"PLAY BALL!"
"Come on, Joe, I'll catch for you," good-naturedly offered Doc Mullin,
who had been "warming" the bench, Russell being behind the bat. "That'll
give Rob a chance to rest, and he can take you on just before we go
out."
"Thanks," replied the young pitcher, and, flushing with pleasure, in
this his triumph, though it was but a small one, he went out to the
"bull-pen," to get some practice.
"Huh! He'll make a fine show of us!" sneered Willard.
"He can't make a much worse show than we've made of ourselves already,"
put in Cooney quickly. "I sure am off my feed to-day. I don't know what
makes it."
"Trained a little too fine, I guess," spoke the manager. "We'll take it
a bit easy after this."
"Speed 'em in, Joe. Vary your delivery, and don't forget the signals,"
advised Mullin, as the two were warming up. "And don't get nervous.
You'll do all right."
"I'm sure I hope so," responded Joe.
He was getting more confidence in himself, but at that, when he stood on
the mound, and had the ball in his hand he could not help a little
twinge of "stage fright," or something akin to it.
The batter stepped back, to allow the usual interchange of balls between
pitcher and catcher, and then, when Joe nodded that he was ready, moved
up to the plate, where he stood, swinging his bat, and waiting for the
first one.
The catcher, Russell, signalled for a swift, straight one, and, though
Joe would rather have pitched his fadeaway, he nodded his head to show
that he accepted.
The ball whizzed from Joe's hand, and he felt a wave of apprehension, a
second later, that it was going to be slammed somewhere out over the
centre field fence. But, to his chagrin, he heard the umpire call:
"Ball one!"
The batter grinned cheerfully at Joe.
"That won't happen again!" thought our hero fiercely.
This time the catcher signalled for a teasing curve, and again Joe
signified that he would deliver it. He did, and successfully, too. The
batter made a half motion, as though he were going to strike at it, and
then refrained, but the umpire called, in tones that were musical to
Joe's ear:
"Strike--one!"
"He's feedin' 'em to 'em!" joyfully exclaimed Boswell to the manager.
"Joe's feedin' 'em in, all right."
"Too early to judge," replied the cautious manager. "Wait a bit."
But Joe struck out his man, and a little applause came from his fellow
players on the bench.
"That's the way to do it, boy!"
"Tease 'em along!"
"We only need two more!"
Thus they called encouragingly to him.
Joe was hit once that half of the inning, and no runs came in. The score
was still tie.
"Now, boys, we've got to bat!" said the manager when his team came in.
"We need three or four runs, or this game will make us ashamed to go
back to St. Louis."
There was a noticeable improvement as the Cardinals went to bat. Tom
Dugan slammed out one that was good for three bases, and Dots McCann, by
a double, brought in the needed run. The St. Louis boys were themselves
again. The fact that the visiting pitcher was "going to pieces" rather
helped, too.
The Cardinals were two runs to the good when the inning ended.
"Now we want to hold them there. It's up to you, Joe, and the rest of
you boys!" exclaimed Mr. Watson as the leaguers again took the field.
Joe had more confidence in himself now, though it oozed away somewhat
when the first man up struck the ball savagely. But it was only a foul,
and, though Russell tried desperately to get it, he could not.
It was a case of three and two again, and Joe's nerves were tingling.
"Hit it now, Red!" the friends of the visiting player besought him.
"Bang it right on the nose!"
"He hasn't anything on you!"
"Nothing but a slow out!"
"Slam out a home run!"
There was a riot of cries.
Joe calmed himself by an effort, and then sent in his fadeaway. It
completely fooled the batter, who struck at it so hard that he swung
around in a circle.
"You're out!" called the umpire. Joe's heart beat with pride.
But I must not dwell too long on that comparatively unimportant game, as
I have other, and bigger ones, of which to write. Sufficient to say
that, though there were a few scattering hits made off Joe, the visitors
did not get another run, though they tried desperately in the last half
of the ninth.
But it was not to be, and St. Louis had the game by a good margin.
"That's fine work, boys!" the manager greeted them. "Matson, you're
coming on. I won't promise to pitch you against the Giants this season,
unless all my other pitchers get 'Charlie-horse,'" he went on, "but I'll
say I like your work."
"Thanks!" murmured Joe, his heart warming to the praise.
"Congratulations, old man!" cried Rad, as they went to the dressing
rooms together. "You did yourself proud!"
"I'm glad you think so. I wonder what sort of a story it will be when I
go up against a big league team?"
"Oh, you'll go up against 'em all right!" predicted his chum, "and
you'll win, too!"
Preparations for leaving Reedville were made. The training was over;
hard work was now ahead for all. Nothing more was seen of Shalleg and
Wessel, though they might have been at that last game, for all Joe knew.
In order not to tire his players by a long jump home, especially as they
were not to open at once on Robison Field, Manager Watson planned
several exhibition games to be played in various cities and towns on the
way.
Thus the journey would occupy a couple of weeks.
The players were on edge now, a little rest from the Nipper game having
put them in fine trim.
"They're ready for Giants!" energetically declared Boswell, who took
great pride in his training work.
"Hardly that," replied the manager, "but I think we can take care of the
Cincinnati Reds when we stack up against them on opening day."
The journey North was enjoyed by all, and some good games took place.
One or two were a little close for comfort, but the Cardinals managed to
pull out in time. Joe did some pitching, though he was not worked as
often as he would have liked. But he realized that he was a raw recruit,
in the company of many veterans, and he was willing to bide his time.
Joe had learned more about baseball since getting into the big league
than he ever imagined possible. He realized, as never before, what a
really big business it was, involving, as it did, millions of dollars,
and furnishing employment to thousands of players, besides giving
enjoyment to millions of spectators.
The home-coming of the Cardinals, from their trip up from the South, was
an event of interest.
St. Louis always did make much of her ball teams, and though the
American Brown nine had arrived a day or so before our friends, and had
been noisily welcomed, there was a no less enthusiastic reception for
the Cardinals. There was a band, a cheering throng at the station, and
any number of reporters, moving picture men and newspaper photographers.
"Say, it's great; isn't it?" cried Joe to Rad.
"It sure is, old man!"
Joe wrote home an enthusiastic account of it all, and also penned a note
to Mabel, expressing the hope that she and her brother would get to St.
Louis on the occasion of some big game.
"And I hope I pitch in it," Joe penned.
A day of rest, then a week of practice on their own grounds, brought the
opening date nearer for St. Louis. Joe and the other players went out to
the park the morning of the opening day of the season. The grounds were
in perfect shape, and the weather man was on his good behavior.
"What kind of ball have the Reds been playing?" asked Joe of Rad, who
was a "fiend" on baseball statistics.
"Snappy," was the answer. "We'll have our work cut out for us!"
"Think we can do 'em?"
"Nobody can tell. I know we're going to try hard."
"If I could only pitch!" murmured Joe.
The grandstand was rapidly filling. The bleachers were already
overflowing. The teams had marched out on the field, preceded by a
blaring band. There had been a presentation of a floral horseshoe to
Manager Watson.
Then came some fast, snappy practice on both sides. Joe, who had only a
faint hope of being called on, warmed up well. He took his turn at
batting and catching, too.
"They look to be a fast lot," observed Joe to Rad, as they watched the
Reds at work.
"Oh, yes, they're there with the goods."
The game was called, and, as is often done, a city official pitched the
first ball. This time it was the mayor, who made a wild throw. There was
laughter, and cheers, the band blared out, and then the umpire called:
"Play ball!"