“BADGERS” VS. “BILLIES”
They found a boarding-place without difficulty less than a square from
the hotel. It was not very prepossessing and even June was inclined
to turn up his nose at it. However, June’s nose was not shaped for
turning-up purposes, and Wayne reminded him that they couldn’t expect
much for two dollars and a half a week, and so he didn’t. They engaged
a small and illy-lighted little apartment with one very grimy window
that looked out into the rear premises of an iron foundry. The view,
while not exactly inspiriting, was at least not monotonous, for the
foundry provided movement and noise; to say nothing of smoke. Their
landlady was frowsy and sleepy-looking and toddled away in evident
relief the instant Wayne had deposited the first week’s board money
in her hand, leaving them to debate whether the one small towel was
intended to serve both occupants. The furniture consisted of two
narrow cots pushed side by side, one chair, a decrepit bureau, and a
metal washstand. There was a tattered rug on the floor and an equally
tattered sash curtain at the lone window. (The rug was tossed into
the hallway that night after Wayne had caught his foot in a hole and
fallen against the bureau.) The cots looked ready to collapse of their
own weight, but proved equal to the tasks set them, although they
complained horribly every time Wayne or June turned over in them.
But that was later. After settling their few belongings into place the
boys, followed, you may be certain, by Sam, sallied forth again. It
was mid-afternoon by that time and Wayne led the way hurriedly along
the street in the direction of the distant ball park. To part with
fifty cents of their combined fortunes seemed, on the face of it, pure
recklessness, but Wayne soothed his conscience by telling himself that
a fellow ought to know something about the ball team he was going to
join. June’s conscience troubled him not a whit. June was as pleased
as Punch at the idea of seeing a ball game. Sam--well, we don’t know
what Sam thought about it. He seemed, however, perfectly willing to
accompany the expedition.
The game was well into the first half of the third inning when the two
boys settled themselves in their places on the bleachers. There had
been a trifle of difficulty in persuading the man at the gate to allow
the passage of the dog, a difficulty which Sam had solved by taking
the matter under his own control and trotting past. The ticket taker
had threatened to have the dog removed, but his threat had seemed to
lack conviction and the boys were not troubled. Wayne was surprised to
note the smallness of the attendance. The reserved sections were merely
sprinkled with spectators and more than half of the bleacher seats were
empty. Possibly six hundred persons were on hand, but surely no more.
The Doncaster Club, familiarly known as the “Billies,” were the
opponents this afternoon, playing the third contest of a four-game
series. The score-board showed Doncaster leading by two runs obtained
in the first inning. Wayne squandered another five cents and bought
a score-card which informed him of the batting order. A neighbour
ended his doubt as to which of the three pitchers on the card was
really performing by telling him over his shoulder that “Wainwright’s
in the box and Linton’s catching. They worked him for a pass and a
three-bagger in the first. Henderson and Coe’s the Billies’ battery.”
Wayne thanked him and turned his attention back to the game in time to
see the third Doncaster man thrown out at first.
After that the game dragged for several innings, with neither team
getting past second. Wayne recognised several of the players he had
watched in the morning, notably O’Neill, the lanky, tow-headed left
fielder, and a small, lithe youngster named Bennett who played third
base as if he had a bunch of steel springs inside him. In spite of
the distance to the bench, Wayne easily made out Steve Milburn and
“Red” Herring and thought the smaller man next to “Red” was Nye. The
crowd in the bleachers kept up an incessant, good-natured flow of
comment and advice. O’Neill--Wayne learned before the game was over
that his popular nickname was “Sailor”--was a great favourite with the
bleacherites and frequently turned to wave a hand or shout a pat reply
to some remark aimed at him. The bleacherites had other favourites
as well: young Bennett and Nick Crane, the first-choice pitcher, and
a swarthy, broad-shouldered, long-limbed first baseman named Morgan.
And Wayne gathered in the course of the contest that Steve Milburn was
held in the utmost respect as a manager and was personally popular to a
degree.
Wayne thought that the manager’s “bawling-out” that forenoon had done
good, for the Harrisville team was certainly on its toes all the time
and played with a snap. Only the total inability to hit the Billies’
pitcher safely kept the home club from scoring. Henderson was slammed
here, there, and everywhere, but there was always a man right on the
spot to spoil the hit. However, the Badgers did manage to get a run
across in the fifth when Cross, who played shortstop and captained the
team, beat out a roller to first, was sacrificed to second, and won
home on a long fly to right fielder. But Doncaster came back in the
next inning and found Wainwright for two hits and a sacrifice and took
back her lead of two tallies.
June was having a fine time with a bag of peanuts, which he shared with
Sam, and was already a violent partisan of the Harrisville Badgers.
His comments, voiced for Wayne’s ear alone but audible to the nearby
spectators, aroused much mirth. Wayne didn’t hear them all, for he was
busy watching the players and their methods. He saw several tricks that
were new to his experience. For instance, a Doncaster coach at third
insisted that a runner who had reached that base should keep outside
the foul line, something that the runner repeatedly neglected to do.
That puzzled Wayne for the better part of two innings and wasn’t solved
until a batter hit sharply to young Bennett, whereupon Wayne realised
that had a runner been on fair ground he would probably have been hit
by the ball and so been put out. By keeping on foul territory he was
safe. He stored the fact away in his memory for future use. Most of
all he watched the playing of Jones, the second baseman. Jones was
short and a bit heavy-looking, but he seemed fast enough in action
and certainly played a good, steady game. At bat he was not dangerous
that afternoon, but, for that matter, none of the Badgers was. Wayne
asked the man behind him, who had volunteered the information about the
batteries, what sort of a hitter Jones was and the man pursed his lips
and shrugged his shoulders.
“Clover Jones? We-ell, he ain’t so bad as some. He bats better’n Tim
Leary. I’ve seen Clover everlastingly wallop the ball an’ then again
I’ve seen him go a week without making a hit. You can’t tell about
Clover. He’s a good baseman, though. Ain’t anybody hitting today. That
feller Henderson’s got a lot on the ball, I guess.”
But even Henderson, who ranked high in the Tri-State League, couldn’t
keep it up to the end, and when the eighth inning came Sailor
O’Neill brought yelps of joy from the stands by leading off with the
Badgers’ fourth safe hit of the game, a sharp liner that whizzed over
shortstop’s head and let O’Neill reach second base by a hair’s breadth.
Then Leary struck out. Linton, the catcher, laid down a bunt in front
of the plate and the Billies’ backstop chose to head off O’Neill at
third. But his hurried throw went wide, O’Neill scored and Linton slid
into second. With but one down there was a fine chance of evening up
the score or winning, and Wayne wasn’t surprised when the delay at the
plate resulted in the arrival there of a pinch-hitter in the person
of Fawcett, a substitute outfielder. Fawcett’s appearance was greeted
joyfully by the bleachers and he received a deal of advice. Fawcett,
however, failed to deliver the needed hit, for, after swinging at two
good ones and missing them, he stood idle, while a third sailed across
the plate. Bennett was the remaining hope, and Bennett came across
nicely. He allowed Henderson to put him in the hole to the tune of
two-and-one, refused a wide one and a drop, and then connected with
the next offering and banged it hard at the hole between second and
shortstop. The pitcher nearly reached it but failed, and the ball
sailed serenely over the second bag and Linton scuttled home with the
tying run.
The inning ended when Briggs, centre fielder, flied out to first
baseman, and with the score three to three the game went through
the ninth and started the tenth. By this time ennui was no longer
discernible in stands or bleachers. Leather-lunged “fans” were
appealing wildly to the Fates for a victory. Cotton was the relief
pitcher for the Badgers, and, although he was as wild as a hawk in the
ninth, he got by with the aid of sharp fielding and settled down in
the tenth very nicely. With two of the Billies gone, though, an error
by Captain Cross gave a life to the Doncaster left fielder and a pass
to the succeeding batsman put him on second. Then the first baseman
succeeded where better batters had failed and lined one past third,
allowing the left fielder to score and putting the next man on second.
A fly to the outfield brought the end.
But Doncaster again held the lead and it was up to Harrisville to get a
run across. The bleacherites did all they could to help, and June’s was
a conspicuous voice amongst them. Even Sam seemed to sense a desperate
crisis, for he roused himself from the lethargy produced by a feast
of peanuts and barked wildly. Cross went out, third to first. “Cob”
Morgan, the dark-visaged first baseman, reached the initial station
safely by reason of a fumble on the part of shortstop. Jones started to
the plate but was recalled and LaCroix took his place. LaCroix was a
thick-set, hook-nosed Canuck. Opinion in Wayne’s vicinity differed as
to the advisability of putting “Nap” in, but it was generally conceded
that Steve Milburn generally pulled the trick and that events might
vindicate his judgment in this case. And events surely did.
Nap LaCroix leaned against the first offering and hit to short right
and there were two on. The Harrisville “rooters” cheered and yelped
and, considering their scarcity, made a brave uproar. Possibly it had
its effect on Henderson, for he wabbled for the first time in the
proceedings and walked O’Neill. The bleacherites arose to their feet
and waved hats and coats and newspapers madly. Wayne did his share,
June yipped, and Sam, squirming in Wayne’s arms, barked frantically.
Another pinch-hitter was sent in, this time in place of Leary.
“O you Joe Casey!” bellowed the audience. “Hit it out, Joe!” “Remember
yesterday, Joe!”
The young pitcher, who Wayne gathered had been ingloriously hammered
the preceding afternoon, didn’t look like a likely candidate to pull
the game out of the fire, for he presented a very awkward appearance
at the plate. But he didn’t have much chance to show his prowess for
Henderson pitched two balls before he got a strike over and then
followed with two more, forcing in the tying run and exiling himself
to the showers. The audience shouted joy and relief and settled down
to their seats again. But they still sat on the edges, for the game
was still to win. Linton tried hard to deliver but only hit across the
infield to shortstop and LaCroix was an easy out at the plate. The new
pitcher for Doncaster was slow and heady and he was cutting the corners
very nicely, it seemed, for he wafted two strikes over on Cotton before
the Badgers’ box artist knew what was happening, and Harrisville saw
her hopes descending. Still, in the end Cotton almost came through.
With the score two-and-two, he met a straight one and lifted it
gloriously against the sky for what looked like a circuit hit.
Harrisville arose as one man and shouted hoarsely and triumphantly, for
that ball looked exactly as though it meant to ride right on over the
left field fence. The fielder hiked back on twinkling feet, looked over
his shoulder, raced on again, turned, stepped back until his shadow
loomed large against the boards behind him, and put up his hands. And
that deceitful ball just came right down into them as though pulled
there by an invisible string!
Gloom and disgust possessed the stands!
The sun was gone behind the hills in the west when the eleventh session
opened and the heat of the afternoon was giving place to the coolness
of evening. Coats which had laid across knees for ten long innings were
donned again. Here and there a spectator arose, unwillingly, and, with
long backward looks, took himself homeward. Cotton was pitching fine
ball now and Doncaster had never a look-in during her half of the
eleventh. But neither had Harrisville in her portion. If Cotton was
going well, so was the rival twirler, and the nearest thing to a hit
that either team evolved was a palpable scratch that placed Cross on
first, from which sack he failed to move. In the twelfth the Billies
caused consternation by working Cotton for a pass and advancing a man
to third on a sacrifice and an error by LaCroix, playing second. But
two strike-outs followed and averted calamity.
Manager Milburn’s line-up was a rather patched affair by now, for he
had staked all on that tenth inning crisis. Fawcett started off by
flying out to left. O’Neill hit for one. LaCroix fouled out to catcher.
O’Neill stole on the second pitch to Linton and was safe. Linton
fouled twice behind third base, each time barely escaping being caught
out, and then, with two strikes and two balls against him, waited and
walked to base. With two on and Cotton at bat anything might happen--or
nothing. For a while it looked like nothing, for Cotton, in spite of
his eagerness to hit and the wild and weird manner in which he swung
his bat around his head, for all the world like a joyous lad twirling
a shillalah at Donnybrook Fair and daring an adversary to step up and
have his head broken, the Billies’ pitcher managed to sneak them
across in unexpected places until the score was two-and-two. Cotton was
losing his temper now, and Wayne could hear Steve Milburn barking at
him from the bench. A third ball went past. The bleachers stormed and
railed at the Doncaster pitcher, Cotton squeezed his bat harder than
ever and did a little dance in the box. The Billies’ twirler wound up,
shot his arm forward and the ball sped to the plate. Perhaps Cotton
mistook the ball for the pitcher’s head. At all events, he tried hard
to break his bat on it and came near to doing it. Off whizzed the ball
and off sped Cotton. But the long fly, while it started fair, soon
broke to the left, and Cotton, pounding the turf between first and
second with head down and legs twinkling, was stopped in his mad career
and headed back to the plate. The audience groaned its disappointment
and sat down again. Then an unlooked-for event occurred. Wayne was
apprised of it first when a wild burst of delight broke from his
neighbours in the bleachers. At the plate Cotton was walking sadly
toward the bench, the umpire, mask off, was shouting something that
Wayne couldn’t hear for the noise about him and a new figure strode to
the batter’s box.
“Who is it?” asked Wayne to the bleachers at large.
“Steve himself!” was the answer. “Bust it, Steve! Knock the hide off
it! Wow!”
And sure enough it was Manager Milburn who faced the Doncaster pitcher
now and who tapped a long black bat gently on the rubber, leaned it
against his leg, moistened his hands and rubbed them together, took
up the bat again and eyed the moundsman warily. In the outfield the
players were stepping back and still back. The Harrisville rooters
shouted and screeched, red of face, entreating of voice.
One ball, far wide of the plate, that Steve Milburn only looked at as
it sped by. A strike that caused him to turn and observe the umpire
silently and derisively. Another ball, high and on the inside, that
sent Steve’s head and shoulders jerking back from its path. The
pandemonium increased. Another offering that would have cut the outer
corner of the plate knee-high had not Manager Milburn’s bat been
ready for it. A fine, heartening _crack_ of wood and leather, a gray
streak cutting the shadows of the first base stands, cries, pounding
feet, dust, confusion and--victory! The ball passed second baseman a
yard from his outstretched fingers and went to right fielder on its
first long bound. But right fielder never threw it. Instead, he merely
trotted benchward. For O’Neill was throwing himself across the plate
by that time and Milburn was on first and the game was over! And
Harrisville had avenged yesterday’s defeat to the tune of four to three!
The stands emptied, the players thronged to the dressing-rooms and
Wayne and June journeyed across the trampled field of battle on their
way to the gate as happy as though they themselves had won that
victory. And Sam trotted behind with his pathetic stub of a tail
wagging proudly.