It was the most critical time I had yet experienced in my career as a
baseball manager. And there was more than the usual reason why I must
pull the team out. A chance for a business deal depended upon the
good-will of the stockholders of the Worcester club. On the outskirts
of the town was a little cottage that I wanted to buy, and this
depended upon the business deal. My whole future happiness depended
upon the little girl I hoped to install in that cottage.
Coming to the Worcester Eastern League team, I had found a strong
aggregation and an enthusiastic following. I really had a team with
pennant possibilities. Providence was a strong rival, but I beat them
three straight in the opening series, set a fast pace, and likewise set
Worcester baseball mad. The Eastern League clubs were pretty evenly
matched; still I continued to hold the lead until misfortune overtook
me.
Gregg smashed an umpire and had to be laid off. Mullaney got spiked
while sliding and was out of the game. Ashwell sprained his ankle and
Hirsch broke a finger. Radbourne, my great pitcher, hurt his arm on a
cold day and he could not get up his old speed. Stringer, who had
batted three hundred and seventy-one and led the league the year
before, struck a bad spell and could not hit a barn door handed up to
him.
Then came the slump. The team suddenly let down; went to pieces;
played ball that would have disgraced an amateur nine. It was a trying
time. Here was a great team, strong everywhere. A little hard luck had
dug up a slump--and now! Day by day the team dropped in the race. When
we reached the second division the newspapers flayed us. Worcester
would never stand for a second division team. Baseball admirers,
reporters, fans--especially the fans--are fickle. The admirers quit,
the reporters grilled us, and the fans, though they stuck to the games
with that barnacle-like tenacity peculiar to them, made life miserable
for all of us. I saw the pennant slowly fading, and the successful
season, and the business deal, and the cottage, and Milly----
But when I thought of her I just could not see failure. Something must
be done, but what? I was at the end of my wits. When Jersey City beat
us that Saturday, eleven to two, shoving us down to fifth place with
only a few percentage points above the Fall River team, I grew
desperate, and locking my players in the dressing room I went after
them. They had lain down on me and needed a jar. I told them so
straight and flat, and being bitter, I did not pick and choose my words.
"And fellows," I concluded, "you've got to brace. A little more of
this and we can't pull out. I tell you you're a championship team. We
had that pennant cinched. A few cuts and sprains and hard luck--and
you all quit! You lay down! I've been patient. I've plugged for you.
Never a man have I fined or thrown down. But now I'm at the end of my
string. I'm out to fine you now, and I'll release the first man who
shows the least yellow. I play no more substitutes. Crippled or not,
you guys have got to get in the game."
I waited to catch my breath and expected some such outburst as managers
usually get from criticized players. But not a word! Then I addressed
some of them personally.
"Gregg, your lay-off ends today. You play Monday. Mullaney, you've
drawn your salary for two weeks with that spiked foot. If you can't
run on it--well, all right, but I put it up to your good faith. I've
played the game and I know it's hard to run on a sore foot. But you
can do it. Ashwell, your ankle is lame, I know--now, can you run?"
"Sure I can. I'm not a quitter. I'm ready to go in," replied Ashwell.
"Raddy, how about you?" I said, turning to my star twirler.
"Connelly, I've seen as fast a team in as bad a rut and yet pull out,"
returned Radbourne. "We're about due for the brace. When it
comes--look out! As for me, well, my arm isn't right, but it's acting
these warm days in a way that tells me it will be soon. It's been
worked too hard. Can't you get another pitcher? I'm not knocking Herne
or Cairns. They're good for their turn, but we need a new man to help
out. And he must be a crackerjack if we're to get back to the lead."
"Where on earth can I find such a pitcher?" I shouted, almost
distracted.
"Well, that's up to you," replied Radbourne.
Up to me it certainly was, and I cudgeled my brains for inspiration.
After I had given up in hopelessness it came in the shape of a notice I
read in one of the papers. It was a brief mention of an amateur
Worcester ball team being shut out in a game with a Rickettsville nine.
Rickettsville played Sunday ball, which gave me an opportunity to look
them over.
It took some train riding and then a journey by coach to get to
Rickettsville. I mingled with the crowd of talking rustics. There was
only one little "bleachers" and this was loaded to the danger point
with the feminine adherents of the teams. Most of the crowd centered
alongside and back of the catcher's box. I edged in and got a position
just behind the stone that served as home plate.
Hunting up a player in this way was no new thing to me. I was too wise
to make myself known before I had sized up the merits of my man. So,
before the players came upon the field I amused myself watching the
rustic fans and listening to them. Then a roar announced the
appearance of the Rickettsville team and their opponents, who wore the
name of Spatsburg on their Canton flannel shirts. The uniforms of
these country amateurs would have put a Philadelphia Mummer's parade to
the blush, at least for bright colors. But after one amused glance I
got down to the stern business of the day, and that was to discover a
pitcher, and failing that, baseball talent of any kind.
Never shall I forget my first glimpse of the Rickettsville twirler. He
was far over six feet tall and as lean as a fence rail. He had a great
shock of light hair, a sunburned, sharp-featured face, wide, sloping
shoulders, and arms enormously long. He was about as graceful and had
about as much of a baseball walk as a crippled cow.
"He's a rube!" I ejaculated, in disgust and disappointment.
But when I had seen him throw one ball to his catcher I grew as keen as
a fox on a scent. What speed he had! I got round closer to him and
watched him with sharp, eager eyes. He was a giant. To be sure, he
was lean, rawboned as a horse, but powerful. What won me at once was
his natural, easy swing. He got the ball away with scarcely any
effort. I wondered what he could do when he brought the motion of his
body into play.
"Bub, what might be the pitcher's name?" I asked of a boy.
"Huh, mister, his name might be Dennis, but it ain't. Huh!" replied
this country youngster. Evidently my question had thrown some
implication upon this particular player.
"I reckon you be a stranger in these parts," said a pleasant old
fellow. "His name's Hurtle--Whitaker Hurtle. Whit fer short. He
hain't lost a gol-darned game this summer. No sir-ee! Never pitched
any before, nuther."
Hurtle! What a remarkably fitting name!
Rickettsville chose the field and the game began. Hurtle swung with his
easy motion. The ball shot across like a white bullet. It was a
strike, and so was the next, and the one succeeding. He could not
throw anything but strikes, and it seemed the Spatsburg players could
not make even a foul.
Outside of Hurtle's work the game meant little to me. And I was so
fascinated by what I saw in him that I could hardly contain myself.
After the first few innings I no longer tried to. I yelled with the
Rickettsville rooters. The man was a wonder. A blind baseball manager
could have seen that. He had a straight ball, shoulder high, level as
a stretched string, and fast. He had a jump ball, which he evidently
worked by putting on a little more steam, and it was the speediest
thing I ever saw in the way of a shoot. He had a wide-sweeping
outcurve, wide as the blade of a mowing scythe. And he had a drop--an
unhittable drop. He did not use it often, for it made his catcher dig
too hard into the dirt. But whenever he did I glowed all over. Once
or twice he used an underhand motion and sent in a ball that fairly
swooped up. It could not have been hit with a board. And best of all,
dearest to the manager's heart, he had control. Every ball he threw
went over the plate. He could not miss it. To him that plate was as
big as a house.
What a find! Already I had visions of the long-looked-for brace of my
team, and of the pennant, and the little cottage, and the happy light
of a pair of blue eyes. What he meant to me, that country pitcher
Hurtle! He shut out the Spatsburg team without a run or a hit or even
a scratch. Then I went after him. I collared him and his manager, and
there, surrounded by the gaping players, I bought him and signed him
before any of them knew exactly what I was about. I did not haggle. I
asked the manager what he wanted and produced the cash; I asked Hurtle
what he wanted, doubled his ridiculously modest demand, paid him in
advance, and got his name to the contract. Then I breathed a long,
deep breath; the first one for weeks. Something told me that with
Hurtle's signature in my pocket I had the Eastern League pennant. Then
I invited all concerned down to the Rickettsville hotel.
We made connections at the railroad junction and reached Worcester at
midnight in time for a good sleep. I took the silent and backward
pitcher to my hotel. In the morning we had breakfast together. I
showed him about Worcester and then carried him off to the ball grounds.
I had ordered morning practice, and as morning practice is not
conducive to the cheerfulness of ball players, I wanted to reach the
dressing room a little late. When we arrived, all the players had
dressed and were out on the field. I had some difficulty in fitting
Hurtle with a uniform, and when I did get him dressed he resembled a
two-legged giraffe decked out in white shirt, gray trousers and maroon
stockings.
Spears, my veteran first baseman and captain of the team, was the first
to see us.
"Sufferin' umpires!" yelled Spears. "Here, you Micks! Look at this
Con's got with him!"
What a yell burst from that sore and disgruntled bunch of ball tossers!
My players were a grouchy set in practice anyway, and today they were
in their meanest mood.
"Hey, beanpole!"
"Get on to the stilts!"
"Con, where did you find that?"