade to make the catch. As a result, the ball dropped between them
and rolled some distance away.
Burton, who had held the bag, started for third. Burkett retrieved
the ball and without getting set hurled it to third. It went high
over Renton’s head and rolled to the stands. Burton kept right on and
crossed the plate for the first run of the game. Gallagher, in the
general excitement, reached second.
Pandemonium broke loose among the Chicago rooters.
“We’ve got them going!” was the cry.
“All over but the shouting!”
Evans, the Chicago manager, sent in his best pinch hitter, Miller,
and put a fast rookie, Houghton, on second to run in the place of
Gallagher, who was of the ice-wagon type.
To give his comrades time to recover somewhat from their demoralization,
Jim stooped down to lace his shoe. He was a long time doing this, and
then was very deliberate in taking his place on the mound.
He whizzed over a high fast one that Miller struck at and missed. The
next he fouled off. The third just missed cutting the corner of the
plate, and it went for a ball. On the next, Miller lay down a bunt that
rolled slowly along the third base line.
It looked as though it were going to roll foul, and Renton gave it a
chance to do so. However, it kept on the inside of the line, and by the
time Renton had gathered it up, Miller had easily reached first.
Wallace went to the bat with orders to wait Jim out, trusting to the
hope that the latter would by this time be rattled, because the breaks
of the game seemed to be going against him. But when two beauties in
succession cut the corners of the plate for strikes, while he stood
there like a wooden Indian, he changed his mind.
To make him hit into a double play, Jim made the next an outcurve. Nine
times out of ten the batter hits that kind of ball into the dirt. It
ran according to form this time also. Wallace hit a grounder that went
straight to Larry Barrett at second. Larry set himself for the ball,
while Iredell ran over to cover the bag for a double play.
But just before the ball reached Barrett, it took a high bound, went
over his head and rolled out into centerfield. Gallagher scored,
Miller reached third, and Wallace got to second on a long slide, just
escaping being nipped by McGuire’s return of the ball.
With two runs in, no one out, and a man each on second and third, it
looked bad for the Giants. A single hit would probably score both of
the occupants of the bags. Even two outfield sacrifice flies would do
it.
The din was tremendous as the crowds yelled in chorus, trying to rattle
the already shaky visiting team. But the noise subsided somewhat as Jim
put on steam and set down Mollocher on three successive strikes.
Greaves came up next, and lashed out at the first ball pitched, sending
a grasser toward first. Burkett made a good pick-up, stepped on the
bag, putting out Greaves, and then hurled to Mylert to catch Miller,
who was legging it to the plate. But although Mylert made a mighty
leap, the ball went over his head and before it could be recovered both
Miller and Wallace had crossed the plate, making the score four to
three in favor of the Chicagos.
And the Chicago rooters promptly went mad!