He bought a ticket at the 25-cent window, and edging his huge bulk
through the turnstile, laboriously followed the noisy crowd toward the
bleachers. I could not have been mistaken. He was Old Well-Well,
famous from Boston to Baltimore as the greatest baseball fan in the
East. His singular yell had pealed into the ears of five hundred
thousand worshippers of the national game and would never be forgotten.
At sight of him I recalled a friend's baseball talk. "You remember Old
Well-Well? He's all in--dying, poor old fellow! It seems young Burt,
whom the Phillies are trying out this spring, is Old Well-Well's nephew
and protege. Used to play on the Murray Hill team; a speedy youngster.
When the Philadelphia team was here last, Manager Crestline announced
his intention to play Burt in center field. Old Well-Well was too ill
to see the lad get his tryout. He was heart-broken and said: 'If I
could only see one more game!'"
The recollection of this random baseball gossip and the fact that
Philadelphia was scheduled to play New York that very day, gave me a
sudden desire to see the game with Old Well-Well. I did not know him,
but where on earth were introductions as superfluous as on the
bleachers? It was a very easy matter to catch up with him. He walked
slowly, leaning hard on a cane and his wide shoulders sagged as he
puffed along. I was about to make some pleasant remark concerning the
prospects of a fine game, when the sight of his face shocked me and I
drew back. If ever I had seen shadow of pain and shade of death they
hovered darkly around Old Well-Well.
No one accompanied him; no one seemed to recognize him. The majority
of that merry crowd of boys and men would have jumped up wild with
pleasure to hear his well-remembered yell. Not much longer than a year
before, I had seen ten thousand fans rise as one man and roar a
greeting to him that shook the stands. So I was confronted by a
situation strikingly calculated to rouse my curiosity and sympathy.
He found an end seat on a row at about the middle of the right-field
bleachers and I chose one across the aisle and somewhat behind him. No
players were yet in sight. The stands were filling up and streams of
men were filing into the aisles of the bleachers and piling over the
benches. Old Well-Well settled himself comfortably in his seat and
gazed about him with animation. There had come a change to his massive
features. The hard lines had softened; the patches of gray were no
longer visible; his cheeks were ruddy; something akin to a smile shone
on his face as he looked around, missing no detail of the familiar
scene.
During the practice of the home team Old Well-Well sat still with his
big hands on his knees; but when the gong rang for the Phillies, he
grew restless, squirming in his seat and half rose several times. I
divined the importuning of his old habit to greet his team with the
yell that had made him famous. I expected him to get up; I waited for
it. Gradually, however, he became quiet as a man governed by severe
self-restraint and directed his attention to the Philadelphia center
fielder.
At a glance I saw that the player was new to me and answered the
newspaper description of young Burt. What a lively looking athlete!
He was tall, lithe, yet sturdy. He did not need to chase more than two
fly balls to win me. His graceful, fast style reminded me of the great
Curt Welch. Old Well-Well's face wore a rapt expression. I discovered
myself hoping Burt would make good; wishing he would rip the boards off
the fence; praying he would break up the game.
It was Saturday, and by the time the gong sounded for the game to begin
the grand stand and bleachers were packed. The scene was glittering,
colorful, a delight to the eye. Around the circle of bright faces
rippled a low, merry murmur. The umpire, grotesquely padded in front
by his chest protector, announced the batteries, dusted the plate, and
throwing out a white ball, sang the open sesame of the game: "Play!"
Then Old Well-Well arose as if pushed from his seat by some strong
propelling force. It had been his wont always when play was ordered or
in a moment of silent suspense, or a lull in the applause, or a
dramatic pause when hearts heat high and lips were mute, to bawl out
over the listening, waiting multitude his terrific blast:
"Well-Well-Well!"
Twice he opened his mouth, gurgled and choked, and then resumed his
seat with a very red, agitated face; something had deterred him from
his purpose, or he had been physically incapable of yelling.
The game opened with White's sharp bounder to the infield. Wesley had
three strikes called on him, and Kelly fouled out to third base. The
Phillies did no better, being retired in one, two, three order. The
second inning was short and no tallies were chalked up. Brain hit
safely in the third and went to second on a sacrifice. The bleachers
began to stamp and cheer. He reached third on an infield hit that the
Philadelphia short-stop knocked down but could not cover in time to
catch either runner. The cheer in the grand stand was drowned by the
roar in the bleachers. Brain scored on a fly-ball to left. A double
along the right foul line brought the second runner home. Following
that the next batter went out on strikes.
In the Philadelphia half of the inning young Burt was the first man up.
He stood left-handed at the plate and looked formidable. Duveen, the
wary old pitcher for New York, to whom this new player was an unknown
quantity, eyed his easy position as if reckoning on a possible
weakness. Then he took his swing and threw the ball. Burt never moved
a muscle and the umpire called strike. The next was a ball, the next a
strike; still Burt had not moved.
"Somebody wake him up!" yelled a wag in the bleachers. "He's from
Slumbertown, all right, all right!" shouted another.
Duveen sent up another ball, high and swift. Burt hit straight over the
first baseman, a line drive that struck the front of the right-field
bleachers.
"Peacherino!" howled a fan.
Here the promise of Burt's speed was fulfilled. Run! He was fleet as a
deer. He cut through first like the wind, settled to a driving strides
rounded second, and by a good, long slide beat the throw in to third.
The crowd, who went to games to see long hits and daring runs, gave him
a generous hand-clapping.
Old Well-Well appeared on the verge of apoplexy. His ruddy face turned
purple, then black; he rose in his seat; he gave vent to smothered
gasps; then he straightened up and clutched his hands into his knees.
Burt scored his run on a hit to deep short, an infielder's choice, with
the chances against retiring a runner at the plate. Philadelphia could
not tally again that inning. New York blanked in the first of the
next. For their opponents, an error, a close decision at second
favoring the runner, and a single to right tied the score. Bell of New
York got a clean hit in the opening of the fifth. With no one out and
chances for a run, the impatient fans let loose. Four subway trains in
collision would not have equalled the yell and stamp in the bleachers.
Maloney was next to bat and he essayed a bunt. This the fans derided
with hoots and hisses. No team work, no inside ball for them.
"Hit it out!" yelled a hundred in unison.
"Home run!" screamed a worshipper of long hits.
As if actuated by the sentiments of his admirers Maloney lined the ball
over short. It looked good for a double; it certainly would advance
Bell to third; maybe home. But no one calculated on Burt. His
fleetness enabled him to head the bounding ball. He picked it up
cleanly, and checking his headlong run, threw toward third base. Bell
was half way there. The ball shot straight and low with terrific force
and beat the runner to the bag.
"What a great arm!" I exclaimed, deep in my throat. "It's the lad's
day! He can't be stopped."
The keen newsboy sitting below us broke the amazed silence in the
bleachers.
"Wot d'ye tink o' that?"
Old Well-Well writhed in his seat. To him if was a one-man game, as it
had come to be for me. I thrilled with him; I gloried in the making
good of his protege; it got to be an effort on my part to look at the
old man, so keenly did his emotion communicate itself to me.
The game went on, a close, exciting, brilliantly fought battle. Both
pitchers were at their best. The batters batted out long flies, low
liners, and sharp grounders; the fielders fielded these difficult
chances without misplay. Opportunities came for runs, but no runs were
scored for several innings. Hopes were raised to the highest pitch
only to be dashed astonishingly away. The crowd in the grand stand
swayed to every pitched ball; the bleachers tossed like surf in a storm.
To start the eighth, Stranathan of New York tripled along the left foul
line. Thunder burst from the fans and rolled swellingly around the
field. Before the hoarse yelling, the shrill hooting, the hollow
stamping had ceased Stranathan made home on an infield hit. Then
bedlam broke loose. It calmed down quickly, for the fans sensed
trouble between Binghamton, who had been thrown out in the play, and
the umpire who was waving him back to the bench.
"You dizzy-eyed old woman, you can't see straight!" called Binghamton.
The umpire's reply was lost, but it was evident that the offending
player had been ordered out of the grounds.
Binghamton swaggered along the bleachers while the umpire slowly
returned to his post. The fans took exception to the player's
objection and were not slow in expressing it. Various witty enconiums,
not to be misunderstood, attested to the bleachers' love of fair play
and their disgust at a player's getting himself put out of the game at
a critical stage.
The game proceeded. A second batter had been thrown out. Then two
hits in succession looked good for another run. White, the next
batter, sent a single over second base. Burt scooped the ball on the
first bounce and let drive for the plate. It was another extraordinary
throw. Whether ball or runner reached home base first was most
difficult to decide. The umpire made his sweeping wave of hand and the
breathless crowd caught his decision.
"Out!"
In action and sound the circle of bleachers resembled a long curved
beach with a mounting breaker thundering turbulently high.
"Rob--b--ber--r!" bawled the outraged fans, betraying their marvelous
inconsistency.
Old Well-Well breathed hard. Again the wrestling of his body signified
an inward strife. I began to feel sure that the man was in a mingled
torment of joy and pain, that he fought the maddening desire to yell
because he knew he had not the strength to stand it. Surely, in all
the years of his long following of baseball he had never had the
incentive to express himself in his peculiar way that rioted him now.
Surely, before the game ended he would split the winds with his
wonderful yell.
Duveen's only base on balls, with the help of a bunt, a steal, and a
scratch hit, resulted in a run for Philadelphia, again tying the score.
How the fans raged at Fuller for failing to field the lucky scratch.
"We had the game on ice!" one cried.
"Get him a basket!"
New York men got on bases in the ninth and made strenuous efforts to
cross the plate, but it was not to be. Philadelphia opened up with two
scorching hits and then a double steal. Burt came up with runners on
second and third. Half the crowd cheered in fair appreciation of the
way fate was starring the ambitious young outfielder; the other half,
dyed-in-the-wool home-team fans, bent forward in a waiting silent gloom
of fear. Burt knocked the dirt out of his spikes and faced Duveen.
The second ball pitched he met fairly and it rang like a bell.
No one in the stands saw where it went. But they heard the crack, saw
the New York shortstop stagger and then pounce forward to pick up the
ball and speed it toward the plate. The catcher was quick to tag the
incoming runner, and then snap the ball to first base, completing a
double play.
When the crowd fully grasped this, which was after an instant of
bewilderment, a hoarse crashing roar rolled out across the field to
bellow back in loud echo from Coogan's Bluff. The grand stand
resembled a colored corn field waving in a violent wind; the bleachers
lost all semblance of anything. Frenzied, flinging action--wild
chaos--shrieking cries--manifested sheer insanity of joy.
When the noise subsided, one fan, evidently a little longer-winded than
his comrades, cried out hysterically:
"O-h! I don't care what becomes of me--now-w!"
Score tied, three to three, game must go ten innings--that was the
shibboleth; that was the overmastering truth. The game did go ten
innings--eleven--twelve, every one marked by masterly pitching, full of
magnificent catches, stops and throws, replete with reckless
base-running and slides like flashes in the dust. But they were
unproductive of runs. Three to three! Thirteen innings!
"Unlucky thirteenth," wailed a superstitious fan.
I had got down to plugging, and for the first time, not for my home
team. I wanted Philadelphia to win, because Burt was on the team.
With Old Well-Well sitting there so rigid in his seat, so obsessed by
the playing of the lad, I turned traitor to New York.
White cut a high twisting bounder inside the third base, and before the
ball could be returned he stood safely on second. The fans howled with
what husky voice they had left. The second hitter batted a
tremendously high fly toward center field. Burt wheeled with the crack
of the ball and raced for the ropes. Onward the ball soared like a
sailing swallow; the fleet fielder ran with his back to the stands.
What an age that ball stayed in the air! Then it lost its speed,
gracefully curved and began to fall. Burt lunged forward and upwards;
the ball lit in his hands and stuck there as he plunged over the ropes
into the crowd. White had leisurely trotted half way to third; he saw
the catch, ran back to touch second and then easily made third on the
throw-in. The applause that greeted Burt proved the splendid spirit of
the game. Bell placed a safe little hit over short, scoring White.
Heaving, bobbing bleachers--wild, broken, roar on roar!
Score four to three--only one half inning left for Philadelphia to
play--how the fans rooted for another run! A swift double-play,
however, ended the inning.
Philadelphia's first hitter had three strikes called on him.
"Asleep at the switch!" yelled a delighted fan.
The next batter went out on a weak pop-up fly to second.
"Nothin' to it!"
"Oh, I hate to take this money!"
"All-l o-over!"
Two men at least of all that vast assemblage had not given up victory
for Philadelphia. I had not dared to look at Old Well-Well for a long,
while. I dreaded the nest portentious moment. I felt deep within me
something like clairvoyant force, an intangible belief fostered by hope.
Magoon, the slugger of the Phillies, slugged one against the left field
bleachers, but, being heavy and slow, he could not get beyond second
base. Cless swung with all his might at the first pitched ball, and
instead of hitting it a mile as he had tried, he scratched a mean,
slow, teasing grounder down the third base line. It was as safe as if
it had been shot out of a cannon. Magoon went to third.
The crowd suddenly awoke to ominous possibilities; sharp commands came
from the players' bench. The Philadelphia team were bowling and
hopping on the side lines, and had to be put down by the umpire.
An inbreathing silence fell upon stands and field, quiet, like a lull
before a storm.
When I saw young Burt start for the plate and realized it was his turn
at bat, I jumped as if I had been shot. Putting my hand on Old
Well-Well's shoulder I whispered: "Burt's at bat: He'll break up this
game! I know he's going to lose one!"
The old fellow did not feel my touch; he did not hear my voice; he was
gazing toward the field with an expression on his face to which no
human speech could render justice. He knew what was coming. It could
not be denied him in that moment.
How confidently young Burt stood up to the plate! None except a
natural hitter could have had his position. He might have been Wagner
for all he showed of the tight suspense of that crisis. Yet there was
a tense alert poise to his head and shoulders which proved he was alive
to his opportunity.
Duveen plainly showed he was tired. Twice he shook his head to his
catcher, as if he did not want to pitch a certain kind of ball. He had
to use extra motion to get his old speed, and he delivered a high
straight ball that Burt fouled over the grand stand. The second ball
met a similar fate. All the time the crowd maintained that strange
waiting silence. The umpire threw out a glistening white ball, which
Duveen rubbed in the dust and spat upon. Then he wound himself up into
a knot, slowly unwound, and swinging with effort, threw for the plate.
Burt's lithe shoulders swung powerfully. The meeting of ball and bat
fairly cracked. The low driving hit lined over second a rising
glittering streak, and went far beyond the center fielder.
Bleachers and stands uttered one short cry, almost a groan, and then
stared at the speeding runners. For an instant, approaching doom could
not have been more dreaded. Magoon scored. Cless was rounding second
when the ball lit. If Burt was running swiftly when he turned first he
had only got started, for then his long sprinter's stride lengthened
and quickened. At second he was flying; beyond second he seemed to
merge into a gray flitting shadow.
I gripped my seat strangling the uproar within me. Where was the
applause? The fans were silent, choked as I was, but from a different
cause. Cless crossed the plate with the score that defeated New York;
still the tension never laxed until Burt beat the ball home in as
beautiful a run as ever thrilled an audience.
In the bleak dead pause of amazed disappointment Old Well-Well lifted
his hulking figure and loomed, towered over the bleachers. His wide
shoulders spread, his broad chest expanded, his breath whistled as he
drew it in. One fleeting instant his transfigured face shone with a
glorious light. Then, as he threw back his head and opened his lips,
his face turned purple, the muscles of his cheeks and jaw rippled and
strung, the veins on his forehead swelled into bulging ridges. Even
the back of his neck grew red.
"Well!--Well!--Well!!!"
Ear-splitting stentorian blast! For a moment I was deafened. But I
heard the echo ringing from the cliff, a pealing clarion call,
beautiful and wonderful, winding away in hollow reverberation, then
breaking out anew from building to building in clear concatenation.
A sea of faces whirled in the direction of that long unheard yell.
Burt had stopped statue-like as if stricken in his tracks; then he came
running, darting among the spectators who had leaped the fence.
Old Well-Well stood a moment with slow glance lingering on the tumult
of emptying bleachers, on the moving mingling colors in the grand
stand, across the green field to the gray-clad players. He staggered
forward and fell.
Before I could move, a noisy crowd swarmed about him, some solicitous,
many facetious. Young Burt leaped the fence and forced his way into the
circle. Then they were carrying the old man down to the field and
toward the clubhouse. I waited until the bleachers and field were
empty. When I finally went out there was a crowd at the gate
surrounding an ambulance. I caught a glimpse of Old Well-Well. He lay
white and still, but his eyes were open, smiling intently. Young Burt
hung over him with a pale and agitated face. Then a bell clanged and
the ambulance clattered away.