FROM BAD TO WORSE
That nightmare inning came to an end without further scoring, as Jim
struck out Lasker on four pitched balls. Then, with a sigh of relief,
Jim pulled off his glove and went in to the bench, while a sheepish and
disgruntled lot of Giants followed him in for their last inning. McRae
was white with anger, and had no hesitation in telling the team what he
thought of them.
“You bunch of four-flushers!” he stormed. “Throwing the ball all around
the lot like a gang of schoolboys. You fellows are Giants--I don’t
think. You’re a disgrace to your uniforms. You’re drawing your salaries
on false pretenses. Letting those fellows get four runs in a single
inning without making a real hit. What do you want the pitcher to
do--strike out every man that comes to the bat, while you go to sleep
in the field? You make me tired. You ought to join the Ladies’ Bloomer
League. And even then Maggie Murphy’s team would put it all over you.
Go in there now and get those runs back.”
With their faces burning from the tongue lashing of their irate
manager, the Giants went in for their last inning.
Larry was first up and cracked out a sharp single to right that looked
at first as though he might stretch it to a double, but it was so
smartly relayed that he found it advisable to scramble back to the
initial bag.
Jim was next up. The first two balls pitched were wide of the plate and
he refused to bite. The next one, however, he caught right on the seam
for a liner that went whistling into right for a double.
Larry had started at the crack of the bat, and had rounded second by
the time Jim got to first. He kept on to third, where Iredell was on
the coaching line. There he should have been retained, for Burton, who
was renowned for his throwing arm, had by this time got the ball and
was setting himself for the throw. Iredell, however, urged Larry on,
with the consequence that when he slid into the plate the ball was
there waiting for him. Jim, in the meantime, had reached second.
Larry picked himself up, brushed himself off and went to the bench,
muttering growls against Iredell for having egged him on. Had two men
been out there might have been some excuse for taking the chance.
But with none out, it was almost certain that, either by a hit or a
sacrifice, he could have been brought in with the run that would have
tied the score.
Mylert tried to kill the ball, but hit it on the under side and it went
up in a high fly that was easily gobbled up by the Cubs’ first baseman.
Curry, the last hope of the Giants, came to the bat. He was in a frenzy
of eagerness to redeem himself, as it was his inglorious muff that had
started the Cubs on their way to those four unearned runs.
Axander himself was beginning to feel the strain, and was a bit wild.
Curry looked them over carefully and let the bad ones go by. A couple
of good ones were sandwiched in, at which he swung and missed.
With three balls and two strikes, both pitcher and batter were “in the
hole.” Axander had to put the next one over under penalty of passing
the batter. And if Curry missed the next good one, the game was over.
Axander wound up and let one go straight for the plate. Curry caught it
full and fair and the ball soared off toward left.
Weston, the Cub leftfielder, was off with the crack of the ball,
running in the direction the latter was taking. It seemed like a
hopeless quest, but he kept on, and just as the ball was going over
his head he made a tremendous leap and caught it with one hand. He was
off balance and turned a complete somersault, but when he came up he
still had hold of the ball. It was a catch such as is seldom seen more
than two or three times in a season.
The game was over, and the Cubs had triumphed by a score of 4 runs to
3. The crowd swarmed down on the diamond to surround and applaud their
favorites, who had plucked victory from the very jaws of defeat, or,
to put it more correctly, had accepted the game which the Giants had
generously handed over to them.
It was a sore and dejected band of Giants that made their way to
the clubhouse. The end had come so suddenly that they could hardly
realize what had happened. Some were inclined to blame the “jinx,”
but the more intelligent knew that their own errors and those of some
of their comrades had alone brought about their downfall. The defeat
was all the more exasperating, because they had had superb pitching
throughout--pitching that would have won nine games out of ten and
would certainly have won that one if their twirlers had been given
half-way decent support.
“Hard luck, Jim,” was Joe’s greeting to his comrade, as the latter came
in and made ready for the showers. “You pitched a dandy game. It’s
tough when four runs come in without one of them being earned.”
“All in a day’s work,” replied Jim, affecting a cheerfulness that he
was far from feeling. “But you’re the one I’m worrying about. How’s
that leg and foot?”
“Dougherty says it will be all right in a week,” replied Joe. “He’s
rubbed most of the soreness out of them, but I’ll have to favor them
for a while.”
“Glory be!” exclaimed Jim with fervor. “If you were out of the game
for a long time it would be all up with the Giants. Then they’d go to
pieces for fair.”
“Not a bit of it,” disclaimed Joe. “It’s too great a team to be
dependent on any one man. I’m only just one cog in a fine machine.”
“Looked like a rather wobbly machine this afternoon,” said Jim,
ruefully.
“Sure,” agreed Joe. “The boys did play like a bunch of hams. But every
team does that once in a while. The boys will shake off this slump, and
then they’ll begin to climb. Remember that time when we won twenty-six
straight? What we’ve done once, we can do again. I’m not a seventh son
of a seventh son, but I have a hunch that we’re just about due to do
that very thing.”
“I hope you’re as good a prophet as you are a pitcher,” replied Jim,
grinning. He was beginning to find Joe’s optimism contagious.
Their conversation was interrupted by the coming of McRae. A sudden
silence fell over the occupants of the clubhouse, for they knew the
danger signals, and a glance at the manager’s face told them that a
storm was brewing.
“Giants!” exclaimed McRae, and they winced at the bitter sarcasm in his
tone. “Where have I heard that word before? A fine bunch of pennant
winners! Why, you couldn’t win the pennant in the Podunk League. Put
you up against a gang of bushers, and they’d laugh themselves to death.
Any high school nine would make you look foolish. Giants? Dwarfs,
pigmies, runts! Easy meat for any team you come across! Champions of
the world? Cellar champions! Sub-cellar champions! Just keep on this
way, and the other teams will bury you so deep you’ll be coming out
in China. I’m going to change my name. I’m ashamed to be known as the
manager of such a bunch of dubs.”
Nobody ventured to interrupt the tirade, partly because they felt that
he was justified in his anger and partly because no one cared to play
the part of lightning rod. When McRae was in that mood, it was best to
let him talk himself out.
From the general roast he came down to particulars. He glared around
and singled out Curry. That hapless individual evaded his glance and
pretended to be very busy in tying his shoe.
“You’re the one that started that bunch of errors in the eighth
inning,” McRae shouted, pointing an accusing finger at him.
“Aw,” muttered Curry, “any one can make a muff once in a while.”
“It isn’t for the muff I’m calling you down,” retorted McRae. “I know
that can happen to any man, and I never roast any one for it. Why, we
lost the World’s championship one year in Boston when Rodgrass made
that muff in centerfield. I never said a word to him about it, and in
the next year’s contract I raised his salary. What I’m panning you for
is that rotten throw that followed the muff. That’s when you lost your
head. You could easily have caught Burton at second and stopped the
rally.
“And you, Burkett,” he went on, turning to the first baseman. “For a
man who calls himself a major leaguer, you certainly went the limit
this afternoon. Don’t you get sleep enough at night that you have
to go to sleep on first? And those wild throws, one over Renton’s
head and the other over Mylert’s. Oh, what’s the use,” he continued,
throwing his hands in the air. “I’ve got a doctor on this club that can
take care of any bone in the leg or bone in the arm, but he can’t do
anything with bones in the head.”
If they thought he had worn himself out, they were greatly mistaken. He
turned to Iredell.
“Come outside, Iredell,” he said, “I want to have a word with you.”
Once outside the clubhouse, he turned a grim face on the captain.
“I didn’t want to call you down before your men, Iredell,” he snapped,
“because I didn’t care to weaken the discipline of the team--that is,
if there’s any discipline left in the club. But I want to tell you that
if your work to-day is a sample of the way you captain the team, why,
the sooner there’s a change in captains the better.”
“I don’t know just what you mean,” muttered Iredell, an angry red
suffusing his face.
“You know perfectly well what I mean,” declared McRae. “How about that
ball that fell to the ground between Larry and Burkett? Either one of
them could have got it. Why didn’t they?”
Iredell remained silent, fingering his cap.
“Because you didn’t call out which was to take it,” McRae himself
supplied the answer. “Their eyes were on the ball, and when each said
he could get it each left it to the other. All you had to do was to
call out the name of one of them, and he’d have got it. That’s what
you’re captain for--to use your judgment in a pinch.
“Then there was that rotten coaching at third base,” McRae went on with
his indictment. “Why didn’t you hold Larry there? You know what a
terror Burton is on long throws to the plate and that he’d probably get
him. With nobody out, it was a cinch that one of the next three batsmen
would have brought Larry in. And with him dancing around third, he
might have got Axander’s goat. Then, too, the infield would have been
drawn in for a play at the plate, and that would have given a better
chance for a hit to the outfield. Am I right or am I wrong?”
“I suppose you’re right,” conceded Iredell. “But a fellow can’t always
think of everything. If Larry had got to the plate, you’d be patting me
on the back.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” snapped McRae, “because it would have been just
fool’s luck. Why, I fined a man twenty-five dollars once for knocking
out a home run when I had ordered him to bunt. That he came across
with a home run didn’t change the fact that at that point in the game
a bunt was the proper thing, and nine times out of ten would have gone
through. You’ve got to use your sense and judgment and do the thing
that seems most likely to bring home the bacon.”
“I don’t seem to please you these days, no matter what I do,” said
Iredell sullenly.
“You’ll only please me when you do things right,” returned McRae. “You
know as well as any one else that I never ride my men. I’ve been a
ball player myself as well as manager, and I can put myself in the
place of both. But what I want are men who are quick in the head as
well as the feet. Give me the choice between a fast thinker and a fast
runner, and I’ll take the fast thinker every time. Look at Joe Matson,
the way he shot that ball over on Burton to-day before he knew where he
was at. He’s always doing something of that kind--outguessing the other
fellow. His think tank is working every minute. He puts out as many men
with his head as he does with his arm. And that’s what makes him the
greatest pitcher in this country to-day, bar none.
“Now, take it from me, Iredell, that’s the kind of thinking that’s
going to pull this team out of the mud. I’m paying you a good salary to
play shortstop. There, you’re delivering the goods. But I’ve tacked a
couple of thousands onto your salary to act as captain. There, you’re
not delivering the goods. And those goods have got to be delivered, or,
by ginger, I’ll know the reason why!”