"Did you mutts hear what I said? Well, it goes. Not a word, now. I'm
handling this team. We're in bad, I know, but it's my judgment to
pitch Hurtle, rube or no rube, and it's up to you to back us. That's
the baseball of it."
Grumbling and muttering, they passed out of the dressing room. I knew
ball players. If Hurtle should happen to show good form they would
turn in a flash. Rube tagged reluctantly in their rear. He looked
like a man in a trance. I wanted to speak encouragingly to him, but
Raddy told me to keep quiet.
It was inspiring to see my team practice that afternoon. There had
come a subtle change. I foresaw one of those baseball climaxes that
can be felt and seen, but not explained. Whether it was a hint of the
hoped-for brace, or only another flash of form before the final
let-down, I had no means to tell. But I was on edge.
Carter, the umpire, called out the batteries, and I sent my team into
the field. When that long, lanky, awkward rustic started for the
pitcher's box, I thought the bleachers would make him drop in his
tracks. The fans were sore on any one those days, and a new pitcher
was bound to hear from them.
"Where! Oh, where! Oh, where!"
"Connelly's found another dead one!"
"Scarecrow!"
"Look at his pants!"
"Pad his legs!"
Then the inning began, and things happened. Rube had marvelous speed,
but he could not find the plate. He threw the ball the second he got
it; he hit men, walked men, and fell all over himself trying to field
bunts. The crowd stormed and railed and hissed. The Bisons pranced
round the bases and yelled like Indians. Finally they retired with
eight runs.
Eight runs! Enough to win two games! I could not have told how it
happened. I was sick and all but crushed. Still I had a blind, dogged
faith in the big rustic. I believed he had not got started right. It
was a trying situation. I called Spears and Raddy to my side and
talked fast.
"It's all off now. Let the dinged rube take his medicine," growled
Spears.
"Don't take him out," said Raddy. "He's not shown at all what's in
him. The blamed hayseed is up in the air. He's crazy. He doesn't
know what he's doing. I tell you, Con, he may be scared to death, but
he's dead in earnest."
Suddenly I recalled the advice of the pleasant old fellow at
Rickettsville.
"Spears, you're the captain," I said, sharply. "Go after the rube.
Wake him up. Tell him he can't pitch. Call him 'Pogie!' That's a
name that stirs him up."
"Well, I'll be dinged! He looks it," replied Spears. "Here, Rube, get
off the bench. Come here."
Rube lurched toward us. He seemed to be walking in his sleep. His
breast was laboring and he was dripping with sweat.
"Who ever told you that you could pitch?" asked Spears genially. He
was master at baseball ridicule. I had never yet seen the youngster
who could stand his badinage. He said a few things, then wound up
with: "Come now, you cross between a hayrack and a wagon tongue, get
sore and do something. Pitch if you can. Show us! Do you hear, you
tow-headed Pogie!"
Rube jumped as if he had been struck. His face flamed red and his
little eyes turned black. He shoved his big fist under Capt. Spears'
nose.
"Mister, I'll lick you fer thet--after the game! And I'll show you
dog-goned well how I can pitch."
"Good!" exclaimed Raddy; and I echoed his word. Then I went to the
bench and turned my attention to the game. Some one told me that
McCall had made a couple of fouls, and after waiting for two strikes
and three balls had struck out. Ashwell had beat out a bunt in his old
swift style, and Stringer was walking up to the plate on the moment.
It was interesting, even in a losing game, to see Stringer go to bat.
We all watched him, as we had been watching him for weeks, expecting
him to break his slump with one of the drives that had made him famous.
Stringer stood to the left side of the plate, and I could see the bulge
of his closely locked jaw. He swung on the first pitched ball. With
the solid rap we all rose to watch that hit. The ball lined first,
then soared and did not begin to drop till it was far beyond the
right-field fence. For an instant we were all still, so were the
bleachers. Stringer had broken his slump with the longest drive ever
made on the grounds. The crowd cheered as he trotted around the bases
behind Ashwell. Two runs.
"Con, how'd you like that drive?" he asked me, with a bright gleam in
his eyes.
"O-h-!--a beaut!" I replied, incoherently. The players on the bench
were all as glad as I was. Henley flew out to left. Mullaney smashed a
two-bagger to right. Then Gregg hit safely, but Mullaney, in trying to
score on the play, was out at the plate.
"Four hits! I tell you fellows, something's coming off," said Raddy.
"Now, if only Rube----"
What a difference there was in that long rustic! He stalked into the
box, unmindful of the hooting crowd and grimly faced Schultz, the first
batter up for the Bisons. This time Rube was deliberate. And where he
had not swung before he now got his body and arm into full motion. The
ball came in like a glint of light. Schultz looked surprised. The
umpire called "Strike!"
"Wow!" yelled the Buffalo coacher. Rube sped up the sidewheeler and
Schultz reached wide to meet it and failed. The third was the
lightning drop, straight over the plate. The batter poked weakly at
it. Then Carl struck out and Manning following, did likewise. Three
of the best hitters in the Eastern retired on nine strikes! That was
no fluke. I knew what it meant, and I sat there hugging myself with
the hum of something joyous in my ears.
Gregg had a glow on his sweaty face. "Oh, but say, boys, take a tip
from me! The Rube's a world beater! Raddy knew it; he sized up that
swing, and now I know it. Get wise, you its!"
When old Spears pasted a single through shortstop, the Buffalo manager
took Clary out of the box and put in Vane, their best pitcher. Bogart
advanced the runner to second, but was thrown out on the play. Then
Rube came up. He swung a huge bat and loomed over the Bison's twirler.
Rube had the look of a hitter. He seemed to be holding himself back
from walking right into the ball. And he hit one high and far away.
The fast Carl could not get under it, though he made a valiant effort.
Spears scored and Rube's long strides carried him to third. The cold
crowd in the stands came to life; even the sore bleachers opened up.
McCall dumped a slow teaser down the line, a hit that would easily have
scored Rube, but he ran a little way, then stopped, tried to get back,
and was easily touched out. Ashwell's hard chance gave the Bison's
shortstop an error, and Stringer came up with two men on bases.
Stringer hit a foul over the right-field fence and the crowd howled.
Then he hit a hard long drive straight into the centerfielder's hands.
"Con, I don't know what to think, but ding me if we ain't hittin' the
ball," said Spears. Then to his players: "A little more of that and
we're back in our old shape. All in a minute--at 'em now! Rube, you
dinged old Pogie, pitch!"
Rube toed the rubber, wrapped his long brown fingers round the ball,
stepped out as he swung and--zing! That inning he unloosed a few more
kinks in his arm and he tried some new balls upon the Bisons. But
whatever he used and wherever he put them the result was the same--they
cut the plate and the Bisons were powerless.
That inning marked the change in my team. They had come hack. The
hoodoo had vanished. The championship Worcester team was itself again.
The Bisons were fighting, too, but Rube had them helpless. When they
did hit a ball one of my infielders snapped it up. No chances went to
the outfield. I sat there listening to my men, and reveled in a moment
that I had long prayed for.
"Now you're pitching some, Rube. Another strike! Get him a board!"
called Ashwell.
"Ding 'em, Rube, ding 'em!" came from Capt. Spears.
"Speed? Oh-no!" yelled Bogart at third base.
"It's all off, Rube! It's all off--all off!"
So, with the wonderful pitching of an angry rube, the Worcester team
came into its own again. I sat through it all without another word;
without giving a signal. In a way I realized the awakening of the
bleachers, and heard the pound of feet and the crash, but it was the
spirit of my team that thrilled me. Next to that the work of my new
find absorbed me. I gloated over his easy, deceiving swing. I rose
out of my seat when he threw that straight fast ball, swift as a
bullet, true as a plumb line. And when those hard-hitting, sure
bunting Bisons chopped in vain at the wonderful drop, I choked back a
wild yell. For Rube meant the world to me that day.
In the eighth the score was 8 to 6. The Bisons had one scratch hit to
their credit, but not a runner had got beyond first base. Again Rube
held them safely, one man striking out, another fouling out, and the
third going out on a little fly.
Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! The bleachers were making up for many
games in which they could not express their riotous feelings.
"It's a cinch we'll win!" yelled a fan with a voice. Rube was the
first man up in our half of the ninth and his big bat lammed the first
ball safe over second base. The crowd, hungry for victory, got to
their feet and stayed upon their feet, calling, cheering for runs. It
was the moment for me to get in the game, and I leaped up, strung like
a wire, and white hot with inspiration. I sent Spears to the coaching
box with orders to make Rube run on the first ball. I gripped McCall
with hands that made him wince.
Then I dropped back on the bench spent and panting. It was only a
game, yet it meant so much! Little McCall was dark as a thunder cloud,
and his fiery eyes snapped. He was the fastest man in the league, and
could have bunted an arrow from a bow. The foxy Bison third baseman
edged in. Mac feinted to bunt toward him then turned his bat inward
and dumped a teasing curving ball down the first base line. Rube ran
as if in seven-league boots. Mac's short legs twinkled; he went like
the wind; he leaped into first base with his long slide, and beat the
throw.
The stands and bleachers seemed to be tumbling down. For a moment the
air was full of deafening sound. Then came the pause, the dying away
of clatter and roar, the close waiting, suspended quiet. Spears' clear
voice, as he coached Rube, in its keen note seemed inevitable of
another run.
Ashwell took his stand. He was another left-hand hitter, and against a
right-hand pitcher, in such circumstances as these, the most dangerous
of men. Vane knew it. Ellis, the Bison captain knew it, as showed
plainly in his signal to catch Rube at second. But Spears' warning
held or frightened Rube on the bag.
Vane wasted a ball, then another. Ashwell could not be coaxed.
Wearily Vane swung; the shortstop raced out to get in line for a
possible hit through the wide space to his right, and the second
baseman got on his toes as both base runners started.
Crack! The old story of the hit and run game! Ashwell's hit crossed
sharply where a moment before the shortstop had been standing. With
gigantic strides Rube rounded the corner and scored. McCall flitted
through second, and diving into third with a cloud of dust, got the
umpire's decision. When Stringer hurried up with Mac on third and Ash
on first the whole field seemed racked in a deafening storm. Again it
subsided quickly. The hopes of the Worcester fans had been crushed too
often of late for them to be fearless.
But I had no fear. I only wanted the suspense ended. I was like a man
clamped in a vise. Stringer stood motionless. Mac bent low with the
sprinters' stoop; Ash watched the pitcher's arm and slowly edged off
first. Stringer waited for one strike and two balls, then he hit the
next. It hugged the first base line, bounced fiercely past the bag and
skipped over the grass to bump hard into the fence. McCall romped
home, and lame Ashwell beat any run he ever made to the plate. Rolling,
swelling, crashing roar of frenzied feet could not down the high
piercing sustained yell of the fans. It was great. Three weeks of
submerged bottled baseball joy exploded in one mad outburst! The fans,
too, had come into their own again.
We scored no more. But the Bisons were beaten. Their spirit was
broken. This did not make the Rube let up in their last half inning.
Grim and pale he faced them. At every long step and swing he tossed
his shock of light hair. At the end he was even stronger than at the
beginning. He still had the glancing, floating airy quality that
baseball players call speed. And he struck out the last three batters.
In the tumult that burst over my ears I sat staring at the dots on my
score card. Fourteen strike outs! one scratch hit! No base on balls
since the first inning! That told the story which deadened senses
doubted. There was a roar in my ears. Some one was pounding me. As I
struggled to get into the dressing room the crowd mobbed me. But I did
not hear what they yelled. I had a kind of misty veil before my eyes,
in which I saw that lanky Rube magnified into a glorious figure. I saw
the pennant waving, and the gleam of a white cottage through the trees,
and a trim figure waiting at the gate. Then I rolled into the dressing
room.
Somehow it seemed strange to me. Most of the players were stretched
out in peculiar convulsions. Old Spears sat with drooping head. Then a
wild flaming-eyed giant swooped upon me. With a voice of thunder he
announced:
"I'm a-goin' to lick you, too!"
After that we never called him any name except Rube.